aided by some vanity, perhaps, had
urged him to do this; and afterwards, the
opposition of distant relatives, and the obstacles
to my advancement he met with on
all sides, no less than his increasing partiality
to myself, decided him still more positively
in my favour. He was the most self-willed
person, I should think, who ever
breathed. Woe be to that man within his
power, who dared to thwart him! It was
with the utmost difficulty that I could save
the hoary-headed butler from expulsion, for
having once omitted to show me a customary
mark of respect. 'The slightest want of
respect to Mr. Brooke,' the baronet said to
his whole retinue, 'will be visited by instant
dismissal.'

"A university gentleman came to be my
tutor within a week, and I settled down to
my new course of life without much difficulty.
I had no very gross vulgarities to get
rid of; and Sir William's conversation was
as good an antidote to anything of the sort, as
can be conceived. He had read extensively,
had travelled far, and had benefited largely
by both experiences. His talk was of that
rare and courteous sort which seems to
acquire information, while in reality it is
imparting it; and presented a striking
contrast to his stubbornness and almost savage
will. I advanced readily in classics; and,
from a desire to please my benefactor, worked
hard at the mathematics; which I detested,
and ever shall detest.

"I seldom visited the village; it had become
hateful, from the unpleasant remarks
and curious questions that I was sure to be
there subjected to; but the park was a world
wide enough for me. My patron seemed to
grow better pleased with me daily and
indeed he had nothing to complain of; albeit
I purchased his favour at great cost. I had
no feeling towards him warmer than gratitude;
and the perpetual guard I had to keep
upon my speech and actions was very irksome.
I could not choose but see how unjust,
and even cruel he could be, when displeased;
and was always in terror lest it should be my
turn to excite his wrath. It is not meet,
Gray it would be painful to myself to
narrate any of the many instances of this;
but you must take my word for it, and
remember it, in case any quarrel should
happen between Sir William and his adopted
son. You look shocked at what I have
already said, and think me an ingrate! If
this man, then, has in truth bought over my
soul to silence, as well as made me the
automaton of his will, I do not think he has paid
too much for it. Do I not please him? Am
I not a standing boast to him; the advertisement
of his virtues; the object through
which his enemies delight to pierce him; the
envy of my inferiors, the scorn of my equals,
the pity of such as you? Is there nothing
due to me? Have I not a right to have been
born as self-willed as violent as he?"

"Certainly, my good friend," said Gray,
calmly, "and as unjust, also, and as cruel?"

"You shall know what it is I have
to bear. Not a year ago, when I was
coming up to this college, at Sir William's
wish, he said to me, of a sudden, 'Brooke,
you must now take my name.' I knew this
would anger his few relatives to the uttermost;
that it would provoke endless
misapprehension of my own position; that it would
make me more his goods and chattels
than ever. I said, respectfully, 'Sir, I would
much rather not.' Not liking to mention my
real reasons, I mumbled something about
destroying all chance of my being found by my
parents. He broke forth with, 'What,
sirrah, do you want to be a beggar's
brat again?' He took down a walking-stick,
and I half-suspected that he
was going to strike me with it, in which
case I should have left his house that instant,
and shaken the dust from my shoes before
his face: but he only pointed to the handle,
which was of ivory, and very ill in keeping
with the poor hazel staff. 'The top of this
was once brown also, sir,' said he; 'but it did
not suit my fancy. The man who made it
remonstrated at my wishing it to be changed.
But changed it shall be, quoth I; for I do
what I will with my own; and changed it
was. I wish you, too, to have a fine handle;
and you will be henceforth Mr. Brooke
Persey.' Nor was this the first or the last
time within a score, that I have been brought
to a knowledge of my precarious place.
You know, then, all my history, — my low
beginning, my perilous height, and the unreliable
reed on which I lean. The night
is growing chill, Gray. Let us go in."

             CHAPTER THE SECOND

BROOKE PERSEY was a fellow-commoner;
Leonard Gray, the son of a plain yeoman, was
a sizar. They had formed an acquaintance
in the lecture-room, which had soon ripened
into friendship; but their companions and
pursuits were far different; the rich protégé
kept his couple of horses and had a
dinner-party at least once a week; the scholar
dined in the hall, and had enough to do
apparently to keep himself. He made no use
of his rich friend whatever; "not through
pride, be sure," said he, "but because I
cannot afford to spend much time in pleasure of
any sort; foot-exercise is best for me, and
your wines would only incapacitate me from
working; like you, Persey, I have neither
father, mother, nor relative (save one dear
little sister); nay, and I have a patron too, if I
chose, in my tutor; who, for all his donnish
ways and personal grandeur, is as kind a
man as breathes. He offered to lend me money
to keep me up here, in a manner I shall not
easily forget; but, having got so far without
a crutch, I must make shift to finish my
journey by help of my own legs."

It was the season now at Cambridge when