by Ouida
They were totally dissimilar, and far asunder in position; but an affair on the slope of the Matterhorn, when the boy had saved the elder man’s life, had riveted attachment between them, and bridged over the difference of their academical rank.
The Commencement came and went, with its speeches, and its H.R.H. Chancellor, and its pretty women gliding among the elms of Neville’s Court (poor Leslie Ellis’s daily haunt), filling the grim benches of the Senate House, and flitting past the carved benches of King’s Chapel. Granta was henceforth a desert to all Cambridge belles; they could walk down Trumpington Street without meeting a score of little straw hats, and Trumpington Street became as odious as Sahara; the “darling Backs” were free to them, and, of course, they who, by all relations, from those of Genesis to those of Vanity Fair, have never cared, save for fruit défendu, saw nothing to admire in the trees, and grass, and river, minus outriggers and collegians. There was a general exodus: Masters’ red hoods, Fellows Commoners’ gold-lace, Fellows’ gown and mortar boards, morning chapel surplices, and under-grads’ straw-hats and cutaway coats, all vanished from court and library, street and cloister. Cambridge was empty; the married Dons and their families went off to country-houses or Rhine steamers; Fellows went touring with views to mediæval architecture, Roman remains, Greek inscriptions, Paris laisser aller, or Norwegian fishing, according to their tastes and habits; under-grads scattered themselves over the face of the globe, and were to be found in knots of two or three calling for stout in Véfour’s, kicking up a row with Austrian gendarmerie, chalking up effigies of Bomba on Italian walls, striding up every mountain from Skiddaw to the Pic du Midi, burrowing like rabbits in a warren for reading purposes on Dartmoor, kissing sunny-haired Gretchens in German hostelries, swinging through the Vaterland with knapsacks and sticks, doing a walking tour — in fact, swarming everywhere with their impossible French and hearty voices, and lithe English muscle, Granta marked on them as distinctly as an M.B. waistcoat marks an Anglican, or utter ignorance of modern politics a “great classic.”
Cambridge had emptied itself of the scores of naughty boys that lie in the arms of Mater, and on Tuesday Keane and Sydie were shaking and rattling over those dreadful nervous Eastern Counties tenders, through that picturesque and beautiful country that does permutations with such laudable perseverance on pollards, fens, and flats — flats, fens, and pollards — at the snail’s pace that, according to the E.G.R., we must believe to be “express.”
“I wrote and told the governor you were coming down with me, sir,” said Sydie, hanging up his hat. “I didn’t tell him what a trouble I had to make you throw over South America for a fortnight, and come and taste his curry at the Beeches. You’ll like the old boy; he’s as hot and choleric, and as genial and good-hearted, as any old brick that ever walked. He was born as sweet-tempered and soft-mouthed as mamma when an eldest son waltzes twice with Adeliza, and the pepper’s been put into him by the curry-powder, the gentlemanlike transportation, and the unlimited command over black devils, enjoyed by gentlemen of the H.E.I.C.S.”
“A nabob uncle,” thought Keane. “Oh, I see, yellow, dyspeptic, always boring one with ‘How to govern India,’ and recollections of ‘When I served with Napier.’ What a fool I was to let Sydie persuade me to go. A month in Lima and the Pampas would be much pleasanter.”
“He came over last year,” continued Sydie, in blissful ignorance, “and bought the Beeches, a very jolly place, only he’s crammed it with everything anybody suggested, and tried anything that any farmer recommended, so that the house and the estate present a peculiar compendium of all theories of architecture, and a general exhibition of all sorts of tastes. He’s his hobbies; pouncing on and apprehending small boys is one of ’em, for which practice he is endeared to the youth of St. Crucis as the ‘old cove,’ the ‘Injian devil,’ and like affectionate cognomens. But the General’s weak point is me — me and little Fay.”
“His mare, I suppose?”
“His mare! — bless my heart, no! — his mare!” And Sydie lay back, and laughed silently. “His mare! By George! what would she say? She’s a good deal too lively a young lady to run in harness for anybody, though she’s soft-mouthed enough when she’s led. Mare! No, Fay’s his niece — my cousin. Her father and my father went to glory when we were both smalls, and left us in legacy to the General, and a pretty pot of money the legacy has cost him.”
“Your cousin, indeed! The name’s more like a mare’s than a girl’s,” answered Keane, thinking to himself. “A cousin! I just wish I’d known that. One of those Indian girls, I bet, tanned brown as a berry, flirts à outrance, has run the gauntlet of all the Calcutta balls, been engaged to men in all the Arms, talks horridly broad Anglo-Indian-English. I know the style.”
The engine screamed, and pulled up at the St. Crucis station, some seventy miles farther on, lying in the midst of Creswickian landscapes, with woodlands, and cottages, and sweet fresh stretches of meadow-land, such as do one’s heart good after hard days and late nights in dust and gaslight.
“Deuced fine points,” said Sydie, taking the ribbons of a high-stepping bay that had brought one of the neatest possible traps to take him and Keane to the Beeches, and springing, in all his glory, to the box, than which no imperial throne could have offered to him one-half so delightful a seat. “Governor never keeps screws. What a crying shame we’re not allowed to keep the sorriest hack at King’s. That comes of gentlemen slipping into shoes that were meant for beggars. Hallo, there are the old beech-trees; I vow I can almost taste the curry and dry from looking at them.”
In dashed the bay through the park-gates, sending the shingle flying up in small simoons, and the rooks cawing in supreme surprise from their nests in the branches of the beech-trees.
“Hallo, my ancient, how are you?” began Sydie to the butler, while that stately person expanded into a smile of welcome. “Down, dog, down! ‘Pon my life, the old place looks very jolly. What have you hung all that armor up for; — to make believe our ancestors dwelt in these marble halls? How devilish dusty I am. Where’s the General? Didn’t know we were coming till next train. Fay! Fay! where are you? Ashton, where’s Miss Morton?”
“Here, Sydie dear,” cried the young lady in question, rushing across the hall with the most ecstatic delight, and throwing herself into the Cantab’s arms, who received her with no less cordiality, and kissed her straightway, regardless of the presence of Keane, the butler, and Harris.
“Oh, Sydie,” began the young lady, breathlessly, “I’m so delighted you’re come. There’s the archery fête, and a picnic at Shallowton, and an election ball over at Coverdale, and I want you to dance with me, and to try the new billiard-table, and to come and see my aviary, and to teach me pistol-shooting (because Julia Dupuis can shoot splendidly, and talks of joining the Rifles), and to show me how to do Euclid, and to amuse me, and to play with me, and to tell me which is the prettiest of Snowdrop’s pups to be saved, and to — —” She stopped suddenly, and dropped from enthusiastic tirade to subdued surprise, as she caught sight of Keane for the first time. “Oh, Sydie, why did you not introduce me to your friend? How rude I have been!”
“Mr. Keane, my cousin, the torment of my existence, Miss Morton in public, Little Fay in private life. There, you know one another now. I can’t say any more. Do tell me where the governor is.”
“Mr. Keane, what can you think of me?” cried Fay. “Any friend of Sydenham’s is most welcome to the Beeches, and my uncle will scold me frightfully for giving you such a reception. Please do forgive me, I was so delighted to see my cousin.”
“Which I can fully enter into, having a weakness for Sydie myself,” smiled Keane. “I am sure he is very fortunate in being the cause of such an excuse.”
Keane said it par complaisance, but rather carelessly; young ladies, as a class, being one of his aversions. He looked at Fay Morton, however, and saw she was not an Indianized girl after all. She was not yellow, but, au contraire, had waving fair hair, long dark eyes,
and a mischievous, sunny face —
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns,
And sweet as English air could make her.
“Where’s the governor, Fay?” reiterated Sydie.
“Here, my dear boy. Thought of your old uncle the first thing, Sydie? God bless my soul, how well you look! Confound you, why didn’t you tell me what train you were coming by? Devil take you, Ashton, why’s there no fire in the hall? Thought it was warm, did you? Hum! more fool you then.”
“Uncle dear,” said Miss Fay, “here is Sydie’s friend, Mr. Keane; you are being as rude as I have been.”
The General, at this conjuration, swung sharp round, a stout, hale, handsome old fellow, with gray moustaches and a high color, holding a spade in his hand and clad in a linen coat.
“Bless my soul, sir,” cried the General, shaking Keane’s hand with the greatest possible energy, “charmed to see you — delighted, ‘pon my honor; only hope you’re come to stay till Christmas; there are plenty of bachelors’ dens. Devil take me! of what was I thinking? I was pleased to see that boy, I suppose. More fool I, you’ll say, a lazy, good-for-nothing young dog like him. Don’t let me keep you standing in the hall. Cursed cold, isn’t it? and there’s Little Fay in muslin! Ashton, send some hot water into the west room for Mr. — Mr. —— Confound you, Sydie, why didn’t you tell — I mean introduce me? — Mr. Keane. Luncheon will be on the table in ten minutes. Like curry, Mr. Keane? There, get along, Sydie, you foolish boy; you can talk to Fay after luncheon.”
“Sydie,” whispered Fay, an hour before dinner, when she had teased the Cantab’s life out of him till he had consented to pronounce judgment on the puppies, “what a splendid head that man has you brought with you; he’d do for Plato, with that grand calm brow and lofty unapproachable look. Who is he?”
“The greatest philosopher of modern times,” responded her cousin, solemnly. “A condensation of Solon, Thales, Plutarch, Seneca, Cicero, Lucullus, Bion, Theophrastes, and Co.; such a giant of mathematical knowledge, and all other knowledge, too, that every day, when he passes under Bacon’s Gate, we are afraid the old legend will come to pass, and it will tumble down as flat as a pancake; a homage to him, but a loss to Cambridge.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Fay, impatiently. “(I like that sweet little thing with the black nose best, dear.) Who is he? What is he? How old is he? What’s his name? Where does he live?”
“Gently, young woman,” cried Sydie. “He is Tutor and Fellow of King’s, and a great gun besides; he’s some twenty-five years older than you. His name on the rolls is Gerald, I believe, and he dwells in the shadow of Mater, beyond the reach of my cornet; for which fact, not being musically inclined, he is barbarian enough to return thanks daily in chapel.”
“I am sorry he is come. It was stupid of you to bring him.”
“Wherefore, ma cousine? Are you afraid of him? You needn’t be. Young ladies are too insignificant atoms of creation for him to criticise. He’ll no more expect sense from you than from Snowdrop and her pups.”
“Afraid!” repeated Fay, with extreme indignation. “I should like to see any man of whom I should feel afraid! If he doesn’t like fun and nonsense, I pity him; but if he despise me ever so much for it, I shall enjoy myself before him, and in spite of him. I was sorry you brought him, because he will take you away when I want you all to myself; and he looks so haughty, that — —”
“You are afraid of him, Fay, and won’t own it.”
“I am not,” reiterated Fay, impetuously; “and I will smoke a cigar with him after dinner, to show you I am not one bit.”
“I bet you six pair of gloves you do no such thing, young lady.”
“Done. Do keep the one with a black nose, Sydie; and yet that little liver-colored darling is too pretty to be killed. Suppose we save them all? Snowdrop will be so pleased.”
Whereon Fay kissed all the little snub noses with the deepest affection, and was caught in the act by Keane and the General.
“There’s that child with her arms full of dogs,” said the General, beaming with satisfaction at sight of his niece. “She’s a little, spoilt, wilful thing. She’s an old bachelor’s pet, and you must make allowances. I call her the fairy of the Beeches, God bless her! She nursed me last winter, when I was at death’s door from these cursed cold winds, sir, better than Miss Nightingale could have done. What a devilish climate it is; never two days alike. I don’t wonder Englishwomen are such icicles, poor things; they’re frostbitten from their cradle upwards.”
“India warms them up, General, doesn’t it?”
The General shook with laughter.
“To be sure, to be sure; if prudery’s the fashion, they’ll wear it, sir, as they would patches or hair-powder; but they’re always uncommonly glad to leave it off and lock it out of sight when they can. What do you think of the kennels? I say, Sydie, confound you, why did you bring down any traps with you? Haven’t room for ’em, not for one. Couldn’t cram a tilbury into the coach-house.”
“A trap, governor?” said Sydie, straightening his back after examination of the pups; “can’t keep even a wall-eyed cab-horse; wish I could.”
“Where’s your drag, then?” demanded the General.
“My drag? Don’t I just wish I had one, to offer my bosom friend the V. P. a seat on the box. Calvert, of Trinity, tooled us over in his to the Spring Meetings, and his grays are the sweetest pair of goers — the leaders especially — that ever you saw in harness. We came back ‘cross country, to get in time for hall, and a pretty mess we made of it, for we broke the axle, and lamed the off-wheeler, and — —”
“But, God bless my soul,” stormed the General, excited beyond measure, “you wrote me word you were going to bring a drag down with you, and of course I supposed you meant what you said, and I had Harris in about it, and he swore the coach-house was as full of traps as ever it could hold, so I had my tax-cart and Fay’s phaeton turned into one of the stalls, and then, after all, it comes out you’ve never brought it! Devil take you, Sydie, why can’t you be more thoughtful — —”
“But, my dear governor — —”
“Nonsense; don’t talk to me!” cried the General, trying to work himself into a passion, and diving into the recesses of six separate pockets one after another. “Look here, sir, I suppose you’ll believe your own words? Here it is in black and white.— ‘P. S. I shall bring my Coach down with me.’ There, what do you say now? Confound you, what are you laughing at? I don’t see anything to laugh at. In my day, young fellows didn’t make fools of old men in this way. Bless my soul, why the devil don’t you leave off laughing, and talk a little common sense? The thing’s plain enough.— ‘P.S. I shall bring my Coach down with me.’”
“So I have,” said Sydie, screaming with laughter. “Look at him — he’s a first-rate Coach, too! Wheels always oiled, and ready for any road; always going up hill, and never caught coming down; started at a devil of a pace, and now keeps ahead of all other vehicles on all highways. A first-class Coach, that will tool me through the tortuous lanes and treacherous pitfalls of the Greats with flying colors. My Coach! Bravo, General! that’s the best bit of fun I’ve had since I dressed up like Sophonisba Briggs, and led the V. P. a dance all round the quad, every hair on his head standing erect in his virtuous indignation at the awful morals of his college.”
“Eh, what?” grunted the General, light beginning to dawn upon him. “Do you mean Mr. Keane? Hum! how’s one to be up to all your confounded slang? How could I know? Devil take you, Sydie, why can’t you write common English? You young fellows talk as bad jargon as Sepoys. You’re sure I’m delighted to see you, Mr. Keane, though I did make the mistake.”
“Thank you, General,” said Keane; “but it’s rather cool of you, Master Sydie, to have forced me on to your uncle’s hands without his wish or his leave.”
“Not at all, not at all,” swore the General, with vehement cordiality. “I gave him carte blanche to ask whom he would, and unexpected guests are alwa
ys most welcome; not that you were unexpected though, for I’d told that boy to be sure and bring somebody down here — —”
“And have had the tax-cart and my phaeton turned out to make comfortable quarters for him,” said Miss Fay, with a glance at The Coach to see how he took chaff, “and I only hope Mr. Keane may like his accommodation.”
“Perhaps, Miss Morton,” said Keane, smiling, “I shall like it so well that you will have to say to me as poor Voltaire to his troublesome abbé, ‘Don Quichotte prenait les auberges pour les châteaux, mais vous avez pris les châteaux pour les auberges.’”
“Tiresome man,” thought Fay. “I wish Sydie hadn’t brought him here; but I shall do as I always do, however grand and supercilious he may look. He has lived among all those men and books till he has grown as cold as granite. What a pity it is people don’t enjoy existence as I do!”
“You are thinking, Miss Morton,” said Keane, as he walked on beside her, with an amused glance at her face, which was expressive enough of her thoughts, “that if your uncle is glad to see me, you are not, and that Sydie was very stupid not to bring down one of his kindred spirits instead of —— Don’t disclaim it now; you should veil your face if you wish your thoughts not to be read.”
“I was not going to disclaim it,” said Fay, quickly looking up at him with a rapid glance, half penitence, half irritation. “I always tell the truth; but I was not thinking exactly that; I don’t want any of Sydie’s friends — I detest boys — but I certainly was thinking that as you look down on everything that we all delight in, I fancied you and the Beeches will hardly agree. If I am rude, you must not be angry; you wanted me to tell you the truth.”
Keane smiled again.
“Do I look down on the things you delight in? I hardly know enough of you, as we have only addressed about six syllables to each other, to be able to judge what you like and what you don’t like; but certainly I must admit, that caressing the little round heads of those puppies yonder, which seemed to afford you such extreme rapture, would not be any source of remarkable gratification to me.”