Part 12

“You see it was like this,” he continued, cheerfully, turning to Miss Arnold, while the girl at his side raised her head for an instant and uttered a low exclamation of protest. “We lived out West--in a minin’ camp in Colorado--Bowlder Bluff wuz its name. Awfully lonesome place. No schools--nothin’, jest the store--my store--an’ the mines not fur off. Ellen wuz about twelve then”--he turned inquiringly to the girl, but she would not look up--“about twelve,” he continued, after a slight pause, and another gentle caress of the brown hair; “an’ I hedn’t never given a thought to wimmen’s eddication, an’ Ellen here wuz jest growin’ up not knowin’ a thing--except how I loved her an’ couldn’t bear her out of my sight” (with another caress), “when one day there came to ther camp a college chap. He wuz an English chap, an’ he wuz hard-up. But he wuz a gentleman an’ he’d been to a college--Oxford wuz the name--an’ he took a heap of notice of Ellen, an’ said she wuz mighty smart--yes, Ellen, even then we knew you wuz smart--an’ that she ought to have schoolin’ an’ not run aroun’ the camp any more. At first I didn’t pay no attention to him. But by an’ by his views did seem mighty sensible, an’ he kep’ naggin at me. He used to talk to me about it continual, an’ at night we’d sit out under the pines and talk--he with a fur-away sort of look in his eyes an’ the smoke curlin’ up from his pipe--an’ he’d tell me what eddication meant to wimmen--independence an’ happiness an’ all that, an’ he insisted fur Ellen to go to a good school. He said there wuz big colleges fur wimmen just like there wuz fur men, an’ that she ought to have a chance an’ go to one.

“An’ then he would read us a lot of stuff of evenin’s--specially poetry. Shelley in particular. And yet another chap, almost better’n Shelley. Keats wuz his name. P’rhaps you’ve read some of his poetry?” he inquired, turning politely to Miss Arnold. Something in her throat kept her from speaking, so she only lowered her head and looked away from the drawn, averted face of the girl before her. “He wuz great! All about gods an’ goddesses an’ things one don’t know much about; but then, as I take it, poetry always seems a little fur off, so it wuz kind of natural. But Shelley wuz our favorite. He used to read us somethin’ about the wind. Regularly fine--jest sturred us up, I can tell you. We knew what storms an’ dead leaves an’ ‘black rain an’ fire an’ hail’ wuz out on them lonesome mountains. An’ sometimes he’d read us other things, stories from magazines, an’ books, but it kind of made me feel lonesomer than ever.

“But Ellen here, she took to it all like a duck to water, an’ the college chap kep’ insistin’ that she ought to go to a good school, an’ that she showed ‘great natural aptitude’--them wuz his words--an’ that she might be famous some day, till at last I got regularly enthusiastic about wimmen’s eddication, an’ I jest determined not to waste any more time, an’ so I sent her to Miss Bellairs’s at Denver. She wuz all I hed, an’ Lord knows I hedn’t no particular reason to feel confidence in wimmen folks”--a sudden, curious, hard expression came into his face for a moment and then died swiftly away as he turned from Miss Arnold and looked at the girl beside him. “But I sent her, an’ she ain’t never been back to the camp, an’ she’s been all I ever hoped she’d be.”

They had passed from the faintly lighted library into the brilliant corridors, and the man, towering in rugged strength above the two girls, cast curious glances about him as they walked slowly along. Everything seemed to interest him, and when they came to the Greek recitation-rooms he insisted, with boyish eagerness, upon going in, and the big photogravures of the Acropolis and the charts of the Ægean Sea, and even a passage from the “Seven against Thebes” (copied upon the walls doubtless by some unlucky Sophomore), and which was so hopelessly unintelligible to him, seemed to fascinate him. And when they came to the physical laboratories he took a wonderful, and, as it seemed to Miss Arnold, an almost pathetic interest in the spectroscopes and Ruhmkorff coils, and the batteries only half-discernable in the faintly flaring lights.

And as they strolled about he still talked of Ellen and himself and their former life, and the life that was to be--when Ellen should become famous. For little by little Miss Arnold comprehended that that was his one fixed idea. As he talked, slowly it came to her what this man was, and what his life had been--how he had centred every ambition on the girl beside him, separated her from him, at what cost only the mountain pines and the stars which had witnessed his nightly struggles with himself could tell; how he had toiled and striven for her that she might have the education he had never known. She began to understand what “going to college” had meant to this girl and this man--to this man especially. It had not meant the natural ending of a preparatory course at some school and a something to be gone through with--creditably, if possible, but also, if possible, without too great exertion and with no expectation of extraordinary results. It had had a much greater significance to them than that. It had been regarded as an event of incalculable importance, an introduction into a new world, the first distinct step upon the road to fame. It had meant to them what a titled offer means to a struggling young American beauty, or a word of approbation to an under-lieutenant from his colonel, or a successful maiden speech on the absorbing topic of the day, or any other great and wonderful happening, with greater and more wonderful possibilities hovering in the background.

She began to realize just how his hopes and his ambitions and his belief in this girl had grown and strengthened, until the present and the future held nothing for him but her happiness and advancement and success. It was a curious idea, a strange ambition for a man of his calibre to have set his whole heart upon, and as Miss Arnold looked at the girl who was to realize his hopes, a sharp misgiving arose within her and she wondered, with sudden fierce pity, why God had not given this man a son.

But Ellen seemed all he wanted. He told, in a proud, apologetic sort of way, while the girl protested with averted eyes, how she had always been “first” at “Miss Bellairs’s” and that he supposed “she stood pretty well up in her classes” at college. And Miss Arnold looked at the white, drawn face of the girl and said, quite steadily, she had no doubt but that Miss Oldham was a fine student. She was an exceptionally truthful girl, but she was proud and glad to have said that when she saw the look of happiness that kindled on the face of the man. Yet she felt some compunctions when she noted how simply and unreservedly he took her into his confidence.

And what he told her was just such a story as almost all mothers and fathers tell--of the precocious and wonderful intellect of their children and the great hopes they have of them. But with this man it was different in some way. He was so deeply in earnest and so hopeful and so tender that Miss Arnold could scarcely bear it. “Ellen” was to be a poet. Had she not written verses when she was still a girl, and had not the “college chap” and her teachers declared she had great talents? Wait--he would let Miss Arnold judge for herself. Only lately he had written to Ellen, asking her if she still remembered their lonely mountain-home, and she had sent him this. They had strolled down the corridor to one of the winding stairways at the end. He drew from his large leather purse a folded paper. The girl watched him open it with an inexpressible fear in her eyes, and when she saw what it was she started forward with a sort of gasp, and then turned away and steadied herself against the balustrade.

He spread out the paper with exaggerated care, and read, with the monotonously painful intonations of the unpractised reader:

“Ye storm-winds of Autumn! Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hill-side Thin sprinkled with farms, Where the high woods strip sadly Their yellow arms-- Ye are bound for the mountains! Oh! with you let me go Where your cold, distant barrier, The vast range of snow, Through the loose clouds lifts dimly Its white peaks in air-- How deep is their stillness! Ah! would I were there!”

As he read, Miss Arnold turned her eyes, burning with an unutterable indignation and scorn, upon the girl, but the mute misery and awful supplication in her face checked the words upon her lips. When he had finished reading, Miss Arnold murmured something, she hardly knew what, but he would not let her off so easily.

What did she think of it?--did she not think he ought to be proud of Ellen? and was the “gleam-lighted lake” the lake they could see from the piazza?

He ran on, taking it for granted that Miss Arnold was interested in his hopes and dreams, and almost without waiting for or expecting replies. And at last he told her the great secret. Ellen was writing a book. He spoke of it almost with awe--in a suppressed sort of fashion. She had not told him yet much about it, but he seemed wholly confident in its future success. He wondered which of the big publishing houses would want it most.

Miss Arnold gave a quick gasp of relief. There was more to this girl, then, than she had dared to hope. She glanced eagerly and expectantly toward her, and in that one look she read the whole pitiable lie. Ellen was looking straight ahead of her, and the hopeless misery and shame in her eyes Miss Arnold never forgot. All the pretty, weak curves about the mouth and chin had settled into hard lines, and a nameless fear distorted every feature. But the man seemed to notice nothing, and walked on with head uplifted and a proud, almost inspired look upon his rugged face.

“When will the book be finished, Ellen?” he asked, at length.

The girl looked up, and Miss Arnold noted with amazement her wonderful control.

“It will not be very long now, father,” she replied. She was acting her difficult part very perfectly. It occurred to Miss Arnold that for many years this girl had been so acting, and as she looked at the strong, quiet features of the man she shuddered slightly and wondered how it would be with her when he knew.

* * * * *

When the carriage which was to take him to the station for the midnight train into Boston had driven from the door, the two girls looked at each other steadily for an instant.

“Come to my study for a few moments,” said the younger one, imperiously. Miss Arnold acquiesced silently, and together they moved down the long corridor to Miss Oldham’s rooms.

“I want to explain,” she began, breathlessly, leaning against the closed door and watching with strained, wide-opened eyes Miss Arnold’s face, upon which the light from the lamp fell strong and full.

“I want to explain,” she repeated, defiantly this time. “You had no right to come between myself and my father! I wish with all my heart you had never seen him, but since you _have_ seen him I must explain. I am not entirely the hypocrite and the coward you take me for.” She stopped suddenly and gave a low cry. “Ah! what shall I say to make you understand? It began so long ago--I did not mean to deceive him. It was because I loved him and he thought me so clever. He thought because I was quick and bright, and because I was having a college education, that I was--different. In his ignorance how could he guess the great difference between a superficial aptitude and real talents? How could I tell him--how could I,” with a despairing gesture, “that I was just like thousands of other girls, and that there are hundreds right here in this college who are my superiors in every way? It would have broken his heart.” Her breath came in short gasps and the pallor of her face had changed to a dull red.

Miss Arnold leaned forward on the table.

“You have grossly deceived him,” she said, in cold, even tones.

“Deceived him?--yes--a thousand times and in a thousand ways. But I did it to make him happy. Am I really to blame? He expected so much of me--he had such hopes and such dreams of some great career for me. I _am_ a coward. I could not tell him that I was a weak, ordinary girl, that I could never realize his aspirations, that the mere knowledge that he depended and relied upon me weighed upon me and paralyzed every effort. When I loved him so could I tell him this? Could I tell him that his sacrifices were in vain, that the girl of whom he had boasted to every man in the mining camp was a complete failure?”

She went over to the table and leaned her head upon her shaking hand.

“If my mother--if I had had a brother or sister, it might have been different, but I was alone and I was all he had. And so I struggled on, half hoping that I might become something after all. But I confessed to myself what I could not to him, that I would never become a scholar, that my intellect was wholly superficial, that the verses I wrote were the veriest trash, that I was only doing what ninety-nine out of every hundred girls did, and that ninety-eight wrote better rhymes than I. There is a whole drawerful of my ‘poetry’”--she flung open a desk disdainfully--“until I could stand it no longer, and one day when he asked me to write something about the mountains, in desperation I copied those verses of Matthew Arnold’s. I knew he would never see them. After that it was easy to do so again.” She stopped and pressed her hands to her eyes.

“I am the most miserable girl that lives,” she said.

Miss Arnold looked at her coldly.

“And the book?” she said at length.

Miss Oldham lifted her head wearily.

“It was all a falsehood. He kept asking me if I were not writing a book. He thought one had only to write a book to become famous. It seemed so easy not to oppose the idea, and little by little I fell into the habit of talking about ‘the book’ as if it were really being written. I did not try to explain to myself what I was doing. I simply drifted with the current of his desires and hopes. It may seem strange to you that a man like my father should have had such ambitions, and stranger still that he should have ever dreamed I could realize them. But one _has_ strange fancies alone with one’s self out on the mountains, and the isolation and self-concentration of the life give an intensity to any desire or expectation that you, who live in an ever-changing world, cannot understand.”

Miss Arnold looked at the girl curiously. She wondered for the first time if there was any excuse for her. She had a singularly strong moral nature herself, and she could not quite understand this girl’s weakness and deceit. The fact that she loved her father so deeply only added to the mystery.

She arose. “If I were you”--she began, coldly, but Miss Oldham stopped her.

“It is all finished now,” she said. She, too, had arisen, and was standing against the door, looking down and speaking in the monotonous tone of someone reciting a lesson.

“I have decided, and I shall go to my father, and I shall say, ‘I have deceived you; I have neither courage nor honesty. There might have been an excuse for another girl--a girl who did not understand you or who did not love you, or who did not know just how much her success meant to you. For me there is none. I, who knew how strange the idea at first seemed to you of your daughter’s being an educated, accomplished girl; I, who knew how little by little the idea became a passion with you, how proud and how fond you were of her, how you worked and prayed that she might be something different and better than the rest--I, who knew all this, have still deceived you. There is but one thing I dare ask you, Will you not let me go back to the mountain with you, and serve you and be to you the daughter I have not been as yet?’”

She stopped suddenly and looked at Miss Arnold.

“That is what I must do, is it not?” she asked, dully.

Miss Arnold went over to her.

“That is what you must do,” she said, gently.

It was almost two weeks later when Miss Arnold, coming in from a long walk, found a letter lying on her table. It bore an unfamiliar postmark, and the superscription had evidently been written in great haste or agitation. She tore it open with a feeling of apprehension.

“My punishment has come upon me,” it ran. “My father is dead. I got a telegram at Denver--they met me at the foot of the mountain. I cannot say anything now. As yet I have but one thought and one comfort--he never knew! Think of me as you will--I am glad he never did!

“E. O.”

TIME AND TIDE

It was the usual scene at College theatricals. There was the inevitable six-foot tenor in a white muslin dress, abnormally long blond plaits, and a high falsetto which _would_ descend every now and then into a barytone; and there was the German bass-villain who took unpardonable liberties with the tenor-maiden, considering the latter’s muscular superiority; and there was the wicked and beautiful maid with very much blackened eyebrows and very much rouged cheeks, who forgot every now and then and winked knowingly at some particular chum in the audience; and there were the usual hitches in the curtain, and the heat and lights, and crowds of students and rapt young women from neighboring institutions of learning, who were gazing with mingled admiration and pity at the wonderfully large hands and feet of the prima-donna and soubrette.

Every now and then, chinks of daylight came in from lifted blinds, damaging the looks of the tenor’s complexion considerably, and the German villain was getting hoarse, and the ballet refused to repeat the “butterfly” dance, and the student enthusiasm was beginning to flag. At last, however, the _finale_ came. The tenor fell happily, if a trifle heavily, into the arms of the barytone, whose operatic _raison-d’être_ had up to that moment been rather obscure, the German villain gave a last gasp, and the chorus came out firm and strong on the pretty refrain, and then everybody got up and walked about, and the men introduced their friends to the young women with them, and everybody said it was a great success, if a trifle warm, and then they all went home and said it wasn’t as good as “last year’s.”

Miss Elise Ronald and her chaperon and party stood near the door, talking to several men, and waiting for the tenor, who was a particular friend and who had invited them over. It seemed to them that he was a great while making his appearance, and they were very anxious to know what he was doing. They would have been much shocked if they had known. Mr. Perry Cunningham was swearing. In his frantic hurry to get out of the extraordinary muslin dress and blond wig, and wash the paint and mongolian and pearl powder off his face, everything seemed to have gone wrong. To add to the excitement and worry his “dresser” had misplaced some of his things, and the stage-manager was trying to buttonhole him to talk business.

The chaperon, who was tired standing, said she would walk on with the rest, and that Miss Ronald would please follow the moment Mr. Cunningham arrived. So the girl said “yes” very obediently, and was left standing, talking with her brother and a youthful freshman who had asked to be presented. As time passed and no Mr. Perry Cunningham appeared, Miss Ronald delicately hinted to her brother that he had best hunt him up and tell him that she was waiting; but that amiable youth, with delightful optimism, assured his sister warmly that “Cunningham would soon be out of his fancy togs and would turn up all right,” and disappeared in the direction of Hemenway.

It was only a short while later that Mr. Cunningham did come up, breathless and profusely apologetic, and the freshman with rare discreetness, divining that his presence was not absolutely necessary, bowed and moved off.

“Awfully sorry, Miss Ronald,” gasped Cunningham, “’spect I kept you waitin’ an awful time. That--that ‘dresser’ of mine put half my things with another fellow’s and I had a time getting them straight.”

Miss Ronald said it did not matter and that the chaperon had gone on with the rest, and that they were to catch up.

“You know we must get that 5.50 train back to the College,” she explained. So they strolled up Harvard Square, and Miss Ronald assured Cunningham that his solo in the second act was the gem of the operetta, and Cunningham was saying impressively that he was glad _she_ liked it, when it occurred to both of them that the chaperon and the rest of the party had somehow disappeared.

“Did they intend getting the train in Boston or going over to Allston for it?” asked Cunningham.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Miss Ronald, helplessly. “How stupid of me--I never thought to ask!”

Cunningham said it would be rather easier, he thought, to get over to Allston, and that they had probably gone that way. So they boarded a car and got to Allston at ten minutes of six--“excellent time,” as Cunningham remarked walking inside the station to buy the tickets. He was gone so long that Miss Ronald started in after him, fearing every minute to hear the train come thundering up. When she saw him she knew by his face that something was the matter.

“The ticket-man has just told me this confounded train doesn’t stop at Allston,” he said, coming quickly toward her. “It’s an outrage--the company oughtn’t to run its trains so irregularly. It’s a beastly shame! How’s a person going to remember where a train stops and where it doesn’t?” he added excitedly, and a trifle vaguely.

Miss Ronald was very much disturbed and a little indignant. Cunningham felt very sorry for the girl and inclined to blame himself for the mistake, but Miss Ronald assured him that it was not his fault, and that what he had to do now was to think how best they could get back to the College. It was while they were standing on the platform “thinking,” that the 5.50 from Boston rushed by and they caught sight of the anxious face of the chaperon at the window.

“Nice people to go off and leave me this way,” soliloquized Miss Ronald, indignantly. Cunningham walked inside to scrutinize the time-table. When he came out his face wore so hopeful an expression that Miss Ronald brightened visibly. “I have a scheme,” he declared. “There’s a train into Boston that comes along in fifteen minutes and that will get us in there at 6.25--too late to get the 6.22 out; but we can go to the Thorndyke and have a little dinner, and catch the 7.30 which will get you to ‘the College’ at 8.17. You see it would take us at least two hours to drive over, so that by my plan we shall have our dinner and get back as soon as if we started now with a trap. And if you will wait here a minute, I’ll telegraph your chaperon that we will be out on the 7.30, so she won’t be uneasy about you.”