CHAPTER III.

THE OTHER HALF OF THE CLASS.

“_A morning sun, and a wine-bred child and a Latin-bred woman seldom end well._”—_Herbert’s Collection._

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.