Part 2 (1/2)

”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 cla.s.sics!--that's all;”

and he threw the letter over to his wife as he went on b.u.t.tering 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 fellows.h.i.+p to help him.”

”Won't he get a fellows.h.i.+p at all, papa?”

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