Julian was at this time, and had been for some months, intensely occupied with the thought and desire of winning the Clerkland scholarship, a university scholarship of 60 pounds a year, open to general competition among all the undergraduates of less than one year’s standing. This scholarship was the favourite success of Camford life. It stamped at once a man’s position as one of the most prominent scholars of his year, and as the names of many remarkable men were found in the list of those who had already obtained it, it gave a strong prestige of future distinction and success. Julian had a peculiar reason for longing to gain it, because, with his Harton scholarship, it would not only enable him at once to enter his name as a pensioner, instead of a sizar, at Saint Werner’s, but even make him independent of all help from his family and guardians. There would have been reasons sufficient to account for his passionate desire for this particular distinction, even independently of his natural wish to justify the general opinion of his abilities, and the eager ambition caused by the formidable numbers of the other competitors. In short, at this time, to obtain the Clerkland scholarship was the most prominent personal desire in Julian’s heart, and could some genius have suddenly offered him the fulfilment of any one wish, this would undoubtedly have been the first to spring to his lips. He looked with emulation, almost with envy, on those who had won it before him; he almost knew by heart the list of Clerkland scholars; and when he returned to Camford, constantly discussed the chances of success in favour of the different candidates. Do not blame him; his motives were all high and blameless, although he at length turned over this thought so often in his mind as to recur to it with almost selfish iteration, and to regard success in this particular struggle as the one thing wanting to complete, or even to create his happiness.
He could not refrain from mentioning it at home, although, for the sake of preventing disappointment, he generally avoided dwelling on any of his school or college struggles. Deprecating his own abilities, it made him doubly anxious to find that not only did his Saint Werner’s contemporaries regard him as the favourite candidate, and bet upon him in the sporting circles, (although Brogten furiously took the largest odds against him), but, what was worse, his own family, always proud of him, seemed to regard his triumph as certain. Thus circumstanced, and most fondly avoiding every possibility of causing pain or disappointment to that thrice-loved circle, of which he regarded himself as the natural protector and head, he was more than ever determined to do his very utmost to prevent failure, and give them the lasting pride and pleasure which they would all receive by seeing his name in the public papers as Clerkland scholar.
“Come, Julian, and let’s have a row or a sail,” said Cyril one morning to him, as he sat at work. “Frank and I have nothing to do to-day.”
“Not to-day, Cyril, my boy. I really must do some work; you know De Vayne made me ride with him yesterday, and I’ve done very little the last day or two.”
“I wish I liked work as you do, Julian.”
“It isn’t only that I like work, (though I do),” said Julian; “but you know a good deal depends on it.”
“Oh! I know!” said Cyril; “you mean the Clerkland scholarship; but never mind, Julian, Lord De Vayne told me you were sure of that.”
“Did he?” said Julian, a little anxiously; “then for goodness’ sake, don’t believe him. It’s very kind of him to say so—but he’s quite mistaken.”
“Ah, you always say so beforehand, you know. You used to say that about the Harton scholarship, Julian, and yet you see? Do come.”
“Well, I’ll come,” said Julian, smiling a little sadly. “But, Cyril, don’t, pray, say anything of that kind to mother or to Violet, for if I should fail it would make me doubly sad.”