Part 8
He was driven direct to his home; and ten minutes after entering the front door he issued from the back and hastened across the campus.
The registrar met him in the main corridor.
"What is this I have been reading?" he asked sharply. "This that the papers are full of? What is it?"
The registrar followed him into his private office where, as the president unlocked his desk, he explained accurately, tersely, the frenzy that had seized the University, and the town; the state, the nation, and the world.
As he spoke he was interrupted again and again by the characteristic "ah" of the president, who as he listened, toyed with a steel envelope opener.
"And those are the facts in the case as you--that is to say the faculty--know them; are they?" he asked, when the other had done.
The registrar nodded.
"Ah, yes," murmured the president--"now let me see if I have them correct and in their order;" and he recited the story as he had heard it from the other's lips, accurately, succinctly, with no point missing.
"Those are the facts, doctor," the registrar corroborated.
"Ah yes,--quite simple--yes."
The registrar was about to move away.
"Ah, just a moment," the president called. "You know Mr. Catherwood's address----"
"One hundred and three, Williams Street----"
"Ah, yes." And he hastily wrote a note which he folded and addressed.
"Have this delivered to Mr. Catherwood at once at his rooms."
The registrar nodded.
"And if he should call here at the office, have him wait, please--have him wait. I wish a word with professor Lowe."
He vanished into the corridor.
He was absent ten minutes and as he passed through the waiting-room to the inner private office he glanced into the office of the registrar.
He closed the door noiselessly and seating himself at his desk, proceeded with slow deliberation to open his accumulated mail.
* * * * *
The bells in the library tower clanged twelve o'clock. As the last detonation sounded through the high corridors of the main building a timid knock fell upon the door.
The president glanced up quickly. He drew from an inner pocket of his coat two envelopes, which he laid on the top of the desk.
Then:--
"Come in!" he called.
The door opened and Catherwood, streaked of face and hollow eyed, stood upon the threshold.
The president rose.
"Ah, Mr. Catherwood," he exclaimed, smiling.
He advanced upon his caller with outstretched hand.
Catherwood was not conscious of the warm clasp; he only knew one thing--that he had been summoned and that now he was in the presence of the genius of the institution of which he himself was a little part.
"You--you sent for me, sir," he managed to say.
"Yes--ah--you got my note of course. Sit down."
The president seated himself at his desk and wheeled that he might face the odd creature near the door.
"Well, well, Mr. Catherwood," he exclaimed, after a moment, "they appear to have been treating you rather badly, eh?"
Catherwood pleaded with his eyes alone.
"Well, well; what does it all mean, Mr. Catherwood?" he went on, kindly. "You've no enemies here, have you----"
The young man brightened perceptibly--"Not one, sir; that is to say, not one that I know of," he added, less brightly.
"Ah, so I'm told. How do you account for this attack upon you, then?"
Catherwood's eyes dropped to the carpet. The president watched him covertly, fumbling the seal that dangled from his watch-chain.
"I can't," Catherwood replied at last, looking up.
"No, of course you can't. I hardly expected you could," the president exclaimed. "But, Mr. Catherwood"--he spoke slowly--"have you no _idea_ who it was committed this most dastardly assault upon you?"
There was an instant's silence during which Catherwood followed the scroll design of the carpet up one row and down another.
"Yes, sir--_I have._"
"Who?" The president leaned forward.
"I don't feel justified in saying, sir."
Catherwood did not look up as he spoke.
The president leaned back and passed his hand across his forehead.
"Ah, yes; I think I understand, Mr. Catherwood--you--you--perhaps fear the blame may be placed where it should not--a fine sense of justice; Mr. Catherwood--a very fine sense of justice--I congratulate you upon it, sir."
Catherwood glanced up now, moved to a sort of secret impatience by what he assumed to be a note of sarcasm in the president's voice.
But the face his eyes encountered was most kindly.
His eyes fell again.
The president took up the envelope opener and placed the steel point to his lips.
"Mr. Catherwood," he began, and hesitated.
"Yes, sir."
"Of course you know," he went on, "that since my return the facts in your case have been placed before me by certain members of the faculty who are familiar with them."
"Yes, sir," Catherwood murmured.
"Now, Mr. Catherwood, while they have told me many things of interest, there is one little detail that seems to me to have a very important bearing upon the case, but which, for some unaccountable reason, they all seem to have missed. Perhaps you can throw some light upon this dark place." The president indulged here in a round, full laugh.
Encouraged by the infinite kindness of this voice, Catherwood lifted his eyes.
"Yes, sir; if I can--what is it?"
"Ah, yes." The president cleared his throat. "Mr. Catherwood," he resumed calmly, twirling the envelope opener between his fingers, "what I wish so very much to know is _how you managed to tie your hands behind you_!"
"Why I----" Catherwood began, and stopped. He tried to wrench his eyes from those of the president,--calm, blue--but could not. The room whirled. The design in the carpet became the design of the walls and of the ceiling; and there were no windows in the room, or doors--and all was black--black--black, save for two points of light; for there were those calm blue eyes, shining back at his.
And then as though it spoke from some great height he heard the mellow voice in his ears again.
"Go on, Mr. Catherwood," the voice said.
At last he managed to wrench his eyes away and stood up, and strode over to the window and looked out upon the white world. He saw two sparrows poise an instant on the crest of a drift.
"Well, Mr. Catherwood----" The voice again.
He turned slowly. His face was pale beneath the disfiguring streaks and stripes of brown.
"I--I--I confess, sir--I confess."
He flung himself into the chair at the end of the desk and covering his poor face with his two hands, sobbed aloud.
The president waited for the paroxysm to pass.
"Why did you do it, Mr. Catherwood?" he asked, quietly.
"I--I--was afraid of that history examination." The reply came faint.
Turning his face away, he stood up. He groped for his hat.
"But wait a moment, Mr. Catherwood."
Shame-faced the impostor turned, his hand upon the knob of the door.
"You have, I believe, neither credit nor condition in that course. Professor Lowe was at a loss which to give you; and awaited my return. Ah, sit down, Mr. Catherwood."
He obeyed, meekly. He fumbled his cap.
"Ah, Mr. Catherwood." The voice still was calm and even.
"Yes, sir," Catherwood murmured without changing his position.
"Mr. Catherwood, this is a delicate case--I may say a most delicate case. It is unique in my experience. Indeed I believe it is _absolutely_ unique. Moreover, honesty compels me to say that it was most ingeniously managed--_most_ ingeniously."
The president coughed and raised his hand to his lips. Catherwood looked up an instant and then away again.
"Now, Mr. Catherwood," the president went on in the same dispassionate tone, "let us look first at the case from your point of view. You were zealous to pass your history course, ahem, too zealous, perhaps. However, be that as it may. And I am right, am I not, when I infer that your zeal, your desire in the matter, is still unabated?"
Catherwood nodded, slightly.
"Ah, I thought so. So be it. It is your zeal, then, that induces a certain definite longing for the credit in that course? Am I right?"
"Yes, sir." Weakly.
"Ah, yes. But, Mr. Catherwood, there is that beside our zeal to which we must listen. There is our conscience."
Catherwood shifted uneasily.
"Consult _your_ conscience, Mr. Catherwood. Shall I tell you what it whispers? Very well. It bids you ask for a condition--a condition, Mr. Catherwood."
"Give it me, doctor; give it me."
The suddenness, the eagerness of the request caused the president to raise his eyebrows. The pale ghost of a smile lingered an instant about his lips.
He held out a restraining hand.
"Just a moment, Mr. Catherwood," he said. "There is another point of view. Mine."
Catherwood had sunk back into his previous attitude of dejection.
"I may state it briefly," the president continued. "My interest in the proper conduct of this University, Mr. Catherwood, bids me give you a condition in the course to which we--ah--have referred. But--and I say this frankly--my interest in you, my boy, bids me hesitate. You are young. Your whole life is before you. A misstep now might mean the ruin of that life."
Catherwood caught his breath with a little spasm of the throat.
"Far be it from me to be the cause of such a misstep." The president spoke less rapidly now. "Too, you have brains. This--ah--your recent exploit is proof of that. Such ingenuity properly directed might work great good for not only you, but--ah--the country at large. Mr. Catherwood,"--every word was voiced with a cutting precision--"my genuine interest in you prompts me to give you your credit in this course; but----"
Catherwood started in his chair. The face he turned to the president was aglow; the eyes alight.
"_But_," the speaker emphasized--"I am not permitted to do this, Mr. Catherwood. Had you taken that examination you might--mind you I say 'might'--have passed. Again you might not. There would have been, you see, an element of chance. Mr. Catherwood, we shall let Chance hold the scales this morning."
The young man looked up wonderingly.
"I don't understand, sir," he said, weakly.
In his hand the president held two envelopes.
"Mr. Catherwood," he said, "you see these envelopes? Yes. Well, in one of them--I do not know which one--is a credit-slip; in the other is a condition. The envelopes are sealed."
He held them out to the limp creature at the end of the desk.
"Choose," he commanded.
Catherwood shrank back. "Oh, sir," he murmured, brokenly.
"Choose."
Their eyes met then; and there was that in the president's that forbade his disobeying.
He put forth a trembling hand. His fingers touched the smooth paper. He drew. He crushed the envelope in his hand.
"Is--is--that all, sir?" he begged, falteringly.
"That is all, Mr. Catherwood, good-morning."
And he seized his cap and rushed from the room.
The president, alone, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he looked down. He still held the second envelope.
He ran the slim blade of the ebon-handled dagger beneath the flap and ripped it open.
He drew out the slip that it contained.
A queer little look came into his eyes. Then he pursed his lips, and smiled.
He tore the slip into tiny flakes and let them fall from his open hand like snow, into the waste-basket.
Just then the bells in the library tower clanged out four times.
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the president. "Half-past one! I shall be late for luncheon!"
And gathering up his coat and hat he left his office, hurriedly.
THE DOOR--A NOCTURNE
There is a pale moon, consequently the electric street-lamps are unlighted. The setting is nowise picturesque. The street is narrow, unpaved, and fringed on either side with maples in leaf. It is late June. To right and left, are to be discerned behind the trees rows of characterless frame houses, that, for the greater part, are set well back in yards, where, here and there, are lilac bushes, rose trees, smoke trees, and silver birches, ghostly in the thin light. The moon's rays, glimmering upon the latched green blinds of the lower stories--which seem black--streak them with white.
At the end of the block, on the east side of the street, stands a house markedly different from the others. It is three stories in height, whilst they are two; the lawn, cut by a gravel path, slopes gently to the walk, and is close cropped; across the front of the house and continuing unbroken along either side to the back is a broad, covered porch with a spindled rail at its edge like a little fence. The only door is at the top of the path, in front. In a window directly above the door is a card the legend on which the moon makes clear--"Rooms to Rent." There is no fence about the place. On the south side another gravel path, narrower than the one in front and bordered with box, links the sidewalk to the porch. The main path prongs to still another set of steps on the north side. The house is white and looms big in the paleness. In a pear-tree near the south porch-steps a katydid scrapes her dreary tune; whilst, on the north steps, a vagrant cat sits in silent adoration of the night, contemplating, presumably, the joys thereof. A stillness made the more tangible by the katydid's song pervades the scene.
The deep throated bells in the library tower on the campus ring out six times--ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Accurately it lacks but fifteen minutes of being midnight.
Suddenly the song of the katydid ceases, and the cat, seized with panic, leaps from the north steps and vanishes beneath the grape trellis at the back. Footfalls sound on the cement, and presently a couple slant across the lawn to the porch, issuing from the shadow of the trees into the white light that floods the lawn. He is seen to be a well set up youth who looks twenty-three. It is the moon, for he is twenty. Upon his blond head is perched a slouch hat of a dirty gray color and bound with a wide black band. His trousers, turned up at the ankles, are baggy at the hips and bulge beneath the belted Norfolk jacket that he wears. His hat is pulled down rakishly in front. She is a head shorter than he, and plump. Were it high noon her face would glow ruddy. She wears a straw sailor-hat such as no sailor ever wore; a shirt waist, and a white duck skirt that flares at the hem and appears somewhat crumpled. Her steps are mincing; he slouches. Between them they carry by its two out-springing handles a small luncheon hamper. He is a junior; his walk gives the clue to his class. So is she; so does hers. At the porch he sets the basket on the lowest step and turns to her:--
JAMIE. Well, we beat 'em; didn't we?
HILDA [_fumbling in her finger purse_]. Uh huh. Let's go up-stairs and wait.
JAMIE [_doubtfully_]. Had we better? Won't your landlady think---- It's awful late.
HILDA [_testily_]. We don't pay her three dollars a week to think; besides, they'll surely be here in a minute. We couldn't have been more than a mile ahead of them. They're at the livery now, probably. [_During this speech she fumbles in her purse._] Oh, dear!
JAMIE [_endeavoring to smother a yawn_]. Wha's mat'r?
HILDA [_looking up at him and making a little moüe_]. I can't find my key!
JAMIE [_with a quick show of interest_]. You haven't lost it, have you?
HILDA [_snappishly_]. Well, it isn't here, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, how mad it makes me to lose things--but--I remember now; I left it on the _chiffonier_ while we were dressing. Just to think I should have come away and left it lying there--oh, dear! [_She gazes up at him appealingly._]
JAMIE [_a note of resignation in his voice, perhaps, which she, however, does not seem to perceive_]. What's the difference? We'll wait for 'em. Minnie'll have hers, won't she? It'll be nicer waiting out here, anyway. Look at that moon! Beaut, isn't it? [_He takes up the basket and moves away._]
HILDA. Where are you going?
JAMIE [_perhaps significantly_]. 'Round on the side porch; this is too near the street.
HILDA [_following him, and aside_]. I can't see why they don't come. [_Aloud._] Can we hear them?
JAMIE. Sure! [_He sets the basket beside one of the pillars of the north porch. They both sit on the top step, she with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two hands. For a space he whistles softly between his teeth. Thereafter they converse in half-whispers._]
JAMIE. They'll be along in a minute.
HILDA. I hope so. They will unless Herbert's persuaded her to go hunting for flowers by moonlight. I wouldn't be as crazy over botany as he is for all the degrees the old university gives. [_She edges nearer him and, taking his hand in one of hers, draws his arm around her waist. Sighing._] Oh, dear!
JAMIE [_bringing his face closer to hers_]. What is it--angel?
HILDA [_with infinite--or, almost infinite, tenderness_]. Oh, nothing. I was only thinking about the day; how happy it has been.
JAMIE [_tenderly_]. Has it been, dear?
HILDA [_her head against his shoulder_]. You know it has--lovely--perfect!
JAMIE. What made it?
HILDA. You know what....
JAMIE No, I don't; tell me. What?
HILDA [_with tender impatience_]. Why you, of course, foolish--because we were together, and all that....
JAMIE. Oh!
HILDA. Now, what did you say "oh" for?
JAMIE. I don't know--because I'm glad you enjoyed the day, I guess.
HILDA. Did you want me to enjoy it--very much?
JAMIE. Of course I did, dear; I want you to be happy all the time---- We are going to be happy always, aren't we?
HILDA. Are we?
JAMIE. Aren't we?
HILDA [_tenderly_]. Y-e-s---- [_Their lips are very close. The moon rushes behind a cloud._] There! Now you've shocked the man in the moon!
JAMIE. I guess he's used to it. I wish I had a dollar for all the times he's seen that!
HILDA. And just think! There isn't a soul he can talk to about it!
JAMIE. Maybe he tells Mars; you don't know.
HILDA. Oh, Jamie, you ought to take course one in astronomy! Mars and the moon are miles and miles apart!
JAMIE. Are they?
HILDA [_tapping his hand_]. Yes, and you ought to know it.
JAMIE. But I don't know as much as you do, dearie.
HILDA. That's a very pretty speech, but you do, all the same. Sometimes I think you know just a little bit more.
JAMIE. Well, I don't; besides, how could I? You're working for Ph. B., and I'll only get a cheap old B. L.
HILDA. That's your own fault. You could have selected Ph. B. Herbert did.
JAMIE. But Herbert knows more than I do, too. [_He grins, away from her._]
HILDA. Why, Jamie, he doesn't either! He doesn't know _anything_ but botany. I'm glad you aren't an old prosy botanist.
JAMIE. Maybe I'm not a very good botanist, but I've prided myself on my taste in flowers----
HILDA. Now what makes you say that? You don't know a cowslip from a hollyhock!
JAMIE. Maybe not, but I fell in love with you, didn't I?
HILDA [_snuggling very close_]. Dearest! [_Again the modest man in the moon hides his face behind a cloud._]
JAMIE [_reminiscently_]. Do you remember what happened a month ago to-night?
HILDA [_softly_]. Of course I do.
JAMIE. What?
HILDA [_more softly_]. You proposed.
JAMIE [_stroking her hair_]. Where?
HILDA. Why, where we were to-day--at Whitmore--in Mr. Stevens' sail-boat.
JAMIE. Yes, that's so. I thought maybe you'd forgotten....
HILDA [_drawing back_]. Jamie! Forget! Never! Why that's the greatest thing that ever comes into a girl's life! Forget it? How could you!
JAMIE. And you're just the same?
HILDA [_her head against his shoulder again_]. Always!
JAMIE. The old lake looked somewhat different to-day, didn't it; so many of the cottages open, and such a crowd around?
HILDA. Yes, but it wasn't so nice as it was that day. I thought there were just a few too many around to-day, didn't you?
JAMIE. Yes--once--or--twice----
HILDA. Why?
JAMIE. Oh, because I wanted to walk on and on alone with you--just you. I wanted to talk to you as we're talking now, but I couldn't with so many folks everywhere. But I had my chance when we started for home. I looked for interference; that's why I suggested separate carriages.
HILDA [_indifferently_]. I knew it.
JAMIE. You did? Now that shows you know more than I do. I didn't think you'd understand.
HILDA. Did you really think me as dense as all that?
JAMIE. I'm afraid I did. But I shan't again. I shall tell you everything, hereafter. I find I might as well.
HILDA [_earnestly_]. Yes, you might, just exactly as well, for I shall know, anyway.
JAMIE. I wonder if they had a good time.
HILDA. Who; Herbert and Minnie? Of course they did.
JAMIE. Do you think they care anything for each other?
HILDA. Do I think so? Why, how should I know?
JAMIE. You're her room-mate, aren't you?
HILDA. Oh, yes, I'm her room-mate; but I might as well not be for all she tells me about herself.
JAMIE. Does she ever say anything about him?
HILDA. Not a word.
JAMIE [_somewhat sarcastically_]. She seemed willing enough to go to the picnic; and I don't remember that she protested very violently when I suggested we go in separate carriages.
HILDA. Of course she wanted to go. Any girl likes a good time now and then on a Saturday, after working hard all the week. And Minnie does work hard. But her wanting to go doesn't prove anything. And as for the separate carriages, no girl likes to be bundled in with a crowd.
JAMIE. Yes, maybe that's so. As far as I'm concerned, I'm glad she didn't protest.
HILDA. So am I. Do you think Herbert cares for her?
JAMIE. Oh, I don't know. I'm not very well acquainted with him. He's always stuck in that musty old laboratory. I don't see him often. I'd never have thought of including him in the picnic, to-day, if you hadn't suggested it.
HILDA. Oh, well, there wasn't any one else; I couldn't go and leave Minnie. He'd called here two or three times, and he took her to the Forty Club once; I thought he'd do.
JAMIE. He did, I guess. They hadn't much to say to each other, but maybe they had a good time all the same.
HILDA. Well, you know, she never has very much to say, nor he either, for that matter.
JAMIE. I know it; all I could think of, seeing them up in front of the boat, was a pair of owls.
HILDA. Don't make fun of them, Jamie. Minnie's _awfully_ bright. Why she's made up her mind to come back next year and take her Master's degree. Think of that!
JAMIE. Is that so? I wonder if Herbert's coming too.
HILDA. I don't know. I've never heard him say. I don't believe Minnie knows either. He's a splendid student, too. [_Anxiously._] I don't see why in the world they don't come. Jamie, maybe they've had an accident!
JAMIE. Oh, no, they haven't. That old giraffe of theirs couldn't run away. They're walking up from the livery now, like as not, just as we did. They'll be here in a minute. Maybe we came in faster than we thought. It's a good ten miles, and with their horse it would take 'em half again as long as it did us.
HILDA. Maybe.
JAMIE [_irrelevantly_]. Jove! What a magnificent night this is!
HILDA. Isn't it? And see how round the moon is--it's perfectly lovely.
JAMIE. Dearest!
HILDA. What?
JAMIE. I love you.
HILDA [_pressing his arm_]. Sweetheart!
JAMIE. I do. [HILDA _murmurs incoherently._]
Tired of scurrying, the silent moon shines down upon these two of all the world, regardless. They lapse into silence--he holding one of her hands--and gaze at the pale orb of night floating up the sky. A couple turn the corner, south of the house. The young man is tall and angular. He wears huge spectacles. His face is thin and wan, very like that of the girl beside him. Indeed, they have many physical characteristics in common. She, too, wears spectacles. Her mouth is straight, her complexion cloudy, but her eyes give evidence of an active brain behind them. He carries a luncheon basket awkwardly. At the corner they stop and he turns away as she lifts her dark cloth overskirt, and searches for her pocket. The quill, riding her curled-brimmed straw-hat at an angle of danger, sways impatiently.
HERBERT [_calmly_]. Something appears to annoy you--have you----