He had done it hard because he did everything hard. It had lasted
several days and ended in a hospital in West Philadelphia, where he
had three stitches put in his forehead. Now he was back in his old
room in West College, with a pipe in his mouth, drumming on the arms
of his chair and staring straight at his feet, which were upon the
roller-top desk. Dark rings were under his eyes and he told himself
that he had had a good time.
He was thinking that it was quite a storybook coincidence that they
should have come together, those two letters. They were so different
and yet so much the complement of each other.
The first was from his father. He had torn it open with his pen, as he
would any other letter, and though he saw that it was several pages in
length and knew intuitively that it would not be like any other letter
he had ever read, he had deliberately rolled up the envelope to get a
light for his pipe from the fire, and he had stretched out in the
chair again as he was before, with his legs sprawled out in front and
elbows resting on the arms, holding the letter before his face.
Then he had commenced to smoke very hard, and presently stopped
rocking back and forth as he read the words written in that clear,
even hand, without a flourish or a superfluous mark, words that had
caused him to gnaw the mouth-piece of his pipe as they burned their
way into him. And all the while he pictured to himself a tall figure
in a smoking-jacket trimmed with white braid sitting up straight and
rigid at his desk in the corner of the cosey inner room of the office
in William Street, and recalled how once, when an absconding clerk had
left a temporary cloud on the name of the firm, the old, steely eyes
had flashed under the lowering brows as the old gentleman had taken
his seat at the breakfast-table, where he ate nothing.
The letter sounded very like the governor. There was no mistaking its
meaning. It was a succinct and comprehensive report of dissatisfaction
at the younger Lawrence's methods, with a list of debts of filial
affection and memoranda of overdraws on parental patience covering the
last three years, and accompanied by a brief prospectus for the
unpromising future. It was the sort of a letter he would have fancied
a stately old gentleman like his father that was proud of his name
writing to a son like himself that had disgraced it.
Only it would have been just as well, Lawrence thought, to have
omitted that part of the letter. He was quite willing to admit most of
the hard things his father said of him because they were facts, but
this about dishonorable cowardice and the family name was going a
little too far, and he told himself that he did not quite see how he
could stand that from anyone. And he sat up straight and pressed hard
on the arms of his chair and looked very like the indignant old
Colonel who had written the words.
It was uncalled for, it was unjust, it was ridiculous. If his father
would stop to think of things as they really were in this world,
thought Lawrence, Ninety Blank, these little shortcomings of his would
not appear a bit worse than those of some of the very same young men
in town whose industry and clean business ability the Colonel so much
admired, and whom he spoke of as the hope or flower or something of
Manhattan's commercial supremacy or something.
It was merely that he happened to be indiscreet the last time he was
having a good time. He had made a little too much noise, and the echo
had reached a number of people in town. That was all. It was hard
luck, but it did not amount to enough to become dramatic over. Merely
because his great-grandfather did something and his grandfather was
something was no reason, as far as he could see, why the Lawrences
should have unique moral standards. The governor was certainly getting
old.
Then he had carefully arranged the leaves of the letter in order,
mechanically folded and put them in a pigeon-hole of the desk, and
opened and spread out the other letter before him. But he did so
unconsciously, for he was staring straight out ahead of him into the
face of the future, which had expressionless features. His father had
concluded with "Signify to me at once your intention of a complete
change in your career, or, notwithstanding your nearness to
graduation, I shall take you out of college and put you at work in Van
Brunt's." That is not the way a boy likes to be written to.
"Oh, no, I don't think I'd do all that if I were you." He could not
abide his father's tone when he spoke of _taking_ him out of college
or _putting_ him at work, or doing anything with him. He was still
young enough not to fancy being considered young.
And then the actuality of the situation occurred to him, and he was
reminded that although twenty-one he had not a cent of his own, and
that there was no place in the world to go to or a thing that he could
do to make money enough to even pay his debts.
"Picture of a young man taken out of college because he is bad." He
smiled broadly at himself in the glass over the mantelpiece. But it
wasn't very funny.
And it was at this point that he dropped his eyes to read his father's
words once more, and was startled for an instant to see a strange
handwriting, and then remembered the other letter. He was again
startled by the first words that met his glance. "Haven't you had
enough of college?" At the top of the paper was the name of a La Salle
Street, Chicago, firm. It was not so very queer after all. It was only
that it was so startlingly apropos. He read the letter in eager gulps.
Then he read it again.
It was from his friend Clark, who had been so kind to him when he was
out there. And now he was still more kind. It was singular that the
offer should come just now, on that very day, at that very hour. He
would wire back his acceptance that afternoon. "Now, of course, it is
too bad to make you stop in the middle of your last year," the letter
ran, "but we can't hold it open after the first of January. I know
what a big concession you consider it for a New Yorker to come to
Chicago, but you know better than to be prejudiced. You know the crowd
you'll blow with and the clubs you'll be in, and as the situation is
something extraordinary to be offered to so young a man, I hope you'll
wire me your acceptance at once. The mature judgment you showed in
conducting...." These words came to his heated brain like a cool
lake-breeze. This was what he wanted more than anything else in the
world just now, to get away from his present surroundings, and to
start anew, where he would be his own master, making his own money and
disposing of it as it suited him, and responsible to no one for the
use he made of it or his time. He wanted to be free.
The bell in Old North broke in on him. He looked at the clock on the
mantelpiece, and was surprised to see that it was only four, and that
it must have been but a half hour since he received those two letters.
Then he remembered that he had a lecture at that hour. It made him
smile to think of it.
But, it occurred to him, it would be a right good idea to go--he would
be going to few enough more--anything to get out of the close
atmosphere of the room and interrupt the current of his thought. For
his thoughts were chasing each other about in a circle, and they would
not stop, although he pressed his forehead with both hands, as he used
to do during the football season. Lately his brain had taken to
behaving in a very queer manner, and a fellow he knew at the College
of Physicians and Surgeons had told him that if he did not stop
worrying about things he would have neurasthenia or something as ugly
sounding as that.
As he opened the entry door and stepped out into the open air of the
campus, the old bell began throbbing, clear and strong, in his ears.
It somehow recalled freshman year and how he used to run to reach his
seat before it stopped ringing.
He was in the crowded quadrangle now, with fellows all about him with
books or note-books under their arms, whistling and singing and
hallooing and scraping their feet along the walks just as they had
always done. Over in front of Reunion was the usual crowd kicking
football and squabbling over their points. The side over by College
Offices was shouting exultingly "Nine to seven!" and a fellow on the
side near by was announcing with equal conviction, as he turned the
ball over in his hands to punt, "Eight to seven." Lawrence found
himself saying "Eight to seven," and mechanically watched the ball as
it sailed through the air and lodged up in one of the second-story
balconies, and stopped to listen to them set up the cry, just as he
knew they were going to, "Thank you, up there, please, thank you-u-u!"
It struck him as queer that all this was going on just as it always
had, without a single variation to show that this day was different
from other days. It seemed odd to think that he was not to be a part
of this any more. It somehow seemed more odd than sad. He told himself
that it would be a great relief to fly far away from it all.
Down the walk came a group of his own class-mates, carelessly
slouching along from lecture, laughing and joking, with their arms on
one another's shoulders. It was Linton and Nolan and Stehman and
others. "Hello, there, Harry!" they said and passed on down the walk.
Lawrence turned and watched them. He had replied to their salute in
his usual manner. It had seemed natural and his voice was in perfect
imitation of heartiness, and yet he could not help thinking how little
difference it would make to him if they all fell down dead. The sight
of them bothered, Nolan's bow legs annoyed him. He hoped he would
never see Nolan again. And this was Billy Nolan!
The bell was echoing and re-echoing in his ears, and each stroke
fairly made him jump. The sight of so many people and the knowledge
that there were others behind him were beginning to give him a feeling
of distress. He felt that he could not stand having so many people
press close to him. It was somehow rattling him. Everything he saw
hurt, and he only wanted to get far away from it all. For he told
himself that he hated the campus and its life, and everything that had
to do with it. The very expression of the buildings was offensive to
him. He wanted to upset the wheelbarrow and its sticky contents when
old black Jimmie touched his hat to him, and he felt like kicking two
innocent seminoles that hurried past with quick, conscientious steps
that made their coat-tails flap behind. All of this was nervous
nonsense, and he knew it.
He left the crowded walk and walked over toward the cannon and leaned
against a nearby elm-tree. Then he fixed his gaze steadily upon the
top of the old cannon and tried to think of nothing else. He had
learned to take himself in hand this way during his overworked
football season. "It isn't so bad as all this," he said aloud to
himself. "You are still rocky and your blamed nerves are getting in
their work again. That's all it is. Now, then, hold on. You aren't a
hysterical little school-girl, you know."
In a moment he started on toward Dickinson Hall again. "We are going
to a lecture now," he explained to himself in a whisper, "and we're
going to hear lots of interesting things. We can talk over all those
other matters later on. There's plenty of time, plenty of time."
He took a long, full breath, as though to hold on tight, and threw up
his head and looked squarely into a pair of brown eyes that were
gazing intently at him. It was That Freshman.
He had often wondered why he was constantly running across this same
little freshman with the sensitive mouth and the large, thoughtful
eyes. He did not know his name, but he enjoyed observing from the
patronizing height of a senior an air of delicate refinement in the
features and movements of the boy. Sometimes when in a good humor he
nodded to him. But just now the peculiar wistful gaze breaking in on
him in his tossed-up state of mind seemed eerie. For an instant he had
a feeling of guilty fright, as if caught doing something. And then,
because angry with himself for being startled by a freshman, he
blurted out, in a husky voice, "Oh, what do you want?"
The under-classman blushed and stepped back. He said something
incoherent ending with "Why--er--nothing-- I beg pardon." He attempted
a smile, failed, colored more than ever, dropped his eyes in
embarrassment, and with a sort of shiver turned on his heel.
The senior, with his own harsh voice still echoing in his ear, stood
there with his hands in his pockets watching the younger boy shrinking
before him. Then something inside of him was touched. He felt how
brutally rude he had been, and he wanted to make amends for it. He
felt more than that. He wanted to be kind to this boy with the refined
face; he wanted to be tender toward him, to protect him, or something
queer and wild like that. Though he did not acknowledge it to himself
tears were ready to come to his dark, blood-shot eyes with the dark
rings under them, and he had an impulse to throw his arm about the
freshman's shoulder and say: "You dear little fellow!" Neurasthenia
could account for some of this.
As it was he turned and followed the freshman from the side of the new
bulletin-elm, where this took place, to the corner of the Old North.
Here, hardly realizing what he was doing, he touched his shoulder and
said, in a gruff voice, though he did not mean it to be, "Don't you
want to take a walk?"
But even if he had stopped to think about its being an odd thing to
do, it would have made no difference. He was hardly in a mood for
considering conventionalities.
After awhile he found himself walking with the freshman way out toward
the Prep. school. To the left was the old view of rolling fields and
the gentle hill. Underfoot were the uneven stones of the old walk with
water-puddles in the hollowed-out places. And there beside him walked
the freshman, talking in a natural tone about a fine tennis-player
that he thought was coming to college next year. It was all quite as
if it were an ordinary occurrence.
Lawrence could remember the freshman's look of surprise as they
started across the campus, and he recollected murmuring some apology
for his rudeness by saying that he thought it was someone else at
first. Then he must have started the conversation by asking the
freshman what recitation he had just had. But after that it was all a
blank until now. He was under the impression that he had been nodding
to people, but he could not remember who they were or anything about
them except a big-visored, faded crimson cap that someone had on.
Probably he had been carrying on the conversation automatically with
the freshman, but it must have been all right, for the boy did not
look as though anything strange had happened. But a very great deal
had.
Perhaps it was a sort of hypnotism, though very likely it could be
explained as nothing of the kind, but at any rate from the moment his
thoughts had been stopped with a jerk at meeting the freshman they had
taken a different turn. With the boy at his side and his gentle voice
in his ears Lawrence had begun thinking about another red-cheeked boy
he had known once; and it seemed much more than four years ago. He
felt again the very expression of those old bright days at school when
he took prizes and played on the eleven. He remembered the old field
and how the afternoon sun used to reflect from one of the windows near
by. There came back to him the very odor of the polished desk in the
school-room where he scratched H. L. L., and all the little details of
those dear old days of happy monotony and innocent amusements. He felt
again the old excitement of an approaching vacation. He remembered how
he used to check off the days on the calendar over the mantelpiece,
and he remembered the first trip he took home alone and the blue
serge suit he wore, of which he was so proud, and how he wondered who
would meet him at the station, and best of all, how he used to jump
out of the carriage and run up the steps of home and meet the one that
came out into the hall to meet him. Joyously and innocently he used to
look up into the soft gray eyes that seemed to say, "I am proud of my
boy." But that was a peculiar thing to think of just now. A passage in
his father's letter occurred to him. "Of course I did not, nor shall I
advise your mother of all this"--he had had to turn the page, he
remembered, to find the rest of it--"it would break her heart." "Of
course," he said to himself, hurriedly, "it wouldn't do at all." Then
he thought he did not care to dwell upon old times any more. It was at
this point that he awoke, so to speak, and found himself walking with
this freshman whose name he did not know.
But instead of everything springing back to actuality immediately as
one would suppose, it took some time to hammer things into seeming as
they really were in their proper proportions. It was like trying to
act sober. He began by paying conscious attention to what his young
friend was saying.
After all he was only a freshman. He talked like any other fellow
except that his voice was more gentle, and he had a deferential manner
when addressing him. Though rather young to be in college and of
unusual appearance, there was not enough about him to affect a fellow
in such a queer sentimental way.
And yet he did. To Lawrence he seemed different from everyone else in
the world. He had never experienced this peculiar melting feeling
toward anyone before. What was more, he liked it, and he had no
thought of laughing himself out of it. He had an undefined idea that
it was doing him good. He felt like clinging close to this companion
who was younger and seemed so many times better and purer than
himself.
Then suddenly the senior was struck by something he had not remarked
before. He waited a moment to make sure. Then it came again. There was
no mistaking it this time. The refined voice was dragging in profanity
at absurdly frequent intervals, with every other sentence almost. He
had very likely been doing so all along. And the odd part of this was
that every word of it was making Lawrence wince and shiver like seeing
a respectable woman drunk. It was none of his business. It was all
nonsense. The expletives were not very bad ones anyway. But he did
not care to stand any more of this; and as abruptly as he had proposed
the walk he said: "Oh, excuse me, I have an engagement," and turned
rapidly toward the campus. Perhaps neurasthenia had a hand in this
also.
He did not stop to see how the freshman took it. He did not want to
think of him now. He fairly ran up Nassau Street with a feeling as
though someone was after him. He rushed past the fellows along the
walk and nearly bumped into the three old professors starting off with
the Irish setter for their sedate evening stroll. He was trembling
when he reached his room, and he slammed the door and threw himself
down on the rug before the fire.
He knew something was coming. He knew what it was, too, but he was
going to fight it off as long as he could. He drew the end of the fur
skin up over his head and pressed hard with both hands, as though that
would keep him from thinking of what he did not want to think. Then he
rubbed the back of his hand across his wet brow and tried to sneer the
thing away as he had always been able to do at other times. But this
was not at all like any of the other times, and it would not work.
Besides his nerves were in no shape for a fight of this sort, and he
soon gave up. He let his head fall back against the rug and he lay
there flat on the floor while the aching thoughts came soaking over
him. All this had been accumulating for many days. The freshman had
set it off.
And it was not as if he had only a little to feel sorry over. He could
not even say, "I'm no worse than most fellows," for he had gone quite
far indeed, much farther than anyone in the world, except two or
three, had any idea of, and he had things to remember that very few
older sinners than he would often care to think about. It seemed so
certain to him now, as he lay there breathing hard and staring at the
fire as though expecting it to jump out at him, that these
remembrances were never going to let up on him for a single moment; as
long as he lived, no matter how he might live in the future, these
unforgetable things were, from this time on, to rise up and spoil
every bit of sweetness in life for him.
But that was not what hurt the most. It was just and reasonable that
all that should be as it was. It was the thought of his people at home
that was making him squirm and roll over toward the desk and then back
again toward the fire. What had they done to deserve this? He could
not understand. Aside from all consideration of right and wrong, or
wisdom and folly, he was astounded at the thought of how a fellow
could be so dead, dead unkind. It would not seem possible at first. He
kept asking himself, "Is this really true? Is it really true?"
For an hour he lay there on the floor, with his remorse and his sick
nerves, telling himself the kind of a fellow he was, while the rest of
the college went to dinner.
After this came the reaction, the natural instincts of love and
yearning for the home that he had left. He told himself how that
vacations would come, and little Dick, the prep., would come, and
Helen and all would come out there to the old place on Long
Island--all but one. His place at the table would be vacant. No, there
would be no place for him. They would avoid mentioning his name. They
would change the subject when visitors referred to him. After awhile
visitors would learn not to refer to him. He would be known as "the
one that went to the devil."
All his self-reliance had been squeezed out of him. He did not care to
be independent now. He did not want to be free. He wanted--oh, how he
wanted!--a place to go to and people to care about him, like everyone
else. He shrank from the thought of standing alone. He did not feel
equal to it. He felt himself to be nothing but a boy, after all, a
bad, foolish, wilful, sick boy, and he wanted to run home and, just
for once, let his throbbing head fall into his mother's lap and have
her hands smooth the ache out of it. But of course he could do nothing
of the sort.
The more he thought of it the more impossible it appeared. Why, for
four years--he half arose from the rug and his face became hot at the
thought of it--for four years he had been doing things that she would
not believe him capable of; not if he told her himself. No, he was not
going to sneak into the home-fold like a cowardly prodigal, bleating,
"I have been a bad little boy, papa. Take me back, and I'll promise
not to be bad any more." He was not that kind. He deserved his husks,
and he meant to chew them, even though they stuck in his throat. To
keep away, he showed himself, was one means left him to regain a
little of the self-respect that he had lost.
Then he arose with something of his former indifference and laughed at
himself a little. "You've felt sorry for yourself long enough," he
said aloud; "what you've got to do now is to make the best of it." He
started toward the desk to take the first steps toward making the
best of it. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked about at
the pictures and the pipes and the books. "I'm done with college," he
said, briskly. "Now I feel better."
He lighted a pipe to show himself how much better he felt, and began
to word a telegram to Clark. That would finish a good day's work, he
thought. A very long day it seemed, too. Some things were hazy and
dream-like. That walk with the freshman-- But he did not want to think
about that, and he wrote down "W. G. Clark, care West, Houston & Co."
Yet, though he tried not to listen, there began coming up to him the
tones of the gentle voice dragging in profanity with such pathetic
pains. "But I don't want to think about that!" Lawrence exclaimed. But
all the while he wrote the message he heard the timid voice with the
incongruous words.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said aloud. "It bothers me. Why do
you want to do that?" He dipped his pen in the ink and held it there.
Why did he? Then it came over him with a blush of shame that it was
doubtless to find favor in his sight. Most people would have guessed
it before.
And then something flashed through his mind, something that he had
heard early in the term. A freshman named Jansen, whom he had looked
out for when he first arrived, had told him of a freshman that was
always talking and asking questions about him. Lawrence had entirely
forgotten this, and the recollection of it made him start up from his
seat. This accounted for the freshman's haunting him on the campus,
gazing at him, imitating his style of dress even.
It was quite ridiculous. He tried to sneer it out of his mind. But he
could not. He was finding that there were some things that could not
be sneered away. But that was not all.
A big question met him like a huge, choking wave--"What will this
boy's future be?" And Lawrence pleaded, "Oh, let me alone! Never mind
all that."
The wave drew back and another came drenching over him--"Will he do as
you have done?"
"Don't, please don't!" cried Lawrence. There came up before him in his
sick mind lurid, revolting scenes, and in them a fair-faced boy with a
sensitive mouth learning to like it all. Then came a third wave--"Who
will be responsible? What are you going to do about it?" This was a
little too much for Lawrence. He felt powerless to think it out just
now. He would need time for this. Unconsciously he stepped back to
the rug. He lay there, very quiet, almost motionless, until far into
the night.
Then he arose, a very different boy from Lawrence the President,
greatly feared of under-classmen, and felt his way through the dark to
the bedroom. Here he locked the door and prayed to God, as he had been
brought up to do.
The next morning one of the clerks, harrying by the ticker where
Colonel Lawrence seemed to be bending over the tape, suddenly
exclaimed, "Why, what is it, sir? Nothing serious, I hope?"
Old Colonel Lawrence, drawing himself up and gazing straight ahead of
him as he crumpled a telegram in his hand, made answer, "No. My son is
coming home to spend Sunday with me. That is all."
The clerk did not know that they were tears of joy.