Foley began to have ideas of his own about this Mississippi Valley. He
had already read of its rivers and railways and mushroom towns, and he
remembered some of the proud things that Sutton had said at different
times of Parnassus City and its importance--it was almost the only
subject on which the reticent young man ever seemed willing to talk--the
thought-out comparisons he would draw between that place and Oxford, in
his attempts to explain to himself what he saw, and account for it all,
according to his principles.
One evening, in a burst of unusual talkativeness, he described how
Parnassus City had been laid out twenty years before, on what had been
till then an unploughed prairie; but now there were thousands of
inhabitants, rows of business buildings, and elegant residences in the
outskirts. There were electric trolleys too in the streets; and the
whole town was lighted by natural gas. Not only had the place grown fast
in trade and population, but there had been, he explained, a pretty
rapid growth in culture. Oh, they didn't intend to let the moss grow on
them out in Indiana! Schools and churches were built--the most elegant
was the First Methodist, the Reverend Dr. Turnpenny's. It was Dr.
Turnpenny, he added, who started the Forward Movement among the Indiana
Methodists which made such a stir. Then, after the churches, they had
built a lecture hall and library, and, at last, the Parnassus College.
Foley asking more about this college, Sutton explained that though it
had been built a few years before as a college for Methodist theology
and liberal learning, it was already larger than the neighbouring
institute at Corinth Creek, and only second in those parts to the
University of Miomi. It wasn't of course like the universities in the
Eastern States, but still they were proud of it there.
He had pinned up on the old panelling of his wall a photograph of this
Parnassus College: a rather gaunt frame building, standing in a ploughed
field among a few new-planted trees. About the steps were grouped a
number of young men and women, many of them wearing spectacles, and all
with earnest faces and provincial dress. "That's my class," Sutton
explained, pointing at his own figure in the group. "It's the biggest
class we've had so far, thirteen gentlemen and seven ladies."
Foley studied the photograph of the college, and the pictures on the
mantelpiece--several college friends, with lank serious faces; an
intellectual young lady, her hand resting on a copy of the Bible; and an
old, mild, white bearded minister--Dr. Turnpenny, no doubt. There was a
picture too of a wide city street. Then it really existed, this remote
place, and people lived there! he thought, amused at the curious chance
which had brought Sutton, the promise and pride, perhaps, of his native
town, and set him down in so different a world.
But at last Foley turned from the yellow lamplight, the photographs, and
the voice of the American sawing in his ear. Going to the window he
opened the lattice and leaned out into the night. Cool, fresh, and dark
was the air that breathed on his face, while before him, blue and vague
under the white moon, there grew on his sight the towers, the dome-like
trees, and shining roofs of Oxford; dim, romantic, and steeped in
silence, save for the even tinkle of a distant bell. With sudden
unaffected sentiment, he felt how much he cared for Oxford and all that
Oxford stood for.
"Do come here," he called out with a friendly impulse, turning his head
into the yellow light of the room, "I don't think I ever saw such a
view."
The American came and leaned beside him at the open window. "Yes, it is
nice," he said at length, and Foley was surprised by a fugitive sound of
real feeling and appreciation in his voice.