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Authors: Stephen Crane

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The Complete Works of Stephen Crane

BOOK: The Complete Works of Stephen Crane
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Table of Contents
The Complete Works of Stephen Crane





MARJORY walked pensively along the hall. In the cool shadows made by the palms on the window ledge, her face wore the expression of thoughtful melancholy expected on the faces of the devotees who pace in cloistered gloom. She halted before a door at the end of the hall and laid her hand on the knob. She stood hesitating, her head bowed. It was evident that this mission was to require great fortitude.

At last she opened the door. “Father,” she began at once. There was disclosed an elderly, narrow-faced man seated at a large table and surrounded by manuscripts and books. The sunlight flowing through curtains of Turkey red fell sanguinely upon the bust of dead-eyed Pericles on the mantle. A little clock was ticking, hidden somewhere among the countless leaves of writing, the maps and broad heavy tomes that swarmed upon the table.

Her father looked up quickly with an ogreish scowl. “Go away!” he cried in a rage. “Go away. Go away. Get out!” He seemed on the point of arising to eject the visitor. It was plain to her that he had been interrupted in the writing of one of his sentences, ponderous, solemn and endless, in which wandered multitudes of homeless and friendless prepositions, adjectives looking for a parent, and quarrelling nouns, sentences which no longer symbolised the language-form of thought but which had about them a quaint aroma from the dens of long-dead scholars. “Get out,” snarled the professor.

“Father,” faltered the girl. Either because his formulated thought was now completely knocked out of his mind by his own emphasis in defending it, or because he detected something of portent in her expression, his manner suddenly changed, and with a petulant glance at his writing he laid down his pen and sank back in his chair to listen. “Well, what is it, my child?”

The girl took a chair near the window and gazed out upon the snow-stricken campus, where at the moment a group of students returning from a class room were festively hurling snow-balls. “I’ve got something important to tell you, father,” said she, “but I don’t quite know how to say it.”

“Something important?” repeated the professor. He was not habitually interested in the affairs of his family, but this proclamation that something important could be connected with them, filled his mind with a capricious interest. “Well, what is it, Marjory?”

She replied calmly: “Rufus Coleman wants to marry me.”

“What?” demanded the professor loudly. “Rufus Coleman. What do you mean?”

The girl glanced furtively at him. She did not seem to be able to frame a suitable sentence.

As for the professor, he had, like all men both thoughtless and thoughtful, told himself that one day his daughter would come to him with a tale of this kind. He had never forgotten that the little girl was to be a woman, and he had never forgotten that this tall, lithe creature, the present Marjory, was a woman. He had been entranced and confident or entranced and apprehensive according to the time. A man focussed upon astronomy, the pig market or social progression, may nevertheless have a secondary mind which hovers like a spirit over his dahlia tubers and dreams upon the mystery of their slow and tender revelations. The professor’s secondary mind had dwelt always with his daughter and watched with a faith and delight the changing to a woman of a certain fat and mumbling babe. However, he now saw this machine, this self-sustaining, self-operative love, which had run with the ease of a clock, suddenly crumble to ashes and leave the mind of a great scholar staring at a calamity. “Rufus Coleman,” he repeated, stunned. Here was his daughter, very obviously desirous of marrying Rufus Coleman. “Marjory,” he cried in amazement and fear, “what possesses you? Marry Rufus Coleman?”

The girl seemed to feel a strong sense of relief at his prompt recognition of a fact. Being freed from the necessity of making a flat declaration, she simply hung her head and blushed impressively. A hush fell upon them. The professor stared long at his daughter. The shadow of unhappiness deepened upon his face. “Marjory, Marjory,” he murmured at last. He had tramped heroically upon his panic and devoted his strength to bringing thought into some kind of attitude toward this terrible fact.

I am — I am surprised,” he began. Fixing her then with a stern eye, he asked: “Why do you wish to marry this man? You, with your opportunities of meeting persons of intelligence. And you want to marry—” His voice grew tragic. “You want to marry the Sunday editor of the
New York Eclipse

“It is not so very terrible, is it?” said Marjory sullenly.

“Wait a moment; don’t talk,” cried the professor. He arose and walked nervously to and fro, his hands flying in the air. He was very red behind the ears as when in the class-room some student offended him. “A gambler, a sporter of fine clothes, an expert on champagne, a polite loafer, a witness knave who edits the Sunday edition of a great outrage upon our sensibilities. You want to marry him, this man? Marjory, you are insane. This fraud who asserts that his work is intelligent, this fool comes here to my house and—”

He became aware that his daughter was regarding him coldly. “I thought we had best have all this part of it over at once,” she remarked.

He confronted her in a new kind of surprise. The little keen-eyed professor was at this time imperial, on the verge of a majestic outburst. “Be still,” he said. “Don’t be clever with your father. Don’t be a dodger. Or, if you are, don’t speak of it to me. I suppose this fine young man expects to see me personally?”

“He was coming to-morrow,” replied Marjory. She began to weep. “He was coming to-morrow.”

“Um,” said the professor. He continued his pacing while Marjory wept with her head bowed to the arm of the chair. His brow made the three dark vertical crevices well known to his students. Sometimes he glowered murderously at the photographs of ancient temples which adorned the walls. “My poor child,” he said once, as he paused near her, “to think I never knew you were a fool. I have been deluding myself. It has been my fault as much as it has been yours. I will not readily forgive myself.”

The girl raised her face and looked at him. Finally, resolved to disregard the dishevelment wrought by tears, she presented a desperate front with her wet eyes and flushed cheeks. Her hair was disarrayed. “I don’t see why you can call me a fool,” she said. The pause before this sentence had been so portentous of a wild and rebellious speech that the professor almost laughed now. But still the father for the first time knew that he was being undauntedly faced by his child in his own library, in the presence of 372 pages of the book that was to be his masterpiece. At the back of his mind he felt a great awe as if his own youthful spirit had come from the past and challenged him with a glance. For a moment he was almost a defeated man. He dropped into a chair. “Does your mother know of this?” he asked mournfully.

“Yes,” replied the girl. “She knows. She has been trying to make me give up Rufus.”

“Rufus,” cried the professor rejuvenated by anger.

“Well, his name is Rufus,” said the girl.

“But please don’t call him so before me,” said the father with icy dignity. “I do not recognise him as being named Rufus. That is a contention of yours which does not arouse my interest. I know him very well as a gambler and a drunkard, and if incidentally, he is named Rufus, I fail to see any importance to it.”

“He is not a gambler and he is not a drunkard,” she said.

“Um. He drinks heavily — that is well known.

He gambles. He plays cards for money — more than he possesses — at least he did when he was in college.”

“You said you liked him when he was in college.”

“So I did. So I did,” answered the professor sharply. “I often find myself liking that kind of a boy in college. Don’t I know them — those lads with their beer and their poker games in the dead of the night with a towel hung over the keyhole. Their habits are often vicious enough, but something remains in them through it all and they may go away and do great things. This happens. We know it. It happens with confusing insistence. It destroys theories. There — there isn’t much to say about it. And sometimes we like this kind of a boy better than we do the — the others. For my part I know of many a pure, pious and fine-minded student that I have positively loathed from a personal point-of-view. But,” he added, “this Rufus Coleman, his life in college and his life since, go to prove how often we get off the track. There is no gauge of collegiate conduct whatever, until we can get evidence of the man’s work in the world. Your precious scoundrel’s evidence is now all in and he is a failure, or worse.”

“You are not habitually so fierce in judging people,” said the girl.

“I would be if they all wanted to marry my daughter,” rejoined the professor. “Rather than let that man make love to you — or even be within a short railway journey of you, I’ll cart you off to Europe this winter and keep you there until you forget. If you persist in this silly fancy, I shall at once become medieval.”

Marjory had evidently recovered much of her composure. “Yes, father, new climates are always supposed to cure one,” she remarked with a kind of lightness.

“It isn’t so much the old expedient,” said the professor musingly, “as it is that I would be afraid to leave you here with no protection against that drinking gambler and gambling drunkard.”

“Father, I have to ask you not to use such terms in speaking of the man that I shall marry.”

There was a silence. To all intents, the professor remained unmoved. He smote the tips of his fingers thoughtfully together. “Ye — es,” he observed. “That sounds reasonable from your standpoint.” His eyes studied her face in a long and steady glance. He arose and went into the hall. When he returned he wore his hat and great coat. He took a book and some papers from the table and went away.

Marjory walked slowly through the halls and up to her room. From a window she could see her father making his way across the campus labouriously against the wind and whirling snow. She watched it, this little black figure, bent forward, patient, steadfast. It was an inferior fact that her father was one of the famous scholars of the generation. To her, he was now a little old man facing the wintry winds. Recollecting herself and Rufus Coleman she began to weep again, wailing amid the ruins of her tumbled hopes. Her skies had turned to paper and her trees were mere bits of green sponge. But amid all this woe appeared the little black image of her father making its way against the storm.

BOOK: The Complete Works of Stephen Crane
3.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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