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.'