The joy of loving kindness in his life, and a sense that somebody
cared, seemed to have the effect of stimulating Michael’s mind to
greater energies. He studied with all his powers. Whatever he did he
did with his might, even his play.
The last year of his stay in Florida, a Department of Scientific
Farming was opened on a small scale. Michael presented himself as a
student.
“What do you want of farming, Endicott?” asked the president, happening
to pass through the room on the first day of the teacher’s meeting with
his students. “You can’t use farming in New York.”
There was perhaps in the kindly old president’s mind a hope that the
boy would linger with them, for he had become attached to him in a
silent, undemonstrative sort of way.
“I might need it sometime,” answered Michael, “and anyway I’d like to
understand it. You said the other day that no knowledge was ever
wasted. I’d like to know enough at least to tell somebody else.”
The president smiled, wondered, and passed on. Michael continued in the
class, supplementing the study by a careful reading of all the
Agricultural magazines, and Government literature on the subject that
came in his way. Agriculture had had a strange fascination for him ever
since a noted speaker from the North had come that way and in an
address to the students told them that the new field for growth today
lay in getting back to nature and cultivating the earth. It was
characteristic of Michael that he desired to know if that statement was
true, and if so, why. Therefore he studied.
The three years flew by as if by magic. Michael won honors not a few,
and the day came when he had completed his course, and as valedictorian
of his class, went up to the old chapel for his last commencement in
the college.
He sat on the platform looking down on the kindly, uncritical audience
that had assembled for the exercises, and saw not a single face that
had come for his sake alone. Many were there who were interested in him
because they had known him through the years, and because he bore the
reputation of being the honor man of his class and the finest athlete
in school. But that was not like having some one of his very own who
cared whether he did well or not. He found himself wishing that even
Buck might have been there; Buck, the nearest to a brother he had ever
had. Would Buck have cared that he had won highest rank? Yes, he felt
that Buck would have been proud of him.
Michael had sent out three invitations to commencement, one to Mr.
Endicott, one to Starr, and one addressed to Buck, with the inner
envelope bearing the words “For Buck and ‘the kids,’” but no response
had come to any of them. He had received back the one addressed to Buck
with “Not Called For” in big pink letters stamped across the corner. It
had reached him that morning, just before he came on the platform. He
wished it had not come till night; it gave him a lonely, almost
forsaken feeling. He was “educated” now, at least enough to know what
he did not know; and there was no one to care.
When Michael sat down after his oration amid a storm of hearty
applause, prolonged by his comrades into something like an ovation,
some one handed him a letter and a package. There had been a mistake
made at the post office in sorting the mail and these had not been put
into the college box. One of the professors going down later found them
and brought them up.
The letter was from Mr. Endicott containing a businesslike line of
congratulations, a hope that the recipient would come to New York if he
still felt of that mind, and a check for a hundred dollars.
Michael looked at the check awesomely, re-read the letter carefully and
put both in his pocket. The package was tiny and addressed in Starr’s
handwriting. Michael saved that till he should go to his room. He did
not want to open it before any curious eyes.
Starr’s letters had been few and far between, girlish little epistles;
and the last year they had ceased altogether. Starr was busy with life;
finishing-school and dancing-school and music-lessons and good times.
Michael was a dim and pleasant vision to her.
The package contained a scarf-pin of exquisite workmanship. Starr had
pleased herself by picking out the very prettiest thing she could find.
She had her father’s permission to spend as much as she liked on it. It
was in the form of an orchid, with a tiny diamond like a drop of dew on
one petal.
Michael looked on it with wonder, the first suggestion of personal
adornment that had ever come to him. He saw the reminder of their day
together in the form of the orchid; studied the beautiful name, “Starr
Delevan Endicott,” engraved upon the card; then put them carefully back
into their box and locked it into his bureau drawer. He would wear it
the first time he went to see Starr. He was very happy that day.
The week after college closed Michael drove the college mule to the
county seat, ten miles away, and bought a small trunk. It was not much
of a trunk but it was the best the town afforded. In this he packed all
his worldly possessions, bade good-bye to the president, and such of
the professors as had not already gone North for their vacations, took
a long tramp to all his old haunts, and boarded the midnight train for
New York.
The boy had a feeling of independence which kept him from letting his
benefactor know of his intended arrival. He did not wish to make him
any unnecessary trouble, and though he had now been away from New York
for fourteen years, he felt a perfect assurance that he could find his
way about. There are some things that one may learn even at seven, that
will never be forgotten.
When Michael landed in New York he looked about him with vague
bewilderment for a moment. Then he started out with assurance to find a
new spot for himself in the world.
Suitcase he had not, nor any baggage but his trunk to hinder him. He
had discovered that the trunk could remain in the station for a day
without charge. The handsome raincoat and umbrella which had been a
part of the outfit the tailor had sent him that spring were all his
encumbrances, so he picked his way unhampered across Liberty Street,
eyeing his former enemies, the policemen, and every little urchin or
newsboy with interest. Of course Buck and the rest would have grown up
and changed some; they wouldn’t likely be selling papers now—but—these
were boys such as he had been. He bought a paper off a little ragged
fellow with a pinched face, and a strange sensation came over him. When
he left this city he was the newsboy, and now he had money enough to
buy a paper—and the education to read it! What a difference! Not that
he wanted the paper at present, though it might prove interesting
later, but he wanted the experience of buying it. It marked the era of
change in his life and made the contrast tremendous. Immediately his
real purpose in having an education, the uplift of his fellow-beings,
which had been most vague during the years, took form and leapt into
vivid interest, as he watched the little skinny legs of the newsboy
nimbly scrambling across the muddy street under the feet of horses, and
between automobiles, in imminent danger of his life.
Michael had thought it all out, just what he would do, and he proceeded
to carry out his purpose. He had no idea what a fine picture of
well-groomed youth and manly beauty he presented as he marched down the
street. He walked like a king, and New York abashed him no more now
that he had come back than it did before he went away. There are some
spirits born that way. He walked like a “gentleman, unafraid.”
He had decided not to go to Mr. Endicott until he had found lodgings
somewhere. An innate delicacy had brought him to this decision. He
would not put one voluntary burden upon his kind benefactor. Born and
bred in the slums, whence came this fineness of feeling? Who shall say?
Michael threaded his way through the maze of traffic, instinct and
vague stirrings of memory guiding him to a quiet shabby street where he
found a dingy little room for a small price. The dangers that might
have beset a strange young man in the great city were materially
lessened for him on account of his wide reading. He had read up New
York always wherever he found an article or book or story that touched
upon it; and without realizing it he was well versed in details. He had
even pondered for hours over a map of New York that he found in the
back of an old magazine, comparing it with his faint memories, until he
knew the location of things with relation to one another pretty well. A
stranger less versed might have gotten into most undesirable quarters.
The boy looked around his new home with a strange sinking of heart,
after he had been out to get something to eat, and arranged for his
trunk to be sent to his room. It was very tiny and not over clean. The
wall paper was a dingy flowered affair quite ancient in design, and
having to all appearances far outlived a useful life. The one window
looked out to brick walls, chimneys and roofs. The noise of the city
clattered in; the smells and the heat made it almost stifling to the
boy who had lived for thirteen years in the sunshine of the South, and
the freedom of the open.
The narrow bed looked uninviting, the bureau-washstand was of the
cheapest, and the reflection Michael saw in its warped mirror would
have made any boy with a particle of vanity actually suffer. Michael,
however, was not vain. He thought little about himself, but this room
was depressing. The floor was covered with a nondescript carpet faded
and soiled beyond redemption, and when his trunk was placed between the
bureau and the bed there would be scarcely room for the one wooden
chair. It was not a hopeful outlook. The boy took off his coat and sat
down on the bed to whistle.
Life, grim, appalling, spectral-like, uprose before his mental vision,
and he spent a bad quarter of an hour trying to adjust himself to his
surroundings; his previous sunny philosophy having a tough tussle with
the sudden realities of things as they were. Then his trunk arrived.
It was like Michael to unpack it at once and put all his best
philosophical resolves into practice.
As he opened the trunk a whiff of the South, exhaled. He caught his
breath with a sudden keen, homesickness. He realized that his school
days were over, and all the sweetness and joy of that companionful life
passed. He had often felt alone in those days. He wondered at it now.
He had never in all his experience known such aloneness as now in this
great strange city.
The last thing he had put into his trunk had been a branch of mammoth
pine needles. The breath of the tree brought back all that meant home
to him. He caught it up and buried his face in the plumy tassels.
The tray of the trunk was filled with flags, pennants, photographs, and
college paraphernalia. Eagerly he pulled them all out and spread them
over the bumpy little bed. Then he grabbed for his hat and rushed out.
In a few minutes he returned with a paper of tacks, another of pins,
and a small tack hammer. In an hour’s time he had changed the
atmosphere of the whole place. Not an available inch of bare wall
remained with, its ugly, dirty wallpaper. College colors, pennants and
flags were grouped about pictures, and over the unwashed window was
draped Florida moss. Here and there, apparently fluttering on the moss
or about the room, were fastened beautiful specimens of semi-tropical
moths and butterflies in the gaudiest of colors. A small stuffed
alligator reposed above the window, gazing apathetically down, upon the
scene. A larger alligator skin was tacked on one wall. One or two queer
bird’s nests fastened to small branches hung quite naturally here and
there.
Michael threw down the hammer and sat down to survey his work, drawing
a breath of relief. He felt more at home now with the photographs of
his fellow students smiling down upon him. Opposite was the base-ball
team, frowning and sturdy; to the right the Glee Club with himself as
their leader; to the left a group of his classmates, with his special
chum in the midst. As he gazed at that kindly face in the middle he
could almost hear the friendly voice calling to him: “Come on, Angel!
You’re sure to win out!”
Michael felt decidedly better, and fell to hanging up his clothes and
arranging his effects on clean papers in the rheumatic bureau drawers.
These were cramped quarters but would do for the present until he was
sure of earning some money, for he would not spend his little savings
more than he could help now and he would not longer be dependent upon
the benefaction of Mr. Endicott.
When his box of books arrived he would ask permission to put some
shelves over the window. Then he would feel quite cosy and at home.
So he cheered himself as he went about getting into his best garments,
for he intended to arrive at Madison Avenue about the time that his
benefactor reached home for the evening.
Michael knew little of New York ways, and less of the habits of
society; the few novels that had happened in his way being his only
instructors on the subject. He was going entirely on his dim memories
of the habits of the Endicott home during his brief stay there. As it
happened Mr. Endicott was at home when Michael arrived and the family
were dining alone.
The boy was seated in the reception room gazing about him with the ease
of his habitual unconsciousness of self, when Endicott came down
bringing Starr with him. A second time the man of the world was deeply
impressed with the fine presence of this boy from obscurity. He did not
look out of place even in a New York drawing room. It was incredible;
though of course a large part of it was due to his city-made clothing.
Still, that would not by any means account for case of manner, graceful
courtesy, and an instinct for saying the right thing at the right time.
Endicott invited the lad to dine with them and Starr eagerly seconded
the invitation. Michael accepted as eagerly, and a few moments later
found himself seated at the elegantly appointed table by the side of a
beautiful and haughty woman who stared at him coldly, almost
insultingly, and made not one remark to him throughout the whole meal.
The boy looked at her half wonderingly. It almost seemed as if she
intended to resent his presence, yet of course that could not be. His
idea of this whole family was the highest. No one belonging to Starr
could of course be aught but lovely of spirit.
Starr herself seemed to feel the disapproval of her mother, and shrink
into herself, saying very little, but smiling shyly at Michael now and
then when her mother was not noticing her.
Starr was sixteen now, slender and lovely as she had given promise of
being. Michael watched her satisfied. At last he turned to the mother
sitting in her cold grandeur, and with the utmost earnestness and
deference in his voice said, his glance still half toward Starr:
“She is like you, and yet not!”
He said it gravely, as if it were a discovery of the utmost importance
to them both, and he felt sure it was the key to her heart, this
admission of his admiration of the beautiful girl.
Mrs. Endicott froze him with her glance.
From the roots of his hair down to the tips of his toes and back again
he felt it, that insulting resentment of his audacity in expressing any
opinion about her daughter; or in fact in having any opinion. For an
instant his self-possession deserted him, and his face flushed with
mingled emotions. Then he saw a look of distress on Starr’s face as she
struggled to make reply for her silent mother:
“Yes, mamma and I are often said to resemble one another strongly,” and
there was a tremble in Starr’s voice that roused all the manliness in
the boy. He flung off the oppression that was settling down upon him
and listened attentively to what Endicott was saying, responding
gracefully, intelligently, and trying to make himself think that it was
his inexperience with ladies that had caused him to say something
inappropriate. Henceforth during the evening he made no more personal
remarks.
Endicott took the boy to his den after dinner, and later Starr slipped
in and they talked a little about their beautiful day in Florida
together. Starr asked him if he still rode and would like to ride with
her in the Park the next morning when she took her exercise, and it was
arranged in the presence of her father and with his full consent that
Michael should accompany her in place of the groom who usually attended
her rides.
Mrs. Endicott came in as they were making this arrangement, and
immediately called Starr sharply out of the room.
After their withdrawal Endicott questioned the boy carefully about his
college course and his habits of living. He was pleased to hear that
Michael had been independent enough to secure lodgings before coming to
his house. It showed a spirit that was worth helping, though he told
him that he should have come straight to him.
As Endicott was going off on a business trip for a week he told Michael
to enjoy himself looking around the city during his absence, and on his
return present himself at the office at an appointed hour when he would
put him in the way of something that would start him in life.
Michael thanked him and went back to his hot little room on the fourth
floor, happy in spite of heat and dinginess and a certain homesick
feeling. Was he not to ride with Starr in the morning? He could hardly
sleep for thinking of it, and of all he had to say to her.