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Observing this, he turned to answer Lord Julian's question. "I had that honour once," said he. "But it seems that Miss Bishop has a shorter memory." His lips were twisted into a wry smile, and there was pain in the blue eyes that gleamed so vividly under his black brows, pain blending with the mockery of his voice.
The words flashed into light from the folded pages of Julian's memory, and with them the dim image of a dead face, and the dying echo of a father's voice. "Pol pudere quam pigere proestat totidem literis." Plautus Trinum, Two, 2.
Ah! they must be felt, not written of: but I am sure that no family felt a keener joy that day, than Julian's mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him again, and learnt with pride that he had won a scholarship of 100 pounds a year; even Will and Mary, the faithful servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look up to their young master with even more honour than before.
"I'll carry your honour where you shall have enough of ladies, if that be your want," said the old Triton; and as he spoke, the clamour amongst the watermen was renewed, each hoping to cut his own profit out of the emergency of Julian's situation. "A sculler will be least suspected, your honour," said one fellow. "A pair of oars will carry you through the water like a wild-duck," said another.
I will give thee a mantle for the tomb, and an eternal bed that shall be softer and more peaceful than the Imperial couch. Yet, I am loth to die. Die, then! Julian's father and mother dwelt in a castle built on the slope of a hill, in the heart of the woods.
Lord De Vayne played well on the piano, and knowing Julian's passion for music, was rewarded for his unselfish efforts by complete success in rousing his attention. He played some of the finest passages of a recent and beautiful oratorio, until Julian almost forgot his troubles, and was ready to talk with more freedom and in a kindlier mood.
This is a spectacle not often equalled; and to take a share in it, as one for whose sake in part it has been established, is a privilege not to be forgotten. The music, the devotion, the spirit of the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of Julian's troubled heart. "Are we not all brethren? Hath not one Father begotten us?"
The wondering servant waited on the doorstep, looking after it. "I wouldn't stand in Mr. Julian's shoes for something," he thought, with his mind running on the difficulties of the young clergyman's position. "There she is along with him in the cab. What is he going to do with her after that?" Julian himself, if it had been put to him at the moment, could not have answered the question.
A treatise is extant from Julian's pen, in which he expatiates with singular complacency on the filth of his beard, the length of his nails, and the inky blackness of his hands, as if cleanliness was inconsistent with the philosophic character!
Julian suddenly cried. "Valentine, is it yours? Why don't you answer? I say, is it yours?" "No," Valentine forced himself, with difficulty, to reply. "For God's sake then the light!" Valentine felt for it, but his hand shook and did not find the button. "Make haste, Val. What are you doing? Ah!" The room sprang into view, and Julian's eyes, with a furious, sick eagerness, sought his hands.
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