The next two years passed very quickly for Mauney, with few perceptible changes. The war was over. Merlton, one day, had gone crazy with armistice celebration, only to settle down on the next to its usual life. The university was crowded now with returned soldiers. It was a familiar scene to behold the great square dotted with limping students still in uniform. The sight of them brought sharp emotions to Mauney—mingled sympathy for their sufferings and regret that he had been denied a share in their adventures in France. He knew that he, himself, had been peculiarly untouched by the war. Nevertheless, the stupendous event had made an impression upon him, the more severe by reason of his own non-participation in it. A sensitive depth in his nature was perpetually harrowed by thought of it. Having, by this time, followed the records of history from their dim beginnings up to the present, he was confronted, as was every one, by an impassable barrier, which refused to yield to any philosophic explanation. Perhaps he was too near the catastrophe, in time, to gain the needed perspective. But the facts were constantly before him. Something had slipped in the great, good purpose of God. In the substrata of life a tremendous fault had occurred, bearingits outward upheavals of death, suffering and disorder.
Three years at college had made a great difference in Mauney Bard. He had passed through the academic terms, like the unnoticed steps of a great staircase, without noticing that he was, in a sense, always climbing. He was climbing nearer to something—something perceived to be intangible, but worthy.
From his humble beginnings on Lantern Marsh farm, where his perspective was hedged by blind walls of pettiness on every side, he had emerged into a grateful breadth of vision, where, at his very feet, lay the treasures of accumulated knowledge and whence, too, the horizon was attractive with mystery.
He had become a man, at length, with a man’s viewpoint and a mature sense of a personal participation in the affairs of the world. Three years of history had brought him to a point of view which included himself. Every student cannot be so favored by the unseen mechanism which moulds personality. Many, including the brilliant Miss Lorna Freeman, failed nothing in gaining an accurate knowledge of history. She seemed in eagerness for learning to be like the dry, cracked earth, eager for the rain that never quite fills it; but with all her great capacity for information she lacked the quality that had made Mauney older and more serious. The war did not make any appreciable difference in Lorna. It was a phenomenon, similar to, if vaster than, other wars, which would, in due course, afford her fascinating study. But to Mauney it had already loomed up as a vital obstacle to his philosophy of optimism, for all things culminated in it. All good that had ever been, met in it a blasting contradiction.All hope of a satisfactory society met in it a destructive rebuff; all the quivering aspirations of his own developing mind found in it a dark abyss, frightful enough to quench them.
So it was that Mauney, at the end of his third year, lost immediate interest in his academic work and grappled with a problem of reality.
He grew serious and questioning. His auburn hair, which had darkened until its color was scarcely present, was parted carelessly above a face somewhat paled by thought, a face whose blue eyes were intense with sharp mental strife, and whose lips had changed from their boyish happiness to the determined line of serious manhood.
His problems had thus changed a good deal from the time when they concerned merely his personal liberty, for they now concerned rather the liberty of the human race. He had gradually emerged from selfish considerations. He had lost touch with his family. Old bonds no longer held him. The new thing—the cosmic consciousness—which he owed to the university training, took possession of his mind. Wonderful gift of the college! That a man, through its agency, should unconsciously loose himself from all that relates to personal passion and tune his being to the pitch of the general passion of mankind!
From Maxwell Lee, constantly bent over his laboratory desks, constantly delving into the secrets of disease, constantly at work, heroically striving against handicaps of poverty and ill-health, he absorbed a great truth of conduct, for he gradually came to understand that it was the vast desire for human betterment thatinspired this frail, but active, research student. Max loomed bigger than ever in his esteem. Three or four years had ripened their friendship, tested it in many ways, and proven it to be solid. Neither of them cared to leave 73 Franklin Street, partly because Mrs. Manton and Fred Stalton and the others had become strange fixtures in their lives, but mainly because they meant more to each other than either quite realized.
And Freda MacDowell had joined the ranks. Shortly after dropping out of her arts course she had met Gertrude and adopted 73 Franklin as her boarding house. She had now served two years as secretary in the Department of History, and was no more favorably impressed by education than on the evening of her conversation with Mauney at Professor de Freville’s. Frequently she had a good deal to say on the subject, although Mauney always tried to avoid her. She had the big front room opposite Max’s on the first floor, and there was a tasteful alcove with a desk and chairs in the hallway, where Max and she always sat to talk.
Apparently she had at last found her ideal boarding house. Her taste, cultivated by a half-dozen seasons in Merlton, and moulded by a gradual elimination of features objectionable or stereotyped, had become as whimsical as a middle-aged Parisian’s taste in diet. Two years as an undergraduate of the university had sufficed to draw the ban upon women’s residences and the mild espionage of fellow students. Her third year in arts had taught her conclusively that living with a maternal aunt was laying oneself needlessly open to constant misinterpretation. There were things she wanted to do—such as show herself friendly with Max Lee.There were other things which she did—such as allow Nutbrown Hennigar to call upon her. Evidently, Mrs. Manton’s house furnished what she wanted—freedom, comfort, protection from idle scandal. At any rate Mauney drew as much from her usual conversations.
But he was too busy to be greatly concerned with Freda; and, moreover, he had long since decided that she belonged to Lee. Max occasionally denied this, and characterized their relationship as merely a good friendship, but Mauney heard between his words.
Moreover there was Lorna Freeman, whom he had watched develop into an attractive womanhood. They were still together daily. He still took dinner at the professor’s occasionally and followed dinner with long discussions in the smoky study upstairs. He liked the Freemans. He liked Lorna. He liked Merlton and his university life.
But at the end of three years, with only one more year to study, he began to take synoptic views of the general situation and to cast into the immediate future for a career.
During his fourth year the problem of a life-work forced itself upon him.
He told Professor Freeman his troubles as they smoked together. The historian seemed to appreciate the confidence.
“Well, Mauney,†he said seriously, “The logical thing for you to do is to find out what you are best fitted for, and take up that work. You will be graduating next spring. The world is before you. No one but yourself can decide the question.â€
Hours when Mauney might have been cogitating onthe subject, were usually spent in delightful loneliness in his room, writing down his thoughts on history in his ledger, which had now grown to be a considerable volume of literature. He took it out of its long privacy one evening to show to Lorna. He read her snatches of things he had written, consciously opening the somewhat sacred recesses of his being to her. When he asked her for an opinion she had little to say.
“Oh, it’s pretty stuff!†she admitted coolly—“a sort of effervescence from a student’s mind!â€
She was right. He mentally applauded her judgment. Surely, after all, it was nothing else. All the nights he had spent on it! All the impassioned moments he had worked to express his personal ideas of history! Nothing but a sort of effervescence! Surely, she was right. Cold, frank, truthful Lorna! How his admiration was wrung from him by her bald statement! He had wanted her to like it tremendously and praise it and acclaim it as worthy writing. But now he felt like thanking her for categorizing it with accurate appraisal. How accurate she was! “Effervescence!†When he returned home he threw the ledger down on his desk.
“Damn this effervescence!†he cursed with ruffled feelings. “Damn my student’s mind! If this isn’t real then I’m not real.â€
Of course, the situation in the class, with only two of them, always the same two, was provocative of a strain between them. He never felt that they had discovered the very thing that she had recommended in the stilted language of her first year—amodus vivendi.
She consistently defeated him at the examinations,although he was quite indifferent to the fact. He noticed a peculiar jealousy in her that came to the surface at odd moments, when their respective intelligences were compared by the challenge of academic demands. He knew that, often enough, he could have answered a tutor’s question first, but that he refrained in order to give her the advantage of priority.
She had become a beautiful woman, a blonde goddess of severely classical line and color. When he looked at her he favored her intelligence, and continued to accord her priority. But he felt that she was overshadowing and hindering him, and that amodus vivendicould be discovered only by some spiritual change in their relationship.
One solution seemed to be a personal declaration of independence. She deserved, no doubt, to be regarded as an academic rival, and thus treated; for, if ever an opportunity came for her to defeat him by a clever word or argument she never held back. If now, he were to retaliate, forgetting her sex, and try earnestly to beat her at her own game of wit, he would be truer to himself, and would create a more natural relationship in the class.
But, on the other hand, a different solution cropped up. If, by any means, he could spiritually overshadow her, break down her being into dependence upon his own; if, in short, he could but touch her affections, he would thus create harmony in the class, as well as accomplish a desirable feat. He knew well enough that he had ached to touch her hidden heart. He had sat, for nearly four years, looking at her, admiring her body as well as her mind, but had never been able once totell her in words, or in any other way, just how he felt about her.
This problem added itself to the several others that confronted him. He accused himself over and over of continued weakness. He must do something about Lorna Freeman. That was the great certitude before him. She could not be ignored. It was incumbent upon him either to dislike her or love her. Which would it be? She was like a bulky obstacle in his path, that could not be moved. His progress depended on shoving her aside or else winning her. Naturally he embraced the second method, as a trial.
He hired a car one autumn evening and took her driving out past Riverton into the country. The air was crisp and the west aglow with luminous green.
“You seem frightfully serious, Mauney,†she remarked.
“So I am,†he admitted. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.â€
She glanced from under her black hat and smiled a little impatiently.
“When one goes for a motor-drive one doesn’t usually like to be so oppressively serious, does one? Have I the right to enquire as to what is making you so much absorbed in your thoughts?â€
He nodded as he turned toward her.
“Yes,†he said forcibly. “You’ve got a peach of a right to ask. I’m serious about you.â€
“Me?â€
“Yes. I’ve tried for four years to get something said, and you’ve always been so preoccupied with an overweening interest in the surrounding world, thatI’ve never managed to say anything. Even now I haven’t got five cents’ worth of assurance. I don’t altogether blame myself, either. I’m not an especially timid or fearful creature. I usually say what I want to say and let the devil take the consequences. And that, Lorna, is what I’m going to do right now.â€
She was surprised. Her blue eyes widened. Her perfect, if severe, lips opened to reply, but he was leaning toward her, ready to interrupt.
“Why have I always been so meekly worshipful?†he demanded. “Why have I always let you have your way? Is it just because you are a woman? If so—if you are a woman—why don’t you sometimes treat me as if you were?â€
Her face was a picture of utter astonishment.
“Mauney Bard!†she exclaimed. “Why don’t you ask me one question at a time? You seem dreadfully upset about something, don’t you?â€
“Yes,†he admitted, as he leaned closer to her. “I am. I’m upset over you.â€
She was strikingly good-looking at the moment. Her customary classical paleness was gone. A warmth of color, provoked by some sudden emotion, had usurped its place. She was surprised by his words and her eyes frankly looked her confusion.
“Lorna,†he said, putting his arm about her shoulders. “I had to bring you here, away from everything. I—â€
“Don’t!†she implored, drawing quickly back. “I—I can’t!â€
Then she made a queer, gurgling sound in her throat, tried to speak, and ended by weeping with her face held between her hands.
As the car sped on Mauney sat regarding her in absolute mystification.
“Why on earth does the girl weep?†he meditated. “What have I done to her? Is my proffer of love an insult?â€
It was a hoax of a drive. It became unbearable. After a long silence he ventured to change the subject entirely, and found her presently quite agreeable to talk about other matters. He was glad when he at last put her down at her home and said good-night. Then, returning to the car, he drove to the Medical Building, where the windows of Lee’s laboratory were brilliantly lighted. After paying the driver he stood for a few moments on the walk trying to collect his self-control. He wanted to see Max, but knew that unless he paused he would stamp into the laboratory like a madman. He owed Lee some deference on account of the latter’s important work. It was ten minutes before he opened the great front door of the building and ascended the iron staircase to the first floor. He rapped on the laboratory door.
“Who’s there?†came Lee’s voice, in an unnatural tone.
“Mauney.â€
“All right.â€
In a moment Max unlocked the door and stepped back. He had a bottle of whiskey in his hand with a corkscrew stuck into the cork. Without noticing Mauney’s surprised expression, he turned to walk to a table where he continued his occupation of trying to draw the cork. His lean body was clothed in his long, white, laboratory gown, and his black hair hung in confusionover his pale face. He evidently forgot that something in the present scene was bound to be dramatically new to Mauney. Without explanation he drawled, in his gentle voice:
“This whiskey, Mauney, is neither Olympian nectar nor fixed bayonets. I’ve frequently sipped better spirits, and I’ve occasionally tasted worse. Like you and me, my son, it was made before the war. Fortunately it lacks the throaty sting of recent distillation, but, on the other hand, it can hardly be said to possess the superb smoothness, the velvety, liqueur-like softness of real old spirits, such as I, and such as you, no doubt, have, at sundry times and in divers places, imbibed. I use the word ‘imbibed’ advisedly, and with nice selection from the swarm of verbs meaning to drink, such as sip, taste, sample, swallow, tipple, to say nothing of swig, and to leave out of consideration entirely such inelegant terms as snort, or even gargle.â€
Mauney was leaning against the desk watching him curiously and smiling at his mood. He wondered especially why Max was drinking.
“Do you want any help?†he asked, seeing that Lee still struggled with the cork.
“No, I scorn your assistance,†he laughed. “There we are! Pop! It had a nice pop, hadn’t it? And here’s your glass. I suppose you’re drinking?â€
“Why, Max, old fellow! I’ll drink with you, yes. I’m in a good mood for murder or anything, to-night.â€
Lee held up a beaker full of whiskey.
“Murder—eh? If that’s how you feel put that glass back on the desk. Don’t touch it. You’re not in a fit mood for drinking, my son. In order to drink oneshould be bathed in delightful reminiscences; one should feel at peace with the spacious present and most hopeful for the future.â€
“And yet,†Mauney said, looking into his friend’s dark eyes, “I don’t seem to think you’re in that delightful mood either. What’s wrong?â€
Lee laughed rather unrestrainedly. After quaffing off the beaker of liquor he filled the receptacle with water from a tap, drank it, smacked his lips, and then, putting down the beaker on the desk, lit a cigarette.
“I’m not really drunk, Mauney,†he replied more soberly. “I’m taking this stuff for stimulation. My health is not the best, unfortunately. Keep it dark; but I was up to pay a visit to Dr. Adamson this afternoon. Well, he went over my chest, and I guess I know why they turned me down for the army. I’ve got T.B. all right, so he thinks. Don’t be alarmed—â€
“But you shouldn’t be working,†interrupted Mauney, in great astonishment over the news.
“So Adamson tried to tell me. But it’s the fibrotic type—just a sort of shrivelling of one lung. Not a bit contagious, you know. Of course it weakens me, sure enough. And I do think it’s a damned great misfortune, my son. Here I have my work pretty near in handâ€â€”he made a gesture toward the apparatus that littered the desks—“and another year’s work would probably give me the secret I’m after. I’m on the track, Mauney; I’m on the track.â€
“Good.â€
A tremendous pity for Lee possessed him, a pity that one man could never express to another. He thought of the quiet, gradual process of disease that had goneon in Max’s body, steadily sapping his strength. Why should fate have ordained this brilliant student to bear a disease that might have been visited more reasonably upon one who could never mean so much to the cause of science?
“Now, what I intend doing is to work on until I finish this bit of research work,†Max informed him. “If I discover the cause of pernicious anæmia I’ll be fairly happy, as you can imagine. If I don’t—well, I’ll have another whack at it after I rest up and get back in shape. I’m going to work right now. There’s a chair and some cigarettes, Mauney. Sit down and stay a while anyway.†He turned presently from his laboratory apparatus. “But you didn’t explain your murderous mood. What’s the matter?†he asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing worth talking about,†Mauney replied, simply.
Whether it was worth talking about or not, the next few days seemed to prove that it was worth thinking about. He found himself in the same unsatisfactory relation to Lorna as ever. He called one evening and asked her if she would like to stroll with him on their back lawn.
“Oh yes,†she consented, “although it does sound childish, doesn’t it?â€
It was far from childish to Mauney. He looked down upon her pale, exquisite face, as they sat on a bench in the faded twilight and knew that something had to be done about her. He was determined not to let another day pass without settling once and for all the relationship that was to exist between them. Here beside him on the bench was the one woman who hadmanaged to cast a constant spell of attraction over him. For three years she had occupied a good deal of his thoughts. During this time he had become tolerably well acquainted with himself and longed now to become acquainted with the woman who had always held him so coolly at arm’s length. He was particularly curious to know what explanation existed for her conduct a few nights previously in the motor car. Why had she resisted his embrace?
“Lorna,†he said, at length, “I want to ask you a question. It may not mean much to you, but it means a lot to me.â€
“Well, Mauney,†she said, with just a fleck of impatience in her voice. “I’ve been dreading this conversation. I know what you want to ask me and I’m not at all certain that I can explain. And yet I can’t very easily deny you the right to ask.â€
“I don’t see how you could in fairness, Lorna. I merely want to know why you repelled me the other night, when I tried to kiss you. Tell me if there was any other motive than just plain lack of affection for me. Was that it?â€
He was leaning toward her for her reply, and his arm which lay across the back of the seat, touched her shoulders lightly. She did not move from the caress.
“Look here, Mauney,†she said, in such a clear, unhampered tone that he almost started. “I think I can explain. I’ve always liked you a lot. You’ve always been a perfect gentleman to me. I’ve always admired your courtesy at all times. And I’ve always liked your ideas. I think I could have gone on for ever, dreaming life with you if—if—â€
“If what, Lorna?â€
“If you hadn’t spoiled—I mean, when you tried to take me in your arms, that was a totally unknown idea. Not so much that, perhaps, but it was beyond me entirely. I felt that it symbolized something big, yet something so vastly new and foreign to my mind that I was frightened.â€
“Frightened?â€
“That’s it, exactly,†she nodded. “I was frightened at having a new vista of life opened up suddenly, that way—unawares, taken off guard, if you can understand. I wasn’t ready for it. You see, my mind is, in many ways, inexperienced. I don’t know men at all. You’ve had more emotional experience than I have. I didn’t mean to be cruel. In fact, that’s why I cried, because I was afraid I had hurt your feelings.â€
A street lamp on Crandall Street now blossomed into light and sent a long, glancing shaft against her face. Mauney quivered with attraction.
“Are you actually afraid of me, Lorna?†he asked.
She looked up into his eyes a moment very thoughtfully.
“No—I guess not,†she replied, with a noticeable hesitancy.
“Listen,†he said, leaning nearer her and grasping her hand. “I’ve been torn to bits over you for three years. I’ve tried to put you out of my mind, but couldn’t. What’s the use of going on the way we have been?†even as he spoke his arm pressed her shoulders close to him, while she looked up into his face, pale and apprehensive.
“Don’t you try to get away from me, either,†hesaid in a stern voice as she pushed with her hand against his bosom. “I won’t stand for that any longer. You’ve got to listen to me, Lorna.â€
A dim passion akin to revenge possessed him. He pressed her close an instant and kissed her full upon the lips. Then she wilted, and dropped her head softly, with little sobs, against his shoulder.
“Lorna,†he said. “Will you be my wife?â€
She did not reply, but remained sheltered within the circle of his arms.
“You do me a great honor,†she said at length, in a low voice. “But I will certainly have to consider this business very carefully. I’ll tell you soon.â€
“How soon?â€
“In about a month, I guess.â€
While Mauney waited the month for Lorna’s matrimonial verdict, he occupied himself chiefly with study and with more writing in his ledger. Whatever might be the true character of these flashing impressions which he jotted down, they had become an essential part of existence, for they came to him with imperativeness.
The alcove in the hallway upstairs was a good place to write. He found that he could arrange his thoughts better within earshot of other people talking than within the quietness of his own room. The dull, monotonous murmur of conversation from the dining room below had the peculiar effect of keeping him psychically in touch with humanity. The frequent selections of the gramophone music, with the sound of Gertrude’s feet slipping gracefully along the floor in the rhythm of a dance, or the voice of Fred Stalton singing some popular song to the gramophone’s accompaniment, reminded him that history was concerned with all people, that it was not a subject of mere academic interest, but of life and blood, of gaiety and despair, of every emotion that warmed or cooled the hearts of people. Freda MacDowell would often pass him, seated by the hall desk, on her way to her room, noddingwith a friendly smile or indulging in a short word or two of conversation.
One evening she showed considerable interest in the subject of his labors, and excused herself for asking upon what he might be so assiduously bent.
“I’m afraid I’m wasting time, Miss MacDowell,†he said, looking up from his big volume. “It’s a hobby I have. Just scribbling down my impressions.â€
“It doesn’t matter whether it’s waste time or not,†she said, “as long as you like doing it. I wish you’d loosen up a little, Mr. Bard, and invite me to read your stuff. Having seen you at work so constantly here every night, you can’t blame me for having a woman’s curiosity.â€
“Nothing would suit me better,†he laughed. “If I had thought you would be interested I would have invited you long ago.â€
He rose and indicated a chair near his own.
“If you have time,†he said. “But perhaps you are busy.â€
“Me—busy? Oh no! I’m the most leisurely person in the world. I’m just crazy to read your impressions. But what are your impressions about?â€
She sat down and leaned her elbows on the edge of the desk.
“History.â€
“Dear me,†she sighed, with a little chuckle. “How disappointing. I, too, have my own impressions of history, or should I say the history machine. I thought you were writing a romance with a lot of thrills in it. However, I’m anxious to see what you think of history.â€
For a moment she turned through the pages of his scrap-book, reading odd paragraphs here and there.
“I’d rather talk to you about it,†she admitted, at length. “I’ll start by asking you what history is.â€
“I’m not strong on definitions,†he replied, glancing at the base of the desk lamp, purposely to avoid the gaze of her deep eyes. “And I’m hopeless when subjected to a catechism.â€
“Good. I knew you were. If I were to ask Nutbrown Hennigar that question—of course I know better—he’d proceed to bore me for an hour. Do you know, I hate history like sin. I wouldn’t stay at this job of mine, except I’ve got to live by the sweat of my brow. There’s Robert Freeman—just a kind of hard-boiled brains—he gives me the creeps. Alfred Tanner is bad enough. He’s pretty well submerged in the business, too, although he has preserved a sense of humor. And Hennigar. Whatdoyou think?â€
“What?†asked Mauney.
“He’s writing a history of the war,†she laughed. “I read some of his manuscript. He invited me to do so.†She looked a playful reproach at Mauney, as though conscious of her self-invitation to read his writings. “And it’s just the most amusing thing ever! He’s got the whole war so definitely sized up that you don’t feel any surprise at anything that happened. You feel that the war was just as natural as taking your coffee into the drawing room after dinner. You feel that the strategic movements in the battles cost nobody a moment’s thought. The soldiers just emerge from the west salient and the east flank like so many automatic chess-pieces headed for their preordained positions. There’s no smoke or explosions or blood in his battlesat all. Just 3,000 casualties, 500 prisoners, and a dent in the Allied line or the German line. He’s done it so hardheadedly that I’ve nicknamed him Napoleon.â€
“But isn’t he a pretty good friend of yours, Miss MacDowell?â€
“Oh, wonderfully good,†she smiled sarcastically. “He thrives on destructive criticism, and he really receives nothing else from me. The more I criticize him the more he thinks of me. I’ve never given him a single word of encouragement, never, and yet he keeps right on my trail. There used to be a saying that the best man is the one that’s hardest for a woman to get. Hennigar can’t qualify—he’s the hardest to get rid of.â€
“Funny,†said Mauney. “I half knew that was the case.â€
“Well, I must go and dress,†she said, rising. “He’s taking me to a dance to-night and I don’t want to keep him waiting over an hour. His car has been at the door for twenty minutes already. By the way, I wish you would put your manuscript in on my desk. I’ll be home some time to-night and would like to look over it.â€
At breakfast next morning he asked her what she thought of his writings.
“My judgment isn’t worth a Chinese nickel,†she replied. “But I read it all and I think it’s a whizz and when I enjoy anything like that it must be unusual anyhow. I think it’s just like you, and I thought of a dandy scheme just before I lopped off to sleep. Would you like to know what it is?â€
“You bet,†said Mauney eagerly.
“Well I’ll tell you. I think you ought to whip it into shape, call it ‘The Teaching of History’ or somesuch title, and have it published. It’s a direct slam on the conventional methods of teaching history. It would start a mild sensation and sell like life-preservers at a shipwreck.â€
“I hadn’t thought of publishing it,†Mauney admitted.
“Givemecredit for the idea,†she laughed. “I’ve had an awful lot of experience with manuscripts, especially historical ones. Now, I’m game to take all that dope of yours down in shorthand from dictation and type it, if you approve of the idea.â€
Mauney’s eyes burned with enthusiasm.
“It’s a go!†he said, “Do you really mean it?â€
“Try me, fair sir,†she yawned.
“Of course I will insist on paying you for your services, Miss MacDowell.â€
“Naturally,†she said. “You didn’t think I’d work for nothing, did you?â€
It was decided to wait until the Christmas holidays before commencing work on the manuscript. Mauney had an invitation to spend Christmas in Lockwood, at Jean Byrne’s, but this could be easily declined. He knew that Jean was anxious to have him come to Lockwood after his own graduation, to teach in the High School. Her letter mentioned the fact that the present master in history was leaving in the spring, thus creating a vacancy. But to teach in Lockwood held no attraction for Mauney, and as for spending Christmas at her home—it would not be as enjoyable as getting to work on his manuscript.
Lorna’s verdict was not given. Mauney saw her every day and found that, having once propounded thequestion that vexed his soul and having once broken down the barrier of reserve between them, their relationship was much more workable. She treated him now, at last, like a woman, with more of the woman’s art in her general address.
But Mauney’s nature was severely independent. While he waited to learn her decision, he remained more strictly a friend than ever. He wanted her to decide the big question without the slightest influence from him. He was strangely content with his own attitude. He possessed enough masculine irrationality to feel boundlessly satisfied with what he had done, and failed to observe with what stolid apathy he was awaiting the result. One thing he knew—that he had taken up a definite attitude toward his old classmate, that had at least settled the unrest.
What particular arguments Lorna might be employing in the delicate mental process of arriving at a decision he was far from knowing, but he was tolerably certain that she had taken her family into her confidence, for the Professor and Mrs. Freeman both exhibited a new and fresher interest in him on the occasions he visited their home. Behind Freeman’s cold, grey eyes lurked a stealthy light of objective analysis that rendered Mauney uncomfortable. Nothing was said for a time, until one Sunday evening after dinner the professor referred again to his choice of a career.
“It’s very hard, Mauney, to make up one’s mind what to do,†he said quietly, with his customary smile. “You have, of course, before you the question of an academic career. It takes considerable courage to adopt such a life-work. There are many dangers of scholarship, such as the tendency to stereotypy and the temptationsto mental error. Then again, the scholar’s work is unspectacular.†Freeman raised his long index finger for emphasis. “You do not need to mind that. The popular idea of the scholar is the musty individual with high-powered spectacles, his nose one inch from a book at all times except when he’s eating. But the truth is that the scholar is the real hero of society.â€
“I quite agree, Professor,†Mauney admitted.
“Why! this world of ours is ruled not by government, but by ideas,†said Freeman enthusiastically. “The university casts the legislature into shadow. The scholar toils as no laborer ever knew how to toil, through painful growth of mind, comparing, judging, until he gains a new conception of reality. From the difficult records and phenomena of life he bears forth his new ideas.â€
The eminent historian sat eagerly forward in his chair.
“Then the new idea spreads,†he said, with a soft gesture of his hand. “It spreads like the mustard seed. Like the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand it soon overspreads the whole sky to give rain to a parched earth. It is your scholar, Mauney, working in his intangible medium of thought, who builds up society from barbarism to civilization.â€
Mauney nodded.
“It’s a wonderful life,†he said. “I’ve often thought of taking up teaching.â€
“Well, in that case, you must decide what kind of teaching. Now as head of our department, I am constantly on the lookout for young men. We will have need for a new appointee on the staff this comingautumn. I am in the position of offering you a lectureship, if you choose to consider it.â€
“That’s much more than I ever expected,†Mauney replied eagerly. “I’m sure I didn’t even dream of any such wonderful opportunity. I scarcely know how to thank you. But I’m very much afraid of my own inability to fill such a post.â€
“We try to train you for your responsibilities,†Freeman declared, evidently pleased with Mauney’s attitude. “Perhaps you will need a few weeks to consider my proposal.â€
“No sir, I really don’t need a minute,†he asserted, “If I’m in order I would like to accept it immediately.â€
“Good,†smiled Freeman, rising and extending his hand. He gave Mauney’s hand a warm pressure. “Your enthusiasm augurs well and, as I naturally have most to say about departmental appointments, I am now really welcoming you to the staff. Of course, the information must be regarded as strictly confidential until your name is published in the fall lists. Even Lorna must not know. Continue your academic work faithfully. There will be sufficient time during the summer to prepare you for your duties.â€
Mauney’s elation over this incident carried him along in secret happiness for the remaining weeks of the term. With a definite purpose in view he took up his historical work with renewed enthusiasm. Once again, as in his first days in Merlton, the lamp of knowledge shone brightly and he lived in great happiness within the zone of its cool, clear rays.
The Christmas vacation came, with the customary lull in college life, and he faced Freda MacDowell one morning, ready for the keeping of their private contract.They discussed their plan of attack, after breakfast, seated together on the dining-room sofa. They decided to utilize the alcove in the upper hallway, and asked Gertrude’s permission.
“Naturally,†she consented, pausing in her occupation of transferring the breakfast dishes to the kitchen. “As long as you are not contemplating seditious literature.â€
“It is going to be pretty seditious, isn’t it, Mr. Bard?†laughed Freda.
“In that case,†purred Mrs. Manton, “I think the occasion demands a better setting. You may have the parlor, if you like. There’s a table you can rest your typewriter on, and a comfortable couch upon which Mauney can extend his thoughtful form while he dictates his words of wisdom.â€
“Don’t rub it in, Gertrude,†he pleaded.
“Well, do you want the parlor, or not?â€
“You bet we do,†he agreed. “But you may grow tired of the noise.â€
“Oh, that’s just fine,†declared Freda enthusiastically. “If Sadie Grote wants to use the piano she can wait till we get through. Music is only music. But this book is going to be an event, mind you, Gertrude.â€
“I didn’t say it wasn’t, my dear.â€
“You’d better not, either.â€
“Little did I think,†said Mrs. Manton in her low voice, putting down her dishes on the table, and facing the two with gentle cynicism, “that my humble abode would be the scene of authorship. Take my unbounded approval as granted.â€
“Shut up!†said Mauney.
“It’s only what might be expected,†remarked FredStalton, who was commencing his own Christmas holidays. He was lounging, as of old, in his shirt sleeves, enjoying the first respite for months. “You know, Gert, it’s a wonderful little home. It has seen some queer stunts pulled off. You remember we once harbored a man named Jolvin here. He evidently drew a lucky card when he signed on our staff as boarder. That bird drew a half million touch. There’s luck in seventy-three. Take my word for it. I’m not jolted to find that a book is going to be written here either. I’ll buy one of the first copies. And there’s another stunt going to be pulled off in a couple of weeks, too.â€
“You don’t tell me,†purred Mrs. Manton. “What is it, pray?â€
“Sadie Grote is going to get married!â€
“Well, for heaven’s sake,†quoth the landlady, dropping into a chair and pulling her kimona about her. “When did Sadie decide to join the ranks of the tormented?â€
“A day or two ago. Ain’t she stepping some?â€
“You bet she is, Freddie. She’s a sly little fox. She never told me a word. I’m surprised that Sadie would tell you first.â€
“Well you see, Gert, she owed me that little courtesy, as I’m the guy that asked her to get married.â€
“Fred Stalton!†exclaimed Mrs. Manton.
“Hurrah!†exclaimed Freda. “Congratulations!â€
“Thanks, Miss MacDowell. I’ll give you an invite to the wedding ceremony. We’re going to pull it off about New Year’s in swell style. Down at Belmont Tabernacle. Got the preacher engaged and everything. You’ve all got to come. Cheer up, Gert, I know what’s troubling you. We’re not going to keep house. We’regoing to live right on at seventy-three. There’s luck in the number.â€
“Well, Freddie, I’m surprised at you,†she admitted. “To think of a shrewd chap like yourself getting married.â€
“Isn’t marriage a good thing, Gertrude?†he laughed.
“Yes. A good thing to be through with! May the ashes of my deceased husband lie perfectly peaceful as I talk! But this astonishes me considerably.â€
Mrs. Manton carried her dishes out to the kitchen and returned for a second load, in her customary suave manner, as if, in sooth, nothing however astonishing, could break in upon the even tenor of her life.
“Wonders and more wonders,†she said. “It won’t be long until my little family are all gone. Think of me, widowed at thirty-five, with my children getting married like this. What am I to do, Miss MacDowell?â€
“Why, there’s just one solution under the sun, Gertrude,†said Freda, seriously.
“What’s that, pray?â€
“You’ll have to get married again. You’ll have to select another husband. Of course I never heard anything about your first one, but perhaps if you try again the picking will be better.â€
“My first husband was really a prince of a chap,†she said calmly. “I don’t keep any photos because I hate to be reminded of what a fine fellow he was. But if you had seen him you would have fallen for him at once. No, Miss MacDowell, my quarrel was certainly not with George Manton in particular, but rather with the fact of marriage in general.â€
“I see,†laughed Freda. “I suppose you didn’t like to be tied down.â€
“Precisely the case, my dear. My nature was, and is, one of those unfortunate ones that doesn’t see sermons in stones, or poems in running brooks, or eternal happiness within the confines of a brick residence. I have never, even yet, reached the slippers-and-fireplace stage, and have never wearied of variety. I have never shed a tear of remorse that, at thirty-five, I am not putting my children to bed, and I was brought up to love commotion and a life of shifting change. I’m really a gypsy, you know, I love horses and I love to be going. My dear husband was a successful business man with a germ of thepater familiasabout him. He never quite got me, unfortunately. I worshipped the ground he walked on, but I never considered that my affection for him should change my home into a nunnery, nor that I should acknowledge my affection by living a hermetically-sealed life. Marriage! You really mustn’t mention it to me. I’m afraid I rebelled against its restrictions once and for all.â€
“Gertrude is rather deep,†Mauney said to Freda, later, as they started putting the parlor in order for their task.
“Yes, she is,†Freda admitted. “She has as many brains as three average women, as much pep as twenty, and less caution than any I ever met. She really is a gypsy, I believe. I’d like to know her whole life.—Don’t you think I had better use this table?â€
“Sure. Put the typewriter there. We can have more light on the scene, too.â€
Mauney raised the front curtains to let in the dull, white glare of the snow-covered street.
“Now I’m going to lounge on the sofa with this scrap-album on my knees, if you’ll pardon my informality,and let you have my ideas in straight-from-the-shoulder sentences.â€
“That’s the correct way,†she laughed, seating herself beside the round centre table and adjusting the ribbons of her typewriter. “If you don’t go too fast I can catch it directly on the machine. What are you going to call the book?â€
“Thoughts on the Teaching of History.â€
“Fine. What about an introduction?â€
“Better have one, eh?â€
“Yes. I would suggest a breezy opening of some sort for the purpose of getting under way.â€
Mauney reclined on the sofa and smoked a cigarette. Presently he dictated, between periods of noise from the busy typewriter:
“Solomon was right. There is no end to making books. Why should any modern writer, with surfeit of literary heritage from past ages, seek to augment their number? Everything worth saying has been said already. Every vagary of thought, every wisp of emotion, every particle of knowledge has been crystallized in books. It is impossible for any contemporary to insinuate his thought, however perspicacious, further than human thought has been already insinuated. It is impossible for a modern writer to wiggle his pen in any form of gyration different from the gyrations of the multitudinous pens, crow-quills and styluses that have wiggled throughout the centuries. Repetition, imitation, plagiarism! Everything we write down has been written under, as in a palimpsest, whether or not we perceive the dim characters, all but erased through time. A book is no longer ‘the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up,’ but rathera craven member of a jingling throng who limp in tedious masquerade past the grand-stand of a plethoric and indolent public.
“Books, books! Acres of books, as if a poor, solitary author could possibly maintain his inspiration in the midst of such overpowering evidence of ultimate futility!
“The public have been bored with much writing on the subject of history, and recently much new history has been made. We hold no assurance, nor do we give any, that this rambling communication on the Teaching of History will do more than limp past the grand-stand already mentioned. What will be herein set forth is a description of the author’s sentiments rather than a didactic scheme, written from the standpoint of a student of history rather than from the full knowledge of a scholar.â€
“I think,†said Freda, as she pounded out the last words of the preface, “that you’re too modest. But never mind, you’re writing the book, not me. You don’t seem to realize that what the public want is hot air, not a gentleman’s modest viewpoint.â€
Mauney laughed, and sat up on the sofa, watching her fingers fly over the keys.
“I appreciate the value of hot air, thoroughly, Miss MacDowell, but I really want to be sincere in this business. Do you know—it’s great fun writing a book—with you.â€
“I thank you,†she said, dropping her hands in her lap with a sigh. “Now, have you got your first chapter ready to commence?â€
“Yes, call it, ‘The Beginner’s Preconceptions of History.’ Are you ready?â€
“Ever at thy service!â€
With a glance at her roguish face he settled down again upon the comfortable sofa and dictated once more from the fullness of his heart. They worked hard until, at noon, Maxwell Lee opened the parlor door, sticking in his head and glancing from one to the other.
“Hello!†he said, in a surprised tone. “You two look busy.â€
“Indeed we are, Max,†said Freda, stopping her work. “Mauney—I mean Mr. Bard—is pouring forth his theories of history, reconstructed, and I, as you see, am his amanuensis.â€
“Great stuff!†drawled Max, entering the room, and standing beside the sofa he continued: “You old bear, I’m glad you’re blossoming out into letters, and I’m glad you’ve got such an excellent amanuensis.â€
Mauney glanced from his face to Freda’s with a peculiar feeling that he had been caught trespassing, ever so little, upon Lee’s property, but consoled himself with the knowledge that his relation to Miss MacDowell was frankly a commercial one, or at most, but friendly.
“How are things, Max?†he asked.
“So, so. I’m going home for a week’s rest. I just found out to-day that the sight of that laboratory was beginning to bore me to tears.†He paused to remove his overcoat. “Am I butting in?â€
He turned toward Freda, as he asked the question.
“I suppose you are, Max. But who has a better license?â€
“Hear, hear!†said Mauney. “Sit down, you prune, and have a smoke. I’ve just about drained myself of language, anyway, and I can smell beefsteak frying.â€
“And while you two are smoking,†said Freda, rising, “I’m going out to give Gertrude a hand with the dinner.â€
When she had gone Mauney smoked in silence for an awkward moment.
“How’s the work, Max?â€
“Coming along fine. I really think I’ve struck something big.â€
“Gee, that’s good. More power to you. Feeling all-right?â€
“Oh yes!†he answered. “Fairly good, I could stand a little more pep, though. After I get rested up for a week or so I’ll be right on the job again.â€
Mauney rose and walked slowly toward the front window and stood looking out on the snow-covered street. For once he failed to understand his own feelings. There was a hot spot in his bosom, burning larger and larger. It had something to do with Freda MacDowell he was sure, because he could see her face before him with its bewitching comfort. It had something to do with Max, too. He longed for words, but they were tied securely within the remotest recesses of his being. He turned and walked slowly back. Lee was sitting idly smoking, with his lanky legs carelessly crossed. He noticed that Max’s face was now flushed.
“It’s a devilish cold day, Max,†he said awkwardly.
“Um-h’m. I think it’s going to snow,†Lee responded, rising and starting slowly for the door. It was dinner-time. In getting out the door they made mutual offers of priority to each other. As they walked toward the dining room Mauney reflected that they had never done this before, and that never before, during their long acquaintance had the weather been a topic of conversation.
The groundwork of Mauney’s book on history was completed, with Freda’s careful assistance, during the Christmas holidays, and finished in final form by the end of March, when the manuscript was submitted to Locke & Son, Publishers. Mauney was willing to allow Freda to choose the publisher, having learned to repose mysterious confidence in her judgment of such practical matters. He possessed none too sanguine an opinion of the book’s fate, suffering from an author’s customary self-depreciation, and was, therefore, greatly and pleasantly surprised a month later, to receive a letter from Locke & Son stating that they had accepted it for publication and would shortly carry it to press. When he expressed his surprise Freda seemed not at all excited by the news, as evidently she had not shared his diffidence.
“Mauney,†she exclaimed, with a hopeless shake of her head, “you are the most mournful prophet. In the first place, what you said in it is just contrary enough to the accepted view of history to stir certain folks up a little. But I have withheld from you the real story until now. Do you know why Locke accepted it?â€
“No,†he answered. “That’s what’s puzzling me.â€
“Then I’ll tell you,†she laughed. “I knew that the publisher would submit that manuscript to somebody in the History Department for an opinion. They picked on our friend Nutbrown Hennigar. Well, maybe you can imagine what he would have to say about it. He dictated his letter to me. Of all the letters I have ever seen it took the red ticket for pure, unadulterated blasphemy. He told Locke that your manuscript was, to begin with, merely the asinine vaporings of an unsophisticated stripling from away back. He said that your attitude towards history reminded him of a starving laborer suddenly confronted with a seven-course dinner. He considers your arguments subversive, crudely iconoclastic, tinctured by a raw individualistic attitude, blurred by an emotionalism approaching sentimentality, that your position could never be subscribed to by any serious student of history, and that the firm of Locke & Son would be extremely ill-advised in publishing so puerile a production.â€
“The dirty cur!†interrupted Mauney. “All he has to do is live on his father’s reputation and crowd down the under-dog. I’d love to poison that small, squeaking excuse for a man!â€
“Oh, don’t think of it!†mocked Freda, with a subtle smile. “Don’t poison anybody that can help you. Love your enemies, for they’re useful. If he had contented himself to praise faintly, Locke would never have printed it. It was Nutbrown’s loud damns that excited their curiosity. They thought that anything so subversive and revolutionary and so tinctured by crude feeling would sell pretty well, and I think so, too, Mauney. You didmegood when you lambasted these fossilized specimens of the teaching profession whothink History is merely an opportunity for displaying academic methods. You are indeed a very raw youth,†she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “but you said a mouthful, for until university students are shown that history ishumanthey will never take a proper interest in the subject.â€
“I believe that,†said Mauney.
Freda sat up sharply. “Just you wait,†she said, tapping the desk with her knuckles. “It’s going to be a great old splash and Nutbrown will be suddenly seized with an acute pain in his higher criticism.â€
“Say, do you know I’ve a secret to tell you,†said Mauney, after a moment’s reflection. “I’m not really supposed to tell anybody, but I’m going to tell you. What do you think has happened?â€
“Well, perhaps I have an idea,†she said with a particularly blasé yawn. “But I might be wrong, so maybe you’d better tell me.â€
“I’m going to lecture in history next fall. What do you think about that?â€
“My dear man, I’ve known that for two months.â€
“Well, aren’t you glad?†he asked, puzzled by her apathetic expression.
Her eyes narrowed as if she were weighing the elements of the case.
“I can’t say that I am,†she replied. “You weren’t cut out for a professor. Please pardon my abruptness, but that’s just it. I’m sure you’re happy over it, and I have no intention of prophesying. My knowledge of university life has been gained by keeping my eyes open, and I know the crowd. You won’t agree with them. You’ re too vital, if I may be allowed to use the expression.â€
“I feel like thanking you for that, Miss MacDowell.â€
“You don’t need to. They aren’t such a bad lot. My first attitude was one of intolerance, but now I pity them. There they are, up to the ears in thankless routine, frozen by the currents of pure mentality, no heart left, lopsided, fossilized, hopeless. I wish I were running the university.â€
There was such frank zeal in her wish that Mauney inquired as to what changes she would make if she had her way.
“Well,†she said. “In the first place I’m so sorry for the president that I could shed tears of real brine. They put him up in the clouds with a gold halo round his head and forget that he eats meat and potatoes and frequently perspires. He’s so busy addressing meetings, signing documents, preaching sermons and being necessarily nice to everybody in general that he has practically nothing to do with the university. He might as well have an office down town and be done with it. They expect him to be as perfect as the god they have made of him, and if he ever makes a mistake the big howl starts. I’d like to go into his office some day and kiss him right on the forehead and say: ‘Cheer up, old chap, you’re a winner!’â€
“That ought to help a little,†laughed Mauney. “What else would you do for the university?â€
“Why, I’d cut a great big window to let some sunshine into the history department. And I’d fire Nutbrown Hennigar and give him a job as aide-de-camp to some fat society woman up in the North End. He’s an example of the vapid young man who gains preferment solely through family influence. Then I’d take Uncle Alfred Tanner aside and explain to him that hecan never gain the personal development to which his noble heart entitles him so long as he submits to the curbing influence of his brother-in-law’s clever dictatorship. Then I’d walk into Freeman’s office and, for purposes of smoothness, agree with him at the outset that nothing is good for anything, that all human effort is futile, that there naturally is no God, and then inquire naively, having got this settled, what he wanted to do next? I’d like to see that man get loosened up, just for once. I’ve often sat at my desk and just simply suffered to foxtrot with him all over the history department. When Freeman dies they ought to put a book in his hand instead of a lily.â€
Mauney was reminded of Freda’s tirade against Freeman a few nights later when he accepted an invitation to dine at the historian’s quiet home. Of late he had unconsciously shunned the family, for reasons none too clear even to his own understanding. At heart he dimly realized that Lorna herself was the reason. He justly accused himself of having treated her with a species of neglect which must have been decidedly puzzling to her. Her matrimonial decision might have been arrived at long ago, for all he knew. Although it was his place, as the lover he had depicted himself, to inquire, he had nevertheless procrastinated. There was a great deal of apathy in his nature. He noticed that, so long as he did not see her or talk with her, he found no element of his being that regarded her as necessary. When, however, he was presented with Lorna in person, as upon this evening, the old attractionssprang to life once more, as if her presence were the essential cause.
He arrived early and talked with her on the rear lawn while they awaited dinner, which was being prepared by Mrs. Freeman herself. The high stone wall at the back of the lawn abutted directly on the western portion of the university grounds, so close to the history department that a small door had been cut in the wall to facilitate the professor’s short cuts to and from work.
They talked of many impersonal matters. It struck Mauney as almost absurd that this young woman had been asked to marry him. The impersonal attitude into which he had gradually drifted seemed to suit Lorna well enough, and as he talked with her he began at last to understand her real nature. Though pure and blameless, she was so narrowed by the lack of certain emotions as to be, from a romantic standpoint, negative. He saw it better now than ever before. The words that are a woman’s words and never a man’s, the whimsical details of deportment and address that belong peculiarly to women, the glances, the accents, the delicate tricks of wit, the sallies of playfulness—these were not in Lorna. He knew she liked him, but her presence was neither warm nor comforting. Her college training had bestowed, or perhaps merely emphasized, this negative quality of mind which Mauney at length recognized and disliked. Lorna knew that men loved women; knew it to be an accepted and doubtlessly beautiful arrangement, and one worthy of emulation, but she did not realize that this love of a man was no mere arrangement of pretty presentations, but a vital, all-absorbing, tremulous thing from beginningto end. Most women lived by the power of it: Lorna labelled it, pigeonholed it, and missed it.
He was tolerably sure that she did not hold it against him, that he had not again referred to matters of love. He could more easily imagine her appreciating his silence. Like her father and mother, her true character became evident only after long acquaintance.
He had imagined the professor and his wife to be passably happy together until impressed by Mrs. Freeman’s constant, mysterious sadness. Whether or not they began life together in perfect personal harmony was uncertain. But regarding their present relationship Mauney entertained no doubt. They had drifted so far apart that scarcely any common ground remained. Mrs. Freeman, shocked by her husband’s growing agnosticism, had clung for refuge more tightly than ever to dogmatic tenets of religion which at all times she had held to tightly enough. The farther Freeman drifted from simple religion the more desperately did she hold on, until their home life was rendered a frequent scene of controversial unpleasantness.
At one time, not many years since, they had both attended church and found sufficient spiritual satisfaction in the service. But the increasing adventures of his mental life had gradually wooed Freeman away. Something of an authority on ritual, he fell to investigating the subject afresh, to be rewarded by the discovery of a few errors. These had reference to recondite matters of priestly vestment and entailed hair-splitting differences of no importance. It became a hobby. The investigation led him on into comparative theology and biblical criticism, the upshot being a declaration of a position of religious agnosticism. At first he becamea cheerful pragmatist, then an adroit sceptic, whereupon Mrs. Freeman’s childlike faith, harshly fortifying itself, grew slowly militant and became eventually not so much childlike as childish.
Even an outsider felt the friction just beneath the surface. Mauney, unprepared to believe how completely man and wife could be separated by matters of faith, nevertheless saw the patent duality of the Freeman home—the professor, ruling his upstairs study and using the place as a boarding house, while Mrs. Freeman roamed the rest of the house in spacious tragedy of manner. The one common ground between them was Lorna, who, as might be expected, had problems of tact and opinion to solve. When guests were in the house she frequently came between her parents in the role of shock absorber, displaying considerable ingenuity. On one occasion, Mauney having broached a religious argument at the dinner-table, Lorna purposely upset a tumbler of water. This meant a quick jump-up for every one and was a complete tactical success since, with the deluged cover tented up on serviette rings, other topics suggested themselves.
On this particular spring evening, relationships seemed happier. They sat down at the table in good spirits. Freeman was apparently satisfied with his mental progress during the day just finished, for he was lightsome of manner, disposed to talk in a good-natured way and looked from Mauney to Lorna with an expression almost of tenderness. Mauney had never been made to feel quite so much at home. The fading light of evening looked in through the large back-windows of the cozy dining-room like a soft caress upon a scene of family compactness, where the four, seated at thecardinal points of the circular table, enjoyed their food by the rich, yellow light of a centrally-placed, silver candelabra. Lorna, gowned in a simple white frock, flickered pleasantly opposite Mauney. The professor’s face stared at the candles while his wife bowed her head to say grace. Mrs. Freeman referred to the younger members of the family as “You children.†It was all very snug and private and natural.
“Just think,†she said in her soft, slow inflection. “Another two weeks and you will both be finished with your college courses. How the time does go! You leave college halls to enter God’s great world.â€
“Now, Mother,†said Lorna, good-naturedly, “it’s not quite so serious as all that, I hope.â€
“We are taught to believe it’s a pretty serious affair, Lorna,†she responded. “The Scriptures tell us—â€
“And the Scriptures are quite right,†smiled Freeman bitterly. “It is certainly a serious, tragic affair. Personally, I can’t conceive of anything half so tragic as life.â€
“In what way, Dad?â€
“Why, any way you wish to look at it,†he answered quietly, as he served the dinner. “I think life is the most stupendous tragedy imaginable, from the very bottom of the scale to the top. The battle is to the strong,†he said impressively. “It’s the strong who defeat the weak and survive.â€
“I’m afraid,†said Mrs. Freeman, “that Mr. Darwin will have quite an account to give in the day of reckoning.â€
Mauney was not accustomed to such conversation during his meals and felt embarrassed by the evident estrangement of the two viewpoints expressed.
“And when, my dear, is the day of reckoning?†enquired the professor gently.
“If you had been at church last Sunday, Robert,†she said in a childish, teasing way, “you would have heard about it from our pastor.â€
“He has no more information on the subject than I have,†affirmed Freeman. “Why should I go to listen to a man who could not possibly express any ideas or argument with which my mind has not already grappled? If there were any such thing as a day of reckoning—which there definitely isnot—Darwin would be able to present as good a front as most of us. He merely emphasized a few biological laws which have precisely the same application to thegenus homoas to the rest. If I could see one solitary reason for thinking that there is a God who cares one iota for us and our fates I might be convinced. But I know one fact for sure—that the strong win and the weak lose. There’s no argument about it, people. It’s a fact.â€
“But don’t you think, Dad,†said Lorna politely, “that the weak may win by being wiser than the strong?â€
“Oh, yes, but if a man’s wise he’s strong, not weak. Man is stronger than the elephant and the lion for that very reason. He’s wiser than they. His brains have made civilization safe from the inroads of the wild animals. He has subjugated all other species to his own control.â€