Chapter XXXIII

And now we were well on into the May term. The noble elms towers of dense and solid green; lilac and laburnum giving place to roses in the Fellows’ Garden; and the river, a little shrunken by the summer heat, slipping past smooth lawns and beneath the weeping willows’ graceful shade with truly academic deliberation and repose.

Never had I enjoyed my daily work so much, or met with so hearty and intelligent a response. An excellent set of men were in college that year; gentlemanlike, eager to learn, in some cases notably clever, in almost all agreeable to deal with. My popularity--enhanced by that episode of the fire at the Master’s Lodge--was great. Why should I hesitate to say so, since thankfulness rather than vanity did, I can honestly affirm, fill my heart? I had arranged to take a reading party to North Wales during the long vacation, and to this I looked forward as a new and interesting experience. Halidane, moreover, for cause unknown, had ceased from troubling me. Ever since his return, at the beginning of term, he had worn a somewhat hang-dog look; and, though almost cringingly civil when we chanced to meet, appeared, as I thought, to shun rather than seek my society. What had happened to the fellow? Had the change in his demeanour any connection with the Master’s visit to his ‘sainted patron,’ Lord Longmoor, at Bath? I did not know, nor did I greatly care, so long as I continued to be relieved of his officious and unsavoury attentions.

And so, taking things all round, it seemed to me, just now, the lines had after all fallen to me in pleasant places. Temptation had been resisted, difficulties overcome, honour--and my conscience--satisfied. If much had been denied, yet much remained--sufficient, and more than sufficient, to make life a gift, not only good but glad--though after, perhaps, a somewhat serious pattern.

Then came an afternoon the events of which stand out very forcibly in my memory. They marked a turning-point; a parting of the ways, abrupt as it was unexpected.

For, neglecting alike the attractions of the glorious weather and of ‘the boats’--it was during the June races--I stayed in my rooms to look through a set of mathematical papers. Some pleased me by their ability. Others amused--or irritated--me by their blunders. Heavens, what thick heads some of those youngsters had! After about an hour’s work, lulled by the stillness and the sunny warmth--droning of bees in the clematis below my window, chippering cries and glancing flight of swallows back and forth to their nests under the parapet above--I laid aside the papers, and, leaning back in my chair, sank into a brown study.

The morning’s post had brought me a brief communication from Lavender, the detective. After weeks of silent pursuit he had reason to believe he was on Marsigli’s track at last. My own sensations in face of this announcement surprised me a little. By all rules of the game I should of course have felt unalloyed gratification. But did I really feel that? With a movement of shame, I was obliged to confess I did not. For a certain moral indolence had overtaken me. I was established in a routine from which I had no wish to break away. My college work, into which I threw myself at first mainly as a refuge from haunting desires and disturbing thoughts, had become an end in itself. It engrossed me. I found it restful--in that, while making small demand on my emotions, it gave scope for such talents, whether intellectual or practical, as I possessed. I found it exhilarating to deal with these young men, in the first flush of their mental powers, to--in some measure at all events--form their minds, influence their conduct and their thought. It was delightful, moreover, to have time and opportunity for private study; to read books, and ever more books. The scholar’s life, the life of the university, held me as never before. Hence this obtrusion of Lavender, hunter of crime and of criminals, this obtrusion of wretched Marsigli, the absconding Italian butler, were, to be honest, displeasing rather than welcome. I cried off further demands upon my energies in the direction of conflict and adventure. Leave the student to his library, the teacher to his lecture-room, unvexed by the passions and tumult of the world without.

In fastidious repulsion, in something, heaven forgive me, approaching disgust, I turned away from both thief and thief-catcher, all they were and all they stood for, as beneath my notice, common and unclean. Almost angrily I prayed to be let alone, let be. Prayed no fresh exertion might be required of me; but that I might pursue my course, as a comfortable, well-read, well-fed Cambridge don, in security and peace.

And, mercifully, my lazy prayer was not heard, not answered; or, more truly, was both heard and answered, though in a manner conspicuously the reverse of my intention in offering it.

For, as I mused thus, the calm of the summer afternoon was disturbed by a sudden loud knocking at my door. The door was flung open. On the threshold a man stood. No learned brother fellow, no ordinary gownsman; but, with his pride of bearing, his air of fashion, the finest young fine gentleman I had ever seen--in long drab driving coat, smartly outstanding from the waist, and white top hat with rakish up-curled brim.

For an instant I gazed in stupid amazement. Then, as the door closed behind him and he came from out the shadow, I sprang to my feet and ran forward, with a cry. And, almost before I knew what was happening, his two hands gripped my shoulders, and he backed me into the full light of the window, holding me away from him at arms’ length and looking down into my face. He was a good half head taller than I.

‘Dearest Brownlow--my dear old man, my dear old man,’ he repeated, and his grip tightened while his voice was tender as a girl’s.

Then, while I stammered in my excitement and surprise, he gave a naughty little laugh.

‘Oh! I am no ghost,’ he said. ‘You needn’t be afraid. I’m very solid flesh and blood; worse luck for you, perhaps, old man. Gad, but it’s good, though, to see you once again.’

He threw down his hat among the papers on the table, tossed his gloves into it, and drew me on to the window-seat beside him.

Already the spell began to work, the spell of his extraordinary personal charm. Already he captivated me, firing my somewhat sluggish imagination. Already I asked nothing better than to devote myself to him, spend myself for him, stamp out the evil and nourish the good in him, at whatever loss or disadvantage to myself.

I inquired what had brought him to Cambridge.

‘I am in trouble, Brownlow,’ he answered simply, while his face hardened. ‘It’s an ugly sort of trouble, which I have not the pluck to meet single-handed. I cannot see my way through or out of it. I tell you, it was beginning to make me feel rather desperate. And I remembered your wisdom of old’--

He smiled at me, patting my knee.

‘So, as I do not want to take to drink--which last night seemed the only alternative--I took the road this morning instead, and came to look for you. Perhaps it is a rather presumptuous proceeding on my part. I have no claim on you, for I have been neglectful and selfish. I know that well enough--not by any means a model pupil, dear old man, not any great credit to you. But you cared for me once.’

Cared for him? God was my witness that I did!

‘And, as I tell you, I have not courage to meet this trouble alone. It raises a devil of suspicion and anger in me. I am afraid of being unjust, of losing my head and doing some wild thing I shall regret for the rest of my life. But we need not go into all this just yet, and spoil our first half-hour together. It will keep.’

And he looked away, avoiding my eyes with a certain shyness, as I fancied; glanced round the room, at its sober colouring, solid furniture, ranges of bookshelves and many books; glanced through the window at the fine trees, the bright garden, and quiet river glistening in the still June sunlight.

‘Gad! but what a delightful place!’ he said. ‘I am glad to know where you live, Brownlow, and I could find it in my heart to envy you, I think. The wheels must run very smooth.’

I thought of Nellie, of my home-coming from Westrea. Verily, less smooth than he imagined--sometimes.

‘Why, why did not they let me come here,’ he broke out--‘as I implored them to, after the row about--about--at Hover, I mean, when you left me? I would have given anything to come up to the university then, and work, and have you with me still. Ah! how different everything would be now! But my father refused to listen. The plan did not suit some people’s book, I suppose; and they worked upon him, making him hopelessly obstinate. Nothing would do, but into the Guards I must go. I begged for if only a year with you here, at Cambridge, first. But not a bit of it. Out they pitched me, neck and crop, into the London whirlpool, to sink or swim as I could--sink for choice, I fancy, as far as they were concerned.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘It is to be hoped they are better satisfied at the result than I am,’ he added, with an oath. ‘But what is done is done--and, curse it, there is no going back. As you make your bed--or as others make it for you--so must you lie on it.’

Sad words from a boy of barely one-and-twenty, as I thought. Surely punishment awaited those, somewhere and somewhen, who had taught him so harsh a lesson, and taught it him so young.

Meanwhile, my first surprise and excitement over, I watched Hartover carefully, fearing to see in him signs of past dissipation and excess. But his beauty was as great as ever. His flesh firm, moreover, his eyes and skin clear. He had matured rather than altered, grown considerably taller and filled-out, though his figure remained gracefully alert and slight. Two points only did I observe which I did not quite like--namely an aspect of anxiety and care upon the brow, and little bitter lines at the corners of the handsome mouth, giving a singular arrogance to his expression when the face was in repose.

We talked for a while of indifferent matters, and he asked me to walk with him to the Bull Hotel, where he had left the post-chaise in which he drove down from town, and where he invited me to dine with him and stay the night as his guest.

‘Give me what time you can, Brownlow,’ he said. ‘Leave all the good boys, the white sheep of your numerous flock, to take care of themselves for once; and look after the bad boy, the black sheep--the scapegoat, rather. For, upon my soul, it amounts to that. The sins of others are loaded on to my unhappy head, I promise you, with a vengeance.’

I could not but be aware of curious and admiring glances, as I walked up King’s Parade in his company. Reflected glory covered me, while he, royally careless of the observation he excited, was quick to note the grace of the different college buildings, the effects of light and colour, to ask a hundred pertinent questions, make a hundred pertinent remarks on all which caught his eye. What a delightful mind he had, open both to poetic and humorous impressions; instinctively using the right word, moreover, and striking out the happy phrase when it suited him to lay aside his slang.