The Plastic Age, Percy Marks [best motivational novels .txt] 📗

was elected to Helmer, an honor society that possessed a granite “tomb,” a small windowless building in which the members were supposed to discuss questions of great importance and practice secret rites of awe-inspiring wonder. As a matter of fact, the monthly meetings were nothing but “bull fests,” or as one cynical member put it, “We wear a gold helmet on our sweaters and chew the fat once a month.” True enough, but that gold helmet glittered enticingly in the eyes of every student who did not possess one.

For the first time Hugh’s studies meant more to him than the undergraduate life. He had chosen his instructors carefully, having learned from three years of experience that the instructor was far more important than the title of the course. He had three classes in literature, one in music⁠—partly because it was a “snap” and partly because he really wanted to know more about music⁠—and his composition course with Henley, to him the most important of the lot.

He really studied, and at the end of the first term received three A’s and two B’s, a very creditable record. What was more important than his record, however, was the fact that he was really enjoying his work; he was intellectually awakened and hungry for learning.

Also, for the first time he really enjoyed the fraternity. Jack Lawrence was proving an able president, and Nu Delta pledged a freshman delegation of which Hugh was genuinely proud. There were plenty of men in the chapter whom he did not like or toward whom he was indifferent, but he had learned to ignore them and center his interest in those men whom he found congenial.

The first term was ideal, but the second became a maelstrom of doubt and trouble in which he whirled madly around trying to find some philosophy that would solve his difficulties.

When Norry returned to college after the Christmas vacation, he told Hugh that he had seen Cynthia. Naturally, Hugh was interested, and the mere mention of Cynthia’s name was still enough to quicken his pulse.

“How did she look?” he asked eagerly.

“Awful.”

“What! What’s the matter? Is she sick?”

Norry shook his head. “No, I don’t think she is exactly sick,” he said gravely, “but something is the matter with her. You know, she has been going an awful pace, tearing around like crazy. I told you that, I know, when I came back in the fall. Well, she’s kept it up, and I guess she’s about all in. I couldn’t understand it. Cynthia’s always run with a fast bunch, but she’s never had a bad name. She’s beginning to get one now.”

“No!” Hugh was honestly troubled. “What’s the matter, anyway? Didn’t you try to stop her?”

Norry smiled. “Of course not. Can you imagine me stopping Cynthia from doing anything she wanted to do? But I did have a talk with her. She got hold of me one night at the country club and pulled me off in a corner. She wanted to talk about you.”

“Me?” Hugh’s heart was beginning to pound. “What did she say?”

“She asked questions. She wanted to know everything about you. I guess she asked me a thousand questions. She wanted to know how you looked, how you were doing in your courses, where you were during vacation, if you had a girl⁠—oh, everything; and finally she asked if you ever talked about her?”

“What did you say?” Hugh demanded breathlessly.

“I told her yes, of course. Gee, Hugh, I thought she was going to cry. We talked some more, all about you. She’s crazy about you, Hugh; I’m sure of it. And I think that’s why she’s been hitting the high spots. I felt sorry as the devil for her. Poor kid.⁠ ⁠…”

“Gee, that’s tough; that’s damn tough. Did she send me any message?”

“No. I asked her if she wanted to send her love or anything, and she said she guessed not. I think she’s having an awful time, Hugh.”

That talk tore Hugh’s peace of mind into quivering shreds. Cynthia was with him every waking minute, and with her a sense of guilt that would not down. He knew that if he wrote to her he might involve himself in a very difficult situation, but the temptation was stronger than his discretion. He wanted to know if Norry was right, and he knew that he would never have an hour’s real comfort until he found out. Cynthia had told him that she was not in love with him; she had said definitely that their attraction for each other was merely sexual. Had she lied to him? Had she gone home in the middle of Prom, week because she thought she ought to save him from herself? He couldn’t decide, and he felt that he had to know. If Cynthia was unhappy and he was the cause of her unhappiness, he wanted, he assured himself, to “do the right thing,” and he had very vague notions indeed of what the right thing might be.

Finally he wrote to her. The letter took him hours to write, but he flattered himself that it was very discreet; it implied nothing and demanded nothing.

Dear Cynthia:

I had a talk with Norry Parker recently that has troubled me a great deal. He said that you seemed both unwell and unhappy, and he felt that I was in some way responsible for your depression. Of course, we both know how ingenuous and romantic Norry is; he can find tragedy in a cut finger. I recognize that fact, but what he told me has given me no end of worry just the same.

Won’t you please write to me just what is wrong⁠—if anything really is and if I have anything to do with it. I shall continue to worry until I get your letter.

Most sincerely,

Hugh.

Weeks went by and no answer came. Hugh’s confusion increased. He thought of writing her another letter, but pride and common sense forbade. Then her letter came, and all of his props were kicked