Part 42 (1/2)
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.