"I'm not so sure," said her eldest daughter, comfortingly; "the doctrine of chances is in your favor. You have four boys--four chances to Aunt--what was her name?--Aunt Edith's two. Harry's not so fearfully bright, anyway--only sixteenth out of three hundred."

"My dear, how can you talk so? you ought to be ashamed, after his being so nice to you all this week!"

"Yes, he's been very sweet, indeed," replied the maiden, magnanimously.

"Though I don't know, on looking back at it, that he's been any nicer to me than I've been to him!"

Harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. He was impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor; the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of materialism.

The same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of all the Commencement ceremonies. The great Renaissance dining hall filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong, ranging between the h.o.a.ry-headed veteran and the hour-old Bachelor, all of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for her--all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of Harry, always ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt it. It was pleasant to sit and eat among one's cla.s.smates and in the presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on terms of equal footing--all graduates together.

At one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers of the University, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the recipients of the honorary degrees. After the meal was over, certain of these were called upon to speak. Harry thought he had never heard such speeches. The men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's service and in the work of the world; one was a Cabinet minister, another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. The ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of Yale, given in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong emphasis on the theme of service. One got from them the idea that Yale men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over, were born to serve humanity. The mission of Yale in this scheme was one of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house, developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of themselves. One revered and loved Yale, of course, for what she had given one; to her every man owed a full measure of grat.i.tude and affection for what he had become. But one was never to forget where Yale stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was not an end in herself, but a means--one of many other means--to an infinitely greater end. Only by considering her in her place in the vast order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true greatness.

The impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller Yale but of a larger world. Harry had never considered the relation between universe and university in this illuminating light. He suddenly realized that his idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge and the home of sport. He had mistaken the side-shows for the main exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the whole of which they were but small parts. In a flash he looked back and realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against college inst.i.tutions and traditions. Who was he that he should criticize them? What had he to offer as subst.i.tute for them except an att.i.tude of idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? He had recovered from that first foolishness, to be sure, and thank Heaven for that slight evidence of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and watch the days slide by? Had he ever made the slightest attempt toward serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in their proper relations to each other? Had he succeeded in learning a single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? Was it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of golden youth?

Suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his eyes. It would be absurd to shed them. He shifted his position and lit a cigarette. He inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wandered into introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. Gradually, however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. Those years were not wholly wasted--he had learned something in them. He was ahead of where he was when he entered college, if only a little. The thought of James occurred to him; James would be an inspiration in the future as he had been a help in the past. No, there was yet hope for him, though he must be very careful how he acted in the future. He had been a fool, but he hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. He would try hard, at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant, unbiased and humble--above all, humble. He glanced up at the speaker's table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud were in fact the humblest.

The last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. The men on the floor of the hall stood up to sing before departing. Harry, looking at his watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see Aunt Cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at once if he were to catch them.

He laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had never before listened.

Mother of men, grown strong in giving Honor to them thy lights have led,

sang the men. Yes, thought Harry, there was plenty of honor to give.

Would that he might ever be one of those to whom such honor was due, but that was not to be thought of. It was enough for him to be one of those who were led by those lights. Yes, that was the first step, steadfastly to follow the light that the grave Mother held above and before him; to keep his eyes constantly on it, never looking down or behind.

Rich in the toil of thousands living, Proud of the deeds of thousands dead,

Deeds, deeds! That was what counted; any one could see visions and dream dreams; the veriest fool could mean well. Oh, might a merciful Heaven help him to convert into deeds the lofty ideals that now surged within his brain!--What a ripping song that was, and how well it sounded to hear a thousand men singing it together! He forgot Aunt Cecilia for a moment, and checked his pace near the door to hear the last verse.

Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging, Under whose feet the years are cast, Heir to an ageless empire, ranging Over the future and the past--

Half blinded with tears he staggered out into the empty vestibule and steadied himself for a second against a pillar. He never had realized before how much it all meant to him, how he loved what he was leaving.

And yet--"Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging"--he had never quite caught the full meaning of those words. They now seemed, in a way, to soften the pain of parting, to give him comfort and strength with which to face the years. Surely growing old would not be so bad if one could think of the spirit of youth as still there, alive, unchanging, spreading joy and hope through the world!

And then, sweet and sudden as a breeze at sundown came the thought to him that here lay his life's work, his own little mission in the world: in using his intelligence and his power of interpretation, the only gifts he could discover himself as possessing, to guide and a.s.sist those who happened to come a little after him in the long procession of human life--in becoming, in short, a teacher. A sudden feeling of calmness and surety took possession of him; he was able to consider himself and his place in the world with a more complete detachment than he had ever before attained. He found himself able, for the moment, to rate his powers and limitations exactly as an unprejudiced observer might have done. Within him he suddenly, unmistakably felt those qualities of priest and prophet which, combined with that of the scholar, make up the ideal teacher.

"Spirit of youth," he whispered, "to you I dedicate myself, such as I am, and my life, such as it may be."

He stood still for a moment and listened as the great chorus behind the closed door brought the song to a finish, ending on a note both solemn and exalted. For a second or two there was silence, and then there burst forth the sound of the Yale cheer. The contrast between the last notes of the song and the brazen bellow of that cheer, hallowed by the memories of a hundred close-fought fields, struck Harry as both dramatic and comic, and caused a corresponding change in his own mood.

"Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging!" he quoted again, laughing. Then he hurried off to say good-by to his aunt.

PART II

CHAPTER I

CAN LOVE BE CONTROLLED BY ADVICE?

Madge Elliston lived alone with her mother in a small house on an unpretentious but socially unimpeachable side street, just off one of the main avenues. Their means, as Madge has already intimated, were modest--"modest," as the young lady sprightly put it, "to the point of prudishness." Joseph Elliston, her father, had been a brilliant and promising young professor when her mother married him, with, as people said, a career before him. If by career they meant affluence, they were wholly right in saying it was all before him. But though the two married on his prospects, they could not fairly have been said to have made an unwise venture. Nothing but death had kept Joseph Elliston from becoming a popular and respected teacher, a foremost authority on economics, the author of standard works on that subject, and the possessor of a comfortable income. But he had died when Madge, his only child, was five years old, leaving his small and sorrowing family barely enough to live on.

The straitened circ.u.mstances in which the sad event threw Mrs. Elliston and her daughter were somewhat relieved by the generosity of the only sister of the widow, Eliza Scharndorst, herself a widow and the possessor of a large fortune. She was extremely fond of Madge, who always got on beautifully with her "Aunt Tizzy"--an infantile corruption allowed to survive into maturity--having more in common with her, if the truth must be known, than with her mother. She was a festive soul, much given to entertaining, and she was not long in discovering that the a.s.sistance of her niece was a distinct a.s.set in making her home attractive to guests. It is not to be wondered at that Madge's occasional services in the way of decorating a dinner table or brightening up an otherwise stodgy reception would redound to her material benefit as well as to her spiritual welfare. Such good things as trips to Bermuda, occasional new frocks and instruction under the best music masters, came her way so frequently that by the time we next meet her, nearly five years after our last sight of her, Madge was a far better dowered young woman, socially speaking, than the penniless orphaned daughter of a college professor could normally hope to be.

For when we next see her Miss Elliston is--and in no mere figurative sense--holding the center of the stage. A real stage in a real theater, under the full blaze of real footlights, and if no real audience sits on the other side of those footlights, it is no great matter, for a very real audience will sit there soon enough. On Friday night, to be exact, and this is Tuesday. To be even more exact, it is the first formal, dress rehearsal of an amateur performance of "The Beggar's Opera"

(immortal work!) organized primarily for charitable purposes by a number of prominent citizens, among them Mrs. Rudolph Scharndorst, and secondarily, if we are to give any weight to the opinion of those present at the rehearsal, for the purpose of giving scope to the talents of Mrs. Rudolph Scharndorst's niece.

For Madge is cast for the part of Polly Peachum, heroine of the piece.

And if there was originally the slightest doubt as to the wisdom of such an a.s.signment, it has vanished into thin air before now. For Madge is lovely--! It is not merely a matter of voice; there never was any doubt but that she had the best voice available for the part. What the scattered few in the dark auditorium are busy admiring now is the extraordinary charm, grace, actual beauty, even, of the girl performing before them. The more so because it is all so unattended; no one thought that she would give that effect on the stage. Of a type usually described as "attractive," slight and rather short, with hair sandy rather than golden, and a face distinguished only by a nice pair of blue eyes and a particularly ingratiating smile, Madge could not fairly be expected to turn herself into a vision of commanding beauty and charm with the slight external aids of paint and powder and a position behind a row of strong lights.

The only unimpressed and indifferent person in the theater was the coach. That was quite as it should be, of course; coaches must not exhibit bursts of enthusiasm, like common people. Yet it is perhaps worth mentioning that the coach in question made none of his frequent interruptions during the first few moments of Polly's presence on the stage, but sat silently biting his pencil and frowning in the back row of the theater till after she had finished her second song.

"One moment!" he cried, running down the aisle. "I'm going to change that song." He exchanged a few whispered remarks with the leader of the orchestra, who had charge of the musical side of the production. "All right--never mind now--go on with the act ... No, don't cross there, Mrs. Peachum; stay where you are, and Miss Elliston! what are the last words of the second line of that song?"

"'Mothers obey.'"

"All right--let's have 'em. I didn't get them that time. Go on, please."

The act continued, and admiration grew apace. When at length the act reached its close there was a faint but spontaneous outburst of applause from the almost empty theater.

"Well, what do you think of Madge?" asked Mrs. Scharndorst, waylaying the coach on his progress down the aisle.

"Oh, she'll do! There's a lot there to improve, though.--Strike for the second act--drinking scene!" This last uttered in a shout as he rushed on down to the stage. Not very fulsome praise, to be sure, but Mrs.

Scharndorst knows her man, and is satisfied. Indeed, she respects him the more for not being fulsome.

So do the other members of the cast and chorus; at least, if they do respect him, it cannot be for the enthusiasm of his approval. His demeanor, as he stands there on a chair in the orchestra pit, shouting directions to his minions, is not indicative of very profound satisfaction with the progress of the rehearsal.

"Thompson! If you're going to use your spot on Polly's entrance, for Heaven's sake keep it on her face and not on her feet! I didn't see a thing but her shoes then ... No, you there, that table way down front--so, and oh, Mrs. Smith! is that Tilman's idea of a costume for an old woman, middle cla.s.s?... I thought so ... no, I'm afraid not! That train might be quite suitable for a d.u.c.h.ess, but it won't do for a robber's wife. You see Miss Banks about it, will you please?... Mr.

Barnaby! I want to get you and Miss Elliston to go through the business of that Pretty Polly song once again--you're both as stiff as pokers still.... No, just the motions. No, stand on both feet and keep your chest out while you're singing your part, and when she comes in, 'Fondly, fondly,' you half turn round, so--so that when she falls back on your arm she'll have a chance to show more than her chin to the audience.... No, I think I'll have you wait till the encore before you kiss her--it looks flat if you do it too often, and by the bye, Mr.

Barnaby, will you make an appointment with Mrs. Adams for to-morrow to get up a dance for that prison scene--'How happy could I be with either'.... Four o'clock--all right.... What song?"

This last is in answer to an inquiry from Miss Elliston.

"Oh, of course--'Can love be controlled by advice'.... Come down here and we'll talk it over. Careful, step in the middle of that chair and you'll be all right ... there!" And Miss Elliston and the great man sit down companionably in the places belonging respectively to the oboe and the trombone, just as though they had been friends from earliest youth.

If there is one thing we despise, it is transparent roguishness on the part of an author. Let us hasten to admit, then, that the coach is none other than our friend Harry; a Harry not changed a particle, really, from his undergraduate days, though a Harry, to be sure, in whom the pa.s.sage of five years has effected certain important developments. Such, for instance, as having become able to coach an amateur production of a musical show. These will be described and accounted for, all in good time. The story cannot be everywhere at once.

"About that song ... I know nothing about music, of course, but it struck me to-night that that was rather a good tune--one of the best in the show.... It may have been the singing, of course."

"Not a bit of it--it's a ripping tune!--Let's see what the trombone part for it looks like.... There isn't any--just those little thingumbobs.

Oh, the accompaniment is all on the strings, of course; I forgot."

"Well, what I want to get at is, do you think Gay's words are up to it?"