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