Eugene soon learned from one of the students that this really
was Mr. Boyle. The young Irish girl had gone behind the screen.
Eugene could see partially, from where he was sitting, that she was
disrobing. It shocked him a little, but he kept his courage and his
countenance because of the presence of so many others. He turned a
chair upside down as he saw the others do, and sat down on a stool.
His charcoal was lying in a little box beside him. He straightened
his paper on its board and fidgeted, keeping as still as he could.
Some of the students were talking. Suddenly he saw the girl divest
herself of a thin, gauze shirt, and the next moment she came out,
naked and composed, to step upon the platform and stand perfectly
erect, her arms by her side, her head thrown back. Eugene tingled
and blushed and was almost afraid to look directly at her. Then he
took a stick of charcoal and began sketching feebly, attempting to
convey something of this personality and this pose to paper. It
seemed a wonderful thing for him to be doing—to be in this room, to
see this girl posing so; in short, to be an art student. So this
was what it was, a world absolutely different from anything he had
ever known. And he was self-called to be a member of it.
It was after he had decided to enter the art class that Eugene
paid his first visit to his family. Though they were only a hundred
miles away, he had never felt like going back, even at Christmas.
Now it seemed to him he had something definite to proclaim. He was
going to be an artist; and as to his work, he was getting along
well in that. Mr. Mitchly appeared to like him. It was to Mr.
Mitchly that he reported daily with his collections and his
unsatisfied bills. The collections were checked up by Mr. Mitchly
with the cash, and the unpaid bills certified. Sometimes Eugene
made a mistake, having too much or too little, but the "too much"
was always credited against the "too little," so that in the main
he came out even. In money matters there was no tendency on
Eugene's part to be dishonest. He thought of lots of things he
wanted, but he was fairly well content to wait and come by them
legitimately. It was this note in him that appealed to Mitchly. He
thought that possibly something could be made of Eugene in a trade
way.
He left the Friday night preceding Labor Day, the first Monday
in September, which was a holiday throughout the city. He had told
Mr. Mitchly that he thought of leaving Saturday after work for over
Sunday and Monday, but Mr. Mitchly suggested that he might double
up his Saturday's work with Thursday's and Friday's if he wished,
and go Friday evening.
"Saturday's a short day, anyhow," he said. "That would give
three days at home and still you wouldn't be behind in your
work."
Eugene thanked his employer and did as suggested. He packed his
bag with the best he had in the way of clothes, and journeyed
homeward, wondering how he would find things. How different it all
was! Stella was gone. His youthful unsophistication had passed. He
could go home as a city man with some prospects. He had no idea of
how boyish he looked—how much the idealist he was—how far removed
from hard, practical judgment which the world values so highly.
When the train reached Alexandria, his father and Myrtle and
Sylvia were at the depot to greet him—the latter with her two year
old son. They had all come down in the family carryall, which left
one seat for Eugene. He greeted them warmly and received their
encomiums on his looks with a befitting sense of humility.
"You're bigger," his father exclaimed. "You're going to be a
tall man after all, Eugene. I was afraid you had stopped
growing."
"I hadn't noticed that I had grown any," said Eugene.
"Ah, yes," put in Myrtle. "You're much bigger, Gene. It makes
you look a little thinner. Are you good and strong?"
"I ought to be," laughed Eugene. "I walk about fifteen or twenty
miles a day, and I'm out in the air all the time. If I don't get
strong now I never will."
Sylvia asked him about his "stomach trouble." About the same, he
told her. Sometimes he thought it was better, sometimes worse. A
doctor had told him to drink hot water in the morning but he didn't
like to do it. It was so hard to swallow the stuff.
While they were talking, asking questions, they reached the
front gate of the house, and Mrs. Witla came out on the front
porch. Eugene, at sight of her in the late dusk, jumped over the
front wheel and ran to meet her.
"Little ma," he exclaimed. "Didn't expect me back so soon, did
you?"
"So soon," she said, her arms around his neck. Then she held him
so, quite still for a few moments. "You're getting to be a big
man," she said when she released him.
He went into the old sitting room and looked around. It was all
quite the same—no change. There were the same books, the same
table, the same chairs, the same pulley lamp hanging from the
center of the ceiling. In the parlor there was nothing new, nor in
the bed rooms or the kitchen. His mother looked a little older—his
father not. Sylvia had changed greatly—being slightly "peaked" in
the face compared to her former plumpness; it was due to
motherhood, he thought. Myrtle seemed a little more calm and happy.
She had a real "steady" now, Frank Bangs, the superintendent of the
local furniture factory. He was quite young, good-looking, going to
be well-off some day, so they thought. "Old Bill," one of the big
horses, had been sold. Rover, one of the two collies, was dead.
Jake the cat had been killed in a night brawl somewhere.
Somehow, as Eugene stood in the kitchen watching his mother fry
a big steak and make biscuits and gravy in honor of his coming, he
felt that he did not belong to this world any more. It was smaller,
narrower than he had ever thought. The town had seemed smaller as
he had come through its streets, the houses too; and yet it was
nice. The yards were sweet and simple, but countrified. His father,
running a sewing machine business, seemed tremendously limited. He
had a country or small town mind. It struck Eugene as curious now,
that they had never had a piano. And Myrtle liked music, too. As
for himself, he had learned that he was passionately fond of it.
There were organ recitals in the Central Music Hall, of Chicago, on
Tuesday and Friday afternoons, and he had managed to attend some
after his work. There were great preachers like Prof. Swing and the
Rev. H. W. Thomas and the Rev. F. W. Gunsaulus and Prof. Saltus,
liberal thinkers all, whose public services in the city were always
accompanied by lovely music. Eugene had found all these men and
their services in his search for life and to avoid being lonely.
Now they had taught him that his old world was no world at all. It
was a small town. He would never come to this any more.
After a sound night's rest in his old room he went down the next
day to see Mr. Caleb Williams at the
Appeal
office, and
Mr. Burgess, and Jonas Lyle, and John Summers. As he went, on the
court house square he met Ed Mitchell and George Taps and Will
Groniger, and four or five others whom he had known in school. From
them he learned how things were. It appeared that George Anderson
had married a local girl and was in Chicago, working out in the
stock yards. Ed Waterbury had gone to San Francisco. The pretty
Sampson girl, Bessie Sampson, who had once gone with Ted Martinwood
so much, had run away with a man from Anderson, Indiana. There had
been a lot of talk about it at the time. Eugene listened.
It all seemed less, though, than the new world that he had
entered. Of these fellows none knew the visions that were now
surging in his brain. Paris—no less—and New York—by what far route
he could scarcely tell. And Will Groniger had got to be a baggage
clerk at one of the two depots and was proud of it. Good
Heavens!
At the office of the
Appeal
things were unchanged.
Somehow Eugene had had the feeling that two years would make a lot
of difference, whereas the difference was in him only. He was the
one who had undergone cataclysmic changes. He had a been a stove
polisher, a real estate assistant, a driver and a collector. He had
known Margaret Duff, and Mr. Redwood, of the laundry, and Mr.
Mitchly. The great city had dawned on him; Verestchagin, and
Bouguereau, and the Art Institute. He was going on at one pace, the
town was moving at another one—a slower, but quite as fast as it
had ever gone.
Caleb Williams was there, skipping about as of yore, cheerful,
communicative, interested. "I'm glad to see you back, Eugene," he
declared, fixing him with the one good eye which watered. "I'm glad
you're getting along—that's fine. Going to be an artist, eh? Well,
I think that's what you were cut out for. I wouldn't advise every
young fellow to go to Chicago, but that's where you belong. If it
wasn't for my wife and three children I never would have left it.
When you get a wife and family though—" he paused and shook his
head. "I gad! You got to do the best you can." Then he went to look
up some missing copy.
Jonas Lyle was as portly, phlegmatic and philosophic as ever. He
greeted Eugene with a solemn eye in which there was inquiry. "Well,
how is it?" he asked.
Eugene smiled. "Oh, pretty good."
"Not going to be a printer, then?"
"No, I think not."
"Well, it's just as well, there're an awful lot of them."
While they were talking John Summers sidled up.
"How are you, Mr. Witla?" he inquired.
Eugene looked at him. John was certainly marked for the grave in
the near future. He was thinner, of a bluish-grey color, bent at
the shoulders.
"Why, I'm fine, Mr. Summers," Eugene said.
"I'm not so good," said the old printer. He tapped his chest
significantly. "This thing's getting the best of me."
"Don't you believe it," put in Lyle. "John's always gloomy. He's
just as good as ever. I tell him he'll live twenty years yet."
"No, no," said Summers, shaking his head, "I know."
He left after a bit to "go across the street," his customary
drinking excuse.
"He can't last another year," Lyle observed the moment the door
was closed. "Burgess only keeps him because it would be a shame to
turn him out. But he's done for."
"Anyone can see that," said Eugene. "He looks terrible."
So they talked.
At noon he went home. Myrtle announced that he was to come with
her and Mr. Bangs to a party that evening. There were going to be
games and refreshments. It never occurred to him that in this town
there had never been dancing among the boys and girls he moved
with, and scarcely any music. People did not have pianos—or at
least only a few of them.
After supper Mr. Bangs called, and the three of them went to a
typical small town party. It was not much different from the ones
Eugene had attended with Stella, except that the participants were,
in the main, just that much older. Two years make a great deal of
difference in youth. There were some twenty-two young men and women
all crowded into three fair sized rooms and on a porch, the windows
and doors leading to which were open. Outside were brown grass and
some autumn flowers. Early crickets were chirping, and there were
late fire-flies. It was warm and pleasant.
The opening efforts to be sociable were a little stiff. There
were introductions all around, much smart badinage among town
dandies, for most of them were here. There were a number of new
faces—girls who had moved in from other towns or blossomed into
maturity since Eugene had left.
"If you'll marry me, Madge, I'll buy you a nice new pair of seal
skin earrings," he heard one of the young bloods remark.
Eugene smiled, and the girl laughed back. "He always thinks he's
so cute."
It was almost impossible for Eugene to break through the opening
sense of reserve which clogged his actions at everything in the way
of social diversion. He was a little nervous because he was afraid
of criticism. That was his vanity and deep egotism. He stood about,
trying to get into the swing of the thing with a bright remark or
two. Just as he was beginning to bubble, a girl came in from one of
the other rooms. Eugene had not met her. She was with his
prospective brother-in-law, Bangs, and was laughing in a sweet,
joyous way which arrested his attention. She was dressed in white,
he noticed, with a band of golden brown ribbon pulled through the
loops above the flounces at the bottom of her dress. Her hair was a
wonderful ashen yellow, a great mass of it—and laid in big, thick
braids above her forehead and ears. Her nose was straight, her lips
were thin and red, her cheek-bones faintly but curiously
noticeable. Somehow there was a sense of distinction about her—a
faint aroma of personality which Eugene did not understand. It
appealed to him.
Bangs brought her over. He was a tight, smiling youth, as sound
as oak, as clear as good water.
"Here's Miss Blue, Eugene. She's from up in Wisconsin, and comes
down to Chicago occasionally. I told her you ought to know her. You
might meet up there sometime."
"Say, but that's good luck, isn't it?" smiled Eugene. "I'm sure
I'm glad to know you. What part of Wisconsin do you come from?"
"Blackwood," she laughed, her greenish-blue eyes dancing.
"Her hair is yellow, her eyes are blue, and she comes from
Blackwood," commented Bangs. "How's that?" His big mouth, with its
even teeth, was wide with a smile.
"You left out the blue name and the white dress. She ought to
wear white all the time."
"Oh, it does harmonize with my name, doesn't it?" she cried. "At
home I do wear white mostly. You see I'm just a country girl, and I
make most of my things."
"Did you make that?" asked Eugene.
"Of course I did."
Bangs moved away a little, looking at her as if critically.
"Well, that's really pretty," he pronounced.
"Mr. Bangs is such a flatterer," she smiled at Eugene. "He
doesn't mean any thing he says. He just tells me one thing after
another."
"He's right," said Eugene. "I agree as to the dress, and it fits
the hair wonderfully."
"You see, he's lost, too," laughed Bangs. "That's the way they
all do. Well, I'm going to leave you two. I've got to get back. I
left your sister in the hands of a rival of mine."
Eugene turned to this girl and laughed his reserved laugh. "I
was just thinking what was going to become of me. I've been away
for two years, and I've lost track of some of these people."
"I'm worse yet. I've only been here two weeks and I scarcely
know anybody. Mrs. King takes me around everywhere, but it's all so
new I can't get hold of it. I think Alexandria is lovely."
"It is nice. I suppose you've been out on the lakes?"
"Oh, yes. We've fished and rowed and camped. I have had a lovely
time but I have to go back tomorrow."
"Do you?" said Eugene. "Why I do too. I'm going to take the
four-fifteen."
"So am I!" she laughed. "Perhaps we can go together."
"Why, certainly. That's fine. I thought I'd have to go back
alone. I only came down for over Sunday. I've been working up in
Chicago."