The troupe in its wandering arrived at Bolton Junction early on a
Saturday afternoon, and Winston, lingering a moment in the hotel
office, overheard Miss Norvell ask the manager if they would probably
spend Sunday there; and later question the hotel clerk regarding any
Episcopalian services in the town. Their rather late arrival, however,
kept him so exceedingly busy with stage preparation for the evening's
performance that this conversation scarcely recurred to mind until his
night's labor had been completed. Then, in the silence of his room, he
resolved upon an immediate change in conditions, or else the deliberate
giving up of further experiment altogether. He was long since tired
enough of it, yet a strange, almost unaccountable attraction for this
young woman continued binding him to disagreeable servitude.
He came down stairs the following morning, his plans completely
determined upon. He was carefully dressed in the neat business suit
which had been packed away ever since his first reckless plunge into
theatrical life, and thus attired he felt more like his old self than
at any moment since his surrender to the dictation of Albrecht. In
some degree self-confidence, audacity, hope, came promptly trooping
back with the mere donning of clean linen and semi-fashionable attire,
so that Winston "utility" became Winston gentleman, in the twinkling of
an eye. The other members of the troupe slept late, leaving him to
breakfast alone after vainly loitering about the office in the hope
that Miss Norvell might by some chance appear and keep him company. It
was almost mortifying to behold that young woman enter the deserted
dining-room soon after he had returned to the lonely office, but she
gave no sign of recognition in passing, and his returned audacity
scarcely proved sufficient to permit his encroachment upon her privacy.
He could only linger a moment at the desk in an effort to catch a
better view of her through the partially open door.
Nervously gripping a freshly lighted cigar, Winston finally strolled
forth upon the wide porch to await, with all possible patience, the
opportunity he felt assured was fast approaching. It was a bright
spring morning, sufficiently warm to be comfortable without in the
sunshine, although the mountains overshadowing the town were yet white
with snow. The one long, straggling business street appeared
sufficiently lonely, being almost deserted, the shops closed. The
notable contrast between its present rather dreary desolation and the
wild revelry of the previous night seemed really painful, while the
solemn prevailing stillness served to weaken Winston's bold resolutions
and brought him a strange timidity. He slowly strolled a block or
more, peering in at the shop windows, yet never venturing beyond easy
view of the hotel steps. Then he sauntered as deliberately back again.
Lane and Mooney were now stationed upon the porch, tipping far back in
their chairs, their feet deposited on the convenient railing, smoking
and conversing noisily with a group of travelling men. Winston, to his
disgust, caught little scraps of the coarse stories exchanged,
constantly greeted by roars of laughter, but drew as far away from
their immediate vicinity as possible, leaning idly against the rail.
Far down the street, from some unseen steeple, a church bell rang
solemnly. Listening, he wondered if she would come alone, and a dread
lest she might not set his heart throbbing.