Re-Graduation

A Romance of this June and a June of Long Ago

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

IT all came about through a letter from Ted Emerson, my collegiate nephew, received a few days ago.

"Dear Unk," he began familiarly,—"Why not run up to the old elms of Alma Mater for a sabbatical spree this June? Rough-house Rabbie, the Room-mate, is reducing his great carcass at New London. You can have his bed and renew your youth by not sleeping in it. I'll make you an honorary member of the Young Mohawks who beat the watch and tip old ladies over in their Sedan-chairs. We'll see a lot of each other,—you and I together. Love. Come on—

IED."

Dear understanding boy! Our relationship had always been delightfully fraternal, nay, more than fraternal,—a spiritual bridge between two generations which have never been far apart, for he is a mature boy for his twenty years, while I flatter myself that I am an exceptionally snappy uncle for my two score. Our minds have always met as comrades, his college-room has been my refuge, and my town apartment a convenient parking place for his battered suit-case. Occasionally I receive mail addressed to him, lovely scented missives on lavender paper which I duly forward in discreet envelopes bearing my office-address. I do not think his parents quite approve of our intimacy, but there!—why drag in family matters.

I read his letter with a thrill of joy. Never had his understanding mind acted at a more psychological moment. He seemed to know instinctively how completely fed-up I was with the complexities of city life, how restless, how much in need of a change.

New Y'ork is a paradise in early spring. There is a freshness in the air, a bloom of colour on the streets and a general sense of elation in living. It is a magnificent summer resort in the later months with its cool roofgardens, gay shows and opulent, ungirdled luxuriance. But in June one is stale and dissatisfied. One longs for gardens, open country and moonlight under brooding trees.

I answered Ted's missive by wire.

"Your proposition interests me. Arrive Thursday P. M. 6 :30. It will be great to see vou. Unk."

The College Room Revisited

IT was a glorious day, blue and gold, with argosies of white clouds steering their squadrons over quadrangle and tower, when I turned into the familiar archway and, on the second trial, found his entry. "Emerson, T. C. '20," I deciphered in the framed directory.

His room was on the fourth floor, and I started my climb valiantly. Something about climbing those stairs wrought a remarkable change in me. It was so long since I had done anything of the sort. It has that freshness of re-doing something we have done habitually long, long ago; something we have entirely forgotten about.

Remembering has a charm much deeper than novelty. Little by little in my life in the city of sky-scraping apartments and office buildings, I had forgotten that there were such things as stairs. And now with every step, arduous though they were, the years slipped from me and I reached the fourth landing, breathless, but young. Had I not always lived on fourth floors? Marvellous adaptability of human nature! I was not even surprised to see a message, scrawled with my name, pinned to the door. Ted was out, of course.

"Dear Unk," I read,—"Have motored out to Old Hugh's for a Beta meeting. You know, secret stuff. Make yourself at home. Your room is in perfect order. Back early. T."

The door, yielding to my touch, let me into an environment that seemed in all its details, to embrace me with a great surge of remembrance. Flags, crew and team pictures, steins, books—Balzac and Hadley's Greek Grammar, —the Morris-chair with cigarette-burned arms, the disheveled window seat and ash-strewn table—all cried "Welcome," and I was at home. A pale vision of Saki, my meticulous Jap, passed like a wraith before my eyes, occasioning only mild amusement. And my room, erstwhile occupied by Robbie, verily was in perfect order! A kit-bag, on its side, disgorged evening clothes and mingled garments plainly unessential to a number 4 in the varsity boat. The bed evidently made up by a typhoon, was, except for a bag of golf-clubs, unoccupied.

In an instant I had reverted to type. Tossing the clubs into a comer I stretched out on the disordered couch and closed my eyes. Gone, the past decades of middle life, and the boredom of business! Gone, responsibilities, and the care for the morrow. I was a Senior! a great and glorious personage; tomorrow I was to graduate. The world was befbre me.

Revery

AND the particular world about me, into which I had slipped as in a vivid dream, was humming with a hundred blended, wellloved noises. The ether throbbed like a seashell with unforgotten sounds. Mandolins, banjos and guitars tinkled and plunked in strenuous practice for tomorrow-night's concert,—doors slammed and feet clicked on the tile corridors, wailing voices from the walks below hallo-ed to upper windows,—"Oo! Emerson! Oh, you Emmy!",—then silence, and steps passing on.

"He's out." I murmured, subconsciously grateful. The hour was too rare, too precious and sacred to be disturbed. Even the presence of my nephew-

Stealing to the window I looked out. Golden bars lay across the Campus, glorifying the surrounding medley of architecture. Between pools of shadow and sunlight passed my boyhood. There were Tom and Ned and Billy,— my best friends, singing as of yore,—the same tunes,—the same harmonies,—always the diminished-seventh' in the same place,—and the same ending, "the Episcopalian Amen," we used to call it. And there was Hammil, King Hammil the big tackle! Alone he strode, as usual, looming like a demi-god in the twilight. And there was Mary!—who was that with her?

A cap, someone's,—Robbie's probably, lay on the table. Pulling it over my eyes, I clattered down the stair-way. I would see Ted later, but now I must plunge into the past.

O, the fragrance of the grass, and the first cool breath of night! the dark shadows of the elms and the bright squares of yellow light in the windows, each my own picture; the grind plugging at his desk under a green shade, the mandolin-player cocked up on the window seat tinkling his serenade to the after-glow; a boy dressing, stripped to the waist, white and slender, then pulling on his shirt with amazing dexterity—going to a dance evidently,— the senior prom, of course. And I should go, too, but later. First one must dine.

Plodding through shaded streets I passed houses decked with banners, dimly announcing the headquarters of reunion classes. Mine, thank fortune, was not among them—we had had our Quindecennial a year ago. In bright patches of light before open doorways I saw men whom I knew, gay in class hat-bands and blazers, but with my borrowed cap pulled over my eyes, they recognized me not. This was a solitary pilgrimage. I was an undergraduate.

What a dinner I had! Of course, I found the little white house just where it should have been,—a block beyond the gym and half a block over. Who said it had changed? Nonsense! The tobys still hung from the pegs, the round table-tops, carved with a thousand initials, still decorated the walls, shields of warriors in the temple of Bacchus, the old smell of the place was there, and the rocking din and vibration of tense, youthful exuberance.

A vacant seat at a gathering of Juniors made me one of them. I was absorbed, swallowed up, submerged—aided by plentiful if unlawful libation, resurrected to new life, talked to, sung at and, at the conclusion of a spirited solo of my own, cheered. Aye,— cheered ! My exact identity was never a subject of inquiry. I was "Old Top," "Pop," "Gun-metal,"—anything but myself. Decidedly, I was not myself

As for my nephew, I had never had a nephew. Once, I believe, I heard his name mentioned. A voice said "Did you see Emerson after lunch today?", and another voice replied "Did I see him? Oh, boy!"

But it was all vague, and, vaguely, I rather hoped I shouldn't see him,—just then.

Walking on air we strolled forth to an unknown destination. Presently a high-walled building with great windows alight loomed before us. Divine music poured from within. Divine youth, exquisite gossamer girls, gallant boys, thronged beneath the entrance awning. It was the Senior Prom.

Mary and the "False Bleu"

ADJOINING the Gothic hall was a ghostly tent within which I caught glimpses of strolling couples, waiters, camp chairs, swinging lanterns. Youth, youth,—ever and always, youth!

How I found my old corner in the little tower-stair, the corner so eagerly sought by all of us, I do not know. Why I was admitted, how I got there is a mystery. But there I was, —and there, as I knew she would, Mary found me. She did not come at first. It seemed a long time. The music sounded far away; they were playing the old "Valse Bleu." I may have nodded a little. And then, there she was.

I felt rather than heard a faint sigh and the soft rustic of her dress and she was sitting beside me in the black shadow of the stairway. "Mary," my heart said, and her sombre eyes answered silently. And then, as if it were the only thing to do, we stood up together at the little window and looked out at the dim lantem-glow of the tent, the black shadows and the silver shield of the moon, silent, motionless, in intense pain and longing. Memories, cruel and scourging, burned in my heart.

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"Speak," they cried. "You were silent before. Speak, now, before it is too late."

I tried to frame the unspeakable. If she would only look at me again! But fear held her; I could only search her profile, breathlessly marking every unforgotten line, while the moon rained arrows of pain into my soul. And then, the music burst into our aura of suffering and she turned, with a little sigh. Another dance was beginning. It was taken. Someone was coming toward the stairway—She moved irresolutely.—

"Mary," I cried, in agony.

My nephew's room was exactly as I had left it when I stumbled up the stairs and seized my dress-suit case. That rascal Ted had not been near it. Over the eastern towers lay a band of berylgreen. As I toiled to the station, and the city-bound train, the birds still slept in the elms, and the empty streets echoed to my solitary tread.

A week later I received a note from Ted, written as badly as only a collegeboy can write. And I answered it in kind. We were both "terribly sorry to have missed each other."

Good old Ted. I knew he lied,—and he knew I did.