John Caldigate | Page 8

was with her mother, looked at him with all her
young big eyes, but did not speak a word. It was very seldom that she
saw any young man, or indeed young people of either sex. But when
this stranger spoke freely to her mother about this subject and the other,
she listened to him and was interested.
John Caldigate, without being absolutely handsome, was a youth sure
to find favour in a woman's eyes. He was about five feet ten in height,
strong and very active, with bright dark eyes which were full of life and
intelligence. His forehead was square and showed the angles of his
brow; his hair was dark and thick and cut somewhat short; his mouth
was large, but full of expression and generally, also, of good-humour.
His nose would have been well formed, but that it was a little snubbed
at the end. Altogether his face gave you the idea of will, intellect, and a
kindly nature; but there was in it a promise, too, of occasional anger,
and a physiognomist might perhaps have expected from it that
vacillation in conduct which had hitherto led him from better things
into wretched faults.
As he was talking to Mrs. Bolton he had observed the girl, who sat
apart, with her fingers busy on her work, and who had hardly spoken a
word since his entrance. She was, he thought, the most lovely human
being that he had ever beheld; and yet she was hardly more than a child.
But how different from those girls at Babington! Her bright brown hair
was simply brushed from off her forehead and tied in a knot behind her
head. Her dress was as plain as a child's,--as though it was intended that
she should still be regarded as a child. Her face was very fair, with
large, grey, thoughtful eyes, and a mouth which, though as Caldigate

watched her it was never opened, seemed always as if it was just about
to pour forth words. And he could see that though her eyes were intent
upon her work, from time to time she looked across at him; and he
thought that if only they two were alone together, he could teach her to
speak.
But no such opportunity was given to him now, or during his short
sojourn at the Grange. After a while the old man returned to the room
and took him up to his bed-chamber. It was then about half-past four,
and he was told that they were to dine at six. It was early in
November,--not cold enough for bedroom fires among thrifty people,
and there he was left, apparently to spend an hour with nothing to do.
Rebelling against this, declaring that even at Puritan Grange he would
be master of his own actions, he rushed down into the hall, took his hat,
and walked off into the town. He would go and take one last look at the
old college.
He went in through the great gate and across the yard, and passing by
the well-known buttery-hatches, looked into the old hall for the last
time. The men were all seated at dinner, and he could see the fellows
up at the high table. Three years ago it had been his fixed resolve to
earn for himself the right to sit upon that dais. He had then been sure of
himself,--that he would do well, and take honours, and win a fellowship.
There had been moments in which he had thought that a college life
would suit him till he came into his own property. But how had all that
faded away! Everybody had congratulated him on the ease with which
he did his work,--and the result had been Newmarket, Davis, and a long
score in the ephemeral records of a cricket match. As he stood there,
with his slouched hat over his eyes, one of the college servants
recognised him, and called him by his name. Then he passed on quickly,
and made his way out to the gravel-walk by the river-side. It was not
yet closed for the night, and he went on, that he might take one last turn
up and down the old avenue.
He had certainly made a failure of his life so far. He did acknowledge
to himself that there was something nobler in these classic shades than
in the ore-laden dirt of an Australian gold-gully. He knew as much of
the world as that. He had not hitherto chosen the better part, and now
something of regret, even as to Folking,--poor old Folking,--came upon
him. He was, as it were, being kicked out and repudiated by his own

family as worthless. And what was he to do about Julia Babington?
After that scene in the linen-closet, he could