Ernshaw’s first care, after Garthorne had left the room, was to see to the comfort of Sir Arthur, who had now quite recovered consciousness, but was still feeling faint and ill. He told him as much of the truth about Vane as he knew, and while he was doing so, Jepson, the scout, came in from the bedroom, and said with an air of deferential confidence:

“If you please, sir, I don’t think there’ll be any need for a doctor to Mr. Maxwell. He’s come round a bit, and I think I know what his complaint is. Being excited, as he might well be on a morning like this, he’s taken a drop too much on an empty stomach, and that led him to drink brandy and soda with his breakfast instead of sending for some more coffee. I’ve often seen this sort of thing before, sir, you see, and I’ve found the physic that will cure him on the mantelpiece. It’s this.”

He held up a little stoppered bottle full of strong ammonia, which Vane had got for cleaning up the bindings of some old books.

“Twenty drops of this,” he went on, “in a wine-glassful of water, and he’ll be as sober as ever he was in half an hour. Then I’ll make him some strong coffee, and he’ll be as right as a trivet. Only you mustn’t let him take any more drink afterwards, or he’ll just bring his boots up. I suppose I may try, sir? At any rate it won’t do him any harm.”

“Certainly,” said Ernshaw, “I’ve heard of it before. Do the best you can for him, Jepson.”

Jepson shut the door with a “Thank you, sir,” and proceeded to treat his patient.

Before the doctor arrived Sir Arthur had almost entirely recovered, and Vane was sitting up in bed, supported by the faithful Jepson’s arm, gasping and coughing, but perfectly sober, and wondering dimly what had happened during the last hour or two or was it weeks, or months, or what? He felt horribly sick and ill, and he was trembling in every limb, but the clouds of intoxication had cleared away from his mind; memory was returning to him, and he was asking Jepson disjointed questions as to what had happened.

“Never you mind about that, sir,” said Jepson. “Everything’s all right now. Sir Arthur is coming round nicely, and now you’ve got that down, you just lay back and keep quiet, and I’ll go and make your coffee, and before an hour’s over you’ll be ready and fit to go to the Sheldonian and face the Chancellor as though you hadn’t tasted a drop.”

Vane, still wondering at his apparently miraculous recovery, did as he was told and lay back upon the pillows, and Jepson went off to brew him an “extra special” pot of coffee.

“It’s very unfortunate for Mr. Maxwell,” he said, when he got into his own den, “very unfortunate, and on Degree Day too, but if I know anything about him and Sir Arthur, and I can get him to the Theatre dressed and compos mentis and all that sort of thing well, it’s a fiver at least in my pocket, so it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

The doctor arrived while he was making the coffee. Ernshaw explained quickly what had happened. He went in and looked at Vane, felt his pulse, asked him in a kindly tone why he had made such a fool of himself on such a day, then he said that he couldn’t improve on Jepson’s treatment under the circumstances, and went in to look at Sir Arthur, who now, thanks to Ernshaw’s care, was almost himself again.

“Curious business this,” he said, after he had felt Sir Arthur’s pulse and found that he was practically all right. “Your son’s case, I mean. I’ve known him nearly all the time that he’s been up, and I’ve always considered that he was a teetotaller from principle. Of course it would be simply absurd to attempt to conceal from you what has been the matter with him this morning. He’s been drunk, dead drunk, by about half-past nine in the morning. At the same time we must remember that when a man has been in hard training for a boat race, or anything of that sort, or if he has been reading hard on tea, which is almost as vicious a habit as alcoholism, he can get drunk on very little alcohol when the strain is taken off. In fact, I have known a man get drunk on a pint of bitter and a beef-steak; but there doesn’t seem any reason of that sort for what happened this morning. Still, fortunately, that man of his knew what to do, and he’s done it a rather heroic remedy certainly, but one can risk that with a good constitution.

“Still, I can’t quite understand it, I must confess. If there was any taint of what we now call alcoholic insanity in his blood, it would, of course, be perfectly plain. However, we needn’t go into that now. There can’t be any idea of that, and I think when he’s had his coffee, and you’ve had a mild brandy and soda, Sir Arthur, and kept quiet for half an hour or so, I think you will be able to go and see your son take the honours which he has won, and won very well, too. I suppose no idea of this has gone beyond these rooms?”

“I’m afraid they have,” said Ernshaw. “Garthorne, a Cambridge man, the man, you know, Sir Arthur, who was here with Vane when you came in, the same man who went for you, Doctor, said that he would go on and tell Sir Godfrey that Vane had been taken ill and wouldn’t be able to come out of his rooms to-day. In short, that he would have to receive his degree by proxy.”

“The devil he did,” said Sir Arthur, getting up from the sofa with the strength of a sudden access of anger and moving towards the bedroom door. “Look here, doctor, you have just said that Vane is getting round. Well, if he is, the old blood in him will tell, and he’ll take his place and play his part with the rest of them. Mr. Ernshaw, I know your friendship for my son; I know what you have done for him, and how you have helped him. Now, will you do me another favour and take my compliments to Sir Godfrey Raleigh, and say that the matter is not anything like as serious as we thought it was, and that both Vane and myself will be ready to go through the day’s programme as arranged. If you will be good enough to do that, the doctor and I will be able to arrange the rest, I think.”

“I shall be only too glad,” said Ernshaw, taking up his hat. “I shall just have about time to do it, and then get to my rooms and dress. Au revoir, then, until after the ceremony,” and with that, he opened the door just as Jepson knocked at it, bringing in the coffee.

Ernshaw found Garthorne already at Sir Godfrey’s rooms in close conversation with Enid. He had, of course, heard much about her from Vane, but this was the first time he had seen her. She had more than fulfilled the promise of two years before, and Ernshaw, ascetic as he was, had still too strong an artistic vein in his temperament to be insensible to her beauty. In fact, as she rose to greet the closest friend of the man who had been her lover, and who, as she fondly hoped, would be so once more after to-day, he started and coloured ever so slightly. He had never seen anything like her before as she stood there with outstretched hand, gently-smiling lips, and big, soft, deep eyes, in all the pride and glory of her dawning womanhood.

It was this, then, that Vane had to give up. This was the priceless treasure which, if he kept his vow, he would have to surrender to another man. As the thought crossed his mind, he looked at Garthorne, and he saw the possibility that, after all, he might be the victor in that struggle which had begun years ago on the deck of the steamer.

Certainly, as far as physical conditions went, there could hardly be a better match; but as he looked back to Enid, a darker thought stole into his mind. Garthorne had, superficially at least, rebutted the charges he had made against him in Vane’s rooms; but though he had apologised for what he had said, the conviction that he had deliberately tempted Vane to drink came back to him, now that he saw how great a temptation Garthorne had to commit such an infamy.

No doubt he knew perfectly well that Enid herself would overlook Vane’s second lapse as she had done his first, and would be quite content to marry him on the strength of his promise that he would never get drunk again; but he also knew that, after what had happened that morning, Vane’s determination to give her up would be tenfold strengthened, and that, when once he had definitely done so, the psychological moment would have arrived for him to begin his own suit at first, of course, from a deferential distance, from which he might hope to approach her heart through the avenue of her injured pride.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ernshaw!” she said, “I am glad to meet such an old and good friend of Vane’s. I have heard a great deal about you, and, I need hardly say, nothing but good. I hope you have come to tell me that Vane is better and also that you will tell me what has really been the matter with him. Mr. Garthorne, here, has been very rude; he has absolutely refused to say anything about it, and I am quite offended with him. I really can’t see why there should be any mystery about it. What is it?”

Ralph Ernshaw was one of those men who can no more tell a direct lie, or even prevaricate, than they can get outside their own skins. He held even the white lies of conventionality to be unworthy of anyone who held the truth as sacred, and yet for the life of him he could not look this lovely girl in the face and tell her that the man whom she had loved ever since she knew what love was, had been lying drunk on the floor of his room less than an hour before, and that the sight of him had shocked his father into a fainting fit.

“I think, Miss Raleigh,” he said, after a little hesitation, “that Vane would rather tell you that himself. In fact, to be quite candid with you, it is not a subject upon which I should care to touch even at your request, simply because I think that it is a matter which could be very much better discussed and explained between Vane and yourself; and I think Mr. Garthorne will agree with me in that view.”

“Certainly I do,” said Garthorne, “I think that is the most sensible way of putting it. Enid, if you’ll take my advice you’ll take Ernshaw’s, and let Vane do his own explaining after Commem.”

“Really, I think it’s very horrid of both of you,” said Enid. “I certainly can’t see why there should be all this mystery. If it’s anything really serious, surely I have a right to know. However, I suppose I must control my feminine impatience, at any rate it can’t be anything very bad if he’ll be able to be at the Theatre and Sir Arthur can come with him. I suppose I shall hear all about it at dinner to-night.”

“I have no doubt that you will, Miss Raleigh,” said Ernshaw, “and now, if you will excuse me, I must be off to my rooms to get ready for my own share of the proceedings. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ernshaw,” replied Enid, a trifle stiffly. “That reminds me how rude I have been, I’ve not congratulated you yet.”

“Oh, I haven’t done anything,” said Ernshaw, “at least, not in comparison with what Vane has done. You’ll see the difference in the Theatre. Good morning again. Good morning, Mr. Garthorne.”

“Good morning we shall see you later, I suppose?” replied Garthorne, as the door closed, and then he turned to Enid and went on: “He’s a thundering good fellow that Ernshaw. Quite a character, I believe, enthusiast, and all that sort of thing, but everyone here seems to think he’ll be a shining light some day.”

“Yes, he seems very nice,” said Enid, “but, as a matter of fact, I can’t say that I’m particularly fond of shining lights or people who are too good, and from what papa tells me, this Mr. Ernshaw has been making or trying to make Vane a great deal too good for me. I even hear that he has been trying to make Vane become a parson. Fancy Vane, with all his talents and prospects, a curate! The idea is absurd, even more absurd than this two years’ probation idea.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Garthorne, “but still, think of the test of constancy and the delight of knowing that you have both stood it so well.”

At this moment the door opened, and Sir Godfrey came in, not altogether to Garthorne’s satisfaction, and so put an end to further developments of the conversation.

A couple of hours later Enid was sitting with her father, a unit of the vast audience which filled the Sheldonian Theatre. After Ernshaw’s visit, neither she nor her father had received any message either from Vane or Sir Arthur. She had expected that Vane, at least, would have come to her before the beginning of the ceremonies, or that, at least, Sir Arthur would have come and told her something about him, but no, not a word; and there she sat between Garthorne and her father, angry and yet expectant, waiting for the moment of his appearance.

“Ah, here he is at last,” whispered Garthorne, as his name and honours were called out in Latin.

Enid held her breath as the familiar figure, clad in the unfamiliar academic garb, walked towards the Chancellor’s throne. She could see that he was deadly pale, and that his eyes were shining with an unnatural brightness. He never even once looked towards her. The wild outburst of cheering which greeted his appearance seemed as utterly lost upon him as if he had been stone deaf and blind. He listened to the Chancellor’s address with as little emotion as though it concerned some one else. Then he knelt down, the hood, the outward and visible sign of his intellectual triumph, was put over his shoulders; the Chancellor spoke the magic words without his hearing them. He never felt the three taps given with the New Testament on his head, and he rose from his knees and moved away from the scene of the crowning triumph of his youth as mechanically as though the proceedings had no more interest for him than if they had been taking place a thousand miles away.

All through the afternoon Enid and her father waited for them to come, but there was no sign from either of them until just before tea-time Jepson presented himself with two letters, one addressed to Sir Godfrey and one to Enid. Both were very short. Sir Godfrey’s was from Sir Arthur, and ran as follows:

“MY DEAR RALEIGH,

“I hope that you and your daughter will forgive the apparent discourtesy of our absence from you this afternoon and evening. I find it necessary to take Vane to London at once. His letter to Enid will explain the reason.

“Faithfully yours,
“ARTHUR MAXWELL.”

“There is evidently something very serious the matter,” said Sir Godfrey, as he handed the note to Enid. “Maxwell wouldn’t write like that without good reason. That’s from Vane, I suppose. What does he say?”

“Say,” exclaimed Enid, with a flash of anger through her fast gathering tears. “That’s what he says. It’s too bad, too cruel and after leaving me alone for two years it’s miserable!” And with that, she made a swift escape out of the room and shut the door behind her with an emphatic bang.

Sir Godfrey picked the note up from the table where she had flung it. There was no form of address. It simply began:

“I was drunk this morning. Drunk without meaning to be so, after being two years without touching alcohol and without experiencing the slightest craving for it. Last night I had finally come to the conclusion that it would be a sin to ask you to keep your promise to me. Now I am convinced that it would be absolute infamy to do so. I dare not even face you to tell you this, so utterly unworthy and contemptible am I in my own sight. Whatever you hear to the contrary, remember that what has happened this morning is no fault of anyone but myself. If ever we meet again I hope I shall find you the wife of a man more worthy of you than I am now, or, with this accursed taint in my blood, ever could be. Perhaps in those days we may be friends again; but for the present we must be strangers.

“Vane.”