It had always been considered a mistake that the Professors’ houses
stood on the “morning side” of the street. But this, like many
another architectural or social criticism, was of more interest to
the critic than to the criticised. In point of fact, the western
faces of the dwellings consecrated to the Faculty received the
flood tide of the sea of sun that rose and ebbed between Cesarea
and Wachusett. A man’s study, a child’s nursery, a woman’s
sewing-room, fled the front of the house as a matter of course; and
the “afternoon side” of the dwelling welcomed them bountifully.
As Professor Carruth had been heard to say, that side of the street
on which a man is born may determine his character and fate beyond
repeal. The observation, if true, is tenfold truer of a woman, to
whom a house is a shell, a prison, or a chrysalis.
The Professor’s daughter, who had not been born in Cesarea, but
in the city of New York, took turns at viewing her father’s home
in one of these threefold aspects. On that winter day of which we
have already spoken, she might, if urged to it, have selected the
least complimentary of the three terms. The day had been bleak,
bright, and interminable. She had tried to take the morning walk
to the post-office, which all able-bodied Cesareans penitentially
performed six days in the week; and had been blown home in that
state just so far from adding another to the list of “deaths from
exposure” that one gets no sympathy, and yet so near to this result
that one must sit over the register the rest of the morning to thaw
out.
After dinner she had conscientiously resumed her study of
Herbert Spencer’s Law of Rhythm, but had tossed the book away
impatiently,--she was metaphysical only when she was bored,--and
had joined her mother at the weekly mending-basket. The cold, she
averred, had struck in. Her brain was turning to an icicle--like
that. She pointed to the snow-man which the boys in the
fitting-school had built in front of the pump that supplied their
dormitories with ice-water for toilet uses; this was carried the
length of the street in dripping pails whose overflow froze upon
one’s boots.
There had been a rain before this last freeze, and the head of the
snow-man (carefully moulded, and quite Greek) had turned into a
solid ball of ice.
This chilly gentleman rose, imposingly from behind a desk of snow.
Manuscripts of sleet lay in his frozen hand. An old silk hat, well
glazed with drippings from the elm-tree, was pitched irreverently
upon the back of his head.
“They say,” replied Mrs. Carruth complainingly, “that the snow-man
is meant to take off one of the Professors.”
“Do they? I should think he might be. Which one?” answered the
Professor’s daughter. Her languid eyes warmed into merriment. “I
call that fun.”
“I call it irreverent,” sighed the Professor’s wife. “I call it
profane.”
“Now, Mother!” The young lady laid a green, theological stocking
across her shapely knee, and pulled the toe through the foot
argumentatively. “Don’t you think that is a little over-emphasized?”
Mrs. Carruth lifted her mild, feminine countenance from that shirt
of the Professor’s which she always found absorbing,--the one whose
button-holes gave out, while the buttons stayed on. She regarded
her daughter with a puzzled disapproval. She was not used to such
phrases as “over-emphasis” when she was young.
“Helen, Helen,” she complained, “you do not realize what a trial
you are to me. If there is anything sacrilegious or heretical to
be found anywhere, you are sure to--to--you are certain to find it
interesting,” ended the mother vaguely.
“See, Mother! See!” interrupted Helen. Her laugh bubbled merrily
through the sewing-room. “Just look out of the window, and see! The
boys have stuck a whisk broom for a feather in the snow professor’s
hat! And now they’re giving him spectacles and a fountain pen. What
delicious heresy, isn’t it, Mother? Come and look!”
But after these trifling and too frequent conflicts with her
mother, Helen never failed to feel a certain reaction and
depression. She evaded the mending-basket that afternoon as soon as
possible, and slipped into her own room; which, as we have said,
was in a wing of the house, and looked from east to west. She could
not see the snow professor here. Nobody now accused her of heresy.
The shouts of the boys had begun to die away. Only the mountains
and the great intervale were peacefully visible from the warm
window. Through the cold one the Theological Seminary occupied the
perspective solidly.
Nature had done a good deal for the Christian religion, or at
least for that view of it represented by our Seminary, when
that institution was established at Cesarea, a matter of nearly
a century ago. But art had not in this instance proved herself
the handmaid of religion. The theological buildings, a row of
three,--Galilee and Damascus Halls to right and left of the ancient
chapel,--rose grimly against the cold Cesarea sky. These buildings
were all of brick, red, rectangular, and unrelieved; as barren
of ornament or broken lines as a packing-box, and yet curiously
possessed of a certain dignity of their own; such as we see in
aged country folk unfashionably dressed, but sure of their local
position. Not a tremor seemed ever to disturb the calm, red faces
of these old buildings, when the pretty chapel and the graceful
library of modern taste crept in under the elms of the Seminary
green to console the spirit of the contemporary Cesarean, who has
visited the Louvre and the Vatican as often as the salary will
allow; who has tickets to the Symphony Concerts in Boston, and
feels no longer obliged to conceal the fact that he occasionally
witnesses a Shakespearean play.
Helen Carruth, for one, did not object to the old red boxes, and
held them in respect; not for their architectural qualities, it
must be owned, nor because of the presence therein of a hundred
young men for whose united or separate personalities she had never
cared a fig. But of the Cesarean sunsets, which are justly famous,
she was observant with the enthusiasm of a girl who has so little
social occupation that a beautiful landscape is still an object of
attention, even of affection. And where does reflected sunset take
to itself the particular glory that it takes on Cesarea Hill?
The Professor’s daughter was in the habit of watching from her
eastern window to see that row of old buildings take fire from the
western sky behind her; window after window, four stories of them,
thirty-two to a front on either side, and the solemn disused chapel
in the midst. It would have been a pleasant sight to any delicate
eye; but to the girl, with her religiously trained imagination
and unoccupied fancy, it was a beautiful and a poetic one. She
had learned to watch for it on sunny days in her lonely Cesarea
winters,--between her visits to New York or Boston. Now Damascus
Hall, and now Galilee, received the onset of flame; now this floor
reflected it, and now that; certain windows became refracting
crystals, and flung the gorgeous color back; certain others drew it
in and drank it down into their glowing hearts. One--belonging to
a northwest corner room in Galilee Hall--blazed magnificently on
that evening of which we tell. It attracted her eye, and held it,
for the fiery flood rolled up against that old sash and seemed to
break there, and pour in, deep into the unseen room, deeper than
any other spot could hold. That window breathed fire as martyrs do,
in ecstasy. It seemed to inhale and exhale beauty and death like a
living thing whose doom was glory, and whose glory was doom. But
the splendid panorama was always swift; she had to catch it while
it lasted; moments unrolled and furled it. She stood with uplifted
arm between her lace curtains; her eyes smiled, and her lips were
parted. The old Bible similes of her childhood came inevitably even
upon her lighter moods. It was not religious emotion, but the power
of association and poetic perception which made her say aloud:--
“And the city had no need of the sun ... to shine in it, for the
glory of God did lighten it.”
As the words fell from her lips the sun dropped beyond Wachusett.
The fire flashed, and ran, and faded. Cold, dull, delicate colors
replaced the glory on Galilee Hall; the burst of gold had burned
out and melted; the tints of cool precious stones crept upon the
window whose display had pleased her. She passed her hand over her
eyes, for she was blinded by the dazzling effect. When she looked
again, she noticed that the old white shade in the northwest corner
room was drawn.
She turned away, feeling an unreasonable sense of discomfort, as if
she had been rebuffed in an unconscious intrusion. At that moment
she heard her father moving about his study, which was below her
room. The sound of flying slippers and the creak of his whirling
study-chair indicated that his work was over for the day, and that
he was about to take his evening pilgrimage to the post-office. His
daughter ran down to see him.
He glanced up from the arctic overshoes which he was tugging on
over his boots, with a relieved and pleasant look.
“Ah, Helen! You are just in time. I need you, my child. Just write
out some invitations for me, will you?--in your mother’s name. She
seems to be too much absorbed in some domestic duties to attend
to it, and I _must_ have those omitted men to tea this week. Your
mother says she can’t have them to-morrow on account of--I have
forgotten the reason, but it was an important one.”
“She has some preserves to scald over. Yes,” said Helen, with
ripples in her eyes, “I think they are quinces. At any rate, it is
of national importance. Friday, did you say? Certainly. I will have
them written by the time you have selected your cane, Father. Who
are these? The A’s? Or the C’s?”
“They are the B’s,” answered the Professor, looking over his
assortment of handsome canes with the serious interest of a
sophomore. If the Professor of Theology had one human weakness, it
was for handling a fine cane. This luxury was to him what horses,
yachts, and dry wines may be to different men. His daughter was
quite right in assuming that the notes of invitation would be
written before he had suited himself out of a dozen possibilities
to his delicate Oriental grapestick with the heavy ivory handle.
“They are the B’s,” he repeated abstractedly. “Two B’s, and--yes,
one C. One of the B’s I would not overlook on any account. He is
that B who was preëngaged, for some reason, in the autumn. He must
be invited again. His uncle is one of the Trustees. There’s the
catalogue; you’ll find the address--Galilee Hall, Bayard, Emanuel.
Don’t make a mistake, my dear; and I hope you will take pains to be
at home and help us entertain them.”
“I was going in to the concert,” said Helen disappointedly, pausing
with her pen suspended. “I meant to spend the night with Clara
Rollins. But--no, I won’t, Father, if you care about it.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said gently. He kissed her as he went
out, and Helen smiled contentedly; she was deeply attached to her
father. In his home the Professor of Theology was the most loving
and beloved of men.
There came up a warm storm that week, and by Friday Cesarea Hill
swam in a sea of melted snow. The two B’s and one C waded their way
to their Professor’s house to tea that evening, across rills and
rivers of ice-water, and through mounds of slush. Bayard sank over
rubbers amid-stream more than once; he wore the usual evening shoe
of society. He was always a well-dressed man, having never known
any other way of living. It was different with his fellow-students.
That one C, for example, who strode across the Seminary green in
comfort and rubber boots, had provided, it seemed, no other method
of appearance within doors. His pantaloons were tucked into the
rubber boots at the knees, and had the air of intending to stay
there.
“Look here, man!” gasped Bayard, as the young men removed their
overcoats in the large and somewhat stately hall of the Professor’s
house. “You have forgotten your shoes!”
“I have some slippers in my pockets, if you think them necessary,”
replied the other. “You know more about such things than I do.”
The speaker produced a pair of slippers, worked in worsted by his
sister; a white rose ornamented the toe of each. As he stooped to
put them on, Bayard observed that the man wore a flannel shirt of
the blue-gray tint at that time preferred by day laborers, and that
he was guiltless of linen.
The three guests entered the drawing-room, headed by the flannel
shirt. The one C sat down on the largest satin easy-chair,
stretching his embroidered slippers on the Persian rug with such
dignified unconsciousness of the unusual as one might go far to see
outside of Cesarea, and might not witness once in a lifetime there.
Occupied with the embarrassment of this little incident, Bayard did
not notice at first that the daughter of the house was absent from
the parlor. He fell to talking with his favorite Professor eagerly;
they were deep in the discussion of the doctrine of election as
taught in a rival seminary, by a more liberal chair, when Mrs.
Carruth drew the attention of her husband to the gentleman of the
flannel shirt, and seated herself by Bayard.
“I hope you are not very hungry?” she began in her literal voice.
“We are waiting for my daughter. She attends the Symphony Concerts
Fridays, and the coach is late to-night from the five o’clock
train.”
“Oh, that coach!” laughed Bayard. “I walk--if I want my supper.”
“And so did I,” said a soft voice at his side.
“Why, Helen, Helen!” complained the Professor’s wife.
The young lady stood serenely, awaiting her father’s introduction
to the three students. She bowed sedately to the other B and the C.
Her eyes scintillated when she turned back to Bayard. She seemed
to be brimming over with suppressed amusement. She took the chair
beside him, for her mother (who never trusted Cesarea service to
the exclusion of the old-fashioned, housewifely habit of looking at
her table before her guests sat down) had slipped from the room.
“You _walk_ from the station--a mile--in this going?” began Bayard,
laughing.
“No;” she shook her head. “I waded. But I got here. The coach had
nine inside and five on top. It hasn’t come yet. I promised Father
I’d be here, you see.”
Bayard’s quick eye observed that Miss Carruth was in dinner dress;
her gown was silk, and purple, and fitted her remarkably well; she
had a sumptuous figure; he reflected that she had taken the time
and trouble to dress for these three theologues as she would have
done for a dinner in town. He saw that she gave one swift glance at
the man in the flannel shirt, who was absorbed in the Professor’s
story about the ordination of somebody who was rejected on the
doctrine of probation.
But after that she looked at the student’s head, which was good.
Upon the details of his costume no eye in the drawing-room
rested that evening, again. That student went out from Cesarea
Seminary to be a man of influence and intellect; his name became a
distinguished one, and in his prime society welcomed him proudly.
But if the Professor’s family had been given the catalogue and
the Inquisition to identify him, it may be questioned whether
thumbscrews would have wrung his name from them. It being one of
the opportunities of Christianity that it may make cultivated
gentlemen out of poor and ignorant boys, Cesarea ladies take pride
in their share of the process.
At tea--for Cesarea still held to her country tradition of an
early dinner--Bayard found himself seated opposite the Professor’s
daughter. The one C sat beside her, and she graciously proceeded to
bewitch that gentleman wholly out of his wits, and half out of his
theology. Bayard heard her talking about St. Augustine. She called
him an interesting monomaniac.
The table was served in the manner to which Bayard was used, and
was abundantly lighted by candles softly shaded in yellow. In
the pleasant shimmer, in her rich dress, with the lace at her
throat and wrists, she seemed, by pretty force of contrast with
the prevailing tone of the village, the symbol of beauty, ease,
and luxury. Bayard thought how preëminent she looked beside that
fellow in the shirt. He could not help wondering if she would seem
as imposing in Beacon Street. After a little study of the subject
he concluded that it would not make much difference. She was not
precisely a beautiful woman, but she was certainly a woman of
beauty. What was she? Blonde? She had too much vigor. But--yes. Her
hair was as yellow as the gold lining of rich silverware. She was
one of the bright, deep orange blondes; all her coloring was warm
and brilliant. Only her eyes struck him as inadequate; languid,
indifferent, and not concerned with her life. She gave the unusual
effect of dark eyes with bright hair.
While he was thinking about her in the interludes of such chat
as he could maintain with her mother, who had asked him twice
whether he graduated this year, Miss Carruth turned unexpectedly
and addressed him. The remark which she made was not original;
it was something about the concerts: Did he not go in often? She
had not asked the one C if _he_ attended the Symphony Concerts.
But Mrs. Carruth now inquired of that gentleman if he liked the
last preparatory lecture. The Professor was engaging the attention
of the other B. And Bayard and Helen Carruth fell to conversing,
undisturbed, across the pleasant table.
He felt at home despite himself, in that easy atmosphere, in that
yellow light. The natural sense of luxury crept around him softly.
He thought of his northwest room over there, rocking in the gale,
and of the big dish of apples at the club table. He thought of
the self-denials and deprivations, little and large, which had
accompanied his life at Cesarea; he tried to remember why he had
chosen to do this or suffered that.
His ascetic ideals swam and blurred a little before the personality
of this warm, rich, human girl. There was something even in the
circumstance of eating quail on toast, and sipping chocolate from
a Dresden cup in an antique Dutch spoon, which was disturbing to
the devout imagination--in Cesarea.
Over his sensitive face his high, grave look passed suddenly, like
the reflection thrown from some unseen, passing light.
“I had better be at my room and at work,” he thought.
At that moment he became aware of a change in the expression of the
Professor’s daughter. Her languid eye had awaked. She was regarding
him with puzzled but evident attention. He threw off his momentary
depression with ready social ease, and gayly said:--
“You look as if you were trying to classify a subject, Miss
Carruth; as if you wanted to put something in its place and
couldn’t do it.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I do.”
“And you succeed?”
“No.” She shook her head again. “I do not find the label. I give it
up.” She laughed merrily, and Bayard joined in the laugh. But to
himself he said:--
“She does me the honor to investigate me. Plainly I am not the one
C. Clearly I am not the other B. Then what? She troubles herself to
wonder.”
Then he remembered how many generations of theological students
had been the subject of the young lady’s gracious and indifferent
observation. She was, perhaps, twenty-five years old, and they had
filed through that dining-room alphabetically--the A’s, the B’s,
the C’s, the X’s and the Z’s--since she came, in short dresses,
to Cesarea, when her father gave up his New York parish for the
Chair of Theology. It occurred to Bayard that she might have ceased
to find either the genus or the species theologus of thrilling
personal interest, by this time.
Then the Professor mentioned to the other B a certain feature of
the famous Presbyterian trial for heresy, at that time wrenching
the religious world. Bayard turned to listen, and the discussion
which followed soon absorbed him.
The face of the Professor of Theology grew grave as he approached
the topic of his favorite heresy. Stern lines cut themselves about
his fine mouth. His gentle eyes darkened. He felt keenly the
responsibility of the influence that he bore over his students,
even in hours of what he called social relaxation, and the
necessity of defending the truth was vividly present to his trained
conscience. Bayard watched his host with troubled admiration. It
was with a start that he heard a woman’s voice sweetly breaking in
upon the conversation. She was speaking to the guest of the flannel
shirt.
“Oh, have you seen the snow professor since the rain? He’s melted
into such a lovely slush!”
“Helen!” rebuked her mother plaintively. “Helen, Helen!”
But the Professor smiled,--a warm smile peculiar to himself. He
shot a tender look across the table at his daughter. He did not
resume the subject of the Presbyterian trial.
“The trouble with the snow professor,” suggested Bayard, “is that
he had the ice in his head, but the sun at his heart.”
Helen Carruth turned quickly towards him. Her glance lingered into
a look distinctly personal and indistinctly grateful. She made no
answer, but her eyes and the student’s understood each other.