Irene heard the proprietor moving to the outer door; his hand touched the latch, and it rattled.

"Wait!" It was her lover's voice, and it was contrite and imploring.

"For G.o.d's Sake, don't give us trouble! We are leaving for Savannah in the morning. Surely you will not put us out to-night?"

"No, the train leaves at ten. See that you take it. I am not any more anxious to have this dirty thing get out than you are. Good night."

"Good night." The door closed. Receding steps sounded in the corridor outside. Irene reeled back to her chair and sat down. A moment later Buckton appeared. He was ghastly pale, trying to recover calmness and invent a plausible explanation as to why he had been called to the door. She gazed at him steadily.

"You needn't make up a story," she said. "I overheard."

He stood looking down on her helplessly. He swayed to and fro, resting his hand on the back of her chair.

"You say--you--heard?"

She nodded. "He told the truth about me. That's actually what I am,"

she said, grimly. "That is exactly the way the world will look at me when it knows all. It was lucky that I heard. As he was talking I kept saying, 'That's so--that's so,' and I wasn't a bit angry--not a bit. A bad woman--a bold, bad woman would have flared up, but I'm not that--G.o.d knows I am not. I have been tricked, blinded, led along by my imagination and ideals ever since I was a child. Now my head is on the block, and the Puritan world is swinging the ax. Oh, how I cringed just now! I, who have heard nothing but the compliments of men all my life, heard the truth at last. I've been vain, silly, mad. I could crawl in the dust and kiss the feet of an unsullied shop-girl. Well, well, what's to be done?"

"We leave for Savannah in the morning, and from there sail for New York," he answered. "I'm going to kill your despondency, dear. You must sleep now. Don't pack to-night. I'll wake you early in the morning, and will help you do it then."

"Well, well, leave me," she sighed. "I'll go to bed. I'll take a tablet. I want to forget. That voice--oh, G.o.d! that man's voice! He was a judge on the bench--all arguments in my defense had been set aside by a jury of truthful men. He p.r.o.nounced my sentence. I'm to be swept out in the morning along with the dirt from men's boots. I--I--Irene Mostyn--no, no, not _Mostyn_--Irene _n.o.body_, will not dare to look into the faces of black servants as I slink away in the morning with you--you, my choice, a man whom--before G.o.d I swear it--I no more actually love you than--"

"Don't--don't for G.o.d's sake; I can't bear it!" He was on the verge of tears. "I've been afraid of that. I thought you'd be happy with me, but so far you have been just the reverse. But I won't give up--I won't!

You are my very life."

"Well, go, go!" she cried. "I must sleep. I rolled and tossed all night last night. I'll go mad if this keeps up. Get me a tablet from the bottle, and a gla.s.s of water--no, I'll take it later. Oh, oh, oh! I am sure now that my child is dead, and that his father is crazed with grief. That was what my strange dream meant. People say such things are prophetic, and I know it is so--I feel it through and through. The child of my breast died while I was here like this with _you_--with _you here in my bedroom_."

"You really must try to be calm," Buckton urged. "Those are only morbid fancies. The world is before us, darling, just as it was when we left home. There is really no change except in your imagination."

A shrewd look settled on her face. She waved her hand toward the door.

"Well, leave me alone then. Please do."

"All right, I'll go." He bent to kiss her, but with a sharp little scream that was half hysterical she raised her hands and pushed him back. "Don't do that!" she cried, almost in alarm. "Don't do it again!"

She glanced furtively about the room--at the closet door, under the bed, and, leaning to one side, peered behind the bureau, as if her mind was wandering. "Don't touch me. Little d.i.c.k will see you. He is here--I know it--I feel it. I can almost see him, like a misty cloud. He seems to come between you and me, as if wondering why you are here. He seems to be trying to comfort me. Lord, have mercy on my soul! Go, go! For G.o.d's sake, _go!_"

"All right, dear." Buckton moved away. His feet caught in a rug and he stumbled awkwardly. Pa.s.sing out at the door, he softly closed it.

Finding herself alone, Irene rose and began to walk the floor. Back and forth she strode, wringing her hands, the flare of insanity in her eyes. She unfastened her hair, shook it down her back. Suddenly she fell on her knees by her bed, clasped her hands and tried to pray, but words failed to come. Rising, she went to the table and filled a gla.s.s with ice-water; then, going to the bureau, she took up the small bottle half full of morphine tablets and held them between her and the light.

"Ah!" she cried. "I see the way--the only way, but I must be quick, or I'll lose courage! Quick, quick, quick!"

She took a tablet into her mouth and drank some water. She took another, and another, then two, then three, and so on, till the bottle was empty. She walked to a window and threw the bottle away. She heard it crash on the pavement. She went to her bed, lowered the light, and lay down. Presently she felt drowsy; a delicious sense of restfulness stole over her.

Shortly afterward Buckton, who was up packing his trunk, heard her gleefully laughing. Wondering over the cause, and vaguely afraid, he opened the door and went to her. She was lying with her eyes open, smiling sweetly, and staring as if at some dream-object or person across the room.

"What is it, dear?" he asked, touching her forehead gently. He fancied that she was slightly delirious, and that it would soon pa.s.s away.

A sweet, girlish, rippling laugh escaped her lips. He had never seen her look so beautiful. A spiritual radiance had transformed her face, which was that of a young girl. Her eyes had lost their somber shadows.

Ineffable lights danced in their depths.

"Little d.i.c.k and I were having so much fun. We were playing hide and seek in the clouds with thousands and thousands of angels like himself.

He said that he felt no pain when he died and came straight to me because I needed him--think of that, I, a grown woman, needed a little boy like him, but that is because he is wise now, wise and old in the wisdom of Eternity."

She closed her eyes for a moment, only to open them again.

"Leave me quick! I want to sleep. Don't disturb me again to-night. Shut the door and don't open it. He is coming back, and--and he must not see you here. Oh, I love him--I love him! He is the only one I ever loved.

We understand each other perfectly. He is the sweetest, dearest thing in the world. I had him in my arms just now, and he seemed to melt into me and become myself and yet remain himself. He is coming to take me away. Go, I am sleepy--so sleepy and--happy--oh, so happy! It is all peace and bliss out there, and endless light and--Love. Go, hurry! He is coming! I see my mother, too. She is holding him by the hand. They are beckoning to me."

She closed her eyes. Tints of dawn were in her cheeks. He bent to kiss her, but, fearing that he might wake her, he refrained, and softly tiptoed from the room.

CHAPTER XVII

Saunders was reading a letter one morning as he walked along the shaded road from the store to his house. It was from James Wright, the cashier of the bank, who was giving him some of the particulars in regard to the double tragedy in Mostyn's life.

"The whole city is shocked," the letter ran. "Nothing else is spoken of. Mostyn has the sympathy of all. He is bearing it like a man, but he is terribly changed. He seems more dead than alive. You'd hardly know him now. Of course, when Mitch.e.l.l was unable to locate his daughter, to inform her of the death of her child, everybody began to suspect the truth, especially as Buckton's mother was almost prostrate, and made no secret of her fears.

"Mitch.e.l.l happened to be at the bank when the telegram came from Buckton announcing the death of Mrs. Mostyn. Buckton called it heart-failure, but everybody knew from the wording that it was suicide.

Mitch.e.l.l did, I am sure. He read the telegram with scarcely a change of face. I happened to be close to him at the moment, and heard him mutter:

"'It is better so!'

"He sat alone in Delbridge's office--seeming to shun Mostyn--without saying a word for half an hour; then he asked me to telephone the facts to Mrs. Buckton. I did so, and she drove down to the bank, so weak that she had to be helped from her carriage. She and the old man held a consultation. They agreed to go together to Charleston, and thought for the present, at least, that it would be better to bury the poor woman there, so as to avoid further publicity here.

"Mitch.e.l.l returned to-day. n.o.body knows exactly what took place between him and the young man, but it is thought that out of consideration for Mrs. Buckton he kept his temper. It is rumored that she and her son have left for New York, and that they may not be back to Atlanta for a long time.

"Mitch.e.l.l's trouble seems to have strengthened his mind rather than weakened it. He is not so flighty or talkative. He is offering his home for sale, and has ordered it to be closed at once. He says he is going to live with his nieces in Virginia, who will now, I presume, inherit all his property. He is not likely to leave a penny to Mostyn, who, to do him justice, does not want any of it, I'm sure.

"Mostyn is staying at his sister's. She is doing all she can to help him bear up. His condition is truly pitiful, and it is made more unbearable by old Henderson, who has made many bold efforts to see him.

Henderson is openly gloating over Mostyn's misfortune. He goes about chuckling, telling everybody that the retribution for which he has prayed so long has come at last. I had to drive him away yesterday. He was peering through my window with a grin on his face, and started to shout in at Mostyn. Mostyn saw him, I think, but said nothing. The poor fellow is losing flesh; his eyes have a strange, far-off glare, and his hands and knees shake. I see now that we must persuade him to go away for a while. A man of iron could not stand up under such awful trouble."

Saunders folded the letter, and with a profound sigh walked on. A man on a wagon loaded with hay pa.s.sed. It was Tobe Barnett, who looked well and prosperous. He was working on Saunders's plantation, and getting good wages under the friendly direction of Tom Drake.

Tobe tipped his hat, as he always did to Saunders.

"Awful about Mr. Mostyn, ain't it?" he said. "I read it in the paper yesterday."

Saunders nodded. "Very sad, Tobe. He is having hard lines."

"I never had nothin' agin the feller _myself,_" Tobe remarked. "He always treated _me_ right. Some folks said he was sorter wild in his ways, but I never blamed him much. He was young an' full o' blood. I've knowed fellers as wild as bucks to settle down in the end."

Tobe drove on. Saunders pursued his way along the shaded road. How peaceful the landscape looked in the mellow sunshine! How firm and eternal seemed the mountains, the highest peaks of which pierced the snowy clouds. Saunder's heart fairly ached under its load of sympathy.

"What can be done? What can be done?" he thought. "I'd like to help him."

Presently down the road near his own house Saunders saw a trim form on a black horse. It was Dolly. She was coming toward him. She had not seen him, and he noted that she was constantly reining her restive mount in while she kept her eyes fixed on the ground as if in deep thought.