The Bertrams. Anthony Trollope
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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 it contained no absurdity, mechanically copied the writing. He merely added one phrase, to say that his friend's "better luck" consisted in his being the only double-first of his year, and one short postscript, which he took good care that Bertram should not see; and then he fastened his letter and sent it to the post.
"Tell mamma not to be very unhappy." That was the postscript which he added.
That letter was very anxiously expected at the vicarage of Hurst Staple. The father was prepared to be proud of his successful son; and the mother, who had over and over again cautioned him not to overwork himself, was anxious to know that his health was good. She had but little fear as to his success; her fear was that he should come home thin, pale, and wan.
Just at breakfast-time the postman brought the letter, and the youngest girl running out on to the gravel brought it up to her expectant father.
"It is from Arthur," said she; "isn't it, papa? I'm sure I know his handwriting."
The vicar, with a little nervousness, opened it, and in half a minute the 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 his toast.
"He'll be home on Tuesday," said Mary, the eldest girl, looking over her 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 any great satisfaction at the success of his late pupil.
When the mother read the short postscript her heart was touched, and she 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 younger girls. "George always does do better, I think; doesn't he?"
"He has made himself too sure of it," said the father, in almost an angry tone. Not that he was angry; he was vexed, rather, as he would be if his wheat crop failed, or his potatoes did not come up properly.
But he felt no sympathy with his son. It never occurred to him to think of the agony with which those few lines had been written; of the wretchedness of the young heart which had hoped so much and failed so greatly; of the misery which the son felt in disappointing the father. He was a good, kind parent, who spent his long days and longer nights in thinking of his family and their welfare; he would, too, have greatly triumphed in the triumph of his son; but it went beyond his power of heart to sympathize with him in his misery.
"Do not seem to be vexed with him when he comes home," said the mother.
"Vexed with him! you mean angry. Of course, I'm not angry. He has done 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'll have 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 a fellowship to help him."
"Won't he get a fellowship at all, papa?"
"Very probably not, I should think." And then the family finished their meal in silence.
It certainly is not pleasant to have one's hopes disappointed; but Mr. Wilkinson was hardly just in allowing himself to be so extremely put about by his son's failure in getting the highest honours. Did he remember what other fathers feel when their sons are plucked? or, did he reflect that Arthur had, at any rate, done much better than nineteen out of every twenty young men that go up to Oxford? But then Mr. Wilkinson had a double cause for grief. Had George Bertram failed also, he might perhaps have borne it better.
As soon as the letter had been written and made up, Wilkinson suffered himself to be led out of the room.
"And now for Parker's," said Bertram; "you will be glad to see Harcourt."
"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 the same thing. Come along."
Mr. Harcourt was a young barrister but lately called to the bar, who had been at Oxford spending his last year when Bertram and Wilkinson were freshmen; and having been at Bertram's college, he had been intimate with both of them. He was now beginning to practise, and men said that he was to rise in the world. In London he was still a very young man; but at Oxford he was held to be one who, from his three years' life in town, had become well versed in the world's ways. He was much in the habit of coming to Oxford, and when there usually spent a good deal of his time with George Bertram.
And so Wilkinson walked forth into the street arm and arm with his cousin. It was a grievous trial to him; but he had a feeling within him that the sooner the sorrow was encountered the sooner it would be over. They turned into the High Street, and as they went they met crowds of men who knew them both. Of course it was to be expected that Bertram's friends should congratulate him. But this was not the worst; 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 be over, now and for ever."
And then they arrived at Parker's, and there found all those whom Bertram had named, and many others. Mr. Parker was, it is believed, a pastrycook by trade; but he very commonly dabbled in more piquant luxuries than jam tarts or Bath buns. Men who knew what was what, and who were willing to pay—or to promise to pay—for their knowledge, were in the habit of breakfasting there, and lunching. Now a breakfast 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 conqu'ring hero comes," |
he sung out as Bertram entered the room. "Make way for the double-first—the hero of the age, gentlemen! I am told that they mean to put up an alabaster statue to him in the Common Room at Trinity. However, I will vote for nothing more expensive than marble."
"Make it in pie-crust," said Bertram, "and let Parker be the artist."
"Yes; and we'll celebrate the installation with champagne and paté de foie gras," said Twisleton.
"And afterwards devour the object of our idolatry, to show how short-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 a habit 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 bore out of the way, trampled