"I's been baited like yon beast, Barbara. Oh! I's wounded and sick and weary. I's been hurt by the hands I kissed, and life's dark as a cloudy night." CHAPTER IX PETER AT OXFORD Peter Fleming sat by his study window, looking down into the quadrangle. It was early morning, so early that stars still glimmered round Saint Mary the Virgin's spire and over the Radcliffe Camera. Candles burnt dimly in the room at his back, and on the table, spotted with wine stains, lay the remains of supper. All the guests, but one, had gone, and he was only a voice, for the window curtains swallowed him up. To him Peter unburdened his soul; upon such an occasion, at such an hour as this, men are not afraid to speak of themselves. Peter's college career was ended. Last night he had set the seal to it; this morning he was entering upon a new phase. "You are not ambitious," said the voice--a mature voice, lacking the boyish note that rang so triumphantly off Peter's tongue, as though he were confident of conquering the world--"It's a pity; I always thought you were! With your honours it's monstrous, that you should turn school-master to your native vale, content with--how much?" "'Passing rich on fourty pounds a year'--and a goosegate!" "My dear fellow! it won't buy your books." "I shall read the book of mother Earth." "Sentimental rubbish! Is your mind quite made up?" "Screwed to the sticking point." The voice was silent for a moment, then continued: "So you'll spend your days teaching the young to make pot-hooks! Are you going to succeed?" "The truth is, I think a little reflection will be good for me." "Reflection! What upon?" "Life." "Can't you reflect upon life without burying yourself first?" "My friend, you have never been among the mountains." "Conclusive! I haven't. I've only seen them from afar, and been chilled by them. But seriously, why didn't you accept that post in India? You were just the man for it--strong, honest, clever...." "Don't catalogue my virtues, my good fellow." "But why didn't you go?" "I'm the only son of my mother." "Hum ... a man's foes.... And if you return home now, what will you do eventually? I don't suppose village school-mastering will satisfy you long." "Eventually! heaven knows. Perhaps I shall turn flute player up and down the countryside, go to all the fairs and markets and wakes and enjoy myself. Or I might become a potter, or a tinker, or make a modest income leading about a dancing bear. I've a predilection for the last." "You're too versatile, Fleming. But I'm really troubled about you! That country of your's is a savage place--I make due apologies--nevertheless it's the truth. You'll get into a back-water of life; you'll be cut off from culture and learning--things you like, and long for, more than most,--I'm afraid that the lump will leaven you, not you the lump." Peter put away his half-bantering tone, and became serious.