And go they did, conscientiously seeing everything. They went to “Speeches” in the morning—that august ceremonial—and heard Val speak, and a great many more. Violet confined her interest to the modern languages which she understood; but Mr Pringle felt it incumbent upon him to look amused at the jokes in Greek, which, I fear, the poor gentleman in reality knew little more about than Vi did. But the crowning glory of the morning was that Val in his “speaking clothes” (and very speaking, very telling articles they were, in Violet’s eyes at least) walked through college with them afterwards, bareheaded, with the sun shining on his dark curls, the same bold brown boy who had carried off the little girl from the Hewan six years before, though by this time much more obsequious to Vi. He showed himself most willing and ready all day to be the cicerone of “his cousins;” and when in the evening, Violet, holding fast by her father’s arm, her heart beating high with pleasure past and pleasure to come, walked down to the rafts in company with Val in the aquatic splendours of his boating costume—straw hat wreathed with flowers, blue jacket and white trousers—the girl would have been very much unlike other girls if she had not been dazzled by this versatile hero, grand in academic magnificence in the morning, and resplendent now in the uniform of the river. “I am so sorry I can’t take you out myself,” said Val, “for of course I must go with my boat; but I have a man here, the best of fellows, who will row you up to Surly. Here, Brown,” he cried, “get out the nicest gig you have, and come yourself—there’s a good fellow. I want my cousins to see everything. Oh, I’ll speak to Harry, and make it all right. I want you, and nobody else,” he added, looking with friendly eyes at his protégé. I don’t think Mr Pringle heard this address, but looking round suddenly, he saw a young man standing by Valentine whose appearance made his heart jump. “Good God!” he cried instinctively, staring at him. Dick had grown and developed in these years. He had lost altogether the slouch of the tramp, and was, if not so handsome as Val, trim and well made, with a chest expanded by constant exercise, and his head erect with the constant habit of attention. He was dressed in one of Val’s own coats, and no longer looked like a lad on the rafts. For those who did not look closely, he might have been taken for one of Val’s schoolfellows, so entirely had he fallen into the ways and manners of “the gentlemen.” He was as fair as Val was dark, about the same height, and though not like Val, was so like another face which Mr Pringle knew, that his heart made a jump into his mouth with wonder and terror. Perhaps he might not have remarked this likeness but for the strange association of the two lads, standing side by side as they were, and evidently on the most friendly terms. “Who is that?” cried Mr Pringle, staring with wide-open eyes.
“It is the best fellow in the world,” cried Val, laughing, as Dick sprang aside to arrange the cushions in a boat which lay alongside the raft. “He’ll take you up to Surly faster than any one else on the river.”
“But, Valentine—it is very kind of him,” said Vi, hesitating—“but you did not introduce him to us——”
“Oh, he’s not a gentleman,” said Val, lightly; “that is to say,” he added, seeing Dick within reach, with a hasty blush, “he’s as good in himself as any one I know; but he ain’t one of the fellows, Vi; he works at the rafts—his name is Brown. Now, do you think you can steer? You used to, on the water at home.”
“Oh yes,” said Violet, with modest confidence. Val stood and looked after them as the boat glided away up the crowded river; then he stalked along through the admiring crowd, feeling as a man may be permitted to feel who holds the foremost rank on a day of fête and universal enjoyment.
“To him each lady’s look was lent,
On him each courtier’s eye was bent.”
To be sure there were a great many others almost as exalted as Val; and only the initiated knew that he rowed in the Eight, and was captain of the Victory,—the best boat on the river. He stalked along to his boat, over the delicious turf of the Brocas, in the afternoon sunshine, threading his way through throngs of ladies in pretty dresses, and hundreds of white-waistcoated Etonians. How proud the small boys who knew him were, after receiving a nod from the demigod as he passed, to discourse loudly to gracious mother or eager sister, Val’s style and title! “That’s Ross at my dame’s—he’s in the Eight—he won the school sculling last summer half; and we think we’ll get the House Fours, now he’s captain. He’s an awfully jolly fellow when you know him,” crowed the small boys, feeling themselves exalted in the grandeur of his acquaintance; and the pretty sisters looked after Val, a certain awe mingling with their admiration; while Philistines and strangers, unaccompanied by even a small boy, felt nobodies, as became them. Then came the start up the river. Never was a prettier sight than this ceremonial. The river all golden with afternoon glory; the great trees on the Brocas expanding their huge boughs in the soft air, against the sky; the banks all lined with animated, bright-coloured crowds; the stream alive with attendant boats; and the great noble pile of the castle looking down serene from its height upon the children and subjects at its royal feet, making merry under its great and calm protection. It is George III.’s birthday—poor, obstinate, kindly old soul!—and this is how a lingering fragrance of kindness grows into a sort of fame. They say he was paternally fond and proud of the boys, who thus yearly, without knowing it, celebrate him still.
Dick took his boat with Val’s cousins in it up the river, and waited there among the willows, opposite the beautiful elms of the Brocas, till the “Boats” went past in gay procession. He pointed out Val’s boat and Val’s person to Violet with a pleasure as great as her own. “It is the best boat on the river, and he is one of the best oars,” cried Dick, his honest fair face glowing with pleasure. “We all think his house must win the House Fours—they didn’t last year, for Mr Lichen was still here, and he’s heavier than Mr Ross; but Grinder’s will have it this time.” Dick’s face so brightened with generous delight, and acquired an expression so individual and characteristic, that Mr Pringle began to breathe freely, and to say to himself that fancy had led him astray.
“Do you belong to this place?” he asked, when they started again to follow the boats up the river, in the midst of a gay flotilla, looking Dick very steadily, almost severely, in the face.
“Not by birth, sir,” said Dick. “Indeed, I don’t belong anywhere; but I’m settled here, I hope, for good.”