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THE
GIANT'S ROBE
BY
F. ANSTEY
AUTHOR OF 'VICE-VERSÂ'
'Now does he feel his title
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe
Upon a dwarfish thief'--_Macbeth_
_THIRD EDITION_
LONDON
SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
1884
[_All rights reserved_]
PREFACE.
It has been my intention from the first to take this opportunity of
stating that, if I am indebted to any previous work for the central
idea of a stolen manuscript, such obligation should be ascribed to a
short tale, published some time ago in one of the Christmas
numbers--the only story upon the subject which I have read at present.
It was the story of a German student who, having found in the library
of his university an old scientific manuscript, by a writer long since
dead and forgotten, produced it as his own; and it is so probable that
the recollection of this incident became quite unconsciously the germ
of the present book that, although the matter is not of general
importance, I feel it only fair to mention it here.
I trust, nevertheless, that it is not necessary to insist upon any
claim to the average degree of originality; for if the book does not
bear the traces of honest and independent work, that is a defect which
is scarcely likely to be removed by the most eloquent and
argumentative of prefaces.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN INTERCESSOR 1
II. A LAST WALK 15
III. GOOD-BYE 23
IV. MALAKOFF TERRACE 36
V. NEIGHBOURS 52
VI. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR 64
VII. IN THE FOG 69
VIII. BAD NEWS 82
IX. A TURNING-POINT 90
X. REPENTE TURPISSIMUS 103
XI. REVOLT 110
XII. LAUNCHED 124
XIII. A 'THORN AND FLOWER PIECE' 133
XIV. IN THE SPRING 148
XV. HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY 158
XVI. A CHANGE OF FRONT 170
XVII. IN WHICH MARK MAKES AN ENEMY AND
RECOVERS A FRIEND 177
XVIII. A DINNER PARTY 186
XIX. DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE 194
XX. A DECLARATION--OF WAR 197
XXI. A PARLEY WITH THE ENEMY 208
XXII. STRIKING THE TRAIL 216
XXIII. PIANO PRACTICE 221
XXIV. A MEETING IN GERMANY 232
XXV. MABEL'S ANSWER 240
XXVI. VISITS OF CEREMONY 251
XXVII. CLEAR SKY--AND A THUNDERBOLT 256
XXVIII. MARK KNOWS THE WORST 262
XXIX. ON BOARD THE 'COROMANDEL' 273
XXX. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS 288
XXXI. AGAG 301
XXXII. AT WASTWATER 311
XXXIII. IN SUSPENSE 323
XXXIV. ON THE LAUFENPLATZ 335
XXXV. MISSED FIRE 345
XXXVI. LITTLE RIFTS 349
XXXVII. MARK ACCEPTS A DISAGREEABLE DUTY 358
XXXVIII. HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A PALPABLE HIT 366
XXXIX. CAFFYN SPRINGS HIS MINE 383
XL. THE EFFECTS OF AN EXPLOSION 401
XLI. A FINAL VICTORY 420
XLII. FROM THE GRAVE 435
CONCLUSION 437
THE GIANT'S ROBE.
CHAPTER I.
AN INTERCESSOR.
In the heart of the City, but fended off from the roar and rattle of
traffic by a ring of shops, and under the shadow of a smoke-begrimed
classical church, stands--or rather stood, for they have removed it
recently--the large public school of St. Peter's.
Entering the heavy old gate, against which the shops on both sides
huddled close, you passed into the atmosphere of scholastic calm
which, during working hours, pervades most places of education, and
saw a long plain block of buildings, within which it was hard to
believe, so deep was the silence, that some hundreds of boys were
collected.
Even if you went down the broad stair to the school entrance and along
the basement, where the bulk of the class-rooms was situated, there
was only a faint hum to be heard from behind the numerous doors--until
the red-waistcoated porter came out of his lodge and rang the big bell
which told that the day's work was over.
Then nervous people who found themselves by any chance in the long
dark corridors experienced an unpleasant sensation, as of a demon host
in high spirits being suddenly let loose to do their will. The
outburst was generally preceded by a dull murmur and rustle, which
lasted for a few minutes after the clang of the bell had died
away--then door after door opened and hordes of boys plunged out with
wild shrieks of liberty, to scamper madly down the echoing flagstones.
For half an hour after that the place was a Babel of unearthly yells,
whistles, and scraps of popular songs, with occasional charges and
scuffles and a constant tramp of feet.
The higher forms on both the classical and modern sides took no part
of course in these exuberances, and went soberly home in twos or
threes, as became 'fellows in the Sixth.' But they were in the
minority, and the Lower School boys and the 'Remove'--that bodyguard
of strong limbs and thick heads which it seemed hopeless to remove any
higher--were quite capable of supplying unaided all the noise that
might be considered necessary; and, as there was no ill-humour and
little roughness in their japes, they were very wisely allowed to let
their steam off without interference. It did not last very long,
though it died out gradually enough: first the songs and whistles
became more isolated and distinct, and the hallooing and tramping less
continued, until the _charivari_ toned down almost entirely, the
frightened silence came stealing back again, and the only sounds at
last were the hurried run of the delinquents who had been 'run in' to
the detention room, the slow footsteps of some of the masters, and the
brooms of the old ladies who were cleaning up.
Such was the case at St. Peter's when this story begins. The stream of
boys with shiny black bags had poured out through the gate and swelled
the great human river; some of them were perhaps already at home and
enlivening their families with the day's experiences, and those who
had further to go were probably beguiling the tedium of travel by
piling one another up in struggling heaps on the floors of various
railway carriages, for the entertainment of those privileged to be
their fellow-passengers.
Halfway down the main corridor I have mentioned was the 'Middle-Third'
class-room, a big square room with dingy cream-coloured walls, high
windows darkened with soot, and a small stained writing-table at one
end, surrounded on three sides by ranks of rugged seasoned forms and
sloping desks; round the walls were varnished lockers with a number
painted on the lid of each, and a big square stove stood in one
corner.
The only person in the room just then was the form-master, Mark
Ashburn; and he was proposing to leave it almost immediately, for the
close air and the strain of keeping order all day had given him a
headache, and he was thinking that before walking homeward he would
amuse himself with a magazine, or a gossip in the masters' room.
Mark Ashburn was a young man, almost the youngest on the school staff,
and very decidedly the best-looking. He was tall and well made, with
black hair and eloquent dark eyes, which had the gift of expressing
rather more than a rigid examination would have found inside him--just
now, for example, a sentimental observer would have read in their
glance round the bare deserted room the passionate protest of a soul
conscious of genius against the hard fate which had placed him there,
whereas he was in reality merely wondering whose hat that was on the
row of pegs opposite.
But if Mark was not a genius, there was a brilliancy in his manner
that had something very captivating about it; an easy confidence in
himself, that had the more merit because it had hitherto met with
extremely small encouragement.
He dressed carefully, which was not without effect upon his class, for
boys, without being overscrupulous in the matter of their own costume,
are apt to be critical of the garments of those in authority over
them. To them he was 'an awful swell'; though he was not actually
overdressed--it was only that he liked to walk home along Piccadilly
with the air of a man who had just left his club and had nothing
particular to do.
He was not unpopular with his boys: he did not care twopence about any
of them, but he felt it pleasant to be popular, and his careless
good-nature secured that result without much effort on his part. They
had a great respect for his acquirements too, speaking of him among
themselves as 'jolly clever when he liked to show it'; for Mark was
not above giving occasional indications of deep learning which were
highly impressive. He went out of his way to do it, and was probably
aware that the learning thus suggested would not stand any very severe
test; but then there was no one there to apply it.
Any curiosity as to the last hat and coat on the wall was satisfied
while he still sat at his desk, for the door, with its upper panels of
corrugated glass protected by stout wire network--no needless
precaution there--opened just then, and a small boy appeared, looking
rather pale and uncomfortable, and holding a long sheet of blue
foolscap in one hand.
'Hullo, Langton,' said Mark, as he saw him; 'so it's you; why, haven't
you gone yet, eh? How's that?'
'Please sir,' began the boy, dolorously, 'I've got into an awful
row--I'm run in, sir.'
'Ah!' said Mark; 'sorry for you--what is it?'
'Well, I didn't do anything,' said he. 'It was like this. I was going
along the passage, and just passing Old Jemmy's--I mean Mr.
Shelford's--door, and it was open. And there was a fellow standing
outside, a bigger fellow than me, and he caught hold of me by the
collar and ran me right in and shut the door and bolted. And Mr.
Shelford came at me and boxed my ears, and said it wasn't the first
time, and I should have a detention card for it. And so he gave me
this, and I'm to go up to the Doctor with it and get it signed when
it's done!'
And the boy held out the paper, at the top of which Mark read in old
Shelford's tremulous hand--'Langton. 100 lines for outrageous
impertinence. J. Shelford.'
'If I go up, you know, sir,' said the boy, with a trembling lip, 'I'm
safe for a swishing.'
'Well, I'm afraid you are,' agreed Mark, 'but you'd better make haste,
hadn't you? or they'll close the Detention Room, and you'll only be
worse off for waiting, you see.'
Mark was really rather sorry for him, though he had, as has been said,
no great liking for boys; but this particular one, a round-faced,
freckled boy, with honest eyes and a certain refinement in his voice
and bearing that somehow suggested that he had a mother or sister who
was a gentlewoman, was less objectionable to Mark than his fellows.
Still he could not enter into his feelings sufficiently to guess why
he was being appealed to in this way.
Young Langton half turned to go, dejectedly enough; then he came back
and said, 'Please, sir, can't you help me? I shouldn't mind the--the
swishing so much if I'd done anything. But I haven't.'
'What can I do?' asked Mark.
'If you wouldn't mind speaking to Mr. Shelford for me--he'd listen to
you, and he won't to me.'
'He will have gone by this time,' objected Mark.
'Not if you make haste,' said the boy, eagerly.
Mark was rather flattered by this confidence in his persuasive powers:
he liked the idea, too, of posing as the protector of his class, and
the good-natured element in him made him the readier to yield.
'Well, we'll have a shot at it, Langton,' he said. 'I doubt if it's
much good, you know, but here goes--when you get in, hold your tongue
and keep in the background--leave it to me.'
So they went out into the long passage with its whitewashed walls and
rows of doors on each side, and black barrel-vaulting above; at the
end the glimmer of light came through the iron bars of the doorway,
which had a prison-like suggestion about them, and the reflectors of
the unlighted gas lamps that projected here and there along the
corridor gave back the glimmer as a tiny spark in the centre of each
metal disc.
Mark stopped at the door of the Upper Fourth Classroom, which was Mr.
Shelford's, and went in. It was a plain room, not unlike his own, but
rather smaller; it had a daïs with a somewhat larger desk for the
master, and a different arrangement of the benches and lockers, but
it was quite as gloomy, with an outlook into a grim area giving a
glimpse of the pavement and railings above.
Mr. Shelford was evidently just going, for as they came in he had put
a very large hat on the back of his head, and was winding a long grey
comforter round his throat; but he took off the hat courteously as he
saw Mark. He was a little old man, with a high brick-red colour on his
smooth, scarcely wrinkled cheeks, a big aquiline nose, a wide
thin-lipped mouth, and sharp little grey eyes, which he cocked
sideways at one like an angry parrot.
Langton retired to a form out of hearing, and sat down on one end of
it, nursing his detention paper anxiously.
'Well, Ashburn,' began the Reverend James Shelford, 'is there anything
I can do for _you_?'
'Why,' said Mark, 'the fact is, I----'
'Eh, what?' said the elder. 'Wait a minute--there's that impident
fellow back again! I thought I'd seen the last of him. Here, you sir,
didn't I send you up for a flogging?'
'I--I believe you did, sir,' said Langton with extreme deference.
'Well, why ain't you _getting_ that flogging--eh, sir? No impidence,
now--just tell me, why ain't you being flogged? You ought to be in the
middle of it now!'
'Well, you see,' said Mark, 'he's one of _my_ boys----'
'I don't care whose boy he is,' said the other, testily; 'he's an
impident fellow, sir.'
'I don't think he is, really,' said Mark.
'D'ye know what he did, then? Came whooping and shouting and
hullabalooing into my room, for all the world as if it was his own
nursery, sir. He's _always_ doing it!'
'I never did it before,' protested Langton, 'and it wasn't my fault
this time.'
'Wasn't your fault! You haven't got St. Vitus' dance, have you? I
never heard there were any Tarantula spiders here. You don't go
dancing into the Doctor's room, do you? _He'll_ give you a dancing
lesson!' said the old gentleman, sitting down again to chuckle, and
looking very like Mr. Punch.
'No, but allow me,' put in Mark; 'I assure you this boy is----'
'I know what you're going to tell me--he's a model boy, of course.
It's singular what shoals of model boys _do_ come dancing in here
under some irresistible impulse after school. I'll put a stop to it
now I've caught one. You don't know 'em as well as I do, sir, you
don't know 'em--they're all impident and all liars--some are cleverer
at it than others, and that's all.'
'I'm afraid that's true enough,' said Mark, who did not like being
considered inexperienced.
'Yes, it's cruel work having to do with boys, sir--cruel and
thankless. If ever I try to help a boy in my class I think is trying
to get on and please me, what does he do? Turn round and play me some
scurvy trick, just to prove to the others he's not currying favour.
And then they insult me--why, that very boy has been and shouted
"Shellfish" through my keyhole many a time, I'll warrant!'
'I think you're mistaken,' said Mark, soothingly.
'You do? I'll ask him. Here, d'ye mean to tell me you never called out
"Shellfish" or--or other opprobrious epithets into my door, sir?' And
he inclined his ear for the answer with his eyes fixed on the boy's
face.
'Not "Shellfish,"' said the boy; 'I did "Prawn" once. But that was
long ago.'
Mark gave him up then, with a little contempt for such injudicious
candour.
'Oh!' said Mr. Shelford, catching him, but not ungently, by the ear.
'"Prawn," eh? "Prawn"; hear that, Ashburn? Perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling me _why_ "Prawn"?'
A natural tendency of the youthful mind to comparative physiology had
discovered a fancied resemblance which justified any graceful
personalities of this kind; but Langton probably felt that candour had
its limits, and that this was a question that required judgment in
dealing with it.
'Because--because I've heard other fellows call you that,' he
replied.
'Ah, and why do _they_ call me Prawn, eh?'
'I never heard them give any reason,' said the boy, diplomatically.
Mr. Shelford let the boy go with another chuckle, and Langton retired
to his form again out of earshot.
'Yes, Ashburn,' said old Jemmy, 'that's the name they have for me--one
of 'em. "Prawn" and "Shellfish"--they yell it out after me as I'm
going home, and then run away. And I've had to bear it thirty years.'
'Young ruffians!' said Mark, as if the sobriquets were wholly unknown
to the masters' room.
'Ah, they do though; and the other day, when my monitor opened the
desk in the morning, there was a great impident kitten staring me in
the face. He'd put it in there himself, I dare say, to annoy me.'
He did not add that he had sent out for some milk for the intruder,
and had nursed it on his old knees during morning school, after which
he showed it out with every consideration for its feelings; but it was
the case nevertheless, for his years amongst boys had still left a
soft place in his heart, though he got little credit for it.
'Yes, it's a wearing life, sir, a wearing life,' he went on with less
heat, 'hearing generations of stoopid boys all blundering at the same
stiff places, and worrying over the same old passages. I'm getting
very tired of it; I'm an old man now. "Occidit miseros crambe"--eh,
you know how it goes on?'
'Yes, yes,' said Mark, 'quite so,'--though he had but a dim
recollection of the line in question.
'Talking of verses,' said the other, 'I hear we're to have the
pleasure of seeing one of your productions on Speech-night this year.
Is that so?'
'I was not aware anything was settled,' said Mark, flushing with
pleasure. 'I did lay a little thing of my own, a sort of allegorical
Christmas piece--a _masque_, don't you know--before the Doctor and the
Speeches Committee, but I haven't heard anything definite yet.'
'Oh, perhaps I'm premature,' said Mr. Shelford; 'perhaps I'm
premature.'
'Do you mind telling me if you've heard anything said about it?' asked
Mark, thoroughly interested.
'I did hear some talk about it in the luncheon hour. You weren't in
the room, I believe, but I think they were to come to a decision this
afternoon.'
'Then it will be all over by now,' said Mark; 'there may be a note on
my desk about it. I--I think I'll go and see, if you'll excuse me.'
And he left the room hastily, quite forgetting his original purpose in
entering: something much more important to him than whether a boy
should be flogged or not, when he had no doubt richly deserved it, was
pending just then, and he could not rest until he knew the result.
For Mark had always longed for renown of some sort, and for the last
few years literary distinction had seemed the most open to him. He had
sought it by more ambitious attempts, but even the laurels which the
performance of a piece of his by boy-actors on a Speech-day might
bring him had become desirable; and though he had written and
submitted his work confidently and carelessly enough, he found himself
not a little anxious and excited as the time for a decision drew near.
It was a small thing; but if it did nothing else it would procure him
a modified fame in the school and the masters' room, and Mark Ashburn
had never felt resigned to be a nonentity anywhere.
Little wonder, then, that Langton's extremity faded out of his mind as
he hurried back to his class-room, leaving that unlucky small boy
still in his captor's clutches.
The old clergyman put on the big hat again when Mark had gone, and
stood up peering over the desk at his prisoner.
'Well, if you don't want to be locked up here all night, you'd better
be off,' he remarked.
'To the Detention Room, sir?' faltered the boy.
'You know the way, I believe? If not, I can show you,' said the old
gentleman politely.
'But really and truly,' pleaded Langton, 'I didn't do anything this
time. I was shoved in.'
'Who shoved you in? Come, you know well enough; you're going to lie, I
can see. Who was he?'
It is not improbable that Langton _was_ going to lie that time--his
code allowed it--but he felt checked somehow. 'Well, I only know the
fellow by name,' he said at last.
'Well, and _what's_ his name? Out with it; I'll give him a detention
card instead.'
'I can't tell you that,' said the boy in a lower voice.
'And why not, ye impident fellow? You've just said you knew it. Why
not?'
'Because it would be sneakish,' said Langton boldly.
'Oh, "sneakish," would it?' said old Jemmy. '"Sneakish," eh? Well,
well, I'm getting old, I forget these things. Perhaps it would. I
don't know what it is to insult an old man--that's fair enough, I dare
say. And so you want me to let you off being whipped, eh?'
'Yes, when I've done nothing.'
'And if I let you off you'll come gallopading in here as lively as
ever to-morrow, calling out "Shellfish"--no, I forgot--"Prawn's"
_your_ favourite epithet, ain't it?--calling out "Prawn" under my very
nose.'
'No, I shan't,' said the boy.
'Well, I'll take your word for it, whatever that's worth,' and he tore
up the compromising paper. 'Run off home to your tea, and don't bother
me any more.'
Langton escaped, full of an awed joy at his wonderful escape, and old
Mr. Shelford locked his desk, got out the big hook-nosed umbrella,
which had contracted a strong resemblance to himself, and went too.
'That's a nice boy,' he muttered--'wouldn't tell tales, wouldn't he?
But I dare say he was taking me in all the time. He'll be able to tell
the other young scamps how neatly he got over "old Jemmy." I don't
think he will, though. I can still tell when a boy's lying--I've had
plenty of opportunities.'
Meanwhile Mark had gone back to his class-room. One of the porters
ran after him with a note, and he opened it eagerly, only to be
disappointed, for it was not from the committee. It was dated from
Lincoln's Inn, and came from his friend Holroyd.
'Dear Ashburn,' the note ran, 'don't forget your promise
to look in here on your way home. You know it's the last
time we shall walk back together, and there's a favour I
want to ask of you before saying good-bye. I shall be at
chambers till five, as I am putting my things together.'
'I will go round presently,' he thought. 'I must say good-bye some
time to-day, and it will be a bore to turn out after dinner.'
As he stood reading the note, young Langton passed him, bag in hand,
with a bright and grateful face.
'Please, sir,' he said, saluting him, 'thanks awfully for getting Mr.
Shelford to let me off; he wouldn't have done it but for you.'
'Oh, ah,' said Mark, suddenly remembering his errand of mercy, 'to be
sure, yes. So, he has let you off, has he? Well, I'm very glad I was
of use to you, Langton. It was a hard fight, wasn't it? That's enough,
get along home, and let me find you better up in your Nepos than you
were yesterday.'
Beyond giving the boy his company in facing his judge for the second
time, Mark, as will have been observed, had not been a very energetic
advocate; but as Langton was evidently unaware of the fact, Mark
himself was the last person to allude to it. Gratitude, whether earned
or not, was gratitude, and always worth accepting.
'By Jove,' he thought to himself with half-ashamed amusement, 'I
forgot all about the little beggar; left him to the tender mercies of
old Prawn. All's well that ends well, anyhow!'
As he stood by the _grille_ at the porter's lodge, the old Prawn
himself passed slowly out, with his shoulders bent, and his old eyes
staring straight before him with an absent, lack-lustre expression in
them. Perhaps he was thinking that life might have been more cheerful
for him if his wife Mary had lived, and he had had her and boys like
that young Langton to meet him when his wearisome day was over,
instead of being childless and a widower, and returning to the lonely,
dingy house which he occupied as the incumbent of a musty church hard
by.
Whatever he thought of, he was too engaged to notice Mark, who
followed him with his eyes as he slowly worked his way up the flight
of stone steps which led to the street level. 'Shall I ever come to
that?' he thought. 'If I stay here all my life, I _may_. Ah, there's
Gilbertson--he can tell me about this Speech-day business.'
Gilbertson was a fellow-master, and one of the committee for arranging
the Speech-day entertainment. For the rest he was a nervously fussy
little man, and met Mark with evident embarrassment.
'Well, Gilbertson,' said Mark, as unconcernedly as he could, 'settled
your programme yet?'
'Er--oh yes, quite settled--quite, that is, not definitely as yet.'
'And--my little production?'
'Oh, ah, to be sure, yes, your little production. We all liked it very
much--oh, exceedingly so--the Doctor especially--charmed with it, my
dear Ashburn, charmed!'
'Very glad to hear it,' said Mark, with a sudden thrill; 'and--and
have you decided to take it, then?'
'Well,' said Mr. Gilbertson, looking at the pavement all round him,
'you see, the fact is, the Doctor thought, and some of us thought so
too, that a piece to be acted by boys should have a leetle more--eh?
and not quite so much--so much of what yours has, and a few of those
little natural touches, you know--but you see what I mean, don't you?'
'It would be a capital piece with half that in it,' said Mark, trying
to preserve his temper, 'but I could easily alter it, you know,
Gilbertson.'
'No, no,' said Gilbertson, eagerly, 'you mustn't think of it; you'd
spoil it; we couldn't hear of it, and--and it won't be necessary to
trouble you. Because, you see, the Doctor thought it was a little
long, and not quite light enough; and not exactly the sort of thing
we want, but we all admired it.'
'But it won't do? Is that what you mean?'
'Why--er--nothing definite at present. We are going to write you a
letter about it. Good-bye, good-bye! Got a train to catch at Ludgate
Hill.'
And he bustled away, glad to escape, for he had not counted upon
having to announce a rejection in person.
Mark stood looking after him, with a slightly dazed feeling. _That_
was over, then. He had written works which he felt persuaded had only
to become known to bring him fame; but for all that it seemed that he
was not considered worthy to entertain a Speech-night audience at a
London public school.
Hitherto Mark's life had contained more of failure than success. From
St. Peter's he had gone to a crammer's to be prepared for the Indian
Civil Service, and an easy pass had been anticipated for him even at
the first trial. Unfortunately, however, his name came out low down on
the list--a disaster which he felt must be wiped out at all hazards,
and, happening to hear of an open scholarship that was to be competed
for at a Cambridge college, he tried for it, and this time was
successful. A well-to-do uncle, who had undertaken the expenses
hitherto, was now induced to consent to the abandonment of the Civil
Service in favour of a University career, and Mark entered upon it
accordingly with fair prospects of distinction, if he read with even
ordinary steadiness.
This he had done during his first year, though he managed to get a
fair share of enjoyment out of his life, but then something happened
to change the whole current of his ambitions--he composed a college
skit which brought him considerable local renown, and from that moment
was sought as a contributor to sundry of those ephemeral undergraduate
periodicals which, in their short life, are so universally reviled and
so eagerly read.
Mark's productions, imitative and crude as they necessarily were, had
admirers who strengthened his own conviction that literature was his
destiny; the tripos faded into the background, replaced by the more
splendid vision of seeing an accepted article from his pen in a real
London magazine; he gave frantic chase to the will o' the wisp of
literary fame, which so many pursue all their lives in vain, fortunate
if it comes at last to flicker for awhile over their graves.
With Mark the results were what might have been expected: his papers
in his second year examinations were so bad that he received a solemn
warning that his scholarship was in some danger, though he was not
actually deprived of it, and finally, instead of the good class his
tutor had once expected, he took a low third, and left Cambridge in
almost as bad a plight as Arthur Pendennis.
Now he had found himself forced to accept a third-form mastership in
his old school, where it seemed that, if he was no longer a disciple,
he was scarcely a prophet.
But all this had only fanned his ambition. He would show the world
there was something in him still; and he began to send up articles to
various London magazines, and to keep them going like a juggler's
oranges, until his productions obtained a fair circulation, in
manuscript.
Now and then a paper of his did gain the honours of publication, so
that his disease did not die out, as happens with some. He went on,
writing whatever came into his head, and putting his ideas out in
every variety of literary mould--from a blank-verse tragedy to a
sonnet, and a three-volume novel to a society paragraph--with equal
ardour and facility, and very little success.
For he believed in himself implicitly. At present he was still before
the outwork of prejudice which must be stormed by every conscript in
the army of literature: that he would carry it eventually he did not
doubt. But this disappointment about the committee hit him hard for a
moment; it seemed like a forecast of a greater disaster. Mark,
however, was of a sanguine temperament, and it did not take him long
to remount his own pedestal. 'After all,' he thought, 'what does it
matter? If my "Sweet Bells Jangled" is only taken, I shan't care
about anything else. And there is some of my best work in that, too.
I'll go round to Holroyd, and forget this business.'