“Old man, aren’t you well?” said the latter anxiously.
“Eh?—oh, yes! I’m all right. Why—why do you ask? But I say, Jim, this room is close. Let’s go out and take a turn in the big court.”
Jim, in sore perplexity, complied, and for an hour those two paced the flags round the great quadrangle. George was himself again, much to Jim’s relief, and suffered himself to be sent uncomplainingly to bed at ten. To bed, but not to sleep. All night long I heard him toss to and fro, vainly endeavouring to recall Greek and Latin lines or some other fragment of his studies. At about six he dozed fitfully for an hour, and then came the knock at the door which summoned him from his bed to the first day of his ordeal.
I would rather not dwell on those examination days, for I could tell, if no one else could, that my master was really ill, and was only prevented by sheer excitement from succumbing at any moment. As day by day passed I could see the effort becoming more and more difficult. The nights were worse than the days—sleepless, feverish, distracted. It was evident this could not go on for long.
The last day of the examination arrived, and my master was in his usual place in the Senate House. His pen flew swiftly all the morning along the paper, and one by one, a triumphant tick was set against the printed questions before him. I could see no one as well employed as he. Jim, at a distant desk, was biting the end of his pen and looking up at the ceiling; other men sat back in their seats and stared with knitted brows at the paper before them; others buried their fingers in their hair and looked the picture of despair. But still my master wrote on. It wanted half an hour to the time of closing when he reached the last question on the paper. I saw his lips curl into a smile as he dashed his pen into the ink and began to write. Then suddenly it dropped from his fingers, and his hands were clasped to his forehead. He made no motion and uttered no cry; men went on with their work on each side of him, and professors at their desks never turned his way. I looked wildly towards Jim; he sat there, biting the end of his pen and scowling at the question before him, but for a long time never looked our way. At last his head turned, and in an instant he was at his friend’s side. Others came round too and offered help. Among them my poor master was borne from the hall and carried to his rooms, and that evening it was known all over the University that Reader, of George’s, had been taken ill during the Tripos examination, and now lay delirious in his rooms in college.
Every one believed the attack was but a slight one, but I feared the worst; I knew how systematically and fatally my master’s constitution had been undermined by the work of the last three years, and felt sure it could never rally from the fierce fever which had laid him low. And it never did. The fever left him in due time, and his mind ceased to wander, but every hour his strength failed him. His parents and Jim, and sometimes his old friend the rector, would constantly be about his bed, and to all of them it soon became evident what little hope there was of his recovery. Indeed, he must have guessed it too!
One day, as Jim sat with him, a faint shout was heard below in the quadrangle.
“What’s that?” inquired George.
“I’ll see,” said Jim, and he went lightly from the room.
Presently he returned with a face almost beaming.