“Well, do let me see something of you. Won’t you come a walk sometimes, or let me come in of an evening when you’re taking tea, and not at work?”
“Do,” said Julian, and they agreed to meet at his rooms on the following Sunday evening.
Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian Home. It was a day of perfect leisure and rest; the time not spent at church or in the society of others, he generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual, or in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought. But the greatest enjoyment was to revel freely in books, and devote himself unrestrained to the gorgeous scenes of poetry, or the passionate pages of eloquent men; on that day he drank deeply of pure streams that refreshed him for his weekly work; nor did he forget some hour of commune, in the secrecy of his chamber and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father in whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked for deliverance from difficulty, and guidance under temptation. Of all hours his happiest and strongest were those in which he was alone—alone except for a heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a Friend, and looking face to face upon himself.
He had been reading Wordsworth since hall-time, when the ringing of the chapel-bell summoned him to put on his surplice, and walk quietly down to chapel. As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two across the court before going in. While doing so, he met De Vayne, and in his company suddenly found himself vis-à-vis with his old enemy Brogten.
“Hm!” whispered Brogten to his companion; “the sizars are getting on. A sizar and a viscount arm-in-arm!”
Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be aware that it was highly insolent; and the flush on De Vayne’s cheek showed that he too had caught something of its meaning.
“Never mind that boor’s rudeness,” he said. “I feel more than honoured to be in the sizar’s company. How admirably quiet you are, Julian, under such conduct!”
“I try to be; not always with success, though,” he answered, as his breast swelled, and his lip quivered with indignation
“Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn:
Is that a matter to make me fret?
Is that a matter to cause regret?
Stop! let’s come into chapel.”
They went into chapel together. De Vayne walked into the noblemen’s seats, and Julian, hot and angry, and with the words, “Scorn!—to be scorned by one that I scorn,” still ringing in his ears, strode up the whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set apart—is it not very needlessly set apart?—for the sizars’ use.