To Hugh Lillyston Julian owed no little of his happiness. They had been in the same forms together since Julian came, and the friendship between them was never broken. When Lillyston first saw the new boy, he longed to speak to him at once, but respected him too much to thrust himself rudely into his acquaintance. During the first day or two they exchanged only a few shy words; for Julian, too, was pleased and taken with Lillyston’s manly, honest look. But both had wisely determined to let their knowledge of each other grow up naturally and gradually, without any first-sight vows of eternal friendship, generally destined to be broken in the following week.
Lillyston had observed, not without disgust, that two thoroughly bad fellows were beginning to notice the newcomer, and determined at all hazards to tell Julian his opinion of them. So one day as they left the school-room together, he said—
“Do you know Brant and Jeffrey?”
“Yes; a little,” answered Julian.
“Did you know them before you came, or anything?”
“No; but they will wait for me every now and then at the door of the fourth-form room when I’m coming out and I’m sure I don’t want them, but one doesn’t wish to seem uncivil, and I don’t know how to get rid of them.”
“H’m! well, I wouldn’t see too much of them if I were you.”
“No? but why?”
“Well, never mind—only I thought I’d tell you;” and Lillyston, half-ashamed at having taken this step, and half-afraid that Julian might misconstrue it, ran away. Julian, who was little pleased with the coarse adulation of Brant and Jeffrey, took his friend’s advice, and from that time he and Lillyston became more and more closely united. They were constantly together, and never tired of each other’s society; and at last, when their tutor, observing and thoroughly approving of the friendship, put them both in the same room, the school began in fun to call them Achilles and Patroclus, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, David and Jonathan, Theseus and Pirithous, and as many other names of paria amicorum as they could remember.
Yet there was many a Harton boy who would have said, “Utinam in tali amicitia tertius ascriberer!” for each friend communicated to the other something at least of his own excellences. Lillyston instructed Julian in the mysteries of fives, racquets, football, and cricket, until he became an adept at them all; and Julian, in return, gave Lillyston very efficient help in work, and inspired him with intellectual tastes for which he felt no little gratitude in after days. The desire of getting his remove with Julian worked so much with him that he began to rise many places in the examinations; and while Julian was generally among the first few, Lillyston managed to be placed, at any rate, far above the ranks of the undistinguished herd.
So, form by form, Lillyston and Julian Home mounted up the school side by side, and illustrated the noblest and holiest uses of friendship by adding to each other’s happiness and advantage in every way. I am glad to dwell on such a picture, knowing, O holy Friendship, how awfully a schoolboy can sometimes desecrate thy name!
Three years had passed, and they were now no longer little boys, but in the upper fifth form together, and Julian was in his sixteenth year. It was one March morning, when, shortly after they entered the school-room, the school “Custos” came in and handed to the master a letter—
“It’s for Mister Home, sir, by telegraph.”
The master called Julian, (whose heart beat quick when he heard his name), and said to him—
“Perhaps you had better take it out of the room, Home, before you read it, as it may contain something important.”
With a grateful look for this considerate kindness, Julian took the hint, and leaving the room, tore open the message, which was from his mother—
“Dear Julian—Come home instantly; your father is most dangerously ill. I cannot add more.”
The boys heard a cry, and the master made a sign to Lillyston, who had already started to his feet. Springing out of the unclosed door, he found Julian half-fainting; for his home affections were the very mainsprings of his life. He read the message, helped Julian down-stairs, flung a little cold water over his face, and then led him to their own study, where he immediately began, without a word, to pack up for him such things as he thought he would require.
Lillyston made all the necessary arrangements, and did not leave his friend until he had seen him into the railway carriage, and pressed his hand with a silent farewell. He watched the train till it was out of sight.
Then first did Julian’s anguish find vent in tears. Passionately he longed at least to know the worst, and would have given anything to speed the progress of the train, far too slow for his impatient misery. He was tormented by remembering the unusually solemn look and tone with which his father had parted from him a month before, and by the presentiment which at that moment had flashed across him with uncontrollable vividness, that they should never meet again. At last, at last they reached Ildown late in the evening, just as the flushed glare of crimson told the death-struggle of an angry sunset with the dull and heavy clouds. The station was a mile from the town, and it was a raw, gusty, foggy evening. There was no conveyance at the station, but leaving with the porter a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian flew along the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and at length stood before the rectory door. He was wet, hungry, and exhausted, for since morning he had tasted nothing, and his run had spattered him with mud from head to heel. It was too dark to judge what had happened from the appearance of the house, and half-frantic as he was with fear and eagerness, he had yet not dared to give a loud summons at the door, lest he should disturb his father’s slumber or excite his nerves.
Ah! Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous dread from that cause now—
The door opened very quietly, and in reply to Julian’s incoherent question, the good old servant only shook her head, and turned away to brush off with her apron the tears which she vainly struggled to repress. But the boy burst into the study where he knew that the rest would be, and in another moment his arm was round his mother’s neck, while Cyril and Violet and little Frank drew close and wept silently beside them both. But still Julian knew not or would not know the full truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask the question which had been so long trembling on his lips—
“Is there no hope, mother, no hope?”
“Don’t you know then, my boy? Your father is—”
“Not dead,” said Julian, in a hollow voice. “Oh, mother, mother, mother.”
His head drooped on her shoulder the news fell on him like a horrible blow, and, stunned as he was with weariness and anxiety, all sense and life flowed from him for a time.
The necessity for action and the consolation of others are God’s blessed remedies to lull, during the first intolerable moments, the poignancy of bereavement. Mrs. Home had to soothe her children, and to see that they took needful food and