He thought of her only as a very chill and respectable woman. He played Casino—the only game he knew—with her and the other boarders, and called her “ma’am.” Then one night she took his hand, saying she would show him how to make love to a girl. She tickled the palm, put it around her waist, lifted it to her breast, and plumped over on his shoulder, breathing stertorously through her pinched nostrils and saying, “God, boy!” over and over. He plunged around the dark cool streets until three in the morning, wondering what he would do about it. Then he came back to the sleeping house, and crept on shoeless feet into her room. Fear and disgust were immediate. He climbed the hills to ease his tortured spirit and stayed away from the house for hours. But she would follow him down the halls or open her door suddenly on him, clad in a red kimono. She became very ugly and bitter, and accused him of betraying, dishonoring, and deserting her. She said that where she came from—the good old State of South Carolina—a man who treated a woman in such fashion would get a bullet in him. Eugene thought of new lands. He was in an agony of repentance and guilty abasement: he framed a long plea for pardon and included it in his prayers at night, for he still prayed, not from devout belief, but from the superstition of habit and number, muttering a set formula over sixteen times, while he held his breath. Since childhood he had believed in the magical efficacy of certain numbers—on Sunday he would do only the second thing that came into his head and not the first—and this intricate ritual of number and prayer he was a slave to, not to propitiate God, but to fulfil a mysterious harmonic relation with the universe, or to pay worship to the demonic force that brooded over him. He could not sleep of nights until he did this.
Eliza finally grew suspicious of the woman, picked a quarrel with her, and ejected her.
No one said very much to him about going to Harvard. He himself had no very clear reason for going, and only in September, a few days before the beginning of the term, decided to go. He talked about it at intervals during the summer, but, like all his family, he needed the pressure of immediacy to force a decision. He was offered employment on several newspapers in the State, and on the teaching staff of the rundown military academy that topped a pleasant hill two miles from town.
But in his heart he knew he was going to leave. And no one opposed him very much. Helen railed against him at times to Luke, but made only a few indifferent and unfriendly comments to himself about it. Gant moaned wearily, saying: “Let him do as he likes. I can’t pay out any more money on his education. If he wants to go, his mother must send him.” Eliza pursed her lips thoughtfully, made a bantering noise, and said:
“Hm! Harvard! That’s mighty big talk, boy. Where are you going to get the money?”
“I can get it,” he said darkly. “People will lend it to me.”
“No, son,” she said with instant grave caution. “I don’t want you to do anything like that. You mustn’t start life by accumulating debts.”
He was silent, trying to force the terrible sentence through his parched lips.
“Then,” he said finally, “why can’t I pay my way from my share in papa’s estate?”
“Why, child!” said Eliza angrily. “You talk as if we were millionaires. I don’t even know that there’s going to be any share for anybody. Your papa was persuaded into that against his better judgment,” she added fretfully.
Eugene began to beat suddenly against his ribs.
“I want to go!” he said. “I’ve got to have it now! Now!”
He was mad with a sense of frustration.
“I don’t want it when I’m rotten! I want it now! To hell with the real estate! I want none of your dirt! I hate it! Let me go!” he screamed; and in his fury he began to beat his head against the wall.
Eliza pursed her lips for a moment.
“Well,” she said, at length. “I’ll send you for a year. Then we’ll see.”
But, two or three days before his departure, Luke, who was taking Gant to Baltimore the next day, thrust a sheet of typed paper into his hand.
“What is it?” he asked, looking at it with sullen suspicion.
“Oh, just a little form Hugh wants you to sign, in case anything should happen. It’s a release.”
“A release from what?” said Eugene, staring at it.
Then, as his mind picked its way slowly through the glib jargon of the law, he saw that the paper was an acknowledgment that he had already received the sum of five thousand dollars in consideration of college fees and expenses. He lifted his scowling face to his brother. Luke looked at him for a moment, then burst into a crazy whah-whah, digging him in the ribs. Eugene grinned sullenly, and said:
“Give me your pen.”
He signed the paper and gave it back to his brother with a feeling of sad triumph.
“Whah-whah! Now you’ve done it!” said Luke, with witless guffaw.
“Yes,” said Eugene, “and you think me a fool for it. But I’d rather be done now than later. That’s my release, not yours.”
He thought of Hugh Barton’s grave foxy face. There was no victory for him there and he knew it. After all, he thought, I have my ticket and the money for my escape in my pocket. Now, I am done with it cleanly. It’s good ending, after all.
When Eliza heard of this occurrence, she protested sharply:
“Why here!” she said. “They’ve no right to do that. The child’s still a minor. Your papa always said he intended to give him his education.”
Then,
