Richard Bradley arrived a moment later; he came at once to Lester and seated himself on the arm of his chair. “I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you, Lester,” he said.
“You haven’t been mean; you’ve been just right,” Lester answered. “And I’m glad now that every one knows. It makes me ashamed, but somehow it’s a relief. I hope you’ll think better of me sometime, Dick.”
“I think better of you now,” Richard said. “And I can tell you one thing, Lester; whether you’re elected marshal or not, you haven’t lost a single friend.”
Nevertheless, the ordeal through which Lester now had to pass was humiliating to one who had never been distinguished for the virtue of humility. He felt that wherever he went he left a trail of gossipers behind him. He knew that his fall from grace was the subject of discussion wherever two or three seniors were gathered.
The committee appointed by McKee issued a notice that the election would be held on a certain day; and in the interval before that day debate as to Lester’s availability went on almost without ceasing. David Ives and Richard Bradley declared that atonement washed away sin; they pleaded that Lester should be triumphantly reëlected first marshal—with an even larger majority than before, if possible; they pointed out that by thus honoring him the class would be recognizing not merely the athlete and popular hero, but also a fellow who had shown moral courage of a high sort. The argument was attacked; the exact details and circumstances of Lester’s crime were inquired into and brought to light. The investigators declined to exonerate him because of a belated confession. Why, they asked, should a fellow who had done a thing of which he finally had the grace to be ashamed be preferred over fellows who had never stooped to a dishonorable action.
The election was held. Farrar was chosen first marshal, Colby second, and McKee third. Lester received thirty votes out of four hundred and forty.
The election, the resignation, and the new election were not events that could escape publicity. The college newspaper contained accounts that hinted at the facts without actually giving them. Lester knew that the story would go everywhere; he wrote a detailed narrative and sent it to his father. The letter that he received in reply made him think that his family, who were those most cruelly hurt by the act, would be the last to forgive. The letter closed with the words: “Your mother and I had been planning to come on for your graduation. I don’t think now that we can bring ourselves to do it.”
There was another letter that Lester wrote, as bulky and explicit as that which he had sent to his father. It went to Ruth Davenport, at St. Timothy’s. Her reply showed a more forgiving heart; and the correspondence that followed was a thing that helped Lester in a dark time.
The other thing that helped him was his newfound earnestness in study. In former days he had given the greater part of his time to the pursuit of amusement; now during the winter months virtually the only recreation that he permitted himself was reading. When spring came he went out again for baseball; and, playing first base on the university nine, he showed more zest in the practice than he had ever exhibited before. His experiences and the reflections to which they had given rise had in a few months matured him. Some of the fellows on the nine came to look to him rather than to the captain for leadership; and he was tactful in contributing to the general efficiency of the team without infringing on the captain’s prerogative. He enjoyed playing baseball, and this year he played it with something more than enjoyment. To help the nine to win seemed to him his special responsibility; it would be part of his atonement.
He adopted Mr. Dean’s suggestion and went up to St. Timothy’s School for a Sunday. Revisiting the place had such charms for him that soon afterwards he proposed to David that they make a trip to it together.