Читать книгу The Land of Joy - Ralph Henry Barbour - Страница 7

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John North was one of the busiest men in college. He was taking all the studies that he could manage, was a member of nine clubs and held office in four of them, as head of a club table was responsible for the dietary welfare of ten gluttonous seniors, and had now undertaken the duties of a football coach. But the time and trouble entailed by the latter position he did not begrudge. He had played football for three seasons, and he realized that to withdraw entirely from gridiron affairs and hope to be contented was out of the question. Therefore he was glad of the opportunity afforded him as an assistant coach to keep in touch with the sport and to be of assistance to the association, without, however, being required to give all his time to the game.

Phillip’s letter reached him Saturday morning, but, what with one duty and another, it was Sunday afternoon before he found opportunity to pay his second call on that penitent. David flatly refused to accompany him, and so, shortly after lunch, he set forth alone. The front door was open and the drab-hued house was filled with the depressing silence of a New England Sabbath. Or so it appeared until John had mounted the stairs and had reached the hall above. Then he paused and listened with a perplexed frown. From behind the door of Phillip’s study came sounds not dissimilar to those which had greeted him on the occasion of his previous visit—the sound of tramping, of a chair overturned, with now and then a shout.

“Great Scott!” muttered John, “he’s at it again!”

But this time his knock brought a more hospitable response and he entered upon a different scene. Phillip, coatless, disheveled, panting, stared at him from one end of the room, while at the other a black-and-white setter dropped the glove it had held in its mouth and observed him with a merry and inquiring eye. Phillip, recognizing the caller, coloured during a moment of hesitation, and then advanced to meet him.

“Good-evening, sir. It’s very kind of you to call,” he said with some embarrassment.

“Not at all,” answered John. They shook hands. “I got your note yesterday morning and would have been around before, but couldn’t find a moment to spare. The fact is, Ryerson, I was going to come, anyhow, before I heard from you. It was awfully idiotic of me to lose my temper the other day; I’m not usually so crabbed. I think it must have been the weather.”

“It’s good of you to put it that way,” said Phillip, “but of course it was all my fault. I’m very sorry about it, honestly, and——”

“Nonsense,” interrupted John. “Let’s forget the whole silly affair and start fresh. I hope we’ll become good friends, Ryerson, and I shall be very glad to do anything I can for you. George Corliss, who wrote to me about you, is an old friend of the family and a chap I owe several favours to; a thoroughly good fellow all through. Have you known him long?”

“Ever since I can remember,” answered Phillip. “He and father knew each other very well. I think they were related very distantly. Since father’s death he has been mighty good to us and has taken a heap of trouble.”

John had seated himself in a comfortable Morris chair that still smelled of the factory, and now he examined the room with interest and some surprise. Plainly his new acquaintance didn’t intend to deny himself comforts. The apartment was filled with new furnishings, most of which, as John surmised, had probably been expensive. There were even new pictures on the walls and new drapings at the windows and at the door into the bedroom beyond. He tried to reconcile this with what Corliss had written him in regard to the family’s financial condition and was puzzled.

“You have very comfortable quarters here,” he said. “I like these old-fashioned rooms with the overhead beams and the deep-set windows. They’re so quiet and restful and homelike. Some of the new dormitories are wonders, but I doubt if shower-baths and swimming-tanks and reading-rooms and all the rest of the modern conveniences quite make up for the atmosphere that you miss.”

“I’d like to see some of those places you speak of,” said Phillip. “I reckon they must be mighty fine.”

“They are. Some evening we’ll go around and call on some sybarites of my acquaintance in Westmorley and Claverly. There’s Pete Broom, for instance; he and another chap have three rooms and a bath, with hot water heat and telephone service and porcelain tubs and Heaven only knows what else! It’s all very beautiful and stupendous, but the idea of wearing ordinary clothes and smoking a pipe there is absolutely incongruous. Why, they ought to drape themselves in purple and gold and fine linen and sit all day on silken cushions. No, something of this sort suits me better. I like a room where the paint’s scraped off in places and where the window catches don’t always catch and where you feel that some one has lived before you and gone through what you’re going through. But then it’s all a matter of taste, of course.”

“I reckon so,” answered Phillip. “I tried to get rooms in the house where my father lived when he was here, but they were all taken. So I came here. I like this very much so far.”

“So your father was a Harvard man?” asked John.

“Yes; class of ’67. He left college when the war broke out and served in the army—the Southern army, you know.” John nodded. “Then after it was over he came back and finished college. He married three days after he graduated, but his wife died less than a year later. And he didn’t marry again until he was nearly forty. Mamma says Margey and I came mighty near not being born, because she refused my father three times before she finally gave in.”

“Your father was persevering,” laughed John. “Margey is your sister? Have you any brothers?”

“No, there’s just Margey and me. Margey is two years older than I.”

“And how old are you?”

“Nineteen last June. I—I reckon you’re a good deal more than that?”

“Twenty-four,” answered John. “I understood from Corliss that your mother is somewhat of an invalid.”

“Yes, she’s never been right well since I can remember. And since father died she has been a good deal worse, I fear.”

“I can understand that,” answered John. “And of course the care of such a big place as—Elaine, is it?—must be hard on her.”

“Well, she doesn’t have much to do with it. Margey has always looked after things ever since she was big enough. She’s got lots of sense, has Margey. And then there’s the overseer; he’s been with us for about twenty years, I reckon.”

“I see.” John felt something cold against his hand and looked down to find the setter beside him. “Hello, what’s your name?”

“Her name’s Tudor Maid,” answered Phillip. “She’s out of Valley Maid by Tudor Prince, and one of the finest bird dogs in Virginia. She’s getting pretty old, though, now; she’s eleven. I just couldn’t bear to give her up and so I brought her along with me. She’s having a mighty dull time of it, though, I reckon; aren’t you, girl? I take her out for walks whenever I can, but somehow I don’t seem to be able to find much time for walking.”

“Well, what do you say to taking a tramp now?” asked John. “It’s a fine afternoon and I usually try to get out on Sunday; and it’ll give the dog a run.”

“I should like to go very much,” answered Phillip eagerly. “That is, if—if you weren’t going with some one else?”

“No, I thought perhaps I could entice you along. Get your cap.” He arose and, while Phillip was putting on his coat and finding hat and gloves, strolled over to the mantel. Above it was a nice arrangement of spurs, crops, whips and bridles centering about a really good hunting picture. But John wasn’t looking for such things; instead he examined attentively the long row of photographs that lined the wall beneath and which he had noticed from his chair. There were two portraits of a middle-aged gentleman whom John surmised to be the Phillip Ryerson who had fought in the duel; another of the same person, taken at an earlier age, in the dress of a Southern captain of cavalry; a portrait of a sweet-faced, rather delicate woman of about fifty; an assortment of photographs of more or less uninteresting looking persons of both sexes; and then one which John took from its place and observed intently, while a little smile curved his lips. He was still looking at it when Phillip returned from the bedroom attired for the walk.

“Who’s this, Ryerson?” he asked.

“That’s Margey—my sister, you know. It’s not good of her.”

“You look alike, all of you,” said John, returning the picture slowly to its place. “You’re a good-looking lot, you Ryersons.”

“They say my mother was the handsomest woman in our county when she married,” answered Phillip with pride. “And father was handsome, too, I think. But Margey and I aren’t much on looks; I reckon we’re just powerful good,” he added, laughing.

“Well, I won’t throw compliments at you,” said John, “but your sister’s a beauty, in my opinion. All ready?”

They descended the stairs, preceded by Tudor Maid, who took the flight in four hilarious bounds and waited for them at the gate wriggling from nose to tail with delight. It was an ideal autumn day, with a clear sky and just enough breeze to bring the golden and bronze and crimson leaves fluttering down from the trees that lined Mount Auburn Street, and enough sparkle in the air to lend spring to the tread of the two as they paced briskly along. John was a veritable bureau of information, and Phillip had a boy’s healthy curiosity regarding everything that hinted of interest. In front of Longfellow Park they crossed the little border of turf and shrubbery and stood upon a narrow beach left by the receding tide. Phillip tossed bits of stone into the river and Maid barked wildly and was always on the point of plunging in after them, but never did. To their right the stream began its long curve, its surface agleam with flecks and points of sunlight that dazzled the eyes. Across, the broad meadow stretched before them, a bare expanse of golden russet. Beyond that was the river again, and then the wooded promontory crowned with its tower and sprinkled with marble monuments that glistened snow-white in the sunlight.

“That’s the cemetery, isn’t it?” asked Phillip.

“Yes, Mount Auburn. If Davy was with us—Davy’s my roommate—he’d drag us up there and lead us about amongst tombstones and vaults and be utterly happy. When Davy visits Mount Auburn I know that he is feeling unusually cheerful. I don’t trust him up there alone any more, though, because he went one day last spring and fell asleep on somebody’s grave and came near being arrested. It got into the papers and we called him The Ghoul for some time. The Traveler got hold of it and printed a funny story of it with a startling heading in big, black letters; ‘Harvard Student’s Grave Offense.’ I don’t believe Davy has been up there since.”

They left the river and passed upward through the park to Brattle Street, Phillip turning again and again for another view of the winding river.

“Cambridge is beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked softly.

“Yes, I think so,” answered John, “although there are those who pretend to think otherwise. At least, it is full of beautiful spots, and one can forgive the squalidness of other portions of the city because of them. To my mind Brattle Street is one of the loveliest streets in the world, and it’s never as lovely as it is at this season.”

They crossed the road and peered in through the gate at the poet’s house, and John, in the rôle of guide, recited the customary catalogue of dates and facts.

“I shan’t repeat ‘The Day is Done,’ however,” he said, “although it is really the proper thing to do. I wonder how many persons have stood here and murmured soulfully!

“ ‘I see the lights of the village

Break through the rain and the mist.’ ”

“But that isn’t right!” protested Phillip. And so he recited the poem himself, prompted here and there by John, and ended to find the latter observing him quizzically.

“One more, Ryerson,” he said. “Don’t blush; you did it well, with just the right amount of repressed feeling. And besides, you couldn’t help it; everybody does it; it’s a—a sort of fatality. I went by here one day and found five Radcliffe girls murmuring it in unison, their eyes fixed mournfully upon the river and meadow.”

But Phillip was embarrassed by the other’s good-natured raillery and turned away and stared at the dignified old mansion sunning its well-preserved timbers up there on the terrace. Presently he said with something of awe in his voice:

“Just think! Washington himself may have walked down this graveled path and through this gate!”

“Yes,” answered John, “he probably did. I’ve always thought I’d like to have known Washington. I don’t believe he was the straight-laced old prig that the school histories try to make out. Between you and me, Ryerson, I fancy he was a regular old sport. Look at the way he could swear! Why, he could give cards and spades to a Nantucket skipper! The only really reprehensible thing that I can lay at his door,” continued John, as they turned and took up their walk, “is the way in which he established headquarters. I believe that if it hadn’t been for that weakness of his we’d have licked England long before we did. Consider the time he must have wasted. He was as bad as that old English queen—was it Bess?—that used to go through the country sleeping in people’s beds for them.”

“There are a lot of Washington’s headquarters,” acknowledged Phillip.

“I should say so. I can imagine the Trenton Patriot coming out with something like this: ‘Word has been received from Philadelphia that Gen. George Washington will arrive in our midst on Thursday of next week for the purpose of establishing headquarters here. It will be a gala occasion in the history of our prosperous town and it is anticipated that all patriotic citizens for miles around will attend. The Stage Line will make extra trips and has offered a special rate of one and one-third regular fare. During the afternoon the ladies of the Front Street Methodist Church will serve refreshments in the old Armory Building on Main Street. Come one, come all.’ ”

Phillip laughed, but doubtfully; John’s humour seemed to him to smack of irreverence.

“George Washington,” summed up John, “was the Andrew Carnegie of his day.”

“He was a great man,” said Phillip, his loyalty to the Greatest Virginian overcoming his awe of his companion.

“He was indeed,” answered John, realizing that Phillip’s sense of humour did not extend to sacred ground. “He was great and good and human, and that’s a combination of virtues that you don’t often find. I know of only one other American who approached him in goodness and humanity, while perhaps lacking his greatness.”

Phillip looked an inquiry.

“And that was Lincoln,” said John.

“Oh.” Phillip dropped his gaze gravely to the ground. John observed him smilingly.

“You’re still a bit of a rebel, eh, Ryerson?”

“I reckon so,” answered Phillip. “But I’ve heard my father say that Abraham Lincoln was a good man and a brave one, and that if he could have had his way the North and South would never have gone to war. But you can’t hardly expect us to—to think about Lincoln just the way you do up here, can you?”

“No,” answered John gravely. “Only don’t be behind us in forgiveness, Ryerson.”

“Do you think we are?” asked Phillip in surprise.

“A little, maybe.”

“But, sir, we lost!”

“True.”

“And not only that,” continued Phillip earnestly, “but we suffered the most. The war left us almost ruined and mighty discouraged. I reckon if we had it to do over we’d do it differently; I mean we’d look things in the face and get down to work without wasting time in regretting. But then we didn’t know how; we had never been taught to do things for ourselves, you know. You took our labourers away from us and made them think they didn’t need to do a thing. And farms just went to ruin, and farmers with them. It was mighty hard, sir!” He paused and looked with sudden shyness at John. “Anyhow, that’s what my father used to say.”

“And he was just about right,” John concurred. “Well, it was a miserable business, Ryerson, but it had to come; at least, that’s what my father says,” he added smilingly. “By the way, ‘Ryerson’s’ a bit formal, and I think I’ll call you Phillip if you don’t mind.”

“I’d rather you called me Phil; most everybody does.”

“All right. And my name’s John, but never Jack. I’ve always detested ‘Jack’ for some reason or other. And if you can manage to leave out the ‘sir’ I’d like it better.”

“I’ll try,” laughed Phillip. “It’s a way we have in the South, you know; we always say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am.’ If I’d ever addressed father without the ‘sir’ I reckon he’d have worn me out.”

“I see. The objection I make to it,” answered John, “is that it makes me feel like a grandfather. Now if you know anything of Lowell’s, here’s your chance,” he added, as they halted at the old fence surrounding Elmwood. But Phillip refused to recite any more, and after viewing the tree-embowered house they turned their steps homeward, followed by Maid with hanging tongue. On the walk back the conversation turned on more practical matters. John advised Phillip as to a boarding-place and in other affairs which had puzzled the freshman.

“I think one ought to have an athletic interest of some kind,” said Phillip. “What would you advise?”

“How about football?” asked John, running his eye over the other’s wiry frame. But Phillip shook his head dolefully.

“I’ve tried that, but I’m no good. I went out for the freshman team and yesterday after practice they told me I was in Squad E, and Chester Baker says I might as well be in the river.”

“That’s not promising,” said John. “You’d better join one of the scrub teams and get used to the game that way. Then next year you’ll stand more of a chance. And if I were you I’d go over to the gym pretty regularly and use the chest weights; you look as though you’d stand rather more development in the upper part of the body than you’ve got. Have you ever tried running?”

Phillip shook his head.

“You might go in for that; any fellow that can show speed and staying power has a good chance to distinguish himself.”

“I think I’d like to row,” hazarded Phillip.

“You’ll have to develop your muscles a bit first. Join a class, Phil, and keep at it; it will do you a lot of good even if it doesn’t get you a place in a boat. But there’s no hurry about athletics; you’ve got four years ahead of you; you’ll find what you’re looking for after a bit.”

“And there’s another thing,” said Phillip. “Chester and Guy Bassett and all the fellows I’ve met belong to clubs.”

“Well, join the Union; that’s enough for awhile. Later you had better get into the Southern Club. The fact is, Phil, clubs are expensive things, and unless you really feel the need of them you’d much better save your money. As for the best ones, the ones that count, there’s no way of breaking into them; you’ve got to qualify, as it were; they come to you if they want you.”

“And—and one more thing,” said Phillip, after a moment of hesitation.

“Fire away,” replied John cheerfully.

“Thank you. Last night I went into a theatre with Chester Baker and Guy Bassett and two other fellows. Well, Chester asked if I wanted to go and I said yes, and he said he’d get a ticket for me; and he did. Now, what I want to know is, did he mean that I was to pay for my ticket or was it his treat?”

“Well,” laughed John, “I’m hanged if I know. But a pretty good rule to follow is, pay your own way.”

“And if Chester really meant that I was his guest would he be offended if I offered to pay him for the ticket?” asked Phillip anxiously.

John’s face showed a glimmer of amusement as he answered soberly: “I don’t think he would, Phil. On the whole, I believe I’d make the offer.”

“Thank you. I will,” he answered simply. They had turned into Garden Street, and now John pointed dramatically to a decrepit elm tree that stood, shorn of most of its branches, within a little iron-fenced enclosure.

“ ‘Under this tree Washington took command—’ ”

But Phillip had already left him and was reading the inscription on the stone tablet with devoted eyes. Then he looked upward at the once sturdy monarch and about him as though impressing the scene upon his memory.

“I want to write Margey about it,” he explained as John joined him.

“I see.” John’s eyes followed Phillip’s, and the scene, to his surprise, took on new values. He began to wonder how, if he were going to write Margey, he would describe it. Really, it was an interesting old stump when you came to think about it. He wondered if Phillip would tell his sister of the walk they had taken and whether his name would be mentioned; and if it was, what sort of a person Margey would imagine him to be. He recalled the features in the photograph on Phil’s mantel and hoped that that youngster’s account of him would be the least bit flattering.

It was almost five when they reached the church opposite the college and John turned to Phillip with:

“I say, come on over to my room and meet Davy. He’s probably asleep, but we can wake him up. And then I’ll take you to dinner and you can see how you like the place.”

That programme was duly followed—even to the merciless waking of David—and Phillip only parted from his new friends when a clock in a nearby tower tolled nine. Then he walked through Boylston Street to his room feeling very happy, Maid, now a quiet and sedate old lady, following close at his heels.