CHAPTER IV.

MAUNEY AND FREDA HAVE A TALK.

Mauney could not sleep that night when he had returned to his room. For two hours he tossed restlessly on his bed when, finding sleep utterly impossible, he got up, put on his slippers and dressing gown to descend to the dining room, where the hostess and Stalton and two strangers, one a man the other a woman, were seated at cards around the table. Mrs. Manton looked up at the sound of his slippered step.

“Well, look what God has sent us,” she softly exclaimed. “If you have any money you’d better get into the game, Mauney.”

She introduced the strangers.

“Mr. Wright and Miss Wanly have dropped in for a few hands. Nobody seems to be winning,” she went on. “Maybe you are the man with the rats. What do you say?”

“Why, I say ‘yes’ of course,” Mauney quickly responded. “I don’t know how to play, but I’m sure I could learn it in five minutes. Will you show me how?”

He drew up a chair while she quickly explained the principles of the game.

“All right,” he said, picking up his first hand. “I’m on. I’ve got it cold. Give me one card, please.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Stalton, “That sounds interesting. Give me one, Gert.”

“Well here’s where I drop out,” she soon proclaimed as the betting continued. “Go on, Mauney, raise him.”

“I will, indeed,” he replied: “I’ll raise you a dollar, Freddie.”

“A dollar, eh?” soliloquized Stalton, glancing sharply at Mauney’s face. “I’ll see you and bump her up two more.”

Both the others put down their hands and settled forward in their seats to watch the game.

“Good,” said Mauney. “I’ll see you and raise you two. What do you say to that?”

“Ho! ho! The boy is right there!” said Stalton, placing a chip on the table. “I’ll just call you, Mauney. What have you got?”

Mauney placed his cards on the table.

“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed Mrs. Manton, examining them. “A royal flush! Rather nice, too, Freddie!”

She brushed the pile of money toward the winner and gathering up the cards handed them to Mauney to deal.

“No,” he said, getting up from the table. “I’m not going to play any longer.”

“What’s the matter?” she enquired, curiously.

“You tell me. I’m all out of gear. I’ve been trying vainly to sleep for two hours. Go on with the game. Here, Gertrude, you take this pot and play with it. I don’t want it. I’ll lounge over here for a while.”

He lay down on the sofa and lit a cigarette.

“Maybe you’ve been working too hard, Mauney,” she said, going over to his side and touching his brow with her soft, jewelled hand. “You’re hot.”

She turned for a moment to excuse herself temporarily from the game and sat on the edge of the sofa.

“You’ll be all right, boy,” she said in her deep tone. “I guess you’re tired out after your long term of work. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m afraid not, Gertrude. It’s just a cranky mood I’m in.”

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“No thanks. I’m not having any. I’m just fidgety and disagreeable.”

“I never saw you like this before. I’m afraid you’ve been taking life too seriously. I know you don’t mind me talking. Excuse me a minute. I’m just going upstairs to see if your room’s properly aired and made up.”

“It’s fine, Gertrude,” he said. “Don’t bother. The room’s got nothing to do with it.”

However, she was not to be dissuaded.

In a few moments she returned with a folded newspaper in her hand.

“Did you see the literary supplement of the _Globe_, Mauney?” she asked. “Well, here’s a half column that ought to cheer you up a little. Read it.”

Taking the proffered journal he read the portion indicated under the Book Review section:

“_Thoughts on the Teaching of History, by Mauney Bard_, (Locke & Son, 8vo, cloth, $2.50). It is some time since so refreshing a volume has appeared, dealing with a subject of technical education. In style, Mr. Bard, whose voice is heard for the first time, has achieved pleasing success. Most technical treatises have at least a few chapters that challenge the reader’s patience, but the one under review has apparently none. It is the work of one undoubtedly in love with his subject, and if there are sentiments expressed which, perhaps, can receive nothing but criticism from established authorities, yet all differences of opinion will be excused by reason of Mr. Bard’s delightful affection for history and all that pertains to it.

“While not acclaiming history as the only considerable subject on university time-tables, he nevertheless supports his argument that it is one of the most important, and shows graphically certain methods and mental attitudes which are calculated to improve the teacher’s success. To him, history is not merely a tool to be used for nurturing a strong national spirit, although it serves this function, but is, _par excellence_, a door to the understanding of human nature. Some of his remarks are worth repeating, as for example, the following passage from his chapter on the Substance of History:

“‘History is a record of the conduct of our human predecessors, considered _en masse_, a record, which, taking groups of people as its working unit, is necessarily sketchy and can approach the human past only in fairly broad outlines. But there is one perfect history. Locked up in our thoughts, hidden in our bodies, reposes still some influence of every act, mental or physical, performed by every one of our ancestors. The history obtained from books is dead. Man is the living history. He is the living past!

“‘There is no apology for this individualization of the conception of history, for it has assisted to unify the various departments of education which are so frequently considered separate—religion, politics, sociology, science, literature. In a university the need is still great for emphasis on the importance of the individual. Man, heir to all that has been, claiming all that is to be, is the real and only unit. Politics is his mode of mass regulation; sociology, his study of his own relations to his fellows; science, his weapon of advance against the frontiers of unacquired knowledge; literature, his graphic record of experience, and religion, his visualization of a constant, unattained good.

“‘There is a temptation to the student of history, wearied by the technicalities of his work, to approach life more closely than he can do with his books, a temptation to jump out of their pages into the current life around him and study the more accurate, though less decipherable, history to which I have referred—the individual. Such a temptation, coming to the student, is perhaps the greatest sign of successful tutoring. If the teaching of history awakens a warm, eager interest in humanity, it has not failed.

“‘I have wished, in a fanciful mood, that there existed a separate history book written about every individual who ever lived, telling his total life experience. If one could roam in that vast library he would notice that few of those histories would boast more than a page or two, if only historical data were recorded. But if these individual records went further, if they enumerated and described the events, the thoughts, the perplexities, the struggles, the victories, which seemed great to those forgotten men, then what building on earth would house that library? Yet such a collection of tomes would form the world’s most precious treasure, for such experiences of men and women are the very substance proper of history.

“‘We are taught wars, revolutions, social and political experiments. We are led by our teachers to believe that these constitute the bases of the subject. This movement or that movement is vaunted as novel or important. But underneath them all lies the insinuating power of individual thought. All are formed by it, promulgated by it, controlled by it. The greatest movement of this century was also the greatest movement of the last century and of all centuries from the very dawn of history—namely, the movement of the individual mind, by struggle, through perplexity, to a greater, simpler life.’”

The critical article closed with an optimistic forecast of the book’s popularity, “especially in non-technical circles.”

Mauney had been so engrossed in reading that he did not notice until he finished that Freda MacDowell was standing beside the sofa.

“Hello, there,” he said, quickly casting the journal aside. “I didn’t see you.”

“What do you think about the review?” she asked eagerly.

“Well,” he replied, crossing his legs and lighting his cigarette which had gone out. “If you’ll sit down a minute I’ll tell you.”

She accepted his invitation and leaned towards him.

“Isn’t it just the dandiest review you ever saw?” she asked. “I’ve been up in my room just glorying over it.”

“It’s good,” he admitted. “I appreciate the reviewer’s decency and I feel like calling you my sister in adventure. You’ve stuck to me like an Indian, Miss MacDowell. You seemed to—believe in it.”

“How could I help it?” she replied. “You managed to express a number of things that had always lain dormant in my own mind. I wanted to say them. But you said them for me.”

For a moment or two they sat in silence, half listening to the progress of the game at the table which was now being played with renewed enthusiasm.

“Gertrude told me you got a royal flush,” she said at length. “What’s that?”

“All kings and queens,” he answered, carelessly, then asked: “Did Gertrude wake you up?”

“No. I wasn’t asleep.”

“She must be a mind-reader.”

“Why so?”

“Because, to be frank, I was wishing I could have a little chat with you, but I was afraid you’d gone to bed long ago.”

“And I was just simply aching to see you,” she answered. “I brought home the literary supplement about eleven o’clock and wanted to show it to you, but she said you had gone to bed. Just how I was going to wait till morning I didn’t know.”

Another silence fell upon them during which they both watched the intent faces at the table. Mauney was stealing occasional sidelong glimpses of Freda’s beautiful profile, and wondering what might be occupying her thoughts. To-night he had more difficulty than ever before in repressing the strong attraction she unconsciously inspired.

“If I had known you’d be here,” he said. “I’d have worn—not this dressing gown.”

She shook her head and laughed.

“That doesn’t make any difference,” she said. “I’m enjoying you in your robes. That’s one reason I like this place. You don’t even have to dress up your thoughts, here.”

He was reflecting upon how little personal he had ever been with her. Together they had spent many hours working on the manuscript, in strict detachment, with minds focused on the work in hand. Many times he had felt the urge to break through the delicate shell of reserve, but had refrained, partly because he had wanted to preserve his concentration for literary effort, but mostly because the figure of Max Lee was constantly in the background. He knew that his chum loved Freda MacDowell. He had always taken her reciprocation of Lee’s affection for granted until recently, when he began looking for signs of it.

“But I’m afraid,” she said, “that our dear old boarding-house is soon going to become a thing of the past. Everybody seems to be leaving.”

Mauney turned in surprise.

“I haven’t heard a word about it,” he said.

“You knew that Max wasn’t so well, didn’t you?”

“He looks poorly, but he has never said a word about health to me, lately.”

“He’s really pretty well all in, I guess. He’s leaving in a day or so for Rookland Sanatorium—”

“What! Throwing up his work?”

She nodded.

“The doctor insists on his going at once. It’s too bad. Max is such a bright boy. But there’s only one thing for him to do.”

“You know, Miss MacDowell,” Mauney said in a low tone, “Max has never been the same to me since that day when he came home and found you and me starting the book. I’ve always felt that he was jealous. But we’ve never mentioned your name.”

“It was very foolish of him to feel that way,” she replied, with an independent toss of her dark head. “Surely he had no reason or right to be jealous. Max and I have just been friends, nothing more. And even if we had been in love, I would have still had the same interest in your book. Some people weary me. But as I was saying, Max will be leaving. And Freddie and Sadie are going to start housekeeping up in the North End. She’s raving about their bungalow and says this boarding house is no place to raise a family.”

Mauney laughed.

“It looks as though Gertrude would be left pretty lonely,” he remarked.

“Oh, no,” corrected Freda, lowering her voice to a whisper, “I haven’t told you all yet. This is naturally confidential. But Gertrude and I have become great pals. She seems to like to tell me things. The big joke is that she really isn’t a widow.”

Mauney’s eyes opened in tremendous surprise.

“Where is her husband?”

“He’s been living in hotels in Europe,” she said, with evident enjoyment of Mauney’s astonishment. “He left her because she insisted on keeping up a friendship with another man. Just separated—no divorce. Well, I think seven years of running a boarding-house has more or less broken Gertrude’s proud spirit. Manton has been writing her for the past year, trying to resume married relations with her, and she has finally given in. She expects him home in a couple of weeks and I imagine that will be the end of seventy-three. She cried up in my room the other night, real Magdalen tears, and I believe she has learned her lesson.”

“I hope she’ll be happy,” Mauney said. “It’s plainly another case of false rebellion. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”

“I know just what you mean,” Freda replied. “There’s some sort of uppishness about her. She wasn’t strong enough to endure the bonds of marriage life—”

“That’s it—so she rebelled,” interjected Mauney. “But her rebellion was merely the hysterical reaction of an inadequate personality to its environment. Sooner or later with such people there comes some sort of circumstance that proves the falseness of their rebellion. They wilt.”

“But on the other hand,” continued Freda, with an aspect of some inspiration in her eyes, “there are others who are true rebels. Some of us were made to be perpetually out of gear with things. Our rebellion is genuine. We never turn back. We can’t, that’s all. I wish you could understand me—”

“I do,” he said eagerly, smiling into her eyes. “I understand completely. I can’t help feeling that we are in the same boat. I’ve never yet found any kind of life which completely satisfied me. Take this book of mine. The fun was all in writing it, Freda.”

She blushed at the sound of her first name. It had slipped past Mauney’s lips, but he saw no reason to apologize.

“Nothing suits me,” he continued. “The first part of my life I lived on a farm. Nothing would suit me, but an education. Now I’ve got it—and—well, it does not satisfy.”

He felt great comfort in Freda’s presence, greater, more mysterious comfort, than he had ever known before. Most women existed in an unreal atmosphere outside his own immediate consciousness. Most women were elusive phantasies of pure appearance, without content or meaning. But it had so happened that Freda’s dark eyes were able to pierce the zone of unreality and stab consciously into his being, even during the first hour of their acquaintance. It had so happened that the seeds of that first encounter found exceedingly fertile soil. His effort to exclude her from his mind had been just as futile as he considered it successful. He was indeed master of his conscious thoughts, but in the reservoirs of his being, this unusual girl had been living an unmolested life, free to come and go, to commune with him in mysterious, unheard conversations, to mingle her nature with his in hours when his subconscious self had fled with her beyond the limits of recognized experience. It was because this knowledge of her had been entirely buried that he now wondered at the comfort of her actual presence.

They talked on and on, forgetting the others in the room, and forgetting also the late hour. Together they described their common feelings of rebellion against university education. It was not ordained that either of them should realize, just then, how vast a principle underlay their sentiments. Neither of them was to play the role of interpreter to the other, to explain that rebellion was the necessary element of progress, that no man or woman ever changed through the successive metamorphoses of being who did not rebel against existing states. They were far from understanding it all. Mauney, burning with the pent-up indignation of the present hour, and Freda MacDowell, beautiful and vivid with the flush of full-hearted reciprocation. The hours sped. At last the game of poker broke up. At last the true rebels said good-night to each other and retired to sleepless beds.