HOW MY MASTER FARED AT SAINT GEORGE'S COLLEGE AND MET AN OLD
ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER'S THERE.
It is not my intention in these pages to give a full and particular
account of George Reader's college life. It would neither be on the
whole interesting, nor would it be found to have much bearing on my own
career, which is the ostensible theme of the present veracious history.
Stories of college life have furnished amusing material for many a book
before now, to which the reader must turn, should his curiosity in that
direction require to be satisfied. The life of a hard--a too hard-
working student in his cell under the college staircase is neither
amusing nor sensational, and it is quite enough to say that, after his
first eventful evening, George Reader pursued his studies with
unflagging ardour, though with greater precaution than ever.
He soon discovered which hours of the day and night were most favourable
for uninterrupted work.
He made a point of taking his constitutional during the hour made
hideous by the ill-starred aspirant on the ophicleide. He invested in a
trap for the rats, which, with the aid of his mother's cheese, yielded
him a nightly harvest of victims, and he arranged with Benson, the
"gyp," not to interrupt him, preferring rather to wait on himself--nay,
even to dust out his own room--than have to sacrifice precious time
while the same offices were being performed by another, especially by
such an overpowering and awe-inspiring person as Benson.
So he set himself to work, attending lectures by day, reading every
night into the small hours, spending scarcely anything, shrinking from
all acquaintanceships, taking only a minimum of recreation, and living
almost the life of a hermit, until I could see his cheeks grow pale, and
his eyes dark round the rims, and feared for his health.
He treated me uniformly well. Of course, as the gift of his fellow-
villagers, he prized me highly, but by no means consigned me to the
stately repose of a purely ornamental treasure. I lay nightly beside
his elbow on the table, and counted for him the hours as they sped from
night to morning. I lay beneath his pillow at night, and helped him to
rise betimes. I insured his punctual attendance at lectures, and drove
him home from his scanty walks in the fresh air more quickly than I
myself would have cared to do if I could have helped it. In short, I
found myself in the satisfactory position of one thoroughly useful in
his sphere of life, and on the whole, though my first young master
returned constantly to my thoughts, I contrived to be very happy in my
new capacity.
Two events, however, both of a pleasant nature, served to vary the
monotony of George's second term at college. The first of these was a
visit from his friend and patron, Dr Wilkins, the rector of
Muggerbridge.
George was sitting at his modest breakfast one morning, when his door
suddenly opened, and the well-known and beloved face of his old tutor
lit up the apartment.
My master sprang to his feet, and with unaffected joy rushed forward to
welcome his guest, before it had do much as occurred to him into what
uninviting quarters he was receiving him.
"How good of you to come, sir!" he cried. "I never expected such
happiness."
"You don't suppose I should go through Cambridge and never beat up your
quarters, my boy! But, dear me, how ill you are looking!"
"Am I? I don't feel ill."
"Humph! you're overdoing it. But aren't you going to offer me some
breakfast?"
George coloured, and his spirits sank as his eyes fell on the scanty
fare of which he himself had been partaking.
"It's only bread-and-butter," he said.
"And what better?" said Dr Wilkins, sitting down; "and I warrant the
butter's good if it's your mother's making."
"So it is," said George, beginning to recover his spirits. "And how did
you leave them at home, sir?"
"First-rate, my boy;--looking much better than you are. And so this is
your den? Well, it's--"
"Nothing very grand," put in George.
"Exactly, nothing very grand; but I dare say you find it as good a place
to read in as a drawing-room, eh? Now tell me all about yourself, my
boy, while I drink this good tea of yours."
And George, with light heart and beaming face, told his good friend of
all his doings, his hardships, his difficulties, his triumphs, and his
ambitions.
And Dr Wilkins sat and listened with pride and thankfulness at heart,
to find his young _protege_ the same earnest, unaffected boy he had
parted with from Muggerbridge six months before. They talked for a long
time that morning. The tutor and boy passed in review all the work
hitherto accomplished and discussed the programme of future study. Many
were the wholesome counsels the elder gave to the younger, and many were
the new hopes and resolutions which filled the lad's heart as he opened
all his soul to his good friend.
"And now," said Dr Wilkins, "I want you to take me to see your college
and chapel."
George looked perplexed. Who was _he_ to conduct a Doctor of Divinity
over his college. Such a hermit's life had he led that he hardly knew
the ins and outs of the place himself, and there was not a single man in
the college to whom he was not a stranger.
"I'm afraid you've chosen a bad guide," faltered he. "I don't know any
of the men, and very little of the place."
"Oh, never mind that," said the doctor; "it will be all the more
interesting to make a tour of discovery, so come along!"
George put on his cap and gown and obeyed. For a moment he wished the
gown had been long enough to conceal the patch on the knee of his
trousers, but the next he laughed at himself for his vanity.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," thought he, "and if it _is_
patched--well, it is."
And thus consoling himself, he accompanied the doctor across the
quadrangle.
Men certainly did stare at him as he passed, and some of them deemed him
a queer "specimen," and others wondered what Saint George's was coming
to. But my master, if he noticed their looks, disregarded them, and as
for Dr Wilkins, he smiled to himself to think how prone mankind is to
judge by appearances.
"Unless I mistake," mused he to himself, "these young sparks of Saint
George's will some day think fit to be proud of their poor fellow-
collegian."
The two made the tour of the college, and finished up with the grand old
Gothic chapel. It was easy to guess why George's face lit up as he
approached the place. The deep notes of an organ were sounding across
the quadrangle, and as they entered the door a flood of harmony swept
towards them down the long aisles. Dr Wilkins could feel the boy's arm
tremble, and heard the sigh of delight which escaped his lips. Without
a word they sat in the nearest stalls, and listened while the music went
on. How it rose and fell, how it trembled in the oak arches of the
roof, and swept through the choir down to where they sat! It was only
an ordinary organist's practice; but to George, after his hard work, and
with the memories of home revived by the presence of his dear tutor, it
came as a breath from heaven. Daily, nearly, had he heard that organ
since his coming to Cambridge, but never had it delighted him as it did
now.
"Can we see the organ?" he said, when the last chord had died away.
"Let us try," said the doctor.
The gallery door was open, and ascending the stairs to the organ loft,
they found the organist preparing to depart.
"We have been a clandestine audience," said the doctor, "and couldn't
help coming to thank you for the treat you have given us. My young
friend here is music mad."
The organist smiled.
"You took me at a disadvantage," he said, "I was only amusing myself."
"Whatever you were doing for yourself, you delighted us," said the
doctor.
"Would you like to try the organ?" presently said the organist to
George.
Oh, what a bound of delight I could feel in my master's breast at the
invitation.
"May I?" he exclaimed.
"Certainly, if you like--and if you can," added the other, hesitatingly,
as if not sure whether the lad's skill would be equal to his enthusiasm.
George sat down on the bench, and laid his fingers lovingly on the keys.
But he withdrew them before he had sounded a note. "I would rather you
did not watch me too closely," he said, nervously, "for I am only a
beginner."
"Let us go and sit down stairs," suggested the doctor.
The organist looked still more doubtful than before, and began to repent
his offer. However, he retired with the doctor, and made up his mind to
be excruciated. They sat down in two of the stalls and waited.
And then George began to play. What he played I cannot tell. It began
first in a faint whisper of music which swelled onward into a pure
choral melody. Then suddenly the grand old roof trembled with the clash
of a martial movement, strong and steady, which carried the listener
onward till he was, with the sound, lost in the far distance. Then, in
wailing minor numbers the music returned, slowly working itself up into
the tumult and fury of a pent-up agony, and finally sweeping all before
it in a wild hurricane of bitterness. Then a pause, and then sweetly
and in the far distance once more rose the quiet hymn, and after that
all was silence.
After the first few notes the organist had uttered a startled
ejaculation, and drawn the doctor to another seat farther down the nave,
where, till all was over, he sat motionless as a statue. But the moment
the music had ceased he ran up the stairs with a face full of pleasure
and admiration, and actually seized George by the hand.
"You're a genius, sir. That was not at all bad, I can tell you."
A happy smile was all the answer George could give.
"Not at all bad," repeated the organist. "I was telling your friend,"
added he to Dr Wilkins, who had returned more slowly to the organ,
"that was not at all bad. He must come here often."
"Nothing, I am sure, would delight him more," said the doctor. "Eh, my
boy?"
"Nothing, indeed," said George, "but--"
"But your reading, I suppose."
"Never mind your reading, sir!" exclaimed the organist. "What's that to
music? Take my advice, and go in for music."
Poor George! for a moment he felt tempted to abandon all his ambitions
and resolutions at the prospect of a career so delightful and congenial.