"I say again," went on Hardy, "you _dare_ not say you mean to marry her!
You don"t mean it! And, as you don"t, to kiss her in the pa.s.sage as you did tonight----"
"So you were sneaking behind to watch me?" burst out Tom.
Hardy only answered calmly and slowly, "I will not take these words from any man! You had better leave my rooms!"
The next minute Tom was in the pa.s.sage; the next striding up and down the side of the inner quadrangle in the peace of the pale moonlight.
The following day, and for many days, neither Hardy nor Tom spoke to one another. Both were wretched, and both feared lest others should notice the quarrel.
Tom went more and more to the Choughs, and Patty noticed a change in the youth--a change that half-fascinated and half-repelled her.
Then, for the next few days, Tom plunged deeper and deeper downwards. He left off pulling on the river, shunned his old friends, and lived with a set of men who were ready enough to let him share all their brutal orgies.
Drysdale, with whom Tom had been on good terms, noted the difference, and advised him "to cut the Choughs business."
"You"re not the sort of a fellow to go in for this kind of thing," he said. "I"ll be hanged if it won"t kill you, or make a devil of you before long! Make up your mind to cut the whole concern, old fellow!"
"I"m awfully wretched, Drysdale," was all Tom could say.
All the same, Tom could not follow Drysdale"s advice at once and break off his visits to the Choughs altogether.
The real crisis was over. He had managed to pa.s.s through the eye of the storm, and was drifting into the skirts of it, conscious of an escape from utter shipwreck.
His visits to the Choughs became shorter; he never stayed behind now after the other men, and avoided interviews with Patty alone as diligently as he had sought them before.
Patty, unable to account for this fresh change of manner, was piqued, and ready to revenge herself in a hundred little ways. If she had been really in love with him it would have been a different matter; but she was not. In the last six weeks she certainly had often had visions of the pleasures of being a lady and keeping servants, but her liking was not more than skin deep.
Of late, indeed, she had been much more frightened than attracted by the conduct of her admirer, and really felt it a relief, notwithstanding her pique, when he retired into a less demonstrative state.
Before the end of that summer term Tom had it made up with Hardy, and it was Hardy who, at Tom"s request, called in at the Choughs, just to see how things were going on. Tom saw at a glance that something had happened when Hardy appeared again.
"What is it? She is not ill?" he said quickly.
"No; quite well, her aunt says."
"You didn"t see her, then?"
"No the fact is, she has gone home."
_IV.--The Master"s Term_
The years speed by, bringing their changes to St. Ambrose. Hardy is a fellow and tutor of the college in Tom"s second year, and Drysdale has been requested to remove his name from the books. Tom is all for politics now, and the theories he propounds in the Union gain him the name of Chartist Brown.
In his third year, Hardy often brought him down from high talk of "universal democracy" and "the good cause" by insisting on making the younger man explain what he really meant. And though Tom suffered under this severe treatment, in the end he generally came round to acknowledge the reasonableness of Hardy"s methods of argument.
It was a trying year to Tom, this third and last year; full of large dreams and small performances, of hopes and struggles, ending in failure and disappointment. The common pursuits of the place had lost their freshness, and with it much of their charm. He was beginning to feel himself in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it.
Squire Brown was pa.s.sing through Oxford, and paid his son a visit in the last term.
Tom gave a small wine-party, which went off admirably, and the squire enlarged upon the great improvement in young men and habits of the university, especially in the matter of drinking. Tom had only opened three bottles of port. In his time the men would have drunk certainly not less than a bottle a man.
But as the squire walked back to his hotel he was deeply moved at the Radical views his son now held. He could not understand these new notions of young men, and thought them mischievous and bad. At the same time, he was too fair a man to try to dragoon his son out of anything which he really believed. The fact had begun to dawn on the squire that the world had changed a good deal since his time; while Tom, on his part, valued his father"s confidence and love above his own opinions. By degrees the honest beliefs of father and son no longer looked monstrous to one another, and the views of each of them were modified.
One more look must be taken at the old college. Our hero is up in the summer term, keeping his three weeks" residence, the necessary preliminary to an M.A. degree. We find him sitting in Hardy"s rooms; tea is over, scouts out of college, candles lighted, and silence reigning, except when distant sounds of mirth come from some undergraduates" rooms on the opposite side of the quad.
"Why can"t you give a fellow his degree quietly," says Tom, "without making him come and kick his heels here for three weeks?"
"You ungrateful dog! Do you mean to say you haven"t enjoyed coming back, and sitting in dignity in the bachelors" seats in chapel and at the bachelors" table in hall, and thinking how much wiser you are than the undergraduates? Besides your old friends want to see you, and you ought to want to see them."
"Well, I"m very glad to see you again, old fellow. But who else is there I care to see? My old friends are gone, and the youngsters look on me as a sort of don, and I don"t appreciate the dignity. You have never broken with the place. And then you always did your duty, and have done the college credit. You can"t enter into the feelings of a fellow who wasted three parts of his time here."
"Come, come, Tom! You might have read more, certainly, and taken a higher degree. But, after all, I believe your melancholy comes from your not being asked to pull in the boat."
"Perhaps it does. Don"t you call it degrading to be pulling in the torpid in one"s old age?"
"Mortified vanity! It"s a capital boat. I wonder how we should have liked to have been turned out for some bachelor just because he had pulled a good oar in his day?"
"Not at all. I don"t blame the youngsters. By the way, they"re an uncommonly nice set. Much better behaved in every way than we were. Why, the college is a different place altogether. And as you are the only new tutor, it must have been your doing. Now I want to know your secret?"
"I"ve no secret, except taking a real interest in all that the men do, and living with them as much as I can. You may guess it isn"t much of a trial to me to steer the boat down, or run on the bank and coach the crew. And now the president of St. Ambrose himself comes out to see the boat. But I don"t mean to stop up more than another year now at the outside. I have been tutor nearly three years, and that"s about long enough."
The talk went on until the clock struck twelve.
"Hallo!" said Tom. "Time for me to knock out, or the old porter will be in bed. Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
VICTOR HUGO
Les Miserables
Victor Marie Hugo, the great French poet, dramatist, and novelist, was born at Besancon, on February 26, 1802. He wrote verses from boyhood, and after minor successes, achieved reputation with "Odes et Poesies," 1823. Hugo early became the protagonist of the romantic movement in French literature. In 1841 he was elected to the Academy. From 1845 he took an increasingly active part in politics, with the result that from 1852 to 1870 he lived in exile, first in Jersey and then in Guernsey. "Les Miserables" is not only the greatest of all Victor Hugo"s productions, but is in many respects the greatest work of fiction ever conceived. An enormous range of matter is pressed into its pages--by turn historical, philosophical, lyrical, humanitarian--but running through all the change of scene is the tragedy and comedy of life at its darkest and its brightest, and of human pa.s.sions at their worst and at their best. It is more than a novel. It is a magnificent plea for the outcasts of society, for those who are crushed by the mighty edifice of social order. Yet throughout it all there is the insistent note of the final triumph of goodness in the heart of man. The story appeared in 1862, when Hugo was sixty years old, and was written during his exile in Guernsey. It was translated before publication into nine languages, and published simultaneously in eight of the princ.i.p.al cities of the world. Hugo died on May 22, 1885.
(See also Vol. XVII.)
_I.--Jean Valjean, Galley-Slave_