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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f28c718 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51948 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51948) diff --git a/old/51948-0.txt b/old/51948-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8a30458..0000000 --- a/old/51948-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12827 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Henry Is Twenty, by Samuel Merwin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Henry Is Twenty - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd - -Author: Samuel Merwin - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51948] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -HENRY IS TWENTY - -A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd - -By Samuel Merwin - -Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. - -London and Glasgow - -1921 - - - - -OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS - -|It would be ungracious to let this book go out into a preoccupied world -without some word of gratitude to those who have written regarding the -young Henry as he has appeared from month to month in a magazine. The -letters have been the kindliest and most stimulating imaginable; and -have surprised me, for I have never found it easy to picture Henry as a -popular hero of fiction. - -He isn't, of course, a hero at all. His weaknesses are too plain--the -little evidences of vanity in him, his selfcentred moments, his errant -susceptibilities--and heroes can't have weaknesses. And heroes--in any -well-regulated pattern-story--must 'turn out well.' Henry, in this book, -doesn't really turn out at all. His success in Episode X is a rather -alarming accident. I think he'll do well enough, when he's forty or so. -At twenty, no. He has huge doses of life's medicine yet to swallow. And -all his problems are complicated by the touch of genius that is in him. - -Another thing: there couldn't have been a Mamie Wilcox in our -pattern-story. And certainly not a Corinne. Hardly even a Martha. For -a 'divided love interest' destroys your pattern. Yet Marthas, Corinnes, -Mamies occur everywhere. So I can't very well apologise for their -presence here. - -We might, of course, have had Henry overthrow the Old Cinch in Sunbury; -clean up the town. But he didn't happen to be a St George that summer. -And then, so many heroes of pattern-stories, these two decades, have -slain municipal dragons! - -He might have listened in a deeper humility to the worldly wisdom of -Uncle Arthur. But he didn't. He had to live his own life, not Uncle -Arthur's. His way was the harder, but he couldn't help that. - -I would have liked to pursue further the Mildred-Humphrey romance; -including Arthur V. and the curious triangle that resulted; but the -crisis didn't come in that year. - -And against the temptation to dwell with Madame Watt and her husband I -have had, here, to set my face. Though something of that story will be -told in a book yet to come, dealing with an older, changed Henry. -The richly dramatic career of _Madame_ underlay the irony of Henry's -marriage; and we shall have to deal with that, or at least with the -events that grew out of it. - -I have said that Henry would turn out well enough in time. From the -angle of the pattern-story this obviously couldn't be. It would be said -that if he _was_ ever to succeed he should have got started by this time -in habits of industry and so forth. - -I won't say that this is nonsense, but instead will quote from the -autobiography of Charles Francis Adams (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916). -Mr Adams, from his fifteenth to his twenty-fifth year, kept a diary. -Then he sealed the volumes in a package. Thirty years later he opened -the package and read every word. He says:-- - -'The revelation of myself to myself was positively shocking.... It -wasn't that the thing was bad or that my record was discreditable; it -was worse! It was silly. That it was crude, goes without saying. -_That_ I didn't mind! But I did blush and groan and swear over its -unmistakable, unconscious immaturity and ineptitude, its conceit, its -weakness and its cant.... As I finished each volume it went into the -fire; and I stood over it until the last leaf was ashes.... I have never -felt the same about myself since. I now humbly thank fortune that I have -got almost through life without making a conspicuous ass of myself.' - -Mr Adams, immediately after the period covered by the diary, plunged -into the Civil War, and emerged with the well-earned brevet rank -of brigadier-general. He was later eminent as publicist, author, -administrator, a recognised leader of thought in a troublous time. He -became president of the Union Pacific Railroad. And at the last he was -the subject of a memorial address by the Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge. - -As Henry is still several years short of twenty-five perhaps there is -hope for him. - -Concord, Mass. - -S. M. - - - - -I--THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL - - -1 - - -|It was late May in Sunbury, Illinois, and twenty minutes past eight in -the morning. - -The spacious lawns and the wide strips of turf between sidewalk and -roadway in every avenue and street were lush with crowding young blades -of green. The maples, oaks, and elms were vivid with the exuberant youth -of the year. - -Throughout the village, brisk young men, care-worn men of middle age, -a few elderly men were hurrying toward the old red-brick station whence -the eight-twenty-nine would shortly carry them into the dust and sweat -and smoke of a business day in Chicago. The swarms of sleepy-eyed -clerks, book-keepers, office boys and girl stenographers had gone in on -the seven-eleven and the seven-thirty-two. - -Along Simpson Street the grocers, in their aprons, already had out -their sidewalk racks heaped with seasonable vegetables and fruits -(out-of-season delicacies had not then become commonplaces of life in -Sunbury; strawberries appeared when the local berries were ripe, -not sooner). The two butcher shops were decorated with red and buff -carcasses hung in rows. A whistling, coatless youth had just swept out -Donovan's drug store and was wiping off the marble counter before the -marble and glass soda fountain. Through the windows of the Sunbury -National Bank Alfred Knight could be seen filling the inkwells and -putting out fresh blotters and pens. The neat little restaurant known as -'Stanley's' (the Stanleys were a respectable coloured couple) was -still nearly full of men who ate ham and eggs, pounded beefsteak, fried -potatoes, and buckwheat cakes, and drank huge cups of gray-brown coffee; -with, at the rear tables, two or three family groups. And from numerous -boarding-houses and dormitories in the northern section of the overgrown -village students of both sexes were converging on the oak-shaded campus -by the lake. - -All of Sunbury appeared to be up and about the business of the day; all, -perhaps, except Henry Calverly, 3rd, who sat, dressed except for his -coat, heavy-eyed, a hair brush in either hand, hands resting limp -on knees, on the edge of his narrow iron bed. This, in Mrs Wilcox's -boardinghouse in Douglass Street, one block south of Simpson; top floor. - -If the present reader has, by chance, had earlier acquaintance with -Henry, it should be explained that he is now to be pictured not as a -youth of eighteen going on nineteen but as a young man of twenty going -on twenty-one. - -That figure, twenty-one, of significance in the secret thoughts of any -growing boy, was of peculiar, stirring significance to the sensitive, -imaginative Henry. It marked the beginning of what is sometimes termed -Life. It suggested alarming but interesting responsibilities. On that -day, beginning with the stroke of the midnight hour, guardians ceased -to function and independence set in. One was a citizen. One voted. In -Henry's case, the crowning symbol of manhood would be deferred a year, -as Election Day was to fall on the fifth of November and his birthday -was the seventh; but that so trivial a mere fact bore small weight in -the face of potential citizenship might have been indicated by the faint -blonde fringe along his upper lip. This fringe was a new venture. He -stroked it much of the time, and stole glances at it in mirrors. He -could twist it up a little at the ends. - -The rest of him indicated a taste that was hardly bent on the -inexpensive as such. His duck trousers (this was the middle nineties) -were smartly creased and rustled with starch. His white canvas shoes -were not 'sneakers' but had heavy soles and half-heels of red rubber. -His coat, lying now across the iron tube that marked the foot of the -bed, was a double-breasted blue serge, unlined, well-tailored. The hat, -hung on a mirror post above the 'golden oak' bureau, was of creamy white -felt. He had given up spectacles for nose glasses with a black silk -cord. - -Nearly two years earlier his mother had died. He had lived on, caught in -a drift of time and circumstance, keeping, without any particular plan, -this little room with its sloping ceiling. The price was an item, of -course--six dollars a week for room and board. You couldn't do better -in Sunbury, even then. Memories haunted the place, naturally enough. -Loneliness had dwelt close with him. - -His mother's picture, in a silver frame, stood at the right of the -pincushion; at the left, in hammered brass ['repoussé work') was a -'cabinet size' photograph of Martha Caldwell. A woven-wire rack on the -wall held half a hundred snapshots of girls, boys, and groups, in about -a third of which figured Martha's smiling, sensible, pleasantly freckled -face. A guitar in an old green bag leaned against the wall behind his -mother's old trunk; it had not been out of the bag in more than a year. -An assortment of neck-ties hung over the gas-jet by the bureau. Tacked -about on the wall were six or eight copies of Gibson girls; rather good -copies, barringva certain stiffness of line. On the seat in the one -dormer window reposed two cushions, one covered with college pennants, -the other with cigar bands laboriously cross-stitched together; both -from, the hands of Martha. - -Henry's little bookcase was not uninteresting. It contained the -following books: Daily Strength for Daily Needs, Browning, Trollope, -and Hawthorne in sets, Sonnets, from the Portuguese, Words often -Mispronounced, Longfellow, complete in one fat volume. Red Line Edition, -and Six Thousand Puzzles, all of which had been his mother's; Green's -History of the English People, Boswell's Johnson, both largely uncut, -and the Discourses of Epictetus, which three had come as Christmas or -birthday gifts; and exactly one volume, a work by an obscure author -(who was pictured in the frontispiece with a bristling moustache and -intensely knit brows) entitled Will Power and Self Mastery, which -offered the only clue as to Henry's own taste in book buying. - -His taste in reading was another matter. The novels and romances he had -devoured during certain periods of his teens had mostly come from the -Sunbury Free Public Library. Lately, however, apart from thrilling -moments with The Prisoner of Zenda, Under the Red Rose, and The Princess -Aline, he had found difficulty in reading at all. Something was stirring -within him, something restlessly positive, an impulse to give out rather -than take in. Though he had, at intervals, lunged with determination -at the Green and the Boswell. This effort, indeed, had been repeated so -many times that he occasionally caught himself speaking of these authors -as if he had read them exhaustively. - -The bottom drawer of the bureau was a third full of unfinished -manuscripts--attempts at novels, short stories, poems, plays--each -faithfully reflecting its immediate source of inspiration. There were -paragraphs that might have been written by a little Dickens; there -were thinly diluted specimens of Dumas, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard -Harding Davis, Thackeray. The rest was all Kipling, prose and verse. -Everybody was writing Kipling then. - -A step sounded in the hall. The knob turned softly; the door opened a -little way; and the thinnish, moderately pretty face of Mamie Wilcox -appeared--pale blue eyes with the beginnings of hollows beneath them, -fair skin, straight hay-coloured hair, wisps of it straying down across -forehead and cheek, thin nose, soft but rather sulky mouth. She was -probably twenty-two or twenty-three at this time. - -All she said was, 'Oh!'--very low. - -'Wonder you wouldn't knock!' said he. - -'Wonder you wouldn't get up before noon!' she responded smartly, but -still in that cautious voice; then added, 'Here, I'll leave the towels, -and come back.' And she slipped into the room, a heavier and more -shapely figure of a girl than was suggested by the face, a girl in a -full-length gingham apron and little shoes with unexpectedly high heels; -not 'French' heels, but the sloping style known then as 'military.' - - -2 - - -Henry's colour was rising a little. He cleared his throat, and said, -mumbling, 'Leave anything you like.' - -'I'll do just that,'--she turned, with a flirt of her apron and stood, -between washstand and door, surveying him--'what I like, and nothing -more.'... Her eyes wandered now from him to the picture at the left of -the pincushion, then to the snapshots on the wall, and she smiled, very -self-contained, very knowing, with the expression that the young call -'sarcastic.' The adjective came to mind. Henry's colour was mounting -higher. - -'Pretty snappy to-day, ain't we?' said he. - -'Yes, when we're snapped at,' said she. - -There was a silence that ran on into seconds and tens of seconds. - -Then, acting on an impulse of astonishing suddenness, he sprang toward -her. - -With almost equal agility she stepped away. But he caught one hand. - -She had the door-knob in her other hand. She drew the door open, then, -indecisively, pushed it nearly to. - -'Be careful!' she whispered. 'They'll hear!' - -She made a small effort to free her hand. For a moment they stood -tugging at each other. - -When Henry spoke, in an effort to appear the off-hand man of the world -he assuredly was not, his voice sounded weak and husky. - -'Whew--strong!' - -'Suppose I slapped.' - -'Slap all you like.' - -'What would Martha Caldwell say?' - -There was a gloomy sort of anger on Henry's red face. He jerked her -violently toward him. - -'Stop! You're hurting my wrist!' With which she yielded a little. -He found himself about to take her in his arms. He heard her -whispering--'For Heaven's sake be careful! They'll surely hear!' - -He was most unhappy. He pushed her roughly away, and rushed to the -window., - -He knew from the silence that she was lingering. He hated her. And -himself. - -She said: 'Well, you needn't get mad.' - -Then, slowly, cautiously, she let herself out. He heard her moving -composedly along the hall. - -He felt weak. And deeply guilty. For a long time this moment had been a -possibility; now it had taken place. What if some one had seen her come -in! What if she should come again! What if she should tell!... - -He found one hair brush on the floor, the other on the bed, and brushed -his hair; donned his coat, buttoning it and smoothing it down about -his shapely torso with a momentary touch of complacency; glanced at the -mirror; twisted up his moustache; then stood waiting for his colour to -go down. - -Suddenly, with one of his quick impulses, he sprang at the bookcase, -drew out the _Epictetus_--it was a little book, bound in 'ooze' calf of -an olive-green colour--and read these words (the book opened there):-- - -'To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable. - -He lowered the book and repeated the phrase aloud. - - -3 - - -A little later--red about the ears, and given to sudden starts when the -swinging pantry doors opened to let a student waiter in or out--he sat, -quite erect, in the dining room and bolted a boarding-house breakfast of -stewed prunes, oatmeal, fried steak, fried potatoes, fried mush swimming -in brown sugar syrup, and coffee. The _Discourses of Epictetus_ lay at -his elbow. - -After this he walked--stiffly self-conscious, book under arm--over to -Simpson Street, and took a chair and an _Inter Ocean_ at Schultz and -Schwartz's, among the line of those waiting to be shaved. - -This accomplished he paused outside, on the curb, to pencil this entry -in a red pocket account-book:-- - -'Shave--10 c.' - -He wavered when passing Donovan's; stepped in and consumed a frosted -maple shake. Which necessitated the further entry in the red book:-- - -'Soda--10 c.' - -In front of Berger's grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked -together to the corner. - -Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes, -an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her -flat straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a -goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood -in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies -in Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and -Thursday evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many -other evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that -with 'the crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up -calling at her house. But they were not engaged. - -On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of -the lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some -curiosity at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide -bottomless gulf, and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately -for words. He began to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem -self-control. - -At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly -embarrassing. - -She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf -by the stone walk. - -He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and -stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him -that he had never been so unhappy. - -'Are you'--Martha began; hesitated; went on--'were you thinking of -coming around this evening?' - -'Why--it's Thursday, ain't it?' - -'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.' - -'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how -could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never, -never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur -V. Henderson's.' - -'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.' - -'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton. -She's been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked -specially to have me cover it.' - -'Why don't you go?' - -'Well--you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate----' - -'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue, -and left him standing there. - -He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for -her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers--or a box of Devoe's.' - -This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to -the financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And -he hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years. -Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention. - -It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not -before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he -paused, and glanced down the avenue. - -A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the -block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man -who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and -Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and -a suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was -leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to--Martha. And Martha was -listening. - -Henry moved on, little confused pangs of quite unreasonable jealousy -stabbing at his heart, and entered the business-and-editorial office of -_The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_, where he worked. - -Here he laid down the _Discourses of Epictetus_ and asked Humphrey -Weaver, untitled editor of the paper (old man Boice, the owner, would -never permit any one but himself to be known by that title), for the -galley proofs of the week's 'Personal Mention.' - -He found this item:-- - -Mr James B. Merchant, Jr., of Greggs, Merchant & Co., was a guest of Mr -and Mrs Ames at the Country Club on Saturday evening. Mr Merchant has -leased for the summer the apartment of M. B. Wills, on Lower Filbert -Avenue. - -That was the man! James B. Merchant was a bachelor, rich, a famous -cotillion leader on the South Side, Chicago, an only son of the original -James B. Merchant. - -And Martha had gone to the Country Club Saturday with the Ameses. This -curious tension between himself and Martha had then first bordered on -the acute. Mr Ames disapproved of Henry; he felt that Martha shouldn't -have gone. And now, of course, her lack of consideration for himself was -leading her into new complications. - -He sat moodily fingering the papers on the littered, ink-stained -table that served him for a desk. He was disturbed, uncomfortable, but -couldn't settle on what seemed a proper mental attitude. He was jealous; -but he mustn't let his jealousy carry him to the point of taking a -definite stand with Martha, because--well... - -Life seemed very difficult. - - -4 - - -The _Voice_ office occupied what had once been a shop, opposite the -hotel. The show window of plate glass now displayed the splintery rear -panels of old Mr Boice's rolltop desk, that was heaped, on top, with -back numbers of the _Voice_, the _Inter Ocean_ and the _Congressional -Record_, and a pile of inky zinc etchings mounted on wood blocks. - -Within, back of a railing, were Humphrey Weaver's desk and Henry -Calverly's table. - -Humphrey was tall, rather thin and angular, with a long face, long nose, -long chin, swarthy complexion, and quick, quizzical brown eyes with -innumerable fine wrinkles about them. When he smiled, his whole face -seemed to wrinkle back, displaying many large teeth in a cavernous -mouth. - -Humphrey might have been twenty-five or six. He was a reticent young -man, with no girl or women friends that one ever saw, a fondness for -the old corn-cob that he was always scraping, filling, or smoking, and a -secret passion for the lesser known laws of physics. He lived alone, in -a barn back of the old Parmenter place. He had divided the upper story -into living and sleeping rooms, and put in hardwood floors and simple -furniture and a piano. Downstairs, in what he called his shop, were -lathes, a workbench, innumerable wood-and-metal working tools, a dozen -or more of heavy metal wheels set, at right angles, in circular frames, -and several odd little round machines suspended from the ceiling at the -ends of twisted cords. In one corner stood a number of box kites, very -large ones. And there were large planes of silk on spruce frames. He was -an alumnus of the local university, but had made few friends, and had -never been known in the town. Henry hadn't heard of him before the -previous year, when he had taken the desk in the _Voice_ office. - -'Say, Hen,'--Henry looked up from his copy paper--; 'Mrs Henderson -looked in a few minutes ago, and left a programme and a list of guests -for her show to-night. She wants to be sure and have you there. You can -do it, can't you?' - -Henry nodded listlessly. - -'It seems there's to be a contralto, too--somebody that's visiting her. -She--Sister Henderson--appears to take you rather seriously, my -boy. Wants you particularly to hear the new girl. One Corinne Doag. -We,'--Humphrey smoked meditatively, then finished his sentence--'we -talked you over, the lady and I. I promised you'd come.' - -At noon, the editorial staff of two lunched at Stanley's. - -'Wha'd you and Mrs Henderson say about me?' asked Henry, over the pie. - -'She says,' remarked Humphrey, the wrinkles multiplying about his eyes, -'that you have temperament. She thinks it's a shame.' - -'What's a shame?' muttered Henry. - -'Whatever has happened to you. I told her you were the steadiest boy -I ever knew. Don't drink, smoke, or flirt. I didn't add that you enter -every cent you spend in that little red book; but I've seen you doing it -and been impressed. But I mentioned that you're the most conscientious -reporter I ever saw. That started her. It seems that you're nothing of -the sort. My boy, she set you before me in a new light. You begin to -appear complex and interesting.' - -Still muttering, Henry said, 'Nothing so very interesting about me.' - -'It seems that you put on an opera here--directed it, or sang it, or -something. Before my time.' - -'That was _Iolanthe_,' said Henry, with a momentarily complacent memory. - -'And you sang--all over the place, apparently. Why don't you sing now?' - -'It's too,'--Henry was mumbling, flushing, and groping for a word--'too -physical.' - -Then, with a sudden movement that gave Humphrey a little start, the boy -leaned over the table, pulled at his moustache, and asked, gloomily: -'Listen! Do you think a man can change his nature?' - -Humphrey considered this without a smile. 'I don't see exactly how, -Hen.' - -'I mean if he's been heedless and reckless--oh, you know, girls, debts, -everything. Just crazy, sorta.' - -'Well, I suppose a man can reform. Were you a very bad lot?' The -wrinkled smile was reassuring. - -'That depends on what you--I wasn't exactly sporty, but--oh, you don't -know the trouble I've had, Humphrey. Then my mother died, and I hadn't -been half-decent to her, and I was left alone, and my uncle had to pay -my debts out of the principal--it was hundreds of dollars----' - -His voice died out. - -There was an element of pathos in the picture before him that Humphrey -recognised with some sympathy--the gloomy lad of twenty, with that -absurd little moustache that he couldn't let alone. After all, he _had_ -been rather put to it. It began to appear that he had suppressed himself -without mercy. There would doubtless be reactions. Perhaps explosions. - -Henry went on:-- - -'I don't know what's happened to me. I don't feel right about things. -I'--he hesitated, glanced up, then down, and his ears reddened--'I've -been going with Martha Caldwell, you know. For a long time.' - -Humphrey nodded. - -'Mondays and Thursdays I go over there, and other times. I don't seem to -want to go any more. But I get mixed up about it. I--I don't want them -to say I'm fickle. They used to say it.' - -'You've evidently got gifts,' observed Humphrey, as if thinking aloud. -'You've got some fire in you. The trouble with you now, of course, is -that you're stale.' Humphrey deliberately considered the situation, then -remarked: 'You asked me if a man can change his nature. I begin to see -now. You've been trying to do that to yourself, for quite a while.' - -Henry nodded. - -'Well, I suppose you'll find that you can't do it. Not quite that. The -fire that's in you isn't going to stop burning just because you tell it -to.' - -'But what's a fellow to do?' - -'I don't know. Just stick along, I suppose, gradually build up -experience until you find work you can let yourself go in. Some way, of -course, you've got to let yourself go, sooner or later.' - -Henry, his eyes nervously alert now, his slim young body tense, was -drawing jerkily with his fork on the coarse table-cloth. - -'Yes,' he broke out, with the huskiness in his voice that came when his -emotions pressed--'yes, but what if you can't let yourself go without -letting everything go? What if the fire bums you!' - -Humphrey found it difficult to frame a reply. He got no further, this as -they were leaving the restaurant, than to say, 'Of course, one man can't -advise another.' - - -5 - - -As they were turning into the _Voice_ office, Henry caught sight of -Mamie Wilcox, in a cheap pink dress and flapping pink-and-white hat, -loitering by the hotel. He fell back behind Humphrey. Mamie beckoned -with her head. He nodded, and entered the office; and she moved slowly -on around the corner of the avenue. - -He mumbled a rather unnecessary excuse to Humphrey, and slipped out, -catching up with her on the avenue. She was unpleasantly attractive. She -excited him. - -'What is it?' he asked, walking with her. 'Did you want to speak to me?' - -'Stuck up, aren't we!' - -'Well?' - -She pouted. 'Take a little walk with me. I do want to talk with you.' - -'Haven't time. Got to get right back to the office.' - -'Well--listen, meet me to-night. I can get out by eight. It's pretty -important. Maybe serious.' - -'Is it---did anybody----' - -She nodded. 'Mrs MacPherson. She was right in her door when I came out -of your room.' - -'Did she say anything?' - -'She looked a lot.' - -'Well, say--I'll see you for a few minutes to-night. Say about eight.' -This was best. It would be dark, or near it. He simply mustn't be seen -strolling with Mamie Wilcox along Filbert Avenue in broad daylight. -'What do you say to Douglass Street and the Lake Shore Drive?' - -'All right. Tell you what--bring a tandem along and take me for a ride.' - -'Oh, I can't.' But his will was weak. 'Got to report a concert. I don't -know, though. I s'pose I could get around at half-past nine' or ten and -hear the last numbers.' - -He had often done this. Besides, he could probably manage it earlier. He -knew he could rent a tandem at Murphy's cigar store down by the tracks. -A quite wild, wholly fascinating stir of adventure was warming his -breast and bringing that huskiness into his voice. He was letting go. -He felt daring and a little mad. He hadn't realised, before to-day, that -Mamie had such a lure about her. - -Before returning to the office he got his bank-book and brazenly drew -from the bank, savings department, his entire account, amounting to ten -dollars forty-six cents. He also bespoke the tandem. - -These were the great days of bicycling. The first highwheeled, rattling -horseless carriage was not to appear in the streets of Sunbury for a -year or two yet. Bicycle clubs flourished. Memorial Day each year (they -called it Decoration Day) was a mad rush of excursion and road races. -Every Sunday witnessed a haggard-eyed humpbacked horde of 'Scorchers' in -knickerbockers or woollen tights. Many of the young men one met on train -and street wore medals with a suspended chain of gold bars, one for each -'century run.' - -And these were the first great days of the bloomer girl. She was -legion. Sometimes her bloomers were bloomers, sometimes they were -knickerbockers, sometimes little more than the tights of the racing -breed. She was dusty, sweaty, loud. She was never the sort of girl you -knew; but always appeared from the swarming, dingy back districts of the -city. Sometimes she rode a single wheel, sometimes tandem with some -male of the humpbacked breed and of the heavily muscled legs and the -grotesquely curved handle bars. The bloomer girl was looked at askance -by the well-bred folk of the shaded suburbs. Ministers thumped pulpits -and harangued half-empty pews regarding this final moral, racial -disaster while she rode dustily by the very doors. - -Henry, as he pedalled the long machine through back streets to the -rendezvous, was glad that the twilight was falling fast. In his breast -pocket were copy paper and pencils, in an outer pocket his little -olive-green book. His white trousers were caught about the ankles with -steel dips. - -Mamie kept him waiting. He hid both himself and the wheel in the shadows -of the tall lilac bushes in the little village park. - -She came at length, said 'Hello!' and with a little deft unhooking, -coolly stepped out of her skirt, rolled up that garment, thrust it under -a bush, and stood before him in the sort of wheeling costume rarely seen -in Sunbury save on Saturdays and Sundays when the Chicago crowds were -pouring through. - -Henry stood motionless, silent, in the dusk. - -'Well,' said she, smartly, 'are we riding?' - -Without a word he wheeled out the bicycle and they rolled away. - -She was very close, there before him. She bent over the handle bars like -an old-timer, and pedalled with something more than the abandon of a -boy. It was going to be hard to talk to her... If he could only blot -this day out of his life. 'She started it,' he thought fiercely, staring -out ahead over her rhythmically moving shoulder. 'I never asked her to -come in!' - -'I didn't know you rode a wheel,' said he, after a time, dismally. - -'I ride Sundays with the boys from Pennyweather Point. But you needn't -tell that at home.' - -'I'm not telling anything at home,' muttered Henry. Then she flung back -at him the one word. - -'Surprised?' - -'Well--why, sorta.' - -'You thought I was satisfied to do the room work and wash dishes, I -suppose!' - -'I don't know as I thought anything.' - -'What's the matter, anyway? Scared at my bloomers?' - -'That's what you call'em, is it?' - -'I must say you're grand company.' - -He made no reply. - -They pedalled past the university buildings, the athletic field, the -lighthouse, up a grade between groves of oak, out along the brink of a -clay bluff overlooking the steely dark lake--horizonless, still, a light -or two twinkling far out. - -'Shall we go to Hoffman's?' she asked. - -'I don't care where we go,' said he. - - -6 - - -_The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_ was put to press every Friday evening, was -printed during that night, and appeared in the first mail on Saturday -mornings. - -Friday, therefore, was the one distractingly busy day for Humphrey -Weaver. And it was natural enough that he should snatch at Henry's -pencilled report of the musicale at Mrs Henderson's with the briefest -word of greeting, and give his whole mind, blue copy-editing pencil -posed in air, to reading it. But he did note that the boy looked rather -haggard, as if he hadn't slept much. He heard his mumbled remark that -he had been over at the public library, writing the thing; and perhaps -wondered mildly and momentarily why the boy should be writing at the -library and not at home, and why he should speak of the fact at all. -And now and again during the day he was aware of Henry, pale, dog-eyed, -inclined to hang about as if confidences were trembling on his tongue. -And he was carrying a little olive-green book around; drew it from -his pocket every now and then and read or turned the pages with an -ostentatious air of concentration, as if he wanted to be noticed. -Humphrey decided to ask him what the trouble was; later, when the paper -was put away. When he might have spoken, old man Boice was there, at his -desk. And Humphrey never got out to meals on Fridays. Henry got all his -work in on time: the 'Real Estate Notes' for the week and the last items -for 'Along Simpson Street.' - -The report of the musicale would have brought a smile or two on another -day. There was nearly a column of it. Henry had apparently been deeply -moved by the singing of Anne Mayer Stelton. He dwelt on the 'velvet -suavity' of her legato passages, her firmness of attack and the -'delicate lace work of her colourature.' 'Mme. Stelton's art,' he wrote, -'has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in -Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in -personality and profoundly rhythmically musical in temperament, she now -has added a superstructure of technical authority, which gives to each -passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction seldom -heard in this country. Miss Corinne Doag also added immeasurably to -the pleasure of the select audience by singing a group of songs. Miss -Corinne Doag has a contralto voice of fine _verve_ and _timbre_. She is -a guest of Mrs Henderson, who herself accompanied delightfully. Among -those present were:--' - -Henry's writing always startled you a little. Words fairly flowed -through his pencil, long words, striking words. He had the word sense; -this when writing. In speech he remained just about where he had been -all through his teens, loose of diction, slurring and eliding and using -slang as did most of the Middle-Westerners among whom he had always -lived, and, like them, swallowing his tongue down his throat. - -Humphrey initialed the copy, tossed it into the devil's basket, turned -to a pile of proofs, paused as if recollecting something, picked up the -copy again, glanced rapidly through it, and turned on his assistant. - -'Look here, Hen,' he remarked, 'you don't tell what they sang, either of -'em. Or who _were_ among those present.' - -Henry was reading his little book at the moment, and fumbling at his -moustache. A mournful object. - -He turned now, with a start, and stared, wide-eyed, at Humphrey. His -lips parted, but he didn't speak. A touch of colour appeared in his -cheeks. - -Then, as abruptly, he went limp in his chair. - -'I thought she left a list here and a programme,' he said, eyes now on -the floor. - -Humphrey's practised eye ran swiftly over the double row of pigeonholes -before him. 'Right you are!' he exclaimed. - -It was a quarter past eleven that night when Humphrey scrawled his last -'O.K.'; stretched out his long form in his swivel chair; yawned; said, -'Well, _that's_ done, thank God!'; and hummed and tapped out on his bare -desk the refrain of a current song:-- - - 'But you'd look sweet - - On the seat - - Of a bicycle built for two.' - -He turned on Henry with a wrinkly, comfortable grin. - -'Well, my boy, it's too late for Stanley's but what do you say to a bite -at Ericson's, over by the tracks?' - -Then he became fully aware of the woebegone look of the boy, fiddling -eternally with that moustache, fingering the leaves of his little book, -and added:-- - -'What on earth is the matter with you!' - -Henry gazed long at his book, swallowed, and said weakly:-- - -'I'm in trouble, Humphrey.' - -'Oh, come, not so bad as all--' - -He was silenced by the sudden plaintive appeal on Henry's face. Mr -Boice, a huge-slow-moving figure of a man with great white whiskers, was -coming in from the press room. - -They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a -roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs. - -There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at -first. Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an -ingenuous volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he -could be bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He -was full of odd little spiritual turnings and twistings--vague as to the -clock, intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless -sea of self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him -with direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the -Thursday morning in the boy's room. - -'But I never asked her in,' he hurried to explain. 'She came in. Maybe -after that it was my fault, but I didn't ask her in.' - -'But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn't so serious. You didn't make -love to her.' - -'I tried to.' - -'Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.' - -'But don't you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She'd been -snooping. Musta heard some of it. That's why Mamie hung around for me -yesterday noon.' - -'Oh, she hung around?' - -Henry swallowed, and nodded. 'That's why I slipped out again after lunch -yesterday. I didn't want to tell you.' - -'Naturally. A man's little flirtations----' - -'But wait, Hump! She was excited about it. And she seemed to think it -was up to me, somehow. I couldn't get rid of her.' - -'Well, of course----' - -'She made me promise to see her last night----' - -'But--wait a minute!--last night----' - -'This was the first part of the evening. She made me promise to rent -Murphy's tandem----' - -'Hm! you _were_ going it!' - -'And we rode up the shore a ways.' - -'Then you didn't hear all of the musicale?' - -'No. She wanted to go up to Hoffmann's Garden. So we went there----' - -'But good lord, that's six miles---' - -'Eight. You can do it pretty fast with a tandem. The place was jammed. I -felt just sick about it. The waiter made us walk clear through, past all -the tables. I coulda died. You see, Mamie, she--but I had to be a sport, -sorta.' - -'Oh, you had to go through with it, of course.' - -'Sure! I _had_ to. It was awful.' - -'Anybody there that knew you?' - -Henry's colour rose and rose. He gazed down intently at the remnant of -a cream puff; pushed it about with his fork. Then his lips formed the -word, 'Yes.' - -Humphrey considered the problem. 'Well,' he finally observed, 'after -all, what's the harm? It may embarrass you a little. But most fellows -pick up a girl now and then. It isn't going to kill anybody.' - -'Yes, but'--Henry's emotions seemed to be all in his throat to-night; he -swallowed--'but it--well, Martha was there.' - -'Oh--Martha Caldwell?' - -'Yes. And Mary Ames and her mother. They were with Mr Merchant's party.' - -'James B., Junior?' - -'Yes. They drove up in a trap. I saw it outside. We weren't but three -tables away from them. They saw everything. Mamie, she----' - -'After all, Hen. It's disturbing and all that, but you were getting -pretty tired of Martha----' - -'It isn't that, Hump 1 I don't know that I was. I get mixed. But it's -the shame, the disgrace. The Ameses have been down on me anyway, -for something that happened two years ago. And now...! And Martha, -she's--well, can't you see, Hump? It's just as if there's no use of my -trying to stay in this town any longer. They'll all be down on me now. -They'll whisper about me. They're doing it now. I feel it when I walk -up Simpson Street. They're going to mark me for that kind of fellow, and -I'm not.' - -His face sank into his hands. - -Humphrey considered him; said, 'Of course you're not;' considered him -further. Then he said, reflectively: 'It's unpleasant, of course, but -I'll confess I can't see that what you've told me justifies the words -“shame” and “disgrace.” They're strong words, my boy. And as for leaving -town... See here, Hen | Is there anything you haven't told me?' - -The bowed head inclined a little farther. - -'Hadn't you better tell me? Did anything happen afterward? Has the girl -got--well, a real hold on you?' The head moved slowly sidewise. 'We -fought afterward, all the way home. Rowed. Jawed at each other like a -pair of little muckers. No, it isn't that. I hated her all the time. I -told her I was through with her. She tried to catch me in the hall this -morning, up on the third floor. Came sneaking to my room again. With -towels. That's why I wrote in the library.' - -'But you aren't telling me what the rest of it was.' - -'She--oh, she drank beer, and----' - -'That's what most everybody does at Hoffmann's. The beer's good there.' - -'I don't know. I don't like the stuff.' - -'Come, Hen, tell me. Or drop it. Either.' - -'I'll tell you. But I get so mad. It's--she--well, she wore pants.' - -Humphrey's sympathy and interest were real, and he did not smile as he -queried: 'Bloomers?' - -'No, pants. Britches. I never saw anything so tight. Nothing else like -'em in the whole place. People nudged each other and laughed and said -things, right out loud. Hump, it was terrible. And we walked clear -through--past hundreds of tables--and away over in the corner--and there -were the Ameses, and Martha, and----' - -His head was up now; there was fire in his eyes; his voice trembled with -the passion of a profound moral indignation. - -'Hump, she's tough. She rides with that crowd from Pennyweather Point. -She smokes cigarettes. She--she leads a double life.' - -And neither did it occur to Humphrey, looking at the blazing youth -before him, to smile at that last remark. - -Humphrey had reached a point of real concern over Henry. He thought -about him the last thing that night--pictured him living a lonely, -spasmodically ascetic life, in the not over cheerful boarding-house of -Mrs Wilcox--and the first thing the next morning. - -The curious revelation of the later morning nettled him, perhaps, as a -responsible editor, but, if anything, deepened his concern. He had the -boy on his conscience, that was the size of it. He thought him over -all the morning, before and after the revelation. After it he smoked -steadily and hard, and knit his brows, and shook his head gravely, and -chuckled. - -Henry always came in between half-past eleven and twelve Saturdays to -clip his contributions from the paper and paste them, end to end, in a -'string.' Then Humphrey would measure the string with a two-foot rule -and fill out an order on the _Voice_ Company for payment at the rate of -a dollar and a quarter a column, or something less than seven cents an -inch. Henry despairing of a raise from nine dollars a week had, months -back, elected to work 'on space.' - -That the result had not been altogether happy--he was averaging -something less than nine dollars a week now--does not concern us here. - -Humphrey contrived to keep busy until the string was made and measured; -then proposed lunch. - -At Stanley's, the food ordered, he leaned on his lank elbows and -surveyed the dejected young man before him. - -'Hen,' he remarked dryly, 'do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton's -voice has a velvet suavity?' - -Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then -dropped his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid. - -'Why not?' said he. - -'You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably -since she last appeared in Sunbury?' - -Henry centred all his attention on the soup. - -'You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during -her study abroad?' - -Henry's ears were scarlet now. - -Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at -his deeply unhappy friend. - -For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid -down his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met -Humphrey's gaze. - -'There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your -neck. A moment.' - -Henry's voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has -absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much. -'What is it?' he asked. 'What happened?' - -'Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and -sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.' - -Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes. - -'Hump,' he said, 'I don't know that I'm sorry. I'm rather glad you -caught me, I think.' - -It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving -speech. - -'You had an unlucky day,' he said. - -Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry -pushed his aside. He ate nothing more. - -'Mrs Henderson was in,' Humphrey added. 'I don't care what they say -about her, she's a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.' - -'Was she mad, Hump?' - -'I--well, yes, I gathered the impression that you'd better not try to -talk to her for a while. There she was, you see--came straight down -to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along. -Unusual dark brown eyes--almost black. A striking girl. But you won't -meet her--not this trip. Though she couldn't help laughing once or -twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick. -_Verve. Timbre_. It puts you--I won't say in a Bad light--but certainly -in a rather absurd light.' - -'Yes,' said Henry, gently, meekly, 'it does. It sorta completes the -thing. I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They're laughing -at me. And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I've lost my friends. -I'm sort of an outcast, I suppose. A--a pariah.' - -There was a long silence. - -'You'd better eat some food,' said Humphrey. - -'I can't.' Henry was brooding, a tired droop to his mouth, a look of -strain about the eyes. He began thinking aloud, rather aimlessly. 'It -ain't as if I did that sort of thing. I never asked her to come in. I -couldn't very well refuse to talk with her. She suggested the tandem. It -did seem like a good idea to get her out of town, if I had to risk being -seen with her. I'll admit I got mixed--awfully. I don't suppose I knew -just what I was doing. But it was the first time in two years. Hump, you -don't know how hard I've----' - -'It's the first-time offenders that get most awfully caught,' observed -Humphrey. 'But never mind that now. You're caught, Hen. No good -explaining. You've just got to live it down.' - -'That's what I've been doing for two years--living things down. And look -where it's brought me. I'm worse off than ever.' - -There was a slight quivering in his voice that conveyed an ominous -suggestion to Humphrey. - -'Mustn't let the kid sink this way,' he thought. Then, aloud: 'Here's a -little plan I want to suggest, Hen. You're stale. You're taking this too -hard. You need a change.' - -'I don't like to leave town, exactly, Hump--as if I was licked. I've -changed about that.' - -'You're not going to leave town. You're coming over to live with me. -Move this afternoon.' - -Henry seemed to find difficulty in comprehending this. Humphrey, -suddenly a victim of emotion, pressed on, talking fast. 'I'll be through -by four. You be packing up. Get an expressman and fetch your things. -Here's my key. I'll let you pay something. We'll get our breakfasts.' - -He had to stop. It struck him as silly, letting this forlorn youth -touch him so deeply. He gulped down a glass of water. 'Come on,' he said -brusquely, 'let's get out.' And on the street he added, avoiding those -bewildered dog eyes--'I'm going to reshuffle you and deal you out -fresh.' That's all you need, a new deal.' - -But to himself he added: 'It won't be easy. He is taking it hard. He's -unstrung. I'll have to work it out slowly, head him around, build up -his confidence. Teach him to laugh again. It'll take time, but it can be -done. He's good material. Get him out of that dam boardinghouse to start -with.' - - -7 - - -It was nearly five o'clock when Humphrey reached his barn at the rear of -the Parmenter place. He found the outside door ajar. - -'Hen's here now,' he thought. - -He stepped within the dim shop, that had once been a carriage room, -called, 'Hello there!' and crossed to the narrow stairway. There was no -answer. He went on up. - -On the rug in the centre of the living-room floor was a heap consisting -of an old trunk, a suit-case, a guitar in an old green woollen bag, two -canes, an umbrella, and various loose objects--books, a small stand of -shelves, two overcoats, hats, and a wire rack full of photographs. - -The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where -they had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found -the splinter on the floor; muttered, 'I'll glue it on, and rub over the -cracks.' - -He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. 'It -didn't occur to him to stow'em away,' he mused. 'Probably didn't know -where to put 'em.' - -He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next -to his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day. -He carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the -rug. - -The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the -knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of -his bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and -electric lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and -at the head of his bed. - -He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with -knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling -against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard -to give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known -it would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming -again, and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant -home was his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a -dusty, cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the -water pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his -acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so. - -'Hen shouldn't have left the door open like that,' he mused. - -He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he -sighed. - -'Well,' he thought, 'needn't be a hog. It's my chance to do a fairly -decent turn. The boy hasn't a soul. Not yet. - -He isn't the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised. -Very likely I've got to build him over from the ground up. Might try -making him read history. God knows he needs background. It'll take time. -And patience. All I've got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of -his self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That's it. I've taken it -on. Can't quit. It seems to be my job.' And he sighed again. 'Have to -get him a key of his own.' - -There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures -and garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs. - -'I put your things in there,' Humphrey pointed. 'We'll move the box -couch in for you to-night.' - -'That'll be fine,' said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice. - -Humphrey's eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom; -and he compressed his lips and shook his head. - -Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for -the first lesson. 'There's simply no life in the boy,' thought Humphrey. -He cleared his throat, and said aloud:-- - -'Tell you what, Hen. We'll celebrate a little, this first evening. I've -got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I -make excellent drip coffee. If you'll go over to Berger's and get a -pound or so of cheese for the rabbit, I'll look the situation over and -figure out a meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.' - -Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, 'All right,' -hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally -wandered off down the stairs and out. - -He returned at twenty minutes past midnight. - -Humphrey was abed, reading Smith' on Torsion. He put down the book and -waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since -six o'clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling; -at present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly -suppressed wrath. - -Henry came into the room--a little flushed, bright of eye, the sensitive -corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily upward. He -even actually chuckled. - -'Well, where--on--earth.... - -Henry waved a light hand. 'Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess -I owe you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something. -Everything happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you're sorta -swept off your feet like that----' - -'Like what!' - -'Oh--well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny, it -doesn't seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was -weeks ago that I moved my things over.' His eyes roved about the room; -lingered on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface -wiring with sudden interest. - -'Go on!' From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on -the self-absorbed youth. - -'Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger's and got the cheese; and -just as I was coming out I ran into Mrs Henderson and Corinne.' - -'Who!' - -'Corinne Doag. You know. She's visiting there. Well, sir, I could have -died right there. Fussed me so I turned around and was going back -into the store. I was just plain rattled. And you were right about Mrs -Henderson. She was kinda mad. She made me stand right up and take a -scolding. Shook her finger at me right, there in front of Berger's. That -fussed me worse. Gee! I was red all over. But you see it sorta fussed -Corinne Doag too--she was standing right there--and she got a little -red. Wasn't it a scene, though! Sorta made us acquainted right off. You -know, threw us together. Then she--Mrs Henderson--said I didn't deserve -to meet a girl with verve and timbre, but just to show she wasn't the -kind to harbour angry feelings she'd introduce us. And--and--I walked -along home with'em.' - -He was looking again at the solid ranks of books that extended, floor to -ceiling, across the end wall. - -'Say, Hump, you don't mean to say you really read all those!' - -'You walked home with them. Go on.' - -'Oh, well, they asked me to stay to supper, and I did, and some folks -came in, and we sang and things, and then we--oh, yes, how much was the -cheese?' - -'How in thunder do I know?' - -'Well--there was a pound of it--Mrs Henderson made a rabbit. - -The none too subtle chill in the atmosphere about Humphrey seemed at -last to be meeting and somewhat subduing the exuberant good cheer that -radiated from Henry. He fell to fingering his moustache, and studying -the bed-posts. Once or twice, he looked up, hesitated on the brink of -speech, only to lower his eyes again. - -Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled aloud, and said, 'She's a wonderful -girl. At first she seems quiet, but when you get to know her... going to -take a walk with me to-morrow morning. She was going to church with Mrs -H., but I told her we'd worship in God's great outdoor temple.' - -He yawned now. And stretched, deliberately, luxuriously like a healthy -animal, his arms above his head. - -'Well,' said he, 'it's late as all get out. I suppose you want to go to -sleep.' He got as far as the door, then leaned confidingly against the -wall. 'Look here, Hump, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate -your taking me in like this. It's dam nice of you. Don't know what I'd -have done if it wasn't for you. Well, good-night.' - -He got part way out the door this time; then, brushed by a wave of -his earlier moody self-consciousness, turned back. He even came in and -leaned over the foot of the bed, and flushed a little. It occurred to -Humphrey that the boy appeared to be momentarily ashamed of his present -happiness. - -'Do you know what was the matter with me?' he broke out. 'It was just -what you said. I was taking things too hard. The great thing is to be -rational, normal. Thing with me was I used to go to one extreme and now -these last two years I've been going with all my might to the other. -Of course it wouldn't work... Do you know who's helped me a whole lot? -You'd never guess.' Rather shamefaced, he drew from his pocket a -little book bound in olive-green 'ooze' leather. 'It's this old fellow. -Epictetus. Listen to what he says--“To the rational animal only is the -irrational intolerable.” That was the trouble with me. I just wasn't a -rational animal. I _wasn't_... Well, I've got to say good-night.' - -This time he went. - -Humphrey heard him getting out of his clothes and into the bed that -Humphrey himself had made up on the box couch. It seemed only a moment -later that he was snoring--softly, slowly, comfortably, like a rational -animal. - -The minute hand of the alarm clock on Humphrey's bureau crept up to -twelve, the hour hand to one. Then came a single resonant, reverberating -boom from the big clock up at the university. - -Slowly, lips compressed, Humphrey got up, and in his pyjamas and -slippers went downstairs and switched off the door light he found -burning there. The stair light could be turned off upstairs. - -Then, instead of going up, he opened the door and stood looking out on -the calm village night. - -'Of all the----' he muttered inconclusively. 'Why it's--he's a---- Good -God! It's the limit! It's--it's intolerable.' - -The word, floating from his own lips, caught his ear. His frown began, -very slowly, to relax. A dry, grudging smile wrinkled its way across his -mobile face. And he nodded, deliberately. 'Epictetus,' he remarked, 'was -right.' - - - - -II--IN SAND-FLY TIME - - -1 - - -|It was half-past nine of a Sabbath morning at the beginning of June. -The beneficent sunshine streamed down on the dark-like streets, on the -shingled roofs of the many decorous but comfortable homes, on the wide -lawns, on the hundreds of washed and brushed little boys and starched -little girls that were marching meekly to the various Sunday schools, -Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist. Above the -new cement sidewalk on Simpson Street--where all the stores were closed -except two drug stores and Swanson's flower shop--the sunshine quivered -and wavered, bringing oppressive promise of the first really warm day -of the young summer. Slow-swinging church bells sent out widening, -reverberating circles of mellow tone through the still air. - -The sun shone too on the old barn back of the Parmenter place. - -The barn presented an odd appearance; the red paint of an earlier -decade in the nineteenth century here faded to brown, there flaked off -altogether, but the upstairs part, once the haymow, embellished with -neat double windows. Below, giving on the alley, was a white-painted -door with a single step and an ornamental boot scraper. - -Within, in Humphrey's room, the bed was neatly made, clothes hung in a -corner, shoes and slippers stood in a row. - -In Henry's room the couch bed was a rumpled heap, a suit-case lay on the -floor half-unpacked, a trunk was in the same condition, clothes, shoes, -neckties, photographs were scattered about on table, chairs and floor, a -box of books by the bed, the guitar in its old green woollen bag leaning -against the door. - -In a corner of the living-room the doors of an ingeniously contrived -cupboard stood open, disclosing a sink, shelves of dishes, and a small -ice-box. - -Humphrey, in shirt, trousers and slippers, stood washing the breakfast -things. He was smoking his cob pipe. His long, wrinkly, usually -quizzical face, could Henry have seen it, was deathly sober. - -Henry, however, could see only the lean back. And he looked at that only -momentarily. He was busy smoothing the fringe along his upper lip -and twisting it up at the ends. Too, he leaned slightly on his bamboo -walking stick, staring down at it, watching it bend. Despite his white -ducks and shoes, serge coat, creamy white felt hat on the back of his -shapely head, despite the rather noticeable nose glasses with the -black silk cord hanging from them to his lapel, he presented a forlorn -picture. He wished Humphrey would say something. That long back was -hostile. Henry was helpless before hostility, as before logic. Already -they weren't getting on. Little things like washing dishes and making -beds and--dusting! Humphrey was proving an old fuss-budget. And Henry -couldn't think what to do about it. He could never:--never in the -world--do those fussy things, use his hands. He couldn't even flounder -through the little mental processes that lead up to doing things with -your hands. He wasn't that sort of person. Humphrey was. - -'Oh, thunder--Hump!' Thus Henry, weakly. 'Let the old dishes slide a -little while. I'll be back. It ain't my fault that I've got a date now.' - -Humphrey set down a cup rather hard, rolled the dish-towel into a ball -and threw it, with heat, after the cup, then strode to the window, -nursing his pipe and staring out at the gooseberry and currant bushes in -the back yard of the First Presbyterian parsonage across the alley. - -Humphrey liked order. It was the breath of his life. Combined with -solitude it spelled peace to his bachelor soul. But here it was only the -second day and the place was a pigsty. What would it be in a week! - -He was aware that Henry moved over, all hesitation, and with words, to -shut the door of that hopelessly littered bedroom. The boy appeared to -have no intention of picking up his things; he wasn't even unpacking! -Leaving his clothes that way 1... The words he was so confusedly -uttering were the absurdest excuses: 'Just shut the door--fix it all up -when I get back--an hour or so... - -It was in a wave of unaccustomed sentimentalism that Humphrey had -gathered him in. Humphrey had few visitors. You couldn't work with -aimless youths hanging around. He knew all about that. Humphrey's -evenings were precious. His time was figured out, Monday morning to -Saturday night, to the minute. And the Sundays were always an orgy -of work. But this youth, to whom he had opened his quarters and his -slightly acid heart, was the most aimless being he had ever known. An -utter surprise; a shock. Yet here he was, all over the place. - -Humphrey was trying, by a mighty effort of will, to get himself back -into that maudlin state of pity which had brought on all this trouble. -If he could only manage again to feel sorry for the boy, perhaps he -could stand him. But he could only bite his pipe-stem. He was afraid -he might say something he would be sorry for. No good in that, of -course.... No more peaceful study, all alone, propped up in bed, with a -pipe and reading light! No more wonderful nights in the shop downstairs! -No more holding to a delicately fresh line of thought--balancing along -like a wire-walker over a street! The boy was over by the stairs now, -all apologies, mumbling useless words. But he was going--no doubt -whatever as to that. - -'I'm late now,' he was saying.'What else can I do, Hump? I promised. -She'll be looking for me now. If you just wouldn't be in such a -thundering hurry about those darn dishes... I can't live like a machine. -I just can't!' - -'You could have cleaned up your room while you've been standing there,' -said Humphrey, in a rumbling voice. - -'No, I couldn't! Put up all my pictures and books and things! I'm not -like you. You don't understand!' Humphrey wheeled on him, pipe in hand, -a cold light in his eyes, a none-too-agreeable smile wrinkling the lower -part of his face. - -'I'm not asking much of you,' he said. - -'Oh, thunder, Hump! Do you think I don't appreciate--' - -'I'd be glad to help you. But you've got to do a _little_ on your own -account. For God's sake show some spine!' Sand-fly! Damn it, this is -more than I can stand! It smothers me! How can I work! How can I think!' -He stopped short; bit his lip; turned back to the window and thrust his -pipe into his mouth. - -Humphrey knew without looking that the boy was fussing endlessly at -that absurd moustache. And sighing--he heard that. He bit hard on his -pipe-stem. The day was wrecked already. He would be boiling up every few -moments; tripping over Henry's things; regretting his perhaps too harsh -words. Yes, they were too harsh, of course. - -Henry was muttering, mumbling, tracing out the pattern in the rug-border -with his silly little stick. These words were audible:-- - -'I don't see why you asked me to come here. I suppose I... Of course, -if you don't want me to stay here with you, I suppose I... Oh, well! I -guess I ain't much good....' - -The voice trailed huskily off into silence. - -After all, there didn't seem to be any place the boy could stay, if not -here. Living alone in a boarding-house hadn't worked at all. To send him -out into the world would be like condemning him. - -Henry moved off down the stairs, slowly, pausing once as if he had not -yet actually determined to go. - -Walking more briskly, he emerged from the alley and swung around into -Filbert Avenue. The starched and shining children were pouring in an -intermittent stream into the First Presbyterian chapel, behind the big -church. - -Gloom in his eyes, striking in a savage aimlessness with his cane at -the grass, he passed the edifice. Walking thus, he felt a presence and -lifted his eyes. - - -2 - - -Approaching was a pleasant-looking young woman of twenty, of a good -figure, a few girlish freckles across the bridge of her nose, abundant -hair tucked in under her Sunday hat. - -It was Martha Caldwell. She had a class in the Sunday-school. - -Martha saw him. No doubt about that. - -For the moment, in Henry's abasement of spirit, he half forgot that she -had cut him dead, publicly, on Simpson Street on the Saturday. Or if it -was not a forgetting it was a vagueness. Henry was full to brimming of -himself. Not in years had he craved sympathy as he craved it to-day. -The word 'craved,' though, isn't strong enough. It was an utter need. -An outcast, perhaps literally homeless; for how could he go back to -Humphrey's after what had occurred! He must pack his things, of course. - -He raised his hand--slowly, a thought stiffly--toward his hat. - -Martha moved swiftly by, staring past him, fixedly, her lips compressed, -her colour rising. - -Henry's hand hung suspended a moment, then sank to his side. - -Henry himself was capable of any sort of heedlessness, but never of -unkindness or of cutting a friend. - -The colour surged hotly over his face and reddened his ears. - -There was a chance--a pretty good chance, it seemed, as he recalled the -pleasant Saturday evening over a rabbit--that he might find sympathy -at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's. That was one place, where, within twelve -hours, Henry Calverley, 3rd, had had some standing. They had seemed to -like him. Mrs Henderson had unquestionably played up to him. And her -guest was a peach! - -At a feverish pace, almost running, he went there. - - -3 - - -Corinne Doag was a big girl with blue-black hair and a profile like the -Goddess of Liberty on the silver quarter of the period. Her full face -rather belied the profile; it was an easy, good-natured face, though -with a hint of preoccupation about the dark eyes. Her smile was almost -a grin. She had the great gift of health. She radiated it. You couldn't -ignore her you felt her. - -Though not a day older than Henry, Corinne was a singer of promise. At -Mrs Henderson's musicale, she had managed groups of Schumann, Schubert, -Franz and Wolff, an Italian aria or two and some quaint French folk -songs with ample evidence of sound training and coaching. Her voice -had faults. It was still a little too big for her. It was a contralto -without a hollow note in it, firm and strong, with a good upper range. -There was in it more than a hint of power. It moved you, even in her -cruder moments. Her speaking voice--slow, lazy, strongly sensuous--gave -Henry thrills. - -She and Henry strolled up the lake, along the bluff through and beyond -the oak-clad campus, away up past the lighthouse. She seemed not to mind -the increasing heat. She had the careless vitality of a young mountain -lion, and the grace. - -Henry himself minded no external thing. Corinne Doag was, at the moment, -the one person in the world who could help him in his hour of deep -trouble. It was not clear how she could help him, but somehow she could. -He was blindly sure of it. If he could just impress himself on her, make -her forget other men, other interests! He had started well, the night -before. Things had gone fine. - -He was leading her to a secluded breakwater, between the lighthouse and -Pennyweather Point, where, under the clay bluff, the shell of an old -boat-house gave you a back as you sat on a gray timber and shielded you -at once from morning sun and from the gaze of casual strollers up the -beach. Henry knew the place well, had guided various girls there. Martha -had often spoken of it as 'our' breakwater. But no twinge of memory -disturbed him now. His nervous intentness on this immediate, rather -desperate task of conquering Corinne's sympathy fully occupied his -turbulent thoughts. - -When they arrived at the spot he was stilted in manner, though atremble -within. He ostentatiously took off his coat, spread it for her, -overpowering her protests. - -It had been thought by a number of girls and by a few of his elders -that Henry had charm. He was aware of quality they called charm he could -usually turn on and off like water at a faucet. - -Now, of all occasions, was the time to turn it on. But he was -breathlessly unequal to it. - -Perversity seized his tongue. He had seen himself lying easily, not -ungracefully beside her, saying (softly) the things she would most like -to hear. Speak of her voice, of course. And sing with her (softly) while -they idly watched the streaky, sparkling lake and the swooping, creaking -gulls above it. But he did none of these. Instead he stood over her, -glaring down rather fiercely, and saying nothing at all. - -'The shade does feel good,' said she. - -Still he groped for words, or for a mental attitude that might result in -words. None came. Here she was, at his feet, and he couldn't even speak. - -He fell back, in pertubation, on physical display, became the prancing -male. - -'I like to skip stones,' he managed to say, with husky -self-consciousness. He hunted flat stones; threw them hard and far, -until his face shone with sweat and a damp spot appeared in his shirt -between his shoulders. - -To her, 'Better let me hold your glasses,' he responded with an -irritable shake of the head. - -But such physical violence couldn't go on indefinitely. Not in this -heat. He threw less vigorously. He wondered in something of a funk, why -he couldn't grasp his opportunity. - -He became aware of a sound. A sound that in a more felicitous moment -would have thrilled him. - -She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped, -and did a phrase over, as if she were practising. - -He stole a glance. She wasn't even looking at him. She had sunk back -on an elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be -observing the gulls, rather absently. - -Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her. - -'I skipped that last one seven times,' said he. - -She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on. - -'She doesn't know I'm here,' he mused, with bitterness. 'I don't count. -Nobody wants me.' And added, 'She's selfish.' - -Suddenly he broke out, tragically: 'You don't know what I've been -through. I wouldn't tell you.' - -The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she -asked, after a pause, 'Why not?' - -'You'd be like the others. You'd despise me.' - -'I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn't. You ought to hear -her talk about you.' - -'She'll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone -with my way to make. Wha'd she say about me?' - -'That you're a genius. She can't make out why you've been burying -yourself, working for a little country paper.' - -Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for -a less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; -speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what -anybody thought about anybody. - -Still--it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; -glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body. - -'So she says I'm a genius, eh! Well, maybe it's true. Maybe I am. I'm -something. Or there's something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on -fire with it. I've done a few things. I put on _Iolanthe_ here. When I -was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it--drilled -'em----' - -'I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.' - -'I'll do something else one of these days.' - -'I'm sure you will,' she murmured politely. - -It was going none too well. She wasn't really interested. He hadn't -touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it -over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better. - -'That's an awfully pretty brooch,' he ventured. - -She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a -cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold. - -'It was a present,' she said. 'From one of the nicest men I ever knew.' - -This chilled Henry's heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out -of his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully -masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might -be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new -girl, Henry was an incorrigible idealist. - -It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It -hurt, just to think of it. And presents--things like that, gold in -it--the thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened -his thoughts. - -'That's it,' these ran now. 'Presents! Money! That's what girls want. -Keep you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on 'em. That's what -they're after!' - -The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped -stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising -songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite -too much for him. - -When he came gloomily over, she remarked:-- - -'We must be starting back.' - -He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression -throw his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach. - -'Oh, come on, don't go yet,' he begged. 'Why, we've only just got here.' - -'It's a long walk. And it's hot. We'll never get back for dinner if we -don't start. I mustn't keep Mildred waiting.' - -He thought, 'A lot she'd care if she wanted to be with me!' - -He said, 'What you doing to-night?' - -'Oh, a couple of Chicago men are coming out.' - -'Oh!' It was between a grunt and a snort. He struck out at such a gait -that she finally said:-- - -'If you want to walk at that pace I'm afraid you'll have to walk alone.' - -So far a failure. Just as with Humphrey, the situation had given him -no opportunity to display his own kind of thing. The picturesque slang -phrase had not then been coined; but Henry was in wrong and knew it. It -was defeat. - -The first faint hope stirred when Mrs Henderson rose from a hammock and -came to the top step to clasp his hand. She thought him a genius. Well, -she had been accompanist through all those rehearsals for _Iolanthe._ -She ought to know. - -She asked him now, in her alertly offhand way, to stay to dinner. He -accepted instantly. - - -4 - - -Mildred Henderson was little, slim, quick, with tiny feet and hands. -Despite these latter she was the most accomplished pianist in Sunbury. -She had snappy little eyes, and a way of smiling quickly and brightly. -The Hendersons had lived four or five years in Sunbury. They had no -children. They had no servant at this time--but she possessed the gift -of getting up pleasant little meals without apparent effort. - -After the arrival of Corinne and Henry she disappeared for a few -moments, then called them to the dining-room. - -'It's really a cold lunch,' she said, as they gathered at the -table--'chicken and salad and things. But there's plenty for you, -Henry. Do have some iced tea. I know they starve you at that old -boarding-house. We've all had our little term at Mrs Wilcox's.' - -'I--I'm not living there any more. I've moved.' - -'Not to Mrs Black's?' - -'No... you see I work with Humphrey Weaver at the _Voice_ office and he -asked me to come and live with him.' - -'With him? And where does he live?' - -'Why, just back of the old Parmenter place.' - -'But there's nothing back of the Parmenter place!' - -'Yes--you see, the barn----' - -'Not that old red----' - -'Yes. You'd be surprised! Humphrey's put in hardwood and electricity and -things. He's really a wonderful person. Did the wiring himself. And the -water pipes. You ought to see his books--and his shop downstairs. He's -an inventor, you know. Going to be. Don't you think for a minute that -he's just a country editor. That's just while he's feeling his way. Oh, -Hump's a smart fellow. Mighty decent of him to take me in that way, too; -because he's busy and I know he'd rather live alone. You see, he's quiet -and orderly about things, and I--well, I'm different.' - -'Offhand,' mused Mrs Henderson, 'I shouldn't suspect Humphrey Weaver of -temperament. But tell me--how on earth do you live? Who cooks and cleans -up?' - -'Well, Hump gets breakfast and--and we'll probably take turns cleaning -up.' - -'You remember Humphrey Weaver, Corinne,' the little hostess breezed on. -'You've met him. Tall, thin, face wrinkles up when he smiles or speaks -to you.' She added, as if musing aloud, 'He _has_ nice eyes.' Then, to -Henry: - -'But do you mean to say that so fascinating a man as that lives -undiscovered, right under our noses, in this bourgeois town.' - -Henry was rather vague about the meaning of 'bourgeois,' but he nodded -gravely. - -'You must bring him down here, Henry. I can't imagine what I've been -thinking of to overlook him. - -Tell you what, we'll have a little rabbit to-morrow night. We four. -We'll devote an evening to drawing Mr Humphrey Weaver out of his shell.' - -Her quick eyes caught a doubtful look in Corinne's eyes. 'Oh,' she said, -'we did speak of letting Will and Fred take us in town, didn't we?' - -Corinne nodded. - -It seemed to Henry that he ought to take the situation in hand. As -regarded his relations with Humphrey he was sailing under false colours. -Among his confused thoughts he sought, gropingly, a way out. The speech -he did make was clumsy. - -'I don't know whether I could make him come. He likes to read evenings, -or work in his shop.' - -Mrs Henderson took this in, then let her eyes rest a moment, -thoughtfully, on Henry's ingenuous countenance. An intent look crept -into her eyes. - -'Do you mean that you two sweep and make beds and wash dishes and dust?' - -'Well'--Henry's voice faltered--'you see, I haven't been--I just moved -over there yesterday afternoon.' - -'Hm!' There was a bright, flash in Mrs Henderson's eyes. She chuckled -abruptly. It was a sharp little chuckle that had the force of an -interruption. 'I'd like to see the corners of those rooms. There ought -to be some woman that could take care of you.' She turned again on -Henry. 'Be sure and bring him down to-morrow. Come in about six for a -picnic supper. Or no--let me think----' - -Henry's eyes were on Corinne. She was eating now, composedly, like an -accomplished feminine fatalist, leaving the disposition of matters to -her more aggressive hostess. The food he had eaten rested comfortably -on his long ill-treated but still responsive young stomach. His -nervous concern of the morning was giving place to a glow of snug -inner well-being. Ice-cream was before him now, a heaping plate of -it--vanilla, with hot chocolate sauce--and a huge slice of chocolate -layer cake. He blessed Mrs Henderson for the rich cream as he let -heaping spoonfuls slip down his throat and followed them with healthy -bites of the cake. What a jolly little woman she was. No fuss. - -Nothing stuck up about her. And he knew she was on his side. - -She had sympathy. Even if she hadn't yet heard--when she did hear--it -wouldn't matter. She would be on his side; he was sure of it. - -Corinne's hair, a loose curl of it, curved down over her ear and part -of her cheek. She reached up a long hand and brushed it back. The motion -thrilled him. He was quiveringly responsive to the faint down on her -cheek, to the slight ebbing and flowing of the colour under her skin, to -the whiteness of her temple, the curve of her rather heavy eyebrow, even -to the 'waist' she wore--a simple garment, with an open throat and a -wide collar that suggested the sea. - -Mrs Henderson was talking about something or other, in her brisk way. - -Henry only partly heard. He was day-dreaming, weaving an imaginative -web of irridescent fancy about the healthy, rather matter-of-fact girl -before him. And eating rapidly his second large helping of ice-cream, -and his second piece of cake. - -Little resentments were still popping up among his thoughts, taunting -him. But tentative little hopes were struggling with these now. A sense -of power, even, was stirring to life in his breast. This brought new -thrills. It was a long, long time since he had felt as he was now -beginning to feel. Life had dealt pretty harshly with him these two -years. But he wasn't beaten yet. Not even if nice men did give cameo -brooches mounted on beaded gold. - -He felt in his pocket. Nearly all of the week's pay was there--about -eight dollars. It wasn't much. It wouldn't buy gold brooches. -Space-reporting on a country weekly at a dollar and a quarter a column, -as a means of livelihood, was pretty hard sledding. He would have to -scheme out something. There would be seventeen dollars more on the -fifteenth from his Uncle Arthur, executor of his mother's estate and -guardian to Henry, but that had been mentally pledged to the purchase of -necessary summer underwear and things. Still, he might manage somehow. -You had to do a lot for girls, of course. They expected it. Expensive -business. - -He indulged himself a moment, shading his eyes with one hand and eating -steadily on, in a momentary wave of bitterness against well-to-do young -men who could lavish money on girls. - -Corinne was speaking now, and he was answering. He even laughed at -something she said. But the train of his thoughts rumbled steadily on. - -After the coffee they all carried out the dishes and washed them. Henry -amused them by wearing a full-length kitchen apron. Corinne tied the -strings around his waist. He found an excuse to reach back, and for an -instant his hands covered hers. She laughed a little. He danced about -the kitchen and sang comic songs as he wiped dishes and took them to the -china closet in the butler's pantry. - -This chore finished, they went to the living-room. - -Mrs Henderson said: 'Oh, Corinne, you must hear Henry sing “When Britain -Really Ruled” from _Iolanthe_.' She found the score and played for him. -He sang lustily, all three verses. - -'Too much dinner,' he remarked, beaming with pleasure, at the close. -'Voice is rotten.' - -'It's a good organ,' said Corinne. 'You ought to work at it.' - -'Perfect shame he won't study,' said Mrs Henderson. Henry found _The -Geisha_ on the piano. - -'Come on, Corinne,' he cried. 'Do the “Jewel of Asia.” Mrs Henderson'll -transpose it.' - -Corinne leaned carelessly against the piano and sang the pleasant little -melody with an ease and a steady flow of tone that brought a shine to -Henry's eyes. He had to hide it, dropping on the big couch and resting -his head on his hand. He could look nowhere but at her. He ordered her -to sing 'The Amorous Goldfish.' - -She fell into the spirit of it, and moved away from the piano, looking -provocatively at Henry, gesturing, making an audience of him. She even -danced a few steps at the end. - -Henry sprang up. The power was upon him. Obstacles, difficulties, the -little scene with Humphrey, while not forgotten, were swept aside. He -was irresistible. - -'Tell you what,' he said gaily, with supreme ease--'w'e'll send -those Chicago men a box of poisoned candy to-morrow, and--oh, yes w-e -will!--and then we'll have a party at the rooms. You'll be chaperon, Mrs -Henderson and Hump'll cook things in the chafing dish, and----' - -'What a perfectly lovely idea!' said Mrs Henderson in a surprisingly -calm voice. 'I'll bring the cold chicken, and a vegetable salad... - -Henry watched Corinne. - -For an instant--she was rummaging through the music--her eyes met his. -'It'll be fun,' she said. - -Henry felt a shock as if he had plunged unexpectedly, headlong, into -ice-water; then a glow. - -He was a daring soul. They didn't understand him in Sunbury. He had -temperament, a Bohemian nature. The thing was, he'd wasted two years -trying to make another sort of himself. Kept account of every penny in a -red book! All that! Book was in his pocket now. - -He decided to tear it up. He wouldn't be a coward another day. That -plodding self-discipline hadn't got him anywhere. Now really, had it? - -Little inner voices were protesting weakly. People might find out about -it. Have to be pretty quiet. And keep the shades down. It wouldn't -do for the folks in the parsonage, across the alley, to know that Mrs -Arthur V. Henderson and her guest were in the Parmenter barn. Have to -find some tactful way of suggesting that they come after dark... - -As if she could read his thoughts, Mrs Henderson remarked calmly: 'You -come for us, Henry. Say about eight.' - -Still the little voices of doubt and confusion. Even of fear. He -mentally shouted them down; fixing his eyes on the disturbingly radiant -Corinne, then glancing for moral support at the really pretty little Mrs -Henderson who gave out such a reassuring air of knowing precisely what -she was about, of being altogether in the right. Funny, knowing her all -these years, he hadn't realised she was so nice! - -He had turned defeat into victory. Single-handed. Will and Fred could go -sit on the Wells Street bridge and eat bananas. He had settled _their_ -hash. - - -5 - - -To this lofty mood there came, promptly? an opposite and fully equal -reaction. - -Difficulties having arisen in connection with the problem of breaking -the news to Humphrey, he couldn't very well go back to the rooms. - -The thing would have to be put right before Humphrey. He decided to -think it over. That was the idea--think it over. Humphrey would be -eating his supper, if not at the rooms, then at Stanley's little -restaurant on Simpson Street. So he could hardly go to Stanley's. There -was another little lunch room down by the tracks, but Humphrey had -been known to go there. And of course it was impossible to return for a -transient meal to Mrs Wilcox. For one thing, the student waiters would -be off and Mamie Wilcox on duty in the dining-room. He didn't want Mamie -back in his life. Not if he could help it. He even went so far as to -wonder, with a paralysing sense of helplessness in certain conceivable -contingencies, if he _could_ help it... So instead of eating supper he -sat on a breakwater, alone, unobserved, while the golden sunset glow -faded from lake and sky and darkness claimed him for her own. - -Later, handkerchief over face, rushing and pawing his way through the -myriads of sand-flies that swarmed about each corner light, he walked -into the neighbourhood of Martha Caldwell's house. He walked backhand -forth for a time on the other side of the street, and stood motionless -by trees. He found the situation trying, as he didn't know why he had -come, whether he wanted to see Martha or what he could say to her. - -He could hear voices from the porch. And he thought he could see one -white dress. - -Then, because it seemed to be the next best thing to do, he crossed over -and mounted the familiar front steps. - -He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant, -Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with -the glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. -Finally, after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for -Monday evening, the cotillion leader left. - -Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated -sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, -at the maples. - -Henry struggled for speech. - -'Martha, look here,' came from him, in a tired voice, 'you've cut me -dead. Twice. Now it seems to me----' - -'I don't want to talk about that,' said Martha. - -'But it isn't fair not to----' - -'Please don't try to tell me that you weren't at Hoffmann's with that -horrid girl.' - -'I'm not trying to. But----' - -'You took her there, didn't you?' - -'Yes, but she----' - -'She didn't make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going -with me, too.' - -'Oh, well,' he muttered. Then, 'Thunder! If you're just determined not -to be fair---- - -'I won't let you say that to me.' The snap in her voice stung him. - -'You're not fair! You won't even let me talk!' - -'What earthly good is talk!' - -'Oh, if you're going to take that attitude----' - -She rose. So did he. - -'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly, -unevenly. - -'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless. - -She made no reply. - -They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch -full of young people were singing _Louisiana Lou_. Henry, out of sheer -nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to the -steps. - -'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.' - -Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't -believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He -even felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit -in the hammock with him and bring back something of the old time -feeling. - -But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the -yellow cloud at the corner. - -He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet -on pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week -or two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy -wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake -towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street -they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square -inch of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes -necessary to clear the sidewalks with shovels. - -It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into -Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs. - -Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack -of light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight. - -Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly -room. - -He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed -about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen. - -He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his -foot. - -'Just have to get at these things,' he muttered aloud. 'Make a job of -it. Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.' - -Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume -entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. - -He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently -pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall, knitting his brows, and -mumbling the words over and over until the small meaning they had ever -possessed was lost. - - -6 - - -He came almost stealthily into the office of _The Weekly Voice of -Sunbury_ on the Monday morning. He had not fallen really asleep until -the small hours. When he awoke, Humphrey was long gone and the breakfast -things stood waiting on the centre table. And there they were now. He -hadn't so much as rinsed them in the sink. - -Humphrey sat behind his roll-top desk, back of the railing. Old Mr -Boice, the proprietor, was at his own desk, out in front. At the first -glimpse of his massive head and shoulders with the heavy white whiskers -falling down on his shirt front, Henry, hesitating on the sill, gave -a little quick sigh of relief. He let himself, moving with the -self-consciousness that somewhat resembled dignity, through the gate in -the railing and took his chair at the inkstained pine table that served -him for a desk. - -He felt Humphrey's eyes on him, and said 'Goodmorning!' stiffly, without -looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew -not what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a -business of writing nothing whatever. - -At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along -Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone -with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim -Smith, the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that -blonde little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who -chewed tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry's table, and talk further. - -Noon came. - -Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and -thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to -come along with him for lunch at Stanley's. He didn't mind for himself. -It was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, -more pleasant. It was awkward. - -He got up; stood a moment. - -He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes -for the Commencement 'recital' of the Music School, pencil poised, -motionless, almost inert. - -Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, -proof in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone. - -Henry did not appear again at the office. This was not unusual. Monday -was a slack day, and much of Henry's work consisted in scouting along -Simpson Street, looking up new real estate permits at the village -office, new volumes at the library and other small matters. - -The unusual thing was the note on Humphrey's desk. Henry had put it on -top of his papers and weighted it down conspicuously with the red ink -bottle. - -'I've had to ask Mrs Henderson and Corinne Doag to the rooms to-night -for a little party. I'll bring them about eight.' Pinned to the paper -was a five-dollar banknote. - -At supper-time, Humphrey, eating alone in Stanley's, saw a familiar -figure outside the wide front window. It was Henry, dressed in his -newest white ducks, his blue coat newly pressed (while he waited, at the -Swede tailor's down the street), standing stiffly on the curb. - -Occasionally he glanced around, peering into the restaurant. - -The light was failing in the rear of the store. Mrs Stanley came from -her desk by the door and lighted two gas-jets. - -Henry again glanced around. He saw Humphrey and knew that Humphrey saw -him. - -A youth on a bicycle paused at the curb. - -Through the screen door Humphrey heard this conversation:-- - -'Hallo, Hen!' - -'Hallo, Al!' - -'Doing anything after?' - -'Why--yeah. Got a date.' - -And as the other youth rode off, Henry glanced around once more, -nervously. - -He was carrying the bamboo stick he affected. He twirled this for a -moment, and then wandered out of view. - -But soon he reappeared, entered the restaurant and marched straight back -to Humphrey's table. His sensitive lips were compressed. - -He said, 'Hallo, Hump!' and with only a moment's hesitation took the -chair opposite. - -Humphrey buried his nose in his coffee cup. - -Henry cleared his throat, twice; then, in a husky, weak voice, -remarked:-- - -'Get my note?' - -There was a painfully long silence. - -'Yes,' Humphrey replied then, 'I did.' And went at the pie. - -Henry picked up a corner of the threadbare table-cloth and twisted it. -He had been pale, but colour was coming now, richly. - -'Well,' he mumbled, 'I s'pose we've gotta say something about it.' - -'Not necessary,' Humphrey observed briskly. - -'Well, but--we'll have to plan----' - -'Not at all.' - -'You mean--you----' Henry's voice broke and faltered. - -'I mean----' Humphrey's voice was clear, sharp. - -'Ssh! Not so loud, Hump.' - -'I mean that since you've done this extraordinary thing without so much -as consulting me, I will see it through. I don't want you for one minute -to think that I like it. God knows what it's going to mean--having women -running in there! My privacy was the only thing I had. You've chosen to -wreck it without a by-your-leave. I'll be ready at eight. And I'll see -that the door of your room is shut.' - -With which he rose, handed his ticket to Mrs Stanley to be punched, and -left the restaurant. - -Henry walked the streets, through gathering clouds of sand-flies, until -it was time to call at Mrs Henderson's. - - -7 - - -They stood on the threshold. - -'This is the shop,' Henry explained, 'where Hump works.' - -'How perfectly fascinating!' exclaimed Mrs Henderson. Her quick eyes -took in lathes, kites, models of gliders, tools. 'Bring him 'straight -down here. I won't stir from this room till he's explained everything.' - -'Hump!' called Henry, with austere politeness, up the stairway: 'Would -you mind coming down?' - -He came--tall, stooping under the low lintel, in spotless white, distant -in manner, but courteous, firmly courteous. - -Mrs Henderson, prowling about, lifted a wheel in a frame. - -'What on earth is this thing?' she asked. - -'A gyroscope.' - -'What do you do with it?' - -Humphrey wound a long twine about the handle and set the wheel spinning -like a top. - -'Hold it by the handle,' said he. 'Now try to wave it around.' - -The apparently simple machine swung itself back to the horizontal with -a jerk so violent that Mrs Henderson nearly lost her footing. Humphrey, -with evident hesitation, caught her elbow and steadied her. She turned -her eyes up to his, laughing, all interest. - -'Sit right down in that chair and explain it to me,' she cried. 'How -on earth did it do that? It's uncanny.' And she seated herself on a -work-bench, with a light little spring. - -When Henry showed Corinne up the stairs, Humphrey was talking with -an eager interest that had not before been evident in him. And Mrs -Henderson was listening, interrupting him where his easy flow of -scientific terms and mechanical axioms ran too fast for her. - -Henry's pulse beat faster. Suddenly the pleasantly arranged old -barn looked, felt different. Charm had entered it. And the exciting -possibility of fellowship--a daring fellowship. He was up in the -living-room now. Corinne was moving lazily, comfortably about, humming -a song by the sensational new Richard Strauss who was upsetting all -settled musical tradition just then, and prying into corners and -shelves. She wore a light, shimmery, silky dress that gave out a faint -odour of violets. It drugged Henry, that odour. He felt for the first -time as if he belonged in these rooms himself. - -Corinne found the kitchen cupboard', and exclaimed. - -'Mildred!' she called down the stairs, in her rich drawling voice, 'come -right up here--the cutest thing!' - -To which Mildred Henderson coolly replied:-- - -'Don't bother me with cute things now. Play with Henry and keep quiet.' - -And Humphrey's voice droned on down there. - -Henry dropped on the piano stool. Corinne was certainly less -indifferent. A little. - -He struck chords; all he knew. He hummed a phrase of the Colonel's song -in _Patience_. - -Corinne drew a chair to the end of the keyboard and settled herself -comfortably. 'Sing something,' she said. 'I love your voice.' - -'It's no good,' said he, flushing with delight. - -Surely her interest was growing. He added:-- - -'I'd a lot rather hear you.' But then, when she smilingly shook her -head, promptly broke into-- - - 'If you want a receipt for that popular mystery - - Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, - - Take all the remarkable people of history, - - Rattle them off to a popular tune.' - -It is the trickiest and most brilliant patter song ever written, I -think, not even excepting the Major General's song in _The Pirates_. -Which, by the way, Henry sang next. - -'How on earth can you remember all those words!' Corinne murmured. 'And -the way you get your tongue around them. I could never do it.' - -She tried it, with him; but broke down with laughter. - -'I know hundreds of 'em,' he said expansively, and sang on. - -It was an opportunity he had not foreseen during this dreadful day. But -here it was, and he seized it. The stage was set for his kind of things; -all at once, as if by the merest accident. For the first time since -the awkward Sunday morning on the beach he was able to turn on full the -faucet that controlled his 'charm.' And he turned it on full. He had -parlour tricks. Out of amateur opera experience he had picked up a -superficial knack at comedy dancing. He did all he knew. He taught an -absurd little team song and dance to Corinne, with Mrs Henderson (who -had at last come up) improvising at the piano. And Corinne, flushed and -pretty, clung to his hand and laughed herself speechless. Once in her -desperate confusion over the steps she sank to the floor and sat in a -merry heap until Henry lifted her up. Then Henry imitated Frank Daniels -singing 'The man with an elephant on his hands,' and H. C. Bamabee -singing _The Sheriff of Nottingham_, and De Wolf Hopper doing _Casey -at the Bat_. All were clever bits; the 'Casey' exceptionally so. They -applauded him. Even Humphrey, silent now, leaning on an end of the -piano, watching Mrs Henderson's flashing little hands, clapped a little. - -Once Humphrey went rather moodily to a window and peered out. - -Mrs Henderson followed him; slipped her hand through his arm; asked -quietly, 'Who lives across the alley?' - -'It's the Presbyterian parsonage,' he replied, slightly grim. - -It was after midnight when they set out, whispering, giggling a little -in the alley, for Chestnut Avenue. - -'These sand-flies are fierce,' said Henry. 'You girls better take our -handkerchiefs.' - -They circled on lawns to avoid the swirling, crunching, softly -suffocating clouds of insects. Nearer the lake it grew worse. At the -corner of Chestnut and Simpson they stopped short. Mrs Henderson, -pressing the handkerchief to her face, clung in humorous helplessness to -Humphrey's arm. - -He looked down at her. Suddenly he stooped, gathered her up in his arms -as if she were a child, and carried her clear through the plague into -the shadows of Chestnut Avenue. - -Henry, running with Corinne pressing close on his arm, caught a glimpse -of his face. The expression on it added a touch of alarm to the pæan of -joy in Henry's brain. - -They stepped within the Henderson screen door to say good-night. - -'Let's do something to-morrow night--walk or go biking or row on the -lake,' said Mrs Henderson. 'You two had better come down for dinner. Any -time after six.' - -'How about you?' Henry whispered to Corinne. 'Do you want me to come... -Will and Fred...' - -Corinne's firm long hand slipped for a moment into his. He gripped it. -The pressure was returned. - -'Don't be silly!' she breathed, close to his ear. - - -8 - - -The sand-flies served as an excuse for silence between Humphrey and -Henry on the walk back. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward. It held -until they were up in the curiously, hauntingly empty living-room. - -Humphrey scraped and lighted his pipe. - -Henry, rather surprisingly unhappy again, was moving toward a certain -closed door. - -'Tell me,' said Humphrey gruffly, slowly, 'where is Mister Arthur V. -Henderson?' - -'He travels for the Camman Company, reapers and binders and ploughs.' - -Humphrey very deliberately lighted his pipe. - -Henry moved on toward the closed door. Emotions were stirring -uncomfortably within him. And conflicting impulses. Suddenly he shot out -a muffled 'Good-night,' and entered the bedroom, shutting the door after -him. - -An hour later Humphrey--a gaunt figure in nightgown and slippers, pipe -in mouth--tapped at that door. - -Henry, only half undressed, flushed of face, dripping with sweat, -quickly opened it. - -Humphrey looked down in surprise at a fully packed trunk and suit-case -and a heap of bundles tied with odd bits of twine--sofa cushions, old -clothes, what not. - -'What's all this?' Humphrey waved his pipe. - -'Well--I just thought I'd go in the morning.' - -'Don't be a dam' fool.' - -'But--but'--Henry threw out protesting hands--'I know I'm no good at all -these fussy things. I'd just spoil your----' - -The pipe waved again. 'That's all disposed of, Hen.' A somewhat -wry smile wrinkled the long face. 'Mildred Henderson's running it, -apparently. There's a certain Mrs Olson who is to come in mornings and -clean up. And--oh yes, I've got a lot of change for you. Your share was -only eight-five cents.' - -There was a long silence. Henry looked at his feet; moved one of them -slowly about on the floor. - -'We're different kinds,' said Humphrey. 'About as different as they -make'em. But that, in itself, isn't a bad thing.' - -He thrust out his hand. - -Henry clasped it; gulped down an all but uncontrollable uprush of -feeling; looked down again. - -Humphrey stalked back to his room. - -Thus began the odd partnership of Weaver and Calverly. Though is not -every partnership a little odd? - - - - -III--THE STIMULANT - - -1 - - -|Miss Wombast looked up from her desk in the Sunbury Public Library and -beheld Henry Calverly, 3rd. Then with a slight fluttering of her pale, -blue-veined eyelids and a compression of her thin lips she looked down -again and in a neat practised librarian's hand finished printing out a -title on the-catalogue card before her. - -For Henry Calverly was faintly disconcerting to her. Though it was only -eleven o'clock, and a Tuesday, he was attired in blue serge coat, -snow white trousers and (could she have seen through the desk) white -stockings and shoes. His white _négligé_ shirt was decorated at the neck -with a 'four-in-hand' of shimmering foulard, blue and green. In his -left hand was a rolled-up creamy-white felt hat and the crook of a thin -bamboo stick. With his right he fussed at the fringe on his upper lip, -which was somewhat nearer the moustache stage than it had been last -week. Behind his nose glasses and their pendant silk cord his face was -sober; the gray-blue eyes that (Miss Wombast knew) could blaze with -primal energy were gloomy, or at least tired; there was a furrow between -his blond eyebrow's. He had the air of a youth who wants earnestly to -concentrate without knowing quite how. - -Miss Wombast was a distinctly 'literary' person. She read Meredith, -Balzac, De Maupassant, Flaubert, Zola, and Howells. She was living her -way into the developing later manner of Henry James. She talked, on -occasion, with an icy enthusiasm that many honest folk found irritating, -of Stevenson's style and of Walter Pater. - -It was Miss Wombast's habit to look in her books for complete -identification of the living characters she met. She studied all of -them, coolly, critically, at boardinghouse and library. Naturally, when -a living individual refused to take his place among her gallery of book -types, she was puzzled. One such was Henry Calverly. - -She had known something of his checkered career in high school, where -he had directed the glee club, founded and edited _The Boys' Journal_, -written a rather bright one-act play for the junior class. Indeed the -village in general had been mildly aware of Henry. He had stood out, and -Miss Wombast herself had sung a modest alto in the _Iolanthe_ chorus, -two years back, under Henry's direction and had found him impersonally, -ingenuously masterful and a subtly pleasing factor in her thought-world. -He had made a success of that mob. The big men of the village gave him a -dinner and a purse of gold. After all of which, his mother had died, -he had run, apparently, through his gifts and his earnings, and settled -down to a curiously petty reporting job, trotting up and down Simpson -Street collecting useless little items for _The Weekly Voice of -Sunbury_. Other young fellows of twenty either went to college or -started laying the foundations of a regular job in Chicago. Those that -amounted to anything. You could see pretty plainly ahead of each his -proper line of development. Yet here was Henry, who _had_ stood out, -working half-heartedly at the sort of job you associated with the -off-time of poor students, dressing altogether too conspicuously, -wasting hours--daytimes, when a young fellow ought to be working--with -this girl and that. For a long time it had been the Caldwell girl. -Lately she had seen him with that strikingly pretty but, she felt, -rather 'physical' young singer who was visiting the gifted but -whispered-about Mrs Arthur V. Henderson, of Lower Chestnut Avenue. Name -of Doge, or Doag, or something like that. - -Henry himself had been whispered about. Very recently. He had been -seen at Hoffmann's Garden, up the shore, with a vulgar young woman in -extremely tight bloomers. Of the working girl type. Had her out on a -tandem. Drinking beer. - -So it was, unable to forget those secretly stirring _Iolanthe_ days, -that Miss Wombast had looked about among her book types for a key to -Henry, but without success. He didn't appear to be in De Maupassant. Nor -in Balzac. In Meredith and James there was no one who said 'Yeah' and -'Gotta' and spoke with the crude if honest throat 'r' of the Middle West -and went with nice girls and vulgar girls and carried that silly cane -and wore the sillier moustache; who had, or had had, gifts of creation -and command, yet now, month in, month out, hung about Donovan's soda -fountain; who never smoked and, apart from the Hoffmann's Garden -incident, wasn't known to drink; and who, when you faced him, despite -the massed evidence, gave out an impression of earnest endeavour. Even -of moral purpose. - -Had she known him better Miss Wombast would have found herself the more -puzzled. For Miss Wombast, despite her rather complicated reading, -still clung in some measure to the moralistic teachings of her youth, -believing that people either had what she thought of as character or -else didn't have it, that people were either industrious or lazy, bright -or stupid, vulgar or nice. Therefore the fact that Henry, while still -wrecking his stomach with fountain drinks and (a recently acquired -habit) with lemon meringue pie between meals, had not touched candy for -two years--not a chocolate cream, not even a gum drop!--and this by -sheer force of character, would have been confusing. - -And to read his thoughts, as he stood there before her desk, would have -carried her confusion on into bewilderment. - -Mostly these thoughts had to do with money, and bordered on the -desperate. Tentative little schemes for getting money--even a few -dollars--were forming and dissolving rapidly in his mind. - -He was concerned because his sudden little flirtation with Corinne Doag, -after a flashing start, had lost its glow. Only the preceding evening. -He hadn't held her interest. The thrill had gone. Which plunged him into -moods and brought to his always unruly tongue the sarcastic words -that made matters worse. He was lunching down there to-day--he and -Humphrey--and dreaded it, with moments of a rather futile, flickering -hope. Deep intuition informed him that the one sure solution was money. -You couldn't get on with a girl without it. Just about so far, then -things dragged. And this, of course, brought him around the circle, back -to the main topic. - -He was thinking about his clothes. They, at least, should move Corinne. -Along with the moustache, the cane, the cord on his glasses. He didn't -see how people could help being a little impressed. Miss Wombast, even, -who didn't matter. It seemed to him that she _was_ impressed. - -He was thinking about Martha Caldwell., She was pretty frankly going -with James B. Merchant, Jr., now. Henry was jealous of James B. -Merchant, Jr. And about Martha his thoughts hovered with a tinge of -romantic sadness. He would like her to see him to-day, in these clothes, -with his moustache and cane. - -He was wondering, with the dread that the prospect of mental effort -always roused in him, how on earth he was ever to write three whole -columns about the Annual Business Men's Picnic of the preceding -afternoon. Describing in humorous yet friendly detail the three-legged -race, the ball game between the fats and the leans, the dinner in the -grove, the concert by Foote's full band of twenty pieces, the purse -given to Charlie Waterhouse as the most popular man on Simpson Street. -He had a thick wad of notes up at the rooms, but his heart was not in -the laborious task of expanding them. He knew precisely what old -man Boice expected of him--plenty of 'personal mention' for all the -advertisers, giving space for space. Each day that he put it off -would make the task harder. If he didn't have the complete story in by -Thursday night, Humphrey would skin him alive; yet here it was Wednesday -morning, and he was planning to spend as much of the day as possible -with the increasingly unresponsive Corinne. Life was difficult! - -He was aware of a morbid craving in his digestive tract. He decided to -get an ice-cream soda on the way back to the office. He would have liked -about half a pound of chocolate creams. The Italian kind, with all the -sweet in the white part. But here character intervened. - -A corner of his mind dwelt unceasingly on queer difficult feelings that -came. These had flared out in the unpleasant incident of Mamie Wilcox -and the tandem; and again in the present flirtation with Corinne. In a -way that he found perplexing, this stir of emotion was related to -his gifts. He couldn't let one go without the other. There had been -moments--in the old days--when a feeling of power had surged through -him. It was a wonderful, irresistible feeling. Riding that wave, he -was equal to anything. But it had frightened him. The memory of it -frightened him now. He had put _Iolanthe_ through, it was true, but he -had also nearly eloped with Ernestine Lambert. He had completely lost -his head--debts, everything! - -Yes, it was as well that Miss Wombast couldn't read his thoughts. She -wouldn't have known how to interpret them. She hadn't the capacity to -understand the wide swift stream of feeling down which an imaginative -boy floats all but rudderless into manhood. She couldn't know of his -pitifully inadequate little attempts to shape a course, to catch this -breeze and that, even to square around and breast the current of life. - -Henry said politely:-- - -'Good-morning, Miss Wombast. I just looked in for the notes of new -books.' - -'Oh,' she replied quickly. 'I'm sorry you troubled. Mr Boice asked me -to mail it to the office at the end of the month. I just sent it--this -morning.' - -She saw his face fall. He mumbled something that sounded like, 'Oh--all -right! Doesn't matter.' For a moment he stood waving his stick in jerky, -aimless little circles. Then went off down the stairs. - - -2 - - -Emerging from Donovan's drug store Henry encountered the ponderous -person of old Boice--six feet an inch and a half, head sunk a little -between the shoulders, thick yellowish-white whiskers waving down over a -black bow tie and a spotted, roundly protruding vest, a heavy old -watch chain with insignia of a fraternal order hanging as a charm; -inscrutable, washed-out blue eyes in a deeply lined but nearly -expressionless face. - -Henry stopped short; stared at his employer. - -Mr Boice did not stop. But as he moved deliberately by, his faded eyes -took in every detail of Henry's not unremarkable personal appearance. - -Henry was thinking: 'Old crook. Wish I had a paper of my own here and -I'd get back at him. Run him out of town, that's what!' And after he had -nodded and rushed by, his colouring mounting: 'Like to know why I should -work my head off just to make money for _him_. No sense in that!' - -Henry came moodily into the _Voice_ office, dropped down at his -inkstained, littered table behind the railing, and sighed twice. He -picked up a pencil and fell to outlining ink spots. - -The sighs were directed at Humphrey, who sat bent over his desk, cob -pipe in mouth, writing very rapidly. 'He's got wonderful concentration,' -thought Henry, his mind wandering a brief moment from his unhappy self. - -Humphrey spoke without looking up. 'Don't let that Business Men's Picnic -get away from you, Hen. Really ought to be getting it in type now. Two -compositors loafing out there.' - -Henry sighed again; let his pencil fall on the table; gazed heavily, -helplessly at the wall... - -'Old man say anything to you about the “Library Notes”?' - -Humphrey glanced up and removed his pipe. His swarthy long face wrinkled -thoughtfully. 'Yes. Just now. He's going to have Miss Wombast send 'em -in direct every month.' - -'And I don't have 'em any more.' - -Humphrey considered this fact. 'It doesn't amount to very much, Hen.' - -'Oh, no--works out about sixty cents to a dollar. It ain't that -altogether--it's the principle. I'm getting tired of it!' - -The press-room door was ajar, Humphrey reached out and closed it. - -Henry raised his voice; got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the -table. His eyes brightened sharply. Emotion crept into his voice and -shook it a little. - -'Do you know what's he done to me--that old doubleface? Took me in here -two years ago at eight a week with a promise of nine if I suited. Well, -I did suit. But did I get the nine? Not until I'd rowed and begged for -seven months. A year of that, a lot more work--You know! “Club Notes,” - this library stuff, “Real Estate Happenings,” “Along Simpson Street,” - reading proof--' - -Humphrey slowly nodded as he smoked. - -'--And I asked for ten a week. Would he give it? No! I knew I was worth -more than that, so I offered to take space rates instead. Then what does -he do? You know, Hump. Been clipping me off, one thing after another, -and piling on the proof and the office work. Here's one thing more gone -to-day. Last week my string was exactly seven dollars and forty-six -cents. Dam it, it ain't fair! I can't _live!_ I won't stand it. Gotta be -ten a week or I--I'll find out why. Show-down.' - -He rushed to the door. Then, as if his little flare of indignation had -burnt out, fingered there, knitting his brows and looking up and down -the street and across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House, where -people sat in a row in yellow rocking chairs. - -Humphrey smoked and considered him. After a little he remarked -quietly:-- - -'Look here, Hen, I don't like it any more than you do. I've seen what he -was doing. I've tried to forestall him once or twice----' - -'I know it, Hump.' Henry turned. He was quite listless now. 'He's a -tricky old fox. If I only knew of something else I could do--or that we -could do together----' - -'But--this was what I was going to say--no matter how we feel, I'm going -to be really in trouble if I don't get that picnic story pretty soon. Mr -Boice asked about it this morning.' - -Henry leaned against Mr Boice's desk, up by the window; dropped his chin -into one hand. - -'I'll do it, Hump. This afternoon. Or to-night. We're going down to -Mildred's this noon, of course.' - -'That's part of what's bothering me. God knows how soon after that -you'll break away from Corinne.' - -'Pretty dam soon,' remarked Henry sullenly, 'the way things are going -now.... I'll get at it, Hump. Honest I will. But right now'--he moved -a hand weakly through the air--'I just couldn't. You don't know how I -feel. I _couldn't!_' - -'Where you going now?' - -'I don't know.' The hand moved again. 'Walk around. Gotta be by myself. -Sorta think it out. This is one of the days... I've been thinking--be -twenty-one in November. _Then_ I'll show him, and all the rest of 'em. -Have a little money then. I'll show this hypocritical old town a few -things--a few things....' - -His voice died to a mumble. He felt with limp fingers at his moustache. - -'I'll be ready quarter or twenty minutes past twelve,' Humphrey called -after him as he moved mournfully out to the street. - - -3 - - -Mr Boice moved heavily along, inclining his massive head, without a -smile, to this acquaintance and that, and turned in at Schultz and -Schwartz's. - -The spectacle of Henry Calverly--in spotless white and blue, with the -moustache, and the stick--had irritated him. Deeply. A boy who couldn't -earn eight dollars a week parading Simpson Street in that rig, on a -week-day morning! He felt strongly that Henry had no business sticking -out that way, above the village level. Hitting you in the eyes. Young -Jenkins was bad enough, but at least his father had the money. Real -money. And could let his son waste it if he chose. But a conceited young -chump like Henry Calverly! Ought to be chucked into a factory somewhere. -Stoke a furnace. Carry boxes. Work with his hands. Get down to brass -tacks and see if he had any stuff in him. Doubtful. - -Mr Boice made a low sound, a wheezy sound between a grunt and a hum, as -he handed his hat to the black, muscular, bullet-headed, grinning Pinkie -Potter, who specialised in hats and shoes in Sunbury's leading barber -shop. - -He made another sound that was quite a grunt as he sank into the red -plush barber chair of Heinie Schultz. His massive frame was clumsy, and -the twinges of lumbago, varied by touches of neuritis, that had come -steadily upon him since middle life, added to the difficulties of moving -it about. He always made these sounds. He would stop on the street, take -your hand non-committally in his huge, rather limp paw, and grunt before -he spoke, between phrases, and when moving away. - -Heinie Schultz, who was straw-coloured, thin, listlessly patient (Bill -Schwartz was the noisy fat one), knew that the thick, yellowish gray -hair was to be cut round in the back and the neck shaved beneath it. -The beard was to be trimmed delicately, reverently--'not cut, just the -rags taken off'--and combed out. Heinie had attended to this hair and -beard for sixteen years. - -'Heard a good one,' murmured Heinie, close to his patron's ear. 'There -was a bride and groom got on the sleeping car up to Duluth--' - -A thin man of about thirty-five entered the shop, tossed his hat to -Pinkie, and dropped into Bill Schwartz's chair next the window. The -new-comer had straight brown hair, worn a little long over ears and -collar. His face was freckled, a little pinched, nervously alert. Behind -his gold rimmed spectacles his small sharp eyes appeared to be darting -this way and that, keen, penetrating through the ordinary comfortable -surfaces of life. - -This was Robert A. McGibbon, editor and proprietor of the _Sunbury -Weekly Gleaner_. He had appeared in the village hardly six months back -with a little money--enough, at least, to buy the presses, give a little -for good will, assume the rent and the few business debts that Nicholas -Simms Godfrey had been able to contract before his health broke, and to -pay his own board at the Wombasts' on Filbert Avenue. His appearance -in local journalism had created a new tension in the village and his -appearance now in the barber shop created tension there. Heinie's -vulgar little anecdote froze on his lips. Mr Boice, impassive, heavily -deliberate, after one glimpse of the fellow in the long mirror before -him, lay back in the chair, gazed straight upward at the fly-specked -ceiling. - -Mr Boice, when face to face with Robert A. McGibbon on the street, -inclined his head to him as to others. But up and down the street his -barely expressed disapproval of the man was felt to have a root -in feelings and traditions infinitely deeper than the mere natural -antagonism to a fresh competitor in the local field. - -For McGibbon was--the term was a new one that had caught the popular -imagination and was worming swiftly into the American language--a yellow -journalist. He had worked, he boasted openly, on a sensationally new -daily in New York. In the once staid old _Gleaner_ he used boldfaced -headlines, touched with irritating acumen on scandal, assailed the -ruling political triumvirate, and made the paper generally fascinating -as well as disturbing. As a result, he was picking up subscribers -rapidly. Advertising, of course, was another matter. And Boice had all -the village and county printing. - -The political triumvirate mentioned above was composed of Boice himself, -Charles H. Waterhouse, town treasurer, and Mr Weston of the Sunbury -National Bank. For a decade their rule had not been questioned along the -street. The other really prominent men of Sunbury all had their business -interests in Chicago, and at that time used the village merely for -sleeping and as a point of departure for the very new golf links. Such -men, I mean, as B. L. Ames, John W. MacLouden, William B. Snow, and J. -E. Jenkins. - -The experience of withstanding vulgar attacks was new to the -triumvirate. (McGibbon referred to them always as the 'Old Cinch.') The -_Gleaner_ had come out for annexation to Chicago. It demanded an -audit of Charlie Waterhouse's town accounts by a new, politically -disinterested group. It accused the bank of withholding proper support -from men of whom old Boice disapproved. It demanded a share of the -village printing. - -The 'Old Cinch' were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their -notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in -town, to refer to him always as a 'Democrat.' This damned him with many. -He called himself an 'Independent.' Which amused Charlie Waterhouse -greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn't a decent Republican had to -be a Democrat. In the nature of things. - -And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving -him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself -with. - -Bill Schwartz took McGibbon's spectacles, tucked the towel around his -scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a -strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest. - -McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers -that waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his -razor. - -'How are you, Mr Boice?' McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully. - -Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed -it down. - -'Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V. -Henderson's.' - -Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal -should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound. - -'Who wrote it?' - -No answer. - -'Henry Calverly?' - -A grunt. - -'Thought so!' McGibbon chuckled. - -Mr Boice twisted his head around, trying to see the fellow in the -mirror. Heinie pulled it back. - -'Got it here. Hand me my glasses, Bill, will you. Thanks.' McGibbon was -sitting up, his face all lather, digging in his pocket. He produced a -clipping. Read aloud with gusto:-- - -'“Mrs Stelton's art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she -last appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, -always charming in personality and profoundly, rhythmically musical in -temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority -which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality -and distinction.”' - -McGibbon was momentarily choked by his own almost noiseless laughter. -Bill pushed his head down and went swiftly to work on his right cheek. -Two other customers had come in. - -'Great stuff that!' observed McGibbon cautiously, under the razor. -'“Profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament “! “A superstructure -of technical authority”! Great! Fine! That boy'll do something yet. -Handled right. Wish he was working for me.' - -Mr Boice, from whom sounds had been coming for several moments, now -raised his voice. It was the first time Heinie had ever heard him raise -it. Bill paused, razor in air, and glanced around. Pinkie Potter looked -up from the shoes he was polishing. - -'Well,' he roared huskily, 'what in hell's the matter with that!' - -Just then Bill turned McGibbon's head the other way. He too raised his -voice. But cheerfully. - -'Nothing much. Nice lot o' words. Only Mrs Stelton wasn't there. -Sprained her ankle in the Chicago station on the way out.' - -Bill Schwartz had a trumpet-like Prussian voice. The situation seemed to -him to contain the elements of humour. He laughed boisterously. - -Heinie Schultz, more politic, tittered softly, shears against mouth. - -Pinkie Potter laughed convulsively, and beat out an intricate rag-time -tattoo on his bootblack's stand with his brush. - - -4 - - -It was Mr Boice's fixed habit to go on, toward noon, to the post-office. -Instead, to-day, he returned to the _Voice_ office. - -He seated himself at his desk for a quarter of an hour, doing nothing. -He had the faculty of sitting still, ruminating. - -Finally he reached out for the two-foot rule that always lay on his -desk, and carefully measured a certain article in last week's paper. -Then did a little figuring. - -He rose, moved toward the door; turned, and remarked to the wondering -Humphrey:-- - -'Take fifteen inches off Henry's string this week, Weaver. A dollar 'n' -five cents. Be at the post-office if anybody wants me.' And went out. - -Humphrey himself measured Henry's article on the musicale. Old Boice had -been accurate enough; it came to an even fifteen inches. Which at seven -cents an inch, would be a dollar and five cents. - -When Henry reappeared and together they set out for Lower Chestnut -Avenue, Humphrey found he hadn't the heart to break this fresh -disappointment to his friend. He decided to let it drift until the -Saturday. Something might turn up. - -Henry's mood had changed. He had left the office, an hour earlier, -looking like a discouraged boy. Now he was serious, silent, hard to -talk to. He seemed three years older. With certain of Henry's rather -violently contrasted phases Humphrey was familiar; but he had never seen -him look quite like this. Henry was strung up. Plainly. He walked very -fast, striding intently forward. At least once in each block he found -himself a yard ahead of his companion, checked himself, muttered a -few words that sounded vaguely like an apology and then repeated the -process. - -At Mrs Henderson's Henry was grave and curiously attractive. He had -charm, no doubt of it--a sort of charm that women, older women, felt. -Mildred Henderson distinctly played up to him. And Corinne, Humphrey -noted, watched him now and then; the quietly observant keenness in her -big dark eyes masked by her easy, lazy smile. - -Toward the close of luncheon Henry's evident inner tension showed signs -of taking the form of gaiety. He acted like a young man wholly sure of -himself. Humphrey's net impression, after more than a year and a half -of close association with the boy, was that he couldn't ever be sure of -himself. Not for one minute. Yet, when they threw down their napkins and -pushed back their chairs, it was Henry who said, with an apparently easy -arrogance back of his grain:-- - -'Hump, you've got to be going back so soon, we're going to give you and -Mildred the living-room. We'll wash the dishes.' - -Humphrey noted the quick little snap of amusement in Mrs Henderson's -eyes (Henry had not before openly used her first name) and the -demure, expressionless look that came over Corinne's face. Neither was -displeased. - -To Mrs Henderson's, 'You'll do no such thing!' Henry responded -smilingly:-- - -'I won't be contradicted. Not to-day.' - -Corinne was still silent. But Mrs Henderson, now frankly amused, -asked:-- - -'Why the to-day, Henry?' - -'Oh, I don't know. Just the way I feel,' said he; and ushered her -with mock politeness into the front room, then, gallantly, almost -nonchalantly, took the elbow of the unresisting Corinne and led her -toward the kitchen. - -Humphrey lighted a cigarette and watched them go. Then with a slight -heightening of his usually sallow colour, followed his hostess into the -living-room. - -It will be evident to the reader that among these four young persons, -rather casually thrown together in the first instance, something of an -'understanding' had grown up. - -There had been a furtive delight about their first gathering at -Humphrey's rooms, a sense of exciting variety in humdrum village life, -the very real and lively pleasure of exploring fresh personalities. - -Of late years, looking back, it has seemed to me that Mildred Henderson -never really belonged in Sunbury, where a woman's whole duty lay in -keeping house economically and as pleasantly as might be for the husband -who spent his days in Chicago. And in bearing and rearing his children. -I never knew anything of her earlier life, before Arthur V. Henderson -brought her to the modest house on Chestnut Avenue. I never could figure -why she married him at all. Marriages are made in so many places besides -Heaven! He used to like to hear her play. - -In those days, and a little later, I judged her much as the village -judged her--peering out at her through the gun-ports in the armour -plate of self-righteousness that is the strong defence of every suburban -community. But now I feel that her real mistake lay in waiting so long -before drifting to her proper environment in New York. Like all of us, -she had, sooner or later, to work out her life in its own terms or die -alive of an atrophied spirit. She had gifts, and needed, doubtless, -to express them. I can see her now as she was in Sunbury during those -years--little, trim, slim, with a quick alert smile and snappy eyes. -Not a beautiful woman, perhaps not even an out-and-out pretty one, but -curiously attractive. She had much of what men call 'personality.' And -she was efficient, in her own way. She never let her musical gift rust; -practised every day of her life, I think. Including Sundays. Which was -one of the things Sunbury held against her. - -Humphrey, too, was using Sunbury as little more than a stop gap. We knew -that sooner or later he would strike his gait as an inventor. He was -quiet about it. Much thought, deep plans, lay back of that long wrinkly -face. While he kept at it he was a conscientious country editor. But his -heart was in his library of technical books, and in his workshop in -the old Parmenter barn. He must have put just about all of his little -inheritance into the place. - -Corinne Doag was distinctly a city person. And she was a real singer, -with ambition and a firm, even hard purpose, I can see now, back of the -languorous dusky eyes and the wide slow smile that Henry was not then -man enough to understand. In those days, more than in the present, a -girl with a strong sense of identity was taught to hide it scrupulously. -It was still the century of Queen Victoria. The life of any live girl -had to be a rather elaborate pretence of something it distinctly was -not. For which we, looking back, can hardly blame her. Besides, Corinne -was young, healthy, glowing with a quietly exuberant sense of life. I -imagine she found a sort of pure joy, an animal joy, in playing with men -and life. She wasn't dishonest. She certainly liked Henry. Particularly -to-day. But this was the summer time. She was playing. And she liked to -be, thrilled. - -An hour later, could Humphrey have glanced into the butler's pantry, he -would have concluded that he knew Henry Calverly not at all. And -Miss Wombast, could she have looked in, would have been thrilled and -frightened, perhaps to the point of never speaking to Henry again. And -of never, never forgetting him. - -As the scene has a bearing on the later events of the day, we will take -a look. - -They stood in the butler's pantry, Henry and Corinne. The shards of a -shattered coffee cup lay unobserved at their feet. Out in the kitchen -sink all the silver and the other cups and saucers lay in the rinsing -rack, the soapsuds dry on them. Henry held Corinne in his arms. - -'Henry,' she whispered, 'we _must_ finish the dishes! What on earth will -Mildred think?' - -'Let her think!' said Henry. - -Corinne leaned back against the shelves, disengaged her hands long -enough to smooth her flying blue-black hair. - -'Henry, I never thought----' - -'Never thought what?' - -'Wait! My hair's all down again. They might come out here. I mean you -seemed----' - -'How did I seem? Say it!' - -'Oh well--_Henry_!--I mean sort of--well, reserved. I thought you were -shy.' - -'Think so now!' - -'I--well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry, you -musn't be so--so intense.' - -'But I _am_ intense. I'm not the way I look. Nobody knows----' Here he -interrupted himself. - -'Oh, Henry,' she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm -clinging about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, -glowed, sparkled about him. He was exultant. 'You dear boy--I'm afraid -you've made love to lots of girls.' - -'I _haven't!_' he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. 'Not to -lots.' - -'Silly!' A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. -'Henry, talk to me! Make love to me! Tell me you'll take me away with -you--to-day!--now! Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, -anyway--even if--oh, Henry, _say_ it!' - -For an instant Henry's mind went cold and clear. He was a little -frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman -who clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably -smiling Corinne. He thought of Carmen--the Carmen of Calvé. He had suped -once in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to -the supe captain. - -The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that -this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this' -point. - -As for asking her to fly away with him, he couldn't conscientiously so -much as ask her to have dinner with him in Chicago. Not in the present -state of his pocket. - -One fact, however, emerged. He must propose something. He could at least -have it out with old Boice. Settle that salary business. He'd _have_ to. - -Another fact is that he was by no means so cool as he, for the moment, -fancied himself. - -The door from dining-room to kitchen opened, rather slowly. There was a -light step in the kitchen, and Mildred Henderson's musical little voice -humming the theme of the Andante in the Fifth Symphony. - -Henry and Corinne leaped apart. She smoothed her hair again, and patted -her cheeks. Then she took a black hair from his shoulder. - -They heard Mildred at the sink. Rinsing the dishes and the silver, -doubtless. - -'Hate to disturb you two,' she called, a reassuring if slightly humorous -sympathy in her voice, 'but I promised Humphrey I'd get after you, -Henry. He says you simply must get some work done to-day.' - -Henry stood motionless, trying to think.' - -'Do your work here,' Corinne whispered. 'Stay.' - -He shook his head. 'A lot I'd get done--here with you. Now.' - -'I'll help you. Couldn't I be just a little inspiration to you?' - -'It ain't inspiring work.' - -'Henry--write something for me! Write me a poem! - -'All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men's Picnic. - -Then he said, 'Wait a minute;' went into the kitchen. - -'Going over town,' he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson. - -At the outer door, Corinne murmured: 'You'll come back, Henry?' - -With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he -replied: 'Yes, of course.' And hurried off. - - -6 - - -Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the _Voice_ sanctum. Henry could see that -much through the front window. - -He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey--or -anybody--right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal to -him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a -regiment. - -He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind -the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please -speak to Mr Boice. - -Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village -triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly -rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to -let go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth -whose time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And -once again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and -the thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers. - -He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; -made sounds. - -'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I--I want to speak with you. It's--it's this -way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.' - -Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence. - -'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, -the way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It -ain't square! Now--well--you see, I've about come to the conclusion that -if the work I do ain't worth ten a week--well----' - -It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village -politician of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no -trust whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and -the fact was disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms -by keeping his mouth shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or -quarrelled. He disbelieved utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't -written a letter in twenty-odd years. And he was not likely to lose his -temper again this day--week--or month. - -Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. -Though Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the -controversy. - -Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still. - -Henry chafed. - -After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business -Men's Picnic?' - -Henry shook his head. - -'Better get it done, hadn't you?' - -Henry shook his head again. - -Mr Boice continued to sit--motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran -to this effect:--The article on the picnic was by far the most important -matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked -for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to -cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work -up a proper story from any other quarter. - -'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can -have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.' - -He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds -that passed his lips--colourless, casual. - -Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers -tightened about his stick. His colour rose. - -He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk. - -'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was -desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder -window--'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of your -time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars a -week to the _Voice_. Beginning this week. If I'm not--I'll hand in my -string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I wonder! You -wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd of you a -thing or two! Maybe----' - -For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to -and through Norton P. Boice. - -Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared -in his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the -door. - -'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!' - -Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed. - -Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, -thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry -wandered up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting -crokinole counters. - -Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He -wanted desperately to do something, but didn't know what it could be. It -was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to -get out. - -He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the -piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor. - -There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne -had spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had -danced over the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without -Her, was painfully empty. - -He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn't know what. The wild -animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had -begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and -saw and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, -surely it was the poem! - -He found pencil and paper--a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the -window-seat. - -Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They -were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness--it was a mighty -passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to -write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint -as to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And -at once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. -It would have to come out. - - -7 - - -Mr Boice came heavily into the Voice office and sank into his creaking -chair by the front window. - -Humphrey went swiftly, steadily through galley after galley of proof. -Humphrey had the trained eye that can pick out an inverted _u_ in a page -of print at three feet. He smoked his cob pipe as he worked. - -Mr Boice drew a few sheets of copy paper from a pigeonhole, took up a -pencil in his stiff fingers, and gazed down over his whiskers. - -It was a decade or more since the 'editor' of the Voice had done any -actual work. Every day he dropped quiet suggestions, whispered a word of -guidance to this or that lieutenant, and listened to assorted ideas and -opinions. He was a power in the village, no doubt about that. But to -compose and write out three columns of his own paper was hopelessly -beyond him. It called for youth, or for the long habit of a country -hack. The deep permanent grooves in his mind were channels for another -sort of thinking. - -For an hour he sat there. Gradually Humphrey became aware of him. It was -odd anyway that he should be here. He seldom returned in the afternoon. - -Finally he looked over at the younger man, and made sounds. - -Humphrey raised his head; removed his pipe. - -'Guess you better fix up a little account of the Business Men's Picnic, -Weaver,' he remarked. - -'Henry's doing that.' - -Mr Boice's massive head moved slowly, sidewise. 'No,' he said, 'he won't -be doing it.' - -Humphrey leaned back in his chair. His face wrinkled reflectively; his -brows knotted. He held up his pipe; rubbed the worn cob with the palm -of his hand. - -Mr Boice got up and moved toward the door. - -'I've let Henry go,' he said. - -Humphrey went on rubbing his pipe; squinting at it. - -Mr Boice paused in the door; looked back. - -'I'll ask you to attend to it, Weaver.' - -Humphrey shook his head. - -Mr Boice stood looking at him. - -'No,' said Humphrey. 'Afraid I can't help you out.' - -Mr Boice stood motionless. There was no expression on his face, but -Humphrey knew what the steady look meant. He added:-- - -'I wasn't there.' - -Still Mr Boice stood. Humphrey took a fresh galley proof from the hook -and fell to work at it. After a little Mr Boice moved back to his desk -and creaked down into his chair. Again he reached for the copy paper. - -Humphrey, in a merciful moment when he was leaving for the day, thought -of suggesting that Murray Johnston, local man for the City Press -Association, might be called on in the emergency. He had been at the -picnic. He could write the story easily enough, if he could spare the -time. A faint smile flitted across his face at the reflection that it -would cost old Boice five or six times what he was usually willing to -pay in the _Voice_. - -But Mr Boice, bending over the desk, a pencil gripped in his fingers, a -sentence or two written and crossed out on the top sheet of copy paper, -did not so much as lift his eyes. And Humphrey went on out. - - -8 - - -Humphrey let himself into Mrs Henderson's front hall, closed the screen -door gently behind him, and looked about the dim interior. There -seemed to be no one in the living-room. The girls were in the kitchen, -doubtless, getting supper. Mildred had faithfully promised not to bother -cooking anything hot. He hung up his hat. - -Then he saw a feminine figure up the stairs, curled on the top-step, -against the wall. - -It was Corinne. She was pressing her finger to her lips and shaking her -head. - -She motioned him out toward the kitchen. There he found his hostess. - -'Seen Henry?' he asked. 'Old Boice fired him to-day, and he's -disappeared. Not at the rooms. And I looked in at the Y.M.C.A.' - -'He's here,' said Mildred. 'A very interesting thing is happening, -Humphrey. I've always told you he was a genius.' - -'But what's up?' - -'We've got him upstairs at my desk. He's writing something. - -I think it's a poem for Corinne.' - -'A poem! But----' - -'It's really quite wonderful. Now don't you go and throw cold water on -it, Humphrey.' She came over, very trim and pretty in her long apron, -her face flushed with the heat of the stove, slipped her hand through -his arm, and looked up at him. 'It's really very exciting. I haven't -seen the boy act this way for two years. He came in here, all out of -breath, and said he had to write. He didn't seem to know what. He's -quite wild I never in my life saw such concentration. It seems that he's -promised Corinne a poem.' - -'Wonder what's got into him,' Humphrey mused. - -Mildred returned to her salad dressing. 'Genius has got into him,' she -said, a bright little snap in her eyes. 'And it's coming out. He's been -up there nearly two hours now. Corinne's guarding. She'd kill you if you -disturbed him. She peeked in a little while ago. She says there's a lot -of it--all over the floor--and he was writing like mad. She couldn't see -any of it. As soon as he saw her he yelled at her and waved her out.' - -'Hm!' said Humphrey. - -'Humphrey, my dear,' said Mildred then, 'I'm really afraid we've got to -watch those two a little. Something's been happening to-day. Corinne has -gone perfectly mad over him--to-day--all of a sudden. She fretted every -minute he was away. Henry doesn't know it, but Corinne is a pretty -self-willed girl. And just now she's got her mind on him.' - -She came over again, took his arm, and looked up at Humphrey. She was at -once sophisticating and confiding. There was a touch of something that, -might have been tenderness, even wistfulness, in her voice as about her -eyes. - -'I've really been worrying a little about them. About Henry -particularly, for some reason.' She gave a soft little laugh, and -pressed his arm. 'They're so young, Humphrey--such green little things. -Or he is, at least. I've been impatient for you to come.' - -'I got down as soon as I could,' said Humphrey, looking down at her. - -'Of course, I know.' - -'I've been worrying about him, too.' - -When the supper was ready, Mildred made Humphrey sit at the table and -herself tiptoed up the stairs. - -She came back, still on tiptoe, smiling as if at her own thoughts. - -'He won't eat,' she explained. 'He's still at it. I wish you could see -my room. It's a sight.' - -'Corinne coming down?' - -'Not she. She won't budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I -suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic, -but... Well, it gives us a nice little _téte-à-tête_ supper. I've made -iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won't you!' After supper -they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had switched -on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She beckoned to -them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs. - -'I can't make it out,' she whispered. 'It isn't poetry. And he doesn't -number his pages.' - -'How did you ever get them?' asked Mildred. - -'Went in and gathered them up. He didn't hear me. He's still at it.' - -Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of -this sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in -order; finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women. - -'What is it?' they asked. - -He chuckled softly. 'Well, it isn't poetry.' - -'I saw that much,' Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. 'It's--wait a -minute! I couldn't believe it at first. It--no--yes, that's what it is.' - -'_What!_' - -Then Humphrey dropped down at Mildred's feet, and laughed, softly at -first, then with increasing vigour. - -Mildred clapped her hand over his mouth and ran him down the stairs and -through into the living-room. There they dropped side by side on the -sofa and laughed until tears came. - -Corinne, laughing a little herself now, but perplexed, followed them. - -'Here,' said Humphrey, when he could speak, 'let's get into this.' - -They moved, to the table. Humphrey spread out the pages, and skimmed -them over with a practised eye, arranging as he read. - -Once he muttered, 'What on earth!' And shortly after: 'Why, the young -devil!' - -'Please--' said Corinne. 'Please! I want to know what it is.', - -Humphrey stacked up the sheets, and laid them on the table. - -'Well,' he remarked, 'it is certainly an account of the Business Men's -Picnic. And it certainly was _not_ written for _The Weekly Voice of -Sunbury_. I'll start in a minute and read it through. But from what I've -seen---- Well, while it may be a little Kiplingesque--naturally--still -it comes pretty close to being a work of art. - -'Tell you what the boy's done. He's gone at that little community outing -just about as an artistic god would have gone at it. As if he'd never -seen any of these Simpson Street folks before. Berger, the grocer, and -William F. Donovan, and Mr Wombast, and Charlie Waterhouse, and Weston -of the bank, and--and, here, the little Dutchman that runs the lunch -counter down by the tracks, and Heinie Schultz and Bill Schwartz, and -old Boice! It's a crime what he's done to Boice. If this ever appears, -Sunbury will be too small for Henry Calverly. But, oh, it's -grand writing.... He's got'em all in, their clothes, their little -mannerisms--their tricks of speech... Wait, I'll read it.' - -Forty minutes later the three sat back in their chairs, weak from -laughter, each in his own way excited, aware that a real performance -was taking place, right here in the house. - -'One thing I don't quite understand,' said Mildred. 'It's a lovely bit -of writing--he makes you see it and feel it--where Mr Boice and Charles -Waterhouse were around behind the lemonade stand, and Mr Waterhouse is -upset because the purse they're going to surprise him with for being -the most popular man in town isn't large enough. What _is_ all that, -anyway?' - -'I know,' said Humphrey. 'I was wondering about that. It's funny as the -dickens, those two birds out there behind the lemonade stand quarrelling -about it. It's--let's see--oh, yes! And Boice says, “It won't help you -to worry, Charlie. We're doing what we can for you. But it'll take time. -And it's a chance!”... Funny!' - -He lowered the manuscript, and stared at the wall. 'Hm!' he remarked -thoughtfully. 'Mildred, got any cigarettes?' - -'Yes, I have, but I don't care to be mystified like this. Take one, and -tell me exactly what you're thinking.' - -'I'm thinking that Bob McGibbon would give a hundred dollars for this -story as it stands, right now.' - -'Why?' - -'Because he's gunning for Charlie. And for Boice.' - -'And what's this?' - -'Evidence.' Humphrey was grave now. 'Not quite it. But warm. Very warm.' - -'He's really stumbled on something. How perfectly lovely!' - -'And he doesn't know it. Sees nothing but the story value of it. But it -may be serious. They'd duck him in the lake. They'd drown him.' - -'But how lovely if Henry, by one stroke of his pencil, should really -puncture the frauds in this smug town.' - -'There is something in that,' mused Humphrey. - -'Ssh!' From Mildred. - -They heard a slow step on the stairs. - -A moment, and Henry appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he -saw them. His glasses hung dangling against his shirt front. He was -coatless, but plainly didn't know it. His straight brown hair was -rumpled up on one side and down in a shock over the farther eye. He -was pale, and looked tired about the eyes. He carried more of the -manuscript. - -He stared at them as if he couldn't quite make them out, or as if not -sure he had met them. Then he brushed a hand across his forehead and -slowly, rather wanly, smiled. - -'I had no idea it was so late,' he said. - -Mildred and Corinne fed him and petted him while Humphrey drew a big -chair into the dining-room, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and -studied the brightening, expanding youth before him. He reflected, too, -on the curious, instant responsiveness that is roused in the imaginative -woman at the first evidence of the creative impulse in a man. As if the -elemental mother were moved. - -'That's probably it,' he thought. 'And it's what the boy has needed. -Martha Caldwell couldn't give it to him--never in the world! He was -groping to find it in that tough little Wilcox girl. It wouldn't do to -tell him--no, I mustn't tell him; got to steady him down all I can--but -I rather guess he's been needing a Mildred and a Corinne. These two -years.' - - -9 - -Humphrey stood up then, said he was going out for half an hour, and -picked up the manuscript from the living-room table as he passed. - -He went straight to Boice's house on Upper Chestnut Avenue. - -'What has all this to do with me?' asked Mr Boice, behind closed doors -in his roomy library. 'Let him write anything he likes.' - -Humphrey sat back; slowly turned the pages of the manuscript. - -'This,' he said, 'is a real piece of writing. It's the best picture of a -community outing I ever read in my life. It's vivid. The characters -are so real that a stranger, after reading this, could walk up Simpson -Street and call fifteen people by name. He'd know how their voices -sound, what their weaknesses are, what they're really thinking about -Sunday mornings in church. It is humour of the finest kind. But they -won't know it on Simpson Street. They'll be sore as pups, every man. -He's taken their skulls off and looked in. He's as impersonal, as cruel, -as Shakespeare.' - -This sounded pretty highfalutin' to Mr Boice. He made a reflective -sound; then remarked:-- - -'You think the advertisers wouldn't like it,' - -'They'd hate it. They'd fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But -McGibbon wouldn't mind. Or if he didn't have the nerve to print it, any -Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.' - -'Well, what----' - -Humphrey quietly interrupted. - -'Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch -of genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they'd laugh. No doubt -about that. All sorts of scenes--you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the -lemonade stand--Bill Parker's little accident in the tug-of-war.' He -read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his -chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the -room; then come back. - -When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to -momentary admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual. - -'What are you getting at?' he asked. 'You want something.' - -'I want you to take Hemy back at--say, twelve a week.' - -'Hm. Have him re-write this?' - -'No. Henry won't be able to write another word this week. He's empty. -My idea is, Mr Boice, that you'll want to do the cutting yourself. When -you've done that, I'll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three -columns out of it all right.' - -'Hm!' - -'There's one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn't know what he's -written. No idea. It's a flash of pure genius.' - -'Don't know that we've got much use for a genius on the _Voice_,' -grunted Mr Boice. 'He ought to go to Chicago or New York.' - -'He will, some day.' Humphrey rose. 'Will you send for him in the -morning?' - -There was a long silence. Then a sound. Then:--'Tell him to come -around.' - -'Twelve a week, including this week?' - -The massive yellowish-gray head inclined slowly. - -'Very well, I'll tell him.' - -'You can leave the manuscript here, Weaver.' - -'No.' Humphrey deliberately folded it and put it in an inside pocket. -'Henry will have to give it to you himself. It's his. Good-night.' - -Out on the street, Humphrey reflected, with a touch of exuberance rare -in his life:-- - -'We won't either of us be long on the _Voice_. Not now. But it's great -going while it lasts.' - -And he wondered, with a little stir of excitement, just why that purse -wasn't enough for Charlie Waterhouse... just what old Boice knew... Why -it was a chance! Curious! Something back of it, something that McGibbon -was eternally pounding at--hinting--insinuating. Something real there; -something that might never be known. - - -10 - - -Humphrey felt that the little triumph--though it might indeed prove -temporary; any victory over old Boice in Sunbury affairs was likely -to be that--called for celebrating in some special degree. He had, it -seemed, a few bottles of beer at the rooms. - -So thither they adjourned; Mildred and Humphrey strolling slowly ahead, -Corinne and Henry strolling still more slowly behind. - -Henry seemed fagged. At least he was quiet. - -Corinne, stirred with a sympathetic interest not common to her sort of -nature, stole hesitant glances at him, even, finally, slipped her hand -through his arm. - -She hung back. Mildred and Humphrey disappeared in the shadows of the -maples a block ahead. - -'I suppose you're pretty tired, aren't you?' Corinne murmured. - -Her voice seemed to waken him out of a dream. - -'I--I--what was that? Oh--tired? Why, I don't know. Sorta.' - -Her hand slipped down his forearm, within easy reach of his hand; but he -was unaware. - -'I'm frightfully excited,' he said, brightening. 'If you knew what this -meant to me! Feeling like this. The Power--but you wouldn't know what -that meant. Only it lifts me up. I know I'm all right now. It's been an -awful two years. You've no idea. Drudgery. Plugging along. But I'm up -again now. I can do it any time I want. I'm free of this dam' town. They -can't hold me back now.' - -'You'll do big things,' she said, a mournful note in her voice. - -'I know. I feel that.' - -And now she stopped short. In a shadow. - -'What is it?' he asked casually. 'What's the matter?' - -She glanced at his face; then down. - -'Do you think you'll write--a poem?' she asked almost sullenly. - -'Maybe. I don't know. It's queer--you get all stirred up inside, and -then something comes. You can't tell what it's going to be. It's as if -it came from outside yourself. You know. Spooky.' - -She moved on now, bringing him with her. - -'Mildred and Humphrey'll wonder where we are,' she said crossly. - -Henry glanced down at her; then at the shadowy arch of maples ahead. -He wondered what was the matter with her. Girls were, of course, -notoriously difficult. Never knew their own minds. He was exultantly -happy. It had been a great day. Twelve a week now, and going up! Hump -was a good old soul.... He recalled, with a recurrence of both the -thrill and the conservatism that had come then, that he had had a great -time with Corinne in the early afternoon. Mustn't go too far with that -sort of thing, of course. But she was sure a peach. And she didn't seem -the sort that would be for ever trying to pin you down. He took her hand -now. It was great to feel her there, close beside him.' - -Corinne walked more rapidly. He didn't know that she was biting her -lip. Nor did he perceive what she saw clearly, bitterly; that she -had unwittingly served a purpose in his life, which he would never -understand. And she saw, too, that the little job was, for the present, -at least, over and done with. - -She stole another sidelong glance at him. He was twisting up the ends of -his moustache. And humming. - - - - -IV--THE WHITE STAR - - -1 - - -|From the university clock, up in the north end of Sunbury village, -twelve slow strokes boomed out. - -Henry Calverly, settled comfortably in the hammock on Mrs Arthur V. -Henderson's front porch, behind the honeysuckle vine, listened dreamily. - -Beside him in the hammock was Corinne Doag. - -At the corner, two houses away, a sizzing, flaring, sputtering arc lamp -gave out the only sound and the only light in the neighbourhood. Lower -Chestnut Avenue was sound asleep. - -The storage battery in the modern automobile will automatically cut -itself off from the generator when fully charged. Henry's emotional, -nature was of similar construction. Corinne had overcharged him, and -automatically he cut her off. - -The outer result of this action and reaction was a rather bewildering -quarrel. - -Early in the present evening, shortly after Humphrey Weaver and Mrs -Henderson left the porch for a little ramble to the lake--'Back in a few -minutes,' Mildred had remarked--the quarrel had been made up. Neither -could have told how. Each felt relieved to be comfortably back on a -hammock footing. - -Henry, indeed, was more than relieved. He was quietly exultant. The -thrill of conquest was upon him. It was as if she were an enemy whom he -had defeated and captured. He was experiencing none of the sensations -that he supposed were symptoms of what is called love. Yet what he -was experiencing was pleasurable. He could even lie back here and think -coolly about it, revel in it. - -Corinne's head stirred. - -'That was midnight,' she murmured. - -'What of it?' - -'I suppose I ought to be thinking about going in.' - -'I don't see that your chaperon's in such a rush.' - -'I know. They've been hours. They might have walked around to the -rooms.' - -Henry was a little shocked at the thought. - -'Oh, no,' he remarked. 'They'd hardly have gone _there_--without us.' - -'Mildred would if she wanted to. It has seemed to me lately...' - -'What?' - -'I don't know--but once or twice--as if she might be getting a little -too fond of Humphrey.' - -'Oh'--there was concern in Henry's voice--'do you think so?' - -'I wonder if you know just how fascinating that man is, Henry.' - -'He's never been with girls--not around here. You've no idea--he just -lives with his books, and in his shop.' - -'Perhaps that's why,' said she. 'Partly. Mildred ought to be careful.' - -Henry, soberly considering this new light on his friend, looked off -toward the corner. - -He sat up abruptly. - -'Henry' For goodness' sake! Ouch--my hair!' - -'Ssh! Look--that man coming across! Wait. There now--with a suit-case!' - -'Oh, Henry, you scared me! Don't be silly. He's way out in... Henry! How -awful! It _is!_' - -'What'll we do?' - -'I don't know. Get up. Sit over there,' She was working at her hair; she -smoothed her 'waist,' and pulled out the puff sleeves. - -The man came rapidly nearer. His straw hat was tipped back. They could -see the light of a cigar. A mental note of Henry's was that Arthur V. -Henderson had been a football player at the state university. And a -boxer. Even out of condition he was a strong man. - -'Quick--think of something to tell him! It'll have to be a lie. -Henry--_think!_' - -Then, as he stood motionless, helpless, she got up, thrust his hat and -bamboo stick into his hands, and led him on tiptoe around the corner of -the house. - -'We've got to do something. Henry, for goodness' sake--' - -'We've got to find her, I think.' - -'I know it. But----' - -'If she came in with Hump, and he--you know, this time' of night--why, -something awful might happen. There might be murder. Mr Henderson----' - -'Don't talk such stuff! Keep your head. Well--he's coming! Here!' - -She gripped his hand, dragged him down the side steps, and ran lightly -with him out past the woodshed to the alley. They walked to the side -street and, keeping in the shadows, out to the Chestnut Avenue corner. -From this spot they commanded the house. - -Mr Henderson had switched on lights in front hall, dining-room, and -kitchen. The parlour was still dark. Next he had gone upstairs, for -there were lights in the upper windows. After a brief time he appeared -in the front doorway. He lighted a fresh cigar, then opened the screen -door and came out on the porch. He stood there, looking up and down the -street. Then he seated himself on the top step, elbows on knees, like a -man thinking. - -'Henry!' - -'Yes.' - -'Listen! You go over to the rooms and see.' - -'But they might be down at the lake.' - -'Not all this time. Mildred doesn't like sitting on beaches. If you find -them, bring her back. We'll go in together, she and I. We'll patch up a -story. It's all right. Just keep your head.' - -'What'll you do?' - -'Wait here.' - -'I don't like to leave you.' - -'You'll see me again.' - -'I know, but----' - -'Well... Now hurry!' - - -2 - - -The old barn was dark. - -'Hm!' mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. 'Hm! Certainly -aren't here. Take a look though.' - -With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through -machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, -peering about for the electric switch. He hadn't lived here long enough -to know the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox's -boarding-house. - -A voice--Humphrey's--said:-- - -'Don't turn the light on.' Then, 'Is it you, Hen?' - -There they were--over in the farther window-seat--sitting very still, -huddled together--a mere faint shape against the dim outside light. He -felt his way around the centre table, toward them. - -'Looking for you,' he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing -in his temples. And he was curiously breathless. - -He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn't thought of -this; had just rushed over here, headlong. - -'I suppose it's pretty late,' said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality -in her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent. - -'Well'--Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that -now and then crept into it--'anything special, Hen? Here we are!' - -Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his -over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous -little pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands -murdering lovers; dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, -high-ceiled court-rooms. - -Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and -turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand. - -Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his -thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness -that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about -the half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, -brisk way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under -her very quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to -protect from the world and give toys to. - -Henry, to his own amazement--and chagrin--covered his face and sobbed. - -'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?' - -The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding -her eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:-- - -'Has my husband come home?' - -Henry nodded. - -'Where's Corinne?' - -'She--she's waiting on the corner, in case you.... - -Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a -little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug. - -'Did he--did he see either of you?' - -Henry shook his head. - -Mildred pressed a finger to her lips. - -'We mustn't leave Corinne waiting out there,' she said. - -Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre -gaze settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she -raised her head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the -question:-- - -'Stay here?' - -Her eyes widened a little, and slowly filled. She gave him her other -hand. But she shook her head. - -A little later he said. - -'Come then, dear. We'll go down there.' - -From the top of the stairs he switched on a light in the shop. Mildred, -very palet went down. Henry was about to follow. But he saw Humphrey -standing, darting glances about the room, softly snapping his bony -fingers. The long, swarthy face was wrinkled into a scowl. His eyes -rested on Henry. He gave a little sigh; threw out his hands. - -'It's--it's the limit!' he whispered. 'You see--my hat....' - -That seemed to be all he could say. His face was twisted with emotion. -His mouth even moved a little. But no sound came. - -Henry stood waiting. At the moment his surging, uncontrollable emotion -took the form of embarrassment. It seemed to him that in this crisis -he ought to be polite toward his friend. But they couldn't stand here -indefinitely without speaking. There was need, particular need, of -politeness toward Mildred Henderson. So, mumbling, he followed her -downstairs and out through the shop to the deserted alley. - -Then they went down to Chestnut Avenue. Mildred and Humphrey were -silent, Walking close together, arm in arm. Henry, in some measure -recovered from his little breakdown, or relieved by it, tried to make -talk. He spoke of the stillness of the night. He said, 'It's the only -time I like the town--after midnight. You don't have to see the people -then.' - -Then, as they offered no reply, he too fell still. - -Corinne, when they found her leaning against a big maple, was in a -practical frame of mind. - -'There he is,' she whispered. 'Been sitting right there all the time. -This is his third cigar. Now listen, Mildred. I've figured it all out. -No good in letting ourselves get excited. It's all right. You and I will -walk up with Henry. Just take it for granted that you've been down to -the lake with us. We needn't even explain.' - -Mildred, still nestling close to Humphrey's arm, seemed to be looking at -her. - -Then they heard her draw in her breath rather sharply, and her hand -groped up toward Humphrey's shoulder. - -'Wait!' she said breathlessly. 'I can't go in there now. Not right now. -Wait a little. I can't!' - -Humphrey led her away into the shadows. - -Corinne looked at Henry. 'Hm!' she murmured--'serious!' - -The university clock struck one. - -Again Henry felt that pressure in the temples and dryness in the throat. -His thoughts, most of them, were whirling again. But one corner of his -mind was thinking clearly, coldly:-- - -'This is the real thing. Drama! Life! Maybe tragedy! And I'm seeing it! -I'm in it, part of it!' - - -3 - - -Corinne was peering into the shadows. - -'Where'd they go?' she said. 'We've got to find them. This thing's -getting worse every minute.' - -Mildred and Humphrey were sitting on a horse block, side by side, very -still. It was in front of the B. L. Ames place. Corinne stood over them. -But Henry hung back; leaned weakly against a tree. - -The Ames place brought up memories of other years and other girls. An -odd little scene had occurred here, with Clemency Snow, on one of the -lawn seats. And a darker mass of shadow in the gnarled, low-spreading -oak, over by the side fence, was a well-remembered platform with seats -and a ladder to the ground. Ernestine Lambert had been the girl with him -up there. - -Two long years back! He was eighteen then--a mere boy, with illusions -and dreams. He wasn't welcome to Mary Ames's any more. She didn't -approve of him. Her mother, too. And he had sunk into a rut of -small-town work on Simpson Street. They weren't fair to him. He didn't -drink; smoked almost none; let the girls alone more than many young -fellows--in spite of a few little things. If he had money... of course. -You had to have money. - -He felt old. And drab of spirit. Those little affairs, even the curious -one with Clem Snow, had been, it seemed now, on a higher plane of -feeling than this present one with Corinne. Life had been at the spring -then, the shrubs dew-pearled, God in his Heaven. And the affair with -Ernestine had not been so little. It had shaken him. He wondered where -Ernie was now. They hadn't written for a year and a half. And Clem was -Mrs Jefferson Jenkins, very rich (Jeff Jenkins was in a bond house on -La Salle Street) living in Chicago, on the Lake Shore Drive, intensely -preoccupied with a girl baby. People--women and girls--said it was a -beautiful baby. Girls were gushy. - -He pressed a hand to his eyes. Corinne was right; the situation was -getting worse every minute. During one or two of the minutes, while his -memory was active, it had seemed like an unpleasant dream from which he -would shortly waken. But it wasn't a dream. He felt again the tension -of it. It was a tension that might easily become unbearable. First thing -they knew the university clock would be striking two. He began listening -for it; trying absurdly to strain his ears. - -He had recently seen Minnie Maddem play _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, and -had experienced a painful tension much like this--a strain too great for -his sensitive imagination. He had covered his face. And he hadn't gone -back for the last act. - -But there was to be no running out of this. - -'Well,' said Corinne, almost briskly, 'we're not getting anywhere.' - -Humphrey threw out his hand irritably. - -'Just--just wait a little,' he said. 'Can't you see....' - -'It's past one.' - -Corinne's manner jarred a little on all three of the others. Mildred -seemed to sink even closer toward Humphrey. - -Henry felt another sob coming. Desperately he swallowed it down. - -Humphrey, holding Mildred's head against his shoulder, looked up at -Corinne. His face was not distinctly visible; but he seemed to be -studying the tall, easy-going, unexpectedly practical girl. - -'I don't think you understand,' he finally said. 'It's very, very -awkward. My hat is in there.' - -'Where?' - -'In the parlour. On the piano, I think.' - -'I don't think he lighted the parlour. We three can go up just the same. -Now listen. Henry can leave his hat here with you, and get yours when he -comes away.' - -'It has my initials in it,' said Humphrey. - -Corinne walked on the grass to the corner; came swiftly back. - -'Well,' she remarked dryly, 'he's been in there. The parlour's lighted.' - -Mildred stirred. 'Please!' she murmured. 'Just give me a minute or two. -I'm going with you.' - -'Suppose,' said Corinne, 'he _has_ seen the initials.' - -Mildred's eyes sought Humphrey's. For a long instant, her head back -on his shoulder, she gazed at him with an intensity that Henry had not -before seen on a woman's face. It was as if she had forgotten himself -and Corinne. And then Humphrey's arm tightened about her, as if he, too, -had forgotten every one and everything else. - -Henry had to turn away. - -He walked to the corner. Neither Humphrey nor Mildred knew whether he -went or stayed. Corinne was frowning down at them; thinking desperately. - -Henry stared at the house, at the dim solitary figure on the top step, -at the little red light of the cigar that came and went with the puffs. - -Henry was breathing hard. His face was burning hot. He hated conflicts, -fights; hated them so deeply, felt so inadequate when himself -involved, that emotion usually overcame him. Therefore he fought rather -frequently, and, on occasions, rather effectively. Emotion will win a -fight as often as reason. - -He considered getting Humphrey to one side, making him listen to reason. -He dwelt on the phrase. The mere thought of Mildred being driven back -into that house, into the hands of her legal husband, stirred that -tendency to sob. He set his teeth on it. They could take her back to -the rooms. He would move out. For that matter, if it would save her -reputation, they could both move out. At once. But would it save her -reputation? - -He took off his hat; pressed a hand to his forehead; then fussed with -his little moustache. Then, as a new thought was born in his brain, born -of his emotions, he gave a little start. He looked back at the shadowy -group about the Ames's horse block. Apparently they hadn't moved. He -looked at his shoes, tennis shoes with rubber soles. - -He laid hat and stick on the ground by a tree; went little way up the -street, past the circle of the corner light and slipped across; moved -swiftly, keeping on the grass, around to the alley, came in at the -Henderson's back gate, made his way to the side steps. - -There was a door here that led into an entry. There were doors to -kitchen and dining-room on right and left, and the back stairs. Henry -knew the house. Kitchen and dining-room were both dark now, but the -lights were on in parlour and hall. - -He got the screen door open without a sound and felt his way into and -through the dining-room. It seemed to him that there were a great many -chairs in that diningroom. His shins bumped them. They met his outspread -hands. Between this room and the parlour the sliding doors were shut. - -He stood a moment by these doors, wondering if Arthur V. Henderson was -still sitting on the top step with his back to the front screen door. -Probably. He couldn't very well move without some noise. But it would be -impossible to see him out there, with the parlour light on. - -'Deliberately, with extreme caution, her slid back one of the doors. -It rumbled a little. He waited, keeping back in the dark, and listened. -There was no sound from the porch. - -The piano stood against the side wall, near the front. On it lay -Humphrey's straw hat. Any one by merely looking into it could have seen -the initials. And the man on the steps had only to turn his head and -look in through the bay window to see piano, hat, and any one who stood -near, any one, in fact, in that diagonal half of the room. - -Henry held his breath and stepped in, nearly to the centre of the room. -Here he hesitated. - -Then beginning slowly, not unlike the sound of a wagon rolling over a -distant bridge, a rumbling fell on his ears. It grew louder. It ended in -a little bang. - - -4 - - -Henry glanced behind him. The sliding door had closed. There was a -scuffling of feet on the steps. - -Henry reached up and switched off the electric lamp in the chandelier. - -Then he stepped forward, found the piano, felt along the top, closed his -fingers on the hat, and stood motionless. His first thought was that he -would probably be shot. - -There were steps on the porch. The front door opened and closed. Mr -Henderson was standing in the hall now, but not in the parlour doorway. -Probably just within the screen door. The hall light put him at a -disadvantage; and he couldn't turn it out without crossing that parlour -doorway. - -'Who's there!' Mr Henderson's voice was quiet enough. It sounded tired, -and nervous. 'Come out o' there quick! Whoever you are!' - -Henry was silent. He wasn't particularly frightened. Not now. He even -felt some small relief. But he was confronted with some difficulty in -deciding what he ought to do. - -'Come out O' there!' - -Then Henry replied: 'All right.' And came to the hall doorway. - -Mr Henderson was leaning a little forward, fists clenched, ready for a -spring. He still had the cigar in his mouth. But he dropped back now and -surveyed the youth who stood, white-faced, clasping a straw hat tightly -under his left arm. He seemed to find it difficult to speak; shifted the -cigar about his mouth with mobile lips. He even thrust his hands into -his pockets and looked the youth up and down. - -'I came for this hat,' said Henry. 'It was on the piano.' - -Still Mr Henderson's eyes searched him up, and down. Eyes that would -be sleepy again as soon as this little surprise was over. And they -were red, with puffs under them. He was a tall man, with big athletic -shoulders and deep chest, but with signs of a beginning corpulence, the -physical laxity that a good many men fall into who have been athletes in -their teens and twenties but are now getting on into the thirties. - -It was understood here and there in Sunbury that he had times of -drinking rather hard. Indeed, the fact had been dwelt on by one or two -tolerant or daring souls who ventured to speak a word for his wife. She -had always quickly and willingly given her services as pianist at local -entertainments. Perhaps because, with all her brisk self-possession, she -must have been hungry for friends. She played exceptionally well, with -some real style and with an almost perverse touch of humour. She was -quick, crisp, capable. She disliked banality. To the initiated her -playing of Chopin was a joy. The sentimentalists said that she had -technique but no feeling. She could really play Bach. And I think -she was the most accomplished accompanist that ever lived in Sunbury; -certainly the best within my memory. - -'Say'--thus Mr Henderson now--'you're Henry Calverly, aren't you?' - -'Yes.' - -'Well, I'd like to know what you're doing here.' - -'I told you. I came for this hat.' - -'Your hat?' - -'Didn't you see the initials?' - -'No. I noticed the hat there. Why didn't you come in the front way? -What's all this burglar business?' - -Henry didn't answer. - -'I'll have to ask you to answer that question. You seem to forget that -this is my house.' - -'No, I don't forget that.' - -Mr Henderson took out his cigar; turned it in his fingers. Colour came -to his face. He spoke abruptly, in a suddenly rising voice. - -'Seems to me there's some mighty queer goings-on around here. Sneaking -in at two in the morning!' - -'It isn't two in the morning.' - -'Dam' near it.' - -'It isn't half-past one. I tell you----' Henry paused. - -His position seemed rather weak. - -Mr Henderson studied his cigar again. He drew a cigar case from an -inside pocket. - -'I don't know's I offered you one,' he said. He almost muttered it. - -'I don't smoke,' said Henry shortly. - -Mr Henderson resumed the excited tone. It was curious coming in that -jumpy way. Even Henry divined the weakness back of it and grew calmer. - -'I've been out on----' He paused. Mildred had trained him not to use the -phrase, 'on the road.' He resumed with, '--on a business trip. More'n a -month. I swan, I'm tired out. Way trains and country hotels. Fierce! -If I seem nervous.... Look here, you seem pretty much at home! Perhaps -you'll tell me where my wife is!' - -Henry considered this. Shook his head. - -'Trying to make me think you don't know, eh!' - -'I do know.' - -Mr Henderson knit his brows over this. Then, instead of immediately -pressing the matter, he took out a fresh cigar and lighted it with the -butt of the old one. - -'Seems to me you ought to tell me,' he said then. - -'I can't.' - -'That's queer, ain't it?' - -'Well, it's true. I can't.' - -'She wrote me that she had Corinne Doag visiting here.' - -'Yes. She's here.' - -'With my wife? Now?' - -Henry bowed. He felt confused, and more than a little tired. And he -disliked this man, deeply. Found him depressing. But outwardly--he -didn't himself dream this--he presented a picture of austere dignity. An -effect that was intensified, if anything, by his youth. - -'Anybody else with her and Corinne?' - -Henry bowed again. - -'A man?' - -'Yes.' Henry was finding him disgusting now. But he must be extremely -careful. An unnecessary word might hurt Mildred or Humphrey. Good old -Hump! - -Mr Henderson turned the fresh cigar round and round, looking intently at -it. In a surprisingly quiet manner he asked:-- - -'Why doesn't she come home?' - -Henry looked at the man. Anger swelled within him. - -'Because you're here?' He bit the sentence off. - -He felt stifled. He wanted to run out, past the man, and breathe in the -cool night air. - -Mr Henderson looked up, then down again at the cigar. Then he pushed -open the screen door. - -'May as well sit down and talk this over,' he said. 'Cooler on the -porch. Dam' queer line o' talk. You're young, Calverly. You don't know -life. You don't understand these things. My God! When I think... Well, -what is it? You seem to be in on this. Speak out! Tell me what she -wants. That's one thing about me--I'm straight out. Fair and square. -Give and take. I'm no hand for beating about the bush. Come on with it. -What does she think I ought to do?' - -'I can't tell you what she thinks.' Henry was downright angry now. - -'Oh, yes! It's easy for you! You haven't been through...' His face -seemed to be working. And his voice had a choke in it. 'But how could -a kid like you understand I How could you know the way you get tied -up and... all the little things... My God, man! It hurts. Can you -understand that. It's tough.' He subsided. Finally, after a long -silence, he said huskily but quietly, with resignation, 'You'd say I -ought to go.' - -Henry was silent. - -Mr Henderson got up. - -'I guess I know how to be a sport,' he said. - -He went into the house, and in a few minutes returned with his -suit-case. - -'It's--it's sorta like leaving things all at loose ends,' he remarked. -'But then--of course...' - -He went down two or three steps; then paused and looked up at Henry, who -had risen now. - -'You'--his voice was husky again--'you staying here?' - -'No,' said Henry; and walked a way up the street with him. - -Mr Henderson said, rather stiffly, that the hot spell really seemed -to be over. Been fierce. Especially through Iowa and Missouri. No lake -breeze, or anything like that. Muggy all the time. That was the thing -here in Sunbury--the lake breeze.' - - -5 - - -They were still in front of the Ames place. But Mildred had risen. They -stood watching him as he came, carrying the hat. - -'Where on earth have you been?' asked Corinne. - -Henry met with difficulty in replying. He was embarrassed, caught in an -uprush of self-consciousness. He couldn't see why there need be talk. He -gave Humphrey his hat. - -'How'd you get this?' - -'In there.' - -'You went in?' This from Mildred. He felt her eyes on him. - -'Yes.' - -'But you--you must have...' - -'He's gone.' - -'Gone!' - -'Yes.' - -'But where?' - -'I don't know.' - -'What did you tell him?' asked Corinne sharply'. - -'Nothing. I don't think I did. Nothing much.' - -'But what?' - -'Well, he acted funny. I wouldn't tell him where Mildred was. Then he -asked why you didn't come home and I said because he was there.' - -Mildred and Corinne looked at each other. - -'But what made him go?' asked Corinne. - -'I don't know. He wanted to know what you wanted him to do, Mildred. Of -course I couldn't say anything to that. And then he said he guessed he -knew how to be a sport, and went and got his suit-case.' - -'Hope he had sense enough not to go to the hotel,' Corinne mused, aloud. -'They'd talk so.' - -'There's a train back to Chicago at two-something,' said Humphrey. - -They moved slowly toward the house. At the steps they paused. - -The university clock struck two. - -They listened. The reverberations of the second stroke died out. The -maple leaves overhead rustled softly. From the beach, a block away, came -the continuous low sound of little waves on shelving sand. The great -lake that washes and on occasions threatens the shore at Sunbury had -woven, from Henry's birth, a strand of colour in the fibre of his being. -He felt the lake as deeply as he felt the maples and oaks of Sunbury; -memories of its bars of crude' wonderful colour at sunset and sunrise, -of its soft mists, its yellow and black November storms, its reaches of -glacier-like ice-hills in winter, of moonlit evenings with a girl on the -beach when the romance of youth shimmered in boundless beautiful mystery -before half-closed eyes--these were an ever-present element in the -undefined, moody ebb and flow of impulse, memory, hope, desire and -spasmodic self-restraint that Henry would have referred to, if at all, -as his mind. - -'It's late enough,' said Corinne, with a little laugh. - -Mildred turned away, placed a tiny foot on the bottom step, sighed, then -murmured, very low, 'Hardly worth while going in.' - -'Let's not,' muttered Humphrey. - -'Listen.' Thus Corinne. She was leaning against the railing, with an -extraordinarily graceful slouch. She had never looked so pretty, Henry -thought. A little of the corner light reached her face, illuminating -her velvet clear skin and shining on her blue black hair where it curved -over her forehead. She made you think of health and of wild things. And -she could, even at this time, earn her living. There was an offer now to -tour the country forty weeks with a lyceum concert company. The letter -had come to-day; Henry had seen it. She thought she wouldn't accept. -Her idea was another year to study, then two or three years abroad and, -possibly, a start in the provincial opera companies of Italy, Austria, -and Germany. Yes, she had character of the sort that looks coolly ahead -and makes deliberate plans. Despite her wide, easy-smiling mouth and her -great languorous black eyes and her lazy ways, eyen Henry could now see -this strength in her face, in its solid, squared-up framework. More than -any girl Henry had ever known she could do what she chose. Men pursued -her, of course. All the time. There were certain extremely persistent -ones. And it came quietly through, bit by bit, that she knew them pretty -well, knocked around the city with them, as she liked. But now she had -chosen himself. No doubt about it. - -She said:-- - -'Listen. Let's go down to the shore and watch for the sunrise. We -couldn't sleep a wink after--after this--anyway.' - -'Nobody'd ever know,' breathed Mildred. - -Humphrey took her arm. They moved slowly down the walk toward the -street. - -Corinne, still leaning there, looked at Henry. - -He reached toward her, but she evaded him and waltzed slowly away over -the grass, humming a few bars of the _Myosotis_. - -Henry's eyes followed her. He felt the throbbing again in his temples, -and his cheeks burned. He compressed his lips. He moved after her. He -was in a state of all but ungovernable excitement, but the elation -of two hours back had gone, flattened out utterly. He felt deeply -uncomfortable. It was the sort of ugly moment in which he couldn't have -faced himself in a looking-glass. For Henry had such moments, when, -painfully bewildered by the forces that nature implants in the -vigorously young, he loathed himself. Life opened, a black precipice, -before him, yet Life, in other guise, drove him on. As if intent on his -destruction. - -He hung back; let Corinne glide on just ahead of him, still slowing -revolving, swaying, waltzing to the soft little tune she was so -musically humming. He wanted to watch her; however great his discomfort -of the spirit, to exult in her physical charm. - -On the earlier occasion when she had overtaxed his emotional capacity he -had got out of it by using the forces she stirred in him as a stimulant. -But now he wasn't stimulated. Not, at least, in that way. His spirit -seemed to be dead. Only his body was alive. All the excitement of the -evening had played with cumulative force on his nerves. He had arrived -at an emotional crisis; and was facing it sullenly but unresistingly. - -The picture of Mildred and Humphrey lost in each other's gaze--in the -window-seat at the rooms, on the Ames's horse block--kept coming up in -his mind. He could see them in the flesh, walking on ahead, arm in arm, -but still more vividly he could see them as they had been before he -went back to Mildred's house. He knew that love had come to them. He -wondered, trembling with the excitement of the mere thought, how it -would seem to live through that miracle. No such magic had fallen upon -him.. Not since the days of Ernestine. And that had been pretty youthful -business. This matter of Corinne was quite different. He sighed. Then he -hurried up to her, gripped her arm, walked close beside her. - -At the beach they paired off as a matter of course. Henry and Corinne -sat in the shadow of a breakwater. Humphrey and Mildred walked on to -another breakwater. - -Corinne made herself comfortable with her head resting on Henry's arm. - -He was thinking, 'Sort of thing you dream of without ever expecting it -really. Ain't a fellow' in town that wouldn't envy me.' But gloom was -settling over his spirit like a fog. It seemed to him that he ought -to be whispering skilful little phrases, close to her ear. He couldn't -think of any. - -He bent over her face; looked into it; smoothed her dusky hair away -from her temples. - -He began humming: 'I arise from dreams of thee.' She picked it up, very -softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo. - -His own voice died out. He couldn't sing. - -He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. -Now and then she hummed other songs--bits of Schumann and Franz. -Schubert's _Serenade_ she sang through. - -'Sing with me,' she murmured. - -He shook his head. 'Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I -don't.' - -'Don't I make you feel like singing, Henry?' - -'Oh yes, sure!' - -'You're a moody boy, Henry.' - -'Oh yes, I'm moody.' - -She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then -finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. 'I'm -a fool,' he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then -kissed her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand -slipped over his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck. - -Abruptly he stopped; raised his head, a bitter question in his eyes. - - -6 - - -A faint light was creeping over the bowl-like sky. And a fainter colour -was spreading upward from the eastern horizon. The thousands of night -stars had disappeared, leaving only one, the great star of the morning. -It sent out little points of light, like the Star of the East in Sunday -school pictures. It seemed to stir with white incandescence. - -Henry straightened up; gently placed Corinne against the breakwater; -covered his face. - -She considered him from under lowered eyelids. Her face was -expressionless. She didn't smile. And she wasn't singing now. She -smoothed out her skirt, rather deliberately and thoughtfully. - -'Think of it!' Henry broke out with a shudder. 'It's a dreadful thing -that's happened!' - -'It might be,' said Corinne very quietly, 'if Arthur didn't have the -sense to take that train.' - -'And we're sitting here as if----' - -'Listen! What on earth made you go back to the house?' - -'I can't tell you. I don't know. I _had_ to.' - -'Hm! You certainly did it. You're not lacking courage, Henry.' - -He said nothing to this. He didn't feel brave. - -'Mildred was foolish. She shouldn't have let herself get so stirred up. -She ought to have gone back.' - -'How can you say that! Don't you see that she _couldn't_!' - -'Yes, I saw that she couldn't. But it was a mistake.' Henry was up on -his knees, now, digging sand and throwing it. - -'It was love,' he said hotly--'real love.' - -'It's a wreck,' said she. - -'It can't be. If they love each other!' - -'This town won't care how much they love each other. And there are other -things. Money.' - -'Bah! What's money!' - -'It's a lot. You've got to have it.' - -'Haven't you any ideals, Corinne?' - -She reflected. Then said, 'Of course.' And added: 'She had Arthur where -she wanted him. That's why he went away, of course. He thought she'd -caught him. Now she's lost her head and let him get away. Dished -everything. No telling what he'll do when he finds out.' - -'He mustn't find out.' Henry was not aware of any inconsistency within -himself. - -'He will if she's going to lose her head like this. There are some -things you have to stand in this world. One of the things Mildred had to -stand was a husband.' - -'But how could she go back to him--to-night--feeling this way?' - -'She should have.' - -'You're cynical.' - -'I'm practical. Do you want her to go through a divorce, and then marry -Humphrey? That'll take money. It's a luxury. For rich folks.' - -'Don't say such things, Corinne!' - -'Why not. She's made the break with Arthur. Now the next thing's got to -happen. What's it to be?' - -Henry got to his feet. He gazed a long time at the morning star. - -The university clock struck three. - -Henry shivered.. - -'Come,' he said. 'Let's get back.' It didn't occur to him to help her -up. - -The four of them lingered a few moments at Mildred's door. Humphrey -finally led Mildred in. For a last goodnight, plainly. - -Corinne smiled at Henry. It was an odd, slightly twisted smile. - -'After all,' she murmured, 'there's no good in taking things too -seriously.' - -He threw out his hands. - -'You think I'm hard,' she said, still with that smile. - -'Don't! Please!' - -'Well--good-night. Or good-morning.' - -She gave him her hand. He took it. It gripped his firmly, lingeringly. -He returned the pressure; coloured; gripped her hand hotly; moved toward -her, then sprang away and dropped her hand. - -'Why--Henry!' - -'I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I was looking at -that star----' - -'I saw you looking at it.' - -'I was thinking how white it was. And bright. And so far away. As if -there wasn't any use trying to reach it. And then--oh, I don't know--Mr -Henderson made me blue, the way he looked to-night. And Humphrey and -Mildred--the awful fix they're in. And you and me--I just can't tell -you!' - -'You're telling me plainly enough,' she said wearily. - -'Do you ever hate, yourself?' - -She didn't answer this. Or look up. - -'Did you ever feel that you might turn out just--oh well, no good? Mr -Henderson made me think that.' - -'He isn't much good,' said she. - -'As if your life wasn't worth making anything out of? Your friends -ashamed of you? They talk about me here now. And I haven't been bad. Not -yet. Just one or two little things.' - -Her lips formed the words, in the dark, 'You're not bad.' - -Then she said, rather sharply: 'Don't stand there looking like a whipped -dog, Henry.' - -'I'll go,' he said; and turned. - -'You re the strangest person I ever knew,' she said. 'Maybe you _are_ -a genius. Considering that Mildred completely lost her nerve, your -handling of Arthur came pretty near being it. I wonder.' - -Humphrey and Mildred came out. - -She came straight to him; gave him both her hands. 'You've settled -everything for us. Humphrey, I want to kiss Henry. I'm going to.' - -Henry received the kiss like an image. Then he and Humphrey went away -together into the dawn. - -'No good going to the rooms now,' Humphrey remarked. 'Let's walk the -beach.' - -Henry nodded dismally. - - -7 - - -The sky out over the lake was a luminous vault of deep rose shading -off into the palest pink. The flat surface of the water, as far as they -could see, was like burnished metal. - -Henry flung out a trembling arm. - -'Look!' he said huskily. 'That star.' - -It was still incandescent, still radiating its little points of light. - -'Hump,' he said, a choke in his voice--'I'm shaken. I'm beginning life -again to-night, to-day.' - -'I'm shaken too, Hen. The real thing has come. At last. It's got me. -It'll be a fight, of course. But we're going through with it. I want -you to come to know her better, Hen. Even you--you don't know. She's -wonderful. She's going to help with my work in the shop, help me do the -real things, creative work, get away from grubbing jobs.' - -It was a moment of flashing insight for Henry. He couldn't reply; -couldn't even look at his friend. His misgivings were profound. Yet the -thing was done. Humphrey's life had taken irrevocably a new course. -No good even wasting regrets on it. So he fell, in a tumbling rush of -emotion, to talking about himself. - -'I'm beginning again. I--I let go a little. Hump, I can't do it. -It's too strong for me. I go to pieces. You don't know. I've got to -fight--all the time. Do the things I used to do--make myself work hard, -hard. Keep accounts. Every penny. Leave girls alone. It means grubbing. - -I can't bear to think of it.' He spread out his hands. 'In some ways it -seems to help to let go. You know--stirs me. Brings the Power. Makes me -want to write, create things. But it's too much like burning the candle -at both ends.' - -Humphrey got out his old cob pipe, and carefully scraped it. - -'That's probably just what it is,' he remarked. - -'Oh, Hump, what is it makes us feel this way! You know--girls, and all -that.' - -Humphrey lighted his pipe. - -'You don't know how it makes me feel to see you and Mildred. Just the -way she looks. And you. Corinne and I don't look like that. We were -flirting. I didn't mean it. She didn't, either. It's been beastly. But -still it didn't seem beastly all the time.' - -'It wasn't,' said Humphrey, between puffs. 'Don't be too hard on -yourself. And you haven't hurt Corinne. She likes you. But just the -same, she's only flirting. She'd never give up her ambitions for you.' - -'There's something I want to feel. Something wonderful. I've been -thinking of it, looking at that star. I want to love like--like that. Or -nothing.' - -Humphrey leaned on the railing over the beach, and smoked reflectively. -The rose tints were deepening into scarlet and gold. The star was -fading. - -'Hen,' said Humphrey, speaking out of a sober reverie, 'I don't know -that I've ever seen anybody reach a star. Our lives, apparently, are -passed right here on this earth.' - -Henry couldn't answer this. But he felt himself in opposition to it. His -hands were clenched at his side. - -'I begin my life to-day,' he thought. - -But back of this' determination, like a dark current that flowed -silently but irresistibly out of the mists of time into the mists of -other time, he dimly, painfully knew that life, the life of this earth, -was carrying him on. And on. As if no resolution mattered very much. As -if you couldn't help yourself, really. - -He set his mouth. And thrust out his chin a little. He had not read -Henley's _Invictus_. It would have helped him, could he have seen it -just then. - -'Let's walk,' he said. - -They breakfasted at Stanley's. - -Here there was a constant clattering of dishes and a smell of food. -People drifted in and out--men who worked along Simpson Street, and a -few family groups--said 'Good-morning. Looks like a warm day.' Picked -their teeth. Paid their checks to Mrs Stanley at the front table, or had -their meal tickets punched. - -They walked slowly up the street as far as the Sunbury House corner, and -crossed over to the _Voice_ office. Each glanced soberly at the hotel as -they passed. - -They went in through the railing that divided front and rear offices. -Humphrey took off his coat and dropped into his swivel chair before -the roll-top desk. Henry took off his and dropped on the kitchen chair -before the littered pine table. Jim Smith, the foreman, came in, his -bare arms elaborately tattooed, chewing tobacco, and told 'a new one,' -sitting on the corner of Henry's table. Henry sat there, pale of face, -toying with a pencil, and wincing. - -After Jim had gone, Henry sat still, gazing at the pencil, wondering -weakly if the rough stuff of life was too much for him. - -He glanced over toward the desk. Humphrey, pipe in mouth, was already -at work. Hump had the gift of instant concentration. Even this morning, -after all that had happened, he was hard at it. Though he had something -to work for. - -A sob was near. Henry had to close his eyes for a moment. His sensitive -lips quivered. - -Humphrey would be, seeing his Mildred again at the close of the -day. Henry found himself entertaining the possibility of crawling -shamefacedly around to Corinne. - -Then he sat up stiffly. Felt in one pocket after another until he found -a little red account-book. He hadn't made an entry for a week. Before -Corinne came into his life he hadn't missed an entry for nearly two -years. - -He sat staring at it, pencil in hand. - -His mouth set again. - -He wrote:-- - -'Bkfst. Stanleys... 20c.' - -He slipped the book into his pocket; compressed his lips for an instant; -then reached for a wad of copy paper. - -And gave a little sigh of relief. It was to be a long, perhaps an -endless battle with self. But he had started. - - - - -V--TIGER, TIGER! - - -1 - - -|Miss Amelia Dittenhoefer was a figure in Sunbury. She had taught two -generations of its young in the old Filbert Avenue school. And during -more than ten years, since relinquishing that task, she had supplied -the 'Society,' 'Church Doings,' 'Woman's Realm,' and 'Personal Mention' -departments of the _Voice_ with their regular six to eight columns of -news and gossip. - -And as several hundred Sunbury men and women had once been her boys -and girls, this sort of personal news came to her from every side. Her -'children,' of whatever present age, accepted her as an institution, -like the university building, General Grant, or Lake Michigan. She never -had a desk in the _Voice_ office, but worked at home or moving -briskly about the town. Home, to her, was the rather select, certainly -high-priced boarding-house of Mrs Clark on Simpson Street, over by the -lake, where she had lived, at this time, for twenty-one or twenty-two -years. She was little, neat, precise, and doubtless (as I look back -on those days) equipped for much more important work than any she ever -found to do in Sunbury. But Woman's sun had hardly begun to rise then. - -As Henry had been, at the age of six, one of her boys, and during the -past two years had shared with her the reporting work of the _Voice_, -it was not unnatural that she should stop him as he was hurrying, airily -twirling his thin bamboo stick, over to Stanley's restaurant. It was -noontime. Simpson Street was quiet. They walked along past Donovan's -drug store and Jackson's book store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and turned -the corner. Here, in front of an unfrequented photographer's studio, -Miss Dittenhoefer stated her problem. She looked, though her trim little -person was erect as always, rather beaten down. - -'Mr Boice has taken half my work, Henry--“Church Doings” and “Society.” - He sent me a note. I gather that you're to do it.' - -'Me?' Henry spoke in honest amazement. - -'Doubtless. He's cutting down expenses. I mind, of course, after all -these years. I've worked very hard. And on the money side, I shall mind -a little.' - -'You don't mean----' - -'Oh, yes. Half the former wage. And they don't pension old teachers in -Sunbury. But this is what I want to tell you----' - -'Oh, but Miss Dittenhoefer, I don't----' - -'Never mind, Henry; it's done. Of course I shouldn't have said as much -as this. Though perhaps I had to say it to somebody. Forget what you can -of it. But now--I wanted to give you this list. There's a good lot of -society for summer. Never knew the old town to be so gay. Two or three -things in South Sunbury that are important. They feel that we've been -slighting them down there this year. I've noted everything down. And -I've written the church societies, asking them to send announcements -direct to the office after this.' - -'I don't want your work,' said Henry, colouring up. 'It -ain't--isn't--square.' - -'But it's business, Henry. Mr. Boice explained that in his note. You'll -find I've written everything out in detail--all my plans and the right -ladies to see. Good-bye now.' - -Henry, pained, unable to believe that Miss Dittenhoefer's day could pass -so abruptly, walked moodily back to Stanley's and, as usual, bolted his -lunch. The unkindness to Miss Dittenhoefer directly affected himself. It -meant still more of the routine desk-work and more running around town. - -Then, slowly, as he sat there staring at the pink mosquito-bar that was -gathered round the chandelier, his eyes filled. It was hard to believe -that even Mr Boice could do a thing like that to Miss Dittenhoefer. -Coolly cutting her pay in half! It seemed to Henry wanton cruelty. It -suggested to his sensitive mind other tales of cruelty--tales of the -boys who had gone into Chicago wholesale houses for their training and -had found their fresh young dream-ideals harshly used in the desperate -struggle of business. - -Henry, I am certain, thought of Mr Boice at this moment with about -as much sympathy as a native of a jungle village might feel for a -man-eating tiger. That look about Miss Dittenhoefer's mouth when she -smiled! It was a world, this of placid-appearing Sunbury and the big -city, just below the town line, in which men fought each other to the -death, in which young boys were hardened and coarsened and taught to -kill or be killed, in which women were tortured by hard masters until -their souls cried out. - -Boice, I am sure, sensed nothing of this somewhat morbid hostility. No; -until Robert A. McGibbon turned up in Sunbury, Mr Boice had some reason -to feel settled and complacent in his years. His private funds were -secure in his wife's name. And he had every reason to believe that, -before many months more, it would be his privilege and pleasure to -run McGibbon out of town for good. If the matter of Miss Dittenhoefer -should, for a little while, stir up sentimental criticism, why--well, -it was business. Sound business. And you couldn't go back of sound -business. - -Henry sighed, got slowly up, had his meal ticket punched at the desk by -Mrs Stanley, went back to the office. - -2 - -The sunny, listless July day was at its lowest ebb--when men who had the -time dawdled and smoked late over their lunch, when ladies took naps. - -Flies crawled languidly about the speckled walls of the _Voice_ office. -Outside the screen door and the plate-glass front window, the hot air, -rising from the cement sidewalk, quivered so that the yellow outlines -of the Sunbury House across the street wavered unstably, and the dusty -trees over there wavered, and the men sitting coatless, suspendered, in -the yellow rocking chairs on the long veranda, wavered. Through the -open press-room door came the sound of one small job-press rumbling at -a handbill job; the other presses were still. The compositors worked or -idled without talking. - -Here in the office, Henry, tipped back in his kitchen chair before the -inkstained, cluttered pine table by the end wall, coat off, limp wet -handkerchief tucked carefully around his neck inside the collar, chewed -a pencil, gazing now at the little pile of blank copy paper before -him, now at a discouraged fly on the wall. Gradually the fly took on -a perverse interest among his wandering, unhappy thoughts. Prompted, -doubtless, by a sense of inner demoralisation that was now close to -recklessness, he reached for a pen, filled it with ink, and shot a -scattering volley at the slow-moving insect. - -At the roll-top desk by the press-room door, Humphrey Weaver, also -coatless, cob pipe in mouth, long lean face wrinkled in the effort to -keep his usually docile mind on its task, elbow on desk and long fingers -spread through damp hair, was correcting proof. - -Mr Boice's desk, up in the front window, outside the railing, stood -vacant. The proprietor might or might not stop in on the early-afternoon -trip from his house on Upper Chestnut Avenue to the post-office. Mr -Boice could do as he liked. His time was his own. He lived on the labour -of others. A fact which often stirred up in Henry's breast a rage that -was none the less bitter because it was impotent. It was the sort of -thing, he felt, in his more nearly lucid moments, that you have to -stand--the wall against which you must beat your head year after year. - -Henry, victorious over the fly, settled back. He tried to work. Then sat -for a time brooding. Then, finally, turned to his friend. - -'Hump,' he said, 'I--I know you wouldn't think I had much to do--I mean -the way you get work done--I don't know what it is--but I wish I could -see a way to begin on all this new work. I know I'm no good, but----' - -'I wouldn't say that.' Humphrey, glad of a brief respite, settled back -in his swivel chair. 'I could never have written that picnic story. -Never in the world. We're different, that's all. You're a racer; I'm a -work-horse. I don't know just what it's coming to. He isn't handling you -right.' - -'That's it!' Henry cried, softly, eagerly. 'He _isn't!_' - -'I suppose you know now about Miss Dittenhoefer.' Henry's head bowed in -assent. 'I didn't have the heart to tell you myself, Hen.' He picked up -his proofs, then looked up and out of the window. 'There,' he remarked -unexpectedly, 'is a pretty girl!' - -Henry turned with the quickness of long habit. 'Where?' he asked, then -discovered the young person in question standing on the hotel veranda -talking with Mrs B. L. Ames and Mary Ames. - -She was a new girl. Even now, though Henry had given up girls for good, -she caused a quickening of his pulse. She _was_ pretty--rather slender, -in a blue skirt and a trim white shirt-waist, and an unusual amount -of darkish hair that massed effectively about a face, the principal -characteristics of which, at this distance and through the screen door, -was a bright, almost eager smile. - -It is a not uninteresting fact, to those who know something of Henry's -susceptibility on previous occasions, that his gaze wandered moodily -back to his table. He sighed. His hand strayed up and began pulling at -his little moustache. - -'You haven't told me what I'm to do about it, Hump. This society thing -really stumps me.' - -'I haven't known quite what to say. That's all, Hen. The old man is -riding you, of course. I didn't think, when he raised you to twelve a -week, that he'd just lie down and pay it. Meekly. Not he! He's a crafty -old duck. Very, very crafty--Cheese it; here he comes!' - -The shadow of Norton P. Boice fell across the door-step. The screen door -opened with a squeak, and ponderously the quietly dominating force of -Simpson Street, came in, inclined his massive head in an impersonal -greeting, and lowered his huge bulk into his chair. - -'Henry!' called Mr Boice in his quietly husky voice. - -The young man quivered slightly, but sat motionless. - -'Henry!' came the husky voice again. - -There could be no pretending not to hear. Henry went over there. -Mr Boice sat still--he could; do that--great hands resting on his -barrel-like thighs. - -'I am rearranging the work of the paper--' he began. - -'Yes,' muttered Henry, not without sullenness; 'I know.' - -'Oh, you know!' - -'Yes.' - -'There's a little more for you to do. You'll have to get it cleaned up -well ahead of time this week. Thursday is the fiftieth anniversary of -the founding of Sunbury. You'll have to cover that. Take down what you -can of the speeches.' - -That seemed to be all. Henry moved slowly back to the table. After a -little shuffling about of the papers on his desk, Mr Boice moved heavily -out and headed toward the post-office. - -Then, and not before, Henry rummaged under a pile of exchanges at the -rear of the table until he found a book. This he held close to his body, -where it would not be seen should Humphrey turn unexpectedly. - -The book was entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. Opposite the title -page was a half-tone reproduction of the author--a face with a huge -moustache and intensely knit brows. Henry studied it, speculating in a -sort of despair as to whether he could ever bring himself to look like -that. He knit his own brows. His hand strayed again to his own downy -moustache. - -He turned the pages. Read a sentence here and there. The book, though -divided under various chapter headings, was really made up of hundreds -of more or less pithy little paragraphs. These paragraphs--their -substance mainly a rehandling of the work of Samuel Smiles, James -Parton, and the Christian and Mental Scientists (though Henry didn't -know this)--might easily have been shuffled about and arranged in -other sequence, so little continuity of thought did they represent. One -paragraph ran:-- - -The express train of Opportunity stops but once at your station. If you -miss it, it will never again matter that you almost caught it. - -Another was-- - -Practise concentration. Fix your mind on the job in hand. Aim to do it -a little better than such a job was ever done before. It is related of -Thomas Alva Edison that, at the early age of seven, he---- - -And this:-- - -Oh, how many a young man, standing at the parting of life's main roads, -has lost for ever the golden opportunity because he stopped to light a -cigarette!' - -Henry replaced the book under the pile of exchanges. A copy of last -week's _Voice_ lay there. - -It was the first time he had let an issue of the paper go by without -reading and re-reading every line of his own work. But he had, during -these five days, passed through one of life's great revolutions. -Besides, he had been put on a salary basis. When on space-rates, it had -been necessary to cut everything out and paste it up into a 'string' for -measurement. It came to him now, with a warm little uprush of memory, -that the best piece of writing he had ever done would be in this issue. - -He opened the paper. There was his story, occupying all of page three -that wasn't given up to advertisements. This was better than working. -Besides, he ought to go over it. He settled down to it. - - -3 - - -The sound that caused Humphrey to start up in surprise was the first -outbreak of profanity he had ever heard from the lips of Henry Calverly. - -Henry was sitting up stiffly, holding last week's _Voice_ with hands -that distinctly trembled. When Humphrey first looked, he was white, but -after a moment the colour began flowing back to his face and continued -flowing until his face was red. His lips were clamped tight, as if the -small verbal explosion that had just passed them had proved even more -startling to himself than to Humphrey. 'What is it?' asked the editor. - -Henry stared at the outspread paper. - -'This!' he got out. 'This--this!' - -'What's the matter, Hen?' - -'Don't you _know?_' - -'Oh, your picnic story! Yes--but--what on earth is the matter with you?' - -'You _know_, Hump! You never told me!' - -'You mean the cuts?' - -'Oh--yes!' This 'Oh' was a moan of anguish. - -'Good heavens, Hen--you didn't for a minute think we could print it as -you wrote it?' Henry's facial muscles moved, but he got no words -out. Humphrey, touched, went on. 'I don't mind telling you--between -ourselves--that the thing as you wrote it, every word, is the best -bit of descriptive writing I've seen this year. But you wrote the -real story, boy. You painted the whole Simpson Street bunch as they -are--every wart. It's a savage picture. Why, we'd have dropped seventy -per cent, of our advertising between Saturday and Monday! And the queer -little picture of Charlie Waterhouse out behind the lemonade stand---- -Why, boy, that's enough to bust open the town! - -With Bob McGibbon gunning for Charlie and demanding an accounting of the -town money! Gee!' - -Henry seemed hardly to hear this. - -'Who--who re-wrote it?' - -'I did some. The old man polished it off himself.' - -'It's ruined!' - -'Of course. But it brought you a raise to twelve a week. That's -something.' - -'You don't understand. It was my work. And it was true. I wrote the -truth.' - -'That's why.' - -'Then they don't want the truth?' - -'Good lord--no!' - -Henry considered this, bent over as if to read further, twisted his -flushed face as if in pain, then abruptly sprang up. - -'What's become of it--the piece I wrote?' - -'Well, Hen--I didn't feel that we had a right to destroy the thing. Too -dam good! In a sense, it's the old man's property; in another sense, -it's yours----' - -'It's mine!' - -'In a sense. At any rate, I took it on myself to have a copy made -confidentially. Then I turned the original over to Mr Boice. He doesn't -know.' - -'Where's the copy?' - -'Here in my desk.' - -'Give it to me!' - -'Just hold your horses a minute, Hen----' - -'You give it----' - -Humphrey threw up a hand, then opened a drawer. He handed over the -typewritten manuscript. - -'Who made this?' - -'Gertie Wombast. I warned her to keep her mouth shut.' - -'How much did it cost?' - -'Oh, see here, Hen--I won't talk to you! Not till you get over this -excitement.' - -'I'm not excited. Or, at least----' - -Humphrey gave a shrug. Henry, gripping the roll of manuscript, started -out. - -'Wait a minute, Hen! What do you think you're going to do?' - -'What do you s'pose? Only one thing I _can_ do!' - -'Going after the old man?' - -'Of course! You would yourself, if----' - -'No, I wouldn't. Not in any such rush as that. It's upsetting to have -your good work pawed over and cut to pieces, but twelve a week is----' - -'Oh, Hump, it's everything! He's made it impossible for me. I could -stand some of it, but not all this. He ain't fair! He _wants_ to make it -hard for me! He's just thinking up ways to be mean. And he's spoiled my -work--best thing I've ever done in my life! And now people will never -know how well I can write.' - -'Oh, yes, they will!' - -'No, they won't. I'll never feel just that way again. It's a feeling -that comes. And then it goes. You can't do anything about it. It was -Corinne and the way I felt about her. And a lot o' things. Seemed to -make me different. Lifted me up. I was red-hot.' He reached out and -struck the paper from the table to the floor. 'You bet I'll go to old -Boice! 'I'll tell him a thing or two I He'll know something's happened -before he gets through with me. I've had something to say to him for a -good while. Going to say it now. Guess he don't know I'll be twenty-one -in November. Have a little money then. He can't put it over me. I'll buy -his old paper. Or start another one. I'll make the town too hot for him. -Thinks he owns all Sunbury. But he _don't!_' - -'Hen,' said Humphrey bravely, when the irate youth paused for breath, -'you simply must not try to talk to him while you're mad as this.' - -'But don't you see, Hump,' cried Henry, his face working with vexation, -tears close to his eyes; 'it's just the time! When I'm mad. If I wait, -I'll never say a word.' - -He rolled the manuscript tightly in his hand, bit his lip, then abruptly -rushed out. - -'Look here,' cried Humphrey. 'Don't you go showing that----' - -But the only reply was the noisy slam of the screen door. - -Face set, eyes wild behind their glasses, Henry hurried down Simpson -Street toward the post-office. - -Miss Hemple, at the money-order window, said that Mr Boice was having a -talk with Mr Waterhouse in the back office and wasn't to be disturbed. - -Henry turned away. For a little time he studied the weather-chart -hanging on the wall. He went to the wide front window and gazed out on -the street. His determination was already oozing away. He found himself -slouching and straightened up. Repeatedly he had to do this. Four times -he went back to the money-order window; four times Miss Hemple smiled -and shook her head. - -Martha Caldwell walked by with the two Smith girls. He thought she saw -him. If so, she carefully avoided a direct glance. They still weren't -speaking. At least, Martha wasn't. And to think that during three long -years, except for another episode now and than, she had been his girl! - -Heigh-ho! No more girls! He was through! - -The Ames's carriage rolled fly. Mary Ames was in it. And--apparently, -unmistakably--the new girl. The girl of the Sunbury House veranda. She -was chatting brightly. She _was_ pretty. - -He turned mournfully away. She was not for him. Once it might have been -possible--back in his gay big days. But not now. Not now. - -He approached the window for the sixth time. For the sixth time, Miss -Hemple shook her head. - -He wandered out to the door. - -His chance had passed. If the old man should, at this moment, and alone, -come walking out, he would say meekly, 'Good-afternoon, Mr Boice,' and -hurry away. He would even try to look busy and earnest. There was shame -in the thought. His mouth was drooping at the corners. All of him--body, -mind, spirit--was sagging now. He moved, slowly down toward the tracks, -entered the little lunch-counter place there and ate a thick piece of -lemon-meringue pie. Which was further weakness. He knew it. It completed -his depression. - -He felt that he must think. He ordered another piece of pie. He wished -he hadn't said so much to Humphrey. Would he ever learn to control the -spoken word? Probably not. He sighed. And ate. He couldn't very well go -back to the office. Not like this--in defeat. All that work, too I -Life, work, friendship, all the realities seemed to be slipping from -his grasp. His thoughts were drifting off into a haze. It was an old -familiar mood. It had come often during his teens. Not so much lately; -but he was as helpless before it as he had been at eighteen, when he -finally drifted aimlessly out of his class at the high school. - -In those days, it had been his habit to wander along the beach, sit on -a breakwater, let life and love and duty drift by beyond his reach. -Thither he headed now by a back street. Too many people he knew along -Simpson Street. Besides, he might be thrown face to face with the old -man. - -At the corner of Filbert Avenue he met the editor and proprietor of the -_Gleaner_. He inclined his head with unconscious severity and would have -passed on. - -But Robert A. McGibbon came to a halt, smiled in a thin strained -fashion, and glanced curiously from Henry's face to the tightly rolled -manuscript in his hand and back to the face. - -'Well,' he remarked, 'how's things?' - -Henry wanted to be let alone. But he had never deliberately snubbed -anybody in his life. He couldn't. So he, too, came to a stop. - -'Oh, pretty good,' he replied. - - -4 - - -He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was -just a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head -under the tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface -of his sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. -His hair was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. -Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, -appeared to be darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything -within their range of vision. - -'Things going well over at the _Voice_ office?' Henry was silent. He -couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special -up?' - -'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.' - -'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a -little walk, perhaps.' - -'Why--yes.' - -'Mind if I walk along with you?' - -'Why--no.' - -They fell into step. - -'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy -in your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write -the Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I -thought.' - -'It was terrible!' - -'Oh, no--not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.' - -'I'm not hard on myself. It's _his_ fault. He spoiled it.' - -'Who--Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil _The New York Sun_ in -two days, with just a little rope.' - -'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let -you see it, of course.' - -McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper. - -'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let -you do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You -know, there isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't -be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the -advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a -little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the -advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.' - -Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive -now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's -thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a -weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him. - -'I've got a little money,' he said. - -McGibbon smiled. - -'Well, it has its uses.' - -'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give -me all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These -words seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a -little, too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.' - -'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four -thousand right now--or one thousand, for that matter--I could make sure -of turning my corner and landing the old _Gleaner_ on Easy Street. -I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these eight -months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, and -I'll nail that gang.' - -'You know'--McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a -cigar--'it takes money to make money.' - -'Oh, yes--of course,' said Henry. - -'A thousand dollars now on the _Gleaner_ would be worth ten thousand -ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you, -Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. -He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you -grinding--correcting proof, running around----' - -'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind! -And now he expects me to cover all the “Society” and “Church Doings.”' - -'What! How's that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?' - -Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded. - -'He's piling it all on me, and I won't stand for it. It ain't right! It -'ain't fair! And you bet your life he's going to hear a few things from -me before this day's much older! I'm going to tell him a thing or two!' - -'That's right!' said McGibbon. 'He won't respect you any the less for -it.' - -A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set -teeth, staring out at the horizon. - -'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that -you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I -know you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is -what a paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be -friends. You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, -blew out a long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little -about that story you wrote.' - -'_You_ do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?' - -'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks -around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or -two.' - -'I've been in New York,' said Henry. - -'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my -lines out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't -know.' - -'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.' - -McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:-- - -'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.' - -'But I don't see how you could know about----' - -'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert -Wombast let her sister read it--the one that works at the library. -Swore her to secrecy. And--well, I board at the Wombasts'--Look here, -Calverly: you'd better let me read it.' - -Henry promptly surrendered it. - -McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and -gazed at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his -hands. - -'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you -understand. It's just as I wrote it off--fast, you know--and I haven't -had a chance to correct it or----' - -McGibbon raised his hand. - -'No, Calverly--none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice -couldn't print it. Never in the world. But it's sweet stuff. It's a -perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two -old crooks behind the lemonade stand--you've opened a jack-pot there. If -you only knew it, son, that's evidence. Evidence! You walked right into -it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice -and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little -purse and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he's the most popular man -in Sunbury? Rot! Because they're helping him pay back. Making the town -help.' - -'Oh, do you really think----' - -'“Think?” I know. This completes the picture. Tell me--what is Boice -paying you?' - -'Twelve a week, now.' - -'Hm! That's quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it, -though, if--see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a -thousand of your money free and investing in the _Gleaner?_ Now, wait! -I want to put this thing before you. It's the turning-point. If we act -without delay, we've got 'em. We've got everything. We own the town. -Here we are! The _Gleaner_ is just at the edge of success. I take you -over from the _Voice_ at the same salary--twelve a week. I'll give you -lots of rope. I won't expect routine from you. I'll expect genius. Stuff -like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel -you can't help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie -Waterhouse and break him. I'll finish Boice and Weston at the same time. -Show up the whole outfit! Whatever'll be left of the _Voice_ by that -time, Boice can have and welcome. The _Gleaner_ will be the only paper -in Sunbury.' - -'My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother's estate.' - -'You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right -through.' - -'I'll see him to-morrow.' - -'Couldn't you find him to-night?' - - -5 - - -Uncle Arthur lived in Chicago, out on the West Side. It was a long -ride--first by suburban train into the city, then by cable-car -through miles upon miles of gray wooden tenements and dingy gray-brick -tenements. You breathed in odours of refuse and smoke and coal-gas all -the way. - -Uncle Arthur was as thin as McGibbon, but wholly without the little -gleam in the eyes that advertised the proprietor of the _Gleaner_ as an -eager and perhaps dangerous man. Uncle Arthur was a man of method who -had worked through long years into a methodical but fairly substantial -prosperity. - -His thin nose was long, and prominent. His brow was deeply furrowed. -His gaze was critical. He believed firmly that life is a disciplinary -training for some more important period of existence after death. -He didn't smoke or drink. Nor would he keep in his employ those who -indulged in such practices. He was an officer of several organisations -aiming at civic and social reform. - -Uncle Arthur laid a pedantic stress, in all business matters, on what -he called 'putting the thing right end to.' It was not unnatural, -therefore, that he should receive a distinctly unfavourable impression -when Henry began, with a foolish little gesture and a great deal of -fumbling at his moustache, slouching in his chair, by saying 'There's -a little chance come up--oh, nothing much, of course--for me to make -a little money, sort of on the side--and you see I'll be twenty-one in -November; so it's just a matter of three or four months, anyway--and I -was figuring--oh, just talking the thing over----' - -His voice trailed off into a mumble. - -'If you would take your hand away from your mouth, Henry,' said his -uncle sharply, 'perhaps I could make out what you're trying to say.' - -Henry sat up with a jerk. - -'Why, you see, Uncle Arthur, there's a fellow bought the old Sunbury -_Gleaner_ and he's awfully smart--got his training in New York--and he's -brought the paper already--why, it ain't eight months!--to where he's -right on the point of turning his corner. You see, a thousand dollars -now may easily be worth ten thousand in a few years. The _Voice_ is a -rotten paper. Nobody reads the darned thing. And I can't work for old -Boice, anyhow. He drives me crazy. If he'd just give me half a chance to -do the kind of thing I can do best once in a while; but this----' - -'Henry, are you asking me to advance you a thousand dollars of your -principal?' - -'Why--well, yes, if----' - -'Most certainly not!' - -'But, you see, it's so close to November seventh, anyway, that I -thought----' - -'You thought that on your twenty-first birthday I would at once close -out the investments I have made with the money your mother left and hand -you the principal in cash?' - -Henry stared at him, his thoughts for the moment frozen stiff. In Uncle -Arthur's obstructionist attitude, so suddenly revealed, lay the promise -of a new, wholly undreamed-of disappointment. It was crushing. Then, -almost in the same second, it was stimulating. Henry's eyes blazed. - -'You mean to say----' he began, shouting. - -'I mean to say that I haven't the slightest intention of letting you -squander the money your mother so painfully--' - -'That's my money!' - -'But I'm your uncle and your guardian----' - -'You needn't think you're going to keep that one minute after November -seventh!' - -'I will use my judgment. I won't be dictated to by a boy who----' - -'But you gotta!' - -'I have not got to!' - -'I won't stand for----' - -'Henry, I won't have such talk here. I think you had better go.' - -Henry, with a good deal of mumbling, went. He was bewildered. And the -little storm of indignant anger had shaken him. He returned, during the -ride back past the tenements on the jerky cable-car, through streets -that swarmed with noisy, ragged children and frowsy adults and all the -smells, to depression. McGibbon said that Uncle Arthur's threat to hold -the money after the seventh of November was a distinct point. - -'In these matters, unfortunately, where a relative or family friend has -for years had charge of money belonging to others, little temptations -are bound to come up. Now, your uncle may be the most scrupulously -honest of men, but----' - -'He has a bad eye,' Henry put in. - -'I don't doubt it. Calverly, let me tell you--never forget this--a man -who hesitates for one instant to account freely, fully for money is -never to be trusted.' - -'But what can I do?' - -'Do? Everything! Just what I'm doing with Charlie Waterhouse, for one -thing--insist on a full statement.' - -'They framed a letter--or McGibbon framed it--demanding an accounting, -'in order that further legal measures may not become necessary.' -McGibbon said he would send it early in the morning, registered, and -with a special-delivery stamp. 'Later, they decided to add emphasis by -means of a telegram demanding immediate consideration of the letter. - -Late that night, when Humphrey came upstairs into a pitch-dark -living-room and switched on the light, he discovered a pale youth -sitting stiffly on a window-seat wide-awake, eyes staring nervously, -hands clasped. - -'Well, what on earth?' said he, in mild surprise. - -'Oh, Hump, I've wondered what you'd think--leaving you in the lurch with -all that work! - -Humphrey threw out a lean hand. - -'I can manage. Get some help from one of the students. And Gertie -Wombast is usually available---- Oh, say; how about the old man? Did you -tell him what's what?' - -Henry's burning eyes stared out of that white face. Suddenly--so -suddenly that Humphrey himself started--he sprang up, cried out; 'No! -No! No!' and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door after him. - -Humphrey looked soberly at the door, shook his head, filled his pipe. - -That 'No! No! No!' still rang in his ears It was a cry of pain. - -Humphrey had suffered; but he had never known a turbulence of the sort -that every now and then seemed to tear Henry to pieces. - -'Must be fierce,' he thought. 'But it works up as well as down. Runs to -extremes. Creative faculty, I suppose. Well, he's got it--that's all. -And he's only a kid. Thing to do's to stand by and try to steady him up -a little when he comes out of it.' - -And the philosophical Humphrey went to bed. - - -6 - - -At noon, no word had come from Uncle Arthur. Henry, all the morning, had -flitted back and forth between McGibbon's rear office and the telegraph -office in the 'depot.' - -At twelve-thirty, they sent a peremptory message, demanding a reply by -three o'clock. An ultimatum. - -The reply came unexpectedly, with startling effect, at twenty-five -minutes past two, requesting Henry to come directly into his uncle's -Chicago office. - -He caught the two-forty-seven. McGibbon, who had missed nothing of the -concern on Henry's face at this brisk counter-offensive on the part of -Uncle Arthur, was with him. - -McGibbon waited in the corner drug store while Henry-went up in one of -the elevators of the great La Salle Street office-building. - -Uncle Arthur led the way into his inner office, closed the door, seated -himself, and with austerity surveyed the youth before him, taking in -with deliberate thought the far-from-inexpensive blue-serge suit, the -five-dollar straw hat, the bamboo stick (which Henry carried anything -but airily now), and the hopelessly futile little moustache. - -'Sit down,' said Uncle Arthur. - -Henry sat down. - -Uncle Arthur opened a drawer, took up two slips of paper, deliberately -laid them before his nephew. - -'There,' he said, 'is my cheque for one thousand forty-six dollars and -twenty-nine cents. It is the value, with interest to this morning, of -one bond which I am buying from you, at the price given in to-day's -quotations. Kindly sign the receipt. Right there.' - -He dipped a pen and Henry signed, then, with shaky fingers, picked up -the cheque, fingered it, laid it down again. - -'I want no misunderstandings about this, Henry. I am doing it because I -regard you as a young fool. Perhaps you will be less of a fool after you -have lost this money. Henry heard the words through a mist of confused -feelings. 'I will have no more letters and telegrams like these.' He -indicated the little sheaf of papers on his desk. 'And I won't have my -character assailed either by you or by any cheap scoundrel whose advice -you may be taking.' - -'But--but he's _not_ a cheap scoundrel!' - -Uncle Arthur raised his eyebrows. His eyes, Henry felt, would burn holes -in him if he stayed here much longer. - -'You're hard on me, Uncle Arthur. You're not fair I'm _not_ going to -lose----' - -The older man abruptly got up. - -'If you care for any advice at all from me, I suggest that you insist -on a note from this man--a demand note, or, at the very outside, a -three-months' one. Don't put money unsecured into a weak business. Make -it a personal obligation on the part of the proprietor. And now, Henry, -that is all. I really don't care to talk to you further. - -Henry stood still. - -His uncle turned brusquely away. - -'But--but--' Henry said unsteadily, 'Uncle Arthur--really! Money isn't -everything!' - -His uncle turned on him as if about to speak; but on second thought -merely raised his eyebrows again. - -And then came the final humiliation, the little climax that was always -to stand out with particular vividness in Henry's memory of the scene. -He turned to go. He had reached the door when he heard his uncle's -voice, saying, with a rasp:-- - -'You have forgotten the cheque, Henry' - -And he had to go back for it. - - -7 - - -One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon. - -'I shall want your note,' he said. - -McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window. -Then, a moment later, he replied:-- - -'Sure! Of course! It's just as I told you--always watch a man who -hesitates a minute in money matters.' - -'Three months,' said Henry. - -'And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,' -said McGibbon. - -At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, -knit his brows, and said:-- - -'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?' - -'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!' - -'Was it two or three?' - -'Well--if you really--two.' - -Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book. - -'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?' - -'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.' - -'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon. - -The _Gleaner_ office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street, up -a long flight of stairs. Here they paused. - -'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your -desk.' - -'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.' - -He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might -be gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the -cheque still in his pocket at the moment. - -His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing. - -'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer----' - -Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the -emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now -took on some of that fire. - -'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already -torn away, almost running. - -He rushed past the _Gleaner_ office without a glance. It suddenly didn't -matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. He -would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to -Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him! - -Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into -the office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile -of the _Congressional Record_ and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his -thick gray hair could be seen. - -Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in -the railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, -proofs, hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and -certain other little personal possessions. The two pencils and one -penholder were his. Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, -made a parcel in a newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard -old Boice move. - -Then came the husky voice. - -'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry--come here!' - -He turned to his friend. - -'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.' - -Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, -looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there. - -'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice. - -'Been attending to my own affairs.' - -'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary -of----' - -'I haven't any work here.' - -'Oh, you haven't?' - -'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't -want it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could -feel Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the -press-room door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two -or three compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty -money. I'm through with you. You and your crooked crowd!' - -'Oh, you are?' - -'Yes. Through with you. I'm on a decent paper now. A paper that ain't -afraid to print the truth.' - -Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making -little sounds.' - -'Mmm!' he remarked. 'Hmm! Ump! Mmm!' Then he said, 'Meaning the -_Gleaner_, I presume.' - -'Meaning the _Gleaner_.' - -'I suppose you know that McGibbon's slated to fail within the month. He -can't so much as meet his pay-roll.' - -'I know more'n that!' cried Henry, laughing nervously. 'I know he's got -money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer's quitting you -this week, too. She's enthusiastic about us. I've just seen her. We're -going to have a big property there. We'll buy you out one o' these days -for a song. Then it'll be the _Gleaner and Voice_. See? But, first, -we're going to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and -that-old whited sepulchre in the bank! I'll show you you can't fool with -me!' - -It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had -thought up something better and rehearsed it. - -Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And -his heart bounded. - -'He's afraid of me!' ran his thoughts. 'I've licked him!' - -It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out. - -Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn't do. He was a -business man now. With investments. He mustn't go grinning down Simpson -Street. - -But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once. - -Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run -around through the alley. - -He wrung Henry's hand. - -'Great!' he cried. 'Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of -a story. Maybe you've heard this one. If you have, just----' - -A hand fell on Henry's shoulder. - -It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice. -His face wrinkled into a grin. - -'My boy,' he said, 'right here and now I thank you for the joy you've -brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully -impossible. It was great.' - -'Well,' cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in -his voice, 'I said it!' - -'Oh, you said it' cried Humphrey. - -Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying -desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth, -humming the wedding-march from _Lohengrin_ to the familiar words:-- - - Here comes the bride-- - - Get on to her stride! - ---he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a -thousand. - -Back in the old _Voice_ office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands -sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds. - -I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had -happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular -incident. He couldn't know that it is as well to face a tigress as an -artist whose mental offspring you have injured. - -No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier -moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn't know that Henry, -the drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two -quite different persons. In Mr Boice's familiar circles they played -duplicate whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with -the mysteries of dual personality such as appear in the case of any -genius, great or small. - -Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake -or his works) did the immortal line come to mind;-- - - - Did He who made the lamb make thee? - -Mr Boice was obliged to give it up. - - - - -VI--ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET - - -1 - - -|Elberforce Jenkins was the most accomplished very young man-about-town -in Sunbury. He appeared to have, even at twenty-one, the bachelor gift. -He danced well. His golf was more than promising. He had lately taken -up polo with the Dexter Smith boys and young de Casselles. He owned two -polo ponies, a schooled riding horse, and a carriage team which he -drove to a high cart. His allowance from his father by far overcame the -weakness of his salary (he was with his brother, Jefferson, in a bond -house on La Salle Street). His aptitude at small talk amounted to a -gift. He liked, inevitably, the play that was popular and (though he -read little) the novel that was popular. His taste in girls pointed him -unerringly toward the most desirable among the newest. - -He and Henry had been together in high school (Sunbury was democratic -then). They had played together in the football team. They had--during -one hectic month--been rivals for the hand of Ernestine Lambert. - -In that instance, in so far as success had come, it had come to Henry. -But those were Henry's big days, when he was directing _Iolanthe_, the -town at his feet. Life, these two years, had flowed swiftly on. The long -dangling figure of Elbow Jenkins had filled out. His crude boyishness -had given way to a smiling reserve. He was a young man of the -world--self-assured, never indiscreet of tongue, always well-mannered, -never individual or interesting. - -While Henry still worked on Simpson Street. He hadn't struck his gait. -He was--if you bothered, these days, to think about him--a little -queer. He wore that small moustache and a heavy cord hanging from his -nose-glasses, and dressed a thought too conspicuously. As if impelled -by some inner urge to assert a personality that might otherwise be -overlooked.... As I glance back upon the Henry of this period, it seems -to me that there was more than a touch of pathos about that moustache. -It was such a soft little thing. He fussed with it so much, and kept -trying to twist it up at the ends. He didn't seem to know that they -weren't twisting moustaches up at the ends that year. In fact, I think -he lacked almost utterly the gift of conformity which was the strongest, -element in Elbow Jenkins's nature. And he never acquired it. In -education, in work and preparation for life, he went it alone, -stumbling, blundering, doing apparently stupid things, acting from -baffling obscure motives, then suddenly coming through with an -unexpected flash of insight and power. - -From the period of Ernestine Lambert to the time of the present story -Elbow Jenkins had been on Henry's nerves. Whenever they met, that is; -or when Henry saw him driving the newest, prettiest, best-dressed -girl about in his cart. Two years earlier he would have had two ponies -hitched tandem. But now, a little older, less willing to be conspicuous -except in strict conformity with the conventions, he drove his carefully -matched team side by side. His scat, his hold of the reins, the very -turning-back of his tan gloves, all were correct. These, indeed, were -details in the problem of living and moving about with success among -one's fellows that Elberforce Jenkins regarded as really important. Like -one's stance at golf, and cultivating the favour of men who could be -influential in a business or social way. - -Yes, Elbow was on Henry's nerves. - -But Elbow had long since forgotten Henry, except for a chance nod now -and then. And occasionally a moment's annoyance that Henry should insist -on keeping alive a nickname that had with years and the beginnings of -dignity become undesirable. - - -2 - - -The blow fell on Henry at half-past five on the Tuesday. - -I mark the time thus precisely because it perhaps adds a touch of -interest to the consideration of what happened between then and Friday -night, when McGibbon first saw what he had done. Of the importance of -the blow in Henry's life there is no doubt. It turned him sharply Not -until he was approaching middle life could he look back on the occasion -without wincing. And while wincing, he would say that it was what he had -needed. Plainly. That it made a man of him, or started the process. - -As to that, I can't say. Perhaps it did. Life is not so simple as Henry -had been taught it was. I am fatalist enough to believe that Henry would -have become what he was to become in any event, because it was in him. I -doubt if he could have been given any other direction. Though of course -he might have gone under simply through a failure to get aroused. -Something had to start him, of course. - -The practical difficulty with Henry's life was, of course, that he was -strong. He didn't know this himself. He thought he was weak. Some who -observed him thought the same. There were reasons enough. But Mildred -always declared flatly that he was a genius, that he was too good for -Sunbury, against the smugness of which community she was inclined to -rail. A debate on this point between Mrs Henderson and, say, William F. -Donovan, the drug store man, would have been interesting. Mr Donovan's -judgments of human character were those of Simpson Street. - -I say Henry was strong, because I can't interpret his rugged -nonconformity in any other way. A weaker lad would long since have given -up, gone into Smith Brothers' wholesale, taken his spiritual beating -and fallen into step with his generation. But Henry's resistance was -so strong and so deep that he didn't even know he was resisting. He was -doing the only thing he could do, being what he was, feeling what he -felt. And when instinct failed to guide, when 'the Power' lay quiescent, -he was simply waiting and blundering along; but never falling into step. -He had to wait until the Power should rise with him and take him out and -up where he belonged. - -There was a little scene the Monday evening before. - -It was in the rooms. Mildred was there. - -Henry stumbled in on the two of them, Mildred and Humphrey. They were -at the piano, seated side by side. They had been studying _Tristan and -Isolde_ together for a week or so; Mildred playing out the motifs. She -often played the love duet from the second act for him, too. Henry heard -him, mornings, trying to hum it while he shaved. - -They insisted that he take a chair. He, with a sense of intrusion, took -the arm of one, and kept hat and stick (his thin bamboo) in his hands. - -Mildred said reflectively:-- - -'Corinne writes that she'll be back for a week late in August.' Then, -noting the touch of dismay on Henry's ingenuous countenance, she added, -'But you mustn't have her on your conscience, Henry.' - -'It isn't that----' - -'I'm fond of Corinne. But I can see now that you two would never get on -long together. In a queer way you're too much alike. At least, you -both have positive qualities. Corinne will some day find a nice little -husband who'll look after the business side of her concerts. And -you--well, Henry, you've got to have some one to mother you.' She smiled -at him thoughtfully. 'Some one you can make a lot of.' - -'No.' Henry's colour was up. He was shaking his head. 'You don't -understand. I'm through with girls. They're nothing in my life. -Nothing!' - -She slowly shook her head. 'That's absurd, Henry. You're particularly -the kind. You'll never be able to live without idealising some woman.' - -'I tell you they're nothing to me. My life is different now. I've -changed. I've put money--a lot of money--into the _Gleaner_. It means -big responsibilities. You've no idea----' - -'If I hadn't, seen you writing,' she mused aloud.... 'No, Henry. You -won't change. You'll grow, but you won't change. You're going to write, -Henry. And you'll always write straight at a woman.' - -'No! No!' Henry was sputtering. He appeared to be struggling. 'Life -means work to me. I'm through with----' - -She took down the _Tristan_ score from the piano and turned the pages in -her lap. - -'Love is the great vitaliser, Henry,' she said. - -'No--it's the mind. Thinking. We have to learn to think -clearly--objectively.' - -'Objectively? No. Not you. And I'm glad, in a way. Because I know we're -going to be proud of you. But it's love that makes the world go round. -They don't teach you that in the colleges, but it's the truth... Take -Wagner--and _Tristan_. He wrote it straight at a woman. And it's the -greatest opera ever written. And the greatest love story. It's that -because he was terribly in love when he wrote it. Do you Suppose, for -one minute that if Wagner had never seen Mathilde Wesendonck we should -have had _Tristan?_' - -She paused, pursed her lips, studied the book with eyes that seemed to -grow misty, then looked up at Humphrey. - -He--tall, angular, very sober--met her gaze; then his swarthy face -wrinkled up about the eyes and he hurriedly drew his cob pipe from his -pocket and began filling it. - -Henry stared at the rug; traced out the pattern with his stick. He -couldn't answer this last point, because he had never heard of Mathilde -Wesendonck. And as he was supposed to be 'musical' it seemed best to -keep quiet. - -He made an excuse of some sort and went out for a walk. Down by the lake -he thought of several strong arguments. Mildred was wrong. She had to be -wrong. For he had cut girls out. - -It was like Mildred to speak out in that curiously direct way. She was -fond of Henry. And she had divined, out of her various, probably rather -vivid contacts with life, certain half-truths that were not accepted in -Sunbury. - -I think she saw Henry pretty clearly, saw that he was driven by an -emotional dynamo that was to bring him suffering and success both.... -Mildred, of course, never really belonged in a small town. - -It was at the close of the following afternoon that Henry came in and -found Humphrey's long figure stretched out on the window-seat--he was -smoking, of course--of all things, blowing endless rings up at the -curtains Mildred had made and hung for him. His dark skin looked gray. -There were deep lines in his face. He couldn't speak at first. But he -stared at Henry. - -That young man put away hat and stick, had his coat off, and was rolling -back his shirt sleeves for a wash, humming the refrain of _Kentucky -Babe_. Then, through a slow moment, the queer silence about him, -Humphrey's attitude--that fact, for that matter, that Hump was here, -at all; he was a great hand to work until six or after at the _Voice_ -office--these things worked in on him like a premonition. The little -song died out. He went on, a few steps, toward the bathroom, then came -to a stop, turned toward the silent figure on the window-seat, came -slowly over. - -Now he saw his friend clearly. As he sank on the arm of a chair--it was -where he had sat the evening before--he caught his breath. - -'Wha--what is it?' he asked. His voice was suddenly husky. His mind -went blank. There was sensation among the roots of his hair. 'What's the -matter, Hump?' - -Finally Humphrey took out his pipe and spoke. His voice, too, was low -and uncertain. But he gathered control of it as he went on. - -'Where've you been?' he asked. - -'Me? Why, over at Rockwell Park. Bob McGibbon wanted me to see about a -regular correspondent for the “Rockwell Park Doings.”' - -'Heard anything?' - -'Me? No. Why?... Hump, what is it? What you getting at?' - -'Then I've got to tell you.' He swung his feet around; sat up; emptied -his pipe, then filled it. - -'Is it--is it--about me, Hump?' - -'Yes. It is.' - -'Well--then--hadn't you better tell me?' - -'I'm trying to, Hen. It's dam' unpleasant. You remember--you told me -once--early in the summer--' Humphrey, usually most direct, was having -difficulty in getting it out--'you told me you rode a tandem up to -Hoffmann's Garden with that little Wilcox girl.' - -'Oh, that! That was nothing. Why all the time I lived at Mrs Wilcox's I -never----' - -'Yes, I know. Let me try to tell this, Hen. It's hard enough. She's in a -scrape. That girl. There's a big row on. I'm not going into the details, -so far as I've heard 'em. There ugly. They wouldn't help. But her -mother's collapsed. Her uncle and aunt have turned up and taken the girl -off somewhere. He's a butcher on the North Side.' Henry was pale but -attentive. - -'In all the time I lived there,' he began again... - -'Please, Hen! Wait! It is one of those mean scandals that tear up a town -like this every now and then. Boils up through the crust and has to be -noticed. It's a beastly thing. The number of men involved... some older -ones... and young Bancroft Widdicombe has left town. There's some queer -talk about her marrying him. And they say one or two others have run -away. Widdicombe got out before the storm broke. Jim Smith says he's -been heard from at San Francisco.' - -'But they can't say of me----' - -'Hen, they can and they do.' - -'But I can prove----' - -'What can you prove? What chance will you have to prove anything? -You were disturbed when Martha Caldwell and the party with Charles H. -Merchant caught you with her up at Hoffmann's----' - -'But, Hump, I didn't _want_ to take her out that night! And it's the -only time I ever really talked to her except once or twice in the -boarding-house.' - -He was speaking with less energy now. He felt the blow. Not as he would -feel it a few hours later; but he felt it. - -Humphrey watched him. - -'It has brought things home to me,' he said uncertainly. 'The sort of -thing that can happen. When you're caught in a drift, you don't think, -of course... Now, Hen, listen! This is real trouble. It's going to hit -you about to-morrow--full force. It's got to be faced. I don't want to -think that you'd run----' - -'Oh, no,' Henry put in mechanically, 'I won't run.' - -'I'm sure you won't. But it's got to be faced. You're hit especially.' - -'But why, when I----' - -'Because you lived alone there, in the boarding-house, for two years. -And you were caught with her at Hoffmann's, she in bloomers, drinking -beer. Just a cheap little tough. And there isn't a thing you can do but -live it down. Nobody will say a direct word to you.' - -'That's what I'll do,' said Henry, 'live it down.' - -'It'll be hard, Hen.' - -Henry sighed. 'I've faced hard things, Hump.' - -'Yes, you have, in a way.' - -'I'll wash up. Where we going to eat? Stanley's?' - -'I suppose. I don't feel like eating much.' - -It was not until they had started out that Henry gave signs of a deeper -reaction. - -On the outer doorstep he stood motionless. - -'Coming along?' asked Humphrey, trying to hide his anxiety. - -'Why--yes. In a minute... Say, Hump, do you suppose they'll--you know, I -ain't afraid'--an uprush of feeling coloured his voice, brought a shake -to it--'I don't know. Perhaps I _am_ afraid. All those people--you know, -at Stanley's...' - -Humphrey did an unusual thing; laid his hand on Henry's shoulder -affectionately; then took his arm and led him along the alley, saying:-- - -'We'll go down to the lunch counter. It's just as well, Hen. Better get -sure of yourself first.' - -He wondered, as they walked rapidly on--Henry had a tendency to walk -fast and faster when brooding or excited--whether the boy would ever get -sure of himself. There were queer, bitter, profoundly confusing thoughts -in his own mind, and an emotional tension, but back of all this, coming -through it and softening him, his feeling for Henry. It was something -of an elder brother's feeling, I think. Henry seemed very young. It was -wicked that he had to suffer with all those cynical older men. It might -mark the boy for life. Such things happened. - -He decided to watch him closely. Sooner or later the thing would hit him -full. He would have to be protected then. Even from himself, perhaps. -In a way it oughtn't to be worse for him than it had been after the -Hoffmann's Garden incident. - -But it was worse. The other had been, after all, no more than an -incident. This, now, was an overpowering fact. The town didn't have -to notice the other. And despite the gossiping instinct, your small -community is rather glad to edge away from unpleasant surmises that are -not established facts. Facts are so uncompromising. And so disrupting. -And sometimes upsetting to standardised thought. - -'That's it,' thought Humphrey--he was reduced to thought Henry was -striding on in white silence--'it's a fact. They can't evade it. Only -thing they can do, if they're to keep comfortable about their dam' town, -is to kill everybody connected with the mess. Have to revise party and -dinner lists. And it'll raise Ned with the golf tournament. They'll -resent all that. And they'll have to show outsiders that the thing is an -amazing exception. Nothing else going on like it. They'll have to show -that.' - - -3 - - -The next morning Henry--stiff, distrait, his eyes wandering a little now -and then and his sensitive mouth twitching nervously--breakfasted with -Humphrey at Stanley's. - -People--some people--spoke to him. But he winced at every greeting. -Humphrey watched him narrowly. He was ablaze with self-consciousness. -But he held his head up pretty well. - -He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he -hadn't mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn't mention -it. He spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis -Stevenson, for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley's. And -then he brought up Bob McGibbon's theory that even with a country -weekly, if you made your paper interesting enough you would get readers -and the readers would bring the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought -it would work out. 'It's important to me, you know, Hump. I've got a -cool thousand up on the _Gleaner_. It's like betting on Bob McGibbon's -idea to win.' His voice trembled a little. There were volcanoes of -feeling stirring within the boy. He would erupt of course, sooner or -later. Humphrey found the experience moving to the point of pain. - -When he entered the _Gleaner_ office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him -anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought. - -He found occasion to say, later:-- - -'Henry, how are you taking this thing?' - -Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with -an expressive gesture and raised his eyes. - -'Oh,' he said, 'all right. I--it's not true, Bob. Not about me.' - -'That's just what I tell 'em,' said McGibbon eagerly. 'What you going to -do? Go right on?' - -'Well--why, yes! I can't run away.' - -'Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all -round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you -might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the -paper. That's what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little -pictures of life-like George Ade's stuff in the _Record_. Or a bit of -the 'Gene Field touch. Something they'd have to read. Make the _Gleaner_ -known. Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That's what we really -need from you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception -to-night at the Jenkins'. Anybody can cover that. I'll go myself.' - -Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head. - -'No,' said he, after a pause, 'I'll cover it.' - -McGibbon considered this, then moved irresolutely back to his desk. -Here, for a time, he sat, with knit brows, and stabbed at flies with his -pen. - -It would be walking into the lion's den, that was all. He wished he -could think of a way to hold the boy back. There were complications. -The _Gleaner_, just, lately, had been going pretty violently after what -McGibbon called the 'Old Cinch.' Without quite enough evidence, they -were now virtually accusing Waterhouse of embezzlement, and the others -of connivance. Mr Weston was among the most respected in Sunbury, rich, -solid, a supporter of all good things'. Though Boice and Waterhouse were -unknown to local society, the Westons were intimate with the Jenkinses -and their crowd. They all regarded the _Gleaner_ as a scurrilous, -libellous sheet, and McGibbon himself as an intruder in the village -life. And there was another trouble; very recent. He couldn't speak of -it with the boy in this state of mind. Not at the moment. He couldn't -see his way... And now, with the realest-scandal Sunbury had known in a -decade piled freshly on the paper's bad name. But he couldn't think of -a way to keep him from going. The boy was, in a way, his partner. There -were little delicacies between them. - -Henry went. - -The reception given by Mr and Mrs Jenkins to Senator and Madame William -M. Watt, was the most important social event of the summer. - -The Jenkins's home, a square mansion of yellow brick, blazed with light -at every window. Japanese lanterns were festooned from tree to tree -about the lawn. An awning had been erected all the way from the front -steps to the horse block, and a man in livery stood out there assisting -the ladies from their carriages. It was felt by some, it was even -remarked in undertones, that the Jenkinses were spreading it on pretty -thick, even considering that it was the first really public appearance -of the Watts in Sunbury. - -The Senator was known principally as titular sponsor for the Watt -Currency Act, of fifteen years back... In those days his fame had -overspread the boundaries of his own eastern state clear to California -and the Mexican border. Older readers will recall that the Watt Bill -nearly split a nation in its day. After his defeat for re-election, in -the earlier nineties, he had slipped quietly into the obscurity in which -he regained until his rather surprising marriage with the very rich, -extremely vigorous American woman from abroad who called herself the -Comtesse de la Plaine. At the time of his disappearance from public life -various reasons had been dwelt on. One was drink. His complexion--the -part of it not covered by his white beard--might have been regarded as -corroborative evidence. But it was generally understood that he was 'all -right' now; a meek enough little man, well past seventy, with an air of -life-weariness and a suppressed cough that was rather disagreeable in -church. His slightly unkempt beard grew a little to one side, giving -his face a twisted appearance. On his occasional appearances about -the streets he was always chewing an unlighted cigar. To the growing -generation he was a mildly historic myth, like Thomas Buchanan or James -G. Blaine. - -Mrs Watt--who during her brief residence in Sunbury (they had bought the -Dexter Smith place, on Hazel Avenue, in May) had somehow attached firmly -to her present name the foreign-sounding prefix, 'Madame'--was a head -taller than her husband, with snappy black eyes, a strongly hooked nose -and an indomitable mouth. She was not beautiful, but was of commanding -presence. The fact that she had lived long in France naturally raised -questions. But there appeared to be no questioning either her earlier -title or her wealth. If she seemed to lack a few of the refinements of -a lady--it was whispered among the younger people that she swore at -her servants--still, a rich countess, married to the self-effacing -but indubitable author of the Watt Act, was, in the nature of things, -equipped to stir Sunbury to the depths. - -But the member of this interesting family with whom we are now concerned -was the Madame's niece, a girl of eighteen or nineteen who had been -reared, it was said, in a convent in France, then educated at a school -in the eastern states, and was now living with her aunt for the first -time. - -Her name fell oddly on ears accustomed to the Bessies, Marys, Fannies, -Marthas, Louises, Alices, and Graces of Sunbury. It was Cicely--Cicely -Hamlin. It was clearly an English name. It proved, at first, difficult -to pronounce, and led to joking among the younger set. The girl herself -was rather foreign in appearance. Distinctly French some said. She was -slimly pretty, with darkish hair and a quick, brisk, almost eager way -of speaking and smiling and bobbing her hair. She used her hands, too, -more than was common in Sunbury, a point for the adherents of the French -theory. The quality that perhaps most attracted young and old alike -was her sensitive responsiveness. Sometimes it was nearly timidity. She -would listen in her eager way; then talk, all vivacity--head and hands -moving, on the brink of a smile-every moment--then seem suddenly to -recede a little, as if fearful that she had perhaps said too much, as -if a delicate courtesy demanded that she be merely the attentive, kindly -listener. She could play and be merry with the younger crowd. But she -had read books that few of them had ever heard of. Plainly--though -nothing so complex was plain to Henry at this period--she was a girl of -delicate nervous organisation, strung a little tightly; a girl who could -be stirred to almost naïve enthusiasms and who could perhaps be cruelly -hurt. - -Henry had seen her--once on the hotel veranda talking brightly with Mary -Ames, who seemed almost stodgy beside her, once on the Chicago train, -once or twice driving with Elberforce Jenkins in his high cart. The -sight of her had stirred him. Already he had had to fight thoughts of -her--tantalisingly indistinct mental visions--during the late night -hours between staring wakefulness and sleep. And it was impossible -wholly to escape bitterness over the thought that he hadn't met her. -He oughtn't to care. He couldn't admit to himself that it mattered. A -couple of years back, in his big days, they would have met all right. -First thing. Everybody would have seen to it. They would have told her -about him. Now... oh well! - -He stood in the shadow, out by the carriage entrance, pulling at his -moustache. There had been a sort of rushing of the spirit, almost a -fervour, in his first determination to face the town bravely. Now for -the first time he began to see that the thing couldn't be rushed at. -It might take years to build up a new good name--years of slights -and sneers, of dull hours and slack nerves. For Henry did know that -emotional climaxes pass. - -He chose a time, between carriages, when the sheltered walk was empty, -to move up toward the house. Everybody here was dressed up--'Wearing -everything they've got!' he muttered. He himself had on his blue suit -and straw hat and carried his bamboo stick. A thick wad of copy paper -protruded from a side pocket. A vest pocket bulged with newly sharpened -pencils. It had seemed best not to dress. He wasn't a guest; just the -representative of a country weekly. - -By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in -the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly -cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to -many chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there, -doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair -in his heart, that he couldn't mount those steps. Nearly everybody there -would know him. He couldn't do it. - -He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the -Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward -the steps. A third joined them; a girl. - -'Here,' said this girl--Mary Ames's voice--'you two wait here. I'll find -her.' - -Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very -white, curiously breathless. - -The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip -away. New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He -stepped off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking. - -The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred -Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn't -know what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, -shifting his feet. - -Henry thought: 'Has he heard yet? Does he know?... Does _she_ know?' - -Then Alfred's wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief. - -'Oh, hallo. Hen;' he said. Then, after a long silence, 'Like you to meet -Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.' - -Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl's name first or -the man's. - -But he hadn't heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, -it would be almost better... - -Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name. - -He had to step forward too. - -In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way. - -In responsive confusion she raised hers. - -But his had dropped. - -Hers moved downward as his came up again. - -She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly. - -He took it. He didn't know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous -clasp. - -'I've heard of you,' she said. He liked her voice. 'You write, don't -you?' - -'Oh yes,' said he huskily, 'I write some.' - -She didn't know. - -He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the -old days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging. - -Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers. - -'Do you write stories?' she asked politely. - -'I try to, sometimes. It's awfully hard.' - -'Oh yes, I know.' - -'Do _you_ write?' - -'Why--oh no! But I've wished I could. I've tried a little.' - -So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the -weather. It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. -He saw, felt, the presence of a girl unlike any he had known--slimly -pretty, alive with a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, -and felt, a white tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy -fire in them. - -Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the -sight of them, Alfred drifted away again. - -'Perhaps,' she added shyly, 'you'd bring some of your stories.' - -'I haven't anything I could bring,' he replied, still with that burning -look. 'Nothing 'that's any good. If I had...' Then this blazed from him -in a low shaky voice: 'You haven't heard what they're saying about me. I -can see that. If you had you wouldn't ask me to call.' - -'Oh, I'm sure I would,' she murmured, greatly confused. - -'You wouldn't. You really couldn't. But I want to say this--quick, -before they come!'--for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway--'I've _got_ -to say it! They'll tell you something about me. Something dreadful. It -isn't true. It--is--not true!' - -'She isn't in there,' said Mary, joining them. Then 'Oh!' She looked -at Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, 'How do you do!' in a -voice that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, -ignoring him: 'We'd better tell them.' And moved a step toward the group -under the lanterns. - -Cicely hesitated. - -It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry -couldn't speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain. - -Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back. - -The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way. - -Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins--tall, really good-looking in his -perfect-fitting evening clothes--stood before them. - -He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct. - -'All right,' said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, 'we'll go -without her. She won't mind.' - -Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a -little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness, -apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand. - -'Do come,' she said, with a quick little smile. 'And bring the stories. -I'm sure I'd like them.' - -She went with them, then. - -Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered -alone among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing -uncontrollably. - -It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, -wrote down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, -very fast, with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still -burning, down to the _Gleaner_ office. - - -5 - - -The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be -there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A. - -But there was a light in the windows of the _Gleaner_ office, over -Hemple's. - -McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand -sprawling through his straight ragged hair. - -Henry acknowledged his partner's greeting with a grunt; dropped down at -his own desk; plunged at the story. - -McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; -continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good -deal. - -'There,' said Henry, finally, with a grim look--'there's the reception -story.' - -'Oh, all right.' McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat -on the edge of the table beside Henry's desk. - -'Haven't got some good filler stuff?' he queried wearily, brushing a -hand across his forehead. 'We're going to have a lot of extra space this -week.' - -He watched Henry, to see if this remark had an effect. It had none. He -nibbed his hand slowly back and forth across his forehead. - -'The fact is,' he remarked, 'they've landed on us. Pretty hard. The -advertisers. Just about all Simpson Street. It's a sort of boycott, -apparently. Takes out two-thirds of our advertising. And Weston called -my note--that two hundred and forty-eight--for paper. Simply charged it -up against our account. Pretty dam' high-handed, I call it!' - -His voice was rising. He sprang up, paced the floor. - -'They're showing fight,' he ran on. 'We've got to lick 'em. That's my -way--start at the drop of the hat. What's a little advertising! Get -readers--that's the real trick of it. We'll lick 'em with circulation, -that's what we'll do!' - -He stood over Henry's desk; even pounded it. The boy didn't seem to get -it, even now. He was hardly listening. With his own money at stake. But -McGibbon was finding him like that; queer gaps on the practical side. No -money sense whatever! - -'Henry,' he was crying now, 'it's up to you. You're a genius. It's sheer -waste to use you on fool receptions. _Write_, man! WRITE! Let yourself -go. Anything--sketches, verse, stories! Let's give 'em what they don't -look for in a country paper. Like the old Burlington _Hawkeye_ and that -fellow Brann. And the paper in Lahore that nobody would ever have heard -of if Kipling hadn't written prose and verse to fill in, here and there. -He was a kid, too. There's always, somewhere, a little paper that's -famous because a man can _write_. Why shouldn't it be us! Us! Right up -here over the meat-market. Why, we can make the little old _Gleaner_ -known from coast to coast. We can put Sunbury on the map. Just with your -pen, my boy! With your pen! And then where'll old Weston be! Where'll -these little two-bit advertisers be!' - -He spread his thin hands in a gesture of triumph. Henry looked up now; -slowly pushed back his chair; said, in a weak voice, 'I'm tired. Guess -I'd better get along;' and walked out. - -McGibbon stared after him, his mouth literally open. - - -6 - - -Back of the old Parmenter place the barn was dark. Henry felt relief. -He was tingling with excitement. He couldn't move slowly. His fists were -clenched. Every nerve in his body was strung tight. - -He was thinking hopelessly, 'I must relax.' - -He crept through the dim shop, among Humphrey's lathes, belts, benches -of tools, big kites and rows of steel wheels mounted in frames. There -were large planes, too, parts of the gliders Humphrey had been puttering -with for a long time. Three years, he had once said. - -Henry lingered on the stairs and looked about the ghostly rooms. Beams -of moonlight came in through the windows and touched this and that -machine. He felt himself attuned to all the trouble, the disaster, in -the universe. Life was a tragic disappointment. Nothing ever came right. -People didn't succeed; they struggled and struggled to breast a mighty, -tireless current that swept them ever backward. - -Poor old Hump! He had put money into this shop. All the little he had; -or nearly all. And into the technical library that lined his bedroom -walls upstairs. His daily work at the _Voice_ office was just a grind, -to keep body and soul together while the experiments were working out. -Hump was patient. - -'Until I moved in here,' Henry thought, with a disturbingly passive -sort of' bitterness, 'and brought girls and things. He doesn't have his -nights and Sundays for work any more. Hump could do big things, too.' - -He went on up the stairs and switched on the lights in the living-room. - -He caught sight of his face in a mirror. It was white. - -There was a look of strain about the eyes. The little moustache, turned -up at the ends, mocked him. - -'I'll shave it off,' he said aloud. - -He even got out his razor and began nervously stropping it. - -He was alarmed to discover that his control of his hands was none too -good. They moved more quickly than he meant them to, and in jerks. - -Too, the notion of shaving his moustache struck him weakness, an impulse -to be resisted. Too much like retreating. Subtly like that. - -He put the razor back in its drawer. - -In the centre of the living-room rug, standing there, stiffly, he -said:-- - -'I'll face them. I'll go down fighting. They shan't say I surrendered.' - -He walked round and round the room. - -He had never in his life felt anything like this jerky nervousness. A -restlessness that wouldn't permit him so much as to sit down. - -While in the _Gleaner_ office he had hardly been aware of McGibbon. He -certainly hadn't listened to him. - -But now, like a blow, everything McGibbon had said came to him. Every -syllable. Suddenly he could see the man, towering ever him, pounding -his desk. Talking--talking--full of fresh hopes while the world crumbled -around him. More disaster! It was the buzzing song of the old globe as -it spun endlessly on its axis. Disaster!... The advertisers had at last -combined against the paper. Old Weston had called McGibbon's note. That -must have taken about the last of Henry's thousand. They were broke. - -His hand brushed his coat pocket. It bulged with copy paper. He must -have thrust it back there absently, at the office. - -He drew it out and gazed at it. - -It was curious; he seemed to see it as a printed page, with a title at -the top, and his name. He couldn't see what the title was. Yet it was -there, and it was good. - -His restlessness grew. Again he walked round and round the room. There -was a glow in his breast. Something that burned and fired his nerves and -drove him as one is driven in a dream. Either he must rush outdoors and -wander at a feverish pace around the town and up the lake shore--walk -all night--or he must sit down and write. - -He sat down. Picked up an atlas of Humphrey's and wrote on his lap. And -he wrote, from the beginning, as he would have walked had he gone out, -in a fever of energy, gripping the pencil tightly, holding his knees up -a little, heels off the floor. The colour reappeared about his forehead -and temples, then on his cheeks. - -When Humphrey came in, after midnight, he was in just this posture, -writing at a desperate rate. The floor all about him was strewn with -sheets of paper. One or two had drifted off to the centre of the -room. He didn't hear his friend come up the stairs.' When he saw him, -standing, looking down, something puzzled, he cried out excitedly':-- - -'Don't Hump!' - -Humphrey resisted the impulse to reply with a 'Don't what?' - -'Go on! Don't disturb me!' - -'You seem to be hitting it up.' - -'I am. I can't talk! Please--go away! Go to bed. You'll make me lose -it!' - -Humphrey obeyed. - -Later--well along in the night--he awoke. - -There was a crack of light about his door. He turned on his own light. -It was quarter to three. - -'Here!' he called. 'What on earth are you up to, Hen?' A chair scraped. -Then Henry came to the door and burst it open. His coat was off now, -and his vest open. He had unbuttoned his collar in front so that the -two ends and the ends of his tie hung down. His hair was straggling down -over his forehead. - -'Do you know what time it is, Hen?' - -'No. Say--listen to this! Just a few sentences. You liked the piece I -did about the Business Men's Picnic, remember. Well, this has sorta -grown out of it. It's just the plain folks along Simpson Street. Say! -There's a title for the book.' - -'For the what!' - -'The book. Oh, there'll be a lot of them. Sorta sketches. Or maybe -they're stories. I can't tell yet. Plain folks of Simpson Street. Yes, -that's good. Wait a second, while I write it down. The thing struck me -all at once--to-night!--Queer, isn't it!--thinking about the folks -along the street--Bill Hemple, and Jim Smith in your press room with -the tattooed arms, and old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse, and the way Bob -McGibbon blew into town with a big dream, and the barber shop--Schultz -and Schwartz's--and Donovan's soda fountain, and Izzy Bloom and the -trouble about his boys in the high school, and all his fires, and Mr -Draine, the Y.M.C.A. secretary that's been in the British Mounted Police -in Mashonaland--think of it! In Africa--and----' - -'Would you mind'--Humphrey was on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes--'would -you mind talking a little more slowly. Good lord! I can't----' - -'All right, Hump. Only I'm excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me -that there's as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in -Kipling's Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people's lives go. And -what old Berger's really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables -were picked yesterday.' - -Humphrey gazed--wider awake now--at the wild figure before him. And a -thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed. - -'How much have you done?' he asked soberly. - -'Most finished this first one. It's about old Boice and Charlie -Waterhouse and Mr Weston----' - -'Gee!' said Humphrey. - -'I call it, _The Caliph of Simpson Street_.' - -'Well--see here, you're going to bed, aren't you?' - -'Oh, yes. But listen.' And he began reading aloud. - -Humphrey waved his arms. - -'No, no! For heaven's sake, go to bed, Hen!' - -'Well, but--oh, say! Just thought of something!' And he went out, -chuckling. - -Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that -was not altogether of the sun. - -The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a -dream. - -He sprang out of bed. - -There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay -like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying. - -He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning, -apparently out of sheer happiness. - -'Say,' he cried, 'listen to this! It's one I call, _The Cauliflowers -of the Caliph_. Oh, by the way, I've changed the title of the book to -_Satraps of the Simple_. - -'The whole book'll be sort of imaginary, like that. It's queer. Just as -if it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. -Only everything I ever knew's going into it. Things I'd forgotten.' - -'Hen,' said Humphrey, 'are you stark mad?' - -'Me? Why--why no, Hump!' The grin was a thought sheepish now. -'But--well, Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.' - -'How many stories have you written already?' - -'Just three.' - -'_Three!_ In one night!' - -'But they're short, Hump. I don't believe-they average over two or three -thousand words. I think they're good. You know, just the way they made -me feel. Funny idea--Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.' - -'One thing's certain, Hen. You're an extremely surprising youth, but -right here's where you quit. I don't propose to have a roaring maniac -here in the rooms. On my hands.' - -'Oh, Hump, I can't quit now! You don't understand. It's wonderful. It -just comes. Like taking dictation.' - -'Dictation is what you're going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up -your clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We'll go out for -some breakfast.' - -'Not now, Hump! Wait--I promise I'll go out a little later.' - -'You'll go now. Get up.' - -Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again. - -'Gosh!' he murmured. - -'Stiff, eh?' - -'I should smile. And sorta weak.' - -'No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast -you'll go straight to bed.' - -'Hump, I can't.' - -This, apparently, was the truth. He couldn't. - -He stopped in at Jackson's Book Store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and -bought paper and pencils: Then, in a thrill of fresh importance, he -bought penholders, large desk blotters, a flannel pen-wiper with a -bronze dog seated in the centre, a cut-glass inkstand, a ruler, half -a dozen pads of a better paper, a partly abridged dictionary, Roget's -_Thesaurus_, (for years he had casually wondered what a Thesaurus was), -a round glass paperweight with a gay butterfly imprisoned within, four -boxes of wire clips, assorted sizes, and, because he saw it, Crabb's -_Synonyms_. Then he saw an old copy of _The Thousand and One Nights_ and -bought that. - -It seemed to him that he ought to be equipped for his work. Before he -went out he asked the prices of the better makes of typewriters. - -And for the first time in two years, he uttered the magic but too often -fatal words:-- - -'Just charge it, if you don't mind.' - - -7 - - -He was back at the rooms by nine-fifteen. Before the university clock -boomed out the hour of noon, he had written that elusive, extraordinary -little classic, _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, and had jotted down suggestive -notes for the story that was later to be known as _The Printer and the -Pearls_. - -By this time all thoughts of civic reform had faded out. Charlie -Waterhouse, now that _The Caliph of Simpson Street_ was done and, in -a surface sense, forgotten, no longer appeared to him as a crook who -should be ousted from the local political triumvirate and from town -office; he was but a bit of ore in the rich lode of human material -with which Henry's fancy was playing. The important fact about the new -Waterhouse store-and-office building in South Sunbury, was not that -there was reason to believe Charlie had built it with town money but -that he had put a medallion bas-relief of himself in terra cotta in the -front wall. - -Charlie figured, though, unquestionably, in _Sinbad the Treasurer_. - -At noon, deciding that he would stroll out after a little and eat a -bite, Henry stretched out on the lounge. Here he dozed, very lightly for -an hour or two. - -Humphrey stole in, found him tossing there, fully dressed, mumbling in -his sleep, and stole out. - -But early in the afternoon Henry leaped up. His brain, or his emotions, -or whatever the source of his ideas, was a glowing, boiling, seething -crater of tantalising, obscurely associated concepts and scraps of -characterisation and queerly vivid, half-glimpsed dramatic moments, -situations, contrasts. They amounted to a force that dragged him on. The -thought that some bit might escape before he could catch it and get it -written down kept his pulse racing. - -At about half-past four he finished that curious fantasy, _Roc's Eggs, -Strictly Fresh_. - -This accomplishment brought a respite. He could see his book clearly -now. The cover, the title page and particularly the final sentence. -He knew that the concluding story was to be called _The Old Man of the -Street_. He printed out this title; printed, too, several titles of -others yet to be written--_Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen_ and -_Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and one or two more. - -His next performance I find particularly interesting in retrospect. -During the long two years of his extreme self-suppression in the vital -matters of candy, girls, and charge-accounts, Henry had firmly refused -to sing. Without a murmur he had foregone the four or five dollars -a Sunday he could easily have picked up in church quartet work, the -occasional sums from substituting in this or that male quartet and -singing at funerals. It was even more extraordinary that he should -have given up, as he did, his old habit of singing to girls. The only -explanation he had ever offered of this curious stand was the rather -obscure one he gave Humphrey that singing was 'too physical.' Whatever -the real complex of motives, it had been a rather violent, or at least a -complete reaction. - -But now he strode about the room, chin up, chest expanded, brows -puckered, roaring out scales and other vocalisings in his best voice. -The results naturally were somewhat disappointing, after the long -silence, but he kept at it. - -He was still roaring, half an hour later, when McGibbon came anxiously -in. - -'Saw Humphrey Weaver down-town,' said the editor of the _Gleaner_, 'and -he said I'd better look you up.' - -An hour later McGibbon--red spots in his cheeks, a nervous glitter -in his eyes--hurried down to the _Gleaner_ office with the pencilled -manuscripts of four of the 'Caliph' stories. He was hurrying because -it seemed to him highly important to get them into type. For one thing, -something might happen to them--fire, anything. For another, it might -occur to Henry to sell them to an eastern magazine. - -When Humphrey came in, just before six, Henry was already well into -_Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and was chuckling out loud as he -wrote. - -Friday night was press night at the _Gleaner_ office. Henry strolled -in about ten o'clock and carelessly dropped a thick roll of script on -McGibbon's desk. - -That jaded editor leaned back, ran thin fingers through his tousled -hair, and wearily looked over the dishevelled, yawning, exhausted, -grinning youth before him. Never in his life had he seen an expression -of such utter happiness on a human face. - -'How many stories is this?' he asked. - -'Ten.' - -'Good Lord! That's a whole book!' - -'No--hardly. I've thought of some more. There'll be fifteen or twenty -altogether. I just thought of one, coming over here. Think I'll call it. -_The Story of the Man from Jerusalem_. It's about the life of a little -Jew storekeeper in a town like this. Struck me all of a sudden--you -know, how he must feel. I don't think I'll write it to-night--just make -a few notes so it won't get away from me.' - -Bob McGibbon rose up, put on coat and hat, took, Henry firmly by the -arm, and marched him, protesting, home. - -'Now,' he said, 'you go to bed.' - -'Sure, Bob! What's the matter with you! I'm just going to jot down a few -notes------' - -'You're going to bed!' said McGibbon. - -And he stood there, earnest, even grim, until Henry was undressed and -stretched out peacefully asleep.' - -Henry slept until nearly three o'clock Saturday afternoon. - - -8 - - -Senator Watt laid down the _Gleaner_, took off his glasses, removed an -unlighted cigar from his mouth, and said, in his low, slightly husky -voice:-- - -'A really remarkable piece of work. Quite worthy of Kipling.' The -nineties, as we have already remarked, belong to Kipling. Outright. He -had to be mentioned. 'It is fresh, vivid, and remarkably condensed. The -author produces his effects with a sure swift stroke of the brush.' - -The Senator rarely spoke. When he did it was always in these measured, -solid sentences, as if his words might be heard round the world and -therefore must be chosen with infinite care. After delivering himself -of this opinion he resumed his 'dry smoke' and reached for the _Evening -Post_, which lay folded back to the financial page. - -'I was sure you would think so,' said Cicely Hamlin, glancing first at -the Senator then at her aunt. 'I wish you would read it, Aunt Eleanor.' - -'Hm!' remarked that formidable person, planting her own gold-rimmed -glasses firmly astride her rugged nose just above the point where it -bent sharply downward, picking up the paper, then lowering it to gaze -with a hint of habitual, impersonal severity at her niece. - -'Even so,' she said. 'Suppose the young man has gifts. That will hardly -make it necessary for you to cultivate him. I gather he's a bad lot.' - -'I have no intention of cultivating him,' replied Cicely, moving toward -the door, but pausing by the mantel to pat her dark ample hair into -place. She wore it low on her shapely neck. Cicely was wearing a -simple-appearing, far from inexpensive blue frock. - -Madame Watt read the opening sentence of _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, -then lowered the paper again. - -'Are you going out, Cicely?' - -'No, I expect company here.' - -'Who is coming?' - -The girl compressed her lips for an instant, then:-- - -'Elberforce Jenkins.' - -'Hm!' said Madame, and raised the paper. - -An electric bell rang. - -Cicely came back into the room; stood by a large bowl of roses; -considered them. - -The butler passed through the wide hall. A voice sounded in the -distance. The butler appeared. - -'Mr Henry Calverly calling,' he said. - -Madame Watt raised her head so abruptly that her glasses fell, brought -up with a jerk at the end of a thin gold chain, and swung there. - -Cicely stood motionless by the roses. - -The Senator glanced up, then shifted his cigar and resumed his study of -the financial page. - -'You will hardly----' began Madame. - -'Show him into the drawing-room,' said Cicely with dignity. - -The butler wavered. - -Then, as if to settle all such small difficulties, Henry himself -appeared behind him, smiling naively, eagerly. - -Cicely hurried forward. Her quick smile came, and the little bob of her -head. - -'How do you do?' she said brightly. 'Mr Calverly--my aunt, Madame Watt! -And my uncle, Senator Watt!' - -Madame Watt arose, deliberately, not without a solid sort of majesty. -She was a presence; no other such ever appeared in Sunbury. She fixed an -uncompromising gaze on Henry. - -So uncompromising was it that Cicely covered her embarrassment by moving -hurriedly toward the drawingroom, with a quick:-- - -'Come right in here.' - -There was no one living on this erratic earth who could have cowed Henry -on this Saturday evening. A week later, yes. But not to-night. He never -even suspected that Madame meant to cow him. In such moments as these -(and there were a good many of them in his life) Henry was incapable of -perceiving hostility toward himself. The disaster that on Tuesday had -seemed the end of the world was to-night a hazy memory of another epoch. -There were few grown or half-grown persons in Sunbury that were not -thinking on this evening of the meanest scandal in the known history of -the town and, incidentally, among others involved, of Henry Calverly; -but Henry himself was of those few. - -He marched straight on Madame with cordial smile and outstretched hand. -He wrung the hand of the impassive Senator. - -That worthy said, now:-- - -'I have just read this first of your new series of sketches. Allow me to -tell you that I think it admirable. In the briefest possible compass -you have pictured a whole community in its petty relationships, at once -tragic and comic. There is caustic satire in this sketch, yet I -find deep human sympathy as well. It is a pleasure to make your -acquaintance.' - -When, after a rather amazing outpouring of words--the thing didn't -amount to much; just a rough draft really; he hoped they'd like the next -one; it was about cauliflowers--he had disappeared into the front room, -the Senator remarked:-- - -'The young man makes an excellent impression.' - -'The young man,' remarked Madame, 'is all right.' - -Half an hour later the noise of the front door opening, and a voice, -caused the two young people to start up out of a breathless absorption -in the story called _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, which Henry was reading -from long strips of galley proof. He had already finished _The -Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. - -For a moment Cicely's face went blank. - -The butler announced:-- - -'Mr Jenkins calling, Miss Cicely.' - -The one who was not equal to the situation was Elbow. He stood in the -doorway, staring. - -Cicely was only a moment late with her smile. - -Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and -folded up the long strips of galley proof. - -Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely's hand. But his small -talk had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry's nod. Cicely, -nervously active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a -Country Club dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses. - -Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce -when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and -very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden -little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by -nothing at all--first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow. - -Henry sat still. - -Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long -moment each held the gaze. It was war. - -Cicely said now, greatly confused:-- - -'I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.' - -There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight -to the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, -and plunged into that old song of Samuel's Lover's that has quaint charm -when delivered with spirit and humour, _Kitty of Coleraine_. - -After which he sang, _Rory O'More_. He had spirit and humour aplenty -to-night. - -The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for _The Low-Back -Car_. - -Elbow left. - -'Why did you tell me you hadn't any stories you could bring?' Cicely -asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. - -'It was so. I didn't.' - -'You had these.' - -'No. I didn't. That's just it!' - -'But you don't mean----' - -'Yes! Just since I met you!' - -'Ten stories, you said. It seems--I can't----' - -'But it's true. Three days. And nights, of course. I've been so -excited!' - -'I never heard of such a thing! Though, of course, Stevenson wrote _Dr -Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ in three days. But ten different stories.'... She -sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, very thoughtful, flatteringly -thoughtful. 'It sounds a little like magic.' - -She was delicately pretty, sitting so still in her big chair. - -'I wrote them straight at you,' he said, low, earnest. 'Every word.' - -Even Henry caught the extreme emphasis of this, and hurried to -elaborate. - -'You see I was just sick Tuesday night. Everything had gone wrong with -me. And then that horrible story that wasn't true. I knew I shouldn't -have spoken of it to you, but--well, it was just driving me crazy, and I -couldn't bear to think you might despise me like the others without -ever knowing the truth. And... You see I must have felt the inspiration -you... Even then, I mean...' - -He was red. He seemed to be getting himself out of breath. And he was -tugging at the roll of proofs in his pocket. - -'Shall I--finish--this?' - -'Oh, _yes!_' She sank into a great leather chair; looked up at him with -glowing eyes. 'I want you to read me all of them. Please!' - -She said it almost shyly. - -Henry drew up a chair, found his place, and read on. And on. And on. - -It was victory. - - - - -VII--THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION - - -1 - - -|There is nothing more unsettling than a sudden uncalculated, -incalculable success. It at once thrills, depresses, confuses. People -attack with the most unexpected venom. Others, the most unexpected -others, defend with vehemence, One feels queerly out of it, yet -forlornly conspicuous. As if it were some one else, or a dream. Innocent -effort dragged to the public arena, quarrelled over, misunderstood. One -boasts and apologises in a breath; dreads the thing will keep up and -fears it will stop; finds one day it has stopped and ever after thinks -back in sentimental retrospect to the good old days, the great days, -when one did stir them up a bit. - -Henry awoke on this Saturday morning to a sense of trouble that hung -heavily over him during the walk with Humphrey from the rooms to -Stanley's. Nothing of the stir reached them here. They were so late that -the restaurant was about empty. Humphrey did hear a faint, distant voice -booming, but gave no particular thought to it at the moment. And the -Stanleys went quietly about their business as usual. Henry, indeed, was -deep in his personal concern. - -This found words over the oatmeal. He drew a rumpled paper from his -pocket and submitted it to his room mate. - -'Got this last night,' Henry explained moodily. - -Humphrey read the following pencilled communication:-- - -'Henry Calverly, can't you see that your attentions are making it hard -for a certain young lady? Do you want to injure her reputation along -with yours? Why don't you do the decent thing and leave town! - -'_A Round Robin of People Who Know You_.' - -Humphrey pursed his lips over it. - -'It's the Mamie Wilcox trouble, of course,' he said finally. - -Henry nodded. His mouth drooped at the corners. There was a shine in his -eyes. - -Humphrey folded the paper; handed it back. - -'Do you know who did it?' - -Henry shook his head. 'They printed it out. Oh, I can make guesses, of -course. It's about Cicely Hamlin and me.' - -'You can't do anything.' - -'I know.' - -'And maybe you're going to be so successful that it won't matter. Laugh -at 'em.' - -'I don't believe that, Hump. I can't even imagine it.' - -'At that, it may be jealousy.' - -'I've thought of that. Even if it is...' they're partly right. I didn't -do what they think, but... Don't you see, Hump?' - -'Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.' - -'I've felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there -to call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.' His voice was -unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. 'I've stayed away all this -week. Just worked. You know. You've seen how I've kept at it. Until -Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was -out. And that's all. I've thought I--I've felt... Hump, do you believe -in love--you know--at first sight?' - -Humphrey's long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered. - -'I ought to,' he replied. 'In a way it was like that--with me.' - - -2 - - -The first of Henry's meaty, fantastic little stories of the plain folk -of the village, that one called _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, had -appeared in the _Gleaner_ of the preceding Saturday. It had made a -distinct stir. - -The second story was out on this the Saturday of our present narrative. -In the order of writing, and in Henry's plans, it should have been _The -Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. But Bob McGibbon, hanging wearily over the -form in the press room late Friday night, suddenly hit on the notion of -putting _Sinbad the Treasurer_ in its place. He had all but the last one -or two in type by that time. There were no mechanical difficulties; and -he didn't consult the author. He could hit Charlie Waterhouse harder -this way. _The Cauliflowers_ was quietly humorous; while _Sinbad the -Treasurer_ had a punch. That was how McGibbon put it to the foreman, -Jimmy Albers. The word 'punch' was fresh slang then. McGibbon himself -introduced it into Sunbury. - -Henry had Charlie and the town money in the back of his head, of course, -when he wrote _Sinbad_. Probably more than he himself knew. McGibbon -sniffed a sensation in the brief, vivid narrative. And a sensation of -some sort he had to have. It was now or never with McGibbon.... He was -able even to chuckle at the way Charlie would froth. He couldn't admit -that the coat fitted, of course. He would just have to froth. It was -Henry's _naïveté_ that made the thing so perfect. An older man wouldn't -have dared. Henry had just naturally rushed in. Yes, it was perfect. - -Bob McGibbon was a hustler. And his nervous quickness of perception had -brought him a few small successes and was to bring him larger ones. His -Sunbury disaster was perhaps later to be charged to education. - -The roots of that particular failure went deep. From first to last his -attitude was that of a New Yorker in a small town. He outraged every -local prejudice; he alienated, one by one, each friendly influence. -He couldn't understand that any such village as Sunbury resents the -outsider who insists on pointing out its little human failings. It was -recognised here and there as possible that old man Boice and Mr Weston -of the bank might be covering up something in the matter of the genial -town treasurer; but there was reason enough to believe that Mr Boice and -Mr Weston knew pretty well what they were about. That, at least, was -the rather equivocal position into which McGibbon by his very energy and -assertiveness, drove many a ruffled citizen. - -And it had needed very little urging on the part of the three leading -citizens (McGibbon had a trick of referring to them in his paper as 'the -Old Cinch') to bring about the boycott on the part of the Simpson Street -and South Sunbury advertisers. As Charlie Waterhouse himself put it:-- - -'It ain't what he says about me. I can stand it. Man to man I can attend -to him. The thing is, he's hurtin' the town. That's it--he's hurtin' the -town.' - - -3 - - -I have spoken of McGibbon's perception. He knew before reading three -paragraphs that Henry had a touch of genius. Before finishing _A -Kerbstone Barmecide_ he knew--knew with a mental grasp that was -pitifully wasted on the petty business of a country weekly--that nothing -comparable had appeared anywhere in the English-speaking world since -_Plain Tales from the Hills and Soldiers Three_. He knew, further, what -no Sunbury seems ever able to recognise, that it is your occasional -Henry who, as he mentally put it, 'rings the bell.' A queer young man, -slightly dudish in dress, unable to fit in any conventional job, -unable really to fall into step with his generation, blunderingly -but incorrigibly a non-conformist, a moodily earnest yet absurdly -susceptible young man, slightly self-conscious, known here and there -among those of his age as 'sarcastic,' brilliant occasionally, dogged -some of the time, dreamy and irresponsible the rest, yet with charm. A -youth who not infrequently was guilty of queer, rather unsocial acts; -not of meanness or unkindness, rather of an inability to feel with and -for others, to fit. A youth destined to work out his salvation, if at -all, alone. - -Yes, McGibbon read the signs shrewdly. For which Sunbury owes that -erratic editor a small debt that remains unpaid and unrecorded to-day. -No doubt that McGibbon brought him out. Encouraged him, spurred him, -held him to it. - -It was tradition in Sunbury that the two weekly papers should come -decorously into the world each Saturday morning for the first delivery -of mail. A small pile of each, toward noon was put on sale in Jackson's -book store (formerly B. F. Jones's). That was all. - -And that was why McGibbon was able, on this Saturday of our story, to -shake the town. - -Poor old Sunbury was shaken heavily and often that summer. First by the -Mamie Wilcox scandal. The sort of thing that didn't, couldn't happen. -Men leaving town, and all that. A miserable, hastily contrived marriage. -Henry's name dragged in, unjustly (as it happened), but convincingly. -Though Henry always worked best after some sort of a blow. He had to be -shaken out of himself. I think. It isn't likely that he could or would -have written _Satraps of the Simple_ if this particular blow hadn't -fallen. It was a feverish job. He was stung, quivering, helpless. And -then his great gift functioned. - -Then Madame Watt happened to Sunbury. And shook the village to its -roots. - -And then came Bob McGibbon's last and mightiest effort. - -When all commuting Sunbury converged on the old red brick 'depot' that -morning for the seven-eleven and the seven forty-six and the eight-three -and the eight-twenty-nine, hoarsely bellowing newsboys held the two ends -of the platform. They wore cotton caps with 'The Weekly Gleaner' printed -around the front. They were big, deep-throated roughs, the sort that -shout 'extras' through the cities. They crowded the local newsdealer, -little Mr Beamer, back into one of the waiting-rooms. - -They fairly intimidated the town. People bought the _Gleaner_ in -self-defence, even boarded trains and rode off to Chicago without their -regular _Tribune_ or _Record_ or _Inter Ocean_. - -Other newsmen roamed the shady, pleasant residence streets, bellowing. -Housewives, old gentlemen, servants, hurried out to buy. - -There were posters on the fences, and, along the billboards from -Rockwell Park on the south to Borea on the north. McGibbon actually -rented the space from the Northern Billboard Company. And there -were newsmen with caps, in the afternoon, attacking the North Shore -home-comers in the Chicago station, the very heart of things. All -this--posters screaming like the news-men; big wood type, red and -black--to advertise _Sinbad the Treasurer_ and the rest of the long -series and Henry Calverly. - -'Attack' is the word. McGibbon was assaulting the town and the region as -it had hardly been assaulted before. If it was his last, it was surely -his most outrageous act from the local point of view. People talked, -boiled, raged. The blatancy of the thing irritated them to the point of -impotent mutterings. They were helpless. McGibbon was breaking no laws. -He was stirring them, however feverish his condition of mind, with -deliberate intent. It was his notion of advertising. Reaching the -mark, regardless of obstacles, indifference, difficulties. And had -his personal circumstances been less harrowing he could have chuckled -happily at the result. - -The noise fell upon the ear drums of Charlie Waterhouse as he walked -down-town. A ragged, red-faced pirate thrust a _Gleaner_ into his hand, -snatched his nickel, and rushed off, bellowing. - -Charlie began reading _Sinbad the Treasurer_ as he walked. He finished -it standing on the turf by the sidewalk, ignoring passing acquaintances, -nervously biting and mouthing a cigar that had gone out. In the same -condition he read bits of it again. He stood for a while, wavering; then -went back home, and spoke roughly to Mrs Waterhouse when she asked him -why. He hid the paper from her, to no particular purpose. He didn't -appear at the town hall all day, but caught a trolley into Chicago and -went to a dime museum. Later in the day he was seen by two venturesome -youths sitting alone in the rear of a stage box at Sam T. Jack's. - -Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the -_Voice_ office. - -Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, -apparently buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it -all after leaving Henry at Stanley's door, and had prowled a bit, taking -it in. - -But Mr Boice simply made little sounds--'Hmm!' and 'mmp!' and 'Hmm!' -again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his -face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went -out. - -For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director's room at the -bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly -bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:-- - -'Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.' - -Thus Boice. 'We'd get the stories that way. Suppress 'em.' - -The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he -had suffered a week back in _The Caliph of Simpson Street_. Everybody -within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had -caught people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new -drawn head for the _Voice_, with the phrase 'And _The Weekly Gleaner_' -neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in -Sunbury anyway. - -Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What -harm's to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get -him then.' - -'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?' - -'There was one note. I called that some time ago.' - -'Wha'd he do?' - -'Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can't last. -Not without advertising.' - -'But he's selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he'll -begin to pick up a little along the street.' - -Mr Weston was still shaking his head. 'Better wait, Nort.' - -'No, I'll offer him a few hundred. The old _Gleaner_ plant's worth -something.' - -'Of course, there's no harm in that.' - -So Mr Boice crossed the street to Hemple's market and laboriously -lifted his great body up the stairway beside it to the quarters of the -_Gleaner_ upstairs, where a coatless, rumpled, rather wild-eyed -McGibbon listened to him and then, with suspiciously, alert and smiling -politeness, showed him out and down again. - - -4 - - -The sensation struck Henry, full face, in the barber shop, Schütz and -Schwartz's, whither he went from Stanley's. Professor Hennis, of the -English department at the university, met him at the door and insisted -on shaking hands. - -'These sketches of yours, Calverly--the two I have read--are remarkable. -There is a freshness of characterisation that suggests Chaucer to me. -Sunbury will live to be proud of you.' - -This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded. - -Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz--fat, exuberant--said, bending over -him:-- - -'Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?' And added, 'You've got 'em -excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse'll -punch your head before night. Says he'll have to. Can't sue very well.' - -It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing -that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He -watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene -at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up -window of Murphy's cigar store. - -Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with -the Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple's corner and up -the stairs. - -McGibbon sat alone in the front office--coat off, vest open, longish -hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes -strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs -stretched out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in -pockets. - -He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar. - -'Great days!' he remarked dryly. 'Gee!' Henry dropped into a chair, laid -his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. 'Gee! You do -know how to get'em going!' - -The cigar waved again. - -'Sure! Stir'em up! Soak it to'em! Only way.' - -'Everybody's buying it.' - -'Rather! You're a hit, son!' - -'Oh, I don't know's I'd say that.' - -'Rats! You're a knockout. Never been anything like it. Two months of it -and they'd be throwing your name around in Union Square, N.Y. If we only -had the two months.' He sighed. - -'Why!' Henry, all nerves, caught his expression. 'What's the matter?' - -'We're-out of paper.' - -'You mean to print on?' - -A nod. 'And we're out of money to buy more.' - -'But with this big sale--' - -'Costing four 'n' one-half times what we take in.' - -'But I don't see----' - -'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money -in--whip up your sales--drive, drive, _drive!_ After a while it goes of -itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're rich. That's the -way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, and vision! Why, -I know stories of the early days of--look here, what we need is money. -Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If we can't get it, -and get it quick, well'--he reached deliberately forward, picked up a -copy of the _Gleaner_ and waved it high--'that--that, my son, is the -last copy of the _Gleaner!_' - -Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face. - -'But my stories!' he cried. - -'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we -doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.' - -'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in -Henry's voice. - -McGibbon shook his head. - -'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're -helpless. We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You -hold my note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the -plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just -now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it--five hundred for our -plant, the big press and everything.' - -'Wha--wha'd you say?' - -'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. -Never. Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your -uncle----' - -Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far -beyond the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on -the edge of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples -drumming, a flush spreading down over his cheeks. - -But even in this condition, thoughts came. - -One of these--or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a -sort of instinct--was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch -of guilty discomfort--hostility came hard, with Henry--yet it was -distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his -wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do. - -'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!' - -McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a -bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense -gestures. - -'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through--broke!' He -glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No -pay-roll--nothing! Nothing for the boys out there--or me--or you. I've -been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.' - -'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache--'for -me?' - -'Not a cent.' - -'But--but----' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was about forty -cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was considerable. - -'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold -of that fact? Even a hundred--the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If -I could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our -paper stock in time.' - -Henry heard his own voice saying:-- - -'But don't business men borrow----' - -'Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn't lend me the rope to hang myself -with... Hold on there, Hen--' - -For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the -door. And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:-- - -'No... No!' - -He said it on the stairs, where none could hear. He rushed around the -corner, around the block. Anything to keep off Simpson Street. He had -a really rather desperate struggle to keep from talking his heart -out--aloud--in the street--angrily--attacking Boice, Weston, and -McGibbon in the same breath. His feeling against McGibbon amounted -to bitterness now. But his feeling against old Boice had risen to the -borders of rage. He thought of that silent, ponderous old man, sitting -at his desk in the post-office, like a spider weaving his subtle web -about the town, where helpless little human flies crawled innocently -about their uninspired daily tasks. - -So Mr Boice had offered five hundred for plant, good will, and the -stories! - -No mere legal, technical claim on those stories as property, as assets, -held the slightest interest for Henry. He couldn't understand that. -They were his. He had created them, made them out of nothing--just a -few one-cent lead pencils and a lot of copy paper. Bob had snatched them -away to print them in the _Gleaner_. But they weren't Bob's. - -'They're mine!' he said aloud. 'They're mine! Old Boice shan't have -them! Never!' He caught himself then; looked about sharply, all hot -emotion and tingling nerves. - - -5 - - -A little later--it was getting on toward noon--he found himself on -Filbert Avenue approaching Simpson Street. Without plan or guidance, he -was heading northward, toward the rooms. It would be necessary to cross -Simpson Street. He was fighting down the impulse to go several blocks -to the east, toward the lake, where the stores and shops gave place to -homes and lawns and shade trees, where he could slip across unnoticed; -but his feet were leading him straight toward the corner of Filbert and -Simpson, the busiest, most conspicuous corner in town, where were the -hotel and Berger's grocery and, only a few doors off, Donovan's drug -store and Swanson's flower shop and Duneen's general store and the -_Voice_ office. It had come down, the warfare within him, to a question -of proving to himself that he wasn't a coward, that he could face -disaster, even the complete disaster that seemed now to be upon him. It -was like the end of the world. - -In a pocket his fingers were tightly clasped about the anonymous note -that had been the cloud over his troubled sleep of the night and his -gloomy awakening of the morning. The note was now but a detail in the -general crash. He decided to press on, march straight across Simpson -Street, head high. He even brought out the note from his pocket; held it -in his hand as he walked stiffly on. It was a somewhat bitter touch of -bravado, but I find I like Henry none the less for it. - -A little way short of the corner, it must be recorded, he faltered. It -was by Berger's rear door. There was a gate in the fence here, that now -stood open. Two of the Berger delivery wagons were backed in there. And -right by the gate Henry Berger himself, his ample person enveloped in a -long white apron, was opening a crate. - -Henry sensed him there; flushed (for it seemed that he could not speak -to any human being now) and wrestled, in painful impotence of will, with -the idea of moving on. - -But then, through a slow moment after Mr Berger said, 'How are you, -Henry!' he sensed something further; a note of good nature in the voice, -a feeling that the man was smiling, a suggestion that all the genial -quality had not, after all, been hardened out of life. - -He turned; pulled at his moustache (paper in hand), and flicked at weeds -with his stick. - -Mr Berger _was_ smiling. He drew his hand across a sweaty brow; shook -the hand; then leaned on his hatchet. - -'Getting hot,' he remarked. - -Henry tried to reply, but found himself still inarticulate. - -'Old Boice is getting after you. Plenty.' - -Henry winced; but felt slightly reassured when Mr Berger chuckled. All -intercourse with Mr Berger was tempered, however, by the memory that -Henry had been caught, within the decade, stealing fruit from the cases -out front. - -'He was just here. Don't mind telling you that he's trying to get -McGibbon's creditors together and throw him into bankruptcy. Doesn't -look as if there was enough out against him, though. Got to be five -hundred. It ain't as if he had a family and was running up bills. Just -living alone at the Wombasts, like he does. But old Boice is out gunning -for fair. Never saw him quite like this. First it was the advertising -boycott...' - -Henry was shifting his weight from foot to foot. - -'Well,' he said now, 'I guess I'd better be getting along.' - -'I was just going to say, Henry, that you've give me a good laugh. -Keep on like this and you'll be famous some day.... And say! Hold on a -minute! I don't know's you're in a position to do anything about it, -but I was just going to say, I rather guess the old _Gleaner_ could be -picked up for next to nothing right now. And there's folks here that -ain't so anxious to see Boice get the market all to hisself. Not so dam -anxious.... Wait a minute! I mean, I guess once McGibbon was got rid of -the Old Boy'd find it wouldn't be so easy to hold this boycott together. -There's folks that would break away---- Well, that's about all that was -on my mind. Only I'd sorta hate to see your yarns suppressed. They're -grand reading, Henry. My wife like to 'a' died over that one last -week--_The Sultan of Simpson Street_.' - -'“Caliph!”' said Henry, with a nervous eagerness. '_The Caliph of -Simpson Street_.' - -'Touched up old Norton P. for fair. Made him sorer 'n a goat. My wife's -literary, and she says it's worthy of Poe. And you ought to hear the -people talking to-day about this new one.' - -'_Sinbad the Treasurer!_' said Henry quickly, fearing another -misquotation: - -'Yay-ah. That. Ain't had time to read it yet myself. They say it's -great.' - -'Well--good-bye,' said Henry, and moved stiffly away toward the corner. - -'Funny!' mused the grocer,' looking after him. 'These geniuses never -have any business sense. I give him a real opening there.' - - -6 - - -Simpson Street was always crowded of a Saturday morning with thoughtful -housewives. The grocers and butchers bustled about. The rows of display -racks along the sidewalk were heaped with fresh vegetables and fruits. - -The majority of the shoppers came afoot, but the kerb was lined with -buggies, surries, neat station wagons and dog-carts, crowded in between -the delivery wagons. Sunbury boasted, as well, a number of Stanhopes, -a barouche or two, and several landaus. The Jenkins family, among its -several members, had a stable full of horses and ponies. William B. Snow -owned a valuable chestnut team with silver-mounted harness. Here and -there along the street one might have seen, on this occasion, several -vehicles that might well have been described as smart. - -But Sunbury had never seen anything like the equipage that, at a quarter -to twelve--a little late for selective shopping in those days--came -rolling smoothly, silently, on its rubber-shod wheels across the tracks -and past the post-office, Nelson's bakery, the Sunbury National Bank, -Duneen's and Donovan's to Swanson's flower shop. - -Never, never had Sunbury seen anything quite like that. Mr Berger, -hurrying through to the front of his store, stopped short, stared out -across the street and after a breathless moment breathed the words, -'Holy Smoke!' Women stood motionless, holding heads of lettuce, boxes -of raspberries and what not, and gazed in an amazement that was actually -long minutes in reaching the normal mental state of critical appraisal. - -The carriage was a Victoria, hung very low, varnished work glistening -brilliantly in the sunshine. It was upholstered conspicuously in plum -colour. The horses were jet black, glossy, perfectly matched, checked -up so high that the necks arched prettily if uncomfortably; and they had -docked tails. The harness they wore was mounted with a display of silver -that made the silver on William B. Snow's team, standing just below -Donovan's, look outright inconspicuous. - -Leaning back in luxurious comfort as the carriage came so softly along -the street, holding up a parasol of black lace, overshadowing her niece, -pretty little Cicely Hamlin, who sat beside her, Madame Watt, her large -person dressed with costly simplicity in black with a touch of colour -at the throat, square of face, with an emphatic chin, a strongly hooked -nose, penetrating black eyes, surveyed the street with a commanding -dignity, an assertive dignity, if the phrase may be used. Or it may have -been that a touch of self-consciousness within her showed through the -enveloping dignity and made you think about it. Certainly there was a -final outstanding reason for self-consciousness, even in the case of -Madame Watt; for on the high box in front visible for blocks above the -traffic of the street, sat, in wooden perfection as in plum-coloured -livery, side by side, a coachman and a footman. - -At Swanson's the footman leaped nimbly down and stood rigid by the step -while Madame heavily descended and passed across the walk and into the -shop. - -The street lifted. Women's tongues moved briskly. Trade was resumed. - -A pretty girl in the most wonderful carriage ever seen--a new girl, at -that, bringing a stir of quickened interest to the younger set--is a -magnet of considerable attracting power. Young people appeared--from -nowhere, it seemed--and clustered about the carriage. Two couples -hurried from the soda fountain in Donovan's. The de Casselles boys were -passing on their way from the Country Club courts (which were still on -the old grounds, down near the lake) in blazer coats and with expensive -rackets in wooden presses. Alfred Knight was out collecting for the -bank, and happened to be near. Mary Ames and Jane Bellman came over from -Berger's, where Mary was scrutinising cauliflowers with a cool eye. - -It was at this moment that Henry reached the corner by Berger's, paused, -hopelessly, confused and torn in the swirl of success and disaster that -marked this painful day, fighting down that mad impulse to talk out loud -his resentments in a passionate torrent of words, saw the carriage, the -girl in it and the crowd about it in one nervous glance, then, suddenly -pale, lips tightly compressed, moved doggedly forward across the street. - -He had nearly reached the opposite kerb--not turning; with the ugly -little note that was clasped in his left hand, he could not trust -himself to bow, he felt a miserable sort of relief that the distance -might excuse his appearing not to see; and there had to be an excuse, -or it would look to some like cowardice--when an errant summer breeze -wandered around the corner and seized on his straw hat. - -He felt it lifting; dropped his stick; reached then after both hat and -stick and in doing so nearly dropped the paper. In another moment he was -to be seen, desperately white, stick in one hand, a slip of paper in -the other, running straight down Simpson Street after his hat, which -whirled, sailed, rolled, sailed again, circled, and settled in the -dust not two rods from the Watt carriage. The street, as streets, will, -turned to look. - -Henry lunged for the hat. It lifted, and rolled a little way on. He -lunged again. It whirled over and over, then rolled rapidly straight -down the street, just missing the hoofs of a delivery horse, passing -under Mr George F. Smith's buggy without touching either horse or -wheels, and sailed on. - -Henry fell to one knee in his second plunge. And his pallor gave place -to a hot flush. - -Laughter came to his ears--jeering laughter. And it came unquestionably -from the group about the Watt carriage. The first voices were masculine. -Before he could get to his feet one or two of the girls had joined in. -In something near despair of the spirit, helplessly, he looked up. - -The whole group, still laughing, turned away. All, that is, but one. -Cicely was not laughing. She was leaning a little forward, looking right -at him, not even smiling, her lips parted slightly. He was too far gone -even to speculate as to what her expression meant. It fell upon him -as the final blow. He ran on and on. In front of Hemple's market a boy -stopped the hat with his foot. Henry, trembling with rage, took it from -him, muttered a word of thanks, and rushed, followed by curious eyes, -around the corner to the north. - - -7 - - -Humphrey found him, a little before one, at the rooms, and thought he -looked ill. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a small -newspaper clipping. He looked up, through his doorway, saw his friend -standing in the living-room, mumbled a colourless greeting, and let his -heavy eyes fall again. - -'What's all this?' asked Humphrey, with a rather weary, wrinkly smile. - -Henry got up then and came slowly into the living-room. - -'It's this,' he explained, in a voice that was husky and light, without -its usual body. 'This thing. I've had it quite a while.' - -Humphrey read:-- - -Positively No Commission HEIRS CAN BORROW On or sell their individual -estate, income or future inheritance; lowest rates; strictly -confidential Heirs' Loan Office. - -And an address. - -'What on earth are you doing with this, Hen?' - -'Well, Hump, there's still a little more'n three thousand dollars in my -legacy. I got a thousand this summer, you know, and lent it to McGibbon -for my interest in the paper. But my uncle said he wouldn't give me a -cent more until I'm twenty-one, in November. And so I was wondering... -Look here! How much do you suppose I could get out of it from these -people. They're all right, you see? - -They've got a regular office and----' - -'You'd just about get out with your underwear and shoes, Hen. They might -leave you a necktie. What do you want it for--throw it in after the -thousand?' - -'Well, McGibbon's broke----' - -'Yes, I know. They're saying on the street that Boice has got the -_Gleaner_ already. Two compositors and your foreman were in our place -half an hour ago asking for work. Boice went right down there. I saw him -start climbing the stairs.' - -'That's his second trip this morning, then, Hump. He offered Bob five -hundred.' - -'But it ought to be worth a few thousand.' - -'Sure. And except for there not being any money it's going great. You'd -be surprised! You know it's often that way. Bob says many a promising -business has gone under just because they didn't have the money to tide -it over a tight place. But he's getting the circulation. You've no idea! -And when you get that you're bound to get the advertisers. Sooner or -later. Bob says they just have to fall in line.' - -Humphrey appeared to be only half listening to this eager little torrent -of words. He deliberately filled his pipe; then moved over to a window -and gazed soberly out at the back yard of the parsonage. - -Henry, moody again, was staring at the advertisement, fairly hypnotising -himself with it. - -'Great to think of the Old Man having to climb those stairs twice,' -Humphrey remarked, without turning. Then: 'Even with all the trouble -you're going through, Hen, you're lucky not to be working for Boice. He -does wear on one.' - -He smoked the pipe out. Then, brow's knit, his long swarthy face -wrinkled deeply with thought, he walked slowly over to the door of his -own bedroom and leaned there, studying the interior. - -'There's three thousand dollars' worth of books in here,' he remarked. -'Or close to it. Even at second hand they'd fetch something. You see, -it's really a well built, pretty complete little scientific library. Now -come downstairs.' - -He had to say it again: 'Come on downstairs.' - -Henry followed, then; hardly aware of the oddity of Humphrey's actions. - -In the half-light that sifted dustily in through the high windows, the -metal lathes, large and small, the tool benches, the two large reels of -piano wire, the rows of wall boxes filled with machine jars, the round -objects that might have been electric motors hanging by twisted strings -or wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels of various -sizes mounted in frames, some with wooden handles at one side, the big -box kites and the wood-and-silk planes stacked at one end of the room, -the gas engine mounted at the other end, the water motor in a corner, -the wheels, shafts and belting overhead--all were indistinct, ghostly. -And all were covered with dust. - -'See!' Humphrey waved his pipe. 'I've done no work here for six -weeks. And I shan't do any for a good while. I can't. It takes -leisure--long-evenings--Sundays when you aren't disturbed by a soul. -And at that it means years and years, working as I've had to. You know, -getting out the _Voice_ every week. You know how it's been with me, Hen. -People are going to fly some day, Hen. As sure as we're walking now. -Pretty soon. Chanute--Langley--they know! Those are Chanute gliders -over there. By the kites. I've never told you; I've worked with 'em, -moonlight nights, from the sand-dunes away up the beach. I've got some -locked in an old boat-house up there, Hen'--he stood, very tall, a -reminiscent, almost eager light in eyes that had been dull of late, a -gaunt strong hand resting affectionately on a gyroscope--'I've flown -over six hundred feet! Myself! Gliding, of course. Got an awful ducking, -but I did it. - -'But it takes money, Hen. I've thought I could be an inventor and do my -job besides. Maybe I could. Maybe some day I'll succeed at it. But I've -just come to see what it needs. Material, workmen, time--Hen, you've got -to have a real shop and a real pay-roll to do it right. And... - -'Oh, I'm not telling you the truth, Hen! Not the real truth!' - -He took to walking around now, making angular gestures. Henry, watching -him, coming slowly alive now to the complex life that was flowing around -him, found himself confronted by a new, disturbed Humphrey. He had, -during the year and more of their friendship, taken him for granted as -an older, steadier influence, had leaned on him more than he knew. He -had been a rock for the erratic Henry to cling to in the confusing, -unstable swirl of life. - -'Hen'--Humphrey turned on him--'you don't know, but I'm going to be -married.' - -Henry's jaw sagged. - -'It's Mildred, of course. - -'It's going to be hard on the little woman, Hen. She's got to get her -divorce. She can't take money from her husband, of course; and she's -only got a little. She'll need me.' His voice grew a thought unsteady; -he waved his pipe, as if to indicate and explain the machinery. 'We've -got to strike out--take the plunge--you know, make a little money. It's -occurred to me... This machinery's worth more than the library, in -a pinch. And I've got two bonds left. Just two. They're money, of -course...... Hen, you said you _lent_ that thousand to McGibbon?' - -Henry nodded. 'He gave me his note.' - -'Let's see it.' - -Henry ran up the stairs, and returned with a pasteboard box file, which, -not without a momentary touch of pride in his quite new business sense, -he handed to his friend. - -Humphrey glanced at the carefully printed-out phrase on the back--'Henry -Calverly, 3rd. Business Affairs'--but did not smile. He opened it and -ran through the indexed leaves. It appeared to be empty. - -'Look under “Me,”' said Henry. - -The note was there. 'For three months,' Humphrey mused aloud. - -Then he smiled. There was a whimsical touch in Humphrey that his few -friends knew and loved. Even in this serious crisis it did not desert -him. I believe it was even stronger then. - -'Hen,' he said, 'got a quarter?' - -The smile seemed to restore the rock that Henry had lately clung to. He -found himself returning the smile, faintly but with a growing warmth. He -replied, 'Just about.' - -'Match me!' cried Humphrey. - -'What for?' - -'To settle a very important point. Somebody's name has got to come -first. Best two out of three.' - -'But I don't----' - -'Match me! No--it's mine!... Now I'll match you--mine again! I win. -Well--that's settled!' - -'What's settled? I don't-----' - -Humphrey sat on a tool bench; swung his legs; grinned. 'Life moves on, -Hen,' he said. 'It's a dramatic old world.' - -And Henry, puzzled, looking at him, laughed excitedly. - - -8 - - -It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Simpson Street was quiet after the -brisk business of the morning. The air quivered up from the pavement in -the still heat. The occasional people about the street moved slowly. The -collars of the few visible tradesmen were soft rags around their necks -and they mopped red faces with saturated handkerchiefs. The morning -breeze had died; the afternoon breeze would drift in at four o'clock or -so; until which time Sunbury ladies took their naps and Sunbury business -men dozed at their desks. Saturday closing had not made much headway at -this period, though the still novel game of golf was beginning to work -its mighty change in small-town life. - -Through this calm scene, absorbed in their affairs, unaware of the heat, -strode Humphrey and Henry--down past the long hotel veranda, where the -yellow rocking chairs stood in endless empty rows, past Swanson's and -Donovan's and Jackson's book store to the meat market and then, rapidly, -up the long stairway. - -They found McGibbon with his long legs stretched out under his desk, -hands deep in pockets, thin face lined and weary, but eyes nervously -bright as always. He was in his shirt-sleeves, of course. His drab brown -hair seemed a little longer and even more ragged than usual where it met -his wilted collar. - -But he grinned at them, and waved a long hand. - -'My God!' he cried, 'but it's good to see a human face. Look!' His -hand swept around, indicating the dusty, deserted desks and the open -press-room door. It was still out there; not a man hummed or whistled as -he clicked type into his stick, not one of the four job presses rumbled -out its cheerful drone of industry. - -'Rats all gone!' McGibbon added. 'But the Caliph was up again.' - -'Yes,' Henry, who found himself suddenly and deeply moved, breathed -softly, 'we know.' - -'Came up a hundred. He'll pay six hundred now. For all this. An actual -investment of more'n four thousand.' The hand waved again. 'It's -amusing. He doesn't know I'm on to him. You see the old fox's been -nosing around to get up a petition to throw me into involuntary -bankruptcy, but he can't find any creditors. Has to be five hundred -dollars, you know.' - -'What did you say to him?' asked Humphrey, thoughtfully. - -'Showed him out. Second time to-day. It was a hard climb for him, too. -He did puff some.' - -Humphrey slowly drew a large envelope from an inner pocket and laid it -on the table at his elbow. - -McGibbon eyed it alertly. - -'Here!' he said, his hand moving up toward the row of four or five -cigars that projected from a vest pocket, 'smoke up, you fellows.' - -Henry shook his head. Humphrey drew out his pipe; then raised his head, -and said quietly:-- - -'Listen!' - -There came the unmistakable sound of heavy feet on the stairs. Steadily, -step by step, a slowly moving body mounted. - -Then, framed in the doorway, stood the huge bulk of Norton P. Boice, -breathless, red, and wet of face, his old straw hat pushed back, his -yellowish-white, wavy beard covering his necktie and the upper part of -his roundly protruding, slightly spotted vest, against which the heavy -watch chain with its dangling fraternal insignia stood out prominently. - -Boice's eyes, nearly expressionless, finally settled on Humphrey. - -'What are you doing here?' he asked, between puffs. - -Humphrey's only reply was a slight impatient gesture. - -'You oughta be at your desk.' - -Then he came into the room. Of the three men seated there Humphrey was -the only one who knew by certain small external signs, that the Caliph -of Simpson Street was blazing with wrath. For here was his own hired -lieutenant hobnobbing with the boy whose agile, irresponsible pen had -made him the laughing stock of the township and with the intemperate -rival who had first attacked and then defied him. And then he had just -climbed the stairs for the third and what he meant to be the last time. - -He came straight to business. - -'Have you decided to accept my offer?' - -'Sit down,' said McGibbon, pushing a chair over with his foot. - -Boice ignored this final bit of insolence. - -'Have you decided to accept my offer?' - -'Well'--McGibbon shrugged; spread out his hands--'I've decided nothing, -but as it looks now I may find myself forced to accept it.' - -'Then I suggest that you accept it now.' - -'Well----' the hands went out again. - -'Wait a moment,' said Humphrey. - -'I think you had better go back to the office,' Boice broke in. - -'Shortly. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch, Mr Boice. But -first I have business here.' - -'_You_ have business!' - -'Yes.' Humphrey opened the large envelope. 'Here, McGibbon, is your note -to Henry for one thousand dollars, due in November.' - -Before their eyes, deliberately, he tore it up, leaned over McGibbon's -legs with an, 'I beg your pardon!' and dropped the pieces in the -waste-basket. Next he produced a folded document engraved in green and -red ink. 'Here,' he concluded, 'is a four per cent, railway bond that -stands to-day at a hundred two and a quarter in the market. That's our -price for the _Gleaner_.' - -McGibbon's nervous eyes followed the movements of Humphrey's hands as -if fascinated. During the hush that followed he sat motionless, chin on -breast. Then, slowly, he drew in his legs, straightened up, reached for -the bond, turned it over, opened it and ran his eye over the coupons, -looked up and remarked:-- - -'The paper's yours.' - -'Then, Mr Boice,' said Humphrey, 'the next issue of the _Gleaner_ will -be published by Weaver and Calverly, and the stories you object to will -run their course.' - -But Mr Boice, creaking deliberately over the floor, was just -disappearing through the doorway.' - - -9 - - -The sunlight was streaming in through the living-room of the barn back -of the old Parmenter place. Outside the maple leaves were rustling -gently. Through the quiet air came the slow booming of the First -Presbyterian bell across the block. From greater distances came the -higher pitched bell of the Baptist Church, down on Filbert Avenue, -and the faint note from the Second Presbyterian over on the West Side, -across the tracks. - -Humphrey had made coffee and toast. They sat at an end of the centre -table. Humphrey in bath-robe and slippers, Henry fully dressed in his -blue serge suit, neat silk four-in-hand tie, stiff white collar and -carefully polished shoes. - -'Where are you going with all that?' Humphrey asked. - -Henry hesitated; flushed a little. - -'To church,' he finally replied. - -Humphrey's surprise was real. There had been a time, before they came to -know each other, when the boy had sung bass in the quartet at the Second -Presbyterian. But since that period he had not been a church-goer. Henry -had been quiet all evening, and now this morning. He seemed all boxed up -within himself. Preoccupied. As if the triumph over old Boice had merely -opened up the way to new responsibilities. Which, for that matter, was -just what it had done--done to both of them. Humphrey, not being given -to prying, would have let the subject drop here, had not Henry surprised -him by breaking hotly forth into words. - -'It's my big fight, Hump!' he was saying now. 'Don't you see! This town. -All they say. Look here!' He laid a rumpled bit of paper on the table. -As if he had been holding it ready in his hand.' - -'Oh, that letter,' said Humphrey. - -'Yes. It's what I've got to fight. And I've got to win. Don't you see?' - -'Yes,' Humphrey replied gravely, 'I see.' - -'I think,' said Henry, 'it's being in love that's going to help me. -We've got to hold our heads up, you and I. Build the _Gleaner_ into a -real property. Win confidence. And there mustn't be any doubt. The way -we step out and fight, you know. I've got to stand with you.' - -Humphrey's eyes strayed to the sunlit window. He suppressed a little -sigh. - -'This note's right enough, in a way,' Henry went on. 'It wouldn't be -fair to compromise her.' He leaned earnestly over the table. 'It's -really a hopeless love. I know that, Hump. But it isn't like the -others.' It makes me feel ashamed of them. All of them. I've got to show -her, or at least show myself, that it's this love that has made a man of -me. Without asking anything, you know.' - -Humphrey listened in silence as the talk ran on. The boy was changing, -no question about that. Even back of the romantic strain that was -colouring his attitude, the suggestion of pose in it, there was real -evidence of this change. At least his fighting blood was up. And he was -taking punishment. - -Sitting there sipping his coffee, Humphrey, half listening, soberly -considered his younger friend. Henry was distinctly odd, a square peg in -a round world. He was capable of curiously outrageous acts, yet most -of them seemed to arise from a downright inability to sense the common -attitude, to feel with his fellows. He could be heedless, neglectful, -self-centred; but Humphrey had never found meanness or unkindness in -him. And he was capable of a passionate generosity. He had, indeed, -for Humphrey, the fascination that an erratic and ingenuous but gifted -person often exerts on older, steadier natures. You could be angry at -him; but you couldn't get over the feeling that you had to take care of -him. And it always seemed, even when he was out and out exasperating, -that the thing that was the matter with him was the very quality that -underlay his astonishing gifts; that he was really different from -others; the difference ran all through, from his unexpected, rather -self-centred ways of acting and reacting clear up to the fact that he -could write what other people couldn't write. 'If they could,' thought -Humphrey now, shrewdly, 'very likely they'd be different too.' Take this -business of dressing up like a born suburbanite and going to church. -It was something of a romantic gesture, But that wasn't all it was. The -fight was real, whatever unexpected things it might lead him to do from -day to day. - -Herbert de Casselles, wooden-faced, dressed impeccably in frock coat, -heavy 'Ascot' tie, gray striped trousers perfectly creased, (Henry had -never owned a frock coat) ushered him half-way down the long aisle to -a seat in Mrs Ellen F. Wilson's pew. He felt eyes on him as he walked, -imagined whispers, and set his face doggedly against them all. He had -set out in a sort of fervor; but now the thing was harder to do than he -had imagined. The people looked cold and hostile. It was to be a long -fight. He might never win. The more successful he might come to be, the -more some of them would hate him and fight him down... It was queer, -Herb de Casselles ushering him. - -The organist slid on to his seat, up in the organ loft behind the -pulpit; spread out his music and turned up the corners; pulled and -pushed on stops and couplers; glanced up into his narrow mirror; -adjusted his tie; fussed again with the stops; began to play. - -Henry sat up stiffly, even boldly, and looked about. Across the church, -in a pew near the front, sat the Watts: the Senator, on the aisle, -looking curiously insignificant with his meek, red face and his little, -slightly askew chin beard; Madame Watt sitting wide and high over him, -like a stout hawk, chin up, nose down, beady eyes fixed firmly on the -pulpit; Cicely Hamlin almost fragile beside her, eyes downcast--or was -she looking at the hymns? - -When Cicely was talking, with her nervous eagerness, her quick smile, -her almost Frenchy gestures, she seemed gay. When in repose, as now, her -delicate sensitiveness, her slightly sad expression, were evident, even -to Henry. - -Made him feel in the closing scene of _The Prisoner of Zenda_, where -he was bidding the Princess who could never be his a last farewell; the -mere sight of her thrilled him with a deep romantic sorrow. - -Through the prayers, the announcements, the choir numbers and -collection, his sacrificial mood grew more and more intense. It was -something of a question whether he could hide his emotion before all -these hostile people. The long fight ahead to rebuild his name in the -village loomed larger and larger, began to take on an aspect that was -almost terrifying. For the first time to-day he felt weakness but she -made him feel something as Sothem had made in his heart. He sat very -quiet, hands clenched on his knees, and unconsciously thrust out his -chin a little. - -When the doxology was sung and his head was bowed for the benediction, -he had to struggle with a mad impulse to rush out, run down the aisle -while people were picking up their hats and things. The thing to do, of -course, was to take his time, be natural, move out with the rest. This -he did, blazing with self-consciousness, his chin forward. - -It was difficult. Several persons--older persons, who had known his -mother--stopped him and congratulated him on the brilliant work he was -doing. This in the midst of the unuttered hostility that seemed like -hundreds of little barbed darts penetrating his skin from every side. -He could only blush and mumble. Elderly, innocent Mrs Bedford of Filbert -Avenue actually introduced him to her nieces from Boston as a young man -of whom all Sunbury was proud. He had to blush and mumble here for a -long time, while the line of people crowded decorously past. - -At last he got to the door. Stiffly raising his hat as one or two groups -of young people recognised him, he moved out to the sidewalk. There he -raised his eyes. They met, for a fleeting instant, but squarely, over -Herb de Casselles' shoulder, the dark eyes of Cicely Hamlin. - -She was sitting on the little forward seat in the black-and-plum -Victoria. Madame Watt was settling herself in the back seat. The -Senator was stepping in. The plum-coloured footman stood stiffly by. The -plum-coloured driver sat stiffly on the box. - -Herb de Casselles turned, with a wry smile. - -Henry raised his hat, bit his lip, hesitated, hurried on. - -Then he heard her voice. - -'Oh, Mr Calverly!' - -He had to turn back. He knew he was fiery red. He knew, too, that in -this state of tortured bewilderment he couldn't trust his tongue for a -moment. - -Cicely leaned out, with outstretched hand. - -He had to take it. The thrill the momentary touch of it gave, him but -added a wrench to the torture. Then the Senator's hand had to be taken; -finally Madame's. - -His pulse was racing; pounding at his temples. What did all this mean! - -Cicely, her own colour up a little, speaking quickly, her face lighting -up, her hands moving, cried:-- - -'Oh, Mr Calverly! We heard this morning that the _Gleaner_ has failed -and that Mr Boice has it and we aren't to see your stories any more.' - -'No,' said Henry, a faint touch of assurance appearing in his heart, -mind, voice, 'that isn't so. Mr Boice hasn't got it. We've got -it--Humphrey Weaver and I.' - -'You mean you have purchased it?' This from the Senator. - -'Yay-ah, We bought it yesterday.' - -'No!' cried Cicely. 'Really?' - -'Yay-ah. We bought it.' - -'Then,' commented the Senator, 'you must permit me indeed to -congratulate you. It is unusual to find business acumen and enterprise -combined with such a literary talent as yours.' - -This was pleasing, if stilted. It was beginning to be possible for Henry -to smile. - -Then Cicely clinched matters. - -'You promised to come and read me the others, Mr Calverly. Oh, but -you did! You must come. Really! Let me see--I know I shall be at home -to-morrow evening.' - -Then, for a moment, Cicely seemed to falter. She turned questioningly to -her aunt. - -Madame Watt certainly knew the situation. She had heard Henry discussed -in relation to the Mamie Wilcox incident. She knew how high feeling -was running in the village. Just what her motives were, I cannot say. -Perhaps it was her tendency to make her own decisions and if possible to -make different decisions from those of the folk about her. The instinct -to stand out aggressively in all matters was strong within her. And she -liked Henry. The flare of extreme individuality in him probably reached -her and touched a curiously different strain of extreme individuality -within herself. She hated sheep. Henry was not a sheep. - -As for Cicely's part of it, I know she had been thrilled when Henry read -her the first ten stories. She had read more than the Sunbury girls; and -she saw more in his oddities than they were capable of seeing. To fail -in any degree to conform to the prevailing customs and thought was to be -ridiculous in Sunbury. But she had no more forgotten the jeers that had -followed Henry from this very carriage as he chased his hat down Simpson -Street the preceding day than had Henry himself. Nor had she forgotten -that Herbert de Casselles had been one of that unkind group. And as she -certainly knew what she was about, despite her impulsiveness, I prefer -to think that her action was deliberately kind and deliberately brave. - -'Come to dinner,' said Madame Watt shortly but with a sort of rough -cordiality. 'Seven o'clock. To-morrow evening. Informal dress. All -right, Watson.' - -Cicely settled back, her eyes bright; but gave Henry only the same -suddenly impersonal little nod of good-bye that she gave Herbert de -Casselles. - -The footman leaped to the box. The remarkable carriage rolled -luxuriously away on its rubber tyres. - -Henry turned, grinning in foolish happiness, on the young man in the -frock coat who had not been asked to dinner. - -'Walking up toward Simpson, Herb?' he asked. - -'Me--why--no, I'm going this way.' And Herb pointed hurriedly southward. - -'Well--so long!' said Henry, and headed northward. - -The warm sunlight filtered down through the dense foliage. Birds -twittered up there. The church procession moving slowly along was -brightly dressed; pleasant to see. Henry, head up, light of foot, -smiling easily when this or that person, after a moment's hesitation, -bowed to him, listened to the birds, expanded his chest in answer to -the mellowing sunshine, and gave way, with a fresh little thrill, to the -thought:-- - -'I must buy a frock coat for to-morrow night.' - - - - -VIII--THIS BUD OF LOVE - - -1 - -|It was mid-August and twenty minutes to eight in the evening. The -double rows of maples threw spreading shadows over the pavement, -sidewalk and lawns of Hazel Avenue. From dim houses, set far back amid -trees and shrubs, giving a homy village quality to the darkness, came -through screened doors and curtained 'bay' windows the yellow glow of -oil lamps and the whiter shine of electric lights. Here and there a -porch light softly illuminated a group of young people; their chatter -and laughter, with perhaps a snatch of song, floating pleasantly out -on the soft evening air. Around on a side street, sounding faintly, -a youthful banjoist with soft fingers and inadequate technique was -struggling with _The March Past_. - -Moving in a curious, rather jerky manner along the street, now walking -swiftly, nervously, now hesitating, even stopping, in some shadowy spot, -came a youth of twenty (going on twenty-one). He wore--though all these -details were hardly distinguishable even in the patches of light at the -street corners, where arc lamps sputtered whitely--neatly pressed white -trousers, a 'sack' coat of blue serge, a five-dollar straw hat, silk -socks of a pattern and a silken 'four-in-hand' tie. He carried a cane of -thin bamboo that he whipped and flicked at the grass and rattled lightly -along the occasional picket fence except when he was fussing at the -light growth on his upper lip. Under his left arm was a square package -that any girl of Sunbury would have recognised instantly, even in the -shadows, as a two-pound box of Devoe's chocolates. - -If you had chanced to be a resident of Sunbury at this period you would -have known that the youth was Henry Calverly, 3rd. Though you might have -had no means of knowing that he was about to 'call' on Cicely Hamlin. -Or, except perhaps from his somewhat spasmodic locomotion, that he was -in a state of considerable nervous excitement. - -Not that Henry hadn't called on many girls in his day. He had. But he -had called only once before on Cicely (the other time had been that -invitation to dinner for which her aunt was really responsible) and had -then, in a burning glow of temperament, read her his stories! - -How he had read! And read! And read! Until midnight and after. She had -been enthusiastic, too. - -But he wasn't in a glow now. Certain small incidents had lately brought -him to the belief that Cicely Hamlin lacked the pairing-off instinct so -common among the young of Sunbury. She had been extra nice to him; true. -But the fact stood that she was not 'going with' him. Not in the -Sunbury sense of the phrase. A baffling, disturbing aura of impersonally -pleasant feeling held him at a distance. - -So he was just a young fellow setting forth, with chocolates, to call on -a girl. A girl who could be extra nice to you and then go out of her -way to maintain pleasant acquaintance with the others, your rivals, your -enemies. Almost as if she felt she had been a little too nice and wished -to strike a balance; at least he had thought of that. A girl who had -been reared strangely in foreign convents; who didn't know _The Spanish -Cavalier_ or _Seeing Nellie Home_ or _Solomon Levi_, yet did know, -strangely, that the principal theme in Dvorak's extremely new 'New -World' symphony was derived from _Swing Low, Sweet Chariot_ (which -illuminating fact had stirred Henry to buy, regardless, the complete -piano score of that symphony and struggle to pick out the themes on -Humphrey's piano at the rooms). A girl who had never seen De Wolf Hopper -in _Wang_, or the Bostonians in _Robin Hood_, or Sothem in The Prisoner -of Zenda, or Maude Adams or Ethel Barrymore or _anything_. A girl who -had none of the direct, free and easy ways of the village young; you -couldn't have started a rough-house with her--mussed her hair, or -galloped her in the two-step. A girl who wasn't stuck up, or anything -like that, who seemed actually shy at times, yet subtly repressed you, -made you wish you could talk like the fellow's that had gone to Harvard. - -In view of these rather remarkable facts I think it really was a tribute -to Cicely Hamlin that the many discussions of her as a conspicuous -addition to the youngest set had boiled down to the single descriptive -adjective, 'tactful.' Though the characterisation seems not altogether -happy; for the word, to me, connotes something of conscious skill -and management--as my Crabb put it: 'TACTFUL. See Diplomatic'--and -Cicely was not, certainly not in those days, a manager. - -Henry, muttered softly, as he walked. - -'I'll hand it to her when she comes in. - -'No, she'll shake hands and it might get in the way. - -'Put it on the table--that's the thing!--on a corner where she'll see -it. - -'Then some time when we can't think of anything to talk about, I'll -say--“Thought you might like a few chocolates.” Sorta offhand. Prevent -there being a lull in the conversation. - -'Better begin calling her Cicely.' - -'Why not? Shucks! Can't go on with “You” and “Say!” Why can't I just do -it naturally? The way Herb would, or Elbow, or those fellows. - -'“How'd' you do, Cicely! Come on, let's take a walk.” - -'No. “Good-evening, Cicely. I thought maybe you'd like to take a walk. -There's a moonrise over the lake about half-past eight.” That's better. - -'Wonder if Herb'll be there. He'd hardly think to come so early, though. -Be all right if I can get her away from the house by eight.' - -He paused, held up his watch to the light from the corner, then rushed -on. - -'Maybe she'd ask me to sit him out, anyway.' - -But his lips clamped shut on this. It was just the sort of thing Cicely -wouldn't do. He knew it. - -'What if she won't go out!' - -This sudden thought brought bitterness. A snicker had run its course -about town--in his eager self-absorption he had wholly forgotten--when -Alfred Knight, confident in an engagement to call, had hired a horse and -buggy at McAllister's. The matter of an evening drive _a deux_ had -been referred to Cicely's aunt. As a result the horse had stood hitched -outside more than two hours only to be driven back to the livery, stable -by the gloomy Al. - -'Shucks, though! Al's a fish! Don't blame her!' - -He walked stiffly in among the trees and shrubs of the old Dexter Smith -place and mounted the rather imposing front steps. - -That purchase of the Dexter Smith place was typical of Madame Watt at -the time. She was riding high. She had money. Two acres of lawn, fine -old trees, a great square house of Milwaukee brick, high spacious rooms -with elaborately moulded plaster ceilings and a built-on conservatory -and a barn that you could keep half a dozen carriages in! It was one of -only four or five houses in Sunbury that the _Voice_ and the _Gleaner_ -rejoiced to call 'mansions.' And it was the only one that could have -been bought. The William B. Snows, like the Jenkinses and the de -Casselles (I don't know if it has been explained before that the -accepted local pronunciation was Dekasells,) lived in theirs. And even -after the elder Dexter Smith died Mrs Smith would hardly have sold the -place if the children hadn't nagged her into it. Young Dex wanted to -go to New York. And at that it was understood that Madame Watt paid two -prices. - - -2 - - -A uniformed butler showed Henry into the room that he would have called -the front parlour. Though there was another much like it across the wide -hall. There was a 'back parlour,' with portières between. Out there, he -knew, between centre table and fireplace, the Senator and Madame might -even now be sitting. - -He listened, on the edge of a huge plush and walnut chair, for the -rustle of the Senator's paper, or Madame's deep, always startling voice. - -There was no sound. Save that somewhere upstairs, far off, a door -opened; then footsteps very faint. And silence again. - -Henry looked, fighting down misgivings, at the heavily framed -oil paintings on the wall. One, of a life-boat going out through -mountainous waves to a wreck, he had always heard was remarkably fine. -Fastened over the bow of the boat was a bit of real rope that had -provoked critical controversy when the picture was first exhibited in -Chicago. - -He glanced down, discovered the box of chocolates on his knees, and -hurriedly placed it on the corner of the inevitable centre table. Then -he fussed nervously with his moustache; adjusted his tie, wondering -if the stick pin should be higher; pulled down his cuffs; and sat up -stiffly again. - -'Maybe she ain't home,' he thought weakly. 'That fella said he'd see.' - -'Maybe I oughta've asked if she'd be in.' - -The silence deepened, spread, settled about him. He wished she would -come down. There was danger, he knew, that his few painfully thought-out -conversational openings would leave him. He would be an embarrassed, -quite speechless young man. For he was as capable, even now, at twenty, -almost at twenty-one, of speechlessness as of volubility. Either might -happen to him, at any moment, from the smallest, least foreseeable of -causes. - -And there was something oppressive about the stillness of this cavernous -old house with its sound-proof partitions and its distances. And that -silent machine of a butler. It wasn't like calling at Martha Caldwell's, -in the old days, where you could hear the Swedish cook crashing around -in the kitchen and Martha moving around upstairs before she came down. -Here you wouldn't so much as know there was a kitchen. - -Then, suddenly, sharp as a blow out of the stillness came a series of -sounds that froze the marrow in his bones, made him rigid on the edge of -that plush chair, his lips parted, his eyes staring, wrestling with -an impulse to dash out of the house; with another impulse to cough, -or shout, or play the piano, in some mad way to announce himself, yet -continuing to sit like a carved idol, in the grip of a paralysis of the -faculties. - -There is nothing more painful to the young than the occasional -discovery, through the mask of social reticence, that the old have their -weak or violent moments. - -Gossip, yes! But gossip rests lightly and briefly in young ears. Henry -had heard the Watts slyly ridiculed. There were whispers, of course. -Madame's career as a French countess--well, naturally Sunbury wondered. -And the long obscurity from which she had rescued Senator Watt raised -questions about that very quiet little man. So often men in political -life were tempted off the primly beaten track. And Henry, like the other -young people, had grinned in awed delight over the tale that Madame -swore at her servants. That was before he had so much as spoken to her -niece. And it had little or no effect on his attitude toward Madame -herself when he met her. She had at once taken her place in the -compartment of his thoughts reserved from earliest memory for his -elders, whose word was (at least in honest theory) law and to whom one -looked up with diffidence and a genuine if somewhat automatic respect. - -The first of the disturbing sounds was Madame's voice, far-off but -ringing strong. Then a door opened--it must have been the dining-room -door; not the wide one that opened into the great front hall, but the -other, at the farther end of the 'back parlour.' - -There was a brief lull. A voice could be heard, though--a man's voice, -low-pitched, deprecatory. - -Then Madame's again. And stranger noises. The man's voice cried out in -quick protest; there was a rustle and then a crash like breaking china. - -The Senator, hurrying a little, yet with a sort of dignity, walked out -into the hall. Henry could see him, first between the portières as he -left the room, then as he passed the hall door. - -There was a rush and a torrent of passionately angry words from -the other room. An object--it appeared to be a paper weight or -ornament--came hurtling out into the hall. The Senator, who had -apparently gone to the closet by the door for his hat and stick--for he -came back into the hall with them--stepped back just in time to avoid -being struck. The object fell on the stair, landing with the sound of -solid metal. - -'You come back here!' Madame's voice. - -'I will not come back until you have had time to return to your senses,' -replied the Senator. He looked very small. He was always stilted -in speech; Humphrey had said that he talked like the _Congressional -Record_. 'This is a disgraceful scene. If you have the slightest regard -for my good name or your own you will at least make an effort to compose -yourself. Some one might be at the door at this moment. You are a -violent, ungoverned woman, and I am ashamed of you.' - -'And you'--she was almost screaming now--'are the man who was glad to -marry me.' - -He ignored this. 'If any one asks for me, I shall be at the Sunbury -Club.' - -'Going to drink again, are you?' - -'I think not.' - -'If you do, you needn't come back. Do you hear? You needn't come back!' - -He turned, and with a sort of strut went out the front door. - -She started to follow. She did come as far as the portières. Henry had a -glimpse of her, her face red and distorted. - -She turned back then, and seemed to be picking up the room. He could -hear sniffing and actually snorting as she moved about. There was a -brief silence. Then she crossed the hall, a big imposing person--even -in her tantrums she had presence--and went up the stairs, pausing on the -landing to pick up the object she had thrown. Her solid footfalls died -out on the thick carpets of the upper hall. A door opened, and slammed -faintly shut. - -Silence again. - -Henry found that he was clutching the arms of the chair. - -'I must relax,' he thought vacantly; and drew a slow deep breath, as he -had been taught in a gymnasium class at the Y.M.C.A. - -He brushed a hand across his eyes. Now that it was over, his temples -were pounding hotly, his nerves aquiver. - -It was incredible. Yet it had happened. Before his eyes. A vulgar brawl; -a woman with a red face throwing things. And he was here in the house -with her. He might have to try to talk with her. - -He considered again the possibility of slipping out. But that butler -had taken his name up. Cicely would be coming down any moment. Unless -she knew. - -Did she know? Had she heard? Possibly not. - -Henry got slowly, indecisively up and wandered to the piano; stood -leaning on it. - -His eyes filled. All at once, in his mind's eye, he could see Cicely. -Particularly the sensitive mouth. And the alert brown eyes. And -the pretty way her eyebrows moved when she spoke or smiled or -listened--always with a flattering attention--to what you were saying. - -He brought a clenched fist down softly on the piano. - - -3 - - -'Oh,' cried the voice of Cicely--'there you are! How nice of you to -come!' - -She was standing--for a moment--in the doorway. - -White of face, eyes burning, his fist still poised on the piano, he -stared at her. - -She didn't know! Surely she didn't--not with that bright smile. __ - -She wore the informal, girlish costume of the moment--neatly fitting -dark skirt; simple shirt-waist with the ballooning sleeves that were -then necessary; stiff boyish linen collar propping the chin high, and -little bow tie; darkish, crisply waving hair brought into the best order -possible, parted in the middle and carried around and down over the ears -to a knot low on the neck. - -'I brought some candy,' he cried fiercely. 'There! On the table!' - -She knit her brows for a brief moment. Then opened the box. - -'How awfully nice of you... You'll have some?' - -'No. I don't eat candy. I was thinking of--I want to get you out--Come -on, let's take a walk!' - -She smiled a little, around a chocolate. Surely she didn't know! - -She had seemed, during her first days in Sunbury, rather timid at -times. But there was in this smile more than a touch of healthy -self-confidence. No girl, indeed, could find herself making so definite -a success as Cicely had made here from her first day without acquiring -at least the beginnings of self-confidence. It was a success that had -forced Elbow Jenkins and Herb de Casselles to ignore small rebuffs and -persist in fighting over her. It permitted her, even in a village where -social conformity was the breath of life, to do odd, unexpected things. -Such as allowing herself to be interested, frankly, in Henry Calverly. - -So she smiled as she nibbled a chocolate. - -He said it again, breathlessly:-- - -'I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.' - -'Well'--still that smile--'why don't you?' - -But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on. - -'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.' - -'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall. - -She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater--he, hat -and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt -had marched stiffly to that same closet--when Madame Watt came down the -stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard. - -She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing -a sort of smile. - -'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry. - -Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a -greeting, she broke in on him with this:--'I didn't know you were here. -Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell, -the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, -alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good -one. But he didn't know how. - -Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head. - -During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely -interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, -and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they -had a secret. - -'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely. - -Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back -over her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!' - -The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She -even turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt. - -Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after -them. She was hurrying back through the hall. - -'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are -having a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends. -Dinner here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll -be glad to have you. Informal--don't bother to dress.' - -'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt. - -'I--Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily. - -Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the -lake. - -There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be -the theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late -hour. It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled -Henry's thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table, -nibbling a chocolate, the poise of her pretty head--the picture stood -out clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it -was like a deafening noise in his brain. - - -4 - - -He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street. -Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the -end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their -ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the -dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise. - -He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her -delicate profile. - -He thought: 'How could she ask me? They wouldn't like it, her friends. -Mary Ames mightn't want to come. Martha Caldwell, even. She's been -nice to me. I mustn't make it hard for her. And she mustn't know about -tonight. Not ever.' - -Then a new thought brought pain. If there had been one such scene, there -would be others. And she would have to live against that background, -keeping up a brave face before the prying world of Sunbury. Perhaps she -had already lived through something of the sort. That sad look about her -mouth; when she didn't know you were looking. - -They had reached the boulevard now, and were standing at the railing -over the beach. A little talk had been going on, of course, about this -and that--he hardly knew what. - -He clenched his fist again, and brought it down on the iron rail. - -'Oh,' he broke out--'about Saturday. I forgot. I can't come.' - -'Oh, but please----' - -'No. Awfully busy. You've no idea. You see Humphrey Weaver and I bought -the _Gleaner_. I told you, didn't I? It's a big responsibility--getting -the pay-roll every week, and things like that. Things I never knew -about before. I don't believe I was made to be a business man. Lots of -accounts and things. Hump's at it all the time--nights and everything. -You see we've got to make the paper pay. We've _got_ to! It was losing, -when Bob McGibbon had it. People hated him, and they wouldn't advertise. -And now we have to get the advertising back.' If we fail in that, we'll -go under, just as he did...' - -Words! Words! A hot torrent of them! He didn't know how transparent he -was. - -She stood, her two hands resting lightly on the rail, looking out at the -slowly spreading glow in the east. - -'I'm so glad aunt asked you,' she said gravely. 'I wanted you to come. I -want you to know. Won't you, please?' - -He looked at her, but she didn't turn. There was more behind her words. -Even Henry could see that. He had been discussed. As a problem. But she -didn't say the rest of it. - -Then his clumsy little artifice broke down, and the crude feeling rushed -to the surface. - -'You know I mustn't come!' he cried. - -'No,' said she, with that deliberate gravity. 'I don't know that. I -think you should.' - -'I can't. You don't understand. They wouldn't like it, my being there. -They talk about me. They don't speak to me, even.' - -'Then oughtn't you to come? Face them? Show them that it isn't true?' - -'But that will just make it hard for you.' - -She was slow in answering this; seemed to be considering it. Finally she -replied with:-- - -'I don't think I care about that. People have been awfully nice to me -here. I'm having a lovely time. But it isn't as if I had always lived -here and expected to stay for the rest of my life. My life has been -different. I've known a good many different kinds of people, and I've -had to think for myself a good deal. No, I'd like you to come. If you -don't come---don't you see?--you're putting me with them. You're making -me mean and petty. I don't want to be that way. If--if I'm to see you at -all, they must know it.' - -'Perhaps, then,' he muttered, 'you'd better not see me at all.' - -'Please!' - -'Well, I know; but--' - -'No. I want to see you. If you want to come. I love your stories. You're -more interesting than any of them.' - -At this, he turned square around; stared at her. But she, very quietly, -finished what she had to say. 'I think you're a genius. I think you're -going to be famous. It's--it's exciting to see the way you write -stories.... Wait, please! I'm going to tell you the rest of it. Now that -we're talking it out, I think I've got to. It was aunt who didn't want -to ask you. She likes you, but she thought--well, she thought it might -be awkward, and--and hard for you. I told her what I've told you, that -I've either got to be your friend before all of them or not at all. And -now that she has asked you--don't you see, it's the way I wanted it all -along.' - -There wasn't another girl in Sunbury who could have, or would have, made -quite that speech. - -She looked delicately beautiful in the growing light. Her hair was a -vignetted halo about her small head. - -Henry, staring, his hands clenched at his sides, broke out with:-- - -'I love you!' - -'Oh--h!' she breathed. 'Please!' - -Words came from him, a jumble of words. About his hopes, the few -thousand dollars that would be his on the seventh of November, when he -would be twenty-one, the wonderful stories he would write, with her for -inspiration. - -Inwardly he was in a panic. He hadn't dreamed of saying such a thing. -Never before, in all his little philanderings had he let go like this, -never had he felt the glow of mad catastrophe that now seemed to be -consuming him. Oh, once perhaps--something of it--years back--when he -had believed he was in love with Ernestine Lambert. But that had been in -another era. And it hadn't gone so deep as this. - -'Anyway'--he heard her saying, in a rather tired voice--'anyway--it -makes it hard, of course--you shouldn't have said that--' - -'Oh, I _am_ making it hard! And I meant to----' - -'--anyway, I think you'd better come. Unless it would be too hard for -you.' - -There was a long silence. Then Henry, his forehead wet with sweat, his -feet braced apart, his hands gripping the rail as if he were holding -for his life, said, with a sudden quiet that she found a little -disconcerting:-- - -'All right. I'll come.... Your aunt said a quarter past six, didn't -she?' - -'No, six.' - - -5 - - -Madame Watt appropriated Henry the moment he entered her door -on Saturday evening. She was, despite her talk of offhand summer -informality, clad in an impressive costume with a great deal of lace and -the shimmer of flowered silk. - -At her elbow, Henry moved through the crowd in the front hall. He felt -cool eyes on him. He stood very straight and stiff. He was pale. He -bowed to the various girls and fellows--Mary, Martha, Herb, Elbow, and -the rest, with reserve. It was, from moment to moment, a battle. - -Nobody but Madame Watt would have thought of giving such a party. It -was so expensive--the dinner for twenty-two, to begin with; then all -the railway fares; a bus from the station in Chicago to the theatre and -back. The theatre tickets alone came to thirty-three dollars (these were -the less expensive days of the dollar and a half seat). Sunbury still, -at the time, was inclined to look doubtfully on ostentation. - -You felt, too, in the case of Madame, that she was likely to speak, at -any moment rather--well, broadly. All that Paris experience, whatever -it was, seemed to be hovering about the snapping black eyes and the -indomitable mouth. You sensed in her none of the reserve of movement, of -speech, of mind, that were implied in the feminine standards of Sunbury. -Yet she was unquestionably a person. If she laughed louder than the -ladies of Sunbury, she had more to say. - -To-night she was a dominantly entertaining hostess. She talked of the -theatre, in Paris, London and New York--of the Coquelins, Gallipaux, -Bernhardt, of Irving and Terry and Willard and Grossmith. Some of these -she had met. She knew Sothem, it appeared. Even the extremely worldly -Elbow and Herb were impressed. - -She had Henry at her right. Boldly placed him there. At his right was a -girl from Omaha who was visiting the Smiths and who made several efforts -to be pleasant to the pale gloomy youth with the little moustache and -the distinctly interesting gray-blue eyes. - -By the time they were settled on the train Henry found himself grateful -to the certainly strong, however coarse-fibred woman. - -Efforts to identify her as she seemed now, with the woman of that -hideous scene with the Senator brought only bewilderment. He had to give -it up. - -This woman was rapidly winning his confidence; even, in a curious sense, -his sympathy. - -At the farther end of the table the little Senator, all dignity and calm -stilted sentences, made himself remotely agreeable to several girls at -once. - -At one side of the table sat Cicely, in lacy white with a wonderful -little gauzy scarf about her shoulders. She looked at him only now and -then, and just as she looked at the others. He wondered how she could -smile so brightly. - -Herb and Elbow made a great joke of fighting over her. Elbow had her at -dinner; Herb on the train; Elbow again at the theatre. - -Henry was fairly clinging to Madame by that time. - -I think, among the confused thoughts and feelings that whirled -ceaselessly around and around in his brain, the one that came up -oftenest and stayed longest was a sense of stoical heroism. For Cicely's -sake he must bear his anguish. For her he must be humble, kindly, -patient. He had read, somewhere in his scattered acquaintance with -books, that Abraham Lincoln had once been brought to the point of -suicide through a disappointment in love. And to-night he thought much -and deeply of Lincoln. He had already decided, during an emotionally -turbulent two days, not to shoot himself. - -During the first intermission the Senator stayed quietly in his seat. - -When the curtain went down for the second time, he stroked his beard -with a small, none-too-steady hand, coughed in the suppressed way he -had, and glanced once or twice at Madame. - -The young men were, apparently all of them, moving out for a smoke in -the lobby. - -Henry, with a tingling sense of defiance, a little selfconscious about -staying alone with the girls, followed them. - -And after him, walking up the aisle with his odd strutting air of -importance, came the Senator. - -He gathered the young men together in the lobby; pulled at his twisted -beard; said, 'It will give me pleasure to offer you young gentlemen a -little refreshment;' and led the way out to a convenient bar. It was a -large, high-panelled room. There were great mirrors; rows and rows -of bottles and shiny glasses; alcoves with tables; and enormous oil -paintings in still more enormous gilt frames and lighted by special -fixtures built out from the wall. The one over the bar exhibited an -undraped female figure reclining on a couch. - -They stood, a jolly group, naming their drinks. - -Henry, who had no taste for liquor, stood apart, pale, sober, struggling -to exhibit a _savoir faire_ that had no existence in his mercurial -nature. - -'I'll take ginger ale,' he said, in painful self-consciousness. - -The Senator, his somewhat jaunty straw hat thrust back a little way off -his forehead, took Scotch; drank it neat. It seemed to Henry incongruous -when the prim little man tossed the liquor back against his palate with -a long-practised flourish. - -Back in his seat, between Madame and the girl from Omaha, Henry noted -that the Senator had not returned with the others. - -Madame turned and looked up the aisle. - -The lights were dimmed. The curtain rose. - -Cicely was in the row ahead, Herb on one side, Elbow on the other. - -Elbow was calm, casual, humorous in a way, whispering phrases that had -been found amusing by many girls. - -Herb, the only man in what Henry still thought of as a 'full dress -suit,' had a way of turning his head and studying Cicely's hair and -profile whenever she turned toward Elbow, that stirred Henry to anguish. - -'He's rich,' thought Henry, twisting in his chair, clasping and -unclasping his hands. 'He's rich. He can do everything for her. And he -loves her. He couldn't look that way if he didn't.' - -A comedian was singing and dancing on the stage. Cicely watched him, her -eyes alight, her lips parted in a smile of sheer enjoyment. - -'How can she!' he thought. 'How _can_ she!' Then: 'I could do that. If -I'd kept it up. If she'd seen me in _Iolanthe_ maybe she'd care.' - -The curtain fell on a glittering finale. - -With a great chattering the party moved up the aisle. Cicely told her -two escorts that she didn't know when she had enjoyed anything so much. -She was merry about it. Care free as a child. - -Henry stopped short in the foyer; standing aside, half behind a framed -advertisement on an easel; his hands clenched in his coat pockets; white -of face; biting his lip. - -'I can't go with them!' he was thinking. 'It's too much. I can't! I -can't trust myself. I'd say something. But what'll they think? - -'She won't know. She won't care. She's happy--my suffering is nothing to -her.' This was youthful bitterness, of course. But it met an immediate -counter in the following thought, which, to any one who knew the often -selfcentred Henry would have been interesting. 'But that's the way it -ought to be. She mustn't know how I suffer. It isn't her fault. A great -love just comes to you. Nobody can help it. It's tragedy, of course. -Even if I have to--to'--his lip was quivering now--'to shoot myself, I -must leave a note telling her she wasn't to blame. Just that I loved her -too much to live without her. But I haven't any money. I couldn't make -her happy.' - -His eyes, narrow points of fire, glanced this way and that. Almost -furtively. Passion--a grown man's passion--was or seemed to him to be -tearing him to pieces. And he hadn't a grown man's experience of life, -the background of discipline and self-control, that might have helped -him weather the storm. All he could do was to wonder if he had spoken -aloud or only thought these words. He didn't know. Somebody might have -heard. The crowd was still pouring slowly out past him. It seemed to him -incredible that all the world shouldn't know about it. - -The others of the party were somewhere out on the street now. They were -going to a restaurant; then, in their bus, to the twelve-fourteen, the -last train for Sunbury until daylight. - -What could he do if he didn't take that train? He might hide up forward, -in the smoker. But there were a hundred chances that he would be seen. -No, that wouldn't do. He must hurry after them. - -But he flatly couldn't. Why, the tears were coming to his eyes. A little -weakness, whenever he was deeply moved, for which he despised himself. -There was no telling what he might do--cry like a girl, break out into -an impossible torrent of words. A scene. Anywhere; on the street, in the -restaurant. - -No, however awkward, whatever the cost, he couldn't rejoin them, he -couldn't look at Cicely and Elbow and Herb and the others. - -He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough. -He couldn't ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a -week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. -He could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised--fifty or -seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for -Sunbury. - -He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had -talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They -might say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. -It was a sort of way out. - -The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he -would have to go--somewhere. - -A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But -Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame -Watt, still couldn't, for the moment, find place for her in his madly -surging thoughts. - -She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood -before him. - -Then came this brief conversation:-- - -'You haven't seen him, Henry?' - -'No, I haven't.' - -'Hm! Awkward--he took the pledge--he swore it--I am counting on you to -help me.' - -'Of course. Anything!' - -'Were you out with him between the acts?' - -'Why--yes.' - -'Did he drink anything then?' - -'Yes. He took Scotch.' - -'Oh, he did?' - -'Yes'm.' - -'It's all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place? -Be very careful. People mustn't know. And I must count on you. There's -nobody else. We'll manage it, somehow. We've got to keep him quiet and -get him out home. I'll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to -me--have a waiter say I'm wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...' - -It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She -was still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the -waiting groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of -the street in the direction of a certain bar. - - -6 - - -The Senator's cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the -little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew. -The straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the -enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar. - -Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the -alcove, leaned heavily on the table, and watched him. - -The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near -despair, that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had -said. Something about getting word to her--at the restaurant. But how -could he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his -own trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really -tragic problem on his hands, flatly impossible. - -And there wasn't a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out -alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She -couldn't leave her party. And she couldn't bring this pitiable object in -among those young people. - -Henry's lips pressed together. The world looked to him just now a savage -wilderness. - -'Consider women, for instance!' The Senator's hand waved again toward -the picture. It was surprising to Henry that he could speak with such -distinctness. 'Consider women! They toil not, neither do they spin. Yet -at the last, they bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.' - -Henry held his watch under the table; glanced down. It was five minutes -past twelve. For nearly an hour he had been sitting there, helpless, -beating his brain for schemes that wouldn't present themselves. The -twelve-fourteen was as good as gone, of course. Though it had not for a -minute been possible. He thought vaguely, occasionally, of a hotel. But -stronger and more persistent was the feeling that he ought to get him -out home if he could. - -'Women...!' The Senator drooped in his chair. Then looked up; braced -himself; shouted, 'Here, boy! A bit more of the same!' When the glass -was before him he drank, brightened a little, and resumed. 'Woman, my -boy, is th' root--No, I will go farther! I will state that woman is th' -root 'n' branch of all evil.' - -Henry, with a muttered, 'Excuse me, Senator!' got out of the alcove and -stepped outside the door. He stood on the door-step; took off his hat -and pressed a hand to his forehead. - -Across the street, near the side door of the hotel, stood an -old-fashioned closed hack. The driver lay curled up across his seat, -asleep. The horses stood with drooping heads. - -Henry gazed intently at the dingy vehicle. Slowly his eyes narrowed. He -looked again at his watch. Then he moved deliberately across the way and -woke the cabman. - -'Hey!' he cried, as the man fumblingly put on his hat and blinked up the -street and down. 'Hey, you! What'll you take to drive to Sunbury?' - -'Sunbury? Oh, that's a long way. And it's pretty late at night.' - -'I know all that! How much'll you take?' - -The cabman pondered. - -'How many?' - -'Two.' - -'Fifteen dollars.' - -'Oh, say I, that's twice too much! Why----' - -'Fifteen dollars.' - -'But-----' - -'Fifteen dollars.' - -Henry swallowed. He felt very daring. He had heard of fellows and girls -missing the late train and driving out. But the amount usually mentioned -was ten dollars. However... - -'All right. Drive across here.' - -He bent over the Senator, who was talking, still on the one topic, to a -small picture just above Henry's empty seat. - -'We're going home now, Senator. You'd better come with me.' - -'Going home? No, not there. Not there. Back to the Senate, yes. Tha's -different. But not home. If you knew what I've----' - -Henry led him out. But first the Senator, with some difficulty in the -managing, paid his check. Henry would have paid it, but hadn't nearly -enough. It had never occurred to him that a single individual could -spend so large a sum on himself within the space of less, considerably -less, than three hours. - -The cabman and Henry together got him into the hack. - -'They are pop--popularly known as the weaker sex. All a ter'ble mistake, -young man. They're stronger. Li'l do you dream how stronger--how -great--how more stronger they are. Curious about words. At times one -commands them with ease. Other times they elude one. Words are more -tricky--few suspect--but women allure us only to destroy us. Women....' - -Before the cab rolled across the Rush Street Bridge on its long journey -to the northward he was asleep. - - -7 - - -It was half-past two in the morning when a hack drawn by weary horses -on whose flanks the later glistened, drew up at the porte cochère of the -old Dexter Smith place in Sunbury. - -The cabman lumbered down and opened the door. A youth, nervously wide -awake, leaped out. Then followed this brief conversation. - -'Help me carry him up, please.' - -'You'd better pay me first. Fifteen dollars! - -'I'll do that afterward.' - -'I'll take it now.' - -'I tell you I'm going to get it----' - -'You mean you haven't got it?' - -'Not on me.' - -'Well, look here----' - -'Ssh! You'll wake the whole house up! You've simply got to wait until I -get home. You needn't worry. I'm going to pay you.' - -'You'd better. Say, he'd ought to have it on him.' - -'We're not going into his pockets. Now you do as I tell you.' - -Together they lifted him out. - -Henry looked up at the door. Madame Watt, somebody, had left this -outside light burning. Doubtless the thing to do was just to ring the -bell. - -He brushed the cabman aside. The Senator was such a little man, so -pitifully slender and light! And Henry himself was supple and strong. -He took the little old gentleman up in his arms and carried him up -the steps. And once again in the course of this strange night his eyes -filled. - -But not for himself this time. Henry's gift of insight, while it was now -and for many years to come would be fitful, erratic, coming and going -with his intensely varied moods, was none the less a real, at times a -great, gift. And I think he glimpsed now, through the queer confusing -mists of thought, something of the grotesque tragedy that runs, like a -red and black thread, through the fabric of many human lives. - -The Senator had been a famous man. Through nearly two decades, as even -Henry dimly knew, he had stood out, a figure of continuous national -importance. And now he was just--this. Here in Henry's arms; inert. - -'Ring the bell, will you!' said Henry shortly. - -The cabman moved. - -There was a light step within. The lock turned. The door swung open, and -Cicely stood there. - -She was wrapped about in a wonderful soft garment of blue. She was pale. -And her hair was all down, rippling about her shoulders and (when she -stepped quickly back out of the cabman's vision) down her back below the -waist. - -Henry carried his burden in, and she quickly closed the door. - -'Has anybody seen? Does anybody know?' she asked, in a whisper. - -He leaned back against the wall. - -'No. Nobody. But you----' - -'I've been sitting up, watching. I was so afraid aunt might----' - -'Then you know?' - -'Know? Why--Tell me, do you think you can carry him to his room?' - -'Me? Oh, easy! Why he doesn't weigh much of anything. Just look!' - -'Then come. Quickly. Keep very quiet.' - -Slowly, painstakingly, he followed her up the stairs and along the upper -hall to an open door. - -'Wait!' she whispered. 'I'll have to turn on the light.' He laid the -limp figure on the bed. - -Outside, in the still night, the horses stirred and stamped. A -voice--the cabman's--cried,-- - -'Whoa there, you! Whoa!' - -Cicely turned with a start. - -'Oh, why can't he keep still!... You--you'd better go. I don't know why -you're so kind. Those others would never----' - -'Please!--You _do_ know!' - -This remark appeared to add to her distress. She made a quick little -gesture. - -'Oh, no, I don't mean--not that I want you to----' - -'Not so loud! Quick! Please go!' - -'But it's so terribly hard for you. I can't bear--I can't bear to think -of your having to--people just mustn't know about it, that's all! We've -got to do something. She mustn't--You see, I love you, and.... - -Their eyes met. - -A deep dominating voice came from the doorway. - -'You had better go to your room, Cicely,' it said. - -They turned like guilty children. - -Cicely flushed, then quietly went. - -Madame was a strange spectacle. She wore a quilted maroon robe, which -she held clutched together at her throat. Most of the hair that was -usually piled and coiled about her head had vanished; what little -remained was surprisingly gray and was twisted up in front and over the -ears in curl papers of the old-fashioned kind. - -Henry lowered his gaze; it seemed indelicate to look at her. He -discovered then that he was still wearing his hat, and took it off with -a low, wholly nervous laugh that was as surprising to himself as it -certainly was, for a moment, to Madame Watt, who surveyed him under knit -brows before centring her attention on the unconscious figure on the -bed. - -'We owe you a great deal,' she said then. 'It was awkward enough. But it -might have been a disaster. You've saved us from that.' - -'Oh, it was nothing,' murmured Henry, blushing. - -'Are you sure no one saw? You didn't take him to the station?' - -'No. We drove straight out.' - -'Hm! When you came did you ring our bell?' - -'Me? Why, no. I was going to. But----' - -'Yes?' - -'She--your--Miss----' - -'Do you mean Cicely?' - -'Yes. She opened the door.' - -Madame frowned again. - -'But what on earth----' - -Henry interrupted, looking up at her now. - -'I'll tell you. I know. I can see it. And somebody's got to tell you.' - -Madame looked mystified. - -'She couldn't bear to have you know. She was afraid you----' - -Madame raised her free hand. 'We won't go into that.' - -'But we _must_. It was your temper she was----' - -'We wont----' - -'You _must_ listen! Can't you see the dread she lives under--the fear -that you'll forget yourself and people will know! And can't you see -what it drives--him--to? I heard him talk when he was telling his real -thoughts. I know.' - -'Oh, you do!' - -'Yes, I know. And I know this town. They're very conservative. They -watch new people. They're watching you. Like cats. And they'll gossip. I -know that too. I've suffered from it. Things that aren't so. But what -do they care? They'd spoil your whole life--like that!--and go to the -Country Club early to get the best dances. Oh, I know, I tell you. -You've got to be careful. It isn't what I say, but you've _got_ to! Or -they'll find out, and they won't stop till they've hounded you out -of town, and driven him to--this--for good, and broken her--your -niece's--heart.' - -He stopped, out of breath. - -The fire that had flamed from his eyes died down, leaving them like gray -ashes. Confusion smote him. He shifted his feet; turned his hat round -and round between his hands. What--_what_--had he been saying! - -Then he heard her voice, saying only this:-- - -'In a way--in a way--you have a right.... God knows it won't.... So much -at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.' - -He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was -gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn't speak again; not a word. - -She stood aside. - -'It was very good of you,' she said. - -But he rushed past her and down the stairs. - -Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his -temperamental young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending -over him, shaking him and saying, 'Gimme fifteen dollars! I'll explain -to-morrow. Gosh, but I'm a wreck! You've no idea!' - -And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were -piled and fumbling in various pockets for money. - - -8 - - -When Henry awoke, at ten, he found himself alone in the rooms. The warm -sunshine was streaming in, the university clock was booming out the -hour. Then the mellow church bells set up their stately ringing. - -He lay for a time drowsily listening. Then the bells brought -recollections. Madame Watt, and Cicely, and often the Senator attended -the First Presbyterian Church. Right across the alley, facing on Filbert -Avenue. By merely turning his head, Henry could see the rear gable of -the chapel and the windows of the Sunday-school room. - -He sprang out of bed. - -His blue serge coat was spotted. From the table in that bar-room, -doubtless. He found a bottle of ammonia and sponged. It was also in need -of a pressing, but he could do nothing about that now. He had to go to -church. - -No other course was thinkable. If only to sit where he could catch a -glimpse now and then of her profile. - -He heard a knock downstairs, but at first ignored it. No one would be -coming here of a Sunday morning. - -Finally he went down. - -There, on the step, immaculately dressed, rather weary looking with dark -areas under red eyes, stood Senator Watt. - -'How do you do,' said he, with dignity. - -'Won't you come in?' said Henry. - -They mounted the stairs. The Senator sat stiffly on a small chair. Henry -took the piano stool. - -'I understand that you did me a very great service last night, Mr -Calverly.' - -'Oh, no,' Henry managed to say, in a mumbling voice, throwing out his -hands. 'No, it wasn't really anything at all.' - -'You will please tell me what it cost.' - -'Oh--why--well, fifteen dollars.' - -The Senator counted out the money. - -'You have placed me greatly in your debt, Mr Calverly. I hope that I may -some day repay you.' - -'Oh, no! You see...' - -Silence fell upon them. - -The Senator rose to go. - -'Drink,' he remarked then, 'is an unmitigated evil. Never surrender to -it.' - -'I really don't drink at all, Senator.' - -'Good! Don't do it. Life is more complex than a young man of your -age can perceive. At best it is a bitter struggle. Evil habits are a -handicap. They aggravate every problem. Good day. We shall see you soon -again at the house, I trust.' - -Henry, moved, looked after him as he walked almost briskly away--an -erect, precise little man. - -Then Henry went to church. - -Herb de Casselles ushered him to a seat. He could just see Cicely. He -thought she looked very sad. Yet she sang brightly in the hymns. And -after the benediction when Herb and Elbow and Dex Smith crowded about -her in the aisle, she smiled quite as usual, and made her quick, eager -Frenchy gestures. - -He brushed his hand across his eyes Had he been living through a -dream--a tragic sort of dream? - -He made his way, between pews, to a side door, and hurried out. He -couldn't speak to a soul; not now. He walked blindly, very fast, down to -Chestnut Avenue, over to Simpson Street, then up toward the stores and -shops. - -Humphrey had a way of working at the office Sundays. He decided to go -there. There was the matter of the fifteen dollars. And Humphrey would -expect him for their usual Sunday dinner at Stanley's. - -He was passing Stanley's now. Next came Donovan's drug store. Next -beyond that, Swanson's flower shop. - -A carriage--a Victoria--rolled softly by on rubber tyres. Silver jingled -on the harness of the two black horses. Two men in plum-coloured livery -sat like wooden things on the box. On the rear seat were Madame Watt and -Cicely. - -The carriage drew up before Swanson's. Madame Watt got heavily out and -went into the shop. - -Cicely had turned. She was waving her hand. - -Henry found his vision suddenly blurred. Then he was standing by the -carriage, and Cicely was speaking, leaning over close to him so that the -men couldn't hear. - -'It was dreadful the way I let you go! I didn't even say good-night. And -all the time I wanted you to know....' - -He couldn't speak. He stared at her, lips compressed; temples pounding. - -She seemed to be smiling faintly. - -'We--we might say good-night now.' - -He heard her say that. - -She thought he shivered. Then he said huskily:-- - -'I--I've wanted to call you--to call you--' - -'Yes?' - -'--Cicely.'. - -There was a silence. She whispered, 'I think I've wanted you to.' - -He had rested a hand on the plum upholstery beside her. In some way it -touched hers; clasped it; gripped it feverishly. - -The colour came rushing to his face. And to hers. - -He saw, through a blinding mist, that there were tears in her eyes. - -'Ci--Cicely, you don't, you can't mean--that you--too....' - -'Please, Henry! Not here! Not now!' - -They glanced up the street; and down. - -'Come this afternoon,' she breathed. - -'They'll be there.' - -'Come early. Two o'clock. We'll take a walk.' - -'Oh--Cicely!' - -'Henry!' - -Their hands were locked together until Madame came out. - -The carriage rolled away. - -Henry--it seemed to himself--reeled dizzily along Simpson Street to the -stairway that you climbed to get to the _Gleaner_ office. - -And all along this street of his struggles, his failures, his one or two -successes, his dreams, the dingy, two-story buildings laughed and danced -and cheered about him, with him, for him--Hemple's meat-market, Berger's -grocery, Swanson's, Donovan's, Schultz and Schwartz's barber shop, -Stanley's, the Sunbury National Bank, the postoffice--all reeled -jubilantly with him in the ecstasy of young love! - - - - -IX--WHAT'S MONEY! - - -1 - - -|Henry paused on the sill. The door he held open bore the legend, -painted in black and white on a rectangle of tin:-- - -THE SUNBURY WEEKLY GLEANER - -By Weaver and Calverly - -'How late you going to stay, Hump?' he asked. - -Humphrey raised his eyes, listlessly thrust his pencil back of his ear, -and looked rather thoughtfully at the youth in the doorway; a dapper -youth, in an obviously new 'Fedora' hat, a conspicuous cord of black -silk hanging from his glasses, his little bamboo cane, caught by its -crook in the angle of his elbow. - -Humphrey's gaze wandered to the window; settled on the roof of the -Sunbury National Bank opposite. He suppressed a sigh. - -'I may want to talk with you, Hen. I've been figuring----' - -The youth in the doorway shifted his position with a touch of -impatience. - -'See here, Hump, you know I can't make head or tail out of figures!' - -Humphrey looked down at the desk. - -'Anyway I'll see you at supper,' Henry added defensively. - -'Mildred expects me down there for supper,' said Humphrey. The sigh came -now. He pushed up the eyeshade and slowly rubbed his eyes. 'But I may -not be able to get away. There are times, Hen, when you have to look -figures in the face.' - -The youth flushed at this, and replied, rather explosively;-- - -'A fellow has to do the sorta thing he _can_ do, Hump!' - -'Well--will you be at the rooms this evening?' Humphrey's eyes were -again taking in the natty costume. And surveying him, Humphrey answered -his own question; dryly. 'I imagine not.' - -'Well--I was going over to the Watts.' - -There was a long silence: - -Finally Henry let himself slowly out and closed the door. - -Outside, on the landing, he paused again; but this time to button his -coat and pull up the blue-bordered handkerchief in his breast pocket -until a corner showed. - -He looked too, by the fading light--it was mid-September, and the sun -would be setting shortly, out over the prairie--at the tin legend on the -door. - -The sight seemed to reassure him somewhat. As did the other, similar -tin legends that were tacked up between the treads of the long flight of -stairs that led to Simpson Street, at each of which he turned to look. - -Humphrey had before him a pile of canvas-bound account books, a spindle -of unpaid bills, a little heap of business letters, and a pad covered -with pencilled columns. He rested an elbow among the papers, turned his -chair, and looked through the window down into the street. - -A moment passed, then he saw Henry walking diagonally across toward -Donovan's drug store. - -For an ice-cream soda, of course; or one of those thick, 'frosted' -fluids of chocolate or coffee flavour that he affected. And it was now -within an hour of supper time. - -Humphrey leaned forward. Yes, there he stood, on the kerb before -Donovan's, looking, with a quick nervous jerking of the head, now up -Simpson Street, now down. Yes, that was his hurry--the usual thing. -Madame Watt made a point of driving down to meet the five-twenty-nine -from town. Senator Watt always came out then. And usually Cicely Hamlin -came along with her. - -Humphrey sighed, rose, stood looking down at the bills and letters and -canvas books; pressed a hand again against his eyes; wandered to the -press-room door and looked, pursing his lips, knitting his brows, at -the row of job presses, at the big cylinder press that extended nearly -across the rear end of the long room, at the row of type cases on their -high stands, at imposing-stones on heavy tables. He sniffed the odour -of ink, damp paper, and long, respected dust that hung over the whole -establishment. He smiled, moodily, as his eye rested on the gray -and black roller towel that hung above the iron sink, recalling Bob -Burdette's verses. He returned to the office, and stood for a few -moments before the file of the _Gleaner_ on the wall desk by the door, -turning the pages of recent issues. From each number a story by Henry -Calverly, 3rd, seemed to leap out at his eyes and his brain. _The Caliph -of Simpson Street, Sinbad the Treasurer, A Kerbstone Barmecide, The -Cauliflowers of the Caliph, The Printer and the Pearls, Ali Anderson -and the Four Policemen_--the very titles singing aloud of the boy's -extraordinary gift. - -'And it's all we've got here,' mused Humphrey, moving back to his own -desk. 'That mad child makes us, or we break. I've got to humour him, -protect him. Can't even show him these bills. Like getting all your -light and heat from a candle that may get blown out any minute.' And -before dropping heavily into his chair, glancing at his watch, drawing -his eye-shade down, and plunging again at the heavy problem of keeping -a country weekly alive without sufficient advertising revenue, he added, -aloud, with a wry, wrinkly smile that yet gave him a momentary whimsical -attractiveness: 'That's the devil of it!' - -There was a step on' the stairs. - -The door opened slowly. A red face appeared, under a tipped-down Derby -hat; a face decorated with a bristling red moustache and a richly -carmine nose. - -Humphrey peered; then considered. It was Tim Niernan, one-time fire -chief, now village constable. - -'Young Calverly here?' asked the official in a husky voice. - -Humphrey shook his head. His thoughts, momentarily disarranged, were -darting this way and that. - -'What is it, Tim? What do you want of him?' - -Tim seemed embarrassed. - -'Why----' he began, 'why----' - -'Some trouble?' - -'Why, you see Charlie Waterhouse's suing him.' - -Humphrey tried to consider this. - -'What for?' - -'Well--libel. One o' them stories o' his. I liked 'em myself. My folks -all say he's a great kid. But Charlie's pretty sore.' - -'Suing for a lot, I suppose?' - -'Why yes. Well--ten thousand.' - -'Hm!' - -'He lives with you, don't he--back of the Parmenter place?' - -'Yes.' Humphrey's answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to -make Tim's task easy. - -The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed -Donovan's on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake. - -Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read _Sinbad -the Treasurer_ through. - -There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson -Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer, -whether you called him 'Sinbad' or Waterhouse. - -'He certainly did cut loose,' mused Humphrey. 'Charlie's got a case. Got -his nerve, too.' - -Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet, -tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil. - - -2 - - -Henry turned away from Donovan's soda fountain, wiping froth from his -moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were -knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness, -intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up -the street, now down. - -A low-hung Victoria, drawn by a glossy team in harness that glittered -with silver, swung at a dignified pace around the corner of Filbert -Avenue, two wooden men in plum-coloured livery on the box, two -dignified figures on the rear seat, one middle-aged, large, formidable, -commanding, sitting erect and high, the other slighter and not -commanding. - -Instantly, at the sight, Henry's frown gave place to a nervously eager -smile, returned, went again. When the carriage at length drew up before -Berger's grocery, across the way, however, he had both frown and smile -under reasonable control and was a presentable if deadly serious young -man. - -The footman leaped down and stood at attention. The formidable one -stepped out and entered Berger's. And the slight, fresh-faced girl, -leaned out to welcome the youth who rushed across the street. - -In Sunbury, in the nineties, a youth and a maiden could 'go together' -without a thought of the future. The phrase implied frank pairing off, -perhaps an occasionally shyly restrained sentimental passage, in general -a monopoly of the other's spare time. An 'understanding,' on the other -hand, was a. distinctly transitive state, leading to engagement and -marriage as soon as the youth was old enough or could earn a living or -the opposition of parents could be overcome. - -The relationship between Cicely and Henry had lately hovered delicately -between the two states. If it seemed, after each timid advance, to -recede from the 'understanding' point; that was because of the burdens -and the heavy responsibility that instantly claimed their thoughts at -the mere suggestion of engagement and marriage: - -There were among the parents of Henry's boyhood friends, couples that -had married at twenty or even younger, and on no greater income than -Henry's rather doubtful twelve dollars a week. But that day had gone by. -An 'understanding' meant now, at the very least, that you were saving -for a diamond. You could hardly ask a nice girl to become engaged -without one. - -And marriage meant good clothes for parties, receptions and Sundays, and -the street; it meant membership in the Country Club, a reasonably priced -pew in church, a rented house, at least, preferably not in South Sunbury -and distinctly not out on the prairie or too near the tracks, a certain -amount invested in furniture, dishes and other house fittings, and -reasonable credit with the grocer and at the meat-market. You could -hardly ask a nice girl to go in for less than that. You really couldn't -afford to let her go in for less. - -So they were marrying later now; six or eight or ten years later. And -the girls were turning to older men. Here in Sunbury, Clemency Snow had -married a man seven or eight years older whose younger brother had been -among her playmates. Jane Bellman had married a shy little doctor of -thirty-one or two. And Martha Caldwell, whom Henry had 'gone with' for -two or three years, was permitting the rich, really old bachelor, -James B. Merchant, Jr., to devote about all his time to her. He was -thirty-eight if a day. - -It was a disturbing condition for the town boys. Thoughts of it cast -black shadows on Henry's undisciplined brain as he looked at the girl in -the Victoria, felt, in the very air about them, her quick, bright -smile, the delicately responsive liftings of her eyebrows, her marked -desirability. - -'Oh, Henry,' she was saying, 'I've just been hearing the most wonderful -things about you! You can't imagine! At Mrs MacLouden's tea. There was a -man there----' - -Henry sniffed. A man at a tea! And talking to Cicely! Making up to her, -doubtless. - -'--a friend of Mr Merchant's, from New York. And what do you think? Mr -Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He's been -keeping them. Isn't that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this man -says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at your -age. Henry--just _think!_' - -But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of -the man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones. - -He leaned over the wheel. - -'Cicely--you--you're expecting me to-night?' - -'Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I'd like to have you come.' - -'But weren't you _expecting_ me?' - -'Why--yes, Henry. - -'Of course'--stiffly--'if you'd rather I wouldn't come...' - -'Please, Henry! You mustn't. Not here on the street!' He stood, flushing -darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.' - -She murmured:-- - -'You know I want you to come.' - -This was unsatisfactory. Indeed he hardly heard it. He was full of his -thoughts about her, about the older men, about those tremendous -burdens that he couldn't even pretend to assume. And then came a mad -recklessness. - -'Oh, Cicely--this is awful--I just can't stand it! Why can't we have an -understanding? Call it that? Stop all this uncertainty! I--I--I've just -got to speak to your aunt----' - -'Henry! Please! Don't say those things---' - -'That's it! You won't let me say them.' - -'Not here----' - -'Oh, please, Cicely! Please! I know I'm not earning much; but I'll be -twenty-one on the seventh of November and then I'll have more'n three -thousand dollars. Please let me tell her that, Cicely. Oh, I know it -wouldn't do to spend all the principal,--but it would go a long way -toward setting us up--you know--' his voice trembled, dropped even -lower, as with awe--'get the things we'd need when we were--you -know--well, married.' - -He felt, as he poured out this mumbled torrent of words, that he -was rushing to a painful failure. Cicely had drawn back. She looked -bewildered, and tired. And he had fetched up in a black maze of -despairing thoughts. - -The footman must have heard part of it. He was standing very straight. -And the coachman was staring out over the horses. He had probably heard -too. - -Then Madame Watt came sailing out Of Berger's; fixed her hawk eyes on -him with a curious interest. - -He knew that he lifted his hat. He saw, or half saw, that Cicely tried -to smile. She did bob her head in the bright quick way she had. - -Then the Victoria rolled away, and he was standing, one foot in the -street, the other on the kerb, gazing after them through a mist of -something so near tears that he was reduced to a painful struggle to -gain even the appearance of self-control. - -And then, for a quarter-hour, mood followed mood so fast that they -almost maddened him. - -He thought of old Hump, up there in the office, fighting out their -common battle. Perhaps he ought to go back; do his best to understand -the accounts. Figures always depressed him. No matter. He would go back. -He would show Hump that he could at least be a friend. Yes, he could at -least show that. Thing to do was to keep thinking of the other fellow. -Forget yourself. That was the thing! - -But what he did, first, was to cross over to Swanson's flower shop and -sternly order violets. Paid cash for them. - -'Miss Cicely Hamlin?' asked the Swanson-girl. - -'Yes,' growled Henry, 'for Miss Hamlin. Send them right over, please.' - -Then he walked around the block; muttering aloud; starting; -glancing-about; muttering again. He could hardly go to Cicely's. Not -this evening! Not when she had been willing to leave it like that. - -He meant to go, of course. Too early. By seven-thirty or so. But he told -himself he wouldn't do it. She would have to write him. Or lose him. He -would wait in dignified silence. - -The early September twilight was settling down on Sunbury. - -Lights came on, here and there. The dusk was a relief. - -He had wrecked everything. It wasn't so much that he had proposed an -understanding. In the circumstances she couldn't altogether object to -that. It was risking the vital, final decision, of course. But that, -sooner or later, would have to be risked. That was something a man had -to face, and go through, and be a sport about. No, the trouble seemed -to be that he had lost himself. He had made it awkward, impossible, -for both of them. Through his impatience he had created an impossible -situation. And in losing himself he had lost her, and lost her in the -worst way imaginable. He had contrived to make an utterly ridiculous -figure of himself, and, in a measure, of her. He had to set his teeth -hard on that thought, and compress his lips. - -He was on Simpson Street again. Yellow gas-light shone out of the -windows of the _Gleaner_ offices, over Hemple's. Old Hump was hard at -it. - -He went up there. - - -3 - - -Humphrey was sitting there, chin on chest, long legs stretched under the -desk. He didn't look up; only a slight start and a movement of one hand -indicated that he heard. - -Henry stood, confused, a thought alarmed, looking at him; moved -aimlessly to his own desk and stirred papers about; came, finally, -and sat on a corner of the exchange table, tapping his cane nervously -against his knee. - -'Aren't going to stay here all night, are you, Hump?' he asked, rather -huskily. - -Humphrey's hand moved again; he didn't speak. - -'Hump! What's the matter? Anything happened?' - -Still no answer. - -'But you know we're picking up in advertising, Hump?' - -'Not near enough.' This was a non-committal growl. - -'And see the way our circulation's been----' - -'Losing money on it. Can't carry it.' - -'But--but, Hump----' - -The senior partner waved his hand. His face was gray and grim, his voice -restrained. He even smiled as he deliberately filled his pipe. - -'It's bad, Hen. Very, very bad. I've tried to keep you from worrying, -but you've got to know now. We paid a little over two thousand for this -plant and the good will. - -'Cheap enough, wasn't it?' cried Henry. - -'If we'd really got her for that, yes. But look at the capital it takes. -Building up. I had just a thousand more, a bond. Threw that in last -month, you know.' - -'Oh'--breathed Henry, fright in his eyes--'I forgot about that.' - -'And you can't raise a cent.' - -Henry tried to think this over. He started to speak; swallowed; slipped -off the table; stood there; lifted his cane and sighted along it out the -window. - -'I can--November seventh,' he finally remarked. - -Humphrey blew a smoke-ring; followed it with his eyes. - -'My boy, nations, worlds, constellations, may crash between now and -November seventh.' - -'I--I could tackle my uncle again,' murmured Henry, out of a despairing -face. - -There was at times an acid quality in Humphrey. Henry felt it in him -now, as he said dryly:-- - -'As I recall your last transaction with your uncle, Hen, he told -you finally that you couldn't have one cent of your principal before -November seventh.' - -'He--well, yes, he did say that.' - -'Meant it, didn't he?' - -'Y--yes. He meant it.' - -'He's a business man, I believe.' Humphrey smoked for a moment; then -added, with that same biting quality in his voice, 'And unless -he's insane he would hardly put money into this business now. As it -stands--or doesn't stand. And I presume he's not insane. No, we'll drop -that subject.' - -Henry felt Humphrey's eyes on him. Sombre cold eyes. And he fell again, -in his misery, to sighting along his cane. It seemed to Henry that the -world was reeling to disaster. His young, over keen imagination was -painting ugly, inescapable pictures of a savage world in which all -effort seemed to fail. - -Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider -every minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He -was afraid he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, -meaningless, mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that -fear. - -If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair--and he -was in despair--was neither the sorry condition of the business, nor -the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the -hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey's face and eyes and caught -that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn't -endure hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly -sympathy, an easy give and take of the spirit in which his _naïveté_ -would not be misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, -apparently, the only soil in which his faculties could take root and -grow. Hostility in those he had been led to trust disarmed him, crushed -him. - -'Hump,' he ventured now, weakly, 'I think--maybe--you'd better show me -those figures. I--I'll try to understand 'em. I will.' - -Humphrey gave a little snort; brushed the idea away with a sweep of a -long hand. - -'No use!' he said brusquely. He rolled down the desktop and locked it -with a snap. 'Getting stale myself. Sleep on it. Not a thing you can do, -Hen!' He knocked the ashes from his pipe, gloomily. Buttoned his vest. -Suddenly he broke out with this:-- - -'You're a lucky brute, Hen!' - -Henry started; glanced up; fumbled at his moustache. 'You're wondering -why I said that. But, man, you're a genius--Yes, you are! I have to plug -for it. But you've got the flare. You know well enough what's loaded all -this circulation on us. Your stories! Not a thing else. You'll do more -of 'em. You'll be famous.' - -'Oh, no, Hump I You don't know how I've----' - -'Yes, you'll be famous. I won't. It's a gift--fame, success. It's a sort -of edge God--or something--puts on a man. A cutting edge. You've simply -got it. I simply haven't.' - -Henry pulled and pulled at his moustache. - -'And you've got a girl--a lovely girl. She's mad about you--oh, yes she -is! I know. I've seen her look at you.' - -'But, Hump, you don't just know what----' - -'She doesn't have to hide her feelings. Not seriously, not with a lying -smile. And you don't have to hide yours. You haven't got this furtive -rope around your neck, strangling the breath of decent morality out of -your soul. Thank God you don't know what it means--that struggle. She'll -be announcing her engagement one of these days. - -'There'll be presents and flowers. You'll get stirred up and write -something a thousand times better than you know how to write. Money will -come--oh, yes it will! It'll roll to you, Hen. For a time. Or at times. -And you'll marry--a nice clean wedding. God, just to think of it is like -the May winds off the lake!' - -He threw out his long arms. Henry thought, perversely enough, that he -looked like Lincoln. - -'But the greatest thing of all is that you're twenty. Think of it! -Twenty!... Hen, when I was twenty I put my life on a schedule for five -years. They were up last month. - -'I was to be flying at twenty-four. Think of it--flying! Through the -air, man! Like a gull! At twenty-five I was to be famous and rich. A -conqueror! I slaved for that. Worked days and nights and Sundays for -that. Sweated for the Old Man there on the _Voice_; put up with his -stupid little insults.' - -He sprang up; got into his coat; looked at his watch. - -'I'm late. Got to stop at the rooms too. Mildred'll be wondering. You -can stay here if you like.' - -But Henry clung to him. Around the back street they went. And Humphrey -talked on. - -'Well, I'm twenty-five! And where've I got? I love a woman. Hen, I hope -you'll never be torn as I'm torn now. You think you've been through -things. Why, you're an innocent babe. I've got a woman's name--and -that's a woman's life, Hen!--in my hands. It's a muddle. Maybe there's -tragedy in it. May never work out. Sometimes I feel as if we were going -straight over a precipice, she and I. It goes dark. It suffocates me.... -It's costing me everything. It'll take money--a lot of it--money I -haven't got. If the paper goes, my last hopes go with it. If we can't -turn that corner. Everything comes down bang. No use.' - -Henry tried to say, 'Oh, I guess we'll turn our corner all right;' but -if the words passed his lips at all it was only as a whisper. - -They were a hundred feet from the alley back of Parmenter's. It was dark -now, there in the shade of the double row of maples. Humphrey stopped -short; pressed his hands to his eyes; then looked at Henry. - -'You coming to the rooms, too?' he asked. - -Henry nodded. - -'I don't know's I--I was forgetting, so many things--Oh well, come -along. It hardly matters.' - -At the alley entrance a man intercepted them; said, 'This is Henry -Calverly, ain't it?' Struck a match and read an extraordinary mumble -of words. He struck other matches, and read hurriedly on. Then he moved -apologetically away, leaving Henry backed limply against a board fence. - -Humphrey stood waiting, a tall shadow of a man. To him Henry turned, -feeling curiously weak in the legs and gone at the stomach. - -'What is it?' he asked, weakly, meekly. 'I couldn't understand. Did he -ar--arrest me or something?' - -'Charlie Waterhouse has sued you for libel. Ten thousand dollars. Come -on. I can't wait.' - -'But--but--but that's foolish. He can't----' - -'That's how it is.' Humphrey was grim. - -They walked in silence up the alley. Henry stood by while his partner -unlocked the neat front door to the old barn, a white door, with one -white step and an iron scraper. He could just make them out in the dusk. -He wondered if he mightn't presently wake up and find it a dream.... Old -Hump! - -They stood in the shop. Humphrey had switched on one light; he looked -now, his face deeply seamed, his eyes a little sunken, at the dim -shadowy metal lathes, the huge reels of copper wire, the tool benches, -the rows of wall boxes filled with machine parts, the small electric -motors hanging by twisted strings or wires from the ceiling joists, the -heavy steel wheels in frames, the great box kites and the spruce and -silk planes, in sections, the gas engine, the water motor, the wheels, -shafts, and belting overhead. - -He bent his sombre eyes on Henry. - -That youth, aching at heart, bruised of spirit, unaware of the figure he -made, was too far gone to be further puzzled by the weary, mocking smile -that flitted across Humphrey's face. - -'Hump!' he cried out: 'What'll we do!' - -'Do? Sleep over it. Raise some more money?' - -'But how?' - -Humphrey waved a hand at the machinery. 'All this. And my library -upstairs. They've stood me more'n four thousand, altogether. Ought to -fetch something.' - -'But--but--ten thousand!' Henry whispered the amount with awe as well as -misery. - -'Oh, _that!_ Your trouble! Why, you'll sleep over that, too, and -to-morrow I suppose you'll talk to Harry Davis's father.' The senior -Davis, Arthur P., was a Simpson Street lawyer. 'They'll sting you. But -they don't expect any ten thousand.' - -'But what I said is _true!_ Charlie Waterhouse is a----' - -'What's that got to do with it. You can't prove it. And we aren't strong -enough to hire counsel and detectives and run him to earth. Doesn't look -as if we had the barest breath of life in us. Charlie'll think of your -uncle next, and attach your mother's estate.' - -He said this with unusual roughness. Then he went upstairs; stamped -around for a brief time; came hurrying down. - -Henry, now, was sitting dejectedly on a work-bench. - -'Hump--please!--you don't know how I feel. I----' - -'And,' replied the senior partner, 'I don't care. I don't care how I -feel, either. We either save the paper this week or we don't. That's -what I care about right now.' - -'I--I won't let you sell your things, Hump.' An unconvincing assertion, -from the limp figure on the bench. - -'You?' Humphrey stared at him with something near contempt--stared at -the moustache and the cane. 'You? You won't let me?... For God's sake, -_shut up!_' - -With which he went out, slamming the door. - -For a time Henry continued to sit there. Then he dragged himself -upstairs, went to his bookcase and got the book entitled _Will Power and -Self Mastery_. - -He turned the pages until he hit upon these paragraphs:--'Every machine, -every cathedral, every great ship was a thought before it could become a -fact. Build in your brain. - -'Through the all-enveloping ether drifts the invisible electricity that -is all life, all energy. Open yourself to it. Make yourself a conductor. -Stupidity and fear are resistants; cast these out. Make your brain a -dynamo and drive the world.' - -This seemed a good idea. - - -4 - - -Arthur P. Davis was just rising from the supper table when the door-bell -rang. He answered it himself; found young Calverly there, in a state of -haggard but vigorous youthful intensity. He contrived, after a slight -initial difficulty, to draw out of the curiously verbose youth the -essential facts. He considered the matter with a deliberation and -caution that appeared irritating to the boy. But he had read and (in -the bosom of his family) chuckled over _Sinbad the Treasurer_. He had -wondered a little, though he didn't mention the fact to Henry, whether -Charlie wouldn't sue. Charlie had a case. - -When Henry left, clearly still in a confused condition, it was Mr -Davis's impression that Henry had placed the matter in his hands as -counsel and further had distinctly agreed to shut his head. - -Henry apparently understood it differently. Or, more likely, he didn't -understand at all. Henry was, at the moment, a storm centre with -considerable emotional disturbance still to come. Any one who has -followed Henry, who knows him at all, will understand that such -disturbance within him led directly and always to action. Whatever he -may have said to Mr Davis, he was helpless. He had to function in his -own way. Probably Mr Davis's use in the situation was to stimulate -Henry's already overactive brain. Hardly more. - -Certainly it was hardly later than a quarter or twenty minutes past -seven when Henry appeared at Charlie Waterhouse's place on Douglass -Street. - -The town treasurer was on the lawn, shifting his sprinkler by the light -of the arc lamp on the corner and smoking his after-supper cigar. - -The conversation took place across the picket fence, one of the few -surviving in Sunbury at this time. - -Henry said, fiercely:-- - -'I want to talk to you about that libel suit.' - -'Can't talk to me, Henry. You'll have to see my lawyer.' - -'Yay-ah, I know. I've got a lawyer too.' - -'All right. Let 'em talk to each other.' - -'You know you can't get any ten thousand dollars.' - -'Can't talk about that.' - -'Yes, you can. You gotta.' - -'Oh, I've gotta, have I?' - -'Yes, you bet you have. Some people seem to think you've got a case.' - -'Guess there ain't much doubt about that.' - -'Mebbe there ain't. Even if what I said was true.' - -'Look here, Henry, I don't care to have this kind o' talk going on -around here. You better go along.' - -'Go along nothing! I'll say every word of it. And what's more, you'll -listen. No, don't you go. You stand right there.' - -Charlie, a stoutish man in an alpaca coat, with a florid countenance -and a huge moustache, gave a moment's consideration to the blazing young -crusader before him. The boy wasn't going to be any too easy to handle. -He had no need to see him clearly to become aware of that fact. Charlie -shifted his cigar. - -'Lemme put it this way. S'pose you could sting me. You'd never get ten -thousand. But s'pose, after I get through talking, you decide to go -ahead and push the case-----' - -'Push the case? Well, rather!' - -'Wait a minute! All right, let's say you're going ahead and fight for -part o' that ten thousand. What you think you could get. Then what'm I -going to do?' - -'Do you suppose I care what----' - -'Oh, yes you do! Now listen! I want you to get this straight. You----' - -'_You_ want _me_ to----' - -'Keep still! Now here's----' - -'Look here, I won't have you----' - -'Yes, you will! Listen. If you fight, I'll fight. I'll go straight after -you. I'll run you to earth. I'll hire detectives to shadow you. I _know_ -you ain't straight, and I'll show you up before the whole dam town. I'm -right and I tell you right here I'm going to _prove_ it! I'll put you in -prison! I'll----' - -During most of this speech Charlie was talking too. But in so low a tone -that he could hardly miss what Henry was saving. He broke in now with a -loud:-- - -'Shut up!' - -Henry stopped really because he was out of breath. It gratified him -to see that neighbours were appearing in their lighted windows. And a -youthful chorus on a porch across the way was suddenly hushed. - -'Came here to make a scene, did you? Well, I'll----' - -'No, I didn't come here to make a scene. I came here to make you listen -to reason and I'm going to do it.' - -'Well, drop your voice a little, can't you! No sense in yelling our -private affairs.' - -'Sure I'll drop my voice. You're the one that started the yelling.' - -'Well, I don't say you couldn't make it hard for any man in my position -if you want to be nasty--fight that way.' - -'You wait!' - -'But what I'd like to know is--what I'd like to know... Where you goin' -to get the money to hire all those detectives?' - -'Where'm I going to get the money to pay you if you win the suit?' - -Though Charlie came back with, 'Oh, I'll win the suit all right, -all right!' this was clearly a facer. He added, pondering, 'I guess -Munson'll manage to attach anything you've got.' But he was at sea. -'Fine dirty idea o' yours, hounding a decent man, with detectives.' And -finally, 'Well, what do you want?' - -'Listen! S'pose you did win. You'd never get ten thousand.' - -'I'd get five.' - -'No, you wouldn't. Why don't you act sensible and tell me what you'll -take to stop it.' - -'I'd have to think that over.' - -'You tell me now or I'll bust this town open.' - -'No good talking that way, Henry. Can you get any money?' - -'Tell you for sure in twenty-four hours.' - -'But it ain't the money. You've assailed my character. That's what -you've done. Will you retract in print?' - -'No, I won't. But if you'll come down to a decent price and promise to -call off the boycott----' - -'What boycott?' - -'Advertising. You know. You do that, and I'll agree to leave you alone. -Somebody else'll have to find you out, that's all. I've gotta help Hump -Weaver pull the _Gleaner_ out. I guess that's my job now.' - -He said this last sadly. He had read stories of wonderful young -St Georges who slew a dozen political dragons at a time. Who never -compromised or gave hostages to fortune. But there was only one chance -for the paper and for old Hump. That chance was here and now. - -He was sorry he couldn't see Charlie Waterhouse's face. 'What'll you -give?' asked that worthy, after thoughtfully chewing, his cigar. - -'A thousand.' - -'Lord, no. Four thousand.' - -'That's impossible.' - -'Three, then.' - -'No, I won't pay anything like three.' - -'I wouldn't go a cent under two.' - -'Well--two thousand then. All right. I'll let you know by to-morrow -night.' - -'You understand, Henry, it ain't the money. It's for the good o' the -town I'm doing it. To keep peace, y' understand. That's why I'm doing -it. Y' understand that, Henry.' He actually reached over the fence and -hung to the boy's arm. - -'We'd better shake hands on it,' said Henry. - -'Sure! I'll stand by it, if you will.' - -'I will. Good-bye, now.' - -And Henry, somewhat confused regarding his ethical position, depressed -at the thought that you couldn't rise altogether out of this hard world, -that you had to live right in it, compromise with it, let yourself be -soiled by it--Henry, his eyes down to beads, flushed about the temples, -caught the eight-six to Chicago. - -He rode out to the West Side on a cable-car. It is an interesting item -to note in the rather zig-zag development of Henry's highly emotional -nature that he never once weakened during that long ride. He was burning -up, of course. It was like that wonderful week when he had written day -and night, night and day, the Simpson Street stories. But it was, in a -way, glorious. That ethereal electricity was flowing right through him. -The Power was on him. He knew, not in his surface mind but in the deeper -seat of all belief, in his feelings, that he couldn't be stopped or -headed. Not to-night. - - -5 - - -'You are not altogether clear, Henry. Let me understand this.' - -The scene was Uncle Arthur's 'den.' - -Henry had run the gauntlet of his cousins. Rich young cousins, brought -up to respect their parents and think themselves poor. It was a proper -home, with order, cleanliness, method shining out. He resented it. He -resented them all. - -Uncle Arthur was thin, and penetrating. His eyes bored at you. His nose -was sharp, his brow furrowed. It seemed to Henry that he was always -scowling a little. - -His light sharp voice was going on, stating a disentangled, re-arranged -version of Henry's extraordinary outbursts:-- - -'This man, the town treasurer, is suing you for libel, and you are -advised that he has a case? But he will settle for two thousand -dollars?' - -'Yes. He will.' - -'And you have come to me with the idea that I will pay over your -mother's money for the purpose?' - -'Well, I'll be twenty-one anyway in less'n two months. But that -ain't--isn't--it exactly, not all of it. I've really got to have the -whole three thousand.' - -'Oh, you have?' - -'Yes. It's like this. We bought the _Gleaner_, Hump Weaver and I. And -we got it cheap, too. Two thousand--for plant, good will, the big press, -everything.' - -'Hmm!' - -'Then I wrote those stories. They jumped our circulation way up. More'n -we can afford. Queer about that. Because the paper'd been attacking -Charlie Waterhouse, they got the advertiser's to boycott us.' - -'Oh!' - -'Now Charlie's promised me, if I pay him, to call off the boycott. It'll -give us all the Simpson Street advertising. And Hump says we'll fail in -a week if we don't get it.' - -'Henry!' Uncle Arthur's voice rang out with unpleasant clarity. 'You got -from me a thousand dollars of your mother's estate. You sank it in this -paper. I let you have that thinking it would bring you to your senses. - -It has not brought you to your senses. That is evident.... Now I am -going to tell you something extremely serious. - -I tell you this because I believe that you are not, for one thing, -dishonest. I have discovered that when I gave you that sum and took -your receipt I was not protected. You are a minor. You cannot, in law, -release me from my obligation as your guardian. After you have come of -age you could collect it again from me.' - -'Oh, Uncle Arthur, I wouldn't do _that!_' - -'I am sure you wouldn't. But you can readily see, now, that it is -utterly impossible for me to make any further advances to you. Even if I -were willing. And I am distinctly not willing.' - -'But listen, Uncle Arthur! You've got to!' - -The scowl of this narrow-faced man deepened. - -'I don't care for impudence, Henry. We will not talk further about -this.' - -'But we must, Uncle Arthur! Don't you see, I've got to pay Charlie, and -have Mr Davis get his receipt and the papers signed before they learn -about you, or they'll attach the estate. Why, Charlie might get all of -it, and more too. They might just wreck me. I mustn't lose a minute.' - -Uncle Arthur sat straight up at this. Henry thought he looked even more -deeply annoyed. But he spoke, after a long moment, quite calmly. - -'You are right there. That is a point. Putting it aside for a moment, -what were you proposing to do with the other thousand dollars?' - -Henry felt the sharp eyes focusing on him. He sprang up. His words came -hotly. - -'Because Hump has put in a thousand more'n I have now. He said to-night -he'd have to sell his library and his--his own things. I can't let him -do that. I _won't_ let him. I've got to stand with him.' Henry choked up -a little now. - -'Hump's my friend, Uncle Arthur. He's steady and honest and----' He -faltered momentarily; Uncle Arthur was peculiarly the sort of person you -couldn't tell about Humphrey's love affair; he wouldn't be able then to -see his strong points.... 'He edits the paper and gets the pay-roll and -goes out after the ads. And he _hates_ it! But he's a wonderful fighter. -I won't desert him. I won't! I can't!... Uncle Arthur, why won't you -come out and see our place and meet Hump and let him show you our books -and how our circulation's jumped and...' - -His voice trailed off because Uncle Arthur too had sprung to his feet -and was pacing the room. Henry's arguments, his earnestness and young -energy, something, was telling on him. Finally he turned and said, in -that same quiet voice:-- - -'All right, Henry. I'll run out to-morrow and put this thing through for -you. But----' - -'Oh, no, Uncle Arthur! You mustn't do that! Not to-morrow! Charlie'd get -wise. Or some of that gang. Everybody in town'd know you were there. No, -_that_ wouldn't do!' - -Uncle Arthur took another turn about the room. - -'Just what is it that you want, Henry?' he asked, in that same quiet -voice. - -'Why, let's see! You'd better give me two thousand in one cheque and one -thousand in another. Mr Davis can fix it so your cheque doesn't go to -Charlie. I don't want to put it in the bank. Charlie's crowd'd get on. -But I'll fix it. Mr Davis'll know.' - -At the door Uncle Arthur looked severely at the dapper, excited youth on -the steps. - -'It may make a man of you. It will certainly throw you on your own -resources. I shall have to trust you to release me formally from all -responsibility after your birthday. And'--sharply--'understand, you are -never to come to me for help. You have your chance. You have chosen your -path.' - - -6 - - -Eleven at night. The Country Club was bright; Henry passed it on the -farther side of the street. He could hear music and laughter there. They -choked him. With averted face he rushed by. - -Henry entered at the gate before the old Dexter Smith mansion; then -slipped off among the trees. - -His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered, -miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely. - -There were lights here, too; downstairs. - -Some one calling, perhaps--that friend of James B. Merchant's. - -Henry gritted his teeth. - -It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn -irresistibly to the spot. - -What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that -his life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must -be dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his -great sacrifice. - -The front door opened. - -A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very -still, behind a tree, while they walked past him. - -A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely -had at last spared him a stab. - -Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs. - -Still he lingered. - -Then, after a little, his nervous ears caught a sound that tingled -through his body. - -The front door opened. - -And standing in the opening behind the screen door, silhouetted against -the light, he saw a slim girl. - -His temples were pounding. His throat went dry. - -The girl came out. Paused. Called over her shoulder in a voice that to -Henry was velvet and gold--'In a few minutes'--and then seated herself -midway down the steps and leaned her head against the railing. He could -see her only faintly now. - -Henry moved forward, curiously dazed, tiptoeing over the turf, slipping -from tree to tree. Drew near. - -She lifted her head. - -There was a breathless pause. Then, 'What is it?' she called. 'What is -it? Who's there?... O--oh! Why, _Henry!_ You frightened me... What is -it? Why do you stand there like that. You aren't ill, Henry?... Where -on earth have you been? I've waited and waited for you. I couldn't think -what had happened, not having any word.... What is the matter, Henry? -You act all tired out. Do sit down here.' - -'No,'--the queer breathy voice, Henry knew, must be his own. He was -thinking, wildly, of dead souls' standing at the Judgment Seat. He felt -like that.... 'No, I can't sit down.' - -'Henry! What is it?' - -Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who -has committed a speech to memory, he said this:-- - -'Cicely, I asked you this afternoon if we couldn't have an -“understanding.” You know! It seemed fair to me, if--if--if you, well, -cared--because I had three thousand dollars, and all that.' - -She made a rather impatient little gesture. He saw her hands move; but -pressed on:-- - -'Since then everything has changed. I have no right to ask you now.' - -There was a long silence. As on other occasions, in moments of grave -emergency, Henry had recourse to words. - -'There was trouble at the office. I couldn't leave Hump to carry all the -burden alone. And I was being sued for libel. My stories... So I've had -to make a very quick turn'--he had heard that term used by real -business men; it sounded rather well, he felt; it had come to him on -the train--'I've had to make a very quick turn--use every cent, or most -every cent, of the money. Of course, without any money at all--while I -might have some chance as a writer--still--well, I have no right to ask -such a thing of you, and I--I withdraw it. I feel that I--I can't do -less than that.' Then, after another silence, Henry swayed, caught at -the railing, sank miserably to the steps. - -'It's all right,' he heard himself saying. 'I just thought--everything's -been in such a mid rush--I didn't have my supper. I'll be all right...' - -'Henry,' he heard her saying now, in what seemed to him, as he reflected -on it later that night, at his room, in bed, an extraordinarily -matter-of-fact voice; girls were complicated creatures--'Henry, you must -be starved to death. You come right in with me.' - -He followed her in through the great hall, the unlighted living-room, -a dark passage where she found his hand and led him along, a huge place -that must have been the kitchen, and then an unmistakable pantry. - -'Stand here till I find the light,' she murmured. - -It _was_ the pantry. - -She opened the ice-box, produced milk and cold meat. In a tin box was -chocolate cake. - -'I oughtn't to let you,' he said weakly. 'I knew you were angry to-day -there----' - -'But, Henry, they could _hear_ you! Thomas and William. Don't you -see----' - -'That wasn't all,' he broke in excitedly. 'It was my asking for an -understanding.' - -She was bending over a drawer, rummaging for knife and fork. - -'No, it wasn't that,' she said. - -'I'd like to know what it was, then!' - -'It was--oh, please, Henry, don't ever talk that way about money again.' - -'But, Cicely, don't you see----' - -She straightened up now, knife in one hand, fork in the other; looked -directly at him; slowly shook her head. - -'What,' she asked, 'has money to do with--with you and me?' - -'But, Cicely, you don't mean----' - -He saw the sudden sparkle in her dark eyes, the slow slight smile that -parted her lips. - -She turned away then. - -'Oh,' she remarked, rather timidly, 'you'll want these,' and gave him -the knife and fork. - -He laid them on the table. - -They stood for a little time without speaking; she fingering the -fastener of the cake box, he pulling at his moustache. Finally, very -softly, she said this:-- - -'Of course, Henry, you know, we _would_ really have to be very patient, -and not say anything about it to people until--well, until we _could_, -you know....' - -And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently -brushing her forehead in their first kiss--until now the restraint of -youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just -short of any such sober admission of feeling--her cheek resting lightly -against his coat, she said this:-- - -'I shouldn't have let myself be disturbed. I don't really care about -Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of -girl. Henry, you--you hurt me a little.' His eyes filled. He stood -erect, looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long -vista of the years. He compressed his lips. - -'Of course,' he said bravely. 'We don't care about money We've got all -our lives. I guess I can work. Prob'ly I'll write better for not having -any. You know--it'll spur me. And I'll be working for you.' - -He heard her whisper:-- - -'I'll be so _proud_, Henry.' - -'What's money to us!' He seemed at last to be getting hold of this -tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a -ring in his voice: 'What's money to us!' - -After all what _is_ money to Twenty? - - - - -X--LOVE LAUGHS - - -1 - - -|A squat locomotive, bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring -from the flaring smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the -platforms and stopped just beyond the old red brick depot. - -The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy -yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These -ladies were bound for the shops, the matinées (it was a Wednesday, and -October), the lectures and concerts of Chicago. - -Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic -person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood -sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned -back and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a -train made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a -sooty brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the -door of the car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up, -chattering ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was -like a tea. He was afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he -couldn't, from the door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but -to run the gauntlet. And not without a faintly stirring sense of -conspicuousness that was at once pleasing and confusing he started down -the aisle, clutching at seat-backs for support. - -Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl -occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the -women in front. These latter, on close inspection--he had paused -midway--proved to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary. - -This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just -behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat? -The hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to -him as ghosts come. - -He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady -caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden. - -'I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the -_Gleaner_,' she said. 'Mr MacLouden says they're worthy of Stevenson. -His _New Arabian Nights_ you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In -London.' - -Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away. - -Mary Ames looked up. - -Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn't bow, or smile. He wasn't -sure that she even inclined her head. - -His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that -he couldn't retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly -by. He couldn't take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately -by and on into the car behind would help a little. At least in his -feelings; and these were what mattered.... Who _was_ the girl under that -unfamiliar hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly. - -He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing. -Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with -the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn't burn so. - -The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes -and the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell! - -Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out -of his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then -during the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting--indeed, -enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it -momentarily, slightly thrilling--to discover that he liked her. He -saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was -prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch -of radiance in it. - -Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag. - -In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it -up and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally, -brought up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose. - -Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along -the aisle, the hand came down on the bag. - -She said, half audibly--it was a question:-- - -'Sit here?' - -Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames's shoulder; -a rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn't stop -his whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn't he gone -straight by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low, -confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they -couldn't talk confidentially. Not very well. - -He took the seat. - -What _could_ they say? - -But the surprising fact stood out that Martha was a nice girl, a -likeable girl. Even if she had believed the stories about him. Even -if... No, it hadn't seemed like Martha. - -Henry was staring at Mrs Ames's tortoise-shell comb. Martha was looking -out the window, tapping on the sill with a white-gloved hand. - -A moment of the old sense of proprietorship over Martha came upon him. - -'Silly,' he remarked, muttering it rather crossly, 'wearing white gloves -into Chicago! Be black in ten minutes. Women-folks haven't got much -sense.' - -Martha gave this remark the silence it deserved. She dropped her eyes, -studied the shopping bag. Then, very quietly, she said this:-- - -'Henry--it hasn't been very easy--but I _have_ wanted to tell you about -your stories.... - -'What about'em?' he asked, ungraciously enough. And he dug with his cane -at the grimy green plush of the seat-back before him. - -'Oh, they're so good, Henry! I didn't know--I didn't realise--just -everybody's talking about them! _Everybody!_ You've no idea! It's been -splendid of you to--you know, to answer people that way.' - -I don't think Martha meant to touch on the one most difficult topic. -They both reddened again. - -After a longer pause, she tried it again. - -'I just _love_ reading them myself. And I wish you could hear the things -Jim--Mr Merchant--says....' - -She was actually dragging him in! - -... He's really a judge. You've no idea, Henry!' He met Kipling at a -tea in New York. He knows lots of people like--you know, editors and -publishers, people like that. And he crossed the ocean once with Richard -Harding Davis. He says you're doing a very remarkable thing... -original note.... Sunbury is going to be proud of you. He wouldn't -let anything--you know, personal--influence his judgment. He's very -fair-minded.' - -Henry dug and dug at the plush. - -She was pulling at her left glove. - -What on earth!... - -She had it off. - -'I want you to know, Henry. Such a wonderful thing has happened to me. -See!' - -On her third finger glittered a diamond in a circlet of gold. - -'He wanted to give me a cluster, Henry. I wouldn't let him. I just -didn't want him to be too extravagant. I love this stone.. I picked it -out myself. At Welding's. And then he wished it on. And, Henry, I'm so -happy! I can't bear to think that you and I--anybody--you know....' - -Henry was critically, moodily, appraising the diamond. - -'Can't we be friends, Henry?' - -'Sure we can! Of course!' - -'I just can't tell you how wonderful it is. I want everybody else to be -happy.' - -'I'm happy!' he announced, explosively, between set teeth. - -She thought this over. - -'I've heard a little talk, of course. I've been interested, too. Yes, I -have! Cicely's a perfectly dandy girl. And she's--you know, _that_ -way. Knows so much about books and things. I didn't realise--that you -were--you know, really--well, engaged?' - -There was a long pause. Henry dug and dug with his stick. - -Finally, eyes wandering a little but mouth still set, he said huskily:-- - -'Yes, we're engaged.' - -'What was that, Henry?' - -'I said, “Yes, we're engaged.”' - -'O--o--oh, Henry, I'm so glad!' - -'Don't say anything about it, Martha.' - -'Oh, of _course_ not!... You've no idea how nice people are being to me. -They're giving me a party to-night, down on the South Side. We're coming -back to-morrow.' - -Mr Merchant met her in the Chicago depot. Henry had excused himself -before Mrs Ames and Mary got up. He would have hurried off into the -grimy city, but the crowd held him back. Martha saw him and dragged the -rich and important man of her choice toward him. - -Henry thought him very old, and not particularly goodlooking. He was a -stocky, sandy-complexioned man; dressed now, as always, in brown, even -to a brown hat. He looked strong enough--Henry knew that he played polo, -and that sort of thing--but gossip put him at thirty-eight. He certainly -couldn't be under thirty-five. Henry wondered how Martha could... - -Then he found himself taking the man's hand and listening to more of the -familiar praise. But on this occasion it had, he felt, a condescension, -a touch of patronage, that irritated him. - -'I'd like to talk with you, Calverly. There's a chance that--I'll tell -you! I may be able to arrange it this evening. They're not letting me -come to the party. Got to do something. I'll try it. Come around to my -place between eight and half-past, and I'll explain more fully. There's -a classmate of mine in town that can help us, maybe. You'll do that? -Good! I'll expect you.' - -He was gone. - -Slowly, moodily, Henry wandered through the station and up the long -stairway to the street. - -He felt deeply uncomfortable. It wasn't this Mr Merchant, though he -wished he had known how to show his resentment of the man's offhand -manner. But he hadn't known; he wouldn't again; before age and -experience he was helpless. No, his trouble lay deeper. He shouldn't -have told Martha that he was engaged. Why had he done such a thing? What -on earth had he meant by it? It was a rather dreadful break. - -He paused on the Wells Street bridge; hung over the dirty wooden -railing; watched a tug come through the opaque, sluggish water, pouring -out its inevitable black smoke, a great rolling cloud of it, that set -him coughing. He perversely welcomed it. - -Cicely expected him in the evening. He would have to drop in on his way -to Mr Merchant's. Could he tell her what he had done? Dared he tell her? - -Martha and the Ameses would be gone overnight. That was something. And -people didn't get up early after parties. At least, girls didn't. -It would be afternoon before they would reappear in Sunbury. Say -twenty-four hours. But immediately after that, certainly by evening, all -Sunbury would have the news that the popular Cicely Hamlin was engaged. -To young Henry Calverly. The telephone would ring. Congratulations would -be pouring in. - -He stared fixedly at the water. He wondered what made him do these -things, lose control of his tongue. It wasn't his first offence; nor, -surely, his last. An unnerving suggestion, that last! He asked himself -how bad a man had to feel before jumping down there and ending it all. -It happened often enough. You saw it in the papers. - - -3 - - -Welding's jewellery store occupied the best corner on the proper side of -State Street. In its long series of show window's, resting on velvet of -appropriate colours, backed by mirrors, were bracelets, lockets, rings, -necklaces, 'dog-collars' of matched pearls, diamond tiaras, watches, -chests of silverware, silver bowls, cups and ornaments, articles in -cut glass, statuettes of ebony, bronze and jade, and here and there, -in careless little heaps, scattered handfuls of unmounted gems--rubies, -emeralds, yellow, white and blue diamonds, and rich-coloured -semi-precious stones. - -But all this without over-emphasis. There were no built-up, glittering -pyramids, no placards, no price-tags even. There was instead, despite -the luxury of the display, a restraint; as if it were more a concession -to the traditions of sound shop-keeping than an appeal for custom. For -Welding's was known, had been known through a long generation, from -Pittsburg to Omaha. Welding's, like the Art Institute, Hooley's Theatre, -Devoe's candy store, Field's buses, Central Music Hall, was a Chicago -institution, playing its inevitable part at every well-arranged wedding -as in every properly equipped dining-room. You couldn't give any one you -really cared about a present of jewellery in other than a Welding box. -Not if you were doing the thing right! Oh, you _could_, perhaps.... - -And Welding's, from the top-booted, top-hatted doorman (such were not -common in Chicago then) to the least of the immaculately clad salesmen, -was profoundly, calmly, overpoweringly aware of its position. - -Before the section of the window that was devoted to rings stood Henry. - -About him pressed the throng of early-afternoon shoppers--sharp-faced -women, brisk business men, pretty girls in pretty clothes, messenger -boys, loiterers and the considerable element of foreign-appearing, -rather shabby men and women, boys and girls that were always an item in -the Chicago scene. Out in the wide street the traffic, a tangle of it -(this was before the days of intelligent traffic regulation anywhere in -America) rolled and rattled and thundered by--carriages, hacks, delivery -wagons, two-horse and three-horse trucks, and trains of cable-cars, each -with its flat wheel or two that pounded rhythmically as it rolled. -And out of the traffic--out of the huge, hive-like stores and -office-buildings, out of the very air as breezes blew over from other, -equally busy streets, came a noise that was a blend of noises, a steady -roar, the nervous hum of the city. - -But of all this Henry saw, heard, nothing; merely pulled at his -moustache and tapped his cane against his knee. - -A wanly pretty girl, with short yellow hair curled kinkily against her -head under a sombrero hat, loitered toward him, close to the window; -paused at his side, brushing his elbow; glanced furtively up under her -hat brim; smiled mechanically, showing gold teeth; moved around him and -lingered on the other side; spoke in a low tone; finally, with a glance -toward the fat policeman who stood, in faded blue, out in the thick of -things by the car tracks, drifted on and away. - -Henry had neither seen nor heard her. - -Brows knit, lips compressed, eyes nervously intent, he marched -resolutely into Welding's. - -'Look at some rings!' he said, to a distrait salesman. - -He indicated, sternly, a solitaire that looked, he thought, about like -Martha's. - -'How much is that?' - -'That? Not a bad stone. Let me see... Oh, three hundred dollars.' - -Henry, huskily, in a dazed hush of the spirit, repeated the words:-- - -'Three--hundred--dollars!' - -The salesman tapped with manicured fingers on the showcase. - -'Have you--have you--have you... - -The salesman raised his eyebrows. - -'... any others?' - -'Oh, yes, we have others.' He drew out a tray from the wall behind him. -'I can show fairly good stones as low as sixty or eighty dollars. Here's -one that's really very good at a hundred.' - -There was a long silence. The glistening finger nails fell to tapping -again. - -'This one, you say is--one hundred?' - -'One hundred.' - -Another silence. Then:-- - -'Thank you. I--I was just sorta looking around.' - -The salesman began replacing the trays. - -Henry moved away; slowly, irresolutely, at first; then, as he passed out -the door, with increasing speed. At the corner of Randolph he was racing -along. He caught the two-fourteen for Sunbury by chasing it the length -of the platform. Henry could do the hundred yards under twelve seconds -at any time with all his clothes on. He could do it under eleven on a -track. - -By a quarter to three he was walking swiftly, with dignity, up Simpson -Street. He turned in at the doorway beside Hemple's meat-market and ran -up the long stairway to the offices above. - -Humphrey strolled in from the composing room. - -'Seen those people already, Hen?' - -'I--you see--well, no. I'm going right back in. On the three-eight.' - -'Going back? But----' - -'It's this way, Hump. I--it'll seem sorta sudden, I know--you see, I -want to get an engagement ring. There's one that would do all right, I -think, for--well, a hundred dollars--and I was wondering....' - -Humphrey stared at him; grinned. - -'So you've gone and done it! You don't say! You are a bit rapid, Henry. -The lady must have been on the train.' - -'No--not quite--you see...' - -'Got to be done right now, eh? All in a rush?' - -'Well, Hump... - -'Wait a minute! Let me collect my scattered faculties. If you've got to -this point it's no good trying to reason----' - -'But, Hump, I'll be reasonable----' - -'Yes, I know. Now listen to me! This appears to come under the general -head of emergencies. We're not quite in such bad shape as we were a -month back. There's a little advertising revenue coming in. An----' - -'Yes, I thought----' - -'And you've certainly sunk enough in this old property--' - -'No more than you, Hump----' - -'Just wait, will you! I don't see but what we've got to stand back of -you. Perhaps we'd better enter it as a loan from the business to you -until I can think up a better excuse. Or no, I'll tell you--call it a -salary advance. Well, something! I'll work it out. Never you mind now. -And if you're going to stop at the bank and catch the three-eight you'll -have to step along.' - -It would have interested a student of psychophysics, I think, to slip a -clinical thermometer in under Henry's tongue as he sat, erect, staring, -with nervously twitching hands and feet, on the three-eight train. - - -4 - - -To Cicely's house Henry hurried after bolting a supper at Stanley's -restaurant and managing to evade Humphrey's amused questions when he -heard them. - -It was early, barely half-past seven. The Watt household had dinner (not -supper) at seven. They would hardly be through. He couldn't help that. -He had waited as long as he could. - -He rang the bell. The butler showed him in. He sat on the piano stool in -the spacious, high-ceiled parlour, where he had waited so often before. - -To-night it looked like a strange room. - -He told himself that it was absurd to feel so nervous. He and Cicely -understood each other well enough. She cared for him. She had said so, -more than once. - -Of course, the little matter of facing Madame Watt... though, after all, -what could she do? - -He tried to control the tingling of his nerves. - -'I must relax,' he thought. - -With this object he moved over to the heavily upholstered sofa and -settled himself on it; stretched out his legs; thrust his hands into his -pockets. - -But there was an extraordinary pressure in his temples; a pounding. - -He snatched a hand from one pocket and felt hurriedly in another to -see if the precious little box was there; the box with the magical name -embossed on the cover, 'Weldings.' - -He reflected, exultantly, 'I never bought anything there before.' - -Then: 'She's a long time. They must be at the table still.' He sat up; -listened. But the dining-room in the Dexter Smith place was far back -behind the 'back parlour.' The walls were thick. There were heavy -hangings and vast areas of soft carpet. You couldn't hear. 'Gee!' his -thoughts raced on, 'think of owning all this! Wonder how people ever get -so much money. Wonder how it would seem.' - -He caught himself twisting his neck nervously within his collar. And his -hands were clenched; his toes, even, were drawn up tightly in his shoes. - -'Gotta relax,' he told himself again. - -Then he felt for the little box. This time he transferred it to a -trousers pocket; held it tight in his hand there. - -A door opened and closed. There was a distant rustling. Henry, paler, -sprang to his feet. - -'I must be cool,' he thought. 'Think before I speak. Everything depends -on my steadiness now.' - -But the step was not Cicely's. She was slim and light. This was a solid -tread. - -He gripped the little box more tightly. He was meeting with a curious -difficulty in breathing. - -Then, in the doorway, appeared the large person, the hooked nose, the -determined mouth, the piercing, hawklike eyes of Madame Watt. - -'How d'do, Henry,' she said, in her deep voice. 'Sit down. I want to -talk to you. About Cicely. I'm going to tell you frankly--I like you, -Henry; I believe you're going to amount to something one of these -days--but I had no idea--now I want you to take this in the spirit I say -it in--I had no idea things were going along so fast between Cicely and -you. I've trusted you. I've let you two play together all you liked. And -I won't say I'd stand in the way, a few years from now---- - -'A few years!...' - -'Now, Henry, I'm not going to have you getting all stirred up. Let's -admit that you're fond of Cicely. You are, aren't you? Yes? Well, now -we'll try to look at it sensibly. How old are you?' - -'I'm twenty, but----' - -'When will you be twenty-one?' - -'Next month. You see----' - -'Now tell me--try to think this out clearly--how on earth could you -expect to take care of a girl who's been brought up as Cicely has. Even -if she were old enough to know her own mind, which I can't believe she -is.' - -'Oh, but she does!' - -'Fudge, Henry! She couldn't. What experience has she had? Never mind -that, though. Tell me, what is your income now. You'll admit I have a -right to ask.' - -'Twelve a week, but----' - -'And what prospects have you? Be practical now! How far do you expect to -rise on the _Gleaner!_' - -'Not very high, but our circulation----' - -'What earthly difference can a little more or less circulation make when -it's a country weekly! No, Henry, believe me, I have a great deal of -confidence in you--I mean that you'll keep on growing up and forming -character--but this sort of thing can not--simply can not--go on now. -Why, Henry, you haven't even begun your man's life yet! Very likely -you'll write. It may be that you're a genius. But that makes it all the -more a problem. Can't you see----' - -'Yes, of course, but----' - -'No, listen to me! I asked Cicely to-day why you were coming so often. -I wasn't at all satisfied with her answers to my questions. And when I -forced her to admit that she has been as good as engaged to you----' - -'But we _aren't_ engaged! It's only an understanding.' - -'Understanding! Pah! Don't excite me, Henry. I want to straighten this -out just as pleasantly as I can. I _am_ fond of you, Henry. But I never -dreamed---- Tell me, you and that young Weaver own the _Gleaner_, I -think.' - -'Yes'm we own it. But----' - -'Just what does that mean? That you have paid money--actual money--for -it?' - -'Yes'm. It's cost us about four thousand.' - -'Four thousand! Hmm!' - -'And then Charlie Waterhouse--he's town treasurer--he sued me for -libel--ten thousand dollars'--Henry seemed a thought proud of this--'and -I had to give him two thousand to settle. It was something in one of -my stories--the one called _Sinbad the Treasurer_. Mr Davis--he's my -lawyer--he said Charlie had a case, but----' - -'Wait a minute, Henry! Where did you get that money. It's--let me -see--about four thousand dollars--your share--' - -'Yes'm four thousand. It was my mother's. She left it to me. But----' - -'I see. Your mother's estate. How much is left of it--outside what you -lost in this suit and the two thousand you've invested in the paper.' - -'Nothing. But----' - -'Nothing! Now, Henry'--no, don't speak! I want you to listen to me a few -minutes longer. And I want you to take seriously to heart what I'm going -to say. First, about this paper, the _Gleaner_. It's a serious question -whether you'll ever get your two thousand dollars back. If you ever -_have_ to sell out you won't get anything like it. If you were older, -and if you were by nature a business man--which you aren't!--you might -manage, by the hardest kind of work to build it up to where you could -get twenty or thirty dollars a week out of it instead of twelve. But -you'll never do it. You aren't fitted for it. You're another sort of -boy, by nature. And I'm sorry to say I firmly believe this money, or -the most of it is certain to go after the other two thousand, that Mr -Charlie Waterhouse got. But even considering that you boys _could_ make -the paper pay for itself, Cicely couldn't be the wife of a struggling -little country editor. I wouldn't listen to that for a minute! No, my -advice to you, Henry, is to take your losses as philosophically as you -can, call it experience, and go to work as a writer. It'll take you -years----' - -'_Years!_ But----' - -'Yes, to establish yourself. A success in a country town isn't a New -York success. Remember that. No, it's a long road you're going to -travel. After you've got somewhere, when you've become a man, when -you've found yourself, with some real prospects--it isn't that I'd -expect you to be rich, Henry, but I'd _have_ to be assured that you were -a going concern--why, then you might come to me again. But not now. I -want you to go now----' - -'Without seeing Cicely?' - -'Certainly. Above all things. I want you to go, and promise that you -won't try to see her. To-morrow she goes away for a long visit.' - -'For--a--long... But she'd see other men, and--Oh!...' - -'Exactly. I mean that she shall. Best way in the world to find out -whether you two are calves or lovers. One way or the other, we'll prove -it. And now you must go! Remember you have my best wishes. I hope you'll -find the road one of these days and make a go of it.' - -A moment more and the front door had closed on him. He stood before -the house, staring up through the maple leaves at the starry sky, -struggling, for the moment vainly, toward sanity. It was like the end of -the world. If was unthinkable. It was awful. - -But after waiting a while he went to Mr Merchant's. There was nothing -else to do. - - -5 - - -Mr Merchant himself opened the door to Henry. He lived in one of the -earliest of the apartment buildings that later were to work a deep -change in the home life of Sunbury. 'How are you, Calverly!' he said, in -his offhand, superior way. Then in a lower and distinctly less superior -tone, almost friendly indeed, he added, 'Got a bit of a surprise for -you. Come in.' - -The living-room was lighted by a single standing lamp with a red shade. -Beneath it, curled up like a boy in a cretonne-covered wing chair, his -shock of faded yellow hair mussed where his fingers had been, his -heavy faded yellow moustache bushing out under a straight nose and pale -cheeks, his old gray suit sadly wrinkled, sat a stranger reading from a -handful of newspaper clippings. - -Henry paused in the door. The man looked up, so quickly that Henry -started, and fixed on him eyes that while they were a rather pale blue -yet had an uncanny fire in them. - -The man frowned as he cried, gruffly:-- - -'Oh, come in! Needn't be afraid of me!' And coolly read on. - -Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a -queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he -would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with. - -The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the -room he thought it the type and paper of the _Gleaner_. His stories, -doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it! -What was the good, if they made him so cross. - -'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute--' - -'I won't. Don't interrupt me!' - -'--I would introduce him.' - -Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't -be!.... - -'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author -of----' - -'So I gathered. Keep still!' - -Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the -clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the -bedrooms. - -'That--that isn't _the_ Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice tinged with -awe. - -'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to -wait till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.' - -'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he -wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at -least a manner of businesslike calm. - -Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He -even answered questions now and then. But all the time he was -trying--trying--to think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand -closed on the little box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately -for some sort of a mental footing. - -'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a -drink.' - -And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:-- - -'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well. -It's been a--a hard day.' - -'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've -got a bit of excitement coming.' - -Henry did this. - -Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight -to Henry; stood over' him; glared--angrily, Henry thought, with a -fluttering of his wits--down at him. - -It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but -the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again. - -'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so -important--nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty years -ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest--that's the thing! -And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our -throats. What do you eat?' - -'I--I don't know's I----' - -'For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?' - -'Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and----' - -'Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don't doubt you had -cream on the oatmeal?' - -'Well--milk, sorta.' - -'Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really--think that over--orange and milk! -Isn't that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning of the -day?' - -Mr Merchant broke in here. - -'Galbraith, for heaven's sake! Don't bulldoze him.' - -'But this is important. It's health! We've got to look out for that. -Right from the start! Here, Calverly--how old are you?' - -'I'm--well--most--twenty-one.' - -'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good -God, boy, don't you see----' - -'Oh, come, Galbraith!' - -'Well, I'll put it this way:--Here's a young man that can work magic. -Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling -and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?' - -Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa. - -'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?' - -'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?... -Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American -publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint -'em, as they stand, in _Galbraith's_. What do you think o' that? A bit -original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it -up. Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger -again at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just -as if you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all -the old editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I -edit _Galbraith's_ to suit myself. - -I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I -print the best. I'm the editor of _Galbraith's_ Oh, I keep a few desk -men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he -was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to -England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, “Frank, pack up! -Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor.”' - -He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. -Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes. - -When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All -tyrants have short legs.' And walked off again. - -'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around. - -'It's on the paper here--“Weaver and Calverly”? Father? Uncle?' - -'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's--it's me.' - -'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. -'Don't be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand -what we're getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be -famous in a year.' - -He stopped short; took another swing around the room. - -'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?' - -'Twenty.' - -'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the -way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for -'em?' - -Henry could only look appealingly at his host. - -'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it -worth your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a -Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two -thousand.' - -Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent. - -He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down. - -'Not enough,' said Merchant. - -Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened. - -'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new -writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.' - -'True. But I should think----' - -'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that, -Calverly? - -'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?' - -'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. -But I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. -Here!' He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening -paper. 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry -Calverly matter for five years----' - -'Too long,' said Mr Merchant. - -'Well--three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it elsewhere. -And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for these -stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.' - -'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No -guarantee.' - -'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret -tying up with me.' - -'You'd better agree to pay him something--say twenty-five a week--as a -minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to -tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.' - -'I'm going to tie him up, all right. I'd go the limit. Twenty-five -a week, minimum, for three years. That's agreed... How're you fixed, -Calverly? Want any money now?' - -Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. 'Yes. Better advance -a little. He could use it. Couldn't you, Calverly?' - -'Why---why----' - -'What do you say to five hundred. That'd clinch the bargain. -Here--wait!' - -He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the -cheque. - -'Here you are, Calverly. That'd take care of you for the present. -Mustn't forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You'd better -go now. Go home. Get a good night's sleep. And watch that stomach. -Cereal's good, at your age. But cut out the orange.... I'm going to bed, -Merchant. Been travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I'll send -you the contract from New York.' - -'First, though'--this from Mr Merchant--'I think you'd better write a -letter--here, to-night--confirming the arrangement. You and I can do -that. We'll let Mr Calverly go.' - -Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and -stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his -eyes; looked hurriedly about; muttered--'Where'd I lay that fountain -pen?'--found it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings -behind him. - -Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to. - -'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate -Galbraith.' - -Henry looked at him out of wan eyes. - -Then suddenly he giggled aloud. - -'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to -succeed.' - -'I felt a little bad about--you know, what you said about making him -write that letter. He might think I----' - -'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the -morning. I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.' - -'You--you don't mean that he'd--he'd----' - -'Oh, he might forget it.' - -'Nor after he _promised!_' - -'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times. -Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he -wakes up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.' - -'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses -are that way.' - -'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one. -No matter how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, -Galbraith is a great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd -make you, I believe he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on -the high road now, Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how -most men hit the high road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble -on it. Within a year you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!' - - -6 - - -The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression. -Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though -great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life. -It had the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely -elastic imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual. - -He hadn't enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was -a shock from which he didn't recover for years, an utter destruction of -cherished illusions. - -He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and -with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about -anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was -frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing -adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, _the_ Galbraith; -that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks--he recalled how -he had written the first ten during three mad days and nights; they had -come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write them down, as -if an exuberant angel were dictating to him--had sold them for thousands -of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for three years. -The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing that had -happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again. Though he -knew it would. But between times he wasn't a genius; he wasn't anything; -just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat; rubbed his -blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples. - -'I've got congestion,' he muttered. - -He stood at the railing and stared out ever the lake. It was lead black -out there, with a tossing light or two; ore freighters or lumber boats -headed for Chicago harbour. Beneath him, down the beach, great waves -were pounding in, quickly, endlessly, tirelessly, one after the other. -He could see the ghostly foam of each. He could feel the spindrift -cutting at his face. The wind was so strong he had to lean against it. -A gust tore off his glasses; he let them hang over his shoulder. He -welcomed the rush and roar of it in his stormy soul. - -After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the -Dexter Smith place. - -It was dark, upstairs and down. - -He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time -the little box from Welding's was gripped in his burning hand. - -He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every -year he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great -straight branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling -about him; the bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed -it. Caught at another. And another. - -He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was -cool to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at -the dark house. Tears came; blinded him. - -'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because -she loves me. They're breaking her heart--and mine. Martha'll be back -to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then--what--what I -did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live -here--not after that.' - -A new and fascinating thought came. - -'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me -here. I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning -they'll find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr -Galbraith's cheque. And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter. -Maybe they'll discover I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry -then.' - -But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing -quality. He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept -his long-suffering partner awake during much of the night. - -At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the -Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into -the spacious parlour. - -He waited, fiercely. - -A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the -room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?' - -'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand. -Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing -another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!' - -She, still frowning, turned the pages. - -'But what's all this, Henry?' - -'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready -for me. It's _Galbraith's Magazine_. They're going to print my stories -and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get book -royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the -price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And -Mr Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to -advertise me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says -there's been nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here, -coldly, this impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But -shrewd, strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it -far from absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as -much as of genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional -uncertainty in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were -youth--gifted, uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she -said, brusquely--'Sit down, Henry!'--and herself dropped heavily into -a chair and began deliberately reading the document of the great -Galbraith, she knew, in her curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she -was sparring for time. Before her, still on his feet, apparently unaware -that she had spoken, unaware of everything on earth outside of his own -turbulent breast, stood an incarnation of primal energy. - -She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found -momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old -folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power. - -I think he was talking all the time--pouring out an incoherent, -tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to -brush him away. - -When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a -little box. - -'Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all -this?' - -'I want you to let me see Cicely. Just one minute. Let her say. I -can't--I _can't_--leave it like this!' - -'You promised----' - -'That I wouldn't try to see her. But I can come to you can't I? That's -fair, isn't it?' - -Madame Watt sighed again. - -Suddenly Henry leaped forward; caught himself; stepped back; cried out, -in a passionately suppressed voice:-- - -'There she is! Now!' - -Cicely was crossing the hall toward the stairs. They could see her -through the doorway. - -She went up as far as the first landing, a few steps up; then, a hand on -the railing, she hesitated and slowly turned her head. - -'Will you ask her to come!' Henry moaned. 'Ask her! Let her say! Don't -break our hearts like this!' - -Madame raised her hand. - -Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and -into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head -bent forward a little, glancing from one to the other. - -She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her, -that she, too, was suffering. - -She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little -questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn't -smile. - -Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter. -He waited for her to look up. - -Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is -unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had -beaten her. - -He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He -saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated. - -Then his own voice came out--a shy, even polite, if breathless, little -voice:-- - -'I was just wondering, Cicely, if you'd let me give you this ring.' - -She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring. - -He held it out. - -Then she said:-- - -'No, Henry.... I mean, hadn't you better wish it on?' - -'Oh, yes,' said he. 'Funny! I didn't think of that.' - -Madame Watt turned a page, rustling the paper. - -'Wait, Henry! Don't let go! Have you wished?' - -'Unhuh! Have you?' - -'Yes. I wished the first thing.' - -'Well--' Henry had to stop. He found himself swallowing rather -violently. 'Well--I s'pose I'd better step down to the office. I might -come back this afternoon, if--if you'd like me to.' - -'Henry,' said Madame now, 'don't be silly! Come to lunch!' - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Henry Is Twenty, by Samuel Merwin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY *** - -***** This file should be named 51948-0.txt or 51948-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/4/51948/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Henry Is Twenty - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd - -Author: Samuel Merwin - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51948] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -HENRY IS TWENTY - -A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd - -By Samuel Merwin - -Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. - -London and Glasgow - -1921 - - - - -OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS - -|It would be ungracious to let this book go out into a preoccupied world -without some word of gratitude to those who have written regarding the -young Henry as he has appeared from month to month in a magazine. The -letters have been the kindliest and most stimulating imaginable; and -have surprised me, for I have never found it easy to picture Henry as a -popular hero of fiction. - -He isn't, of course, a hero at all. His weaknesses are too plain--the -little evidences of vanity in him, his selfcentred moments, his errant -susceptibilities--and heroes can't have weaknesses. And heroes--in any -well-regulated pattern-story--must 'turn out well.' Henry, in this book, -doesn't really turn out at all. His success in Episode X is a rather -alarming accident. I think he'll do well enough, when he's forty or so. -At twenty, no. He has huge doses of life's medicine yet to swallow. And -all his problems are complicated by the touch of genius that is in him. - -Another thing: there couldn't have been a Mamie Wilcox in our -pattern-story. And certainly not a Corinne. Hardly even a Martha. For -a 'divided love interest' destroys your pattern. Yet Marthas, Corinnes, -Mamies occur everywhere. So I can't very well apologise for their -presence here. - -We might, of course, have had Henry overthrow the Old Cinch in Sunbury; -clean up the town. But he didn't happen to be a St George that summer. -And then, so many heroes of pattern-stories, these two decades, have -slain municipal dragons! - -He might have listened in a deeper humility to the worldly wisdom of -Uncle Arthur. But he didn't. He had to live his own life, not Uncle -Arthur's. His way was the harder, but he couldn't help that. - -I would have liked to pursue further the Mildred-Humphrey romance; -including Arthur V. and the curious triangle that resulted; but the -crisis didn't come in that year. - -And against the temptation to dwell with Madame Watt and her husband I -have had, here, to set my face. Though something of that story will be -told in a book yet to come, dealing with an older, changed Henry. -The richly dramatic career of _Madame_ underlay the irony of Henry's -marriage; and we shall have to deal with that, or at least with the -events that grew out of it. - -I have said that Henry would turn out well enough in time. From the -angle of the pattern-story this obviously couldn't be. It would be said -that if he _was_ ever to succeed he should have got started by this time -in habits of industry and so forth. - -I won't say that this is nonsense, but instead will quote from the -autobiography of Charles Francis Adams (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916). -Mr Adams, from his fifteenth to his twenty-fifth year, kept a diary. -Then he sealed the volumes in a package. Thirty years later he opened -the package and read every word. He says:-- - -'The revelation of myself to myself was positively shocking.... It -wasn't that the thing was bad or that my record was discreditable; it -was worse! It was silly. That it was crude, goes without saying. -_That_ I didn't mind! But I did blush and groan and swear over its -unmistakable, unconscious immaturity and ineptitude, its conceit, its -weakness and its cant.... As I finished each volume it went into the -fire; and I stood over it until the last leaf was ashes.... I have never -felt the same about myself since. I now humbly thank fortune that I have -got almost through life without making a conspicuous ass of myself.' - -Mr Adams, immediately after the period covered by the diary, plunged -into the Civil War, and emerged with the well-earned brevet rank -of brigadier-general. He was later eminent as publicist, author, -administrator, a recognised leader of thought in a troublous time. He -became president of the Union Pacific Railroad. And at the last he was -the subject of a memorial address by the Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge. - -As Henry is still several years short of twenty-five perhaps there is -hope for him. - -Concord, Mass. - -S. M. - - - - -I--THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL - - -1 - - -|It was late May in Sunbury, Illinois, and twenty minutes past eight in -the morning. - -The spacious lawns and the wide strips of turf between sidewalk and -roadway in every avenue and street were lush with crowding young blades -of green. The maples, oaks, and elms were vivid with the exuberant youth -of the year. - -Throughout the village, brisk young men, care-worn men of middle age, -a few elderly men were hurrying toward the old red-brick station whence -the eight-twenty-nine would shortly carry them into the dust and sweat -and smoke of a business day in Chicago. The swarms of sleepy-eyed -clerks, book-keepers, office boys and girl stenographers had gone in on -the seven-eleven and the seven-thirty-two. - -Along Simpson Street the grocers, in their aprons, already had out -their sidewalk racks heaped with seasonable vegetables and fruits -(out-of-season delicacies had not then become commonplaces of life in -Sunbury; strawberries appeared when the local berries were ripe, -not sooner). The two butcher shops were decorated with red and buff -carcasses hung in rows. A whistling, coatless youth had just swept out -Donovan's drug store and was wiping off the marble counter before the -marble and glass soda fountain. Through the windows of the Sunbury -National Bank Alfred Knight could be seen filling the inkwells and -putting out fresh blotters and pens. The neat little restaurant known as -'Stanley's' (the Stanleys were a respectable coloured couple) was -still nearly full of men who ate ham and eggs, pounded beefsteak, fried -potatoes, and buckwheat cakes, and drank huge cups of gray-brown coffee; -with, at the rear tables, two or three family groups. And from numerous -boarding-houses and dormitories in the northern section of the overgrown -village students of both sexes were converging on the oak-shaded campus -by the lake. - -All of Sunbury appeared to be up and about the business of the day; all, -perhaps, except Henry Calverly, 3rd, who sat, dressed except for his -coat, heavy-eyed, a hair brush in either hand, hands resting limp -on knees, on the edge of his narrow iron bed. This, in Mrs Wilcox's -boardinghouse in Douglass Street, one block south of Simpson; top floor. - -If the present reader has, by chance, had earlier acquaintance with -Henry, it should be explained that he is now to be pictured not as a -youth of eighteen going on nineteen but as a young man of twenty going -on twenty-one. - -That figure, twenty-one, of significance in the secret thoughts of any -growing boy, was of peculiar, stirring significance to the sensitive, -imaginative Henry. It marked the beginning of what is sometimes termed -Life. It suggested alarming but interesting responsibilities. On that -day, beginning with the stroke of the midnight hour, guardians ceased -to function and independence set in. One was a citizen. One voted. In -Henry's case, the crowning symbol of manhood would be deferred a year, -as Election Day was to fall on the fifth of November and his birthday -was the seventh; but that so trivial a mere fact bore small weight in -the face of potential citizenship might have been indicated by the faint -blonde fringe along his upper lip. This fringe was a new venture. He -stroked it much of the time, and stole glances at it in mirrors. He -could twist it up a little at the ends. - -The rest of him indicated a taste that was hardly bent on the -inexpensive as such. His duck trousers (this was the middle nineties) -were smartly creased and rustled with starch. His white canvas shoes -were not 'sneakers' but had heavy soles and half-heels of red rubber. -His coat, lying now across the iron tube that marked the foot of the -bed, was a double-breasted blue serge, unlined, well-tailored. The hat, -hung on a mirror post above the 'golden oak' bureau, was of creamy white -felt. He had given up spectacles for nose glasses with a black silk -cord. - -Nearly two years earlier his mother had died. He had lived on, caught in -a drift of time and circumstance, keeping, without any particular plan, -this little room with its sloping ceiling. The price was an item, of -course--six dollars a week for room and board. You couldn't do better -in Sunbury, even then. Memories haunted the place, naturally enough. -Loneliness had dwelt close with him. - -His mother's picture, in a silver frame, stood at the right of the -pincushion; at the left, in hammered brass ('repoussé work') was a -'cabinet size' photograph of Martha Caldwell. A woven-wire rack on the -wall held half a hundred snapshots of girls, boys, and groups, in about -a third of which figured Martha's smiling, sensible, pleasantly freckled -face. A guitar in an old green bag leaned against the wall behind his -mother's old trunk; it had not been out of the bag in more than a year. -An assortment of neck-ties hung over the gas-jet by the bureau. Tacked -about on the wall were six or eight copies of Gibson girls; rather good -copies, barringva certain stiffness of line. On the seat in the one -dormer window reposed two cushions, one covered with college pennants, -the other with cigar bands laboriously cross-stitched together; both -from, the hands of Martha. - -Henry's little bookcase was not uninteresting. It contained the -following books: Daily Strength for Daily Needs, Browning, Trollope, -and Hawthorne in sets, Sonnets, from the Portuguese, Words often -Mispronounced, Longfellow, complete in one fat volume. Red Line Edition, -and Six Thousand Puzzles, all of which had been his mother's; Green's -History of the English People, Boswell's Johnson, both largely uncut, -and the Discourses of Epictetus, which three had come as Christmas or -birthday gifts; and exactly one volume, a work by an obscure author -(who was pictured in the frontispiece with a bristling moustache and -intensely knit brows) entitled Will Power and Self Mastery, which -offered the only clue as to Henry's own taste in book buying. - -His taste in reading was another matter. The novels and romances he had -devoured during certain periods of his teens had mostly come from the -Sunbury Free Public Library. Lately, however, apart from thrilling -moments with The Prisoner of Zenda, Under the Red Rose, and The Princess -Aline, he had found difficulty in reading at all. Something was stirring -within him, something restlessly positive, an impulse to give out rather -than take in. Though he had, at intervals, lunged with determination -at the Green and the Boswell. This effort, indeed, had been repeated so -many times that he occasionally caught himself speaking of these authors -as if he had read them exhaustively. - -The bottom drawer of the bureau was a third full of unfinished -manuscripts--attempts at novels, short stories, poems, plays--each -faithfully reflecting its immediate source of inspiration. There were -paragraphs that might have been written by a little Dickens; there -were thinly diluted specimens of Dumas, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard -Harding Davis, Thackeray. The rest was all Kipling, prose and verse. -Everybody was writing Kipling then. - -A step sounded in the hall. The knob turned softly; the door opened a -little way; and the thinnish, moderately pretty face of Mamie Wilcox -appeared--pale blue eyes with the beginnings of hollows beneath them, -fair skin, straight hay-coloured hair, wisps of it straying down across -forehead and cheek, thin nose, soft but rather sulky mouth. She was -probably twenty-two or twenty-three at this time. - -All she said was, 'Oh!'--very low. - -'Wonder you wouldn't knock!' said he. - -'Wonder you wouldn't get up before noon!' she responded smartly, but -still in that cautious voice; then added, 'Here, I'll leave the towels, -and come back.' And she slipped into the room, a heavier and more -shapely figure of a girl than was suggested by the face, a girl in a -full-length gingham apron and little shoes with unexpectedly high heels; -not 'French' heels, but the sloping style known then as 'military.' - - -2 - - -Henry's colour was rising a little. He cleared his throat, and said, -mumbling, 'Leave anything you like.' - -'I'll do just that,'--she turned, with a flirt of her apron and stood, -between washstand and door, surveying him--'what I like, and nothing -more.'... Her eyes wandered now from him to the picture at the left of -the pincushion, then to the snapshots on the wall, and she smiled, very -self-contained, very knowing, with the expression that the young call -'sarcastic.' The adjective came to mind. Henry's colour was mounting -higher. - -'Pretty snappy to-day, ain't we?' said he. - -'Yes, when we're snapped at,' said she. - -There was a silence that ran on into seconds and tens of seconds. - -Then, acting on an impulse of astonishing suddenness, he sprang toward -her. - -With almost equal agility she stepped away. But he caught one hand. - -She had the door-knob in her other hand. She drew the door open, then, -indecisively, pushed it nearly to. - -'Be careful!' she whispered. 'They'll hear!' - -She made a small effort to free her hand. For a moment they stood -tugging at each other. - -When Henry spoke, in an effort to appear the off-hand man of the world -he assuredly was not, his voice sounded weak and husky. - -'Whew--strong!' - -'Suppose I slapped.' - -'Slap all you like.' - -'What would Martha Caldwell say?' - -There was a gloomy sort of anger on Henry's red face. He jerked her -violently toward him. - -'Stop! You're hurting my wrist!' With which she yielded a little. -He found himself about to take her in his arms. He heard her -whispering--'For Heaven's sake be careful! They'll surely hear!' - -He was most unhappy. He pushed her roughly away, and rushed to the -window., - -He knew from the silence that she was lingering. He hated her. And -himself. - -She said: 'Well, you needn't get mad.' - -Then, slowly, cautiously, she let herself out. He heard her moving -composedly along the hall. - -He felt weak. And deeply guilty. For a long time this moment had been a -possibility; now it had taken place. What if some one had seen her come -in! What if she should come again! What if she should tell!... - -He found one hair brush on the floor, the other on the bed, and brushed -his hair; donned his coat, buttoning it and smoothing it down about -his shapely torso with a momentary touch of complacency; glanced at the -mirror; twisted up his moustache; then stood waiting for his colour to -go down. - -Suddenly, with one of his quick impulses, he sprang at the bookcase, -drew out the _Epictetus_--it was a little book, bound in 'ooze' calf of -an olive-green colour--and read these words (the book opened there):-- - -'To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable. - -He lowered the book and repeated the phrase aloud. - - -3 - - -A little later--red about the ears, and given to sudden starts when the -swinging pantry doors opened to let a student waiter in or out--he sat, -quite erect, in the dining room and bolted a boarding-house breakfast of -stewed prunes, oatmeal, fried steak, fried potatoes, fried mush swimming -in brown sugar syrup, and coffee. The _Discourses of Epictetus_ lay at -his elbow. - -After this he walked--stiffly self-conscious, book under arm--over to -Simpson Street, and took a chair and an _Inter Ocean_ at Schultz and -Schwartz's, among the line of those waiting to be shaved. - -This accomplished he paused outside, on the curb, to pencil this entry -in a red pocket account-book:-- - -'Shave--10 c.' - -He wavered when passing Donovan's; stepped in and consumed a frosted -maple shake. Which necessitated the further entry in the red book:-- - -'Soda--10 c.' - -In front of Berger's grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked -together to the corner. - -Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes, -an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her -flat straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a -goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood -in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies -in Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and -Thursday evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many -other evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that -with 'the crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up -calling at her house. But they were not engaged. - -On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of -the lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some -curiosity at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide -bottomless gulf, and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately -for words. He began to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem -self-control. - -At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly -embarrassing. - -She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf -by the stone walk. - -He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and -stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him -that he had never been so unhappy. - -'Are you'--Martha began; hesitated; went on--'were you thinking of -coming around this evening?' - -'Why--it's Thursday, ain't it?' - -'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.' - -'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how -could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never, -never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur -V. Henderson's.' - -'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.' - -'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton. -She's been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked -specially to have me cover it.' - -'Why don't you go?' - -'Well--you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate----' - -'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue, -and left him standing there. - -He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for -her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers--or a box of Devoe's.' - -This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to -the financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And -he hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years. -Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention. - -It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not -before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he -paused, and glanced down the avenue. - -A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the -block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man -who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and -Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and -a suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was -leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to--Martha. And Martha was -listening. - -Henry moved on, little confused pangs of quite unreasonable jealousy -stabbing at his heart, and entered the business-and-editorial office of -_The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_, where he worked. - -Here he laid down the _Discourses of Epictetus_ and asked Humphrey -Weaver, untitled editor of the paper (old man Boice, the owner, would -never permit any one but himself to be known by that title), for the -galley proofs of the week's 'Personal Mention.' - -He found this item:-- - -Mr James B. Merchant, Jr., of Greggs, Merchant & Co., was a guest of Mr -and Mrs Ames at the Country Club on Saturday evening. Mr Merchant has -leased for the summer the apartment of M. B. Wills, on Lower Filbert -Avenue. - -That was the man! James B. Merchant was a bachelor, rich, a famous -cotillion leader on the South Side, Chicago, an only son of the original -James B. Merchant. - -And Martha had gone to the Country Club Saturday with the Ameses. This -curious tension between himself and Martha had then first bordered on -the acute. Mr Ames disapproved of Henry; he felt that Martha shouldn't -have gone. And now, of course, her lack of consideration for himself was -leading her into new complications. - -He sat moodily fingering the papers on the littered, ink-stained -table that served him for a desk. He was disturbed, uncomfortable, but -couldn't settle on what seemed a proper mental attitude. He was jealous; -but he mustn't let his jealousy carry him to the point of taking a -definite stand with Martha, because--well... - -Life seemed very difficult. - - -4 - - -The _Voice_ office occupied what had once been a shop, opposite the -hotel. The show window of plate glass now displayed the splintery rear -panels of old Mr Boice's rolltop desk, that was heaped, on top, with -back numbers of the _Voice_, the _Inter Ocean_ and the _Congressional -Record_, and a pile of inky zinc etchings mounted on wood blocks. - -Within, back of a railing, were Humphrey Weaver's desk and Henry -Calverly's table. - -Humphrey was tall, rather thin and angular, with a long face, long nose, -long chin, swarthy complexion, and quick, quizzical brown eyes with -innumerable fine wrinkles about them. When he smiled, his whole face -seemed to wrinkle back, displaying many large teeth in a cavernous -mouth. - -Humphrey might have been twenty-five or six. He was a reticent young -man, with no girl or women friends that one ever saw, a fondness for -the old corn-cob that he was always scraping, filling, or smoking, and a -secret passion for the lesser known laws of physics. He lived alone, in -a barn back of the old Parmenter place. He had divided the upper story -into living and sleeping rooms, and put in hardwood floors and simple -furniture and a piano. Downstairs, in what he called his shop, were -lathes, a workbench, innumerable wood-and-metal working tools, a dozen -or more of heavy metal wheels set, at right angles, in circular frames, -and several odd little round machines suspended from the ceiling at the -ends of twisted cords. In one corner stood a number of box kites, very -large ones. And there were large planes of silk on spruce frames. He was -an alumnus of the local university, but had made few friends, and had -never been known in the town. Henry hadn't heard of him before the -previous year, when he had taken the desk in the _Voice_ office. - -'Say, Hen,'--Henry looked up from his copy paper--; 'Mrs Henderson -looked in a few minutes ago, and left a programme and a list of guests -for her show to-night. She wants to be sure and have you there. You can -do it, can't you?' - -Henry nodded listlessly. - -'It seems there's to be a contralto, too--somebody that's visiting her. -She--Sister Henderson--appears to take you rather seriously, my -boy. Wants you particularly to hear the new girl. One Corinne Doag. -We,'--Humphrey smoked meditatively, then finished his sentence--'we -talked you over, the lady and I. I promised you'd come.' - -At noon, the editorial staff of two lunched at Stanley's. - -'Wha'd you and Mrs Henderson say about me?' asked Henry, over the pie. - -'She says,' remarked Humphrey, the wrinkles multiplying about his eyes, -'that you have temperament. She thinks it's a shame.' - -'What's a shame?' muttered Henry. - -'Whatever has happened to you. I told her you were the steadiest boy -I ever knew. Don't drink, smoke, or flirt. I didn't add that you enter -every cent you spend in that little red book; but I've seen you doing it -and been impressed. But I mentioned that you're the most conscientious -reporter I ever saw. That started her. It seems that you're nothing of -the sort. My boy, she set you before me in a new light. You begin to -appear complex and interesting.' - -Still muttering, Henry said, 'Nothing so very interesting about me.' - -'It seems that you put on an opera here--directed it, or sang it, or -something. Before my time.' - -'That was _Iolanthe_,' said Henry, with a momentarily complacent memory. - -'And you sang--all over the place, apparently. Why don't you sing now?' - -'It's too,'--Henry was mumbling, flushing, and groping for a word--'too -physical.' - -Then, with a sudden movement that gave Humphrey a little start, the boy -leaned over the table, pulled at his moustache, and asked, gloomily: -'Listen! Do you think a man can change his nature?' - -Humphrey considered this without a smile. 'I don't see exactly how, -Hen.' - -'I mean if he's been heedless and reckless--oh, you know, girls, debts, -everything. Just crazy, sorta.' - -'Well, I suppose a man can reform. Were you a very bad lot?' The -wrinkled smile was reassuring. - -'That depends on what you--I wasn't exactly sporty, but--oh, you don't -know the trouble I've had, Humphrey. Then my mother died, and I hadn't -been half-decent to her, and I was left alone, and my uncle had to pay -my debts out of the principal--it was hundreds of dollars----' - -His voice died out. - -There was an element of pathos in the picture before him that Humphrey -recognised with some sympathy--the gloomy lad of twenty, with that -absurd little moustache that he couldn't let alone. After all, he _had_ -been rather put to it. It began to appear that he had suppressed himself -without mercy. There would doubtless be reactions. Perhaps explosions. - -Henry went on:-- - -'I don't know what's happened to me. I don't feel right about things. -I'--he hesitated, glanced up, then down, and his ears reddened--'I've -been going with Martha Caldwell, you know. For a long time.' - -Humphrey nodded. - -'Mondays and Thursdays I go over there, and other times. I don't seem to -want to go any more. But I get mixed up about it. I--I don't want them -to say I'm fickle. They used to say it.' - -'You've evidently got gifts,' observed Humphrey, as if thinking aloud. -'You've got some fire in you. The trouble with you now, of course, is -that you're stale.' Humphrey deliberately considered the situation, then -remarked: 'You asked me if a man can change his nature. I begin to see -now. You've been trying to do that to yourself, for quite a while.' - -Henry nodded. - -'Well, I suppose you'll find that you can't do it. Not quite that. The -fire that's in you isn't going to stop burning just because you tell it -to.' - -'But what's a fellow to do?' - -'I don't know. Just stick along, I suppose, gradually build up -experience until you find work you can let yourself go in. Some way, of -course, you've got to let yourself go, sooner or later.' - -Henry, his eyes nervously alert now, his slim young body tense, was -drawing jerkily with his fork on the coarse table-cloth. - -'Yes,' he broke out, with the huskiness in his voice that came when his -emotions pressed--'yes, but what if you can't let yourself go without -letting everything go? What if the fire bums you!' - -Humphrey found it difficult to frame a reply. He got no further, this as -they were leaving the restaurant, than to say, 'Of course, one man can't -advise another.' - - -5 - - -As they were turning into the _Voice_ office, Henry caught sight of -Mamie Wilcox, in a cheap pink dress and flapping pink-and-white hat, -loitering by the hotel. He fell back behind Humphrey. Mamie beckoned -with her head. He nodded, and entered the office; and she moved slowly -on around the corner of the avenue. - -He mumbled a rather unnecessary excuse to Humphrey, and slipped out, -catching up with her on the avenue. She was unpleasantly attractive. She -excited him. - -'What is it?' he asked, walking with her. 'Did you want to speak to me?' - -'Stuck up, aren't we!' - -'Well?' - -She pouted. 'Take a little walk with me. I do want to talk with you.' - -'Haven't time. Got to get right back to the office.' - -'Well--listen, meet me to-night. I can get out by eight. It's pretty -important. Maybe serious.' - -'Is it---did anybody----' - -She nodded. 'Mrs MacPherson. She was right in her door when I came out -of your room.' - -'Did she say anything?' - -'She looked a lot.' - -'Well, say--I'll see you for a few minutes to-night. Say about eight.' -This was best. It would be dark, or near it. He simply mustn't be seen -strolling with Mamie Wilcox along Filbert Avenue in broad daylight. -'What do you say to Douglass Street and the Lake Shore Drive?' - -'All right. Tell you what--bring a tandem along and take me for a ride.' - -'Oh, I can't.' But his will was weak. 'Got to report a concert. I don't -know, though. I s'pose I could get around at half-past nine' or ten and -hear the last numbers.' - -He had often done this. Besides, he could probably manage it earlier. He -knew he could rent a tandem at Murphy's cigar store down by the tracks. -A quite wild, wholly fascinating stir of adventure was warming his -breast and bringing that huskiness into his voice. He was letting go. -He felt daring and a little mad. He hadn't realised, before to-day, that -Mamie had such a lure about her. - -Before returning to the office he got his bank-book and brazenly drew -from the bank, savings department, his entire account, amounting to ten -dollars forty-six cents. He also bespoke the tandem. - -These were the great days of bicycling. The first highwheeled, rattling -horseless carriage was not to appear in the streets of Sunbury for a -year or two yet. Bicycle clubs flourished. Memorial Day each year (they -called it Decoration Day) was a mad rush of excursion and road races. -Every Sunday witnessed a haggard-eyed humpbacked horde of 'Scorchers' in -knickerbockers or woollen tights. Many of the young men one met on train -and street wore medals with a suspended chain of gold bars, one for each -'century run.' - -And these were the first great days of the bloomer girl. She was -legion. Sometimes her bloomers were bloomers, sometimes they were -knickerbockers, sometimes little more than the tights of the racing -breed. She was dusty, sweaty, loud. She was never the sort of girl you -knew; but always appeared from the swarming, dingy back districts of the -city. Sometimes she rode a single wheel, sometimes tandem with some -male of the humpbacked breed and of the heavily muscled legs and the -grotesquely curved handle bars. The bloomer girl was looked at askance -by the well-bred folk of the shaded suburbs. Ministers thumped pulpits -and harangued half-empty pews regarding this final moral, racial -disaster while she rode dustily by the very doors. - -Henry, as he pedalled the long machine through back streets to the -rendezvous, was glad that the twilight was falling fast. In his breast -pocket were copy paper and pencils, in an outer pocket his little -olive-green book. His white trousers were caught about the ankles with -steel dips. - -Mamie kept him waiting. He hid both himself and the wheel in the shadows -of the tall lilac bushes in the little village park. - -She came at length, said 'Hello!' and with a little deft unhooking, -coolly stepped out of her skirt, rolled up that garment, thrust it under -a bush, and stood before him in the sort of wheeling costume rarely seen -in Sunbury save on Saturdays and Sundays when the Chicago crowds were -pouring through. - -Henry stood motionless, silent, in the dusk. - -'Well,' said she, smartly, 'are we riding?' - -Without a word he wheeled out the bicycle and they rolled away. - -She was very close, there before him. She bent over the handle bars like -an old-timer, and pedalled with something more than the abandon of a -boy. It was going to be hard to talk to her... If he could only blot -this day out of his life. 'She started it,' he thought fiercely, staring -out ahead over her rhythmically moving shoulder. 'I never asked her to -come in!' - -'I didn't know you rode a wheel,' said he, after a time, dismally. - -'I ride Sundays with the boys from Pennyweather Point. But you needn't -tell that at home.' - -'I'm not telling anything at home,' muttered Henry. Then she flung back -at him the one word. - -'Surprised?' - -'Well--why, sorta.' - -'You thought I was satisfied to do the room work and wash dishes, I -suppose!' - -'I don't know as I thought anything.' - -'What's the matter, anyway? Scared at my bloomers?' - -'That's what you call'em, is it?' - -'I must say you're grand company.' - -He made no reply. - -They pedalled past the university buildings, the athletic field, the -lighthouse, up a grade between groves of oak, out along the brink of a -clay bluff overlooking the steely dark lake--horizonless, still, a light -or two twinkling far out. - -'Shall we go to Hoffman's?' she asked. - -'I don't care where we go,' said he. - - -6 - - -_The Weekly Voice of Sunbury_ was put to press every Friday evening, was -printed during that night, and appeared in the first mail on Saturday -mornings. - -Friday, therefore, was the one distractingly busy day for Humphrey -Weaver. And it was natural enough that he should snatch at Henry's -pencilled report of the musicale at Mrs Henderson's with the briefest -word of greeting, and give his whole mind, blue copy-editing pencil -posed in air, to reading it. But he did note that the boy looked rather -haggard, as if he hadn't slept much. He heard his mumbled remark that -he had been over at the public library, writing the thing; and perhaps -wondered mildly and momentarily why the boy should be writing at the -library and not at home, and why he should speak of the fact at all. -And now and again during the day he was aware of Henry, pale, dog-eyed, -inclined to hang about as if confidences were trembling on his tongue. -And he was carrying a little olive-green book around; drew it from -his pocket every now and then and read or turned the pages with an -ostentatious air of concentration, as if he wanted to be noticed. -Humphrey decided to ask him what the trouble was; later, when the paper -was put away. When he might have spoken, old man Boice was there, at his -desk. And Humphrey never got out to meals on Fridays. Henry got all his -work in on time: the 'Real Estate Notes' for the week and the last items -for 'Along Simpson Street.' - -The report of the musicale would have brought a smile or two on another -day. There was nearly a column of it. Henry had apparently been deeply -moved by the singing of Anne Mayer Stelton. He dwelt on the 'velvet -suavity' of her legato passages, her firmness of attack and the -'delicate lace work of her colourature.' 'Mme. Stelton's art,' he wrote, -'has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in -Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in -personality and profoundly rhythmically musical in temperament, she now -has added a superstructure of technical authority, which gives to each -passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction seldom -heard in this country. Miss Corinne Doag also added immeasurably to -the pleasure of the select audience by singing a group of songs. Miss -Corinne Doag has a contralto voice of fine _verve_ and _timbre_. She is -a guest of Mrs Henderson, who herself accompanied delightfully. Among -those present were:--' - -Henry's writing always startled you a little. Words fairly flowed -through his pencil, long words, striking words. He had the word sense; -this when writing. In speech he remained just about where he had been -all through his teens, loose of diction, slurring and eliding and using -slang as did most of the Middle-Westerners among whom he had always -lived, and, like them, swallowing his tongue down his throat. - -Humphrey initialed the copy, tossed it into the devil's basket, turned -to a pile of proofs, paused as if recollecting something, picked up the -copy again, glanced rapidly through it, and turned on his assistant. - -'Look here, Hen,' he remarked, 'you don't tell what they sang, either of -'em. Or who _were_ among those present.' - -Henry was reading his little book at the moment, and fumbling at his -moustache. A mournful object. - -He turned now, with a start, and stared, wide-eyed, at Humphrey. His -lips parted, but he didn't speak. A touch of colour appeared in his -cheeks. - -Then, as abruptly, he went limp in his chair. - -'I thought she left a list here and a programme,' he said, eyes now on -the floor. - -Humphrey's practised eye ran swiftly over the double row of pigeonholes -before him. 'Right you are!' he exclaimed. - -It was a quarter past eleven that night when Humphrey scrawled his last -'O.K.'; stretched out his long form in his swivel chair; yawned; said, -'Well, _that's_ done, thank God!'; and hummed and tapped out on his bare -desk the refrain of a current song:--= - -```'But you'd look sweet - -````On the seat - -```Of a bicycle built for two.'= - -He turned on Henry with a wrinkly, comfortable grin. - -'Well, my boy, it's too late for Stanley's but what do you say to a bite -at Ericson's, over by the tracks?' - -Then he became fully aware of the woebegone look of the boy, fiddling -eternally with that moustache, fingering the leaves of his little book, -and added:-- - -'What on earth is the matter with you!' - -Henry gazed long at his book, swallowed, and said weakly:-- - -'I'm in trouble, Humphrey.' - -'Oh, come, not so bad as all--' - -He was silenced by the sudden plaintive appeal on Henry's face. Mr -Boice, a huge-slow-moving figure of a man with great white whiskers, was -coming in from the press room. - -They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a -roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs. - -There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at -first. Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an -ingenuous volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he -could be bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He -was full of odd little spiritual turnings and twistings--vague as to the -clock, intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless -sea of self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him -with direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the -Thursday morning in the boy's room. - -'But I never asked her in,' he hurried to explain. 'She came in. Maybe -after that it was my fault, but I didn't ask her in.' - -'But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn't so serious. You didn't make -love to her.' - -'I tried to.' - -'Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.' - -'But don't you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She'd been -snooping. Musta heard some of it. That's why Mamie hung around for me -yesterday noon.' - -'Oh, she hung around?' - -Henry swallowed, and nodded. 'That's why I slipped out again after lunch -yesterday. I didn't want to tell you.' - -'Naturally. A man's little flirtations----' - -'But wait, Hump! She was excited about it. And she seemed to think it -was up to me, somehow. I couldn't get rid of her.' - -'Well, of course----' - -'She made me promise to see her last night----' - -'But--wait a minute!--last night----' - -'This was the first part of the evening. She made me promise to rent -Murphy's tandem----' - -'Hm! you _were_ going it!' - -'And we rode up the shore a ways.' - -'Then you didn't hear all of the musicale?' - -'No. She wanted to go up to Hoffmann's Garden. So we went there----' - -'But good lord, that's six miles---' - -'Eight. You can do it pretty fast with a tandem. The place was jammed. I -felt just sick about it. The waiter made us walk clear through, past all -the tables. I coulda died. You see, Mamie, she--but I had to be a sport, -sorta.' - -'Oh, you had to go through with it, of course.' - -'Sure! I _had_ to. It was awful.' - -'Anybody there that knew you?' - -Henry's colour rose and rose. He gazed down intently at the remnant of -a cream puff; pushed it about with his fork. Then his lips formed the -word, 'Yes.' - -Humphrey considered the problem. 'Well,' he finally observed, 'after -all, what's the harm? It may embarrass you a little. But most fellows -pick up a girl now and then. It isn't going to kill anybody.' - -'Yes, but'--Henry's emotions seemed to be all in his throat to-night; he -swallowed--'but it--well, Martha was there.' - -'Oh--Martha Caldwell?' - -'Yes. And Mary Ames and her mother. They were with Mr Merchant's party.' - -'James B., Junior?' - -'Yes. They drove up in a trap. I saw it outside. We weren't but three -tables away from them. They saw everything. Mamie, she----' - -'After all, Hen. It's disturbing and all that, but you were getting -pretty tired of Martha----' - -'It isn't that, Hump 1 I don't know that I was. I get mixed. But it's -the shame, the disgrace. The Ameses have been down on me anyway, -for something that happened two years ago. And now...! And Martha, -she's--well, can't you see, Hump? It's just as if there's no use of my -trying to stay in this town any longer. They'll all be down on me now. -They'll whisper about me. They're doing it now. I feel it when I walk -up Simpson Street. They're going to mark me for that kind of fellow, and -I'm not.' - -His face sank into his hands. - -Humphrey considered him; said, 'Of course you're not;' considered him -further. Then he said, reflectively: 'It's unpleasant, of course, but -I'll confess I can't see that what you've told me justifies the words -"shame" and "disgrace." They're strong words, my boy. And as for leaving -town... See here, Hen | Is there anything you haven't told me?' - -The bowed head inclined a little farther. - -'Hadn't you better tell me? Did anything happen afterward? Has the girl -got--well, a real hold on you?' The head moved slowly sidewise. 'We -fought afterward, all the way home. Rowed. Jawed at each other like a -pair of little muckers. No, it isn't that. I hated her all the time. I -told her I was through with her. She tried to catch me in the hall this -morning, up on the third floor. Came sneaking to my room again. With -towels. That's why I wrote in the library.' - -'But you aren't telling me what the rest of it was.' - -'She--oh, she drank beer, and----' - -'That's what most everybody does at Hoffmann's. The beer's good there.' - -'I don't know. I don't like the stuff.' - -'Come, Hen, tell me. Or drop it. Either.' - -'I'll tell you. But I get so mad. It's--she--well, she wore pants.' - -Humphrey's sympathy and interest were real, and he did not smile as he -queried: 'Bloomers?' - -'No, pants. Britches. I never saw anything so tight. Nothing else like -'em in the whole place. People nudged each other and laughed and said -things, right out loud. Hump, it was terrible. And we walked clear -through--past hundreds of tables--and away over in the corner--and there -were the Ameses, and Martha, and----' - -His head was up now; there was fire in his eyes; his voice trembled with -the passion of a profound moral indignation. - -'Hump, she's tough. She rides with that crowd from Pennyweather Point. -She smokes cigarettes. She--she leads a double life.' - -And neither did it occur to Humphrey, looking at the blazing youth -before him, to smile at that last remark. - -Humphrey had reached a point of real concern over Henry. He thought -about him the last thing that night--pictured him living a lonely, -spasmodically ascetic life, in the not over cheerful boarding-house of -Mrs Wilcox--and the first thing the next morning. - -The curious revelation of the later morning nettled him, perhaps, as a -responsible editor, but, if anything, deepened his concern. He had the -boy on his conscience, that was the size of it. He thought him over -all the morning, before and after the revelation. After it he smoked -steadily and hard, and knit his brows, and shook his head gravely, and -chuckled. - -Henry always came in between half-past eleven and twelve Saturdays to -clip his contributions from the paper and paste them, end to end, in a -'string.' Then Humphrey would measure the string with a two-foot rule -and fill out an order on the _Voice_ Company for payment at the rate of -a dollar and a quarter a column, or something less than seven cents an -inch. Henry despairing of a raise from nine dollars a week had, months -back, elected to work 'on space.' - -That the result had not been altogether happy--he was averaging -something less than nine dollars a week now--does not concern us here. - -Humphrey contrived to keep busy until the string was made and measured; -then proposed lunch. - -At Stanley's, the food ordered, he leaned on his lank elbows and -surveyed the dejected young man before him. - -'Hen,' he remarked dryly, 'do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton's -voice has a velvet suavity?' - -Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then -dropped his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid. - -'Why not?' said he. - -'You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably -since she last appeared in Sunbury?' - -Henry centred all his attention on the soup. - -'You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during -her study abroad?' - -Henry's ears were scarlet now. - -Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at -his deeply unhappy friend. - -For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid -down his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met -Humphrey's gaze. - -'There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your -neck. A moment.' - -Henry's voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has -absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much. -'What is it?' he asked. 'What happened?' - -'Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and -sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.' - -Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes. - -'Hump,' he said, 'I don't know that I'm sorry. I'm rather glad you -caught me, I think.' - -It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving -speech. - -'You had an unlucky day,' he said. - -Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry -pushed his aside. He ate nothing more. - -'Mrs Henderson was in,' Humphrey added. 'I don't care what they say -about her, she's a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.' - -'Was she mad, Hump?' - -'I--well, yes, I gathered the impression that you'd better not try to -talk to her for a while. There she was, you see--came straight down -to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along. -Unusual dark brown eyes--almost black. A striking girl. But you won't -meet her--not this trip. Though she couldn't help laughing once or -twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick. -_Verve. Timbre_. It puts you--I won't say in a Bad light--but certainly -in a rather absurd light.' - -'Yes,' said Henry, gently, meekly, 'it does. It sorta completes the -thing. I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They're laughing -at me. And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I've lost my friends. -I'm sort of an outcast, I suppose. A--a pariah.' - -There was a long silence. - -'You'd better eat some food,' said Humphrey. - -'I can't.' Henry was brooding, a tired droop to his mouth, a look of -strain about the eyes. He began thinking aloud, rather aimlessly. 'It -ain't as if I did that sort of thing. I never asked her to come in. I -couldn't very well refuse to talk with her. She suggested the tandem. It -did seem like a good idea to get her out of town, if I had to risk being -seen with her. I'll admit I got mixed--awfully. I don't suppose I knew -just what I was doing. But it was the first time in two years. Hump, you -don't know how hard I've----' - -'It's the first-time offenders that get most awfully caught,' observed -Humphrey. 'But never mind that now. You're caught, Hen. No good -explaining. You've just got to live it down.' - -'That's what I've been doing for two years--living things down. And look -where it's brought me. I'm worse off than ever.' - -There was a slight quivering in his voice that conveyed an ominous -suggestion to Humphrey. - -'Mustn't let the kid sink this way,' he thought. Then, aloud: 'Here's a -little plan I want to suggest, Hen. You're stale. You're taking this too -hard. You need a change.' - -'I don't like to leave town, exactly, Hump--as if I was licked. I've -changed about that.' - -'You're not going to leave town. You're coming over to live with me. -Move this afternoon.' - -Henry seemed to find difficulty in comprehending this. Humphrey, -suddenly a victim of emotion, pressed on, talking fast. 'I'll be through -by four. You be packing up. Get an expressman and fetch your things. -Here's my key. I'll let you pay something. We'll get our breakfasts.' - -He had to stop. It struck him as silly, letting this forlorn youth -touch him so deeply. He gulped down a glass of water. 'Come on,' he said -brusquely, 'let's get out.' And on the street he added, avoiding those -bewildered dog eyes--'I'm going to reshuffle you and deal you out -fresh.' That's all you need, a new deal.' - -But to himself he added: 'It won't be easy. He is taking it hard. He's -unstrung. I'll have to work it out slowly, head him around, build up -his confidence. Teach him to laugh again. It'll take time, but it can be -done. He's good material. Get him out of that dam boardinghouse to start -with.' - - -7 - - -It was nearly five o'clock when Humphrey reached his barn at the rear of -the Parmenter place. He found the outside door ajar. - -'Hen's here now,' he thought. - -He stepped within the dim shop, that had once been a carriage room, -called, 'Hello there!' and crossed to the narrow stairway. There was no -answer. He went on up. - -On the rug in the centre of the living-room floor was a heap consisting -of an old trunk, a suit-case, a guitar in an old green woollen bag, two -canes, an umbrella, and various loose objects--books, a small stand of -shelves, two overcoats, hats, and a wire rack full of photographs. - -The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where -they had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found -the splinter on the floor; muttered, 'I'll glue it on, and rub over the -cracks.' - -He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. 'It -didn't occur to him to stow'em away,' he mused. 'Probably didn't know -where to put 'em.' - -He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next -to his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day. -He carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the -rug. - -The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the -knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of -his bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and -electric lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and -at the head of his bed. - -He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with -knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling -against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard -to give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known -it would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming -again, and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant -home was his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a -dusty, cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the -water pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his -acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so. - -'Hen shouldn't have left the door open like that,' he mused. - -He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he -sighed. - -'Well,' he thought, 'needn't be a hog. It's my chance to do a fairly -decent turn. The boy hasn't a soul. Not yet. - -He isn't the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised. -Very likely I've got to build him over from the ground up. Might try -making him read history. God knows he needs background. It'll take time. -And patience. All I've got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of -his self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That's it. I've taken it -on. Can't quit. It seems to be my job.' And he sighed again. 'Have to -get him a key of his own.' - -There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures -and garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs. - -'I put your things in there,' Humphrey pointed. 'We'll move the box -couch in for you to-night.' - -'That'll be fine,' said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice. - -Humphrey's eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom; -and he compressed his lips and shook his head. - -Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for -the first lesson. 'There's simply no life in the boy,' thought Humphrey. -He cleared his throat, and said aloud:-- - -'Tell you what, Hen. We'll celebrate a little, this first evening. I've -got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I -make excellent drip coffee. If you'll go over to Berger's and get a -pound or so of cheese for the rabbit, I'll look the situation over and -figure out a meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.' - -Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, 'All right,' -hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally -wandered off down the stairs and out. - -He returned at twenty minutes past midnight. - -Humphrey was abed, reading Smith' on Torsion. He put down the book and -waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since -six o'clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling; -at present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly -suppressed wrath. - -Henry came into the room--a little flushed, bright of eye, the sensitive -corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily upward. He -even actually chuckled. - -'Well, where--on--earth.... - -Henry waved a light hand. 'Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess -I owe you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something. -Everything happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you're sorta -swept off your feet like that----' - -'Like what!' - -'Oh--well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny, it -doesn't seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was -weeks ago that I moved my things over.' His eyes roved about the room; -lingered on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface -wiring with sudden interest. - -'Go on!' From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on -the self-absorbed youth. - -'Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger's and got the cheese; and -just as I was coming out I ran into Mrs Henderson and Corinne.' - -'Who!' - -'Corinne Doag. You know. She's visiting there. Well, sir, I could have -died right there. Fussed me so I turned around and was going back -into the store. I was just plain rattled. And you were right about Mrs -Henderson. She was kinda mad. She made me stand right up and take a -scolding. Shook her finger at me right, there in front of Berger's. That -fussed me worse. Gee! I was red all over. But you see it sorta fussed -Corinne Doag too--she was standing right there--and she got a little -red. Wasn't it a scene, though! Sorta made us acquainted right off. You -know, threw us together. Then she--Mrs Henderson--said I didn't deserve -to meet a girl with verve and timbre, but just to show she wasn't the -kind to harbour angry feelings she'd introduce us. And--and--I walked -along home with'em.' - -He was looking again at the solid ranks of books that extended, floor to -ceiling, across the end wall. - -'Say, Hump, you don't mean to say you really read all those!' - -'You walked home with them. Go on.' - -'Oh, well, they asked me to stay to supper, and I did, and some folks -came in, and we sang and things, and then we--oh, yes, how much was the -cheese?' - -'How in thunder do I know?' - -'Well--there was a pound of it--Mrs Henderson made a rabbit. - -The none too subtle chill in the atmosphere about Humphrey seemed at -last to be meeting and somewhat subduing the exuberant good cheer that -radiated from Henry. He fell to fingering his moustache, and studying -the bed-posts. Once or twice, he looked up, hesitated on the brink of -speech, only to lower his eyes again. - -Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled aloud, and said, 'She's a wonderful -girl. At first she seems quiet, but when you get to know her... going to -take a walk with me to-morrow morning. She was going to church with Mrs -H., but I told her we'd worship in God's great outdoor temple.' - -He yawned now. And stretched, deliberately, luxuriously like a healthy -animal, his arms above his head. - -'Well,' said he, 'it's late as all get out. I suppose you want to go to -sleep.' He got as far as the door, then leaned confidingly against the -wall. 'Look here, Hump, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate -your taking me in like this. It's dam nice of you. Don't know what I'd -have done if it wasn't for you. Well, good-night.' - -He got part way out the door this time; then, brushed by a wave of -his earlier moody self-consciousness, turned back. He even came in and -leaned over the foot of the bed, and flushed a little. It occurred to -Humphrey that the boy appeared to be momentarily ashamed of his present -happiness. - -'Do you know what was the matter with me?' he broke out. 'It was just -what you said. I was taking things too hard. The great thing is to be -rational, normal. Thing with me was I used to go to one extreme and now -these last two years I've been going with all my might to the other. -Of course it wouldn't work... Do you know who's helped me a whole lot? -You'd never guess.' Rather shamefaced, he drew from his pocket a -little book bound in olive-green 'ooze' leather. 'It's this old fellow. -Epictetus. Listen to what he says--"To the rational animal only is the -irrational intolerable." That was the trouble with me. I just wasn't a -rational animal. I _wasn't_... Well, I've got to say good-night.' - -This time he went. - -Humphrey heard him getting out of his clothes and into the bed that -Humphrey himself had made up on the box couch. It seemed only a moment -later that he was snoring--softly, slowly, comfortably, like a rational -animal. - -The minute hand of the alarm clock on Humphrey's bureau crept up to -twelve, the hour hand to one. Then came a single resonant, reverberating -boom from the big clock up at the university. - -Slowly, lips compressed, Humphrey got up, and in his pyjamas and -slippers went downstairs and switched off the door light he found -burning there. The stair light could be turned off upstairs. - -Then, instead of going up, he opened the door and stood looking out on -the calm village night. - -'Of all the----' he muttered inconclusively. 'Why it's--he's a---- Good -God! It's the limit! It's--it's intolerable.' - -The word, floating from his own lips, caught his ear. His frown began, -very slowly, to relax. A dry, grudging smile wrinkled its way across his -mobile face. And he nodded, deliberately. 'Epictetus,' he remarked, 'was -right.' - - - - -II--IN SAND-FLY TIME - - -1 - - -|It was half-past nine of a Sabbath morning at the beginning of June. -The beneficent sunshine streamed down on the dark-like streets, on the -shingled roofs of the many decorous but comfortable homes, on the wide -lawns, on the hundreds of washed and brushed little boys and starched -little girls that were marching meekly to the various Sunday schools, -Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist. Above the -new cement sidewalk on Simpson Street--where all the stores were closed -except two drug stores and Swanson's flower shop--the sunshine quivered -and wavered, bringing oppressive promise of the first really warm day -of the young summer. Slow-swinging church bells sent out widening, -reverberating circles of mellow tone through the still air. - -The sun shone too on the old barn back of the Parmenter place. - -The barn presented an odd appearance; the red paint of an earlier -decade in the nineteenth century here faded to brown, there flaked off -altogether, but the upstairs part, once the haymow, embellished with -neat double windows. Below, giving on the alley, was a white-painted -door with a single step and an ornamental boot scraper. - -Within, in Humphrey's room, the bed was neatly made, clothes hung in a -corner, shoes and slippers stood in a row. - -In Henry's room the couch bed was a rumpled heap, a suit-case lay on the -floor half-unpacked, a trunk was in the same condition, clothes, shoes, -neckties, photographs were scattered about on table, chairs and floor, a -box of books by the bed, the guitar in its old green woollen bag leaning -against the door. - -In a corner of the living-room the doors of an ingeniously contrived -cupboard stood open, disclosing a sink, shelves of dishes, and a small -ice-box. - -Humphrey, in shirt, trousers and slippers, stood washing the breakfast -things. He was smoking his cob pipe. His long, wrinkly, usually -quizzical face, could Henry have seen it, was deathly sober. - -Henry, however, could see only the lean back. And he looked at that only -momentarily. He was busy smoothing the fringe along his upper lip -and twisting it up at the ends. Too, he leaned slightly on his bamboo -walking stick, staring down at it, watching it bend. Despite his white -ducks and shoes, serge coat, creamy white felt hat on the back of his -shapely head, despite the rather noticeable nose glasses with the -black silk cord hanging from them to his lapel, he presented a forlorn -picture. He wished Humphrey would say something. That long back was -hostile. Henry was helpless before hostility, as before logic. Already -they weren't getting on. Little things like washing dishes and making -beds and--dusting! Humphrey was proving an old fuss-budget. And Henry -couldn't think what to do about it. He could never:--never in the -world--do those fussy things, use his hands. He couldn't even flounder -through the little mental processes that lead up to doing things with -your hands. He wasn't that sort of person. Humphrey was. - -'Oh, thunder--Hump!' Thus Henry, weakly. 'Let the old dishes slide a -little while. I'll be back. It ain't my fault that I've got a date now.' - -Humphrey set down a cup rather hard, rolled the dish-towel into a ball -and threw it, with heat, after the cup, then strode to the window, -nursing his pipe and staring out at the gooseberry and currant bushes in -the back yard of the First Presbyterian parsonage across the alley. - -Humphrey liked order. It was the breath of his life. Combined with -solitude it spelled peace to his bachelor soul. But here it was only the -second day and the place was a pigsty. What would it be in a week! - -He was aware that Henry moved over, all hesitation, and with words, to -shut the door of that hopelessly littered bedroom. The boy appeared to -have no intention of picking up his things; he wasn't even unpacking! -Leaving his clothes that way 1... The words he was so confusedly -uttering were the absurdest excuses: 'Just shut the door--fix it all up -when I get back--an hour or so... - -It was in a wave of unaccustomed sentimentalism that Humphrey had -gathered him in. Humphrey had few visitors. You couldn't work with -aimless youths hanging around. He knew all about that. Humphrey's -evenings were precious. His time was figured out, Monday morning to -Saturday night, to the minute. And the Sundays were always an orgy -of work. But this youth, to whom he had opened his quarters and his -slightly acid heart, was the most aimless being he had ever known. An -utter surprise; a shock. Yet here he was, all over the place. - -Humphrey was trying, by a mighty effort of will, to get himself back -into that maudlin state of pity which had brought on all this trouble. -If he could only manage again to feel sorry for the boy, perhaps he -could stand him. But he could only bite his pipe-stem. He was afraid -he might say something he would be sorry for. No good in that, of -course.... No more peaceful study, all alone, propped up in bed, with a -pipe and reading light! No more wonderful nights in the shop downstairs! -No more holding to a delicately fresh line of thought--balancing along -like a wire-walker over a street! The boy was over by the stairs now, -all apologies, mumbling useless words. But he was going--no doubt -whatever as to that. - -'I'm late now,' he was saying.'What else can I do, Hump? I promised. -She'll be looking for me now. If you just wouldn't be in such a -thundering hurry about those darn dishes... I can't live like a machine. -I just can't!' - -'You could have cleaned up your room while you've been standing there,' -said Humphrey, in a rumbling voice. - -'No, I couldn't! Put up all my pictures and books and things! I'm not -like you. You don't understand!' Humphrey wheeled on him, pipe in hand, -a cold light in his eyes, a none-too-agreeable smile wrinkling the lower -part of his face. - -'I'm not asking much of you,' he said. - -'Oh, thunder, Hump! Do you think I don't appreciate--' - -'I'd be glad to help you. But you've got to do a _little_ on your own -account. For God's sake show some spine!' Sand-fly! Damn it, this is -more than I can stand! It smothers me! How can I work! How can I think!' -He stopped short; bit his lip; turned back to the window and thrust his -pipe into his mouth. - -Humphrey knew without looking that the boy was fussing endlessly at -that absurd moustache. And sighing--he heard that. He bit hard on his -pipe-stem. The day was wrecked already. He would be boiling up every few -moments; tripping over Henry's things; regretting his perhaps too harsh -words. Yes, they were too harsh, of course. - -Henry was muttering, mumbling, tracing out the pattern in the rug-border -with his silly little stick. These words were audible:-- - -'I don't see why you asked me to come here. I suppose I... Of course, -if you don't want me to stay here with you, I suppose I... Oh, well! I -guess I ain't much good....' - -The voice trailed huskily off into silence. - -After all, there didn't seem to be any place the boy could stay, if not -here. Living alone in a boarding-house hadn't worked at all. To send him -out into the world would be like condemning him. - -Henry moved off down the stairs, slowly, pausing once as if he had not -yet actually determined to go. - -Walking more briskly, he emerged from the alley and swung around into -Filbert Avenue. The starched and shining children were pouring in an -intermittent stream into the First Presbyterian chapel, behind the big -church. - -Gloom in his eyes, striking in a savage aimlessness with his cane at -the grass, he passed the edifice. Walking thus, he felt a presence and -lifted his eyes. - - -2 - - -Approaching was a pleasant-looking young woman of twenty, of a good -figure, a few girlish freckles across the bridge of her nose, abundant -hair tucked in under her Sunday hat. - -It was Martha Caldwell. She had a class in the Sunday-school. - -Martha saw him. No doubt about that. - -For the moment, in Henry's abasement of spirit, he half forgot that she -had cut him dead, publicly, on Simpson Street on the Saturday. Or if it -was not a forgetting it was a vagueness. Henry was full to brimming of -himself. Not in years had he craved sympathy as he craved it to-day. -The word 'craved,' though, isn't strong enough. It was an utter need. -An outcast, perhaps literally homeless; for how could he go back to -Humphrey's after what had occurred! He must pack his things, of course. - -He raised his hand--slowly, a thought stiffly--toward his hat. - -Martha moved swiftly by, staring past him, fixedly, her lips compressed, -her colour rising. - -Henry's hand hung suspended a moment, then sank to his side. - -Henry himself was capable of any sort of heedlessness, but never of -unkindness or of cutting a friend. - -The colour surged hotly over his face and reddened his ears. - -There was a chance--a pretty good chance, it seemed, as he recalled the -pleasant Saturday evening over a rabbit--that he might find sympathy -at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's. That was one place, where, within twelve -hours, Henry Calverley, 3rd, had had some standing. They had seemed to -like him. Mrs Henderson had unquestionably played up to him. And her -guest was a peach! - -At a feverish pace, almost running, he went there. - - -3 - - -Corinne Doag was a big girl with blue-black hair and a profile like the -Goddess of Liberty on the silver quarter of the period. Her full face -rather belied the profile; it was an easy, good-natured face, though -with a hint of preoccupation about the dark eyes. Her smile was almost -a grin. She had the great gift of health. She radiated it. You couldn't -ignore her you felt her. - -Though not a day older than Henry, Corinne was a singer of promise. At -Mrs Henderson's musicale, she had managed groups of Schumann, Schubert, -Franz and Wolff, an Italian aria or two and some quaint French folk -songs with ample evidence of sound training and coaching. Her voice -had faults. It was still a little too big for her. It was a contralto -without a hollow note in it, firm and strong, with a good upper range. -There was in it more than a hint of power. It moved you, even in her -cruder moments. Her speaking voice--slow, lazy, strongly sensuous--gave -Henry thrills. - -She and Henry strolled up the lake, along the bluff through and beyond -the oak-clad campus, away up past the lighthouse. She seemed not to mind -the increasing heat. She had the careless vitality of a young mountain -lion, and the grace. - -Henry himself minded no external thing. Corinne Doag was, at the moment, -the one person in the world who could help him in his hour of deep -trouble. It was not clear how she could help him, but somehow she could. -He was blindly sure of it. If he could just impress himself on her, make -her forget other men, other interests! He had started well, the night -before. Things had gone fine. - -He was leading her to a secluded breakwater, between the lighthouse and -Pennyweather Point, where, under the clay bluff, the shell of an old -boat-house gave you a back as you sat on a gray timber and shielded you -at once from morning sun and from the gaze of casual strollers up the -beach. Henry knew the place well, had guided various girls there. Martha -had often spoken of it as 'our' breakwater. But no twinge of memory -disturbed him now. His nervous intentness on this immediate, rather -desperate task of conquering Corinne's sympathy fully occupied his -turbulent thoughts. - -When they arrived at the spot he was stilted in manner, though atremble -within. He ostentatiously took off his coat, spread it for her, -overpowering her protests. - -It had been thought by a number of girls and by a few of his elders -that Henry had charm. He was aware of quality they called charm he could -usually turn on and off like water at a faucet. - -Now, of all occasions, was the time to turn it on. But he was -breathlessly unequal to it. - -Perversity seized his tongue. He had seen himself lying easily, not -ungracefully beside her, saying (softly) the things she would most like -to hear. Speak of her voice, of course. And sing with her (softly) while -they idly watched the streaky, sparkling lake and the swooping, creaking -gulls above it. But he did none of these. Instead he stood over her, -glaring down rather fiercely, and saying nothing at all. - -'The shade does feel good,' said she. - -Still he groped for words, or for a mental attitude that might result in -words. None came. Here she was, at his feet, and he couldn't even speak. - -He fell back, in pertubation, on physical display, became the prancing -male. - -'I like to skip stones,' he managed to say, with husky -self-consciousness. He hunted flat stones; threw them hard and far, -until his face shone with sweat and a damp spot appeared in his shirt -between his shoulders. - -To her, 'Better let me hold your glasses,' he responded with an -irritable shake of the head. - -But such physical violence couldn't go on indefinitely. Not in this -heat. He threw less vigorously. He wondered in something of a funk, why -he couldn't grasp his opportunity. - -He became aware of a sound. A sound that in a more felicitous moment -would have thrilled him. - -She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped, -and did a phrase over, as if she were practising. - -He stole a glance. She wasn't even looking at him. She had sunk back -on an elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be -observing the gulls, rather absently. - -Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her. - -'I skipped that last one seven times,' said he. - -She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on. - -'She doesn't know I'm here,' he mused, with bitterness. 'I don't count. -Nobody wants me.' And added, 'She's selfish.' - -Suddenly he broke out, tragically: 'You don't know what I've been -through. I wouldn't tell you.' - -The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she -asked, after a pause, 'Why not?' - -'You'd be like the others. You'd despise me.' - -'I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn't. You ought to hear -her talk about you.' - -'She'll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone -with my way to make. Wha'd she say about me?' - -'That you're a genius. She can't make out why you've been burying -yourself, working for a little country paper.' - -Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for -a less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; -speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what -anybody thought about anybody. - -Still--it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; -glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body. - -'So she says I'm a genius, eh! Well, maybe it's true. Maybe I am. I'm -something. Or there's something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on -fire with it. I've done a few things. I put on _Iolanthe_ here. When I -was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it--drilled -'em----' - -'I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.' - -'I'll do something else one of these days.' - -'I'm sure you will,' she murmured politely. - -It was going none too well. She wasn't really interested. He hadn't -touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it -over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better. - -'That's an awfully pretty brooch,' he ventured. - -She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a -cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold. - -'It was a present,' she said. 'From one of the nicest men I ever knew.' - -This chilled Henry's heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out -of his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully -masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might -be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new -girl, Henry was an incorrigible idealist. - -It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It -hurt, just to think of it. And presents--things like that, gold in -it--the thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened -his thoughts. - -'That's it,' these ran now. 'Presents! Money! That's what girls want. -Keep you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on 'em. That's what -they're after!' - -The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped -stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising -songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite -too much for him. - -When he came gloomily over, she remarked:-- - -'We must be starting back.' - -He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression -throw his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach. - -'Oh, come on, don't go yet,' he begged. 'Why, we've only just got here.' - -'It's a long walk. And it's hot. We'll never get back for dinner if we -don't start. I mustn't keep Mildred waiting.' - -He thought, 'A lot she'd care if she wanted to be with me!' - -He said, 'What you doing to-night?' - -'Oh, a couple of Chicago men are coming out.' - -'Oh!' It was between a grunt and a snort. He struck out at such a gait -that she finally said:-- - -'If you want to walk at that pace I'm afraid you'll have to walk alone.' - -So far a failure. Just as with Humphrey, the situation had given him -no opportunity to display his own kind of thing. The picturesque slang -phrase had not then been coined; but Henry was in wrong and knew it. It -was defeat. - -The first faint hope stirred when Mrs Henderson rose from a hammock and -came to the top step to clasp his hand. She thought him a genius. Well, -she had been accompanist through all those rehearsals for _Iolanthe._ -She ought to know. - -She asked him now, in her alertly offhand way, to stay to dinner. He -accepted instantly. - - -4 - - -Mildred Henderson was little, slim, quick, with tiny feet and hands. -Despite these latter she was the most accomplished pianist in Sunbury. -She had snappy little eyes, and a way of smiling quickly and brightly. -The Hendersons had lived four or five years in Sunbury. They had no -children. They had no servant at this time--but she possessed the gift -of getting up pleasant little meals without apparent effort. - -After the arrival of Corinne and Henry she disappeared for a few -moments, then called them to the dining-room. - -'It's really a cold lunch,' she said, as they gathered at the -table--'chicken and salad and things. But there's plenty for you, -Henry. Do have some iced tea. I know they starve you at that old -boarding-house. We've all had our little term at Mrs Wilcox's.' - -'I--I'm not living there any more. I've moved.' - -'Not to Mrs Black's?' - -'No... you see I work with Humphrey Weaver at the _Voice_ office and he -asked me to come and live with him.' - -'With him? And where does he live?' - -'Why, just back of the old Parmenter place.' - -'But there's nothing back of the Parmenter place!' - -'Yes--you see, the barn----' - -'Not that old red----' - -'Yes. You'd be surprised! Humphrey's put in hardwood and electricity and -things. He's really a wonderful person. Did the wiring himself. And the -water pipes. You ought to see his books--and his shop downstairs. He's -an inventor, you know. Going to be. Don't you think for a minute that -he's just a country editor. That's just while he's feeling his way. Oh, -Hump's a smart fellow. Mighty decent of him to take me in that way, too; -because he's busy and I know he'd rather live alone. You see, he's quiet -and orderly about things, and I--well, I'm different.' - -'Offhand,' mused Mrs Henderson, 'I shouldn't suspect Humphrey Weaver of -temperament. But tell me--how on earth do you live? Who cooks and cleans -up?' - -'Well, Hump gets breakfast and--and we'll probably take turns cleaning -up.' - -'You remember Humphrey Weaver, Corinne,' the little hostess breezed on. -'You've met him. Tall, thin, face wrinkles up when he smiles or speaks -to you.' She added, as if musing aloud, 'He _has_ nice eyes.' Then, to -Henry: - -'But do you mean to say that so fascinating a man as that lives -undiscovered, right under our noses, in this bourgeois town.' - -Henry was rather vague about the meaning of 'bourgeois,' but he nodded -gravely. - -'You must bring him down here, Henry. I can't imagine what I've been -thinking of to overlook him. - -Tell you what, we'll have a little rabbit to-morrow night. We four. -We'll devote an evening to drawing Mr Humphrey Weaver out of his shell.' - -Her quick eyes caught a doubtful look in Corinne's eyes. 'Oh,' she said, -'we did speak of letting Will and Fred take us in town, didn't we?' - -Corinne nodded. - -It seemed to Henry that he ought to take the situation in hand. As -regarded his relations with Humphrey he was sailing under false colours. -Among his confused thoughts he sought, gropingly, a way out. The speech -he did make was clumsy. - -'I don't know whether I could make him come. He likes to read evenings, -or work in his shop.' - -Mrs Henderson took this in, then let her eyes rest a moment, -thoughtfully, on Henry's ingenuous countenance. An intent look crept -into her eyes. - -'Do you mean that you two sweep and make beds and wash dishes and dust?' - -'Well'--Henry's voice faltered--'you see, I haven't been--I just moved -over there yesterday afternoon.' - -'Hm!' There was a bright, flash in Mrs Henderson's eyes. She chuckled -abruptly. It was a sharp little chuckle that had the force of an -interruption. 'I'd like to see the corners of those rooms. There ought -to be some woman that could take care of you.' She turned again on -Henry. 'Be sure and bring him down to-morrow. Come in about six for a -picnic supper. Or no--let me think----' - -Henry's eyes were on Corinne. She was eating now, composedly, like an -accomplished feminine fatalist, leaving the disposition of matters to -her more aggressive hostess. The food he had eaten rested comfortably -on his long ill-treated but still responsive young stomach. His -nervous concern of the morning was giving place to a glow of snug -inner well-being. Ice-cream was before him now, a heaping plate of -it--vanilla, with hot chocolate sauce--and a huge slice of chocolate -layer cake. He blessed Mrs Henderson for the rich cream as he let -heaping spoonfuls slip down his throat and followed them with healthy -bites of the cake. What a jolly little woman she was. No fuss. - -Nothing stuck up about her. And he knew she was on his side. - -She had sympathy. Even if she hadn't yet heard--when she did hear--it -wouldn't matter. She would be on his side; he was sure of it. - -Corinne's hair, a loose curl of it, curved down over her ear and part -of her cheek. She reached up a long hand and brushed it back. The motion -thrilled him. He was quiveringly responsive to the faint down on her -cheek, to the slight ebbing and flowing of the colour under her skin, to -the whiteness of her temple, the curve of her rather heavy eyebrow, even -to the 'waist' she wore--a simple garment, with an open throat and a -wide collar that suggested the sea. - -Mrs Henderson was talking about something or other, in her brisk way. - -Henry only partly heard. He was day-dreaming, weaving an imaginative -web of irridescent fancy about the healthy, rather matter-of-fact girl -before him. And eating rapidly his second large helping of ice-cream, -and his second piece of cake. - -Little resentments were still popping up among his thoughts, taunting -him. But tentative little hopes were struggling with these now. A sense -of power, even, was stirring to life in his breast. This brought new -thrills. It was a long, long time since he had felt as he was now -beginning to feel. Life had dealt pretty harshly with him these two -years. But he wasn't beaten yet. Not even if nice men did give cameo -brooches mounted on beaded gold. - -He felt in his pocket. Nearly all of the week's pay was there--about -eight dollars. It wasn't much. It wouldn't buy gold brooches. -Space-reporting on a country weekly at a dollar and a quarter a column, -as a means of livelihood, was pretty hard sledding. He would have to -scheme out something. There would be seventeen dollars more on the -fifteenth from his Uncle Arthur, executor of his mother's estate and -guardian to Henry, but that had been mentally pledged to the purchase of -necessary summer underwear and things. Still, he might manage somehow. -You had to do a lot for girls, of course. They expected it. Expensive -business. - -He indulged himself a moment, shading his eyes with one hand and eating -steadily on, in a momentary wave of bitterness against well-to-do young -men who could lavish money on girls. - -Corinne was speaking now, and he was answering. He even laughed at -something she said. But the train of his thoughts rumbled steadily on. - -After the coffee they all carried out the dishes and washed them. Henry -amused them by wearing a full-length kitchen apron. Corinne tied the -strings around his waist. He found an excuse to reach back, and for an -instant his hands covered hers. She laughed a little. He danced about -the kitchen and sang comic songs as he wiped dishes and took them to the -china closet in the butler's pantry. - -This chore finished, they went to the living-room. - -Mrs Henderson said: 'Oh, Corinne, you must hear Henry sing "When Britain -Really Ruled" from _Iolanthe_.' She found the score and played for him. -He sang lustily, all three verses. - -'Too much dinner,' he remarked, beaming with pleasure, at the close. -'Voice is rotten.' - -'It's a good organ,' said Corinne. 'You ought to work at it.' - -'Perfect shame he won't study,' said Mrs Henderson. Henry found _The -Geisha_ on the piano. - -'Come on, Corinne,' he cried. 'Do the "Jewel of Asia." Mrs Henderson'll -transpose it.' - -Corinne leaned carelessly against the piano and sang the pleasant little -melody with an ease and a steady flow of tone that brought a shine to -Henry's eyes. He had to hide it, dropping on the big couch and resting -his head on his hand. He could look nowhere but at her. He ordered her -to sing 'The Amorous Goldfish.' - -She fell into the spirit of it, and moved away from the piano, looking -provocatively at Henry, gesturing, making an audience of him. She even -danced a few steps at the end. - -Henry sprang up. The power was upon him. Obstacles, difficulties, the -little scene with Humphrey, while not forgotten, were swept aside. He -was irresistible. - -'Tell you what,' he said gaily, with supreme ease--'w'e'll send -those Chicago men a box of poisoned candy to-morrow, and--oh, yes w-e -will!--and then we'll have a party at the rooms. You'll be chaperon, Mrs -Henderson and Hump'll cook things in the chafing dish, and----' - -'What a perfectly lovely idea!' said Mrs Henderson in a surprisingly -calm voice. 'I'll bring the cold chicken, and a vegetable salad... - -Henry watched Corinne. - -For an instant--she was rummaging through the music--her eyes met his. -'It'll be fun,' she said. - -Henry felt a shock as if he had plunged unexpectedly, headlong, into -ice-water; then a glow. - -He was a daring soul. They didn't understand him in Sunbury. He had -temperament, a Bohemian nature. The thing was, he'd wasted two years -trying to make another sort of himself. Kept account of every penny in a -red book! All that! Book was in his pocket now. - -He decided to tear it up. He wouldn't be a coward another day. That -plodding self-discipline hadn't got him anywhere. Now really, had it? - -Little inner voices were protesting weakly. People might find out about -it. Have to be pretty quiet. And keep the shades down. It wouldn't -do for the folks in the parsonage, across the alley, to know that Mrs -Arthur V. Henderson and her guest were in the Parmenter barn. Have to -find some tactful way of suggesting that they come after dark... - -As if she could read his thoughts, Mrs Henderson remarked calmly: 'You -come for us, Henry. Say about eight.' - -Still the little voices of doubt and confusion. Even of fear. He -mentally shouted them down; fixing his eyes on the disturbingly radiant -Corinne, then glancing for moral support at the really pretty little Mrs -Henderson who gave out such a reassuring air of knowing precisely what -she was about, of being altogether in the right. Funny, knowing her all -these years, he hadn't realised she was so nice! - -He had turned defeat into victory. Single-handed. Will and Fred could go -sit on the Wells Street bridge and eat bananas. He had settled _their_ -hash. - - -5 - - -To this lofty mood there came, promptly? an opposite and fully equal -reaction. - -Difficulties having arisen in connection with the problem of breaking -the news to Humphrey, he couldn't very well go back to the rooms. - -The thing would have to be put right before Humphrey. He decided to -think it over. That was the idea--think it over. Humphrey would be -eating his supper, if not at the rooms, then at Stanley's little -restaurant on Simpson Street. So he could hardly go to Stanley's. There -was another little lunch room down by the tracks, but Humphrey had -been known to go there. And of course it was impossible to return for a -transient meal to Mrs Wilcox. For one thing, the student waiters would -be off and Mamie Wilcox on duty in the dining-room. He didn't want Mamie -back in his life. Not if he could help it. He even went so far as to -wonder, with a paralysing sense of helplessness in certain conceivable -contingencies, if he _could_ help it... So instead of eating supper he -sat on a breakwater, alone, unobserved, while the golden sunset glow -faded from lake and sky and darkness claimed him for her own. - -Later, handkerchief over face, rushing and pawing his way through the -myriads of sand-flies that swarmed about each corner light, he walked -into the neighbourhood of Martha Caldwell's house. He walked backhand -forth for a time on the other side of the street, and stood motionless -by trees. He found the situation trying, as he didn't know why he had -come, whether he wanted to see Martha or what he could say to her. - -He could hear voices from the porch. And he thought he could see one -white dress. - -Then, because it seemed to be the next best thing to do, he crossed over -and mounted the familiar front steps. - -He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant, -Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with -the glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. -Finally, after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for -Monday evening, the cotillion leader left. - -Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated -sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, -at the maples. - -Henry struggled for speech. - -'Martha, look here,' came from him, in a tired voice, 'you've cut me -dead. Twice. Now it seems to me----' - -'I don't want to talk about that,' said Martha. - -'But it isn't fair not to----' - -'Please don't try to tell me that you weren't at Hoffmann's with that -horrid girl.' - -'I'm not trying to. But----' - -'You took her there, didn't you?' - -'Yes, but she----' - -'She didn't make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going -with me, too.' - -'Oh, well,' he muttered. Then, 'Thunder! If you're just determined not -to be fair---- - -'I won't let you say that to me.' The snap in her voice stung him. - -'You're not fair! You won't even let me talk!' - -'What earthly good is talk!' - -'Oh, if you're going to take that attitude----' - -She rose. So did he. - -'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly, -unevenly. - -'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless. - -She made no reply. - -They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch -full of young people were singing _Louisiana Lou_. Henry, out of sheer -nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to the -steps. - -'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.' - -Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't -believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He -even felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit -in the hammock with him and bring back something of the old time -feeling. - -But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the -yellow cloud at the corner. - -He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet -on pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week -or two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy -wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake -towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street -they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square -inch of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes -necessary to clear the sidewalks with shovels. - -It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into -Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs. - -Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack -of light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight. - -Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly -room. - -He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed -about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen. - -He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his -foot. - -'Just have to get at these things,' he muttered aloud. 'Make a job of -it. Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.' - -Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume -entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. - -He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently -pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall, knitting his brows, and -mumbling the words over and over until the small meaning they had ever -possessed was lost. - - -6 - - -He came almost stealthily into the office of _The Weekly Voice of -Sunbury_ on the Monday morning. He had not fallen really asleep until -the small hours. When he awoke, Humphrey was long gone and the breakfast -things stood waiting on the centre table. And there they were now. He -hadn't so much as rinsed them in the sink. - -Humphrey sat behind his roll-top desk, back of the railing. Old Mr -Boice, the proprietor, was at his own desk, out in front. At the first -glimpse of his massive head and shoulders with the heavy white whiskers -falling down on his shirt front, Henry, hesitating on the sill, gave -a little quick sigh of relief. He let himself, moving with the -self-consciousness that somewhat resembled dignity, through the gate in -the railing and took his chair at the inkstained pine table that served -him for a desk. - -He felt Humphrey's eyes on him, and said 'Goodmorning!' stiffly, without -looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew -not what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a -business of writing nothing whatever. - -At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along -Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone -with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim -Smith, the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that -blonde little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who -chewed tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry's table, and talk further. - -Noon came. - -Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and -thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to -come along with him for lunch at Stanley's. He didn't mind for himself. -It was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, -more pleasant. It was awkward. - -He got up; stood a moment. - -He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes -for the Commencement 'recital' of the Music School, pencil poised, -motionless, almost inert. - -Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, -proof in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone. - -Henry did not appear again at the office. This was not unusual. Monday -was a slack day, and much of Henry's work consisted in scouting along -Simpson Street, looking up new real estate permits at the village -office, new volumes at the library and other small matters. - -The unusual thing was the note on Humphrey's desk. Henry had put it on -top of his papers and weighted it down conspicuously with the red ink -bottle. - -'I've had to ask Mrs Henderson and Corinne Doag to the rooms to-night -for a little party. I'll bring them about eight.' Pinned to the paper -was a five-dollar banknote. - -At supper-time, Humphrey, eating alone in Stanley's, saw a familiar -figure outside the wide front window. It was Henry, dressed in his -newest white ducks, his blue coat newly pressed (while he waited, at the -Swede tailor's down the street), standing stiffly on the curb. - -Occasionally he glanced around, peering into the restaurant. - -The light was failing in the rear of the store. Mrs Stanley came from -her desk by the door and lighted two gas-jets. - -Henry again glanced around. He saw Humphrey and knew that Humphrey saw -him. - -A youth on a bicycle paused at the curb. - -Through the screen door Humphrey heard this conversation:-- - -'Hallo, Hen!' - -'Hallo, Al!' - -'Doing anything after?' - -'Why--yeah. Got a date.' - -And as the other youth rode off, Henry glanced around once more, -nervously. - -He was carrying the bamboo stick he affected. He twirled this for a -moment, and then wandered out of view. - -But soon he reappeared, entered the restaurant and marched straight back -to Humphrey's table. His sensitive lips were compressed. - -He said, 'Hallo, Hump!' and with only a moment's hesitation took the -chair opposite. - -Humphrey buried his nose in his coffee cup. - -Henry cleared his throat, twice; then, in a husky, weak voice, -remarked:-- - -'Get my note?' - -There was a painfully long silence. - -'Yes,' Humphrey replied then, 'I did.' And went at the pie. - -Henry picked up a corner of the threadbare table-cloth and twisted it. -He had been pale, but colour was coming now, richly. - -'Well,' he mumbled, 'I s'pose we've gotta say something about it.' - -'Not necessary,' Humphrey observed briskly. - -'Well, but--we'll have to plan----' - -'Not at all.' - -'You mean--you----' Henry's voice broke and faltered. - -'I mean----' Humphrey's voice was clear, sharp. - -'Ssh! Not so loud, Hump.' - -'I mean that since you've done this extraordinary thing without so much -as consulting me, I will see it through. I don't want you for one minute -to think that I like it. God knows what it's going to mean--having women -running in there! My privacy was the only thing I had. You've chosen to -wreck it without a by-your-leave. I'll be ready at eight. And I'll see -that the door of your room is shut.' - -With which he rose, handed his ticket to Mrs Stanley to be punched, and -left the restaurant. - -Henry walked the streets, through gathering clouds of sand-flies, until -it was time to call at Mrs Henderson's. - - -7 - - -They stood on the threshold. - -'This is the shop,' Henry explained, 'where Hump works.' - -'How perfectly fascinating!' exclaimed Mrs Henderson. Her quick eyes -took in lathes, kites, models of gliders, tools. 'Bring him 'straight -down here. I won't stir from this room till he's explained everything.' - -'Hump!' called Henry, with austere politeness, up the stairway: 'Would -you mind coming down?' - -He came--tall, stooping under the low lintel, in spotless white, distant -in manner, but courteous, firmly courteous. - -Mrs Henderson, prowling about, lifted a wheel in a frame. - -'What on earth is this thing?' she asked. - -'A gyroscope.' - -'What do you do with it?' - -Humphrey wound a long twine about the handle and set the wheel spinning -like a top. - -'Hold it by the handle,' said he. 'Now try to wave it around.' - -The apparently simple machine swung itself back to the horizontal with -a jerk so violent that Mrs Henderson nearly lost her footing. Humphrey, -with evident hesitation, caught her elbow and steadied her. She turned -her eyes up to his, laughing, all interest. - -'Sit right down in that chair and explain it to me,' she cried. 'How -on earth did it do that? It's uncanny.' And she seated herself on a -work-bench, with a light little spring. - -When Henry showed Corinne up the stairs, Humphrey was talking with -an eager interest that had not before been evident in him. And Mrs -Henderson was listening, interrupting him where his easy flow of -scientific terms and mechanical axioms ran too fast for her. - -Henry's pulse beat faster. Suddenly the pleasantly arranged old -barn looked, felt different. Charm had entered it. And the exciting -possibility of fellowship--a daring fellowship. He was up in the -living-room now. Corinne was moving lazily, comfortably about, humming -a song by the sensational new Richard Strauss who was upsetting all -settled musical tradition just then, and prying into corners and -shelves. She wore a light, shimmery, silky dress that gave out a faint -odour of violets. It drugged Henry, that odour. He felt for the first -time as if he belonged in these rooms himself. - -Corinne found the kitchen cupboard', and exclaimed. - -'Mildred!' she called down the stairs, in her rich drawling voice, 'come -right up here--the cutest thing!' - -To which Mildred Henderson coolly replied:-- - -'Don't bother me with cute things now. Play with Henry and keep quiet.' - -And Humphrey's voice droned on down there. - -Henry dropped on the piano stool. Corinne was certainly less -indifferent. A little. - -He struck chords; all he knew. He hummed a phrase of the Colonel's song -in _Patience_. - -Corinne drew a chair to the end of the keyboard and settled herself -comfortably. 'Sing something,' she said. 'I love your voice.' - -'It's no good,' said he, flushing with delight. - -Surely her interest was growing. He added:-- - -'I'd a lot rather hear you.' But then, when she smilingly shook her -head, promptly broke into--= - -``'If you want a receipt for that popular mystery - -```Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, - -``Take all the remarkable people of history, - -```Rattle them off to a popular tune.'= - -It is the trickiest and most brilliant patter song ever written, I -think, not even excepting the Major General's song in _The Pirates_. -Which, by the way, Henry sang next. - -'How on earth can you remember all those words!' Corinne murmured. 'And -the way you get your tongue around them. I could never do it.' - -She tried it, with him; but broke down with laughter. - -'I know hundreds of 'em,' he said expansively, and sang on. - -It was an opportunity he had not foreseen during this dreadful day. But -here it was, and he seized it. The stage was set for his kind of things; -all at once, as if by the merest accident. For the first time since -the awkward Sunday morning on the beach he was able to turn on full the -faucet that controlled his 'charm.' And he turned it on full. He had -parlour tricks. Out of amateur opera experience he had picked up a -superficial knack at comedy dancing. He did all he knew. He taught an -absurd little team song and dance to Corinne, with Mrs Henderson (who -had at last come up) improvising at the piano. And Corinne, flushed and -pretty, clung to his hand and laughed herself speechless. Once in her -desperate confusion over the steps she sank to the floor and sat in a -merry heap until Henry lifted her up. Then Henry imitated Frank Daniels -singing 'The man with an elephant on his hands,' and H. C. Bamabee -singing _The Sheriff of Nottingham_, and De Wolf Hopper doing _Casey -at the Bat_. All were clever bits; the 'Casey' exceptionally so. They -applauded him. Even Humphrey, silent now, leaning on an end of the -piano, watching Mrs Henderson's flashing little hands, clapped a little. - -Once Humphrey went rather moodily to a window and peered out. - -Mrs Henderson followed him; slipped her hand through his arm; asked -quietly, 'Who lives across the alley?' - -'It's the Presbyterian parsonage,' he replied, slightly grim. - -It was after midnight when they set out, whispering, giggling a little -in the alley, for Chestnut Avenue. - -'These sand-flies are fierce,' said Henry. 'You girls better take our -handkerchiefs.' - -They circled on lawns to avoid the swirling, crunching, softly -suffocating clouds of insects. Nearer the lake it grew worse. At the -corner of Chestnut and Simpson they stopped short. Mrs Henderson, -pressing the handkerchief to her face, clung in humorous helplessness to -Humphrey's arm. - -He looked down at her. Suddenly he stooped, gathered her up in his arms -as if she were a child, and carried her clear through the plague into -the shadows of Chestnut Avenue. - -Henry, running with Corinne pressing close on his arm, caught a glimpse -of his face. The expression on it added a touch of alarm to the pæan of -joy in Henry's brain. - -They stepped within the Henderson screen door to say good-night. - -'Let's do something to-morrow night--walk or go biking or row on the -lake,' said Mrs Henderson. 'You two had better come down for dinner. Any -time after six.' - -'How about you?' Henry whispered to Corinne. 'Do you want me to come... -Will and Fred...' - -Corinne's firm long hand slipped for a moment into his. He gripped it. -The pressure was returned. - -'Don't be silly!' she breathed, close to his ear. - - -8 - - -The sand-flies served as an excuse for silence between Humphrey and -Henry on the walk back. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward. It held -until they were up in the curiously, hauntingly empty living-room. - -Humphrey scraped and lighted his pipe. - -Henry, rather surprisingly unhappy again, was moving toward a certain -closed door. - -'Tell me,' said Humphrey gruffly, slowly, 'where is Mister Arthur V. -Henderson?' - -'He travels for the Camman Company, reapers and binders and ploughs.' - -Humphrey very deliberately lighted his pipe. - -Henry moved on toward the closed door. Emotions were stirring -uncomfortably within him. And conflicting impulses. Suddenly he shot out -a muffled 'Good-night,' and entered the bedroom, shutting the door after -him. - -An hour later Humphrey--a gaunt figure in nightgown and slippers, pipe -in mouth--tapped at that door. - -Henry, only half undressed, flushed of face, dripping with sweat, -quickly opened it. - -Humphrey looked down in surprise at a fully packed trunk and suit-case -and a heap of bundles tied with odd bits of twine--sofa cushions, old -clothes, what not. - -'What's all this?' Humphrey waved his pipe. - -'Well--I just thought I'd go in the morning.' - -'Don't be a dam' fool.' - -'But--but'--Henry threw out protesting hands--'I know I'm no good at all -these fussy things. I'd just spoil your----' - -The pipe waved again. 'That's all disposed of, Hen.' A somewhat -wry smile wrinkled the long face. 'Mildred Henderson's running it, -apparently. There's a certain Mrs Olson who is to come in mornings and -clean up. And--oh yes, I've got a lot of change for you. Your share was -only eight-five cents.' - -There was a long silence. Henry looked at his feet; moved one of them -slowly about on the floor. - -'We're different kinds,' said Humphrey. 'About as different as they -make'em. But that, in itself, isn't a bad thing.' - -He thrust out his hand. - -Henry clasped it; gulped down an all but uncontrollable uprush of -feeling; looked down again. - -Humphrey stalked back to his room. - -Thus began the odd partnership of Weaver and Calverly. Though is not -every partnership a little odd? - - - - -III--THE STIMULANT - - -1 - - -|Miss Wombast looked up from her desk in the Sunbury Public Library and -beheld Henry Calverly, 3rd. Then with a slight fluttering of her pale, -blue-veined eyelids and a compression of her thin lips she looked down -again and in a neat practised librarian's hand finished printing out a -title on the-catalogue card before her. - -For Henry Calverly was faintly disconcerting to her. Though it was only -eleven o'clock, and a Tuesday, he was attired in blue serge coat, -snow white trousers and (could she have seen through the desk) white -stockings and shoes. His white _négligé_ shirt was decorated at the neck -with a 'four-in-hand' of shimmering foulard, blue and green. In his -left hand was a rolled-up creamy-white felt hat and the crook of a thin -bamboo stick. With his right he fussed at the fringe on his upper lip, -which was somewhat nearer the moustache stage than it had been last -week. Behind his nose glasses and their pendant silk cord his face was -sober; the gray-blue eyes that (Miss Wombast knew) could blaze with -primal energy were gloomy, or at least tired; there was a furrow between -his blond eyebrow's. He had the air of a youth who wants earnestly to -concentrate without knowing quite how. - -Miss Wombast was a distinctly 'literary' person. She read Meredith, -Balzac, De Maupassant, Flaubert, Zola, and Howells. She was living her -way into the developing later manner of Henry James. She talked, on -occasion, with an icy enthusiasm that many honest folk found irritating, -of Stevenson's style and of Walter Pater. - -It was Miss Wombast's habit to look in her books for complete -identification of the living characters she met. She studied all of -them, coolly, critically, at boardinghouse and library. Naturally, when -a living individual refused to take his place among her gallery of book -types, she was puzzled. One such was Henry Calverly. - -She had known something of his checkered career in high school, where -he had directed the glee club, founded and edited _The Boys' Journal_, -written a rather bright one-act play for the junior class. Indeed the -village in general had been mildly aware of Henry. He had stood out, and -Miss Wombast herself had sung a modest alto in the _Iolanthe_ chorus, -two years back, under Henry's direction and had found him impersonally, -ingenuously masterful and a subtly pleasing factor in her thought-world. -He had made a success of that mob. The big men of the village gave him a -dinner and a purse of gold. After all of which, his mother had died, -he had run, apparently, through his gifts and his earnings, and settled -down to a curiously petty reporting job, trotting up and down Simpson -Street collecting useless little items for _The Weekly Voice of -Sunbury_. Other young fellows of twenty either went to college or -started laying the foundations of a regular job in Chicago. Those that -amounted to anything. You could see pretty plainly ahead of each his -proper line of development. Yet here was Henry, who _had_ stood out, -working half-heartedly at the sort of job you associated with the -off-time of poor students, dressing altogether too conspicuously, -wasting hours--daytimes, when a young fellow ought to be working--with -this girl and that. For a long time it had been the Caldwell girl. -Lately she had seen him with that strikingly pretty but, she felt, -rather 'physical' young singer who was visiting the gifted but -whispered-about Mrs Arthur V. Henderson, of Lower Chestnut Avenue. Name -of Doge, or Doag, or something like that. - -Henry himself had been whispered about. Very recently. He had been -seen at Hoffmann's Garden, up the shore, with a vulgar young woman in -extremely tight bloomers. Of the working girl type. Had her out on a -tandem. Drinking beer. - -So it was, unable to forget those secretly stirring _Iolanthe_ days, -that Miss Wombast had looked about among her book types for a key to -Henry, but without success. He didn't appear to be in De Maupassant. Nor -in Balzac. In Meredith and James there was no one who said 'Yeah' and -'Gotta' and spoke with the crude if honest throat 'r' of the Middle West -and went with nice girls and vulgar girls and carried that silly cane -and wore the sillier moustache; who had, or had had, gifts of creation -and command, yet now, month in, month out, hung about Donovan's soda -fountain; who never smoked and, apart from the Hoffmann's Garden -incident, wasn't known to drink; and who, when you faced him, despite -the massed evidence, gave out an impression of earnest endeavour. Even -of moral purpose. - -Had she known him better Miss Wombast would have found herself the more -puzzled. For Miss Wombast, despite her rather complicated reading, -still clung in some measure to the moralistic teachings of her youth, -believing that people either had what she thought of as character or -else didn't have it, that people were either industrious or lazy, bright -or stupid, vulgar or nice. Therefore the fact that Henry, while still -wrecking his stomach with fountain drinks and (a recently acquired -habit) with lemon meringue pie between meals, had not touched candy for -two years--not a chocolate cream, not even a gum drop!--and this by -sheer force of character, would have been confusing. - -And to read his thoughts, as he stood there before her desk, would have -carried her confusion on into bewilderment. - -Mostly these thoughts had to do with money, and bordered on the -desperate. Tentative little schemes for getting money--even a few -dollars--were forming and dissolving rapidly in his mind. - -He was concerned because his sudden little flirtation with Corinne Doag, -after a flashing start, had lost its glow. Only the preceding evening. -He hadn't held her interest. The thrill had gone. Which plunged him into -moods and brought to his always unruly tongue the sarcastic words -that made matters worse. He was lunching down there to-day--he and -Humphrey--and dreaded it, with moments of a rather futile, flickering -hope. Deep intuition informed him that the one sure solution was money. -You couldn't get on with a girl without it. Just about so far, then -things dragged. And this, of course, brought him around the circle, back -to the main topic. - -He was thinking about his clothes. They, at least, should move Corinne. -Along with the moustache, the cane, the cord on his glasses. He didn't -see how people could help being a little impressed. Miss Wombast, even, -who didn't matter. It seemed to him that she _was_ impressed. - -He was thinking about Martha Caldwell., She was pretty frankly going -with James B. Merchant, Jr., now. Henry was jealous of James B. -Merchant, Jr. And about Martha his thoughts hovered with a tinge of -romantic sadness. He would like her to see him to-day, in these clothes, -with his moustache and cane. - -He was wondering, with the dread that the prospect of mental effort -always roused in him, how on earth he was ever to write three whole -columns about the Annual Business Men's Picnic of the preceding -afternoon. Describing in humorous yet friendly detail the three-legged -race, the ball game between the fats and the leans, the dinner in the -grove, the concert by Foote's full band of twenty pieces, the purse -given to Charlie Waterhouse as the most popular man on Simpson Street. -He had a thick wad of notes up at the rooms, but his heart was not in -the laborious task of expanding them. He knew precisely what old -man Boice expected of him--plenty of 'personal mention' for all the -advertisers, giving space for space. Each day that he put it off -would make the task harder. If he didn't have the complete story in by -Thursday night, Humphrey would skin him alive; yet here it was Wednesday -morning, and he was planning to spend as much of the day as possible -with the increasingly unresponsive Corinne. Life was difficult! - -He was aware of a morbid craving in his digestive tract. He decided to -get an ice-cream soda on the way back to the office. He would have liked -about half a pound of chocolate creams. The Italian kind, with all the -sweet in the white part. But here character intervened. - -A corner of his mind dwelt unceasingly on queer difficult feelings that -came. These had flared out in the unpleasant incident of Mamie Wilcox -and the tandem; and again in the present flirtation with Corinne. In a -way that he found perplexing, this stir of emotion was related to -his gifts. He couldn't let one go without the other. There had been -moments--in the old days--when a feeling of power had surged through -him. It was a wonderful, irresistible feeling. Riding that wave, he -was equal to anything. But it had frightened him. The memory of it -frightened him now. He had put _Iolanthe_ through, it was true, but he -had also nearly eloped with Ernestine Lambert. He had completely lost -his head--debts, everything! - -Yes, it was as well that Miss Wombast couldn't read his thoughts. She -wouldn't have known how to interpret them. She hadn't the capacity to -understand the wide swift stream of feeling down which an imaginative -boy floats all but rudderless into manhood. She couldn't know of his -pitifully inadequate little attempts to shape a course, to catch this -breeze and that, even to square around and breast the current of life. - -Henry said politely:-- - -'Good-morning, Miss Wombast. I just looked in for the notes of new -books.' - -'Oh,' she replied quickly. 'I'm sorry you troubled. Mr Boice asked me -to mail it to the office at the end of the month. I just sent it--this -morning.' - -She saw his face fall. He mumbled something that sounded like, 'Oh--all -right! Doesn't matter.' For a moment he stood waving his stick in jerky, -aimless little circles. Then went off down the stairs. - - -2 - - -Emerging from Donovan's drug store Henry encountered the ponderous -person of old Boice--six feet an inch and a half, head sunk a little -between the shoulders, thick yellowish-white whiskers waving down over a -black bow tie and a spotted, roundly protruding vest, a heavy old -watch chain with insignia of a fraternal order hanging as a charm; -inscrutable, washed-out blue eyes in a deeply lined but nearly -expressionless face. - -Henry stopped short; stared at his employer. - -Mr Boice did not stop. But as he moved deliberately by, his faded eyes -took in every detail of Henry's not unremarkable personal appearance. - -Henry was thinking: 'Old crook. Wish I had a paper of my own here and -I'd get back at him. Run him out of town, that's what!' And after he had -nodded and rushed by, his colouring mounting: 'Like to know why I should -work my head off just to make money for _him_. No sense in that!' - -Henry came moodily into the _Voice_ office, dropped down at his -inkstained, littered table behind the railing, and sighed twice. He -picked up a pencil and fell to outlining ink spots. - -The sighs were directed at Humphrey, who sat bent over his desk, cob -pipe in mouth, writing very rapidly. 'He's got wonderful concentration,' -thought Henry, his mind wandering a brief moment from his unhappy self. - -Humphrey spoke without looking up. 'Don't let that Business Men's Picnic -get away from you, Hen. Really ought to be getting it in type now. Two -compositors loafing out there.' - -Henry sighed again; let his pencil fall on the table; gazed heavily, -helplessly at the wall... - -'Old man say anything to you about the "Library Notes"?' - -Humphrey glanced up and removed his pipe. His swarthy long face wrinkled -thoughtfully. 'Yes. Just now. He's going to have Miss Wombast send 'em -in direct every month.' - -'And I don't have 'em any more.' - -Humphrey considered this fact. 'It doesn't amount to very much, Hen.' - -'Oh, no--works out about sixty cents to a dollar. It ain't that -altogether--it's the principle. I'm getting tired of it!' - -The press-room door was ajar, Humphrey reached out and closed it. - -Henry raised his voice; got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the -table. His eyes brightened sharply. Emotion crept into his voice and -shook it a little. - -'Do you know what's he done to me--that old doubleface? Took me in here -two years ago at eight a week with a promise of nine if I suited. Well, -I did suit. But did I get the nine? Not until I'd rowed and begged for -seven months. A year of that, a lot more work--You know! "Club Notes," -this library stuff, "Real Estate Happenings," "Along Simpson Street," -reading proof--' - -Humphrey slowly nodded as he smoked. - -'--And I asked for ten a week. Would he give it? No! I knew I was worth -more than that, so I offered to take space rates instead. Then what does -he do? You know, Hump. Been clipping me off, one thing after another, -and piling on the proof and the office work. Here's one thing more gone -to-day. Last week my string was exactly seven dollars and forty-six -cents. Dam it, it ain't fair! I can't _live!_ I won't stand it. Gotta be -ten a week or I--I'll find out why. Show-down.' - -He rushed to the door. Then, as if his little flare of indignation had -burnt out, fingered there, knitting his brows and looking up and down -the street and across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House, where -people sat in a row in yellow rocking chairs. - -Humphrey smoked and considered him. After a little he remarked -quietly:-- - -'Look here, Hen, I don't like it any more than you do. I've seen what he -was doing. I've tried to forestall him once or twice----' - -'I know it, Hump.' Henry turned. He was quite listless now. 'He's a -tricky old fox. If I only knew of something else I could do--or that we -could do together----' - -'But--this was what I was going to say--no matter how we feel, I'm going -to be really in trouble if I don't get that picnic story pretty soon. Mr -Boice asked about it this morning.' - -Henry leaned against Mr Boice's desk, up by the window; dropped his chin -into one hand. - -'I'll do it, Hump. This afternoon. Or to-night. We're going down to -Mildred's this noon, of course.' - -'That's part of what's bothering me. God knows how soon after that -you'll break away from Corinne.' - -'Pretty dam soon,' remarked Henry sullenly, 'the way things are going -now.... I'll get at it, Hump. Honest I will. But right now'--he moved -a hand weakly through the air--'I just couldn't. You don't know how I -feel. I _couldn't!_' - -'Where you going now?' - -'I don't know.' The hand moved again. 'Walk around. Gotta be by myself. -Sorta think it out. This is one of the days... I've been thinking--be -twenty-one in November. _Then_ I'll show him, and all the rest of 'em. -Have a little money then. I'll show this hypocritical old town a few -things--a few things....' - -His voice died to a mumble. He felt with limp fingers at his moustache. - -'I'll be ready quarter or twenty minutes past twelve,' Humphrey called -after him as he moved mournfully out to the street. - - -3 - - -Mr Boice moved heavily along, inclining his massive head, without a -smile, to this acquaintance and that, and turned in at Schultz and -Schwartz's. - -The spectacle of Henry Calverly--in spotless white and blue, with the -moustache, and the stick--had irritated him. Deeply. A boy who couldn't -earn eight dollars a week parading Simpson Street in that rig, on a -week-day morning! He felt strongly that Henry had no business sticking -out that way, above the village level. Hitting you in the eyes. Young -Jenkins was bad enough, but at least his father had the money. Real -money. And could let his son waste it if he chose. But a conceited young -chump like Henry Calverly! Ought to be chucked into a factory somewhere. -Stoke a furnace. Carry boxes. Work with his hands. Get down to brass -tacks and see if he had any stuff in him. Doubtful. - -Mr Boice made a low sound, a wheezy sound between a grunt and a hum, as -he handed his hat to the black, muscular, bullet-headed, grinning Pinkie -Potter, who specialised in hats and shoes in Sunbury's leading barber -shop. - -He made another sound that was quite a grunt as he sank into the red -plush barber chair of Heinie Schultz. His massive frame was clumsy, and -the twinges of lumbago, varied by touches of neuritis, that had come -steadily upon him since middle life, added to the difficulties of moving -it about. He always made these sounds. He would stop on the street, take -your hand non-committally in his huge, rather limp paw, and grunt before -he spoke, between phrases, and when moving away. - -Heinie Schultz, who was straw-coloured, thin, listlessly patient (Bill -Schwartz was the noisy fat one), knew that the thick, yellowish gray -hair was to be cut round in the back and the neck shaved beneath it. -The beard was to be trimmed delicately, reverently--'not cut, just the -rags taken off'--and combed out. Heinie had attended to this hair and -beard for sixteen years. - -'Heard a good one,' murmured Heinie, close to his patron's ear. 'There -was a bride and groom got on the sleeping car up to Duluth--' - -A thin man of about thirty-five entered the shop, tossed his hat to -Pinkie, and dropped into Bill Schwartz's chair next the window. The -new-comer had straight brown hair, worn a little long over ears and -collar. His face was freckled, a little pinched, nervously alert. Behind -his gold rimmed spectacles his small sharp eyes appeared to be darting -this way and that, keen, penetrating through the ordinary comfortable -surfaces of life. - -This was Robert A. McGibbon, editor and proprietor of the _Sunbury -Weekly Gleaner_. He had appeared in the village hardly six months back -with a little money--enough, at least, to buy the presses, give a little -for good will, assume the rent and the few business debts that Nicholas -Simms Godfrey had been able to contract before his health broke, and to -pay his own board at the Wombasts' on Filbert Avenue. His appearance -in local journalism had created a new tension in the village and his -appearance now in the barber shop created tension there. Heinie's -vulgar little anecdote froze on his lips. Mr Boice, impassive, heavily -deliberate, after one glimpse of the fellow in the long mirror before -him, lay back in the chair, gazed straight upward at the fly-specked -ceiling. - -Mr Boice, when face to face with Robert A. McGibbon on the street, -inclined his head to him as to others. But up and down the street his -barely expressed disapproval of the man was felt to have a root -in feelings and traditions infinitely deeper than the mere natural -antagonism to a fresh competitor in the local field. - -For McGibbon was--the term was a new one that had caught the popular -imagination and was worming swiftly into the American language--a yellow -journalist. He had worked, he boasted openly, on a sensationally new -daily in New York. In the once staid old _Gleaner_ he used boldfaced -headlines, touched with irritating acumen on scandal, assailed the -ruling political triumvirate, and made the paper generally fascinating -as well as disturbing. As a result, he was picking up subscribers -rapidly. Advertising, of course, was another matter. And Boice had all -the village and county printing. - -The political triumvirate mentioned above was composed of Boice himself, -Charles H. Waterhouse, town treasurer, and Mr Weston of the Sunbury -National Bank. For a decade their rule had not been questioned along the -street. The other really prominent men of Sunbury all had their business -interests in Chicago, and at that time used the village merely for -sleeping and as a point of departure for the very new golf links. Such -men, I mean, as B. L. Ames, John W. MacLouden, William B. Snow, and J. -E. Jenkins. - -The experience of withstanding vulgar attacks was new to the -triumvirate. (McGibbon referred to them always as the 'Old Cinch.') The -_Gleaner_ had come out for annexation to Chicago. It demanded an -audit of Charlie Waterhouse's town accounts by a new, politically -disinterested group. It accused the bank of withholding proper support -from men of whom old Boice disapproved. It demanded a share of the -village printing. - -The 'Old Cinch' were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their -notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in -town, to refer to him always as a 'Democrat.' This damned him with many. -He called himself an 'Independent.' Which amused Charlie Waterhouse -greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn't a decent Republican had to -be a Democrat. In the nature of things. - -And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving -him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself -with. - -Bill Schwartz took McGibbon's spectacles, tucked the towel around his -scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a -strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest. - -McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers -that waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his -razor. - -'How are you, Mr Boice?' McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully. - -Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed -it down. - -'Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V. -Henderson's.' - -Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal -should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound. - -'Who wrote it?' - -No answer. - -'Henry Calverly?' - -A grunt. - -'Thought so!' McGibbon chuckled. - -Mr Boice twisted his head around, trying to see the fellow in the -mirror. Heinie pulled it back. - -'Got it here. Hand me my glasses, Bill, will you. Thanks.' McGibbon was -sitting up, his face all lather, digging in his pocket. He produced a -clipping. Read aloud with gusto:-- - -'"Mrs Stelton's art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she -last appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, -always charming in personality and profoundly, rhythmically musical in -temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority -which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality -and distinction."' - -McGibbon was momentarily choked by his own almost noiseless laughter. -Bill pushed his head down and went swiftly to work on his right cheek. -Two other customers had come in. - -'Great stuff that!' observed McGibbon cautiously, under the razor. -'"Profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament "! "A superstructure -of technical authority"! Great! Fine! That boy'll do something yet. -Handled right. Wish he was working for me.' - -Mr Boice, from whom sounds had been coming for several moments, now -raised his voice. It was the first time Heinie had ever heard him raise -it. Bill paused, razor in air, and glanced around. Pinkie Potter looked -up from the shoes he was polishing. - -'Well,' he roared huskily, 'what in hell's the matter with that!' - -Just then Bill turned McGibbon's head the other way. He too raised his -voice. But cheerfully. - -'Nothing much. Nice lot o' words. Only Mrs Stelton wasn't there. -Sprained her ankle in the Chicago station on the way out.' - -Bill Schwartz had a trumpet-like Prussian voice. The situation seemed to -him to contain the elements of humour. He laughed boisterously. - -Heinie Schultz, more politic, tittered softly, shears against mouth. - -Pinkie Potter laughed convulsively, and beat out an intricate rag-time -tattoo on his bootblack's stand with his brush. - - -4 - - -It was Mr Boice's fixed habit to go on, toward noon, to the post-office. -Instead, to-day, he returned to the _Voice_ office. - -He seated himself at his desk for a quarter of an hour, doing nothing. -He had the faculty of sitting still, ruminating. - -Finally he reached out for the two-foot rule that always lay on his -desk, and carefully measured a certain article in last week's paper. -Then did a little figuring. - -He rose, moved toward the door; turned, and remarked to the wondering -Humphrey:-- - -'Take fifteen inches off Henry's string this week, Weaver. A dollar 'n' -five cents. Be at the post-office if anybody wants me.' And went out. - -Humphrey himself measured Henry's article on the musicale. Old Boice had -been accurate enough; it came to an even fifteen inches. Which at seven -cents an inch, would be a dollar and five cents. - -When Henry reappeared and together they set out for Lower Chestnut -Avenue, Humphrey found he hadn't the heart to break this fresh -disappointment to his friend. He decided to let it drift until the -Saturday. Something might turn up. - -Henry's mood had changed. He had left the office, an hour earlier, -looking like a discouraged boy. Now he was serious, silent, hard to -talk to. He seemed three years older. With certain of Henry's rather -violently contrasted phases Humphrey was familiar; but he had never seen -him look quite like this. Henry was strung up. Plainly. He walked very -fast, striding intently forward. At least once in each block he found -himself a yard ahead of his companion, checked himself, muttered a -few words that sounded vaguely like an apology and then repeated the -process. - -At Mrs Henderson's Henry was grave and curiously attractive. He had -charm, no doubt of it--a sort of charm that women, older women, felt. -Mildred Henderson distinctly played up to him. And Corinne, Humphrey -noted, watched him now and then; the quietly observant keenness in her -big dark eyes masked by her easy, lazy smile. - -Toward the close of luncheon Henry's evident inner tension showed signs -of taking the form of gaiety. He acted like a young man wholly sure of -himself. Humphrey's net impression, after more than a year and a half -of close association with the boy, was that he couldn't ever be sure of -himself. Not for one minute. Yet, when they threw down their napkins and -pushed back their chairs, it was Henry who said, with an apparently easy -arrogance back of his grain:-- - -'Hump, you've got to be going back so soon, we're going to give you and -Mildred the living-room. We'll wash the dishes.' - -Humphrey noted the quick little snap of amusement in Mrs Henderson's -eyes (Henry had not before openly used her first name) and the -demure, expressionless look that came over Corinne's face. Neither was -displeased. - -To Mrs Henderson's, 'You'll do no such thing!' Henry responded -smilingly:-- - -'I won't be contradicted. Not to-day.' - -Corinne was still silent. But Mrs Henderson, now frankly amused, -asked:-- - -'Why the to-day, Henry?' - -'Oh, I don't know. Just the way I feel,' said he; and ushered her -with mock politeness into the front room, then, gallantly, almost -nonchalantly, took the elbow of the unresisting Corinne and led her -toward the kitchen. - -Humphrey lighted a cigarette and watched them go. Then with a slight -heightening of his usually sallow colour, followed his hostess into the -living-room. - -It will be evident to the reader that among these four young persons, -rather casually thrown together in the first instance, something of an -'understanding' had grown up. - -There had been a furtive delight about their first gathering at -Humphrey's rooms, a sense of exciting variety in humdrum village life, -the very real and lively pleasure of exploring fresh personalities. - -Of late years, looking back, it has seemed to me that Mildred Henderson -never really belonged in Sunbury, where a woman's whole duty lay in -keeping house economically and as pleasantly as might be for the husband -who spent his days in Chicago. And in bearing and rearing his children. -I never knew anything of her earlier life, before Arthur V. Henderson -brought her to the modest house on Chestnut Avenue. I never could figure -why she married him at all. Marriages are made in so many places besides -Heaven! He used to like to hear her play. - -In those days, and a little later, I judged her much as the village -judged her--peering out at her through the gun-ports in the armour -plate of self-righteousness that is the strong defence of every suburban -community. But now I feel that her real mistake lay in waiting so long -before drifting to her proper environment in New York. Like all of us, -she had, sooner or later, to work out her life in its own terms or die -alive of an atrophied spirit. She had gifts, and needed, doubtless, -to express them. I can see her now as she was in Sunbury during those -years--little, trim, slim, with a quick alert smile and snappy eyes. -Not a beautiful woman, perhaps not even an out-and-out pretty one, but -curiously attractive. She had much of what men call 'personality.' And -she was efficient, in her own way. She never let her musical gift rust; -practised every day of her life, I think. Including Sundays. Which was -one of the things Sunbury held against her. - -Humphrey, too, was using Sunbury as little more than a stop gap. We knew -that sooner or later he would strike his gait as an inventor. He was -quiet about it. Much thought, deep plans, lay back of that long wrinkly -face. While he kept at it he was a conscientious country editor. But his -heart was in his library of technical books, and in his workshop in -the old Parmenter barn. He must have put just about all of his little -inheritance into the place. - -Corinne Doag was distinctly a city person. And she was a real singer, -with ambition and a firm, even hard purpose, I can see now, back of the -languorous dusky eyes and the wide slow smile that Henry was not then -man enough to understand. In those days, more than in the present, a -girl with a strong sense of identity was taught to hide it scrupulously. -It was still the century of Queen Victoria. The life of any live girl -had to be a rather elaborate pretence of something it distinctly was -not. For which we, looking back, can hardly blame her. Besides, Corinne -was young, healthy, glowing with a quietly exuberant sense of life. I -imagine she found a sort of pure joy, an animal joy, in playing with men -and life. She wasn't dishonest. She certainly liked Henry. Particularly -to-day. But this was the summer time. She was playing. And she liked to -be, thrilled. - -An hour later, could Humphrey have glanced into the butler's pantry, he -would have concluded that he knew Henry Calverly not at all. And -Miss Wombast, could she have looked in, would have been thrilled and -frightened, perhaps to the point of never speaking to Henry again. And -of never, never forgetting him. - -As the scene has a bearing on the later events of the day, we will take -a look. - -They stood in the butler's pantry, Henry and Corinne. The shards of a -shattered coffee cup lay unobserved at their feet. Out in the kitchen -sink all the silver and the other cups and saucers lay in the rinsing -rack, the soapsuds dry on them. Henry held Corinne in his arms. - -'Henry,' she whispered, 'we _must_ finish the dishes! What on earth will -Mildred think?' - -'Let her think!' said Henry. - -Corinne leaned back against the shelves, disengaged her hands long -enough to smooth her flying blue-black hair. - -'Henry, I never thought----' - -'Never thought what?' - -'Wait! My hair's all down again. They might come out here. I mean you -seemed----' - -'How did I seem? Say it!' - -'Oh well--_Henry_!--I mean sort of--well, reserved. I thought you were -shy.' - -'Think so now!' - -'I--well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry, you -musn't be so--so intense.' - -'But I _am_ intense. I'm not the way I look. Nobody knows----' Here he -interrupted himself. - -'Oh, Henry,' she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm -clinging about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, -glowed, sparkled about him. He was exultant. 'You dear boy--I'm afraid -you've made love to lots of girls.' - -'I _haven't!_' he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. 'Not to -lots.' - -'Silly!' A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. -'Henry, talk to me! Make love to me! Tell me you'll take me away with -you--to-day!--now! Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, -anyway--even if--oh, Henry, _say_ it!' - -For an instant Henry's mind went cold and clear. He was a little -frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman -who clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably -smiling Corinne. He thought of Carmen--the Carmen of Calvé. He had suped -once in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to -the supe captain. - -The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that -this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this' -point. - -As for asking her to fly away with him, he couldn't conscientiously so -much as ask her to have dinner with him in Chicago. Not in the present -state of his pocket. - -One fact, however, emerged. He must propose something. He could at least -have it out with old Boice. Settle that salary business. He'd _have_ to. - -Another fact is that he was by no means so cool as he, for the moment, -fancied himself. - -The door from dining-room to kitchen opened, rather slowly. There was a -light step in the kitchen, and Mildred Henderson's musical little voice -humming the theme of the Andante in the Fifth Symphony. - -Henry and Corinne leaped apart. She smoothed her hair again, and patted -her cheeks. Then she took a black hair from his shoulder. - -They heard Mildred at the sink. Rinsing the dishes and the silver, -doubtless. - -'Hate to disturb you two,' she called, a reassuring if slightly humorous -sympathy in her voice, 'but I promised Humphrey I'd get after you, -Henry. He says you simply must get some work done to-day.' - -Henry stood motionless, trying to think.' - -'Do your work here,' Corinne whispered. 'Stay.' - -He shook his head. 'A lot I'd get done--here with you. Now.' - -'I'll help you. Couldn't I be just a little inspiration to you?' - -'It ain't inspiring work.' - -'Henry--write something for me! Write me a poem! - -'All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men's Picnic. - -Then he said, 'Wait a minute;' went into the kitchen. - -'Going over town,' he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson. - -At the outer door, Corinne murmured: 'You'll come back, Henry?' - -With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he -replied: 'Yes, of course.' And hurried off. - - -6 - - -Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the _Voice_ sanctum. Henry could see that -much through the front window. - -He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey--or -anybody--right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal to -him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a -regiment. - -He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind -the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please -speak to Mr Boice. - -Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village -triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly -rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to -let go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth -whose time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And -once again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and -the thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers. - -He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; -made sounds. - -'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I--I want to speak with you. It's--it's this -way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.' - -Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence. - -'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, -the way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It -ain't square! Now--well--you see, I've about come to the conclusion that -if the work I do ain't worth ten a week--well----' - -It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village -politician of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no -trust whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and -the fact was disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms -by keeping his mouth shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or -quarrelled. He disbelieved utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't -written a letter in twenty-odd years. And he was not likely to lose his -temper again this day--week--or month. - -Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. -Though Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the -controversy. - -Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still. - -Henry chafed. - -After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business -Men's Picnic?' - -Henry shook his head. - -'Better get it done, hadn't you?' - -Henry shook his head again. - -Mr Boice continued to sit--motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran -to this effect:--The article on the picnic was by far the most important -matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked -for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to -cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work -up a proper story from any other quarter. - -'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can -have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.' - -He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds -that passed his lips--colourless, casual. - -Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers -tightened about his stick. His colour rose. - -He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk. - -'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was -desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder -window--'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of your -time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars a -week to the _Voice_. Beginning this week. If I'm not--I'll hand in my -string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I wonder! You -wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd of you a -thing or two! Maybe----' - -For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to -and through Norton P. Boice. - -Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared -in his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the -door. - -'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!' - -Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed. - -Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, -thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry -wandered up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting -crokinole counters. - -Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He -wanted desperately to do something, but didn't know what it could be. It -was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to -get out. - -He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the -piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor. - -There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne -had spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had -danced over the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without -Her, was painfully empty. - -He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn't know what. The wild -animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had -begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and -saw and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, -surely it was the poem! - -He found pencil and paper--a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the -window-seat. - -Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They -were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness--it was a mighty -passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to -write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint -as to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And -at once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. -It would have to come out. - - -7 - - -Mr Boice came heavily into the Voice office and sank into his creaking -chair by the front window. - -Humphrey went swiftly, steadily through galley after galley of proof. -Humphrey had the trained eye that can pick out an inverted _u_ in a page -of print at three feet. He smoked his cob pipe as he worked. - -Mr Boice drew a few sheets of copy paper from a pigeonhole, took up a -pencil in his stiff fingers, and gazed down over his whiskers. - -It was a decade or more since the 'editor' of the Voice had done any -actual work. Every day he dropped quiet suggestions, whispered a word of -guidance to this or that lieutenant, and listened to assorted ideas and -opinions. He was a power in the village, no doubt about that. But to -compose and write out three columns of his own paper was hopelessly -beyond him. It called for youth, or for the long habit of a country -hack. The deep permanent grooves in his mind were channels for another -sort of thinking. - -For an hour he sat there. Gradually Humphrey became aware of him. It was -odd anyway that he should be here. He seldom returned in the afternoon. - -Finally he looked over at the younger man, and made sounds. - -Humphrey raised his head; removed his pipe. - -'Guess you better fix up a little account of the Business Men's Picnic, -Weaver,' he remarked. - -'Henry's doing that.' - -Mr Boice's massive head moved slowly, sidewise. 'No,' he said, 'he won't -be doing it.' - -Humphrey leaned back in his chair. His face wrinkled reflectively; his -brows knotted. He held up his pipe; rubbed the worn cob with the palm -of his hand. - -Mr Boice got up and moved toward the door. - -'I've let Henry go,' he said. - -Humphrey went on rubbing his pipe; squinting at it. - -Mr Boice paused in the door; looked back. - -'I'll ask you to attend to it, Weaver.' - -Humphrey shook his head. - -Mr Boice stood looking at him. - -'No,' said Humphrey. 'Afraid I can't help you out.' - -Mr Boice stood motionless. There was no expression on his face, but -Humphrey knew what the steady look meant. He added:-- - -'I wasn't there.' - -Still Mr Boice stood. Humphrey took a fresh galley proof from the hook -and fell to work at it. After a little Mr Boice moved back to his desk -and creaked down into his chair. Again he reached for the copy paper. - -Humphrey, in a merciful moment when he was leaving for the day, thought -of suggesting that Murray Johnston, local man for the City Press -Association, might be called on in the emergency. He had been at the -picnic. He could write the story easily enough, if he could spare the -time. A faint smile flitted across his face at the reflection that it -would cost old Boice five or six times what he was usually willing to -pay in the _Voice_. - -But Mr Boice, bending over the desk, a pencil gripped in his fingers, a -sentence or two written and crossed out on the top sheet of copy paper, -did not so much as lift his eyes. And Humphrey went on out. - - -8 - - -Humphrey let himself into Mrs Henderson's front hall, closed the screen -door gently behind him, and looked about the dim interior. There -seemed to be no one in the living-room. The girls were in the kitchen, -doubtless, getting supper. Mildred had faithfully promised not to bother -cooking anything hot. He hung up his hat. - -Then he saw a feminine figure up the stairs, curled on the top-step, -against the wall. - -It was Corinne. She was pressing her finger to her lips and shaking her -head. - -She motioned him out toward the kitchen. There he found his hostess. - -'Seen Henry?' he asked. 'Old Boice fired him to-day, and he's -disappeared. Not at the rooms. And I looked in at the Y.M.C.A.' - -'He's here,' said Mildred. 'A very interesting thing is happening, -Humphrey. I've always told you he was a genius.' - -'But what's up?' - -'We've got him upstairs at my desk. He's writing something. - -I think it's a poem for Corinne.' - -'A poem! But----' - -'It's really quite wonderful. Now don't you go and throw cold water on -it, Humphrey.' She came over, very trim and pretty in her long apron, -her face flushed with the heat of the stove, slipped her hand through -his arm, and looked up at him. 'It's really very exciting. I haven't -seen the boy act this way for two years. He came in here, all out of -breath, and said he had to write. He didn't seem to know what. He's -quite wild I never in my life saw such concentration. It seems that he's -promised Corinne a poem.' - -'Wonder what's got into him,' Humphrey mused. - -Mildred returned to her salad dressing. 'Genius has got into him,' she -said, a bright little snap in her eyes. 'And it's coming out. He's been -up there nearly two hours now. Corinne's guarding. She'd kill you if you -disturbed him. She peeked in a little while ago. She says there's a lot -of it--all over the floor--and he was writing like mad. She couldn't see -any of it. As soon as he saw her he yelled at her and waved her out.' - -'Hm!' said Humphrey. - -'Humphrey, my dear,' said Mildred then, 'I'm really afraid we've got to -watch those two a little. Something's been happening to-day. Corinne has -gone perfectly mad over him--to-day--all of a sudden. She fretted every -minute he was away. Henry doesn't know it, but Corinne is a pretty -self-willed girl. And just now she's got her mind on him.' - -She came over again, took his arm, and looked up at Humphrey. She was at -once sophisticating and confiding. There was a touch of something that, -might have been tenderness, even wistfulness, in her voice as about her -eyes. - -'I've really been worrying a little about them. About Henry -particularly, for some reason.' She gave a soft little laugh, and -pressed his arm. 'They're so young, Humphrey--such green little things. -Or he is, at least. I've been impatient for you to come.' - -'I got down as soon as I could,' said Humphrey, looking down at her. - -'Of course, I know.' - -'I've been worrying about him, too.' - -When the supper was ready, Mildred made Humphrey sit at the table and -herself tiptoed up the stairs. - -She came back, still on tiptoe, smiling as if at her own thoughts. - -'He won't eat,' she explained. 'He's still at it. I wish you could see -my room. It's a sight.' - -'Corinne coming down?' - -'Not she. She won't budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I -suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic, -but... Well, it gives us a nice little _téte-à-tête_ supper. I've made -iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won't you!' After supper -they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had switched -on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She beckoned to -them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs. - -'I can't make it out,' she whispered. 'It isn't poetry. And he doesn't -number his pages.' - -'How did you ever get them?' asked Mildred. - -'Went in and gathered them up. He didn't hear me. He's still at it.' - -Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of -this sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in -order; finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women. - -'What is it?' they asked. - -He chuckled softly. 'Well, it isn't poetry.' - -'I saw that much,' Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. 'It's--wait a -minute! I couldn't believe it at first. It--no--yes, that's what it is.' - -'_What!_' - -Then Humphrey dropped down at Mildred's feet, and laughed, softly at -first, then with increasing vigour. - -Mildred clapped her hand over his mouth and ran him down the stairs and -through into the living-room. There they dropped side by side on the -sofa and laughed until tears came. - -Corinne, laughing a little herself now, but perplexed, followed them. - -'Here,' said Humphrey, when he could speak, 'let's get into this.' - -They moved, to the table. Humphrey spread out the pages, and skimmed -them over with a practised eye, arranging as he read. - -Once he muttered, 'What on earth!' And shortly after: 'Why, the young -devil!' - -'Please--' said Corinne. 'Please! I want to know what it is.', - -Humphrey stacked up the sheets, and laid them on the table. - -'Well,' he remarked, 'it is certainly an account of the Business Men's -Picnic. And it certainly was _not_ written for _The Weekly Voice of -Sunbury_. I'll start in a minute and read it through. But from what I've -seen---- Well, while it may be a little Kiplingesque--naturally--still -it comes pretty close to being a work of art. - -'Tell you what the boy's done. He's gone at that little community outing -just about as an artistic god would have gone at it. As if he'd never -seen any of these Simpson Street folks before. Berger, the grocer, and -William F. Donovan, and Mr Wombast, and Charlie Waterhouse, and Weston -of the bank, and--and, here, the little Dutchman that runs the lunch -counter down by the tracks, and Heinie Schultz and Bill Schwartz, and -old Boice! It's a crime what he's done to Boice. If this ever appears, -Sunbury will be too small for Henry Calverly. But, oh, it's -grand writing.... He's got'em all in, their clothes, their little -mannerisms--their tricks of speech... Wait, I'll read it.' - -Forty minutes later the three sat back in their chairs, weak from -laughter, each in his own way excited, aware that a real performance -was taking place, right here in the house. - -'One thing I don't quite understand,' said Mildred. 'It's a lovely bit -of writing--he makes you see it and feel it--where Mr Boice and Charles -Waterhouse were around behind the lemonade stand, and Mr Waterhouse is -upset because the purse they're going to surprise him with for being -the most popular man in town isn't large enough. What _is_ all that, -anyway?' - -'I know,' said Humphrey. 'I was wondering about that. It's funny as the -dickens, those two birds out there behind the lemonade stand quarrelling -about it. It's--let's see--oh, yes! And Boice says, "It won't help you -to worry, Charlie. We're doing what we can for you. But it'll take time. -And it's a chance!"... Funny!' - -He lowered the manuscript, and stared at the wall. 'Hm!' he remarked -thoughtfully. 'Mildred, got any cigarettes?' - -'Yes, I have, but I don't care to be mystified like this. Take one, and -tell me exactly what you're thinking.' - -'I'm thinking that Bob McGibbon would give a hundred dollars for this -story as it stands, right now.' - -'Why?' - -'Because he's gunning for Charlie. And for Boice.' - -'And what's this?' - -'Evidence.' Humphrey was grave now. 'Not quite it. But warm. Very warm.' - -'He's really stumbled on something. How perfectly lovely!' - -'And he doesn't know it. Sees nothing but the story value of it. But it -may be serious. They'd duck him in the lake. They'd drown him.' - -'But how lovely if Henry, by one stroke of his pencil, should really -puncture the frauds in this smug town.' - -'There is something in that,' mused Humphrey. - -'Ssh!' From Mildred. - -They heard a slow step on the stairs. - -A moment, and Henry appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he -saw them. His glasses hung dangling against his shirt front. He was -coatless, but plainly didn't know it. His straight brown hair was -rumpled up on one side and down in a shock over the farther eye. He -was pale, and looked tired about the eyes. He carried more of the -manuscript. - -He stared at them as if he couldn't quite make them out, or as if not -sure he had met them. Then he brushed a hand across his forehead and -slowly, rather wanly, smiled. - -'I had no idea it was so late,' he said. - -Mildred and Corinne fed him and petted him while Humphrey drew a big -chair into the dining-room, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and -studied the brightening, expanding youth before him. He reflected, too, -on the curious, instant responsiveness that is roused in the imaginative -woman at the first evidence of the creative impulse in a man. As if the -elemental mother were moved. - -'That's probably it,' he thought. 'And it's what the boy has needed. -Martha Caldwell couldn't give it to him--never in the world! He was -groping to find it in that tough little Wilcox girl. It wouldn't do to -tell him--no, I mustn't tell him; got to steady him down all I can--but -I rather guess he's been needing a Mildred and a Corinne. These two -years.' - - -9 - -Humphrey stood up then, said he was going out for half an hour, and -picked up the manuscript from the living-room table as he passed. - -He went straight to Boice's house on Upper Chestnut Avenue. - -'What has all this to do with me?' asked Mr Boice, behind closed doors -in his roomy library. 'Let him write anything he likes.' - -Humphrey sat back; slowly turned the pages of the manuscript. - -'This,' he said, 'is a real piece of writing. It's the best picture of a -community outing I ever read in my life. It's vivid. The characters -are so real that a stranger, after reading this, could walk up Simpson -Street and call fifteen people by name. He'd know how their voices -sound, what their weaknesses are, what they're really thinking about -Sunday mornings in church. It is humour of the finest kind. But they -won't know it on Simpson Street. They'll be sore as pups, every man. -He's taken their skulls off and looked in. He's as impersonal, as cruel, -as Shakespeare.' - -This sounded pretty highfalutin' to Mr Boice. He made a reflective -sound; then remarked:-- - -'You think the advertisers wouldn't like it,' - -'They'd hate it. They'd fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But -McGibbon wouldn't mind. Or if he didn't have the nerve to print it, any -Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.' - -'Well, what----' - -Humphrey quietly interrupted. - -'Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch -of genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they'd laugh. No doubt -about that. All sorts of scenes--you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the -lemonade stand--Bill Parker's little accident in the tug-of-war.' He -read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his -chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the -room; then come back. - -When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to -momentary admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual. - -'What are you getting at?' he asked. 'You want something.' - -'I want you to take Hemy back at--say, twelve a week.' - -'Hm. Have him re-write this?' - -'No. Henry won't be able to write another word this week. He's empty. -My idea is, Mr Boice, that you'll want to do the cutting yourself. When -you've done that, I'll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three -columns out of it all right.' - -'Hm!' - -'There's one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn't know what he's -written. No idea. It's a flash of pure genius.' - -'Don't know that we've got much use for a genius on the _Voice_,' -grunted Mr Boice. 'He ought to go to Chicago or New York.' - -'He will, some day.' Humphrey rose. 'Will you send for him in the -morning?' - -There was a long silence. Then a sound. Then:--'Tell him to come -around.' - -'Twelve a week, including this week?' - -The massive yellowish-gray head inclined slowly. - -'Very well, I'll tell him.' - -'You can leave the manuscript here, Weaver.' - -'No.' Humphrey deliberately folded it and put it in an inside pocket. -'Henry will have to give it to you himself. It's his. Good-night.' - -Out on the street, Humphrey reflected, with a touch of exuberance rare -in his life:-- - -'We won't either of us be long on the _Voice_. Not now. But it's great -going while it lasts.' - -And he wondered, with a little stir of excitement, just why that purse -wasn't enough for Charlie Waterhouse... just what old Boice knew... Why -it was a chance! Curious! Something back of it, something that McGibbon -was eternally pounding at--hinting--insinuating. Something real there; -something that might never be known. - - -10 - - -Humphrey felt that the little triumph--though it might indeed prove -temporary; any victory over old Boice in Sunbury affairs was likely -to be that--called for celebrating in some special degree. He had, it -seemed, a few bottles of beer at the rooms. - -So thither they adjourned; Mildred and Humphrey strolling slowly ahead, -Corinne and Henry strolling still more slowly behind. - -Henry seemed fagged. At least he was quiet. - -Corinne, stirred with a sympathetic interest not common to her sort of -nature, stole hesitant glances at him, even, finally, slipped her hand -through his arm. - -She hung back. Mildred and Humphrey disappeared in the shadows of the -maples a block ahead. - -'I suppose you're pretty tired, aren't you?' Corinne murmured. - -Her voice seemed to waken him out of a dream. - -'I--I--what was that? Oh--tired? Why, I don't know. Sorta.' - -Her hand slipped down his forearm, within easy reach of his hand; but he -was unaware. - -'I'm frightfully excited,' he said, brightening. 'If you knew what this -meant to me! Feeling like this. The Power--but you wouldn't know what -that meant. Only it lifts me up. I know I'm all right now. It's been an -awful two years. You've no idea. Drudgery. Plugging along. But I'm up -again now. I can do it any time I want. I'm free of this dam' town. They -can't hold me back now.' - -'You'll do big things,' she said, a mournful note in her voice. - -'I know. I feel that.' - -And now she stopped short. In a shadow. - -'What is it?' he asked casually. 'What's the matter?' - -She glanced at his face; then down. - -'Do you think you'll write--a poem?' she asked almost sullenly. - -'Maybe. I don't know. It's queer--you get all stirred up inside, and -then something comes. You can't tell what it's going to be. It's as if -it came from outside yourself. You know. Spooky.' - -She moved on now, bringing him with her. - -'Mildred and Humphrey'll wonder where we are,' she said crossly. - -Henry glanced down at her; then at the shadowy arch of maples ahead. -He wondered what was the matter with her. Girls were, of course, -notoriously difficult. Never knew their own minds. He was exultantly -happy. It had been a great day. Twelve a week now, and going up! Hump -was a good old soul.... He recalled, with a recurrence of both the -thrill and the conservatism that had come then, that he had had a great -time with Corinne in the early afternoon. Mustn't go too far with that -sort of thing, of course. But she was sure a peach. And she didn't seem -the sort that would be for ever trying to pin you down. He took her hand -now. It was great to feel her there, close beside him.' - -Corinne walked more rapidly. He didn't know that she was biting her -lip. Nor did he perceive what she saw clearly, bitterly; that she -had unwittingly served a purpose in his life, which he would never -understand. And she saw, too, that the little job was, for the present, -at least, over and done with. - -She stole another sidelong glance at him. He was twisting up the ends of -his moustache. And humming. - - - - -IV--THE WHITE STAR - - -1 - - -|From the university clock, up in the north end of Sunbury village, -twelve slow strokes boomed out. - -Henry Calverly, settled comfortably in the hammock on Mrs Arthur V. -Henderson's front porch, behind the honeysuckle vine, listened dreamily. - -Beside him in the hammock was Corinne Doag. - -At the corner, two houses away, a sizzing, flaring, sputtering arc lamp -gave out the only sound and the only light in the neighbourhood. Lower -Chestnut Avenue was sound asleep. - -The storage battery in the modern automobile will automatically cut -itself off from the generator when fully charged. Henry's emotional, -nature was of similar construction. Corinne had overcharged him, and -automatically he cut her off. - -The outer result of this action and reaction was a rather bewildering -quarrel. - -Early in the present evening, shortly after Humphrey Weaver and Mrs -Henderson left the porch for a little ramble to the lake--'Back in a few -minutes,' Mildred had remarked--the quarrel had been made up. Neither -could have told how. Each felt relieved to be comfortably back on a -hammock footing. - -Henry, indeed, was more than relieved. He was quietly exultant. The -thrill of conquest was upon him. It was as if she were an enemy whom he -had defeated and captured. He was experiencing none of the sensations -that he supposed were symptoms of what is called love. Yet what he -was experiencing was pleasurable. He could even lie back here and think -coolly about it, revel in it. - -Corinne's head stirred. - -'That was midnight,' she murmured. - -'What of it?' - -'I suppose I ought to be thinking about going in.' - -'I don't see that your chaperon's in such a rush.' - -'I know. They've been hours. They might have walked around to the -rooms.' - -Henry was a little shocked at the thought. - -'Oh, no,' he remarked. 'They'd hardly have gone _there_--without us.' - -'Mildred would if she wanted to. It has seemed to me lately...' - -'What?' - -'I don't know--but once or twice--as if she might be getting a little -too fond of Humphrey.' - -'Oh'--there was concern in Henry's voice--'do you think so?' - -'I wonder if you know just how fascinating that man is, Henry.' - -'He's never been with girls--not around here. You've no idea--he just -lives with his books, and in his shop.' - -'Perhaps that's why,' said she. 'Partly. Mildred ought to be careful.' - -Henry, soberly considering this new light on his friend, looked off -toward the corner. - -He sat up abruptly. - -'Henry' For goodness' sake! Ouch--my hair!' - -'Ssh! Look--that man coming across! Wait. There now--with a suit-case!' - -'Oh, Henry, you scared me! Don't be silly. He's way out in... Henry! How -awful! It _is!_' - -'What'll we do?' - -'I don't know. Get up. Sit over there,' She was working at her hair; she -smoothed her 'waist,' and pulled out the puff sleeves. - -The man came rapidly nearer. His straw hat was tipped back. They could -see the light of a cigar. A mental note of Henry's was that Arthur V. -Henderson had been a football player at the state university. And a -boxer. Even out of condition he was a strong man. - -'Quick--think of something to tell him! It'll have to be a lie. -Henry--_think!_' - -Then, as he stood motionless, helpless, she got up, thrust his hat and -bamboo stick into his hands, and led him on tiptoe around the corner of -the house. - -'We've got to do something. Henry, for goodness' sake--' - -'We've got to find her, I think.' - -'I know it. But----' - -'If she came in with Hump, and he--you know, this time' of night--why, -something awful might happen. There might be murder. Mr Henderson----' - -'Don't talk such stuff! Keep your head. Well--he's coming! Here!' - -She gripped his hand, dragged him down the side steps, and ran lightly -with him out past the woodshed to the alley. They walked to the side -street and, keeping in the shadows, out to the Chestnut Avenue corner. -From this spot they commanded the house. - -Mr Henderson had switched on lights in front hall, dining-room, and -kitchen. The parlour was still dark. Next he had gone upstairs, for -there were lights in the upper windows. After a brief time he appeared -in the front doorway. He lighted a fresh cigar, then opened the screen -door and came out on the porch. He stood there, looking up and down the -street. Then he seated himself on the top step, elbows on knees, like a -man thinking. - -'Henry!' - -'Yes.' - -'Listen! You go over to the rooms and see.' - -'But they might be down at the lake.' - -'Not all this time. Mildred doesn't like sitting on beaches. If you find -them, bring her back. We'll go in together, she and I. We'll patch up a -story. It's all right. Just keep your head.' - -'What'll you do?' - -'Wait here.' - -'I don't like to leave you.' - -'You'll see me again.' - -'I know, but----' - -'Well... Now hurry!' - - -2 - - -The old barn was dark. - -'Hm!' mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. 'Hm! Certainly -aren't here. Take a look though.' - -With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through -machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, -peering about for the electric switch. He hadn't lived here long enough -to know the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox's -boarding-house. - -A voice--Humphrey's--said:-- - -'Don't turn the light on.' Then, 'Is it you, Hen?' - -There they were--over in the farther window-seat--sitting very still, -huddled together--a mere faint shape against the dim outside light. He -felt his way around the centre table, toward them. - -'Looking for you,' he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing -in his temples. And he was curiously breathless. - -He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn't thought of -this; had just rushed over here, headlong. - -'I suppose it's pretty late,' said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality -in her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent. - -'Well'--Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that -now and then crept into it--'anything special, Hen? Here we are!' - -Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his -over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous -little pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands -murdering lovers; dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, -high-ceiled court-rooms. - -Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and -turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand. - -Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his -thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness -that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about -the half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, -brisk way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under -her very quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to -protect from the world and give toys to. - -Henry, to his own amazement--and chagrin--covered his face and sobbed. - -'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?' - -The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding -her eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:-- - -'Has my husband come home?' - -Henry nodded. - -'Where's Corinne?' - -'She--she's waiting on the corner, in case you.... - -Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a -little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug. - -'Did he--did he see either of you?' - -Henry shook his head. - -Mildred pressed a finger to her lips. - -'We mustn't leave Corinne waiting out there,' she said. - -Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre -gaze settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she -raised her head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the -question:-- - -'Stay here?' - -Her eyes widened a little, and slowly filled. She gave him her other -hand. But she shook her head. - -A little later he said. - -'Come then, dear. We'll go down there.' - -From the top of the stairs he switched on a light in the shop. Mildred, -very palet went down. Henry was about to follow. But he saw Humphrey -standing, darting glances about the room, softly snapping his bony -fingers. The long, swarthy face was wrinkled into a scowl. His eyes -rested on Henry. He gave a little sigh; threw out his hands. - -'It's--it's the limit!' he whispered. 'You see--my hat....' - -That seemed to be all he could say. His face was twisted with emotion. -His mouth even moved a little. But no sound came. - -Henry stood waiting. At the moment his surging, uncontrollable emotion -took the form of embarrassment. It seemed to him that in this crisis -he ought to be polite toward his friend. But they couldn't stand here -indefinitely without speaking. There was need, particular need, of -politeness toward Mildred Henderson. So, mumbling, he followed her -downstairs and out through the shop to the deserted alley. - -Then they went down to Chestnut Avenue. Mildred and Humphrey were -silent, Walking close together, arm in arm. Henry, in some measure -recovered from his little breakdown, or relieved by it, tried to make -talk. He spoke of the stillness of the night. He said, 'It's the only -time I like the town--after midnight. You don't have to see the people -then.' - -Then, as they offered no reply, he too fell still. - -Corinne, when they found her leaning against a big maple, was in a -practical frame of mind. - -'There he is,' she whispered. 'Been sitting right there all the time. -This is his third cigar. Now listen, Mildred. I've figured it all out. -No good in letting ourselves get excited. It's all right. You and I will -walk up with Henry. Just take it for granted that you've been down to -the lake with us. We needn't even explain.' - -Mildred, still nestling close to Humphrey's arm, seemed to be looking at -her. - -Then they heard her draw in her breath rather sharply, and her hand -groped up toward Humphrey's shoulder. - -'Wait!' she said breathlessly. 'I can't go in there now. Not right now. -Wait a little. I can't!' - -Humphrey led her away into the shadows. - -Corinne looked at Henry. 'Hm!' she murmured--'serious!' - -The university clock struck one. - -Again Henry felt that pressure in the temples and dryness in the throat. -His thoughts, most of them, were whirling again. But one corner of his -mind was thinking clearly, coldly:-- - -'This is the real thing. Drama! Life! Maybe tragedy! And I'm seeing it! -I'm in it, part of it!' - - -3 - - -Corinne was peering into the shadows. - -'Where'd they go?' she said. 'We've got to find them. This thing's -getting worse every minute.' - -Mildred and Humphrey were sitting on a horse block, side by side, very -still. It was in front of the B. L. Ames place. Corinne stood over them. -But Henry hung back; leaned weakly against a tree. - -The Ames place brought up memories of other years and other girls. An -odd little scene had occurred here, with Clemency Snow, on one of the -lawn seats. And a darker mass of shadow in the gnarled, low-spreading -oak, over by the side fence, was a well-remembered platform with seats -and a ladder to the ground. Ernestine Lambert had been the girl with him -up there. - -Two long years back! He was eighteen then--a mere boy, with illusions -and dreams. He wasn't welcome to Mary Ames's any more. She didn't -approve of him. Her mother, too. And he had sunk into a rut of -small-town work on Simpson Street. They weren't fair to him. He didn't -drink; smoked almost none; let the girls alone more than many young -fellows--in spite of a few little things. If he had money... of course. -You had to have money. - -He felt old. And drab of spirit. Those little affairs, even the curious -one with Clem Snow, had been, it seemed now, on a higher plane of -feeling than this present one with Corinne. Life had been at the spring -then, the shrubs dew-pearled, God in his Heaven. And the affair with -Ernestine had not been so little. It had shaken him. He wondered where -Ernie was now. They hadn't written for a year and a half. And Clem was -Mrs Jefferson Jenkins, very rich (Jeff Jenkins was in a bond house on -La Salle Street) living in Chicago, on the Lake Shore Drive, intensely -preoccupied with a girl baby. People--women and girls--said it was a -beautiful baby. Girls were gushy. - -He pressed a hand to his eyes. Corinne was right; the situation was -getting worse every minute. During one or two of the minutes, while his -memory was active, it had seemed like an unpleasant dream from which he -would shortly waken. But it wasn't a dream. He felt again the tension -of it. It was a tension that might easily become unbearable. First thing -they knew the university clock would be striking two. He began listening -for it; trying absurdly to strain his ears. - -He had recently seen Minnie Maddem play _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_, and -had experienced a painful tension much like this--a strain too great for -his sensitive imagination. He had covered his face. And he hadn't gone -back for the last act. - -But there was to be no running out of this. - -'Well,' said Corinne, almost briskly, 'we're not getting anywhere.' - -Humphrey threw out his hand irritably. - -'Just--just wait a little,' he said. 'Can't you see....' - -'It's past one.' - -Corinne's manner jarred a little on all three of the others. Mildred -seemed to sink even closer toward Humphrey. - -Henry felt another sob coming. Desperately he swallowed it down. - -Humphrey, holding Mildred's head against his shoulder, looked up at -Corinne. His face was not distinctly visible; but he seemed to be -studying the tall, easy-going, unexpectedly practical girl. - -'I don't think you understand,' he finally said. 'It's very, very -awkward. My hat is in there.' - -'Where?' - -'In the parlour. On the piano, I think.' - -'I don't think he lighted the parlour. We three can go up just the same. -Now listen. Henry can leave his hat here with you, and get yours when he -comes away.' - -'It has my initials in it,' said Humphrey. - -Corinne walked on the grass to the corner; came swiftly back. - -'Well,' she remarked dryly, 'he's been in there. The parlour's lighted.' - -Mildred stirred. 'Please!' she murmured. 'Just give me a minute or two. -I'm going with you.' - -'Suppose,' said Corinne, 'he _has_ seen the initials.' - -Mildred's eyes sought Humphrey's. For a long instant, her head back -on his shoulder, she gazed at him with an intensity that Henry had not -before seen on a woman's face. It was as if she had forgotten himself -and Corinne. And then Humphrey's arm tightened about her, as if he, too, -had forgotten every one and everything else. - -Henry had to turn away. - -He walked to the corner. Neither Humphrey nor Mildred knew whether he -went or stayed. Corinne was frowning down at them; thinking desperately. - -Henry stared at the house, at the dim solitary figure on the top step, -at the little red light of the cigar that came and went with the puffs. - -Henry was breathing hard. His face was burning hot. He hated conflicts, -fights; hated them so deeply, felt so inadequate when himself -involved, that emotion usually overcame him. Therefore he fought rather -frequently, and, on occasions, rather effectively. Emotion will win a -fight as often as reason. - -He considered getting Humphrey to one side, making him listen to reason. -He dwelt on the phrase. The mere thought of Mildred being driven back -into that house, into the hands of her legal husband, stirred that -tendency to sob. He set his teeth on it. They could take her back to -the rooms. He would move out. For that matter, if it would save her -reputation, they could both move out. At once. But would it save her -reputation? - -He took off his hat; pressed a hand to his forehead; then fussed with -his little moustache. Then, as a new thought was born in his brain, born -of his emotions, he gave a little start. He looked back at the shadowy -group about the Ames's horse block. Apparently they hadn't moved. He -looked at his shoes, tennis shoes with rubber soles. - -He laid hat and stick on the ground by a tree; went little way up the -street, past the circle of the corner light and slipped across; moved -swiftly, keeping on the grass, around to the alley, came in at the -Henderson's back gate, made his way to the side steps. - -There was a door here that led into an entry. There were doors to -kitchen and dining-room on right and left, and the back stairs. Henry -knew the house. Kitchen and dining-room were both dark now, but the -lights were on in parlour and hall. - -He got the screen door open without a sound and felt his way into and -through the dining-room. It seemed to him that there were a great many -chairs in that diningroom. His shins bumped them. They met his outspread -hands. Between this room and the parlour the sliding doors were shut. - -He stood a moment by these doors, wondering if Arthur V. Henderson was -still sitting on the top step with his back to the front screen door. -Probably. He couldn't very well move without some noise. But it would be -impossible to see him out there, with the parlour light on. - -'Deliberately, with extreme caution, her slid back one of the doors. -It rumbled a little. He waited, keeping back in the dark, and listened. -There was no sound from the porch. - -The piano stood against the side wall, near the front. On it lay -Humphrey's straw hat. Any one by merely looking into it could have seen -the initials. And the man on the steps had only to turn his head and -look in through the bay window to see piano, hat, and any one who stood -near, any one, in fact, in that diagonal half of the room. - -Henry held his breath and stepped in, nearly to the centre of the room. -Here he hesitated. - -Then beginning slowly, not unlike the sound of a wagon rolling over a -distant bridge, a rumbling fell on his ears. It grew louder. It ended in -a little bang. - - -4 - - -Henry glanced behind him. The sliding door had closed. There was a -scuffling of feet on the steps. - -Henry reached up and switched off the electric lamp in the chandelier. - -Then he stepped forward, found the piano, felt along the top, closed his -fingers on the hat, and stood motionless. His first thought was that he -would probably be shot. - -There were steps on the porch. The front door opened and closed. Mr -Henderson was standing in the hall now, but not in the parlour doorway. -Probably just within the screen door. The hall light put him at a -disadvantage; and he couldn't turn it out without crossing that parlour -doorway. - -'Who's there!' Mr Henderson's voice was quiet enough. It sounded tired, -and nervous. 'Come out o' there quick! Whoever you are!' - -Henry was silent. He wasn't particularly frightened. Not now. He even -felt some small relief. But he was confronted with some difficulty in -deciding what he ought to do. - -'Come out O' there!' - -Then Henry replied: 'All right.' And came to the hall doorway. - -Mr Henderson was leaning a little forward, fists clenched, ready for a -spring. He still had the cigar in his mouth. But he dropped back now and -surveyed the youth who stood, white-faced, clasping a straw hat tightly -under his left arm. He seemed to find it difficult to speak; shifted the -cigar about his mouth with mobile lips. He even thrust his hands into -his pockets and looked the youth up and down. - -'I came for this hat,' said Henry. 'It was on the piano.' - -Still Mr Henderson's eyes searched him up, and down. Eyes that would -be sleepy again as soon as this little surprise was over. And they -were red, with puffs under them. He was a tall man, with big athletic -shoulders and deep chest, but with signs of a beginning corpulence, the -physical laxity that a good many men fall into who have been athletes in -their teens and twenties but are now getting on into the thirties. - -It was understood here and there in Sunbury that he had times of -drinking rather hard. Indeed, the fact had been dwelt on by one or two -tolerant or daring souls who ventured to speak a word for his wife. She -had always quickly and willingly given her services as pianist at local -entertainments. Perhaps because, with all her brisk self-possession, she -must have been hungry for friends. She played exceptionally well, with -some real style and with an almost perverse touch of humour. She was -quick, crisp, capable. She disliked banality. To the initiated her -playing of Chopin was a joy. The sentimentalists said that she had -technique but no feeling. She could really play Bach. And I think -she was the most accomplished accompanist that ever lived in Sunbury; -certainly the best within my memory. - -'Say'--thus Mr Henderson now--'you're Henry Calverly, aren't you?' - -'Yes.' - -'Well, I'd like to know what you're doing here.' - -'I told you. I came for this hat.' - -'Your hat?' - -'Didn't you see the initials?' - -'No. I noticed the hat there. Why didn't you come in the front way? -What's all this burglar business?' - -Henry didn't answer. - -'I'll have to ask you to answer that question. You seem to forget that -this is my house.' - -'No, I don't forget that.' - -Mr Henderson took out his cigar; turned it in his fingers. Colour came -to his face. He spoke abruptly, in a suddenly rising voice. - -'Seems to me there's some mighty queer goings-on around here. Sneaking -in at two in the morning!' - -'It isn't two in the morning.' - -'Dam' near it.' - -'It isn't half-past one. I tell you----' Henry paused. - -His position seemed rather weak. - -Mr Henderson studied his cigar again. He drew a cigar case from an -inside pocket. - -'I don't know's I offered you one,' he said. He almost muttered it. - -'I don't smoke,' said Henry shortly. - -Mr Henderson resumed the excited tone. It was curious coming in that -jumpy way. Even Henry divined the weakness back of it and grew calmer. - -'I've been out on----' He paused. Mildred had trained him not to use the -phrase, 'on the road.' He resumed with, '--on a business trip. More'n a -month. I swan, I'm tired out. Way trains and country hotels. Fierce! -If I seem nervous.... Look here, you seem pretty much at home! Perhaps -you'll tell me where my wife is!' - -Henry considered this. Shook his head. - -'Trying to make me think you don't know, eh!' - -'I do know.' - -Mr Henderson knit his brows over this. Then, instead of immediately -pressing the matter, he took out a fresh cigar and lighted it with the -butt of the old one. - -'Seems to me you ought to tell me,' he said then. - -'I can't.' - -'That's queer, ain't it?' - -'Well, it's true. I can't.' - -'She wrote me that she had Corinne Doag visiting here.' - -'Yes. She's here.' - -'With my wife? Now?' - -Henry bowed. He felt confused, and more than a little tired. And he -disliked this man, deeply. Found him depressing. But outwardly--he -didn't himself dream this--he presented a picture of austere dignity. An -effect that was intensified, if anything, by his youth. - -'Anybody else with her and Corinne?' - -Henry bowed again. - -'A man?' - -'Yes.' Henry was finding him disgusting now. But he must be extremely -careful. An unnecessary word might hurt Mildred or Humphrey. Good old -Hump! - -Mr Henderson turned the fresh cigar round and round, looking intently at -it. In a surprisingly quiet manner he asked:-- - -'Why doesn't she come home?' - -Henry looked at the man. Anger swelled within him. - -'Because you're here?' He bit the sentence off. - -He felt stifled. He wanted to run out, past the man, and breathe in the -cool night air. - -Mr Henderson looked up, then down again at the cigar. Then he pushed -open the screen door. - -'May as well sit down and talk this over,' he said. 'Cooler on the -porch. Dam' queer line o' talk. You're young, Calverly. You don't know -life. You don't understand these things. My God! When I think... Well, -what is it? You seem to be in on this. Speak out! Tell me what she -wants. That's one thing about me--I'm straight out. Fair and square. -Give and take. I'm no hand for beating about the bush. Come on with it. -What does she think I ought to do?' - -'I can't tell you what she thinks.' Henry was downright angry now. - -'Oh, yes! It's easy for you! You haven't been through...' His face -seemed to be working. And his voice had a choke in it. 'But how could -a kid like you understand I How could you know the way you get tied -up and... all the little things... My God, man! It hurts. Can you -understand that. It's tough.' He subsided. Finally, after a long -silence, he said huskily but quietly, with resignation, 'You'd say I -ought to go.' - -Henry was silent. - -Mr Henderson got up. - -'I guess I know how to be a sport,' he said. - -He went into the house, and in a few minutes returned with his -suit-case. - -'It's--it's sorta like leaving things all at loose ends,' he remarked. -'But then--of course...' - -He went down two or three steps; then paused and looked up at Henry, who -had risen now. - -'You'--his voice was husky again--'you staying here?' - -'No,' said Henry; and walked a way up the street with him. - -Mr Henderson said, rather stiffly, that the hot spell really seemed -to be over. Been fierce. Especially through Iowa and Missouri. No lake -breeze, or anything like that. Muggy all the time. That was the thing -here in Sunbury--the lake breeze.' - - -5 - - -They were still in front of the Ames place. But Mildred had risen. They -stood watching him as he came, carrying the hat. - -'Where on earth have you been?' asked Corinne. - -Henry met with difficulty in replying. He was embarrassed, caught in an -uprush of self-consciousness. He couldn't see why there need be talk. He -gave Humphrey his hat. - -'How'd you get this?' - -'In there.' - -'You went in?' This from Mildred. He felt her eyes on him. - -'Yes.' - -'But you--you must have...' - -'He's gone.' - -'Gone!' - -'Yes.' - -'But where?' - -'I don't know.' - -'What did you tell him?' asked Corinne sharply'. - -'Nothing. I don't think I did. Nothing much.' - -'But what?' - -'Well, he acted funny. I wouldn't tell him where Mildred was. Then he -asked why you didn't come home and I said because he was there.' - -Mildred and Corinne looked at each other. - -'But what made him go?' asked Corinne. - -'I don't know. He wanted to know what you wanted him to do, Mildred. Of -course I couldn't say anything to that. And then he said he guessed he -knew how to be a sport, and went and got his suit-case.' - -'Hope he had sense enough not to go to the hotel,' Corinne mused, aloud. -'They'd talk so.' - -'There's a train back to Chicago at two-something,' said Humphrey. - -They moved slowly toward the house. At the steps they paused. - -The university clock struck two. - -They listened. The reverberations of the second stroke died out. The -maple leaves overhead rustled softly. From the beach, a block away, came -the continuous low sound of little waves on shelving sand. The great -lake that washes and on occasions threatens the shore at Sunbury had -woven, from Henry's birth, a strand of colour in the fibre of his being. -He felt the lake as deeply as he felt the maples and oaks of Sunbury; -memories of its bars of crude' wonderful colour at sunset and sunrise, -of its soft mists, its yellow and black November storms, its reaches of -glacier-like ice-hills in winter, of moonlit evenings with a girl on the -beach when the romance of youth shimmered in boundless beautiful mystery -before half-closed eyes--these were an ever-present element in the -undefined, moody ebb and flow of impulse, memory, hope, desire and -spasmodic self-restraint that Henry would have referred to, if at all, -as his mind. - -'It's late enough,' said Corinne, with a little laugh. - -Mildred turned away, placed a tiny foot on the bottom step, sighed, then -murmured, very low, 'Hardly worth while going in.' - -'Let's not,' muttered Humphrey. - -'Listen.' Thus Corinne. She was leaning against the railing, with an -extraordinarily graceful slouch. She had never looked so pretty, Henry -thought. A little of the corner light reached her face, illuminating -her velvet clear skin and shining on her blue black hair where it curved -over her forehead. She made you think of health and of wild things. And -she could, even at this time, earn her living. There was an offer now to -tour the country forty weeks with a lyceum concert company. The letter -had come to-day; Henry had seen it. She thought she wouldn't accept. -Her idea was another year to study, then two or three years abroad and, -possibly, a start in the provincial opera companies of Italy, Austria, -and Germany. Yes, she had character of the sort that looks coolly ahead -and makes deliberate plans. Despite her wide, easy-smiling mouth and her -great languorous black eyes and her lazy ways, eyen Henry could now see -this strength in her face, in its solid, squared-up framework. More than -any girl Henry had ever known she could do what she chose. Men pursued -her, of course. All the time. There were certain extremely persistent -ones. And it came quietly through, bit by bit, that she knew them pretty -well, knocked around the city with them, as she liked. But now she had -chosen himself. No doubt about it. - -She said:-- - -'Listen. Let's go down to the shore and watch for the sunrise. We -couldn't sleep a wink after--after this--anyway.' - -'Nobody'd ever know,' breathed Mildred. - -Humphrey took her arm. They moved slowly down the walk toward the -street. - -Corinne, still leaning there, looked at Henry. - -He reached toward her, but she evaded him and waltzed slowly away over -the grass, humming a few bars of the _Myosotis_. - -Henry's eyes followed her. He felt the throbbing again in his temples, -and his cheeks burned. He compressed his lips. He moved after her. He -was in a state of all but ungovernable excitement, but the elation -of two hours back had gone, flattened out utterly. He felt deeply -uncomfortable. It was the sort of ugly moment in which he couldn't have -faced himself in a looking-glass. For Henry had such moments, when, -painfully bewildered by the forces that nature implants in the -vigorously young, he loathed himself. Life opened, a black precipice, -before him, yet Life, in other guise, drove him on. As if intent on his -destruction. - -He hung back; let Corinne glide on just ahead of him, still slowing -revolving, swaying, waltzing to the soft little tune she was so -musically humming. He wanted to watch her; however great his discomfort -of the spirit, to exult in her physical charm. - -On the earlier occasion when she had overtaxed his emotional capacity he -had got out of it by using the forces she stirred in him as a stimulant. -But now he wasn't stimulated. Not, at least, in that way. His spirit -seemed to be dead. Only his body was alive. All the excitement of the -evening had played with cumulative force on his nerves. He had arrived -at an emotional crisis; and was facing it sullenly but unresistingly. - -The picture of Mildred and Humphrey lost in each other's gaze--in the -window-seat at the rooms, on the Ames's horse block--kept coming up in -his mind. He could see them in the flesh, walking on ahead, arm in arm, -but still more vividly he could see them as they had been before he -went back to Mildred's house. He knew that love had come to them. He -wondered, trembling with the excitement of the mere thought, how it -would seem to live through that miracle. No such magic had fallen upon -him.. Not since the days of Ernestine. And that had been pretty youthful -business. This matter of Corinne was quite different. He sighed. Then he -hurried up to her, gripped her arm, walked close beside her. - -At the beach they paired off as a matter of course. Henry and Corinne -sat in the shadow of a breakwater. Humphrey and Mildred walked on to -another breakwater. - -Corinne made herself comfortable with her head resting on Henry's arm. - -He was thinking, 'Sort of thing you dream of without ever expecting it -really. Ain't a fellow' in town that wouldn't envy me.' But gloom was -settling over his spirit like a fog. It seemed to him that he ought -to be whispering skilful little phrases, close to her ear. He couldn't -think of any. - -He bent over her face; looked into it; smoothed her dusky hair away -from her temples. - -He began humming: 'I arise from dreams of thee.' She picked it up, very -softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo. - -His own voice died out. He couldn't sing. - -He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. -Now and then she hummed other songs--bits of Schumann and Franz. -Schubert's _Serenade_ she sang through. - -'Sing with me,' she murmured. - -He shook his head. 'Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I -don't.' - -'Don't I make you feel like singing, Henry?' - -'Oh yes, sure!' - -'You're a moody boy, Henry.' - -'Oh yes, I'm moody.' - -She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then -finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. 'I'm -a fool,' he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then -kissed her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand -slipped over his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck. - -Abruptly he stopped; raised his head, a bitter question in his eyes. - - -6 - - -A faint light was creeping over the bowl-like sky. And a fainter colour -was spreading upward from the eastern horizon. The thousands of night -stars had disappeared, leaving only one, the great star of the morning. -It sent out little points of light, like the Star of the East in Sunday -school pictures. It seemed to stir with white incandescence. - -Henry straightened up; gently placed Corinne against the breakwater; -covered his face. - -She considered him from under lowered eyelids. Her face was -expressionless. She didn't smile. And she wasn't singing now. She -smoothed out her skirt, rather deliberately and thoughtfully. - -'Think of it!' Henry broke out with a shudder. 'It's a dreadful thing -that's happened!' - -'It might be,' said Corinne very quietly, 'if Arthur didn't have the -sense to take that train.' - -'And we're sitting here as if----' - -'Listen! What on earth made you go back to the house?' - -'I can't tell you. I don't know. I _had_ to.' - -'Hm! You certainly did it. You're not lacking courage, Henry.' - -He said nothing to this. He didn't feel brave. - -'Mildred was foolish. She shouldn't have let herself get so stirred up. -She ought to have gone back.' - -'How can you say that! Don't you see that she _couldn't_!' - -'Yes, I saw that she couldn't. But it was a mistake.' Henry was up on -his knees, now, digging sand and throwing it. - -'It was love,' he said hotly--'real love.' - -'It's a wreck,' said she. - -'It can't be. If they love each other!' - -'This town won't care how much they love each other. And there are other -things. Money.' - -'Bah! What's money!' - -'It's a lot. You've got to have it.' - -'Haven't you any ideals, Corinne?' - -She reflected. Then said, 'Of course.' And added: 'She had Arthur where -she wanted him. That's why he went away, of course. He thought she'd -caught him. Now she's lost her head and let him get away. Dished -everything. No telling what he'll do when he finds out.' - -'He mustn't find out.' Henry was not aware of any inconsistency within -himself. - -'He will if she's going to lose her head like this. There are some -things you have to stand in this world. One of the things Mildred had to -stand was a husband.' - -'But how could she go back to him--to-night--feeling this way?' - -'She should have.' - -'You're cynical.' - -'I'm practical. Do you want her to go through a divorce, and then marry -Humphrey? That'll take money. It's a luxury. For rich folks.' - -'Don't say such things, Corinne!' - -'Why not. She's made the break with Arthur. Now the next thing's got to -happen. What's it to be?' - -Henry got to his feet. He gazed a long time at the morning star. - -The university clock struck three. - -Henry shivered.. - -'Come,' he said. 'Let's get back.' It didn't occur to him to help her -up. - -The four of them lingered a few moments at Mildred's door. Humphrey -finally led Mildred in. For a last goodnight, plainly. - -Corinne smiled at Henry. It was an odd, slightly twisted smile. - -'After all,' she murmured, 'there's no good in taking things too -seriously.' - -He threw out his hands. - -'You think I'm hard,' she said, still with that smile. - -'Don't! Please!' - -'Well--good-night. Or good-morning.' - -She gave him her hand. He took it. It gripped his firmly, lingeringly. -He returned the pressure; coloured; gripped her hand hotly; moved toward -her, then sprang away and dropped her hand. - -'Why--Henry!' - -'I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I was looking at -that star----' - -'I saw you looking at it.' - -'I was thinking how white it was. And bright. And so far away. As if -there wasn't any use trying to reach it. And then--oh, I don't know--Mr -Henderson made me blue, the way he looked to-night. And Humphrey and -Mildred--the awful fix they're in. And you and me--I just can't tell -you!' - -'You're telling me plainly enough,' she said wearily. - -'Do you ever hate, yourself?' - -She didn't answer this. Or look up. - -'Did you ever feel that you might turn out just--oh well, no good? Mr -Henderson made me think that.' - -'He isn't much good,' said she. - -'As if your life wasn't worth making anything out of? Your friends -ashamed of you? They talk about me here now. And I haven't been bad. Not -yet. Just one or two little things.' - -Her lips formed the words, in the dark, 'You're not bad.' - -Then she said, rather sharply: 'Don't stand there looking like a whipped -dog, Henry.' - -'I'll go,' he said; and turned. - -'You re the strangest person I ever knew,' she said. 'Maybe you _are_ -a genius. Considering that Mildred completely lost her nerve, your -handling of Arthur came pretty near being it. I wonder.' - -Humphrey and Mildred came out. - -She came straight to him; gave him both her hands. 'You've settled -everything for us. Humphrey, I want to kiss Henry. I'm going to.' - -Henry received the kiss like an image. Then he and Humphrey went away -together into the dawn. - -'No good going to the rooms now,' Humphrey remarked. 'Let's walk the -beach.' - -Henry nodded dismally. - - -7 - - -The sky out over the lake was a luminous vault of deep rose shading -off into the palest pink. The flat surface of the water, as far as they -could see, was like burnished metal. - -Henry flung out a trembling arm. - -'Look!' he said huskily. 'That star.' - -It was still incandescent, still radiating its little points of light. - -'Hump,' he said, a choke in his voice--'I'm shaken. I'm beginning life -again to-night, to-day.' - -'I'm shaken too, Hen. The real thing has come. At last. It's got me. -It'll be a fight, of course. But we're going through with it. I want -you to come to know her better, Hen. Even you--you don't know. She's -wonderful. She's going to help with my work in the shop, help me do the -real things, creative work, get away from grubbing jobs.' - -It was a moment of flashing insight for Henry. He couldn't reply; -couldn't even look at his friend. His misgivings were profound. Yet the -thing was done. Humphrey's life had taken irrevocably a new course. -No good even wasting regrets on it. So he fell, in a tumbling rush of -emotion, to talking about himself. - -'I'm beginning again. I--I let go a little. Hump, I can't do it. -It's too strong for me. I go to pieces. You don't know. I've got to -fight--all the time. Do the things I used to do--make myself work hard, -hard. Keep accounts. Every penny. Leave girls alone. It means grubbing. - -I can't bear to think of it.' He spread out his hands. 'In some ways it -seems to help to let go. You know--stirs me. Brings the Power. Makes me -want to write, create things. But it's too much like burning the candle -at both ends.' - -Humphrey got out his old cob pipe, and carefully scraped it. - -'That's probably just what it is,' he remarked. - -'Oh, Hump, what is it makes us feel this way! You know--girls, and all -that.' - -Humphrey lighted his pipe. - -'You don't know how it makes me feel to see you and Mildred. Just the -way she looks. And you. Corinne and I don't look like that. We were -flirting. I didn't mean it. She didn't, either. It's been beastly. But -still it didn't seem beastly all the time.' - -'It wasn't,' said Humphrey, between puffs. 'Don't be too hard on -yourself. And you haven't hurt Corinne. She likes you. But just the -same, she's only flirting. She'd never give up her ambitions for you.' - -'There's something I want to feel. Something wonderful. I've been -thinking of it, looking at that star. I want to love like--like that. Or -nothing.' - -Humphrey leaned on the railing over the beach, and smoked reflectively. -The rose tints were deepening into scarlet and gold. The star was -fading. - -'Hen,' said Humphrey, speaking out of a sober reverie, 'I don't know -that I've ever seen anybody reach a star. Our lives, apparently, are -passed right here on this earth.' - -Henry couldn't answer this. But he felt himself in opposition to it. His -hands were clenched at his side. - -'I begin my life to-day,' he thought. - -But back of this' determination, like a dark current that flowed -silently but irresistibly out of the mists of time into the mists of -other time, he dimly, painfully knew that life, the life of this earth, -was carrying him on. And on. As if no resolution mattered very much. As -if you couldn't help yourself, really. - -He set his mouth. And thrust out his chin a little. He had not read -Henley's _Invictus_. It would have helped him, could he have seen it -just then. - -'Let's walk,' he said. - -They breakfasted at Stanley's. - -Here there was a constant clattering of dishes and a smell of food. -People drifted in and out--men who worked along Simpson Street, and a -few family groups--said 'Good-morning. Looks like a warm day.' Picked -their teeth. Paid their checks to Mrs Stanley at the front table, or had -their meal tickets punched. - -They walked slowly up the street as far as the Sunbury House corner, and -crossed over to the _Voice_ office. Each glanced soberly at the hotel as -they passed. - -They went in through the railing that divided front and rear offices. -Humphrey took off his coat and dropped into his swivel chair before -the roll-top desk. Henry took off his and dropped on the kitchen chair -before the littered pine table. Jim Smith, the foreman, came in, his -bare arms elaborately tattooed, chewing tobacco, and told 'a new one,' -sitting on the corner of Henry's table. Henry sat there, pale of face, -toying with a pencil, and wincing. - -After Jim had gone, Henry sat still, gazing at the pencil, wondering -weakly if the rough stuff of life was too much for him. - -He glanced over toward the desk. Humphrey, pipe in mouth, was already -at work. Hump had the gift of instant concentration. Even this morning, -after all that had happened, he was hard at it. Though he had something -to work for. - -A sob was near. Henry had to close his eyes for a moment. His sensitive -lips quivered. - -Humphrey would be, seeing his Mildred again at the close of the -day. Henry found himself entertaining the possibility of crawling -shamefacedly around to Corinne. - -Then he sat up stiffly. Felt in one pocket after another until he found -a little red account-book. He hadn't made an entry for a week. Before -Corinne came into his life he hadn't missed an entry for nearly two -years. - -He sat staring at it, pencil in hand. - -His mouth set again. - -He wrote:-- - -'Bkfst. Stanleys... 20c.' - -He slipped the book into his pocket; compressed his lips for an instant; -then reached for a wad of copy paper. - -And gave a little sigh of relief. It was to be a long, perhaps an -endless battle with self. But he had started. - - - - -V--TIGER, TIGER! - - -1 - - -|Miss Amelia Dittenhoefer was a figure in Sunbury. She had taught two -generations of its young in the old Filbert Avenue school. And during -more than ten years, since relinquishing that task, she had supplied -the 'Society,' 'Church Doings,' 'Woman's Realm,' and 'Personal Mention' -departments of the _Voice_ with their regular six to eight columns of -news and gossip. - -And as several hundred Sunbury men and women had once been her boys -and girls, this sort of personal news came to her from every side. Her -'children,' of whatever present age, accepted her as an institution, -like the university building, General Grant, or Lake Michigan. She never -had a desk in the _Voice_ office, but worked at home or moving -briskly about the town. Home, to her, was the rather select, certainly -high-priced boarding-house of Mrs Clark on Simpson Street, over by the -lake, where she had lived, at this time, for twenty-one or twenty-two -years. She was little, neat, precise, and doubtless (as I look back -on those days) equipped for much more important work than any she ever -found to do in Sunbury. But Woman's sun had hardly begun to rise then. - -As Henry had been, at the age of six, one of her boys, and during the -past two years had shared with her the reporting work of the _Voice_, -it was not unnatural that she should stop him as he was hurrying, airily -twirling his thin bamboo stick, over to Stanley's restaurant. It was -noontime. Simpson Street was quiet. They walked along past Donovan's -drug store and Jackson's book store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and turned -the corner. Here, in front of an unfrequented photographer's studio, -Miss Dittenhoefer stated her problem. She looked, though her trim little -person was erect as always, rather beaten down. - -'Mr Boice has taken half my work, Henry--"Church Doings" and "Society." -He sent me a note. I gather that you're to do it.' - -'Me?' Henry spoke in honest amazement. - -'Doubtless. He's cutting down expenses. I mind, of course, after all -these years. I've worked very hard. And on the money side, I shall mind -a little.' - -'You don't mean----' - -'Oh, yes. Half the former wage. And they don't pension old teachers in -Sunbury. But this is what I want to tell you----' - -'Oh, but Miss Dittenhoefer, I don't----' - -'Never mind, Henry; it's done. Of course I shouldn't have said as much -as this. Though perhaps I had to say it to somebody. Forget what you can -of it. But now--I wanted to give you this list. There's a good lot of -society for summer. Never knew the old town to be so gay. Two or three -things in South Sunbury that are important. They feel that we've been -slighting them down there this year. I've noted everything down. And -I've written the church societies, asking them to send announcements -direct to the office after this.' - -'I don't want your work,' said Henry, colouring up. 'It -ain't--isn't--square.' - -'But it's business, Henry. Mr. Boice explained that in his note. You'll -find I've written everything out in detail--all my plans and the right -ladies to see. Good-bye now.' - -Henry, pained, unable to believe that Miss Dittenhoefer's day could pass -so abruptly, walked moodily back to Stanley's and, as usual, bolted his -lunch. The unkindness to Miss Dittenhoefer directly affected himself. It -meant still more of the routine desk-work and more running around town. - -Then, slowly, as he sat there staring at the pink mosquito-bar that was -gathered round the chandelier, his eyes filled. It was hard to believe -that even Mr Boice could do a thing like that to Miss Dittenhoefer. -Coolly cutting her pay in half! It seemed to Henry wanton cruelty. It -suggested to his sensitive mind other tales of cruelty--tales of the -boys who had gone into Chicago wholesale houses for their training and -had found their fresh young dream-ideals harshly used in the desperate -struggle of business. - -Henry, I am certain, thought of Mr Boice at this moment with about -as much sympathy as a native of a jungle village might feel for a -man-eating tiger. That look about Miss Dittenhoefer's mouth when she -smiled! It was a world, this of placid-appearing Sunbury and the big -city, just below the town line, in which men fought each other to the -death, in which young boys were hardened and coarsened and taught to -kill or be killed, in which women were tortured by hard masters until -their souls cried out. - -Boice, I am sure, sensed nothing of this somewhat morbid hostility. No; -until Robert A. McGibbon turned up in Sunbury, Mr Boice had some reason -to feel settled and complacent in his years. His private funds were -secure in his wife's name. And he had every reason to believe that, -before many months more, it would be his privilege and pleasure to -run McGibbon out of town for good. If the matter of Miss Dittenhoefer -should, for a little while, stir up sentimental criticism, why--well, -it was business. Sound business. And you couldn't go back of sound -business. - -Henry sighed, got slowly up, had his meal ticket punched at the desk by -Mrs Stanley, went back to the office. - -2 - -The sunny, listless July day was at its lowest ebb--when men who had the -time dawdled and smoked late over their lunch, when ladies took naps. - -Flies crawled languidly about the speckled walls of the _Voice_ office. -Outside the screen door and the plate-glass front window, the hot air, -rising from the cement sidewalk, quivered so that the yellow outlines -of the Sunbury House across the street wavered unstably, and the dusty -trees over there wavered, and the men sitting coatless, suspendered, in -the yellow rocking chairs on the long veranda, wavered. Through the -open press-room door came the sound of one small job-press rumbling at -a handbill job; the other presses were still. The compositors worked or -idled without talking. - -Here in the office, Henry, tipped back in his kitchen chair before the -inkstained, cluttered pine table by the end wall, coat off, limp wet -handkerchief tucked carefully around his neck inside the collar, chewed -a pencil, gazing now at the little pile of blank copy paper before -him, now at a discouraged fly on the wall. Gradually the fly took on -a perverse interest among his wandering, unhappy thoughts. Prompted, -doubtless, by a sense of inner demoralisation that was now close to -recklessness, he reached for a pen, filled it with ink, and shot a -scattering volley at the slow-moving insect. - -At the roll-top desk by the press-room door, Humphrey Weaver, also -coatless, cob pipe in mouth, long lean face wrinkled in the effort to -keep his usually docile mind on its task, elbow on desk and long fingers -spread through damp hair, was correcting proof. - -Mr Boice's desk, up in the front window, outside the railing, stood -vacant. The proprietor might or might not stop in on the early-afternoon -trip from his house on Upper Chestnut Avenue to the post-office. Mr -Boice could do as he liked. His time was his own. He lived on the labour -of others. A fact which often stirred up in Henry's breast a rage that -was none the less bitter because it was impotent. It was the sort of -thing, he felt, in his more nearly lucid moments, that you have to -stand--the wall against which you must beat your head year after year. - -Henry, victorious over the fly, settled back. He tried to work. Then sat -for a time brooding. Then, finally, turned to his friend. - -'Hump,' he said, 'I--I know you wouldn't think I had much to do--I mean -the way you get work done--I don't know what it is--but I wish I could -see a way to begin on all this new work. I know I'm no good, but----' - -'I wouldn't say that.' Humphrey, glad of a brief respite, settled back -in his swivel chair. 'I could never have written that picnic story. -Never in the world. We're different, that's all. You're a racer; I'm a -work-horse. I don't know just what it's coming to. He isn't handling you -right.' - -'That's it!' Henry cried, softly, eagerly. 'He _isn't!_' - -'I suppose you know now about Miss Dittenhoefer.' Henry's head bowed in -assent. 'I didn't have the heart to tell you myself, Hen.' He picked up -his proofs, then looked up and out of the window. 'There,' he remarked -unexpectedly, 'is a pretty girl!' - -Henry turned with the quickness of long habit. 'Where?' he asked, then -discovered the young person in question standing on the hotel veranda -talking with Mrs B. L. Ames and Mary Ames. - -She was a new girl. Even now, though Henry had given up girls for good, -she caused a quickening of his pulse. She _was_ pretty--rather slender, -in a blue skirt and a trim white shirt-waist, and an unusual amount -of darkish hair that massed effectively about a face, the principal -characteristics of which, at this distance and through the screen door, -was a bright, almost eager smile. - -It is a not uninteresting fact, to those who know something of Henry's -susceptibility on previous occasions, that his gaze wandered moodily -back to his table. He sighed. His hand strayed up and began pulling at -his little moustache. - -'You haven't told me what I'm to do about it, Hump. This society thing -really stumps me.' - -'I haven't known quite what to say. That's all, Hen. The old man is -riding you, of course. I didn't think, when he raised you to twelve a -week, that he'd just lie down and pay it. Meekly. Not he! He's a crafty -old duck. Very, very crafty--Cheese it; here he comes!' - -The shadow of Norton P. Boice fell across the door-step. The screen door -opened with a squeak, and ponderously the quietly dominating force of -Simpson Street, came in, inclined his massive head in an impersonal -greeting, and lowered his huge bulk into his chair. - -'Henry!' called Mr Boice in his quietly husky voice. - -The young man quivered slightly, but sat motionless. - -'Henry!' came the husky voice again. - -There could be no pretending not to hear. Henry went over there. -Mr Boice sat still--he could; do that--great hands resting on his -barrel-like thighs. - -'I am rearranging the work of the paper--' he began. - -'Yes,' muttered Henry, not without sullenness; 'I know.' - -'Oh, you know!' - -'Yes.' - -'There's a little more for you to do. You'll have to get it cleaned up -well ahead of time this week. Thursday is the fiftieth anniversary of -the founding of Sunbury. You'll have to cover that. Take down what you -can of the speeches.' - -That seemed to be all. Henry moved slowly back to the table. After a -little shuffling about of the papers on his desk, Mr Boice moved heavily -out and headed toward the post-office. - -Then, and not before, Henry rummaged under a pile of exchanges at the -rear of the table until he found a book. This he held close to his body, -where it would not be seen should Humphrey turn unexpectedly. - -The book was entitled _Will Power and Self Mastery_. Opposite the title -page was a half-tone reproduction of the author--a face with a huge -moustache and intensely knit brows. Henry studied it, speculating in a -sort of despair as to whether he could ever bring himself to look like -that. He knit his own brows. His hand strayed again to his own downy -moustache. - -He turned the pages. Read a sentence here and there. The book, though -divided under various chapter headings, was really made up of hundreds -of more or less pithy little paragraphs. These paragraphs--their -substance mainly a rehandling of the work of Samuel Smiles, James -Parton, and the Christian and Mental Scientists (though Henry didn't -know this)--might easily have been shuffled about and arranged in -other sequence, so little continuity of thought did they represent. One -paragraph ran:-- - -The express train of Opportunity stops but once at your station. If you -miss it, it will never again matter that you almost caught it. - -Another was-- - -Practise concentration. Fix your mind on the job in hand. Aim to do it -a little better than such a job was ever done before. It is related of -Thomas Alva Edison that, at the early age of seven, he---- - -And this:-- - -Oh, how many a young man, standing at the parting of life's main roads, -has lost for ever the golden opportunity because he stopped to light a -cigarette!' - -Henry replaced the book under the pile of exchanges. A copy of last -week's _Voice_ lay there. - -It was the first time he had let an issue of the paper go by without -reading and re-reading every line of his own work. But he had, during -these five days, passed through one of life's great revolutions. -Besides, he had been put on a salary basis. When on space-rates, it had -been necessary to cut everything out and paste it up into a 'string' for -measurement. It came to him now, with a warm little uprush of memory, -that the best piece of writing he had ever done would be in this issue. - -He opened the paper. There was his story, occupying all of page three -that wasn't given up to advertisements. This was better than working. -Besides, he ought to go over it. He settled down to it. - - -3 - - -The sound that caused Humphrey to start up in surprise was the first -outbreak of profanity he had ever heard from the lips of Henry Calverly. - -Henry was sitting up stiffly, holding last week's _Voice_ with hands -that distinctly trembled. When Humphrey first looked, he was white, but -after a moment the colour began flowing back to his face and continued -flowing until his face was red. His lips were clamped tight, as if the -small verbal explosion that had just passed them had proved even more -startling to himself than to Humphrey. 'What is it?' asked the editor. - -Henry stared at the outspread paper. - -'This!' he got out. 'This--this!' - -'What's the matter, Hen?' - -'Don't you _know?_' - -'Oh, your picnic story! Yes--but--what on earth is the matter with you?' - -'You _know_, Hump! You never told me!' - -'You mean the cuts?' - -'Oh--yes!' This 'Oh' was a moan of anguish. - -'Good heavens, Hen--you didn't for a minute think we could print it as -you wrote it?' Henry's facial muscles moved, but he got no words -out. Humphrey, touched, went on. 'I don't mind telling you--between -ourselves--that the thing as you wrote it, every word, is the best -bit of descriptive writing I've seen this year. But you wrote the -real story, boy. You painted the whole Simpson Street bunch as they -are--every wart. It's a savage picture. Why, we'd have dropped seventy -per cent, of our advertising between Saturday and Monday! And the queer -little picture of Charlie Waterhouse out behind the lemonade stand---- -Why, boy, that's enough to bust open the town! - -With Bob McGibbon gunning for Charlie and demanding an accounting of the -town money! Gee!' - -Henry seemed hardly to hear this. - -'Who--who re-wrote it?' - -'I did some. The old man polished it off himself.' - -'It's ruined!' - -'Of course. But it brought you a raise to twelve a week. That's -something.' - -'You don't understand. It was my work. And it was true. I wrote the -truth.' - -'That's why.' - -'Then they don't want the truth?' - -'Good lord--no!' - -Henry considered this, bent over as if to read further, twisted his -flushed face as if in pain, then abruptly sprang up. - -'What's become of it--the piece I wrote?' - -'Well, Hen--I didn't feel that we had a right to destroy the thing. Too -dam good! In a sense, it's the old man's property; in another sense, -it's yours----' - -'It's mine!' - -'In a sense. At any rate, I took it on myself to have a copy made -confidentially. Then I turned the original over to Mr Boice. He doesn't -know.' - -'Where's the copy?' - -'Here in my desk.' - -'Give it to me!' - -'Just hold your horses a minute, Hen----' - -'You give it----' - -Humphrey threw up a hand, then opened a drawer. He handed over the -typewritten manuscript. - -'Who made this?' - -'Gertie Wombast. I warned her to keep her mouth shut.' - -'How much did it cost?' - -'Oh, see here, Hen--I won't talk to you! Not till you get over this -excitement.' - -'I'm not excited. Or, at least----' - -Humphrey gave a shrug. Henry, gripping the roll of manuscript, started -out. - -'Wait a minute, Hen! What do you think you're going to do?' - -'What do you s'pose? Only one thing I _can_ do!' - -'Going after the old man?' - -'Of course! You would yourself, if----' - -'No, I wouldn't. Not in any such rush as that. It's upsetting to have -your good work pawed over and cut to pieces, but twelve a week is----' - -'Oh, Hump, it's everything! He's made it impossible for me. I could -stand some of it, but not all this. He ain't fair! He _wants_ to make it -hard for me! He's just thinking up ways to be mean. And he's spoiled my -work--best thing I've ever done in my life! And now people will never -know how well I can write.' - -'Oh, yes, they will!' - -'No, they won't. I'll never feel just that way again. It's a feeling -that comes. And then it goes. You can't do anything about it. It was -Corinne and the way I felt about her. And a lot o' things. Seemed to -make me different. Lifted me up. I was red-hot.' He reached out and -struck the paper from the table to the floor. 'You bet I'll go to old -Boice! 'I'll tell him a thing or two I He'll know something's happened -before he gets through with me. I've had something to say to him for a -good while. Going to say it now. Guess he don't know I'll be twenty-one -in November. Have a little money then. He can't put it over me. I'll buy -his old paper. Or start another one. I'll make the town too hot for him. -Thinks he owns all Sunbury. But he _don't!_' - -'Hen,' said Humphrey bravely, when the irate youth paused for breath, -'you simply must not try to talk to him while you're mad as this.' - -'But don't you see, Hump,' cried Henry, his face working with vexation, -tears close to his eyes; 'it's just the time! When I'm mad. If I wait, -I'll never say a word.' - -He rolled the manuscript tightly in his hand, bit his lip, then abruptly -rushed out. - -'Look here,' cried Humphrey. 'Don't you go showing that----' - -But the only reply was the noisy slam of the screen door. - -Face set, eyes wild behind their glasses, Henry hurried down Simpson -Street toward the post-office. - -Miss Hemple, at the money-order window, said that Mr Boice was having a -talk with Mr Waterhouse in the back office and wasn't to be disturbed. - -Henry turned away. For a little time he studied the weather-chart -hanging on the wall. He went to the wide front window and gazed out on -the street. His determination was already oozing away. He found himself -slouching and straightened up. Repeatedly he had to do this. Four times -he went back to the money-order window; four times Miss Hemple smiled -and shook her head. - -Martha Caldwell walked by with the two Smith girls. He thought she saw -him. If so, she carefully avoided a direct glance. They still weren't -speaking. At least, Martha wasn't. And to think that during three long -years, except for another episode now and than, she had been his girl! - -Heigh-ho! No more girls! He was through! - -The Ames's carriage rolled fly. Mary Ames was in it. And--apparently, -unmistakably--the new girl. The girl of the Sunbury House veranda. She -was chatting brightly. She _was_ pretty. - -He turned mournfully away. She was not for him. Once it might have been -possible--back in his gay big days. But not now. Not now. - -He approached the window for the sixth time. For the sixth time, Miss -Hemple shook her head. - -He wandered out to the door. - -His chance had passed. If the old man should, at this moment, and alone, -come walking out, he would say meekly, 'Good-afternoon, Mr Boice,' and -hurry away. He would even try to look busy and earnest. There was shame -in the thought. His mouth was drooping at the corners. All of him--body, -mind, spirit--was sagging now. He moved, slowly down toward the tracks, -entered the little lunch-counter place there and ate a thick piece of -lemon-meringue pie. Which was further weakness. He knew it. It completed -his depression. - -He felt that he must think. He ordered another piece of pie. He wished -he hadn't said so much to Humphrey. Would he ever learn to control the -spoken word? Probably not. He sighed. And ate. He couldn't very well go -back to the office. Not like this--in defeat. All that work, too I -Life, work, friendship, all the realities seemed to be slipping from -his grasp. His thoughts were drifting off into a haze. It was an old -familiar mood. It had come often during his teens. Not so much lately; -but he was as helpless before it as he had been at eighteen, when he -finally drifted aimlessly out of his class at the high school. - -In those days, it had been his habit to wander along the beach, sit on -a breakwater, let life and love and duty drift by beyond his reach. -Thither he headed now by a back street. Too many people he knew along -Simpson Street. Besides, he might be thrown face to face with the old -man. - -At the corner of Filbert Avenue he met the editor and proprietor of the -_Gleaner_. He inclined his head with unconscious severity and would have -passed on. - -But Robert A. McGibbon came to a halt, smiled in a thin strained -fashion, and glanced curiously from Henry's face to the tightly rolled -manuscript in his hand and back to the face. - -'Well,' he remarked, 'how's things?' - -Henry wanted to be let alone. But he had never deliberately snubbed -anybody in his life. He couldn't. So he, too, came to a stop. - -'Oh, pretty good,' he replied. - - -4 - - -He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was -just a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head -under the tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface -of his sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. -His hair was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. -Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, -appeared to be darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything -within their range of vision. - -'Things going well over at the _Voice_ office?' Henry was silent. He -couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special -up?' - -'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.' - -'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a -little walk, perhaps.' - -'Why--yes.' - -'Mind if I walk along with you?' - -'Why--no.' - -They fell into step. - -'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy -in your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write -the Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I -thought.' - -'It was terrible!' - -'Oh, no--not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.' - -'I'm not hard on myself. It's _his_ fault. He spoiled it.' - -'Who--Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil _The New York Sun_ in -two days, with just a little rope.' - -'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let -you see it, of course.' - -McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper. - -'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let -you do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You -know, there isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't -be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the -advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a -little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the -advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.' - -Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive -now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's -thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a -weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him. - -'I've got a little money,' he said. - -McGibbon smiled. - -'Well, it has its uses.' - -'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give -me all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These -words seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a -little, too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.' - -'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four -thousand right now--or one thousand, for that matter--I could make sure -of turning my corner and landing the old _Gleaner_ on Easy Street. -I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these eight -months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, and -I'll nail that gang.' - -'You know'--McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a -cigar--'it takes money to make money.' - -'Oh, yes--of course,' said Henry. - -'A thousand dollars now on the _Gleaner_ would be worth ten thousand -ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you, -Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. -He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you -grinding--correcting proof, running around----' - -'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind! -And now he expects me to cover all the "Society" and "Church Doings."' - -'What! How's that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?' - -Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded. - -'He's piling it all on me, and I won't stand for it. It ain't right! It -'ain't fair! And you bet your life he's going to hear a few things from -me before this day's much older! I'm going to tell him a thing or two!' - -'That's right!' said McGibbon. 'He won't respect you any the less for -it.' - -A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set -teeth, staring out at the horizon. - -'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that -you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I -know you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is -what a paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be -friends. You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, -blew out a long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little -about that story you wrote.' - -'_You_ do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?' - -'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks -around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or -two.' - -'I've been in New York,' said Henry. - -'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my -lines out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't -know.' - -'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.' - -McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:-- - -'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.' - -'But I don't see how you could know about----' - -'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert -Wombast let her sister read it--the one that works at the library. -Swore her to secrecy. And--well, I board at the Wombasts'--Look here, -Calverly: you'd better let me read it.' - -Henry promptly surrendered it. - -McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and -gazed at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his -hands. - -'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you -understand. It's just as I wrote it off--fast, you know--and I haven't -had a chance to correct it or----' - -McGibbon raised his hand. - -'No, Calverly--none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice -couldn't print it. Never in the world. But it's sweet stuff. It's a -perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two -old crooks behind the lemonade stand--you've opened a jack-pot there. If -you only knew it, son, that's evidence. Evidence! You walked right into -it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice -and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little -purse and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he's the most popular man -in Sunbury? Rot! Because they're helping him pay back. Making the town -help.' - -'Oh, do you really think----' - -'"Think?" I know. This completes the picture. Tell me--what is Boice -paying you?' - -'Twelve a week, now.' - -'Hm! That's quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it, -though, if--see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a -thousand of your money free and investing in the _Gleaner?_ Now, wait! -I want to put this thing before you. It's the turning-point. If we act -without delay, we've got 'em. We've got everything. We own the town. -Here we are! The _Gleaner_ is just at the edge of success. I take you -over from the _Voice_ at the same salary--twelve a week. I'll give you -lots of rope. I won't expect routine from you. I'll expect genius. Stuff -like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel -you can't help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie -Waterhouse and break him. I'll finish Boice and Weston at the same time. -Show up the whole outfit! Whatever'll be left of the _Voice_ by that -time, Boice can have and welcome. The _Gleaner_ will be the only paper -in Sunbury.' - -'My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother's estate.' - -'You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right -through.' - -'I'll see him to-morrow.' - -'Couldn't you find him to-night?' - - -5 - - -Uncle Arthur lived in Chicago, out on the West Side. It was a long -ride--first by suburban train into the city, then by cable-car -through miles upon miles of gray wooden tenements and dingy gray-brick -tenements. You breathed in odours of refuse and smoke and coal-gas all -the way. - -Uncle Arthur was as thin as McGibbon, but wholly without the little -gleam in the eyes that advertised the proprietor of the _Gleaner_ as an -eager and perhaps dangerous man. Uncle Arthur was a man of method who -had worked through long years into a methodical but fairly substantial -prosperity. - -His thin nose was long, and prominent. His brow was deeply furrowed. -His gaze was critical. He believed firmly that life is a disciplinary -training for some more important period of existence after death. -He didn't smoke or drink. Nor would he keep in his employ those who -indulged in such practices. He was an officer of several organisations -aiming at civic and social reform. - -Uncle Arthur laid a pedantic stress, in all business matters, on what -he called 'putting the thing right end to.' It was not unnatural, -therefore, that he should receive a distinctly unfavourable impression -when Henry began, with a foolish little gesture and a great deal of -fumbling at his moustache, slouching in his chair, by saying 'There's -a little chance come up--oh, nothing much, of course--for me to make -a little money, sort of on the side--and you see I'll be twenty-one in -November; so it's just a matter of three or four months, anyway--and I -was figuring--oh, just talking the thing over----' - -His voice trailed off into a mumble. - -'If you would take your hand away from your mouth, Henry,' said his -uncle sharply, 'perhaps I could make out what you're trying to say.' - -Henry sat up with a jerk. - -'Why, you see, Uncle Arthur, there's a fellow bought the old Sunbury -_Gleaner_ and he's awfully smart--got his training in New York--and he's -brought the paper already--why, it ain't eight months!--to where he's -right on the point of turning his corner. You see, a thousand dollars -now may easily be worth ten thousand in a few years. The _Voice_ is a -rotten paper. Nobody reads the darned thing. And I can't work for old -Boice, anyhow. He drives me crazy. If he'd just give me half a chance to -do the kind of thing I can do best once in a while; but this----' - -'Henry, are you asking me to advance you a thousand dollars of your -principal?' - -'Why--well, yes, if----' - -'Most certainly not!' - -'But, you see, it's so close to November seventh, anyway, that I -thought----' - -'You thought that on your twenty-first birthday I would at once close -out the investments I have made with the money your mother left and hand -you the principal in cash?' - -Henry stared at him, his thoughts for the moment frozen stiff. In Uncle -Arthur's obstructionist attitude, so suddenly revealed, lay the promise -of a new, wholly undreamed-of disappointment. It was crushing. Then, -almost in the same second, it was stimulating. Henry's eyes blazed. - -'You mean to say----' he began, shouting. - -'I mean to say that I haven't the slightest intention of letting you -squander the money your mother so painfully--' - -'That's my money!' - -'But I'm your uncle and your guardian----' - -'You needn't think you're going to keep that one minute after November -seventh!' - -'I will use my judgment. I won't be dictated to by a boy who----' - -'But you gotta!' - -'I have not got to!' - -'I won't stand for----' - -'Henry, I won't have such talk here. I think you had better go.' - -Henry, with a good deal of mumbling, went. He was bewildered. And the -little storm of indignant anger had shaken him. He returned, during the -ride back past the tenements on the jerky cable-car, through streets -that swarmed with noisy, ragged children and frowsy adults and all the -smells, to depression. McGibbon said that Uncle Arthur's threat to hold -the money after the seventh of November was a distinct point. - -'In these matters, unfortunately, where a relative or family friend has -for years had charge of money belonging to others, little temptations -are bound to come up. Now, your uncle may be the most scrupulously -honest of men, but----' - -'He has a bad eye,' Henry put in. - -'I don't doubt it. Calverly, let me tell you--never forget this--a man -who hesitates for one instant to account freely, fully for money is -never to be trusted.' - -'But what can I do?' - -'Do? Everything! Just what I'm doing with Charlie Waterhouse, for one -thing--insist on a full statement.' - -'They framed a letter--or McGibbon framed it--demanding an accounting, -'in order that further legal measures may not become necessary.' -McGibbon said he would send it early in the morning, registered, and -with a special-delivery stamp. 'Later, they decided to add emphasis by -means of a telegram demanding immediate consideration of the letter. - -Late that night, when Humphrey came upstairs into a pitch-dark -living-room and switched on the light, he discovered a pale youth -sitting stiffly on a window-seat wide-awake, eyes staring nervously, -hands clasped. - -'Well, what on earth?' said he, in mild surprise. - -'Oh, Hump, I've wondered what you'd think--leaving you in the lurch with -all that work! - -Humphrey threw out a lean hand. - -'I can manage. Get some help from one of the students. And Gertie -Wombast is usually available---- Oh, say; how about the old man? Did you -tell him what's what?' - -Henry's burning eyes stared out of that white face. Suddenly--so -suddenly that Humphrey himself started--he sprang up, cried out; 'No! -No! No!' and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door after him. - -Humphrey looked soberly at the door, shook his head, filled his pipe. - -That 'No! No! No!' still rang in his ears It was a cry of pain. - -Humphrey had suffered; but he had never known a turbulence of the sort -that every now and then seemed to tear Henry to pieces. - -'Must be fierce,' he thought. 'But it works up as well as down. Runs to -extremes. Creative faculty, I suppose. Well, he's got it--that's all. -And he's only a kid. Thing to do's to stand by and try to steady him up -a little when he comes out of it.' - -And the philosophical Humphrey went to bed. - - -6 - - -At noon, no word had come from Uncle Arthur. Henry, all the morning, had -flitted back and forth between McGibbon's rear office and the telegraph -office in the 'depot.' - -At twelve-thirty, they sent a peremptory message, demanding a reply by -three o'clock. An ultimatum. - -The reply came unexpectedly, with startling effect, at twenty-five -minutes past two, requesting Henry to come directly into his uncle's -Chicago office. - -He caught the two-forty-seven. McGibbon, who had missed nothing of the -concern on Henry's face at this brisk counter-offensive on the part of -Uncle Arthur, was with him. - -McGibbon waited in the corner drug store while Henry-went up in one of -the elevators of the great La Salle Street office-building. - -Uncle Arthur led the way into his inner office, closed the door, seated -himself, and with austerity surveyed the youth before him, taking in -with deliberate thought the far-from-inexpensive blue-serge suit, the -five-dollar straw hat, the bamboo stick (which Henry carried anything -but airily now), and the hopelessly futile little moustache. - -'Sit down,' said Uncle Arthur. - -Henry sat down. - -Uncle Arthur opened a drawer, took up two slips of paper, deliberately -laid them before his nephew. - -'There,' he said, 'is my cheque for one thousand forty-six dollars and -twenty-nine cents. It is the value, with interest to this morning, of -one bond which I am buying from you, at the price given in to-day's -quotations. Kindly sign the receipt. Right there.' - -He dipped a pen and Henry signed, then, with shaky fingers, picked up -the cheque, fingered it, laid it down again. - -'I want no misunderstandings about this, Henry. I am doing it because I -regard you as a young fool. Perhaps you will be less of a fool after you -have lost this money. Henry heard the words through a mist of confused -feelings. 'I will have no more letters and telegrams like these.' He -indicated the little sheaf of papers on his desk. 'And I won't have my -character assailed either by you or by any cheap scoundrel whose advice -you may be taking.' - -'But--but he's _not_ a cheap scoundrel!' - -Uncle Arthur raised his eyebrows. His eyes, Henry felt, would burn holes -in him if he stayed here much longer. - -'You're hard on me, Uncle Arthur. You're not fair I'm _not_ going to -lose----' - -The older man abruptly got up. - -'If you care for any advice at all from me, I suggest that you insist -on a note from this man--a demand note, or, at the very outside, a -three-months' one. Don't put money unsecured into a weak business. Make -it a personal obligation on the part of the proprietor. And now, Henry, -that is all. I really don't care to talk to you further. - -Henry stood still. - -His uncle turned brusquely away. - -'But--but--' Henry said unsteadily, 'Uncle Arthur--really! Money isn't -everything!' - -His uncle turned on him as if about to speak; but on second thought -merely raised his eyebrows again. - -And then came the final humiliation, the little climax that was always -to stand out with particular vividness in Henry's memory of the scene. -He turned to go. He had reached the door when he heard his uncle's -voice, saying, with a rasp:-- - -'You have forgotten the cheque, Henry' - -And he had to go back for it. - - -7 - - -One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon. - -'I shall want your note,' he said. - -McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window. -Then, a moment later, he replied:-- - -'Sure! Of course! It's just as I told you--always watch a man who -hesitates a minute in money matters.' - -'Three months,' said Henry. - -'And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,' -said McGibbon. - -At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, -knit his brows, and said:-- - -'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?' - -'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!' - -'Was it two or three?' - -'Well--if you really--two.' - -Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book. - -'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?' - -'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.' - -'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon. - -The _Gleaner_ office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street, up -a long flight of stairs. Here they paused. - -'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your -desk.' - -'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.' - -He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might -be gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the -cheque still in his pocket at the moment. - -His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing. - -'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer----' - -Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the -emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now -took on some of that fire. - -'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already -torn away, almost running. - -He rushed past the _Gleaner_ office without a glance. It suddenly didn't -matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. He -would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to -Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him! - -Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into -the office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile -of the _Congressional Record_ and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his -thick gray hair could be seen. - -Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in -the railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, -proofs, hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and -certain other little personal possessions. The two pencils and one -penholder were his. Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, -made a parcel in a newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard -old Boice move. - -Then came the husky voice. - -'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry--come here!' - -He turned to his friend. - -'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.' - -Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, -looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there. - -'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice. - -'Been attending to my own affairs.' - -'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary -of----' - -'I haven't any work here.' - -'Oh, you haven't?' - -'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't -want it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could -feel Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the -press-room door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two -or three compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty -money. I'm through with you. You and your crooked crowd!' - -'Oh, you are?' - -'Yes. Through with you. I'm on a decent paper now. A paper that ain't -afraid to print the truth.' - -Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making -little sounds.' - -'Mmm!' he remarked. 'Hmm! Ump! Mmm!' Then he said, 'Meaning the -_Gleaner_, I presume.' - -'Meaning the _Gleaner_.' - -'I suppose you know that McGibbon's slated to fail within the month. He -can't so much as meet his pay-roll.' - -'I know more'n that!' cried Henry, laughing nervously. 'I know he's got -money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer's quitting you -this week, too. She's enthusiastic about us. I've just seen her. We're -going to have a big property there. We'll buy you out one o' these days -for a song. Then it'll be the _Gleaner and Voice_. See? But, first, -we're going to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and -that-old whited sepulchre in the bank! I'll show you you can't fool with -me!' - -It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had -thought up something better and rehearsed it. - -Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And -his heart bounded. - -'He's afraid of me!' ran his thoughts. 'I've licked him!' - -It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out. - -Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn't do. He was a -business man now. With investments. He mustn't go grinning down Simpson -Street. - -But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once. - -Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run -around through the alley. - -He wrung Henry's hand. - -'Great!' he cried. 'Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of -a story. Maybe you've heard this one. If you have, just----' - -A hand fell on Henry's shoulder. - -It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice. -His face wrinkled into a grin. - -'My boy,' he said, 'right here and now I thank you for the joy you've -brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully -impossible. It was great.' - -'Well,' cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in -his voice, 'I said it!' - -'Oh, you said it' cried Humphrey. - -Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying -desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth, -humming the wedding-march from _Lohengrin_ to the familiar words:--= - -````Here comes the bride-- - -````Get on to her stride!= - ---he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a -thousand. - -Back in the old _Voice_ office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands -sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds. - -I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had -happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular -incident. He couldn't know that it is as well to face a tigress as an -artist whose mental offspring you have injured. - -No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier -moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn't know that Henry, -the drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two -quite different persons. In Mr Boice's familiar circles they played -duplicate whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with -the mysteries of dual personality such as appear in the case of any -genius, great or small. - -Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake -or his works) did the immortal line come to mind;--= - - -```Did He who made the lamb make thee?= - -Mr Boice was obliged to give it up. - - - - -VI--ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET - - -1 - - -|Elberforce Jenkins was the most accomplished very young man-about-town -in Sunbury. He appeared to have, even at twenty-one, the bachelor gift. -He danced well. His golf was more than promising. He had lately taken -up polo with the Dexter Smith boys and young de Casselles. He owned two -polo ponies, a schooled riding horse, and a carriage team which he -drove to a high cart. His allowance from his father by far overcame the -weakness of his salary (he was with his brother, Jefferson, in a bond -house on La Salle Street). His aptitude at small talk amounted to a -gift. He liked, inevitably, the play that was popular and (though he -read little) the novel that was popular. His taste in girls pointed him -unerringly toward the most desirable among the newest. - -He and Henry had been together in high school (Sunbury was democratic -then). They had played together in the football team. They had--during -one hectic month--been rivals for the hand of Ernestine Lambert. - -In that instance, in so far as success had come, it had come to Henry. -But those were Henry's big days, when he was directing _Iolanthe_, the -town at his feet. Life, these two years, had flowed swiftly on. The long -dangling figure of Elbow Jenkins had filled out. His crude boyishness -had given way to a smiling reserve. He was a young man of the -world--self-assured, never indiscreet of tongue, always well-mannered, -never individual or interesting. - -While Henry still worked on Simpson Street. He hadn't struck his gait. -He was--if you bothered, these days, to think about him--a little -queer. He wore that small moustache and a heavy cord hanging from his -nose-glasses, and dressed a thought too conspicuously. As if impelled -by some inner urge to assert a personality that might otherwise be -overlooked.... As I glance back upon the Henry of this period, it seems -to me that there was more than a touch of pathos about that moustache. -It was such a soft little thing. He fussed with it so much, and kept -trying to twist it up at the ends. He didn't seem to know that they -weren't twisting moustaches up at the ends that year. In fact, I think -he lacked almost utterly the gift of conformity which was the strongest, -element in Elbow Jenkins's nature. And he never acquired it. In -education, in work and preparation for life, he went it alone, -stumbling, blundering, doing apparently stupid things, acting from -baffling obscure motives, then suddenly coming through with an -unexpected flash of insight and power. - -From the period of Ernestine Lambert to the time of the present story -Elbow Jenkins had been on Henry's nerves. Whenever they met, that is; -or when Henry saw him driving the newest, prettiest, best-dressed -girl about in his cart. Two years earlier he would have had two ponies -hitched tandem. But now, a little older, less willing to be conspicuous -except in strict conformity with the conventions, he drove his carefully -matched team side by side. His scat, his hold of the reins, the very -turning-back of his tan gloves, all were correct. These, indeed, were -details in the problem of living and moving about with success among -one's fellows that Elberforce Jenkins regarded as really important. Like -one's stance at golf, and cultivating the favour of men who could be -influential in a business or social way. - -Yes, Elbow was on Henry's nerves. - -But Elbow had long since forgotten Henry, except for a chance nod now -and then. And occasionally a moment's annoyance that Henry should insist -on keeping alive a nickname that had with years and the beginnings of -dignity become undesirable. - - -2 - - -The blow fell on Henry at half-past five on the Tuesday. - -I mark the time thus precisely because it perhaps adds a touch of -interest to the consideration of what happened between then and Friday -night, when McGibbon first saw what he had done. Of the importance of -the blow in Henry's life there is no doubt. It turned him sharply Not -until he was approaching middle life could he look back on the occasion -without wincing. And while wincing, he would say that it was what he had -needed. Plainly. That it made a man of him, or started the process. - -As to that, I can't say. Perhaps it did. Life is not so simple as Henry -had been taught it was. I am fatalist enough to believe that Henry would -have become what he was to become in any event, because it was in him. I -doubt if he could have been given any other direction. Though of course -he might have gone under simply through a failure to get aroused. -Something had to start him, of course. - -The practical difficulty with Henry's life was, of course, that he was -strong. He didn't know this himself. He thought he was weak. Some who -observed him thought the same. There were reasons enough. But Mildred -always declared flatly that he was a genius, that he was too good for -Sunbury, against the smugness of which community she was inclined to -rail. A debate on this point between Mrs Henderson and, say, William F. -Donovan, the drug store man, would have been interesting. Mr Donovan's -judgments of human character were those of Simpson Street. - -I say Henry was strong, because I can't interpret his rugged -nonconformity in any other way. A weaker lad would long since have given -up, gone into Smith Brothers' wholesale, taken his spiritual beating -and fallen into step with his generation. But Henry's resistance was -so strong and so deep that he didn't even know he was resisting. He was -doing the only thing he could do, being what he was, feeling what he -felt. And when instinct failed to guide, when 'the Power' lay quiescent, -he was simply waiting and blundering along; but never falling into step. -He had to wait until the Power should rise with him and take him out and -up where he belonged. - -There was a little scene the Monday evening before. - -It was in the rooms. Mildred was there. - -Henry stumbled in on the two of them, Mildred and Humphrey. They were -at the piano, seated side by side. They had been studying _Tristan and -Isolde_ together for a week or so; Mildred playing out the motifs. She -often played the love duet from the second act for him, too. Henry heard -him, mornings, trying to hum it while he shaved. - -They insisted that he take a chair. He, with a sense of intrusion, took -the arm of one, and kept hat and stick (his thin bamboo) in his hands. - -Mildred said reflectively:-- - -'Corinne writes that she'll be back for a week late in August.' Then, -noting the touch of dismay on Henry's ingenuous countenance, she added, -'But you mustn't have her on your conscience, Henry.' - -'It isn't that----' - -'I'm fond of Corinne. But I can see now that you two would never get on -long together. In a queer way you're too much alike. At least, you -both have positive qualities. Corinne will some day find a nice little -husband who'll look after the business side of her concerts. And -you--well, Henry, you've got to have some one to mother you.' She smiled -at him thoughtfully. 'Some one you can make a lot of.' - -'No.' Henry's colour was up. He was shaking his head. 'You don't -understand. I'm through with girls. They're nothing in my life. -Nothing!' - -She slowly shook her head. 'That's absurd, Henry. You're particularly -the kind. You'll never be able to live without idealising some woman.' - -'I tell you they're nothing to me. My life is different now. I've -changed. I've put money--a lot of money--into the _Gleaner_. It means -big responsibilities. You've no idea----' - -'If I hadn't, seen you writing,' she mused aloud.... 'No, Henry. You -won't change. You'll grow, but you won't change. You're going to write, -Henry. And you'll always write straight at a woman.' - -'No! No!' Henry was sputtering. He appeared to be struggling. 'Life -means work to me. I'm through with----' - -She took down the _Tristan_ score from the piano and turned the pages in -her lap. - -'Love is the great vitaliser, Henry,' she said. - -'No--it's the mind. Thinking. We have to learn to think -clearly--objectively.' - -'Objectively? No. Not you. And I'm glad, in a way. Because I know we're -going to be proud of you. But it's love that makes the world go round. -They don't teach you that in the colleges, but it's the truth... Take -Wagner--and _Tristan_. He wrote it straight at a woman. And it's the -greatest opera ever written. And the greatest love story. It's that -because he was terribly in love when he wrote it. Do you Suppose, for -one minute that if Wagner had never seen Mathilde Wesendonck we should -have had _Tristan?_' - -She paused, pursed her lips, studied the book with eyes that seemed to -grow misty, then looked up at Humphrey. - -He--tall, angular, very sober--met her gaze; then his swarthy face -wrinkled up about the eyes and he hurriedly drew his cob pipe from his -pocket and began filling it. - -Henry stared at the rug; traced out the pattern with his stick. He -couldn't answer this last point, because he had never heard of Mathilde -Wesendonck. And as he was supposed to be 'musical' it seemed best to -keep quiet. - -He made an excuse of some sort and went out for a walk. Down by the lake -he thought of several strong arguments. Mildred was wrong. She had to be -wrong. For he had cut girls out. - -It was like Mildred to speak out in that curiously direct way. She was -fond of Henry. And she had divined, out of her various, probably rather -vivid contacts with life, certain half-truths that were not accepted in -Sunbury. - -I think she saw Henry pretty clearly, saw that he was driven by an -emotional dynamo that was to bring him suffering and success both.... -Mildred, of course, never really belonged in a small town. - -It was at the close of the following afternoon that Henry came in and -found Humphrey's long figure stretched out on the window-seat--he was -smoking, of course--of all things, blowing endless rings up at the -curtains Mildred had made and hung for him. His dark skin looked gray. -There were deep lines in his face. He couldn't speak at first. But he -stared at Henry. - -That young man put away hat and stick, had his coat off, and was rolling -back his shirt sleeves for a wash, humming the refrain of _Kentucky -Babe_. Then, through a slow moment, the queer silence about him, -Humphrey's attitude--that fact, for that matter, that Hump was here, -at all; he was a great hand to work until six or after at the _Voice_ -office--these things worked in on him like a premonition. The little -song died out. He went on, a few steps, toward the bathroom, then came -to a stop, turned toward the silent figure on the window-seat, came -slowly over. - -Now he saw his friend clearly. As he sank on the arm of a chair--it was -where he had sat the evening before--he caught his breath. - -'Wha--what is it?' he asked. His voice was suddenly husky. His mind -went blank. There was sensation among the roots of his hair. 'What's the -matter, Hump?' - -Finally Humphrey took out his pipe and spoke. His voice, too, was low -and uncertain. But he gathered control of it as he went on. - -'Where've you been?' he asked. - -'Me? Why, over at Rockwell Park. Bob McGibbon wanted me to see about a -regular correspondent for the "Rockwell Park Doings."' - -'Heard anything?' - -'Me? No. Why?... Hump, what is it? What you getting at?' - -'Then I've got to tell you.' He swung his feet around; sat up; emptied -his pipe, then filled it. - -'Is it--is it--about me, Hump?' - -'Yes. It is.' - -'Well--then--hadn't you better tell me?' - -'I'm trying to, Hen. It's dam' unpleasant. You remember--you told me -once--early in the summer--' Humphrey, usually most direct, was having -difficulty in getting it out--'you told me you rode a tandem up to -Hoffmann's Garden with that little Wilcox girl.' - -'Oh, that! That was nothing. Why all the time I lived at Mrs Wilcox's I -never----' - -'Yes, I know. Let me try to tell this, Hen. It's hard enough. She's in a -scrape. That girl. There's a big row on. I'm not going into the details, -so far as I've heard 'em. There ugly. They wouldn't help. But her -mother's collapsed. Her uncle and aunt have turned up and taken the girl -off somewhere. He's a butcher on the North Side.' Henry was pale but -attentive. - -'In all the time I lived there,' he began again... - -'Please, Hen! Wait! It is one of those mean scandals that tear up a town -like this every now and then. Boils up through the crust and has to be -noticed. It's a beastly thing. The number of men involved... some older -ones... and young Bancroft Widdicombe has left town. There's some queer -talk about her marrying him. And they say one or two others have run -away. Widdicombe got out before the storm broke. Jim Smith says he's -been heard from at San Francisco.' - -'But they can't say of me----' - -'Hen, they can and they do.' - -'But I can prove----' - -'What can you prove? What chance will you have to prove anything? -You were disturbed when Martha Caldwell and the party with Charles H. -Merchant caught you with her up at Hoffmann's----' - -'But, Hump, I didn't _want_ to take her out that night! And it's the -only time I ever really talked to her except once or twice in the -boarding-house.' - -He was speaking with less energy now. He felt the blow. Not as he would -feel it a few hours later; but he felt it. - -Humphrey watched him. - -'It has brought things home to me,' he said uncertainly. 'The sort of -thing that can happen. When you're caught in a drift, you don't think, -of course... Now, Hen, listen! This is real trouble. It's going to hit -you about to-morrow--full force. It's got to be faced. I don't want to -think that you'd run----' - -'Oh, no,' Henry put in mechanically, 'I won't run.' - -'I'm sure you won't. But it's got to be faced. You're hit especially.' - -'But why, when I----' - -'Because you lived alone there, in the boarding-house, for two years. -And you were caught with her at Hoffmann's, she in bloomers, drinking -beer. Just a cheap little tough. And there isn't a thing you can do but -live it down. Nobody will say a direct word to you.' - -'That's what I'll do,' said Henry, 'live it down.' - -'It'll be hard, Hen.' - -Henry sighed. 'I've faced hard things, Hump.' - -'Yes, you have, in a way.' - -'I'll wash up. Where we going to eat? Stanley's?' - -'I suppose. I don't feel like eating much.' - -It was not until they had started out that Henry gave signs of a deeper -reaction. - -On the outer doorstep he stood motionless. - -'Coming along?' asked Humphrey, trying to hide his anxiety. - -'Why--yes. In a minute... Say, Hump, do you suppose they'll--you know, I -ain't afraid'--an uprush of feeling coloured his voice, brought a shake -to it--'I don't know. Perhaps I _am_ afraid. All those people--you know, -at Stanley's...' - -Humphrey did an unusual thing; laid his hand on Henry's shoulder -affectionately; then took his arm and led him along the alley, saying:-- - -'We'll go down to the lunch counter. It's just as well, Hen. Better get -sure of yourself first.' - -He wondered, as they walked rapidly on--Henry had a tendency to walk -fast and faster when brooding or excited--whether the boy would ever get -sure of himself. There were queer, bitter, profoundly confusing thoughts -in his own mind, and an emotional tension, but back of all this, coming -through it and softening him, his feeling for Henry. It was something -of an elder brother's feeling, I think. Henry seemed very young. It was -wicked that he had to suffer with all those cynical older men. It might -mark the boy for life. Such things happened. - -He decided to watch him closely. Sooner or later the thing would hit him -full. He would have to be protected then. Even from himself, perhaps. -In a way it oughtn't to be worse for him than it had been after the -Hoffmann's Garden incident. - -But it was worse. The other had been, after all, no more than an -incident. This, now, was an overpowering fact. The town didn't have -to notice the other. And despite the gossiping instinct, your small -community is rather glad to edge away from unpleasant surmises that are -not established facts. Facts are so uncompromising. And so disrupting. -And sometimes upsetting to standardised thought. - -'That's it,' thought Humphrey--he was reduced to thought Henry was -striding on in white silence--'it's a fact. They can't evade it. Only -thing they can do, if they're to keep comfortable about their dam' town, -is to kill everybody connected with the mess. Have to revise party and -dinner lists. And it'll raise Ned with the golf tournament. They'll -resent all that. And they'll have to show outsiders that the thing is an -amazing exception. Nothing else going on like it. They'll have to show -that.' - - -3 - - -The next morning Henry--stiff, distrait, his eyes wandering a little now -and then and his sensitive mouth twitching nervously--breakfasted with -Humphrey at Stanley's. - -People--some people--spoke to him. But he winced at every greeting. -Humphrey watched him narrowly. He was ablaze with self-consciousness. -But he held his head up pretty well. - -He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he -hadn't mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn't mention -it. He spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis -Stevenson, for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley's. And -then he brought up Bob McGibbon's theory that even with a country -weekly, if you made your paper interesting enough you would get readers -and the readers would bring the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought -it would work out. 'It's important to me, you know, Hump. I've got a -cool thousand up on the _Gleaner_. It's like betting on Bob McGibbon's -idea to win.' His voice trembled a little. There were volcanoes of -feeling stirring within the boy. He would erupt of course, sooner or -later. Humphrey found the experience moving to the point of pain. - -When he entered the _Gleaner_ office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him -anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought. - -He found occasion to say, later:-- - -'Henry, how are you taking this thing?' - -Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with -an expressive gesture and raised his eyes. - -'Oh,' he said, 'all right. I--it's not true, Bob. Not about me.' - -'That's just what I tell 'em,' said McGibbon eagerly. 'What you going to -do? Go right on?' - -'Well--why, yes! I can't run away.' - -'Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all -round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you -might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the -paper. That's what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little -pictures of life-like George Ade's stuff in the _Record_. Or a bit of -the 'Gene Field touch. Something they'd have to read. Make the _Gleaner_ -known. Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That's what we really -need from you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception -to-night at the Jenkins'. Anybody can cover that. I'll go myself.' - -Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head. - -'No,' said he, after a pause, 'I'll cover it.' - -McGibbon considered this, then moved irresolutely back to his desk. -Here, for a time, he sat, with knit brows, and stabbed at flies with his -pen. - -It would be walking into the lion's den, that was all. He wished he -could think of a way to hold the boy back. There were complications. -The _Gleaner_, just, lately, had been going pretty violently after what -McGibbon called the 'Old Cinch.' Without quite enough evidence, they -were now virtually accusing Waterhouse of embezzlement, and the others -of connivance. Mr Weston was among the most respected in Sunbury, rich, -solid, a supporter of all good things'. Though Boice and Waterhouse were -unknown to local society, the Westons were intimate with the Jenkinses -and their crowd. They all regarded the _Gleaner_ as a scurrilous, -libellous sheet, and McGibbon himself as an intruder in the village -life. And there was another trouble; very recent. He couldn't speak of -it with the boy in this state of mind. Not at the moment. He couldn't -see his way... And now, with the realest-scandal Sunbury had known in a -decade piled freshly on the paper's bad name. But he couldn't think of -a way to keep him from going. The boy was, in a way, his partner. There -were little delicacies between them. - -Henry went. - -The reception given by Mr and Mrs Jenkins to Senator and Madame William -M. Watt, was the most important social event of the summer. - -The Jenkins's home, a square mansion of yellow brick, blazed with light -at every window. Japanese lanterns were festooned from tree to tree -about the lawn. An awning had been erected all the way from the front -steps to the horse block, and a man in livery stood out there assisting -the ladies from their carriages. It was felt by some, it was even -remarked in undertones, that the Jenkinses were spreading it on pretty -thick, even considering that it was the first really public appearance -of the Watts in Sunbury. - -The Senator was known principally as titular sponsor for the Watt -Currency Act, of fifteen years back... In those days his fame had -overspread the boundaries of his own eastern state clear to California -and the Mexican border. Older readers will recall that the Watt Bill -nearly split a nation in its day. After his defeat for re-election, in -the earlier nineties, he had slipped quietly into the obscurity in which -he regained until his rather surprising marriage with the very rich, -extremely vigorous American woman from abroad who called herself the -Comtesse de la Plaine. At the time of his disappearance from public life -various reasons had been dwelt on. One was drink. His complexion--the -part of it not covered by his white beard--might have been regarded as -corroborative evidence. But it was generally understood that he was 'all -right' now; a meek enough little man, well past seventy, with an air of -life-weariness and a suppressed cough that was rather disagreeable in -church. His slightly unkempt beard grew a little to one side, giving -his face a twisted appearance. On his occasional appearances about -the streets he was always chewing an unlighted cigar. To the growing -generation he was a mildly historic myth, like Thomas Buchanan or James -G. Blaine. - -Mrs Watt--who during her brief residence in Sunbury (they had bought the -Dexter Smith place, on Hazel Avenue, in May) had somehow attached firmly -to her present name the foreign-sounding prefix, 'Madame'--was a head -taller than her husband, with snappy black eyes, a strongly hooked nose -and an indomitable mouth. She was not beautiful, but was of commanding -presence. The fact that she had lived long in France naturally raised -questions. But there appeared to be no questioning either her earlier -title or her wealth. If she seemed to lack a few of the refinements of -a lady--it was whispered among the younger people that she swore at -her servants--still, a rich countess, married to the self-effacing -but indubitable author of the Watt Act, was, in the nature of things, -equipped to stir Sunbury to the depths. - -But the member of this interesting family with whom we are now concerned -was the Madame's niece, a girl of eighteen or nineteen who had been -reared, it was said, in a convent in France, then educated at a school -in the eastern states, and was now living with her aunt for the first -time. - -Her name fell oddly on ears accustomed to the Bessies, Marys, Fannies, -Marthas, Louises, Alices, and Graces of Sunbury. It was Cicely--Cicely -Hamlin. It was clearly an English name. It proved, at first, difficult -to pronounce, and led to joking among the younger set. The girl herself -was rather foreign in appearance. Distinctly French some said. She was -slimly pretty, with darkish hair and a quick, brisk, almost eager way -of speaking and smiling and bobbing her hair. She used her hands, too, -more than was common in Sunbury, a point for the adherents of the French -theory. The quality that perhaps most attracted young and old alike -was her sensitive responsiveness. Sometimes it was nearly timidity. She -would listen in her eager way; then talk, all vivacity--head and hands -moving, on the brink of a smile-every moment--then seem suddenly to -recede a little, as if fearful that she had perhaps said too much, as -if a delicate courtesy demanded that she be merely the attentive, kindly -listener. She could play and be merry with the younger crowd. But she -had read books that few of them had ever heard of. Plainly--though -nothing so complex was plain to Henry at this period--she was a girl of -delicate nervous organisation, strung a little tightly; a girl who could -be stirred to almost naïve enthusiasms and who could perhaps be cruelly -hurt. - -Henry had seen her--once on the hotel veranda talking brightly with Mary -Ames, who seemed almost stodgy beside her, once on the Chicago train, -once or twice driving with Elberforce Jenkins in his high cart. The -sight of her had stirred him. Already he had had to fight thoughts of -her--tantalisingly indistinct mental visions--during the late night -hours between staring wakefulness and sleep. And it was impossible -wholly to escape bitterness over the thought that he hadn't met her. -He oughtn't to care. He couldn't admit to himself that it mattered. A -couple of years back, in his big days, they would have met all right. -First thing. Everybody would have seen to it. They would have told her -about him. Now... oh well! - -He stood in the shadow, out by the carriage entrance, pulling at his -moustache. There had been a sort of rushing of the spirit, almost a -fervour, in his first determination to face the town bravely. Now for -the first time he began to see that the thing couldn't be rushed at. -It might take years to build up a new good name--years of slights -and sneers, of dull hours and slack nerves. For Henry did know that -emotional climaxes pass. - -He chose a time, between carriages, when the sheltered walk was empty, -to move up toward the house. Everybody here was dressed up--'Wearing -everything they've got!' he muttered. He himself had on his blue suit -and straw hat and carried his bamboo stick. A thick wad of copy paper -protruded from a side pocket. A vest pocket bulged with newly sharpened -pencils. It had seemed best not to dress. He wasn't a guest; just the -representative of a country weekly. - -By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in -the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly -cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to -many chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there, -doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair -in his heart, that he couldn't mount those steps. Nearly everybody there -would know him. He couldn't do it. - -He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the -Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward -the steps. A third joined them; a girl. - -'Here,' said this girl--Mary Ames's voice--'you two wait here. I'll find -her.' - -Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very -white, curiously breathless. - -The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip -away. New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He -stepped off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking. - -The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred -Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn't -know what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, -shifting his feet. - -Henry thought: 'Has he heard yet? Does he know?... Does _she_ know?' - -Then Alfred's wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief. - -'Oh, hallo. Hen;' he said. Then, after a long silence, 'Like you to meet -Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.' - -Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl's name first or -the man's. - -But he hadn't heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, -it would be almost better... - -Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name. - -He had to step forward too. - -In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way. - -In responsive confusion she raised hers. - -But his had dropped. - -Hers moved downward as his came up again. - -She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly. - -He took it. He didn't know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous -clasp. - -'I've heard of you,' she said. He liked her voice. 'You write, don't -you?' - -'Oh yes,' said he huskily, 'I write some.' - -She didn't know. - -He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the -old days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging. - -Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers. - -'Do you write stories?' she asked politely. - -'I try to, sometimes. It's awfully hard.' - -'Oh yes, I know.' - -'Do _you_ write?' - -'Why--oh no! But I've wished I could. I've tried a little.' - -So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the -weather. It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. -He saw, felt, the presence of a girl unlike any he had known--slimly -pretty, alive with a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, -and felt, a white tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy -fire in them. - -Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the -sight of them, Alfred drifted away again. - -'Perhaps,' she added shyly, 'you'd bring some of your stories.' - -'I haven't anything I could bring,' he replied, still with that burning -look. 'Nothing 'that's any good. If I had...' Then this blazed from him -in a low shaky voice: 'You haven't heard what they're saying about me. I -can see that. If you had you wouldn't ask me to call.' - -'Oh, I'm sure I would,' she murmured, greatly confused. - -'You wouldn't. You really couldn't. But I want to say this--quick, -before they come!'--for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway--'I've _got_ -to say it! They'll tell you something about me. Something dreadful. It -isn't true. It--is--not true!' - -'She isn't in there,' said Mary, joining them. Then 'Oh!' She looked -at Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, 'How do you do!' in a -voice that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, -ignoring him: 'We'd better tell them.' And moved a step toward the group -under the lanterns. - -Cicely hesitated. - -It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry -couldn't speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain. - -Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back. - -The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way. - -Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins--tall, really good-looking in his -perfect-fitting evening clothes--stood before them. - -He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct. - -'All right,' said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, 'we'll go -without her. She won't mind.' - -Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a -little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness, -apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand. - -'Do come,' she said, with a quick little smile. 'And bring the stories. -I'm sure I'd like them.' - -She went with them, then. - -Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered -alone among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing -uncontrollably. - -It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, -wrote down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, -very fast, with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still -burning, down to the _Gleaner_ office. - - -5 - - -The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be -there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A. - -But there was a light in the windows of the _Gleaner_ office, over -Hemple's. - -McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand -sprawling through his straight ragged hair. - -Henry acknowledged his partner's greeting with a grunt; dropped down at -his own desk; plunged at the story. - -McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; -continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good -deal. - -'There,' said Henry, finally, with a grim look--'there's the reception -story.' - -'Oh, all right.' McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat -on the edge of the table beside Henry's desk. - -'Haven't got some good filler stuff?' he queried wearily, brushing a -hand across his forehead. 'We're going to have a lot of extra space this -week.' - -He watched Henry, to see if this remark had an effect. It had none. He -nibbed his hand slowly back and forth across his forehead. - -'The fact is,' he remarked, 'they've landed on us. Pretty hard. The -advertisers. Just about all Simpson Street. It's a sort of boycott, -apparently. Takes out two-thirds of our advertising. And Weston called -my note--that two hundred and forty-eight--for paper. Simply charged it -up against our account. Pretty dam' high-handed, I call it!' - -His voice was rising. He sprang up, paced the floor. - -'They're showing fight,' he ran on. 'We've got to lick 'em. That's my -way--start at the drop of the hat. What's a little advertising! Get -readers--that's the real trick of it. We'll lick 'em with circulation, -that's what we'll do!' - -He stood over Henry's desk; even pounded it. The boy didn't seem to get -it, even now. He was hardly listening. With his own money at stake. But -McGibbon was finding him like that; queer gaps on the practical side. No -money sense whatever! - -'Henry,' he was crying now, 'it's up to you. You're a genius. It's sheer -waste to use you on fool receptions. _Write_, man! WRITE! Let yourself -go. Anything--sketches, verse, stories! Let's give 'em what they don't -look for in a country paper. Like the old Burlington _Hawkeye_ and that -fellow Brann. And the paper in Lahore that nobody would ever have heard -of if Kipling hadn't written prose and verse to fill in, here and there. -He was a kid, too. There's always, somewhere, a little paper that's -famous because a man can _write_. Why shouldn't it be us! Us! Right up -here over the meat-market. Why, we can make the little old _Gleaner_ -known from coast to coast. We can put Sunbury on the map. Just with your -pen, my boy! With your pen! And then where'll old Weston be! Where'll -these little two-bit advertisers be!' - -He spread his thin hands in a gesture of triumph. Henry looked up now; -slowly pushed back his chair; said, in a weak voice, 'I'm tired. Guess -I'd better get along;' and walked out. - -McGibbon stared after him, his mouth literally open. - - -6 - - -Back of the old Parmenter place the barn was dark. Henry felt relief. -He was tingling with excitement. He couldn't move slowly. His fists were -clenched. Every nerve in his body was strung tight. - -He was thinking hopelessly, 'I must relax.' - -He crept through the dim shop, among Humphrey's lathes, belts, benches -of tools, big kites and rows of steel wheels mounted in frames. There -were large planes, too, parts of the gliders Humphrey had been puttering -with for a long time. Three years, he had once said. - -Henry lingered on the stairs and looked about the ghostly rooms. Beams -of moonlight came in through the windows and touched this and that -machine. He felt himself attuned to all the trouble, the disaster, in -the universe. Life was a tragic disappointment. Nothing ever came right. -People didn't succeed; they struggled and struggled to breast a mighty, -tireless current that swept them ever backward. - -Poor old Hump! He had put money into this shop. All the little he had; -or nearly all. And into the technical library that lined his bedroom -walls upstairs. His daily work at the _Voice_ office was just a grind, -to keep body and soul together while the experiments were working out. -Hump was patient. - -'Until I moved in here,' Henry thought, with a disturbingly passive -sort of' bitterness, 'and brought girls and things. He doesn't have his -nights and Sundays for work any more. Hump could do big things, too.' - -He went on up the stairs and switched on the lights in the living-room. - -He caught sight of his face in a mirror. It was white. - -There was a look of strain about the eyes. The little moustache, turned -up at the ends, mocked him. - -'I'll shave it off,' he said aloud. - -He even got out his razor and began nervously stropping it. - -He was alarmed to discover that his control of his hands was none too -good. They moved more quickly than he meant them to, and in jerks. - -Too, the notion of shaving his moustache struck him weakness, an impulse -to be resisted. Too much like retreating. Subtly like that. - -He put the razor back in its drawer. - -In the centre of the living-room rug, standing there, stiffly, he -said:-- - -'I'll face them. I'll go down fighting. They shan't say I surrendered.' - -He walked round and round the room. - -He had never in his life felt anything like this jerky nervousness. A -restlessness that wouldn't permit him so much as to sit down. - -While in the _Gleaner_ office he had hardly been aware of McGibbon. He -certainly hadn't listened to him. - -But now, like a blow, everything McGibbon had said came to him. Every -syllable. Suddenly he could see the man, towering ever him, pounding -his desk. Talking--talking--full of fresh hopes while the world crumbled -around him. More disaster! It was the buzzing song of the old globe as -it spun endlessly on its axis. Disaster!... The advertisers had at last -combined against the paper. Old Weston had called McGibbon's note. That -must have taken about the last of Henry's thousand. They were broke. - -His hand brushed his coat pocket. It bulged with copy paper. He must -have thrust it back there absently, at the office. - -He drew it out and gazed at it. - -It was curious; he seemed to see it as a printed page, with a title at -the top, and his name. He couldn't see what the title was. Yet it was -there, and it was good. - -His restlessness grew. Again he walked round and round the room. There -was a glow in his breast. Something that burned and fired his nerves and -drove him as one is driven in a dream. Either he must rush outdoors and -wander at a feverish pace around the town and up the lake shore--walk -all night--or he must sit down and write. - -He sat down. Picked up an atlas of Humphrey's and wrote on his lap. And -he wrote, from the beginning, as he would have walked had he gone out, -in a fever of energy, gripping the pencil tightly, holding his knees up -a little, heels off the floor. The colour reappeared about his forehead -and temples, then on his cheeks. - -When Humphrey came in, after midnight, he was in just this posture, -writing at a desperate rate. The floor all about him was strewn with -sheets of paper. One or two had drifted off to the centre of the -room. He didn't hear his friend come up the stairs.' When he saw him, -standing, looking down, something puzzled, he cried out excitedly':-- - -'Don't Hump!' - -Humphrey resisted the impulse to reply with a 'Don't what?' - -'Go on! Don't disturb me!' - -'You seem to be hitting it up.' - -'I am. I can't talk! Please--go away! Go to bed. You'll make me lose -it!' - -Humphrey obeyed. - -Later--well along in the night--he awoke. - -There was a crack of light about his door. He turned on his own light. -It was quarter to three. - -'Here!' he called. 'What on earth are you up to, Hen?' A chair scraped. -Then Henry came to the door and burst it open. His coat was off now, -and his vest open. He had unbuttoned his collar in front so that the -two ends and the ends of his tie hung down. His hair was straggling down -over his forehead. - -'Do you know what time it is, Hen?' - -'No. Say--listen to this! Just a few sentences. You liked the piece I -did about the Business Men's Picnic, remember. Well, this has sorta -grown out of it. It's just the plain folks along Simpson Street. Say! -There's a title for the book.' - -'For the what!' - -'The book. Oh, there'll be a lot of them. Sorta sketches. Or maybe -they're stories. I can't tell yet. Plain folks of Simpson Street. Yes, -that's good. Wait a second, while I write it down. The thing struck me -all at once--to-night!--Queer, isn't it!--thinking about the folks -along the street--Bill Hemple, and Jim Smith in your press room with -the tattooed arms, and old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse, and the way Bob -McGibbon blew into town with a big dream, and the barber shop--Schultz -and Schwartz's--and Donovan's soda fountain, and Izzy Bloom and the -trouble about his boys in the high school, and all his fires, and Mr -Draine, the Y.M.C.A. secretary that's been in the British Mounted Police -in Mashonaland--think of it! In Africa--and----' - -'Would you mind'--Humphrey was on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes--'would -you mind talking a little more slowly. Good lord! I can't----' - -'All right, Hump. Only I'm excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me -that there's as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in -Kipling's Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people's lives go. And -what old Berger's really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables -were picked yesterday.' - -Humphrey gazed--wider awake now--at the wild figure before him. And a -thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed. - -'How much have you done?' he asked soberly. - -'Most finished this first one. It's about old Boice and Charlie -Waterhouse and Mr Weston----' - -'Gee!' said Humphrey. - -'I call it, _The Caliph of Simpson Street_.' - -'Well--see here, you're going to bed, aren't you?' - -'Oh, yes. But listen.' And he began reading aloud. - -Humphrey waved his arms. - -'No, no! For heaven's sake, go to bed, Hen!' - -'Well, but--oh, say! Just thought of something!' And he went out, -chuckling. - -Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that -was not altogether of the sun. - -The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a -dream. - -He sprang out of bed. - -There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay -like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying. - -He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning, -apparently out of sheer happiness. - -'Say,' he cried, 'listen to this! It's one I call, _The Cauliflowers -of the Caliph_. Oh, by the way, I've changed the title of the book to -_Satraps of the Simple_. - -'The whole book'll be sort of imaginary, like that. It's queer. Just as -if it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. -Only everything I ever knew's going into it. Things I'd forgotten.' - -'Hen,' said Humphrey, 'are you stark mad?' - -'Me? Why--why no, Hump!' The grin was a thought sheepish now. -'But--well, Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.' - -'How many stories have you written already?' - -'Just three.' - -'_Three!_ In one night!' - -'But they're short, Hump. I don't believe-they average over two or three -thousand words. I think they're good. You know, just the way they made -me feel. Funny idea--Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.' - -'One thing's certain, Hen. You're an extremely surprising youth, but -right here's where you quit. I don't propose to have a roaring maniac -here in the rooms. On my hands.' - -'Oh, Hump, I can't quit now! You don't understand. It's wonderful. It -just comes. Like taking dictation.' - -'Dictation is what you're going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up -your clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We'll go out for -some breakfast.' - -'Not now, Hump! Wait--I promise I'll go out a little later.' - -'You'll go now. Get up.' - -Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again. - -'Gosh!' he murmured. - -'Stiff, eh?' - -'I should smile. And sorta weak.' - -'No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast -you'll go straight to bed.' - -'Hump, I can't.' - -This, apparently, was the truth. He couldn't. - -He stopped in at Jackson's Book Store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and -bought paper and pencils: Then, in a thrill of fresh importance, he -bought penholders, large desk blotters, a flannel pen-wiper with a -bronze dog seated in the centre, a cut-glass inkstand, a ruler, half -a dozen pads of a better paper, a partly abridged dictionary, Roget's -_Thesaurus_, (for years he had casually wondered what a Thesaurus was), -a round glass paperweight with a gay butterfly imprisoned within, four -boxes of wire clips, assorted sizes, and, because he saw it, Crabb's -_Synonyms_. Then he saw an old copy of _The Thousand and One Nights_ and -bought that. - -It seemed to him that he ought to be equipped for his work. Before he -went out he asked the prices of the better makes of typewriters. - -And for the first time in two years, he uttered the magic but too often -fatal words:-- - -'Just charge it, if you don't mind.' - - -7 - - -He was back at the rooms by nine-fifteen. Before the university clock -boomed out the hour of noon, he had written that elusive, extraordinary -little classic, _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, and had jotted down suggestive -notes for the story that was later to be known as _The Printer and the -Pearls_. - -By this time all thoughts of civic reform had faded out. Charlie -Waterhouse, now that _The Caliph of Simpson Street_ was done and, in -a surface sense, forgotten, no longer appeared to him as a crook who -should be ousted from the local political triumvirate and from town -office; he was but a bit of ore in the rich lode of human material -with which Henry's fancy was playing. The important fact about the new -Waterhouse store-and-office building in South Sunbury, was not that -there was reason to believe Charlie had built it with town money but -that he had put a medallion bas-relief of himself in terra cotta in the -front wall. - -Charlie figured, though, unquestionably, in _Sinbad the Treasurer_. - -At noon, deciding that he would stroll out after a little and eat a -bite, Henry stretched out on the lounge. Here he dozed, very lightly for -an hour or two. - -Humphrey stole in, found him tossing there, fully dressed, mumbling in -his sleep, and stole out. - -But early in the afternoon Henry leaped up. His brain, or his emotions, -or whatever the source of his ideas, was a glowing, boiling, seething -crater of tantalising, obscurely associated concepts and scraps of -characterisation and queerly vivid, half-glimpsed dramatic moments, -situations, contrasts. They amounted to a force that dragged him on. The -thought that some bit might escape before he could catch it and get it -written down kept his pulse racing. - -At about half-past four he finished that curious fantasy, _Roc's Eggs, -Strictly Fresh_. - -This accomplishment brought a respite. He could see his book clearly -now. The cover, the title page and particularly the final sentence. -He knew that the concluding story was to be called _The Old Man of the -Street_. He printed out this title; printed, too, several titles of -others yet to be written--_Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen_ and -_Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and one or two more. - -His next performance I find particularly interesting in retrospect. -During the long two years of his extreme self-suppression in the vital -matters of candy, girls, and charge-accounts, Henry had firmly refused -to sing. Without a murmur he had foregone the four or five dollars -a Sunday he could easily have picked up in church quartet work, the -occasional sums from substituting in this or that male quartet and -singing at funerals. It was even more extraordinary that he should -have given up, as he did, his old habit of singing to girls. The only -explanation he had ever offered of this curious stand was the rather -obscure one he gave Humphrey that singing was 'too physical.' Whatever -the real complex of motives, it had been a rather violent, or at least a -complete reaction. - -But now he strode about the room, chin up, chest expanded, brows -puckered, roaring out scales and other vocalisings in his best voice. -The results naturally were somewhat disappointing, after the long -silence, but he kept at it. - -He was still roaring, half an hour later, when McGibbon came anxiously -in. - -'Saw Humphrey Weaver down-town,' said the editor of the _Gleaner_, 'and -he said I'd better look you up.' - -An hour later McGibbon--red spots in his cheeks, a nervous glitter -in his eyes--hurried down to the _Gleaner_ office with the pencilled -manuscripts of four of the 'Caliph' stories. He was hurrying because -it seemed to him highly important to get them into type. For one thing, -something might happen to them--fire, anything. For another, it might -occur to Henry to sell them to an eastern magazine. - -When Humphrey came in, just before six, Henry was already well into -_Scheherazade in a Livery Stable_, and was chuckling out loud as he -wrote. - -Friday night was press night at the _Gleaner_ office. Henry strolled -in about ten o'clock and carelessly dropped a thick roll of script on -McGibbon's desk. - -That jaded editor leaned back, ran thin fingers through his tousled -hair, and wearily looked over the dishevelled, yawning, exhausted, -grinning youth before him. Never in his life had he seen an expression -of such utter happiness on a human face. - -'How many stories is this?' he asked. - -'Ten.' - -'Good Lord! That's a whole book!' - -'No--hardly. I've thought of some more. There'll be fifteen or twenty -altogether. I just thought of one, coming over here. Think I'll call it. -_The Story of the Man from Jerusalem_. It's about the life of a little -Jew storekeeper in a town like this. Struck me all of a sudden--you -know, how he must feel. I don't think I'll write it to-night--just make -a few notes so it won't get away from me.' - -Bob McGibbon rose up, put on coat and hat, took, Henry firmly by the -arm, and marched him, protesting, home. - -'Now,' he said, 'you go to bed.' - -'Sure, Bob! What's the matter with you! I'm just going to jot down a few -notes------' - -'You're going to bed!' said McGibbon. - -And he stood there, earnest, even grim, until Henry was undressed and -stretched out peacefully asleep.' - -Henry slept until nearly three o'clock Saturday afternoon. - - -8 - - -Senator Watt laid down the _Gleaner_, took off his glasses, removed an -unlighted cigar from his mouth, and said, in his low, slightly husky -voice:-- - -'A really remarkable piece of work. Quite worthy of Kipling.' The -nineties, as we have already remarked, belong to Kipling. Outright. He -had to be mentioned. 'It is fresh, vivid, and remarkably condensed. The -author produces his effects with a sure swift stroke of the brush.' - -The Senator rarely spoke. When he did it was always in these measured, -solid sentences, as if his words might be heard round the world and -therefore must be chosen with infinite care. After delivering himself -of this opinion he resumed his 'dry smoke' and reached for the _Evening -Post_, which lay folded back to the financial page. - -'I was sure you would think so,' said Cicely Hamlin, glancing first at -the Senator then at her aunt. 'I wish you would read it, Aunt Eleanor.' - -'Hm!' remarked that formidable person, planting her own gold-rimmed -glasses firmly astride her rugged nose just above the point where it -bent sharply downward, picking up the paper, then lowering it to gaze -with a hint of habitual, impersonal severity at her niece. - -'Even so,' she said. 'Suppose the young man has gifts. That will hardly -make it necessary for you to cultivate him. I gather he's a bad lot.' - -'I have no intention of cultivating him,' replied Cicely, moving toward -the door, but pausing by the mantel to pat her dark ample hair into -place. She wore it low on her shapely neck. Cicely was wearing a -simple-appearing, far from inexpensive blue frock. - -Madame Watt read the opening sentence of _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, -then lowered the paper again. - -'Are you going out, Cicely?' - -'No, I expect company here.' - -'Who is coming?' - -The girl compressed her lips for an instant, then:-- - -'Elberforce Jenkins.' - -'Hm!' said Madame, and raised the paper. - -An electric bell rang. - -Cicely came back into the room; stood by a large bowl of roses; -considered them. - -The butler passed through the wide hall. A voice sounded in the -distance. The butler appeared. - -'Mr Henry Calverly calling,' he said. - -Madame Watt raised her head so abruptly that her glasses fell, brought -up with a jerk at the end of a thin gold chain, and swung there. - -Cicely stood motionless by the roses. - -The Senator glanced up, then shifted his cigar and resumed his study of -the financial page. - -'You will hardly----' began Madame. - -'Show him into the drawing-room,' said Cicely with dignity. - -The butler wavered. - -Then, as if to settle all such small difficulties, Henry himself -appeared behind him, smiling naively, eagerly. - -Cicely hurried forward. Her quick smile came, and the little bob of her -head. - -'How do you do?' she said brightly. 'Mr Calverly--my aunt, Madame Watt! -And my uncle, Senator Watt!' - -Madame Watt arose, deliberately, not without a solid sort of majesty. -She was a presence; no other such ever appeared in Sunbury. She fixed an -uncompromising gaze on Henry. - -So uncompromising was it that Cicely covered her embarrassment by moving -hurriedly toward the drawingroom, with a quick:-- - -'Come right in here.' - -There was no one living on this erratic earth who could have cowed Henry -on this Saturday evening. A week later, yes. But not to-night. He never -even suspected that Madame meant to cow him. In such moments as these -(and there were a good many of them in his life) Henry was incapable of -perceiving hostility toward himself. The disaster that on Tuesday had -seemed the end of the world was to-night a hazy memory of another epoch. -There were few grown or half-grown persons in Sunbury that were not -thinking on this evening of the meanest scandal in the known history of -the town and, incidentally, among others involved, of Henry Calverly; -but Henry himself was of those few. - -He marched straight on Madame with cordial smile and outstretched hand. -He wrung the hand of the impassive Senator. - -That worthy said, now:-- - -'I have just read this first of your new series of sketches. Allow me to -tell you that I think it admirable. In the briefest possible compass -you have pictured a whole community in its petty relationships, at once -tragic and comic. There is caustic satire in this sketch, yet I -find deep human sympathy as well. It is a pleasure to make your -acquaintance.' - -When, after a rather amazing outpouring of words--the thing didn't -amount to much; just a rough draft really; he hoped they'd like the next -one; it was about cauliflowers--he had disappeared into the front room, -the Senator remarked:-- - -'The young man makes an excellent impression.' - -'The young man,' remarked Madame, 'is all right.' - -Half an hour later the noise of the front door opening, and a voice, -caused the two young people to start up out of a breathless absorption -in the story called _A Kerbstone Barmecide_, which Henry was reading -from long strips of galley proof. He had already finished _The -Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. - -For a moment Cicely's face went blank. - -The butler announced:-- - -'Mr Jenkins calling, Miss Cicely.' - -The one who was not equal to the situation was Elbow. He stood in the -doorway, staring. - -Cicely was only a moment late with her smile. - -Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and -folded up the long strips of galley proof. - -Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely's hand. But his small -talk had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry's nod. Cicely, -nervously active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a -Country Club dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses. - -Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce -when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and -very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden -little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by -nothing at all--first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow. - -Henry sat still. - -Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long -moment each held the gaze. It was war. - -Cicely said now, greatly confused:-- - -'I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.' - -There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight -to the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, -and plunged into that old song of Samuel's Lover's that has quaint charm -when delivered with spirit and humour, _Kitty of Coleraine_. - -After which he sang, _Rory O'More_. He had spirit and humour aplenty -to-night. - -The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for _The Low-Back -Car_. - -Elbow left. - -'Why did you tell me you hadn't any stories you could bring?' Cicely -asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. - -'It was so. I didn't.' - -'You had these.' - -'No. I didn't. That's just it!' - -'But you don't mean----' - -'Yes! Just since I met you!' - -'Ten stories, you said. It seems--I can't----' - -'But it's true. Three days. And nights, of course. I've been so -excited!' - -'I never heard of such a thing! Though, of course, Stevenson wrote _Dr -Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ in three days. But ten different stories.'... She -sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, very thoughtful, flatteringly -thoughtful. 'It sounds a little like magic.' - -She was delicately pretty, sitting so still in her big chair. - -'I wrote them straight at you,' he said, low, earnest. 'Every word.' - -Even Henry caught the extreme emphasis of this, and hurried to -elaborate. - -'You see I was just sick Tuesday night. Everything had gone wrong with -me. And then that horrible story that wasn't true. I knew I shouldn't -have spoken of it to you, but--well, it was just driving me crazy, and I -couldn't bear to think you might despise me like the others without -ever knowing the truth. And... You see I must have felt the inspiration -you... Even then, I mean...' - -He was red. He seemed to be getting himself out of breath. And he was -tugging at the roll of proofs in his pocket. - -'Shall I--finish--this?' - -'Oh, _yes!_' She sank into a great leather chair; looked up at him with -glowing eyes. 'I want you to read me all of them. Please!' - -She said it almost shyly. - -Henry drew up a chair, found his place, and read on. And on. And on. - -It was victory. - - - - -VII--THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION - - -1 - - -|There is nothing more unsettling than a sudden uncalculated, -incalculable success. It at once thrills, depresses, confuses. People -attack with the most unexpected venom. Others, the most unexpected -others, defend with vehemence, One feels queerly out of it, yet -forlornly conspicuous. As if it were some one else, or a dream. Innocent -effort dragged to the public arena, quarrelled over, misunderstood. One -boasts and apologises in a breath; dreads the thing will keep up and -fears it will stop; finds one day it has stopped and ever after thinks -back in sentimental retrospect to the good old days, the great days, -when one did stir them up a bit. - -Henry awoke on this Saturday morning to a sense of trouble that hung -heavily over him during the walk with Humphrey from the rooms to -Stanley's. Nothing of the stir reached them here. They were so late that -the restaurant was about empty. Humphrey did hear a faint, distant voice -booming, but gave no particular thought to it at the moment. And the -Stanleys went quietly about their business as usual. Henry, indeed, was -deep in his personal concern. - -This found words over the oatmeal. He drew a rumpled paper from his -pocket and submitted it to his room mate. - -'Got this last night,' Henry explained moodily. - -Humphrey read the following pencilled communication:-- - -'Henry Calverly, can't you see that your attentions are making it hard -for a certain young lady? Do you want to injure her reputation along -with yours? Why don't you do the decent thing and leave town! - -'_A Round Robin of People Who Know You_.' - -Humphrey pursed his lips over it. - -'It's the Mamie Wilcox trouble, of course,' he said finally. - -Henry nodded. His mouth drooped at the corners. There was a shine in his -eyes. - -Humphrey folded the paper; handed it back. - -'Do you know who did it?' - -Henry shook his head. 'They printed it out. Oh, I can make guesses, of -course. It's about Cicely Hamlin and me.' - -'You can't do anything.' - -'I know.' - -'And maybe you're going to be so successful that it won't matter. Laugh -at 'em.' - -'I don't believe that, Hump. I can't even imagine it.' - -'At that, it may be jealousy.' - -'I've thought of that. Even if it is...' they're partly right. I didn't -do what they think, but... Don't you see, Hump?' - -'Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.' - -'I've felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there -to call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.' His voice was -unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. 'I've stayed away all this -week. Just worked. You know. You've seen how I've kept at it. Until -Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was -out. And that's all. I've thought I--I've felt... Hump, do you believe -in love--you know--at first sight?' - -Humphrey's long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered. - -'I ought to,' he replied. 'In a way it was like that--with me.' - - -2 - - -The first of Henry's meaty, fantastic little stories of the plain folk -of the village, that one called _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, had -appeared in the _Gleaner_ of the preceding Saturday. It had made a -distinct stir. - -The second story was out on this the Saturday of our present narrative. -In the order of writing, and in Henry's plans, it should have been _The -Cauliflowers of the Caliph_. But Bob McGibbon, hanging wearily over the -form in the press room late Friday night, suddenly hit on the notion of -putting _Sinbad the Treasurer_ in its place. He had all but the last one -or two in type by that time. There were no mechanical difficulties; and -he didn't consult the author. He could hit Charlie Waterhouse harder -this way. _The Cauliflowers_ was quietly humorous; while _Sinbad the -Treasurer_ had a punch. That was how McGibbon put it to the foreman, -Jimmy Albers. The word 'punch' was fresh slang then. McGibbon himself -introduced it into Sunbury. - -Henry had Charlie and the town money in the back of his head, of course, -when he wrote _Sinbad_. Probably more than he himself knew. McGibbon -sniffed a sensation in the brief, vivid narrative. And a sensation of -some sort he had to have. It was now or never with McGibbon.... He was -able even to chuckle at the way Charlie would froth. He couldn't admit -that the coat fitted, of course. He would just have to froth. It was -Henry's _naïveté_ that made the thing so perfect. An older man wouldn't -have dared. Henry had just naturally rushed in. Yes, it was perfect. - -Bob McGibbon was a hustler. And his nervous quickness of perception had -brought him a few small successes and was to bring him larger ones. His -Sunbury disaster was perhaps later to be charged to education. - -The roots of that particular failure went deep. From first to last his -attitude was that of a New Yorker in a small town. He outraged every -local prejudice; he alienated, one by one, each friendly influence. -He couldn't understand that any such village as Sunbury resents the -outsider who insists on pointing out its little human failings. It was -recognised here and there as possible that old man Boice and Mr Weston -of the bank might be covering up something in the matter of the genial -town treasurer; but there was reason enough to believe that Mr Boice and -Mr Weston knew pretty well what they were about. That, at least, was -the rather equivocal position into which McGibbon by his very energy and -assertiveness, drove many a ruffled citizen. - -And it had needed very little urging on the part of the three leading -citizens (McGibbon had a trick of referring to them in his paper as 'the -Old Cinch') to bring about the boycott on the part of the Simpson Street -and South Sunbury advertisers. As Charlie Waterhouse himself put it:-- - -'It ain't what he says about me. I can stand it. Man to man I can attend -to him. The thing is, he's hurtin' the town. That's it--he's hurtin' the -town.' - - -3 - - -I have spoken of McGibbon's perception. He knew before reading three -paragraphs that Henry had a touch of genius. Before finishing _A -Kerbstone Barmecide_ he knew--knew with a mental grasp that was -pitifully wasted on the petty business of a country weekly--that nothing -comparable had appeared anywhere in the English-speaking world since -_Plain Tales from the Hills and Soldiers Three_. He knew, further, what -no Sunbury seems ever able to recognise, that it is your occasional -Henry who, as he mentally put it, 'rings the bell.' A queer young man, -slightly dudish in dress, unable to fit in any conventional job, -unable really to fall into step with his generation, blunderingly -but incorrigibly a non-conformist, a moodily earnest yet absurdly -susceptible young man, slightly self-conscious, known here and there -among those of his age as 'sarcastic,' brilliant occasionally, dogged -some of the time, dreamy and irresponsible the rest, yet with charm. A -youth who not infrequently was guilty of queer, rather unsocial acts; -not of meanness or unkindness, rather of an inability to feel with and -for others, to fit. A youth destined to work out his salvation, if at -all, alone. - -Yes, McGibbon read the signs shrewdly. For which Sunbury owes that -erratic editor a small debt that remains unpaid and unrecorded to-day. -No doubt that McGibbon brought him out. Encouraged him, spurred him, -held him to it. - -It was tradition in Sunbury that the two weekly papers should come -decorously into the world each Saturday morning for the first delivery -of mail. A small pile of each, toward noon was put on sale in Jackson's -book store (formerly B. F. Jones's). That was all. - -And that was why McGibbon was able, on this Saturday of our story, to -shake the town. - -Poor old Sunbury was shaken heavily and often that summer. First by the -Mamie Wilcox scandal. The sort of thing that didn't, couldn't happen. -Men leaving town, and all that. A miserable, hastily contrived marriage. -Henry's name dragged in, unjustly (as it happened), but convincingly. -Though Henry always worked best after some sort of a blow. He had to be -shaken out of himself. I think. It isn't likely that he could or would -have written _Satraps of the Simple_ if this particular blow hadn't -fallen. It was a feverish job. He was stung, quivering, helpless. And -then his great gift functioned. - -Then Madame Watt happened to Sunbury. And shook the village to its -roots. - -And then came Bob McGibbon's last and mightiest effort. - -When all commuting Sunbury converged on the old red brick 'depot' that -morning for the seven-eleven and the seven forty-six and the eight-three -and the eight-twenty-nine, hoarsely bellowing newsboys held the two ends -of the platform. They wore cotton caps with 'The Weekly Gleaner' printed -around the front. They were big, deep-throated roughs, the sort that -shout 'extras' through the cities. They crowded the local newsdealer, -little Mr Beamer, back into one of the waiting-rooms. - -They fairly intimidated the town. People bought the _Gleaner_ in -self-defence, even boarded trains and rode off to Chicago without their -regular _Tribune_ or _Record_ or _Inter Ocean_. - -Other newsmen roamed the shady, pleasant residence streets, bellowing. -Housewives, old gentlemen, servants, hurried out to buy. - -There were posters on the fences, and, along the billboards from -Rockwell Park on the south to Borea on the north. McGibbon actually -rented the space from the Northern Billboard Company. And there -were newsmen with caps, in the afternoon, attacking the North Shore -home-comers in the Chicago station, the very heart of things. All -this--posters screaming like the news-men; big wood type, red and -black--to advertise _Sinbad the Treasurer_ and the rest of the long -series and Henry Calverly. - -'Attack' is the word. McGibbon was assaulting the town and the region as -it had hardly been assaulted before. If it was his last, it was surely -his most outrageous act from the local point of view. People talked, -boiled, raged. The blatancy of the thing irritated them to the point of -impotent mutterings. They were helpless. McGibbon was breaking no laws. -He was stirring them, however feverish his condition of mind, with -deliberate intent. It was his notion of advertising. Reaching the -mark, regardless of obstacles, indifference, difficulties. And had -his personal circumstances been less harrowing he could have chuckled -happily at the result. - -The noise fell upon the ear drums of Charlie Waterhouse as he walked -down-town. A ragged, red-faced pirate thrust a _Gleaner_ into his hand, -snatched his nickel, and rushed off, bellowing. - -Charlie began reading _Sinbad the Treasurer_ as he walked. He finished -it standing on the turf by the sidewalk, ignoring passing acquaintances, -nervously biting and mouthing a cigar that had gone out. In the same -condition he read bits of it again. He stood for a while, wavering; then -went back home, and spoke roughly to Mrs Waterhouse when she asked him -why. He hid the paper from her, to no particular purpose. He didn't -appear at the town hall all day, but caught a trolley into Chicago and -went to a dime museum. Later in the day he was seen by two venturesome -youths sitting alone in the rear of a stage box at Sam T. Jack's. - -Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the -_Voice_ office. - -Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, -apparently buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it -all after leaving Henry at Stanley's door, and had prowled a bit, taking -it in. - -But Mr Boice simply made little sounds--'Hmm!' and 'mmp!' and 'Hmm!' -again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his -face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went -out. - -For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director's room at the -bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly -bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:-- - -'Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.' - -Thus Boice. 'We'd get the stories that way. Suppress 'em.' - -The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he -had suffered a week back in _The Caliph of Simpson Street_. Everybody -within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had -caught people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new -drawn head for the _Voice_, with the phrase 'And _The Weekly Gleaner_' -neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in -Sunbury anyway. - -Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What -harm's to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get -him then.' - -'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?' - -'There was one note. I called that some time ago.' - -'Wha'd he do?' - -'Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can't last. -Not without advertising.' - -'But he's selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he'll -begin to pick up a little along the street.' - -Mr Weston was still shaking his head. 'Better wait, Nort.' - -'No, I'll offer him a few hundred. The old _Gleaner_ plant's worth -something.' - -'Of course, there's no harm in that.' - -So Mr Boice crossed the street to Hemple's market and laboriously -lifted his great body up the stairway beside it to the quarters of the -_Gleaner_ upstairs, where a coatless, rumpled, rather wild-eyed -McGibbon listened to him and then, with suspiciously, alert and smiling -politeness, showed him out and down again. - - -4 - - -The sensation struck Henry, full face, in the barber shop, Schütz and -Schwartz's, whither he went from Stanley's. Professor Hennis, of the -English department at the university, met him at the door and insisted -on shaking hands. - -'These sketches of yours, Calverly--the two I have read--are remarkable. -There is a freshness of characterisation that suggests Chaucer to me. -Sunbury will live to be proud of you.' - -This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded. - -Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz--fat, exuberant--said, bending over -him:-- - -'Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?' And added, 'You've got 'em -excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse'll -punch your head before night. Says he'll have to. Can't sue very well.' - -It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing -that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He -watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene -at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up -window of Murphy's cigar store. - -Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with -the Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple's corner and up -the stairs. - -McGibbon sat alone in the front office--coat off, vest open, longish -hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes -strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs -stretched out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in -pockets. - -He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar. - -'Great days!' he remarked dryly. 'Gee!' Henry dropped into a chair, laid -his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. 'Gee! You do -know how to get'em going!' - -The cigar waved again. - -'Sure! Stir'em up! Soak it to'em! Only way.' - -'Everybody's buying it.' - -'Rather! You're a hit, son!' - -'Oh, I don't know's I'd say that.' - -'Rats! You're a knockout. Never been anything like it. Two months of it -and they'd be throwing your name around in Union Square, N.Y. If we only -had the two months.' He sighed. - -'Why!' Henry, all nerves, caught his expression. 'What's the matter?' - -'We're-out of paper.' - -'You mean to print on?' - -A nod. 'And we're out of money to buy more.' - -'But with this big sale--' - -'Costing four 'n' one-half times what we take in.' - -'But I don't see----' - -'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money -in--whip up your sales--drive, drive, _drive!_ After a while it goes of -itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're rich. That's the -way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, and vision! Why, -I know stories of the early days of--look here, what we need is money. -Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If we can't get it, -and get it quick, well'--he reached deliberately forward, picked up a -copy of the _Gleaner_ and waved it high--'that--that, my son, is the -last copy of the _Gleaner!_' - -Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face. - -'But my stories!' he cried. - -'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we -doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.' - -'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in -Henry's voice. - -McGibbon shook his head. - -'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're -helpless. We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You -hold my note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the -plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just -now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it--five hundred for our -plant, the big press and everything.' - -'Wha--wha'd you say?' - -'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. -Never. Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your -uncle----' - -Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far -beyond the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on -the edge of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples -drumming, a flush spreading down over his cheeks. - -But even in this condition, thoughts came. - -One of these--or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a -sort of instinct--was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch -of guilty discomfort--hostility came hard, with Henry--yet it was -distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his -wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do. - -'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!' - -McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a -bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense -gestures. - -'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through--broke!' He -glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No -pay-roll--nothing! Nothing for the boys out there--or me--or you. I've -been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.' - -'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache--'for -me?' - -'Not a cent.' - -'But--but----' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was about forty -cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was considerable. - -'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold -of that fact? Even a hundred--the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If -I could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our -paper stock in time.' - -Henry heard his own voice saying:-- - -'But don't business men borrow----' - -'Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn't lend me the rope to hang myself -with... Hold on there, Hen--' - -For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the -door. And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:-- - -'No... No!' - -He said it on the stairs, where none could hear. He rushed around the -corner, around the block. Anything to keep off Simpson Street. He had -a really rather desperate struggle to keep from talking his heart -out--aloud--in the street--angrily--attacking Boice, Weston, and -McGibbon in the same breath. His feeling against McGibbon amounted -to bitterness now. But his feeling against old Boice had risen to the -borders of rage. He thought of that silent, ponderous old man, sitting -at his desk in the post-office, like a spider weaving his subtle web -about the town, where helpless little human flies crawled innocently -about their uninspired daily tasks. - -So Mr Boice had offered five hundred for plant, good will, and the -stories! - -No mere legal, technical claim on those stories as property, as assets, -held the slightest interest for Henry. He couldn't understand that. -They were his. He had created them, made them out of nothing--just a -few one-cent lead pencils and a lot of copy paper. Bob had snatched them -away to print them in the _Gleaner_. But they weren't Bob's. - -'They're mine!' he said aloud. 'They're mine! Old Boice shan't have -them! Never!' He caught himself then; looked about sharply, all hot -emotion and tingling nerves. - - -5 - - -A little later--it was getting on toward noon--he found himself on -Filbert Avenue approaching Simpson Street. Without plan or guidance, he -was heading northward, toward the rooms. It would be necessary to cross -Simpson Street. He was fighting down the impulse to go several blocks -to the east, toward the lake, where the stores and shops gave place to -homes and lawns and shade trees, where he could slip across unnoticed; -but his feet were leading him straight toward the corner of Filbert and -Simpson, the busiest, most conspicuous corner in town, where were the -hotel and Berger's grocery and, only a few doors off, Donovan's drug -store and Swanson's flower shop and Duneen's general store and the -_Voice_ office. It had come down, the warfare within him, to a question -of proving to himself that he wasn't a coward, that he could face -disaster, even the complete disaster that seemed now to be upon him. It -was like the end of the world. - -In a pocket his fingers were tightly clasped about the anonymous note -that had been the cloud over his troubled sleep of the night and his -gloomy awakening of the morning. The note was now but a detail in the -general crash. He decided to press on, march straight across Simpson -Street, head high. He even brought out the note from his pocket; held it -in his hand as he walked stiffly on. It was a somewhat bitter touch of -bravado, but I find I like Henry none the less for it. - -A little way short of the corner, it must be recorded, he faltered. It -was by Berger's rear door. There was a gate in the fence here, that now -stood open. Two of the Berger delivery wagons were backed in there. And -right by the gate Henry Berger himself, his ample person enveloped in a -long white apron, was opening a crate. - -Henry sensed him there; flushed (for it seemed that he could not speak -to any human being now) and wrestled, in painful impotence of will, with -the idea of moving on. - -But then, through a slow moment after Mr Berger said, 'How are you, -Henry!' he sensed something further; a note of good nature in the voice, -a feeling that the man was smiling, a suggestion that all the genial -quality had not, after all, been hardened out of life. - -He turned; pulled at his moustache (paper in hand), and flicked at weeds -with his stick. - -Mr Berger _was_ smiling. He drew his hand across a sweaty brow; shook -the hand; then leaned on his hatchet. - -'Getting hot,' he remarked. - -Henry tried to reply, but found himself still inarticulate. - -'Old Boice is getting after you. Plenty.' - -Henry winced; but felt slightly reassured when Mr Berger chuckled. All -intercourse with Mr Berger was tempered, however, by the memory that -Henry had been caught, within the decade, stealing fruit from the cases -out front. - -'He was just here. Don't mind telling you that he's trying to get -McGibbon's creditors together and throw him into bankruptcy. Doesn't -look as if there was enough out against him, though. Got to be five -hundred. It ain't as if he had a family and was running up bills. Just -living alone at the Wombasts, like he does. But old Boice is out gunning -for fair. Never saw him quite like this. First it was the advertising -boycott...' - -Henry was shifting his weight from foot to foot. - -'Well,' he said now, 'I guess I'd better be getting along.' - -'I was just going to say, Henry, that you've give me a good laugh. -Keep on like this and you'll be famous some day.... And say! Hold on a -minute! I don't know's you're in a position to do anything about it, -but I was just going to say, I rather guess the old _Gleaner_ could be -picked up for next to nothing right now. And there's folks here that -ain't so anxious to see Boice get the market all to hisself. Not so dam -anxious.... Wait a minute! I mean, I guess once McGibbon was got rid of -the Old Boy'd find it wouldn't be so easy to hold this boycott together. -There's folks that would break away---- Well, that's about all that was -on my mind. Only I'd sorta hate to see your yarns suppressed. They're -grand reading, Henry. My wife like to 'a' died over that one last -week--_The Sultan of Simpson Street_.' - -'"Caliph!"' said Henry, with a nervous eagerness. '_The Caliph of -Simpson Street_.' - -'Touched up old Norton P. for fair. Made him sorer 'n a goat. My wife's -literary, and she says it's worthy of Poe. And you ought to hear the -people talking to-day about this new one.' - -'_Sinbad the Treasurer!_' said Henry quickly, fearing another -misquotation: - -'Yay-ah. That. Ain't had time to read it yet myself. They say it's -great.' - -'Well--good-bye,' said Henry, and moved stiffly away toward the corner. - -'Funny!' mused the grocer,' looking after him. 'These geniuses never -have any business sense. I give him a real opening there.' - - -6 - - -Simpson Street was always crowded of a Saturday morning with thoughtful -housewives. The grocers and butchers bustled about. The rows of display -racks along the sidewalk were heaped with fresh vegetables and fruits. - -The majority of the shoppers came afoot, but the kerb was lined with -buggies, surries, neat station wagons and dog-carts, crowded in between -the delivery wagons. Sunbury boasted, as well, a number of Stanhopes, -a barouche or two, and several landaus. The Jenkins family, among its -several members, had a stable full of horses and ponies. William B. Snow -owned a valuable chestnut team with silver-mounted harness. Here and -there along the street one might have seen, on this occasion, several -vehicles that might well have been described as smart. - -But Sunbury had never seen anything like the equipage that, at a quarter -to twelve--a little late for selective shopping in those days--came -rolling smoothly, silently, on its rubber-shod wheels across the tracks -and past the post-office, Nelson's bakery, the Sunbury National Bank, -Duneen's and Donovan's to Swanson's flower shop. - -Never, never had Sunbury seen anything quite like that. Mr Berger, -hurrying through to the front of his store, stopped short, stared out -across the street and after a breathless moment breathed the words, -'Holy Smoke!' Women stood motionless, holding heads of lettuce, boxes -of raspberries and what not, and gazed in an amazement that was actually -long minutes in reaching the normal mental state of critical appraisal. - -The carriage was a Victoria, hung very low, varnished work glistening -brilliantly in the sunshine. It was upholstered conspicuously in plum -colour. The horses were jet black, glossy, perfectly matched, checked -up so high that the necks arched prettily if uncomfortably; and they had -docked tails. The harness they wore was mounted with a display of silver -that made the silver on William B. Snow's team, standing just below -Donovan's, look outright inconspicuous. - -Leaning back in luxurious comfort as the carriage came so softly along -the street, holding up a parasol of black lace, overshadowing her niece, -pretty little Cicely Hamlin, who sat beside her, Madame Watt, her large -person dressed with costly simplicity in black with a touch of colour -at the throat, square of face, with an emphatic chin, a strongly hooked -nose, penetrating black eyes, surveyed the street with a commanding -dignity, an assertive dignity, if the phrase may be used. Or it may have -been that a touch of self-consciousness within her showed through the -enveloping dignity and made you think about it. Certainly there was a -final outstanding reason for self-consciousness, even in the case of -Madame Watt; for on the high box in front visible for blocks above the -traffic of the street, sat, in wooden perfection as in plum-coloured -livery, side by side, a coachman and a footman. - -At Swanson's the footman leaped nimbly down and stood rigid by the step -while Madame heavily descended and passed across the walk and into the -shop. - -The street lifted. Women's tongues moved briskly. Trade was resumed. - -A pretty girl in the most wonderful carriage ever seen--a new girl, at -that, bringing a stir of quickened interest to the younger set--is a -magnet of considerable attracting power. Young people appeared--from -nowhere, it seemed--and clustered about the carriage. Two couples -hurried from the soda fountain in Donovan's. The de Casselles boys were -passing on their way from the Country Club courts (which were still on -the old grounds, down near the lake) in blazer coats and with expensive -rackets in wooden presses. Alfred Knight was out collecting for the -bank, and happened to be near. Mary Ames and Jane Bellman came over from -Berger's, where Mary was scrutinising cauliflowers with a cool eye. - -It was at this moment that Henry reached the corner by Berger's, paused, -hopelessly, confused and torn in the swirl of success and disaster that -marked this painful day, fighting down that mad impulse to talk out loud -his resentments in a passionate torrent of words, saw the carriage, the -girl in it and the crowd about it in one nervous glance, then, suddenly -pale, lips tightly compressed, moved doggedly forward across the street. - -He had nearly reached the opposite kerb--not turning; with the ugly -little note that was clasped in his left hand, he could not trust -himself to bow, he felt a miserable sort of relief that the distance -might excuse his appearing not to see; and there had to be an excuse, -or it would look to some like cowardice--when an errant summer breeze -wandered around the corner and seized on his straw hat. - -He felt it lifting; dropped his stick; reached then after both hat and -stick and in doing so nearly dropped the paper. In another moment he was -to be seen, desperately white, stick in one hand, a slip of paper in -the other, running straight down Simpson Street after his hat, which -whirled, sailed, rolled, sailed again, circled, and settled in the -dust not two rods from the Watt carriage. The street, as streets, will, -turned to look. - -Henry lunged for the hat. It lifted, and rolled a little way on. He -lunged again. It whirled over and over, then rolled rapidly straight -down the street, just missing the hoofs of a delivery horse, passing -under Mr George F. Smith's buggy without touching either horse or -wheels, and sailed on. - -Henry fell to one knee in his second plunge. And his pallor gave place -to a hot flush. - -Laughter came to his ears--jeering laughter. And it came unquestionably -from the group about the Watt carriage. The first voices were masculine. -Before he could get to his feet one or two of the girls had joined in. -In something near despair of the spirit, helplessly, he looked up. - -The whole group, still laughing, turned away. All, that is, but one. -Cicely was not laughing. She was leaning a little forward, looking right -at him, not even smiling, her lips parted slightly. He was too far gone -even to speculate as to what her expression meant. It fell upon him -as the final blow. He ran on and on. In front of Hemple's market a boy -stopped the hat with his foot. Henry, trembling with rage, took it from -him, muttered a word of thanks, and rushed, followed by curious eyes, -around the corner to the north. - - -7 - - -Humphrey found him, a little before one, at the rooms, and thought he -looked ill. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a small -newspaper clipping. He looked up, through his doorway, saw his friend -standing in the living-room, mumbled a colourless greeting, and let his -heavy eyes fall again. - -'What's all this?' asked Humphrey, with a rather weary, wrinkly smile. - -Henry got up then and came slowly into the living-room. - -'It's this,' he explained, in a voice that was husky and light, without -its usual body. 'This thing. I've had it quite a while.' - -Humphrey read:-- - -Positively No Commission HEIRS CAN BORROW On or sell their individual -estate, income or future inheritance; lowest rates; strictly -confidential Heirs' Loan Office. - -And an address. - -'What on earth are you doing with this, Hen?' - -'Well, Hump, there's still a little more'n three thousand dollars in my -legacy. I got a thousand this summer, you know, and lent it to McGibbon -for my interest in the paper. But my uncle said he wouldn't give me a -cent more until I'm twenty-one, in November. And so I was wondering... -Look here! How much do you suppose I could get out of it from these -people. They're all right, you see? - -They've got a regular office and----' - -'You'd just about get out with your underwear and shoes, Hen. They might -leave you a necktie. What do you want it for--throw it in after the -thousand?' - -'Well, McGibbon's broke----' - -'Yes, I know. They're saying on the street that Boice has got the -_Gleaner_ already. Two compositors and your foreman were in our place -half an hour ago asking for work. Boice went right down there. I saw him -start climbing the stairs.' - -'That's his second trip this morning, then, Hump. He offered Bob five -hundred.' - -'But it ought to be worth a few thousand.' - -'Sure. And except for there not being any money it's going great. You'd -be surprised! You know it's often that way. Bob says many a promising -business has gone under just because they didn't have the money to tide -it over a tight place. But he's getting the circulation. You've no idea! -And when you get that you're bound to get the advertisers. Sooner or -later. Bob says they just have to fall in line.' - -Humphrey appeared to be only half listening to this eager little torrent -of words. He deliberately filled his pipe; then moved over to a window -and gazed soberly out at the back yard of the parsonage. - -Henry, moody again, was staring at the advertisement, fairly hypnotising -himself with it. - -'Great to think of the Old Man having to climb those stairs twice,' -Humphrey remarked, without turning. Then: 'Even with all the trouble -you're going through, Hen, you're lucky not to be working for Boice. He -does wear on one.' - -He smoked the pipe out. Then, brow's knit, his long swarthy face -wrinkled deeply with thought, he walked slowly over to the door of his -own bedroom and leaned there, studying the interior. - -'There's three thousand dollars' worth of books in here,' he remarked. -'Or close to it. Even at second hand they'd fetch something. You see, -it's really a well built, pretty complete little scientific library. Now -come downstairs.' - -He had to say it again: 'Come on downstairs.' - -Henry followed, then; hardly aware of the oddity of Humphrey's actions. - -In the half-light that sifted dustily in through the high windows, the -metal lathes, large and small, the tool benches, the two large reels of -piano wire, the rows of wall boxes filled with machine jars, the round -objects that might have been electric motors hanging by twisted strings -or wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels of various -sizes mounted in frames, some with wooden handles at one side, the big -box kites and the wood-and-silk planes stacked at one end of the room, -the gas engine mounted at the other end, the water motor in a corner, -the wheels, shafts and belting overhead--all were indistinct, ghostly. -And all were covered with dust. - -'See!' Humphrey waved his pipe. 'I've done no work here for six -weeks. And I shan't do any for a good while. I can't. It takes -leisure--long-evenings--Sundays when you aren't disturbed by a soul. -And at that it means years and years, working as I've had to. You know, -getting out the _Voice_ every week. You know how it's been with me, Hen. -People are going to fly some day, Hen. As sure as we're walking now. -Pretty soon. Chanute--Langley--they know! Those are Chanute gliders -over there. By the kites. I've never told you; I've worked with 'em, -moonlight nights, from the sand-dunes away up the beach. I've got some -locked in an old boat-house up there, Hen'--he stood, very tall, a -reminiscent, almost eager light in eyes that had been dull of late, a -gaunt strong hand resting affectionately on a gyroscope--'I've flown -over six hundred feet! Myself! Gliding, of course. Got an awful ducking, -but I did it. - -'But it takes money, Hen. I've thought I could be an inventor and do my -job besides. Maybe I could. Maybe some day I'll succeed at it. But I've -just come to see what it needs. Material, workmen, time--Hen, you've got -to have a real shop and a real pay-roll to do it right. And... - -'Oh, I'm not telling you the truth, Hen! Not the real truth!' - -He took to walking around now, making angular gestures. Henry, watching -him, coming slowly alive now to the complex life that was flowing around -him, found himself confronted by a new, disturbed Humphrey. He had, -during the year and more of their friendship, taken him for granted as -an older, steadier influence, had leaned on him more than he knew. He -had been a rock for the erratic Henry to cling to in the confusing, -unstable swirl of life. - -'Hen'--Humphrey turned on him--'you don't know, but I'm going to be -married.' - -Henry's jaw sagged. - -'It's Mildred, of course. - -'It's going to be hard on the little woman, Hen. She's got to get her -divorce. She can't take money from her husband, of course; and she's -only got a little. She'll need me.' His voice grew a thought unsteady; -he waved his pipe, as if to indicate and explain the machinery. 'We've -got to strike out--take the plunge--you know, make a little money. It's -occurred to me... This machinery's worth more than the library, in -a pinch. And I've got two bonds left. Just two. They're money, of -course...... Hen, you said you _lent_ that thousand to McGibbon?' - -Henry nodded. 'He gave me his note.' - -'Let's see it.' - -Henry ran up the stairs, and returned with a pasteboard box file, which, -not without a momentary touch of pride in his quite new business sense, -he handed to his friend. - -Humphrey glanced at the carefully printed-out phrase on the back--'Henry -Calverly, 3rd. Business Affairs'--but did not smile. He opened it and -ran through the indexed leaves. It appeared to be empty. - -'Look under "Me,"' said Henry. - -The note was there. 'For three months,' Humphrey mused aloud. - -Then he smiled. There was a whimsical touch in Humphrey that his few -friends knew and loved. Even in this serious crisis it did not desert -him. I believe it was even stronger then. - -'Hen,' he said, 'got a quarter?' - -The smile seemed to restore the rock that Henry had lately clung to. He -found himself returning the smile, faintly but with a growing warmth. He -replied, 'Just about.' - -'Match me!' cried Humphrey. - -'What for?' - -'To settle a very important point. Somebody's name has got to come -first. Best two out of three.' - -'But I don't----' - -'Match me! No--it's mine!... Now I'll match you--mine again! I win. -Well--that's settled!' - -'What's settled? I don't-----' - -Humphrey sat on a tool bench; swung his legs; grinned. 'Life moves on, -Hen,' he said. 'It's a dramatic old world.' - -And Henry, puzzled, looking at him, laughed excitedly. - - -8 - - -It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Simpson Street was quiet after the -brisk business of the morning. The air quivered up from the pavement in -the still heat. The occasional people about the street moved slowly. The -collars of the few visible tradesmen were soft rags around their necks -and they mopped red faces with saturated handkerchiefs. The morning -breeze had died; the afternoon breeze would drift in at four o'clock or -so; until which time Sunbury ladies took their naps and Sunbury business -men dozed at their desks. Saturday closing had not made much headway at -this period, though the still novel game of golf was beginning to work -its mighty change in small-town life. - -Through this calm scene, absorbed in their affairs, unaware of the heat, -strode Humphrey and Henry--down past the long hotel veranda, where the -yellow rocking chairs stood in endless empty rows, past Swanson's and -Donovan's and Jackson's book store to the meat market and then, rapidly, -up the long stairway. - -They found McGibbon with his long legs stretched out under his desk, -hands deep in pockets, thin face lined and weary, but eyes nervously -bright as always. He was in his shirt-sleeves, of course. His drab brown -hair seemed a little longer and even more ragged than usual where it met -his wilted collar. - -But he grinned at them, and waved a long hand. - -'My God!' he cried, 'but it's good to see a human face. Look!' His -hand swept around, indicating the dusty, deserted desks and the open -press-room door. It was still out there; not a man hummed or whistled as -he clicked type into his stick, not one of the four job presses rumbled -out its cheerful drone of industry. - -'Rats all gone!' McGibbon added. 'But the Caliph was up again.' - -'Yes,' Henry, who found himself suddenly and deeply moved, breathed -softly, 'we know.' - -'Came up a hundred. He'll pay six hundred now. For all this. An actual -investment of more'n four thousand.' The hand waved again. 'It's -amusing. He doesn't know I'm on to him. You see the old fox's been -nosing around to get up a petition to throw me into involuntary -bankruptcy, but he can't find any creditors. Has to be five hundred -dollars, you know.' - -'What did you say to him?' asked Humphrey, thoughtfully. - -'Showed him out. Second time to-day. It was a hard climb for him, too. -He did puff some.' - -Humphrey slowly drew a large envelope from an inner pocket and laid it -on the table at his elbow. - -McGibbon eyed it alertly. - -'Here!' he said, his hand moving up toward the row of four or five -cigars that projected from a vest pocket, 'smoke up, you fellows.' - -Henry shook his head. Humphrey drew out his pipe; then raised his head, -and said quietly:-- - -'Listen!' - -There came the unmistakable sound of heavy feet on the stairs. Steadily, -step by step, a slowly moving body mounted. - -Then, framed in the doorway, stood the huge bulk of Norton P. Boice, -breathless, red, and wet of face, his old straw hat pushed back, his -yellowish-white, wavy beard covering his necktie and the upper part of -his roundly protruding, slightly spotted vest, against which the heavy -watch chain with its dangling fraternal insignia stood out prominently. - -Boice's eyes, nearly expressionless, finally settled on Humphrey. - -'What are you doing here?' he asked, between puffs. - -Humphrey's only reply was a slight impatient gesture. - -'You oughta be at your desk.' - -Then he came into the room. Of the three men seated there Humphrey was -the only one who knew by certain small external signs, that the Caliph -of Simpson Street was blazing with wrath. For here was his own hired -lieutenant hobnobbing with the boy whose agile, irresponsible pen had -made him the laughing stock of the township and with the intemperate -rival who had first attacked and then defied him. And then he had just -climbed the stairs for the third and what he meant to be the last time. - -He came straight to business. - -'Have you decided to accept my offer?' - -'Sit down,' said McGibbon, pushing a chair over with his foot. - -Boice ignored this final bit of insolence. - -'Have you decided to accept my offer?' - -'Well'--McGibbon shrugged; spread out his hands--'I've decided nothing, -but as it looks now I may find myself forced to accept it.' - -'Then I suggest that you accept it now.' - -'Well----' the hands went out again. - -'Wait a moment,' said Humphrey. - -'I think you had better go back to the office,' Boice broke in. - -'Shortly. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch, Mr Boice. But -first I have business here.' - -'_You_ have business!' - -'Yes.' Humphrey opened the large envelope. 'Here, McGibbon, is your note -to Henry for one thousand dollars, due in November.' - -Before their eyes, deliberately, he tore it up, leaned over McGibbon's -legs with an, 'I beg your pardon!' and dropped the pieces in the -waste-basket. Next he produced a folded document engraved in green and -red ink. 'Here,' he concluded, 'is a four per cent, railway bond that -stands to-day at a hundred two and a quarter in the market. That's our -price for the _Gleaner_.' - -McGibbon's nervous eyes followed the movements of Humphrey's hands as -if fascinated. During the hush that followed he sat motionless, chin on -breast. Then, slowly, he drew in his legs, straightened up, reached for -the bond, turned it over, opened it and ran his eye over the coupons, -looked up and remarked:-- - -'The paper's yours.' - -'Then, Mr Boice,' said Humphrey, 'the next issue of the _Gleaner_ will -be published by Weaver and Calverly, and the stories you object to will -run their course.' - -But Mr Boice, creaking deliberately over the floor, was just -disappearing through the doorway.' - - -9 - - -The sunlight was streaming in through the living-room of the barn back -of the old Parmenter place. Outside the maple leaves were rustling -gently. Through the quiet air came the slow booming of the First -Presbyterian bell across the block. From greater distances came the -higher pitched bell of the Baptist Church, down on Filbert Avenue, -and the faint note from the Second Presbyterian over on the West Side, -across the tracks. - -Humphrey had made coffee and toast. They sat at an end of the centre -table. Humphrey in bath-robe and slippers, Henry fully dressed in his -blue serge suit, neat silk four-in-hand tie, stiff white collar and -carefully polished shoes. - -'Where are you going with all that?' Humphrey asked. - -Henry hesitated; flushed a little. - -'To church,' he finally replied. - -Humphrey's surprise was real. There had been a time, before they came to -know each other, when the boy had sung bass in the quartet at the Second -Presbyterian. But since that period he had not been a church-goer. Henry -had been quiet all evening, and now this morning. He seemed all boxed up -within himself. Preoccupied. As if the triumph over old Boice had merely -opened up the way to new responsibilities. Which, for that matter, was -just what it had done--done to both of them. Humphrey, not being given -to prying, would have let the subject drop here, had not Henry surprised -him by breaking hotly forth into words. - -'It's my big fight, Hump!' he was saying now. 'Don't you see! This town. -All they say. Look here!' He laid a rumpled bit of paper on the table. -As if he had been holding it ready in his hand.' - -'Oh, that letter,' said Humphrey. - -'Yes. It's what I've got to fight. And I've got to win. Don't you see?' - -'Yes,' Humphrey replied gravely, 'I see.' - -'I think,' said Henry, 'it's being in love that's going to help me. -We've got to hold our heads up, you and I. Build the _Gleaner_ into a -real property. Win confidence. And there mustn't be any doubt. The way -we step out and fight, you know. I've got to stand with you.' - -Humphrey's eyes strayed to the sunlit window. He suppressed a little -sigh. - -'This note's right enough, in a way,' Henry went on. 'It wouldn't be -fair to compromise her.' He leaned earnestly over the table. 'It's -really a hopeless love. I know that, Hump. But it isn't like the -others.' It makes me feel ashamed of them. All of them. I've got to show -her, or at least show myself, that it's this love that has made a man of -me. Without asking anything, you know.' - -Humphrey listened in silence as the talk ran on. The boy was changing, -no question about that. Even back of the romantic strain that was -colouring his attitude, the suggestion of pose in it, there was real -evidence of this change. At least his fighting blood was up. And he was -taking punishment. - -Sitting there sipping his coffee, Humphrey, half listening, soberly -considered his younger friend. Henry was distinctly odd, a square peg in -a round world. He was capable of curiously outrageous acts, yet most -of them seemed to arise from a downright inability to sense the common -attitude, to feel with his fellows. He could be heedless, neglectful, -self-centred; but Humphrey had never found meanness or unkindness in -him. And he was capable of a passionate generosity. He had, indeed, -for Humphrey, the fascination that an erratic and ingenuous but gifted -person often exerts on older, steadier natures. You could be angry at -him; but you couldn't get over the feeling that you had to take care of -him. And it always seemed, even when he was out and out exasperating, -that the thing that was the matter with him was the very quality that -underlay his astonishing gifts; that he was really different from -others; the difference ran all through, from his unexpected, rather -self-centred ways of acting and reacting clear up to the fact that he -could write what other people couldn't write. 'If they could,' thought -Humphrey now, shrewdly, 'very likely they'd be different too.' Take this -business of dressing up like a born suburbanite and going to church. -It was something of a romantic gesture, But that wasn't all it was. The -fight was real, whatever unexpected things it might lead him to do from -day to day. - -Herbert de Casselles, wooden-faced, dressed impeccably in frock coat, -heavy 'Ascot' tie, gray striped trousers perfectly creased, (Henry had -never owned a frock coat) ushered him half-way down the long aisle to -a seat in Mrs Ellen F. Wilson's pew. He felt eyes on him as he walked, -imagined whispers, and set his face doggedly against them all. He had -set out in a sort of fervor; but now the thing was harder to do than he -had imagined. The people looked cold and hostile. It was to be a long -fight. He might never win. The more successful he might come to be, the -more some of them would hate him and fight him down... It was queer, -Herb de Casselles ushering him. - -The organist slid on to his seat, up in the organ loft behind the -pulpit; spread out his music and turned up the corners; pulled and -pushed on stops and couplers; glanced up into his narrow mirror; -adjusted his tie; fussed again with the stops; began to play. - -Henry sat up stiffly, even boldly, and looked about. Across the church, -in a pew near the front, sat the Watts: the Senator, on the aisle, -looking curiously insignificant with his meek, red face and his little, -slightly askew chin beard; Madame Watt sitting wide and high over him, -like a stout hawk, chin up, nose down, beady eyes fixed firmly on the -pulpit; Cicely Hamlin almost fragile beside her, eyes downcast--or was -she looking at the hymns? - -When Cicely was talking, with her nervous eagerness, her quick smile, -her almost Frenchy gestures, she seemed gay. When in repose, as now, her -delicate sensitiveness, her slightly sad expression, were evident, even -to Henry. - -Made him feel in the closing scene of _The Prisoner of Zenda_, where -he was bidding the Princess who could never be his a last farewell; the -mere sight of her thrilled him with a deep romantic sorrow. - -Through the prayers, the announcements, the choir numbers and -collection, his sacrificial mood grew more and more intense. It was -something of a question whether he could hide his emotion before all -these hostile people. The long fight ahead to rebuild his name in the -village loomed larger and larger, began to take on an aspect that was -almost terrifying. For the first time to-day he felt weakness but she -made him feel something as Sothem had made in his heart. He sat very -quiet, hands clenched on his knees, and unconsciously thrust out his -chin a little. - -When the doxology was sung and his head was bowed for the benediction, -he had to struggle with a mad impulse to rush out, run down the aisle -while people were picking up their hats and things. The thing to do, of -course, was to take his time, be natural, move out with the rest. This -he did, blazing with self-consciousness, his chin forward. - -It was difficult. Several persons--older persons, who had known his -mother--stopped him and congratulated him on the brilliant work he was -doing. This in the midst of the unuttered hostility that seemed like -hundreds of little barbed darts penetrating his skin from every side. -He could only blush and mumble. Elderly, innocent Mrs Bedford of Filbert -Avenue actually introduced him to her nieces from Boston as a young man -of whom all Sunbury was proud. He had to blush and mumble here for a -long time, while the line of people crowded decorously past. - -At last he got to the door. Stiffly raising his hat as one or two groups -of young people recognised him, he moved out to the sidewalk. There he -raised his eyes. They met, for a fleeting instant, but squarely, over -Herb de Casselles' shoulder, the dark eyes of Cicely Hamlin. - -She was sitting on the little forward seat in the black-and-plum -Victoria. Madame Watt was settling herself in the back seat. The -Senator was stepping in. The plum-coloured footman stood stiffly by. The -plum-coloured driver sat stiffly on the box. - -Herb de Casselles turned, with a wry smile. - -Henry raised his hat, bit his lip, hesitated, hurried on. - -Then he heard her voice. - -'Oh, Mr Calverly!' - -He had to turn back. He knew he was fiery red. He knew, too, that in -this state of tortured bewilderment he couldn't trust his tongue for a -moment. - -Cicely leaned out, with outstretched hand. - -He had to take it. The thrill the momentary touch of it gave, him but -added a wrench to the torture. Then the Senator's hand had to be taken; -finally Madame's. - -His pulse was racing; pounding at his temples. What did all this mean! - -Cicely, her own colour up a little, speaking quickly, her face lighting -up, her hands moving, cried:-- - -'Oh, Mr Calverly! We heard this morning that the _Gleaner_ has failed -and that Mr Boice has it and we aren't to see your stories any more.' - -'No,' said Henry, a faint touch of assurance appearing in his heart, -mind, voice, 'that isn't so. Mr Boice hasn't got it. We've got -it--Humphrey Weaver and I.' - -'You mean you have purchased it?' This from the Senator. - -'Yay-ah, We bought it yesterday.' - -'No!' cried Cicely. 'Really?' - -'Yay-ah. We bought it.' - -'Then,' commented the Senator, 'you must permit me indeed to -congratulate you. It is unusual to find business acumen and enterprise -combined with such a literary talent as yours.' - -This was pleasing, if stilted. It was beginning to be possible for Henry -to smile. - -Then Cicely clinched matters. - -'You promised to come and read me the others, Mr Calverly. Oh, but -you did! You must come. Really! Let me see--I know I shall be at home -to-morrow evening.' - -Then, for a moment, Cicely seemed to falter. She turned questioningly to -her aunt. - -Madame Watt certainly knew the situation. She had heard Henry discussed -in relation to the Mamie Wilcox incident. She knew how high feeling -was running in the village. Just what her motives were, I cannot say. -Perhaps it was her tendency to make her own decisions and if possible to -make different decisions from those of the folk about her. The instinct -to stand out aggressively in all matters was strong within her. And she -liked Henry. The flare of extreme individuality in him probably reached -her and touched a curiously different strain of extreme individuality -within herself. She hated sheep. Henry was not a sheep. - -As for Cicely's part of it, I know she had been thrilled when Henry read -her the first ten stories. She had read more than the Sunbury girls; and -she saw more in his oddities than they were capable of seeing. To fail -in any degree to conform to the prevailing customs and thought was to be -ridiculous in Sunbury. But she had no more forgotten the jeers that had -followed Henry from this very carriage as he chased his hat down Simpson -Street the preceding day than had Henry himself. Nor had she forgotten -that Herbert de Casselles had been one of that unkind group. And as she -certainly knew what she was about, despite her impulsiveness, I prefer -to think that her action was deliberately kind and deliberately brave. - -'Come to dinner,' said Madame Watt shortly but with a sort of rough -cordiality. 'Seven o'clock. To-morrow evening. Informal dress. All -right, Watson.' - -Cicely settled back, her eyes bright; but gave Henry only the same -suddenly impersonal little nod of good-bye that she gave Herbert de -Casselles. - -The footman leaped to the box. The remarkable carriage rolled -luxuriously away on its rubber tyres. - -Henry turned, grinning in foolish happiness, on the young man in the -frock coat who had not been asked to dinner. - -'Walking up toward Simpson, Herb?' he asked. - -'Me--why--no, I'm going this way.' And Herb pointed hurriedly southward. - -'Well--so long!' said Henry, and headed northward. - -The warm sunlight filtered down through the dense foliage. Birds -twittered up there. The church procession moving slowly along was -brightly dressed; pleasant to see. Henry, head up, light of foot, -smiling easily when this or that person, after a moment's hesitation, -bowed to him, listened to the birds, expanded his chest in answer to -the mellowing sunshine, and gave way, with a fresh little thrill, to the -thought:-- - -'I must buy a frock coat for to-morrow night.' - - - - -VIII--THIS BUD OF LOVE - - -1 - -|It was mid-August and twenty minutes to eight in the evening. The -double rows of maples threw spreading shadows over the pavement, -sidewalk and lawns of Hazel Avenue. From dim houses, set far back amid -trees and shrubs, giving a homy village quality to the darkness, came -through screened doors and curtained 'bay' windows the yellow glow of -oil lamps and the whiter shine of electric lights. Here and there a -porch light softly illuminated a group of young people; their chatter -and laughter, with perhaps a snatch of song, floating pleasantly out -on the soft evening air. Around on a side street, sounding faintly, -a youthful banjoist with soft fingers and inadequate technique was -struggling with _The March Past_. - -Moving in a curious, rather jerky manner along the street, now walking -swiftly, nervously, now hesitating, even stopping, in some shadowy spot, -came a youth of twenty (going on twenty-one). He wore--though all these -details were hardly distinguishable even in the patches of light at the -street corners, where arc lamps sputtered whitely--neatly pressed white -trousers, a 'sack' coat of blue serge, a five-dollar straw hat, silk -socks of a pattern and a silken 'four-in-hand' tie. He carried a cane of -thin bamboo that he whipped and flicked at the grass and rattled lightly -along the occasional picket fence except when he was fussing at the -light growth on his upper lip. Under his left arm was a square package -that any girl of Sunbury would have recognised instantly, even in the -shadows, as a two-pound box of Devoe's chocolates. - -If you had chanced to be a resident of Sunbury at this period you would -have known that the youth was Henry Calverly, 3rd. Though you might have -had no means of knowing that he was about to 'call' on Cicely Hamlin. -Or, except perhaps from his somewhat spasmodic locomotion, that he was -in a state of considerable nervous excitement. - -Not that Henry hadn't called on many girls in his day. He had. But he -had called only once before on Cicely (the other time had been that -invitation to dinner for which her aunt was really responsible) and had -then, in a burning glow of temperament, read her his stories! - -How he had read! And read! And read! Until midnight and after. She had -been enthusiastic, too. - -But he wasn't in a glow now. Certain small incidents had lately brought -him to the belief that Cicely Hamlin lacked the pairing-off instinct so -common among the young of Sunbury. She had been extra nice to him; true. -But the fact stood that she was not 'going with' him. Not in the -Sunbury sense of the phrase. A baffling, disturbing aura of impersonally -pleasant feeling held him at a distance. - -So he was just a young fellow setting forth, with chocolates, to call on -a girl. A girl who could be extra nice to you and then go out of her -way to maintain pleasant acquaintance with the others, your rivals, your -enemies. Almost as if she felt she had been a little too nice and wished -to strike a balance; at least he had thought of that. A girl who had -been reared strangely in foreign convents; who didn't know _The Spanish -Cavalier_ or _Seeing Nellie Home_ or _Solomon Levi_, yet did know, -strangely, that the principal theme in Dvorak's extremely new 'New -World' symphony was derived from _Swing Low, Sweet Chariot_ (which -illuminating fact had stirred Henry to buy, regardless, the complete -piano score of that symphony and struggle to pick out the themes on -Humphrey's piano at the rooms). A girl who had never seen De Wolf Hopper -in _Wang_, or the Bostonians in _Robin Hood_, or Sothem in The Prisoner -of Zenda, or Maude Adams or Ethel Barrymore or _anything_. A girl who -had none of the direct, free and easy ways of the village young; you -couldn't have started a rough-house with her--mussed her hair, or -galloped her in the two-step. A girl who wasn't stuck up, or anything -like that, who seemed actually shy at times, yet subtly repressed you, -made you wish you could talk like the fellow's that had gone to Harvard. - -In view of these rather remarkable facts I think it really was a tribute -to Cicely Hamlin that the many discussions of her as a conspicuous -addition to the youngest set had boiled down to the single descriptive -adjective, 'tactful.' Though the characterisation seems not altogether -happy; for the word, to me, connotes something of conscious skill -and management--as my Crabb put it: 'TACTFUL. See Diplomatic'--and -Cicely was not, certainly not in those days, a manager. - -Henry, muttered softly, as he walked. - -'I'll hand it to her when she comes in. - -'No, she'll shake hands and it might get in the way. - -'Put it on the table--that's the thing!--on a corner where she'll see -it. - -'Then some time when we can't think of anything to talk about, I'll -say--"Thought you might like a few chocolates." Sorta offhand. Prevent -there being a lull in the conversation. - -'Better begin calling her Cicely.' - -'Why not? Shucks! Can't go on with "You" and "Say!" Why can't I just do -it naturally? The way Herb would, or Elbow, or those fellows. - -'"How'd' you do, Cicely! Come on, let's take a walk." - -'No. "Good-evening, Cicely. I thought maybe you'd like to take a walk. -There's a moonrise over the lake about half-past eight." That's better. - -'Wonder if Herb'll be there. He'd hardly think to come so early, though. -Be all right if I can get her away from the house by eight.' - -He paused, held up his watch to the light from the corner, then rushed -on. - -'Maybe she'd ask me to sit him out, anyway.' - -But his lips clamped shut on this. It was just the sort of thing Cicely -wouldn't do. He knew it. - -'What if she won't go out!' - -This sudden thought brought bitterness. A snicker had run its course -about town--in his eager self-absorption he had wholly forgotten--when -Alfred Knight, confident in an engagement to call, had hired a horse and -buggy at McAllister's. The matter of an evening drive _a deux_ had -been referred to Cicely's aunt. As a result the horse had stood hitched -outside more than two hours only to be driven back to the livery, stable -by the gloomy Al. - -'Shucks, though! Al's a fish! Don't blame her!' - -He walked stiffly in among the trees and shrubs of the old Dexter Smith -place and mounted the rather imposing front steps. - -That purchase of the Dexter Smith place was typical of Madame Watt at -the time. She was riding high. She had money. Two acres of lawn, fine -old trees, a great square house of Milwaukee brick, high spacious rooms -with elaborately moulded plaster ceilings and a built-on conservatory -and a barn that you could keep half a dozen carriages in! It was one of -only four or five houses in Sunbury that the _Voice_ and the _Gleaner_ -rejoiced to call 'mansions.' And it was the only one that could have -been bought. The William B. Snows, like the Jenkinses and the de -Casselles (I don't know if it has been explained before that the -accepted local pronunciation was Dekasells,) lived in theirs. And even -after the elder Dexter Smith died Mrs Smith would hardly have sold the -place if the children hadn't nagged her into it. Young Dex wanted to -go to New York. And at that it was understood that Madame Watt paid two -prices. - - -2 - - -A uniformed butler showed Henry into the room that he would have called -the front parlour. Though there was another much like it across the wide -hall. There was a 'back parlour,' with portières between. Out there, he -knew, between centre table and fireplace, the Senator and Madame might -even now be sitting. - -He listened, on the edge of a huge plush and walnut chair, for the -rustle of the Senator's paper, or Madame's deep, always startling voice. - -There was no sound. Save that somewhere upstairs, far off, a door -opened; then footsteps very faint. And silence again. - -Henry looked, fighting down misgivings, at the heavily framed -oil paintings on the wall. One, of a life-boat going out through -mountainous waves to a wreck, he had always heard was remarkably fine. -Fastened over the bow of the boat was a bit of real rope that had -provoked critical controversy when the picture was first exhibited in -Chicago. - -He glanced down, discovered the box of chocolates on his knees, and -hurriedly placed it on the corner of the inevitable centre table. Then -he fussed nervously with his moustache; adjusted his tie, wondering -if the stick pin should be higher; pulled down his cuffs; and sat up -stiffly again. - -'Maybe she ain't home,' he thought weakly. 'That fella said he'd see.' - -'Maybe I oughta've asked if she'd be in.' - -The silence deepened, spread, settled about him. He wished she would -come down. There was danger, he knew, that his few painfully thought-out -conversational openings would leave him. He would be an embarrassed, -quite speechless young man. For he was as capable, even now, at twenty, -almost at twenty-one, of speechlessness as of volubility. Either might -happen to him, at any moment, from the smallest, least foreseeable of -causes. - -And there was something oppressive about the stillness of this cavernous -old house with its sound-proof partitions and its distances. And that -silent machine of a butler. It wasn't like calling at Martha Caldwell's, -in the old days, where you could hear the Swedish cook crashing around -in the kitchen and Martha moving around upstairs before she came down. -Here you wouldn't so much as know there was a kitchen. - -Then, suddenly, sharp as a blow out of the stillness came a series of -sounds that froze the marrow in his bones, made him rigid on the edge of -that plush chair, his lips parted, his eyes staring, wrestling with -an impulse to dash out of the house; with another impulse to cough, -or shout, or play the piano, in some mad way to announce himself, yet -continuing to sit like a carved idol, in the grip of a paralysis of the -faculties. - -There is nothing more painful to the young than the occasional -discovery, through the mask of social reticence, that the old have their -weak or violent moments. - -Gossip, yes! But gossip rests lightly and briefly in young ears. Henry -had heard the Watts slyly ridiculed. There were whispers, of course. -Madame's career as a French countess--well, naturally Sunbury wondered. -And the long obscurity from which she had rescued Senator Watt raised -questions about that very quiet little man. So often men in political -life were tempted off the primly beaten track. And Henry, like the other -young people, had grinned in awed delight over the tale that Madame -swore at her servants. That was before he had so much as spoken to her -niece. And it had little or no effect on his attitude toward Madame -herself when he met her. She had at once taken her place in the -compartment of his thoughts reserved from earliest memory for his -elders, whose word was (at least in honest theory) law and to whom one -looked up with diffidence and a genuine if somewhat automatic respect. - -The first of the disturbing sounds was Madame's voice, far-off but -ringing strong. Then a door opened--it must have been the dining-room -door; not the wide one that opened into the great front hall, but the -other, at the farther end of the 'back parlour.' - -There was a brief lull. A voice could be heard, though--a man's voice, -low-pitched, deprecatory. - -Then Madame's again. And stranger noises. The man's voice cried out in -quick protest; there was a rustle and then a crash like breaking china. - -The Senator, hurrying a little, yet with a sort of dignity, walked out -into the hall. Henry could see him, first between the portières as he -left the room, then as he passed the hall door. - -There was a rush and a torrent of passionately angry words from -the other room. An object--it appeared to be a paper weight or -ornament--came hurtling out into the hall. The Senator, who had -apparently gone to the closet by the door for his hat and stick--for he -came back into the hall with them--stepped back just in time to avoid -being struck. The object fell on the stair, landing with the sound of -solid metal. - -'You come back here!' Madame's voice. - -'I will not come back until you have had time to return to your senses,' -replied the Senator. He looked very small. He was always stilted -in speech; Humphrey had said that he talked like the _Congressional -Record_. 'This is a disgraceful scene. If you have the slightest regard -for my good name or your own you will at least make an effort to compose -yourself. Some one might be at the door at this moment. You are a -violent, ungoverned woman, and I am ashamed of you.' - -'And you'--she was almost screaming now--'are the man who was glad to -marry me.' - -He ignored this. 'If any one asks for me, I shall be at the Sunbury -Club.' - -'Going to drink again, are you?' - -'I think not.' - -'If you do, you needn't come back. Do you hear? You needn't come back!' - -He turned, and with a sort of strut went out the front door. - -She started to follow. She did come as far as the portières. Henry had a -glimpse of her, her face red and distorted. - -She turned back then, and seemed to be picking up the room. He could -hear sniffing and actually snorting as she moved about. There was a -brief silence. Then she crossed the hall, a big imposing person--even -in her tantrums she had presence--and went up the stairs, pausing on the -landing to pick up the object she had thrown. Her solid footfalls died -out on the thick carpets of the upper hall. A door opened, and slammed -faintly shut. - -Silence again. - -Henry found that he was clutching the arms of the chair. - -'I must relax,' he thought vacantly; and drew a slow deep breath, as he -had been taught in a gymnasium class at the Y.M.C.A. - -He brushed a hand across his eyes. Now that it was over, his temples -were pounding hotly, his nerves aquiver. - -It was incredible. Yet it had happened. Before his eyes. A vulgar brawl; -a woman with a red face throwing things. And he was here in the house -with her. He might have to try to talk with her. - -He considered again the possibility of slipping out. But that butler -had taken his name up. Cicely would be coming down any moment. Unless -she knew. - -Did she know? Had she heard? Possibly not. - -Henry got slowly, indecisively up and wandered to the piano; stood -leaning on it. - -His eyes filled. All at once, in his mind's eye, he could see Cicely. -Particularly the sensitive mouth. And the alert brown eyes. And -the pretty way her eyebrows moved when she spoke or smiled or -listened--always with a flattering attention--to what you were saying. - -He brought a clenched fist down softly on the piano. - - -3 - - -'Oh,' cried the voice of Cicely--'there you are! How nice of you to -come!' - -She was standing--for a moment--in the doorway. - -White of face, eyes burning, his fist still poised on the piano, he -stared at her. - -She didn't know! Surely she didn't--not with that bright smile. __ - -She wore the informal, girlish costume of the moment--neatly fitting -dark skirt; simple shirt-waist with the ballooning sleeves that were -then necessary; stiff boyish linen collar propping the chin high, and -little bow tie; darkish, crisply waving hair brought into the best order -possible, parted in the middle and carried around and down over the ears -to a knot low on the neck. - -'I brought some candy,' he cried fiercely. 'There! On the table!' - -She knit her brows for a brief moment. Then opened the box. - -'How awfully nice of you... You'll have some?' - -'No. I don't eat candy. I was thinking of--I want to get you out--Come -on, let's take a walk!' - -She smiled a little, around a chocolate. Surely she didn't know! - -She had seemed, during her first days in Sunbury, rather timid at -times. But there was in this smile more than a touch of healthy -self-confidence. No girl, indeed, could find herself making so definite -a success as Cicely had made here from her first day without acquiring -at least the beginnings of self-confidence. It was a success that had -forced Elbow Jenkins and Herb de Casselles to ignore small rebuffs and -persist in fighting over her. It permitted her, even in a village where -social conformity was the breath of life, to do odd, unexpected things. -Such as allowing herself to be interested, frankly, in Henry Calverly. - -So she smiled as she nibbled a chocolate. - -He said it again, breathlessly:-- - -'I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.' - -'Well'--still that smile--'why don't you?' - -But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on. - -'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.' - -'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall. - -She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater--he, hat -and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt -had marched stiffly to that same closet--when Madame Watt came down the -stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard. - -She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing -a sort of smile. - -'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry. - -Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a -greeting, she broke in on him with this:--'I didn't know you were here. -Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence fell, -the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, -alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good -one. But he didn't know how. - -Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head. - -During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely -interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, -and the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they -had a secret. - -'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely. - -Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back -over her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!' - -The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She -even turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt. - -Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after -them. She was hurrying back through the hall. - -'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are -having a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends. -Dinner here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll -be glad to have you. Informal--don't bother to dress.' - -'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt. - -'I--Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily. - -Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the -lake. - -There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be -the theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late -hour. It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled -Henry's thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table, -nibbling a chocolate, the poise of her pretty head--the picture stood -out clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it -was like a deafening noise in his brain. - - -4 - - -He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street. -Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the -end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their -ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the -dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise. - -He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her -delicate profile. - -He thought: 'How could she ask me? They wouldn't like it, her friends. -Mary Ames mightn't want to come. Martha Caldwell, even. She's been -nice to me. I mustn't make it hard for her. And she mustn't know about -tonight. Not ever.' - -Then a new thought brought pain. If there had been one such scene, there -would be others. And she would have to live against that background, -keeping up a brave face before the prying world of Sunbury. Perhaps she -had already lived through something of the sort. That sad look about her -mouth; when she didn't know you were looking. - -They had reached the boulevard now, and were standing at the railing -over the beach. A little talk had been going on, of course, about this -and that--he hardly knew what. - -He clenched his fist again, and brought it down on the iron rail. - -'Oh,' he broke out--'about Saturday. I forgot. I can't come.' - -'Oh, but please----' - -'No. Awfully busy. You've no idea. You see Humphrey Weaver and I bought -the _Gleaner_. I told you, didn't I? It's a big responsibility--getting -the pay-roll every week, and things like that. Things I never knew -about before. I don't believe I was made to be a business man. Lots of -accounts and things. Hump's at it all the time--nights and everything. -You see we've got to make the paper pay. We've _got_ to! It was losing, -when Bob McGibbon had it. People hated him, and they wouldn't advertise. -And now we have to get the advertising back.' If we fail in that, we'll -go under, just as he did...' - -Words! Words! A hot torrent of them! He didn't know how transparent he -was. - -She stood, her two hands resting lightly on the rail, looking out at the -slowly spreading glow in the east. - -'I'm so glad aunt asked you,' she said gravely. 'I wanted you to come. I -want you to know. Won't you, please?' - -He looked at her, but she didn't turn. There was more behind her words. -Even Henry could see that. He had been discussed. As a problem. But she -didn't say the rest of it. - -Then his clumsy little artifice broke down, and the crude feeling rushed -to the surface. - -'You know I mustn't come!' he cried. - -'No,' said she, with that deliberate gravity. 'I don't know that. I -think you should.' - -'I can't. You don't understand. They wouldn't like it, my being there. -They talk about me. They don't speak to me, even.' - -'Then oughtn't you to come? Face them? Show them that it isn't true?' - -'But that will just make it hard for you.' - -She was slow in answering this; seemed to be considering it. Finally she -replied with:-- - -'I don't think I care about that. People have been awfully nice to me -here. I'm having a lovely time. But it isn't as if I had always lived -here and expected to stay for the rest of my life. My life has been -different. I've known a good many different kinds of people, and I've -had to think for myself a good deal. No, I'd like you to come. If you -don't come---don't you see?--you're putting me with them. You're making -me mean and petty. I don't want to be that way. If--if I'm to see you at -all, they must know it.' - -'Perhaps, then,' he muttered, 'you'd better not see me at all.' - -'Please!' - -'Well, I know; but--' - -'No. I want to see you. If you want to come. I love your stories. You're -more interesting than any of them.' - -At this, he turned square around; stared at her. But she, very quietly, -finished what she had to say. 'I think you're a genius. I think you're -going to be famous. It's--it's exciting to see the way you write -stories.... Wait, please! I'm going to tell you the rest of it. Now that -we're talking it out, I think I've got to. It was aunt who didn't want -to ask you. She likes you, but she thought--well, she thought it might -be awkward, and--and hard for you. I told her what I've told you, that -I've either got to be your friend before all of them or not at all. And -now that she has asked you--don't you see, it's the way I wanted it all -along.' - -There wasn't another girl in Sunbury who could have, or would have, made -quite that speech. - -She looked delicately beautiful in the growing light. Her hair was a -vignetted halo about her small head. - -Henry, staring, his hands clenched at his sides, broke out with:-- - -'I love you!' - -'Oh--h!' she breathed. 'Please!' - -Words came from him, a jumble of words. About his hopes, the few -thousand dollars that would be his on the seventh of November, when he -would be twenty-one, the wonderful stories he would write, with her for -inspiration. - -Inwardly he was in a panic. He hadn't dreamed of saying such a thing. -Never before, in all his little philanderings had he let go like this, -never had he felt the glow of mad catastrophe that now seemed to be -consuming him. Oh, once perhaps--something of it--years back--when he -had believed he was in love with Ernestine Lambert. But that had been in -another era. And it hadn't gone so deep as this. - -'Anyway'--he heard her saying, in a rather tired voice--'anyway--it -makes it hard, of course--you shouldn't have said that--' - -'Oh, I _am_ making it hard! And I meant to----' - -'--anyway, I think you'd better come. Unless it would be too hard for -you.' - -There was a long silence. Then Henry, his forehead wet with sweat, his -feet braced apart, his hands gripping the rail as if he were holding -for his life, said, with a sudden quiet that she found a little -disconcerting:-- - -'All right. I'll come.... Your aunt said a quarter past six, didn't -she?' - -'No, six.' - - -5 - - -Madame Watt appropriated Henry the moment he entered her door -on Saturday evening. She was, despite her talk of offhand summer -informality, clad in an impressive costume with a great deal of lace and -the shimmer of flowered silk. - -At her elbow, Henry moved through the crowd in the front hall. He felt -cool eyes on him. He stood very straight and stiff. He was pale. He -bowed to the various girls and fellows--Mary, Martha, Herb, Elbow, and -the rest, with reserve. It was, from moment to moment, a battle. - -Nobody but Madame Watt would have thought of giving such a party. It -was so expensive--the dinner for twenty-two, to begin with; then all -the railway fares; a bus from the station in Chicago to the theatre and -back. The theatre tickets alone came to thirty-three dollars (these were -the less expensive days of the dollar and a half seat). Sunbury still, -at the time, was inclined to look doubtfully on ostentation. - -You felt, too, in the case of Madame, that she was likely to speak, at -any moment rather--well, broadly. All that Paris experience, whatever -it was, seemed to be hovering about the snapping black eyes and the -indomitable mouth. You sensed in her none of the reserve of movement, of -speech, of mind, that were implied in the feminine standards of Sunbury. -Yet she was unquestionably a person. If she laughed louder than the -ladies of Sunbury, she had more to say. - -To-night she was a dominantly entertaining hostess. She talked of the -theatre, in Paris, London and New York--of the Coquelins, Gallipaux, -Bernhardt, of Irving and Terry and Willard and Grossmith. Some of these -she had met. She knew Sothem, it appeared. Even the extremely worldly -Elbow and Herb were impressed. - -She had Henry at her right. Boldly placed him there. At his right was a -girl from Omaha who was visiting the Smiths and who made several efforts -to be pleasant to the pale gloomy youth with the little moustache and -the distinctly interesting gray-blue eyes. - -By the time they were settled on the train Henry found himself grateful -to the certainly strong, however coarse-fibred woman. - -Efforts to identify her as she seemed now, with the woman of that -hideous scene with the Senator brought only bewilderment. He had to give -it up. - -This woman was rapidly winning his confidence; even, in a curious sense, -his sympathy. - -At the farther end of the table the little Senator, all dignity and calm -stilted sentences, made himself remotely agreeable to several girls at -once. - -At one side of the table sat Cicely, in lacy white with a wonderful -little gauzy scarf about her shoulders. She looked at him only now and -then, and just as she looked at the others. He wondered how she could -smile so brightly. - -Herb and Elbow made a great joke of fighting over her. Elbow had her at -dinner; Herb on the train; Elbow again at the theatre. - -Henry was fairly clinging to Madame by that time. - -I think, among the confused thoughts and feelings that whirled -ceaselessly around and around in his brain, the one that came up -oftenest and stayed longest was a sense of stoical heroism. For Cicely's -sake he must bear his anguish. For her he must be humble, kindly, -patient. He had read, somewhere in his scattered acquaintance with -books, that Abraham Lincoln had once been brought to the point of -suicide through a disappointment in love. And to-night he thought much -and deeply of Lincoln. He had already decided, during an emotionally -turbulent two days, not to shoot himself. - -During the first intermission the Senator stayed quietly in his seat. - -When the curtain went down for the second time, he stroked his beard -with a small, none-too-steady hand, coughed in the suppressed way he -had, and glanced once or twice at Madame. - -The young men were, apparently all of them, moving out for a smoke in -the lobby. - -Henry, with a tingling sense of defiance, a little selfconscious about -staying alone with the girls, followed them. - -And after him, walking up the aisle with his odd strutting air of -importance, came the Senator. - -He gathered the young men together in the lobby; pulled at his twisted -beard; said, 'It will give me pleasure to offer you young gentlemen a -little refreshment;' and led the way out to a convenient bar. It was a -large, high-panelled room. There were great mirrors; rows and rows -of bottles and shiny glasses; alcoves with tables; and enormous oil -paintings in still more enormous gilt frames and lighted by special -fixtures built out from the wall. The one over the bar exhibited an -undraped female figure reclining on a couch. - -They stood, a jolly group, naming their drinks. - -Henry, who had no taste for liquor, stood apart, pale, sober, struggling -to exhibit a _savoir faire_ that had no existence in his mercurial -nature. - -'I'll take ginger ale,' he said, in painful self-consciousness. - -The Senator, his somewhat jaunty straw hat thrust back a little way off -his forehead, took Scotch; drank it neat. It seemed to Henry incongruous -when the prim little man tossed the liquor back against his palate with -a long-practised flourish. - -Back in his seat, between Madame and the girl from Omaha, Henry noted -that the Senator had not returned with the others. - -Madame turned and looked up the aisle. - -The lights were dimmed. The curtain rose. - -Cicely was in the row ahead, Herb on one side, Elbow on the other. - -Elbow was calm, casual, humorous in a way, whispering phrases that had -been found amusing by many girls. - -Herb, the only man in what Henry still thought of as a 'full dress -suit,' had a way of turning his head and studying Cicely's hair and -profile whenever she turned toward Elbow, that stirred Henry to anguish. - -'He's rich,' thought Henry, twisting in his chair, clasping and -unclasping his hands. 'He's rich. He can do everything for her. And he -loves her. He couldn't look that way if he didn't.' - -A comedian was singing and dancing on the stage. Cicely watched him, her -eyes alight, her lips parted in a smile of sheer enjoyment. - -'How can she!' he thought. 'How _can_ she!' Then: 'I could do that. If -I'd kept it up. If she'd seen me in _Iolanthe_ maybe she'd care.' - -The curtain fell on a glittering finale. - -With a great chattering the party moved up the aisle. Cicely told her -two escorts that she didn't know when she had enjoyed anything so much. -She was merry about it. Care free as a child. - -Henry stopped short in the foyer; standing aside, half behind a framed -advertisement on an easel; his hands clenched in his coat pockets; white -of face; biting his lip. - -'I can't go with them!' he was thinking. 'It's too much. I can't! I -can't trust myself. I'd say something. But what'll they think? - -'She won't know. She won't care. She's happy--my suffering is nothing to -her.' This was youthful bitterness, of course. But it met an immediate -counter in the following thought, which, to any one who knew the often -selfcentred Henry would have been interesting. 'But that's the way it -ought to be. She mustn't know how I suffer. It isn't her fault. A great -love just comes to you. Nobody can help it. It's tragedy, of course. -Even if I have to--to'--his lip was quivering now--'to shoot myself, I -must leave a note telling her she wasn't to blame. Just that I loved her -too much to live without her. But I haven't any money. I couldn't make -her happy.' - -His eyes, narrow points of fire, glanced this way and that. Almost -furtively. Passion--a grown man's passion--was or seemed to him to be -tearing him to pieces. And he hadn't a grown man's experience of life, -the background of discipline and self-control, that might have helped -him weather the storm. All he could do was to wonder if he had spoken -aloud or only thought these words. He didn't know. Somebody might have -heard. The crowd was still pouring slowly out past him. It seemed to him -incredible that all the world shouldn't know about it. - -The others of the party were somewhere out on the street now. They were -going to a restaurant; then, in their bus, to the twelve-fourteen, the -last train for Sunbury until daylight. - -What could he do if he didn't take that train? He might hide up forward, -in the smoker. But there were a hundred chances that he would be seen. -No, that wouldn't do. He must hurry after them. - -But he flatly couldn't. Why, the tears were coming to his eyes. A little -weakness, whenever he was deeply moved, for which he despised himself. -There was no telling what he might do--cry like a girl, break out into -an impossible torrent of words. A scene. Anywhere; on the street, in the -restaurant. - -No, however awkward, whatever the cost, he couldn't rejoin them, he -couldn't look at Cicely and Elbow and Herb and the others. - -He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough. -He couldn't ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a -week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. -He could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised--fifty or -seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for -Sunbury. - -He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had -talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They -might say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. -It was a sort of way out. - -The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he -would have to go--somewhere. - -A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But -Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame -Watt, still couldn't, for the moment, find place for her in his madly -surging thoughts. - -She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood -before him. - -Then came this brief conversation:-- - -'You haven't seen him, Henry?' - -'No, I haven't.' - -'Hm! Awkward--he took the pledge--he swore it--I am counting on you to -help me.' - -'Of course. Anything!' - -'Were you out with him between the acts?' - -'Why--yes.' - -'Did he drink anything then?' - -'Yes. He took Scotch.' - -'Oh, he did?' - -'Yes'm.' - -'It's all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place? -Be very careful. People mustn't know. And I must count on you. There's -nobody else. We'll manage it, somehow. We've got to keep him quiet and -get him out home. I'll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to -me--have a waiter say I'm wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...' - -It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She -was still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the -waiting groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of -the street in the direction of a certain bar. - - -6 - - -The Senator's cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the -little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew. -The straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the -enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar. - -Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the -alcove, leaned heavily on the table, and watched him. - -The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near -despair, that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had -said. Something about getting word to her--at the restaurant. But how -could he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his -own trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really -tragic problem on his hands, flatly impossible. - -And there wasn't a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out -alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She -couldn't leave her party. And she couldn't bring this pitiable object in -among those young people. - -Henry's lips pressed together. The world looked to him just now a savage -wilderness. - -'Consider women, for instance!' The Senator's hand waved again toward -the picture. It was surprising to Henry that he could speak with such -distinctness. 'Consider women! They toil not, neither do they spin. Yet -at the last, they bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.' - -Henry held his watch under the table; glanced down. It was five minutes -past twelve. For nearly an hour he had been sitting there, helpless, -beating his brain for schemes that wouldn't present themselves. The -twelve-fourteen was as good as gone, of course. Though it had not for a -minute been possible. He thought vaguely, occasionally, of a hotel. But -stronger and more persistent was the feeling that he ought to get him -out home if he could. - -'Women...!' The Senator drooped in his chair. Then looked up; braced -himself; shouted, 'Here, boy! A bit more of the same!' When the glass -was before him he drank, brightened a little, and resumed. 'Woman, my -boy, is th' root--No, I will go farther! I will state that woman is th' -root 'n' branch of all evil.' - -Henry, with a muttered, 'Excuse me, Senator!' got out of the alcove and -stepped outside the door. He stood on the door-step; took off his hat -and pressed a hand to his forehead. - -Across the street, near the side door of the hotel, stood an -old-fashioned closed hack. The driver lay curled up across his seat, -asleep. The horses stood with drooping heads. - -Henry gazed intently at the dingy vehicle. Slowly his eyes narrowed. He -looked again at his watch. Then he moved deliberately across the way and -woke the cabman. - -'Hey!' he cried, as the man fumblingly put on his hat and blinked up the -street and down. 'Hey, you! What'll you take to drive to Sunbury?' - -'Sunbury? Oh, that's a long way. And it's pretty late at night.' - -'I know all that! How much'll you take?' - -The cabman pondered. - -'How many?' - -'Two.' - -'Fifteen dollars.' - -'Oh, say I, that's twice too much! Why----' - -'Fifteen dollars.' - -'But-----' - -'Fifteen dollars.' - -Henry swallowed. He felt very daring. He had heard of fellows and girls -missing the late train and driving out. But the amount usually mentioned -was ten dollars. However... - -'All right. Drive across here.' - -He bent over the Senator, who was talking, still on the one topic, to a -small picture just above Henry's empty seat. - -'We're going home now, Senator. You'd better come with me.' - -'Going home? No, not there. Not there. Back to the Senate, yes. Tha's -different. But not home. If you knew what I've----' - -Henry led him out. But first the Senator, with some difficulty in the -managing, paid his check. Henry would have paid it, but hadn't nearly -enough. It had never occurred to him that a single individual could -spend so large a sum on himself within the space of less, considerably -less, than three hours. - -The cabman and Henry together got him into the hack. - -'They are pop--popularly known as the weaker sex. All a ter'ble mistake, -young man. They're stronger. Li'l do you dream how stronger--how -great--how more stronger they are. Curious about words. At times one -commands them with ease. Other times they elude one. Words are more -tricky--few suspect--but women allure us only to destroy us. Women....' - -Before the cab rolled across the Rush Street Bridge on its long journey -to the northward he was asleep. - - -7 - - -It was half-past two in the morning when a hack drawn by weary horses -on whose flanks the later glistened, drew up at the porte cochère of the -old Dexter Smith place in Sunbury. - -The cabman lumbered down and opened the door. A youth, nervously wide -awake, leaped out. Then followed this brief conversation. - -'Help me carry him up, please.' - -'You'd better pay me first. Fifteen dollars! - -'I'll do that afterward.' - -'I'll take it now.' - -'I tell you I'm going to get it----' - -'You mean you haven't got it?' - -'Not on me.' - -'Well, look here----' - -'Ssh! You'll wake the whole house up! You've simply got to wait until I -get home. You needn't worry. I'm going to pay you.' - -'You'd better. Say, he'd ought to have it on him.' - -'We're not going into his pockets. Now you do as I tell you.' - -Together they lifted him out. - -Henry looked up at the door. Madame Watt, somebody, had left this -outside light burning. Doubtless the thing to do was just to ring the -bell. - -He brushed the cabman aside. The Senator was such a little man, so -pitifully slender and light! And Henry himself was supple and strong. -He took the little old gentleman up in his arms and carried him up -the steps. And once again in the course of this strange night his eyes -filled. - -But not for himself this time. Henry's gift of insight, while it was now -and for many years to come would be fitful, erratic, coming and going -with his intensely varied moods, was none the less a real, at times a -great, gift. And I think he glimpsed now, through the queer confusing -mists of thought, something of the grotesque tragedy that runs, like a -red and black thread, through the fabric of many human lives. - -The Senator had been a famous man. Through nearly two decades, as even -Henry dimly knew, he had stood out, a figure of continuous national -importance. And now he was just--this. Here in Henry's arms; inert. - -'Ring the bell, will you!' said Henry shortly. - -The cabman moved. - -There was a light step within. The lock turned. The door swung open, and -Cicely stood there. - -She was wrapped about in a wonderful soft garment of blue. She was pale. -And her hair was all down, rippling about her shoulders and (when she -stepped quickly back out of the cabman's vision) down her back below the -waist. - -Henry carried his burden in, and she quickly closed the door. - -'Has anybody seen? Does anybody know?' she asked, in a whisper. - -He leaned back against the wall. - -'No. Nobody. But you----' - -'I've been sitting up, watching. I was so afraid aunt might----' - -'Then you know?' - -'Know? Why--Tell me, do you think you can carry him to his room?' - -'Me? Oh, easy! Why he doesn't weigh much of anything. Just look!' - -'Then come. Quickly. Keep very quiet.' - -Slowly, painstakingly, he followed her up the stairs and along the upper -hall to an open door. - -'Wait!' she whispered. 'I'll have to turn on the light.' He laid the -limp figure on the bed. - -Outside, in the still night, the horses stirred and stamped. A -voice--the cabman's--cried,-- - -'Whoa there, you! Whoa!' - -Cicely turned with a start. - -'Oh, why can't he keep still!... You--you'd better go. I don't know why -you're so kind. Those others would never----' - -'Please!--You _do_ know!' - -This remark appeared to add to her distress. She made a quick little -gesture. - -'Oh, no, I don't mean--not that I want you to----' - -'Not so loud! Quick! Please go!' - -'But it's so terribly hard for you. I can't bear--I can't bear to think -of your having to--people just mustn't know about it, that's all! We've -got to do something. She mustn't--You see, I love you, and.... - -Their eyes met. - -A deep dominating voice came from the doorway. - -'You had better go to your room, Cicely,' it said. - -They turned like guilty children. - -Cicely flushed, then quietly went. - -Madame was a strange spectacle. She wore a quilted maroon robe, which -she held clutched together at her throat. Most of the hair that was -usually piled and coiled about her head had vanished; what little -remained was surprisingly gray and was twisted up in front and over the -ears in curl papers of the old-fashioned kind. - -Henry lowered his gaze; it seemed indelicate to look at her. He -discovered then that he was still wearing his hat, and took it off with -a low, wholly nervous laugh that was as surprising to himself as it -certainly was, for a moment, to Madame Watt, who surveyed him under knit -brows before centring her attention on the unconscious figure on the -bed. - -'We owe you a great deal,' she said then. 'It was awkward enough. But it -might have been a disaster. You've saved us from that.' - -'Oh, it was nothing,' murmured Henry, blushing. - -'Are you sure no one saw? You didn't take him to the station?' - -'No. We drove straight out.' - -'Hm! When you came did you ring our bell?' - -'Me? Why, no. I was going to. But----' - -'Yes?' - -'She--your--Miss----' - -'Do you mean Cicely?' - -'Yes. She opened the door.' - -Madame frowned again. - -'But what on earth----' - -Henry interrupted, looking up at her now. - -'I'll tell you. I know. I can see it. And somebody's got to tell you.' - -Madame looked mystified. - -'She couldn't bear to have you know. She was afraid you----' - -Madame raised her free hand. 'We won't go into that.' - -'But we _must_. It was your temper she was----' - -'We wont----' - -'You _must_ listen! Can't you see the dread she lives under--the fear -that you'll forget yourself and people will know! And can't you see -what it drives--him--to? I heard him talk when he was telling his real -thoughts. I know.' - -'Oh, you do!' - -'Yes, I know. And I know this town. They're very conservative. They -watch new people. They're watching you. Like cats. And they'll gossip. I -know that too. I've suffered from it. Things that aren't so. But what -do they care? They'd spoil your whole life--like that!--and go to the -Country Club early to get the best dances. Oh, I know, I tell you. -You've got to be careful. It isn't what I say, but you've _got_ to! Or -they'll find out, and they won't stop till they've hounded you out -of town, and driven him to--this--for good, and broken her--your -niece's--heart.' - -He stopped, out of breath. - -The fire that had flamed from his eyes died down, leaving them like gray -ashes. Confusion smote him. He shifted his feet; turned his hat round -and round between his hands. What--_what_--had he been saying! - -Then he heard her voice, saying only this:-- - -'In a way--in a way--you have a right.... God knows it won't.... So much -at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.' - -He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was -gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn't speak again; not a word. - -She stood aside. - -'It was very good of you,' she said. - -But he rushed past her and down the stairs. - -Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his -temperamental young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending -over him, shaking him and saying, 'Gimme fifteen dollars! I'll explain -to-morrow. Gosh, but I'm a wreck! You've no idea!' - -And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were -piled and fumbling in various pockets for money. - - -8 - - -When Henry awoke, at ten, he found himself alone in the rooms. The warm -sunshine was streaming in, the university clock was booming out the -hour. Then the mellow church bells set up their stately ringing. - -He lay for a time drowsily listening. Then the bells brought -recollections. Madame Watt, and Cicely, and often the Senator attended -the First Presbyterian Church. Right across the alley, facing on Filbert -Avenue. By merely turning his head, Henry could see the rear gable of -the chapel and the windows of the Sunday-school room. - -He sprang out of bed. - -His blue serge coat was spotted. From the table in that bar-room, -doubtless. He found a bottle of ammonia and sponged. It was also in need -of a pressing, but he could do nothing about that now. He had to go to -church. - -No other course was thinkable. If only to sit where he could catch a -glimpse now and then of her profile. - -He heard a knock downstairs, but at first ignored it. No one would be -coming here of a Sunday morning. - -Finally he went down. - -There, on the step, immaculately dressed, rather weary looking with dark -areas under red eyes, stood Senator Watt. - -'How do you do,' said he, with dignity. - -'Won't you come in?' said Henry. - -They mounted the stairs. The Senator sat stiffly on a small chair. Henry -took the piano stool. - -'I understand that you did me a very great service last night, Mr -Calverly.' - -'Oh, no,' Henry managed to say, in a mumbling voice, throwing out his -hands. 'No, it wasn't really anything at all.' - -'You will please tell me what it cost.' - -'Oh--why--well, fifteen dollars.' - -The Senator counted out the money. - -'You have placed me greatly in your debt, Mr Calverly. I hope that I may -some day repay you.' - -'Oh, no! You see...' - -Silence fell upon them. - -The Senator rose to go. - -'Drink,' he remarked then, 'is an unmitigated evil. Never surrender to -it.' - -'I really don't drink at all, Senator.' - -'Good! Don't do it. Life is more complex than a young man of your -age can perceive. At best it is a bitter struggle. Evil habits are a -handicap. They aggravate every problem. Good day. We shall see you soon -again at the house, I trust.' - -Henry, moved, looked after him as he walked almost briskly away--an -erect, precise little man. - -Then Henry went to church. - -Herb de Casselles ushered him to a seat. He could just see Cicely. He -thought she looked very sad. Yet she sang brightly in the hymns. And -after the benediction when Herb and Elbow and Dex Smith crowded about -her in the aisle, she smiled quite as usual, and made her quick, eager -Frenchy gestures. - -He brushed his hand across his eyes Had he been living through a -dream--a tragic sort of dream? - -He made his way, between pews, to a side door, and hurried out. He -couldn't speak to a soul; not now. He walked blindly, very fast, down to -Chestnut Avenue, over to Simpson Street, then up toward the stores and -shops. - -Humphrey had a way of working at the office Sundays. He decided to go -there. There was the matter of the fifteen dollars. And Humphrey would -expect him for their usual Sunday dinner at Stanley's. - -He was passing Stanley's now. Next came Donovan's drug store. Next -beyond that, Swanson's flower shop. - -A carriage--a Victoria--rolled softly by on rubber tyres. Silver jingled -on the harness of the two black horses. Two men in plum-coloured livery -sat like wooden things on the box. On the rear seat were Madame Watt and -Cicely. - -The carriage drew up before Swanson's. Madame Watt got heavily out and -went into the shop. - -Cicely had turned. She was waving her hand. - -Henry found his vision suddenly blurred. Then he was standing by the -carriage, and Cicely was speaking, leaning over close to him so that the -men couldn't hear. - -'It was dreadful the way I let you go! I didn't even say good-night. And -all the time I wanted you to know....' - -He couldn't speak. He stared at her, lips compressed; temples pounding. - -She seemed to be smiling faintly. - -'We--we might say good-night now.' - -He heard her say that. - -She thought he shivered. Then he said huskily:-- - -'I--I've wanted to call you--to call you--' - -'Yes?' - -'--Cicely.'. - -There was a silence. She whispered, 'I think I've wanted you to.' - -He had rested a hand on the plum upholstery beside her. In some way it -touched hers; clasped it; gripped it feverishly. - -The colour came rushing to his face. And to hers. - -He saw, through a blinding mist, that there were tears in her eyes. - -'Ci--Cicely, you don't, you can't mean--that you--too....' - -'Please, Henry! Not here! Not now!' - -They glanced up the street; and down. - -'Come this afternoon,' she breathed. - -'They'll be there.' - -'Come early. Two o'clock. We'll take a walk.' - -'Oh--Cicely!' - -'Henry!' - -Their hands were locked together until Madame came out. - -The carriage rolled away. - -Henry--it seemed to himself--reeled dizzily along Simpson Street to the -stairway that you climbed to get to the _Gleaner_ office. - -And all along this street of his struggles, his failures, his one or two -successes, his dreams, the dingy, two-story buildings laughed and danced -and cheered about him, with him, for him--Hemple's meat-market, Berger's -grocery, Swanson's, Donovan's, Schultz and Schwartz's barber shop, -Stanley's, the Sunbury National Bank, the postoffice--all reeled -jubilantly with him in the ecstasy of young love! - - - - -IX--WHAT'S MONEY! - - -1 - - -|Henry paused on the sill. The door he held open bore the legend, -painted in black and white on a rectangle of tin:-- - -THE SUNBURY WEEKLY GLEANER - -By Weaver and Calverly - -'How late you going to stay, Hump?' he asked. - -Humphrey raised his eyes, listlessly thrust his pencil back of his ear, -and looked rather thoughtfully at the youth in the doorway; a dapper -youth, in an obviously new 'Fedora' hat, a conspicuous cord of black -silk hanging from his glasses, his little bamboo cane, caught by its -crook in the angle of his elbow. - -Humphrey's gaze wandered to the window; settled on the roof of the -Sunbury National Bank opposite. He suppressed a sigh. - -'I may want to talk with you, Hen. I've been figuring----' - -The youth in the doorway shifted his position with a touch of -impatience. - -'See here, Hump, you know I can't make head or tail out of figures!' - -Humphrey looked down at the desk. - -'Anyway I'll see you at supper,' Henry added defensively. - -'Mildred expects me down there for supper,' said Humphrey. The sigh came -now. He pushed up the eyeshade and slowly rubbed his eyes. 'But I may -not be able to get away. There are times, Hen, when you have to look -figures in the face.' - -The youth flushed at this, and replied, rather explosively;-- - -'A fellow has to do the sorta thing he _can_ do, Hump!' - -'Well--will you be at the rooms this evening?' Humphrey's eyes were -again taking in the natty costume. And surveying him, Humphrey answered -his own question; dryly. 'I imagine not.' - -'Well--I was going over to the Watts.' - -There was a long silence: - -Finally Henry let himself slowly out and closed the door. - -Outside, on the landing, he paused again; but this time to button his -coat and pull up the blue-bordered handkerchief in his breast pocket -until a corner showed. - -He looked too, by the fading light--it was mid-September, and the sun -would be setting shortly, out over the prairie--at the tin legend on the -door. - -The sight seemed to reassure him somewhat. As did the other, similar -tin legends that were tacked up between the treads of the long flight of -stairs that led to Simpson Street, at each of which he turned to look. - -Humphrey had before him a pile of canvas-bound account books, a spindle -of unpaid bills, a little heap of business letters, and a pad covered -with pencilled columns. He rested an elbow among the papers, turned his -chair, and looked through the window down into the street. - -A moment passed, then he saw Henry walking diagonally across toward -Donovan's drug store. - -For an ice-cream soda, of course; or one of those thick, 'frosted' -fluids of chocolate or coffee flavour that he affected. And it was now -within an hour of supper time. - -Humphrey leaned forward. Yes, there he stood, on the kerb before -Donovan's, looking, with a quick nervous jerking of the head, now up -Simpson Street, now down. Yes, that was his hurry--the usual thing. -Madame Watt made a point of driving down to meet the five-twenty-nine -from town. Senator Watt always came out then. And usually Cicely Hamlin -came along with her. - -Humphrey sighed, rose, stood looking down at the bills and letters and -canvas books; pressed a hand again against his eyes; wandered to the -press-room door and looked, pursing his lips, knitting his brows, at -the row of job presses, at the big cylinder press that extended nearly -across the rear end of the long room, at the row of type cases on their -high stands, at imposing-stones on heavy tables. He sniffed the odour -of ink, damp paper, and long, respected dust that hung over the whole -establishment. He smiled, moodily, as his eye rested on the gray -and black roller towel that hung above the iron sink, recalling Bob -Burdette's verses. He returned to the office, and stood for a few -moments before the file of the _Gleaner_ on the wall desk by the door, -turning the pages of recent issues. From each number a story by Henry -Calverly, 3rd, seemed to leap out at his eyes and his brain. _The Caliph -of Simpson Street, Sinbad the Treasurer, A Kerbstone Barmecide, The -Cauliflowers of the Caliph, The Printer and the Pearls, Ali Anderson -and the Four Policemen_--the very titles singing aloud of the boy's -extraordinary gift. - -'And it's all we've got here,' mused Humphrey, moving back to his own -desk. 'That mad child makes us, or we break. I've got to humour him, -protect him. Can't even show him these bills. Like getting all your -light and heat from a candle that may get blown out any minute.' And -before dropping heavily into his chair, glancing at his watch, drawing -his eye-shade down, and plunging again at the heavy problem of keeping -a country weekly alive without sufficient advertising revenue, he added, -aloud, with a wry, wrinkly smile that yet gave him a momentary whimsical -attractiveness: 'That's the devil of it!' - -There was a step on' the stairs. - -The door opened slowly. A red face appeared, under a tipped-down Derby -hat; a face decorated with a bristling red moustache and a richly -carmine nose. - -Humphrey peered; then considered. It was Tim Niernan, one-time fire -chief, now village constable. - -'Young Calverly here?' asked the official in a husky voice. - -Humphrey shook his head. His thoughts, momentarily disarranged, were -darting this way and that. - -'What is it, Tim? What do you want of him?' - -Tim seemed embarrassed. - -'Why----' he began, 'why----' - -'Some trouble?' - -'Why, you see Charlie Waterhouse's suing him.' - -Humphrey tried to consider this. - -'What for?' - -'Well--libel. One o' them stories o' his. I liked 'em myself. My folks -all say he's a great kid. But Charlie's pretty sore.' - -'Suing for a lot, I suppose?' - -'Why yes. Well--ten thousand.' - -'Hm!' - -'He lives with you, don't he--back of the Parmenter place?' - -'Yes.' Humphrey's answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to -make Tim's task easy. - -The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed -Donovan's on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake. - -Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read _Sinbad -the Treasurer_ through. - -There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson -Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer, -whether you called him 'Sinbad' or Waterhouse. - -'He certainly did cut loose,' mused Humphrey. 'Charlie's got a case. Got -his nerve, too.' - -Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet, -tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil. - - -2 - - -Henry turned away from Donovan's soda fountain, wiping froth from his -moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were -knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness, -intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up -the street, now down. - -A low-hung Victoria, drawn by a glossy team in harness that glittered -with silver, swung at a dignified pace around the corner of Filbert -Avenue, two wooden men in plum-coloured livery on the box, two -dignified figures on the rear seat, one middle-aged, large, formidable, -commanding, sitting erect and high, the other slighter and not -commanding. - -Instantly, at the sight, Henry's frown gave place to a nervously eager -smile, returned, went again. When the carriage at length drew up before -Berger's grocery, across the way, however, he had both frown and smile -under reasonable control and was a presentable if deadly serious young -man. - -The footman leaped down and stood at attention. The formidable one -stepped out and entered Berger's. And the slight, fresh-faced girl, -leaned out to welcome the youth who rushed across the street. - -In Sunbury, in the nineties, a youth and a maiden could 'go together' -without a thought of the future. The phrase implied frank pairing off, -perhaps an occasionally shyly restrained sentimental passage, in general -a monopoly of the other's spare time. An 'understanding,' on the other -hand, was a. distinctly transitive state, leading to engagement and -marriage as soon as the youth was old enough or could earn a living or -the opposition of parents could be overcome. - -The relationship between Cicely and Henry had lately hovered delicately -between the two states. If it seemed, after each timid advance, to -recede from the 'understanding' point; that was because of the burdens -and the heavy responsibility that instantly claimed their thoughts at -the mere suggestion of engagement and marriage: - -There were among the parents of Henry's boyhood friends, couples that -had married at twenty or even younger, and on no greater income than -Henry's rather doubtful twelve dollars a week. But that day had gone by. -An 'understanding' meant now, at the very least, that you were saving -for a diamond. You could hardly ask a nice girl to become engaged -without one. - -And marriage meant good clothes for parties, receptions and Sundays, and -the street; it meant membership in the Country Club, a reasonably priced -pew in church, a rented house, at least, preferably not in South Sunbury -and distinctly not out on the prairie or too near the tracks, a certain -amount invested in furniture, dishes and other house fittings, and -reasonable credit with the grocer and at the meat-market. You could -hardly ask a nice girl to go in for less than that. You really couldn't -afford to let her go in for less. - -So they were marrying later now; six or eight or ten years later. And -the girls were turning to older men. Here in Sunbury, Clemency Snow had -married a man seven or eight years older whose younger brother had been -among her playmates. Jane Bellman had married a shy little doctor of -thirty-one or two. And Martha Caldwell, whom Henry had 'gone with' for -two or three years, was permitting the rich, really old bachelor, -James B. Merchant, Jr., to devote about all his time to her. He was -thirty-eight if a day. - -It was a disturbing condition for the town boys. Thoughts of it cast -black shadows on Henry's undisciplined brain as he looked at the girl in -the Victoria, felt, in the very air about them, her quick, bright -smile, the delicately responsive liftings of her eyebrows, her marked -desirability. - -'Oh, Henry,' she was saying, 'I've just been hearing the most wonderful -things about you! You can't imagine! At Mrs MacLouden's tea. There was a -man there----' - -Henry sniffed. A man at a tea! And talking to Cicely! Making up to her, -doubtless. - -'--a friend of Mr Merchant's, from New York. And what do you think? Mr -Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He's been -keeping them. Isn't that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this man -says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at your -age. Henry--just _think!_' - -But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of -the man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones. - -He leaned over the wheel. - -'Cicely--you--you're expecting me to-night?' - -'Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I'd like to have you come.' - -'But weren't you _expecting_ me?' - -'Why--yes, Henry. - -'Of course'--stiffly--'if you'd rather I wouldn't come...' - -'Please, Henry! You mustn't. Not here on the street!' He stood, flushing -darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.' - -She murmured:-- - -'You know I want you to come.' - -This was unsatisfactory. Indeed he hardly heard it. He was full of his -thoughts about her, about the older men, about those tremendous -burdens that he couldn't even pretend to assume. And then came a mad -recklessness. - -'Oh, Cicely--this is awful--I just can't stand it! Why can't we have an -understanding? Call it that? Stop all this uncertainty! I--I--I've just -got to speak to your aunt----' - -'Henry! Please! Don't say those things---' - -'That's it! You won't let me say them.' - -'Not here----' - -'Oh, please, Cicely! Please! I know I'm not earning much; but I'll be -twenty-one on the seventh of November and then I'll have more'n three -thousand dollars. Please let me tell her that, Cicely. Oh, I know it -wouldn't do to spend all the principal,--but it would go a long way -toward setting us up--you know--' his voice trembled, dropped even -lower, as with awe--'get the things we'd need when we were--you -know--well, married.' - -He felt, as he poured out this mumbled torrent of words, that he -was rushing to a painful failure. Cicely had drawn back. She looked -bewildered, and tired. And he had fetched up in a black maze of -despairing thoughts. - -The footman must have heard part of it. He was standing very straight. -And the coachman was staring out over the horses. He had probably heard -too. - -Then Madame Watt came sailing out Of Berger's; fixed her hawk eyes on -him with a curious interest. - -He knew that he lifted his hat. He saw, or half saw, that Cicely tried -to smile. She did bob her head in the bright quick way she had. - -Then the Victoria rolled away, and he was standing, one foot in the -street, the other on the kerb, gazing after them through a mist of -something so near tears that he was reduced to a painful struggle to -gain even the appearance of self-control. - -And then, for a quarter-hour, mood followed mood so fast that they -almost maddened him. - -He thought of old Hump, up there in the office, fighting out their -common battle. Perhaps he ought to go back; do his best to understand -the accounts. Figures always depressed him. No matter. He would go back. -He would show Hump that he could at least be a friend. Yes, he could at -least show that. Thing to do was to keep thinking of the other fellow. -Forget yourself. That was the thing! - -But what he did, first, was to cross over to Swanson's flower shop and -sternly order violets. Paid cash for them. - -'Miss Cicely Hamlin?' asked the Swanson-girl. - -'Yes,' growled Henry, 'for Miss Hamlin. Send them right over, please.' - -Then he walked around the block; muttering aloud; starting; -glancing-about; muttering again. He could hardly go to Cicely's. Not -this evening! Not when she had been willing to leave it like that. - -He meant to go, of course. Too early. By seven-thirty or so. But he told -himself he wouldn't do it. She would have to write him. Or lose him. He -would wait in dignified silence. - -The early September twilight was settling down on Sunbury. - -Lights came on, here and there. The dusk was a relief. - -He had wrecked everything. It wasn't so much that he had proposed an -understanding. In the circumstances she couldn't altogether object to -that. It was risking the vital, final decision, of course. But that, -sooner or later, would have to be risked. That was something a man had -to face, and go through, and be a sport about. No, the trouble seemed -to be that he had lost himself. He had made it awkward, impossible, -for both of them. Through his impatience he had created an impossible -situation. And in losing himself he had lost her, and lost her in the -worst way imaginable. He had contrived to make an utterly ridiculous -figure of himself, and, in a measure, of her. He had to set his teeth -hard on that thought, and compress his lips. - -He was on Simpson Street again. Yellow gas-light shone out of the -windows of the _Gleaner_ offices, over Hemple's. Old Hump was hard at -it. - -He went up there. - - -3 - - -Humphrey was sitting there, chin on chest, long legs stretched under the -desk. He didn't look up; only a slight start and a movement of one hand -indicated that he heard. - -Henry stood, confused, a thought alarmed, looking at him; moved -aimlessly to his own desk and stirred papers about; came, finally, -and sat on a corner of the exchange table, tapping his cane nervously -against his knee. - -'Aren't going to stay here all night, are you, Hump?' he asked, rather -huskily. - -Humphrey's hand moved again; he didn't speak. - -'Hump! What's the matter? Anything happened?' - -Still no answer. - -'But you know we're picking up in advertising, Hump?' - -'Not near enough.' This was a non-committal growl. - -'And see the way our circulation's been----' - -'Losing money on it. Can't carry it.' - -'But--but, Hump----' - -The senior partner waved his hand. His face was gray and grim, his voice -restrained. He even smiled as he deliberately filled his pipe. - -'It's bad, Hen. Very, very bad. I've tried to keep you from worrying, -but you've got to know now. We paid a little over two thousand for this -plant and the good will. - -'Cheap enough, wasn't it?' cried Henry. - -'If we'd really got her for that, yes. But look at the capital it takes. -Building up. I had just a thousand more, a bond. Threw that in last -month, you know.' - -'Oh'--breathed Henry, fright in his eyes--'I forgot about that.' - -'And you can't raise a cent.' - -Henry tried to think this over. He started to speak; swallowed; slipped -off the table; stood there; lifted his cane and sighted along it out the -window. - -'I can--November seventh,' he finally remarked. - -Humphrey blew a smoke-ring; followed it with his eyes. - -'My boy, nations, worlds, constellations, may crash between now and -November seventh.' - -'I--I could tackle my uncle again,' murmured Henry, out of a despairing -face. - -There was at times an acid quality in Humphrey. Henry felt it in him -now, as he said dryly:-- - -'As I recall your last transaction with your uncle, Hen, he told -you finally that you couldn't have one cent of your principal before -November seventh.' - -'He--well, yes, he did say that.' - -'Meant it, didn't he?' - -'Y--yes. He meant it.' - -'He's a business man, I believe.' Humphrey smoked for a moment; then -added, with that same biting quality in his voice, 'And unless -he's insane he would hardly put money into this business now. As it -stands--or doesn't stand. And I presume he's not insane. No, we'll drop -that subject.' - -Henry felt Humphrey's eyes on him. Sombre cold eyes. And he fell again, -in his misery, to sighting along his cane. It seemed to Henry that the -world was reeling to disaster. His young, over keen imagination was -painting ugly, inescapable pictures of a savage world in which all -effort seemed to fail. - -Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider -every minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He -was afraid he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, -meaningless, mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that -fear. - -If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair--and he -was in despair--was neither the sorry condition of the business, nor -the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the -hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey's face and eyes and caught -that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn't -endure hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly -sympathy, an easy give and take of the spirit in which his _naïveté_ -would not be misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, -apparently, the only soil in which his faculties could take root and -grow. Hostility in those he had been led to trust disarmed him, crushed -him. - -'Hump,' he ventured now, weakly, 'I think--maybe--you'd better show me -those figures. I--I'll try to understand 'em. I will.' - -Humphrey gave a little snort; brushed the idea away with a sweep of a -long hand. - -'No use!' he said brusquely. He rolled down the desktop and locked it -with a snap. 'Getting stale myself. Sleep on it. Not a thing you can do, -Hen!' He knocked the ashes from his pipe, gloomily. Buttoned his vest. -Suddenly he broke out with this:-- - -'You're a lucky brute, Hen!' - -Henry started; glanced up; fumbled at his moustache. 'You're wondering -why I said that. But, man, you're a genius--Yes, you are! I have to plug -for it. But you've got the flare. You know well enough what's loaded all -this circulation on us. Your stories! Not a thing else. You'll do more -of 'em. You'll be famous.' - -'Oh, no, Hump I You don't know how I've----' - -'Yes, you'll be famous. I won't. It's a gift--fame, success. It's a sort -of edge God--or something--puts on a man. A cutting edge. You've simply -got it. I simply haven't.' - -Henry pulled and pulled at his moustache. - -'And you've got a girl--a lovely girl. She's mad about you--oh, yes she -is! I know. I've seen her look at you.' - -'But, Hump, you don't just know what----' - -'She doesn't have to hide her feelings. Not seriously, not with a lying -smile. And you don't have to hide yours. You haven't got this furtive -rope around your neck, strangling the breath of decent morality out of -your soul. Thank God you don't know what it means--that struggle. She'll -be announcing her engagement one of these days. - -'There'll be presents and flowers. You'll get stirred up and write -something a thousand times better than you know how to write. Money will -come--oh, yes it will! It'll roll to you, Hen. For a time. Or at times. -And you'll marry--a nice clean wedding. God, just to think of it is like -the May winds off the lake!' - -He threw out his long arms. Henry thought, perversely enough, that he -looked like Lincoln. - -'But the greatest thing of all is that you're twenty. Think of it! -Twenty!... Hen, when I was twenty I put my life on a schedule for five -years. They were up last month. - -'I was to be flying at twenty-four. Think of it--flying! Through the -air, man! Like a gull! At twenty-five I was to be famous and rich. A -conqueror! I slaved for that. Worked days and nights and Sundays for -that. Sweated for the Old Man there on the _Voice_; put up with his -stupid little insults.' - -He sprang up; got into his coat; looked at his watch. - -'I'm late. Got to stop at the rooms too. Mildred'll be wondering. You -can stay here if you like.' - -But Henry clung to him. Around the back street they went. And Humphrey -talked on. - -'Well, I'm twenty-five! And where've I got? I love a woman. Hen, I hope -you'll never be torn as I'm torn now. You think you've been through -things. Why, you're an innocent babe. I've got a woman's name--and -that's a woman's life, Hen!--in my hands. It's a muddle. Maybe there's -tragedy in it. May never work out. Sometimes I feel as if we were going -straight over a precipice, she and I. It goes dark. It suffocates me.... -It's costing me everything. It'll take money--a lot of it--money I -haven't got. If the paper goes, my last hopes go with it. If we can't -turn that corner. Everything comes down bang. No use.' - -Henry tried to say, 'Oh, I guess we'll turn our corner all right;' but -if the words passed his lips at all it was only as a whisper. - -They were a hundred feet from the alley back of Parmenter's. It was dark -now, there in the shade of the double row of maples. Humphrey stopped -short; pressed his hands to his eyes; then looked at Henry. - -'You coming to the rooms, too?' he asked. - -Henry nodded. - -'I don't know's I--I was forgetting, so many things--Oh well, come -along. It hardly matters.' - -At the alley entrance a man intercepted them; said, 'This is Henry -Calverly, ain't it?' Struck a match and read an extraordinary mumble -of words. He struck other matches, and read hurriedly on. Then he moved -apologetically away, leaving Henry backed limply against a board fence. - -Humphrey stood waiting, a tall shadow of a man. To him Henry turned, -feeling curiously weak in the legs and gone at the stomach. - -'What is it?' he asked, weakly, meekly. 'I couldn't understand. Did he -ar--arrest me or something?' - -'Charlie Waterhouse has sued you for libel. Ten thousand dollars. Come -on. I can't wait.' - -'But--but--but that's foolish. He can't----' - -'That's how it is.' Humphrey was grim. - -They walked in silence up the alley. Henry stood by while his partner -unlocked the neat front door to the old barn, a white door, with one -white step and an iron scraper. He could just make them out in the dusk. -He wondered if he mightn't presently wake up and find it a dream.... Old -Hump! - -They stood in the shop. Humphrey had switched on one light; he looked -now, his face deeply seamed, his eyes a little sunken, at the dim -shadowy metal lathes, the huge reels of copper wire, the tool benches, -the rows of wall boxes filled with machine parts, the small electric -motors hanging by twisted strings or wires from the ceiling joists, the -heavy steel wheels in frames, the great box kites and the spruce and -silk planes, in sections, the gas engine, the water motor, the wheels, -shafts, and belting overhead. - -He bent his sombre eyes on Henry. - -That youth, aching at heart, bruised of spirit, unaware of the figure he -made, was too far gone to be further puzzled by the weary, mocking smile -that flitted across Humphrey's face. - -'Hump!' he cried out: 'What'll we do!' - -'Do? Sleep over it. Raise some more money?' - -'But how?' - -Humphrey waved a hand at the machinery. 'All this. And my library -upstairs. They've stood me more'n four thousand, altogether. Ought to -fetch something.' - -'But--but--ten thousand!' Henry whispered the amount with awe as well as -misery. - -'Oh, _that!_ Your trouble! Why, you'll sleep over that, too, and -to-morrow I suppose you'll talk to Harry Davis's father.' The senior -Davis, Arthur P., was a Simpson Street lawyer. 'They'll sting you. But -they don't expect any ten thousand.' - -'But what I said is _true!_ Charlie Waterhouse is a----' - -'What's that got to do with it. You can't prove it. And we aren't strong -enough to hire counsel and detectives and run him to earth. Doesn't look -as if we had the barest breath of life in us. Charlie'll think of your -uncle next, and attach your mother's estate.' - -He said this with unusual roughness. Then he went upstairs; stamped -around for a brief time; came hurrying down. - -Henry, now, was sitting dejectedly on a work-bench. - -'Hump--please!--you don't know how I feel. I----' - -'And,' replied the senior partner, 'I don't care. I don't care how I -feel, either. We either save the paper this week or we don't. That's -what I care about right now.' - -'I--I won't let you sell your things, Hump.' An unconvincing assertion, -from the limp figure on the bench. - -'You?' Humphrey stared at him with something near contempt--stared at -the moustache and the cane. 'You? You won't let me?... For God's sake, -_shut up!_' - -With which he went out, slamming the door. - -For a time Henry continued to sit there. Then he dragged himself -upstairs, went to his bookcase and got the book entitled _Will Power and -Self Mastery_. - -He turned the pages until he hit upon these paragraphs:--'Every machine, -every cathedral, every great ship was a thought before it could become a -fact. Build in your brain. - -'Through the all-enveloping ether drifts the invisible electricity that -is all life, all energy. Open yourself to it. Make yourself a conductor. -Stupidity and fear are resistants; cast these out. Make your brain a -dynamo and drive the world.' - -This seemed a good idea. - - -4 - - -Arthur P. Davis was just rising from the supper table when the door-bell -rang. He answered it himself; found young Calverly there, in a state of -haggard but vigorous youthful intensity. He contrived, after a slight -initial difficulty, to draw out of the curiously verbose youth the -essential facts. He considered the matter with a deliberation and -caution that appeared irritating to the boy. But he had read and (in -the bosom of his family) chuckled over _Sinbad the Treasurer_. He had -wondered a little, though he didn't mention the fact to Henry, whether -Charlie wouldn't sue. Charlie had a case. - -When Henry left, clearly still in a confused condition, it was Mr -Davis's impression that Henry had placed the matter in his hands as -counsel and further had distinctly agreed to shut his head. - -Henry apparently understood it differently. Or, more likely, he didn't -understand at all. Henry was, at the moment, a storm centre with -considerable emotional disturbance still to come. Any one who has -followed Henry, who knows him at all, will understand that such -disturbance within him led directly and always to action. Whatever he -may have said to Mr Davis, he was helpless. He had to function in his -own way. Probably Mr Davis's use in the situation was to stimulate -Henry's already overactive brain. Hardly more. - -Certainly it was hardly later than a quarter or twenty minutes past -seven when Henry appeared at Charlie Waterhouse's place on Douglass -Street. - -The town treasurer was on the lawn, shifting his sprinkler by the light -of the arc lamp on the corner and smoking his after-supper cigar. - -The conversation took place across the picket fence, one of the few -surviving in Sunbury at this time. - -Henry said, fiercely:-- - -'I want to talk to you about that libel suit.' - -'Can't talk to me, Henry. You'll have to see my lawyer.' - -'Yay-ah, I know. I've got a lawyer too.' - -'All right. Let 'em talk to each other.' - -'You know you can't get any ten thousand dollars.' - -'Can't talk about that.' - -'Yes, you can. You gotta.' - -'Oh, I've gotta, have I?' - -'Yes, you bet you have. Some people seem to think you've got a case.' - -'Guess there ain't much doubt about that.' - -'Mebbe there ain't. Even if what I said was true.' - -'Look here, Henry, I don't care to have this kind o' talk going on -around here. You better go along.' - -'Go along nothing! I'll say every word of it. And what's more, you'll -listen. No, don't you go. You stand right there.' - -Charlie, a stoutish man in an alpaca coat, with a florid countenance -and a huge moustache, gave a moment's consideration to the blazing young -crusader before him. The boy wasn't going to be any too easy to handle. -He had no need to see him clearly to become aware of that fact. Charlie -shifted his cigar. - -'Lemme put it this way. S'pose you could sting me. You'd never get ten -thousand. But s'pose, after I get through talking, you decide to go -ahead and push the case-----' - -'Push the case? Well, rather!' - -'Wait a minute! All right, let's say you're going ahead and fight for -part o' that ten thousand. What you think you could get. Then what'm I -going to do?' - -'Do you suppose I care what----' - -'Oh, yes you do! Now listen! I want you to get this straight. You----' - -'_You_ want _me_ to----' - -'Keep still! Now here's----' - -'Look here, I won't have you----' - -'Yes, you will! Listen. If you fight, I'll fight. I'll go straight after -you. I'll run you to earth. I'll hire detectives to shadow you. I _know_ -you ain't straight, and I'll show you up before the whole dam town. I'm -right and I tell you right here I'm going to _prove_ it! I'll put you in -prison! I'll----' - -During most of this speech Charlie was talking too. But in so low a tone -that he could hardly miss what Henry was saving. He broke in now with a -loud:-- - -'Shut up!' - -Henry stopped really because he was out of breath. It gratified him -to see that neighbours were appearing in their lighted windows. And a -youthful chorus on a porch across the way was suddenly hushed. - -'Came here to make a scene, did you? Well, I'll----' - -'No, I didn't come here to make a scene. I came here to make you listen -to reason and I'm going to do it.' - -'Well, drop your voice a little, can't you! No sense in yelling our -private affairs.' - -'Sure I'll drop my voice. You're the one that started the yelling.' - -'Well, I don't say you couldn't make it hard for any man in my position -if you want to be nasty--fight that way.' - -'You wait!' - -'But what I'd like to know is--what I'd like to know... Where you goin' -to get the money to hire all those detectives?' - -'Where'm I going to get the money to pay you if you win the suit?' - -Though Charlie came back with, 'Oh, I'll win the suit all right, -all right!' this was clearly a facer. He added, pondering, 'I guess -Munson'll manage to attach anything you've got.' But he was at sea. -'Fine dirty idea o' yours, hounding a decent man, with detectives.' And -finally, 'Well, what do you want?' - -'Listen! S'pose you did win. You'd never get ten thousand.' - -'I'd get five.' - -'No, you wouldn't. Why don't you act sensible and tell me what you'll -take to stop it.' - -'I'd have to think that over.' - -'You tell me now or I'll bust this town open.' - -'No good talking that way, Henry. Can you get any money?' - -'Tell you for sure in twenty-four hours.' - -'But it ain't the money. You've assailed my character. That's what -you've done. Will you retract in print?' - -'No, I won't. But if you'll come down to a decent price and promise to -call off the boycott----' - -'What boycott?' - -'Advertising. You know. You do that, and I'll agree to leave you alone. -Somebody else'll have to find you out, that's all. I've gotta help Hump -Weaver pull the _Gleaner_ out. I guess that's my job now.' - -He said this last sadly. He had read stories of wonderful young -St Georges who slew a dozen political dragons at a time. Who never -compromised or gave hostages to fortune. But there was only one chance -for the paper and for old Hump. That chance was here and now. - -He was sorry he couldn't see Charlie Waterhouse's face. 'What'll you -give?' asked that worthy, after thoughtfully chewing, his cigar. - -'A thousand.' - -'Lord, no. Four thousand.' - -'That's impossible.' - -'Three, then.' - -'No, I won't pay anything like three.' - -'I wouldn't go a cent under two.' - -'Well--two thousand then. All right. I'll let you know by to-morrow -night.' - -'You understand, Henry, it ain't the money. It's for the good o' the -town I'm doing it. To keep peace, y' understand. That's why I'm doing -it. Y' understand that, Henry.' He actually reached over the fence and -hung to the boy's arm. - -'We'd better shake hands on it,' said Henry. - -'Sure! I'll stand by it, if you will.' - -'I will. Good-bye, now.' - -And Henry, somewhat confused regarding his ethical position, depressed -at the thought that you couldn't rise altogether out of this hard world, -that you had to live right in it, compromise with it, let yourself be -soiled by it--Henry, his eyes down to beads, flushed about the temples, -caught the eight-six to Chicago. - -He rode out to the West Side on a cable-car. It is an interesting item -to note in the rather zig-zag development of Henry's highly emotional -nature that he never once weakened during that long ride. He was burning -up, of course. It was like that wonderful week when he had written day -and night, night and day, the Simpson Street stories. But it was, in a -way, glorious. That ethereal electricity was flowing right through him. -The Power was on him. He knew, not in his surface mind but in the deeper -seat of all belief, in his feelings, that he couldn't be stopped or -headed. Not to-night. - - -5 - - -'You are not altogether clear, Henry. Let me understand this.' - -The scene was Uncle Arthur's 'den.' - -Henry had run the gauntlet of his cousins. Rich young cousins, brought -up to respect their parents and think themselves poor. It was a proper -home, with order, cleanliness, method shining out. He resented it. He -resented them all. - -Uncle Arthur was thin, and penetrating. His eyes bored at you. His nose -was sharp, his brow furrowed. It seemed to Henry that he was always -scowling a little. - -His light sharp voice was going on, stating a disentangled, re-arranged -version of Henry's extraordinary outbursts:-- - -'This man, the town treasurer, is suing you for libel, and you are -advised that he has a case? But he will settle for two thousand -dollars?' - -'Yes. He will.' - -'And you have come to me with the idea that I will pay over your -mother's money for the purpose?' - -'Well, I'll be twenty-one anyway in less'n two months. But that -ain't--isn't--it exactly, not all of it. I've really got to have the -whole three thousand.' - -'Oh, you have?' - -'Yes. It's like this. We bought the _Gleaner_, Hump Weaver and I. And -we got it cheap, too. Two thousand--for plant, good will, the big press, -everything.' - -'Hmm!' - -'Then I wrote those stories. They jumped our circulation way up. More'n -we can afford. Queer about that. Because the paper'd been attacking -Charlie Waterhouse, they got the advertiser's to boycott us.' - -'Oh!' - -'Now Charlie's promised me, if I pay him, to call off the boycott. It'll -give us all the Simpson Street advertising. And Hump says we'll fail in -a week if we don't get it.' - -'Henry!' Uncle Arthur's voice rang out with unpleasant clarity. 'You got -from me a thousand dollars of your mother's estate. You sank it in this -paper. I let you have that thinking it would bring you to your senses. - -It has not brought you to your senses. That is evident.... Now I am -going to tell you something extremely serious. - -I tell you this because I believe that you are not, for one thing, -dishonest. I have discovered that when I gave you that sum and took -your receipt I was not protected. You are a minor. You cannot, in law, -release me from my obligation as your guardian. After you have come of -age you could collect it again from me.' - -'Oh, Uncle Arthur, I wouldn't do _that!_' - -'I am sure you wouldn't. But you can readily see, now, that it is -utterly impossible for me to make any further advances to you. Even if I -were willing. And I am distinctly not willing.' - -'But listen, Uncle Arthur! You've got to!' - -The scowl of this narrow-faced man deepened. - -'I don't care for impudence, Henry. We will not talk further about -this.' - -'But we must, Uncle Arthur! Don't you see, I've got to pay Charlie, and -have Mr Davis get his receipt and the papers signed before they learn -about you, or they'll attach the estate. Why, Charlie might get all of -it, and more too. They might just wreck me. I mustn't lose a minute.' - -Uncle Arthur sat straight up at this. Henry thought he looked even more -deeply annoyed. But he spoke, after a long moment, quite calmly. - -'You are right there. That is a point. Putting it aside for a moment, -what were you proposing to do with the other thousand dollars?' - -Henry felt the sharp eyes focusing on him. He sprang up. His words came -hotly. - -'Because Hump has put in a thousand more'n I have now. He said to-night -he'd have to sell his library and his--his own things. I can't let him -do that. I _won't_ let him. I've got to stand with him.' Henry choked up -a little now. - -'Hump's my friend, Uncle Arthur. He's steady and honest and----' He -faltered momentarily; Uncle Arthur was peculiarly the sort of person you -couldn't tell about Humphrey's love affair; he wouldn't be able then to -see his strong points.... 'He edits the paper and gets the pay-roll and -goes out after the ads. And he _hates_ it! But he's a wonderful fighter. -I won't desert him. I won't! I can't!... Uncle Arthur, why won't you -come out and see our place and meet Hump and let him show you our books -and how our circulation's jumped and...' - -His voice trailed off because Uncle Arthur too had sprung to his feet -and was pacing the room. Henry's arguments, his earnestness and young -energy, something, was telling on him. Finally he turned and said, in -that same quiet voice:-- - -'All right, Henry. I'll run out to-morrow and put this thing through for -you. But----' - -'Oh, no, Uncle Arthur! You mustn't do that! Not to-morrow! Charlie'd get -wise. Or some of that gang. Everybody in town'd know you were there. No, -_that_ wouldn't do!' - -Uncle Arthur took another turn about the room. - -'Just what is it that you want, Henry?' he asked, in that same quiet -voice. - -'Why, let's see! You'd better give me two thousand in one cheque and one -thousand in another. Mr Davis can fix it so your cheque doesn't go to -Charlie. I don't want to put it in the bank. Charlie's crowd'd get on. -But I'll fix it. Mr Davis'll know.' - -At the door Uncle Arthur looked severely at the dapper, excited youth on -the steps. - -'It may make a man of you. It will certainly throw you on your own -resources. I shall have to trust you to release me formally from all -responsibility after your birthday. And'--sharply--'understand, you are -never to come to me for help. You have your chance. You have chosen your -path.' - - -6 - - -Eleven at night. The Country Club was bright; Henry passed it on the -farther side of the street. He could hear music and laughter there. They -choked him. With averted face he rushed by. - -Henry entered at the gate before the old Dexter Smith mansion; then -slipped off among the trees. - -His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered, -miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely. - -There were lights here, too; downstairs. - -Some one calling, perhaps--that friend of James B. Merchant's. - -Henry gritted his teeth. - -It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn -irresistibly to the spot. - -What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that -his life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must -be dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his -great sacrifice. - -The front door opened. - -A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very -still, behind a tree, while they walked past him. - -A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely -had at last spared him a stab. - -Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs. - -Still he lingered. - -Then, after a little, his nervous ears caught a sound that tingled -through his body. - -The front door opened. - -And standing in the opening behind the screen door, silhouetted against -the light, he saw a slim girl. - -His temples were pounding. His throat went dry. - -The girl came out. Paused. Called over her shoulder in a voice that to -Henry was velvet and gold--'In a few minutes'--and then seated herself -midway down the steps and leaned her head against the railing. He could -see her only faintly now. - -Henry moved forward, curiously dazed, tiptoeing over the turf, slipping -from tree to tree. Drew near. - -She lifted her head. - -There was a breathless pause. Then, 'What is it?' she called. 'What is -it? Who's there?... O--oh! Why, _Henry!_ You frightened me... What is -it? Why do you stand there like that. You aren't ill, Henry?... Where -on earth have you been? I've waited and waited for you. I couldn't think -what had happened, not having any word.... What is the matter, Henry? -You act all tired out. Do sit down here.' - -'No,'--the queer breathy voice, Henry knew, must be his own. He was -thinking, wildly, of dead souls' standing at the Judgment Seat. He felt -like that.... 'No, I can't sit down.' - -'Henry! What is it?' - -Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who -has committed a speech to memory, he said this:-- - -'Cicely, I asked you this afternoon if we couldn't have an -"understanding." You know! It seemed fair to me, if--if--if you, well, -cared--because I had three thousand dollars, and all that.' - -She made a rather impatient little gesture. He saw her hands move; but -pressed on:-- - -'Since then everything has changed. I have no right to ask you now.' - -There was a long silence. As on other occasions, in moments of grave -emergency, Henry had recourse to words. - -'There was trouble at the office. I couldn't leave Hump to carry all the -burden alone. And I was being sued for libel. My stories... So I've had -to make a very quick turn'--he had heard that term used by real -business men; it sounded rather well, he felt; it had come to him on -the train--'I've had to make a very quick turn--use every cent, or most -every cent, of the money. Of course, without any money at all--while I -might have some chance as a writer--still--well, I have no right to ask -such a thing of you, and I--I withdraw it. I feel that I--I can't do -less than that.' Then, after another silence, Henry swayed, caught at -the railing, sank miserably to the steps. - -'It's all right,' he heard himself saying. 'I just thought--everything's -been in such a mid rush--I didn't have my supper. I'll be all right...' - -'Henry,' he heard her saying now, in what seemed to him, as he reflected -on it later that night, at his room, in bed, an extraordinarily -matter-of-fact voice; girls were complicated creatures--'Henry, you must -be starved to death. You come right in with me.' - -He followed her in through the great hall, the unlighted living-room, -a dark passage where she found his hand and led him along, a huge place -that must have been the kitchen, and then an unmistakable pantry. - -'Stand here till I find the light,' she murmured. - -It _was_ the pantry. - -She opened the ice-box, produced milk and cold meat. In a tin box was -chocolate cake. - -'I oughtn't to let you,' he said weakly. 'I knew you were angry to-day -there----' - -'But, Henry, they could _hear_ you! Thomas and William. Don't you -see----' - -'That wasn't all,' he broke in excitedly. 'It was my asking for an -understanding.' - -She was bending over a drawer, rummaging for knife and fork. - -'No, it wasn't that,' she said. - -'I'd like to know what it was, then!' - -'It was--oh, please, Henry, don't ever talk that way about money again.' - -'But, Cicely, don't you see----' - -She straightened up now, knife in one hand, fork in the other; looked -directly at him; slowly shook her head. - -'What,' she asked, 'has money to do with--with you and me?' - -'But, Cicely, you don't mean----' - -He saw the sudden sparkle in her dark eyes, the slow slight smile that -parted her lips. - -She turned away then. - -'Oh,' she remarked, rather timidly, 'you'll want these,' and gave him -the knife and fork. - -He laid them on the table. - -They stood for a little time without speaking; she fingering the -fastener of the cake box, he pulling at his moustache. Finally, very -softly, she said this:-- - -'Of course, Henry, you know, we _would_ really have to be very patient, -and not say anything about it to people until--well, until we _could_, -you know....' - -And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently -brushing her forehead in their first kiss--until now the restraint of -youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just -short of any such sober admission of feeling--her cheek resting lightly -against his coat, she said this:-- - -'I shouldn't have let myself be disturbed. I don't really care about -Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of -girl. Henry, you--you hurt me a little.' His eyes filled. He stood -erect, looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long -vista of the years. He compressed his lips. - -'Of course,' he said bravely. 'We don't care about money We've got all -our lives. I guess I can work. Prob'ly I'll write better for not having -any. You know--it'll spur me. And I'll be working for you.' - -He heard her whisper:-- - -'I'll be so _proud_, Henry.' - -'What's money to us!' He seemed at last to be getting hold of this -tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a -ring in his voice: 'What's money to us!' - -After all what _is_ money to Twenty? - - - - -X--LOVE LAUGHS - - -1 - - -|A squat locomotive, bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring -from the flaring smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the -platforms and stopped just beyond the old red brick depot. - -The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy -yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These -ladies were bound for the shops, the matinées (it was a Wednesday, and -October), the lectures and concerts of Chicago. - -Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic -person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood -sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned -back and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a -train made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a -sooty brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the -door of the car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up, -chattering ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was -like a tea. He was afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he -couldn't, from the door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but -to run the gauntlet. And not without a faintly stirring sense of -conspicuousness that was at once pleasing and confusing he started down -the aisle, clutching at seat-backs for support. - -Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl -occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the -women in front. These latter, on close inspection--he had paused -midway--proved to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary. - -This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just -behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat? -The hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to -him as ghosts come. - -He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady -caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden. - -'I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the -_Gleaner_,' she said. 'Mr MacLouden says they're worthy of Stevenson. -His _New Arabian Nights_ you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In -London.' - -Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away. - -Mary Ames looked up. - -Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn't bow, or smile. He wasn't -sure that she even inclined her head. - -His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that -he couldn't retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly -by. He couldn't take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately -by and on into the car behind would help a little. At least in his -feelings; and these were what mattered.... Who _was_ the girl under that -unfamiliar hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly. - -He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing. -Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with -the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn't burn so. - -The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes -and the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell! - -Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out -of his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then -during the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting--indeed, -enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it -momentarily, slightly thrilling--to discover that he liked her. He -saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was -prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch -of radiance in it. - -Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag. - -In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it -up and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally, -brought up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose. - -Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along -the aisle, the hand came down on the bag. - -She said, half audibly--it was a question:-- - -'Sit here?' - -Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames's shoulder; -a rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn't stop -his whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn't he gone -straight by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low, -confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they -couldn't talk confidentially. Not very well. - -He took the seat. - -What _could_ they say? - -But the surprising fact stood out that Martha was a nice girl, a -likeable girl. Even if she had believed the stories about him. Even -if... No, it hadn't seemed like Martha. - -Henry was staring at Mrs Ames's tortoise-shell comb. Martha was looking -out the window, tapping on the sill with a white-gloved hand. - -A moment of the old sense of proprietorship over Martha came upon him. - -'Silly,' he remarked, muttering it rather crossly, 'wearing white gloves -into Chicago! Be black in ten minutes. Women-folks haven't got much -sense.' - -Martha gave this remark the silence it deserved. She dropped her eyes, -studied the shopping bag. Then, very quietly, she said this:-- - -'Henry--it hasn't been very easy--but I _have_ wanted to tell you about -your stories.... - -'What about'em?' he asked, ungraciously enough. And he dug with his cane -at the grimy green plush of the seat-back before him. - -'Oh, they're so good, Henry! I didn't know--I didn't realise--just -everybody's talking about them! _Everybody!_ You've no idea! It's been -splendid of you to--you know, to answer people that way.' - -I don't think Martha meant to touch on the one most difficult topic. -They both reddened again. - -After a longer pause, she tried it again. - -'I just _love_ reading them myself. And I wish you could hear the things -Jim--Mr Merchant--says....' - -She was actually dragging him in! - -... He's really a judge. You've no idea, Henry!' He met Kipling at a -tea in New York. He knows lots of people like--you know, editors and -publishers, people like that. And he crossed the ocean once with Richard -Harding Davis. He says you're doing a very remarkable thing... -original note.... Sunbury is going to be proud of you. He wouldn't -let anything--you know, personal--influence his judgment. He's very -fair-minded.' - -Henry dug and dug at the plush. - -She was pulling at her left glove. - -What on earth!... - -She had it off. - -'I want you to know, Henry. Such a wonderful thing has happened to me. -See!' - -On her third finger glittered a diamond in a circlet of gold. - -'He wanted to give me a cluster, Henry. I wouldn't let him. I just -didn't want him to be too extravagant. I love this stone.. I picked it -out myself. At Welding's. And then he wished it on. And, Henry, I'm so -happy! I can't bear to think that you and I--anybody--you know....' - -Henry was critically, moodily, appraising the diamond. - -'Can't we be friends, Henry?' - -'Sure we can! Of course!' - -'I just can't tell you how wonderful it is. I want everybody else to be -happy.' - -'I'm happy!' he announced, explosively, between set teeth. - -She thought this over. - -'I've heard a little talk, of course. I've been interested, too. Yes, I -have! Cicely's a perfectly dandy girl. And she's--you know, _that_ -way. Knows so much about books and things. I didn't realise--that you -were--you know, really--well, engaged?' - -There was a long pause. Henry dug and dug with his stick. - -Finally, eyes wandering a little but mouth still set, he said huskily:-- - -'Yes, we're engaged.' - -'What was that, Henry?' - -'I said, "Yes, we're engaged."' - -'O--o--oh, Henry, I'm so glad!' - -'Don't say anything about it, Martha.' - -'Oh, of _course_ not!... You've no idea how nice people are being to me. -They're giving me a party to-night, down on the South Side. We're coming -back to-morrow.' - -Mr Merchant met her in the Chicago depot. Henry had excused himself -before Mrs Ames and Mary got up. He would have hurried off into the -grimy city, but the crowd held him back. Martha saw him and dragged the -rich and important man of her choice toward him. - -Henry thought him very old, and not particularly goodlooking. He was a -stocky, sandy-complexioned man; dressed now, as always, in brown, even -to a brown hat. He looked strong enough--Henry knew that he played polo, -and that sort of thing--but gossip put him at thirty-eight. He certainly -couldn't be under thirty-five. Henry wondered how Martha could... - -Then he found himself taking the man's hand and listening to more of the -familiar praise. But on this occasion it had, he felt, a condescension, -a touch of patronage, that irritated him. - -'I'd like to talk with you, Calverly. There's a chance that--I'll tell -you! I may be able to arrange it this evening. They're not letting me -come to the party. Got to do something. I'll try it. Come around to my -place between eight and half-past, and I'll explain more fully. There's -a classmate of mine in town that can help us, maybe. You'll do that? -Good! I'll expect you.' - -He was gone. - -Slowly, moodily, Henry wandered through the station and up the long -stairway to the street. - -He felt deeply uncomfortable. It wasn't this Mr Merchant, though he -wished he had known how to show his resentment of the man's offhand -manner. But he hadn't known; he wouldn't again; before age and -experience he was helpless. No, his trouble lay deeper. He shouldn't -have told Martha that he was engaged. Why had he done such a thing? What -on earth had he meant by it? It was a rather dreadful break. - -He paused on the Wells Street bridge; hung over the dirty wooden -railing; watched a tug come through the opaque, sluggish water, pouring -out its inevitable black smoke, a great rolling cloud of it, that set -him coughing. He perversely welcomed it. - -Cicely expected him in the evening. He would have to drop in on his way -to Mr Merchant's. Could he tell her what he had done? Dared he tell her? - -Martha and the Ameses would be gone overnight. That was something. And -people didn't get up early after parties. At least, girls didn't. -It would be afternoon before they would reappear in Sunbury. Say -twenty-four hours. But immediately after that, certainly by evening, all -Sunbury would have the news that the popular Cicely Hamlin was engaged. -To young Henry Calverly. The telephone would ring. Congratulations would -be pouring in. - -He stared fixedly at the water. He wondered what made him do these -things, lose control of his tongue. It wasn't his first offence; nor, -surely, his last. An unnerving suggestion, that last! He asked himself -how bad a man had to feel before jumping down there and ending it all. -It happened often enough. You saw it in the papers. - - -3 - - -Welding's jewellery store occupied the best corner on the proper side of -State Street. In its long series of show window's, resting on velvet of -appropriate colours, backed by mirrors, were bracelets, lockets, rings, -necklaces, 'dog-collars' of matched pearls, diamond tiaras, watches, -chests of silverware, silver bowls, cups and ornaments, articles in -cut glass, statuettes of ebony, bronze and jade, and here and there, -in careless little heaps, scattered handfuls of unmounted gems--rubies, -emeralds, yellow, white and blue diamonds, and rich-coloured -semi-precious stones. - -But all this without over-emphasis. There were no built-up, glittering -pyramids, no placards, no price-tags even. There was instead, despite -the luxury of the display, a restraint; as if it were more a concession -to the traditions of sound shop-keeping than an appeal for custom. For -Welding's was known, had been known through a long generation, from -Pittsburg to Omaha. Welding's, like the Art Institute, Hooley's Theatre, -Devoe's candy store, Field's buses, Central Music Hall, was a Chicago -institution, playing its inevitable part at every well-arranged wedding -as in every properly equipped dining-room. You couldn't give any one you -really cared about a present of jewellery in other than a Welding box. -Not if you were doing the thing right! Oh, you _could_, perhaps.... - -And Welding's, from the top-booted, top-hatted doorman (such were not -common in Chicago then) to the least of the immaculately clad salesmen, -was profoundly, calmly, overpoweringly aware of its position. - -Before the section of the window that was devoted to rings stood Henry. - -About him pressed the throng of early-afternoon shoppers--sharp-faced -women, brisk business men, pretty girls in pretty clothes, messenger -boys, loiterers and the considerable element of foreign-appearing, -rather shabby men and women, boys and girls that were always an item in -the Chicago scene. Out in the wide street the traffic, a tangle of it -(this was before the days of intelligent traffic regulation anywhere in -America) rolled and rattled and thundered by--carriages, hacks, delivery -wagons, two-horse and three-horse trucks, and trains of cable-cars, each -with its flat wheel or two that pounded rhythmically as it rolled. -And out of the traffic--out of the huge, hive-like stores and -office-buildings, out of the very air as breezes blew over from other, -equally busy streets, came a noise that was a blend of noises, a steady -roar, the nervous hum of the city. - -But of all this Henry saw, heard, nothing; merely pulled at his -moustache and tapped his cane against his knee. - -A wanly pretty girl, with short yellow hair curled kinkily against her -head under a sombrero hat, loitered toward him, close to the window; -paused at his side, brushing his elbow; glanced furtively up under her -hat brim; smiled mechanically, showing gold teeth; moved around him and -lingered on the other side; spoke in a low tone; finally, with a glance -toward the fat policeman who stood, in faded blue, out in the thick of -things by the car tracks, drifted on and away. - -Henry had neither seen nor heard her. - -Brows knit, lips compressed, eyes nervously intent, he marched -resolutely into Welding's. - -'Look at some rings!' he said, to a distrait salesman. - -He indicated, sternly, a solitaire that looked, he thought, about like -Martha's. - -'How much is that?' - -'That? Not a bad stone. Let me see... Oh, three hundred dollars.' - -Henry, huskily, in a dazed hush of the spirit, repeated the words:-- - -'Three--hundred--dollars!' - -The salesman tapped with manicured fingers on the showcase. - -'Have you--have you--have you... - -The salesman raised his eyebrows. - -'... any others?' - -'Oh, yes, we have others.' He drew out a tray from the wall behind him. -'I can show fairly good stones as low as sixty or eighty dollars. Here's -one that's really very good at a hundred.' - -There was a long silence. The glistening finger nails fell to tapping -again. - -'This one, you say is--one hundred?' - -'One hundred.' - -Another silence. Then:-- - -'Thank you. I--I was just sorta looking around.' - -The salesman began replacing the trays. - -Henry moved away; slowly, irresolutely, at first; then, as he passed out -the door, with increasing speed. At the corner of Randolph he was racing -along. He caught the two-fourteen for Sunbury by chasing it the length -of the platform. Henry could do the hundred yards under twelve seconds -at any time with all his clothes on. He could do it under eleven on a -track. - -By a quarter to three he was walking swiftly, with dignity, up Simpson -Street. He turned in at the doorway beside Hemple's meat-market and ran -up the long stairway to the offices above. - -Humphrey strolled in from the composing room. - -'Seen those people already, Hen?' - -'I--you see--well, no. I'm going right back in. On the three-eight.' - -'Going back? But----' - -'It's this way, Hump. I--it'll seem sorta sudden, I know--you see, I -want to get an engagement ring. There's one that would do all right, I -think, for--well, a hundred dollars--and I was wondering....' - -Humphrey stared at him; grinned. - -'So you've gone and done it! You don't say! You are a bit rapid, Henry. -The lady must have been on the train.' - -'No--not quite--you see...' - -'Got to be done right now, eh? All in a rush?' - -'Well, Hump... - -'Wait a minute! Let me collect my scattered faculties. If you've got to -this point it's no good trying to reason----' - -'But, Hump, I'll be reasonable----' - -'Yes, I know. Now listen to me! This appears to come under the general -head of emergencies. We're not quite in such bad shape as we were a -month back. There's a little advertising revenue coming in. An----' - -'Yes, I thought----' - -'And you've certainly sunk enough in this old property--' - -'No more than you, Hump----' - -'Just wait, will you! I don't see but what we've got to stand back of -you. Perhaps we'd better enter it as a loan from the business to you -until I can think up a better excuse. Or no, I'll tell you--call it a -salary advance. Well, something! I'll work it out. Never you mind now. -And if you're going to stop at the bank and catch the three-eight you'll -have to step along.' - -It would have interested a student of psychophysics, I think, to slip a -clinical thermometer in under Henry's tongue as he sat, erect, staring, -with nervously twitching hands and feet, on the three-eight train. - - -4 - - -To Cicely's house Henry hurried after bolting a supper at Stanley's -restaurant and managing to evade Humphrey's amused questions when he -heard them. - -It was early, barely half-past seven. The Watt household had dinner (not -supper) at seven. They would hardly be through. He couldn't help that. -He had waited as long as he could. - -He rang the bell. The butler showed him in. He sat on the piano stool in -the spacious, high-ceiled parlour, where he had waited so often before. - -To-night it looked like a strange room. - -He told himself that it was absurd to feel so nervous. He and Cicely -understood each other well enough. She cared for him. She had said so, -more than once. - -Of course, the little matter of facing Madame Watt... though, after all, -what could she do? - -He tried to control the tingling of his nerves. - -'I must relax,' he thought. - -With this object he moved over to the heavily upholstered sofa and -settled himself on it; stretched out his legs; thrust his hands into his -pockets. - -But there was an extraordinary pressure in his temples; a pounding. - -He snatched a hand from one pocket and felt hurriedly in another to -see if the precious little box was there; the box with the magical name -embossed on the cover, 'Weldings.' - -He reflected, exultantly, 'I never bought anything there before.' - -Then: 'She's a long time. They must be at the table still.' He sat up; -listened. But the dining-room in the Dexter Smith place was far back -behind the 'back parlour.' The walls were thick. There were heavy -hangings and vast areas of soft carpet. You couldn't hear. 'Gee!' his -thoughts raced on, 'think of owning all this! Wonder how people ever get -so much money. Wonder how it would seem.' - -He caught himself twisting his neck nervously within his collar. And his -hands were clenched; his toes, even, were drawn up tightly in his shoes. - -'Gotta relax,' he told himself again. - -Then he felt for the little box. This time he transferred it to a -trousers pocket; held it tight in his hand there. - -A door opened and closed. There was a distant rustling. Henry, paler, -sprang to his feet. - -'I must be cool,' he thought. 'Think before I speak. Everything depends -on my steadiness now.' - -But the step was not Cicely's. She was slim and light. This was a solid -tread. - -He gripped the little box more tightly. He was meeting with a curious -difficulty in breathing. - -Then, in the doorway, appeared the large person, the hooked nose, the -determined mouth, the piercing, hawklike eyes of Madame Watt. - -'How d'do, Henry,' she said, in her deep voice. 'Sit down. I want to -talk to you. About Cicely. I'm going to tell you frankly--I like you, -Henry; I believe you're going to amount to something one of these -days--but I had no idea--now I want you to take this in the spirit I say -it in--I had no idea things were going along so fast between Cicely and -you. I've trusted you. I've let you two play together all you liked. And -I won't say I'd stand in the way, a few years from now---- - -'A few years!...' - -'Now, Henry, I'm not going to have you getting all stirred up. Let's -admit that you're fond of Cicely. You are, aren't you? Yes? Well, now -we'll try to look at it sensibly. How old are you?' - -'I'm twenty, but----' - -'When will you be twenty-one?' - -'Next month. You see----' - -'Now tell me--try to think this out clearly--how on earth could you -expect to take care of a girl who's been brought up as Cicely has. Even -if she were old enough to know her own mind, which I can't believe she -is.' - -'Oh, but she does!' - -'Fudge, Henry! She couldn't. What experience has she had? Never mind -that, though. Tell me, what is your income now. You'll admit I have a -right to ask.' - -'Twelve a week, but----' - -'And what prospects have you? Be practical now! How far do you expect to -rise on the _Gleaner!_' - -'Not very high, but our circulation----' - -'What earthly difference can a little more or less circulation make when -it's a country weekly! No, Henry, believe me, I have a great deal of -confidence in you--I mean that you'll keep on growing up and forming -character--but this sort of thing can not--simply can not--go on now. -Why, Henry, you haven't even begun your man's life yet! Very likely -you'll write. It may be that you're a genius. But that makes it all the -more a problem. Can't you see----' - -'Yes, of course, but----' - -'No, listen to me! I asked Cicely to-day why you were coming so often. -I wasn't at all satisfied with her answers to my questions. And when I -forced her to admit that she has been as good as engaged to you----' - -'But we _aren't_ engaged! It's only an understanding.' - -'Understanding! Pah! Don't excite me, Henry. I want to straighten this -out just as pleasantly as I can. I _am_ fond of you, Henry. But I never -dreamed---- Tell me, you and that young Weaver own the _Gleaner_, I -think.' - -'Yes'm we own it. But----' - -'Just what does that mean? That you have paid money--actual money--for -it?' - -'Yes'm. It's cost us about four thousand.' - -'Four thousand! Hmm!' - -'And then Charlie Waterhouse--he's town treasurer--he sued me for -libel--ten thousand dollars'--Henry seemed a thought proud of this--'and -I had to give him two thousand to settle. It was something in one of -my stories--the one called _Sinbad the Treasurer_. Mr Davis--he's my -lawyer--he said Charlie had a case, but----' - -'Wait a minute, Henry! Where did you get that money. It's--let me -see--about four thousand dollars--your share--' - -'Yes'm four thousand. It was my mother's. She left it to me. But----' - -'I see. Your mother's estate. How much is left of it--outside what you -lost in this suit and the two thousand you've invested in the paper.' - -'Nothing. But----' - -'Nothing! Now, Henry'--no, don't speak! I want you to listen to me a few -minutes longer. And I want you to take seriously to heart what I'm going -to say. First, about this paper, the _Gleaner_. It's a serious question -whether you'll ever get your two thousand dollars back. If you ever -_have_ to sell out you won't get anything like it. If you were older, -and if you were by nature a business man--which you aren't!--you might -manage, by the hardest kind of work to build it up to where you could -get twenty or thirty dollars a week out of it instead of twelve. But -you'll never do it. You aren't fitted for it. You're another sort of -boy, by nature. And I'm sorry to say I firmly believe this money, or -the most of it is certain to go after the other two thousand, that Mr -Charlie Waterhouse got. But even considering that you boys _could_ make -the paper pay for itself, Cicely couldn't be the wife of a struggling -little country editor. I wouldn't listen to that for a minute! No, my -advice to you, Henry, is to take your losses as philosophically as you -can, call it experience, and go to work as a writer. It'll take you -years----' - -'_Years!_ But----' - -'Yes, to establish yourself. A success in a country town isn't a New -York success. Remember that. No, it's a long road you're going to -travel. After you've got somewhere, when you've become a man, when -you've found yourself, with some real prospects--it isn't that I'd -expect you to be rich, Henry, but I'd _have_ to be assured that you were -a going concern--why, then you might come to me again. But not now. I -want you to go now----' - -'Without seeing Cicely?' - -'Certainly. Above all things. I want you to go, and promise that you -won't try to see her. To-morrow she goes away for a long visit.' - -'For--a--long... But she'd see other men, and--Oh!...' - -'Exactly. I mean that she shall. Best way in the world to find out -whether you two are calves or lovers. One way or the other, we'll prove -it. And now you must go! Remember you have my best wishes. I hope you'll -find the road one of these days and make a go of it.' - -A moment more and the front door had closed on him. He stood before -the house, staring up through the maple leaves at the starry sky, -struggling, for the moment vainly, toward sanity. It was like the end of -the world. If was unthinkable. It was awful. - -But after waiting a while he went to Mr Merchant's. There was nothing -else to do. - - -5 - - -Mr Merchant himself opened the door to Henry. He lived in one of the -earliest of the apartment buildings that later were to work a deep -change in the home life of Sunbury. 'How are you, Calverly!' he said, in -his offhand, superior way. Then in a lower and distinctly less superior -tone, almost friendly indeed, he added, 'Got a bit of a surprise for -you. Come in.' - -The living-room was lighted by a single standing lamp with a red shade. -Beneath it, curled up like a boy in a cretonne-covered wing chair, his -shock of faded yellow hair mussed where his fingers had been, his -heavy faded yellow moustache bushing out under a straight nose and pale -cheeks, his old gray suit sadly wrinkled, sat a stranger reading from a -handful of newspaper clippings. - -Henry paused in the door. The man looked up, so quickly that Henry -started, and fixed on him eyes that while they were a rather pale blue -yet had an uncanny fire in them. - -The man frowned as he cried, gruffly:-- - -'Oh, come in! Needn't be afraid of me!' And coolly read on. - -Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a -queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he -would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with. - -The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the -room he thought it the type and paper of the _Gleaner_. His stories, -doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it! -What was the good, if they made him so cross. - -'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute--' - -'I won't. Don't interrupt me!' - -'--I would introduce him.' - -Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't -be!.... - -'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author -of----' - -'So I gathered. Keep still!' - -Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the -clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the -bedrooms. - -'That--that isn't _the_ Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice tinged with -awe. - -'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to -wait till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.' - -'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he -wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at -least a manner of businesslike calm. - -Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He -even answered questions now and then. But all the time he was -trying--trying--to think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand -closed on the little box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately -for some sort of a mental footing. - -'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a -drink.' - -And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:-- - -'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well. -It's been a--a hard day.' - -'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've -got a bit of excitement coming.' - -Henry did this. - -Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight -to Henry; stood over' him; glared--angrily, Henry thought, with a -fluttering of his wits--down at him. - -It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but -the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again. - -'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so -important--nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty years -ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest--that's the thing! -And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our -throats. What do you eat?' - -'I--I don't know's I----' - -'For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?' - -'Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and----' - -'Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don't doubt you had -cream on the oatmeal?' - -'Well--milk, sorta.' - -'Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really--think that over--orange and milk! -Isn't that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning of the -day?' - -Mr Merchant broke in here. - -'Galbraith, for heaven's sake! Don't bulldoze him.' - -'But this is important. It's health! We've got to look out for that. -Right from the start! Here, Calverly--how old are you?' - -'I'm--well--most--twenty-one.' - -'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good -God, boy, don't you see----' - -'Oh, come, Galbraith!' - -'Well, I'll put it this way:--Here's a young man that can work magic. -Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling -and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?' - -Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa. - -'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?' - -'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?... -Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American -publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint -'em, as they stand, in _Galbraith's_. What do you think o' that? A bit -original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it -up. Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger -again at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just -as if you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all -the old editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I -edit _Galbraith's_ to suit myself. - -I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I -print the best. I'm the editor of _Galbraith's_ Oh, I keep a few desk -men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he -was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to -England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, "Frank, pack up! -Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor."' - -He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. -Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes. - -When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All -tyrants have short legs.' And walked off again. - -'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around. - -'It's on the paper here--"Weaver and Calverly"? Father? Uncle?' - -'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's--it's me.' - -'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. -'Don't be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand -what we're getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be -famous in a year.' - -He stopped short; took another swing around the room. - -'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?' - -'Twenty.' - -'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the -way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for -'em?' - -Henry could only look appealingly at his host. - -'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it -worth your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a -Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two -thousand.' - -Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent. - -He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down. - -'Not enough,' said Merchant. - -Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened. - -'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new -writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.' - -'True. But I should think----' - -'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that, -Calverly? - -'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?' - -'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. -But I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. -Here!' He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening -paper. 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry -Calverly matter for five years----' - -'Too long,' said Mr Merchant. - -'Well--three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it elsewhere. -And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for these -stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.' - -'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No -guarantee.' - -'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret -tying up with me.' - -'You'd better agree to pay him something--say twenty-five a week--as a -minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to -tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.' - -'I'm going to tie him up, all right. I'd go the limit. Twenty-five -a week, minimum, for three years. That's agreed... How're you fixed, -Calverly? Want any money now?' - -Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. 'Yes. Better advance -a little. He could use it. Couldn't you, Calverly?' - -'Why---why----' - -'What do you say to five hundred. That'd clinch the bargain. -Here--wait!' - -He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the -cheque. - -'Here you are, Calverly. That'd take care of you for the present. -Mustn't forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You'd better -go now. Go home. Get a good night's sleep. And watch that stomach. -Cereal's good, at your age. But cut out the orange.... I'm going to bed, -Merchant. Been travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I'll send -you the contract from New York.' - -'First, though'--this from Mr Merchant--'I think you'd better write a -letter--here, to-night--confirming the arrangement. You and I can do -that. We'll let Mr Calverly go.' - -Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and -stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his -eyes; looked hurriedly about; muttered--'Where'd I lay that fountain -pen?'--found it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings -behind him. - -Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to. - -'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate -Galbraith.' - -Henry looked at him out of wan eyes. - -Then suddenly he giggled aloud. - -'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to -succeed.' - -'I felt a little bad about--you know, what you said about making him -write that letter. He might think I----' - -'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the -morning. I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.' - -'You--you don't mean that he'd--he'd----' - -'Oh, he might forget it.' - -'Nor after he _promised!_' - -'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times. -Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he -wakes up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.' - -'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses -are that way.' - -'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one. -No matter how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, -Galbraith is a great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd -make you, I believe he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on -the high road now, Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how -most men hit the high road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble -on it. Within a year you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!' - - -6 - - -The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression. -Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though -great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life. -It had the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely -elastic imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual. - -He hadn't enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was -a shock from which he didn't recover for years, an utter destruction of -cherished illusions. - -He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and -with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about -anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was -frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing -adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, _the_ Galbraith; -that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks--he recalled how -he had written the first ten during three mad days and nights; they had -come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write them down, as -if an exuberant angel were dictating to him--had sold them for thousands -of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for three years. -The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing that had -happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again. Though he -knew it would. But between times he wasn't a genius; he wasn't anything; -just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat; rubbed his -blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples. - -'I've got congestion,' he muttered. - -He stood at the railing and stared out ever the lake. It was lead black -out there, with a tossing light or two; ore freighters or lumber boats -headed for Chicago harbour. Beneath him, down the beach, great waves -were pounding in, quickly, endlessly, tirelessly, one after the other. -He could see the ghostly foam of each. He could feel the spindrift -cutting at his face. The wind was so strong he had to lean against it. -A gust tore off his glasses; he let them hang over his shoulder. He -welcomed the rush and roar of it in his stormy soul. - -After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the -Dexter Smith place. - -It was dark, upstairs and down. - -He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time -the little box from Welding's was gripped in his burning hand. - -He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every -year he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great -straight branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling -about him; the bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed -it. Caught at another. And another. - -He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was -cool to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at -the dark house. Tears came; blinded him. - -'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because -she loves me. They're breaking her heart--and mine. Martha'll be back -to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then--what--what I -did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live -here--not after that.' - -A new and fascinating thought came. - -'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me -here. I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning -they'll find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr -Galbraith's cheque. And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter. -Maybe they'll discover I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry -then.' - -But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing -quality. He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept -his long-suffering partner awake during much of the night. - -At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the -Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into -the spacious parlour. - -He waited, fiercely. - -A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the -room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?' - -'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand. -Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing -another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!' - -She, still frowning, turned the pages. - -'But what's all this, Henry?' - -'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready -for me. It's _Galbraith's Magazine_. They're going to print my stories -and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get book -royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the -price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And -Mr Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to -advertise me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says -there's been nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here, -coldly, this impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But -shrewd, strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it -far from absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as -much as of genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional -uncertainty in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were -youth--gifted, uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she -said, brusquely--'Sit down, Henry!'--and herself dropped heavily into -a chair and began deliberately reading the document of the great -Galbraith, she knew, in her curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she -was sparring for time. Before her, still on his feet, apparently unaware -that she had spoken, unaware of everything on earth outside of his own -turbulent breast, stood an incarnation of primal energy. - -She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found -momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old -folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power. - -I think he was talking all the time--pouring out an incoherent, -tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to -brush him away. - -When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a -little box. - -'Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all -this?' - -'I want you to let me see Cicely. Just one minute. Let her say. I -can't--I _can't_--leave it like this!' - -'You promised----' - -'That I wouldn't try to see her. But I can come to you can't I? That's -fair, isn't it?' - -Madame Watt sighed again. - -Suddenly Henry leaped forward; caught himself; stepped back; cried out, -in a passionately suppressed voice:-- - -'There she is! Now!' - -Cicely was crossing the hall toward the stairs. They could see her -through the doorway. - -She went up as far as the first landing, a few steps up; then, a hand on -the railing, she hesitated and slowly turned her head. - -'Will you ask her to come!' Henry moaned. 'Ask her! Let her say! Don't -break our hearts like this!' - -Madame raised her hand. - -Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and -into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head -bent forward a little, glancing from one to the other. - -She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her, -that she, too, was suffering. - -She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little -questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn't -smile. - -Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter. -He waited for her to look up. - -Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is -unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had -beaten her. - -He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He -saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated. - -Then his own voice came out--a shy, even polite, if breathless, little -voice:-- - -'I was just wondering, Cicely, if you'd let me give you this ring.' - -She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring. - -He held it out. - -Then she said:-- - -'No, Henry.... I mean, hadn't you better wish it on?' - -'Oh, yes,' said he. 'Funny! I didn't think of that.' - -Madame Watt turned a page, rustling the paper. - -'Wait, Henry! Don't let go! Have you wished?' - -'Unhuh! Have you?' - -'Yes. I wished the first thing.' - -'Well--' Henry had to stop. He found himself swallowing rather -violently. 'Well--I s'pose I'd better step down to the office. I might -come back this afternoon, if--if you'd like me to.' - -'Henry,' said Madame now, 'don't be silly! Come to lunch!' - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Henry Is Twenty, by Samuel Merwin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY *** - -***** This file should be named 51948-8.txt or 51948-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/4/51948/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Henry Is Twenty - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd - -Author: Samuel Merwin - -Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51948] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - HENRY IS TWENTY - </h1> - <h3> - A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd - </h3> - <h2> - By Samuel Merwin - </h2> - <h4> - Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. - </h4> - <h4> - London and Glasgow - </h4> - <h3> - 1921 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I—THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II—IN SAND-FLY TIME </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III—THE STIMULANT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV—THE WHITE STAR </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V—TIGER, TIGER! </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI—ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII—THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII—THIS BUD OF LOVE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX—WHAT'S MONEY! </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X—LOVE LAUGHS </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t would be - ungracious to let this book go out into a preoccupied world without some - word of gratitude to those who have written regarding the young Henry as - he has appeared from month to month in a magazine. The letters have been - the kindliest and most stimulating imaginable; and have surprised me, for - I have never found it easy to picture Henry as a popular hero of fiction. - </p> - <p> - He isn't, of course, a hero at all. His weaknesses are too plain—the - little evidences of vanity in him, his selfcentred moments, his errant - susceptibilities—and heroes can't have weaknesses. And heroes—in - any well-regulated pattern-story—must 'turn out well.' Henry, in - this book, doesn't really turn out at all. His success in Episode X is a - rather alarming accident. I think he'll do well enough, when he's forty or - so. At twenty, no. He has huge doses of life's medicine yet to swallow. - And all his problems are complicated by the touch of genius that is in - him. - </p> - <p> - Another thing: there couldn't have been a Mamie Wilcox in our - pattern-story. And certainly not a Corinne. Hardly even a Martha. For a - 'divided love interest' destroys your pattern. Yet Marthas, Corinnes, - Mamies occur everywhere. So I can't very well apologise for their presence - here. - </p> - <p> - We might, of course, have had Henry overthrow the Old Cinch in Sunbury; - clean up the town. But he didn't happen to be a St George that summer. And - then, so many heroes of pattern-stories, these two decades, have slain - municipal dragons! - </p> - <p> - He might have listened in a deeper humility to the worldly wisdom of Uncle - Arthur. But he didn't. He had to live his own life, not Uncle Arthur's. - His way was the harder, but he couldn't help that. - </p> - <p> - I would have liked to pursue further the Mildred-Humphrey romance; - including Arthur V. and the curious triangle that resulted; but the crisis - didn't come in that year. - </p> - <p> - And against the temptation to dwell with Madame Watt and her husband I - have had, here, to set my face. Though something of that story will be - told in a book yet to come, dealing with an older, changed Henry. The - richly dramatic career of <i>Madame</i> underlay the irony of Henry's - marriage; and we shall have to deal with that, or at least with the events - that grew out of it. - </p> - <p> - I have said that Henry would turn out well enough in time. From the angle - of the pattern-story this obviously couldn't be. It would be said that if - he <i>was</i> ever to succeed he should have got started by this time in - habits of industry and so forth. - </p> - <p> - I won't say that this is nonsense, but instead will quote from the - autobiography of Charles Francis Adams (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916). - Mr Adams, from his fifteenth to his twenty-fifth year, kept a diary. Then - he sealed the volumes in a package. Thirty years later he opened the - package and read every word. He says:— - </p> - <p> - 'The revelation of myself to myself was positively shocking.... It wasn't - that the thing was bad or that my record was discreditable; it was worse! - It was silly. That it was crude, goes without saying. <i>That</i> I didn't - mind! But I did blush and groan and swear over its unmistakable, - unconscious immaturity and ineptitude, its conceit, its weakness and its - cant.... As I finished each volume it went into the fire; and I stood over - it until the last leaf was ashes.... I have never felt the same about - myself since. I now humbly thank fortune that I have got almost through - life without making a conspicuous ass of myself.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Adams, immediately after the period covered by the diary, plunged into - the Civil War, and emerged with the well-earned brevet rank of - brigadier-general. He was later eminent as publicist, author, - administrator, a recognised leader of thought in a troublous time. He - became president of the Union Pacific Railroad. And at the last he was the - subject of a memorial address by the Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge. - </p> - <p> - As Henry is still several years short of twenty-five perhaps there is hope - for him. - </p> - <p> - Concord, Mass. - </p> - <h3> - S. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I—THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was late May in - Sunbury, Illinois, and twenty minutes past eight in the morning. - </p> - <p> - The spacious lawns and the wide strips of turf between sidewalk and - roadway in every avenue and street were lush with crowding young blades of - green. The maples, oaks, and elms were vivid with the exuberant youth of - the year. - </p> - <p> - Throughout the village, brisk young men, care-worn men of middle age, a - few elderly men were hurrying toward the old red-brick station whence the - eight-twenty-nine would shortly carry them into the dust and sweat and - smoke of a business day in Chicago. The swarms of sleepy-eyed clerks, - book-keepers, office boys and girl stenographers had gone in on the - seven-eleven and the seven-thirty-two. - </p> - <p> - Along Simpson Street the grocers, in their aprons, already had out their - sidewalk racks heaped with seasonable vegetables and fruits (out-of-season - delicacies had not then become commonplaces of life in Sunbury; - strawberries appeared when the local berries were ripe, not sooner). The - two butcher shops were decorated with red and buff carcasses hung in rows. - A whistling, coatless youth had just swept out Donovan's drug store and - was wiping off the marble counter before the marble and glass soda - fountain. Through the windows of the Sunbury National Bank Alfred Knight - could be seen filling the inkwells and putting out fresh blotters and - pens. The neat little restaurant known as 'Stanley's' (the Stanleys were a - respectable coloured couple) was still nearly full of men who ate ham and - eggs, pounded beefsteak, fried potatoes, and buckwheat cakes, and drank - huge cups of gray-brown coffee; with, at the rear tables, two or three - family groups. And from numerous boarding-houses and dormitories in the - northern section of the overgrown village students of both sexes were - converging on the oak-shaded campus by the lake. - </p> - <p> - All of Sunbury appeared to be up and about the business of the day; all, - perhaps, except Henry Calverly, 3rd, who sat, dressed except for his coat, - heavy-eyed, a hair brush in either hand, hands resting limp on knees, on - the edge of his narrow iron bed. This, in Mrs Wilcox's boardinghouse in - Douglass Street, one block south of Simpson; top floor. - </p> - <p> - If the present reader has, by chance, had earlier acquaintance with Henry, - it should be explained that he is now to be pictured not as a youth of - eighteen going on nineteen but as a young man of twenty going on - twenty-one. - </p> - <p> - That figure, twenty-one, of significance in the secret thoughts of any - growing boy, was of peculiar, stirring significance to the sensitive, - imaginative Henry. It marked the beginning of what is sometimes termed - Life. It suggested alarming but interesting responsibilities. On that day, - beginning with the stroke of the midnight hour, guardians ceased to - function and independence set in. One was a citizen. One voted. In Henry's - case, the crowning symbol of manhood would be deferred a year, as Election - Day was to fall on the fifth of November and his birthday was the seventh; - but that so trivial a mere fact bore small weight in the face of potential - citizenship might have been indicated by the faint blonde fringe along his - upper lip. This fringe was a new venture. He stroked it much of the time, - and stole glances at it in mirrors. He could twist it up a little at the - ends. - </p> - <p> - The rest of him indicated a taste that was hardly bent on the inexpensive - as such. His duck trousers (this was the middle nineties) were smartly - creased and rustled with starch. His white canvas shoes were not - 'sneakers' but had heavy soles and half-heels of red rubber. His coat, - lying now across the iron tube that marked the foot of the bed, was a - double-breasted blue serge, unlined, well-tailored. The hat, hung on a - mirror post above the 'golden oak' bureau, was of creamy white felt. He - had given up spectacles for nose glasses with a black silk cord. - </p> - <p> - Nearly two years earlier his mother had died. He had lived on, caught in a - drift of time and circumstance, keeping, without any particular plan, this - little room with its sloping ceiling. The price was an item, of course—six - dollars a week for room and board. You couldn't do better in Sunbury, even - then. Memories haunted the place, naturally enough. Loneliness had dwelt - close with him. - </p> - <p> - His mother's picture, in a silver frame, stood at the right of the - pincushion; at the left, in hammered brass ('repoussé work') was a - 'cabinet size' photograph of Martha Caldwell. A woven-wire rack on the - wall held half a hundred snapshots of girls, boys, and groups, in about a - third of which figured Martha's smiling, sensible, pleasantly freckled - face. A guitar in an old green bag leaned against the wall behind his - mother's old trunk; it had not been out of the bag in more than a year. An - assortment of neck-ties hung over the gas-jet by the bureau. Tacked about - on the wall were six or eight copies of Gibson girls; rather good copies, - barringva certain stiffness of line. On the seat in the one dormer window - reposed two cushions, one covered with college pennants, the other with - cigar bands laboriously cross-stitched together; both from, the hands of - Martha. - </p> - <p> - Henry's little bookcase was not uninteresting. It contained the following - books: Daily Strength for Daily Needs, Browning, Trollope, and Hawthorne - in sets, Sonnets, from the Portuguese, Words often Mispronounced, - Longfellow, complete in one fat volume. Red Line Edition, and Six Thousand - Puzzles, all of which had been his mother's; Green's History of the - English People, Boswell's Johnson, both largely uncut, and the Discourses - of Epictetus, which three had come as Christmas or birthday gifts; and - exactly one volume, a work by an obscure author (who was pictured in the - frontispiece with a bristling moustache and intensely knit brows) entitled - Will Power and Self Mastery, which offered the only clue as to Henry's own - taste in book buying. - </p> - <p> - His taste in reading was another matter. The novels and romances he had - devoured during certain periods of his teens had mostly come from the - Sunbury Free Public Library. Lately, however, apart from thrilling moments - with The Prisoner of Zenda, Under the Red Rose, and The Princess Aline, he - had found difficulty in reading at all. Something was stirring within him, - something restlessly positive, an impulse to give out rather than take in. - Though he had, at intervals, lunged with determination at the Green and - the Boswell. This effort, indeed, had been repeated so many times that he - occasionally caught himself speaking of these authors as if he had read - them exhaustively. - </p> - <p> - The bottom drawer of the bureau was a third full of unfinished manuscripts—attempts - at novels, short stories, poems, plays—each faithfully reflecting - its immediate source of inspiration. There were paragraphs that might have - been written by a little Dickens; there were thinly diluted specimens of - Dumas, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard Harding Davis, Thackeray. The rest - was all Kipling, prose and verse. Everybody was writing Kipling then. - </p> - <p> - A step sounded in the hall. The knob turned softly; the door opened a - little way; and the thinnish, moderately pretty face of Mamie Wilcox - appeared—pale blue eyes with the beginnings of hollows beneath them, - fair skin, straight hay-coloured hair, wisps of it straying down across - forehead and cheek, thin nose, soft but rather sulky mouth. She was - probably twenty-two or twenty-three at this time. - </p> - <p> - All she said was, 'Oh!'—very low. - </p> - <p> - 'Wonder you wouldn't knock!' said he. - </p> - <p> - 'Wonder you wouldn't get up before noon!' she responded smartly, but still - in that cautious voice; then added, 'Here, I'll leave the towels, and come - back.' And she slipped into the room, a heavier and more shapely figure of - a girl than was suggested by the face, a girl in a full-length gingham - apron and little shoes with unexpectedly high heels; not 'French' heels, - but the sloping style known then as 'military.' - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - Henry's colour was rising a little. He cleared his throat, and said, - mumbling, 'Leave anything you like.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll do just that,'—she turned, with a flirt of her apron and - stood, between washstand and door, surveying him—'what I like, and - nothing more.'... Her eyes wandered now from him to the picture at the - left of the pincushion, then to the snapshots on the wall, and she smiled, - very self-contained, very knowing, with the expression that the young call - 'sarcastic.' The adjective came to mind. Henry's colour was mounting - higher. - </p> - <p> - 'Pretty snappy to-day, ain't we?' said he. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, when we're snapped at,' said she. - </p> - <p> - There was a silence that ran on into seconds and tens of seconds. - </p> - <p> - Then, acting on an impulse of astonishing suddenness, he sprang toward - her. - </p> - <p> - With almost equal agility she stepped away. But he caught one hand. - </p> - <p> - She had the door-knob in her other hand. She drew the door open, then, - indecisively, pushed it nearly to. - </p> - <p> - 'Be careful!' she whispered. 'They'll hear!' - </p> - <p> - She made a small effort to free her hand. For a moment they stood tugging - at each other. - </p> - <p> - When Henry spoke, in an effort to appear the off-hand man of the world he - assuredly was not, his voice sounded weak and husky. - </p> - <p> - 'Whew—strong!' - </p> - <p> - 'Suppose I slapped.' - </p> - <p> - 'Slap all you like.' - </p> - <p> - 'What would Martha Caldwell say?' - </p> - <p> - There was a gloomy sort of anger on Henry's red face. He jerked her - violently toward him. - </p> - <p> - 'Stop! You're hurting my wrist!' With which she yielded a little. He found - himself about to take her in his arms. He heard her whispering—'For - Heaven's sake be careful! They'll surely hear!' - </p> - <p> - He was most unhappy. He pushed her roughly away, and rushed to the - window., - </p> - <p> - He knew from the silence that she was lingering. He hated her. And - himself. - </p> - <p> - She said: 'Well, you needn't get mad.' - </p> - <p> - Then, slowly, cautiously, she let herself out. He heard her moving - composedly along the hall. - </p> - <p> - He felt weak. And deeply guilty. For a long time this moment had been a - possibility; now it had taken place. What if some one had seen her come - in! What if she should come again! What if she should tell!... - </p> - <p> - He found one hair brush on the floor, the other on the bed, and brushed - his hair; donned his coat, buttoning it and smoothing it down about his - shapely torso with a momentary touch of complacency; glanced at the - mirror; twisted up his moustache; then stood waiting for his colour to go - down. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, with one of his quick impulses, he sprang at the bookcase, drew - out the <i>Epictetus</i>—it was a little book, bound in 'ooze' calf - of an olive-green colour—and read these words (the book opened - there):— - </p> - <p> - 'To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable. - </p> - <p> - He lowered the book and repeated the phrase aloud. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - A little later—red about the ears, and given to sudden starts when - the swinging pantry doors opened to let a student waiter in or out—he - sat, quite erect, in the dining room and bolted a boarding-house breakfast - of stewed prunes, oatmeal, fried steak, fried potatoes, fried mush - swimming in brown sugar syrup, and coffee. The <i>Discourses of Epictetus</i> - lay at his elbow. - </p> - <p> - After this he walked—stiffly self-conscious, book under arm—over - to Simpson Street, and took a chair and an <i>Inter Ocean</i> at Schultz - and Schwartz's, among the line of those waiting to be shaved. - </p> - <p> - This accomplished he paused outside, on the curb, to pencil this entry in - a red pocket account-book:— - </p> - <p> - 'Shave—10 c.' - </p> - <p> - He wavered when passing Donovan's; stepped in and consumed a frosted maple - shake. Which necessitated the further entry in the red book:— - </p> - <p> - 'Soda—10 c.' - </p> - <p> - In front of Berger's grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked together - to the corner. - </p> - <p> - Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes, - an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her flat - straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a - goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood - in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies in - Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and Thursday - evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many other - evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that with 'the - crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up calling at her - house. But they were not engaged. - </p> - <p> - On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of the - lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some curiosity - at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide bottomless gulf, - and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately for words. He began - to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem self-control. - </p> - <p> - At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly - embarrassing. - </p> - <p> - She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf by - the stone walk. - </p> - <p> - He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and - stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him - that he had never been so unhappy. - </p> - <p> - 'Are you'—Martha began; hesitated; went on—'were you thinking - of coming around this evening?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—it's Thursday, ain't it?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.' - </p> - <p> - 'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how - could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never, - never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur V. - Henderson's.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton. She's - been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked specially - to have me cover it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Why don't you go?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate——' - </p> - <p> - 'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue, - and left him standing there. - </p> - <p> - He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for - her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers—or a box of Devoe's.' - </p> - <p> - This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to the - financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And he - hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years. - Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention. - </p> - <p> - It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not - before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he - paused, and glanced down the avenue. - </p> - <p> - A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the - block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man - who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and - Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and a - suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was - leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to—Martha. And Martha - was listening. - </p> - <p> - Henry moved on, little confused pangs of quite unreasonable jealousy - stabbing at his heart, and entered the business-and-editorial office of <i>The - Weekly Voice of Sunbury</i>, where he worked. - </p> - <p> - Here he laid down the <i>Discourses of Epictetus</i> and asked Humphrey - Weaver, untitled editor of the paper (old man Boice, the owner, would - never permit any one but himself to be known by that title), for the - galley proofs of the week's 'Personal Mention.' - </p> - <p> - He found this item:— - </p> - <p> - Mr James B. Merchant, Jr., of Greggs, Merchant & Co., was a guest of - Mr and Mrs Ames at the Country Club on Saturday evening. Mr Merchant has - leased for the summer the apartment of M. B. Wills, on Lower Filbert - Avenue. - </p> - <p> - That was the man! James B. Merchant was a bachelor, rich, a famous - cotillion leader on the South Side, Chicago, an only son of the original - James B. Merchant. - </p> - <p> - And Martha had gone to the Country Club Saturday with the Ameses. This - curious tension between himself and Martha had then first bordered on the - acute. Mr Ames disapproved of Henry; he felt that Martha shouldn't have - gone. And now, of course, her lack of consideration for himself was - leading her into new complications. - </p> - <p> - He sat moodily fingering the papers on the littered, ink-stained table - that served him for a desk. He was disturbed, uncomfortable, but couldn't - settle on what seemed a proper mental attitude. He was jealous; but he - mustn't let his jealousy carry him to the point of taking a definite stand - with Martha, because—well... - </p> - <p> - Life seemed very difficult. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - The <i>Voice</i> office occupied what had once been a shop, opposite the - hotel. The show window of plate glass now displayed the splintery rear - panels of old Mr Boice's rolltop desk, that was heaped, on top, with back - numbers of the <i>Voice</i>, the <i>Inter Ocean</i> and the <i>Congressional - Record</i>, and a pile of inky zinc etchings mounted on wood blocks. - </p> - <p> - Within, back of a railing, were Humphrey Weaver's desk and Henry - Calverly's table. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey was tall, rather thin and angular, with a long face, long nose, - long chin, swarthy complexion, and quick, quizzical brown eyes with - innumerable fine wrinkles about them. When he smiled, his whole face - seemed to wrinkle back, displaying many large teeth in a cavernous mouth. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey might have been twenty-five or six. He was a reticent young man, - with no girl or women friends that one ever saw, a fondness for the old - corn-cob that he was always scraping, filling, or smoking, and a secret - passion for the lesser known laws of physics. He lived alone, in a barn - back of the old Parmenter place. He had divided the upper story into - living and sleeping rooms, and put in hardwood floors and simple furniture - and a piano. Downstairs, in what he called his shop, were lathes, a - workbench, innumerable wood-and-metal working tools, a dozen or more of - heavy metal wheels set, at right angles, in circular frames, and several - odd little round machines suspended from the ceiling at the ends of - twisted cords. In one corner stood a number of box kites, very large ones. - And there were large planes of silk on spruce frames. He was an alumnus of - the local university, but had made few friends, and had never been known - in the town. Henry hadn't heard of him before the previous year, when he - had taken the desk in the <i>Voice</i> office. - </p> - <p> - 'Say, Hen,'—Henry looked up from his copy paper—; 'Mrs - Henderson looked in a few minutes ago, and left a programme and a list of - guests for her show to-night. She wants to be sure and have you there. You - can do it, can't you?' - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded listlessly. - </p> - <p> - 'It seems there's to be a contralto, too—somebody that's visiting - her. She—Sister Henderson—appears to take you rather - seriously, my boy. Wants you particularly to hear the new girl. One - Corinne Doag. We,'—Humphrey smoked meditatively, then finished his - sentence—'we talked you over, the lady and I. I promised you'd - come.' - </p> - <p> - At noon, the editorial staff of two lunched at Stanley's. - </p> - <p> - 'Wha'd you and Mrs Henderson say about me?' asked Henry, over the pie. - </p> - <p> - 'She says,' remarked Humphrey, the wrinkles multiplying about his eyes, - 'that you have temperament. She thinks it's a shame.' - </p> - <p> - 'What's a shame?' muttered Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'Whatever has happened to you. I told her you were the steadiest boy I - ever knew. Don't drink, smoke, or flirt. I didn't add that you enter every - cent you spend in that little red book; but I've seen you doing it and - been impressed. But I mentioned that you're the most conscientious - reporter I ever saw. That started her. It seems that you're nothing of the - sort. My boy, she set you before me in a new light. You begin to appear - complex and interesting.' - </p> - <p> - Still muttering, Henry said, 'Nothing so very interesting about me.' - </p> - <p> - 'It seems that you put on an opera here—directed it, or sang it, or - something. Before my time.' - </p> - <p> - 'That was <i>Iolanthe</i>,' said Henry, with a momentarily complacent - memory. - </p> - <p> - 'And you sang—all over the place, apparently. Why don't you sing - now?' - </p> - <p> - 'It's too,'—Henry was mumbling, flushing, and groping for a word—'too - physical.' - </p> - <p> - Then, with a sudden movement that gave Humphrey a little start, the boy - leaned over the table, pulled at his moustache, and asked, gloomily: - 'Listen! Do you think a man can change his nature?' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey considered this without a smile. 'I don't see exactly how, Hen.' - </p> - <p> - 'I mean if he's been heedless and reckless—oh, you know, girls, - debts, everything. Just crazy, sorta.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I suppose a man can reform. Were you a very bad lot?' The wrinkled - smile was reassuring. - </p> - <p> - 'That depends on what you—I wasn't exactly sporty, but—oh, you - don't know the trouble I've had, Humphrey. Then my mother died, and I - hadn't been half-decent to her, and I was left alone, and my uncle had to - pay my debts out of the principal—it was hundreds of dollars——' - </p> - <p> - His voice died out. - </p> - <p> - There was an element of pathos in the picture before him that Humphrey - recognised with some sympathy—the gloomy lad of twenty, with that - absurd little moustache that he couldn't let alone. After all, he <i>had</i> - been rather put to it. It began to appear that he had suppressed himself - without mercy. There would doubtless be reactions. Perhaps explosions. - </p> - <p> - Henry went on:— - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know what's happened to me. I don't feel right about things. I'—he - hesitated, glanced up, then down, and his ears reddened—'I've been - going with Martha Caldwell, you know. For a long time.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey nodded. - </p> - <p> - 'Mondays and Thursdays I go over there, and other times. I don't seem to - want to go any more. But I get mixed up about it. I—I don't want - them to say I'm fickle. They used to say it.' - </p> - <p> - 'You've evidently got gifts,' observed Humphrey, as if thinking aloud. - 'You've got some fire in you. The trouble with you now, of course, is that - you're stale.' Humphrey deliberately considered the situation, then - remarked: 'You asked me if a man can change his nature. I begin to see - now. You've been trying to do that to yourself, for quite a while.' - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I suppose you'll find that you can't do it. Not quite that. The - fire that's in you isn't going to stop burning just because you tell it - to.' - </p> - <p> - 'But what's a fellow to do?' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know. Just stick along, I suppose, gradually build up experience - until you find work you can let yourself go in. Some way, of course, - you've got to let yourself go, sooner or later.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, his eyes nervously alert now, his slim young body tense, was - drawing jerkily with his fork on the coarse table-cloth. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' he broke out, with the huskiness in his voice that came when his - emotions pressed—'yes, but what if you can't let yourself go without - letting everything go? What if the fire bums you!' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey found it difficult to frame a reply. He got no further, this as - they were leaving the restaurant, than to say, 'Of course, one man can't - advise another.' - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - As they were turning into the <i>Voice</i> office, Henry caught sight of - Mamie Wilcox, in a cheap pink dress and flapping pink-and-white hat, - loitering by the hotel. He fell back behind Humphrey. Mamie beckoned with - her head. He nodded, and entered the office; and she moved slowly on - around the corner of the avenue. - </p> - <p> - He mumbled a rather unnecessary excuse to Humphrey, and slipped out, - catching up with her on the avenue. She was unpleasantly attractive. She - excited him. - </p> - <p> - 'What is it?' he asked, walking with her. 'Did you want to speak to me?' - </p> - <p> - 'Stuck up, aren't we!' - </p> - <p> - 'Well?' - </p> - <p> - She pouted. 'Take a little walk with me. I do want to talk with you.' - </p> - <p> - 'Haven't time. Got to get right back to the office.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—listen, meet me to-night. I can get out by eight. It's pretty - important. Maybe serious.' - </p> - <p> - 'Is it—-did anybody——' - </p> - <p> - She nodded. 'Mrs MacPherson. She was right in her door when I came out of - your room.' - </p> - <p> - 'Did she say anything?' - </p> - <p> - 'She looked a lot.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, say—I'll see you for a few minutes to-night. Say about - eight.' This was best. It would be dark, or near it. He simply mustn't be - seen strolling with Mamie Wilcox along Filbert Avenue in broad daylight. - 'What do you say to Douglass Street and the Lake Shore Drive?' - </p> - <p> - 'All right. Tell you what—bring a tandem along and take me for a - ride.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I can't.' But his will was weak. 'Got to report a concert. I don't - know, though. I s'pose I could get around at half-past nine' or ten and - hear the last numbers.' - </p> - <p> - He had often done this. Besides, he could probably manage it earlier. He - knew he could rent a tandem at Murphy's cigar store down by the tracks. A - quite wild, wholly fascinating stir of adventure was warming his breast - and bringing that huskiness into his voice. He was letting go. He felt - daring and a little mad. He hadn't realised, before to-day, that Mamie had - such a lure about her. - </p> - <p> - Before returning to the office he got his bank-book and brazenly drew from - the bank, savings department, his entire account, amounting to ten dollars - forty-six cents. He also bespoke the tandem. - </p> - <p> - These were the great days of bicycling. The first highwheeled, rattling - horseless carriage was not to appear in the streets of Sunbury for a year - or two yet. Bicycle clubs flourished. Memorial Day each year (they called - it Decoration Day) was a mad rush of excursion and road races. Every - Sunday witnessed a haggard-eyed humpbacked horde of 'Scorchers' in - knickerbockers or woollen tights. Many of the young men one met on train - and street wore medals with a suspended chain of gold bars, one for each - 'century run.' - </p> - <p> - And these were the first great days of the bloomer girl. She was legion. - Sometimes her bloomers were bloomers, sometimes they were knickerbockers, - sometimes little more than the tights of the racing breed. She was dusty, - sweaty, loud. She was never the sort of girl you knew; but always appeared - from the swarming, dingy back districts of the city. Sometimes she rode a - single wheel, sometimes tandem with some male of the humpbacked breed and - of the heavily muscled legs and the grotesquely curved handle bars. The - bloomer girl was looked at askance by the well-bred folk of the shaded - suburbs. Ministers thumped pulpits and harangued half-empty pews regarding - this final moral, racial disaster while she rode dustily by the very - doors. - </p> - <p> - Henry, as he pedalled the long machine through back streets to the - rendezvous, was glad that the twilight was falling fast. In his breast - pocket were copy paper and pencils, in an outer pocket his little - olive-green book. His white trousers were caught about the ankles with - steel dips. - </p> - <p> - Mamie kept him waiting. He hid both himself and the wheel in the shadows - of the tall lilac bushes in the little village park. - </p> - <p> - She came at length, said 'Hello!' and with a little deft unhooking, coolly - stepped out of her skirt, rolled up that garment, thrust it under a bush, - and stood before him in the sort of wheeling costume rarely seen in - Sunbury save on Saturdays and Sundays when the Chicago crowds were pouring - through. - </p> - <p> - Henry stood motionless, silent, in the dusk. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' said she, smartly, 'are we riding?' - </p> - <p> - Without a word he wheeled out the bicycle and they rolled away. - </p> - <p> - She was very close, there before him. She bent over the handle bars like - an old-timer, and pedalled with something more than the abandon of a boy. - It was going to be hard to talk to her... If he could only blot this day - out of his life. 'She started it,' he thought fiercely, staring out ahead - over her rhythmically moving shoulder. 'I never asked her to come in!' - </p> - <p> - 'I didn't know you rode a wheel,' said he, after a time, dismally. - </p> - <p> - 'I ride Sundays with the boys from Pennyweather Point. But you needn't - tell that at home.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm not telling anything at home,' muttered Henry. Then she flung back at - him the one word. - </p> - <p> - 'Surprised?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—why, sorta.' - </p> - <p> - 'You thought I was satisfied to do the room work and wash dishes, I - suppose!' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know as I thought anything.' - </p> - <p> - 'What's the matter, anyway? Scared at my bloomers?' - </p> - <p> - 'That's what you call'em, is it?' - </p> - <p> - 'I must say you're grand company.' - </p> - <p> - He made no reply. - </p> - <p> - They pedalled past the university buildings, the athletic field, the - lighthouse, up a grade between groves of oak, out along the brink of a - clay bluff overlooking the steely dark lake—horizonless, still, a - light or two twinkling far out. - </p> - <p> - 'Shall we go to Hoffman's?' she asked. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't care where we go,' said he. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - <i>The Weekly Voice of Sunbury</i> was put to press every Friday evening, - was printed during that night, and appeared in the first mail on Saturday - mornings. - </p> - <p> - Friday, therefore, was the one distractingly busy day for Humphrey Weaver. - And it was natural enough that he should snatch at Henry's pencilled - report of the musicale at Mrs Henderson's with the briefest word of - greeting, and give his whole mind, blue copy-editing pencil posed in air, - to reading it. But he did note that the boy looked rather haggard, as if - he hadn't slept much. He heard his mumbled remark that he had been over at - the public library, writing the thing; and perhaps wondered mildly and - momentarily why the boy should be writing at the library and not at home, - and why he should speak of the fact at all. And now and again during the - day he was aware of Henry, pale, dog-eyed, inclined to hang about as if - confidences were trembling on his tongue. And he was carrying a little - olive-green book around; drew it from his pocket every now and then and - read or turned the pages with an ostentatious air of concentration, as if - he wanted to be noticed. Humphrey decided to ask him what the trouble was; - later, when the paper was put away. When he might have spoken, old man - Boice was there, at his desk. And Humphrey never got out to meals on - Fridays. Henry got all his work in on time: the 'Real Estate Notes' for - the week and the last items for 'Along Simpson Street.' - </p> - <p> - The report of the musicale would have brought a smile or two on another - day. There was nearly a column of it. Henry had apparently been deeply - moved by the singing of Anne Mayer Stelton. He dwelt on the 'velvet - suavity' of her legato passages, her firmness of attack and the 'delicate - lace work of her colourature.' 'Mme. Stelton's art,' he wrote, 'has - deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury. - Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in - personality and profoundly rhythmically musical in temperament, she now - has added a superstructure of technical authority, which gives to each - passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction seldom - heard in this country. Miss Corinne Doag also added immeasurably to the - pleasure of the select audience by singing a group of songs. Miss Corinne - Doag has a contralto voice of fine <i>verve</i> and <i>timbre</i>. She is - a guest of Mrs Henderson, who herself accompanied delightfully. Among - those present were:—' - </p> - <p> - Henry's writing always startled you a little. Words fairly flowed through - his pencil, long words, striking words. He had the word sense; this when - writing. In speech he remained just about where he had been all through - his teens, loose of diction, slurring and eliding and using slang as did - most of the Middle-Westerners among whom he had always lived, and, like - them, swallowing his tongue down his throat. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey initialed the copy, tossed it into the devil's basket, turned to - a pile of proofs, paused as if recollecting something, picked up the copy - again, glanced rapidly through it, and turned on his assistant. - </p> - <p> - 'Look here, Hen,' he remarked, 'you don't tell what they sang, either of - 'em. Or who <i>were</i> among those present.' - </p> - <p> - Henry was reading his little book at the moment, and fumbling at his - moustache. A mournful object. - </p> - <p> - He turned now, with a start, and stared, wide-eyed, at Humphrey. His lips - parted, but he didn't speak. A touch of colour appeared in his cheeks. - </p> - <p> - Then, as abruptly, he went limp in his chair. - </p> - <p> - 'I thought she left a list here and a programme,' he said, eyes now on the - floor. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's practised eye ran swiftly over the double row of pigeonholes - before him. 'Right you are!' he exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - It was a quarter past eleven that night when Humphrey scrawled his last - 'O.K.'; stretched out his long form in his swivel chair; yawned; said, - 'Well, <i>that's</i> done, thank God!'; and hummed and tapped out on his - bare desk the refrain of a current song:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - 'But you'd look sweet - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - On the seat - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Of a bicycle built for two.' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He turned on Henry with a wrinkly, comfortable grin. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, my boy, it's too late for Stanley's but what do you say to a bite - at Ericson's, over by the tracks?' - </p> - <p> - Then he became fully aware of the woebegone look of the boy, fiddling - eternally with that moustache, fingering the leaves of his little book, - and added:— - </p> - <p> - 'What on earth is the matter with you!' - </p> - <p> - Henry gazed long at his book, swallowed, and said weakly:— - </p> - <p> - 'I'm in trouble, Humphrey.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, come, not so bad as all—' - </p> - <p> - He was silenced by the sudden plaintive appeal on Henry's face. Mr Boice, - a huge-slow-moving figure of a man with great white whiskers, was coming - in from the press room. - </p> - <p> - They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a - roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs. - </p> - <p> - There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at first. - Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an ingenuous - volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he could be - bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He was full of - odd little spiritual turnings and twistings—vague as to the clock, - intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless sea of - self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him with - direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the Thursday - morning in the boy's room. - </p> - <p> - 'But I never asked her in,' he hurried to explain. 'She came in. Maybe - after that it was my fault, but I didn't ask her in.' - </p> - <p> - 'But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn't so serious. You didn't make love - to her.' - </p> - <p> - 'I tried to.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.' - </p> - <p> - 'But don't you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She'd been - snooping. Musta heard some of it. That's why Mamie hung around for me - yesterday noon.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, she hung around?' - </p> - <p> - Henry swallowed, and nodded. 'That's why I slipped out again after lunch - yesterday. I didn't want to tell you.' - </p> - <p> - 'Naturally. A man's little flirtations——' - </p> - <p> - 'But wait, Hump! She was excited about it. And she seemed to think it was - up to me, somehow. I couldn't get rid of her.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, of course——' - </p> - <p> - 'She made me promise to see her last night——' - </p> - <p> - 'But—wait a minute!—last night——' - </p> - <p> - 'This was the first part of the evening. She made me promise to rent - Murphy's tandem——' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm! you <i>were</i> going it!' - </p> - <p> - 'And we rode up the shore a ways.' - </p> - <p> - 'Then you didn't hear all of the musicale?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. She wanted to go up to Hoffmann's Garden. So we went there——' - </p> - <p> - 'But good lord, that's six miles—-' - </p> - <p> - 'Eight. You can do it pretty fast with a tandem. The place was jammed. I - felt just sick about it. The waiter made us walk clear through, past all - the tables. I coulda died. You see, Mamie, she—but I had to be a - sport, sorta.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you had to go through with it, of course.' - </p> - <p> - 'Sure! I <i>had</i> to. It was awful.' - </p> - <p> - 'Anybody there that knew you?' - </p> - <p> - Henry's colour rose and rose. He gazed down intently at the remnant of a - cream puff; pushed it about with his fork. Then his lips formed the word, - 'Yes.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey considered the problem. 'Well,' he finally observed, 'after all, - what's the harm? It may embarrass you a little. But most fellows pick up a - girl now and then. It isn't going to kill anybody.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, but'—Henry's emotions seemed to be all in his throat to-night; - he swallowed—'but it—well, Martha was there.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh—Martha Caldwell?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. And Mary Ames and her mother. They were with Mr Merchant's party.' - </p> - <p> - 'James B., Junior?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. They drove up in a trap. I saw it outside. We weren't but three - tables away from them. They saw everything. Mamie, she——' - </p> - <p> - 'After all, Hen. It's disturbing and all that, but you were getting pretty - tired of Martha——' - </p> - <p> - 'It isn't that, Hump 1 I don't know that I was. I get mixed. But it's the - shame, the disgrace. The Ameses have been down on me anyway, for something - that happened two years ago. And now...! And Martha, she's—well, - can't you see, Hump? It's just as if there's no use of my trying to stay - in this town any longer. They'll all be down on me now. They'll whisper - about me. They're doing it now. I feel it when I walk up Simpson Street. - They're going to mark me for that kind of fellow, and I'm not.' - </p> - <p> - His face sank into his hands. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey considered him; said, 'Of course you're not;' considered him - further. Then he said, reflectively: 'It's unpleasant, of course, but I'll - confess I can't see that what you've told me justifies the words “shame” - and “disgrace.” They're strong words, my boy. And as for leaving town... - See here, Hen | Is there anything you haven't told me?' - </p> - <p> - The bowed head inclined a little farther. - </p> - <p> - 'Hadn't you better tell me? Did anything happen afterward? Has the girl - got—well, a real hold on you?' The head moved slowly sidewise. 'We - fought afterward, all the way home. Rowed. Jawed at each other like a pair - of little muckers. No, it isn't that. I hated her all the time. I told her - I was through with her. She tried to catch me in the hall this morning, up - on the third floor. Came sneaking to my room again. With towels. That's - why I wrote in the library.' - </p> - <p> - 'But you aren't telling me what the rest of it was.' - </p> - <p> - 'She—oh, she drank beer, and——' - </p> - <p> - 'That's what most everybody does at Hoffmann's. The beer's good there.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know. I don't like the stuff.' - </p> - <p> - 'Come, Hen, tell me. Or drop it. Either.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll tell you. But I get so mad. It's—she—well, she wore - pants.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's sympathy and interest were real, and he did not smile as he - queried: 'Bloomers?' - </p> - <p> - 'No, pants. Britches. I never saw anything so tight. Nothing else like 'em - in the whole place. People nudged each other and laughed and said things, - right out loud. Hump, it was terrible. And we walked clear through—past - hundreds of tables—and away over in the corner—and there were - the Ameses, and Martha, and——' - </p> - <p> - His head was up now; there was fire in his eyes; his voice trembled with - the passion of a profound moral indignation. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump, she's tough. She rides with that crowd from Pennyweather Point. She - smokes cigarettes. She—she leads a double life.' - </p> - <p> - And neither did it occur to Humphrey, looking at the blazing youth before - him, to smile at that last remark. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey had reached a point of real concern over Henry. He thought about - him the last thing that night—pictured him living a lonely, - spasmodically ascetic life, in the not over cheerful boarding-house of Mrs - Wilcox—and the first thing the next morning. - </p> - <p> - The curious revelation of the later morning nettled him, perhaps, as a - responsible editor, but, if anything, deepened his concern. He had the boy - on his conscience, that was the size of it. He thought him over all the - morning, before and after the revelation. After it he smoked steadily and - hard, and knit his brows, and shook his head gravely, and chuckled. - </p> - <p> - Henry always came in between half-past eleven and twelve Saturdays to clip - his contributions from the paper and paste them, end to end, in a - 'string.' Then Humphrey would measure the string with a two-foot rule and - fill out an order on the <i>Voice</i> Company for payment at the rate of a - dollar and a quarter a column, or something less than seven cents an inch. - Henry despairing of a raise from nine dollars a week had, months back, - elected to work 'on space.' - </p> - <p> - That the result had not been altogether happy—he was averaging - something less than nine dollars a week now—does not concern us - here. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey contrived to keep busy until the string was made and measured; - then proposed lunch. - </p> - <p> - At Stanley's, the food ordered, he leaned on his lank elbows and surveyed - the dejected young man before him. - </p> - <p> - 'Hen,' he remarked dryly, 'do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton's voice - has a velvet suavity?' - </p> - <p> - Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then dropped - his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid. - </p> - <p> - 'Why not?' said he. - </p> - <p> - 'You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably - since she last appeared in Sunbury?' - </p> - <p> - Henry centred all his attention on the soup. - </p> - <p> - 'You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during - her study abroad?' - </p> - <p> - Henry's ears were scarlet now. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at his - deeply unhappy friend. - </p> - <p> - For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid down - his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met Humphrey's - gaze. - </p> - <p> - 'There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your neck. - A moment.' - </p> - <p> - Henry's voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has - absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much. - 'What is it?' he asked. 'What happened?' - </p> - <p> - 'Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and - sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.' - </p> - <p> - Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump,' he said, 'I don't know that I'm sorry. I'm rather glad you caught - me, I think.' - </p> - <p> - It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving speech. - </p> - <p> - 'You had an unlucky day,' he said. - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry - pushed his aside. He ate nothing more. - </p> - <p> - 'Mrs Henderson was in,' Humphrey added. 'I don't care what they say about - her, she's a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.' - </p> - <p> - 'Was she mad, Hump?' - </p> - <p> - 'I—well, yes, I gathered the impression that you'd better not try to - talk to her for a while. There she was, you see—came straight down - to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along. - Unusual dark brown eyes—almost black. A striking girl. But you won't - meet her—not this trip. Though she couldn't help laughing once or - twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick. <i>Verve. - Timbre</i>. It puts you—I won't say in a Bad light—but - certainly in a rather absurd light.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' said Henry, gently, meekly, 'it does. It sorta completes the thing. - I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They're laughing at me. - And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I've lost my friends. I'm sort of - an outcast, I suppose. A—a pariah.' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. - </p> - <p> - 'You'd better eat some food,' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'I can't.' Henry was brooding, a tired droop to his mouth, a look of - strain about the eyes. He began thinking aloud, rather aimlessly. 'It - ain't as if I did that sort of thing. I never asked her to come in. I - couldn't very well refuse to talk with her. She suggested the tandem. It - did seem like a good idea to get her out of town, if I had to risk being - seen with her. I'll admit I got mixed—awfully. I don't suppose I - knew just what I was doing. But it was the first time in two years. Hump, - you don't know how hard I've——' - </p> - <p> - 'It's the first-time offenders that get most awfully caught,' observed - Humphrey. 'But never mind that now. You're caught, Hen. No good - explaining. You've just got to live it down.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's what I've been doing for two years—living things down. And - look where it's brought me. I'm worse off than ever.' - </p> - <p> - There was a slight quivering in his voice that conveyed an ominous - suggestion to Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'Mustn't let the kid sink this way,' he thought. Then, aloud: 'Here's a - little plan I want to suggest, Hen. You're stale. You're taking this too - hard. You need a change.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't like to leave town, exactly, Hump—as if I was licked. I've - changed about that.' - </p> - <p> - 'You're not going to leave town. You're coming over to live with me. Move - this afternoon.' - </p> - <p> - Henry seemed to find difficulty in comprehending this. Humphrey, suddenly - a victim of emotion, pressed on, talking fast. 'I'll be through by four. - You be packing up. Get an expressman and fetch your things. Here's my key. - I'll let you pay something. We'll get our breakfasts.' - </p> - <p> - He had to stop. It struck him as silly, letting this forlorn youth touch - him so deeply. He gulped down a glass of water. 'Come on,' he said - brusquely, 'let's get out.' And on the street he added, avoiding those - bewildered dog eyes—'I'm going to reshuffle you and deal you out - fresh.' That's all you need, a new deal.' - </p> - <p> - But to himself he added: 'It won't be easy. He is taking it hard. He's - unstrung. I'll have to work it out slowly, head him around, build up his - confidence. Teach him to laugh again. It'll take time, but it can be done. - He's good material. Get him out of that dam boardinghouse to start with.' - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - It was nearly five o'clock when Humphrey reached his barn at the rear of - the Parmenter place. He found the outside door ajar. - </p> - <p> - 'Hen's here now,' he thought. - </p> - <p> - He stepped within the dim shop, that had once been a carriage room, - called, 'Hello there!' and crossed to the narrow stairway. There was no - answer. He went on up. - </p> - <p> - On the rug in the centre of the living-room floor was a heap consisting of - an old trunk, a suit-case, a guitar in an old green woollen bag, two - canes, an umbrella, and various loose objects—books, a small stand - of shelves, two overcoats, hats, and a wire rack full of photographs. - </p> - <p> - The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where they - had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found the - splinter on the floor; muttered, 'I'll glue it on, and rub over the - cracks.' - </p> - <p> - He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. 'It - didn't occur to him to stow'em away,' he mused. 'Probably didn't know - where to put 'em.' - </p> - <p> - He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next to - his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day. He - carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the rug. - </p> - <p> - The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the - knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of his - bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and electric - lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and at the - head of his bed. - </p> - <p> - He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with - knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling - against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard to - give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known it - would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming again, - and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant home was - his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a dusty, - cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the water - pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his - acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so. - </p> - <p> - 'Hen shouldn't have left the door open like that,' he mused. - </p> - <p> - He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he - sighed. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he thought, 'needn't be a hog. It's my chance to do a fairly - decent turn. The boy hasn't a soul. Not yet. - </p> - <p> - He isn't the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised. - Very likely I've got to build him over from the ground up. Might try - making him read history. God knows he needs background. It'll take time. - And patience. All I've got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of his - self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That's it. I've taken it on. - Can't quit. It seems to be my job.' And he sighed again. 'Have to get him - a key of his own.' - </p> - <p> - There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures and - garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - 'I put your things in there,' Humphrey pointed. 'We'll move the box couch - in for you to-night.' - </p> - <p> - 'That'll be fine,' said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom; and - he compressed his lips and shook his head. - </p> - <p> - Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for the - first lesson. 'There's simply no life in the boy,' thought Humphrey. He - cleared his throat, and said aloud:— - </p> - <p> - 'Tell you what, Hen. We'll celebrate a little, this first evening. I've - got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I make - excellent drip coffee. If you'll go over to Berger's and get a pound or so - of cheese for the rabbit, I'll look the situation over and figure out a - meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, 'All right,' - hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally - wandered off down the stairs and out. - </p> - <p> - He returned at twenty minutes past midnight. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey was abed, reading Smith' on Torsion. He put down the book and - waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since six - o'clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling; at - present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly - suppressed wrath. - </p> - <p> - Henry came into the room—a little flushed, bright of eye, the - sensitive corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily - upward. He even actually chuckled. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, where—on—earth.... - </p> - <p> - Henry waved a light hand. 'Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess I owe - you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something. Everything - happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you're sorta swept off your - feet like that——' - </p> - <p> - 'Like what!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh—well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny, - it doesn't seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was weeks - ago that I moved my things over.' His eyes roved about the room; lingered - on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface wiring with - sudden interest. - </p> - <p> - 'Go on!' From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on - the self-absorbed youth. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger's and got the cheese; and - just as I was coming out I ran into Mrs Henderson and Corinne.' - </p> - <p> - 'Who!' - </p> - <p> - 'Corinne Doag. You know. She's visiting there. Well, sir, I could have - died right there. Fussed me so I turned around and was going back into the - store. I was just plain rattled. And you were right about Mrs Henderson. - She was kinda mad. She made me stand right up and take a scolding. Shook - her finger at me right, there in front of Berger's. That fussed me worse. - Gee! I was red all over. But you see it sorta fussed Corinne Doag too—she - was standing right there—and she got a little red. Wasn't it a - scene, though! Sorta made us acquainted right off. You know, threw us - together. Then she—Mrs Henderson—said I didn't deserve to meet - a girl with verve and timbre, but just to show she wasn't the kind to - harbour angry feelings she'd introduce us. And—and—I walked - along home with'em.' - </p> - <p> - He was looking again at the solid ranks of books that extended, floor to - ceiling, across the end wall. - </p> - <p> - 'Say, Hump, you don't mean to say you really read all those!' - </p> - <p> - 'You walked home with them. Go on.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, well, they asked me to stay to supper, and I did, and some folks came - in, and we sang and things, and then we—oh, yes, how much was the - cheese?' - </p> - <p> - 'How in thunder do I know?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—there was a pound of it—Mrs Henderson made a rabbit. - </p> - <p> - The none too subtle chill in the atmosphere about Humphrey seemed at last - to be meeting and somewhat subduing the exuberant good cheer that radiated - from Henry. He fell to fingering his moustache, and studying the - bed-posts. Once or twice, he looked up, hesitated on the brink of speech, - only to lower his eyes again. - </p> - <p> - Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled aloud, and said, 'She's a wonderful girl. - At first she seems quiet, but when you get to know her... going to take a - walk with me to-morrow morning. She was going to church with Mrs H., but I - told her we'd worship in God's great outdoor temple.' - </p> - <p> - He yawned now. And stretched, deliberately, luxuriously like a healthy - animal, his arms above his head. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' said he, 'it's late as all get out. I suppose you want to go to - sleep.' He got as far as the door, then leaned confidingly against the - wall. 'Look here, Hump, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate your - taking me in like this. It's dam nice of you. Don't know what I'd have - done if it wasn't for you. Well, good-night.' - </p> - <p> - He got part way out the door this time; then, brushed by a wave of his - earlier moody self-consciousness, turned back. He even came in and leaned - over the foot of the bed, and flushed a little. It occurred to Humphrey - that the boy appeared to be momentarily ashamed of his present happiness. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you know what was the matter with me?' he broke out. 'It was just what - you said. I was taking things too hard. The great thing is to be rational, - normal. Thing with me was I used to go to one extreme and now these last - two years I've been going with all my might to the other. Of course it - wouldn't work... Do you know who's helped me a whole lot? You'd never - guess.' Rather shamefaced, he drew from his pocket a little book bound in - olive-green 'ooze' leather. 'It's this old fellow. Epictetus. Listen to - what he says—“To the rational animal only is the irrational - intolerable.” That was the trouble with me. I just wasn't a rational - animal. I <i>wasn't</i>... Well, I've got to say good-night.' - </p> - <p> - This time he went. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey heard him getting out of his clothes and into the bed that - Humphrey himself had made up on the box couch. It seemed only a moment - later that he was snoring—softly, slowly, comfortably, like a - rational animal. - </p> - <p> - The minute hand of the alarm clock on Humphrey's bureau crept up to - twelve, the hour hand to one. Then came a single resonant, reverberating - boom from the big clock up at the university. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, lips compressed, Humphrey got up, and in his pyjamas and slippers - went downstairs and switched off the door light he found burning there. - The stair light could be turned off upstairs. - </p> - <p> - Then, instead of going up, he opened the door and stood looking out on the - calm village night. - </p> - <p> - 'Of all the——' he muttered inconclusively. 'Why it's—he's - a—— Good God! It's the limit! It's—it's intolerable.' - </p> - <p> - The word, floating from his own lips, caught his ear. His frown began, - very slowly, to relax. A dry, grudging smile wrinkled its way across his - mobile face. And he nodded, deliberately. 'Epictetus,' he remarked, 'was - right.' - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II—IN SAND-FLY TIME - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was half-past - nine of a Sabbath morning at the beginning of June. The beneficent - sunshine streamed down on the dark-like streets, on the shingled roofs of - the many decorous but comfortable homes, on the wide lawns, on the - hundreds of washed and brushed little boys and starched little girls that - were marching meekly to the various Sunday schools, Presbyterian, - Methodist, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist. Above the new cement - sidewalk on Simpson Street—where all the stores were closed except - two drug stores and Swanson's flower shop—the sunshine quivered and - wavered, bringing oppressive promise of the first really warm day of the - young summer. Slow-swinging church bells sent out widening, reverberating - circles of mellow tone through the still air. - </p> - <p> - The sun shone too on the old barn back of the Parmenter place. - </p> - <p> - The barn presented an odd appearance; the red paint of an earlier decade - in the nineteenth century here faded to brown, there flaked off - altogether, but the upstairs part, once the haymow, embellished with neat - double windows. Below, giving on the alley, was a white-painted door with - a single step and an ornamental boot scraper. - </p> - <p> - Within, in Humphrey's room, the bed was neatly made, clothes hung in a - corner, shoes and slippers stood in a row. - </p> - <p> - In Henry's room the couch bed was a rumpled heap, a suit-case lay on the - floor half-unpacked, a trunk was in the same condition, clothes, shoes, - neckties, photographs were scattered about on table, chairs and floor, a - box of books by the bed, the guitar in its old green woollen bag leaning - against the door. - </p> - <p> - In a corner of the living-room the doors of an ingeniously contrived - cupboard stood open, disclosing a sink, shelves of dishes, and a small - ice-box. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, in shirt, trousers and slippers, stood washing the breakfast - things. He was smoking his cob pipe. His long, wrinkly, usually quizzical - face, could Henry have seen it, was deathly sober. - </p> - <p> - Henry, however, could see only the lean back. And he looked at that only - momentarily. He was busy smoothing the fringe along his upper lip and - twisting it up at the ends. Too, he leaned slightly on his bamboo walking - stick, staring down at it, watching it bend. Despite his white ducks and - shoes, serge coat, creamy white felt hat on the back of his shapely head, - despite the rather noticeable nose glasses with the black silk cord - hanging from them to his lapel, he presented a forlorn picture. He wished - Humphrey would say something. That long back was hostile. Henry was - helpless before hostility, as before logic. Already they weren't getting - on. Little things like washing dishes and making beds and—dusting! - Humphrey was proving an old fuss-budget. And Henry couldn't think what to - do about it. He could never:—never in the world—do those fussy - things, use his hands. He couldn't even flounder through the little mental - processes that lead up to doing things with your hands. He wasn't that - sort of person. Humphrey was. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, thunder—Hump!' Thus Henry, weakly. 'Let the old dishes slide a - little while. I'll be back. It ain't my fault that I've got a date now.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey set down a cup rather hard, rolled the dish-towel into a ball and - threw it, with heat, after the cup, then strode to the window, nursing his - pipe and staring out at the gooseberry and currant bushes in the back yard - of the First Presbyterian parsonage across the alley. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey liked order. It was the breath of his life. Combined with - solitude it spelled peace to his bachelor soul. But here it was only the - second day and the place was a pigsty. What would it be in a week! - </p> - <p> - He was aware that Henry moved over, all hesitation, and with words, to - shut the door of that hopelessly littered bedroom. The boy appeared to - have no intention of picking up his things; he wasn't even unpacking! - Leaving his clothes that way 1... The words he was so confusedly uttering - were the absurdest excuses: 'Just shut the door—fix it all up when I - get back—an hour or so... - </p> - <p> - It was in a wave of unaccustomed sentimentalism that Humphrey had gathered - him in. Humphrey had few visitors. You couldn't work with aimless youths - hanging around. He knew all about that. Humphrey's evenings were precious. - His time was figured out, Monday morning to Saturday night, to the minute. - And the Sundays were always an orgy of work. But this youth, to whom he - had opened his quarters and his slightly acid heart, was the most aimless - being he had ever known. An utter surprise; a shock. Yet here he was, all - over the place. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey was trying, by a mighty effort of will, to get himself back into - that maudlin state of pity which had brought on all this trouble. If he - could only manage again to feel sorry for the boy, perhaps he could stand - him. But he could only bite his pipe-stem. He was afraid he might say - something he would be sorry for. No good in that, of course.... No more - peaceful study, all alone, propped up in bed, with a pipe and reading - light! No more wonderful nights in the shop downstairs! No more holding to - a delicately fresh line of thought—balancing along like a - wire-walker over a street! The boy was over by the stairs now, all - apologies, mumbling useless words. But he was going—no doubt - whatever as to that. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm late now,' he was saying.'What else can I do, Hump? I promised. - She'll be looking for me now. If you just wouldn't be in such a thundering - hurry about those darn dishes... I can't live like a machine. I just - can't!' - </p> - <p> - 'You could have cleaned up your room while you've been standing there,' - said Humphrey, in a rumbling voice. - </p> - <p> - 'No, I couldn't! Put up all my pictures and books and things! I'm not like - you. You don't understand!' Humphrey wheeled on him, pipe in hand, a cold - light in his eyes, a none-too-agreeable smile wrinkling the lower part of - his face. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm not asking much of you,' he said. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, thunder, Hump! Do you think I don't appreciate—' - </p> - <p> - 'I'd be glad to help you. But you've got to do a <i>little</i> on your own - account. For God's sake show some spine!' Sand-fly! Damn it, this is more - than I can stand! It smothers me! How can I work! How can I think!' He - stopped short; bit his lip; turned back to the window and thrust his pipe - into his mouth. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey knew without looking that the boy was fussing endlessly at that - absurd moustache. And sighing—he heard that. He bit hard on his - pipe-stem. The day was wrecked already. He would be boiling up every few - moments; tripping over Henry's things; regretting his perhaps too harsh - words. Yes, they were too harsh, of course. - </p> - <p> - Henry was muttering, mumbling, tracing out the pattern in the rug-border - with his silly little stick. These words were audible:— - </p> - <p> - 'I don't see why you asked me to come here. I suppose I... Of course, if - you don't want me to stay here with you, I suppose I... Oh, well! I guess - I ain't much good....' - </p> - <p> - The voice trailed huskily off into silence. - </p> - <p> - After all, there didn't seem to be any place the boy could stay, if not - here. Living alone in a boarding-house hadn't worked at all. To send him - out into the world would be like condemning him. - </p> - <p> - Henry moved off down the stairs, slowly, pausing once as if he had not yet - actually determined to go. - </p> - <p> - Walking more briskly, he emerged from the alley and swung around into - Filbert Avenue. The starched and shining children were pouring in an - intermittent stream into the First Presbyterian chapel, behind the big - church. - </p> - <p> - Gloom in his eyes, striking in a savage aimlessness with his cane at the - grass, he passed the edifice. Walking thus, he felt a presence and lifted - his eyes. - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - Approaching was a pleasant-looking young woman of twenty, of a good - figure, a few girlish freckles across the bridge of her nose, abundant - hair tucked in under her Sunday hat. - </p> - <p> - It was Martha Caldwell. She had a class in the Sunday-school. - </p> - <p> - Martha saw him. No doubt about that. - </p> - <p> - For the moment, in Henry's abasement of spirit, he half forgot that she - had cut him dead, publicly, on Simpson Street on the Saturday. Or if it - was not a forgetting it was a vagueness. Henry was full to brimming of - himself. Not in years had he craved sympathy as he craved it to-day. The - word 'craved,' though, isn't strong enough. It was an utter need. An - outcast, perhaps literally homeless; for how could he go back to - Humphrey's after what had occurred! He must pack his things, of course. - </p> - <p> - He raised his hand—slowly, a thought stiffly—toward his hat. - </p> - <p> - Martha moved swiftly by, staring past him, fixedly, her lips compressed, - her colour rising. - </p> - <p> - Henry's hand hung suspended a moment, then sank to his side. - </p> - <p> - Henry himself was capable of any sort of heedlessness, but never of - unkindness or of cutting a friend. - </p> - <p> - The colour surged hotly over his face and reddened his ears. - </p> - <p> - There was a chance—a pretty good chance, it seemed, as he recalled - the pleasant Saturday evening over a rabbit—that he might find - sympathy at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's. That was one place, where, within - twelve hours, Henry Calverley, 3rd, had had some standing. They had seemed - to like him. Mrs Henderson had unquestionably played up to him. And her - guest was a peach! - </p> - <p> - At a feverish pace, almost running, he went there. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - Corinne Doag was a big girl with blue-black hair and a profile like the - Goddess of Liberty on the silver quarter of the period. Her full face - rather belied the profile; it was an easy, good-natured face, though with - a hint of preoccupation about the dark eyes. Her smile was almost a grin. - She had the great gift of health. She radiated it. You couldn't ignore her - you felt her. - </p> - <p> - Though not a day older than Henry, Corinne was a singer of promise. At Mrs - Henderson's musicale, she had managed groups of Schumann, Schubert, Franz - and Wolff, an Italian aria or two and some quaint French folk songs with - ample evidence of sound training and coaching. Her voice had faults. It - was still a little too big for her. It was a contralto without a hollow - note in it, firm and strong, with a good upper range. There was in it more - than a hint of power. It moved you, even in her cruder moments. Her - speaking voice—slow, lazy, strongly sensuous—gave Henry - thrills. - </p> - <p> - She and Henry strolled up the lake, along the bluff through and beyond the - oak-clad campus, away up past the lighthouse. She seemed not to mind the - increasing heat. She had the careless vitality of a young mountain lion, - and the grace. - </p> - <p> - Henry himself minded no external thing. Corinne Doag was, at the moment, - the one person in the world who could help him in his hour of deep - trouble. It was not clear how she could help him, but somehow she could. - He was blindly sure of it. If he could just impress himself on her, make - her forget other men, other interests! He had started well, the night - before. Things had gone fine. - </p> - <p> - He was leading her to a secluded breakwater, between the lighthouse and - Pennyweather Point, where, under the clay bluff, the shell of an old - boat-house gave you a back as you sat on a gray timber and shielded you at - once from morning sun and from the gaze of casual strollers up the beach. - Henry knew the place well, had guided various girls there. Martha had - often spoken of it as 'our' breakwater. But no twinge of memory disturbed - him now. His nervous intentness on this immediate, rather desperate task - of conquering Corinne's sympathy fully occupied his turbulent thoughts. - </p> - <p> - When they arrived at the spot he was stilted in manner, though atremble - within. He ostentatiously took off his coat, spread it for her, - overpowering her protests. - </p> - <p> - It had been thought by a number of girls and by a few of his elders that - Henry had charm. He was aware of quality they called charm he could - usually turn on and off like water at a faucet. - </p> - <p> - Now, of all occasions, was the time to turn it on. But he was breathlessly - unequal to it. - </p> - <p> - Perversity seized his tongue. He had seen himself lying easily, not - ungracefully beside her, saying (softly) the things she would most like to - hear. Speak of her voice, of course. And sing with her (softly) while they - idly watched the streaky, sparkling lake and the swooping, creaking gulls - above it. But he did none of these. Instead he stood over her, glaring - down rather fiercely, and saying nothing at all. - </p> - <p> - 'The shade does feel good,' said she. - </p> - <p> - Still he groped for words, or for a mental attitude that might result in - words. None came. Here she was, at his feet, and he couldn't even speak. - </p> - <p> - He fell back, in pertubation, on physical display, became the prancing - male. - </p> - <p> - 'I like to skip stones,' he managed to say, with husky self-consciousness. - He hunted flat stones; threw them hard and far, until his face shone with - sweat and a damp spot appeared in his shirt between his shoulders. - </p> - <p> - To her, 'Better let me hold your glasses,' he responded with an irritable - shake of the head. - </p> - <p> - But such physical violence couldn't go on indefinitely. Not in this heat. - He threw less vigorously. He wondered in something of a funk, why he - couldn't grasp his opportunity. - </p> - <p> - He became aware of a sound. A sound that in a more felicitous moment would - have thrilled him. - </p> - <p> - She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped, - and did a phrase over, as if she were practising. - </p> - <p> - He stole a glance. She wasn't even looking at him. She had sunk back on an - elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be - observing the gulls, rather absently. - </p> - <p> - Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her. - </p> - <p> - 'I skipped that last one seven times,' said he. - </p> - <p> - She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on. - </p> - <p> - 'She doesn't know I'm here,' he mused, with bitterness. 'I don't count. - Nobody wants me.' And added, 'She's selfish.' - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he broke out, tragically: 'You don't know what I've been through. - I wouldn't tell you.' - </p> - <p> - The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she - asked, after a pause, 'Why not?' - </p> - <p> - 'You'd be like the others. You'd despise me.' - </p> - <p> - 'I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn't. You ought to hear her - talk about you.' - </p> - <p> - 'She'll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone - with my way to make. Wha'd she say about me?' - </p> - <p> - 'That you're a genius. She can't make out why you've been burying - yourself, working for a little country paper.' - </p> - <p> - Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for a - less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls; - speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what anybody - thought about anybody. - </p> - <p> - Still—it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye; - glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body. - </p> - <p> - 'So she says I'm a genius, eh! Well, maybe it's true. Maybe I am. I'm - something. Or there's something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on - fire with it. I've done a few things. I put on <i>Iolanthe</i> here. When - I was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it—drilled - 'em——' - </p> - <p> - 'I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll do something else one of these days.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm sure you will,' she murmured politely. - </p> - <p> - It was going none too well. She wasn't really interested. He hadn't - touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it - over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better. - </p> - <p> - 'That's an awfully pretty brooch,' he ventured. - </p> - <p> - She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a - cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold. - </p> - <p> - 'It was a present,' she said. 'From one of the nicest men I ever knew.' - </p> - <p> - This chilled Henry's heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out of - his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully - masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might - be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new girl, - Henry was an incorrigible idealist. - </p> - <p> - It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It hurt, - just to think of it. And presents—things like that, gold in it—the - thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened his - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - 'That's it,' these ran now. 'Presents! Money! That's what girls want. Keep - you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on 'em. That's what they're - after!' - </p> - <p> - The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped - stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising - songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite - too much for him. - </p> - <p> - When he came gloomily over, she remarked:— - </p> - <p> - 'We must be starting back.' - </p> - <p> - He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression throw - his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, come on, don't go yet,' he begged. 'Why, we've only just got here.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's a long walk. And it's hot. We'll never get back for dinner if we - don't start. I mustn't keep Mildred waiting.' - </p> - <p> - He thought, 'A lot she'd care if she wanted to be with me!' - </p> - <p> - He said, 'What you doing to-night?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, a couple of Chicago men are coming out.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh!' It was between a grunt and a snort. He struck out at such a gait - that she finally said:— - </p> - <p> - 'If you want to walk at that pace I'm afraid you'll have to walk alone.' - </p> - <p> - So far a failure. Just as with Humphrey, the situation had given him no - opportunity to display his own kind of thing. The picturesque slang phrase - had not then been coined; but Henry was in wrong and knew it. It was - defeat. - </p> - <p> - The first faint hope stirred when Mrs Henderson rose from a hammock and - came to the top step to clasp his hand. She thought him a genius. Well, - she had been accompanist through all those rehearsals for <i>Iolanthe.</i> - She ought to know. - </p> - <p> - She asked him now, in her alertly offhand way, to stay to dinner. He - accepted instantly. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - Mildred Henderson was little, slim, quick, with tiny feet and hands. - Despite these latter she was the most accomplished pianist in Sunbury. She - had snappy little eyes, and a way of smiling quickly and brightly. The - Hendersons had lived four or five years in Sunbury. They had no children. - They had no servant at this time—but she possessed the gift of - getting up pleasant little meals without apparent effort. - </p> - <p> - After the arrival of Corinne and Henry she disappeared for a few moments, - then called them to the dining-room. - </p> - <p> - 'It's really a cold lunch,' she said, as they gathered at the table—'chicken - and salad and things. But there's plenty for you, Henry. Do have some iced - tea. I know they starve you at that old boarding-house. We've all had our - little term at Mrs Wilcox's.' - </p> - <p> - 'I—I'm not living there any more. I've moved.' - </p> - <p> - 'Not to Mrs Black's?' - </p> - <p> - 'No... you see I work with Humphrey Weaver at the <i>Voice</i> office and - he asked me to come and live with him.' - </p> - <p> - 'With him? And where does he live?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why, just back of the old Parmenter place.' - </p> - <p> - 'But there's nothing back of the Parmenter place!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes—you see, the barn——' - </p> - <p> - 'Not that old red——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. You'd be surprised! Humphrey's put in hardwood and electricity and - things. He's really a wonderful person. Did the wiring himself. And the - water pipes. You ought to see his books—and his shop downstairs. - He's an inventor, you know. Going to be. Don't you think for a minute that - he's just a country editor. That's just while he's feeling his way. Oh, - Hump's a smart fellow. Mighty decent of him to take me in that way, too; - because he's busy and I know he'd rather live alone. You see, he's quiet - and orderly about things, and I—well, I'm different.' - </p> - <p> - 'Offhand,' mused Mrs Henderson, 'I shouldn't suspect Humphrey Weaver of - temperament. But tell me—how on earth do you live? Who cooks and - cleans up?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, Hump gets breakfast and—and we'll probably take turns - cleaning up.' - </p> - <p> - 'You remember Humphrey Weaver, Corinne,' the little hostess breezed on. - 'You've met him. Tall, thin, face wrinkles up when he smiles or speaks to - you.' She added, as if musing aloud, 'He <i>has</i> nice eyes.' Then, to - Henry: - </p> - <p> - 'But do you mean to say that so fascinating a man as that lives - undiscovered, right under our noses, in this bourgeois town.' - </p> - <p> - Henry was rather vague about the meaning of 'bourgeois,' but he nodded - gravely. - </p> - <p> - 'You must bring him down here, Henry. I can't imagine what I've been - thinking of to overlook him. - </p> - <p> - Tell you what, we'll have a little rabbit to-morrow night. We four. We'll - devote an evening to drawing Mr Humphrey Weaver out of his shell.' - </p> - <p> - Her quick eyes caught a doubtful look in Corinne's eyes. 'Oh,' she said, - 'we did speak of letting Will and Fred take us in town, didn't we?' - </p> - <p> - Corinne nodded. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to Henry that he ought to take the situation in hand. As - regarded his relations with Humphrey he was sailing under false colours. - Among his confused thoughts he sought, gropingly, a way out. The speech he - did make was clumsy. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know whether I could make him come. He likes to read evenings, or - work in his shop.' - </p> - <p> - Mrs Henderson took this in, then let her eyes rest a moment, thoughtfully, - on Henry's ingenuous countenance. An intent look crept into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you mean that you two sweep and make beds and wash dishes and dust?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well'—Henry's voice faltered—'you see, I haven't been—I - just moved over there yesterday afternoon.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' There was a bright, flash in Mrs Henderson's eyes. She chuckled - abruptly. It was a sharp little chuckle that had the force of an - interruption. 'I'd like to see the corners of those rooms. There ought to - be some woman that could take care of you.' She turned again on Henry. 'Be - sure and bring him down to-morrow. Come in about six for a picnic supper. - Or no—let me think——' - </p> - <p> - Henry's eyes were on Corinne. She was eating now, composedly, like an - accomplished feminine fatalist, leaving the disposition of matters to her - more aggressive hostess. The food he had eaten rested comfortably on his - long ill-treated but still responsive young stomach. His nervous concern - of the morning was giving place to a glow of snug inner well-being. - Ice-cream was before him now, a heaping plate of it—vanilla, with - hot chocolate sauce—and a huge slice of chocolate layer cake. He - blessed Mrs Henderson for the rich cream as he let heaping spoonfuls slip - down his throat and followed them with healthy bites of the cake. What a - jolly little woman she was. No fuss. - </p> - <p> - Nothing stuck up about her. And he knew she was on his side. - </p> - <p> - She had sympathy. Even if she hadn't yet heard—when she did hear—it - wouldn't matter. She would be on his side; he was sure of it. - </p> - <p> - Corinne's hair, a loose curl of it, curved down over her ear and part of - her cheek. She reached up a long hand and brushed it back. The motion - thrilled him. He was quiveringly responsive to the faint down on her - cheek, to the slight ebbing and flowing of the colour under her skin, to - the whiteness of her temple, the curve of her rather heavy eyebrow, even - to the 'waist' she wore—a simple garment, with an open throat and a - wide collar that suggested the sea. - </p> - <p> - Mrs Henderson was talking about something or other, in her brisk way. - </p> - <p> - Henry only partly heard. He was day-dreaming, weaving an imaginative web - of irridescent fancy about the healthy, rather matter-of-fact girl before - him. And eating rapidly his second large helping of ice-cream, and his - second piece of cake. - </p> - <p> - Little resentments were still popping up among his thoughts, taunting him. - But tentative little hopes were struggling with these now. A sense of - power, even, was stirring to life in his breast. This brought new thrills. - It was a long, long time since he had felt as he was now beginning to - feel. Life had dealt pretty harshly with him these two years. But he - wasn't beaten yet. Not even if nice men did give cameo brooches mounted on - beaded gold. - </p> - <p> - He felt in his pocket. Nearly all of the week's pay was there—about - eight dollars. It wasn't much. It wouldn't buy gold brooches. - Space-reporting on a country weekly at a dollar and a quarter a column, as - a means of livelihood, was pretty hard sledding. He would have to scheme - out something. There would be seventeen dollars more on the fifteenth from - his Uncle Arthur, executor of his mother's estate and guardian to Henry, - but that had been mentally pledged to the purchase of necessary summer - underwear and things. Still, he might manage somehow. You had to do a lot - for girls, of course. They expected it. Expensive business. - </p> - <p> - He indulged himself a moment, shading his eyes with one hand and eating - steadily on, in a momentary wave of bitterness against well-to-do young - men who could lavish money on girls. - </p> - <p> - Corinne was speaking now, and he was answering. He even laughed at - something she said. But the train of his thoughts rumbled steadily on. - </p> - <p> - After the coffee they all carried out the dishes and washed them. Henry - amused them by wearing a full-length kitchen apron. Corinne tied the - strings around his waist. He found an excuse to reach back, and for an - instant his hands covered hers. She laughed a little. He danced about the - kitchen and sang comic songs as he wiped dishes and took them to the china - closet in the butler's pantry. - </p> - <p> - This chore finished, they went to the living-room. - </p> - <p> - Mrs Henderson said: 'Oh, Corinne, you must hear Henry sing “When Britain - Really Ruled” from <i>Iolanthe</i>.' She found the score and played for - him. He sang lustily, all three verses. - </p> - <p> - 'Too much dinner,' he remarked, beaming with pleasure, at the close. - 'Voice is rotten.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's a good organ,' said Corinne. 'You ought to work at it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Perfect shame he won't study,' said Mrs Henderson. Henry found <i>The - Geisha</i> on the piano. - </p> - <p> - 'Come on, Corinne,' he cried. 'Do the “Jewel of Asia.” Mrs Henderson'll - transpose it.' - </p> - <p> - Corinne leaned carelessly against the piano and sang the pleasant little - melody with an ease and a steady flow of tone that brought a shine to - Henry's eyes. He had to hide it, dropping on the big couch and resting his - head on his hand. He could look nowhere but at her. He ordered her to sing - 'The Amorous Goldfish.' - </p> - <p> - She fell into the spirit of it, and moved away from the piano, looking - provocatively at Henry, gesturing, making an audience of him. She even - danced a few steps at the end. - </p> - <p> - Henry sprang up. The power was upon him. Obstacles, difficulties, the - little scene with Humphrey, while not forgotten, were swept aside. He was - irresistible. - </p> - <p> - 'Tell you what,' he said gaily, with supreme ease—'w'e'll send those - Chicago men a box of poisoned candy to-morrow, and—oh, yes w-e will!—and - then we'll have a party at the rooms. You'll be chaperon, Mrs Henderson - and Hump'll cook things in the chafing dish, and——' - </p> - <p> - 'What a perfectly lovely idea!' said Mrs Henderson in a surprisingly calm - voice. 'I'll bring the cold chicken, and a vegetable salad... - </p> - <p> - Henry watched Corinne. - </p> - <p> - For an instant—she was rummaging through the music—her eyes - met his. 'It'll be fun,' she said. - </p> - <p> - Henry felt a shock as if he had plunged unexpectedly, headlong, into - ice-water; then a glow. - </p> - <p> - He was a daring soul. They didn't understand him in Sunbury. He had - temperament, a Bohemian nature. The thing was, he'd wasted two years - trying to make another sort of himself. Kept account of every penny in a - red book! All that! Book was in his pocket now. - </p> - <p> - He decided to tear it up. He wouldn't be a coward another day. That - plodding self-discipline hadn't got him anywhere. Now really, had it? - </p> - <p> - Little inner voices were protesting weakly. People might find out about - it. Have to be pretty quiet. And keep the shades down. It wouldn't do for - the folks in the parsonage, across the alley, to know that Mrs Arthur V. - Henderson and her guest were in the Parmenter barn. Have to find some - tactful way of suggesting that they come after dark... - </p> - <p> - As if she could read his thoughts, Mrs Henderson remarked calmly: 'You - come for us, Henry. Say about eight.' - </p> - <p> - Still the little voices of doubt and confusion. Even of fear. He mentally - shouted them down; fixing his eyes on the disturbingly radiant Corinne, - then glancing for moral support at the really pretty little Mrs Henderson - who gave out such a reassuring air of knowing precisely what she was - about, of being altogether in the right. Funny, knowing her all these - years, he hadn't realised she was so nice! - </p> - <p> - He had turned defeat into victory. Single-handed. Will and Fred could go - sit on the Wells Street bridge and eat bananas. He had settled <i>their</i> - hash. - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - To this lofty mood there came, promptly? an opposite and fully equal - reaction. - </p> - <p> - Difficulties having arisen in connection with the problem of breaking the - news to Humphrey, he couldn't very well go back to the rooms. - </p> - <p> - The thing would have to be put right before Humphrey. He decided to think - it over. That was the idea—think it over. Humphrey would be eating - his supper, if not at the rooms, then at Stanley's little restaurant on - Simpson Street. So he could hardly go to Stanley's. There was another - little lunch room down by the tracks, but Humphrey had been known to go - there. And of course it was impossible to return for a transient meal to - Mrs Wilcox. For one thing, the student waiters would be off and Mamie - Wilcox on duty in the dining-room. He didn't want Mamie back in his life. - Not if he could help it. He even went so far as to wonder, with a - paralysing sense of helplessness in certain conceivable contingencies, if - he <i>could</i> help it... So instead of eating supper he sat on a - breakwater, alone, unobserved, while the golden sunset glow faded from - lake and sky and darkness claimed him for her own. - </p> - <p> - Later, handkerchief over face, rushing and pawing his way through the - myriads of sand-flies that swarmed about each corner light, he walked into - the neighbourhood of Martha Caldwell's house. He walked backhand forth for - a time on the other side of the street, and stood motionless by trees. He - found the situation trying, as he didn't know why he had come, whether he - wanted to see Martha or what he could say to her. - </p> - <p> - He could hear voices from the porch. And he thought he could see one white - dress. - </p> - <p> - Then, because it seemed to be the next best thing to do, he crossed over - and mounted the familiar front steps. - </p> - <p> - He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant, - Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with the - glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. Finally, - after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for Monday - evening, the cotillion leader left. - </p> - <p> - Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated - sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, at - the maples. - </p> - <p> - Henry struggled for speech. - </p> - <p> - 'Martha, look here,' came from him, in a tired voice, 'you've cut me dead. - Twice. Now it seems to me——' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't want to talk about that,' said Martha. - </p> - <p> - 'But it isn't fair not to——' - </p> - <p> - 'Please don't try to tell me that you weren't at Hoffmann's with that - horrid girl.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm not trying to. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'You took her there, didn't you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, but she——' - </p> - <p> - 'She didn't make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going with - me, too.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, well,' he muttered. Then, 'Thunder! If you're just determined not to - be fair—— - </p> - <p> - 'I won't let you say that to me.' The snap in her voice stung him. - </p> - <p> - 'You're not fair! You won't even let me talk!' - </p> - <p> - 'What earthly good is talk!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, if you're going to take that attitude——' - </p> - <p> - She rose. So did he. - </p> - <p> - 'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly, - unevenly. - </p> - <p> - 'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless. - </p> - <p> - She made no reply. - </p> - <p> - They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch - full of young people were singing <i>Louisiana Lou</i>. Henry, out of - sheer nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to - the steps. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.' - </p> - <p> - Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't - believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He even - felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit in the - hammock with him and bring back something of the old time feeling. - </p> - <p> - But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the yellow - cloud at the corner. - </p> - <p> - He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet on - pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week or - two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy - wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake - towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street - they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square inch - of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes necessary to - clear the sidewalks with shovels. - </p> - <p> - It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into - Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack of - light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight. - </p> - <p> - Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly room. - </p> - <p> - He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed - about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen. - </p> - <p> - He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his foot. - </p> - <p> - 'Just have to get at these things,' he muttered aloud. 'Make a job of it. - Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.' - </p> - <p> - Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume - entitled <i>Will Power and Self Mastery</i>. - </p> - <p> - He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently - pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall, knitting his brows, and mumbling - the words over and over until the small meaning they had ever possessed - was lost. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - He came almost stealthily into the office of <i>The Weekly Voice of - Sunbury</i> on the Monday morning. He had not fallen really asleep until - the small hours. When he awoke, Humphrey was long gone and the breakfast - things stood waiting on the centre table. And there they were now. He - hadn't so much as rinsed them in the sink. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey sat behind his roll-top desk, back of the railing. Old Mr Boice, - the proprietor, was at his own desk, out in front. At the first glimpse of - his massive head and shoulders with the heavy white whiskers falling down - on his shirt front, Henry, hesitating on the sill, gave a little quick - sigh of relief. He let himself, moving with the self-consciousness that - somewhat resembled dignity, through the gate in the railing and took his - chair at the inkstained pine table that served him for a desk. - </p> - <p> - He felt Humphrey's eyes on him, and said 'Goodmorning!' stiffly, without - looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew not - what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a business - of writing nothing whatever. - </p> - <p> - At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along - Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone - with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim Smith, - the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that blonde - little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who chewed - tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry's table, and talk further. - </p> - <p> - Noon came. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and - thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to - come along with him for lunch at Stanley's. He didn't mind for himself. It - was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, more - pleasant. It was awkward. - </p> - <p> - He got up; stood a moment. - </p> - <p> - He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes for the - Commencement 'recital' of the Music School, pencil poised, motionless, - almost inert. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, proof - in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone. - </p> - <p> - Henry did not appear again at the office. This was not unusual. Monday was - a slack day, and much of Henry's work consisted in scouting along Simpson - Street, looking up new real estate permits at the village office, new - volumes at the library and other small matters. - </p> - <p> - The unusual thing was the note on Humphrey's desk. Henry had put it on top - of his papers and weighted it down conspicuously with the red ink bottle. - </p> - <p> - 'I've had to ask Mrs Henderson and Corinne Doag to the rooms to-night for - a little party. I'll bring them about eight.' Pinned to the paper was a - five-dollar banknote. - </p> - <p> - At supper-time, Humphrey, eating alone in Stanley's, saw a familiar figure - outside the wide front window. It was Henry, dressed in his newest white - ducks, his blue coat newly pressed (while he waited, at the Swede tailor's - down the street), standing stiffly on the curb. - </p> - <p> - Occasionally he glanced around, peering into the restaurant. - </p> - <p> - The light was failing in the rear of the store. Mrs Stanley came from her - desk by the door and lighted two gas-jets. - </p> - <p> - Henry again glanced around. He saw Humphrey and knew that Humphrey saw - him. - </p> - <p> - A youth on a bicycle paused at the curb. - </p> - <p> - Through the screen door Humphrey heard this conversation:— - </p> - <p> - 'Hallo, Hen!' - </p> - <p> - 'Hallo, Al!' - </p> - <p> - 'Doing anything after?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—yeah. Got a date.' - </p> - <p> - And as the other youth rode off, Henry glanced around once more, - nervously. - </p> - <p> - He was carrying the bamboo stick he affected. He twirled this for a - moment, and then wandered out of view. - </p> - <p> - But soon he reappeared, entered the restaurant and marched straight back - to Humphrey's table. His sensitive lips were compressed. - </p> - <p> - He said, 'Hallo, Hump!' and with only a moment's hesitation took the chair - opposite. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey buried his nose in his coffee cup. - </p> - <p> - Henry cleared his throat, twice; then, in a husky, weak voice, remarked:— - </p> - <p> - 'Get my note?' - </p> - <p> - There was a painfully long silence. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' Humphrey replied then, 'I did.' And went at the pie. - </p> - <p> - Henry picked up a corner of the threadbare table-cloth and twisted it. He - had been pale, but colour was coming now, richly. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he mumbled, 'I s'pose we've gotta say something about it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Not necessary,' Humphrey observed briskly. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, but—we'll have to plan——' - </p> - <p> - 'Not at all.' - </p> - <p> - 'You mean—you——' Henry's voice broke and faltered. - </p> - <p> - 'I mean——' Humphrey's voice was clear, sharp. - </p> - <p> - 'Ssh! Not so loud, Hump.' - </p> - <p> - 'I mean that since you've done this extraordinary thing without so much as - consulting me, I will see it through. I don't want you for one minute to - think that I like it. God knows what it's going to mean—having women - running in there! My privacy was the only thing I had. You've chosen to - wreck it without a by-your-leave. I'll be ready at eight. And I'll see - that the door of your room is shut.' - </p> - <p> - With which he rose, handed his ticket to Mrs Stanley to be punched, and - left the restaurant. - </p> - <p> - Henry walked the streets, through gathering clouds of sand-flies, until it - was time to call at Mrs Henderson's. - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - They stood on the threshold. - </p> - <p> - 'This is the shop,' Henry explained, 'where Hump works.' - </p> - <p> - 'How perfectly fascinating!' exclaimed Mrs Henderson. Her quick eyes took - in lathes, kites, models of gliders, tools. 'Bring him 'straight down - here. I won't stir from this room till he's explained everything.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hump!' called Henry, with austere politeness, up the stairway: 'Would you - mind coming down?' - </p> - <p> - He came—tall, stooping under the low lintel, in spotless white, - distant in manner, but courteous, firmly courteous. - </p> - <p> - Mrs Henderson, prowling about, lifted a wheel in a frame. - </p> - <p> - 'What on earth is this thing?' she asked. - </p> - <p> - 'A gyroscope.' - </p> - <p> - 'What do you do with it?' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey wound a long twine about the handle and set the wheel spinning - like a top. - </p> - <p> - 'Hold it by the handle,' said he. 'Now try to wave it around.' - </p> - <p> - The apparently simple machine swung itself back to the horizontal with a - jerk so violent that Mrs Henderson nearly lost her footing. Humphrey, with - evident hesitation, caught her elbow and steadied her. She turned her eyes - up to his, laughing, all interest. - </p> - <p> - 'Sit right down in that chair and explain it to me,' she cried. 'How on - earth did it do that? It's uncanny.' And she seated herself on a - work-bench, with a light little spring. - </p> - <p> - When Henry showed Corinne up the stairs, Humphrey was talking with an - eager interest that had not before been evident in him. And Mrs Henderson - was listening, interrupting him where his easy flow of scientific terms - and mechanical axioms ran too fast for her. - </p> - <p> - Henry's pulse beat faster. Suddenly the pleasantly arranged old barn - looked, felt different. Charm had entered it. And the exciting possibility - of fellowship—a daring fellowship. He was up in the living-room now. - Corinne was moving lazily, comfortably about, humming a song by the - sensational new Richard Strauss who was upsetting all settled musical - tradition just then, and prying into corners and shelves. She wore a - light, shimmery, silky dress that gave out a faint odour of violets. It - drugged Henry, that odour. He felt for the first time as if he belonged in - these rooms himself. - </p> - <p> - Corinne found the kitchen cupboard', and exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - 'Mildred!' she called down the stairs, in her rich drawling voice, 'come - right up here—the cutest thing!' - </p> - <p> - To which Mildred Henderson coolly replied:— - </p> - <p> - 'Don't bother me with cute things now. Play with Henry and keep quiet.' - </p> - <p> - And Humphrey's voice droned on down there. - </p> - <p> - Henry dropped on the piano stool. Corinne was certainly less indifferent. - A little. - </p> - <p> - He struck chords; all he knew. He hummed a phrase of the Colonel's song in - <i>Patience</i>. - </p> - <p> - Corinne drew a chair to the end of the keyboard and settled herself - comfortably. 'Sing something,' she said. 'I love your voice.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's no good,' said he, flushing with delight. - </p> - <p> - Surely her interest was growing. He added:— - </p> - <p> - 'I'd a lot rather hear you.' But then, when she smilingly shook her head, - promptly broke into— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - 'If you want a receipt for that popular mystery - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, - </p> - <p class="indent10"> - Take all the remarkable people of history, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Rattle them off to a popular tune.' - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It is the trickiest and most brilliant patter song ever written, I think, - not even excepting the Major General's song in <i>The Pirates</i>. Which, - by the way, Henry sang next. - </p> - <p> - 'How on earth can you remember all those words!' Corinne murmured. 'And - the way you get your tongue around them. I could never do it.' - </p> - <p> - She tried it, with him; but broke down with laughter. - </p> - <p> - 'I know hundreds of 'em,' he said expansively, and sang on. - </p> - <p> - It was an opportunity he had not foreseen during this dreadful day. But - here it was, and he seized it. The stage was set for his kind of things; - all at once, as if by the merest accident. For the first time since the - awkward Sunday morning on the beach he was able to turn on full the faucet - that controlled his 'charm.' And he turned it on full. He had parlour - tricks. Out of amateur opera experience he had picked up a superficial - knack at comedy dancing. He did all he knew. He taught an absurd little - team song and dance to Corinne, with Mrs Henderson (who had at last come - up) improvising at the piano. And Corinne, flushed and pretty, clung to - his hand and laughed herself speechless. Once in her desperate confusion - over the steps she sank to the floor and sat in a merry heap until Henry - lifted her up. Then Henry imitated Frank Daniels singing 'The man with an - elephant on his hands,' and H. C. Bamabee singing <i>The Sheriff of - Nottingham</i>, and De Wolf Hopper doing <i>Casey at the Bat</i>. All were - clever bits; the 'Casey' exceptionally so. They applauded him. Even - Humphrey, silent now, leaning on an end of the piano, watching Mrs - Henderson's flashing little hands, clapped a little. - </p> - <p> - Once Humphrey went rather moodily to a window and peered out. - </p> - <p> - Mrs Henderson followed him; slipped her hand through his arm; asked - quietly, 'Who lives across the alley?' - </p> - <p> - 'It's the Presbyterian parsonage,' he replied, slightly grim. - </p> - <p> - It was after midnight when they set out, whispering, giggling a little in - the alley, for Chestnut Avenue. - </p> - <p> - 'These sand-flies are fierce,' said Henry. 'You girls better take our - handkerchiefs.' - </p> - <p> - They circled on lawns to avoid the swirling, crunching, softly suffocating - clouds of insects. Nearer the lake it grew worse. At the corner of - Chestnut and Simpson they stopped short. Mrs Henderson, pressing the - handkerchief to her face, clung in humorous helplessness to Humphrey's - arm. - </p> - <p> - He looked down at her. Suddenly he stooped, gathered her up in his arms as - if she were a child, and carried her clear through the plague into the - shadows of Chestnut Avenue. - </p> - <p> - Henry, running with Corinne pressing close on his arm, caught a glimpse of - his face. The expression on it added a touch of alarm to the pæan of joy - in Henry's brain. - </p> - <p> - They stepped within the Henderson screen door to say good-night. - </p> - <p> - 'Let's do something to-morrow night—walk or go biking or row on the - lake,' said Mrs Henderson. 'You two had better come down for dinner. Any - time after six.' - </p> - <p> - 'How about you?' Henry whispered to Corinne. 'Do you want me to come... - Will and Fred...' - </p> - <p> - Corinne's firm long hand slipped for a moment into his. He gripped it. The - pressure was returned. - </p> - <p> - 'Don't be silly!' she breathed, close to his ear. - </p> - <h3> - 8 - </h3> - <p> - The sand-flies served as an excuse for silence between Humphrey and Henry - on the walk back. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward. It held until - they were up in the curiously, hauntingly empty living-room. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey scraped and lighted his pipe. - </p> - <p> - Henry, rather surprisingly unhappy again, was moving toward a certain - closed door. - </p> - <p> - 'Tell me,' said Humphrey gruffly, slowly, 'where is Mister Arthur V. - Henderson?' - </p> - <p> - 'He travels for the Camman Company, reapers and binders and ploughs.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey very deliberately lighted his pipe. - </p> - <p> - Henry moved on toward the closed door. Emotions were stirring - uncomfortably within him. And conflicting impulses. Suddenly he shot out a - muffled 'Good-night,' and entered the bedroom, shutting the door after - him. - </p> - <p> - An hour later Humphrey—a gaunt figure in nightgown and slippers, - pipe in mouth—tapped at that door. - </p> - <p> - Henry, only half undressed, flushed of face, dripping with sweat, quickly - opened it. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey looked down in surprise at a fully packed trunk and suit-case and - a heap of bundles tied with odd bits of twine—sofa cushions, old - clothes, what not. - </p> - <p> - 'What's all this?' Humphrey waved his pipe. - </p> - <p> - 'Well—I just thought I'd go in the morning.' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't be a dam' fool.' - </p> - <p> - 'But—but'—Henry threw out protesting hands—'I know I'm - no good at all these fussy things. I'd just spoil your——' - </p> - <p> - The pipe waved again. 'That's all disposed of, Hen.' A somewhat wry smile - wrinkled the long face. 'Mildred Henderson's running it, apparently. - There's a certain Mrs Olson who is to come in mornings and clean up. And—oh - yes, I've got a lot of change for you. Your share was only eight-five - cents.' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. Henry looked at his feet; moved one of them - slowly about on the floor. - </p> - <p> - 'We're different kinds,' said Humphrey. 'About as different as they - make'em. But that, in itself, isn't a bad thing.' - </p> - <p> - He thrust out his hand. - </p> - <p> - Henry clasped it; gulped down an all but uncontrollable uprush of feeling; - looked down again. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey stalked back to his room. - </p> - <p> - Thus began the odd partnership of Weaver and Calverly. Though is not every - partnership a little odd? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III—THE STIMULANT - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss Wombast looked - up from her desk in the Sunbury Public Library and beheld Henry Calverly, - 3rd. Then with a slight fluttering of her pale, blue-veined eyelids and a - compression of her thin lips she looked down again and in a neat practised - librarian's hand finished printing out a title on the-catalogue card - before her. - </p> - <p> - For Henry Calverly was faintly disconcerting to her. Though it was only - eleven o'clock, and a Tuesday, he was attired in blue serge coat, snow - white trousers and (could she have seen through the desk) white stockings - and shoes. His white <i>négligé</i> shirt was decorated at the neck with a - 'four-in-hand' of shimmering foulard, blue and green. In his left hand was - a rolled-up creamy-white felt hat and the crook of a thin bamboo stick. - With his right he fussed at the fringe on his upper lip, which was - somewhat nearer the moustache stage than it had been last week. Behind his - nose glasses and their pendant silk cord his face was sober; the gray-blue - eyes that (Miss Wombast knew) could blaze with primal energy were gloomy, - or at least tired; there was a furrow between his blond eyebrow's. He had - the air of a youth who wants earnestly to concentrate without knowing - quite how. - </p> - <p> - Miss Wombast was a distinctly 'literary' person. She read Meredith, - Balzac, De Maupassant, Flaubert, Zola, and Howells. She was living her way - into the developing later manner of Henry James. She talked, on occasion, - with an icy enthusiasm that many honest folk found irritating, of - Stevenson's style and of Walter Pater. - </p> - <p> - It was Miss Wombast's habit to look in her books for complete - identification of the living characters she met. She studied all of them, - coolly, critically, at boardinghouse and library. Naturally, when a living - individual refused to take his place among her gallery of book types, she - was puzzled. One such was Henry Calverly. - </p> - <p> - She had known something of his checkered career in high school, where he - had directed the glee club, founded and edited <i>The Boys' Journal</i>, - written a rather bright one-act play for the junior class. Indeed the - village in general had been mildly aware of Henry. He had stood out, and - Miss Wombast herself had sung a modest alto in the <i>Iolanthe</i> chorus, - two years back, under Henry's direction and had found him impersonally, - ingenuously masterful and a subtly pleasing factor in her thought-world. - He had made a success of that mob. The big men of the village gave him a - dinner and a purse of gold. After all of which, his mother had died, he - had run, apparently, through his gifts and his earnings, and settled down - to a curiously petty reporting job, trotting up and down Simpson Street - collecting useless little items for <i>The Weekly Voice of Sunbury</i>. - Other young fellows of twenty either went to college or started laying the - foundations of a regular job in Chicago. Those that amounted to anything. - You could see pretty plainly ahead of each his proper line of development. - Yet here was Henry, who <i>had</i> stood out, working half-heartedly at - the sort of job you associated with the off-time of poor students, - dressing altogether too conspicuously, wasting hours—daytimes, when - a young fellow ought to be working—with this girl and that. For a - long time it had been the Caldwell girl. Lately she had seen him with that - strikingly pretty but, she felt, rather 'physical' young singer who was - visiting the gifted but whispered-about Mrs Arthur V. Henderson, of Lower - Chestnut Avenue. Name of Doge, or Doag, or something like that. - </p> - <p> - Henry himself had been whispered about. Very recently. He had been seen at - Hoffmann's Garden, up the shore, with a vulgar young woman in extremely - tight bloomers. Of the working girl type. Had her out on a tandem. - Drinking beer. - </p> - <p> - So it was, unable to forget those secretly stirring <i>Iolanthe</i> days, - that Miss Wombast had looked about among her book types for a key to - Henry, but without success. He didn't appear to be in De Maupassant. Nor - in Balzac. In Meredith and James there was no one who said 'Yeah' and - 'Gotta' and spoke with the crude if honest throat 'r' of the Middle West - and went with nice girls and vulgar girls and carried that silly cane and - wore the sillier moustache; who had, or had had, gifts of creation and - command, yet now, month in, month out, hung about Donovan's soda fountain; - who never smoked and, apart from the Hoffmann's Garden incident, wasn't - known to drink; and who, when you faced him, despite the massed evidence, - gave out an impression of earnest endeavour. Even of moral purpose. - </p> - <p> - Had she known him better Miss Wombast would have found herself the more - puzzled. For Miss Wombast, despite her rather complicated reading, still - clung in some measure to the moralistic teachings of her youth, believing - that people either had what she thought of as character or else didn't - have it, that people were either industrious or lazy, bright or stupid, - vulgar or nice. Therefore the fact that Henry, while still wrecking his - stomach with fountain drinks and (a recently acquired habit) with lemon - meringue pie between meals, had not touched candy for two years—not - a chocolate cream, not even a gum drop!—and this by sheer force of - character, would have been confusing. - </p> - <p> - And to read his thoughts, as he stood there before her desk, would have - carried her confusion on into bewilderment. - </p> - <p> - Mostly these thoughts had to do with money, and bordered on the desperate. - Tentative little schemes for getting money—even a few dollars—were - forming and dissolving rapidly in his mind. - </p> - <p> - He was concerned because his sudden little flirtation with Corinne Doag, - after a flashing start, had lost its glow. Only the preceding evening. He - hadn't held her interest. The thrill had gone. Which plunged him into - moods and brought to his always unruly tongue the sarcastic words that - made matters worse. He was lunching down there to-day—he and - Humphrey—and dreaded it, with moments of a rather futile, flickering - hope. Deep intuition informed him that the one sure solution was money. - You couldn't get on with a girl without it. Just about so far, then things - dragged. And this, of course, brought him around the circle, back to the - main topic. - </p> - <p> - He was thinking about his clothes. They, at least, should move Corinne. - Along with the moustache, the cane, the cord on his glasses. He didn't see - how people could help being a little impressed. Miss Wombast, even, who - didn't matter. It seemed to him that she <i>was</i> impressed. - </p> - <p> - He was thinking about Martha Caldwell., She was pretty frankly going with - James B. Merchant, Jr., now. Henry was jealous of James B. Merchant, Jr. - And about Martha his thoughts hovered with a tinge of romantic sadness. He - would like her to see him to-day, in these clothes, with his moustache and - cane. - </p> - <p> - He was wondering, with the dread that the prospect of mental effort always - roused in him, how on earth he was ever to write three whole columns about - the Annual Business Men's Picnic of the preceding afternoon. Describing in - humorous yet friendly detail the three-legged race, the ball game between - the fats and the leans, the dinner in the grove, the concert by Foote's - full band of twenty pieces, the purse given to Charlie Waterhouse as the - most popular man on Simpson Street. He had a thick wad of notes up at the - rooms, but his heart was not in the laborious task of expanding them. He - knew precisely what old man Boice expected of him—plenty of - 'personal mention' for all the advertisers, giving space for space. Each - day that he put it off would make the task harder. If he didn't have the - complete story in by Thursday night, Humphrey would skin him alive; yet - here it was Wednesday morning, and he was planning to spend as much of the - day as possible with the increasingly unresponsive Corinne. Life was - difficult! - </p> - <p> - He was aware of a morbid craving in his digestive tract. He decided to get - an ice-cream soda on the way back to the office. He would have liked about - half a pound of chocolate creams. The Italian kind, with all the sweet in - the white part. But here character intervened. - </p> - <p> - A corner of his mind dwelt unceasingly on queer difficult feelings that - came. These had flared out in the unpleasant incident of Mamie Wilcox and - the tandem; and again in the present flirtation with Corinne. In a way - that he found perplexing, this stir of emotion was related to his gifts. - He couldn't let one go without the other. There had been moments—in - the old days—when a feeling of power had surged through him. It was - a wonderful, irresistible feeling. Riding that wave, he was equal to - anything. But it had frightened him. The memory of it frightened him now. - He had put <i>Iolanthe</i> through, it was true, but he had also nearly - eloped with Ernestine Lambert. He had completely lost his head—debts, - everything! - </p> - <p> - Yes, it was as well that Miss Wombast couldn't read his thoughts. She - wouldn't have known how to interpret them. She hadn't the capacity to - understand the wide swift stream of feeling down which an imaginative boy - floats all but rudderless into manhood. She couldn't know of his pitifully - inadequate little attempts to shape a course, to catch this breeze and - that, even to square around and breast the current of life. - </p> - <p> - Henry said politely:— - </p> - <p> - 'Good-morning, Miss Wombast. I just looked in for the notes of new books.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh,' she replied quickly. 'I'm sorry you troubled. Mr Boice asked me to - mail it to the office at the end of the month. I just sent it—this - morning.' - </p> - <p> - She saw his face fall. He mumbled something that sounded like, 'Oh—all - right! Doesn't matter.' For a moment he stood waving his stick in jerky, - aimless little circles. Then went off down the stairs. - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - Emerging from Donovan's drug store Henry encountered the ponderous person - of old Boice—six feet an inch and a half, head sunk a little between - the shoulders, thick yellowish-white whiskers waving down over a black bow - tie and a spotted, roundly protruding vest, a heavy old watch chain with - insignia of a fraternal order hanging as a charm; inscrutable, washed-out - blue eyes in a deeply lined but nearly expressionless face. - </p> - <p> - Henry stopped short; stared at his employer. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice did not stop. But as he moved deliberately by, his faded eyes - took in every detail of Henry's not unremarkable personal appearance. - </p> - <p> - Henry was thinking: 'Old crook. Wish I had a paper of my own here and I'd - get back at him. Run him out of town, that's what!' And after he had - nodded and rushed by, his colouring mounting: 'Like to know why I should - work my head off just to make money for <i>him</i>. No sense in that!' - </p> - <p> - Henry came moodily into the <i>Voice</i> office, dropped down at his - inkstained, littered table behind the railing, and sighed twice. He picked - up a pencil and fell to outlining ink spots. - </p> - <p> - The sighs were directed at Humphrey, who sat bent over his desk, cob pipe - in mouth, writing very rapidly. 'He's got wonderful concentration,' - thought Henry, his mind wandering a brief moment from his unhappy self. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey spoke without looking up. 'Don't let that Business Men's Picnic - get away from you, Hen. Really ought to be getting it in type now. Two - compositors loafing out there.' - </p> - <p> - Henry sighed again; let his pencil fall on the table; gazed heavily, - helplessly at the wall... - </p> - <p> - 'Old man say anything to you about the “Library Notes”?' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey glanced up and removed his pipe. His swarthy long face wrinkled - thoughtfully. 'Yes. Just now. He's going to have Miss Wombast send 'em in - direct every month.' - </p> - <p> - 'And I don't have 'em any more.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey considered this fact. 'It doesn't amount to very much, Hen.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no—works out about sixty cents to a dollar. It ain't that - altogether—it's the principle. I'm getting tired of it!' - </p> - <p> - The press-room door was ajar, Humphrey reached out and closed it. - </p> - <p> - Henry raised his voice; got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the - table. His eyes brightened sharply. Emotion crept into his voice and shook - it a little. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you know what's he done to me—that old doubleface? Took me in - here two years ago at eight a week with a promise of nine if I suited. - Well, I did suit. But did I get the nine? Not until I'd rowed and begged - for seven months. A year of that, a lot more work—You know! “Club - Notes,” this library stuff, “Real Estate Happenings,” “Along Simpson - Street,” reading proof—' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey slowly nodded as he smoked. - </p> - <p> - '—And I asked for ten a week. Would he give it? No! I knew I was - worth more than that, so I offered to take space rates instead. Then what - does he do? You know, Hump. Been clipping me off, one thing after another, - and piling on the proof and the office work. Here's one thing more gone - to-day. Last week my string was exactly seven dollars and forty-six cents. - Dam it, it ain't fair! I can't <i>live!</i> I won't stand it. Gotta be ten - a week or I—I'll find out why. Show-down.' - </p> - <p> - He rushed to the door. Then, as if his little flare of indignation had - burnt out, fingered there, knitting his brows and looking up and down the - street and across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House, where people - sat in a row in yellow rocking chairs. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey smoked and considered him. After a little he remarked quietly:— - </p> - <p> - 'Look here, Hen, I don't like it any more than you do. I've seen what he - was doing. I've tried to forestall him once or twice——' - </p> - <p> - 'I know it, Hump.' Henry turned. He was quite listless now. 'He's a tricky - old fox. If I only knew of something else I could do—or that we - could do together——' - </p> - <p> - 'But—this was what I was going to say—no matter how we feel, - I'm going to be really in trouble if I don't get that picnic story pretty - soon. Mr Boice asked about it this morning.' - </p> - <p> - Henry leaned against Mr Boice's desk, up by the window; dropped his chin - into one hand. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll do it, Hump. This afternoon. Or to-night. We're going down to - Mildred's this noon, of course.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's part of what's bothering me. God knows how soon after that you'll - break away from Corinne.' - </p> - <p> - 'Pretty dam soon,' remarked Henry sullenly, 'the way things are going - now.... I'll get at it, Hump. Honest I will. But right now'—he moved - a hand weakly through the air—'I just couldn't. You don't know how I - feel. I <i>couldn't!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'Where you going now?' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know.' The hand moved again. 'Walk around. Gotta be by myself. - Sorta think it out. This is one of the days... I've been thinking—be - twenty-one in November. <i>Then</i> I'll show him, and all the rest of - 'em. Have a little money then. I'll show this hypocritical old town a few - things—a few things....' - </p> - <p> - His voice died to a mumble. He felt with limp fingers at his moustache. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll be ready quarter or twenty minutes past twelve,' Humphrey called - after him as he moved mournfully out to the street. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - Mr Boice moved heavily along, inclining his massive head, without a smile, - to this acquaintance and that, and turned in at Schultz and Schwartz's. - </p> - <p> - The spectacle of Henry Calverly—in spotless white and blue, with the - moustache, and the stick—had irritated him. Deeply. A boy who - couldn't earn eight dollars a week parading Simpson Street in that rig, on - a week-day morning! He felt strongly that Henry had no business sticking - out that way, above the village level. Hitting you in the eyes. Young - Jenkins was bad enough, but at least his father had the money. Real money. - And could let his son waste it if he chose. But a conceited young chump - like Henry Calverly! Ought to be chucked into a factory somewhere. Stoke a - furnace. Carry boxes. Work with his hands. Get down to brass tacks and see - if he had any stuff in him. Doubtful. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice made a low sound, a wheezy sound between a grunt and a hum, as he - handed his hat to the black, muscular, bullet-headed, grinning Pinkie - Potter, who specialised in hats and shoes in Sunbury's leading barber - shop. - </p> - <p> - He made another sound that was quite a grunt as he sank into the red plush - barber chair of Heinie Schultz. His massive frame was clumsy, and the - twinges of lumbago, varied by touches of neuritis, that had come steadily - upon him since middle life, added to the difficulties of moving it about. - He always made these sounds. He would stop on the street, take your hand - non-committally in his huge, rather limp paw, and grunt before he spoke, - between phrases, and when moving away. - </p> - <p> - Heinie Schultz, who was straw-coloured, thin, listlessly patient (Bill - Schwartz was the noisy fat one), knew that the thick, yellowish gray hair - was to be cut round in the back and the neck shaved beneath it. The beard - was to be trimmed delicately, reverently—'not cut, just the rags - taken off'—and combed out. Heinie had attended to this hair and - beard for sixteen years. - </p> - <p> - 'Heard a good one,' murmured Heinie, close to his patron's ear. 'There was - a bride and groom got on the sleeping car up to Duluth—' - </p> - <p> - A thin man of about thirty-five entered the shop, tossed his hat to - Pinkie, and dropped into Bill Schwartz's chair next the window. The - new-comer had straight brown hair, worn a little long over ears and - collar. His face was freckled, a little pinched, nervously alert. Behind - his gold rimmed spectacles his small sharp eyes appeared to be darting - this way and that, keen, penetrating through the ordinary comfortable - surfaces of life. - </p> - <p> - This was Robert A. McGibbon, editor and proprietor of the <i>Sunbury - Weekly Gleaner</i>. He had appeared in the village hardly six months back - with a little money—enough, at least, to buy the presses, give a - little for good will, assume the rent and the few business debts that - Nicholas Simms Godfrey had been able to contract before his health broke, - and to pay his own board at the Wombasts' on Filbert Avenue. His - appearance in local journalism had created a new tension in the village - and his appearance now in the barber shop created tension there. Heinie's - vulgar little anecdote froze on his lips. Mr Boice, impassive, heavily - deliberate, after one glimpse of the fellow in the long mirror before him, - lay back in the chair, gazed straight upward at the fly-specked ceiling. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice, when face to face with Robert A. McGibbon on the street, - inclined his head to him as to others. But up and down the street his - barely expressed disapproval of the man was felt to have a root in - feelings and traditions infinitely deeper than the mere natural antagonism - to a fresh competitor in the local field. - </p> - <p> - For McGibbon was—the term was a new one that had caught the popular - imagination and was worming swiftly into the American language—a - yellow journalist. He had worked, he boasted openly, on a sensationally - new daily in New York. In the once staid old <i>Gleaner</i> he used - boldfaced headlines, touched with irritating acumen on scandal, assailed - the ruling political triumvirate, and made the paper generally fascinating - as well as disturbing. As a result, he was picking up subscribers rapidly. - Advertising, of course, was another matter. And Boice had all the village - and county printing. - </p> - <p> - The political triumvirate mentioned above was composed of Boice himself, - Charles H. Waterhouse, town treasurer, and Mr Weston of the Sunbury - National Bank. For a decade their rule had not been questioned along the - street. The other really prominent men of Sunbury all had their business - interests in Chicago, and at that time used the village merely for - sleeping and as a point of departure for the very new golf links. Such - men, I mean, as B. L. Ames, John W. MacLouden, William B. Snow, and J. E. - Jenkins. - </p> - <p> - The experience of withstanding vulgar attacks was new to the triumvirate. - (McGibbon referred to them always as the 'Old Cinch.') The <i>Gleaner</i> - had come out for annexation to Chicago. It demanded an audit of Charlie - Waterhouse's town accounts by a new, politically disinterested group. It - accused the bank of withholding proper support from men of whom old Boice - disapproved. It demanded a share of the village printing. - </p> - <p> - The 'Old Cinch' were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their - notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in - town, to refer to him always as a 'Democrat.' This damned him with many. - He called himself an 'Independent.' Which amused Charlie Waterhouse - greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn't a decent Republican had to - be a Democrat. In the nature of things. - </p> - <p> - And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving - him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself with. - </p> - <p> - Bill Schwartz took McGibbon's spectacles, tucked the towel around his - scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a - strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers that - waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his razor. - </p> - <p> - 'How are you, Mr Boice?' McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed it - down. - </p> - <p> - 'Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V. - Henderson's.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal - should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound. - </p> - <p> - 'Who wrote it?' - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry Calverly?' - </p> - <p> - A grunt. - </p> - <p> - 'Thought so!' McGibbon chuckled. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice twisted his head around, trying to see the fellow in the mirror. - Heinie pulled it back. - </p> - <p> - 'Got it here. Hand me my glasses, Bill, will you. Thanks.' McGibbon was - sitting up, his face all lather, digging in his pocket. He produced a - clipping. Read aloud with gusto:— - </p> - <p> - '“Mrs Stelton's art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last - appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always - charming in personality and profoundly, rhythmically musical in - temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority - which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and - distinction.”' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon was momentarily choked by his own almost noiseless laughter. Bill - pushed his head down and went swiftly to work on his right cheek. Two - other customers had come in. - </p> - <p> - 'Great stuff that!' observed McGibbon cautiously, under the razor. - '“Profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament “! “A superstructure of - technical authority”! Great! Fine! That boy'll do something yet. Handled - right. Wish he was working for me.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice, from whom sounds had been coming for several moments, now raised - his voice. It was the first time Heinie had ever heard him raise it. Bill - paused, razor in air, and glanced around. Pinkie Potter looked up from the - shoes he was polishing. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he roared huskily, 'what in hell's the matter with that!' - </p> - <p> - Just then Bill turned McGibbon's head the other way. He too raised his - voice. But cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - 'Nothing much. Nice lot o' words. Only Mrs Stelton wasn't there. Sprained - her ankle in the Chicago station on the way out.' - </p> - <p> - Bill Schwartz had a trumpet-like Prussian voice. The situation seemed to - him to contain the elements of humour. He laughed boisterously. - </p> - <p> - Heinie Schultz, more politic, tittered softly, shears against mouth. - </p> - <p> - Pinkie Potter laughed convulsively, and beat out an intricate rag-time - tattoo on his bootblack's stand with his brush. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - It was Mr Boice's fixed habit to go on, toward noon, to the post-office. - Instead, to-day, he returned to the <i>Voice</i> office. - </p> - <p> - He seated himself at his desk for a quarter of an hour, doing nothing. He - had the faculty of sitting still, ruminating. - </p> - <p> - Finally he reached out for the two-foot rule that always lay on his desk, - and carefully measured a certain article in last week's paper. Then did a - little figuring. - </p> - <p> - He rose, moved toward the door; turned, and remarked to the wondering - Humphrey:— - </p> - <p> - 'Take fifteen inches off Henry's string this week, Weaver. A dollar 'n' - five cents. Be at the post-office if anybody wants me.' And went out. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey himself measured Henry's article on the musicale. Old Boice had - been accurate enough; it came to an even fifteen inches. Which at seven - cents an inch, would be a dollar and five cents. - </p> - <p> - When Henry reappeared and together they set out for Lower Chestnut Avenue, - Humphrey found he hadn't the heart to break this fresh disappointment to - his friend. He decided to let it drift until the Saturday. Something might - turn up. - </p> - <p> - Henry's mood had changed. He had left the office, an hour earlier, looking - like a discouraged boy. Now he was serious, silent, hard to talk to. He - seemed three years older. With certain of Henry's rather violently - contrasted phases Humphrey was familiar; but he had never seen him look - quite like this. Henry was strung up. Plainly. He walked very fast, - striding intently forward. At least once in each block he found himself a - yard ahead of his companion, checked himself, muttered a few words that - sounded vaguely like an apology and then repeated the process. - </p> - <p> - At Mrs Henderson's Henry was grave and curiously attractive. He had charm, - no doubt of it—a sort of charm that women, older women, felt. - Mildred Henderson distinctly played up to him. And Corinne, Humphrey - noted, watched him now and then; the quietly observant keenness in her big - dark eyes masked by her easy, lazy smile. - </p> - <p> - Toward the close of luncheon Henry's evident inner tension showed signs of - taking the form of gaiety. He acted like a young man wholly sure of - himself. Humphrey's net impression, after more than a year and a half of - close association with the boy, was that he couldn't ever be sure of - himself. Not for one minute. Yet, when they threw down their napkins and - pushed back their chairs, it was Henry who said, with an apparently easy - arrogance back of his grain:— - </p> - <p> - 'Hump, you've got to be going back so soon, we're going to give you and - Mildred the living-room. We'll wash the dishes.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey noted the quick little snap of amusement in Mrs Henderson's eyes - (Henry had not before openly used her first name) and the demure, - expressionless look that came over Corinne's face. Neither was displeased. - </p> - <p> - To Mrs Henderson's, 'You'll do no such thing!' Henry responded smilingly:— - </p> - <p> - 'I won't be contradicted. Not to-day.' - </p> - <p> - Corinne was still silent. But Mrs Henderson, now frankly amused, asked:— - </p> - <p> - 'Why the to-day, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I don't know. Just the way I feel,' said he; and ushered her with - mock politeness into the front room, then, gallantly, almost nonchalantly, - took the elbow of the unresisting Corinne and led her toward the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey lighted a cigarette and watched them go. Then with a slight - heightening of his usually sallow colour, followed his hostess into the - living-room. - </p> - <p> - It will be evident to the reader that among these four young persons, - rather casually thrown together in the first instance, something of an - 'understanding' had grown up. - </p> - <p> - There had been a furtive delight about their first gathering at Humphrey's - rooms, a sense of exciting variety in humdrum village life, the very real - and lively pleasure of exploring fresh personalities. - </p> - <p> - Of late years, looking back, it has seemed to me that Mildred Henderson - never really belonged in Sunbury, where a woman's whole duty lay in - keeping house economically and as pleasantly as might be for the husband - who spent his days in Chicago. And in bearing and rearing his children. I - never knew anything of her earlier life, before Arthur V. Henderson - brought her to the modest house on Chestnut Avenue. I never could figure - why she married him at all. Marriages are made in so many places besides - Heaven! He used to like to hear her play. - </p> - <p> - In those days, and a little later, I judged her much as the village judged - her—peering out at her through the gun-ports in the armour plate of - self-righteousness that is the strong defence of every suburban community. - But now I feel that her real mistake lay in waiting so long before - drifting to her proper environment in New York. Like all of us, she had, - sooner or later, to work out her life in its own terms or die alive of an - atrophied spirit. She had gifts, and needed, doubtless, to express them. I - can see her now as she was in Sunbury during those years—little, - trim, slim, with a quick alert smile and snappy eyes. Not a beautiful - woman, perhaps not even an out-and-out pretty one, but curiously - attractive. She had much of what men call 'personality.' And she was - efficient, in her own way. She never let her musical gift rust; practised - every day of her life, I think. Including Sundays. Which was one of the - things Sunbury held against her. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, too, was using Sunbury as little more than a stop gap. We knew - that sooner or later he would strike his gait as an inventor. He was quiet - about it. Much thought, deep plans, lay back of that long wrinkly face. - While he kept at it he was a conscientious country editor. But his heart - was in his library of technical books, and in his workshop in the old - Parmenter barn. He must have put just about all of his little inheritance - into the place. - </p> - <p> - Corinne Doag was distinctly a city person. And she was a real singer, with - ambition and a firm, even hard purpose, I can see now, back of the - languorous dusky eyes and the wide slow smile that Henry was not then man - enough to understand. In those days, more than in the present, a girl with - a strong sense of identity was taught to hide it scrupulously. It was - still the century of Queen Victoria. The life of any live girl had to be a - rather elaborate pretence of something it distinctly was not. For which - we, looking back, can hardly blame her. Besides, Corinne was young, - healthy, glowing with a quietly exuberant sense of life. I imagine she - found a sort of pure joy, an animal joy, in playing with men and life. She - wasn't dishonest. She certainly liked Henry. Particularly to-day. But this - was the summer time. She was playing. And she liked to be, thrilled. - </p> - <p> - An hour later, could Humphrey have glanced into the butler's pantry, he - would have concluded that he knew Henry Calverly not at all. And Miss - Wombast, could she have looked in, would have been thrilled and - frightened, perhaps to the point of never speaking to Henry again. And of - never, never forgetting him. - </p> - <p> - As the scene has a bearing on the later events of the day, we will take a - look. - </p> - <p> - They stood in the butler's pantry, Henry and Corinne. The shards of a - shattered coffee cup lay unobserved at their feet. Out in the kitchen sink - all the silver and the other cups and saucers lay in the rinsing rack, the - soapsuds dry on them. Henry held Corinne in his arms. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry,' she whispered, 'we <i>must</i> finish the dishes! What on earth - will Mildred think?' - </p> - <p> - 'Let her think!' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - Corinne leaned back against the shelves, disengaged her hands long enough - to smooth her flying blue-black hair. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry, I never thought——' - </p> - <p> - 'Never thought what?' - </p> - <p> - 'Wait! My hair's all down again. They might come out here. I mean you - seemed——' - </p> - <p> - 'How did I seem? Say it!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh well—<i>Henry</i>!—I mean sort of—well, reserved. I - thought you were shy.' - </p> - <p> - 'Think so now!' - </p> - <p> - 'I—well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry, - you musn't be so—so intense.' - </p> - <p> - 'But I <i>am</i> intense. I'm not the way I look. Nobody knows——' - Here he interrupted himself. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Henry,' she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm clinging - about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, glowed, - sparkled about him. He was exultant. 'You dear boy—I'm afraid you've - made love to lots of girls.' - </p> - <p> - 'I <i>haven't!</i>' he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. 'Not to - lots.' - </p> - <p> - 'Silly!' A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. 'Henry, talk - to me! Make love to me! Tell me you'll take me away with you—to-day!—now! - Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, anyway—even if—oh, - Henry, <i>say</i> it!' - </p> - <p> - For an instant Henry's mind went cold and clear. He was a little - frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman who - clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably smiling - Corinne. He thought of Carmen—the Carmen of Calvé. He had suped once - in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to the supe - captain. - </p> - <p> - The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that - this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this' point. - </p> - <p> - As for asking her to fly away with him, he couldn't conscientiously so - much as ask her to have dinner with him in Chicago. Not in the present - state of his pocket. - </p> - <p> - One fact, however, emerged. He must propose something. He could at least - have it out with old Boice. Settle that salary business. He'd <i>have</i> - to. - </p> - <p> - Another fact is that he was by no means so cool as he, for the moment, - fancied himself. - </p> - <p> - The door from dining-room to kitchen opened, rather slowly. There was a - light step in the kitchen, and Mildred Henderson's musical little voice - humming the theme of the Andante in the Fifth Symphony. - </p> - <p> - Henry and Corinne leaped apart. She smoothed her hair again, and patted - her cheeks. Then she took a black hair from his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - They heard Mildred at the sink. Rinsing the dishes and the silver, - doubtless. - </p> - <p> - 'Hate to disturb you two,' she called, a reassuring if slightly humorous - sympathy in her voice, 'but I promised Humphrey I'd get after you, Henry. - He says you simply must get some work done to-day.' - </p> - <p> - Henry stood motionless, trying to think.' - </p> - <p> - 'Do your work here,' Corinne whispered. 'Stay.' - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. 'A lot I'd get done—here with you. Now.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll help you. Couldn't I be just a little inspiration to you?' - </p> - <p> - 'It ain't inspiring work.' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry—write something for me! Write me a poem! - </p> - <p> - 'All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men's Picnic. - </p> - <p> - Then he said, 'Wait a minute;' went into the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - 'Going over town,' he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson. - </p> - <p> - At the outer door, Corinne murmured: 'You'll come back, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he - replied: 'Yes, of course.' And hurried off. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the <i>Voice</i> sanctum. Henry could see - that much through the front window. - </p> - <p> - He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey—or - anybody—right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal - to him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a - regiment. - </p> - <p> - He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind - the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please - speak to Mr Boice. - </p> - <p> - Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village - triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly - rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to let - go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth whose - time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And once - again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and the - thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers. - </p> - <p> - He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; - made sounds. - </p> - <p> - 'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I—I want to speak with you. It's—it's - this way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.' - </p> - <p> - Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence. - </p> - <p> - 'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, the - way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It ain't - square! Now—well—you see, I've about come to the conclusion - that if the work I do ain't worth ten a week—well——' - </p> - <p> - It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village politician - of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no trust - whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and the fact was - disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms by keeping his mouth - shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or quarrelled. He disbelieved - utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't written a letter in twenty-odd - years. And he was not likely to lose his temper again this day—week—or - month. - </p> - <p> - Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. Though - Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the - controversy. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still. - </p> - <p> - Henry chafed. - </p> - <p> - After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business - Men's Picnic?' - </p> - <p> - Henry shook his head. - </p> - <p> - 'Better get it done, hadn't you?' - </p> - <p> - Henry shook his head again. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice continued to sit—motionless, expressionless. His thoughts - ran to this effect:—The article on the picnic was by far the most - important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street - looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was - supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, - now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter. - </p> - <p> - 'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can - have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.' - </p> - <p> - He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds - that passed his lips—colourless, casual. - </p> - <p> - Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers - tightened about his stick. His colour rose. - </p> - <p> - He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk. - </p> - <p> - 'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was - desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder - window—'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of - your time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars - a week to the <i>Voice</i>. Beginning this week. If I'm not—I'll - hand in my string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I - wonder! You wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd - of you a thing or two! Maybe——' - </p> - <p> - For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to and - through Norton P. Boice. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared in - his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the - door. - </p> - <p> - 'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!' - </p> - <p> - Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed. - </p> - <p> - Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, - thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry wandered - up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting crokinole - counters. - </p> - <p> - Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He - wanted desperately to do something, but didn't know what it could be. It - was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to - get out. - </p> - <p> - He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the - piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor. - </p> - <p> - There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne had - spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had danced over - the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without Her, was - painfully empty. - </p> - <p> - He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn't know what. The wild - animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had - begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and saw - and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, surely - it was the poem! - </p> - <p> - He found pencil and paper—a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the - window-seat. - </p> - <p> - Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They - were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness—it was a mighty - passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to - write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint as - to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And at - once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. It - would have to come out. - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - Mr Boice came heavily into the Voice office and sank into his creaking - chair by the front window. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey went swiftly, steadily through galley after galley of proof. - Humphrey had the trained eye that can pick out an inverted <i>u</i> in a - page of print at three feet. He smoked his cob pipe as he worked. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice drew a few sheets of copy paper from a pigeonhole, took up a - pencil in his stiff fingers, and gazed down over his whiskers. - </p> - <p> - It was a decade or more since the 'editor' of the Voice had done any - actual work. Every day he dropped quiet suggestions, whispered a word of - guidance to this or that lieutenant, and listened to assorted ideas and - opinions. He was a power in the village, no doubt about that. But to - compose and write out three columns of his own paper was hopelessly beyond - him. It called for youth, or for the long habit of a country hack. The - deep permanent grooves in his mind were channels for another sort of - thinking. - </p> - <p> - For an hour he sat there. Gradually Humphrey became aware of him. It was - odd anyway that he should be here. He seldom returned in the afternoon. - </p> - <p> - Finally he looked over at the younger man, and made sounds. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey raised his head; removed his pipe. - </p> - <p> - 'Guess you better fix up a little account of the Business Men's Picnic, - Weaver,' he remarked. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry's doing that.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice's massive head moved slowly, sidewise. 'No,' he said, 'he won't - be doing it.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey leaned back in his chair. His face wrinkled reflectively; his - brows knotted. He held up his pipe; rubbed the worn cob with the palm of - his hand. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice got up and moved toward the door. - </p> - <p> - 'I've let Henry go,' he said. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey went on rubbing his pipe; squinting at it. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice paused in the door; looked back. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll ask you to attend to it, Weaver.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey shook his head. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice stood looking at him. - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said Humphrey. 'Afraid I can't help you out.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice stood motionless. There was no expression on his face, but - Humphrey knew what the steady look meant. He added:— - </p> - <p> - 'I wasn't there.' - </p> - <p> - Still Mr Boice stood. Humphrey took a fresh galley proof from the hook and - fell to work at it. After a little Mr Boice moved back to his desk and - creaked down into his chair. Again he reached for the copy paper. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, in a merciful moment when he was leaving for the day, thought of - suggesting that Murray Johnston, local man for the City Press Association, - might be called on in the emergency. He had been at the picnic. He could - write the story easily enough, if he could spare the time. A faint smile - flitted across his face at the reflection that it would cost old Boice - five or six times what he was usually willing to pay in the <i>Voice</i>. - </p> - <p> - But Mr Boice, bending over the desk, a pencil gripped in his fingers, a - sentence or two written and crossed out on the top sheet of copy paper, - did not so much as lift his eyes. And Humphrey went on out. - </p> - <h3> - 8 - </h3> - <p> - Humphrey let himself into Mrs Henderson's front hall, closed the screen - door gently behind him, and looked about the dim interior. There seemed to - be no one in the living-room. The girls were in the kitchen, doubtless, - getting supper. Mildred had faithfully promised not to bother cooking - anything hot. He hung up his hat. - </p> - <p> - Then he saw a feminine figure up the stairs, curled on the top-step, - against the wall. - </p> - <p> - It was Corinne. She was pressing her finger to her lips and shaking her - head. - </p> - <p> - She motioned him out toward the kitchen. There he found his hostess. - </p> - <p> - 'Seen Henry?' he asked. 'Old Boice fired him to-day, and he's disappeared. - Not at the rooms. And I looked in at the Y.M.C.A.' - </p> - <p> - 'He's here,' said Mildred. 'A very interesting thing is happening, - Humphrey. I've always told you he was a genius.' - </p> - <p> - 'But what's up?' - </p> - <p> - 'We've got him upstairs at my desk. He's writing something. - </p> - <p> - I think it's a poem for Corinne.' - </p> - <p> - 'A poem! But——' - </p> - <p> - 'It's really quite wonderful. Now don't you go and throw cold water on it, - Humphrey.' She came over, very trim and pretty in her long apron, her face - flushed with the heat of the stove, slipped her hand through his arm, and - looked up at him. 'It's really very exciting. I haven't seen the boy act - this way for two years. He came in here, all out of breath, and said he - had to write. He didn't seem to know what. He's quite wild I never in my - life saw such concentration. It seems that he's promised Corinne a poem.' - </p> - <p> - 'Wonder what's got into him,' Humphrey mused. - </p> - <p> - Mildred returned to her salad dressing. 'Genius has got into him,' she - said, a bright little snap in her eyes. 'And it's coming out. He's been up - there nearly two hours now. Corinne's guarding. She'd kill you if you - disturbed him. She peeked in a little while ago. She says there's a lot of - it—all over the floor—and he was writing like mad. She - couldn't see any of it. As soon as he saw her he yelled at her and waved - her out.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'Humphrey, my dear,' said Mildred then, 'I'm really afraid we've got to - watch those two a little. Something's been happening to-day. Corinne has - gone perfectly mad over him—to-day—all of a sudden. She - fretted every minute he was away. Henry doesn't know it, but Corinne is a - pretty self-willed girl. And just now she's got her mind on him.' - </p> - <p> - She came over again, took his arm, and looked up at Humphrey. She was at - once sophisticating and confiding. There was a touch of something that, - might have been tenderness, even wistfulness, in her voice as about her - eyes. - </p> - <p> - 'I've really been worrying a little about them. About Henry particularly, - for some reason.' She gave a soft little laugh, and pressed his arm. - 'They're so young, Humphrey—such green little things. Or he is, at - least. I've been impatient for you to come.' - </p> - <p> - 'I got down as soon as I could,' said Humphrey, looking down at her. - </p> - <p> - 'Of course, I know.' - </p> - <p> - 'I've been worrying about him, too.' - </p> - <p> - When the supper was ready, Mildred made Humphrey sit at the table and - herself tiptoed up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - She came back, still on tiptoe, smiling as if at her own thoughts. - </p> - <p> - 'He won't eat,' she explained. 'He's still at it. I wish you could see my - room. It's a sight.' - </p> - <p> - 'Corinne coming down?' - </p> - <p> - 'Not she. She won't budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I - suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic, - but... Well, it gives us a nice little <i>téte-à -tête</i> supper. I've - made iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won't you!' After - supper they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had - switched on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She - beckoned to them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs. - </p> - <p> - 'I can't make it out,' she whispered. 'It isn't poetry. And he doesn't - number his pages.' - </p> - <p> - 'How did you ever get them?' asked Mildred. - </p> - <p> - 'Went in and gathered them up. He didn't hear me. He's still at it.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of this - sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in order; - finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women. - </p> - <p> - 'What is it?' they asked. - </p> - <p> - He chuckled softly. 'Well, it isn't poetry.' - </p> - <p> - 'I saw that much,' Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. 'It's—wait a - minute! I couldn't believe it at first. It—no—yes, that's what - it is.' - </p> - <p> - '<i>What!</i>' - </p> - <p> - Then Humphrey dropped down at Mildred's feet, and laughed, softly at - first, then with increasing vigour. - </p> - <p> - Mildred clapped her hand over his mouth and ran him down the stairs and - through into the living-room. There they dropped side by side on the sofa - and laughed until tears came. - </p> - <p> - Corinne, laughing a little herself now, but perplexed, followed them. - </p> - <p> - 'Here,' said Humphrey, when he could speak, 'let's get into this.' - </p> - <p> - They moved, to the table. Humphrey spread out the pages, and skimmed them - over with a practised eye, arranging as he read. - </p> - <p> - Once he muttered, 'What on earth!' And shortly after: 'Why, the young - devil!' - </p> - <p> - 'Please—' said Corinne. 'Please! I want to know what it is.', - </p> - <p> - Humphrey stacked up the sheets, and laid them on the table. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he remarked, 'it is certainly an account of the Business Men's - Picnic. And it certainly was <i>not</i> written for <i>The Weekly Voice of - Sunbury</i>. I'll start in a minute and read it through. But from what - I've seen—— Well, while it may be a little Kiplingesque—naturally—still - it comes pretty close to being a work of art. - </p> - <p> - 'Tell you what the boy's done. He's gone at that little community outing - just about as an artistic god would have gone at it. As if he'd never seen - any of these Simpson Street folks before. Berger, the grocer, and William - F. Donovan, and Mr Wombast, and Charlie Waterhouse, and Weston of the - bank, and—and, here, the little Dutchman that runs the lunch counter - down by the tracks, and Heinie Schultz and Bill Schwartz, and old Boice! - It's a crime what he's done to Boice. If this ever appears, Sunbury will - be too small for Henry Calverly. But, oh, it's grand writing.... He's - got'em all in, their clothes, their little mannerisms—their tricks - of speech... Wait, I'll read it.' - </p> - <p> - Forty minutes later the three sat back in their chairs, weak from - laughter, each in his own way excited, aware that a real performance was - taking place, right here in the house. - </p> - <p> - 'One thing I don't quite understand,' said Mildred. 'It's a lovely bit of - writing—he makes you see it and feel it—where Mr Boice and - Charles Waterhouse were around behind the lemonade stand, and Mr - Waterhouse is upset because the purse they're going to surprise him with - for being the most popular man in town isn't large enough. What <i>is</i> - all that, anyway?' - </p> - <p> - 'I know,' said Humphrey. 'I was wondering about that. It's funny as the - dickens, those two birds out there behind the lemonade stand quarrelling - about it. It's—let's see—oh, yes! And Boice says, “It won't - help you to worry, Charlie. We're doing what we can for you. But it'll - take time. And it's a chance!”... Funny!' - </p> - <p> - He lowered the manuscript, and stared at the wall. 'Hm!' he remarked - thoughtfully. 'Mildred, got any cigarettes?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I have, but I don't care to be mystified like this. Take one, and - tell me exactly what you're thinking.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm thinking that Bob McGibbon would give a hundred dollars for this - story as it stands, right now.' - </p> - <p> - 'Why?' - </p> - <p> - 'Because he's gunning for Charlie. And for Boice.' - </p> - <p> - 'And what's this?' - </p> - <p> - 'Evidence.' Humphrey was grave now. 'Not quite it. But warm. Very warm.' - </p> - <p> - 'He's really stumbled on something. How perfectly lovely!' - </p> - <p> - 'And he doesn't know it. Sees nothing but the story value of it. But it - may be serious. They'd duck him in the lake. They'd drown him.' - </p> - <p> - 'But how lovely if Henry, by one stroke of his pencil, should really - puncture the frauds in this smug town.' - </p> - <p> - 'There is something in that,' mused Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'Ssh!' From Mildred. - </p> - <p> - They heard a slow step on the stairs. - </p> - <p> - A moment, and Henry appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he saw - them. His glasses hung dangling against his shirt front. He was coatless, - but plainly didn't know it. His straight brown hair was rumpled up on one - side and down in a shock over the farther eye. He was pale, and looked - tired about the eyes. He carried more of the manuscript. - </p> - <p> - He stared at them as if he couldn't quite make them out, or as if not sure - he had met them. Then he brushed a hand across his forehead and slowly, - rather wanly, smiled. - </p> - <p> - 'I had no idea it was so late,' he said. - </p> - <p> - Mildred and Corinne fed him and petted him while Humphrey drew a big chair - into the dining-room, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and studied the - brightening, expanding youth before him. He reflected, too, on the - curious, instant responsiveness that is roused in the imaginative woman at - the first evidence of the creative impulse in a man. As if the elemental - mother were moved. - </p> - <p> - 'That's probably it,' he thought. 'And it's what the boy has needed. - Martha Caldwell couldn't give it to him—never in the world! He was - groping to find it in that tough little Wilcox girl. It wouldn't do to - tell him—no, I mustn't tell him; got to steady him down all I can—but - I rather guess he's been needing a Mildred and a Corinne. These two - years.' - </p> - <h3> - 9 - </h3> - <p> - Humphrey stood up then, said he was going out for half an hour, and picked - up the manuscript from the living-room table as he passed. - </p> - <p> - He went straight to Boice's house on Upper Chestnut Avenue. - </p> - <p> - 'What has all this to do with me?' asked Mr Boice, behind closed doors in - his roomy library. 'Let him write anything he likes.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey sat back; slowly turned the pages of the manuscript. - </p> - <p> - 'This,' he said, 'is a real piece of writing. It's the best picture of a - community outing I ever read in my life. It's vivid. The characters are so - real that a stranger, after reading this, could walk up Simpson Street and - call fifteen people by name. He'd know how their voices sound, what their - weaknesses are, what they're really thinking about Sunday mornings in - church. It is humour of the finest kind. But they won't know it on Simpson - Street. They'll be sore as pups, every man. He's taken their skulls off - and looked in. He's as impersonal, as cruel, as Shakespeare.' - </p> - <p> - This sounded pretty highfalutin' to Mr Boice. He made a reflective sound; - then remarked:— - </p> - <p> - 'You think the advertisers wouldn't like it,' - </p> - <p> - 'They'd hate it. They'd fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But - McGibbon wouldn't mind. Or if he didn't have the nerve to print it, any - Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, what——' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey quietly interrupted. - </p> - <p> - 'Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch of - genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they'd laugh. No doubt about - that. All sorts of scenes—you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the - lemonade stand—Bill Parker's little accident in the tug-of-war.' He - read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his - chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the - room; then come back. - </p> - <p> - When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to momentary - admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual. - </p> - <p> - 'What are you getting at?' he asked. 'You want something.' - </p> - <p> - 'I want you to take Hemy back at—say, twelve a week.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm. Have him re-write this?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. Henry won't be able to write another word this week. He's empty. My - idea is, Mr Boice, that you'll want to do the cutting yourself. When - you've done that, I'll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three - columns out of it all right.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' - </p> - <p> - 'There's one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn't know what he's - written. No idea. It's a flash of pure genius.' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't know that we've got much use for a genius on the <i>Voice</i>,' - grunted Mr Boice. 'He ought to go to Chicago or New York.' - </p> - <p> - 'He will, some day.' Humphrey rose. 'Will you send for him in the - morning?' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. Then a sound. Then:—'Tell him to come - around.' - </p> - <p> - 'Twelve a week, including this week?' - </p> - <p> - The massive yellowish-gray head inclined slowly. - </p> - <p> - 'Very well, I'll tell him.' - </p> - <p> - 'You can leave the manuscript here, Weaver.' - </p> - <p> - 'No.' Humphrey deliberately folded it and put it in an inside pocket. - 'Henry will have to give it to you himself. It's his. Good-night.' - </p> - <p> - Out on the street, Humphrey reflected, with a touch of exuberance rare in - his life:— - </p> - <p> - 'We won't either of us be long on the <i>Voice</i>. Not now. But it's - great going while it lasts.' - </p> - <p> - And he wondered, with a little stir of excitement, just why that purse - wasn't enough for Charlie Waterhouse... just what old Boice knew... Why it - was a chance! Curious! Something back of it, something that McGibbon was - eternally pounding at—hinting—insinuating. Something real - there; something that might never be known. - </p> - <h3> - 10 - </h3> - <p> - Humphrey felt that the little triumph—though it might indeed prove - temporary; any victory over old Boice in Sunbury affairs was likely to be - that—called for celebrating in some special degree. He had, it - seemed, a few bottles of beer at the rooms. - </p> - <p> - So thither they adjourned; Mildred and Humphrey strolling slowly ahead, - Corinne and Henry strolling still more slowly behind. - </p> - <p> - Henry seemed fagged. At least he was quiet. - </p> - <p> - Corinne, stirred with a sympathetic interest not common to her sort of - nature, stole hesitant glances at him, even, finally, slipped her hand - through his arm. - </p> - <p> - She hung back. Mildred and Humphrey disappeared in the shadows of the - maples a block ahead. - </p> - <p> - 'I suppose you're pretty tired, aren't you?' Corinne murmured. - </p> - <p> - Her voice seemed to waken him out of a dream. - </p> - <p> - 'I—I—what was that? Oh—tired? Why, I don't know. Sorta.' - </p> - <p> - Her hand slipped down his forearm, within easy reach of his hand; but he - was unaware. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm frightfully excited,' he said, brightening. 'If you knew what this - meant to me! Feeling like this. The Power—but you wouldn't know what - that meant. Only it lifts me up. I know I'm all right now. It's been an - awful two years. You've no idea. Drudgery. Plugging along. But I'm up - again now. I can do it any time I want. I'm free of this dam' town. They - can't hold me back now.' - </p> - <p> - 'You'll do big things,' she said, a mournful note in her voice. - </p> - <p> - 'I know. I feel that.' - </p> - <p> - And now she stopped short. In a shadow. - </p> - <p> - 'What is it?' he asked casually. 'What's the matter?' - </p> - <p> - She glanced at his face; then down. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you think you'll write—a poem?' she asked almost sullenly. - </p> - <p> - 'Maybe. I don't know. It's queer—you get all stirred up inside, and - then something comes. You can't tell what it's going to be. It's as if it - came from outside yourself. You know. Spooky.' - </p> - <p> - She moved on now, bringing him with her. - </p> - <p> - 'Mildred and Humphrey'll wonder where we are,' she said crossly. - </p> - <p> - Henry glanced down at her; then at the shadowy arch of maples ahead. He - wondered what was the matter with her. Girls were, of course, notoriously - difficult. Never knew their own minds. He was exultantly happy. It had - been a great day. Twelve a week now, and going up! Hump was a good old - soul.... He recalled, with a recurrence of both the thrill and the - conservatism that had come then, that he had had a great time with Corinne - in the early afternoon. Mustn't go too far with that sort of thing, of - course. But she was sure a peach. And she didn't seem the sort that would - be for ever trying to pin you down. He took her hand now. It was great to - feel her there, close beside him.' - </p> - <p> - Corinne walked more rapidly. He didn't know that she was biting her lip. - Nor did he perceive what she saw clearly, bitterly; that she had - unwittingly served a purpose in his life, which he would never understand. - And she saw, too, that the little job was, for the present, at least, over - and done with. - </p> - <p> - She stole another sidelong glance at him. He was twisting up the ends of - his moustache. And humming. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IV—THE WHITE STAR - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>rom the university - clock, up in the north end of Sunbury village, twelve slow strokes boomed - out. - </p> - <p> - Henry Calverly, settled comfortably in the hammock on Mrs Arthur V. - Henderson's front porch, behind the honeysuckle vine, listened dreamily. - </p> - <p> - Beside him in the hammock was Corinne Doag. - </p> - <p> - At the corner, two houses away, a sizzing, flaring, sputtering arc lamp - gave out the only sound and the only light in the neighbourhood. Lower - Chestnut Avenue was sound asleep. - </p> - <p> - The storage battery in the modern automobile will automatically cut itself - off from the generator when fully charged. Henry's emotional, nature was - of similar construction. Corinne had overcharged him, and automatically he - cut her off. - </p> - <p> - The outer result of this action and reaction was a rather bewildering - quarrel. - </p> - <p> - Early in the present evening, shortly after Humphrey Weaver and Mrs - Henderson left the porch for a little ramble to the lake—'Back in a - few minutes,' Mildred had remarked—the quarrel had been made up. - Neither could have told how. Each felt relieved to be comfortably back on - a hammock footing. - </p> - <p> - Henry, indeed, was more than relieved. He was quietly exultant. The thrill - of conquest was upon him. It was as if she were an enemy whom he had - defeated and captured. He was experiencing none of the sensations that he - supposed were symptoms of what is called love. Yet what he was - experiencing was pleasurable. He could even lie back here and think coolly - about it, revel in it. - </p> - <p> - Corinne's head stirred. - </p> - <p> - 'That was midnight,' she murmured. - </p> - <p> - 'What of it?' - </p> - <p> - 'I suppose I ought to be thinking about going in.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't see that your chaperon's in such a rush.' - </p> - <p> - 'I know. They've been hours. They might have walked around to the rooms.' - </p> - <p> - Henry was a little shocked at the thought. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no,' he remarked. 'They'd hardly have gone <i>there</i>—without - us.' - </p> - <p> - 'Mildred would if she wanted to. It has seemed to me lately...' - </p> - <p> - 'What?' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know—but once or twice—as if she might be getting a - little too fond of Humphrey.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh'—there was concern in Henry's voice—'do you think so?' - </p> - <p> - 'I wonder if you know just how fascinating that man is, Henry.' - </p> - <p> - 'He's never been with girls—not around here. You've no idea—he - just lives with his books, and in his shop.' - </p> - <p> - 'Perhaps that's why,' said she. 'Partly. Mildred ought to be careful.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, soberly considering this new light on his friend, looked off toward - the corner. - </p> - <p> - He sat up abruptly. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry' For goodness' sake! Ouch—my hair!' - </p> - <p> - 'Ssh! Look—that man coming across! Wait. There now—with a - suit-case!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Henry, you scared me! Don't be silly. He's way out in... Henry! How - awful! It <i>is!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'What'll we do?' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know. Get up. Sit over there,' She was working at her hair; she - smoothed her 'waist,' and pulled out the puff sleeves. - </p> - <p> - The man came rapidly nearer. His straw hat was tipped back. They could see - the light of a cigar. A mental note of Henry's was that Arthur V. - Henderson had been a football player at the state university. And a boxer. - Even out of condition he was a strong man. - </p> - <p> - 'Quick—think of something to tell him! It'll have to be a lie. Henry—<i>think!</i>' - </p> - <p> - Then, as he stood motionless, helpless, she got up, thrust his hat and - bamboo stick into his hands, and led him on tiptoe around the corner of - the house. - </p> - <p> - 'We've got to do something. Henry, for goodness' sake—' - </p> - <p> - 'We've got to find her, I think.' - </p> - <p> - 'I know it. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'If she came in with Hump, and he—you know, this time' of night—why, - something awful might happen. There might be murder. Mr Henderson——' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't talk such stuff! Keep your head. Well—he's coming! Here!' - </p> - <p> - She gripped his hand, dragged him down the side steps, and ran lightly - with him out past the woodshed to the alley. They walked to the side - street and, keeping in the shadows, out to the Chestnut Avenue corner. - From this spot they commanded the house. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson had switched on lights in front hall, dining-room, and - kitchen. The parlour was still dark. Next he had gone upstairs, for there - were lights in the upper windows. After a brief time he appeared in the - front doorway. He lighted a fresh cigar, then opened the screen door and - came out on the porch. He stood there, looking up and down the street. - Then he seated himself on the top step, elbows on knees, like a man - thinking. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'Listen! You go over to the rooms and see.' - </p> - <p> - 'But they might be down at the lake.' - </p> - <p> - 'Not all this time. Mildred doesn't like sitting on beaches. If you find - them, bring her back. We'll go in together, she and I. We'll patch up a - story. It's all right. Just keep your head.' - </p> - <p> - 'What'll you do?' - </p> - <p> - 'Wait here.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't like to leave you.' - </p> - <p> - 'You'll see me again.' - </p> - <p> - 'I know, but——' - </p> - <p> - 'Well... Now hurry!' - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - The old barn was dark. - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. 'Hm! Certainly - aren't here. Take a look though.' - </p> - <p> - With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through - machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, peering - about for the electric switch. He hadn't lived here long enough to know - the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox's boarding-house. - </p> - <p> - A voice—Humphrey's—said:— - </p> - <p> - 'Don't turn the light on.' Then, 'Is it you, Hen?' - </p> - <p> - There they were—over in the farther window-seat—sitting very - still, huddled together—a mere faint shape against the dim outside - light. He felt his way around the centre table, toward them. - </p> - <p> - 'Looking for you,' he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing in - his temples. And he was curiously breathless. - </p> - <p> - He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn't thought of this; - had just rushed over here, headlong. - </p> - <p> - 'I suppose it's pretty late,' said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality in - her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent. - </p> - <p> - 'Well'—Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that - now and then crept into it—'anything special, Hen? Here we are!' - </p> - <p> - Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his - over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous little - pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands murdering lovers; - dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, high-ceiled court-rooms. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and - turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand. - </p> - <p> - Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his - thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness - that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about the - half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, brisk - way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under her very - quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to protect from - the world and give toys to. - </p> - <p> - Henry, to his own amazement—and chagrin—covered his face and - sobbed. - </p> - <p> - 'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?' - </p> - <p> - The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding her - eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:— - </p> - <p> - 'Has my husband come home?' - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded. - </p> - <p> - 'Where's Corinne?' - </p> - <p> - 'She—she's waiting on the corner, in case you.... - </p> - <p> - Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a - little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug. - </p> - <p> - 'Did he—did he see either of you?' - </p> - <p> - Henry shook his head. - </p> - <p> - Mildred pressed a finger to her lips. - </p> - <p> - 'We mustn't leave Corinne waiting out there,' she said. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre gaze - settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she raised her - head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the question:— - </p> - <p> - 'Stay here?' - </p> - <p> - Her eyes widened a little, and slowly filled. She gave him her other hand. - But she shook her head. - </p> - <p> - A little later he said. - </p> - <p> - 'Come then, dear. We'll go down there.' - </p> - <p> - From the top of the stairs he switched on a light in the shop. Mildred, - very palet went down. Henry was about to follow. But he saw Humphrey - standing, darting glances about the room, softly snapping his bony - fingers. The long, swarthy face was wrinkled into a scowl. His eyes rested - on Henry. He gave a little sigh; threw out his hands. - </p> - <p> - 'It's—it's the limit!' he whispered. 'You see—my hat....' - </p> - <p> - That seemed to be all he could say. His face was twisted with emotion. His - mouth even moved a little. But no sound came. - </p> - <p> - Henry stood waiting. At the moment his surging, uncontrollable emotion - took the form of embarrassment. It seemed to him that in this crisis he - ought to be polite toward his friend. But they couldn't stand here - indefinitely without speaking. There was need, particular need, of - politeness toward Mildred Henderson. So, mumbling, he followed her - downstairs and out through the shop to the deserted alley. - </p> - <p> - Then they went down to Chestnut Avenue. Mildred and Humphrey were silent, - Walking close together, arm in arm. Henry, in some measure recovered from - his little breakdown, or relieved by it, tried to make talk. He spoke of - the stillness of the night. He said, 'It's the only time I like the town—after - midnight. You don't have to see the people then.' - </p> - <p> - Then, as they offered no reply, he too fell still. - </p> - <p> - Corinne, when they found her leaning against a big maple, was in a - practical frame of mind. - </p> - <p> - 'There he is,' she whispered. 'Been sitting right there all the time. This - is his third cigar. Now listen, Mildred. I've figured it all out. No good - in letting ourselves get excited. It's all right. You and I will walk up - with Henry. Just take it for granted that you've been down to the lake - with us. We needn't even explain.' - </p> - <p> - Mildred, still nestling close to Humphrey's arm, seemed to be looking at - her. - </p> - <p> - Then they heard her draw in her breath rather sharply, and her hand groped - up toward Humphrey's shoulder. - </p> - <p> - 'Wait!' she said breathlessly. 'I can't go in there now. Not right now. - Wait a little. I can't!' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey led her away into the shadows. - </p> - <p> - Corinne looked at Henry. 'Hm!' she murmured—'serious!' - </p> - <p> - The university clock struck one. - </p> - <p> - Again Henry felt that pressure in the temples and dryness in the throat. - His thoughts, most of them, were whirling again. But one corner of his - mind was thinking clearly, coldly:— - </p> - <p> - 'This is the real thing. Drama! Life! Maybe tragedy! And I'm seeing it! - I'm in it, part of it!' - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - Corinne was peering into the shadows. - </p> - <p> - 'Where'd they go?' she said. 'We've got to find them. This thing's getting - worse every minute.' - </p> - <p> - Mildred and Humphrey were sitting on a horse block, side by side, very - still. It was in front of the B. L. Ames place. Corinne stood over them. - But Henry hung back; leaned weakly against a tree. - </p> - <p> - The Ames place brought up memories of other years and other girls. An odd - little scene had occurred here, with Clemency Snow, on one of the lawn - seats. And a darker mass of shadow in the gnarled, low-spreading oak, over - by the side fence, was a well-remembered platform with seats and a ladder - to the ground. Ernestine Lambert had been the girl with him up there. - </p> - <p> - Two long years back! He was eighteen then—a mere boy, with illusions - and dreams. He wasn't welcome to Mary Ames's any more. She didn't approve - of him. Her mother, too. And he had sunk into a rut of small-town work on - Simpson Street. They weren't fair to him. He didn't drink; smoked almost - none; let the girls alone more than many young fellows—in spite of a - few little things. If he had money... of course. You had to have money. - </p> - <p> - He felt old. And drab of spirit. Those little affairs, even the curious - one with Clem Snow, had been, it seemed now, on a higher plane of feeling - than this present one with Corinne. Life had been at the spring then, the - shrubs dew-pearled, God in his Heaven. And the affair with Ernestine had - not been so little. It had shaken him. He wondered where Ernie was now. - They hadn't written for a year and a half. And Clem was Mrs Jefferson - Jenkins, very rich (Jeff Jenkins was in a bond house on La Salle Street) - living in Chicago, on the Lake Shore Drive, intensely preoccupied with a - girl baby. People—women and girls—said it was a beautiful - baby. Girls were gushy. - </p> - <p> - He pressed a hand to his eyes. Corinne was right; the situation was - getting worse every minute. During one or two of the minutes, while his - memory was active, it had seemed like an unpleasant dream from which he - would shortly waken. But it wasn't a dream. He felt again the tension of - it. It was a tension that might easily become unbearable. First thing they - knew the university clock would be striking two. He began listening for - it; trying absurdly to strain his ears. - </p> - <p> - He had recently seen Minnie Maddem play <i>Tess of the D'Urbervilles</i>, - and had experienced a painful tension much like this—a strain too - great for his sensitive imagination. He had covered his face. And he - hadn't gone back for the last act. - </p> - <p> - But there was to be no running out of this. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' said Corinne, almost briskly, 'we're not getting anywhere.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey threw out his hand irritably. - </p> - <p> - 'Just—just wait a little,' he said. 'Can't you see....' - </p> - <p> - 'It's past one.' - </p> - <p> - Corinne's manner jarred a little on all three of the others. Mildred - seemed to sink even closer toward Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - Henry felt another sob coming. Desperately he swallowed it down. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, holding Mildred's head against his shoulder, looked up at - Corinne. His face was not distinctly visible; but he seemed to be studying - the tall, easy-going, unexpectedly practical girl. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't think you understand,' he finally said. 'It's very, very awkward. - My hat is in there.' - </p> - <p> - 'Where?' - </p> - <p> - 'In the parlour. On the piano, I think.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't think he lighted the parlour. We three can go up just the same. - Now listen. Henry can leave his hat here with you, and get yours when he - comes away.' - </p> - <p> - 'It has my initials in it,' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - Corinne walked on the grass to the corner; came swiftly back. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' she remarked dryly, 'he's been in there. The parlour's lighted.' - </p> - <p> - Mildred stirred. 'Please!' she murmured. 'Just give me a minute or two. - I'm going with you.' - </p> - <p> - 'Suppose,' said Corinne, 'he <i>has</i> seen the initials.' - </p> - <p> - Mildred's eyes sought Humphrey's. For a long instant, her head back on his - shoulder, she gazed at him with an intensity that Henry had not before - seen on a woman's face. It was as if she had forgotten himself and - Corinne. And then Humphrey's arm tightened about her, as if he, too, had - forgotten every one and everything else. - </p> - <p> - Henry had to turn away. - </p> - <p> - He walked to the corner. Neither Humphrey nor Mildred knew whether he went - or stayed. Corinne was frowning down at them; thinking desperately. - </p> - <p> - Henry stared at the house, at the dim solitary figure on the top step, at - the little red light of the cigar that came and went with the puffs. - </p> - <p> - Henry was breathing hard. His face was burning hot. He hated conflicts, - fights; hated them so deeply, felt so inadequate when himself involved, - that emotion usually overcame him. Therefore he fought rather frequently, - and, on occasions, rather effectively. Emotion will win a fight as often - as reason. - </p> - <p> - He considered getting Humphrey to one side, making him listen to reason. - He dwelt on the phrase. The mere thought of Mildred being driven back into - that house, into the hands of her legal husband, stirred that tendency to - sob. He set his teeth on it. They could take her back to the rooms. He - would move out. For that matter, if it would save her reputation, they - could both move out. At once. But would it save her reputation? - </p> - <p> - He took off his hat; pressed a hand to his forehead; then fussed with his - little moustache. Then, as a new thought was born in his brain, born of - his emotions, he gave a little start. He looked back at the shadowy group - about the Ames's horse block. Apparently they hadn't moved. He looked at - his shoes, tennis shoes with rubber soles. - </p> - <p> - He laid hat and stick on the ground by a tree; went little way up the - street, past the circle of the corner light and slipped across; moved - swiftly, keeping on the grass, around to the alley, came in at the - Henderson's back gate, made his way to the side steps. - </p> - <p> - There was a door here that led into an entry. There were doors to kitchen - and dining-room on right and left, and the back stairs. Henry knew the - house. Kitchen and dining-room were both dark now, but the lights were on - in parlour and hall. - </p> - <p> - He got the screen door open without a sound and felt his way into and - through the dining-room. It seemed to him that there were a great many - chairs in that diningroom. His shins bumped them. They met his outspread - hands. Between this room and the parlour the sliding doors were shut. - </p> - <p> - He stood a moment by these doors, wondering if Arthur V. Henderson was - still sitting on the top step with his back to the front screen door. - Probably. He couldn't very well move without some noise. But it would be - impossible to see him out there, with the parlour light on. - </p> - <p> - 'Deliberately, with extreme caution, her slid back one of the doors. It - rumbled a little. He waited, keeping back in the dark, and listened. There - was no sound from the porch. - </p> - <p> - The piano stood against the side wall, near the front. On it lay - Humphrey's straw hat. Any one by merely looking into it could have seen - the initials. And the man on the steps had only to turn his head and look - in through the bay window to see piano, hat, and any one who stood near, - any one, in fact, in that diagonal half of the room. - </p> - <p> - Henry held his breath and stepped in, nearly to the centre of the room. - Here he hesitated. - </p> - <p> - Then beginning slowly, not unlike the sound of a wagon rolling over a - distant bridge, a rumbling fell on his ears. It grew louder. It ended in a - little bang. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - Henry glanced behind him. The sliding door had closed. There was a - scuffling of feet on the steps. - </p> - <p> - Henry reached up and switched off the electric lamp in the chandelier. - </p> - <p> - Then he stepped forward, found the piano, felt along the top, closed his - fingers on the hat, and stood motionless. His first thought was that he - would probably be shot. - </p> - <p> - There were steps on the porch. The front door opened and closed. Mr - Henderson was standing in the hall now, but not in the parlour doorway. - Probably just within the screen door. The hall light put him at a - disadvantage; and he couldn't turn it out without crossing that parlour - doorway. - </p> - <p> - 'Who's there!' Mr Henderson's voice was quiet enough. It sounded tired, - and nervous. 'Come out o' there quick! Whoever you are!' - </p> - <p> - Henry was silent. He wasn't particularly frightened. Not now. He even felt - some small relief. But he was confronted with some difficulty in deciding - what he ought to do. - </p> - <p> - 'Come out O' there!' - </p> - <p> - Then Henry replied: 'All right.' And came to the hall doorway. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson was leaning a little forward, fists clenched, ready for a - spring. He still had the cigar in his mouth. But he dropped back now and - surveyed the youth who stood, white-faced, clasping a straw hat tightly - under his left arm. He seemed to find it difficult to speak; shifted the - cigar about his mouth with mobile lips. He even thrust his hands into his - pockets and looked the youth up and down. - </p> - <p> - 'I came for this hat,' said Henry. 'It was on the piano.' - </p> - <p> - Still Mr Henderson's eyes searched him up, and down. Eyes that would be - sleepy again as soon as this little surprise was over. And they were red, - with puffs under them. He was a tall man, with big athletic shoulders and - deep chest, but with signs of a beginning corpulence, the physical laxity - that a good many men fall into who have been athletes in their teens and - twenties but are now getting on into the thirties. - </p> - <p> - It was understood here and there in Sunbury that he had times of drinking - rather hard. Indeed, the fact had been dwelt on by one or two tolerant or - daring souls who ventured to speak a word for his wife. She had always - quickly and willingly given her services as pianist at local - entertainments. Perhaps because, with all her brisk self-possession, she - must have been hungry for friends. She played exceptionally well, with - some real style and with an almost perverse touch of humour. She was - quick, crisp, capable. She disliked banality. To the initiated her playing - of Chopin was a joy. The sentimentalists said that she had technique but - no feeling. She could really play Bach. And I think she was the most - accomplished accompanist that ever lived in Sunbury; certainly the best - within my memory. - </p> - <p> - 'Say'—thus Mr Henderson now—'you're Henry Calverly, aren't - you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I'd like to know what you're doing here.' - </p> - <p> - 'I told you. I came for this hat.' - </p> - <p> - 'Your hat?' - </p> - <p> - 'Didn't you see the initials?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. I noticed the hat there. Why didn't you come in the front way? What's - all this burglar business?' - </p> - <p> - Henry didn't answer. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll have to ask you to answer that question. You seem to forget that - this is my house.' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I don't forget that.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson took out his cigar; turned it in his fingers. Colour came to - his face. He spoke abruptly, in a suddenly rising voice. - </p> - <p> - 'Seems to me there's some mighty queer goings-on around here. Sneaking in - at two in the morning!' - </p> - <p> - 'It isn't two in the morning.' - </p> - <p> - 'Dam' near it.' - </p> - <p> - 'It isn't half-past one. I tell you——' Henry paused. - </p> - <p> - His position seemed rather weak. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson studied his cigar again. He drew a cigar case from an inside - pocket. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know's I offered you one,' he said. He almost muttered it. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't smoke,' said Henry shortly. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson resumed the excited tone. It was curious coming in that jumpy - way. Even Henry divined the weakness back of it and grew calmer. - </p> - <p> - 'I've been out on——' He paused. Mildred had trained him not to - use the phrase, 'on the road.' He resumed with, '—on a business - trip. More'n a month. I swan, I'm tired out. Way trains and country - hotels. Fierce! If I seem nervous.... Look here, you seem pretty much at - home! Perhaps you'll tell me where my wife is!' - </p> - <p> - Henry considered this. Shook his head. - </p> - <p> - 'Trying to make me think you don't know, eh!' - </p> - <p> - 'I do know.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson knit his brows over this. Then, instead of immediately - pressing the matter, he took out a fresh cigar and lighted it with the - butt of the old one. - </p> - <p> - 'Seems to me you ought to tell me,' he said then. - </p> - <p> - 'I can't.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's queer, ain't it?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, it's true. I can't.' - </p> - <p> - 'She wrote me that she had Corinne Doag visiting here.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. She's here.' - </p> - <p> - 'With my wife? Now?' - </p> - <p> - Henry bowed. He felt confused, and more than a little tired. And he - disliked this man, deeply. Found him depressing. But outwardly—he - didn't himself dream this—he presented a picture of austere dignity. - An effect that was intensified, if anything, by his youth. - </p> - <p> - 'Anybody else with her and Corinne?' - </p> - <p> - Henry bowed again. - </p> - <p> - 'A man?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' Henry was finding him disgusting now. But he must be extremely - careful. An unnecessary word might hurt Mildred or Humphrey. Good old - Hump! - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson turned the fresh cigar round and round, looking intently at - it. In a surprisingly quiet manner he asked:— - </p> - <p> - 'Why doesn't she come home?' - </p> - <p> - Henry looked at the man. Anger swelled within him. - </p> - <p> - 'Because you're here?' He bit the sentence off. - </p> - <p> - He felt stifled. He wanted to run out, past the man, and breathe in the - cool night air. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson looked up, then down again at the cigar. Then he pushed open - the screen door. - </p> - <p> - 'May as well sit down and talk this over,' he said. 'Cooler on the porch. - Dam' queer line o' talk. You're young, Calverly. You don't know life. You - don't understand these things. My God! When I think... Well, what is it? - You seem to be in on this. Speak out! Tell me what she wants. That's one - thing about me—I'm straight out. Fair and square. Give and take. I'm - no hand for beating about the bush. Come on with it. What does she think I - ought to do?' - </p> - <p> - 'I can't tell you what she thinks.' Henry was downright angry now. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes! It's easy for you! You haven't been through...' His face seemed - to be working. And his voice had a choke in it. 'But how could a kid like - you understand I How could you know the way you get tied up and... all the - little things... My God, man! It hurts. Can you understand that. It's - tough.' He subsided. Finally, after a long silence, he said huskily but - quietly, with resignation, 'You'd say I ought to go.' - </p> - <p> - Henry was silent. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson got up. - </p> - <p> - 'I guess I know how to be a sport,' he said. - </p> - <p> - He went into the house, and in a few minutes returned with his suit-case. - </p> - <p> - 'It's—it's sorta like leaving things all at loose ends,' he - remarked. 'But then—of course...' - </p> - <p> - He went down two or three steps; then paused and looked up at Henry, who - had risen now. - </p> - <p> - 'You'—his voice was husky again—'you staying here?' - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said Henry; and walked a way up the street with him. - </p> - <p> - Mr Henderson said, rather stiffly, that the hot spell really seemed to be - over. Been fierce. Especially through Iowa and Missouri. No lake breeze, - or anything like that. Muggy all the time. That was the thing here in - Sunbury—the lake breeze.' - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - They were still in front of the Ames place. But Mildred had risen. They - stood watching him as he came, carrying the hat. - </p> - <p> - 'Where on earth have you been?' asked Corinne. - </p> - <p> - Henry met with difficulty in replying. He was embarrassed, caught in an - uprush of self-consciousness. He couldn't see why there need be talk. He - gave Humphrey his hat. - </p> - <p> - 'How'd you get this?' - </p> - <p> - 'In there.' - </p> - <p> - 'You went in?' This from Mildred. He felt her eyes on him. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'But you—you must have...' - </p> - <p> - 'He's gone.' - </p> - <p> - 'Gone!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'But where?' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know.' - </p> - <p> - 'What did you tell him?' asked Corinne sharply'. - </p> - <p> - 'Nothing. I don't think I did. Nothing much.' - </p> - <p> - 'But what?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, he acted funny. I wouldn't tell him where Mildred was. Then he - asked why you didn't come home and I said because he was there.' - </p> - <p> - Mildred and Corinne looked at each other. - </p> - <p> - 'But what made him go?' asked Corinne. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know. He wanted to know what you wanted him to do, Mildred. Of - course I couldn't say anything to that. And then he said he guessed he - knew how to be a sport, and went and got his suit-case.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hope he had sense enough not to go to the hotel,' Corinne mused, aloud. - 'They'd talk so.' - </p> - <p> - 'There's a train back to Chicago at two-something,' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - They moved slowly toward the house. At the steps they paused. - </p> - <p> - The university clock struck two. - </p> - <p> - They listened. The reverberations of the second stroke died out. The maple - leaves overhead rustled softly. From the beach, a block away, came the - continuous low sound of little waves on shelving sand. The great lake that - washes and on occasions threatens the shore at Sunbury had woven, from - Henry's birth, a strand of colour in the fibre of his being. He felt the - lake as deeply as he felt the maples and oaks of Sunbury; memories of its - bars of crude' wonderful colour at sunset and sunrise, of its soft mists, - its yellow and black November storms, its reaches of glacier-like - ice-hills in winter, of moonlit evenings with a girl on the beach when the - romance of youth shimmered in boundless beautiful mystery before - half-closed eyes—these were an ever-present element in the - undefined, moody ebb and flow of impulse, memory, hope, desire and - spasmodic self-restraint that Henry would have referred to, if at all, as - his mind. - </p> - <p> - 'It's late enough,' said Corinne, with a little laugh. - </p> - <p> - Mildred turned away, placed a tiny foot on the bottom step, sighed, then - murmured, very low, 'Hardly worth while going in.' - </p> - <p> - 'Let's not,' muttered Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'Listen.' Thus Corinne. She was leaning against the railing, with an - extraordinarily graceful slouch. She had never looked so pretty, Henry - thought. A little of the corner light reached her face, illuminating her - velvet clear skin and shining on her blue black hair where it curved over - her forehead. She made you think of health and of wild things. And she - could, even at this time, earn her living. There was an offer now to tour - the country forty weeks with a lyceum concert company. The letter had come - to-day; Henry had seen it. She thought she wouldn't accept. Her idea was - another year to study, then two or three years abroad and, possibly, a - start in the provincial opera companies of Italy, Austria, and Germany. - Yes, she had character of the sort that looks coolly ahead and makes - deliberate plans. Despite her wide, easy-smiling mouth and her great - languorous black eyes and her lazy ways, eyen Henry could now see this - strength in her face, in its solid, squared-up framework. More than any - girl Henry had ever known she could do what she chose. Men pursued her, of - course. All the time. There were certain extremely persistent ones. And it - came quietly through, bit by bit, that she knew them pretty well, knocked - around the city with them, as she liked. But now she had chosen himself. - No doubt about it. - </p> - <p> - She said:— - </p> - <p> - 'Listen. Let's go down to the shore and watch for the sunrise. We couldn't - sleep a wink after—after this—anyway.' - </p> - <p> - 'Nobody'd ever know,' breathed Mildred. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey took her arm. They moved slowly down the walk toward the street. - </p> - <p> - Corinne, still leaning there, looked at Henry. - </p> - <p> - He reached toward her, but she evaded him and waltzed slowly away over the - grass, humming a few bars of the <i>Myosotis</i>. - </p> - <p> - Henry's eyes followed her. He felt the throbbing again in his temples, and - his cheeks burned. He compressed his lips. He moved after her. He was in a - state of all but ungovernable excitement, but the elation of two hours - back had gone, flattened out utterly. He felt deeply uncomfortable. It was - the sort of ugly moment in which he couldn't have faced himself in a - looking-glass. For Henry had such moments, when, painfully bewildered by - the forces that nature implants in the vigorously young, he loathed - himself. Life opened, a black precipice, before him, yet Life, in other - guise, drove him on. As if intent on his destruction. - </p> - <p> - He hung back; let Corinne glide on just ahead of him, still slowing - revolving, swaying, waltzing to the soft little tune she was so musically - humming. He wanted to watch her; however great his discomfort of the - spirit, to exult in her physical charm. - </p> - <p> - On the earlier occasion when she had overtaxed his emotional capacity he - had got out of it by using the forces she stirred in him as a stimulant. - But now he wasn't stimulated. Not, at least, in that way. His spirit - seemed to be dead. Only his body was alive. All the excitement of the - evening had played with cumulative force on his nerves. He had arrived at - an emotional crisis; and was facing it sullenly but unresistingly. - </p> - <p> - The picture of Mildred and Humphrey lost in each other's gaze—in the - window-seat at the rooms, on the Ames's horse block—kept coming up - in his mind. He could see them in the flesh, walking on ahead, arm in arm, - but still more vividly he could see them as they had been before he went - back to Mildred's house. He knew that love had come to them. He wondered, - trembling with the excitement of the mere thought, how it would seem to - live through that miracle. No such magic had fallen upon him.. Not since - the days of Ernestine. And that had been pretty youthful business. This - matter of Corinne was quite different. He sighed. Then he hurried up to - her, gripped her arm, walked close beside her. - </p> - <p> - At the beach they paired off as a matter of course. Henry and Corinne sat - in the shadow of a breakwater. Humphrey and Mildred walked on to another - breakwater. - </p> - <p> - Corinne made herself comfortable with her head resting on Henry's arm. - </p> - <p> - He was thinking, 'Sort of thing you dream of without ever expecting it - really. Ain't a fellow' in town that wouldn't envy me.' But gloom was - settling over his spirit like a fog. It seemed to him that he ought to be - whispering skilful little phrases, close to her ear. He couldn't think of - any. - </p> - <p> - He bent over her face; looked into it; smoothed her dusky hair away from - her temples. - </p> - <p> - He began humming: 'I arise from dreams of thee.' She picked it up, very - softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo. - </p> - <p> - His own voice died out. He couldn't sing. - </p> - <p> - He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. Now - and then she hummed other songs—bits of Schumann and Franz. - Schubert's <i>Serenade</i> she sang through. - </p> - <p> - 'Sing with me,' she murmured. - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. 'Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I don't.' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't I make you feel like singing, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh yes, sure!' - </p> - <p> - 'You're a moody boy, Henry.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh yes, I'm moody.' - </p> - <p> - She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then - finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. 'I'm a - fool,' he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then kissed - her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand slipped over - his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck. - </p> - <p> - Abruptly he stopped; raised his head, a bitter question in his eyes. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - A faint light was creeping over the bowl-like sky. And a fainter colour - was spreading upward from the eastern horizon. The thousands of night - stars had disappeared, leaving only one, the great star of the morning. It - sent out little points of light, like the Star of the East in Sunday - school pictures. It seemed to stir with white incandescence. - </p> - <p> - Henry straightened up; gently placed Corinne against the breakwater; - covered his face. - </p> - <p> - She considered him from under lowered eyelids. Her face was - expressionless. She didn't smile. And she wasn't singing now. She smoothed - out her skirt, rather deliberately and thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - 'Think of it!' Henry broke out with a shudder. 'It's a dreadful thing - that's happened!' - </p> - <p> - 'It might be,' said Corinne very quietly, 'if Arthur didn't have the sense - to take that train.' - </p> - <p> - 'And we're sitting here as if——' - </p> - <p> - 'Listen! What on earth made you go back to the house?' - </p> - <p> - 'I can't tell you. I don't know. I <i>had</i> to.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm! You certainly did it. You're not lacking courage, Henry.' - </p> - <p> - He said nothing to this. He didn't feel brave. - </p> - <p> - 'Mildred was foolish. She shouldn't have let herself get so stirred up. - She ought to have gone back.' - </p> - <p> - 'How can you say that! Don't you see that she <i>couldn't</i>!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I saw that she couldn't. But it was a mistake.' Henry was up on his - knees, now, digging sand and throwing it. - </p> - <p> - 'It was love,' he said hotly—'real love.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's a wreck,' said she. - </p> - <p> - 'It can't be. If they love each other!' - </p> - <p> - 'This town won't care how much they love each other. And there are other - things. Money.' - </p> - <p> - 'Bah! What's money!' - </p> - <p> - 'It's a lot. You've got to have it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Haven't you any ideals, Corinne?' - </p> - <p> - She reflected. Then said, 'Of course.' And added: 'She had Arthur where - she wanted him. That's why he went away, of course. He thought she'd - caught him. Now she's lost her head and let him get away. Dished - everything. No telling what he'll do when he finds out.' - </p> - <p> - 'He mustn't find out.' Henry was not aware of any inconsistency within - himself. - </p> - <p> - 'He will if she's going to lose her head like this. There are some things - you have to stand in this world. One of the things Mildred had to stand - was a husband.' - </p> - <p> - 'But how could she go back to him—to-night—feeling this way?' - </p> - <p> - 'She should have.' - </p> - <p> - 'You're cynical.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm practical. Do you want her to go through a divorce, and then marry - Humphrey? That'll take money. It's a luxury. For rich folks.' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't say such things, Corinne!' - </p> - <p> - 'Why not. She's made the break with Arthur. Now the next thing's got to - happen. What's it to be?' - </p> - <p> - Henry got to his feet. He gazed a long time at the morning star. - </p> - <p> - The university clock struck three. - </p> - <p> - Henry shivered.. - </p> - <p> - 'Come,' he said. 'Let's get back.' It didn't occur to him to help her up. - </p> - <p> - The four of them lingered a few moments at Mildred's door. Humphrey - finally led Mildred in. For a last goodnight, plainly. - </p> - <p> - Corinne smiled at Henry. It was an odd, slightly twisted smile. - </p> - <p> - 'After all,' she murmured, 'there's no good in taking things too - seriously.' - </p> - <p> - He threw out his hands. - </p> - <p> - 'You think I'm hard,' she said, still with that smile. - </p> - <p> - 'Don't! Please!' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—good-night. Or good-morning.' - </p> - <p> - She gave him her hand. He took it. It gripped his firmly, lingeringly. He - returned the pressure; coloured; gripped her hand hotly; moved toward her, - then sprang away and dropped her hand. - </p> - <p> - 'Why—Henry!' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I was looking at that - star——' - </p> - <p> - 'I saw you looking at it.' - </p> - <p> - 'I was thinking how white it was. And bright. And so far away. As if there - wasn't any use trying to reach it. And then—oh, I don't know—Mr - Henderson made me blue, the way he looked to-night. And Humphrey and - Mildred—the awful fix they're in. And you and me—I just can't - tell you!' - </p> - <p> - 'You're telling me plainly enough,' she said wearily. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you ever hate, yourself?' - </p> - <p> - She didn't answer this. Or look up. - </p> - <p> - 'Did you ever feel that you might turn out just—oh well, no good? Mr - Henderson made me think that.' - </p> - <p> - 'He isn't much good,' said she. - </p> - <p> - 'As if your life wasn't worth making anything out of? Your friends ashamed - of you? They talk about me here now. And I haven't been bad. Not yet. Just - one or two little things.' - </p> - <p> - Her lips formed the words, in the dark, 'You're not bad.' - </p> - <p> - Then she said, rather sharply: 'Don't stand there looking like a whipped - dog, Henry.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll go,' he said; and turned. - </p> - <p> - 'You re the strangest person I ever knew,' she said. 'Maybe you <i>are</i> - a genius. Considering that Mildred completely lost her nerve, your - handling of Arthur came pretty near being it. I wonder.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey and Mildred came out. - </p> - <p> - She came straight to him; gave him both her hands. 'You've settled - everything for us. Humphrey, I want to kiss Henry. I'm going to.' - </p> - <p> - Henry received the kiss like an image. Then he and Humphrey went away - together into the dawn. - </p> - <p> - 'No good going to the rooms now,' Humphrey remarked. 'Let's walk the - beach.' - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded dismally. - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - The sky out over the lake was a luminous vault of deep rose shading off - into the palest pink. The flat surface of the water, as far as they could - see, was like burnished metal. - </p> - <p> - Henry flung out a trembling arm. - </p> - <p> - 'Look!' he said huskily. 'That star.' - </p> - <p> - It was still incandescent, still radiating its little points of light. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump,' he said, a choke in his voice—'I'm shaken. I'm beginning - life again to-night, to-day.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm shaken too, Hen. The real thing has come. At last. It's got me. It'll - be a fight, of course. But we're going through with it. I want you to come - to know her better, Hen. Even you—you don't know. She's wonderful. - She's going to help with my work in the shop, help me do the real things, - creative work, get away from grubbing jobs.' - </p> - <p> - It was a moment of flashing insight for Henry. He couldn't reply; couldn't - even look at his friend. His misgivings were profound. Yet the thing was - done. Humphrey's life had taken irrevocably a new course. No good even - wasting regrets on it. So he fell, in a tumbling rush of emotion, to - talking about himself. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm beginning again. I—I let go a little. Hump, I can't do it. It's - too strong for me. I go to pieces. You don't know. I've got to fight—all - the time. Do the things I used to do—make myself work hard, hard. - Keep accounts. Every penny. Leave girls alone. It means grubbing. - </p> - <p> - I can't bear to think of it.' He spread out his hands. 'In some ways it - seems to help to let go. You know—stirs me. Brings the Power. Makes - me want to write, create things. But it's too much like burning the candle - at both ends.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey got out his old cob pipe, and carefully scraped it. - </p> - <p> - 'That's probably just what it is,' he remarked. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Hump, what is it makes us feel this way! You know—girls, and - all that.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey lighted his pipe. - </p> - <p> - 'You don't know how it makes me feel to see you and Mildred. Just the way - she looks. And you. Corinne and I don't look like that. We were flirting. - I didn't mean it. She didn't, either. It's been beastly. But still it - didn't seem beastly all the time.' - </p> - <p> - 'It wasn't,' said Humphrey, between puffs. 'Don't be too hard on yourself. - And you haven't hurt Corinne. She likes you. But just the same, she's only - flirting. She'd never give up her ambitions for you.' - </p> - <p> - 'There's something I want to feel. Something wonderful. I've been thinking - of it, looking at that star. I want to love like—like that. Or - nothing.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey leaned on the railing over the beach, and smoked reflectively. - The rose tints were deepening into scarlet and gold. The star was fading. - </p> - <p> - 'Hen,' said Humphrey, speaking out of a sober reverie, 'I don't know that - I've ever seen anybody reach a star. Our lives, apparently, are passed - right here on this earth.' - </p> - <p> - Henry couldn't answer this. But he felt himself in opposition to it. His - hands were clenched at his side. - </p> - <p> - 'I begin my life to-day,' he thought. - </p> - <p> - But back of this' determination, like a dark current that flowed silently - but irresistibly out of the mists of time into the mists of other time, he - dimly, painfully knew that life, the life of this earth, was carrying him - on. And on. As if no resolution mattered very much. As if you couldn't - help yourself, really. - </p> - <p> - He set his mouth. And thrust out his chin a little. He had not read - Henley's <i>Invictus</i>. It would have helped him, could he have seen it - just then. - </p> - <p> - 'Let's walk,' he said. - </p> - <p> - They breakfasted at Stanley's. - </p> - <p> - Here there was a constant clattering of dishes and a smell of food. People - drifted in and out—men who worked along Simpson Street, and a few - family groups—said 'Good-morning. Looks like a warm day.' Picked - their teeth. Paid their checks to Mrs Stanley at the front table, or had - their meal tickets punched. - </p> - <p> - They walked slowly up the street as far as the Sunbury House corner, and - crossed over to the <i>Voice</i> office. Each glanced soberly at the hotel - as they passed. - </p> - <p> - They went in through the railing that divided front and rear offices. - Humphrey took off his coat and dropped into his swivel chair before the - roll-top desk. Henry took off his and dropped on the kitchen chair before - the littered pine table. Jim Smith, the foreman, came in, his bare arms - elaborately tattooed, chewing tobacco, and told 'a new one,' sitting on - the corner of Henry's table. Henry sat there, pale of face, toying with a - pencil, and wincing. - </p> - <p> - After Jim had gone, Henry sat still, gazing at the pencil, wondering - weakly if the rough stuff of life was too much for him. - </p> - <p> - He glanced over toward the desk. Humphrey, pipe in mouth, was already at - work. Hump had the gift of instant concentration. Even this morning, after - all that had happened, he was hard at it. Though he had something to work - for. - </p> - <p> - A sob was near. Henry had to close his eyes for a moment. His sensitive - lips quivered. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey would be, seeing his Mildred again at the close of the day. Henry - found himself entertaining the possibility of crawling shamefacedly around - to Corinne. - </p> - <p> - Then he sat up stiffly. Felt in one pocket after another until he found a - little red account-book. He hadn't made an entry for a week. Before - Corinne came into his life he hadn't missed an entry for nearly two years. - </p> - <p> - He sat staring at it, pencil in hand. - </p> - <p> - His mouth set again. - </p> - <p> - He wrote:— - </p> - <p> - 'Bkfst. Stanleys... 20c.' - </p> - <p> - He slipped the book into his pocket; compressed his lips for an instant; - then reached for a wad of copy paper. - </p> - <p> - And gave a little sigh of relief. It was to be a long, perhaps an endless - battle with self. But he had started. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - V—TIGER, TIGER! - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss Amelia - Dittenhoefer was a figure in Sunbury. She had taught two generations of - its young in the old Filbert Avenue school. And during more than ten - years, since relinquishing that task, she had supplied the 'Society,' - 'Church Doings,' 'Woman's Realm,' and 'Personal Mention' departments of - the <i>Voice</i> with their regular six to eight columns of news and - gossip. - </p> - <p> - And as several hundred Sunbury men and women had once been her boys and - girls, this sort of personal news came to her from every side. Her - 'children,' of whatever present age, accepted her as an institution, like - the university building, General Grant, or Lake Michigan. She never had a - desk in the <i>Voice</i> office, but worked at home or moving briskly - about the town. Home, to her, was the rather select, certainly high-priced - boarding-house of Mrs Clark on Simpson Street, over by the lake, where she - had lived, at this time, for twenty-one or twenty-two years. She was - little, neat, precise, and doubtless (as I look back on those days) - equipped for much more important work than any she ever found to do in - Sunbury. But Woman's sun had hardly begun to rise then. - </p> - <p> - As Henry had been, at the age of six, one of her boys, and during the past - two years had shared with her the reporting work of the <i>Voice</i>, it - was not unnatural that she should stop him as he was hurrying, airily - twirling his thin bamboo stick, over to Stanley's restaurant. It was - noontime. Simpson Street was quiet. They walked along past Donovan's drug - store and Jackson's book store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and turned the - corner. Here, in front of an unfrequented photographer's studio, Miss - Dittenhoefer stated her problem. She looked, though her trim little person - was erect as always, rather beaten down. - </p> - <p> - 'Mr Boice has taken half my work, Henry—“Church Doings” and - “Society.” He sent me a note. I gather that you're to do it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Me?' Henry spoke in honest amazement. - </p> - <p> - 'Doubtless. He's cutting down expenses. I mind, of course, after all these - years. I've worked very hard. And on the money side, I shall mind a - little.' - </p> - <p> - 'You don't mean——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes. Half the former wage. And they don't pension old teachers in - Sunbury. But this is what I want to tell you——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, but Miss Dittenhoefer, I don't——' - </p> - <p> - 'Never mind, Henry; it's done. Of course I shouldn't have said as much as - this. Though perhaps I had to say it to somebody. Forget what you can of - it. But now—I wanted to give you this list. There's a good lot of - society for summer. Never knew the old town to be so gay. Two or three - things in South Sunbury that are important. They feel that we've been - slighting them down there this year. I've noted everything down. And I've - written the church societies, asking them to send announcements direct to - the office after this.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't want your work,' said Henry, colouring up. 'It ain't—isn't—square.' - </p> - <p> - 'But it's business, Henry. Mr. Boice explained that in his note. You'll - find I've written everything out in detail—all my plans and the - right ladies to see. Good-bye now.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, pained, unable to believe that Miss Dittenhoefer's day could pass - so abruptly, walked moodily back to Stanley's and, as usual, bolted his - lunch. The unkindness to Miss Dittenhoefer directly affected himself. It - meant still more of the routine desk-work and more running around town. - </p> - <p> - Then, slowly, as he sat there staring at the pink mosquito-bar that was - gathered round the chandelier, his eyes filled. It was hard to believe - that even Mr Boice could do a thing like that to Miss Dittenhoefer. Coolly - cutting her pay in half! It seemed to Henry wanton cruelty. It suggested - to his sensitive mind other tales of cruelty—tales of the boys who - had gone into Chicago wholesale houses for their training and had found - their fresh young dream-ideals harshly used in the desperate struggle of - business. - </p> - <p> - Henry, I am certain, thought of Mr Boice at this moment with about as much - sympathy as a native of a jungle village might feel for a man-eating - tiger. That look about Miss Dittenhoefer's mouth when she smiled! It was a - world, this of placid-appearing Sunbury and the big city, just below the - town line, in which men fought each other to the death, in which young - boys were hardened and coarsened and taught to kill or be killed, in which - women were tortured by hard masters until their souls cried out. - </p> - <p> - Boice, I am sure, sensed nothing of this somewhat morbid hostility. No; - until Robert A. McGibbon turned up in Sunbury, Mr Boice had some reason to - feel settled and complacent in his years. His private funds were secure in - his wife's name. And he had every reason to believe that, before many - months more, it would be his privilege and pleasure to run McGibbon out of - town for good. If the matter of Miss Dittenhoefer should, for a little - while, stir up sentimental criticism, why—well, it was business. - Sound business. And you couldn't go back of sound business. - </p> - <p> - Henry sighed, got slowly up, had his meal ticket punched at the desk by - Mrs Stanley, went back to the office. - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - The sunny, listless July day was at its lowest ebb—when men who had - the time dawdled and smoked late over their lunch, when ladies took naps. - </p> - <p> - Flies crawled languidly about the speckled walls of the <i>Voice</i> - office. Outside the screen door and the plate-glass front window, the hot - air, rising from the cement sidewalk, quivered so that the yellow outlines - of the Sunbury House across the street wavered unstably, and the dusty - trees over there wavered, and the men sitting coatless, suspendered, in - the yellow rocking chairs on the long veranda, wavered. Through the open - press-room door came the sound of one small job-press rumbling at a - handbill job; the other presses were still. The compositors worked or - idled without talking. - </p> - <p> - Here in the office, Henry, tipped back in his kitchen chair before the - inkstained, cluttered pine table by the end wall, coat off, limp wet - handkerchief tucked carefully around his neck inside the collar, chewed a - pencil, gazing now at the little pile of blank copy paper before him, now - at a discouraged fly on the wall. Gradually the fly took on a perverse - interest among his wandering, unhappy thoughts. Prompted, doubtless, by a - sense of inner demoralisation that was now close to recklessness, he - reached for a pen, filled it with ink, and shot a scattering volley at the - slow-moving insect. - </p> - <p> - At the roll-top desk by the press-room door, Humphrey Weaver, also - coatless, cob pipe in mouth, long lean face wrinkled in the effort to keep - his usually docile mind on its task, elbow on desk and long fingers spread - through damp hair, was correcting proof. - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice's desk, up in the front window, outside the railing, stood - vacant. The proprietor might or might not stop in on the early-afternoon - trip from his house on Upper Chestnut Avenue to the post-office. Mr Boice - could do as he liked. His time was his own. He lived on the labour of - others. A fact which often stirred up in Henry's breast a rage that was - none the less bitter because it was impotent. It was the sort of thing, he - felt, in his more nearly lucid moments, that you have to stand—the - wall against which you must beat your head year after year. - </p> - <p> - Henry, victorious over the fly, settled back. He tried to work. Then sat - for a time brooding. Then, finally, turned to his friend. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump,' he said, 'I—I know you wouldn't think I had much to do—I - mean the way you get work done—I don't know what it is—but I - wish I could see a way to begin on all this new work. I know I'm no good, - but——' - </p> - <p> - 'I wouldn't say that.' Humphrey, glad of a brief respite, settled back in - his swivel chair. 'I could never have written that picnic story. Never in - the world. We're different, that's all. You're a racer; I'm a work-horse. - I don't know just what it's coming to. He isn't handling you right.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's it!' Henry cried, softly, eagerly. 'He <i>isn't!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'I suppose you know now about Miss Dittenhoefer.' Henry's head bowed in - assent. 'I didn't have the heart to tell you myself, Hen.' He picked up - his proofs, then looked up and out of the window. 'There,' he remarked - unexpectedly, 'is a pretty girl!' - </p> - <p> - Henry turned with the quickness of long habit. 'Where?' he asked, then - discovered the young person in question standing on the hotel veranda - talking with Mrs B. L. Ames and Mary Ames. - </p> - <p> - She was a new girl. Even now, though Henry had given up girls for good, - she caused a quickening of his pulse. She <i>was</i> pretty—rather - slender, in a blue skirt and a trim white shirt-waist, and an unusual - amount of darkish hair that massed effectively about a face, the principal - characteristics of which, at this distance and through the screen door, - was a bright, almost eager smile. - </p> - <p> - It is a not uninteresting fact, to those who know something of Henry's - susceptibility on previous occasions, that his gaze wandered moodily back - to his table. He sighed. His hand strayed up and began pulling at his - little moustache. - </p> - <p> - 'You haven't told me what I'm to do about it, Hump. This society thing - really stumps me.' - </p> - <p> - 'I haven't known quite what to say. That's all, Hen. The old man is riding - you, of course. I didn't think, when he raised you to twelve a week, that - he'd just lie down and pay it. Meekly. Not he! He's a crafty old duck. - Very, very crafty—Cheese it; here he comes!' - </p> - <p> - The shadow of Norton P. Boice fell across the door-step. The screen door - opened with a squeak, and ponderously the quietly dominating force of - Simpson Street, came in, inclined his massive head in an impersonal - greeting, and lowered his huge bulk into his chair. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry!' called Mr Boice in his quietly husky voice. - </p> - <p> - The young man quivered slightly, but sat motionless. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry!' came the husky voice again. - </p> - <p> - There could be no pretending not to hear. Henry went over there. Mr Boice - sat still—he could; do that—great hands resting on his - barrel-like thighs. - </p> - <p> - 'I am rearranging the work of the paper—' he began. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' muttered Henry, not without sullenness; 'I know.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you know!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'There's a little more for you to do. You'll have to get it cleaned up - well ahead of time this week. Thursday is the fiftieth anniversary of the - founding of Sunbury. You'll have to cover that. Take down what you can of - the speeches.' - </p> - <p> - That seemed to be all. Henry moved slowly back to the table. After a - little shuffling about of the papers on his desk, Mr Boice moved heavily - out and headed toward the post-office. - </p> - <p> - Then, and not before, Henry rummaged under a pile of exchanges at the rear - of the table until he found a book. This he held close to his body, where - it would not be seen should Humphrey turn unexpectedly. - </p> - <p> - The book was entitled <i>Will Power and Self Mastery</i>. Opposite the - title page was a half-tone reproduction of the author—a face with a - huge moustache and intensely knit brows. Henry studied it, speculating in - a sort of despair as to whether he could ever bring himself to look like - that. He knit his own brows. His hand strayed again to his own downy - moustache. - </p> - <p> - He turned the pages. Read a sentence here and there. The book, though - divided under various chapter headings, was really made up of hundreds of - more or less pithy little paragraphs. These paragraphs—their - substance mainly a rehandling of the work of Samuel Smiles, James Parton, - and the Christian and Mental Scientists (though Henry didn't know this)—might - easily have been shuffled about and arranged in other sequence, so little - continuity of thought did they represent. One paragraph ran:— - </p> - <p> - The express train of Opportunity stops but once at your station. If you - miss it, it will never again matter that you almost caught it. - </p> - <p> - Another was— - </p> - <p> - Practise concentration. Fix your mind on the job in hand. Aim to do it a - little better than such a job was ever done before. It is related of - Thomas Alva Edison that, at the early age of seven, he—— - </p> - <p> - And this:— - </p> - <p> - Oh, how many a young man, standing at the parting of life's main roads, - has lost for ever the golden opportunity because he stopped to light a - cigarette!' - </p> - <p> - Henry replaced the book under the pile of exchanges. A copy of last week's - <i>Voice</i> lay there. - </p> - <p> - It was the first time he had let an issue of the paper go by without - reading and re-reading every line of his own work. But he had, during - these five days, passed through one of life's great revolutions. Besides, - he had been put on a salary basis. When on space-rates, it had been - necessary to cut everything out and paste it up into a 'string' for - measurement. It came to him now, with a warm little uprush of memory, that - the best piece of writing he had ever done would be in this issue. - </p> - <p> - He opened the paper. There was his story, occupying all of page three that - wasn't given up to advertisements. This was better than working. Besides, - he ought to go over it. He settled down to it. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - The sound that caused Humphrey to start up in surprise was the first - outbreak of profanity he had ever heard from the lips of Henry Calverly. - </p> - <p> - Henry was sitting up stiffly, holding last week's <i>Voice</i> with hands - that distinctly trembled. When Humphrey first looked, he was white, but - after a moment the colour began flowing back to his face and continued - flowing until his face was red. His lips were clamped tight, as if the - small verbal explosion that had just passed them had proved even more - startling to himself than to Humphrey. 'What is it?' asked the editor. - </p> - <p> - Henry stared at the outspread paper. - </p> - <p> - 'This!' he got out. 'This—this!' - </p> - <p> - 'What's the matter, Hen?' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't you <i>know?</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, your picnic story! Yes—but—what on earth is the matter - with you?' - </p> - <p> - 'You <i>know</i>, Hump! You never told me!' - </p> - <p> - 'You mean the cuts?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh—yes!' This 'Oh' was a moan of anguish. - </p> - <p> - 'Good heavens, Hen—you didn't for a minute think we could print it - as you wrote it?' Henry's facial muscles moved, but he got no words out. - Humphrey, touched, went on. 'I don't mind telling you—between - ourselves—that the thing as you wrote it, every word, is the best - bit of descriptive writing I've seen this year. But you wrote the real - story, boy. You painted the whole Simpson Street bunch as they are—every - wart. It's a savage picture. Why, we'd have dropped seventy per cent, of - our advertising between Saturday and Monday! And the queer little picture - of Charlie Waterhouse out behind the lemonade stand—— Why, - boy, that's enough to bust open the town! - </p> - <p> - With Bob McGibbon gunning for Charlie and demanding an accounting of the - town money! Gee!' - </p> - <p> - Henry seemed hardly to hear this. - </p> - <p> - 'Who—who re-wrote it?' - </p> - <p> - 'I did some. The old man polished it off himself.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's ruined!' - </p> - <p> - 'Of course. But it brought you a raise to twelve a week. That's - something.' - </p> - <p> - 'You don't understand. It was my work. And it was true. I wrote the - truth.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's why.' - </p> - <p> - 'Then they don't want the truth?' - </p> - <p> - 'Good lord—no!' - </p> - <p> - Henry considered this, bent over as if to read further, twisted his - flushed face as if in pain, then abruptly sprang up. - </p> - <p> - 'What's become of it—the piece I wrote?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, Hen—I didn't feel that we had a right to destroy the thing. - Too dam good! In a sense, it's the old man's property; in another sense, - it's yours——' - </p> - <p> - 'It's mine!' - </p> - <p> - 'In a sense. At any rate, I took it on myself to have a copy made - confidentially. Then I turned the original over to Mr Boice. He doesn't - know.' - </p> - <p> - 'Where's the copy?' - </p> - <p> - 'Here in my desk.' - </p> - <p> - 'Give it to me!' - </p> - <p> - 'Just hold your horses a minute, Hen——' - </p> - <p> - 'You give it——' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey threw up a hand, then opened a drawer. He handed over the - typewritten manuscript. - </p> - <p> - 'Who made this?' - </p> - <p> - 'Gertie Wombast. I warned her to keep her mouth shut.' - </p> - <p> - 'How much did it cost?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, see here, Hen—I won't talk to you! Not till you get over this - excitement.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm not excited. Or, at least——' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey gave a shrug. Henry, gripping the roll of manuscript, started - out. - </p> - <p> - 'Wait a minute, Hen! What do you think you're going to do?' - </p> - <p> - 'What do you s'pose? Only one thing I <i>can</i> do!' - </p> - <p> - 'Going after the old man?' - </p> - <p> - 'Of course! You would yourself, if——' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I wouldn't. Not in any such rush as that. It's upsetting to have your - good work pawed over and cut to pieces, but twelve a week is——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Hump, it's everything! He's made it impossible for me. I could stand - some of it, but not all this. He ain't fair! He <i>wants</i> to make it - hard for me! He's just thinking up ways to be mean. And he's spoiled my - work—best thing I've ever done in my life! And now people will never - know how well I can write.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes, they will!' - </p> - <p> - 'No, they won't. I'll never feel just that way again. It's a feeling that - comes. And then it goes. You can't do anything about it. It was Corinne - and the way I felt about her. And a lot o' things. Seemed to make me - different. Lifted me up. I was red-hot.' He reached out and struck the - paper from the table to the floor. 'You bet I'll go to old Boice! 'I'll - tell him a thing or two I He'll know something's happened before he gets - through with me. I've had something to say to him for a good while. Going - to say it now. Guess he don't know I'll be twenty-one in November. Have a - little money then. He can't put it over me. I'll buy his old paper. Or - start another one. I'll make the town too hot for him. Thinks he owns all - Sunbury. But he <i>don't!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'Hen,' said Humphrey bravely, when the irate youth paused for breath, 'you - simply must not try to talk to him while you're mad as this.' - </p> - <p> - 'But don't you see, Hump,' cried Henry, his face working with vexation, - tears close to his eyes; 'it's just the time! When I'm mad. If I wait, - I'll never say a word.' - </p> - <p> - He rolled the manuscript tightly in his hand, bit his lip, then abruptly - rushed out. - </p> - <p> - 'Look here,' cried Humphrey. 'Don't you go showing that——' - </p> - <p> - But the only reply was the noisy slam of the screen door. - </p> - <p> - Face set, eyes wild behind their glasses, Henry hurried down Simpson - Street toward the post-office. - </p> - <p> - Miss Hemple, at the money-order window, said that Mr Boice was having a - talk with Mr Waterhouse in the back office and wasn't to be disturbed. - </p> - <p> - Henry turned away. For a little time he studied the weather-chart hanging - on the wall. He went to the wide front window and gazed out on the street. - His determination was already oozing away. He found himself slouching and - straightened up. Repeatedly he had to do this. Four times he went back to - the money-order window; four times Miss Hemple smiled and shook her head. - </p> - <p> - Martha Caldwell walked by with the two Smith girls. He thought she saw - him. If so, she carefully avoided a direct glance. They still weren't - speaking. At least, Martha wasn't. And to think that during three long - years, except for another episode now and than, she had been his girl! - </p> - <p> - Heigh-ho! No more girls! He was through! - </p> - <p> - The Ames's carriage rolled fly. Mary Ames was in it. And—apparently, - unmistakably—the new girl. The girl of the Sunbury House veranda. - She was chatting brightly. She <i>was</i> pretty. - </p> - <p> - He turned mournfully away. She was not for him. Once it might have been - possible—back in his gay big days. But not now. Not now. - </p> - <p> - He approached the window for the sixth time. For the sixth time, Miss - Hemple shook her head. - </p> - <p> - He wandered out to the door. - </p> - <p> - His chance had passed. If the old man should, at this moment, and alone, - come walking out, he would say meekly, 'Good-afternoon, Mr Boice,' and - hurry away. He would even try to look busy and earnest. There was shame in - the thought. His mouth was drooping at the corners. All of him—body, - mind, spirit—was sagging now. He moved, slowly down toward the - tracks, entered the little lunch-counter place there and ate a thick piece - of lemon-meringue pie. Which was further weakness. He knew it. It - completed his depression. - </p> - <p> - He felt that he must think. He ordered another piece of pie. He wished he - hadn't said so much to Humphrey. Would he ever learn to control the spoken - word? Probably not. He sighed. And ate. He couldn't very well go back to - the office. Not like this—in defeat. All that work, too I Life, - work, friendship, all the realities seemed to be slipping from his grasp. - His thoughts were drifting off into a haze. It was an old familiar mood. - It had come often during his teens. Not so much lately; but he was as - helpless before it as he had been at eighteen, when he finally drifted - aimlessly out of his class at the high school. - </p> - <p> - In those days, it had been his habit to wander along the beach, sit on a - breakwater, let life and love and duty drift by beyond his reach. Thither - he headed now by a back street. Too many people he knew along Simpson - Street. Besides, he might be thrown face to face with the old man. - </p> - <p> - At the corner of Filbert Avenue he met the editor and proprietor of the <i>Gleaner</i>. - He inclined his head with unconscious severity and would have passed on. - </p> - <p> - But Robert A. McGibbon came to a halt, smiled in a thin strained fashion, - and glanced curiously from Henry's face to the tightly rolled manuscript - in his hand and back to the face. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he remarked, 'how's things?' - </p> - <p> - Henry wanted to be let alone. But he had never deliberately snubbed - anybody in his life. He couldn't. So he, too, came to a stop. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, pretty good,' he replied. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was just - a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head under the - tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface of his - sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. His hair - was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. Behind his - gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, appeared to be - darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything within their range - of vision. - </p> - <p> - 'Things going well over at the <i>Voice</i> office?' Henry was silent. He - couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special - up?' - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.' - </p> - <p> - 'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a - little walk, perhaps.' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'Mind if I walk along with you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—no.' - </p> - <p> - They fell into step. - </p> - <p> - 'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy in - your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write the - Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I - thought.' - </p> - <p> - 'It was terrible!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no—not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm not hard on myself. It's <i>his</i> fault. He spoiled it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Who—Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil <i>The New York Sun</i> - in two days, with just a little rope.' - </p> - <p> - 'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let - you see it, of course.' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper. - </p> - <p> - 'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let you - do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You know, there - isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't be interesting. Play - to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county - printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but - once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better - for the long game.' - </p> - <p> - Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive - now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's - thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a - weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him. - </p> - <p> - 'I've got a little money,' he said. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon smiled. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, it has its uses.' - </p> - <p> - 'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give me - all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These words - seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a little, - too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four - thousand right now—or one thousand, for that matter—I could - make sure of turning my corner and landing the old <i>Gleaner</i> on Easy - Street. I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these - eight months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, - and I'll nail that gang.' - </p> - <p> - 'You know'—McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a - cigar—'it takes money to make money.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes—of course,' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'A thousand dollars now on the <i>Gleaner</i> would be worth ten thousand - ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you, - Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. - He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you - grinding—correcting proof, running around——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind! - And now he expects me to cover all the “Society” and “Church Doings.”' - </p> - <p> - 'What! How's that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?' - </p> - <p> - Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded. - </p> - <p> - 'He's piling it all on me, and I won't stand for it. It ain't right! It - 'ain't fair! And you bet your life he's going to hear a few things from me - before this day's much older! I'm going to tell him a thing or two!' - </p> - <p> - 'That's right!' said McGibbon. 'He won't respect you any the less for it.' - </p> - <p> - A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set - teeth, staring out at the horizon. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that - you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I know - you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is what a - paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be friends. - You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, blew out a - long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little about that - story you wrote.' - </p> - <p> - '<i>You</i> do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?' - </p> - <p> - 'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks - around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or - two.' - </p> - <p> - 'I've been in New York,' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my lines - out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't know.' - </p> - <p> - 'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:— - </p> - <p> - 'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.' - </p> - <p> - 'But I don't see how you could know about——' - </p> - <p> - 'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert - Wombast let her sister read it—the one that works at the library. - Swore her to secrecy. And—well, I board at the Wombasts'—Look - here, Calverly: you'd better let me read it.' - </p> - <p> - Henry promptly surrendered it. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and gazed - at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his hands. - </p> - <p> - 'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you understand. - It's just as I wrote it off—fast, you know—and I haven't had a - chance to correct it or——' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon raised his hand. - </p> - <p> - 'No, Calverly—none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice - couldn't print it. Never in the world. But it's sweet stuff. It's a - perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two - old crooks behind the lemonade stand—you've opened a jack-pot there. - If you only knew it, son, that's evidence. Evidence! You walked right into - it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice - and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little purse - and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he's the most popular man in Sunbury? - Rot! Because they're helping him pay back. Making the town help.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, do you really think——' - </p> - <p> - '“Think?” I know. This completes the picture. Tell me—what is Boice - paying you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Twelve a week, now.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm! That's quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it, though, - if—see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a thousand - of your money free and investing in the <i>Gleaner?</i> Now, wait! I want - to put this thing before you. It's the turning-point. If we act without - delay, we've got 'em. We've got everything. We own the town. Here we are! - The <i>Gleaner</i> is just at the edge of success. I take you over from - the <i>Voice</i> at the same salary—twelve a week. I'll give you - lots of rope. I won't expect routine from you. I'll expect genius. Stuff - like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel you - can't help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie - Waterhouse and break him. I'll finish Boice and Weston at the same time. - Show up the whole outfit! Whatever'll be left of the <i>Voice</i> by that - time, Boice can have and welcome. The <i>Gleaner</i> will be the only - paper in Sunbury.' - </p> - <p> - 'My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother's estate.' - </p> - <p> - 'You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right - through.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll see him to-morrow.' - </p> - <p> - 'Couldn't you find him to-night?' - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - Uncle Arthur lived in Chicago, out on the West Side. It was a long ride—first - by suburban train into the city, then by cable-car through miles upon - miles of gray wooden tenements and dingy gray-brick tenements. You - breathed in odours of refuse and smoke and coal-gas all the way. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur was as thin as McGibbon, but wholly without the little gleam - in the eyes that advertised the proprietor of the <i>Gleaner</i> as an - eager and perhaps dangerous man. Uncle Arthur was a man of method who had - worked through long years into a methodical but fairly substantial - prosperity. - </p> - <p> - His thin nose was long, and prominent. His brow was deeply furrowed. His - gaze was critical. He believed firmly that life is a disciplinary training - for some more important period of existence after death. He didn't smoke - or drink. Nor would he keep in his employ those who indulged in such - practices. He was an officer of several organisations aiming at civic and - social reform. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur laid a pedantic stress, in all business matters, on what he - called 'putting the thing right end to.' It was not unnatural, therefore, - that he should receive a distinctly unfavourable impression when Henry - began, with a foolish little gesture and a great deal of fumbling at his - moustache, slouching in his chair, by saying 'There's a little chance come - up—oh, nothing much, of course—for me to make a little money, - sort of on the side—and you see I'll be twenty-one in November; so - it's just a matter of three or four months, anyway—and I was - figuring—oh, just talking the thing over——' - </p> - <p> - His voice trailed off into a mumble. - </p> - <p> - 'If you would take your hand away from your mouth, Henry,' said his uncle - sharply, 'perhaps I could make out what you're trying to say.' - </p> - <p> - Henry sat up with a jerk. - </p> - <p> - 'Why, you see, Uncle Arthur, there's a fellow bought the old Sunbury <i>Gleaner</i> - and he's awfully smart—got his training in New York—and he's - brought the paper already—why, it ain't eight months!—to where - he's right on the point of turning his corner. You see, a thousand dollars - now may easily be worth ten thousand in a few years. The <i>Voice</i> is a - rotten paper. Nobody reads the darned thing. And I can't work for old - Boice, anyhow. He drives me crazy. If he'd just give me half a chance to - do the kind of thing I can do best once in a while; but this——' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry, are you asking me to advance you a thousand dollars of your - principal?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—well, yes, if——' - </p> - <p> - 'Most certainly not!' - </p> - <p> - 'But, you see, it's so close to November seventh, anyway, that I thought——' - </p> - <p> - 'You thought that on your twenty-first birthday I would at once close out - the investments I have made with the money your mother left and hand you - the principal in cash?' - </p> - <p> - Henry stared at him, his thoughts for the moment frozen stiff. In Uncle - Arthur's obstructionist attitude, so suddenly revealed, lay the promise of - a new, wholly undreamed-of disappointment. It was crushing. Then, almost - in the same second, it was stimulating. Henry's eyes blazed. - </p> - <p> - 'You mean to say——' he began, shouting. - </p> - <p> - 'I mean to say that I haven't the slightest intention of letting you - squander the money your mother so painfully—' - </p> - <p> - 'That's my money!' - </p> - <p> - 'But I'm your uncle and your guardian——' - </p> - <p> - 'You needn't think you're going to keep that one minute after November - seventh!' - </p> - <p> - 'I will use my judgment. I won't be dictated to by a boy who——' - </p> - <p> - 'But you gotta!' - </p> - <p> - 'I have not got to!' - </p> - <p> - 'I won't stand for——' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry, I won't have such talk here. I think you had better go.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, with a good deal of mumbling, went. He was bewildered. And the - little storm of indignant anger had shaken him. He returned, during the - ride back past the tenements on the jerky cable-car, through streets that - swarmed with noisy, ragged children and frowsy adults and all the smells, - to depression. McGibbon said that Uncle Arthur's threat to hold the money - after the seventh of November was a distinct point. - </p> - <p> - 'In these matters, unfortunately, where a relative or family friend has - for years had charge of money belonging to others, little temptations are - bound to come up. Now, your uncle may be the most scrupulously honest of - men, but——' - </p> - <p> - 'He has a bad eye,' Henry put in. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't doubt it. Calverly, let me tell you—never forget this—a - man who hesitates for one instant to account freely, fully for money is - never to be trusted.' - </p> - <p> - 'But what can I do?' - </p> - <p> - 'Do? Everything! Just what I'm doing with Charlie Waterhouse, for one - thing—insist on a full statement.' - </p> - <p> - 'They framed a letter—or McGibbon framed it—demanding an - accounting, 'in order that further legal measures may not become - necessary.' McGibbon said he would send it early in the morning, - registered, and with a special-delivery stamp. 'Later, they decided to add - emphasis by means of a telegram demanding immediate consideration of the - letter. - </p> - <p> - Late that night, when Humphrey came upstairs into a pitch-dark living-room - and switched on the light, he discovered a pale youth sitting stiffly on a - window-seat wide-awake, eyes staring nervously, hands clasped. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, what on earth?' said he, in mild surprise. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Hump, I've wondered what you'd think—leaving you in the lurch - with all that work! - </p> - <p> - Humphrey threw out a lean hand. - </p> - <p> - 'I can manage. Get some help from one of the students. And Gertie Wombast - is usually available—— Oh, say; how about the old man? Did you - tell him what's what?' - </p> - <p> - Henry's burning eyes stared out of that white face. Suddenly—so - suddenly that Humphrey himself started—he sprang up, cried out; 'No! - No! No!' and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door after him. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey looked soberly at the door, shook his head, filled his pipe. - </p> - <p> - That 'No! No! No!' still rang in his ears It was a cry of pain. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey had suffered; but he had never known a turbulence of the sort - that every now and then seemed to tear Henry to pieces. - </p> - <p> - 'Must be fierce,' he thought. 'But it works up as well as down. Runs to - extremes. Creative faculty, I suppose. Well, he's got it—that's all. - And he's only a kid. Thing to do's to stand by and try to steady him up a - little when he comes out of it.' - </p> - <p> - And the philosophical Humphrey went to bed. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - At noon, no word had come from Uncle Arthur. Henry, all the morning, had - flitted back and forth between McGibbon's rear office and the telegraph - office in the 'depot.' - </p> - <p> - At twelve-thirty, they sent a peremptory message, demanding a reply by - three o'clock. An ultimatum. - </p> - <p> - The reply came unexpectedly, with startling effect, at twenty-five minutes - past two, requesting Henry to come directly into his uncle's Chicago - office. - </p> - <p> - He caught the two-forty-seven. McGibbon, who had missed nothing of the - concern on Henry's face at this brisk counter-offensive on the part of - Uncle Arthur, was with him. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon waited in the corner drug store while Henry-went up in one of the - elevators of the great La Salle Street office-building. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur led the way into his inner office, closed the door, seated - himself, and with austerity surveyed the youth before him, taking in with - deliberate thought the far-from-inexpensive blue-serge suit, the - five-dollar straw hat, the bamboo stick (which Henry carried anything but - airily now), and the hopelessly futile little moustache. - </p> - <p> - 'Sit down,' said Uncle Arthur. - </p> - <p> - Henry sat down. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur opened a drawer, took up two slips of paper, deliberately - laid them before his nephew. - </p> - <p> - 'There,' he said, 'is my cheque for one thousand forty-six dollars and - twenty-nine cents. It is the value, with interest to this morning, of one - bond which I am buying from you, at the price given in to-day's - quotations. Kindly sign the receipt. Right there.' - </p> - <p> - He dipped a pen and Henry signed, then, with shaky fingers, picked up the - cheque, fingered it, laid it down again. - </p> - <p> - 'I want no misunderstandings about this, Henry. I am doing it because I - regard you as a young fool. Perhaps you will be less of a fool after you - have lost this money. Henry heard the words through a mist of confused - feelings. 'I will have no more letters and telegrams like these.' He - indicated the little sheaf of papers on his desk. 'And I won't have my - character assailed either by you or by any cheap scoundrel whose advice - you may be taking.' - </p> - <p> - 'But—but he's <i>not</i> a cheap scoundrel!' - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur raised his eyebrows. His eyes, Henry felt, would burn holes - in him if he stayed here much longer. - </p> - <p> - 'You're hard on me, Uncle Arthur. You're not fair I'm <i>not</i> going to - lose——' - </p> - <p> - The older man abruptly got up. - </p> - <p> - 'If you care for any advice at all from me, I suggest that you insist on a - note from this man—a demand note, or, at the very outside, a - three-months' one. Don't put money unsecured into a weak business. Make it - a personal obligation on the part of the proprietor. And now, Henry, that - is all. I really don't care to talk to you further. - </p> - <p> - Henry stood still. - </p> - <p> - His uncle turned brusquely away. - </p> - <p> - 'But—but—' Henry said unsteadily, 'Uncle Arthur—really! - Money isn't everything!' - </p> - <p> - His uncle turned on him as if about to speak; but on second thought merely - raised his eyebrows again. - </p> - <p> - And then came the final humiliation, the little climax that was always to - stand out with particular vividness in Henry's memory of the scene. He - turned to go. He had reached the door when he heard his uncle's voice, - saying, with a rasp:— - </p> - <p> - 'You have forgotten the cheque, Henry' - </p> - <p> - And he had to go back for it. - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon. - </p> - <p> - 'I shall want your note,' he said. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window. - Then, a moment later, he replied:— - </p> - <p> - 'Sure! Of course! It's just as I told you—always watch a man who - hesitates a minute in money matters.' - </p> - <p> - 'Three months,' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,' said - McGibbon. - </p> - <p> - At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, knit - his brows, and said:— - </p> - <p> - 'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!' - </p> - <p> - 'Was it two or three?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—if you really—two.' - </p> - <p> - Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book. - </p> - <p> - 'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon. - </p> - <p> - The <i>Gleaner</i> office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street, - up a long flight of stairs. Here they paused. - </p> - <p> - 'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your desk.' - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.' - </p> - <p> - He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might be - gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the - cheque still in his pocket at the moment. - </p> - <p> - His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing. - </p> - <p> - 'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer——' - </p> - <p> - Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the - emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now - took on some of that fire. - </p> - <p> - 'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already torn - away, almost running. - </p> - <p> - He rushed past the <i>Gleaner</i> office without a glance. It suddenly - didn't matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. - He would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to - Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him! - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into the - office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile of the - <i>Congressional Record</i> and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his - thick gray hair could be seen. - </p> - <p> - Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in the - railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, proofs, - hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and certain other - little personal possessions. The two pencils and one penholder were his. - Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, made a parcel in a - newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard old Boice move. - </p> - <p> - Then came the husky voice. - </p> - <p> - 'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry—come here!' - </p> - <p> - He turned to his friend. - </p> - <p> - 'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.' - </p> - <p> - Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, - looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there. - </p> - <p> - 'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice. - </p> - <p> - 'Been attending to my own affairs.' - </p> - <p> - 'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary of——' - </p> - <p> - 'I haven't any work here.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you haven't?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't want - it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could feel - Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the press-room - door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two or three - compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty money. I'm - through with you. You and your crooked crowd!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you are?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. Through with you. I'm on a decent paper now. A paper that ain't - afraid to print the truth.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making - little sounds.' - </p> - <p> - 'Mmm!' he remarked. 'Hmm! Ump! Mmm!' Then he said, 'Meaning the <i>Gleaner</i>, - I presume.' - </p> - <p> - 'Meaning the <i>Gleaner</i>.' - </p> - <p> - 'I suppose you know that McGibbon's slated to fail within the month. He - can't so much as meet his pay-roll.' - </p> - <p> - 'I know more'n that!' cried Henry, laughing nervously. 'I know he's got - money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer's quitting you this - week, too. She's enthusiastic about us. I've just seen her. We're going to - have a big property there. We'll buy you out one o' these days for a song. - Then it'll be the <i>Gleaner and Voice</i>. See? But, first, we're going - to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and that-old whited - sepulchre in the bank! I'll show you you can't fool with me!' - </p> - <p> - It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had thought - up something better and rehearsed it. - </p> - <p> - Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And - his heart bounded. - </p> - <p> - 'He's afraid of me!' ran his thoughts. 'I've licked him!' - </p> - <p> - It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out. - </p> - <p> - Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn't do. He was a - business man now. With investments. He mustn't go grinning down Simpson - Street. - </p> - <p> - But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once. - </p> - <p> - Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run around - through the alley. - </p> - <p> - He wrung Henry's hand. - </p> - <p> - 'Great!' he cried. 'Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of a - story. Maybe you've heard this one. If you have, just——' - </p> - <p> - A hand fell on Henry's shoulder. - </p> - <p> - It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice. His - face wrinkled into a grin. - </p> - <p> - 'My boy,' he said, 'right here and now I thank you for the joy you've - brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully - impossible. It was great.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in - his voice, 'I said it!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you said it' cried Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying - desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth, humming - the wedding-march from <i>Lohengrin</i> to the familiar words:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Here comes the bride— - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Get on to her stride! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - —he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a - thousand. - </p> - <p> - Back in the old <i>Voice</i> office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands - sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds. - </p> - <p> - I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had - happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular - incident. He couldn't know that it is as well to face a tigress as an - artist whose mental offspring you have injured. - </p> - <p> - No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier - moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn't know that Henry, the - drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two quite - different persons. In Mr Boice's familiar circles they played duplicate - whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with the mysteries - of dual personality such as appear in the case of any genius, great or - small. - </p> - <p> - Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake or - his works) did the immortal line come to mind;— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Did He who made the lamb make thee? - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Mr Boice was obliged to give it up. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VI—ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>lberforce Jenkins - was the most accomplished very young man-about-town in Sunbury. He - appeared to have, even at twenty-one, the bachelor gift. He danced well. - His golf was more than promising. He had lately taken up polo with the - Dexter Smith boys and young de Casselles. He owned two polo ponies, a - schooled riding horse, and a carriage team which he drove to a high cart. - His allowance from his father by far overcame the weakness of his salary - (he was with his brother, Jefferson, in a bond house on La Salle Street). - His aptitude at small talk amounted to a gift. He liked, inevitably, the - play that was popular and (though he read little) the novel that was - popular. His taste in girls pointed him unerringly toward the most - desirable among the newest. - </p> - <p> - He and Henry had been together in high school (Sunbury was democratic - then). They had played together in the football team. They had—during - one hectic month—been rivals for the hand of Ernestine Lambert. - </p> - <p> - In that instance, in so far as success had come, it had come to Henry. But - those were Henry's big days, when he was directing <i>Iolanthe</i>, the - town at his feet. Life, these two years, had flowed swiftly on. The long - dangling figure of Elbow Jenkins had filled out. His crude boyishness had - given way to a smiling reserve. He was a young man of the world—self-assured, - never indiscreet of tongue, always well-mannered, never individual or - interesting. - </p> - <p> - While Henry still worked on Simpson Street. He hadn't struck his gait. He - was—if you bothered, these days, to think about him—a little - queer. He wore that small moustache and a heavy cord hanging from his - nose-glasses, and dressed a thought too conspicuously. As if impelled by - some inner urge to assert a personality that might otherwise be - overlooked.... As I glance back upon the Henry of this period, it seems to - me that there was more than a touch of pathos about that moustache. It was - such a soft little thing. He fussed with it so much, and kept trying to - twist it up at the ends. He didn't seem to know that they weren't twisting - moustaches up at the ends that year. In fact, I think he lacked almost - utterly the gift of conformity which was the strongest, element in Elbow - Jenkins's nature. And he never acquired it. In education, in work and - preparation for life, he went it alone, stumbling, blundering, doing - apparently stupid things, acting from baffling obscure motives, then - suddenly coming through with an unexpected flash of insight and power. - </p> - <p> - From the period of Ernestine Lambert to the time of the present story - Elbow Jenkins had been on Henry's nerves. Whenever they met, that is; or - when Henry saw him driving the newest, prettiest, best-dressed girl about - in his cart. Two years earlier he would have had two ponies hitched - tandem. But now, a little older, less willing to be conspicuous except in - strict conformity with the conventions, he drove his carefully matched - team side by side. His scat, his hold of the reins, the very turning-back - of his tan gloves, all were correct. These, indeed, were details in the - problem of living and moving about with success among one's fellows that - Elberforce Jenkins regarded as really important. Like one's stance at - golf, and cultivating the favour of men who could be influential in a - business or social way. - </p> - <p> - Yes, Elbow was on Henry's nerves. - </p> - <p> - But Elbow had long since forgotten Henry, except for a chance nod now and - then. And occasionally a moment's annoyance that Henry should insist on - keeping alive a nickname that had with years and the beginnings of dignity - become undesirable. - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - The blow fell on Henry at half-past five on the Tuesday. - </p> - <p> - I mark the time thus precisely because it perhaps adds a touch of interest - to the consideration of what happened between then and Friday night, when - McGibbon first saw what he had done. Of the importance of the blow in - Henry's life there is no doubt. It turned him sharply Not until he was - approaching middle life could he look back on the occasion without - wincing. And while wincing, he would say that it was what he had needed. - Plainly. That it made a man of him, or started the process. - </p> - <p> - As to that, I can't say. Perhaps it did. Life is not so simple as Henry - had been taught it was. I am fatalist enough to believe that Henry would - have become what he was to become in any event, because it was in him. I - doubt if he could have been given any other direction. Though of course he - might have gone under simply through a failure to get aroused. Something - had to start him, of course. - </p> - <p> - The practical difficulty with Henry's life was, of course, that he was - strong. He didn't know this himself. He thought he was weak. Some who - observed him thought the same. There were reasons enough. But Mildred - always declared flatly that he was a genius, that he was too good for - Sunbury, against the smugness of which community she was inclined to rail. - A debate on this point between Mrs Henderson and, say, William F. Donovan, - the drug store man, would have been interesting. Mr Donovan's judgments of - human character were those of Simpson Street. - </p> - <p> - I say Henry was strong, because I can't interpret his rugged nonconformity - in any other way. A weaker lad would long since have given up, gone into - Smith Brothers' wholesale, taken his spiritual beating and fallen into - step with his generation. But Henry's resistance was so strong and so deep - that he didn't even know he was resisting. He was doing the only thing he - could do, being what he was, feeling what he felt. And when instinct - failed to guide, when 'the Power' lay quiescent, he was simply waiting and - blundering along; but never falling into step. He had to wait until the - Power should rise with him and take him out and up where he belonged. - </p> - <p> - There was a little scene the Monday evening before. - </p> - <p> - It was in the rooms. Mildred was there. - </p> - <p> - Henry stumbled in on the two of them, Mildred and Humphrey. They were at - the piano, seated side by side. They had been studying <i>Tristan and - Isolde</i> together for a week or so; Mildred playing out the motifs. She - often played the love duet from the second act for him, too. Henry heard - him, mornings, trying to hum it while he shaved. - </p> - <p> - They insisted that he take a chair. He, with a sense of intrusion, took - the arm of one, and kept hat and stick (his thin bamboo) in his hands. - </p> - <p> - Mildred said reflectively:— - </p> - <p> - 'Corinne writes that she'll be back for a week late in August.' Then, - noting the touch of dismay on Henry's ingenuous countenance, she added, - 'But you mustn't have her on your conscience, Henry.' - </p> - <p> - 'It isn't that——' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm fond of Corinne. But I can see now that you two would never get on - long together. In a queer way you're too much alike. At least, you both - have positive qualities. Corinne will some day find a nice little husband - who'll look after the business side of her concerts. And you—well, - Henry, you've got to have some one to mother you.' She smiled at him - thoughtfully. 'Some one you can make a lot of.' - </p> - <p> - 'No.' Henry's colour was up. He was shaking his head. 'You don't - understand. I'm through with girls. They're nothing in my life. Nothing!' - </p> - <p> - She slowly shook her head. 'That's absurd, Henry. You're particularly the - kind. You'll never be able to live without idealising some woman.' - </p> - <p> - 'I tell you they're nothing to me. My life is different now. I've changed. - I've put money—a lot of money—into the <i>Gleaner</i>. It - means big responsibilities. You've no idea——' - </p> - <p> - 'If I hadn't, seen you writing,' she mused aloud.... 'No, Henry. You won't - change. You'll grow, but you won't change. You're going to write, Henry. - And you'll always write straight at a woman.' - </p> - <p> - 'No! No!' Henry was sputtering. He appeared to be struggling. 'Life means - work to me. I'm through with——' - </p> - <p> - She took down the <i>Tristan</i> score from the piano and turned the pages - in her lap. - </p> - <p> - 'Love is the great vitaliser, Henry,' she said. - </p> - <p> - 'No—it's the mind. Thinking. We have to learn to think clearly—objectively.' - </p> - <p> - 'Objectively? No. Not you. And I'm glad, in a way. Because I know we're - going to be proud of you. But it's love that makes the world go round. - They don't teach you that in the colleges, but it's the truth... Take - Wagner—and <i>Tristan</i>. He wrote it straight at a woman. And it's - the greatest opera ever written. And the greatest love story. It's that - because he was terribly in love when he wrote it. Do you Suppose, for one - minute that if Wagner had never seen Mathilde Wesendonck we should have - had <i>Tristan?</i>' - </p> - <p> - She paused, pursed her lips, studied the book with eyes that seemed to - grow misty, then looked up at Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - He—tall, angular, very sober—met her gaze; then his swarthy - face wrinkled up about the eyes and he hurriedly drew his cob pipe from - his pocket and began filling it. - </p> - <p> - Henry stared at the rug; traced out the pattern with his stick. He - couldn't answer this last point, because he had never heard of Mathilde - Wesendonck. And as he was supposed to be 'musical' it seemed best to keep - quiet. - </p> - <p> - He made an excuse of some sort and went out for a walk. Down by the lake - he thought of several strong arguments. Mildred was wrong. She had to be - wrong. For he had cut girls out. - </p> - <p> - It was like Mildred to speak out in that curiously direct way. She was - fond of Henry. And she had divined, out of her various, probably rather - vivid contacts with life, certain half-truths that were not accepted in - Sunbury. - </p> - <p> - I think she saw Henry pretty clearly, saw that he was driven by an - emotional dynamo that was to bring him suffering and success both.... - Mildred, of course, never really belonged in a small town. - </p> - <p> - It was at the close of the following afternoon that Henry came in and - found Humphrey's long figure stretched out on the window-seat—he was - smoking, of course—of all things, blowing endless rings up at the - curtains Mildred had made and hung for him. His dark skin looked gray. - There were deep lines in his face. He couldn't speak at first. But he - stared at Henry. - </p> - <p> - That young man put away hat and stick, had his coat off, and was rolling - back his shirt sleeves for a wash, humming the refrain of <i>Kentucky Babe</i>. - Then, through a slow moment, the queer silence about him, Humphrey's - attitude—that fact, for that matter, that Hump was here, at all; he - was a great hand to work until six or after at the <i>Voice</i> office—these - things worked in on him like a premonition. The little song died out. He - went on, a few steps, toward the bathroom, then came to a stop, turned - toward the silent figure on the window-seat, came slowly over. - </p> - <p> - Now he saw his friend clearly. As he sank on the arm of a chair—it - was where he had sat the evening before—he caught his breath. - </p> - <p> - 'Wha—what is it?' he asked. His voice was suddenly husky. His mind - went blank. There was sensation among the roots of his hair. 'What's the - matter, Hump?' - </p> - <p> - Finally Humphrey took out his pipe and spoke. His voice, too, was low and - uncertain. But he gathered control of it as he went on. - </p> - <p> - 'Where've you been?' he asked. - </p> - <p> - 'Me? Why, over at Rockwell Park. Bob McGibbon wanted me to see about a - regular correspondent for the “Rockwell Park Doings.”' - </p> - <p> - 'Heard anything?' - </p> - <p> - 'Me? No. Why?... Hump, what is it? What you getting at?' - </p> - <p> - 'Then I've got to tell you.' He swung his feet around; sat up; emptied his - pipe, then filled it. - </p> - <p> - 'Is it—is it—about me, Hump?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. It is.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—then—hadn't you better tell me?' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm trying to, Hen. It's dam' unpleasant. You remember—you told me - once—early in the summer—' Humphrey, usually most direct, was - having difficulty in getting it out—'you told me you rode a tandem - up to Hoffmann's Garden with that little Wilcox girl.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, that! That was nothing. Why all the time I lived at Mrs Wilcox's I - never——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I know. Let me try to tell this, Hen. It's hard enough. She's in a - scrape. That girl. There's a big row on. I'm not going into the details, - so far as I've heard 'em. There ugly. They wouldn't help. But her mother's - collapsed. Her uncle and aunt have turned up and taken the girl off - somewhere. He's a butcher on the North Side.' Henry was pale but - attentive. - </p> - <p> - 'In all the time I lived there,' he began again... - </p> - <p> - 'Please, Hen! Wait! It is one of those mean scandals that tear up a town - like this every now and then. Boils up through the crust and has to be - noticed. It's a beastly thing. The number of men involved... some older - ones... and young Bancroft Widdicombe has left town. There's some queer - talk about her marrying him. And they say one or two others have run away. - Widdicombe got out before the storm broke. Jim Smith says he's been heard - from at San Francisco.' - </p> - <p> - 'But they can't say of me——' - </p> - <p> - 'Hen, they can and they do.' - </p> - <p> - 'But I can prove——' - </p> - <p> - 'What can you prove? What chance will you have to prove anything? You were - disturbed when Martha Caldwell and the party with Charles H. Merchant - caught you with her up at Hoffmann's——' - </p> - <p> - 'But, Hump, I didn't <i>want</i> to take her out that night! And it's the - only time I ever really talked to her except once or twice in the - boarding-house.' - </p> - <p> - He was speaking with less energy now. He felt the blow. Not as he would - feel it a few hours later; but he felt it. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey watched him. - </p> - <p> - 'It has brought things home to me,' he said uncertainly. 'The sort of - thing that can happen. When you're caught in a drift, you don't think, of - course... Now, Hen, listen! This is real trouble. It's going to hit you - about to-morrow—full force. It's got to be faced. I don't want to - think that you'd run——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no,' Henry put in mechanically, 'I won't run.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm sure you won't. But it's got to be faced. You're hit especially.' - </p> - <p> - 'But why, when I——' - </p> - <p> - 'Because you lived alone there, in the boarding-house, for two years. And - you were caught with her at Hoffmann's, she in bloomers, drinking beer. - Just a cheap little tough. And there isn't a thing you can do but live it - down. Nobody will say a direct word to you.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's what I'll do,' said Henry, 'live it down.' - </p> - <p> - 'It'll be hard, Hen.' - </p> - <p> - Henry sighed. 'I've faced hard things, Hump.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, you have, in a way.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll wash up. Where we going to eat? Stanley's?' - </p> - <p> - 'I suppose. I don't feel like eating much.' - </p> - <p> - It was not until they had started out that Henry gave signs of a deeper - reaction. - </p> - <p> - On the outer doorstep he stood motionless. - </p> - <p> - 'Coming along?' asked Humphrey, trying to hide his anxiety. - </p> - <p> - 'Why—yes. In a minute... Say, Hump, do you suppose they'll—you - know, I ain't afraid'—an uprush of feeling coloured his voice, - brought a shake to it—'I don't know. Perhaps I <i>am</i> afraid. All - those people—you know, at Stanley's...' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey did an unusual thing; laid his hand on Henry's shoulder - affectionately; then took his arm and led him along the alley, saying:— - </p> - <p> - 'We'll go down to the lunch counter. It's just as well, Hen. Better get - sure of yourself first.' - </p> - <p> - He wondered, as they walked rapidly on—Henry had a tendency to walk - fast and faster when brooding or excited—whether the boy would ever - get sure of himself. There were queer, bitter, profoundly confusing - thoughts in his own mind, and an emotional tension, but back of all this, - coming through it and softening him, his feeling for Henry. It was - something of an elder brother's feeling, I think. Henry seemed very young. - It was wicked that he had to suffer with all those cynical older men. It - might mark the boy for life. Such things happened. - </p> - <p> - He decided to watch him closely. Sooner or later the thing would hit him - full. He would have to be protected then. Even from himself, perhaps. In a - way it oughtn't to be worse for him than it had been after the Hoffmann's - Garden incident. - </p> - <p> - But it was worse. The other had been, after all, no more than an incident. - This, now, was an overpowering fact. The town didn't have to notice the - other. And despite the gossiping instinct, your small community is rather - glad to edge away from unpleasant surmises that are not established facts. - Facts are so uncompromising. And so disrupting. And sometimes upsetting to - standardised thought. - </p> - <p> - 'That's it,' thought Humphrey—he was reduced to thought Henry was - striding on in white silence—'it's a fact. They can't evade it. Only - thing they can do, if they're to keep comfortable about their dam' town, - is to kill everybody connected with the mess. Have to revise party and - dinner lists. And it'll raise Ned with the golf tournament. They'll resent - all that. And they'll have to show outsiders that the thing is an amazing - exception. Nothing else going on like it. They'll have to show that.' - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - The next morning Henry—stiff, distrait, his eyes wandering a little - now and then and his sensitive mouth twitching nervously—breakfasted - with Humphrey at Stanley's. - </p> - <p> - People—some people—spoke to him. But he winced at every - greeting. Humphrey watched him narrowly. He was ablaze with - self-consciousness. But he held his head up pretty well. - </p> - <p> - He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he - hadn't mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn't mention it. He - spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis Stevenson, - for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley's. And then he brought - up Bob McGibbon's theory that even with a country weekly, if you made your - paper interesting enough you would get readers and the readers would bring - the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought it would work out. 'It's - important to me, you know, Hump. I've got a cool thousand up on the <i>Gleaner</i>. - It's like betting on Bob McGibbon's idea to win.' His voice trembled a - little. There were volcanoes of feeling stirring within the boy. He would - erupt of course, sooner or later. Humphrey found the experience moving to - the point of pain. - </p> - <p> - When he entered the <i>Gleaner</i> office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him - anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought. - </p> - <p> - He found occasion to say, later:— - </p> - <p> - 'Henry, how are you taking this thing?' - </p> - <p> - Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with - an expressive gesture and raised his eyes. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh,' he said, 'all right. I—it's not true, Bob. Not about me.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's just what I tell 'em,' said McGibbon eagerly. 'What you going to - do? Go right on?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—why, yes! I can't run away.' - </p> - <p> - 'Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all - round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you - might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the paper. - That's what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little pictures of - life-like George Ade's stuff in the <i>Record</i>. Or a bit of the 'Gene - Field touch. Something they'd have to read. Make the <i>Gleaner</i> known. - Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That's what we really need from - you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception to-night at - the Jenkins'. Anybody can cover that. I'll go myself.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head. - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said he, after a pause, 'I'll cover it.' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon considered this, then moved irresolutely back to his desk. Here, - for a time, he sat, with knit brows, and stabbed at flies with his pen. - </p> - <p> - It would be walking into the lion's den, that was all. He wished he could - think of a way to hold the boy back. There were complications. The <i>Gleaner</i>, - just, lately, had been going pretty violently after what McGibbon called - the 'Old Cinch.' Without quite enough evidence, they were now virtually - accusing Waterhouse of embezzlement, and the others of connivance. Mr - Weston was among the most respected in Sunbury, rich, solid, a supporter - of all good things'. Though Boice and Waterhouse were unknown to local - society, the Westons were intimate with the Jenkinses and their crowd. - They all regarded the <i>Gleaner</i> as a scurrilous, libellous sheet, and - McGibbon himself as an intruder in the village life. And there was another - trouble; very recent. He couldn't speak of it with the boy in this state - of mind. Not at the moment. He couldn't see his way... And now, with the - realest-scandal Sunbury had known in a decade piled freshly on the paper's - bad name. But he couldn't think of a way to keep him from going. The boy - was, in a way, his partner. There were little delicacies between them. - </p> - <p> - Henry went. - </p> - <p> - The reception given by Mr and Mrs Jenkins to Senator and Madame William M. - Watt, was the most important social event of the summer. - </p> - <p> - The Jenkins's home, a square mansion of yellow brick, blazed with light at - every window. Japanese lanterns were festooned from tree to tree about the - lawn. An awning had been erected all the way from the front steps to the - horse block, and a man in livery stood out there assisting the ladies from - their carriages. It was felt by some, it was even remarked in undertones, - that the Jenkinses were spreading it on pretty thick, even considering - that it was the first really public appearance of the Watts in Sunbury. - </p> - <p> - The Senator was known principally as titular sponsor for the Watt Currency - Act, of fifteen years back... In those days his fame had overspread the - boundaries of his own eastern state clear to California and the Mexican - border. Older readers will recall that the Watt Bill nearly split a nation - in its day. After his defeat for re-election, in the earlier nineties, he - had slipped quietly into the obscurity in which he regained until his - rather surprising marriage with the very rich, extremely vigorous American - woman from abroad who called herself the Comtesse de la Plaine. At the - time of his disappearance from public life various reasons had been dwelt - on. One was drink. His complexion—the part of it not covered by his - white beard—might have been regarded as corroborative evidence. But - it was generally understood that he was 'all right' now; a meek enough - little man, well past seventy, with an air of life-weariness and a - suppressed cough that was rather disagreeable in church. His slightly - unkempt beard grew a little to one side, giving his face a twisted - appearance. On his occasional appearances about the streets he was always - chewing an unlighted cigar. To the growing generation he was a mildly - historic myth, like Thomas Buchanan or James G. Blaine. - </p> - <p> - Mrs Watt—who during her brief residence in Sunbury (they had bought - the Dexter Smith place, on Hazel Avenue, in May) had somehow attached - firmly to her present name the foreign-sounding prefix, 'Madame'—was - a head taller than her husband, with snappy black eyes, a strongly hooked - nose and an indomitable mouth. She was not beautiful, but was of - commanding presence. The fact that she had lived long in France naturally - raised questions. But there appeared to be no questioning either her - earlier title or her wealth. If she seemed to lack a few of the - refinements of a lady—it was whispered among the younger people that - she swore at her servants—still, a rich countess, married to the - self-effacing but indubitable author of the Watt Act, was, in the nature - of things, equipped to stir Sunbury to the depths. - </p> - <p> - But the member of this interesting family with whom we are now concerned - was the Madame's niece, a girl of eighteen or nineteen who had been - reared, it was said, in a convent in France, then educated at a school in - the eastern states, and was now living with her aunt for the first time. - </p> - <p> - Her name fell oddly on ears accustomed to the Bessies, Marys, Fannies, - Marthas, Louises, Alices, and Graces of Sunbury. It was Cicely—Cicely - Hamlin. It was clearly an English name. It proved, at first, difficult to - pronounce, and led to joking among the younger set. The girl herself was - rather foreign in appearance. Distinctly French some said. She was slimly - pretty, with darkish hair and a quick, brisk, almost eager way of speaking - and smiling and bobbing her hair. She used her hands, too, more than was - common in Sunbury, a point for the adherents of the French theory. The - quality that perhaps most attracted young and old alike was her sensitive - responsiveness. Sometimes it was nearly timidity. She would listen in her - eager way; then talk, all vivacity—head and hands moving, on the - brink of a smile-every moment—then seem suddenly to recede a little, - as if fearful that she had perhaps said too much, as if a delicate - courtesy demanded that she be merely the attentive, kindly listener. She - could play and be merry with the younger crowd. But she had read books - that few of them had ever heard of. Plainly—though nothing so - complex was plain to Henry at this period—she was a girl of delicate - nervous organisation, strung a little tightly; a girl who could be stirred - to almost naïve enthusiasms and who could perhaps be cruelly hurt. - </p> - <p> - Henry had seen her—once on the hotel veranda talking brightly with - Mary Ames, who seemed almost stodgy beside her, once on the Chicago train, - once or twice driving with Elberforce Jenkins in his high cart. The sight - of her had stirred him. Already he had had to fight thoughts of her—tantalisingly - indistinct mental visions—during the late night hours between - staring wakefulness and sleep. And it was impossible wholly to escape - bitterness over the thought that he hadn't met her. He oughtn't to care. - He couldn't admit to himself that it mattered. A couple of years back, in - his big days, they would have met all right. First thing. Everybody would - have seen to it. They would have told her about him. Now... oh well! - </p> - <p> - He stood in the shadow, out by the carriage entrance, pulling at his - moustache. There had been a sort of rushing of the spirit, almost a - fervour, in his first determination to face the town bravely. Now for the - first time he began to see that the thing couldn't be rushed at. It might - take years to build up a new good name—years of slights and sneers, - of dull hours and slack nerves. For Henry did know that emotional climaxes - pass. - </p> - <p> - He chose a time, between carriages, when the sheltered walk was empty, to - move up toward the house. Everybody here was dressed up—'Wearing - everything they've got!' he muttered. He himself had on his blue suit and - straw hat and carried his bamboo stick. A thick wad of copy paper - protruded from a side pocket. A vest pocket bulged with newly sharpened - pencils. It had seemed best not to dress. He wasn't a guest; just the - representative of a country weekly. - </p> - <p> - By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in - the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly - cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to many - chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there, - doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair in - his heart, that he couldn't mount those steps. Nearly everybody there - would know him. He couldn't do it. - </p> - <p> - He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the - Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward - the steps. A third joined them; a girl. - </p> - <p> - 'Here,' said this girl—Mary Ames's voice—'you two wait here. - I'll find her.' - </p> - <p> - Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very - white, curiously breathless. - </p> - <p> - The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip away. - New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He stepped - off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking. - </p> - <p> - The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred - Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn't know - what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, shifting his - feet. - </p> - <p> - Henry thought: 'Has he heard yet? Does he know?... Does <i>she</i> know?' - </p> - <p> - Then Alfred's wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, hallo. Hen;' he said. Then, after a long silence, 'Like you to meet - Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.' - </p> - <p> - Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl's name first or - the man's. - </p> - <p> - But he hadn't heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, it - would be almost better... - </p> - <p> - Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name. - </p> - <p> - He had to step forward too. - </p> - <p> - In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way. - </p> - <p> - In responsive confusion she raised hers. - </p> - <p> - But his had dropped. - </p> - <p> - Hers moved downward as his came up again. - </p> - <p> - She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly. - </p> - <p> - He took it. He didn't know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous - clasp. - </p> - <p> - 'I've heard of you,' she said. He liked her voice. 'You write, don't you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh yes,' said he huskily, 'I write some.' - </p> - <p> - She didn't know. - </p> - <p> - He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the old - days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging. - </p> - <p> - Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you write stories?' she asked politely. - </p> - <p> - 'I try to, sometimes. It's awfully hard.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh yes, I know.' - </p> - <p> - 'Do <i>you</i> write?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—oh no! But I've wished I could. I've tried a little.' - </p> - <p> - So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the weather. - It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. He saw, felt, the - presence of a girl unlike any he had known—slimly pretty, alive with - a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, and felt, a white - tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy fire in them. - </p> - <p> - Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the - sight of them, Alfred drifted away again. - </p> - <p> - 'Perhaps,' she added shyly, 'you'd bring some of your stories.' - </p> - <p> - 'I haven't anything I could bring,' he replied, still with that burning - look. 'Nothing 'that's any good. If I had...' Then this blazed from him in - a low shaky voice: 'You haven't heard what they're saying about me. I can - see that. If you had you wouldn't ask me to call.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I'm sure I would,' she murmured, greatly confused. - </p> - <p> - 'You wouldn't. You really couldn't. But I want to say this—quick, - before they come!'—for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway—'I've - <i>got</i> to say it! They'll tell you something about me. Something - dreadful. It isn't true. It—is—not true!' - </p> - <p> - 'She isn't in there,' said Mary, joining them. Then 'Oh!' She looked at - Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, 'How do you do!' in a voice - that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, ignoring - him: 'We'd better tell them.' And moved a step toward the group under the - lanterns. - </p> - <p> - Cicely hesitated. - </p> - <p> - It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry couldn't - speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain. - </p> - <p> - Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back. - </p> - <p> - The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way. - </p> - <p> - Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins—tall, really good-looking in - his perfect-fitting evening clothes—stood before them. - </p> - <p> - He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct. - </p> - <p> - 'All right,' said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, 'we'll go without - her. She won't mind.' - </p> - <p> - Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a - little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness, - apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand. - </p> - <p> - 'Do come,' she said, with a quick little smile. 'And bring the stories. - I'm sure I'd like them.' - </p> - <p> - She went with them, then. - </p> - <p> - Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered alone - among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing uncontrollably. - </p> - <p> - It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, wrote - down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, very fast, - with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still burning, down - to the <i>Gleaner</i> office. - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be - there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A. - </p> - <p> - But there was a light in the windows of the <i>Gleaner</i> office, over - Hemple's. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand - sprawling through his straight ragged hair. - </p> - <p> - Henry acknowledged his partner's greeting with a grunt; dropped down at - his own desk; plunged at the story. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him; - continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good - deal. - </p> - <p> - 'There,' said Henry, finally, with a grim look—'there's the - reception story.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, all right.' McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat - on the edge of the table beside Henry's desk. - </p> - <p> - 'Haven't got some good filler stuff?' he queried wearily, brushing a hand - across his forehead. 'We're going to have a lot of extra space this week.' - </p> - <p> - He watched Henry, to see if this remark had an effect. It had none. He - nibbed his hand slowly back and forth across his forehead. - </p> - <p> - 'The fact is,' he remarked, 'they've landed on us. Pretty hard. The - advertisers. Just about all Simpson Street. It's a sort of boycott, - apparently. Takes out two-thirds of our advertising. And Weston called my - note—that two hundred and forty-eight—for paper. Simply - charged it up against our account. Pretty dam' high-handed, I call it!' - </p> - <p> - His voice was rising. He sprang up, paced the floor. - </p> - <p> - 'They're showing fight,' he ran on. 'We've got to lick 'em. That's my way—start - at the drop of the hat. What's a little advertising! Get readers—that's - the real trick of it. We'll lick 'em with circulation, that's what we'll - do!' - </p> - <p> - He stood over Henry's desk; even pounded it. The boy didn't seem to get - it, even now. He was hardly listening. With his own money at stake. But - McGibbon was finding him like that; queer gaps on the practical side. No - money sense whatever! - </p> - <p> - 'Henry,' he was crying now, 'it's up to you. You're a genius. It's sheer - waste to use you on fool receptions. <i>Write</i>, man! WRITE! Let - yourself go. Anything—sketches, verse, stories! Let's give 'em what - they don't look for in a country paper. Like the old Burlington <i>Hawkeye</i> - and that fellow Brann. And the paper in Lahore that nobody would ever have - heard of if Kipling hadn't written prose and verse to fill in, here and - there. He was a kid, too. There's always, somewhere, a little paper that's - famous because a man can <i>write</i>. Why shouldn't it be us! Us! Right - up here over the meat-market. Why, we can make the little old <i>Gleaner</i> - known from coast to coast. We can put Sunbury on the map. Just with your - pen, my boy! With your pen! And then where'll old Weston be! Where'll - these little two-bit advertisers be!' - </p> - <p> - He spread his thin hands in a gesture of triumph. Henry looked up now; - slowly pushed back his chair; said, in a weak voice, 'I'm tired. Guess I'd - better get along;' and walked out. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon stared after him, his mouth literally open. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - Back of the old Parmenter place the barn was dark. Henry felt relief. He - was tingling with excitement. He couldn't move slowly. His fists were - clenched. Every nerve in his body was strung tight. - </p> - <p> - He was thinking hopelessly, 'I must relax.' - </p> - <p> - He crept through the dim shop, among Humphrey's lathes, belts, benches of - tools, big kites and rows of steel wheels mounted in frames. There were - large planes, too, parts of the gliders Humphrey had been puttering with - for a long time. Three years, he had once said. - </p> - <p> - Henry lingered on the stairs and looked about the ghostly rooms. Beams of - moonlight came in through the windows and touched this and that machine. - He felt himself attuned to all the trouble, the disaster, in the universe. - Life was a tragic disappointment. Nothing ever came right. People didn't - succeed; they struggled and struggled to breast a mighty, tireless current - that swept them ever backward. - </p> - <p> - Poor old Hump! He had put money into this shop. All the little he had; or - nearly all. And into the technical library that lined his bedroom walls - upstairs. His daily work at the <i>Voice</i> office was just a grind, to - keep body and soul together while the experiments were working out. Hump - was patient. - </p> - <p> - 'Until I moved in here,' Henry thought, with a disturbingly passive sort - of' bitterness, 'and brought girls and things. He doesn't have his nights - and Sundays for work any more. Hump could do big things, too.' - </p> - <p> - He went on up the stairs and switched on the lights in the living-room. - </p> - <p> - He caught sight of his face in a mirror. It was white. - </p> - <p> - There was a look of strain about the eyes. The little moustache, turned up - at the ends, mocked him. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll shave it off,' he said aloud. - </p> - <p> - He even got out his razor and began nervously stropping it. - </p> - <p> - He was alarmed to discover that his control of his hands was none too - good. They moved more quickly than he meant them to, and in jerks. - </p> - <p> - Too, the notion of shaving his moustache struck him weakness, an impulse - to be resisted. Too much like retreating. Subtly like that. - </p> - <p> - He put the razor back in its drawer. - </p> - <p> - In the centre of the living-room rug, standing there, stiffly, he said:— - </p> - <p> - 'I'll face them. I'll go down fighting. They shan't say I surrendered.' - </p> - <p> - He walked round and round the room. - </p> - <p> - He had never in his life felt anything like this jerky nervousness. A - restlessness that wouldn't permit him so much as to sit down. - </p> - <p> - While in the <i>Gleaner</i> office he had hardly been aware of McGibbon. - He certainly hadn't listened to him. - </p> - <p> - But now, like a blow, everything McGibbon had said came to him. Every - syllable. Suddenly he could see the man, towering ever him, pounding his - desk. Talking—talking—full of fresh hopes while the world - crumbled around him. More disaster! It was the buzzing song of the old - globe as it spun endlessly on its axis. Disaster!... The advertisers had - at last combined against the paper. Old Weston had called McGibbon's note. - That must have taken about the last of Henry's thousand. They were broke. - </p> - <p> - His hand brushed his coat pocket. It bulged with copy paper. He must have - thrust it back there absently, at the office. - </p> - <p> - He drew it out and gazed at it. - </p> - <p> - It was curious; he seemed to see it as a printed page, with a title at the - top, and his name. He couldn't see what the title was. Yet it was there, - and it was good. - </p> - <p> - His restlessness grew. Again he walked round and round the room. There was - a glow in his breast. Something that burned and fired his nerves and drove - him as one is driven in a dream. Either he must rush outdoors and wander - at a feverish pace around the town and up the lake shore—walk all - night—or he must sit down and write. - </p> - <p> - He sat down. Picked up an atlas of Humphrey's and wrote on his lap. And he - wrote, from the beginning, as he would have walked had he gone out, in a - fever of energy, gripping the pencil tightly, holding his knees up a - little, heels off the floor. The colour reappeared about his forehead and - temples, then on his cheeks. - </p> - <p> - When Humphrey came in, after midnight, he was in just this posture, - writing at a desperate rate. The floor all about him was strewn with - sheets of paper. One or two had drifted off to the centre of the room. He - didn't hear his friend come up the stairs.' When he saw him, standing, - looking down, something puzzled, he cried out excitedly':— - </p> - <p> - 'Don't Hump!' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey resisted the impulse to reply with a 'Don't what?' - </p> - <p> - 'Go on! Don't disturb me!' - </p> - <p> - 'You seem to be hitting it up.' - </p> - <p> - 'I am. I can't talk! Please—go away! Go to bed. You'll make me lose - it!' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey obeyed. - </p> - <p> - Later—well along in the night—he awoke. - </p> - <p> - There was a crack of light about his door. He turned on his own light. It - was quarter to three. - </p> - <p> - 'Here!' he called. 'What on earth are you up to, Hen?' A chair scraped. - Then Henry came to the door and burst it open. His coat was off now, and - his vest open. He had unbuttoned his collar in front so that the two ends - and the ends of his tie hung down. His hair was straggling down over his - forehead. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you know what time it is, Hen?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. Say—listen to this! Just a few sentences. You liked the piece I - did about the Business Men's Picnic, remember. Well, this has sorta grown - out of it. It's just the plain folks along Simpson Street. Say! There's a - title for the book.' - </p> - <p> - 'For the what!' - </p> - <p> - 'The book. Oh, there'll be a lot of them. Sorta sketches. Or maybe they're - stories. I can't tell yet. Plain folks of Simpson Street. Yes, that's - good. Wait a second, while I write it down. The thing struck me all at - once—to-night!—Queer, isn't it!—thinking about the folks - along the street—Bill Hemple, and Jim Smith in your press room with - the tattooed arms, and old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse, and the way Bob - McGibbon blew into town with a big dream, and the barber shop—Schultz - and Schwartz's—and Donovan's soda fountain, and Izzy Bloom and the - trouble about his boys in the high school, and all his fires, and Mr - Draine, the Y.M.C.A. secretary that's been in the British Mounted Police - in Mashonaland—think of it! In Africa—and——' - </p> - <p> - 'Would you mind'—Humphrey was on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes—'would - you mind talking a little more slowly. Good lord! I can't——' - </p> - <p> - 'All right, Hump. Only I'm excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me that - there's as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in - Kipling's Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people's lives go. And - what old Berger's really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables - were picked yesterday.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey gazed—wider awake now—at the wild figure before him. - And a thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed. - </p> - <p> - 'How much have you done?' he asked soberly. - </p> - <p> - 'Most finished this first one. It's about old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse - and Mr Weston——' - </p> - <p> - 'Gee!' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'I call it, <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—see here, you're going to bed, aren't you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes. But listen.' And he began reading aloud. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey waved his arms. - </p> - <p> - 'No, no! For heaven's sake, go to bed, Hen!' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, but—oh, say! Just thought of something!' And he went out, - chuckling. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that was - not altogether of the sun. - </p> - <p> - The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a - dream. - </p> - <p> - He sprang out of bed. - </p> - <p> - There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay - like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying. - </p> - <p> - He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning, - apparently out of sheer happiness. - </p> - <p> - 'Say,' he cried, 'listen to this! It's one I call, <i>The Cauliflowers of - the Caliph</i>. Oh, by the way, I've changed the title of the book to <i>Satraps - of the Simple</i>. - </p> - <p> - 'The whole book'll be sort of imaginary, like that. It's queer. Just as if - it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. Only - everything I ever knew's going into it. Things I'd forgotten.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hen,' said Humphrey, 'are you stark mad?' - </p> - <p> - 'Me? Why—why no, Hump!' The grin was a thought sheepish now. 'But—well, - Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.' - </p> - <p> - 'How many stories have you written already?' - </p> - <p> - 'Just three.' - </p> - <p> - '<i>Three!</i> In one night!' - </p> - <p> - 'But they're short, Hump. I don't believe-they average over two or three - thousand words. I think they're good. You know, just the way they made me - feel. Funny idea—Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.' - </p> - <p> - 'One thing's certain, Hen. You're an extremely surprising youth, but right - here's where you quit. I don't propose to have a roaring maniac here in - the rooms. On my hands.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Hump, I can't quit now! You don't understand. It's wonderful. It just - comes. Like taking dictation.' - </p> - <p> - 'Dictation is what you're going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up your - clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We'll go out for some - breakfast.' - </p> - <p> - 'Not now, Hump! Wait—I promise I'll go out a little later.' - </p> - <p> - 'You'll go now. Get up.' - </p> - <p> - Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again. - </p> - <p> - 'Gosh!' he murmured. - </p> - <p> - 'Stiff, eh?' - </p> - <p> - 'I should smile. And sorta weak.' - </p> - <p> - 'No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast - you'll go straight to bed.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hump, I can't.' - </p> - <p> - This, apparently, was the truth. He couldn't. - </p> - <p> - He stopped in at Jackson's Book Store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and bought - paper and pencils: Then, in a thrill of fresh importance, he bought - penholders, large desk blotters, a flannel pen-wiper with a bronze dog - seated in the centre, a cut-glass inkstand, a ruler, half a dozen pads of - a better paper, a partly abridged dictionary, Roget's <i>Thesaurus</i>, - (for years he had casually wondered what a Thesaurus was), a round glass - paperweight with a gay butterfly imprisoned within, four boxes of wire - clips, assorted sizes, and, because he saw it, Crabb's <i>Synonyms</i>. - Then he saw an old copy of <i>The Thousand and One Nights</i> and bought - that. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to him that he ought to be equipped for his work. Before he went - out he asked the prices of the better makes of typewriters. - </p> - <p> - And for the first time in two years, he uttered the magic but too often - fatal words:— - </p> - <p> - 'Just charge it, if you don't mind.' - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - He was back at the rooms by nine-fifteen. Before the university clock - boomed out the hour of noon, he had written that elusive, extraordinary - little classic, <i>A Kerbstone Barmecide</i>, and had jotted down - suggestive notes for the story that was later to be known as <i>The - Printer and the Pearls</i>. - </p> - <p> - By this time all thoughts of civic reform had faded out. Charlie - Waterhouse, now that <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i> was done and, in - a surface sense, forgotten, no longer appeared to him as a crook who - should be ousted from the local political triumvirate and from town - office; he was but a bit of ore in the rich lode of human material with - which Henry's fancy was playing. The important fact about the new - Waterhouse store-and-office building in South Sunbury, was not that there - was reason to believe Charlie had built it with town money but that he had - put a medallion bas-relief of himself in terra cotta in the front wall. - </p> - <p> - Charlie figured, though, unquestionably, in <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i>. - </p> - <p> - At noon, deciding that he would stroll out after a little and eat a bite, - Henry stretched out on the lounge. Here he dozed, very lightly for an hour - or two. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey stole in, found him tossing there, fully dressed, mumbling in his - sleep, and stole out. - </p> - <p> - But early in the afternoon Henry leaped up. His brain, or his emotions, or - whatever the source of his ideas, was a glowing, boiling, seething crater - of tantalising, obscurely associated concepts and scraps of - characterisation and queerly vivid, half-glimpsed dramatic moments, - situations, contrasts. They amounted to a force that dragged him on. The - thought that some bit might escape before he could catch it and get it - written down kept his pulse racing. - </p> - <p> - At about half-past four he finished that curious fantasy, <i>Roc's Eggs, - Strictly Fresh</i>. - </p> - <p> - This accomplishment brought a respite. He could see his book clearly now. - The cover, the title page and particularly the final sentence. He knew - that the concluding story was to be called <i>The Old Man of the Street</i>. - He printed out this title; printed, too, several titles of others yet to - be written—<i>Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen</i> and <i>Scheherazade - in a Livery Stable</i>, and one or two more. - </p> - <p> - His next performance I find particularly interesting in retrospect. During - the long two years of his extreme self-suppression in the vital matters of - candy, girls, and charge-accounts, Henry had firmly refused to sing. - Without a murmur he had foregone the four or five dollars a Sunday he - could easily have picked up in church quartet work, the occasional sums - from substituting in this or that male quartet and singing at funerals. It - was even more extraordinary that he should have given up, as he did, his - old habit of singing to girls. The only explanation he had ever offered of - this curious stand was the rather obscure one he gave Humphrey that - singing was 'too physical.' Whatever the real complex of motives, it had - been a rather violent, or at least a complete reaction. - </p> - <p> - But now he strode about the room, chin up, chest expanded, brows puckered, - roaring out scales and other vocalisings in his best voice. The results - naturally were somewhat disappointing, after the long silence, but he kept - at it. - </p> - <p> - He was still roaring, half an hour later, when McGibbon came anxiously in. - </p> - <p> - 'Saw Humphrey Weaver down-town,' said the editor of the <i>Gleaner</i>, - 'and he said I'd better look you up.' - </p> - <p> - An hour later McGibbon—red spots in his cheeks, a nervous glitter in - his eyes—hurried down to the <i>Gleaner</i> office with the - pencilled manuscripts of four of the 'Caliph' stories. He was hurrying - because it seemed to him highly important to get them into type. For one - thing, something might happen to them—fire, anything. For another, - it might occur to Henry to sell them to an eastern magazine. - </p> - <p> - When Humphrey came in, just before six, Henry was already well into <i>Scheherazade - in a Livery Stable</i>, and was chuckling out loud as he wrote. - </p> - <p> - Friday night was press night at the <i>Gleaner</i> office. Henry strolled - in about ten o'clock and carelessly dropped a thick roll of script on - McGibbon's desk. - </p> - <p> - That jaded editor leaned back, ran thin fingers through his tousled hair, - and wearily looked over the dishevelled, yawning, exhausted, grinning - youth before him. Never in his life had he seen an expression of such - utter happiness on a human face. - </p> - <p> - 'How many stories is this?' he asked. - </p> - <p> - 'Ten.' - </p> - <p> - 'Good Lord! That's a whole book!' - </p> - <p> - 'No—hardly. I've thought of some more. There'll be fifteen or twenty - altogether. I just thought of one, coming over here. Think I'll call it. - <i>The Story of the Man from Jerusalem</i>. It's about the life of a - little Jew storekeeper in a town like this. Struck me all of a sudden—you - know, how he must feel. I don't think I'll write it to-night—just - make a few notes so it won't get away from me.' - </p> - <p> - Bob McGibbon rose up, put on coat and hat, took, Henry firmly by the arm, - and marched him, protesting, home. - </p> - <p> - 'Now,' he said, 'you go to bed.' - </p> - <p> - 'Sure, Bob! What's the matter with you! I'm just going to jot down a few - notes———' - </p> - <p> - 'You're going to bed!' said McGibbon. - </p> - <p> - And he stood there, earnest, even grim, until Henry was undressed and - stretched out peacefully asleep.' - </p> - <p> - Henry slept until nearly three o'clock Saturday afternoon. - </p> - <h3> - 8 - </h3> - <p> - Senator Watt laid down the <i>Gleaner</i>, took off his glasses, removed - an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and said, in his low, slightly husky - voice:— - </p> - <p> - 'A really remarkable piece of work. Quite worthy of Kipling.' The - nineties, as we have already remarked, belong to Kipling. Outright. He had - to be mentioned. 'It is fresh, vivid, and remarkably condensed. The author - produces his effects with a sure swift stroke of the brush.' - </p> - <p> - The Senator rarely spoke. When he did it was always in these measured, - solid sentences, as if his words might be heard round the world and - therefore must be chosen with infinite care. After delivering himself of - this opinion he resumed his 'dry smoke' and reached for the <i>Evening - Post</i>, which lay folded back to the financial page. - </p> - <p> - 'I was sure you would think so,' said Cicely Hamlin, glancing first at the - Senator then at her aunt. 'I wish you would read it, Aunt Eleanor.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' remarked that formidable person, planting her own gold-rimmed - glasses firmly astride her rugged nose just above the point where it bent - sharply downward, picking up the paper, then lowering it to gaze with a - hint of habitual, impersonal severity at her niece. - </p> - <p> - 'Even so,' she said. 'Suppose the young man has gifts. That will hardly - make it necessary for you to cultivate him. I gather he's a bad lot.' - </p> - <p> - 'I have no intention of cultivating him,' replied Cicely, moving toward - the door, but pausing by the mantel to pat her dark ample hair into place. - She wore it low on her shapely neck. Cicely was wearing a - simple-appearing, far from inexpensive blue frock. - </p> - <p> - Madame Watt read the opening sentence of <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>, - then lowered the paper again. - </p> - <p> - 'Are you going out, Cicely?' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I expect company here.' - </p> - <p> - 'Who is coming?' - </p> - <p> - The girl compressed her lips for an instant, then:— - </p> - <p> - 'Elberforce Jenkins.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' said Madame, and raised the paper. - </p> - <p> - An electric bell rang. - </p> - <p> - Cicely came back into the room; stood by a large bowl of roses; considered - them. - </p> - <p> - The butler passed through the wide hall. A voice sounded in the distance. - The butler appeared. - </p> - <p> - 'Mr Henry Calverly calling,' he said. - </p> - <p> - Madame Watt raised her head so abruptly that her glasses fell, brought up - with a jerk at the end of a thin gold chain, and swung there. - </p> - <p> - Cicely stood motionless by the roses. - </p> - <p> - The Senator glanced up, then shifted his cigar and resumed his study of - the financial page. - </p> - <p> - 'You will hardly——' began Madame. - </p> - <p> - 'Show him into the drawing-room,' said Cicely with dignity. - </p> - <p> - The butler wavered. - </p> - <p> - Then, as if to settle all such small difficulties, Henry himself appeared - behind him, smiling naively, eagerly. - </p> - <p> - Cicely hurried forward. Her quick smile came, and the little bob of her - head. - </p> - <p> - 'How do you do?' she said brightly. 'Mr Calverly—my aunt, Madame - Watt! And my uncle, Senator Watt!' - </p> - <p> - Madame Watt arose, deliberately, not without a solid sort of majesty. She - was a presence; no other such ever appeared in Sunbury. She fixed an - uncompromising gaze on Henry. - </p> - <p> - So uncompromising was it that Cicely covered her embarrassment by moving - hurriedly toward the drawingroom, with a quick:— - </p> - <p> - 'Come right in here.' - </p> - <p> - There was no one living on this erratic earth who could have cowed Henry - on this Saturday evening. A week later, yes. But not to-night. He never - even suspected that Madame meant to cow him. In such moments as these (and - there were a good many of them in his life) Henry was incapable of - perceiving hostility toward himself. The disaster that on Tuesday had - seemed the end of the world was to-night a hazy memory of another epoch. - There were few grown or half-grown persons in Sunbury that were not - thinking on this evening of the meanest scandal in the known history of - the town and, incidentally, among others involved, of Henry Calverly; but - Henry himself was of those few. - </p> - <p> - He marched straight on Madame with cordial smile and outstretched hand. He - wrung the hand of the impassive Senator. - </p> - <p> - That worthy said, now:— - </p> - <p> - 'I have just read this first of your new series of sketches. Allow me to - tell you that I think it admirable. In the briefest possible compass you - have pictured a whole community in its petty relationships, at once tragic - and comic. There is caustic satire in this sketch, yet I find deep human - sympathy as well. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' - </p> - <p> - When, after a rather amazing outpouring of words—the thing didn't - amount to much; just a rough draft really; he hoped they'd like the next - one; it was about cauliflowers—he had disappeared into the front - room, the Senator remarked:— - </p> - <p> - 'The young man makes an excellent impression.' - </p> - <p> - 'The young man,' remarked Madame, 'is all right.' - </p> - <p> - Half an hour later the noise of the front door opening, and a voice, - caused the two young people to start up out of a breathless absorption in - the story called <i>A Kerbstone Barmecide</i>, which Henry was reading - from long strips of galley proof. He had already finished <i>The - Cauliflowers of the Caliph</i>. - </p> - <p> - For a moment Cicely's face went blank. - </p> - <p> - The butler announced:— - </p> - <p> - 'Mr Jenkins calling, Miss Cicely.' - </p> - <p> - The one who was not equal to the situation was Elbow. He stood in the - doorway, staring. - </p> - <p> - Cicely was only a moment late with her smile. - </p> - <p> - Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and - folded up the long strips of galley proof. - </p> - <p> - Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely's hand. But his small talk - had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry's nod. Cicely, nervously - active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a Country Club - dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses. - </p> - <p> - Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce - when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and - very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden - little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by - nothing at all—first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow. - </p> - <p> - Henry sat still. - </p> - <p> - Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long - moment each held the gaze. It was war. - </p> - <p> - Cicely said now, greatly confused:— - </p> - <p> - 'I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.' - </p> - <p> - There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight to - the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, and - plunged into that old song of Samuel's Lover's that has quaint charm when - delivered with spirit and humour, <i>Kitty of Coleraine</i>. - </p> - <p> - After which he sang, <i>Rory O'More</i>. He had spirit and humour aplenty - to-night. - </p> - <p> - The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for <i>The Low-Back - Car</i>. - </p> - <p> - Elbow left. - </p> - <p> - 'Why did you tell me you hadn't any stories you could bring?' Cicely - asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. - </p> - <p> - 'It was so. I didn't.' - </p> - <p> - 'You had these.' - </p> - <p> - 'No. I didn't. That's just it!' - </p> - <p> - 'But you don't mean——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes! Just since I met you!' - </p> - <p> - 'Ten stories, you said. It seems—I can't——' - </p> - <p> - 'But it's true. Three days. And nights, of course. I've been so excited!' - </p> - <p> - 'I never heard of such a thing! Though, of course, Stevenson wrote <i>Dr - Jekyll and Mr Hyde</i> in three days. But ten different stories.'... She - sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, very thoughtful, flatteringly - thoughtful. 'It sounds a little like magic.' - </p> - <p> - She was delicately pretty, sitting so still in her big chair. - </p> - <p> - 'I wrote them straight at you,' he said, low, earnest. 'Every word.' - </p> - <p> - Even Henry caught the extreme emphasis of this, and hurried to elaborate. - </p> - <p> - 'You see I was just sick Tuesday night. Everything had gone wrong with me. - And then that horrible story that wasn't true. I knew I shouldn't have - spoken of it to you, but—well, it was just driving me crazy, and I - couldn't bear to think you might despise me like the others without ever - knowing the truth. And... You see I must have felt the inspiration you... - Even then, I mean...' - </p> - <p> - He was red. He seemed to be getting himself out of breath. And he was - tugging at the roll of proofs in his pocket. - </p> - <p> - 'Shall I—finish—this?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, <i>yes!</i>' She sank into a great leather chair; looked up at him - with glowing eyes. 'I want you to read me all of them. Please!' - </p> - <p> - She said it almost shyly. - </p> - <p> - Henry drew up a chair, found his place, and read on. And on. And on. - </p> - <p> - It was victory. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VII—THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here is nothing - more unsettling than a sudden uncalculated, incalculable success. It at - once thrills, depresses, confuses. People attack with the most unexpected - venom. Others, the most unexpected others, defend with vehemence, One - feels queerly out of it, yet forlornly conspicuous. As if it were some one - else, or a dream. Innocent effort dragged to the public arena, quarrelled - over, misunderstood. One boasts and apologises in a breath; dreads the - thing will keep up and fears it will stop; finds one day it has stopped - and ever after thinks back in sentimental retrospect to the good old days, - the great days, when one did stir them up a bit. - </p> - <p> - Henry awoke on this Saturday morning to a sense of trouble that hung - heavily over him during the walk with Humphrey from the rooms to - Stanley's. Nothing of the stir reached them here. They were so late that - the restaurant was about empty. Humphrey did hear a faint, distant voice - booming, but gave no particular thought to it at the moment. And the - Stanleys went quietly about their business as usual. Henry, indeed, was - deep in his personal concern. - </p> - <p> - This found words over the oatmeal. He drew a rumpled paper from his pocket - and submitted it to his room mate. - </p> - <p> - 'Got this last night,' Henry explained moodily. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey read the following pencilled communication:— - </p> - <p> - 'Henry Calverly, can't you see that your attentions are making it hard for - a certain young lady? Do you want to injure her reputation along with - yours? Why don't you do the decent thing and leave town! - </p> - <p> - '<i>A Round Robin of People Who Know You</i>.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey pursed his lips over it. - </p> - <p> - 'It's the Mamie Wilcox trouble, of course,' he said finally. - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded. His mouth drooped at the corners. There was a shine in his - eyes. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey folded the paper; handed it back. - </p> - <p> - 'Do you know who did it?' - </p> - <p> - Henry shook his head. 'They printed it out. Oh, I can make guesses, of - course. It's about Cicely Hamlin and me.' - </p> - <p> - 'You can't do anything.' - </p> - <p> - 'I know.' - </p> - <p> - 'And maybe you're going to be so successful that it won't matter. Laugh at - 'em.' - </p> - <p> - 'I don't believe that, Hump. I can't even imagine it.' - </p> - <p> - 'At that, it may be jealousy.' - </p> - <p> - 'I've thought of that. Even if it is...' they're partly right. I didn't do - what they think, but... Don't you see, Hump?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.' - </p> - <p> - 'I've felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there to - call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.' His voice was - unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. 'I've stayed away all this - week. Just worked. You know. You've seen how I've kept at it. Until - Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was - out. And that's all. I've thought I—I've felt... Hump, do you - believe in love—you know—at first sight?' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered. - </p> - <p> - 'I ought to,' he replied. 'In a way it was like that—with me.' - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - The first of Henry's meaty, fantastic little stories of the plain folk of - the village, that one called <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>, had - appeared in the <i>Gleaner</i> of the preceding Saturday. It had made a - distinct stir. - </p> - <p> - The second story was out on this the Saturday of our present narrative. In - the order of writing, and in Henry's plans, it should have been <i>The - Cauliflowers of the Caliph</i>. But Bob McGibbon, hanging wearily over the - form in the press room late Friday night, suddenly hit on the notion of - putting <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i> in its place. He had all but the last - one or two in type by that time. There were no mechanical difficulties; - and he didn't consult the author. He could hit Charlie Waterhouse harder - this way. <i>The Cauliflowers</i> was quietly humorous; while <i>Sinbad - the Treasurer</i> had a punch. That was how McGibbon put it to the - foreman, Jimmy Albers. The word 'punch' was fresh slang then. McGibbon - himself introduced it into Sunbury. - </p> - <p> - Henry had Charlie and the town money in the back of his head, of course, - when he wrote <i>Sinbad</i>. Probably more than he himself knew. McGibbon - sniffed a sensation in the brief, vivid narrative. And a sensation of some - sort he had to have. It was now or never with McGibbon.... He was able - even to chuckle at the way Charlie would froth. He couldn't admit that the - coat fitted, of course. He would just have to froth. It was Henry's <i>naïveté</i> - that made the thing so perfect. An older man wouldn't have dared. Henry - had just naturally rushed in. Yes, it was perfect. - </p> - <p> - Bob McGibbon was a hustler. And his nervous quickness of perception had - brought him a few small successes and was to bring him larger ones. His - Sunbury disaster was perhaps later to be charged to education. - </p> - <p> - The roots of that particular failure went deep. From first to last his - attitude was that of a New Yorker in a small town. He outraged every local - prejudice; he alienated, one by one, each friendly influence. He couldn't - understand that any such village as Sunbury resents the outsider who - insists on pointing out its little human failings. It was recognised here - and there as possible that old man Boice and Mr Weston of the bank might - be covering up something in the matter of the genial town treasurer; but - there was reason enough to believe that Mr Boice and Mr Weston knew pretty - well what they were about. That, at least, was the rather equivocal - position into which McGibbon by his very energy and assertiveness, drove - many a ruffled citizen. - </p> - <p> - And it had needed very little urging on the part of the three leading - citizens (McGibbon had a trick of referring to them in his paper as 'the - Old Cinch') to bring about the boycott on the part of the Simpson Street - and South Sunbury advertisers. As Charlie Waterhouse himself put it:— - </p> - <p> - 'It ain't what he says about me. I can stand it. Man to man I can attend - to him. The thing is, he's hurtin' the town. That's it—he's hurtin' - the town.' - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - I have spoken of McGibbon's perception. He knew before reading three - paragraphs that Henry had a touch of genius. Before finishing <i>A - Kerbstone Barmecide</i> he knew—knew with a mental grasp that was - pitifully wasted on the petty business of a country weekly—that - nothing comparable had appeared anywhere in the English-speaking world - since <i>Plain Tales from the Hills and Soldiers Three</i>. He knew, - further, what no Sunbury seems ever able to recognise, that it is your - occasional Henry who, as he mentally put it, 'rings the bell.' A queer - young man, slightly dudish in dress, unable to fit in any conventional - job, unable really to fall into step with his generation, blunderingly but - incorrigibly a non-conformist, a moodily earnest yet absurdly susceptible - young man, slightly self-conscious, known here and there among those of - his age as 'sarcastic,' brilliant occasionally, dogged some of the time, - dreamy and irresponsible the rest, yet with charm. A youth who not - infrequently was guilty of queer, rather unsocial acts; not of meanness or - unkindness, rather of an inability to feel with and for others, to fit. A - youth destined to work out his salvation, if at all, alone. - </p> - <p> - Yes, McGibbon read the signs shrewdly. For which Sunbury owes that erratic - editor a small debt that remains unpaid and unrecorded to-day. No doubt - that McGibbon brought him out. Encouraged him, spurred him, held him to - it. - </p> - <p> - It was tradition in Sunbury that the two weekly papers should come - decorously into the world each Saturday morning for the first delivery of - mail. A small pile of each, toward noon was put on sale in Jackson's book - store (formerly B. F. Jones's). That was all. - </p> - <p> - And that was why McGibbon was able, on this Saturday of our story, to - shake the town. - </p> - <p> - Poor old Sunbury was shaken heavily and often that summer. First by the - Mamie Wilcox scandal. The sort of thing that didn't, couldn't happen. Men - leaving town, and all that. A miserable, hastily contrived marriage. - Henry's name dragged in, unjustly (as it happened), but convincingly. - Though Henry always worked best after some sort of a blow. He had to be - shaken out of himself. I think. It isn't likely that he could or would - have written <i>Satraps of the Simple</i> if this particular blow hadn't - fallen. It was a feverish job. He was stung, quivering, helpless. And then - his great gift functioned. - </p> - <p> - Then Madame Watt happened to Sunbury. And shook the village to its roots. - </p> - <p> - And then came Bob McGibbon's last and mightiest effort. - </p> - <p> - When all commuting Sunbury converged on the old red brick 'depot' that - morning for the seven-eleven and the seven forty-six and the eight-three - and the eight-twenty-nine, hoarsely bellowing newsboys held the two ends - of the platform. They wore cotton caps with 'The Weekly Gleaner' printed - around the front. They were big, deep-throated roughs, the sort that shout - 'extras' through the cities. They crowded the local newsdealer, little Mr - Beamer, back into one of the waiting-rooms. - </p> - <p> - They fairly intimidated the town. People bought the <i>Gleaner</i> in - self-defence, even boarded trains and rode off to Chicago without their - regular <i>Tribune</i> or <i>Record</i> or <i>Inter Ocean</i>. - </p> - <p> - Other newsmen roamed the shady, pleasant residence streets, bellowing. - Housewives, old gentlemen, servants, hurried out to buy. - </p> - <p> - There were posters on the fences, and, along the billboards from Rockwell - Park on the south to Borea on the north. McGibbon actually rented the - space from the Northern Billboard Company. And there were newsmen with - caps, in the afternoon, attacking the North Shore home-comers in the - Chicago station, the very heart of things. All this—posters - screaming like the news-men; big wood type, red and black—to - advertise <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i> and the rest of the long series and - Henry Calverly. - </p> - <p> - 'Attack' is the word. McGibbon was assaulting the town and the region as - it had hardly been assaulted before. If it was his last, it was surely his - most outrageous act from the local point of view. People talked, boiled, - raged. The blatancy of the thing irritated them to the point of impotent - mutterings. They were helpless. McGibbon was breaking no laws. He was - stirring them, however feverish his condition of mind, with deliberate - intent. It was his notion of advertising. Reaching the mark, regardless of - obstacles, indifference, difficulties. And had his personal circumstances - been less harrowing he could have chuckled happily at the result. - </p> - <p> - The noise fell upon the ear drums of Charlie Waterhouse as he walked - down-town. A ragged, red-faced pirate thrust a <i>Gleaner</i> into his - hand, snatched his nickel, and rushed off, bellowing. - </p> - <p> - Charlie began reading <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i> as he walked. He - finished it standing on the turf by the sidewalk, ignoring passing - acquaintances, nervously biting and mouthing a cigar that had gone out. In - the same condition he read bits of it again. He stood for a while, - wavering; then went back home, and spoke roughly to Mrs Waterhouse when - she asked him why. He hid the paper from her, to no particular purpose. He - didn't appear at the town hall all day, but caught a trolley into Chicago - and went to a dime museum. Later in the day he was seen by two venturesome - youths sitting alone in the rear of a stage box at Sam T. Jack's. - </p> - <p> - Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the - <i>Voice</i> office. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, apparently - buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it all after - leaving Henry at Stanley's door, and had prowled a bit, taking it in. - </p> - <p> - But Mr Boice simply made little sounds—'Hmm!' and 'mmp!' and 'Hmm!' - again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his - face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went - out. - </p> - <p> - For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director's room at the - bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly - bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:— - </p> - <p> - 'Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.' - </p> - <p> - Thus Boice. 'We'd get the stories that way. Suppress 'em.' - </p> - <p> - The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he had - suffered a week back in <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>. Everybody - within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had caught - people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new drawn head - for the <i>Voice</i>, with the phrase 'And <i>The Weekly Gleaner</i>' - neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in - Sunbury anyway. - </p> - <p> - Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What harm's - to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get him then.' - </p> - <p> - 'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?' - </p> - <p> - 'There was one note. I called that some time ago.' - </p> - <p> - 'Wha'd he do?' - </p> - <p> - 'Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can't last. - Not without advertising.' - </p> - <p> - 'But he's selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he'll begin - to pick up a little along the street.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Weston was still shaking his head. 'Better wait, Nort.' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I'll offer him a few hundred. The old <i>Gleaner</i> plant's worth - something.' - </p> - <p> - 'Of course, there's no harm in that.' - </p> - <p> - So Mr Boice crossed the street to Hemple's market and laboriously lifted - his great body up the stairway beside it to the quarters of the <i>Gleaner</i> - upstairs, where a coatless, rumpled, rather wild-eyed McGibbon listened to - him and then, with suspiciously, alert and smiling politeness, showed him - out and down again. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - The sensation struck Henry, full face, in the barber shop, Schütz and - Schwartz's, whither he went from Stanley's. Professor Hennis, of the - English department at the university, met him at the door and insisted on - shaking hands. - </p> - <p> - 'These sketches of yours, Calverly—the two I have read—are - remarkable. There is a freshness of characterisation that suggests Chaucer - to me. Sunbury will live to be proud of you.' - </p> - <p> - This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded. - </p> - <p> - Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz—fat, exuberant—said, bending - over him:— - </p> - <p> - 'Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?' And added, 'You've got 'em - excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse'll - punch your head before night. Says he'll have to. Can't sue very well.' - </p> - <p> - It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing - that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He - watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene - at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up - window of Murphy's cigar store. - </p> - <p> - Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with the - Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple's corner and up the - stairs. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon sat alone in the front office—coat off, vest open, longish - hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes - strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs stretched - out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in pockets. - </p> - <p> - He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar. - </p> - <p> - 'Great days!' he remarked dryly. 'Gee!' Henry dropped into a chair, laid - his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. 'Gee! You do know - how to get'em going!' - </p> - <p> - The cigar waved again. - </p> - <p> - 'Sure! Stir'em up! Soak it to'em! Only way.' - </p> - <p> - 'Everybody's buying it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Rather! You're a hit, son!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I don't know's I'd say that.' - </p> - <p> - 'Rats! You're a knockout. Never been anything like it. Two months of it - and they'd be throwing your name around in Union Square, N.Y. If we only - had the two months.' He sighed. - </p> - <p> - 'Why!' Henry, all nerves, caught his expression. 'What's the matter?' - </p> - <p> - 'We're-out of paper.' - </p> - <p> - 'You mean to print on?' - </p> - <p> - A nod. 'And we're out of money to buy more.' - </p> - <p> - 'But with this big sale—' - </p> - <p> - 'Costing four 'n' one-half times what we take in.' - </p> - <p> - 'But I don't see——' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money - in—whip up your sales—drive, drive, <i>drive!</i> After a - while it goes of itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're - rich. That's the way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, - and vision! Why, I know stories of the early days of—look here, what - we need is money. Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If - we can't get it, and get it quick, well'—he reached deliberately - forward, picked up a copy of the <i>Gleaner</i> and waved it high—'that—that, - my son, is the last copy of the <i>Gleaner!</i>' - </p> - <p> - Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face. - </p> - <p> - 'But my stories!' he cried. - </p> - <p> - 'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we - doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.' - </p> - <p> - 'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in Henry's - voice. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon shook his head. - </p> - <p> - 'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're helpless. - We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You hold my - note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the plant is - sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just now. Offered me - five hundred dollars. Think of it—five hundred for our plant, the - big press and everything.' - </p> - <p> - 'Wha—wha'd you say?' - </p> - <p> - 'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. Never. - Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your uncle——' - </p> - <p> - Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far beyond - the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on the edge - of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples drumming, a - flush spreading down over his cheeks. - </p> - <p> - But even in this condition, thoughts came. - </p> - <p> - One of these—or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a - sort of instinct—was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch - of guilty discomfort—hostility came hard, with Henry—yet it - was distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his - wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do. - </p> - <p> - 'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a - bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense - gestures. - </p> - <p> - 'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through—broke!' He - glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No - pay-roll—nothing! Nothing for the boys out there—or me—or - you. I've been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.' - </p> - <p> - 'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache—'for - me?' - </p> - <p> - 'Not a cent.' - </p> - <p> - 'But—but——' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was - about forty cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was - considerable. - </p> - <p> - 'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold of - that fact? Even a hundred—the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If I - could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our paper - stock in time.' - </p> - <p> - Henry heard his own voice saying:— - </p> - <p> - 'But don't business men borrow——' - </p> - <p> - 'Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn't lend me the rope to hang myself - with... Hold on there, Hen—' - </p> - <p> - For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the door. - And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:— - </p> - <p> - 'No... No!' - </p> - <p> - He said it on the stairs, where none could hear. He rushed around the - corner, around the block. Anything to keep off Simpson Street. He had a - really rather desperate struggle to keep from talking his heart out—aloud—in - the street—angrily—attacking Boice, Weston, and McGibbon in - the same breath. His feeling against McGibbon amounted to bitterness now. - But his feeling against old Boice had risen to the borders of rage. He - thought of that silent, ponderous old man, sitting at his desk in the - post-office, like a spider weaving his subtle web about the town, where - helpless little human flies crawled innocently about their uninspired - daily tasks. - </p> - <p> - So Mr Boice had offered five hundred for plant, good will, and the - stories! - </p> - <p> - No mere legal, technical claim on those stories as property, as assets, - held the slightest interest for Henry. He couldn't understand that. They - were his. He had created them, made them out of nothing—just a few - one-cent lead pencils and a lot of copy paper. Bob had snatched them away - to print them in the <i>Gleaner</i>. But they weren't Bob's. - </p> - <p> - 'They're mine!' he said aloud. 'They're mine! Old Boice shan't have them! - Never!' He caught himself then; looked about sharply, all hot emotion and - tingling nerves. - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - A little later—it was getting on toward noon—he found himself - on Filbert Avenue approaching Simpson Street. Without plan or guidance, he - was heading northward, toward the rooms. It would be necessary to cross - Simpson Street. He was fighting down the impulse to go several blocks to - the east, toward the lake, where the stores and shops gave place to homes - and lawns and shade trees, where he could slip across unnoticed; but his - feet were leading him straight toward the corner of Filbert and Simpson, - the busiest, most conspicuous corner in town, where were the hotel and - Berger's grocery and, only a few doors off, Donovan's drug store and - Swanson's flower shop and Duneen's general store and the <i>Voice</i> - office. It had come down, the warfare within him, to a question of proving - to himself that he wasn't a coward, that he could face disaster, even the - complete disaster that seemed now to be upon him. It was like the end of - the world. - </p> - <p> - In a pocket his fingers were tightly clasped about the anonymous note that - had been the cloud over his troubled sleep of the night and his gloomy - awakening of the morning. The note was now but a detail in the general - crash. He decided to press on, march straight across Simpson Street, head - high. He even brought out the note from his pocket; held it in his hand as - he walked stiffly on. It was a somewhat bitter touch of bravado, but I - find I like Henry none the less for it. - </p> - <p> - A little way short of the corner, it must be recorded, he faltered. It was - by Berger's rear door. There was a gate in the fence here, that now stood - open. Two of the Berger delivery wagons were backed in there. And right by - the gate Henry Berger himself, his ample person enveloped in a long white - apron, was opening a crate. - </p> - <p> - Henry sensed him there; flushed (for it seemed that he could not speak to - any human being now) and wrestled, in painful impotence of will, with the - idea of moving on. - </p> - <p> - But then, through a slow moment after Mr Berger said, 'How are you, - Henry!' he sensed something further; a note of good nature in the voice, a - feeling that the man was smiling, a suggestion that all the genial quality - had not, after all, been hardened out of life. - </p> - <p> - He turned; pulled at his moustache (paper in hand), and flicked at weeds - with his stick. - </p> - <p> - Mr Berger <i>was</i> smiling. He drew his hand across a sweaty brow; shook - the hand; then leaned on his hatchet. - </p> - <p> - 'Getting hot,' he remarked. - </p> - <p> - Henry tried to reply, but found himself still inarticulate. - </p> - <p> - 'Old Boice is getting after you. Plenty.' - </p> - <p> - Henry winced; but felt slightly reassured when Mr Berger chuckled. All - intercourse with Mr Berger was tempered, however, by the memory that Henry - had been caught, within the decade, stealing fruit from the cases out - front. - </p> - <p> - 'He was just here. Don't mind telling you that he's trying to get - McGibbon's creditors together and throw him into bankruptcy. Doesn't look - as if there was enough out against him, though. Got to be five hundred. It - ain't as if he had a family and was running up bills. Just living alone at - the Wombasts, like he does. But old Boice is out gunning for fair. Never - saw him quite like this. First it was the advertising boycott...' - </p> - <p> - Henry was shifting his weight from foot to foot. - </p> - <p> - 'Well,' he said now, 'I guess I'd better be getting along.' - </p> - <p> - 'I was just going to say, Henry, that you've give me a good laugh. Keep on - like this and you'll be famous some day.... And say! Hold on a minute! I - don't know's you're in a position to do anything about it, but I was just - going to say, I rather guess the old <i>Gleaner</i> could be picked up for - next to nothing right now. And there's folks here that ain't so anxious to - see Boice get the market all to hisself. Not so dam anxious.... Wait a - minute! I mean, I guess once McGibbon was got rid of the Old Boy'd find it - wouldn't be so easy to hold this boycott together. There's folks that - would break away—— Well, that's about all that was on my mind. - Only I'd sorta hate to see your yarns suppressed. They're grand reading, - Henry. My wife like to 'a' died over that one last week—<i>The - Sultan of Simpson Street</i>.' - </p> - <p> - '“Caliph!”' said Henry, with a nervous eagerness. '<i>The Caliph of - Simpson Street</i>.' - </p> - <p> - 'Touched up old Norton P. for fair. Made him sorer 'n a goat. My wife's - literary, and she says it's worthy of Poe. And you ought to hear the - people talking to-day about this new one.' - </p> - <p> - '<i>Sinbad the Treasurer!</i>' said Henry quickly, fearing another - misquotation: - </p> - <p> - 'Yay-ah. That. Ain't had time to read it yet myself. They say it's great.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—good-bye,' said Henry, and moved stiffly away toward the - corner. - </p> - <p> - 'Funny!' mused the grocer,' looking after him. 'These geniuses never have - any business sense. I give him a real opening there.' - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - Simpson Street was always crowded of a Saturday morning with thoughtful - housewives. The grocers and butchers bustled about. The rows of display - racks along the sidewalk were heaped with fresh vegetables and fruits. - </p> - <p> - The majority of the shoppers came afoot, but the kerb was lined with - buggies, surries, neat station wagons and dog-carts, crowded in between - the delivery wagons. Sunbury boasted, as well, a number of Stanhopes, a - barouche or two, and several landaus. The Jenkins family, among its - several members, had a stable full of horses and ponies. William B. Snow - owned a valuable chestnut team with silver-mounted harness. Here and there - along the street one might have seen, on this occasion, several vehicles - that might well have been described as smart. - </p> - <p> - But Sunbury had never seen anything like the equipage that, at a quarter - to twelve—a little late for selective shopping in those days—came - rolling smoothly, silently, on its rubber-shod wheels across the tracks - and past the post-office, Nelson's bakery, the Sunbury National Bank, - Duneen's and Donovan's to Swanson's flower shop. - </p> - <p> - Never, never had Sunbury seen anything quite like that. Mr Berger, - hurrying through to the front of his store, stopped short, stared out - across the street and after a breathless moment breathed the words, 'Holy - Smoke!' Women stood motionless, holding heads of lettuce, boxes of - raspberries and what not, and gazed in an amazement that was actually long - minutes in reaching the normal mental state of critical appraisal. - </p> - <p> - The carriage was a Victoria, hung very low, varnished work glistening - brilliantly in the sunshine. It was upholstered conspicuously in plum - colour. The horses were jet black, glossy, perfectly matched, checked up - so high that the necks arched prettily if uncomfortably; and they had - docked tails. The harness they wore was mounted with a display of silver - that made the silver on William B. Snow's team, standing just below - Donovan's, look outright inconspicuous. - </p> - <p> - Leaning back in luxurious comfort as the carriage came so softly along the - street, holding up a parasol of black lace, overshadowing her niece, - pretty little Cicely Hamlin, who sat beside her, Madame Watt, her large - person dressed with costly simplicity in black with a touch of colour at - the throat, square of face, with an emphatic chin, a strongly hooked nose, - penetrating black eyes, surveyed the street with a commanding dignity, an - assertive dignity, if the phrase may be used. Or it may have been that a - touch of self-consciousness within her showed through the enveloping - dignity and made you think about it. Certainly there was a final - outstanding reason for self-consciousness, even in the case of Madame - Watt; for on the high box in front visible for blocks above the traffic of - the street, sat, in wooden perfection as in plum-coloured livery, side by - side, a coachman and a footman. - </p> - <p> - At Swanson's the footman leaped nimbly down and stood rigid by the step - while Madame heavily descended and passed across the walk and into the - shop. - </p> - <p> - The street lifted. Women's tongues moved briskly. Trade was resumed. - </p> - <p> - A pretty girl in the most wonderful carriage ever seen—a new girl, - at that, bringing a stir of quickened interest to the younger set—is - a magnet of considerable attracting power. Young people appeared—from - nowhere, it seemed—and clustered about the carriage. Two couples - hurried from the soda fountain in Donovan's. The de Casselles boys were - passing on their way from the Country Club courts (which were still on the - old grounds, down near the lake) in blazer coats and with expensive - rackets in wooden presses. Alfred Knight was out collecting for the bank, - and happened to be near. Mary Ames and Jane Bellman came over from - Berger's, where Mary was scrutinising cauliflowers with a cool eye. - </p> - <p> - It was at this moment that Henry reached the corner by Berger's, paused, - hopelessly, confused and torn in the swirl of success and disaster that - marked this painful day, fighting down that mad impulse to talk out loud - his resentments in a passionate torrent of words, saw the carriage, the - girl in it and the crowd about it in one nervous glance, then, suddenly - pale, lips tightly compressed, moved doggedly forward across the street. - </p> - <p> - He had nearly reached the opposite kerb—not turning; with the ugly - little note that was clasped in his left hand, he could not trust himself - to bow, he felt a miserable sort of relief that the distance might excuse - his appearing not to see; and there had to be an excuse, or it would look - to some like cowardice—when an errant summer breeze wandered around - the corner and seized on his straw hat. - </p> - <p> - He felt it lifting; dropped his stick; reached then after both hat and - stick and in doing so nearly dropped the paper. In another moment he was - to be seen, desperately white, stick in one hand, a slip of paper in the - other, running straight down Simpson Street after his hat, which whirled, - sailed, rolled, sailed again, circled, and settled in the dust not two - rods from the Watt carriage. The street, as streets, will, turned to look. - </p> - <p> - Henry lunged for the hat. It lifted, and rolled a little way on. He lunged - again. It whirled over and over, then rolled rapidly straight down the - street, just missing the hoofs of a delivery horse, passing under Mr - George F. Smith's buggy without touching either horse or wheels, and - sailed on. - </p> - <p> - Henry fell to one knee in his second plunge. And his pallor gave place to - a hot flush. - </p> - <p> - Laughter came to his ears—jeering laughter. And it came - unquestionably from the group about the Watt carriage. The first voices - were masculine. Before he could get to his feet one or two of the girls - had joined in. In something near despair of the spirit, helplessly, he - looked up. - </p> - <p> - The whole group, still laughing, turned away. All, that is, but one. - Cicely was not laughing. She was leaning a little forward, looking right - at him, not even smiling, her lips parted slightly. He was too far gone - even to speculate as to what her expression meant. It fell upon him as the - final blow. He ran on and on. In front of Hemple's market a boy stopped - the hat with his foot. Henry, trembling with rage, took it from him, - muttered a word of thanks, and rushed, followed by curious eyes, around - the corner to the north. - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - Humphrey found him, a little before one, at the rooms, and thought he - looked ill. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a small - newspaper clipping. He looked up, through his doorway, saw his friend - standing in the living-room, mumbled a colourless greeting, and let his - heavy eyes fall again. - </p> - <p> - 'What's all this?' asked Humphrey, with a rather weary, wrinkly smile. - </p> - <p> - Henry got up then and came slowly into the living-room. - </p> - <p> - 'It's this,' he explained, in a voice that was husky and light, without - its usual body. 'This thing. I've had it quite a while.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey read:— - </p> - <p> - Positively No Commission HEIRS CAN BORROW On or sell their individual - estate, income or future inheritance; lowest rates; strictly confidential - Heirs' Loan Office. - </p> - <p> - And an address. - </p> - <p> - 'What on earth are you doing with this, Hen?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, Hump, there's still a little more'n three thousand dollars in my - legacy. I got a thousand this summer, you know, and lent it to McGibbon - for my interest in the paper. But my uncle said he wouldn't give me a cent - more until I'm twenty-one, in November. And so I was wondering... Look - here! How much do you suppose I could get out of it from these people. - They're all right, you see? - </p> - <p> - They've got a regular office and——' - </p> - <p> - 'You'd just about get out with your underwear and shoes, Hen. They might - leave you a necktie. What do you want it for—throw it in after the - thousand?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, McGibbon's broke——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I know. They're saying on the street that Boice has got the <i>Gleaner</i> - already. Two compositors and your foreman were in our place half an hour - ago asking for work. Boice went right down there. I saw him start climbing - the stairs.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's his second trip this morning, then, Hump. He offered Bob five - hundred.' - </p> - <p> - 'But it ought to be worth a few thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'Sure. And except for there not being any money it's going great. You'd be - surprised! You know it's often that way. Bob says many a promising - business has gone under just because they didn't have the money to tide it - over a tight place. But he's getting the circulation. You've no idea! And - when you get that you're bound to get the advertisers. Sooner or later. - Bob says they just have to fall in line.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey appeared to be only half listening to this eager little torrent - of words. He deliberately filled his pipe; then moved over to a window and - gazed soberly out at the back yard of the parsonage. - </p> - <p> - Henry, moody again, was staring at the advertisement, fairly hypnotising - himself with it. - </p> - <p> - 'Great to think of the Old Man having to climb those stairs twice,' - Humphrey remarked, without turning. Then: 'Even with all the trouble - you're going through, Hen, you're lucky not to be working for Boice. He - does wear on one.' - </p> - <p> - He smoked the pipe out. Then, brow's knit, his long swarthy face wrinkled - deeply with thought, he walked slowly over to the door of his own bedroom - and leaned there, studying the interior. - </p> - <p> - 'There's three thousand dollars' worth of books in here,' he remarked. 'Or - close to it. Even at second hand they'd fetch something. You see, it's - really a well built, pretty complete little scientific library. Now come - downstairs.' - </p> - <p> - He had to say it again: 'Come on downstairs.' - </p> - <p> - Henry followed, then; hardly aware of the oddity of Humphrey's actions. - </p> - <p> - In the half-light that sifted dustily in through the high windows, the - metal lathes, large and small, the tool benches, the two large reels of - piano wire, the rows of wall boxes filled with machine jars, the round - objects that might have been electric motors hanging by twisted strings or - wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels of various sizes - mounted in frames, some with wooden handles at one side, the big box kites - and the wood-and-silk planes stacked at one end of the room, the gas - engine mounted at the other end, the water motor in a corner, the wheels, - shafts and belting overhead—all were indistinct, ghostly. And all - were covered with dust. - </p> - <p> - 'See!' Humphrey waved his pipe. 'I've done no work here for six weeks. And - I shan't do any for a good while. I can't. It takes leisure—long-evenings—Sundays - when you aren't disturbed by a soul. And at that it means years and years, - working as I've had to. You know, getting out the <i>Voice</i> every week. - You know how it's been with me, Hen. People are going to fly some day, - Hen. As sure as we're walking now. Pretty soon. Chanute—Langley—they - know! Those are Chanute gliders over there. By the kites. I've never told - you; I've worked with 'em, moonlight nights, from the sand-dunes away up - the beach. I've got some locked in an old boat-house up there, Hen'—he - stood, very tall, a reminiscent, almost eager light in eyes that had been - dull of late, a gaunt strong hand resting affectionately on a gyroscope—'I've - flown over six hundred feet! Myself! Gliding, of course. Got an awful - ducking, but I did it. - </p> - <p> - 'But it takes money, Hen. I've thought I could be an inventor and do my - job besides. Maybe I could. Maybe some day I'll succeed at it. But I've - just come to see what it needs. Material, workmen, time—Hen, you've - got to have a real shop and a real pay-roll to do it right. And... - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I'm not telling you the truth, Hen! Not the real truth!' - </p> - <p> - He took to walking around now, making angular gestures. Henry, watching - him, coming slowly alive now to the complex life that was flowing around - him, found himself confronted by a new, disturbed Humphrey. He had, during - the year and more of their friendship, taken him for granted as an older, - steadier influence, had leaned on him more than he knew. He had been a - rock for the erratic Henry to cling to in the confusing, unstable swirl of - life. - </p> - <p> - 'Hen'—Humphrey turned on him—'you don't know, but I'm going to - be married.' - </p> - <p> - Henry's jaw sagged. - </p> - <p> - 'It's Mildred, of course. - </p> - <p> - 'It's going to be hard on the little woman, Hen. She's got to get her - divorce. She can't take money from her husband, of course; and she's only - got a little. She'll need me.' His voice grew a thought unsteady; he waved - his pipe, as if to indicate and explain the machinery. 'We've got to - strike out—take the plunge—you know, make a little money. It's - occurred to me... This machinery's worth more than the library, in a - pinch. And I've got two bonds left. Just two. They're money, of - course...... Hen, you said you <i>lent</i> that thousand to McGibbon?' - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded. 'He gave me his note.' - </p> - <p> - 'Let's see it.' - </p> - <p> - Henry ran up the stairs, and returned with a pasteboard box file, which, - not without a momentary touch of pride in his quite new business sense, he - handed to his friend. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey glanced at the carefully printed-out phrase on the back—'Henry - Calverly, 3rd. Business Affairs'—but did not smile. He opened it and - ran through the indexed leaves. It appeared to be empty. - </p> - <p> - 'Look under “Me,”' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - The note was there. 'For three months,' Humphrey mused aloud. - </p> - <p> - Then he smiled. There was a whimsical touch in Humphrey that his few - friends knew and loved. Even in this serious crisis it did not desert him. - I believe it was even stronger then. - </p> - <p> - 'Hen,' he said, 'got a quarter?' - </p> - <p> - The smile seemed to restore the rock that Henry had lately clung to. He - found himself returning the smile, faintly but with a growing warmth. He - replied, 'Just about.' - </p> - <p> - 'Match me!' cried Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'What for?' - </p> - <p> - 'To settle a very important point. Somebody's name has got to come first. - Best two out of three.' - </p> - <p> - 'But I don't——' - </p> - <p> - 'Match me! No—it's mine!... Now I'll match you—mine again! I - win. Well—that's settled!' - </p> - <p> - 'What's settled? I don't——-' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey sat on a tool bench; swung his legs; grinned. 'Life moves on, - Hen,' he said. 'It's a dramatic old world.' - </p> - <p> - And Henry, puzzled, looking at him, laughed excitedly. - </p> - <h3> - 8 - </h3> - <p> - It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Simpson Street was quiet after the - brisk business of the morning. The air quivered up from the pavement in - the still heat. The occasional people about the street moved slowly. The - collars of the few visible tradesmen were soft rags around their necks and - they mopped red faces with saturated handkerchiefs. The morning breeze had - died; the afternoon breeze would drift in at four o'clock or so; until - which time Sunbury ladies took their naps and Sunbury business men dozed - at their desks. Saturday closing had not made much headway at this period, - though the still novel game of golf was beginning to work its mighty - change in small-town life. - </p> - <p> - Through this calm scene, absorbed in their affairs, unaware of the heat, - strode Humphrey and Henry—down past the long hotel veranda, where - the yellow rocking chairs stood in endless empty rows, past Swanson's and - Donovan's and Jackson's book store to the meat market and then, rapidly, - up the long stairway. - </p> - <p> - They found McGibbon with his long legs stretched out under his desk, hands - deep in pockets, thin face lined and weary, but eyes nervously bright as - always. He was in his shirt-sleeves, of course. His drab brown hair seemed - a little longer and even more ragged than usual where it met his wilted - collar. - </p> - <p> - But he grinned at them, and waved a long hand. - </p> - <p> - 'My God!' he cried, 'but it's good to see a human face. Look!' His hand - swept around, indicating the dusty, deserted desks and the open press-room - door. It was still out there; not a man hummed or whistled as he clicked - type into his stick, not one of the four job presses rumbled out its - cheerful drone of industry. - </p> - <p> - 'Rats all gone!' McGibbon added. 'But the Caliph was up again.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' Henry, who found himself suddenly and deeply moved, breathed - softly, 'we know.' - </p> - <p> - 'Came up a hundred. He'll pay six hundred now. For all this. An actual - investment of more'n four thousand.' The hand waved again. 'It's amusing. - He doesn't know I'm on to him. You see the old fox's been nosing around to - get up a petition to throw me into involuntary bankruptcy, but he can't - find any creditors. Has to be five hundred dollars, you know.' - </p> - <p> - 'What did you say to him?' asked Humphrey, thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - 'Showed him out. Second time to-day. It was a hard climb for him, too. He - did puff some.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey slowly drew a large envelope from an inner pocket and laid it on - the table at his elbow. - </p> - <p> - McGibbon eyed it alertly. - </p> - <p> - 'Here!' he said, his hand moving up toward the row of four or five cigars - that projected from a vest pocket, 'smoke up, you fellows.' - </p> - <p> - Henry shook his head. Humphrey drew out his pipe; then raised his head, - and said quietly:— - </p> - <p> - 'Listen!' - </p> - <p> - There came the unmistakable sound of heavy feet on the stairs. Steadily, - step by step, a slowly moving body mounted. - </p> - <p> - Then, framed in the doorway, stood the huge bulk of Norton P. Boice, - breathless, red, and wet of face, his old straw hat pushed back, his - yellowish-white, wavy beard covering his necktie and the upper part of his - roundly protruding, slightly spotted vest, against which the heavy watch - chain with its dangling fraternal insignia stood out prominently. - </p> - <p> - Boice's eyes, nearly expressionless, finally settled on Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'What are you doing here?' he asked, between puffs. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's only reply was a slight impatient gesture. - </p> - <p> - 'You oughta be at your desk.' - </p> - <p> - Then he came into the room. Of the three men seated there Humphrey was the - only one who knew by certain small external signs, that the Caliph of - Simpson Street was blazing with wrath. For here was his own hired - lieutenant hobnobbing with the boy whose agile, irresponsible pen had made - him the laughing stock of the township and with the intemperate rival who - had first attacked and then defied him. And then he had just climbed the - stairs for the third and what he meant to be the last time. - </p> - <p> - He came straight to business. - </p> - <p> - 'Have you decided to accept my offer?' - </p> - <p> - 'Sit down,' said McGibbon, pushing a chair over with his foot. - </p> - <p> - Boice ignored this final bit of insolence. - </p> - <p> - 'Have you decided to accept my offer?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well'—McGibbon shrugged; spread out his hands—'I've decided - nothing, but as it looks now I may find myself forced to accept it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Then I suggest that you accept it now.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well——' the hands went out again. - </p> - <p> - 'Wait a moment,' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'I think you had better go back to the office,' Boice broke in. - </p> - <p> - 'Shortly. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch, Mr Boice. But - first I have business here.' - </p> - <p> - '<i>You</i> have business!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' Humphrey opened the large envelope. 'Here, McGibbon, is your note - to Henry for one thousand dollars, due in November.' - </p> - <p> - Before their eyes, deliberately, he tore it up, leaned over McGibbon's - legs with an, 'I beg your pardon!' and dropped the pieces in the - waste-basket. Next he produced a folded document engraved in green and red - ink. 'Here,' he concluded, 'is a four per cent, railway bond that stands - to-day at a hundred two and a quarter in the market. That's our price for - the <i>Gleaner</i>.' - </p> - <p> - McGibbon's nervous eyes followed the movements of Humphrey's hands as if - fascinated. During the hush that followed he sat motionless, chin on - breast. Then, slowly, he drew in his legs, straightened up, reached for - the bond, turned it over, opened it and ran his eye over the coupons, - looked up and remarked:— - </p> - <p> - 'The paper's yours.' - </p> - <p> - 'Then, Mr Boice,' said Humphrey, 'the next issue of the <i>Gleaner</i> - will be published by Weaver and Calverly, and the stories you object to - will run their course.' - </p> - <p> - But Mr Boice, creaking deliberately over the floor, was just disappearing - through the doorway.' - </p> - <h3> - 9 - </h3> - <p> - The sunlight was streaming in through the living-room of the barn back of - the old Parmenter place. Outside the maple leaves were rustling gently. - Through the quiet air came the slow booming of the First Presbyterian bell - across the block. From greater distances came the higher pitched bell of - the Baptist Church, down on Filbert Avenue, and the faint note from the - Second Presbyterian over on the West Side, across the tracks. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey had made coffee and toast. They sat at an end of the centre - table. Humphrey in bath-robe and slippers, Henry fully dressed in his blue - serge suit, neat silk four-in-hand tie, stiff white collar and carefully - polished shoes. - </p> - <p> - 'Where are you going with all that?' Humphrey asked. - </p> - <p> - Henry hesitated; flushed a little. - </p> - <p> - 'To church,' he finally replied. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's surprise was real. There had been a time, before they came to - know each other, when the boy had sung bass in the quartet at the Second - Presbyterian. But since that period he had not been a church-goer. Henry - had been quiet all evening, and now this morning. He seemed all boxed up - within himself. Preoccupied. As if the triumph over old Boice had merely - opened up the way to new responsibilities. Which, for that matter, was - just what it had done—done to both of them. Humphrey, not being - given to prying, would have let the subject drop here, had not Henry - surprised him by breaking hotly forth into words. - </p> - <p> - 'It's my big fight, Hump!' he was saying now. 'Don't you see! This town. - All they say. Look here!' He laid a rumpled bit of paper on the table. As - if he had been holding it ready in his hand.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, that letter,' said Humphrey. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. It's what I've got to fight. And I've got to win. Don't you see?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' Humphrey replied gravely, 'I see.' - </p> - <p> - 'I think,' said Henry, 'it's being in love that's going to help me. We've - got to hold our heads up, you and I. Build the <i>Gleaner</i> into a real - property. Win confidence. And there mustn't be any doubt. The way we step - out and fight, you know. I've got to stand with you.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's eyes strayed to the sunlit window. He suppressed a little sigh. - </p> - <p> - 'This note's right enough, in a way,' Henry went on. 'It wouldn't be fair - to compromise her.' He leaned earnestly over the table. 'It's really a - hopeless love. I know that, Hump. But it isn't like the others.' It makes - me feel ashamed of them. All of them. I've got to show her, or at least - show myself, that it's this love that has made a man of me. Without asking - anything, you know.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey listened in silence as the talk ran on. The boy was changing, no - question about that. Even back of the romantic strain that was colouring - his attitude, the suggestion of pose in it, there was real evidence of - this change. At least his fighting blood was up. And he was taking - punishment. - </p> - <p> - Sitting there sipping his coffee, Humphrey, half listening, soberly - considered his younger friend. Henry was distinctly odd, a square peg in a - round world. He was capable of curiously outrageous acts, yet most of them - seemed to arise from a downright inability to sense the common attitude, - to feel with his fellows. He could be heedless, neglectful, self-centred; - but Humphrey had never found meanness or unkindness in him. And he was - capable of a passionate generosity. He had, indeed, for Humphrey, the - fascination that an erratic and ingenuous but gifted person often exerts - on older, steadier natures. You could be angry at him; but you couldn't - get over the feeling that you had to take care of him. And it always - seemed, even when he was out and out exasperating, that the thing that was - the matter with him was the very quality that underlay his astonishing - gifts; that he was really different from others; the difference ran all - through, from his unexpected, rather self-centred ways of acting and - reacting clear up to the fact that he could write what other people - couldn't write. 'If they could,' thought Humphrey now, shrewdly, 'very - likely they'd be different too.' Take this business of dressing up like a - born suburbanite and going to church. It was something of a romantic - gesture, But that wasn't all it was. The fight was real, whatever - unexpected things it might lead him to do from day to day. - </p> - <p> - Herbert de Casselles, wooden-faced, dressed impeccably in frock coat, - heavy 'Ascot' tie, gray striped trousers perfectly creased, (Henry had - never owned a frock coat) ushered him half-way down the long aisle to a - seat in Mrs Ellen F. Wilson's pew. He felt eyes on him as he walked, - imagined whispers, and set his face doggedly against them all. He had set - out in a sort of fervor; but now the thing was harder to do than he had - imagined. The people looked cold and hostile. It was to be a long fight. - He might never win. The more successful he might come to be, the more some - of them would hate him and fight him down... It was queer, Herb de - Casselles ushering him. - </p> - <p> - The organist slid on to his seat, up in the organ loft behind the pulpit; - spread out his music and turned up the corners; pulled and pushed on stops - and couplers; glanced up into his narrow mirror; adjusted his tie; fussed - again with the stops; began to play. - </p> - <p> - Henry sat up stiffly, even boldly, and looked about. Across the church, in - a pew near the front, sat the Watts: the Senator, on the aisle, looking - curiously insignificant with his meek, red face and his little, slightly - askew chin beard; Madame Watt sitting wide and high over him, like a stout - hawk, chin up, nose down, beady eyes fixed firmly on the pulpit; Cicely - Hamlin almost fragile beside her, eyes downcast—or was she looking - at the hymns? - </p> - <p> - When Cicely was talking, with her nervous eagerness, her quick smile, her - almost Frenchy gestures, she seemed gay. When in repose, as now, her - delicate sensitiveness, her slightly sad expression, were evident, even to - Henry. - </p> - <p> - Made him feel in the closing scene of <i>The Prisoner of Zenda</i>, where - he was bidding the Princess who could never be his a last farewell; the - mere sight of her thrilled him with a deep romantic sorrow. - </p> - <p> - Through the prayers, the announcements, the choir numbers and collection, - his sacrificial mood grew more and more intense. It was something of a - question whether he could hide his emotion before all these hostile - people. The long fight ahead to rebuild his name in the village loomed - larger and larger, began to take on an aspect that was almost terrifying. - For the first time to-day he felt weakness but she made him feel something - as Sothem had made in his heart. He sat very quiet, hands clenched on his - knees, and unconsciously thrust out his chin a little. - </p> - <p> - When the doxology was sung and his head was bowed for the benediction, he - had to struggle with a mad impulse to rush out, run down the aisle while - people were picking up their hats and things. The thing to do, of course, - was to take his time, be natural, move out with the rest. This he did, - blazing with self-consciousness, his chin forward. - </p> - <p> - It was difficult. Several persons—older persons, who had known his - mother—stopped him and congratulated him on the brilliant work he - was doing. This in the midst of the unuttered hostility that seemed like - hundreds of little barbed darts penetrating his skin from every side. He - could only blush and mumble. Elderly, innocent Mrs Bedford of Filbert - Avenue actually introduced him to her nieces from Boston as a young man of - whom all Sunbury was proud. He had to blush and mumble here for a long - time, while the line of people crowded decorously past. - </p> - <p> - At last he got to the door. Stiffly raising his hat as one or two groups - of young people recognised him, he moved out to the sidewalk. There he - raised his eyes. They met, for a fleeting instant, but squarely, over Herb - de Casselles' shoulder, the dark eyes of Cicely Hamlin. - </p> - <p> - She was sitting on the little forward seat in the black-and-plum Victoria. - Madame Watt was settling herself in the back seat. The Senator was - stepping in. The plum-coloured footman stood stiffly by. The plum-coloured - driver sat stiffly on the box. - </p> - <p> - Herb de Casselles turned, with a wry smile. - </p> - <p> - Henry raised his hat, bit his lip, hesitated, hurried on. - </p> - <p> - Then he heard her voice. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Mr Calverly!' - </p> - <p> - He had to turn back. He knew he was fiery red. He knew, too, that in this - state of tortured bewilderment he couldn't trust his tongue for a moment. - </p> - <p> - Cicely leaned out, with outstretched hand. - </p> - <p> - He had to take it. The thrill the momentary touch of it gave, him but - added a wrench to the torture. Then the Senator's hand had to be taken; - finally Madame's. - </p> - <p> - His pulse was racing; pounding at his temples. What did all this mean! - </p> - <p> - Cicely, her own colour up a little, speaking quickly, her face lighting - up, her hands moving, cried:— - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Mr Calverly! We heard this morning that the <i>Gleaner</i> has failed - and that Mr Boice has it and we aren't to see your stories any more.' - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said Henry, a faint touch of assurance appearing in his heart, mind, - voice, 'that isn't so. Mr Boice hasn't got it. We've got it—Humphrey - Weaver and I.' - </p> - <p> - 'You mean you have purchased it?' This from the Senator. - </p> - <p> - 'Yay-ah, We bought it yesterday.' - </p> - <p> - 'No!' cried Cicely. 'Really?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yay-ah. We bought it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Then,' commented the Senator, 'you must permit me indeed to congratulate - you. It is unusual to find business acumen and enterprise combined with - such a literary talent as yours.' - </p> - <p> - This was pleasing, if stilted. It was beginning to be possible for Henry - to smile. - </p> - <p> - Then Cicely clinched matters. - </p> - <p> - 'You promised to come and read me the others, Mr Calverly. Oh, but you - did! You must come. Really! Let me see—I know I shall be at home - to-morrow evening.' - </p> - <p> - Then, for a moment, Cicely seemed to falter. She turned questioningly to - her aunt. - </p> - <p> - Madame Watt certainly knew the situation. She had heard Henry discussed in - relation to the Mamie Wilcox incident. She knew how high feeling was - running in the village. Just what her motives were, I cannot say. Perhaps - it was her tendency to make her own decisions and if possible to make - different decisions from those of the folk about her. The instinct to - stand out aggressively in all matters was strong within her. And she liked - Henry. The flare of extreme individuality in him probably reached her and - touched a curiously different strain of extreme individuality within - herself. She hated sheep. Henry was not a sheep. - </p> - <p> - As for Cicely's part of it, I know she had been thrilled when Henry read - her the first ten stories. She had read more than the Sunbury girls; and - she saw more in his oddities than they were capable of seeing. To fail in - any degree to conform to the prevailing customs and thought was to be - ridiculous in Sunbury. But she had no more forgotten the jeers that had - followed Henry from this very carriage as he chased his hat down Simpson - Street the preceding day than had Henry himself. Nor had she forgotten - that Herbert de Casselles had been one of that unkind group. And as she - certainly knew what she was about, despite her impulsiveness, I prefer to - think that her action was deliberately kind and deliberately brave. - </p> - <p> - 'Come to dinner,' said Madame Watt shortly but with a sort of rough - cordiality. 'Seven o'clock. To-morrow evening. Informal dress. All right, - Watson.' - </p> - <p> - Cicely settled back, her eyes bright; but gave Henry only the same - suddenly impersonal little nod of good-bye that she gave Herbert de - Casselles. - </p> - <p> - The footman leaped to the box. The remarkable carriage rolled luxuriously - away on its rubber tyres. - </p> - <p> - Henry turned, grinning in foolish happiness, on the young man in the frock - coat who had not been asked to dinner. - </p> - <p> - 'Walking up toward Simpson, Herb?' he asked. - </p> - <p> - 'Me—why—no, I'm going this way.' And Herb pointed hurriedly - southward. - </p> - <p> - 'Well—so long!' said Henry, and headed northward. - </p> - <p> - The warm sunlight filtered down through the dense foliage. Birds twittered - up there. The church procession moving slowly along was brightly dressed; - pleasant to see. Henry, head up, light of foot, smiling easily when this - or that person, after a moment's hesitation, bowed to him, listened to the - birds, expanded his chest in answer to the mellowing sunshine, and gave - way, with a fresh little thrill, to the thought:— - </p> - <p> - 'I must buy a frock coat for to-morrow night.' - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VIII—THIS BUD OF LOVE - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was mid-August - and twenty minutes to eight in the evening. The double rows of maples - threw spreading shadows over the pavement, sidewalk and lawns of Hazel - Avenue. From dim houses, set far back amid trees and shrubs, giving a homy - village quality to the darkness, came through screened doors and curtained - 'bay' windows the yellow glow of oil lamps and the whiter shine of - electric lights. Here and there a porch light softly illuminated a group - of young people; their chatter and laughter, with perhaps a snatch of - song, floating pleasantly out on the soft evening air. Around on a side - street, sounding faintly, a youthful banjoist with soft fingers and - inadequate technique was struggling with <i>The March Past</i>. - </p> - <p> - Moving in a curious, rather jerky manner along the street, now walking - swiftly, nervously, now hesitating, even stopping, in some shadowy spot, - came a youth of twenty (going on twenty-one). He wore—though all - these details were hardly distinguishable even in the patches of light at - the street corners, where arc lamps sputtered whitely—neatly pressed - white trousers, a 'sack' coat of blue serge, a five-dollar straw hat, silk - socks of a pattern and a silken 'four-in-hand' tie. He carried a cane of - thin bamboo that he whipped and flicked at the grass and rattled lightly - along the occasional picket fence except when he was fussing at the light - growth on his upper lip. Under his left arm was a square package that any - girl of Sunbury would have recognised instantly, even in the shadows, as a - two-pound box of Devoe's chocolates. - </p> - <p> - If you had chanced to be a resident of Sunbury at this period you would - have known that the youth was Henry Calverly, 3rd. Though you might have - had no means of knowing that he was about to 'call' on Cicely Hamlin. Or, - except perhaps from his somewhat spasmodic locomotion, that he was in a - state of considerable nervous excitement. - </p> - <p> - Not that Henry hadn't called on many girls in his day. He had. But he had - called only once before on Cicely (the other time had been that invitation - to dinner for which her aunt was really responsible) and had then, in a - burning glow of temperament, read her his stories! - </p> - <p> - How he had read! And read! And read! Until midnight and after. She had - been enthusiastic, too. - </p> - <p> - But he wasn't in a glow now. Certain small incidents had lately brought - him to the belief that Cicely Hamlin lacked the pairing-off instinct so - common among the young of Sunbury. She had been extra nice to him; true. - But the fact stood that she was not 'going with' him. Not in the Sunbury - sense of the phrase. A baffling, disturbing aura of impersonally pleasant - feeling held him at a distance. - </p> - <p> - So he was just a young fellow setting forth, with chocolates, to call on a - girl. A girl who could be extra nice to you and then go out of her way to - maintain pleasant acquaintance with the others, your rivals, your enemies. - Almost as if she felt she had been a little too nice and wished to strike - a balance; at least he had thought of that. A girl who had been reared - strangely in foreign convents; who didn't know <i>The Spanish Cavalier</i> - or <i>Seeing Nellie Home</i> or <i>Solomon Levi</i>, yet did know, - strangely, that the principal theme in Dvorak's extremely new 'New World' - symphony was derived from <i>Swing Low, Sweet Chariot</i> (which - illuminating fact had stirred Henry to buy, regardless, the complete piano - score of that symphony and struggle to pick out the themes on Humphrey's - piano at the rooms). A girl who had never seen De Wolf Hopper in <i>Wang</i>, - or the Bostonians in <i>Robin Hood</i>, or Sothem in The Prisoner of - Zenda, or Maude Adams or Ethel Barrymore or <i>anything</i>. A girl who - had none of the direct, free and easy ways of the village young; you - couldn't have started a rough-house with her—mussed her hair, or - galloped her in the two-step. A girl who wasn't stuck up, or anything like - that, who seemed actually shy at times, yet subtly repressed you, made you - wish you could talk like the fellow's that had gone to Harvard. - </p> - <p> - In view of these rather remarkable facts I think it really was a tribute - to Cicely Hamlin that the many discussions of her as a conspicuous - addition to the youngest set had boiled down to the single descriptive - adjective, 'tactful.' Though the characterisation seems not altogether - happy; for the word, to me, connotes something of conscious skill and - management—as my Crabb put it: 'TACTFUL. See Diplomatic'—and - Cicely was not, certainly not in those days, a manager. - </p> - <p> - Henry, muttered softly, as he walked. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll hand it to her when she comes in. - </p> - <p> - 'No, she'll shake hands and it might get in the way. - </p> - <p> - 'Put it on the table—that's the thing!—on a corner where - she'll see it. - </p> - <p> - 'Then some time when we can't think of anything to talk about, I'll say—“Thought - you might like a few chocolates.” Sorta offhand. Prevent there being a - lull in the conversation. - </p> - <p> - 'Better begin calling her Cicely.' - </p> - <p> - 'Why not? Shucks! Can't go on with “You” and “Say!” Why can't I just do it - naturally? The way Herb would, or Elbow, or those fellows. - </p> - <p> - '“How'd' you do, Cicely! Come on, let's take a walk.” - </p> - <p> - 'No. “Good-evening, Cicely. I thought maybe you'd like to take a walk. - There's a moonrise over the lake about half-past eight.” That's better. - </p> - <p> - 'Wonder if Herb'll be there. He'd hardly think to come so early, though. - Be all right if I can get her away from the house by eight.' - </p> - <p> - He paused, held up his watch to the light from the corner, then rushed on. - </p> - <p> - 'Maybe she'd ask me to sit him out, anyway.' - </p> - <p> - But his lips clamped shut on this. It was just the sort of thing Cicely - wouldn't do. He knew it. - </p> - <p> - 'What if she won't go out!' - </p> - <p> - This sudden thought brought bitterness. A snicker had run its course about - town—in his eager self-absorption he had wholly forgotten—when - Alfred Knight, confident in an engagement to call, had hired a horse and - buggy at McAllister's. The matter of an evening drive <i>a deux</i> had - been referred to Cicely's aunt. As a result the horse had stood hitched - outside more than two hours only to be driven back to the livery, stable - by the gloomy Al. - </p> - <p> - 'Shucks, though! Al's a fish! Don't blame her!' - </p> - <p> - He walked stiffly in among the trees and shrubs of the old Dexter Smith - place and mounted the rather imposing front steps. - </p> - <p> - That purchase of the Dexter Smith place was typical of Madame Watt at the - time. She was riding high. She had money. Two acres of lawn, fine old - trees, a great square house of Milwaukee brick, high spacious rooms with - elaborately moulded plaster ceilings and a built-on conservatory and a - barn that you could keep half a dozen carriages in! It was one of only - four or five houses in Sunbury that the <i>Voice</i> and the <i>Gleaner</i> - rejoiced to call 'mansions.' And it was the only one that could have been - bought. The William B. Snows, like the Jenkinses and the de Casselles (I - don't know if it has been explained before that the accepted local - pronunciation was Dekasells,) lived in theirs. And even after the elder - Dexter Smith died Mrs Smith would hardly have sold the place if the - children hadn't nagged her into it. Young Dex wanted to go to New York. - And at that it was understood that Madame Watt paid two prices. - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - A uniformed butler showed Henry into the room that he would have called - the front parlour. Though there was another much like it across the wide - hall. There was a 'back parlour,' with portières between. Out there, he - knew, between centre table and fireplace, the Senator and Madame might - even now be sitting. - </p> - <p> - He listened, on the edge of a huge plush and walnut chair, for the rustle - of the Senator's paper, or Madame's deep, always startling voice. - </p> - <p> - There was no sound. Save that somewhere upstairs, far off, a door opened; - then footsteps very faint. And silence again. - </p> - <p> - Henry looked, fighting down misgivings, at the heavily framed oil - paintings on the wall. One, of a life-boat going out through mountainous - waves to a wreck, he had always heard was remarkably fine. Fastened over - the bow of the boat was a bit of real rope that had provoked critical - controversy when the picture was first exhibited in Chicago. - </p> - <p> - He glanced down, discovered the box of chocolates on his knees, and - hurriedly placed it on the corner of the inevitable centre table. Then he - fussed nervously with his moustache; adjusted his tie, wondering if the - stick pin should be higher; pulled down his cuffs; and sat up stiffly - again. - </p> - <p> - 'Maybe she ain't home,' he thought weakly. 'That fella said he'd see.' - </p> - <p> - 'Maybe I oughta've asked if she'd be in.' - </p> - <p> - The silence deepened, spread, settled about him. He wished she would come - down. There was danger, he knew, that his few painfully thought-out - conversational openings would leave him. He would be an embarrassed, quite - speechless young man. For he was as capable, even now, at twenty, almost - at twenty-one, of speechlessness as of volubility. Either might happen to - him, at any moment, from the smallest, least foreseeable of causes. - </p> - <p> - And there was something oppressive about the stillness of this cavernous - old house with its sound-proof partitions and its distances. And that - silent machine of a butler. It wasn't like calling at Martha Caldwell's, - in the old days, where you could hear the Swedish cook crashing around in - the kitchen and Martha moving around upstairs before she came down. Here - you wouldn't so much as know there was a kitchen. - </p> - <p> - Then, suddenly, sharp as a blow out of the stillness came a series of - sounds that froze the marrow in his bones, made him rigid on the edge of - that plush chair, his lips parted, his eyes staring, wrestling with an - impulse to dash out of the house; with another impulse to cough, or shout, - or play the piano, in some mad way to announce himself, yet continuing to - sit like a carved idol, in the grip of a paralysis of the faculties. - </p> - <p> - There is nothing more painful to the young than the occasional discovery, - through the mask of social reticence, that the old have their weak or - violent moments. - </p> - <p> - Gossip, yes! But gossip rests lightly and briefly in young ears. Henry had - heard the Watts slyly ridiculed. There were whispers, of course. Madame's - career as a French countess—well, naturally Sunbury wondered. And - the long obscurity from which she had rescued Senator Watt raised - questions about that very quiet little man. So often men in political life - were tempted off the primly beaten track. And Henry, like the other young - people, had grinned in awed delight over the tale that Madame swore at her - servants. That was before he had so much as spoken to her niece. And it - had little or no effect on his attitude toward Madame herself when he met - her. She had at once taken her place in the compartment of his thoughts - reserved from earliest memory for his elders, whose word was (at least in - honest theory) law and to whom one looked up with diffidence and a genuine - if somewhat automatic respect. - </p> - <p> - The first of the disturbing sounds was Madame's voice, far-off but ringing - strong. Then a door opened—it must have been the dining-room door; - not the wide one that opened into the great front hall, but the other, at - the farther end of the 'back parlour.' - </p> - <p> - There was a brief lull. A voice could be heard, though—a man's - voice, low-pitched, deprecatory. - </p> - <p> - Then Madame's again. And stranger noises. The man's voice cried out in - quick protest; there was a rustle and then a crash like breaking china. - </p> - <p> - The Senator, hurrying a little, yet with a sort of dignity, walked out - into the hall. Henry could see him, first between the portières as he left - the room, then as he passed the hall door. - </p> - <p> - There was a rush and a torrent of passionately angry words from the other - room. An object—it appeared to be a paper weight or ornament—came - hurtling out into the hall. The Senator, who had apparently gone to the - closet by the door for his hat and stick—for he came back into the - hall with them—stepped back just in time to avoid being struck. The - object fell on the stair, landing with the sound of solid metal. - </p> - <p> - 'You come back here!' Madame's voice. - </p> - <p> - 'I will not come back until you have had time to return to your senses,' - replied the Senator. He looked very small. He was always stilted in - speech; Humphrey had said that he talked like the <i>Congressional Record</i>. - 'This is a disgraceful scene. If you have the slightest regard for my good - name or your own you will at least make an effort to compose yourself. - Some one might be at the door at this moment. You are a violent, - ungoverned woman, and I am ashamed of you.' - </p> - <p> - 'And you'—she was almost screaming now—'are the man who was - glad to marry me.' - </p> - <p> - He ignored this. 'If any one asks for me, I shall be at the Sunbury Club.' - </p> - <p> - 'Going to drink again, are you?' - </p> - <p> - 'I think not.' - </p> - <p> - 'If you do, you needn't come back. Do you hear? You needn't come back!' - </p> - <p> - He turned, and with a sort of strut went out the front door. - </p> - <p> - She started to follow. She did come as far as the portières. Henry had a - glimpse of her, her face red and distorted. - </p> - <p> - She turned back then, and seemed to be picking up the room. He could hear - sniffing and actually snorting as she moved about. There was a brief - silence. Then she crossed the hall, a big imposing person—even in - her tantrums she had presence—and went up the stairs, pausing on the - landing to pick up the object she had thrown. Her solid footfalls died out - on the thick carpets of the upper hall. A door opened, and slammed faintly - shut. - </p> - <p> - Silence again. - </p> - <p> - Henry found that he was clutching the arms of the chair. - </p> - <p> - 'I must relax,' he thought vacantly; and drew a slow deep breath, as he - had been taught in a gymnasium class at the Y.M.C.A. - </p> - <p> - He brushed a hand across his eyes. Now that it was over, his temples were - pounding hotly, his nerves aquiver. - </p> - <p> - It was incredible. Yet it had happened. Before his eyes. A vulgar brawl; a - woman with a red face throwing things. And he was here in the house with - her. He might have to try to talk with her. - </p> - <p> - He considered again the possibility of slipping out. But that butler had - taken his name up. Cicely would be coming down any moment. Unless she - knew. - </p> - <p> - Did she know? Had she heard? Possibly not. - </p> - <p> - Henry got slowly, indecisively up and wandered to the piano; stood leaning - on it. - </p> - <p> - His eyes filled. All at once, in his mind's eye, he could see Cicely. - Particularly the sensitive mouth. And the alert brown eyes. And the pretty - way her eyebrows moved when she spoke or smiled or listened—always - with a flattering attention—to what you were saying. - </p> - <p> - He brought a clenched fist down softly on the piano. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - 'Oh,' cried the voice of Cicely—'there you are! How nice of you to - come!' - </p> - <p> - She was standing—for a moment—in the doorway. - </p> - <p> - White of face, eyes burning, his fist still poised on the piano, he stared - at her. - </p> - <p> - She didn't know! Surely she didn't—not with that bright smile. __ - </p> - <p> - She wore the informal, girlish costume of the moment—neatly fitting - dark skirt; simple shirt-waist with the ballooning sleeves that were then - necessary; stiff boyish linen collar propping the chin high, and little - bow tie; darkish, crisply waving hair brought into the best order - possible, parted in the middle and carried around and down over the ears - to a knot low on the neck. - </p> - <p> - 'I brought some candy,' he cried fiercely. 'There! On the table!' - </p> - <p> - She knit her brows for a brief moment. Then opened the box. - </p> - <p> - 'How awfully nice of you... You'll have some?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. I don't eat candy. I was thinking of—I want to get you out—Come - on, let's take a walk!' - </p> - <p> - She smiled a little, around a chocolate. Surely she didn't know! - </p> - <p> - She had seemed, during her first days in Sunbury, rather timid at times. - But there was in this smile more than a touch of healthy self-confidence. - No girl, indeed, could find herself making so definite a success as Cicely - had made here from her first day without acquiring at least the beginnings - of self-confidence. It was a success that had forced Elbow Jenkins and - Herb de Casselles to ignore small rebuffs and persist in fighting over - her. It permitted her, even in a village where social conformity was the - breath of life, to do odd, unexpected things. Such as allowing herself to - be interested, frankly, in Henry Calverly. - </p> - <p> - So she smiled as she nibbled a chocolate. - </p> - <p> - He said it again, breathlessly:— - </p> - <p> - 'I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well'—still that smile—'why don't you?' - </p> - <p> - But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on. - </p> - <p> - 'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall. - </p> - <p> - She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater—he, - hat and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt - had marched stiffly to that same closet—when Madame Watt came down - the stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard. - </p> - <p> - She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing a - sort of smile. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry. - </p> - <p> - Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a - greeting, she broke in on him with this:—'I didn't know you were - here. Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence - fell, the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black, - alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good - one. But he didn't know how. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head. - </p> - <p> - During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely - interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, and - the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they had a - secret. - </p> - <p> - 'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely. - </p> - <p> - Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back over - her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!' - </p> - <p> - The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She even - turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt. - </p> - <p> - Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after them. - She was hurrying back through the hall. - </p> - <p> - 'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are having - a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends. Dinner - here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll be glad - to have you. Informal—don't bother to dress.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt. - </p> - <p> - 'I—Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily. - </p> - <p> - Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the - lake. - </p> - <p> - There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be the - theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late hour. - It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled Henry's - thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table, nibbling a - chocolate, the poise of her pretty head—the picture stood out - clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it was - like a deafening noise in his brain. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street. - Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the - end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their - ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the - dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise. - </p> - <p> - He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her delicate - profile. - </p> - <p> - He thought: 'How could she ask me? They wouldn't like it, her friends. - Mary Ames mightn't want to come. Martha Caldwell, even. She's been nice to - me. I mustn't make it hard for her. And she mustn't know about tonight. - Not ever.' - </p> - <p> - Then a new thought brought pain. If there had been one such scene, there - would be others. And she would have to live against that background, - keeping up a brave face before the prying world of Sunbury. Perhaps she - had already lived through something of the sort. That sad look about her - mouth; when she didn't know you were looking. - </p> - <p> - They had reached the boulevard now, and were standing at the railing over - the beach. A little talk had been going on, of course, about this and that—he - hardly knew what. - </p> - <p> - He clenched his fist again, and brought it down on the iron rail. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh,' he broke out—'about Saturday. I forgot. I can't come.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, but please——' - </p> - <p> - 'No. Awfully busy. You've no idea. You see Humphrey Weaver and I bought - the <i>Gleaner</i>. I told you, didn't I? It's a big responsibility—getting - the pay-roll every week, and things like that. Things I never knew about - before. I don't believe I was made to be a business man. Lots of accounts - and things. Hump's at it all the time—nights and everything. You see - we've got to make the paper pay. We've <i>got</i> to! It was losing, when - Bob McGibbon had it. People hated him, and they wouldn't advertise. And - now we have to get the advertising back.' If we fail in that, we'll go - under, just as he did...' - </p> - <p> - Words! Words! A hot torrent of them! He didn't know how transparent he - was. - </p> - <p> - She stood, her two hands resting lightly on the rail, looking out at the - slowly spreading glow in the east. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm so glad aunt asked you,' she said gravely. 'I wanted you to come. I - want you to know. Won't you, please?' - </p> - <p> - He looked at her, but she didn't turn. There was more behind her words. - Even Henry could see that. He had been discussed. As a problem. But she - didn't say the rest of it. - </p> - <p> - Then his clumsy little artifice broke down, and the crude feeling rushed - to the surface. - </p> - <p> - 'You know I mustn't come!' he cried. - </p> - <p> - 'No,' said she, with that deliberate gravity. 'I don't know that. I think - you should.' - </p> - <p> - 'I can't. You don't understand. They wouldn't like it, my being there. - They talk about me. They don't speak to me, even.' - </p> - <p> - 'Then oughtn't you to come? Face them? Show them that it isn't true?' - </p> - <p> - 'But that will just make it hard for you.' - </p> - <p> - She was slow in answering this; seemed to be considering it. Finally she - replied with:— - </p> - <p> - 'I don't think I care about that. People have been awfully nice to me - here. I'm having a lovely time. But it isn't as if I had always lived here - and expected to stay for the rest of my life. My life has been different. - I've known a good many different kinds of people, and I've had to think - for myself a good deal. No, I'd like you to come. If you don't come—-don't - you see?—you're putting me with them. You're making me mean and - petty. I don't want to be that way. If—if I'm to see you at all, - they must know it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Perhaps, then,' he muttered, 'you'd better not see me at all.' - </p> - <p> - 'Please!' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I know; but—' - </p> - <p> - 'No. I want to see you. If you want to come. I love your stories. You're - more interesting than any of them.' - </p> - <p> - At this, he turned square around; stared at her. But she, very quietly, - finished what she had to say. 'I think you're a genius. I think you're - going to be famous. It's—it's exciting to see the way you write - stories.... Wait, please! I'm going to tell you the rest of it. Now that - we're talking it out, I think I've got to. It was aunt who didn't want to - ask you. She likes you, but she thought—well, she thought it might - be awkward, and—and hard for you. I told her what I've told you, - that I've either got to be your friend before all of them or not at all. - And now that she has asked you—don't you see, it's the way I wanted - it all along.' - </p> - <p> - There wasn't another girl in Sunbury who could have, or would have, made - quite that speech. - </p> - <p> - She looked delicately beautiful in the growing light. Her hair was a - vignetted halo about her small head. - </p> - <p> - Henry, staring, his hands clenched at his sides, broke out with:— - </p> - <p> - 'I love you!' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh—h!' she breathed. 'Please!' - </p> - <p> - Words came from him, a jumble of words. About his hopes, the few thousand - dollars that would be his on the seventh of November, when he would be - twenty-one, the wonderful stories he would write, with her for - inspiration. - </p> - <p> - Inwardly he was in a panic. He hadn't dreamed of saying such a thing. - Never before, in all his little philanderings had he let go like this, - never had he felt the glow of mad catastrophe that now seemed to be - consuming him. Oh, once perhaps—something of it—years back—when - he had believed he was in love with Ernestine Lambert. But that had been - in another era. And it hadn't gone so deep as this. - </p> - <p> - 'Anyway'—he heard her saying, in a rather tired voice—'anyway—it - makes it hard, of course—you shouldn't have said that—' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I <i>am</i> making it hard! And I meant to——' - </p> - <p> - '—anyway, I think you'd better come. Unless it would be too hard for - you.' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. Then Henry, his forehead wet with sweat, his - feet braced apart, his hands gripping the rail as if he were holding for - his life, said, with a sudden quiet that she found a little disconcerting:— - </p> - <p> - 'All right. I'll come.... Your aunt said a quarter past six, didn't she?' - </p> - <p> - 'No, six.' - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - Madame Watt appropriated Henry the moment he entered her door on Saturday - evening. She was, despite her talk of offhand summer informality, clad in - an impressive costume with a great deal of lace and the shimmer of - flowered silk. - </p> - <p> - At her elbow, Henry moved through the crowd in the front hall. He felt - cool eyes on him. He stood very straight and stiff. He was pale. He bowed - to the various girls and fellows—Mary, Martha, Herb, Elbow, and the - rest, with reserve. It was, from moment to moment, a battle. - </p> - <p> - Nobody but Madame Watt would have thought of giving such a party. It was - so expensive—the dinner for twenty-two, to begin with; then all the - railway fares; a bus from the station in Chicago to the theatre and back. - The theatre tickets alone came to thirty-three dollars (these were the - less expensive days of the dollar and a half seat). Sunbury still, at the - time, was inclined to look doubtfully on ostentation. - </p> - <p> - You felt, too, in the case of Madame, that she was likely to speak, at any - moment rather—well, broadly. All that Paris experience, whatever it - was, seemed to be hovering about the snapping black eyes and the - indomitable mouth. You sensed in her none of the reserve of movement, of - speech, of mind, that were implied in the feminine standards of Sunbury. - Yet she was unquestionably a person. If she laughed louder than the ladies - of Sunbury, she had more to say. - </p> - <p> - To-night she was a dominantly entertaining hostess. She talked of the - theatre, in Paris, London and New York—of the Coquelins, Gallipaux, - Bernhardt, of Irving and Terry and Willard and Grossmith. Some of these - she had met. She knew Sothem, it appeared. Even the extremely worldly - Elbow and Herb were impressed. - </p> - <p> - She had Henry at her right. Boldly placed him there. At his right was a - girl from Omaha who was visiting the Smiths and who made several efforts - to be pleasant to the pale gloomy youth with the little moustache and the - distinctly interesting gray-blue eyes. - </p> - <p> - By the time they were settled on the train Henry found himself grateful to - the certainly strong, however coarse-fibred woman. - </p> - <p> - Efforts to identify her as she seemed now, with the woman of that hideous - scene with the Senator brought only bewilderment. He had to give it up. - </p> - <p> - This woman was rapidly winning his confidence; even, in a curious sense, - his sympathy. - </p> - <p> - At the farther end of the table the little Senator, all dignity and calm - stilted sentences, made himself remotely agreeable to several girls at - once. - </p> - <p> - At one side of the table sat Cicely, in lacy white with a wonderful little - gauzy scarf about her shoulders. She looked at him only now and then, and - just as she looked at the others. He wondered how she could smile so - brightly. - </p> - <p> - Herb and Elbow made a great joke of fighting over her. Elbow had her at - dinner; Herb on the train; Elbow again at the theatre. - </p> - <p> - Henry was fairly clinging to Madame by that time. - </p> - <p> - I think, among the confused thoughts and feelings that whirled ceaselessly - around and around in his brain, the one that came up oftenest and stayed - longest was a sense of stoical heroism. For Cicely's sake he must bear his - anguish. For her he must be humble, kindly, patient. He had read, - somewhere in his scattered acquaintance with books, that Abraham Lincoln - had once been brought to the point of suicide through a disappointment in - love. And to-night he thought much and deeply of Lincoln. He had already - decided, during an emotionally turbulent two days, not to shoot himself. - </p> - <p> - During the first intermission the Senator stayed quietly in his seat. - </p> - <p> - When the curtain went down for the second time, he stroked his beard with - a small, none-too-steady hand, coughed in the suppressed way he had, and - glanced once or twice at Madame. - </p> - <p> - The young men were, apparently all of them, moving out for a smoke in the - lobby. - </p> - <p> - Henry, with a tingling sense of defiance, a little selfconscious about - staying alone with the girls, followed them. - </p> - <p> - And after him, walking up the aisle with his odd strutting air of - importance, came the Senator. - </p> - <p> - He gathered the young men together in the lobby; pulled at his twisted - beard; said, 'It will give me pleasure to offer you young gentlemen a - little refreshment;' and led the way out to a convenient bar. It was a - large, high-panelled room. There were great mirrors; rows and rows of - bottles and shiny glasses; alcoves with tables; and enormous oil paintings - in still more enormous gilt frames and lighted by special fixtures built - out from the wall. The one over the bar exhibited an undraped female - figure reclining on a couch. - </p> - <p> - They stood, a jolly group, naming their drinks. - </p> - <p> - Henry, who had no taste for liquor, stood apart, pale, sober, struggling - to exhibit a <i>savoir faire</i> that had no existence in his mercurial - nature. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll take ginger ale,' he said, in painful self-consciousness. - </p> - <p> - The Senator, his somewhat jaunty straw hat thrust back a little way off - his forehead, took Scotch; drank it neat. It seemed to Henry incongruous - when the prim little man tossed the liquor back against his palate with a - long-practised flourish. - </p> - <p> - Back in his seat, between Madame and the girl from Omaha, Henry noted that - the Senator had not returned with the others. - </p> - <p> - Madame turned and looked up the aisle. - </p> - <p> - The lights were dimmed. The curtain rose. - </p> - <p> - Cicely was in the row ahead, Herb on one side, Elbow on the other. - </p> - <p> - Elbow was calm, casual, humorous in a way, whispering phrases that had - been found amusing by many girls. - </p> - <p> - Herb, the only man in what Henry still thought of as a 'full dress suit,' - had a way of turning his head and studying Cicely's hair and profile - whenever she turned toward Elbow, that stirred Henry to anguish. - </p> - <p> - 'He's rich,' thought Henry, twisting in his chair, clasping and unclasping - his hands. 'He's rich. He can do everything for her. And he loves her. He - couldn't look that way if he didn't.' - </p> - <p> - A comedian was singing and dancing on the stage. Cicely watched him, her - eyes alight, her lips parted in a smile of sheer enjoyment. - </p> - <p> - 'How can she!' he thought. 'How <i>can</i> she!' Then: 'I could do that. - If I'd kept it up. If she'd seen me in <i>Iolanthe</i> maybe she'd care.' - </p> - <p> - The curtain fell on a glittering finale. - </p> - <p> - With a great chattering the party moved up the aisle. Cicely told her two - escorts that she didn't know when she had enjoyed anything so much. She - was merry about it. Care free as a child. - </p> - <p> - Henry stopped short in the foyer; standing aside, half behind a framed - advertisement on an easel; his hands clenched in his coat pockets; white - of face; biting his lip. - </p> - <p> - 'I can't go with them!' he was thinking. 'It's too much. I can't! I can't - trust myself. I'd say something. But what'll they think? - </p> - <p> - 'She won't know. She won't care. She's happy—my suffering is nothing - to her.' This was youthful bitterness, of course. But it met an immediate - counter in the following thought, which, to any one who knew the often - selfcentred Henry would have been interesting. 'But that's the way it - ought to be. She mustn't know how I suffer. It isn't her fault. A great - love just comes to you. Nobody can help it. It's tragedy, of course. Even - if I have to—to'—his lip was quivering now—'to shoot - myself, I must leave a note telling her she wasn't to blame. Just that I - loved her too much to live without her. But I haven't any money. I - couldn't make her happy.' - </p> - <p> - His eyes, narrow points of fire, glanced this way and that. Almost - furtively. Passion—a grown man's passion—was or seemed to him - to be tearing him to pieces. And he hadn't a grown man's experience of - life, the background of discipline and self-control, that might have - helped him weather the storm. All he could do was to wonder if he had - spoken aloud or only thought these words. He didn't know. Somebody might - have heard. The crowd was still pouring slowly out past him. It seemed to - him incredible that all the world shouldn't know about it. - </p> - <p> - The others of the party were somewhere out on the street now. They were - going to a restaurant; then, in their bus, to the twelve-fourteen, the - last train for Sunbury until daylight. - </p> - <p> - What could he do if he didn't take that train? He might hide up forward, - in the smoker. But there were a hundred chances that he would be seen. No, - that wouldn't do. He must hurry after them. - </p> - <p> - But he flatly couldn't. Why, the tears were coming to his eyes. A little - weakness, whenever he was deeply moved, for which he despised himself. - There was no telling what he might do—cry like a girl, break out - into an impossible torrent of words. A scene. Anywhere; on the street, in - the restaurant. - </p> - <p> - No, however awkward, whatever the cost, he couldn't rejoin them, he - couldn't look at Cicely and Elbow and Herb and the others. - </p> - <p> - He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough. - He couldn't ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a - week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. He - could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised—fifty or - seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for - Sunbury. - </p> - <p> - He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had - talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They might - say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. It was a - sort of way out. - </p> - <p> - The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he - would have to go—somewhere. - </p> - <p> - A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But - Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame Watt, - still couldn't, for the moment, find place for her in his madly surging - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood before - him. - </p> - <p> - Then came this brief conversation:— - </p> - <p> - 'You haven't seen him, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I haven't.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm! Awkward—he took the pledge—he swore it—I am - counting on you to help me.' - </p> - <p> - 'Of course. Anything!' - </p> - <p> - 'Were you out with him between the acts?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—yes.' - </p> - <p> - 'Did he drink anything then?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. He took Scotch.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, he did?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes'm.' - </p> - <p> - 'It's all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place? Be - very careful. People mustn't know. And I must count on you. There's nobody - else. We'll manage it, somehow. We've got to keep him quiet and get him - out home. I'll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to me—have - a waiter say I'm wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...' - </p> - <p> - It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She was - still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the waiting - groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of the street - in the direction of a certain bar. - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - The Senator's cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the - little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew. The - straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the - enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar. - </p> - <p> - Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the alcove, - leaned heavily on the table, and watched him. - </p> - <p> - The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near despair, - that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had said. - Something about getting word to her—at the restaurant. But how could - he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his own - trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really tragic - problem on his hands, flatly impossible. - </p> - <p> - And there wasn't a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out - alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She - couldn't leave her party. And she couldn't bring this pitiable object in - among those young people. - </p> - <p> - Henry's lips pressed together. The world looked to him just now a savage - wilderness. - </p> - <p> - 'Consider women, for instance!' The Senator's hand waved again toward the - picture. It was surprising to Henry that he could speak with such - distinctness. 'Consider women! They toil not, neither do they spin. Yet at - the last, they bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.' - </p> - <p> - Henry held his watch under the table; glanced down. It was five minutes - past twelve. For nearly an hour he had been sitting there, helpless, - beating his brain for schemes that wouldn't present themselves. The - twelve-fourteen was as good as gone, of course. Though it had not for a - minute been possible. He thought vaguely, occasionally, of a hotel. But - stronger and more persistent was the feeling that he ought to get him out - home if he could. - </p> - <p> - 'Women...!' The Senator drooped in his chair. Then looked up; braced - himself; shouted, 'Here, boy! A bit more of the same!' When the glass was - before him he drank, brightened a little, and resumed. 'Woman, my boy, is - th' root—No, I will go farther! I will state that woman is th' root - 'n' branch of all evil.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, with a muttered, 'Excuse me, Senator!' got out of the alcove and - stepped outside the door. He stood on the door-step; took off his hat and - pressed a hand to his forehead. - </p> - <p> - Across the street, near the side door of the hotel, stood an old-fashioned - closed hack. The driver lay curled up across his seat, asleep. The horses - stood with drooping heads. - </p> - <p> - Henry gazed intently at the dingy vehicle. Slowly his eyes narrowed. He - looked again at his watch. Then he moved deliberately across the way and - woke the cabman. - </p> - <p> - 'Hey!' he cried, as the man fumblingly put on his hat and blinked up the - street and down. 'Hey, you! What'll you take to drive to Sunbury?' - </p> - <p> - 'Sunbury? Oh, that's a long way. And it's pretty late at night.' - </p> - <p> - 'I know all that! How much'll you take?' - </p> - <p> - The cabman pondered. - </p> - <p> - 'How many?' - </p> - <p> - 'Two.' - </p> - <p> - 'Fifteen dollars.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, say I, that's twice too much! Why——' - </p> - <p> - 'Fifteen dollars.' - </p> - <p> - 'But——-' - </p> - <p> - 'Fifteen dollars.' - </p> - <p> - Henry swallowed. He felt very daring. He had heard of fellows and girls - missing the late train and driving out. But the amount usually mentioned - was ten dollars. However... - </p> - <p> - 'All right. Drive across here.' - </p> - <p> - He bent over the Senator, who was talking, still on the one topic, to a - small picture just above Henry's empty seat. - </p> - <p> - 'We're going home now, Senator. You'd better come with me.' - </p> - <p> - 'Going home? No, not there. Not there. Back to the Senate, yes. Tha's - different. But not home. If you knew what I've——' - </p> - <p> - Henry led him out. But first the Senator, with some difficulty in the - managing, paid his check. Henry would have paid it, but hadn't nearly - enough. It had never occurred to him that a single individual could spend - so large a sum on himself within the space of less, considerably less, - than three hours. - </p> - <p> - The cabman and Henry together got him into the hack. - </p> - <p> - 'They are pop—popularly known as the weaker sex. All a ter'ble - mistake, young man. They're stronger. Li'l do you dream how stronger—how - great—how more stronger they are. Curious about words. At times one - commands them with ease. Other times they elude one. Words are more tricky—few - suspect—but women allure us only to destroy us. Women....' - </p> - <p> - Before the cab rolled across the Rush Street Bridge on its long journey to - the northward he was asleep. - </p> - <h3> - 7 - </h3> - <p> - It was half-past two in the morning when a hack drawn by weary horses on - whose flanks the later glistened, drew up at the porte cochère of the old - Dexter Smith place in Sunbury. - </p> - <p> - The cabman lumbered down and opened the door. A youth, nervously wide - awake, leaped out. Then followed this brief conversation. - </p> - <p> - 'Help me carry him up, please.' - </p> - <p> - 'You'd better pay me first. Fifteen dollars! - </p> - <p> - 'I'll do that afterward.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'll take it now.' - </p> - <p> - 'I tell you I'm going to get it——' - </p> - <p> - 'You mean you haven't got it?' - </p> - <p> - 'Not on me.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, look here——' - </p> - <p> - 'Ssh! You'll wake the whole house up! You've simply got to wait until I - get home. You needn't worry. I'm going to pay you.' - </p> - <p> - 'You'd better. Say, he'd ought to have it on him.' - </p> - <p> - 'We're not going into his pockets. Now you do as I tell you.' - </p> - <p> - Together they lifted him out. - </p> - <p> - Henry looked up at the door. Madame Watt, somebody, had left this outside - light burning. Doubtless the thing to do was just to ring the bell. - </p> - <p> - He brushed the cabman aside. The Senator was such a little man, so - pitifully slender and light! And Henry himself was supple and strong. He - took the little old gentleman up in his arms and carried him up the steps. - And once again in the course of this strange night his eyes filled. - </p> - <p> - But not for himself this time. Henry's gift of insight, while it was now - and for many years to come would be fitful, erratic, coming and going with - his intensely varied moods, was none the less a real, at times a great, - gift. And I think he glimpsed now, through the queer confusing mists of - thought, something of the grotesque tragedy that runs, like a red and - black thread, through the fabric of many human lives. - </p> - <p> - The Senator had been a famous man. Through nearly two decades, as even - Henry dimly knew, he had stood out, a figure of continuous national - importance. And now he was just—this. Here in Henry's arms; inert. - </p> - <p> - 'Ring the bell, will you!' said Henry shortly. - </p> - <p> - The cabman moved. - </p> - <p> - There was a light step within. The lock turned. The door swung open, and - Cicely stood there. - </p> - <p> - She was wrapped about in a wonderful soft garment of blue. She was pale. - And her hair was all down, rippling about her shoulders and (when she - stepped quickly back out of the cabman's vision) down her back below the - waist. - </p> - <p> - Henry carried his burden in, and she quickly closed the door. - </p> - <p> - 'Has anybody seen? Does anybody know?' she asked, in a whisper. - </p> - <p> - He leaned back against the wall. - </p> - <p> - 'No. Nobody. But you——' - </p> - <p> - 'I've been sitting up, watching. I was so afraid aunt might——' - </p> - <p> - 'Then you know?' - </p> - <p> - 'Know? Why—Tell me, do you think you can carry him to his room?' - </p> - <p> - 'Me? Oh, easy! Why he doesn't weigh much of anything. Just look!' - </p> - <p> - 'Then come. Quickly. Keep very quiet.' - </p> - <p> - Slowly, painstakingly, he followed her up the stairs and along the upper - hall to an open door. - </p> - <p> - 'Wait!' she whispered. 'I'll have to turn on the light.' He laid the limp - figure on the bed. - </p> - <p> - Outside, in the still night, the horses stirred and stamped. A voice—the - cabman's—cried,— - </p> - <p> - 'Whoa there, you! Whoa!' - </p> - <p> - Cicely turned with a start. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, why can't he keep still!... You—you'd better go. I don't know - why you're so kind. Those others would never——' - </p> - <p> - 'Please!—You <i>do</i> know!' - </p> - <p> - This remark appeared to add to her distress. She made a quick little - gesture. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no, I don't mean—not that I want you to——' - </p> - <p> - 'Not so loud! Quick! Please go!' - </p> - <p> - 'But it's so terribly hard for you. I can't bear—I can't bear to - think of your having to—people just mustn't know about it, that's - all! We've got to do something. She mustn't—You see, I love you, - and.... - </p> - <p> - Their eyes met. - </p> - <p> - A deep dominating voice came from the doorway. - </p> - <p> - 'You had better go to your room, Cicely,' it said. - </p> - <p> - They turned like guilty children. - </p> - <p> - Cicely flushed, then quietly went. - </p> - <p> - Madame was a strange spectacle. She wore a quilted maroon robe, which she - held clutched together at her throat. Most of the hair that was usually - piled and coiled about her head had vanished; what little remained was - surprisingly gray and was twisted up in front and over the ears in curl - papers of the old-fashioned kind. - </p> - <p> - Henry lowered his gaze; it seemed indelicate to look at her. He discovered - then that he was still wearing his hat, and took it off with a low, wholly - nervous laugh that was as surprising to himself as it certainly was, for a - moment, to Madame Watt, who surveyed him under knit brows before centring - her attention on the unconscious figure on the bed. - </p> - <p> - 'We owe you a great deal,' she said then. 'It was awkward enough. But it - might have been a disaster. You've saved us from that.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, it was nothing,' murmured Henry, blushing. - </p> - <p> - 'Are you sure no one saw? You didn't take him to the station?' - </p> - <p> - 'No. We drove straight out.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm! When you came did you ring our bell?' - </p> - <p> - 'Me? Why, no. I was going to. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes?' - </p> - <p> - 'She—your—Miss——' - </p> - <p> - 'Do you mean Cicely?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. She opened the door.' - </p> - <p> - Madame frowned again. - </p> - <p> - 'But what on earth——' - </p> - <p> - Henry interrupted, looking up at her now. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll tell you. I know. I can see it. And somebody's got to tell you.' - </p> - <p> - Madame looked mystified. - </p> - <p> - 'She couldn't bear to have you know. She was afraid you——' - </p> - <p> - Madame raised her free hand. 'We won't go into that.' - </p> - <p> - 'But we <i>must</i>. It was your temper she was——' - </p> - <p> - 'We wont——' - </p> - <p> - 'You <i>must</i> listen! Can't you see the dread she lives under—the - fear that you'll forget yourself and people will know! And can't you see - what it drives—him—to? I heard him talk when he was telling - his real thoughts. I know.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you do!' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I know. And I know this town. They're very conservative. They watch - new people. They're watching you. Like cats. And they'll gossip. I know - that too. I've suffered from it. Things that aren't so. But what do they - care? They'd spoil your whole life—like that!—and go to the - Country Club early to get the best dances. Oh, I know, I tell you. You've - got to be careful. It isn't what I say, but you've <i>got</i> to! Or - they'll find out, and they won't stop till they've hounded you out of - town, and driven him to—this—for good, and broken her—your - niece's—heart.' - </p> - <p> - He stopped, out of breath. - </p> - <p> - The fire that had flamed from his eyes died down, leaving them like gray - ashes. Confusion smote him. He shifted his feet; turned his hat round and - round between his hands. What—<i>what</i>—had he been saying! - </p> - <p> - Then he heard her voice, saying only this:— - </p> - <p> - 'In a way—in a way—you have a right.... God knows it won't.... - So much at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.' - </p> - <p> - He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was - gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn't speak again; not a word. - </p> - <p> - She stood aside. - </p> - <p> - 'It was very good of you,' she said. - </p> - <p> - But he rushed past her and down the stairs. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his temperamental - young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending over him, - shaking him and saying, 'Gimme fifteen dollars! I'll explain to-morrow. - Gosh, but I'm a wreck! You've no idea!' - </p> - <p> - And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were piled - and fumbling in various pockets for money. - </p> - <h3> - 8 - </h3> - <p> - When Henry awoke, at ten, he found himself alone in the rooms. The warm - sunshine was streaming in, the university clock was booming out the hour. - Then the mellow church bells set up their stately ringing. - </p> - <p> - He lay for a time drowsily listening. Then the bells brought - recollections. Madame Watt, and Cicely, and often the Senator attended the - First Presbyterian Church. Right across the alley, facing on Filbert - Avenue. By merely turning his head, Henry could see the rear gable of the - chapel and the windows of the Sunday-school room. - </p> - <p> - He sprang out of bed. - </p> - <p> - His blue serge coat was spotted. From the table in that bar-room, - doubtless. He found a bottle of ammonia and sponged. It was also in need - of a pressing, but he could do nothing about that now. He had to go to - church. - </p> - <p> - No other course was thinkable. If only to sit where he could catch a - glimpse now and then of her profile. - </p> - <p> - He heard a knock downstairs, but at first ignored it. No one would be - coming here of a Sunday morning. - </p> - <p> - Finally he went down. - </p> - <p> - There, on the step, immaculately dressed, rather weary looking with dark - areas under red eyes, stood Senator Watt. - </p> - <p> - 'How do you do,' said he, with dignity. - </p> - <p> - 'Won't you come in?' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - They mounted the stairs. The Senator sat stiffly on a small chair. Henry - took the piano stool. - </p> - <p> - 'I understand that you did me a very great service last night, Mr - Calverly.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no,' Henry managed to say, in a mumbling voice, throwing out his - hands. 'No, it wasn't really anything at all.' - </p> - <p> - 'You will please tell me what it cost.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh—why—well, fifteen dollars.' - </p> - <p> - The Senator counted out the money. - </p> - <p> - 'You have placed me greatly in your debt, Mr Calverly. I hope that I may - some day repay you.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no! You see...' - </p> - <p> - Silence fell upon them. - </p> - <p> - The Senator rose to go. - </p> - <p> - 'Drink,' he remarked then, 'is an unmitigated evil. Never surrender to - it.' - </p> - <p> - 'I really don't drink at all, Senator.' - </p> - <p> - 'Good! Don't do it. Life is more complex than a young man of your age can - perceive. At best it is a bitter struggle. Evil habits are a handicap. - They aggravate every problem. Good day. We shall see you soon again at the - house, I trust.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, moved, looked after him as he walked almost briskly away—an - erect, precise little man. - </p> - <p> - Then Henry went to church. - </p> - <p> - Herb de Casselles ushered him to a seat. He could just see Cicely. He - thought she looked very sad. Yet she sang brightly in the hymns. And after - the benediction when Herb and Elbow and Dex Smith crowded about her in the - aisle, she smiled quite as usual, and made her quick, eager Frenchy - gestures. - </p> - <p> - He brushed his hand across his eyes Had he been living through a dream—a - tragic sort of dream? - </p> - <p> - He made his way, between pews, to a side door, and hurried out. He - couldn't speak to a soul; not now. He walked blindly, very fast, down to - Chestnut Avenue, over to Simpson Street, then up toward the stores and - shops. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey had a way of working at the office Sundays. He decided to go - there. There was the matter of the fifteen dollars. And Humphrey would - expect him for their usual Sunday dinner at Stanley's. - </p> - <p> - He was passing Stanley's now. Next came Donovan's drug store. Next beyond - that, Swanson's flower shop. - </p> - <p> - A carriage—a Victoria—rolled softly by on rubber tyres. Silver - jingled on the harness of the two black horses. Two men in plum-coloured - livery sat like wooden things on the box. On the rear seat were Madame - Watt and Cicely. - </p> - <p> - The carriage drew up before Swanson's. Madame Watt got heavily out and - went into the shop. - </p> - <p> - Cicely had turned. She was waving her hand. - </p> - <p> - Henry found his vision suddenly blurred. Then he was standing by the - carriage, and Cicely was speaking, leaning over close to him so that the - men couldn't hear. - </p> - <p> - 'It was dreadful the way I let you go! I didn't even say good-night. And - all the time I wanted you to know....' - </p> - <p> - He couldn't speak. He stared at her, lips compressed; temples pounding. - </p> - <p> - She seemed to be smiling faintly. - </p> - <p> - 'We—we might say good-night now.' - </p> - <p> - He heard her say that. - </p> - <p> - She thought he shivered. Then he said huskily:— - </p> - <p> - 'I—I've wanted to call you—to call you—' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes?' - </p> - <p> - '—Cicely.'. - </p> - <p> - There was a silence. She whispered, 'I think I've wanted you to.' - </p> - <p> - He had rested a hand on the plum upholstery beside her. In some way it - touched hers; clasped it; gripped it feverishly. - </p> - <p> - The colour came rushing to his face. And to hers. - </p> - <p> - He saw, through a blinding mist, that there were tears in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - 'Ci—Cicely, you don't, you can't mean—that you—too....' - </p> - <p> - 'Please, Henry! Not here! Not now!' - </p> - <p> - They glanced up the street; and down. - </p> - <p> - 'Come this afternoon,' she breathed. - </p> - <p> - 'They'll be there.' - </p> - <p> - 'Come early. Two o'clock. We'll take a walk.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh—Cicely!' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry!' - </p> - <p> - Their hands were locked together until Madame came out. - </p> - <p> - The carriage rolled away. - </p> - <p> - Henry—it seemed to himself—reeled dizzily along Simpson Street - to the stairway that you climbed to get to the <i>Gleaner</i> office. - </p> - <p> - And all along this street of his struggles, his failures, his one or two - successes, his dreams, the dingy, two-story buildings laughed and danced - and cheered about him, with him, for him—Hemple's meat-market, - Berger's grocery, Swanson's, Donovan's, Schultz and Schwartz's barber - shop, Stanley's, the Sunbury National Bank, the postoffice—all - reeled jubilantly with him in the ecstasy of young love! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IX—WHAT'S MONEY! - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>enry paused on the - sill. The door he held open bore the legend, painted in black and white on - a rectangle of tin:— - </p> - <h3> - THE SUNBURY WEEKLY GLEANER - </h3> - <p> - By Weaver and Calverly - </p> - <p> - 'How late you going to stay, Hump?' he asked. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey raised his eyes, listlessly thrust his pencil back of his ear, - and looked rather thoughtfully at the youth in the doorway; a dapper - youth, in an obviously new 'Fedora' hat, a conspicuous cord of black silk - hanging from his glasses, his little bamboo cane, caught by its crook in - the angle of his elbow. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's gaze wandered to the window; settled on the roof of the Sunbury - National Bank opposite. He suppressed a sigh. - </p> - <p> - 'I may want to talk with you, Hen. I've been figuring——' - </p> - <p> - The youth in the doorway shifted his position with a touch of impatience. - </p> - <p> - 'See here, Hump, you know I can't make head or tail out of figures!' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey looked down at the desk. - </p> - <p> - 'Anyway I'll see you at supper,' Henry added defensively. - </p> - <p> - 'Mildred expects me down there for supper,' said Humphrey. The sigh came - now. He pushed up the eyeshade and slowly rubbed his eyes. 'But I may not - be able to get away. There are times, Hen, when you have to look figures - in the face.' - </p> - <p> - The youth flushed at this, and replied, rather explosively;— - </p> - <p> - 'A fellow has to do the sorta thing he <i>can</i> do, Hump!' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—will you be at the rooms this evening?' Humphrey's eyes were - again taking in the natty costume. And surveying him, Humphrey answered - his own question; dryly. 'I imagine not.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—I was going over to the Watts.' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence: - </p> - <p> - Finally Henry let himself slowly out and closed the door. - </p> - <p> - Outside, on the landing, he paused again; but this time to button his coat - and pull up the blue-bordered handkerchief in his breast pocket until a - corner showed. - </p> - <p> - He looked too, by the fading light—it was mid-September, and the sun - would be setting shortly, out over the prairie—at the tin legend on - the door. - </p> - <p> - The sight seemed to reassure him somewhat. As did the other, similar tin - legends that were tacked up between the treads of the long flight of - stairs that led to Simpson Street, at each of which he turned to look. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey had before him a pile of canvas-bound account books, a spindle of - unpaid bills, a little heap of business letters, and a pad covered with - pencilled columns. He rested an elbow among the papers, turned his chair, - and looked through the window down into the street. - </p> - <p> - A moment passed, then he saw Henry walking diagonally across toward - Donovan's drug store. - </p> - <p> - For an ice-cream soda, of course; or one of those thick, 'frosted' fluids - of chocolate or coffee flavour that he affected. And it was now within an - hour of supper time. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey leaned forward. Yes, there he stood, on the kerb before - Donovan's, looking, with a quick nervous jerking of the head, now up - Simpson Street, now down. Yes, that was his hurry—the usual thing. - Madame Watt made a point of driving down to meet the five-twenty-nine from - town. Senator Watt always came out then. And usually Cicely Hamlin came - along with her. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey sighed, rose, stood looking down at the bills and letters and - canvas books; pressed a hand again against his eyes; wandered to the - press-room door and looked, pursing his lips, knitting his brows, at the - row of job presses, at the big cylinder press that extended nearly across - the rear end of the long room, at the row of type cases on their high - stands, at imposing-stones on heavy tables. He sniffed the odour of ink, - damp paper, and long, respected dust that hung over the whole - establishment. He smiled, moodily, as his eye rested on the gray and black - roller towel that hung above the iron sink, recalling Bob Burdette's - verses. He returned to the office, and stood for a few moments before the - file of the <i>Gleaner</i> on the wall desk by the door, turning the pages - of recent issues. From each number a story by Henry Calverly, 3rd, seemed - to leap out at his eyes and his brain. <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street, - Sinbad the Treasurer, A Kerbstone Barmecide, The Cauliflowers of the - Caliph, The Printer and the Pearls, Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen</i>—the - very titles singing aloud of the boy's extraordinary gift. - </p> - <p> - 'And it's all we've got here,' mused Humphrey, moving back to his own - desk. 'That mad child makes us, or we break. I've got to humour him, - protect him. Can't even show him these bills. Like getting all your light - and heat from a candle that may get blown out any minute.' And before - dropping heavily into his chair, glancing at his watch, drawing his - eye-shade down, and plunging again at the heavy problem of keeping a - country weekly alive without sufficient advertising revenue, he added, - aloud, with a wry, wrinkly smile that yet gave him a momentary whimsical - attractiveness: 'That's the devil of it!' - </p> - <p> - There was a step on' the stairs. - </p> - <p> - The door opened slowly. A red face appeared, under a tipped-down Derby - hat; a face decorated with a bristling red moustache and a richly carmine - nose. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey peered; then considered. It was Tim Niernan, one-time fire chief, - now village constable. - </p> - <p> - 'Young Calverly here?' asked the official in a husky voice. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey shook his head. His thoughts, momentarily disarranged, were - darting this way and that. - </p> - <p> - 'What is it, Tim? What do you want of him?' - </p> - <p> - Tim seemed embarrassed. - </p> - <p> - 'Why——' he began, 'why——' - </p> - <p> - 'Some trouble?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why, you see Charlie Waterhouse's suing him.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey tried to consider this. - </p> - <p> - 'What for?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—libel. One o' them stories o' his. I liked 'em myself. My - folks all say he's a great kid. But Charlie's pretty sore.' - </p> - <p> - 'Suing for a lot, I suppose?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why yes. Well—ten thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hm!' - </p> - <p> - 'He lives with you, don't he—back of the Parmenter place?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes.' Humphrey's answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to - make Tim's task easy. - </p> - <p> - The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed - Donovan's on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read <i>Sinbad - the Treasurer</i> through. - </p> - <p> - There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson - Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer, - whether you called him 'Sinbad' or Waterhouse. - </p> - <p> - 'He certainly did cut loose,' mused Humphrey. 'Charlie's got a case. Got - his nerve, too.' - </p> - <p> - Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet, - tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil. - </p> - <h3> - 2 - </h3> - <p> - Henry turned away from Donovan's soda fountain, wiping froth from his - moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were - knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness, - intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up the - street, now down. - </p> - <p> - A low-hung Victoria, drawn by a glossy team in harness that glittered with - silver, swung at a dignified pace around the corner of Filbert Avenue, two - wooden men in plum-coloured livery on the box, two dignified figures on - the rear seat, one middle-aged, large, formidable, commanding, sitting - erect and high, the other slighter and not commanding. - </p> - <p> - Instantly, at the sight, Henry's frown gave place to a nervously eager - smile, returned, went again. When the carriage at length drew up before - Berger's grocery, across the way, however, he had both frown and smile - under reasonable control and was a presentable if deadly serious young - man. - </p> - <p> - The footman leaped down and stood at attention. The formidable one stepped - out and entered Berger's. And the slight, fresh-faced girl, leaned out to - welcome the youth who rushed across the street. - </p> - <p> - In Sunbury, in the nineties, a youth and a maiden could 'go together' - without a thought of the future. The phrase implied frank pairing off, - perhaps an occasionally shyly restrained sentimental passage, in general a - monopoly of the other's spare time. An 'understanding,' on the other hand, - was a. distinctly transitive state, leading to engagement and marriage as - soon as the youth was old enough or could earn a living or the opposition - of parents could be overcome. - </p> - <p> - The relationship between Cicely and Henry had lately hovered delicately - between the two states. If it seemed, after each timid advance, to recede - from the 'understanding' point; that was because of the burdens and the - heavy responsibility that instantly claimed their thoughts at the mere - suggestion of engagement and marriage: - </p> - <p> - There were among the parents of Henry's boyhood friends, couples that had - married at twenty or even younger, and on no greater income than Henry's - rather doubtful twelve dollars a week. But that day had gone by. An - 'understanding' meant now, at the very least, that you were saving for a - diamond. You could hardly ask a nice girl to become engaged without one. - </p> - <p> - And marriage meant good clothes for parties, receptions and Sundays, and - the street; it meant membership in the Country Club, a reasonably priced - pew in church, a rented house, at least, preferably not in South Sunbury - and distinctly not out on the prairie or too near the tracks, a certain - amount invested in furniture, dishes and other house fittings, and - reasonable credit with the grocer and at the meat-market. You could hardly - ask a nice girl to go in for less than that. You really couldn't afford to - let her go in for less. - </p> - <p> - So they were marrying later now; six or eight or ten years later. And the - girls were turning to older men. Here in Sunbury, Clemency Snow had - married a man seven or eight years older whose younger brother had been - among her playmates. Jane Bellman had married a shy little doctor of - thirty-one or two. And Martha Caldwell, whom Henry had 'gone with' for two - or three years, was permitting the rich, really old bachelor, James B. - Merchant, Jr., to devote about all his time to her. He was thirty-eight if - a day. - </p> - <p> - It was a disturbing condition for the town boys. Thoughts of it cast black - shadows on Henry's undisciplined brain as he looked at the girl in the - Victoria, felt, in the very air about them, her quick, bright smile, the - delicately responsive liftings of her eyebrows, her marked desirability. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Henry,' she was saying, 'I've just been hearing the most wonderful - things about you! You can't imagine! At Mrs MacLouden's tea. There was a - man there——' - </p> - <p> - Henry sniffed. A man at a tea! And talking to Cicely! Making up to her, - doubtless. - </p> - <p> - '—a friend of Mr Merchant's, from New York. And what do you think? - Mr Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He's - been keeping them. Isn't that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this - man says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at - your age. Henry—just <i>think!</i>' - </p> - <p> - But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of the - man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones. - </p> - <p> - He leaned over the wheel. - </p> - <p> - 'Cicely—you—you're expecting me to-night?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I'd like to have you come.' - </p> - <p> - 'But weren't you <i>expecting</i> me?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—yes, Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'Of course'—stiffly—'if you'd rather I wouldn't come...' - </p> - <p> - 'Please, Henry! You mustn't. Not here on the street!' He stood, flushing - darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.' - </p> - <p> - She murmured:— - </p> - <p> - 'You know I want you to come.' - </p> - <p> - This was unsatisfactory. Indeed he hardly heard it. He was full of his - thoughts about her, about the older men, about those tremendous burdens - that he couldn't even pretend to assume. And then came a mad recklessness. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Cicely—this is awful—I just can't stand it! Why can't we - have an understanding? Call it that? Stop all this uncertainty! I—I—I've - just got to speak to your aunt——' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry! Please! Don't say those things—-' - </p> - <p> - 'That's it! You won't let me say them.' - </p> - <p> - 'Not here——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, please, Cicely! Please! I know I'm not earning much; but I'll be - twenty-one on the seventh of November and then I'll have more'n three - thousand dollars. Please let me tell her that, Cicely. Oh, I know it - wouldn't do to spend all the principal,—but it would go a long way - toward setting us up—you know—' his voice trembled, dropped - even lower, as with awe—'get the things we'd need when we were—you - know—well, married.' - </p> - <p> - He felt, as he poured out this mumbled torrent of words, that he was - rushing to a painful failure. Cicely had drawn back. She looked - bewildered, and tired. And he had fetched up in a black maze of despairing - thoughts. - </p> - <p> - The footman must have heard part of it. He was standing very straight. And - the coachman was staring out over the horses. He had probably heard too. - </p> - <p> - Then Madame Watt came sailing out Of Berger's; fixed her hawk eyes on him - with a curious interest. - </p> - <p> - He knew that he lifted his hat. He saw, or half saw, that Cicely tried to - smile. She did bob her head in the bright quick way she had. - </p> - <p> - Then the Victoria rolled away, and he was standing, one foot in the - street, the other on the kerb, gazing after them through a mist of - something so near tears that he was reduced to a painful struggle to gain - even the appearance of self-control. - </p> - <p> - And then, for a quarter-hour, mood followed mood so fast that they almost - maddened him. - </p> - <p> - He thought of old Hump, up there in the office, fighting out their common - battle. Perhaps he ought to go back; do his best to understand the - accounts. Figures always depressed him. No matter. He would go back. He - would show Hump that he could at least be a friend. Yes, he could at least - show that. Thing to do was to keep thinking of the other fellow. Forget - yourself. That was the thing! - </p> - <p> - But what he did, first, was to cross over to Swanson's flower shop and - sternly order violets. Paid cash for them. - </p> - <p> - 'Miss Cicely Hamlin?' asked the Swanson-girl. - </p> - <p> - 'Yes,' growled Henry, 'for Miss Hamlin. Send them right over, please.' - </p> - <p> - Then he walked around the block; muttering aloud; starting; - glancing-about; muttering again. He could hardly go to Cicely's. Not this - evening! Not when she had been willing to leave it like that. - </p> - <p> - He meant to go, of course. Too early. By seven-thirty or so. But he told - himself he wouldn't do it. She would have to write him. Or lose him. He - would wait in dignified silence. - </p> - <p> - The early September twilight was settling down on Sunbury. - </p> - <p> - Lights came on, here and there. The dusk was a relief. - </p> - <p> - He had wrecked everything. It wasn't so much that he had proposed an - understanding. In the circumstances she couldn't altogether object to - that. It was risking the vital, final decision, of course. But that, - sooner or later, would have to be risked. That was something a man had to - face, and go through, and be a sport about. No, the trouble seemed to be - that he had lost himself. He had made it awkward, impossible, for both of - them. Through his impatience he had created an impossible situation. And - in losing himself he had lost her, and lost her in the worst way - imaginable. He had contrived to make an utterly ridiculous figure of - himself, and, in a measure, of her. He had to set his teeth hard on that - thought, and compress his lips. - </p> - <p> - He was on Simpson Street again. Yellow gas-light shone out of the windows - of the <i>Gleaner</i> offices, over Hemple's. Old Hump was hard at it. - </p> - <p> - He went up there. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - Humphrey was sitting there, chin on chest, long legs stretched under the - desk. He didn't look up; only a slight start and a movement of one hand - indicated that he heard. - </p> - <p> - Henry stood, confused, a thought alarmed, looking at him; moved aimlessly - to his own desk and stirred papers about; came, finally, and sat on a - corner of the exchange table, tapping his cane nervously against his knee. - </p> - <p> - 'Aren't going to stay here all night, are you, Hump?' he asked, rather - huskily. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey's hand moved again; he didn't speak. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump! What's the matter? Anything happened?' - </p> - <p> - Still no answer. - </p> - <p> - 'But you know we're picking up in advertising, Hump?' - </p> - <p> - 'Not near enough.' This was a non-committal growl. - </p> - <p> - 'And see the way our circulation's been——' - </p> - <p> - 'Losing money on it. Can't carry it.' - </p> - <p> - 'But—but, Hump——' - </p> - <p> - The senior partner waved his hand. His face was gray and grim, his voice - restrained. He even smiled as he deliberately filled his pipe. - </p> - <p> - 'It's bad, Hen. Very, very bad. I've tried to keep you from worrying, but - you've got to know now. We paid a little over two thousand for this plant - and the good will. - </p> - <p> - 'Cheap enough, wasn't it?' cried Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'If we'd really got her for that, yes. But look at the capital it takes. - Building up. I had just a thousand more, a bond. Threw that in last month, - you know.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh'—breathed Henry, fright in his eyes—'I forgot about that.' - </p> - <p> - 'And you can't raise a cent.' - </p> - <p> - Henry tried to think this over. He started to speak; swallowed; slipped - off the table; stood there; lifted his cane and sighted along it out the - window. - </p> - <p> - 'I can—November seventh,' he finally remarked. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey blew a smoke-ring; followed it with his eyes. - </p> - <p> - 'My boy, nations, worlds, constellations, may crash between now and - November seventh.' - </p> - <p> - 'I—I could tackle my uncle again,' murmured Henry, out of a - despairing face. - </p> - <p> - There was at times an acid quality in Humphrey. Henry felt it in him now, - as he said dryly:— - </p> - <p> - 'As I recall your last transaction with your uncle, Hen, he told you - finally that you couldn't have one cent of your principal before November - seventh.' - </p> - <p> - 'He—well, yes, he did say that.' - </p> - <p> - 'Meant it, didn't he?' - </p> - <p> - 'Y—yes. He meant it.' - </p> - <p> - 'He's a business man, I believe.' Humphrey smoked for a moment; then - added, with that same biting quality in his voice, 'And unless he's insane - he would hardly put money into this business now. As it stands—or - doesn't stand. And I presume he's not insane. No, we'll drop that - subject.' - </p> - <p> - Henry felt Humphrey's eyes on him. Sombre cold eyes. And he fell again, in - his misery, to sighting along his cane. It seemed to Henry that the world - was reeling to disaster. His young, over keen imagination was painting - ugly, inescapable pictures of a savage world in which all effort seemed to - fail. - </p> - <p> - Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider every - minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He was afraid - he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, meaningless, - mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that fear. - </p> - <p> - If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair—and - he was in despair—was neither the sorry condition of the business, - nor the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the - hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey's face and eyes and caught - that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn't endure - hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly sympathy, an - easy give and take of the spirit in which his <i>naïveté</i> would not be - misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, apparently, the only soil - in which his faculties could take root and grow. Hostility in those he had - been led to trust disarmed him, crushed him. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump,' he ventured now, weakly, 'I think—maybe—you'd better - show me those figures. I—I'll try to understand 'em. I will.' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey gave a little snort; brushed the idea away with a sweep of a long - hand. - </p> - <p> - 'No use!' he said brusquely. He rolled down the desktop and locked it with - a snap. 'Getting stale myself. Sleep on it. Not a thing you can do, Hen!' - He knocked the ashes from his pipe, gloomily. Buttoned his vest. Suddenly - he broke out with this:— - </p> - <p> - 'You're a lucky brute, Hen!' - </p> - <p> - Henry started; glanced up; fumbled at his moustache. 'You're wondering why - I said that. But, man, you're a genius—Yes, you are! I have to plug - for it. But you've got the flare. You know well enough what's loaded all - this circulation on us. Your stories! Not a thing else. You'll do more of - 'em. You'll be famous.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no, Hump I You don't know how I've——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, you'll be famous. I won't. It's a gift—fame, success. It's a - sort of edge God—or something—puts on a man. A cutting edge. - You've simply got it. I simply haven't.' - </p> - <p> - Henry pulled and pulled at his moustache. - </p> - <p> - 'And you've got a girl—a lovely girl. She's mad about you—oh, - yes she is! I know. I've seen her look at you.' - </p> - <p> - 'But, Hump, you don't just know what——' - </p> - <p> - 'She doesn't have to hide her feelings. Not seriously, not with a lying - smile. And you don't have to hide yours. You haven't got this furtive rope - around your neck, strangling the breath of decent morality out of your - soul. Thank God you don't know what it means—that struggle. She'll - be announcing her engagement one of these days. - </p> - <p> - 'There'll be presents and flowers. You'll get stirred up and write - something a thousand times better than you know how to write. Money will - come—oh, yes it will! It'll roll to you, Hen. For a time. Or at - times. And you'll marry—a nice clean wedding. God, just to think of - it is like the May winds off the lake!' - </p> - <p> - He threw out his long arms. Henry thought, perversely enough, that he - looked like Lincoln. - </p> - <p> - 'But the greatest thing of all is that you're twenty. Think of it! - Twenty!... Hen, when I was twenty I put my life on a schedule for five - years. They were up last month. - </p> - <p> - 'I was to be flying at twenty-four. Think of it—flying! Through the - air, man! Like a gull! At twenty-five I was to be famous and rich. A - conqueror! I slaved for that. Worked days and nights and Sundays for that. - Sweated for the Old Man there on the <i>Voice</i>; put up with his stupid - little insults.' - </p> - <p> - He sprang up; got into his coat; looked at his watch. - </p> - <p> - 'I'm late. Got to stop at the rooms too. Mildred'll be wondering. You can - stay here if you like.' - </p> - <p> - But Henry clung to him. Around the back street they went. And Humphrey - talked on. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I'm twenty-five! And where've I got? I love a woman. Hen, I hope - you'll never be torn as I'm torn now. You think you've been through - things. Why, you're an innocent babe. I've got a woman's name—and - that's a woman's life, Hen!—in my hands. It's a muddle. Maybe - there's tragedy in it. May never work out. Sometimes I feel as if we were - going straight over a precipice, she and I. It goes dark. It suffocates - me.... It's costing me everything. It'll take money—a lot of it—money - I haven't got. If the paper goes, my last hopes go with it. If we can't - turn that corner. Everything comes down bang. No use.' - </p> - <p> - Henry tried to say, 'Oh, I guess we'll turn our corner all right;' but if - the words passed his lips at all it was only as a whisper. - </p> - <p> - They were a hundred feet from the alley back of Parmenter's. It was dark - now, there in the shade of the double row of maples. Humphrey stopped - short; pressed his hands to his eyes; then looked at Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'You coming to the rooms, too?' he asked. - </p> - <p> - Henry nodded. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't know's I—I was forgetting, so many things—Oh well, - come along. It hardly matters.' - </p> - <p> - At the alley entrance a man intercepted them; said, 'This is Henry - Calverly, ain't it?' Struck a match and read an extraordinary mumble of - words. He struck other matches, and read hurriedly on. Then he moved - apologetically away, leaving Henry backed limply against a board fence. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey stood waiting, a tall shadow of a man. To him Henry turned, - feeling curiously weak in the legs and gone at the stomach. - </p> - <p> - 'What is it?' he asked, weakly, meekly. 'I couldn't understand. Did he ar—arrest - me or something?' - </p> - <p> - 'Charlie Waterhouse has sued you for libel. Ten thousand dollars. Come on. - I can't wait.' - </p> - <p> - 'But—but—but that's foolish. He can't——' - </p> - <p> - 'That's how it is.' Humphrey was grim. - </p> - <p> - They walked in silence up the alley. Henry stood by while his partner - unlocked the neat front door to the old barn, a white door, with one white - step and an iron scraper. He could just make them out in the dusk. He - wondered if he mightn't presently wake up and find it a dream.... Old - Hump! - </p> - <p> - They stood in the shop. Humphrey had switched on one light; he looked now, - his face deeply seamed, his eyes a little sunken, at the dim shadowy metal - lathes, the huge reels of copper wire, the tool benches, the rows of wall - boxes filled with machine parts, the small electric motors hanging by - twisted strings or wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels - in frames, the great box kites and the spruce and silk planes, in - sections, the gas engine, the water motor, the wheels, shafts, and belting - overhead. - </p> - <p> - He bent his sombre eyes on Henry. - </p> - <p> - That youth, aching at heart, bruised of spirit, unaware of the figure he - made, was too far gone to be further puzzled by the weary, mocking smile - that flitted across Humphrey's face. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump!' he cried out: 'What'll we do!' - </p> - <p> - 'Do? Sleep over it. Raise some more money?' - </p> - <p> - 'But how?' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey waved a hand at the machinery. 'All this. And my library - upstairs. They've stood me more'n four thousand, altogether. Ought to - fetch something.' - </p> - <p> - 'But—but—ten thousand!' Henry whispered the amount with awe as - well as misery. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, <i>that!</i> Your trouble! Why, you'll sleep over that, too, and - to-morrow I suppose you'll talk to Harry Davis's father.' The senior - Davis, Arthur P., was a Simpson Street lawyer. 'They'll sting you. But - they don't expect any ten thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'But what I said is <i>true!</i> Charlie Waterhouse is a——' - </p> - <p> - 'What's that got to do with it. You can't prove it. And we aren't strong - enough to hire counsel and detectives and run him to earth. Doesn't look - as if we had the barest breath of life in us. Charlie'll think of your - uncle next, and attach your mother's estate.' - </p> - <p> - He said this with unusual roughness. Then he went upstairs; stamped around - for a brief time; came hurrying down. - </p> - <p> - Henry, now, was sitting dejectedly on a work-bench. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump—please!—you don't know how I feel. I——' - </p> - <p> - 'And,' replied the senior partner, 'I don't care. I don't care how I feel, - either. We either save the paper this week or we don't. That's what I care - about right now.' - </p> - <p> - 'I—I won't let you sell your things, Hump.' An unconvincing - assertion, from the limp figure on the bench. - </p> - <p> - 'You?' Humphrey stared at him with something near contempt—stared at - the moustache and the cane. 'You? You won't let me?... For God's sake, <i>shut - up!</i>' - </p> - <p> - With which he went out, slamming the door. - </p> - <p> - For a time Henry continued to sit there. Then he dragged himself upstairs, - went to his bookcase and got the book entitled <i>Will Power and Self - Mastery</i>. - </p> - <p> - He turned the pages until he hit upon these paragraphs:—'Every - machine, every cathedral, every great ship was a thought before it could - become a fact. Build in your brain. - </p> - <p> - 'Through the all-enveloping ether drifts the invisible electricity that is - all life, all energy. Open yourself to it. Make yourself a conductor. - Stupidity and fear are resistants; cast these out. Make your brain a - dynamo and drive the world.' - </p> - <p> - This seemed a good idea. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - Arthur P. Davis was just rising from the supper table when the door-bell - rang. He answered it himself; found young Calverly there, in a state of - haggard but vigorous youthful intensity. He contrived, after a slight - initial difficulty, to draw out of the curiously verbose youth the - essential facts. He considered the matter with a deliberation and caution - that appeared irritating to the boy. But he had read and (in the bosom of - his family) chuckled over <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i>. He had wondered a - little, though he didn't mention the fact to Henry, whether Charlie - wouldn't sue. Charlie had a case. - </p> - <p> - When Henry left, clearly still in a confused condition, it was Mr Davis's - impression that Henry had placed the matter in his hands as counsel and - further had distinctly agreed to shut his head. - </p> - <p> - Henry apparently understood it differently. Or, more likely, he didn't - understand at all. Henry was, at the moment, a storm centre with - considerable emotional disturbance still to come. Any one who has followed - Henry, who knows him at all, will understand that such disturbance within - him led directly and always to action. Whatever he may have said to Mr - Davis, he was helpless. He had to function in his own way. Probably Mr - Davis's use in the situation was to stimulate Henry's already overactive - brain. Hardly more. - </p> - <p> - Certainly it was hardly later than a quarter or twenty minutes past seven - when Henry appeared at Charlie Waterhouse's place on Douglass Street. - </p> - <p> - The town treasurer was on the lawn, shifting his sprinkler by the light of - the arc lamp on the corner and smoking his after-supper cigar. - </p> - <p> - The conversation took place across the picket fence, one of the few - surviving in Sunbury at this time. - </p> - <p> - Henry said, fiercely:— - </p> - <p> - 'I want to talk to you about that libel suit.' - </p> - <p> - 'Can't talk to me, Henry. You'll have to see my lawyer.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yay-ah, I know. I've got a lawyer too.' - </p> - <p> - 'All right. Let 'em talk to each other.' - </p> - <p> - 'You know you can't get any ten thousand dollars.' - </p> - <p> - 'Can't talk about that.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, you can. You gotta.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, I've gotta, have I?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, you bet you have. Some people seem to think you've got a case.' - </p> - <p> - 'Guess there ain't much doubt about that.' - </p> - <p> - 'Mebbe there ain't. Even if what I said was true.' - </p> - <p> - 'Look here, Henry, I don't care to have this kind o' talk going on around - here. You better go along.' - </p> - <p> - 'Go along nothing! I'll say every word of it. And what's more, you'll - listen. No, don't you go. You stand right there.' - </p> - <p> - Charlie, a stoutish man in an alpaca coat, with a florid countenance and a - huge moustache, gave a moment's consideration to the blazing young - crusader before him. The boy wasn't going to be any too easy to handle. He - had no need to see him clearly to become aware of that fact. Charlie - shifted his cigar. - </p> - <p> - 'Lemme put it this way. S'pose you could sting me. You'd never get ten - thousand. But s'pose, after I get through talking, you decide to go ahead - and push the case——-' - </p> - <p> - 'Push the case? Well, rather!' - </p> - <p> - 'Wait a minute! All right, let's say you're going ahead and fight for part - o' that ten thousand. What you think you could get. Then what'm I going to - do?' - </p> - <p> - 'Do you suppose I care what——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes you do! Now listen! I want you to get this straight. You——' - </p> - <p> - '<i>You</i> want <i>me</i> to——' - </p> - <p> - 'Keep still! Now here's——' - </p> - <p> - 'Look here, I won't have you——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, you will! Listen. If you fight, I'll fight. I'll go straight after - you. I'll run you to earth. I'll hire detectives to shadow you. I <i>know</i> - you ain't straight, and I'll show you up before the whole dam town. I'm - right and I tell you right here I'm going to <i>prove</i> it! I'll put you - in prison! I'll——' - </p> - <p> - During most of this speech Charlie was talking too. But in so low a tone - that he could hardly miss what Henry was saving. He broke in now with a - loud:— - </p> - <p> - 'Shut up!' - </p> - <p> - Henry stopped really because he was out of breath. It gratified him to see - that neighbours were appearing in their lighted windows. And a youthful - chorus on a porch across the way was suddenly hushed. - </p> - <p> - 'Came here to make a scene, did you? Well, I'll——' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I didn't come here to make a scene. I came here to make you listen to - reason and I'm going to do it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, drop your voice a little, can't you! No sense in yelling our - private affairs.' - </p> - <p> - 'Sure I'll drop my voice. You're the one that started the yelling.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I don't say you couldn't make it hard for any man in my position if - you want to be nasty—fight that way.' - </p> - <p> - 'You wait!' - </p> - <p> - 'But what I'd like to know is—what I'd like to know... Where you - goin' to get the money to hire all those detectives?' - </p> - <p> - 'Where'm I going to get the money to pay you if you win the suit?' - </p> - <p> - Though Charlie came back with, 'Oh, I'll win the suit all right, all - right!' this was clearly a facer. He added, pondering, 'I guess Munson'll - manage to attach anything you've got.' But he was at sea. 'Fine dirty idea - o' yours, hounding a decent man, with detectives.' And finally, 'Well, - what do you want?' - </p> - <p> - 'Listen! S'pose you did win. You'd never get ten thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'd get five.' - </p> - <p> - 'No, you wouldn't. Why don't you act sensible and tell me what you'll take - to stop it.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'd have to think that over.' - </p> - <p> - 'You tell me now or I'll bust this town open.' - </p> - <p> - 'No good talking that way, Henry. Can you get any money?' - </p> - <p> - 'Tell you for sure in twenty-four hours.' - </p> - <p> - 'But it ain't the money. You've assailed my character. That's what you've - done. Will you retract in print?' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I won't. But if you'll come down to a decent price and promise to - call off the boycott——' - </p> - <p> - 'What boycott?' - </p> - <p> - 'Advertising. You know. You do that, and I'll agree to leave you alone. - Somebody else'll have to find you out, that's all. I've gotta help Hump - Weaver pull the <i>Gleaner</i> out. I guess that's my job now.' - </p> - <p> - He said this last sadly. He had read stories of wonderful young St Georges - who slew a dozen political dragons at a time. Who never compromised or - gave hostages to fortune. But there was only one chance for the paper and - for old Hump. That chance was here and now. - </p> - <p> - He was sorry he couldn't see Charlie Waterhouse's face. 'What'll you - give?' asked that worthy, after thoughtfully chewing, his cigar. - </p> - <p> - 'A thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'Lord, no. Four thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'That's impossible.' - </p> - <p> - 'Three, then.' - </p> - <p> - 'No, I won't pay anything like three.' - </p> - <p> - 'I wouldn't go a cent under two.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—two thousand then. All right. I'll let you know by to-morrow - night.' - </p> - <p> - 'You understand, Henry, it ain't the money. It's for the good o' the town - I'm doing it. To keep peace, y' understand. That's why I'm doing it. Y' - understand that, Henry.' He actually reached over the fence and hung to - the boy's arm. - </p> - <p> - 'We'd better shake hands on it,' said Henry. - </p> - <p> - 'Sure! I'll stand by it, if you will.' - </p> - <p> - 'I will. Good-bye, now.' - </p> - <p> - And Henry, somewhat confused regarding his ethical position, depressed at - the thought that you couldn't rise altogether out of this hard world, that - you had to live right in it, compromise with it, let yourself be soiled by - it—Henry, his eyes down to beads, flushed about the temples, caught - the eight-six to Chicago. - </p> - <p> - He rode out to the West Side on a cable-car. It is an interesting item to - note in the rather zig-zag development of Henry's highly emotional nature - that he never once weakened during that long ride. He was burning up, of - course. It was like that wonderful week when he had written day and night, - night and day, the Simpson Street stories. But it was, in a way, glorious. - That ethereal electricity was flowing right through him. The Power was on - him. He knew, not in his surface mind but in the deeper seat of all - belief, in his feelings, that he couldn't be stopped or headed. Not - to-night. - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - 'You are not altogether clear, Henry. Let me understand this.' - </p> - <p> - The scene was Uncle Arthur's 'den.' - </p> - <p> - Henry had run the gauntlet of his cousins. Rich young cousins, brought up - to respect their parents and think themselves poor. It was a proper home, - with order, cleanliness, method shining out. He resented it. He resented - them all. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur was thin, and penetrating. His eyes bored at you. His nose - was sharp, his brow furrowed. It seemed to Henry that he was always - scowling a little. - </p> - <p> - His light sharp voice was going on, stating a disentangled, re-arranged - version of Henry's extraordinary outbursts:— - </p> - <p> - 'This man, the town treasurer, is suing you for libel, and you are advised - that he has a case? But he will settle for two thousand dollars?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. He will.' - </p> - <p> - 'And you have come to me with the idea that I will pay over your mother's - money for the purpose?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I'll be twenty-one anyway in less'n two months. But that ain't—isn't—it - exactly, not all of it. I've really got to have the whole three thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, you have?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. It's like this. We bought the <i>Gleaner</i>, Hump Weaver and I. And - we got it cheap, too. Two thousand—for plant, good will, the big - press, everything.' - </p> - <p> - 'Hmm!' - </p> - <p> - 'Then I wrote those stories. They jumped our circulation way up. More'n we - can afford. Queer about that. Because the paper'd been attacking Charlie - Waterhouse, they got the advertiser's to boycott us.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh!' - </p> - <p> - 'Now Charlie's promised me, if I pay him, to call off the boycott. It'll - give us all the Simpson Street advertising. And Hump says we'll fail in a - week if we don't get it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry!' Uncle Arthur's voice rang out with unpleasant clarity. 'You got - from me a thousand dollars of your mother's estate. You sank it in this - paper. I let you have that thinking it would bring you to your senses. - </p> - <p> - It has not brought you to your senses. That is evident.... Now I am going - to tell you something extremely serious. - </p> - <p> - I tell you this because I believe that you are not, for one thing, - dishonest. I have discovered that when I gave you that sum and took your - receipt I was not protected. You are a minor. You cannot, in law, release - me from my obligation as your guardian. After you have come of age you - could collect it again from me.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, Uncle Arthur, I wouldn't do <i>that!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'I am sure you wouldn't. But you can readily see, now, that it is utterly - impossible for me to make any further advances to you. Even if I were - willing. And I am distinctly not willing.' - </p> - <p> - 'But listen, Uncle Arthur! You've got to!' - </p> - <p> - The scowl of this narrow-faced man deepened. - </p> - <p> - 'I don't care for impudence, Henry. We will not talk further about this.' - </p> - <p> - 'But we must, Uncle Arthur! Don't you see, I've got to pay Charlie, and - have Mr Davis get his receipt and the papers signed before they learn - about you, or they'll attach the estate. Why, Charlie might get all of it, - and more too. They might just wreck me. I mustn't lose a minute.' - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur sat straight up at this. Henry thought he looked even more - deeply annoyed. But he spoke, after a long moment, quite calmly. - </p> - <p> - 'You are right there. That is a point. Putting it aside for a moment, what - were you proposing to do with the other thousand dollars?' - </p> - <p> - Henry felt the sharp eyes focusing on him. He sprang up. His words came - hotly. - </p> - <p> - 'Because Hump has put in a thousand more'n I have now. He said to-night - he'd have to sell his library and his—his own things. I can't let - him do that. I <i>won't</i> let him. I've got to stand with him.' Henry - choked up a little now. - </p> - <p> - 'Hump's my friend, Uncle Arthur. He's steady and honest and——' - He faltered momentarily; Uncle Arthur was peculiarly the sort of person - you couldn't tell about Humphrey's love affair; he wouldn't be able then - to see his strong points.... 'He edits the paper and gets the pay-roll and - goes out after the ads. And he <i>hates</i> it! But he's a wonderful - fighter. I won't desert him. I won't! I can't!... Uncle Arthur, why won't - you come out and see our place and meet Hump and let him show you our - books and how our circulation's jumped and...' - </p> - <p> - His voice trailed off because Uncle Arthur too had sprung to his feet and - was pacing the room. Henry's arguments, his earnestness and young energy, - something, was telling on him. Finally he turned and said, in that same - quiet voice:— - </p> - <p> - 'All right, Henry. I'll run out to-morrow and put this thing through for - you. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no, Uncle Arthur! You mustn't do that! Not to-morrow! Charlie'd get - wise. Or some of that gang. Everybody in town'd know you were there. No, - <i>that</i> wouldn't do!' - </p> - <p> - Uncle Arthur took another turn about the room. - </p> - <p> - 'Just what is it that you want, Henry?' he asked, in that same quiet - voice. - </p> - <p> - 'Why, let's see! You'd better give me two thousand in one cheque and one - thousand in another. Mr Davis can fix it so your cheque doesn't go to - Charlie. I don't want to put it in the bank. Charlie's crowd'd get on. But - I'll fix it. Mr Davis'll know.' - </p> - <p> - At the door Uncle Arthur looked severely at the dapper, excited youth on - the steps. - </p> - <p> - 'It may make a man of you. It will certainly throw you on your own - resources. I shall have to trust you to release me formally from all - responsibility after your birthday. And'—sharply—'understand, - you are never to come to me for help. You have your chance. You have - chosen your path.' - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - Eleven at night. The Country Club was bright; Henry passed it on the - farther side of the street. He could hear music and laughter there. They - choked him. With averted face he rushed by. - </p> - <p> - Henry entered at the gate before the old Dexter Smith mansion; then - slipped off among the trees. - </p> - <p> - His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered, - miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely. - </p> - <p> - There were lights here, too; downstairs. - </p> - <p> - Some one calling, perhaps—that friend of James B. Merchant's. - </p> - <p> - Henry gritted his teeth. - </p> - <p> - It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn - irresistibly to the spot. - </p> - <p> - What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that his - life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must be - dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his - great sacrifice. - </p> - <p> - The front door opened. - </p> - <p> - A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very - still, behind a tree, while they walked past him. - </p> - <p> - A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely had - at last spared him a stab. - </p> - <p> - Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs. - </p> - <p> - Still he lingered. - </p> - <p> - Then, after a little, his nervous ears caught a sound that tingled through - his body. - </p> - <p> - The front door opened. - </p> - <p> - And standing in the opening behind the screen door, silhouetted against - the light, he saw a slim girl. - </p> - <p> - His temples were pounding. His throat went dry. - </p> - <p> - The girl came out. Paused. Called over her shoulder in a voice that to - Henry was velvet and gold—'In a few minutes'—and then seated - herself midway down the steps and leaned her head against the railing. He - could see her only faintly now. - </p> - <p> - Henry moved forward, curiously dazed, tiptoeing over the turf, slipping - from tree to tree. Drew near. - </p> - <p> - She lifted her head. - </p> - <p> - There was a breathless pause. Then, 'What is it?' she called. 'What is it? - Who's there?... O—oh! Why, <i>Henry!</i> You frightened me... What - is it? Why do you stand there like that. You aren't ill, Henry?... Where - on earth have you been? I've waited and waited for you. I couldn't think - what had happened, not having any word.... What is the matter, Henry? You - act all tired out. Do sit down here.' - </p> - <p> - 'No,'—the queer breathy voice, Henry knew, must be his own. He was - thinking, wildly, of dead souls' standing at the Judgment Seat. He felt - like that.... 'No, I can't sit down.' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry! What is it?' - </p> - <p> - Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who - has committed a speech to memory, he said this:— - </p> - <p> - 'Cicely, I asked you this afternoon if we couldn't have an - “understanding.” You know! It seemed fair to me, if—if—if you, - well, cared—because I had three thousand dollars, and all that.' - </p> - <p> - She made a rather impatient little gesture. He saw her hands move; but - pressed on:— - </p> - <p> - 'Since then everything has changed. I have no right to ask you now.' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. As on other occasions, in moments of grave - emergency, Henry had recourse to words. - </p> - <p> - 'There was trouble at the office. I couldn't leave Hump to carry all the - burden alone. And I was being sued for libel. My stories... So I've had to - make a very quick turn'—he had heard that term used by real business - men; it sounded rather well, he felt; it had come to him on the train—'I've - had to make a very quick turn—use every cent, or most every cent, of - the money. Of course, without any money at all—while I might have - some chance as a writer—still—well, I have no right to ask - such a thing of you, and I—I withdraw it. I feel that I—I - can't do less than that.' Then, after another silence, Henry swayed, - caught at the railing, sank miserably to the steps. - </p> - <p> - 'It's all right,' he heard himself saying. 'I just thought—everything's - been in such a mid rush—I didn't have my supper. I'll be all - right...' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry,' he heard her saying now, in what seemed to him, as he reflected - on it later that night, at his room, in bed, an extraordinarily - matter-of-fact voice; girls were complicated creatures—'Henry, you - must be starved to death. You come right in with me.' - </p> - <p> - He followed her in through the great hall, the unlighted living-room, a - dark passage where she found his hand and led him along, a huge place that - must have been the kitchen, and then an unmistakable pantry. - </p> - <p> - 'Stand here till I find the light,' she murmured. - </p> - <p> - It <i>was</i> the pantry. - </p> - <p> - She opened the ice-box, produced milk and cold meat. In a tin box was - chocolate cake. - </p> - <p> - 'I oughtn't to let you,' he said weakly. 'I knew you were angry to-day - there——' - </p> - <p> - 'But, Henry, they could <i>hear</i> you! Thomas and William. Don't you see——' - </p> - <p> - 'That wasn't all,' he broke in excitedly. 'It was my asking for an - understanding.' - </p> - <p> - She was bending over a drawer, rummaging for knife and fork. - </p> - <p> - 'No, it wasn't that,' she said. - </p> - <p> - 'I'd like to know what it was, then!' - </p> - <p> - 'It was—oh, please, Henry, don't ever talk that way about money - again.' - </p> - <p> - 'But, Cicely, don't you see——' - </p> - <p> - She straightened up now, knife in one hand, fork in the other; looked - directly at him; slowly shook her head. - </p> - <p> - 'What,' she asked, 'has money to do with—with you and me?' - </p> - <p> - 'But, Cicely, you don't mean——' - </p> - <p> - He saw the sudden sparkle in her dark eyes, the slow slight smile that - parted her lips. - </p> - <p> - She turned away then. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh,' she remarked, rather timidly, 'you'll want these,' and gave him the - knife and fork. - </p> - <p> - He laid them on the table. - </p> - <p> - They stood for a little time without speaking; she fingering the fastener - of the cake box, he pulling at his moustache. Finally, very softly, she - said this:— - </p> - <p> - 'Of course, Henry, you know, we <i>would</i> really have to be very - patient, and not say anything about it to people until—well, until - we <i>could</i>, you know....' - </p> - <p> - And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently - brushing her forehead in their first kiss—until now the restraint of - youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just - short of any such sober admission of feeling—her cheek resting - lightly against his coat, she said this:— - </p> - <p> - 'I shouldn't have let myself be disturbed. I don't really care about - Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of girl. - Henry, you—you hurt me a little.' His eyes filled. He stood erect, - looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long vista of - the years. He compressed his lips. - </p> - <p> - 'Of course,' he said bravely. 'We don't care about money We've got all our - lives. I guess I can work. Prob'ly I'll write better for not having any. - You know—it'll spur me. And I'll be working for you.' - </p> - <p> - He heard her whisper:— - </p> - <p> - 'I'll be so <i>proud</i>, Henry.' - </p> - <p> - 'What's money to us!' He seemed at last to be getting hold of this - tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a ring - in his voice: 'What's money to us!' - </p> - <p> - After all what <i>is</i> money to Twenty? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - X—LOVE LAUGHS - </h2> - <h3> - 1 - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> squat locomotive, - bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring from the flaring - smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the platforms and - stopped just beyond the old red brick depot. - </p> - <p> - The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy - yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These ladies - were bound for the shops, the matinées (it was a Wednesday, and October), - the lectures and concerts of Chicago. - </p> - <p> - Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic - person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood - sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned back - and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a train - made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a sooty - brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the door of the - car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up, chattering - ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was like a tea. He was - afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he couldn't, from the - door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but to run the gauntlet. - And not without a faintly stirring sense of conspicuousness that was at - once pleasing and confusing he started down the aisle, clutching at - seat-backs for support. - </p> - <p> - Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl - occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the women in - front. These latter, on close inspection—he had paused midway—proved - to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary. - </p> - <p> - This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just - behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat? The - hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to him as - ghosts come. - </p> - <p> - He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady - caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden. - </p> - <p> - 'I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the <i>Gleaner</i>,' - she said. 'Mr MacLouden says they're worthy of Stevenson. His <i>New - Arabian Nights</i> you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In London.' - </p> - <p> - Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away. - </p> - <p> - Mary Ames looked up. - </p> - <p> - Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn't bow, or smile. He wasn't sure - that she even inclined her head. - </p> - <p> - His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that he - couldn't retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly by. - He couldn't take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately by and on - into the car behind would help a little. At least in his feelings; and - these were what mattered.... Who <i>was</i> the girl under that unfamiliar - hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly. - </p> - <p> - He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing. - Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with - the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn't burn so. - </p> - <p> - The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes and - the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell! - </p> - <p> - Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out of - his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then during - the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting—indeed, - enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it - momentarily, slightly thrilling—to discover that he liked her. He - saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was - prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch - of radiance in it. - </p> - <p> - Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag. - </p> - <p> - In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it up - and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally, brought - up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose. - </p> - <p> - Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along - the aisle, the hand came down on the bag. - </p> - <p> - She said, half audibly—it was a question:— - </p> - <p> - 'Sit here?' - </p> - <p> - Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames's shoulder; a - rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn't stop his - whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn't he gone straight - by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low, - confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they - couldn't talk confidentially. Not very well. - </p> - <p> - He took the seat. - </p> - <p> - What <i>could</i> they say? - </p> - <p> - But the surprising fact stood out that Martha was a nice girl, a likeable - girl. Even if she had believed the stories about him. Even if... No, it - hadn't seemed like Martha. - </p> - <p> - Henry was staring at Mrs Ames's tortoise-shell comb. Martha was looking - out the window, tapping on the sill with a white-gloved hand. - </p> - <p> - A moment of the old sense of proprietorship over Martha came upon him. - </p> - <p> - 'Silly,' he remarked, muttering it rather crossly, 'wearing white gloves - into Chicago! Be black in ten minutes. Women-folks haven't got much - sense.' - </p> - <p> - Martha gave this remark the silence it deserved. She dropped her eyes, - studied the shopping bag. Then, very quietly, she said this:— - </p> - <p> - 'Henry—it hasn't been very easy—but I <i>have</i> wanted to - tell you about your stories.... - </p> - <p> - 'What about'em?' he asked, ungraciously enough. And he dug with his cane - at the grimy green plush of the seat-back before him. - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, they're so good, Henry! I didn't know—I didn't realise—just - everybody's talking about them! <i>Everybody!</i> You've no idea! It's - been splendid of you to—you know, to answer people that way.' - </p> - <p> - I don't think Martha meant to touch on the one most difficult topic. They - both reddened again. - </p> - <p> - After a longer pause, she tried it again. - </p> - <p> - 'I just <i>love</i> reading them myself. And I wish you could hear the - things Jim—Mr Merchant—says....' - </p> - <p> - She was actually dragging him in! - </p> - <p> - ... He's really a judge. You've no idea, Henry!' He met Kipling at a tea - in New York. He knows lots of people like—you know, editors and - publishers, people like that. And he crossed the ocean once with Richard - Harding Davis. He says you're doing a very remarkable thing... original - note.... Sunbury is going to be proud of you. He wouldn't let anything—you - know, personal—influence his judgment. He's very fair-minded.' - </p> - <p> - Henry dug and dug at the plush. - </p> - <p> - She was pulling at her left glove. - </p> - <p> - What on earth!... - </p> - <p> - She had it off. - </p> - <p> - 'I want you to know, Henry. Such a wonderful thing has happened to me. - See!' - </p> - <p> - On her third finger glittered a diamond in a circlet of gold. - </p> - <p> - 'He wanted to give me a cluster, Henry. I wouldn't let him. I just didn't - want him to be too extravagant. I love this stone.. I picked it out - myself. At Welding's. And then he wished it on. And, Henry, I'm so happy! - I can't bear to think that you and I—anybody—you know....' - </p> - <p> - Henry was critically, moodily, appraising the diamond. - </p> - <p> - 'Can't we be friends, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - 'Sure we can! Of course!' - </p> - <p> - 'I just can't tell you how wonderful it is. I want everybody else to be - happy.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm happy!' he announced, explosively, between set teeth. - </p> - <p> - She thought this over. - </p> - <p> - 'I've heard a little talk, of course. I've been interested, too. Yes, I - have! Cicely's a perfectly dandy girl. And she's—you know, <i>that</i> - way. Knows so much about books and things. I didn't realise—that you - were—you know, really—well, engaged?' - </p> - <p> - There was a long pause. Henry dug and dug with his stick. - </p> - <p> - Finally, eyes wandering a little but mouth still set, he said huskily:— - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, we're engaged.' - </p> - <p> - 'What was that, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - 'I said, “Yes, we're engaged.”' - </p> - <p> - 'O—o—oh, Henry, I'm so glad!' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't say anything about it, Martha.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, of <i>course</i> not!... You've no idea how nice people are being to - me. They're giving me a party to-night, down on the South Side. We're - coming back to-morrow.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Merchant met her in the Chicago depot. Henry had excused himself before - Mrs Ames and Mary got up. He would have hurried off into the grimy city, - but the crowd held him back. Martha saw him and dragged the rich and - important man of her choice toward him. - </p> - <p> - Henry thought him very old, and not particularly goodlooking. He was a - stocky, sandy-complexioned man; dressed now, as always, in brown, even to - a brown hat. He looked strong enough—Henry knew that he played polo, - and that sort of thing—but gossip put him at thirty-eight. He - certainly couldn't be under thirty-five. Henry wondered how Martha - could... - </p> - <p> - Then he found himself taking the man's hand and listening to more of the - familiar praise. But on this occasion it had, he felt, a condescension, a - touch of patronage, that irritated him. - </p> - <p> - 'I'd like to talk with you, Calverly. There's a chance that—I'll - tell you! I may be able to arrange it this evening. They're not letting me - come to the party. Got to do something. I'll try it. Come around to my - place between eight and half-past, and I'll explain more fully. There's a - classmate of mine in town that can help us, maybe. You'll do that? Good! - I'll expect you.' - </p> - <p> - He was gone. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, moodily, Henry wandered through the station and up the long - stairway to the street. - </p> - <p> - He felt deeply uncomfortable. It wasn't this Mr Merchant, though he wished - he had known how to show his resentment of the man's offhand manner. But - he hadn't known; he wouldn't again; before age and experience he was - helpless. No, his trouble lay deeper. He shouldn't have told Martha that - he was engaged. Why had he done such a thing? What on earth had he meant - by it? It was a rather dreadful break. - </p> - <p> - He paused on the Wells Street bridge; hung over the dirty wooden railing; - watched a tug come through the opaque, sluggish water, pouring out its - inevitable black smoke, a great rolling cloud of it, that set him - coughing. He perversely welcomed it. - </p> - <p> - Cicely expected him in the evening. He would have to drop in on his way to - Mr Merchant's. Could he tell her what he had done? Dared he tell her? - </p> - <p> - Martha and the Ameses would be gone overnight. That was something. And - people didn't get up early after parties. At least, girls didn't. It would - be afternoon before they would reappear in Sunbury. Say twenty-four hours. - But immediately after that, certainly by evening, all Sunbury would have - the news that the popular Cicely Hamlin was engaged. To young Henry - Calverly. The telephone would ring. Congratulations would be pouring in. - </p> - <p> - He stared fixedly at the water. He wondered what made him do these things, - lose control of his tongue. It wasn't his first offence; nor, surely, his - last. An unnerving suggestion, that last! He asked himself how bad a man - had to feel before jumping down there and ending it all. It happened often - enough. You saw it in the papers. - </p> - <h3> - 3 - </h3> - <p> - Welding's jewellery store occupied the best corner on the proper side of - State Street. In its long series of show window's, resting on velvet of - appropriate colours, backed by mirrors, were bracelets, lockets, rings, - necklaces, 'dog-collars' of matched pearls, diamond tiaras, watches, - chests of silverware, silver bowls, cups and ornaments, articles in cut - glass, statuettes of ebony, bronze and jade, and here and there, in - careless little heaps, scattered handfuls of unmounted gems—rubies, - emeralds, yellow, white and blue diamonds, and rich-coloured semi-precious - stones. - </p> - <p> - But all this without over-emphasis. There were no built-up, glittering - pyramids, no placards, no price-tags even. There was instead, despite the - luxury of the display, a restraint; as if it were more a concession to the - traditions of sound shop-keeping than an appeal for custom. For Welding's - was known, had been known through a long generation, from Pittsburg to - Omaha. Welding's, like the Art Institute, Hooley's Theatre, Devoe's candy - store, Field's buses, Central Music Hall, was a Chicago institution, - playing its inevitable part at every well-arranged wedding as in every - properly equipped dining-room. You couldn't give any one you really cared - about a present of jewellery in other than a Welding box. Not if you were - doing the thing right! Oh, you <i>could</i>, perhaps.... - </p> - <p> - And Welding's, from the top-booted, top-hatted doorman (such were not - common in Chicago then) to the least of the immaculately clad salesmen, - was profoundly, calmly, overpoweringly aware of its position. - </p> - <p> - Before the section of the window that was devoted to rings stood Henry. - </p> - <p> - About him pressed the throng of early-afternoon shoppers—sharp-faced - women, brisk business men, pretty girls in pretty clothes, messenger boys, - loiterers and the considerable element of foreign-appearing, rather shabby - men and women, boys and girls that were always an item in the Chicago - scene. Out in the wide street the traffic, a tangle of it (this was before - the days of intelligent traffic regulation anywhere in America) rolled and - rattled and thundered by—carriages, hacks, delivery wagons, - two-horse and three-horse trucks, and trains of cable-cars, each with its - flat wheel or two that pounded rhythmically as it rolled. And out of the - traffic—out of the huge, hive-like stores and office-buildings, out - of the very air as breezes blew over from other, equally busy streets, - came a noise that was a blend of noises, a steady roar, the nervous hum of - the city. - </p> - <p> - But of all this Henry saw, heard, nothing; merely pulled at his moustache - and tapped his cane against his knee. - </p> - <p> - A wanly pretty girl, with short yellow hair curled kinkily against her - head under a sombrero hat, loitered toward him, close to the window; - paused at his side, brushing his elbow; glanced furtively up under her hat - brim; smiled mechanically, showing gold teeth; moved around him and - lingered on the other side; spoke in a low tone; finally, with a glance - toward the fat policeman who stood, in faded blue, out in the thick of - things by the car tracks, drifted on and away. - </p> - <p> - Henry had neither seen nor heard her. - </p> - <p> - Brows knit, lips compressed, eyes nervously intent, he marched resolutely - into Welding's. - </p> - <p> - 'Look at some rings!' he said, to a distrait salesman. - </p> - <p> - He indicated, sternly, a solitaire that looked, he thought, about like - Martha's. - </p> - <p> - 'How much is that?' - </p> - <p> - 'That? Not a bad stone. Let me see... Oh, three hundred dollars.' - </p> - <p> - Henry, huskily, in a dazed hush of the spirit, repeated the words:— - </p> - <p> - 'Three—hundred—dollars!' - </p> - <p> - The salesman tapped with manicured fingers on the showcase. - </p> - <p> - 'Have you—have you—have you... - </p> - <p> - The salesman raised his eyebrows. - </p> - <p> - '... any others?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes, we have others.' He drew out a tray from the wall behind him. 'I - can show fairly good stones as low as sixty or eighty dollars. Here's one - that's really very good at a hundred.' - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. The glistening finger nails fell to tapping - again. - </p> - <p> - 'This one, you say is—one hundred?' - </p> - <p> - 'One hundred.' - </p> - <p> - Another silence. Then:— - </p> - <p> - 'Thank you. I—I was just sorta looking around.' - </p> - <p> - The salesman began replacing the trays. - </p> - <p> - Henry moved away; slowly, irresolutely, at first; then, as he passed out - the door, with increasing speed. At the corner of Randolph he was racing - along. He caught the two-fourteen for Sunbury by chasing it the length of - the platform. Henry could do the hundred yards under twelve seconds at any - time with all his clothes on. He could do it under eleven on a track. - </p> - <p> - By a quarter to three he was walking swiftly, with dignity, up Simpson - Street. He turned in at the doorway beside Hemple's meat-market and ran up - the long stairway to the offices above. - </p> - <p> - Humphrey strolled in from the composing room. - </p> - <p> - 'Seen those people already, Hen?' - </p> - <p> - 'I—you see—well, no. I'm going right back in. On the - three-eight.' - </p> - <p> - 'Going back? But——' - </p> - <p> - 'It's this way, Hump. I—it'll seem sorta sudden, I know—you - see, I want to get an engagement ring. There's one that would do all - right, I think, for—well, a hundred dollars—and I was - wondering....' - </p> - <p> - Humphrey stared at him; grinned. - </p> - <p> - 'So you've gone and done it! You don't say! You are a bit rapid, Henry. - The lady must have been on the train.' - </p> - <p> - 'No—not quite—you see...' - </p> - <p> - 'Got to be done right now, eh? All in a rush?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, Hump... - </p> - <p> - 'Wait a minute! Let me collect my scattered faculties. If you've got to - this point it's no good trying to reason——' - </p> - <p> - 'But, Hump, I'll be reasonable——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I know. Now listen to me! This appears to come under the general - head of emergencies. We're not quite in such bad shape as we were a month - back. There's a little advertising revenue coming in. An——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, I thought——' - </p> - <p> - 'And you've certainly sunk enough in this old property—' - </p> - <p> - 'No more than you, Hump——' - </p> - <p> - 'Just wait, will you! I don't see but what we've got to stand back of you. - Perhaps we'd better enter it as a loan from the business to you until I - can think up a better excuse. Or no, I'll tell you—call it a salary - advance. Well, something! I'll work it out. Never you mind now. And if - you're going to stop at the bank and catch the three-eight you'll have to - step along.' - </p> - <p> - It would have interested a student of psychophysics, I think, to slip a - clinical thermometer in under Henry's tongue as he sat, erect, staring, - with nervously twitching hands and feet, on the three-eight train. - </p> - <h3> - 4 - </h3> - <p> - To Cicely's house Henry hurried after bolting a supper at Stanley's - restaurant and managing to evade Humphrey's amused questions when he heard - them. - </p> - <p> - It was early, barely half-past seven. The Watt household had dinner (not - supper) at seven. They would hardly be through. He couldn't help that. He - had waited as long as he could. - </p> - <p> - He rang the bell. The butler showed him in. He sat on the piano stool in - the spacious, high-ceiled parlour, where he had waited so often before. - </p> - <p> - To-night it looked like a strange room. - </p> - <p> - He told himself that it was absurd to feel so nervous. He and Cicely - understood each other well enough. She cared for him. She had said so, - more than once. - </p> - <p> - Of course, the little matter of facing Madame Watt... though, after all, - what could she do? - </p> - <p> - He tried to control the tingling of his nerves. - </p> - <p> - 'I must relax,' he thought. - </p> - <p> - With this object he moved over to the heavily upholstered sofa and settled - himself on it; stretched out his legs; thrust his hands into his pockets. - </p> - <p> - But there was an extraordinary pressure in his temples; a pounding. - </p> - <p> - He snatched a hand from one pocket and felt hurriedly in another to see if - the precious little box was there; the box with the magical name embossed - on the cover, 'Weldings.' - </p> - <p> - He reflected, exultantly, 'I never bought anything there before.' - </p> - <p> - Then: 'She's a long time. They must be at the table still.' He sat up; - listened. But the dining-room in the Dexter Smith place was far back - behind the 'back parlour.' The walls were thick. There were heavy hangings - and vast areas of soft carpet. You couldn't hear. 'Gee!' his thoughts - raced on, 'think of owning all this! Wonder how people ever get so much - money. Wonder how it would seem.' - </p> - <p> - He caught himself twisting his neck nervously within his collar. And his - hands were clenched; his toes, even, were drawn up tightly in his shoes. - </p> - <p> - 'Gotta relax,' he told himself again. - </p> - <p> - Then he felt for the little box. This time he transferred it to a trousers - pocket; held it tight in his hand there. - </p> - <p> - A door opened and closed. There was a distant rustling. Henry, paler, - sprang to his feet. - </p> - <p> - 'I must be cool,' he thought. 'Think before I speak. Everything depends on - my steadiness now.' - </p> - <p> - But the step was not Cicely's. She was slim and light. This was a solid - tread. - </p> - <p> - He gripped the little box more tightly. He was meeting with a curious - difficulty in breathing. - </p> - <p> - Then, in the doorway, appeared the large person, the hooked nose, the - determined mouth, the piercing, hawklike eyes of Madame Watt. - </p> - <p> - 'How d'do, Henry,' she said, in her deep voice. 'Sit down. I want to talk - to you. About Cicely. I'm going to tell you frankly—I like you, - Henry; I believe you're going to amount to something one of these days—but - I had no idea—now I want you to take this in the spirit I say it in—I - had no idea things were going along so fast between Cicely and you. I've - trusted you. I've let you two play together all you liked. And I won't say - I'd stand in the way, a few years from now—— - </p> - <p> - 'A few years!...' - </p> - <p> - 'Now, Henry, I'm not going to have you getting all stirred up. Let's admit - that you're fond of Cicely. You are, aren't you? Yes? Well, now we'll try - to look at it sensibly. How old are you?' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm twenty, but——' - </p> - <p> - 'When will you be twenty-one?' - </p> - <p> - 'Next month. You see——' - </p> - <p> - 'Now tell me—try to think this out clearly—how on earth could - you expect to take care of a girl who's been brought up as Cicely has. - Even if she were old enough to know her own mind, which I can't believe - she is.' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, but she does!' - </p> - <p> - 'Fudge, Henry! She couldn't. What experience has she had? Never mind that, - though. Tell me, what is your income now. You'll admit I have a right to - ask.' - </p> - <p> - 'Twelve a week, but——' - </p> - <p> - 'And what prospects have you? Be practical now! How far do you expect to - rise on the <i>Gleaner!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'Not very high, but our circulation——' - </p> - <p> - 'What earthly difference can a little more or less circulation make when - it's a country weekly! No, Henry, believe me, I have a great deal of - confidence in you—I mean that you'll keep on growing up and forming - character—but this sort of thing can not—simply can not—go - on now. Why, Henry, you haven't even begun your man's life yet! Very - likely you'll write. It may be that you're a genius. But that makes it all - the more a problem. Can't you see——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, of course, but——' - </p> - <p> - 'No, listen to me! I asked Cicely to-day why you were coming so often. I - wasn't at all satisfied with her answers to my questions. And when I - forced her to admit that she has been as good as engaged to you——' - </p> - <p> - 'But we <i>aren't</i> engaged! It's only an understanding.' - </p> - <p> - 'Understanding! Pah! Don't excite me, Henry. I want to straighten this out - just as pleasantly as I can. I <i>am</i> fond of you, Henry. But I never - dreamed—— Tell me, you and that young Weaver own the <i>Gleaner</i>, - I think.' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes'm we own it. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'Just what does that mean? That you have paid money—actual money—for - it?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes'm. It's cost us about four thousand.' - </p> - <p> - 'Four thousand! Hmm!' - </p> - <p> - 'And then Charlie Waterhouse—he's town treasurer—he sued me - for libel—ten thousand dollars'—Henry seemed a thought proud - of this—'and I had to give him two thousand to settle. It was - something in one of my stories—the one called <i>Sinbad the - Treasurer</i>. Mr Davis—he's my lawyer—he said Charlie had a - case, but——' - </p> - <p> - 'Wait a minute, Henry! Where did you get that money. It's—let me see—about - four thousand dollars—your share—' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes'm four thousand. It was my mother's. She left it to me. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'I see. Your mother's estate. How much is left of it—outside what - you lost in this suit and the two thousand you've invested in the paper.' - </p> - <p> - 'Nothing. But——' - </p> - <p> - 'Nothing! Now, Henry'—no, don't speak! I want you to listen to me a - few minutes longer. And I want you to take seriously to heart what I'm - going to say. First, about this paper, the <i>Gleaner</i>. It's a serious - question whether you'll ever get your two thousand dollars back. If you - ever <i>have</i> to sell out you won't get anything like it. If you were - older, and if you were by nature a business man—which you aren't!—you - might manage, by the hardest kind of work to build it up to where you - could get twenty or thirty dollars a week out of it instead of twelve. But - you'll never do it. You aren't fitted for it. You're another sort of boy, - by nature. And I'm sorry to say I firmly believe this money, or the most - of it is certain to go after the other two thousand, that Mr Charlie - Waterhouse got. But even considering that you boys <i>could</i> make the - paper pay for itself, Cicely couldn't be the wife of a struggling little - country editor. I wouldn't listen to that for a minute! No, my advice to - you, Henry, is to take your losses as philosophically as you can, call it - experience, and go to work as a writer. It'll take you years——' - </p> - <p> - '<i>Years!</i> But——' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes, to establish yourself. A success in a country town isn't a New York - success. Remember that. No, it's a long road you're going to travel. After - you've got somewhere, when you've become a man, when you've found - yourself, with some real prospects—it isn't that I'd expect you to - be rich, Henry, but I'd <i>have</i> to be assured that you were a going - concern—why, then you might come to me again. But not now. I want - you to go now——' - </p> - <p> - 'Without seeing Cicely?' - </p> - <p> - 'Certainly. Above all things. I want you to go, and promise that you won't - try to see her. To-morrow she goes away for a long visit.' - </p> - <p> - 'For—a—long... But she'd see other men, and—Oh!...' - </p> - <p> - 'Exactly. I mean that she shall. Best way in the world to find out whether - you two are calves or lovers. One way or the other, we'll prove it. And - now you must go! Remember you have my best wishes. I hope you'll find the - road one of these days and make a go of it.' - </p> - <p> - A moment more and the front door had closed on him. He stood before the - house, staring up through the maple leaves at the starry sky, struggling, - for the moment vainly, toward sanity. It was like the end of the world. If - was unthinkable. It was awful. - </p> - <p> - But after waiting a while he went to Mr Merchant's. There was nothing else - to do. - </p> - <h3> - 5 - </h3> - <p> - Mr Merchant himself opened the door to Henry. He lived in one of the - earliest of the apartment buildings that later were to work a deep change - in the home life of Sunbury. 'How are you, Calverly!' he said, in his - offhand, superior way. Then in a lower and distinctly less superior tone, - almost friendly indeed, he added, 'Got a bit of a surprise for you. Come - in.' - </p> - <p> - The living-room was lighted by a single standing lamp with a red shade. - Beneath it, curled up like a boy in a cretonne-covered wing chair, his - shock of faded yellow hair mussed where his fingers had been, his heavy - faded yellow moustache bushing out under a straight nose and pale cheeks, - his old gray suit sadly wrinkled, sat a stranger reading from a handful of - newspaper clippings. - </p> - <p> - Henry paused in the door. The man looked up, so quickly that Henry - started, and fixed on him eyes that while they were a rather pale blue yet - had an uncanny fire in them. - </p> - <p> - The man frowned as he cried, gruffly:— - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, come in! Needn't be afraid of me!' And coolly read on. - </p> - <p> - Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a - queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he - would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with. - </p> - <p> - The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the room - he thought it the type and paper of the <i>Gleaner</i>. His stories, - doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it! - What was the good, if they made him so cross. - </p> - <p> - 'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute—' - </p> - <p> - 'I won't. Don't interrupt me!' - </p> - <p> - '—I would introduce him.' - </p> - <p> - Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't - be!.... - </p> - <p> - 'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author - of——' - </p> - <p> - 'So I gathered. Keep still!' - </p> - <p> - Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the - clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the - bedrooms. - </p> - <p> - 'That—that isn't <i>the</i> Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice - tinged with awe. - </p> - <p> - 'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to wait - till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he - wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at least - a manner of businesslike calm. - </p> - <p> - Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He even - answered questions now and then. But all the time he was trying—trying—to - think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand closed on the little - box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately for some sort of a - mental footing. - </p> - <p> - 'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a - drink.' - </p> - <p> - And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:— - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well. - It's been a—a hard day.' - </p> - <p> - 'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've got - a bit of excitement coming.' - </p> - <p> - Henry did this. - </p> - <p> - Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight to Henry; - stood over' him; glared—angrily, Henry thought, with a fluttering of - his wits—down at him. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but - the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again. - </p> - <p> - 'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so - important—nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty - years ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest—that's the - thing! And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our - throats. What do you eat?' - </p> - <p> - 'I—I don't know's I——' - </p> - <p> - 'For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and——' - </p> - <p> - 'Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don't doubt you had - cream on the oatmeal?' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—milk, sorta.' - </p> - <p> - 'Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really—think that over—orange - and milk! Isn't that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning - of the day?' - </p> - <p> - Mr Merchant broke in here. - </p> - <p> - 'Galbraith, for heaven's sake! Don't bulldoze him.' - </p> - <p> - 'But this is important. It's health! We've got to look out for that. Right - from the start! Here, Calverly—how old are you?' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm—well—most—twenty-one.' - </p> - <p> - 'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good God, - boy, don't you see——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, come, Galbraith!' - </p> - <p> - 'Well, I'll put it this way:—Here's a young man that can work magic. - Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling - and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?' - </p> - <p> - Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa. - </p> - <p> - 'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?' - </p> - <p> - 'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?... - Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American - publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint 'em, - as they stand, in <i>Galbraith's</i>. What do you think o' that? A bit - original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it up. - Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger again - at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just as if - you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all the old - editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I edit <i>Galbraith's</i> - to suit myself. - </p> - <p> - I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I - print the best. I'm the editor of <i>Galbraith's</i> Oh, I keep a few desk - men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he was - the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to - England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, “Frank, pack up! - Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor.”' - </p> - <p> - He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings. - Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes. - </p> - <p> - When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All tyrants - have short legs.' And walked off again. - </p> - <p> - 'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around. - </p> - <p> - 'It's on the paper here—“Weaver and Calverly”? Father? Uncle?' - </p> - <p> - 'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's—it's me.' - </p> - <p> - 'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. 'Don't - be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand what we're - getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be famous in a - year.' - </p> - <p> - He stopped short; took another swing around the room. - </p> - <p> - 'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?' - </p> - <p> - 'Twenty.' - </p> - <p> - 'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the - way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for - 'em?' - </p> - <p> - Henry could only look appealingly at his host. - </p> - <p> - 'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it worth - your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a Galbraith - author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two thousand.' - </p> - <p> - Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent. - </p> - <p> - He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down. - </p> - <p> - 'Not enough,' said Merchant. - </p> - <p> - Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened. - </p> - <p> - 'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new - writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.' - </p> - <p> - 'True. But I should think——' - </p> - <p> - 'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that, - Calverly? - </p> - <p> - 'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. But - I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. Here!' - He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening paper. - 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry Calverly - matter for five years——' - </p> - <p> - 'Too long,' said Mr Merchant. - </p> - <p> - 'Well—three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it - elsewhere. And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for - these stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.' - </p> - <p> - 'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No - guarantee.' - </p> - <p> - 'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret tying - up with me.' - </p> - <p> - 'You'd better agree to pay him something—say twenty-five a week—as - a minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to - tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.' - </p> - <p> - 'I'm going to tie him up, all right. I'd go the limit. Twenty-five a week, - minimum, for three years. That's agreed... How're you fixed, Calverly? - Want any money now?' - </p> - <p> - Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. 'Yes. Better advance a - little. He could use it. Couldn't you, Calverly?' - </p> - <p> - 'Why—-why——' - </p> - <p> - 'What do you say to five hundred. That'd clinch the bargain. Here—wait!' - </p> - <p> - He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the - cheque. - </p> - <p> - 'Here you are, Calverly. That'd take care of you for the present. Mustn't - forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You'd better go now. Go - home. Get a good night's sleep. And watch that stomach. Cereal's good, at - your age. But cut out the orange.... I'm going to bed, Merchant. Been - travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I'll send you the contract - from New York.' - </p> - <p> - 'First, though'—this from Mr Merchant—'I think you'd better - write a letter—here, to-night—confirming the arrangement. You - and I can do that. We'll let Mr Calverly go.' - </p> - <p> - Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and - stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his eyes; - looked hurriedly about; muttered—'Where'd I lay that fountain pen?'—found - it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings behind him. - </p> - <p> - Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to. - </p> - <p> - 'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate - Galbraith.' - </p> - <p> - Henry looked at him out of wan eyes. - </p> - <p> - Then suddenly he giggled aloud. - </p> - <p> - 'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to - succeed.' - </p> - <p> - 'I felt a little bad about—you know, what you said about making him - write that letter. He might think I——' - </p> - <p> - 'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the morning. - I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.' - </p> - <p> - 'You—you don't mean that he'd—he'd——' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, he might forget it.' - </p> - <p> - 'Nor after he <i>promised!</i>' - </p> - <p> - 'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times. - Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he wakes - up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.' - </p> - <p> - 'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses - are that way.' - </p> - <p> - 'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one. No matter - how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, Galbraith is a - great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd make you, I believe - he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on the high road now, - Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how most men hit the high - road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble on it. Within a year - you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!' - </p> - <h3> - 6 - </h3> - <p> - The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression. - Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though - great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life. It had - the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely elastic - imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual. - </p> - <p> - He hadn't enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was a - shock from which he didn't recover for years, an utter destruction of - cherished illusions. - </p> - <p> - He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and - with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about - anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was - frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing - adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, <i>the</i> - Galbraith; that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks—he - recalled how he had written the first ten during three mad days and - nights; they had come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write - them down, as if an exuberant angel were dictating to him—had sold - them for thousands of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for - three years. The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing - that had happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again. - Though he knew it would. But between times he wasn't a genius; he wasn't - anything; just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat; - rubbed his blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples. - </p> - <p> - 'I've got congestion,' he muttered. - </p> - <p> - He stood at the railing and stared out ever the lake. It was lead black - out there, with a tossing light or two; ore freighters or lumber boats - headed for Chicago harbour. Beneath him, down the beach, great waves were - pounding in, quickly, endlessly, tirelessly, one after the other. He could - see the ghostly foam of each. He could feel the spindrift cutting at his - face. The wind was so strong he had to lean against it. A gust tore off - his glasses; he let them hang over his shoulder. He welcomed the rush and - roar of it in his stormy soul. - </p> - <p> - After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the Dexter - Smith place. - </p> - <p> - It was dark, upstairs and down. - </p> - <p> - He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time the - little box from Welding's was gripped in his burning hand. - </p> - <p> - He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every year - he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great straight - branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling about him; the - bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed it. Caught at - another. And another. - </p> - <p> - He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was cool - to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at the - dark house. Tears came; blinded him. - </p> - <p> - 'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because - she loves me. They're breaking her heart—and mine. Martha'll be back - to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then—what—what - I did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live - here—not after that.' - </p> - <p> - A new and fascinating thought came. - </p> - <p> - 'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me here. - I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning they'll - find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr Galbraith's cheque. - And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter. Maybe they'll discover - I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry then.' - </p> - <p> - But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing quality. - He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept his - long-suffering partner awake during much of the night. - </p> - <p> - At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the - Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into - the spacious parlour. - </p> - <p> - He waited, fiercely. - </p> - <p> - A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the - room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?' - </p> - <p> - 'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand. - Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing - another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!' - </p> - <p> - She, still frowning, turned the pages. - </p> - <p> - 'But what's all this, Henry?' - </p> - <p> - 'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready - for me. It's <i>Galbraith's Magazine</i>. They're going to print my - stories and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get - book royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the - price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And Mr - Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to advertise - me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says there's been - nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here, coldly, this - impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But shrewd, - strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it far from - absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as much as of - genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional uncertainty - in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were youth—gifted, - uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she said, brusquely—'Sit - down, Henry!'—and herself dropped heavily into a chair and began - deliberately reading the document of the great Galbraith, she knew, in her - curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she was sparring for time. Before - her, still on his feet, apparently unaware that she had spoken, unaware of - everything on earth outside of his own turbulent breast, stood an - incarnation of primal energy. - </p> - <p> - She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found - momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old - folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power. - </p> - <p> - I think he was talking all the time—pouring out an incoherent, - tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to - brush him away. - </p> - <p> - When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a - little box. - </p> - <p> - 'Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all this?' - </p> - <p> - 'I want you to let me see Cicely. Just one minute. Let her say. I can't—I - <i>can't</i>—leave it like this!' - </p> - <p> - 'You promised——' - </p> - <p> - 'That I wouldn't try to see her. But I can come to you can't I? That's - fair, isn't it?' - </p> - <p> - Madame Watt sighed again. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Henry leaped forward; caught himself; stepped back; cried out, in - a passionately suppressed voice:— - </p> - <p> - 'There she is! Now!' - </p> - <p> - Cicely was crossing the hall toward the stairs. They could see her through - the doorway. - </p> - <p> - She went up as far as the first landing, a few steps up; then, a hand on - the railing, she hesitated and slowly turned her head. - </p> - <p> - 'Will you ask her to come!' Henry moaned. 'Ask her! Let her say! Don't - break our hearts like this!' - </p> - <p> - Madame raised her hand. - </p> - <p> - Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and - into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head bent - forward a little, glancing from one to the other. - </p> - <p> - She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her, that - she, too, was suffering. - </p> - <p> - She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little - questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn't smile. - </p> - <p> - Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter. He - waited for her to look up. - </p> - <p> - Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is - unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had - beaten her. - </p> - <p> - He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He - saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated. - </p> - <p> - Then his own voice came out—a shy, even polite, if breathless, - little voice:— - </p> - <p> - 'I was just wondering, Cicely, if you'd let me give you this ring.' - </p> - <p> - She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring. - </p> - <p> - He held it out. - </p> - <p> - Then she said:— - </p> - <p> - 'No, Henry.... I mean, hadn't you better wish it on?' - </p> - <p> - 'Oh, yes,' said he. 'Funny! I didn't think of that.' - </p> - <p> - Madame Watt turned a page, rustling the paper. - </p> - <p> - 'Wait, Henry! Don't let go! Have you wished?' - </p> - <p> - 'Unhuh! Have you?' - </p> - <p> - 'Yes. I wished the first thing.' - </p> - <p> - 'Well—' Henry had to stop. He found himself swallowing rather - violently. 'Well—I s'pose I'd better step down to the office. I - might come back this afternoon, if—if you'd like me to.' - </p> - <p> - 'Henry,' said Madame now, 'don't be silly! Come to lunch!' - </p> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Henry Is Twenty, by Samuel Merwin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY *** - -***** This file should be named 51948-h.htm or 51948-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/4/51948/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Henry Is Twenty, by Samuel Merwin
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: Henry Is Twenty
- A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd
-
-Author: Samuel Merwin
-
-Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51948]
-Last Updated: March 13, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY IS TWENTY ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
- <div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- HENRY IS TWENTY
- </h1>
- <h3>
- A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd
- </h3>
- <h2>
- By Samuel Merwin
- </h2>
- <h4>
- Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.
- </h4>
- <h4>
- London and Glasgow
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1921
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I—THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II—IN SAND-FLY TIME </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III—THE STIMULANT </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> IV—THE WHITE STAR </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> V—TIGER, TIGER! </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VI—ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VII—THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VIII—THIS BUD OF LOVE </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IX—WHAT'S MONEY! </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> X—LOVE LAUGHS </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- OF PATTERNS AND PERSONS
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t would be
- ungracious to let this book go out into a preoccupied world without some
- word of gratitude to those who have written regarding the young Henry as
- he has appeared from month to month in a magazine. The letters have been
- the kindliest and most stimulating imaginable; and have surprised me, for
- I have never found it easy to picture Henry as a popular hero of fiction.
- </p>
- <p>
- He isn't, of course, a hero at all. His weaknesses are too plain—the
- little evidences of vanity in him, his selfcentred moments, his errant
- susceptibilities—and heroes can't have weaknesses. And heroes—in
- any well-regulated pattern-story—must 'turn out well.' Henry, in
- this book, doesn't really turn out at all. His success in Episode X is a
- rather alarming accident. I think he'll do well enough, when he's forty or
- so. At twenty, no. He has huge doses of life's medicine yet to swallow.
- And all his problems are complicated by the touch of genius that is in
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Another thing: there couldn't have been a Mamie Wilcox in our
- pattern-story. And certainly not a Corinne. Hardly even a Martha. For a
- 'divided love interest' destroys your pattern. Yet Marthas, Corinnes,
- Mamies occur everywhere. So I can't very well apologise for their presence
- here.
- </p>
- <p>
- We might, of course, have had Henry overthrow the Old Cinch in Sunbury;
- clean up the town. But he didn't happen to be a St George that summer. And
- then, so many heroes of pattern-stories, these two decades, have slain
- municipal dragons!
- </p>
- <p>
- He might have listened in a deeper humility to the worldly wisdom of Uncle
- Arthur. But he didn't. He had to live his own life, not Uncle Arthur's.
- His way was the harder, but he couldn't help that.
- </p>
- <p>
- I would have liked to pursue further the Mildred-Humphrey romance;
- including Arthur V. and the curious triangle that resulted; but the crisis
- didn't come in that year.
- </p>
- <p>
- And against the temptation to dwell with Madame Watt and her husband I
- have had, here, to set my face. Though something of that story will be
- told in a book yet to come, dealing with an older, changed Henry. The
- richly dramatic career of <i>Madame</i> underlay the irony of Henry's
- marriage; and we shall have to deal with that, or at least with the events
- that grew out of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- I have said that Henry would turn out well enough in time. From the angle
- of the pattern-story this obviously couldn't be. It would be said that if
- he <i>was</i> ever to succeed he should have got started by this time in
- habits of industry and so forth.
- </p>
- <p>
- I won't say that this is nonsense, but instead will quote from the
- autobiography of Charles Francis Adams (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1916).
- Mr Adams, from his fifteenth to his twenty-fifth year, kept a diary. Then
- he sealed the volumes in a package. Thirty years later he opened the
- package and read every word. He says:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The revelation of myself to myself was positively shocking.... It wasn't
- that the thing was bad or that my record was discreditable; it was worse!
- It was silly. That it was crude, goes without saying. <i>That</i> I didn't
- mind! But I did blush and groan and swear over its unmistakable,
- unconscious immaturity and ineptitude, its conceit, its weakness and its
- cant.... As I finished each volume it went into the fire; and I stood over
- it until the last leaf was ashes.... I have never felt the same about
- myself since. I now humbly thank fortune that I have got almost through
- life without making a conspicuous ass of myself.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Adams, immediately after the period covered by the diary, plunged into
- the Civil War, and emerged with the well-earned brevet rank of
- brigadier-general. He was later eminent as publicist, author,
- administrator, a recognised leader of thought in a troublous time. He
- became president of the Union Pacific Railroad. And at the last he was the
- subject of a memorial address by the Honorable Henry Cabot Lodge.
- </p>
- <p>
- As Henry is still several years short of twenty-five perhaps there is hope
- for him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Concord, Mass.
- </p>
- <h3>
- S. M.
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- I—THE IRRATIONAL ANIMAL
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was late May in
- Sunbury, Illinois, and twenty minutes past eight in the morning.
- </p>
- <p>
- The spacious lawns and the wide strips of turf between sidewalk and
- roadway in every avenue and street were lush with crowding young blades of
- green. The maples, oaks, and elms were vivid with the exuberant youth of
- the year.
- </p>
- <p>
- Throughout the village, brisk young men, care-worn men of middle age, a
- few elderly men were hurrying toward the old red-brick station whence the
- eight-twenty-nine would shortly carry them into the dust and sweat and
- smoke of a business day in Chicago. The swarms of sleepy-eyed clerks,
- book-keepers, office boys and girl stenographers had gone in on the
- seven-eleven and the seven-thirty-two.
- </p>
- <p>
- Along Simpson Street the grocers, in their aprons, already had out their
- sidewalk racks heaped with seasonable vegetables and fruits (out-of-season
- delicacies had not then become commonplaces of life in Sunbury;
- strawberries appeared when the local berries were ripe, not sooner). The
- two butcher shops were decorated with red and buff carcasses hung in rows.
- A whistling, coatless youth had just swept out Donovan's drug store and
- was wiping off the marble counter before the marble and glass soda
- fountain. Through the windows of the Sunbury National Bank Alfred Knight
- could be seen filling the inkwells and putting out fresh blotters and
- pens. The neat little restaurant known as 'Stanley's' (the Stanleys were a
- respectable coloured couple) was still nearly full of men who ate ham and
- eggs, pounded beefsteak, fried potatoes, and buckwheat cakes, and drank
- huge cups of gray-brown coffee; with, at the rear tables, two or three
- family groups. And from numerous boarding-houses and dormitories in the
- northern section of the overgrown village students of both sexes were
- converging on the oak-shaded campus by the lake.
- </p>
- <p>
- All of Sunbury appeared to be up and about the business of the day; all,
- perhaps, except Henry Calverly, 3rd, who sat, dressed except for his coat,
- heavy-eyed, a hair brush in either hand, hands resting limp on knees, on
- the edge of his narrow iron bed. This, in Mrs Wilcox's boardinghouse in
- Douglass Street, one block south of Simpson; top floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- If the present reader has, by chance, had earlier acquaintance with Henry,
- it should be explained that he is now to be pictured not as a youth of
- eighteen going on nineteen but as a young man of twenty going on
- twenty-one.
- </p>
- <p>
- That figure, twenty-one, of significance in the secret thoughts of any
- growing boy, was of peculiar, stirring significance to the sensitive,
- imaginative Henry. It marked the beginning of what is sometimes termed
- Life. It suggested alarming but interesting responsibilities. On that day,
- beginning with the stroke of the midnight hour, guardians ceased to
- function and independence set in. One was a citizen. One voted. In Henry's
- case, the crowning symbol of manhood would be deferred a year, as Election
- Day was to fall on the fifth of November and his birthday was the seventh;
- but that so trivial a mere fact bore small weight in the face of potential
- citizenship might have been indicated by the faint blonde fringe along his
- upper lip. This fringe was a new venture. He stroked it much of the time,
- and stole glances at it in mirrors. He could twist it up a little at the
- ends.
- </p>
- <p>
- The rest of him indicated a taste that was hardly bent on the inexpensive
- as such. His duck trousers (this was the middle nineties) were smartly
- creased and rustled with starch. His white canvas shoes were not
- 'sneakers' but had heavy soles and half-heels of red rubber. His coat,
- lying now across the iron tube that marked the foot of the bed, was a
- double-breasted blue serge, unlined, well-tailored. The hat, hung on a
- mirror post above the 'golden oak' bureau, was of creamy white felt. He
- had given up spectacles for nose glasses with a black silk cord.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nearly two years earlier his mother had died. He had lived on, caught in a
- drift of time and circumstance, keeping, without any particular plan, this
- little room with its sloping ceiling. The price was an item, of course—six
- dollars a week for room and board. You couldn't do better in Sunbury, even
- then. Memories haunted the place, naturally enough. Loneliness had dwelt
- close with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- His mother's picture, in a silver frame, stood at the right of the
- pincushion; at the left, in hammered brass ('repoussé work') was a
- 'cabinet size' photograph of Martha Caldwell. A woven-wire rack on the
- wall held half a hundred snapshots of girls, boys, and groups, in about a
- third of which figured Martha's smiling, sensible, pleasantly freckled
- face. A guitar in an old green bag leaned against the wall behind his
- mother's old trunk; it had not been out of the bag in more than a year. An
- assortment of neck-ties hung over the gas-jet by the bureau. Tacked about
- on the wall were six or eight copies of Gibson girls; rather good copies,
- barringva certain stiffness of line. On the seat in the one dormer window
- reposed two cushions, one covered with college pennants, the other with
- cigar bands laboriously cross-stitched together; both from, the hands of
- Martha.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's little bookcase was not uninteresting. It contained the following
- books: Daily Strength for Daily Needs, Browning, Trollope, and Hawthorne
- in sets, Sonnets, from the Portuguese, Words often Mispronounced,
- Longfellow, complete in one fat volume. Red Line Edition, and Six Thousand
- Puzzles, all of which had been his mother's; Green's History of the
- English People, Boswell's Johnson, both largely uncut, and the Discourses
- of Epictetus, which three had come as Christmas or birthday gifts; and
- exactly one volume, a work by an obscure author (who was pictured in the
- frontispiece with a bristling moustache and intensely knit brows) entitled
- Will Power and Self Mastery, which offered the only clue as to Henry's own
- taste in book buying.
- </p>
- <p>
- His taste in reading was another matter. The novels and romances he had
- devoured during certain periods of his teens had mostly come from the
- Sunbury Free Public Library. Lately, however, apart from thrilling moments
- with The Prisoner of Zenda, Under the Red Rose, and The Princess Aline, he
- had found difficulty in reading at all. Something was stirring within him,
- something restlessly positive, an impulse to give out rather than take in.
- Though he had, at intervals, lunged with determination at the Green and
- the Boswell. This effort, indeed, had been repeated so many times that he
- occasionally caught himself speaking of these authors as if he had read
- them exhaustively.
- </p>
- <p>
- The bottom drawer of the bureau was a third full of unfinished manuscripts—attempts
- at novels, short stories, poems, plays—each faithfully reflecting
- its immediate source of inspiration. There were paragraphs that might have
- been written by a little Dickens; there were thinly diluted specimens of
- Dumas, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard Harding Davis, Thackeray. The rest
- was all Kipling, prose and verse. Everybody was writing Kipling then.
- </p>
- <p>
- A step sounded in the hall. The knob turned softly; the door opened a
- little way; and the thinnish, moderately pretty face of Mamie Wilcox
- appeared—pale blue eyes with the beginnings of hollows beneath them,
- fair skin, straight hay-coloured hair, wisps of it straying down across
- forehead and cheek, thin nose, soft but rather sulky mouth. She was
- probably twenty-two or twenty-three at this time.
- </p>
- <p>
- All she said was, 'Oh!'—very low.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wonder you wouldn't knock!' said he.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wonder you wouldn't get up before noon!' she responded smartly, but still
- in that cautious voice; then added, 'Here, I'll leave the towels, and come
- back.' And she slipped into the room, a heavier and more shapely figure of
- a girl than was suggested by the face, a girl in a full-length gingham
- apron and little shoes with unexpectedly high heels; not 'French' heels,
- but the sloping style known then as 'military.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- Henry's colour was rising a little. He cleared his throat, and said,
- mumbling, 'Leave anything you like.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll do just that,'—she turned, with a flirt of her apron and
- stood, between washstand and door, surveying him—'what I like, and
- nothing more.'... Her eyes wandered now from him to the picture at the
- left of the pincushion, then to the snapshots on the wall, and she smiled,
- very self-contained, very knowing, with the expression that the young call
- 'sarcastic.' The adjective came to mind. Henry's colour was mounting
- higher.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Pretty snappy to-day, ain't we?' said he.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, when we're snapped at,' said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a silence that ran on into seconds and tens of seconds.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, acting on an impulse of astonishing suddenness, he sprang toward
- her.
- </p>
- <p>
- With almost equal agility she stepped away. But he caught one hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had the door-knob in her other hand. She drew the door open, then,
- indecisively, pushed it nearly to.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Be careful!' she whispered. 'They'll hear!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She made a small effort to free her hand. For a moment they stood tugging
- at each other.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Henry spoke, in an effort to appear the off-hand man of the world he
- assuredly was not, his voice sounded weak and husky.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Whew—strong!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Suppose I slapped.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Slap all you like.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What would Martha Caldwell say?'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a gloomy sort of anger on Henry's red face. He jerked her
- violently toward him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Stop! You're hurting my wrist!' With which she yielded a little. He found
- himself about to take her in his arms. He heard her whispering—'For
- Heaven's sake be careful! They'll surely hear!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He was most unhappy. He pushed her roughly away, and rushed to the
- window.,
- </p>
- <p>
- He knew from the silence that she was lingering. He hated her. And
- himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- She said: 'Well, you needn't get mad.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, slowly, cautiously, she let herself out. He heard her moving
- composedly along the hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt weak. And deeply guilty. For a long time this moment had been a
- possibility; now it had taken place. What if some one had seen her come
- in! What if she should come again! What if she should tell!...
- </p>
- <p>
- He found one hair brush on the floor, the other on the bed, and brushed
- his hair; donned his coat, buttoning it and smoothing it down about his
- shapely torso with a momentary touch of complacency; glanced at the
- mirror; twisted up his moustache; then stood waiting for his colour to go
- down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly, with one of his quick impulses, he sprang at the bookcase, drew
- out the <i>Epictetus</i>—it was a little book, bound in 'ooze' calf
- of an olive-green colour—and read these words (the book opened
- there):—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lowered the book and repeated the phrase aloud.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- A little later—red about the ears, and given to sudden starts when
- the swinging pantry doors opened to let a student waiter in or out—he
- sat, quite erect, in the dining room and bolted a boarding-house breakfast
- of stewed prunes, oatmeal, fried steak, fried potatoes, fried mush
- swimming in brown sugar syrup, and coffee. The <i>Discourses of Epictetus</i>
- lay at his elbow.
- </p>
- <p>
- After this he walked—stiffly self-conscious, book under arm—over
- to Simpson Street, and took a chair and an <i>Inter Ocean</i> at Schultz
- and Schwartz's, among the line of those waiting to be shaved.
- </p>
- <p>
- This accomplished he paused outside, on the curb, to pencil this entry in
- a red pocket account-book:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Shave—10 c.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He wavered when passing Donovan's; stepped in and consumed a frosted maple
- shake. Which necessitated the further entry in the red book:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Soda—10 c.'
- </p>
- <p>
- In front of Berger's grocery he met Martha Caldwell. They walked together
- to the corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha was a sizable girl, about as tall as Henry, with large blue eyes,
- an attractively short nose, abundant brown hair coiled away under her flat
- straw hat, and a general air of good sense. Martha was really a
- goodlooking young woman, and would have been popular had not Henry stood
- in her light. She had a small gift at drawing (the Gibson copies in
- Henry's room were hers) and danced gracefully enough. Monday and Thursday
- evenings were his regular calling times; and there were so many other
- evenings when he was expected to take her to this house or that with 'the
- crowd' that the other local 'men' had long since given up calling at her
- house. But they were not engaged.
- </p>
- <p>
- On this occasion there was constraint between them. They spoke of the
- lovely weather. She, knowing Henry pretty well, looked with some curiosity
- at his book. Henry glanced sidelong at her across a wide bottomless gulf,
- and stroked his moustache. He was groping desperately for words. He began
- to resent her. He presented an outer front of stem self-control.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the corner they stopped and stood in a silence that grew rapidly
- embarrassing.
- </p>
- <p>
- She lowered her eyes and dug with the point of her parasol in the turf by
- the stone walk.
- </p>
- <p>
- He thrust both hands into his trousers' pockets, spread his feet, and
- stared across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House. It seemed to him
- that he had never been so unhappy.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Are you'—Martha began; hesitated; went on—'were you thinking
- of coming around this evening?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—it's Thursday, ain't it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' she said, 'it's Thursday.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen, Martha!' Was it possible that she suspected something? But how
- could she! His ears were getting red again. He knew it. She must never,
- never know about Mamie!... 'Listen, I may have to go down to Mrs Arthur V.
- Henderson's.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh,' she murmured, 'that musicale.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.' Eagerness was creeping into his voice. 'Anne Mayer Stelton. She's
- been over studying with Marchesi, you know. Mrs Henderson asked specially
- to have me cover it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why don't you go?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—you see how it is. Of course, I'd hate——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd better go.' Saying which Martha turned away down Filbert Avenue,
- and left him standing there.
- </p>
- <p>
- He bit his lip; pulled at his moustache. 'I ought to do something for
- her,' he thought. 'Buy some flowers—or a box of Devoe's.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This was an idle thought; for the day, Thursday, lay much too close to the
- financially lean end of the week to permit of flowers or candy. And he
- hadn't asked anywhere for a dollar of credit these nearly two years.
- Still, he felt faintly the warmth of his kindly intention.
- </p>
- <p>
- It didn't seem altogether right to let her go like that. They had not
- before drifted so near a quarrel. On the farther side of the street he
- paused, and glanced down the avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- A smart trap that he had never seen before had pulled up, midway of the
- block. An impeccable coachman sat stiffly upon an indubitable box. A man
- who appeared to have reddish hair, dressed in a brown cutaway suit and
- Derby hat, a man with a pronounced if close-cropped red moustache and a
- suggestively interesting band of mourning about his left sleeve, was
- leaning out, gracefully, graciously, talking to—Martha. And Martha
- was listening.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry moved on, little confused pangs of quite unreasonable jealousy
- stabbing at his heart, and entered the business-and-editorial office of <i>The
- Weekly Voice of Sunbury</i>, where he worked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Here he laid down the <i>Discourses of Epictetus</i> and asked Humphrey
- Weaver, untitled editor of the paper (old man Boice, the owner, would
- never permit any one but himself to be known by that title), for the
- galley proofs of the week's 'Personal Mention.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He found this item:—
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr James B. Merchant, Jr., of Greggs, Merchant & Co., was a guest of
- Mr and Mrs Ames at the Country Club on Saturday evening. Mr Merchant has
- leased for the summer the apartment of M. B. Wills, on Lower Filbert
- Avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- That was the man! James B. Merchant was a bachelor, rich, a famous
- cotillion leader on the South Side, Chicago, an only son of the original
- James B. Merchant.
- </p>
- <p>
- And Martha had gone to the Country Club Saturday with the Ameses. This
- curious tension between himself and Martha had then first bordered on the
- acute. Mr Ames disapproved of Henry; he felt that Martha shouldn't have
- gone. And now, of course, her lack of consideration for himself was
- leading her into new complications.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat moodily fingering the papers on the littered, ink-stained table
- that served him for a desk. He was disturbed, uncomfortable, but couldn't
- settle on what seemed a proper mental attitude. He was jealous; but he
- mustn't let his jealousy carry him to the point of taking a definite stand
- with Martha, because—well...
- </p>
- <p>
- Life seemed very difficult.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- The <i>Voice</i> office occupied what had once been a shop, opposite the
- hotel. The show window of plate glass now displayed the splintery rear
- panels of old Mr Boice's rolltop desk, that was heaped, on top, with back
- numbers of the <i>Voice</i>, the <i>Inter Ocean</i> and the <i>Congressional
- Record</i>, and a pile of inky zinc etchings mounted on wood blocks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Within, back of a railing, were Humphrey Weaver's desk and Henry
- Calverly's table.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey was tall, rather thin and angular, with a long face, long nose,
- long chin, swarthy complexion, and quick, quizzical brown eyes with
- innumerable fine wrinkles about them. When he smiled, his whole face
- seemed to wrinkle back, displaying many large teeth in a cavernous mouth.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey might have been twenty-five or six. He was a reticent young man,
- with no girl or women friends that one ever saw, a fondness for the old
- corn-cob that he was always scraping, filling, or smoking, and a secret
- passion for the lesser known laws of physics. He lived alone, in a barn
- back of the old Parmenter place. He had divided the upper story into
- living and sleeping rooms, and put in hardwood floors and simple furniture
- and a piano. Downstairs, in what he called his shop, were lathes, a
- workbench, innumerable wood-and-metal working tools, a dozen or more of
- heavy metal wheels set, at right angles, in circular frames, and several
- odd little round machines suspended from the ceiling at the ends of
- twisted cords. In one corner stood a number of box kites, very large ones.
- And there were large planes of silk on spruce frames. He was an alumnus of
- the local university, but had made few friends, and had never been known
- in the town. Henry hadn't heard of him before the previous year, when he
- had taken the desk in the <i>Voice</i> office.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Say, Hen,'—Henry looked up from his copy paper—; 'Mrs
- Henderson looked in a few minutes ago, and left a programme and a list of
- guests for her show to-night. She wants to be sure and have you there. You
- can do it, can't you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded listlessly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It seems there's to be a contralto, too—somebody that's visiting
- her. She—Sister Henderson—appears to take you rather
- seriously, my boy. Wants you particularly to hear the new girl. One
- Corinne Doag. We,'—Humphrey smoked meditatively, then finished his
- sentence—'we talked you over, the lady and I. I promised you'd
- come.'
- </p>
- <p>
- At noon, the editorial staff of two lunched at Stanley's.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wha'd you and Mrs Henderson say about me?' asked Henry, over the pie.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She says,' remarked Humphrey, the wrinkles multiplying about his eyes,
- 'that you have temperament. She thinks it's a shame.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's a shame?' muttered Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Whatever has happened to you. I told her you were the steadiest boy I
- ever knew. Don't drink, smoke, or flirt. I didn't add that you enter every
- cent you spend in that little red book; but I've seen you doing it and
- been impressed. But I mentioned that you're the most conscientious
- reporter I ever saw. That started her. It seems that you're nothing of the
- sort. My boy, she set you before me in a new light. You begin to appear
- complex and interesting.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still muttering, Henry said, 'Nothing so very interesting about me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It seems that you put on an opera here—directed it, or sang it, or
- something. Before my time.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That was <i>Iolanthe</i>,' said Henry, with a momentarily complacent
- memory.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And you sang—all over the place, apparently. Why don't you sing
- now?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's too,'—Henry was mumbling, flushing, and groping for a word—'too
- physical.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, with a sudden movement that gave Humphrey a little start, the boy
- leaned over the table, pulled at his moustache, and asked, gloomily:
- 'Listen! Do you think a man can change his nature?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey considered this without a smile. 'I don't see exactly how, Hen.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I mean if he's been heedless and reckless—oh, you know, girls,
- debts, everything. Just crazy, sorta.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I suppose a man can reform. Were you a very bad lot?' The wrinkled
- smile was reassuring.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That depends on what you—I wasn't exactly sporty, but—oh, you
- don't know the trouble I've had, Humphrey. Then my mother died, and I
- hadn't been half-decent to her, and I was left alone, and my uncle had to
- pay my debts out of the principal—it was hundreds of dollars——'
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice died out.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an element of pathos in the picture before him that Humphrey
- recognised with some sympathy—the gloomy lad of twenty, with that
- absurd little moustache that he couldn't let alone. After all, he <i>had</i>
- been rather put to it. It began to appear that he had suppressed himself
- without mercy. There would doubtless be reactions. Perhaps explosions.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry went on:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know what's happened to me. I don't feel right about things. I'—he
- hesitated, glanced up, then down, and his ears reddened—'I've been
- going with Martha Caldwell, you know. For a long time.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mondays and Thursdays I go over there, and other times. I don't seem to
- want to go any more. But I get mixed up about it. I—I don't want
- them to say I'm fickle. They used to say it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You've evidently got gifts,' observed Humphrey, as if thinking aloud.
- 'You've got some fire in you. The trouble with you now, of course, is that
- you're stale.' Humphrey deliberately considered the situation, then
- remarked: 'You asked me if a man can change his nature. I begin to see
- now. You've been trying to do that to yourself, for quite a while.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I suppose you'll find that you can't do it. Not quite that. The
- fire that's in you isn't going to stop burning just because you tell it
- to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what's a fellow to do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know. Just stick along, I suppose, gradually build up experience
- until you find work you can let yourself go in. Some way, of course,
- you've got to let yourself go, sooner or later.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, his eyes nervously alert now, his slim young body tense, was
- drawing jerkily with his fork on the coarse table-cloth.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' he broke out, with the huskiness in his voice that came when his
- emotions pressed—'yes, but what if you can't let yourself go without
- letting everything go? What if the fire bums you!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey found it difficult to frame a reply. He got no further, this as
- they were leaving the restaurant, than to say, 'Of course, one man can't
- advise another.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- As they were turning into the <i>Voice</i> office, Henry caught sight of
- Mamie Wilcox, in a cheap pink dress and flapping pink-and-white hat,
- loitering by the hotel. He fell back behind Humphrey. Mamie beckoned with
- her head. He nodded, and entered the office; and she moved slowly on
- around the corner of the avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- He mumbled a rather unnecessary excuse to Humphrey, and slipped out,
- catching up with her on the avenue. She was unpleasantly attractive. She
- excited him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What is it?' he asked, walking with her. 'Did you want to speak to me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Stuck up, aren't we!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well?'
- </p>
- <p>
- She pouted. 'Take a little walk with me. I do want to talk with you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Haven't time. Got to get right back to the office.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—listen, meet me to-night. I can get out by eight. It's pretty
- important. Maybe serious.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Is it—-did anybody——'
- </p>
- <p>
- She nodded. 'Mrs MacPherson. She was right in her door when I came out of
- your room.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Did she say anything?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She looked a lot.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, say—I'll see you for a few minutes to-night. Say about
- eight.' This was best. It would be dark, or near it. He simply mustn't be
- seen strolling with Mamie Wilcox along Filbert Avenue in broad daylight.
- 'What do you say to Douglass Street and the Lake Shore Drive?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right. Tell you what—bring a tandem along and take me for a
- ride.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I can't.' But his will was weak. 'Got to report a concert. I don't
- know, though. I s'pose I could get around at half-past nine' or ten and
- hear the last numbers.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He had often done this. Besides, he could probably manage it earlier. He
- knew he could rent a tandem at Murphy's cigar store down by the tracks. A
- quite wild, wholly fascinating stir of adventure was warming his breast
- and bringing that huskiness into his voice. He was letting go. He felt
- daring and a little mad. He hadn't realised, before to-day, that Mamie had
- such a lure about her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Before returning to the office he got his bank-book and brazenly drew from
- the bank, savings department, his entire account, amounting to ten dollars
- forty-six cents. He also bespoke the tandem.
- </p>
- <p>
- These were the great days of bicycling. The first highwheeled, rattling
- horseless carriage was not to appear in the streets of Sunbury for a year
- or two yet. Bicycle clubs flourished. Memorial Day each year (they called
- it Decoration Day) was a mad rush of excursion and road races. Every
- Sunday witnessed a haggard-eyed humpbacked horde of 'Scorchers' in
- knickerbockers or woollen tights. Many of the young men one met on train
- and street wore medals with a suspended chain of gold bars, one for each
- 'century run.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And these were the first great days of the bloomer girl. She was legion.
- Sometimes her bloomers were bloomers, sometimes they were knickerbockers,
- sometimes little more than the tights of the racing breed. She was dusty,
- sweaty, loud. She was never the sort of girl you knew; but always appeared
- from the swarming, dingy back districts of the city. Sometimes she rode a
- single wheel, sometimes tandem with some male of the humpbacked breed and
- of the heavily muscled legs and the grotesquely curved handle bars. The
- bloomer girl was looked at askance by the well-bred folk of the shaded
- suburbs. Ministers thumped pulpits and harangued half-empty pews regarding
- this final moral, racial disaster while she rode dustily by the very
- doors.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, as he pedalled the long machine through back streets to the
- rendezvous, was glad that the twilight was falling fast. In his breast
- pocket were copy paper and pencils, in an outer pocket his little
- olive-green book. His white trousers were caught about the ankles with
- steel dips.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mamie kept him waiting. He hid both himself and the wheel in the shadows
- of the tall lilac bushes in the little village park.
- </p>
- <p>
- She came at length, said 'Hello!' and with a little deft unhooking, coolly
- stepped out of her skirt, rolled up that garment, thrust it under a bush,
- and stood before him in the sort of wheeling costume rarely seen in
- Sunbury save on Saturdays and Sundays when the Chicago crowds were pouring
- through.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood motionless, silent, in the dusk.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' said she, smartly, 'are we riding?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Without a word he wheeled out the bicycle and they rolled away.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was very close, there before him. She bent over the handle bars like
- an old-timer, and pedalled with something more than the abandon of a boy.
- It was going to be hard to talk to her... If he could only blot this day
- out of his life. 'She started it,' he thought fiercely, staring out ahead
- over her rhythmically moving shoulder. 'I never asked her to come in!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I didn't know you rode a wheel,' said he, after a time, dismally.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I ride Sundays with the boys from Pennyweather Point. But you needn't
- tell that at home.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm not telling anything at home,' muttered Henry. Then she flung back at
- him the one word.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Surprised?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—why, sorta.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You thought I was satisfied to do the room work and wash dishes, I
- suppose!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know as I thought anything.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's the matter, anyway? Scared at my bloomers?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's what you call'em, is it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I must say you're grand company.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He made no reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- They pedalled past the university buildings, the athletic field, the
- lighthouse, up a grade between groves of oak, out along the brink of a
- clay bluff overlooking the steely dark lake—horizonless, still, a
- light or two twinkling far out.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Shall we go to Hoffman's?' she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't care where we go,' said he.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- <i>The Weekly Voice of Sunbury</i> was put to press every Friday evening,
- was printed during that night, and appeared in the first mail on Saturday
- mornings.
- </p>
- <p>
- Friday, therefore, was the one distractingly busy day for Humphrey Weaver.
- And it was natural enough that he should snatch at Henry's pencilled
- report of the musicale at Mrs Henderson's with the briefest word of
- greeting, and give his whole mind, blue copy-editing pencil posed in air,
- to reading it. But he did note that the boy looked rather haggard, as if
- he hadn't slept much. He heard his mumbled remark that he had been over at
- the public library, writing the thing; and perhaps wondered mildly and
- momentarily why the boy should be writing at the library and not at home,
- and why he should speak of the fact at all. And now and again during the
- day he was aware of Henry, pale, dog-eyed, inclined to hang about as if
- confidences were trembling on his tongue. And he was carrying a little
- olive-green book around; drew it from his pocket every now and then and
- read or turned the pages with an ostentatious air of concentration, as if
- he wanted to be noticed. Humphrey decided to ask him what the trouble was;
- later, when the paper was put away. When he might have spoken, old man
- Boice was there, at his desk. And Humphrey never got out to meals on
- Fridays. Henry got all his work in on time: the 'Real Estate Notes' for
- the week and the last items for 'Along Simpson Street.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The report of the musicale would have brought a smile or two on another
- day. There was nearly a column of it. Henry had apparently been deeply
- moved by the singing of Anne Mayer Stelton. He dwelt on the 'velvet
- suavity' of her legato passages, her firmness of attack and the 'delicate
- lace work of her colourature.' 'Mme. Stelton's art,' he wrote, 'has
- deepened and broadened appreciably since she last appeared in Sunbury.
- Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always charming in
- personality and profoundly rhythmically musical in temperament, she now
- has added a superstructure of technical authority, which gives to each
- passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and distinction seldom
- heard in this country. Miss Corinne Doag also added immeasurably to the
- pleasure of the select audience by singing a group of songs. Miss Corinne
- Doag has a contralto voice of fine <i>verve</i> and <i>timbre</i>. She is
- a guest of Mrs Henderson, who herself accompanied delightfully. Among
- those present were:—'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's writing always startled you a little. Words fairly flowed through
- his pencil, long words, striking words. He had the word sense; this when
- writing. In speech he remained just about where he had been all through
- his teens, loose of diction, slurring and eliding and using slang as did
- most of the Middle-Westerners among whom he had always lived, and, like
- them, swallowing his tongue down his throat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey initialed the copy, tossed it into the devil's basket, turned to
- a pile of proofs, paused as if recollecting something, picked up the copy
- again, glanced rapidly through it, and turned on his assistant.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look here, Hen,' he remarked, 'you don't tell what they sang, either of
- 'em. Or who <i>were</i> among those present.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was reading his little book at the moment, and fumbling at his
- moustache. A mournful object.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned now, with a start, and stared, wide-eyed, at Humphrey. His lips
- parted, but he didn't speak. A touch of colour appeared in his cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as abruptly, he went limp in his chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I thought she left a list here and a programme,' he said, eyes now on the
- floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's practised eye ran swiftly over the double row of pigeonholes
- before him. 'Right you are!' he exclaimed.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a quarter past eleven that night when Humphrey scrawled his last
- 'O.K.'; stretched out his long form in his swivel chair; yawned; said,
- 'Well, <i>that's</i> done, thank God!'; and hummed and tapped out on his
- bare desk the refrain of a current song:—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- 'But you'd look sweet
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- On the seat
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Of a bicycle built for two.'
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned on Henry with a wrinkly, comfortable grin.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, my boy, it's too late for Stanley's but what do you say to a bite
- at Ericson's, over by the tracks?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he became fully aware of the woebegone look of the boy, fiddling
- eternally with that moustache, fingering the leaves of his little book,
- and added:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What on earth is the matter with you!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry gazed long at his book, swallowed, and said weakly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm in trouble, Humphrey.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, come, not so bad as all—'
- </p>
- <p>
- He was silenced by the sudden plaintive appeal on Henry's face. Mr Boice,
- a huge-slow-moving figure of a man with great white whiskers, was coming
- in from the press room.
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked down to the little place by the tracks. Humphrey had a
- roast-beef sandwich and coffee; Henry gloomily devoured two cream puffs.
- </p>
- <p>
- There Humphrey drew out something of the story. It was difficult at first.
- Henry could babble forth his most sacred inner feelings with an ingenuous
- volubility that would alarm a naturally reticent man, and he could be
- bafflingly secretive. To-night he was both, and neither. He was full of
- odd little spiritual turnings and twistings—vague as to the clock,
- intent on justifying himself, submerged in a boundless bottomless sea of
- self-pity. Humphrey, touched, even worried, finally went at him with
- direct questions, and managed to piece out the incident of the Thursday
- morning in the boy's room.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I never asked her in,' he hurried to explain. 'She came in. Maybe
- after that it was my fault, but I didn't ask her in.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But as far as I can see, Hen, it wasn't so serious. You didn't make love
- to her.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I tried to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh yes. She doubtless expected that. But she got away.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But don't you see, Hump, Mrs MacPherson saw her coming out. She'd been
- snooping. Musta heard some of it. That's why Mamie hung around for me
- yesterday noon.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, she hung around?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry swallowed, and nodded. 'That's why I slipped out again after lunch
- yesterday. I didn't want to tell you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Naturally. A man's little flirtations——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But wait, Hump! She was excited about it. And she seemed to think it was
- up to me, somehow. I couldn't get rid of her.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, of course——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She made me promise to see her last night——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—wait a minute!—last night——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This was the first part of the evening. She made me promise to rent
- Murphy's tandem——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm! you <i>were</i> going it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And we rode up the shore a ways.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then you didn't hear all of the musicale?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. She wanted to go up to Hoffmann's Garden. So we went there——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But good lord, that's six miles—-'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Eight. You can do it pretty fast with a tandem. The place was jammed. I
- felt just sick about it. The waiter made us walk clear through, past all
- the tables. I coulda died. You see, Mamie, she—but I had to be a
- sport, sorta.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you had to go through with it, of course.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure! I <i>had</i> to. It was awful.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Anybody there that knew you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's colour rose and rose. He gazed down intently at the remnant of a
- cream puff; pushed it about with his fork. Then his lips formed the word,
- 'Yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey considered the problem. 'Well,' he finally observed, 'after all,
- what's the harm? It may embarrass you a little. But most fellows pick up a
- girl now and then. It isn't going to kill anybody.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, but'—Henry's emotions seemed to be all in his throat to-night;
- he swallowed—'but it—well, Martha was there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh—Martha Caldwell?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. And Mary Ames and her mother. They were with Mr Merchant's party.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'James B., Junior?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. They drove up in a trap. I saw it outside. We weren't but three
- tables away from them. They saw everything. Mamie, she——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'After all, Hen. It's disturbing and all that, but you were getting pretty
- tired of Martha——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It isn't that, Hump 1 I don't know that I was. I get mixed. But it's the
- shame, the disgrace. The Ameses have been down on me anyway, for something
- that happened two years ago. And now...! And Martha, she's—well,
- can't you see, Hump? It's just as if there's no use of my trying to stay
- in this town any longer. They'll all be down on me now. They'll whisper
- about me. They're doing it now. I feel it when I walk up Simpson Street.
- They're going to mark me for that kind of fellow, and I'm not.'
- </p>
- <p>
- His face sank into his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey considered him; said, 'Of course you're not;' considered him
- further. Then he said, reflectively: 'It's unpleasant, of course, but I'll
- confess I can't see that what you've told me justifies the words “shame”
- and “disgrace.” They're strong words, my boy. And as for leaving town...
- See here, Hen | Is there anything you haven't told me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- The bowed head inclined a little farther.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hadn't you better tell me? Did anything happen afterward? Has the girl
- got—well, a real hold on you?' The head moved slowly sidewise. 'We
- fought afterward, all the way home. Rowed. Jawed at each other like a pair
- of little muckers. No, it isn't that. I hated her all the time. I told her
- I was through with her. She tried to catch me in the hall this morning, up
- on the third floor. Came sneaking to my room again. With towels. That's
- why I wrote in the library.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But you aren't telling me what the rest of it was.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She—oh, she drank beer, and——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's what most everybody does at Hoffmann's. The beer's good there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know. I don't like the stuff.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come, Hen, tell me. Or drop it. Either.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll tell you. But I get so mad. It's—she—well, she wore
- pants.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's sympathy and interest were real, and he did not smile as he
- queried: 'Bloomers?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, pants. Britches. I never saw anything so tight. Nothing else like 'em
- in the whole place. People nudged each other and laughed and said things,
- right out loud. Hump, it was terrible. And we walked clear through—past
- hundreds of tables—and away over in the corner—and there were
- the Ameses, and Martha, and——'
- </p>
- <p>
- His head was up now; there was fire in his eyes; his voice trembled with
- the passion of a profound moral indignation.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump, she's tough. She rides with that crowd from Pennyweather Point. She
- smokes cigarettes. She—she leads a double life.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And neither did it occur to Humphrey, looking at the blazing youth before
- him, to smile at that last remark.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey had reached a point of real concern over Henry. He thought about
- him the last thing that night—pictured him living a lonely,
- spasmodically ascetic life, in the not over cheerful boarding-house of Mrs
- Wilcox—and the first thing the next morning.
- </p>
- <p>
- The curious revelation of the later morning nettled him, perhaps, as a
- responsible editor, but, if anything, deepened his concern. He had the boy
- on his conscience, that was the size of it. He thought him over all the
- morning, before and after the revelation. After it he smoked steadily and
- hard, and knit his brows, and shook his head gravely, and chuckled.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry always came in between half-past eleven and twelve Saturdays to clip
- his contributions from the paper and paste them, end to end, in a
- 'string.' Then Humphrey would measure the string with a two-foot rule and
- fill out an order on the <i>Voice</i> Company for payment at the rate of a
- dollar and a quarter a column, or something less than seven cents an inch.
- Henry despairing of a raise from nine dollars a week had, months back,
- elected to work 'on space.'
- </p>
- <p>
- That the result had not been altogether happy—he was averaging
- something less than nine dollars a week now—does not concern us
- here.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey contrived to keep busy until the string was made and measured;
- then proposed lunch.
- </p>
- <p>
- At Stanley's, the food ordered, he leaned on his lank elbows and surveyed
- the dejected young man before him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen,' he remarked dryly, 'do you really think Anne Mayer Stelton's voice
- has a velvet suavity?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry glanced up from his barley soup, coloured perceptibly, then dropped
- his eyes and consumed several spoonfuls of the tepid fluid.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why not?' said he.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You feel, do you, that her art has deepened and broadened appreciably
- since she last appeared in Sunbury?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry centred all his attention on the soup.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You feel that she has really added a superstructure of technique during
- her study abroad?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's ears were scarlet now.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, his soup turning cold between his elbows, looked steadily at his
- deeply unhappy friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a moment longer Henry went on eating. But then he quietly laid down
- his spoon, sank rather limply back in his chair, and wanly met Humphrey's
- gaze.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There was a moment this morning, Hen, when I could have wrung your neck.
- A moment.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's voice was colourless. His expression was that of a man who has
- absorbed his maximum of punishment, to whom nothing more matters much.
- 'What is it?' he asked. 'What happened?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Madame Stelton fell in the Chicago station, hurrying for the train, and
- sprained her ankle. Miss Doag gave the entire programme.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sat a little time considering this. Finally he raised his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump,' he said, 'I don't know that I'm sorry. I'm rather glad you caught
- me, I think.'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a difficult speech to meet. Humphrey even found it a moving speech.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You had an unlucky day,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded. The roast beef and potato were before them now; but Henry
- pushed his aside. He ate nothing more.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mrs Henderson was in,' Humphrey added. 'I don't care what they say about
- her, she's a really pretty woman and bright as all get out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Was she mad, Hump?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—well, yes, I gathered the impression that you'd better not try to
- talk to her for a while. There she was, you see—came straight down
- to the office or stopped on her way to the train. Had Miss Doag along.
- Unusual dark brown eyes—almost black. A striking girl. But you won't
- meet her—not this trip. Though she couldn't help laughing once or
- twice. Over your phrases. You see you laid it on unnecessarily thick. <i>Verve.
- Timbre</i>. It puts you—I won't say in a Bad light—but
- certainly in a rather absurd light.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' said Henry, gently, meekly, 'it does. It sorta completes the thing.
- I picked up some of the town talk this morning. They're laughing at me.
- And Martha cut me dead, not an hour ago. I've lost my friends. I'm sort of
- an outcast, I suppose. A—a pariah.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd better eat some food,' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't.' Henry was brooding, a tired droop to his mouth, a look of
- strain about the eyes. He began thinking aloud, rather aimlessly. 'It
- ain't as if I did that sort of thing. I never asked her to come in. I
- couldn't very well refuse to talk with her. She suggested the tandem. It
- did seem like a good idea to get her out of town, if I had to risk being
- seen with her. I'll admit I got mixed—awfully. I don't suppose I
- knew just what I was doing. But it was the first time in two years. Hump,
- you don't know how hard I've——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's the first-time offenders that get most awfully caught,' observed
- Humphrey. 'But never mind that now. You're caught, Hen. No good
- explaining. You've just got to live it down.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's what I've been doing for two years—living things down. And
- look where it's brought me. I'm worse off than ever.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a slight quivering in his voice that conveyed an ominous
- suggestion to Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mustn't let the kid sink this way,' he thought. Then, aloud: 'Here's a
- little plan I want to suggest, Hen. You're stale. You're taking this too
- hard. You need a change.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't like to leave town, exactly, Hump—as if I was licked. I've
- changed about that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're not going to leave town. You're coming over to live with me. Move
- this afternoon.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry seemed to find difficulty in comprehending this. Humphrey, suddenly
- a victim of emotion, pressed on, talking fast. 'I'll be through by four.
- You be packing up. Get an expressman and fetch your things. Here's my key.
- I'll let you pay something. We'll get our breakfasts.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He had to stop. It struck him as silly, letting this forlorn youth touch
- him so deeply. He gulped down a glass of water. 'Come on,' he said
- brusquely, 'let's get out.' And on the street he added, avoiding those
- bewildered dog eyes—'I'm going to reshuffle you and deal you out
- fresh.' That's all you need, a new deal.'
- </p>
- <p>
- But to himself he added: 'It won't be easy. He is taking it hard. He's
- unstrung. I'll have to work it out slowly, head him around, build up his
- confidence. Teach him to laugh again. It'll take time, but it can be done.
- He's good material. Get him out of that dam boardinghouse to start with.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- It was nearly five o'clock when Humphrey reached his barn at the rear of
- the Parmenter place. He found the outside door ajar.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen's here now,' he thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stepped within the dim shop, that had once been a carriage room,
- called, 'Hello there!' and crossed to the narrow stairway. There was no
- answer. He went on up.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the rug in the centre of the living-room floor was a heap consisting of
- an old trunk, a suit-case, a guitar in an old green woollen bag, two
- canes, an umbrella, and various loose objects—books, a small stand
- of shelves, two overcoats, hats, and a wire rack full of photographs.
- </p>
- <p>
- The polished oak post at the head of the stairs was chipped, where they
- had pushed the trunk around. Humphrey fingered the spot; found the
- splinter on the floor; muttered, 'I'll glue it on, and rub over the
- cracks.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked again at the disorderly heap in the centre of the room. 'It
- didn't occur to him to stow'em away,' he mused. 'Probably didn't know
- where to put 'em.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He set to work, hauling the trunk into a little unfinished room next to
- his own bedroom. He had meant to make a kitchen of this some day. He
- carried in the other things; then got a dust-pan and brushed off the rug.
- </p>
- <p>
- The rooms were clean and tidy. Humphrey was a born bachelor; he had the
- knack of living, alone in comfort. His books occupied all one wall of his
- bedroom, handy for night reading. He had running water there, and electric
- lights placed conveniently by the books, beside his mirror, and at the
- head of his bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood now in the living-room, humming softly and looking around with
- knit brows. After a few moments he stopped humming. He was struggling
- against a slight but definite depression. He had known it would be hard to
- give up room in his comfortable quarters to another; he had not known it
- would be as hard as it was now plainly to be. He started humming again,
- and moved about, straightening the furniture. This oddly pleasant home was
- his citadel. He had himself evolved it, in every detail, from a dusty,
- cobwebby old bam interior. He had run the wires and installed the water
- pipes and fixtures with his own hands. He seldom even asked his
- acquaintances in. There seemed no strong reason why he should do so.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen shouldn't have left the door open like that,' he mused.
- </p>
- <p>
- He thrust his hands into his pockets and whistled a little. Then he
- sighed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he thought, 'needn't be a hog. It's my chance to do a fairly
- decent turn. The boy hasn't a soul. Not yet.
- </p>
- <p>
- He isn't the sort you can safely leave by himself. Got to be organised.
- Very likely I've got to build him over from the ground up. Might try
- making him read history. God knows he needs background. It'll take time.
- And patience. All I've got. Help him, little by little, to get hold of his
- self-esteem. Teach the kid to laugh again. That's it. I've taken it on.
- Can't quit. It seems to be my job.' And he sighed again. 'Have to get him
- a key of his own.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There were footsteps below. Henry, his arms full of personal treasures and
- garments he had overlooked in packing, came slowly up the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I put your things in there,' Humphrey pointed. 'We'll move the box couch
- in for you to-night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That'll be fine,' said Henry, aimless of eye, weak of voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's eyes followed him as he passed into the improvised bedroom; and
- he compressed his lips and shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- Shortly Henry came out and sank mournfully on a chair. It was time for the
- first lesson. 'There's simply no life in the boy,' thought Humphrey. He
- cleared his throat, and said aloud:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Tell you what, Hen. We'll celebrate a little, this first evening. I've
- got a couple of chafing dishes and some odds and ends of food. And I make
- excellent drip coffee. If you'll go over to Berger's and get a pound or so
- of cheese for the rabbit, I'll look the situation over and figure out a
- meal. Charge it to me. I have an account there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, without change of expression, got slowly up, said, 'All right,'
- hung around for a little time, wandering about the room, and finally
- wandered off down the stairs and out.
- </p>
- <p>
- He returned at twenty minutes past midnight.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey was abed, reading Smith' on Torsion. He put down the book and
- waited. He had left lights on downstairs and in the living-room. Since six
- o'clock he had passed through many and extreme states of feeling; at
- present he was in a state of suspense between worry and strongly
- suppressed wrath.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry came into the room—a little flushed, bright of eye, the
- sensitive corners of his mouth twitching nervously, alertly, happily
- upward. He even actually chuckled.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, where—on—earth....
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry waved a light hand. 'Queerest thing happened. But say, I guess I owe
- you an apology, sorta. I ought to have sent word or something. Everything
- happened so quickly. You know how it is. When you're sorta swept off your
- feet like that——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Like what!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh—well, it was like this. I went over to get the cheese.... Funny,
- it doesn't seem as if it could have been to-day! Seems as if it was weeks
- ago that I moved my things over.' His eyes roved about the room; lingered
- on the books; followed out the details of the neat surface wiring with
- sudden interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Go on!' From Humphrey, this, with grim emphasis that was wholly lost on
- the self-absorbed youth.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh yes! Well, you see, I went over to Berger's and got the cheese; and
- just as I was coming out I ran into Mrs Henderson and Corinne.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Corinne Doag. You know. She's visiting there. Well, sir, I could have
- died right there. Fussed me so I turned around and was going back into the
- store. I was just plain rattled. And you were right about Mrs Henderson.
- She was kinda mad. She made me stand right up and take a scolding. Shook
- her finger at me right, there in front of Berger's. That fussed me worse.
- Gee! I was red all over. But you see it sorta fussed Corinne Doag too—she
- was standing right there—and she got a little red. Wasn't it a
- scene, though! Sorta made us acquainted right off. You know, threw us
- together. Then she—Mrs Henderson—said I didn't deserve to meet
- a girl with verve and timbre, but just to show she wasn't the kind to
- harbour angry feelings she'd introduce us. And—and—I walked
- along home with'em.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He was looking again at the solid ranks of books that extended, floor to
- ceiling, across the end wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Say, Hump, you don't mean to say you really read all those!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You walked home with them. Go on.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, well, they asked me to stay to supper, and I did, and some folks came
- in, and we sang and things, and then we—oh, yes, how much was the
- cheese?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How in thunder do I know?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—there was a pound of it—Mrs Henderson made a rabbit.
- </p>
- <p>
- The none too subtle chill in the atmosphere about Humphrey seemed at last
- to be meeting and somewhat subduing the exuberant good cheer that radiated
- from Henry. He fell to fingering his moustache, and studying the
- bed-posts. Once or twice, he looked up, hesitated on the brink of speech,
- only to lower his eyes again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled aloud, and said, 'She's a wonderful girl.
- At first she seems quiet, but when you get to know her... going to take a
- walk with me to-morrow morning. She was going to church with Mrs H., but I
- told her we'd worship in God's great outdoor temple.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He yawned now. And stretched, deliberately, luxuriously like a healthy
- animal, his arms above his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' said he, 'it's late as all get out. I suppose you want to go to
- sleep.' He got as far as the door, then leaned confidingly against the
- wall. 'Look here, Hump, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate your
- taking me in like this. It's dam nice of you. Don't know what I'd have
- done if it wasn't for you. Well, good-night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He got part way out the door this time; then, brushed by a wave of his
- earlier moody self-consciousness, turned back. He even came in and leaned
- over the foot of the bed, and flushed a little. It occurred to Humphrey
- that the boy appeared to be momentarily ashamed of his present happiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you know what was the matter with me?' he broke out. 'It was just what
- you said. I was taking things too hard. The great thing is to be rational,
- normal. Thing with me was I used to go to one extreme and now these last
- two years I've been going with all my might to the other. Of course it
- wouldn't work... Do you know who's helped me a whole lot? You'd never
- guess.' Rather shamefaced, he drew from his pocket a little book bound in
- olive-green 'ooze' leather. 'It's this old fellow. Epictetus. Listen to
- what he says—“To the rational animal only is the irrational
- intolerable.” That was the trouble with me. I just wasn't a rational
- animal. I <i>wasn't</i>... Well, I've got to say good-night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This time he went.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey heard him getting out of his clothes and into the bed that
- Humphrey himself had made up on the box couch. It seemed only a moment
- later that he was snoring—softly, slowly, comfortably, like a
- rational animal.
- </p>
- <p>
- The minute hand of the alarm clock on Humphrey's bureau crept up to
- twelve, the hour hand to one. Then came a single resonant, reverberating
- boom from the big clock up at the university.
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly, lips compressed, Humphrey got up, and in his pyjamas and slippers
- went downstairs and switched off the door light he found burning there.
- The stair light could be turned off upstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, instead of going up, he opened the door and stood looking out on the
- calm village night.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of all the——' he muttered inconclusively. 'Why it's—he's
- a—— Good God! It's the limit! It's—it's intolerable.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The word, floating from his own lips, caught his ear. His frown began,
- very slowly, to relax. A dry, grudging smile wrinkled its way across his
- mobile face. And he nodded, deliberately. 'Epictetus,' he remarked, 'was
- right.'
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- II—IN SAND-FLY TIME
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was half-past
- nine of a Sabbath morning at the beginning of June. The beneficent
- sunshine streamed down on the dark-like streets, on the shingled roofs of
- the many decorous but comfortable homes, on the wide lawns, on the
- hundreds of washed and brushed little boys and starched little girls that
- were marching meekly to the various Sunday schools, Presbyterian,
- Methodist, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist. Above the new cement
- sidewalk on Simpson Street—where all the stores were closed except
- two drug stores and Swanson's flower shop—the sunshine quivered and
- wavered, bringing oppressive promise of the first really warm day of the
- young summer. Slow-swinging church bells sent out widening, reverberating
- circles of mellow tone through the still air.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sun shone too on the old barn back of the Parmenter place.
- </p>
- <p>
- The barn presented an odd appearance; the red paint of an earlier decade
- in the nineteenth century here faded to brown, there flaked off
- altogether, but the upstairs part, once the haymow, embellished with neat
- double windows. Below, giving on the alley, was a white-painted door with
- a single step and an ornamental boot scraper.
- </p>
- <p>
- Within, in Humphrey's room, the bed was neatly made, clothes hung in a
- corner, shoes and slippers stood in a row.
- </p>
- <p>
- In Henry's room the couch bed was a rumpled heap, a suit-case lay on the
- floor half-unpacked, a trunk was in the same condition, clothes, shoes,
- neckties, photographs were scattered about on table, chairs and floor, a
- box of books by the bed, the guitar in its old green woollen bag leaning
- against the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a corner of the living-room the doors of an ingeniously contrived
- cupboard stood open, disclosing a sink, shelves of dishes, and a small
- ice-box.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, in shirt, trousers and slippers, stood washing the breakfast
- things. He was smoking his cob pipe. His long, wrinkly, usually quizzical
- face, could Henry have seen it, was deathly sober.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, however, could see only the lean back. And he looked at that only
- momentarily. He was busy smoothing the fringe along his upper lip and
- twisting it up at the ends. Too, he leaned slightly on his bamboo walking
- stick, staring down at it, watching it bend. Despite his white ducks and
- shoes, serge coat, creamy white felt hat on the back of his shapely head,
- despite the rather noticeable nose glasses with the black silk cord
- hanging from them to his lapel, he presented a forlorn picture. He wished
- Humphrey would say something. That long back was hostile. Henry was
- helpless before hostility, as before logic. Already they weren't getting
- on. Little things like washing dishes and making beds and—dusting!
- Humphrey was proving an old fuss-budget. And Henry couldn't think what to
- do about it. He could never:—never in the world—do those fussy
- things, use his hands. He couldn't even flounder through the little mental
- processes that lead up to doing things with your hands. He wasn't that
- sort of person. Humphrey was.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, thunder—Hump!' Thus Henry, weakly. 'Let the old dishes slide a
- little while. I'll be back. It ain't my fault that I've got a date now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey set down a cup rather hard, rolled the dish-towel into a ball and
- threw it, with heat, after the cup, then strode to the window, nursing his
- pipe and staring out at the gooseberry and currant bushes in the back yard
- of the First Presbyterian parsonage across the alley.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey liked order. It was the breath of his life. Combined with
- solitude it spelled peace to his bachelor soul. But here it was only the
- second day and the place was a pigsty. What would it be in a week!
- </p>
- <p>
- He was aware that Henry moved over, all hesitation, and with words, to
- shut the door of that hopelessly littered bedroom. The boy appeared to
- have no intention of picking up his things; he wasn't even unpacking!
- Leaving his clothes that way 1... The words he was so confusedly uttering
- were the absurdest excuses: 'Just shut the door—fix it all up when I
- get back—an hour or so...
- </p>
- <p>
- It was in a wave of unaccustomed sentimentalism that Humphrey had gathered
- him in. Humphrey had few visitors. You couldn't work with aimless youths
- hanging around. He knew all about that. Humphrey's evenings were precious.
- His time was figured out, Monday morning to Saturday night, to the minute.
- And the Sundays were always an orgy of work. But this youth, to whom he
- had opened his quarters and his slightly acid heart, was the most aimless
- being he had ever known. An utter surprise; a shock. Yet here he was, all
- over the place.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey was trying, by a mighty effort of will, to get himself back into
- that maudlin state of pity which had brought on all this trouble. If he
- could only manage again to feel sorry for the boy, perhaps he could stand
- him. But he could only bite his pipe-stem. He was afraid he might say
- something he would be sorry for. No good in that, of course.... No more
- peaceful study, all alone, propped up in bed, with a pipe and reading
- light! No more wonderful nights in the shop downstairs! No more holding to
- a delicately fresh line of thought—balancing along like a
- wire-walker over a street! The boy was over by the stairs now, all
- apologies, mumbling useless words. But he was going—no doubt
- whatever as to that.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm late now,' he was saying.'What else can I do, Hump? I promised.
- She'll be looking for me now. If you just wouldn't be in such a thundering
- hurry about those darn dishes... I can't live like a machine. I just
- can't!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You could have cleaned up your room while you've been standing there,'
- said Humphrey, in a rumbling voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I couldn't! Put up all my pictures and books and things! I'm not like
- you. You don't understand!' Humphrey wheeled on him, pipe in hand, a cold
- light in his eyes, a none-too-agreeable smile wrinkling the lower part of
- his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm not asking much of you,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, thunder, Hump! Do you think I don't appreciate—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'd be glad to help you. But you've got to do a <i>little</i> on your own
- account. For God's sake show some spine!' Sand-fly! Damn it, this is more
- than I can stand! It smothers me! How can I work! How can I think!' He
- stopped short; bit his lip; turned back to the window and thrust his pipe
- into his mouth.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey knew without looking that the boy was fussing endlessly at that
- absurd moustache. And sighing—he heard that. He bit hard on his
- pipe-stem. The day was wrecked already. He would be boiling up every few
- moments; tripping over Henry's things; regretting his perhaps too harsh
- words. Yes, they were too harsh, of course.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was muttering, mumbling, tracing out the pattern in the rug-border
- with his silly little stick. These words were audible:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't see why you asked me to come here. I suppose I... Of course, if
- you don't want me to stay here with you, I suppose I... Oh, well! I guess
- I ain't much good....'
- </p>
- <p>
- The voice trailed huskily off into silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- After all, there didn't seem to be any place the boy could stay, if not
- here. Living alone in a boarding-house hadn't worked at all. To send him
- out into the world would be like condemning him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry moved off down the stairs, slowly, pausing once as if he had not yet
- actually determined to go.
- </p>
- <p>
- Walking more briskly, he emerged from the alley and swung around into
- Filbert Avenue. The starched and shining children were pouring in an
- intermittent stream into the First Presbyterian chapel, behind the big
- church.
- </p>
- <p>
- Gloom in his eyes, striking in a savage aimlessness with his cane at the
- grass, he passed the edifice. Walking thus, he felt a presence and lifted
- his eyes.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- Approaching was a pleasant-looking young woman of twenty, of a good
- figure, a few girlish freckles across the bridge of her nose, abundant
- hair tucked in under her Sunday hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Martha Caldwell. She had a class in the Sunday-school.
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha saw him. No doubt about that.
- </p>
- <p>
- For the moment, in Henry's abasement of spirit, he half forgot that she
- had cut him dead, publicly, on Simpson Street on the Saturday. Or if it
- was not a forgetting it was a vagueness. Henry was full to brimming of
- himself. Not in years had he craved sympathy as he craved it to-day. The
- word 'craved,' though, isn't strong enough. It was an utter need. An
- outcast, perhaps literally homeless; for how could he go back to
- Humphrey's after what had occurred! He must pack his things, of course.
- </p>
- <p>
- He raised his hand—slowly, a thought stiffly—toward his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha moved swiftly by, staring past him, fixedly, her lips compressed,
- her colour rising.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's hand hung suspended a moment, then sank to his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry himself was capable of any sort of heedlessness, but never of
- unkindness or of cutting a friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- The colour surged hotly over his face and reddened his ears.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a chance—a pretty good chance, it seemed, as he recalled
- the pleasant Saturday evening over a rabbit—that he might find
- sympathy at Mrs Arthur V. Henderson's. That was one place, where, within
- twelve hours, Henry Calverley, 3rd, had had some standing. They had seemed
- to like him. Mrs Henderson had unquestionably played up to him. And her
- guest was a peach!
- </p>
- <p>
- At a feverish pace, almost running, he went there.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- Corinne Doag was a big girl with blue-black hair and a profile like the
- Goddess of Liberty on the silver quarter of the period. Her full face
- rather belied the profile; it was an easy, good-natured face, though with
- a hint of preoccupation about the dark eyes. Her smile was almost a grin.
- She had the great gift of health. She radiated it. You couldn't ignore her
- you felt her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Though not a day older than Henry, Corinne was a singer of promise. At Mrs
- Henderson's musicale, she had managed groups of Schumann, Schubert, Franz
- and Wolff, an Italian aria or two and some quaint French folk songs with
- ample evidence of sound training and coaching. Her voice had faults. It
- was still a little too big for her. It was a contralto without a hollow
- note in it, firm and strong, with a good upper range. There was in it more
- than a hint of power. It moved you, even in her cruder moments. Her
- speaking voice—slow, lazy, strongly sensuous—gave Henry
- thrills.
- </p>
- <p>
- She and Henry strolled up the lake, along the bluff through and beyond the
- oak-clad campus, away up past the lighthouse. She seemed not to mind the
- increasing heat. She had the careless vitality of a young mountain lion,
- and the grace.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry himself minded no external thing. Corinne Doag was, at the moment,
- the one person in the world who could help him in his hour of deep
- trouble. It was not clear how she could help him, but somehow she could.
- He was blindly sure of it. If he could just impress himself on her, make
- her forget other men, other interests! He had started well, the night
- before. Things had gone fine.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was leading her to a secluded breakwater, between the lighthouse and
- Pennyweather Point, where, under the clay bluff, the shell of an old
- boat-house gave you a back as you sat on a gray timber and shielded you at
- once from morning sun and from the gaze of casual strollers up the beach.
- Henry knew the place well, had guided various girls there. Martha had
- often spoken of it as 'our' breakwater. But no twinge of memory disturbed
- him now. His nervous intentness on this immediate, rather desperate task
- of conquering Corinne's sympathy fully occupied his turbulent thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- When they arrived at the spot he was stilted in manner, though atremble
- within. He ostentatiously took off his coat, spread it for her,
- overpowering her protests.
- </p>
- <p>
- It had been thought by a number of girls and by a few of his elders that
- Henry had charm. He was aware of quality they called charm he could
- usually turn on and off like water at a faucet.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now, of all occasions, was the time to turn it on. But he was breathlessly
- unequal to it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Perversity seized his tongue. He had seen himself lying easily, not
- ungracefully beside her, saying (softly) the things she would most like to
- hear. Speak of her voice, of course. And sing with her (softly) while they
- idly watched the streaky, sparkling lake and the swooping, creaking gulls
- above it. But he did none of these. Instead he stood over her, glaring
- down rather fiercely, and saying nothing at all.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The shade does feel good,' said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still he groped for words, or for a mental attitude that might result in
- words. None came. Here she was, at his feet, and he couldn't even speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- He fell back, in pertubation, on physical display, became the prancing
- male.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I like to skip stones,' he managed to say, with husky self-consciousness.
- He hunted flat stones; threw them hard and far, until his face shone with
- sweat and a damp spot appeared in his shirt between his shoulders.
- </p>
- <p>
- To her, 'Better let me hold your glasses,' he responded with an irritable
- shake of the head.
- </p>
- <p>
- But such physical violence couldn't go on indefinitely. Not in this heat.
- He threw less vigorously. He wondered in something of a funk, why he
- couldn't grasp his opportunity.
- </p>
- <p>
- He became aware of a sound. A sound that in a more felicitous moment would
- have thrilled him.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was singing, softly. Something French, apparently. Once she stopped,
- and did a phrase over, as if she were practising.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stole a glance. She wasn't even looking at him. She had sunk back on an
- elbow, her long frame stretched comfortably out, and seemed to be
- observing the gulls, rather absently.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry came over; sat on a spile; glared at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I skipped that last one seven times,' said he.
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave him an indulgent little smile, and hummed on.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She doesn't know I'm here,' he mused, with bitterness. 'I don't count.
- Nobody wants me.' And added, 'She's selfish.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly he broke out, tragically: 'You don't know what I've been through.
- I wouldn't tell you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The tune came to an end. Still watching the gulls, still absently, she
- asked, after a pause, 'Why not?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd be like the others. You'd despise me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I doubt that. Mildred Henderson certainly doesn't. You ought to hear her
- talk about you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She'll be like the others too. My life has been very hard. Living alone
- with my way to make. Wha'd she say about me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That you're a genius. She can't make out why you've been burying
- yourself, working for a little country paper.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry considered this. It was pleasing. But he might have wished for a
- less impersonal manner in Corinne. She kept following those gulls;
- speaking most casually, as if it was nothing or little to her what anybody
- thought about anybody.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still—it was pleasing. He sat erect. A light glimmered in his eye;
- glimmered and grew. When he spoke, his voice took on body.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'So she says I'm a genius, eh! Well, maybe it's true. Maybe I am. I'm
- something. Or there's something in me. Sometimes I feel it. I get all on
- fire with it. I've done a few things. I put on <i>Iolanthe</i> here. When
- I was only eighteen. Chorus of fifty, and big soloists. I ran it—drilled
- 'em——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know. Mildred told me. Mildred really did say you were wonderful.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll do something else one of these days.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm sure you will,' she murmured politely.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was going none too well. She wasn't really interested. He hadn't
- touched her. Perhaps he had better not talk about himself. He thought it
- over, and decided another avenue of approach would be better.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's an awfully pretty brooch,' he ventured.
- </p>
- <p>
- She glanced down; touched it with her long fingers. The brooch was a
- cameo, white on onyx, set in beaded old gold.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was a present,' she said. 'From one of the nicest men I ever knew.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This chilled Henry's heart. His own emotions were none too stable. Out of
- his first-hand experience he had been able at times, in youthfully
- masculine company, to expound general views regarding the sex that might
- be termed cynical. But confronted with the particular girl, the new girl,
- Henry was an incorrigible idealist.
- </p>
- <p>
- It had only vaguely occurred to him that Corinne had men friends. It hurt,
- just to think of it. And presents—things like that, gold in it—the
- thing had cost many a penny! His bitterness swelled; blackened his
- thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's it,' these ran now. 'Presents! Money! That's what girls want. Keep
- you dancing. String you. Make you spend a lot on 'em. That's what they're
- after!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The situation was so painful that he got up abruptly and again skipped
- stones. Until the fact that she let him do it, amused herself practising
- songs and drinking in the beauty of the place and the day, became quite
- too much for him.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he came gloomily over, she remarked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We must be starting back.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood motionless; even let her get up, with an amused expression throw
- his coat over her arm, and take a few steps along the beach.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, come on, don't go yet,' he begged. 'Why, we've only just got here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's a long walk. And it's hot. We'll never get back for dinner if we
- don't start. I mustn't keep Mildred waiting.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He thought, 'A lot she'd care if she wanted to be with me!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He said, 'What you doing to-night?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, a couple of Chicago men are coming out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh!' It was between a grunt and a snort. He struck out at such a gait
- that she finally said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If you want to walk at that pace I'm afraid you'll have to walk alone.'
- </p>
- <p>
- So far a failure. Just as with Humphrey, the situation had given him no
- opportunity to display his own kind of thing. The picturesque slang phrase
- had not then been coined; but Henry was in wrong and knew it. It was
- defeat.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first faint hope stirred when Mrs Henderson rose from a hammock and
- came to the top step to clasp his hand. She thought him a genius. Well,
- she had been accompanist through all those rehearsals for <i>Iolanthe.</i>
- She ought to know.
- </p>
- <p>
- She asked him now, in her alertly offhand way, to stay to dinner. He
- accepted instantly.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- Mildred Henderson was little, slim, quick, with tiny feet and hands.
- Despite these latter she was the most accomplished pianist in Sunbury. She
- had snappy little eyes, and a way of smiling quickly and brightly. The
- Hendersons had lived four or five years in Sunbury. They had no children.
- They had no servant at this time—but she possessed the gift of
- getting up pleasant little meals without apparent effort.
- </p>
- <p>
- After the arrival of Corinne and Henry she disappeared for a few moments,
- then called them to the dining-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's really a cold lunch,' she said, as they gathered at the table—'chicken
- and salad and things. But there's plenty for you, Henry. Do have some iced
- tea. I know they starve you at that old boarding-house. We've all had our
- little term at Mrs Wilcox's.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—I'm not living there any more. I've moved.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not to Mrs Black's?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No... you see I work with Humphrey Weaver at the <i>Voice</i> office and
- he asked me to come and live with him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'With him? And where does he live?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why, just back of the old Parmenter place.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But there's nothing back of the Parmenter place!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes—you see, the barn——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not that old red——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. You'd be surprised! Humphrey's put in hardwood and electricity and
- things. He's really a wonderful person. Did the wiring himself. And the
- water pipes. You ought to see his books—and his shop downstairs.
- He's an inventor, you know. Going to be. Don't you think for a minute that
- he's just a country editor. That's just while he's feeling his way. Oh,
- Hump's a smart fellow. Mighty decent of him to take me in that way, too;
- because he's busy and I know he'd rather live alone. You see, he's quiet
- and orderly about things, and I—well, I'm different.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Offhand,' mused Mrs Henderson, 'I shouldn't suspect Humphrey Weaver of
- temperament. But tell me—how on earth do you live? Who cooks and
- cleans up?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, Hump gets breakfast and—and we'll probably take turns
- cleaning up.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You remember Humphrey Weaver, Corinne,' the little hostess breezed on.
- 'You've met him. Tall, thin, face wrinkles up when he smiles or speaks to
- you.' She added, as if musing aloud, 'He <i>has</i> nice eyes.' Then, to
- Henry:
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But do you mean to say that so fascinating a man as that lives
- undiscovered, right under our noses, in this bourgeois town.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was rather vague about the meaning of 'bourgeois,' but he nodded
- gravely.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You must bring him down here, Henry. I can't imagine what I've been
- thinking of to overlook him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Tell you what, we'll have a little rabbit to-morrow night. We four. We'll
- devote an evening to drawing Mr Humphrey Weaver out of his shell.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Her quick eyes caught a doubtful look in Corinne's eyes. 'Oh,' she said,
- 'we did speak of letting Will and Fred take us in town, didn't we?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- It seemed to Henry that he ought to take the situation in hand. As
- regarded his relations with Humphrey he was sailing under false colours.
- Among his confused thoughts he sought, gropingly, a way out. The speech he
- did make was clumsy.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know whether I could make him come. He likes to read evenings, or
- work in his shop.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs Henderson took this in, then let her eyes rest a moment, thoughtfully,
- on Henry's ingenuous countenance. An intent look crept into her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you mean that you two sweep and make beds and wash dishes and dust?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well'—Henry's voice faltered—'you see, I haven't been—I
- just moved over there yesterday afternoon.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!' There was a bright, flash in Mrs Henderson's eyes. She chuckled
- abruptly. It was a sharp little chuckle that had the force of an
- interruption. 'I'd like to see the corners of those rooms. There ought to
- be some woman that could take care of you.' She turned again on Henry. 'Be
- sure and bring him down to-morrow. Come in about six for a picnic supper.
- Or no—let me think——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's eyes were on Corinne. She was eating now, composedly, like an
- accomplished feminine fatalist, leaving the disposition of matters to her
- more aggressive hostess. The food he had eaten rested comfortably on his
- long ill-treated but still responsive young stomach. His nervous concern
- of the morning was giving place to a glow of snug inner well-being.
- Ice-cream was before him now, a heaping plate of it—vanilla, with
- hot chocolate sauce—and a huge slice of chocolate layer cake. He
- blessed Mrs Henderson for the rich cream as he let heaping spoonfuls slip
- down his throat and followed them with healthy bites of the cake. What a
- jolly little woman she was. No fuss.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nothing stuck up about her. And he knew she was on his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had sympathy. Even if she hadn't yet heard—when she did hear—it
- wouldn't matter. She would be on his side; he was sure of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne's hair, a loose curl of it, curved down over her ear and part of
- her cheek. She reached up a long hand and brushed it back. The motion
- thrilled him. He was quiveringly responsive to the faint down on her
- cheek, to the slight ebbing and flowing of the colour under her skin, to
- the whiteness of her temple, the curve of her rather heavy eyebrow, even
- to the 'waist' she wore—a simple garment, with an open throat and a
- wide collar that suggested the sea.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs Henderson was talking about something or other, in her brisk way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry only partly heard. He was day-dreaming, weaving an imaginative web
- of irridescent fancy about the healthy, rather matter-of-fact girl before
- him. And eating rapidly his second large helping of ice-cream, and his
- second piece of cake.
- </p>
- <p>
- Little resentments were still popping up among his thoughts, taunting him.
- But tentative little hopes were struggling with these now. A sense of
- power, even, was stirring to life in his breast. This brought new thrills.
- It was a long, long time since he had felt as he was now beginning to
- feel. Life had dealt pretty harshly with him these two years. But he
- wasn't beaten yet. Not even if nice men did give cameo brooches mounted on
- beaded gold.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt in his pocket. Nearly all of the week's pay was there—about
- eight dollars. It wasn't much. It wouldn't buy gold brooches.
- Space-reporting on a country weekly at a dollar and a quarter a column, as
- a means of livelihood, was pretty hard sledding. He would have to scheme
- out something. There would be seventeen dollars more on the fifteenth from
- his Uncle Arthur, executor of his mother's estate and guardian to Henry,
- but that had been mentally pledged to the purchase of necessary summer
- underwear and things. Still, he might manage somehow. You had to do a lot
- for girls, of course. They expected it. Expensive business.
- </p>
- <p>
- He indulged himself a moment, shading his eyes with one hand and eating
- steadily on, in a momentary wave of bitterness against well-to-do young
- men who could lavish money on girls.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne was speaking now, and he was answering. He even laughed at
- something she said. But the train of his thoughts rumbled steadily on.
- </p>
- <p>
- After the coffee they all carried out the dishes and washed them. Henry
- amused them by wearing a full-length kitchen apron. Corinne tied the
- strings around his waist. He found an excuse to reach back, and for an
- instant his hands covered hers. She laughed a little. He danced about the
- kitchen and sang comic songs as he wiped dishes and took them to the china
- closet in the butler's pantry.
- </p>
- <p>
- This chore finished, they went to the living-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs Henderson said: 'Oh, Corinne, you must hear Henry sing “When Britain
- Really Ruled” from <i>Iolanthe</i>.' She found the score and played for
- him. He sang lustily, all three verses.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Too much dinner,' he remarked, beaming with pleasure, at the close.
- 'Voice is rotten.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's a good organ,' said Corinne. 'You ought to work at it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Perfect shame he won't study,' said Mrs Henderson. Henry found <i>The
- Geisha</i> on the piano.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come on, Corinne,' he cried. 'Do the “Jewel of Asia.” Mrs Henderson'll
- transpose it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne leaned carelessly against the piano and sang the pleasant little
- melody with an ease and a steady flow of tone that brought a shine to
- Henry's eyes. He had to hide it, dropping on the big couch and resting his
- head on his hand. He could look nowhere but at her. He ordered her to sing
- 'The Amorous Goldfish.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She fell into the spirit of it, and moved away from the piano, looking
- provocatively at Henry, gesturing, making an audience of him. She even
- danced a few steps at the end.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sprang up. The power was upon him. Obstacles, difficulties, the
- little scene with Humphrey, while not forgotten, were swept aside. He was
- irresistible.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Tell you what,' he said gaily, with supreme ease—'w'e'll send those
- Chicago men a box of poisoned candy to-morrow, and—oh, yes w-e will!—and
- then we'll have a party at the rooms. You'll be chaperon, Mrs Henderson
- and Hump'll cook things in the chafing dish, and——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What a perfectly lovely idea!' said Mrs Henderson in a surprisingly calm
- voice. 'I'll bring the cold chicken, and a vegetable salad...
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry watched Corinne.
- </p>
- <p>
- For an instant—she was rummaging through the music—her eyes
- met his. 'It'll be fun,' she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry felt a shock as if he had plunged unexpectedly, headlong, into
- ice-water; then a glow.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a daring soul. They didn't understand him in Sunbury. He had
- temperament, a Bohemian nature. The thing was, he'd wasted two years
- trying to make another sort of himself. Kept account of every penny in a
- red book! All that! Book was in his pocket now.
- </p>
- <p>
- He decided to tear it up. He wouldn't be a coward another day. That
- plodding self-discipline hadn't got him anywhere. Now really, had it?
- </p>
- <p>
- Little inner voices were protesting weakly. People might find out about
- it. Have to be pretty quiet. And keep the shades down. It wouldn't do for
- the folks in the parsonage, across the alley, to know that Mrs Arthur V.
- Henderson and her guest were in the Parmenter barn. Have to find some
- tactful way of suggesting that they come after dark...
- </p>
- <p>
- As if she could read his thoughts, Mrs Henderson remarked calmly: 'You
- come for us, Henry. Say about eight.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still the little voices of doubt and confusion. Even of fear. He mentally
- shouted them down; fixing his eyes on the disturbingly radiant Corinne,
- then glancing for moral support at the really pretty little Mrs Henderson
- who gave out such a reassuring air of knowing precisely what she was
- about, of being altogether in the right. Funny, knowing her all these
- years, he hadn't realised she was so nice!
- </p>
- <p>
- He had turned defeat into victory. Single-handed. Will and Fred could go
- sit on the Wells Street bridge and eat bananas. He had settled <i>their</i>
- hash.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- To this lofty mood there came, promptly? an opposite and fully equal
- reaction.
- </p>
- <p>
- Difficulties having arisen in connection with the problem of breaking the
- news to Humphrey, he couldn't very well go back to the rooms.
- </p>
- <p>
- The thing would have to be put right before Humphrey. He decided to think
- it over. That was the idea—think it over. Humphrey would be eating
- his supper, if not at the rooms, then at Stanley's little restaurant on
- Simpson Street. So he could hardly go to Stanley's. There was another
- little lunch room down by the tracks, but Humphrey had been known to go
- there. And of course it was impossible to return for a transient meal to
- Mrs Wilcox. For one thing, the student waiters would be off and Mamie
- Wilcox on duty in the dining-room. He didn't want Mamie back in his life.
- Not if he could help it. He even went so far as to wonder, with a
- paralysing sense of helplessness in certain conceivable contingencies, if
- he <i>could</i> help it... So instead of eating supper he sat on a
- breakwater, alone, unobserved, while the golden sunset glow faded from
- lake and sky and darkness claimed him for her own.
- </p>
- <p>
- Later, handkerchief over face, rushing and pawing his way through the
- myriads of sand-flies that swarmed about each corner light, he walked into
- the neighbourhood of Martha Caldwell's house. He walked backhand forth for
- a time on the other side of the street, and stood motionless by trees. He
- found the situation trying, as he didn't know why he had come, whether he
- wanted to see Martha or what he could say to her.
- </p>
- <p>
- He could hear voices from the porch. And he thought he could see one white
- dress.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, because it seemed to be the next best thing to do, he crossed over
- and mounted the familiar front steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant,
- Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with the
- glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. Finally,
- after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for Monday
- evening, the cotillion leader left.
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated
- sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, at
- the maples.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry struggled for speech.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Martha, look here,' came from him, in a tired voice, 'you've cut me dead.
- Twice. Now it seems to me——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't want to talk about that,' said Martha.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it isn't fair not to——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please don't try to tell me that you weren't at Hoffmann's with that
- horrid girl.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm not trying to. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You took her there, didn't you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, but she——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She didn't make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going with
- me, too.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, well,' he muttered. Then, 'Thunder! If you're just determined not to
- be fair——
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I won't let you say that to me.' The snap in her voice stung him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're not fair! You won't even let me talk!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What earthly good is talk!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, if you're going to take that attitude——'
- </p>
- <p>
- She rose. So did he.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly,
- unevenly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless.
- </p>
- <p>
- She made no reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch
- full of young people were singing <i>Louisiana Lou</i>. Henry, out of
- sheer nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to
- the steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't
- believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He even
- felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit in the
- hammock with him and bring back something of the old time feeling.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the yellow
- cloud at the corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet on
- pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week or
- two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy
- wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake
- towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street
- they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square inch
- of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes necessary to
- clear the sidewalks with shovels.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into
- Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack of
- light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood for a time looking at the mess; everything he owned, strewed
- about on chairs, table and floor. Everything where it had fallen.
- </p>
- <p>
- He considered finishing unpacking the suit-case. Pushed it with his foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just have to get at these things,' he muttered aloud. 'Make a job of it.
- Do it the first thing to-morrow, before I go to the office.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he dug out the box of books that stood beside the bed, the volume
- entitled <i>Will Power and Self Mastery</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat on the bed for an hour, reading one or another of the vehemently
- pithy sentences, then gazing at the wall, knitting his brows, and mumbling
- the words over and over until the small meaning they had ever possessed
- was lost.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- He came almost stealthily into the office of <i>The Weekly Voice of
- Sunbury</i> on the Monday morning. He had not fallen really asleep until
- the small hours. When he awoke, Humphrey was long gone and the breakfast
- things stood waiting on the centre table. And there they were now. He
- hadn't so much as rinsed them in the sink.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey sat behind his roll-top desk, back of the railing. Old Mr Boice,
- the proprietor, was at his own desk, out in front. At the first glimpse of
- his massive head and shoulders with the heavy white whiskers falling down
- on his shirt front, Henry, hesitating on the sill, gave a little quick
- sigh of relief. He let himself, moving with the self-consciousness that
- somewhat resembled dignity, through the gate in the railing and took his
- chair at the inkstained pine table that served him for a desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt Humphrey's eyes on him, and said 'Goodmorning!' stiffly, without
- looking round. He looked through the papers on the table for he knew not
- what; snatched at a heap of copy paper, bit his pencil and made a business
- of writing nothing whatever.
- </p>
- <p>
- At eleven Mr Boice, who was also postmaster, lumbered out and along
- Simpson Street toward the post office. Henry, discovering himself alone
- with Humphrey, rushed, muttering, to the press room and engaged Jim Smith,
- the foreman, in talk which apparently made it necessary for that blonde
- little man, whose bare forearms were elaborately tattooed and who chewed
- tobacco, to come in, sit on Henry's table, and talk further.
- </p>
- <p>
- Noon came.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey pushed back his chair, tapped on the edge of his desk, and
- thoughtfully wrinkled his long face. The natural thing was for Henry to
- come along with him for lunch at Stanley's. He didn't mind for himself. It
- was quite as pleasant to eat alone. In the present circumstances, more
- pleasant. It was awkward.
- </p>
- <p>
- He got up; stood a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- He could feel the boy there, bending over proofs of the programmes for the
- Commencement 'recital' of the Music School, pencil poised, motionless,
- almost inert.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly Henry muttered again, sprang up, rushed to the press room, proof
- in hand; and Humphrey went to lunch alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry did not appear again at the office. This was not unusual. Monday was
- a slack day, and much of Henry's work consisted in scouting along Simpson
- Street, looking up new real estate permits at the village office, new
- volumes at the library and other small matters.
- </p>
- <p>
- The unusual thing was the note on Humphrey's desk. Henry had put it on top
- of his papers and weighted it down conspicuously with the red ink bottle.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've had to ask Mrs Henderson and Corinne Doag to the rooms to-night for
- a little party. I'll bring them about eight.' Pinned to the paper was a
- five-dollar banknote.
- </p>
- <p>
- At supper-time, Humphrey, eating alone in Stanley's, saw a familiar figure
- outside the wide front window. It was Henry, dressed in his newest white
- ducks, his blue coat newly pressed (while he waited, at the Swede tailor's
- down the street), standing stiffly on the curb.
- </p>
- <p>
- Occasionally he glanced around, peering into the restaurant.
- </p>
- <p>
- The light was failing in the rear of the store. Mrs Stanley came from her
- desk by the door and lighted two gas-jets.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry again glanced around. He saw Humphrey and knew that Humphrey saw
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- A youth on a bicycle paused at the curb.
- </p>
- <p>
- Through the screen door Humphrey heard this conversation:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hallo, Hen!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hallo, Al!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Doing anything after?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—yeah. Got a date.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And as the other youth rode off, Henry glanced around once more,
- nervously.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was carrying the bamboo stick he affected. He twirled this for a
- moment, and then wandered out of view.
- </p>
- <p>
- But soon he reappeared, entered the restaurant and marched straight back
- to Humphrey's table. His sensitive lips were compressed.
- </p>
- <p>
- He said, 'Hallo, Hump!' and with only a moment's hesitation took the chair
- opposite.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey buried his nose in his coffee cup.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry cleared his throat, twice; then, in a husky, weak voice, remarked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Get my note?'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a painfully long silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' Humphrey replied then, 'I did.' And went at the pie.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry picked up a corner of the threadbare table-cloth and twisted it. He
- had been pale, but colour was coming now, richly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he mumbled, 'I s'pose we've gotta say something about it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not necessary,' Humphrey observed briskly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, but—we'll have to plan——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not at all.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You mean—you——' Henry's voice broke and faltered.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I mean——' Humphrey's voice was clear, sharp.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ssh! Not so loud, Hump.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I mean that since you've done this extraordinary thing without so much as
- consulting me, I will see it through. I don't want you for one minute to
- think that I like it. God knows what it's going to mean—having women
- running in there! My privacy was the only thing I had. You've chosen to
- wreck it without a by-your-leave. I'll be ready at eight. And I'll see
- that the door of your room is shut.'
- </p>
- <p>
- With which he rose, handed his ticket to Mrs Stanley to be punched, and
- left the restaurant.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry walked the streets, through gathering clouds of sand-flies, until it
- was time to call at Mrs Henderson's.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- They stood on the threshold.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This is the shop,' Henry explained, 'where Hump works.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How perfectly fascinating!' exclaimed Mrs Henderson. Her quick eyes took
- in lathes, kites, models of gliders, tools. 'Bring him 'straight down
- here. I won't stir from this room till he's explained everything.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump!' called Henry, with austere politeness, up the stairway: 'Would you
- mind coming down?'
- </p>
- <p>
- He came—tall, stooping under the low lintel, in spotless white,
- distant in manner, but courteous, firmly courteous.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs Henderson, prowling about, lifted a wheel in a frame.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What on earth is this thing?' she asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A gyroscope.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What do you do with it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey wound a long twine about the handle and set the wheel spinning
- like a top.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hold it by the handle,' said he. 'Now try to wave it around.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The apparently simple machine swung itself back to the horizontal with a
- jerk so violent that Mrs Henderson nearly lost her footing. Humphrey, with
- evident hesitation, caught her elbow and steadied her. She turned her eyes
- up to his, laughing, all interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sit right down in that chair and explain it to me,' she cried. 'How on
- earth did it do that? It's uncanny.' And she seated herself on a
- work-bench, with a light little spring.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Henry showed Corinne up the stairs, Humphrey was talking with an
- eager interest that had not before been evident in him. And Mrs Henderson
- was listening, interrupting him where his easy flow of scientific terms
- and mechanical axioms ran too fast for her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's pulse beat faster. Suddenly the pleasantly arranged old barn
- looked, felt different. Charm had entered it. And the exciting possibility
- of fellowship—a daring fellowship. He was up in the living-room now.
- Corinne was moving lazily, comfortably about, humming a song by the
- sensational new Richard Strauss who was upsetting all settled musical
- tradition just then, and prying into corners and shelves. She wore a
- light, shimmery, silky dress that gave out a faint odour of violets. It
- drugged Henry, that odour. He felt for the first time as if he belonged in
- these rooms himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne found the kitchen cupboard', and exclaimed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mildred!' she called down the stairs, in her rich drawling voice, 'come
- right up here—the cutest thing!'
- </p>
- <p>
- To which Mildred Henderson coolly replied:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't bother me with cute things now. Play with Henry and keep quiet.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And Humphrey's voice droned on down there.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry dropped on the piano stool. Corinne was certainly less indifferent.
- A little.
- </p>
- <p>
- He struck chords; all he knew. He hummed a phrase of the Colonel's song in
- <i>Patience</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne drew a chair to the end of the keyboard and settled herself
- comfortably. 'Sing something,' she said. 'I love your voice.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's no good,' said he, flushing with delight.
- </p>
- <p>
- Surely her interest was growing. He added:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'd a lot rather hear you.' But then, when she smilingly shook her head,
- promptly broke into—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- 'If you want a receipt for that popular mystery
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
- </p>
- <p class="indent10">
- Take all the remarkable people of history,
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Rattle them off to a popular tune.'
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- It is the trickiest and most brilliant patter song ever written, I think,
- not even excepting the Major General's song in <i>The Pirates</i>. Which,
- by the way, Henry sang next.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How on earth can you remember all those words!' Corinne murmured. 'And
- the way you get your tongue around them. I could never do it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She tried it, with him; but broke down with laughter.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know hundreds of 'em,' he said expansively, and sang on.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was an opportunity he had not foreseen during this dreadful day. But
- here it was, and he seized it. The stage was set for his kind of things;
- all at once, as if by the merest accident. For the first time since the
- awkward Sunday morning on the beach he was able to turn on full the faucet
- that controlled his 'charm.' And he turned it on full. He had parlour
- tricks. Out of amateur opera experience he had picked up a superficial
- knack at comedy dancing. He did all he knew. He taught an absurd little
- team song and dance to Corinne, with Mrs Henderson (who had at last come
- up) improvising at the piano. And Corinne, flushed and pretty, clung to
- his hand and laughed herself speechless. Once in her desperate confusion
- over the steps she sank to the floor and sat in a merry heap until Henry
- lifted her up. Then Henry imitated Frank Daniels singing 'The man with an
- elephant on his hands,' and H. C. Bamabee singing <i>The Sheriff of
- Nottingham</i>, and De Wolf Hopper doing <i>Casey at the Bat</i>. All were
- clever bits; the 'Casey' exceptionally so. They applauded him. Even
- Humphrey, silent now, leaning on an end of the piano, watching Mrs
- Henderson's flashing little hands, clapped a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once Humphrey went rather moodily to a window and peered out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs Henderson followed him; slipped her hand through his arm; asked
- quietly, 'Who lives across the alley?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's the Presbyterian parsonage,' he replied, slightly grim.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was after midnight when they set out, whispering, giggling a little in
- the alley, for Chestnut Avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'These sand-flies are fierce,' said Henry. 'You girls better take our
- handkerchiefs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- They circled on lawns to avoid the swirling, crunching, softly suffocating
- clouds of insects. Nearer the lake it grew worse. At the corner of
- Chestnut and Simpson they stopped short. Mrs Henderson, pressing the
- handkerchief to her face, clung in humorous helplessness to Humphrey's
- arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked down at her. Suddenly he stooped, gathered her up in his arms as
- if she were a child, and carried her clear through the plague into the
- shadows of Chestnut Avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, running with Corinne pressing close on his arm, caught a glimpse of
- his face. The expression on it added a touch of alarm to the pæan of joy
- in Henry's brain.
- </p>
- <p>
- They stepped within the Henderson screen door to say good-night.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Let's do something to-morrow night—walk or go biking or row on the
- lake,' said Mrs Henderson. 'You two had better come down for dinner. Any
- time after six.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How about you?' Henry whispered to Corinne. 'Do you want me to come...
- Will and Fred...'
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne's firm long hand slipped for a moment into his. He gripped it. The
- pressure was returned.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't be silly!' she breathed, close to his ear.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 8
- </h3>
- <p>
- The sand-flies served as an excuse for silence between Humphrey and Henry
- on the walk back. Nevertheless, the silence was awkward. It held until
- they were up in the curiously, hauntingly empty living-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey scraped and lighted his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, rather surprisingly unhappy again, was moving toward a certain
- closed door.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Tell me,' said Humphrey gruffly, slowly, 'where is Mister Arthur V.
- Henderson?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He travels for the Camman Company, reapers and binders and ploughs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey very deliberately lighted his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry moved on toward the closed door. Emotions were stirring
- uncomfortably within him. And conflicting impulses. Suddenly he shot out a
- muffled 'Good-night,' and entered the bedroom, shutting the door after
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- An hour later Humphrey—a gaunt figure in nightgown and slippers,
- pipe in mouth—tapped at that door.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, only half undressed, flushed of face, dripping with sweat, quickly
- opened it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey looked down in surprise at a fully packed trunk and suit-case and
- a heap of bundles tied with odd bits of twine—sofa cushions, old
- clothes, what not.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's all this?' Humphrey waved his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—I just thought I'd go in the morning.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't be a dam' fool.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but'—Henry threw out protesting hands—'I know I'm
- no good at all these fussy things. I'd just spoil your——'
- </p>
- <p>
- The pipe waved again. 'That's all disposed of, Hen.' A somewhat wry smile
- wrinkled the long face. 'Mildred Henderson's running it, apparently.
- There's a certain Mrs Olson who is to come in mornings and clean up. And—oh
- yes, I've got a lot of change for you. Your share was only eight-five
- cents.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence. Henry looked at his feet; moved one of them
- slowly about on the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We're different kinds,' said Humphrey. 'About as different as they
- make'em. But that, in itself, isn't a bad thing.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He thrust out his hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry clasped it; gulped down an all but uncontrollable uprush of feeling;
- looked down again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey stalked back to his room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus began the odd partnership of Weaver and Calverly. Though is not every
- partnership a little odd?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- III—THE STIMULANT
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss Wombast looked
- up from her desk in the Sunbury Public Library and beheld Henry Calverly,
- 3rd. Then with a slight fluttering of her pale, blue-veined eyelids and a
- compression of her thin lips she looked down again and in a neat practised
- librarian's hand finished printing out a title on the-catalogue card
- before her.
- </p>
- <p>
- For Henry Calverly was faintly disconcerting to her. Though it was only
- eleven o'clock, and a Tuesday, he was attired in blue serge coat, snow
- white trousers and (could she have seen through the desk) white stockings
- and shoes. His white <i>négligé</i> shirt was decorated at the neck with a
- 'four-in-hand' of shimmering foulard, blue and green. In his left hand was
- a rolled-up creamy-white felt hat and the crook of a thin bamboo stick.
- With his right he fussed at the fringe on his upper lip, which was
- somewhat nearer the moustache stage than it had been last week. Behind his
- nose glasses and their pendant silk cord his face was sober; the gray-blue
- eyes that (Miss Wombast knew) could blaze with primal energy were gloomy,
- or at least tired; there was a furrow between his blond eyebrow's. He had
- the air of a youth who wants earnestly to concentrate without knowing
- quite how.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Wombast was a distinctly 'literary' person. She read Meredith,
- Balzac, De Maupassant, Flaubert, Zola, and Howells. She was living her way
- into the developing later manner of Henry James. She talked, on occasion,
- with an icy enthusiasm that many honest folk found irritating, of
- Stevenson's style and of Walter Pater.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Miss Wombast's habit to look in her books for complete
- identification of the living characters she met. She studied all of them,
- coolly, critically, at boardinghouse and library. Naturally, when a living
- individual refused to take his place among her gallery of book types, she
- was puzzled. One such was Henry Calverly.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had known something of his checkered career in high school, where he
- had directed the glee club, founded and edited <i>The Boys' Journal</i>,
- written a rather bright one-act play for the junior class. Indeed the
- village in general had been mildly aware of Henry. He had stood out, and
- Miss Wombast herself had sung a modest alto in the <i>Iolanthe</i> chorus,
- two years back, under Henry's direction and had found him impersonally,
- ingenuously masterful and a subtly pleasing factor in her thought-world.
- He had made a success of that mob. The big men of the village gave him a
- dinner and a purse of gold. After all of which, his mother had died, he
- had run, apparently, through his gifts and his earnings, and settled down
- to a curiously petty reporting job, trotting up and down Simpson Street
- collecting useless little items for <i>The Weekly Voice of Sunbury</i>.
- Other young fellows of twenty either went to college or started laying the
- foundations of a regular job in Chicago. Those that amounted to anything.
- You could see pretty plainly ahead of each his proper line of development.
- Yet here was Henry, who <i>had</i> stood out, working half-heartedly at
- the sort of job you associated with the off-time of poor students,
- dressing altogether too conspicuously, wasting hours—daytimes, when
- a young fellow ought to be working—with this girl and that. For a
- long time it had been the Caldwell girl. Lately she had seen him with that
- strikingly pretty but, she felt, rather 'physical' young singer who was
- visiting the gifted but whispered-about Mrs Arthur V. Henderson, of Lower
- Chestnut Avenue. Name of Doge, or Doag, or something like that.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry himself had been whispered about. Very recently. He had been seen at
- Hoffmann's Garden, up the shore, with a vulgar young woman in extremely
- tight bloomers. Of the working girl type. Had her out on a tandem.
- Drinking beer.
- </p>
- <p>
- So it was, unable to forget those secretly stirring <i>Iolanthe</i> days,
- that Miss Wombast had looked about among her book types for a key to
- Henry, but without success. He didn't appear to be in De Maupassant. Nor
- in Balzac. In Meredith and James there was no one who said 'Yeah' and
- 'Gotta' and spoke with the crude if honest throat 'r' of the Middle West
- and went with nice girls and vulgar girls and carried that silly cane and
- wore the sillier moustache; who had, or had had, gifts of creation and
- command, yet now, month in, month out, hung about Donovan's soda fountain;
- who never smoked and, apart from the Hoffmann's Garden incident, wasn't
- known to drink; and who, when you faced him, despite the massed evidence,
- gave out an impression of earnest endeavour. Even of moral purpose.
- </p>
- <p>
- Had she known him better Miss Wombast would have found herself the more
- puzzled. For Miss Wombast, despite her rather complicated reading, still
- clung in some measure to the moralistic teachings of her youth, believing
- that people either had what she thought of as character or else didn't
- have it, that people were either industrious or lazy, bright or stupid,
- vulgar or nice. Therefore the fact that Henry, while still wrecking his
- stomach with fountain drinks and (a recently acquired habit) with lemon
- meringue pie between meals, had not touched candy for two years—not
- a chocolate cream, not even a gum drop!—and this by sheer force of
- character, would have been confusing.
- </p>
- <p>
- And to read his thoughts, as he stood there before her desk, would have
- carried her confusion on into bewilderment.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mostly these thoughts had to do with money, and bordered on the desperate.
- Tentative little schemes for getting money—even a few dollars—were
- forming and dissolving rapidly in his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was concerned because his sudden little flirtation with Corinne Doag,
- after a flashing start, had lost its glow. Only the preceding evening. He
- hadn't held her interest. The thrill had gone. Which plunged him into
- moods and brought to his always unruly tongue the sarcastic words that
- made matters worse. He was lunching down there to-day—he and
- Humphrey—and dreaded it, with moments of a rather futile, flickering
- hope. Deep intuition informed him that the one sure solution was money.
- You couldn't get on with a girl without it. Just about so far, then things
- dragged. And this, of course, brought him around the circle, back to the
- main topic.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was thinking about his clothes. They, at least, should move Corinne.
- Along with the moustache, the cane, the cord on his glasses. He didn't see
- how people could help being a little impressed. Miss Wombast, even, who
- didn't matter. It seemed to him that she <i>was</i> impressed.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was thinking about Martha Caldwell., She was pretty frankly going with
- James B. Merchant, Jr., now. Henry was jealous of James B. Merchant, Jr.
- And about Martha his thoughts hovered with a tinge of romantic sadness. He
- would like her to see him to-day, in these clothes, with his moustache and
- cane.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was wondering, with the dread that the prospect of mental effort always
- roused in him, how on earth he was ever to write three whole columns about
- the Annual Business Men's Picnic of the preceding afternoon. Describing in
- humorous yet friendly detail the three-legged race, the ball game between
- the fats and the leans, the dinner in the grove, the concert by Foote's
- full band of twenty pieces, the purse given to Charlie Waterhouse as the
- most popular man on Simpson Street. He had a thick wad of notes up at the
- rooms, but his heart was not in the laborious task of expanding them. He
- knew precisely what old man Boice expected of him—plenty of
- 'personal mention' for all the advertisers, giving space for space. Each
- day that he put it off would make the task harder. If he didn't have the
- complete story in by Thursday night, Humphrey would skin him alive; yet
- here it was Wednesday morning, and he was planning to spend as much of the
- day as possible with the increasingly unresponsive Corinne. Life was
- difficult!
- </p>
- <p>
- He was aware of a morbid craving in his digestive tract. He decided to get
- an ice-cream soda on the way back to the office. He would have liked about
- half a pound of chocolate creams. The Italian kind, with all the sweet in
- the white part. But here character intervened.
- </p>
- <p>
- A corner of his mind dwelt unceasingly on queer difficult feelings that
- came. These had flared out in the unpleasant incident of Mamie Wilcox and
- the tandem; and again in the present flirtation with Corinne. In a way
- that he found perplexing, this stir of emotion was related to his gifts.
- He couldn't let one go without the other. There had been moments—in
- the old days—when a feeling of power had surged through him. It was
- a wonderful, irresistible feeling. Riding that wave, he was equal to
- anything. But it had frightened him. The memory of it frightened him now.
- He had put <i>Iolanthe</i> through, it was true, but he had also nearly
- eloped with Ernestine Lambert. He had completely lost his head—debts,
- everything!
- </p>
- <p>
- Yes, it was as well that Miss Wombast couldn't read his thoughts. She
- wouldn't have known how to interpret them. She hadn't the capacity to
- understand the wide swift stream of feeling down which an imaginative boy
- floats all but rudderless into manhood. She couldn't know of his pitifully
- inadequate little attempts to shape a course, to catch this breeze and
- that, even to square around and breast the current of life.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry said politely:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Good-morning, Miss Wombast. I just looked in for the notes of new books.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh,' she replied quickly. 'I'm sorry you troubled. Mr Boice asked me to
- mail it to the office at the end of the month. I just sent it—this
- morning.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She saw his face fall. He mumbled something that sounded like, 'Oh—all
- right! Doesn't matter.' For a moment he stood waving his stick in jerky,
- aimless little circles. Then went off down the stairs.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- Emerging from Donovan's drug store Henry encountered the ponderous person
- of old Boice—six feet an inch and a half, head sunk a little between
- the shoulders, thick yellowish-white whiskers waving down over a black bow
- tie and a spotted, roundly protruding vest, a heavy old watch chain with
- insignia of a fraternal order hanging as a charm; inscrutable, washed-out
- blue eyes in a deeply lined but nearly expressionless face.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stopped short; stared at his employer.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice did not stop. But as he moved deliberately by, his faded eyes
- took in every detail of Henry's not unremarkable personal appearance.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was thinking: 'Old crook. Wish I had a paper of my own here and I'd
- get back at him. Run him out of town, that's what!' And after he had
- nodded and rushed by, his colouring mounting: 'Like to know why I should
- work my head off just to make money for <i>him</i>. No sense in that!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry came moodily into the <i>Voice</i> office, dropped down at his
- inkstained, littered table behind the railing, and sighed twice. He picked
- up a pencil and fell to outlining ink spots.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sighs were directed at Humphrey, who sat bent over his desk, cob pipe
- in mouth, writing very rapidly. 'He's got wonderful concentration,'
- thought Henry, his mind wandering a brief moment from his unhappy self.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey spoke without looking up. 'Don't let that Business Men's Picnic
- get away from you, Hen. Really ought to be getting it in type now. Two
- compositors loafing out there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sighed again; let his pencil fall on the table; gazed heavily,
- helplessly at the wall...
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Old man say anything to you about the “Library Notes”?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey glanced up and removed his pipe. His swarthy long face wrinkled
- thoughtfully. 'Yes. Just now. He's going to have Miss Wombast send 'em in
- direct every month.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And I don't have 'em any more.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey considered this fact. 'It doesn't amount to very much, Hen.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no—works out about sixty cents to a dollar. It ain't that
- altogether—it's the principle. I'm getting tired of it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The press-room door was ajar, Humphrey reached out and closed it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry raised his voice; got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the
- table. His eyes brightened sharply. Emotion crept into his voice and shook
- it a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you know what's he done to me—that old doubleface? Took me in
- here two years ago at eight a week with a promise of nine if I suited.
- Well, I did suit. But did I get the nine? Not until I'd rowed and begged
- for seven months. A year of that, a lot more work—You know! “Club
- Notes,” this library stuff, “Real Estate Happenings,” “Along Simpson
- Street,” reading proof—'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey slowly nodded as he smoked.
- </p>
- <p>
- '—And I asked for ten a week. Would he give it? No! I knew I was
- worth more than that, so I offered to take space rates instead. Then what
- does he do? You know, Hump. Been clipping me off, one thing after another,
- and piling on the proof and the office work. Here's one thing more gone
- to-day. Last week my string was exactly seven dollars and forty-six cents.
- Dam it, it ain't fair! I can't <i>live!</i> I won't stand it. Gotta be ten
- a week or I—I'll find out why. Show-down.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He rushed to the door. Then, as if his little flare of indignation had
- burnt out, fingered there, knitting his brows and looking up and down the
- street and across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House, where people
- sat in a row in yellow rocking chairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey smoked and considered him. After a little he remarked quietly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look here, Hen, I don't like it any more than you do. I've seen what he
- was doing. I've tried to forestall him once or twice——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know it, Hump.' Henry turned. He was quite listless now. 'He's a tricky
- old fox. If I only knew of something else I could do—or that we
- could do together——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—this was what I was going to say—no matter how we feel,
- I'm going to be really in trouble if I don't get that picnic story pretty
- soon. Mr Boice asked about it this morning.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry leaned against Mr Boice's desk, up by the window; dropped his chin
- into one hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll do it, Hump. This afternoon. Or to-night. We're going down to
- Mildred's this noon, of course.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's part of what's bothering me. God knows how soon after that you'll
- break away from Corinne.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Pretty dam soon,' remarked Henry sullenly, 'the way things are going
- now.... I'll get at it, Hump. Honest I will. But right now'—he moved
- a hand weakly through the air—'I just couldn't. You don't know how I
- feel. I <i>couldn't!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where you going now?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know.' The hand moved again. 'Walk around. Gotta be by myself.
- Sorta think it out. This is one of the days... I've been thinking—be
- twenty-one in November. <i>Then</i> I'll show him, and all the rest of
- 'em. Have a little money then. I'll show this hypocritical old town a few
- things—a few things....'
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice died to a mumble. He felt with limp fingers at his moustache.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll be ready quarter or twenty minutes past twelve,' Humphrey called
- after him as he moved mournfully out to the street.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- Mr Boice moved heavily along, inclining his massive head, without a smile,
- to this acquaintance and that, and turned in at Schultz and Schwartz's.
- </p>
- <p>
- The spectacle of Henry Calverly—in spotless white and blue, with the
- moustache, and the stick—had irritated him. Deeply. A boy who
- couldn't earn eight dollars a week parading Simpson Street in that rig, on
- a week-day morning! He felt strongly that Henry had no business sticking
- out that way, above the village level. Hitting you in the eyes. Young
- Jenkins was bad enough, but at least his father had the money. Real money.
- And could let his son waste it if he chose. But a conceited young chump
- like Henry Calverly! Ought to be chucked into a factory somewhere. Stoke a
- furnace. Carry boxes. Work with his hands. Get down to brass tacks and see
- if he had any stuff in him. Doubtful.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice made a low sound, a wheezy sound between a grunt and a hum, as he
- handed his hat to the black, muscular, bullet-headed, grinning Pinkie
- Potter, who specialised in hats and shoes in Sunbury's leading barber
- shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- He made another sound that was quite a grunt as he sank into the red plush
- barber chair of Heinie Schultz. His massive frame was clumsy, and the
- twinges of lumbago, varied by touches of neuritis, that had come steadily
- upon him since middle life, added to the difficulties of moving it about.
- He always made these sounds. He would stop on the street, take your hand
- non-committally in his huge, rather limp paw, and grunt before he spoke,
- between phrases, and when moving away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Heinie Schultz, who was straw-coloured, thin, listlessly patient (Bill
- Schwartz was the noisy fat one), knew that the thick, yellowish gray hair
- was to be cut round in the back and the neck shaved beneath it. The beard
- was to be trimmed delicately, reverently—'not cut, just the rags
- taken off'—and combed out. Heinie had attended to this hair and
- beard for sixteen years.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Heard a good one,' murmured Heinie, close to his patron's ear. 'There was
- a bride and groom got on the sleeping car up to Duluth—'
- </p>
- <p>
- A thin man of about thirty-five entered the shop, tossed his hat to
- Pinkie, and dropped into Bill Schwartz's chair next the window. The
- new-comer had straight brown hair, worn a little long over ears and
- collar. His face was freckled, a little pinched, nervously alert. Behind
- his gold rimmed spectacles his small sharp eyes appeared to be darting
- this way and that, keen, penetrating through the ordinary comfortable
- surfaces of life.
- </p>
- <p>
- This was Robert A. McGibbon, editor and proprietor of the <i>Sunbury
- Weekly Gleaner</i>. He had appeared in the village hardly six months back
- with a little money—enough, at least, to buy the presses, give a
- little for good will, assume the rent and the few business debts that
- Nicholas Simms Godfrey had been able to contract before his health broke,
- and to pay his own board at the Wombasts' on Filbert Avenue. His
- appearance in local journalism had created a new tension in the village
- and his appearance now in the barber shop created tension there. Heinie's
- vulgar little anecdote froze on his lips. Mr Boice, impassive, heavily
- deliberate, after one glimpse of the fellow in the long mirror before him,
- lay back in the chair, gazed straight upward at the fly-specked ceiling.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice, when face to face with Robert A. McGibbon on the street,
- inclined his head to him as to others. But up and down the street his
- barely expressed disapproval of the man was felt to have a root in
- feelings and traditions infinitely deeper than the mere natural antagonism
- to a fresh competitor in the local field.
- </p>
- <p>
- For McGibbon was—the term was a new one that had caught the popular
- imagination and was worming swiftly into the American language—a
- yellow journalist. He had worked, he boasted openly, on a sensationally
- new daily in New York. In the once staid old <i>Gleaner</i> he used
- boldfaced headlines, touched with irritating acumen on scandal, assailed
- the ruling political triumvirate, and made the paper generally fascinating
- as well as disturbing. As a result, he was picking up subscribers rapidly.
- Advertising, of course, was another matter. And Boice had all the village
- and county printing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The political triumvirate mentioned above was composed of Boice himself,
- Charles H. Waterhouse, town treasurer, and Mr Weston of the Sunbury
- National Bank. For a decade their rule had not been questioned along the
- street. The other really prominent men of Sunbury all had their business
- interests in Chicago, and at that time used the village merely for
- sleeping and as a point of departure for the very new golf links. Such
- men, I mean, as B. L. Ames, John W. MacLouden, William B. Snow, and J. E.
- Jenkins.
- </p>
- <p>
- The experience of withstanding vulgar attacks was new to the triumvirate.
- (McGibbon referred to them always as the 'Old Cinch.') The <i>Gleaner</i>
- had come out for annexation to Chicago. It demanded an audit of Charlie
- Waterhouse's town accounts by a new, politically disinterested group. It
- accused the bank of withholding proper support from men of whom old Boice
- disapproved. It demanded a share of the village printing.
- </p>
- <p>
- The 'Old Cinch' were taking these attacks in silence, as beneath their
- notice. They took pains, however, in casual mention of the new force in
- town, to refer to him always as a 'Democrat.' This damned him with many.
- He called himself an 'Independent.' Which amused Charlie Waterhouse
- greatly. Everybody knew that a man who wasn't a decent Republican had to
- be a Democrat. In the nature of things.
- </p>
- <p>
- And they were waiting for his money and his energy to give out. Giving
- him, as Charlie Waterhouse jovially put it, the rope to hang himself with.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bill Schwartz took McGibbon's spectacles, tucked the towel around his
- scrawny neck, lathered chin and cheeks, and seizing his head firmly in a
- strong right hand turned it sidewise on the head-rest.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon lay there a moment, studying the yellowish-white whiskers that
- waved upward above the towels in the next chair. Bill stropped his razor.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How are you, Mr Boice?' McGibbon observed, quite cheerfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice made a sound, raised his head an inch. Heinie promptly pushed it
- down.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Quite a story you had last week about the musicale at Mrs Arthur V.
- Henderson's.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice lay motionless. What was up! Distinctly odd that either journal
- should be mentioned between them. Bad taste. He made another sound.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who wrote it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- No answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry Calverly?'
- </p>
- <p>
- A grunt.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Thought so!' McGibbon chuckled.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice twisted his head around, trying to see the fellow in the mirror.
- Heinie pulled it back.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Got it here. Hand me my glasses, Bill, will you. Thanks.' McGibbon was
- sitting up, his face all lather, digging in his pocket. He produced a
- clipping. Read aloud with gusto:—
- </p>
- <p>
- '“Mrs Stelton's art has deepened and broadened appreciably since she last
- appeared in Sunbury. Always gifted with a splendid singing organ, always
- charming in personality and profoundly, rhythmically musical in
- temperament, she now has added a superstructure of technical authority
- which gives to each passage, whether bravura or pianissimo, a quality and
- distinction.”'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon was momentarily choked by his own almost noiseless laughter. Bill
- pushed his head down and went swiftly to work on his right cheek. Two
- other customers had come in.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Great stuff that!' observed McGibbon cautiously, under the razor.
- '“Profoundly, rhythmically musical in temperament “! “A superstructure of
- technical authority”! Great! Fine! That boy'll do something yet. Handled
- right. Wish he was working for me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice, from whom sounds had been coming for several moments, now raised
- his voice. It was the first time Heinie had ever heard him raise it. Bill
- paused, razor in air, and glanced around. Pinkie Potter looked up from the
- shoes he was polishing.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he roared huskily, 'what in hell's the matter with that!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Just then Bill turned McGibbon's head the other way. He too raised his
- voice. But cheerfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nothing much. Nice lot o' words. Only Mrs Stelton wasn't there. Sprained
- her ankle in the Chicago station on the way out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Bill Schwartz had a trumpet-like Prussian voice. The situation seemed to
- him to contain the elements of humour. He laughed boisterously.
- </p>
- <p>
- Heinie Schultz, more politic, tittered softly, shears against mouth.
- </p>
- <p>
- Pinkie Potter laughed convulsively, and beat out an intricate rag-time
- tattoo on his bootblack's stand with his brush.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- It was Mr Boice's fixed habit to go on, toward noon, to the post-office.
- Instead, to-day, he returned to the <i>Voice</i> office.
- </p>
- <p>
- He seated himself at his desk for a quarter of an hour, doing nothing. He
- had the faculty of sitting still, ruminating.
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally he reached out for the two-foot rule that always lay on his desk,
- and carefully measured a certain article in last week's paper. Then did a
- little figuring.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rose, moved toward the door; turned, and remarked to the wondering
- Humphrey:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Take fifteen inches off Henry's string this week, Weaver. A dollar 'n'
- five cents. Be at the post-office if anybody wants me.' And went out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey himself measured Henry's article on the musicale. Old Boice had
- been accurate enough; it came to an even fifteen inches. Which at seven
- cents an inch, would be a dollar and five cents.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Henry reappeared and together they set out for Lower Chestnut Avenue,
- Humphrey found he hadn't the heart to break this fresh disappointment to
- his friend. He decided to let it drift until the Saturday. Something might
- turn up.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's mood had changed. He had left the office, an hour earlier, looking
- like a discouraged boy. Now he was serious, silent, hard to talk to. He
- seemed three years older. With certain of Henry's rather violently
- contrasted phases Humphrey was familiar; but he had never seen him look
- quite like this. Henry was strung up. Plainly. He walked very fast,
- striding intently forward. At least once in each block he found himself a
- yard ahead of his companion, checked himself, muttered a few words that
- sounded vaguely like an apology and then repeated the process.
- </p>
- <p>
- At Mrs Henderson's Henry was grave and curiously attractive. He had charm,
- no doubt of it—a sort of charm that women, older women, felt.
- Mildred Henderson distinctly played up to him. And Corinne, Humphrey
- noted, watched him now and then; the quietly observant keenness in her big
- dark eyes masked by her easy, lazy smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Toward the close of luncheon Henry's evident inner tension showed signs of
- taking the form of gaiety. He acted like a young man wholly sure of
- himself. Humphrey's net impression, after more than a year and a half of
- close association with the boy, was that he couldn't ever be sure of
- himself. Not for one minute. Yet, when they threw down their napkins and
- pushed back their chairs, it was Henry who said, with an apparently easy
- arrogance back of his grain:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump, you've got to be going back so soon, we're going to give you and
- Mildred the living-room. We'll wash the dishes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey noted the quick little snap of amusement in Mrs Henderson's eyes
- (Henry had not before openly used her first name) and the demure,
- expressionless look that came over Corinne's face. Neither was displeased.
- </p>
- <p>
- To Mrs Henderson's, 'You'll do no such thing!' Henry responded smilingly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I won't be contradicted. Not to-day.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne was still silent. But Mrs Henderson, now frankly amused, asked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why the to-day, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I don't know. Just the way I feel,' said he; and ushered her with
- mock politeness into the front room, then, gallantly, almost nonchalantly,
- took the elbow of the unresisting Corinne and led her toward the kitchen.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey lighted a cigarette and watched them go. Then with a slight
- heightening of his usually sallow colour, followed his hostess into the
- living-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- It will be evident to the reader that among these four young persons,
- rather casually thrown together in the first instance, something of an
- 'understanding' had grown up.
- </p>
- <p>
- There had been a furtive delight about their first gathering at Humphrey's
- rooms, a sense of exciting variety in humdrum village life, the very real
- and lively pleasure of exploring fresh personalities.
- </p>
- <p>
- Of late years, looking back, it has seemed to me that Mildred Henderson
- never really belonged in Sunbury, where a woman's whole duty lay in
- keeping house economically and as pleasantly as might be for the husband
- who spent his days in Chicago. And in bearing and rearing his children. I
- never knew anything of her earlier life, before Arthur V. Henderson
- brought her to the modest house on Chestnut Avenue. I never could figure
- why she married him at all. Marriages are made in so many places besides
- Heaven! He used to like to hear her play.
- </p>
- <p>
- In those days, and a little later, I judged her much as the village judged
- her—peering out at her through the gun-ports in the armour plate of
- self-righteousness that is the strong defence of every suburban community.
- But now I feel that her real mistake lay in waiting so long before
- drifting to her proper environment in New York. Like all of us, she had,
- sooner or later, to work out her life in its own terms or die alive of an
- atrophied spirit. She had gifts, and needed, doubtless, to express them. I
- can see her now as she was in Sunbury during those years—little,
- trim, slim, with a quick alert smile and snappy eyes. Not a beautiful
- woman, perhaps not even an out-and-out pretty one, but curiously
- attractive. She had much of what men call 'personality.' And she was
- efficient, in her own way. She never let her musical gift rust; practised
- every day of her life, I think. Including Sundays. Which was one of the
- things Sunbury held against her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, too, was using Sunbury as little more than a stop gap. We knew
- that sooner or later he would strike his gait as an inventor. He was quiet
- about it. Much thought, deep plans, lay back of that long wrinkly face.
- While he kept at it he was a conscientious country editor. But his heart
- was in his library of technical books, and in his workshop in the old
- Parmenter barn. He must have put just about all of his little inheritance
- into the place.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne Doag was distinctly a city person. And she was a real singer, with
- ambition and a firm, even hard purpose, I can see now, back of the
- languorous dusky eyes and the wide slow smile that Henry was not then man
- enough to understand. In those days, more than in the present, a girl with
- a strong sense of identity was taught to hide it scrupulously. It was
- still the century of Queen Victoria. The life of any live girl had to be a
- rather elaborate pretence of something it distinctly was not. For which
- we, looking back, can hardly blame her. Besides, Corinne was young,
- healthy, glowing with a quietly exuberant sense of life. I imagine she
- found a sort of pure joy, an animal joy, in playing with men and life. She
- wasn't dishonest. She certainly liked Henry. Particularly to-day. But this
- was the summer time. She was playing. And she liked to be, thrilled.
- </p>
- <p>
- An hour later, could Humphrey have glanced into the butler's pantry, he
- would have concluded that he knew Henry Calverly not at all. And Miss
- Wombast, could she have looked in, would have been thrilled and
- frightened, perhaps to the point of never speaking to Henry again. And of
- never, never forgetting him.
- </p>
- <p>
- As the scene has a bearing on the later events of the day, we will take a
- look.
- </p>
- <p>
- They stood in the butler's pantry, Henry and Corinne. The shards of a
- shattered coffee cup lay unobserved at their feet. Out in the kitchen sink
- all the silver and the other cups and saucers lay in the rinsing rack, the
- soapsuds dry on them. Henry held Corinne in his arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry,' she whispered, 'we <i>must</i> finish the dishes! What on earth
- will Mildred think?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Let her think!' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne leaned back against the shelves, disengaged her hands long enough
- to smooth her flying blue-black hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry, I never thought——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Never thought what?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait! My hair's all down again. They might come out here. I mean you
- seemed——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How did I seem? Say it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh well—<i>Henry</i>!—I mean sort of—well, reserved. I
- thought you were shy.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Think so now!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—well, no. Not exactly. Wait now, you silly boy! Really, Henry,
- you musn't be so—so intense.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I <i>am</i> intense. I'm not the way I look. Nobody knows——'
- Here he interrupted himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Henry,' she breathed, her head on his shoulder now, her arm clinging
- about his neck. He felt very manly. Life, real life, whirled, glowed,
- sparkled about him. He was exultant. 'You dear boy—I'm afraid you've
- made love to lots of girls.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I <i>haven't!</i>' he protested, with unquestionable sincerity. 'Not to
- lots.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Silly!' A silence. Then he felt her draw even closer to him. 'Henry, talk
- to me! Make love to me! Tell me you'll take me away with you—to-day!—now!
- Make me feel how wonderful it would be! Say it, anyway—even if—oh,
- Henry, <i>say</i> it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- For an instant Henry's mind went cold and clear. He was a little
- frightened. He found himself wondering if this tempestuous young woman who
- clung so to him could possibly be the easy, lazy, comfortably smiling
- Corinne. He thought of Carmen—the Carmen of Calvé. He had suped once
- in that opera down at the Auditorium. He had paid fifty cents to the supe
- captain.
- </p>
- <p>
- The thrill of the conqueror was his. But he was beginning to feel that
- this was enough, that he had best rest his case, perhaps, at this' point.
- </p>
- <p>
- As for asking her to fly away with him, he couldn't conscientiously so
- much as ask her to have dinner with him in Chicago. Not in the present
- state of his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- One fact, however, emerged. He must propose something. He could at least
- have it out with old Boice. Settle that salary business. He'd <i>have</i>
- to.
- </p>
- <p>
- Another fact is that he was by no means so cool as he, for the moment,
- fancied himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- The door from dining-room to kitchen opened, rather slowly. There was a
- light step in the kitchen, and Mildred Henderson's musical little voice
- humming the theme of the Andante in the Fifth Symphony.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry and Corinne leaped apart. She smoothed her hair again, and patted
- her cheeks. Then she took a black hair from his shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- They heard Mildred at the sink. Rinsing the dishes and the silver,
- doubtless.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hate to disturb you two,' she called, a reassuring if slightly humorous
- sympathy in her voice, 'but I promised Humphrey I'd get after you, Henry.
- He says you simply must get some work done to-day.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood motionless, trying to think.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do your work here,' Corinne whispered. 'Stay.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He shook his head. 'A lot I'd get done—here with you. Now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll help you. Couldn't I be just a little inspiration to you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It ain't inspiring work.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry—write something for me! Write me a poem!
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men's Picnic.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he said, 'Wait a minute;' went into the kitchen.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Going over town,' he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the outer door, Corinne murmured: 'You'll come back, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he
- replied: 'Yes, of course.' And hurried off.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the <i>Voice</i> sanctum. Henry could see
- that much through the front window.
- </p>
- <p>
- He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey—or
- anybody—right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal
- to him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a
- regiment.
- </p>
- <p>
- He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind
- the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please
- speak to Mr Boice.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village
- triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly
- rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to let
- go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth whose
- time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And once
- again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and the
- thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes;
- made sounds.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I—I want to speak with you. It's—it's
- this way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, the
- way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It ain't
- square! Now—well—you see, I've about come to the conclusion
- that if the work I do ain't worth ten a week—well——'
- </p>
- <p>
- It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village politician
- of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no trust
- whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and the fact was
- disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms by keeping his mouth
- shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or quarrelled. He disbelieved
- utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't written a letter in twenty-odd
- years. And he was not likely to lose his temper again this day—week—or
- month.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. Though
- Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the
- controversy.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry chafed.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business
- Men's Picnic?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Better get it done, hadn't you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shook his head again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice continued to sit—motionless, expressionless. His thoughts
- ran to this effect:—The article on the picnic was by far the most
- important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street
- looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was
- supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy,
- now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can
- have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds
- that passed his lips—colourless, casual.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers
- tightened about his stick. His colour rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was
- desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder
- window—'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of
- your time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars
- a week to the <i>Voice</i>. Beginning this week. If I'm not—I'll
- hand in my string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I
- wonder! You wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd
- of you a thing or two! Maybe——'
- </p>
- <p>
- For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to and
- through Norton P. Boice.
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared in
- his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the
- door.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe,
- thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry wandered
- up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting crokinole
- counters.
- </p>
- <p>
- Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He
- wanted desperately to do something, but didn't know what it could be. It
- was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to
- get out.
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the
- piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne had
- spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had danced over
- the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without Her, was
- painfully empty.
- </p>
- <p>
- He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn't know what. The wild
- animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had
- begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and saw
- and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, surely
- it was the poem!
- </p>
- <p>
- He found pencil and paper—a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the
- window-seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They
- were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness—it was a mighty
- passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to
- write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint as
- to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And at
- once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. It
- would have to come out.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- Mr Boice came heavily into the Voice office and sank into his creaking
- chair by the front window.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey went swiftly, steadily through galley after galley of proof.
- Humphrey had the trained eye that can pick out an inverted <i>u</i> in a
- page of print at three feet. He smoked his cob pipe as he worked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice drew a few sheets of copy paper from a pigeonhole, took up a
- pencil in his stiff fingers, and gazed down over his whiskers.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a decade or more since the 'editor' of the Voice had done any
- actual work. Every day he dropped quiet suggestions, whispered a word of
- guidance to this or that lieutenant, and listened to assorted ideas and
- opinions. He was a power in the village, no doubt about that. But to
- compose and write out three columns of his own paper was hopelessly beyond
- him. It called for youth, or for the long habit of a country hack. The
- deep permanent grooves in his mind were channels for another sort of
- thinking.
- </p>
- <p>
- For an hour he sat there. Gradually Humphrey became aware of him. It was
- odd anyway that he should be here. He seldom returned in the afternoon.
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally he looked over at the younger man, and made sounds.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey raised his head; removed his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Guess you better fix up a little account of the Business Men's Picnic,
- Weaver,' he remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry's doing that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice's massive head moved slowly, sidewise. 'No,' he said, 'he won't
- be doing it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey leaned back in his chair. His face wrinkled reflectively; his
- brows knotted. He held up his pipe; rubbed the worn cob with the palm of
- his hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice got up and moved toward the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've let Henry go,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey went on rubbing his pipe; squinting at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice paused in the door; looked back.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll ask you to attend to it, Weaver.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice stood looking at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said Humphrey. 'Afraid I can't help you out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice stood motionless. There was no expression on his face, but
- Humphrey knew what the steady look meant. He added:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I wasn't there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still Mr Boice stood. Humphrey took a fresh galley proof from the hook and
- fell to work at it. After a little Mr Boice moved back to his desk and
- creaked down into his chair. Again he reached for the copy paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, in a merciful moment when he was leaving for the day, thought of
- suggesting that Murray Johnston, local man for the City Press Association,
- might be called on in the emergency. He had been at the picnic. He could
- write the story easily enough, if he could spare the time. A faint smile
- flitted across his face at the reflection that it would cost old Boice
- five or six times what he was usually willing to pay in the <i>Voice</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Mr Boice, bending over the desk, a pencil gripped in his fingers, a
- sentence or two written and crossed out on the top sheet of copy paper,
- did not so much as lift his eyes. And Humphrey went on out.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 8
- </h3>
- <p>
- Humphrey let himself into Mrs Henderson's front hall, closed the screen
- door gently behind him, and looked about the dim interior. There seemed to
- be no one in the living-room. The girls were in the kitchen, doubtless,
- getting supper. Mildred had faithfully promised not to bother cooking
- anything hot. He hung up his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he saw a feminine figure up the stairs, curled on the top-step,
- against the wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Corinne. She was pressing her finger to her lips and shaking her
- head.
- </p>
- <p>
- She motioned him out toward the kitchen. There he found his hostess.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Seen Henry?' he asked. 'Old Boice fired him to-day, and he's disappeared.
- Not at the rooms. And I looked in at the Y.M.C.A.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's here,' said Mildred. 'A very interesting thing is happening,
- Humphrey. I've always told you he was a genius.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what's up?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We've got him upstairs at my desk. He's writing something.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think it's a poem for Corinne.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A poem! But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's really quite wonderful. Now don't you go and throw cold water on it,
- Humphrey.' She came over, very trim and pretty in her long apron, her face
- flushed with the heat of the stove, slipped her hand through his arm, and
- looked up at him. 'It's really very exciting. I haven't seen the boy act
- this way for two years. He came in here, all out of breath, and said he
- had to write. He didn't seem to know what. He's quite wild I never in my
- life saw such concentration. It seems that he's promised Corinne a poem.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wonder what's got into him,' Humphrey mused.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred returned to her salad dressing. 'Genius has got into him,' she
- said, a bright little snap in her eyes. 'And it's coming out. He's been up
- there nearly two hours now. Corinne's guarding. She'd kill you if you
- disturbed him. She peeked in a little while ago. She says there's a lot of
- it—all over the floor—and he was writing like mad. She
- couldn't see any of it. As soon as he saw her he yelled at her and waved
- her out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Humphrey, my dear,' said Mildred then, 'I'm really afraid we've got to
- watch those two a little. Something's been happening to-day. Corinne has
- gone perfectly mad over him—to-day—all of a sudden. She
- fretted every minute he was away. Henry doesn't know it, but Corinne is a
- pretty self-willed girl. And just now she's got her mind on him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She came over again, took his arm, and looked up at Humphrey. She was at
- once sophisticating and confiding. There was a touch of something that,
- might have been tenderness, even wistfulness, in her voice as about her
- eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've really been worrying a little about them. About Henry particularly,
- for some reason.' She gave a soft little laugh, and pressed his arm.
- 'They're so young, Humphrey—such green little things. Or he is, at
- least. I've been impatient for you to come.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I got down as soon as I could,' said Humphrey, looking down at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course, I know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've been worrying about him, too.'
- </p>
- <p>
- When the supper was ready, Mildred made Humphrey sit at the table and
- herself tiptoed up the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- She came back, still on tiptoe, smiling as if at her own thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He won't eat,' she explained. 'He's still at it. I wish you could see my
- room. It's a sight.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Corinne coming down?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not she. She won't budge from the stairs. And she flared up when I
- suggested bringing up a tray. I never thought that Corinne was romantic,
- but... Well, it gives us a nice little <i>téte-à -tête</i> supper. I've
- made iced coffee, Humphrey. Just dip into the salad, won't you!' After
- supper they went out to the hall. Corinne, still on the top step, had
- switched on the light and was sorting out a pile of loose sheets. She
- beckoned to them. They came tiptoeing up the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't make it out,' she whispered. 'It isn't poetry. And he doesn't
- number his pages.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How did you ever get them?' asked Mildred.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Went in and gathered them up. He didn't hear me. He's still at it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey reached for the sheets; held them to the light; read bits of this
- sheet and that; found a few that went together and read them in order;
- finally turned a wrinkled astonished face to the two young women.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What is it?' they asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- He chuckled softly. 'Well, it isn't poetry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I saw that much,' Corinne murmured, rather mournfully. 'It's—wait a
- minute! I couldn't believe it at first. It—no—yes, that's what
- it is.'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>What!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Humphrey dropped down at Mildred's feet, and laughed, softly at
- first, then with increasing vigour.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred clapped her hand over his mouth and ran him down the stairs and
- through into the living-room. There they dropped side by side on the sofa
- and laughed until tears came.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne, laughing a little herself now, but perplexed, followed them.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Here,' said Humphrey, when he could speak, 'let's get into this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- They moved, to the table. Humphrey spread out the pages, and skimmed them
- over with a practised eye, arranging as he read.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once he muttered, 'What on earth!' And shortly after: 'Why, the young
- devil!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please—' said Corinne. 'Please! I want to know what it is.',
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey stacked up the sheets, and laid them on the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he remarked, 'it is certainly an account of the Business Men's
- Picnic. And it certainly was <i>not</i> written for <i>The Weekly Voice of
- Sunbury</i>. I'll start in a minute and read it through. But from what
- I've seen—— Well, while it may be a little Kiplingesque—naturally—still
- it comes pretty close to being a work of art.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Tell you what the boy's done. He's gone at that little community outing
- just about as an artistic god would have gone at it. As if he'd never seen
- any of these Simpson Street folks before. Berger, the grocer, and William
- F. Donovan, and Mr Wombast, and Charlie Waterhouse, and Weston of the
- bank, and—and, here, the little Dutchman that runs the lunch counter
- down by the tracks, and Heinie Schultz and Bill Schwartz, and old Boice!
- It's a crime what he's done to Boice. If this ever appears, Sunbury will
- be too small for Henry Calverly. But, oh, it's grand writing.... He's
- got'em all in, their clothes, their little mannerisms—their tricks
- of speech... Wait, I'll read it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Forty minutes later the three sat back in their chairs, weak from
- laughter, each in his own way excited, aware that a real performance was
- taking place, right here in the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'One thing I don't quite understand,' said Mildred. 'It's a lovely bit of
- writing—he makes you see it and feel it—where Mr Boice and
- Charles Waterhouse were around behind the lemonade stand, and Mr
- Waterhouse is upset because the purse they're going to surprise him with
- for being the most popular man in town isn't large enough. What <i>is</i>
- all that, anyway?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know,' said Humphrey. 'I was wondering about that. It's funny as the
- dickens, those two birds out there behind the lemonade stand quarrelling
- about it. It's—let's see—oh, yes! And Boice says, “It won't
- help you to worry, Charlie. We're doing what we can for you. But it'll
- take time. And it's a chance!”... Funny!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He lowered the manuscript, and stared at the wall. 'Hm!' he remarked
- thoughtfully. 'Mildred, got any cigarettes?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I have, but I don't care to be mystified like this. Take one, and
- tell me exactly what you're thinking.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm thinking that Bob McGibbon would give a hundred dollars for this
- story as it stands, right now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Because he's gunning for Charlie. And for Boice.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And what's this?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Evidence.' Humphrey was grave now. 'Not quite it. But warm. Very warm.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's really stumbled on something. How perfectly lovely!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And he doesn't know it. Sees nothing but the story value of it. But it
- may be serious. They'd duck him in the lake. They'd drown him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But how lovely if Henry, by one stroke of his pencil, should really
- puncture the frauds in this smug town.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There is something in that,' mused Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ssh!' From Mildred.
- </p>
- <p>
- They heard a slow step on the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment, and Henry appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he saw
- them. His glasses hung dangling against his shirt front. He was coatless,
- but plainly didn't know it. His straight brown hair was rumpled up on one
- side and down in a shock over the farther eye. He was pale, and looked
- tired about the eyes. He carried more of the manuscript.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stared at them as if he couldn't quite make them out, or as if not sure
- he had met them. Then he brushed a hand across his forehead and slowly,
- rather wanly, smiled.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I had no idea it was so late,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred and Corinne fed him and petted him while Humphrey drew a big chair
- into the dining-room, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and studied the
- brightening, expanding youth before him. He reflected, too, on the
- curious, instant responsiveness that is roused in the imaginative woman at
- the first evidence of the creative impulse in a man. As if the elemental
- mother were moved.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's probably it,' he thought. 'And it's what the boy has needed.
- Martha Caldwell couldn't give it to him—never in the world! He was
- groping to find it in that tough little Wilcox girl. It wouldn't do to
- tell him—no, I mustn't tell him; got to steady him down all I can—but
- I rather guess he's been needing a Mildred and a Corinne. These two
- years.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 9
- </h3>
- <p>
- Humphrey stood up then, said he was going out for half an hour, and picked
- up the manuscript from the living-room table as he passed.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went straight to Boice's house on Upper Chestnut Avenue.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What has all this to do with me?' asked Mr Boice, behind closed doors in
- his roomy library. 'Let him write anything he likes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey sat back; slowly turned the pages of the manuscript.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This,' he said, 'is a real piece of writing. It's the best picture of a
- community outing I ever read in my life. It's vivid. The characters are so
- real that a stranger, after reading this, could walk up Simpson Street and
- call fifteen people by name. He'd know how their voices sound, what their
- weaknesses are, what they're really thinking about Sunday mornings in
- church. It is humour of the finest kind. But they won't know it on Simpson
- Street. They'll be sore as pups, every man. He's taken their skulls off
- and looked in. He's as impersonal, as cruel, as Shakespeare.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This sounded pretty highfalutin' to Mr Boice. He made a reflective sound;
- then remarked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You think the advertisers wouldn't like it,'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They'd hate it. They'd fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But
- McGibbon wouldn't mind. Or if he didn't have the nerve to print it, any
- Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, what——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey quietly interrupted.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch of
- genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they'd laugh. No doubt about
- that. All sorts of scenes—you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the
- lemonade stand—Bill Parker's little accident in the tug-of-war.' He
- read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his
- chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the
- room; then come back.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to momentary
- admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What are you getting at?' he asked. 'You want something.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I want you to take Hemy back at—say, twelve a week.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm. Have him re-write this?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. Henry won't be able to write another word this week. He's empty. My
- idea is, Mr Boice, that you'll want to do the cutting yourself. When
- you've done that, I'll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three
- columns out of it all right.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There's one thing you may be sure of. Henry doesn't know what he's
- written. No idea. It's a flash of pure genius.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't know that we've got much use for a genius on the <i>Voice</i>,'
- grunted Mr Boice. 'He ought to go to Chicago or New York.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He will, some day.' Humphrey rose. 'Will you send for him in the
- morning?'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence. Then a sound. Then:—'Tell him to come
- around.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Twelve a week, including this week?'
- </p>
- <p>
- The massive yellowish-gray head inclined slowly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Very well, I'll tell him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You can leave the manuscript here, Weaver.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No.' Humphrey deliberately folded it and put it in an inside pocket.
- 'Henry will have to give it to you himself. It's his. Good-night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Out on the street, Humphrey reflected, with a touch of exuberance rare in
- his life:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We won't either of us be long on the <i>Voice</i>. Not now. But it's
- great going while it lasts.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And he wondered, with a little stir of excitement, just why that purse
- wasn't enough for Charlie Waterhouse... just what old Boice knew... Why it
- was a chance! Curious! Something back of it, something that McGibbon was
- eternally pounding at—hinting—insinuating. Something real
- there; something that might never be known.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 10
- </h3>
- <p>
- Humphrey felt that the little triumph—though it might indeed prove
- temporary; any victory over old Boice in Sunbury affairs was likely to be
- that—called for celebrating in some special degree. He had, it
- seemed, a few bottles of beer at the rooms.
- </p>
- <p>
- So thither they adjourned; Mildred and Humphrey strolling slowly ahead,
- Corinne and Henry strolling still more slowly behind.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry seemed fagged. At least he was quiet.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne, stirred with a sympathetic interest not common to her sort of
- nature, stole hesitant glances at him, even, finally, slipped her hand
- through his arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- She hung back. Mildred and Humphrey disappeared in the shadows of the
- maples a block ahead.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I suppose you're pretty tired, aren't you?' Corinne murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her voice seemed to waken him out of a dream.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—I—what was that? Oh—tired? Why, I don't know. Sorta.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Her hand slipped down his forearm, within easy reach of his hand; but he
- was unaware.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm frightfully excited,' he said, brightening. 'If you knew what this
- meant to me! Feeling like this. The Power—but you wouldn't know what
- that meant. Only it lifts me up. I know I'm all right now. It's been an
- awful two years. You've no idea. Drudgery. Plugging along. But I'm up
- again now. I can do it any time I want. I'm free of this dam' town. They
- can't hold me back now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'll do big things,' she said, a mournful note in her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know. I feel that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And now she stopped short. In a shadow.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What is it?' he asked casually. 'What's the matter?'
- </p>
- <p>
- She glanced at his face; then down.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you think you'll write—a poem?' she asked almost sullenly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Maybe. I don't know. It's queer—you get all stirred up inside, and
- then something comes. You can't tell what it's going to be. It's as if it
- came from outside yourself. You know. Spooky.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She moved on now, bringing him with her.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mildred and Humphrey'll wonder where we are,' she said crossly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry glanced down at her; then at the shadowy arch of maples ahead. He
- wondered what was the matter with her. Girls were, of course, notoriously
- difficult. Never knew their own minds. He was exultantly happy. It had
- been a great day. Twelve a week now, and going up! Hump was a good old
- soul.... He recalled, with a recurrence of both the thrill and the
- conservatism that had come then, that he had had a great time with Corinne
- in the early afternoon. Mustn't go too far with that sort of thing, of
- course. But she was sure a peach. And she didn't seem the sort that would
- be for ever trying to pin you down. He took her hand now. It was great to
- feel her there, close beside him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne walked more rapidly. He didn't know that she was biting her lip.
- Nor did he perceive what she saw clearly, bitterly; that she had
- unwittingly served a purpose in his life, which he would never understand.
- And she saw, too, that the little job was, for the present, at least, over
- and done with.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stole another sidelong glance at him. He was twisting up the ends of
- his moustache. And humming.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- IV—THE WHITE STAR
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>rom the university
- clock, up in the north end of Sunbury village, twelve slow strokes boomed
- out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry Calverly, settled comfortably in the hammock on Mrs Arthur V.
- Henderson's front porch, behind the honeysuckle vine, listened dreamily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Beside him in the hammock was Corinne Doag.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the corner, two houses away, a sizzing, flaring, sputtering arc lamp
- gave out the only sound and the only light in the neighbourhood. Lower
- Chestnut Avenue was sound asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- The storage battery in the modern automobile will automatically cut itself
- off from the generator when fully charged. Henry's emotional, nature was
- of similar construction. Corinne had overcharged him, and automatically he
- cut her off.
- </p>
- <p>
- The outer result of this action and reaction was a rather bewildering
- quarrel.
- </p>
- <p>
- Early in the present evening, shortly after Humphrey Weaver and Mrs
- Henderson left the porch for a little ramble to the lake—'Back in a
- few minutes,' Mildred had remarked—the quarrel had been made up.
- Neither could have told how. Each felt relieved to be comfortably back on
- a hammock footing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, indeed, was more than relieved. He was quietly exultant. The thrill
- of conquest was upon him. It was as if she were an enemy whom he had
- defeated and captured. He was experiencing none of the sensations that he
- supposed were symptoms of what is called love. Yet what he was
- experiencing was pleasurable. He could even lie back here and think coolly
- about it, revel in it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne's head stirred.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That was midnight,' she murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What of it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I suppose I ought to be thinking about going in.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't see that your chaperon's in such a rush.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know. They've been hours. They might have walked around to the rooms.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was a little shocked at the thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no,' he remarked. 'They'd hardly have gone <i>there</i>—without
- us.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mildred would if she wanted to. It has seemed to me lately...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know—but once or twice—as if she might be getting a
- little too fond of Humphrey.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh'—there was concern in Henry's voice—'do you think so?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I wonder if you know just how fascinating that man is, Henry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's never been with girls—not around here. You've no idea—he
- just lives with his books, and in his shop.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Perhaps that's why,' said she. 'Partly. Mildred ought to be careful.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, soberly considering this new light on his friend, looked off toward
- the corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat up abruptly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry' For goodness' sake! Ouch—my hair!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ssh! Look—that man coming across! Wait. There now—with a
- suit-case!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Henry, you scared me! Don't be silly. He's way out in... Henry! How
- awful! It <i>is!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What'll we do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know. Get up. Sit over there,' She was working at her hair; she
- smoothed her 'waist,' and pulled out the puff sleeves.
- </p>
- <p>
- The man came rapidly nearer. His straw hat was tipped back. They could see
- the light of a cigar. A mental note of Henry's was that Arthur V.
- Henderson had been a football player at the state university. And a boxer.
- Even out of condition he was a strong man.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Quick—think of something to tell him! It'll have to be a lie. Henry—<i>think!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as he stood motionless, helpless, she got up, thrust his hat and
- bamboo stick into his hands, and led him on tiptoe around the corner of
- the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We've got to do something. Henry, for goodness' sake—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We've got to find her, I think.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know it. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If she came in with Hump, and he—you know, this time' of night—why,
- something awful might happen. There might be murder. Mr Henderson——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't talk such stuff! Keep your head. Well—he's coming! Here!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She gripped his hand, dragged him down the side steps, and ran lightly
- with him out past the woodshed to the alley. They walked to the side
- street and, keeping in the shadows, out to the Chestnut Avenue corner.
- From this spot they commanded the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson had switched on lights in front hall, dining-room, and
- kitchen. The parlour was still dark. Next he had gone upstairs, for there
- were lights in the upper windows. After a brief time he appeared in the
- front doorway. He lighted a fresh cigar, then opened the screen door and
- came out on the porch. He stood there, looking up and down the street.
- Then he seated himself on the top step, elbows on knees, like a man
- thinking.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen! You go over to the rooms and see.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But they might be down at the lake.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not all this time. Mildred doesn't like sitting on beaches. If you find
- them, bring her back. We'll go in together, she and I. We'll patch up a
- story. It's all right. Just keep your head.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What'll you do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't like to leave you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'll see me again.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know, but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well... Now hurry!'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- The old barn was dark.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!' mused Henry, pulling at his soft little moustache. 'Hm! Certainly
- aren't here. Take a look though.'
- </p>
- <p>
- With his latch-key he softly opened the alley door; felt his way through
- machinery and belting to the stairs. At the top he stood a moment, peering
- about for the electric switch. He hadn't lived here long enough to know
- the place as he had come to know his old room in Wilcox's boarding-house.
- </p>
- <p>
- A voice—Humphrey's—said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't turn the light on.' Then, 'Is it you, Hen?'
- </p>
- <p>
- There they were—over in the farther window-seat—sitting very
- still, huddled together—a mere faint shape against the dim outside
- light. He felt his way around the centre table, toward them.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Looking for you,' he said. His voice was husky. There was a throbbing in
- his temples. And he was curiously breathless.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood. It was going to be hard to tell them. He hadn't thought of this;
- had just rushed over here, headlong.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I suppose it's pretty late,' said Mildred. There was a dreamy quality in
- her voice that Henry had not heard there before. He stood silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well'—Humphrey's voice had the dry, even slightly acid quality that
- now and then crept into it—'anything special, Hen? Here we are!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry cleared his throat. That huskiness seemed unconquerable. And his
- over-vivid imagination was playing fantastic tricks on him. Hideous little
- pictures, very clear. Wives murdering husbands; husbands murdering lovers;
- dragged-out, soul-crushing scenes in dingy, high-ceiled court-rooms.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey got up, drew down the window shade behind Mrs Henderson, and
- turned on the light. She shielded her eyes with a slim hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, staring at her, felt her littleness; paused in the rush of his
- thoughts to dwell on it. She looked prettier to-night, too. The softness
- that had been in her voice was in her face as well, particularly about the
- half-shadowed mouth. She was always pretty, but in a trim, neat, brisk
- way. Now, curled up there in the window-seat, her feet under her very
- quiet', she seemed like a little girl that you would have to protect from
- the world and give toys to.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, to his own amazement—and chagrin—covered his face and
- sobbed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Good lord!' said Humphrey. 'What's all this? What's the matter?'
- </p>
- <p>
- The long silence that followed was broken by Mildred. Still shielding her
- eyes, without stirring, she asked, quietly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Has my husband come home?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where's Corinne?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She—she's waiting on the corner, in case you....
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred moved now; dropped her chin into her hand, pursed her lips a
- little, seemed to be studying out the pattern of the rug.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Did he—did he see either of you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred pressed a finger to her lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We mustn't leave Corinne waiting out there,' she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey dropped down beside her and took her hand. His rather sombre gaze
- settled on her face and hair. Thus they sat until, slowly, she raised her
- head and looked into his eyes. Then his lips framed the question:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Stay here?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Her eyes widened a little, and slowly filled. She gave him her other hand.
- But she shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- A little later he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come then, dear. We'll go down there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- From the top of the stairs he switched on a light in the shop. Mildred,
- very palet went down. Henry was about to follow. But he saw Humphrey
- standing, darting glances about the room, softly snapping his bony
- fingers. The long, swarthy face was wrinkled into a scowl. His eyes rested
- on Henry. He gave a little sigh; threw out his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's—it's the limit!' he whispered. 'You see—my hat....'
- </p>
- <p>
- That seemed to be all he could say. His face was twisted with emotion. His
- mouth even moved a little. But no sound came.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood waiting. At the moment his surging, uncontrollable emotion
- took the form of embarrassment. It seemed to him that in this crisis he
- ought to be polite toward his friend. But they couldn't stand here
- indefinitely without speaking. There was need, particular need, of
- politeness toward Mildred Henderson. So, mumbling, he followed her
- downstairs and out through the shop to the deserted alley.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then they went down to Chestnut Avenue. Mildred and Humphrey were silent,
- Walking close together, arm in arm. Henry, in some measure recovered from
- his little breakdown, or relieved by it, tried to make talk. He spoke of
- the stillness of the night. He said, 'It's the only time I like the town—after
- midnight. You don't have to see the people then.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as they offered no reply, he too fell still.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne, when they found her leaning against a big maple, was in a
- practical frame of mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There he is,' she whispered. 'Been sitting right there all the time. This
- is his third cigar. Now listen, Mildred. I've figured it all out. No good
- in letting ourselves get excited. It's all right. You and I will walk up
- with Henry. Just take it for granted that you've been down to the lake
- with us. We needn't even explain.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred, still nestling close to Humphrey's arm, seemed to be looking at
- her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then they heard her draw in her breath rather sharply, and her hand groped
- up toward Humphrey's shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait!' she said breathlessly. 'I can't go in there now. Not right now.
- Wait a little. I can't!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey led her away into the shadows.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne looked at Henry. 'Hm!' she murmured—'serious!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The university clock struck one.
- </p>
- <p>
- Again Henry felt that pressure in the temples and dryness in the throat.
- His thoughts, most of them, were whirling again. But one corner of his
- mind was thinking clearly, coldly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This is the real thing. Drama! Life! Maybe tragedy! And I'm seeing it!
- I'm in it, part of it!'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- Corinne was peering into the shadows.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where'd they go?' she said. 'We've got to find them. This thing's getting
- worse every minute.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred and Humphrey were sitting on a horse block, side by side, very
- still. It was in front of the B. L. Ames place. Corinne stood over them.
- But Henry hung back; leaned weakly against a tree.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Ames place brought up memories of other years and other girls. An odd
- little scene had occurred here, with Clemency Snow, on one of the lawn
- seats. And a darker mass of shadow in the gnarled, low-spreading oak, over
- by the side fence, was a well-remembered platform with seats and a ladder
- to the ground. Ernestine Lambert had been the girl with him up there.
- </p>
- <p>
- Two long years back! He was eighteen then—a mere boy, with illusions
- and dreams. He wasn't welcome to Mary Ames's any more. She didn't approve
- of him. Her mother, too. And he had sunk into a rut of small-town work on
- Simpson Street. They weren't fair to him. He didn't drink; smoked almost
- none; let the girls alone more than many young fellows—in spite of a
- few little things. If he had money... of course. You had to have money.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt old. And drab of spirit. Those little affairs, even the curious
- one with Clem Snow, had been, it seemed now, on a higher plane of feeling
- than this present one with Corinne. Life had been at the spring then, the
- shrubs dew-pearled, God in his Heaven. And the affair with Ernestine had
- not been so little. It had shaken him. He wondered where Ernie was now.
- They hadn't written for a year and a half. And Clem was Mrs Jefferson
- Jenkins, very rich (Jeff Jenkins was in a bond house on La Salle Street)
- living in Chicago, on the Lake Shore Drive, intensely preoccupied with a
- girl baby. People—women and girls—said it was a beautiful
- baby. Girls were gushy.
- </p>
- <p>
- He pressed a hand to his eyes. Corinne was right; the situation was
- getting worse every minute. During one or two of the minutes, while his
- memory was active, it had seemed like an unpleasant dream from which he
- would shortly waken. But it wasn't a dream. He felt again the tension of
- it. It was a tension that might easily become unbearable. First thing they
- knew the university clock would be striking two. He began listening for
- it; trying absurdly to strain his ears.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had recently seen Minnie Maddem play <i>Tess of the D'Urbervilles</i>,
- and had experienced a painful tension much like this—a strain too
- great for his sensitive imagination. He had covered his face. And he
- hadn't gone back for the last act.
- </p>
- <p>
- But there was to be no running out of this.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' said Corinne, almost briskly, 'we're not getting anywhere.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey threw out his hand irritably.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just—just wait a little,' he said. 'Can't you see....'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's past one.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne's manner jarred a little on all three of the others. Mildred
- seemed to sink even closer toward Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry felt another sob coming. Desperately he swallowed it down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, holding Mildred's head against his shoulder, looked up at
- Corinne. His face was not distinctly visible; but he seemed to be studying
- the tall, easy-going, unexpectedly practical girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't think you understand,' he finally said. 'It's very, very awkward.
- My hat is in there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'In the parlour. On the piano, I think.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't think he lighted the parlour. We three can go up just the same.
- Now listen. Henry can leave his hat here with you, and get yours when he
- comes away.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It has my initials in it,' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne walked on the grass to the corner; came swiftly back.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' she remarked dryly, 'he's been in there. The parlour's lighted.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred stirred. 'Please!' she murmured. 'Just give me a minute or two.
- I'm going with you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Suppose,' said Corinne, 'he <i>has</i> seen the initials.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred's eyes sought Humphrey's. For a long instant, her head back on his
- shoulder, she gazed at him with an intensity that Henry had not before
- seen on a woman's face. It was as if she had forgotten himself and
- Corinne. And then Humphrey's arm tightened about her, as if he, too, had
- forgotten every one and everything else.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry had to turn away.
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked to the corner. Neither Humphrey nor Mildred knew whether he went
- or stayed. Corinne was frowning down at them; thinking desperately.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stared at the house, at the dim solitary figure on the top step, at
- the little red light of the cigar that came and went with the puffs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was breathing hard. His face was burning hot. He hated conflicts,
- fights; hated them so deeply, felt so inadequate when himself involved,
- that emotion usually overcame him. Therefore he fought rather frequently,
- and, on occasions, rather effectively. Emotion will win a fight as often
- as reason.
- </p>
- <p>
- He considered getting Humphrey to one side, making him listen to reason.
- He dwelt on the phrase. The mere thought of Mildred being driven back into
- that house, into the hands of her legal husband, stirred that tendency to
- sob. He set his teeth on it. They could take her back to the rooms. He
- would move out. For that matter, if it would save her reputation, they
- could both move out. At once. But would it save her reputation?
- </p>
- <p>
- He took off his hat; pressed a hand to his forehead; then fussed with his
- little moustache. Then, as a new thought was born in his brain, born of
- his emotions, he gave a little start. He looked back at the shadowy group
- about the Ames's horse block. Apparently they hadn't moved. He looked at
- his shoes, tennis shoes with rubber soles.
- </p>
- <p>
- He laid hat and stick on the ground by a tree; went little way up the
- street, past the circle of the corner light and slipped across; moved
- swiftly, keeping on the grass, around to the alley, came in at the
- Henderson's back gate, made his way to the side steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a door here that led into an entry. There were doors to kitchen
- and dining-room on right and left, and the back stairs. Henry knew the
- house. Kitchen and dining-room were both dark now, but the lights were on
- in parlour and hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- He got the screen door open without a sound and felt his way into and
- through the dining-room. It seemed to him that there were a great many
- chairs in that diningroom. His shins bumped them. They met his outspread
- hands. Between this room and the parlour the sliding doors were shut.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood a moment by these doors, wondering if Arthur V. Henderson was
- still sitting on the top step with his back to the front screen door.
- Probably. He couldn't very well move without some noise. But it would be
- impossible to see him out there, with the parlour light on.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Deliberately, with extreme caution, her slid back one of the doors. It
- rumbled a little. He waited, keeping back in the dark, and listened. There
- was no sound from the porch.
- </p>
- <p>
- The piano stood against the side wall, near the front. On it lay
- Humphrey's straw hat. Any one by merely looking into it could have seen
- the initials. And the man on the steps had only to turn his head and look
- in through the bay window to see piano, hat, and any one who stood near,
- any one, in fact, in that diagonal half of the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry held his breath and stepped in, nearly to the centre of the room.
- Here he hesitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then beginning slowly, not unlike the sound of a wagon rolling over a
- distant bridge, a rumbling fell on his ears. It grew louder. It ended in a
- little bang.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- Henry glanced behind him. The sliding door had closed. There was a
- scuffling of feet on the steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry reached up and switched off the electric lamp in the chandelier.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he stepped forward, found the piano, felt along the top, closed his
- fingers on the hat, and stood motionless. His first thought was that he
- would probably be shot.
- </p>
- <p>
- There were steps on the porch. The front door opened and closed. Mr
- Henderson was standing in the hall now, but not in the parlour doorway.
- Probably just within the screen door. The hall light put him at a
- disadvantage; and he couldn't turn it out without crossing that parlour
- doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who's there!' Mr Henderson's voice was quiet enough. It sounded tired,
- and nervous. 'Come out o' there quick! Whoever you are!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was silent. He wasn't particularly frightened. Not now. He even felt
- some small relief. But he was confronted with some difficulty in deciding
- what he ought to do.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come out O' there!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Henry replied: 'All right.' And came to the hall doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson was leaning a little forward, fists clenched, ready for a
- spring. He still had the cigar in his mouth. But he dropped back now and
- surveyed the youth who stood, white-faced, clasping a straw hat tightly
- under his left arm. He seemed to find it difficult to speak; shifted the
- cigar about his mouth with mobile lips. He even thrust his hands into his
- pockets and looked the youth up and down.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I came for this hat,' said Henry. 'It was on the piano.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still Mr Henderson's eyes searched him up, and down. Eyes that would be
- sleepy again as soon as this little surprise was over. And they were red,
- with puffs under them. He was a tall man, with big athletic shoulders and
- deep chest, but with signs of a beginning corpulence, the physical laxity
- that a good many men fall into who have been athletes in their teens and
- twenties but are now getting on into the thirties.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was understood here and there in Sunbury that he had times of drinking
- rather hard. Indeed, the fact had been dwelt on by one or two tolerant or
- daring souls who ventured to speak a word for his wife. She had always
- quickly and willingly given her services as pianist at local
- entertainments. Perhaps because, with all her brisk self-possession, she
- must have been hungry for friends. She played exceptionally well, with
- some real style and with an almost perverse touch of humour. She was
- quick, crisp, capable. She disliked banality. To the initiated her playing
- of Chopin was a joy. The sentimentalists said that she had technique but
- no feeling. She could really play Bach. And I think she was the most
- accomplished accompanist that ever lived in Sunbury; certainly the best
- within my memory.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Say'—thus Mr Henderson now—'you're Henry Calverly, aren't
- you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I'd like to know what you're doing here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I told you. I came for this hat.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Your hat?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Didn't you see the initials?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. I noticed the hat there. Why didn't you come in the front way? What's
- all this burglar business?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry didn't answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll have to ask you to answer that question. You seem to forget that
- this is my house.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I don't forget that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson took out his cigar; turned it in his fingers. Colour came to
- his face. He spoke abruptly, in a suddenly rising voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Seems to me there's some mighty queer goings-on around here. Sneaking in
- at two in the morning!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It isn't two in the morning.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Dam' near it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It isn't half-past one. I tell you——' Henry paused.
- </p>
- <p>
- His position seemed rather weak.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson studied his cigar again. He drew a cigar case from an inside
- pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know's I offered you one,' he said. He almost muttered it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't smoke,' said Henry shortly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson resumed the excited tone. It was curious coming in that jumpy
- way. Even Henry divined the weakness back of it and grew calmer.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've been out on——' He paused. Mildred had trained him not to
- use the phrase, 'on the road.' He resumed with, '—on a business
- trip. More'n a month. I swan, I'm tired out. Way trains and country
- hotels. Fierce! If I seem nervous.... Look here, you seem pretty much at
- home! Perhaps you'll tell me where my wife is!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry considered this. Shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Trying to make me think you don't know, eh!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I do know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson knit his brows over this. Then, instead of immediately
- pressing the matter, he took out a fresh cigar and lighted it with the
- butt of the old one.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Seems to me you ought to tell me,' he said then.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's queer, ain't it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, it's true. I can't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She wrote me that she had Corinne Doag visiting here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. She's here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'With my wife? Now?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry bowed. He felt confused, and more than a little tired. And he
- disliked this man, deeply. Found him depressing. But outwardly—he
- didn't himself dream this—he presented a picture of austere dignity.
- An effect that was intensified, if anything, by his youth.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Anybody else with her and Corinne?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry bowed again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A man?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.' Henry was finding him disgusting now. But he must be extremely
- careful. An unnecessary word might hurt Mildred or Humphrey. Good old
- Hump!
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson turned the fresh cigar round and round, looking intently at
- it. In a surprisingly quiet manner he asked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why doesn't she come home?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry looked at the man. Anger swelled within him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Because you're here?' He bit the sentence off.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt stifled. He wanted to run out, past the man, and breathe in the
- cool night air.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson looked up, then down again at the cigar. Then he pushed open
- the screen door.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'May as well sit down and talk this over,' he said. 'Cooler on the porch.
- Dam' queer line o' talk. You're young, Calverly. You don't know life. You
- don't understand these things. My God! When I think... Well, what is it?
- You seem to be in on this. Speak out! Tell me what she wants. That's one
- thing about me—I'm straight out. Fair and square. Give and take. I'm
- no hand for beating about the bush. Come on with it. What does she think I
- ought to do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't tell you what she thinks.' Henry was downright angry now.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes! It's easy for you! You haven't been through...' His face seemed
- to be working. And his voice had a choke in it. 'But how could a kid like
- you understand I How could you know the way you get tied up and... all the
- little things... My God, man! It hurts. Can you understand that. It's
- tough.' He subsided. Finally, after a long silence, he said huskily but
- quietly, with resignation, 'You'd say I ought to go.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson got up.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I guess I know how to be a sport,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went into the house, and in a few minutes returned with his suit-case.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's—it's sorta like leaving things all at loose ends,' he
- remarked. 'But then—of course...'
- </p>
- <p>
- He went down two or three steps; then paused and looked up at Henry, who
- had risen now.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'—his voice was husky again—'you staying here?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said Henry; and walked a way up the street with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Henderson said, rather stiffly, that the hot spell really seemed to be
- over. Been fierce. Especially through Iowa and Missouri. No lake breeze,
- or anything like that. Muggy all the time. That was the thing here in
- Sunbury—the lake breeze.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- They were still in front of the Ames place. But Mildred had risen. They
- stood watching him as he came, carrying the hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where on earth have you been?' asked Corinne.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry met with difficulty in replying. He was embarrassed, caught in an
- uprush of self-consciousness. He couldn't see why there need be talk. He
- gave Humphrey his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How'd you get this?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'In there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You went in?' This from Mildred. He felt her eyes on him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But you—you must have...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's gone.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Gone!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But where?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What did you tell him?' asked Corinne sharply'.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nothing. I don't think I did. Nothing much.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, he acted funny. I wouldn't tell him where Mildred was. Then he
- asked why you didn't come home and I said because he was there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred and Corinne looked at each other.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what made him go?' asked Corinne.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know. He wanted to know what you wanted him to do, Mildred. Of
- course I couldn't say anything to that. And then he said he guessed he
- knew how to be a sport, and went and got his suit-case.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hope he had sense enough not to go to the hotel,' Corinne mused, aloud.
- 'They'd talk so.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There's a train back to Chicago at two-something,' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- They moved slowly toward the house. At the steps they paused.
- </p>
- <p>
- The university clock struck two.
- </p>
- <p>
- They listened. The reverberations of the second stroke died out. The maple
- leaves overhead rustled softly. From the beach, a block away, came the
- continuous low sound of little waves on shelving sand. The great lake that
- washes and on occasions threatens the shore at Sunbury had woven, from
- Henry's birth, a strand of colour in the fibre of his being. He felt the
- lake as deeply as he felt the maples and oaks of Sunbury; memories of its
- bars of crude' wonderful colour at sunset and sunrise, of its soft mists,
- its yellow and black November storms, its reaches of glacier-like
- ice-hills in winter, of moonlit evenings with a girl on the beach when the
- romance of youth shimmered in boundless beautiful mystery before
- half-closed eyes—these were an ever-present element in the
- undefined, moody ebb and flow of impulse, memory, hope, desire and
- spasmodic self-restraint that Henry would have referred to, if at all, as
- his mind.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's late enough,' said Corinne, with a little laugh.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred turned away, placed a tiny foot on the bottom step, sighed, then
- murmured, very low, 'Hardly worth while going in.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Let's not,' muttered Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen.' Thus Corinne. She was leaning against the railing, with an
- extraordinarily graceful slouch. She had never looked so pretty, Henry
- thought. A little of the corner light reached her face, illuminating her
- velvet clear skin and shining on her blue black hair where it curved over
- her forehead. She made you think of health and of wild things. And she
- could, even at this time, earn her living. There was an offer now to tour
- the country forty weeks with a lyceum concert company. The letter had come
- to-day; Henry had seen it. She thought she wouldn't accept. Her idea was
- another year to study, then two or three years abroad and, possibly, a
- start in the provincial opera companies of Italy, Austria, and Germany.
- Yes, she had character of the sort that looks coolly ahead and makes
- deliberate plans. Despite her wide, easy-smiling mouth and her great
- languorous black eyes and her lazy ways, eyen Henry could now see this
- strength in her face, in its solid, squared-up framework. More than any
- girl Henry had ever known she could do what she chose. Men pursued her, of
- course. All the time. There were certain extremely persistent ones. And it
- came quietly through, bit by bit, that she knew them pretty well, knocked
- around the city with them, as she liked. But now she had chosen himself.
- No doubt about it.
- </p>
- <p>
- She said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen. Let's go down to the shore and watch for the sunrise. We couldn't
- sleep a wink after—after this—anyway.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nobody'd ever know,' breathed Mildred.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey took her arm. They moved slowly down the walk toward the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne, still leaning there, looked at Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- He reached toward her, but she evaded him and waltzed slowly away over the
- grass, humming a few bars of the <i>Myosotis</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's eyes followed her. He felt the throbbing again in his temples, and
- his cheeks burned. He compressed his lips. He moved after her. He was in a
- state of all but ungovernable excitement, but the elation of two hours
- back had gone, flattened out utterly. He felt deeply uncomfortable. It was
- the sort of ugly moment in which he couldn't have faced himself in a
- looking-glass. For Henry had such moments, when, painfully bewildered by
- the forces that nature implants in the vigorously young, he loathed
- himself. Life opened, a black precipice, before him, yet Life, in other
- guise, drove him on. As if intent on his destruction.
- </p>
- <p>
- He hung back; let Corinne glide on just ahead of him, still slowing
- revolving, swaying, waltzing to the soft little tune she was so musically
- humming. He wanted to watch her; however great his discomfort of the
- spirit, to exult in her physical charm.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the earlier occasion when she had overtaxed his emotional capacity he
- had got out of it by using the forces she stirred in him as a stimulant.
- But now he wasn't stimulated. Not, at least, in that way. His spirit
- seemed to be dead. Only his body was alive. All the excitement of the
- evening had played with cumulative force on his nerves. He had arrived at
- an emotional crisis; and was facing it sullenly but unresistingly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The picture of Mildred and Humphrey lost in each other's gaze—in the
- window-seat at the rooms, on the Ames's horse block—kept coming up
- in his mind. He could see them in the flesh, walking on ahead, arm in arm,
- but still more vividly he could see them as they had been before he went
- back to Mildred's house. He knew that love had come to them. He wondered,
- trembling with the excitement of the mere thought, how it would seem to
- live through that miracle. No such magic had fallen upon him.. Not since
- the days of Ernestine. And that had been pretty youthful business. This
- matter of Corinne was quite different. He sighed. Then he hurried up to
- her, gripped her arm, walked close beside her.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the beach they paired off as a matter of course. Henry and Corinne sat
- in the shadow of a breakwater. Humphrey and Mildred walked on to another
- breakwater.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne made herself comfortable with her head resting on Henry's arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was thinking, 'Sort of thing you dream of without ever expecting it
- really. Ain't a fellow' in town that wouldn't envy me.' But gloom was
- settling over his spirit like a fog. It seemed to him that he ought to be
- whispering skilful little phrases, close to her ear. He couldn't think of
- any.
- </p>
- <p>
- He bent over her face; looked into it; smoothed her dusky hair away from
- her temples.
- </p>
- <p>
- He began humming: 'I arise from dreams of thee.' She picked it up, very
- softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo.
- </p>
- <p>
- His own voice died out. He couldn't sing.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. Now
- and then she hummed other songs—bits of Schumann and Franz.
- Schubert's <i>Serenade</i> she sang through.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sing with me,' she murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- He shook his head. 'Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I don't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't I make you feel like singing, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh yes, sure!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're a moody boy, Henry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh yes, I'm moody.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then
- finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. 'I'm a
- fool,' he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then kissed
- her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand slipped over
- his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- Abruptly he stopped; raised his head, a bitter question in his eyes.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- A faint light was creeping over the bowl-like sky. And a fainter colour
- was spreading upward from the eastern horizon. The thousands of night
- stars had disappeared, leaving only one, the great star of the morning. It
- sent out little points of light, like the Star of the East in Sunday
- school pictures. It seemed to stir with white incandescence.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry straightened up; gently placed Corinne against the breakwater;
- covered his face.
- </p>
- <p>
- She considered him from under lowered eyelids. Her face was
- expressionless. She didn't smile. And she wasn't singing now. She smoothed
- out her skirt, rather deliberately and thoughtfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Think of it!' Henry broke out with a shudder. 'It's a dreadful thing
- that's happened!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It might be,' said Corinne very quietly, 'if Arthur didn't have the sense
- to take that train.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And we're sitting here as if——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen! What on earth made you go back to the house?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't tell you. I don't know. I <i>had</i> to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm! You certainly did it. You're not lacking courage, Henry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He said nothing to this. He didn't feel brave.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mildred was foolish. She shouldn't have let herself get so stirred up.
- She ought to have gone back.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How can you say that! Don't you see that she <i>couldn't</i>!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I saw that she couldn't. But it was a mistake.' Henry was up on his
- knees, now, digging sand and throwing it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was love,' he said hotly—'real love.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's a wreck,' said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It can't be. If they love each other!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This town won't care how much they love each other. And there are other
- things. Money.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Bah! What's money!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's a lot. You've got to have it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Haven't you any ideals, Corinne?'
- </p>
- <p>
- She reflected. Then said, 'Of course.' And added: 'She had Arthur where
- she wanted him. That's why he went away, of course. He thought she'd
- caught him. Now she's lost her head and let him get away. Dished
- everything. No telling what he'll do when he finds out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He mustn't find out.' Henry was not aware of any inconsistency within
- himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He will if she's going to lose her head like this. There are some things
- you have to stand in this world. One of the things Mildred had to stand
- was a husband.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But how could she go back to him—to-night—feeling this way?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She should have.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're cynical.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm practical. Do you want her to go through a divorce, and then marry
- Humphrey? That'll take money. It's a luxury. For rich folks.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't say such things, Corinne!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why not. She's made the break with Arthur. Now the next thing's got to
- happen. What's it to be?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry got to his feet. He gazed a long time at the morning star.
- </p>
- <p>
- The university clock struck three.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shivered..
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come,' he said. 'Let's get back.' It didn't occur to him to help her up.
- </p>
- <p>
- The four of them lingered a few moments at Mildred's door. Humphrey
- finally led Mildred in. For a last goodnight, plainly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Corinne smiled at Henry. It was an odd, slightly twisted smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'After all,' she murmured, 'there's no good in taking things too
- seriously.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He threw out his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You think I'm hard,' she said, still with that smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't! Please!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—good-night. Or good-morning.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She gave him her hand. He took it. It gripped his firmly, lingeringly. He
- returned the pressure; coloured; gripped her hand hotly; moved toward her,
- then sprang away and dropped her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—Henry!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I was looking at that
- star——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I saw you looking at it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I was thinking how white it was. And bright. And so far away. As if there
- wasn't any use trying to reach it. And then—oh, I don't know—Mr
- Henderson made me blue, the way he looked to-night. And Humphrey and
- Mildred—the awful fix they're in. And you and me—I just can't
- tell you!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're telling me plainly enough,' she said wearily.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you ever hate, yourself?'
- </p>
- <p>
- She didn't answer this. Or look up.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Did you ever feel that you might turn out just—oh well, no good? Mr
- Henderson made me think that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He isn't much good,' said she.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'As if your life wasn't worth making anything out of? Your friends ashamed
- of you? They talk about me here now. And I haven't been bad. Not yet. Just
- one or two little things.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Her lips formed the words, in the dark, 'You're not bad.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then she said, rather sharply: 'Don't stand there looking like a whipped
- dog, Henry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll go,' he said; and turned.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You re the strangest person I ever knew,' she said. 'Maybe you <i>are</i>
- a genius. Considering that Mildred completely lost her nerve, your
- handling of Arthur came pretty near being it. I wonder.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey and Mildred came out.
- </p>
- <p>
- She came straight to him; gave him both her hands. 'You've settled
- everything for us. Humphrey, I want to kiss Henry. I'm going to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry received the kiss like an image. Then he and Humphrey went away
- together into the dawn.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No good going to the rooms now,' Humphrey remarked. 'Let's walk the
- beach.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded dismally.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- The sky out over the lake was a luminous vault of deep rose shading off
- into the palest pink. The flat surface of the water, as far as they could
- see, was like burnished metal.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry flung out a trembling arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look!' he said huskily. 'That star.'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was still incandescent, still radiating its little points of light.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump,' he said, a choke in his voice—'I'm shaken. I'm beginning
- life again to-night, to-day.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm shaken too, Hen. The real thing has come. At last. It's got me. It'll
- be a fight, of course. But we're going through with it. I want you to come
- to know her better, Hen. Even you—you don't know. She's wonderful.
- She's going to help with my work in the shop, help me do the real things,
- creative work, get away from grubbing jobs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a moment of flashing insight for Henry. He couldn't reply; couldn't
- even look at his friend. His misgivings were profound. Yet the thing was
- done. Humphrey's life had taken irrevocably a new course. No good even
- wasting regrets on it. So he fell, in a tumbling rush of emotion, to
- talking about himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm beginning again. I—I let go a little. Hump, I can't do it. It's
- too strong for me. I go to pieces. You don't know. I've got to fight—all
- the time. Do the things I used to do—make myself work hard, hard.
- Keep accounts. Every penny. Leave girls alone. It means grubbing.
- </p>
- <p>
- I can't bear to think of it.' He spread out his hands. 'In some ways it
- seems to help to let go. You know—stirs me. Brings the Power. Makes
- me want to write, create things. But it's too much like burning the candle
- at both ends.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey got out his old cob pipe, and carefully scraped it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's probably just what it is,' he remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Hump, what is it makes us feel this way! You know—girls, and
- all that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey lighted his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You don't know how it makes me feel to see you and Mildred. Just the way
- she looks. And you. Corinne and I don't look like that. We were flirting.
- I didn't mean it. She didn't, either. It's been beastly. But still it
- didn't seem beastly all the time.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It wasn't,' said Humphrey, between puffs. 'Don't be too hard on yourself.
- And you haven't hurt Corinne. She likes you. But just the same, she's only
- flirting. She'd never give up her ambitions for you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There's something I want to feel. Something wonderful. I've been thinking
- of it, looking at that star. I want to love like—like that. Or
- nothing.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey leaned on the railing over the beach, and smoked reflectively.
- The rose tints were deepening into scarlet and gold. The star was fading.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen,' said Humphrey, speaking out of a sober reverie, 'I don't know that
- I've ever seen anybody reach a star. Our lives, apparently, are passed
- right here on this earth.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry couldn't answer this. But he felt himself in opposition to it. His
- hands were clenched at his side.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I begin my life to-day,' he thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- But back of this' determination, like a dark current that flowed silently
- but irresistibly out of the mists of time into the mists of other time, he
- dimly, painfully knew that life, the life of this earth, was carrying him
- on. And on. As if no resolution mattered very much. As if you couldn't
- help yourself, really.
- </p>
- <p>
- He set his mouth. And thrust out his chin a little. He had not read
- Henley's <i>Invictus</i>. It would have helped him, could he have seen it
- just then.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Let's walk,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- They breakfasted at Stanley's.
- </p>
- <p>
- Here there was a constant clattering of dishes and a smell of food. People
- drifted in and out—men who worked along Simpson Street, and a few
- family groups—said 'Good-morning. Looks like a warm day.' Picked
- their teeth. Paid their checks to Mrs Stanley at the front table, or had
- their meal tickets punched.
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked slowly up the street as far as the Sunbury House corner, and
- crossed over to the <i>Voice</i> office. Each glanced soberly at the hotel
- as they passed.
- </p>
- <p>
- They went in through the railing that divided front and rear offices.
- Humphrey took off his coat and dropped into his swivel chair before the
- roll-top desk. Henry took off his and dropped on the kitchen chair before
- the littered pine table. Jim Smith, the foreman, came in, his bare arms
- elaborately tattooed, chewing tobacco, and told 'a new one,' sitting on
- the corner of Henry's table. Henry sat there, pale of face, toying with a
- pencil, and wincing.
- </p>
- <p>
- After Jim had gone, Henry sat still, gazing at the pencil, wondering
- weakly if the rough stuff of life was too much for him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He glanced over toward the desk. Humphrey, pipe in mouth, was already at
- work. Hump had the gift of instant concentration. Even this morning, after
- all that had happened, he was hard at it. Though he had something to work
- for.
- </p>
- <p>
- A sob was near. Henry had to close his eyes for a moment. His sensitive
- lips quivered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey would be, seeing his Mildred again at the close of the day. Henry
- found himself entertaining the possibility of crawling shamefacedly around
- to Corinne.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he sat up stiffly. Felt in one pocket after another until he found a
- little red account-book. He hadn't made an entry for a week. Before
- Corinne came into his life he hadn't missed an entry for nearly two years.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat staring at it, pencil in hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- His mouth set again.
- </p>
- <p>
- He wrote:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Bkfst. Stanleys... 20c.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He slipped the book into his pocket; compressed his lips for an instant;
- then reached for a wad of copy paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- And gave a little sigh of relief. It was to be a long, perhaps an endless
- battle with self. But he had started.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- V—TIGER, TIGER!
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>iss Amelia
- Dittenhoefer was a figure in Sunbury. She had taught two generations of
- its young in the old Filbert Avenue school. And during more than ten
- years, since relinquishing that task, she had supplied the 'Society,'
- 'Church Doings,' 'Woman's Realm,' and 'Personal Mention' departments of
- the <i>Voice</i> with their regular six to eight columns of news and
- gossip.
- </p>
- <p>
- And as several hundred Sunbury men and women had once been her boys and
- girls, this sort of personal news came to her from every side. Her
- 'children,' of whatever present age, accepted her as an institution, like
- the university building, General Grant, or Lake Michigan. She never had a
- desk in the <i>Voice</i> office, but worked at home or moving briskly
- about the town. Home, to her, was the rather select, certainly high-priced
- boarding-house of Mrs Clark on Simpson Street, over by the lake, where she
- had lived, at this time, for twenty-one or twenty-two years. She was
- little, neat, precise, and doubtless (as I look back on those days)
- equipped for much more important work than any she ever found to do in
- Sunbury. But Woman's sun had hardly begun to rise then.
- </p>
- <p>
- As Henry had been, at the age of six, one of her boys, and during the past
- two years had shared with her the reporting work of the <i>Voice</i>, it
- was not unnatural that she should stop him as he was hurrying, airily
- twirling his thin bamboo stick, over to Stanley's restaurant. It was
- noontime. Simpson Street was quiet. They walked along past Donovan's drug
- store and Jackson's book store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and turned the
- corner. Here, in front of an unfrequented photographer's studio, Miss
- Dittenhoefer stated her problem. She looked, though her trim little person
- was erect as always, rather beaten down.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mr Boice has taken half my work, Henry—“Church Doings” and
- “Society.” He sent me a note. I gather that you're to do it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me?' Henry spoke in honest amazement.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Doubtless. He's cutting down expenses. I mind, of course, after all these
- years. I've worked very hard. And on the money side, I shall mind a
- little.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You don't mean——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes. Half the former wage. And they don't pension old teachers in
- Sunbury. But this is what I want to tell you——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, but Miss Dittenhoefer, I don't——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Never mind, Henry; it's done. Of course I shouldn't have said as much as
- this. Though perhaps I had to say it to somebody. Forget what you can of
- it. But now—I wanted to give you this list. There's a good lot of
- society for summer. Never knew the old town to be so gay. Two or three
- things in South Sunbury that are important. They feel that we've been
- slighting them down there this year. I've noted everything down. And I've
- written the church societies, asking them to send announcements direct to
- the office after this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't want your work,' said Henry, colouring up. 'It ain't—isn't—square.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it's business, Henry. Mr. Boice explained that in his note. You'll
- find I've written everything out in detail—all my plans and the
- right ladies to see. Good-bye now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, pained, unable to believe that Miss Dittenhoefer's day could pass
- so abruptly, walked moodily back to Stanley's and, as usual, bolted his
- lunch. The unkindness to Miss Dittenhoefer directly affected himself. It
- meant still more of the routine desk-work and more running around town.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, slowly, as he sat there staring at the pink mosquito-bar that was
- gathered round the chandelier, his eyes filled. It was hard to believe
- that even Mr Boice could do a thing like that to Miss Dittenhoefer. Coolly
- cutting her pay in half! It seemed to Henry wanton cruelty. It suggested
- to his sensitive mind other tales of cruelty—tales of the boys who
- had gone into Chicago wholesale houses for their training and had found
- their fresh young dream-ideals harshly used in the desperate struggle of
- business.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, I am certain, thought of Mr Boice at this moment with about as much
- sympathy as a native of a jungle village might feel for a man-eating
- tiger. That look about Miss Dittenhoefer's mouth when she smiled! It was a
- world, this of placid-appearing Sunbury and the big city, just below the
- town line, in which men fought each other to the death, in which young
- boys were hardened and coarsened and taught to kill or be killed, in which
- women were tortured by hard masters until their souls cried out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Boice, I am sure, sensed nothing of this somewhat morbid hostility. No;
- until Robert A. McGibbon turned up in Sunbury, Mr Boice had some reason to
- feel settled and complacent in his years. His private funds were secure in
- his wife's name. And he had every reason to believe that, before many
- months more, it would be his privilege and pleasure to run McGibbon out of
- town for good. If the matter of Miss Dittenhoefer should, for a little
- while, stir up sentimental criticism, why—well, it was business.
- Sound business. And you couldn't go back of sound business.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sighed, got slowly up, had his meal ticket punched at the desk by
- Mrs Stanley, went back to the office.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- The sunny, listless July day was at its lowest ebb—when men who had
- the time dawdled and smoked late over their lunch, when ladies took naps.
- </p>
- <p>
- Flies crawled languidly about the speckled walls of the <i>Voice</i>
- office. Outside the screen door and the plate-glass front window, the hot
- air, rising from the cement sidewalk, quivered so that the yellow outlines
- of the Sunbury House across the street wavered unstably, and the dusty
- trees over there wavered, and the men sitting coatless, suspendered, in
- the yellow rocking chairs on the long veranda, wavered. Through the open
- press-room door came the sound of one small job-press rumbling at a
- handbill job; the other presses were still. The compositors worked or
- idled without talking.
- </p>
- <p>
- Here in the office, Henry, tipped back in his kitchen chair before the
- inkstained, cluttered pine table by the end wall, coat off, limp wet
- handkerchief tucked carefully around his neck inside the collar, chewed a
- pencil, gazing now at the little pile of blank copy paper before him, now
- at a discouraged fly on the wall. Gradually the fly took on a perverse
- interest among his wandering, unhappy thoughts. Prompted, doubtless, by a
- sense of inner demoralisation that was now close to recklessness, he
- reached for a pen, filled it with ink, and shot a scattering volley at the
- slow-moving insect.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the roll-top desk by the press-room door, Humphrey Weaver, also
- coatless, cob pipe in mouth, long lean face wrinkled in the effort to keep
- his usually docile mind on its task, elbow on desk and long fingers spread
- through damp hair, was correcting proof.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice's desk, up in the front window, outside the railing, stood
- vacant. The proprietor might or might not stop in on the early-afternoon
- trip from his house on Upper Chestnut Avenue to the post-office. Mr Boice
- could do as he liked. His time was his own. He lived on the labour of
- others. A fact which often stirred up in Henry's breast a rage that was
- none the less bitter because it was impotent. It was the sort of thing, he
- felt, in his more nearly lucid moments, that you have to stand—the
- wall against which you must beat your head year after year.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, victorious over the fly, settled back. He tried to work. Then sat
- for a time brooding. Then, finally, turned to his friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump,' he said, 'I—I know you wouldn't think I had much to do—I
- mean the way you get work done—I don't know what it is—but I
- wish I could see a way to begin on all this new work. I know I'm no good,
- but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I wouldn't say that.' Humphrey, glad of a brief respite, settled back in
- his swivel chair. 'I could never have written that picnic story. Never in
- the world. We're different, that's all. You're a racer; I'm a work-horse.
- I don't know just what it's coming to. He isn't handling you right.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's it!' Henry cried, softly, eagerly. 'He <i>isn't!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I suppose you know now about Miss Dittenhoefer.' Henry's head bowed in
- assent. 'I didn't have the heart to tell you myself, Hen.' He picked up
- his proofs, then looked up and out of the window. 'There,' he remarked
- unexpectedly, 'is a pretty girl!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry turned with the quickness of long habit. 'Where?' he asked, then
- discovered the young person in question standing on the hotel veranda
- talking with Mrs B. L. Ames and Mary Ames.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was a new girl. Even now, though Henry had given up girls for good,
- she caused a quickening of his pulse. She <i>was</i> pretty—rather
- slender, in a blue skirt and a trim white shirt-waist, and an unusual
- amount of darkish hair that massed effectively about a face, the principal
- characteristics of which, at this distance and through the screen door,
- was a bright, almost eager smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is a not uninteresting fact, to those who know something of Henry's
- susceptibility on previous occasions, that his gaze wandered moodily back
- to his table. He sighed. His hand strayed up and began pulling at his
- little moustache.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You haven't told me what I'm to do about it, Hump. This society thing
- really stumps me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I haven't known quite what to say. That's all, Hen. The old man is riding
- you, of course. I didn't think, when he raised you to twelve a week, that
- he'd just lie down and pay it. Meekly. Not he! He's a crafty old duck.
- Very, very crafty—Cheese it; here he comes!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The shadow of Norton P. Boice fell across the door-step. The screen door
- opened with a squeak, and ponderously the quietly dominating force of
- Simpson Street, came in, inclined his massive head in an impersonal
- greeting, and lowered his huge bulk into his chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry!' called Mr Boice in his quietly husky voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man quivered slightly, but sat motionless.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry!' came the husky voice again.
- </p>
- <p>
- There could be no pretending not to hear. Henry went over there. Mr Boice
- sat still—he could; do that—great hands resting on his
- barrel-like thighs.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I am rearranging the work of the paper—' he began.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' muttered Henry, not without sullenness; 'I know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you know!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There's a little more for you to do. You'll have to get it cleaned up
- well ahead of time this week. Thursday is the fiftieth anniversary of the
- founding of Sunbury. You'll have to cover that. Take down what you can of
- the speeches.'
- </p>
- <p>
- That seemed to be all. Henry moved slowly back to the table. After a
- little shuffling about of the papers on his desk, Mr Boice moved heavily
- out and headed toward the post-office.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, and not before, Henry rummaged under a pile of exchanges at the rear
- of the table until he found a book. This he held close to his body, where
- it would not be seen should Humphrey turn unexpectedly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The book was entitled <i>Will Power and Self Mastery</i>. Opposite the
- title page was a half-tone reproduction of the author—a face with a
- huge moustache and intensely knit brows. Henry studied it, speculating in
- a sort of despair as to whether he could ever bring himself to look like
- that. He knit his own brows. His hand strayed again to his own downy
- moustache.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned the pages. Read a sentence here and there. The book, though
- divided under various chapter headings, was really made up of hundreds of
- more or less pithy little paragraphs. These paragraphs—their
- substance mainly a rehandling of the work of Samuel Smiles, James Parton,
- and the Christian and Mental Scientists (though Henry didn't know this)—might
- easily have been shuffled about and arranged in other sequence, so little
- continuity of thought did they represent. One paragraph ran:—
- </p>
- <p>
- The express train of Opportunity stops but once at your station. If you
- miss it, it will never again matter that you almost caught it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Another was—
- </p>
- <p>
- Practise concentration. Fix your mind on the job in hand. Aim to do it a
- little better than such a job was ever done before. It is related of
- Thomas Alva Edison that, at the early age of seven, he——
- </p>
- <p>
- And this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- Oh, how many a young man, standing at the parting of life's main roads,
- has lost for ever the golden opportunity because he stopped to light a
- cigarette!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry replaced the book under the pile of exchanges. A copy of last week's
- <i>Voice</i> lay there.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the first time he had let an issue of the paper go by without
- reading and re-reading every line of his own work. But he had, during
- these five days, passed through one of life's great revolutions. Besides,
- he had been put on a salary basis. When on space-rates, it had been
- necessary to cut everything out and paste it up into a 'string' for
- measurement. It came to him now, with a warm little uprush of memory, that
- the best piece of writing he had ever done would be in this issue.
- </p>
- <p>
- He opened the paper. There was his story, occupying all of page three that
- wasn't given up to advertisements. This was better than working. Besides,
- he ought to go over it. He settled down to it.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- The sound that caused Humphrey to start up in surprise was the first
- outbreak of profanity he had ever heard from the lips of Henry Calverly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was sitting up stiffly, holding last week's <i>Voice</i> with hands
- that distinctly trembled. When Humphrey first looked, he was white, but
- after a moment the colour began flowing back to his face and continued
- flowing until his face was red. His lips were clamped tight, as if the
- small verbal explosion that had just passed them had proved even more
- startling to himself than to Humphrey. 'What is it?' asked the editor.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stared at the outspread paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This!' he got out. 'This—this!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's the matter, Hen?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't you <i>know?</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, your picnic story! Yes—but—what on earth is the matter
- with you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You <i>know</i>, Hump! You never told me!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You mean the cuts?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh—yes!' This 'Oh' was a moan of anguish.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Good heavens, Hen—you didn't for a minute think we could print it
- as you wrote it?' Henry's facial muscles moved, but he got no words out.
- Humphrey, touched, went on. 'I don't mind telling you—between
- ourselves—that the thing as you wrote it, every word, is the best
- bit of descriptive writing I've seen this year. But you wrote the real
- story, boy. You painted the whole Simpson Street bunch as they are—every
- wart. It's a savage picture. Why, we'd have dropped seventy per cent, of
- our advertising between Saturday and Monday! And the queer little picture
- of Charlie Waterhouse out behind the lemonade stand—— Why,
- boy, that's enough to bust open the town!
- </p>
- <p>
- With Bob McGibbon gunning for Charlie and demanding an accounting of the
- town money! Gee!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry seemed hardly to hear this.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who—who re-wrote it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I did some. The old man polished it off himself.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's ruined!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course. But it brought you a raise to twelve a week. That's
- something.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You don't understand. It was my work. And it was true. I wrote the
- truth.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's why.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then they don't want the truth?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Good lord—no!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry considered this, bent over as if to read further, twisted his
- flushed face as if in pain, then abruptly sprang up.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's become of it—the piece I wrote?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, Hen—I didn't feel that we had a right to destroy the thing.
- Too dam good! In a sense, it's the old man's property; in another sense,
- it's yours——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's mine!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'In a sense. At any rate, I took it on myself to have a copy made
- confidentially. Then I turned the original over to Mr Boice. He doesn't
- know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where's the copy?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Here in my desk.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Give it to me!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just hold your horses a minute, Hen——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You give it——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey threw up a hand, then opened a drawer. He handed over the
- typewritten manuscript.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who made this?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Gertie Wombast. I warned her to keep her mouth shut.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How much did it cost?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, see here, Hen—I won't talk to you! Not till you get over this
- excitement.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm not excited. Or, at least——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey gave a shrug. Henry, gripping the roll of manuscript, started
- out.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait a minute, Hen! What do you think you're going to do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What do you s'pose? Only one thing I <i>can</i> do!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Going after the old man?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course! You would yourself, if——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I wouldn't. Not in any such rush as that. It's upsetting to have your
- good work pawed over and cut to pieces, but twelve a week is——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Hump, it's everything! He's made it impossible for me. I could stand
- some of it, but not all this. He ain't fair! He <i>wants</i> to make it
- hard for me! He's just thinking up ways to be mean. And he's spoiled my
- work—best thing I've ever done in my life! And now people will never
- know how well I can write.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes, they will!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, they won't. I'll never feel just that way again. It's a feeling that
- comes. And then it goes. You can't do anything about it. It was Corinne
- and the way I felt about her. And a lot o' things. Seemed to make me
- different. Lifted me up. I was red-hot.' He reached out and struck the
- paper from the table to the floor. 'You bet I'll go to old Boice! 'I'll
- tell him a thing or two I He'll know something's happened before he gets
- through with me. I've had something to say to him for a good while. Going
- to say it now. Guess he don't know I'll be twenty-one in November. Have a
- little money then. He can't put it over me. I'll buy his old paper. Or
- start another one. I'll make the town too hot for him. Thinks he owns all
- Sunbury. But he <i>don't!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen,' said Humphrey bravely, when the irate youth paused for breath, 'you
- simply must not try to talk to him while you're mad as this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But don't you see, Hump,' cried Henry, his face working with vexation,
- tears close to his eyes; 'it's just the time! When I'm mad. If I wait,
- I'll never say a word.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He rolled the manuscript tightly in his hand, bit his lip, then abruptly
- rushed out.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look here,' cried Humphrey. 'Don't you go showing that——'
- </p>
- <p>
- But the only reply was the noisy slam of the screen door.
- </p>
- <p>
- Face set, eyes wild behind their glasses, Henry hurried down Simpson
- Street toward the post-office.
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Hemple, at the money-order window, said that Mr Boice was having a
- talk with Mr Waterhouse in the back office and wasn't to be disturbed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry turned away. For a little time he studied the weather-chart hanging
- on the wall. He went to the wide front window and gazed out on the street.
- His determination was already oozing away. He found himself slouching and
- straightened up. Repeatedly he had to do this. Four times he went back to
- the money-order window; four times Miss Hemple smiled and shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha Caldwell walked by with the two Smith girls. He thought she saw
- him. If so, she carefully avoided a direct glance. They still weren't
- speaking. At least, Martha wasn't. And to think that during three long
- years, except for another episode now and than, she had been his girl!
- </p>
- <p>
- Heigh-ho! No more girls! He was through!
- </p>
- <p>
- The Ames's carriage rolled fly. Mary Ames was in it. And—apparently,
- unmistakably—the new girl. The girl of the Sunbury House veranda.
- She was chatting brightly. She <i>was</i> pretty.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned mournfully away. She was not for him. Once it might have been
- possible—back in his gay big days. But not now. Not now.
- </p>
- <p>
- He approached the window for the sixth time. For the sixth time, Miss
- Hemple shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- He wandered out to the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- His chance had passed. If the old man should, at this moment, and alone,
- come walking out, he would say meekly, 'Good-afternoon, Mr Boice,' and
- hurry away. He would even try to look busy and earnest. There was shame in
- the thought. His mouth was drooping at the corners. All of him—body,
- mind, spirit—was sagging now. He moved, slowly down toward the
- tracks, entered the little lunch-counter place there and ate a thick piece
- of lemon-meringue pie. Which was further weakness. He knew it. It
- completed his depression.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt that he must think. He ordered another piece of pie. He wished he
- hadn't said so much to Humphrey. Would he ever learn to control the spoken
- word? Probably not. He sighed. And ate. He couldn't very well go back to
- the office. Not like this—in defeat. All that work, too I Life,
- work, friendship, all the realities seemed to be slipping from his grasp.
- His thoughts were drifting off into a haze. It was an old familiar mood.
- It had come often during his teens. Not so much lately; but he was as
- helpless before it as he had been at eighteen, when he finally drifted
- aimlessly out of his class at the high school.
- </p>
- <p>
- In those days, it had been his habit to wander along the beach, sit on a
- breakwater, let life and love and duty drift by beyond his reach. Thither
- he headed now by a back street. Too many people he knew along Simpson
- Street. Besides, he might be thrown face to face with the old man.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the corner of Filbert Avenue he met the editor and proprietor of the <i>Gleaner</i>.
- He inclined his head with unconscious severity and would have passed on.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Robert A. McGibbon came to a halt, smiled in a thin strained fashion,
- and glanced curiously from Henry's face to the tightly rolled manuscript
- in his hand and back to the face.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he remarked, 'how's things?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry wanted to be let alone. But he had never deliberately snubbed
- anybody in his life. He couldn't. So he, too, came to a stop.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, pretty good,' he replied.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was just
- a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head under the
- tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface of his
- sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. His hair
- was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. Behind his
- gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, appeared to be
- darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything within their range
- of vision.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Things going well over at the <i>Voice</i> office?' Henry was silent. He
- couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special
- up?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a
- little walk, perhaps.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mind if I walk along with you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—no.'
- </p>
- <p>
- They fell into step.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy in
- your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write the
- Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I
- thought.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was terrible!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no—not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm not hard on myself. It's <i>his</i> fault. He spoiled it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who—Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil <i>The New York Sun</i>
- in two days, with just a little rope.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let
- you see it, of course.'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let you
- do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You know, there
- isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't be interesting. Play
- to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county
- printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but
- once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better
- for the long game.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive
- now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's
- thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a
- weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've got a little money,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon smiled.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, it has its uses.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give me
- all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These words
- seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a little,
- too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four
- thousand right now—or one thousand, for that matter—I could
- make sure of turning my corner and landing the old <i>Gleaner</i> on Easy
- Street. I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these
- eight months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more,
- and I'll nail that gang.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You know'—McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a
- cigar—'it takes money to make money.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes—of course,' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A thousand dollars now on the <i>Gleaner</i> would be worth ten thousand
- ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you,
- Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice.
- He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you
- grinding—correcting proof, running around——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind!
- And now he expects me to cover all the “Society” and “Church Doings.”'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What! How's that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's piling it all on me, and I won't stand for it. It ain't right! It
- 'ain't fair! And you bet your life he's going to hear a few things from me
- before this day's much older! I'm going to tell him a thing or two!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's right!' said McGibbon. 'He won't respect you any the less for it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set
- teeth, staring out at the horizon.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that
- you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I know
- you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is what a
- paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be friends.
- You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, blew out a
- long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little about that
- story you wrote.'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>You</i> do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks
- around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or
- two.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've been in New York,' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my lines
- out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I don't see how you could know about——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert
- Wombast let her sister read it—the one that works at the library.
- Swore her to secrecy. And—well, I board at the Wombasts'—Look
- here, Calverly: you'd better let me read it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry promptly surrendered it.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and gazed
- at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you understand.
- It's just as I wrote it off—fast, you know—and I haven't had a
- chance to correct it or——'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon raised his hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, Calverly—none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice
- couldn't print it. Never in the world. But it's sweet stuff. It's a
- perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two
- old crooks behind the lemonade stand—you've opened a jack-pot there.
- If you only knew it, son, that's evidence. Evidence! You walked right into
- it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice
- and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little purse
- and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he's the most popular man in Sunbury?
- Rot! Because they're helping him pay back. Making the town help.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, do you really think——'
- </p>
- <p>
- '“Think?” I know. This completes the picture. Tell me—what is Boice
- paying you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Twelve a week, now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm! That's quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it, though,
- if—see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a thousand
- of your money free and investing in the <i>Gleaner?</i> Now, wait! I want
- to put this thing before you. It's the turning-point. If we act without
- delay, we've got 'em. We've got everything. We own the town. Here we are!
- The <i>Gleaner</i> is just at the edge of success. I take you over from
- the <i>Voice</i> at the same salary—twelve a week. I'll give you
- lots of rope. I won't expect routine from you. I'll expect genius. Stuff
- like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel you
- can't help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie
- Waterhouse and break him. I'll finish Boice and Weston at the same time.
- Show up the whole outfit! Whatever'll be left of the <i>Voice</i> by that
- time, Boice can have and welcome. The <i>Gleaner</i> will be the only
- paper in Sunbury.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother's estate.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right
- through.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll see him to-morrow.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Couldn't you find him to-night?'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur lived in Chicago, out on the West Side. It was a long ride—first
- by suburban train into the city, then by cable-car through miles upon
- miles of gray wooden tenements and dingy gray-brick tenements. You
- breathed in odours of refuse and smoke and coal-gas all the way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur was as thin as McGibbon, but wholly without the little gleam
- in the eyes that advertised the proprietor of the <i>Gleaner</i> as an
- eager and perhaps dangerous man. Uncle Arthur was a man of method who had
- worked through long years into a methodical but fairly substantial
- prosperity.
- </p>
- <p>
- His thin nose was long, and prominent. His brow was deeply furrowed. His
- gaze was critical. He believed firmly that life is a disciplinary training
- for some more important period of existence after death. He didn't smoke
- or drink. Nor would he keep in his employ those who indulged in such
- practices. He was an officer of several organisations aiming at civic and
- social reform.
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur laid a pedantic stress, in all business matters, on what he
- called 'putting the thing right end to.' It was not unnatural, therefore,
- that he should receive a distinctly unfavourable impression when Henry
- began, with a foolish little gesture and a great deal of fumbling at his
- moustache, slouching in his chair, by saying 'There's a little chance come
- up—oh, nothing much, of course—for me to make a little money,
- sort of on the side—and you see I'll be twenty-one in November; so
- it's just a matter of three or four months, anyway—and I was
- figuring—oh, just talking the thing over——'
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice trailed off into a mumble.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If you would take your hand away from your mouth, Henry,' said his uncle
- sharply, 'perhaps I could make out what you're trying to say.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sat up with a jerk.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why, you see, Uncle Arthur, there's a fellow bought the old Sunbury <i>Gleaner</i>
- and he's awfully smart—got his training in New York—and he's
- brought the paper already—why, it ain't eight months!—to where
- he's right on the point of turning his corner. You see, a thousand dollars
- now may easily be worth ten thousand in a few years. The <i>Voice</i> is a
- rotten paper. Nobody reads the darned thing. And I can't work for old
- Boice, anyhow. He drives me crazy. If he'd just give me half a chance to
- do the kind of thing I can do best once in a while; but this——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry, are you asking me to advance you a thousand dollars of your
- principal?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—well, yes, if——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Most certainly not!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, you see, it's so close to November seventh, anyway, that I thought——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You thought that on your twenty-first birthday I would at once close out
- the investments I have made with the money your mother left and hand you
- the principal in cash?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stared at him, his thoughts for the moment frozen stiff. In Uncle
- Arthur's obstructionist attitude, so suddenly revealed, lay the promise of
- a new, wholly undreamed-of disappointment. It was crushing. Then, almost
- in the same second, it was stimulating. Henry's eyes blazed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You mean to say——' he began, shouting.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I mean to say that I haven't the slightest intention of letting you
- squander the money your mother so painfully—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's my money!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I'm your uncle and your guardian——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You needn't think you're going to keep that one minute after November
- seventh!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I will use my judgment. I won't be dictated to by a boy who——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But you gotta!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I have not got to!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I won't stand for——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry, I won't have such talk here. I think you had better go.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, with a good deal of mumbling, went. He was bewildered. And the
- little storm of indignant anger had shaken him. He returned, during the
- ride back past the tenements on the jerky cable-car, through streets that
- swarmed with noisy, ragged children and frowsy adults and all the smells,
- to depression. McGibbon said that Uncle Arthur's threat to hold the money
- after the seventh of November was a distinct point.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'In these matters, unfortunately, where a relative or family friend has
- for years had charge of money belonging to others, little temptations are
- bound to come up. Now, your uncle may be the most scrupulously honest of
- men, but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He has a bad eye,' Henry put in.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't doubt it. Calverly, let me tell you—never forget this—a
- man who hesitates for one instant to account freely, fully for money is
- never to be trusted.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what can I do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do? Everything! Just what I'm doing with Charlie Waterhouse, for one
- thing—insist on a full statement.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They framed a letter—or McGibbon framed it—demanding an
- accounting, 'in order that further legal measures may not become
- necessary.' McGibbon said he would send it early in the morning,
- registered, and with a special-delivery stamp. 'Later, they decided to add
- emphasis by means of a telegram demanding immediate consideration of the
- letter.
- </p>
- <p>
- Late that night, when Humphrey came upstairs into a pitch-dark living-room
- and switched on the light, he discovered a pale youth sitting stiffly on a
- window-seat wide-awake, eyes staring nervously, hands clasped.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, what on earth?' said he, in mild surprise.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Hump, I've wondered what you'd think—leaving you in the lurch
- with all that work!
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey threw out a lean hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can manage. Get some help from one of the students. And Gertie Wombast
- is usually available—— Oh, say; how about the old man? Did you
- tell him what's what?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's burning eyes stared out of that white face. Suddenly—so
- suddenly that Humphrey himself started—he sprang up, cried out; 'No!
- No! No!' and rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door after him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey looked soberly at the door, shook his head, filled his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- That 'No! No! No!' still rang in his ears It was a cry of pain.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey had suffered; but he had never known a turbulence of the sort
- that every now and then seemed to tear Henry to pieces.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Must be fierce,' he thought. 'But it works up as well as down. Runs to
- extremes. Creative faculty, I suppose. Well, he's got it—that's all.
- And he's only a kid. Thing to do's to stand by and try to steady him up a
- little when he comes out of it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And the philosophical Humphrey went to bed.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- At noon, no word had come from Uncle Arthur. Henry, all the morning, had
- flitted back and forth between McGibbon's rear office and the telegraph
- office in the 'depot.'
- </p>
- <p>
- At twelve-thirty, they sent a peremptory message, demanding a reply by
- three o'clock. An ultimatum.
- </p>
- <p>
- The reply came unexpectedly, with startling effect, at twenty-five minutes
- past two, requesting Henry to come directly into his uncle's Chicago
- office.
- </p>
- <p>
- He caught the two-forty-seven. McGibbon, who had missed nothing of the
- concern on Henry's face at this brisk counter-offensive on the part of
- Uncle Arthur, was with him.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon waited in the corner drug store while Henry-went up in one of the
- elevators of the great La Salle Street office-building.
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur led the way into his inner office, closed the door, seated
- himself, and with austerity surveyed the youth before him, taking in with
- deliberate thought the far-from-inexpensive blue-serge suit, the
- five-dollar straw hat, the bamboo stick (which Henry carried anything but
- airily now), and the hopelessly futile little moustache.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sit down,' said Uncle Arthur.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sat down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur opened a drawer, took up two slips of paper, deliberately
- laid them before his nephew.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There,' he said, 'is my cheque for one thousand forty-six dollars and
- twenty-nine cents. It is the value, with interest to this morning, of one
- bond which I am buying from you, at the price given in to-day's
- quotations. Kindly sign the receipt. Right there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He dipped a pen and Henry signed, then, with shaky fingers, picked up the
- cheque, fingered it, laid it down again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I want no misunderstandings about this, Henry. I am doing it because I
- regard you as a young fool. Perhaps you will be less of a fool after you
- have lost this money. Henry heard the words through a mist of confused
- feelings. 'I will have no more letters and telegrams like these.' He
- indicated the little sheaf of papers on his desk. 'And I won't have my
- character assailed either by you or by any cheap scoundrel whose advice
- you may be taking.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but he's <i>not</i> a cheap scoundrel!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur raised his eyebrows. His eyes, Henry felt, would burn holes
- in him if he stayed here much longer.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're hard on me, Uncle Arthur. You're not fair I'm <i>not</i> going to
- lose——'
- </p>
- <p>
- The older man abruptly got up.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If you care for any advice at all from me, I suggest that you insist on a
- note from this man—a demand note, or, at the very outside, a
- three-months' one. Don't put money unsecured into a weak business. Make it
- a personal obligation on the part of the proprietor. And now, Henry, that
- is all. I really don't care to talk to you further.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood still.
- </p>
- <p>
- His uncle turned brusquely away.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but—' Henry said unsteadily, 'Uncle Arthur—really!
- Money isn't everything!'
- </p>
- <p>
- His uncle turned on him as if about to speak; but on second thought merely
- raised his eyebrows again.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then came the final humiliation, the little climax that was always to
- stand out with particular vividness in Henry's memory of the scene. He
- turned to go. He had reached the door when he heard his uncle's voice,
- saying, with a rasp:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You have forgotten the cheque, Henry'
- </p>
- <p>
- And he had to go back for it.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I shall want your note,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window.
- Then, a moment later, he replied:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure! Of course! It's just as I told you—always watch a man who
- hesitates a minute in money matters.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Three months,' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,' said
- McGibbon.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, knit
- his brows, and said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Was it two or three?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—if you really—two.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon.
- </p>
- <p>
- The <i>Gleaner</i> office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street,
- up a long flight of stairs. Here they paused.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your desk.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might be
- gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the
- cheque still in his pocket at the moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the
- emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now
- took on some of that fire.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already torn
- away, almost running.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rushed past the <i>Gleaner</i> office without a glance. It suddenly
- didn't matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now.
- He would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to
- Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him!
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into the
- office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile of the
- <i>Congressional Record</i> and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his
- thick gray hair could be seen.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in the
- railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, proofs,
- hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and certain other
- little personal possessions. The two pencils and one penholder were his.
- Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, made a parcel in a
- newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard old Boice move.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then came the husky voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry—come here!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned to his friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it,
- looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Been attending to my own affairs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary of——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I haven't any work here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you haven't?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't want
- it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could feel
- Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the press-room
- door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two or three
- compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty money. I'm
- through with you. You and your crooked crowd!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you are?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. Through with you. I'm on a decent paper now. A paper that ain't
- afraid to print the truth.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making
- little sounds.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mmm!' he remarked. 'Hmm! Ump! Mmm!' Then he said, 'Meaning the <i>Gleaner</i>,
- I presume.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Meaning the <i>Gleaner</i>.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I suppose you know that McGibbon's slated to fail within the month. He
- can't so much as meet his pay-roll.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know more'n that!' cried Henry, laughing nervously. 'I know he's got
- money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer's quitting you this
- week, too. She's enthusiastic about us. I've just seen her. We're going to
- have a big property there. We'll buy you out one o' these days for a song.
- Then it'll be the <i>Gleaner and Voice</i>. See? But, first, we're going
- to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and that-old whited
- sepulchre in the bank! I'll show you you can't fool with me!'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had thought
- up something better and rehearsed it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And
- his heart bounded.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's afraid of me!' ran his thoughts. 'I've licked him!'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn't do. He was a
- business man now. With investments. He mustn't go grinning down Simpson
- Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once.
- </p>
- <p>
- Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run around
- through the alley.
- </p>
- <p>
- He wrung Henry's hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Great!' he cried. 'Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of a
- story. Maybe you've heard this one. If you have, just——'
- </p>
- <p>
- A hand fell on Henry's shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice. His
- face wrinkled into a grin.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'My boy,' he said, 'right here and now I thank you for the joy you've
- brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully
- impossible. It was great.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in
- his voice, 'I said it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you said it' cried Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying
- desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth, humming
- the wedding-march from <i>Lohengrin</i> to the familiar words:—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Here comes the bride—
- </p>
- <p class="indent20">
- Get on to her stride!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- —he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a
- thousand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Back in the old <i>Voice</i> office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands
- sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had
- happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular
- incident. He couldn't know that it is as well to face a tigress as an
- artist whose mental offspring you have injured.
- </p>
- <p>
- No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier
- moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn't know that Henry, the
- drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two quite
- different persons. In Mr Boice's familiar circles they played duplicate
- whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with the mysteries
- of dual personality such as appear in the case of any genius, great or
- small.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake or
- his works) did the immortal line come to mind;—
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p class="indent15">
- Did He who made the lamb make thee?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br />
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Boice was obliged to give it up.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- VI—ALADDIN ON SIMPSON STREET
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>lberforce Jenkins
- was the most accomplished very young man-about-town in Sunbury. He
- appeared to have, even at twenty-one, the bachelor gift. He danced well.
- His golf was more than promising. He had lately taken up polo with the
- Dexter Smith boys and young de Casselles. He owned two polo ponies, a
- schooled riding horse, and a carriage team which he drove to a high cart.
- His allowance from his father by far overcame the weakness of his salary
- (he was with his brother, Jefferson, in a bond house on La Salle Street).
- His aptitude at small talk amounted to a gift. He liked, inevitably, the
- play that was popular and (though he read little) the novel that was
- popular. His taste in girls pointed him unerringly toward the most
- desirable among the newest.
- </p>
- <p>
- He and Henry had been together in high school (Sunbury was democratic
- then). They had played together in the football team. They had—during
- one hectic month—been rivals for the hand of Ernestine Lambert.
- </p>
- <p>
- In that instance, in so far as success had come, it had come to Henry. But
- those were Henry's big days, when he was directing <i>Iolanthe</i>, the
- town at his feet. Life, these two years, had flowed swiftly on. The long
- dangling figure of Elbow Jenkins had filled out. His crude boyishness had
- given way to a smiling reserve. He was a young man of the world—self-assured,
- never indiscreet of tongue, always well-mannered, never individual or
- interesting.
- </p>
- <p>
- While Henry still worked on Simpson Street. He hadn't struck his gait. He
- was—if you bothered, these days, to think about him—a little
- queer. He wore that small moustache and a heavy cord hanging from his
- nose-glasses, and dressed a thought too conspicuously. As if impelled by
- some inner urge to assert a personality that might otherwise be
- overlooked.... As I glance back upon the Henry of this period, it seems to
- me that there was more than a touch of pathos about that moustache. It was
- such a soft little thing. He fussed with it so much, and kept trying to
- twist it up at the ends. He didn't seem to know that they weren't twisting
- moustaches up at the ends that year. In fact, I think he lacked almost
- utterly the gift of conformity which was the strongest, element in Elbow
- Jenkins's nature. And he never acquired it. In education, in work and
- preparation for life, he went it alone, stumbling, blundering, doing
- apparently stupid things, acting from baffling obscure motives, then
- suddenly coming through with an unexpected flash of insight and power.
- </p>
- <p>
- From the period of Ernestine Lambert to the time of the present story
- Elbow Jenkins had been on Henry's nerves. Whenever they met, that is; or
- when Henry saw him driving the newest, prettiest, best-dressed girl about
- in his cart. Two years earlier he would have had two ponies hitched
- tandem. But now, a little older, less willing to be conspicuous except in
- strict conformity with the conventions, he drove his carefully matched
- team side by side. His scat, his hold of the reins, the very turning-back
- of his tan gloves, all were correct. These, indeed, were details in the
- problem of living and moving about with success among one's fellows that
- Elberforce Jenkins regarded as really important. Like one's stance at
- golf, and cultivating the favour of men who could be influential in a
- business or social way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yes, Elbow was on Henry's nerves.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Elbow had long since forgotten Henry, except for a chance nod now and
- then. And occasionally a moment's annoyance that Henry should insist on
- keeping alive a nickname that had with years and the beginnings of dignity
- become undesirable.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- The blow fell on Henry at half-past five on the Tuesday.
- </p>
- <p>
- I mark the time thus precisely because it perhaps adds a touch of interest
- to the consideration of what happened between then and Friday night, when
- McGibbon first saw what he had done. Of the importance of the blow in
- Henry's life there is no doubt. It turned him sharply Not until he was
- approaching middle life could he look back on the occasion without
- wincing. And while wincing, he would say that it was what he had needed.
- Plainly. That it made a man of him, or started the process.
- </p>
- <p>
- As to that, I can't say. Perhaps it did. Life is not so simple as Henry
- had been taught it was. I am fatalist enough to believe that Henry would
- have become what he was to become in any event, because it was in him. I
- doubt if he could have been given any other direction. Though of course he
- might have gone under simply through a failure to get aroused. Something
- had to start him, of course.
- </p>
- <p>
- The practical difficulty with Henry's life was, of course, that he was
- strong. He didn't know this himself. He thought he was weak. Some who
- observed him thought the same. There were reasons enough. But Mildred
- always declared flatly that he was a genius, that he was too good for
- Sunbury, against the smugness of which community she was inclined to rail.
- A debate on this point between Mrs Henderson and, say, William F. Donovan,
- the drug store man, would have been interesting. Mr Donovan's judgments of
- human character were those of Simpson Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- I say Henry was strong, because I can't interpret his rugged nonconformity
- in any other way. A weaker lad would long since have given up, gone into
- Smith Brothers' wholesale, taken his spiritual beating and fallen into
- step with his generation. But Henry's resistance was so strong and so deep
- that he didn't even know he was resisting. He was doing the only thing he
- could do, being what he was, feeling what he felt. And when instinct
- failed to guide, when 'the Power' lay quiescent, he was simply waiting and
- blundering along; but never falling into step. He had to wait until the
- Power should rise with him and take him out and up where he belonged.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a little scene the Monday evening before.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was in the rooms. Mildred was there.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stumbled in on the two of them, Mildred and Humphrey. They were at
- the piano, seated side by side. They had been studying <i>Tristan and
- Isolde</i> together for a week or so; Mildred playing out the motifs. She
- often played the love duet from the second act for him, too. Henry heard
- him, mornings, trying to hum it while he shaved.
- </p>
- <p>
- They insisted that he take a chair. He, with a sense of intrusion, took
- the arm of one, and kept hat and stick (his thin bamboo) in his hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mildred said reflectively:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Corinne writes that she'll be back for a week late in August.' Then,
- noting the touch of dismay on Henry's ingenuous countenance, she added,
- 'But you mustn't have her on your conscience, Henry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It isn't that——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm fond of Corinne. But I can see now that you two would never get on
- long together. In a queer way you're too much alike. At least, you both
- have positive qualities. Corinne will some day find a nice little husband
- who'll look after the business side of her concerts. And you—well,
- Henry, you've got to have some one to mother you.' She smiled at him
- thoughtfully. 'Some one you can make a lot of.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No.' Henry's colour was up. He was shaking his head. 'You don't
- understand. I'm through with girls. They're nothing in my life. Nothing!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She slowly shook her head. 'That's absurd, Henry. You're particularly the
- kind. You'll never be able to live without idealising some woman.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I tell you they're nothing to me. My life is different now. I've changed.
- I've put money—a lot of money—into the <i>Gleaner</i>. It
- means big responsibilities. You've no idea——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If I hadn't, seen you writing,' she mused aloud.... 'No, Henry. You won't
- change. You'll grow, but you won't change. You're going to write, Henry.
- And you'll always write straight at a woman.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No! No!' Henry was sputtering. He appeared to be struggling. 'Life means
- work to me. I'm through with——'
- </p>
- <p>
- She took down the <i>Tristan</i> score from the piano and turned the pages
- in her lap.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Love is the great vitaliser, Henry,' she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No—it's the mind. Thinking. We have to learn to think clearly—objectively.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Objectively? No. Not you. And I'm glad, in a way. Because I know we're
- going to be proud of you. But it's love that makes the world go round.
- They don't teach you that in the colleges, but it's the truth... Take
- Wagner—and <i>Tristan</i>. He wrote it straight at a woman. And it's
- the greatest opera ever written. And the greatest love story. It's that
- because he was terribly in love when he wrote it. Do you Suppose, for one
- minute that if Wagner had never seen Mathilde Wesendonck we should have
- had <i>Tristan?</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- She paused, pursed her lips, studied the book with eyes that seemed to
- grow misty, then looked up at Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- He—tall, angular, very sober—met her gaze; then his swarthy
- face wrinkled up about the eyes and he hurriedly drew his cob pipe from
- his pocket and began filling it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stared at the rug; traced out the pattern with his stick. He
- couldn't answer this last point, because he had never heard of Mathilde
- Wesendonck. And as he was supposed to be 'musical' it seemed best to keep
- quiet.
- </p>
- <p>
- He made an excuse of some sort and went out for a walk. Down by the lake
- he thought of several strong arguments. Mildred was wrong. She had to be
- wrong. For he had cut girls out.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was like Mildred to speak out in that curiously direct way. She was
- fond of Henry. And she had divined, out of her various, probably rather
- vivid contacts with life, certain half-truths that were not accepted in
- Sunbury.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think she saw Henry pretty clearly, saw that he was driven by an
- emotional dynamo that was to bring him suffering and success both....
- Mildred, of course, never really belonged in a small town.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was at the close of the following afternoon that Henry came in and
- found Humphrey's long figure stretched out on the window-seat—he was
- smoking, of course—of all things, blowing endless rings up at the
- curtains Mildred had made and hung for him. His dark skin looked gray.
- There were deep lines in his face. He couldn't speak at first. But he
- stared at Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- That young man put away hat and stick, had his coat off, and was rolling
- back his shirt sleeves for a wash, humming the refrain of <i>Kentucky Babe</i>.
- Then, through a slow moment, the queer silence about him, Humphrey's
- attitude—that fact, for that matter, that Hump was here, at all; he
- was a great hand to work until six or after at the <i>Voice</i> office—these
- things worked in on him like a premonition. The little song died out. He
- went on, a few steps, toward the bathroom, then came to a stop, turned
- toward the silent figure on the window-seat, came slowly over.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now he saw his friend clearly. As he sank on the arm of a chair—it
- was where he had sat the evening before—he caught his breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wha—what is it?' he asked. His voice was suddenly husky. His mind
- went blank. There was sensation among the roots of his hair. 'What's the
- matter, Hump?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally Humphrey took out his pipe and spoke. His voice, too, was low and
- uncertain. But he gathered control of it as he went on.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where've you been?' he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me? Why, over at Rockwell Park. Bob McGibbon wanted me to see about a
- regular correspondent for the “Rockwell Park Doings.”'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Heard anything?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me? No. Why?... Hump, what is it? What you getting at?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then I've got to tell you.' He swung his feet around; sat up; emptied his
- pipe, then filled it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Is it—is it—about me, Hump?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. It is.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—then—hadn't you better tell me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm trying to, Hen. It's dam' unpleasant. You remember—you told me
- once—early in the summer—' Humphrey, usually most direct, was
- having difficulty in getting it out—'you told me you rode a tandem
- up to Hoffmann's Garden with that little Wilcox girl.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, that! That was nothing. Why all the time I lived at Mrs Wilcox's I
- never——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I know. Let me try to tell this, Hen. It's hard enough. She's in a
- scrape. That girl. There's a big row on. I'm not going into the details,
- so far as I've heard 'em. There ugly. They wouldn't help. But her mother's
- collapsed. Her uncle and aunt have turned up and taken the girl off
- somewhere. He's a butcher on the North Side.' Henry was pale but
- attentive.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'In all the time I lived there,' he began again...
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please, Hen! Wait! It is one of those mean scandals that tear up a town
- like this every now and then. Boils up through the crust and has to be
- noticed. It's a beastly thing. The number of men involved... some older
- ones... and young Bancroft Widdicombe has left town. There's some queer
- talk about her marrying him. And they say one or two others have run away.
- Widdicombe got out before the storm broke. Jim Smith says he's been heard
- from at San Francisco.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But they can't say of me——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen, they can and they do.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I can prove——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What can you prove? What chance will you have to prove anything? You were
- disturbed when Martha Caldwell and the party with Charles H. Merchant
- caught you with her up at Hoffmann's——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, Hump, I didn't <i>want</i> to take her out that night! And it's the
- only time I ever really talked to her except once or twice in the
- boarding-house.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He was speaking with less energy now. He felt the blow. Not as he would
- feel it a few hours later; but he felt it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey watched him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It has brought things home to me,' he said uncertainly. 'The sort of
- thing that can happen. When you're caught in a drift, you don't think, of
- course... Now, Hen, listen! This is real trouble. It's going to hit you
- about to-morrow—full force. It's got to be faced. I don't want to
- think that you'd run——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no,' Henry put in mechanically, 'I won't run.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm sure you won't. But it's got to be faced. You're hit especially.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But why, when I——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Because you lived alone there, in the boarding-house, for two years. And
- you were caught with her at Hoffmann's, she in bloomers, drinking beer.
- Just a cheap little tough. And there isn't a thing you can do but live it
- down. Nobody will say a direct word to you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's what I'll do,' said Henry, 'live it down.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It'll be hard, Hen.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sighed. 'I've faced hard things, Hump.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, you have, in a way.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll wash up. Where we going to eat? Stanley's?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I suppose. I don't feel like eating much.'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was not until they had started out that Henry gave signs of a deeper
- reaction.
- </p>
- <p>
- On the outer doorstep he stood motionless.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Coming along?' asked Humphrey, trying to hide his anxiety.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—yes. In a minute... Say, Hump, do you suppose they'll—you
- know, I ain't afraid'—an uprush of feeling coloured his voice,
- brought a shake to it—'I don't know. Perhaps I <i>am</i> afraid. All
- those people—you know, at Stanley's...'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey did an unusual thing; laid his hand on Henry's shoulder
- affectionately; then took his arm and led him along the alley, saying:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We'll go down to the lunch counter. It's just as well, Hen. Better get
- sure of yourself first.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He wondered, as they walked rapidly on—Henry had a tendency to walk
- fast and faster when brooding or excited—whether the boy would ever
- get sure of himself. There were queer, bitter, profoundly confusing
- thoughts in his own mind, and an emotional tension, but back of all this,
- coming through it and softening him, his feeling for Henry. It was
- something of an elder brother's feeling, I think. Henry seemed very young.
- It was wicked that he had to suffer with all those cynical older men. It
- might mark the boy for life. Such things happened.
- </p>
- <p>
- He decided to watch him closely. Sooner or later the thing would hit him
- full. He would have to be protected then. Even from himself, perhaps. In a
- way it oughtn't to be worse for him than it had been after the Hoffmann's
- Garden incident.
- </p>
- <p>
- But it was worse. The other had been, after all, no more than an incident.
- This, now, was an overpowering fact. The town didn't have to notice the
- other. And despite the gossiping instinct, your small community is rather
- glad to edge away from unpleasant surmises that are not established facts.
- Facts are so uncompromising. And so disrupting. And sometimes upsetting to
- standardised thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's it,' thought Humphrey—he was reduced to thought Henry was
- striding on in white silence—'it's a fact. They can't evade it. Only
- thing they can do, if they're to keep comfortable about their dam' town,
- is to kill everybody connected with the mess. Have to revise party and
- dinner lists. And it'll raise Ned with the golf tournament. They'll resent
- all that. And they'll have to show outsiders that the thing is an amazing
- exception. Nothing else going on like it. They'll have to show that.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- The next morning Henry—stiff, distrait, his eyes wandering a little
- now and then and his sensitive mouth twitching nervously—breakfasted
- with Humphrey at Stanley's.
- </p>
- <p>
- People—some people—spoke to him. But he winced at every
- greeting. Humphrey watched him narrowly. He was ablaze with
- self-consciousness. But he held his head up pretty well.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he
- hadn't mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn't mention it. He
- spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis Stevenson,
- for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley's. And then he brought
- up Bob McGibbon's theory that even with a country weekly, if you made your
- paper interesting enough you would get readers and the readers would bring
- the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought it would work out. 'It's
- important to me, you know, Hump. I've got a cool thousand up on the <i>Gleaner</i>.
- It's like betting on Bob McGibbon's idea to win.' His voice trembled a
- little. There were volcanoes of feeling stirring within the boy. He would
- erupt of course, sooner or later. Humphrey found the experience moving to
- the point of pain.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he entered the <i>Gleaner</i> office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him
- anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- He found occasion to say, later:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry, how are you taking this thing?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with
- an expressive gesture and raised his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh,' he said, 'all right. I—it's not true, Bob. Not about me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's just what I tell 'em,' said McGibbon eagerly. 'What you going to
- do? Go right on?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—why, yes! I can't run away.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all
- round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you
- might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the paper.
- That's what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little pictures of
- life-like George Ade's stuff in the <i>Record</i>. Or a bit of the 'Gene
- Field touch. Something they'd have to read. Make the <i>Gleaner</i> known.
- Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That's what we really need from
- you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception to-night at
- the Jenkins'. Anybody can cover that. I'll go myself.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said he, after a pause, 'I'll cover it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon considered this, then moved irresolutely back to his desk. Here,
- for a time, he sat, with knit brows, and stabbed at flies with his pen.
- </p>
- <p>
- It would be walking into the lion's den, that was all. He wished he could
- think of a way to hold the boy back. There were complications. The <i>Gleaner</i>,
- just, lately, had been going pretty violently after what McGibbon called
- the 'Old Cinch.' Without quite enough evidence, they were now virtually
- accusing Waterhouse of embezzlement, and the others of connivance. Mr
- Weston was among the most respected in Sunbury, rich, solid, a supporter
- of all good things'. Though Boice and Waterhouse were unknown to local
- society, the Westons were intimate with the Jenkinses and their crowd.
- They all regarded the <i>Gleaner</i> as a scurrilous, libellous sheet, and
- McGibbon himself as an intruder in the village life. And there was another
- trouble; very recent. He couldn't speak of it with the boy in this state
- of mind. Not at the moment. He couldn't see his way... And now, with the
- realest-scandal Sunbury had known in a decade piled freshly on the paper's
- bad name. But he couldn't think of a way to keep him from going. The boy
- was, in a way, his partner. There were little delicacies between them.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry went.
- </p>
- <p>
- The reception given by Mr and Mrs Jenkins to Senator and Madame William M.
- Watt, was the most important social event of the summer.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Jenkins's home, a square mansion of yellow brick, blazed with light at
- every window. Japanese lanterns were festooned from tree to tree about the
- lawn. An awning had been erected all the way from the front steps to the
- horse block, and a man in livery stood out there assisting the ladies from
- their carriages. It was felt by some, it was even remarked in undertones,
- that the Jenkinses were spreading it on pretty thick, even considering
- that it was the first really public appearance of the Watts in Sunbury.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator was known principally as titular sponsor for the Watt Currency
- Act, of fifteen years back... In those days his fame had overspread the
- boundaries of his own eastern state clear to California and the Mexican
- border. Older readers will recall that the Watt Bill nearly split a nation
- in its day. After his defeat for re-election, in the earlier nineties, he
- had slipped quietly into the obscurity in which he regained until his
- rather surprising marriage with the very rich, extremely vigorous American
- woman from abroad who called herself the Comtesse de la Plaine. At the
- time of his disappearance from public life various reasons had been dwelt
- on. One was drink. His complexion—the part of it not covered by his
- white beard—might have been regarded as corroborative evidence. But
- it was generally understood that he was 'all right' now; a meek enough
- little man, well past seventy, with an air of life-weariness and a
- suppressed cough that was rather disagreeable in church. His slightly
- unkempt beard grew a little to one side, giving his face a twisted
- appearance. On his occasional appearances about the streets he was always
- chewing an unlighted cigar. To the growing generation he was a mildly
- historic myth, like Thomas Buchanan or James G. Blaine.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mrs Watt—who during her brief residence in Sunbury (they had bought
- the Dexter Smith place, on Hazel Avenue, in May) had somehow attached
- firmly to her present name the foreign-sounding prefix, 'Madame'—was
- a head taller than her husband, with snappy black eyes, a strongly hooked
- nose and an indomitable mouth. She was not beautiful, but was of
- commanding presence. The fact that she had lived long in France naturally
- raised questions. But there appeared to be no questioning either her
- earlier title or her wealth. If she seemed to lack a few of the
- refinements of a lady—it was whispered among the younger people that
- she swore at her servants—still, a rich countess, married to the
- self-effacing but indubitable author of the Watt Act, was, in the nature
- of things, equipped to stir Sunbury to the depths.
- </p>
- <p>
- But the member of this interesting family with whom we are now concerned
- was the Madame's niece, a girl of eighteen or nineteen who had been
- reared, it was said, in a convent in France, then educated at a school in
- the eastern states, and was now living with her aunt for the first time.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her name fell oddly on ears accustomed to the Bessies, Marys, Fannies,
- Marthas, Louises, Alices, and Graces of Sunbury. It was Cicely—Cicely
- Hamlin. It was clearly an English name. It proved, at first, difficult to
- pronounce, and led to joking among the younger set. The girl herself was
- rather foreign in appearance. Distinctly French some said. She was slimly
- pretty, with darkish hair and a quick, brisk, almost eager way of speaking
- and smiling and bobbing her hair. She used her hands, too, more than was
- common in Sunbury, a point for the adherents of the French theory. The
- quality that perhaps most attracted young and old alike was her sensitive
- responsiveness. Sometimes it was nearly timidity. She would listen in her
- eager way; then talk, all vivacity—head and hands moving, on the
- brink of a smile-every moment—then seem suddenly to recede a little,
- as if fearful that she had perhaps said too much, as if a delicate
- courtesy demanded that she be merely the attentive, kindly listener. She
- could play and be merry with the younger crowd. But she had read books
- that few of them had ever heard of. Plainly—though nothing so
- complex was plain to Henry at this period—she was a girl of delicate
- nervous organisation, strung a little tightly; a girl who could be stirred
- to almost naïve enthusiasms and who could perhaps be cruelly hurt.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry had seen her—once on the hotel veranda talking brightly with
- Mary Ames, who seemed almost stodgy beside her, once on the Chicago train,
- once or twice driving with Elberforce Jenkins in his high cart. The sight
- of her had stirred him. Already he had had to fight thoughts of her—tantalisingly
- indistinct mental visions—during the late night hours between
- staring wakefulness and sleep. And it was impossible wholly to escape
- bitterness over the thought that he hadn't met her. He oughtn't to care.
- He couldn't admit to himself that it mattered. A couple of years back, in
- his big days, they would have met all right. First thing. Everybody would
- have seen to it. They would have told her about him. Now... oh well!
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood in the shadow, out by the carriage entrance, pulling at his
- moustache. There had been a sort of rushing of the spirit, almost a
- fervour, in his first determination to face the town bravely. Now for the
- first time he began to see that the thing couldn't be rushed at. It might
- take years to build up a new good name—years of slights and sneers,
- of dull hours and slack nerves. For Henry did know that emotional climaxes
- pass.
- </p>
- <p>
- He chose a time, between carriages, when the sheltered walk was empty, to
- move up toward the house. Everybody here was dressed up—'Wearing
- everything they've got!' he muttered. He himself had on his blue suit and
- straw hat and carried his bamboo stick. A thick wad of copy paper
- protruded from a side pocket. A vest pocket bulged with newly sharpened
- pencils. It had seemed best not to dress. He wasn't a guest; just the
- representative of a country weekly.
- </p>
- <p>
- By the front steps there were arched openings in the canvas. Up there in
- the light were music and rustling, continuous movement and the unearthly
- cackling sound that you hear when you listen with a detached mind to many
- chattering voices in an enclosed space. Mrs Jenkins was up there,
- doubtless, at the head of a reception line. He knew now, with despair in
- his heart, that he couldn't mount those steps. Nearly everybody there
- would know him. He couldn't do it.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked around. At one side stood a jolly little group, under the
- Japanese lanterns. Young people. Two detached themselves and came toward
- the steps. A third joined them; a girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Here,' said this girl—Mary Ames's voice—'you two wait here.
- I'll find her.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mary came right past him and ran up the steps. Henry drew back, very
- white, curiously breathless.
- </p>
- <p>
- The other two stood close at hand. Henry wondered if he could slip away.
- New carriages had arrived; new people were coming up the walk. He stepped
- off on the grass. He found difficulty in thinking.
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl, just across the walk, was Cicely Hamlin. The fellow was Alfred
- Knight. He worked in the bank; a colourless youth. He plainly didn't know
- what to say to this very charming new girl. He stood there, shifting his
- feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry thought: 'Has he heard yet? Does he know?... Does <i>she</i> know?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Alfred's wandering eye rested on him, hailed him with relief.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, hallo. Hen;' he said. Then, after a long silence, 'Like you to meet
- Miss Hamlin. Mr Henry Calverly.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Al Knight never could remember whether you said the girl's name first or
- the man's.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he hadn't heard yet. Evidently. Henry sighed. Since it had to come, it
- would be almost better...
- </p>
- <p>
- Miss Cicely Hamlin moved a hesitant step forward; murmured his name.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had to step forward too.
- </p>
- <p>
- In sheer miserable embarrassment he raised his hand a little way.
- </p>
- <p>
- In responsive confusion she raised hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- But his had dropped.
- </p>
- <p>
- Hers moved downward as his came up again.
- </p>
- <p>
- She smiled at this and extended her hand again frankly.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took it. He didn't know that he was gripping it in a strong nervous
- clasp.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've heard of you,' she said. He liked her voice. 'You write, don't you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh yes,' said he huskily, 'I write some.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She didn't know.
- </p>
- <p>
- He wondered dully who could have told her of him. It sounded like the old
- days. It was almost, for a moment, encouraging.
- </p>
- <p>
- Al Knight drifted away to speak to one of the new-comers.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you write stories?' she asked politely.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I try to, sometimes. It's awfully hard.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh yes, I know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do <i>you</i> write?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—oh no! But I've wished I could. I've tried a little.'
- </p>
- <p>
- So far as words went they might as well have been mentioning the weather.
- It was not an occasion in which words had any real part. He saw, felt, the
- presence of a girl unlike any he had known—slimly pretty, alive with
- a quick eager interest, and subtly friendly. She saw, and felt, a white
- tragic face out of which peered eyes with a gloomy fire in them.
- </p>
- <p>
- Before Alfred Knight drifted back she asked him to call. Then, at the
- sight of them, Alfred drifted away again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Perhaps,' she added shyly, 'you'd bring some of your stories.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I haven't anything I could bring,' he replied, still with that burning
- look. 'Nothing 'that's any good. If I had...' Then this blazed from him in
- a low shaky voice: 'You haven't heard what they're saying about me. I can
- see that. If you had you wouldn't ask me to call.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I'm sure I would,' she murmured, greatly confused.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You wouldn't. You really couldn't. But I want to say this—quick,
- before they come!'—for he saw Mary Ames in the doorway—'I've
- <i>got</i> to say it! They'll tell you something about me. Something
- dreadful. It isn't true. It—is—not true!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She isn't in there,' said Mary, joining them. Then 'Oh!' She looked at
- Henry with a hint of alarm in her face; said, 'How do you do!' in a voice
- that chilled him, brought the despair back; then said to Cicely, ignoring
- him: 'We'd better tell them.' And moved a step toward the group under the
- lanterns.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely hesitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was happening, right there; and in the cruellest manner. Henry couldn't
- speak. He felt as if a fire were burning in his brain.
- </p>
- <p>
- Al Knight, seeing Mary, drifted back.
- </p>
- <p>
- The group, over yonder, was breaking up. Or coming this way.
- </p>
- <p>
- Another moment and Elberforce Jenkins—tall, really good-looking in
- his perfect-fitting evening clothes—stood before them.
- </p>
- <p>
- He glanced at Henry. Gave him the cut direct.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right,' said Elbow Jenkins, addressing Cicely now, 'we'll go without
- her. She won't mind.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still Cicely hesitated. For a moment, standing there, lips parted a
- little, looking from one to another. Then, with an air of shyness,
- apparently still confused, she gave Henry her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do come,' she said, with a quick little smile. 'And bring the stories.
- I'm sure I'd like them.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She went with them, then.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stared after her with wet eyes. Then for a while he wandered alone
- among the trees. His thoughts, like his pulse, were racing uncontrollably.
- </p>
- <p>
- It is to be noted that he returned a while later, faced Mrs Jenkins, wrote
- down the names of all the guests he recognised, and walked, very fast,
- with a stiff dignity, lips compressed, eyes and brain still burning, down
- to the <i>Gleaner</i> office.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- The story had to be written. Not at the rooms, though; Mildred might be
- there with Humphrey. Sometimes he worked at the Y.M.C.A.
- </p>
- <p>
- But there was a light in the windows of the <i>Gleaner</i> office, over
- Hemple's.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon was up there, bent over his desk in his shirtsleeves, a hand
- sprawling through his straight ragged hair.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry acknowledged his partner's greeting with a grunt; dropped down at
- his own desk; plunged at the story.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon looked up once or twice, saw that Henry was unaware of him;
- continued his own work. His thin face looked worn. He bit his lip a good
- deal.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There,' said Henry, finally, with a grim look—'there's the
- reception story.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, all right.' McGibbon came over; took the pencilled script; then sat
- on the edge of the table beside Henry's desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Haven't got some good filler stuff?' he queried wearily, brushing a hand
- across his forehead. 'We're going to have a lot of extra space this week.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He watched Henry, to see if this remark had an effect. It had none. He
- nibbed his hand slowly back and forth across his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The fact is,' he remarked, 'they've landed on us. Pretty hard. The
- advertisers. Just about all Simpson Street. It's a sort of boycott,
- apparently. Takes out two-thirds of our advertising. And Weston called my
- note—that two hundred and forty-eight—for paper. Simply
- charged it up against our account. Pretty dam' high-handed, I call it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice was rising. He sprang up, paced the floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They're showing fight,' he ran on. 'We've got to lick 'em. That's my way—start
- at the drop of the hat. What's a little advertising! Get readers—that's
- the real trick of it. We'll lick 'em with circulation, that's what we'll
- do!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood over Henry's desk; even pounded it. The boy didn't seem to get
- it, even now. He was hardly listening. With his own money at stake. But
- McGibbon was finding him like that; queer gaps on the practical side. No
- money sense whatever!
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry,' he was crying now, 'it's up to you. You're a genius. It's sheer
- waste to use you on fool receptions. <i>Write</i>, man! WRITE! Let
- yourself go. Anything—sketches, verse, stories! Let's give 'em what
- they don't look for in a country paper. Like the old Burlington <i>Hawkeye</i>
- and that fellow Brann. And the paper in Lahore that nobody would ever have
- heard of if Kipling hadn't written prose and verse to fill in, here and
- there. He was a kid, too. There's always, somewhere, a little paper that's
- famous because a man can <i>write</i>. Why shouldn't it be us! Us! Right
- up here over the meat-market. Why, we can make the little old <i>Gleaner</i>
- known from coast to coast. We can put Sunbury on the map. Just with your
- pen, my boy! With your pen! And then where'll old Weston be! Where'll
- these little two-bit advertisers be!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He spread his thin hands in a gesture of triumph. Henry looked up now;
- slowly pushed back his chair; said, in a weak voice, 'I'm tired. Guess I'd
- better get along;' and walked out.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon stared after him, his mouth literally open.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- Back of the old Parmenter place the barn was dark. Henry felt relief. He
- was tingling with excitement. He couldn't move slowly. His fists were
- clenched. Every nerve in his body was strung tight.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was thinking hopelessly, 'I must relax.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He crept through the dim shop, among Humphrey's lathes, belts, benches of
- tools, big kites and rows of steel wheels mounted in frames. There were
- large planes, too, parts of the gliders Humphrey had been puttering with
- for a long time. Three years, he had once said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry lingered on the stairs and looked about the ghostly rooms. Beams of
- moonlight came in through the windows and touched this and that machine.
- He felt himself attuned to all the trouble, the disaster, in the universe.
- Life was a tragic disappointment. Nothing ever came right. People didn't
- succeed; they struggled and struggled to breast a mighty, tireless current
- that swept them ever backward.
- </p>
- <p>
- Poor old Hump! He had put money into this shop. All the little he had; or
- nearly all. And into the technical library that lined his bedroom walls
- upstairs. His daily work at the <i>Voice</i> office was just a grind, to
- keep body and soul together while the experiments were working out. Hump
- was patient.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Until I moved in here,' Henry thought, with a disturbingly passive sort
- of' bitterness, 'and brought girls and things. He doesn't have his nights
- and Sundays for work any more. Hump could do big things, too.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He went on up the stairs and switched on the lights in the living-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He caught sight of his face in a mirror. It was white.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a look of strain about the eyes. The little moustache, turned up
- at the ends, mocked him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll shave it off,' he said aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- He even got out his razor and began nervously stropping it.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was alarmed to discover that his control of his hands was none too
- good. They moved more quickly than he meant them to, and in jerks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Too, the notion of shaving his moustache struck him weakness, an impulse
- to be resisted. Too much like retreating. Subtly like that.
- </p>
- <p>
- He put the razor back in its drawer.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the centre of the living-room rug, standing there, stiffly, he said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll face them. I'll go down fighting. They shan't say I surrendered.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked round and round the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had never in his life felt anything like this jerky nervousness. A
- restlessness that wouldn't permit him so much as to sit down.
- </p>
- <p>
- While in the <i>Gleaner</i> office he had hardly been aware of McGibbon.
- He certainly hadn't listened to him.
- </p>
- <p>
- But now, like a blow, everything McGibbon had said came to him. Every
- syllable. Suddenly he could see the man, towering ever him, pounding his
- desk. Talking—talking—full of fresh hopes while the world
- crumbled around him. More disaster! It was the buzzing song of the old
- globe as it spun endlessly on its axis. Disaster!... The advertisers had
- at last combined against the paper. Old Weston had called McGibbon's note.
- That must have taken about the last of Henry's thousand. They were broke.
- </p>
- <p>
- His hand brushed his coat pocket. It bulged with copy paper. He must have
- thrust it back there absently, at the office.
- </p>
- <p>
- He drew it out and gazed at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was curious; he seemed to see it as a printed page, with a title at the
- top, and his name. He couldn't see what the title was. Yet it was there,
- and it was good.
- </p>
- <p>
- His restlessness grew. Again he walked round and round the room. There was
- a glow in his breast. Something that burned and fired his nerves and drove
- him as one is driven in a dream. Either he must rush outdoors and wander
- at a feverish pace around the town and up the lake shore—walk all
- night—or he must sit down and write.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat down. Picked up an atlas of Humphrey's and wrote on his lap. And he
- wrote, from the beginning, as he would have walked had he gone out, in a
- fever of energy, gripping the pencil tightly, holding his knees up a
- little, heels off the floor. The colour reappeared about his forehead and
- temples, then on his cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Humphrey came in, after midnight, he was in just this posture,
- writing at a desperate rate. The floor all about him was strewn with
- sheets of paper. One or two had drifted off to the centre of the room. He
- didn't hear his friend come up the stairs.' When he saw him, standing,
- looking down, something puzzled, he cried out excitedly':—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't Hump!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey resisted the impulse to reply with a 'Don't what?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Go on! Don't disturb me!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You seem to be hitting it up.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I am. I can't talk! Please—go away! Go to bed. You'll make me lose
- it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey obeyed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Later—well along in the night—he awoke.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a crack of light about his door. He turned on his own light. It
- was quarter to three.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Here!' he called. 'What on earth are you up to, Hen?' A chair scraped.
- Then Henry came to the door and burst it open. His coat was off now, and
- his vest open. He had unbuttoned his collar in front so that the two ends
- and the ends of his tie hung down. His hair was straggling down over his
- forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you know what time it is, Hen?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. Say—listen to this! Just a few sentences. You liked the piece I
- did about the Business Men's Picnic, remember. Well, this has sorta grown
- out of it. It's just the plain folks along Simpson Street. Say! There's a
- title for the book.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'For the what!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The book. Oh, there'll be a lot of them. Sorta sketches. Or maybe they're
- stories. I can't tell yet. Plain folks of Simpson Street. Yes, that's
- good. Wait a second, while I write it down. The thing struck me all at
- once—to-night!—Queer, isn't it!—thinking about the folks
- along the street—Bill Hemple, and Jim Smith in your press room with
- the tattooed arms, and old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse, and the way Bob
- McGibbon blew into town with a big dream, and the barber shop—Schultz
- and Schwartz's—and Donovan's soda fountain, and Izzy Bloom and the
- trouble about his boys in the high school, and all his fires, and Mr
- Draine, the Y.M.C.A. secretary that's been in the British Mounted Police
- in Mashonaland—think of it! In Africa—and——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Would you mind'—Humphrey was on an elbow, blinking sleepy eyes—'would
- you mind talking a little more slowly. Good lord! I can't——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right, Hump. Only I'm excited, sorta. You see, it just struck me that
- there's as much romance right here on Simpson Street as there is in
- Kipling's Hills or Bagdad or Paris. Just the way people's lives go. And
- what old Berger's really thinking about when he tells you the vegetables
- were picked yesterday.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey gazed—wider awake now—at the wild figure before him.
- And a thrill stirred his heart. This boy was supposed to be crushed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How much have you done?' he asked soberly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Most finished this first one. It's about old Boice and Charlie Waterhouse
- and Mr Weston——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Gee!' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I call it, <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—see here, you're going to bed, aren't you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes. But listen.' And he began reading aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey waved his arms.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, no! For heaven's sake, go to bed, Hen!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, but—oh, say! Just thought of something!' And he went out,
- chuckling.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey awoke again at eight. Through his open door came a light that was
- not altogether of the sun.
- </p>
- <p>
- The incident of the earlier morning came to him in confused form, like a
- dream.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sprang out of bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- There, still bending over the atlas, was Henry. The sheets of paper lay
- like drifts of snow about him now. His pencil was flying.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked up. His face was white and red in spots now. He was grinning,
- apparently out of sheer happiness.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Say,' he cried, 'listen to this! It's one I call, <i>The Cauliflowers of
- the Caliph</i>. Oh, by the way, I've changed the title of the book to <i>Satraps
- of the Simple</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The whole book'll be sort of imaginary, like that. It's queer. Just as if
- it came to be out of the air. Things I never thought of in my life. Only
- everything I ever knew's going into it. Things I'd forgotten.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen,' said Humphrey, 'are you stark mad?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me? Why—why no, Hump!' The grin was a thought sheepish now. 'But—well,
- Bob McGibbon said we needed stuff for the paper.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How many stories have you written already?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just three.'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>Three!</i> In one night!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But they're short, Hump. I don't believe-they average over two or three
- thousand words. I think they're good. You know, just the way they made me
- feel. Funny idea—Bagdad and Simpson Street, all mixed up together.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'One thing's certain, Hen. You're an extremely surprising youth, but right
- here's where you quit. I don't propose to have a roaring maniac here in
- the rooms. On my hands.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Hump, I can't quit now! You don't understand. It's wonderful. It just
- comes. Like taking dictation.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Dictation is what you're going to take. Right now. From me. Brush up your
- clothes, and pick up all that mess while I dress. We'll go out for some
- breakfast.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not now, Hump! Wait—I promise I'll go out a little later.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'll go now. Get up.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry obeyed. But he nearly fell back again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Gosh!' he murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Stiff, eh?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I should smile. And sorta weak.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No wonder. Come on, now! And I want your promise that after breakfast
- you'll go straight to bed.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump, I can't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This, apparently, was the truth. He couldn't.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stopped in at Jackson's Book Store (formerly B. F. Jones's) and bought
- paper and pencils: Then, in a thrill of fresh importance, he bought
- penholders, large desk blotters, a flannel pen-wiper with a bronze dog
- seated in the centre, a cut-glass inkstand, a ruler, half a dozen pads of
- a better paper, a partly abridged dictionary, Roget's <i>Thesaurus</i>,
- (for years he had casually wondered what a Thesaurus was), a round glass
- paperweight with a gay butterfly imprisoned within, four boxes of wire
- clips, assorted sizes, and, because he saw it, Crabb's <i>Synonyms</i>.
- Then he saw an old copy of <i>The Thousand and One Nights</i> and bought
- that.
- </p>
- <p>
- It seemed to him that he ought to be equipped for his work. Before he went
- out he asked the prices of the better makes of typewriters.
- </p>
- <p>
- And for the first time in two years, he uttered the magic but too often
- fatal words:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just charge it, if you don't mind.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- He was back at the rooms by nine-fifteen. Before the university clock
- boomed out the hour of noon, he had written that elusive, extraordinary
- little classic, <i>A Kerbstone Barmecide</i>, and had jotted down
- suggestive notes for the story that was later to be known as <i>The
- Printer and the Pearls</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- By this time all thoughts of civic reform had faded out. Charlie
- Waterhouse, now that <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i> was done and, in
- a surface sense, forgotten, no longer appeared to him as a crook who
- should be ousted from the local political triumvirate and from town
- office; he was but a bit of ore in the rich lode of human material with
- which Henry's fancy was playing. The important fact about the new
- Waterhouse store-and-office building in South Sunbury, was not that there
- was reason to believe Charlie had built it with town money but that he had
- put a medallion bas-relief of himself in terra cotta in the front wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- Charlie figured, though, unquestionably, in <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- At noon, deciding that he would stroll out after a little and eat a bite,
- Henry stretched out on the lounge. Here he dozed, very lightly for an hour
- or two.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey stole in, found him tossing there, fully dressed, mumbling in his
- sleep, and stole out.
- </p>
- <p>
- But early in the afternoon Henry leaped up. His brain, or his emotions, or
- whatever the source of his ideas, was a glowing, boiling, seething crater
- of tantalising, obscurely associated concepts and scraps of
- characterisation and queerly vivid, half-glimpsed dramatic moments,
- situations, contrasts. They amounted to a force that dragged him on. The
- thought that some bit might escape before he could catch it and get it
- written down kept his pulse racing.
- </p>
- <p>
- At about half-past four he finished that curious fantasy, <i>Roc's Eggs,
- Strictly Fresh</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- This accomplishment brought a respite. He could see his book clearly now.
- The cover, the title page and particularly the final sentence. He knew
- that the concluding story was to be called <i>The Old Man of the Street</i>.
- He printed out this title; printed, too, several titles of others yet to
- be written—<i>Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen</i> and <i>Scheherazade
- in a Livery Stable</i>, and one or two more.
- </p>
- <p>
- His next performance I find particularly interesting in retrospect. During
- the long two years of his extreme self-suppression in the vital matters of
- candy, girls, and charge-accounts, Henry had firmly refused to sing.
- Without a murmur he had foregone the four or five dollars a Sunday he
- could easily have picked up in church quartet work, the occasional sums
- from substituting in this or that male quartet and singing at funerals. It
- was even more extraordinary that he should have given up, as he did, his
- old habit of singing to girls. The only explanation he had ever offered of
- this curious stand was the rather obscure one he gave Humphrey that
- singing was 'too physical.' Whatever the real complex of motives, it had
- been a rather violent, or at least a complete reaction.
- </p>
- <p>
- But now he strode about the room, chin up, chest expanded, brows puckered,
- roaring out scales and other vocalisings in his best voice. The results
- naturally were somewhat disappointing, after the long silence, but he kept
- at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was still roaring, half an hour later, when McGibbon came anxiously in.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Saw Humphrey Weaver down-town,' said the editor of the <i>Gleaner</i>,
- 'and he said I'd better look you up.'
- </p>
- <p>
- An hour later McGibbon—red spots in his cheeks, a nervous glitter in
- his eyes—hurried down to the <i>Gleaner</i> office with the
- pencilled manuscripts of four of the 'Caliph' stories. He was hurrying
- because it seemed to him highly important to get them into type. For one
- thing, something might happen to them—fire, anything. For another,
- it might occur to Henry to sell them to an eastern magazine.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Humphrey came in, just before six, Henry was already well into <i>Scheherazade
- in a Livery Stable</i>, and was chuckling out loud as he wrote.
- </p>
- <p>
- Friday night was press night at the <i>Gleaner</i> office. Henry strolled
- in about ten o'clock and carelessly dropped a thick roll of script on
- McGibbon's desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- That jaded editor leaned back, ran thin fingers through his tousled hair,
- and wearily looked over the dishevelled, yawning, exhausted, grinning
- youth before him. Never in his life had he seen an expression of such
- utter happiness on a human face.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How many stories is this?' he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ten.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Good Lord! That's a whole book!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No—hardly. I've thought of some more. There'll be fifteen or twenty
- altogether. I just thought of one, coming over here. Think I'll call it.
- <i>The Story of the Man from Jerusalem</i>. It's about the life of a
- little Jew storekeeper in a town like this. Struck me all of a sudden—you
- know, how he must feel. I don't think I'll write it to-night—just
- make a few notes so it won't get away from me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Bob McGibbon rose up, put on coat and hat, took, Henry firmly by the arm,
- and marched him, protesting, home.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Now,' he said, 'you go to bed.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure, Bob! What's the matter with you! I'm just going to jot down a few
- notes———'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're going to bed!' said McGibbon.
- </p>
- <p>
- And he stood there, earnest, even grim, until Henry was undressed and
- stretched out peacefully asleep.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry slept until nearly three o'clock Saturday afternoon.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 8
- </h3>
- <p>
- Senator Watt laid down the <i>Gleaner</i>, took off his glasses, removed
- an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and said, in his low, slightly husky
- voice:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A really remarkable piece of work. Quite worthy of Kipling.' The
- nineties, as we have already remarked, belong to Kipling. Outright. He had
- to be mentioned. 'It is fresh, vivid, and remarkably condensed. The author
- produces his effects with a sure swift stroke of the brush.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator rarely spoke. When he did it was always in these measured,
- solid sentences, as if his words might be heard round the world and
- therefore must be chosen with infinite care. After delivering himself of
- this opinion he resumed his 'dry smoke' and reached for the <i>Evening
- Post</i>, which lay folded back to the financial page.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I was sure you would think so,' said Cicely Hamlin, glancing first at the
- Senator then at her aunt. 'I wish you would read it, Aunt Eleanor.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!' remarked that formidable person, planting her own gold-rimmed
- glasses firmly astride her rugged nose just above the point where it bent
- sharply downward, picking up the paper, then lowering it to gaze with a
- hint of habitual, impersonal severity at her niece.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Even so,' she said. 'Suppose the young man has gifts. That will hardly
- make it necessary for you to cultivate him. I gather he's a bad lot.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I have no intention of cultivating him,' replied Cicely, moving toward
- the door, but pausing by the mantel to pat her dark ample hair into place.
- She wore it low on her shapely neck. Cicely was wearing a
- simple-appearing, far from inexpensive blue frock.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Watt read the opening sentence of <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>,
- then lowered the paper again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Are you going out, Cicely?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I expect company here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who is coming?'
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl compressed her lips for an instant, then:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Elberforce Jenkins.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!' said Madame, and raised the paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- An electric bell rang.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely came back into the room; stood by a large bowl of roses; considered
- them.
- </p>
- <p>
- The butler passed through the wide hall. A voice sounded in the distance.
- The butler appeared.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mr Henry Calverly calling,' he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Watt raised her head so abruptly that her glasses fell, brought up
- with a jerk at the end of a thin gold chain, and swung there.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely stood motionless by the roses.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator glanced up, then shifted his cigar and resumed his study of
- the financial page.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You will hardly——' began Madame.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Show him into the drawing-room,' said Cicely with dignity.
- </p>
- <p>
- The butler wavered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as if to settle all such small difficulties, Henry himself appeared
- behind him, smiling naively, eagerly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely hurried forward. Her quick smile came, and the little bob of her
- head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How do you do?' she said brightly. 'Mr Calverly—my aunt, Madame
- Watt! And my uncle, Senator Watt!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Watt arose, deliberately, not without a solid sort of majesty. She
- was a presence; no other such ever appeared in Sunbury. She fixed an
- uncompromising gaze on Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- So uncompromising was it that Cicely covered her embarrassment by moving
- hurriedly toward the drawingroom, with a quick:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come right in here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was no one living on this erratic earth who could have cowed Henry
- on this Saturday evening. A week later, yes. But not to-night. He never
- even suspected that Madame meant to cow him. In such moments as these (and
- there were a good many of them in his life) Henry was incapable of
- perceiving hostility toward himself. The disaster that on Tuesday had
- seemed the end of the world was to-night a hazy memory of another epoch.
- There were few grown or half-grown persons in Sunbury that were not
- thinking on this evening of the meanest scandal in the known history of
- the town and, incidentally, among others involved, of Henry Calverly; but
- Henry himself was of those few.
- </p>
- <p>
- He marched straight on Madame with cordial smile and outstretched hand. He
- wrung the hand of the impassive Senator.
- </p>
- <p>
- That worthy said, now:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I have just read this first of your new series of sketches. Allow me to
- tell you that I think it admirable. In the briefest possible compass you
- have pictured a whole community in its petty relationships, at once tragic
- and comic. There is caustic satire in this sketch, yet I find deep human
- sympathy as well. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.'
- </p>
- <p>
- When, after a rather amazing outpouring of words—the thing didn't
- amount to much; just a rough draft really; he hoped they'd like the next
- one; it was about cauliflowers—he had disappeared into the front
- room, the Senator remarked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The young man makes an excellent impression.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The young man,' remarked Madame, 'is all right.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Half an hour later the noise of the front door opening, and a voice,
- caused the two young people to start up out of a breathless absorption in
- the story called <i>A Kerbstone Barmecide</i>, which Henry was reading
- from long strips of galley proof. He had already finished <i>The
- Cauliflowers of the Caliph</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a moment Cicely's face went blank.
- </p>
- <p>
- The butler announced:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mr Jenkins calling, Miss Cicely.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The one who was not equal to the situation was Elbow. He stood in the
- doorway, staring.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely was only a moment late with her smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, with an open sigh of regret, nodded at his old acquaintance and
- folded up the long strips of galley proof.
- </p>
- <p>
- Elbow came into the room now, and took Cicely's hand. But his small talk
- had gone with his wits. He barely returned Henry's nod. Cicely, nervously
- active, suggested a chair, asked if there was going to be a Country Club
- dance this week, thanked him for the beautiful roses.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then silence fell upon them; an awkward silence, that seemed to announce
- when it set in its intention of making itself increasingly awkward and
- very, very long. It was confirmed as a hopeless silence by the sudden
- little catchings of breath, the slight leaning forward, followed by
- nothing at all—first on the part of Cicely, then of Elbow.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sat still.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once he raised his eyes. They met squarely the eyes of Elbow. For a long
- moment each held the gaze. It was war.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely said now, greatly confused:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know that you sing, Mr Calverly. Please do sing something.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There, now, was an idea! It appealed warmly to Henry. He went straight to
- the piano, twisted up the stool, struck his three chords in turn, and
- plunged into that old song of Samuel's Lover's that has quaint charm when
- delivered with spirit and humour, <i>Kitty of Coleraine</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- After which he sang, <i>Rory O'More</i>. He had spirit and humour aplenty
- to-night.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator came quietly in, bowed to Elbow, and asked for <i>The Low-Back
- Car</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Elbow left.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why did you tell me you hadn't any stories you could bring?' Cicely
- asked, a touch of indignation in her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was so. I didn't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You had these.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. I didn't. That's just it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But you don't mean——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes! Just since I met you!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ten stories, you said. It seems—I can't——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it's true. Three days. And nights, of course. I've been so excited!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I never heard of such a thing! Though, of course, Stevenson wrote <i>Dr
- Jekyll and Mr Hyde</i> in three days. But ten different stories.'... She
- sat quiet, her hands folded in her lap, very thoughtful, flatteringly
- thoughtful. 'It sounds a little like magic.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She was delicately pretty, sitting so still in her big chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I wrote them straight at you,' he said, low, earnest. 'Every word.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Even Henry caught the extreme emphasis of this, and hurried to elaborate.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You see I was just sick Tuesday night. Everything had gone wrong with me.
- And then that horrible story that wasn't true. I knew I shouldn't have
- spoken of it to you, but—well, it was just driving me crazy, and I
- couldn't bear to think you might despise me like the others without ever
- knowing the truth. And... You see I must have felt the inspiration you...
- Even then, I mean...'
- </p>
- <p>
- He was red. He seemed to be getting himself out of breath. And he was
- tugging at the roll of proofs in his pocket.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Shall I—finish—this?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, <i>yes!</i>' She sank into a great leather chair; looked up at him
- with glowing eyes. 'I want you to read me all of them. Please!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She said it almost shyly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry drew up a chair, found his place, and read on. And on. And on.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was victory.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- VII—THE BUBBLE, REPUTATION
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here is nothing
- more unsettling than a sudden uncalculated, incalculable success. It at
- once thrills, depresses, confuses. People attack with the most unexpected
- venom. Others, the most unexpected others, defend with vehemence, One
- feels queerly out of it, yet forlornly conspicuous. As if it were some one
- else, or a dream. Innocent effort dragged to the public arena, quarrelled
- over, misunderstood. One boasts and apologises in a breath; dreads the
- thing will keep up and fears it will stop; finds one day it has stopped
- and ever after thinks back in sentimental retrospect to the good old days,
- the great days, when one did stir them up a bit.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry awoke on this Saturday morning to a sense of trouble that hung
- heavily over him during the walk with Humphrey from the rooms to
- Stanley's. Nothing of the stir reached them here. They were so late that
- the restaurant was about empty. Humphrey did hear a faint, distant voice
- booming, but gave no particular thought to it at the moment. And the
- Stanleys went quietly about their business as usual. Henry, indeed, was
- deep in his personal concern.
- </p>
- <p>
- This found words over the oatmeal. He drew a rumpled paper from his pocket
- and submitted it to his room mate.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Got this last night,' Henry explained moodily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey read the following pencilled communication:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry Calverly, can't you see that your attentions are making it hard for
- a certain young lady? Do you want to injure her reputation along with
- yours? Why don't you do the decent thing and leave town!
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>A Round Robin of People Who Know You</i>.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey pursed his lips over it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's the Mamie Wilcox trouble, of course,' he said finally.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded. His mouth drooped at the corners. There was a shine in his
- eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey folded the paper; handed it back.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you know who did it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shook his head. 'They printed it out. Oh, I can make guesses, of
- course. It's about Cicely Hamlin and me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You can't do anything.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And maybe you're going to be so successful that it won't matter. Laugh at
- 'em.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't believe that, Hump. I can't even imagine it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'At that, it may be jealousy.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've thought of that. Even if it is...' they're partly right. I didn't do
- what they think, but... Don't you see, Hump?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes, I see clearly enough.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've felt it. When I was all stirred up over my work, I went there to
- call. Last Saturday night. Then I got to thinking.' His voice was
- unsteady, but he kept on. Rather doggedly. 'I've stayed away all this
- week. Just worked. You know. You've seen how I've kept at it. Until
- Thursday night. I sorta slipped up then and went around there. She was
- out. And that's all. I've thought I—I've felt... Hump, do you
- believe in love—you know—at first sight?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's long face wrinkled into a rather wry smile, then sobered.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I ought to,' he replied. 'In a way it was like that—with me.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- The first of Henry's meaty, fantastic little stories of the plain folk of
- the village, that one called <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>, had
- appeared in the <i>Gleaner</i> of the preceding Saturday. It had made a
- distinct stir.
- </p>
- <p>
- The second story was out on this the Saturday of our present narrative. In
- the order of writing, and in Henry's plans, it should have been <i>The
- Cauliflowers of the Caliph</i>. But Bob McGibbon, hanging wearily over the
- form in the press room late Friday night, suddenly hit on the notion of
- putting <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i> in its place. He had all but the last
- one or two in type by that time. There were no mechanical difficulties;
- and he didn't consult the author. He could hit Charlie Waterhouse harder
- this way. <i>The Cauliflowers</i> was quietly humorous; while <i>Sinbad
- the Treasurer</i> had a punch. That was how McGibbon put it to the
- foreman, Jimmy Albers. The word 'punch' was fresh slang then. McGibbon
- himself introduced it into Sunbury.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry had Charlie and the town money in the back of his head, of course,
- when he wrote <i>Sinbad</i>. Probably more than he himself knew. McGibbon
- sniffed a sensation in the brief, vivid narrative. And a sensation of some
- sort he had to have. It was now or never with McGibbon.... He was able
- even to chuckle at the way Charlie would froth. He couldn't admit that the
- coat fitted, of course. He would just have to froth. It was Henry's <i>naïveté</i>
- that made the thing so perfect. An older man wouldn't have dared. Henry
- had just naturally rushed in. Yes, it was perfect.
- </p>
- <p>
- Bob McGibbon was a hustler. And his nervous quickness of perception had
- brought him a few small successes and was to bring him larger ones. His
- Sunbury disaster was perhaps later to be charged to education.
- </p>
- <p>
- The roots of that particular failure went deep. From first to last his
- attitude was that of a New Yorker in a small town. He outraged every local
- prejudice; he alienated, one by one, each friendly influence. He couldn't
- understand that any such village as Sunbury resents the outsider who
- insists on pointing out its little human failings. It was recognised here
- and there as possible that old man Boice and Mr Weston of the bank might
- be covering up something in the matter of the genial town treasurer; but
- there was reason enough to believe that Mr Boice and Mr Weston knew pretty
- well what they were about. That, at least, was the rather equivocal
- position into which McGibbon by his very energy and assertiveness, drove
- many a ruffled citizen.
- </p>
- <p>
- And it had needed very little urging on the part of the three leading
- citizens (McGibbon had a trick of referring to them in his paper as 'the
- Old Cinch') to bring about the boycott on the part of the Simpson Street
- and South Sunbury advertisers. As Charlie Waterhouse himself put it:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It ain't what he says about me. I can stand it. Man to man I can attend
- to him. The thing is, he's hurtin' the town. That's it—he's hurtin'
- the town.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- I have spoken of McGibbon's perception. He knew before reading three
- paragraphs that Henry had a touch of genius. Before finishing <i>A
- Kerbstone Barmecide</i> he knew—knew with a mental grasp that was
- pitifully wasted on the petty business of a country weekly—that
- nothing comparable had appeared anywhere in the English-speaking world
- since <i>Plain Tales from the Hills and Soldiers Three</i>. He knew,
- further, what no Sunbury seems ever able to recognise, that it is your
- occasional Henry who, as he mentally put it, 'rings the bell.' A queer
- young man, slightly dudish in dress, unable to fit in any conventional
- job, unable really to fall into step with his generation, blunderingly but
- incorrigibly a non-conformist, a moodily earnest yet absurdly susceptible
- young man, slightly self-conscious, known here and there among those of
- his age as 'sarcastic,' brilliant occasionally, dogged some of the time,
- dreamy and irresponsible the rest, yet with charm. A youth who not
- infrequently was guilty of queer, rather unsocial acts; not of meanness or
- unkindness, rather of an inability to feel with and for others, to fit. A
- youth destined to work out his salvation, if at all, alone.
- </p>
- <p>
- Yes, McGibbon read the signs shrewdly. For which Sunbury owes that erratic
- editor a small debt that remains unpaid and unrecorded to-day. No doubt
- that McGibbon brought him out. Encouraged him, spurred him, held him to
- it.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was tradition in Sunbury that the two weekly papers should come
- decorously into the world each Saturday morning for the first delivery of
- mail. A small pile of each, toward noon was put on sale in Jackson's book
- store (formerly B. F. Jones's). That was all.
- </p>
- <p>
- And that was why McGibbon was able, on this Saturday of our story, to
- shake the town.
- </p>
- <p>
- Poor old Sunbury was shaken heavily and often that summer. First by the
- Mamie Wilcox scandal. The sort of thing that didn't, couldn't happen. Men
- leaving town, and all that. A miserable, hastily contrived marriage.
- Henry's name dragged in, unjustly (as it happened), but convincingly.
- Though Henry always worked best after some sort of a blow. He had to be
- shaken out of himself. I think. It isn't likely that he could or would
- have written <i>Satraps of the Simple</i> if this particular blow hadn't
- fallen. It was a feverish job. He was stung, quivering, helpless. And then
- his great gift functioned.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Madame Watt happened to Sunbury. And shook the village to its roots.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then came Bob McGibbon's last and mightiest effort.
- </p>
- <p>
- When all commuting Sunbury converged on the old red brick 'depot' that
- morning for the seven-eleven and the seven forty-six and the eight-three
- and the eight-twenty-nine, hoarsely bellowing newsboys held the two ends
- of the platform. They wore cotton caps with 'The Weekly Gleaner' printed
- around the front. They were big, deep-throated roughs, the sort that shout
- 'extras' through the cities. They crowded the local newsdealer, little Mr
- Beamer, back into one of the waiting-rooms.
- </p>
- <p>
- They fairly intimidated the town. People bought the <i>Gleaner</i> in
- self-defence, even boarded trains and rode off to Chicago without their
- regular <i>Tribune</i> or <i>Record</i> or <i>Inter Ocean</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Other newsmen roamed the shady, pleasant residence streets, bellowing.
- Housewives, old gentlemen, servants, hurried out to buy.
- </p>
- <p>
- There were posters on the fences, and, along the billboards from Rockwell
- Park on the south to Borea on the north. McGibbon actually rented the
- space from the Northern Billboard Company. And there were newsmen with
- caps, in the afternoon, attacking the North Shore home-comers in the
- Chicago station, the very heart of things. All this—posters
- screaming like the news-men; big wood type, red and black—to
- advertise <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i> and the rest of the long series and
- Henry Calverly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Attack' is the word. McGibbon was assaulting the town and the region as
- it had hardly been assaulted before. If it was his last, it was surely his
- most outrageous act from the local point of view. People talked, boiled,
- raged. The blatancy of the thing irritated them to the point of impotent
- mutterings. They were helpless. McGibbon was breaking no laws. He was
- stirring them, however feverish his condition of mind, with deliberate
- intent. It was his notion of advertising. Reaching the mark, regardless of
- obstacles, indifference, difficulties. And had his personal circumstances
- been less harrowing he could have chuckled happily at the result.
- </p>
- <p>
- The noise fell upon the ear drums of Charlie Waterhouse as he walked
- down-town. A ragged, red-faced pirate thrust a <i>Gleaner</i> into his
- hand, snatched his nickel, and rushed off, bellowing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Charlie began reading <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i> as he walked. He
- finished it standing on the turf by the sidewalk, ignoring passing
- acquaintances, nervously biting and mouthing a cigar that had gone out. In
- the same condition he read bits of it again. He stood for a while,
- wavering; then went back home, and spoke roughly to Mrs Waterhouse when
- she asked him why. He hid the paper from her, to no particular purpose. He
- didn't appear at the town hall all day, but caught a trolley into Chicago
- and went to a dime museum. Later in the day he was seen by two venturesome
- youths sitting alone in the rear of a stage box at Sam T. Jack's.
- </p>
- <p>
- Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the
- <i>Voice</i> office.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, apparently
- buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it all after
- leaving Henry at Stanley's door, and had prowled a bit, taking it in.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Mr Boice simply made little sounds—'Hmm!' and 'mmp!' and 'Hmm!'
- again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his
- face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went
- out.
- </p>
- <p>
- For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director's room at the
- bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly
- bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Thus Boice. 'We'd get the stories that way. Suppress 'em.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he had
- suffered a week back in <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street</i>. Everybody
- within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had caught
- people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new drawn head
- for the <i>Voice</i>, with the phrase 'And <i>The Weekly Gleaner</i>'
- neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in
- Sunbury anyway.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What harm's
- to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get him then.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There was one note. I called that some time ago.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wha'd he do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Paid it. He seems still to have a little something. But he can't last.
- Not without advertising.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But he's selling his paper fast. If he can keep that up maybe he'll begin
- to pick up a little along the street.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Weston was still shaking his head. 'Better wait, Nort.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I'll offer him a few hundred. The old <i>Gleaner</i> plant's worth
- something.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course, there's no harm in that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- So Mr Boice crossed the street to Hemple's market and laboriously lifted
- his great body up the stairway beside it to the quarters of the <i>Gleaner</i>
- upstairs, where a coatless, rumpled, rather wild-eyed McGibbon listened to
- him and then, with suspiciously, alert and smiling politeness, showed him
- out and down again.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- The sensation struck Henry, full face, in the barber shop, Schütz and
- Schwartz's, whither he went from Stanley's. Professor Hennis, of the
- English department at the university, met him at the door and insisted on
- shaking hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'These sketches of yours, Calverly—the two I have read—are
- remarkable. There is a freshness of characterisation that suggests Chaucer
- to me. Sunbury will live to be proud of you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz—fat, exuberant—said, bending
- over him:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?' And added, 'You've got 'em
- excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse'll
- punch your head before night. Says he'll have to. Can't sue very well.'
- </p>
- <p>
- It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing
- that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He
- watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene
- at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up
- window of Murphy's cigar store.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with the
- Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple's corner and up the
- stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon sat alone in the front office—coat off, vest open, longish
- hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes
- strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs stretched
- out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in pockets.
- </p>
- <p>
- He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Great days!' he remarked dryly. 'Gee!' Henry dropped into a chair, laid
- his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. 'Gee! You do know
- how to get'em going!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The cigar waved again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure! Stir'em up! Soak it to'em! Only way.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Everybody's buying it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Rather! You're a hit, son!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I don't know's I'd say that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Rats! You're a knockout. Never been anything like it. Two months of it
- and they'd be throwing your name around in Union Square, N.Y. If we only
- had the two months.' He sighed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why!' Henry, all nerves, caught his expression. 'What's the matter?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We're-out of paper.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You mean to print on?'
- </p>
- <p>
- A nod. 'And we're out of money to buy more.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But with this big sale—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Costing four 'n' one-half times what we take in.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I don't see——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money
- in—whip up your sales—drive, drive, <i>drive!</i> After a
- while it goes of itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're
- rich. That's the way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you,
- and vision! Why, I know stories of the early days of—look here, what
- we need is money. Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If
- we can't get it, and get it quick, well'—he reached deliberately
- forward, picked up a copy of the <i>Gleaner</i> and waved it high—'that—that,
- my son, is the last copy of the <i>Gleaner!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But my stories!' he cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we
- doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in Henry's
- voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're helpless.
- We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You hold my
- note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the plant is
- sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just now. Offered me
- five hundred dollars. Think of it—five hundred for our plant, the
- big press and everything.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wha—wha'd you say?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. Never.
- Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your uncle——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far beyond
- the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on the edge
- of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples drumming, a
- flush spreading down over his cheeks.
- </p>
- <p>
- But even in this condition, thoughts came.
- </p>
- <p>
- One of these—or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a
- sort of instinct—was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch
- of guilty discomfort—hostility came hard, with Henry—yet it
- was distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his
- wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a
- bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense
- gestures.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through—broke!' He
- glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No
- pay-roll—nothing! Nothing for the boys out there—or me—or
- you. I've been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache—'for
- me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not a cent.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but——' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was
- about forty cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was
- considerable.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold of
- that fact? Even a hundred—the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If I
- could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our paper
- stock in time.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry heard his own voice saying:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But don't business men borrow——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn't lend me the rope to hang myself
- with... Hold on there, Hen—'
- </p>
- <p>
- For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the door.
- And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No... No!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He said it on the stairs, where none could hear. He rushed around the
- corner, around the block. Anything to keep off Simpson Street. He had a
- really rather desperate struggle to keep from talking his heart out—aloud—in
- the street—angrily—attacking Boice, Weston, and McGibbon in
- the same breath. His feeling against McGibbon amounted to bitterness now.
- But his feeling against old Boice had risen to the borders of rage. He
- thought of that silent, ponderous old man, sitting at his desk in the
- post-office, like a spider weaving his subtle web about the town, where
- helpless little human flies crawled innocently about their uninspired
- daily tasks.
- </p>
- <p>
- So Mr Boice had offered five hundred for plant, good will, and the
- stories!
- </p>
- <p>
- No mere legal, technical claim on those stories as property, as assets,
- held the slightest interest for Henry. He couldn't understand that. They
- were his. He had created them, made them out of nothing—just a few
- one-cent lead pencils and a lot of copy paper. Bob had snatched them away
- to print them in the <i>Gleaner</i>. But they weren't Bob's.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They're mine!' he said aloud. 'They're mine! Old Boice shan't have them!
- Never!' He caught himself then; looked about sharply, all hot emotion and
- tingling nerves.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- A little later—it was getting on toward noon—he found himself
- on Filbert Avenue approaching Simpson Street. Without plan or guidance, he
- was heading northward, toward the rooms. It would be necessary to cross
- Simpson Street. He was fighting down the impulse to go several blocks to
- the east, toward the lake, where the stores and shops gave place to homes
- and lawns and shade trees, where he could slip across unnoticed; but his
- feet were leading him straight toward the corner of Filbert and Simpson,
- the busiest, most conspicuous corner in town, where were the hotel and
- Berger's grocery and, only a few doors off, Donovan's drug store and
- Swanson's flower shop and Duneen's general store and the <i>Voice</i>
- office. It had come down, the warfare within him, to a question of proving
- to himself that he wasn't a coward, that he could face disaster, even the
- complete disaster that seemed now to be upon him. It was like the end of
- the world.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a pocket his fingers were tightly clasped about the anonymous note that
- had been the cloud over his troubled sleep of the night and his gloomy
- awakening of the morning. The note was now but a detail in the general
- crash. He decided to press on, march straight across Simpson Street, head
- high. He even brought out the note from his pocket; held it in his hand as
- he walked stiffly on. It was a somewhat bitter touch of bravado, but I
- find I like Henry none the less for it.
- </p>
- <p>
- A little way short of the corner, it must be recorded, he faltered. It was
- by Berger's rear door. There was a gate in the fence here, that now stood
- open. Two of the Berger delivery wagons were backed in there. And right by
- the gate Henry Berger himself, his ample person enveloped in a long white
- apron, was opening a crate.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sensed him there; flushed (for it seemed that he could not speak to
- any human being now) and wrestled, in painful impotence of will, with the
- idea of moving on.
- </p>
- <p>
- But then, through a slow moment after Mr Berger said, 'How are you,
- Henry!' he sensed something further; a note of good nature in the voice, a
- feeling that the man was smiling, a suggestion that all the genial quality
- had not, after all, been hardened out of life.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned; pulled at his moustache (paper in hand), and flicked at weeds
- with his stick.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Berger <i>was</i> smiling. He drew his hand across a sweaty brow; shook
- the hand; then leaned on his hatchet.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Getting hot,' he remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry tried to reply, but found himself still inarticulate.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Old Boice is getting after you. Plenty.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry winced; but felt slightly reassured when Mr Berger chuckled. All
- intercourse with Mr Berger was tempered, however, by the memory that Henry
- had been caught, within the decade, stealing fruit from the cases out
- front.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He was just here. Don't mind telling you that he's trying to get
- McGibbon's creditors together and throw him into bankruptcy. Doesn't look
- as if there was enough out against him, though. Got to be five hundred. It
- ain't as if he had a family and was running up bills. Just living alone at
- the Wombasts, like he does. But old Boice is out gunning for fair. Never
- saw him quite like this. First it was the advertising boycott...'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was shifting his weight from foot to foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well,' he said now, 'I guess I'd better be getting along.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I was just going to say, Henry, that you've give me a good laugh. Keep on
- like this and you'll be famous some day.... And say! Hold on a minute! I
- don't know's you're in a position to do anything about it, but I was just
- going to say, I rather guess the old <i>Gleaner</i> could be picked up for
- next to nothing right now. And there's folks here that ain't so anxious to
- see Boice get the market all to hisself. Not so dam anxious.... Wait a
- minute! I mean, I guess once McGibbon was got rid of the Old Boy'd find it
- wouldn't be so easy to hold this boycott together. There's folks that
- would break away—— Well, that's about all that was on my mind.
- Only I'd sorta hate to see your yarns suppressed. They're grand reading,
- Henry. My wife like to 'a' died over that one last week—<i>The
- Sultan of Simpson Street</i>.'
- </p>
- <p>
- '“Caliph!”' said Henry, with a nervous eagerness. '<i>The Caliph of
- Simpson Street</i>.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Touched up old Norton P. for fair. Made him sorer 'n a goat. My wife's
- literary, and she says it's worthy of Poe. And you ought to hear the
- people talking to-day about this new one.'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>Sinbad the Treasurer!</i>' said Henry quickly, fearing another
- misquotation:
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yay-ah. That. Ain't had time to read it yet myself. They say it's great.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—good-bye,' said Henry, and moved stiffly away toward the
- corner.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Funny!' mused the grocer,' looking after him. 'These geniuses never have
- any business sense. I give him a real opening there.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- Simpson Street was always crowded of a Saturday morning with thoughtful
- housewives. The grocers and butchers bustled about. The rows of display
- racks along the sidewalk were heaped with fresh vegetables and fruits.
- </p>
- <p>
- The majority of the shoppers came afoot, but the kerb was lined with
- buggies, surries, neat station wagons and dog-carts, crowded in between
- the delivery wagons. Sunbury boasted, as well, a number of Stanhopes, a
- barouche or two, and several landaus. The Jenkins family, among its
- several members, had a stable full of horses and ponies. William B. Snow
- owned a valuable chestnut team with silver-mounted harness. Here and there
- along the street one might have seen, on this occasion, several vehicles
- that might well have been described as smart.
- </p>
- <p>
- But Sunbury had never seen anything like the equipage that, at a quarter
- to twelve—a little late for selective shopping in those days—came
- rolling smoothly, silently, on its rubber-shod wheels across the tracks
- and past the post-office, Nelson's bakery, the Sunbury National Bank,
- Duneen's and Donovan's to Swanson's flower shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- Never, never had Sunbury seen anything quite like that. Mr Berger,
- hurrying through to the front of his store, stopped short, stared out
- across the street and after a breathless moment breathed the words, 'Holy
- Smoke!' Women stood motionless, holding heads of lettuce, boxes of
- raspberries and what not, and gazed in an amazement that was actually long
- minutes in reaching the normal mental state of critical appraisal.
- </p>
- <p>
- The carriage was a Victoria, hung very low, varnished work glistening
- brilliantly in the sunshine. It was upholstered conspicuously in plum
- colour. The horses were jet black, glossy, perfectly matched, checked up
- so high that the necks arched prettily if uncomfortably; and they had
- docked tails. The harness they wore was mounted with a display of silver
- that made the silver on William B. Snow's team, standing just below
- Donovan's, look outright inconspicuous.
- </p>
- <p>
- Leaning back in luxurious comfort as the carriage came so softly along the
- street, holding up a parasol of black lace, overshadowing her niece,
- pretty little Cicely Hamlin, who sat beside her, Madame Watt, her large
- person dressed with costly simplicity in black with a touch of colour at
- the throat, square of face, with an emphatic chin, a strongly hooked nose,
- penetrating black eyes, surveyed the street with a commanding dignity, an
- assertive dignity, if the phrase may be used. Or it may have been that a
- touch of self-consciousness within her showed through the enveloping
- dignity and made you think about it. Certainly there was a final
- outstanding reason for self-consciousness, even in the case of Madame
- Watt; for on the high box in front visible for blocks above the traffic of
- the street, sat, in wooden perfection as in plum-coloured livery, side by
- side, a coachman and a footman.
- </p>
- <p>
- At Swanson's the footman leaped nimbly down and stood rigid by the step
- while Madame heavily descended and passed across the walk and into the
- shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- The street lifted. Women's tongues moved briskly. Trade was resumed.
- </p>
- <p>
- A pretty girl in the most wonderful carriage ever seen—a new girl,
- at that, bringing a stir of quickened interest to the younger set—is
- a magnet of considerable attracting power. Young people appeared—from
- nowhere, it seemed—and clustered about the carriage. Two couples
- hurried from the soda fountain in Donovan's. The de Casselles boys were
- passing on their way from the Country Club courts (which were still on the
- old grounds, down near the lake) in blazer coats and with expensive
- rackets in wooden presses. Alfred Knight was out collecting for the bank,
- and happened to be near. Mary Ames and Jane Bellman came over from
- Berger's, where Mary was scrutinising cauliflowers with a cool eye.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was at this moment that Henry reached the corner by Berger's, paused,
- hopelessly, confused and torn in the swirl of success and disaster that
- marked this painful day, fighting down that mad impulse to talk out loud
- his resentments in a passionate torrent of words, saw the carriage, the
- girl in it and the crowd about it in one nervous glance, then, suddenly
- pale, lips tightly compressed, moved doggedly forward across the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had nearly reached the opposite kerb—not turning; with the ugly
- little note that was clasped in his left hand, he could not trust himself
- to bow, he felt a miserable sort of relief that the distance might excuse
- his appearing not to see; and there had to be an excuse, or it would look
- to some like cowardice—when an errant summer breeze wandered around
- the corner and seized on his straw hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt it lifting; dropped his stick; reached then after both hat and
- stick and in doing so nearly dropped the paper. In another moment he was
- to be seen, desperately white, stick in one hand, a slip of paper in the
- other, running straight down Simpson Street after his hat, which whirled,
- sailed, rolled, sailed again, circled, and settled in the dust not two
- rods from the Watt carriage. The street, as streets, will, turned to look.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry lunged for the hat. It lifted, and rolled a little way on. He lunged
- again. It whirled over and over, then rolled rapidly straight down the
- street, just missing the hoofs of a delivery horse, passing under Mr
- George F. Smith's buggy without touching either horse or wheels, and
- sailed on.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry fell to one knee in his second plunge. And his pallor gave place to
- a hot flush.
- </p>
- <p>
- Laughter came to his ears—jeering laughter. And it came
- unquestionably from the group about the Watt carriage. The first voices
- were masculine. Before he could get to his feet one or two of the girls
- had joined in. In something near despair of the spirit, helplessly, he
- looked up.
- </p>
- <p>
- The whole group, still laughing, turned away. All, that is, but one.
- Cicely was not laughing. She was leaning a little forward, looking right
- at him, not even smiling, her lips parted slightly. He was too far gone
- even to speculate as to what her expression meant. It fell upon him as the
- final blow. He ran on and on. In front of Hemple's market a boy stopped
- the hat with his foot. Henry, trembling with rage, took it from him,
- muttered a word of thanks, and rushed, followed by curious eyes, around
- the corner to the north.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- Humphrey found him, a little before one, at the rooms, and thought he
- looked ill. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a small
- newspaper clipping. He looked up, through his doorway, saw his friend
- standing in the living-room, mumbled a colourless greeting, and let his
- heavy eyes fall again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's all this?' asked Humphrey, with a rather weary, wrinkly smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry got up then and came slowly into the living-room.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's this,' he explained, in a voice that was husky and light, without
- its usual body. 'This thing. I've had it quite a while.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey read:—
- </p>
- <p>
- Positively No Commission HEIRS CAN BORROW On or sell their individual
- estate, income or future inheritance; lowest rates; strictly confidential
- Heirs' Loan Office.
- </p>
- <p>
- And an address.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What on earth are you doing with this, Hen?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, Hump, there's still a little more'n three thousand dollars in my
- legacy. I got a thousand this summer, you know, and lent it to McGibbon
- for my interest in the paper. But my uncle said he wouldn't give me a cent
- more until I'm twenty-one, in November. And so I was wondering... Look
- here! How much do you suppose I could get out of it from these people.
- They're all right, you see?
- </p>
- <p>
- They've got a regular office and——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd just about get out with your underwear and shoes, Hen. They might
- leave you a necktie. What do you want it for—throw it in after the
- thousand?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, McGibbon's broke——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I know. They're saying on the street that Boice has got the <i>Gleaner</i>
- already. Two compositors and your foreman were in our place half an hour
- ago asking for work. Boice went right down there. I saw him start climbing
- the stairs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's his second trip this morning, then, Hump. He offered Bob five
- hundred.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it ought to be worth a few thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure. And except for there not being any money it's going great. You'd be
- surprised! You know it's often that way. Bob says many a promising
- business has gone under just because they didn't have the money to tide it
- over a tight place. But he's getting the circulation. You've no idea! And
- when you get that you're bound to get the advertisers. Sooner or later.
- Bob says they just have to fall in line.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey appeared to be only half listening to this eager little torrent
- of words. He deliberately filled his pipe; then moved over to a window and
- gazed soberly out at the back yard of the parsonage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, moody again, was staring at the advertisement, fairly hypnotising
- himself with it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Great to think of the Old Man having to climb those stairs twice,'
- Humphrey remarked, without turning. Then: 'Even with all the trouble
- you're going through, Hen, you're lucky not to be working for Boice. He
- does wear on one.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He smoked the pipe out. Then, brow's knit, his long swarthy face wrinkled
- deeply with thought, he walked slowly over to the door of his own bedroom
- and leaned there, studying the interior.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There's three thousand dollars' worth of books in here,' he remarked. 'Or
- close to it. Even at second hand they'd fetch something. You see, it's
- really a well built, pretty complete little scientific library. Now come
- downstairs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He had to say it again: 'Come on downstairs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry followed, then; hardly aware of the oddity of Humphrey's actions.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the half-light that sifted dustily in through the high windows, the
- metal lathes, large and small, the tool benches, the two large reels of
- piano wire, the rows of wall boxes filled with machine jars, the round
- objects that might have been electric motors hanging by twisted strings or
- wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels of various sizes
- mounted in frames, some with wooden handles at one side, the big box kites
- and the wood-and-silk planes stacked at one end of the room, the gas
- engine mounted at the other end, the water motor in a corner, the wheels,
- shafts and belting overhead—all were indistinct, ghostly. And all
- were covered with dust.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'See!' Humphrey waved his pipe. 'I've done no work here for six weeks. And
- I shan't do any for a good while. I can't. It takes leisure—long-evenings—Sundays
- when you aren't disturbed by a soul. And at that it means years and years,
- working as I've had to. You know, getting out the <i>Voice</i> every week.
- You know how it's been with me, Hen. People are going to fly some day,
- Hen. As sure as we're walking now. Pretty soon. Chanute—Langley—they
- know! Those are Chanute gliders over there. By the kites. I've never told
- you; I've worked with 'em, moonlight nights, from the sand-dunes away up
- the beach. I've got some locked in an old boat-house up there, Hen'—he
- stood, very tall, a reminiscent, almost eager light in eyes that had been
- dull of late, a gaunt strong hand resting affectionately on a gyroscope—'I've
- flown over six hundred feet! Myself! Gliding, of course. Got an awful
- ducking, but I did it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it takes money, Hen. I've thought I could be an inventor and do my
- job besides. Maybe I could. Maybe some day I'll succeed at it. But I've
- just come to see what it needs. Material, workmen, time—Hen, you've
- got to have a real shop and a real pay-roll to do it right. And...
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I'm not telling you the truth, Hen! Not the real truth!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He took to walking around now, making angular gestures. Henry, watching
- him, coming slowly alive now to the complex life that was flowing around
- him, found himself confronted by a new, disturbed Humphrey. He had, during
- the year and more of their friendship, taken him for granted as an older,
- steadier influence, had leaned on him more than he knew. He had been a
- rock for the erratic Henry to cling to in the confusing, unstable swirl of
- life.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen'—Humphrey turned on him—'you don't know, but I'm going to
- be married.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's jaw sagged.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's Mildred, of course.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's going to be hard on the little woman, Hen. She's got to get her
- divorce. She can't take money from her husband, of course; and she's only
- got a little. She'll need me.' His voice grew a thought unsteady; he waved
- his pipe, as if to indicate and explain the machinery. 'We've got to
- strike out—take the plunge—you know, make a little money. It's
- occurred to me... This machinery's worth more than the library, in a
- pinch. And I've got two bonds left. Just two. They're money, of
- course...... Hen, you said you <i>lent</i> that thousand to McGibbon?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded. 'He gave me his note.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Let's see it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry ran up the stairs, and returned with a pasteboard box file, which,
- not without a momentary touch of pride in his quite new business sense, he
- handed to his friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey glanced at the carefully printed-out phrase on the back—'Henry
- Calverly, 3rd. Business Affairs'—but did not smile. He opened it and
- ran through the indexed leaves. It appeared to be empty.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look under “Me,”' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- The note was there. 'For three months,' Humphrey mused aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he smiled. There was a whimsical touch in Humphrey that his few
- friends knew and loved. Even in this serious crisis it did not desert him.
- I believe it was even stronger then.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hen,' he said, 'got a quarter?'
- </p>
- <p>
- The smile seemed to restore the rock that Henry had lately clung to. He
- found himself returning the smile, faintly but with a growing warmth. He
- replied, 'Just about.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Match me!' cried Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What for?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'To settle a very important point. Somebody's name has got to come first.
- Best two out of three.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But I don't——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Match me! No—it's mine!... Now I'll match you—mine again! I
- win. Well—that's settled!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's settled? I don't——-'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey sat on a tool bench; swung his legs; grinned. 'Life moves on,
- Hen,' he said. 'It's a dramatic old world.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And Henry, puzzled, looking at him, laughed excitedly.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 8
- </h3>
- <p>
- It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Simpson Street was quiet after the
- brisk business of the morning. The air quivered up from the pavement in
- the still heat. The occasional people about the street moved slowly. The
- collars of the few visible tradesmen were soft rags around their necks and
- they mopped red faces with saturated handkerchiefs. The morning breeze had
- died; the afternoon breeze would drift in at four o'clock or so; until
- which time Sunbury ladies took their naps and Sunbury business men dozed
- at their desks. Saturday closing had not made much headway at this period,
- though the still novel game of golf was beginning to work its mighty
- change in small-town life.
- </p>
- <p>
- Through this calm scene, absorbed in their affairs, unaware of the heat,
- strode Humphrey and Henry—down past the long hotel veranda, where
- the yellow rocking chairs stood in endless empty rows, past Swanson's and
- Donovan's and Jackson's book store to the meat market and then, rapidly,
- up the long stairway.
- </p>
- <p>
- They found McGibbon with his long legs stretched out under his desk, hands
- deep in pockets, thin face lined and weary, but eyes nervously bright as
- always. He was in his shirt-sleeves, of course. His drab brown hair seemed
- a little longer and even more ragged than usual where it met his wilted
- collar.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he grinned at them, and waved a long hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'My God!' he cried, 'but it's good to see a human face. Look!' His hand
- swept around, indicating the dusty, deserted desks and the open press-room
- door. It was still out there; not a man hummed or whistled as he clicked
- type into his stick, not one of the four job presses rumbled out its
- cheerful drone of industry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Rats all gone!' McGibbon added. 'But the Caliph was up again.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' Henry, who found himself suddenly and deeply moved, breathed
- softly, 'we know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Came up a hundred. He'll pay six hundred now. For all this. An actual
- investment of more'n four thousand.' The hand waved again. 'It's amusing.
- He doesn't know I'm on to him. You see the old fox's been nosing around to
- get up a petition to throw me into involuntary bankruptcy, but he can't
- find any creditors. Has to be five hundred dollars, you know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What did you say to him?' asked Humphrey, thoughtfully.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Showed him out. Second time to-day. It was a hard climb for him, too. He
- did puff some.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey slowly drew a large envelope from an inner pocket and laid it on
- the table at his elbow.
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon eyed it alertly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Here!' he said, his hand moving up toward the row of four or five cigars
- that projected from a vest pocket, 'smoke up, you fellows.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shook his head. Humphrey drew out his pipe; then raised his head,
- and said quietly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen!'
- </p>
- <p>
- There came the unmistakable sound of heavy feet on the stairs. Steadily,
- step by step, a slowly moving body mounted.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, framed in the doorway, stood the huge bulk of Norton P. Boice,
- breathless, red, and wet of face, his old straw hat pushed back, his
- yellowish-white, wavy beard covering his necktie and the upper part of his
- roundly protruding, slightly spotted vest, against which the heavy watch
- chain with its dangling fraternal insignia stood out prominently.
- </p>
- <p>
- Boice's eyes, nearly expressionless, finally settled on Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What are you doing here?' he asked, between puffs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's only reply was a slight impatient gesture.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You oughta be at your desk.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he came into the room. Of the three men seated there Humphrey was the
- only one who knew by certain small external signs, that the Caliph of
- Simpson Street was blazing with wrath. For here was his own hired
- lieutenant hobnobbing with the boy whose agile, irresponsible pen had made
- him the laughing stock of the township and with the intemperate rival who
- had first attacked and then defied him. And then he had just climbed the
- stairs for the third and what he meant to be the last time.
- </p>
- <p>
- He came straight to business.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Have you decided to accept my offer?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sit down,' said McGibbon, pushing a chair over with his foot.
- </p>
- <p>
- Boice ignored this final bit of insolence.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Have you decided to accept my offer?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well'—McGibbon shrugged; spread out his hands—'I've decided
- nothing, but as it looks now I may find myself forced to accept it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then I suggest that you accept it now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well——' the hands went out again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait a moment,' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I think you had better go back to the office,' Boice broke in.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Shortly. I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch, Mr Boice. But
- first I have business here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>You</i> have business!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.' Humphrey opened the large envelope. 'Here, McGibbon, is your note
- to Henry for one thousand dollars, due in November.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Before their eyes, deliberately, he tore it up, leaned over McGibbon's
- legs with an, 'I beg your pardon!' and dropped the pieces in the
- waste-basket. Next he produced a folded document engraved in green and red
- ink. 'Here,' he concluded, 'is a four per cent, railway bond that stands
- to-day at a hundred two and a quarter in the market. That's our price for
- the <i>Gleaner</i>.'
- </p>
- <p>
- McGibbon's nervous eyes followed the movements of Humphrey's hands as if
- fascinated. During the hush that followed he sat motionless, chin on
- breast. Then, slowly, he drew in his legs, straightened up, reached for
- the bond, turned it over, opened it and ran his eye over the coupons,
- looked up and remarked:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The paper's yours.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then, Mr Boice,' said Humphrey, 'the next issue of the <i>Gleaner</i>
- will be published by Weaver and Calverly, and the stories you object to
- will run their course.'
- </p>
- <p>
- But Mr Boice, creaking deliberately over the floor, was just disappearing
- through the doorway.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 9
- </h3>
- <p>
- The sunlight was streaming in through the living-room of the barn back of
- the old Parmenter place. Outside the maple leaves were rustling gently.
- Through the quiet air came the slow booming of the First Presbyterian bell
- across the block. From greater distances came the higher pitched bell of
- the Baptist Church, down on Filbert Avenue, and the faint note from the
- Second Presbyterian over on the West Side, across the tracks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey had made coffee and toast. They sat at an end of the centre
- table. Humphrey in bath-robe and slippers, Henry fully dressed in his blue
- serge suit, neat silk four-in-hand tie, stiff white collar and carefully
- polished shoes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where are you going with all that?' Humphrey asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry hesitated; flushed a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'To church,' he finally replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's surprise was real. There had been a time, before they came to
- know each other, when the boy had sung bass in the quartet at the Second
- Presbyterian. But since that period he had not been a church-goer. Henry
- had been quiet all evening, and now this morning. He seemed all boxed up
- within himself. Preoccupied. As if the triumph over old Boice had merely
- opened up the way to new responsibilities. Which, for that matter, was
- just what it had done—done to both of them. Humphrey, not being
- given to prying, would have let the subject drop here, had not Henry
- surprised him by breaking hotly forth into words.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's my big fight, Hump!' he was saying now. 'Don't you see! This town.
- All they say. Look here!' He laid a rumpled bit of paper on the table. As
- if he had been holding it ready in his hand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, that letter,' said Humphrey.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. It's what I've got to fight. And I've got to win. Don't you see?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' Humphrey replied gravely, 'I see.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I think,' said Henry, 'it's being in love that's going to help me. We've
- got to hold our heads up, you and I. Build the <i>Gleaner</i> into a real
- property. Win confidence. And there mustn't be any doubt. The way we step
- out and fight, you know. I've got to stand with you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's eyes strayed to the sunlit window. He suppressed a little sigh.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This note's right enough, in a way,' Henry went on. 'It wouldn't be fair
- to compromise her.' He leaned earnestly over the table. 'It's really a
- hopeless love. I know that, Hump. But it isn't like the others.' It makes
- me feel ashamed of them. All of them. I've got to show her, or at least
- show myself, that it's this love that has made a man of me. Without asking
- anything, you know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey listened in silence as the talk ran on. The boy was changing, no
- question about that. Even back of the romantic strain that was colouring
- his attitude, the suggestion of pose in it, there was real evidence of
- this change. At least his fighting blood was up. And he was taking
- punishment.
- </p>
- <p>
- Sitting there sipping his coffee, Humphrey, half listening, soberly
- considered his younger friend. Henry was distinctly odd, a square peg in a
- round world. He was capable of curiously outrageous acts, yet most of them
- seemed to arise from a downright inability to sense the common attitude,
- to feel with his fellows. He could be heedless, neglectful, self-centred;
- but Humphrey had never found meanness or unkindness in him. And he was
- capable of a passionate generosity. He had, indeed, for Humphrey, the
- fascination that an erratic and ingenuous but gifted person often exerts
- on older, steadier natures. You could be angry at him; but you couldn't
- get over the feeling that you had to take care of him. And it always
- seemed, even when he was out and out exasperating, that the thing that was
- the matter with him was the very quality that underlay his astonishing
- gifts; that he was really different from others; the difference ran all
- through, from his unexpected, rather self-centred ways of acting and
- reacting clear up to the fact that he could write what other people
- couldn't write. 'If they could,' thought Humphrey now, shrewdly, 'very
- likely they'd be different too.' Take this business of dressing up like a
- born suburbanite and going to church. It was something of a romantic
- gesture, But that wasn't all it was. The fight was real, whatever
- unexpected things it might lead him to do from day to day.
- </p>
- <p>
- Herbert de Casselles, wooden-faced, dressed impeccably in frock coat,
- heavy 'Ascot' tie, gray striped trousers perfectly creased, (Henry had
- never owned a frock coat) ushered him half-way down the long aisle to a
- seat in Mrs Ellen F. Wilson's pew. He felt eyes on him as he walked,
- imagined whispers, and set his face doggedly against them all. He had set
- out in a sort of fervor; but now the thing was harder to do than he had
- imagined. The people looked cold and hostile. It was to be a long fight.
- He might never win. The more successful he might come to be, the more some
- of them would hate him and fight him down... It was queer, Herb de
- Casselles ushering him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The organist slid on to his seat, up in the organ loft behind the pulpit;
- spread out his music and turned up the corners; pulled and pushed on stops
- and couplers; glanced up into his narrow mirror; adjusted his tie; fussed
- again with the stops; began to play.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sat up stiffly, even boldly, and looked about. Across the church, in
- a pew near the front, sat the Watts: the Senator, on the aisle, looking
- curiously insignificant with his meek, red face and his little, slightly
- askew chin beard; Madame Watt sitting wide and high over him, like a stout
- hawk, chin up, nose down, beady eyes fixed firmly on the pulpit; Cicely
- Hamlin almost fragile beside her, eyes downcast—or was she looking
- at the hymns?
- </p>
- <p>
- When Cicely was talking, with her nervous eagerness, her quick smile, her
- almost Frenchy gestures, she seemed gay. When in repose, as now, her
- delicate sensitiveness, her slightly sad expression, were evident, even to
- Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- Made him feel in the closing scene of <i>The Prisoner of Zenda</i>, where
- he was bidding the Princess who could never be his a last farewell; the
- mere sight of her thrilled him with a deep romantic sorrow.
- </p>
- <p>
- Through the prayers, the announcements, the choir numbers and collection,
- his sacrificial mood grew more and more intense. It was something of a
- question whether he could hide his emotion before all these hostile
- people. The long fight ahead to rebuild his name in the village loomed
- larger and larger, began to take on an aspect that was almost terrifying.
- For the first time to-day he felt weakness but she made him feel something
- as Sothem had made in his heart. He sat very quiet, hands clenched on his
- knees, and unconsciously thrust out his chin a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- When the doxology was sung and his head was bowed for the benediction, he
- had to struggle with a mad impulse to rush out, run down the aisle while
- people were picking up their hats and things. The thing to do, of course,
- was to take his time, be natural, move out with the rest. This he did,
- blazing with self-consciousness, his chin forward.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was difficult. Several persons—older persons, who had known his
- mother—stopped him and congratulated him on the brilliant work he
- was doing. This in the midst of the unuttered hostility that seemed like
- hundreds of little barbed darts penetrating his skin from every side. He
- could only blush and mumble. Elderly, innocent Mrs Bedford of Filbert
- Avenue actually introduced him to her nieces from Boston as a young man of
- whom all Sunbury was proud. He had to blush and mumble here for a long
- time, while the line of people crowded decorously past.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last he got to the door. Stiffly raising his hat as one or two groups
- of young people recognised him, he moved out to the sidewalk. There he
- raised his eyes. They met, for a fleeting instant, but squarely, over Herb
- de Casselles' shoulder, the dark eyes of Cicely Hamlin.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was sitting on the little forward seat in the black-and-plum Victoria.
- Madame Watt was settling herself in the back seat. The Senator was
- stepping in. The plum-coloured footman stood stiffly by. The plum-coloured
- driver sat stiffly on the box.
- </p>
- <p>
- Herb de Casselles turned, with a wry smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry raised his hat, bit his lip, hesitated, hurried on.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he heard her voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Mr Calverly!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He had to turn back. He knew he was fiery red. He knew, too, that in this
- state of tortured bewilderment he couldn't trust his tongue for a moment.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely leaned out, with outstretched hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had to take it. The thrill the momentary touch of it gave, him but
- added a wrench to the torture. Then the Senator's hand had to be taken;
- finally Madame's.
- </p>
- <p>
- His pulse was racing; pounding at his temples. What did all this mean!
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely, her own colour up a little, speaking quickly, her face lighting
- up, her hands moving, cried:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Mr Calverly! We heard this morning that the <i>Gleaner</i> has failed
- and that Mr Boice has it and we aren't to see your stories any more.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said Henry, a faint touch of assurance appearing in his heart, mind,
- voice, 'that isn't so. Mr Boice hasn't got it. We've got it—Humphrey
- Weaver and I.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You mean you have purchased it?' This from the Senator.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yay-ah, We bought it yesterday.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No!' cried Cicely. 'Really?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yay-ah. We bought it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then,' commented the Senator, 'you must permit me indeed to congratulate
- you. It is unusual to find business acumen and enterprise combined with
- such a literary talent as yours.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This was pleasing, if stilted. It was beginning to be possible for Henry
- to smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Cicely clinched matters.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You promised to come and read me the others, Mr Calverly. Oh, but you
- did! You must come. Really! Let me see—I know I shall be at home
- to-morrow evening.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, for a moment, Cicely seemed to falter. She turned questioningly to
- her aunt.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Watt certainly knew the situation. She had heard Henry discussed in
- relation to the Mamie Wilcox incident. She knew how high feeling was
- running in the village. Just what her motives were, I cannot say. Perhaps
- it was her tendency to make her own decisions and if possible to make
- different decisions from those of the folk about her. The instinct to
- stand out aggressively in all matters was strong within her. And she liked
- Henry. The flare of extreme individuality in him probably reached her and
- touched a curiously different strain of extreme individuality within
- herself. She hated sheep. Henry was not a sheep.
- </p>
- <p>
- As for Cicely's part of it, I know she had been thrilled when Henry read
- her the first ten stories. She had read more than the Sunbury girls; and
- she saw more in his oddities than they were capable of seeing. To fail in
- any degree to conform to the prevailing customs and thought was to be
- ridiculous in Sunbury. But she had no more forgotten the jeers that had
- followed Henry from this very carriage as he chased his hat down Simpson
- Street the preceding day than had Henry himself. Nor had she forgotten
- that Herbert de Casselles had been one of that unkind group. And as she
- certainly knew what she was about, despite her impulsiveness, I prefer to
- think that her action was deliberately kind and deliberately brave.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come to dinner,' said Madame Watt shortly but with a sort of rough
- cordiality. 'Seven o'clock. To-morrow evening. Informal dress. All right,
- Watson.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely settled back, her eyes bright; but gave Henry only the same
- suddenly impersonal little nod of good-bye that she gave Herbert de
- Casselles.
- </p>
- <p>
- The footman leaped to the box. The remarkable carriage rolled luxuriously
- away on its rubber tyres.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry turned, grinning in foolish happiness, on the young man in the frock
- coat who had not been asked to dinner.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Walking up toward Simpson, Herb?' he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me—why—no, I'm going this way.' And Herb pointed hurriedly
- southward.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—so long!' said Henry, and headed northward.
- </p>
- <p>
- The warm sunlight filtered down through the dense foliage. Birds twittered
- up there. The church procession moving slowly along was brightly dressed;
- pleasant to see. Henry, head up, light of foot, smiling easily when this
- or that person, after a moment's hesitation, bowed to him, listened to the
- birds, expanded his chest in answer to the mellowing sunshine, and gave
- way, with a fresh little thrill, to the thought:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I must buy a frock coat for to-morrow night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- VIII—THIS BUD OF LOVE
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was mid-August
- and twenty minutes to eight in the evening. The double rows of maples
- threw spreading shadows over the pavement, sidewalk and lawns of Hazel
- Avenue. From dim houses, set far back amid trees and shrubs, giving a homy
- village quality to the darkness, came through screened doors and curtained
- 'bay' windows the yellow glow of oil lamps and the whiter shine of
- electric lights. Here and there a porch light softly illuminated a group
- of young people; their chatter and laughter, with perhaps a snatch of
- song, floating pleasantly out on the soft evening air. Around on a side
- street, sounding faintly, a youthful banjoist with soft fingers and
- inadequate technique was struggling with <i>The March Past</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- Moving in a curious, rather jerky manner along the street, now walking
- swiftly, nervously, now hesitating, even stopping, in some shadowy spot,
- came a youth of twenty (going on twenty-one). He wore—though all
- these details were hardly distinguishable even in the patches of light at
- the street corners, where arc lamps sputtered whitely—neatly pressed
- white trousers, a 'sack' coat of blue serge, a five-dollar straw hat, silk
- socks of a pattern and a silken 'four-in-hand' tie. He carried a cane of
- thin bamboo that he whipped and flicked at the grass and rattled lightly
- along the occasional picket fence except when he was fussing at the light
- growth on his upper lip. Under his left arm was a square package that any
- girl of Sunbury would have recognised instantly, even in the shadows, as a
- two-pound box of Devoe's chocolates.
- </p>
- <p>
- If you had chanced to be a resident of Sunbury at this period you would
- have known that the youth was Henry Calverly, 3rd. Though you might have
- had no means of knowing that he was about to 'call' on Cicely Hamlin. Or,
- except perhaps from his somewhat spasmodic locomotion, that he was in a
- state of considerable nervous excitement.
- </p>
- <p>
- Not that Henry hadn't called on many girls in his day. He had. But he had
- called only once before on Cicely (the other time had been that invitation
- to dinner for which her aunt was really responsible) and had then, in a
- burning glow of temperament, read her his stories!
- </p>
- <p>
- How he had read! And read! And read! Until midnight and after. She had
- been enthusiastic, too.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he wasn't in a glow now. Certain small incidents had lately brought
- him to the belief that Cicely Hamlin lacked the pairing-off instinct so
- common among the young of Sunbury. She had been extra nice to him; true.
- But the fact stood that she was not 'going with' him. Not in the Sunbury
- sense of the phrase. A baffling, disturbing aura of impersonally pleasant
- feeling held him at a distance.
- </p>
- <p>
- So he was just a young fellow setting forth, with chocolates, to call on a
- girl. A girl who could be extra nice to you and then go out of her way to
- maintain pleasant acquaintance with the others, your rivals, your enemies.
- Almost as if she felt she had been a little too nice and wished to strike
- a balance; at least he had thought of that. A girl who had been reared
- strangely in foreign convents; who didn't know <i>The Spanish Cavalier</i>
- or <i>Seeing Nellie Home</i> or <i>Solomon Levi</i>, yet did know,
- strangely, that the principal theme in Dvorak's extremely new 'New World'
- symphony was derived from <i>Swing Low, Sweet Chariot</i> (which
- illuminating fact had stirred Henry to buy, regardless, the complete piano
- score of that symphony and struggle to pick out the themes on Humphrey's
- piano at the rooms). A girl who had never seen De Wolf Hopper in <i>Wang</i>,
- or the Bostonians in <i>Robin Hood</i>, or Sothem in The Prisoner of
- Zenda, or Maude Adams or Ethel Barrymore or <i>anything</i>. A girl who
- had none of the direct, free and easy ways of the village young; you
- couldn't have started a rough-house with her—mussed her hair, or
- galloped her in the two-step. A girl who wasn't stuck up, or anything like
- that, who seemed actually shy at times, yet subtly repressed you, made you
- wish you could talk like the fellow's that had gone to Harvard.
- </p>
- <p>
- In view of these rather remarkable facts I think it really was a tribute
- to Cicely Hamlin that the many discussions of her as a conspicuous
- addition to the youngest set had boiled down to the single descriptive
- adjective, 'tactful.' Though the characterisation seems not altogether
- happy; for the word, to me, connotes something of conscious skill and
- management—as my Crabb put it: 'TACTFUL. See Diplomatic'—and
- Cicely was not, certainly not in those days, a manager.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, muttered softly, as he walked.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll hand it to her when she comes in.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, she'll shake hands and it might get in the way.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Put it on the table—that's the thing!—on a corner where
- she'll see it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then some time when we can't think of anything to talk about, I'll say—“Thought
- you might like a few chocolates.” Sorta offhand. Prevent there being a
- lull in the conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Better begin calling her Cicely.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why not? Shucks! Can't go on with “You” and “Say!” Why can't I just do it
- naturally? The way Herb would, or Elbow, or those fellows.
- </p>
- <p>
- '“How'd' you do, Cicely! Come on, let's take a walk.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. “Good-evening, Cicely. I thought maybe you'd like to take a walk.
- There's a moonrise over the lake about half-past eight.” That's better.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wonder if Herb'll be there. He'd hardly think to come so early, though.
- Be all right if I can get her away from the house by eight.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He paused, held up his watch to the light from the corner, then rushed on.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Maybe she'd ask me to sit him out, anyway.'
- </p>
- <p>
- But his lips clamped shut on this. It was just the sort of thing Cicely
- wouldn't do. He knew it.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What if she won't go out!'
- </p>
- <p>
- This sudden thought brought bitterness. A snicker had run its course about
- town—in his eager self-absorption he had wholly forgotten—when
- Alfred Knight, confident in an engagement to call, had hired a horse and
- buggy at McAllister's. The matter of an evening drive <i>a deux</i> had
- been referred to Cicely's aunt. As a result the horse had stood hitched
- outside more than two hours only to be driven back to the livery, stable
- by the gloomy Al.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Shucks, though! Al's a fish! Don't blame her!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked stiffly in among the trees and shrubs of the old Dexter Smith
- place and mounted the rather imposing front steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- That purchase of the Dexter Smith place was typical of Madame Watt at the
- time. She was riding high. She had money. Two acres of lawn, fine old
- trees, a great square house of Milwaukee brick, high spacious rooms with
- elaborately moulded plaster ceilings and a built-on conservatory and a
- barn that you could keep half a dozen carriages in! It was one of only
- four or five houses in Sunbury that the <i>Voice</i> and the <i>Gleaner</i>
- rejoiced to call 'mansions.' And it was the only one that could have been
- bought. The William B. Snows, like the Jenkinses and the de Casselles (I
- don't know if it has been explained before that the accepted local
- pronunciation was Dekasells,) lived in theirs. And even after the elder
- Dexter Smith died Mrs Smith would hardly have sold the place if the
- children hadn't nagged her into it. Young Dex wanted to go to New York.
- And at that it was understood that Madame Watt paid two prices.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- A uniformed butler showed Henry into the room that he would have called
- the front parlour. Though there was another much like it across the wide
- hall. There was a 'back parlour,' with portières between. Out there, he
- knew, between centre table and fireplace, the Senator and Madame might
- even now be sitting.
- </p>
- <p>
- He listened, on the edge of a huge plush and walnut chair, for the rustle
- of the Senator's paper, or Madame's deep, always startling voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was no sound. Save that somewhere upstairs, far off, a door opened;
- then footsteps very faint. And silence again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry looked, fighting down misgivings, at the heavily framed oil
- paintings on the wall. One, of a life-boat going out through mountainous
- waves to a wreck, he had always heard was remarkably fine. Fastened over
- the bow of the boat was a bit of real rope that had provoked critical
- controversy when the picture was first exhibited in Chicago.
- </p>
- <p>
- He glanced down, discovered the box of chocolates on his knees, and
- hurriedly placed it on the corner of the inevitable centre table. Then he
- fussed nervously with his moustache; adjusted his tie, wondering if the
- stick pin should be higher; pulled down his cuffs; and sat up stiffly
- again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Maybe she ain't home,' he thought weakly. 'That fella said he'd see.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Maybe I oughta've asked if she'd be in.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The silence deepened, spread, settled about him. He wished she would come
- down. There was danger, he knew, that his few painfully thought-out
- conversational openings would leave him. He would be an embarrassed, quite
- speechless young man. For he was as capable, even now, at twenty, almost
- at twenty-one, of speechlessness as of volubility. Either might happen to
- him, at any moment, from the smallest, least foreseeable of causes.
- </p>
- <p>
- And there was something oppressive about the stillness of this cavernous
- old house with its sound-proof partitions and its distances. And that
- silent machine of a butler. It wasn't like calling at Martha Caldwell's,
- in the old days, where you could hear the Swedish cook crashing around in
- the kitchen and Martha moving around upstairs before she came down. Here
- you wouldn't so much as know there was a kitchen.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, suddenly, sharp as a blow out of the stillness came a series of
- sounds that froze the marrow in his bones, made him rigid on the edge of
- that plush chair, his lips parted, his eyes staring, wrestling with an
- impulse to dash out of the house; with another impulse to cough, or shout,
- or play the piano, in some mad way to announce himself, yet continuing to
- sit like a carved idol, in the grip of a paralysis of the faculties.
- </p>
- <p>
- There is nothing more painful to the young than the occasional discovery,
- through the mask of social reticence, that the old have their weak or
- violent moments.
- </p>
- <p>
- Gossip, yes! But gossip rests lightly and briefly in young ears. Henry had
- heard the Watts slyly ridiculed. There were whispers, of course. Madame's
- career as a French countess—well, naturally Sunbury wondered. And
- the long obscurity from which she had rescued Senator Watt raised
- questions about that very quiet little man. So often men in political life
- were tempted off the primly beaten track. And Henry, like the other young
- people, had grinned in awed delight over the tale that Madame swore at her
- servants. That was before he had so much as spoken to her niece. And it
- had little or no effect on his attitude toward Madame herself when he met
- her. She had at once taken her place in the compartment of his thoughts
- reserved from earliest memory for his elders, whose word was (at least in
- honest theory) law and to whom one looked up with diffidence and a genuine
- if somewhat automatic respect.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first of the disturbing sounds was Madame's voice, far-off but ringing
- strong. Then a door opened—it must have been the dining-room door;
- not the wide one that opened into the great front hall, but the other, at
- the farther end of the 'back parlour.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a brief lull. A voice could be heard, though—a man's
- voice, low-pitched, deprecatory.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Madame's again. And stranger noises. The man's voice cried out in
- quick protest; there was a rustle and then a crash like breaking china.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator, hurrying a little, yet with a sort of dignity, walked out
- into the hall. Henry could see him, first between the portières as he left
- the room, then as he passed the hall door.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a rush and a torrent of passionately angry words from the other
- room. An object—it appeared to be a paper weight or ornament—came
- hurtling out into the hall. The Senator, who had apparently gone to the
- closet by the door for his hat and stick—for he came back into the
- hall with them—stepped back just in time to avoid being struck. The
- object fell on the stair, landing with the sound of solid metal.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You come back here!' Madame's voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I will not come back until you have had time to return to your senses,'
- replied the Senator. He looked very small. He was always stilted in
- speech; Humphrey had said that he talked like the <i>Congressional Record</i>.
- 'This is a disgraceful scene. If you have the slightest regard for my good
- name or your own you will at least make an effort to compose yourself.
- Some one might be at the door at this moment. You are a violent,
- ungoverned woman, and I am ashamed of you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And you'—she was almost screaming now—'are the man who was
- glad to marry me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He ignored this. 'If any one asks for me, I shall be at the Sunbury Club.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Going to drink again, are you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I think not.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If you do, you needn't come back. Do you hear? You needn't come back!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned, and with a sort of strut went out the front door.
- </p>
- <p>
- She started to follow. She did come as far as the portières. Henry had a
- glimpse of her, her face red and distorted.
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned back then, and seemed to be picking up the room. He could hear
- sniffing and actually snorting as she moved about. There was a brief
- silence. Then she crossed the hall, a big imposing person—even in
- her tantrums she had presence—and went up the stairs, pausing on the
- landing to pick up the object she had thrown. Her solid footfalls died out
- on the thick carpets of the upper hall. A door opened, and slammed faintly
- shut.
- </p>
- <p>
- Silence again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry found that he was clutching the arms of the chair.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I must relax,' he thought vacantly; and drew a slow deep breath, as he
- had been taught in a gymnasium class at the Y.M.C.A.
- </p>
- <p>
- He brushed a hand across his eyes. Now that it was over, his temples were
- pounding hotly, his nerves aquiver.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was incredible. Yet it had happened. Before his eyes. A vulgar brawl; a
- woman with a red face throwing things. And he was here in the house with
- her. He might have to try to talk with her.
- </p>
- <p>
- He considered again the possibility of slipping out. But that butler had
- taken his name up. Cicely would be coming down any moment. Unless she
- knew.
- </p>
- <p>
- Did she know? Had she heard? Possibly not.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry got slowly, indecisively up and wandered to the piano; stood leaning
- on it.
- </p>
- <p>
- His eyes filled. All at once, in his mind's eye, he could see Cicely.
- Particularly the sensitive mouth. And the alert brown eyes. And the pretty
- way her eyebrows moved when she spoke or smiled or listened—always
- with a flattering attention—to what you were saying.
- </p>
- <p>
- He brought a clenched fist down softly on the piano.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- 'Oh,' cried the voice of Cicely—'there you are! How nice of you to
- come!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She was standing—for a moment—in the doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- White of face, eyes burning, his fist still poised on the piano, he stared
- at her.
- </p>
- <p>
- She didn't know! Surely she didn't—not with that bright smile. __
- </p>
- <p>
- She wore the informal, girlish costume of the moment—neatly fitting
- dark skirt; simple shirt-waist with the ballooning sleeves that were then
- necessary; stiff boyish linen collar propping the chin high, and little
- bow tie; darkish, crisply waving hair brought into the best order
- possible, parted in the middle and carried around and down over the ears
- to a knot low on the neck.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I brought some candy,' he cried fiercely. 'There! On the table!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She knit her brows for a brief moment. Then opened the box.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How awfully nice of you... You'll have some?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. I don't eat candy. I was thinking of—I want to get you out—Come
- on, let's take a walk!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She smiled a little, around a chocolate. Surely she didn't know!
- </p>
- <p>
- She had seemed, during her first days in Sunbury, rather timid at times.
- But there was in this smile more than a touch of healthy self-confidence.
- No girl, indeed, could find herself making so definite a success as Cicely
- had made here from her first day without acquiring at least the beginnings
- of self-confidence. It was a success that had forced Elbow Jenkins and
- Herb de Casselles to ignore small rebuffs and persist in fighting over
- her. It permitted her, even in a village where social conformity was the
- breath of life, to do odd, unexpected things. Such as allowing herself to
- be interested, frankly, in Henry Calverly.
- </p>
- <p>
- So she smiled as she nibbled a chocolate.
- </p>
- <p>
- He said it again, breathlessly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I was thinking of asking you to take a walk.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well'—still that smile—'why don't you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- But he was still in a daze, and pressed stupidly on.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's a fine evening. And the moon'll be coming up.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll get my sweater,' she said quietly, and went out to the hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was just turning away from the hall closet with the sweater—he,
- hat and stick in hand, was fighting back the memory of how Senator Watt
- had marched stiffly to that same closet—when Madame Watt came down
- the stairs, scowling intently, still breathing hard.
- </p>
- <p>
- She saw them; came toward them; stood, pursing her lips, finally forcing a
- sort of smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, howdadoo!' she remarked, toward Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her black eyes focused pointedly on him. And while he was mumbling a
- greeting, she broke in on him with this:—'I didn't know you were
- here. Did you just come?' Henry's eyes lowered. Then, as utter silence
- fell, the colour surging to his face, he raised them. They met her black,
- alarmed stare. He felt that he ought to lie about this, lie like a good
- one. But he didn't know how.
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly, all confusion, he shook his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- During a long moment they held that gaze, the vigorous, strangely
- interesting woman of wealth and of what must have been a violent past, and
- the gifted, sensitive youth of twenty. When she turned away, they had a
- secret.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We thought of taking a little walk,' said Cicely.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame moved briskly away into the back parlour, merely throwing back over
- her shoulder, in a rather explosive voice: 'Have a good time!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The remark evidently struck Cicely as somewhat out of character. She even
- turned, a little distrait, and looked after, her aunt.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as they were passing out the door, Madame's voice boomed after them.
- She was hurrying back through the hall.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'By the way,' she said, with a frowning, determined manner, 'we are having
- a little theatre party Saturday night. A few of Cicely's friends. Dinner
- here at six. Then we go in on the seven-twenty. I know Cicely'll be glad
- to have you. Informal—don't bother to dress.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes!' cried Cicely, looking at her aunt.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—Im sure I'd be delighted,' said Henry heavily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then they went out, and strolled in rather oppressive quiet toward the
- lake.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a summer extravaganza going, at the Auditorium. That must be the
- theatre. They hadn't meant to ask him, of course. Not at this late hour.
- It hurt, with a pain that, a day or so back, would have filled Henry's
- thoughts. But Cicely's smile, as she stood by the table, nibbling a
- chocolate, the poise of her pretty head—the picture stood out
- clearly against a background so ugly, so unthinkably vulgar, that it was
- like a deafening noise in his brain.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- He glanced sidewise at Cicely. They were walking down Douglass Street.
- Just ahead lay the still, faintly shimmering lake, stretching out to the
- end of the night and beyond. Already the whispering sound reached their
- ears of ripples lapping at the shelving beach. And away out, beyond the
- dim horizon, a soft brightness gave promise of the approaching moonrise.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stole another glance at Cicely. He could just distinguish her delicate
- profile.
- </p>
- <p>
- He thought: 'How could she ask me? They wouldn't like it, her friends.
- Mary Ames mightn't want to come. Martha Caldwell, even. She's been nice to
- me. I mustn't make it hard for her. And she mustn't know about tonight.
- Not ever.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then a new thought brought pain. If there had been one such scene, there
- would be others. And she would have to live against that background,
- keeping up a brave face before the prying world of Sunbury. Perhaps she
- had already lived through something of the sort. That sad look about her
- mouth; when she didn't know you were looking.
- </p>
- <p>
- They had reached the boulevard now, and were standing at the railing over
- the beach. A little talk had been going on, of course, about this and that—he
- hardly knew what.
- </p>
- <p>
- He clenched his fist again, and brought it down on the iron rail.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh,' he broke out—'about Saturday. I forgot. I can't come.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, but please——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. Awfully busy. You've no idea. You see Humphrey Weaver and I bought
- the <i>Gleaner</i>. I told you, didn't I? It's a big responsibility—getting
- the pay-roll every week, and things like that. Things I never knew about
- before. I don't believe I was made to be a business man. Lots of accounts
- and things. Hump's at it all the time—nights and everything. You see
- we've got to make the paper pay. We've <i>got</i> to! It was losing, when
- Bob McGibbon had it. People hated him, and they wouldn't advertise. And
- now we have to get the advertising back.' If we fail in that, we'll go
- under, just as he did...'
- </p>
- <p>
- Words! Words! A hot torrent of them! He didn't know how transparent he
- was.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stood, her two hands resting lightly on the rail, looking out at the
- slowly spreading glow in the east.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm so glad aunt asked you,' she said gravely. 'I wanted you to come. I
- want you to know. Won't you, please?'
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at her, but she didn't turn. There was more behind her words.
- Even Henry could see that. He had been discussed. As a problem. But she
- didn't say the rest of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then his clumsy little artifice broke down, and the crude feeling rushed
- to the surface.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You know I mustn't come!' he cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' said she, with that deliberate gravity. 'I don't know that. I think
- you should.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't. You don't understand. They wouldn't like it, my being there.
- They talk about me. They don't speak to me, even.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then oughtn't you to come? Face them? Show them that it isn't true?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But that will just make it hard for you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She was slow in answering this; seemed to be considering it. Finally she
- replied with:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't think I care about that. People have been awfully nice to me
- here. I'm having a lovely time. But it isn't as if I had always lived here
- and expected to stay for the rest of my life. My life has been different.
- I've known a good many different kinds of people, and I've had to think
- for myself a good deal. No, I'd like you to come. If you don't come—-don't
- you see?—you're putting me with them. You're making me mean and
- petty. I don't want to be that way. If—if I'm to see you at all,
- they must know it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Perhaps, then,' he muttered, 'you'd better not see me at all.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I know; but—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. I want to see you. If you want to come. I love your stories. You're
- more interesting than any of them.'
- </p>
- <p>
- At this, he turned square around; stared at her. But she, very quietly,
- finished what she had to say. 'I think you're a genius. I think you're
- going to be famous. It's—it's exciting to see the way you write
- stories.... Wait, please! I'm going to tell you the rest of it. Now that
- we're talking it out, I think I've got to. It was aunt who didn't want to
- ask you. She likes you, but she thought—well, she thought it might
- be awkward, and—and hard for you. I told her what I've told you,
- that I've either got to be your friend before all of them or not at all.
- And now that she has asked you—don't you see, it's the way I wanted
- it all along.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There wasn't another girl in Sunbury who could have, or would have, made
- quite that speech.
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked delicately beautiful in the growing light. Her hair was a
- vignetted halo about her small head.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, staring, his hands clenched at his sides, broke out with:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I love you!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh—h!' she breathed. 'Please!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Words came from him, a jumble of words. About his hopes, the few thousand
- dollars that would be his on the seventh of November, when he would be
- twenty-one, the wonderful stories he would write, with her for
- inspiration.
- </p>
- <p>
- Inwardly he was in a panic. He hadn't dreamed of saying such a thing.
- Never before, in all his little philanderings had he let go like this,
- never had he felt the glow of mad catastrophe that now seemed to be
- consuming him. Oh, once perhaps—something of it—years back—when
- he had believed he was in love with Ernestine Lambert. But that had been
- in another era. And it hadn't gone so deep as this.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Anyway'—he heard her saying, in a rather tired voice—'anyway—it
- makes it hard, of course—you shouldn't have said that—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I <i>am</i> making it hard! And I meant to——'
- </p>
- <p>
- '—anyway, I think you'd better come. Unless it would be too hard for
- you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence. Then Henry, his forehead wet with sweat, his
- feet braced apart, his hands gripping the rail as if he were holding for
- his life, said, with a sudden quiet that she found a little disconcerting:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right. I'll come.... Your aunt said a quarter past six, didn't she?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, six.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- Madame Watt appropriated Henry the moment he entered her door on Saturday
- evening. She was, despite her talk of offhand summer informality, clad in
- an impressive costume with a great deal of lace and the shimmer of
- flowered silk.
- </p>
- <p>
- At her elbow, Henry moved through the crowd in the front hall. He felt
- cool eyes on him. He stood very straight and stiff. He was pale. He bowed
- to the various girls and fellows—Mary, Martha, Herb, Elbow, and the
- rest, with reserve. It was, from moment to moment, a battle.
- </p>
- <p>
- Nobody but Madame Watt would have thought of giving such a party. It was
- so expensive—the dinner for twenty-two, to begin with; then all the
- railway fares; a bus from the station in Chicago to the theatre and back.
- The theatre tickets alone came to thirty-three dollars (these were the
- less expensive days of the dollar and a half seat). Sunbury still, at the
- time, was inclined to look doubtfully on ostentation.
- </p>
- <p>
- You felt, too, in the case of Madame, that she was likely to speak, at any
- moment rather—well, broadly. All that Paris experience, whatever it
- was, seemed to be hovering about the snapping black eyes and the
- indomitable mouth. You sensed in her none of the reserve of movement, of
- speech, of mind, that were implied in the feminine standards of Sunbury.
- Yet she was unquestionably a person. If she laughed louder than the ladies
- of Sunbury, she had more to say.
- </p>
- <p>
- To-night she was a dominantly entertaining hostess. She talked of the
- theatre, in Paris, London and New York—of the Coquelins, Gallipaux,
- Bernhardt, of Irving and Terry and Willard and Grossmith. Some of these
- she had met. She knew Sothem, it appeared. Even the extremely worldly
- Elbow and Herb were impressed.
- </p>
- <p>
- She had Henry at her right. Boldly placed him there. At his right was a
- girl from Omaha who was visiting the Smiths and who made several efforts
- to be pleasant to the pale gloomy youth with the little moustache and the
- distinctly interesting gray-blue eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- By the time they were settled on the train Henry found himself grateful to
- the certainly strong, however coarse-fibred woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- Efforts to identify her as she seemed now, with the woman of that hideous
- scene with the Senator brought only bewilderment. He had to give it up.
- </p>
- <p>
- This woman was rapidly winning his confidence; even, in a curious sense,
- his sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- At the farther end of the table the little Senator, all dignity and calm
- stilted sentences, made himself remotely agreeable to several girls at
- once.
- </p>
- <p>
- At one side of the table sat Cicely, in lacy white with a wonderful little
- gauzy scarf about her shoulders. She looked at him only now and then, and
- just as she looked at the others. He wondered how she could smile so
- brightly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Herb and Elbow made a great joke of fighting over her. Elbow had her at
- dinner; Herb on the train; Elbow again at the theatre.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was fairly clinging to Madame by that time.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think, among the confused thoughts and feelings that whirled ceaselessly
- around and around in his brain, the one that came up oftenest and stayed
- longest was a sense of stoical heroism. For Cicely's sake he must bear his
- anguish. For her he must be humble, kindly, patient. He had read,
- somewhere in his scattered acquaintance with books, that Abraham Lincoln
- had once been brought to the point of suicide through a disappointment in
- love. And to-night he thought much and deeply of Lincoln. He had already
- decided, during an emotionally turbulent two days, not to shoot himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- During the first intermission the Senator stayed quietly in his seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- When the curtain went down for the second time, he stroked his beard with
- a small, none-too-steady hand, coughed in the suppressed way he had, and
- glanced once or twice at Madame.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young men were, apparently all of them, moving out for a smoke in the
- lobby.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, with a tingling sense of defiance, a little selfconscious about
- staying alone with the girls, followed them.
- </p>
- <p>
- And after him, walking up the aisle with his odd strutting air of
- importance, came the Senator.
- </p>
- <p>
- He gathered the young men together in the lobby; pulled at his twisted
- beard; said, 'It will give me pleasure to offer you young gentlemen a
- little refreshment;' and led the way out to a convenient bar. It was a
- large, high-panelled room. There were great mirrors; rows and rows of
- bottles and shiny glasses; alcoves with tables; and enormous oil paintings
- in still more enormous gilt frames and lighted by special fixtures built
- out from the wall. The one over the bar exhibited an undraped female
- figure reclining on a couch.
- </p>
- <p>
- They stood, a jolly group, naming their drinks.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, who had no taste for liquor, stood apart, pale, sober, struggling
- to exhibit a <i>savoir faire</i> that had no existence in his mercurial
- nature.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll take ginger ale,' he said, in painful self-consciousness.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator, his somewhat jaunty straw hat thrust back a little way off
- his forehead, took Scotch; drank it neat. It seemed to Henry incongruous
- when the prim little man tossed the liquor back against his palate with a
- long-practised flourish.
- </p>
- <p>
- Back in his seat, between Madame and the girl from Omaha, Henry noted that
- the Senator had not returned with the others.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame turned and looked up the aisle.
- </p>
- <p>
- The lights were dimmed. The curtain rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely was in the row ahead, Herb on one side, Elbow on the other.
- </p>
- <p>
- Elbow was calm, casual, humorous in a way, whispering phrases that had
- been found amusing by many girls.
- </p>
- <p>
- Herb, the only man in what Henry still thought of as a 'full dress suit,'
- had a way of turning his head and studying Cicely's hair and profile
- whenever she turned toward Elbow, that stirred Henry to anguish.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's rich,' thought Henry, twisting in his chair, clasping and unclasping
- his hands. 'He's rich. He can do everything for her. And he loves her. He
- couldn't look that way if he didn't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- A comedian was singing and dancing on the stage. Cicely watched him, her
- eyes alight, her lips parted in a smile of sheer enjoyment.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How can she!' he thought. 'How <i>can</i> she!' Then: 'I could do that.
- If I'd kept it up. If she'd seen me in <i>Iolanthe</i> maybe she'd care.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The curtain fell on a glittering finale.
- </p>
- <p>
- With a great chattering the party moved up the aisle. Cicely told her two
- escorts that she didn't know when she had enjoyed anything so much. She
- was merry about it. Care free as a child.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stopped short in the foyer; standing aside, half behind a framed
- advertisement on an easel; his hands clenched in his coat pockets; white
- of face; biting his lip.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can't go with them!' he was thinking. 'It's too much. I can't! I can't
- trust myself. I'd say something. But what'll they think?
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She won't know. She won't care. She's happy—my suffering is nothing
- to her.' This was youthful bitterness, of course. But it met an immediate
- counter in the following thought, which, to any one who knew the often
- selfcentred Henry would have been interesting. 'But that's the way it
- ought to be. She mustn't know how I suffer. It isn't her fault. A great
- love just comes to you. Nobody can help it. It's tragedy, of course. Even
- if I have to—to'—his lip was quivering now—'to shoot
- myself, I must leave a note telling her she wasn't to blame. Just that I
- loved her too much to live without her. But I haven't any money. I
- couldn't make her happy.'
- </p>
- <p>
- His eyes, narrow points of fire, glanced this way and that. Almost
- furtively. Passion—a grown man's passion—was or seemed to him
- to be tearing him to pieces. And he hadn't a grown man's experience of
- life, the background of discipline and self-control, that might have
- helped him weather the storm. All he could do was to wonder if he had
- spoken aloud or only thought these words. He didn't know. Somebody might
- have heard. The crowd was still pouring slowly out past him. It seemed to
- him incredible that all the world shouldn't know about it.
- </p>
- <p>
- The others of the party were somewhere out on the street now. They were
- going to a restaurant; then, in their bus, to the twelve-fourteen, the
- last train for Sunbury until daylight.
- </p>
- <p>
- What could he do if he didn't take that train? He might hide up forward,
- in the smoker. But there were a hundred chances that he would be seen. No,
- that wouldn't do. He must hurry after them.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he flatly couldn't. Why, the tears were coming to his eyes. A little
- weakness, whenever he was deeply moved, for which he despised himself.
- There was no telling what he might do—cry like a girl, break out
- into an impossible torrent of words. A scene. Anywhere; on the street, in
- the restaurant.
- </p>
- <p>
- No, however awkward, whatever the cost, he couldn't rejoin them, he
- couldn't look at Cicely and Elbow and Herb and the others.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt in his pocket. Not enough money, of course. He never had enough.
- He couldn't ever plan intelligently. Yet he was earning twelve dollars a
- week!... He had a dollar, and a little change. Perhaps it was enough. He
- could go to a cheap hotel. He had seen them advertised—fifty or
- seventy-five cents for the night. And then an early morning train for
- Sunbury.
- </p>
- <p>
- He would be worse off then than ever, of course. The people who had
- talked, would have fresh material. Running away from the party! They might
- say that he had got drunk. Though in a way he would welcome that. It was a
- sort of way out.
- </p>
- <p>
- The crowd was nearly gone. They would be closing the doors soon. Then he
- would have to go—somewhere.
- </p>
- <p>
- A big woman was making her way inward against the human current. But
- Henry, though he saw her and knew in a dreamy way that it was Madame Watt,
- still couldn't, for the moment, find place for her in his madly surging
- thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- She passed him; looked into the darkened theatre; came back; stood before
- him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then came this brief conversation:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You haven't seen him, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I haven't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm! Awkward—he took the pledge—he swore it—I am
- counting on you to help me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course. Anything!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Were you out with him between the acts?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—yes.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Did he drink anything then?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. He took Scotch.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, he did?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes'm.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place? Be
- very careful. People mustn't know. And I must count on you. There's nobody
- else. We'll manage it, somehow. We've got to keep him quiet and get him
- out home. I'll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to me—have
- a waiter say I'm wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...'
- </p>
- <p>
- It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She was
- still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the waiting
- groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of the street
- in the direction of a certain bar.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- The Senator's cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the
- little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew. The
- straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the
- enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the alcove,
- leaned heavily on the table, and watched him.
- </p>
- <p>
- The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near despair,
- that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had said.
- Something about getting word to her—at the restaurant. But how could
- he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his own
- trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really tragic
- problem on his hands, flatly impossible.
- </p>
- <p>
- And there wasn't a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out
- alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She
- couldn't leave her party. And she couldn't bring this pitiable object in
- among those young people.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry's lips pressed together. The world looked to him just now a savage
- wilderness.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Consider women, for instance!' The Senator's hand waved again toward the
- picture. It was surprising to Henry that he could speak with such
- distinctness. 'Consider women! They toil not, neither do they spin. Yet at
- the last, they bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry held his watch under the table; glanced down. It was five minutes
- past twelve. For nearly an hour he had been sitting there, helpless,
- beating his brain for schemes that wouldn't present themselves. The
- twelve-fourteen was as good as gone, of course. Though it had not for a
- minute been possible. He thought vaguely, occasionally, of a hotel. But
- stronger and more persistent was the feeling that he ought to get him out
- home if he could.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Women...!' The Senator drooped in his chair. Then looked up; braced
- himself; shouted, 'Here, boy! A bit more of the same!' When the glass was
- before him he drank, brightened a little, and resumed. 'Woman, my boy, is
- th' root—No, I will go farther! I will state that woman is th' root
- 'n' branch of all evil.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, with a muttered, 'Excuse me, Senator!' got out of the alcove and
- stepped outside the door. He stood on the door-step; took off his hat and
- pressed a hand to his forehead.
- </p>
- <p>
- Across the street, near the side door of the hotel, stood an old-fashioned
- closed hack. The driver lay curled up across his seat, asleep. The horses
- stood with drooping heads.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry gazed intently at the dingy vehicle. Slowly his eyes narrowed. He
- looked again at his watch. Then he moved deliberately across the way and
- woke the cabman.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hey!' he cried, as the man fumblingly put on his hat and blinked up the
- street and down. 'Hey, you! What'll you take to drive to Sunbury?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sunbury? Oh, that's a long way. And it's pretty late at night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know all that! How much'll you take?'
- </p>
- <p>
- The cabman pondered.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How many?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Two.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Fifteen dollars.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, say I, that's twice too much! Why——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Fifteen dollars.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But——-'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Fifteen dollars.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry swallowed. He felt very daring. He had heard of fellows and girls
- missing the late train and driving out. But the amount usually mentioned
- was ten dollars. However...
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right. Drive across here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He bent over the Senator, who was talking, still on the one topic, to a
- small picture just above Henry's empty seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We're going home now, Senator. You'd better come with me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Going home? No, not there. Not there. Back to the Senate, yes. Tha's
- different. But not home. If you knew what I've——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry led him out. But first the Senator, with some difficulty in the
- managing, paid his check. Henry would have paid it, but hadn't nearly
- enough. It had never occurred to him that a single individual could spend
- so large a sum on himself within the space of less, considerably less,
- than three hours.
- </p>
- <p>
- The cabman and Henry together got him into the hack.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They are pop—popularly known as the weaker sex. All a ter'ble
- mistake, young man. They're stronger. Li'l do you dream how stronger—how
- great—how more stronger they are. Curious about words. At times one
- commands them with ease. Other times they elude one. Words are more tricky—few
- suspect—but women allure us only to destroy us. Women....'
- </p>
- <p>
- Before the cab rolled across the Rush Street Bridge on its long journey to
- the northward he was asleep.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 7
- </h3>
- <p>
- It was half-past two in the morning when a hack drawn by weary horses on
- whose flanks the later glistened, drew up at the porte cochère of the old
- Dexter Smith place in Sunbury.
- </p>
- <p>
- The cabman lumbered down and opened the door. A youth, nervously wide
- awake, leaped out. Then followed this brief conversation.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Help me carry him up, please.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd better pay me first. Fifteen dollars!
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll do that afterward.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll take it now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I tell you I'm going to get it——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You mean you haven't got it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not on me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, look here——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ssh! You'll wake the whole house up! You've simply got to wait until I
- get home. You needn't worry. I'm going to pay you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd better. Say, he'd ought to have it on him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We're not going into his pockets. Now you do as I tell you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Together they lifted him out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry looked up at the door. Madame Watt, somebody, had left this outside
- light burning. Doubtless the thing to do was just to ring the bell.
- </p>
- <p>
- He brushed the cabman aside. The Senator was such a little man, so
- pitifully slender and light! And Henry himself was supple and strong. He
- took the little old gentleman up in his arms and carried him up the steps.
- And once again in the course of this strange night his eyes filled.
- </p>
- <p>
- But not for himself this time. Henry's gift of insight, while it was now
- and for many years to come would be fitful, erratic, coming and going with
- his intensely varied moods, was none the less a real, at times a great,
- gift. And I think he glimpsed now, through the queer confusing mists of
- thought, something of the grotesque tragedy that runs, like a red and
- black thread, through the fabric of many human lives.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator had been a famous man. Through nearly two decades, as even
- Henry dimly knew, he had stood out, a figure of continuous national
- importance. And now he was just—this. Here in Henry's arms; inert.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ring the bell, will you!' said Henry shortly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The cabman moved.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a light step within. The lock turned. The door swung open, and
- Cicely stood there.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was wrapped about in a wonderful soft garment of blue. She was pale.
- And her hair was all down, rippling about her shoulders and (when she
- stepped quickly back out of the cabman's vision) down her back below the
- waist.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry carried his burden in, and she quickly closed the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Has anybody seen? Does anybody know?' she asked, in a whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- He leaned back against the wall.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. Nobody. But you——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've been sitting up, watching. I was so afraid aunt might——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then you know?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Know? Why—Tell me, do you think you can carry him to his room?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me? Oh, easy! Why he doesn't weigh much of anything. Just look!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then come. Quickly. Keep very quiet.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly, painstakingly, he followed her up the stairs and along the upper
- hall to an open door.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait!' she whispered. 'I'll have to turn on the light.' He laid the limp
- figure on the bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Outside, in the still night, the horses stirred and stamped. A voice—the
- cabman's—cried,—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Whoa there, you! Whoa!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely turned with a start.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, why can't he keep still!... You—you'd better go. I don't know
- why you're so kind. Those others would never——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please!—You <i>do</i> know!'
- </p>
- <p>
- This remark appeared to add to her distress. She made a quick little
- gesture.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no, I don't mean—not that I want you to——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not so loud! Quick! Please go!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it's so terribly hard for you. I can't bear—I can't bear to
- think of your having to—people just mustn't know about it, that's
- all! We've got to do something. She mustn't—You see, I love you,
- and....
- </p>
- <p>
- Their eyes met.
- </p>
- <p>
- A deep dominating voice came from the doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You had better go to your room, Cicely,' it said.
- </p>
- <p>
- They turned like guilty children.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely flushed, then quietly went.
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame was a strange spectacle. She wore a quilted maroon robe, which she
- held clutched together at her throat. Most of the hair that was usually
- piled and coiled about her head had vanished; what little remained was
- surprisingly gray and was twisted up in front and over the ears in curl
- papers of the old-fashioned kind.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry lowered his gaze; it seemed indelicate to look at her. He discovered
- then that he was still wearing his hat, and took it off with a low, wholly
- nervous laugh that was as surprising to himself as it certainly was, for a
- moment, to Madame Watt, who surveyed him under knit brows before centring
- her attention on the unconscious figure on the bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We owe you a great deal,' she said then. 'It was awkward enough. But it
- might have been a disaster. You've saved us from that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, it was nothing,' murmured Henry, blushing.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Are you sure no one saw? You didn't take him to the station?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No. We drove straight out.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm! When you came did you ring our bell?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Me? Why, no. I was going to. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She—your—Miss——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you mean Cicely?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. She opened the door.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame frowned again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what on earth——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry interrupted, looking up at her now.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll tell you. I know. I can see it. And somebody's got to tell you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame looked mystified.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She couldn't bear to have you know. She was afraid you——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame raised her free hand. 'We won't go into that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But we <i>must</i>. It was your temper she was——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We wont——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You <i>must</i> listen! Can't you see the dread she lives under—the
- fear that you'll forget yourself and people will know! And can't you see
- what it drives—him—to? I heard him talk when he was telling
- his real thoughts. I know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you do!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I know. And I know this town. They're very conservative. They watch
- new people. They're watching you. Like cats. And they'll gossip. I know
- that too. I've suffered from it. Things that aren't so. But what do they
- care? They'd spoil your whole life—like that!—and go to the
- Country Club early to get the best dances. Oh, I know, I tell you. You've
- got to be careful. It isn't what I say, but you've <i>got</i> to! Or
- they'll find out, and they won't stop till they've hounded you out of
- town, and driven him to—this—for good, and broken her—your
- niece's—heart.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He stopped, out of breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- The fire that had flamed from his eyes died down, leaving them like gray
- ashes. Confusion smote him. He shifted his feet; turned his hat round and
- round between his hands. What—<i>what</i>—had he been saying!
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he heard her voice, saying only this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'In a way—in a way—you have a right.... God knows it won't....
- So much at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was
- gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn't speak again; not a word.
- </p>
- <p>
- She stood aside.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was very good of you,' she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- But he rushed past her and down the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his temperamental
- young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending over him,
- shaking him and saying, 'Gimme fifteen dollars! I'll explain to-morrow.
- Gosh, but I'm a wreck! You've no idea!'
- </p>
- <p>
- And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were piled
- and fumbling in various pockets for money.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 8
- </h3>
- <p>
- When Henry awoke, at ten, he found himself alone in the rooms. The warm
- sunshine was streaming in, the university clock was booming out the hour.
- Then the mellow church bells set up their stately ringing.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lay for a time drowsily listening. Then the bells brought
- recollections. Madame Watt, and Cicely, and often the Senator attended the
- First Presbyterian Church. Right across the alley, facing on Filbert
- Avenue. By merely turning his head, Henry could see the rear gable of the
- chapel and the windows of the Sunday-school room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sprang out of bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- His blue serge coat was spotted. From the table in that bar-room,
- doubtless. He found a bottle of ammonia and sponged. It was also in need
- of a pressing, but he could do nothing about that now. He had to go to
- church.
- </p>
- <p>
- No other course was thinkable. If only to sit where he could catch a
- glimpse now and then of her profile.
- </p>
- <p>
- He heard a knock downstairs, but at first ignored it. No one would be
- coming here of a Sunday morning.
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally he went down.
- </p>
- <p>
- There, on the step, immaculately dressed, rather weary looking with dark
- areas under red eyes, stood Senator Watt.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How do you do,' said he, with dignity.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Won't you come in?' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- They mounted the stairs. The Senator sat stiffly on a small chair. Henry
- took the piano stool.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I understand that you did me a very great service last night, Mr
- Calverly.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no,' Henry managed to say, in a mumbling voice, throwing out his
- hands. 'No, it wasn't really anything at all.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You will please tell me what it cost.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh—why—well, fifteen dollars.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator counted out the money.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You have placed me greatly in your debt, Mr Calverly. I hope that I may
- some day repay you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no! You see...'
- </p>
- <p>
- Silence fell upon them.
- </p>
- <p>
- The Senator rose to go.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Drink,' he remarked then, 'is an unmitigated evil. Never surrender to
- it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I really don't drink at all, Senator.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Good! Don't do it. Life is more complex than a young man of your age can
- perceive. At best it is a bitter struggle. Evil habits are a handicap.
- They aggravate every problem. Good day. We shall see you soon again at the
- house, I trust.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, moved, looked after him as he walked almost briskly away—an
- erect, precise little man.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Henry went to church.
- </p>
- <p>
- Herb de Casselles ushered him to a seat. He could just see Cicely. He
- thought she looked very sad. Yet she sang brightly in the hymns. And after
- the benediction when Herb and Elbow and Dex Smith crowded about her in the
- aisle, she smiled quite as usual, and made her quick, eager Frenchy
- gestures.
- </p>
- <p>
- He brushed his hand across his eyes Had he been living through a dream—a
- tragic sort of dream?
- </p>
- <p>
- He made his way, between pews, to a side door, and hurried out. He
- couldn't speak to a soul; not now. He walked blindly, very fast, down to
- Chestnut Avenue, over to Simpson Street, then up toward the stores and
- shops.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey had a way of working at the office Sundays. He decided to go
- there. There was the matter of the fifteen dollars. And Humphrey would
- expect him for their usual Sunday dinner at Stanley's.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was passing Stanley's now. Next came Donovan's drug store. Next beyond
- that, Swanson's flower shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- A carriage—a Victoria—rolled softly by on rubber tyres. Silver
- jingled on the harness of the two black horses. Two men in plum-coloured
- livery sat like wooden things on the box. On the rear seat were Madame
- Watt and Cicely.
- </p>
- <p>
- The carriage drew up before Swanson's. Madame Watt got heavily out and
- went into the shop.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely had turned. She was waving her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry found his vision suddenly blurred. Then he was standing by the
- carriage, and Cicely was speaking, leaning over close to him so that the
- men couldn't hear.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was dreadful the way I let you go! I didn't even say good-night. And
- all the time I wanted you to know....'
- </p>
- <p>
- He couldn't speak. He stared at her, lips compressed; temples pounding.
- </p>
- <p>
- She seemed to be smiling faintly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We—we might say good-night now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He heard her say that.
- </p>
- <p>
- She thought he shivered. Then he said huskily:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—I've wanted to call you—to call you—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes?'
- </p>
- <p>
- '—Cicely.'.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a silence. She whispered, 'I think I've wanted you to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He had rested a hand on the plum upholstery beside her. In some way it
- touched hers; clasped it; gripped it feverishly.
- </p>
- <p>
- The colour came rushing to his face. And to hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- He saw, through a blinding mist, that there were tears in her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Ci—Cicely, you don't, you can't mean—that you—too....'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please, Henry! Not here! Not now!'
- </p>
- <p>
- They glanced up the street; and down.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come this afternoon,' she breathed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They'll be there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Come early. Two o'clock. We'll take a walk.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh—Cicely!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Their hands were locked together until Madame came out.
- </p>
- <p>
- The carriage rolled away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry—it seemed to himself—reeled dizzily along Simpson Street
- to the stairway that you climbed to get to the <i>Gleaner</i> office.
- </p>
- <p>
- And all along this street of his struggles, his failures, his one or two
- successes, his dreams, the dingy, two-story buildings laughed and danced
- and cheered about him, with him, for him—Hemple's meat-market,
- Berger's grocery, Swanson's, Donovan's, Schultz and Schwartz's barber
- shop, Stanley's, the Sunbury National Bank, the postoffice—all
- reeled jubilantly with him in the ecstasy of young love!
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- IX—WHAT'S MONEY!
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>enry paused on the
- sill. The door he held open bore the legend, painted in black and white on
- a rectangle of tin:—
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE SUNBURY WEEKLY GLEANER
- </h3>
- <p>
- By Weaver and Calverly
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How late you going to stay, Hump?' he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey raised his eyes, listlessly thrust his pencil back of his ear,
- and looked rather thoughtfully at the youth in the doorway; a dapper
- youth, in an obviously new 'Fedora' hat, a conspicuous cord of black silk
- hanging from his glasses, his little bamboo cane, caught by its crook in
- the angle of his elbow.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's gaze wandered to the window; settled on the roof of the Sunbury
- National Bank opposite. He suppressed a sigh.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I may want to talk with you, Hen. I've been figuring——'
- </p>
- <p>
- The youth in the doorway shifted his position with a touch of impatience.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'See here, Hump, you know I can't make head or tail out of figures!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey looked down at the desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Anyway I'll see you at supper,' Henry added defensively.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mildred expects me down there for supper,' said Humphrey. The sigh came
- now. He pushed up the eyeshade and slowly rubbed his eyes. 'But I may not
- be able to get away. There are times, Hen, when you have to look figures
- in the face.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The youth flushed at this, and replied, rather explosively;—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A fellow has to do the sorta thing he <i>can</i> do, Hump!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—will you be at the rooms this evening?' Humphrey's eyes were
- again taking in the natty costume. And surveying him, Humphrey answered
- his own question; dryly. 'I imagine not.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—I was going over to the Watts.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence:
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally Henry let himself slowly out and closed the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- Outside, on the landing, he paused again; but this time to button his coat
- and pull up the blue-bordered handkerchief in his breast pocket until a
- corner showed.
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked too, by the fading light—it was mid-September, and the sun
- would be setting shortly, out over the prairie—at the tin legend on
- the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sight seemed to reassure him somewhat. As did the other, similar tin
- legends that were tacked up between the treads of the long flight of
- stairs that led to Simpson Street, at each of which he turned to look.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey had before him a pile of canvas-bound account books, a spindle of
- unpaid bills, a little heap of business letters, and a pad covered with
- pencilled columns. He rested an elbow among the papers, turned his chair,
- and looked through the window down into the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment passed, then he saw Henry walking diagonally across toward
- Donovan's drug store.
- </p>
- <p>
- For an ice-cream soda, of course; or one of those thick, 'frosted' fluids
- of chocolate or coffee flavour that he affected. And it was now within an
- hour of supper time.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey leaned forward. Yes, there he stood, on the kerb before
- Donovan's, looking, with a quick nervous jerking of the head, now up
- Simpson Street, now down. Yes, that was his hurry—the usual thing.
- Madame Watt made a point of driving down to meet the five-twenty-nine from
- town. Senator Watt always came out then. And usually Cicely Hamlin came
- along with her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey sighed, rose, stood looking down at the bills and letters and
- canvas books; pressed a hand again against his eyes; wandered to the
- press-room door and looked, pursing his lips, knitting his brows, at the
- row of job presses, at the big cylinder press that extended nearly across
- the rear end of the long room, at the row of type cases on their high
- stands, at imposing-stones on heavy tables. He sniffed the odour of ink,
- damp paper, and long, respected dust that hung over the whole
- establishment. He smiled, moodily, as his eye rested on the gray and black
- roller towel that hung above the iron sink, recalling Bob Burdette's
- verses. He returned to the office, and stood for a few moments before the
- file of the <i>Gleaner</i> on the wall desk by the door, turning the pages
- of recent issues. From each number a story by Henry Calverly, 3rd, seemed
- to leap out at his eyes and his brain. <i>The Caliph of Simpson Street,
- Sinbad the Treasurer, A Kerbstone Barmecide, The Cauliflowers of the
- Caliph, The Printer and the Pearls, Ali Anderson and the Four Policemen</i>—the
- very titles singing aloud of the boy's extraordinary gift.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And it's all we've got here,' mused Humphrey, moving back to his own
- desk. 'That mad child makes us, or we break. I've got to humour him,
- protect him. Can't even show him these bills. Like getting all your light
- and heat from a candle that may get blown out any minute.' And before
- dropping heavily into his chair, glancing at his watch, drawing his
- eye-shade down, and plunging again at the heavy problem of keeping a
- country weekly alive without sufficient advertising revenue, he added,
- aloud, with a wry, wrinkly smile that yet gave him a momentary whimsical
- attractiveness: 'That's the devil of it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a step on' the stairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- The door opened slowly. A red face appeared, under a tipped-down Derby
- hat; a face decorated with a bristling red moustache and a richly carmine
- nose.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey peered; then considered. It was Tim Niernan, one-time fire chief,
- now village constable.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Young Calverly here?' asked the official in a husky voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey shook his head. His thoughts, momentarily disarranged, were
- darting this way and that.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What is it, Tim? What do you want of him?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Tim seemed embarrassed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why——' he began, 'why——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Some trouble?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why, you see Charlie Waterhouse's suing him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey tried to consider this.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What for?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—libel. One o' them stories o' his. I liked 'em myself. My
- folks all say he's a great kid. But Charlie's pretty sore.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Suing for a lot, I suppose?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why yes. Well—ten thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hm!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He lives with you, don't he—back of the Parmenter place?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes.' Humphrey's answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to
- make Tim's task easy.
- </p>
- <p>
- The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed
- Donovan's on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read <i>Sinbad
- the Treasurer</i> through.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson
- Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer,
- whether you called him 'Sinbad' or Waterhouse.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He certainly did cut loose,' mused Humphrey. 'Charlie's got a case. Got
- his nerve, too.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet,
- tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 2
- </h3>
- <p>
- Henry turned away from Donovan's soda fountain, wiping froth from his
- moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were
- knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness,
- intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up the
- street, now down.
- </p>
- <p>
- A low-hung Victoria, drawn by a glossy team in harness that glittered with
- silver, swung at a dignified pace around the corner of Filbert Avenue, two
- wooden men in plum-coloured livery on the box, two dignified figures on
- the rear seat, one middle-aged, large, formidable, commanding, sitting
- erect and high, the other slighter and not commanding.
- </p>
- <p>
- Instantly, at the sight, Henry's frown gave place to a nervously eager
- smile, returned, went again. When the carriage at length drew up before
- Berger's grocery, across the way, however, he had both frown and smile
- under reasonable control and was a presentable if deadly serious young
- man.
- </p>
- <p>
- The footman leaped down and stood at attention. The formidable one stepped
- out and entered Berger's. And the slight, fresh-faced girl, leaned out to
- welcome the youth who rushed across the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- In Sunbury, in the nineties, a youth and a maiden could 'go together'
- without a thought of the future. The phrase implied frank pairing off,
- perhaps an occasionally shyly restrained sentimental passage, in general a
- monopoly of the other's spare time. An 'understanding,' on the other hand,
- was a. distinctly transitive state, leading to engagement and marriage as
- soon as the youth was old enough or could earn a living or the opposition
- of parents could be overcome.
- </p>
- <p>
- The relationship between Cicely and Henry had lately hovered delicately
- between the two states. If it seemed, after each timid advance, to recede
- from the 'understanding' point; that was because of the burdens and the
- heavy responsibility that instantly claimed their thoughts at the mere
- suggestion of engagement and marriage:
- </p>
- <p>
- There were among the parents of Henry's boyhood friends, couples that had
- married at twenty or even younger, and on no greater income than Henry's
- rather doubtful twelve dollars a week. But that day had gone by. An
- 'understanding' meant now, at the very least, that you were saving for a
- diamond. You could hardly ask a nice girl to become engaged without one.
- </p>
- <p>
- And marriage meant good clothes for parties, receptions and Sundays, and
- the street; it meant membership in the Country Club, a reasonably priced
- pew in church, a rented house, at least, preferably not in South Sunbury
- and distinctly not out on the prairie or too near the tracks, a certain
- amount invested in furniture, dishes and other house fittings, and
- reasonable credit with the grocer and at the meat-market. You could hardly
- ask a nice girl to go in for less than that. You really couldn't afford to
- let her go in for less.
- </p>
- <p>
- So they were marrying later now; six or eight or ten years later. And the
- girls were turning to older men. Here in Sunbury, Clemency Snow had
- married a man seven or eight years older whose younger brother had been
- among her playmates. Jane Bellman had married a shy little doctor of
- thirty-one or two. And Martha Caldwell, whom Henry had 'gone with' for two
- or three years, was permitting the rich, really old bachelor, James B.
- Merchant, Jr., to devote about all his time to her. He was thirty-eight if
- a day.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a disturbing condition for the town boys. Thoughts of it cast black
- shadows on Henry's undisciplined brain as he looked at the girl in the
- Victoria, felt, in the very air about them, her quick, bright smile, the
- delicately responsive liftings of her eyebrows, her marked desirability.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Henry,' she was saying, 'I've just been hearing the most wonderful
- things about you! You can't imagine! At Mrs MacLouden's tea. There was a
- man there——'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry sniffed. A man at a tea! And talking to Cicely! Making up to her,
- doubtless.
- </p>
- <p>
- '—a friend of Mr Merchant's, from New York. And what do you think?
- Mr Merchant showed him your stories. The ones that have come out. He's
- been keeping them. Isn't that remarkable? They read them aloud. And this
- man says that you are more promising than Richard Harding Davis was at
- your age. Henry—just <i>think!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- But Henry was scowling. He was thinking with hot, growing concern, of the
- man. A rich old fellow, of course! One of the dangerous ones.
- </p>
- <p>
- He leaned over the wheel.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Cicely—you—you're expecting me to-night?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh! Why yes, Henry, of course I'd like to have you come.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But weren't you <i>expecting</i> me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—yes, Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course'—stiffly—'if you'd rather I wouldn't come...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Please, Henry! You mustn't. Not here on the street!' He stood, flushing
- darkly, swallowing down the emotion that threatened to choke him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She murmured:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You know I want you to come.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This was unsatisfactory. Indeed he hardly heard it. He was full of his
- thoughts about her, about the older men, about those tremendous burdens
- that he couldn't even pretend to assume. And then came a mad recklessness.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Cicely—this is awful—I just can't stand it! Why can't we
- have an understanding? Call it that? Stop all this uncertainty! I—I—I've
- just got to speak to your aunt——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry! Please! Don't say those things—-'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's it! You won't let me say them.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not here——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, please, Cicely! Please! I know I'm not earning much; but I'll be
- twenty-one on the seventh of November and then I'll have more'n three
- thousand dollars. Please let me tell her that, Cicely. Oh, I know it
- wouldn't do to spend all the principal,—but it would go a long way
- toward setting us up—you know—' his voice trembled, dropped
- even lower, as with awe—'get the things we'd need when we were—you
- know—well, married.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt, as he poured out this mumbled torrent of words, that he was
- rushing to a painful failure. Cicely had drawn back. She looked
- bewildered, and tired. And he had fetched up in a black maze of despairing
- thoughts.
- </p>
- <p>
- The footman must have heard part of it. He was standing very straight. And
- the coachman was staring out over the horses. He had probably heard too.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then Madame Watt came sailing out Of Berger's; fixed her hawk eyes on him
- with a curious interest.
- </p>
- <p>
- He knew that he lifted his hat. He saw, or half saw, that Cicely tried to
- smile. She did bob her head in the bright quick way she had.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then the Victoria rolled away, and he was standing, one foot in the
- street, the other on the kerb, gazing after them through a mist of
- something so near tears that he was reduced to a painful struggle to gain
- even the appearance of self-control.
- </p>
- <p>
- And then, for a quarter-hour, mood followed mood so fast that they almost
- maddened him.
- </p>
- <p>
- He thought of old Hump, up there in the office, fighting out their common
- battle. Perhaps he ought to go back; do his best to understand the
- accounts. Figures always depressed him. No matter. He would go back. He
- would show Hump that he could at least be a friend. Yes, he could at least
- show that. Thing to do was to keep thinking of the other fellow. Forget
- yourself. That was the thing!
- </p>
- <p>
- But what he did, first, was to cross over to Swanson's flower shop and
- sternly order violets. Paid cash for them.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Miss Cicely Hamlin?' asked the Swanson-girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes,' growled Henry, 'for Miss Hamlin. Send them right over, please.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he walked around the block; muttering aloud; starting;
- glancing-about; muttering again. He could hardly go to Cicely's. Not this
- evening! Not when she had been willing to leave it like that.
- </p>
- <p>
- He meant to go, of course. Too early. By seven-thirty or so. But he told
- himself he wouldn't do it. She would have to write him. Or lose him. He
- would wait in dignified silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- The early September twilight was settling down on Sunbury.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lights came on, here and there. The dusk was a relief.
- </p>
- <p>
- He had wrecked everything. It wasn't so much that he had proposed an
- understanding. In the circumstances she couldn't altogether object to
- that. It was risking the vital, final decision, of course. But that,
- sooner or later, would have to be risked. That was something a man had to
- face, and go through, and be a sport about. No, the trouble seemed to be
- that he had lost himself. He had made it awkward, impossible, for both of
- them. Through his impatience he had created an impossible situation. And
- in losing himself he had lost her, and lost her in the worst way
- imaginable. He had contrived to make an utterly ridiculous figure of
- himself, and, in a measure, of her. He had to set his teeth hard on that
- thought, and compress his lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was on Simpson Street again. Yellow gas-light shone out of the windows
- of the <i>Gleaner</i> offices, over Hemple's. Old Hump was hard at it.
- </p>
- <p>
- He went up there.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- Humphrey was sitting there, chin on chest, long legs stretched under the
- desk. He didn't look up; only a slight start and a movement of one hand
- indicated that he heard.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood, confused, a thought alarmed, looking at him; moved aimlessly
- to his own desk and stirred papers about; came, finally, and sat on a
- corner of the exchange table, tapping his cane nervously against his knee.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Aren't going to stay here all night, are you, Hump?' he asked, rather
- huskily.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey's hand moved again; he didn't speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump! What's the matter? Anything happened?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Still no answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But you know we're picking up in advertising, Hump?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not near enough.' This was a non-committal growl.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And see the way our circulation's been——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Losing money on it. Can't carry it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but, Hump——'
- </p>
- <p>
- The senior partner waved his hand. His face was gray and grim, his voice
- restrained. He even smiled as he deliberately filled his pipe.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's bad, Hen. Very, very bad. I've tried to keep you from worrying, but
- you've got to know now. We paid a little over two thousand for this plant
- and the good will.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Cheap enough, wasn't it?' cried Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'If we'd really got her for that, yes. But look at the capital it takes.
- Building up. I had just a thousand more, a bond. Threw that in last month,
- you know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh'—breathed Henry, fright in his eyes—'I forgot about that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And you can't raise a cent.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry tried to think this over. He started to speak; swallowed; slipped
- off the table; stood there; lifted his cane and sighted along it out the
- window.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I can—November seventh,' he finally remarked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey blew a smoke-ring; followed it with his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'My boy, nations, worlds, constellations, may crash between now and
- November seventh.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—I could tackle my uncle again,' murmured Henry, out of a
- despairing face.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was at times an acid quality in Humphrey. Henry felt it in him now,
- as he said dryly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'As I recall your last transaction with your uncle, Hen, he told you
- finally that you couldn't have one cent of your principal before November
- seventh.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He—well, yes, he did say that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Meant it, didn't he?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Y—yes. He meant it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He's a business man, I believe.' Humphrey smoked for a moment; then
- added, with that same biting quality in his voice, 'And unless he's insane
- he would hardly put money into this business now. As it stands—or
- doesn't stand. And I presume he's not insane. No, we'll drop that
- subject.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry felt Humphrey's eyes on him. Sombre cold eyes. And he fell again, in
- his misery, to sighting along his cane. It seemed to Henry that the world
- was reeling to disaster. His young, over keen imagination was painting
- ugly, inescapable pictures of a savage world in which all effort seemed to
- fail.
- </p>
- <p>
- Between Humphrey and himself a gulf had opened. It was growing wider every
- minute. Nothing he could say would help; words were no good. He was afraid
- he might try to talk. It would be like him; floods of talk, meaningless,
- mere words, really mere nerves. He clamped his lips on that fear.
- </p>
- <p>
- If I understand Henry, the thing that had brought him to despair—and
- he was in despair—was neither the sorry condition of the business,
- nor the trouble with Cicely. These had confused and saddened him. But the
- hopelessness had come after he saw Humphrey's face and eyes and caught
- that cool note in his voice. To the day of his death Henry couldn't endure
- hostility in those close about him. He had to have friendly sympathy, an
- easy give and take of the spirit in which his <i>naïveté</i> would not be
- misunderstood. This sort of atmosphere provided, apparently, the only soil
- in which his faculties could take root and grow. Hostility in those he had
- been led to trust disarmed him, crushed him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump,' he ventured now, weakly, 'I think—maybe—you'd better
- show me those figures. I—I'll try to understand 'em. I will.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey gave a little snort; brushed the idea away with a sweep of a long
- hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No use!' he said brusquely. He rolled down the desktop and locked it with
- a snap. 'Getting stale myself. Sleep on it. Not a thing you can do, Hen!'
- He knocked the ashes from his pipe, gloomily. Buttoned his vest. Suddenly
- he broke out with this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You're a lucky brute, Hen!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry started; glanced up; fumbled at his moustache. 'You're wondering why
- I said that. But, man, you're a genius—Yes, you are! I have to plug
- for it. But you've got the flare. You know well enough what's loaded all
- this circulation on us. Your stories! Not a thing else. You'll do more of
- 'em. You'll be famous.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no, Hump I You don't know how I've——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, you'll be famous. I won't. It's a gift—fame, success. It's a
- sort of edge God—or something—puts on a man. A cutting edge.
- You've simply got it. I simply haven't.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry pulled and pulled at his moustache.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And you've got a girl—a lovely girl. She's mad about you—oh,
- yes she is! I know. I've seen her look at you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, Hump, you don't just know what——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'She doesn't have to hide her feelings. Not seriously, not with a lying
- smile. And you don't have to hide yours. You haven't got this furtive rope
- around your neck, strangling the breath of decent morality out of your
- soul. Thank God you don't know what it means—that struggle. She'll
- be announcing her engagement one of these days.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There'll be presents and flowers. You'll get stirred up and write
- something a thousand times better than you know how to write. Money will
- come—oh, yes it will! It'll roll to you, Hen. For a time. Or at
- times. And you'll marry—a nice clean wedding. God, just to think of
- it is like the May winds off the lake!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He threw out his long arms. Henry thought, perversely enough, that he
- looked like Lincoln.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But the greatest thing of all is that you're twenty. Think of it!
- Twenty!... Hen, when I was twenty I put my life on a schedule for five
- years. They were up last month.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I was to be flying at twenty-four. Think of it—flying! Through the
- air, man! Like a gull! At twenty-five I was to be famous and rich. A
- conqueror! I slaved for that. Worked days and nights and Sundays for that.
- Sweated for the Old Man there on the <i>Voice</i>; put up with his stupid
- little insults.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He sprang up; got into his coat; looked at his watch.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm late. Got to stop at the rooms too. Mildred'll be wondering. You can
- stay here if you like.'
- </p>
- <p>
- But Henry clung to him. Around the back street they went. And Humphrey
- talked on.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I'm twenty-five! And where've I got? I love a woman. Hen, I hope
- you'll never be torn as I'm torn now. You think you've been through
- things. Why, you're an innocent babe. I've got a woman's name—and
- that's a woman's life, Hen!—in my hands. It's a muddle. Maybe
- there's tragedy in it. May never work out. Sometimes I feel as if we were
- going straight over a precipice, she and I. It goes dark. It suffocates
- me.... It's costing me everything. It'll take money—a lot of it—money
- I haven't got. If the paper goes, my last hopes go with it. If we can't
- turn that corner. Everything comes down bang. No use.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry tried to say, 'Oh, I guess we'll turn our corner all right;' but if
- the words passed his lips at all it was only as a whisper.
- </p>
- <p>
- They were a hundred feet from the alley back of Parmenter's. It was dark
- now, there in the shade of the double row of maples. Humphrey stopped
- short; pressed his hands to his eyes; then looked at Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You coming to the rooms, too?' he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry nodded.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't know's I—I was forgetting, so many things—Oh well,
- come along. It hardly matters.'
- </p>
- <p>
- At the alley entrance a man intercepted them; said, 'This is Henry
- Calverly, ain't it?' Struck a match and read an extraordinary mumble of
- words. He struck other matches, and read hurriedly on. Then he moved
- apologetically away, leaving Henry backed limply against a board fence.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey stood waiting, a tall shadow of a man. To him Henry turned,
- feeling curiously weak in the legs and gone at the stomach.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What is it?' he asked, weakly, meekly. 'I couldn't understand. Did he ar—arrest
- me or something?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Charlie Waterhouse has sued you for libel. Ten thousand dollars. Come on.
- I can't wait.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but—but that's foolish. He can't——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's how it is.' Humphrey was grim.
- </p>
- <p>
- They walked in silence up the alley. Henry stood by while his partner
- unlocked the neat front door to the old barn, a white door, with one white
- step and an iron scraper. He could just make them out in the dusk. He
- wondered if he mightn't presently wake up and find it a dream.... Old
- Hump!
- </p>
- <p>
- They stood in the shop. Humphrey had switched on one light; he looked now,
- his face deeply seamed, his eyes a little sunken, at the dim shadowy metal
- lathes, the huge reels of copper wire, the tool benches, the rows of wall
- boxes filled with machine parts, the small electric motors hanging by
- twisted strings or wires from the ceiling joists, the heavy steel wheels
- in frames, the great box kites and the spruce and silk planes, in
- sections, the gas engine, the water motor, the wheels, shafts, and belting
- overhead.
- </p>
- <p>
- He bent his sombre eyes on Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- That youth, aching at heart, bruised of spirit, unaware of the figure he
- made, was too far gone to be further puzzled by the weary, mocking smile
- that flitted across Humphrey's face.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump!' he cried out: 'What'll we do!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do? Sleep over it. Raise some more money?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But how?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey waved a hand at the machinery. 'All this. And my library
- upstairs. They've stood me more'n four thousand, altogether. Ought to
- fetch something.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But—but—ten thousand!' Henry whispered the amount with awe as
- well as misery.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, <i>that!</i> Your trouble! Why, you'll sleep over that, too, and
- to-morrow I suppose you'll talk to Harry Davis's father.' The senior
- Davis, Arthur P., was a Simpson Street lawyer. 'They'll sting you. But
- they don't expect any ten thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what I said is <i>true!</i> Charlie Waterhouse is a——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's that got to do with it. You can't prove it. And we aren't strong
- enough to hire counsel and detectives and run him to earth. Doesn't look
- as if we had the barest breath of life in us. Charlie'll think of your
- uncle next, and attach your mother's estate.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He said this with unusual roughness. Then he went upstairs; stamped around
- for a brief time; came hurrying down.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, now, was sitting dejectedly on a work-bench.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump—please!—you don't know how I feel. I——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And,' replied the senior partner, 'I don't care. I don't care how I feel,
- either. We either save the paper this week or we don't. That's what I care
- about right now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—I won't let you sell your things, Hump.' An unconvincing
- assertion, from the limp figure on the bench.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You?' Humphrey stared at him with something near contempt—stared at
- the moustache and the cane. 'You? You won't let me?... For God's sake, <i>shut
- up!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- With which he went out, slamming the door.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a time Henry continued to sit there. Then he dragged himself upstairs,
- went to his bookcase and got the book entitled <i>Will Power and Self
- Mastery</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- He turned the pages until he hit upon these paragraphs:—'Every
- machine, every cathedral, every great ship was a thought before it could
- become a fact. Build in your brain.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Through the all-enveloping ether drifts the invisible electricity that is
- all life, all energy. Open yourself to it. Make yourself a conductor.
- Stupidity and fear are resistants; cast these out. Make your brain a
- dynamo and drive the world.'
- </p>
- <p>
- This seemed a good idea.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- Arthur P. Davis was just rising from the supper table when the door-bell
- rang. He answered it himself; found young Calverly there, in a state of
- haggard but vigorous youthful intensity. He contrived, after a slight
- initial difficulty, to draw out of the curiously verbose youth the
- essential facts. He considered the matter with a deliberation and caution
- that appeared irritating to the boy. But he had read and (in the bosom of
- his family) chuckled over <i>Sinbad the Treasurer</i>. He had wondered a
- little, though he didn't mention the fact to Henry, whether Charlie
- wouldn't sue. Charlie had a case.
- </p>
- <p>
- When Henry left, clearly still in a confused condition, it was Mr Davis's
- impression that Henry had placed the matter in his hands as counsel and
- further had distinctly agreed to shut his head.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry apparently understood it differently. Or, more likely, he didn't
- understand at all. Henry was, at the moment, a storm centre with
- considerable emotional disturbance still to come. Any one who has followed
- Henry, who knows him at all, will understand that such disturbance within
- him led directly and always to action. Whatever he may have said to Mr
- Davis, he was helpless. He had to function in his own way. Probably Mr
- Davis's use in the situation was to stimulate Henry's already overactive
- brain. Hardly more.
- </p>
- <p>
- Certainly it was hardly later than a quarter or twenty minutes past seven
- when Henry appeared at Charlie Waterhouse's place on Douglass Street.
- </p>
- <p>
- The town treasurer was on the lawn, shifting his sprinkler by the light of
- the arc lamp on the corner and smoking his after-supper cigar.
- </p>
- <p>
- The conversation took place across the picket fence, one of the few
- surviving in Sunbury at this time.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry said, fiercely:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I want to talk to you about that libel suit.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Can't talk to me, Henry. You'll have to see my lawyer.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yay-ah, I know. I've got a lawyer too.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right. Let 'em talk to each other.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You know you can't get any ten thousand dollars.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Can't talk about that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, you can. You gotta.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, I've gotta, have I?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, you bet you have. Some people seem to think you've got a case.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Guess there ain't much doubt about that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Mebbe there ain't. Even if what I said was true.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look here, Henry, I don't care to have this kind o' talk going on around
- here. You better go along.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Go along nothing! I'll say every word of it. And what's more, you'll
- listen. No, don't you go. You stand right there.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Charlie, a stoutish man in an alpaca coat, with a florid countenance and a
- huge moustache, gave a moment's consideration to the blazing young
- crusader before him. The boy wasn't going to be any too easy to handle. He
- had no need to see him clearly to become aware of that fact. Charlie
- shifted his cigar.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Lemme put it this way. S'pose you could sting me. You'd never get ten
- thousand. But s'pose, after I get through talking, you decide to go ahead
- and push the case——-'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Push the case? Well, rather!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait a minute! All right, let's say you're going ahead and fight for part
- o' that ten thousand. What you think you could get. Then what'm I going to
- do?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Do you suppose I care what——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes you do! Now listen! I want you to get this straight. You——'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>You</i> want <i>me</i> to——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Keep still! Now here's——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look here, I won't have you——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, you will! Listen. If you fight, I'll fight. I'll go straight after
- you. I'll run you to earth. I'll hire detectives to shadow you. I <i>know</i>
- you ain't straight, and I'll show you up before the whole dam town. I'm
- right and I tell you right here I'm going to <i>prove</i> it! I'll put you
- in prison! I'll——'
- </p>
- <p>
- During most of this speech Charlie was talking too. But in so low a tone
- that he could hardly miss what Henry was saving. He broke in now with a
- loud:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Shut up!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stopped really because he was out of breath. It gratified him to see
- that neighbours were appearing in their lighted windows. And a youthful
- chorus on a porch across the way was suddenly hushed.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Came here to make a scene, did you? Well, I'll——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I didn't come here to make a scene. I came here to make you listen to
- reason and I'm going to do it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, drop your voice a little, can't you! No sense in yelling our
- private affairs.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure I'll drop my voice. You're the one that started the yelling.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I don't say you couldn't make it hard for any man in my position if
- you want to be nasty—fight that way.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You wait!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what I'd like to know is—what I'd like to know... Where you
- goin' to get the money to hire all those detectives?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Where'm I going to get the money to pay you if you win the suit?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Though Charlie came back with, 'Oh, I'll win the suit all right, all
- right!' this was clearly a facer. He added, pondering, 'I guess Munson'll
- manage to attach anything you've got.' But he was at sea. 'Fine dirty idea
- o' yours, hounding a decent man, with detectives.' And finally, 'Well,
- what do you want?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Listen! S'pose you did win. You'd never get ten thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'd get five.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, you wouldn't. Why don't you act sensible and tell me what you'll take
- to stop it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'd have to think that over.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You tell me now or I'll bust this town open.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No good talking that way, Henry. Can you get any money?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Tell you for sure in twenty-four hours.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But it ain't the money. You've assailed my character. That's what you've
- done. Will you retract in print?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I won't. But if you'll come down to a decent price and promise to
- call off the boycott——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What boycott?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Advertising. You know. You do that, and I'll agree to leave you alone.
- Somebody else'll have to find you out, that's all. I've gotta help Hump
- Weaver pull the <i>Gleaner</i> out. I guess that's my job now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He said this last sadly. He had read stories of wonderful young St Georges
- who slew a dozen political dragons at a time. Who never compromised or
- gave hostages to fortune. But there was only one chance for the paper and
- for old Hump. That chance was here and now.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was sorry he couldn't see Charlie Waterhouse's face. 'What'll you
- give?' asked that worthy, after thoughtfully chewing, his cigar.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Lord, no. Four thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's impossible.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Three, then.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, I won't pay anything like three.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I wouldn't go a cent under two.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—two thousand then. All right. I'll let you know by to-morrow
- night.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You understand, Henry, it ain't the money. It's for the good o' the town
- I'm doing it. To keep peace, y' understand. That's why I'm doing it. Y'
- understand that, Henry.' He actually reached over the fence and hung to
- the boy's arm.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'We'd better shake hands on it,' said Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure! I'll stand by it, if you will.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I will. Good-bye, now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And Henry, somewhat confused regarding his ethical position, depressed at
- the thought that you couldn't rise altogether out of this hard world, that
- you had to live right in it, compromise with it, let yourself be soiled by
- it—Henry, his eyes down to beads, flushed about the temples, caught
- the eight-six to Chicago.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rode out to the West Side on a cable-car. It is an interesting item to
- note in the rather zig-zag development of Henry's highly emotional nature
- that he never once weakened during that long ride. He was burning up, of
- course. It was like that wonderful week when he had written day and night,
- night and day, the Simpson Street stories. But it was, in a way, glorious.
- That ethereal electricity was flowing right through him. The Power was on
- him. He knew, not in his surface mind but in the deeper seat of all
- belief, in his feelings, that he couldn't be stopped or headed. Not
- to-night.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- 'You are not altogether clear, Henry. Let me understand this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The scene was Uncle Arthur's 'den.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry had run the gauntlet of his cousins. Rich young cousins, brought up
- to respect their parents and think themselves poor. It was a proper home,
- with order, cleanliness, method shining out. He resented it. He resented
- them all.
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur was thin, and penetrating. His eyes bored at you. His nose
- was sharp, his brow furrowed. It seemed to Henry that he was always
- scowling a little.
- </p>
- <p>
- His light sharp voice was going on, stating a disentangled, re-arranged
- version of Henry's extraordinary outbursts:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This man, the town treasurer, is suing you for libel, and you are advised
- that he has a case? But he will settle for two thousand dollars?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. He will.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And you have come to me with the idea that I will pay over your mother's
- money for the purpose?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I'll be twenty-one anyway in less'n two months. But that ain't—isn't—it
- exactly, not all of it. I've really got to have the whole three thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, you have?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. It's like this. We bought the <i>Gleaner</i>, Hump Weaver and I. And
- we got it cheap, too. Two thousand—for plant, good will, the big
- press, everything.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hmm!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then I wrote those stories. They jumped our circulation way up. More'n we
- can afford. Queer about that. Because the paper'd been attacking Charlie
- Waterhouse, they got the advertiser's to boycott us.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Now Charlie's promised me, if I pay him, to call off the boycott. It'll
- give us all the Simpson Street advertising. And Hump says we'll fail in a
- week if we don't get it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry!' Uncle Arthur's voice rang out with unpleasant clarity. 'You got
- from me a thousand dollars of your mother's estate. You sank it in this
- paper. I let you have that thinking it would bring you to your senses.
- </p>
- <p>
- It has not brought you to your senses. That is evident.... Now I am going
- to tell you something extremely serious.
- </p>
- <p>
- I tell you this because I believe that you are not, for one thing,
- dishonest. I have discovered that when I gave you that sum and took your
- receipt I was not protected. You are a minor. You cannot, in law, release
- me from my obligation as your guardian. After you have come of age you
- could collect it again from me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, Uncle Arthur, I wouldn't do <i>that!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I am sure you wouldn't. But you can readily see, now, that it is utterly
- impossible for me to make any further advances to you. Even if I were
- willing. And I am distinctly not willing.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But listen, Uncle Arthur! You've got to!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The scowl of this narrow-faced man deepened.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I don't care for impudence, Henry. We will not talk further about this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But we must, Uncle Arthur! Don't you see, I've got to pay Charlie, and
- have Mr Davis get his receipt and the papers signed before they learn
- about you, or they'll attach the estate. Why, Charlie might get all of it,
- and more too. They might just wreck me. I mustn't lose a minute.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur sat straight up at this. Henry thought he looked even more
- deeply annoyed. But he spoke, after a long moment, quite calmly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You are right there. That is a point. Putting it aside for a moment, what
- were you proposing to do with the other thousand dollars?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry felt the sharp eyes focusing on him. He sprang up. His words came
- hotly.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Because Hump has put in a thousand more'n I have now. He said to-night
- he'd have to sell his library and his—his own things. I can't let
- him do that. I <i>won't</i> let him. I've got to stand with him.' Henry
- choked up a little now.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Hump's my friend, Uncle Arthur. He's steady and honest and——'
- He faltered momentarily; Uncle Arthur was peculiarly the sort of person
- you couldn't tell about Humphrey's love affair; he wouldn't be able then
- to see his strong points.... 'He edits the paper and gets the pay-roll and
- goes out after the ads. And he <i>hates</i> it! But he's a wonderful
- fighter. I won't desert him. I won't! I can't!... Uncle Arthur, why won't
- you come out and see our place and meet Hump and let him show you our
- books and how our circulation's jumped and...'
- </p>
- <p>
- His voice trailed off because Uncle Arthur too had sprung to his feet and
- was pacing the room. Henry's arguments, his earnestness and young energy,
- something, was telling on him. Finally he turned and said, in that same
- quiet voice:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'All right, Henry. I'll run out to-morrow and put this thing through for
- you. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no, Uncle Arthur! You mustn't do that! Not to-morrow! Charlie'd get
- wise. Or some of that gang. Everybody in town'd know you were there. No,
- <i>that</i> wouldn't do!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Uncle Arthur took another turn about the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just what is it that you want, Henry?' he asked, in that same quiet
- voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why, let's see! You'd better give me two thousand in one cheque and one
- thousand in another. Mr Davis can fix it so your cheque doesn't go to
- Charlie. I don't want to put it in the bank. Charlie's crowd'd get on. But
- I'll fix it. Mr Davis'll know.'
- </p>
- <p>
- At the door Uncle Arthur looked severely at the dapper, excited youth on
- the steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It may make a man of you. It will certainly throw you on your own
- resources. I shall have to trust you to release me formally from all
- responsibility after your birthday. And'—sharply—'understand,
- you are never to come to me for help. You have your chance. You have
- chosen your path.'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- Eleven at night. The Country Club was bright; Henry passed it on the
- farther side of the street. He could hear music and laughter there. They
- choked him. With averted face he rushed by.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry entered at the gate before the old Dexter Smith mansion; then
- slipped off among the trees.
- </p>
- <p>
- His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered,
- miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely.
- </p>
- <p>
- There were lights here, too; downstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some one calling, perhaps—that friend of James B. Merchant's.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry gritted his teeth.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn
- irresistibly to the spot.
- </p>
- <p>
- What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that his
- life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must be
- dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his
- great sacrifice.
- </p>
- <p>
- The front door opened.
- </p>
- <p>
- A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very
- still, behind a tree, while they walked past him.
- </p>
- <p>
- A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely had
- at last spared him a stab.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- Still he lingered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, after a little, his nervous ears caught a sound that tingled through
- his body.
- </p>
- <p>
- The front door opened.
- </p>
- <p>
- And standing in the opening behind the screen door, silhouetted against
- the light, he saw a slim girl.
- </p>
- <p>
- His temples were pounding. His throat went dry.
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl came out. Paused. Called over her shoulder in a voice that to
- Henry was velvet and gold—'In a few minutes'—and then seated
- herself midway down the steps and leaned her head against the railing. He
- could see her only faintly now.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry moved forward, curiously dazed, tiptoeing over the turf, slipping
- from tree to tree. Drew near.
- </p>
- <p>
- She lifted her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a breathless pause. Then, 'What is it?' she called. 'What is it?
- Who's there?... O—oh! Why, <i>Henry!</i> You frightened me... What
- is it? Why do you stand there like that. You aren't ill, Henry?... Where
- on earth have you been? I've waited and waited for you. I couldn't think
- what had happened, not having any word.... What is the matter, Henry? You
- act all tired out. Do sit down here.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,'—the queer breathy voice, Henry knew, must be his own. He was
- thinking, wildly, of dead souls' standing at the Judgment Seat. He felt
- like that.... 'No, I can't sit down.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry! What is it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who
- has committed a speech to memory, he said this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Cicely, I asked you this afternoon if we couldn't have an
- “understanding.” You know! It seemed fair to me, if—if—if you,
- well, cared—because I had three thousand dollars, and all that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She made a rather impatient little gesture. He saw her hands move; but
- pressed on:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Since then everything has changed. I have no right to ask you now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence. As on other occasions, in moments of grave
- emergency, Henry had recourse to words.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There was trouble at the office. I couldn't leave Hump to carry all the
- burden alone. And I was being sued for libel. My stories... So I've had to
- make a very quick turn'—he had heard that term used by real business
- men; it sounded rather well, he felt; it had come to him on the train—'I've
- had to make a very quick turn—use every cent, or most every cent, of
- the money. Of course, without any money at all—while I might have
- some chance as a writer—still—well, I have no right to ask
- such a thing of you, and I—I withdraw it. I feel that I—I
- can't do less than that.' Then, after another silence, Henry swayed,
- caught at the railing, sank miserably to the steps.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's all right,' he heard himself saying. 'I just thought—everything's
- been in such a mid rush—I didn't have my supper. I'll be all
- right...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry,' he heard her saying now, in what seemed to him, as he reflected
- on it later that night, at his room, in bed, an extraordinarily
- matter-of-fact voice; girls were complicated creatures—'Henry, you
- must be starved to death. You come right in with me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He followed her in through the great hall, the unlighted living-room, a
- dark passage where she found his hand and led him along, a huge place that
- must have been the kitchen, and then an unmistakable pantry.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Stand here till I find the light,' she murmured.
- </p>
- <p>
- It <i>was</i> the pantry.
- </p>
- <p>
- She opened the ice-box, produced milk and cold meat. In a tin box was
- chocolate cake.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I oughtn't to let you,' he said weakly. 'I knew you were angry to-day
- there——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, Henry, they could <i>hear</i> you! Thomas and William. Don't you see——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That wasn't all,' he broke in excitedly. 'It was my asking for an
- understanding.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She was bending over a drawer, rummaging for knife and fork.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, it wasn't that,' she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'd like to know what it was, then!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It was—oh, please, Henry, don't ever talk that way about money
- again.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, Cicely, don't you see——'
- </p>
- <p>
- She straightened up now, knife in one hand, fork in the other; looked
- directly at him; slowly shook her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What,' she asked, 'has money to do with—with you and me?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, Cicely, you don't mean——'
- </p>
- <p>
- He saw the sudden sparkle in her dark eyes, the slow slight smile that
- parted her lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- She turned away then.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh,' she remarked, rather timidly, 'you'll want these,' and gave him the
- knife and fork.
- </p>
- <p>
- He laid them on the table.
- </p>
- <p>
- They stood for a little time without speaking; she fingering the fastener
- of the cake box, he pulling at his moustache. Finally, very softly, she
- said this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course, Henry, you know, we <i>would</i> really have to be very
- patient, and not say anything about it to people until—well, until
- we <i>could</i>, you know....'
- </p>
- <p>
- And then, his trembling arm about her shoulders, his lips reverently
- brushing her forehead in their first kiss—until now the restraint of
- youth (which is quite as remarkable as its excesses) had kept them just
- short of any such sober admission of feeling—her cheek resting
- lightly against his coat, she said this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I shouldn't have let myself be disturbed. I don't really care about
- Thomas and William. But what you said made me seem like that sort of girl.
- Henry, you—you hurt me a little.' His eyes filled. He stood erect,
- looking out over the dark mass of her hair, looking down the long vista of
- the years. He compressed his lips.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Of course,' he said bravely. 'We don't care about money We've got all our
- lives. I guess I can work. Prob'ly I'll write better for not having any.
- You know—it'll spur me. And I'll be working for you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He heard her whisper:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll be so <i>proud</i>, Henry.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What's money to us!' He seemed at last to be getting hold of this
- tremendous thought, to be approaching belief. He repeated it, with a ring
- in his voice: 'What's money to us!'
- </p>
- <p>
- After all what <i>is</i> money to Twenty?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- X—LOVE LAUGHS
- </h2>
- <h3>
- 1
- </h3>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> squat locomotive,
- bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring from the flaring
- smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the platforms and
- stopped just beyond the old red brick depot.
- </p>
- <p>
- The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy
- yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These ladies
- were bound for the shops, the matinées (it was a Wednesday, and October),
- the lectures and concerts of Chicago.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic
- person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood
- sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned back
- and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a train
- made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a sooty
- brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the door of the
- car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up, chattering
- ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was like a tea. He was
- afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he couldn't, from the
- door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but to run the gauntlet.
- And not without a faintly stirring sense of conspicuousness that was at
- once pleasing and confusing he started down the aisle, clutching at
- seat-backs for support.
- </p>
- <p>
- Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl
- occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the women in
- front. These latter, on close inspection—he had paused midway—proved
- to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary.
- </p>
- <p>
- This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just
- behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat? The
- hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to him as
- ghosts come.
- </p>
- <p>
- He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady
- caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the <i>Gleaner</i>,'
- she said. 'Mr MacLouden says they're worthy of Stevenson. His <i>New
- Arabian Nights</i> you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In London.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mary Ames looked up.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn't bow, or smile. He wasn't sure
- that she even inclined her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that he
- couldn't retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly by.
- He couldn't take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately by and on
- into the car behind would help a little. At least in his feelings; and
- these were what mattered.... Who <i>was</i> the girl under that unfamiliar
- hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly.
- </p>
- <p>
- He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing.
- Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with
- the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn't burn so.
- </p>
- <p>
- The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes and
- the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell!
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out of
- his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then during
- the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting—indeed,
- enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it
- momentarily, slightly thrilling—to discover that he liked her. He
- saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was
- prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch
- of radiance in it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag.
- </p>
- <p>
- In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it up
- and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally, brought
- up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along
- the aisle, the hand came down on the bag.
- </p>
- <p>
- She said, half audibly—it was a question:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sit here?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was gripping the seat-corner just back of Mrs Ames's shoulder; a
- rigid shoulder. Mary had turned stiffly round. He couldn't stop his
- whirling mind long enough to decide anything. Why hadn't he gone straight
- by? What could they talk about? Unless they were to talk low,
- confidentially, Mary and her mother would hear most of it. And they
- couldn't talk confidentially. Not very well.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took the seat.
- </p>
- <p>
- What <i>could</i> they say?
- </p>
- <p>
- But the surprising fact stood out that Martha was a nice girl, a likeable
- girl. Even if she had believed the stories about him. Even if... No, it
- hadn't seemed like Martha.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was staring at Mrs Ames's tortoise-shell comb. Martha was looking
- out the window, tapping on the sill with a white-gloved hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment of the old sense of proprietorship over Martha came upon him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Silly,' he remarked, muttering it rather crossly, 'wearing white gloves
- into Chicago! Be black in ten minutes. Women-folks haven't got much
- sense.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha gave this remark the silence it deserved. She dropped her eyes,
- studied the shopping bag. Then, very quietly, she said this:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry—it hasn't been very easy—but I <i>have</i> wanted to
- tell you about your stories....
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What about'em?' he asked, ungraciously enough. And he dug with his cane
- at the grimy green plush of the seat-back before him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, they're so good, Henry! I didn't know—I didn't realise—just
- everybody's talking about them! <i>Everybody!</i> You've no idea! It's
- been splendid of you to—you know, to answer people that way.'
- </p>
- <p>
- I don't think Martha meant to touch on the one most difficult topic. They
- both reddened again.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a longer pause, she tried it again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I just <i>love</i> reading them myself. And I wish you could hear the
- things Jim—Mr Merchant—says....'
- </p>
- <p>
- She was actually dragging him in!
- </p>
- <p>
- ... He's really a judge. You've no idea, Henry!' He met Kipling at a tea
- in New York. He knows lots of people like—you know, editors and
- publishers, people like that. And he crossed the ocean once with Richard
- Harding Davis. He says you're doing a very remarkable thing... original
- note.... Sunbury is going to be proud of you. He wouldn't let anything—you
- know, personal—influence his judgment. He's very fair-minded.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry dug and dug at the plush.
- </p>
- <p>
- She was pulling at her left glove.
- </p>
- <p>
- What on earth!...
- </p>
- <p>
- She had it off.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I want you to know, Henry. Such a wonderful thing has happened to me.
- See!'
- </p>
- <p>
- On her third finger glittered a diamond in a circlet of gold.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He wanted to give me a cluster, Henry. I wouldn't let him. I just didn't
- want him to be too extravagant. I love this stone.. I picked it out
- myself. At Welding's. And then he wished it on. And, Henry, I'm so happy!
- I can't bear to think that you and I—anybody—you know....'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry was critically, moodily, appraising the diamond.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Can't we be friends, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Sure we can! Of course!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I just can't tell you how wonderful it is. I want everybody else to be
- happy.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm happy!' he announced, explosively, between set teeth.
- </p>
- <p>
- She thought this over.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've heard a little talk, of course. I've been interested, too. Yes, I
- have! Cicely's a perfectly dandy girl. And she's—you know, <i>that</i>
- way. Knows so much about books and things. I didn't realise—that you
- were—you know, really—well, engaged?'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long pause. Henry dug and dug with his stick.
- </p>
- <p>
- Finally, eyes wandering a little but mouth still set, he said huskily:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, we're engaged.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What was that, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I said, “Yes, we're engaged.”'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'O—o—oh, Henry, I'm so glad!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't say anything about it, Martha.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, of <i>course</i> not!... You've no idea how nice people are being to
- me. They're giving me a party to-night, down on the South Side. We're
- coming back to-morrow.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Merchant met her in the Chicago depot. Henry had excused himself before
- Mrs Ames and Mary got up. He would have hurried off into the grimy city,
- but the crowd held him back. Martha saw him and dragged the rich and
- important man of her choice toward him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry thought him very old, and not particularly goodlooking. He was a
- stocky, sandy-complexioned man; dressed now, as always, in brown, even to
- a brown hat. He looked strong enough—Henry knew that he played polo,
- and that sort of thing—but gossip put him at thirty-eight. He
- certainly couldn't be under thirty-five. Henry wondered how Martha
- could...
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he found himself taking the man's hand and listening to more of the
- familiar praise. But on this occasion it had, he felt, a condescension, a
- touch of patronage, that irritated him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'd like to talk with you, Calverly. There's a chance that—I'll
- tell you! I may be able to arrange it this evening. They're not letting me
- come to the party. Got to do something. I'll try it. Come around to my
- place between eight and half-past, and I'll explain more fully. There's a
- classmate of mine in town that can help us, maybe. You'll do that? Good!
- I'll expect you.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He was gone.
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly, moodily, Henry wandered through the station and up the long
- stairway to the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- He felt deeply uncomfortable. It wasn't this Mr Merchant, though he wished
- he had known how to show his resentment of the man's offhand manner. But
- he hadn't known; he wouldn't again; before age and experience he was
- helpless. No, his trouble lay deeper. He shouldn't have told Martha that
- he was engaged. Why had he done such a thing? What on earth had he meant
- by it? It was a rather dreadful break.
- </p>
- <p>
- He paused on the Wells Street bridge; hung over the dirty wooden railing;
- watched a tug come through the opaque, sluggish water, pouring out its
- inevitable black smoke, a great rolling cloud of it, that set him
- coughing. He perversely welcomed it.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely expected him in the evening. He would have to drop in on his way to
- Mr Merchant's. Could he tell her what he had done? Dared he tell her?
- </p>
- <p>
- Martha and the Ameses would be gone overnight. That was something. And
- people didn't get up early after parties. At least, girls didn't. It would
- be afternoon before they would reappear in Sunbury. Say twenty-four hours.
- But immediately after that, certainly by evening, all Sunbury would have
- the news that the popular Cicely Hamlin was engaged. To young Henry
- Calverly. The telephone would ring. Congratulations would be pouring in.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stared fixedly at the water. He wondered what made him do these things,
- lose control of his tongue. It wasn't his first offence; nor, surely, his
- last. An unnerving suggestion, that last! He asked himself how bad a man
- had to feel before jumping down there and ending it all. It happened often
- enough. You saw it in the papers.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 3
- </h3>
- <p>
- Welding's jewellery store occupied the best corner on the proper side of
- State Street. In its long series of show window's, resting on velvet of
- appropriate colours, backed by mirrors, were bracelets, lockets, rings,
- necklaces, 'dog-collars' of matched pearls, diamond tiaras, watches,
- chests of silverware, silver bowls, cups and ornaments, articles in cut
- glass, statuettes of ebony, bronze and jade, and here and there, in
- careless little heaps, scattered handfuls of unmounted gems—rubies,
- emeralds, yellow, white and blue diamonds, and rich-coloured semi-precious
- stones.
- </p>
- <p>
- But all this without over-emphasis. There were no built-up, glittering
- pyramids, no placards, no price-tags even. There was instead, despite the
- luxury of the display, a restraint; as if it were more a concession to the
- traditions of sound shop-keeping than an appeal for custom. For Welding's
- was known, had been known through a long generation, from Pittsburg to
- Omaha. Welding's, like the Art Institute, Hooley's Theatre, Devoe's candy
- store, Field's buses, Central Music Hall, was a Chicago institution,
- playing its inevitable part at every well-arranged wedding as in every
- properly equipped dining-room. You couldn't give any one you really cared
- about a present of jewellery in other than a Welding box. Not if you were
- doing the thing right! Oh, you <i>could</i>, perhaps....
- </p>
- <p>
- And Welding's, from the top-booted, top-hatted doorman (such were not
- common in Chicago then) to the least of the immaculately clad salesmen,
- was profoundly, calmly, overpoweringly aware of its position.
- </p>
- <p>
- Before the section of the window that was devoted to rings stood Henry.
- </p>
- <p>
- About him pressed the throng of early-afternoon shoppers—sharp-faced
- women, brisk business men, pretty girls in pretty clothes, messenger boys,
- loiterers and the considerable element of foreign-appearing, rather shabby
- men and women, boys and girls that were always an item in the Chicago
- scene. Out in the wide street the traffic, a tangle of it (this was before
- the days of intelligent traffic regulation anywhere in America) rolled and
- rattled and thundered by—carriages, hacks, delivery wagons,
- two-horse and three-horse trucks, and trains of cable-cars, each with its
- flat wheel or two that pounded rhythmically as it rolled. And out of the
- traffic—out of the huge, hive-like stores and office-buildings, out
- of the very air as breezes blew over from other, equally busy streets,
- came a noise that was a blend of noises, a steady roar, the nervous hum of
- the city.
- </p>
- <p>
- But of all this Henry saw, heard, nothing; merely pulled at his moustache
- and tapped his cane against his knee.
- </p>
- <p>
- A wanly pretty girl, with short yellow hair curled kinkily against her
- head under a sombrero hat, loitered toward him, close to the window;
- paused at his side, brushing his elbow; glanced furtively up under her hat
- brim; smiled mechanically, showing gold teeth; moved around him and
- lingered on the other side; spoke in a low tone; finally, with a glance
- toward the fat policeman who stood, in faded blue, out in the thick of
- things by the car tracks, drifted on and away.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry had neither seen nor heard her.
- </p>
- <p>
- Brows knit, lips compressed, eyes nervously intent, he marched resolutely
- into Welding's.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Look at some rings!' he said, to a distrait salesman.
- </p>
- <p>
- He indicated, sternly, a solitaire that looked, he thought, about like
- Martha's.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How much is that?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That? Not a bad stone. Let me see... Oh, three hundred dollars.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry, huskily, in a dazed hush of the spirit, repeated the words:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Three—hundred—dollars!'
- </p>
- <p>
- The salesman tapped with manicured fingers on the showcase.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Have you—have you—have you...
- </p>
- <p>
- The salesman raised his eyebrows.
- </p>
- <p>
- '... any others?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes, we have others.' He drew out a tray from the wall behind him. 'I
- can show fairly good stones as low as sixty or eighty dollars. Here's one
- that's really very good at a hundred.'
- </p>
- <p>
- There was a long silence. The glistening finger nails fell to tapping
- again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'This one, you say is—one hundred?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'One hundred.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Another silence. Then:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Thank you. I—I was just sorta looking around.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The salesman began replacing the trays.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry moved away; slowly, irresolutely, at first; then, as he passed out
- the door, with increasing speed. At the corner of Randolph he was racing
- along. He caught the two-fourteen for Sunbury by chasing it the length of
- the platform. Henry could do the hundred yards under twelve seconds at any
- time with all his clothes on. He could do it under eleven on a track.
- </p>
- <p>
- By a quarter to three he was walking swiftly, with dignity, up Simpson
- Street. He turned in at the doorway beside Hemple's meat-market and ran up
- the long stairway to the offices above.
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey strolled in from the composing room.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Seen those people already, Hen?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—you see—well, no. I'm going right back in. On the
- three-eight.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Going back? But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's this way, Hump. I—it'll seem sorta sudden, I know—you
- see, I want to get an engagement ring. There's one that would do all
- right, I think, for—well, a hundred dollars—and I was
- wondering....'
- </p>
- <p>
- Humphrey stared at him; grinned.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'So you've gone and done it! You don't say! You are a bit rapid, Henry.
- The lady must have been on the train.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No—not quite—you see...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Got to be done right now, eh? All in a rush?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, Hump...
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait a minute! Let me collect my scattered faculties. If you've got to
- this point it's no good trying to reason——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But, Hump, I'll be reasonable——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I know. Now listen to me! This appears to come under the general
- head of emergencies. We're not quite in such bad shape as we were a month
- back. There's a little advertising revenue coming in. An——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, I thought——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And you've certainly sunk enough in this old property—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No more than you, Hump——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just wait, will you! I don't see but what we've got to stand back of you.
- Perhaps we'd better enter it as a loan from the business to you until I
- can think up a better excuse. Or no, I'll tell you—call it a salary
- advance. Well, something! I'll work it out. Never you mind now. And if
- you're going to stop at the bank and catch the three-eight you'll have to
- step along.'
- </p>
- <p>
- It would have interested a student of psychophysics, I think, to slip a
- clinical thermometer in under Henry's tongue as he sat, erect, staring,
- with nervously twitching hands and feet, on the three-eight train.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 4
- </h3>
- <p>
- To Cicely's house Henry hurried after bolting a supper at Stanley's
- restaurant and managing to evade Humphrey's amused questions when he heard
- them.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was early, barely half-past seven. The Watt household had dinner (not
- supper) at seven. They would hardly be through. He couldn't help that. He
- had waited as long as he could.
- </p>
- <p>
- He rang the bell. The butler showed him in. He sat on the piano stool in
- the spacious, high-ceiled parlour, where he had waited so often before.
- </p>
- <p>
- To-night it looked like a strange room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He told himself that it was absurd to feel so nervous. He and Cicely
- understood each other well enough. She cared for him. She had said so,
- more than once.
- </p>
- <p>
- Of course, the little matter of facing Madame Watt... though, after all,
- what could she do?
- </p>
- <p>
- He tried to control the tingling of his nerves.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I must relax,' he thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- With this object he moved over to the heavily upholstered sofa and settled
- himself on it; stretched out his legs; thrust his hands into his pockets.
- </p>
- <p>
- But there was an extraordinary pressure in his temples; a pounding.
- </p>
- <p>
- He snatched a hand from one pocket and felt hurriedly in another to see if
- the precious little box was there; the box with the magical name embossed
- on the cover, 'Weldings.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He reflected, exultantly, 'I never bought anything there before.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then: 'She's a long time. They must be at the table still.' He sat up;
- listened. But the dining-room in the Dexter Smith place was far back
- behind the 'back parlour.' The walls were thick. There were heavy hangings
- and vast areas of soft carpet. You couldn't hear. 'Gee!' his thoughts
- raced on, 'think of owning all this! Wonder how people ever get so much
- money. Wonder how it would seem.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He caught himself twisting his neck nervously within his collar. And his
- hands were clenched; his toes, even, were drawn up tightly in his shoes.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Gotta relax,' he told himself again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then he felt for the little box. This time he transferred it to a trousers
- pocket; held it tight in his hand there.
- </p>
- <p>
- A door opened and closed. There was a distant rustling. Henry, paler,
- sprang to his feet.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I must be cool,' he thought. 'Think before I speak. Everything depends on
- my steadiness now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- But the step was not Cicely's. She was slim and light. This was a solid
- tread.
- </p>
- <p>
- He gripped the little box more tightly. He was meeting with a curious
- difficulty in breathing.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, in the doorway, appeared the large person, the hooked nose, the
- determined mouth, the piercing, hawklike eyes of Madame Watt.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How d'do, Henry,' she said, in her deep voice. 'Sit down. I want to talk
- to you. About Cicely. I'm going to tell you frankly—I like you,
- Henry; I believe you're going to amount to something one of these days—but
- I had no idea—now I want you to take this in the spirit I say it in—I
- had no idea things were going along so fast between Cicely and you. I've
- trusted you. I've let you two play together all you liked. And I won't say
- I'd stand in the way, a few years from now——
- </p>
- <p>
- 'A few years!...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Now, Henry, I'm not going to have you getting all stirred up. Let's admit
- that you're fond of Cicely. You are, aren't you? Yes? Well, now we'll try
- to look at it sensibly. How old are you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm twenty, but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'When will you be twenty-one?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Next month. You see——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Now tell me—try to think this out clearly—how on earth could
- you expect to take care of a girl who's been brought up as Cicely has.
- Even if she were old enough to know her own mind, which I can't believe
- she is.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, but she does!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Fudge, Henry! She couldn't. What experience has she had? Never mind that,
- though. Tell me, what is your income now. You'll admit I have a right to
- ask.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Twelve a week, but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And what prospects have you? Be practical now! How far do you expect to
- rise on the <i>Gleaner!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not very high, but our circulation——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What earthly difference can a little more or less circulation make when
- it's a country weekly! No, Henry, believe me, I have a great deal of
- confidence in you—I mean that you'll keep on growing up and forming
- character—but this sort of thing can not—simply can not—go
- on now. Why, Henry, you haven't even begun your man's life yet! Very
- likely you'll write. It may be that you're a genius. But that makes it all
- the more a problem. Can't you see——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, of course, but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, listen to me! I asked Cicely to-day why you were coming so often. I
- wasn't at all satisfied with her answers to my questions. And when I
- forced her to admit that she has been as good as engaged to you——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But we <i>aren't</i> engaged! It's only an understanding.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Understanding! Pah! Don't excite me, Henry. I want to straighten this out
- just as pleasantly as I can. I <i>am</i> fond of you, Henry. But I never
- dreamed—— Tell me, you and that young Weaver own the <i>Gleaner</i>,
- I think.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes'm we own it. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Just what does that mean? That you have paid money—actual money—for
- it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes'm. It's cost us about four thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Four thousand! Hmm!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'And then Charlie Waterhouse—he's town treasurer—he sued me
- for libel—ten thousand dollars'—Henry seemed a thought proud
- of this—'and I had to give him two thousand to settle. It was
- something in one of my stories—the one called <i>Sinbad the
- Treasurer</i>. Mr Davis—he's my lawyer—he said Charlie had a
- case, but——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait a minute, Henry! Where did you get that money. It's—let me see—about
- four thousand dollars—your share—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes'm four thousand. It was my mother's. She left it to me. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I see. Your mother's estate. How much is left of it—outside what
- you lost in this suit and the two thousand you've invested in the paper.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nothing. But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nothing! Now, Henry'—no, don't speak! I want you to listen to me a
- few minutes longer. And I want you to take seriously to heart what I'm
- going to say. First, about this paper, the <i>Gleaner</i>. It's a serious
- question whether you'll ever get your two thousand dollars back. If you
- ever <i>have</i> to sell out you won't get anything like it. If you were
- older, and if you were by nature a business man—which you aren't!—you
- might manage, by the hardest kind of work to build it up to where you
- could get twenty or thirty dollars a week out of it instead of twelve. But
- you'll never do it. You aren't fitted for it. You're another sort of boy,
- by nature. And I'm sorry to say I firmly believe this money, or the most
- of it is certain to go after the other two thousand, that Mr Charlie
- Waterhouse got. But even considering that you boys <i>could</i> make the
- paper pay for itself, Cicely couldn't be the wife of a struggling little
- country editor. I wouldn't listen to that for a minute! No, my advice to
- you, Henry, is to take your losses as philosophically as you can, call it
- experience, and go to work as a writer. It'll take you years——'
- </p>
- <p>
- '<i>Years!</i> But——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes, to establish yourself. A success in a country town isn't a New York
- success. Remember that. No, it's a long road you're going to travel. After
- you've got somewhere, when you've become a man, when you've found
- yourself, with some real prospects—it isn't that I'd expect you to
- be rich, Henry, but I'd <i>have</i> to be assured that you were a going
- concern—why, then you might come to me again. But not now. I want
- you to go now——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Without seeing Cicely?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Certainly. Above all things. I want you to go, and promise that you won't
- try to see her. To-morrow she goes away for a long visit.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'For—a—long... But she'd see other men, and—Oh!...'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Exactly. I mean that she shall. Best way in the world to find out whether
- you two are calves or lovers. One way or the other, we'll prove it. And
- now you must go! Remember you have my best wishes. I hope you'll find the
- road one of these days and make a go of it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- A moment more and the front door had closed on him. He stood before the
- house, staring up through the maple leaves at the starry sky, struggling,
- for the moment vainly, toward sanity. It was like the end of the world. If
- was unthinkable. It was awful.
- </p>
- <p>
- But after waiting a while he went to Mr Merchant's. There was nothing else
- to do.
- </p>
- <h3>
- 5
- </h3>
- <p>
- Mr Merchant himself opened the door to Henry. He lived in one of the
- earliest of the apartment buildings that later were to work a deep change
- in the home life of Sunbury. 'How are you, Calverly!' he said, in his
- offhand, superior way. Then in a lower and distinctly less superior tone,
- almost friendly indeed, he added, 'Got a bit of a surprise for you. Come
- in.'
- </p>
- <p>
- The living-room was lighted by a single standing lamp with a red shade.
- Beneath it, curled up like a boy in a cretonne-covered wing chair, his
- shock of faded yellow hair mussed where his fingers had been, his heavy
- faded yellow moustache bushing out under a straight nose and pale cheeks,
- his old gray suit sadly wrinkled, sat a stranger reading from a handful of
- newspaper clippings.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry paused in the door. The man looked up, so quickly that Henry
- started, and fixed on him eyes that while they were a rather pale blue yet
- had an uncanny fire in them.
- </p>
- <p>
- The man frowned as he cried, gruffly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, come in! Needn't be afraid of me!' And coolly read on.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry stepped just inside the door. Turned mutely to his host. What a
- queer man! Had he had it within him at the moment to resent anything, he
- would have stiffened. But he was crushed to begin with.
- </p>
- <p>
- The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the room
- he thought it the type and paper of the <i>Gleaner</i>. His stories,
- doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it!
- What was the good, if they made him so cross.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute—'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I won't. Don't interrupt me!'
- </p>
- <p>
- '—I would introduce him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't
- be!....
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author
- of——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'So I gathered. Keep still!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the
- clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the
- bedrooms.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That—that isn't <i>the</i> Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice
- tinged with awe.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to wait
- till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he
- wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at least
- a manner of businesslike calm.
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He even
- answered questions now and then. But all the time he was trying—trying—to
- think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand closed on the little
- box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately for some sort of a
- mental footing.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a
- drink.'
- </p>
- <p>
- And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well.
- It's been a—a hard day.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've got
- a bit of excitement coming.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry did this.
- </p>
- <p>
- Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight to Henry;
- stood over' him; glared—angrily, Henry thought, with a fluttering of
- his wits—down at him.
- </p>
- <p>
- It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but
- the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so
- important—nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty
- years ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest—that's the
- thing! And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our
- throats. What do you eat?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I—I don't know's I——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don't doubt you had
- cream on the oatmeal?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—milk, sorta.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really—think that over—orange
- and milk! Isn't that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning
- of the day?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Merchant broke in here.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Galbraith, for heaven's sake! Don't bulldoze him.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But this is important. It's health! We've got to look out for that. Right
- from the start! Here, Calverly—how old are you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm—well—most—twenty-one.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good God,
- boy, don't you see——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, come, Galbraith!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, I'll put it this way:—Here's a young man that can work magic.
- Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling
- and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?...
- Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American
- publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint 'em,
- as they stand, in <i>Galbraith's</i>. What do you think o' that? A bit
- original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it up.
- Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger again
- at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just as if
- you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all the old
- editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I edit <i>Galbraith's</i>
- to suit myself.
- </p>
- <p>
- I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I
- print the best. I'm the editor of <i>Galbraith's</i> Oh, I keep a few desk
- men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he was
- the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to
- England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, “Frank, pack up!
- Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor.”'
- </p>
- <p>
- He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings.
- Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All tyrants
- have short legs.' And walked off again.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's on the paper here—“Weaver and Calverly”? Father? Uncle?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's—it's me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder. 'Don't
- be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand what we're
- getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be famous in a
- year.'
- </p>
- <p>
- He stopped short; took another swing around the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Twenty.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the
- way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for
- 'em?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry could only look appealingly at his host.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it worth
- your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a Galbraith
- author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two thousand.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Not enough,' said Merchant.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new
- writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'True. But I should think——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that,
- Calverly?
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course. But
- I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract. Here!'
- He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening paper.
- 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry Calverly
- matter for five years——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Too long,' said Mr Merchant.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it
- elsewhere. And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for
- these stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No
- guarantee.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret tying
- up with me.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You'd better agree to pay him something—say twenty-five a week—as
- a minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to
- tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I'm going to tie him up, all right. I'd go the limit. Twenty-five a week,
- minimum, for three years. That's agreed... How're you fixed, Calverly?
- Want any money now?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. 'Yes. Better advance a
- little. He could use it. Couldn't you, Calverly?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Why—-why——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'What do you say to five hundred. That'd clinch the bargain. Here—wait!'
- </p>
- <p>
- He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the
- cheque.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Here you are, Calverly. That'd take care of you for the present. Mustn't
- forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You'd better go now. Go
- home. Get a good night's sleep. And watch that stomach. Cereal's good, at
- your age. But cut out the orange.... I'm going to bed, Merchant. Been
- travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I'll send you the contract
- from New York.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'First, though'—this from Mr Merchant—'I think you'd better
- write a letter—here, to-night—confirming the arrangement. You
- and I can do that. We'll let Mr Calverly go.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and
- stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his eyes;
- looked hurriedly about; muttered—'Where'd I lay that fountain pen?'—found
- it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings behind him.
- </p>
- <p>
- Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate
- Galbraith.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry looked at him out of wan eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then suddenly he giggled aloud.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to
- succeed.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I felt a little bad about—you know, what you said about making him
- write that letter. He might think I——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the morning.
- I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You—you don't mean that he'd—he'd——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, he might forget it.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Nor after he <i>promised!</i>'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times.
- Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he wakes
- up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses
- are that way.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one. No matter
- how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible, Galbraith is a
- great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd make you, I believe
- he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on the high road now,
- Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how most men hit the high
- road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble on it. Within a year
- you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!'
- </p>
- <h3>
- 6
- </h3>
- <p>
- The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression.
- Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though
- great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life. It had
- the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely elastic
- imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual.
- </p>
- <p>
- He hadn't enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was a
- shock from which he didn't recover for years, an utter destruction of
- cherished illusions.
- </p>
- <p>
- He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and
- with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about
- anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was
- frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing
- adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, <i>the</i>
- Galbraith; that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks—he
- recalled how he had written the first ten during three mad days and
- nights; they had come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write
- them down, as if an exuberant angel were dictating to him—had sold
- them for thousands of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for
- three years. The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing
- that had happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again.
- Though he knew it would. But between times he wasn't a genius; he wasn't
- anything; just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat;
- rubbed his blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I've got congestion,' he muttered.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood at the railing and stared out ever the lake. It was lead black
- out there, with a tossing light or two; ore freighters or lumber boats
- headed for Chicago harbour. Beneath him, down the beach, great waves were
- pounding in, quickly, endlessly, tirelessly, one after the other. He could
- see the ghostly foam of each. He could feel the spindrift cutting at his
- face. The wind was so strong he had to lean against it. A gust tore off
- his glasses; he let them hang over his shoulder. He welcomed the rush and
- roar of it in his stormy soul.
- </p>
- <p>
- After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the Dexter
- Smith place.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was dark, upstairs and down.
- </p>
- <p>
- He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time the
- little box from Welding's was gripped in his burning hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every year
- he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great straight
- branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling about him; the
- bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed it. Caught at
- another. And another.
- </p>
- <p>
- He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was cool
- to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at the
- dark house. Tears came; blinded him.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because
- she loves me. They're breaking her heart—and mine. Martha'll be back
- to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then—what—what
- I did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live
- here—not after that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- A new and fascinating thought came.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me here.
- I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning they'll
- find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr Galbraith's cheque.
- And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter. Maybe they'll discover
- I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry then.'
- </p>
- <p>
- But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing quality.
- He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept his
- long-suffering partner awake during much of the night.
- </p>
- <p>
- At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the
- Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into
- the spacious parlour.
- </p>
- <p>
- He waited, fiercely.
- </p>
- <p>
- A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the
- room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand.
- Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing
- another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!'
- </p>
- <p>
- She, still frowning, turned the pages.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'But what's all this, Henry?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready
- for me. It's <i>Galbraith's Magazine</i>. They're going to print my
- stories and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get
- book royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the
- price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And Mr
- Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to advertise
- me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says there's been
- nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here, coldly, this
- impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But shrewd,
- strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it far from
- absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as much as of
- genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional uncertainty
- in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were youth—gifted,
- uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she said, brusquely—'Sit
- down, Henry!'—and herself dropped heavily into a chair and began
- deliberately reading the document of the great Galbraith, she knew, in her
- curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she was sparring for time. Before
- her, still on his feet, apparently unaware that she had spoken, unaware of
- everything on earth outside of his own turbulent breast, stood an
- incarnation of primal energy.
- </p>
- <p>
- She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found
- momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old
- folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think he was talking all the time—pouring out an incoherent,
- tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to
- brush him away.
- </p>
- <p>
- When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a
- little box.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all this?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I want you to let me see Cicely. Just one minute. Let her say. I can't—I
- <i>can't</i>—leave it like this!'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'You promised——'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'That I wouldn't try to see her. But I can come to you can't I? That's
- fair, isn't it?'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Watt sighed again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Suddenly Henry leaped forward; caught himself; stepped back; cried out, in
- a passionately suppressed voice:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'There she is! Now!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely was crossing the hall toward the stairs. They could see her through
- the doorway.
- </p>
- <p>
- She went up as far as the first landing, a few steps up; then, a hand on
- the railing, she hesitated and slowly turned her head.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Will you ask her to come!' Henry moaned. 'Ask her! Let her say! Don't
- break our hearts like this!'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame raised her hand.
- </p>
- <p>
- Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and
- into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head bent
- forward a little, glancing from one to the other.
- </p>
- <p>
- She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her, that
- she, too, was suffering.
- </p>
- <p>
- She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little
- questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn't smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter. He
- waited for her to look up.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is
- unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had
- beaten her.
- </p>
- <p>
- He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He
- saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then his own voice came out—a shy, even polite, if breathless,
- little voice:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'I was just wondering, Cicely, if you'd let me give you this ring.'
- </p>
- <p>
- She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring.
- </p>
- <p>
- He held it out.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then she said:—
- </p>
- <p>
- 'No, Henry.... I mean, hadn't you better wish it on?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Oh, yes,' said he. 'Funny! I didn't think of that.'
- </p>
- <p>
- Madame Watt turned a page, rustling the paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Wait, Henry! Don't let go! Have you wished?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Unhuh! Have you?'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Yes. I wished the first thing.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Well—' Henry had to stop. He found himself swallowing rather
- violently. 'Well—I s'pose I'd better step down to the office. I
- might come back this afternoon, if—if you'd like me to.'
- </p>
- <p>
- 'Henry,' said Madame now, 'don't be silly! Come to lunch!'
- </p>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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