CONDITIONS
"Dr. Leigh," said President Renshaw, in his gentle and measured
utterance, "I sent for you on a little matter of business, for a few
minutes of conversation, if you are at leisure."
The young astronomer signified that his time was the president's, and
waited for his next words with an oppressive sense of vague foreboding.
They were sitting in the room he had first entered, and Dr. Renshaw
occupied the chair in which he then sat. As Leigh glanced about the
room and back again at the old man's face, that first meeting seemed
but yesterday, so unaltered was the scene. The tall clock, the old
chair, the black cloth mitre with its tarnished gold insignia, the
framed plans of St. George's Hall, were all in the same places. The
president had not changed in the interim; it even seemed that he had
not moved. But beyond the shapely oval of the old man's head a glimpse
of wintry landscape was framed by the narrow window, instead of that
earlier vision of the September morning.
In Leigh's alert and sensitive mood, these relics taunted him with
their own permanence in the face of change. Those sticks of wood,
those drawings, that piece of black cloth, were as ancient in a sense
as the pyramids, and would retain their places while generations came
before them, laboured their brief day, and then vanished as a puff of
steam vanishes into blue sky. The clock had long since run down for
good, and seemed by virtue of this very fact to have gained a victory
over time.
"You remember, doubtless," the president resumed, "that your
appointment was for this year only, and I asked you to come in to--in
short, I should like to inquire whether you have made any plans for the
future."
The form of the question was such that it might have been merely a
preface to an offer of a permanent appointment, but Leigh divined too
clearly the doctor's inward distress to give it such an interpretation.
The dismissal of which he now felt assured was scarcely a surprise. It
seemed but natural that the greater loss of Felicity should include the
lesser loss of his position, and he smiled bitterly.
"You mean to suggest, sir, that some such plans on my part are
advisable?"
"We might say it amounts to that," Dr. Renshaw returned reluctantly.
His age, the kindness of his manner and tone, were disarming, and his
listener entertained no more personal resentment toward him than if he
were an ancient sibyl uttering of necessity the will of the Fates.
"I had not thought it necessary to make plans for next year," he said,
"not being conscious of any shortcomings on my part sufficient to cause
my dismissal. I am well aware that you are strictly within your
rights, and that I have no legal redress, perhaps even no cause of
complaint. I know how subordinates in business are turned away to suit
the convenience, or at the whim, of their superiors; but in most
colleges there is a sort of unwritten law that promotion shall follow
efficient service. As a rule, the one year appointment is merely a
safeguard to protect the institution from a man seriously incompetent
or depraved."
"I know--I know," the president interposed, raising his hand as if to
ward off more words. "And I would not have you think for a moment that
we view you in any such light. On the contrary, I may say that
personally I entertain for you the highest regard and consideration."
"What is the matter, then?" Leigh demanded. "It seems no more than
fair that I should be told definitely where the trouble lies."
The other reflected awhile. "If I were to mention the one definite
complaint, Mr. Leigh, it would not sum up the whole situation; it would
be an explanation that only partially explained. However, the
complaint has to do with your discipline in the class-room."
Leigh stared incredulously. "Discipline?" he echoed.
"Disorder in your class-room," Dr. Renshaw corroborated firmly. "Those
passing by have heard laughter and unseemly shouts from within."
"Who could have made such a report?" Leigh wondered, still at a loss.
"The information came through a responsible channel, through one whose
duty it is to take cognisance of such things and to report them to the
proper authorities."
He was surprised to see that his listener was laughing, not without a
suggestion of scornfulness. "I 've heard the same unseemly shouts
myself, Dr. Renshaw. They come from class meetings and athletic
meetings that are held in my room nearly every day, when the place is
not being used for recitations. There is n't a word of truth in the
charge against me."
Dr. Renshaw's face clouded, and he cleared his throat uneasily. "Mr.
Leigh," he said with dignity, "I told you that the complaint would fail
to sum up the whole situation. We may say _Quaestio cadit_ in regard
to that, if you like. Let us look at it in another light, in the light
of the best interests of the Hall and of yourself. There is a question
of general fitness which implies no criticism upon yourself, upon your
scholarship or character. We are a homogeneous community here, we
understand each other and cherish the ideals which this college was
built to inculcate. You are a product of an entirely different
tradition. You were educated, and have previously taught, in a large
university, and this makes it difficult, perhaps impossible, for you to
appreciate the needs and the point of view of the small college. The
ideal of the professor in a university is self-improvement and personal
achievement; but in the small college, the teacher is expected to give,
above everything else, personal service and devotion to the interests
of his students. He should stand to a large extent _sancti parentis
loco_. I do not say that you have consciously failed to improve this
opportunity of service; I would say rather that, because of your
previous academic experiences, you have failed to see it. The
conviction has therefore been forced upon us, in spite of our personal
regard for you and our appreciation of your attainments, that you would
be happier and more useful in a larger institution, where the point of
contact begins and ends in the class-room. In short, I believe you
will agree with us that the experiment has not been altogether a
success from this point of view. I accept your explanation of the
specific charge gladly, and congratulate you upon correcting an
impression that did you injustice."
It was Leigh's first meeting in his professional life with that malign
experience, injustice in the garb of plausibility, from which there is
no appeal. He could not bring himself to acquiesce in silence, though
he knew that explanation and protest were vain.
"Dr. Renshaw," he rejoined, in a voice that showed his deep chagrin and
sense of wrong, "the proved falsity of the first charge throws
suspicion on the second, which is, after all, mainly a conjecture as to
my state of mind in regard to St. George's Hall. I must plead guilty
to the sin of personal ambition; but how can you expect a man to become
entirely identified with the spirit of a place in a few months? It is
evident to me that there are certain men who wish me gone, for reasons
best known to themselves, and that they have trumped up these absurd
charges." He flung himself to his feet indignantly. "This merely
illustrates how easy it is to find plausible complaints against any
man, and also that even-handed justice is the last thing one should
look for in the world."
The president rose also. They were standing almost in darkness, but
the afterglow of the sunset, streaming through the western windows and
an intervening door, illumined the old man's face. His expression was
one of concern, tempered by an humorous appreciation of the
youthfulness of Leigh's last remark.
"Young man," he said, putting his hand on Leigh's shoulder, much as if
he were admonishing a student, "I beg you not to allow this experience
to colour your views with cynicism, for cynicism hurts only the cynic,
and fails to take account of all the facts of life. As you have
intimated, even-handed justice, inasmuch as it implies omniscience, is
an attribute of God alone, but we have not been consciously unjust to
you, according to our light. Personally I regret your departure, and I
wish to assure you of my confidence in your future. You will doubtless
one day look back upon this apparent contretemps as a blessing in
disguise."
Leigh was far from being mollified by this platitudinous commiseration,
though he credited the kindness of heart that gave it birth; and he
took leave of the president without further remark. Then he went out
into the twilight, more deeply humiliated than ever before in his life.
His loss of Felicity had been sweetened by love's triumph. There was
in it the sustaining exaltation of tragedy, and a lingering ray of
unreasonable hope; but this reverse was harder to bear, in that he
suffered injustice without the possibility of appeal, and was deprived
of professional importance in the eyes of the woman he loved, of the
position which, slight as it must seem to her, was yet all he had to
offset her wealth and social consequence.
There are times when even the stoutest hearts are appalled by the cruel
handicap of poverty, when they are tempted to throw over their ideal,
to rush into the market-place and make money by fair means or foul,
that they may return and shake it in the faces of their foes. Leigh
knew well that the possession of means would have made him immune from
this attack, would have won him consideration instead of contumely,
compliments instead of complaints. The Roman satirist, eating out his
soul with bitterness against the insolence of wealth, said that
poverty's greatest bane was the fact that it made men ridiculous. He
was speaking, to be sure, of clothes; but what could be more ridiculous
than an assumption of equality, based upon equal education and
breeding, between the poor and the rich?
The young mathematician had not yet established a commanding
professional reputation. He had given up a position which was now
filled by one of the fifty applicants that had rushed to seize it; his
present position at St. George's, he knew, could be filled as easily.
He had not the consolation of knowing himself to be valuable to the
institution. No one would rise up indignantly and take his part; no
one would care what became of him, except Felicity, and pride alone
would keep him from appealing to her.
He looked up at the great towers, buttressed by deep shadows, as if he
bade them farewell. Already they seemed to take on a strange and
unfriendly aspect. This mass of masonry had expressed hostility to him
on that September morning, he had read a warning in each impassive or
grinning gargoyle, and now, as he passed by, he could almost imagine
that they gave sibilant expression to their accomplished malice. He
realised how completely he had forgotten that first impression and
allowed his imagination to be captured by the place. Where now were
the dreams in which he had lately begun to indulge, visions of the
finished square, of turret and gable and tower, of gothic gateways, of
foliated chapel windows glimmering high in the darkened wall at evening?
Like one stunned by an unexpected blow, he continued his walk, until he
came to Birdseye Avenue and paused in front of the bishop's house. Did
he really intend to keep his promise never to see Felicity again? It
so, why was he even now measuring the distance between himself and
those lighted windows? Perhaps some chance would yet throw her in his
way; but he would not risk her contempt by following the prompting of
his heart and presenting himself before her only three days after his
expressed renunciation. Besides, the bishop might be there; and what
had he discovered since they last met? His consciousness of
wrong-doing in regard to Felicity deprived him of the desire to meet
the bishop face to face and to demand an explanation. Was there not,
after all, reason enough for the bishop's action, if he knew all? This
thought robbed Leigh of the satisfaction of a righteous indignation,
which until now he had cherished as justifiable. He was fair enough to
admit that he had received what he deserved, on other than professional
grounds, and having reached the lowest depth of unhappiness, he began
to retrace his steps disconsolately toward the college.
A philosopher once said that every man has in him at least one poem
which he could write under the stress of great emotion, and that night
Leigh unconsciously exemplified the truth of the saying. It was near
the dawn when he descended from the tower, having left upon the table
by the telescope this fragmentary record of his vigil.
THE MORNING WATCH
Be resolute, my soul,
And battle till the day,
My strength is manifold,
If only thou art gay;
Since friendship takes its flight,
Since love is far outgrown,
Here, in the silent night,
I watch alone.
And sing a song, my soul,
A bitter song and bright,
While fleeting hours unroll
The enigmatic night;
The saddest souls must sing--
Ah, happy those that weep!
So laugh, till death shall bring
Unending sleep.
Now let me lie in peace
On Nature's passive breast.
Since human love must cease,
And life is all unblest,
And watch the stars outspread
Within the brimming blue--
But Abraham is dead
Who saw them too.
And millions, ages hence,
Shall watch the steady stars,
And question Why and Whence
Behind their prison bars;
But if no love shall give
A light upon the way,
How can they dare to live
Until the day?