Elim Meikeljohn laid before him a small docket of foolscap folded
lengthwise, each section separately indorsed in pale flowery ink, with a
feminine name, a class number and date. They were the weekly themes of
a polite Young Ladies' Academy in Richmond, sent regularly north for the
impressive opinion of a member of Elim's college faculty. The professor
of philosophy and letters had undertaken the task primarily; but, with
the multiplication of his duties, he had turned the essays over to Elim,
whose careful judgments had been sufficiently imposing to secure for him
a slight additional income.
He sat for a moment regarding the papers with a frown; then, with a
sudden movement, he went over the names that headed each paper. Two he
laid aside. They bore above their dates in March, eighteen sixty-one,
the name Rosemary Roselle.
He picked one up tentatively. It was called A Letter. Elim opened it
and regarded its tenuous violet script. Then, with an expression of
augmented determination, he folded it again and placed it with its
fellow at the bottom of the heap. He firmly attacked the topmost theme.
He read it slowly, made a penciled note in a small precise hand on
its margin, folded it once more and marked it with a C minus. He went
carefully through the pile, jotting occasional comments, judging the
results with A, B or C, plus or minus. Finally only the two he had
placed at the bottom remained.
Elim took one up again, gazing at it severely. He wondered what Rosemary
Roselle had written about--in her absurd English--this time. As he
looked at the theme's exterior, his attention shifted from the paper
to himself, his conscience towered darkly above him, demanding a
condemnatory examination of his feelings and impulses.
Had he not begun to look for, to desire, those essays from a doubtless
erroneous and light young woman? Had he not even, on a former like
occasion, awarded her effort with a B minus, when it was questionable
if she should have had a C plus? Had his conduct not been dishonest,
frivolous and wholly reprehensible? To all these inexorable accusations
he was forced to confess himself guilty. He had undoubtedly, only a few
minutes before, looked almost impatiently for something from Rosemary
Roselle. Beyond cavil she should have had an unadorned C last month. And
these easily proved him a broken reed.
He must at once take himself in hand, flames were reaching hungrily for
him from the pit of eternal torment. In a little more he would be damned
beyond any redemption. He was married ... shame! His thoughts turned to
Hester, his wife for nine and more years.
Her father's farm lay next to the Meikeljohns'; the two places formed
practically one convenient whole; and when Elim had been no more than a
child, Meikeljohn Senior and Hester's parents had solemnly agreed upon a
mutually satisfactory marriage. Hester had always been a thin pale slip
of a girl, locally famous for her memory and grasp of the Scriptures;
but it was only at her fourteenth year that her health began perceptibly
to fail, at the same time that a succession of material mischances
overwhelmed her family. Finally, borne down to actual privation, her
father decided to remove to another section and opportunity. He sold his
place for a fraction more than the elder Meikeljohn could pay ... but
there was Hester, now an invalid; and there was the agreement that
Meikeljohn had made when it had seemed to his advantage. The latter was
a rigidly upright man--he accepted for his son the responsibility he
himself had assumed, and Hester was left behind. Space in the
Meikeljohn household was valuable, the invalid presented many practical
difficulties, and, with the solemn concurrence of the elders of their
church, Elim--something short of seventeen but a grave mature-seeming
boy--and Hester were married.
The winter of his marriage Elim departed for college--his father was
a just man, who had felt obscurely that some reparation was due Elim;
education was the greatest privilege of which Meikeljohn could conceive,
so, at sacrifices that all grimly accepted, Elim was sent to Cambridge.
There, when he had been graduated, he remained--there were already more
at the Meikeljohn home than their labor warranted--assistant to the
professor of philosophy and letters.
Elim again opened the paper before him and spread it severely on the
table. The supposititious letter, “Two, Linden Row,” opened in proper
form and spelling, addressed to “Dearest Elizabeth.” Its progress,
however, soon wabbled, its periods degenerated into a confusion. It
endeavored to be casual, easy, but he judged it merely trivial. At
one paragraph, despite his resolution of critical impersonality, his
interest deepened:
“On Thursday we have to have ready a Theme to send off to Harvard.
Of course, every Thursday morning We, with one accord, begin to make
excuses. Well, the Dread Day rolls around to-morrow, and consequently
I am deep in the Slough of Despond. My only consolation is that our
Geniuses can't write regularly, but then the mood to write never
possesses me.... This week, in writing a comparison between Hamlet and
Antonio, I did succeed in jotting down something, but unfortunately I
found that I had said the same many times before, only about different
heroes. My tale of Woe----”
Elim once more took himself firmly in hand; he folded the paper
and sharply indorsed it with a C minus. Afterward he felt decidedly
uncomfortable. He wondered if Rosemary Roselle would be made unhappy by
the low marking? Probably she wouldn't care; probably all that occupied
her mind were dress and company. Possibly she danced--light, godless.
The haze within deepened; he could see through the window the tops of
the maples--they held a green sheen as if in promise of the leaves to
follow. The robin whistled faint and clear.
Possibly she danced. Carried away on the gracious flood of the
afternoon, he wondered what Rosemary Roselle looked like. He was certain
that she was pretty--her writing had the unconscious assurance of a
personable being. Well, he would never know.... Rosemary Roselle--the
name had a trick of hanging in the memory; it was astonishingly easy to
repeat. He tried it aloud, speaking with a sudden emphasis that startled
him. The name came back to him from the bare walls of his room like an
appeal. Something within him stirred sharp as a knife. He rose with a
deep breath, confused, as if some one else, unseen, had unexpectedly
spoken.