With the aims and purposes of Skull and Bones he was in thorough sympathy—their independence of judgment, their seeking out of men who had to contend with poverty, their desire to reward ambition and industry and character—but the more he freely acknowledged their influence for democracy and simplicity at Yale, the more he revolted at the unnecessary fetish of it all.
“They should command respect and not fear. By George, that’s where I stand. All this rigmarole is ridiculous, and it’s ridiculous that it ever affected me; it is of the middle ages—outgrown.”
Then a problem placed itself before him. Admitting that he had even the ghost of a chance of being tapped, ought he to go into a senior society feeling as he did about so many of its observances, secretly resolved on their elimination? Finally, a week before Tap Day, he decided to go to Judge Story and frankly state his case, letting him know that he preferred thus to give notice of his beliefs.
When he arrived at the Story home the Judge was upstairs in his study. Jean, alone in the parlor, looked up in surprise at his expressed intention to see her father. Since her letter they had never been alone. Stover had avoided it with his shrinking from sympathy, and, perhaps guessing his temperament, she had made no attempt to go beyond the safe boundaries of formal intercourse.
“Yes, indeed, Dad’s upstairs,” she said. Then she added a little anxiously: “You look serious—is it a very serious matter?”
He hesitated, knowing instinctively that she would oppose him.
“It’s something that’s been on my mind for a long time,” he said evasively; and he added with a smile, “It’s what you call my quixotic fit.”
“It’s about Skull and Bones,” she said instantly.
“Yes, it is.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to tell him just where I stand—just what I’ve come to believe about the whole business.”
“And what’s that?”
“That Skull and Bones, which does a great good here—I believe it—also does a great deal of harm; all of which is unnecessary and a weakness in its system. In a word, I’ve come to the point where I believe secrecy is un-American, undemocratic and stultifying; and, as I say, totally unnecessary. I should always be against it.”
“But aren’t you exaggerating the importance of it all?” she said hastily.
“No, I’m not,” he said. “I used to silence myself with that, but I see the thing working out too plainly.”
“But why speak about it?”
“Because I don’t think it’s honest not to. Of course,” he added immediately, “I have about one chance in a thousand—perhaps that’s why I’m so all-fired direct about it.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, rising and coming towards him. “It might offend them terribly; you never know.”
He shook his head, though her eagerness gave him a sudden happiness.
“No, I’ve thought it out a long while, and I’ve decided. It all goes back to that sophomore society scrap. I made up my mind then I wasn’t going to compromise, and I’m not now.”
“But I want to see you go Bones,” she said illogically, in a rush. “After all you’ve gone through, you must go Bones!”
He did not answer this.
“Oh, it’s so unnecessary,” she said. “No one but you would think of it!”
“Don’t be angry with me,” he said, a little troubled.
“I am—it’s absurd!” she said, turning away with a flash of temper.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and went up the stairs.
When he returned, after an interview which, needless to say, had somewhat surprised the Judge, he found a very different Jean Story. She was waiting for him quiet and subdued, without a trace of her late irritation.
“Did you tell him?” she said gently.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t ask for an answer. I told him how I felt, and that I would rather my opinions should be known. That’s all.”
“Are you going?” she said, as he made a movement.
“I didn’t know—” he said, hesitating and looking at her.
“I am not angry,” she said a little wistfully. “You were quite right. I’m glad you did it. You are much bigger than I could be—I like that.”
“You were the first to wake me up,” he said happily, sitting down.
“Yes, but you have gone so far ahead. You do things without compromise, and that sometimes frightens me.” She stopped a moment, and said, looking at him steadily: “You have kept away a long while. Now you see you are caught. You can’t avoid being alone with me.”
“I don’t want to,” he said abruptly.
“You are so proud, Dink,” she said softly, using his nickname for the first time. “I have never seen anyone so proud. Everything you do I think comes from that. But it must make you suffer terribly.”
“Yes, it does.”
They were in the front parlor, dimly lit, sitting on the window-seat, hearing from time to time the passing chug of horses’ feet.
“I knew how it must have hurt you—all this publicity,” she said slowly. “Why didn’t you come when I wrote you? Were you too proud?”
“Yes, I suppose so—and then it didn’t seem fair to you—after all the talk.”
“I was proud of you,” she said, raising her head a little. She put out her hand again to his, leaving it in his for a long time, while they sat in silence. The touch that once had so disturbed him brought now only a gentle serenity. He thought of the other woman, and what might have been, with almost a hatred, the hatred of man towards whatever he wrongs.
“You are right about me,” he said slowly. “Most people think I don’t care what happens, that I’m sort of a thick-skinned rhinoceros. How did you know?”
“I knew.”
She withdrew her hand slowly, without resistance on his part; only when he held it no longer he felt alone, abandoned
