After dinner the men went to the judge’s den for cigars. “When do you have to go back to Princeton?” said the judge.
“On the 3:10.”
“Change at Reading, and then change at Philadelphia? What time does that get you there? Around supper, I guess?”
“It’ll be after supper.”
“Well, we better pack a box for you to eat on the train.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right, thank you. I’ll manage.”
“On a Sunday it won’t be easy, but that’s up to you. You won’t get to see your folks this trip? All day Sunday on one train after another, it seems a shame.”
“It was worth it to me, sir.”
“Well, I hope so. We had our angry words, but now it’s all over and done with.”
“But there’s something I want to say, Judge.”
“Is it about that other subject? My son?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then don’t say it. I consider the matter closed and I don’t wish to talk about it, now or ever again. I gave a promise.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Some day you’ll have a son of your own—no, I won’t say any more. You make Lalie happy and I’ll be satisfied . . . Well, George, I think there’s the team to take you to the depot. Yes, there’s the barouche. Is your valise all packed? Oh, you didn’t have one, of course. All day on the train.”
“Since seven o’clock this morning. Well, thank you, Judge.”
“No hard feelings on either side, George.”
“No sir.”
But back at Princeton, away from Lalie’s pretty face and miserable tears, George Lockwood had his first doubts, and he found that curiously, perversely, they were centered on Bessie Fenstermacher. Until this too-eventful day he had regarded her as a round, meek woman who obeyed her husband and kept house for him, who was still obeyed by her children but would soon yield even that authority. But on this day, in a quarter of an hour, she had created another picture of herself; and as George Lockwood thought about it, he recalled that it was Bessie Fenstermacher who had made the decision to have an understanding instead of an engagement. And now he thought back upon the scene in the sitting-room, with Lalie in tears of disappointment. Tears of disappointment, indeed, but whose disappointment? It came to him now that Lalie had immediately looked at her mother and had kept looking at her, that her unhappiness was as much due to her mother’s disappointment as her own. And then, he recalled vividly, the words Bessie Fenstermacher had spoken: “I was hoping that wouldn’t come up. David understands, but I knew Judge wouldn’t . . . Let me deal with Judge.” The round, meek woman had anticipated possible trouble, had apparently discussed the club problem with David—and was fully confident of her ability to deal with the judge. The round, meek little woman, who dominated her family’s lives, and who so often reminded George Lockwood of Lalie.
It was natural enough for a mother to remind you of her daughter, for a daughter to remind you of her mother.
George Lockwood went for a walk, but he knew as he left the dormitory that he would be looking to see if Ned O’Byrne’s light was on. He knew that he hoped O’Byrne’s light would be on, and it was.
O’Byrne, who roomed alone, was sitting in his easy chair, with his carpet-slippered feet propped up on a hassock. He was in a shabby wool bathrobe, smoking a calabash pipe. He held up a book. “I was just thinking about you.”
“What are you reading?”
“It’s Missionary Travels in South Africa, by David Livingstone. You remember, ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume?’ I presume?”
“Why would that make you think of me, for the Lord’s sake?”
“Because I’m doing my homework, getting ready to go to Africa. And you’ve been spending the day in Lebanon, P-A, doing your homework. So you’re back, eh? Sit down and tell me about it. There’s a cigar in the top drawer there. I was saving it for after breakfast, but you smoke it. That way I’ll have to smoke me pipe, which I’m trying to break in but with very little success.”
“I have a cigar, thanks, if you’ll give me a match.”
“There’s a match in the match-safe, to your right on the desk. What went wrong, man? Something did, I can tell.”
George Lockwood related the incidents of the day, but withheld the newly forming doubts.
“Well,” said Ned O’Byrne.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“Oh, no. ‘Ay me! For aught that ever I could read,/ could ever hear by tale or history,/ the course of true love never did run smooth;/ but, either it was different in blood,—/ or else misgraffed in respect of years,—/ or else it stood upon the choice of friends,—/ or, if there were a sympathy in choice,/ war, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,/making it momentany as a sound,/swift as a shadow, short as any dream,/ brief as the lightning in the collied night,—’ “
“All right.”
“Shut up. ‘Lightning in the collied night,/ that, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,/ and ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold!’/ the jaws of darkness do devour it up:/ so quick bright things come to confusion.’ I’m finished, but I gave you the whole damned thing instead of just the usual course-of-true-love.”
“Thank you very much, it was heart-rending.”
“The mother seems to exert a great deal of authority, George. I’d keep on the right side of her if I were you. She’ll come in handy some day, and it’s plain as day she’s all for you. There’s one person I’m glad I’m not tonight.”
“Who’s that? The judge?”
“The girl. Lalie.”
“Why?”
“Oh—it’s hard for me to say.”
“Haven’t you got some quotation from Shakespeare that covers it?”
“I’m sure there is one, but I’m not showing off now. I’m just thinking of a young girl that’s had a pretty bad day, all in all. You’ll want to hit me in the mouth for this, George, but I don’t think you love her.”
“I don’t want to hit you in the mouth.”
“Then for God’s sake tell her—no, don’t.”
“Tell her what?”
“Is this freeze you had today, is it going to last? Maybe better give it a couple of days, but you haven’t been talking like a man in love, and the fair, honest thing is to put an end to it before more harm is done. I wish you hadn’t come here tonight, I swear to Christ I do. I nearly always take the woman’s side, in spite of knowing that they damn well can take care of themselves. All right, then I’ll take your side.”
“Don’t take any side.”
“I’ll take your side, if I like. My heart goes out to this girl, but they’re wiser and smarter than we are in these things. So look at it from our point of view. Supposing you did break it off. If you don’t love her, you’re doing her a favor. If it turns out you do love her, which I doubt, you’re the principal loser. Why aren’t you arguing with me, protesting that you do love her? You know why, George. You can’t make yourself lie to yourself.”