RELINQUISHMENT
Lester walked with rapid steps to the house of Professor Worthington.
Now that he had decided what to do he was in haste to get it done. He
found Professor Worthington at home and within a few moments had made a
complete confession.
“I shouldn’t have expected such a thing as that from a man of your
caliber,” said Professor Worthington. “You’ve just been elected first
marshal of your class, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to resign.”
“On account of this thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do many members of the class know what you did?”
“Two. David Ives and my roommate.”
“Are they likely to tell any one else?”
“No, sir. They wouldn’t tell.”
“Do they think you ought to resign?”
“One does, and the other doesn’t.”
“Did they advise you to come to me?”
“No, sir. But Mr. Dean, who used to be a master at St. Timothy’s, where
I went to school, advised me.”
“How did he happen to know the facts?”
“I told him. I felt I needed advice as to what to do.”
“I am satisfied,” said Professor Worthington. “I shan’t do anything
about the matter; or rather the only thing I shall do will be to raise
Ives’s marks. You’ve done excellent work in the course since the thing
happened, and I am simply going to forget what you’ve told me.”
He showed his friendliness by walking arm in arm with Lester to the
door when Lester, after murmuring his gratitude, rose to go.
Lester felt that now he could face the final ordeal with cheerfulness.
He went directly to the room of Tom McKee, the president of the senior
class, and found him tipped back in his chair, with his feet on his
desk and a volume on economics open against his knees.
“Tom,” he said, “I want you to call a meeting of the class for
to-morrow night. Get the notice of it in to-morrow morning’s _Crimson_.
It’s on a matter of importance.”
“Sure,” said Tom. “The first marshal’s word is law. What’s up?”
“I can’t tell you now. But you’ll see that the notice goes in, won’t
you? And make it urgent; we want everybody to come.”
McKee reached for a pad and a pencil and wrote out the following:
Seniors! Important meeting at Harvard Union at eight o’clock
this evening. Very urgent. Everybody come.
T. MCKEE,
_President_.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Fine. And tell the fellows that you see, so that they’ll talk it up.”
“Anything that you want me to do at the meeting?”
“Just call it to order and let me have the floor, if you will.”
“All right; that’s easy. I’ll make sure that we can have the assembly
room at the Union, and then I’ll turn this notice in at the _Crimson_
office. I’m glad you don’t want me to make a speech.”
“I wish I didn’t have to make one,” said Lester.
That evening the members of the senior class crowded into the assembly
room; they filled the benches; they sat on the radiators; they stood
against the walls and in the doorway. The notice of the meeting
had excited curiosity, which had become increasingly keen since it
appeared that no one knew why the meeting had been called. During the
preliminary noise, the scraping of chairs and benches on the floor,
the thumping and scuffling of feet, and the loud buzz of conversation,
Lester sat on a bench immediately in front of the platform, silent,
unresponsive to those near him.
McKee mounted the platform and stood behind the chairman’s table. He
rapped on the table; he raised his voice; gradually the crowd became
silent.
“The meeting will please come to order,” shouted McKee. “I have called
this meeting at the request of our first marshal, and I will ask Mr.
Lester Wallace to state what is in his mind.”
Amid enthusiastic applause Lester rose. This was the first opportunity
that the class as a whole had had to show its satisfaction at the
outcome of the election. The applause swelled, slackened, and swelled
again; it continued and continued while Lester, white and unsmiling,
waited for a chance to speak. At last there was quiet, and he began in
a voice that shook a little:
“Fellows, I wanted you all to be here――”
“Louder!” came a shout from the back of the room.
“Get up on the platform!” cried another voice.
“Yes! Platform!” shouted others.
Lester obeyed the command; he stepped up on the platform and took his
stand beside the chairman’s table. “Fellows,” he said, “ever since the
election I’ve been very uncomfortable in my mind. I’ve known that I’m
not fit to be first marshal or to hold any office in the class.”
A cry of derision and protest went up from the audience.
“I’m in earnest about this,” Lester continued when he was able to make
himself heard. “There isn’t one of you that would have voted for me if
he’d known what I know about myself.”
“We’re all miserable sinners,” cried a cheerful voice; and the crowd
broke into laughter that kept renewing itself irrepressibly just as
quiet seemed about to be restored.
Lester stood perplexed; that his tragic speech should be greeted with
laughter was a thing for which he was quite unprepared. “I ought to
have withdrawn my name instead of allowing it to be voted on,” he said,
and again he was interrupted.
“Sit down!” shouted some one.
“Forget it!” cried another.
And both outcries brought great demonstrations of approval from the
audience.
“I’m not going to sit down, and I can’t forget it,” Lester said with a
flash of spirit. “I wish I could. I’m here to tender my resignation as
first marshal, and I hope you will accept it unanimously.”
“Why?” shouted several voices.
“Because I’ve done a thing that makes me unfit to hold any position of
honor or trust in the class,” said Lester firmly.
“What was it?” demanded some one.
Then there was a hush. Lester looked out over the audience; his face
was pale. “I stole a fellow’s theme and passed it in as my own,” he
said. “I’m through. Elect some one else.” He stepped down from the
platform and took his seat while his classmates sat in silence.
In the middle of the hall Farrar rose. “Mr. President!” he said. Farrar
had a big voice of great carrying power; moreover, his manner was
forcible and decisive.
“Mr. Farrar has the floor,” announced McKee.
“I wish to say I respect Lester Wallace for his courage,” said Farrar.
“And I move that his resignation be not accepted. We can afford to
overlook this slip of his that he’s told us about. He was the choice
of the class, for first marshal, and I don’t believe that any one here
is going to feel that the choice was a mistaken one. I move that his
resignation be not accepted.”
“Second the motion!” shouted some one amidst a great burst of applause.
Then Robert McClure, who had been an active supporter of Farrar, stood
up. “Mr. President,” he said. “I think that this question is one that
shouldn’t be decided hastily. I think we ought to have more information
before we come to a decision. We don’t know anything about the
circumstances in regard to this theme that Mr. Wallace has mentioned.
I hope we may have some further information. And, anyway, I think we
ought to hold a new election. We want to settle this matter with common
sense and deliberate judgment, not with snap judgment and emotion.”
Lester again rose and faced the audience. “I will give you all the
information I can. I was in trouble with the college office; I was
trying to make up work in other courses, and I neglected my work in the
composition course. A theme was due, and I hadn’t written it. I knew
that if I didn’t hand it in, I should be put on probation. I took a
friend’s theme without his knowledge and handed it in as mine. That’s
the whole story. I want to say that, much as I appreciate Mr. Farrar’s
remarks, Mr. McClure is absolutely right. I have resigned as first
marshal, and the class will have to hold another election.” He sat
down, and again there was silence.
McKee, the president of the class, rose. “We all regret very much the
action that it seems necessary to take,” he said. “I will appoint, as a
committee to arrange for a new election of class officers, Mr. McClure,
Mr. Ives, and Mr. Roberts; and I will ask them to publish as soon as
possible the announcement of such arrangements as they may make. The
meeting is adjourned.”
McKee leaped from the platform and seized Lester’s hands. “That took
courage, old man,” he said. “I hope they reëlect you just the same; but
if they don’t, remember this: there are a lot of us that stand by you.”
“Thank you, Tom.” Lester found now that he could not speak; and there
were other fellows crowding round him with assurances of their unshaken
faith. He got away from the throng as soon as he could and went to his
room.
Richard Bradley arrived a moment later; he came at once to Lester and
seated himself on the arm of his chair. “I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to
you, Lester,” he said.
“You haven’t been mean; you’ve been just right,” Lester answered. “And
I’m glad now that every one knows. It makes me ashamed, but somehow
it’s a relief. I hope you’ll think better of me sometime, Dick.”
“I think better of you now,” Richard said. “And I can tell you one
thing, Lester; whether you’re elected marshal or not, you haven’t lost
a single friend.”
Nevertheless, the ordeal through which Lester now had to pass was
humiliating to one who had never been distinguished for the virtue of
humility. He felt that wherever he went he left a trail of gossipers
behind him. He knew that his fall from grace was the subject of
discussion wherever two or three seniors were gathered.
The committee appointed by McKee issued a notice that the election
would be held on a certain day; and in the interval before that day
debate as to Lester’s availability went on almost without ceasing.
David Ives and Richard Bradley declared that atonement washed away
sin; they pleaded that Lester should be triumphantly reëlected first
marshal――with an even larger majority than before, if possible; they
pointed out that by thus honoring him the class would be recognizing
not merely the athlete and popular hero, but also a fellow who had
shown moral courage of a high sort. The argument was attacked; the
exact details and circumstances of Lester’s crime were inquired into
and brought to light. The investigators declined to exonerate him
because of a belated confession. Why, they asked, should a fellow who
had done a thing of which he finally had the grace to be ashamed be
preferred over fellows who had never stooped to a dishonorable action.
The election was held. Farrar was chosen first marshal, Colby second,
and McKee third. Lester received thirty votes out of four hundred and
forty.
The election, the resignation, and the new election were not events
that could escape publicity. The college newspaper contained accounts
that hinted at the facts without actually giving them. Lester knew that
the story would go everywhere; he wrote a detailed narrative and sent
it to his father. The letter that he received in reply made him think
that his family, who were those most cruelly hurt by the act, would be
the last to forgive. The letter closed with the words: “Your mother and
I had been planning to come on for your graduation. I don’t think now
that we can bring ourselves to do it.”
There was another letter that Lester wrote, as bulky and explicit
as that which he had sent to his father. It went to Ruth Davenport,
at St. Timothy’s. Her reply showed a more forgiving heart; and the
correspondence that followed was a thing that helped Lester in a dark
time.
The other thing that helped him was his newfound earnestness in
study. In former days he had given the greater part of his time to
the pursuit of amusement; now during the winter months virtually the
only recreation that he permitted himself was reading. When spring
came he went out again for baseball; and, playing first base on the
university nine, he showed more zest in the practice than he had ever
exhibited before. His experiences and the reflections to which they had
given rise had in a few months matured him. Some of the fellows on the
nine came to look to him rather than to the captain for leadership;
and he was tactful in contributing to the general efficiency of the
team without infringing on the captain’s prerogative. He enjoyed
playing baseball, and this year he played it with something more
than enjoyment. To help the nine to win seemed to him his special
responsibility; it would be part of his atonement.
He adopted Mr. Dean’s suggestion and went up to St. Timothy’s School
for a Sunday. Revisiting the place had such charms for him that soon
afterwards he proposed to David that they make a trip to it together.
“Fine idea,” said David. “I’ve been more or less neglecting Ralph. It’s
time I was seeing what the kid is up to.”
One of the things that Ralph was most astonishingly “up to” was art.
With embarrassment and blushes he brought out a large portfolio filled
with drawings, which he exhibited to his brother. David examined them
with increasing respect. He knew just enough about the fine arts to
know that for a schoolboy the sketches were extremely good. There were
pictures of school scenes, of the pond with the crews on it, and of
various masters; there was a sketch of Ruth Davenport, at which David
looked with special interest.
“That’s a mighty good likeness,” he said. “You’ve improved a lot over
the little kid sketches you used to make. Has anybody been teaching
you?”
“No.” Ralph looked at his brother hopefully, shyly; and then said, “I
want to be an artist, Dave.”
“When did that idea come over you?”
“I don’t know exactly. This year. I know that it’s the one thing I want
to do.”
“You’ll have to talk it over with Mr. Dean. Pity he can’t see your work
and judge for himself.”
“Yes. But if I were to take lessons this summer, and the teacher
thought it worth while for me to go on――”
“You wouldn’t want to give up going to Harvard, would you, in order to
start right in and study art?”
“I’d give up anything!” Ralph’s eyes flashed; David was amazed at
the glint through their softness. “I should like to go to Harvard,
of course, but if it’s wise for me to go to an art school instead, I
shouldn’t hesitate. Not for a minute.”
“Did you get Ruth to sit for that portrait?”
“Yes. No; that is, she asked me to do a sketch of her. Tom Windsor had
been telling her about some drawings I’d made of fellows, and she gave
me this chance.”
David looked at the picture again admiringly. Though Ralph was just a
boy, he had somehow caught the whimsical, appealing expression that
played about Ruth’s lips and the merry look of her eyes.
“That’s all I’ve got to show you,” Ralph said and began to put away his
work. “It’s too fine a day to sit indoors.”
They went for a walk past the old mill and then out to the wood road
that led to the lake. It was a warm and sunny afternoon in June, with a
light wind that set the long grass of the meadows streaming, the gold
of the dandelions glittering, and the tender green leaves of the young
birches dancing; in the meadows chirped robin and blackbird; among the
birches and the pine trees song sparrows and thrushes were singing;
down through the forest, melody and sunlight showered together, and the
ground exhaled the fragrance of moss and fern and violet――all the moist
odors of the spring.
There was the flash of a bird overhead across the shadowed path, and
then from a copse near by came a plaintive fluting call.
“A veery,” said Ralph.
“Well!” exclaimed David, “I don’t know a veery from a vireo. And you
didn’t either a year ago.”
“I’ve got interested in birds this spring. Tom Windsor is a shark on
them, and so is Mr. Randolph. I’ve gone out with them a good deal.
Anything that has color I like to know about and watch.”
David was silent, marveling at his ignorance of his own brother, his
ignorance of the developing and unfolding that had been taking place in
the boy. No longer was Ralph just an unformed human being of obvious
impulses. What reserves of feeling and determination and thought had
been assembling in him during this year in which he had assumed both a
new gentleness and a new harness? David felt a new sense of respect for
his brother, and also and rather sadly he felt more remote from him.
Trying to read his brother, he kept glancing at him while they walked
quietly along the grassy wood road. Suddenly Ralph stopped; David,
following the direction of his gaze, saw seated on a knoll under some
pine trees a little way ahead a man and a girl; the man’s arm was round
the girl’s waist, and their heads were close together. Their faces were
not visible; but the white hat with the cherry-colored ribbon and the
white dress with the cherry-colored sash made David know that the girl
was Ruth, and the man he recognized as Lester.
Noiselessly and without looking behind them, Ralph and David retraced
their steps. Neither of them spoke for some time.
“You won’t tell any one,” David said.
“No, of course not.” Ralph’s tone was indignant. Then the schoolboy in
him found expression. “Blatch and Manners will be all broken up. I bet
they soak it to the fellows in Latin and mathematics when they learn.
They’ll just have to take it out on somebody.”
“You don’t sound very sympathetic with them.”
“Well, it seems ridiculous to think of them or anybody else imagining
that they had a chance when there was Wallace!”
“Yes,” said David, “it does seem ridiculous.”
He spoke gayly, and in truth there was nothing but unselfish gladness
in his heart. A year ago such a discovery as he had just made might
have occasioned other emotions. But it was all right now; it was all
just as it should be. Lester was a mighty lucky fellow, and when you
came right down to it, David loyally added, Ruth Davenport was a mighty
lucky girl.