7

It was half-past two in the morning when a hack drawn by weary horses on whose flanks the later glistened, drew up at the porte cochère of the old Dexter Smith place in Sunbury.

The cabman lumbered down and opened the door. A youth, nervously wide awake, leaped out. Then followed this brief conversation.

'Help me carry him up, please.'

'You'd better pay me first. Fifteen dollars!

'I'll do that afterward.'

'I'll take it now.'

'I tell you I'm going to get it——'

'You mean you haven't got it?'

'Not on me.'

'Well, look here——'

'Ssh! You'll wake the whole house up! You've simply got to wait until I get home. You needn't worry. I'm going to pay you.'

'You'd better. Say, he'd ought to have it on him.'

'We're not going into his pockets. Now you do as I tell you.'

Together they lifted him out.

Henry looked up at the door. Madame Watt, somebody, had left this outside light burning. Doubtless the thing to do was just to ring the bell.

He brushed the cabman aside. The Senator was such a little man, so pitifully slender and light! And Henry himself was supple and strong. He took the little old gentleman up in his arms and carried him up the steps. And once again in the course of this strange night his eyes filled.

But not for himself this time. Henry's gift of insight, while it was now and for many years to come would be fitful, erratic, coming and going with his intensely varied moods, was none the less a real, at times a great, gift. And I think he glimpsed now, through the queer confusing mists of thought, something of the grotesque tragedy that runs, like a red and black thread, through the fabric of many human lives.

The Senator had been a famous man. Through nearly two decades, as even Henry dimly knew, he had stood out, a figure of continuous national importance. And now he was just—this. Here in Henry's arms; inert.

'Ring the bell, will you!' said Henry shortly.

The cabman moved.

There was a light step within. The lock turned. The door swung open, and Cicely stood there.

She was wrapped about in a wonderful soft garment of blue. She was pale. And her hair was all down, rippling about her shoulders and (when she stepped quickly back out of the cabman's vision) down her back below the waist.

Henry carried his burden in, and she quickly closed the door.

'Has anybody seen? Does anybody know?' she asked, in a whisper.

He leaned back against the wall.

'No. Nobody. But you——'

'I've been sitting up, watching. I was so afraid aunt might——'

'Then you know?'

'Know? Why—Tell me, do you think you can carry him to his room?'

'Me? Oh, easy! Why he doesn't weigh much of anything. Just look!'

'Then come. Quickly. Keep very quiet.'

Slowly, painstakingly, he followed her up the stairs and along the upper hall to an open door.

'Wait!' she whispered. 'I'll have to turn on the light.' He laid the limp figure on the bed.

Outside, in the still night, the horses stirred and stamped. A voice—the cabman's—cried,—

'Whoa there, you! Whoa!'

Cicely turned with a start.

'Oh, why can't he keep still!... You—you'd better go. I don't know why you're so kind. Those others would never——'

'Please!—You do know!'

This remark appeared to add to her distress. She made a quick little gesture.

'Oh, no, I don't mean—not that I want you to——'

'Not so loud! Quick! Please go!'

'But it's so terribly hard for you. I can't bear—I can't bear to think of your having to—people just mustn't know about it, that's all! We've got to do something. She mustn't—You see, I love you, and....

Their eyes met.

A deep dominating voice came from the doorway.

'You had better go to your room, Cicely,' it said.

They turned like guilty children.

Cicely flushed, then quietly went.

Madame was a strange spectacle. She wore a quilted maroon robe, which she held clutched together at her throat. Most of the hair that was usually piled and coiled about her head had vanished; what little remained was surprisingly gray and was twisted up in front and over the ears in curl papers of the old-fashioned kind.

Henry lowered his gaze; it seemed indelicate to look at her. He discovered then that he was still wearing his hat, and took it off with a low, wholly nervous laugh that was as surprising to himself as it certainly was, for a moment, to Madame Watt, who surveyed him under knit brows before centring her attention on the unconscious figure on the bed.

'We owe you a great deal,' she said then. 'It was awkward enough. But it might have been a disaster. You've saved us from that.'

'Oh, it was nothing,' murmured Henry, blushing.

'Are you sure no one saw? You didn't take him to the station?'

'No. We drove straight out.'

'Hm! When you came did you ring our bell?'

'Me? Why, no. I was going to. But——'

'Yes?'

'She—your—Miss——'

'Do you mean Cicely?'

'Yes. She opened the door.'

Madame frowned again.

'But what on earth——'

Henry interrupted, looking up at her now.

'I'll tell you. I know. I can see it. And somebody's got to tell you.'

Madame looked mystified.

'She couldn't bear to have you know. She was afraid you——'

Madame raised her free hand. 'We won't go into that.'

'But we must. It was your temper she was——'

'We wont——'

'You must listen! Can't you see the dread she lives under—the fear that you'll forget yourself and people will know! And can't you see what it drives—him—to? I heard him talk when he was telling his real thoughts. I know.'

'Oh, you do!'

'Yes, I know. And I know this town. They're very conservative. They watch new people. They're watching you. Like cats. And they'll gossip. I know that too. I've suffered from it. Things that aren't so. But what do they care? They'd spoil your whole life—like that!—and go to the Country Club early to get the best dances. Oh, I know, I tell you. You've got to be careful. It isn't what I say, but you've got to! Or they'll find out, and they won't stop till they've hounded you out of town, and driven him to—this—for good, and broken her—your niece's—heart.'

He stopped, out of breath.

The fire that had flamed from his eyes died down, leaving them like gray ashes. Confusion smote him. He shifted his feet; turned his hat round and round between his hands. What—what—had he been saying!

Then he heard her voice, saying only this:—

'In a way—in a way—you have a right.... God knows it won't.... So much at stake.... Perhaps it had to be said.'

He felt that he had better retreat. Emotions were rising, and he was gulping them down. He knew now that he couldn't speak again; not a word.

She stood aside.

'It was very good of you,' she said.

But he rushed past her and down the stairs.

Humphrey, when he awoke in the morning, remembered dimly his temperamental young partner, a dishevelled, rather wild figure, bending over him, shaking him and saying, 'Gimme fifteen dollars! I'll explain to-morrow. Gosh, but I'm a wreck! You've no idea!'

And he remembered drawing to him the chair on which his clothes were piled and fumbling in various pockets for money.