Bertram Cope’s Year

What is a man’s best age? Peter Ibbetson, entering dreamland with complete freedom to choose, chose twenty-eight, and kept there. But twenty-eight, for our present purpose, has a drawback: a man of that age, if endowed with ordinary gifts and responsive to ordinary opportunities, is undeniably⁠—a man; whereas what we require here is something just a little short of that. Wanted, in fact, a young male who shall seem fully adult to those who are younger still, and who may even appear the accomplished flower of virility to an idealizing maid or so, yet who shall elicit from the middle-aged the kindly indulgence due a boy. Perhaps you will say that even a man of twenty-eight may seem only a boy to a man of seventy. However, no septuagenarian is to figure in these pages. Our elders will be but in the middle forties and the earlier fifties; and we must find for them an age which may evoke their friendly interest, and yet be likely to call forth, besides that, their sympathy and their longing admiration, and later their tolerance, their patience, and even their forgiveness.

I think, then, that Bertram Cope, when he began to intrigue the little group which dwelt among the quadruple avenues of elms that led to the campus in Churchton, was but about twenty-four⁠—certainly not a day more than twenty-five. If twenty-eight is the ideal age, the best is all the better for being just a little ahead.

“Why haven’t we known you before?” Medora T. Phillips asked him at a small reception. Mrs. Phillips spoke out loudly and boldly, and held his hand as long as she liked. No, not as long as she liked, but longer than most women would have felt at liberty to do. And besides speaking loudly and boldly, she looked loudly and boldly; and she employed a determined smile which seemed to say, “I’m old enough to do as I please.” Her brusque informality was expected to carry itself off⁠—and much else besides. “Of course I simply can’t be half so intrepid as I seem!” it said. “Everybody about us understands that, and I must ask your recognition too for an ascertained fact.”

“Known me?” returned Cope, promptly enough. “Why, you haven’t known me because I haven’t been here to be known.” He spoke in a ringing, resonant voice, returning her unabashed pressure with a hearty good will and blazing down upon her through his clear blue eyes with a high degree of self-possession, even of insouciance. And he explained, with a liberal exhibition of perfect teeth, that for the two years following his graduation he had been teaching literature at a small college in Wisconsin and that he had lately come back to Alma Mater for another bout: “I’m after that degree,” he concluded.

“See me!” she said, in a tense, vibratory tone. “Speak to me!”⁠—and she glowered upon him. “I am no kitten, like Amy. I am no tame tabby, like Carolyn, sending out written invitations. Throw a few poor words my way.”

Cope dropped the paper-cutter. Her address was like a dash of brine in the face, and he welcomed it.

“Tell me; did you look absurd⁠—then?” she dashed ahead.

A return to fresh water, after all! “Why,” he rejoined reluctantly, “no man, dressed in all his clothes, looks any the better for being soaked through.”

“And Amy⁠—she must have looked absolutely ridiculous! That wide, flapping hat, and all! I had been telling her for weeks that it was out of style.”

Pearson stopped his buzzings, and Cope began. “The Wood-nymphs,” he said slowly, “were a nice enough lot of girls, but they labored under one great disadvantage: they had no thumbs.”

Hortense pricked up her ears. Did he mean to be personal? If so, he should find that one of the nymphs had a whole hand as surely as he himself had a cheek.

Cope paused. “Of course you’ve got to postulate something,” he submitted apologetically.

“Of course,” Medora agreed.

“So when they bought their gloves, or mittens, or whatever their handgear might be called, they usually patronized the hickory or the beech or some other tree with leaves that were⁠—”

“Ovate!” cried Medora delightedly.

“Ovate, yes; or whatever just the right word may be. But a good many of them traded at the Sign of the Sassafras, where they found leaves that were similar, but rather more delicate.”

“I believe he’s going to do it,” thought Foster.

“Yet the nymphs knew that they lacked thumbs and kept on wanting them. So, during the long, dull winter, they put their minds to it, and finally thumbs came.”

“Willpower!” said Medora.

“And early in April they went to the Sassafras and said: ‘We have thumbs! We have thumbs! So we need a different sort of mitten.’

“The Sassafras was only half awake. ‘Thumbs?’ he repeated. ‘How many?’

“ ‘Two!’ cried the nymphs. ‘Two!’

“A passing breeze roused the Sassafras. He became at least three-quarters awake.”

“I doubt it,” muttered Hortense.

“Our house is full of him!” Foster burst out raucously. He had removed the green abat-jour, for the candle-shades (as they sometimes will) were performing their office. In the low but clear light his face seemed distorted.

“He rises to my floor like incense. The very halls and stairways reek with his charms and perfections.”

“Well, you escape him here,” said Randolph ruefully.

“The whole miserable place is steaming with expectation⁠—with the deadly aroma of a courtship going stale. I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!”

“Courtship?”

“You may think it takes two, but it doesn’t. That foolish girl has thrown the whole place into discomfort and confusion; and I don’t know who’s for or who’s against⁠—”

“What foolish girl?” asked Randolph quickly. Sing-Lo was at his elbow, changing plates: it was assumed, justly enough, that he would not be able to follow the intricacies of a situation purely occidental.

“Our Amy,” replied Foster, with a dash of bitterness.

“Amy Leffingwell?” asked Randolph, still more quickly.

Foster had blind eyes, but alert ears. He felt that Randolph was surprised and displeased. And indeed his host was both. That boy fallen maladroitly in love? thought Randolph. It was a second check. He had exerted himself to show a friendliness for Cope, had expected to enjoy him while he stayed on for his months in town, and had hoped to help push his fortunes in whatever other field he might enter.