| PREFACE AND DEDICATION | |
| I | THE LECTURE ON DOMESTIC ARTS |
| II | THE PICTURE OVER THE FIREPLACE |
| III | HE MOVED WITH A VAST CROWD |
| IV | NED’S NOTE-BOOK |
| V | CORRESPONDENCE |
| VI | ONE YEAR AFTER |
| VII | NED’S NOTE-BOOK |
| VIII | MIDNIGHT |
| IX | THE BEGINNING OF THE END |
| X | THE LAST LETTER HOME |
| XI | AFTERWARDS |
My dear Friend,—
Indignation at my dedicating this book to you will be useless, since I am at present three thousand miles out of your reach. Moreover, this dedication is not intended as a public monument to our friendship;—I know too much for that. If that were the case, we should manage to quarrel even at this distance, I am quite confident, before the proof-sheets had left the press. But I can dedicate it to you alone of all my college friends, because you and I were brought so especially into the atmosphere of the man who inspired me to undertake it,—the man to whom, under God, I shall owe most of what grace and culture I may ever acquire. You and I know his wonderful unselfishness, his tender sympathy, his exquisite delicacy of thought and life, as well as others know his wit and his scholarship. It was while I was writing the opening pages of this story that the news of his death came. It was while my work was but half finished, that I was called away to the most remote and wildest portions of this great country of ours, and thus has my story become a sketch,—a bare outline of what I intended.
But, such as it is, you and a few others will know what I mean by it; and that point gained, the rest matters little. If by it one single heart is made to throb, even for an instant, with love of this country, of which we can never be too mindful nor too proud, my object will be gained. And now I commend to you this book.
Ever your friend,
FRED. W. LORING.
To Mr. Wm. W. Chamberlin.
TWO COLLEGE FRIENDS.
It was quarter after two in the afternoon, and the Professor was sitting at his desk, engaged in arranging the notes of his lecture, when there came a knock on the door.
“Come in,” said the Professor. “Ah, Ned! is it you?” This to a graceful boy of twenty, who entered the room.
“Yes, it is Ned,” said the boy; “and he particularly wishes to see you for a few minutes.”
“Every moment is precious,” said the Professor, “until my lecture is in order. What is the matter? Are you in trouble?”
“Yes,” said Ned, “I am in trouble.”
“Then let me read to you,” said the Professor, “the concluding paragraph of my lecture on Domestic Arts.”
“Oh, don’t!” said Ned; “I really am in trouble.”
“Are you the insulter or the insulted, this time?” asked the Professor.
“Neither,” said Ned, shortly; “and I’m not in trouble on my own account.”
“Ah!” said the Professor; “then you have got into some difficulty in your explorations in low life; or you have spent more than your income; or it’s the perpetual Tom.”
“It’s the perpetual Tom,” said Ned.
“I supposed so,” observed the Professor. “What has that youth been doing now? Drinking, swearing, gambling, bad company, theft, murder?—out with it! I am prepared for anything, from the expression of your face; for anything, that is to say, except my lecture on Domestic Arts, which comes at three.”
“Well, if you choose to make fun of me,” said Ned, “I can go; but I thought you would advise me.”
“And so I will, you ridiculous creature, when you need it,” said the Professor; “only at such times you generally act for yourself. But, come; my advice and sympathy are yours; so what has Tom done?”
“He has fallen in love,” said Ned.
“Oh, no!” said the Professor.
“Yes, sir,” repeated Ned, more firmly, “he has fallen in love.”
“’Tis the way of all flesh,” said the Professor; “but I don’t think Tom can fall in love. He never even dislikes any one without a cause.”
“That’s all very well, sir,” said Ned; “but when a fellow has a girl’s picture, and looks at it when he thinks he isn’t watched; and when he receives notes, and keeps them, instead of throwing them around, as usual; and when he takes to being blue,—what do you say?”
“Please state your propositions separately,” said the Professor, “and I will endeavor to form an opinion. When a fellow has a girl’s picture,—what was the rest?”
“I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me,” said Ned.
“Well, in Heaven’s name, what is there to trouble you, if Tom is in love?” asked the Professor.
“Because he hasn’t told me,” said Ned.
“Oh! you are jealous then,” rejoined the Professor. “You are the most selfish person, for one who is so generous, that I have ever seen. You are morbid upon the subject of Tom, I believe.”
“Well, look here,” said Ned; “I have neither father nor mother; I have no one except Tom. I care more for him than for any one else in the world, as you know; but you never will know how much I care for him; and it does seem hard that he should shut me out of his confidence when I have done nothing to forfeit it. There’s some girl at the bottom of all this. He and that big Western friend of his, the Blush Rose, whom I never liked, have been off together two or three times; and, as I say, Tom has got this picture; and the Blush Rose knows it, and knows who she is. I’ve seen them looking at it, and admiring it. I’m afraid, from Tom’s not telling me about it, that he’s doing something out of the way.”
“In that case,” said the Professor, “you had better let me read you the closing paragraph of my lecture on Domestic Arts.”
“No, I thank you,” said Ned; “I shall have to hear it, any way, this afternoon.”
“So you will,” said the Professor; “and, by the way, I shall give you a private if you behave to-day as you did in my last lecture. I have told your class-tutor to warn you.”
“Well, that is pleasant,” said Ned.
“I meant it to be,” replied the Professor. “Good-by. I may call at your room to-night,—to see Tom.”
And, as Ned was heard going down the stairs, the Professor, seeing that he had still twenty-five minutes to spare, took his lecture, and sat down before the fire, which flickered slightly, and just served to destroy the dampness of that April day.
Whether the Professor would have made any alterations or amendments in his lecture, it is difficult to say; that he did not is due to the fact that his eye fell upon a little photograph, which hung over his fireplace. As he sits there, thinking over what Ned has told him, and laughing at the idea of Tom’s being really in love, he gazes on this little photograph, and smiles. The Professor has one or two real art treasures, but nothing that he values quite as much as this fading picture. This is the only copy in existence; and this hangs there, and will hang there until the Professor dies. How well he remembers the morning when the two boys, whom he loves so well, rushed into his room, and left it there! As he looks at it now, there is an expression of tenderness on his plain but strongly cut features that would greatly astonish those of his pupils who only know him as a crusty instructor.
The Professor is somewhat crusty, it must be owned. It is, however, an acquired and not a natural crustiness. Cause, the fact that at thirty years of age he discovered that he cared more for a certain Miss Spencer than for all the world beside. On intimating this fact to her, she told him that she should always value his friendship; and that she hoped soon to introduce to him her cousin Hugh, “who is,” she added quietly, “to become my husband.” After this the Professor withdrew almost entirely from society, and plunged deeper and deeper into study. Before many years his reputation was cosmopolitan, his head bald, and his life a matter of routine. Boys came and went; and at intervals he repeated before them much of what he knew. It is to these two boys, of whom he thinks now, as he gazes on the picture over the mantel, that he owes his rescue from this lethargic life.