I have observed that, in fatigue, the mind is peculiarly responsive to outside influences. It was so with me, as I walked along the familiar streets in the radiant morning sunlight. Never had the inherent poetry of Cambridge, its dignity and repose, appealed to me more forcibly. My filial affection went out to this place which had sheltered my youth and inexperience, nourished my intellect, given me the means of livelihood, given me, also, many friends—went out to its traditions, to its continuity of high endeavour through centuries of scholarship, of religious and of scientific thought. What a roll of honour, what a galaxy of famous and venerable names, it could show!
But I had no time to linger, to-day of all days, over meditations such as these. Not past splendours but very present anxieties claimed me. I hastened my steps, and passed in under the fine Tudor gateway of my own college just as the men—‘a numerous throng arrayed in white’—poured out from chapel, into the sunshine and shadow, the green and grey of the big quadrangle.
My object was to obtain speech of the Master; and I was fortunate enough to catch him as he was entering the Lodge. I begged for ten minutes’ talk with him while he ate his breakfast—a request he granted readily, being curious, as I fancied, to learn my errand and, since I had not kept my chapel, whence I came.
I satisfied him on both points, telling him as much as I deemed expedient about Hartover’s unexpected descent upon me—to all of which he listened with genuine interest and concern.
‘And now, sir,’ I said, in conclusion, ‘the question arises as to whether I can be spared from my college duties until this painful business is placed upon, what at all events approaches, a reasonable and workable footing?’
‘Which signifies, being interpreted—am I prepared to sanction your doing that which you fully intend to do whether I sanction it or not? Eh, Brownlow?’
I acquiesced smiling, relieved to find him in so sympathetic a humour.
‘Very well, then; so be it,’ he said. ‘Having put your hand to this particular plough—at no small personal cost to yourself, quixotic fellow that you are—you are resolved not to look back; and I am the last man to invite you to do so. On the contrary, go on with your ploughing and drive a straight furrow. Only provide, to the best of your ability, against friction and disappointment here. Your absence will necessarily create some. Both I and others shall miss you. You must pay—or rather we, I suppose, must pay—the price of your popularity.’
And he looked at me very kindly, while I reddened at the implied praise.