sue stared at him, caught her breath, laughed a little.
“why—henry! you startled me. where's betty?”
the worm, thinking quickly, bitterness in his heart against the selfish lightness of the village, bed. “haven't seen her. waited for her to come in. finally decided i'd better not wait any longer.” they were in the dim living-room now. sue's eyes took in the strapped trunk and closed suit-case, the bare screen and couch.
“but who—henry, you don't mean that you—” he nodded. his pipe was out—he simply couldn't keep it going! still, it gave him something to do, lighting it again.
sue stood watching him, studying his face by the light of a match reflected from his hollowed hands. “why so dark in here?” she observed. then, abruptly, she came to him, laid a hand on his arm, broke out with feeling: “you're a dear, henry, to go to all this trouble! as it was, i felt i was imposing on you. so i ran in to look after things myself.”
“going back to-night?” he asked, talking around his pipe-stem.
“oh. yes. i must.” she moved to the window and gazed out at the crowded familiar scene. suddenly she turned.
“henry—didn't you see betty?”
“no,” he muttered.
“then how on earth did you get in? there are only the two keys.”
he lowered his pipe, stared at her with open mouth. as soon as his mind cleared a little he thought—“good god! i don't even lie well! i'm no good—for anything!”
he turned with a jerk; walked down the room; walked back again; striding out savagely, turning with a jerk.
“what is it you aren't felling me?” she asked, following him with troubled eyes.
he paced and paced. finally he came to the other side of the window, stared gloomily out. still she watched him, waiting.
“sue,” he said—she had never known this vehemence in him—“you're wrong.”
“wrong, henry?”
he threw out his arm in a strong gesture; his fist was clenched..the other hand held his pipe high. “yes, wrong! you're not a cook! you're not a nurse maid. you're a girl with a soul—with spirit—fire! what are you to that family? they've always wanted to hold you down—yes. but why? for fear you'd start talk and make them uncomfortable. oh, i knew the feeling that has gripped you now. it's a big reaction. the tragedy of your father's death has brought your childhood back—the old tribal teachings—duty—self-sacrifice! the rush of it has swept your reason aside. but it will come back. it's got to, girl! even if you have to take a long time working through to it. you and your father were not friends. denying your own life won't help him. your emotions are stirred. i know. but even if they are, for god's sake don't stop thinking! keep your head! i tell you, you've got to go on. you can't live some one else's life—got to live your own! it's all you've gut to live—that life—your gifts—”
he stopped, at the point of choking. sue was staring now.
“henry, this is strange—sounds more like—”
“well, like whom?”
“like zanin. that's the way he talked to me.”
“perhaps it's the way a man talks when he—” he could not control his voice and stopped.
sue kept very still; but anally, softly, rather wearily, she said: “i'm sorry, henry! i've got to catch the ten-fifteen back.”
he looked at his watch; seeing nothing. “you'll be hurrying then, sue.”
“no, there's nearly an hour.” she turned on the light, moved into the bedroom and glanced into an open bureau drawer. she drew out the one below, then thoughtful, half smiling, came to the door. “henry—-you packed everything?”
“everything, i'm sure. though you might take a last look around.”
“but—henry, you must have packed betty's things, too.”
the color surged up over his collar. he was thinking of those soft garments and the prayers that had rustled shyly upward from his torn heart as he felt them in his hands. wordless, he unstrapped the trunk and lifted the lid. sue repacked the trays.
she stood looking at the dancing clothes, fingering them.
“henry,” she said, “i shall never wear these again.”
“that's silly, sue.”
“no. it isn't silly. i've got a job now. that's what we need, all of us—a job. you used to tell me that yourself. you were right.” she was turning the costumes over with her slim hands. “did you find a pair of boots, henry? red leather with clicks in the heels? they should have been with these russian things.”
“no,” he replied, with a sudden huskiness, “i didn't see them.”
“that's odd. they were right with the others.” she turned away to give rooms and closets a final scrutiny. she brought a rough parcel in from the hall, feeling it with her hands.
“this yours or mine, henry?” she asked. “i could swear it is those boots, but—”
“it is the boots!” he cried, like an angry man.
she stared. he waved them and her roughly aside.
“they belong to you, not to me. i lied to you! take them! pack them!”
brows knit, puzzled, her sensitive mouth softening painfully, she opened the parcel and looked at the red boots—looked more closely, held them up to the light; for she saw on them small round stains of a paler red. slowly she raised her eyes until they met his.
his face was twisted with pain. her own gaze grew misty.
“take them!” he cried in the same angry way. and she laid them in the trunk.
he was desperately fighting himself now. and with momentary success. he said abruptly: “i'm going to buy your books myself, sue. so just leave them there for the present.”
“you, henry!” she bit her lip. “you know i can't let you do that.”
“you've got to let me!” he stood right over her now.
“but you—with your library—”
“i have no library.” his voice dropped here—and he stirred, walking over to the window; stared out; finally turned and said, more quietly: “am i talking like a crazy man, sue?”
“well, henry—” she tried to smile. “i have always counted on your steadiness. perhaps i've leaned too much on it.”
he stood considering her and himself. suddenly he confronted her again, raised his long arms and gripped her shoulders.
“and now, sue,” he said, and she could fed his hands trembling with the passion that she heard in his voice, “i'm failing you.”
“oh, no, henry; i won't let you say that—”
“no! and you won't say it yourself. but we both know it is true. i see it—the whole thing. you've had your girlish fling here in the village. you were honest and natural. and you were maddeningly beautiful. we men have crowded about you, disturbed you, pressed you. zanin was crazy about you. so was peter. so were a lot of the others. so was i.”
he felt her shoulders stir under his strong hands. her eyelids were drooping. but he could not stop. “everybody let it out but me. do you know why i didn't? because i was a coward. i haven't made love to women. why? because i wasn't attractive to them. and i was timid. i stayed with my books and let life go by. then i found myself drawn into the circle about you. and i lost my head, too. i gave up my books—-my 'library.' do you know where that 'library' is now, sue? at the bottom of the north river. every book! i carried them over there myself, in parcels, with a weight in every parcel, and dropped 'em off the ferry boat. i tried to go in for reality, for what is called life. i had peter's tailor make me some good clothes. i got a newspaper job. held that about two weeks. tried to ask you to marry me. oh, yes, i did. but couldn't get away with it. sue, i never managed even to ask you. i talked marriage—almost talked you into it—but couldn't manage to talk about myself. until now, just when you're worn out with work, with the pressures of men, with all the desperate confusions of life, when your soul is sick for peace—that's it, isn't it?”.
very slowly her head moved. “yes, henry, that's it.”
“why, then, i come along. and i'm the last straw. stirring up the old turbulence just when you need my friendship most. i'm doing it now—this minute. i'm hurting you. i'm making you feel that you've lost me.”
“henry”—he saw the effort it cost her to speak and winced—“i can't bear to seem unsympathetic with you. but it's so hard. i can't see any way—except this of giving up self.”
he let go her shoulders, swung away, and said: “there's just one thing to do. i'll call a taxi.” he moved to the telephone, rummaged through the directory, still talking, the flood of feeling that had for months been impounded within his emotionally inarticulate self rushing now past all barriers, sweeping every last protesting reticence before it. “i do understand, sue. what you feel now is as deep an urge, almost, as this old sex impulse that muddles life so for all of us. it is what has driven millions of women into nunneries—to get away from life. just as our village freedom is a protest against, unhealthy suppression and rigidity, so these fevers of self-abnegation are inevitable uprushings of protest against animalism.” he had found the number now. he lifted the receiver. “it's puritan against cavalier—both right and both wrong! what number—oh, i beg your pardon! bryant six thousand. it's the greeks against the greatest of jews—both right—both wrong! taxi, please! right away. two-thousand-twenty-six tenth street. all right. good-by. beauty against duty—the instinct to express against the instinct to serve—both right, both wrong!”
he confronted her again; caught up her two hands and gripped them within his own. “you've had your little fling at expression, sue. you were wonderful. you've set flowers growing in our hearts, and thank god for flowers! but life has trapped, you. you've swung over to service. and now you've got to go through, work your way out of it. god knows where you'll land. but if you've counted on my steadiness, by god, you may continue to count or it!”
he pressed her hands to his lips; kissed her knuckles, her fingers, her palms; then dropped them.
sue sank into the armchair, very white. the tears ran down her cheeks. the worm could not look at her; after a moment of aimless pacing, he went out to the front steps of the building and, bareheaded, still coatless, watched for the taxi. he helped carry out the big trunk. on the ride to the ferry he spoke only trivialities, and sue spoke not at all. he did not cross the river with her; merely, there in the ferry house, gripped her hand—smiling after a fashion, limp of spirit (for the first great emotional uprush of his life seemed to have passed like a wave) and said:
“good night, sue. you'll let me help?”
“of course. henry.”
“i'll sublet the place for you—to somebody. i'll take that on myself.”
she considered this, then soberly inclined her head. “this is the key, henry. give it to betty. and here's the key to the outer door.”
he took the two keys; dropped them into his pocket, where they jingled against the other one.
“it's a lonely road you're taking, sue. good luck.”.
“oh, i'll see you, henry. it won't be so exacting as that.”
“but life is going to change—for me and for you. the kaleidoscope won't fall again into the old combination. new crowds, new ideas, are coming in—new enthusiasms.”
“the village forgets pretty easily,” she murmured, rather wistful.
“yes, it forgets.... sue, you'll marry—perhaps.”
she shook her head, lips compressed. “no—not as i feel now.... henry, you're too tragic! we needn't say good-by like this. good heavens, i'm only going over to jersey—eighteen miles! that's all.”
“there are statute miles,” said he, “and nautical miles, and—another kind.”
“but i'll see you again.”
“oh, yes! of course, sue!”
“you can run out—some day when—”
her voice faltered. he had been out of place in that kitchen. and she had been put to the necessity of explaining him. it was another sort of thing—hopelessly another sort of thing.
he was looking down at her, something of the old whimsical calm in his gaze, though sober, very sober.
“anyway,” said she, weakly, groping, “you three will go on having your good times over there in the square. i find i like to think of you there. what was it they called you—the—”
“the seventh-story men, sue.”
“yes, that was it. you've been together so long, you three. i've always thought of your place as something stable in the village. everything else was changing, all the time.”
“we've gone like the rest, sue.”
“oh, no, henry! not really?”
“all gone! hy goes one way, i another. and pete stays alone. no more seventh-story men. good-by, sue.”
he watched her through the gate; waited to catch her last glance, then turned back into the city.
slowly, very slowly, he approached the old brick building in the square—his home.
in the lower hall he hesitated, wondering if peter was in. finally he asked the night man. no, mr. mann was not in. the worm drew a long breath of relief and went up to the rooms.
it did not take long to pack his possessions. now that there were no books to consider everything went into one old suit-case. and with this he set forth into the night.
the experience had a gloomy thrill of its own. he had no notion where he was going. he hardly cared. the one great thing was to be going away—away from those rooms, from the trifling, irritating hy, from the impossible peter. he walked over to the bus station, set down his suit-case on the sidewalk, felt in his pockets to see if he had any money. he was always getting caught without it. he had given that taxi man an even bill.
apparently he was without it again. but in one pocket he found three keys that jingled together in his hand.
he caught his breath; threw back his head and stared straight up through the trees at the stars.
“my god!” he whispered—“my god!”
he picked up the suit-case and marched off—a tall, thin, determined young man with an odd trick of throwing his right leg out and around as he walked and toeing in with the right foot—marched straight across town, under the sixth avenue elevated, on into greenwich village; let himself into a rather dingy apartment building and then into a bare little three-rooms-and-bath from which not two hours back he had helped carry a big trunk, and dropped into the armchair in the living-room. and his hands shook with excitement as he lighted his pipe.
“i'm a wild man!” he informed himself—“perfectly wild! it's not a bad thing!”
he slept, the last few hours of the night, on a bare mattress. but then a bachelor of a whimsical turn can make-shift now and then.
all this on the saturday. on the monday morning early, between eight and nine, there was giggling and fumbling at the apartment door, followed by a not over-resolute knock.
the worm—pipe in mouth, wearing his old striped pajamas caught across the chest with a safety-pin,—dropped his pen, snorted with impatience, and strode, heedless of self to the door.
there stood an elated, abashed couple. hy lowe, still dapper, apparently very happy; betty, glancing at him with an expression near timidity.
“of all things!” she murmured, taking in the somewhat unconventional figure before her.
“you, worm!” chuckled hy blithely. “why, you old devil!”
henry bates was looking impatiently from one to the other. “well,” said he—“what do you want?”
hy looked at betty; betty looked at hy. she colored very prettily; he leaned against the wall and laughed softly there until his eyes filled, laughed himself weak. finally he managed to observe to the irate figure on the sill, who held his pipe in a threatening attitude and awaited an explanation—“my son, are you aware that the lady lives here? also that you could hardly be termed overdressed.” she spoke now, softly, with hesitation—
“where is sue, mr. bates?”
he waved his pipe. “gone—new jersey.”
betty seemed to recollect. “oh, yes,” she murmured. “and wasn't there something—the other day, when was it—”
she exchanged a helplessly emotional glance with the partly sobered hy.
“—saturday it must have been. oh, of course, you wanted me to pack sue's things.”
“they're packed,” snapped the worm. “and gone.”
“and what, pray, are you doing here?” this from hy.
“living here,” said the worm.
again the two sought each other's eyes.
“well, really—” hy began.
betty rested her hand on his arm. “perhaps, mr. bates—you see, some of my things are here—some things i need—”
suddenly the worm remembered. he blushed; then seemed to grow more angry.
“you'd better come in and get them,” said he.
“well—if i might—”
they came in. betty repacked her bog in the bedroom. once she called to hy; they whispered; then he brought her his bag.
next hy stood by the window and softly whistled a new rag. meanwhile the worm with a touch of self-consciousness, slipped on his coat. he had no bathrobe.
hy, still whistling, looked at the litter of closely written sheets on the table.
“what's this,” said he—“writing your novel?”
“i was,” growled the worm. he stared at the manuscript; then at hy; then at the busy, beautiful, embarrassed young woman in the bedroom.
suddenly and savagely, he gathered up the papers, tore them down and across, handful by handful and stuffed them into the fireplace.
hy looked on in amazement.
betty was ready, and called to him. the worm, set of face, showed them out. he did not know that he slammed the door behind them.
on the steps betty said—softly, the coo of a mating bird in her voice—“what a funny man! i'm glad you're not like that, dear.” and slipped her fingers into his.
hy returned her pressure; then withdrew his hand, glanced nervously up and down the street, and hurried her into the taxi that waited at the curb.
“one sure thing,” he muttered, “we can't eat breakfast there!”
back in the rooms, the worm—suddenly, feverishly, eager—laid out a fresh block of paper, dipped his pen into the ink, and snatching up a book for a ruler, drew a heavy line across near the top of the page. above this line he printed out carefully—
the boundary
a novel
by henry bates
beneath the line he wrote, swiftly, all nervous energy, sudden red spots on his haggard cheeks—“chapter one.”
“they stood at the door...”
this, you recall, was the beginning of the strongest novel that has come out of greenwich village in many a year.
