CHAPTER XIV.
CONSEQUENCES.
Hart was one of the many who returned to Princeton by the first train. He had shaken hands so many times and had listened to so much loud talking and cheering that it had palled on him—he wished to be alone.
Before the train drew out of the station at Jersey City, he found a seat in the rear of the smoking-car next to a dusty-faced workman who carried his dinner pail on his knees and puffed at a black clay pipe. He was spelling out the evening paper very audibly.
As Hart sat down the workman pointed out the big type at the head of the printed page.
"The Tigers won," he said.
"So they did indeed," was the reply. "I heard about it." With that Hart pulled his hat over his eyes and fell to thinking.
This was the day he had waited for! Now it was over, what did it amount to? He could not recall that he had done anything very remarkable. In fact it appeared to him that he had missed most of his opportunities.
"I did my level best, though," he muttered half aloud; and with that he tried to dismiss foot-ball from his mind.
There was one thought, however, that kept coming up over and over—had she seen the game? But why should he care? He would never see those grey eyes again; what right had he to think of them at all. To-morrow morning he would have put everything behind him; he would be on his way to the West, to the dreary, flat country, to the little one-horse town, to the smell of ham and cinnamon in the store fronting the half-deserted square.
As he remembered this, he wrinkled his brows; and tried to draw a mental picture of Mabel Van Clees, with almost a prayer in his heart that the image would thrill him, or at least would comfort him. At last he succeeded, but the result was not satisfactory.
He could see Miss Van Clees standing before the bureau in the sitting-room, her weak little mouth pursed into a self-contented smile as from all angles she looked at her reflection in the glass. The large hat she had designed and trimmed herself from a picture in the Young Ladies' Gazette, set well back on her head. Hart could hear her words, "Don't you think it's dashing, Newt?" He closed his eyes; why should such a sneaking, mean little detail as the patch of powder smudged on her nose intrude itself on him, he could not tell—it was rather unfair.
Yet this was the girl he expected to marry—that he was in duty bound to marry—she loved him, of course she did; had he not kissed her and was she not jealous when he danced with other girls at the festivals? He had cared for her more than he had cared for any other girl—until the vision of some one very different had come to drive everything else out of his mind. Again he began to blame himself, as if this were some fault of his own. He struck his knees a blow with his closed fist and pulled his hat further down over his eyes.
"Hullo, old man, you look a prey to remorse. Come, smoke up and be joyful."
Newton looked quickly round as he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. It was Betts who had caught sight of him and had hurried down the aisle of the car. As he spoke, Putney extended a long cigar with a brilliant red and gold surcingle; then he struck a wax match and held it out between his thumb and finger.
Hart accepted the offering and a feeling of relief came over him as he took the first long puff.
"It's one of the Governor's best," said L. Putney. "How does it go?"
"Splendid. I 'd almost forgotten how."
"That's one of the evils of training, I dare say," Betts remarked. "But, come, brace up; the fellows are all singing up ahead here. Oh, but there are going to be times on the campus to-night. Come on!"
Half reluctantly Hart followed across the platform to the next car. It was filled with ndergraduates. How he wished with all his soul that he could join in the clamor—his appearance started the noise afresh.
"Oh, here's to 'Pop Hart,' 'Pop Hart,' 'Pop Hart'!" somebody started singing, and every one joined in.
This was followed with "We love, we love, we love our Princeton foot-ball team," in a roar of discord with one or two good voices ringing above it.
"Get gay, Pop, we don't win a championship every year!" cried Terence Golatly, running up the aisle. "By Jove, you played a great game," he added encouragingly—"sure you did."
But Hart could not "get gay." "I didn't do much," he answered. Then seeing a vacant seat he took it, and not till he sat down did he see that Heaphy was beside him.
"This is a great day for you, eh?" remarked the young-man-with-a-purpose, looking around half enviously as he extended his hand.
Hart muttered something in reply and then relapsed into silence—all at once he turned.
"I'm going to tell you something that I am not going to tell any one else," he said touching Heaphy on the arm. "I'm going to clear out to-morrow—going to leave college."
"And give it all up!" asked Heaphy in astonishment.
"Have to—please don't say anything—I'm going to pack to-night and leave first thing in the morning."
"Ah, don't do that!" exclaimed Heaphy. "Let me talk to you—er—remember what I said—if you need any—er—help."
"I've got all the money I want for a time, thank you; it isn't that," Hart answered. "It's another—strong reason.”
"Oh," said Heaphy awkwardly, "I didn't know—can I see you to-night, eh?"
"Yes, come in about ten o'clock. I'll be glad to see you. I may tell you something then, that I can't tell you now."
It was dark when the train stopped at the little station. With a rush and a cheer the crowd made for the campus. The freshmen's duty was to collect anything for a blaze, anything that would burn. The old cannon would glow red before the morning.
Hart did not join in the rush that was made for the door. He loitered behind and paid little or no attention to the many invitations addressed to him by his hoarse young classmates.
"You'll have to let me off. I've got to go into my room," he said quietly to Jimmie James, who had caught him by the sleeve. "But, good luck to you, Jimmie. Run along and chase your wood."
"We'll, see you later," said Jimmie, as he started hot foot after the rest.
Hart jumped the fence and ran across lots to Edwards Hall. Hurrying down the dingy entry, he locked the door of his room behind him. Now that he was face to face with his thoughts, and there was nothing to disturb him, he knew two things: he knew he hated to bid farewell for good and all to this new life; that it was an end to his ambition. As he thought of this with a quiver of bitter anguish, he looked at the pile of books on the little pine table—it had been a keen delight to feel that he was learning; it was a pleasure to know that his classmates looked up to him—there was even an accent of respect in this appellation, "Pop." Then as he thought of the cheers from the thousand throats that rose as he had broken through the line, he felt that pleasurable sense of self-congratulation that is not self-conceit. But it was all over—all over. A shudder shook him through and through. What was he going to do? He was going to marry a girl he did not love. But in his innocence of life he reasoned that he could grow to love her—by force of will he would make himself all this he would do his best to make her happy, come what might.
There was a great to do out on the campus; an amateur drum-corps was rattling a confused march to the accompaniment of a tin-horn band. Cheers sounded from the direction of Old North, and suddenly there arose above the shouts, a crackling that increased to a well defined roar. Through the tree-tops beyond Clio Hall Hart could see the flames of the huge bonfire tearing up against the sky; slowly the light grew and spead until the fronts of East and West Colleges glowed plain, their sombre walls tinged with a red reflection; black, hurrying figures, some carrying loads, and others merely dancing, scurried to and fro. There was excitement in the smoky atmosphere. The sharp, clear sound of a bugle rang out above the clamor.
Hart stepped to the window. The scene tempted him. He put back into his pocket the time-table showing the west-bound trains from Philadelphia, and opened the door; there was yet half an hour before the time that Heaphy said that he would call, and he could pack up his few belongings afterwards.
As he turned to lower the gas he noticed something on the door-sill; he picked it up; it was a telegram addressed to him. As he tore it open his heart was beating wildly, although he knew not why. The words seemed to speak out loud to him, startling and clear; but, strange to say, without at first a meaning. He read them gasping; then he closed the door softly and sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the bit of flimsy paper in his shaking fingers. He read the words again:
"Bad news. M. ran off with S. T. Saunders, of Snood & Co., last night. Mother and me heart broke. Will write.
Now he knew what it meant he was free! He felt as if he had received a blow a blow that he could not return; yet no rage at being robbed grew within him.
The cheering and shouts waxed louder, but Hart did not hear them. So complex were his feelings that a thought uppermost one moment would be pushed out by another the next; the blood went in surges through his veins; a pain came through his temples. To a healthy man in this condition physical movement is an absolute necessity. The body strives to restore an equilibrium; the nerves are tense; to remain inactive long is agony.
He twisted the telegram into bits, and with an inarticulate sound, half groan, half curse, he leaped to his feet. Picking up his hat he ran from the room, leaving the gas burning and the door wide open.
Full tilt he made for the wild scene about the cannon. Two little freshmen were staggering along, trundling a wheel-barrow loaded down with a huge packing box filled with straw and kindling-wood.
"Let me!" Hart cried, and pushing both aside he grasped the handles. Dashing through the ring about the fire, he ran the barrow and its load deep into the flames!
Immediately the fierce heat drove him back, but a cheer went up and the sound of his name echoed from the buildings.