Chapter Five.

Saint Werner’s.

“So soon the boy a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.”
Rogers’ Human Life.

The last day at Harton came; the last chapel-service in that fair school fabric; the last sermon, “Arise, let us go hence;” the last look at the churchyard and the fourth-form room; the last “Speecher,” and delivering up of the monitor’s keys; the last farewells to Mr Carden and the other masters, and the Doctor, and their schoolfellows and fags; and then with swelling hearts Julian and Lillyston got into the special train, thronged with its laughing and noisy passengers, and during the twenty minutes which were occupied by their transit to London, were filled with the melancholy thought that the days of boyhood were over for ever.

“Good-bye, Frank,” said Julian—“To-morrow, to fresh fields and pastures new.”

“Good-bye, Julian. We must meet next at Saint Werner’s.”

“Mind you write meanwhile.”

“All right. You shall hear in a week. Good-bye.” And Lillyston nodded from the cab window his last farewell to Julian Home, the Harton boy.

But if there were partings, what glorious meetings there were too, during those twenty-four hours. Ah! they must be felt, not written of: but I am sure that no family felt a keener joy that day, than Julian’s mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him again, and learnt with pride that he had won a scholarship of 100 pounds a year; even Will and Mary, the faithful servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look up to their young master with even more honour than before.

Bruce spent the first part of his holidays in shooting, and the latter weeks in all the gaieties of a wealthy London family. He was naturally self-indulgent, and as no one urged him to make good use of his time, he devoted it to every possible amusement which riches could procure. Both he and his parents had a boundless belief in his natural abilities, and these, he thought, would be quite sufficient to gain him such honours as should be a graceful addition to the public reputation which he intended to win. A week or two before the Camford term commenced, he engaged some splendid lodgings, the most expensive which he heard of, and, turning out the furniture which was usually let with them, gave an almost unlimited order to a fashionable upholsterer to see them fitted out with due luxury and taste. When he came up as a freshman, which he deferred doing until the last possible moment, he was himself amazed to see how literally his orders had been obeyed. The rooms were refulgent with splendour: glossy tables, velvet-cushioned chairs, Turkey carpets, rich curtains, and an abundance of mirrors, made them, as the tradesman remarked “fit for a lord;” and Bruce took possession, with no little pride and self-satisfaction at finding himself his own master in so brilliant an abode.

Meanwhile, the holidays had passed by with Julian very differently, but very happily. Without tiring himself, or harassing his attention by study, he made a rule of devoting to work some portion, at least, of every day. Long strolls with his mother and sister in the bright summer evenings, bathes and boating excursions with Cyril and Frank, and happy, lonely rambles on the beach, kept him in health and spirits, and he looked forward with eager ambition to the arena which he was so soon to enter.

“The Harton boys have gone back by this time, haven’t they?” asked Violet, as she sat with her mother and brother on the lawn one afternoon. “Don’t you wish you were there again with them, Julian?”

“No,” said Julian, “I wouldn’t exchange Saint Werner’s man even for Harton boy.”

“How soon shall you have to go up to Saint Werner’s?” said Mrs Home.

“On October 15th; in about a fortnight’s time. I mean to go up a day or two beforehand to get settled. You and Violet must come with me, mother.”

“But is that usual? Won’t you get laughed at as though you were coming up under female escort?” asked Violet.

“Pooh! you don’t suppose I care for that,” said Julian, “even supposing it were likely to be true; besides—” He said no more, but his proud look at his sister’s face seemed to imply that he expected rather to be envied than laughed at.

Accordingly, they went up together, and, as the train drew nearer and nearer to Camford, all three grew silent and thoughtful. They were rightly conscious that on the years to be spent in college life depended no small part of Julian’s future happiness and prosperity. Three years at least would be spent there; years wealthy with all blessing, or prolific of evil and regret.

It was night when they arrived, and in the dimly-lighted streets there was not enough visible to gratify Julian’s eager curiosity. The omnibus was crowded with undergraduates, who were chiefly freshmen, but apparently anxious to seem very much at home. At the station, the piles of luggage seemed interminable, and Mrs Home and Violet were not sorry to escape from the unusual confusion to the quiet of their hotel.

Next morning, directly after an impatient breakfast, Julian started to call on his tutor.

“Which is the way to Saint Werner’s College?” he asked of the waiter.

“Straight along, sir,” was the reply, and off he started down King’s Parade. In his hurry to make the first acquaintance with his new college, Julian hardly stopped to admire the smooth green quadrangle and lofty turrets of King Henry’s College, or Saint Mary’s, or the Senate House and Library, but strode on to the gate of Saint Werner’s. Entering, he gazed eagerly at the famous great court, with its chapel, hall, fountain, and Master’s lodge; and then made his way through the cloisters of Warwick’s Court to his tutor’s rooms.

On entering, he found himself in a room, luxuriously furnished, and full of books. In a large armchair before the fire sat a clergyman, whom Julian at once conjectured to be Mr Grayson, the tutor on whose “side” he was entered. He was a tall, grave-looking man, of about forty, and rose to greet his pupil with a formal bow.

“How do you do, Mr —? I did not quite catch the name.”

“Home, sir,” said Julian, advancing to shake hands in a cordial and confiding manner; but the tutor contented himself with a very cold shake, and seemed at a loss how to proceed.

Julian was burning with curiosity and eagerness. He longed to ask a hundred questions; at such a moment—a moment when he first felt how completely he had passed over the boundary which divides boyhood from manhood, he yearned for a word of advice, of encouragement, of sympathy. He expected, at least, something which should resemble a welcome, or a direction what to do. Nothing of the kind, however, came. While Julian was awaiting some remark, the tutor shuffled, hemmed, and looked ill at ease, as though at a loss how to begin the conversation.

At last Julian, in despair, asked, “Whereabouts are my rooms, sir?”

“Oh, the porter will show you; you’ll find no difficulty about them,” said the tutor.

“Have you anything further to ask me, Mr Home?” he inquired, after another little pause.

“Nothing whatever, sir,” said Julian, a little indignantly, for he began to feel much like what a volcano may be supposed to do when its crater is filled with snow. “Have you anything to tell me, sir?”

“No, Mr Home. I hope you’ll—that is—I hope—good morning,” he said, as Julian, to relieve him from an unprofitable commonplace, backed towards the door, and made a formal bow.

“Humph,” thought Julian. “What an icicle; not much good to be got out of that quarter. An intolerably cold reception. It’s odd, too, for the man must have heard all about me from Mr Carden.”

As we shall have very little to do with Mr Grayson, we may here allow him a cordial word of apology. What was to Julian the commencement of an epoch, was, be it remembered, to the tutor a commonplace and almost everyday event. The whole of that week he had been occupied in receiving visits from “the early fathers,” who came up in charge of their sons, and all of whom seemed to expect that he would show the liveliest and tenderest interest in their respective prodigies. Other freshmen had visited him unaccompanied, and some of them seemed rather inclined to patronise him than otherwise. He was a shy man, and always had a painful suspicion at heart that people were laughing at him. Having lived the life of a student, he had never acquired the polished ease of a man of the world, and had a nervous dread of strangers. His manners were but an icy shield of self-defence against ridicule, and they suited his somewhat sensitive dignity. He persuaded himself, too, that the “men” on his side were “men” in years and discretion as well as name, and that they must stand or fall unaided, since the years of boyish discipline and school constraint were gone by. It never occurred to him that a word spoken in due season might be of incalculable benefit to many of his charge. Being a man of slow sensibilities, he could not sympathise with the enthusiastic temperament of youths like Julian, nor did he ever single out one of his pupils either for partiality or dislike. Yet he was thoroughly kind-hearted, and many remembered his good deeds with generous gratitude. Nor was he wholly wrong in his theory that a tutor often does as much harm by meddling interference as he does by distance and neglect.

When a boy goes to college, eager, quick, impetuous, rejoicing as a giant to run his course, he is generally filled with noble resolutions and elevating thoughts. There is a touch of flame and of romance in his disposition; he feels himself to be the member of a brotherhood, and longs to be a distinguished and worthy one; he is anxious for all that is grand and right, and yearns for a little sympathy to support his determination and enliven his hopes. Some there may be so dull and sensual, so swallowed up in selfishness and conceit, so chill to every generous sentiment, and callous to every stirring impulse, that they experience none of this; their sole aim is, on the one hand to succeed, or on the other, to amuse and gratify themselves, to cultivate all their animal propensities, and drown in the mud-honey of premature independence the last relics of their childish aspirations. With men like this, to dress showily, to drive tandem and give champagne breakfasts, comes as a matter of course; while their supremest delight is to wander back to their old school, in fawn-coloured dittos, and with a cigar in their mouths, to show their superiority to all sense of decency and good taste. But these are the rare exceptions. However much they may conceal their own emotions, however dead and cynical, and contemptible they may grow in after days, there are few men of ordinary uprightness who do not feel a thrill of genuine enthusiasm when they first enter the walls of their college, and who will not own it without a blush.

Now Julian was an enthusiast by nature and temperament; all the sentiments which we have been describing he felt with more than ordinary intensity. It gave a grandeur to his hopes, and a distinct sense of ennobling pleasure to remember that he was treading the courts which generations of the good and wise had trodden before him, and holding in his hand the torch which they had handed down to him. Their memory still lingered there, and he trusted that his name too might in after days be not wholly unremembered. At least he would strive, with a godlike energy, to fail in no duty, and to leave no effort unfulfilled. If he viewed his coming life too much in its poetical aspect, at least his glowing aspirations and golden dreams were tempered with a deep humility and a childlike faith.

After fuming a little at the icy reception which his tutor had given him, he walked up and down the court, thinking of his position, and his intentions—of the past, the present, and the future—until proud tears glistened in his eyes. It was clear to him that now he would have to stand alone amid life’s trials, and alone face life’s temptations. And he was ready for the struggle. With God’s help he would not miss the meaning of his life, but take the tide of opportunity while it was at the flood.

Before rejoining his mother, he determined to call on one of the junior fellows, the only one with whom he had any acquaintance, the Reverend N Admer. He only knew him from a casual introduction; but Mr Admer had asked him to call, on his arrival at Saint Werner’s, and Julian hoped both to get some information from him to dissipate the painful feeling of strangeness and novelty, and also partially to do away with the effect of Mr Grayson’s coldness.

Although it was now past ten in the morning, he found Mr Admer only just beginning breakfast, and looking tired and lazy. He was received with a patronising and supercilious tone, and the Fellow not only went on with his breakfast, but occasionally glanced at a newspaper while he talked. Not that Mr Admer at all meant to be unkind or rude, but he hated enthusiasm in every shape; he did not believe in it, and it wearied him—hence freshmen during their first few days were his profound abhorrence.

After a few commonplace remarks, Julian ventured on a question or two as to the purchases which he would immediately require, the hours of lecture and hall, and the thousand-and-one trifles of which a newcomer is necessarily ignorant. Mr Admer seemed to think this a great bore, and answered languidly enough, advising Julian not to be “more fresh” than he could help. It requires very small self-denial to make a person at home by supplying him with a little information; but small as the effort would have been, it was greater than the Reverend N Admer could afford to make, and his answers were so little encouraging that Julian, making ample allowance for the ennuyé condition of the young Fellow, relapsed into silence.

“And what do you think of Saint Werner’s?” asked Mr Admer, taking the initiative, with a yawn.

Julian’s face lighted up. “Think of it! I feel uncommonly proud already of being a Saint Werner’s man.”

“Genius loci, and all that sort of thing, eh?”

The sneering way in which this was said left room for no reply, so Mr Admer continued.

“Ah you’ll soon find all that sort of twaddle wear off.”

“I hope not,” said Julian.

“Of course you intend to be senior classic, or senior wrangler, or something of that sort?”

“I expect simply nothing; but if I were inclined to soar, one might have a still higher ambition than that.”

“Oh, I see; an embryo Newton,—all that sort of thing.”

“I didn’t mean quite ‘all that sort of thing,’ since you seem fond of the phrase,” said Julian, “but really I think my aspirations, whatever they are, would only tire you. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” said Mr Admer, nodding. “We don’t shake hands up here. I shall come and call on you soon.”

“The later the better,” thought Julian, as he descended the narrow stairs. “Good heavens! is that a fair specimen of a don, I wonder. If so, I shall certainly confine my acquaintance to the undergraduates.”

No, Julian, not a fair specimen of a don altogether, but in some of his aspects a fair specimen of a certain class of university men, who profess to admire nothing, hope for nothing, love nothing; who think warmth of heart a folly, and sentiment a crime; who would not display an interest in any thing more important than a boat-race or a game of bowls, to save their lives; who are very fond of the phrase, “all that sort of nonsense,” to express everything that rises above the dead level of their own dead mediocrity in intelligence and life. If you would not grovel in spirit; if you would not lose every tear that sparkles, and every sigh that burns; if you would not ossify the very power of passion; if you would not turn your soul into a mass of shapeless lead, avoid those despicable cynics, who never leave their discussion of the merits of beer, or the powers of stroke oars, unless it be to carp at acknowledged eminence, and jeer at genuine emotion. How often in such company have I seen men relapse into stupid silence, because, if they ventured on any expression of lively interest, one of the throng, amid the scornful indifference of the rest, would give the only acknowledgment of his remark, by taking the pipe out of his mouth, to give vent to a low guttural laugh.

After this it was lucky for Julian that he had brought his mother and sister with him, and that a moment after leaving Mr Admer he caught sight of Hugh Lillyston. With a joyful expression of surprise, they grasped each other’s hands, and interchanged so friendly a greeting that Julian in an instant had scattered to the winds the gloomy impression which was beginning to creep over him.

“How long have you been here, Hugh?”

“I came yesterday.”

“Have you seen your rooms yet?”

“No; I am just going to look for them.”

“Well, come along; I know where they are.”

“But stop,” said Julian, “I must go to the Eagle first for my people. They’ll be expecting me.”

“Really. So Mrs Home’s here?” asked Lillyston.

“Yes, and my sister. If you’ve nothing to do, come and be introduced.”

“How immensely jolly. I wish my mother and sister had taken the trouble to come with me, I know.”

They went to the hotel, and Lillyston was able to gratify the curiosity he had long felt to see his friend’s relations.

“Whom do you think I’ve brought back with me, mother? guess,” said Julian, as he entered the room beaming with pleasure. “Here, Hugh, come along. My mother—my sister—Mr Lillyston.”

“What! is this the Mr Lillyston of whom we’ve heard so much?” asked Mrs Home, with a cordial shake of the hand, while Violet looked up with a quick glance of curiosity and pleasure.

“No other,” said Hugh, laughing; “and really I feel as if I were an old friend already.”

“You are so, I assure you,” said Mrs Home, “and I hope we shall often meet now.” Lillyston hoped the same, as he looked at Violet.

It was arranged that they should all four go at once to Julian’s rooms, and help in the grand operation of unpacking. The rooms were very pleasant attics in the great court, looking out on the Fellows’ bowling-green, and the Iscam flowing beyond it. The furniture, most of which Julian was going to take from the previous possessor, was neat and comfortable, and when the book shelves began to glitter with his Harton prizes and gift-books, Julian was delighted beyond measure with the appearance of his new home.

For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously, only interrupted by an excursion for lunch to the hotel, since Julian had as yet purchased no plates and received no commons.

On their return they found an old lady in the room—

“A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood;”

who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed Julian that she was to be his bedmaker, and asked him whether he intended “to tea” in his rooms that evening. (The verb “to tea” is the property of bedmakers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect tense—as “have you tea’d?”)

“By all means,” said Julian; “lay the table for four this evening at eight o’clock, and get me some bread and butter. You’ll stay, Hugh, won’t you?”

“I should like to, very much. But won’t it be your last evening with your mother and Miss Home?”

“Yes; but never mind that.”

Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a warm good-bye, left them to enjoy with Julian his first quiet evening in Saint Werner’s, Camford.

“I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I shall want your advice.”

“Well, let me see,” said Violet. “The water-colour likenesses of Cyril and Frankie ought to go here, one on each side of Mr Vere; at least, I suppose, you mean to put Mr Vere in the place of honour?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Julian; “every time I look on that noble face, so full of strength and love, and so marked with those ‘divine hieroglyphics of sorrow,’ I shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and wisdom.”

“People will certainly call you a heretic, if you do,” laughed Violet.

“People!” said Julian scornfully.

“Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise.

“Let them yelp.”

Mr Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been an intimate friend of Mr Home before his death. Julian had only heard him preach, and met him occasionally; but he had read some of his works, and had received from him so much sympathising kindness and intellectual aid, that he regarded him with a love and reverence little short of devotion—as a man distinguished above all others for his gentleness, his eloquence, his honesty, his learning, and his love. This likeness had belonged to Mr Home, and Julian had asked leave to carry it with him whenever he should go to the University.

“Yes, the place of honour for Mr Vere.”

“And where shall we hang this?” said Julian, taking up a photograph of Van Dyck’s great painting of Jacob’s Dream: the Hebrew boy is sleeping on the ground, and his long, dark curls, falling off his forehead, mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding plants, fanned by the waving of mysterious wings; a cherub is lightly raising the embroidered cap that partially shades his face, and at his feet, blessing him with uplifted hand, stands a majestic angel, on whose flowing robes of white gleams a celestial radiance from the vista, alight with heavenly faces, that opens over his head. A happy and holy slumber seems to breathe from the lad’s countenance, and yet you can tell that the light of dreams has dawned under his “closed eyelids,” and that the inward eye has caught full sight of that Beatific Epiphany.

“We must hang this in your bedroom, Julian,” said Mrs Home. “I shall love to think of you lying under the outstretched hand of this heavenly watcher.”

So they hung it there, and the task was over, and they spent a happy happy evening together. Next morning Julian accompanied them to the train, and walked back to the matriculation examination.