AT last we were fairly inducted into college life, and commenced a
regular routine of daily duties. Our room was pleasantly situated, and
all our neighbors agreeable. As new victims continued to arrive we were
forsaken by the Sophs, much to our delight, and were permitted to enjoy
a good meal at the table unmolested.
Ned and I had formed as yet no circle of acquaintance. We were together
nearly all the time, and having made up our minds, according to the
invariable rule, to study harder than anybody ever did, we did not care
much for the society of others. We both studied hard, and our progress
in the various branches of instruction was, we thought, satisfactory.
There was this difference between us, however—Ned studied uniformly,
while I studied by impulse. The result was that while many of my daily
lessons exceeded Ned’s in preparation and recitation, yet his average
was far greater than mine. Ned studied to learn _all_ his lesson—to
know every part of it; while I often picked over those points on which
I thought I should most likely be examined. He studied to master the
subject—to become acquainted with a language or to understand a
problem; I studied to make a good recitation. He stored up for the
future; I looked no farther ahead than the next morning’s lecture.
I remember well, when we got to reading Homer, Ned would worry a
whole morning over an idiom; and passages that I found no difficulty
at all in rendering would afford him an hour’s work with lexicon
and grammar. I had a shorter way of doing things. I would take my
Anthon’s Edition—great friend of the student!—and, with the aid of
its voluminous references, and the notes in Kühner, I would easily
cram all that it was probable the professor would touch upon. Simple,
easy parts, that I was sure he would not notice, had to take care of
themselves. When we went in to recite, all the portions I had prepared
so carefully were given to others to render or construe, while I would
be taken up on some part I had thought too simple for my attention, and
would be found woefully ignorant. So, about twice a month I would make
a brilliant recitation, the balance of the time failures.
I suffered, too, from that great cheat of life, the self-promise to
“turn over a new leaf.” Regularly every Monday morning, in accordance
with the previous week’s resolve, I would start afresh, and, after
tremendous application and intense mental effort, would go to the
section room and pass the hour without being noticed. Leaving it
without having had an opportunity to manifest my diligence, I would
feel a little less careful about Tuesday’s preparation. After another
day of silence I would merely glance at Wednesday’s lessons; and
Thursday, with just a peep between the pages, I would be called to
recite, and fail signally. The mortification would then evoke the
firm resolve to “turn over a new leaf,” but, inasmuch as the next day
was Friday, I would conclude to wait till Monday. So Friday would go
without study, and the next week would come and join the retreating
line of its predecessors, and nothing would be accomplished but a
slowly increasing indifference to failure, and a growing inability to
reform. And in all my life since then there has still predominated that
fault, turning over new leaves, and letting the very first breeze of
difficulty flutter them lightly back again!
Is there anybody like me, or do my readers all paste their leaves down
as they turn them over? If you do not you will never get farther in the
book of reform than the preface!
But, whether we worked or idled, the days ever passed on Ned and I
were taking our stroll one evening in the early part of the fall. We
had just turned our faces back towards the college when a gentleman and
lady on horseback approached. Before I could withdraw my eyes from an
impolite stare, they had passed and were sweeping on far ahead.
From that moment study was at an end for me. Soul and body was wrapped
in admiration of this beautiful vision, that had flitted by like a
dream. Yet I had not seen her face; only the glorious wealth of golden
hair, mingling and tossing with the long blue plume in her cap; only
the superb form, gracefully swaying to the motion of her prancing
steed; only the flutter of a rich white skirt beneath the blue velvet
robe, and my heart was gone.
“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed, grasping Ned’s arm, “what a beauty! Who
is she, Ned?”
“How should I know?” he replied, coolly. “I suppose it is DeVare’s
sweetheart, as this is the second time I have seen him out riding with
her.”
“DeVare! then I may yet know her and be happy. Won’t it be glorious,
old fellow?” and I slapped Ned’s shoulder exultingly.
“Just half crazy, that’s all you are as yet, John.”
“But see, Ned, they are returning. My throbbing heart, be still, that I
may gaze!”
As she again flashed by the wondrous beauty of her face and form made
my jesting extravagance to Ned seem almost reasonable. I could think or
talk of nothing else till we reached our room, and as soon as the lamps
were lit, and I thought DeVare was in his room, I went to it. I found
only Carrover there, but he said DeVare would be in presently, and told
me to wait.
Carrover and DeVare roomed together, and, as their rooms were on the
same floor, and very near ours, we had become very intimate with them.
Our intimacy was strengthened and made more pleasant by Ned and
me becoming members of their club, so that they became our fastest
friends, and we had even reached the point of calling them Charlie and
Ramie. While I liked them both, yet Raymond DeVare was my favorite.
Carrover was courteous and kind, but there was always a slight touch of
frigidity about him—a formality I could never quite penetrate—and as
constantly as I was thrown in his company I could never feel at perfect
ease; I always felt younger, more unsophisticated and more capable of
making blunders when he was looking at me than at any other time. He
was so quiet and possessed in his air of _savoir faire_ that I always
feared he was thinking that all I did was out of time or place, and was
pitying my ignorance. This feeling was not strong enough to constrain
me in his presence, or suppress my flow of spirits, but when with him
I was always conscious of a slight hesitation in word and action. With
DeVare it was different. He was even more refined and gentle than
Carrover, but he thought too much of others to think he knew more, and
while he was the most brilliant man in his class, yet his nature’s
vocabulary had no such word as conceit in it. He always made me feel
that I knew as much as he did, and, whenever we conversed, afforded
me the pleasure of believing that I was very entertaining. He never
ridiculed anybody, and I felt that I could eat peas with my knife,
under his eye, and he never would remind me that it was customary
to use a fork. He had that instinctive and yet cultivated delicacy
that cared for another’s feelings as if they were his own. Yet, when
anything was wrong, he always condemned it with firmness, yet without
bitterness. His moral character was spotless.
But I am digressing again. I was waiting, then, for him to come to his
room. I lolled down on the bed while Carrover continued to study.
In a few moments we heard DeVare’s step, and he came into the room.
“Well,” I said, rising up on one elbow, “I have been waiting for you
a long time. Now, tell who was that superb woman you were riding with
this afternoon, and where does she live? My heart is hers eternally.
I’ll vow, Ramie, I never saw as much beauty done up in one bundle
before.”
DeVare frowned his brows at me and motioned his head towards Carrover,
but as I thought he meant I would disturb him, I lowered my voice and
went on:
“Please tell me about her, Ramie. I know you love her. You couldn’t be
with her and not love her. Promise me you’ll take me to see her and
I’ll hush, and let Charlie get his lesson.”
I looked at Charlie as I spoke and found him still intent on his
page, but smiling peculiarly, as if there was something ridiculous in
Blackstone.
“By the way, Charlie,” said DeVare, as if my question was forgotten,
“what do you think of the case for the Moot Court to-morrow evening?”
“I had not given it much thought,” said Carrover, going to the bookcase
for a volume; “what was the statement of facts?”
“Oh, bother the Moot Court,” I said, getting off the bed, I’m on
another kind of court now. Tell me about the girl, DeVare, and I’ll
leave you and Carrover to your old, dry discussions.”
“Jack, you are persistent,” said DeVare, with a laugh in the corner of
each eye, as if he foresaw my confusion, “the lady I was riding with
this afternoon was Miss Lillian Carrover, Charlie’s sister.”
I felt a hot tingle run up my cheeks, then run down again, and
I glanced hurriedly at Carrover. He was still standing at the
bookcase with his back toward me, and seemed as if he had not heard
our conversation. I first thought of asking his pardon, but on
second thought I changed the subject, and, after making one or two
common-place remarks, left the room, resolving in the future not to be
so free with my tongue.
The next day Ramie assured me that Carrover had not thought anything of
it, and told me that if I still desired her acquaintance he would take
much pleasure in introducing me. I informed him that no other thought
or hope had been entertained by me since I had seen her, and besought
him to make his convenience as early as possible.
We fixed on the morrow’s night as the time of our visit, and the pages
of my books were all blank to my prëoccupied thoughts for the next
twenty-four hours.
Virgil wrote about Lillian instead of Amaryllis, and stolid Socrates
seemed to advise the cultivation of love for an angel in blue velvet.
An equation of the fourth degree on the blackboard resolved itself into
a horse, with a leg for each degree; and the only thing in the Algebra
of any interest to me was the concrete example about the saddle and
bridle being changed by mountings of different value. I was constantly
with DeVare when not in lecture, and gathered from him, in reference to
my sudden flame, that she was Carrover’s only sister; that she was a
North Carolinian by birth, but had been adopted by a rich uncle in New
York; that she had been a Fifth Avenue belle since her fifteenth year;
that she had returned in the last spring from an extended European
tour; that she had made a conquest of all the hearts from Saratoga to
the White Sulphur during the past summer; and, while staying at the
last named springs, had met with Miss Minnie, our Professor’s daughter,
an old playmate and friend. Reviving the old intimacy, she had agreed
to come to North Carolina with her, and spend part of the winter at the
University.
On the morrow’s afternoon DeVare showed me a delicately perfumed
billet-doux, in most exquisite chirography, stating that Miss Carrover
would be most happy to see Mr. DeVare and his friend from half past
nine to ten and half. As the parlors of the favorite young ladies at
the University were crowded every night, the plan had been adopted
of engaging the hours, so that a young lady could specify the hour
at which she would receive a visit from a gentleman, and he was not
at liberty to stay longer unless he was specially invited, and no
others had come in. Where there were so many students to so few ladies
this served to avoid confusion, and gave the many who wished to call
something like a chance to be heard, each for himself.
That evening, immediately after tea, I commenced getting ready, and
after completely exhausting my wardrobe and patience, felt but poorly
prepared to be introduced to a young lady who had actually been to
Europe, and reigned as one of the queens of our metropolitan society.
As we neared the door I wondered that DeVare could be so cool and
composed, while my heart was fluttering so that my limbs caught the
tremor, and, in spite of the warm, pleasant night, persisted in having
the ague. I saw that the curtain was down as we knocked at the door,
but there was the reflection of light within, and the murmur of several
voices. I had been thinking all the time of what to say first. I felt
that I could get on very well after the conversation started, but how
to fill up with appropriate remarks that dismal silence just after
the introduction, was more than my inexperience could compass. I had
made up some absurd compliment about the beautiful northern flower
blooming still sweetly in southern soil, but the rat-tat of the knocker
dissipated every collected thought, and left my mind blanker than
before.
A servant answered our knock; we hung our hats on the stand. I arranged
my cravat and smoothed on my glove for the thirty-seventh time, and the
next thing I knew I was in a throng of faces, from which rose up one
with a wavy mass of tawny hair, drooping sleepy eyes, and red lips,
that parted over smooth white teeth. I thought I heard DeVare’s voice,
as in a dream: “Miss Carrover, allow me to introduce my friend, Mr.
Smith,” and I bowed till the part in my hair alone was visible.
There was another lady in the room, Miss Minnie, the daughter of the
Professor, and I took the only seat in sight, which was near her.
Notwithstanding our engagement, the parlor was full of gentlemen, and,
to my horror, many of them were Sophs. There was quite a crowd of these
around Miss Minnie, who was a vivacious little personage, full of
mischief and wit, and dispensing her smiles and bon mots around with
generous impartiality. As the conversation had begun before I entered I
could not very well join in, and as no one addressed any remark to me,
I sat bolt upright in my chair, with one arm thrown, with an attempt at
ease, over the back, while the other fumbled at my watch chain.
DeVare had found a seat near Miss Carrover, and was soon absorbed in
conversation with her—supposing, of course, that after an introduction
I would have nothing to do but proceed to enjoyment. A procedure not
always of consummate ease!
As I was sitting very near the circle around Miss Minnie, I soon found
that I was not only the object of their mischievous glances but also of
their wit. Their tones were just loud enough for me to hear, and after
each sally all would join in a laugh, which Miss Minnie often led. From
this they began to address themselves to me, calling me Fresh, asking
what I had come for, and if I was not ashamed to use the parlor mirror
to dress by. (I had been unconsciously adjusting my cravat in the
mirror over the mantel.)
As I was not certain whether the Sophs’ prerogative extended to a
private parlor or not, I was afraid to say anything, but sat still,
while my embarrassment drove the blood almost through my cheeks, and
beaded my forehead with great drops of perspiration.
Miss Minnie then inquired if I would sit still or take a seat nearer
the fire—the point of her remark lying in fact that it was quite a
warm night, and there was not a spark in the fireplace.
I tried to say “No, thank you,” but not recognizing my own voice, cut
it off with “No——,” which itself was so meekly stammered it had no
decided negative character; but it had the effect of raising all the
voices of the Sophs, who cried out:
“Oh, how impolite, Fresh, to say no to a lady! Where did you learn your
manners? How extremely vulgar!”
I was just on the point of rushing from the room when DeVare’s
attention was attracted at this outcry, and he took in the position of
affairs at a glance. His face was aglow with scorn and indignation as
he rose from Miss Carrover’s side and strode to our part of the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said—looking with withering contempt on the circle
around Miss Minnie, “though the term is a misnomer—I have introduced
Mr. Smith here: an insult to him is an insult to me. The presence of
ladies is no place for a quarrel, but I characterize your conduct as
ungentlemanly, and will be ready to hear from any of you at any time.
You know my name and the number of my room. Miss Minnie, pardon me, but
I am surprised that you should have allowed or encouraged such conduct
in your house.”
“Really, Mr. DeVare, you are not in earnest?” said Miss Minnie, with
imperturbable good humor. “Why, I thought even the ladies had a right
to tease the Fresh.”
“That is just as you please to think, Miss Minnie,” he replied, with
one of his bows; “the gentlemen have heard my opinion of _their_
conduct.”
“Lil, you and I will leave the parlor if the gentlemen wish to fight,”
said Miss Minnie, making a pretence of rising to leave the room.
Miss Carrover looked at her with a shake of her head, and with her
soft rich voice said: “Minnie!” Then, turning to DeVare—
“Come here, Mr. DeVare, Minnie is only jesting. Mr. Smith,” addressing
me, “have you seen these stereoscopic views of the University? My
brother had them taken last spring. Take a seat here on the sofa and
look them over with me, and see if you can recognize them all.”
Her manner was so composed and gracious that we were all reseated and
everything quiet before we knew it. I had felt so miserably wretched
while DeVare and Miss Minnie were speaking that I felt eternally
grateful to Miss Carrover for relieving me, even though she treated me
as if I were very young, in doing it.
In a moment or two all save DeVare and myself rose to leave—Brazon,
who was the ringleader in Miss Minnie’s persecuting circle, scowling
malignantly at DeVare as he bowed himself out.
As soon as they had gone Miss Minnie came to where I was sitting, and,
with winning frankness, offered her hand, saying:
“It was very naughty in me, Mr. Smith, to tease you. I beg pardon, and
promise not to do so any more.”
I caught her hand convulsively, and assured her of my entire
forgiveness, and implored her not to give herself any trouble on my
account, and much more to the same incoherent effect.
She drew her hand gently from mine, and calling DeVare, said—
“Mr. DeVare, let’s take those seats by the window; I have a fuss to
make up with you, too.”
DeVare, of course, complied, and I was left alone on the sofa with Miss
Carrover. We still had the box of pictures in our hands, but as soon as
DeVare left she closed the box and said:
“Let’s put these tiresome old pictures up, and talk some. Tell me all
about the way the Sophs treated you when you first came.”
To be near such superb beauty was almost too much for my poor
sentimental heart; and then to have her wish to hear me talk, and
even prescribe the subject, as if my words would be full of so much
interest! I was stupid for awhile with surprise, and sat for nearly
half a minute gazing abstractedly and impolitely in her face. Indeed,
‘twas well worth gazing on.
Her hair was not done up regularly, but caught in great loose folds
around her head, so as to best set off her face, and was rolled back
from her clear white forehead in a great golden wave—yet its color
was not altogether golden; it had a tinge of red that made it glow
with a tawny light. Her skin was perfectly smooth and clear, and of
wax-like whiteness, tinged with a bright peach pink on her cheeks. But
her chief charms were her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were hazel or dark
gray, I could never tell which, shaded with very long lashes and deep
upper lids, that gave them a dreamy, languid expression, that always
impresses us as most beautiful, we know not why. Her mouth was small,
and very much arched at the corners; her lips bright red, and her teeth
perfectly white; the upper lip protruded slightly, as if she was ever a
little surprised, and this, combined with a constant slight arch of the
eyebrows, imparted an air of interest in all you said, notwithstanding
the languor of her general expression. Her beauty was Dudu’s, and Byron
well knew its fascinating power.
As soon as I recovered from my brief contemplation of her face I made
an attempt to give her my experience as a Fresh, and what with the
pleasure of talking at all to her, and her interest in my subject, and
continued ejaculations of pity, I began to wish the fellows had done
me much worse than they had, it was so delightful to have her listen
to the recital of my woes. When I told her of my fainting under the
smoking, she smiled such a lazy little smile, and said, “I did not know
gentlemen indulged in such feminine weaknesses.”
“But the air was so noxious, Miss Carrover, no one could have borne it.
You would have been compelled to faint.”
“Oh, I faint quite easily,” she said, arching one eyebrow instead
of two, “I came near falling from my horse as I went to mount last
evening, and became unconscious for a little while.”
“And was no one there to catch you?” I asked, with earnest heroism in
my tone.
“Oh, of course, I took care to be provided with that safeguard. Do you
think you could catch me if we were riding and I should fall?”
“I would catch you if you fell from the skies,” I replied, warmly,
involuntarily feeling my arm, as if it belonged to Hercules, and
looking at her just in time to catch a glance of significance passing
between herself and DeVare. Feeling that perhaps I was just a little
ridiculous, I endeavored to leave the subject gradually by asking
if she was fond of riding horseback, and begging the honor of an
engagement for the next evening. She thanked me, and said that as she
had introduced the subject I might have construed it into a hint, and
she must therefore decline the offer. As I seemed so cut down, however,
she agreed to make an indefinite engagement, the time to be fixed any
time after that evening.
She then drew me out about our halls and libraries, till I had told of
every alcove, and how well they were arranged for courting, and that
all the students carried their sweethearts there, and ended by asking
her to go with me there some evening after lecture. Another lazy smile,
and she softly reminded me that she had introduced that topic also,
and must therefore decline again, “at least,” she said, looking at me
sideways under her long lashes, “till you claim me as your sweetheart,
as you state that it is the resort of lovers only.”
I flushed and hushed for a moment, when DeVare rose from his seat with
Miss Minnie, and said it was time for us to go.
Miss Carrover gave me her hand at parting, and insisted on my calling
again with so much sweet earnestness that I made myself ridiculous
again in my promise to do so.
We had scarcely passed outside the gate when I commenced:
“DeVare, is she not perfectly splendid! I’ll vow I’m crazy about her.”
“That was shameful conduct in those scoundrels to-night,” DeVare said,
without noticing my remark, “and had it not been for Miss Minnie and
Lillian I would have punished them on the spot.”
“Do you call her Lillian, Ramie?” I asked with surprise.
“If any of them want satisfaction for anything I said to-night,” he
continued, without heeding me, “I will have to request you, Jack, to
act as my friend.”
“You may depend on me, Ramie; but if there is to be any difficulty, I
must be the principal, as it was all begun on my account.”
“Oh, nonsense,” he said. “I gave the insult to them, and of course I
only can satisfy them. I do not expect anything, however, from that
crowd, as they are too cowardly to resent an insult.”
We parted at his room, and when I reached mine I made Ned put up his
books for the night, and listen to my account of Miss Carrover.
When I had at last wearied him out, and we went to bed, I could not go
to sleep for the dancing train of fancies that were rushing through my
mind. I lay there till far in the night, recalling every incident of
my visit, trying to make its memory as vivid as possible, thinking
of every word she had said, and regretting the many foolish things I
had said, which might lessen me in her estimation—(but oh! I hoped
not!)—wondering how she who had seen so much of society, who had
seen everything worth seeing in Europe and America, and knew almost
everybody worth knowing, could be so interested in my talk—a youth
just approaching manhood, unused to the ways of the world and unskilled
in the use of the tongue. Then I would, by an ingenious process, known
only to those who are vain, endeavor to convince myself that she did
like me, and would eventually love me. I would imagine her telling Miss
Minnie that I was a handsome fellow, and so entertaining; then wishing
for me to call again, then giving me a preference in attention when I
did call, then writing sweet notes of thanks for the many love tokens
and gifts I would send her, then a moonlight stroll, a courtship, a
kiss, and eternal happiness!
I would fall asleep only to rebuild and embellish in my dreams the
magnificent air castles of my waking hours.