From his talk with David, Lester went away chastened yet light of heart—more cheerful, indeed, than he had ever hoped to be again. He had confessed, had been forgiven, and was secure in the knowledge that now the episode was closed and that no one else would ever hear of it. But he had gone through too much in the past few days to forgive himself as readily as David had forgiven him; he was sincere in his determination to court obscurity now rather than prominence and for the rest of his college course to live the unassuming life of the student.
With that resolve in mind he immediately ascended from David’s room to his own, and there he was engaged in study when Richard Bradley entered half an hour later. Richard at once began to talk about the campaign for the marshalship.
“The general opinion now seems to be that you’ve got a sure thing for first place,” he said. “Farrar will get second and Colby third. I’ve heard lots of fellows who don’t know you at all well say they were going to vote for you because they think you ought to have been captain of either the eleven or the nine and that the least the class can do is to make it up to you.”
“It’s good of you to take such an interest, Dick,” said Lester. “But I’ve got over my craving for honors and popularity—at least I think I have. I honestly think that either Farrar or Colby deserves the job more than I do.”
There was a knock at the door; then Harry Dawson, who was the editor of the college literary periodical, entered. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, lively in speech and manner, and with an engaging brightness in his brown eyes. He began briskly:
“I came round, Wallace, to ask you if you wouldn’t let us print that theme of yours that was read in class. It’s one of the best things I’ve heard this year. I asked Professor Worthington afterwards who wrote it, and he referred me to you.”
Lester, sitting at his desk, was drawing lines with his pencil on his blotting-pad. “No, I guess not, Dawson,” he replied. “Thanks just the same, but I don’t care to have it printed.”
“But why not?” Dawson urged. “As Mr. Worthington said, it’s a subject that the whole college is interested in. And to have it treated by you, with your record in athletics—”
“I don’t care to have it printed. I’m sorry.”
Dawson was disposed to argue. “Don’t you think you ought to subordinate your own preference? A college publication has the right to expect the support of the fellows. You oughtn’t to have any false modesty about such a thing as this.”
“It isn’t false modesty. I simply—”
“Sure, it is,” interrupted Richard. “Give him the theme, Lester, don’t be such a pig.”
“Keep out of this, will you, Dick?” Lester raised his head to glare angrily at his roommate. He turned then to Dawson. “That theme isn’t going to be printed; that’s all there is about it.”
“Oh, all right. Sorry to have bothered you.” Dawson, red and indignant, rose and with a flashing glance at Lester, who had again relapsed over his blotter, left the room.
“Now what did you want to talk to the fellow like that for?” said Richard resentfully. “A perfectly good fellow who comes and pays you the compliment of asking you for your theme, and you throw him down in the most uncivil way! Besides trying to snap my head off! You’d better get back to your old life if hard study makes you behave like this.”
“All through?” asked Lester grimly, looking up at his roommate.
“Yes.” Richard seized a book and dashed it open wrathfully.
For some minutes there was quiet in the room. Then Richard, who, in spite of a certain rigidity that characterized him when any matters of principle were involved, was of too accommodating and friendly a disposition to remain at odds with any one for insufficient reasons, began to make overtures.
“Lester,” he said, “why didn’t you tell a fellow you’d had your theme read in class? You’re so secretive. When I have a little success I run home and blab it all to you; but when you do anything I can’t dig it out of you with a pickaxe.”
“It wasn’t anything,” said Lester, with his eyes on his book.
“Yes, it was, too, or Dawson would never have been so enthusiastic. What was your theme about?”
“Oh, never mind! Can’t you see I want to study?”
“Well, it’s easy enough to answer a simple question, isn’t it? I should think when a fellow shows some interest in what you’ve done you might do something else than bark at him.”
“Oh, that’s all right. But I’ve got to study, and I don’t care to be interrupted all the time.”
“Well, just tell me what your theme was about, and I’ll let you alone.”
Lester, enraged by this badgering, brought his fist down on the desk. “No, I won’t tell you what it was about!” he cried. “I won’t tell you anything about it! Mind your own affairs!”
“Oh, very well, then,” retorted Richard. “Since you’re so stuffy about it, I’ll find out all about it. All I have to do is to ask Dawson.”
He felt even in his indignation that he was being childish, and he was unprepared for the sharp, immediate change that his words produced in Lester’s attitude and expression. Lester leaned back in his chair, and the look of sullenness on his face gave way to one of resignation and weariness.
“I’ll tell you all about it, Dick,” he said. “I was hoping I could keep it from you; but it begins to look as if there were no use in trying to keep it from any one. The theme that was read in class was Dave Ives’s, not mine. I took it out of Dave’s room and handed it in as mine. I changed the last page of it. That was how you happened to find that page of Dave’s theme in my waste-basket.”
He realized already that Richard’s reaction to the confession was not at all the same as David’s had been. There was no sign of compassion in Richard’s face, only distress and even repugnance.
“David knows the whole story,” said Lester. “If you want to, you can talk it over with him.”
“I don’t see how you came to do it.”
“Pressure of work that had to be made up—no time to write the theme and it had to be a good one, or else I stayed on probation. I suppose you’d call it just weak and dishonest—as it was.”
“Well,” said Richard slowly, after a pause, “I can understand why you shouldn’t care to be elected marshal now.”
Lester made no response, and Richard did not inquire further into the circumstances of the misdeed or comment on it. After a little time Richard rose to leave the room.
Lester looked up at him imploringly. “There’s one thing, Dick, that I wish you’d understand,” he said. “I’m not feeling callous about this.”
“No,” said Richard gravely, “I suppose not.”
He opened the door and went out. Lester sat gazing into space with unhappy eyes. He had lost the respect of one whom he liked, of a friend who had been even a hero worshiper. He deserved to lose it, he knew, yet he could not help feeling that Richard might have been less cruel. He wondered how they could go on living together now.
Then he reflected again that he was receiving no more punishment than he deserved, and that, if he was to win back his own self-respect, it could be only through hard and honest work. So he settled down to his studying and put Richard resolutely out of his mind.
Meanwhile Richard had accepted Lester’s suggestion and had gone to hear David’s version of the story. Yet, although David made all the excuses for Lester’s action that were possible and enlarged upon his penitence, Richard’s condemnation remained unqualified. There was in him an inherited strain of inflexibility in judging deviations from standards of integrity and truth.
“He simply did a thing that an honorable fellow wouldn’t have done,” insisted Richard. “And then he lied about it. He didn’t own up to it until he was cornered and couldn’t lie any longer. I don’t doubt that he’s sorry and all that; but when you can’t respect a fellow any more, what are you to do?”
“I don’t go so far as that,” said David. “He’s making a fight now to win back his own self-respect and my respect and yours. Give the boy a chance.”
“What chance has he? I don’t see any.”
“Well, if he keeps up the pace in studies that he’s been setting for himself, cuts out for good the idleness and loafing that were responsible for his getting into trouble, shows he isn’t seeking popularity any more and doesn’t care anything about it—I should think then you could begin to respect him again.”
“It would help,” admitted Richard. “Though hard work can’t exactly cancel a dishonorable act.”
“Friendship might help it to,” said David.
Richard pondered, frowning. “I’m not sure that it isn’t my duty to do everything I can to keep him from being elected marshal.”
“If you feel a real call to duty, go to it,” said David with mild irony. “You’re a true son of the Puritans, Dick.”
“You can scoff if you want to. But here you and I have been doing all that we could to get Lester elected first marshal, and now we find that he’s unfit to have the honor. You’ll agree to that, I suppose?”
David hesitated. “I don’t know that I’d say he was unfit.”
“You don’t mean that you’ll still vote for him?”
“I’m not sure that I shan’t.”
“You mean to say you may vote to give the highest honor in the class to the one man in the class who you know has done a dishonorable thing?”
“I haven’t fully decided. He’s the most brilliant athlete we’ve got, he’s the most popular fellow generally, and he’s my oldest friend.”
“If he’s elected, an injustice is done to Farrar or Colby, either of whom would be chosen in preference if the truth were known.”
“It won’t be a very serious injustice. Farrar’s had the captaincy of the football team, Colby’s had the captaincy of the crew; Lester’s never had anything, though he has contributed more to our athletic success than any other fellow in college.”
“I don’t know whether you’re too lax in your ideas, or whether I’m too stiff in mine,” said Richard after a moment, “but certainly one of us must be wrong.”
“My idea simply is: he’s a friend, he feels badly, he’s filled with remorse—treat him with consideration.”
“Mine is that friendship shouldn’t blind us to his acts or cause us to inflict injustice upon another.”
“What would you do to prevent what you call injustice?” asked David. “Would you go about telling everybody to vote for Farrar because you had discovered something that, if it were generally known, would make Lester ineligible?”
“That’s the trouble; I don’t know just what I ought to do. If anybody asks me, I’ll say that I’m not supporting Lester, and that I can’t advise any one else to. Then of course I’ll be asked why, and I shall simply have to say that I can’t tell, but that I have good reasons. Perhaps that isn’t going far enough. Perhaps I ought to go round and see all the fellows that I’ve called on in Lester’s interest and tell them that in my judgment it’s all off.”
“If you do either of those things,” declared David, “you’ll start a lot of gossip. If you can’t conscientiously vote for Lester, don’t; that’s all right. But don’t go round trying to influence people to vote against him. You’ll only blow up a scandal that won’t do any one any good.”
“I don’t see exactly how.”
“Why, some of Lester’s friends will be indignant and will demand that you tell what you know or else keep quiet. You’ll be driven to hinting and finally to telling. And I must say I think that it would be a great misfortune, not only to Lester, but to the class, to have publicity given to this matter.”
“Yes, but on the other hand is it fair to keep quiet and perhaps let Lester have the honor that some one else deserves?”
“That seems to me of small importance. If it isn’t Lester, it will be Farrar or Colby. They’ve had pretty much all the recognition they need—captain of the eleven and captain of the crew; they’ll be second and third marshals, anyway. I shouldn’t worry about them.”
“Lester can’t enjoy it very much if he’s elected.”
“He certainly can’t. He doesn’t want to be elected. But I don’t feel called upon to protect him from it.”
“I still can’t see how or why he ever came to do it,” said Richard.
“No, but I feel sure he’ll never do anything crooked again. Don’t make him feel he’s a leper, Dick. Give him another chance.”
“You mean treat him just as if nothing had happened? I can’t. Something inside me won’t let me.”
“How are you going to treat him, then?”
“I don’t know, except that I can’t be on such easy terms with him any more. This thing has spoiled him for me.”
“I don’t believe one act changes a fellow all over. You’ve known Lester pretty intimately and have always liked him and even admired him. This thing that he’s done isn’t characteristic of him, I feel sure.”
“Don’t you suppose there are lots of men in prison for doing things that aren’t really characteristic of them? It’s the act itself—the kind of act that it was—that a fellow can’t overlook.”
“I’m sorry you feel as you do.”
“So am I. But I can’t help it.”
When Richard returned to his room, Lester was writing and did not look up. Richard settled himself in a chair and began to read. The silence to which the two thus committed themselves became characteristic now of their relations. They did not actually cease to be on speaking terms with each other, but they addressed each other as seldom as possible. Lester no longer availed himself of what had been a standing invitation to dine on Sunday at Richard’s house in Boston. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley and Marion asked Richard why Lester had dropped them, and Richard replied that he guessed that wasn’t it, but that Lester had given up going out anywhere to dine with people. The family looked mystified, but for the time being did not pursue the inquiry.
On the day of the senior-class elections Lester was greeted with friendly smiles from numerous classmates as he walked from his room to the voting place.
“It’s a sure thing for you,” said one who came out of the building as Lester entered.
“It shouldn’t be,” Lester answered. His friend laughed, not taking the remark seriously.
The ballots were counted that evening. Lester and Richard were as usual silently engaged with their books when there was a tumultuous rush up the stairs and a banging on the door. Lester opened the door; instantly half a dozen joyous youths seized upon him, grasped his hands, beat him on the back and poured out the good news.
“You got it all right.”
“You beat Farrar by a hundred votes.”
“You beat Colby by a hundred and fifty.”
“Well, old top, how does it feel to be marshal?”
Lester showed his embarrassment. “It’s mighty good of you fellows to come and tell me,” he said. “But I don’t deserve to be marshal at all.”
“Oh, that’s the way they always talk,” replied Joe Bingham. “We know better than you do whether you deserve it or not.”
“No, you don’t. You ask my roommate here; he knows me better than any one else.”
Lester spoke on a sudden wild inspiration. If he were given a chance, he would tell the crowd, resign, let Farrar have the place to which he was entitled—
“No, he doesn’t deserve it,” said Richard quietly. “I didn’t vote for him.”
The fellows laughed; they took Richard’s remark as a joke. They stayed a few moments longer, holding a jubilation over their friend’s success, and then clattered noisily down the stairs.
A few moments later another caller appeared to offer his congratulations. It was Farrar, who had just been elected second marshal. He was a square-set, stocky fellow, with a good deal of force showing in his face; he was not handsome; he was blunt and downright of manner. Although through their prominence in athletics he and Lester had been brought into close association with each other throughout their college course, they had never been particularly friendly or sympathetic.
When Lester saw who his visitor was he stood up; he felt his face growing hot. Richard swung round in his chair and looked on; the realization that he was interested heightened Lester’s embarrassment.
“I want to congratulate you,” said Farrar, taking Lester’s hand. “I want to be among the first.”
“Thank you,” said Lester. “It ought really to have been you, Jim.”
“No, it oughtn’t. I won’t say that I’m not disappointed; of course any fellow who felt that he stood some show of winning such an honor can’t help being disappointed a little. But the best man won.”
“No,” said Lester slowly, “that’s just what he didn’t do.”
“Oh, yes, he did. I mightn’t have admitted it a month or two ago; I’d have been likely to say to myself then that you won by making up to fellows for their votes. But you didn’t win that way; you won on your record fair and square. And I don’t feel half so disappointed as I would have felt if you’d got it by electioneering instead of by just plugging away at your job and letting your record speak for you. That’s why I say the best man won and the class is to be congratulated.”
He gave Lester’s hand another firm squeeze. After he had gone, Lester sat down again at his desk.
“I suppose you find it very entertaining,” he said to his roommate.
“I find it painful,” Richard replied frankly. “The next person that comes in—I’m going to get out.”
It was but a few moments before another congratulatory friend arrived, and Richard, true to his word, took his departure. He stayed away from the room all the rest of the evening; and meanwhile Lester received a succession of visitors, among them Colby, the third marshal—all generously come to express their satisfaction at his success.
At ten o’clock, in order to protect himself against a prolongation of the ordeal, he turned out the light, undressed in the dark, and went to bed. He lay awake for a long time; he heard Richard come in and go to bed, and he wished that he had never seen Richard. At last an idea that gave him some comfort came to him, and while he was turning it over in his mind he fell asleep.
David had not been among those who had rushed to give Lester their congratulations. He had felt that if Richard were in the room it would be awkward for both Lester and himself. But the next morning he left his door open while he dressed and so caught sight of Lester descending the stairs. He hailed and halted him, and then he said: “Even though I didn’t come to see you last night, Lester, I want you to know that I’m glad you got it. I voted for you.”
Lester’s smile, even though forlorn, showed his gratitude. “I don’t see how you can reconcile it with your conscience,” he said. “But I shan’t worry about yours; I’m having trouble enough with my own. Do you suppose if I went round to your house some time to-day I could see Mr. Dean?”
David looked astonished. “Yes, I’m sure you could. Almost any time. He’s always at home.”
“Then I’ll call on him some time this afternoon.”
“He’ll be glad to see you,” said David.
That afternoon, when Lester called and asked for Mr. Dean, he was shown into the library.
Presently Mr. Dean appeared at the doorway, unpiloted. “Hello, Lester,” he said, advancing slowly. “I know where everything is in this room except you.”
“Right here,” said Lester, taking Mr. Dean’s hand.
“It’s very good of you to think of coming to see me. Have a chair.” Mr. Dean seated himself on the sofa. “I understand that you have achieved high honor. That’s fine—fine.”
“I don’t think it’s so fine,” said Lester. “It’s about that I wanted to talk with you—if you’ll be good enough to let me.”
“Of course. What’s the trouble?”
“I feel especially ashamed to come to you about it, and yet in another way it seems as if for that reason I should—you have more knowledge of what I’m like, and I think you’ll understand better,” Lester said awkwardly; he found it hard to make a beginning. The dark glasses gave to Mr. Dean’s face an inscrutable expression that was not helpful. “That mean and dishonest thing I did to you at St. Timothy’s—cribbing my Latin every day in class when you weren’t able to see.”
Mr. Dean made a gesture, impatient, deprecating. “That’s all forgotten, Lester,” he said gravely.
“But something’s happened that makes it necessary to recall it.” Lester leaned forward and twined his fingers together and looked at the floor; he was as uncomfortable as if the eyes that seemed to be gazing at him could really see. “I’ve done the same kind of thing again—only worse, much worse.”
Then awkwardly, haltingly, he told the story.
“Of course I see now what I should have done,” he said in conclusion. “I ought to have insisted that my name shouldn’t be voted on—I ought to have withdrawn it—even if it meant telling people why. David’s almost too good a friend; he’s so kind and sympathetic; he didn’t want me to do that. And I was too willing to see things as he saw them.”
“Perhaps,” assented Mr. Dean, “and perhaps David gave you wrong advice. But somehow I should have been sorry if David had talked or acted in any other way. If I had been in David’s place, I hope that I should have done as he did.”
“But I can’t bear it now,” cried Lester. “Farrar’s coming to congratulate me because the best man won—and his admitting he was disappointed because he didn’t win! I tried to cheat you in that Latin class, I cheated David out of his theme, and I cheated the professor I handed the theme to, I’ve cheated Farrar out of the honor he deserved—but I’m not going to—I’m not going to! I want you to stiffen my backbone for me, Mr. Dean!”
“Why, my boy,” said Mr. Dean, much affected by the emotion in Lester’s voice, “I don’t believe it needs any stiffening from me.”
“Oh, it does. I’m weak, but I am going to try never to be so weak again. And I want to make things right with Farrar. Don’t you think I ought to? Don’t you think I ought to resign and make the class have a new election in which my name shouldn’t be considered?”
“I think,” said Mr. Dean, “that you ought to do the thing that will best satisfy your own conscience. Yes, I think that in the circumstances you ought to resign.”
“That, I know, is the way my roommate feels about it. Do you think that in resigning I ought to tell why?”
“I should think that might not be necessary; it may be enough if you merely say that for certain definite reasons you are not entitled to the honor and that you wish to resign in favor of a man who is entitled to it. Of course you may be pressed to give the reasons. If you are, you will have to decide, I think, whether to tell the whole story or not.”
“I know I’m a coward; I hope it won’t be necessary.”
“I hope it won’t be,” replied Mr. Dean gravely. Then after a moment he said: “Do you feel under any obligation to say anything about the matter to Professor Worthington?”
“Oh!” said Lester. “To tell the truth, I hadn’t once thought about that.”
“Of course, as things stand, you’re receiving credit for work that you didn’t do, and David is not receiving credit for work that he did. Not that David cares, I imagine. To make a clean breast of the affair to a member of the faculty might result in your being severely disciplined; it might have serious consequences for you.”
“Yes,” Lester said; “I suppose that at the least I should be put on probation.”
“To avoid which you did the thing that caused all the trouble.”
Lester hesitated a moment; then he said: “I guess I’d better take my medicine. I’ll go and see Professor Worthington.” He rose. “You’ve been a great help to me, Mr. Dean. You’ve helped me to see things straight. I think it must be fine for David—having you at hand to turn to. Not that he needs such help as I do.”
“We can all of us help somebody else at some time or other,” replied Mr. Dean. “Do you ever go up to St. Timothy’s, Lester?”
“I haven’t been there for some time.”
“Take a Sunday off and run up there. It does every one good to revisit old scenes and see old friends.”
“I should like to go after I’ve squared accounts with myself. Nothing will do me good until then.”
Mr. Dean stood up; his groping hands found Lester’s shoulders. “Not until we find out how weak we are do we know what we must do to become strong,” he said. “You’ve found out; you’ve begun to build yourself up. I’d trust you anywhere now, Lester, at any time.”