AT length a year in college had passed; one more layer was unwrapped from round the kernel of college lore, and as Juniors we were trying with renewed powers honorably to rival each other.
Not alone to us change had come, but to others. Miss Clavers had opened a seminary in the little village bearing her father’s name, and Jennie was an assistant. How full of love and encouragement were her letters. How strange it all seemed: no longer a little girl that nestled in my arms, and looked up to me as one able to do so much, but a tall, stately young woman, going in and out before her pupils with the conscious grace of one who feels that she is able to do all that she has undertaken.
It was a bright autumn day when Stevens invited a party of some half a dozen students to walk with him to a town not far distant. For the last six months I had been on friendly terms with him, so I did not think it strange when he invited me; neither did I refuse to go. It was a perfect day: the rich, fervid hues of autumn were spread over miles of forest-trees and shrubbery; a thin veil of mist hung over every winding stream, while the brilliant sunshine illuminated the many varying shades of wood, water, and cloud, blending all in perfect harmony.
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.”
And so I believe it would be in every instance where a young man openly avows his determination not to drink, smoke, or chew, waste his time, or trifle with duty. After his resolves have once been tested, he will only be thought more of by the wildest associate he has, and his influence from that moment will be wider and more powerful.
In college, as elsewhere, it is easy to select our associates. If we wish, we can have the most studious and high-minded; or the pleasure-seeker, who came to college because it was fashionable to do so, and will get a diploma, if he gets one at all, because the wealth of his father purchases it for him, the same as any other article of luxury.
Still, try as I would, I could not make friends with Wright. At first he had looked down upon me: more recently he seemed to regard me only as a rival; and to say the truth, we were quite even, our regular marks in recitation seldom varying. The time now came when the subject for a prize essay was given out, and knowing my chief competitor would be Wright, I determined to surpass him.
Not having a strong constitution, study wore upon him sadly.
“Do not work so hard, I entreat you,” said our President one day as he saw how wan and pale Wright was growing. “There is no use in this,” taking the feverish hand in his. “Indeed I have been blind not to see it before; you must rest, at all hazards.”
“Not now,” said Wright. “I came here to take the first honor in my class, and I will do it.”
“You will not live to reach it, at this rate; and then what profit can come from all your ambitious labors?”
A week or two afterwards Wright was prostrate.
“They say that you will win the prize,” said Stevens, coming into my room on his way from the sick-bed. “If poor Wright had not been sick, you might not have been so certain, however.”
“Wright probably wrote his essay before he was sick,” I answered.
“Yes, he wrote it, and I have read it, and I assure you it is a fine production; but he cannot read it, and of course the prize will be yours.”
I went to my room in no enviable state of mind. I wanted the prize. I had worked for it. But if Wright had written his essay, he must not lose the honor because he was sick. Nothing more was said of it, and all seemed to take it for granted that I should be the successful competitor.
At last I could bear it no longer. I called upon Stevens, as a friend of Wright, to procure the essay; and then, with the conviction that I was destroying my own hopes, I carried it to the chairman of the committee, and begged him to suspend his decision until this had been sufficiently examined.
The result was as I expected. Wright was announced the winner of the prize at the same time we were told that he was dangerously ill. How insignificant at that hour the honors of the world! How sorry I was that, in order to rival me, he had been obliged to study so hard; how glad to think that perhaps he might know that he had won, and the knowledge give him pleasure.
Not long afterwards a messenger came to me from the sick-room. Wright wanted to see me. I found him lying upon his bed, pale and wasted, the mere shadow of his former self.
“I wanted to thank you for your sacrifice on my behalf; they told me all about it;” and his eyes closed languidly. I pressed his thin hand cordially in my own.
“Nor is that all,” he said, opening his eyes, glistening with deep feeling. “I want you to forgive my former rudeness. I have always been ashamed of it; not a moment but I have longed to tell you of my regard; but you were my rival in study, and I could not bear it.”
Was this Wright, the rich student, the one who had never given me a word save those dictated by common civility, now asking my pardon, and saying that he had always regarded me, and had longed to tell me so? There was no room for deception; there he lay, weak and pale. I could not restrain my emotion, and before I was aware, I was on my knees, my arms about him, and my head resting on his pillow.
“Sickness has taught me to see life under a new phase,” he resumed. “These petty rivalries are unworthy the attention of immortal beings. I have lived as though this life were all, following a shadow until it had well-nigh landed me in the grave. Oh what would have become of me had I died then?” and a shudder passed over his features. “You will be glad to know that I have found Him whom you have loved for a long time. I trust my sins are pardoned, that I have given my heart to the Saviour. You must be my friend now; I cannot rest till I have it from your own lips.”
“Now, and ever,” I answered, as well as my emotion would allow. A sweet peace showed itself on his countenance.
“I knew you would forgive me.”
The attendant came in and said that he must rest, and I went out full of wonder at the power that could humble a proud spirit like Wright’s, and change him to a meek penitent.
My astonishment was increased when returning health enabled him to go on with his studies. There was no longer rivalry; a new purpose burned in his heart, beamed in his eye, and influenced every look and word; not one that had known him before but was constrained to say that he had been with Jesus.
My last year in college was a constant delight to me. I was not so much pressed by pecuniary matters. Above all, I had succeeded in winning the good-will and esteem of those around me. After Wright’s illness, his heart clung to me with as much intensity as before he had carefully avoided me, while Harry Gilmore gave me all a brother’s love, and Frank Clavers was the same true friend as ever.
At Commencement, when the highest honor was awarded me, I felt a thrill of satisfaction that was an ample equivalent for long years of labor. Afterwards, when I stood before the assembled throng, conscious that many eyes were upon me, and bright, happy faces looking their approval, I only saw one, a sweet, pure face, with the golden hair parted over a broad white forehead, while an expression of peace and of trust rested on the whole countenance. It was a happy day to Jennie. So far my work was done, and, they said, well done. I looked upon it as only reaching another stage in my ascent; the first and second heights were won, and a profession was now to be chosen.
In the evening there was a levee at the President’s house, and for Jennie’s sake as well as my own I was glad. The good man received me very kindly, and so far unbent himself as to speak of the courage and industry of my last three years, then of my success—introducing me to several men who were there, and whom it was an honor and a privilege to meet. “Energy is essential,” he said, “but patience and perseverance are the crowning virtues. You have practised these faithfully. God grant that you may continue to do the same to the end.”
It was a happy gathering; and when I went to my room, it was first to fall upon my knees, pouring out my heart in gratitude to that God who had been so mindful, leading me by the hand up through the narrow defile of poverty and want, into a broader way, where I could catch glimpses of the promised land, renewing my vows, and consecrating myself anew to his service.