“Give me thy hand... I'm glad to find thee here.”
The Lover's Melancholy.
“Half light, half shade,
She stood, a sight to make an old man young.”
The Gardener's Daughter.
UTTERLY worn out, both in mind and body, by hard reading and confinement, I determined to return to Heathfield forthwith, with “all my blushing honours thick upon me,” and enjoy a few weeks' idleness before again engaging in any active course of study which might be necessary to fit me for my future profession. When the post came in, however, I received a couple of letters which rather militated against my intention of an immediate return home. A note from Harry Oaklands informed me, that having some weeks ago been ordered to a milder air, he and Sir John had chosen Clifton, their decision being influenced by the fact of an old and valued friend of Sir John's residing there. He begged me to let him hear all the Cambridge news, and hoped I should join him as soon as Mrs. Fairlegh and my sister would consent to part with me. For himself, he said, he felt somewhat stronger, but still suffered much from the wound in his side. The second letter was from my mother, saying she had received an invitation from an old lady, a cousin of my father's, who resided in London, and, as she thought change of scene would do Fanny good, she had accepted it. She had been there already one week, and proposed returning at the end of the next, which she hoped would be soon enough to welcome me after the conclusion of my labours at the university.
Unable to make up my mind whether to remain where I was for a week longer, or to return and await my mother's arrival at the cottage, I threw on my cap and gown and strolled out, the fresh air appearing quite a luxury to me after having been shut up so long. As I passed through the street where old Maurice the pastry-cook lived I thought I would call and learn how Lizzie was going on, as I knew Harry would be anxious for information on this point. On entering the shop I was most cordially received by the young lady herself, who had by this time quite recovered her good looks, and on the present occasion appeared unusually gay and animated, which was soon accounted for when her father, drawing me aside, informed me that she was going to be married to a highly respectable young baker, who had long ago fallen a victim to her charms, and on whom she had of late deigned to take pity; the severe lesson she had been taught having induced her to overlook his intense respectability, high moral excellence, and round, good-natured face—three strong disqualifications which had stood dreadfully in his way when striving to render himself agreeable to the romantic Fornarina. I was answering their inquiries after Oaklands, of whom they spoke in terms of the deepest gratitude, when a young fellow, wrapped up in a rough pea-jacket, bustled into the shop, and, without perceiving me, accosted Lizzie as follows:—
“Pray, young lady, can you inform me—what glorious buns!—where Mr.—that is to say, which of these funny old edifices may happen to be Trinity College?”
On receiving the desired information, he continued, “Much obliged. I really must trouble you for another bun. Made by your own fair hands, I presume? You see, I'm quite a stranger to this quaint old town of yours, where half the houses look like churches, and all the men like the parsons and clerks belonging to them, taking a walk in their canonicals, with four-cornered hats on their heads—abortive attempts to square the circle, I conclude. Wonderful things, very. But when I get to Trinity, how am I to find the man I want, one Mr. Frank Fairlegh?” Here I took the liberty of interrupting the speaker, whom I had long since recognised as Coleman—though what could have brought him to Cambridge I was at a loss to conceive—by coming behind him, and saying, in a gruff voice, “I am sorry you keep such low company, young man”.
“And pray who may you be that are so ready with your 'young man,' I should like to know? I shall have to teach you something your tutors and dons seem to have forgotten, and that is, manners, fellow!” exclaimed Freddy, turning round with a face as red as a turkey-cock, and not recognising me at first in my cap and gown; then looking at me steadily for a moment, he continued, “The very man himself, by all that's comical! This is the way you read for your degree, is it?” Then with a glance towards Lizzie Maurice, he sang:—
“'My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly all they taught me'.
It's a Master of Hearts you're striving to become, I suppose?”
“Nonsense,” replied I quickly, for I saw poor Lizzie coloured and looked uncomfortable; “we don't allow bad puns to be made at Cambridge.”
“Then, faith, unless the genius loci inspires me with good ones,” returned Freddy, as we left the shop together, “the sooner I'm out of it the better.”