Again he could but take them in. They were really wonderful folk. And with
it all but Mr. and Mrs. Hayes! It affected even Isabel through her alarm;
though the balm, in a manner, seemed to foretell the wound. He had reached
the threshold of his own quarters; he stood there as at the door of the
chamber of judgement. But he laughed; at least he could be gallant in going
up for sentence. "Very good then--I'll come to you!"
This was very well, but it didn't prevent his heart, a minute later, at the
end of the passage, from thumping with beats he could count. He had paused
again before going in; on the other side of this second door his poor
future was to be let loose at him. It was broken, at best, and spiritless,
but wasn't Grant-Jackson there like a beast-tamer in a cage, all tights and
spangles and circus attitudes, to give it a cut with the smart official
whip and make it spring at him? It was during this moment that he fully
measured the effect for his nerves of the impression made on his so oddly
earnest friends--whose earnestness he verily, in the spasm of this last
effort, came within an ace of resenting. They had upset him by contact; he
was afraid literally of meeting his doom on his knees; it wouldn't have
taken much more, he absolutely felt, to make him approach with his forehead
in the dust the great man whose wrath was to be averted. Mr. and Mrs. Hayes
of New York had brought tears to his eyes, but was it to be reserved for
Grant-Jackson to make him cry like a baby? He wished, yes, while he
palpitated, that Mr. and Mrs. Hayes of New York hadn't had such an
eccentricity of interest, for it seemed somehow to come from _them_ that he
was going so fast to pieces. Before he turned the knob of the door,
however, he had another queer instant; making out that it had been,
strictly, his case that was interesting, his funny power, however
accidental, to show as in a picture the attitude of others--not his poor
pale personality. It was this latter quantity, none the less, that was
marching to execution. It is to our friend's credit that he _believed_, as
he prepared to turn the knob, that he was going to be hanged; and it's
certainly not less to his credit that his wife, on the chance, had his
supreme thought. Here it was that--possibly with his last articulate
breath--he thanked his stars, such as they were, for Mr. and Mrs. Hayes of
New York. At least they would take care of her.
They were doing that certainly with some success when he returned to them
ten minutes later. She sat between them in the beautified Birthplace, and
he couldn't have been sure afterwards that each wasn't holding her hand.
The three together had at any rate the effect of recalling to him--it was
too whimsical--some picture, a sentimental print, seen and admired in his
youth, a "Waiting for the Verdict," a "Counting the Hours," or something of
that sort; humble respectability in suspense about humble innocence. He
didn't know how he himself looked, and he didn't care; the great thing was
that he wasn't crying--though he might have been; the glitter in his eyes
was assuredly dry, though that there _was_ a glitter, or something
slightly to bewilder, the faces of the others as they rose to meet him
sufficiently proved. His wife's eyes pierced his own, but it was Mrs. Hayes
of New York who spoke. "_Was_ it then for that----?"
He only looked at them at first--he felt he might now enjoy it. "Yes, it
was for 'that.' I mean it was about the way I've been going on. He came to
speak of it."
"And he's gone?" Mr. Hayes permitted himself to inquire.
"He's gone."
"It's over?" Isabel hoarsely asked.
"It's over."
"Then we go?"