Kitabı oku: «Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd», sayfa 19

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.