There is this to be said of Jack Houston: whenever he took liquor--which
was often--he took it like a man. None of the alley-door for him;
through the front door, as sturdy and frank as a Crusader or not at
all--that was his way. Let a faculty man be coming toward him half a
block distant, there was no hesitation; not a waver. He--if such were
the circumstance--would nod and pass directly beyond the double swinging
screens, and not give the incident another thought. Nor were bottles
ever delivered to his room in boxes marked "Candles." Indeed the outward
signs were that he took pride in the bravado with which he carried on
the business; for there on the boxes were the stenciled labels--plain
enough to be read distinctly across the street--"Perth Whiskey." But it
was not that he had a pride in what certain of his fellows were wont to
call his "independence." It was simply that he drank--drank when he
chose; paid for what he drank; and drank it like a man--a Southern man,
honorably. The real trouble was not that he saw fit and cared to drink,
or what he drank; but that he drank so much.
And he was in love now; reveling in a multitude of agreeable sensations,
which, perhaps, he had not even dreamed himself destined ever to
experience in such fulness. Analyzing his emotions he marveled at the
condition he discovered. He set himself apart and regarded the other
Jack Houston critically. He denied his heart's impeachment; the other
Jack sneered and called him a fool. He laughed; the other Jack said,--or
seemed to say: "Laugh away; but it's a serious business all the same."
He flaunted; the other adhered to the original charge. In the end he
stood before that other Jack and held out his hand, as it were,
and--like a man--confessed. And it devolved upon him forthwith to
celebrate the discovery of a cardiac ailment he had not experienced
before as he was experiencing it now. So, with barbaric, almost
beautiful, recklessness, he got drunk; thoroughly, creditably drunk.
The next morning, heavy-headed, thick-tongued, he shifted his eyes
sheepishly about the room, while Crowley, from the high ground of his
own invincible virtue, talked down to him roundly. He did not interrupt
the steady flow of malediction in which his immaculate room-mate seemed
determined to engulf him; but when the lecture was ended, he looked up,
steadily, and said: "Never mind, old top, it's the last; on the square
it is."
As he had a perfect right to do under the circumstances, Crowley
shrugged his shoulders, and looked out the window into the green of a
maple.
"All right, old top," Houston driveled on pathetically--"mebbe I've said
it before; but this time I mean it--see if I don't." And he reached
across the table for a bottle of bitters. He poured half a small glass
with shaking hands. Over the edge of the drink he perceived the sneer on
Crowley's face. He set the glass and bottle on the _chiffonier_
carefully.
"Confound you! don't you believe me, you white-ribbon parson!" he cried.
Crowley smiled broadly.
Houston seized the glass. "There!" he exclaimed--"Now do you believe
me?--Not even a bracer!" And he flung glass and liquor into the
waste-paper basket.
Crowley laughed aloud at that, and went down-stairs, and Houston, as he
finished dressing, heard him talking to the landlady's collie on the
front porch.
For that afternoon--it being Saturday--he had planned a boating trip,
with a picnic supper, down the river. The care-taker at the boathouse
helped him tote the canoe around the dam, while Florence, her face
shaded by the blue parasol she carried, stood on the bank by the
railway. Her hamper was stowed away securely, and while the man held
fast to the frail craft, Houston lifted her fairly from the ground and
set her, fluffy and cool, in the bow where he had arranged the cushions.
To the attendant music of many little cries of half fright, the canoe,
at one sweep of the paddle, shot into midstream.
The river was unusually high; the spring rains had been frequent and
plentiful, and now the water ran flush with the green banks on either
side. Past the ivy-hung station they drifted with the current. Florence
sat silent among the cushions watching the rhythmic, graceful sweep of
the paddle, strongly, evenly manipulated by her flannel-clad gondolier.
It was an occasion for unvoiced enjoyment. On the left rose the
hills--threaded by the winding, white boulevard--thick with greenery,
through which now and then were to be caught glimpses of The
Hermitage--poised obliquely on the hillside, a sheer declivity falling
from its broad canopied piazza. Skirting the bank, the passage of the
canoe wrought havoc among the birds, and they flew to and fro across the
stream, or, hopping nervously from branch to branch, screamed their
displeasure at the rude invasion of their domestic quiet.
Florence removed her rings, and, dropping her hand over the low rail,
let it trail through the dark-green water, alive with the shivering
reflections of the bank verdure.
The boat glided beneath the old wooden bridge at the boulevard
beginning, and two small boys who were fishing from the weather-stained
structure forgot their lines to watch the passage of the silent craft.
Further on, the current ran more swiftly and Jack ceased paddling,
relaxed, steered merely.
They talked of many things in the stillness. Now and then they were
moved to outbursts of sentiment occasioned by the beauty of the hills
and the little surprises of charm that nature, at each curve of the
wandering stream, brought into view. Overhead, feathery clouds, almost
opalescent, floated in a turquoise sky; and the breeze that was wafted
across the hills kissed cool their faces.
Florence drew in her dripping hand and dried it on her handkerchief.
The sun was obscured and she closed the blue parasol. Finally she said:
"Jack--Jack dear--why did you do it?"
She did not lift her eyes as she spoke, but, rather, regarded the tip of
her parasol, pressed against the toe of one little patent-leather
slipper.
"What?" he asked calmly; so calmly that she could not tell whether he
were dissembling ignorance of her meaning.
"You understand," she said--"last night----"
"How do you know?" he exclaimed suddenly; but before she could reply he
added, gently, "I'm sorry--I'm dead sorry!"
She was moved to lift her eyes by the note of contrition in his voice.
Her lips parted the least bit over her teeth and she smiled.
"How--how could you, dear?" she went on; "after--after--that night. I've
been thinking about it all day. I didn't mean to mention it at
first--but--but--I couldn't help it. You don't really like to do such
things; do you, Jack? There, I know you don't. It's just what they
call--spirits--I suppose----"
He laughed aloud, and his laugh was echoed back across the river. "Yes,"
he cried, gleefully--"that's it--_spirits_!"
She glanced up at him reprovingly. "You know I didn't mean that. I
don't think you should laugh. But Jack dear,"--she gazed steadily,
soberly, at him now--"you won't do it any more, will you?"
He did not answer.
"Can't you promise me, Jack--_me_?" she asked, tenderly.
Long afterward she recalled to him that instant of hesitation before he
replied.
"I promise," he exclaimed, finally, with a brave note of resolution in
his voice.
She sighed and settled back more comfortably among the cushions.
"I knew you would," she said.
After a moment: "Do you care so very--so very, very much?" he asked.
"Of course I do," she answered, quite gaily.
"Why?"
The eagerness in his voice startled her. It may have been that which
induced the little tremor she felt pass over her. She closed her eyes as
he, leaning forward, watched her.
"Dearest--dearest," she heard him whisper; "is it because--because----"
She opened her eyes then, dreamily, languishingly, and in them he seemed
to read her answer, and was satisfied.
They had reached the point where they had planned to spread their
picnic supper. He drove the canoe into the soft earth of the sloping
bank and steadied it with the paddle while she, gathering up her fluffy
skirts, stepped out. He dragged the boat upon the bank and handed her
the hamper. They climbed up to a shelf of rock over the edge of which a
spring sent whirling to the road below a glistening rope of water. They
set the basket in the cool shade, at the edge of the shelf, and
descending again followed the road along the stream. The air was filled
with the sounds of joyous Nature. The world was glad and gay; glad for
the tall, strong youth in flannels who strode beside a yellow-haired
girl; and gay for the girl.
In the evening they waited on "their rock," as she called it, until
twilight rose and the birds became quiet and the wild life about was
still.
Over the shoulder of the hill across the river the moon rose, round,
high, white, to light a gleaming path along the stream.
Paddling back, Houston displayed his skill, for it was no child's work
against the current. She watched him; the strong, even movements of his
arms, as he fairly bent the paddle blade before his steady strokes.
Rounding a bend the lights of the town twinkled into view.
"We're nearly home," he called, and the words came quick and short from
the effort he had made.
"And you're tired," she murmured.
"No, not tired," he replied--"I only wish it were longer----"
"But we can come again--before you go home."
"Florence--I don't want to go, now." He hesitated a moment. "I might
make the governor believe that the summer school would materially
benefit his son," he added.
She laughed at the mockery in his voice. "I'm afraid I should be your
only professor," she said.
"I would hope so," he replied.
"No, dear," she said, seriously, "don't this summer--next, perhaps."
"Will you write me then--often?" he asked.
"How often?"
"Don't you suppose you could--I shan't say every day--but every other
day?"
"Yes."
And his heart leaped in his breast at the tone she employed.
"I love you," he whispered. "Oh, how I love you!"
"And you will keep your promise?" She smiled back at him.
"Yes."
"Dearest Jack!"
"I'm going to tell the governor when I get home, Florence," he suddenly
exclaimed.
"No, no, dear, don't; not yet." The haste of her reply was startling--"I
don't think I would," she added more calmly, seemingly herself conscious
of it. "Perhaps he'll come on, next year; then he could meet me; and he
could see---- Perhaps he might not--might not--like it----"
"Not like it!" he cried. "Yes, you're right; he might fall in love with
you himself! Yes, he might," he added in mock seriousness, "I hadn't
thought of that...."
They walked slowly through the silent streets to her home, and in the
darkness of the little round room he held her close in his arms and
kissed her.
"Has it been a happy day?" he whispered, his cheek pressed to hers.
He felt the quick pressure of her hand upon his arm.
"So happy," she murmured.
After the door closed behind him she stood as she had that first night,
and in the darkness about her she seemed to see the sweet face of a
young girl--the girl of the picture.... She brushed the back of her hand
across her smooth forehead and sighed....
In another week he was gone.
He came back to her after many weeks and although she did not ask, he
told her he had kept his promise.