Chapter I: Old Style

"There's nothing that emphasizes the _amari aliquid_ of life like one's tobacconist," mused Fane Trevyllyan as he flung a box of eighteenpenny Emeticos into the fire and lit a Latakia cigarette.

It was a lovely August morning in the Eights of 18--; and the stroke of the Charsley Hall boat reclined wearily in his luxuriously furnished apartments within that venerable College and watched the midday sun gilding the pinnacles of the Martyr's Memorial. It had been a fast and furious night, and Trevyllyan had lost more I.O.U.s than even he cared to remember: and now he was very weary of it all. Had it not been for one thing, he would have thrown it all up--sent dons, deans, duns, and dice to the devil, and gone down by the afternoon train: as it was, there was nothing for it but to recline on his tiger-skins and smoke countless cigars. He never would train.

"Going to row to-day, Fane?" It was little Bagley Wood, the cox. Trevyllyan sanctioned his presence as if he had been a cat or a lapdog: to all others he was stern and unapproachable--a true representative of his Order.

"Don't know, _caro mio_," was the reply. "It's such a bore, you know: and then I half think I promised to take La Montmorenci of the Frivolity up the Cherwell to Trumpington in the University Barge."

"What! when the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion has come down on purpose to see us catch Christ Church! why, _sapristi_, where can your eyes be?" The stroke hissed something between his clenched teeth, and Bagley Wood found himself flying through an unopened window.

"_Cherchez la femme_! it's always the way with the Trevyllyans," muttered the lad, as he picked himself up from the grass plot in the quadrangle and strolled off to quiet his nerves with a glass of _aguardiente_ at the Mitre.

* * * * *

An August moon shone brightly on the last night of the great aquatic contest: the starter had fired his pistol, and all the boats but one were off.

"Hadn't you better think about starting, Trevyllyan?" asked the coach of the Charsley Hall Eight, a trifle pale and anxious. "See, they are all under way. Glanville Ferrers, the Christ Church stroke, swears you shan't bump him as you did last week. He must be past the Soapworks by this time."

"_Caramba_! then I suppose we ought to get in," replied the other; and as he spoke he divested himself of the academical garb that scarcely concealed his sky-blue tights, and stood, a model of manly beauty, on the banks of the rushing river. Then, throwing away a half-finished cigar, Trevyllyan strode into the boat. _Per Bacco_! 'twas a magnificent sight. As the crack Eight of the river sped swiftly after her rival, cheers arose from the bank, and odds on both boats were freely taken and offered by the _cognoscenti_.

You and I, _amigo mio_! have seen many a race in our day. We have seen the 'Varsity crews flash neck and neck past Lillie Bridge: we have held our breath while Orme ran a dead heat with Eclipse for the Grand National: we have read how the victor of the _pancratium_ panted to the _meta_ amid the Io Triumphes of Attica's vine-clad Acropolis. But we did not see the great Christ Church and Charsley's race--that great contest which is still the talk of many a learned lecture-room. They say the pace was tremendous. Four men fainted in the Christ Church boat, and Trevyllyan's crew repeatedly entreated him to stop. But he held on, inexorable as the Erinnyes.

Fair as Pallas Anadyomene--fair as the Venus whom Milo fashioned _pour se desennuyer_ in his exile at Marseilles--the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion sat throned on the University Barge, and watched the heroes as their bare arms flashed in the moonlight. And now they were through the Gut, and the nose of the Charsley's boat pressed hard on its rival: yet Fane Trevyllyan did not make his final effort. Would he spare Glanville Ferrers? _Quien sabe_? They had been friends--once. But the die was cast. As the boats sped past her the Lady Gwendolen stooped from her pride of place and threw a rose--just one--into the painted poop of the Christ Church wherry. That was all: but it was enough. Trevyllyan saw the action where he sat: one final, magnificent, unswerving stroke--those who saw it thought it would never end!--and with a muttered "Habet!" he sent the brazen beak of his Eight crashing in among the shattered oars of his helpless competitor.

_Galeotto fu il libro_, _e chi lo scrisse_.