But Hazlet had come prepared to say his say, and did not attempt to move.
“Ah,” he said, with a sigh which seemed to express satisfaction—(some people always sigh when they thank God)—“I am afraid you are unprepared for the consolations of religion.”
“Of such a religion as yours, most certainly,” interrupted Julian, with haughty vehemence.
“The natural man, you see—” He stopped as he saw Julian’s hand fidgeting towards the water-bottle. “Ah! well, you will have still to sit at the sizars’ table, and dine on the Fellows’ leavings; perhaps it might inscrutably be good for you to bear the yoke—”
Had the fellow come to insult him? Was he there on purpose to gratify his malice at another’s misfortune, under the pretext of pious reflections? Half-a-dozen times Julian had thought so, and thought so correctly. Hazlet’s very little and very ignorant mind had been fed into self-complacency by the cheering belief that he and his friends formed a select party whose future welfare was secure, while “the world” was very wicked, and destined to everlasting burning; and in proportion to his gross conceit, was he nettled with the evident manner in which Julian, though without any rudeness, avoided his company even at Ildown, where he reigned with undisputed sway among his own admiring circle of gynaikazia. (Excuse the word, gentle reader; it is Saint Paul’s—not mine.) Hazlet had come there, though in the depth of his hypocrisy he hardly knew it himself, to enjoy a little triumph over Julian’s pride, and to pour a little vinegar, in the guise of a good Samaritan, on wounds which he knew to be bleeding still.
In saying the last sentence, in which he cut Julian to the very quick, Hazlet had seemed to his victim’s excited imagination to be actually smacking his lips with undisguised delight. “Ah, you will have still to dine at the sizars’ table on the Fellows’ leavings.” Julian knew that the form of the sentence made it most maliciously and odiously false;—and that this hypocritical son of Belial should address him at such a moment in such a way was so revolting to his own generous spirit, that he could endure it no longer.
“What did you say?” he asked sharply.
“Of course, my dear Ju—, Home, I mean—poverty is no disgrace to you, you know. Some of the sizars are pious men, I have no doubt, and I dare say the Fellows leave—”
“I swear this is too much,” said Julian, using the only oath that ever in all his life-time crossed his lips. “You canting and mean— Pshaw! you are beneath my abuse. Sizar indeed! there, take that, and begone.” He had meant to empty the tumbler in his face, but his hand shook with passion, and the glass flew out of it, and after cutting the top of Hazlet’s head, fell broken on the floor.
With a howl of dismay Hazlet fled to his own rooms, where, having satisfied himself that the cut had done little other harm than leaving some red streaks upon his damp and lanky hair, he put over it some strips of plaster as large as he conveniently could, and then with a lugubrious expression went to hall, and gratified his malice by buzzing and babbling among his fellows all sorts of lies and exaggerations about Julian’s conduct and state of mind. When Kennedy came in, however, he put an abrupt end to Hazlet’s calumnies by handling his own tumbler with so significant a glance, that Hazlet assumed a look of terror, and, amid shouts of laughter, retired with all speed out of reach of the danger.