XV

Scarcely a day went by now without Tom's tracing his steps to the Norris

house. He seldom bothered any more with the formality of the door: going

around to the terrace side, he walked into the drawing-room unannounced.

If no one was at home, he sat down with a magazine or book in the

library or drummed at the piano. Then, possibly, he would go before

anyone arrived; but the house which was so friendly to him and so full

of Nancy, was far dearer to him than her own, for Henry's hostility was

too marked to make his visits there other than difficult.

So it was that he came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Norris, Mary, and Nancy

when he walked into the library on the day following the race; and then

he regretted his free and easy entrance. For Mary was in tears and was

receiving the comfort of her mother and friend. Tom backed hurriedly

out, muttering an inarticulate apology and cursing himself for an

awkward fool. Mary saw him, however, and with a sob brushed past him in

the hall and went upstairs. Her mother who swept after her like a large

and stately galleon in her black silk dress, was more troubled than he

had ever seen her. Still, as she passed, she told him not to mind. And

then he was alone with Nancy.

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked. Nancy, too, was thoroughly

upset.

"Just look at that," she said, and pointed to an article in a New York

evening paper. "Woodbridge Professor Drowns," ran the headlines.

"Overtaken by Cramps After Eating Cherries and Milk." It appeared that

Professor Furbush had defied the popular fear of the fatal combination

and, in order to make his defiance complete, had promptly gone in

swimming after eating it. The tragedy had occurred at the country house

of relatives; and though a number of people were present, they took his

cries for help as a joke until it was too late. The account went on to

explain that it was more sad even than it might at first appear, for it

was generally supposed that the dead man had been engaged to marry Miss

Mary Norris, daughter of the Acting President of Woodbridge.

"Why, isn't that dreadful," said Tom. It is always a little hard to know

what should be said in such circumstances. If the one who has just died

is close to us, we don't think about what to say at all, but if it is

only an acquaintance and we are merely a little thrilled by his going,

it is difficult; for decency requires a solemn look and a shocked word.

So Tom did what he could to be decent; and Nancy, who was staring with

half averted face out upon the garden, made no reply. She, of course,

knew all the secrets of Mary's heart and must be sharing her sorrow.

Accordingly, any words from him, other than sympathetic ones for Mary's

loss, would be untimely. Perhaps, even, she would insist upon remaining

in sisterly spinsterhood! "It's awfully tough, isn't it," Tom added.

"Yes," said Nancy, somewhat faintly, from the curtains. Nancy seemed

very much upset. Tom knew that Furbush had been a frequent visitor at

her house, and probably she had grown fond of him. He was not at all

aware, however, that Furbush's affair with Mary had progressed so far.

He could not picture Furbush marrying Mary--or anyone else, for that

matter--and he doubted whether Furbush would have married her. Still, it

appeared that Mary had cared for him, and now her little romance was

over.

"It's awfully hard on Mary, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Furbush was gone. Who would take his place? His place, an Assistant

Professorship--there was now a vacancy! A flood of excitement swept

through him. But how foolish to expect that it would fall to him. He had

taught but one year, and he was only twenty-five. People still spoke of

Harry Spear's having been given his Assistant Professorship at the end

of three years as a record-breaking performance. He knew perfectly well,

furthermore, that he had not made a startling success of it; not the

kind of success that makes a man jump from a Captaincy to a

Brigadiership. Still, he thought he stood quite as well as the other

young instructors in the department; and his "outside connections" were

considerably better. After all, a man's career in college counted for

something. And so, although he knew that the thing was impossible and

that what they would do would be to go outside for an older man, he

luxuriated for a moment in the picture of the Dean congratulating him on

his success. An Assistant Professorship and Nancy! The two were linked

in his mind as the sum-total of desire; and since he could think of

Nancy without thinking of the Assistant Professorship, but could not

think of the Professorship without thinking of Nancy, it is to be

supposed that Nancy came first.

And there she was now, over by the window, painfully aware of the garden

and fidgeting ever so little with the curtain. Perhaps this might not be

such a bad time to repeat his question, after all. Had she not of her

own free will come to the Norris house, at which she knew that he was

almost a daily visitor? There was in that something to give him heart.

As if he hadn't enough evidence without it!

"You will admit, though, Nancy, that it was an awfully stupid thing for

him to eat the cherries and milk, won't you? Everyone knows that it

can't be done." Tom moved over nearer to her, but she did not answer

him. Instead, she fixed her eyes steadily on the bulging root of an elm

in the garden. She must concentrate everything on that to keep from

being an utter fool. But what an hour it had been! First the dreadful

news about Furbush and that thing in the paper, and then Tom's

unexpected entrance. How wonderful he looked as he came into the room;

he had been so self-possessed, and she should have been such a ninny in

his place!

Tom took a step nearer. "Nancy," he said very tenderly.

The root was waving now; it _would_ become indistinct. How gentle he

was, and how different from Henry! "Nancy!" he repeated. Then the root

became altogether blurred and meaningless, and she felt him take her in

his arms and kiss her. "Darling Nancy," he was saying; and, somehow, to

her great relief, she found an apparently adequate reply.

* * * * *

It was decided that a long engagement was altogether unnecessary, a

decision which was without repeal, in view of the absence of parental

supervision. Why waste the perfectly good summer? Why indeed? And so the

wedding was set for a few days after Commencement.

"That will give me just about enough time to get ready," said Nancy,

"and I really think you must get a new cutaway."

Then at last Commencement was over. The electricians bore away for

another year the last of the class numeral signs which had hung from

their respective Headquarters. The Headquarters themselves had been

swept and cleaned and restored to their owners, and one by one the

dwellers, in Tutors' Lane prepared to board up their houses for the

summer and depart for the mountains or for the shore.

The wedding alone kept most of them in Woodbridge. Few there were that

had not some pleasant memory of Nancy, and the sacrifice of a day or two

of vacation was counted as little. Furbush's dramatic end had held the

centre of the Woodbridge stage, but it was now forced into the

background by the question: Was Tom good enough for Nancy? It was

generally agreed that he was getting the best of it, but not many

thought that she was altogether throwing herself away upon him. Nancy

might have married anyone, it was pointed out, and having had so much

responsibility, she could have graced the board of a much older man.

Instead, she had chosen a young instructor--a pleasant enough boy,

perhaps but still unproved. Well, Nancy would make the most of him,

there was no question of that, and of course he was a great friend of

the Norrises and it was known that Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee herself

approved of the match. So they would hope for the best, and Nancy was a

dear girl.

Tom was in perfect accord with the last sentiment, and it will perhaps

be charitable to draw a veil over his behaviour at this time. Such names

as "Mrs. Mouse" and "Boofly Woofly" are all very well when whispered

teasingly into the delighted ear of one's intended, but they hardly

stand the light of unromantic day. They have even been known to set up

opposing currents of emotion in breasts not so nicely attuned, and to

inspire such expressions as "Fish!" or even "Blat!" It may well be a

considerate office, therefore, not to submit our lovers to the graceless

manners of the unsympathetic, but to let them enjoy their artless

passages unmolested.

One of these, alone, might be risked. Nancy had confidingly told him

that she had all the faith in the world in his future, and he heard her

gratefully. "Why, the way you talked to those men at the mill shows

clearly enough what you can do," she said.

Tom coloured slightly, but let the moment pass without explanation. When

he had first done so it was with the mental reservation that he would

laughingly explain it some day, and he would, too, but it wasn't yet

just the right time. So he stooped and kissed her affectionately; and

then, as he was hatless at the time, she was reminded of something she

had long wanted to tell him.

"If you don't look out, Tom, you will be perfectly bald in five years."

"Well, I've done everything I can, and----"

"Now, all you have to do is to brush it five minutes in the morning and

five minutes at night."

"Ten minutes a day! I should be exhausted."

"Well, I shall do it for you, then." Whereupon the scene acquired an

excess of sentiment at once.

Certain more mundane passages may be observed, however, without any

particular offence.

The passages that took place around the opening of the wedding presents

were possibly as diverting as any. Tom, whose mind's eye was ever upon

the little colonial house in Tutors' Lane, now his property, was perhaps

more concerned than most grooms are in the furnishing of his nest. He

found himself greatly elated when he or his bride would draw forth some

shining prize of a silver bowl or plate--until they began getting too

many of them--and correspondingly depressed when some many-coloured

glass lamp or strange dish would appear. What on earth could they do

with them? Dear old Mrs. Conover, for example, sent a large Bohemian

glass jar of a peacock-eyes pattern. It would have to be on view when

she called, and as they had no way of knowing when that would be, it had

to be on view all the time.

From Omaha came an ominous package which made Tom shudder. Would his

sister contrive to mortify him? He could picture her pleasure in doing

so, and when the package was opened and out came two china parrots, Tom

thought the pleasure was hers. A note which came with the birds

explained that they were very fashionable in Omaha at the time and that

all Omaha had them on its dinner table. To Tom, his sister's gift and

note could hardly have been worse, but Nancy kissed him and told him not

to be stupid, that the parrots were nice; and Tom was so flustered he

couldn't tell whether they were or not. At any rate, Nancy wrote a

charming, sisterly little note, and Tom was more pleased with his future

than ever.

The silver tea service which arrived early from Mrs. Robert

Lee-Satterlee was among the grandest presents that Nancy received from

outside the family. She was particularly grateful for it, since it

enabled her to leave her mother's with Henry and thus avoid a discussion

which would have been unendurable at the time. It was true that Henry's

wife had had a tea service herself and that it was now his; but it was

not so fine as the Whitman one, and Henry would have regarded its

removal with a jaundiced eye. His wife's silver, however, was quite a

bit more handsome than the family silver, and he relinquished the latter

with a gesture so graceful that any further donation of property to the

hymeneal happiness seemed almost fulsome. Still he did make a further

contribution--a costly set of John Stuart Mill.

A few days after she announced her engagement Nancy was waited upon by

the Misses Forbes. Their mission was one of obvious importance, for they

seldom moved out of their warm little house, excepting, of course, Miss

Jennie, who was quite indifferent to the outside and marched forth

almost without a thought. They wore, furthermore, a serious

demeanour--even Miss Jennie, whose assumption of a cavalier manner

didn't quite hide her excitement. She was carrying a small parcel neatly

done up in white tissue paper; and when, after a period of rocking, she

launched upon the little speech she had prepared, her liver-spotted old

hands opened and closed over it. "You must know, my dear," she said,

"that we are going to miss you very much. Of course, you are not really

going away"--the little colonial house was in truth only a quarter of a

mile farther from their house than Nancy's present one--"yet it can't be

quite the same, and we want to mark your going with our love and best

wishes. So we have brought you the Burnham lace for you to keep and hand

down to your children, and may God bless you, my dear, and keep you."

Then they all had a quiet turn at their handkerchiefs, and the Burnham

lace passed into the House of Reynolds.

Leofwin also called and delivered his gift in person. Tom was

fortunately in the room at the time, and the somewhat painful scene was

not protracted. It was the first meeting they had had since Leofwin had

offered his hand and been rejected, and even Leofwin was constrained.

Nancy wondered if Elfrida were to have her trip to Italy, but she could

not put the question without appearing unmaidenly since she knew so well

the only condition of the trip; and as Woodbridge had not many girls

that were eligible for Leofwin's love, the prospect was indeed black.

"Your happiness is all I ask," he said in a low tone, and, despite the

theatrical diction, even Tom was touched by his sincerity. "You know, of

course," he went on, "that I am not in a position now to make an

adequate expression of my wishes"--it _was_ rather affecting even though

nobody present quite knew what he meant--"but I have brought you the

best I have. It is of small material value, but its sentimental value

is great. I did all my best work with it." Whereupon he handed her a

paint brush.

With considerable of a to-do, Mrs. Norris announced the gift of a

grandfather's clock. "There is no use, Nancy dear, in dragging it around

from house to house, and I'm having it sent to your new one."

Accordingly, when the expressman announced its arrival everyone

proceeded to the little colonial house in Tutors' Lane. Then

difficulties arose. To begin with, it was too tall for any room in the

house; and after a great deal of staggering around with it, trying it

first in this place and then in that, a gorgeous wooden plume which

stuck up from its head had to be removed. Then it was discovered that

there were no works in it, Mrs. Norris having bought only the case,

supposing of course that the thing was complete. When finally the parts

had all been assembled and adjusted--which was in the second year of

Tom's and Nancy's married life--it was learned that the ways of the

clock were nearly as eccentric as those of its donor, for when it went

at all, the hands made the downward journey with so much rapidity that

they were exhausted at the bottom and in no condition for the return

trip. The end came one morning when the clock, which was known as "Aunt

Helen," was discovered to have died at six-thirty; and, all horological

assistance having been summoned in vain, it was suffered to stand in its

corner, untouched except by dust cloths, its hands forever pointing at

six-thirty, an eloquent warning of the end of indolence.

Although perhaps Mrs. Norris's contribution to the future life of our

lovers was not distinguished by that perfect satisfaction which we all

strive to furnish with our wedding gifts, her services at the wedding

itself were invaluable. Nancy naturally turned to her for assistance

with the thousand and one preliminaries that the bride's mother usually

performs, and, moving in her own wondrous ways, Mrs. Norris saw to

everything.

The night before the wedding arrived, and she gave a dinner for the

bridal party. As, after considerable discussion, Nancy had consented to

have the reception at the Norris house, Mrs. Norris relieved the minds

of her people in the kitchen by having a buffet supper--and using paper

napkins.

Nancy was grateful for this, for she was extremely tired, and the

simpler everything could be, the better. So the supper was eaten all

over the house and out on the terrace, and when the last paper napkin

had been crumpled up, and the entire party had been brought together to

drink the bride's health, and her future husband's, and their mutual

healths, in the Dean's 1854 champagne, the party was whisked off up to

the college church for rehearsal.

Upon arriving there, Nancy being engaged momentarily with Mary, who had

heroically consented to be her maid of honour, Tom stole away by

himself. Before the church the ridge sloped gently away, giving an

unobstructed view of the valley. The evening was a perfect one, and Tom

enjoyed one of those rare moments when one feels in complete accord with

everything. All around him were the sights and sounds of bucolic

tranquillity; and within, apart from the comfortable effects of the

Dean's wine and cigar, were such melting thoughts as we may only guess

at. Life was now just beginning for him--and how good it was!

The sun died in ever darkening carmine. Tom flicked the ash from his

cigar and held it up against the light. It matched perfectly. A long

zeppelin-like cloud hung, apparently motionless, a little higher up. Tom

moved his cigar up to it and cocked one eye. Again perfect harmony. But,

even as he looked, the cloud thinned out at one end and spoiled it a

little. Oh, well, it was perfect, anyway.

Behind him came the strains of the church organ and the voices of the

bridal party. They were calling him. He paused deliciously, drinking in

the last moments of his freedom. And then, throwing away his cigar, he

passed quickly up the hill and into the lighted church.

* * * * *

_NEW BORZOI NOVELS_

_FALL, 1922_

THE QUEST

_Pio Baroja_

THE ROOM

_G. B. Stern_

ONE OF OURS

_Willa Cather_

MARY LEE

_Geoffrey Dennis_

THE PROMISED ISLE

_Laurids Bruun_

THE RETURN

_Walter de la Mare_

THE BRIGHT SHAWL

_Joseph Hergesheimer_

THE MOTH DECIDES

_Edward Alden Jewell_

INDIAN SUMMER

_Emily Grant Hutchings_

+------------------------------------------------------------+

|Transcriber's Note: |

|The book title on the cover shows "Tutor's", while inside is|

|"Tutors'"; and whereas "Woodbridge Center" is spelled thus, |

|the alternative spelling "centre" is used elsewhere. |

+------------------------------------------------------------+