He felt a desperate frustration, as if he were being shut out from the rich banquet of life. And against all caution, he determined to break the pattern of custom, and look within. Driven on by this hunger, he would suddenly rush away from Pulpit Hill and, as dusk came on, prowl up and down the quiet streets of towns. Finally, lifted beyond all restraint, he would mount swiftly to a door and ring the bell. Then, to whoever came, reeling against the wall and clutching at his throat, he would say:
“Water! In God’s name, water! I am ill!”
Sometimes there were women, seductive and smiling, aware of his trick, but loath to let him go; sometimes women touched with compassion and tenderness. Then, having drunk, he would smile with brave apology into startled and sympathetic faces, murmuring:
“Pardon me. It came on suddenly—one of my attacks. I had no time to go for help. I saw your light.”
Then they would ask him where his friends were.
“Friends!” he glanced about wildly and darkly. Then, with a bitter laugh, he said, “Friends! I have none! I am a stranger here.”
Then they would ask him what he did.
“I am a Carpenter,” he would answer, smiling strangely.
Then they would ask him where he came from.
“Far away. Very far,” he would say deeply. “You would not know if I told you.”
Then he would rise, looking about him with grandeur and compassion.
“And now I must go!” he would say mysteriously. “I have a long way to go before my journey is done. God bless you all! I was a stranger and you gave me shelter. The Son of Man was treated not so well.”
Sometimes, he would ring bells with an air of timid inquiry, saying:
“Is this number 26? My name is Thomas Chatterton. I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Coleridge—Mr. Samuel T. Coleridge. Does he live here? … No? I’m sorry. … Yes, 26 is the number I have, I’m sure. … Thank you … I’ve made a mistake … I’ll look it up in the telephone directory.”
But what, thought Eugene, if one day, in the million streets of life, I should really find him?
These were the golden years.
XXXIX
Gant and Eliza came to his graduation. He found them lodgings in the town: it was early June—hot, green, fiercely and voluptuously Southern. The campus was a green oven; the old grads went about in greasy pairs; the cool pretty girls, who never sweated, came in to see their young men graduate, and to dance; the mamas and papas were shown about dumbly and shyly.
The college was charming, half-deserted. Most of the students, except the graduating class, had departed. The air was charged with the fresh sensual heat, the deep green shimmer of heavy leafage, a thousand spermy earth and flower-scents. The young men were touched with sadness, with groping excitement, with glory.
On this rich stage, Gant, who had left his charnel-house of death for three days, saw his son Eugene. He came, gathered to life again, out of his grave. He saw his son enthroned in all the florid sentiment of commencement, and the whole of his heart was lifted out of the dust. Upon the lordly sward, shaded by great trees, and ringed by his solemn classmen and their families, Eugene read the Class Poem (“O Mother of Our Myriad Hopes”). Then Vergil Weldon spoke, high-husky, deep, and solemn-sad; and Living Truth welled in their hearts. It was a Great Utterance. Be true! Be clean! Be good! Be men! Absorb the Negation! The world has need of. Life was never so worth. Never in history had there been. No other class had shown so great a promise as. Among other achievements, the editor of the paper had lifted the moral and intellectual level of the State two inches. The university spirit! Character! Service! Leadership!
Eugene’s face grew dark with pride and joy there in the lovely wilderness. He could not speak. There was a glory in the world: life was panting for his embrace.
Eliza and Gant listened attentively to all the songs and speeches. Their son was a great man on the campus. They saw and heard him before his class, on the campus, and at graduation, when his prizes and honors were announced. And his teachers and companions spoke to them about him, and said he would have “a brilliant career.” And Eliza and Gant were touched a little by the false golden glow of youth. They believed for a moment that all things were possible.
“Well, son,” said Gant, “the rest is up to you now. I believe you’re going to make a name for yourself.” He laid a great dry hand clumsily upon his son’s shoulder, and for a moment Eugene saw in the dead eyes the old dark of umber and unfound desire.
“Hm!” Eliza began, with a tremulous bantering smile, “your head will get turned by all the things they’re saying about you.” She took his hand in her rough warm grasp. Her eyes grew suddenly wet.
“Well, son,” she said gravely. “I want you to go ahead now and try to be Somebody. None of the others ever had your opportunity, and I hope you do something with it. Your papa and I have done the best we could. The rest is up to you.”
He took her hand in a moment of
