Ann Arbor Tales Part 23

"_But_," the speaker emphasized--"I am not permitted to do this, Mr.

Catherwood. Had you taken that examination you might--mind you I say 'might'--have pa.s.sed. Again you might not. There would have been, you see, an element of chance. Mr. Catherwood, we shall let Chance hold the scales this morning."

The young man looked up wonderingly.

"I don't understand, sir," he said, weakly.

In his hand the president held two envelopes.

"Mr. Catherwood," he said, "you see these envelopes? Yes. Well, in one of them--I do not know which one--is a credit-slip; in the other is a condition. The envelopes are sealed."

He held them out to the limp creature at the end of the desk.

"Choose," he commanded.

Catherwood shrank back. "Oh, sir," he murmured, brokenly.

"Choose."

Their eyes met then; and there was that in the president's that forbade his disobeying.

He put forth a trembling hand. His fingers touched the smooth paper. He drew. He crushed the envelope in his hand.

"Is--is--that all, sir?" he begged, falteringly.

"That is all, Mr. Catherwood, good-morning."

And he seized his cap and rushed from the room.

The president, alone, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he looked down. He still held the second envelope.

He ran the slim blade of the ebon-handled dagger beneath the flap and ripped it open.

He drew out the slip that it contained.

A queer little look came into his eyes. Then he pursed his lips, and smiled.

He tore the slip into tiny flakes and let them fall from his open hand like snow, into the waste-basket.

Just then the bells in the library tower clanged out four times.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the president. "Half-past one! I shall be late for luncheon!"

And gathering up his coat and hat he left his office, hurriedly.

THE DOOR--A NOCTURNE

There is a pale moon, consequently the electric street-lamps are unlighted. The setting is nowise picturesque. The street is narrow, unpaved, and fringed on either side with maples in leaf. It is late June. To right and left, are to be discerned behind the trees rows of characterless frame houses, that, for the greater part, are set well back in yards, where, here and there, are lilac bushes, rose trees, smoke trees, and silver birches, ghostly in the thin light. The moon's rays, glimmering upon the latched green blinds of the lower stories--which seem black--streak them with white.

At the end of the block, on the east side of the street, stands a house markedly different from the others. It is three stories in height, whilst they are two; the lawn, cut by a gravel path, slopes gently to the walk, and is close cropped; across the front of the house and continuing unbroken along either side to the back is a broad, covered porch with a spindled rail at its edge like a little fence. The only door is at the top of the path, in front. In a window directly above the door is a card the legend on which the moon makes clear--"Rooms to Rent." There is no fence about the place. On the south side another gravel path, narrower than the one in front and bordered with box, links the sidewalk to the porch. The main path p.r.o.ngs to still another set of steps on the north side. The house is white and looms big in the paleness. In a pear-tree near the south porch-steps a katydid sc.r.a.pes her dreary tune; whilst, on the north steps, a vagrant cat sits in silent adoration of the night, contemplating, presumably, the joys thereof. A stillness made the more tangible by the katydid's song pervades the scene.

The deep throated bells in the library tower on the campus ring out six times--ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Accurately it lacks but fifteen minutes of being midnight.

Suddenly the song of the katydid ceases, and the cat, seized with panic, leaps from the north steps and vanishes beneath the grape trellis at the back. Footfalls sound on the cement, and presently a couple slant across the lawn to the porch, issuing from the shadow of the trees into the white light that floods the lawn. He is seen to be a well set up youth who looks twenty-three. It is the moon, for he is twenty. Upon his blond head is perched a slouch hat of a dirty gray color and bound with a wide black band. His trousers, turned up at the ankles, are baggy at the hips and bulge beneath the belted Norfolk jacket that he wears. His hat is pulled down rakishly in front. She is a head shorter than he, and plump. Were it high noon her face would glow ruddy. She wears a straw sailor-hat such as no sailor ever wore; a s.h.i.+rt waist, and a white duck skirt that flares at the hem and appears somewhat crumpled. Her steps are mincing; he slouches. Between them they carry by its two out-springing handles a small luncheon hamper. He is a junior; his walk gives the clue to his cla.s.s. So is she; so does hers. At the porch he sets the basket on the lowest step and turns to her:--

JAMIE. Well, we beat 'em; didn't we?

HILDA [_fumbling in her finger purse_]. Uh huh. Let's go up-stairs and wait.

JAMIE [_doubtfully_]. Had we better? Won't your landlady think---- It's awful late.

HILDA [_testily_]. We don't pay her three dollars a week to think; besides, they'll surely be here in a minute. We couldn't have been more than a mile ahead of them. They're at the livery now, probably. [_During this speech she fumbles in her purse._] Oh, dear!

JAMIE [_endeavoring to smother a yawn_]. Wha's mat'r?

HILDA [_looking up at him and making a little moue_]. I can't find my key!

JAMIE [_with a quick show of interest_]. You haven't lost it, have you?

HILDA [_snappishly_]. Well, it isn't here, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, how mad it makes me to lose things--but--I remember now; I left it on the _chiffonier_ while we were dressing. Just to think I should have come away and left it lying there--oh, dear! [_She gazes up at him appealingly._]

JAMIE [_a note of resignation in his voice, perhaps, which she, however, does not seem to perceive_]. What's the difference? We'll wait for 'em.

Minnie'll have hers, won't she? It'll be nicer waiting out here, anyway.

Look at that moon! Beaut, isn't it? [_He takes up the basket and moves away._]

HILDA. Where are you going?

JAMIE [_perhaps significantly_]. 'Round on the side porch; this is too near the street.

HILDA [_following him, and aside_]. I can't see why they don't come.

[_Aloud._] Can we hear them?

JAMIE. Sure! [_He sets the basket beside one of the pillars of the north porch. They both sit on the top step, she with her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two hands. For a s.p.a.ce he whistles softly between his teeth. Thereafter they converse in half-whispers._]

JAMIE. They'll be along in a minute.

HILDA. I hope so. They will unless Herbert's persuaded her to go hunting for flowers by moonlight. I wouldn't be as crazy over botany as he is for all the degrees the old university gives. [_She edges nearer him and, taking his hand in one of hers, draws his arm around her waist.

Sighing._] Oh, dear!

JAMIE [_bringing his face closer to hers_]. What is it--angel?

HILDA [_with infinite--or, almost infinite, tenderness_]. Oh, nothing. I was only thinking about the day; how happy it has been.

JAMIE [_tenderly_]. Has it been, dear?

HILDA [_her head against his shoulder_]. You know it has--lovely--perfect!