The bright pale February sunlight lay on the little court of Beaufort
College, Cambridge, on the old dull-red smoke-stained brick, the stone
mullions and mouldings, the Hall oriel, the ivied buttresses and
battlements, the turrets, the tiled roofs, the quaint chimneys, and the
lead-topped cupola over all. Half the court was in shadow. It was
incredibly picturesque, but it had somehow the look of a fortress
rather than of a house. It did not exist only to be beautiful, but had
a well-worn beauty of age and use. There was no domestic adornment of
flower-bed or garden-border, merely four squares of grass, looking like
faded carpets laid on the rather uncompromising pebbles which floored
the pathways. The golden hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to
ten, and the chimes uttered their sharp, peremptory voices. Two or
three young men stood talking at the vaulted gateway, and one or two
figures in dilapidated gowns and caps, holding books, fled out of the
court.
A firm footstep came down one of the stairways; a man of about forty
passed out into the court--Howard Kennedy, Fellow and Classical
Lecturer of the College. His thick curly brown hair showed a trace of
grey, his short pointed beard was grizzled, his complexion sanguine,
his eyebrows thick. There were little vague lines on his forehead, and
his eyes were large and clear; an interesting, expressive face, not
technically handsome, but both clever and good-natured. He was
carelessly dressed in rather old but well-cut clothes, and had an air
of business-like decisiveness which became him well, and made him seem
comfortably at home in the place; he nodded and smiled to the
undergraduates at the gate, who smiled back and saluted. He met a young
man rushing down the court, and said to him, "That's right, hurry up!
You'll just be in time," a remark which was answered by a gesture of
despair from the young man. Then he went up the court towards the Hall,
entered the flagged passage, looked for a moment at the notices on the
screen, and went through into the back court, which was surrounded by a
tiny cloister.
Here he met an elderly man, clean-shaven, fresh-coloured,
acute-looking, who wore a little round bowler hat perched on a thick
shock of white hair. He was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, with
a black tie, and wore rather light grey trousers. One would have taken
him for an old-fashioned country solicitor. He was, as a matter of
fact, the Vice-Master and Senior Fellow of the College--Mr. Redmayne,
who had spent his whole life there. He greeted the younger man with a
kindly, brisk, ironical manner, saying, "You look very virtuous,
Kennedy! What are you up to?"
"I am going for a turn in the garden," said Howard; "will you come with
me?"
"You are very good," said Mr. Redmayne; "it will be quite like a
dialogue of Plato!"
They went down the cloister to a low door in the corner, which Howard
unlocked, and turned into a small old-fashioned garden, surrounded on
three sides by high walls, and overlooking the river on the fourth
side; a gravel path ran all round; there were a few trees, bare and
leafless, and a big bed of shrubs in the centre of the little lawn,
just faintly pricked with points of green. A few aconites showed their
yellow heads above the soil.
"What are those wretched little flowers?" said Mr. Redmayne, pointing
at them contemptuously.
"Oh, don't say that," said Howard; "they are always the first to
struggle up, and they are the earliest signs of spring. Those are
aconites."
"Aconites? Deadly poison!" said Mr. Redmayne, in a tone of horror.
"Well, I don't object to them,--though I must say that I prefer the
works of man to the works of God at all times and in all places. I
don't like the spring--it's a languid and treacherous time; it always
makes me feel that I wish I were doing something else."
They paced for some minutes round the garden gossiping, Redmayne making
very trenchant criticisms, but evidently enjoying the younger man's
company. At something which he said, Howard uttered a low laugh, which
was pleasant to hear from the sense of contented familiarity which it
gave.
"Ah, you may laugh, my young friend," said Redmayne, "but when you have
reached my time of life and see everything going to pieces round you,
you have occasionally to protest against the general want of backbone,
and the sentimentality of the age."
"Yes, but you don't REALLY object," said Howard; "you know you enjoy
your grievances!"
"Well, I am a philosopher," said Mr. Redmayne, "but you are overdoing
your philanthropics. Luncheon in Hall for the boys, dinner at
seven-thirty for the boys, a new cricket-ground for the boys; you
pamper them! Now in my time, when the undergraduates complained about
the veal in Hall, old Grant sent for us third-year men, and said that
he understood there were complaints about the veal, of which he fully
recognised the justice, and so they would go back to mutton and beef
and stick to them, and then he bowed us out. Now the Bursar would send
for the cook, and they would mingle their tears together."
Howard laughed again, but made no comment, and presently said he must
go back to work. As they went in, Mr. Redmayne put his hand in Howard's
arm, and said, "Don't mind me, my young friend! I like to have my
growl, but I am proud of the old place, and you do a great deal for it."
Howard smiled, and tucked the old man's hand closer to his side with a
movement of his arm. "I shall come and fetch you out again some
morning," he said.
He got back to his rooms at ten o'clock, and a moment afterwards a
young man appeared in a gown. Howard sat down at his table, pulled a
chair up to his side, produced a corrected piece of Latin prose, made
some criticisms and suggestions, and ended up by saying, "That's a good
piece! You have improved a good deal lately, and that would get you a
solid mark." Then he sat for a minute or two talking about the books
his pupil was reading, and indicating the points he was to look out
for, till at half-past ten another youth appeared to go through the
same process. This went on until twelve o'clock. Howard's manner was
kindly and business-like, and the undergraduates were very much at
their ease. One of them objected to one of his criticisms. Howard
turned to a dictionary and showed him a paragraph. "You will see I am
right," he said, "but don't hesitate to object to anything I say--these
usages are tricky things!" The undergraduate smiled and nodded.
Just before twelve o'clock he was left alone for five minutes, and a
servant brought in a note. Howard opened it, and taking a sheet of
paper, began to write. At the hour a youth appeared, of very boyish
aspect, curly-haired, fresh-looking, ingenuous. Howard greeted him with
a smile. "Half a minute, Jack!" he said. "There's the paper--not the
Sportsman, I'm afraid, but you can console yourself while I just finish
this note." The boy sat down by the fire, but instead of taking the
paper, drew a solemn-looking cat, which was sitting regarding the
hearth, on to his knee, and began playing with it. Presently Howard
threw his pen down. "Come along," he said. The boy, still carrying the
cat, came and sat down beside him. The lesson proceeded as before, but
there was a slight difference in Howard's manner of speech, as of an
uncle with a favourite nephew. At the end, he pushed the paper into the
boy's hand, and said, "No, that isn't good enough, you know; it's all
too casual--it isn't a bit like Latin: you don't do me credit!" He
spoke incisively enough, but shook his head with a smile. The boy said
nothing, but got up, vaguely smiling, and holding the cat tucked under
his arm--a charming picture of healthy and indifferent youth. Then he
said in a rich infantile voice, "Oh, it's all right. I didn't do myself
justice this time. You shall see!"
At this moment the old servant came in and asked Howard if he would
take lunch.
"Yes; I won't go into Hall," said Howard. "Lunch for two--you can stay
and lunch with me, Jack; and I will give you a lecture about your sins."