Henry Is Twenty: A Further Episodic History of Henry Calverly, 3rd

II—IN SAND-FLY TIME '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 I 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. 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.

Related documents

• Marse Henry: An Autobiography (Volume 1)#35101
• The Observations of Henry#39294
• Memoirs of a Surrey Labourer: A Record of the Last Years of Frederick Bettesworth#50929
• The Observations of Henry Illustrated#53270
• Rudolf Eucken et l'énigme de l'Europe#101141