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.