Tom Brown at Oxford Part 95

"No, a joint business. We hatched it in the common room, and then the bursar spoke to the president, who was furious, and said we were giving the sanction of the college to disgraceful luxury and extravagance. Luckily he had not the power of stopping us, and now is convinced."

"The G.o.ddess of common sense seems to have alighted again in the quad of St. Ambrose. You'll never leave the place, Jack, now you're beginning to get everything your own way."

"On the contrary, I don't mean to stop up more than another year at the outside. I have been tutor nearly three years now; that's about long enough."

"Do you think you're right? You seem to have hit on your line in life wonderfully. You like the work and the work likes you. You are doing a heap of good up here. You'll be president in a year or two, depend on it. I should say you had better stick to Oxford."

"No. I should be of no use in a year or two. We want a constant current of fresh blood here."

"In a general way. But you don't get a man every day who can throw himself into the men's pursuits, and can get hold of them in the right way. And then, after all, when a fellow has got such work cut out for him as you have, Oxford must be an uncommonly pleasant place to live in."

"Pleasant enough in many ways. But you seem to have forgotten how you used to rail against it."

"Yes. Because I never hit off the right ways of the place. But if I had taken a first and got a fellows.h.i.+p, I should like it well enough I dare say."

"Being a fellow, on the contrary, makes it worse. While one was an undergraduate, one could feel virtuous and indignant at the vices of Oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money-wors.h.i.+p which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. They become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart."

"Why, Jack, we're changing characters to-night. Fancy your coming out in the abusive line! Why I never said harder things of Alma Mater myself. However, there's plenty of flunkeyism and money-wors.h.i.+p everywhere else."

"Yes, but it is not so heart-breaking in other places. When one thinks what a great centre of learning and faith Oxford ought to be like--that its highest educational work should just be the deliverance of us all from flunkeyism and money-wors.h.i.+p--and then looks at matters here without rose-colored spectacles, it gives one sometimes a sort of chilly leaden despondency, which is very hard to struggle against."

"I am sorry to hear you talk like that, Jack, for one can't help loving the place after all."

"So I do, G.o.d knows. If I didn't I shouldn't care for its shortcomings."

"Well, the flunkeyism and money-wors.h.i.+p were bad enough, but I don't think they were the worst things--at least not in my day.

Our neglects were almost worse than our wors.h.i.+ps."

"You mean the want of all reverence for parents? Well, perhaps that lies at the root of the false wors.h.i.+ps. They spring up on the vacant soil."

"And the want of reverence for women, Jack. The worst of all, to my mind!"

"Perhaps you are right. But we are not at the bottom yet."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that we must wors.h.i.+p G.o.d before we can reverence parents or women, or root out flunkeyism and money-wors.h.i.+p."

"Yes. But, after all, can we fairly lay that sin on Oxford?

Surely, whatever may be growing up side by side with it, there's more Christianity here than almost anywhere else."

"Plenty of common-room Christianity--belief in a dead G.o.d. There, I have never said it to anyone but you, but that is the slough we have to get out of. Don't think that I despair for us. We shall do it yet; but it will be sore work, stripping off the comfortable wine-party religion in which we are wrapped up--work for our strongest and our wisest."

"And yet you think of leaving?"

"There are other reasons. I will tell you some day. But now, to turn to other matters, how have you been getting on this last year? You write so seldom that I am all behind-hand."

"Oh, much the same as usual."

"Then you are still like one of those who went out to David?"

"No, I'm not in debt."

"But discontented?"

"Pretty much like you there, Jack. However, content is no virtue, that I can see, while there's anything to mend. Who is going to be contented with game-preserving, and corn-laws, and grinding the faces of the poor? David's camp was a better place than Saul's, any day."

Hardy got up, opened a drawer, and took out a bundle of papers, which Tom recognized as the _Wess.e.x Freeman_. He felt rather uncomfortable, as his friend seated himself again, and began looking them over.

"You see what I have here," he said.

Tom nodded.

"Well, there are some of the articles I should like to ask you about, if you don't object."

"No; go on."

"Here is one, then, to begin with. I won't read it all. Let me see; here is what I was looking for," and he began reading; "One would think, to hear these landlords, our rulers, talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep woods the everlasting hills, and the rivers that run among them, were made for the sole purpose of ministering to their greedy l.u.s.ts and mean ambitions; that they may roll out amongst unrealities their pitiful mock lives, from their silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins, studded with silver k.n.o.bs, and lying coats of arms, reaping where they have not sown, and gathering where they have not strewed, making the omer small and the ephah great, that they may sell the refuse of the wheat--"

"That'll do, Jack; but what's the date of that paper?"

"July last. Is it yours, then?"

"Yes. And I allow it's too strong and one-sided. I have given up writing altogether; will that satisfy you? I don't see my own way clear enough yet. But, for all that, I'm not ashamed of what I wrote in that paper."

"I have nothing more to say after that, except that I'm heartily glad you have given up writing for the present."

"But I say, old fellow, how did you get these papers, and know about my articles?"

"They were sent me. Shall I burn them now or would you like to have them? We needn't say anything more about them."

"Burn them by all means. I suppose a friend sent them to you?"

"I suppose so." Hardy went on burning the papers in silence; and as Tom watched him, a sudden light seemed to break upon him.

"I say, Jack," he said presently, "a little bird has been whispering something to me about that friend." Hardy winched a little, and redoubled his diligence in burning the papers. Tom looked on smiling, and thinking how to go on, now that he had so unexpectedly turned the tables on his monitor, when the clock struck twelve.

"Hullo!" he said, getting up; "time for me to knock out, or old Copas will be in bed. To go back to where we started from to-night--as soon as East and Harry Winburn get back we shall have some jolly doings at Englebourn. There'll be a wedding, I hope, and you'll come over and do parson for us, won't you?"

"You mean for Patty? Of course I will."

"The little bird whispered to me that you wouldn't dislike visiting that part of the old county. Good night, Jack. I wish you success, old fellow, with all my heart, and I hope after all that you may leave St. Ambrose's within the year."

CHAPTER XLVI

FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN