IT proved as Mr. Harlan had said. The next year I entered the Sophomore class, once more finding myself face to face with Frank Clavers and Harry Gilmore. Their greeting was most cordial, and Harry’s friendship was as warm as ever. Although my year’s salary had clothed me decently and left me something for books, it still required the closest economy to get along; making me appear, to those who had plenty, as close and parsimonious. This was in itself a trial, and the hardest with which I had to contend. Yet my frank avowal of a scanty purse saved me from many temptations. In the various expedients of the students for killing time I was not expected to share; and still I always had a spare dollar for a new book, or sufficient to expend upon a course of scientific lectures; while there were some lavish in expenditures for rides, suppers, ices, and sherbet, who were at times obliged to deny themselves the means of improvement.
It was not trying to acknowledge poverty when the admission brought no dishonor. Still, when with some of my class-mates who were rich men’s sons, and well supplied with pin-money, I found to my cost that I had not learned the lesson of self-conquest so perfectly as I had flattered myself. I was once looking at a second-hand book in the presence of Morris and Wright, two of the richest students in college.
“That is what I call small business, to look up old threadbare books,” said Morris, in a tone that I could not avoid hearing, at the same time ordering a new copy of the same work; to which Wright replied, while a contemptuous smile wreathed his proud lips. I could have wept with vexation; and the next moment was ashamed of myself for giving way to such a weak, ignoble feeling.
Through all these days Jennie’s letters comforted me, and Mr. and Mrs. Harlan did not forget me.
“Regard the right,” said the latter in one of her letters, “and seek for companions such as honor it. Think too much of yourself to cherish a selfish thought or feeling; and let every act prove that a light purse does not of necessity imply low tastes or a meagre intellect.”
Little did the good woman imagine all the trials springing out of my weakness. Still the strife was short, and invariably I found my way back to the sheltering arms of that Friend who looks not alone to the outward, and who judges not as man judges.
Overhearing one of the professors saying that he could not find a suitable gardener for his grounds, and having learned a good deal of gardening from Mr. Harlan, I offered myself, and was accepted. I needed exercise. This was just as good as boating, ball-playing, or the gymnasium.
One Saturday, as I returned from the river with a wheelbarrow of pebbles for the flooring of a new arbor I had just planned, I met several of my class-mates at the gate. Conquering my first impulse of false shame, I advanced as though it was the most pleasant exercise imaginable.
“Gardening for the pleasure of it?” said Stevens, in a tone of irony he knew so well to use.
“Not for pleasure, Stevens, but from necessity;” and I walked on. The next meeting was easier. I had filled the wheelbarrow again, and was crossing the carriage-way, when Wright drove leisurely along in an open buggy. As he passed me he touched his hat, while a mocking smile wreathed his lips:
“There goes the best scholar in his class.”
“And the best I intend to be,” I said to myself, but without any unpleasant feeling.
Finishing my task, I went to the office for letters; passing the hotel just as the numerous hacks had left a greater number of guests than usual. I had nearly passed, when suddenly my name was called, and in a voice that seemed strangely familiar. It was Silas June. He had given up study, and had been two years in the city, and talked largely of city pleasures and pursuits. His uncle had recently become very wealthy through land speculation, and had generously offered Mrs. June a home, and also taken Silas into his employ as a clerk.
“I suppose you are planning ways and means yet,” he said at length. “I remember you used to be good at this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” I answered.
“I have never had any thing else to do, and I am now quite as expert as ever.”
“I told you I should get along just as well without so much study, although I did not then dream of the good in store for me. Uncle is rich, and without a family of his own. He must do something with his money, and I shall come in for a large share.”
“I hope you will repay him by making a good and noble man.”
“I shall please him, if that is what you mean, although it goes greatly against my inclination to sit bound down day after day to the day-book and ledger. Still night comes, and I enjoy while he sleeps.”
“You enjoy; how so?”
“Go to parties, operas, theatres, or into some saloon; anywhere, if I find good company.”
“You used to try to deceive yourself with regard to study,” I said, with a degree of earnestness that made him laugh heartily. “Do not deceive yourself now, and run into company that will lead you to ruin, just because your uncle is rich enough to give you the opportunity. Deception cannot prosper.”
“Don’t everybody deceive—everybody but you and Lovell?”
“That many practise it, I allow, and that some for a time succeed, is very possible; but the end is not yet.”
“There is no use in denying self-interest is the motive,” he answered; “and if some noble deeds and benevolent actions are performed, the mainspring is the same. I humor my uncle, for I need his money; you study enough to kill a common man, making this a stepping-stone to something else. What’s the difference?”
There was a difference, notwithstanding his fluent speech. Back as far as I could look there was still one purpose— a strong and noble manhood, a life of usefulness and honor; and in my estimation, a good education would greatly contribute to bring this about. This was why I studied, why I was resolved to study—not merely distinction, worldly honor, or aggrandizement, but to possess a truly excellent character, worthy the regard of others and the respect of myself.