CHAPTER II.

MAUNEY PREPARES FOR COLLEGE.

“_I consider it most becoming and most civilized to mingle severity with good fellowship, so that the former may not grow into melancholy, nor the latter into frivolity._”—_Pliny the Younger, Ep. Bk. 8._

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:

“1.—Avoid extremes.

“2.—Nourish high-falooting ideas, if you wish, but keep them under your hat.

“3.—Be as happy as you choose, but don’t explode with nauseous hilarity, since somebody else may be sad.

“4.—Be downcast when you must, but don’t spread your gloom.

“5.—Be erudite, but don’t teach your ideas.

“6.—Be chuck-full of anything you choose to be chuck-full of, but sit on it.

“7.—Remember that seventy-three aims at averages, prefers neutral tints and the soft pedal.

“8.—Don’t effervesce—most of us have passed that stage.

“9.—Don’t criticize—we all have to live.

“10.—Live, but don’t plan. To-day was to-morrow, yesterday.”

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.