Sheepishly, Floyd grunted, “Well, I did think you flew off the handle kind of easy, and I guess it did make me kind of sore. But it don’t matter none now.”
Very interestedly, Elmer inquired of Floyd, “And I’ll bet Lulu was even angrier at me for my silliness!”
“No, by gosh, she never would let me say a word against you, Reverend! Ha, ha, ha! Look at her! By golly, if she ain’t blushing! Well, sir, that’s a good one on her all right!” Elmer looked, intently.
“Well, I’m glad everything’s explained,” he said unctuously. “Now, Sister Lulu, you must let me come out and explain about our fine friendly neighborhood church here, and the splendid work we’re doing. I know that with two dear kiddies—two, was it?—splendid!—with them and a fine husband to look after, you must be kept pretty busy, but perhaps you might find time to teach a Sunday School class or, anyway, you might like to come to our jolly church suppers on Wednesday now and then. I’ll tell you about our work, and you can talk it over with Floyd and see what he thinks. What would be a good time to call on you, and what’s the address, Lulu? How, uh, how would tomorrow afternoon, about three, do? I wish I could come when Floyd’s there, but all my evenings are so dreadfully taken up.”
Next afternoon, at five minutes to three, the Reverend Elmer Gantry entered the cheap and flimsy apartment-house in which lived Floyd and Mrs. Naylor, impatiently kicked a baby-carriage out of the way, panted a little as he skipped upstairs, and stood glowing, looking at Lulu as she opened the door.
“All alone?” he said—he almost whispered.
Her eyes dropped before his. “Yes. The boys are in school.”
“Oh, that’s too bad! I’d hoped to see them.” As the door closed, as they stood in the inner hall, he broke out, “Oh, Lulu, my darling, I thought I’d lost you forever, and now I’ve found you again! Oh, forgive me for speaking like that! I shouldn’t have! Forgive me! But if you knew how I’ve thought of you, dreamed of you, waited for you, all these years—No. I’m not allowed to talk like that. It’s wicked. But we’re going to be friends, aren’t we, such dear, trusting, tender friends … Floyd and you and I?”
“Oh, yes!” she breathed, as she led him into the shabby sitting-room with its thrice-painted cane rockers, its couch covered with a knitted shawl, its department-store chromos of fruit and Versailles.
They stood recalling each other in the living-room. He muttered huskily, “Dear, it wouldn’t be wrong for you to kiss me? Just once? Would it? To let me know you really do forgive me? You see, now we’re like brother and sister.”
She kissed him, shyly, fearfully, and she cried, “Oh, my darling, it’s been so long!” Her arms clung about his neck, invincible, unrestrained.
When the boys came in from school and rang the clicker bell downstairs, the romantics were unduly cordial to them. When the boys had gone out to play, she cried, wildly, “Oh, I know it’s wrong, but I’ve always loved you so!”
He inquired interestedly, “Do you feel wickeder because I’m a minister?”
“No! I’m proud of it! Like as if you were different from other men—like you were somehow closer to God. I’m proud you’re a preacher! Any woman would be! It’s—you know. Different!”
He kissed her. “Oh, you darling!” he said.
III
They had to be careful. Elmer had singularly little relish for having the horny-handed Floyd Naylor come in some afternoon and find him with Lulu.
Like many famous lovers in many ages, they found refuge in the church. Lulu was an admirable cook, and while in her new life in Zenith she had never reached out for such urban opportunities as lectures or concerts or literary clubs, she had by some obscure ambitiousness, some notion of a shop of her own, been stirred to attend a cooking-school and learn salads and pastry and canapés. Elmer was able to give her a weekly Tuesday evening cooking-class to teach at Wellspring, and even to get out of the trustees for her a salary of five dollars a week.
The cooking-class was over at ten. By that time the rest of the church was cleared, and Elmer had decided that Tuesday evening would be a desirable time for reading in his church office.
Cleo had many small activities in the church—clubs, Epworth League, fancywork—but none on Tuesday evening.
Before Lulu came stumbling through the quiet church basement, the dark and musty corridor, before she tapped timidly at his door, he would be walking up and down, and when he held out his arms she flew into them unreasoning.
He had a new contentment.
“I’m really not a bad fellow. I don’t go chasing after women—oh, that fool woman at the hotel didn’t count—not now that I’ve got Lulu. Cleo never was married to me; she doesn’t matter. I like to be good. If I’d just been married to somebody like Sharon! O God! Sharon! Am I untrue to her? No! Dear Lulu, sweet kid, I owe something to her, too. I wonder if I could get to see her Saturday—”
A new contentment he had, and explosive success.
Chapter XXVI
I
In the autumn of his first year in Zenith Elmer
