With Irene's farewell note in his pocket and ever present to his mind, Mostyn spent the remainder of the morning on which it was received mechanically instructing the elated Delbridge in his rival's new duties at the bank as its future president. At noon he tore himself away, plunging again into the streets, there even more fully to face himself and his coming humiliation. The hot, busy thoroughfares, steaming under the water sprayed upon them by trundling sprinkling-carts, were a veritable bedlam—canons of baked pavements and heartless walls of brick and mortar, plate glass and glaring gilt signs. Cries of newsboys—and cheerful, happy cries they were—fell on his ears in sounds so incongruous to his mood that they pierced his soul like hurled javelins of steel. The affairs of the world, once so fascinating, were moving on; a juggernaut of a thousand wheels was rumbling toward him. He drew near his club. On the wide veranda, in easy-chairs, smoking and reading newspapers, sat several of his friends. He started to turn in on the walk which bisected the beautiful greensward, but quailed under the ordeal. How could he exchange platitudes, discuss politics, market-reports, or listen to new jokes? He walked on, catching the eye of a friend and saluting with a wave of his cane. He decided that he would go to his sister's for lunch, but he was not sure that he would reveal his woe even to her.
He found Mrs. Moore in her cozy library, a handkerchief over her head, dusting the furniture.
"Got anything to eat?" he asked, seating himself on a divan and watching her movements with a bland stare.
"Will have in a few minutes." She turned on him, laying her duster on a book-case and removing her handkerchief. "I really believe there is something in thought-transference, Dick, for I felt that you were coming. But I don't know that this is a fair test, either, for it may have been because I knew Irene was away."
"How did you happen to know that?" he asked, in dumb, creeping surprise. "She left rather—suddenly." She smiled knowingly. "If you want me to be frank, I'll say that it is because your doddering father-in-law is getting to be worse than a gossipy old maid. He was around here an hour ago. He tried to be sly and throw me off, but I saw through him. He said Irene had left for Mrs. Hardy's house-party. There wasn't anything in that alone, you know, to make him bother to come around, for she certainly goes when and where she likes, but it was the way the silly old man went about what he was trying to discover. He asked me if I knew who had gone from here—the men in particular; and then I saw his hand. He wanted to find out if Andy Buckton went. He beat about the bush for a long time with a crazy, nervous stare in his eyes, and as soon as I told him I did not know he rose to leave. Irene is no doubt acting imprudently, as many of her set do, but if she doesn't look out her own father will start talk that never can be stopped."
Mostyn suddenly rose, walked to a window, and looked out.
"What time do you have luncheon?" He glanced at his watch. Mrs. Moore made no reply. She suddenly fixed a curious, groping stare on him and moved to his side.
"Dick, what has happened?" she demanded, touching his arm.
"Nothing," he answered. "I've been busy; I'm tired. I thought a cup of strong coffee might—"
Her fingers clutched his arm. "Out with it, Dick. Something has gone wrong at the bank. You are in trouble again. You've been plunging. I feel it. I see it in your eyes. I have never seen you look like this before. You haven't a bit of blood in your face." She grasped his hand, stroking his fingers. "Why, you are actually cold. What is the matter? What is the matter, brother? You can trust me."
He avoided her eyes, going back to the divan and sinking upon it. "You may as well know," he blurted out, in desperation. "Irene and Buckton have gone off together."
"No, no, no! Don't tell me that!" The woman paled; her lower lip fell and hung trembling. "You have heard gossip, as I have, and as every one has, and in your excited frame of mind—"
He told her of the note from Irene. He started to take it from his pocket, but changed his mind, recalling the allusion to Marie Winship, and not having energy enough to explain it.
"Lord have mercy!" she gasped. She sat down by him, her hand on his knee, her horrified eyes glued to his. "It is awful! I didn't think she would go that far—nobody did, because she refused him when she married you. I wish I could advise you, but there is nothing to be done now. Of course, she left the child."
"Yes, I'd have killed her if she had taken him. I would, by God! He's all I've got."
"And worse than motherless," Mrs. Moore sighed. "It is awful—awful! Irene is crazy for excitement and novelty. She has been getting worse and worse. She thinks she loves Andy Buckton, but she doesn't. She never loved any one but herself in her life. Mark my words, she will leave him. She will tire of him. She will never stand the disgrace of the thing, either. She has been petted all her life by society, and its cold shoulder will kill her. What a tragedy! But she brought it on herself."
"She didn't!" he said, grimly. "I had a hand in it. Her father had a hand in it. She was a straw in a mad stream. I can't blame her. I can't even be angry. I pity her. I'd save her if I could, but it is too late. The insane set that helped to wreck her life will chuckle and grin now."
A musical gong in the dining-room sounded softly.
"That's luncheon," Mrs. Moore said. "Let's go out. Do you want to run up and wash your hands?"
He shook his head dumbly, looking at his splayed fingers with the vacant stare of an invalid just recovering consciousness. "I want only the coffee; make it strong, please. I really am not hungry. The thought of food, somehow, is sickening. I've worked hard this morning."
Late that afternoon, still shrinking under his weighty secret, he went home. The slanting rays of the setting sun lay like kindling flames on the grass of the lawn. He saw little Dick and Hilda seated on the lowest step of the veranda; and, seeing him entering the gate, the child rose and slowly limped toward him.
"Dick got a stomach-ache," the boy said, a wry look on his rather sallow and pinched face.
Mostyn paused and bent down. "Where does it hurt you?" he asked, automatically, for the complaint seemed a slight thing compared to the tragedy lowering over them both.
"It's here, Daddy." Dick put his little tapering hand on his right side.
"He eats too many sweet things," the nurse said, coming up. "He's been complainin' of his stomach for the last week, but he will eat what he oughtn't to. I've got some good stomach medicine. I'm goin' to dose 'im well to-night an' make 'im stay out o' the kitchen. The cook lets him have everything he wants."
"Give him the medicine, and tell the cook she must stop feeding him." Mostyn took the boy in his arms and started on to the house. "You will stop eating trash, won't you, Dick?" The child nodded, worming his fingers through his father's hair. He took off Mostyn's hat, put it on his bonny head, and laughed faintly. Reaching the veranda, Mostyn turned him over to Hilda, who said she was going to give him a bath and put him to bed. When they had gone Mostyn went into the library. The great portrait-hung room in the shadows seemed a dreary, accusing place, and he was turning to leave when the rustling of a newspaper and a little nasal snort called his attention to a high-backed chair of the wing type in which his father-in-law reclined and was just waking from a nap.
"Oh, is that you?" Mitchell yawned and stretched his arms. "I was wondering when you'd get here. I've been to the gate several times."
"Anything you want?" Mostyn regretted the impulsive question the instant the words had been spoken.
The old man put his hands on the arms of the chair and stood up, feebly. "Yes, I want to know if your wife has written or telegraphed you since she got to Knoxville?"
"No," Mostyn thought rapidly, "but—but I hardly expected her to. She doesn't usually when she is away."
"It is the very Old Nick in you both!" Mitchell sniffed. "I don't expect you to know or care what she's up to; but I'm her own flesh and blood, and supposed to be interested more or less. Home is lonely enough when she is here in town, without her being off so much. Besides, I know some things—humph! Well, I'm no fool, if Iama back number. To-day I made it my business to inquire if a certain party—you know who I mean—was in town. I knew in reason that he wouldn't be, but I just asked to satisfy my mind. Do you get at my meaning, sir?"
"I think I do." Mostyn's own words seemed to him to come from the heavy folds of the portiere hiding the desolate drawing-room beyond.
"I thought you would." The retort was all but a snarl. "And, do you know, when I asked some of his friends about the club if they knew, I caught them looking at one another in an odd sort of way with twinkles in their eyes? Oh no, they didn't know where he was. But I found out, all the same. I met his mother down-town. She said he had gone on a hurried trip to Norfolk. You can see through that, can't you? I can, if you can't. Knoxville is on the way to Norfolk. The two are at that party together; and, not only that, I'll bet this whole town knows it. That ought to be stopped. I know my daughter, if you don't, sir. She is not acting right. She has plunged into pleasure and excitement till she doesn't know what she wants. A new string of diamonds wouldn't amuse her a minute. This giddy, fast life has actually cursed her. The other night I caught her taking morphine tablets to make her sleep—said she'd lie awake and think till morning if she didn't. She hasn't contracted the habit yet, but she can easy enough if she keeps it up. She takes a bottle of them wherever she goes. When I was young, a woman who was a mother of a child like hers loved it, nursed it, petted it, got natural joy out of it; but Irene seldom speaks to Dick, and he doesn't care for her any more than for a stranger, but he loves you—God only knows why, but he does. It is 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy' with nearly every breath he draws."
Mostyn felt a force within him rising and expanding. A sob lodged in his tight throat and pained him. He was grateful for the deepening shadows, for the droning prattle from the old lips. He sank into a chair. The droning continued, sounding far off. A thousand incidents and faces (smiling and blending) sprang upon him out of the past—the happy, irresponsible past, the seductive, confident, ambitious past. Surely Fate was a mental entity, capable of crafty design against the heedless young. He remembered the vows of chastity and honor he had made during a revival in a country church under a blazing faith. He recalled how soon they were forgotten, how sure he was, later on, that Nature's physical laws were the highest known. Man was made to live, enjoy, and conquer all if he could. And he had succeeded. He had become rich and prosperous. Next he found his memory swimming through that black period of satiated desire and disgust of self.
"I wish folks would not mixmeup with your private matters." The words rose sharply from the senile prattle and penetrated Mostyn's lethargy. "There's old Jeff Henderson—he had the cheek to come to me to-day to borrow money. Said his family was in rags and starving. Said you euchred him out of all he had and got your start on it. What in the name of common sense does he come tomefor? I don't own you, and I knew nothing about that transaction, either. I reckon he's going crazy, but that doesn't keep him from bothering me."
Seeing the futility of explaining a thing he had many times explained, Mostyn rose. Before him the open doorway framed an oblong patch of calm gray sky, and toward it he moved, his mental hands impotently outstretched, a soundless cry welling up from the depths of himself.
On the first morning after his permanent removal to his plantation Jarvis Saunders waked with a boundless sense of freedom from care, which had not been his since his boyhood. Through all his short visits to the spot hitherto he had been haunted with the unpleasant thought of having to return to the city and the rigid demands of business. But it was different now. He lay in the wide, high-posted Colonial bed, stretched himself, looked at the sunlight on the small-paned windows, and sighed with complete content. From the outside came the chirping of birds, the crowing of roosters, the cackle of hens, the quacking of ducks, the scream of geese, the thwack of an ax at the wood-pile, the mellow song of the lank negro chopper, Uncle Zeke, one of the ex-slaves of his family.
Rising and standing at a window, and parting the pink and blue morning-glories which overhung it in dew-dipped freshness, Saunders looked down into the yard. He saw Aunt Maria, Zeke's portly wife, approach from the kitchen door and begin to fill her apron with the chips his ax had strewn upon the ground.
"You go on en ring dat fus' breakfus'-bell, Zeke," she said, peremptorily. "De fus' litter o' biscuits is raidy to slide in de stove, en de chicken en trout is fried brown. Everthing is got ter be des right dis fus' mawnin' dat Marse Jarvis is home ter stay. Fifteen minutes is long 'nough fer 'im ter dress."
"Ring de bellyo'se'f, 'ooman!" Zeke laughed, loudly. "Yo' gittin' so heavy en waddly yo' don' want ter turn yo' han's over. Look yer, 'ooman, Marse Jarvis ain't gwine ter let yo' cook fer 'im regular, nohow. He gwine ter fix de house up spank new, fum top ter bottom, en git de ol' 'fo'-de-wah style back ergin. He gwine ter sen' away off som'er's fer er spry up-date cook. Yo' know what, 'ooman? I'm gwine be his head house-servant, I is. My place'll be in de front hall ter mix mint-juleps fo' 'im en his frien's fum de city when dey skeet by in deir automobiles en stop over fer er smoke en er howdy-do. He gwine ter order me er long-tail, jimswingin' blue coat. He done say dat he'll look ter me ter keep you-all's j'ints oiled up so yo' won't walk in yo' sleep so much in de day-time."
"Go 'long, yo' fool nigger!" Maria sniffed, as she shook her chips down into her apron. "When Marse Jarvis stick er black scarecrow lak yo' in de front part de house he shore will be out his senses. He gwine ter mek yo' haul manure wid er dump-cart, dat what he is."
Saunders smiled as he stepped back and began to dress. "God bless their simple, loyal souls!" he said. "They shall never suffer as long as I live. My parents loved them, and so do I."
At the sound of the second bell he went downstairs. How cool, spacious, and inviting everything looked! The oblong drawing-room, into which he glanced in passing, with its white wainscoting and beautiful oriel window at the end on the left of the entrance-hall, brought back many memories of his childhood and youth. He recalled the gay assemblages of summer visitors to his father and mother from Augusta and Charleston—the dances, the horseback rides, the hunting-parties, the music, the singing of hymns on Sundays.
"I must bring it all back," he mused. "That was normal living."
These memories followed him to the great dining-room in the rear of the house. As he took his usual seat at the head of the long table the delicious aroma of fine coffee, the smell of frying meats and hot biscuits came in from the adjoining kitchen. The wide fireplace had been freshly whitewashed, and was filled with the resinous boughs of young pines. The several windows were open, and through them he had glimpses of his verdant lands and the mountains beyond. The portraits of his mother, father, and grandparents seemed to smile down from their massive frames on the white walls. The same silverware and cut glass which they had used were before him on the mahogany sideboard; the same china.
Aunt Maria had put the hot, tempting dishes before him and gone away. The pot of coffee was steaming at his side. Suddenly an impulse, half sentimental, came over him which he could not resist. He recalled how his father had always said grace; and, bowing his head, he whispered the long-silent words over his unturned plate and folded napkin. How odd! he thought: it was as if the short prayer had been laid upon his lips by the spirit of his father; the fervent "Amen" seemed to be echoed by his mother's voice from the opposite end of the board. Saunders's soul was suddenly filled with a transcendent ecstasy. His parents seemed to be actually present, invisible, and yet flooding his being with their spiritual essence.
"Surely," he said, the wonder of the thing bursting upon him like ineffable light, "there is 'a peace which passeth understanding.'"
After breakfast he went to the front veranda to smoke. He saw Tom Drake walking across a meadow to some drainage ditches which were being dug to destroy some objectionable marshes. The results of the man's work as manager had been more than satisfactory.
Presently Saunders descried a few hundred yards down the main road a woman on a horse. It was Dolly Drake; and, throbbing with delight, he hastened down to the gate, thinking that she might be coming to speak to her father, and would need assistance in alighting. But she had no intention of stopping, and with a merry bow was about to ride by when he stepped out and playfully held up his hands.
"Your money or your life!" he cried.
She reined the spirited young black horse in and sat jauntily on the side-saddle. Her color was high; she wore a pretty riding-hat, a close-fitting gray habit, and her eyes were sparkling from the exhilaration of the gallop along the level road.
"Take my life, but for Heaven's sake spare my money!" she retorted, with an ironical laugh.
"I think I have some news for you," he said, approaching and testing the girth of her saddle. "Sit still and let me draw it tighter."
"News," she said, with the eagerness of a child, as he pulled upward on the strap, "for me?"
"Yes, for you. I knew you would be interested in the bill before the House and Senate, and so I asked the Governor to write me if it went through."
"Oh, oh! and did you hear?" She leaned closer to him, her lips rigid with expectation. "I'm afraid there was a hitch after all. The taxpayers are so opposed to spending money."
"It went through like greased lightning," he smiled. "Your name and suggestions were mentioned in every speech that was made in both houses."
He saw her face fill with delight. She put the butt of her riding-whip to her lips, and her breast heaved high and sank, quivering.
"Oh, isn't it splendid—splendid?" she exclaimed.
"Thanks to you, Dolly—you, and no one else."
"No, no, it was growing all along. I only helped a little, perhaps. But it doesn't matter who did it; it is done. They will build the schools."
"And you and I will help with suggestions, won't we?" He looked at her, quite timidly. "I mean, of course, that we have learned some lessons in the house we are now building. We have made mistakes here and there that may be avoided in the future."
She said nothing, and he was sure that she purposely avoided his tentative stare. She bent over the horse's neck, ran the thick glossy mane through her fingers, and gently patted the animal's shoulder.
"Jarvis, you must tell me something about this horse," she said, firmly. "I'm going to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"You want to know his pedigree?" He was staring sheepishly. "Well—"
"No, I don't, and you know I don't. My father said that you wanted the horse kept in the stable at home in case—in case any one had to ride over here to communicate with him. But no one uses him but me, and he has to have exercise or he will be ruined. It is almost all that I can do to control him now. He breaks into a run the instant another horse passes him. Father said yesterday that he did not understand why you wanted us to keep him at our house."
The blood mantled the young planter's brow. "They say an honest confession is good for the soul," he stammered; "and, Dolly, the truth is that I sent the horse there simply for you to ride. You love riding and need the exercise. You are so peculiar about—well, about some things—that I was afraid you would be offended, but I hope you won't refuse this. I do love to see you on a horse. You ride as if you were born in the saddle."
She looked down on the farther side of her mount. "It is very, very sweet and kind of you," she said, falteringly. "I believe you mean it, still—" She broke off and failed to finish what she had started to say.
"You must not object," he went on, urgently. "It suits your father and me to keep a horse there, and if you are good enough to exercise him for us, well and good. If not, we'll send one of the negroes over to take him out once a day."
He saw her smile faintly. "Nobody could get around you," she answered. "Well, it really would break my heart to give him up now, and I shall ride him whenever I feel like it."
There was silence for a moment, which he broke.
"I am arranging a little surprise for your father." He nodded toward the grounds behind him. "Won't you get down and come in a moment?"
"What is it?" She was already kicking the stirrup from her eager foot.
"Come in and see." He held out his arms, as if she were a child willing to jump.
"You know my awful curiosity," she laughed, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning downward. Her face sank close to his—so close that her breath fanned his cheek. He took her slight weight on himself as he helped her down. Throwing the rein over one of the palings, he opened the gate and stood aside for her to enter.
"What is it? Why are you so awfully mysterious?" she asked.
"Because my surprise may not come up to your expectations," he said. "Come with me."
He led her across the lawn to a small one-roomed brick house at the side of the main building, adjoining the white glass-roofed conservatory. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and pushed it open and invited her to go in. She found herself in a well-lighted room comfortably furnished with easy-chairs, rugs, and a fine roll-top desk, supplied with new account-books and writing-material of all kinds.
"It is to be your father's private office," Saunders explained. "But he doesn't know it. It struck me that he would need a place like this to meet the hands in on pay-days and to do his writing. The furniture came yesterday. He superintended the unloading himself. He thinks the office is for me."
Involuntarily Dolly clasped her hands in sheer delight.
"Oh, how good you are!" she cried. "Nothing you could possibly do would please him more. You have given him his old pride back, Jarvis, and this will add to it. I have been wanting to speak to you about him, but I hardly knew how. He is absolutely a new man in every way, and it is all due to your confidence and encouragement."
He found himself without available response. She sat down in the revolving desk-chair and picked up a pen and pretended to write. "It is simply 'scrumptious!'" she laughed, merrily. "Oh, I should like—" she stopped abruptly, stood up, and looked at the door. "I must be going. Why, you've even given him a clock. And the maps on the walls will be very useful. That's our county, isn't it?"
As he nodded he followed her to the grass outside. "You started to say that you would like something," he ventured. "What was it, Dolly?"
"I should really like to be present when you show it to him and tell him that it is for him. Jarvis, I almost lost respect for him once. I almost ceased to love him, but it has all come back. I am proud of him again, and you are responsible for it. Why did you do so much for him?"
"Because he isyourfather!" He nipped the words as they were forming on his lips. Instead, he said aloud: "He is just the man I needed. We are working finely together. You must be present when I tell him about the office; he will be here this afternoon. I will detain him with some pretext or other till three o'clock. Couldn't you be here then?"
"Oh yes, and I'd like to bring my mother, Uncle John, and George."
"A good idea," Saunders said. "We'll have some fresh cider and cakes—the old-fashioned gingerbread sort."
When they had reached her horse, he held out his hand for her foot. She placed it in it, and he lightly lifted her to the saddle.
He stood at the gate and saw her vanish down the road. "Why didn't I say what I want to say? Why didn't I tell her how I feel and throw myself on her mercy? What is it that always checks me? Is it Mostyn? My God! does she still love him, and will he always stand between me and my happiness?"
For Mostyn the week which ensued after his wife's secret elopement was a period of sheer mental torture. Every minute he expected the startling tidings to reach his friends and associates. Every morning at breakfast he studied the crafty and sullen face of old Mitchell and the swarthy visages of the servants to see if suspicions of the truth were dawning. At the bank he tried to overhear the conversations of the bookkeepers, sometimes fancying that a burst of low laughter or a whispered colloquy had him for their incentive. He was sure that it was little less than a miracle that the matter had not leaked out. With Delbridge getting into harness at his desk, he had considerable time on his hands, which he spent in long nervous walks, generally in the suburbs of the city. For that week he wholly neglected his child. There was something unbearable in the thought of the boy's future social status, left in the care, as he was, of an all but witless grandfather and a father upon whom the contempt of the public was so soon to fall. Infinitely horrible was the reflection that little Dick would inevitably grow into a comprehension of the family calamity and inquire as to its causes. It was Saturday night, eight days after the elopement. Mostyn had that day been irritated—that is, as much as a man in his plight could be irritated by any extraneous incident—by Delbridge's open criticism of the negligent condition of some of his accounts. The work of going over the books with his successor in rectifying really glaring mistakes detained him at the bank till late at night. It was twelve o'clock when he finally reached home, ascended to his room, and began to undress. He had thrown off his coat, when he heard voices and movements in the nursery adjoining his room. At once he was all attention. He had his usual overpowering yearning to see his child. It was as if the touch of the boy's little hand or a glance from his innocent young eyes might mildly soothe his lacerated spirits. It was the cry of kindred blood to kindred blood from the darkest deeps of despair—the incongruous cry of parent to offspring. He overheard the impatient tone of the drowsy nurse, and the fainter, rather rambling accents of the child.
"You go to sleep!" Hilda called out. "You'll disturb yo' pa. He just come home, an' he don't want no noise fum yo' this time o' night."
The gas was burning in the nursery, as was shown by the pencil of light beneath the door. Mostyn turned the bolt and looked into the room. A breath of warmer air told him that the servant had again neglected to open the windows sufficiently. He went to Dick's little bed, turning the overhead gas higher as he did so. The child looked up, recognized him, and with a cry of welcome held out his arms. Mostyn, bending down, felt the little hands clasp his neck. They were dry and hot. Dick's cheeks were flushed red.
"What ails him?" Mostyn cried, aghast, turning to Hilda, who had risen, thrown on a wrapper, and stood at the table, where a bottle and a spoon lay.
"I think he's got er little bit er fever, sir," she said. "It is his stomach gone wrong ergin. I'm givin' 'im his fever-mixture now."
"It hurts right here, Daddy." Dick made a wry face as he bravely pressed his hand on the lower part of his right side. "Dick couldn't play to-day."
"How long has he had fever?" Mostyn demanded, sharply.
"Jes' to-day, I think, sir. I never noticed it till dis evenin' about an hour by sun. He's been complainin' of his stomach fer mo'n a week, but dat is 'cause he eats—"
"It may be something serious." The words shrank back from utterance. "Why didn't you send for the doctor?"
"Huh!" the nurse sniffed, resentfully. "Yo' all expect me ter ten' ter everything. Ididtell his grandpa, but he didn't even know what I was talkin' about, jabberin' all de time about Miss Irene stayin' off so long, en—en I don't know what all—youan'yo'doin's 'long wid de rest."
The woman was approaching with the bottle and spoon. "Don't give him any more of that stuff." He waved it away. "I'll send for Dr. Loyd at once."
"Oh, Daddy, I don't want the doctor!" Dick began to whimper and cling more tightly round his father's neck.
"He won't hurt you; he is a good man," Mostyn said, tenderly. "He will give you something to make you cool off, so you can sleep."
Mostyn left the room and groped his way down to the telephone in the lower hall. A new fear had clutched him, a fear so compelling that all else was forgotten. A chill of grim, accusing horror was on him. His brain was in a whirl as he tried to recall the desired number. Did Providence, Fate, or whatever the ruling force was, intend this as his crowning punishment? Had the impalpable hand, reaching for him, descended on his offspring? He finally got the doctor's servant on the 'phone, then Dr. Loyd himself, who had just arrived in his automobile.
"Have you taken his temperature?" was the doctor's first question.
"No, we haven't a thermometer, and do not know how to use one, anyway."
"Well, I'll be out immediately," was the brusque answer. "I must see him to-night—don't exactly like the symptoms. I saw him in driving past your home the other day, and did not quite like his looks."
Mostyn dragged himself up the stairs. Passing Mitchell's room, he half paused at the door. Should he wake him and explain the situation? He decided against it. The child's condition would only loosen the man's pent-up wrath in the presence of the physician and perhaps delay the examination. He went back to the nursery, and, lifting Dick in his arms, he bore him into his own room, which was cooler. He dampened a towel in ice-water, folded it, and laid it on the flushed brow.
"That feels nice, Daddy," Dick smiled, grimly, "but it hurts here," putting his hand gingerly on his side.
A few minutes later the doctor's car was heard on the drive. Mostyn descended to meet him. They shook hands formally, and Mostyn led him up the stairs to the patient. The doctor was past middle age, iron-gray, full-whiskered, and stockily built. He took the child's temperature, and looked grave as he glanced at the thermometer under the drop-light, and washed it in a glass of water.
"One-hundred and five!" he said, crisply. "Big risks have been taken, Mostyn. I only hope my fears are groundless."
"Your fears?"
But the doctor seemed not to hear. He raised the child's thin night-shirt and passed his fingers gently over the abdomen.
"Tell me where that pain is, Dick," he said, softly. "Where does it hurt most when I press down?"
"There! there!" Dick cried out in sudden agony.
"I see. That will do. I sha'n't hurt you again." He drew the shirt down and moved back toward the lamp.
"I'm sure you will give him—something to reduce that fever." Mostyn knew that the remark was a mere tentative foil against the verdict stamped upon the bearded face. The doctor slowly wiped the tiny tube and restored it to its case.
"I must be frank," he said, in a low tone. "My opinion is that he must be operated on at once—without delay—early in the morning at the very latest."
"Why—why—surely—" Mostyn began, but went no further. The objects in the room seemed to swim about him. He and the doctor were buoys floating face to face.
"It is appendicitis," Loyd said. "Of course, I'd call another doctor in consultation before anything is done, but I am sure I am not mistaken."
Mostyn's soul stared from a dead face with all but glazed eyes. He nodded toward the door opening into the hall and led the doctor from the room. In the hall he put his hand on Loyd's shoulder.
"I am sure you know best," he gasped. "What do you propose?"
"That I take him at once to my sanitarium in my car. In warm weather like this you won't have to wrap him much. You'd better get him ready now. I'll telephone the nurse to have a room prepared."
"Very well." Mostyn was stalking back to the child when the doctor detained him.
"And his mother—I don't see her about; is she at home?"
"No, she is out of town. Just now she is away."
"Well, you had better telegraph her."
"I—I don't exactly know where she is." Mostyn was vaguely thankful for the dimness of the hall light.
"You must find her—locate her at once."
"Is it really so—so serious as that?"
"I may as well be frank." The doctor cleared his throat. "It won't do any good to mislead you. The little fellow has a weak heart, as I explained the last time he was ill, and it seems worse now. Then—then, I am sorry to say that I detect strong symptoms of peritonitis. If I could have seen him a week ago—I presume the fact of your wife being away, and you being busy at the bank—"
Mostyn's head rocked like a stone balanced on a pivot. "Yes," he said. "I am afraid we were not attentive enough. Will you be ready soon?"
"Yes; tell Dick it is for a ride in my car. He won't mind it. He is a plucky little fellow. He has fought that pain for several days. We would have known it earlier but for that."
Five minutes later Mostyn sat on the rear seat of the automobile with his child in his arms. The doctor sat in front beside the colored chauffeur. Mostyn chatted with Dick about the ride, about the "nice, cool room" he was to have at the "good doctor's house"; but, to his growing horror, Dick had lost interest in all things. He lay passive and completely relaxed, a lack-luster gleam in his half-closed eyes.
"Am I speeding him to his execution?" Mostyn's very dregs whispered the query. "Is this my last word with him?" Seeing the faces of the doctor and the chauffeur directed ahead, and half ashamed of his tenderness, he bent down and kissed the child's forehead. In vague response Dick lifted his little hand to the overbrooding cheek, but immediately dropped it to his side.
"Go slowly over this rough place," the doctor ordered; and the speed lessened, to be renewed a little farther on, where the asphalt pavement began again.
Reaching the sanitarium, a spacious white building in pleasant, shaded grounds, they alighted. Mostyn, with his boy in his arms, stepped out. At the door a nurse took Dick into the house and bore him to a room on the floor above. She spoke to him in a motherly way. As she vanished up the stairs Mostyn saw Dick's small limp hand hanging down her side. Was it, he asked himself, a farewell salute?
"You may sit here in the waiting-room if you wish, or you may return home in my car," Loyd suggested. "I shall send it at once for the other doctors. You are really of no service here, and, of course, I can communicate with you by 'phone as to our decision."
"I'll be here, or close about on the outside," Mostyn answered. "I presume it will be some time before the consultation?"
"It must be within half an hour. I am not willing to wait longer."
Mostyn sat alone in the sitting-room. A clock on the wall ticked sharply. He heard the wheels of the automobile grind on the pavement as it sped away under the electric lights. He went out on the lawn. He felt in his pocket for a cigar, but, finding none, he forgot it. The dew of the grass penetrated to his feet. It seemed to him that he felt Dick's fever coursing through his own veins. He was still outside half an hour later, his eyes raised to the windows of the lighted room occupied by his child, when the automobile returned. Two doctors whom he knew got out and sauntered into the house. He heard them laughing over the mistake a so-called quack had made in the case of a credulous patient, Mostyn lurked back in the shadows—he would not detain them by a useless greeting. He followed them into the house. The nurse at the foot of the stairs was beckoning them to hasten. Mostyn was again alone in the sitting-room. Presently the nurse came in, evidently looking for something. Mostyn caught her eye, and she gave him a hurried but sympathetic look. He decided that he would sound her.
"Do you think an operation will be necessary?" he asked.
Her glance fell. "I have only Dr. Loyd's opinion. He thinks so, and I have never known him to be wrong in diagnosing a case."
"He thinks, also, I believe"—Mostyn's voice sounded as hollow as a phonograph—"that the child has hardly strength enough to resist the—the ordeal?"
She raised her eyes as if doubting her right to converse on the subject. "I think heisafraid of that," she admitted. "Your child is very, very sick."
"And you—you,yourself?" Mostyn now fairly implored. "According toyourexperience, do you think there is a chance of his living through it?"
"I really can't say—Imustn'tsay," she faltered. "I am only judging by Dr. Loyd's actions. He is very uneasy. Mr. Mostyn, I have no right to speak of it, but your wife ought to be here. The doctor says she is out of town. She ought to get here if possible; she will always regret it if she doesn't. I am a mother myself, and I know how she will feel."
Mostyn stifled a reply which rose to his lips. He heard, rather than saw, her leave the room, for a mist had fallen on his sight. In the patient's chamber above there was the grinding of feet on the floor. The chandelier overhead shook. The crystal prisms tinkled like little bells. Presently the nurse came to him.
"Dr. Loyd instructed me to say"—she was looking down on his clasped hands—"that they have agreed that the operation must be performed at once. They all think it is the only chance."
An hour later the aiding doctors came down the stairs, glided softly past the sitting-room door, and passed out. He called to one of them.
"Is the operation over?" he asked.
The doctor nodded gravely. He had taken a cigar from his pocket, and was biting the tip from the end. "It was the worst appendix I ever saw, fairly rotten. Loyd will show it to you. It is a serious case, Mostyn. If Loyd pulls him through it will be a miracle. Peritonitis has already set in, and there is very little heart-action. He is sleeping now, of course, and every possible thing has been done and will be done. He is in the best of hands. We can do nothing but wait."
It was near dawn. Mostyn was pacing back and forth on the grass 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 Mitchell. 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. Mitchell wanted to come, and so I brought him on."
The old man tottered forward. For once he had no comment to make. He passed 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. Dick, 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. Mitchell 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 God, Dick. I know it is killing you, but that ought to besomecomfort."