Lantern Marsh

“Oh! damn it! Talk will you!” he fumed, looking at his landlady out of furious eyes, as if he had been much more content to have continued in monologue. “Some people are going to wake up one morning to discover the working man in possession of the helm of affairs!”

He jumped to his feet and stamped ill-temperedly toward the hall door.

“And,” he resumed, as he opened the door quickly, but paused to give Mrs. Manton the full benefit of his rage, “this is no dream of a fantastic mind. It’s just truth, damned-well truth!”

He closed the door violently, while Mrs. Manton merely put up her hand to tidy her hair, as if Jolvin’s commotion had disturbed its excellent coiffure. Then Stalton came softly in from a back hall-way.

“What’s the matter with Jolvin to-night?” he enquired casually.

“Just ranting on Bolshevism, as per usual,” replied Mrs. Manton, as she dealt out the cards.

“Don’t ever get him started on socialism,” Stalton advised. “He got me cornered one night and just about proved that it was sinful to own property at all. It gave me a Sunday-school feeling right down to my boots to think how righteous I was in at least that one respect.”

“That man does irritate, occasionally,” she admitted. “However, he’s not such a poor sort, at other times.”

“I wish I could play the guitar as well as he can, Gertrude,” put in Miss Sadie Grote, as she picked up her cards and examined them.

Stalton walked to a chair, which he pulled up near Mauney’s.

“That bird,” he said, indicating the door through which Jolvin had just gone, “is the only Englishman I ever met who hated England. He’s troubled with a bad form of ingrowing Anglophobia, and he does everything possible to Westernize himself. He even plays a Hawaiian guitar. Any time during the night we’re liable to hear it mewing like a cat up in his room. If he keeps on he’s certainly going to qualify for one of the leading parts in a murder scene.”

Mauney laughed.

“I suppose he’s kind of a rebel,” he ventured.

“Rebel!” repeated Stalton, with a puzzled look in his eyes. “How do you mean?”

Mauney realized just then that Lee’s categorization of the people at seventy-three Franklin Street was no doubt an individualistic bit of philosophy somewhat beyond the people themselves, so he accordingly changed the topic of conversation. He was finding them all very interesting studies—the most unusual people he had ever known. But, as the evening wore on, dissipated by cards and gramophone selections, scraps of dancing executed fantastically by Mrs. Manton and the enamoured stranger, whose name he did not learn, he grew gradually weary of the desultory entertainment, and wished Lee would return. At length he came. After receiving warm welcomes from everyone present, he led Mauney up to his room. The hallway on the first floor was too dark to give any view of the place except that Lee’s room was at the front end of the corridor on the right side, and when illuminated was seen to be a large, comfortably furnished chamber with two windows facing Franklin Street, and a flat-topped desk placed between the windows. Upon the desk were a long row of large technical volumes, an ink-well, blotters and a ruler. There were two big, leather-upholstered, easy chairs in the outer corner of the room, facing each other, and a small smoker’s stand between them. Lee raised the windows to freshen the stale air, then turned in a general survey of the familiar place.

“What do you think of the bunch?” he asked casually, as he lit a cigarette.

“I like them fine,” said Mauney. “They’re quite clever, these people.”

“Oh, yes. So they are,” Lee agreed, as he dropped wearily into one of the chairs and waved Mauney to the other. “Are you smoking?”

Mauney raised his hand.

“You know, Mr. Lee,” he smiled, “I’m just a green-horn from the country. I’ve had quite a lot of new experiences to-day already. I’m not snobbish about tobacco, but I’d rather leave that for another day or two, if you don’t mind.”

“Fine,” laughed Lee. “You’ll get along in the world all right!”

“Do you think so?”

“Surely. You don’t need to take my word for it. I find that Gertrude is an extremely shrewd judge of men, and I’d like to tell you what she said about you—if you wouldn’t misunderstand her.”

Mauney was greatly interested. “No, I won’t. I like her a lot. What did she say?”

“Well, she said in the kitchen, while she was making those sandwiches, ‘Where did you get this big, refreshing country breeze, Max?’ I told her you were coming to the city for the first time to take up some kind of academic work, and she looked up at me as if surprised. ‘Clever kid,’ she said. ‘He walked right over to me like a confidence man at the start. I pretty near gave him my heart.’ Now, of course,” added Lee, “when Gertrude feels that way about anybody, he’s elected!”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, the house is yours. You can stay and board here. In other words, you gibe, fit in, dovetail—do you get me? I told her you might like to remain here, and she just nodded, which means that to-morrow night, without anything being said about it, a room will be ready for you to occupy.”

“Do I pay in advance?” Mauney enquired.

“No, no,” laughed Lee, as if at his friend’s inexorable ignorance; “you don’t do anything of the kind. She may not ask you for money for a month. Then she’s liable to suggest it very delicately, and, as a rule, you give her just a little more than it’s worth—see? You pay for atmosphere here and for her peculiar selection of other guests.”

“How much should I pay a month?”

“Oh, forty-five or fifty is what I usually contribute. And then, if you ever see any ice-cream or fruit or a new victrola record or anything in that line, down-town, you just buy it and bring it home as an occasional treat.”

Mauney sat back in his chair and smiled. There was a flush of comfort in his face and a new relaxation. He liked the place, although he was still overcome, almost exhausted, by the swift changes of the day. Especially did he like Maxwell Lee, this comforting fellow with visionary dark eyes who sat opposite him now, smoking meditatively as if quite aware of the epoch-making significance of a simple railway journey; as if he realized how great an event it had really been to Mauney’s inexperienced soul.

CHAPTER II.
Mauney Prepares for College.

When he awoke in the morning, he was vaguely conscious of some one talking in the room. Over the edge of his counterpane his eye caught the pyjama-ed figure of Lee, shaving in front of the dressing-case mirror, and he soon realized that Lee was talking to him.

“—thinking it over,” Lee was saying. “And I believe your best stunt is to look up a tutor who will give you your matriculation work extra-murally. That won’t tie you down to any formality of going to a high school. You can work as hard as you like, and, at your age, you’ll clean up that preliminary dope just like ice-cream.”

Mauney sprang out of bed and shaved. He fell in with Lee’s suggestion and decided that he would look up a tutor that very morning. He was thrilled with excitement and happiness. Outside the windows, rain was splashing on the sills, but it was the merriest, gladdest rain he had ever listened to. Before him stretched the great adventure of education, rich in its promise of compensation for all the years of miserable waiting. In fact, could it be quite true that he was actually conscious? Was he not rather treading the air of a delightful dream, from which, at any moment, he would awake to bleak realities?

There were only three at the breakfast table when they descended—Mrs. Manton, seated at the end in a rich dressing gown of yellow silk, and Jolvin, with Stalton, at one side. The Englishman, fully dressed as for business, ate in dignified silence. Stalton, whom to know was to love, sat in his shirt sleeves without a collar, as if he had no other business in life than to act in the capacity of a cross-corner mentor for his landlady. Mauney was assigned to a place between the two men, while Lee sat down at the opposite side.

“It’s a grand morning, Mr. Bard,” said Stalton, as he poured some medicine into a spoon from a large bottle by his place. Perhaps, thought Mauney, Stalton’s gray hair and flabby grey face were evidence of some chronic ailment—the wearing effects of pain. He felt sorry for his table companion.

“Hello,” laughed Lee, glancing across at the bottle, “What are you taking now, Freddie?”

“This is a new consignment of dope, Max,” he replied good-naturedly. “It’s guaranteed to contain the real wallop. Made up of yeast, raisins, vitamines and monkey glands. Don’t be surprised to see me challenging the heavy-weight champion next spring.”

Jolvin, whose mind at the moment may have been grappling with serious business problems, was evidently irritated by Stalton’s remark. Suddenly his face whirled directly about toward Mauney, who nearly jumped with astonishment. “For God’s sake,” whispered Jolvin, “I wish he’d stop that stuff at breakfast.” Then his head snapped back to receive the last spoonful of his cornflakes.

“One would fancy,” he said aloud, “it would stop raining!”

“Yes,” murmured Stalton. “One would. But I guess there’s a few bucketfuls left up there yet.”

“How’s the tooth this morning, Freddie?” enquired Miss Grote, as she walked into the room.

“It’s still in my head, Sadie, but I expected it would jump out, about two this morning.

“For God’s sake,” whispered Jolvin into Mauney’s ear; “he can’t talk about anything, but teeth—teeth!”

He made a nervous stab at a rasher of bacon and cleared his throat. “I fancy,” he said aloud, “we’ll be getting some prime weather after this!”

“Yes, no doubt,” replied Stalton. “This rain ought to prime anything, including the cistern pump.”

Mrs. Manton cast a reproving look at Stalton, shook her head hopelessly, sighed, and continued her breakfast. Mauney, in the best of spirits himself, unconsciously cast his sympathy with Stalton.

“Did you hear the rain on the roof last night, Mr. Stalton?” he asked, by way of making conversation.

“Sure thing.”

“Did it help you to sleep?”

“It doesn’t affect me like that, Mr. Bard,” he answered. “Unfortunately I passed through a period of my life when I had the rain without the roof, and rain ever since brings up the past. And then, in this kind of weather my teeth are always—”

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Jolvin aloud, bolting from the table, stamping indignantly into the hall, and presently banging the front door behind him, as he left the house.

“What’s wrong with that long drink?” purred Mrs. Manton.

“He’s just acting natural,” Stalton said. “I knew he got out of bed over the foot. He’s had more hard luck with his uncle’s estate in England, too, and I knew he’d scoot if I said anything more about teeth.”

“Well, he can tame himself,” Mrs. Manton submitted calmly. “This is not an institution for the nervous, and if Jolvin doesn’t like it, he’ll discover that there aren’t many invitations out to remain.”

“These fits of his are getting more frequent,” Stalton remarked.

“He’ll have to mix his drinks a little better than that anyhow,” said the landlady. “Don’t you think so, Max?”

“It takes all kinds of people to make a world, Gertrude.” Lee reminded her. “I feel so darned cut up about my biochemistry, I can’t be expected to give an unbiased judgment.”

“Poor boy. You’ll get it, all right. When do you write?”

“This morning.”

Mauney accompanied his friend, whom he began to address now as Max, down to the university and, after Lee had disappeared into one of the buildings, stood thrilled by the spectacle before him. Here, surrounding the square, reposed the exemplary specimens of architecture that housed the various faculties. Max, in leaving, had pointed them out hurriedly—medicine, industrial science, Methodist theology, the great library, the convocation hall, the gymnasium, and last, but most impressive, the arts building, a solid, reposeful mass, as sure as learning itself, with its vine-dressed, dull grey walls of stone, it’s turreted tower, its marvellous gothic entrance, leading from the common day, past its embellished arch, into the dim twilight of contemplation. The square was belted by a gravel road, serving the various buildings, and was itself divided into eight triangular lawns by wide cinder paths, crossing from side to side and from corner to corner. It was a pleasant view, for the art of the landscapist had relieved the conventionality of the pattern by maples and ash-trees, distributed over the lawns, and by clusters of spiræa and barberry set attractively at the edges of the paths. The square was nearly deserted, save for one or two students who sat on the benches reading.

Mauney wished that with the fall opening he could be ready to enter upon his college course, but, knowing this to be impossible, turned sadly away, but yet with burning ambition, to find the tutor whom Max had recommended. He was discovered in a little office on College Street, a small, withered individual, almost swallowed up in the cluttered disorder of his administrative quarters. His yellow face, creased like old parchment, bent into a mechanical smile as he listened to Mauney’s desires. For a moment he fingered the paper-knife on his desk, then cast a weary look at his young customer through tarnished silver-rimmed spectacles.

“The matriculation requirements, Mr. Bard,” he said, in a cultured, but infinitely dreary voice, as if repeating a stereotyped speech, “are becoming increasingly onerous. The departments of the University of Merlton have established rather severe standards for college entrance, and I fear you will experience disheartening difficulties in attempting to gain matriculation status within the limits of a single winter term. However, your ambition is indeed commendable and, with perseverance, combined with extra tutoring, you may perhaps be able to succeed. The course that I would recommend”—he reached for a folder and, opening it, ran his yellow forefinger down its pages—“is partly a correspondence course, but partly, also, one of personal supervision, especially in science subjects. The cost of this course is considerable, but I am glad to be able to quote an average of sixty per cent. successes over a period of the last fifteen years. Other preparatory tutors have not, unfortunately, been able to compete with these figures. The fees are payable strictly in advance, and if you decide to embark upon the course, you are promised the same individual, careful attention that is given to everyone.”

Mauney questioned nothing, but embarked. He was almost delirious with happiness over the proceedings, the enrolment, the purchase of a score of interesting books which the tutor recommended, and the prospect of commencing so quickly the life for which he had longed. His room at seventy-three Franklin Street, next to Max’s, was soon a student’s den, with its own table, its own volumes and its easy chairs. His life became a very pleasant thing, for, with his daily visits to the little office on College Street, and the diversions of the boarding house, he found what seemed to him a wealth of variety. He was astonished at his own contentment and at the self-sufficient quality in him that scarcely, if ever, caused him to think of his former home, or to reflect upon the dearth of relatives in his new existence. He wrote to his aunt in Scotland, expressing high satisfaction with his present occupations. He settled down in the loved quietness of his room, to master the rudiments of education. Never once did he stop, weary, for with the sharp appetite of a starved mind, he thought of nothing but more information, and more.

Max, who had been successful in his supplementary examination and was now engaged in the fourth year of his medical course, frequently dropped into Mauney’s room for a smoke and a chat. Max never spoke about his own home, and Mauney refrained from questioning him. The basis of their friendship was something personal and gloriously indefinite, that neither thought of analyzing. They felt at home with each other, and never, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, did anything disturb this quite unaccountable understanding. Mauney always felt that there was a hidden thought at the centre of Max, with which some day he would be favored, for behind his dark and often weary eyes great dreams seemed to pass, greater than the drawl of his clever and sarcastic tongue. He ventured to think that perhaps Max had drifted into a profession for which his nature disqualified him, for he naturally gained the impression that a medical student needed to be, in one particular sense, a feelingless person, with certain vulture-like qualities to steel him against the revoltingly physical aspects of his work. The skull in Max’s wardrobe, the illustrations in his books—there were many symbols of the idea. In secret, however, Max was evidently no materialist, but sought the wide comfort of philosophic generalities. No one, to be sure, would suspect it at seventy-three Franklin Street, where he was known by his smile, but Mauney would catch the plaintive note in some quiet remark, as when one evening, in discussing college work in general, he said:

“Wrap up your colleges and throw them in the ocean. They furnish us a few years of diversion, but after that there’s life, and, strange to relate, Mauney, my son, they have not prepared us for that.”

Mauney excused such criticisms of the university on the basis of a personal warp in Max’s character, forgave him for what seemed a vandal attitude, and went on believing more firmly than ever in the light that spread from the lamp of learning. By its flame, comforted and inspired, he forgot the passage of time. He failed to notice the blush of late autumn that swept like a passion over the trees of the city, scarcely saw their bare arms raised in supplication to the greying skies, nor heaven’s response of swift winds carrying fleecy burdens. Not until the firm banks of snow began to settle down, smaller and smaller, under the warming suns of a windy March, and energetic streams of murky water rushed along the street gutters, did he wake from his steadfast dream to realize that his term was nearly over. Then came a sharp bout with the examinations and at the end of May he stood looking curiously down at the withered old tutor who was smiling less stiffly, less professionally, than usual.

“I am pleased to tell you,” he said, “that you have gained your university entrance standing. Your work with me in the preliminary subjects has been, to say the least, good, and it will afford me pleasure to produce documentary evidence of your success.” He paused to reach a small certificate from a drawer. “This,” he continued, handing it to Mauney, “should be carefully preserved and forwarded to the university in making your application for admission thereto, sometime before September.”

“Thanks.”

“And before you go,” said the tutor, rising stiffly from his chair, “let me express the pleasure I have had in overseeing your early academic career. Moreover, I would be interested to learn what particular course you contemplate taking at the university.”

This was a new idea to Mauney. He looked at the instructor for a moment, with a perplexed expression.

“I’m much interested in people,” he said, “and I think if I could get a course in history it would suit me.”

“Remember,” cautioned the old man, lifting his finger as if admonishing a wayward son, “history is a culture course which, from the financial standpoint, leads you nowhere. It would fit you only for teaching, a profession which, as I have learned from acrid experience, is not perfectly appreciated by the public. You have other courses to choose from, the more practical ones, as they might be called, such as engineering, law, medicine.”

“Well, I’ll have to consider the question,” Mauney replied.

“Just so. In the meantime, I would be glad to advise you on any points and to see you, from time to time, in order to learn of your academic progress.”

There was a light almost of kindness in the wrinkled, yellow face as he bade him good-bye. Mauney did not know how seldom that light had been there under similar circumstances, nor did he know that the affection of the old tutor was the same kind of affection that he unconsciously inspired in most of his associates. Burning with gleeful happiness over his success, he hurried home to tell Max.

“Well, you old bear!” exclaimed Lee, violently shaking Mauney’s hand on learning the news. “You couldn’t have done better. I’m as happy as if I’d done it myself.”

“Behold the hero,” Max said, as they went into supper together. “He’s just laid ’em all out. Four years’ work in one.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Mrs. Manton, putting her arms about Mauney’s neck and kissing him prettily on the cheek. “I knew you’d do it, Mauney,” she said.

“Maybe you did, Gertrude,” he laughed, trying to cover his embarrassment, “but I didn’t expect that. However, don’t think I didn’t like it.”

Even though Mrs. Manton’s impulsive embrace was decidedly consoling, Mauney nevertheless disliked it. He felt immediately afterwards that he would increase his diligence to detect her next time before it was too late. He accused himself of being perhaps by nature too cold. But from the evening, some years since, when he had felt a woman’s hand upon his own, he had disliked the feeling. A woman’s hand was too soft. It reminded him unavoidably of a snake, and made him shiver. This thesis ran through his private thoughts a good deal. He did not know women. He thought they were rather pleasant beings at times, but the danger of having their warm, soft hands suddenly upon him, inspired an attitude of caution. He felt confident of managing them in conversation, but confidence flew to the winds at the approach of hands, or arms, to say nothing of lips.

The summer months passed with snail-like tardiness. Having no place in particular to go, and nothing in particular to do, he remained in Merlton at his boarding house, and divided his time between reading and making excursions on foot, exploring the city. He now seized his first opportunity to gratify a long desire, and spent many of his mornings on the river. Max, who had this time passed his annual examinations without stars, had gone out west to teach school for the summer, in order to make enough money to finance his final year in medicine. The balance of the personnel at the boarding house remained unchanged, until one morning at breakfast he learned that Jolvin was about to return to England. The news came from Stalton, who said he had been talking to Jolvin the night before.

“Gertrude,” he said, “do you know what’s happened to that bird? He’s fallen into a big estate—his uncle’s estate. Why, it’s worth a couple of hundred thousand. I saw the lawyer’s letter last night. What do you know about that?”

Mrs. Manton ate in silence for a moment. “Do Jolvin’s socialistic beliefs prevent him from accepting it?” she asked.

“Not very much!” Stalton replied with sarcastic emphasis. “And, by the way he was talking last night, he’s forgiven England for being such a dough-headed outfit. Why, that fellow came out here two years ago like an understudy of Columbus. England? Not if he knew it. And now I’ll bet he gets the first boat home. Just watch him skidaddle.”

It was not many minutes until Jolvin, the centre of conversation, came down to breakfast, unusually smart, his face wreathed in smiles.

“Good morning, people!” he said expansively, with a very full bow. “Isn’t it a lovely morning? Good-morning Stalton!”

“How do you do?” said Stalton crisply.

After taking his seat, the Englishman, noticing the silence of the table, thought perhaps to stir up conversation.

“You know,” he began, glancing at his dish, “these corn-flakes are really beastly grotesque things. In England one scarcely sees them. They are, I fancy, an expression of American commercialism which invades even the time-honored ritual of breakfast.”

Stalton suddenly dropped his spoon on the table.

“Well, I’m damned,” he said, simply, and once more took up his spoon, having received a stern look from Mrs. Manton.

Jolvin appeared not to have heard Stalton’s remark, but continued, “But, of course, America is too busy to cook porridge. There is no leisure or time for what one might call a comfortable dignity.”

“All this don’t jibe very well with what you usually say about England,” Stalton remarked. “Most of the time you seemed to hate the word.”

“Not at all,” argued Jolvin. “Any criticisms I have ever made of England were meant most heartily. But they were criticisms, not blasphemies. If I were indifferent to England, I should never bother even to criticize.”

“Have it your way, Jolvin,” said Stalton. “But you were always damning the leisure class. Now you’re praising them.”

“I still damn them for their faults. Why, then, should I not praise them for their virtues?”

“Sail right ahead,” invited Stalton. “You’re in good form this morning. Got me outclassed, that’s a cinch.”

Even without Jolvin the place was still a most unusual boarding house. Mauney had learned, by this time, some of its tacitly-established principles. In the first place Mrs. Manton, at thirty-five, being widowed as was understood, regarded her house as a master hobby. Great attention was bestowed upon the furniture, the rugs and the walls. She wanted her guests to be comfortable and, to that end, would put herself about unceasingly. No advertising of vacant rooms was ever done, for it was better to have an empty room without a monthly revenue, than a full room with an unknown, undesirable stranger. Certain standards had to be satisfied. Mrs. Manton’s boarders had to possess what she tersely designated as “savez.” This meant a number of things. It meant the faculty of living in harmony with other boarders, of being informally polite and not impolitely formal. It meant keeping in the background all grandiose ideas, but at the same time indulging in enough conversation to register one’s consciousness. It meant that one should not comment upon the doings of others, but at the same time that one should avoid doing anything to invite comment. It meant even this, that if one’s breakfast were not placed before him as quickly as desired, he was expected to go to the kitchen and get it; or if one’s bed was not made up, the understanding was that it be made up by oneself. And finally, of course, that after a few days’ residence as an introduction, one would notice that the landlady was to be addressed familiarly as “Gertrude.”

Mrs. Manton preferred men to women boarders. Mrs. Dixon was permitted because her husband was a good sort, with funds of information about racing horses and the track in general. Sadie Grote, a stenographer down town, was agreeable and sweet, very unselfish and therefore helpful. Women had often been under consideration. At one time Mrs. Manton conducted an experiment by letting the whole top flat to four university girls. They remained a whole term, but when the last of their baggage had left the front door in the spring, Mrs. Manton had turned to Stalton with all the impatience of a disappointed experimenter.

“Freddie,” she had vowed, “never again! If we ever have girls, they’ve got to have blood in their veins, not pasteurized milk. Isn’t it pitiful how that dreadful disease known as brain-wart seems to get them.”

There was no gainsaying it—eligibility to seventy-three Franklin Street required unusual, indescribable qualities. If Mrs. Manton had written down rules of conduct (which, of course, she never did), and hung them on the wall, they would have read much as follows:

Mauney felt unlikely to transgress many of these tacit rules of conduct. He was quiet enough in disposition to melt into the quiet shadows of the place, and was fond enough of the inhabitants to pattern his superficial manners after theirs. But he well knew that there was danger of breaking one of the rules. He had not yet passed the stage referred to in number eight, and was quite liable to burst forth enthusiastically to some one. His enthusiasm for his books and the sheer happiness he obtained from them was dangerously concealed. It troubled him. He wanted to talk to Max Lee, and longed for his return. Then, too, the present, though charming, was so incomplete! The others at the boarding house truly lived for the present moment, but Mauney was feeling the great future beating like a pulse. He was standing like a benighted sailor on the dark coast, feeling the break of waves he could not distinctly see, and coveting the dawn when all would be revealed.

CHAPTER III.
The Other Half of the Class.

Mauney met Lorna Freeman the first day of college. He did not know her name at first, but she impressed him. This was partly because certain grooves, instituted that day, promised to guide her in his company for the next four years, brilliant in prospect. It happened that out of the great University of Merlton, only two first year students had chosen the “straight” history course. Many others had elected to take combined courses of history plus something else or other, but of the entire academic population of the first year only two showed the real specialist thirst for history alone. This meant that they would receive much that the others would not. They would be inducted more deeply into the records of human development. They would be together, a class all by themselves, at times, penetrating further than the dilettanti, who stopped with constitutional history of Germany. For these two out-and-out students there would be interesting journeys afield.

He faced Lorna Freeman, therefore, with at least the vague knowledge that they two were the real, serious history class. They enrolled together with the assistant professor of history, Dr. Alfred K. Tanner, M.A., Ph.D., D.C.L. (and other degrees usually taken for granted), in his particular upstairs office in one of the wings of the Arts Building. Miss Freeman had already submitted her name, just as any other student might have done, although there were reasons, as shall be seen, why it was superfluous. There were a score of students outside Dr. Tanner’s door, waiting to be enrolled. But they were the part-timers, the non-specialists, the great unwashed. First attention must be given to the “straight” students, and Alfred Tanner had already given his attention to Lorna Freeman, had waved her to a stiff chair by the mullioned windows, and was now giving his attention to Mauney.

He was a big, energetic figure, even as he sat behind his flat-topped desk, with a look of keen awareness mixed with love of his work. He was grey, and bald, and hugely present. He leaned forward, gesticulating, snapping his grey eyes eagerly.

“Your name is what?” he asked.

“Bard.”

“Bard, yes, Bard. What else?” he mumbled, as he wrote it down.

“Mauney.”

“Mauney, yes; Mauney Bard! I see!” he looked up to subject Mauney to a severe scrutiny, during which he was absent-mindedly biting the nail of his little finger.

“And now, tell me, Mauney Bard,” he said suddenly, aiming his plump forefinger at his new pupil, “Tell me, as well as you can—that’s to say offhandedly—tell me exactly why you elected the straight history course?”

As he waited for an answer, he looked frowningly toward the window, rubbed his nose, and held his head like a musician preparing to judge the quality of a chord of music.

“I would say the reason is simple enough,” said Mauney.

“Good,” commended Tanner, hammering the desk with his fist: “Simple enough? Yes? Good. All right, Bard; explain that. Tell me exactly why you elected it?”

“Because,” said Mauney deliberately, “I’ve always wanted to understand the basic principles of human progress.”

Tanner, still frowning at the window, mumbled in an absent-minded tone: “‘Basic principles of human progress.’ Yes; basic principles.” Then, turning suddenly toward Mauney, he once more aimed his finger like a pistol at his face, while his voice came out with great clearness and deliberation: “Good for you. That’s good, Bard, very good. Now, you will consult your time-table to find out your classes, and, by the way, it’s a very small class this year.” He turned toward the young lady seated by the window.

“Lorna!” he said.

“Yes! Uncle Alfred,” she responded, in a clear voice, rising and gracefully approaching the desk.

“This is Mauney Bard—Miss Freeman!”

“How do you do,” she said, with a faint smile and a nod of her head.

As Mauney bowed to her he noticed what clear, blue eyes looked fearlessly into his—calm, quiet eyes, with almost a suggestion of challenge. She was in a grey street costume that clung neatly to her spare, trim form, and wore a wide-rimmed black hat that sat smartly upon her blonde hair and emphasized the natural pallor of her face. Her features were regular—a straight, refined nose, and thin, pretty lips. Her hands were extremely white. In different attire she could have played a part in a tableaux of the vestal virgins. She gave Mauney the same feeling as he had often experienced on looking across the meadows in the white light of a dewy dawn.

“You and Mr. Bard are the class,” laughed Dr. Tanner. “I hope that a friendship of reasonable rivalry may exist in the class, at all times, and that we will be able to find a room somewhere small enough to hold us.”

“I know a good place, Uncle Alfred,” said Miss Freeman.

“Where, then?”

“In the tower.”

“Well, we shall see, Lorna. We shall see. I don’t like it myself, but your suggestion merits consideration. H’m! The tower? Why on earth, my dear child, do you say the tower?”

“It isn’t in use.”

“No. Neither is the furnace room.”

“But the tower would give one such a philosophical elevation, just like old Teufelsdrockh in Carlyle’s book.”

“Oh, damn Carlyle!”

“Uncle Alfred!”

“Excuse me, Lorna,” he laughed mischievously. “Well—a place will be found. Now, you two, clear out. There’s a congregation of pilgrims near by, seeking the shrine of Magnus Apollo.”

Mauney did not know that the young lady with whom he walked down the worn stone steps of the history department was the daughter of Professor Freeman of that same department, whose office they passed on their way to the square. That was to be learned later. He only knew that she seemed an exceptionally fine person.

“Isn’t it funny,” he remarked, as they passed through the long corridor of the Arts Building. “That there should only be two of us in the class.”

“No, I don’t think it’s funny,” she said.

“I mean remarkable,” he corrected himself.

“Well, it’s a small class, certainly,” she admitted. “There are few people who elect history as a straight course in Merlton, I believe. There should be more. I had wished there would be at least another woman.”

“That would have made it pleasanter for you, Miss Freeman.”

“Naturally.”

Mauney noticed how little deference her manner contained. After he had left her at the front entrance and was on his way home, he wished that she had said: “Oh, I think we’ll get along all right.” But she had frankly admitted that another woman in the year would have made it pleasanter for her. Queer little blaming thoughts rose up in his mind against her. Then his thoughts changed. He began to admire her attitude. She had been absolutely frank. Was that not rather unusual? Was she not an unusually truthful kind of girl?

Presently he lost all touch with the argument. His brain was painting pictures of her, in dignified poses, representing some abstract idea of virtue. Finally he checked the images and cursed himself for being such a susceptible person. Miss Freeman was merely a member of the class. Half the class had no right to be thinking such thoughts of the other half.

Nevertheless Mauney’s first impression of university life was an impression of a woman, the first woman, in fact, who ever seriously disturbed his thoughts. That night he went into Max Lee’s room to have a smoke. Max was tired after his summer of teaching, and was viewing the fifth and last year of his course with evident distaste.

“Sit down, Mauney, my son,” he invited. “There’s some good cigarettes. I’m glad you’re taking to smokes. It will make things evener between us. Well, how’s things?”

“Not bad, Max,” he replied, taking one of the easy chairs. “I got enrolled to-day, but haven’t seen much of the university life yet. The assistant professor of history, Dr. Tanner, is a good fellow. I’m going to like him. He’s got a big-brotherly sort of way with him, and I hope he lectures to us. I didn’t see the professor yet. I suppose he’s too important for a mere first-year man to meet so soon.”

“How many are in your group?”

“Just two. Myself and a young lady, whom I met this morning in Tanner’s office. Her name is Freeman—rather a good-looking person. She and I are apparently booked up together for a four-years voyage.”

“In that case,” smiled Max, “I hope she’s companionable.”

“Well,” he replied very seriously, “that’s doubtful. I wish there was another man along—somebody I could swear at when I felt like it. I’ll make the best of it. She may be a really fine person. She’s a niece of Tanner’s, too. When do you start work?”

“To-morrow. Fifth year is pretty easy, but I wish it was over. I’m getting sick of the whole game.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Money, of course.”

“Do you mean you’re short of cash?”

“Sure. It’s going to be tough wiggling to get through this year,” he admitted. “Do you know, lack of money is the one, big, damned tragedy of my life?”

“Could I lend you some?” Mauney asked simply.

“Could you—what?” exclaimed Lee, sitting up. “Have you got money?”

“Some,” admitted Mauney. “I could lend you a few hundred, if you need it.”

“It’s mighty decent of you, boy,” Max said. “But I couldn’t accept it.”

“You don’t need to feel that way.”

“But I do nevertheless. No, I couldn’t. That’s all.”

“Will you promise to let me know if you need it, later?”

“Look here,” said Lee, settling back in his chair wearily. “I mentioned money only to dismiss the topic. I have no desire for wealth, and it’s not immediate needs I’m thinking of. But here I am, fagged, at the start of my last year. When I get my M.D. I’ll be as far from making money as I am now. It’s getting to be an up-hill game, you see? There are certain things that a fellow wants to do some time before he dies, and getting married is one of them.”

“Yes,” said Mauney; “I suppose that comes into the scheme of things.”

“The scheme of nothing!” scoffed Lee. “It simply gets into your blood when you meet the right woman.”

“Am I to suppose,” asked Mauney, in a teasing tone, “that you have met her?”

Lee was silent. His dark eyes were seriously looking into space, while his cigarette burned slowly between his fingers. Mauney realized that he had trampled carelessly on holy ground, but allowed his own silence to be his only apology.

“We’ve known each other long enough, Mauney, to understand how things affect us individually. I’ve never mentioned women to you. But there has been one, all along—this past year. She’s real. I love her, but I can’t tell her. She regards me only as a friend, and I wouldn’t let her know how I feel for anything.”

“You may wonder why I wouldn’t,” he continued. “Well, it’s like this, I’ve made up my mind to go into research work next year, if my health remains good, and that kind of work won’t give me a living, let alone enable me to marry. She’s a girl who deserves happiness. Some one else will give it to her—not me.”

“But the future may be brighter than you think, Max.”

“I’m not a pessimist, Mauney,” he said thoughtfully, leaning his head away back and closing his eyes. “I keep up a cheerful front most of the time. But I know—I simply know that I’ll never marry Freda MacDowell.”

“What is she like, Max?”

“I’ll have you meet her some time. She’s just like nobody else.”

The opening days of college dragged slowly for Mauney. There were broken classes, time-tables not yet perfected, initiations and other interfering details. Then, as if suddenly, the great university wheel quivered to a start and immediately swung around with remarkable smoothness and astonishing rapidity. In the daytime he sat listening to interesting lectures. In the evenings he lived with his books, deeply absorbed, as the weeks passed, with the problems of history. The records of human progress drew him with a warm, romantic attraction, for his imagination filled in the gaps that make history different from story. Characters became real and living. He rose and fell in sympathy with the dim fortunes of forgotten men. The formal page, with its caption and its paragraphs, faded into invisibility, leaving a glowing passage of actual life in which he brought himself temporarily to live.

It was very engrossing. Lorna Freeman found it so, too. She grew somewhat more friendly as the weeks passed, and by mid-term she would talk volubly with Mauney on historical subjects. He found her mind to be an acutely exacting one. It surprised him at first to discover such a mind in a woman. He thought her mental powers exceeded his own, because she could nearly always trip him up in an argument, a thing which she habitually did without exultation, but just methodically, as if tripping him up were part of her natural occupation. One day he learned that her father was Professor Robert Freeman, the seldom-seen head of the department. Mauney only saw him once, as he was pointed out walking thoughtfully through the corridors, a small, shrewd-appearing man, with grey eyes and a fixed smile.

History was absorbing, but our young hero was finding himself a good deal in thought about Lorna Freeman. Not once had he ever said a thing even faintly familiar. One Monday morning, however, the temptation became unduly strong. Miss Freeman was seated in the seminary room by the long table, waiting for Dr. Tanner to take the class. It was winter, and her fur coat was laid neatly over the back of an empty chair. She never removed her hat, a prerogative gained from the intimate size of the class. As Mauney entered the room she looked up from a book and nodded.

“Good morning,” he said, as he took a chair at the opposite side of the table. The large Gothic window at the front of the room commanded a view of the square, busy with students hurrying in various directions to their lectures. Dr. Tanner was late. They sat for fully a quarter of an hour, she quietly reading, Mauney stealing occasional glances at her pensive face. He tried to categorize Lorna Freeman, but could not. She did not fit into any types existent in his mind. She was definitely unusual. She attracted him on this account. There was also about her a certain queenliness. Why had they never once found anything to talk about except their work?

“I guess Dr. Tanner has been waylaid,” he ventured at length.

“He’s usually so punctual, too,” she replied, and then continued reading.

“Do you ever get tired of studying?” he went on, determined to sound her.

“Well, naturally. Don’t you?”

“I certainly do. I suppose if there was another man in the class I wouldn’t mind it so much.”

She glanced quickly up.

“Mind what, Mr. Bard?”

“Well, you see, Miss Freeman, perhaps there’s something else in life besides continual study. I’d like to have somebody to chew the rag with, once in a blue moon.”

She laughed.

“I don’t know whether I’m qualified for chewing the rag or not,” she said slowly. “What does the process signify?”

“Oh, just being sort of human, once in a while.” There was a savor of mild cautery in his tone that did not fail to reach his fair companion.

“And what, pray, does being human mean?” she inquired.

“Personal, I imagine. It means cutting down this constant barrier you keep up.”

Her eyebrows lowered into a delicate frown, while her calm, blue eyes took on an expression half-way between surprise and displeasure. Then her pale face blushed.

“Well, Mr. Bard, I hardly understand!” she began. “I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupted. “You mustn’t be offended. That’s the last idea in my head. If I didn’t care at all I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

He rose from the table and walked slowly, to stand by the great window. Her eyes followed his big form, and then rested on the back of his auburn head. She was not only puzzled, but even confused. After a hesitant moment she rose very slowly and then walked quickly to his side.

She touched him on the arm and looked up into his face.

“Oh, tell me,” she said with some distress, “have I done anything to hurt your feelings? You’re such a genuine sort of a man, I really wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Mauney’s blue eyes opened wide with surprise. He saw such child-like simplicity in her face that he smiled with admiration. He knew, just then, that he could have surrounded her shoulders with both his arms.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’ve got me trimmed a mile for brains. That’s the whole trouble.”

“How do you mean?”

“Brains! You seem to have more of them than I have.”

She frowned and glanced at his mouth.

“Well, does one usually say that, even if one thinks so?”

“I don’t know,” he answered seriously. “I said it because it’s so, and because it’s just your brains that keep you from treating me humanly.”

“Oh—you mean chewing the rag?”

“Sure. You see, I don’t know how to act with you. We’re always together and I think it would be better to be a little more informal.”

She placed the end of her fountain pen against her lips, pensively.

“Oh, let’s!” she suddenly exclaimed. “That would be so nice, wouldn’t it?”

“You see,” he said, glancing toward the great square, “the trouble has been that I didn’t know whether you had any heart or not. You have just been a sort of disembodied intelligence.”

“Now, listen,” she said, with a look of mild reproach. “I’m sorry if I’ve made things unpleasant. As you say, it would be better if there was another man in the class. But there isn’t likely to be. So, consequently, we will have to hit upon a reasonable modus vivendi. I think it’s really awfully nice of you to be so frank. But, really, I don’t quite understand what’s wrong. I have always just been natural, I think.”

“Perhaps. But we never took time to get acquainted,” he explained. “I know what you think about the secession of the plebs, but I have no idea what you think about Tanner, or me, or music, or friendship. I don’t know what your hobbies are, or what you think about in your spare time. I’d like to talk over these things if you ever find time.”

“That’s fine. Why shouldn’t we? Will you come over to my house for tea some day?”

“When?”

“Why—any time. Say to-morrow?”

It was agreed.

CHAPTER IV.
The Professor.