I
The fall of his eighteenth birthday, Quincy went to college. He had
completed his examinations in June; and he had passed them with a single
deficiency. Although his college was out-of-town, these hours of trial
had been set in the city--in a vast, cold gymnasium filled with little
stubby tables and larded with apparatus that in their similarity to
instruments of torture seemed appropriate enough. Here he sat, weighed
down with the stupid sense of the authority about him. He had gazed at
the printed slips with their silly, circumscribed demands upon his
knowledge and been impressed with the irrelevance of higher education.
In one instance, he had been impressed too well. He had failed. And for
the purpose of passing off this failure, he had now to start from home
two days before the beginning of the term.
He took his leave in the sitting room. The family had just returned from
the country. The room was still muffled in camphor draperies and
grey-blue covers. There were no curtains. And the cleaning to which the
sedulous Sarah had subjected it had robbed the room of the one glow of
ease and warmth it might have kept--the dusty deposits of the summer.
The room, then, was cold and harsh. The table shone out with its bare
mahogany red. All else was under the protective cloths.
Quincy came down, suit-case in hand. Upstairs, he had applied the last
minute attentions, putting off the ultimate plunge with a zealous mania
for details, much as a diver sticks his toe into the water. Thrice he
had locked his suit-case and reopened it--to brush his hair again, to
take out a letter of announcement for the Dean, to see if aught was
missing. Long he looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting his fresh
collar and his tie. Then he unfastened his silver watch from its leather
chain and placed it before him on the bureau for constant consultation.
Changing his mind, fearful lest he forget it, he replaced it in his
pocket. This also, made him nervous. He wished to track the lapse of
time. So once again, the watch was out before him. He wondered if his
watch was right. It was really too early to leave for the train. But
perhaps it was five minutes later than he thought. In a trice, he had
convinced himself of this imagining,--was ready to act upon it. He flung
on his coat, strapped his suit-case and made for the stairs. He
descended, clumsily, conscious of his feet.
He placed his suit-case in the hall and entered the room, where his
mother and Adelaide were seated.
“Well, is it time to go?” his mother spoke. “Or can you sit down a few
minutes?”
“I’m afraid not, Mama.” The boy shifted nervously from foot to foot.
With this Adelaide got up.
“Have you room for this in your valise?” she asked, handing him a tidily
wrapped box.
Quincy reached out his hand. “What is it?”
“Oh, I thought--perhaps--” she faltered, “now you are to be a college
man--you might want to smoke.” There was a pause. “It is a tin of
cigarettes.”
“Child! Why put the idea into his head?” cried Sarah.
“I had the idea before,” Quincy retorted. And then, he thanked his
sister who stood expectant, not yet knowing whether she had done a thing
extremely felicitous or awkward.
“Even if I don’t smoke there’ll be plenty of the boys who will,” was his
colorless observation. He slipped the box into his pocket.
“Good-bye, Quincy, and good luck.” Adelaide kissed him. “And don’t get
homesick.”
“Homesick? No chance!”
Sarah took his head in her hands. “Won’t you get a little homesick for
me, dear--just once in a while?”
At this, Quincy smiled. He preferred it. Yet of the two, his sister’s
had been the selfless remark.
He kissed them both--unostentatiously, though both longed to linger with
his dark, serious head beside their own. Both of these women loved him.
Yet, at the time, they were no more than momentary details on his
path--obstructions of no import on his vision. So he drew his head away
from their hands and lips as quickly as he could. And then, stung
triflingly by conscience at the fact that he had done just this, he
stepped back, half-way across the room, kissed them again, saw the gleam
of tears in their eyes, and sturdily marched out.
“Don’t come downstairs!”
But they stepped after him. Adelaide helped him on with his new coat.
His mother gave a loving brush to his new hat. And then, Adelaide spoke.
“Oh, Quincy! You’ve fifty minutes yet.” She had espied the parlor clock.
The boy held back, ashamed at his puerile impatience. The girl clapped
her hands with a sudden thought that evidently gave her pleasure.
“I’ll take you to the station, Quincy.”
“No. That’s ridiculous.” He did not want her.
“And why not?” said Sarah. “It’s an excellent idea.”
“Do let me! I’ll just be a minute. I’ll throw on a coat and hat--”
Quincy stood, unable to reject her; lacking the wits for it, yet
loathing this adventitious family concern, clinging upon him on his way
to college. Adelaide dashed upstairs.
“That’s a very good idea,” pondered Sarah. “You’ve lots of time.”
Quincy paced nervously up and down; he was distressed. He did not like
what seemed the significance of this--he did not like the afterthought.
And then an idea came to Sarah that gave her pleasure also.
“Why,” she said, “you might have the machine! I’m sure your father
hasn’t got it.”
“No! No! No!” cried Quincy, heaping on this proposal much of the
vehement denial brought over from the first.
“Why, you silly boy?”
“I don’t want it. I’ll take the car.”
“Nonsense!” Sarah looked uncomprehending, doubting his protest. Then,
she moved toward the telephone.
“Mother,” said Quincy from his position near the door, “I don’t want
your automobile. Do you hear? If you call for it, I’ll not take it. I’ll
not take it, even if it should come this very minute.”
Sarah paused.
“You’re a very ungracious boy,” she said slowly.
His face turned pale, with a white fire.
“Oh, am I?--Very well, then--.” He grasped his suit-case. Thrusting his
hat low over his eyes, he dashed away.
Adelaide returned to the head of the stairs. A cozy rough wool coat was
close against her body; a brown cloth hat clustered with strawberries
was atilt over her wavy hair. She saw her mother standing alone near the
open door.
“Has he gone?” she said.
Sarah sighed. “The usual Quincy--”
And as she went on, Adelaide descended. “I offered him the car and he
flew into a passion--into a passion, and out of the house. Oh! Oh!”
Now Adelaide was beside her.
“One would think, the way he acts, we didn’t love him.”
“We don’t love him right, Mama,” the girl spoke calmly and threw off her
coat.
Sarah turned on her with anger: “How dare you say that? What’s wrong
with _you_ now? What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s true. And he feels it.”
All of Sarah’s suppressed emotion turned on her daughter.
“Didn’t I offer him the machine, out of consideration?” she cried with a
rasp in her voice.
“Yes--at the last minute. For a guest, you’d have thought of it two
hours ago.”
“Well, what about _your_ suggestion. When did you think of offering to
go with him?”
“At the last minute, also, Mama.”
“And does that prove you don’t love him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Does that prove you don’t love him enough?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Sarah threw out her arms in a gesture of bewilderment.
“I said we didn’t love him _right_,” Adelaide continued.
Sarah gazed in silence at her daughter. She was awed by the conciseness
of the answer, however little she understood it. Then, fronting her, she
put her question.
“Why?”
The girl shook her head.
“It’s not our fault. It’s in the house. It’s the spirit here. I can’t
explain. But you should understand. We can’t help it. But he feels it.
Yes,--he feels it.”
She stopped and the two women were still. Both of them were looking far,
vaguely, beyond the open door.
“He’s gone, now,” said Sarah.