"But I'm not bothered about all the other things, whatever they are, sir. They're not for me to interfere with and I'll be satisfied to go back to college and remain there as long as they'll allow me to."
"But I want to help you do what is best," he said. "What's best, mind you. Do you wish to do what's best for yourself?"
"Why, yes, sir. I suppose I do . . ."
"Then forget about returning to the college. Go somewhere else . . ."
"You mean leave?"
"Yes, forget it . . ."
"But you said that you would help me!"
"I did and I am --"
"But what about seeing Mr. Emerson?"
"Oh, God! Don't you see that it's best that you do not see him?"
Suddenly I could not breathe. Then I was standing, gripping my brief case. "What have you got against me?" I blurted. "What did I ever do to you? You never intended to let me see him. Even though I presented my letter of introduction. Why? Why? I'd never endanger your job --"
"No, no, no! Of course not," he cried, getting to his feet. "You've misunderstood me. You mustn't do that! God, there's too much misunderstanding. Please don't think I'm trying to prevent you from seeing my -- from seeing Mr. Emerson out of prejudice . . ."
"Yes, sir, I do," I said angrily. "I was sent here by a friend of his. You read the letter, but still you refuse to let me see him, and now you're trying to get me to leave college. What kind of man are you, anyway? What have you got against me? You, a northern white man!"
He looked pained. "I've done it badly," he said, "but you must believe that I am trying to advise you what is best for you." He snatched off his glasses.
"But I know what's best for me," I said. "Or at least Dr. Bledsoe does, and if I can't see Mr. Emerson today, just tell me when I can and I'll be here . . ."
He bit his lips and shut his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as though fighting back a scream. "I'm sorry, really sorry that I started all of this," he said, suddenly calm. "It was foolish of me to try to advise you, but please, you mustn't believe that I'm against you . . . or your race. I'm your friend. Some of the finest people I know are Neg -- Well, you see, Mr. Emerson is my father."
"Your father!"
"My father, yes, though I would have preferred it otherwise. But he is, and I could arrange for you to see him. But to be utterly frank, I'm incapable of such cynicism. It would do you no good."
"But I'd like to take my chances, Mr. Emerson, sir . . . This is very important to me. My whole career depends upon it."
"But you have no chance," he said.
"But Dr. Bledsoe sent me here," I said, growing more excited. "I must have a chance . . ."
"Dr. Bledsoe," he said with distaste. "He's like my . . . he ought to be horsewhipped! Here," he said, sweeping up the letter and thrusting it crackling toward me. I took it, looking into his eyes that burned back at me.
"Go on, read it," he cried excitedly. "Go on!"
"But I wasn't asking for this," I said.
"Read it!"
My dear Mr. Emerson:
The bearer of this letter is a former student of ours (I say former because he shall never, under any circumstances, be enrolled as a student here again) who has been expelled for a most serious defection from our strictest rules of deportment.
Due, however, to circumstances the nature of which I shall explain to you in person on the occasion of the next meeting of the board, it is to the best interests of the college that this young man have no knowledge of the finality of his expulsion. For it is indeed his hope to return here to his classes in the fall. However, it is to the best interests of the great work which we are dedicated to perform, that he continue undisturbed in these vain hopes while remaining as far as possible from our midst.
This case represents, my dear Mr. Emerson, one of the rare, delicate instances in which one for whom we held great expectations has gone grievously astray, and who in his fall threatens to upset certain delicate relationships between certain interested individuals and the school. Thus, while the bearer is no longer a member of our scholastic family, it is highly important that his severance with the college be executed as painlessly as possible. I beg of you, sir, to help him continue in the direction of that promise which, like the horizon, recedes ever brightly and distantly beyond the hopeful traveler.
Respectfully, I am your humble servant,
A. Herbert Bledsoe
I raised my head. Twenty-five years seemed to have lapsed between his handing me the letter and my grasping its message. I could not believe it, tried to read it again. I could not believe it, yet I had a feeling that it all had happened before. I rubbed my eyes, and they felt sandy as though all the fluids had suddenly dried.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm terribly sorry."
"What did I do? I always tried to do the right thing
"That you must tell me," he said. "To what does he refer?"
"I don't know, I don't know . . ."
"But you must have done something."
"I took a man for a drive, showed him into the Golden Day to help him when he became ill ... I don't know
I told him falteringly of the visit to Trueblood's and the trip to the Golden Day and of my expulsion, watching his mobile face reflecting his reaction to each detail.
"It's little enough," he said when I had finished. "I don't understand the man. He is very complicated."
"I only wanted to return and help," I said.
"You'll never return. You can't return now," he said. "Don't you see? I'm terribly sorry and yet I'm glad that I gave in to the impulse to speak to you. Forget it; though that's advice which I've been unable to accept myself, it's still good advice. There is no point in blinding yourself to the truth. Don't blind yourself . . ."
I got up, dazed, and started toward the door. He came behind me into the reception room where the birds flamed in the cage, their squawks like screams in a nightmare.
He stammered guiltily, "Please, I must ask you never to mention this conversation to anyone."
"No," I said.
"I wouldn't mind, but my father would consider my revelation the most extreme treason . . . You're free of him now. I'm still his prisoner. You have been freed, don't you understand? I've still my battle." He seemed near tears.
"I won't," I said. "No one would believe me. I can't myself. There must be some mistake. There must be . . ."
I opened the door.
"Look, fellow," he said. "This evening I'm having a party at the Calamus. Would you like to join my guests? It might help you --"