Lightwood hesitated; but, yielding to his curiosity, rose.
“Bravo!” cried Eugene, rising too. “Or, if Yoicks would be in better keeping, consider that I said Yoicks. Look to your feet, Mortimer, for we shall try your boots. When you are ready, I am — need I say with a Hey Ho Chivey, and likewise with a Hark Forward, Hark Forward, Tantivy?”
“Will nothing make you serious?” said Mortimer, laughing through his gravity.
“I am always serious, but just now I am a little excited by the glorious fact that a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting evening. Ready? So. We turn out the lamp and shut the door, and take the field.”
As the two friends passed out of the Temple into the public street, Eugene demanded with a show of courteous patronage in which direction Mortimer would you like the run to be? “There is a rather difficult country about Bethnal Green,” said Eugene, “and we have not taken in that direction lately. What is your opinion of Bethnal Green?” Mortimer assented to Bethnal Green, and they turned eastward. “Now, when we come to St. Paul’s churchyard,” pursued Eugene, “we’ll loiter artfully, and I’ll show you the schoolmaster.” But, they both saw him, before they got there; alone, and stealing after them in the shadow of the houses, on the opposite side of the way.
“Get your wind,” said Eugene, “for I am off directly. Does it occur to you that the boys of Merry England will begin to deteriorate in an educational light, if this lasts long? The schoolmaster can’t attend to me and the boys too. Got your wind? I am off!”
At what a rate he went, to breathe the schoolmaster; and how he then lounged and loitered, to put his patience to another kind of wear; what preposterous ways he took, with no other object on earth than to disappoint and punish him; and how he wore him out by every piece of ingenuity that his eccentric humour could devise; all this Lightwood noted, with a feeling of astonishment that so careless a man could be so wary, and that so idle a man could take so much trouble. At last, far on in the third hour of the pleasures of the chase, when he had brought the poor dogging wretch round again into the City, he twisted Mortimer up a few dark entries, twisted him into a little square court, twisted him sharp round again, and they almost ran against Bradley Headstone.
“And you see, as I was saying, Mortimer,” remarked Eugene aloud with the utmost coolness, as though there were no one within hearing by themselves: “and you see, as I was saying — undergoing grinding torments.”
It was not too strong a phrase for the occasion. Looking like the hunted and not the hunter, baffled, worn, with the exhaustion of deferred hope and consuming hate and anger in his face, white-lipped, wild-eyed, draggle-haired, seamed with jealousy and anger, and torturing himself with the conviction that he showed it all and they exulted in it, he went by them in the dark, like a haggard head suspended in the air: so completely did the force of his expression cancel his figure.
Mortimer Lightwood was not an extraordinarily impressible man, but this face impressed him. He spoke of it more than once on the remainder of the way home, and more than once when they got home.
They had been abed in their respective rooms two or three hours, when Eugene was partly awakened by hearing a footstep going about, and was fully awakened by seeing Lightwood standing at his bedside.
“Nothing wrong, Mortimer?”
“No.”
“What fancy takes you, then, for walking about in the night?”
“I am horribly wakeful.”