Part 8

After his graduation from high school Jim entered his father’s store. It had been decided that John was to go to college and he left the following autumn. Jim, robbed of the old companionship, felt his isolation more than ever before in his life. He wanted something, he hardly knew what. It seemed to him that life was cheating him, but he looked in vain for understanding from the boys and girls with whom he had grown up. Occasional enthusiastic letters from John in which college life was described to the stay-at-home, not without a note of condescension, added to Jim’s dissatisfaction and unrest.

* * * * *

One day, about a month after John’s departure to attend college, a young widow of the town, Mrs. Johnson, whom Jim had often seen on the street and admired for her brilliant coloring and dashing though somewhat overdressed appearance, came into Mr. Sprague’s hardware store. She wished to order some gas fittings for her house, which was being remodeled. Jim had heard laughing references to her powers as a siren and these remarks were of a nature that reflected rather darkly on her moral conduct, so when he went forward to wait on her it was with some inward trepidation.

He advised her to choose plain square brass brackets which he thought much prettier than the ornate scrolled gilt ones which she seemed to prefer. She hesitated and then looked up at him.

“Well, if _you_ think these are prettier, I’ll take them. Please have them sent around to the house this afternoon, for the plumbers are coming tomorrow.”

Jim, put at his ease by her deference to his taste, promised, and carried over the fixtures himself about three o’clock. Mrs. Johnson met him at the door. Jim, remembering the very stylish street costume she had worn that morning, was somewhat taken back by the sight of her none too clean wrapper, run over slippers, and hair loose down her back.

“Come in,” she invited, smiling and showing extremely pretty teeth. “If I’d known it was you who were coming I’d have fixed myself up. Take a seat,” she continued volubly, laughing as she removed some sewing from a chair. “I’m all alone.”

Jim deposited his hat and bundle on a table in the center of the room and seated himself. She drew another chair for herself very close to his.

“I expect I look the limit!” she exclaimed, leaning her head back and shaking her hair out in a rippling cascade over her shoulders. “I’ve been washing my hair.”

Jim glanced timidly at her wide opened pale blue eyes, smooth fair skin, pink cheeks, and the rounded arm which was displayed to advantage as she modestly held her wrapper together over a salient bosom. The sunlight fell on her blond hair which was really exquisite.

“I think you look beautiful,” said Jim impulsively, turning very red at his own temerity.

“I could almost kiss you for that,” she answered with another laugh. “Wait till I get you some beer to pay you for your compliment,” and she rose and went toward the kitchen, humming a tune as she disappeared.

Jim’s gaze followed her. Delia Johnson made a pleasant picture and Jim had missed the shallowness, indolence, and sensuality in her face and the incipient heaviness in her figure. As her yellow hair was lost to view through the doorway he gave a sigh.

She returned in a few minutes with a bottle of beer and two glasses.

“Good luck,” she chattered, laughing once more as she poured a glass for him and another for herself.

They clinked glasses and drank, Jim, who did not like the taste of beer, being careful not to make a wry face.

“Don’t you smoke, Mr. Sprague?” she asked when they had finished the beer.

Jim did not smoke, but in view of Delia’s eyes and the “Mr.” he answered, “Yes,” adding, “but I haven’t any cigars with me.”

“I’ll get you some cigarettes,” she offered, opening a drawer in the table. “I’ll have one too,” she went on with her inevitable laugh, as she removed a cigarette from the package before handing it to him.

They smoked a moment in silence, Delia inhaling her cigarette with evident pleasure.

“Are you a partner in your father’s business?” she inquired, at length, knocking the ash from her cigarette.

“No,” returned Jim hastily, “I’m only clerking for him. I’ve just finished high school.”

“How much does he pay you?” she pursued.

She was smiling at him bewitchingly and Jim put aside the crudeness of her questions.

“He don’t pay me anything,” he admitted honestly.

“That’s better,” she declared. “It shows that he intends to give you a share in the concern.”

Jim shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t know about that.”

“You’re his only child, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course he will,” she affirmed with emphasis, “and in time you’ll have it all. He’s rich, isn’t he?”

“Why, no,” began Jim.

“Pretty well fixed, anyway,” she put in laughing. “Well, there’s many that would like to be in your shoes, Mr. Sprague.”

Jim placed his half finished cigarette on the ash tray.

“Have some more beer?” she queried.

“No, thank you.”

“What’s your given name?” she demanded suddenly.

“James.” He was smiling now.

“Do they call you Jimmie?”

“No, Jim,” he replied, glancing at her hair.

“Then I’m going to call you Jim too.”

“All right, Mrs. Johnson, I’m----”

“You mean thing!” she interrupted. “I don’t believe you like me a bit!” Jim looked surprised.

“Do you?” she insisted.

“Why, yes.” He studied her a moment, then, with increasing emphasis, “Of course I do. I like you fine.”

She reached over and touched his cheek lightly.

“Then you must call me Delia,” she stipulated, and added, “I like you, too, Jim, awfully well.”

He blushed and trembled a little at the caress.

“I--I must go,” he stammered, rising.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she pleaded. “Let’s talk a minute.”

Jim hesitated and then reseated himself. Delia moved her chair a little farther from him.

“Wasn’t that awful in the morning’s paper about their killing the strikers in Chicago?” She spoke in a more impersonal tone.

Jim drew a long breath.

“I think it’s terrible!” he exclaimed. “Those men have no other way of protesting against injustice than by striking.”

“The paper says they’re trying to wreck business.”

“They’re not any such thing!” he insisted. “They’re most of them fathers of families and dependent on their wages. It’s nonsense to suggest such things. What they want is enough to live on.”

“You aren’t an anarchist, are you?”

“No,” he disclaimed, “but I hate lies and hypocrisy, and that sheet” (pointing to the paper lying on the floor where Delia had dropped it) “is in the pay of the capitalists, and people read it and swallow any dope they hand out. This country will never progress till labor is represented in the capital at Washington and--and until things are reorganized on a basis of justice and equality,” he concluded rather lamely.

He was flushed and seemed somewhat startled by his own outburst.

“My, but you think a lot!” Delia applauded admiringly.

“It’s time men began to think,” resumed Jim, encouraged. “It’s the duty of citizens to think and act. The good men stay away from the polls and let things slide, and the bad element gets in its dirty work, and the poor suffer. When I’m old enough to vote I’m never going to miss----”

“Why, aren’t you twenty-one yet?” put in Delia.

Jim was abashed.

“I’m only seventeen past,” he admitted reluctantly.

“You look at least twenty-two or three,” she insisted.

Jim was pleased and grateful.

“And you understand things so well. I like to hear you explain them, but I can’t talk--only about women’s things.” Delia looked demure.

Jim, who as a rule talked little on any subject, was uncomfortable over having expressed himself so freely. Delia changed the subject again.

“Have you seen Will Bennett since his wife died?” she inquired.

“No,” replied Jim, relieved.

“I saw him yesterday on the street,” said she. “Did you go to the funeral?”

“No,” answered Jim again.

“He looked as chipper as a sparrow. That’s the way men are. The funeral was beautiful,” and Delia launched into a minute description of the obsequies, Jim listening attentively.

“I really must go,” he declared, at last, rising once more as she concluded, and extending his hand.

“Well, you must drop in again to see me,” she invited, holding his hand as she spoke. “I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

“Thank you. So have I,” returned Jim.

She released him as he took his hat from the table, and followed him to the door.

“Don’t forget,” she smiled.

“I’ll not forget,” he smiled back.

When Jim returned to the store Mr. Sprague looked up from his ledger.

“It took you a long time to deliver those fixtures,” he grumbled.

“I--I didn’t come right back,” stammered Jim.

Mr. Sprague scrutinized his son’s flushed face.

“I should think you didn’t. Well, next time you come right back! Do you hear?” Jim passed behind the counter without replying.

Jim remembered his promise to Delia. He thought of her almost constantly during his waking hours. The day following his visit he walked past her house. The plumbers were laying gas pipe from the street through the yard. He did not see Delia and went on.

“It’s too soon yet,” he said to himself.

The next day he passed the house again. The window shutters were all closed and he did not ring the bell, telling himself that Delia was not at home. He continued to pass the house once or twice every day, without asking for admittance, wondering each time if she were there, or if some one else were with her, or if she really meant that she wanted him to come again. He was amazed that such a beautiful woman had remained without remarrying. He had decided that the slurs cast on her reputation were unjust. She was too innocent-hearted and Bohemian. The narrow minded people who made up the population of the town could not understand her. Jim found her like the heroine of a French novel he had been reading. He dreamed about her at night.

* * * * *

About three o’clock in the afternoon, a week after his first visit, he passed her house as usual and saw no sign of life. He proceeded down the street and walked a block or two. Then he retraced his steps. As he came by the house again he heard someone call his name. Before he could decide what to do the curtains in a window were parted and Delia’s smiling face confronted him.

“Why don’t you come in, Jim?” she called.

He hesitated.

“Wait, and I’ll unlock the door,” she added, and, with a final smile, left the window.

Jim entered the gate, and had not crossed the small lawn when the door was opened.

“You mean thing! You wouldn’t have come in at all if I hadn’t called to you!” was her greeting.

“I thought you weren’t at home,” he explained.

“Well, let’s not talk about it,” she said, shutting the door. “You’re here anyway. I’ve been wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town. Sit down and tell me about yourself,” she invited, leading the way to the sitting room he remembered so well. “Here! Give me your hat. You’re at home here.”

Jim was surprised to feel himself suddenly at ease.

Delia chatted volubly, smiling and laughing, without giving him an opportunity to talk about himself. She produced a flattering atmosphere of dependence and admiration that led Jim unconsciously to assume the part of the conquering male.

“You didn’t really forget me, did you?” she asked, her ingratiating manner anticipating his reply.

“Not quite,” Jim told her with new-found assurance.

Delia gazed into his eyes a moment and came over to his chair and, bending down, put her cheek against his.

“You didn’t, did you, Jim?” she repeated in a whisper.

He drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth.

Delia was in a fresh wrapper, with her beautiful hair becomingly arranged, and a scent of violets clung about her. Jim was considerably surprised at his own passion.

“You naughty boy!” she cried, laughing. Then she sat on his knees and pulled his hair. Jim kissed her again.

This was the beginning of frequent visits which soon became daily.

“I see you’re hanging around that Johnson woman,” Jim’s father remarked one evening at supper.

Jim turned pale, then red, and poured himself some more tea without replying.

“You stay away from there. Do you hear?” the elder Sprague went on.

“I hear, but I’ll do as I see fit,” retorted Jim.

“You’ll do as _I_ see fit, or I’ll know the reason why,” snapped his father.

“Father,” began Jim, “I’m old enough to----”

“Old enough be damned!” Mr. Sprague fairly roared. “You’re old enough to do what I tell you until you’re twenty-one years old, and that ain’t all--you’ll _do_ what you’re told, if you expect to stay in _my_ house!”

Jim rose and seized his hat.

“I don’t intend to have you running around with a bitch like that at your age,” continued the older man, as though closing the discussion.

“You have no right to call her that!” Jim’s eyes flamed as he faced his father excitedly.

“How do you know what right I’ve got?” asked Sprague unmoved.

“Be careful what you say,” Jim was pale with anger, his fists clenching.

Mr. Sprague looked at his son with interest. Jim felt very young and at a disadvantage. He turned to go.

“Just see that you remember what I said,” Sprague commanded, as the boy reached the door.

Jim went out without a word. He went straight to Delia’s house.

“Who is it?” a voice demanded, as he knocked, forgetting to ring the bell.

“It’s Jim,” he replied.

The sound of bare feet in the hall was heard, and Delia, unlocking the door, pulled at his sleeve.

“Come in, Jim,” she whispered.

Jim began to explain his errand as soon as they reached the sitting room.

“Delia, we must be married at once,” he announced.

She was yawning, but stopped to gaze at him curiously. Jim returned her regard steadily. He was in deadly earnest. Her eyes avoided him but he continued to observe her hungrily. Her wrapper had fallen open at the neck and the swell of her full white breasts showed. Her hair was in two long braids.

“Why, Jim, what’s the matter? We’re all right as we are.” She yawned again.

“Something has happened, Delia. I owe it--that is, it is best for us to be----” He fell back on his first declaration. “We must be married right away.”

Delia went up to him and put her arms around his neck. Her loose sleeves slid back. As he looked down on her he could see only her white arms and bosom.

“People know. I’ve got you talked about,” he said as she kissed him. Delia laughed.

“I don’t care about that,” she assured him.

Jim was puzzled.

“Come and sit down, dearie,” she added, pushing him into a chair and seating herself on his knees.

“But, Delia----”

“We can’t get married now, Jim,” she said. “You haven’t anything to support us and if I marry I’ll lose all the money Johnson left me.”

Jim’s face showed his revulsion of feeling. Delia saw the change and clung to him.

“Let’s just love each other, Jim, and everything will come out all right.”

“But, Delia, I want to do what’s right and----”

She kissed him passionately. Jim felt a curious sense of drifting.

“Come on, dearie,” she whispered.

It was late when Jim left the house.

* * * * *

Mr. Sprague said nothing more to Jim on the subject of Delia, which circumstance disconcerted and worried the boy more than he was willing to admit to himself.

He tried to consider the matter calmly but his thoughts seemed to dissolve in a mist of beautiful hair, wide opened blue eyes, and white arms and bosom.

“She is right,” he told himself. “We can’t marry now, and we love each other so much that we must be all in all to each other.”

However, his conscience made him very miserable. He felt that one who had no religion should be morally strong. With all this he continued to go to Delia’s house.

He did not understand why she designated certain evenings for his visits and forbade him to come on others. One evening, rather late, feeling very lonely and very much in love, he turned his steps toward her house, notwithstanding the fact that it was a proscribed day.

He had nearly reached the gate when a man emerged from the doorway, and Jim, halting beneath one of the large trees that shaded the sidewalk, recognized his father. His first feeling was of anger that he was being spied upon, but this turned to amazement and cold rage as Delia called Sprague back and, through the half closed door, kissed him, straightening his hat which she had knocked awry, calling, “Good night, dearie,” as he went off.

Jim watched his father disappear, and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked away with rapid strides. He sought his home when it was daybreak.

The old standards by which Jim had measured values were of no more use to him.

XIII

Jim came to look at the world and people with clearer eyes. He saw that his father kept him in the store to save clerk hire and not with any intention of giving him a share in the business. He realized that he had no home or career in his native town. He thought matters out very carefully and fully.

One morning at breakfast, after reading a letter just received from John, the complacent tone of which threw his own forlornness into relief, he announced to his father that he was going away to college.

“You’re going to stay right where you are,” responded Mr. Sprague from his side of the table.

“No, I’m going,” repeated Jim quietly.

“Well, you won’t get a cent from me,” exclaimed his father with the air of saying the last word in an argument. “I suppose this is another of the fool notions you’ve got from that Winter boy.”

“I didn’t expect anything from you,” explained Jim.

Mr. Sprague passed one hand over his stubbly chin and regarded his son with cold curiosity. The elder Sprague was burly and inclined to stoop. He wore reading glasses and now he peered through them with as much detachment as an entomologist who has a mildly interesting insect under the microscope. He was, as usual, in his shirt sleeves, and his deliberate untidiness of dress seemed the aggressively flaunted signal of that coarseness of spirit which was a matter of pride with him.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinkin’ I don’t mean what I say,” he remarked.

A month after this incident Jim informed his father that he was leaving for college.

“Well, remember, you needn’t come back,” Mr. Sprague told him. Jim went to the station alone, carrying a small bundle under his arm, and climbed on the car unnoticed. As the train pulled out of the place he looked back on the little town. This was his last glimpse of his childhood home.

He arrived at college with one suit of clothes, a few extra shirts and other accessories, and three dollars in his pocket, having borrowed the money from Dr. Winter, John’s father, to pay for his ticket. His first act was to hunt up John who received him with his old affection.

“Gee, but I’m glad to see you!” John exclaimed boisterously, slapping Jim on the back.

He insisted that Jim share his room and allowance, but Jim had no intention of being dependent on anyone. He shoveled snow, cared for the furnaces in the college dormitory, sawed wood and split kindling for the families near the campus, and by working early and late managed to remain in the college and even won the scholarship in mathematics. The first money he earned above his living expenses was sent back to pay the debt he had incurred for his journey.

He and John now shared room and funds on equal terms and Jim, by imperceptible degrees, assumed his old responsibility for John’s welfare and progress.

* * * * *

John had never really decided what his profession or occupation should be. Jim brought the question up by declaring that he did not intend to follow a stated college course but planned to fit himself to be an architect. John believed himself a born artist and talked of studies in Rome and Paris after his course in college was ended. One day he rushed into the room and flung his cap into a corner.

“Jim!” he cried enthusiastically, “I’ve decided to be an architect too!” He went on to talk of the opportunities of the true artist in a profession that had lured the greatest masters from the Greeks to Michelangelo.

“But modern architecture is more of a science than an art,” Jim pointed out. “The calculations of stresses and strength of materials has more to do with it than the ‘visions of a dream in marble’ you are talking about.”

However, John was not to be dissuaded and the two boys were soon entered in the special courses marked in the institution’s catalogue as leading to proficiency in architectural science.

John’s difficulty with mathematics was a handicap in most of these courses, and Jim had to help him in his work as in the days of their early boyhood. Notwithstanding this aid, John (who always took high marks in more general courses) found it hard to keep pace with his fellows, and, after the end of the first semester, decided to abandon their plan. It was only Jim’s initiative and generous giving of time to help him that decided John on the continuation of their design.

John always went home for the holidays and vacations, while Jim stayed on alone in the almost empty dormitory, working and studying.

The characteristics of the two boys became more evident as they approached majority. John conceived confidence in anybody who pleased him, each new acquaintance possessing, for the time being, all the perfections. Jim developed an almost uncanny insight into the motives of those around him, and was slow to form friendships.

“Never mind what people say,” he would tell John. “Fix your attention on finding out why they say it. That’s the way to get at things.”

When they graduated, or rather, completed their courses, for neither received his degree, Jim began work at once in an architect’s office in the college town, and settled down with his customary methodical perseverance to make a place for himself. John returned home for a few months and then persuaded his parents to send him to the Art School in Chicago to study what he felt to be the higher aspects of his profession.

Soon after his entrance into the School of Art he returned to painting, and left designing to study oils and water color work. The former companions were separated but exchanged frequent letters and remained as close friends as ever. John always thought of Jim as “good old Jim.” Jim never quite analyzed his feelings for John, much as he loved to evaluate the motives of others. He had always needed and would always need some one to care for, and John was in his life. He did not go further than this.