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!