After closing Wallace’s desk upon his secret David walked slowly over to the dormitory. He felt bewildered and uncertain. Something that had been precious to him, something to which he had clung, had suddenly and utterly been shattered. To get the better of a master in any way that you could was, he knew, the code of many fellows, and in ordinary circumstances, where the master had what the boys termed “a sporting chance,” a resort to subterfuges and deceptions did not necessarily imply depravity. But to take advantage of a blind man—that was base.
David arrived at his room five minutes before the hour for luncheon. Happy excitement over the contest of the afternoon in which he was to play a part had faded; in its place there seemed only a dull ache of disappointment and loss. There came to him memories of Wallace’s generous friendship—of the day when he had supported him in his fight with Henshaw, of the time when he had given him his running shoes, of the little acts of kindness; and he wondered now why it was that he could not overlook the discovery that he had just made and feel toward Wallace as he had always done.
The dinner bell rang; descending the stairs, David encountered Wallace at the bottom. Wallace was radiant, slapped him on the shoulders and cried: “I’ll get your goat this afternoon, Dave. How are you feeling? Fine?”
“Not especially,” David answered; indeed, he felt himself shrinking under his friend’s touch. He knew now that he could not assume the old exuberant geniality and that until he had given Wallace an opportunity to explain he could not keep up even the pretense of warm friendship.
Wallace did not notice his coolness; he saw another friend and made for him. At the luncheon table Henshaw and Monroe and others expressed their satisfaction that Wallace was saved to the Pythian team and, more important still, to the school team. David wondered whether they thought he was jealous or envious or unsportsmanlike because he did not join in the remarks. He supposed they did think so, but that could add little to his unhappiness.
As a matter of fact, once out on the field he was able to forget his depressing preoccupations; the lively work of the preliminary practice restored his zest for the game. And when it began he was as keen to do his best, as eager to win, as any one on the Corinthian nine. But victory did not perch on the Corinthian banner, in spite of the loyal support of the “rooters” along the third-base line, in spite of the desperate efforts of catcher and captain and whole infield to steady a wavering pitcher, in spite of a ninth-inning rally, when a shower of hits by seemingly inspired batters brought in three runs that were within one of tying the score. The Pythians triumphed, eight runs to seven, and unquestionably the chief honors belonged to Wallace. His home run, a smashing hit to left center in the third inning, brought in two others; and his double in the seventh sent what proved to be the winning tally across the plate. Moreover, it was his leaping one-hand catch of a hot liner from Treadway’s bat that closed the game when the Corinthians were most threatening.
David, crouched forward on the players’ bench in nervous intentness when that incident happened, felt a pang of disappointment, then a throb of admiration for the brilliant catch and of gladness for him who had made it, and then the chill of despondency; there could be no real heartiness in any congratulations that he might offer to his old friend. The Pythian crowd was rallying round Wallace; in another moment he was hoisted on their shoulders and was being borne exuberantly toward the athletic house, while spectators and players streamed in his wake. David, walking slowly, overtook Mr. Dean, who arm in arm with Mr. Randolph was leaving the field.
“A pretty good rally that you fellows made, David,” said Mr. Randolph. “If it hadn’t been for that catch of Wallace’s you might have beaten them.”
“Yes, yes!” Mr. Dean chuckled. “Wallace was too much for your team, David. It seemed to me that I kept hearing the crack of his bat and the thud of his glove all through the game. Well, he earned his right to play, and I’m glad he distinguished himself.”
“He certainly played a wonderful game,” was all that David could say in reply.
In the athletic house Wallace was still surrounded by his admirers. David dressed hastily and went to his room. He shut himself in there and thought. If he told Wallace what he had discovered and what he suspected and how the suspected act of dishonesty had made him feel, what would be the result? Wallace would probably always shun him henceforth, and he would always be uncomfortable when Wallace was present. Intimacy between them would die. And then—David knitted his brows over this question—could he afford to return to St. Timothy’s for another year at Dr. Wallace’s expense? Would he not feel ashamed to do it? Would not Lester Wallace be justified in that case in looking at him with a sneer? It did not take David long to determine what must be the answer. No; in such circumstances to continue to be the beneficiary of Dr. Wallace’s bounty would be intolerable. David realized that his career at St. Timothy’s must come to an untimely end.
With that thought in mind, gazing out of the window at the pleasant, sun-swept lawns and the ivy-covered buildings, he felt sad and sorrowful. He did not want to leave prematurely this place that he had learned to love and that was to have been—had already been—so helpful in his development. But schooling purchased at the sacrifice of self-respect would cost too dear. To preserve his self-respect he must not play any false part toward Wallace; he must let him know exactly what he had discovered and what a change in his feelings the discovery had made.
Fifteen minutes later, on his way to the study, he met Ruth Davenport and Lester Wallace. David touched his cap and was passing on when Ruth stopped him.
“Wasn’t he the wonder, David!” she exclaimed with a sidelong laugh at Wallace. “Do you suppose that after all he did to-day he’ll have anything left to show against St. John’s?”
“Oh, just as much,” David answered lightly.
Wallace laughed; he was in high spirits. “Well, if I don’t, they’ll have a mighty good substitute to use in my place.” He clapped David on the shoulder.
“Yes,” Ruth agreed. “It’s a shame, David, that you both can’t play. But anyway it will be much nicer for Mr. Dean; he told me that you help him to see a game better than any one else. There he comes now with father. Good-bye.” She darted across the road and went skipping to meet the rector and Mr. Dean.
Wallace linked arms with David and started toward the study. “You put up a cracking good game, too, Dave. Next year you must try playing second base. Adams won’t be coming back, and you ought to be able to get the place on the school nine. We’d make a good team, you and I, at first and second.”
“I probably shan’t be coming back next year,” David answered.
Wallace dropped his arm and looked at him with amazement and consternation.
“Why? What’s the trouble?”
“Oh, it just looks as if it wouldn’t be possible. But I want to talk to you about something else, Lester. You remember I was sitting in the schoolroom when you came in after your examination at noon?”
“Yes.” Wallace shot at him a glance of sharp suspicion.
“After you’d gone,” David continued with a tremor of nervousness in his voice, “I wanted an eraser; I couldn’t find mine, and I looked in your desk for it. I saw the book that was lying on top of the others. I suppose it was the one you had just been using in your examination.”
Wallace’s face had turned a dull red. He hesitated a moment, then he said quietly, “Yes, it was.”
“I didn’t suppose you’d do that kind of thing, Lester,” said David. “If you’d done it to anybody else—but to a man that’s blind!”
Wallace was silent. David, glancing at him as they walked, saw that his head was downcast and his face still red. The sight made David, who had been steeling himself to be hard, soften and want to say, “O Lester, we’ll forget it, we’ll never think of it again!” But he knew that could not be true, and he walked on, silent.
“I was ashamed of it, Dave,” Wallace said at last in a low voice. “I used the book in class—that’s how my recitations happened to be so good. That’s how I got a reputation for being so bright—my election to the Pen and Ink. You know I wouldn’t take it, Dave.” He spoke with appeal in his voice. “I was ashamed to do that.”
They were approaching the study; they crossed the road to avoid groups of boys who were standing in front of the building. “What you fellows having a heart-to-heart about?” called Adams, who had played second base on the Corinthian nine. Wallace made no answer; David waved a hand in reply. They walked slowly on—for a time in silence. Then Wallace spoke again:
“I found the book just by chance in a second-hand bookstore in town. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything to injure Mr. Dean. It couldn’t hurt him in any way.” His tone was pleading rather than defiant.
“No,” David said. “But it wasn’t straight. Don’t you see?”
“I didn’t always read the translation,” Wallace pleaded. “I only looked at it when I had to.”
“If it had been anybody but a blind man.”
“Lots of fellows crib any way they can.”
“Not with Mr. Dean.”
“You’re dippy about him; you take it worse than he would himself!” Wallace’s manner had become resentful instead of appealing.
“I can’t help it, Lester. Here’s a thing that I’ve found out about you, and I’ve got to be honest and tell you how it’s made me feel.”
“All right; it’s just the opinion of a prig. I guess you’re right in leaving; you’re too good to live in this school.”
Wallace’s voice had grown suddenly bitter with anger, and his eyes, raised at last to meet David’s fairly, were hard and bright.
“Well,” said David flushing, “perhaps I am a prig. Anyway, you can’t be more disappointed in me than I am in you.”
The study bell rang out; David wheeled and walked briskly to the schoolroom while Wallace followed at a slower pace. In the hour of study David’s thoughts kept straying from his books. He knew now that he had hoped Wallace might have some explanation, some defense. His little world was in ruins, and he had done his best. He was not sure that he had not been the prig that Wallace styled him. Anyway, it was the end of friendship between him and Wallace—and that meant the end of his term at St. Timothy’s School.
That evening after supper Clarence Monroe brought David word that Mr. Dean would like to see him at his house for a few minutes. He found the master lying on his lounge, with his hands under his head.
“I was fortunate enough to learn a lot of poetry in my youth,” said Mr. Dean when David entered. “It helps me now to while away the time, and passages that I thought I had long since forgotten keep coming back to me. Of course there are gaps, and it’s very trying not to be able to fill them at once—to have to wait until I can find some one to look the missing lines up for me. Just now I’ve been dredging my memory in vain; do you remember the lines:
“No,” David acknowledged. “I don’t know where they’re found.”
“They’re from Wordsworth’s poem on Tintern Abbey. But I can’t remember just what comes after; you’ll find Wordsworth on that second shelf.”
David soon turned to the passage and began to read it, but Mr. Dean took the words out of his mouth and recited them to the close.
“Now, I shouldn’t lose them again,” he said. “But you see how it is—living alone here. Sometimes I can call my housekeeper to my assistance, but she hasn’t much feeling for poetry, excellent housekeeper though she is; and a sympathetic soul in such a matter is important—an ear to hear and a mind to comprehend! Well, David, I sent for you because I wanted to talk to you a little about my plans.”
David waited, silent in mystification.
“I told Dr. Davenport that I should of course resign my position at the end of the year,” continued Mr. Dean. “I felt that I was too seriously handicapped to be of much service. To my surprise Dr. Davenport said that if I presented my resignation he wouldn’t accept it. He seemed to think that I could still be of use to the school. Of course it pleased and touched me very much that he should think so. But I realize that I shall need a regular helper in my work; this term I’ve been depending on the good nature of this person or that person. I’ve hesitated to ask you; yet I’ve wondered if you would make the sacrifice of coming and living here with me instead of with the fellows of your age and class?”
“It wouldn’t be any sacrifice, Mr. Dean. But”—David hesitated a moment—“I’m afraid I shan’t be coming back next year.”
“Not coming back!” Mr. Dean’s voice rang with astonishment, and he turned his head toward David as if he still could see. “Is it some family difficulty, David? Your mother needs you at home, you think?”
“No, it isn’t that,” David answered reluctantly. “She doesn’t know yet that I can’t come back.”
“It’s a matter, then, of very recent decision?”
“Yes. Just within a day or two I—I found it out.”
“Couldn’t you take me a little into your confidence, David?”
“It’s—it’s just that Lester Wallace and I aren’t on good terms any more,” David said. “And I can’t let his father go on helping me, even if he should be willing to.”
“Is that a necessary conclusion? Just because you and Wallace have had a falling-out that, I hope, will be only temporary—”
“No, Mr. Dean, it isn’t that. It’s more serious. After what has happened I simply couldn’t accept anything more from Dr. Wallace—I couldn’t, that’s all.”
Mr. Dean deliberated for a few minutes. “I’m very sorry that your friendship has been broken. But as to the other matter—has it ever occurred to you to doubt that it is Dr. Wallace that is sending you to St. Timothy’s?”
“Why, no; who else could it be?”
Mr. Dean smiled. “Oh, that you may try to guess. But it is not Dr. Wallace; that I happen to know.”
“It isn’t!” The master could not see David’s wide, astonished eyes, but he could recognize the sound of amazement in his voice. “Then who can it be? Oh, I know! Mr. Dean! Mr. Dean!”
David dropped on one knee beside the couch and grasped his friend’s hand.
“I didn’t intend to take you into my secret until the end of your school career,” said Mr. Dean, squeezing the boy’s hand affectionately. “I thought it would be better for you, less embarrassing, if you didn’t feel under obligation to one in the immediate neighborhood. But since you’ve guessed it—well, you must try to go on regarding me exactly as before.”
“All right; I’ll try.” The very sound of David’s laugh was grateful and affectionate. “But I don’t see why you ever did all this for me, Mr. Dean.”
“I did it because I liked you and because I liked your father. I haven’t any near relatives, David, and I have more money than I need for my own use. You see, the reasons were very simple. And now that you’ve wormed all this out of me—which you never should have done—will you come and live here with me next year?”
“Of course I will! What is there that I should like better?”
At that moment there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Dean.
It was Lester Wallace that entered.