I.

I was positively blinded. I could hardly read the note, a neatly written

little square sheet of paper; and the words seemed to swim before my

eyes. It was in the very thick of summer term, and I, Cyril Payne, M.A.,

Senior Proctor of the University of Oxford, was calmly asked to

undertake the sole charge for a week of a wild American girl, travelling

alone, and probably expecting me to run about with her just as foolishly

as I had done at Nice. There it lay before me, that awful note, in its

overwhelming conciseness, without hope of respite or interference. It

was simply crushing.

"MY DEAR MR. PAYNE,

"I am coming to Oxford, as you advised me. I shall arrive to-morrow

by the 10.15 a.m. train, and mean to stop at the Randolph. I hope

you will kindly show me all the lions.

"Yours very sincerely,

"IDA VAN RENSSELAER."

It was dated Tuesday, and this was Wednesday morning. I hadn't opened my

letters before seeing last night's charges at nine o'clock; and it was

now just ten. In a moment the full terror of the situation flashed upon

me. She had started; she was already almost here; there was no

possibility of telegraphing to stop her; before I could do anything, she

would have arrived, have taken rooms at the Randolph, and have come

round in her queer American manner to call upon me. There was not a

moment to be lost. I must rush down to the station and meet her--in full

academicals, velvet sleeves and all, for a Proctor must never be seen in

the morning in mufti. If there had been half an hour more, I could have

driven round by the Parks and called for my sister Annie, who was

married to the Rev. Theophilus Sheepshanks, Professor of Comparative

Osteology, and who might have helped me out of the scrape. But as things

stood, I was compelled to burst down the High just as I was, hail a

hansom opposite Queen's, and drive furiously to the station in bare time

to meet the 10.15 train. At all hazards, Ida Van Rensselaer must not go

to the Randolph, and must be carried off to Annie's, whether she would

or not. On the way down I had time to arrange my plan of action; and

before I reached the station, I thought I saw my way dimly out of the

awful scrape which this mad Yankee girl had so inconsiderately got me

into.

I had met Ida Van Rensselaer the winter before at Nice. We stopped

together at a pension on the Promenade des Anglais; and as I was away

from Oxford--for even a Proctor must unbend sometimes--and as she was a

pleasant, lively young person with remarkably fine eyes, travelling by

herself, I had taken the trouble to instruct her in European scenery and

European art. She had a fancy for being original, so I took her to see

Eza, and Roccabrunna, and St. Pons, and all the other queer picturesque

little places in the Nice district which no American had ever dreamt of

going to see before: and when Ida went on to Florence, I happened--quite

accidentally, of course--to turn up at the very same pension three days

later, where I gave her further lessons in the art of admiring the early

mediaeval masters and the other treasures of Giotto's city. I was a bit

of a collector myself, and in my rooms at Magdalen I flatter myself that

I have got the only one genuine Botticelli in a private collection in

England. In spite of her untamed American savagery, Ida had a certain

taste for these things, and evidently my lessons gave her the first

glimpse she had ever had of that real interior Europe whose culture she

had not previously suspected. It is pleasant to teach a pretty pupil,

and in the impulse of a weak moment--it was in a gondola at Venice--I

even told her that she should not leave for America without having seen

Oxford. Of course I fancied that she would bring a chaperon. Now she had

taken me at my word, but she had come alone. I had brought it all upon

myself, undoubtedly; though how the dickens I was ever to get out of it

I could not imagine.

As I reached the station, the 10.15 was just coming in. I cast a wild

glance right and left, and saw at least a dozen undergraduates, without

cap or gown, loitering on the platform in obvious disregard of

university law. But I felt far too guilty to proctorize them, and I was

terribly conscious that all their eyes were fixed upon me, as I moved up

and down the carriages looking for my American friend. She caught my eye

in a moment, peering out of a second-class window--she had told me that

she was not well off--and I thought I should have sunk in the ground

when she jumped lightly out, seized my hand warmly, and cried out quite

audibly, in her pretty faintly American voice, "My dear Mr. Payne, I am

so glad you've come to meet me. Will you see after my baggage--no,

luggage you call it in England, don't you?--and get it sent up to the

Randolph, please, at once?"

Was ever Proctor so tried on this earth? But I made an effort to smile

it off. "My sister is so sorry she could not come to meet you, Miss Van

Rensselaer," I said in my loudest voice, for I saw all those twelve

sinister undergraduates watching afar off with eager curiosity; "but she

has sent me down to carry you off in her stead, and she begs you won't

think of going to the Randolph, but will come and make her house your

home as long as you stay in Oxford." I flattered myself that the twelve

odious young men, who were now forming a sort of irregular circle around

us, would be completely crushed by that masterly stroke: though what on

earth Annie would say at being saddled with this Yankee girl for a week

I hardly dared to fancy. For Annie was a Professor's wife: and the

dignity of a Professor's wife is almost as serious a matter as that of a

Senior Proctor himself.

Imagine my horror, then, when Ida answered, with her frank smile and

sunny voice, "Your sister! I didn't know you had a sister. And anyhow, I

haven't come to see your sister, but yourself. And I'd better go to the

Randolph straight, I'm sure, because I shall feel more at home there.

You can come round and see me whenever you like, there; and I mean you

to show me all Oxford, now I've come here, that's certain."

I glanced furtively at the open-eared undergraduates, and felt that the

game was really up. I could never face them again. I must resign

everything, take orders, and fly to a country rectory. At least, I

thought so on the spur of the moment.

But something must clearly be done. I couldn't stand and argue out the

case with Ida before those twelve young fiends, now reinforced by a

group of porters; and I determined to act strategically--that is to say,

tell a white lie. "You can go to the Randolph, of course, if you wish,

Miss Van Rensselaer," I said; "will you come and show me which is your

luggage? Here, you, sir," to one of the porters,--a little angrily, I

fear,--"come and get this lady's boxes, will you?"

In a minute I had secured the boxes, and went out for a cab. There was

nothing left but a single hansom. Demoralized as I was, I took it, and

put Ida inside. "Drive to Lechlade Villa, the Parks," I whispered to the

cabby--that was Annie's address--and I jumped in beside my torturer. As

we drove up by the Corn-market, I could see the porters and scouts of

Balliol and John's all looking eagerly out at the unwonted sight of a

Senior Proctor in full academicals, driving through the streets of

Oxford in a hansom cab, with a lady by his side. As for Ida, she

remained happily unconscious, though I blamed her none the less for it.

In her native wilds I knew that such vagaries were permitted by the

rules of society; but she ought surely to have known that in Europe they

were not admissible.

"Now, Miss Van Rensselaer," I said as we turned the corner of Carfax, "I

am taking you to my sister's. Excuse my frankness if I tell you that,

according to English, and especially to Oxford etiquette, it would never

do for you to go to an hotel. People's sense of decorum would be

scandalized if they learnt that a lady had come alone to visit the

Senior Proctor, and was stopping at the Randolph. Don't you see yourself

how very odd it looks?"

"Well, no," said Ida promptly; "I think you are a dreadfully suspicious

people: you seem always to credit everybody with the worst motives. In

America, we think people mean no harm, and don't look after them so

sharply as you do. But I really can't go to your sister's. I don't know

her, and I haven't been invited. Does she know I'm coming?"

"Well, I can't say she does," I answered hesitatingly. "You see, your

letter only reached me half an hour ago, and I had no time to see her

before I went to meet you."

"Then I certainly won't go, Mr. Payne, that's certain."

"But my dear Miss Van Rensselaer----"

"Not the slightest use, I assure you. I _can't_ go to a house where

they don't even know I'm coming. Driver, will you go to the Randolph

Hotel, please?"

I sank back paralyzed and unmanned. This girl was one too many for me.

"Miss Van Rensselaer," I cried, in a last despairing fit, "do you know

that as Senior Proctor of the University I have the power to order you

away from Oxford; and that if I told them at the Randolph not to take

you in, they wouldn't dare to do it?"

"Well really, Mr. Payne, I dare say you have some extraordinary mediaeval

customs here, but you can hardly mean to send me away again by main

force. I shall go to the Randolph."

And she went. I had to draw up solemnly at the door, to accompany her to

the office, and to see her safely provided with a couple of rooms before

I could get away hastily to the Ancient House of Convocation, where

public business was being delayed by my absence. As I hurried through

the Schools Quadrangle, I felt like a convicted malefactor going to face

his judges, and self-condemned by his very face.

That afternoon, as soon as I had gulped down a choking lunch, I bolted

down to the Parks and saw Annie. At first I thought it was a hopeless

task to convince her that Ida Van Rensselaer's conduct was, from an

American point of view, nothing extraordinary. She persisted in

declaring that such goings-on were not respectable, and that I was

bound, as an officer of the University, to remove the young woman at

once from the eight-mile radius over which my jurisdiction extended. I

pleaded in vain that ladies in America always travelled alone, and that

nobody thought anything of it. Annie pertinently remarked that that

would be excellent logic in New York, but that it was quite

un-Aristotelian in Oxford. "When your American friends come to Rome,"

she said coldly--as though I were in the habit of importing Yankee girls

wholesale--"they must do as Rome does." But when I at last pointed out

that Ida, as an American citizen, could appeal to her minister if I

attempted to turn her out, and that we might find ourselves the centre

of an international quarrel--possibly even a _casus belli_--she finally

yielded with a struggle. "For the sake of respectability," she said

solemnly, "I'll go and call on this girl with you; but remember, Cyril,

I shall never undertake to help you out of such a disgraceful scrape a

second time." I sneaked out into the garden to wait for her, and felt

that the burden of a Proctorship was really more than I could endure.

We called duly upon Ida, that very hour, and Ida certainly behaved

herself remarkably well. She was so charmingly frank and pretty, she

apologized so simply to Annie for her ignorance of English etiquette,

and she was so obviously guileless and innocent-hearted in all her talk,

that even Annie herself--who is, I must confess, a typical don's

wife--was gradually mollified. To my great surprise, Annie even asked

her to dinner _en famille_ the same evening, and suggested that I should

make an arrangement with the Junior Proctor to take my work, and join

the party. I consented, not without serious misgivings; but I felt that

if Ida was really going to stop a week, it would be well to put the best

face upon it, and to show her up in company with Annie as often as

possible. That might just conceivably take the edge off the keen blade

of University scandal.

To cut a long story short, Ida did stop her week, and I got through it

very creditably after all. Annie behaved like a brick, as soon as the

first chill was over; for though she is married to a professor of dry

bones (Comparative Osteology sounds very well, but means no more than

that, when you come to think of it), she is a woman at heart in spite of

it all. Ida had the most winning, charming, confiding manner; and she

was so pleased with Oxford, with the colleges, the libraries, the

gardens, the river, the boats, the mediaeval air, the whole place, that

she quite gained Annie over to her side. Nay, my sister even discovered

incidentally that Ida had a little fortune of her own, amounting to some

L300 a year, which, though it doesn't count for much in America, would

be a neat little sum to a man like myself, in England; and she shrewdly

observed, in her sensible business-like manner, that it would quite make

up for the possible loss of my Magdalen fellowship. I am not exactly

what you call a marrying man--at least, I know I had never got married

before; but as the week wore on, and I continued boating, flirting, and

acting showman to Ida, Annie of course always assisting for propriety's

sake, I began to feel that the Proctor was being conquered by the man. I

fell most seriously and undoubtedly in love. Ida admired my rooms, was

charmed with the pretty view from my windows over Magdalen Bridge and

the beautiful gardens, and criticized my Botticelli with real sympathy.

I was interested in her; she was so fresh, so real, and so genuinely

delighted with the new world which opened before her. It was almost her

first glimpse of the true interior Europe, and she was fascinated with

it, as all better American minds invariably are when they feel the charm

of its contrast with their own hurrying, bustling, mushroom world. The

week passed easily and pleasantly enough; and when it was drawing to an

end, I had half made up my mind to propose to Ida Van Rensselaer.

The day before she was to leave she told us she would not go out in the

afternoon; so I determined to stroll down the river to Iffley by myself

in a "tub dingey"--a small boat with room in it for two, if occasion

demands. When I reached the Iffley Lock, imagine my horror at seeing Ida

in the middle of the stream, quietly engaged in paddling herself down

the river in a canoe. I ran my dingey close beside her, drove her

remorselessly against the bank, and handed her out on to the meadow,

before she could imagine what I was driving at.

"Now, Miss Van Rensselaer," I said sternly, "this will never do. By

herculean efforts Annie and I have got over this week without serious

scandal; and at the last moment you endeavour to wreck our plans by

canoeing down the open river by yourself before the eyes of the whole

University. Everybody will talk about the Senior Proctor's visitor

having been seen indecorously paddling about in broad daylight in a boat

of her own."

"I didn't know there was any harm in it," said Ida penitently; for she

was beginning to understand the real seriousness of University

etiquette.

"Well," I answered, "it can't be helped now. You must get into my boat

at once--I'll send one of Salter's men down to fetch your canoe--and we

must row straight back to Oxford immediately."

She obeyed me mechanically, and I began to pull away for very life.

"There's nothing for it now," I said pensively, "except to propose to

you. I half meant to do it before, and now I've quite made up my mind.

Will you have me?"

Ida looked at me without surprise, but with a little pleasure in her

face. "What nonsense!" she said quietly. "I knew you were going to

propose to me this afternoon, and so I came out alone to keep out of

your way. You haven't had time to make up your mind properly yet."

As I looked at her beautiful calm face and lovely eyes I forgot

everything. In a moment, I was over head and ears in love again, and

conscious of nothing else. "Ida," I cried, looking at her steadily,

"Ida!"

"Now, please stop," said Ida, before I could get any further. "I know

exactly what you're going to say. You're going to say, 'Ida, I love

you.' Don't desecrate the verb _to love_ by draggling it more than it

has already been draggled through all the grammars of every European

language. I've conjugated _to love_, myself, in English, French,

German, and Italian; and you've conjugated it in Latin and Greek, and

for aught I know in Anglo-Saxon and Coptic and Assyrian as well; so now

let's have done with it for ever, and conjugate some other verb more

worthy the attention of two rational and original human beings. Can't

you strike out a line for yourself?"

"You're quite mistaken," I answered curtly, for I wasn't going to be

browbeaten in that way; "I meant to say nothing of the sort. What I did

mean to say--and I'll trouble you to listen to it attentively--was just

this. You seem to me about as well suited to my abstract requirements as

any other young woman I have ever met: and if you're inclined to take

me, we might possibly arrange an engagement."

"What a funny man you are!" she went on innocently. "You don't propose

at all _en regle_. I've had twelve men propose to me separately in a

boat in America, and you make up the baker's dozen: but all the others

leaned forward lackadaisically, dropped the oars when they were

beginning to get serious, and looked at me sentimentally; while you go

on rowing all the time as if there was nothing unusual in it."

"Probably," I suggested, "your twelve American admirers attached more

importance to the ceremony than I do. But you haven't answered my

question yet."

"Let me ask you one instead," she said, more seriously. "Do you think

I'm at all the kind of person for a Senior Proctor's wife? You say I

suit your abstract requirements, but one can't get married in the

abstract, you know. Viewed concretely, don't you fancy I'm about the

most unsuitable helpmate you could possibly light upon?"

"The profound consciousness of that indubitable fact," I replied

carelessly, "has made me struggle in a hopeless sort of way against the

irresistible impulse to propose to you ever since I saw you first. But I

suppose Senior Proctors are much the same as other men. They fly like

moths about the candle, and can't overcome the temptation of singeing

their wings."

"If I had any notion of accepting you," said Ida reflectively, "I should

at least have the consolation of knowing that you didn't make anything

by your bargain; for my fifteen hundred dollars would just amount to the

three hundred a year which you would have to give up with your

fellowship."

"Quite so," I answered; "I see you come of a business-like nation; and

I, as former bursar of my college, am a man of business myself. So I

have no reason for concealing from you the fact that I have a private

income of about four hundred a year, besides University appointments

worth five hundred more, which would not go with the fellowship."

"Do you really think me sordid enough to care for such considerations?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have taken the trouble to tell you them. I merely

mentioned the facts for their general interest, and not as bearing on

the question in hand."

"Well, then, Mr. Payne, you shall have my answer.--No."

"Is it final?"

"Is anything human final, except one's twenty-ninth birthday? I choose

it to be final for the present, and 'the subject then dropped,' as the

papers say about debates in Congress. Let us have done now with this

troublesome verb altogether, and conjugate our return to Oxford instead.

See what bunches of fritillaries again! I never saw anything prettier,

except the orange-lilies in New Hampshire. If you like, you may come to

America next season. You would enjoy our woodlands."

"Where shall I find you?"

"At Saratoga."

"When?"

"Any day from July the first."

"Good," I said, after a moment's reflection. "If I stick to my fancy for

flying into the candle, you will see me there. If I change my mind, it

won't matter much to either of us."

So we paddled back to Oxford, talking all the way of indifferent

subjects, of England and our English villages, and enjoying the peaceful

greenness of the trees and banks. It was half-past six when we got to

Salter's barge, and I walked with Ida as far as the Randolph. Then I

returned to college, feeling very much like an undetected sheep-stealer,

and had a furtive sort of dinner served up in my own room. Next morning,

I confess it was with a sigh of relief that Annie and I saw Ida Van

Rensselaer start from the station _en route_ for Liverpool. It was quite

a fortnight before I could face my own bulldogs unabashed, and I bowed

with a wan and guilty smile upon my face whenever any one of those

twelve undergraduates capped me in the High till the end of term. I

believe they never missed an opportunity of meeting me if they saw a

chance open. I was glad indeed when long vacation came to ease me of my

office and my troubles.