Reader, if the latter part of the preceding chapter has been dull to
you, it is because you have never entered into the devouring ambition
which, in a matter of this kind, actuates a young man's heart when he is
aiming at his first grand distinction--an ambition which, if selfishly
encouraged, becomes dangerous both to health and peace, and works
powerfully, perhaps by a merciful provision, to the defeat of its own
darling hope.
As long as Julian had been at home, a thousand objects helped to divert
his thoughts from their one cherished desire; but when he returned to
Camford, finding the Clerkland a frequent subject of discussion among
the men, even in hall, and constantly meeting others who were as
absorbed in the thought of the approaching examination as himself, he
once more fell into the vortex, and thought comparatively of little
else.
As yet he had had no means of measuring himself with others, except so
far as the lecture-room enabled him to judge of the abilities of some
few in his own college. Under these circumstances all conjecture must
have seemed to be idle; but somehow or other at Camford, by a sort of
intuition, the exact place a man will ultimately take is often
prophesied from the first with wonderful accuracy. Saint Werner's,
being by far the largest college at Camford, supplied the majority of
the candidates, and Julian, Owen, and Kennedy were all three mentioned
as likely to be first; but the rival ranks of Saint Margaret's boasted
their champions also, and almost every small college nursed some prodigy
of its own, for which it vehemently predicted an easy and indisputable
success.
Owen was the competitor whom Julian most really feared; educated at
Roslyn, a comparatively small school, his scholarship was not so ready
and polished as that acquired by the training of Marlby and Harton, but,
on the other hand, he had improved greatly in the short time he had been
at Saint Werner's, and besides his sound knowledge he had a
strong-headed common sense, and a clearness and steadiness of purpose,
more valuable than a quick fancy and refined taste. In composition, and
in all the lighter and more graceful requirements of a classical
examination, Julian had an undoubted superiority, but Owen was his
equal, if not his master, in the power of unravelling intricacies and
understanding logic; and, besides this, Owen was a better mathematician,
and, although classics had considerable preponderance, yet one
mathematical paper always formed part of the Clerkland examination.
Kennedy who, if he had properly employed his time, would have been no
mean rival to either of them, had unfortunately been so idle, and
continued to be so gay and idle even for the weeks immediately preceding
the examination, that they all felt his chance to be gone. He
acknowledged the fact himself, with something between a laugh and sigh,
and only threatening to catch them both up in the classical tripos, he
resigned all hope for himself, and threw all his wishes into the scale
of Julian's endeavours. And although Owen was liked and respected,
there was no doubt that Julian was regarded throughout the University as
the popular candidate; the Hartonians especially, who had carried off
the prize for several years, were confident that he would win them
another victory.
As the time drew near, Julian became more and more feverish with
eagerness, and his friends feared that he would hinder, by over reading,
his real probability of success. Kennedy felt this most strongly, but
being himself engaged in the competition, was afraid that any attempt to
divert Julian's thoughts would not have a disinterested look. Lillyston
and De Vayne, unrestrained by such motives, did all they could to take
him from his books, and amuse him by turning his attention to other
subjects; but with such strong reasons for exertion, and so much
depending on success or failure, the Clerkland scholarship continued
ever the prominent subject of Julian's thoughts.
At last the long looked for week arrived. After chapel, on the Sunday
morning, De Vayne invited himself to breakfast with Julian, and
continued in his company the greater part of the day, going with him to
the University sermon. He entirely forbade Julian even to allude more
than once to the coming examination, and managed in the evening to get
him to come to his rooms, where, with some other Hartonians and Kennedy,
they spent a very pleasant evening.
"Good-night," he said to Julian, as he strolled with him to his
stair-case across the starlight court; "don't stay up to-night. In
quietness and confidence shall be your strength."
The examination was to last a week, and Julian rose for it refreshed and
cheerful on Monday morning. The papers suited him excellently, and his
hopes rose higher and higher as he felt that in each paper he had done
to the utmost of his knowledge and ability. He had not been able to
afford a private tutor during the term, with whom he might have
discussed the papers, but he sent his Iambics and Latin verse to Mr
Carden at Harton, who wrote back a most favourable and encouraging
judgment of them, and seemed to regard Julian's success as certain.
Julian had implicit confidence in his opinion, for Mr Carden entered
very warmly into all his hopes and wishes, and kept up with him an
affectionate correspondence, which had helped him out of many
intellectual difficulties, and lessened the force of many a temptation.
The papers usually lasted from nine till twelve in the morning, and from
two to four in the afternoon. It was on the Friday morning, when only
three more papers remained, that Julian found Mr Carden's kind and
hopeful letter lying on his breakfast-table at eight o'clock; he read it
with a glow of pleasure, because he knew that he could rely thoroughly
on the accuracy and truth of his old tutor's judgment, and as he read
and re-read it, his hopes rose higher and higher. Finishing breakfast,
he began to build castles in the air, and to imagine to himself the
delight it would be to write and tell the Doctor and Mr Carden of this
new leaf to the Harton laurels. Never before had he a more reasonable
ground for favourable expectation, and he began almost to run over in
his mind the sort of letter he would write, and the kind of things he
would say. Leaning over his window-sill, he enjoyed the cool feeling of
the early spring breeze on his brow and hair, and then, finding by his
watch that it was time to start, he took his cap and gown, and prepared
to sally out to the senate-house.
It was the custom of the gyp, when he had laid breakfast, and put the
kettle on the fire, to go away and "sport the oak," (_i e_, shut the
outer door), so as to prevent any one from coming into the rooms until
their owner was awake and dressed. Julian therefore was not surprised
to see his door "sported," but was surprised to find that, when he
lifted the latch, the door did not open to his touch. He pushed it with
some force, and then kicked it with his foot to see if some stone or
coal had not caught against it, but the door still remained obstinately
closed; he put his shoulder against it, fancying that some heavy weight
like the coal-box or water-pitcher might have been placed outside,--but
all in vain; the thick door did not even stir, and then there flashed
upon Julian the bitter truth that he had been screwed in. He understood
now the stifled titter which he fancied he had heard after one of his
most violent efforts to get out.
In one instant, before he had time to think, a fit of blind, passionate,
uncontrollable fury had clouded and overpowered Julian's whole mind.
Almost unconscious of what he was doing, he kicked the door with all his
might, and beat on it savagely with his clenched fists until his
knuckles streamed with blood; he forgot everything but the one burning
determination to get out at all hazards, and to wreak on Brogten, whom
he felt to be the author of his calamity, some desperate and terrible
revenge. But the thick oak door, screwed evidently with much care; and
in many places, resisted all his efforts, and no one came to help him
from outside. The gyp, who was usually about, happened to have gone on
an errand; the stair-case was one of the most secluded in the college;
the Fellow who was Julian's nearest neighbour had "gone down" for a few
days, and it was improbable that any one ever heard him except Brogten,
to whom, he thought, every sound of his angry violence would be perfect
music.
All was useless, and Julian, as he strode up and down the room, clenched
his hands, and bit his lips in passionate excitement. Suddenly it
struck him that he would escape by the window; but looking out for the
purpose, he found that, when he had jumped on the sloping roof below
him, he was still thirty feet above the ground, which, in that place,
was not the turf of the bowling-green, but a hard gravel road. Giving
up the attempt in despair he sat down, and covered his face with his
hands; but instantly the picture of the senate-house, with the sixty
candidates who were trying for the scholarship, all writing at some new
paper--while he was thus cut off, (as he thought), from the long-desired
accomplishment of all his hopes--rose before his eyes, and springing up
once more he seized the poker, and raising it over his shoulder like a
hammer, brought down the heavy iron knob with a crash on the oaken
panels. He struck again and again, but, by a shower of fierce blows,
could only succeed in covering the door with deep round dents. Finally
he seized the heaviest chair in the room, and dashed it savagely with
one heavy drive against the unyielding oak; a second blow shivered the
chair to splinters, and Julian, a compulsory prisoner at that excited
moment, flung himself on the sofa, furious and weary, with something
that sounded like a fierce imprecation.
Full twenty minutes had been occupied by his futile and frantic efforts,
and for a few moments longer he sat still in a stupor of grief and rage.
Meanwhile, several of the other competitors for the Clerkland had
noticed his absence in the senate-house, and Owen and Kennedy kept
directing anxious glances to the door, and dreading that he was ill. At
last half an hour had elapsed, and Kennedy, unable any longer to endure
the suspense, went up to the examiner and said--
"One of the candidates is absent, sir. Would you allow me to go and
inquire the reason?"
"Who is it?" asked the examiner.
"Home, sir."
"Indeed. But I am afraid I cannot allow you to leave the senate-house;
the rules, you know, on this subject are necessarily very strict."
"Then, sir, I will merely show up what I have written, for I am sure
there must be some unusual reason for Home's absence."
"Oh, no, Mr Kennedy, pray don't do so," said the examiner, who knew how
well Kennedy had been doing; "I will send the University marshal to
inquire for Mr Home; it is a very unusual compliment to pay him, but I
think it may be as well to do so."
It so happened that, as the marshal crossed the court to Julian's rooms,
Lillyston and De Vayne, who were strolling towards the grounds, caught
sight of him, and went with much curiosity to inquire the object of his
errand.
"Home not in the senate-house," said Lillyston, on hearing the marshal's
answer. "Good heavens, what can be the matter?" and without waiting to
hear more, he darted to Julian's door, and called his name.
"What do you want?" said Julian in a fretful and angry voice.
"Why are you sported? And why aren't you in for the Clerkland?"
"Can't you see, then?"
"What! So you are screwed in," said Lillyston in deep surprise; "wait
three minutes, Julian, three minutes, and I will let you out."
He sprang down-stairs, four steps at a time, borrowed a screwdriver at
the porter's lodge, was back in a moment, and then with quick and
skilful hand he drew out, one after another, the screws which had been
driven deep into the door.
Julian lifted the latch inside, and Lillyston saw with surprise and pain
his scared and wild glance. Julian said not a word, but rushed past his
friend, and burst furiously into Brogten's room. Fortunately Brogten
was not in, for the moment he heard steps approaching, he had purposely
gone out; but Lillyston followed Julian, and said--
"Come, this is folly, Julian; you have not a moment to lose. You will
be already nearly an hour late, and remember that the Clerkland may
depend upon it."
He suffered himself to be led, but as he walked he was still silent, and
seemed as though he were trying to gulp down some hard knot that rose in
his throat. His expression was something totally different from
anything that Lillyston had ever observed in him, even from a boy, and
his feet seemed to waver under him as he walked.
De Vayne joined them in the court, and was quite startled to see Julian
looking so ill. He saw that it was no time to trouble him with idle
inquiries, and merely pressed him to come into his rooms and take some
wine before going to do the paper. Julian silently complied. The
kind-hearted young viscount took out a bottle of wine, of which Julian
swallowed off a tumblerful, and then, without speaking a word, strode
off to the senate-house, which he reached pale and agitated, attracting,
as he entered, the notice and commiseration of all present.
The examiner, with a kind word of encouragement, and an inquiry as to
the cause of his delay, which Julian left unanswered, promised to allow
him in the evening as much additional time for doing the paper as he had
already lost. Julian bowed, and walked to his place.
And now that he was seated, with the paper before him, he found himself
in a condition to do nothing. His mind was in a tumult of wrath and
sorrow. Bitter sorrow that his hopes should be shattered; fiery wrath
that any one should have treated him with such malignant cruelty. His
brain swam giddily, and his head throbbed with violent pain. His hands
were still raw and bleeding with his efforts to burst open the door; and
the consciousness that his whole appearance was wild, and that several
eyes were upon him, unnerved him so completely, that he was quite unable
to collect or control his scattered senses. He made but little
progress. The clock of Saint Mary's told the passing hours, and at
twelve Julian found himself with nothing written except a few
half-finished and incoherent sentences which he was ashamed to show up.
Dashing the nib of his pen on the desk, he split it to pieces; and then,
tearing up his papers, was hurrying out, when the voice of the examiner
suddenly recalled him.
"You have not shown me up any papers, Mr Home."
"No, sir," he answered sullenly.
"Indeed! But why?"
"I have not done any, sir."
"Really. I am sorry for that. It is a serious matter, for you have
been doing remarkably well, and--Are you not feeling well?"
"No, sir, not exactly."
"Hum! Well, it is a great pity; a _great_ pity; a _very_ great pity.
However--"
There seemed to be no more to say, and as Julian's mind was in too
turbulent a state to allow of his being communicative, he did not trust
himself to make any remark, and left the room.
Kennedy, who came up with him as he went out, asked what was the matter;
but as he only answered with an impatient gesture, and evidently seemed
to wish to be alone, Kennedy left him and went to inquire of Lillyston
what had happened, while Julian hastened to the solitude of his own
room, and breaking with his poker one of the outer hinges of his door,
to secure himself from a second imprisonment, flung himself on a chair,
and pressed his hands to his burning forehead. In his bitterness of
soul he half determined to abandon all further attempt to gain the
Clerkland, and dwelt, with galling recurrence, on the anguish of
defeated aims. But the sound of the clock striking the hour of
examination started him into sudden effort, and almost mechanically he
seized his cap and gown, and went out without food and unrefreshed.
Although he endeavoured, with all his might, to shake off all thought of
the morning's insult and misfortune, he only partially succeeded, and
when he folded up his papers, he felt that the fire and energy which had
shone so conspicuously during the earlier days of the examination, and
had imparted such strength and brilliancy to his efforts, were utterly
extinguished, and had left him wandering and weak. When the time was
over, he went to De Vayne's rooms, and said abruptly--
"De Vayne, will you lend me your riding-whip?"
"Certainly," said De Vayne, starting up to meet him.
"Are you going to have a ride? I wish you would ride my horse; I'll
hire another, and come with you."
"No; I don't want a ride."
"What do you want the whip for, then?" said De Vayne uneasily.
"Nothing. Let me go; it must be time for you to go to hall."
"I'm not going to dine in hall to-day," said De Vayne. "Dining at the
high table, with none but dons to talk to, is dull work for an
undergraduate. Stop! you shall dine with me here, Julian. I know you
won't care to go to hall to-day. Nay, you shall," he said, putting his
back against the door; "I shall be as dull as night without you."
He made Julian stay, for it happened that at that moment his gyp brought
up dinner, and Julian, hungry and weary, was tempted to sit down. De
Vayne, who only too well divined his reason for borrowing the whip, was
delighted at having succeeded in detaining him, for he knew that the
only time when Julian would be likely to meet Brogten was immediately
after hall.
Wiling away the time with exquisite tact--talking to him without
pressing him to talk much in reply--turning his thoughts to indifferent
subjects, until he had succeeded in arousing his interest--the young
viscount detained his guest till evening, and then persuaded him to have
tea. Lord De Vayne played well on the piano, and knowing Julian's
passion for music, was rewarded for his unselfish efforts by complete
success in rousing his attention. He played some of the finest passages
of a recent and beautiful oratorio, until Julian almost forgot his
troubles, and was ready to talk with more freedom and in a kindlier
mood.
"You surely won't want the whip now," said De Vayne in some dismay, as
Julian picked it up on saying good-night.
"Yes, I shall," answered Julian. "Good-night!"