Tutors' Lane, Page 2

  II

  Tom stepped into the hall and threw his hat, muffler, and overcoat uponthe hall bench. "Lovely day, isn't it, Norah?" he said to the maid whohad let him in, receiving her "Yes, Mr. Reynolds" with a smile and anod, and passing directly into the library.

  "Why, hello, Tom," said a girl on the sofa facing the fireplace. Beforeher was a tea wagon and she was at present pouring a cup for a slightlystiff person in knickerbockers.

  Tom shook hands with his host, lately Dean of Woodbridge and now, in theabsence of the President, acting in his place. He then turned to thefirst gentleman, who, cup in hand, was making slow backward progress tohis seat. "How do you do?" Tom said with a slight bow.

  "How are you, Reynolds," the other replied, hardly noticing him.

  "Henry and father have just come back from curling and they say it isperfectly rotten," continued the girl on the sofa. "Let's see, Tom, youtake one lump, don't you?"

  He declined on the grounds of just having had tea and retiring to atable in the rear of the tea group, idly picked up a copy of the _LondonTimes Literary Supplement_ that was lying on it. Henry, who hadapparently been interrupted, proceeded with a description of the variouscharacters that had taken part in the curling.

  Tom's interest in the _Times_ was not very great, but his interest inHenry Whitman's story was even less, and he frankly allowed his gaze towander over the books that covered the walls of the room. They were oneof the things that fascinated him in the house. They extended from thefloor to the ceiling and encircled the entire room, yielding only to thewide, high fireplace and the five windows. A small section encased inglass housed a few of the Dean's first editions and presentation copies,but Tom rather resented it, breaking as it did the harmony of the wholeand pulling the eye to it with its reflecting panes. He had from thefirst made the mental reservation that, were the house his, he shouldtake away that glass.

  The dark blue velours sofa upon which Mary Norris was sitting, facingthe fire, he called "The Bosom of the Norris Family," and when therewere no heavy people like Henry Whitman about, he would occasionallythrow himself upon it, carefully pointing out each time the prettysignificance of his act. Behind the Bosom was a large and weighty deskcovered with a multitude of personal letters, belonging for the mostpart to Mrs. Norris, a cheque-book open and face down in mute obeisanceto the blotter, newspaper clippings, spectacle cases, scissors, and ashtrays. In a neighbouring corner stood a table with imperfectly stackedcurrent magazines, a work basket filled with knitting, and a lampcrowned by a broad shade of silk with threads hanging from it, which,when twirled, stood out and looked like a miniature wheat field with thewind running through it. The lamp on the table by which Tom was sittingwas an old-fashioned silver affair but recently converted toelectricity. Its shade was high and dignified, and it had beendiscovered that when lifted from its place it could be worn as a turban.

  The fireplace carried on its mantel a running commentary upon thechanging details of family interest. At present, flanking the littleFrench clock upon its centre was a variety of old glass, EighteenthCentury rum and whiskey flasks recently collected by Mrs. Norris. Therewere, additionally, a porcelain image of two farmers, _dos a dos_, onewith rosy cheeks and flashing eye labelled "water," and the other,haggard and ill-favoured, labelled "gin"; also a brace of saturninechina cats. Above the mantel stretched an expanse of oak panelling whichsupported the portrait of Mrs. Norris's great-great-grandfather in aheavy gilt frame. The old gentleman, who looked amiably out from hisstarched neckcloth, had been a delegate to the Continental Congress anda jurist of distinction. Beside him on a table were some papers,obviously of the first importance, for they were plastered with seals, acopy of Coke on Lyttleton, and an inkpot with a quill sticking out ofit. His arm was lying lightly on the table, his cherubic face smilingback at its observer wherever he stood; and Tom imagined that his nextmove would be, after the manner of his great-great-granddaughter, torise with a sweep and tip over the inkpot.

  The colour in the room was chiefly contributed by the deep red curtainswhich hung beside the windows and which brought out and emphasized eachobject of kindred colour in the room. In this way were made conspicuousthe turban-like shade, a lacquered calendar rest upon the desk, afootstool, and even the British Colonies on a globe hiding unobtrusivelyin a corner. The heavy Persian rugs echoed the note so generously thatthe books with reddish bindings stood out from their fellows and playedtheir part in giving to the whole a richness that made the roomremarkable.

  Tom gazed at the group before him. Henry Whitman, Assistant Professor ofEconomics at thirty, a member of Grave, was telling a story of anItalian in Whitmanville who, when he curled, used only the broadestScotch. When Tom had met Henry in his ingenuous days he threatened to beoverwhelmed by the calm indifference of Henry's manner. The Whitman Air,inherited from a line of distinguished forebears, all but swamped him.It was as perfect and finished as some smooth old bit of jade, and ashard; a "piece" to be carefully handled, admirable only to theinitiated. Tom had not yet, in the course of his initiation, come tofind it admirable, although he quite appreciated its authenticity.Harry's father, of the same name, had been one of the College's chiefluminaries in the preceding Administration, known wherever PoliticalEconomy, as such, was known. _His_ father before him had produced theWhitman Woollen Mills, which supported Whitmanville, and though theywere at present in the hands of an uncle and various cousins, theirbeneficent influence was obviously felt by Henry. Everything about himsuggested comfort and nourishment. There was in his eye a look whichimplied intimacy with beagle-hunting in Derbyshire, and the way he usedhis hands positively suggested candle light at dinner. Theknickerbockers that he wore gave out a delightful heathery smell, asmell which is at its best when mingled, as at present, with the smellof superior pipe tobacco. His stockings would naturally be objects ofcuriosity to anyone familiar with the Whitman Mills, just as the pearlsaround the neck of a famous jeweller's wife would be, or the soap in thetub of a famous soap-maker. They were, as a matter of fact, excellentstockings of the heaviest, woolliest kind, and Whitman had bought them ayear and a half ago in Scotland, whither he had gone after his wife'sdeath. He still wore a mourning band about his arm in her honour, and ablack knitted tie; and there was every reason to believe that he wouldcontinue to do so another year and a half. For the Whitmans always hadmourned hard.

  The girl on the sofa was a thoroughly healthy person of twenty-four. Sheplayed excellent female tennis, and her golf was better than that ofhalf of the male members at the club. Yet she had none of the mannishmannerisms that so often accompany an "athletic" girl. At the presenttime she was submitting herself to a rigorous course in "housekeeping"majoring in cooking and minoring in accounting, and she had taughtSunday School ever since she had been graduated from Miss Hammond'sSchool at Mill Rock some six years ago. People instinctively liked herunless they were bored by obvious wholesomeness. And although no oneever thought of her as being particularly pretty--she was somewhat toodumpy to be thought that--people noticed her hair, which was a mostfashionable shade of red. Then, of course, in as much as she had Mrs.Norris for a mother, one could never be entirely sure that she might notburst forth in some altogether unexpected and delightful manner. Herimpromptu _bataille des fleurs_, for example, was still remembered inWoodbridge although it took place nearly sixteen years ago. Somewhereher attention had been caught by the picture of a cherub, or possiblyseraph, perched on a cloud and pouring from a cornucopia great masses offlowers upon the delighted earth. The idea seemed such a lovely one thatwhen, in the spring, her mother gave a card party out on the terrace,she determined to give the ladies a delightful surprise. For weeksbefore it she despoiled the garden, keeping her plans miraculouslysecret, and storing her treasures away in a waste-basket, in lieu of thecornucopia. And then, when the ladies were twittering away happilybeneath, she stepped out upon her porch clad only in a Liberty scarfborrowed from her mother's wardrobe--the young creature in the pictureconfined itself to a ribonny dress which flo
ated charmingly aboutit--and discharged her flowers. She was prepared for astonishment in heraudience, and her reception was all she could ask; but what she was notprepared for was the insidious decay which had set in among the blooms,and which robbed them entirely of their natural colour and fragrance,transforming them into a composition recognized by polite people onlyupon their lawns. It had been Mary's first encounter with the bafflingthaumaturgy of chemistry; and to the end of her days her confidence init was never wholly restored.

  Henry Whitman at last finished his story and rose to go. The Dean, whowas a genial soul, and who, with his generous embonpoint and hisknickers, looked at present a little like Mr. Pickwick, regarded himaffectionately. He had retired from the college two years before, butupon the President's departure for Europe on a six months' leave, he hadbeen called from retirement to act in his place because of the greatrespect the College had for his temperate judgment, a quality at thattime particularly useful in college affairs, stirred as they were by thecontentions of the advocates of a larger Woodbridge. It was the Dean'sduty to keep these malcontents, these radicals--some of whom werepowerful--in their places. Quality not quantity had ever been theWoodbridge cry, and it should remain so as long as he had any power. Inother respects, however, he was as gentle as one could well be. In thematter of motoring, for example, he was so gentle that to the untutoredeye he might seem almost timid. He had viewed the rise of the motor carwith all the misgivings of a lover of the Old Ways, long refusing toaccompany his wife on her hectic flights, but at last he had consentedto buy an electric. For three dreadful weeks he ran it in agony orapprehension. It was not that he might run into people: there was nodanger there, for even if he had bumped into some one, the damage wouldhave been only very trifling. No, the terrible thought was what thereckless people might do who would crash into him. So at the end of thethree weeks he abandoned the lever and, bringing Murdock in from thestable, definitely transformed him into his chauffeur. The picture thathe presented was, he realized, somewhat sedate, but at least he was nolonger taking foolhardy chances, and he could now, furthermore, seesomething as he went along. "When are you expecting Nancy?" he askedHenry.

  "Oh, I supposed Mary had told you. Why, she is coming day aftertomorrow. Henry Third is very much excited. He has been making acollection for her as a present. I didn't know anything about it untilthe other day when Annie told me. It seems that he has been very muchimpressed by a postal card from his Aunt Nancy showing a Californiaorange grove, and so he has been collecting orange pips ever since! Henow has over ninety and he is afraid she will arrive before he can get ahundred. It seems to be a rule of the collection that his pips can onlybe taken from oranges he's eaten, and as he only gets one a day at hisbreakfast, there is no help for him."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Henry, send him up here and I'll let him eat outhis hundred," said Mary.

  "Fine person you are," laughed Whitman, "ruining my son's good habits."

  They had passed out into the hall when the bell rang violently two orthree times.

  "That must be mamma," said Mary, and going to the door, she opened itfor a majestic lady who swept into the room, talking volubly as shebegan peeling off the shawls and capes in which she was wrapped.

  "Why, Henry, dear, what on earth are you doing here? You never come tosee us any more, and I am so anxious, too, to ask you all about thestabilized dollar and these new vitamines. Susan!" she called suddenlyin the general direction of the upper floors. Then, addressing no one inparticular, "I must find out about the salted almonds that the Deanasked for last night," and she started for the kitchen.

  "I ordered them this morning, Gumgum, myself, when I was orderingeverything else. I had them on my list."

  "You did?" and Mrs. Norris burst into the most contagious laughter."Tom, I wish you'd stop my daughter calling me that horrid name. It'sdisgusting. I'm going to call her 'Snuffles.'"

  "I really must go, Aunt Helen," said Whitman, starting for the door. The"Aunt" was a heritage of an earlier and more innocent day and not anindication of blood relationship. "Uncle Julian" had, however, beenallowed to lapse, upon Henry's accession to the Woodbridge Faculty.

  "Oh dear," replied Mrs. Norris. "Well, I'm coming down to see Nancy assoon as she gets back, and then you've got to come up here for dinner.It will be such a relief having her here for the party. And now," sheadded, putting her arm through Tom's, "I must have a little talk withTom. I suspect he needs a pill, and I'm going to give it to him. Comehere, Tommy, dear, and let me look at you," and she pulled him back intothe library.