It was near dawn. Mostyn was pacing back and forth on the gra.s.s in front of the house. The dark eastern horizon was giving way to a lengthening flux of light. A cab drove up to the door, and a man and a woman got out. It was Mrs. Moore and old Mitch.e.l.l. Mrs. Moore reached her brother first, and tenderly clasped his hands. As well as he could he explained the situation.

"Hilda telephoned me," Mrs. Moore went on, in a low, matter-of-fact tone. "She was almost in hysterics, and I could not understand her fully. I thought the operation was to be done there, and so I dressed and went in a cab. Then I found that Mr. Mitch.e.l.l wanted to come, and so I brought him on."

The old man tottered forward. For once he had no comment to make. He pa.s.sed them, slowly ascended the steps, went into the waiting-room and sat down, leaning forward on his stout cane, which he held upright between his knees.

"We'd have got here sooner, but he stopped at the telegraph-office.

d.i.c.k, he has sent a telegram to Irene in care of the Hardys. I saw by that that he didn't suspect the truth. I tried to think of some way to prevent it, but couldn't. I told him I was in a hurry, but he would stop. Now I suppose the truth will have to come out."

"It makes no difference," Mostyn answered. "It might as well come now as later."

They went in and took their seats against the wall in the waiting-room.

Mitch.e.l.l stared at them half drowsily, betraying the usual complacency of old age in regard to serious illness or death.

"Are they going to operate?" he asked.

Mrs. Moore told him that it had already been done.

"And Irene wasn't here," the old man sniffed, in rising ire. "It is a shame! I reckon she will have the decency to take the first train home now. This will be a lesson to her, I hope."

The nurse came down the stairs hurriedly. Her face was swept with well-controlled dismay. She paused in the doorway. Her eyes met those of the brother and sister.

"Dr. Loyd thinks you'd better come up."

"Is the boy--is--he worse?" Mrs. Moore asked.

"You had better hurry," the nurse answered. "There is only a minute--if that. He is dying."

A few minutes later Mostyn and his sister came down the stairs.

"Try to realize what the poor little darling has escaped," she said.

"It may be the merciful hand of G.o.d, d.i.c.k. I know it is killing you, but that ought to be _some_ comfort."

CHAPTER XVI

Irene and Buckton were still at the hotel in Charleston. On the second morning following the happenings of the foregoing chapter they were having breakfast served in Irene's little sitting-room. In the light from the window he was struck, as he had been struck before, by her listless mien and the thickening shadows of disillusionment in her eyes. He had to remind her that the coffee-urn was at her elbow, and that he would not take his coffee from any hand but hers before she filled his cup. Her eggs and bacon she had barely touched. He saw her hands quiver as she pa.s.sed his cup. He tried to enliven her by his cheerful talk, telling her that she was getting weary of the town and that they must move on to Savannah to take the steamer.

"New York is the place for us," he said. "There we will have so much to do and see that you won't have time to get homesick. I really believe you _are_ homesick, darling. You see, you are a belle at home, a favorite with every one, and here you have to be satisfied with just me. I know I am a poor subst.i.tute, but I adore you, while they--"

"Don't speak of home!" she suddenly burst out, almost at the point of tears. "One never knows what home is till one leaves it forever. Just think of it--why, it is forever--forever! When we left I did not consider that at all. I want to tell you something very strange. I almost feel--I hardly know how to put it--but I almost feel that a--a new spiritual nature is hovering about me, trying to force itself into my body. Why, I feel so tenderly about my father that it seems to me that I'd rather see him at this moment and undo what I've done than to possess the world. Whenever I start to--to speak affectionately to you a cold hand seems to fall on my lips. That is why--why I locked the door last night. It was not the headache, as I claimed. I had been thinking of d.i.c.k--my husband. I believe he is trying to undo his past.

I don't believe a man could love a child as he loves ours and be very bad at heart. Something tells me that I ought to have stayed by him at all costs. We were wrong in marrying, no doubt; but once it was done, once a helpless little child was in our care--"

"Ah, I see, Irene, it is the boy, after all. You don't mention him often, but little things you drop now and then show which way the wind blows. Your eyes are on every child we pa.s.s in the street. Without knowing it you are a motherly woman."

"Ah, if you only knew--if only I could tell you _something_--" She broke off, lowered her head to her hand, and he saw her breast rise on a billow of emotion.

"Something about your child?" Buckton queried, jealously.

She nodded faintly. He heard her sigh. She remained mute and still for a moment; then she said, falteringly:

"I have a strange conviction that there is truth in the belief of some psychologists I've read about who claim that in sleep our souls leave the body and see and experience things far away."

"I don't believe such rubbish," Buckton said, uneasily. "Do you know that people who harbor such ideas generally go insane?"

"I had a strange experience night before last." Irene quite ignored his protest. "It was something too vivid to be a mere dream. You know there is a difference between a dream and a real experience. I mean that one seems able to tell the two apart."

"Perhaps we had better say no more about it," Buckton suggested. "Don't you think a drive in the open air would do you good?"

But Irene failed to hear what he was saying, or was treating it as of little consequence.

"Listen," she persisted. "It was between midnight and dawn. I had been brooding morbidly, and sank deep, deep into sleep, so deep that the darkness seemed to close in and crush my spirit right out of my body.

Then I was floating about, free to go where I liked. I felt awfully lonely and desolate. Presently I found myself on our lawn in front of the house, but unable to get in. I heard some one crying inside; it seemed to be Hilda. I couldn't tell what she was crying about, but I had the feeling that it was because something was happening to the boy.

I went to the door and tried to ring, but had no hands--think of that, I had no hands! Suddenly I found myself in the hall, but unable to go up the stairs. Something seemed to clutch me and hold me back. I tried to cry out, but had no voice. I thought I heard my husband talking to the child, tenderly--oh, so tenderly! I was crying as I had never cried before. I wanted to see the boy. It was as if a new heart had been born in me or an old one resurrected. Then I heard the door of my husband's room open, and I shrank back afraid to meet him, for I thought of--of you and me being like this. Then I waked and found myself here in bed, my pillow drenched with tears. Oh, I wanted to die--I wanted to die then!"

"It was a nightmare," Buckton commented, uneasily. "It has all the earmarks of one. We are always, in such dreams, trying to get somewhere or away from something horrible."

"It haunted me all day yesterday," Irene sighed. "And last night I had to take one of my morphine tablets to get to sleep."

"I wish you'd give that up, darling," Buckton said, reproachfully. "I saw them on your bureau yesterday and started to throw them out of the window. Doctors say it easily becomes a habit, and a bad one."

"I don't take it often, I really don't," Irene answered. "But I sometimes wonder if it would make any difference. I can sympathize with a hopeless drunkard, who, in a besotted condition, is able to forget trouble and sorrow."

"Finish your breakfast," Buckton cried, forcing a laugh. "We are going to take that drive. The fresh air will knock all those ideas out of your pretty head."

They spent the day driving about the country. They had supped at a quaint and picturesque cafe, and returned to the hotel. He was in her bedroom at ten o'clock, still active in his efforts to set her mind at ease, when a sharp rapping was heard on the door of his sitting-room adjoining.

"It is something for me," Buckton said. "Wait, and I'll see what it is."

Before he had finished speaking there was another and a louder rapping.

Buckton hastened out, closing the connecting door cautiously. Irene stood up. She had a premonition that something disagreeable was about to happen. She heard Buckton unlock his door. Then she recognized the voice of the proprietor of the hotel.

"I want to see you privately, Mr. Buckton," the voice said.

"All right; won't you come in?" Buckton replied; and immediately the latch of the door clicked as it was closed.

There was a pause, during which Irene, holding her handkerchief to her lips, crept to the connecting door and stood with her ear close to the keyhole. She held her breath. The pounding of her heart seemed to fill the still room with obtrusive sound.

"You must pardon me, but it is my duty"--the proprietor's voice rose with sudden sharpness--"to speak of your relations with the woman you brought here with you."

"My--my relations?" Buckton's voice had fallen low, and the tone was cautious. "Please don't talk so loud. She is not well and might overhear. What do you mean, sir--do you mean to insinuate--"

"You may call it anything you like," the proprietor retorted, in evident anger. "I've been in the hotel business for twenty-five years, and have never been charged with keeping an indecent house. When you arrived here I thought your companion was all right, but I now know who and what she is. I can rely on my information, so we won't argue about that."

Irene heard a scuffing of feet which drew the two men closer to the door at which she stood. The truth was that Buckton had drawn back to strike the man, who caught his hand and held it.

"Don't try that on me!" the proprietor said, calmly. "Your bluff is weak. Now, let me give you a piece of advice, young man. I've watched this thing with my own eyes and ears, and I know exactly what is going on. This is a strict, law-abiding, old-fashioned town. Decency has been reigning here for over two hundred years. The average citizen of Charleston has no sympathy for the sort of thing you are evidently trying to foist on us. You've got sense enough to know that all I have to do is to telephone the police to take charge of this matter and air it in open court. You might get it whitewashed in _your_ town by some pull or other, but not here. I think, since you want to be insulting, that I'd better send for an officer."