University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE BEGINNING OF COLLEGE LIFE—I MEET PETER MULLENS,
GORDON LIVINGSTON, AND TEMPTATION.

The story of my college life occupies so large a space in my
memory, that in the attempt to write it within practicable
limits I find myself obliged to denude it of a thousand interesting
details, and to cling in my record to those persons and
incidents which were most directly concerned in shaping my
character, my course of life, and my destiny.

I entered upon this life panoplied with good resolutions and
worthy ambitions. I was determined to honor the expectations
of those who had trusted me, and to disappoint the fears of
those who had not. Especially was I determined to regain a
measure of the religious zeal and spiritual peace and satisfaction
which I had lost during the closing months of my stay in
Bradford. Henry and I talked the matter all over, and laid
our plans together. We agreed to stand by one another in all
emergencies—in sickness, in trouble, in danger—and to be
faithful critics and Mentors of each other.

Both of us won at once honorable positions in our class, and
the good opinion of our teachers, for we were thoroughly in
earnest and scrupulously industrious. Though a good deal of
society forced itself upon us, we were sufficient for each other,
and sought but little to extend the field of companionship.

We went at once into the weekly prayer-meeting held by the
religious students, thinking, that whatever other effect it might
have upon us, it would so thoroughly declare our position that
all that was gross in the way of temptation would shun us.
Taking our religious stand early, we felt, too, that we should
have a better outlook upon, and a sounder and safer estimate
of, all those diversions and dissipations which never fail to come

with subtle and specious temptation to large bodies of young
men deprived of the influences of home.

The effect that we aimed at was secured. We were classed
at once among those to whom we belonged; but, to me, I
cannot say that the classification was entirely satisfactory. I
did not find the brightest and most desirable companions
among those who attended the prayer-meetings. They were
shockingly common-place fellows, the most of them—particularly
those most forward in engaging in the exercises.
There were a few shy-looking, attractive young men, who
said but little, took always the back seats, and conveyed
to me the impression that they had come in as a matter of
duty, to give their countenance to the gatherings, but without
a disposition to engage actively in the discussions and prayers.
At first their position seemed cowardly to me, but it was only
a few weeks before Henry and I belonged to their number.
The meetings seemed to be in the possession of a set of young
men who were preparing themselves for the Christian ministry,
and who looked upon the college prayer-meeting as a sort of
gymnasium, where they were to exercise and develop their
gifts. Accordingly, we were treated every week to a sort of
dress-parade of mediocrity. Two or three long-winded fellows,
who seemed to take the greatest delight in public
speech, assumed the leadership, and I may frankly say that
they possessed no power to do me good. It is possible that
the rest of us ought to have frowned upon their presumption,
and insisted on a more democratic division of duty and privilege;
but, in truth, there was something about them with which
we did not wish to come into contact. So we contented ourselves
with giving the honor to them, and cherishing the hope
that what they did would bring good to somebody.

Henry and I talked about the matter in our walks and times
of leisure, and the result was to disgust us with the semi-professional
wordiness of the meetings, as well as with the little
body of windy talkers who made those meetings so fruitless
and unattractive to us. We found ourselves driven in at length

upon our own resources, and became content with our daily
prayer together. This was our old habit at The Bird's Nest,
and to me, for many months, it was a tower of strength.

Toward the close of our first term an incident occurred which
set me still more strongly against the set of young men to whom
I have made allusion. There was one of them who had been
more offensive than all the rest. His name was Peter Mullens.
He was an unwholesome-looking fellow, who wore clothes that
never seemed as if they were made for him, and whose false shirt-bosom
neither fitted him nor appeared clean. There was a
rumpled, shabby look about his whole person. His small, cunning
eyes were covered by a pair of glasses which I am sure he
wore for ornament, while his hair was combed back straight
over his head, to show all the forehead he possessed, though it
was not at all imposing in its height and breadth. I had made
no inquiries into his history, for he was uninteresting to me in
the last degree.

One evening, just before bedtime, he knocked at our door and
entered. He had never done this before, and as he seemed to
be in unusually good spirits, and to come in with an air of good-fellowship
and familiarity, both Henry and myself regarded his
call with a sort of questioning surprise. After the utterance of
a few commonplace remarks about the weather, and the very
interesting meetings they were having, he explained that he
had called to inquire why it was that we had forsaken the prayer-meetings.

Henry told him at once, and frankly, that it was because he
was not interested in them, and because he felt that he could
spend his time better.

Still more frankly, and with less discretion, I told him that
the meetings seemed to be in the hands of a set of muffs, who
knew very little and assumed to know everything.

“The trouble with you fellows,” responded Mr. Peter Mullens,
“is that you are proud, and will not humble yourselves
to learn. If you felt the responsibility of those of us who are
fitting for the ministry, you would look upon the matter in a very

different way. We have begun our work, and we shall carry it
on, whether men will hear or forbear.”

“Is it any of your business whether they hear or forbear?”
said I, touchily: “because, if it is, Henry and I will sweep the
floor and get down on our knees to you.”

“It is my business to do my duty, in the face of all the
taunts and ridicule which you may heap upon me,” replied Mr.
Mullens, loftily.

“Excuse me, Mr. Mullens,” I said, “but it seems to me that
fellows of your sort thrive on taunts and ridicule. Don't you
rather like them now?”

Mr. Mullens smiled a sad, pitying smile, and said that no one
who did his duty could hope to live a life of gratified pride or of
ease.

“Mr. Mullens,” said Henry, “I suppose that so far as you
know your own motives, those which led you here were good;
but lest you should be tempted to repeat your visit, let me say
that I relieve you of all responsibility for my future conduct.
You have done me all the good that you can possibly do me,
except in one way.”

“What is that?” inquired Mullens.

“By carefully keeping out of this room, and out of my sight,”
responded Henry.

“Henry has expressed my feelings exactly,” I added; “and
now I think there is a fair understanding of the matter, and we
can feel ourselves at liberty to change the conversation.”

Mullens sat a moment in thought, then he adjusted his spectacles,
tucked down his false shirt-bosom, which always looked
as if it were blown up and needed pricking, and turning to me,
said with an air of cunning triumph: “Bonnicastle, I believe
you are one of us.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“Why, one of us that have aid, you know—what they call
charity students.”

“Charity students!” I exclaimed in astonishment.

“Oh, I've found it out. You are luckier than the rest of us,

for you have no end of money. I wish you could manage in
some way to get the old woman to help me, for I really need
more aid than I have. I don't suppose she would feel a gift of
fifty dollars any more than she would one of fifty cents. So
small a sum as ten dollars would do me a great deal of good,
or even five.”

“How would you like some old clothes?” inquired Henry,
with a quiet but contemptuous smile.

“That is really what I would like to speak about,” said Mr.
Mullens. “You fellows who have plenty of money throw away
your clothes when they are only a little worn; and when you
have any to give away, you would oblige me very much by remembering
me. I have no new clothes myself. I take the
crumbs that fall.”

“And that reminds me,” resumed Henry, “that perhaps
you might like some cold victuals.”

“No, I'm provided for, so far as board and lodging are concerned,”
responded Mr. Mullens, entirely unconscious of the
irony of which he was the subject.

Henry turned to me with a hopeless look, as if he had
sounded himself in vain to find words which would express his
contempt for the booby before him. As for myself, I had been
so taken off my guard, so shamed with the thought that he and
his confreres regarded me as belonging to their number, so disgusted
with the fellow's greed and lack of sensibility, and so
angry at his presumption, that I could not trust myself to
speak at all. I suspected that if I should begin to express my
feelings I should end by kicking him out of the room.

Henry looked at him for a moment, in a sort of dumb wonder,
and then said: “Peter Mullens, what do you suppose I
think of you?”

There was something in the flash of Henry's eye and in the
tone of his voice, as he uttered this question, that brought
Mullens to his feet in an impulse to retire.

“Sit down,” said Henry.

Mr. Mullens sat down with his hat between his knees, and

mumbled something about having stayed longer than he intended.

“You cannot go yet,” Henry continued. “You came in
here to lecture us, and to humiliate one of us; and now I propose
to tell you what I think of you. There is not the first
element of a gentleman in you. You came in here as a bully
in the name of religion, you advertise yourself as a sneak by
boasting that you have been prying into other people's affairs,
and you end by begging old clothes of those who have too
much self-respect to kick you for your impudence and your
impertinence. Do you suppose that such a puppy as you are
can ever prepare for the ministry?”

I think that this was probably the first time Peter Mullens
had ever heard the plain truth in regard to himself. He was
very much astonished, for his slow apprehension had at last
grasped the conclusions that he was heartily despised and that
he was in strong hands.

“I—really—really—beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said Mr.
Mullens, ramming down his rising shirt-bosom, and wiping his
hat with his sleeve; “I meant no offense, but really—I—I—
must justify myself for asking for aid. I have given myself to
the church, gentlemen, and the laborer is worthy of his hire.
What more can I do than to give myself? The church wants
men. The church must have men; and she owes it to them
to see that they are taken care of. If she neglects her duty
she must be reminded of it. If I am willing to take up with
old clothes she ought not to complain.”

Mr. Mullens paused with a vocal inflection that indicated a
deeply wounded heart, rammed down his shirt-bosom again,
and looked to Henry for a response.

“There is one thing, Mr. Mullens,” said Henry, “that the
church has no right to ask you to give up; one thing which
you have no right to give up; and one thing which, if given
up, leaves you as worthless to the church as despicable in
yourself, and that is manhood; and I know of nothing that
kills manhood quicker than a perfectly willing dependence on

others. You are beginning life as a beggar. You justify yourself
in beggary, and it takes no prophet to foresee that you will
end life as a beggar. Once down where you are willing to sell
yourself and take your daily dole at the hand of your purchaser,
and you are forever down.”

“But what can I do?” inquired Mullens.

“You can do what I do, and what thousands of your betters
are doing all the time—work and take care of yourself,” replied
Henry.

“But the time—just think of the time that would be lost to
the cause.”

“I am not very old,” responded Henry, “but I am old
enough to know that the time which independence costs is
never wasted. A man who takes fifteen years to prepare
himself for life is twice the man, when prepared, that he is who
only takes ten; and the best part of his education is that which
he gets in the struggle to maintain his own independence. I
have an unutterable contempt for this whole charity business,
as it is applied to the education of young men. A man who
has not pluck and persistence enough to get his own education
is not worth educating at all. It is a demoralizing process, and
you, Mr. Peter Mullens, in a very small way, are one of its
victims.”

Henry had been so thoroughly absorbed during these last
utterances that he had not once looked at me. I doubt,
indeed, whether he was conscious of my presence; but as he
closed his sentence he turned to me, and was evidently pained
and surprised at the expression upon my face. With a quick
instinct he saw how readily I had applied his words to myself,
and, once more addressing Mullens, said: “When a childless
woman adopts a relative as a member of her family, and makes
him her own, and a sharer in her love and fortune, it may be
well or ill for him, but it is none of your business, and makes
him no fellow of yours. And now, Mr. Mullens, if you wish
to go, you are at liberty to do so. If I ever have any old
clothes I shall certainly remember you.”

“I should really be very much obliged to you,” said Mr.
Mullens, “and” (turning to me) “if you should happen to be
writing to your aunt—”

“For Heaven's sake, Mullens,” exclaimed Henry, “go
now,” and then, overwhelmed with the comical aspect of the
matter, we both burst into a laugh that was simply irresistible.
Mullens adjusted his spectacles with a dazed look upon his face,
brushed back his hair, rammed down his shirt-bosom, buttoned
his coat, and very soberly bade us a good-evening.

Under ordinary circumstances we should have found
abundant food for merriment between ourselves after the man's
departure, but Henry, under the impression that he had unintentionally
wounded me, felt that nothing was to be gained by
recalling and explaining his words, and I was too sore to risk
the danger of further allusion to the subject. By revealing my
position and relations to Mullens, Henry had sought, in the
kindest way, to place me at my ease, and had done all that he
had the power to do to restore my self-complacency. So the
moment Mullens left the room some other subject was broached,
and in half an hour both of us were in bed, and Henry was
sound asleep.

I was glad in my consciousness to be alone, for I had many
things to think of. There was one reason for the omission of
all comment upon our visitor and our conversation, so far as
Henry was concerned, which, with a quick insight, I detected.
He had, in his anxiety to comfort me, spoken of me as a relative
of Mrs. Sanderson. He had thus revealed to me the
possession of knowledge which I had never conveyed to him.
It certainly had not reached him from Mrs. Sanderson, nor had
he gathered it from Claire, or my father's family; for I had
never breathed a word to them of the secret which my aunt had
permitted me to discover. He must have learned it from the
Bradfords, with whom he had maintained great intimacy. I had
long been aware of the fact that he was carrying on a secret life
into which I had never been permitted to look. I should not
have cared for this had I not been suspicious that I was in some

way concerned with it. I knew that he did not like my relations
to Mrs. Sanderson, and that he did not wish to speak of
them. I had learned to refrain from all mention of her name;
but he had talked with somebody about her and about me, and
had learned one thing, at least, which my own father did not
know.

All this, however, was a small vexation compared with the
revelation of the influence which my position would naturally
exert upon my character. However deeply it might wound
my self-love, I knew that I was under the same influence which
made Mr. Peter Mullens so contemptible a person. He was a
willing dependent upon strangers, and was not I? This dependence
was sapping my own manhood as it had already destroyed
his. If Mullens had come to me alone, and claimed
fellowship with me,—if Henry had not been near me in his
quiet and self-respectful independence to put him down,—I felt
that there would have been no part for me to play except that
of the coward or the bully. I had no ground on which to stand
for self-defense. Mr. Peter Mullens would have been master
of the situation. The thought galled me to the quick.

It was in vain that I remembered that I was an irresponsible
child when this dependence began. It was in vain that I assured
myself that I was no beggar. The fact remained that I
had been purchased and paid for, and that, by the subtly demoralizing
influence of dependence, I had been so weakened
that I shrank from assuming the responsibility of my own life.
I clung to the gold that came with the asking. I clung to the
delights that only the gold could buy. I shuddered at the
thought of taking myself and my fortunes upon my own hands,
and I knew by that fact that something manly had sickened or
died in me.

I do not know how long I lay revolving these things in my
mind. It was certainly far into the night; and when I woke in
the morning I found my heart discontented and bitter. I had
regarded myself as a gentleman. I had borne myself with a
considerable degree of exclusiveness. I had not cared for recognition.

Having determined to do my work well, and to seek
no man's company as a thing necessary to fix my social status,
I had gone on quietly and self-respectfully. Now I was to go
out and meet the anger of Peter Mullens and his tribe. I was
to be regarded and spoken of by them as a very unworthy
member of their own order. My history had been ascertained,
and would be reported to all who knew me.

All these reflections and suggestions may seem very foolish
and morbid to the reader, but they were distressing to me beyond
my power of telling. I was young, sensitive, proud, and
self-loving, and though I prayed for help to enable me to face
my fellows, and so to manage my life as to escape the harm
which my position threatened to inflict upon me, I could not
escape the conviction that Peter Mullens and I were, essentially,
on the same ground.

Up to this time I had looked for temptations in vain. No
temptations to dissipation had presented themselves. I was
sure that no enticement to sensuality or gross vice would have
power to move me. Steady employment and daily fatigue held
in check my animal spirits, and all my life had gone on safely
and smoothly. The daily prayer had brought me back from
every heart-wandering, had sweetened and elevated all my
desires, had strengthened me for my work, and given me something
of the old peace. Away from Henry, I had found but
little sympathetic Christian society, but I had been entirely at
home and satisfied with him. Now I found that it required
courage to face the little world around me; and almost unconsciously
I began the work of making acquaintances with the
better class of students. Although I had held myself apart
from others, there were two or three, similarly exclusive, whom
I had entertained a private desire to know. One of these was
a New Yorker, Mr. Gordon Livingston by name. He had the
reputation of belonging to a family of great wealth and splendid
connections, and although his standing as a student was not
the best, it was regarded as an honor to know him and the little
set to which he belonged. I was aware that the morality of

the man and his immediate companions was not much believed
in, and I knew, too, that the mean envy and jealousy of many
students would account for this. At any rate, I was in a mood,
after my interview with Mr. Mullens, to regard him very charitably,
and to wish that I might be so far recognized by him and
received into his set as to advertise to Mullens and his clique
my social removal from them. I determined to brace myself
around with aristocratic associations. I had the means in my
hands for this work. I could dress with the best. I had personal
advantages of which I need not boast here, but which I
was conscious would commend me to them. I had no intention
to cast in my life with them, but I determined to lose no
good opportunity to gain their recognition.

One evening, walking alone, outside the limits of the town—
for in my morbid mood I had taken to solitary wanderings,—I
fell in with Livingston, also alone. We had approached each
other from opposite directions, and met at the corners of the
road that led to the city, toward which we were returning. We
walked side by side, with only the road between us, for a few
yards, when, to my surprise, he crossed over, saying as he approached
me: “Hullo, Mr. Bonnicastle! What's the use of
two good-looking fellows like us walking alone when they can
have company?”

As he came up I gave him my hand, and called him by
name.

“So you've known me, as I have known you,” he said cordially.
“It's a little singular that we haven't been thrown together
before, for I fancy you belong to our kind of fellows.”

I expressed freely the pleasure I felt in meeting him, and told
him how glad I should be to make the acquaintance of his
friends; and we passed the time occupied in reaching the college
in conversation that was very pleasant to me.

Livingston was older than I, and was two classes in advance
of me. He was therefore in a position to patronize and pet me
—a position which he thoroughly understood and appreciated.
In his manner he had that quiet self-assurance and command

that only come from life-long familiarity with good society,
and the consciousness of unquestioned social position. He
had no youth of poverty to look back upon. He had no associations
with mean conditions and circumstances. With an
attractive face and figure, a hearty manner, a dress at once
faultlessly tasteful and unobtrusive, and with all the prestige of
wealth and family, there were few young fellows in college
whose notice would so greatly flatter a novice as his. The men
who spoke against him and affected contempt for him would
have accepted attention from him as an honor.

Livingston had undoubtedly heard my story, but he did not
sympathize with the views of Mr. Peter Mullens and his friends
concerning it. He found me as well dressed as himself, quite
as exclusive in my associations, liked my looks and manners,
and, with all the respect for money natural to his class, concluded
that I belonged to him and his set. In the mood of
mind in which I found myself at meeting him, it can readily be
imagined that his recognition and his assurance of friendliness
and fellowship brought me great relief.

As we entered the town, and took our way across the green,
he became more cordial, and pulled my arm within his own.
We were walking in this way when we met Mr. Mullens and a
knot of his fellows standing near the path. It was already
twilight, and they did not recognize us until we were near
them. Then they paused, in what seemed to have been an
excited conversation, and stared at us with silent impertinence.

Livingston hugged my arm and said coolly and distinctly:
“By the way, speaking of mules, have you ever familiarized
yourself with the natural history of the ass? I assure you it is
very interesting—his length of ear, his food of thistles, his
patience under insult, the toughness of his hide—in short—”
By this time we were beyond their hearing and he paused.

I gave a scared laugh which the group must also have heard,
and said: “Well that was cool, any way.”

“You see,” said Livingston, “I wanted to have them understand
that we had been improving our minds, by devotion

to scientific subjects. They were bound to hear what we
said and I wanted to leave a good impression.”

The cool impudence of the performance took me by surprise,
but, on the whole, it pleased me. It was a deed that I never
could have done myself, and I was astonished to find that there
was something in it that gratified a spirit of resentment of
which I had been the unconscious possessor. The utter indifference
of the man to their spite was an attainment altogether
beyond me, and I could not help admiring it.

Livingston accompanied me to my room, but we parted at
the door, although I begged the privilege of taking him in and
making him acquainted with my chum. He left me with an
invitation to call upon him at my convenience, and I entered
my room in a much lighter mood than that which drove me
out from it. I did not tell Henry at once of my new acquaintance,
for I was not at all sure that he would be pleased with
the information. Indeed, I knew he would not be, for he was
a fair measurer of personal values, and held Livingston and
Mullens in nearly equal dislike. Still I took a strange comfort
in the thought that I had entered the topmost clique, and that
Mullens, the man who had determined to bring me to his own
level, had seen me arm-in-arm with one of the most exclusive
and aristocratic fellows in the college.

And now, lest the reader should suppose that Henry had a
knowledge of Livingston's immorality of character which justified
his dislike of him, I ought to say at once that he was not a
bad man, so far as I was able to learn. If he indulged in immoral
practices with those of his own age, he never led me
into them. I came to be on familiar terms with him and them.
I was younger than most of them, and was petted by them.
My purse was as free as theirs on all social occasions, and I
was never made to feel that I was in any way their inferior.

Henry was a worker who had his own fortune to make, and
he proposed to make it. He was conscious that the whole
clique of which Livingston was a member held nothing in common
with him, and that they considered him to be socially beneath

them. He knew they were not actuated by manly aims,
and that they had no sympathy with those who were thus actuated.
They studied no more than was necessary to avoid
disgrace. They intended to have an easy time. They were
thoroughly good-natured among themselves, laughed freely
about professors and tutors, took a very superficial view of life,
and seemed to regard the college as a mill through which it was
necessary to pass, or a waiting-place in which it was considered
the proper thing to stop until their beards should mature.

The society of these men had no bad effect upon me, or
none perceptible to myself for a long time. Braced by them
as I was, Mr. Mullens made no headway against me; and I
came at last to feel that my position was secure. With the
corrective of Henry's society and example, and with the habit
of daily devotion unimpaired, I went on for months with a
measurable degree of satisfaction to myself. Still I was conscious
of a gradually lowering tone of feeling. By listening to
the utterance of careless words and worldly sentiments from
my new companions, I came to look leniently upon many
things and upon many men once abhorrent to me. Unconsciously
at the time, I tried to bring my Christianity into a compromise
with worldliness, and to sacrifice my scruples of conscience
to what seemed to be the demands of social usage. I
had found the temptation for which I had sought so long, and
which had so long sought without finding me, but alas! I did
not recognize it when it came.