The Bertrams

  CHAPTER II.

  BREAKFAST AND LUNCH.

  Wilkinson took the pen in his hand and bent himself over the paperas though he were going to write; but not an ink-mark fell upon thepaper. How should he write it? The task might have been comparativelylight to him but for that dreadful debt. Bertram in the meantimetossed over the pages of his book, looking every now and then at hiswatch; and then turning sharply round, he exclaimed, "Well!"

  "I wish you'd leave me," said Wilkinson; "I'd rather be alone."

  "May I be doomed to live and die a don if I do; which style of life,next to that of an English bishop, I look on as the most contemptiblein the world. The Queen's royal beef-eaters come next; but that, Ithink, I could endure, as their state of do-nothingness is not soabsolute a quantity. Come; how far have you got? Give me the paper,and I'll write you a letter in no time."

  "Thank you; I'd rather write my own letter."

  "That's just what I want you to do, but you won't;" and then againhe turned for two minutes to the "Frogs." "Well--you see you don'twrite. Come, we'll both have a try at it, and see who'll have donefirst. I wonder whether my father is expecting a letter from me?"And, so saying, he seized hold of pen and paper and began to write.

  My dearest Father,

  This weary affair is over at last. You will be sorry to hear that the event is not quite as well as it might have been as far as I am concerned. I had intended to be a first, and, lo! I am only a second. If my ambition had been confined to the second class, probably I might have come out a first. I am very sorry for it, chiefly for your sake; but in these days no man can count on the highest honours as a certainty. As I shall be home on Tuesday, I won't say any more. I can't give you any tidings about the fellowships yet. Bertram has had his old luck again. He sends his love to mamma and the girls.

  Your very affectionate son,

  ARTHUR WILKINSON.

  "There, scribble that off; it will do just as well as anything else."

  Poor Wilkinson took the paper, and having read it, to see that itcontained no absurdity, mechanically copied the writing. He merelyadded one phrase, to say that his friend's "better luck" consistedin his being the only double-first of his year, and one shortpostscript, which he took good care that Bertram should not see; andthen he fastened his letter and sent it to the post.

  "Tell mamma not to be very unhappy." That was the postscript which headded.

  That letter was very anxiously expected at the vicarage of HurstStaple. The father was prepared to be proud of his successful son;and the mother, who had over and over again cautioned him not tooverwork himself, was anxious to know that his health was good. Shehad but little fear as to his success; her fear was that he shouldcome home thin, pale, and wan.

  Just at breakfast-time the postman brought the letter, and theyoungest girl running out on to the gravel brought it up to herexpectant father.

  "It is from Arthur," said she; "isn't it, papa? I'm sure I know hishandwriting."

  The vicar, with a little nervousness, opened it, and in half a minutethe mother knew that all was not right.

  "Is he ill?" said she; "do tell me at once."

  "Ill! no; he's not ill."

  "Well, what is it? He has not lost his degree?"

  "He has not been plucked, papa, has he?" said Sophia.

  "Oh, no; he has got his degree--a second in classics!--that's all;"and he threw the letter over to his wife as he went on buttering histoast.

  "He'll be home on Tuesday," said Mary, the eldest girl, looking overher mother's shoulder.

  "And so George is a double-first," said Mrs. Wilkinson.

  "Yes," said the vicar, with his mouth full of toast; not evincing anygreat satisfaction at the success of his late pupil.

  When the mother read the short postscript her heart was touched, andshe put her handkerchief up to her face.

  "Poor Arthur! I am sure it has not been his own fault."

  "Mamma, has George done better than Arthur?" said one of the youngergirls. "George always does do better, I think; doesn't he?"

  "He has made himself too sure of it," said the father, in almostan angry tone. Not that he was angry; he was vexed, rather, as hewould be if his wheat crop failed, or his potatoes did not come upproperly.

  But he felt no sympathy with his son. It never occurred to him tothink of the agony with which those few lines had been written; ofthe wretchedness of the young heart which had hoped so much andfailed so greatly; of the misery which the son felt in disappointingthe father. He was a good, kind parent, who spent his long days andlonger nights in thinking of his family and their welfare; he would,too, have greatly triumphed in the triumph of his son; but it wentbeyond his power of heart to sympathize with him in his misery.

  "Do not seem to be vexed with him when he comes home," said themother.

  "Vexed with him! you mean angry. Of course, I'm not angry. He hasdone his best, I suppose. It's unlucky, that's all."

  And then the breakfast was continued in silence.

  "I don't know what he's to do," said the father, after awhile; "he'llhave to take a curacy, I suppose."

  "I thought he meant to stop up at Oxford and take pupils," said Mary.

  "I don't know that he can get pupils now. Besides, he'll not have afellowship to help him."

  "Won't he get a fellowship at all, papa?"

  "Very probably not, I should think." And then the family finishedtheir meal in silence.

  It certainly is not pleasant to have one's hopes disappointed; butMr. Wilkinson was hardly just in allowing himself to be so extremelyput about by his son's failure in getting the highest honours. Didhe remember what other fathers feel when their sons are plucked? or,did he reflect that Arthur had, at any rate, done much better thannineteen out of every twenty young men that go up to Oxford? But thenMr. Wilkinson had a double cause for grief. Had George Bertram failedalso, he might perhaps have borne it better.

  As soon as the letter had been written and made up, Wilkinsonsuffered himself to be led out of the room.

  "And now for Parker's," said Bertram; "you will be glad to seeHarcourt."

  "Indeed, I shall not. Harcourt's all very well; but just at present,I would much rather see nobody."

  "Well, then, he'll be glad to see you; and that will be quite thesame thing. Come along."

  Mr. Harcourt was a young barrister but lately called to the bar, whohad been at Oxford spending his last year when Bertram and Wilkinsonwere freshmen; and having been at Bertram's college, he had beenintimate with both of them. He was now beginning to practise, and mensaid that he was to rise in the world. In London he was still a veryyoung man; but at Oxford he was held to be one who, from his threeyears' life in town, had become well versed in the world's ways. Hewas much in the habit of coming to Oxford, and when there usuallyspent a good deal of his time with George Bertram.

  And so Wilkinson walked forth into the street arm and arm with hiscousin. It was a grievous trial to him; but he had a feeling withinhim that the sooner the sorrow was encountered the sooner it wouldbe over. They turned into the High Street, and as they went they metcrowds of men who knew them both. Of course it was to be expectedthat Bertram's friends should congratulate him. But this was not theworst; some of them were so ill advised as to condole with Wilkinson.

  "Get it over at once," whispered Bertram to him, "and then it will beover, now and for ever."

  And then they arrived at Parker's, and there found all those whomBertram had named, and many others. Mr. Parker was, it is believed,a pastrycook by trade; but he very commonly dabbled in more piquantluxuries than jam tarts or Bath buns. Men who knew what was what, andwho were willing to pay--or to promise to pay--for their knowledge,were in the habit of breakfasting there, and lunching. Now abreakfast or a lunch at Parker's generally meant champagne.

  Harcourt was seated on the table when they got into the back room,and the other men were standing.

  "Sound the timbrels, beat the drums; See the con
qu'ring hero comes,"

  he sung out as Bertram entered the room. "Make way for thedouble-first--the hero of the age, gentlemen! I am told that theymean to put up an alabaster statue to him in the Common Room atTrinity. However, I will vote for nothing more expensive thanmarble."

  "Make it in pie-crust," said Bertram, "and let Parker be the artist."

  "Yes; and we'll celebrate the installation with champagne and _patede foie gras_," said Twisleton.

  "And afterwards devour the object of our idolatry, to show howshort-lived is the fame for which we work so hard," said Madden.

  "I should be delighted at such tokens of your regard, gentlemen.Harcourt, you haven't seen Wilkinson."

  Harcourt turned round and shook hands warmly with his other friend."Upon my word, I did not see you, Master Wilkinson. You have such ahabit of hiding yourself under a bushel that one always misses you.Well; so the great day is over, and the great deed done. It's a boreout of the way, trampled under foot and got rid of; that's my idea ofa degree."

  Wilkinson merely smiled; but Harcourt saw at once that he was adeeply-disappointed man. The barrister, however, was too much a manof the world either to congratulate him or condole with him.

  "There are fewer firsts this year than there have been for thelast nine years," said Gerard, thinking to soften the asperity ofWilkinson's position.

  "That may be because the examiners required more, or because the menhad less to give," said Madden, forgetting all about Wilkinson.

  "Why, what noodles you are," said Bertram, "not to know that it's allsettled by chance at roulette the night before the lists come down!If it's not, it ought to be. The average result would be just asfair. Come, Harcourt, I know that you, with your Temple experiences,won't drink Oxford wine; but your good nature will condescend tosee the children feeding. Wilkinson, sit opposite there and giveTwisleton some of that pie that he was talking of." And so they satdown to their banquet; and Harcourt, in spite of the refinement whichLondon had doubtless given to his taste, seemed perfectly able toappreciate the flavour of the University vintage.

  "Gentlemen, silence for one moment," said Harcourt, when the graverwork of eating began to lull, and men torpidly peeled their pears,and then cut them up into shapes instead of eating them. "It isalways said at all the breakfasts I go to--"

  "This is not a breakfast," said Bertram, "it's a lunch."

  "Well, all the lunches, then; and God bless you. It's always said atthese matutinal meals--which, by-the-by, would be the nicest thingsin the world, only one doesn't know what on earth to do when they'reover."

  "It's time to go to dinner then," said Twisleton.

  "That may do for the '_dura ilia_' of a freshman, but now that you'rea B.A., you'll find that that power fails you greatly. But, forheaven's sake, let me go on with my speech, or you'll not get awayeither to dinner or to supper. It is commonly declared, I say,that there should be no speaking at these delicious little morningrepasts."

  "Do you call that a little repast?" said Madden, who was lying backin his chair with a cigar in his mouth, of which he hardly hadstrength enough left to puff out the smoke.

  "I mean no offence to the feed, which, of its kind, has been onlytoo good. If I'm to be allowed to go on, I'll say, that this rule,which is always laid down, is always broken; and therefore I feelno hesitation in breaking it on this occasion. A long speech is along bore, and a little speech is a little bore; but bores mustbe endured. We can't do very well without them. Now my bore shallbe a very short bore if I'm allowed to make an end of it withoutinterruption."

  "All right, Harcourt," said Bertram. "Go ahead; we're only toodelighted to hear you. It isn't every day we have a London barristerhere."

  "No; and it isn't every day that we have a double-first at oldTrinity. Gentlemen, there are, I think, five, six Trinity men hereincluding myself. It will be a point of honour with you to drinkhealth and prosperity to our friend Bertram with all the honours.We have many men of whom we can boast at Trinity; but if I have anyinsight into character, any power of judging what a man will do"--itmust be remembered that Mr. Harcourt, though a very young man inLondon, was by no means a young man at Oxford--"there have been veryfew before him who have achieved a higher place than will fall to hislot, or whose name will be more in men's mouths than his. There arealso here four gentlemen of other colleges; they will not, I am sure,begrudge us our triumph; they are his old friends, and will be asproud of the Oxford man as we are of the Trinity man. Gentlemen, hereis prosperity to our friend the double-first, and health to enjoy thefruits of his labour."

  Whereupon the toast was drunk with a great deal of fervour. It wasastonishing that ten men should make so much uproar; even Wilkinson,whose heart the wine had just touched sufficiently to raise it alittle from the depth to which it had fallen--even he cheered; andMadden, overcoming by degrees his not unnatural repugnance to rise,produced from certain vast depths a double-bass hurrah.

  "Bertram," said he, when the voices and glasses were once moresilent, "you're a credit to your college, and I've a regard for you;so I don't mind running the risk for once. But I must beg that I maynot be asked to repeat it."

  Bertram of course returned thanks to his guests with all the mawkishmodesty which usually marks such speeches--or, rather, with modestywhich would be mawkish were it not so completely a matter of course.And then he sat down; and then, with a face rather heightened incolour, he got upon his legs again.

  "In spite of Madden's difficulty of utterance," said he, "and hisvery visible disinclination to move--"

  "I'm not going to do any more shouting," said Madden, "even thoughyou propose the health of the chancellor, vice-chancellor, and twomembers."

  "Not even though he throws the proctor's into the bargain," saidTwisleton.

  "You may shout or not as you like; but at the risk of giving sometemporary pain to as good a friend as I have in the world, I will askyou to drink the health of one whom on this occasion fortune has notfavoured--I mean my cousin, Arthur Wilkinson. The lists as they comedown are, I dare say, made out with tolerable fairness. It is not atany rate for me to grumble at them. But of this I am quite sure, thatdid there exist some infallible test for finding out the best man,no man's name in this year would have been placed before his. He isnot so jovial as the rest of us now, because he has partly failed;but the time will come when he will not fail." And then ArthurWilkinson's health was toasted with a somewhat bated enthusiasm, butstill with sufficient _eclat_ to make every glass in Mr. Parker'shouse ring on its shelf.

  Poor Wilkinson's ears tingled when he heard his name pronounced; andhe would at the moment have given anything to be allowed to be quiet.But it may be doubted whether he would not have been more hurt had hebeen left there without any notice. It is very hard to tune oneselfaright to a disappointed man. "I'll break the ice for him, at anyrate," said Bertram to himself. "When he's used to talk about it, hewill suffer less."

  Wilkinson had been accounted a good hand at speaking in the debatingsociety, and though rather more prolix than Bertram, and not quiteso vivacious, had been considered almost more than a match for hiscousin on account of his superior erudition and more practiseddelivery; but now his voluble gift of words deserted him. "He wasmuch obliged to them," he said; "though perhaps, on the whole, it wasbetter that men who placed themselves in a mediocre condition shouldbe left to their mediocrity. He had no doubt himself of the justnessof the lists. It would be useless for him to say that he had notaspired; all the world"--it was all the world to him--"knew toowell that he had aspired. But he had received a lesson which mightprobably be useful to him for the rest of his life. As for failing,or not failing, that depended on the hopes which a man might form forhimself. He trusted that his would henceforth be so moderate in theirnature as to admit of a probability of their being realized." Havinguttered these very lugubrious words, and almost succeeded in throwinga wet blanket over the party, he sat down.

  "Now, you're not going to do anybody else, are you?" said Madden.

&n
bsp; "Only Twisleton, and Gerard, and Hopgood," answered Bertram; "andFortescue looks as if he expected it. Perhaps, however, he'll let usoff till the day after to-morrow."

  And then, with a round of milk punch, another cigar apiece, and alittle more chat, the party broke up.

  Bertram and Harcourt remained together, and Bertram endeavoured toinduce Wilkinson to stay with them. He, however, wished to be alone,and got home to his college by himself.

  "You always overrated that man," said Harcourt.

  "I think not; but time will show. After all, a good degree is noteverything in the world. Who in London cares about senior wranglersand double-firsts? When all is done, I don't see the use of it."

  "Nobody cares much about wranglers and double-firsts; but these arethe men, nevertheless, who get the best of what's going. Wood thatwill swim in one water will swim in all waters."

  "You'll find Wilkinson will swim yet."

  "That is, he won't sink. I don't say he will. Nine-tenths of the menin the world neither swim nor sink; they just go along with theirbows above the wave, but dreadfully water-logged, barely able tocarry the burdens thrown on them; but yet not absolutely sinking;fighting a hard fight for little more than mere bread, and forgettingall other desires in their great desire to get that. When such a mandoes get bread, he can't be said to sink."

  "Ah! Wilkinson will do more than that."

  "Something more, or something less, as the case may be. But, believeme, he is not the man to make other men fall before him. Industryalone never does that, and certainly not that sort of industrywhich breaks down once in every six months. But come, Mr. Parker'schampagne makes my head buzz: let us take a walk up the river;Twisleton's idea of going to dinner requires far too much pluck forme."

  And so they walked out along the towing-path, discussing many thingsof much importance to them.

  "There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."

  In nine cases out of ten, this flood-tide comes _but_ once in life,and then in early years. A man may have a second or a third chancefor decent maintenance, but hardly a second chance for fortune'sbrighter favours. The horse that is to win the race needs not makeall his best running at once; but he that starts badly will rarely doso. When a young man discusses what shall be his future walk in life,he is talking of all that concerns his success as far as this worldis concerned. And it is so hard for a youth to know, to make evena fair guess, as to what his own capacities are! The right man iswanted in the right place; but how is a lad of two and twenty tosurmise what place will be right for him? And yet, if he surmiseswrong, he fails in taking his tide at its single flood. How manylawyers are there who should have been soldiers! how many clergymenwho should have been lawyers! how many unsuccessful doctors who mighthave done well on 'Change, or in Capel Court!

  Bertram had an inkling of this; and Harcourt had more than aninkling. His path in life was chosen, and he had much self-confidencethat he had chosen it well. He had never doubted much, and since hehad once determined had never doubted at all. He had worked hard, andwas prepared to work hard; not trusting over much in his own talents,but trusting greatly in his own industry. But Bertram, with doublehis friend's genius, had, at any rate as yet, but little of hisfriend's stability. To him the world was all before him where tochoose; but he was sadly in want of something that should guide hischoice. He had a high, but at the same time a vague ambition. Thelaw, the church, letters, art, and politics all enticed him; buthe could not decide of which mistress the blandishments were thesweetest.

  "Well, when shall we have you up in London?" said Harcourt.

  "In London! I don't know that I shall go to London. I shall go downto Hadley for a few weeks of course"--Bertram's uncle lived at thevillage of that name, in the close vicinity of Barnet--"but what Ishall do then, I don't in the least know."

  "But I know you'll come to London and begin to keep your terms."

  "What, at the Middle Temple?"

  "At some Temple or some Inn: of course you won't go where anybodyelse goes; so probably it will be Gray's Inn."

  "No, I shall probably do a much more commonplace thing; come backhere and take orders."

  "Take orders! You! You can no more swallow the thirty-nine articlesthan I can eat Twisleton's dinner."

  "A man never knows what he can do till he tries. A great deal ofgood may be done by a clergyman if he be in earnest and not too muchwedded to the Church of England. I should have no doubt about it ifthe voluntary principle were in vogue."

  "A voluntary fiddlestick!"

  "Well, even a voluntary fiddlestick--if it be voluntary and wellused."

  "Of course you'll be a barrister. It is what you are cut out for, andwhat you always intended."

  "It is the most alluring trade going, I own;--but then they are allsuch rogues. Of course you will be an exception."

  "I shall do at Rome as Romans do--I hope always. My doctrine is, thatwe have no immutable law of right and wrong."

  "A very comfortable code. I wish I could share it."

  "Well, you will some of these days; indeed, you do now practically.But the subject is too long to talk of here. But as I know you won'tgo into the church, I expect to see you settled in London beforeChristmas."

  "What am I to live on, my dear fellow?"

  "Like all good nephews, live on your uncle. Besides, you will haveyour fellowship; live on that, as I do."

  "You have more than your fellowship; and as for my uncle, to tell youthe truth, I have no fancy for living on him. I am not quite surethat he doesn't mean me to think that it's charity. However, I shallhave the matter out with him now."

  "Have the matter out with him!--and charity! What an ass you are! Anuncle is just the same as a father."

  "My uncle is not the same to me as my father."

  "No; and by all accounts it's lucky for you that he is not. Stick toyour uncle, my dear fellow, and come up to London. The ball will beat your foot."

  "Did you ever read Marryat's novel, Harcourt?"

  "What, Peter Simple?"

  "No, that other one: I think of going out as another Japhet in searchof a father. I have a great anxiety to know what mine's like. It'sfourteen years now since I saw him."

  "He is at Teheran, isn't he?"

  "At Hong Kong, I think, just at present; but I might probably catchhim at Panama; he has something to do with the isthmus there."

  "You wouldn't have half the chance that Japhet had, and would onlylose a great deal of time. Besides, if you talk of means, that wouldwant money."

  They were now walking back towards Oxford, and had been talking aboutfifty indifferent subjects, when Bertram again began.

  "After all, there's only one decent career for a man in England."

  "And what is the one decent career?"

  "Politics and Parliament. It's all very well belonging to a freenation, and ruling oneself, if one can be one of the rulers.Otherwise, as far as I can see, a man will suffer less from thestings of pride under an absolute monarch. There, only one man hasbeaten you in life; here, some seven hundred and fifty do so,--not totalk of the peers."

  "Yes, but then a fellow has some chance of being one of the sevenhundred and fifty."

  "I shall go in for that, I think; only who the deuce will return me?How does a man begin? Shall I send my compliments to the electors ofMarylebone, and tell them that I am a very clever fellow?"

  "Exactly; only do something first to show that you are so. I meanalso to look to that; but I shall be well contented if I find myselfin the house in twenty years' time,--or perhaps in thirty."

  "Ah, you mean as a lawyer."

  "How else should a man without property get into Parliament?"

  "That's just what I want to know. But I have no idea, Harcourt, ofwaiting twenty years before I make my start in life. A man at anyrate may write a book without any electors."

  "Yes, but not have it read. The author who does any good must beelected by suffrages at least as honestly ob
tained as those of amember of Parliament."