And now the paralyzed tutor was dead, leaving behind him a volume of papers on classical subjects, the reputation of an admirable scholar, and the fragrance of a dear and honored name.  His pupils had been many; they counted among the most distinguished of England’s youth; and all of them owed him much.  Few people thought of Delafield when the list of them was recited; and yet, in truth, Jacob’s debt was greater than any; for he owed this man nothing less than his soul.

No doubt the period at Oxford had been rather a period of obscure conflict than of mere idleness and degeneracy, as it had seemed to be.  But it might easily have ended in physical and moral ruin, and, as it was—­thanks to Courtenay—­Delafield went out to the business of life, a man singularly master of himself, determined to live his own life for his own ends.

In the first place, he was conscious, like many other young men of his time, of a strong repulsion towards the complexities and artificialities of modern society.  As in the forties, a time of social stir was rising out of a time of stagnation.  Social settlements were not yet founded, but the experiments which led to them were beginning.  Jacob looked at the life of London, the clubs and the country-houses, the normal life of his class, and turned from it in aversion.  He thought, sometimes, of emigrating, in search of a new heaven and a new earth, as men emigrated in the forties.

But his mother and sister were alone in the world—­his mother a somewhat helpless being, his sister still very young and unmarried.  He could not reconcile it to his conscience to go very far from them.

He tried the bar, amid an inner revolt that only increased with time.  And the bar implied London, and the dinners and dances of London, which, for a man of his family, the probable heir to the lands and moneys of the Chudleighs, were naturally innumerable.  He was much courted, in spite, perhaps because, of his oddities; and it was plain to him that with only a small exercise of those will-forces he felt accumulating within him, most of the normal objects of ambition were within his grasp.  The English aristocratic class, as we all know, is no longer exclusive.  It mingles freely with the commoner world on apparently equal terms.  But all the while its personal and family cohesion is perhaps greater than ever.  The power of mere birth, it seemed to Jacob, was hardly less in the England newly possessed of household suffrage than in the England of Charles James Fox’s youth, though it worked through other channels.  And for the persons in command of this power, a certain appareil de vie was necessary, taken for granted.  So much income, so many servants, such and such habits—­these things imposed themselves.  Life became a soft and cushioned business, with an infinity of layers between it and any hard reality—­a round pea in a silky pod.