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CHAPTER IV
THE EIGHTS

April slipped away, and it was the evening of the 30th. Frank had dined in Hall; he had been to all his lectures that morning. He knew the work for the next day. There was no need, therefore, he thought, for further work. Turning out of the Lodge-gates, hardly knowing where he was going, he strolled into the High; and just by Spiers’ he met a new acquaintance—Morton, of Magdalen.

“Where are you off, Ross?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” answered Frank; “nowhere particular.”

The fact is, Frank had been drifting of late into these evening rambles to “nowhere particular.” And a good deal of time they occupied too.

“You’d better come down to my rooms. I’ve got one or two fellows coming in for a hand at whist.”

Frank, not being the impossible model young man of the story-books, did not resist the invitation, but, linking his arm into Morton’s, went off to Magdalen. The April night was not so warm that a fire was not pleasant. Morton’s rooms were in the old quad, looking out towards the new buildings and the deer-park. The curtains were drawn and the lights burning. Several little tables were laid with dessert, and one cleared in the centre of the room, with packs of cards upon it. There were about a dozen men present.

Dessert over, cards began; but it was not whist. Everybody voted that slow. Frank himself thought that he never had played so enticing a game as loo. When he knocked in that night at five minutes to twelve, he fancied the porter eyed him suspiciously and knew that he had returned minus a few pounds and plus a racking headache. His suspicions were right. Few read more rightly or more quickly the character and career of the undergraduates than the porters who open to them nightly.

But, in spite of his headache, Frank managed to be up at four o’clock next morning. He had accepted Morton’s invitation to breakfast at six, after hearing the choir sing the May-Morning Hymn on the college tower. George, the porter, as he opened the Lodge-gates to Frank and others, thought, in spite of his pale face, that he at least could not have been up to much mischief last night, or he would not have been up so early after it. And George, usually infallible, began to retract his last night’s opinion.

As he stood on the leads and looked down through the grey battlements on the faint fresh green that was brightening the trees in the Botanical Gardens; on the distant spires and towers; and on the less fortunate crowds in the street below; and as the sweet voices of the choir rose and blended through the soft morning air, a feeling, whether it was regret or remorse he hardly knew, came over him. Anyhow he felt that this was a sweeter, purer pleasure than the gambling of last night, and confessed to himself that he had been “an utter fool for his pains.”

It was a blazing afternoon about the end of May. The river—meaning thereby the Isis, the main river, to distinguish it from its tributary the Cherwell—was deserted save for a few energetic men in outrigged skiffs practising for sculling races, and the boatmen, in charge of the various college barges, sweltering in the sun, and, as fast as the heat would allow them, making preparations for the work of the evening. The Cherwell, with its slow, shady stream, its winding banks and drooping trees, was the favourite resort, but even here all was quiet. Every now and then a canoe flashed by lazily, or a punt plunged up in search of some cool nook. There was a momentary disturbance, perhaps, as it bumped against one already moored; and pairs of sleepy eyes would look up to scowl at the new-comer, if a stranger; or greet him lazily if a friend.

Just in one of the pleasantest corners, Frank and Monkton had fixed their craft, and were lying face upwards on a couple of enormous cushions—Monkton smoking or pretending to smoke; Frank reading or pretending to read.

“Are you going to stay for the Eights?” asked Monkton.

“Rather,” answered Frank. “Why? aren’t you?”

“No, not I! In the first place, I don’t care about them; and in the second place, I’ve promised Morton to drive to Abingdon at seven. It’ll be getting cool then.”

“It seems to me you’re rather fond of going to Abingdon,” answered Frank. “What’s the attraction?”

“My dear boy, ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies”—and at that moment a punt ran right into them.

“Now then, sir, look ahead!” spluttered Monkton as their punt was nearly upset, and his cigar falling from his mouth burnt a small hole in his flannel trousers. The intruder apologized and plunged on again to disturb the rest of other unlucky beings.

“Well,” went on Frank, “I’m glad I’ve not to pay your bill for pony-traps, that’s all.”

“Oh, well, as far as that goes,” retorted Monkton, waking up a little, “that don’t trouble me. I patronize the trustful Traces, and I’m sure the trustful one would be quite embarrassed if I offered to pay him; so I don’t. That’s all.”

“Does your governor give you an allowance?” asked Frank.

“Not he. He told me not to get into debt, and to send in the bills. And a fellow can’t live like a hermit. I’ve always had a horse at home, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one here. But I’m not proud, and so I hire a pony instead, and I’m sure the old man ought not to mind.”

“Come out of that, you lazy young beggar!” called a voice in Frank’s ears, and looking up he saw Crawford in one of those little cockle-shells in which Mr. Verdant Green so highly distinguished himself—“Aren’t you coming down to see the Eights?”

Monkton looked at Crawford with that expression of half insolence, half fear, which characterizes so many freshmen, and drawled out,—

“Yes; Ross is going. He’s so energetic, you know.”

“That’s a blessing, at all events,” answered Crawford, “as long as there are fellows like you, about.”

“By Jove!” said Frank, pulling out his watch, “it’s getting late. If you’re going to Abingdon at seven, Monkton, you’ll have to look sharp.”

“Going to Abingdon?” asked Crawford, half to himself, and getting no answer from Monkton.

“Look here! I say, you fellows! can’t you manage to get this punt back to the barges, and let me cut up through the meadows?” said Monkton. “I promised to be in Morton’s rooms at half-past six, and it’s just on six now.”

“All right,” said Frank, “Crawford will help me back with the punt”—really glad to get rid of him, for his younger and his older friend did not hit it off exactly.

“It strikes me that young man is beginning rather early,” said Crawford paternally, as he lashed his boat to the punt and got in, much to Frank’s relief, for it was his first day in a punt.

The latter did not say much, for he had himself commenced various extensive dealings with the trustful tradesmen—trustful, that is, for two years, but most distrustful afterwards—and he feared questioning and an inevitable lecture from Crawford.

By the time they reached the barges, the river and banks were getting crowded. The band was assembling on the ’Varsity barge (that belonging to the University Boat Club); and all the other college barges were in a bustle of excitement. It was “the first night of the Eights,” and many were the attempts to explain that somewhat elliptical phrase to the uninitiated matrons and maidens who were flocking from every quarter of the town.

Just at the mouth of the Cherwell, Crawford and Frank met a party of ladies and escorted them to the Paul’s barge; and the latter, though he fancied he was clear as to the meaning of “Eights” and “Torpids,” was really not sorry to overhear his friend’s explanation.

“You see,” Crawford was saying to a pretty girl with bright blue eyes, that certainly did not seem to be reminded that they could see—“You see, every college, that is athletic enough, has a Boat Club; the best eight oars, rowers I mean, constitute ‘the Eight;’ the second best eight are ‘the Torpid.’ The Torpid-races, or as we call them, ‘the Torpids,’ take place in the Lent term; every college that has an Eight and a Torpid enters the latter for the Torpid-races; and then they all row to see which is best. Then in the Summer term ‘the Eights’ are on; that is the races of the college Eight-oars; to-night is the first night, you know. All the Eights are going to row to see which is best.”

“Yes; but,” said Blue-eyes, “why do they have more than one race?”

“Well, you see”—Crawford could not help the phrase—“that is—er—it’s rather difficult to explain.”

But after a moment he took courage, and plunged into his explanation, which was to this effect, and which may assist the uninitiated reader.

The river is too narrow to admit of boats racing abreast. They are therefore arranged one behind the other, there being 120 feet from the nose of one to the stern of the other. All start simultaneously, the object of each being to “bump”—i.e. run into and touch the one in front of it. When a “bump” has taken place, both the “bumper” and the “bumped” row to the bank to let the others pass. There is a post opposite the barges, where most of the spectators sit, and when once a boat has passed this it cannot be bumped. The following night—called “night,” but really meaning seven o’clock—the boats all start, with this exception, that if, for example, on Monday Balliol has bumped Christ-Church, on Tuesday Balliol will start ahead of Christ-Church. The latter then has the chance of regaining its position by bumping Balliol, but it is also exposed to the danger of being bumped by the next boat. This goes on, in the case of the “Torpid,” for six days; of the “Eights,” for eight “nights.” At the end, the boat that finishes with all the others behind it, holds the proud position of “Head of the River” for the year. It may have gained this by making “bumps,” or by avoiding being “bumped.” How the order was, in the origin of the races, settled, it is impossible to say; but it is the rule that any college club which “puts on”—i.e. enters a boat for the races—for the first time shall start at the bottom. Perhaps, after this explanation, any remaining difficulty will be cleared up by suggesting, as an illustration, a school-class, in which a place is gained for a successful answer. The boats, by “bumping” and being “bumped,” respectively gain and lose places.

Crawford was rowing in the Brasenose Eight. So, after seeing his lady friends to seats on the top of the college barge, he ran down-stairs to dress for the race. The men who rowed in the Brasenose Eight and Torpid were unlike the majority of men of other colleges, in that they walked to the river in mufti, and put on their boating-clothes in their barge. Frank, pleading an excuse that he wanted to go down the Berkshire bank to see the start, but chiefly because he was rather shy, left Crawford’s party to the attention of some other men, and, crossing in old George West’s punt, was soon lost in the crowd.

One by one the boats paddled down to the start, cheered by their own men as they passed. The crowd thickened. A great surging mass pressed up against the rails that enclosed the barges, and gazed enviously at the lucky ones within the enclosure. A black line went coiling down the pathway towards Iffley. Those were the men who would see the start, and run back with the boats to cheer them on. Presently there was a great silence. Everybody was looking right away to the Iffley Willows, or at watches. Then the first gun went. Conversation flowed again for four minutes. Then the one-minute gun—and then utter silence, till with the third boom a roar of voices began, that came nearer and louder as the great black line began coiling home again, as fast as it could.

Brasenose was Head of the River; and Blue-eyes was wearing the Brasenose colours; and Blue-eyes’ heart, though she would not have confessed it, was in a flutter of excitement. On came the boats. Balliol was close behind Brasenose. The Brasenose men on bank and barge shouted. The Balliol men shouted more loudly. They must catch them. Blue-eyes hated the Balliol men; but, for all that, the nose of the Balliol boat was within a foot of the Brasenose rudder. Now it overlapped it, but failed to touch it, for the Brasenose coxswain, by a sharp pull of the rudder-string, turned a rush of water against their nose and washed them off.

The Brasenose men yelled till Blue-eyes felt the drums of her little ears were nigh to cracking. And then Crawford, who was rowing stroke, seemed to pull himself together for a final effort, and laying himself well out, gave his men a longer stroke. Now they were clear—now there was a foot between them—now two—now three. Then he quickened: his men answered bravely. Foot by foot they drew ahead, and when they were on the post, Balliol was a good length behind. Blue-eyes had often heard, “See, the Conquering Hero comes,” but she could not make out why the sound of it now gave her a choking feeling in the throat. Certainly she saw no more of the races, though boat by boat came by, each in as keen pursuit of the one just in advance of it as Balliol had been to catch Brasenose.

There was a merry party that night in Crawford’s rooms, and Blue-eyes sat by the host, and was highly amused at the plain fare he was obliged to eat in the midst of the dainties of the supper-table; and she was half inclined to be cross when at a quarter to ten the captain of the Boat Club, who was present, firmly but politely suggested the breaking up of the party—“unless,” he explained, “you want to see Brasenose go down to-morrow night.”

But men must work, or at any rate go in for examinations, whatever the women may do. So the “Eights” passed away, and Blue-eyes returned to her home, taking with her, from many, the sunshine she had brought. The Proctor’s notices recalled Frank and several hundred other unfortunates to the stern realities of University life. Parted for a while in the all-too-brief days of Blue-eyes’ supremacy, Monkton and Frank drifted together again by the force of kindred obligations. Together they went to the Junior Proctor, and entered their names for Responsions (commonly called “Smalls,” “because such a werry small number on ’em gets through,” as the guides will tell you); together they parted with the statutable guinea, fondly hoping that in due time they would get a tangible result in the shape of a testamur. Together they gazed admiringly, nor yet without awe, at their names when they appeared in the Gazette; and together, in white ties and “garments of a subfusc hue,” as prescribed by the statutes, they proceeded one bright morning in June to the Schools. There for two days, from nine to twelve, and from half-past one to half-past three, they were examined by papers. Then, after waiting a few days, Monkton’s vivâ voce came on, the order of this being alphabetical. But when at two o’clock the same day the Clerk of the Schools read out a list of those who had passed, and for the gladly-paid shilling handed over a small piece of blue paper, testifying the fact in the handwriting of the much-enduring Examiners, Monkton’s testamur was, alas! not forthcoming. Frank did not pass as easily as he might have passed. The last few weeks had taken the polish off his work. He got his testamur, it is true, but he was rather ashamed of feeling relieved, for he knew that he ought never to have had any fears of failing in such a school-boy examination.

He called on his tutor to consult him as to his future work. The First Public Examination (commonly called Moderations) is, like Responsions, obligatory on all; but here the student may offer either the minimum amount of work, called “a Pass,” or go in for Honours either in Classics or Mathematics. The Honours Examination is to chiefly test style of translation from Latin and Greek authors into English, and vice versâ, together with grammatical and critical questions bearing on the contents, style, and literary history of the books offered. Papers are also set in the Elements of Comparative Philology; the History of the Greek Drama, with Aristotle’s Poetics; and the Elements of Deductive Logic, with either selections from the Organon, or from Mill’s “Inductive Logic.” The four Gospels in Greek, together with questions on the subject-matter, are compulsory on all,—Passmen and Classmen alike. After the examination is over, the examiners (in this instance called Moderators) distribute the names of those whom they judge to have shown sufficient merit into three classes, the names in each class being arranged alphabetically. If a candidate is not good enough to be placed in a class, but has yet shown as much knowledge as is required of the ordinary Passmen, he receives a testamur to that effect. This is called a “gulf.” The subjects for Pass Moderations are Latin Prose (rather more difficult than for Responsions); the elements of Logic, or Arithmetic and Algebra to Quadratic Equations; unseen passages of Greek and Latin; and three authors, of whom one must be Greek, and one must be either an Orator, Philosopher, or Historian.

After a little questioning, Mr. Wood’s advice to Frank was to go in for a Pass, and, that over, to read for Honours in one of the Final Schools, such as Modern History or Law. The advice was wise, for his classical reading was not very much advanced; and even if he could have got through the bare reading of the necessary text-books, he would not have acquired the style of translation and elegance in composition needed for the highest honours.

He chose Logic in preference to Mathematics, by Mr. Wood’s advice; and for his authors, Herodotus (Books V. and VI.); Livy (Books V., VI., and VII.), and Juvenal, certain Satires being omitted. Having purchased these books, and laid in a good store of industrious intentions, he left Oxford and his freshman’s term behind him, not at all sorry to be going home.

CHAPTER V
THE LONG VACATION

There was a good deal of the school-boy’s pleasure in the commencement of the holidays, mixed with the pride that he felt in his new condition. There were only a few passengers for Porchester, and only a few people on the platform when he alighted; but the few there were knew him, and Oxford made the chief matter of their inquiries, and a pleasant topic for him to dilate upon. But he was soon hurried off by two of his admiring younger brothers, and seated at the side of old John, the factotum, in the pony-carriage, talking hard, now to him, now to his brothers, who sat behind. How familiar the road was! Did green hedges ever look so green as those? or was summer twilight ever so sweet as this that lay so peacefully about little Porchester? The old church-tower rose like a soft shadow from the close trees. There, beside it, peeped the vicarage gables and chimneys. There was old Sally, the laundress, resting at her gateway, rubbing her wrinkled fingers as though she would smooth away the signs of so much soap and water. There was the postmaster putting up the shutters of his little grocery-shop; the tailor in his garden, tending his standard roses; the blacksmith at his silent smithy; there were the carrier’s horses just being unharnessed from the van that in these primitive parts was no mean rival of the railway. A few children here; a knot of women there, chattering, scolding, laughing, staring, questioning; there a group of men outside the “Anchor;” here some boys playing marbles.

How unchanged it all was! The term at Oxford seemed like a dream. Frank could scarcely believe he had been away more than two months.

Now they are passing the vicarage garden. The gate is open, and Frank, much to the amusement of Tom and Will in the hind-seat of the pony-carriage, stares hard through the white posts and up the lawn. Whatever his thoughts or hopes may have been, they are rudely interrupted (and most probably shattered) by a couple of voices from behind, which seem to be bubbling over with amusement, and to be jostling each other for the first and loudest place.

“She’s away!”

“Who’s away?” asked Frank quietly, with assumed indifference.

“Who’s away?” repeat the two behind. “Why, who’re you looking for, eh?”

“Are the vicarage people away, then?” said Frank.

“Rose is,” again comes from the bubbling voices.

But before the subject can be pursued further, old John, pointing with his whip, says,—

“There’s the master, sir.”

And Frank, looking straight away up the road, discerns his father coming towards them, and jumps out of the carriage.

“Why, Frank, my boy, I declare you’ve grown!”

Nor did his dignity decline the honour. He took his father’s arm, and, letting the younger ones drive home with John and the luggage, walked and talked with his father till they reached the house. His mother and sisters were at the door to welcome him. Never had there been such a pleasant, proud home-coming yet. The servants peeped from the upper windows to see “Master Frank,” whom they doubtless expected to find completely transformed, and John, taking the luggage from the carriage, again took stock of him, and told the servants with an air that, as always, carried weight,—

“Arter all, there’s no place like college to make a man of a young gentleman.”

One scene more to complete the first act of our freshman’s life.

Mr. Ross was, as became a lawyer, a man of sound business-like habits. Directly after breakfast on the following morning he called Frank into his study, and they went together through all the bills.

The result of their investigation was as follows:—

The summer passed. Frank had been to the Henley Regatta at Crawford’s invitation, and had stayed with him at the old “Red Lion” with various crews; had run down the bank at his side when he was practising for the Diamond Sculls in the sweet June mornings, and had shouted with the shouting crowd when he won the race, beating the London man and the Cantab who had been training “dark.” Then he had gone to Crawford’s home for a pleasant week; then back to little Porchester, where, with garden-parties and cricket, with boating on the river that seemed so deserted after the crowded Isis, and lawn-tennis, the time had passed away happily enough. Of work for the “Schools” Frank had done little or nought; but when in August the vicar’s daughter left Porchester for six weeks, work somehow seemed easier, and he managed to get through a fair amount; and again, when the boys went back to school about the middle of September, and he was left alone with his parents and sisters, there seemed fresh opportunities for study. But then—but then back came the vicar’s daughter, and books were again forgotten. The village seemed to have gained fresh beauties. Every old gate and stile seemed no longer made of common wood, every hedge no longer clad with common green. The organ-loft where she practised in the week was no longer a dusty, dark, break-neck place, but the place for breaking something which, whatever lovers may say, is often easily mended by

 
“Time and the change the old man brings.”
 

And what a poet Frank was in those days! How he idealized, and in his own fashion glorified, every little winding woodland path, every glimpse of wold seen through the fading autumn leaves, every stretch of quiet river, the old boats, the crumbling bridge, the dark weir, the church-tower—that useful part of a young poet’s stock-in-trade.

In fact, when he returned to Oxford one Friday evening in October, he quite agreed with the old woman’s and the sailor’s superstition that Friday was an unlucky day; he wrapped himself in his rug, and felt that if his heart was not breaking, he was at least deeply in love. Silence was his consolation. He rejected the invitation of a friend whom he met en route to transfer himself and his goods to the atmosphere of a smoking compartment. He stared gloomily at the persistent bookstall-boys; rejected even the offer of a Banbury cake at Didcot. In his condition, there was something positively comforting in that most cheerless and wretched of all stations. The wind that moaned in the telegraph-wires seemed to murmur “Rose.” The bell that rang violently in the platform-porter’s hand seemed like the little single bell in Porchester Church—of course much louder and harsher to Frank’s imagination, but it was a bell, and it recalled Rose, and that was enough.

Having passed safely through the turmoil of the Oxford platform, and the loneliness of Friday night, on Saturday morning he rushed precipitously to Davis’s picture-shop in “the Turl,”⁸ and having purchased a photograph of the Huguenot picture by Millais, hung it in a corner by his chimney looking-glass. In that corner his friends noticed he now was constantly to be found sitting. They, of course, did not know that in that picture Frank saw Rose and himself under the vicarage wall. He was at a loss, it is true, to account even to himself for the pocket-handkerchief which is being bound round the reluctant arm. But what mattered to him such a paltry detail, even though it made the whole gist of the picture?

Term began with the usual routine. Chapel at half-past eight on Saturday evening, at which all assembled except a few who were detained by those convenient “tidal trains,” which always seem to be late when one is coming back from a Long-Vacation scamper on the Continent, or from the injured Emerald Isle, but never when one is thither bound.

And then comes Sunday morning, with the many good-intentioned ones hurrying to their seats past the much-enduring Bible-clerk, whose labours would, however, very soon lessen with the growth of term;—Sunday, with the heavy luncheon;—Sunday, with the long constitutional in the bright October sunlight—was a first Sunday in Michaelmas Term ever other than a bright one? Dinner in Hall at six, with the endless greetings that the confusion of Chapel had prevented. Monday morning, with its formal calls on Master and Dean, Tutor and Lecturer; and Monday evening, with its posted list of lectures, club-meetings, and subscriptions; till Tuesday morning comes, with the greater or less obedience of the victims of those various calls, shows that term has begun in very earnest, no matter whether the earnestness be the earnestness of industry or of that which flourishes as abundantly—idleness.