The Bertrams. Trollope Anthony

a fourth. He says he won't take it, and swears he'll make them let him go out in the ruck."

      "He's got as much as he thought he'd get, at any rate, and therefore he can't be unhappy."

      "Unhappy! who's unhappy? Nonsense, my dear fellow. Shy all that to the dogs. Come, let's go over to Parker's; we shall find Harcourt there. You know he's up, don't you?"

      "No; and I had rather not meet him just at present."

      "My dear fellow, you must get over that."

      "That's all very well for you, who have got nothing to get over."

      "And have I never had anything to get over? I'll tell you what it is; I've come here to prevent you from moping, and I don't mean to leave you. So, you see, you may as well come with me at first."

      With some little hesitation, Wilkinson made his friend understand that he had not yet written home, and that he could not go out till he had done so.

      "Then I'll give you ten minutes to write your letter; it can't possibly take you more, not even if you put into it my love to my aunt and cousins."

      "I cannot do it while you are here."

      "Nonsense! gammon! You shall do it while I'm here. I'll not allow you to make yourself a miserable ass all for nothing. Come, write. If it's not written in ten minutes, I'll write it;" and so saying, he took up a play of Aristophanes wherewith to amuse himself, by way of light reading, after the heavy work of the week.

      Poor Wilkinson again drew his chair to the table, but his heart was very heavy. Væ victis!

      CHAPTER II

      BREAKFAST AND LUNCH

      Wilkinson took the pen in his hand and bent himself over the paper as though he were going to write; but not an ink-mark fell upon the paper. How should he write it? The task might have been comparatively light to him but for that dreadful debt. Bertram in the meantime tossed over the pages of his book, looking every now and then at his watch; and then turning sharply round, he exclaimed, "Well!"

      "I wish you'd leave me," said Wilkinson; "I'd rather be alone."

      "May I be doomed to live and die a don if I do; which style of life, next to that of an English bishop, I look on as the most contemptible in the world. The Queen's royal beef-eaters come next; but that, I think, I could endure, as their state of do-nothingness is not so absolute a quantity. Come; how far have you got? Give me the paper, and I'll write you a letter in no time."

      "Thank you; I'd rather write my own letter."

      "That's just what I want you to do, but you won't;" and then again he turned for two minutes to the "Frogs." "Well – you see you don't write. Come, we'll both have a try at it, and see who'll have done first. I wonder whether my father is expecting a letter from me?" And, so saying, he seized hold of pen and paper and began to write.

      My dearest Father,

      This weary affair is over at last. You will be sorry to hear that the event is not quite as well as it might have been as far as I am concerned. I had intended to be a first, and, lo! I am only a second. If my ambition had been confined to the second class, probably I might have come out a first. I am very sorry for it, chiefly for your sake; but in these days no man can count on the highest honours as a certainty. As I shall be home on Tuesday, I won't say any more. I can't give you any tidings about the fellowships yet. Bertram has had his old luck again. He sends his love to mamma and the girls.

Your very affectionate son,Arthur Wilkinson.

      "There, scribble that off; it will do just as well as anything else."

      Poor Wilkinson took the paper, and having read it, to see that it contained no absurdity, mechanically copied the writing. He merely added one phrase, to say that his friend's "better luck" consisted in his being the only double-first of his year, and one short postscript, which he took good care that Bertram should not see; and then he fastened his letter and sent it to the post.

      "Tell mamma not to be very unhappy." That was the postscript which he added.

      That letter was very anxiously expected at the vicarage of Hurst Staple. The father was prepared to be proud of his successful son; and the mother, who had over and over again cautioned him not to overwork himself, was anxious to know that his health was good. She had but little fear as to his success; her fear was that he should come home thin, pale, and wan.

      Just at breakfast-time the postman brought the letter, and the youngest girl running out on to the gravel brought it up to her expectant father.

      "It is from Arthur," said she; "isn't it, papa? I'm sure I know his handwriting."

      The vicar, with a little nervousness, opened it, and in half a minute the mother knew that all was not right.

      "Is he ill?" said she; "do tell me at once."

      "Ill! no; he's not ill."

      "Well, what is it? He has not lost his degree?"

      "He has not been plucked, papa, has he?" said Sophia.

      "Oh, no; he has got his degree – a second in classics! – that's all;" and he threw the letter over to his wife as he went on buttering his toast.

      "He'll be home on Tuesday," said Mary, the eldest girl, looking over her mother's shoulder.

      "And so George is a double-first," said Mrs. Wilkinson.

      "Yes," said the vicar, with his mouth full of toast; not evincing any great satisfaction at the success of his late pupil.

      When the mother read the short postscript her heart was touched, and she put her handkerchief up to her face.

      "Poor Arthur! I am sure it has not been his own fault."

      "Mamma, has George done better than Arthur?" said one of the younger girls. "George always does do better, I think; doesn't he?"

      "He has made himself too sure of it," said the father, in almost an angry tone. Not that he was angry; he was vexed, rather, as he would be if his wheat crop failed, or his potatoes did not come up properly.

      But he felt no sympathy with his son. It never occurred to him to think of the agony with which those few lines had been written; of the wretchedness of the young heart which had hoped so much and failed so greatly; of the misery which the son felt in disappointing the father. He was a good, kind parent, who spent his long days and longer nights in thinking of his family and their welfare; he would, too, have greatly triumphed in the triumph of his son; but it went beyond his power of heart to sympathize with him in his misery.

      "Do not seem to be vexed with him when he comes home," said the mother.

      "Vexed with him! you mean angry. Of course, I'm not angry. He has done his best, I suppose. It's unlucky, that's all."

      And then the breakfast was continued in silence.

      "I don't know what he's to do," said the father, after awhile; "he'll have to take a curacy, I suppose."

      "I thought he meant to stop up at Oxford and take pupils," said Mary.

      "I don't know that he can get pupils now. Besides, he'll not have a fellowship to help him."

      "Won't he get a fellowship at all, papa?"

      "Very probably not, I should think." And then the family finished their meal in silence.

      It certainly is not pleasant to have one's hopes disappointed; but Mr. Wilkinson was hardly just in allowing himself to be so extremely put about by his son's failure in getting the highest honours. Did he remember what other fathers feel when their sons are plucked? or, did he reflect that Arthur had, at any rate, done much better than nineteen out of every twenty young men that go up to Oxford? But then Mr. Wilkinson had a double cause for grief. Had George Bertram failed also, he might perhaps have borne it better.

      As soon as the letter had been written and made up, Wilkinson suffered himself to be led out of the room.

      "And now for Parker's," said Bertram; "you will be glad to see Harcourt."

      "Indeed, I shall not. Harcourt's all very well;