Sup with the Devil Read Free Page A

carry both pitchers full of ale and also Mr. Lechmere the Sophomore’s wig box . . . ? Which of course was the point, the wretched boys . . . ).
    Thus she wasn’t at all surprised when Yeovil had been dispatched on his errand and the fat student—whose lush yellow gown gave him the general appearance of a gargantuan squash—made another bow, to find her request for Horace’s direction interrupted yet again . . .
    “Excuse me, my very dear madame, I beg of you—Yeovil!” the fat man yelled. “Yo, Yeovil, come back here, blister it!”
    He was the senior, then, reflected Abigail with a sigh. Or a bachelor-fellow, by the look of him. And privileged to preempt the junior’s request for ale, which had preempted the sophomore’s demand for his wig to be taken to be curled . . .
    The fat student’s companions were stamping and slapping each other and smothering with laughter to such an extent that none of them saw another man—crimson-gowned and a few years older than they—until he had crossed the yard from the gate and reached Abigail’s side. “Pugh, aren’t you getting a little old for this kind of trick?” he asked in a quiet voice.
    Pugh turned, piggy eyes sparkling in their pouches of fat. “ Dulce est disipere in loco , my dear Ryland . . . Have you a quarrel with educating the wealthy in the arts of humility?”
    “When it involves rudeness to a stranger,” replied his dear Ryland, “yes, I have. How may I serve you, m’am? My name is Joseph Ryland—Are you here in search of someone?” With a gesture he led her away from the group and farther into the quadrangle.
    “I’m looking for Mr. Horace Thaxter, yes, thank you. I am Mrs. Adams, his aunt.”
    “I’ve heard him speak of you, m’am. Did Mr. Fairfield write to you, then, about Thaxter’s illness?” Mended red gown billowing, Mr. Ryland led Abigail cattycorner across the yard to the old brick building that enclosed its southern end. “I’m sure it isn’t as serious as Fairfield thinks it—”
    “What happened?” asked Abigail, startled.
    Ryland made a gesture of frustration. Unlike the refulgent Mr. Pugh and his friends, the young man—she guessed his age at nearly thirty, her own age . . . A tutor, then, or a bachelor-fellow waiting for an appointment somewhere —wore his own hair, long and only lightly powdered; he spoke with the accents of Pennsylvania. “To be honest, Mrs. Adams, I think it was the food in the Hall. Do what they will, the Governors cannot keep the kitchen staff from buying the cheapest slops they can come by and pocketing the difference, and I know Horace’s constitution is a delicate one. I was going to let the matter go another day—I am the Fellow in charge of Massachusetts Hall—and then write his parents . . .”
    They entered the building by the most westerly of its several doors, and Mr. Ryland led her down a wide hall and then up one of the residential staircases. “He’ll be in Captain Fairfield’s room—he fags for Fairfield, a noxious custom . . .”
    As they reached the first landing, a young man stepped from the room on the right, his dusky face and black Indian braids startling against the white of his neckcloth and shirt, and the sober darkness of waistcoat, breeches, and stockings. Ryland said, “Weyountah, how is Thaxter? Mrs. Adams, this is Weyountah—Mr. Enoch Wylie—one of our best men in the sciences. Weyountah, Mrs. Adams of Boston, Thaxter’s aunt.”
    “Good Lord, get that woman out of here!” called a voice from the left-hand room, and the door opened to reveal a fair-haired, cheerful young man with a weather-burned complexion and a gray coat rather heavily laced with gold on the sleeves. “I knew it—Ryland’s trying to get the lot of us sent down for bringing a female in here . . . Diomede!” he called back into the room behind him. “Get on out here and bring a rope—tie up Mr. Ryland and throw him into the river—”
    “Don’t be a fool, Fairfield, this is