In the Line

by Albertus T. Dudley

Wolcott was still of this opinion when the evening mail brought a letter from Aunt Emmeline. He read it, and reread it, and then read a certain portion a third time. It ran as follows:—

“Thank you so much for sending me the copy of the Literary Monthly. I had no idea that the boys could write so well. The poem by your friend Marchmont is extremely good. It reminds me so much of one written by my dear friend, Alice Codman, many years ago. It was published, I think, in the Atlantic. Every one said that she had a great poetic gift, and she certainly wrote some very sweet and beautiful poems. She died in 1870, only twenty-four years old. It was very sad that one so talented and full of promise should be taken away so early.

“How fortunate you were to meet such a nice, refined boy as Marchmont immediately after you arrived; it almost reconciles me to Seaton. Tompkins and Laughlin must be perfectly dreadful. I hope you will associate as little as possible with such underbred persons. Of course one owes it to one’s self to be polite to all classes, but one chooses one’s friends.”

The last part of this extract for some reason stirred Wolcott’s bile, in spite of the fact that he was at that moment feeling inimical to both the underbred fellows against whom his aunt warned him. He gave little attention, however, to this objectionable passage, but the reference to Miss Codman suggested several disquieting questions.

Could anything be wrong with Marchmont’s poem? Did Tompkins mean to hint that the verses published under Marchmont’s name were really not Marchmont’s? He had not said so in so many words, and his remarks, as Wolcott reviewed them, did not necessarily imply such a meaning; but the tone of contempt and blind hostility which Tompkins used in reference to Marchmont proved him capable of any mean suspicion. Could it be possible that Marchmont had used some lines of Miss Codman’s as a model for his own work? Absurd! The poem was suggested by something that he himself had seen. And then, what could he have known of Miss Codman or anything she ever wrote? He read French novels—in translations—by the dozen; but old Atlantics never! And though he might not always be fussy about the authorship of his Latin composition exercises, or the perfect accuracy of his reports, it was only because he drew a line between school authorities and the rest of the world, not because he lacked the sense of honor which a gentleman should possess. Marchmont would never steal a poem and call it his own. It was an outrage to suggest such a thing!

With four horses and a big barge on runners, the Glee and Mandolin clubs set out on their ten-mile drive to Eastham. It had required some effort on the part of the chorus master, Mr. Leighton, to obtain permission for the clubs to leave town. Such permissions were not lightly granted, and Mr. Leighton, to win his cause, had both to show that the boys deserved the favor, and to assume responsibility for them on the trip. It was a bitter cold afternoon. Monotonous leaden clouds covered the sky, and occasional flakes fell deliberately, like dilatory messengers from the storm king. But old Jim, who sat on the box muffled in his dogskin coat, opined that it would “prob’ly be about like this for a day or two,” while the boys, crowded hilarious into the long, parallel seats, had little concern for the weather that was to be. It was enough that the wind was not blowing, that the snow was not falling, and that they were slipping easily over the hard-beaten road to a lark and a show.

Two hours later, as the hungry travellers gathered round the two long tables at the Eastham inn and with united voice demanded the whole bill of fare, whatever discomfort the journey had involved was forgotten. Marchmont turned with a chuckle to Wolcott and called his attention to Laughlin, who was sitting at the opposite side of the second table, complacently waiting for his order, with napkin spread wide across his chest and tucked carefully down over his collar.

“The style at Liberty, Maine, I suppose,” he whispered.

“Waiting for a shave,” returned Wolcott, in the same vein.

Just then Laughlin looked across to the other table and caught the mocking gaze of the two fixed upon him. For an instant he stared back in unconcern, but presently, instinctively following the direction of their looks, he seemed to guess the cause of their amusement. An unmistakable flush overspread his big features as he turned with a pretence of interest to his neighbor. Wolcott also blushed and looked away in embarrassment. His mother had explained to him more than once that to notice an error of etiquette was a greater fault than to make the error. What his father would say if he were present,—in fact, had said on a similar occasion when displeased by the son’s superior airs,—he did not like to dwell upon. Marchmont, who felt no such embarrassment, enjoyed the spectacle hugely.