'You haven't seen him, Henry?'
'No, I haven't.'
'Hm! Awkward--he took the pledge--he swore it--I am counting on you to
help me.'
'Of course. Anything!'
'Were you out with him between the acts?'
'Why--yes.'
'Did he drink anything then?'
'Yes. He took Scotch.'
'Oh, he did?'
'Yes'm.'
'It's all off, then. See here, Henry, will you look? The same place?
Be very careful. People mustn't know. And I must count on you. There's
nobody else. We'll manage it, somehow. We've got to keep him quiet and
get him out home. I'll be at the restaurant. You can send word in to
me--have a waiter say I'm wanted at the telephone. Do that. And...'
It is to be doubted if Henry heard more than half of this speech. She
was still speaking when he shot out to the street, dodged back of the
waiting groups by the kerb and disappeared among the night traffic of
the street in the direction of a certain bar.
6
The Senator's cheeks and forehead and nose were shining redly above the
little white beard, which, for itself, looked more than ever askew.
The straw hat was far back on his head. He waved a limp hand toward the
enormous, brightly lighted painting that hung over the bar.
Henry, a painfully set look on his face, sat opposite, across the
alcove, leaned heavily on the table, and watched him.
The passion had gone out of him. He was wishing, in a state near
despair, that he had listened more attentively to what Madame Watt had
said. Something about getting word to her--at the restaurant. But how
could he? If it had seemed disastrously difficult before, full of his
own trouble, to face that merry party, it was now, with this really
tragic problem on his hands, flatly impossible.
And there wasn't a soul in the world to help him. He must work it out
alone. Even if he might get word to Madame, what could she do? She
couldn't leave her party. And she couldn't bring this pitiable object in
among those young people.
Henry's lips pressed together. The world looked to him just now a savage
wilderness.
'Consider women, for instance!' The Senator's hand waved again toward
the picture. It was surprising to Henry that he could speak with such
distinctness. 'Consider women! They toil not, neither do they spin. Yet
at the last, they bite like a serpent and sting like an adder.'
Henry held his watch under the table; glanced down. It was five minutes
past twelve. For nearly an hour he had been sitting there, helpless,
beating his brain for schemes that wouldn't present themselves. The
twelve-fourteen was as good as gone, of course. Though it had not for a
minute been possible. He thought vaguely, occasionally, of a hotel. But
stronger and more persistent was the feeling that he ought to get him
out home if he could.
'Women...!' The Senator drooped in his chair. Then looked up; braced
himself; shouted, 'Here, boy! A bit more of the same!' When the glass
was before him he drank, brightened a little, and resumed. 'Woman, my
boy, is th' root--No, I will go farther! I will state that woman is th'
root 'n' branch of all evil.'
Henry, with a muttered, 'Excuse me, Senator!' got out of the alcove and
stepped outside the door. He stood on the door-step; took off his hat
and pressed a hand to his forehead.
Across the street, near the side door of the hotel, stood an
old-fashioned closed hack. The driver lay curled up across his seat,
asleep. The horses stood with drooping heads.
Henry gazed intently at the dingy vehicle. Slowly his eyes narrowed. He
looked again at his watch. Then he moved deliberately across the way and
woke the cabman.
'Hey!' he cried, as the man fumblingly put on his hat and blinked up the
street and down. 'Hey, you! What'll you take to drive to Sunbury?'
'Sunbury? Oh, that's a long way. And it's pretty late at night.'
'I know all that! How much'll you take?'
The cabman pondered.
'How many?'
'Two.'
'Fifteen dollars.'
'Oh, say I, that's twice too much! Why----'
'Fifteen dollars.'
'But-----'
'Fifteen dollars.'
Henry swallowed. He felt very daring. He had heard of fellows and girls
missing the late train and driving out. But the amount usually mentioned
was ten dollars. However...
'All right. Drive across here.'
He bent over the Senator, who was talking, still on the one topic, to a
small picture just above Henry's empty seat.
'We're going home now, Senator. You'd better come with me.'
'Going home? No, not there. Not there. Back to the Senate, yes. Tha's
different. But not home. If you knew what I've----'
Henry led him out. But first the Senator, with some difficulty in the
managing, paid his check. Henry would have paid it, but hadn't nearly
enough. It had never occurred to him that a single individual could
spend so large a sum on himself within the space of less, considerably
less, than three hours.
The cabman and Henry together got him into the hack.
'They are pop--popularly known as the weaker sex. All a ter'ble mistake,
young man. They're stronger. Li'l do you dream how stronger--how
great--how more stronger they are. Curious about words. At times one
commands them with ease. Other times they elude one. Words are more
tricky--few suspect--but women allure us only to destroy us. Women....'
Before the cab rolled across the Rush Street Bridge on its long journey
to the northward he was asleep.
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----'