How different our smaller trials look, when they are seen from the
distance of a quiet and refreshful rest. Utterly wearied, Julian slept
deeply, and when the servant awoke him next morning, he determined that
as the errors of yesterday were irreparable, he would at least save the
chances of to-day.
He rose at once, and read during breakfast the letter from home, which
came to him from one of his family nearly every day. This morning it
was from Violet, and he could see well how anxiously they were awaiting
the result of his present examination, and yet how sure they were that
he would succeed. Unwilling to trouble them by the painful
circumstances of the day before, he determined not to write home again
until the decision was made known.
This morning's paper was to be the last, and Julian applied to it the
utmost vigour of his powers. After the first few moments, he had
utterly banished every sorrowful reflection, and when the clock struck
twelve, he felt that once more he had done himself justice. He answered
with a smiling assent, the examiner's expressed hope, that his health
was better than it had been the day before, and joining Owen as he left
the senate-house, found, on comparing notes, that he had done the paper
at least as well as his dreaded but friendly rival.
His spirits rose, and his hopes revived in full. Shaking off
examination reminiscences, he proposed to De Vayne, Kennedy, and
Lillyston a bathe in the Iscam, and then a long run across the country.
They started at once, laughing and talking incessantly on every subject,
except the Clerkland, which was tabooed. Ten minutes' run brought them
to a green bend of the Iscam, where a bathing-shed had been built, and
after enjoying the bathe as only the first bathe in a season can be
enjoyed, they struck off over the fields towards some neighbouring
villages, which De Vayne had often wanted to visit, because their old
churches contained some quaint specimens of early architecture. On the
way they passed through Barton Wood, and there found some fine specimens
of herb Paris, with large bright purple berries resting on its topmost
trifoliations, one of which Julian eagerly seized, saying that his
sister had long wanted one for her collection of dried plants.
"I suppose you want the one you have gathered, De Vayne, for some
botanist," said Lillyston.
"No--yes--at least I meant it for a lady, too; but it's of no use now,"
he said stammering.
"For a lady--of no use _now_," said Kennedy laughing; "what do you
mean?"
"Oh, never mind," said Julian, as he noticed De Vayne's blush, and
divined that he had meant the plant for Violet, but without knowing how
much he was vexed by losing the opportunity of doing something for her.
They had a beautiful walk; De Vayne made little sketches of the windows
and gargoyles of the village churches, and they all returned in the
evening to a dinner which Lillyston had ordered in his own rooms, and
which gave the rest an agreeable surprise when they got in.
"Julian," whispered De Vayne as they went away, "would you mind my
sending that herb Paris to Vi--I beg pardon, to Miss Home, to your
sister."
"Oh dear, yes, if you like," said Julian carelessly, surprised at the
earnestness of his manner about such a trifle.
"It's only, you know, because Miss Home had heard that they were to be
found near Camford, and asked me to get her one for her herbarium."
"Oh, very well, send it by all means. I shouldn't like you to break a
promise."
"Thank you," said De Vayne; "and I suppose that Miss Home wouldn't mind
my sending it in a letter."
"Certainly not," said Julian, laughing; "I've no doubt she'll be highly
flattered. Here's the plant. Good-night."
"What could he have meant," thought he, "by making such a fuss about the
trifolium, and by blushing so when Kennedy chaffed him? He surely can't
have fallen in love with my dear little Vi." Now he thought of it, many
indications seemed to show that such was really the case, and Julian
contemplated the thought with singular pleasure. It did him good by
diverting his attention from all harassing topics, and knowing that
Violet was well worthy of Lord De Vayne, and could make him truly happy,
while his high character and cultivated intellect rendered him well
suited for her, he hoped in his secret heart that some day might see
them united.
But Lord De Vayne, full of delight, took the plant, dressed it
carefully, cut it to the size of an envelope, and then with a thrill of
exquisite emotion sat down to write his letter to Violet Home.
"Dear Violet," he wrote, after having chosen a good sheet of note-paper
and a first-rate pen, "you remember that I promised to find you a--"
"Dear Violet--no, that won't quite do," he said, as he read over what he
had written, "at least not yet. How pretty it looks! What a charming
name it is! I wish I might leave it, it does look so happy. I wonder
whether it would do to call her Violet? No, I suppose not; at least not
yet--not yet!" and the young viscount let his fancy wander away to Other
Hall, and there by the grand old fireplace in the drawing-room he placed
in imagination a slight graceful figure with soft fair hair, and a smile
that lighted up an angel face,--and by her side he sat down, and let his
thoughts wander through a vista of golden years.
Waking from his reverie, he found that his letter would be too late for
the post, so he deferred it till Monday, and then wrote--
"Dear Miss Home--I enclose you a specimen of the herb Paris, which I
promised to procure for you, if I could find one in Barton Wood.
Julian was the actual discoverer, but has kindly allowed me to send it
in fulfilment of my promise; he is quite well, and we are all hoping
that you may hear in a day or two that he has got the Clerkland
scholarship. With kindest remembrances to Mrs Home and your
brothers, I remain, dear Miss Home, very truly yours, De Vayne."
Little did Violet dream that this commonplace note had given its author
such deep pleasure, and that before he despatched it he had kissed it a
thousand times for her sake, and because it was destined for her hand.
De Vayne would not have added the allusion to the Clerkland, but that
rumours were already gaining ground in Julian's favour. The universal
brilliancy of his earlier papers had already attracted considerable
attention, and from mysterious hints at the high table, De Vayne began
to gather almost with certainty that Julian was the successful
candidate. Similar reports from various quarters were rife among the
undergraduates, and were supposed to be traceable to competent
authorities.
Wednesday evening came, and next morning the result was to be made
known. As certainty approached, and suspense was nearly terminated,
Julian awaited his fate with sickening, almost with trembling anxiety.
At nine o'clock he knew that the paper on which was written the name of
the Clerkland scholar would be affixed to the senate-house door, but he
did not venture to go and read it. He knew that, if he were successful,
a hundred men would be eager to rush up to his rooms with the joyful
intelligence; if unsuccessful, he still trusted that he had one or two
friends sufficiently sincere to put an end to his painful anxiety by
telling him the news.
Nine o'clock struck. Oh, for the sound of some footstep on the stairs!
Many must know the result by this time. Julian's hopes were still high,
and he could not fail to hear of the numerous and seemingly
authoritative reports which had ascribed success to him. He pressed his
hands hard together, as he prayed that what was most for his welfare
might be granted to him, and thought what boundless delight success
would bring with it. What a joy it would be, above all, to write home,
and gladden their hearts by the news of his triumph.
Every moment his suspense made him more feverish, and now the clock
struck a quarter past nine, and he feared that in this case no news must
be bad news. He leaned out of the window, and at this moment Mr
Grayson strolled across the bowling-green. Then he heard another don,
who was following him, call out--
"I say, do you know that the Clerkland is out?"
"Is it?" said Mr Grayson, with unusual show of interest.
"Yes. Who do you think has got it?"
"A Saint Werner's man, I hope."
"Yes."
"Well, who is it?"
What was the answer--Owen or Home?--at that distance the names sounded
_exactly alike_.
"Oh, then, I am very sorry for--" Again Julian _could_ not, with his
utmost effort, catch the name with certainty; and, unable any longer to
endure this state of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound
of a slow footstep stopped him.
But it was Brogten's step, and Julian heard him pass into his own room.
A moment of breathless silence, and then another step, or rather the
steps of two men; he detected by the sound that they were Lillyston and
De Vayne. In one moment he would know the--Was it the best or the
worst? He stood with his hand on the handle of the door; but it seemed
as if they would never get to the top of the stairs. Why on earth were
they so slow?
"Well," said Julian, as they came in sight, "is the Clerkland out?" He
knew it was, but would not ask them the result.
"Yes," they both said; and Lillyston added, in a sorrowful tone of
voice, "I am sorry for you, Julian, but Owen has got it."
Julian grew very pale, and for one second reeled as if he would faint.
Lord De Vayne caught him as he staggered, and added eagerly, "But you
are most honourably mentioned, Julian, `proxime accessit,' and an
allusion to your illness during one paper."
"Nothing, nothing," muttered Julian; "please leave me by myself." They
were unwilling to leave him, and both lingered, but he entreated them to
go, and respecting his desire for solitude they left him alone.
Julian found relief in a burst of passionate tears. He flung himself on
the ground and cursed his birth, and his hard fate, and above all he
cursed Brogten, who, as was clear, had been the cause, the sole cause,
as Julian obstinately said, of his heavy misfortune. "Here I am," he
murmured, "a sizar, an orphan, poor, without relations, with others
depending on me, with my own way to make in the world, and now he has
lost me the one thing I longed for, the one thing which would have made
me happy," and as Julian kept brooding on this, on the loss of
reputation, of help, of hope, his eyes grew red and swollen, and his
temples throbbed with pain. He was far from strong, and the shock of
news that shattered all his hopes, and dashed rudely to the ground his
long, long cherished desires, came more heavily upon him, because his
constitution, naturally delicate, had suffered much during the last week
from study and over anxiety. The necessity of writing home haunted
him,--to his mother and sister, whose pride in him was so great, and who
hoped so much for the honours which they thought him so sure to win,--to
his brothers who had seen his diligence, and who would be deeply sorry
to know that it had been in vain; to them at least he would be forced to
announce the humiliating intelligence of defeat. He might leave his
other friends to learn it from accidental sources, but oh, the
bitterness of being obliged to announce it for himself, to those to
whose disappointment he was most painfully alive, and oh, the
intolerable plague of receiving letters of commiseration.
He could not do anything, he could not read, or write, or even think,
except of the one blow which had thus laid him prostrate. He leaned
over his window-sill, and stared stupidly at the great stone bears
carved on the portals of Saint Margaret's; his eyes wandered listlessly
over the smooth turf of the Fellows' bowling-green, and the trim
parterres full of crocus and anemone and violet which fringed it; he
watched the boats skim past him on the winding gleams of the Iscam, and
shoot among the water-lilies by the bridge and then he stared upwards at
the sun, trying to think of nothing until his eyes watered, and then the
sight of a don in the garden below made him shrink back, to avoid
observation, into his own room.
Some of the Saint Werner's men would be coming soon to condole with him.
What a nuisance it would be! He got up and sported the door. This
action recalled in all their intensity his bitterest and angriest
feelings, and he flung the door open again, and threw himself full
length on the sofa, until a sort of painful stupor came over him, and he
became unconscious of how the time went by.
At length a slight sound awoke him, and he saw De Vayne standing by him.
De Vayne was so gentle in heart and manner, so full of sympathy and
kindness, that of all others he was the one whom at that moment Julian
could best endure to see.
"I am afraid," he said, "that you will think me very foolish, De Vayne.
But to me everything almost depended on this scholarship, and you can
hardly tell how absolutely it had engrossed my hopes."
"It is very natural that you should feel it, Julian. But I came to ask
if you would like me to save you the trouble of writing home to-day. I
could say more, you know, than you could," he added with a pleasant
smile, "of the splendid manner in which you acquitted yourself, of which
I have heard a great deal that I will tell you some day."
"Thanks, De Vayne. I should be really and truly grateful if you would.
They will expect to hear by to-morrow, and I know that if I write now, I
shall be saying something bitter and hasty."
"Very well, I will. Are you inclined for a stroll now?"
"No, thank you," said Julian, unwilling to encounter the many eyes which
he knew would look on him with curiosity to see how he bore his loss.
"Good morning then; I shall come again soon."
"Do, I shall like to see _you_," said Julian; and De Vayne went away,
thinking with some happiness, that if he had won Julian's affection,
that would be something towards helping him to win Violet's too.
Julian had no intention that any strange eye should see how much he had
felt his disappointment, so when Mr Admer came to see him, he gave no
sign of vexation, and they talked indifferently for a few minutes, till
Mr Admer said--
"Well, Home, I'm sorry you haven't got this scholarship. Not that it
makes the least difference, you know, really. No sensible man would
have thought one atom the better of you for getting it, and even your
reputation stands just as high as before.
"Ah, I see you take it to heart rather; all very natural, but when
you're my age you'll think less of these things. There are higher
successes in the world than these small University affairs."
"But they aren't small to me," said Julian. "Not to men up here," said
Mr Admer.
"`They think the rustic cackle of their body
The murmur of the world.'"
"Perhaps, after all, if you had got it, it would only have helped to
make you as fussy, as foolish, and as self-important as Jones, and
Brown, and Robinson, who, because they are dons, think themselves the
most important people in England, when really they are only conspicuous
for empty-headedness and conceit; or as the senior Wrangler, who
entering the theatre at the same moment as the queen, bowed graciously
on all sides in acknowledgment of the acclamations. As it is, Home, you
are a man who ought to do something in the world."
Julian could not help smiling at Mr Admer's usual style, and would have
found some relief in arguing with him, had not Hazlet entered, whose
very appearance put Mr Admer to a precipitate flight. There could not
have been any human being less likely to give Julian any effectual
consolation at such a moment, and he could not help sighing as Mr Admer
left him to his persecutor.
"Fugit improbus ac me sub cultro linquit," he said appealingly, secure
in Hazlet's ignorance of the Latin tongue; but Mr Admer only shook his
head significantly, and disappeared.
With his black shining hair brushed down in unusual lankiness over his
receding forehead, and with an expression of sleek resignation unusually
sanctimonious, Hazlet sat down, and gave a half groan.
"I am sorry," he said, "dear Julian--"
"Home, if you please, Hazlet," interrupted Julian.