He was a good man, a dull man, a man of honor. He had a broad streak of coarse earthy brutality in him. He loved a farm better than anything in the world except a school. He had rented a big dilapidated house in a grove of lordly oaks on the outskirts of town: he lived there with his wife and his two children. He had a cow — he was never without a cow: he would go out at night and morning to milk her, laughing his vacant silly laugh, and giving her a good smacking kick in the belly to make her come round into position.
He was a heavy-handed master. He put down rebellion with good cornfield violence. If a boy was impudent to him he would rip him powerfully from his seat, drag his wriggling figure into his office, breathing stertorously as he walked along at his clumsy rapid gait, and saying roundly, in tones of scathing contempt: “Why, you young upstart, we’ll just see who’s master here. I’ll show you, my sonny, if I’m to be dictated to by every two-by-four whippersnapper who comes along.” And once within the office, with the glazed door shut, he published the stern warning of his justice by the loud exertion of his breathing, the cutting swish of his rattan, and the yowls of pain and terror that he exacted from his captive.
He had called the school together that day to command it to write him a composition. The children sat, staring dumbly up at him as he made a rambling explanation of what he wanted. Finally he announced a prize. He would give five dollars from his own pocket to the student who wrote the best paper. That aroused them. There was a rustle of interest.
They were to write a paper on the meaning of a French picture called The Song of the Lark. It represented a French peasant girl, barefooted, with a sickle in one hand, and with face upturned in the morning-light of the fields as she listened to the bird-song. They were asked to describe what they saw in the expression of the girl’s face. They were asked to tell what the picture meant to them. It had been reproduced in one of their readers. A larger print was now hung up on the platform for their inspection. Sheets of yellow paper were given them. They stared, thoughtfully masticating their pencils. Finally, the room was silent save for a minute scratching on paper.
The warm wind spouted about the eaves; the grasses bent, whistling gently.
Eugene wrote: “The girl is hearing the song of the first lark. She knows that it means Spring has come. She is about seventeen or eighteen years old. Her people are very poor, she has never been anywhere. In the winter she wears wooden shoes. She is making out as if she was going to whistle. But she doesn’t let on to the bird that she has heard him. The rest of her people are behind her, coming down the field, but we do not see them. She has a father, a mother, and two brothers. They have worked hard all their life. The girl is the youngest child. She thinks she would like to go away somewhere and see the world. Sometimes she hears the whistle of a train that is going to Paris. She has never ridden on a train in her life. She would like to go to Paris. She would like to have some fine clothes, she would like to travel. Perhaps she would like to start life new in America, the Land of Opportunity. The girl has had a hard time. Her people do not understand her. If they saw her listening to the lark they would poke fun at her. She has never had the advantages of a good education, her people are so poor, but she would profit by her opportunity if she did, more than some people who have. You can tell by looking at her that she’s intelligent.”
It was early in May; examinations came in another two weeks. He thought of them with excitement and pleasure — he liked the period of hard cramming, the long reviews, the delight of emptying out abundantly on paper his stored knowledge. The big assembly room had about it the odor of completion, of sharp nervous ecstasy. All through the summer it would be drowsy-warm; if only here, alone, with the big plaster cast of Minerva, himself and Bessie Barnes, or Miss — Miss —
“We want this boy,” said Margaret Leonard. She handed Eugene’s paper over to her husband. They were starting a private school for boys. That was what the paper had been for.
Leonard took the paper, pretended to read half a page, looked off absently into eternity, and began to rub his chin reflectively, leaving a slight coating of chalk-dust on his face. Then, catching her eye, he laughed idiotically, and said: “Why, that little rascal! Huh? Do you suppose —?”
Feeling delightfully scattered, he bent over with a long suction of whining laughter, slapping his knee and leaving a chalk print, making a slobbering noise in his mouth.
“The Lord have mercy!” he gasped.
“Here! Never you mind about that,” she said, laughing with tender sharp amusement. “Pull yourself together and see this boy’s people.” She loved the man dearly, and he loved her.
A few days later Leonard assembled the children a second time. He made a rambling speech, the purport of which was to inform them that one of them had won the prize, but to conceal the winner’s name. Then, after several divagations, which he thoroughly enjoyed, he read Eugene’s paper, announced his name, and called him forward.
Chalkface took chalkhand. The boy’s heart thundered against his ribs. The proud horns blared, he tasted glory.
Patiently, all through the summer, Leonard laid siege to Gant and Eliza. Gant fidgeted, spoke shiftily, finally said:
“You’ll have to see his mother.” Privately he was bitterly scornful, roared the merits of the public school as an incubator of citizenship. The family was contemptuous. Private school! Mr. Vanderbilt! Ruin him for good!
Which made Eliza reflective. She had a good streak of snobbism. Mr. Vanderbilt? She was as good as any of them. They’d just see.
“Who are you going to have?” she asked. “Have you drummed any one up yet?”
Leonard mentioned the sons of several fashionable and wealthy people — of Dr. Kitchen, the eye, ear, nose and throat man, Mr. Arthur, the corporation lawyer, and Bishop Raper, of the Episcopal diocese.
Eliza grew more reflective. She thought of Pett. She needn’t give herself airs.
“How much are you asking?” she said.
He told her the tuition was one hundred dollars a year. She pursed her lips lingeringly before she answered.
“Hm-m!” she began, with a bantering smile, as she looked at Eugene. “That’s a whole lot of money. You know,” she continued with her tremulous smile, “as the darkey says, we’re pore-folks.”
Eugene squirmed.
“Well what about it, boy?” said Eliza banteringly. “Do you think you’re worth that much money?”
Mr. Leonard placed his white dry hand upon Eugene’s shoulders, affectionately sliding it down his back and across his kidneys, leaving white chalk prints everywhere. Then he clamped his meaty palm tightly around the slender bracelet of boy-arm.
“That boy’s worth it,” he said, shaking him gently to and fro. “Yes, sir!”
Eugene smiled painfully. Eliza continued to purse her lips. She felt a strong psychic relation to Leonard. They both took time.
“Say,” she said, rubbing her broad red nose, and smiling slyly, “I used to be a school-teacher. You didn’t know that, did you? But I didn’t get any such prices as you’re asking,” she added. “I thought myself mighty lucky if I got my board and twenty dollars a month.”
“Is that so, Mrs. Gant?” said Mr. Leonard with great interest. “Well, sir!” He began to laugh in a vague whine, pulling Eugene about more violently and deadening his arm under his crushing grip.
“Yes,” said Eliza, “I remember my father — it was long before you were born, boy,” she said to Eugene, “for I hadn’t laid eyes on your papa — as the feller says, you were nothing but a dish-rag hanging out in heaven — I’d have laughed at any one who suggested marriage then — Well, I tell you what (she shook her head with a sad pursed deprecating mouth), we were mighty