IX
During their handcar return to Babylon and the Seminary, Elmer and Frank had little to say.
“Don’t be such a grouch. Honest, I’m not trying to get funny with little Lulu,” Elmer grumbled, panting as he pumped the handcar, grotesque in cap and muffler.
“All right. Forget it,” said Frank.
Elmer endured it till Wednesday. For two days he had been hag-ridden by plans to capture Lulu. They became so plain to him that he seemed to be living them, as he slumped on the edge of his cot, his fists clenched, his eyes absent. … In his dream he squandered a whole two dollars and a half for a “livery rig” for the evening, and drove to Schoenheim. He hitched it at that big oak, a quarter of a mile from the Bains farmhouse. In the moonlight he could see the rounded and cratered lump on the oak trunk where a limb had been cut off. He crept to the farmyard, hid by the corncrib, cold but excited. She came to the door with a dishpan of water—stood sidewise in the light, her gingham work-dress molded to the curve from shoulder to breast. He whistled to her; she started; came toward him with doubtful feet, cried with gladness when she saw who it was.
She could not stay with him till the work was done, but she insisted that he wait in the stable. There was the warmth of the cows, their sweet odor, and a scent of hay. He sat on a manger-edge in the darkness, enraptured yet so ardent that he trembled as with fear. The barn door edged open with a flash of moonlight; she came toward him, reluctant, fascinated. He did not stir. She moved, entranced, straight into his arms; they sat together on a pile of hay, taut with passion, unspeaking, and his hand smoothed her ankle. And again, in his fancies, it was at the church that she yielded; for some reason not quite planned, he was there without Frank, on a weekday evening, and she sat beside him on a pew. He could hear himself arguing that she was to trust him, that their love partook of the divine, even while he was fondling her.
But—Suppose it were Deacon Bains who came to his whistle, and found him sneaking in the barnyard? Suppose she declined to be romantic in cow-barns? And just what excuse had he for spending an evening with her at the church?
But—Over and over, sitting on his cot, lying half-asleep with the covers clutched desperately, he lived his imaginings till he could not endure it.
Not till Wednesday morning did it occur to the Reverend Elmer Gantry that he need not sneak and prowl, not necessarily, no matter what his custom had been, and that there was nothing to prevent his openly calling on her.
Nor did he spend any two dollars and a half for a carriage. Despite his florid magnificence, he was really a very poor young man. He walked to Schoenheim (not in vision now, but in reality), starting at five in the afternoon, carrying a ham sandwich for his supper; walked the railroad track, the cold ties echoing under his heavy tread.
He arrived at eight. He was certain that, coming so very late, her parents would not stay up to annoy him for more than an hour. They were likely to ask him to remain for the night, and there would be no snooping Cousin Adeline Baldwin about.
Mr. Bains opened to his knock.
“Well, well, well, Brother Gantry! What brings you down to this part of the world this time of night? Come in! Come in!”
“I sort of thought I needed a good long walk—been studying too hard—and I took a chance on your letting me stop in and warm myself.”
“Well, sir, by golly, Brother, I’d of been mad’s a wet hen if you hadn’t stopped! This is your house and there’s always an extra plate to slap on the table. Yes, sir! Had your supper? Sandwich? Enough? Foolishness! We’ll have the womenfolks fix you up something in two shakes. The woman and Lulu, they’re still out in the kitchen. Lu-lu!”
“Oh, I mustn’t stop—so terribly far back to town, and so late—shouldn’t have walked so far.”
“You don’t step your foot out of this house tonight, Brother! You stay right here!”
When Lulu saw him, her tranced eyes said, “And did you come all this way for me?”
She was more softly desirable than he had fancied.
Warmed and swollen with fried eggs and admiration, he sat with them in the parlor narrating more or less possible incidents of his campaigns for righteousness in Kansas, till Mr. Bains began to yawn.
“By golly, ten minutes after nine! Don’t know how it got to be so late. Ma, guess it’s about time to turn in.”
Elmer lunged gallantly:
“Well, you can go to bed, but we young folks are going to sit up and tell each other our middle names! I’m no preacher on week days—I’m just a student, by Jiminy!”
“Well—If you call this a week day. Looks like a week night to me, Brother!”
Everybody laughed.
She was in his arms, on the couch, before her father had yawned and coughed up the stairs; she was in his arms, limp, unreasoning, at midnight; after a long stillness in the chilling room, she sat up hastily at two, and fingered her rumpled hair.
“Oh, I’m frightened!” she whimpered.
He tried to pat her comfortingly, but there was not much heat in him now.
“But it doesn’t matter. When shall we be married?” she fluttered.
And then there was no heart in him at all, but only a lump of terror.
Once or twice in his visions he had considered that there might be danger of having to many her. He had determined that marriage now would cramp his advancement in the church and that, anyway, he didn’t want to marry this brainless little fluffy chick, who would be of no help in impressing rich parishioners. But that caution he had utterly forgotten in emotion, and her question was authentically a surprise, abominably a shock. Thus in whirling thought, even while he mumbled:
“Well—well—Don’t think we can decide yet. Ought to wait till I have time to look around after I graduate, and get settled in some good pastorate.”
“Yes, perhaps we ought,” she said meekly to her man, the best and most learned and strongest and much the most interesting person she had ever known.
“So you mustn’t mention it to anybody, Lu. Not ever to your folks. They might not understand, like you do, how hard it is for a preacher to get his first real church.”
“Yes, dear. Oh, kiss me!”
And he had to kiss her any number of times, in that ghastly cold room, before he could escape to his chamber.
He sat on his bed with an expression of sickness, complaining, “Hell, I oughtn’t to have gone so far! I thought she’d resist more. Aaah! It wasn’t worth all this risk. Aaaaah! She’s dumm as a cow. Poor little thing!” His charity made him feel beneficent again. “Sorry for her. But, good God, she is wishy-washy. Her fault, really, but—Aaah! I was a fool! Well, fellow has to stand right up and face his faults honestly. I do. I don’t excuse myself. I’m not afraid to admit my faults and repent.”
So he was able to go to bed admiring his own virtue and almost forgiving her.