Page 91 - DENG203_ELECTIVE_ENGLISH_IV

Elective English—IV

Notes talked with me so long and so late on this topic—the duty of brightening the lives of others—
that the waiter who held blue flames for his cigarettes fell asleep against a door post, and the
chauffeur outside froze to the seat of his motor.
Spugg’s wealth, I say, he regards as a solemn trust. I have often asked him why he didn’t give it,
for example, to a college. But he tells me that unfortunately he is not a college man. I have called
his attention to the need of further pensions for college professors; after all that Mr. Carnegie
and others have done, there are still thousands and thousands of old professors of thirty-five and
even forty, working away day after day and getting nothing but what they earn themselves, and
with no provision beyond the age of eighty-five. But Mr. Spugg says that these men are the
nation’s heroes. Their work is its own reward.
But after all, Mr. Spugg’s troubles—for he is a single man with no ties—are in a sense selfish. It
is perhaps in the homes—or more properly in the residences—of the rich that the great silent
tragedies are being enacted every day—tragedies of which the fortunate poor know and can
know nothing.
I saw such a case only a few nights ago at the house of the Ashcroft-Fowlers, where I was dining.
As we went in to dinner, Mrs. Ashcroft-Fowler said in a quiet aside to her husband, “Has
Meadows spoken?” He shook his head rather gloomily and answered, “No, he has said nothing
yet.” I saw them exchange a glance of quiet sympathy and mutual help, like people in trouble,
who love one another.
They were old friends and my heart beat for them. All through the dinner as Meadows—he was
their butler—poured out the wine with each course, I could feel that some great trouble was
impending over my friends.
After Mrs. Ashcroft-Fowler had risen and left us, and we were alone over our port wine, I drew
my chair near to Fowler’s and I said, “My dear Fowler, I’m an old friend and you’ll excuse me if
I seem to be taking a liberty. But I can see that you and your wife are in trouble.”
“Yes,” he said very sadly and quietly, “we are.”
“Excue me,” I said. “Tell me—for it makes a thing easier if one talks about it—is it anything
about Meadows?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is about Meadows.”
There was silence for a moment, but I knew already what Fowler was going to say. I could feel
it coming.
“Meadows,” he said presently, constraining himself to speak with as little emotion as possible,
“is leaving us.”

“Poor old chap!” I said, taking his hand.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he said. “Franklin left last winter—no fault of ours; we did everything we
could—and now Meadows.”

There was almost a sob in his voice.
“He hasn’t spoken definitely as yet,” Fowler went on, “but we know there’s hardly any chance
of his staying.”

“Does he give any reason?” I asked.
“Nothing specific,” said Fowler. “It’s just a sheer case of incompatibility. Meadows doesn’t like
us.”

He put his hand over his face and was silent.

86 LOVELY PROFESSIONAL UNIVERSITY