Certainly Drysdale's character came out well that night. He did
not seem the least jealous of the success which had been achieved
through his dismissal. On the contrary, there was no man in the
college who showed more interest in the race, or joy at the
result, then he. Perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself
may have reckoned for something with him. In any case, there he
was at the door with Jack, to meet the crew as they landed after
the race, with a large pewter, foaming with shandygaff, in each
hand, for their recreation. Draco himself could not have
forbidden them to drink at that moment; so, amidst shaking of
hands and clapping on the back, the pewters travelled round from
stroke to bow, and then the crew went off to their dressing-room,
accompanied by Drysdale and others.
"Bravo! it was the finest race that has been seen on the river
this six years; everybody says so. You fellows have deserved well
of your country. I've sent up to college to have supper in my
room, and you must all come. Hang training! there are only two
more nights, and you're safe to keep your place. What do you say
Captain? eh, Miller? Now be good-natured for once."
"Well, we don't get head of the river every night," said Miller.
"I don't object if you'll all turn out and go to bed at eleven."
"That's all right," said Drysdale; "and now let's go to the old
'Choughs' and have a glass of ale while supper is getting ready.
Eh, Brown?" and he hooked his arm into Tom's and led the way into
the town.
"I'm so sorry you were not in it for the finish," said Tom, who
was quite touched by his friend's good-humour.
"Are you?" said Drysdale; "it's more than I am, then, I can tell
you. If you could have seen yourself under the willows, you
wouldn't have thought yourself much of an object of envy. Jack
and I were quite satisfied with our share of work and glory on
the bank. Weren't we, old fellow?" at which salutation Jack
reared himself on his hind legs and licked his master's hand.
"Well, you're a real good fellow for taking it as you do. I don't
think I could have come near the river if I had been you."
"I take everything as it comes," said Drysdale. "The next race is
on Derby day, and I couldn't have gone if I hadn't been turned
out of the boat; that's a compensation, you see. Here we are. I
wonder if Miss Patty has heard of the victory?"
They turned down the little passage entrance of "The Choughs" as
he spoke, followed by most of the crew, and by a tail of younger
St. Ambrosians, their admirers, and the bar was crowded the next
moment. Patty was there, of course, and her services were in
great requisition; for though each of the crew only took a small
glass of the old ale, they made as much fuss about it with the
pretty barmaid as if they were drinking hogsheads. In fact, it
had become clearly the correct thing with the St. Ambrosians to
make much of Patty; and, considering the circumstances, it was
only a wonder that she was not more spoiled than seemed to be the
case. Indeed, as Hardy stood up in the corner opposite to the
landlady's chair, a silent onlooker at the scene, he couldn't
help admitting to himself that the girl held her own well,
without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman. And
it was a hard thing for him to be fair to her, for what he saw
now in a few minutes confirmed the impression which his former
visit had left on his mind--that his friend was safe in her
toils; how deeply, of course he could not judge, but that there
was more between them than he could approve was now clear enough
to him, and he stood silent, leaning against the wall in that
farthest corner, in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much
distressed in mind, and pondering over what it behove him to do
under the circumstances. With the exception of a civil sentence
or two to the old landlady who sat opposite him knitting, and
casting rather uneasy looks from time to time towards the front
of the bar, he spoke to no one. In fact, nobody came near that
end of the room, and their existence seemed to have been
forgotten by the rest.
Tom had been a little uncomfortable for the first minute; but
after seeing Hardy take his glass of ale, and then missing him,
he forgot all about him, and was too busy with his own affairs to
trouble himself further. He had become a sort of drawer, or
barman, at "The Cloughs," and presided, under Patty, over the
distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his chief to see that
she was not put upon.
Drysdale and Jack left after a short stay, to see that the supper
was being properly prepared. Soon afterwards Patty went off out
of the bar in answer to some bell which called her to another
part of the house; and the St. Ambrosians voted that it was time
to go off to college to supper, and cleared out into the street.
Tom went out with the last batch of them, but lingered a moment
in the passage outside. He knew the house and its ways well
enough by this time. The next moment Patty appeared from a side
door, which led to another part of the house.
"So you're not going to stay and play a game with aunt," she
said; "what makes you in such a hurry?"
"I must go up to college; there's a supper to celebrate our
getting head of the river." Patty looked down and pouted a
little. Tom took her hand, and said sentimentally, "Don't be
cross, now; you know that I would sooner stay here, don't you?"
She tossed her head, and pulled away her hand, and then changing
the subject, said, "Who's that ugly old fellow who was here again
to-night?"
"There was no one older than Miller, and he is rather an admirer
of yours. I shall tell him you called him ugly."
"Oh, I don't mean Mr. Miller; you know that well enough," she
answered. "I mean him in the old rough coat, who don't talk to
anyone."
"Ugly old fellow, Patty? Why, you mean Hardy. He's a great friend
of mine, and you must like him for my sake."
"I'm sure I won't. I don't like him a bit; he looks so cross at
me."
"It's all your fancy. There now, good-night."
"You shan't go, however, till you've given me that handkerchief.
You promised it me if you got head of the river."
"Oh! you little story-teller. Why, they are my college colors. I
wouldn't part with them for worlds. I'll give you a lock of my
hair, and the prettiest handkerchief you can find in Oxford; but
not this."
"But I _will_ have it and you _did_ promise me it," she said, and
put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of Tom's
neck-handkerchief. He caught her wrists in his hands, and looked
down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his
going, he saw other things which stirred in him strange feelings
of triumph and tenderness.
"Well, then you shall pay for it, anyhow," he said.--Why, need I
tell what followed?--There was a little struggle; a "Go along,
do, Mr. Brown;" and the next minute Tom minus his handkerchief,
was hurrying after his companions; and Patty was watching him
from the door, and setting her cap to rights. Then she turned and
went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw
Hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her
aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then
passed out wishing them "Good-night."
"Why aunt" she said, "I thought they were all gone. Who was that
sour-looking man?"
"He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear," said the old lady,
looking up. "I'm sure he's much better than those ones as make so
much racket in the bar. But where have you been, Patty?"
"Oh, to the commercial room, aunt. Won't you have a game at
cribbage?" and Patty took up the cards and set the board out, the
old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her
spectacles. She was beginning to wish that the college gentlemen
wouldn't come so much to the house, though they were very good
customers.
Tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after his comrades, and
caught them up before they got to college. They were all there
but Hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a moment; he had
hoped that Hardy, now that he was in the boat, would have shaken
off all his reserve towards the other men, and blamed him because
he had not done so at once. There could be no reason for it but
his own oddness he thought, for everyone was full of his praises
as they strolled on talking of the race. Miller praised his
style, and time, and pluck. "Didn't you feel how the boat sprung
when I called on you at the Cherwell?" he said to the Captain.
"Drysdale was always dead beat at the Gut, and just like a log in
the boat, pretty much like some of the rest of you."
"He's in such good training, too," said Diogenes; "I shall find
out how he diets himself."
"We've pretty well done with that, I should hope," said No. 6.
"There are only two more nights, and nothing can touch us now."
"Don't be too sure of that," said Miller. "Mind now, all of you,
don't let us have any nonsense till the races are over and we are
all safe."
And so they talked on till they reached college, and then
dispersed to their rooms to wash and dress and met again in
Drysdale's rooms, where supper was awaiting them.
Again Hardy did not appear. Drysdale sent a scout to his rooms,
who brought back word that he could not find him; so Drysdale set
to work to do the honors of his table and enjoyed the pleasure of
tempting the crew with all sorts of forbidden hot liquors, which
he and the rest of the non professionals imbibed freely. But with
Miller's eye on them, and the example of Diogenes and the Captain
before them, the rest of the crew exercised an abstemiousness
which would have been admirable, had it not been in a great
measure compulsory.
It was a great success, this supper at Drysdale's, although
knocked up at an hour's notice. The triumph of their boat, had,
for the time, the effect of warming up and drawing out the
feeling of fellowship, which is the soul of college life. Though
only a few men besides the crew sat down to supper, long before
it was cleared away men of every set in the college came in, in
the highest spirits, and the room was crowded. For Drysdale sent
round to every man in the college with whom he had a speaking
acquaintance, and they flocked in and sat where they could, and
men talked and laughed with neighbors, with whom, perhaps, they
had never exchanged a word since the time when they were freshmen
together.
Of course there were speeches, cheered to the echo, and songs, of
which the choruses might have been heard in the High-street. At a
little before eleven, nevertheless, despite the protestations of
Drysdale, and the passive resistance of several of their number,
Miller carried off the crew, and many of the other guests went at
the same time, leaving their host and a small circle to make a
night of it.
Tom went to his room in high spirits, humming the air of one of
the songs he had just heard; but he had scarcely thrown his gown
on a chair when a thought struck him, and he ran down stairs
again and across to Hardy's rooms.
Hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but untasted,
before him, and no books open--a very unusual thing with him at
night. But Tom either did not or would not notice that there was
anything unusual.
He seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he could,
without looking much at the other. He began by recounting all the
complimentary things which had been said by Miller and others of
Hardy's pulling. Then he went on to the supper party; what a
jolly evening they had had; he did not remember anything so
pleasant since he had been up, and he retailed the speeches, and
named the best songs. "You really ought to have been there. Why
didn't you come? Drysdale sent over for you. I'm sure every one
wished you had been there. Didn't you get his message?"
"I didn't feel up to going," said Hardy.
"There's nothing the matter, eh?" said Tom, as the thought
crossed his mind that perhaps Hardy had hurt himself in the race,
as he had not been regularly training.
"No, nothing," answered the other.
Tom tried to make play again, but soon came to an end of his
talk. It was impossible to make head against that cold silence.
At last he stopped, looked at Hardy for a minute, who was staring
abstractedly at the sword over his mantel-piece, and then said,--
"There _is_ something the matter, though. Don't sit glowering as
if you had swallowed a furze bush. Why you haven't been smoking,
old boy?" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the others
shoulder. "I see that's it. Here, take one of my weeds, they're
mild. Miller allows two of these a day."
"No, thank'ee," said Hardy, rousing himself; "Miller hasn't
interfered with my smoking, and I _will_ have a pipe, for I think
I want it."
"Well, I don't see that it does you any good," said Tom, after
watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without
saying a word. "Here, I've managed the one thing I had at heart.
You are in the crew, and we are head of the river, and everybody
is praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying that the bump
was all your doing. And here I come to tell you, and not a word
can I get out of you. Ain't you pleased? Do you think we shall
keep our place?" He paused a moment.
"Hang it all, I say," he added, losing all patience; "swear a
little if you can't do anything else. Let's hear your voice; it
isn't such a tender one that you need keep it all shut up."
"Well," said Hardy, making a great effort; "the real fact is I
_have_ something, and something very serious to say to you."
"Then I'm not going to listen to it," broke in Tom; "I'm not
serious, and I won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious
to-night. It's no use, so don't look glum. But isn't the ale at
'The Choughs' good? and isn't it a dear little place?"
"It's that place I want to talk to you about," said Hardy,
turning his chair suddenly so as to front his visitor. "Now,
Brown, we haven't known one another long, but I think I
understand you, and I know I like you, and I hope you like me."
"Well, well, well," broke in Tom, "of course I like you, old
fellow, or else I shouldn't come poking after you, and wasting so
much of your time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in the
middle of the races. What has liking to do with 'The Choughs,' or
'The Choughs' with long faces? You ought to have had another
glass of ale there."
"I wish you had never had a glass of ale there," said Hardy,
bolting out his words as if they were red hot. "Brown you have no
right to go to that place."
"Why?" said Tom, sitting up in his chair and beginning to be
nettled.
"You know why," said Hardy, looking him full in the face, and
puffing out huge volumes of smoke. In spite of the bluntness of
the attack, there was a yearning look which spread over the
rugged brow, and shone out of the deep set eyes of the speaker,
which almost conquered Tom. But first pride, and then the
consciousness of what was coming next, which began to dawn on
him, rose in his heart. It was all he could do to meet that look
full, but he managed it, though he flushed to the roots of his
hair, as he simply repeated through his set teeth, "Why?"
"I say again," said Hardy, "you know why."
"I see what you mean," said Tom, slowly; "as you say, we have not
known one another long; long enough, though, I should have
thought, for you to have been more charitable. Why am I not to go
to 'The Cloughs'? Because there happens to be a pretty bar maid
there? All our crew go, and twenty other men besides."
"Yes; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do? Does she
look at anyone of them as she does at you?"
"How do I know?"
"That's not fair, or true, or like you, Brown," said Hardy,
getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room. "You _do_
know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go
there. You _do_ know that she is beginning to care for you."
"You seem to know a great deal about it," said Tom; "I don't
believe you were ever there before two days ago."
"No, I never was."
"Then I think you needn't be quite so quick at finding fault. If
there were anything I didn't wish you to see, do you think I
should have taken you there? I tell you she is quite able to take
care of herself."
"So I believe," said Hardy; "if she were a mere giddy, light
girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't
matter so much--for her at any rate. She can take care of herself
well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it
isn't so with you. You know it now, Brown; tell the truth; anyone
with half an eye can see it."
"You seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two
nights, anyhow," said Tom.
"I don't mind your sneers, Brown," said Hardy as he tramped up
and down with his arms locked behind him; "I have taken on myself
to speak to you about this; I should be no true friend if I
shirked it. I'm four years older than you, and have seen more of
the world and of this place than you. You sha'n't go on with this
folly, this sin, for want of warning."
"So it seems," said Tom doggedly. "Now I think I've had warning
enough; suppose we drop the subject."
Hardy stopped his walk, and turned on Tom with a look of anger.
"Not yet," he said, firmly; "you know best how and why you have
done it, but you know that somehow or other you have made that
girl like you."
"Suppose I have, what then; whose business is that but mine and
hers?"
"It's the business of everyone who won't stand by and see the
devil's game played under his nose if he can hinder it."
"What right have you to talk about the devil's game to me?" said
Tom. "I'll tell you what; if you and I are to keep friends we had
better drop this subject."
"If we are to keep friends we must go to the bottom of it. There
are only two endings to this sort of business and you know it as
well as I."
"A right and wrong one, eh? and because you call me your friend
you assume that my end will be the wrong one."
"I do call you my friend, and I say the end must be the wrong one
here. There's no right end. Think of your family. You don't mean
to say--you dare not tell me, that you will marry her?"
"I _dare_ not tell you!" said Tom, starting up in his turn; "I
dare tell you or any man anything I please. But I won't tell you
or any man anything on compulsion."
"I repeat," went on Hardy, "you _dare_ not say you mean to marry
her. You don't mean it--and, as you don't, to kiss her as you did
to-night--"
"So you were sneaking behind to watch me!" burst out Tom, chafing
with rage, and glad to find any handle for a quarrel. The two men
stood fronting one another, the younger writhing with the sense
of shame and outraged pride, and longing for a fierce answer--a
blow--anything, to give vent to the furies which were tearing
him.
But at the end of a few seconds the elder answered, calmly and
slowly,--
"I will not take those words from any man; you had better leave
my rooms."
"If I do, I shall not come back till you have altered your
opinions."
"You need not come back till you have altered yours."
The next moment Tom was in the passage; the next, striding up and
down the side of the inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight.
Poor fellow! it was no pleasant walking ground for him. Is it
worth our while to follow him up and down in his tramp? We have
most of us walked the like marches at one time or another of our
lives. The memory of them is by no means one which we can dwell
on with pleasure. Times they were of blinding and driving storm,
and howling winds, out of which voices as of evil spirits spoke
close in our ears--tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the
mischievous wild beast which lurks in the bottom of all our
hearts, now, "Rouse up! art thou a man and darest not do this
thing?" now, "Rise, kill and eat--it is thine, wilt thou not take
it? Shall the flimsy scruples of this teacher, or the sanctified
cant of that, bar thy way, and balk thee of thine own? Thou hast
strength to brave them--to brave all things in earth, or heaven,
or hell; put out thy strength and be a man!"
Then did not the wild beast within us shake itself, and feel its
power, sweeping away all the "Thou shalt not's" which the law
wrote up before us in letters of fire, with the "_I will_" of
hardy, godless, self-assertion? And all the while--which alone
made the storm really dreadful to us--was there not the still
small voice--never to be altogether silenced by the roarings of
the tempest of passion, by the evil voices, by our own violent
attempts to stifle it--the still small voice appealing to the
man, the true man, within us, which is made in the image of
God--calling on him to assert his dominion over the wild
beast--to obey, and conquer, and live? Ay! and though we may have
followed the other voices, have we not, while following them,
confessed in our hearts, that all true strength, and nobleness,
and manliness, was to be found in the other path? Do I say that
most of us have had to tread this path, and fight this battle?
Surely I might have said all of us; all, at least, who have
passed the bright days of their boyhood. The clear and keen
intellect no less than the dull and heavy; the weak, the cold,
the nervous, no less than the strong and passionate of body. The
arms and the field have been divers; can have been the same, I
suppose, to no two men, but the battle must have been the same to
all. One here and there may have had a foretaste of it as a boy;
but it is the young man's battle, and not the boy's, thank God
for it! That most hateful and fearful of all realities, call it
by what name we will--self, the natural man, the old Adam--must
have risen up before each of us in early manhood, if not sooner,
challenging the true man within us to which the Spirit of God is
speaking, to a struggle for life or death.
Gird yourself, then, for the fight, my young brother, and take up
the pledge which was made for you when you were a helpless child.
This world, and all others, time and eternity, for you hang upon
the issue. This enemy must be met and vanquished--not finally,
for no man while on earth I suppose, can say that he is slain;
but, when once known and recognized, met and vanquished he must
be, by God's help in this and that encounter, before you can be
truly called a man; before you can really enjoy any one even of
this world's good things.
This strife was no light one for our hero on the night in his
life at which we have arrived. The quiet sky overhead, the quiet
solemn old buildings, under the shadow of which he stood, brought
him no peace. He fled from them into his own rooms; he lighted
his candles and tried to read, and force the whole matter from
his thoughts; but it was useless; back it came again and again.
The more impatient of its presence he became, the less could he
shake it off. Some decision he must make; what should it be? He
could have no peace till it was taken. The veil had been drawn
aside thoroughly, and once for all. Twice he was on the point of
returning to Hardy's rooms to thank him, confess, and consult;
but the tide rolled back again. As the truth of the warning sank
deeper and deeper into him, the irritation against him who had
uttered it grew also. He could not and would not be fair yet. It
is no easy thing for anyone of us to put the whole burden of any
folly or sin on our own backs all at once. "If he had done it in
any other way," thought Tom, "I might have thanked him."
Another effort to shake off the whole question. Down into the
quadrangle again; lights in Drysdale's rooms. He goes up, and
finds the remains of the supper, tankards full of egg-flip and
cardinal, and a party playing at _vingt-un_. He drinks freely,
careless of training or boat-racing, anxious only to drown
thought. He sits down to play. The boisterous talk of some, the
eager keen looks of others, jar on him equally. One minute he is
absent, the next boisterous, then irritable, then moody. A
college card-party is no place to-night for him. He loses his
money, is disgusted at last, and gets to his own rooms by
midnight; goes to bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with
all the world. The inexorable question pursues him even into the
strange helpless land of dreams, demanding a decision, when he
has no longer power of will to choose either good or evil.
But how fared it all this time with the physician? Alas! little
better than with his patient. His was the deeper and more
sensitive nature. Keenly conscious of his own position, he had
always avoided any but the most formal intercourse with the men
in his college whom he would have liked most to live with. This
was the first friendship he had made amongst them, and he valued
it accordingly; and now it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless
fragments, and cast down too by his own hand. Bitterly he blamed
himself over and over again, as he recalled every word that had
passed--not for having spoken--that he felt had been a sacred
duty--but for the harshness and suddenness with which he seemed
to himself to have done it.
"One touch of gentleness or sympathy, and I might have won him.
As it was, how could he have met me otherwise than he did--hard
word for hard word, hasty answer for proud reproof? Can I go to
him and recall it all? No! I can't trust myself; I shall only
make matters worse. Besides, he may think that the servitor--Ah!
am I there again? The old sore, self, self, self! I nurse my own
pride; I value it more than my friend; and yet--no, no! I cannot
go, though I think I could die for him. The sin, if sin there
must be, be on my head. Would to God I could bear the sting of
it! But there will be none--how can I fear? he is too true, too
manly. Rough and brutal as my words have been, they have shown
him the gulf. He will, he must escape it. But will he ever come
back to me? I care not, so he escape."
How can my poor words follow the strong loving man in the
wrestlings of his spirit, till far on in the quiet night he laid
the whole before the Lord and slept! Yes, my brother, even so:
the old, old story; but start not at the phrase, though you may
never have found its meaning--He laid the whole before the Lord
in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the whole world.
And you, too, if ever you are tried as he was--as every man must
be in one way or another--must learn to do the like with every
burthen on your soul, if you would not have it hanging round you
heavily, and ever more heavily, and dragging you down lower and
lower till your dying day.