'In a way--in a way--you have a right.... God knows it won't.... So much
at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.'
He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was
gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn't speak again; not a word.
She stood aside.
'It was very good of you,' she said.
But he rushed past her and down the stairs.
Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his
temperamental young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending
over him, shaking him and saying, 'Gimme fifteen dollars! I'll explain
to-morrow. Gosh, but I'm a wreck! You've no idea!'
And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were
piled and fumbling in various pockets for money.
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.