Fortunately, Lily met a friend at the fire, and Tom was free for the time being. Would the wind never die down? The flag on the coach's launch was not quite so active. There was a rumour that they would start at six-thirty. Only half an hour more. Well, he could stand that. Lily seemed to be having a time with her new young man, and he limped over to a neighbouring fire where there were fewer Lilies and more heat. There he met a classmate of whom he was particularly fond; and before he knew it the starter's launch had put out into the river, and the parties around the fires were scampering back aboard the train. With considerable difficulty he followed Lily up over the side, for his foot was now swollen and painful. Finally, however, they were seated again, buoyed up with the thought of the race's being at last under way—when the starter's boat retired from the scene, and word arrived that the race would not be rowed until seven.

Tom could not cover his disappointment.

"I don't think you are very polite!" said Lily.

"Sorry," replied Tom, his ankle throbbing.

"In fact I think you're horrid."

"Good!" said Tom. Lily looked her rage and half turned her back on him. Well, that was something to be thankful for, at any rate.

They sat there in ever-increasing gloom. Some of the Lilies gamboled back to shiver over the fires, but even they were beginning to droop. Tom's Lily would have joined them—her new friend was not a wet smack—but Tom, with his throbbing ankle, did not offer to go, and she was too proud to suggest it. So they sat and waited.

The race was eventually rowed. At the starter's gun the train gave another convulsive jerk, which sent Tom's injured foot flying against the side of the car, and the crowd fanned into life its jaded enthusiasm. Out in the gathering dusk the two crews inched their way along. It was not quite clear which was which, the blades both showing black, and though Lily was certain she had located Platt and cheered lustily for his boat, subsequent evidence indicated that he was in the other. The two cheering sections woke to frenzy, and the notables' car was swept with confusion. Lily was beside herself and kept jumping to her feet with an appealing cry of "Oh Platt!" Tom looked over at the Hartley car at one point and saw that his friend had apparently had fresh access to his source of refreshment, for he was now blissfully asleep, cheek on the railing.

At the two-mile stake—with a final mile to go—the boats were even, but both sides were jubilant, for from each section it clearly showed that the home crew was ahead. Then the train shot behind a heavily timbered point, and when the view of the river was again free, the Woodbridge shell was half a length behind and obviously beaten. A pang of disappointment shot through Tom. Oh, well, it was a fitting climax to the day. There they were, slipping back and back. They were splashing badly, and one of the Woodbridge men was obviously not pulling his weight. Then the Hartley boat flashed over the finish amid the tooting of countless automobiles along the banks, a winner by a length and a quarter.

The Hartley people had given way to a transport of joy, while their coxswain crawled along his shell throwing water over the chests and faces of his men. The two boats floated idly about, their crews bowed forward, gasping in agony for strength. To the men in the Hartley boat came the faint sound of their grateful supporters. They had won—and what was an enlarged heart or, possibly, a damaged kidney, to such glory? The half hysterical screams of their Lilies were sweet compensation. As for the Woodbridge crew, well, they would have to swallow their dose as best they could—and wait for next year.

The young Hartley man next to Tom woke up. "'S the race over?" he asked.

"Yes, it's over," shouted Tom, for no one else heard him.

"Thank God," he shouted hoarsely, and went back to sleep—a sentiment which cheered Tom so much that Lily, on the homeward trip, decided he wasn't quite such a dumb-bunny, after all.



XV

Scarcely a day went by now without Tom's tracing his steps to the Norris house. He seldom bothered any more with the formality of the door: going around to the terrace side, he walked into the drawing-room unannounced. If no one was at home, he sat down with a magazine or book in the library or drummed at the piano. Then, possibly, he would go before anyone arrived; but the house which was so friendly to him and so full of Nancy, was far dearer to him than her own, for Henry's hostility was too marked to make his visits there other than difficult.

So it was that he came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Norris, Mary, and Nancy when he walked into the library on the day following the race; and then he regretted his free and easy entrance. For Mary was in tears and was receiving the comfort of her mother and friend. Tom backed hurriedly out, muttering an inarticulate apology and cursing himself for an awkward fool. Mary saw him, however, and with a sob brushed past him in the hall and went upstairs. Her mother who swept after her like a large and stately galleon in her black silk dress, was more troubled than he had ever seen her. Still, as she passed, she told him not to mind. And then he was alone with Nancy.

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked. Nancy, too, was thoroughly upset.

"Just look at that," she said, and pointed to an article in a New York evening paper. "Woodbridge Professor Drowns," ran the headlines. "Overtaken by Cramps After Eating Cherries and Milk." It appeared that Professor Furbush had defied the popular fear of the fatal combination and, in order to make his defiance complete, had promptly gone in swimming after eating it. The tragedy had occurred at the country house of relatives; and though a number of people were present, they took his cries for help as a joke until it was too late. The account went on to explain that it was more sad even than it might at first appear, for it was generally supposed that the dead man had been engaged to marry Miss Mary Norris, daughter of the Acting President of Woodbridge.

"Why, isn't that dreadful," said Tom. It is always a little hard to know what should be said in such circumstances. If the one who has just died is close to us, we don't think about what to say at all, but if it is only an acquaintance and we are merely a little thrilled by his going, it is difficult; for decency requires a solemn look and a shocked word. So Tom did what he could to be decent; and Nancy, who was staring with half averted face out upon the garden, made no reply. She, of course, knew all the secrets of Mary's heart and must be sharing her sorrow. Accordingly, any words from him, other than sympathetic ones for Mary's loss, would be untimely. Perhaps, even, she would insist upon remaining in sisterly spinsterhood! "It's awfully tough, isn't it," Tom added.

"Yes," said Nancy, somewhat faintly, from the curtains. Nancy seemed very much upset. Tom knew that Furbush had been a frequent visitor at her house, and probably she had grown fond of him. He was not at all aware, however, that Furbush's affair with Mary had progressed so far. He could not picture Furbush marrying Mary—or anyone else, for that matter—and he doubted whether Furbush would have married her. Still, it appeared that Mary had cared for him, and now her little romance was over.

"It's awfully hard on Mary, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Furbush was gone. Who would take his place? His place, an Assistant Professorship—there was now a vacancy! A flood of excitement swept through him. But how foolish to expect that it would fall to him. He had taught but one year, and he was only twenty-five. People still spoke of Harry Spear's having been given his Assistant Professorship at the end of three years as a record-breaking performance. He knew perfectly well, furthermore, that he had not made a startling success of it; not the kind of success that makes a man jump from a Captaincy to a Brigadiership. Still, he thought he stood quite as well as the other young instructors in the department; and his "outside connections" were considerably better. After all, a man's career in college counted for something. And so, although he knew that the thing was impossible and that what they would do would be to go outside for an older man, he luxuriated for a moment in the picture of the Dean congratulating him on his success. An Assistant Professorship and Nancy! The two were linked in his mind as the sum-total of desire; and since he could think of Nancy without thinking of the Assistant Professorship, but could not think of the Professorship without thinking of Nancy, it is to be supposed that Nancy came first.

And there she was now, over by the window, painfully aware of the garden and fidgeting ever so little with the curtain. Perhaps this might not be such a bad time to repeat his question, after all. Had she not of her own free will come to the Norris house, at which she knew that he was almost a daily visitor? There was in that something to give him heart. As if he hadn't enough evidence without it!

"You will admit, though, Nancy, that it was an awfully stupid thing for him to eat the cherries and milk, won't you? Everyone knows that it can't be done." Tom moved over nearer to her, but she did not answer him. Instead, she fixed her eyes steadily on the bulging root of an elm in the garden. She must concentrate everything on that to keep from being an utter fool. But what an hour it had been! First the dreadful news about Furbush and that thing in the paper, and then Tom's unexpected entrance. How wonderful he looked as he came into the room; he had been so self-possessed, and she should have been such a ninny in his place!

Tom took a step nearer. "Nancy," he said very tenderly.

The root was waving now; it would become indistinct. How gentle he was, and how different from Henry! "Nancy!" he repeated. Then the root became altogether blurred and meaningless, and she felt him take her in his arms and kiss her. "Darling Nancy," he was saying; and, somehow, to her great relief, she found an apparently adequate reply.

* * * * *

It was decided that a long engagement was altogether unnecessary, a decision which was without repeal, in view of the absence of parental supervision. Why waste the perfectly good summer? Why indeed? And so the wedding was set for a few days after Commencement.

"That will give me just about enough time to get ready," said Nancy, "and I really think you must get a new cutaway."

Then at last Commencement was over. The electricians bore away for another year the last of the class numeral signs which had hung from their respective Headquarters. The Headquarters themselves had been swept and cleaned and restored to their owners, and one by one the dwellers, in Tutors' Lane prepared to board up their houses for the summer and depart for the mountains or for the shore.

The wedding alone kept most of them in Woodbridge. Few there were that had not some pleasant memory of Nancy, and the sacrifice of a day or two of vacation was counted as little. Furbush's dramatic end had held the centre of the Woodbridge stage, but it was now forced into the background by the question: Was Tom good enough for Nancy? It was generally agreed that he was getting the best of it, but not many thought that she was altogether throwing herself away upon him. Nancy might have married anyone, it was pointed out, and having had so much responsibility, she could have graced the board of a much older man. Instead, she had chosen a young instructor—a pleasant enough boy, perhaps but still unproved. Well, Nancy would make the most of him, there was no question of that, and of course he was a great friend of the Norrises and it was known that Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee herself approved of the match. So they would hope for the best, and Nancy was a dear girl.

Tom was in perfect accord with the last sentiment, and it will perhaps be charitable to draw a veil over his behaviour at this time. Such names as "Mrs. Mouse" and "Boofly Woofly" are all very well when whispered teasingly into the delighted ear of one's intended, but they hardly stand the light of unromantic day. They have even been known to set up opposing currents of emotion in breasts not so nicely attuned, and to inspire such expressions as "Fish!" or even "Blat!" It may well be a considerate office, therefore, not to submit our lovers to the graceless manners of the unsympathetic, but to let them enjoy their artless passages unmolested.

One of these, alone, might be risked. Nancy had confidingly told him that she had all the faith in the world in his future, and he heard her gratefully. "Why, the way you talked to those men at the mill shows clearly enough what you can do," she said.

Tom coloured slightly, but let the moment pass without explanation. When he had first done so it was with the mental reservation that he would laughingly explain it some day, and he would, too, but it wasn't yet just the right time. So he stooped and kissed her affectionately; and then, as he was hatless at the time, she was reminded of something she had long wanted to tell him.

"If you don't look out, Tom, you will be perfectly bald in five years."

"Well, I've done everything I can, and——"

"Now, all you have to do is to brush it five minutes in the morning and five minutes at night."

"Ten minutes a day! I should be exhausted."

"Well, I shall do it for you, then." Whereupon the scene acquired an excess of sentiment at once.

Certain more mundane passages may be observed, however, without any particular offence.

The passages that took place around the opening of the wedding presents were possibly as diverting as any. Tom, whose mind's eye was ever upon the little colonial house in Tutors' Lane, now his property, was perhaps more concerned than most grooms are in the furnishing of his nest. He found himself greatly elated when he or his bride would draw forth some shining prize of a silver bowl or plate—until they began getting too many of them—and correspondingly depressed when some many-coloured glass lamp or strange dish would appear. What on earth could they do with them? Dear old Mrs. Conover, for example, sent a large Bohemian glass jar of a peacock-eyes pattern. It would have to be on view when she called, and as they had no way of knowing when that would be, it had to be on view all the time.

From Omaha came an ominous package which made Tom shudder. Would his sister contrive to mortify him? He could picture her pleasure in doing so, and when the package was opened and out came two china parrots, Tom thought the pleasure was hers. A note which came with the birds explained that they were very fashionable in Omaha at the time and that all Omaha had them on its dinner table. To Tom, his sister's gift and note could hardly have been worse, but Nancy kissed him and told him not to be stupid, that the parrots were nice; and Tom was so flustered he couldn't tell whether they were or not. At any rate, Nancy wrote a charming, sisterly little note, and Tom was more pleased with his future than ever.

The silver tea service which arrived early from Mrs. Robert Lee-Satterlee was among the grandest presents that Nancy received from outside the family. She was particularly grateful for it, since it enabled her to leave her mother's with Henry and thus avoid a discussion which would have been unendurable at the time. It was true that Henry's wife had had a tea service herself and that it was now his; but it was not so fine as the Whitman one, and Henry would have regarded its removal with a jaundiced eye. His wife's silver, however, was quite a bit more handsome than the family silver, and he relinquished the latter with a gesture so graceful that any further donation of property to the hymeneal happiness seemed almost fulsome. Still he did make a further contribution—a costly set of John Stuart Mill.

A few days after she announced her engagement Nancy was waited upon by the Misses Forbes. Their mission was one of obvious importance, for they seldom moved out of their warm little house, excepting, of course, Miss Jennie, who was quite indifferent to the outside and marched forth almost without a thought. They wore, furthermore, a serious demeanour—even Miss Jennie, whose assumption of a cavalier manner didn't quite hide her excitement. She was carrying a small parcel neatly done up in white tissue paper; and when, after a period of rocking, she launched upon the little speech she had prepared, her liver-spotted old hands opened and closed over it. "You must know, my dear," she said, "that we are going to miss you very much. Of course, you are not really going away"—the little colonial house was in truth only a quarter of a mile farther from their house than Nancy's present one—"yet it can't be quite the same, and we want to mark your going with our love and best wishes. So we have brought you the Burnham lace for you to keep and hand down to your children, and may God bless you, my dear, and keep you." Then they all had a quiet turn at their handkerchiefs, and the Burnham lace passed into the House of Reynolds.

Leofwin also called and delivered his gift in person. Tom was fortunately in the room at the time, and the somewhat painful scene was not protracted. It was the first meeting they had had since Leofwin had offered his hand and been rejected, and even Leofwin was constrained. Nancy wondered if Elfrida were to have her trip to Italy, but she could not put the question without appearing unmaidenly since she knew so well the only condition of the trip; and as Woodbridge had not many girls that were eligible for Leofwin's love, the prospect was indeed black. "Your happiness is all I ask," he said in a low tone, and, despite the theatrical diction, even Tom was touched by his sincerity. "You know, of course," he went on, "that I am not in a position now to make an adequate expression of my wishes"—it was rather affecting even though nobody present quite knew what he meant—"but I have brought you the best I have. It is of small material value, but its sentimental value is great. I did all my best work with it." Whereupon he handed her a paint brush.

With considerable of a to-do, Mrs. Norris announced the gift of a grandfather's clock. "There is no use, Nancy dear, in dragging it around from house to house, and I'm having it sent to your new one." Accordingly, when the expressman announced its arrival everyone proceeded to the little colonial house in Tutors' Lane. Then difficulties arose. To begin with, it was too tall for any room in the house; and after a great deal of staggering around with it, trying it first in this place and then in that, a gorgeous wooden plume which stuck up from its head had to be removed. Then it was discovered that there were no works in it, Mrs. Norris having bought only the case, supposing of course that the thing was complete. When finally the parts had all been assembled and adjusted—which was in the second year of Tom's and Nancy's married life—it was learned that the ways of the clock were nearly as eccentric as those of its donor, for when it went at all, the hands made the downward journey with so much rapidity that they were exhausted at the bottom and in no condition for the return trip. The end came one morning when the clock, which was known as "Aunt Helen," was discovered to have died at six-thirty; and, all horological assistance having been summoned in vain, it was suffered to stand in its corner, untouched except by dust cloths, its hands forever pointing at six-thirty, an eloquent warning of the end of indolence.

Although perhaps Mrs. Norris's contribution to the future life of our lovers was not distinguished by that perfect satisfaction which we all strive to furnish with our wedding gifts, her services at the wedding itself were invaluable. Nancy naturally turned to her for assistance with the thousand and one preliminaries that the bride's mother usually performs, and, moving in her own wondrous ways, Mrs. Norris saw to everything.

The night before the wedding arrived, and she gave a dinner for the bridal party. As, after considerable discussion, Nancy had consented to have the reception at the Norris house, Mrs. Norris relieved the minds of her people in the kitchen by having a buffet supper—and using paper napkins.

Nancy was grateful for this, for she was extremely tired, and the simpler everything could be, the better. So the supper was eaten all over the house and out on the terrace, and when the last paper napkin had been crumpled up, and the entire party had been brought together to drink the bride's health, and her future husband's, and their mutual healths, in the Dean's 1854 champagne, the party was whisked off up to the college church for rehearsal.

Upon arriving there, Nancy being engaged momentarily with Mary, who had heroically consented to be her maid of honour, Tom stole away by himself. Before the church the ridge sloped gently away, giving an unobstructed view of the valley. The evening was a perfect one, and Tom enjoyed one of those rare moments when one feels in complete accord with everything. All around him were the sights and sounds of bucolic tranquillity; and within, apart from the comfortable effects of the Dean's wine and cigar, were such melting thoughts as we may only guess at. Life was now just beginning for him—and how good it was!

The sun died in ever darkening carmine. Tom flicked the ash from his cigar and held it up against the light. It matched perfectly. A long zeppelin-like cloud hung, apparently motionless, a little higher up. Tom moved his cigar up to it and cocked one eye. Again perfect harmony. But, even as he looked, the cloud thinned out at one end and spoiled it a little. Oh, well, it was perfect, anyway.

Behind him came the strains of the church organ and the voices of the bridal party. They were calling him. He paused deliciously, drinking in the last moments of his freedom. And then, throwing away his cigar, he passed quickly up the hill and into the lighted church.

* * * * *

NEW BORZOI NOVELS

FALL, 1922

THE QUEST Pio Baroja

THE ROOM G. B. Stern

ONE OF OURS Willa Cather

MARY LEE Geoffrey Dennis

THE PROMISED ISLE Laurids Bruun

THE RETURN Walter de la Mare

THE BRIGHT SHAWL Joseph Hergesheimer

THE MOTH DECIDES Edward Alden Jewell

INDIAN SUMMER Emily Grant Hutchings

Transcriber's Note: The book title on the cover shows "Tutor's", while inside is "Tutors'"; and whereas "Woodbridge Center" is spelled thus, the alternative spelling "centre" is used elsewhere.

THE END