On Friday at three o’clock Phillip strode through the crowd of
bundle-laden men and women in front of the waiting-room in the square
and, stationing himself on the curbstone under John’s front window,
gazed upward and yelled lustily until John stuck his head out and said:
“Shut up or you’ll wake Davy. Come on up.”
So Phillip climbed the stairs――something he might have done in the
first place had it not been contrary to established custom――and found
David snoring in an armchair with a lap full of books and John sorting
out some golf clubs.
“I’m going up to the links with Larry Baker. Want to come along? Fresh
air’ll do you good.”
“Can’t,” answered Phillip; “I’ve got to shoot. We begin at three. What
time is it?”
“Three ten.”
“Really? I’ll have to hurry, won’t I?” He sat down and brought forth a
letter from one of his pockets. “I got this a little while ago. It’s
from Margey. You know I wrote them on Sunday that I was going to bring
you home with me for Christmas if you’d come, and this is what Margey
says. Let’s see.... Um!... Here it is: ‘Mamma is so pleased at the
prospect of seeing Mr. North and wants you to tell him for her that he
will be very welcome for as long as he cares to stay. And she thinks
you should explain that her health will not allow her to write to him
in person. She fears he will consider her ungrateful for his kindness.
You must tell him, Phil dear, that we are plain folks nowadays,
and that Elaine is not very exciting. We wouldn’t want him to be
disappointed, would we? Mamma says we must get up a dance or something
for him. Does he like dancing? I have been wondering――――’ Er, that’s
all, I reckon. The rest is just nonsense.”
“Do you mean to tell me that your sister can write nonsense, Phil?”
asked John.
“Why, yes; why?”
“No reason why she shouldn’t, of course. Only I’d somehow got the idea
that she was an extremely dignified and serious-minded young lady.”
“Oh, Margey’s serious-minded, I reckon――at times. But she’s silly, too.
All girls are, aren’t they? That is,” amended Phillip, thinking of
Betty, “most girls are. I know one that isn’t.”
“Hello!” said John, pausing in the act of pulling on his golf boots. “I
thought I could discern an unusual buoyancy about you of late. Not a
college widow, I hope?”
“No, of course not. But I must be getting on. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“To Virginia? Yes, Phil. And when you write please thank your mother
and―――― How about your sister? Think she wants me to come?”
“Why, of course.”
“Oh; I didn’t gather that impression from what you read me. I believe
she didn’t mention herself, did she?”
“That doesn’t make any difference. She’ll be tickled to death.”
“Think so? Well, I hope she won’t mind having me. Don’t let them put
themselves out for me, Phil. Never mind the dance, you know; I’m
getting too old for such frivolous things. As for excitement, why, we
can do without that for a few days. Elaine offers me one inducement
that is quite sufficient.”
“You mean the shooting?” asked Phillip.
“Eh? Oh, yes; the shooting, of course. Let me see, Phil, we’re to
shoot――what is it? Ducks?”
“Why, no; partridge, of course,” replied Phillip, gazing at the other
in astonishment.
“To be sure; partridge. The partridge is an exasperating bird that
always goes off like a watchman’s rattle when you’re not expecting it
and leaves your nerves in a state of collapse. Yes, Phil, we will sally
forth with dogs and guns and sandwiches and shoot the merry little
partridge on its native heath. Does the Virginia partridge live on a
heath, Phil?”
“Oh, you’re crazy,” answered the other in disgust. “I’m going now. But
I’m awfully glad you’re coming South, John; it’s mighty good of you.”
“Don’t mention it. My regards to your folks when you write, and tell
them I accept their kind invitation with a great deal of pleasure. So
long. You said we were to shoot partridges, didn’t you?”
“I reckon you’re drunk,” answered Phillip. “I must get on.”
“So you’ve remarked several times. Don’t let me hurry you.”
There was no apparent danger of that, for Phillip, instead of rushing
off, was strolling about the study looking at the pictures as though
they had suddenly acquired a new interest, and giving especial
attention to the objects on the mantel. John watched him speculatingly
as he drew on his coat.
“Help yourself if you see anything you fancy,” he said.
“I will, then.” Phillip took a photograph from the mantel. “I’ll take
this; much obliged. Good-by.”
“Hold on, there! What have you got?”
“Just an old photograph of you.” He held it up.
“Oh; well, take it away. It’s not beautiful, Phil, but I’m told it
flatters me quite a bit. I presume I get one of you in return?”
“When I have any you do,” laughed Phillip. “I’m off.”
“Queer chap,” mused John, when the door was closed. “Wonder why he
wanted the picture?”
He put a couple of balls in his pocket and took up his bag. Then, his
eye falling on the still slumbering David, he balanced six discarded
clubs about him in such a way that they would topple to the floor at
the slightest movement, and left the room.
Phillip wrote a letter that evening before dinner. One passage was as
follows: “I’m sending a photograph of him. He gave it to me to-day. He
says it flatters him, but it doesn’t really. I don’t think it does him
justice. Anyhow, it will tell you more than I could even if I answered
all your questions. I don’t see what difference it makes whether he’s
light or dark, anyhow. And I don’t believe it was mamma that wanted
to know. It sounds a heap more like Margey. Don’t let any one shoot
over the East Farm; I want some birds left for North. If Nate comes up
again, tell him to shoot ’round the house; that’s good enough for him,
anyway.”
November made a graceful exit under blue skies and to the music of soft
breezes, and December tramped on in the manner of a stage villain,
filming the shallows with ice and piling the snow high in the streets.
That first storm held for Phillip an irresistible attraction. He
watched it through the window of his room until it was almost dark;
and then, tossing aside the books with which he had been pretending
to study, he called Tudor Maid and together they went forth and faced
the beating wind and the flying, needlelike sleet. Maid couldn’t see
the fun of it at first, but after Phillip had rolled her in a snowbank
she, too, became imbued with the spirit of adventure and went bounding
clumsily ahead through the drifts with all the ludicrous abandon of a
ten-weeks’ puppy.
They followed the river, barely visible through the whirling mist,
their path dimly outlined by the yellow lights that crept away into the
gathering darkness in a far-reaching arc. They met no other wayfarers
after they left the centre of the town, and, save for the occasional
friendly gleam from house window and an infrequent car or snow-plow
clanging and buzzing its way along, Phillip could have imagined himself
back on one of his own country roads. At Mount Auburn they turned and
struggled homeward, the wind at their backs now, and reached The Inn at
half past six. Maid climbed onto a window seat, and with a long sigh
of weariness and contentment went to sleep and snored peacefully until
Phillip, his own appetite at length assuaged, woke her up to feast
royally on roast beef.
But after a week of storm and stress December relented and――like the
stage character it was representing――prepared for the final curtain of
the year’s drama by wearing the softened, chastened mien that, on the
stage at least, precedes and heralds repentance. The days were cold,
bright and invigourating, and to Phillip, head over heels in love,
formed a period of idyllic weather. It is probable, however, that
Phillip would have accepted blizzard, deluge and cyclone with perfect
cheerfulness so long as the roads that led to Boston were passable.
For he had discovered that happiness for him was only another name for
Betty Kingsford; and the pursuit of happiness occupied a great deal of
his time and led his feet to Marlborough Street always once and often
twice a week.
There was no false delicacy about Phillip’s love-making. He was in
love and didn’t care who knew it. The Southern male creature accepts
sentiment as a natural accompaniment to youth and is no more ashamed of
being in love than he is of being a gentleman. If he doesn’t wear his
heart on his sleeve, at least he does not hide it in his boots. There
was a frankness and wholesomeness about Phillip’s wooing of Betty that
appealed to Betty’s people even while it amused them. Mrs. Kingsford
considered it a boy and girl affair, loath to own even to herself that
Betty had reached an age when her affections might become seriously
engaged, and negatively countenanced it. Betty’s father uttered a
good many mild jokes at Betty’s expense and pretended to be fearful
of an elopement. But he liked Phillip, and acknowledged to himself
that if assiduity and perseverance counted for anything that youth
had an excellent chance of some day becoming his son-in-law. Everett,
in the manner of the elder brother the world over, found in Betty’s
wooing food for much open amusement, and plagued both her and Phillip
whenever possible, until he found that neither one minded it in the
least. As for Betty herself, what she thought about it was difficult
to tell. None knew save herself; Phillip least of all. Just so long as
he was content to conceal his ardour under the semblance of ordinary
friendship, Betty was kindness itself; admiration temperately expressed
was received demurely and as a matter of course. But the first word of
serious love-making summoned dire frowns and a chilliness of demeanour
that cast Phillip into dismal abysses of doubt and despair, from which
he was only rescued by the merciful Betty after repeated assertions of
repentance and vows of future good behaviour. And thus December wore on
and the Christmas recess approached.
Aside from Phillip’s love affairs, the only incident concerning the
persons of this story worthy of note is the election of John in
mid-December to the office of Class Day Secretary, and the selection,
a week prior, of Guy Bassett for Vice-President of the Freshman Class.
The latter event was duly celebrated in Guy’s room at a Saturday night
orgy of beer and cavendish. There was no poker. Of late――in fact,
since Phillip had lost a month’s allowance to Guy and had paid it with
exemplary promptness――their host had on every occasion shown a strange
disinclination for cards and had politely but firmly refused to produce
them. To-night he offered a new explanation:
“As Vice-President of the Class, it behooves me to set an example of
righteousness to you and Phil. The vice-presidency is an office created
for a purpose, and that purpose is the moral betterment of the class.
Although I say it who shouldn’t, Chesty, the selection of myself for
the position was a wise step. I am firmly convinced that I was cut out
for a home missionary.”
“You be blowed,” answered Chester in disgust. “I saw you playing cards
at the Union the other night.”
“Not poker, I swear!”
“What’s the difference? Cards are cards, and――――”
“Very well, old chap, cards _are_ cards. Who’s for a nice game of
casino?”
Strange to relate, the suggestion was not well received.
About a week later Phillip found himself, to his surprise, engaged
in packing a small trunk with apparel for the recess. The end of the
term had come so suddenly that it found him rather bewildered and
quite at a loss to know whether to welcome or regret its advent.
His delight in the prospect of homecoming and of acting as host to
John North was offset by his dismay at the idea of being parted from
Betty for a fortnight. His leavetaking from that enigmatic young
person had been far from satisfactory to him. It had been devoid of
any of the solemnity and tender sadness that, to him at least, had
appeared befitting. Betty had been more than usually high-spirited
and matter-of-fact, and had refused to recognize the propriety
of sentimental farewells. She had also scoffed at the notion of
letter-writing.
“But you know I――I love you, Betty!” Phillip had pleaded.
Betty’s smiling countenance froze instantly.
“I know you’re a very silly boy,” she had answered, severely, “and a
very untruthful one. You promised――――”
“I know I did,” Phillip had answered miserably. “But this is different,
Betty; don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see.”
“But I’m going away――――”
“For a week.”
“For nearly two weeks! For a fortnight!” Somehow, fortnight sounded
more eternal than two weeks. Betty, however, failed to see the
distinction.
“You talk as though it were two years,” she had replied scathingly.
“Well, just the same, it’s a powerful long time! If you’d write me just
once, Betty, it――――”
“Not a single letter! If you can’t remember me for two weeks without
seeing my handwriting I’m willing you should forget all about me.”
“Remember you!” Phillip had exclaimed tragically. “Of course I shall
remember you, Betty! It isn’t that, only. Can’t you understand――――”
Betty couldn’t. Neither could she understand that it was necessary
that Phillip should kiss her good-by. He tried for a long, long while
to explain this to her in such a way that she should discern the
imperative nature of it, but without success. In the end he had had
to be content with a smiling handshake and a cheerful, undisturbed
“Good-by, Phil,” supplemented a moment later by an airy gesture from
the drawing-room window that, at least so he found courage to believe,
had resemblance to a kiss thrown from small finger tips. He had ridden
back to Cambridge in a mood of mingled hope and despair, of happiness
and pain――a mood which, although not recognizable as such at the time,
is the sweetest of all a lover’s many conditions.
He and John, with a good deal of hand luggage about them, and Tudor
Maid between them, were driven into the Terminal one evening and there
embarked on the Federal Express, Maid in a baggage car and John and
Phillip in the Washington sleeper. John was in fine spirits; Phillip
seemed depressed. In journeying it makes a difference whether the
object of attraction is before or behind.