Poor Wilkinson's ears tingled when he heard his name pronounced; and he would at the moment have given anything to be allowed to be quiet. But it may be doubted whether he would not have been more hurt had he been left there without any notice. It is very hard to tune oneself aright to a disappointed man. "I'll break the ice for him, at any rate," said Bertram to himself. "When he's used to talk about it, he will suffer less."
Wilkinson had been accounted a good hand at speaking in the debating society, and though rather more prolix than Bertram, and not quite so vivacious, had been considered almost more than a match for his cousin on account of his superior erudition and more practised delivery; but now his voluble gift of words deserted him. "He was much obliged to them," he said; "though perhaps, on the whole, it was better that men who placed themselves in a mediocre condition should be left to their mediocrity. He had no doubt himself of the justness of the lists. It would be useless for him to say that he had not aspired; all the world" – it was all the world to him – "knew too well that he had aspired. But he had received a lesson which might probably be useful to him for the rest of his life. As for failing, or not failing, that depended on the hopes which a man might form for himself. He trusted that his would henceforth be so moderate in their nature as to admit of a probability of their being realized." Having uttered these very lugubrious words, and almost succeeded in throwing a wet blanket over the party, he sat down.
"Now, you're not going to do anybody else, are you?" said Madden.
"Only Twisleton, and Gerard, and Hopgood," answered Bertram; "and Fortescue looks as if he expected it. Perhaps, however, he'll let us off till the day after to-morrow."
And then, with a round of milk punch, another cigar apiece, and a little more chat, the party broke up.
Bertram and Harcourt remained together, and Bertram endeavoured to induce Wilkinson to stay with them. He, however, wished to be alone, and got home to his college by himself.
"You always overrated that man," said Harcourt.
"I think not; but time will show. After all, a good degree is not everything in the world. Who in London cares about senior wranglers and double-firsts? When all is done, I don't see the use of it."
"Nobody cares much about wranglers and double-firsts; but these are the men, nevertheless, who get the best of what's going. Wood that will swim in one water will swim in all waters."
"You'll find Wilkinson will swim yet."
"That is, he won't sink. I don't say he will. Nine-tenths of the men in the world neither swim nor sink; they just go along with their bows above the wave, but dreadfully water-logged, barely able to carry the burdens thrown on them; but yet not absolutely sinking; fighting a hard fight for little more than mere bread, and forgetting all other desires in their great desire to get that. When such a man does get bread, he can't be said to sink."
"Ah! Wilkinson will do more than that."
"Something more, or something less, as the case may be. But, believe me, he is not the man to make other men fall before him. Industry alone never does that, and certainly not that sort of industry which breaks down once in every six months. But come, Mr. Parker's champagne makes my head buzz: let us take a walk up the river; Twisleton's idea of going to dinner requires far too much pluck for me."
And so they walked out along the towing-path, discussing many things of much importance to them.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."
In nine cases out of ten, this flood-tide comes but once in life, and then in early years. A man may have a second or a third chance for decent maintenance, but hardly a second chance for fortune's brighter favours. The horse that is to win the race needs not make all his best running at once; but he that starts badly will rarely do so. When a young man discusses what shall be his future walk in life, he is talking of all that concerns his success as far as this world is concerned. And it is so hard for a youth to know, to make even a fair guess, as to what his own capacities are! The right man is wanted in the right place; but how is a lad of two and twenty to surmise what place will be right for him? And yet, if he surmises wrong, he fails in taking his tide at its single flood. How many lawyers are there who should have been soldiers! how many clergymen who should have been lawyers! how many unsuccessful doctors who might have done well on 'Change, or in Capel Court!
Bertram had an inkling of this; and Harcourt had more than an inkling. His path in life was chosen, and he had much self-confidence that he had chosen it well. He had never doubted much, and since he had once determined had never doubted at all. He had worked hard, and was prepared to work hard; not trusting over much in his own talents, but trusting greatly in his own industry. But Bertram, with double his friend's genius, had, at any rate as yet, but little of his friend's stability. To him the world was all before him where to choose; but he was sadly in want of something that should guide his choice. He had a high, but at the same time a vague ambition. The law, the church, letters, art, and politics all enticed him; but he could not decide of which mistress the blandishments were the sweetest.
"Well, when shall we have you up in London?" said Harcourt.
"In London! I don't know that I shall go to London. I shall go down to Hadley for a few weeks of course" – Bertram's uncle lived at the village of that name, in the close vicinity of Barnet – "but what I shall do then, I don't in the least know."
"But I know you'll come to London and begin to keep your terms."
"What, at the Middle Temple?"
"At some Temple or some Inn: of course you won't go where anybody else goes; so probably it will be Gray's Inn."
"No, I shall probably do a much more commonplace thing; come back here and take orders."
"Take orders! You! You can no more swallow the thirty-nine articles than I can eat Twisleton's dinner."
"A man never knows what he can do till he tries. A great deal of good may be done by a clergyman if he be in earnest and not too much wedded to the Church of England. I should have no doubt about it if the voluntary principle were in vogue."
"A voluntary fiddlestick!"
"Well, even a voluntary fiddlestick – if it be voluntary and well used."
"Of course you'll be a barrister. It is what you are cut out for, and what you always intended."
"It is the most alluring trade going, I own; – but then they are all such rogues. Of course you will be an exception."
"I shall do at Rome as Romans do – I hope always. My doctrine is, that we have no immutable law of right and wrong."
"A very comfortable code. I wish I could share it."
"Well, you will some of these days; indeed, you do now practically. But the subject is too long to talk of here. But as I know you won't go into the church, I expect to see you settled in London before Christmas."
"What am I to live on, my dear fellow?"
"Like all good nephews, live on your uncle. Besides, you will have your fellowship; live on that, as I do."
"You have more than your fellowship; and as for my uncle, to tell you the truth, I have no fancy for living on him. I am not quite sure that he doesn't mean me to think that it's charity. However, I shall have the matter out with him now."
"Have the matter out with him! – and charity! What an ass you are! An uncle is just the same as a father."
"My uncle is not the same to me as my father."
"No; and by all accounts it's lucky for you that he is not. Stick to your uncle, my dear fellow, and come up to London. The ball will be at your foot."
"Did you ever read Marryat's novel, Harcourt?"
"What,