That hazy, dreamy atmosphere, how well I remember it. The memory of that walk makes my heart beat with much of its youthful buoyancy. Under the exhilarating influence of the day, and our unexpected freedom, we ran, laughed, shouted—appearing, as we really were, a company of grown-up school-boys. I remember Harry Gilmore’s mirthful tone as we pelted him with chestnuts, and how Wright forgot his dignity when we covered his hat and shoulders with red and yellow leaves.
After visiting a gallery of paintings, which was the ostensible object of the excursion, and which we all expressed ourselves as sorry to leave, Stevens invited us to step into a restaurant for refreshment. Wright and Gilmore left us to make a call, but the remainder of the party entered the saloon.
When seated in an elegant room, we were soon supplied with tempting viands. Not satisfied with a lavish profusion of fruits, cakes, and ices, Stevens rang for the waiter, to whom he gave orders in an undertone, the nature of which was evident from the speedy appearance of glasses and bottles.
“Now to the health of the company: may the shadow of each never be less,” said Stevens, filling his glass. There was a burst of applause, and I looked around the table, hoping to find at least one representative of total abstinence; but with the exception of my own, every glass was drained.
“How is this?” said Stevens, eyeing me keenly; “afraid or unwilling to pledge me in a glass of wine?” All eyes were turned upon me, and I felt the blood recede from my face.
“I am afraid, Stevens. I saw a student carried to his room the other night. If I take a glass now, who knows but I may one day be found in a like situation?”
We walked back more quietly than we went. The sun had set, and a vaporous veil of golden haze had floated off into the purple twilight, and the watching stars came out one by one, with a dim, subdued light, only seen on such autumnal nights. Stevens, who was my companion in spite of my not joining him in the wine, was in a contemplative mood.
“I don’t approve,” he said, “of wine, tobacco, or any thing of the kind, and very often I make up my mind never to touch them again; especially did I the other night when I saw Darcy in such a state.”
“It is the only safe course,” I answered.
“I know it,” he said earnestly, “and I like you all the better for not touching it. I only ordered it for fear there were some who would think it mean; ‘nothing to drink,’ as they say.”