"Well, Mr. Catherwood——" The voice again.
He turned slowly. His face was pale beneath the disfiguring streaks and stripes of brown.
"I—I—I confess, sir—I confess."
He flung himself into the chair at the end of thedesk and covering his poor face with his two hands, sobbed aloud.
The president waited for the paroxysm to pass.
"Why did you do it, Mr. Catherwood?" he asked, quietly.
"I—I—was afraid of that history examination." The reply came faint.
Turning his face away, he stood up. He groped for his hat.
"But wait a moment, Mr. Catherwood."
Shame-faced the impostor turned, his hand upon the knob of the door.
"You have, I believe, neither credit nor condition in that course. Professor Lowe was at a loss which to give you; and awaited my return. Ah, sit down, Mr. Catherwood."
He obeyed, meekly. He fumbled his cap.
"Ah, Mr. Catherwood." The voice still was calm and even.
"Yes, sir," Catherwood murmured without changing his position.
"Mr. Catherwood, this is a delicate case—I may say a most delicate case. It is unique in my experience. Indeed I believe it isabsolutelyunique. Moreover, honesty compels me to say that it was most ingeniously managed—mostingeniously."
The president coughed and raised his hand to hislips. Catherwood looked up an instant and then away again.
"Now, Mr. Catherwood," the president went on in the same dispassionate tone, "let us look first at the case from your point of view. You were zealous to pass your history course, ahem, too zealous, perhaps. However, be that as it may. And I am right, am I not, when I infer that your zeal, your desire in the matter, is still unabated?"
Catherwood nodded, slightly.
"Ah, I thought so. So be it. It is your zeal, then, that induces a certain definite longing for the credit in that course? Am I right?"
"Yes, sir." Weakly.
"Ah, yes. But, Mr. Catherwood, there is that beside our zeal to which we must listen. There is our conscience."
Catherwood shifted uneasily.
"Consultyourconscience, Mr. Catherwood. Shall I tell you what it whispers? Very well. It bids you ask for a condition—a condition, Mr. Catherwood."
"Give it me, doctor; give it me."
The suddenness, the eagerness of the request caused the president to raise his eyebrows. The pale ghost of a smile lingered an instant about his lips.
He held out a restraining hand.
"Just a moment, Mr. Catherwood," he said. "There is another point of view. Mine."
Catherwood had sunk back into his previous attitude of dejection.
"I may state it briefly," the president continued. "My interest in the proper conduct of this University, Mr. Catherwood, bids me give you a condition in the course to which we—ah—have referred. But—and I say this frankly—my interest in you, my boy, bids me hesitate. You are young. Your whole life is before you. A misstep now might mean the ruin of that life."
Catherwood caught his breath with a little spasm of the throat.
"Far be it from me to be the cause of such a misstep." The president spoke less rapidly now. "Too, you have brains. This—ah—your recent exploit is proof of that. Such ingenuity properly directed might work great good for not only you, but—ah—the country at large. Mr. Catherwood,"—every word was voiced with a cutting precision—"my genuine interest in you prompts me to give you your credit in this course; but——"
Catherwood started in his chair. The face he turned to the president was aglow; the eyes alight.
"But," the speaker emphasized—"I am notpermitted to do this, Mr. Catherwood. Had you taken that examination you might—mind you I say 'might'—have passed. Again you might not. There would have been, you see, an element of chance. Mr. Catherwood, we shall let Chance hold the scales this morning."
The young man looked up wonderingly.
"I don't understand, sir," he said, weakly.
In his hand the president held two envelopes.
"Mr. Catherwood," he said, "you see these envelopes? Yes. Well, in one of them—I do not know which one—is a credit-slip; in the other is a condition. The envelopes are sealed."
He held them out to the limp creature at the end of the desk.
"Choose," he commanded.
Catherwood shrank back. "Oh, sir," he murmured, brokenly.
"Choose."
Their eyes met then; and there was that in the president's that forbade his disobeying.
He put forth a trembling hand. His fingers touched the smooth paper. He drew. He crushed the envelope in his hand.
"Is—is—that all, sir?" he begged, falteringly.
"That is all, Mr. Catherwood, good-morning."
And he seized his cap and rushed from the room.
The president, alone, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he looked down. He still held the second envelope.
He ran the slim blade of the ebon-handled dagger beneath the flap and ripped it open.
He drew out the slip that it contained.
A queer little look came into his eyes. Then he pursed his lips, and smiled.
He tore the slip into tiny flakes and let them fall from his open hand like snow, into the waste-basket.
Just then the bells in the library tower clanged out four times.
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the president. "Half-past one! I shall be late for luncheon!"
And gathering up his coat and hat he left his office, hurriedly.
THE DOOR—A NOCTURNE
There is a pale moon, consequently the electric street-lamps are unlighted. The setting is nowise picturesque. The street is narrow, unpaved, and fringed on either side with maples in leaf. It is late June. To right and left, are to be discerned behind the trees rows of characterless frame houses, that, for the greater part, are set well back in yards, where, here and there, are lilac bushes, rose trees, smoke trees, and silver birches, ghostly in the thin light. The moon's rays, glimmering upon the latched green blinds of the lower stories—which seem black—streak them with white.
At the end of the block, on the east side of the street, stands a house markedly different from the others. It is three stories in height, whilst they are two; the lawn, cut by a gravel path, slopes gently to the walk, and is close cropped; across the front of the house and continuing unbroken along either side to the back is a broad, covered porch with a spindled rail at its edge like a little fence. The only door is at the top of the path, in front. In awindow directly above the door is a card the legend on which the moon makes clear—"Rooms to Rent." There is no fence about the place. On the south side another gravel path, narrower than the one in front and bordered with box, links the sidewalk to the porch. The main path prongs to still another set of steps on the north side. The house is white and looms big in the paleness. In a pear-tree near the south porch-steps a katydid scrapes her dreary tune; whilst, on the north steps, a vagrant cat sits in silent adoration of the night, contemplating, presumably, the joys thereof. A stillness made the more tangible by the katydid's song pervades the scene.
The deep throated bells in the library tower on the campus ring out six times—ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Accurately it lacks but fifteen minutes of being midnight.
Suddenly the song of the katydid ceases, and the cat, seized with panic, leaps from the north steps and vanishes beneath the grape trellis at the back. Footfalls sound on the cement, and presently a couple slant across the lawn to the porch, issuing from the shadow of the trees into the white light that floods the lawn. He is seen to be a well set up youth who looks twenty-three. It is the moon, for he is twenty. Upon his blond head is perched a slouch hat of a dirty gray color and bound with awide black band. His trousers, turned up at the ankles, are baggy at the hips and bulge beneath the belted Norfolk jacket that he wears. His hat is pulled down rakishly in front. She is a head shorter than he, and plump. Were it high noon her face would glow ruddy. She wears a straw sailor-hat such as no sailor ever wore; a shirt waist, and a white duck skirt that flares at the hem and appears somewhat crumpled. Her steps are mincing; he slouches. Between them they carry by its two out-springing handles a small luncheon hamper. He is a junior; his walk gives the clue to his class. So is she; so does hers. At the porch he sets the basket on the lowest step and turns to her:—
Jamie.Well, we beat 'em; didn't we?
Hilda[fumbling in her finger purse]. Uh huh. Let's go up-stairs and wait.
Jamie[doubtfully]. Had we better? Won't your landlady think—— It's awful late.
Hilda[testily]. We don't pay her three dollars a week to think; besides, they'll surely be here in a minute. We couldn't have been more than a mile ahead of them. They're at the livery now, probably. [During this speech she fumbles in her purse.] Oh, dear!
Jamie[endeavoring to smother a yawn]. Wha's mat'r?
Hilda[looking up at him and making a little moüe]. I can't find my key!
Jamie[with a quick show of interest]. You haven't lost it, have you?
Hilda[snappishly]. Well, it isn't here, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, how mad it makes me to lose things—but—I remember now; I left it on thechiffonierwhile we were dressing. Just to think I should have come away and left it lying there—oh, dear! [She gazes up at him appealingly.]
Jamie[a note of resignation in his voice, perhaps, which she, however, does not seem to perceive]. What's the difference? We'll wait for 'em. Minnie'll have hers, won't she? It'll be nicer waiting out here, anyway. Look at that moon! Beaut, isn't it? [He takes up the basket and moves away.]
Hilda.Where are you going?
Jamie[perhaps significantly]. 'Round on the side porch; this is too near the street.
Hilda[following him, and aside]. I can't see why they don't come. [Aloud.] Can we hear them?
Jamie.Sure! [He sets the basket beside one of the pillars of the north porch. They both sit on the top step, she with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two hands. For a space he whistles softly between his teeth. Thereafter they converse in half-whispers.]
Jamie.They'll be along in a minute.
Hilda.I hope so. They will unless Herbert's persuaded her to go hunting for flowers by moonlight. I wouldn't be as crazy over botany as he is for all the degrees the old university gives. [She edges nearer him and, taking his hand in one of hers, draws his arm around her waist. Sighing.] Oh, dear!
Jamie[bringing his face closer to hers]. What is it—angel?
Hilda[with infinite—or, almost infinite, tenderness]. Oh, nothing. I was only thinking about the day; how happy it has been.
Jamie[tenderly]. Has it been, dear?
Hilda[her head against his shoulder]. You know it has—lovely—perfect!
Jamie.What made it?
Hilda.You know what....
JamieNo, I don't; tell me. What?
Hilda[with tender impatience]. Why you, of course, foolish—because we were together, and all that....
Jamie.Oh!
Hilda.Now, what did you say "oh" for?
Jamie.I don't know—because I'm glad you enjoyed the day, I guess.
Hilda.Did you want me to enjoy it—very much?
Jamie.Of course I did, dear; I want you to be happy all the time—— We are going to be happy always, aren't we?
Hilda.Are we?
Jamie.Aren't we?
Hilda[tenderly]. Y-e-s—— [Their lips are very close. The moon rushes behind a cloud.] There! Now you've shocked the man in the moon!
Jamie.I guess he's used to it. I wish I had a dollar for all the times he's seen that!
Hilda.And just think! There isn't a soul he can talk to about it!
Jamie.Maybe he tells Mars; you don't know.
Hilda.Oh, Jamie, you ought to take course one in astronomy! Mars and the moon are miles and miles apart!
Jamie.Are they?
Hilda[tapping his hand]. Yes, and you ought to know it.
Jamie.But I don't know as much as you do, dearie.
Hilda.That's a very pretty speech, but you do, all the same. Sometimes I think you know just a little bit more.
Jamie.Well, I don't; besides, how could I? You're working for Ph. B., and I'll only get a cheap old B. L.
Hilda.That's your own fault. You could have selected Ph. B. Herbert did.
Jamie.But Herbert knows more than I do, too. [He grins, away from her.]
Hilda.Why, Jamie, he doesn't either! He doesn't knowanythingbut botany. I'm glad you aren't an old prosy botanist.
Jamie.Maybe I'm not a very good botanist, but I've prided myself on my taste in flowers——
Hilda.Now what makes you say that? You don't know a cowslip from a hollyhock!
Jamie.Maybe not, but I fell in love with you, didn't I?
Hilda[snuggling very close]. Dearest! [Again the modest man in the moon hides his face behind a cloud.]
Jamie[reminiscently]. Do you remember what happened a month ago to-night?
Hilda[softly]. Of course I do.
Jamie.What?
Hilda[more softly]. You proposed.
Jamie[stroking her hair]. Where?
Hilda.Why, where we were to-day—at Whitmore—in Mr. Stevens' sail-boat.
Jamie.Yes, that's so. I thought maybe you'd forgotten....
Hilda[drawing back]. Jamie! Forget! Never!Why that's the greatest thing that ever comes into a girl's life! Forget it? How could you!
Jamie.And you're just the same?
Hilda[her head against his shoulder again]. Always!
Jamie.The old lake looked somewhat different to-day, didn't it; so many of the cottages open, and such a crowd around?
Hilda.Yes, but it wasn't so nice as it was that day. I thought there were just a few too many around to-day, didn't you?
Jamie.Yes—once—or—twice——
Hilda.Why?
Jamie.Oh, because I wanted to walk on and on alone with you—just you. I wanted to talk to you as we're talking now, but I couldn't with so many folks everywhere. But I had my chance when we started for home. I looked for interference; that's why I suggested separate carriages.
Hilda[indifferently]. I knew it.
Jamie.You did? Now that shows you know more than I do. I didn't think you'd understand.
Hilda.Did you really think me as dense as all that?
Jamie.I'm afraid I did. But I shan't again. I shall tell you everything, hereafter. I find I might as well.
Hilda[earnestly]. Yes, you might, just exactly as well, for I shall know, anyway.
Jamie.I wonder if they had a good time.
Hilda.Who; Herbert and Minnie? Of course they did.
Jamie.Do you think they care anything for each other?
Hilda.Do I think so? Why, how should I know?
Jamie.You're her room-mate, aren't you?
Hilda.Oh, yes, I'm her room-mate; but I might as well not be for all she tells me about herself.
Jamie.Does she ever say anything about him?
Hilda.Not a word.
Jamie[somewhat sarcastically]. She seemed willing enough to go to the picnic; and I don't remember that she protested very violently when I suggested we go in separate carriages.
Hilda.Of course she wanted to go. Any girl likes a good time now and then on a Saturday, after working hard all the week. And Minnie does work hard. But her wanting to go doesn't prove anything. And as for the separate carriages, no girl likes to be bundled in with a crowd.
Jamie.Yes, maybe that's so. As far as I'm concerned, I'm glad she didn't protest.
Hilda.So am I. Do you think Herbert cares for her?
Jamie.Oh, I don't know. I'm not very well acquainted with him. He's always stuck in that musty old laboratory. I don't see him often. I'd never have thought of including him in the picnic, to-day, if you hadn't suggested it.
Hilda.Oh, well, there wasn't any one else; I couldn't go and leave Minnie. He'd called here two or three times, and he took her to the Forty Club once; I thought he'd do.
Jamie.He did, I guess. They hadn't much to say to each other, but maybe they had a good time all the same.
Hilda.Well, you know, she never has very much to say, nor he either, for that matter.
Jamie.I know it; all I could think of, seeing them up in front of the boat, was a pair of owls.
Hilda.Don't make fun of them, Jamie. Minnie'sawfullybright. Why she's made up her mind to come back next year and take her Master's degree. Think of that!
Jamie.Is that so? I wonder if Herbert's coming too.
Hilda.I don't know. I've never heard him say. I don't believe Minnie knows either. He's asplendid student, too. [Anxiously.] I don't see why in the world they don't come. Jamie, maybe they've had an accident!
Jamie.Oh, no, they haven't. That old giraffe of theirs couldn't run away. They're walking up from the livery now, like as not, just as we did. They'll be here in a minute. Maybe we came in faster than we thought. It's a good ten miles, and with their horse it would take 'em half again as long as it did us.
Hilda.Maybe.
Jamie[irrelevantly]. Jove! What a magnificent night this is!
Hilda.Isn't it? And see how round the moon is—it's perfectly lovely.
Jamie.Dearest!
Hilda.What?
Jamie.I love you.
Hilda[pressing his arm]. Sweetheart!
Jamie.I do. [Hildamurmurs incoherently.]
Tired of scurrying, the silent moon shines down upon these two of all the world, regardless. They lapse into silence—he holding one of her hands—and gaze at the pale orb of night floating up the sky. A couple turn the corner, south of the house. The young man is tall and angular. He wears huge spectacles. His face is thin and wan, very like thatof the girl beside him. Indeed, they have many physical characteristics in common. She, too, wears spectacles. Her mouth is straight, her complexion cloudy, but her eyes give evidence of an active brain behind them. He carries a luncheon basket awkwardly. At the corner they stop and he turns away as she lifts her dark cloth overskirt, and searches for her pocket. The quill, riding her curled-brimmed straw-hat at an angle of danger, sways impatiently.
Herbert[calmly]. Something appears to annoy you—have you——
Minnie[impetuously]. I've lost my key! Now isn't that aggravating! To think anything so perfectly absurd should——
Herbert.The others haven't yet arrived apparently. Possibly we might——
Minnie[with surprise]. Oh, I wouldn't have you wait for the world! It must be one o'clock! [She glances up at a window of the second floor.] No, evidently, they haven't come. There's no light. Of course Hilda would wait. Well, we'll ring and arouse the landlady; that's all.
Herbert[solicitously].Pleasedon't think it would annoy me to wait for your room-mate and her friend—here on the porch. It wouldn't in the least, I assure you. Besides, it always puts one outto be awakened late at night, and I dare say your landlady isn't a young person.
Minnie[smiling]. It'sverygood of you. Sheisn'tyoung; she's quite old. Quite as old, I think, as my mother. Still Icouldring, you know.
Herbert.Oh, don't, please don't; that is, don't on my account. This isn't late for me. I often study till two. Besides, to-morrow will be Sunday, and one isn't required to be about so early on Sunday.
Minnie[still smiling]. I think it would be a trifle more accurate if you had said, "This is Sunday." I am positive it is after midnight. Have you a watch?
Herbert.I am exceedingly sorry, but—but I didn't wear my watch to-day; being around the water, I thought—I thought, I might lose——
Minnie.Yes, one does have to be careful around the water. I've lost my key, I know!
Herbert.I can't tell you how sorry I am.
Minnie.And the injustice of it is that you must be the one to suffer—waiting here for Hilda.
Herbert.I shan't suffer; it will be a pleasure, believe——
Minnie.It's very good of you, of course; but you are quite sure I hadn't better ring?
Herbert.Quite. Don't do it, really. It's a lovely night, and——
Minnie.Well, we'd better sit on the porch, then, it's rather damp here, don't you think? [She moves toward the south steps.]
Herbert[following]. Yes, I believe it is rather damp. There's been a heavy dew. One can't afford to get one's feet wet with so much bronchitis about.
Minnie[sitting on the top step]. No indeed—I can't imagine where they can be! They were ahead of us all the way in. Why didn't we think to ask at the livery if——
Herbert.I'm sure it wouldn't have done any good. You see they didn't get their horse where I got ours.
Minnie.Oh, yes, to be sure. [Anxiously.] But where in the world can they be?
Herbert.I recall having read once—in some French book if I remember rightly—that one should never count upon an affianced couple being in a given place at a given time.
Minnie[smiling at him]. I'm not sure that isn't true. Still, Hilda is usually quite discreet, and I can't——
Herbert.Doubtless they'll be here in a moment; I shouldn't worry.
Minnie[suddenly]. Why, how very impolite of me. To allow you to sit there all this time holdingthat basket. Won't you set it on the porch? [Herberthas held the basket on his knees with his hands spread out over the cover.]
Herbert.Oh—ah—I wasn't thinking of—there, I guess that will be safe. [He sets the basket on the porch at his side.]
Minnie[leaning forward and gazing past him toward the street]. I wish they'd come! Wasn't it perfectly absurd of me to lose my key? Keeping you here! Are you quite sure you'd just as lief?
Herbert.Yes, indeed—really—I like to sit out—really, it doesn't matter, not in the least.
Minnie.Well while we are waiting we might as well go on where we left off. You were saying, on the way up from the livery—— [Hardly for a moment hasHerberttaken his eyes off the girl at his side.]
Herbert[floundering]. Oh, yes, as I was saying—the—oh—ah—I was say—whatwasI saying, Miss——
Minnie.Have you forgotten so soon? I'm afraid the subject couldn't have held all your thought. You were telling me about the triliums.
Herbert[brightly]. Oh, yes, to be sure; of course—the triliums. I was telling you they were to be found on the plains—of all places in the world—right in the heart of the great American desert—as I'm told.
Minnie[earnestly]. Are they, indeed? Really, I never heard of such a thing. Gray says positively, I am sure, that they are to be found growing only in damp soil; near rivers, for instance, or in marshes. I've never succeeded in finding them around here anywhere except down by the Huron River or out State Street at Tamarack Swamp. And to think of them growing away out there! It is the strangest thing I ever heard of—why, there's no water for miles, is there?
Herbert.Not a drop. I'm told they've been found in the most barren places; flowering alongside cacti and sage-brush.
Minnie.You are quite sure they were the trilium, are you? It's possible of course——
Herbert.That my informant might be mistaken—yes; but I don't think he was. They look precisely the same, and they analyze the same. I've seen his specimens. The leaf is identical in form. It is a trifle larger, that is all. I've never been able to distinguish any other variation, however slight.
Minnie.Have you ever mentioned it to Professor Yarb? I'm sure——
Herbert.Yes, I told him about them, and last summer I sent him a box. He analyzed them andis as much mystified as I. He's going to write a paper on the subject for this year's meeting of the American Society.
Minnie.How I should love to see some! I wonder if it would be too much trouble for you to send me a few; just one or two. You have some pressed, doubtless. I'd like to take a hand in solving the riddle. I intend to keep up with my botany, no matter where or what I teach, finally.
Herbert[joyfully]. Do you? Do you, really?
Minnie[earnestly]. I do indeed.
Herbert.Of course I'll send you some. I'll mail you a box as soon——
Minnie[with a protesting gesture]. Oh, I wouldn't have you go to that trouble for the world. Just two or three, in an envelope. They will do quite as well. [She leans forward again and gazes past him down the street. He does not draw back as he did before.] Why in the world don't they come? I shall have to talk to Hilda, severely.
Herbert.Oh, don't be hard on her. They're in—that is to say, they think a very great deal of each other, and no doubt——
Minnie.But it is so terribly late!
Herbert.I know, but it's very pleasant—such a night—much pleasanter than it is inside. And as for sleep, why one can sleep any night, whilesuch a moon as that, up there, one can't see often.
Minnie[quickly]. I do believe you're sentimental. I'm not a bit, so we'll never get on.
Herbert[gazing into space]. I don't think two people ought to be alike—— [He catches himself, stares at the moon and whistles without whistling. Minnie regards him curiously from the end of her eye.]
Minnie[examining the cuff of one sleeve]. What do you mean by that?
Herbert[again floundering]. I—oh—ah—I was just thinking—— We had a lecture on some such subject in psychology the other day.
Minnie[with a little sigh]. Do you enjoy psychology?
Herbert.Very much.
Minnie.Have you ever made any experiments?
Herbert.Only a few, just the more common ones. I've only had one course in it, you see.
Minnie[making a thrilling conversational leap]. I've no doubt it is all very fascinating, but I don't think I should care to marry a psychologist.
Herbert[quickly; edging nearer]. But I'm not a psychologist! I'm a botanist.
Minnie[very softly; looking away]. What do you mean—I——
Herbert[seemingly about to run madly into the face of the storm, but recovering himself]. I—oh—ah—I was just defending myself, you know. But why wouldn't you care to marry one?
Minnie[sighing again]. Oh, I don't know. I think I should be in mortal terror all the time that he was just analyzing me and every one of my motives.
Herbert[dreamily]. I don't think you would have occasion. If he loved you he couldn't——
Minnie[trying to laugh lightly and succeeding in emitting a rather tame cackle]. Love me! The idea! Who would ever love a spectacled old thing like me?
Herbert.Oh, you don't know, you know. Besides you shouldn't talk that way about yourself.
Minnie[smiling full at him]. I should tell the truth, shouldn't I?
Herbert[locking and unlocking his fingers]. But it isn't the truth.
Minnie[looking down]. Oh!
Herbert[with real courage]. That's the truth! You see the difference, don't you?
Minnie.Well, I'd like to know what I am if I'm not that. No one ever intimated before that I am anything else. My little brother has maintained it ever since he learned to talk.
Herbert.Well, you're not; you're—— [He hesitates. Thereafter he speaks quite as a locomotive puffs on a steep grade. There are two or three large, lusty puffs followed by a chain of spasmodic little puffs.]
Minnie[encouragingly]. Yes?
Herbert.You're not! You're a—oh, don't you understand? I can't keep from telling you any longer, really—I tried to in the carriage, but the road was so bumpy, I—— It seems as though I must make you understand. Please try to—I—— Don't you see! I care for you very, very much and—I wrote my people all about it and—oh, don't you see, Miss—— I mean Minnie—— I want to ask—— Will you——
Minnie[they are very close. She looks up at him feelingly]. Herbert! [The moon, aghast, dazed, thrown into a veritable spasm of lunar consternation, darts behind a cloud. But these two do not notice. The moon is forgotten—all is forgotten—the stars, the earth, the hour—even botany! Their heads are near together; thus they remain a long time, without speaking. The katydid has ceased again her dismal song, and long since the cat slunk away behind the grape-trellis to seek new fields. The intense stillness of the hour absorbs them and makes them a part of itself. After a myriad æons a bird,somewhere, pipes a warning note, which is taken up by another bird. The couple on the further porch stir. Her head has been resting against his shoulder and for a little time she has slept. In one hand he holds a bit of angel's food, left over from the luncheon, which he from time to time has nibbled indifferently.]
Jamie[flinging the cake away and stretching]. Gee whiz!
Hilda[starting, sleepily]. Wha—what is it?
Jamie[grumblingly]. Aw, nothin', I just wish they'd come, that's all.
Hilda[plaintively]. Aren't you happy, dear?
Jamie[yawning]. Oh, I'm happy enough, I suppose, but this porch isn't exactly downy; I feel as though I'd been sitting here a month.
Hilda[sighing]. Well I can't see where they are, either—for the life of me.
Jamie[bitterly]. The darned fools!
Hilda[with horror]. Jamie!
Jamie.Well, aren't they?
Hilda[with some show of spirit]. No, they're not; and if you're so sick of sitting here, why don't you go home; I can wait. I'm not afraid.
Jamie[yawning again]. Don't be silly.
Hilda.It seems to me you're the silly one; just as though you couldn't——
Jamie[impatiently]. Well, if you think it'sfun sitting here all night waiting for two soft heads that don't know enough to ache when they're in pain, you'remistaken; that's all.
Hilda[moving away from him]. I should think you'd be ashamed!
Jamie[with rising impatience]. That's right; now getmad!
Hilda.I'm not mad; so there! But—I—— [She begins to sniffle suspiciously. For some time neither speaks. The moon has waned and a strange, new light, of a sickly cast, is rising in the eastern sky. A restless bird in a tree near by pipes one nervous note; then all is silence again.]
Jamie[stretching and again yawning]. What are you crying about?
Hilda[swallowing two or three times, chokingly]. I—I—I'm not crying——
Jamie[indifferently and quite as though he felt he must say something]. You are, too; what about?
Hilda.Nothing.
Jamie.[He mutters.]
Hilda.What did you say?
Jamie[doggedly]. I didn't say anything.
Hilda[coming a little closer]. You did, too, and I want to know what it was.
Jamie[impatiently]. I didn't say anything, I tell you!
Hilda[choking up again]. That's right; now be ugly; just as though it were my fault; when you yourself suggested that we sit here.
Jamie.I didn't think it would be for all night!
Hilda[sticking to the point]. Well you did suggest it, didn't you?
Jamie[jerking his head]. Oh, I suppose so! [He sits with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and gazes at the rising light.]
Hilda.I'm just as tired as you are.
Jamie[sneeringly]. Yes, I've no doubt!
Hilda[hopelessly]. Oh, Jamie!
Jamie[with a fiendishly sarcastic grin that she doesn't see between her fingers]. And you're catching cold, too.
Hilda[recovering]. Why, I'm not either; what makes you say that?
Jamie[with withering sarcasm]. Oh, aren't you? I thought you were—by the sniffles!
Hilda[with some return of her former spirit]. You're a mean, horrid, old thing, just as mean and horrid as you can be; and I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!
Jamie[significantly]. Oh, I guess you will.
Hilda.Well, I won't.
Jamie[gleefully]. There, didn't I tell you you would?
Hilda.Well, I won't again.
Jamie.Oh, you won't, eh?
Hilda.[No answer.]
Jamie.So that's it, is it?
Hilda.[Still no answer.]
Jamie[shrugging his shoulders]. Oh, very well; just as you like! [How fortunate for the sympathetic man in the moon that he's not here to see. Now, the eastern sky shows a tinge of pale gray, shading into light violet. Here and there a bird lifts its voice; the notes are taken up and passed along as sentries pass the call for the corporal of the guard. From afar comes the jangle of metal, and the bell of an early milkman clangs. A sleepy girl issues from the back door of the two-story house across the street. A canvas-covered wagon drawn by two horses lumbers past.]
Hilda[rising and indicating the basket with dignity]. Hug!
Jamie[passing it to her]. Where you going?
Hilda[after a moment's hesitation]. I'm going to wake up the girl.
Jamie[attempting to restrain her]. Oh, don't do that; I'm very sorry——
Hilda[icily]. There's no need of your being sorry, at all.
Jamie.But I——
Hilda[with arctic frigidity]. It is quite unnecessary for us to say anything further about it, I think.
Jamie[pleading]. Won't you forgive me?
Hilda.[For answer she tosses her head.]
Jamie[in the same tone as before]. Won't you—Hilda?
Hilda.[Still no reply. She stands at his side holding the basket, not deigning even to look down at him.]
Jamie.What are you thinking, dear? Tell me!
Hilda.Oh, nothing of much consequence; only just how mean you have been and——
Jamie[interposing]. But I've asked you to——
Hilda.If I'm not mistaken I've said there is no use of our talking further about it.
Jamie[rising as she turns]. Then you won't say anything to me?
Hilda.I don't think there is anything to be said.
Jamie[with dogged resignation]. Very well, then—Hush! [From the other porch comes the sound of light footfalls.]
Hilda[without attending]. It is probably the girl. [She proceeds to the front; he follows. As they turn the corner,MinnieandHerbertturn the corner, opposite, and the couples confront each other.]
Minnie.Hilda!
Hilda.Minnie!
Minnie.Hilda, where in the world have you been?
Hilda.And I should like to know where in the world you have been?
Minnie[severely and indicating the porch behind her]. We've been sitting on that porch all night, waiting for you.
Hilda[mocking her severity and indicating the porch behind her]. And we've been sitting on that porch all night, waiting for you!
Jamie[toHildacoldly]. Now that you have other company, I'll go. Good-bye! [He rushes down the steps.]
Hilda[running to the rail and calling after him softly]. Jamie! Jamie! Oh, Jamie! [He apparently does not hear her.Herbertstands by fumbling his hat and looking first at one girl then at the other, wonderingly.Hildaturns from the rail and gazes atMinniewho returns the gaze searchingly.Hildabites her lower lip and looks down.Minnieleans against the casing of the front door, her hand on the knob. She anticipates a scene.]
Minnie.Good-night—Herbert!
Herbert.Good-night—Minnie! [They exchange one loving look and he is off. He proceeds in a direction opposite to that taken byJamie.]
Minnie[regardingHildawhose eyes are upon her and filled with surprise]. Hilda—tell me—what——
Hilda[hiding her face against the shoulder of her room-mate, who strokes her hair caressingly]. Oh, Minnie—Minnie—he's gone—it's broken——
Minnie[convulsively, her grasp upon the doorknob, tightening. The knob turns. The door swings back]. Oh! See!
Hilda[lifting her face]. Oh! [Her eyes meetMinnie's.In the latter there is a smile which she shares weakly.]
Minnie. This is too absurd! Open all night!
Hilda[trying hard not to cry]. Oh, Minnie! I don't know what——
Minnie[her arm aroundHilda]. There dear. Don't cry. It will come out all right. And to think you should have broken with Jamie while Herbert and I were—— [They pass into the hallway.Minnie,by closing the door softly behind them, renders the rest unintelligible to any one who might be passing just at this instant.]
A MODERN MERCURY
I
On a cool morning in mid-June two little boys, very dusty and wearing very grimy waists, sat on the turfed mound of an ancient circus ring in the old fair ground enclosure, intently watching the gaunt, half-naked figure of a man in flapping white breeches who, high-stepping, sprinted back and forth along the stretch of the old race track. Their elbows on their knees, their chins in their grimy hands, they gazed fixedly at him whom they had trudged across the lots to see. For in his day he was the small boys' god, their best-loved hero, before whom it was their greatest joy to bend the knee.
"D' you think he kin do it?" Jimmy Thurston finally inquired, as the spare, ridiculous figure of the man brought up behind the tenantless judges' stand and for an instant was lost to sight.
Willie Trigger sneered. He was very superior, was Willie.
"Sure he kin!" he exclaimed. "Sure he kin!"
"I bet he can't," Jimmy replied curtly.
"He kin too—'sides——"
"'Sides what?" the challenging Jimmy asked, contemptuously.
"My father says he kin."
"Aw——"
"He does too."
"Aw, my pa says hecan't——"
"I d'care; he kin."
"How d'you know?"
"Well"—Willie Trigger hesitated. "Well, my father says he guesses he kin beat anengine!"
At that Jimmy Thurston burst into jeering laughter.
"He! he! he!" he cackled—"anengine! He! He! Why, a nengine goes—a nengine goesa mile in a minnit!"
Willie Trigger had become very red; moreover he was choking, half with rage, half with confusion. He recognized the need of personal support. So he blurted:—
"I know he kin, 'cause I seen him—onct!"
"Aw, yeh didn't neether," Jimmy Thurston flatly contradicted.
Willie wriggled and dug his heel into the soft earth.
"Idid——"
"Didn'tneether!"
Willie Trigger sprang to his feet, his fists clenched. Tears were rising now.
With his eye Jimmy Thurston measured the distance across the field to the white house at the gate where he knew his mother was. Leaping forward he dashed suddenly away, and as he dodged the gurgling Willie, cried:
"Li-ar!Li-ar!Li-ar!"
It took Willie Trigger three seconds to perceive the situation and to act. Like a hound, then, he was off in the other's wake.
The straining Jimmy, his heart bursting with regret, heard his pursuer panting at his heels.... Nearer! Nearer!
A scream suddenly rent the air, a scream that was carried on by a willing wind to the keen appreciative ears of motherhood. As Willie Trigger was about to close upon the plunging form of Jimmie, Mrs. Thurston flung back the screen door and appeared upon the narrow back porch, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Jim-mee!Jim-mee Thurston!" she screamed.
"Maw!" yelled Jimmy dolorously.
At the maternal screech, Willie Trigger brought up standing. One instant he hesitated and then, showing his heels to the woman on the porchwhose arms were outstretched to receive her own, he scurried off in the direction of the judges' stand, as fast as his little legs could carry him. He heard the warning cry from the back porch:—
"Willie Trigger, if you hurt Jimmy, I'll skin you alive!"
And at the corner of the judges' stand he ran full into the long, lank creature in the flapping "shorts"—and brought up, gaping.
"Well, well, who was afteryou?" asked the towering runner, gazing down at the little grimy boy whose head seemed to come somewhere about his high-set knees.
"Nobody," Willie Trigger mumbled.
"Who was that calling?"
"I dunno." Willie looked up and the runner smiled down at him.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"On Thayer Street."
"Way down there, eh? What you doing up here, then?"
Willie Trigger again looked up into the gaunt creature's long, thin face, then down at the ground into which he proceeded to bore with the stubbed toe of one small shoe.
"Come to see you run," he mumbled, and grinned sheepishly.
Bunny laughed drily.
"Well, I'll"—he began and stopped. Then he said:—"You wait here, little chap; I'll just get into some clothes and we'll go home together; it's nearly noon. I live down your way——"
The gentleness of his voice gave Willie Trigger a new courage.
"I know it," he exclaimed proudly; "I live 'cross the street."
The runner plunged into the box-like compartment of the disused judges' stand from which he issued in an incredibly short space of time more properly and far more becomingly clad.
"How did you know I was going to practice out here?" he inquired with a show of interest. He made no effort to look down—for it would have meant an effort.
"I follered yeh," was the now prompt reply.
And into Bunny's man-heart that instant there welled a certain pride, but it was nowise to be compared to that which swelled the boy-heart of Willie Trigger, hero-worshipper.
And so, down Washtenaw Avenue they walked together, through College Street and on into the campus and across; Willie Trigger the while attempting vainly to keep step with his ill-matched companion.
At a corner they separated.
"You're going out to Field Day on Saturday, aren't you?" Bunny asked.
Willie Trigger grinned, and nodded.
"Don't buy a ticket," the giant said, "I'll give you one; you remind me; will you?"
The small but agile heart of Willie Trigger leaped into his throat. All he could say was "Whoop!" And saying that he ran, in the very excess, the richness and the wealth, of the joy that was his. A ticket! A ticket whereby he might enter through the gate with the crowd—a part of it—a proud part of it! And all this to be granted him by Bunny himself—Bunny who was to run in the hundred yards for the Western Intercollegiate championship; he, William Watts Trigger whose father was a mere night watchman, and who for a week had been examining the fair ground fence for vulnerable points! Willie Trigger found himself, of a sudden, voiceless, too full, by far, for utterance.
Surely, one day—some day—there would come an opportunity of repaying in kind the beneficence of Bunny, Willie Trigger considered. But the beneficence was very great. Little did he realize that soon, and by the very beneficence itself was he to be put in the way of paying back hisbenefactor by casting light upon an unforeseen occurrence of great import, that but for him, must forever remain obscure.
As it was, Bunny had made a friend, a champion, though he knew it not.
II
In University Hall that Saturday night a man with steel-blue eyes, a white imperial and a single set of gestures, lectured on "The Reconstruction of the South." Having been an active and successful carpet-bagger twenty-five years before, he had played a part of some importance in the rehabilitation of the Southland and was qualified to speak with authority on the subject.
The immense hall was but partially filled. The lecture was very dry and very uninteresting, save when, now and again a rolling period crowded with platitudes and false metaphors, was delivered by the pompous person on the rostrum. Wilma found herself finally attempting to repeat backward the clause from the Ordinance of '37 which stared down at her from the arch of the stage.
"Religion, morality and knowledge, being necessary to good government and the happiness of mankind, schools and the means of education shall forever be encouraged——"
She tapped her knee with her fan and moved her lips.
"Encouraged be forever shall education of means the and——"
She floundered.
She tried again as so many others have tried and with no more success. She tapped her knee angrily, and nudged the sleepy Bunny at her side.
"Let's get out," she whispered.
He nodded.
They were sitting on the aisle at the back. It was but a step to the door. He followed her, noiselessly.
In the broad, silent corridor she looked up at him with a smile.
"I simply couldn't stand it another minute," she said.
As they issued into the moonlight she drew in a full, long breath and asked: "Why should any one want to sit indoors on such a night? It's—it's acrime!"
She was very tiny beside him; he was very awkward beside her. "The long and the short of it," they were called by those who knew them best. She was wont to defend their friendship by saying she detested little men, whilst he complained that great, tall, awkward women he abhorred.
"Well, if you're both satisfied," Nibs, her brother, said one day after half an hour of teasing; "I guess the public ought to be."
Their friendship had grown from the chance meeting on the day of the State Street race when Nibsey defeated Billy Shaw and then was so ignominiously defeated by the lank creature who now was his, as well as his sister's, closest friend and constant companion. That day their eyes had met—Bunny's and the girl's—across a carriage seat. Only for an instant though it was, each remembered the instant; Wilma with a certain indefinite anger, Bunny with a very definite desire that one day he might meet the owner of the eyes.
They did not meet formally until a month after and then it was Nibsey who named them to each other with many flourishes and mock heroics. In a very short time that glance across the carriage seat had developed into a close, fine companionship; a companionship so close indeed that it was deemed sufficient by divers of their friends to warrant whispers that Bunny and Wilma were engaged. For in Ann Arbor He has but to play two games of tennis with Her, and take Her on the river once, to have it become known that They are "engaged"—whatever that sadly misused term may signify to the non-elect.
Perhaps, however, in this case there was some reason for the smiles of patronizing acceptance and whispered suggestions on the part of their friends, of an unestablished but imagined relationship. Bunny never was seen with any other girl and Wilma, being out of college and therefore having a wider acquaintance among undergraduates than if she were a college girl, was only now and again beheld in the company of another man.
One winter they had attended the Choral Union concerts together, had driven together, and in the spring they had walked together, rowed together. It was doubly hard for their friends to believe they were not engaged, for did they not, as well, attend all the lectures on the course of the S. L. A.? Would a girl demean herself so far, suffer torture so exquisite, it was asked, as to attend sad lectures with one certain man if she were not very much in love with him? And if a man were not willing to make sacrifice of his happiness to be beside her would he take her to a lecture on a night in June, or even so much as suggest such a proceeding?
In commenting and in speculating upon the "affair" their friends asked these questions, and other equally pertinent; and, as there were no replies forthcoming, they were compelled by the very absence of contradictory evidence to nod and smilein that patronizing and agonizing way that the unengaged have ever smiled upon those whose hearts they believe Dan Cupid has been using for a target.
As for Nibsey, her brother, he said nothing. Perhaps he did not care. Or if he did care his certain knowledge that Bunny was what he was wont to call "a ripper" and his sister "a good fellow," may have carried with it a satisfaction that made the relation between them just and proper.
However, that there may be no misunderstanding at the outset, it is quite safe to affirm so far at least as Bunny was concerned, that he was hard hit. It was realization of this, a realization keen, active, that dismayed him. Of course he believed, as was his right, that Wilma liked him. But he more than liked her. He hardly felt it his privilege yet to tell her just how much he liked her, and doubtless could not even though he deemed the time had arrived to-day. Thus he fretted, and procrastinated. Even now as he walked beside her under the stars of a night in June that was full of fragrance, he felt himself floundering in a sea of uncertainty where edged the shores of which he knew not. So he sighed, then pulled himself together before she could seek to know the reason, and said:
"You ought to have seen me this morning—oughtto have seen me with a new acquaintance I made on the fair grounds."
And he told her of Willie Trigger and his exploit. She heard him through in silence.
"Do you know Willie?" he asked.
"No," she said. After a moment she added, "Don't you rather hate to be followed about by the small boys as though you were—as though you were a circus parade?"
He laughed.
It was not the first time she had made fun, as he deemed her attitude to be, of his athletic attainments, and the admiration engendered by them among Ann Arbor youth.
"It's great!" he exclaimed. "Simply great! You have no idea how it seems to know the small boys are gaping at you in wonder as you pass. I've watched them lots of times from the tail of my eye and seen them nudge their companions. Oh, I tell you it's satisfying!"
Conscious as she was of the assumed vanity she affected a seriousness when she said:—
"But I should think you would rather grown-ups gaped at you."
"But what can I do to make 'em?" he asked wonderingly. "Just point the way and I'll take it——"
"Oh, there are lots of ways," she went on. "You're in the medical department, why don't you become a great doctor?"
"I shall," he exclaimed, "but that takes time. Meanwhile I am steeling myself, practicing with the little boys, you know, so I shan't be overwhelmed when big people gape at me in wonder a little later——"
"Oh, you can't be serious!" she cried petulantly.
"What's the use?" he asked and laughed. "What's the use on such a night, with the stars overhead, the tree toads scraping, and—and—you here?"
"But I want you to be," she said; and then ran on: "It has always seemed so silly to me when you great men come out in ridiculous clothes and run around and jump and play ball—just like overgrown babies."
"That's what we are," he replied. "Ann Arbor is only a nursery. It's only different from other nurseries in that the nurses don't wear little caps and aprons." He chuckled.