Tales of College Life/"Aeger;" or, Mistaken Identity/Chapter 1
ÆGER; OR, MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
It 's a wise father that knows his own son.
CHAPTER I.
THE SICK MAN IN OXFORD.
"ARE you æger this morning, Sir?" asked the Scout.
"Æger? why, of course I am! Don't I look æger?" answered his master.
"Well"
"Well? but it is n't well! it 's æger!"
"Well—I don't know, Sir," replied the Scout, who (like Truth) was not to be driven from his well; "at least, I did n't know; but, in course, I knows now that you is æger."
"In course you does," replied his master. "So, post the æger till further notice. And—here, Thomas! tell the cook, if he can't devil kidneys better than this, he 'd better give up his profession, and go to the d—, that is to say, diggins."
"Yessir!" said the Scout, who would have made the same answer, if his master—or rather, one of his masters, for Mr. Percival Wylde had but a share in the ownership of the faithful Thomas—had directed him to convey his compliments to the Vice-Chancellor, and would feel obliged by the information whether his maternal relative had yet disposed of her mangle:—"yessir!" Exit Scout, leaving his master solus.
Mr. Percival Wylde was seated in his easiest easy-chair, in his comfortable rooms in the fine old College of St. Boniface, Oxford, over a well-garnished breakfast-table, to which an Apicius, or even an Alderman, might not have disdained to sit down. And Mr. Percival Wylde was making the viands disappear in a way which seemed to demonstrate that Mr. P. W. was in the enjoyment of the rudest health; and this, notwithstanding the fact above alluded to, that, on that very morning, there would be sent in to the proper authorities an "Æger," or document to the effect that Mr. Percival Wylde was prevented attending Chapels, Lectures, and other University duties, in consequence of severe indisposition. A shrewd observer, on contemplating Mr. Percival Wylde's healthy countenance, and vigorous assaults on the breakfast fare, might, from these trifling circumstances, have drawn the deduction, that the young gentleman's "indisposition" was nothing more nor less than an indisposition, or unwillingness, to subject himself to the fatiguing routine of collegiate duties; and that he was in the enjoyment of a mens sana in corpore sano. Nevertheless, he was æger in the sight of Dons and Tutors; and his mantelpiece was furnished with three half-emptied physic bottles in support of the assertion that he was on the sick list.
As Mr. Percival Wylde concluded his breakfast with a draught of Buttery ale (they are famed for their beer at St. Boniface), and proceeded to fill a short clay pipe from a tobacco-box that stood beside a bottle labelled "Two tablespoonsful to be taken every three hours until the fever abates," he cast his eyes upon the reflection in the mirror placed over the mantelpiece; and, half-vocally, half-mentally, addressed the following observations to the individual before him: "You are looking your best, this morning, Sir! I never saw you look brighter or handsomer. You will spoil your complexion if you keep to your rooms all day: you will expire with ennui before night comes; your own society ain't particularly captivating; you had better give the Dons the slip, and take a run into the country—Or, why should n't you run up to town, and steal a look at Fanny Douglas? She has been in Wilton Crescent these three days, and, of course, is dying to see you. What if, as Dick Swiveller says, the old min is not friendly, and your governor wants you to marry Wilhelmina? are there not two people to be consulted on this point; and don't you and Fanny love one another all the more because your engagement is opposed? It will do you good, Sir, to get away and see her: there are heaps of time, and you can be back before Gates. What is the good of posting an æger, if you are not to make use of it? What, indeed!"
And here, Mr. Percival Wylde, having filled his pipe, sat himself down to smoke it, and digest his thoughts; the which proceeding was complacently regarded by his Skye-terrier "Mac," who, seated upon the rug, alternately winked at his master, and blinked at the fire, from under his shaggy eyebrows.
By the time that the pipe was smoked out, the smoker's mind appeared to be fully made up; for Mr. Percival Wylde sprang from his chair, and exclaimed, "Fanny! you have gained the day. What, ho! my kingdom for a 'Bradshaw'!" And hunting about among a débris of newspapers, railway-books, puffing tradesmen's circulars, odd numbers of magazines, and other specimens of that miscellaneous literature which spreads, nettle-fashion, in all the available corners of a bachelor's apartment, Mr. Percival Wylde at length lighted upon the desired periodical, and, by this, put a stop to the premature expectations and groundless excitement of "Mac," who, with eyes of the keenest speculation, had been following his master's search, evidently anticipating that it would terminate in rats—if not cats.
But it ended in a less lively subject; to wit—(not that there was any wit in it) "Bradshaw." "Now, let me see!" murmured the undergraduate, as he turned over the leaves of the bewildering book, and consulted its still more bewildering index:
"Oxford, W. S. 10; Gt. W. 53•57; L. and N. W. 75; O. W. and W.—the Old Worse and Worse,—77; Shr. and Ches. 86. Mid. Remarkably explicit and clear, certainly. Oh, here it is! Down-train—London. Express leaves at five fifteen; Bletchley, six twenty-five; all right so far! only, this blackguard Junction—Oh, I see! departs from Bletchley at six-twenty-five; arrives at Oxford—why, confound it! it never arrives at Oxford at all! Oh! here 's another train at seven fifteen; reaches Oxford—at eight thirty. That's the ticket! that will just land me in time for Gates. So, to Town I go, and have a chat with Fanny. When a man 's æger, there 's nothing like going to London in search of first-rate advice. After all, Love 's the best physician!"
Having arrived at this comforting decision, Mr. Percival Wylde was not long in putting it in execution. Watching his opportunity, he ran across Quad., and sped out of the College gates unseen by other than friendly eyes. Then, stealing down the lane which runs at the back of St. Boniface—in which lane many a hack had been waiting to convey him to the cover side,—by divers paths he reached the Railway Station, and ascertained, to his great satisfaction, that no hostile Tutor was bound by the same train to London.
When the Great Metropolis—or "the little village," as Mr. Wylde and his companions facetiously termed it—had been duly reached, and Mr. Percival Wylde's inner man had been duly refreshed, that young gentleman forthwith took his way, on foot, to Wilton Crescent, anticipating the pleasure which Miss Fanny Douglas would doubtless feel at his unexpected visit, and already experiencing some of the delight which he himself would (of course!) entertain at his forthcoming interview with her—the adorable one! Filled with these agreeable expectations, he walked, "as upon air," to the Victoria Gate, and crossed the Park in the direction of the two towers of Babel that flank the bestagged pillars of the Albert Gate. But, as he was trampling the rough gravel of Rotten Row, the sight of a female equestrian, the tournure of whose form and face resembled that of the incomparable Fanny, carried him on further than he had purposed; and he had followed the horsewoman as far as the Achilles Statue before he discovered that he had been in pursuit of a perfect stranger.
Upon what trifles do the hinges of our life turn! If Mr. Percival Wylde had not caught sight of this young lady equestrian whom he had never seen before, and never wished to see again, he would have gone through the Albert Gate to Wilton Crescent, would have had an interview with the beloved Fanny, and would altogether have avoided that impending fate into the threatening jaws of which he was now thrusting himself.
If he had not done so and so, then so and so might have happened, and so and so would not have happened. Exactly! And so it might be argued of all the great events of ancient and modern times. If Cleopatra had squinted, the fortunes of the world would have been changed; if Helen had been otherwise than beautiful, the fate of nations would have been different. "Verily," as honest Touchstone saith, "there is much virtue in If."
Mr. Percival Wylde, then, to make up for the lost time, walked briskly by Apsley House, and turned down Hyde Park Corner towards Wilton Crescent—the goal of his expectations. "How surprised dear Fanny will be to see me!" he thought; "but an interview is doubly valued when it has been least expected." And here, the young gentleman's thoughts were compelled to flow in a very different channel, and to acknowledge that there must be an exception to every rule, whether it prove that rule, or no; for, to his amazement, his roving eye lighted upon the portly figure of a middle-aged gentleman, who was slowly toiling up the slight ascent opposite the St. George's Hospital, and was advancing towards him with an ill-boding look of mingled surprise and indignation.