He did not evince any taste for any particular branch of study; he had no inclination for the navy, for serving his country as his father had done before him. In fact, it was difficult to tell in what direction his taste really lay. Still, he left college with high honors, and his masters prophesied great things for him.
"He will make himself famous some day," they wrote to his anxious mother. "In the mean time, let him see something of the world, and you will know in what direction his talent lies."
So, crowded with honors, he came home to Ulverston. He was eighteen then and one of the handsomest young men England could boast. No barber's beauty; strong, comely, of noble bearing, with a face that had come to him from the crusaders of old.
Then Lady Hildegarde set herself to work to discover what manner of man her son was. She was puzzled; he was brave, generous, full of high spirits, truthful, even to bluntness. She could not discover any grave fault in him. She thanked God he had no vices, no mean faults, no contemptible failings.
"Basil," she said to him, one evening, as the three sat around the drawing-room fire. "Confess now, do you not like and admire the olden times better than these?"
"Yes," he replied; "I always did."
"I knew it," said Lady Hildegarde; "I understand now what has always puzzled everyone who has had the care of you. You were born two hundred years too late; the ancient days of knight errantry and chivalry would have suited you better than these."
"It is your fault, mother," he replied. "When I was only twelve years old, you gave me a beautiful edition of Froissart's Chronicles, and everything else has seemed dull and tame to me since."
"I thought as much," she said, quietly; "you make the same mistake others have made before you; you live in the past, not in the present."
"You are right, mother; in these days, there seems to me nothing to do."