"Thank you; I'd rather write my own letter."
"That's just what I want you to do, but you won't;" and then again he turned for two minutes to the "Frogs." "Well—you see you don't write. Come, we'll both have a try at it, and see who'll have done first. 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 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.