Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 23 THE POWER BEYOND CONTROL. Joyce Tramway felt the steady pressure of each stair as he trudged up to his room, denoting to his tired brain that his shoes were in need of repair, and he in¬ stinctively shoved his hand into his pocket, finding nothing but a small, round hole. Arriving in his room he dropped into a chair and as he relaxed his fatigued body, the events of the past six months flashed through his mind. Six months ago, he had been a contented department store clerk, until one night after hours, a late purchaser hearing him play the department piano, stopped to listen. Joyce had felt the man’s presence, and when he finished, he swung around on the stool. “Young man, you have great talent,” exclaimed the gentleman. “Why are you here?” “Well, sir, one cannot advance without opportunity.” Further conversation ensued, and the gentleman had finally given Joyce his card with the request to look him up some day. That night Joyce showed the card to his youthful companion, Peg. “Gee, Peg, but wouldn’t I like the chance to make good. Have you ever heard of this Mr. Jennings?” “Why, of course, Joyce. He is the instructor at the large Conservatory in Sennott.” For a few weeks things went along much the same as usual, but the seed had been sown and each day Joyce’s discontent had grown until he had finally left for the big city. Arriving there, he went to the Professor’s home, only to be told that the latter had left four days before for Europe. Unknown and inexperienced, Joyce had been able to receive only part time theatre jobs. These few bright spots plus his deep pride had prevented him from returning home. His dreaming was abruptly ended by a sharp knock at the door. He roused himself and on the threshold encountered his sour-faced landlady. “Well—when did you get back, Dreamy?” “Just about five minutes ago,” as he evaded the woman’s stare. “Well—?” she demanded. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Trent, but my efforts were fruitless, and if you would only-” “Say, you young whippersnapper—if I don’t have that three week’s room rent by tomorrow at five, you may as well book lodging with the park pigeons,” and with this ultimatum she withdrew. As he turned back, Joyce’s glance rested on an old vest thrown over a chair. With a purely impulsive action he searched the pockets and found at last silver amounting to thirty-five cents. Not much, but at least enough for supper. Pulling his thread-bare cap down over his curly and unruly brown hair, he slipped from the lodging house and continued on to the gleaming lights of the corner restaurant with a new light in his now sparkling steel gray eyes, that transformed his former melancholy expression to one of pleasant expectancy. Finding himself almost at the door, he felt for the change to reassure himself. Not finding it in the lefthand pocket, he explored the right, but was rewarded only with that forgotten hole as a mute reminder of the trail of his money. Overwhelmed by the irony of the situation he did not notice where his feet led him until he reached the bridge connecting the city with its famous island

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. Even now I seem to see her face in every corner, through every window, behind every portiere. Every minute of the past three days I have lived again that horrible hour. I met her at the foot of the staircase—led her into the library—seated her by the fireplace, all the while conscious of her unusual charm and beauty. It was then I made my accusation. I cursed both her and her nation and charged her with betraying my trust in her after she had begged my protection and hospitality. She rose, trembling, but before she could speak, I dealt her a blow with a heavy poker that I snatched up from beside the fireplace. What a horrible picture! Blood gushing forth from the deep wound which I had inflicted in her temple. However, not satisfied with this first cruel act, I allowed an insatiable thirst for human blood to overpower my finer feelings, and continued to rain blow after blow upon her unfeeling body. Soon fatigue compelled me to stop, but after a short rest I searched carefully through her clothing for any documents that might be hidden therein. Finding none, I came to the conclusion that they were secreted in her room. I then hurled the gore-clotted mass of human flesh down the long stairway leading to the wine vaults, securely locked the massive door at the head of the same stairway, and hurried in spite of my sixty odd years to the floor above. I went immediately to the room of the dead woman and began a feverish search through her meagre belongings. Suddenly I came upon a small gold locket, and out of idle curiosity I pried it open. Mon dieu! I had murdered some one who was dear to my brother, Jean de Rivoral. Suddenly I spied a letter in the same drawer where I had found the locket. Hastily I snatched it up. It was from the Secret Service Bureau of France and it announced the death of the girl’s father, Jean de Rivoral on July 14, 1917. I had killed my own niece, my brother’s daughter, a girl who had given her life to her country’s cause. That disfigured face seems to be reflected upon the page even as I write. I fear every minute lest the door of the wine vault should swing open and she should stand before me, she whom I murdered because I was too blind to see the truth. Sooner or later I know that I shall be called upon to pay for this deed. I fear lest I go insane as did my father before me, insane, insane, INSANE. June 7 : In due respect to my last master, Monsieur Henri de Rivoral, I, his last remaining servant, close his diary. The poor old gentleman flung himself into the river from the top¬ most parapet of his castle the night of June 5, 1917. I fear for my life, so I am leaving Rivoral before the Germans come. The Cure has promised to watch for Monsieur de Rivoral’s body, and also for the body of Mademoi¬ selle Valny, who we believe met with the same fate as my good master. I submit this diary, unread, to Monsieur Charles Manteau, the lawyer of Monsieur de Rivoral. Warren Reid, ’27.

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24 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. prison, and felt the cool breezes as they swept in from the sea. He approached the bridge railing and peered over as countless others had done before him. Slowly the desire to plunge into the deep black water crept over him, and as this feeling numbed his mind, things that might have happened suggested themselves. Why hadn’t that old fogy of a musical director at home retired? What did he want with more money? Oughtn’t he give someone else a chance? Even these questions brought back the idea of returning home to the old job and Peg, who had so earnestly pleaded with him not to leave. Would he ever forget her as she was the night before he left? Her creamy skin silhouetted against the dark mahogany of the piano, her slender legs swing¬ ing back and forth, and her lips parted in a smile that together with her eyes reflected the affectionate interest she had in him. With all his love, would his haughty pride allow him to return to her a failure? No! A thousand times, No! But why waste time considering these silly questions? Why not end it all now? And this, it seemed to his distorted mind, was the easiest way. Could that impene¬ trable void have any more trials and cares than his present existence? As this feeling began to dominate him, a counter response arose and he was conscious of a desire, of a need, to return to the rooming house. Something seemed to be drawing him there. Finally giving in, he wended his way over the bridge onto the main walk. But that something seemed to impel him to greater speed and his ambling gait changed to a steady, brisk walk. As he neared familiar streets, this feeling grew and he found himself in a frenzied sweat, turning from his now half trot to a panting run, as his house loomed into view. He ran up the stairs and into the hall. Groping for his mail slot, he sensed a gnawing doubt. Perhaps this impulse had been nothing but the result of a distraught mind, but as his fingers closed on an envelope, all uncertainty fled. As he fumbled for a match it seemed ages before the soft gas light filled the room. He gazed at the telegram. Tearing open the yellow envelope, he read aloud: “New theatre finished Thursday. You have been appointed musical director. Come at once.”—Peg. As the paper fluttered to the floor, Joyce Tramway realized that a kind and watchful God had once more assumed the directorship of his affairs. Lyman P. Callery, ’27. THE TIN BOX. Philip Stark went back to his hotel with a tin box under his arm. He would like to have entered the hotel without being observed, but this was impossible, for the land-lord’s nephew was just closing up. Though not late for a city, it was very late for the country, and he looked surprised when Stark came in. “I am out late,” said Stark, with a smile. “Yes.” “That is late for Milford. In the city I never go to bed before midnight.” “Have you been out walking?” “Yes.” “You couldn’t have found the walk a pleasant one.” “You are right, my friend, but I didn’t walk for pleasure. The fact is, I am rather worried about a business matter. I have learned that I am threatened