When Stover returned to his rooms, it was long after supper.
"Where the deuce have you been?" said Hungerford, looking up from his
books.
"Went for a drive, got home late," said Stover shortly. He filled the
companionable pipe, and sank into the low arm-chair, which Regan had
broken for comfort. Something in his abrupt procedure caused Bob Story
to look over at Regan with an inquiring raise of his eyebrows.
"Got this psychology yet?" said Hungerford, to try him out.
"No," said Stover.
"Going to get it?"
"No."
"The thinghood of a thing is its indefinable somewhatness," said
Hungerford, with another slashing attack on the common enemy, to divert
Stover's attention. "What in the name of peanuts does that stuff mean?"
Dink, refusing to be drawn into conversation, sat enveloped in smoke
clouds, his eyes on the clock.
"Hello, I forgot," said Story presently. "I say, Dink, Troutman and
Schley were around here hallooing for you."
"They were, eh?"
"About an hour ago. Wanted to see you particularly. Said they'd be
around again."
"I see."
At this moment from below came a bellow:
"Oh, Dink Stover--hello above there!"
"That's Troutman now," said Joe Hungerford.
Stover went to the window, flinging it up.
"Well, who's there?"
"Troutman and Chris Schley. I say, Dink, we've got to see you. Come on
down."
"Thanks, I haven't the slightest desire to see you now or at any other
time," said Stover, who closed the window and resumed his seat, eyeing
the clock.
His three friends exchanged troubled glances, and Regan began to whistle
to himself, but no questions were asked. At nine o'clock Stover rose and
took his hat.
"I'm going out. I may be back late," he said, and went down the stairs.
"What the devil?" said Hungerford, closing his book.
"He's in some scrape," said Regan ruthfully.
"Oh, Lord, and just at this time, too," said Story.
Stover went rapidly towards the hospital. The girl had been operated on
immediately, and the situation was of the utmost seriousness. He had
been told to come back at nine. When he arrived he found Muriel Stacey
already in the waiting-room, her eyes heavy with frightened weeping. He
looked at her curiously. All suggestion of the provoking impertinence
and the surface allurement was gone. Under his eyes was nothing but an
ignorant boor, stupid and hysterical before the awful fact of death.
"What's the news?" he asked.
"Oh, Mr. Stover, I don't know. I can't get anything out of them," the
woman said wildly. "Oh, do you think she's going to die?"
"Of course not," he said gruffly. "See here, where's her family?"
"I don't know."
"Don't they live here?"
"They're in Ohio somewhere, I think. I don't know. Ask the doctor, won't
you, Mr. Stover? He'll tell you something."
He left her, and, making inquiries, was met by a young intern,
immaculate and alert, who was quite communicative to Dink Stover of the
Yale eleven.
"She's had a bad case of it; appendix had already burst. You got her
here just in time."
"What's the outlook?"
"Can't tell. She came out of the anæsthetic all right." He went into a
technical discussion of the dangers of blood poisoning, concluding:
"Still, I should say her chances were good. It depends a good deal on
the resistance. However, I think your friend's family ought to be
notified."
Stover did not notice the "your friend," nor the look which the doctor
gave him.
"She's here alone as far as I can find out," he said. "Poor little
devil. I'll call round about midnight."
"No need," said the doctor briskly, "nothing'll develop before
to-morrow."
Stover sent the waiting girl home somewhat tranquilized, and, finding a
florist's shop open, left an order to be sent in to the patient the
first thing in the morning. Then, thoroughly exhausted by his sudden
contact with all the nervous fates of the hospital, he walked home and
heavily to bed.
The next morning as he went to his eating-joint with Regan and
Hungerford, the newsboy, who had his papers ready, gave them to him with
a hesitating look. All at once Joe Hungerford swore mightily.
"Now what's wrong, Joe?" said Regan in surprise.
"Nothing," said Hungerford hastily, but almost immediately he stopped,
and said in a jerky, worried way: "Say, here's the devil to pay, Dink. I
suppose you ought to know about it. Damn the papers."
With his finger he indicated a space on the front page of the New York
newspaper he was reading. Stover took it, reading it seriously. It was
only a paragraph, but it rose from the page as though it were stamped in
scarlet.
DINK STOVER'S LARK
ENDS SERIOUSLY.
Below followed in suggestive detail an account of the drive with friends
"not exactly in recognized New Haven society," and the sudden seizure of
Miss Fanny Le Roy, with an account of his drive back to the hospital.
"That's pretty bad," he said, frowning. "What do the others say?"
One paper had it that his presence of mind and prompt action had saved
the girl's life. The third one hinted that the party had been rather
gay, and said in a short sentence:
"_It is said other students were with young Stover, who prefer not
to incur any unnecessary notoriety._"
"It looks ugly," said Stover grimly.
"Who was with you?" said Hungerford anxiously.
"I prefer not to tell."
"Troutman and Schley, of course," said Regan suddenly, and, starting out
of his usual imperturbability, he began to revile them.
"But, Dink, old man," said Hungerford, drawing his arm through his, "how
the deuce did you ever get into it?"
"Well, Joe, what's the use of explanations?" said Stover gloomily.
"Every one'll believe what they want to. It's a thoroughly nasty mess.
It's my luck, that's all."
"Is that all you can say?" said Hungerford anxiously.
"All just now. I don't feel particularly affable, Joe."
The walk from his eating-joint to the chapel was perhaps the most
difficult thing he had ever done. Every one was reading the news,
commenting on it, as he passed along, red, proud, and angry. He felt the
fire of amazed glances, the lower classmen looking up at the big man of
the junior class in disgrace, his own friends puzzled and
uncomprehending.
At the fences there was an excited buzz, which dropped perceptibly as he
passed. Regan was at one side, Hungerford loyally on the other. At the
junior fence Bob Story, who had just got the report, came out hurriedly
to him.
"I say, Dink, it--it isn't true?" he said. "Something's wrong--must be!"
"Not very far wrong," said Stover. He saw the incredulity in Bob's face,
and it hurt him more than all the rest.
"Even Bob thinks I'm that sort, that I've been doing things on the sly I
wouldn't stand for in public. And if he thinks it, what'll others
think?"
"Shut up, Bob," he heard Regan say. "It may look a nasty mess, and Dink
may not tell the real story, but one thing I know, he didn't scuttle off
like a scut, but faced the music, and that's all I want to know."
Stover laughed, a short, nervous, utterly illogical laugh, defiant and
stubborn. He would never tell what had happened--let those who wanted to
misjudge him.
Several men in his class--he remembered them ever after--came up and
patted him on the back, one or two avoided him. Then he had to go by
the senior fence into chapel with every eye upon him, watching how he
bore the scandal. He knew he was red and uncomfortable, that on his face
was something like a sneer. He knew that what every one was saying under
his voice was that it was hard luck, damned hard luck, that it was a
rotten scandal, and that Stover's chances for Skull and Bones were
knocked higher than a kite.
Then something happened that almost upset him. In the press about the
chapel doors he suddenly saw Le Baron's tall figure across the
scrambling mass. Their glances met and with a little solemnity Le Baron
raised his hat. He understood; they might be enemies to the end of their
days, but the hat had been raised as the tribute of a man to a man. Once
in his seat he looked about with a little scorn--Troutman and Schley
were not there.
After first recitation he went directly to the hospital, stubbornly
resolved to give no explanations, stubbornly resolved in his own
knowledge of his right to affront public opinion in any way he chose.
The news he received was reassuring, the girl was out of danger. Muriel
Stacey not yet arrived, for which he was physically thankful.
He returned to his rooms, traversing the difficult campus with erect
head.
"Now, boy, see here," said Hungerford, when he had climbed the stairs,
"I want this out with you. What did happen, and who ran away?"
"You've got the story in the papers, haven't you?" said Stover wearily.
"The New Haven ones have in a couple of columns and my photograph."
"Is that all, Dink, you're going to tell me?"
"Yes."
"Is that all you're going to let Jean Story know?" said Hungerford
boldly.
Stover winced.
"Damn you, Joe!"
"Is it?"
"She'll have to believe what she wants to about me," said Stover slowly.
"It's a test."
"No, it isn't a test or a fair test," said Hungerford hotly. "I know
everything's all right, boy, but I want to stop anything that might be
said. You're hurt now because you know you're misjudged."
"Yes, I am hurt."
"Sure; a rotten bit of luck has put you in a false position. That's the
whole matter."
"Joe, I won't tell you," said Stover shortly. "I am mad clear through
and through. I'm going to shut up on the whole business. If my friends
misjudge me--so much the worse for them. If some one else--" He stopped,
flung his hat on the couch, and sat down at the desk. "What's the
lesson?"
But at this moment Regan and Story came in, bolting the door.
"Well, we've got the truth," said Story. He came over and laid his hand
on Dink's shoulder.
"What do you mean?"
"Tom and I have had it out with Schley and Troutman. They've told the
whole thing, the miserable little curs." His voice shook. "You're all
right, Dink; you always were, but it's a shame--a damn shame!"
"Oh, well, they lost their nerve," said Stover heavily.
"Why the devil didn't you tell us last night?"
"What was the use?"
"We could have stopped its getting into the papers, or had it right."
"Well--it all comes down to a question of luck sometimes," said Stover.
"I was just as responsible as they were--it was only fooling, but
there's the chance."
"Dink, I've done one thing you may not like."
"What's that?"
"I've written the whole story to your folks at home--sent it off."
"No--I don't mind--I--that was rather white of you, Bob--thank you,"
said Stover. He drew a long breath, went to the window and controlled
himself. "What are Troutman and Schley going to do?"
"They're all broken up," said Story.
"Don't wonder."
"They won't face it out very long," said Regan, without pity.
"Well, it was a pretty hard test," said Stover, coming back--and by that
alone they knew what it had meant to him.
Despite the giving out of the true story, the atmosphere of scandal
still clung to the adventure. His friends rallied stanchly to him, but
from many quarters Stover felt the attitude of criticism, and that the
thing had been too public not to affect the judgment of the senior
societies, already none too well disposed toward him.
Stover was sensitively proud, and the thought of how the story had
traveled with all its implications wounded him keenly. He had done
nothing wrong, nothing for which he had to blush. He had simply acted as
a human being, as any decent gentleman would have acted, and yet by a
malignant turn of fate he was blackguarded to the outer world, and had
given his enemies in college a chance to imply that he had two
attitudes--in public and in secret.
The next morning came a note to him from Jean Story, the first he had
ever had from her--just a few lines.
"_My Dear Friend_:
"You are coming in soon to see me, aren't you? I shall be very much
_honored_.
"Most cordially,
"JEAN STORY."
The note brought a great lump to his throat. He understood what she
wished him to understand, her loyalty and her pride in his courage. He
read it over and over, and placed it in his pocket-book to carry
always--but he did not go at once to see her. He did not want sympathy;
he shunned the very thought. Before, in his revolt, he had come against
a college tradition, now he was face to face with a social prejudice,
and it brought an indignant bitterness.
He called every day at the hospital; out of sheer bravado at first,
furious at the public opinion that would have him go his way and ignore
a human being alone and suffering, even when his motives were pure.
At the end of a week he was told that the girl wanted to see him. He
found her in a cot among a row of other cots. She was not white and
drawn as he had expected, but with a certain flush of color in her face,
and lazy eyes that eagerly waited his coming. When he had approached,
surprised and a little troubled at her prettiness, she looked at him
steadily a long moment until he felt almost embarrassed. Then suddenly
she took his hand and carried it to her lips, and her eyes overflowed
with tears, as an invalid's do with the strength of any emotion.
The nurse motioned him away, and he went, troubled at what his boyish
eyes had seen, and the touch of her lips on his hand.
"By George, she can't be very bad," he thought. "Poor little girl; she's
probably never had half a chance. What the devil will become of her?"
He knew nothing of her life--he did not want to know.
When she left the hospital at last he continued to see her, always
saying to himself that there was no harm in it, concealing from himself
the pleasure it gave him to know himself adored.
She would never tell him where she lived, always giving him a rendezvous
on a certain corner, from which they would take a walk for an hour or
so. Guessing his desires, she began to change her method of dress,
leaving aside the artifices, taking to simple and sober dress, which
brought a curious, girlish, counterfeit charm.
"I am doing her good," he said to himself. "It means something to her to
meet some one who treats her with respect--like a human being--poor
little girl."
He did not realize how often he met her, leaving his troubled room-mates
with a curt excuse, nor how rapidly he consumed the distance to their
meeting place. He had talked to her at first seriously of serious
things, then gradually, laughing in a boyish way, half tempted, he began
to pay her compliments. At first she laughed with a little pleasure,
but, as the new attitude continued, he felt her eyes on his face
constantly in anxious, wistful scrutiny.
One night she did not keep her appointment. He waited troubled, then
furious. He left after an hour's lingering, irritable and aroused.
The next night as he approached impatiently, half afraid, she was
already at the lamp-post.
"I waited an hour," he said directly.
"I'm sorry; I couldn't come," she answered troubled, but without
volunteering an explanation.
"Why?" he said with a new irritation.
"I couldn't," she said, shaking her head.
He felt all at once a new impulse in him--to wound her in some way and
make her suffer a little for the disappointment he had had to undergo
the night before.
"You did it on purpose," he said abruptly.
"No, no," she said frowning.
"You did." Then suddenly he added: "That's why you stayed away--to make
me jealous."
"Never."
"Why, then?"
"I can't tell you," she said.
They walked along in silence. Her resistance in withholding the
information suddenly made her desirable. He wondered what he might do
with her. As they walked still in silence, he put out his hand, and his
fingers closed over hers. She did not draw them away. He gave a deep
breath and said:
"I would like--"
"What?" she said, looking up as his pressure made her face him.
He put out his arms and took her in them, and stood a long moment,
looking at her lips.
"Forgive me--I--" he said, stepping back suddenly. "I--I didn't mean to
offend you."
"No--you couldn't do that--never," she said quietly.
"You--you're so pretty to-night--I couldn't help it," he said. To
himself he vowed he would never let himself be tempted again--not that
night.
"I'm going to take you to your home," he said, when after small
conversation they returned.
"Sure."
He was surprised and delighted at this, but almost immediately to be
generous he said:
"No, no, I won't."
"I don't care."
They had reached their corner.
"To-morrow."
"Yes."
"At eight."
"Yes."
He resisted a great temptation, and offered his hand. She took it
suddenly in both of hers and brought it to her lips as she had done in
the hospital.
"You've been white, awful white to me," she said, and flitted away into
the engulfing night.
When he left her, her words came back to him, and brought an unrest. He
had almost yielded to what he had vowed never to do, he, who only wanted
her to feel his respect. Yet the next day seemed endless. He regretted
that he had not gone to where she lived, for then he could have found
her in the afternoon.
A shower passed during the day, leaving the streets moist and luminous
with long lances of light and star points on the wet stones. He went
breathlessly as he had never gone before, a little troubled, always
reasoning with his conscience.
"It was only a crazy spell," he said to himself. "I don't know what got
into me. I'll be careful, now."
When he reached the lamp-post another figure was there, Muriel Stacey,
painted and over-dressed, and in her hand was a white letter, that he
saw half-way up the block. He stopped short, frowning.
"Where's Fanny?"
"Here's a note she sent you," said the girl; "she's gone."
"Gone?"
"This morning."
He looked at the envelope; his name was written there in a childish,
struggling hand.
"All right; thank you," he said suffocating. He left hurriedly,
physically uncomfortable in the presence of Muriel Stacey, her friend.
At the first lamp-post he stopped, broke the envelope, and read the
awkward, painfully written script.
"I'm going away, it's best for you and me I know it. Guess I would
care too much and I'm not good enough for you. Don't you be angry
with me. Good luck. God bless you.
"F."
He slipped it hurriedly in his pocket, and set off at a wild pace. And
suddenly his conscience, his accusing conscience, rose up. He saw where
he had been going. It brought him a solemn moment. Then he remembered
the girl. He took the letter from his pocket and held it clutched like a
hand in his hand.
"Good God," he said, "I wonder what'll become of her?"
He had found so much good that the tragedy revolted him. So he went
through the busy streets with their flare and ceaseless motion, in the
wet of the night, watching with solemn, melancholy eyes, other women
pass with sidelong glances. All the horror and the hopelessness of a
life he could not better thronged over him, and he stood a long while
looking down the great bleak ways, through the gates that it is better
not to pry ajar.
Then in a revulsion of feeling, terrified at what he divined, he left
and went, almost in an instinct for protection, hurriedly to the Story
home, white and peaceful under the elms. He did not go in, but he stood
a little while opposite, looking in through the warm windows at the
serenity and the security that seemed to permeate the place.
When he returned to his rooms, Joe and Regan were there. He sat down
directly and told them the whole story, showing them her letter.
"She went away--for my sake," he said. "I know it. Poor little devil.
It's a letter I'll always keep." Solemnly, looking at the letter, he
resolved to put this with the one, the first from Jean Story, and
reverently he felt that the two had the right to be joined.
"What's terrible about it," he said, talking out his soul, "is that
there's so much good in them. And yet what can you do? They're human,
they respond, you can't help pitying them--wanting to be decent, to
help--and you can't. It's terrible to think that there are certain doors
in life you open and close, that you must turn your back on human lives
sometimes, that things can't be changed. Lord, but it's a terrible thing
to realize."
He stopped, and he heard Regan's voice, moved as he had never heard it,
say:
"That's my story--only _I_ married."
Suddenly, as though realizing for the first time what he had said, he
burst out: "Good God, I never meant to tell. See here, you men, that's
sacred--you understand."
And Dink and Joe, looking on his face, realized all at once why a
certain gentler side of life was shut out to him, and why he had never
gone to the Storys'.