CHAPTER II.

MAUNEY FINDS A FRIEND.

While Mauney waited the month for Lorna’s matrimonial verdict, he occupied himself chiefly with study and with more writing in his ledger. Whatever might be the true character of these flashing impressions which he jotted down, they had become an essential part of existence, for they came to him with imperativeness.

The alcove in the hallway upstairs was a good place to write. He found that he could arrange his thoughts better within earshot of other people talking than within the quietness of his own room. The dull, monotonous murmur of conversation from the dining room below had the peculiar effect of keeping him psychically in touch with humanity. The frequent selections of the gramophone music, with the sound of Gertrude’s feet slipping gracefully along the floor in the rhythm of a dance, or the voice of Fred Stalton singing some popular song to the gramophone’s accompaniment, reminded him that history was concerned with all people, that it was not a subject of mere academic interest, but of life and blood, of gaiety and despair, of every emotion that warmed or cooled the hearts of people. Freda MacDowell would often pass him, seated by the hall desk, on her way to her room, nodding with a friendly smile or indulging in a short word or two of conversation.

One evening she showed considerable interest in the subject of his labors, and excused herself for asking upon what he might be so assiduously bent.

“I’m afraid I’m wasting time, Miss MacDowell,” he said, looking up from his big volume. “It’s a hobby I have. Just scribbling down my impressions.”

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s waste time or not,” she said, “as long as you like doing it. I wish you’d loosen up a little, Mr. Bard, and invite me to read your stuff. Having seen you at work so constantly here every night, you can’t blame me for having a woman’s curiosity.”

“Nothing would suit me better,” he laughed. “If I had thought you would be interested I would have invited you long ago.”

He rose and indicated a chair near his own.

“If you have time,” he said. “But perhaps you are busy.”

“Me—busy? Oh no! I’m the most leisurely person in the world. I’m just crazy to read your impressions. But what are your impressions about?”

She sat down and leaned her elbows on the edge of the desk.

“History.”

“Dear me,” she sighed, with a little chuckle. “How disappointing. I, too, have my own impressions of history, or should I say the history machine. I thought you were writing a romance with a lot of thrills in it. However, I’m anxious to see what you think of history.”

For a moment she turned through the pages of his scrap-book, reading odd paragraphs here and there.

“I’d rather talk to you about it,” she admitted, at length. “I’ll start by asking you what history is.”

“I’m not strong on definitions,” he replied, glancing at the base of the desk lamp, purposely to avoid the gaze of her deep eyes. “And I’m hopeless when subjected to a catechism.”

“Good. I knew you were. If I were to ask Nutbrown Hennigar that question—of course I know better—he’d proceed to bore me for an hour. Do you know, I hate history like sin. I wouldn’t stay at this job of mine, except I’ve got to live by the sweat of my brow. There’s Robert Freeman—just a kind of hard-boiled brains—he gives me the creeps. Alfred Tanner is bad enough. He’s pretty well submerged in the business, too, although he has preserved a sense of humor. And Hennigar. What _do_ you think?”

“What?” asked Mauney.

“He’s writing a history of the war,” she laughed. “I read some of his manuscript. He invited me to do so.” She looked a playful reproach at Mauney, as though conscious of her self-invitation to read his writings. “And it’s just the most amusing thing ever! He’s got the whole war so definitely sized up that you don’t feel any surprise at anything that happened. You feel that the war was just as natural as taking your coffee into the drawing room after dinner. You feel that the strategic movements in the battles cost nobody a moment’s thought. The soldiers just emerge from the west salient and the east flank like so many automatic chess-pieces headed for their preordained positions. There’s no smoke or explosions or blood in his battles at all. Just 3,000 casualties, 500 prisoners, and a dent in the Allied line or the German line. He’s done it so hardheadedly that I’ve nicknamed him Napoleon.”

“But isn’t he a pretty good friend of yours, Miss MacDowell?”

“Oh, wonderfully good,” she smiled sarcastically. “He thrives on destructive criticism, and he really receives nothing else from me. The more I criticize him the more he thinks of me. I’ve never given him a single word of encouragement, never, and yet he keeps right on my trail. There used to be a saying that the best man is the one that’s hardest for a woman to get. Hennigar can’t qualify—he’s the hardest to get rid of.”

“Funny,” said Mauney. “I half knew that was the case.”

“Well, I must go and dress,” she said, rising. “He’s taking me to a dance to-night and I don’t want to keep him waiting over an hour. His car has been at the door for twenty minutes already. By the way, I wish you would put your manuscript in on my desk. I’ll be home some time to-night and would like to look over it.”

At breakfast next morning he asked her what she thought of his writings.

“My judgment isn’t worth a Chinese nickel,” she replied. “But I read it all and I think it’s a whizz and when I enjoy anything like that it must be unusual anyhow. I think it’s just like you, and I thought of a dandy scheme just before I lopped off to sleep. Would you like to know what it is?”

“You bet,” said Mauney eagerly.

“Well I’ll tell you. I think you ought to whip it into shape, call it ‘The Teaching of History’ or some such title, and have it published. It’s a direct slam on the conventional methods of teaching history. It would start a mild sensation and sell like life-preservers at a shipwreck.”

“I hadn’t thought of publishing it,” Mauney admitted.

“Give _me_ credit for the idea,” she laughed. “I’ve had an awful lot of experience with manuscripts, especially historical ones. Now, I’m game to take all that dope of yours down in shorthand from dictation and type it, if you approve of the idea.”

Mauney’s eyes burned with enthusiasm.

“It’s a go!” he said, “Do you really mean it?”

“Try me, fair sir,” she yawned.

“Of course I will insist on paying you for your services, Miss MacDowell.”

“Naturally,” she said. “You didn’t think I’d work for nothing, did you?”

It was decided to wait until the Christmas holidays before commencing work on the manuscript. Mauney had an invitation to spend Christmas in Lockwood, at Jean Byrne’s, but this could be easily declined. He knew that Jean was anxious to have him come to Lockwood after his own graduation, to teach in the High School. Her letter mentioned the fact that the present master in history was leaving in the spring, thus creating a vacancy. But to teach in Lockwood held no attraction for Mauney, and as for spending Christmas at her home—it would not be as enjoyable as getting to work on his manuscript.

* * * * *

Lorna’s verdict was not given. Mauney saw her every day and found that, having once propounded the question that vexed his soul and having once broken down the barrier of reserve between them, their relationship was much more workable. She treated him now, at last, like a woman, with more of the woman’s art in her general address.

But Mauney’s nature was severely independent. While he waited to learn her decision, he remained more strictly a friend than ever. He wanted her to decide the big question without the slightest influence from him. He was strangely content with his own attitude. He possessed enough masculine irrationality to feel boundlessly satisfied with what he had done, and failed to observe with what stolid apathy he was awaiting the result. One thing he knew—that he had taken up a definite attitude toward his old classmate, that had at least settled the unrest.

What particular arguments Lorna might be employing in the delicate mental process of arriving at a decision he was far from knowing, but he was tolerably certain that she had taken her family into her confidence, for the Professor and Mrs. Freeman both exhibited a new and fresher interest in him on the occasions he visited their home. Behind Freeman’s cold, grey eyes lurked a stealthy light of objective analysis that rendered Mauney uncomfortable. Nothing was said for a time, until one Sunday evening after dinner the professor referred again to his choice of a career.

“It’s very hard, Mauney, to make up one’s mind what to do,” he said quietly, with his customary smile. “You have, of course, before you the question of an academic career. It takes considerable courage to adopt such a life-work. There are many dangers of scholarship, such as the tendency to stereotypy and the temptations to mental error. Then again, the scholar’s work is unspectacular.” Freeman raised his long index finger for emphasis. “You do not need to mind that. The popular idea of the scholar is the musty individual with high-powered spectacles, his nose one inch from a book at all times except when he’s eating. But the truth is that the scholar is the real hero of society.”

“I quite agree, Professor,” Mauney admitted.

“Why! this world of ours is ruled not by government, but by ideas,” said Freeman enthusiastically. “The university casts the legislature into shadow. The scholar toils as no laborer ever knew how to toil, through painful growth of mind, comparing, judging, until he gains a new conception of reality. From the difficult records and phenomena of life he bears forth his new ideas.”

The eminent historian sat eagerly forward in his chair.

“Then the new idea spreads,” he said, with a soft gesture of his hand. “It spreads like the mustard seed. Like the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand it soon overspreads the whole sky to give rain to a parched earth. It is your scholar, Mauney, working in his intangible medium of thought, who builds up society from barbarism to civilization.”

Mauney nodded.

“It’s a wonderful life,” he said. “I’ve often thought of taking up teaching.”

“Well, in that case, you must decide what kind of teaching. Now as head of our department, I am constantly on the lookout for young men. We will have need for a new appointee on the staff this coming autumn. I am in the position of offering you a lectureship, if you choose to consider it.”

“That’s much more than I ever expected,” Mauney replied eagerly. “I’m sure I didn’t even dream of any such wonderful opportunity. I scarcely know how to thank you. But I’m very much afraid of my own inability to fill such a post.”

“We try to train you for your responsibilities,” Freeman declared, evidently pleased with Mauney’s attitude. “Perhaps you will need a few weeks to consider my proposal.”

“No sir, I really don’t need a minute,” he asserted, “If I’m in order I would like to accept it immediately.”

“Good,” smiled Freeman, rising and extending his hand. He gave Mauney’s hand a warm pressure. “Your enthusiasm augurs well and, as I naturally have most to say about departmental appointments, I am now really welcoming you to the staff. Of course, the information must be regarded as strictly confidential until your name is published in the fall lists. Even Lorna must not know. Continue your academic work faithfully. There will be sufficient time during the summer to prepare you for your duties.”

Mauney’s elation over this incident carried him along in secret happiness for the remaining weeks of the term. With a definite purpose in view he took up his historical work with renewed enthusiasm. Once again, as in his first days in Merlton, the lamp of knowledge shone brightly and he lived in great happiness within the zone of its cool, clear rays.

The Christmas vacation came, with the customary lull in college life, and he faced Freda MacDowell one morning, ready for the keeping of their private contract. They discussed their plan of attack, after breakfast, seated together on the dining-room sofa. They decided to utilize the alcove in the upper hallway, and asked Gertrude’s permission.

“Naturally,” she consented, pausing in her occupation of transferring the breakfast dishes to the kitchen. “As long as you are not contemplating seditious literature.”

“It is going to be pretty seditious, isn’t it, Mr. Bard?” laughed Freda.

“In that case,” purred Mrs. Manton, “I think the occasion demands a better setting. You may have the parlor, if you like. There’s a table you can rest your typewriter on, and a comfortable couch upon which Mauney can extend his thoughtful form while he dictates his words of wisdom.”

“Don’t rub it in, Gertrude,” he pleaded.

“Well, do you want the parlor, or not?”

“You bet we do,” he agreed. “But you may grow tired of the noise.”

“Oh, that’s just fine,” declared Freda enthusiastically. “If Sadie Grote wants to use the piano she can wait till we get through. Music is only music. But this book is going to be an event, mind you, Gertrude.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t, my dear.”

“You’d better not, either.”

“Little did I think,” said Mrs. Manton in her low voice, putting down her dishes on the table, and facing the two with gentle cynicism, “that my humble abode would be the scene of authorship. Take my unbounded approval as granted.”

“Shut up!” said Mauney.

“It’s only what might be expected,” remarked Fred Stalton, who was commencing his own Christmas holidays. He was lounging, as of old, in his shirt sleeves, enjoying the first respite for months. “You know, Gert, it’s a wonderful little home. It has seen some queer stunts pulled off. You remember we once harbored a man named Jolvin here. He evidently drew a lucky card when he signed on our staff as boarder. That bird drew a half million touch. There’s luck in seventy-three. Take my word for it. I’m not jolted to find that a book is going to be written here either. I’ll buy one of the first copies. And there’s another stunt going to be pulled off in a couple of weeks, too.”

“You don’t tell me,” purred Mrs. Manton. “What is it, pray?”

“Sadie Grote is going to get married!”

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” quoth the landlady, dropping into a chair and pulling her kimona about her. “When did Sadie decide to join the ranks of the tormented?”

“A day or two ago. Ain’t she stepping some?”

“You bet she is, Freddie. She’s a sly little fox. She never told me a word. I’m surprised that Sadie would tell you first.”

“Well you see, Gert, she owed me that little courtesy, as I’m the guy that asked her to get married.”

“Fred Stalton!” exclaimed Mrs. Manton.

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Freda. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks, Miss MacDowell. I’ll give you an invite to the wedding ceremony. We’re going to pull it off about New Year’s in swell style. Down at Belmont Tabernacle. Got the preacher engaged and everything. You’ve all got to come. Cheer up, Gert, I know what’s troubling you. We’re not going to keep house. We’re going to live right on at seventy-three. There’s luck in the number.”

“Well, Freddie, I’m surprised at you,” she admitted. “To think of a shrewd chap like yourself getting married.”

“Isn’t marriage a good thing, Gertrude?” he laughed.

“Yes. A good thing to be through with! May the ashes of my deceased husband lie perfectly peaceful as I talk! But this astonishes me considerably.”

Mrs. Manton carried her dishes out to the kitchen and returned for a second load, in her customary suave manner, as if, in sooth, nothing however astonishing, could break in upon the even tenor of her life.

“Wonders and more wonders,” she said. “It won’t be long until my little family are all gone. Think of me, widowed at thirty-five, with my children getting married like this. What am I to do, Miss MacDowell?”

“Why, there’s just one solution under the sun, Gertrude,” said Freda, seriously.

“What’s that, pray?”

“You’ll have to get married again. You’ll have to select another husband. Of course I never heard anything about your first one, but perhaps if you try again the picking will be better.”

“My first husband was really a prince of a chap,” she said calmly. “I don’t keep any photos because I hate to be reminded of what a fine fellow he was. But if you had seen him you would have fallen for him at once. No, Miss MacDowell, my quarrel was certainly not with George Manton in particular, but rather with the fact of marriage in general.”

“I see,” laughed Freda. “I suppose you didn’t like to be tied down.”

“Precisely the case, my dear. My nature was, and is, one of those unfortunate ones that doesn’t see sermons in stones, or poems in running brooks, or eternal happiness within the confines of a brick residence. I have never, even yet, reached the slippers-and-fireplace stage, and have never wearied of variety. I have never shed a tear of remorse that, at thirty-five, I am not putting my children to bed, and I was brought up to love commotion and a life of shifting change. I’m really a gypsy, you know, I love horses and I love to be going. My dear husband was a successful business man with a germ of the _pater familias_ about him. He never quite got me, unfortunately. I worshipped the ground he walked on, but I never considered that my affection for him should change my home into a nunnery, nor that I should acknowledge my affection by living a hermetically-sealed life. Marriage! You really mustn’t mention it to me. I’m afraid I rebelled against its restrictions once and for all.”

“Gertrude is rather deep,” Mauney said to Freda, later, as they started putting the parlor in order for their task.

“Yes, she is,” Freda admitted. “She has as many brains as three average women, as much pep as twenty, and less caution than any I ever met. She really is a gypsy, I believe. I’d like to know her whole life.—Don’t you think I had better use this table?”

“Sure. Put the typewriter there. We can have more light on the scene, too.”

Mauney raised the front curtains to let in the dull, white glare of the snow-covered street.

“Now I’m going to lounge on the sofa with this scrap-album on my knees, if you’ll pardon my informality, and let you have my ideas in straight-from-the-shoulder sentences.”

“That’s the correct way,” she laughed, seating herself beside the round centre table and adjusting the ribbons of her typewriter. “If you don’t go too fast I can catch it directly on the machine. What are you going to call the book?”

“Thoughts on the Teaching of History.”

“Fine. What about an introduction?”

“Better have one, eh?”

“Yes. I would suggest a breezy opening of some sort for the purpose of getting under way.”

Mauney reclined on the sofa and smoked a cigarette. Presently he dictated, between periods of noise from the busy typewriter:

“Solomon was right. There is no end to making books. Why should any modern writer, with surfeit of literary heritage from past ages, seek to augment their number? Everything worth saying has been said already. Every vagary of thought, every wisp of emotion, every particle of knowledge has been crystallized in books. It is impossible for any contemporary to insinuate his thought, however perspicacious, further than human thought has been already insinuated. It is impossible for a modern writer to wiggle his pen in any form of gyration different from the gyrations of the multitudinous pens, crow-quills and styluses that have wiggled throughout the centuries. Repetition, imitation, plagiarism! Everything we write down has been written under, as in a palimpsest, whether or not we perceive the dim characters, all but erased through time. A book is no longer ‘the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up,’ but rather a craven member of a jingling throng who limp in tedious masquerade past the grand-stand of a plethoric and indolent public.

“Books, books! Acres of books, as if a poor, solitary author could possibly maintain his inspiration in the midst of such overpowering evidence of ultimate futility!

“The public have been bored with much writing on the subject of history, and recently much new history has been made. We hold no assurance, nor do we give any, that this rambling communication on the Teaching of History will do more than limp past the grand-stand already mentioned. What will be herein set forth is a description of the author’s sentiments rather than a didactic scheme, written from the standpoint of a student of history rather than from the full knowledge of a scholar.”

“I think,” said Freda, as she pounded out the last words of the preface, “that you’re too modest. But never mind, you’re writing the book, not me. You don’t seem to realize that what the public want is hot air, not a gentleman’s modest viewpoint.”

Mauney laughed, and sat up on the sofa, watching her fingers fly over the keys.

“I appreciate the value of hot air, thoroughly, Miss MacDowell, but I really want to be sincere in this business. Do you know—it’s great fun writing a book—with you.”

“I thank you,” she said, dropping her hands in her lap with a sigh. “Now, have you got your first chapter ready to commence?”

“Yes, call it, ‘The Beginner’s Preconceptions of History.’ Are you ready?”

“Ever at thy service!”

With a glance at her roguish face he settled down again upon the comfortable sofa and dictated once more from the fullness of his heart. They worked hard until, at noon, Maxwell Lee opened the parlor door, sticking in his head and glancing from one to the other.

“Hello!” he said, in a surprised tone. “You two look busy.”

“Indeed we are, Max,” said Freda, stopping her work. “Mauney—I mean Mr. Bard—is pouring forth his theories of history, reconstructed, and I, as you see, am his amanuensis.”

“Great stuff!” drawled Max, entering the room, and standing beside the sofa he continued: “You old bear, I’m glad you’re blossoming out into letters, and I’m glad you’ve got such an excellent amanuensis.”

Mauney glanced from his face to Freda’s with a peculiar feeling that he had been caught trespassing, ever so little, upon Lee’s property, but consoled himself with the knowledge that his relation to Miss MacDowell was frankly a commercial one, or at most, but friendly.

“How are things, Max?” he asked.

“So, so. I’m going home for a week’s rest. I just found out to-day that the sight of that laboratory was beginning to bore me to tears.” He paused to remove his overcoat. “Am I butting in?”

He turned toward Freda, as he asked the question.

“I suppose you are, Max. But who has a better license?”

“Hear, hear!” said Mauney. “Sit down, you prune, and have a smoke. I’ve just about drained myself of language, anyway, and I can smell beefsteak frying.”

“And while you two are smoking,” said Freda, rising, “I’m going out to give Gertrude a hand with the dinner.”

When she had gone Mauney smoked in silence for an awkward moment.

“How’s the work, Max?”

“Coming along fine. I really think I’ve struck something big.”

“Gee, that’s good. More power to you. Feeling all-right?”

“Oh yes!” he answered. “Fairly good, I could stand a little more pep, though. After I get rested up for a week or so I’ll be right on the job again.”

Mauney rose and walked slowly toward the front window and stood looking out on the snow-covered street. For once he failed to understand his own feelings. There was a hot spot in his bosom, burning larger and larger. It had something to do with Freda MacDowell he was sure, because he could see her face before him with its bewitching comfort. It had something to do with Max, too. He longed for words, but they were tied securely within the remotest recesses of his being. He turned and walked slowly back. Lee was sitting idly smoking, with his lanky legs carelessly crossed. He noticed that Max’s face was now flushed.

“It’s a devilish cold day, Max,” he said awkwardly.

“Um-h’m. I think it’s going to snow,” Lee responded, rising and starting slowly for the door. It was dinner-time. In getting out the door they made mutual offers of priority to each other. As they walked toward the dining room Mauney reflected that they had never done this before, and that never before, during their long acquaintance had the weather been a topic of conversation.