'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.