by Grant Allen
For when, a fortnight later, Mrs. Douglas gave her first dinner-party of the term, she took occasion, in the drawing room, about ten of the clock, to draw aside the Senior Proctor, confidentially, for a moment, and murmur in his ear; “I think, Mr. Wayles, you’re one of the examiners for the Marlborough Historical Essay, aren’t you?”
The Senior Proctor, a grim, close-shaven man, with firm-set lips and a very clerical mouth and collar, signified his assent by a slight bow of acquiescence, and a murmured reply of, “I believe my office entails upon me that among other honors.”
Mrs. Douglas assumed her most bewitching smile. “Now, dear Mr. Wayles,” she said, bending over toward him coquettishly, “you mustn’t really be angry with me. I’m only a woman, you know, and we women have always our little plots and conspiracies on hand, haven’t we? I’m very much interested in a particular essay which bears for motto the words, ‘Non jam prima peto Mnestheus neque vincere certo, Quanquam O’! There, you see, though I was dragged up before Girton and Newnham were invented, you didn’t know before I could spout out a Latin hexameter as pat as that, did you? Well, I want you most particularly to read over that identical essay with special attention, very special attention, and if you find it in every respect immensely better than all the rest put together, to recommend it to the kind attention of your colleagues.”
The Senior Proctor — that grim, close-shaven man — allowed just the faintest ghost of a smile of amused pity to pucker the corners of his very clerical mouth as he answered with official succinctness, “Every essay alike, my dear Mrs. Douglas, will receive at my hands, and I believe I may venture to say at those of my brother-examiners also, the most impartial consideration; and nothing that can be said to us by any outside person — even yourself — can have the very slightest influence upon us in making our award to the most deserving competitor.”
“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Douglas answered, with that most bewitching smile once more well to the front. “I know and understand all that perfectly. I haven’t lived so long in the University as dear Archie’s wife without having learnt how absolutely useless it is to try to pull any wires or go up any backstairs in University business. I only meant to say if you find that essay quite undeniably the very best, I hope you won’t let the fact of my recommendation tell strongly against it.”
The Senior Proctor had an uncomfortable sense that when Mrs. Douglas laid so profound a stress upon the words “absolutely useless “that irreverent little woman was actually trying to chaff him or to laugh in her sleeve; and as the Senior Proctor represents before the world the dignity and majesty of the University in its corporate capacity, so wicked an attempt on her part to poke fun at his office would, no doubt, have merited condign punishment. But he only bowed once more a sphinxlike bow, and answered severely “All the essays alike shall have my best attention.”
Now, we all of us know, of course — we who are men and women of the world — that the Senior Proctor spoke the exact truth, and that in matters so important as University prizes no shadow of partiality can ever be suspected among English gentlemen. (If it were, we might all be tempted to think that English gentlemen were not, after all, so very superior in kind as we know them to be to the members of every other European nationality.) Nevertheless, it must be noted as a singular and unaccountable historical fact that when the Senior Proctor — that lone, bachelor man — went home that night along the cold, gray streets to his solitary rooms in Fellows Quad, Merton, and saw a big bundle of Marlborough prize essays lying on his table unopened for his deep consideration, his mouth relaxed for a moment into a distinctly human smile as he thought of the delicate pressure of her hand with which Mrs. Douglas — charming woman, to be sure, Mrs. Douglas! — had bid him good-night, with a last whispered adieu of “Now, don’t forget, Mr. Wayles: ‘Non jam prima peto Mnestheus neque vincere certo!’” How delicious Vergil sounded, to be sure, on those ripe, red lips! Had she learnt that verse by heart, he wondered, on purpose to bamboozle him? So thinking, and gloating over that dainty pressure, the Senior Proctor flung himself into his easy-chair before his goodly fire, kicked off his boots and endued himself in his warm, woolen-lined slippers, fortified his intellect with a brandy-and-soda from the syphon at his side, lighted one of Bacon’s best cigars, and proceeded, with his feet on the fender comfortably, to address his soul in indulgent mood to the task of literary and historical criticism.
But strange to say, he did not take up the very first essay that came to hand, as a conscientious Senior Proctor might fairly be expected to do, On the contrary, he turned them all over one by one, with deliberative finger, till he came to a roll of neat white foolscap, legibly inscribed in a bold black hand — I blush to narrate it — with that very Vergilian motto which treacherous Mrs. Douglas had been at such pains to get by rote, without one false quantity, and to fire off, unappalled, against his grim clerical mouth and collar. He read the essay through first with close attention; then he wrote down on a small sheet of paper at his side the mystic letters, “v g.,” supposed to stand for “very good” in our own vernacular. By the time he had read it through, the hour was advanced, and a second brandy-and-soda and a second cigar were needed to stimulate the critical faculty. As time went on, it must be frankly admitted, those essays got shorter and shorter shrift, while the soda got deeper and deeper doses of brandy, until by the time the clock marked three, the Senior Proctor rose up with dignity, drained the remainder of his last tall tumbler, and sticking all the papers in his desk for read, strolled off to his bedroom, unmistakably sleepy.
Now, it must not be concluded from this veracious account that Paul Gascoyne’s essay was not in all probability, on its own merits, the very best of the entire lot submitted for judgment; nor that Mrs. Douglas had exerted on its behalf anything which could be described by the most severe moralist as undue influence. In fact, have we not already recorded the Senior Proctor’s emphatic and deliberate assertion to the contrary? And was not that assertion again renewed? For when, a fortnight later, Mrs. Douglas ventured to thank the dignitary in question (as she irreverently phrased it) “for backing her man for the Marlborough Prize,” the Senior Proctor, opening his eyes wide in his very grimmest fashion, replied with an innocent air of surprise:
“Oh, so the successful candidate was the person you spoke about, Mrs. Douglas, was he? Well, I’m sure we had none of us the very faintest idea of it.”
But, nevertheless, it is a historical fact not to be blinked that, when the Senior Proctor passed on the papers to his brother examiners for consideration, Paul Gascoyne’s essay went on top, marked in plain words “Optime meritus est. — P. H. W.,” and it is equally certain that the other examiners, glancing hastily over them with an uncritical eye, one and all indorsed Mr. Wayles opinion. From which facts it may be gathered that, though Paul Gascoyne’s Marlborough Essay was really and truly one of the most brilliant ever submitted to the Board of Examiners and though favoritism of any kind is unknown in Oxford, it is none the less a very useful thing to have a Mrs. Douglas of your own on hand to say a good word for you whenever convenient.
But Paul had no idea of all these hidden springs of action in the Senior Proctor and his esteemed colleagues when, a week or so before the end of the term, he read, all trembling, a notice posted on the door of the schools:
“The Board of Examiners for the Marlborough Historical Essay, Chichele Foundation, have awarded the Prize of Fifty Guineas to Paul Gascoyne, Commoner of Christ Church.”
His heart beat high as he read those words, and his knees reeled under him. So next term, at least, was safe from Mr. Solomons!
CHAPTER XVII.
REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES.
NEVERTHELESS, it was not without great damage to his own ultimate chances of future success that Paul had secured this momentary triumph. He was able to write back to Hillborough, it is true, and assure Mr. Solomons he had no further need of assistance for the present; but he had lost almost a whole term, so far as his own reading for t
he Great Schools was concerned, in that valiant spurt at private pupils. His prospects of a First were far more remote now than ever before, for a man can’t support himself by teaching others, and at the same time read hard enough in his spare hours to enter into fair competition with his compeers who have been able to devote their undivided energies to their own education. He had handicapped himself heavily in the race for honors. Paul ruefully realized this profound truth when he began to work on his own account in the Easter vacation and summer term. He had a great deal of leeway still to make up if he was to present himself in a well-prepared condition before the searching scrutiny of those dreaded examiners. And on the issue of the examination depended in large measure his chance of obtaining a fellowship, with the consequent possibility of earning a livelihood, and sooner or later repaying Mr. Solomons, Spring and the Easter vacation wore away, and summer term came back to Oxford. The new green foliage dawned once more on the chestnuts by the Chenvell. The University blossomed out into punts and flannels; laburnums and pink may glorified the parks; ices were in brisk demand at Cooper’s in the High; and the voice of the sister was heard in the tennis-courts, eagerly criticising the fraternal service. It was all as delightful and as redolent of youth, fizz, and syllabub, as Oxford knows how to be in full leaf and in warm June weather. And Paul Gascoyne, working hard for Greats in his rooms in Peckwater, was nevertheless able to snatch many an afternoon for a pull in a four down the river to Newnham, or for a long stroll round Cumnor and Shotover with his friend Thistleton. Even the shadow of an approaching examination, and the remote prospect of being Mr. Solomons’ bond slave for half a lifetime, cannot quite kill out in the full heart of youth the glory of the green leaf and the fresh vigor of an English spring-tide.
About these days, one morning down at Hillborough, Faith Gascoyne, sitting in the window where the clematis looked into her small, bare bedroom, heard a postman’s double knock at the door below, and rushed down in haste to take the letters. There was only one, but that was enclosed in a neat, square envelope, of better quality than often came to Plowden’s Court, and bearing on the flap a crest and monogram in delicate neutral color. It was addressed to herself, and bore the Oxford postmark. Faith guessed at once from whom it must come; but none the less she tore it open with quivering fingers and read it eagerly.
“My dear Faith,” it began, for that night at the country inn had made Mrs. Douglas feel quite at home with the national schoolmistress, “I hope you haven’t altogether forgotten your implied promise to come and see me at Oxford this term.”
“How can she say so,” thought Faith, “the wicked thing, when I told her again and again, a dozen times over, it was absolutely impossible?” But that was part of Mrs. Douglas’ insinuating cleverness.
“Well, my dear little Cornish friend, Nea Blair, who met your brother Paul at Mentone last winter, and was so charmed with him, is coming up to stay with us week after next; and, as I think it would be nicer for both you girls to have a little society of your own age, so as not to be entirely dependent on an old married woman like me for entertainment, I want you to manage so that your visit may coincide with hers, and then, you know, the same set of festivities will do for both of you. Now, isn’t that economical? So mind you don’t disappoint us, as dozens of undergraduates, who have seen the photo you gave me, are dying to make your personal acquaintance, and some of them are rich, and as beautiful as Adonis. Please recollect I’ll stand no excuses, and least of all any that have any nonsense in them. Write by return and tell me, not whether you can come or not — that’s settled already — but by what train on Wednesday week we may expect to see you. Mr. Douglas will go down to the station to bring you up. No refusal allowed.
“Ever yours affectionately, “ELEANOR MARY DOUGLAS.”
Then came a peculiarly fetching P. S.:
“As I have some reason to believe that your brother Paul has a sneaking regard for my little friend Nea, I think it may be just as well you should come at once and form an opinion about her desirability as a possible sister-in-law, before Mr. Gascoyne has irrevocably committed himself to her without obtaining your previous approbation and consent.”
Faith laid down the letter on the bed before her, and burst at once into a fierce flood of tears.
It was so terrible to stand so near the accomplishment of a dream of years, and yet to feel its realization utterly unattainable!
Ever since Paul first went to Oxford it had been the dearest wish of Faith’s heart to pay him a visit there. Every time he came back to that narrow world of Hillborough with tidings of all he had seen and done since he had last been home — of the sights, and the sports, and the wines, and the breakfasts, of the free young life and movement of Oxford, of the colleges and the quads, and the walks and the gardens, and of the meadows thronged on Show Sunday, of the barges laden with folk for the boat-races — the longing to join in it all, for once in her life, had grown deeper and deeper in poor Faith’s bosom. It was so painful to think how near that bright little world was brought to her and yet how distant still, how impossible, how unattainable! To Paul, her own brother whom she loved so dearly, and from whom she had learned so much, it was all a mere matter of everyday experience; but to her, his sister, flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, it. was like the vague murmur of some remote sphere into which she could never, never penetrate. And now, the mere receipt of this easy invitation made her feel more than ever the vastness of the gulf that separated her from Oxford. Though Paul was in it and of it, as of right, to her it must forever be as Paradise to the Peri.
So she burst into tears of pure unhappiness.
She couldn’t accept. Of course she couldn’t accept. For her to go to Oxford was simply impossible. It was all very well for Mrs. Douglas to say, in her glib fashion, “I’ll stand no excuses.” That’s always the way with these grand folks. They get into the habit of thinking everybody else can manage things as easily and simply as they can. But how on earth could Faith leave the infants in the middle of the term? To say nothing at all about all the other manifold difficulties which stood like lions in the way — how could she get her place filled up by proxy? how could she afford to pay her fare to Oxford and back, after having already allowed herself a trip this year down to Dorsetshire for Christmas? and, above all, how could she provide herself with those needful frocks for day and night which she must needs wear at so grand a place as Mrs. Douglas’, if she didn’t wish utterly to disgrace Paul in the eyes of the entire University of Oxford?
All these manifold impossibilities rose up before poor Faith’s eyes as she read that exasperating, tantalizing letter, and filled them with tears from some interminable reservoir.
And yet how tempting the invitation itself was! And, barring that constant factor of the insensibility of “grand people” to their neighbors’ limitations, how kindly and nicely Mrs. Douglas had written to her!
Faith would have given a great deal (if she’d got it) to be able to accept that cordial offer and see Oxford. But then, she hadn’t got it, and that was just the difficulty. There was the rub, as Hamlet puts it. The golden apple was dangled almost within her reach, yet not even on tiptoe could she hope to attain to it.
When her father came to see the letter at breakfast time, however, to Faith’s great and unspeakable surprise he turned it over, and, looking across to Mrs. Gascoyne, said thoughtfully:
“Well, Missus?”
There was interrogation in his tone which drove Faith half frantic.
“Well, Emery?” his wife answered with the same intonation.
“Couldn’t us manage this any ‘ow, mother?” the British baronet continued, looking hard at the monogram.
“No, we couldn’t, Emery, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Gascoyne made answer.
And that was all Faith heard about it then. Her heart sank once more like lead to the recesses of her bosom.
But as soon as she was gone to endure the infants once more, as best she might, the baronet paused as he pulled on
his boots, in preparation for meeting the 8.40 down, and observed mysteriously to his better half in a confidential undertone, with a nod toward the door whence Faith had just issued, “You don’t think we could do it, then, mother, don’t you?”
Mrs. Gascoyne hesitated. “It’d cost a power o’ money, Emery,” she answered dubiously.
The baronet gazed at the fire with an abstracted air. “We’ve made very great sacrifices for our Paul, missus,” he said with emphasis, after a short pause, during which he seemed to be screwing himself up for action; “we’ve made very great sacrifices for our Paul, haven’t us?”
“Yes, Emery,” his wife answered, with a wistful look. “I don’t deny we’ve made very great sacrifices.” And then she relapsed for a moment in thoughtful silence.
“‘Taint as if we was bound to pay every penny we get to Solomons,” the husband and father went on again. “Now Paul’s of age, ‘e’s took over a part of the responsibility, mother.”
“That’s so, Emery,” Mrs. Gascoyne assented.
“The way I look at it is this,” the baronet went on, glancing up argumentatively, and beating time with his pipe to the expression of his opinion, like one who expects to encounter more opposition. “We’ve made very great sacrifices for Paul, we ‘ave, an’ wy shouldn’t us expeck to make some sort o’ sacrifices for Faith as well? That’s ‘ow I putts it.”
“There’s reason in that, no doubt,” Mrs. Gascoyne admitted, very timorously.
“Now there’s that bill o’ the colonel’s,” her husband continued in a most pugnacious tone, taking down his ledger. “Seventeen pound, fourteen, and tuppence — bin owin’ ever since Christmas twelvemonth. If only the colonel could be got to pay up like a man — and I’ll arst him myself this very day — Faith won’t go becos he always swears at ‘er — there aint no reason as I can see wy Faith mightn’t be let go up to Oxford.” —
