Part 24 (1/2)

”It's Beatty--my son!--my darling Roger!” She put up her hands piteously, bending his head down to her. ”It's a cable from Was.h.i.+ngton, from that woman, Mrs. Verrier. They did everything, Roger--it was only three days--and hopeless always. Yesterday convulsion came on--and this morning----” Her head dropped against her son's breast as her voice failed her. He put her roughly from him.

”What are you talking of, mother! Do you mean that Beatty has been ill?”

”She died last night. Roger--my darling son--my poor Roger!”

”Died--last night--Beatty?”

French in silence handed him the telegram. Roger disengaged himself and walked to the fireplace, standing motionless, with his back to them, for a minute, while they held their breaths. Then he began to grope again for his hat, without a word.

”Come home with me, Roger!” implored his mother, pursuing him. ”We must bear it--bear it together. You see--she didn't suffer”--she pointed to the message--”the darling!--the darling!”

Her voice lost itself in tears. But Roger brushed her away, as though resenting her emotion, and made for the door.

French also put out a hand.

”Roger, dear, dear old fellow! Stay here with us--with your mother.

Where are you going?”

Roger looked at his watch unsteadily.

”The office will be closed,” he said to himself; ”but I can put some things together.”

”Where are you going, Roger?” cried Lady Barnes, pursuing him. Roger faced her.

”It's Tuesday. There'll be a White Star boat to-morrow.”

”But, Roger, what can you do? She's gone, dear--she's gone. And before you can get there--long before--she will be in her grave.”

A spasm pa.s.sed over his face, into which the colour rushed. Without another word he wrenched himself from her, opened the front door, and ran out into the night.

CHAPTER X

”Was there ever anything so poetic, so suggestive?” said a charming voice. ”One might make a new Turner out of it--if one just happened to be Turner!--to match 'Rain: Steam, and Speed.'”

”What would you call it--'Mist, Light, and Spring'?”

Captain Boyson leant forward, partly to watch the wonderful landscape effect through which the train was pa.s.sing, partly because his young wife's profile, her pure cheek and soft hair, were so agreeably seen under the mingled light from outside.

They were returning from their wedding journey. Some six weeks before this date Boyson had married in Philadelphia a girl coming from one of the old Quaker stocks of that town, in whose tender steadfastness of character a man inclined both by nature and experience to expect little from life had found a happiness that amazed him.

The bridegroom, also, had just been appointed to the Military Attaches.h.i.+p at the Berlin Emba.s.sy, and the couple were, in fact, on their way south to New York and embarkation. But there were still a few days left of the honeymoon, of which they had spent the last half in Canada, and on this May night they were journeying from Toronto along the southern sh.o.r.e of Lake Ontario to the pleasant Canadian hotel which overlooks the pageant of Niagara. They had left Toronto in bright suns.h.i.+ne, but as they turned the corner of the lake westward, a white fog had come creeping over the land as the sunset fell.

But the daylight was still strong, the fog thin; so that it appeared rather as a veil of gold, amethyst, and opal, floating over the country, now parting altogether, now blotting out the orchards and the fields.

And into the colour above melted the colour below. For the orchards that cover the Hamilton district of Ontario were in bloom, and the snow of the pear-trees, the flush of the peach-blossom broke everywhere through the warm cloud of pearly mist; while, just as Mrs. Boyson spoke, the train had come in sight of the long flas.h.i.+ng line of the Welland Ca.n.a.l, which wound its way, outlined by huge electric lamps, through the sunset and the fog, till the lights died in that northern distance where stretched the invisible sh.o.r.e of the great lake. The glittering waterway, speaking of the labour and commerce of men, the blossom-laden earth, the white approaching mist, the softly falling night:--the girl-bride could not tear herself from the spectacle. She sat beside the window entranced. But her husband had captured her hand, and into the overflowing beauty of nature there stole the thrill of their love.

”All very well!” said Boyson presently. ”But a fog at Niagara is no joke!”