A Woman's Vengeance

Excerpt from A Woman's Vengeance: A Novel
It is early summer and early morning in the most picturesque of English cities - Oxford. Nobody is astir in the gray streets; the heavy college gates, and even the small posters cut in them (for the admission of gay young under-graduate dogs after hours), are' as yet fast closed. The parks and pleasure-grounds are all deserted, under whose stately trees so many generations I of youth have dreamed their day-dreams. The quads, with their trim lawns, which have echoed for centuries to boyish laughter, are silent. The plaintive caw of the half-awakened rooks, as the swaying elm-tree rocks them, alone is heard, save the voice of Time itself - the Guardian I Time, who here holds all things in its solemn keeping. First the four musical quarters, and then the five beats of the iron tongue. From a score of ancient churches issue the same warning sounds, and silence reigns again, more indisputably than ever. In other places, at such an hour, Time's voice seems to make solemn protest: "A quarter gone; two; three; four. Another hour, poor mortals, from the sum of your days; and yet you spend it sleeping!" But Time is at home here, and does not preach. What need for preaching in a place where every stone is a sermon? Other cities have withstood sieges; other cities have brought forth martyrs; other cities (not many) can date their origin from earlier ages. But this one is far more venerable (save to the mere antiquary) as being that city in which the years of man, in place of being threescore years and ten, are three, or if (by reason of idleness or stupidity) they reach to four years and over, the surplus age is labor and sorrow, and its end a bathos.
To dwell here even a year after one's fellows have departed (except the College Fellows) is to feel old indeed. To return here after a few years is to experience the feelings of Rip Van Winkle. Alma Muter is a hard mother, though she spoils her children. "Come," she says, "eat, drink, and he merry in this pleasant place; for what saith the Preacher; 'Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes.'" And the young men obey her gladly. But when three years, or four at most, are over, she saith: "Arise, and go into the world, and return hither no more: but make way for others."
To how many has she thus been the home and the grave of joy! How many have spent
with her their "palmy days" - their only ones - and found the world the harder for the contrast! How many, in bidding good-by to her, have bidden good-by to Comfort, Ease, Light-heartedness, and taken Want and unrewarded Toil as their companions through life's long journey in their place! Even the rich leave here their lithest days behind, and with them bat too often the open hand, the tender heart, soon to be closed and hardened by the consciousness of "great possessions." For, while here, rich and poor are alike (or nearly so), and Liberty, Equality, Fraternity for one brief epoch reign, no shadowy triumvirate. O golden youth! O haply time I never, never to return again: each clock-tongue seems its knell.
Such thoughts, or thoughts like these, are massing through the mind of Arthur Tyndall as re stands at the corner of a silent street and looks at his old college - left some five years rack, which seem to him a century. He can not help entertaining them (though in a particular rather than a general way), notwithstanding Sat he is by no means given to sentiment He has been to the ends of the earth since he dwelt yonder, and has witnessed, and doubtless taken part in, reckless doings. His face, which was here as fair as a gill's, has had the tropic sun upon it; his hands, here hardened only by the oar, hare made acquaintance with the spade, the gun, the sail; his beard is grown, and hangs low over his broad chest But for the moment he is a boy again. S