CHAPTER XIVUN-ANGLO-SAXONHe came in before long, stamping the snow from his boots. In the second or two that passed before he spoke, James saw that though he looked haggard and depressed, there was no trace of weakness of dissipation about his eyes or mouth. Nor did he slink; he blundered in with the impetuosity of a schoolboy for whom the world has no terrors. For which, though he was shocked to see how badly he looked, James was profoundly thankful.He was aware of Harry's eyes trying to pierce the half-gloom; there was a touch of pathos, to James, in his momentary bewilderment."Hullo, Harry," he said gently."James!" The immediate, unconscious look of delight that came over Harry's face—even though it faded to something else within the second—pleased James more than anything had pleased him yet. Harry was glad to see him; that mattered much more than his almost instant recovery of his self-possession, his continuing, in the manner of the Harry of two years ago, the Harry of the previous Commencement: "Whatever are you doing here now, James?""I've got good news for you, Harry," he replied, rising and taking hold of the other's hand. "The Mowbray woman has withdrawn her suit. It's all right; she's signed things, and you have no more to fear from her." He dropped Harry's hand and moved off a step, as though to give him a chance to take in the news.There was something rather fine in the simplicity, the humility, even of his manner as he did this, that did not escape Harry. He was deeply moved; self-possession and all it implied fell from him again."James, have you done this? What has happened? Tell me all about it! You haven't paid her all that money, James—don't tell me you've done that!""No, of course I haven't—there was no need for it. Shewas married out in Minneapolis last September, and I happened to get onto the fact—that's all. She had no business to be suing at all.""And you—""I came here and told her so, to-day."James sat down again where he had been sitting, as though to close the incident. Harry stood and gasped; he tried to speak but could not; his eyes filled with tears. Then he dropped at James' feet, clasping his knees in the manner of a suppliant of old. He buried his face in James' lap and gave a few deep sobs of joy and relief.The Anglo-Saxon race being what it is, a good deal of courage is needed to go on with the relation of what occurred next. However, there is no help for it; history is history, and we can only tell it as it actually occurred, regardless of whether the undemonstrative are outraged or not. After Harry had thrown himself at his feet James took his brother's head gently between his hands, and then, with the greatest simplicity and naturalness in the world, bent forward and kissed it."Poor old thing," he said softly; "you have been having sort of a hard time of it, haven't you?""I wish you would tell me, James," said Harry somewhat later, as they sat gazing into the fire, James in the armchair and Harry on the floor, leaning back against James' legs, "I wish you would tell me just how you found out about her being married, and all about it. It seems so incredible—both that she should have been married and that you, of all people, should have been on the spot to discover it.""Well, I just saw her, coming out of the marriage office with a man; that was all there was to it. I thought she probably wouldn't have been there unless she had just been married to him, so I had the register looked up, and there she was. She was under the name of Rosa Montagu—that gave us some trouble at first, because of course I didn't know that was her stage name. I put a fellow called Laffan, a young lawyer, onto the business, and he messed about with the register and the detective bureau and communicated with Raynham till he wormed it all out. Finally he got hold of a photograph of Rosa Montagu and showed it to me, and after that it was easy enough—Of course, itwas a most God-given chance that I stumbled on her just at that compromising moment. She really wasn't as foolish as she sounds; she hadn't lived in Minneapolis for years and knew almost nobody there except her young man. It was a long chance, what with using her stage name and all, that any one would ever find her out.""Yes. But I don't quite see—You say she was married in September?""Yes—the third.""Well, if you knew she was married then, I don't quite see why you didn't make use of your knowledge before. When I was playing round with her, I mean—of course I, like the brazen idiot I was, didn't write you, but you must have heard—""Oh, yes. Well, it was a very funny thing. I didn't remember about having seen her in that place till months afterward; not till the night I heard about the breach of promise business. You see, it was only the barest, vaguest glimpse, there in the City Hall; she didn't even see me and I didn't even remember where I had seen her face before, then. I scarcely thought about it at all, at the time; I was in a great hurry to get to a hearing before some commission or other, and the thing went bang out of my mind. Then, when I read of the breach of promise, it all came back, in one flash! Funny!""Yes. It's the kind of humor that appeals to me, I can tell you.""The man, Jennings, curiously enough, happened to be in McClellan's for a while, once, in the counting department. He left there to become a clerk in some bank. We worked up his end too, a little...."Harry, I wish you'd tell me one thing," went on James, after a pause."Anything I can, James.""Why on earth, when you found you were getting in deep with that woman, didn't you call on me to do something? You couldn't be so far gone as to think that I wouldn't—""Oh, couldn't I? You have no idea of what depths of idiocy I can descend to, if I want.—I don't know—at the time, the more I wanted help the less I could talk of it to any one, and you least of all. The person that gave me the most comfort was Trotty, and he never once mentionedthe subject to me, except when I introduced it myself! Yet even so, all through that time, it was you that I really wanted.—Look here, James, if you don't believe me, see what I've been carrying around with me all this time, as a sort of talisman!"He took his wallet from his pocket and after a short search produced an old and dirty postal card bearing on its face the blurred but still readable legend "All right. James." He handed it to his brother."Gosh," said James, when he had read it, "do you mean to say you've kept that old thing ever since?""Ever since the day I got it. There was something about it that was comforting and optimistic and—well, like you; and I used to take it out and look at it occasionally when I got particularly down in the mouth. And I used to persuade myself, after a while, that it all would come out right, in the end; that somehow James would make it all right—you see how the prophecy has come true!... And the extraordinary part of it is that even while I thought that way about you, I simply couldn't break the ice and tell you about it all. I don't know why—I just couldn't!""I know," said James; "I know the feeling.""Isn't it incredible, James, that what seemed perfectly natural and reasonable—inevitable, even—a few weeks, or days, or even an hour ago, should appear so utterly asinine now!... Pride, vainglory and hypocrisy—all of them, and a lot more! Sometimes I can't believe it possible for one person to assemble in himself all the vices that I do.""Well, you don't, either," said James seriously. "That's one thing I want to clear up. Harry, don't you see that the blame for all this lies with me just as much as with you—more than with you—entirely with me?—""No, I don't," began Harry stoutly, but James continued:"And that the real reason you didn't call on me was because I had steadily shut myself away from you? Oh, Harry, I've behaved like the devil during the last three years! It's just as you say; a course of action you never even question at one time, a little later seems so silly, so criminally silly, that you can't believe you seriously thought of following it!... I know perfectly well that a lot of the things I thought were horribly important a few years ago really aren't worth the paper they're printed on.The perspective changes so, even with these two years—less than two years—out of college! Good Lord, if a man is really the right sort, if he has a good, warm-hearted nature at the bottom of him, thinks good thoughts, does nice things, uses to the best of his judgment what gifts and talents Providence is pleased to give him, what in Heaven's name does it matter whether he manages the crew or goes Bones, in the end?... I've been a fool, Harry. I've set the greatest value on the most worthless things; I've worshiped stone gods; I've let things irritate me that no sane man has any business to be irritated by. Worst of all, I've let these silly, worthless things come between you and me and spoil—well, one of the best things that ever came into my life!... All this estrangement business has been mainly my fault. I'm older, and have had more experience, and, I always thought, more common sense—though I haven't really—and I was the one that ought to have kept things straight. Harry, I'm sorry for it all!"Harry was more moved than he would have liked to show by this confession. He was still enough of an undergraduate to be much impressed by his brother's casual mention of his senior society—the first time since he had been tapped the name had ever passed James' lips in his presence."It's a pleasure to hear you talk, James," he said, "but I hope you won't misunderstand me when I say that there's not one word of truth in all you've said—the last part of it, I mean. It's only convinced me more thoroughly of my own fault. Before, there might have been a shadow of doubt in my mind about my being entirely to blame. Now there is absolutely none.—Funny, that a person you like blaming himself should really be blaming you! It always seems that way, somehow....""James," he went on, a little later; "it makes you feel as if you were getting on, doesn't it?""How? In years?""Yes! I don't know about you, but I feel as old as Methusaleh to-night, and a whole lot wiser! And I must say I rather enjoy it!""Yes," said James reflectively, "it does seem a good deal that way.""There are lots of questions you haven't asked me yet, James," continued Harry, after another interval."Are there? Well, tell me what they are and I'll ask them, if you're so crazy to answer them.""The first is, What on earth could you ever have seen in That Woman?""There was no need to ask that question," replied James, laughing; "not after I saw her to-day, at any rate.""She was so damned refined," sighed Harry. James laughed again at the coincidence of Harry's hitting on the very words of his own mental description of her. "I was most horribly depressed, and she looked so kind and sympathetic, and was, too, when I got to telling her my woes.... And she never used a particle of rouge, or anything of that kind.... Once I kissed her, and after that she managed, in that diabolical refined manner of hers, to convince me that she wouldn't have any more of that sort of thing without marriage. That made me respect her all the more, of course, as she knew it would. At one time, for a whole week, I should say, I was perfectly willing to marry her, whenever she wanted, and I didn't care whom I said it to, either.... Do you know, James, she would have been in for the devil of a time if I had gone on and pressed her to? I wonder what little plans she had for making me cease to care for her and back out at the right time.... There was no need for that, though; one day she called me 'kid,' and things like that before people, and I began to see.""That was part of her little plan, of course," said James."Well, well—I shouldn't wonder if it was! You always were a clever child, James!...""What are some more of the things I've got to ask?" inquired the clever child after a brief silence."What? Oh—yes! Why don't you ask me to cut out the lick?" (He meant, abstain from alcoholic beverages.)"Well, do you want me to?""Well, yes, I think I do, rather!""Well, will you?""Well—yes!"Both laughed, and then Harry went on: "It strikes me that we are both talking a prodigious lot of nonsense, James. We've been making a regular scene, in fact—""I rather like scenes, myself," interrupted James, just for the pleasure of their being how he had expressed exactly the opposite opinion to some one else a few hours before."And no doubt we shall be heartily ashamed when we look back on it all in the cold gray light of to-morrow morning. One always is.""I don't know," objected James, serious again, "I don't think that I shall be sorry for anything I've said or done.""Well, as a matter of strict truth, I don't know that I shall either. I suppose one needn't necessarily be making a fool of oneself just because it's twelve o'clock at night; that is—oh, you know what I mean—!"So they sat and talked on far into the night, loath to break up the enjoyment of the rediscovery of each other. They both seemed to bask in a sort of wonderful clarity and peace—do you know these rare times when life loses its complexity and uncertainty and becomes for the moment wholly sane and enjoyable and inspiring? When a person is actually able to live, if only for a little time, entirely in his better self, without being troubled by even a recollection of his worser? That was, substantially, the condition of those two boys as they sat there, at first talking, then thinking, and at last, as drowsiness slowly asserted itself over them, simply sitting."Well," said James at last; "unless you intend taking permanent possession of my legs, I suppose we'd better go to bed. Am I sleeping here, somewhere?""Yes," said Harry; "in my bed; I shall sleep on the sofa," and he forthwith embarked on a search for extra sheets and blankets.They both slept uninterruptedly till nearly ten, at which hour they sallied forth in search of breakfast. During the night the snow had changed to rain, which still fell out of a leaden sky, turning the earth's white covering to dirty gray and clogging the gutters with slush. Everything looked sordid, prosaic, ugly, especially Chapel Street, which they crossed on their way to the nearest "dog"; especially the "dog" itself as they approached it, with its yellow electric lights still shining out of its windows. It was an unattractive world."Well, how does it look this morning?" James asked, studying his brother's face.Harry shuffled along several steps through the slush before he answered:"Just the same, James, and I for one, don't mind saying so." Then they looked at each other and smiled slightly.CHAPTER XVCHIEFLY CARDIACLife appeared, nevertheless, to have recovered all its normal complexity and variety. Things change with the return of daylight, even if they do not deteriorate, and though the two boys were still, in a manner of speaking, happy in each other's proximity, the thoughts of each were already busy on matters in which the other had no direct share. Harry was already foreseeing unpleasantnesses in the way of the restoration of cordial relations with the world. Exile has its palliations; he had taken a sort of grim pleasure in the state of semi-warfare in which he had lived. But that sort of thing was now over; he wanted to be right with the whole world—he even looked forward to astonishing people with the thoroughness of his conservatism. And he would have to make all the first advances. Thoughts of apologies, unreciprocated nods, suppressed sneers, incredulous glances and all the rest did not dismay him, but they might be said to bother him. At least, they were there.As for James, he had thought so much about Harry during the last ten days that it is easy to understand why, the affair Harry having been satisfactorily cleared up, his mind should be busy with other things. James' control over his mind was singularly perfect and methodical; its ease of concentration suggested that of an experienced lawyer examining the contents of several scraps of papers and returning each one again to its proper pigeon-hole, neatly docketed. The papers bearing the label of "Harry," neatly tied up in red tape, were again reposing comfortably in their pigeon-hole; the bundle that now absorbed his attention was marked "Beatrice."Outside of his work, to which he had conscientiously devoted the best of his mental powers, Beatrice had occupied the most prominent place in his thoughts for over a year and a half. For six days in the week, between thehours of nine and five, she had not been conspicuous in his mind; but how often, outside that time, had his attention wandered from a book, a conversation, a play, and fastened itself on the recollection of that softly aquiline profile of hers, the poise of her head on her beautifully modeled shoulders, her unsmiling yet cordial manner of greeting, and which she somehow managed to convey the impression of being unaffectedly glad to see him! It would probably be too much to say that James had been in love with her during that time, but James was not the sort of person who would easily be carried off his feet in an affair of the heart. Often, as the memory of her face obtruded itself on his day-dreams—or still oftener, his night-dreams—he had calmly put to himself, for open mental debate, the question "Am I really in love with her?" and had never been able to answer it entirely satisfactorily.On the whole, in view of the fact that the memory of her showed no tendency to fade in proportion to the time he was absent from her presence, he had become rather inclined to the opinion that the answer must be in the affirmative. Yet even now he could not be sure. He might be only cherishing an agreeable memory. He had not seen her since the previous June, and could not be absolutely certain, he knew, till he saw her again. He was anxious to see her!—Not that mere friendship would not account for that, of course.Harry had to attend Sunday Chapel, and it was arranged that James should not go with him, but should proceed directly to the house. Harry himself would turn up at dinner-time—Aunt Selina, it will be remembered, had dinner in the middle of the day on Sundays. Harry was naturally anxious to have all news-breaking over before he came, and James—well, on the whole James was entirely willing to take the burden of news-breaking on himself.He found Aunt Selina at home; a slight cold in the head and the inclemency of the weather had been sufficient to make her forego church for this Sunday. Beatrice had proved herself of stauncher religious metal—"Though I am sure she would not have gone, if she had known you were in town," as Aunt Selina told James.Aunt Selina took the good news much as a duchess of the old régime might have learned that the Committee of Public Safety had decided not to chop off her husband'shead. It was agreeable news, but it was nothing to make one forget oneself. Her manner of saying "This is splendid news, James; I am proud of you" indicated a profound belief in the sanctity of the Wimbourne destiny and an unshakable faith in the ultimate triumph of the Wimbourne character rather than unbecoming thankfulness for something she ought not to have had to be thankful about. James advised her that Harry would talk much more freely and relations in general would be much more agreeable if she refrained from mention of the subject till he introduced it himself. Aunt Selina calmly agreed. She had great faith in James' judgment.After an hour's chat with his aunt James exhibited visible signs of restlessness. Half-past twelve; it was time Beatrice returned. He rose from his chair and stood watching in front of the window. Soon he saw her; she alighted from a trolley car and started to walk up the path. There was something rather fine, something high-bred and gently proud about the way she grasped her umbrella and embarked on the long slushy ascent to the house. Her manner rather suggested a daughter of the Crusaders; it was as though she hated the wind and rain and slush, but disdained to give other recognition of their existence than a silent contempt.As he beheld her distant figure turn in at the gate and plod unflinchingly up the walk a curious sensation came over James. He suddenly found himself wanting to wreak an immediate and violent vengeance on the elements that dared to make things so unpleasant for her, and that almost immediately passed into an intense desire to seize upon that small figure and clasp it to him, sheltering her from the rain, the wind, the slush, every evil in this world that could ever befall her.... In that moment he felt all the beauty of man's first love. All the worries of doubt and introspection fell from him; he felt the full glow of love shining in his heart like a star, giving significance, sanctity, even, to those moments of wondering, fearing, hoping, doubting that had filled so many months. He was in love with her!... He came into the realization of the fact in a spirit of humility and prayer, like a worshiper entering a temple.Of course he gave no outward sign of all this. Hemerely said, as soon as he could trust himself to be articulate, in a perfectly ordinary tone of voice:"There's Beatrice, now. She's walking.""Yes," answered his aunt; "I tried to make her stay at home, but she would go." Then after a moment she gently added, as though in answer to James' unspoken reproach: "I would have let her take the carriage, but of course I could not ask Thomas to go out in such weather."James entirely failed to see why not. He would willingly have condemned Thomas and the horses to perpetual driving through something much more disagreeable than rain and slush if it could have saved Beatrice one particle of her present discomfort.But being, in fact as well as in appearance, a daughter of Crusaders, and consequently well used to climatic rigors in the country from which her ancestors had marched to meet the Paynim foe, Beatrice was really not suffering nearly as much as James' lover-like anxiety supposed her to be. She had thick boots, a mackintosh, an umbrella and a thick tweed skirt to protect her from the weather, and could have walked miles without so much as wetting her feet. If she had got wet, she certainly would have changed her garments immediately on reaching home, and even if she had not changed then she probably would not have caught cold, having a strong constitution. Nevertheless James stood at the window and silently worried about her, and his first words as he met her at the front door were expressive of this mood."Beatrice!" he cried eagerly, as he threw the door open, "I do hope you're not wet through!"She had not seen him standing at the window, so his appearance at the door was consequently a complete surprise to her, and the expression that came over her face as she saw him was one of pure pleasure. James' heart leaped within him at her unaccustomed smile, and then fell again as he saw it change to an expression of ever so slight and well-restrained surprise, not at his being there, but at the manner and words of his greeting. He realized in a second that he had allowed his tongue to betray his heart.Beatrice paid no immediate attention to the remark, and her welcoming words "James, of all people in the world!" gave no sign of anything more than a friendly pleasure.She was entirely at her ease. James found himself running on, quite easily:"Yes—just got a day or two off and came on to say Howdy-do to you all. Got to start back this afternoon, worse luck. How well you're looking!"By this time they were practically in the library, in the restraining presence of Aunt Selina, and Beatrice had no more chance to introduce the topic clamoring for discussion in the minds of both than the question "You've seen Harry?" uttered in an undertone as they went through the door, allowed her. Church, the weather and the unexpected pleasure of James' arrival were politely discussed for a few moments, and then Aunt Selina withdrew to prepare for dinner."James," Beatrice burst out, "tell me about Harry. I know you've come on about that; tell me all about it! Has anything been done? Can anything be done?""It can," said James, smiling at her impetuosity. "Like-wise, it has. In fact, it's all over!""What do you mean?... Have you paid her off?""No; she withdrew of her own accord.""James, don't be irritating! Tell me about it. You've done something, I know you have!""Well—possibly!" He smiled tantalizingly at her—so like a man!"What?""Well, I'll tell you—on one condition.""What's that?""That you'll promise not to thank me when you've found out!" James considered this rather a masterly piece of deceptive strategy, more than making up for his indiscretion at the front door.Beatrice dropped her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth, with an expression half humorous, half contemptuous. "Go ahead," said she.James went ahead and told her the whole affair at some length. His position during this narrative was a not unenviable one; it is not often that one gets a chance to recount to one's lady-love a story in which one is so obviously the hero. Nor did he lose anything by being the narrator of his own prowess; his omissions spoke louder in his favor than the most laudatory comments of a third person could have."So, he is free!" she said at last, when she had cross-questioned the whole thing out of him. "He is free again!..."What was there about these words that seemed to blast James' feeling of triumph, to chill the very marrow in his bones? Was it only the words; was it not rather the extraordinary intensity of the pleasure on her face; a pleasure which did not fade with her smile, but lived on in the dreamy expression of the eyes, gazing sightlessly out of the window?... She spoke again in a moment or two, asking a question about some detail in the case, and the feeling left him again. He answered her question with perfect composure. Such hysterical vapors must be incidental to love, he supposed. He was not troubled about it at all, unless, very vaguely, by the fleeting memory of a similar experience, occurring—oh, a long time ago. Nothing to worry about.He did not say much after he had completed his narrative. He was content simply to sit and look at her, drinking in her smiles, her comments, her little ejaculations of pleasure and answering her stray questions about the great affair. The joy of discovery was not yet even tinged with the thirst for possession. It was enough to watch her as she talked and laughed and moved about; to watch her, the living original, and think how much more glorious she was than the most vivid of his recollections of her. Oh, how wonderful she was!Presently he was aware of her making remarks laudatory of himself, and primed his ears to listen."But how clever it was of you, James," she was saying, "to work out the whole thing, just from that one little glimpse—and so quickly, too! Of course it was just a Heaven-sent chance, your seeing her at that moment, but I can see how much more there was to it than that. What a frightfully clever person you are, James—a regular detective! You really must give up making motor cars and be another Sherlock Holmes!"All this fell very pleasantly on his ears, though he could have wished, if he had taken the time to, that she could have employed some other adjective than "clever." But there was no time for such minor considerations. Just at that moment they heard the rattle of the front door latch, and Beatrice, knowing that none but Harry ever enteredthe house without first ringing, jumped from her chair and started towards the hall, the words "There he is now!" glowing on her lips....And then the universe crumbled about James' ears. Had his father's early readings extended into the minor Elizabethan Drama, he might have remembered the words of Beaumont—This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feelA stark affrighted motion in my bloodand applied them quite aptly to his present state. For a moment the earth literally seemed to reel; he staggered slightly, unnoticed, and caught hold of the back of a chair. Then, while Beatrice went out to meet Harry, he stood there and wished he had never been born to live through such a moment.Beatrice was in love with Harry—that was the long and the short of it. There was no mistaking the import of the look of utter glorification that came over her face as she heard his hand on the doorknob; such an expression on the face of a human being could mean but one thing.... He wondered, despairingly, if his face had borne such a look a little while ago, when he caught sight of Beatrice....Whether or not Harry was on similar terms with Beatrice he could not say. He rather thought that he was, or if not, it was only a question of time till he would be. He was not a witness of the actual moment of meeting; that occurred in the hall, and all he got of it was Harry's initial remark: "Well, Beatrice, have you heard the good news? James has made a respectable woman of me!" drowned in a sort of flutter from Beatrice, in which he could distinguish nothing articulate—nor needed to. The character of the remark—flippant to the verge of good taste!—might at another time have excited his disgust; but now it made as little impression on him as it did on Beatrice.Harry himself might not have made it at another time; it was the result of his embarrassment. So, also, was the expression which he wore when he came into the room with Beatrice a moment later—a very unusual look, due to a very unusual cause. Beatrice had, in fact, all but given herself away to him. He followed her into the room embarrassed and flustered. It was incomparably the worst of the series of strained moments in his intercourse with Beatrice,and it gave point and coherency to the others in a way he hated to think of.... Once in the library he found himself leading conversation, or what passed for conversation among the three for the next few moments. The others appeared conversationally extinct; Beatrice—he hardly dared look toward her—trying to recover her composure; James preternaturally grave and silent, for some unknown reason. The atmosphere seemed surcharged with an unexpected and, to him, inappropriate gravity. He felt like a schoolboy among grown-ups.Presently Aunt Selina returned and dinner was announced.Poor James—he had won Paradise only to lose it the next instant! No one could have guessed anything from his behavior—he was not the sort of person to make an exhibition of his emotional crises; but he really lived very hard during the meal that followed. His state of mind was at first nothing but a ghastly chaos, from which but one thing emerged into certainty—he must not betray himself or Beatrice; he must go on exactly as if nothing unusual had occurred. It never paid to make a fool of oneself, and—this was the next thought, the next plank that floated to him from the wreck of his happiness—he had not, that he knew of, given himself away. That was a tremendous thing to be thankful for; what a blessing that he had got wind of Beatrice's true feelings before he had the chance to blunder into making love to her and so precipitate a series of horrors which he could not even bear to contemplate! Now, he told himself reassuringly, as he tried desperately to contribute his fourth to the none too spontaneous conversation, he had only to keep himself in check, keep his mouth shut, keep from making of himself the most unthinkable ass that ever walked God's earth—and it would all come out right!By the time the roast beef made its appearance he saw there was only one thing to do and without a moment's hesitation he embarked on the doing of it. Beatrice sat on his right; he raised his eyes to her and passed them over each enthralling feature of her, her soft dark hair; her eyes, brown almost to black, gentle yet fearless in their gaze, and at the same time, quite calmly and unemotionally, told himself that she could never be his. She was Harry's.These two were intended for each other all along, made for each other. Could he not have seen that in the beginning, if he had kept his eyes open? Could he not have seen that their childish companionship, dating from Harry's English days, their being placed again, as though by a divine sort of accident, in the same town, and above all their obvious fitness for each other, was going to lead to love?Well—thus he found himself to his one substantial comfortable support—he had hurt no one but himself. He had only to put Beatrice resolutely out of his mind and all would be well. She was Harry's; was that not the next best thing to her being his?—better, even? No longer ago than last night he had convinced himself that Harry was, when all was said and done, a better man than he was. Was it not perfectly just that the prize should go to him?The thought helped him through the meal astonishingly. Unselfishness is a great stimulus. Once he saw that he could do something definite toward the happiness of those he loved best, he seemed, rather to his own surprise, perfectly willing and able to do it, at no matter what sacrifice to himself. His righteousness supported him not only through the meal, but well through that part of the afternoon that he spent in the house—up, indeed, to the very moment of parting.James' plan was to take a five-o'clock train to New York, whence he would take a night train to Chicago and arrive in Minneapolis early Tuesday morning, having missed only three working days at the office. It was still raining at four o'clock and a cab was telephoned for. As it was plodding up the slushy drive, James, overcoated and hatted, stood on the porch ready to get into it. Harry, who was to go to the station with him, was "having a word" with Aunt Selina—or, more exactly, being had a word with by her—in the hall. Beatrice, by some fiendish chance, determined to do the same by James."James," she said, "I want you to know how perfectly splendid I think it was of you—all this about Harry, I mean. You may say it was no more than your duty, and all that; but it was fine of you, nevertheless. Thank you, James, and good-by."It really was rather awful. It amounted to his being rewarded and dismissed like a faithful servant. And her tacit, unconscious assumption of her right to thank peoplefor favors conferred upon Harry—that was turning the knife in the wound. Of course she could have no idea of the pain she was giving, and James shook her hand and said good-by trying to give no sign of the pain he felt. All the comfortable stability of his logic faded from him as she spoke those words. All the way to the station, sitting by Harry's side in the smelly cab, he found himself crying inwardly, like a child, for what he could not have; wondering if, by the exercise of tact and patience, Beatrice could possibly be brought to love him; overcome at moments by an insane desire to throw himself on Harry's neck and beg him to let him have her—for surely, surely Harry could not be as fond of her as he! Oh, was it going to be as hard as this right along?..."James," said Harry suddenly as the two paced the dreary platform in silence, waiting for the train to pull in; "it's sometimes awfully hard to say what you want without talking mawkish rot, but there's something I've simply got to say, rot or no rot, or drop dead on the asphalt.—I'm pretty young, of course, and haven't seen much of anything of life; but a person doesn't have to live long to get the general idea that it's rather a chaotic mess. Well, occasionally out of it there emerges a thing that appears to bring out all that's best in your nature and gives a certain coherence to the other things....""Yes?" said James, wondering what was to follow."Well, it seems to me that one of those things is—you and me. Since last night, I mean ... James, I don't know how you feel about it, but since then I've had a sense of nearness to you, such as I've never begun to have with any other human being—such as doesn't occur often in one lifetime, I imagine ... I really think very highly of you, James!" He broke off here with a smile, half embarrassed at his brother's slowness of response, ready to retreat into the everyday and the trivial if the response did not come.But he need not have worried; James was merely choosing his words; every nerve in him was thrilling in answer to Harry's advance. He returned the smile, but replied, in full seriousness: "You've hit it exactly; I should even say it couldn't be duplicated in one lifetime.... You're unique, Harry!""That's it—unique," said Harry, joining in with his mood. "You've mastered the art of uniquity, James.""And what's more," went on the other, "it always has been that way—really. Even during these last few years. With me, I mean.""With me, too. James"—he stood still and looked his brother full in the face—"do you know, such a relation as ours is one of the few positive good things that makes life worth while? If we were both struck dead as we stand here, life would have been well worth living—just for this!""Yes, that's true," said James slowly; "that's perfectly true.""And one thing more—for Heaven's sake, James, don't let's either of us mess up this thing in the future, if we can help it! It may be broken up by outside causes—well and good; we can't prevent that; but can't we have the sense not to let silly, conventional things come between us? Let's not be afraid, above all, of plain talk—at any rate, you need never be afraid to say anything to me. I may be narrow and obstinate to other people, but I don't think I could ever be so to you again. I'd take anything from you, James, anything!—" He smiled at the unintentional double meaning of his words, adding, "And there's nothing I wouldn't give you, either."It would not be too much to say that James was literally inspired by Harry's words. They seemed to bring out every vestige of what was good and noble and unselfish in his nature, lifting him high above his everyday, weak, commonplace self—such as he had shown it in the cab, for instance—making life as clear, as sensible, as inspiring as it had seemed last night. His "sacrifice" now appeared nothing; he scarcely thought of it at all, but its nature, when it did appear in the back of his brain, was that of an obvious, pleasant, easy duty; a service that was a joy, a denial that was a self-gratification."All right, I'll remember. And if I telegraph you to dye your face pea-green, I shall expect you to do it!" He spoke with a lightness of spirit wholly unfeigned. Then he continued, somewhat more seriously: "I'll tell you what it is; each of us has got to behave so well that it'll be the fault of the other if we do fall out. There's a poem Father used to read that says something of the kind; something about there being none but you—'there is none, oh, none but you—'""'That from me estrange your sight,'" finished Harry. "I remember—Campion, I think.""That's it—that from me estrange your sight. It's funny how those things come back sometimes...." The train pulled noisily in at that moment and made further discussion impossible, but enough had been said to start the same thoughts running in the minds of both and give them both the feeling, as they clasped hands in parting, that the future had the blessing of the past.CHAPTER XVITHE SADDEST TALEWith the beginning of the next term Harry embarked on the task of setting himself right with the world. He found it on the whole easier than he had expected. He had only to make a few formal apologies, as in the cases of Shep McGee and Junius LeGrand, and let it become generally known that he had definitely given up drinking, et cetera, to make the cohorts of the commonplace glad to receive him in their ranks once more.Reinstatement in the social life of New Haven followed quite easily—almost as a matter of course, for he had not actively offended any members of what might be described as the entertaining classes. The female element, practically all of whom knew him, or at least of him, through his family connection, had evolved a mythical but interesting conception of him as "rather a fast young man"; and that, alas! served to endear him to their hearts rather than otherwise.So the last months of his college course passed in a sort of sunset haze of enjoyment, marred only by one thing, indecision as to his subsequent career. His friends were inclined to look rather askance at this; one or two, in a tactful way, pointed out to him the danger of "drifting." In reality there was small danger of this; although his inherited income would make him independent of his own efforts for livelihood during the rest of his natural life, Harry would never "drift" very far. His brain was too active, his ambition too lively, his sense of the seriousness of life too deep to allow that. He could never be content doing nothing. He wanted, in turn, to do very nearly everything; the professions of lawyer, doctor, "business man," engineer, clergyman, soldier, sailor—tinker and tailor, even were considered and rejected in turn."It's not that I don't want to do all these things," he explained to Trotty, who sometimes showed impatience athis vagueness; "the trouble is that I can't do any of them. I'm not fitted for them—I'm not worthy of them, if you like to put it that way. If I were a conscienceless wretch, now, it would be different!"One Sunday afternoon in June, rather saddened by the feeling of his apparent uselessness in the world, he went to call on Madge Elliston."Well, what are you going to do this summer?" she began. "That seems to be the one topic of conversation at this time of year.""This summer? Oh, I'm going to walk, with the rest of my class, in the more mountainous portions of Europe. At present I am under engagement to walk through the hilly parts of England, Scotland and Wales, the Black Forest, the Alps, the Tyrol, the Dolomites and some of the cooler portions of the Apennines; but the Cévennes and the Caucasus are still open, if you care to engage them.... In between times I expect to roister, shamelessly, in some of the livelier resorts of the Continent. That's all quite simple; what I'm worrying about is what I'm going to do next winter.""Why don't you write, if I may be pardoned for asking so obvious a question?" asked Madge."One simple but sufficient reason—I haven't got anything to write about," answered Harry, smiling. "That's what everybody asks, and the answer is always the same. This prevalent belief in my literary ability is flattering, but unfortunately it's wholly unfounded.""I shouldn't say so. I've read most of what you've written in college, and it seems to me extremely clever.""Clever—that's just it! Nothing more! The awful truth is, there's nothing more in me. I have rather a high regard for literature, you see, and on that very account I'm less willing to inflict myself on it. I wouldn't care, though, if there was anything else I appeared to be cut out for. If I felt that I could sweep crossings better than other people, I assure you I would go into the profession with the greatest cheerfulness!"Madge laughed. "I know very much how you feel—I've been going through much the same thing myself, though you might not have guessed it. Only as it happens I have received a call for something very like the profession you speak of.""Crossing-sweeping?""The next thing to it—teaching in a dame's school in town—Miss Snellgrove's. I think it's rather a pretty idea, don't you? Society flower, withered and faint with gaiety, seeking refreshment in the cloistral, the academic!—You don't approve?""Woman's sphere is the home," said Harry doubtfully."Not when the home is a two-by-four box; you couldn't call that a sphere, could you? Of course," she went on, more seriously, "of course the real, immediate reason why I'm doing it is financial. These are times of—well, stringency.... Not but what we could scrape along; but it seems rather absurd to be earning nothing when one could just as well be earning something, doesn't it? And the only alternative is playing about eternally with college boys younger than myself.""Yes, I think you're very sensible, if that's the case. Not that it is, of course; you'll find plenty of people coming back to the graduate and professional schools to console you. Also my brother James at week-ends, if that's any comfort to you!""James? Is he in this part of the country?""Yes, in New York. He's going to be in McClellan's branch there next winter—assistant manager, or something of the sort—something important and successful sounding. We are all very much set up over it. And it's so near that he can come up for Sunday quite regularly, if he wants.—It does give me quite a solemn and humble feeling, though, to think that you have found a profession before me.""Oh, yes; teaching at Miss Snellgrove's is more than a profession—it's a career!—I refuse to believe, though," she continued with a change of manner, "that you have not found your profession already, even though you may not care to adopt it yet. For after all, you know, you have the creative ability. Every one says that. All that's wanting in you, as you say, is having something to write about, and nothing but time and development will bring that. Meanwhile I think it's very nice and high-minded of you not to go ahead and write nothing, with great ease and fluency! That's what most people in your position do.""Thank you; that's very encouraging," said Harry.He looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and continued: "Has it ever occurred to you, Madge, that you are quite a remarkable young woman?""Heavens yes, hundreds of times!""That's a denial, I suppose. However, it's true. Look at the way you've just been talking to me!... You have what I've come to admire very much during the past few months—perfect balance of viewpoint. You have what one might call a sense of ultimacy—is there such a word? It's like a number of children, each playing about in his own little backyard, surrounded by a high fence that he can't see over, suspecting the existence of a lot of other backyards, with children in them wondering what lay beyond in just the same way. Then occasionally there is born a happy being to whom is given the privilege of looking down on the whole lot of them from the church steeple, and being able to see each backyard in its exact relation to all the other backyards. That's you.... It's a rare gift!"Madge was at first amused by this elaborate compliment, but she ended by being rather touched by it."It's very nice of you to say that," she replied after a moment, "no matter how little foundation there may be for it. It proves one thing, at any rate—I have no monopoly of the quality of ultimacy! You wouldn't be able to think I was ultimate, would you, unless you were a wee bit ultimate yourself? And that goes to prove what I said about your attitude toward your profession.""I'm afraid you can't make me believe in my own ultimacy, no matter how hard you try," said Harry. "In fact I pursue the rival study of propinquity—the art of never seeing beyond one's own nose!""Well, you must at least let me believe in the ultimacy of your finding your profession," insisted Madge. But Harry only shook his head.Commencement arrived at last, and Aunt Cecilia, attended by a representative delegation of her progeny, flopped down upon Aunt Selina, prepared to do as much by Harry as she had by his brother two years earlier. Aunt Cecilia belonged to the important class of American women who regard a graduation as a family event second in importance only to a wedding or a funeral, ranking slightly higher than a "coming out." The occasion was a particularly joyous one to her because of Harry's beingable to celebrate it in a full blaze of righteousness and truth, and because of the consequent opportunities for motherly fluttering."Dear Harry," she said, as she kissed, him on his arrival; "I am so glad to be here to see you graduate, and so glad that—that everything has gone so splendidly. It is so much, much nicer—that is, it issonice to think that—""Yes, dear; you mean, isn't it nice that I'm respectable again," said Harry, with a flippancy made gentle by the sight of her kind blue eyes. "I am respectable now, you know, so you needn't be afraid to talk about it. We can all be respectable together; you're respectable, and I'm respectable, and Ruth is respectable and Lucy is respectable, and Aunt Selina is respectable—we hope; how about that, Aunt Selina?—and altogether we're an eminently respectable family. All except Beatrice, that is, who is far, far too nobly born, being related, in fact, to a marquis. No one in the peerage, Aunt C. dear, likes to be called respectable—it's considered insulting. No one, that is, above the rank of baron; the barons are now all reformed brewers, who get their peerages by being so respectable that people forget all about the brewing, and that is English democracy, and isn't it a splendid thing, dear? When you marry Ruth to an English peer, you must be sure to have him a baron, because none of the others are respectable.""Harry, what nonsense you do talk!" said his aunt. "Before these girls—!""I imagine these girls know Harry by this time," remarked Aunt Selina. "If they don't, it's time they did. You're a hundred times more innocent than they, Cecilia, and always will be.""Exactly always what I tell Mama," put in Ruth, the eldest of Aunt Cecilia's brood. "Besides, what Harry said is all quite true, I'm sure. Except about me; I shan't marry a foreigner at all, but if I do, I certainly shan't marry a brewer. Mama is far too rich for me to take anything less than a duke."This was literally, almost painfully true. A succession of deaths in Aunt Cecilia's family, accompanied by a scarcity of male heirs, had placed her in possession of almost untold wealth—"more than I bargained for when I took you," as Uncle James jocularly put it, for the pleasureof seeing her bridle and blush. Aunt C. was one of the richest women in the country, but it never changed her a particle. Not all her wealth, not all her social prominence, not all the refining influences that several generations' enjoyment of these brings, could ever make her even appear to be anything but the simple, warm-hearted, motherly creature she was.Harry, realizing all this as well as any one, exerted himself to make Aunt C. glad she had made the effort to come to see him graduate, and he manfully escorted her and the girls to the play, the baccalaureate service, his class-day exercises, the baseball game and various other entertainments, where, as Ruth rather aptly put it, "we can sit around and watch somebody else do something." He also did his full duty by his cousin, and danced away a long and perspiring evening with her at the senior promenade. He found Ruth very good company, in spite of her active tongue, or rather, perhaps, because of it.The final Wednesday, pregnant with fate, arrived at length, and after an immense deal of watching other people receive degrees, some earned and some accorded by the pure generosity of the University, Harry became entitled to write the magic initials "B.A." after his name. Being one of the leaders of his class in point of scholarship, he was one of the twenty or so who mounted the platform and received the diplomas for the rest. This was too much for Aunt Cecilia, who occupied a prominent place in the front row of the balcony."Oh, dear," she sighed, wiping away a furtive tear, "there he goes, and no mother to see him do it! No one to be proud of him! And the brightest of all the family—I shall never live to see a son of mine do as well, never, never!""I'm not so sure," said her eldest daughter, comfortingly; "the doctrine of chances is in your favor. You have four boys—four chances to Aunt—what was her name?—Aunt Edith's two. Harry's not so fearfully bright, anyway—only sixteenth out of three hundred.""My dear, how can you talk so? you ought to be ashamed, after his being so nice to you all this week!""Yes, he's been very sweet, indeed," replied the maiden, magnanimously. "Though I don't know, on looking back at it, that he's been any nicer to me than I've been to him!"Harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. He was impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor; the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of materialism.The same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of all the Commencement ceremonies. The great Renaissance dining hall filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong, ranging between the hoary-headed veteran and the hour-old Bachelor, all of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for her—all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of Harry, always ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt it. It was pleasant to sit and eat among one's classmates and in the presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on terms of equal footing—all graduates together.At one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers of the University, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the recipients of the honorary degrees. After the meal was over, certain of these were called upon to speak. Harry thought he had never heard such speeches. The men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's service and in the work of the world; one was a Cabinet minister, another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. The ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of Yale, given in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong emphasis on the theme of service. One got from them the idea that Yale men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over, were born to serve humanity. The mission of Yale in this scheme was one of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house, developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of themselves. One revered and loved Yale, of course, for what she had given one; to her every man owed a full measure of gratitude and affection for what he had become. But one was never to forget where Yale stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was not an end in herself, but a means—one of many other means—to an infinitely greater end. Only by considering her in her place in the vast order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true greatness.The impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller Yale but of a larger world. Harry had never considered the relation between universe and university in this illuminating light. He suddenly realized that his idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge and the home of sport. He had mistaken the side-shows for the main exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the whole of which they were but small parts. In a flash he looked back and realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against college institutions and traditions. Who was he that he should criticize them? What had he to offer as substitute for them except an attitude of idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? He had recovered from that first foolishness, to be sure, and thank Heaven for that slight evidence of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and watch the days slide by? Had he ever made the slightest attempt toward serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in their proper relations to each other? Had he succeeded in learning a single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? Was it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of golden youth?Suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his eyes. It would be absurd to shed them. He shifted his position and lit a cigarette. He inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wanderedinto introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. Gradually, however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. Those years were not wholly wasted—he had learned something in them. He was ahead of where he was when he entered college, if only a little. The thought of James occurred to him; James would be an inspiration in the future as he had been a help in the past. No, there was yet hope for him, though he must be very careful how he acted in the future. He had been a fool, but he hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. He would try hard, at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant, unbiased and humble—above all, humble. He glanced up at the speaker's table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud were in fact the humblest.The last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. The men on the floor of the hall stood up to sing before departing. Harry, looking at his watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see Aunt Cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at once if he were to catch them.He laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had never before listened.
UN-ANGLO-SAXON
He came in before long, stamping the snow from his boots. In the second or two that passed before he spoke, James saw that though he looked haggard and depressed, there was no trace of weakness of dissipation about his eyes or mouth. Nor did he slink; he blundered in with the impetuosity of a schoolboy for whom the world has no terrors. For which, though he was shocked to see how badly he looked, James was profoundly thankful.
He was aware of Harry's eyes trying to pierce the half-gloom; there was a touch of pathos, to James, in his momentary bewilderment.
"Hullo, Harry," he said gently.
"James!" The immediate, unconscious look of delight that came over Harry's face—even though it faded to something else within the second—pleased James more than anything had pleased him yet. Harry was glad to see him; that mattered much more than his almost instant recovery of his self-possession, his continuing, in the manner of the Harry of two years ago, the Harry of the previous Commencement: "Whatever are you doing here now, James?"
"I've got good news for you, Harry," he replied, rising and taking hold of the other's hand. "The Mowbray woman has withdrawn her suit. It's all right; she's signed things, and you have no more to fear from her." He dropped Harry's hand and moved off a step, as though to give him a chance to take in the news.
There was something rather fine in the simplicity, the humility, even of his manner as he did this, that did not escape Harry. He was deeply moved; self-possession and all it implied fell from him again.
"James, have you done this? What has happened? Tell me all about it! You haven't paid her all that money, James—don't tell me you've done that!"
"No, of course I haven't—there was no need for it. Shewas married out in Minneapolis last September, and I happened to get onto the fact—that's all. She had no business to be suing at all."
"And you—"
"I came here and told her so, to-day."
James sat down again where he had been sitting, as though to close the incident. Harry stood and gasped; he tried to speak but could not; his eyes filled with tears. Then he dropped at James' feet, clasping his knees in the manner of a suppliant of old. He buried his face in James' lap and gave a few deep sobs of joy and relief.
The Anglo-Saxon race being what it is, a good deal of courage is needed to go on with the relation of what occurred next. However, there is no help for it; history is history, and we can only tell it as it actually occurred, regardless of whether the undemonstrative are outraged or not. After Harry had thrown himself at his feet James took his brother's head gently between his hands, and then, with the greatest simplicity and naturalness in the world, bent forward and kissed it.
"Poor old thing," he said softly; "you have been having sort of a hard time of it, haven't you?"
"I wish you would tell me, James," said Harry somewhat later, as they sat gazing into the fire, James in the armchair and Harry on the floor, leaning back against James' legs, "I wish you would tell me just how you found out about her being married, and all about it. It seems so incredible—both that she should have been married and that you, of all people, should have been on the spot to discover it."
"Well, I just saw her, coming out of the marriage office with a man; that was all there was to it. I thought she probably wouldn't have been there unless she had just been married to him, so I had the register looked up, and there she was. She was under the name of Rosa Montagu—that gave us some trouble at first, because of course I didn't know that was her stage name. I put a fellow called Laffan, a young lawyer, onto the business, and he messed about with the register and the detective bureau and communicated with Raynham till he wormed it all out. Finally he got hold of a photograph of Rosa Montagu and showed it to me, and after that it was easy enough—Of course, itwas a most God-given chance that I stumbled on her just at that compromising moment. She really wasn't as foolish as she sounds; she hadn't lived in Minneapolis for years and knew almost nobody there except her young man. It was a long chance, what with using her stage name and all, that any one would ever find her out."
"Yes. But I don't quite see—You say she was married in September?"
"Yes—the third."
"Well, if you knew she was married then, I don't quite see why you didn't make use of your knowledge before. When I was playing round with her, I mean—of course I, like the brazen idiot I was, didn't write you, but you must have heard—"
"Oh, yes. Well, it was a very funny thing. I didn't remember about having seen her in that place till months afterward; not till the night I heard about the breach of promise business. You see, it was only the barest, vaguest glimpse, there in the City Hall; she didn't even see me and I didn't even remember where I had seen her face before, then. I scarcely thought about it at all, at the time; I was in a great hurry to get to a hearing before some commission or other, and the thing went bang out of my mind. Then, when I read of the breach of promise, it all came back, in one flash! Funny!"
"Yes. It's the kind of humor that appeals to me, I can tell you."
"The man, Jennings, curiously enough, happened to be in McClellan's for a while, once, in the counting department. He left there to become a clerk in some bank. We worked up his end too, a little....
"Harry, I wish you'd tell me one thing," went on James, after a pause.
"Anything I can, James."
"Why on earth, when you found you were getting in deep with that woman, didn't you call on me to do something? You couldn't be so far gone as to think that I wouldn't—"
"Oh, couldn't I? You have no idea of what depths of idiocy I can descend to, if I want.—I don't know—at the time, the more I wanted help the less I could talk of it to any one, and you least of all. The person that gave me the most comfort was Trotty, and he never once mentionedthe subject to me, except when I introduced it myself! Yet even so, all through that time, it was you that I really wanted.—Look here, James, if you don't believe me, see what I've been carrying around with me all this time, as a sort of talisman!"
He took his wallet from his pocket and after a short search produced an old and dirty postal card bearing on its face the blurred but still readable legend "All right. James." He handed it to his brother.
"Gosh," said James, when he had read it, "do you mean to say you've kept that old thing ever since?"
"Ever since the day I got it. There was something about it that was comforting and optimistic and—well, like you; and I used to take it out and look at it occasionally when I got particularly down in the mouth. And I used to persuade myself, after a while, that it all would come out right, in the end; that somehow James would make it all right—you see how the prophecy has come true!... And the extraordinary part of it is that even while I thought that way about you, I simply couldn't break the ice and tell you about it all. I don't know why—I just couldn't!"
"I know," said James; "I know the feeling."
"Isn't it incredible, James, that what seemed perfectly natural and reasonable—inevitable, even—a few weeks, or days, or even an hour ago, should appear so utterly asinine now!... Pride, vainglory and hypocrisy—all of them, and a lot more! Sometimes I can't believe it possible for one person to assemble in himself all the vices that I do."
"Well, you don't, either," said James seriously. "That's one thing I want to clear up. Harry, don't you see that the blame for all this lies with me just as much as with you—more than with you—entirely with me?—"
"No, I don't," began Harry stoutly, but James continued:
"And that the real reason you didn't call on me was because I had steadily shut myself away from you? Oh, Harry, I've behaved like the devil during the last three years! It's just as you say; a course of action you never even question at one time, a little later seems so silly, so criminally silly, that you can't believe you seriously thought of following it!... I know perfectly well that a lot of the things I thought were horribly important a few years ago really aren't worth the paper they're printed on.The perspective changes so, even with these two years—less than two years—out of college! Good Lord, if a man is really the right sort, if he has a good, warm-hearted nature at the bottom of him, thinks good thoughts, does nice things, uses to the best of his judgment what gifts and talents Providence is pleased to give him, what in Heaven's name does it matter whether he manages the crew or goes Bones, in the end?... I've been a fool, Harry. I've set the greatest value on the most worthless things; I've worshiped stone gods; I've let things irritate me that no sane man has any business to be irritated by. Worst of all, I've let these silly, worthless things come between you and me and spoil—well, one of the best things that ever came into my life!... All this estrangement business has been mainly my fault. I'm older, and have had more experience, and, I always thought, more common sense—though I haven't really—and I was the one that ought to have kept things straight. Harry, I'm sorry for it all!"
Harry was more moved than he would have liked to show by this confession. He was still enough of an undergraduate to be much impressed by his brother's casual mention of his senior society—the first time since he had been tapped the name had ever passed James' lips in his presence.
"It's a pleasure to hear you talk, James," he said, "but I hope you won't misunderstand me when I say that there's not one word of truth in all you've said—the last part of it, I mean. It's only convinced me more thoroughly of my own fault. Before, there might have been a shadow of doubt in my mind about my being entirely to blame. Now there is absolutely none.—Funny, that a person you like blaming himself should really be blaming you! It always seems that way, somehow...."
"James," he went on, a little later; "it makes you feel as if you were getting on, doesn't it?"
"How? In years?"
"Yes! I don't know about you, but I feel as old as Methusaleh to-night, and a whole lot wiser! And I must say I rather enjoy it!"
"Yes," said James reflectively, "it does seem a good deal that way."
"There are lots of questions you haven't asked me yet, James," continued Harry, after another interval.
"Are there? Well, tell me what they are and I'll ask them, if you're so crazy to answer them."
"The first is, What on earth could you ever have seen in That Woman?"
"There was no need to ask that question," replied James, laughing; "not after I saw her to-day, at any rate."
"She was so damned refined," sighed Harry. James laughed again at the coincidence of Harry's hitting on the very words of his own mental description of her. "I was most horribly depressed, and she looked so kind and sympathetic, and was, too, when I got to telling her my woes.... And she never used a particle of rouge, or anything of that kind.... Once I kissed her, and after that she managed, in that diabolical refined manner of hers, to convince me that she wouldn't have any more of that sort of thing without marriage. That made me respect her all the more, of course, as she knew it would. At one time, for a whole week, I should say, I was perfectly willing to marry her, whenever she wanted, and I didn't care whom I said it to, either.... Do you know, James, she would have been in for the devil of a time if I had gone on and pressed her to? I wonder what little plans she had for making me cease to care for her and back out at the right time.... There was no need for that, though; one day she called me 'kid,' and things like that before people, and I began to see."
"That was part of her little plan, of course," said James.
"Well, well—I shouldn't wonder if it was! You always were a clever child, James!..."
"What are some more of the things I've got to ask?" inquired the clever child after a brief silence.
"What? Oh—yes! Why don't you ask me to cut out the lick?" (He meant, abstain from alcoholic beverages.)
"Well, do you want me to?"
"Well, yes, I think I do, rather!"
"Well, will you?"
"Well—yes!"
Both laughed, and then Harry went on: "It strikes me that we are both talking a prodigious lot of nonsense, James. We've been making a regular scene, in fact—"
"I rather like scenes, myself," interrupted James, just for the pleasure of their being how he had expressed exactly the opposite opinion to some one else a few hours before.
"And no doubt we shall be heartily ashamed when we look back on it all in the cold gray light of to-morrow morning. One always is."
"I don't know," objected James, serious again, "I don't think that I shall be sorry for anything I've said or done."
"Well, as a matter of strict truth, I don't know that I shall either. I suppose one needn't necessarily be making a fool of oneself just because it's twelve o'clock at night; that is—oh, you know what I mean—!"
So they sat and talked on far into the night, loath to break up the enjoyment of the rediscovery of each other. They both seemed to bask in a sort of wonderful clarity and peace—do you know these rare times when life loses its complexity and uncertainty and becomes for the moment wholly sane and enjoyable and inspiring? When a person is actually able to live, if only for a little time, entirely in his better self, without being troubled by even a recollection of his worser? That was, substantially, the condition of those two boys as they sat there, at first talking, then thinking, and at last, as drowsiness slowly asserted itself over them, simply sitting.
"Well," said James at last; "unless you intend taking permanent possession of my legs, I suppose we'd better go to bed. Am I sleeping here, somewhere?"
"Yes," said Harry; "in my bed; I shall sleep on the sofa," and he forthwith embarked on a search for extra sheets and blankets.
They both slept uninterruptedly till nearly ten, at which hour they sallied forth in search of breakfast. During the night the snow had changed to rain, which still fell out of a leaden sky, turning the earth's white covering to dirty gray and clogging the gutters with slush. Everything looked sordid, prosaic, ugly, especially Chapel Street, which they crossed on their way to the nearest "dog"; especially the "dog" itself as they approached it, with its yellow electric lights still shining out of its windows. It was an unattractive world.
"Well, how does it look this morning?" James asked, studying his brother's face.
Harry shuffled along several steps through the slush before he answered:
"Just the same, James, and I for one, don't mind saying so." Then they looked at each other and smiled slightly.
CHIEFLY CARDIAC
Life appeared, nevertheless, to have recovered all its normal complexity and variety. Things change with the return of daylight, even if they do not deteriorate, and though the two boys were still, in a manner of speaking, happy in each other's proximity, the thoughts of each were already busy on matters in which the other had no direct share. Harry was already foreseeing unpleasantnesses in the way of the restoration of cordial relations with the world. Exile has its palliations; he had taken a sort of grim pleasure in the state of semi-warfare in which he had lived. But that sort of thing was now over; he wanted to be right with the whole world—he even looked forward to astonishing people with the thoroughness of his conservatism. And he would have to make all the first advances. Thoughts of apologies, unreciprocated nods, suppressed sneers, incredulous glances and all the rest did not dismay him, but they might be said to bother him. At least, they were there.
As for James, he had thought so much about Harry during the last ten days that it is easy to understand why, the affair Harry having been satisfactorily cleared up, his mind should be busy with other things. James' control over his mind was singularly perfect and methodical; its ease of concentration suggested that of an experienced lawyer examining the contents of several scraps of papers and returning each one again to its proper pigeon-hole, neatly docketed. The papers bearing the label of "Harry," neatly tied up in red tape, were again reposing comfortably in their pigeon-hole; the bundle that now absorbed his attention was marked "Beatrice."
Outside of his work, to which he had conscientiously devoted the best of his mental powers, Beatrice had occupied the most prominent place in his thoughts for over a year and a half. For six days in the week, between thehours of nine and five, she had not been conspicuous in his mind; but how often, outside that time, had his attention wandered from a book, a conversation, a play, and fastened itself on the recollection of that softly aquiline profile of hers, the poise of her head on her beautifully modeled shoulders, her unsmiling yet cordial manner of greeting, and which she somehow managed to convey the impression of being unaffectedly glad to see him! It would probably be too much to say that James had been in love with her during that time, but James was not the sort of person who would easily be carried off his feet in an affair of the heart. Often, as the memory of her face obtruded itself on his day-dreams—or still oftener, his night-dreams—he had calmly put to himself, for open mental debate, the question "Am I really in love with her?" and had never been able to answer it entirely satisfactorily.
On the whole, in view of the fact that the memory of her showed no tendency to fade in proportion to the time he was absent from her presence, he had become rather inclined to the opinion that the answer must be in the affirmative. Yet even now he could not be sure. He might be only cherishing an agreeable memory. He had not seen her since the previous June, and could not be absolutely certain, he knew, till he saw her again. He was anxious to see her!—Not that mere friendship would not account for that, of course.
Harry had to attend Sunday Chapel, and it was arranged that James should not go with him, but should proceed directly to the house. Harry himself would turn up at dinner-time—Aunt Selina, it will be remembered, had dinner in the middle of the day on Sundays. Harry was naturally anxious to have all news-breaking over before he came, and James—well, on the whole James was entirely willing to take the burden of news-breaking on himself.
He found Aunt Selina at home; a slight cold in the head and the inclemency of the weather had been sufficient to make her forego church for this Sunday. Beatrice had proved herself of stauncher religious metal—"Though I am sure she would not have gone, if she had known you were in town," as Aunt Selina told James.
Aunt Selina took the good news much as a duchess of the old régime might have learned that the Committee of Public Safety had decided not to chop off her husband'shead. It was agreeable news, but it was nothing to make one forget oneself. Her manner of saying "This is splendid news, James; I am proud of you" indicated a profound belief in the sanctity of the Wimbourne destiny and an unshakable faith in the ultimate triumph of the Wimbourne character rather than unbecoming thankfulness for something she ought not to have had to be thankful about. James advised her that Harry would talk much more freely and relations in general would be much more agreeable if she refrained from mention of the subject till he introduced it himself. Aunt Selina calmly agreed. She had great faith in James' judgment.
After an hour's chat with his aunt James exhibited visible signs of restlessness. Half-past twelve; it was time Beatrice returned. He rose from his chair and stood watching in front of the window. Soon he saw her; she alighted from a trolley car and started to walk up the path. There was something rather fine, something high-bred and gently proud about the way she grasped her umbrella and embarked on the long slushy ascent to the house. Her manner rather suggested a daughter of the Crusaders; it was as though she hated the wind and rain and slush, but disdained to give other recognition of their existence than a silent contempt.
As he beheld her distant figure turn in at the gate and plod unflinchingly up the walk a curious sensation came over James. He suddenly found himself wanting to wreak an immediate and violent vengeance on the elements that dared to make things so unpleasant for her, and that almost immediately passed into an intense desire to seize upon that small figure and clasp it to him, sheltering her from the rain, the wind, the slush, every evil in this world that could ever befall her.... In that moment he felt all the beauty of man's first love. All the worries of doubt and introspection fell from him; he felt the full glow of love shining in his heart like a star, giving significance, sanctity, even, to those moments of wondering, fearing, hoping, doubting that had filled so many months. He was in love with her!... He came into the realization of the fact in a spirit of humility and prayer, like a worshiper entering a temple.
Of course he gave no outward sign of all this. Hemerely said, as soon as he could trust himself to be articulate, in a perfectly ordinary tone of voice:
"There's Beatrice, now. She's walking."
"Yes," answered his aunt; "I tried to make her stay at home, but she would go." Then after a moment she gently added, as though in answer to James' unspoken reproach: "I would have let her take the carriage, but of course I could not ask Thomas to go out in such weather."
James entirely failed to see why not. He would willingly have condemned Thomas and the horses to perpetual driving through something much more disagreeable than rain and slush if it could have saved Beatrice one particle of her present discomfort.
But being, in fact as well as in appearance, a daughter of Crusaders, and consequently well used to climatic rigors in the country from which her ancestors had marched to meet the Paynim foe, Beatrice was really not suffering nearly as much as James' lover-like anxiety supposed her to be. She had thick boots, a mackintosh, an umbrella and a thick tweed skirt to protect her from the weather, and could have walked miles without so much as wetting her feet. If she had got wet, she certainly would have changed her garments immediately on reaching home, and even if she had not changed then she probably would not have caught cold, having a strong constitution. Nevertheless James stood at the window and silently worried about her, and his first words as he met her at the front door were expressive of this mood.
"Beatrice!" he cried eagerly, as he threw the door open, "I do hope you're not wet through!"
She had not seen him standing at the window, so his appearance at the door was consequently a complete surprise to her, and the expression that came over her face as she saw him was one of pure pleasure. James' heart leaped within him at her unaccustomed smile, and then fell again as he saw it change to an expression of ever so slight and well-restrained surprise, not at his being there, but at the manner and words of his greeting. He realized in a second that he had allowed his tongue to betray his heart.
Beatrice paid no immediate attention to the remark, and her welcoming words "James, of all people in the world!" gave no sign of anything more than a friendly pleasure.She was entirely at her ease. James found himself running on, quite easily:
"Yes—just got a day or two off and came on to say Howdy-do to you all. Got to start back this afternoon, worse luck. How well you're looking!"
By this time they were practically in the library, in the restraining presence of Aunt Selina, and Beatrice had no more chance to introduce the topic clamoring for discussion in the minds of both than the question "You've seen Harry?" uttered in an undertone as they went through the door, allowed her. Church, the weather and the unexpected pleasure of James' arrival were politely discussed for a few moments, and then Aunt Selina withdrew to prepare for dinner.
"James," Beatrice burst out, "tell me about Harry. I know you've come on about that; tell me all about it! Has anything been done? Can anything be done?"
"It can," said James, smiling at her impetuosity. "Like-wise, it has. In fact, it's all over!"
"What do you mean?... Have you paid her off?"
"No; she withdrew of her own accord."
"James, don't be irritating! Tell me about it. You've done something, I know you have!"
"Well—possibly!" He smiled tantalizingly at her—so like a man!
"What?"
"Well, I'll tell you—on one condition."
"What's that?"
"That you'll promise not to thank me when you've found out!" James considered this rather a masterly piece of deceptive strategy, more than making up for his indiscretion at the front door.
Beatrice dropped her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth, with an expression half humorous, half contemptuous. "Go ahead," said she.
James went ahead and told her the whole affair at some length. His position during this narrative was a not unenviable one; it is not often that one gets a chance to recount to one's lady-love a story in which one is so obviously the hero. Nor did he lose anything by being the narrator of his own prowess; his omissions spoke louder in his favor than the most laudatory comments of a third person could have.
"So, he is free!" she said at last, when she had cross-questioned the whole thing out of him. "He is free again!..."
What was there about these words that seemed to blast James' feeling of triumph, to chill the very marrow in his bones? Was it only the words; was it not rather the extraordinary intensity of the pleasure on her face; a pleasure which did not fade with her smile, but lived on in the dreamy expression of the eyes, gazing sightlessly out of the window?... She spoke again in a moment or two, asking a question about some detail in the case, and the feeling left him again. He answered her question with perfect composure. Such hysterical vapors must be incidental to love, he supposed. He was not troubled about it at all, unless, very vaguely, by the fleeting memory of a similar experience, occurring—oh, a long time ago. Nothing to worry about.
He did not say much after he had completed his narrative. He was content simply to sit and look at her, drinking in her smiles, her comments, her little ejaculations of pleasure and answering her stray questions about the great affair. The joy of discovery was not yet even tinged with the thirst for possession. It was enough to watch her as she talked and laughed and moved about; to watch her, the living original, and think how much more glorious she was than the most vivid of his recollections of her. Oh, how wonderful she was!
Presently he was aware of her making remarks laudatory of himself, and primed his ears to listen.
"But how clever it was of you, James," she was saying, "to work out the whole thing, just from that one little glimpse—and so quickly, too! Of course it was just a Heaven-sent chance, your seeing her at that moment, but I can see how much more there was to it than that. What a frightfully clever person you are, James—a regular detective! You really must give up making motor cars and be another Sherlock Holmes!"
All this fell very pleasantly on his ears, though he could have wished, if he had taken the time to, that she could have employed some other adjective than "clever." But there was no time for such minor considerations. Just at that moment they heard the rattle of the front door latch, and Beatrice, knowing that none but Harry ever enteredthe house without first ringing, jumped from her chair and started towards the hall, the words "There he is now!" glowing on her lips....
And then the universe crumbled about James' ears. Had his father's early readings extended into the minor Elizabethan Drama, he might have remembered the words of Beaumont—
This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feelA stark affrighted motion in my blood
This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feelA stark affrighted motion in my blood
and applied them quite aptly to his present state. For a moment the earth literally seemed to reel; he staggered slightly, unnoticed, and caught hold of the back of a chair. Then, while Beatrice went out to meet Harry, he stood there and wished he had never been born to live through such a moment.
Beatrice was in love with Harry—that was the long and the short of it. There was no mistaking the import of the look of utter glorification that came over her face as she heard his hand on the doorknob; such an expression on the face of a human being could mean but one thing.... He wondered, despairingly, if his face had borne such a look a little while ago, when he caught sight of Beatrice....
Whether or not Harry was on similar terms with Beatrice he could not say. He rather thought that he was, or if not, it was only a question of time till he would be. He was not a witness of the actual moment of meeting; that occurred in the hall, and all he got of it was Harry's initial remark: "Well, Beatrice, have you heard the good news? James has made a respectable woman of me!" drowned in a sort of flutter from Beatrice, in which he could distinguish nothing articulate—nor needed to. The character of the remark—flippant to the verge of good taste!—might at another time have excited his disgust; but now it made as little impression on him as it did on Beatrice.
Harry himself might not have made it at another time; it was the result of his embarrassment. So, also, was the expression which he wore when he came into the room with Beatrice a moment later—a very unusual look, due to a very unusual cause. Beatrice had, in fact, all but given herself away to him. He followed her into the room embarrassed and flustered. It was incomparably the worst of the series of strained moments in his intercourse with Beatrice,and it gave point and coherency to the others in a way he hated to think of.... Once in the library he found himself leading conversation, or what passed for conversation among the three for the next few moments. The others appeared conversationally extinct; Beatrice—he hardly dared look toward her—trying to recover her composure; James preternaturally grave and silent, for some unknown reason. The atmosphere seemed surcharged with an unexpected and, to him, inappropriate gravity. He felt like a schoolboy among grown-ups.
Presently Aunt Selina returned and dinner was announced.
Poor James—he had won Paradise only to lose it the next instant! No one could have guessed anything from his behavior—he was not the sort of person to make an exhibition of his emotional crises; but he really lived very hard during the meal that followed. His state of mind was at first nothing but a ghastly chaos, from which but one thing emerged into certainty—he must not betray himself or Beatrice; he must go on exactly as if nothing unusual had occurred. It never paid to make a fool of oneself, and—this was the next thought, the next plank that floated to him from the wreck of his happiness—he had not, that he knew of, given himself away. That was a tremendous thing to be thankful for; what a blessing that he had got wind of Beatrice's true feelings before he had the chance to blunder into making love to her and so precipitate a series of horrors which he could not even bear to contemplate! Now, he told himself reassuringly, as he tried desperately to contribute his fourth to the none too spontaneous conversation, he had only to keep himself in check, keep his mouth shut, keep from making of himself the most unthinkable ass that ever walked God's earth—and it would all come out right!
By the time the roast beef made its appearance he saw there was only one thing to do and without a moment's hesitation he embarked on the doing of it. Beatrice sat on his right; he raised his eyes to her and passed them over each enthralling feature of her, her soft dark hair; her eyes, brown almost to black, gentle yet fearless in their gaze, and at the same time, quite calmly and unemotionally, told himself that she could never be his. She was Harry's.These two were intended for each other all along, made for each other. Could he not have seen that in the beginning, if he had kept his eyes open? Could he not have seen that their childish companionship, dating from Harry's English days, their being placed again, as though by a divine sort of accident, in the same town, and above all their obvious fitness for each other, was going to lead to love?
Well—thus he found himself to his one substantial comfortable support—he had hurt no one but himself. He had only to put Beatrice resolutely out of his mind and all would be well. She was Harry's; was that not the next best thing to her being his?—better, even? No longer ago than last night he had convinced himself that Harry was, when all was said and done, a better man than he was. Was it not perfectly just that the prize should go to him?
The thought helped him through the meal astonishingly. Unselfishness is a great stimulus. Once he saw that he could do something definite toward the happiness of those he loved best, he seemed, rather to his own surprise, perfectly willing and able to do it, at no matter what sacrifice to himself. His righteousness supported him not only through the meal, but well through that part of the afternoon that he spent in the house—up, indeed, to the very moment of parting.
James' plan was to take a five-o'clock train to New York, whence he would take a night train to Chicago and arrive in Minneapolis early Tuesday morning, having missed only three working days at the office. It was still raining at four o'clock and a cab was telephoned for. As it was plodding up the slushy drive, James, overcoated and hatted, stood on the porch ready to get into it. Harry, who was to go to the station with him, was "having a word" with Aunt Selina—or, more exactly, being had a word with by her—in the hall. Beatrice, by some fiendish chance, determined to do the same by James.
"James," she said, "I want you to know how perfectly splendid I think it was of you—all this about Harry, I mean. You may say it was no more than your duty, and all that; but it was fine of you, nevertheless. Thank you, James, and good-by."
It really was rather awful. It amounted to his being rewarded and dismissed like a faithful servant. And her tacit, unconscious assumption of her right to thank peoplefor favors conferred upon Harry—that was turning the knife in the wound. Of course she could have no idea of the pain she was giving, and James shook her hand and said good-by trying to give no sign of the pain he felt. All the comfortable stability of his logic faded from him as she spoke those words. All the way to the station, sitting by Harry's side in the smelly cab, he found himself crying inwardly, like a child, for what he could not have; wondering if, by the exercise of tact and patience, Beatrice could possibly be brought to love him; overcome at moments by an insane desire to throw himself on Harry's neck and beg him to let him have her—for surely, surely Harry could not be as fond of her as he! Oh, was it going to be as hard as this right along?...
"James," said Harry suddenly as the two paced the dreary platform in silence, waiting for the train to pull in; "it's sometimes awfully hard to say what you want without talking mawkish rot, but there's something I've simply got to say, rot or no rot, or drop dead on the asphalt.—I'm pretty young, of course, and haven't seen much of anything of life; but a person doesn't have to live long to get the general idea that it's rather a chaotic mess. Well, occasionally out of it there emerges a thing that appears to bring out all that's best in your nature and gives a certain coherence to the other things...."
"Yes?" said James, wondering what was to follow.
"Well, it seems to me that one of those things is—you and me. Since last night, I mean ... James, I don't know how you feel about it, but since then I've had a sense of nearness to you, such as I've never begun to have with any other human being—such as doesn't occur often in one lifetime, I imagine ... I really think very highly of you, James!" He broke off here with a smile, half embarrassed at his brother's slowness of response, ready to retreat into the everyday and the trivial if the response did not come.
But he need not have worried; James was merely choosing his words; every nerve in him was thrilling in answer to Harry's advance. He returned the smile, but replied, in full seriousness: "You've hit it exactly; I should even say it couldn't be duplicated in one lifetime.... You're unique, Harry!"
"That's it—unique," said Harry, joining in with his mood. "You've mastered the art of uniquity, James."
"And what's more," went on the other, "it always has been that way—really. Even during these last few years. With me, I mean."
"With me, too. James"—he stood still and looked his brother full in the face—"do you know, such a relation as ours is one of the few positive good things that makes life worth while? If we were both struck dead as we stand here, life would have been well worth living—just for this!"
"Yes, that's true," said James slowly; "that's perfectly true."
"And one thing more—for Heaven's sake, James, don't let's either of us mess up this thing in the future, if we can help it! It may be broken up by outside causes—well and good; we can't prevent that; but can't we have the sense not to let silly, conventional things come between us? Let's not be afraid, above all, of plain talk—at any rate, you need never be afraid to say anything to me. I may be narrow and obstinate to other people, but I don't think I could ever be so to you again. I'd take anything from you, James, anything!—" He smiled at the unintentional double meaning of his words, adding, "And there's nothing I wouldn't give you, either."
It would not be too much to say that James was literally inspired by Harry's words. They seemed to bring out every vestige of what was good and noble and unselfish in his nature, lifting him high above his everyday, weak, commonplace self—such as he had shown it in the cab, for instance—making life as clear, as sensible, as inspiring as it had seemed last night. His "sacrifice" now appeared nothing; he scarcely thought of it at all, but its nature, when it did appear in the back of his brain, was that of an obvious, pleasant, easy duty; a service that was a joy, a denial that was a self-gratification.
"All right, I'll remember. And if I telegraph you to dye your face pea-green, I shall expect you to do it!" He spoke with a lightness of spirit wholly unfeigned. Then he continued, somewhat more seriously: "I'll tell you what it is; each of us has got to behave so well that it'll be the fault of the other if we do fall out. There's a poem Father used to read that says something of the kind; something about there being none but you—'there is none, oh, none but you—'"
"'That from me estrange your sight,'" finished Harry. "I remember—Campion, I think."
"That's it—that from me estrange your sight. It's funny how those things come back sometimes...." The train pulled noisily in at that moment and made further discussion impossible, but enough had been said to start the same thoughts running in the minds of both and give them both the feeling, as they clasped hands in parting, that the future had the blessing of the past.
THE SADDEST TALE
With the beginning of the next term Harry embarked on the task of setting himself right with the world. He found it on the whole easier than he had expected. He had only to make a few formal apologies, as in the cases of Shep McGee and Junius LeGrand, and let it become generally known that he had definitely given up drinking, et cetera, to make the cohorts of the commonplace glad to receive him in their ranks once more.
Reinstatement in the social life of New Haven followed quite easily—almost as a matter of course, for he had not actively offended any members of what might be described as the entertaining classes. The female element, practically all of whom knew him, or at least of him, through his family connection, had evolved a mythical but interesting conception of him as "rather a fast young man"; and that, alas! served to endear him to their hearts rather than otherwise.
So the last months of his college course passed in a sort of sunset haze of enjoyment, marred only by one thing, indecision as to his subsequent career. His friends were inclined to look rather askance at this; one or two, in a tactful way, pointed out to him the danger of "drifting." In reality there was small danger of this; although his inherited income would make him independent of his own efforts for livelihood during the rest of his natural life, Harry would never "drift" very far. His brain was too active, his ambition too lively, his sense of the seriousness of life too deep to allow that. He could never be content doing nothing. He wanted, in turn, to do very nearly everything; the professions of lawyer, doctor, "business man," engineer, clergyman, soldier, sailor—tinker and tailor, even were considered and rejected in turn.
"It's not that I don't want to do all these things," he explained to Trotty, who sometimes showed impatience athis vagueness; "the trouble is that I can't do any of them. I'm not fitted for them—I'm not worthy of them, if you like to put it that way. If I were a conscienceless wretch, now, it would be different!"
One Sunday afternoon in June, rather saddened by the feeling of his apparent uselessness in the world, he went to call on Madge Elliston.
"Well, what are you going to do this summer?" she began. "That seems to be the one topic of conversation at this time of year."
"This summer? Oh, I'm going to walk, with the rest of my class, in the more mountainous portions of Europe. At present I am under engagement to walk through the hilly parts of England, Scotland and Wales, the Black Forest, the Alps, the Tyrol, the Dolomites and some of the cooler portions of the Apennines; but the Cévennes and the Caucasus are still open, if you care to engage them.... In between times I expect to roister, shamelessly, in some of the livelier resorts of the Continent. That's all quite simple; what I'm worrying about is what I'm going to do next winter."
"Why don't you write, if I may be pardoned for asking so obvious a question?" asked Madge.
"One simple but sufficient reason—I haven't got anything to write about," answered Harry, smiling. "That's what everybody asks, and the answer is always the same. This prevalent belief in my literary ability is flattering, but unfortunately it's wholly unfounded."
"I shouldn't say so. I've read most of what you've written in college, and it seems to me extremely clever."
"Clever—that's just it! Nothing more! The awful truth is, there's nothing more in me. I have rather a high regard for literature, you see, and on that very account I'm less willing to inflict myself on it. I wouldn't care, though, if there was anything else I appeared to be cut out for. If I felt that I could sweep crossings better than other people, I assure you I would go into the profession with the greatest cheerfulness!"
Madge laughed. "I know very much how you feel—I've been going through much the same thing myself, though you might not have guessed it. Only as it happens I have received a call for something very like the profession you speak of."
"Crossing-sweeping?"
"The next thing to it—teaching in a dame's school in town—Miss Snellgrove's. I think it's rather a pretty idea, don't you? Society flower, withered and faint with gaiety, seeking refreshment in the cloistral, the academic!—You don't approve?"
"Woman's sphere is the home," said Harry doubtfully.
"Not when the home is a two-by-four box; you couldn't call that a sphere, could you? Of course," she went on, more seriously, "of course the real, immediate reason why I'm doing it is financial. These are times of—well, stringency.... Not but what we could scrape along; but it seems rather absurd to be earning nothing when one could just as well be earning something, doesn't it? And the only alternative is playing about eternally with college boys younger than myself."
"Yes, I think you're very sensible, if that's the case. Not that it is, of course; you'll find plenty of people coming back to the graduate and professional schools to console you. Also my brother James at week-ends, if that's any comfort to you!"
"James? Is he in this part of the country?"
"Yes, in New York. He's going to be in McClellan's branch there next winter—assistant manager, or something of the sort—something important and successful sounding. We are all very much set up over it. And it's so near that he can come up for Sunday quite regularly, if he wants.—It does give me quite a solemn and humble feeling, though, to think that you have found a profession before me."
"Oh, yes; teaching at Miss Snellgrove's is more than a profession—it's a career!—I refuse to believe, though," she continued with a change of manner, "that you have not found your profession already, even though you may not care to adopt it yet. For after all, you know, you have the creative ability. Every one says that. All that's wanting in you, as you say, is having something to write about, and nothing but time and development will bring that. Meanwhile I think it's very nice and high-minded of you not to go ahead and write nothing, with great ease and fluency! That's what most people in your position do."
"Thank you; that's very encouraging," said Harry.He looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and continued: "Has it ever occurred to you, Madge, that you are quite a remarkable young woman?"
"Heavens yes, hundreds of times!"
"That's a denial, I suppose. However, it's true. Look at the way you've just been talking to me!... You have what I've come to admire very much during the past few months—perfect balance of viewpoint. You have what one might call a sense of ultimacy—is there such a word? It's like a number of children, each playing about in his own little backyard, surrounded by a high fence that he can't see over, suspecting the existence of a lot of other backyards, with children in them wondering what lay beyond in just the same way. Then occasionally there is born a happy being to whom is given the privilege of looking down on the whole lot of them from the church steeple, and being able to see each backyard in its exact relation to all the other backyards. That's you.... It's a rare gift!"
Madge was at first amused by this elaborate compliment, but she ended by being rather touched by it.
"It's very nice of you to say that," she replied after a moment, "no matter how little foundation there may be for it. It proves one thing, at any rate—I have no monopoly of the quality of ultimacy! You wouldn't be able to think I was ultimate, would you, unless you were a wee bit ultimate yourself? And that goes to prove what I said about your attitude toward your profession."
"I'm afraid you can't make me believe in my own ultimacy, no matter how hard you try," said Harry. "In fact I pursue the rival study of propinquity—the art of never seeing beyond one's own nose!"
"Well, you must at least let me believe in the ultimacy of your finding your profession," insisted Madge. But Harry only shook his head.
Commencement arrived at last, and Aunt Cecilia, attended by a representative delegation of her progeny, flopped down upon Aunt Selina, prepared to do as much by Harry as she had by his brother two years earlier. Aunt Cecilia belonged to the important class of American women who regard a graduation as a family event second in importance only to a wedding or a funeral, ranking slightly higher than a "coming out." The occasion was a particularly joyous one to her because of Harry's beingable to celebrate it in a full blaze of righteousness and truth, and because of the consequent opportunities for motherly fluttering.
"Dear Harry," she said, as she kissed, him on his arrival; "I am so glad to be here to see you graduate, and so glad that—that everything has gone so splendidly. It is so much, much nicer—that is, it issonice to think that—"
"Yes, dear; you mean, isn't it nice that I'm respectable again," said Harry, with a flippancy made gentle by the sight of her kind blue eyes. "I am respectable now, you know, so you needn't be afraid to talk about it. We can all be respectable together; you're respectable, and I'm respectable, and Ruth is respectable and Lucy is respectable, and Aunt Selina is respectable—we hope; how about that, Aunt Selina?—and altogether we're an eminently respectable family. All except Beatrice, that is, who is far, far too nobly born, being related, in fact, to a marquis. No one in the peerage, Aunt C. dear, likes to be called respectable—it's considered insulting. No one, that is, above the rank of baron; the barons are now all reformed brewers, who get their peerages by being so respectable that people forget all about the brewing, and that is English democracy, and isn't it a splendid thing, dear? When you marry Ruth to an English peer, you must be sure to have him a baron, because none of the others are respectable."
"Harry, what nonsense you do talk!" said his aunt. "Before these girls—!"
"I imagine these girls know Harry by this time," remarked Aunt Selina. "If they don't, it's time they did. You're a hundred times more innocent than they, Cecilia, and always will be."
"Exactly always what I tell Mama," put in Ruth, the eldest of Aunt Cecilia's brood. "Besides, what Harry said is all quite true, I'm sure. Except about me; I shan't marry a foreigner at all, but if I do, I certainly shan't marry a brewer. Mama is far too rich for me to take anything less than a duke."
This was literally, almost painfully true. A succession of deaths in Aunt Cecilia's family, accompanied by a scarcity of male heirs, had placed her in possession of almost untold wealth—"more than I bargained for when I took you," as Uncle James jocularly put it, for the pleasureof seeing her bridle and blush. Aunt C. was one of the richest women in the country, but it never changed her a particle. Not all her wealth, not all her social prominence, not all the refining influences that several generations' enjoyment of these brings, could ever make her even appear to be anything but the simple, warm-hearted, motherly creature she was.
Harry, realizing all this as well as any one, exerted himself to make Aunt C. glad she had made the effort to come to see him graduate, and he manfully escorted her and the girls to the play, the baccalaureate service, his class-day exercises, the baseball game and various other entertainments, where, as Ruth rather aptly put it, "we can sit around and watch somebody else do something." He also did his full duty by his cousin, and danced away a long and perspiring evening with her at the senior promenade. He found Ruth very good company, in spite of her active tongue, or rather, perhaps, because of it.
The final Wednesday, pregnant with fate, arrived at length, and after an immense deal of watching other people receive degrees, some earned and some accorded by the pure generosity of the University, Harry became entitled to write the magic initials "B.A." after his name. Being one of the leaders of his class in point of scholarship, he was one of the twenty or so who mounted the platform and received the diplomas for the rest. This was too much for Aunt Cecilia, who occupied a prominent place in the front row of the balcony.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, wiping away a furtive tear, "there he goes, and no mother to see him do it! No one to be proud of him! And the brightest of all the family—I shall never live to see a son of mine do as well, never, never!"
"I'm not so sure," said her eldest daughter, comfortingly; "the doctrine of chances is in your favor. You have four boys—four chances to Aunt—what was her name?—Aunt Edith's two. Harry's not so fearfully bright, anyway—only sixteenth out of three hundred."
"My dear, how can you talk so? you ought to be ashamed, after his being so nice to you all this week!"
"Yes, he's been very sweet, indeed," replied the maiden, magnanimously. "Though I don't know, on looking back at it, that he's been any nicer to me than I've been to him!"
Harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. He was impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor; the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of materialism.
The same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of all the Commencement ceremonies. The great Renaissance dining hall filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong, ranging between the hoary-headed veteran and the hour-old Bachelor, all of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for her—all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of Harry, always ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt it. It was pleasant to sit and eat among one's classmates and in the presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on terms of equal footing—all graduates together.
At one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers of the University, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the recipients of the honorary degrees. After the meal was over, certain of these were called upon to speak. Harry thought he had never heard such speeches. The men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's service and in the work of the world; one was a Cabinet minister, another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. The ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of Yale, given in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong emphasis on the theme of service. One got from them the idea that Yale men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over, were born to serve humanity. The mission of Yale in this scheme was one of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house, developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of themselves. One revered and loved Yale, of course, for what she had given one; to her every man owed a full measure of gratitude and affection for what he had become. But one was never to forget where Yale stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was not an end in herself, but a means—one of many other means—to an infinitely greater end. Only by considering her in her place in the vast order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true greatness.
The impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller Yale but of a larger world. Harry had never considered the relation between universe and university in this illuminating light. He suddenly realized that his idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge and the home of sport. He had mistaken the side-shows for the main exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the whole of which they were but small parts. In a flash he looked back and realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against college institutions and traditions. Who was he that he should criticize them? What had he to offer as substitute for them except an attitude of idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? He had recovered from that first foolishness, to be sure, and thank Heaven for that slight evidence of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and watch the days slide by? Had he ever made the slightest attempt toward serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in their proper relations to each other? Had he succeeded in learning a single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? Was it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of golden youth?
Suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his eyes. It would be absurd to shed them. He shifted his position and lit a cigarette. He inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wanderedinto introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. Gradually, however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. Those years were not wholly wasted—he had learned something in them. He was ahead of where he was when he entered college, if only a little. The thought of James occurred to him; James would be an inspiration in the future as he had been a help in the past. No, there was yet hope for him, though he must be very careful how he acted in the future. He had been a fool, but he hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. He would try hard, at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant, unbiased and humble—above all, humble. He glanced up at the speaker's table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud were in fact the humblest.
The last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. The men on the floor of the hall stood up to sing before departing. Harry, looking at his watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see Aunt Cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at once if he were to catch them.
He laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had never before listened.