The Gentleman from Indiana - Page 17/212

But he had remembered--it was Commencement. To-day, a thousand miles to

the east, a company of grave young gentlemen sat in semi-circular rows

before a central altar, while above them rose many tiers of mothers and

sisters and sweethearts, listening to the final word. He could see it all

very clearly: the lines of freshly shaven, boyish faces, the dainty gowns,

the flowers and bright eyes above, and the light that filtered in through

stained glass to fall softly over them all, with, here and there, a vivid

splash of color, Gothic shaped. He could see the throngs of white-clad

loungers under the elms without, under-classmen, bored by the Latin

addresses and escaped to the sward and breeze of the campus; there were

the troops of roistering graduates trotting about arm in arm, and singing;

he heard the mandolins on the little balconies play an old refrain and

the university cheering afterward; saw the old professor he had cared for

most of all, with the thin white hair straggling over his silken hood,

following the band in the sparse ranks of his class. And he saw his own

Commencement Day--and the station at the junction where he stood the

morning after, looking across the valley at the old towers for the last

time; saw the broken groups of his class, standing upon the platform on

the other side of the tracks, waiting for the south-bound train as he and

others waited for the north-bound--and they all sang "Should auld

acquaintance be forgot;" and, while they looked across at each other,

singing, the shining rails between them wavered and blurred as the engine

rushed in and separated them and their lives thenceforth. He filled his

pipe again and spoke to the phantoms gliding over the dust--"Seven years!"

He was occupied with the realization that there had been a man in his

class whose ambition needed no restraint, his promise was so complete--in

the strong belief of the university, a belief he could not help knowing--

and that seven years to a day from his Commencement this man was sitting

on a fence rail in Indiana.

Down the road a buggy came creaking toward him, gray with dust, the top

canted permanently to one side, old and frayed, like the fat, shaggy, gray

mare that drew it; her unchecked, despondent head lowering before her,

while her incongruous tail waved incessantly, like the banner of a

storming party. The editor did not hear the flop of the mare's feet nor

the sound of the wheels, so deep was his reverie, till the vehicle was

nearly opposite him. The red-faced and perspiring driver drew rein, and

the journalist looked up and waved a long white hand to him in greeting.

"Howdy' do, Mr. Harkless?" called the man in the buggy. "Soakin' in the

weather?" He spoke in shouts, though neither was hard of hearing.