"Well, Bob was here last night and he said he saw you through the
window. He told us how you got them all around you and how you might
have been talking about anything." She was wholly admiring.
"Oh, I just talked to them," he said. "I never could have gotten away
with anything formal."
"Isn't it funny? I used to think that teaching must be the easiest thing
in the world. I used to imagine myself lecturing to the whole college,
but I can appreciate now what you and Henry are doing."
Tom was anxious to have the conversation move upon firmer ground. He was
also in the dark as to what the next move in the campaign was to be.
Was it to be abandoned, or were they to try and carry on? The latter
possibility seemed too fearful. How could he go into that room again?
But one must proceed cautiously. It would never do, for example, to come
out and treat the whole thing as a distinctly juvenile performance,
something they had quite outgrown, until it was clear that they had
outgrown it. Again, now was not the time to explain the real nature of
his lecture. He could do that when the whole thing had become an
amusing memory. "What are we going to do about Mr. Sprig?" asked Tom
vaguely.
"You mean are we going to keep on with the lectures?"
"Well, yes."
"What do you think? Last night I was so sick about the whole thing that
I was ready to give it all up, but now I wonder if it isn't our duty to
give it one more trial." Her words were disappointing, but the
dispirited tone in which she said them was cheering, and Tom made so
bold as to sing the lately revived "Duty, duty must be done, the rule
applies to everyone, and painful though the duty be, to shirk the task
were fiddle-dee-dee..."; a happy impulse, for when Henry arrived from
his five o'clock he found Tom at the piano and Nancy sitting by him, the
one in the role of the Mikado of Japan and the other as his
daughter-in-law-elect.
When, however, on the following Tuesday they again climbed down from the
fourth floor of the Whitman building, the light had indeed gone out of
the undertaking. Mr. Sprig's subject, the digestive and excretory
tracts, had not been a propitious one for so critical a time. Leofwin,
who had invited himself along, had been captivated by the decorative
possibilities of the alimentary canal and had led the discussion
following the lecture with a vigour and thoroughness trying for those
unfamiliar with an artist's training. "Don't you think it might be fun
to trace something all the way from the initial bite down?" he asked.
"Let's take an olive, a green olive. 'Back to Nature by A. Green Olive:
A Drama in Six Acts and any Number of Scenes.'"
Tom was looking intently at the diagrams on the walls. At musical
comedies and the movies, when embarrassing situations arose, one was, in
a measure, prepared. The darkness, too, helped, and one could stare
straight ahead until the relief, which was rarely long in coming,
arrived. There was, finally, the comfort of numbers. But now they were
only two--the artist and the scientist being immune to shame. It was,
furthermore, extremely bright, everybody was out in the open, and
although the amateurs had come prepared for a momentary brush with a
bowel or two, they had no reason to expect a prolonged causerie upon
even more intimate matters. Tom was, accordingly, hot with
embarrassment, and he had reason to believe that Nancy was also.
As Leofwin rattled on, with frankness ever more Elizabethan, Tom glanced
at Nancy. She was examining the point of her pencil with as elaborate an
interest as he had ever seen shown in any object. It seemed an
altogether remarkable affair; but then, apparently, so was the eraser.
They were complementary. A line could be made by the point, a delicate,
straight line; and then, reversing the pencil, the line could be taken
out by the eraser. The thing was complete.
Tom became angry. What right had that great calf to subject Nancy to
such an ordeal? He turned to her and said without lowering his voice,
"This is rather dull, don't you think? Let's go out and see the hens."
They went out, but couldn't very well see the hens, since they had no
candle and were above deceiving them with the porch light. Accordingly,
they stepped back into the little hallway that led to the library. To go
on into the library was to expose themselves again to the mortification
of the physiological vagaries of Leofwin. So they just stood in the
little hallway. And then, they laughed.
The relief of a thunderstorm on a stifling day is proverbial, as is the
relief of finding one's handkerchief just before one sneezes; but what
are these compared with the flooding joy that comes with release from an
embarrassing situation with a young lady? The effect upon Tom was to
make him excited; more so, perhaps, than he had ever been. It was the
same swelling, throbbing excitement he had felt when, waiting in his
room on the afternoon of his Election Day, he realized by the shouting
of the crowd below that his election was coming.
Nancy was really wonderful. From being curious about her, he had been
swept into the Problem of Living with which he had found her somewhat
pathetically struggling. It had absorbed him in the brief time that he
had encountered it; and now that her first attempt at a solution had
ended in ridiculous failure, she immediately rose above it in laughter!
And how happy was the cause of their laughter, after all. An experience
such as the one they had just come through must make or break a
friendship. Their relationship could not remain the same; and with their
laughter they had sealed the new bond.
They said little as they strolled home, alone, in the clear night. It
had in it the first suggestion of spring; and neither, apparently, found
need to hurry.
"Bob will have to straighten it out at the Mill," said Nancy, "and I
shall write Mr. Sprig. I think we ought to send him something, don't
you?"
They had come to the Whitman gate. It was a high wooden structure,
connected at the top, and in the spring it was covered with roses. The
fanlight in the old doorway shone down the brick walk and touched
Nancy's hair.
"Of course we must."
They shook hands and bade each other good night. And then, as Nancy
turned from him and went up the lighted walk and into the house, Tom
knew without any particular surprise and quite without a rising
temperature, that he loved her.
X
Nancy emerged from her social service work with the feeling that she had
added several chapters to the store of her experience. The sheep-like
expression that covered the composite face of her group had brought home
to her the ineffectiveness of her plan. One couldn't, it was clear, go
down among the masses, no matter how thoughtfully dressed, with only an
equipment of good will, and hope to do them much good. Nor was she, she
now suspected, the person to attempt such a career. She fancied she saw
inherent weaknesses in her character which would preclude a successful
performance. She had been frightened, rather than inspired, by the women
in that room, particularly by the women of her own age. "What right have
you to come down here with your pearls and your simple gingham dress,"
she felt they were asking, "and get off a lot of this college stuff to
us?" What right indeed? She was convinced, in short, that she had been
embarked upon a hopeless piece of snobbery, and, finding the whole
business distasteful, it had not been difficult to discover her
unfitness.
The time had not been wasted, however. Not only had she satisfied
herself that a career of Uplift was not for her, but she had made a
friend into the bargain. Tom, she decided, had behaved beautifully
through it; and in her humbled state of mind the offence she had taken
at his acting in the charade became all the more odious. What a
mean-minded girl she could be, to be sure; yet how perfectly he had
risen above the situation. He had received her rudeness with an
instinctive fineness that gave freshness to the Biblical admonition
about the other cheek. He had returned good for evil, and in supporting
her through the ordeal of the Uplift Plan he had proved himself a tower
of strength.
Tom and she, a few days after the final lecture, had gone together to
the college book shop and picked out their present for Professor Sprig.
They had dawdled over the shelves, pulling down a book here and another
there, meeting every few minutes to show each other a possibility, and
then putting it back. The thing could, of course, have been done much
more quickly, but neither seemed in a hurry to find the right one, for
they both liked books, and the shop was well-stocked, and the clerks did
not descend like buzzards upon them. They at length selected a
rag-paper, wide-margined copy of Calverley's _Verses and Fly Leaves_ and
laughed at its inappropriateness for the physiologist. Still, they were
confident enough that Mr. Sprig knew his Calverley quite as well as
they, and that another copy would not be a burden. It had been a
delightful two hours, and Nancy, at dinner, began a detailed account of
it.
But Henry was not interested. "It seems to me that you are seeing a
good deal of Tom Reynolds, lately," was all that he said.
And why shouldn't she see a good deal of Tom Reynolds? she asked
herself. There was that in Henry's tone which opened up the old-time
anger. Here he was, questioning her again, this time questioning her
friends. He was questioning Tom!
Had Henry wished to further the young man's chances with his sister to
the best of his ability, he could not have chosen a more effective
method. Tom, who had been doing very well on his own account, was now
made doubly romantic through persecution. Nor do I think Nancy should be
condemned as over-sentimental for feeling so, for if the reader--who
cannot conceivably be thought over-sentimental--examine his own
experience, I dare say he will find a parallel. In any event, Nancy was
in a fair way to discover a tender interest in Tom, if, indeed, she had
not already done so.
But in the meantime, she must be true to herself and live richly. She
had not yet determined what her new work would be, nor should she
determine what it would be until she had considered the matter more
dispassionately than she had the last one. Until the right thing was
apparent, therefore, she would devote herself with more assiduity to the
physical, mental, and spiritual progress of her nephew. After all, what
finer work could there be than the rearing of a first-class American
youth?
Henry had sent his son to Miss West's kindergarten when he was scarcely
four. Harry had not done well at the various cutting and pasting
exercises, but he had been somewhat precocious at reading and was
already advanced into the third reader. His orthographic sense, however,
had not yet unbudded, and it was to the gentle fostering of this, in
particular, that Nancy now committed herself. She also thought it high
time that his musical education should commence, and the services of
Miss Marbury were invoked. Harry, unlike the general run of his fellows,
was wholly charmed with the prospect of playing, and the old piano was
assailed with a diligence reminiscent of the youthful Haendel. So it
happened that Harry was practising in mid-afternoon on the day when
Leofwin Balch called, something over a week after the debacle of Nancy's
social service career.
Nancy, too, was at home and was much surprised and annoyed when her late
assistant appeared. Not the least surprising feature of his call was his
costume. Usually clad with a conspicuous and artistic carelessness, he
was today arrayed like the lilies of the field. He was wearing a morning
coat, faultlessly pressed, and in its buttonhole bloomed a gardenia. He
carried a stick with a gold band around it, his spats were of a light
and wonderful tan, and in his hand, in place of the usual greenish-brown
veteran, he held a grey fedora of precisely the shape and shade worn by
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, on the occasion of that happiest
of events, his recent visit to our country.
"I learned from your chauffeur that you were at home," said Leofwin,
smiling graciously, "but I had no way of knowing that you were alone."
He had actually been spying on her! "Why didn't you call up one of the
maids?" replied Nancy with more asperity than was perhaps becoming in a
hostess.
"Delightful picture," laughed Leofwin, "but as a matter of fact you see
I don't know any of them, what?" and he nodded pleasantly.
Harry, who had progressed to the D scale at his second and latest
lesson, was going over it with all the ardour of first love, and
contributed a tinkly-winkly background which was vaguely disturbing. It
was not near enough, however, to be quite recognizable, and Leofwin
carried on without comment, supposing it to be a kind of funny clock, or
something.
"I called," he continued, "at this odd hour in the hope that I might
find out how you are after our recent attempt to improve the lower
classes." He drew his chair up nearer to Nancy as he spoke, and there
was a tenderness in his tone that alarmed her, particularly in the way
he emphasized "our."
"I am quite well, thank you."
"Oh, but I am glad to hear it," he said.
The fervour of his words was nonsensical, but his intention, alas, was
becoming clear.
"If you will forgive me," he continued, "I shall begin at once upon the
business at hand. We artists, you know, are sometimes accused of being
unbusinesslike. Goodness only knows, I am a mere child at stocks and
bonds and par and all those things, but the underlying essence of
business I rather fancy I have--that is, quickness of perception. Now I
quickly perceive that we are likely to be interrupted here at almost any
minute." He paused and looked about a little wildly. "I do wish we might
have a more secluded nook for our talk." Nancy, however, who was now
prepared for the worst, did not offer more seclusion and her lover
continued. "I wish we had some grotto where I could lead you. I would
have it on the Libyan shore. Overhead would be the azure sky. Before us,
stealing up the golden beach, would be the Mediterranean. What a
colourful scene! Soft breezes would lull you to my mood, and on their
spicy-laden breath would come the notes of faery music."
While preparing for this call Leofwin had laboured over that conceit
with all the diligence at his command; perhaps too diligently, for even
he, had he not been blinded by zeal, might have seen that it was
something too ornate to appeal to a rather practical young lady of
twenty-five. It was much too ornate, that is certain; and it alone would
have made him absurd had not fate joined forces against him and at
precisely this point prompted Harry, who was for once impatient with his
progress, to try to reproduce the larger music coursing through his
soul. This he did by striking out wildly upon the keys in all
directions; and at the same time the faithful Clarence, slumberingly
waiting for his master's return to earthly matters, burst into full
cry.
"Good gracious, what is that?" cried Leofwin.
Nancy sped to the door of the music room, while strange and crashing
harmonies rang through the house. "Stop, Harry. Stop that dreadful
noise. You mustn't do that. Some one is calling on me. I think you had
better go out and play, anyway."
"Oh, please, Auntie, please let me play the scales some more. Just for
fifteen minutes."
It would have taken a heart of flint to withstand such pleading. Nancy
left the musician and went boldly back to her visitor.
Leofwin was plainly annoyed by the interruption. He should now have to
start all over again, and starting was difficult. As Nancy reappeared,
however, the clouds rolled from his brow.
"Is everything quite all right?" he asked solicitously.
"Quite all right, thank you."
"Well, in speaking just now of the Libyan grotto, I think I probably
suggested the theme of my visit to you this afternoon. I confess, I am a
passionate man. Things of the senses appeal to me more than to most; it
is, of course, the artist within me. I am like a mountain torrent or the
beetling crest of an ocean comber rushing, full-bodied, down
upon--upon--the floor." He came to a full stop and stared with pursed
lips at the object of his love, sitting unhappily before him. What the
devil _do_ mountain torrents and ocean combers rush down upon? Nothing
as domestic, surely, as a floor. The thing was unhappily met.
"Please, Mr. Balch," said Nancy, rising, "please don't go any further. I
really can't listen to you."
"Nancy," he cried, attempting to seize her hand. "I must call you
'Nancy.' I must call you more than that. With you by my side there will
be nothing I cannot do. I shall make your name ring down the ages--like
Madame Recamier, or--or, Mona Lisa. I already have planned a piece for
us. You are to be Miranda, and I shall be Ferdinand. You are just
emerging from your bath, and I am peering through the bushes at you----"
The picture was such a dreadful one that Nancy could endure the
situation no longer. From being anxious to let him down as easily as
possible--for he was, after all, paying her a compliment--she wished the
scene over at any cost. He was making the most holy of moments a
travesty. She felt amazingly self-possessed.
"I appreciate the honour of your intention, Mr. Balch"--the language was
that of Jane Austen, whom she had just been reading--"but I cannot allow
it to go on. In fact," she hastened to add, for he showed signs of going
on, "I shall have to ask you to go."
The D scale, laboriously achieved, floated in from the music room.
Leofwin turned away and Nancy, standing aside for him, was dismayed to
note that his little eyes were filled with sorrow and disappointment.
"It is true," he said, "that I have for some time wanted you for myself,
but of late another reason has been urging me on. If it hadn't been for
it, I don't think I could have come to you. You see, it is my sister.
She has set her heart upon a trip abroad; not an ordinary touristy trip,
you know, but a real one--to Italy. We have now only enough money for
one to go--I gladly resigned it to her--but she does not feel that she
can leave me alone. If only you could have--but there, my dear, I'll not
go on."
Nancy was a little disconcerted by this sudden turn. The situation had
become almost impersonal. "I'm sorry," she said. She wished that she
could have thought of a better remark--a better one came in the night,
when she was going over the whole affair--but he seemed grateful even
for that.
"Thank you," he said. "But Elfrida will be so disappointed. You simply
can't imagine how this will spoil all her plans. But perhaps you will
let me try again some time?"
Harry was following his right hand with his left, an octave lower, with
almost no success.
"No, I am afraid not," said Nancy as they stood in the doorway. She
softened her words, however, by holding out her hand.
"Good-bye," he replied, gently taking it; and then, following the
Continental custom, he stooped and kissed it, much to the amusement of
two undergraduates who were at the time passing down Tutors' Lane.