It may be all very pleasant "to sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
or with the tangles of Neæra's hair," but young men at the outset of
their independent life have many other cares in this prosaic England
to occupy their time and their thoughts. Roger was Fellow of Trinity,
to be sure; and from the outside it certainly appeared as if his
position, as long as he chose to keep unmarried, was a very easy
one. His was not a nature, however, to sink down into inglorious
ease, even had his fellowship income been at his disposal. He
looked forward to an active life; in what direction he had not yet
determined. He knew what were his talents and his tastes; and did
not wish the former to lie buried, nor the latter, which he regarded
as gifts, fitting him for some peculiar work, to be disregarded or
thwarted. He rather liked awaiting an object, secure in his own
energy to force his way to it, when once he saw it clearly. He
reserved enough of money for his own personal needs, which were
small, and for the ready furtherance of any project he might see
fit to undertake; the rest of his income was Osborne's; given and
accepted in the spirit which made the bond between these two brothers
so rarely perfect. It was only the thought of Cynthia that threw
Roger off his balance. A strong man in everything else, about her
he was as a child. He knew that he could not marry and retain
his fellowship; his intention was to hold himself loose from any
employment or profession until he had found one to his mind, so
there was no immediate prospect--no prospect for many years, indeed,
that he would be able to marry. Yet he went on seeking Cynthia's
sweet company, listening to the music of her voice, basking in her
sunshine, and feeding his passion in every possible way, just like an
unreasoning child. He knew that it was folly--and yet he did it; and
it was perhaps this that made him so sympathetic with Osborne. Roger
racked his brains about Osborne's affairs much more frequently than
Osborne troubled himself. Indeed, he had become so ailing and languid
of late, that even the Squire made only very faint objections to
his desire for frequent change of scene, though formerly he used to
grumble so much at the necessary expenditure it involved.
"After all, it doesn't cost much," the Squire said to Roger one day.
"Choose how he does it, he does it cheaply; he used to come and ask
me for twenty, where now he does it for five. But he and I have
lost each other's language, that's what we have! and my dictionary"
(only he called it "dixonary") "has all got wrong because of those
confounded debts--which he will never explain to me, or talk
about--he always holds me off at arm's length when I begin upon
it--he does, Roger--me, his old dad, as was his primest favourite of
all, when he was a little bit of a chap!"