Julian Home. F. W. Farrar
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.
Chapter Six.
Rencontres.
“A boy—no better—with his rosy cheeks
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look,
And conscious step of purity and pride.”
Wordsworth’s Prelude.
A public school man is by no means lonely when he first enters the university. He finds many of his old school-fellows accompanying him, and many who have gone up before him, and he feels united to them all by a bond of fellowship, which at once creates for him a circle of friends. Had Julian merely kept up his Harton acquaintances, he would have known as many Camford men as were at all necessary for the purposes of society.
But although with most or all of the Hartonians Julian remained on pleasant and friendly terms, there were others whom he saw quite as much, and whose society he enjoyed all the more thoroughly because their previous associations and experiences were different from his own. And on looking back in aftertimes, what a delight it was to remember the noble hearts which, during those years of college life, had always beaten in unison with his own. Few enjoyments were more keen than that social equality and unconventional intercourse common among all undergraduates, which might at any time ripen into an earnest and invaluable friendship, or merely stop at the stage of an agreeable acquaintanceship. A great, and not the least useful portion of University education consisted in the intimate knowledge of character and the many-sided sympathies which were thus insensibly acquired.
During the first few weeks of college life, of course, a good deal of time was spent in receiving and returning the visits of acquaintances, old and new. Of the latter, there was one with whom Julian and Lillyston were equally charmed, and who soon became their constant companion. His name was Kennedy, and Julian first got to know him by sitting next him in lecture-room. His lively remarks, his keen and vivid sense of the ludicrous, the quick yet kindly notice he took of men’s peculiarities, his ardent appreciation of the books which occupied their time, and the pleasant, rapid way in which he would dash off a caricature, soon attracted notice, and he rapidly became popular, both among undergraduates and dons. He was known, too, by the warm eulogy of his fellow-Marlbeians, who were never tired of singing his praises among themselves.
“Splendid!” whispered he to Julian warmly, after Julian had just finished construing a difficult clause in the Agamemnon, which he had done with a spirit and fire which even kindled a spark of admiration in the cold breast of Mr. Grayson. “Splendidly done, Home! I say, how