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diff --git a/41682-8.txt b/41682-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b9e9f8d..0000000 --- a/41682-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4409 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Youth of Parnassus and Other Stories, by -Logan Pearsall Smith - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Youth of Parnassus and Other Stories - -Author: Logan Pearsall Smith - -Release Date: December 21, 2012 [EBook #41682] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH OF PARNASSUS, OTHER STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Marcia Brooks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet -Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - - The Youth of Parnassus - - and Other Stories - - by Logan Pearsall Smith - - - London - Macmillan and Co. - and New York - 1895 - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - To - Philip Morrell - - - - -Contents - - - Page - - The Youth of Parnassus 1 - - The Will to Live. I. 79 - - The Will to Live. II. 99 - - The Claim of the Past 125 - - A Broken Journey 143 - - The Sub-Warden 183 - - Idyll 201 - - Buller Intervening 243 - - The Optimist 259 - - - - -_The Youth of Parnassus_ - - -I. - -He came straight to Oxford from his American home, Parnassus City, a -town in the Western State of Indiana. - -The first time Foley saw him was one wet October evening, when, -splashing across the quadrangle towards his rooms, he noticed a large -umbrella moving through the dripping twilight--an umbrella which, from -its undecided motion, must belong, he had told himself, to some tourist, -who, in spite of the rain and darkness, was finishing a day of -sight-seeing at St. Mary's. But when the umbrella collapsed in front of -his own staircase, and Foley saw the spectacles and pale face of a young -man who turned to enter there, he decided that it must be an agent, come -to collect money for missions or something of the kind. And as he -followed upstairs, in the wet footprints of the feet he could still hear -mounting above him, he asked himself with vague annoyance what right -they had--people like that--to push themselves into the rooms of Oxford -men. - -The melancholy footsteps went on till they reached the top; nor did -Foley hear them again descend. Soon after he was told that an American -had come into College, and was living above him; and when he went to -call, he recognized, in the person who awkwardly rose to receive him, -the young man he had taken for a mission agent in the rain that evening. -A thin, small young man, in a long, black broadcloth coat of provincial -cut, he seemed at first sight nothing but the traditional Western -American Foley had read of in books, or seen in the theatre sometimes--a -student who looked curiously out of place in that old panelled room. - -The young Englishman talked to him as best he could, asking the -questions always asked of a new-comer; questions which this one answered -with the usual shyness, but in a very unusual voice and accent. - -He had just come from America; he had left there on the sixth. He had -come to study under Dr. Joseph at the new Methodist College. Dr. Joseph -had arranged for him to come to St. Mary's; their own College wasn't -built yet. Foley asked if he thought he would like Oxford. "Yes, sir," -the other replied, drawing a large handkerchief from his coat-tails, "I -guess I will; though," he added cautiously after a moment, "it does -seem kind of old and mouldy." - -Foley thought he had done his duty in calling, and meant for the future -to see as little as possible of his new neighbour. And yet there had -been something pleasant and sensitive in his face, he remembered -afterwards; and at times he was haunted by the thought of this stranger -sitting as he had found him, alone and lonely in the room upstairs, with -two or three books in the empty shelves, a few photographs of home that -made the mantelpiece and bare walls look all the more homeless and -unfriendly. Now and then he would hear footsteps above moving vaguely -about, or he would meet the American on the stairs, or see him walking -out alone, and at last, out of kindness, he went again to call. - -Before long he began to take a certain liking to Sutton, and would -often go up in the evenings with a cigarette to his rooms. To the young -Englishman the American was certainly a curious and amusing study. How -curious were the views and impressions of Oxford, that, breaking through -his shy reserve, he would once in a while express, in his prim -middle-aged way! He was a good deal shocked by the wine-drinking, -card-playing, and Sabbath-breaking that seemed so prevalent there; what -religion there was, (well, he didn't guess there was much,) he thought -mechanical and dead. Of course there was a great deal of culture in -Oxford; but in other things, like telephones and electric lights, why -England was behind the Mississippi Valley! - - -II. - -Foley began to have ideas of his own about this Mississippi Valley. He -had already read of its rivers and railways and mushroom towns, and he -remembered some of the proud things that Sutton had said at different -times of Parnassus City and its importance--it was almost the only -subject on which the reticent young man ever seemed willing to talk--the -thought-out comparisons he would draw between that place and Oxford, in -his attempts to explain to himself what he saw, and account for it all, -according to his principles. - -One evening, in a burst of unusual talkativeness, he described how -Parnassus City had been laid out twenty years before, on what had been -till then an unploughed prairie; but now there were thousands of -inhabitants, rows of business buildings, and elegant residences in the -outskirts. There were electric trolleys too in the streets; and the -whole town was lighted by natural gas. Not only had the place grown fast -in trade and population, but there had been, he explained, a pretty -rapid growth in culture. Oh, they didn't intend to let the moss grow on -them out in Indiana! Schools and churches were built--the most elegant -was the First Methodist, the Reverend Dr. Turnpenny's. It was Dr. -Turnpenny, he added, who started the Forward Movement among the Indiana -Methodists which made such a stir. Then, after the churches, they had -built a lecture hall and library, and, at last, the Parnassus College. - -Foley asking more about this college, Sutton explained that though it -had been built a few years before as a college for Methodist theology -and liberal learning, it was already larger than the neighbouring -institute at Corinth Creek, and only second in those parts to the -University of Miomi. It wasn't of course like the universities in the -Eastern States, but still they were proud of it there. - -He had pinned up on the old panelling of his wall a photograph of this -Parnassus College: a rather gaunt frame building, standing in a ploughed -field among a few new-planted trees. About the steps were grouped a -number of young men and women, many of them wearing spectacles, and all -with earnest faces and provincial dress. "That's my class," Sutton -explained, pointing at his own figure in the group. "It's the biggest -class we've had so far, thirteen gentlemen and seven ladies." - -Foley studied the photograph of the college, and the pictures on the -mantelpiece--several college friends, with lank serious faces; an -intellectual young lady, her hand resting on a copy of the Bible; and an -old, mild, white bearded minister--Dr. Turnpenny, no doubt. There was a -picture too of a wide city street. Then it really existed, this remote -place, and people lived there! he thought, amused at the curious chance -which had brought Sutton, the promise and pride, perhaps, of his native -town, and set him down in so different a world. - -But at last Foley turned from the yellow lamplight, the photographs, and -the voice of the American sawing in his ear. Going to the window he -opened the lattice and leaned out into the night. Cool, fresh, and dark -was the air that breathed on his face, while before him, blue and vague -under the white moon, there grew on his sight the towers, the dome-like -trees, and shining roofs of Oxford; dim, romantic, and steeped in -silence, save for the even tinkle of a distant bell. With sudden -unaffected sentiment, he felt how much he cared for Oxford and all that -Oxford stood for. - -"Do come here," he called out with a friendly impulse, turning his head -into the yellow light of the room, "I don't think I ever saw such a -view." - -The American came and leaned beside him at the open window. "Yes, it is -nice," he said at length, and Foley was surprised by a fugitive sound of -real feeling and appreciation in his voice. - - -III. - -Gradually he came to take a more real interest in his neighbour. The -books that Sutton read, Sutton's love of poetry--surprised him; little -things he would say now and then seemed to show indications of sensitive -fancies and shy feelings hardly in accordance with his dry exterior. -What a thing it would be for him, Foley thought, if the poor young -man's taste could be really cultivated; if he could only be set free -from his narrowing ideas and made to look at life for himself, instead -of seeing it always through the grey fog of Puritan prejudice! - -Sutton took everything that Foley said with delightful seriousness; the -well-worn arguments against Democracy and Republicanism were new to him, -and seemed to puzzle him--he would come days afterwards with carefully -thought-out answers to them. Or he would give his friend tracts to read, -as if he was worried by Foley's ritualistic tastes, and hoped to convert -him to Methodism; and once he persuaded him to go and hear Dr. Joseph -preach. Foley was really impressed by the good sense and vigour of -Sutton's master, but to Sutton himself he criticized what he thought a -want of beauty in the service. - -And it was only once that Foley felt even for a moment the least -uncomfortable about the things he said to his friend--one evening when -he happened to run upstairs with some specious argument about the -Apostolic Succession, (for when an idea occurred to him he liked to make -use of it at once,) and going into the American's room, he found him on -his knees in prayer. - -In that old place--for St. Mary's was not one of the more liberal -Colleges, but a sleepy, ancient, aristocratic society, very conservative -of its own beliefs and manners and prejudices--Eliaphet Sutton lived on -at first, unknown to almost everybody, and only noticed for the oddness -of his looks, as he went in and out to his lectures or solitary walks. -But after a while Foley's interest in him, and his own shy charm -of manner, gained him a more friendly welcome in the College, and -little by little he began to modify, it was remarked, the quaint -unconventionalities of his speech and ways. - -A curious life it was, this Oxford life into which the inexperienced -American had chanced to drift! A community of young men, generously bred -and taught, living together so intimately in that mediaeval place, with -its own old usages and traditions and ways of thinking; shut out, as by -a high wall, from the world outside; aloof from the vulgar needs of -life; concerned, many of them, only with its theoretic problems, -interested more, perhaps, in the ancient Greeks than in contemporary -affairs--and, indeed, not unlike the Greeks in their care for the -clearness and beauty of the mind, the athletic strength of the -body--surely, Foley thought, the young Methodist could not have found so -delightful a place in all the world beside. - -How much he was really influenced by it Foley could not tell; certainly -as the months went by he seemed to be more aware of the beauty of -Oxford; he would stop sometimes of his own accord to look through a blue -gateway or down a sunlit street, and once Foley saw him standing, a -quaint figure, under the University Church, and gazing up at the -spire--at the religious statues there, which seemed to be voyaging -through the windy sky and among its great white clouds. He started to -join him, but Sutton, seeing he was noticed, moved hastily away. - -Then Foley remembered an evening when, coming out into the quadrangle, -he saw a figure he recognized as Sutton's standing at a barred gate -opening on the street. In front of the American, through that one small -opening in the great dark walls, was the gas-lit yellow of the street, -the noise of the passing crowd and traffic--for it was the evening of a -market day--but at his back the deep shadow and silence of the old -quadrangle. - -"It's rather absurd to be locked up in this way," Foley said, joining -him; but Sutton replied after a moment, "Why, I was just thinking I -rather liked it! Of course it is absurd, but still--" He stopped, as he -so often stopped, in the middle of his sentence. - -Other times there were when Sutton seemed curiously narrow and stubborn; -times when some of his dissenting acquaintances had just been to see -him--the elderly undergraduates, with bald heads and big moustaches, -whom Foley took to be pupils of Dr. Joseph's when he met them mounting -the stairs. One of these dissenting friends of the American's, a -friendly, awkward young man, named Abel, who was assistant tutor to Dr. -Joseph, and had come with him to Oxford when the college moved there -from Birmingham, seemed to have a special supervision over the -American. Abel had no very high idea of Oxford and Oxford people, and -once, when they met in Sutton's rooms, he and Foley argued a little -about the University. - -Anyhow he envied Sutton, Abel said at last, turning, as he rose to go, -to the silent American; it wasn't everybody who had the luck to live in -such a place. But Sutton suddenly coloured, and answered, "You can't -blame me, Abel, Dr. Turnpenny wanted me...." - -"I'm not blaming you, my friend, it's only envy," Abel replied -good-humouredly. He still lingered a moment, looking at the books, and -cross-questioning Sutton about his work, and how he spent his time. - -Foley, who liked anything new, was interested by this intelligent, -tactless man, and wondered why Sutton should be so obviously glad when -at last the young dissenter went his way. - - -IV. - -The next day Foley found his friend in a mood of deep depression. He -would not go out anywhere, he said; he must spend the afternoon--indeed, -he meant to spend all his afternoons now--on his work; he had been -neglecting it too long. And though this desperate resolve was often -broken, yet from this time on he seemed subject now and then to moods of -troubled conscience--moods in which he would shut himself up, sometimes -for days, working feverishly alone, or only coming to his friend late at -night to talk in an uneasy, interrupted way about the sinfulness of the -world, and its pleasures, and how wrong it was to enjoy yourself. At -these notions Foley would laugh, or argue seriously against them. That -Sutton could have any real reason for feeling as he did, Foley never -suspected, but thought it simply the old moroseness which haunted him, -the unreasoned hatred of the Puritans for gaiety and life. And Sutton -had very little to say in answer to his friend. Yes, he was getting on -with his work well enough, he admitted, and there was nothing really to -keep him from going out, except--except--somehow he felt it was wrong. - -But the wrong thing, Foley declared, was to stay in-doors all those -beautiful summer days; and then more seriously he added, that he was -sure what Sutton needed was to see more of the world and life. Living in -his lonely retired way, what could he know of other people and the -things they cared for, and how could he ever hope to have any influence -on them? And, once convinced that it was his duty, Sutton became -curiously eager to shut up his books and go. - -Indeed, for the most part, the poor young man was not hard to influence, -Foley found; any strong assertion attracted him, and he was often only -too willing to resign to someone else the responsibility of deciding -what he ought to do. But then again he would grow suddenly so stubborn -and prejudiced; and at all times he was so reserved about himself and -his own feelings, that the young Englishman, in spite of his theories, -never felt he really understood him. Perhaps, he sometimes fancied, -Sutton had no very real ideas or impressions of his own; perhaps he was -not influenced by Oxford in the least, and was not aware of any real -difference between the ancient town, with its traditions and memories, -and the new-built Parnassus City. - - -V. - -But when Foley had left Oxford and gone abroad that summer, the long -letters that came to him now and then, written in Sutton's fine -clerklike hand, surprised and touched him a little. It was odd, he -thought, that a person who had talked with so much reserve, should write -him such charming and intimate letters, and he told himself he had -always believed there were real feelings and tastes behind Sutton's mask -of awkward silence. - -The first of the letters was written in the vacation just after Foley -had gone abroad. It was Sutton's first summer in Europe; he was staying -on at Oxford, having friends nowhere else, and not being able, of -course, to go back to America. But from the way he wrote, America was -plainly a good deal in his thoughts, and often in those long still days -he wished himself back there, haunted as he was by the idea that he -might be wasting his time, that what he was learning in Oxford might not -be of any use to him out in Indiana after all. But then he really knew, -he wrote, that he was doing the best thing in staying on. The church out -there, and indeed the whole country, was growing so rapidly, that there -would be need in the ministry for young men who were well trained, and -familiar with the thought and culture of the day. He had come to see -that Foley was right in saying it was your duty to get familiar with -modern ideas, and read modern books; he was getting on with the list of -books Foley had made for him. Of course you ought to understand, or at -least try to understand, your opponent's views. If you were afraid of -this, it showed, as Dr. Turnpenny always said, that you could not be -very sure of yourself. Indeed, when Dr. Turnpenny had advised him to -come to Oxford, he had felt it would prove to the world that, at any -rate the Indiana Methodists were quite assured of their position. - -In the next letter there was a mention of the American tourists who were -coming through the summer in such numbers to Oxford. Sutton used to -watch them when they walked into the quiet College garden, where he sat -alone, wishing he knew them and could talk to them about America. Their -voices and ways made them seem like old friends to him there in that -strange country. Once two ladies had asked him the way to the chapel, -and he had been delighted to show them the sights of the College. They -were from Buffalo, New York; he must be sure to call on them, they said, -if he ever came to Buffalo. They told him how much they would like to -stay on in Oxford--but they had to go back to America in a month. Sutton -envied them their quick return; but after all, he added, when the time -came, probably he might be a little sorry to leave Oxford.... - - -VI. - -Then in the autumn, Sutton wrote about the coming together of the -College, the beginning of busy life after the long quiet of the vacation -days. For the first time he had gone to service in the College chapel. -He did not like the way of worship, finding it formal and meaningless; -but gradually, as the twilight faded away, and the great painted windows -filled with darkness--growing black in the candle-lit walls about -them--another impression came to him, looking at all those faces in the -dim light, and listening to their voices--an impression of the unity and -living spirit of the College, as being a small, ancient commonwealth, -with a history and traditions of its own. There they all were, just -themselves, shut in from the world outside, gathered together, as the -College had gathered together in the same place for five or six hundred -years. Though he was only there as a spectator, who had chanced to -wander in from the outside, yet he realized how great an influence such -a place, with all its old ways and customs, might have on the young -Englishmen who came there. Indeed, if the influence had not been so -obviously narrow and deadening he himself might have been a little -affected by it.... - -"Yes, you were right," he said in another letter, "when you told me that -the antiquity of England belongs to us Americans as much as to you.... -Sometimes I fancy I had an ancestor here once; I am sure he was a -Puritan, and disapproved of the ecclesiasticism and worldliness of the -place. And yet, poor man, he could not help loving Oxford too. A -retired, melancholy person, he liked it best in the days like these when -the buildings and yellow and greenish trees are half veiled in the -autumn mist. But at last he went over with the Puritans to New England, -and was much better and more active there, and free from all the dreamy -influences that held him in Oxford. And it will be much better for me -too, when I go back next year." - - -VII. - -But he had almost decided to go back at once, he wrote in the next -letter. He saw now, and indeed all along he had felt deep down in his -soul, that he was doing wrong in staying there; that there was nothing -really in Oxford to help him. If Foley only knew all the circumstances -he would understand. And, in any case, it was not wholesome to be always -living in the past. - -And in Oxford you _were_ in the past; the dead were about you -everywhere; you dwelt in the buildings they had built, you read their -books, you thought their thoughts, and the weight of their dreary -traditions crushed down on you, forcing your life into the shape of -theirs. Surely there was something evil and haunted about the place! And -during all those dripping autumn days, Sutton's one thought had been a -longing to be back again under the keen skies of his prairie-home; life -was new and hopeful there, unshadowed by the gloom of antiquity and -death.... - -But soon after Sutton wrote that he had had a talk with Dr. Joseph. "He -advises me by all means to stay here. He says that all I am getting at -Oxford will certainly be very useful to me when I go back. I never had -an idea how strong our position is; I wish you might have a talk with -him sometime, when you return. He explains that religion is progressive; -that there is no real antagonism between the new and the old; the one -has grown out of the other by a natural evolution. Indeed he laughed at -the idea of being afraid of the Past; one ought to enjoy it, not fear -it, he said. Then when I asked him if there wasn't a danger in the new -criticism, and too much reasoning about things, he said that there never -could be any real danger in following one's best reason, and that we -need not be the least afraid of what it will lead us to." - - -VIII. - -Other letters came to Foley now and then. Sutton spoke of his work and -occupations, the taciturn young man taking a certain pleasure, as it -seemed, in writing down the ideas and impressions that he found it hard -to express in any other way. - -But Foley at this time was travelling in the East; he could only read -the American's letters with haste and small attention. Some, however, he -put aside to keep, and now and then would write back in a disconnected -way, for he felt a certain friendliness for this assiduous -correspondent. As time went on, however, the letters grew more -infrequent, and at last the correspondence died. Foley, with his new -interests, had almost forgotten Sutton, or would only think of him -vaguely as a preacher somewhere in America, whither doubtless he had -returned some time ago. - - -IX. - -After Foley had spent a year or two almost entirely abroad, he returned -to England, began working hard at his profession, and it was some time -before he found the leisure to go back to Oxford. At last he went one -mid-summer alone, for an idle visit. It was the vacation; the old -College was almost deserted, and sometimes in the evening he would go -into the garden there, and, sitting under one of the great trees, would -read, or idly watch the fading of the twilight. And now memories of the -old days, and sentiments towards a place which he had once loved with a -certain enthusiasm--though half forgetting it afterwards, amid his other -occupations--came back to him with unexpected vividness. How much more -delightful it made life, he told himself one evening, as he sat there, -half lost in sentimental musing, how much more delightful it made life -to have been at Oxford, to have learned to love the place as one did -learn to love it--to have it always as a charming memory! It was so -perfect, that evening, with the sunset still lingering faint and red -behind the blue trees and towers, up there above the dusky garden -stretches. And that figure of a cloistered student which Foley could -vaguely distinguish on the twilight path; it was no real person, surely, -but a part of the picture, a figure painted into the grey landscape to -give the final touch of tranquil life! But as the figure drew nearer and -became more real, Foley began to wonder, who could it be who seemed so -familiar to him? - -"Why, Sutton!" he called out, as he joined him, surprised at finding the -American still at Oxford, "You still here?" - -Sutton started, and then greeting Foley in his old reserved way, they -paced together slowly on the garden path. After Foley had talked a -little about his travels and work, he turned to his companion and said -in a friendly way, "But tell me about yourself, Eliaphet, it's three -years since I have seen you; what have you been doing, and when are you -really going back to America?" - -Sutton replied with all his old vagueness and reticence that he had -stayed; he had found it necessary; he had not decided yet about going -back. - -"Probably you will be sorry to leave Oxford when the time comes?" Foley -suggested, but the American did not answer. - -Eliaphet was a good deal changed, Foley thought when they parted; he -seemed so much thinner and more melancholy looking, and his voice was -almost like that of another person. What a difference a few years made! - - -X. - -Several times in the following days Foley met his friend again--indeed, -they two just then seemed almost alone together in Oxford--and more than -once, in the long summer afternoons, they walked together in a desultory -way among the vacant streets and empty Colleges. Sutton was even more -reserved than of old, but there was a charm in his silent company and in -his affectionate, scrupulous knowledge of the place. Each of the -churches, dim College chapels, and libraries was dear and familiar to -him now; he had found remnants of Norman architecture, and little early -Gothic windows in obscure old places which Foley, who had thought he -knew Oxford so well, was forced to admit he had never visited. And even -for the despised classicism, Sutton seemed to have a certain fondness, -for everything that bore the stately quaint mark of the Stuart -times--Laud's quadrangle at St. John's, and its Italian-looking busts -and arches; the chapel at Trinity; the little Ashmolean museum, and the -prim old Botanic garden, with its battered statue of Charles I. over the -gate, the half neglected formality of its urns and fountain, its walls -and walks within. - -Then the old names of places seemed all to have a meaning for him. He -could trace the remains of the Religious Houses, the Friars Minor, the -Friar Preachers, the Carmelites, after which some of the more ancient -streets are called; showing Foley the gateways or ruined arches, bits -of College buildings which now alone remain of their former stately -precincts. And on their walks together Sutton often chose by preference -the little back streets, or those ancient footpaths that wind through -the old heart of the city, through the mediaeval town whose gables and -walls and gardens still sleep in the sun, almost untouched, behind the -modern fronts and the traffic of many of the busy streets. - -To Foley in his sentimental mood just then, the quiet of Oxford was very -pleasant, after the noise of the London season; and there seemed to be -something almost poetic in the life of this solitary student. How wise -he was after all, Foley thought, to stay there among the old colleges -and churches, where the ambitions and obligations of the world could -scarcely trouble him; nor the noise of its busy life break in on his -tranquil moods, or disturb the old memories he loved. And yet a vague -suspicion crossing his mind, once or twice, made him ask himself, was -Sutton really so happy after all? - - -XI. - -One morning this vacation quiet of the College was rather noisily broken -by the arrival of a number of undergraduates, who had returned to -prepare for an examination, bringing with them the noise and influences -of the outside world. Now the American was no longer to be met with in -the garden or quadrangle, whither he had been wont to come almost every -day, as if fond of the place and not averse from Foley's company. -Wondering that he did not see him any more, Foley one evening asked the -undergraduates if they knew Sutton or had ever heard anything about -him. - -By sight and reputation they knew him very well,--a solitary person, who -led in Oxford a most melancholy life, without friends or apparent -occupation; staying there, it was reported, because of something in his -past which kept him from going back to America. - -Foley knew how distorted gossip of this kind would grow in coming -through the minds of undergraduates; and yet there was enough in what -they told, to make him uneasy about his friend. Sutton had given up -studying theology, had tried history, making however a complete failure -in the schools; he was said to have adopted strange religious ideas and -had been heard, it was rumoured, groaning and scourging himself at -night. There was a report too that some Americans had come to Oxford, -and, after visiting him, had gone to the Warden and accused Sutton of -keeping some money which was not his own. - - -XII. - -As soon as he could, Foley went off to find his friend, getting the -address from the College books. At last in a dark alley he discovered -the house. Mr. Sutton had gone away from Oxford the day before, the -landlady told him, and had not said when he would be back. Perhaps the -gentleman would like to leave his card? The room was at the top; he must -be mindful of the stairs. Climbing up with care, Foley opened the door -and lighted a match in the darkness; the poverty and destitution of the -little room growing vivid for a moment, and then fading again into -blackness, affected him somewhat sadly. Just two chairs, a table, a -bed, and a few signs of human habitation,--several books, a coat hanging -on the wall, and three photographs over the fireplace, the familiar one -of Dr. Turnpenny, the dreamy face of Philip Gerard, and a picture that -Foley was touched to recognize as his own. All the pictures of Parnassus -City, his class mates, the young lady, the street, and college, had -disappeared, and a few old religious prints were in their place. - -Feeling as if he had intruded where he had no right, Foley turned away; -lingering on the stairs, however, for he was loth to leave the house -till he had learned something more definite about his friend. Then in -the hall below he met the landlady, and began to talk to her about the -American. Mr. Sutton was such a kind gentleman, she said, and always -very quiet; but lately he had been, she thought, very lonesome and -melancholy, and he didn't seem to have any friends in Oxford now. And -though he had paid her regular, she couldn't complain of that, yet she -was afraid the poor gentleman had very little money. Indeed, he had -seemed to be in some trouble, and now he had gone away mysterious-like. -The voice of this woman, plainly so poor herself, her anxiety on -Sutton's account, remained in Foley's mind in a haunting way. And yet, -what could have happened, he asked himself, unable in common sense to -imagine any definite trouble, and nevertheless disturbed by a sense of -mystery, as if he had suddenly found himself face to face with something -more real and sad than most of the sentiments and troubles of his own -experience. - -Certainly the American had greatly changed--the narrow, rustic young man -who had come there first, and the pale scholar Foley had met years -afterwards, in the twilight of the garden--there was difference enough -between the two! he thought, putting them side by side in memory. But -what this change was Sutton had not told; probably never would tell, for -in his reserve and reticence he was just the same. - -And yet in his letters he had written with much less reserve, Foley -remembered. He began to wonder whether, if he should read the letters -again, with more attention, he might not find in them some hint of -Sutton's trouble. Friendless as the American seemed to be in Oxford, a -little advice and sympathy from some one who understood his -circumstances, might make perhaps all the difference to him. - -When Foley got back to his own rooms, he began looking through the -portfolio of papers that he had brought with him from Germany. Yes, -there they were, the envelopes addressed in Sutton's neat fine writing. -Arranging them in order of their dates, he began to go through them. -Letters written during two or three years of his friend's life, in half -an hour he could read them all. - - -XIII. - -First came the letters Foley remembered: Sutton's first Long Vacation; -his home-sickness in Oxford; his thoughts of Parnassus; the American -tourists he would watch and speak with sometimes. Then in the autumn his -impression of the chapel, his growing fondness for Oxford, followed by -the sudden determination to go home, from which Dr. Joseph had dissuaded -him, telling him that there was nothing he need be afraid of in Oxford, -or in the Past. - -Then came the letters which had come to Foley in the East, and been -hardly regarded by him in the hurry of travel. Letters which read -pleasantly for the most part, as he went through them now, with their -echoes of charming Oxford life--charming for a time, though troubled -afterwards. With Dr. Joseph's theology to rely on, and Dr. Joseph's -approval of his life, Sutton's uneasy conscience had been at rest for a -while, and he had let himself enjoy life without questioning--just the -simple human joy of the world and youth, with the weather growing -warmer, and the Spring blossoming in the gardens of that beautiful old -city, where he was quite at home now. - -"I have so enjoyed the Spring," he wrote "your tardy, veering English -Spring, with its gusts of snow and black weather, and yet enough warm -days to woo from the earth the English flowers that till last year I -only knew of in books. But I greet them as old friends now, the -primroses, and cowslips, and daffodils.... May is here, the air is -full of the greenness of leaves and the songs of birds, the lank rose -trees are budding on the Gothic walls, and when I breathe the fragrant -air and look about me I rub my eyes, and wonder whether May was ever so -beautiful at home. Some beautiful days, of course, I can remember -vividly; but I lived then for the most part, I think, among pale -thoughts and theories, growing old before I was young, and looking so -rarely out--indeed, thinking somehow that it was almost wrong to look -out on the beauty and colour of the world...." - -He had written a good deal about Oxford; and really it wasn't true, what -Foley had told him once, that he didn't deserve to live in so beautiful -a place; he did care, and was learning more and more to look at things -and enjoy them. On May morning he had gone to Magdalen to hear them -salute the rising sun from the tower. "I wish I could describe it all," -he wrote, "the streets, as I went out, cold and vacant in the early -dawn, the pale flames in the street lamps, and the silence of those rows -of sleeping houses, only broken, as I passed under garden walls, by the -acute music of the birds awake already in the trees. Birds, millions of -them! I never heard such a clamour. At the College gate there was a -group of shivering people; and soon they let us in, to climb the steep -tower stairs, with its narrow windows here and there in the darkness, -with views like little old pictures of grey castles and green country. -On the windy platform at the top we found almost all the College -gathered, the President, and Fellows, and undergraduates, with the -group of white choristers. Gradually, as we waited, the formless sky all -round and above us grew white and blue; the sky-line reddened; and then, -bringing a sudden hush in the crowded talk, a sudden baring of all our -heads, the May sun began to blaze in the East; and as it rose into the -sky the boys, facing the light, chanted loud, with their shrill young -voices, the old Latin hymn. Well, you can hardly imagine what a solemn -moment it was, with the slow hymn, the stately yellow sun rising over -all that great view of green country. Turning toward Oxford we saw black -figures like dots on the sun-flushed towers and roofs of the other -Colleges. Our tower, and, indeed, the whole sky, seemed to rock with the -pealing bells; and the undergraduates, engaging in a wild scuffle, tore -off each other's caps and gowns, throwing them out into the air, to fall -with giddy swirls on the roofs, or into the street below. It seemed -almost an outburst of Pagan turbulence, after the Pagan sun-worship, up -there on that windy tower-top over the sleeping town! I wrote describing -it to Dr. Turnpenny; I only hope he won't be shocked!" - - -XIV. - -In Sir Philip Gerard, whom Foley had known slightly as a youth, of poor -and ancient Catholic family, Sutton, it appeared, had found a congenial -companion; and he described how they would often spend their afternoons -together on the river; rowing up the windings of the Cherwell, past -little woods and garden walks, or between the sliding horizons of meadow -banks, where the tangled edge of grass and flowers fringed the near sky. -"I lie on luxurious cushions in the bow, and Gerard pushes me along, -through sleepy sunshine and shadow, and under the unwilling branches of -trees; and then, anchoring in some secluded place, we read together some -poet or old book, while the endless afternoon glides by, and boats float -down the shady river." - -"This sounds dreadfully lazy, I'm afraid! But I am taking a rest; I have -been feeling rather tired, and Dr. Joseph says I had better do nothing -but enjoy myself for a week or two now...." - -"... I discovered the other day the old market. I wonder if you know -it? It is a delightful place! People from the villages about Oxford have -stalls there, and you see the ruddy, old-fashioned cottagers' wives, -seated each one behind a fresh bank of vegetables and flowers she -herself has grown at home in her quaint garden. Sweet, old-fashioned -flowers, flags and peonies and roses, made up into tight bouquets and -set out for sale in trim rows, not unlike, I fancy, the trim rows in -which they grew in their formal cottage flower beds...." Letters came -to him from home, he said, telling of all that was going on in Parnassus -City: the Bryant Literary Society they had started, the church bazaar -for the missionary work, the Monday evening prayer meetings at the -College; and he often felt that he ought to be back there, that he was -dreaming away his time. Yes, it was like a dream in Oxford; but such an -enchanted dream!... - -He wrote, in another letter, of the Oxford bells. More and more he was -conscious of them, sounding always in the near or distant sky; and if -ever he woke up in the night, restless with his dreams, he had only to -wait a little and they would ring out--first the silver voices of the -Colleges, and then the slow booming tones of the great church, so near -at hand. And he found a comfort, he said, in the nearness of the -churches, and their wakefulness through the night. - -Although of course he did not approve, he said, of a religion of -external forms, yet he confessed that he had come to take a certain -interest in noticing how, almost every time he went out, he discovered -some new symbol of the old Catholic religion--old stone crosses, statues -gazing out from the towers, images of the Virgin, hands raised in -prayer, the adoration of kings and queens in the painted windows; and -even in the gardens stone fragments, covered with ivy, of old -saints--everywhere tokens of ancient faith, and intimations of another -world, shining and immanent, about this world of sense. It was curious, -but he had never noticed these things when he had first come to Oxford! -Indeed, he grew to love all the antiquity of the place; was no longer -oppressed or frightened by it; and for the old portraits in the hall and -library, the tombstones in the cloisters, with their quaint epitaphs and -names, he felt a certain fondness, he said, looking on the dead now, not -as enemies, frowning on his creed and life, but as friends rather, and -kindly predecessors. - - -XV. - -The lives of many of those old scholars and worthies had become familiar -to him, since he had read Anthony à Wood's _Athenae Oxonienses_, and he -had gone sometimes with his friend on antiquarian walks about Oxford, -and the colleges Wood described. Or Gerard would lend him a horse, and -they would ride out to visit the historic places and villages that lie -in the old country about--Woodstock, Cumnor, Abingdon--the names were -familiar to him of long date; had he not first read of some of them, and -the scenes they were famous for, in Jones' _Excelsior Reader_, out in -Indiana as a boy? - -He spoke of the village churches, that seemed so beautiful on those June -afternoons, as they stood among their old trees and flowers, with the -white clouds in the sky above, a shiver of wind in the long grass over -the graves. And then, through the scent of roses about the open door, -the dim interior, with its white Norman arches, and light falling from -painted windows on the crusaders' tombs--on all the many monuments of -the dead. The dead! Sutton wrote that he had always known of the times -gone by, and the faith of the Middle Ages, but only in an unreal way, -through books. And it made such a difference--to him at least--if he saw -the proof of a thing, actually existing with the daylight on it! - -"Once, Gerard says, these churches were filled in the morning and -evening light with labouring people kneeling in silent prayer. But that, -of course, was in the Dark Ages. Gerard thinks that the world has done -nothing but go back since the Middle Ages; certainly he does hate -everything that is modern. How he will detest Parnassus City, if he -comes to see me there, as he says he will. It has been bad for him, I am -sure, living out of the world, as he has lived, among old memories and -dreams of his own. He is a Catholic, you know, but he respects my -religion; he knows, of course, what my views are, and we never talk -about theology. There is a friend of his I meet sometimes a priest, and -I suppose a Jesuit. But he seems really quite a cultivated person." - -Foley took up another letter: They had ridden out, Sutton wrote, to an -old country house and park, where Charles I. had stayed once, while -Parliament was being held in Oxford. The house, all save one wing, now a -farm-house, had been torn down; but on the hill overlooking the lake, in -the midst of the green shade of beeches, the chapel was still standing, -abandoned now, and almost untouched, save by decay and time, since the -polite court of the Stuarts had said their worldly devotions there. What -rich brocades, what hushed gallantries and frivolous prayers had once -rustled and whispered under the graceful high arches of those pews! But -birds had their nests there now, he said, while through the decaying -roof the rain dripped down on the frail woodwork, the classic columns -and fading colours of this deserted place of elegant worship and old -fashion. - -The American Puritan confessed to a certain tenderness for the generous -lost cause, for the fine futile courage of the gay Cavaliers and lovely -forgotten ladies. And as they rode homeward through the twilight, his -companion sang snatches of some old Cavalier songs--tunes with a certain -pathos and grace in their gallant wistful music. - - -XVI. - -Then there was a long letter, dating from the autumn after this -delightful summer, in which he wrote again about Anthony à Wood, the old -Oxford antiquary. He had been reading Wood's diaries, finding in them, -he said, in spite of their old-fashioned pedantry and long genealogies, -a vivid picture of the University and Wood's life in it, two hundred -years ago. A calm life, Sutton described it, in curious contrast to the -times in which Wood lived, when the academic quiet was so often -disturbed by armies, and royal visits, and great events; and the noise -of tumults in the Oxford streets, and troops marching by, reaching the -old antiquary's ears, would draw him from the chronicles of the past, to -look with blinking eyes from his library window on the turmoil and -disquiet of contemporary history. For his life was spent in his own -study, or in "Bodlie's Library," or among the dusty archives of the -Colleges, reading and transcribing the monastic registers, the old -manuscripts and histories. Sutton quoted from his diary a sentence in -which he speaks of the exceeding pleasure he took in "poring on such -books." - -"Heraldry, musick, and painting did so much crowd upon him, that he -could not avoid them, and could never give a reason why he should -delight in those studies more than in others, so prevalent was nature." -"My pen cannot enough describe," he writes in his enthusiasm, when he -first read Dugdale's _Antiquities of Warwickshire_, "how A. Wood's -tender affections and insatiable desire of knowledge were ravish'd and -melted down by the reading of that book. What by music and rare books -that he found in the public library, his life at this time and after was -a perfect Elysium." - -"Wood often went for long, solitary walks, collecting arms and -monumental inscriptions from the churches, and visiting all the ruined -religious Houses and old halls in the country about Oxford. He describes -in his diary how, as he returned towards Oxford in the evening, 'after -he had taken his rambles about the country to collect monuments,' he -would hear the bells of Merton, his own College, ringing clearly in the -distance." - -"Wood had small love for the Puritans," Sutton wrote, "who in his -lifetime were so long in power; and in his record of contemporary -events, sudden deaths, and alleged appearances of the devil, he more -than once mentions their destruction of antiquities, their contempt for -the Fathers and Schoolmen, and hatred of all authority, and 'everything -that smelt of an Academy, never rejoicing more than when he could -trample on the gowne, and bring humane learning and arts into -disgrace.'" - -"Then came the Restoration, and almost the last event that Wood records -is the revival of Catholicism under James II. Wood himself was suspected -of being a Papist; his writings had made him enemies, and before he died -he was expelled from the University, and his book burned by order of the -Vice-Chancellor's Court." - -"And yet, on the whole, his life was a happy one," Sutton said, writing, -it was plain, with a certain envy for the tranquil occupations and -lettered tastes of the old Oxford antiquary. - - -XVII. - -The next two letters that Foley found (and they were the last) were -dated in the Long Vacation, nearly a year later. Either Sutton had not -written again for some time, or Foley had lost the letters. It was the -American's third summer in England; as before, he had stayed in Oxford. -He described the quiet afternoons he spent in the College garden; how he -seemed to be alone with Oxford and the past, and how even the city -noises, which came in over the walls--the rattle of carts, the shrill, -faint voices of newsboys, crying the world's events--only added a deeper -hush to the stillness and solitude within, the sunlight on the grass, -the shadows of the trees. - -He remembered how homesick he had been the first summer he had spent in -Oxford, and how he had longed to go back. But now that his work was -almost finished, and he was soon to go to America, he could not help -admitting that he shrank a little from it--felt a certain reluctance, -after all. He would watch, as he had watched before, the tourists who -now and then came into the quiet garden. Then he had enjoyed seeing -them, and wished he could talk to them; but now!... - -And one day some people whom he had known in Indiana came in. He spoke -to them, showed them about, and tried to be friendly, and yet they -seemed so far away somehow! He hated himself for it, and tried to -believe that it was all the fault of Oxford and its fastidious -standards; he had let himself be too much influenced, but when he got -back to Parnassus again, he hoped he should see things as he used to see -them, and feel the same towards the Slocums and all his old friends. - -But in the last letter, "It will never be the same now," Sutton had -written; "I have come too far and stayed too long. At first I was always -thinking of Parnassus City; I would dream of it at night, and wake in -the morning to wonder at the strangeness of my dim little windows and -the voices of the rooks outside. But then it began to fade, and -gradually everything changed. And yet, poor fool that I was, all the -time I tried to think that I was preparing myself to go back. Of course -I _shall_ go back; if I can't be a Minister, I can still teach in their -university, perhaps--I _must_ do something to help them, it would be -treachery if I did not. But my heart will be far away from it all, I -know. I try to think of the excellent people there, and how fatally kind -they have been to me; but when I shut my eyes, I can see nothing but the -ugly church, the wooden 'university,' and a great sun-baked street, with -sparse houses and dusty trees straggling off on the prairie. How can I -ever live there now? And yet, if I had never come away, I might have -been happy. Why did they send me to Oxford, I wonder. Yet was it not my -fate? It seems to me that I _must_ have come here sometime!" - - -XVIII. - -With this the letters ended. From the undergraduates Foley had heard how -Sutton tried to study history, but failed rather badly in it. What had -happened afterwards he had not heard, save by vague report. He only knew -that Sutton was still in Oxford. - -But no wonder he had stayed there, Foley thought, remembering the -passion for the place that breathed in Sutton's letters, his growing -preoccupation with, and interest in, everything that was ecclesiastical -and ancient. Indeed, the beauty and antiquity of Oxford, the libraries -and cloisters and old places he haunted, now seemed to have grown into -an almost necessary part of the American's environment, the needful -background of his life. As if, like old Anthony à Wood, one could not -imagine him living anywhere except in Oxford, walking through its almost -doorless streets, or on the lawns of its College gardens, and ordering -his studies and ways by the sound of its bells. Why then should he not -stay there; was it anything more than a false conscience that had made -him feel he ought to go back to America? - -The next morning, as if in answer to this question, Foley received an -unexpected visit from Abel, Dr. Joseph's assistant. He had come, he -said, to find out where Sutton was; they were a good deal worried about -him; they must be allowed to see him again before he took any step. -Foley was greatly surprised at the way Abel spoke; he knew nothing of -the American's whereabouts, he said; they had told him at his lodgings -the night before that he was away from Oxford. - -"Yes, I know, I saw your card there. But I supposed you would know where -he has gone, or would be willing to tell me how I could find out. We -have heard again from America, and really, for your own sakes you must -allow us to see him once." - -With still greater astonishment Foley protested that he knew nothing; he -had feared Sutton might be in trouble, but having just returned, after -two years abroad, he had no idea of what the trouble was. His assurances -were so evidently sincere, that Abel, who had looked at him suspiciously -at first, now shut the door and came forward into the room. The trouble -was that Sutton had absolutely refused to go back to America. They might -have known it would happen, he added; and, in answer to a question of -Foley's, he gave his version of all that had occurred. - -Sutton had come to Oxford with a letter from Dr. Turnpenny, his pastor -and guardian, requesting Dr. Joseph to see that he should live under -some kind of care and protection. Dr. Joseph, as their own buildings -were not yet finished, had arranged with the Warden of St. Mary's that -the young man should enter that College and live there, while he -carried on his theological work with his own tutors. - -It was a mistake; Abel had thought it a mistake all along. With another -man it might not have mattered; but Sutton, thrown into the society of -rich young men, who had no sympathy with his ideas, and who ridiculed -his ways, had not been able to withstand their influence. And just when -he was on the point of ordination, he had thrown it all over; said he no -longer believed in Methodism, or wished to be a minister. He had stayed -for another year in Oxford, studying, or pretending to study, history; -but he could not have worked very seriously; the examiners said, indeed, -that his papers were full of the most absurd ideas. And now he refused -to go back to America at all. Abel didn't know who it was who had tried -to pervert him; it was reported to be the Jesuits--and there was a man -called Gerard, Sir Philip Gerard--; but at any rate they ought to know -what trouble they had made. - -Foley said he was certain there had been no deliberate attempt to -pervert Sutton. If any of his friends had tried to influence him, it was -probably because they believed in culture, and thought it would help him -in his work. - -"Help him to be a minister out in Indiana! How could the ideas of a -narrow university set and its expensive tastes help a man for that?" - -"But everyone surely was the better for being cultivated!" Foley -exclaimed. - -Even to this Abel could not agree entirely; he admitted that of course -culture had its charm and value; only in cases it might be dangerous, he -thought. But how could that be? Foley asked, and for a moment, in their -discussion of the larger question, they almost forgot Sutton. Abel -thought that an undue cultivation of taste, of the sense of beauty, -without an equal training of the reason, would make you into a narrow -and fastidious person, judging things by the eyes and ears, and caring -only for what was well-expressed and beautiful. And surely for the most -part, he said, (and he seemed anxious to be fair and moderate,) for the -most part it was the ideals of the past, the out-worn, romantic, and -old-fashioned things, that had had time to be well-expressed, while the -modern--"But all this has very little to do with Sutton!" he said, -stopping suddenly. - -"Oh, I don't know, isn't he the kind of person you mean--a sensitive -poetic person--" - -"Eliaphet Sutton! he never wrote poetry, did he?" - -"No, I don't mean exactly that. Only it seems to me natural enough that -a man of his temperament, coming to Oxford from an ugly new town, -should not want to go back." - -"Temperament!" Abel exclaimed, as if the word annoyed him. Then more -quietly he added that he did not think anything could excuse Sutton for -behaving in the way he had behaved. Why he himself had come to Oxford -from a new town that was probably as ugly as Parnassus City. They were -angry enough in Parnassus, you couldn't talk of temperaments out there! -It had really broken Dr. Turnpenny's heart. "If you could only see his -letters! No, after spending all the old man's money--" - -"His money?" Foley asked. - -"Yes, didn't you know? He was sent over on a subscription got up by the -Methodist church there, and Dr. Turnpenny, who had adopted him and -brought him up, gave all his savings. He was to go back of course, and -help support Dr. Turnpenny. He was engaged to a girl out there too. And -now he says he won't go back. But really he must, it doesn't matter what -he says. It's the only honest and decent thing for him to do." - -"Indeed he must go back," exclaimed Foley. "I hadn't the least idea!--" - - -XIX. - -Foley went to Sutton's rooms again, but for several days he could hear -nothing of him. One evening, however, when he was sitting in the garden, -happening to look up, he saw the melancholy figure of the American -coming down the garden path. Now that he actually saw Sutton, and was -vividly aware of the atmosphere of reserve and solitude that enveloped -him, Foley shrank from saying the things that he felt he ought to say. -And yet someone must speak to him; someone must tell him his duty, and -make him go back to the good simple people who had cared for him, -supported him, and who relied on him so much! - -He had been away, Sutton said, as the two young men walked slowly down -the garden path. It was very still there in the twilight; and they were -alone, shut in as it seemed, and very remote from the world outside. - -"Have you decided yet when you are going home?" Foley asked. - -"Home?" - -"Yes; home to America." - -"I don't know," Sutton replied. After a moment he added, in the same -quiet voice, "perhaps I shall never go back." - -"Then you have found some occupation in England?" - -Sutton shook his head. - -But didn't he think he ought to go back then, Foley asked. One had -duties--and, trying to speak more lightly, he added, "You must have -learned a great deal, Eliaphet, after studying all these years. Oughtn't -you to go back and teach them out there?" - -"I have nothing to teach them--nothing they would be willing to learn." - -"Oh, but surely, if you tried you could find something! It seems to me -you _ought_ to try." - -"Oh, I _have_ tried!" he said, his cheeks flushing with painful emotion; -"but now they don't want me to come back any more--they never want to -see me again! I used to pray I might never change;--and when you would -argue with me,--but now I see it was all wrong, and all my liberal -ideas--" - -"I hope," Foley interrupted, for this had been on his conscience ever -since his talk with Abel, "I hope your change, whatever it is, has -nothing to do with anything I ever said; you must have misunderstood -me," and he went on to explain that he had never been really -reactionary. He had always believed in compromise, and a conservative, -reasonable progress. - -"Do you know, Eliaphet," he went on, "I think you have made a mistake in -staying here so long in this old place. It isn't wholesome to live so -far from real life; you ought to get away, you ought to go home." - -But Sutton had only listened to two or three of his friend's words. -"No," he cried eagerly, "no, we can make no compromise. We must give up -the human reason, we must go back to the Past, we must submit. Oh, -Foley," he cried, and there was a strange appeal in his voice, "we have -been friends, but now we may never see each other again,--let me warn -you, you must decide whether you will be on the right or the wrong -side--oh, if you only knew at what peril you refuse to listen!" - -For a moment Foley was almost frightened. Then, reminding himself of -reason and reality, he said, "But, Eliaphet, are you quite sure that you -yourself are doing what is right in staying here? When so much depends -on you out there--Dr. Turnpenny and all. And they have sacrificed so -much too. Have you thought--" - -"As if I was not always thinking of it!" Sutton cried; "but I could not -go back to them a Roman Catholic; they would rather I was dead. And -Foley, when you judge me, remember that I have had to make sacrifices -too--I have given up everything, everything! What can I do?" - -A Roman Catholic! Of course he could not go back. Foley was dismayed. -Why had he not foreseen it? - -For a moment they stood in silence. Then Sutton turned away. - -"You don't understand," he said, in a voice that his friend always -remembered afterwards; "No one understands," and he went down the path -alone and out of Foley's sight. - - -XX. - -When Foley went the next day to Sutton's lodgings, he was told that -Sutton had already left Oxford; had gone away early that morning. Where -he had gone, however, no one seemed to know. Certainly Foley never found -out; he never saw Sutton again, nor, in spite of all his inquiries, did -he ever hear anything but the most vague and uncertain news about him. -Abel said he had never gone back to Parnassus City. And then, years -after, it was reported that an Oxford man, when visiting some old shrine -in Italy, had recognized, or thought he recognized, Sutton in the monk -who showed him about the church. - -Foley never got rid of a certain feeling of remorse, a sense that at the -beginning he had too lightly interfered in the life of the young -Dissenter. - -But then he would tell himself, that it was probably after all nothing -less than Oxford itself, with its old ways and memories, that had -gradually changed and influenced the American. Influenced him not for -good, surely! he thought. And indeed, remembering Sutton's slow -estrangement from his early ideas and friends, his poor attempts to -remain faithful, the trouble and mystery in which he had disappeared at -last, Foley would ask himself, (and he took a strange sort of pleasure -in the question,) whether there were not something really dangerous in -the venerable and Gothic beauty of Oxford, a chill in the old shadows, -an iron sound in the bells. - - - - -_The Will to Live_ - - -Part One - -"Moral Philosophy," notwithstanding all its modern ideas and -developments, is still taught at Oxford from the Greek texts of Plato -and Aristotle. Something indeed of the old Academic discipline might be -said still to exist there, the tradition of it coming down through the -Schools of the Middle Ages. Certainly the discussions between tutor and -pupils, by means of which so much of the philosophic training is carried -on, are not without a certain resemblance to the Socratic dialogues. -And the young men who are so eager and amusing in Plato's writings--one -might find the like of these, perhaps, among the English undergraduates, -as well as the types with which modern novels have made us more -familiar. The questions they talk and think about would at least be much -the same as those so eagerly debated in the Athenian garden--the old -questions about Truth and Justice and Beauty; and then the meaning or -purpose of Life--that question which is the oldest of all, and which -each generation of youth tries to solve in some new way. - - * * * * * - -"Good night, sir"--"Good night"--"Good night"--and their discussion -ended, the young men took their caps and books, and clattered noisily -down the stone staircase from the tutor's room. They still lingered a -moment, outside in the quadrangle, four or five together, vaguely -talking in the darkness. - -"Ames was right, you know--what he said about Pleasure." - -"Old Ames! what does he know about it?" Waters interrupted. More than -once, during the argument that evening, Waters had dropped a book or -shuffled his feet impatiently; and now, declaring that all such talk was -great waste of time and "rot" anyhow, he went off, after vainly inviting -the others to join him, to an interrupted game of cards. In a minute the -others separated, some to work, one or two to the concert in the college -hall. Walter Cornish walked away alone across the quadrangle. Finding a -bench, he sat listlessly down, his hands in his pockets, his feet -stretched out in front of him. He would do no more work that night; it -would be better to rest there for a while, listening to the music of the -concert. - -Cornish, with the others, would be in for his last examinations in a few -weeks; then he would be leaving Oxford. But as he had money enough of -his own, and belonged moreover to that fortunate class of young Oxford -men to whom success at everything seems easy, he could look into the -future, untroubled by most of those commonplace difficulties and -despairs that beset the ordinary unknown, untried, young man, when he is -leaving the university to go out into the world. - -It seemed very hot that evening; no breath of air was stirring within -the enclosure of those trees and walls. From the open windows of the -college hall tinkling piano notes came faintly now and then across the -darkness; while, drifting in over the roofs of the college, and -deadening at times the music, there came, like a dim smoke of sound, the -rumour of city noises, of carts, footsteps, and high faint voices in -the street outside. But as Cornish sat there lazily, his hands deep in -his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ground, he soon ceased to hear either -the music or the sounds of the streets. Vagrant thoughts about himself, -his own affairs and prospects, were going through his head. Then phrases -from their argument--Pleasure wasn't the End, and the End wasn't -Pleasure; but whose pleasure, and the end of what? To his tired mind, -however, the words were little more than empty sounds. Other things he -had been studying floated past in large dim masses; he remembered the -armies, invasions, and old battles of history; the Roman Empire seemed -to be near him, like something immense and heavy in the night. And -behind it in the past were the Persian, Assyrian, Egyptian Dominations, -with the weight of all their millions and millions of lives! - -He was going to do well in the examinations, he knew; more or less -mechanically he repeated over what his tutor had said, and some -flattering words the Warden had written to his father--"We consider him -one of our best men; he is certain to distinguish himself." - -"But what's the good of it all?" he found himself asking. He looked up -at the college buildings, dark about him, save for their squares of -yellow windows. Gradually he began to wake out of his vacant reverie. -What was the good of doing well?--why, it was an absurd question; of -course, he wanted to do well, to win honour for himself and his College. -He assured himself of this, in conventional phrases, but somehow, just -then, he did not seem to care in the least for success like that, and -honour. Yet here he had been, all this time, working for nothing else! - -He was ashamed of this want of ambition, this deadness of desire. Of -course, there were other things he cared for, he told himself, and to -prove this he brought to mind the interests and pleasures of his -ordinary life--his friendships, the ideas and books he believed in, his -public speaking, the positions he held in various societies. But somehow -all these seemed utterly foolish, futile, and unimportant. In -desperation he began to think of simpler things--of boating, good -clothes, and horses, and some riding boots he was having made. But -everything, even the most universal pleasures of life, struck him now as -tasteless and absurd. Why did people do such things, and what could they -find in them to enjoy? - -"But it's against common sense to feel this way!" he said to himself. He -had always thought the disillusions of youth somewhat ridiculous, and -often had made fun of the modern philosophy, or pseudo-philosophy, of -disenchantment, with its literature of passion and despair. And now, as -he sat there in the familiar quadrangle, with the rooms of his friends -about him, all the people he knew so well, in there at the concert, he -was uncomfortably aware of how absurd they would think it, should they -know that he too had secretly begun, in the old, foolish, hackneyed way, -to meditate on the nothingness of life. He of all people, who had always -taken such sensible, commonplace views of things! - -"Well, it will be different soon; I shall have things to work for that -really are worth while," he told himself. Hitherto, when he had felt any -futility in his life, he had put it down to the youthfulness of his -occupations, feeling sure that the world beyond his school or college, -with its great interests and ambitions, would give endless objects of -desire. But now, in spite of himself, he could not help asking--what -were those great interests and ambitions after all? - -Almost comically there rose before his mind pictures of all the -middle-aged people he knew--his relatives, his father's friends--large, -solemn, successful people, who were thought, and thought themselves, -very important. And the dull speeches they made, and the way they often -grew red and angry, as they argued about the Government, or the Eastern -question! And their houses, their wives and dinner parties, their social -differences and ambitions, and the way they pushed and struggled for -money and titles! What was the value of it all; to succeed or fail, what -difference did it make? He tried to imagine himself at the head of what -would be his profession, as Lord Chancellor--a fat and bald Lord -Chancellor in stuffy robes--wasn't that the position that young men were -supposed to be ambitious of attaining? Or if he should make a fortune, -or write a famous book, or carry some great reform through Parliament? -But, somehow, he did not seem to care; and gradually, as he listened to -the far-off rumour of the city, it came to sound faintly in his ears -like a voice of blind craving--as if the agitation of the world and life -were meaningless and vain. And he would go out into it, he knew, would -struggle and push with the others.... - -Now from the open windows, sounds of music floated again across the -quadrangle. He could picture to himself the audience, all those rows of -young men, sitting there in the hot air and gaslight. Indeed, he could -almost see, he felt, into the rows of minds--if you could call them -minds--behind all those heads: the ridiculous images of hope and cheap -romance wakened by the music, the foolish dreams of the future, and -false, poetic ideas of life. - -Pity the poets and novelists could not invent something a little more -true to life! Cornish thought. For after all they had but two receipts: -either they enlarged the world into a glorious and unreal place, full of -love, success, and eternal sunshine, or else they magnified poor human -nature, and invented towering, Byronic heroes, who could find nothing in -a shrunken universe worthy of their passionate souls. - -The music finished in a noise of long and loud applause. How all of them -enjoyed it; how all of them believed in it, he thought; finding -something foolish and inane in these sounds of clapping hands and -pounding feet. A little while afterwards the concert ended, and the -audience, a vague press of people, began to murmur and move down the -steps of the hall, and pass him in the darkness. But now the sound of -their footsteps and cheerful retreating voices came back to him almost -sadly. A whole generation of youth, they seemed to him, as he sat there -almost like some remote spectator--a whole generation of youth, those -young men, pouring out of that ancient hall and passing away into the -silence. - -They were all gone at last; one by one the bright windows in the hall -grew dark. Cornish still sat there alone. These voices and footsteps and -dim figures, moving past him thus in the darkness, had left his mind -curiously vibrating. So life went by, he thought, a few careless steps -together on the brief-trodden path, a few words, a few greetings, and -then the darkness and silence of death. What a curious mystery it was, -this life, so vivid and brief in each of those passers by; the life he -was conscious of in himself, as he sat there alone--the sound of his -breath, the blood beating at his temples, the "soul" within--what was -the meaning of it all, and for what reason was it given? - -Surely this was the question of philosophy--the very question they had -discussed that evening! And now, for the first time, he realized that -the theories and systems he had been studying so long were not mere -exercises of thought, and abstract speculations, but almost passionate -attempts to explain the meaning of existence--of his own existence! - -But the great solutions of the philosophers--Aristotle's -"Contemplation," Kant's "Moral Law," the "Calculated Pleasure" of the -Hedonists, and all the rest--there seemed to be a mortal coldness in -them all. Surely they could never give a motive, or make life desirable -to anyone! Vaguely dismayed at this conclusion, he repeated over to -himself all the words again. Still he could find in them no motive for -existence; and in a dim way he began to feel half proud of this -discernment. Yes, Waters had been right after all, (and somehow he -pitied both Waters and himself), philosophy was but a barren waste. And -the picture of a great desert filled his mind--a desert of endless sand. - - * * * * * - -When he was again conscious of himself, for a moment he wondered where -he was, confused by the discomfort of his position, and the coolness of -the air. Then through the darkness he saw, outlined against the starry -sky, the trees and buildings of the College quadrangle, and remembered -how he had sat down there to rest after their discussion. He must have -fallen asleep, and now it was late--the night had grown completely -silent, and only one or two windows shone yellow in the blackness of the -walls. What had their argument been about? he began to ask himself; but, -chancing to look up again, he forgot everything in his wonder at the -brilliance of the stars. The whole patch of sky, shut in by the dark -College roofs, quivered and glowed with shining stars; he thought he had -never seen the vault of heaven so wonderful and luminous. - -The long, faint sigh of a passing train on the distant railway brought -back his thoughts at last, out of their vague wonder, to the earth and -himself again. His imagination wandered after the train as it went -through the night towards London. Soon he would be in London himself, he -thought, smiling. It was not three weeks now. There were some dances he -was going to, and a cricket match, and the theatre, of course.... - -But then a vague sense of misfortune weighed him down, and in a moment -he remembered how, a little while before, he had decided that life was -altogether inane and meaningless. How was it that he had grown so -foolishly eager again? No secret had been revealed to him; he had found -no meaning behind desire, no purpose in existence. Yet here he was, -looking forward to dances, actually counting the days to a cricket -match! It was absurd for a self-conscious spirit to desire such things -as these, especially after surveying life and philosophy, and finding -there was no reason why you should desire anything at all! - -But somehow Cornish did not seem to need a reason now; success, love, -friendship, and even dances and cricket matches, he desired these things -for themselves, they shone with their own brightness; no theory, no -sanction of Greek or German philosophy could possibly make him want -them more. How was it that there were desires that reason did not give? -He puzzled over this, till at last he saw the question was rather a -meaningless one, a question of words only. For desire of life came long -before reasoning about it; reason did not sit aloft in a purer air, -creating out of itself the meanings of experience. It could create no -desires, could give us indeed none of the ultimate facts of life, for -the ideas it used were all abstracted from things our direct perceptions -gave us. And the existence of these things themselves--the blue sky, the -solid earth, the sweetness of youth and sunshine--it could never prove, -it did not need to prove! When, a little while before, he had felt no -desire, reason had not helped him. And now he did not want its help. - -The striking clocks told Cornish the lateness of the hour, and he got -up to go in. As he walked across the quadrangle he heard voices and -laughter in the darkness, and dimly saw a group of young men come out of -a doorway in front of him. - -"Well, have you had a good game, Waters?" he asked, as he joined them. - -"Oh, a ripping game. What have you been doing?" - -"Nothing much--thinking." - -"Thinking! Lord, I'd turn looney if I thought so much. What's the good -of it? You'd much better have taken a hand." - -Cornish laughed. "Well, I believe you're right," he said. - - - - -_The Will to Live_ - - -Part Two - -William Waters had dreamed that the Persians, in a fleet of Canadian -canoes, had come up the Thames to attack the College barge, and that he -himself had been sent on foot to demand reinforcements from the Oxford -examiners at Sparta. And after the weary, breathless running, the -hopeless search, in his dream, for the right Greek words, it was most -delightful to open his eyes and find himself comfortably lying in his -familiar bedroom, with the sunlight glowing on the blinds. - -"Why am I so happy?" he asked himself, and then he remembered that it -was all over now; for the future he would never have to trouble about -Greek or examinations, or getting up in the morning, or any of their -stupid rules and worries. For the future! As he lay there, lazily -opening and shutting his eyes, vague, bright pictures of the life before -him floated through his mind, and set his heart beating a little -quicker. - -William Waters was the son of a business man in a northern town, who, -with some sacrifice, had sent him, the eldest son, to the University, in -order that his education, and the connections he would form, might help -him on in the world. Now that the young man, after a lucky scramble -through the examinations, had just finished four pleasant years of -Oxford life, it was his vague purpose to find some occupation in London, -something pleasant and gentlemanly, which would enable him to live as -he liked. - -"Of course, sir, I know one can't expect anything very much at first," -he said, half aloud, as he imagined himself talking modestly and -sensibly to his tutor. For he was going to talk about it to Ames; old -Ames wasn't such a fool about things of that kind. "There is no nonsense -about that young Waters," Ames would say afterwards; "a modest, sensible -chap, the kind of man who'll always do well." Waters was determined to -do well of course; he would get on, he told himself, when people came to -realize how hard he worked. And as the young man lay there in bed, he -decided that in the future no one should ever accuse him of laziness and -neglecting work. By simply making up his mind to it, he thought he would -entirely change his character, and begin life anew, winning position -and wealth by his own unremitting industry. - -Buller and Antrobus would be in London, he told himself, and Philpotts, -most likely, and they would belong to the same club, where they would go -on Sunday mornings to smoke and read the sporting papers. He would work -tremendously hard, of course, spending laborious nights over his books, -but he would also go out a great deal into society. He would not be -dissipated--he didn't care much for that--but still he would not be -Puritanical either. He meant to be moral and steady, and at the same -time he would enjoy the pleasures of a man of the world. But he would be -always kind and popular; people in fashionable society would say that -William Waters was such a good fellow, and in the Park ladies would -smile at him from their carriages, and smart young men would walk with -him arm in arm. And he would live well; but still he would save money, -and would soon pay off his Oxford bills, and send money to his father. -For he would always be very kind to his people, having his sisters to -visit him, helping them to marry well (he himself meant to marry someone -for love who was very rich), and sometimes he would give up parties at -country houses in order to pay them visits at home. How his fur coat and -knowledge of the great world would impress all the neighbours! - -"But I must get up," Waters said to himself, remembering how he was to -go and see his tutor and talk over plans. And after luncheon Buller was -going to drive them out, three of them, with his tandem to Woodstock. -And thinking vaguely of this drive, and of some new clothes that he -meant to wear, Waters was just falling off to sleep again, when his -bull-dog came rushing up the stairs, and began to whine and scratch at -the door. Rousing himself, Waters jumped up, and went with a call of -affection to the door to let Lo-Ben in. - -After he had bathed and dressed himself in his new fresh-smelling -clothes, the young man sauntered into the sitting-room of his lodgings, -and rang the bell for breakfast. The day was bright; Waters felt -wonderfully fresh and well; there were pleasant aches in his arms and -legs as he moved, for the whole of the day before he had been rowing on -the river. - -After breakfast he was just sitting down to smoke his pipe comfortably, -when, looking at his watch, he snatched up his cap and rusty gown, and -started out towards College. By Jove! what a day it was! He walked along -through the sunshine, smiling to himself, while Lo-Ben barked and -bounced from side to side. It was a good world, Waters thought a good -world, and now he was really going to enjoy it. - -As Waters was tying up Lo-Ben in the College porch, he was seized on -suddenly from behind. - -"Come along, fat William," they cried, pulling and pushing him along, -"we're going to have a little game--you must take a hand." - -Twisting himself around, as he struggled, Waters recognized two of his -friends, and appealed to reason breathlessly; he had to go and see old -Ames, on his honour he had; he would look in afterwards, in about -half-an-hour, and stay to luncheon if they liked. So he started across -the quadrangle, looking back and smiling and shaking his head, as he -dodged the bits of gravel with which they pelted him. It was a good -place after all, the old College, Waters thought, when he was out of -danger and could look about. He remembered the two years he had lived -in rooms looking out on this quadrangle; the pleasant hours he had -spent, sitting in the window with his pipe, or lying on the grass whole -Sunday afternoons, lazily reading, or talking with his friends; he -thought of the beautiful chapel, and the old hall that was so much -admired, and how he had sat up a tree one evening and poured water on -the Dean, and how at night the stealthy bonfires had blazed up red and -sudden in the dark. - -He was really sorry to leave the old place, he thought sentimentally, -remembering the emotions he had read of as felt by young men in books -when about to leave their school or college. But then, with healthy -common-sense, he told himself that all they wrote in books about your -college days, and life never being so happy afterwards, was damned -nonsense. Waters knew how men lived in London! - -"Sorry I'm late, sir," he said as he entered his tutor's room, -addressing the spare shining head that was bent over a heap of papers. - -Mr. Ames raised his worn, cynical, kind face, and looked at Waters with -short-sighted eyes. "Oh, no matter, sit down won't you, Waters," and he -gave a last hurried shuffle to his papers. Waters thought that Ames must -spend his life looking for lost papers; and although occasionally -surprised by flashes of almost supernatural knowledge in his tutor, for -the most part he entertained--as a heathen might towards his helpless, -yet vaguely awful, idol--a certain good-natured pity for the -absent-minded, easily outwitted man. - -"I thought I'd like to talk things over with you a little," Waters said, -sitting down in a chair that groaned with his athletic weight. "I must -decide what I shall choose, what to go in for." - -"To go in for?" Ames repeated, looking at him vaguely. - -"I mean, I must choose"; Waters found a pleasure in talking, not as an -undergraduate, but as a serious young man. "One must do something of -course." - -"Of course it _is_ better," Ames assented, though he still looked rather -puzzled. - -"I thought I'd talk to you about the Bar, or something of the kind." - -Ames looked at him blankly. "Talk to me about the Bar?" - -"Yes, I thought I'd better ask your advice." - -"Do you mean for yourself?" Ames asked after a moment, "but I -supposed--I always supposed you were going into your father's business; -he has some business, hasn't he, or am I wrong?" - -"Into my father's business!" Waters laughed comfortably. "No, I -shouldn't ever think of that. No, I want to live in London." - -"Oh, I see!" - -"Yes, of course if anything very good was offered me somewhere -else,--but no, I think I prefer London. What would you advise?" - -"What I should advise!" Ames said, looking at him hopelessly. "I suppose -you've thought of something for yourself; you have some preference?" - -"Preference? Oh no, nothing special. I thought I'd ask you." - -Again Ames looked at him with an odd expression. Then in his polite, -weary, equable voice, he said, "Well, I must try and think. I suppose -your father--what does he want you to do?" - -"My father--!" Waters' voice showed what he thought of fathers. "Oh, he -said that if I had a university education, there would be something." - -"Ah, did he! Well, I suppose he ought to know," Ames said doubtfully. - -"Oh, he doesn't know of anything definite," Waters explained; and then, -speaking loudly, as if to a deaf man, he added, "It was only what he -thought." - -"Ah, that's quite different, isn't it?" Ames exclaimed, his face -brightening. - -"But surely there is a great deal to do in London," Waters continued. - -Yes, there must be a good deal, Ames admitted doubtfully; at least -everyone seemed very much occupied there. - -"All I want is some work, that isn't too much grind, and decent pay." - -"Ah, that is all that most people want," Ames observed, with half a -sigh. - -"Of course at first I shouldn't expect anything very much," Waters went -on, hardly heeding his tutor's vague remarks; and he explained again -that he only wanted some decent occupation, with pay enough to live on. -Then he waited, gazing at his tutor's blank face as one might gaze at a -revolving lighthouse, waiting for its flash of light. As nothing came, -however, he said, "Surely there are lots of places where they want -Oxford men?" - -"Possibly there were"; Ames looked as if he, however, had never heard of -them. - -"But Grant and Vaughan had got good places, and Sturdy, they said, was -doing well at the Bar." - -"Ah, I see you mean those clever men, who do so well in the Schools and -all. You're quite right; a man like Cornish for instance; I thought you -meant more the average man." - -No, it wasn't Cornish, Waters meant; it wasn't the average man either. -"I mean more the man--what you call an all-round-man." - -"What I call an all-round-man?" Ames looked bewildered. - -"I mean," Waters continued, with desperate efforts to explain himself, -"I mean the man who is rather good all round, rows, and that sort of -thing. Perhaps he didn't get a First; didn't care much what he got, -didn't approve of the system." - -Ames seemed busy looking for his glasses. - -"There are people who don't approve of the system," Waters went on. "I -read an article once by someone, Professor something, not approving of -examinations. I forget just who it was." - -"Professor Freeman, perhaps?" - -"Yes, that's it! Well now, a man like that, what is he going to do?" -Waters asked, with renewed confidence. - -"But Professor Freeman is dead, you know." - -"But,--but,--I'm not speaking of Professor Freeman." - -"How would you like to be a solicitor?" Ames asked, putting on his -glasses. - -"A solicitor! oh, I shouldn't care for that," Waters promptly replied. -"You see it isn't the kind of work I like, and then the vacations are -too short." - -Ames said nothing. He was sitting unusually still, and his large glasses -reflecting the light, resembled two enormous shining oval eyes in the -smoothness of his face. What he was really looking at Waters could not -tell, and he grew more and more uncomfortable. At last, with diminished -confidence, "There _are_ men who get on well at the Bar?" he said. - -"There are." - -"And if I were living in London I might do some writing? They do that, -don't they?" - -"They do." Then Ames sighed and shook his head. "I think you had better -go home, Waters," he added; "I'm afraid there's nothing else. If you had -spoken to me before, I should have told you this." - -"Oh, good Lord, Mr. Ames, you don't mean there's nothing!" Waters sat up -in his chair, with open mouth, staring at his tutor. - -"Well, you know, I'm afraid there isn't." - -"Oh but, Mr. Ames, there must be something!" - -"Well you can try; but honestly, I think you had--if your father can -have you--I think you had better go home." - -Waters looked at him. "He knows I helped to paint his door red last -week," the young man muttered to himself, "and now he's furious about -it." - -But the comfort of this ebbed away gradually, as Ames went on to -describe the different professions, the struggle for success, the cruel -competition. Ames indeed seemed to have focussed himself, and instead of -the vague astonished way in which he was wont to speak of practical -affairs, he now showed a precision, and clearness, and knowledge of life -that was really appalling. "I am sorry it is so, Waters," he ended. "We -live pleasantly here, and we almost forget what the world outside is -like." - -"I do think some one might have told me, Mr. Ames; I do indeed." Waters -could have cried with disappointment. - -"You would never have believed it, Waters; we none of us can believe -that the world doesn't need us. It's hard, but whether we live or die, -the world doesn't care, can get on perfectly well without us. We each -have to find it out for ourselves." He sighed as if he too had once -known youth and hope, and the indifference of the world. - -"But, Mr. Ames, I can't go home, indeed I can't. My other brother was -going into the business, and I always told people,--and everybody -supposed,--and to think that all my time here is wasted." - -"Oh, not exactly wasted," Ames answered kindly. "It will always help -you, to be an Oxford man, and you will be sure to find it pleasanter at -home than you expected." Then beginning again to look at his papers, he -added, more in his old distant way, "I'll see you again, I hope, before -you go down. They'll miss you in College," he added politely, as Waters -moved towards the door. "I'm sure the 'Torpid'--" - -"I might be a solicitor, Mr. Ames," Waters said in a meek voice, as he -stood disconsolately, his hand on the door-knob. - -"Well, talk it over with your father," Ames replied, without looking up. -"It takes time and money you know. You think he wouldn't mind?" - -"Oh no, he won't mind," Waters said, although he knew his father would -mind very much indeed. - -He walked away slowly through the familiar quadrangle. His father!--how -would he ever dare tell his father? But no, it couldn't be true that -there was nothing for him, that nobody wanted him. He was well known in -College, had played in the football team, and rowed in the "Torpid," and -people liked him. Besides it was such a thing, they always said, to be -an English gentleman; and then Oxford culture--and you read of the -successful careers of rowing men, how they became Cabinet Ministers, -and Bishops, and things. No, it couldn't be true.... - -"Poor Lo-Ben," he said, patting his dog tenderly, as he unchained him in -the porch. "Poor old Lo-Ben, you'll stick to your master, won't you?" -The dog whined and licked the young man's hand, and they went out into -the street together. - -Well, they would live alone, he and Lo-Ben, and they would go out for -lonely walks, after the long dreary days of work in his father's office. -And the people there would see him, and wonder about him; but he would -always be distant, only coldly polite when they met. Sometimes his old -College friends would come to stay in the neighbourhood; but they would -not look him up: all his friends would forget him, though he would -always remember them. And that afternoon they would all drive off -without him, probably they would be really glad not to have him. And -they would be perfectly happy; but he would never be happy again. - -For no, it was not true, what Ames had said, about his getting to like -it at home. He would always hate it, he told himself desperately; and -life and everything was hateful; there was a chill in the sunshine, the -streets seemed full of noise and work and ugly working people. What was -the good of it? he wondered. And Ames said it was all like that. What -was the good of it, he asked again, when he flung himself down into one -of the great easy chairs in his lodgings. If you had to live in a dirty -provincial town, and sit on a stool all day, what was the good? Of -course some of the men at home seemed happy enough; they had their -cricket on Saturdays and things; but then they weren't university men. -For himself, Waters decided, for the first time in his life considering -in his concrete way the problem of existence, for himself it was all -finished; there was nothing more in life which could give him pleasure. - -The servant brought up luncheon. At first Waters thought he could eat -nothing, and when he did begin in a melancholy way, he bitterly -contrasted his lonely meal with the happy party in College. He felt an -immense pity for himself; he would die young, he was sure; the life -might even drive him to suicide--such things had happened. - -After his luncheon and beer he lit his pipe. By this time Buller and -Philpotts must have finished their luncheon too, and have started for -the stables. They would wonder at first why he did not come, but they -would not really care. - -And now they must have started. He had done well not to go with them; he -would not have enjoyed it, Waters assured himself, repeating the old -phrases; he would never enjoy anything again. He looked at his watch -furtively. What! they wouldn't start for three minutes yet. Then he had -still just time enough to catch them. He seized his hat, and without -waiting for a reason--he had no time to wait--he hurried out, Lo-Ben -barking at his heels. - - - - -_The Claim of the Past_ - - -They had all been to luncheon with Mr. Windus, and now, under his -guidance, they started out to see the College, walking together across -the quadrangle through the summer sunshine. Mr. Windus talked to Mrs. -Ellwood of Dalmouth, the Devonshire town where she lived, and he had -friends; the others were gossiping of the heat, the Oxford dances, while -Ruth Ellwood and young Rutherford came last of all. - -Rutherford too belonged to Dalmouth, was, indeed, a cousin of the -Ellwoods--all the Dalmouth families were somehow related; but going -away early to school, and afterwards to Oxford, he had come at last to -seem more like a stranger to them than a friend or cousin. And this -invitation to meet the Ellwoods he had accepted merely out of -politeness; he was busy with his work, felt in no mood for the Oxford -gaieties, and anyhow cared, or thought he cared, very little indeed for -Dalmouth or the Dalmouth people. - -But soon he had begun to listen with pleasure and interest to the home -news, as his charming cousin told it. - -"And so the town isn't much changed?" he asked; "and the different -cousins, what has become of them all?" - -With eager interest she went on telling him of all the old families, who -lived in the different houses; how the young girls had grown up--there -were so many pretty ones among the cousins!--and the young men had gone -into the family offices. Some of them were married and settled down -already. - -"And Aunt Warner's house under the beeches, with its lawn, where we used -to play, is it just the same?" - -"Oh, yes, just the same, only the Bartons live there now--Uncle James's -family; and on Thursdays we meet there--I mean the cousins' Tennis -Club--and when it rains we dance in the old drawing room. But how -shocked dear old Aunt Warner would have been to see us!" Then, as they -went through the gateway into the College garden, she added, "I'm afraid -all this gossip bores you; it's interesting for us who live at home, but -for other people--" - -"Oh, but I belong to Dalmouth!" he protested. - -"Of course you do, only it's so long since you've been there," she said -in half apology, "and we thought--I thought you didn't care." - -It was indeed a long time, it was years since he had been there, he -remembered with a certain regret for the preoccupation, the youthful -intolerance, that had made him half despise his home. It was a charming -place after all, the grey seaport town with its wharves, and shipping, -and narrow streets, and the pleasant homes and gardens just outside -where his cousins and uncles, the merchants, lived--where as a boy he -had lived. How well he remembered watching, on summer afternoons, the -white sails of the family ships, as they floated up with the tide past -the green lawns and square old houses. A pleasant life it must be there, -he thought, and quite untroubled in its tranquil interests by any great -ambitions or ideas--the echoes of which, indeed, could hardly reach -them in their quiet old corner of the world. - -And, as they talked, the young man began to fancy idly what his own life -would have been, had he never gone away from the old Devonshire town. It -had been intended, of course, that he should stay there, and take his -own part in the family concerns; even yet his uncles were keeping a -place for him; and although they feared he was quite spoiled by Oxford, -yet they would welcome him back, he knew, should he only give up those -ambitions, that to them--and to himself sometimes!--seemed so -impossible, so dreamy and unreal. - -Ruth Ellwood stopped now and then to look at the garden flowers. "What -lovely irises, and how quaint those roses are, trained so stiffly on the -old walls." - -"Are you fond of gardening?" he asked. - -She was very fond of it, she said--not that she knew much about it! But -she liked planting things and tying them up, and she always gathered the -flowers for the house. Things grew so well at Dalmouth--roses and -peonies, and great chrysanthemums in the autumn. Only it made her a -little sad to see the chrysanthemums; their summers were so lovely! - -Rutherford knew the house in which his cousin lived, and now he could -almost see her there, moving over the sweet grass, hatless, in the -morning light, to gather roses, filling old china bowls with their -fragrant leaves; or walking home on rainy evenings past the great cedar, -the wet lawn, and borders of dripping flowers. - -"How beautiful she is!" he thought, looking furtively at her. The -impression of this beauty, her pleasant voice, the friendly people she -spoke of, and all the memories that made them seem so intimate together, -affected him with a curious fresh sense of happiness, coming into his -life, which had been of late somewhat discouraged and lonely, with a -charm as real and actual as that of the warmth of the sun, the scent of -roses. - -They had reached the end of the garden, and as they turned back, still -following the others, he said hesitatingly to his companion something -about coming to Dalmouth soon for a visit. - -"Oh, do come!" she cried, "I'm sure you'll enjoy it, and they will all -be so glad to see you." - -"I hope so--but I'm afraid they must think rather badly of me--will be -prejudiced against me; you will have to introduce me." - -"Oh, I will--only really, they won't be prejudiced against you." Then -she added, "Oxford is so charming!" in a way that touched Rutherford a -little. She at least, in spite of all she had heard at home, plainly -could see nothing so dreadful or dangerous in Oxford, or her cousin, -after all! - -Yes, Oxford was charming, she said again, and not at all what she had -expected--at first she had been really almost afraid to come! But it was -all so pleasant; why had people such a prejudice against the -University?--her two brothers wanted to come, but her father would not -hear of it. But how could it unfit them for living at home? She had seen -how the undergraduates lived. And her brothers would have enjoyed it so. -She had been in several of the Colleges now, and had been on the river, -and was going out to tea that afternoon, and afterwards, to a dance. - -"Tell me," she asked, as they followed the others towards the chapel -door, "are you going to any of the dances?" - -He was afraid he wouldn't have the time, he said. - -"Oh, what a pity, you ought to come," she cried; but her voice was -hushed when, out of the glare and sunshine, they went into the blue -obscurity, the cool old smell and quiet of the chapel. - -The ladies looked at the windows, the religious carving; and their -movement, as they went about, filled with a rustling sound the vacant -silence of the place. Then they all gathered in a group while one of the -Fellows told them something of the history of the chapel: how it had -been built in the fourteenth century, and how ever since then the -members of the College had worshipped there, and among them many whose -names had afterwards grown famous. - -"Tell me," Ruth Ellwood whispered, as they walked away, "is this where -the undergraduates sit; where do you sit?" He showed her the Scholars' -seats, and the old brass eagle from which they read the lessons, and -then, when they went through the ante-chapel, she paused a moment, -looking at the inscriptions and monuments. - -"Were there any nice old epitaphs?" she asked. "Do show them to me, if -there are." - -The rest of the party had left the chapel, but could still be seen -through the open door standing not far off in the sunshine, and the -gossip of their voices came in faintly now and then. - -The old brasses, dating from Gothic times, bore inscriptions in rhyming -Latin, that Rutherford read and translated to his companion; there were -monuments of a later time, adorned with urns, cherubs, and -garlands--old trappings of death that made death itself seem almost -quaint and charming. But in the seventeenth century the tranquil records -of the scholars' lives were disturbed by echoes of old war and exile. -"Reader, look to thy feet! Honest and Loyal men are sleeping under -Thee," one inscription ran; and the name of more than one was recorded -"who, when Loyalty and the Church fainted, lay down and Died." - -Other monuments were put up to the memory of young men who had died at -College. Well-born and modest, the old Latin described them, and dead, -centuries ago, in the flower of their fruitless years. "Vivere dulce -fuit!" one of them had complained, as four hundred years before, in -florid Latin, he bade farewell to youth and hope. - -Of another it was quaintly said, "Talis erat vita, qualis stylus, -elegans et pura"; while another undergraduate's virtues were recorded in -verses ending with the line, - - "Expertus praedico, tutor eram." - -Then there was an inscription in English verse, from some Cavalier poet, -Rutherford thought, - - "Him while fresh and fragrant Time - Cherisht in his golden prime; - Ere Hebe's hand had overlaid - His smooth cheeks with downy shade, - The rush of Death's unruly wave - Swept him off into his grave. - - * * * * * - - Eyes are vocall, teares have tongues, - And there be words not made with lungs; - Sententious showres: Oh let them fall! - Their cadence is rhetoricall." - -Another of the same date recorded the deeds of the young -scholar-soldiers "who, at the news of Battle, changed their Gownes for -Armour, and Faithfully served King Charles I. from Edge Hill fight, to -the End of those unhappie Wars." But one youth in that early conflict -had been killed in the pursuit of victory "after Gloriously redeeming, -with his own hands, the banner Royal of the King." - -So they linger there for a few moments, passing from one to another of -the epitaphs, with their records of knightly effort, of the ideal and -romantic hopes of youth, completed afterwards, or quenched long ago by -early death. And to the young man, as he spells them out, they seem at -last to form a continuing tradition of lives dauntlessly lived and lost, -and then recorded here, briefly, in this ancient corner of the College. -His companion, too, was vaguely charmed and touched by the old -inscriptions, and as they turned at last to go out she stopped in front -of another tablet. Would he read it? It was too high for her to see. - -Rutherford looked at it. "It's a modern one, I don't think it will -interest you--" - -"Oh yes, it will--do read it." - -He looked at it in silence for a minute. Faint sounds of music floated -into the dim chapel from the world outside--music, and distant voices -calling. Then he read the name and date; a young man who had been -drowned the year before. "His companions at School and College have -erected this tablet, wishing to preserve the recollection of one who was -much beloved, and whose influence for good was greatly felt in this -place. He was of a courageous and enthusiastic nature; the example, had -he lived, of his generous ambitions--" But in the middle, Rutherford's -voice changed a little, and with a shiver his cousin turned and went -away. Had she guessed that they had been friends, these two, or was it -merely that she felt at last the chill of the place, and of all the old -dead about her? - -In a moment the young man turns to go out too. But as he looks through -the dimness of the chapel on the summer and sunlight, and his cousin -standing there outside the door, how far it all seems, how unreal! Only -real to him is a sense of the briefness of life, and of the great, -difficult things that may nevertheless be done or attempted before death -comes. And as he walks away again with his cousin, he is quite certain, -now at last, that this is no mere emotion or boyish enthusiasm, but an -influence that for evil or good must rule his life--must come, at least, -between him and any choice of ease and the common happiness. - - - - -_A Broken Journey_ - - -I. - -The air tasted fresh; through the sunshiny mist the London houses shone -beautiful and vague; the passers-by seemed to be whistling and singing -as they went to their morning work. Already at Paddington cabs were -arriving; they drove down under the clock in an endless procession; the -family luggage was unloaded, and the passengers, muffled for winter -journeys, hurried into the station. - -Then a hansom pulled up sharply, and a young man got out, whose air of -fashion and slim figure, as he stood there paying his driver, drew for a -moment the notice of the other travellers. - -On the platform within, by the waiting trains, all was movement; the -great adventurous station was full of grey light, and a confusion of -sounds and echoes. Arthur Lestrange, as he walked across, looked about -with quick eyes on the orderly tumult, the heaps of moving luggage, the -hurrying people. They were all starting off on pleasant holiday -journeys, he fancied; indeed, everything seemed eager and gay that -morning. - -He chose an empty first-class carriage in the train going northwards; -but in a moment he hurried out back to the bookstall to get a paper, and -returned with several novels in his hands. On the top of one was -pictured, in bright tragic colours, a young man suspended over the edge -of a perilous cliff. - -"Why did I buy them?" Arthur wondered, looking at the books with -amusement. - -Settling himself again, he watched through his window the anxious -procession of people who came peering by, looking for corner seats. Then -he saw his own luggage passing. - -"Oh, you can put those things in here with me," he called out to the -porter. - -"I've labelled them, sir," the porter said, looking up with a stupid -face. - -"Put them in, put them in, don't you see there's plenty of room," Arthur -said with a certain sharpness and nervous agitation. - -There were two young men standing on the platform near his window. - -"Well, good-bye," one of them said, as he looked at the other with -friendly eyes, "you mustn't wait, and you'll come up and see us, won't -you?" - -They were Oxford men, young Lestrange thought, as he watched them, -feeling envious, and almost lonely for a moment as he remembered the -times when he had travelled down so often with friends from Paddington -to Oxford. - -But surely it was time for the train to start! The movement on the -platform seemed to be increasing; the tumult and screaming whistles -sounded louder and louder in his ears, as he waited, leaning -uncomfortably forward. - -At last all the doors were shut; the platform grew more vacant; a few -belated people hurried up; a green flag was waved; a whistle blown; -everything about him seemed to glide backwards, and then, with the -shaking and noise of travel, the train drew itself slowly out of the -station. Arthur leaned back with a sensation of immense relief. He was -really away at last. Away from everybody! He had been almost afraid that -they might come to the station and try to stop him. But it was absurd, -he told himself, as he opened the morning paper, it was absurd to make -so much trouble; for what was there to bother about? He could take care -of himself; and anyhow his relations had better mind their own business. -As for talking about ruin! He thought of his pompous uncle and dull pale -cousins, and then of the people with whom he was going to stay. - -"Good old ruin," he said half aloud, running down the news of the day -with eyes that hardly noticed what he read. In a moment he turned to -look out of the window. - -After making its way through the suburbs, the train had begun at last to -travel more quickly through the open country. The trees and earth and -houses near at hand drifted backwards; the more distant fields moved -back with a slower motion, while the horizon seemed to glide forward -with the train. The sun shone on the brown earth and mist and leafless -trees; a young horse galloped the length of his field in a playful race -with the moving carriages. - -Young Lestrange changed his seat restlessly. Then he began to rearrange -his luggage on the rack; he looked at himself in the mirror, caressing -his slight moustache. His hair was smooth and dark over his handsome -young face. Only his straight eyebrows, twitching nervously now and -then, would give him rather a harassed, anxious look for a moment. - -What was the use of bothering, he said to himself, smiling as he turned -carelessly away. If one was young! Men sowed their wild oats; he would -settle down soon enough, but in the meantime he would enjoy himself. You -have only one life to live.... - -The winter morning seemed unusually bright and clear; the train went -swiftly; its wheels beat on the rails an unquiet and delicious measure, -answering and echoing his thoughts. Restless and excited, he again threw -down the paper, for the bright images of desire, that floated before his -eyes, made the printed words seem almost meaningless. - -He pictured to himself the end of his journey--the trap that would -probably meet him--a dog-cart, with shining bay horse and man in livery, -standing in the gravel sweep of a country station. The drive up, and -then at tea, or just before dinner, he and she would meet in the drawing -room, greeting each other with pretended indifference. How he hated and -loved her! - -After a while the train, going more slowly now, began to draw into -Reading. With the beginnings of weariness and headache Arthur looked at -the waste of railway trucks, the heaps of coal and blackened snow, the -red factory buildings, and the dreary streets beyond. Biscuit -factories--who could eat all the biscuits they made? he wondered; -"Clapper's Restaurant"--suppose you should dine there, they would give -you nothing but biscuits, probably. Did the train stop at Reading?--he -could get some spirits at the refreshment room. - -At the bar, Lestrange saw the figure and long grey coat of a man he -thought he recognized; and then, getting sight of Boyle's smooth-shaven -face, and remembering his supercilious manners and reputation, he felt -with sudden repulsion how much he hated men of that kind--men of -pleasure, who were no longer young. When you were young it was -different--but to go on always.... - -But when Boyle turned and greeted him in an indifferent, half-friendly -way, and then walked up and down with him on the platform, Arthur could -not help feeling, in spite of himself, somewhat flattered and pleased. -After all, Boyle knew most of the best people, and went everywhere. - -"I have an empty carriage; you might as well come in with me, if you are -by yourself." Boyle seemed not unwilling, and soon appeared at Arthur's -carriage. - -"I'm just on my way to Marcham," Arthur said, as if casually; "the -Vallences', you know." There was a slight lisp in his pleasant musical -voice. - -Boyle was putting his golf clubs in the rack, but turned round at this -and glanced at Arthur oddly. However he said nothing, and after a -moment he sat down, and, lighting a cigarette, began looking at the -paper. - -As the train went out of Reading they began to talk, or rather Arthur -talked. Soon he was discussing horses and actresses and gambling debts. -It was a good game, baccarat, Arthur said, but you had to pay for it -sometimes. He had just dropped a cool thousand or two, which was rather -a bore. There was a music hall singer to whom Arthur referred more than -once as "Mamie." - -"And how about Lulu, hey?" Boyle asked, with his disagreeable laugh. - -"Oh, Lulu--good old Lulu!" Arthur said, but he really had no idea of -what Boyle meant. - -Boyle told a story in his short, indifferent way, and Arthur exclaimed, -"Capital! capital!" and laughed loudly in the fashion of a popular man -he knew. - -Had he ever been to the Vallences' before? Boyle asked. - -No, he had never gone before. Did Boyle know them?--Boyle had been -there; was going there now, in fact, he said. - -"Really, are you going there now? How odd we should meet like this!" -They talked a little about the place and people. It would be rather a -lively set, wouldn't it? Arthur asked; and he boasted that his uncle, -Lord Seabury, had warned him against them. But, good God! what did he -care if people were amusing. "Do you know who else will be there?" - -"Oh, a lot of people. Mrs. Stair (Arthur blushed at this), and that -young Glass." - -"Glass?" Arthur exclaimed; "oh, not really that man! They can't like -him." - -"They like his money." - -"You don't mean they ask a man--a stupid boy like that--to get his -money." - -"They don't say they do," and Boyle looked up from his paper with an -expression that seemed to say, "You young fool, you don't know much." - -("Is that what I'm asked for?" Arthur wondered for a second.) - -"I say, did you read about that young Hughes?" Boyle was saying. "It -seems he's gone and played the fool--shot himself; wrote to his mamma he -was ruined. So he won't be there." - -"Used he to go to Marcham?" - -"Oh, always there." - -"Well, it's the pace that kills," Arthur said sententiously, though his -hand, as he lighted another cigarette, shook a little. "It isn't -everyone that can stand the racket." - -"If they weren't all such sickening young fools," Boyle replied in a -short contemptuous way, as if the talk bored him. - -"He thinks a damned lot of himself," Arthur thought, looking with a -sidelong glance at Boyle. His head began to ache again; a sudden disgust -came over him; he felt he hated Boyle. And he hated himself too, for -talking and boasting as he had talked and boasted but a few minutes -before. And they were all like Boyle, all those people; they cared only -for his name and money. "Name and money, name and money," the wheels -beat on the rails. Well, soon he would lose them, most likely--his name -and money--like the young suicide, who had lost them both and his life -too. - -Still he made an effort to ward off the mood that was settling down on -him--the mood he knew so well! He was not ruined, he told himself, and -there was nothing ruinous in an ordinary visit. He could take care of -himself. The chief of his debts were gambling debts, and he was going to -stop playing soon; would settle down quietly; he would make a -resolution, and keep to it. - -But what was he doing now in that rattling train? Only the day before he -had resolved not to come; had promised solemnly that he would not come; -had made a resolution to break with all that set, and not yield to the -passion which people said would ruin him. Yet here he was, going on to -it all! There seemed to him something sinister in his journey, something -fatal in the swiftness of the rattling train, as if he were being -carried on to a dreadful place, and into misfortune, against his will. -He leaned away from Boyle, and touched his cheek to the cool pane of the -window. Masses of steam enveloped the train, but Arthur saw the quiet -landscape now and then, glimpses of faded green fields with snow, and, -over the hedges, the shining river, and bluish hills beyond. He saw a -boat on the river; recognized a bit of wood, a church tower. Those were -the hills that he had ridden over; the lanes through which he had so -often walked; the river down which he had floated in the summer -sunshine, pulling up refreshed and strong after bathing. With an eager, -almost childish interest he waited for the green visions, through the -shifting steam, of these familiar places. - -He opened the window; the singing air tasted pleasantly cool and fresh. -Over the flooded fields and the moving trees he saw the spires and -towers of Oxford. He could well remember the quiet streets there; seemed -to see himself, indeed, moving through them; and he almost believed that -in a few minutes he would be driving up, as he had driven up so often -before, in that procession of racing cabs to the old College, and to all -his friends. - -The steam blew again about the train, wrapped his face in its warm -breath, and blotted out the view. Inside the shaking carriage was the -tobacco smoke, and his luggage. "Where am I going with that man?" he -asked himself suddenly, for the picture of Oxford had filled his mind -entirely for a moment. The buildings and towers were so near now, the -water of the reservoir gleamed slowly past. Arthur took down his luggage -from the rack. At the bottom of his mind he had been wanting for a long -time to go back to Oxford, and see it all, and see an old friend there; -and so, eagerly, almost before the train had stopped, he hailed a porter -and got out of the carriage. - -"I must stay over here a few hours," he said to Boyle, with apparent -calmness. "There is something I have just thought of, and must attend -to. I'll telegraph, but you'd better tell them, though, not to meet me." -He turned and walked away. - -But as he drove up to Oxford, "What a fool I am," he kept saying to -himself. Indeed Boyle's surprise, the commonplace platform, the -ticket-collector's questions, the sight outside of his own luggage being -lifted up on a hansom, had soon made his foolish, helpless impulse fade, -like the flame of a candle, taken out into the daylight and windy air. -But to go back to the train would have seemed doubly foolish, so, borne -on by the impetus of his dead desire, he drove away. The next train was -not till half-past six. He would get luncheon, and, after all, it might -be pleasant to see the old place. But he was resolved that never again -would he act on those stupid, sudden ideas--they made him seem like a -fool. - - -II. - -After luncheon Arthur went out--the time had to be spent somehow--and -walked idly along the High Street. It was all so familiar: the shops, -the windows of the club to which he had belonged, the rooms where his -friends had lived. But he knew no one now. The streets were wet with -winter mud, there was a commonplace light on the houses, and Arthur -looked about him with very little interest and emotion. Walking past the -Colleges, he loitered for a little on Magdalen Bridge, and then turned -back again. It was still early, and he began to meet now the young men -who were starting out of Oxford for the open air and country. Some were -dressed for football; three or four in brown coats rode by on horses, -talking and laughing as they passed; but the greater number were in -flannels, and moving towards the river. These Arthur followed--he had -nothing else to do--through the streets and meadows, coming at last to -the barges and windy river. Men were calling to each other, boats were -pushing out, and the turbid current of the Thames ran swiftly with the -winter floods. - -But for him there was too much sound about the wind and water, the cold -sunshine was too bright and harsh, and he felt doubly weary, as he -looked at all that life and activity and health. And yet once he would -have delighted in it. - -When Arthur Lestrange had come first from school to Oxford, he had -entered with eagerness and youthful ambition into the pleasures and -activities of university life, wishing to do everything well that he -tried to do, and with distinction if he could. And all these ambitions -and activities he came to share, in the pleasant, intimate Oxford way, -with a friend, slightly older than himself. - -But after a while he began to grow discontented; success was not so -easy;--and what was the good of it after all? he asked himself, with -impatient lassitude. Finding new friends and more exciting pleasures, he -gradually drifted away from his old companions. What was the harm? he -said impatiently to Austen, resenting his friend's affectionate advice. -He would enjoy life as other people enjoyed it; he only wanted to be -left alone. So they grew less intimate; and when Lestrange found himself -in trouble, serious enough to make him leave Oxford, he had been too -angry and proud to see Austen, or answer his friendly letter. "How -stupid it has all been," he said to himself, the memory of all this -coming over him rather drearily, as he walked back towards Oxford. - -But his feeble attempts to make some change in his life--these were the -stupidest of all his memories; how, when his father died abroad, he was -really frightened, fearing for himself a death like that, and going back -to the half-neglected place that was now his own, he remembered his old -plans of life, and tried to do his duty there, and be a good landlord -and neighbour. But in a few months he grew weary of it all; it was too -lonely, too depressing.... - -And then a year after, when he hoped for a while that a nice girl he -knew might care for him; and this last time, when his losses at play -had made him mortgage his property still more heavily. Then, sobered for -a moment by his uncle's warnings, and by the ruin that seemed not far -off, he suddenly resolved to change, to give up playing, to keep away -from all those people. - -But he had started for Marcham after all. It was no good trying, and no -one cared. Of course no one cared--why should they? With worldly -derision he remembered now the foolish, tattered hope he had cherished -all along--the hope that some day, coming back to Oxford, he would find -the old life, the old friend, who _had_ cared once. And without stopping -he walked past his College, the place where Austen was still living. He -did not want to see any of them, nor would they want to see him. - -Oppressed by the slowness of the time, the afternoon quiet of the -streets, he resolved to go back to the station and wait there, watching -the railway clock slowly eat up the hours. But passing by chance the -livery stable where he had always kept his horses, with an aimless -impulse he sauntered into the open court. One of the stable grooms -coming up, addressed him by name, and asked him if he wanted to order a -horse. - -"It's a long while since we've seen you in Oxford, sir." - -This recognition and friendly look in the man's face, touched Arthur, -and, with a revival of eagerness, he felt that a ride would be just the -thing to kill the time. So, ordering a horse to be sent to the hotel -where he had left his luggage, he hurried back to get ready. - - -III. - -As he rode back towards Oxford, two hours afterwards, the light was -already fading from the winter sky. Sleepily and quietly he jogged along -now, his horse tired at last after the quick gallop through grass lanes -and over the wet fields and commons. The young man, too, was tired; but -with a healthy, physical fatigue, pleasant in all his body. He felt -almost happy after the motion, the wide light, the freshness of the air. -And when he rode into the old city, walking his horse through the -darkening streets, it seemed to him as if he were riding home now, as -often he had ridden home into Oxford before, at just this hour of the -twilight. The groups in the doorways, the lighted windows in the dim -buildings, the sounds about him of bells and footsteps and friendly -voices, brought back to him confusedly, mixed with the memory of this -and that, the charm and comfort of that old life--that life of order and -disciplined ways, and high old-fashioned purposes. How quietly the days -had gone by: the mornings of work, the rides with friends, or afternoons -on the river, between the yellowing autumn willows; the evenings with -the white lamplight and pleasant talk and books. He had quarrelled with -the restraint, the subordination, sometimes; had thought it too severe, -too painful, to go out on the river in the wind and rain, to get up so -early in the cold of winter mornings. But now, after the stale -dissipation of his life, it was only the friendly warmth, the -lazily-wasted hours he remembered, the pleasant fatigue after exercise, -and the taste of the winter air when he had hurried out to chapel -through the earliest sunlight. - -If he could only go back to it all; if, putting up his horse, he could -walk to his rooms through the twilight, and find his books, and the fire -burning there, and friends not far off! But things had been against him -somehow. And yet he had meant it all to be so different. And with half a -sigh he remembered the summer evenings when he and Austen had walked in -the old garden, talking of their plans in life--of all they meant to -do--together! if they could. But then, people never did remain friends -like that. - -When he gave up his horse, however, he looked at his watch, and, after -standing in hesitation for a moment, he turned with a sudden impulse, -and walked quickly towards his old College. - -In the porch stood a group of undergraduates, just up from the river, -and vaguely gossiping before they separated. But they were all strangers -to Arthur, and the porter, who answered his questions, was a stranger -too. Crossing the darker quadrangle, the young man went into a staircase -and up two flights of steps. Then he stopped, and stood breathing -quickly for a moment. There was the door, and the name over it, but he -had grown suddenly ashamed of his errand. Austen might have forgotten -him, or might not want to see him.... But, bah! what did he care? and -his footsteps must have been heard.... - -"I'm afraid you don't recognize me," Arthur said, in his assured voice, -as he went forward into the room. "I was in Oxford; I thought I'd look -you up." - -Austen, who was sitting by a lamp, turned round with a puzzled -expression on his staid, pleasant face. Then, pushing aside a heap of -papers, he got up and said: "Oh, Lestrange, I didn't recognize you at -first, it's so dark there. But I'm glad to see you--do sit down; you'll -have tea, won't you?" - -He was passing through Oxford, Arthur said; and having a few hours on -his hands after riding over Shotover, he had come back, and happened to -look in at the old College. The plausibility of this explanation, and -Austen's voice as he said politely, "That's right, that's right, I'm -delighted to see you again," soon overcame most of the shyness behind -Arthur's easy, unembarrassed manner. They still talked to each other -rather formally, however, as men do who have not met for years. - -"It's a long time since you've been in Oxford, isn't it?" Austen asked. - -"Yes, it is; I've been at home, in London. But I suppose it hasn't -changed much." - -No, there wasn't much change, Austen said; old people went and new -came. - -What had become of all the men who had been with them in College, Arthur -asked; he had lost sight of them somehow. - -Austen said that some were at the Bar; some in the government offices; -one or two in Parliament already; the most of them seemed to be getting -on pretty well, he thought, though he had lost sight of many of them, as -one did. - -"And you've been living on here ever since? I heard you had been made a -Fellow. You like it, I suppose?" - -Yes, Austen said, he liked it well enough, the work was tiring -sometimes; that afternoon he had been going through papers. Arthur -noticed that he looked fatigued, and a good deal older. It was dry, hard -work no doubt, but still it was not the kind of thing that changed you. - -"I say, you have jolly rooms here, Austen; I envy you living in a place -like this. Do you remember your old rooms over the garden? I think I -used to live in them almost." - -As the old memories revived they seemed to grow less shy of each other. -Arthur leaned forward, talking in a vague, intermittent way as he stared -into the fire. Sometimes he would gaze at nothing, with a vacant, dazed -look, for minutes together; or he would take the fire-irons and break up -the coals. Once the tongs slipped and fell with a sudden clatter; he -started nervously. - -"Well," he said at last, rousing himself from a reverie in which he -seemed conscious of nothing but the warmth and comfort and pleasant, -physical fatigue, "Well, it seems very jolly here, like old times; I -almost wish I had never gone away. But then, of course, I couldn't help -it," he added; "I wasn't asked." - -"You had hard luck," Austen said; "I hope it hasn't made any -difference." - -The words sounded friendly and sympathetic to Arthur. Hard luck, yes, -that was it; he had always had hard luck. - -"What have you been doing since?" Austen said politely. - -"What have I been doing, Charles? Oh, nothing much; seeing about things -at home a little. There were some cottages I had rebuilt. You remember -we used to talk about it. It isn't so easy though, or I suppose I'm not -so clever at it. But of course you know a great deal more about those -things." - -"No, oh no! I've been so busy. That sort of thing is good in moderation, -and I'm glad you keep it up." - -"Oh yes, in a way ... but no, what am I saying? I don't really keep it -up. It was all two years ago. I haven't done much of anything -since--anything good. Things, you know," he went on, as he stared into -the fire, "haven't gone just--I mean, it's been rather stupid--stupid, -and worse, I'm afraid; I don't seem good for much somehow." - -The familiar Oxford room, with its order, and books, and shaded light, -seemed so shut in, so far from the friendless world in which he lived, -that for the moment Arthur almost forgot the lonely distrust, the -derision of everything, which his life had taught him. "I suppose it's -fate," he added, staring into the fire, as if he were half-ashamed of -what he was saying. "I suppose it _is_ fate--but still, I -wonder--sometimes it seems if--that if I had had a chance, if anybody--" -He waited a minute indecisively. But Austen said nothing. Arthur -glanced at him, and then, flushing slightly, he got up. "But I must be -going now," he said, with a curious change and coldness in his voice; "I -have a train to catch." - -"Oh, don't go," Austen replied awkwardly, "don't go just yet. I'm sorry -to hear what you say; but don't you think, if you will allow me to say -so, don't you think it is a mistake to blame fate for such things? If -you would tell me more--" - -"Oh, thanks," Arthur said, "I think I must be going." - -"But you were going to say something," Austen urged, "and if you would -tell me more, I might be able to help you, or give you advice at least." - -Arthur glanced at him quickly. Then suddenly the idea seemed to amuse -him, and coming back a step or two he said, with a smile, "Tell you -more, Austen? Oh, I was only going to tell you what everyone knows, -that I've turned out a bad lot, that's all." - -"I'm sorry to hear that," said Austen, in a rather shocked voice; "I -hope it's not so bad." - -Arthur smiled pleasantly. "Oh well, you know, it _is_ pretty bad, I'm -afraid." - -"But what do you mean, Lestrange?" - -"What do I mean? Oh, all the usual things--bad company, gambling, and -women." - -Austen looked still more shocked. "But surely you could change if you -wanted to!" - -"I suppose I might, if I wanted to," Arthur said, playing with his -riding whip. "But I'm afraid I don't want to. What's the good?" - -"What's the good?" Austen repeated. "I don't see how you can ask such a -question; if what you say is true, you ought to want to change." - -Arthur mused a moment. Then looking up, with apparent candour, he said, -"Well, I suppose it is odd; but honestly, you know, I don't want to -change in the least. You see, your respectable people, they don't want -to have anything to do with me; and anyhow, the things they care for -bore me to death, really they do. You only have one life, so why not be -happy in your own way? that's my principle." - -"But surely, Lestrange, you can't go on--" - -"No, I suppose I can't for ever; but you try to enjoy it while it lasts; -and anyhow, my father, you know how he died--I suppose it's fate; -heredity you call those things, don't you?" - -"Really, I'm shocked to hear you talk so recklessly, as if you didn't -care. You seem very much changed." - -"Am I changed? I don't know; I suppose I am. We've both changed a -little, don't you think? At least, things seem different. I wonder where -I put my gloves,--I really must be going." - -"Well, of course, I can't keep you, Lestrange; I can only give you my -advice. But I can't believe you're happy." - -For a moment Arthur looked at him sullenly. - -"Well, what if I ain't?" he asked. "What's that to you?" - -"I was only going to say," Austen went on, "I was only going to say that -it seems to me that if you would try--" - -"Try! Good Lord, I've tried enough, but what's the good?" Arthur said, -with his old calmness and indifference, as he turned away towards the -door. "I don't care, and no one else does, either. But I must be off. -Good bye." - -He went down the steps quickly, whistling as he walked away through the -darkness. He was angry at himself, and bitterly ashamed of his visit to -Austen. They were all like that--he ought to have known. And yet it was -a pity, too! - - - - -_The Sub-Warden_ - - -The two old gentlemen walked out of the Common Room, across the -quadrangle to the porter's lodge: the Vicar of North Mims, who had been -spending a few hours in Oxford and dining in College, wanted to catch -the evening train back to North Mims, the College living he had held for -the last ten years, and the Sub-Warden wanted to see the last of him. - -"The point I make is this," the old Vicar said again, frowning with his -bushy eyebrows in the moonlight; "the point I make is this: There would -be no trouble at all, if it wasn't for the drinking. If they want -meetings, let them have Temperance meetings; and I say that those -Socialist fellows from London have absolutely no business meddling in -the affairs of my parish. And as for the undergraduates who come out -from Oxford to speak"--the Vicar's voice grew more solemnly irate--"as -for those undergraduates, they should be punished. It is, I consider, a -case in which both college and university authorities should intervene -with prompt severity." - -They walked on for a little in silence, and then the Sub-Warden said, as -he looked at his companion, "Really, Philpotts, you know, you ought to -tricycle." - -The truth is, that, as they had sat in the Common Room over their port, -the Rev. Mr. Philpotts had repeated himself a great many times; and, the -Sub-Warden's mind at last beginning to wander, he had said to himself, -as he looked at his glass and then at his old friend, "Really, Philpotts -is getting very heavy! I used to be heavier, and probably should be now, -if it wasn't for tricycling!" And, his mind being full of the thought, -he had suddenly said, "Really, Philpotts, you know, you ought to -tricycle!" - -"What!" said the Vicar, in a voice of slow amazement. "What on earth has -tricycling got to do with it?" - -"Oh, I beg your pardon!" the Sub-Warden cried, who was the soul of -good-nature, "I am so absent-minded. You were speaking of the Radicals; -it is certainly shocking." - -"Radicals! Pestilent Socialists I call them," and the Vicar's mind, -after its jolt, got back into the old groove. "Why, you would hardly -believe it, but they had the impertinence to advertise some young ninny -as a member of this College, and they actually posted it on the -vicarage gate. My wife had to soak it off with a sponge. Now, what I say -is--" - -But they had arrived in the porch, and the Sub-Warden, telling the Vicar -it was late, hurried him out of College, and then turned and walked back -to his rooms. - -"He certainly is getting heavy," he said to himself. "He has changed -very much. These country livings! And if I had only started to ride a -little earlier this afternoon, he wouldn't have caught me. Another time -when I miss my exercise I mustn't drink port! At my age one begins to -feel it." - -The Sub-Warden reached his staircase, and, resting one hand on the wall -of the building, he turned and looked at the moon. Then he went -upstairs, but, instead of sitting down at his table, he went to the -window and opened the sash. There was a curious look about the trees -and buildings, as if they had been turning round, and had just stopped. -It was odd. Poor old Philpotts! What an undergraduate he had been--up to -anything! What times they had had! And now he was on his way back to his -wife at North Mims! The Sub-Warden sighed; then smiled, and, -straightening himself, after a moment's hesitation, he went and put on -an old coat, and stole with soft steps out of the College. Perhaps it -was the moonlight; perhaps an old memory or two that had come back to -him, or the thought of the exercise he had missed; or, again (but this -is mere conjecture), the glass or two of College port may have done -something to put his mind in a mood for adventure. Anyhow, he got on his -tricycle, and started for a ride into the country. He only hoped the -Bursar had not seen him; not that there was any reason why he shouldn't -ride at night, but the Bursar made up such funny stories about the -Sub-Warden and his tricycle rides. - -And so he rode lightly along, over the vague roads, barred here and -there by the blue shadows of the trees--rode lightly along through the -ancient Oxfordshire country; and he laughed in his genial Tory heart as -he thought of the Vicar's absurd political panic. No, a ripple of -Radical excitement in the towns perhaps, but it would hardly touch the -country. The labourers must know who were their real friends and -leaders. And yet it was outrageous, he thought, as he began pushing his -machine up a hill, it was outrageous that anyone should have such views. -But that members of the University should go and speak at their dreadful -meetings! The Sub-Warden shook his head and sighed, as he thought of -the University--its sad change, its evil state. Could it, indeed, be -still called a University? Ah, in the old days, before the Royal -Commissions! But when he mounted his machine again at the top of the -hill, he forgot these black thoughts, and rode quickly down--indeed, he -almost felt himself on wings--into the village he saw below him, an old -village, spread out asleep in the moonlight. He went on slow wheels -through the blue-shadowed streets; he breathed in the night air, -sweet-scented from the village gardens; he felt young in his soul, and -would hardly recognize as his own the respectable, fat shadow that -wheeled after him across each moon-lit space. - -All at once, in the midst of the sleeping village, there appeared in -front of him a square red building, with brightly lighted windows. -Curious to know what was going on, he rode his machine up to one of the -windows, and, looking through the glass, misty from the heat and -perspiration within, he saw vague rows of dark figures, and an upright -shape moving its arms at the end of the hall. What could it be? Around -at the door, whither he wheeled himself, there was a big poster, partly -torn, with the word "Temperance" on it, and something else pinned across -it. "That's right, that's right!" the Sub-Warden exclaimed, "that's the -way to cut the ground from under the Radicals! Philpotts was right; it's -a question of drink, not of politics." - -And so he got down from his tricycle and went in for a moment. Dazed by -the heat and light, he stood still and stared about. The orator also -stopped and stared at him. There were bright texts of Scripture and -temperance mottoes on the walls; but the Sub-Warden kept gazing at these -words, "The Lord is at Hand," hung in large letters over the orator's -head. But this orator was Thomas Woolley, his own pupil! Soon it all -seemed clear to him. Woolley was known as a Temperance speaker, and here -he had come to hold a meeting in a little village. The Sub-Warden -applauded, and Woolley began to speak again. But as he gasped a good -deal, and stuttered, the Sub-Warden could only catch phrases here and -there--cold remnants, they seemed to be, of what must have been written -as a fiery peroration. "The down-trodden--I mean the inactive ... the -great heart of humanity--and--and--things--.... Now is the time for -hand to join in hand, and rush to the banner--I mean, it would be better -if you would sign your names." - -("That's the pledge-book," the Sub-Warden thought. "Yes, I dare say it's -right; you could not preach moderate drinking to labourers.") - -"Deliver yourself from the classes--that--that profit by your -weakness...." - -("That's the public-house keepers," the Sub-Warden reflected. "But why -does he call them classes?") - -Woolley stared hard at the notes which he gripped in his hand, and then -he turned and pointed at a place at the back of the platform, which he -called "the Future," and began to speak about a model dwelling, a cow, -and a vine and fig-tree; then his voice sank, and he wavered and sat -down. - -"He expects a good deal from Temperance," the Sub-Warden thought; "what -a thing it is to be young!" And he applauded with vigour, such vigour -that several rustics in the audience turned and fixed him with their -ruminating eyes. Then the Sub-Warden rose (he never spoke in public, but -as he had interrupted this meeting!), rose with dignity and internal -tremors, and made a few smiling remarks; nothing very definite, for, -after all, he was not a total abstainer; just his sympathy with the -speech of his young friend, his entire approval of the objects of the -meeting, his regret that academic duties held him back from a more -active participation in the work.... But if there was anything that -he or the College authorities could do to forward the cause--he believed -that their College owned land in the neighbourhood--they must not -hesitate to call upon him. Then a mild joke, and he sat down and wiped -his face. - -Certainly his speech was a great success. Woolley stared wildly at him, -but the audience applauded with vigour, and, as they were giving three -cheers for "the old College gentleman," the Sub-Warden slipped modestly -out. It was hot in there, and they might be handing pledge-books about. - -The mood in which he rode home was a pleasant one. Really he had never -heard applause that was quite so warm, so evidently sincere, so -spontaneous. There had been nothing like it when the Warden of St. -Mary's had spoken at the Corn Exchange. And Temperance was such a dull -subject! It was a bore, of course, for a man who loved his quiet to find -he had the power of moving an audience; but still, if the Radicals were -working so hard, the other side must come forward. - -The Sub-Warden went back into College, and, as he was walking across the -quadrangle, he heard a tumult of cheers and cries burst out on the -moon-lit stillness of the night. He started--the sounds fitted in so -well with his dreams! But, of course, it was a Debating Society; and the -window being open, the Sub-Warden went up and listened in his new -quality of an amateur. A small young man, with a round face and deep -voice, was thumping on a table. "What is the meaning, the outcome of -this agitation? It is putting blood into the mouth of a -tiger"--(applause)--"and when once the tiger has tasted blood, has -tasted property that is not his own, it demands more, and it will have -it! Yes, sir," he said, turning with a fierce look at the good-natured -president of the society, "mark my words, when the poor have divided, -like the tiger, everything there is to be divided; when there is nothing -left to feed their rage, then, sir, they will turn and rend -themselves--like the tiger!" - -Great shouts of applause roared through the window, and the bald-headed -old gentleman listening outside smiled an indulgent smile. But as the -speaker went on, denouncing more definitely the Radical agitators, and -even Woolley, by name, the smile faded from the Sub-Warden's face. It -must have been a Temperance meeting; and yet--and yet--"Temperance" had -been printed on the poster--but hadn't there been something pinned over -that, something which he hadn't read? The Sub-Warden looked about. He -could see one or two towers against the faint sky, and near each College -tower was a Common Room, and in each Common Room the Fellows sat after -dinner, telling stories. But suppose he had really spoken at a meeting -which--which wasn't a Temperance meeting, and the Bursar should hear of -it! - -The Sub-Warden lurked about in the quadrangle, holding his hat in his -hand, and spying out for Woolley. He came at last. - -"Good evening, Woolley," he said, "you have come from the Temperance -meeting?" - -"Oh, sir, it wasn't a Temperance meeting, that was the night before!" - -"Oh!" said the Sub-Warden, coldly. - -"No, sir, it was a different meeting; in fact, the Radical League. I was -so afraid--" - -"What! Then it was very wrong of you, Woolley, to give me to understand -it was a Temperance meeting." - -"Oh, please, sir--" - -"Don't try to explain it, it admits of no explanation," the Sub-Warden -said severely. "I should be sorry to get you into trouble, Woolley, but -if this should get to be known, I couldn't answer for the consequences. -I shall take no steps personally to make it known, and I should advise -you to mention it to no one--to no one at all, do you understand? -It's--it's nothing to be proud of." - -He walked indignantly away; and, indeed, for the moment his words had -made him feel really indignant. But when, on turning a corner, he -glanced back and saw the honest Woolley still standing there, he -hesitated. Should he return and explain? He took a step back, then he -thought of the Bursar, and, with a sudden, sinking fear he went quickly -to his room. - - - - -_Idyll_ - - -I. - -"I wish they hadn't asked me," said Matthew Craik, the Logic tutor of -St. Mary's, as he looked down at the party in the old secluded College -garden. "I wonder," he added, glancing at the reflection of his red tie -in the glass, his new tie, his black coat, his young and scholarly face, -"I wonder--but no, it isn't too red; they wear them red," he continued, -with attempted cheerfulness. "No--," but hearing the laughter of ladies -below his window, he scuttled back hastily. - -His rooms were high up in the garden tower, almost up amongst the -topmost boughs of the College elms; and when, after a moment, he -returned to his window and peered down, he could see, through the green -of the trees, the white and pink of ladies' dresses, dappling the lawn, -and moving and meeting on the College paths. Among the summer leaves the -summer wind was breathing; now and then it blew in at the window, laden -with scents from the garden, and the happy stir and hum of human voices; -and Matthew Craik, or the Corn-Craik, as the undergraduates called him, -felt his heart beating high with an unwonted emotion of youth and -excitement. - -The early philosophers of Asia Minor were very remarkable and suggestive -men; but they had lived a long while ago, and now that he had finished -and published his book about them, he meant to enjoy himself a little. -And what shallow wisdom it was, moreover, to live in the almost solitary -way he had been living all the winter. All the winter! All his life -really; wasting his youth among books, and almost shut out from -everything that is light and amiable in experience. Why, the greenest of -his undergraduate pupils might easily know more of modern life than he -did. - -"Oh, don't harp so on modern life!" his friend Ranken, the junior Dean -of St. Thomas', often said to him in his acrid way. "Do for pity's sake -leave it alone and stick to your Asia Minor." - -But then Ranken was absurdly cynical. Craik recalled with amusement some -of the remarks he had made during the winter, when they walked out -together for their Sunday walks; remembering how, as they returned in -the dusk through the red fringe of villas between Oxford and the -country, Ranken had sometimes paused opposite an uncurtained window, and -made merry, with bitter merriment, over the domestic picture they saw in -the golden light within,--a family at tea very likely, or an academic -parent romping with his children. Craik had always listened in -uncontradicting silence; only, standing in the chill gray of the -twilight, he would draw his coat about him more tightly; and afterwards, -alone in his rooms, these visions would sometimes haunt him, and not -unpleasantly. - -As he looked down now, it was agreeable to him to see so many ladies in -the old garden; he had never quite believed that Ranken had very -authentic grounds for his narrow prejudice. For Ranken would have liked -to shut ladies out of Oxford altogether; and would have liked to keep it -a tranquil home of learning and celibacy, as it used to be before the -Royal Commission had granted the Fellows the liberty of marrying. For -this unblest liberty, he maintained, had filled the University with -frivolity and ladies, and so destroyed the old character of the place -that now, as was notorious, the whole of the Summer Term, with a good -part of the rest of the academic year, was given over to dances, and -picnics, and parties, and other silly and deteriorating trifles. Craik -had not been able to contradict his friend, for hitherto the sounds and -echoes of this social dissipation had hardly reached his retired corner, -save as he had heard them reverberating through the gloomy caverns of -Ranken's imagination. But he could not quite believe--here Craik began -to laugh, for his eye at that moment was caught by the gargoyle just -above him, which was also leaning over and looking into the sunshiny -garden. For hundreds of years it had sat there making faces, but now its -visage seemed more than ever twisted with a look of Gothic cynicism. As -Craik lingered, looking out, himself almost like a second gargoyle, he -thought he could see in the garden below two ladies of his acquaintance, -Mrs. Cotton and Mrs. Trotter. How ridiculous Ranken was in his views! -almost as grotesque as the gargoyle. Craik took his hat and stick, and -started downstairs. He would see for himself. - - -II. - -It was very worldly and very brilliant in the garden. Beside a crowd of -ladies and young men, three Professors and two Heads of Houses had -already arrived, and others were expected. - -Mr. White, Mr. Long, and Mr. Maple Fetters, the young unmarried Fellows -who were giving the party, kept glancing toward the gateway, over the -shoulders of their arriving guests--all smiles, however, as they greeted -their friends with apposite remarks. On tables under the trees white -cloths were spread, looking almost blue in the vivid green, and on them -were plates of red strawberries, ancient silver bowls of sugar, and dewy -jugs of lemonade. Sounds of discreet gaiety, voices and laughter, and -the tinkling of glasses, quickened the sleepy silence of the garden; -while from beneath a high and fleecy cloud the rays of the westering sun -brightened the tree-tops and walls, lingered on the ladies' dresses, and -streaked with blue shadows the old green lawn. It put Craik in mind of -old coloured French pictures he had seen, or the courtly fêtes he had -read of; he thought, too, of the garden party in "_Love's Cottage_," a -pretty novel he had looked at lately, the party where Miss Molyneux -first meets Pastorel the poet. - -He kept smiling as he moved about, but he really felt rather shy and -alien; if he only knew more people, and could be seen laughing and -talking and moving his hands, like the other young men! - -He came across one of his pupils at last, and began to speak to him of -the recent boat-races in an animated way. But the undergraduate moved -off suddenly, with a hasty excuse, to join some ladies who had just -arrived, and Craik heard himself observing to a bush that "Brazenose had -rowed very well." The observation, he felt, was not brilliant, even for -conversation with a freshman; but as a fragment of soliloquy! He looked -round; no one could have overheard him? Soon he met his friend, Mrs. -Cotton, the wife of Professor Cotton, and he begged to be allowed to get -her an ice, or some other refreshment. The pink ice and biscuit were -inadequate, it struck him, as he carried them with care toward the large -presence of Mrs. Cotton; but was not this inadequacy, after all, of a -piece with the delicious and conventional unreality of an affair like -this? He noticed a brilliant purple feather conspicuously waving from -the top of Mrs. Cotton's bonnet, and was glad that everything was so -bright. How pleasant it was on a summer day, how pleasant and harmless -to play brilliantly at life! And, he thought with a smile, did not old -Aristotle himself place Magnificence high among the virtues? - -But Maple Fetters still had his anxious eye-glass fixed on the garden -entrance. - -"Miss Lamb--has Miss Lamb come?" Craik heard voices murmuring about -him. - -"No, not yet, but she's coming. Just heard Maple Fetters telling some -one." - -"Long says he can't understand it. In her note she said--" - -"So quiet, so different!" - -"They say in London--" - -"Oh, yes; and here everybody, Professors, Heads of Houses. It's too -amusing--" - -"Well, she says she wants to study all the types." - -"Ah, look, there she comes!" - -Craik turned with the others, and saw Miss Lamb coming in through the -Gothic archway. Her face was shaded with a large white hat, and her -white dress, falling in long plain lines to her feet, brightened with -the sun as she walked over the grass, out of the shadow of the building. - -Long and Maple Fetters started forward, and escorted Miss Lamb and her -aunt across the lawn. They drew near to Craik and Mrs. Cotton. - -"Oh, there is Mrs. Cotton," Miss Lamb exclaimed, and turned towards -them. "Dear Mrs. Cotton," she said, "I was so hoping I should see you -here!" - -Craik looked at Miss Lamb. She rested her eyes on him for a second, then -pressing Mrs. Cotton's hand, she stooped down with a graceful impulse -and kissed the fat old thing. Craik overheard Mrs. Lyon, the wife of the -president of All Saints, talking to the Warden of St. Simon's. - -"Dear Miss Lamb!" she said in a deep and sentimental voice; "she is just -as nice to women as she is to men." - -"She is much nicer, surely," the ancient Warden replied with a cackling -laugh; "she never kissed me!" - -Miss Lamb had disappeared. And Mrs. Cotton was busy discussing with -philanthropic friends the affairs of Oxford charities. - -"These Oxford parties are so nice," she said to Craik, as she turned her -benevolent spectacles away from him; "they save one writing such heaps -of notes." - -Again Craik walked about alone, smiling and conspicuous; and although he -tried to think that he was enjoying himself, he really wished very much -to be up in his tower again, up there in its pleasant green shade and -solitude. That, after all, was his place, the only place he was fit for; -and he had better stick to it, and stick to his books, and not cast -again the gloom of his presence on the social enjoyment of other more -fortunate people. For he could not talk agreeably, and laugh and be gay; -and, even if he could, which of the ladies who swept so prettily past -him on the grass would ever care to listen to him? Thus resignedly -musing, he retreated into the near shade of a laburnum tree, and, -ceasing to smile in his fixed and weary way, he watched through the -flowering branches the shining colours and placid agitation of the -garden party. All the men except himself were moving among the groups of -ladies, weaving darker threads into the brilliant pattern. Young Cobbe -he saw, the captain of the College boat club, walking with Miss Lamb, -walking and talking pleasantly, and he sighed; for although he was -Cobbe's tutor, and well versed in his stupidity, he could not help -envying the easy manners of the undergraduate. - -But the half-real picture ceased to be a mere picture to him, and the -sequence of images grew almost too vivid, when he noticed that Miss Lamb -and her companion were coming directly to his tree. Could he manage to -slip away without being seen? She was coming probably to pick a spray of -the yellow flower to put in her white dress, or carry away perhaps as a -memory of the party. And if he were found standing there like a -policeman, it would be so awkward. - -Miss Lamb fortunately met Maple Fetters, and, stopping herself, seemed -to be sending him on to the tree alone. When he reached it, he pushed -aside the branches and said, with a smile, "I say, Craik, I want to -introduce you to Miss Lamb." - -"Me?" - -"Yes, you. We saw you here; she wants to meet you." - -"Wants to meet _me_?" - -"Yes, _you_. Come along." - -Craik came out from beneath the tree. - -"Miss Lamb--does she live in Oxford?" - -"You don't mean to tell me you've never heard of Miss Lamb?" Fetters -paused in astonishment. "You must be the only man in Oxford then who has -not. Miss Lamb is an American!" - -"An American?" Craik had heard that American ladies were so brilliant. - -"Miss Lamb, let me introduce Mr. Craik, our philosopher." - -"Mr. Craik, I am glad to meet you." - -Craik bowed; then he saw that Miss Lamb had put out her hand; he tried -to take it, but was too late. The American young lady however smiled, -and put out her hand again, and gave it to him frankly, almost as if it -were a present. - -"We ought to shake hands, oughtn't we? It's the English way, isn't it?" - -Craik stifled a guffaw, and his awkward sensations began to go. - -"Mr. Cobbe, would you mind getting me an ice?" - -Cobbe's face wore an odd expression as he bowed and disappeared. Maple -Fetters fluttered off to other occupations. Craik and Miss Lamb were -left alone, and they began to walk with vague steps, and, on the lady's -part, vague, unfinished scraps of conversation, through the sunshine -along the garden path. Then stopping, and resting her hands on her -parasol, she said, as if they were old friends already, "I wonder--would -you take me into your old College cloisters? I have heard so much about -them, and it wouldn't be wrong for us to run away from the party for -just a few minutes? I should so love to! You won't mind?" - -"Oh dear, no!" Craik exclaimed. "Certainly we can go. It's through the -quadrangle. But Mr. Cobbe, will he find you?" - -"Oh, he'll know where I am; and if he doesn't it's no matter. Come!" - -They went under the garden tower, and through the little old quadrangle, -into the entrance of the cloisters. Of the history and traditions of the -place, and of the whole College, Craik spoke almost with eloquence, -while Miss Lamb listened with murmurs and interruptions of enthusiastic -interest. The cloisters, as he explained, were once the cloisters of a -monastery; the tower was the monastery tower; and the bell that hung -there, and twice a day rang the College into chapel, was the bell that -once sounded for the matins and vespers of the monks. - -"What! monks? Did monks really once live here? Oh, how I should have -liked to have seen it then!" - -"Ah, but you couldn't, you know. They never allowed ladies inside the -gates." - -"How silly!" - -"Yes," Craik said, smiling, "wasn't it silly?" - -They walked with slow steps around the shadowed cloisters, and Miss Lamb -talked idly of the party. It was such a pretty party, so amusing. Did he -often go to garden parties? No! How odd! She did--to ever so many, in -America, in London, and now in Oxford. The Oxford parties were the best -though. Then suddenly she cried in a changed voice, "But how frivolous I -am, Mr. Craik! I can see that you are quite shocked." - -"Shocked! oh no, not at all." - -"Well, then, you ought to be! Imagine being so frivolous in a solemn -place like this. Tell me, you study philosophy, don't you? It must be -splendid; I do envy you so! When I am in a place like Oxford I feel so -frivolous, somehow, and ignorant. Why, I feel afraid--" Then after a -moment's charming hesitation, "Yes, quite afraid to talk to clever -people. You mustn't mind what I say, will you?" - -"But I'm not clever!" he exclaimed. "Why--" - -"Oh, but Mr. Craik! Why, you've written a book!" - -"But that's nothing. And it's only a sort of study, nothing really." - -"I wish I could read it." - -"Oh no! don't try; it's a stupid thing, only meant for students." - -Miss Lamb paused, and, turning her eyes to Craik with a look full of -reproach, she said: "Ah! you are like the others, you don't think I am -serious; you think I would not understand it!" - -"Oh no, not that!" Craik urged in quick distress. "You would understand -it, of course, what there is to understand. I only meant," he -stammered, "I only meant that it was not well written, not -interesting--not really worth reading, I mean." - -"Oh, I'm sure it is worth reading, and I hear it's so clever. It is -about Asia Minor, isn't it. Asia Minor is so interesting; I wish you -would tell me something about it, and about your work. Do you like it -here? Of course you do. Have you been in Oxford long?" - -For a third time they passed round the cloister square, loitering with -slow footsteps, through the old arches and past the epitaphs of the -ancient celibate Fellows, and Craik, talking with an unreserve that was -intimate and sudden, and yet somehow seemed quite natural to him, told -about his work, and the writing of his book. Then, in answer to a -question of Miss Lamb's, he described his quiet bringing up in an -obsolete old town where his parents were tradespeople; his early -schooling, how he had come to Oxford on a scholarship, and how he had -stayed there ever since, living in the same College, his parents having -died, and the Logic tutorship being offered to him just when he had -taken his degree. So he seemed to have lived a long while there, in that -sleepy old College, within its high walls and buildings: as an -undergraduate first, busy and almost solitary, save for a few friends -similar to himself; then as a tutor, still more busy with his work, and -still more solitary; and above all, during the last few years, when all -his thought and leisure had been given to his book on Ionic -philosophers. How many years was it altogether? Eight; no, ten. And -then, as she seemed to be really interested, he gave a sketch, half -humorous and half serious, of his life in College, his amusements, his -walks with Ranken. A bare, monastic life it seemed to himself when he -came to describe it. So little to tell of in so many years; and how long -ago it seemed! - -"But dear me!" Craik exclaimed at last, with a blush, "I don't think I -have ever talked so much of myself before. It sounds rather dull, I'm -afraid." - -Miss Lamb stopped for a moment. - -"Dull, Mr. Craik," she cried, "oh no, I think it is noble! To have -achieved so much already. You don't know how I have been interested! -Only it is so--I mean it makes me seem so--so--. I suppose you hate -women." - -"Oh no--_no_!" - -"I mean look down on them, despise them." - -"No! why I--" - -"I'm afraid you really do, only you're too polite to say so. You don't -think, do you, that they could understand philosophy?" - -"Of course they could, quite as well as we do, if they would only try." - -"Do you think it would be any use my trying? Really, do you really? I -should so love to, if it would be of any use. You know, I have always -wanted to understand about it, and there is hardly anyone in the world I -admire so much as the philosophers. They are the real leaders of the -world--Socrates, and Emerson, and Herbert Spencer. And a frivolous life -like mine seems sometimes so--; But then people will never believe I am -in earnest, and they all make fun of me and discourage me so. Perhaps -they are right; but I have never had any one to help me." - -"Oh, I am sure they are wrong!" Craik cried. "If you would only try. Do -you think I could--could help you?" - -"Oh, you are too kind! And perhaps, if you wouldn't mind coming to see -me some afternoon to talk to me about it. And maybe you would bring -your book; I should so love to see it! And then if you would let me look -at one or two of your lectures, those you have for just the stupidest of -your pupils. No! don't tell me I'm not stupid, for I am, I assure you. -And I have no right to ask you to come; you are so busy." - -"Oh, but I should be only too delighted! If I may; if you don't think I -should be a--with ladies, you know, I am always so afraid of being a -bore." - -She smiled at him. - -"Ah, you do yourself injustice, Mr. Craik. Indeed you do! But come," she -added suddenly, "we must be going back to the garden. How I hate to -leave this dear old cloister!" - -"Must we really go?" - -"Yes, we really must. Isn't it horrid, when you have had such an -interesting talk, to have to go back and say stupid and silly things to -stupid and silly people?" - -They left the cloisters and, crossing the quadrangle, they stopped for a -moment, and looked at the blue picture set in an archway of grey walls, -the blue picture of the afternoon light and air in the depth and -distance of the garden. - -"How pretty! It's like,--what is it like?" - -"Like standing in the past, and looking into the present?" Craik -romantically suggested. - -"Yes, it's like that. But I mean the people, the way they look so far -off and blue, as if they were under water. There's something else it -reminds me of." - -"A tank at an aquarium, when you look through the plate glass?" - -"Yes, it _is_ like that, really!" - -"With Professors and Heads of Houses swimming about like old fat carp." - -"Oh, Mr. Craik, how can you? For shame!" - -She paused again when she got through the archway. - -"Tell me, Mr. Craik," she said, "is this the tower you live in? And -the gargoyle you told me about? I should so like to see him. He -must be charming. That face up there, peering over the roof? Oh yes, -I see. How too delightful! My! isn't that quaint? Just think, he -looks back on the past, and on the present, and on the town; and it -symbolizes--symbolizes--Life, doesn't it?" - -"Yes,--perhaps it does," Craik said rather dubiously. - -"He hasn't exactly a kind expression," said Miss Lamb, looking up -again. - -"No," Craik answered, looking up himself and laughing. "That's his way. -Then to-day he's shocked at seeing so many ladies here. He doesn't like -ladies, you know." - -"How horrid of him! Why, what harm can we do here?" - -"Harm! Why, Miss Lamb," Craik said with quaint politeness, "your visits -are our greatest blessings!" - -Craik knew the old garden well, he thought, and he had certainly been in -it in all weathers. But to-day it came over him that he had never seen -the place before looking so oddly green and shining. Certainly, when he -and Ranken had walked there--poor Ranken! Craik smiled a little. - -"What are you smiling at?" Miss Lamb asked. - -"Smiling?" Craik said in embarrassment. "Why, was I smiling?" - -"Certainly you were. It is strange, really it is, how much you are like -a friend of mine in America. The way you smile reminds me so much of -him. Really it is quite funny, the resemblance. But perhaps you don't -like to be told you look like other people?" - -"Oh yes, I do." Then he added, after a pause, with desperate and awkward -courage, "if they are friends of yours." - -Miss Lamb did not seem to notice either his compliment or his blush. - -"How odd you should know Mr. Ranken," she said musingly. "I've not seen -him lately. Is he as sentimental as ever?" - -"Ranken of St. Thomas'! Why, he's not sentimental. It must be someone -else." - -"He used to be then; I'm sure it is Mr. Ranken of St. Thomas'. I met him -last summer at Dieppe. We went on picnics. But, Mr. Craik," she added, -laughing, "really this garden is like Paradise! The undergraduates must -fancy they have got back into the Garden of Eden." - -"Indeed you would think so," said Craik, "from the way they avoid the -tree of knowledge! They are so much cleverer than Adam." - -They were in the midst of the party now, and Craik was proud, though -somewhat embarrassed, with the attention they attracted, and Mrs. -Cotton's smiles of obvious encouragement. Indeed he was almost glad when -Cobbe joined them and, planting himself in front of Miss Lamb, -exclaimed, "Well, Miss Lamb, well! Here I've been waiting half-an-hour -with this ice, it's melted into soup." - -"I'm so sorry," Miss Lamb cried. "Come, let's get another." Then she -turned her eyes to Craik and said, giving him her hand in her friendly -manner, "Good-bye, Mr. Craik, good-bye; you won't forget? To-morrow, -isn't it?" - - -III. - -Craik took off his hat; wiped his forehead; tried to get rid of some of -the dust on his boots, and then he rang the bell. - -"Is Miss Lamb at home?" - -"Yes, sir; Miss Lamb is in the garden." - -Entering, Craik saw a number of hats and sticks in the hall. Miss Lamb, -he thought, must have several brothers. He put down his stick, and the -book with it, after a moment's hesitation; that was better, he would -leave it there and would come and fetch it when the conversation turned -that way. Then, buttoning up his black coat over the lecture notes that -filled his pocket, he followed the servant through the house out into -the little garden. It was full of strong sunlight, and there were -several undergraduates there. One was up in a tree; Cobbe lay in a -hammock smoking, and another of Craik's pupils lay on the grass at Miss -Lamb's feet, rolling lemons. He stopped for a moment. - -"Oh Mr. Corn--Mr. Craik, I mean," Miss Lamb called out in a friendly -voice, "I am so glad to see you." - -Craik advanced with an awkward smile, and Miss Lamb reached out her -right hand most cordially. In her left hand she held a lemon-squeezer. - -"How good of you to come! And isn't it hot? Exactly like America, I've -been saying. We've just come out into the garden without our hats. Won't -you sit down on that rug, if you don't mind? Oh, I nearly forgot; let me -introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Stacey. I guess you know everybody else." - -Craik shook hands with a lady who was sitting and knitting in an arbour, -nodded to the undergraduates, and then settled down on a rug in the -sunshine. How he wished that he had not decided at the last moment to -wear a tall hat and a long coat! The undergraduates were all in -flannels. - -Miss Lamb spoke of the garden party. - -"Your lovely college! It is _too_ ideal; it is like a dream. And the -cloisters too! You don't know how solemn it made me feel. Now, you -needn't laugh, Mr. Cobbe, I really did feel solemn--more solemn, I -guess, than you have ever been. Gracious, it _is_ hot!" she added, with -a sudden change of subject. "Mr. Craik, let me give you some of this -lemon squash; I made it myself." - -"Thanks! I shall be most pleased to have some." Craik's voice seemed to -himself to be formal, and his phrase pedantic. - -"Oh, but what was I saying?" Miss Lamb went on, looking at the company -generally. - -"You were telling us how solemn you were," Cobbe suggested. "Wasn't it -rather a new experience?" - -"Now, Mr. Cobbe, what a horrid thing to say," she replied, with great -good-nature. "You're his tutor, Mr. Craik, aren't you? Well, next time -you have a chance, I hope you'll set him some real horrid work to do. -I'm sure he needs it." - -Miss Lamb said this casually, with a pleasant laugh, as she fanned -herself. No one answered; Craik, and even Cobbe coloured, and the -undergraduate in the tree suppressed a titter. - -But Mrs. Stacey at this moment asked by happy chance some question of -Craik, addressing him as "Professor Craik," in her high American voice, -and he hastened to answer her with effusion. - -"Oh, I say," one of the undergraduates exclaimed, "that was a splendid -score of yours, Miss Lamb, off the Warden. Perhaps you've not heard it, -Mr. Craik, the joke about the Garden of Eden?" he said, turning to -Craik, who had come to an end of his conversation with Mrs. Stacey. "The -Warden was showing Miss Lamb the garden, when she said to him, 'Why it -is like the Garden of Eden here, Mr. Warden; only I suppose you are -wiser than Adam, and don't disturb the Tree of Knowledge.'" - -"My dear," Mrs. Stacey cried, "you didn't really speak so to the sweet -old Warden?" - -"But, I say," Cobbe exclaimed, "how's this, Miss Lamb? Long and Maple -Fetters tell that story as having been got off them, and they seemed to -think that they rather scored off you." - -"They didn't a bit; they were only silly!" - -"Then you did get it off on them?" - -"No, I didn't." - -"Oh, now, that explains," another undergraduate interposed, "that -explains the story Mrs. Cotton was trying to tell. It seemed, as she -told it, to have no point at all. 'Mr. Warden,' she made you say, 'Mr. -Warden, you have a lovely garden here, but I am told you never pick the -fruit.' 'The Warden, you know, is so particular about his figs,' Mrs. -Cotton added, 'it is quite a joke with all the Fellows.'" - -Miss Lamb was silent. After a little while, however, when a few other -anecdotes of Mrs. Cotton had been told, and they came to the well-known -story of that lady and the cow in St. Giles's, she began to smile, and -before long was quite consumed with merriment, for a siphon of -soda-water, fizzing off by mistake in the hands of one of the -undergraduates, had sprinkled itself over Cobbe. - -"You did that on purpose, Galpin, I know you did," he cried, jumping out -of the hammock and shaking himself. - -"Oh, no, he didn't!" Miss Lamb said, shaking with laughter. "Indeed, I'm -sure he wouldn't for worlds!" - -Her attention was then taken by the youth up in the tree, who had been -throwing down leaves and bits of sticks on the heads of the party below. -A piece of bark falling into the jug of lemon squash, Miss Lamb feigned -great wrath and indignation. - -"I wanted to give Mr. Craik some more; but oh, you haven't drunk what -you have! Isn't it sweet enough for you?" - -"It is just right, thank you," he said, and he took up the glass, tepid -now from standing in the sun, and was just going to drink it, when the -young lady cried: "Oh, wait a moment, please; there's a poor little -insect tumbled into it. Dear little thing! Do take it out--oh, be -careful! I can't bear to see anything suffer." - -Craik fished the insect out of the lemonade with a blade of grass, and -Miss Lamb, putting it down on the ground, poked it tenderly in aid of -its moist attempts to crawl away. Ultimately Craik rose from his -uncomfortable posture on the ground. It was a long while, it seemed to -him, that he had been sitting there, smiling and solemn in the sunshine, -and casting about in his mind for an excuse to go; while the others he -envied so--the youth perched up in the tree, Miss Lamb fanning herself -and squeezing lemons, Cobbe smoking and slowly swinging in the hammock, -laughed and lazily talked, as if their life was one afternoon of endless -Arcadian leisure. But Craik had a morbid sense that his shadow, which he -glanced at now and then, had been growing, almost as if he were -swelling, he and his top hat, and casting a larger shade on the little -garden. - -"Well, I must be going! We college tutors, you know," he said, feeling -pretty stiff in body and mind, but attempting nevertheless a little -jauntiness of air. - -"Oh, but, Mr. Craik, you mustn't go now!" Miss Lamb cried, "really you -mustn't. Why, we're all going up the river to have late tea at Godstow, -and come home by moonlight; and I'm going to take my banjo. I hoped you -would come with us!" - -"I'm sorry, but I must be back." - -"Well, I'm really sorry, too; I am, indeed. You must come again." She -held his hand in hers for a second, and there was something appealing in -her manner. "Now you will come again, won't you? It's--it's rather hot -just to-day for philosophy, isn't it?" she added, her face brightening -with a friendly and apologetic smile. - -Craik found his hat and stick, but not his book, in the hall. - -"I've left a book here," he said to the maid. - -"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I thought it was for Miss Lamb, so I put it -on the shelf where she puts the other university gentlemen's books that -they sends. I'll go and bring it, sir." - -"Is this it?" she called from a neighbouring room--"'Elements of -Pishcology?'" - -"No," said Craik, hurriedly; "it's about Asia Minor. 'Life and Thought -in--'" - -"'In Hearly Asia Minor,' sir?" - -"Yes, that's mine," Craik answered, in a voice that was not without a -touch of melancholy. - - - - -_Buller Intervening_ - - -As Vaughan was walking towards the underground station one of those -bleak mornings last winter, he saw, coming the same way, a man who had -been at College in his time--one Buller by name; and Buller, when he -caught sight of Vaughan, began to smile, but when they met, he -exclaimed, in a mock mournful voice, "I say, have you heard about poor -Crabbe?" - -"You mean his political speech, when his spectacles were smashed, and he -had to take to the woods?" asked Vaughan, beating his hands and -stamping, for the cold was bitter. - -"Oh no, that's ancient. I mean"--and Buller's voice broke with -laughter--"I mean his engagement!" - -"Crabbe! oh, nonsense!" - -"Gospel fact, I'll take my oath on it. Fancy Crabbe!" and again his -laughter froze into white puffs of breath about his head. They went into -the station together, and bought their tickets. Crabbe engaged! Vaughan -tried to picture him as an accepted lover. Poor Crabbe! They had all -hoped that his Fellowship and his work on the metres of Catullus would -keep him out of mischief. But they might have known--those prize -fellows, with so much time on their hands; and Crabbe above all, with -his fixed idea that he was cut out for a man of action! - -"But tell me about Crabbe," Vaughan said, as they waited on the -platform; "have you seen him?" - -"Oh yes. The other day I ran up to have a look at the 'Torpid.' It's all -right now." - -"The Torpid?" - -"No; I mean about Crabbe." - -"You think it's a good match, then?" - -"Good match! No, I mean that I went and talked to him myself." - -"And he was engaged?" - -"He _was_," said Buller, laughing; "poor old beast!" The train drew in, -and when they had taken their seats, Buller leaned over, and, with a low -voice, went on telling his story in Vaughan's ear. "You see, I went up -to Oxford, and down at the barge Blunt tells me about old Crabbe; and -when I go into College the first person I meet is the Dean, looking as -chirpy as ever. How those old parsons do keep it up! - -"'Well, sir,' says I, 'and what do you think of Crabbe's engagement?' - -"'Perfect rot,' says the Dean. 'The girl had no money; how were they -going to live? Crabbe would have to chuck his Catullus--everything.' - -"'How did it happen?' I asked. 'Crabbe never used to be sweet on the -ladies.' 'No; but in reading Catullus, Crabbe had got some ideas,' the -Dean said, with a kind of wink." - -Here Vaughan could not help interrupting the story. "Come, Buller," he -whispered, "it must have been Blunt who said that. The old Dean couldn't -talk in that way." - -But Buller felt sure it was the Dean. "You see, you don't know the old -boy; he's quite another person with me. Anyhow, that's the way Crabbe -got into it. And he went on, the Dean said, to read all sorts of other -poetry, especially that man--what you may call him? They had a -society--" - -"Browning?" - -"Yes, that's the man. Well, Crabbe thought it all very fine and -exciting, the Dean said; he used to read them Browning in the Common -Room, and there was one thing he seemed specially taken with--Browning's -theory of love." - -"What was that?" Vaughan asked, for it was a joy to hear Buller talking -of literature. - -"Well," Buller whispered, "you see this man Browning hates all your -shilly-shallying about; he thinks that when you fall in love, you ought -to go your whole pile, even if you come a cropper after. It's all rot, -of course, the Dean said; but poor Crabbe thought it was real, and went -and proposed to a young woman he had met once or twice. So there he -was, engaged! And he seemed to think himself the hell of a duke, the -Dean said; but everyone else in Oxford thought he was making a bl--" - -"Oh, Buller," Vaughan interposed, "really, you mustn't put such words -into the Dean's mouth!" - -"Well, I don't quite remember the old boy's lingo, but, at any rate, the -Dean thought Crabbe was making a fool of himself. 'I think I can settle -it,' says I to the Dean. 'I wish you would,' said the Dean; so off I go -to Crabbe's rooms. He came in just as I got there; I wish you could have -seen him--a frock-coat, top-hat, flower in his button-hole, his hair -plastered down. And only last year, it was, that he got up as a -Socialist, with a red silk handkerchief in his hat! But now he shook -hands with me up in the air; was most affable and condescending; assured -me he was glad to see his old pals--especially friends from London. -Oxford people were very well in their way, but narrow, and rather -donnish. Didn't I notice it in coming from London? - -"Well, this was almost too much from Crabbe, but I thought it would be -more sport to draw him out a bit. So we got to talking; I didn't let on -I knew he was engaged, but after a bit I began to talk about marriage -and love and all that in a general sort of way. Old Crabbe swallows it -all, talks a lot of literary stuff. 'Fall in love, Buller,' says he, -'fall in love, and live! Let me read you what thing-a-majig says,' and -he gets down a book--who did you say he was? Browning, yes, that's the -man--he gets down a book of Browning's and begins to read--you ought to -have seen him, his face got pink; and at the end he says, with a proud -smile, as if the poem was all about him, 'Isn't that ripping, Buller, -isn't that brave, isn't that the way to take life!' - -"'Do you mind if I smoke?' said I. - -"'Smoke? Oh, do certainly,' and Crabbe sits down looking rather foolish. -But after a moment, he says in an easy sort of way, 'Ah, I meant to ask -you about all the chaps in London--getting on all right? any of them -married?' - -"'Married!' says I, 'O Lord, no; _they_ don't want to dish themselves.' - -"'Dish themselves,' says Crabbe, 'why, what do you mean?' - -"'I mean what I say; if you get married without any money, you're -dished, that's all--I mean practical people, who want to get on.' - -"Then Crabbe began to talk big; one shouldn't care only for success--it -might be practical, perhaps, but he did not mean to sacrifice the -greatest thing in life for money. - -"'The greatest thing in life--what's that?'" - -Buller laughed so loudly at this part of his story, that the other -people in the carriage began to stare at him and Vaughan. So he went on -in a lower whisper. "'What's that?' says I. - -"'I mean,' says Crabbe, 'why, what I have been talking about.' - -"'Well, what is it?' - -"'What I was saying a little while ago.' - -"'But you talked too fast--I couldn't catch it; give us the tip, out -with it.' - -"'I mean love, passion,' says he. - -"'What? say it again.' - -"'Well, I mean--and it's always said that love--the poets--' - -"'The who?' - -"'The poets.'" Again Buller laughed out loud. - -"'Oh, poets!' says I, 'I thought you said porters. Poets! so you've -been reading poets, have you? but you oughtn't to believe all that--why, -they don't mean it themselves; they write it because they're expected -to, but it's all faked up--I know how it's done.' - -"Old Crabbe begins to talk in his big way. I let him go on for a while, -but then I said, 'See here, Crabbe, it's all very well to read that -literary stuff, and I suppose it's what you're paid for doing. But don't -go and think it's all true, because it isn't, and the sooner you know it -the better.' 'There was a man I knew once,' says I, 'who got fearfully -let in by just this sort of thing; Oxford don too, Fellow of Queen's -named Peake; took to reading poetry; he went to Brighton in the Long, -with his head full of it all. Wild sea waves, the moon and all the rest -of it; and back comes Peake married; had to turn out of his College -rooms, went to live at the other end of nowhere, stuffy little house, -full of babies, had to work like a nigger, beastly work too; coached me -for Smalls, that's how I know him; no time for moon and sea waves now; -and it all came from reading poetry.' - -"Old Crabbe begins to sit up at this. 'But I don't see,' he says, 'I -don't see why--didn't he have his Fellowship money?' - -"'But you don't suppose that's going to support a wife and a lot of -children.' - -"'Oh, if he had children,' says Crabbe, and the old boy begins to blush -and says, 'I don't see the need.' - -"'Much you know about it, Crabbe,' says I, and I couldn't help laughing, -he looked such an idiot. - -"'Well, anyhow,' he says, 'your friend may have been unfortunate, but I -respect him all the same; he was bold, he lived.' - -"'What does all that mean?--he didn't die, of course!' - -"'I mean he loved--he had that.' - -"'Oh yes, he had, but I rather think he wished he hadn't. He said it -didn't come to much--and even when he was engaged she used to bore him -sometimes.' - -"'Really!' says old Crabbe, 'that's odd now,' and then he goes on, as if -he was talking to himself, 'I wonder if everyone feels like that?' - -"'Of course they do! But after you're married, just think of it--never -quiet, never alone; Peake said it nearly drove him wild. And to think he -was tied up like that for the rest of his life!' - -"'Yes, it is a long time.' Crabbe began to look rather green. 'Your -friend--his name was Peake, I think you said--I suppose he couldn't have -broken off the engagement?' and he smiled in a sort of sea-sick way. - -"'Of course he could,' says I, as I got up to go. 'Perfect ass not -to--but good-bye, Crabbe, you've got jolly rooms here.' - -"'Yes, they are nice,' says Crabbe in a kind of sinking voice. - -"So, a day or two after, I meet the Dean; the old boy seems very much -pleased. 'Well Buller, I think you've done the biz,' says he; 'I don't -believe old Crabbe will do it after all.'" - -When he had finished his story, Buller leaned comfortably back. "I felt -sure he would get out of it somehow," he said aloud, "I think that story -finished him." "You know what I mean," he added, nodding significantly, -"that story of Peake." - -"I don't believe Peake ever existed!" Vaughan answered, as low as he -could. - -Buller leaned forward again, he was almost bursting with laughter. "Of -course he didn't!" he hissed in Vaughan's ear. "But wasn't Crabbe in a -blue funk though!" - -"Oh, I don't believe Crabbe minded you a bit. I'm sure he won't break it -off," Vaughan whispered indignantly. "And what right had you to talk -that way? I never heard of such impertinent meddling!" - -"Bet you three to one he does," Buller whispered back. "Come, man, make -it a bet!" The train drew into the Temple station and Vaughan got up. - -"I won't bet on anything of the kind," he said, as he stood at the door. -"And what do you know about love anyhow, Buller? Then think of the poor -girl, she probably believes that Crabbe is a hero, a god--" - -"Well, she won't for long," Buller chuckled. - - - - -_The Optimist_ - - -What was he doing there? why didn't he ride on? Mrs. Ross wondered, as -she watched with some astonishment the tall young man who was staring in -at the gate. But in a moment her husband left the hedge he was trimming, -and waved his shears at the stranger, who thereupon came in, pushing his -bicycle with him along the drive. When the two young men met, they -seemed to greet each other like old acquaintances. Probably he was one -of George's Oxford friends, she thought, beginning to feel a little shy, -as they walked towards her across the grass. The bicyclist was thin and -very tall; his shadow, in the late sunshine, seemed to stretch endlessly -over the grass. His face was bathed in perspiration; he was grey with -dust, and altogether he looked very shabby by the side of her -good-looking husband. - -"Mary, I want to introduce my friend, Mr. Allen, to you." Mrs. Ross was -always a little afraid of her husband's friends; then Allen was a don at -Oxford, and she knew he was considered extremely clever. However she -greeted him in her friendly, charming way. He would have tea, of course? - -Allen gripped her hand, smiling awkwardly. No, he wouldn't have tea, and -he was afraid it was very late for calling; he must apologize; indeed, -when he got to the gate, he had hesitated about coming in. - -Oh, no! it wasn't late, she assured him; and her husband declared he -must stay to dinner. He had never seen the Grange before and, of course, -they must show him everything. - -"Oh, I don't think I can stay to dinner," Allen murmured, looking -through his spectacles at his dusty clothes. But at last he consented -though doubtfully; he was staying at Sunbridge, he explained, and it was -rather a long ride over. - -Ross took him to the house; soon he reappeared, well brushed, his pale -and thoughtful face pink with scrubbing. They walked with him about the -gardens, then they went to their little farm, showing him the cows and -horses, and the new-built hayrick. - -George Ross was a young land agent who, not long after leaving Oxford, -had had the luck to get a good appointment; and for more than a year he -and his young wife had been living here in the most absurdly happy way. -Now and then his Oxford friends would come to visit him, and it filled -Ross with delight and pride to show them over his new domain. - -As they came back from the farm through the garden, Ross stopped a -moment. "Doesn't the house look well from here!" he said to Allen. The -roofs, gables, and trees stood out dark against the golden west; the -garden, with its old red walls, sweet peas, and roses, was filled with -mellow light. - -Allen gazed at the view through his spectacles, and expressed a proper -admiration. But of himself he seemed to notice nothing, and Mrs. Ross -was rather hurt by the way he went past her borders of flowers without -ever looking at them. - -"You see it's just the kind of life that suits me--suits both of us," -Ross explained; "I don't see how I could have found anything better. Of -course," he added modestly, "of course some men might not think much of -work like this. But I consider myself tremendously fortunate--I didn't -really deserve such luck." - -"Quite so," Allen assented in a way that Mrs. Ross thought rather odd, -till she decided that it was merely absent-mindedness. Every now and -then she would look at Allen--the tall, thin, threadbare young man -puzzled her a little; he seemed so extremely dull and embarrassed; and -yet there was a thoughtful, kind look in his eyes that she liked. And -anyhow he was George's friend; so, as they walked rather silently and -awkwardly about, waiting for dinner, she tried to talk to him, making -remarks in her eager way, and glancing sometimes at her husband for fear -he might be laughing at her. Such subjects as bicycling, the roads, the -weather, and life in Oxford, were started, and they both talked to their -guest with the exaggerated politeness of newly married people, who would -much rather be talking to each other. Yes, the road over was very -pretty, Allen agreed. But was there a river? He remembered noticing how -pretty the road was, but he had not noticed that it ran by any river. -And all their questions he answered with a certain eagerness, but in a -way that somehow made the subject drop. - -"Well, I finished the hedge," Ross said at last, turning to his wife. -"You said I wouldn't." - -"Oh, but wait till I see it for myself!" - -The young man looked at her gloomily. "You see how it is, Allen, she -doesn't believe her husband's word!" - -"Oh, hush, George," she said, and they both began to laugh like -children. Then they turned to Allen again. Was he comfortable where he -was staying? she asked. - -Well no, honestly, it wasn't very comfortable, Allen replied. To tell -the truth, he was rather disappointed in the place. He had gone there -after hearing some undergraduates describe it, and tell how amusing they -had found the people. But, somehow, he had not found the people -different from people anywhere else. But then he had only made the -acquaintance of one man-- - -"Well, didn't he turn out to be an old poacher, or a gipsy, or something -romantic?" asked Mrs. Ross. - -"No, not at all--he was a Methodist Calvinist deacon, who gave me a lift -one wet afternoon, and lectured me all the way about Temperance. And, of -course," Allen added, with rather a comic smile, "and, of course, I was -already a total abstainer." They all laughed at this. - -What was he working at over there? Ross asked him a few minutes -afterwards. He was writing a paper, Allen replied; but what it was about -Mrs. Ross did not understand. She hoped her husband would ask something -more, but he merely said, "I see," without much interest, adding that he -had not read any philosophy for years. - -When they sat down to dinner, the lady's evening dress, the silver and -flowers on the table, seemed to make Allen all the more awkward and -conscious of his appearance. However, he plainly meant to do his best to -talk, and, after a moment's silence, he remarked that he supposed the -theory of farming was very interesting. - -"Yes, it is," said Mrs. Ross, "and it's such fun ploughing in the -autumn, and in the spring seeing the young green things come up." - -"I suppose the climate is a great factor in the problem." - -"Oh, of course, everything depends on that; suppose it comes on to rain -just when you've cut your hay!" - -Ross began to laugh. "I believe my wife thinks of nothing but hay now." - -"You farm yourself, don't you?" Allen asked, looking at her rather -timidly. - -"Oh, a little; I always say I manage our little farm, and I'm going to -learn to plough. And I keep chickens--this is one of mine--poor little -thing!" she added. - -"She pretends to be sorry now, but when she has a chance to sell her -chickens I never saw anyone so bloodthirsty." - -"Oh, George, how can you say such things? Don't believe him, Mr. Allen. -And anyhow," she added (it seemed a platitude, but platitudes were -better than absolute silence), "anyhow, I suppose it is what the -chickens are meant for." - -To her surprise this mild remark led to an animated argument. For Allen, -in agreeing with her, said something about "the general scheme of -things." Ross began to laugh at this, and asked Allen if he still held -to that old system of his. Allen answered this question so earnestly, -that the lady looked at him with wonder. - -Yes! he held to it more firmly than ever; he was sure it could be -maintained! Indeed, seriously he had come to feel more and more that you -must accept something of the kind. Ross dissented in a joking way, but -Allen would not be put off; he began talking rapidly and eagerly, almost -forgetting his dinner as he argued. He drank a great deal of cold water, -and his thin face grew quite flushed with excitement. - -Mrs. Ross looked from one to the other with puzzled eyes; probably that -was the way they had been used to talk at Oxford, but what it was about -she could not understand. She only felt sorry for Allen, he evidently -cared so much, was as anxious to prove his point as if his whole life -depended on it, while her husband seemed to treat the whole thing rather -as a joke. - -Soon she gave up trying to listen, and though the sound of their voices -was in her ears, her mind wandered out into the garden, to the farm and -meadows. But Allen's voice, appealing to her, called her suddenly back. -"I'm sure you agree with me, Mrs. Ross," he said, without the least -shyness. He plainly looked on her now as nothing but a mind which might -agree or disagree. "I'm sure you must regard it as existing for rational -ends." - -"But what do you mean by 'It,' Mr. Allen?" she asked, very much puzzled. - -"Why, the universe, of course." - -"Oh, I don't know," she said, shaking her head and laughing. "It makes -me dizzy to think of it. As for George, I wouldn't mind what he says, -Mr. Allen; he believes all sorts of dreadful things, and he's always -making fun--look how he's laughing at me now. George, will you have your -coffee in here, or in the drawing-room?" - -"Oh, in the drawing-room--we'll come in a minute, when we've settled the -universe." As she went out, she heard them still arguing. - -And they had not ended it when they came into the drawing-room a little -later. - -"But I deny that pain is an evil. I appeal to you," Allen said, turning -to Mrs. Ross; "don't you think that pain is necessary?" - -"But necessary for what, Mr. Allen?" - -"Why, if we want to be really happy, I mean," he went on, trying to make -himself quite clear, "I mean, suppose we lived as they do in the -Tropics, sitting under trees all day." - -Ross also turned to her, "Well, Mary, tell us what you think?" - -Mrs. Ross laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not a fair judge, Mr. Allen, I'm so -fond of sitting under trees, and I must say I think it sounds rather -nice. Do you have sugar in your coffee?" - -"No sugar, thanks. But surely," he went on as if he had an argument now -that would be certain to convince a lady. "Surely a certain amount of -discomfort is an advantage! Now, take a child for instance, to educate -it you have to make it suffer." - -"Oh, indeed you don't, Mr. Allen," she said so promptly, and in such a -voice, that Allen seemed a little disconcerted. - -Ross begged for a little music. She sat down to the piano and began to -play--with a little emotion at first, which soon died out of the quiet -sounds. The window was open on the lawn; the faint light, the odours of -the garden, mingled with the soft music. - -They sat in silence for a moment. At last Allen rose; he must be going, -he said, he had his paper to finish. - -"But it is nice here," he added, with half a sigh, as if vaguely aware, -for a moment, of the romantic happiness about him. Then his mind seemed -to revert to the argument; if Ross would only read Hegel's _Logic_-- - -"Well, we might read it aloud in the evenings perhaps," the young man -answered, laughing. "Have you got a lamp on your machine?" "Yes, I think -there is." They went out to the gate and, lighting his lamp, they sent -him off into the twilight. Then they walked slowly back towards the -house. A few stars were kindled above the dim trees; the air was -fragrant with the scent of the hay, and through the stillness the faint -noise of life came across the meadows--a woman singing, the voices of -children, and sleepy sounds of cattle. - -"How good it is!" the young man said, drawing his companion closer to -him. "But people are always coming, aren't they? It's dreadful! we never -do seem to see anything of each other." - -"No, do we! But he's a nice man, Mr. Allen. I liked him." - -"Oh, old Allen's a good sort." - -"What does he do--how does he live in Oxford?" - -"He teaches philosophy, and lives on bread and tea in little lodgings." - -"It sounds awfully dreary--" - -"Well, it is rather dreary for him, poor man. I wouldn't be there for a -good deal." - -"But, tell me, what was that he was arguing about?" - -"Oh, that's his philosophy; he's always arguing about it. He believes in -a kind of Hegelianism." - -"What is that?" - -"Oh, it's a view of things; he's what you call an Optimist." - -"But I thought an Optimist was a person who was very happy?" - -"No; it only means a man who believes that you ought to be happy, that -you are meant to enjoy life--that the world is good." - -"But you don't mean that he was trying to _prove_ that?" - -"Why, yes, you heard him; he's always at it when you give him a chance. -He thinks it must be so, that you can deduce it from the first -principles of things." - -But Mrs. Ross could not be made to understand it. To her it seemed that -either you were happy or you weren't. "And, then, fancy trying to prove -it to us!" she kept saying. - -At last she took her husband's arm to go in; but still stood for a -moment in silence thinking it over. "That poor Mr. Allen!" she exclaimed -at last, "an Optimist, you said he was?" - - -Glasgow: Printed at the University Press by Robert MacLehose & Co. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Youth of Parnassus and Other -Stories, by Logan Pearsall Smith - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUTH OF PARNASSUS, OTHER STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 41682-8.txt or 41682-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/6/8/41682/ - -Produced by Marcia Brooks, Mary Meehan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at -http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet -Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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