Kitabı oku: «Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd», sayfa 21

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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!’