"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 Washington, 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 Attacheship 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 sunshine, 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 flashing 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!"
The night stole on, and the cloud through which they journeyed grew denser. Up crept the fog, on stole the night. The lights of the ca.n.a.l faded, the orchards sank into darkness, and when the bride and bridegroom reached the station on the Canadian side the bride"s pleasure had become dismay.
"Oh, Alfred, we shan"t see anything!"
And, indeed, as their carriage made its slow progress along the road that skirts the gorge, they seemed to plunge deeper and deeper into the fog. A white darkness, as though of impenetrable yet glimmering cloud, above and around them; a white abyss beneath them; and issuing from it the thunderous voice of wild waters, dim first and distant, but growing steadily in volume and terror.
"There are the lights of the bridge!" cried Boyson, "and the towers of the aluminum works. But not a vestige of the Falls! Gone! Wiped out! I say, darling, this is going to be a disappointment."
Mrs. Boyson, however, was not so sure. The lovely "nocturne" of the evening plain had pa.s.sed into a Vision or Masque of Force that captured the mind. High above the gulf rose the towers of the great works, transformed by the surging fog and darkness into some piled and castled fortress; a fortress of Science held by Intelligence. Lights were in the towers, as of genii at their work; lights glimmered here and there on the face of the farther cliff, as though to measure the vastness of the gorge and of that resounding vacancy towards which they moved. In front, the arch of the vast suspension bridge, p.r.i.c.ked in light, crossed the gulf, from nothingness to nothingness, like that sky bridge on which the G.o.ds marched to Walhalla. Otherwise, no shape, no landmark; earth and heaven had disappeared.
"Here we are at the hotel," said Boyson. "There, my dear,"--he pointed ironically--"is the American Fall, and there--is the Canadian! Let me introduce you to Niagara!"
They jumped out of the carriage, and while their bags were being carried in they ran to the parapeted edge of the cliff in front of the hotel.
Niagara thundered in their ears; the spray of it beat upon their faces; but of the two great Falls immediately in front of them they saw nothing whatever. The fog, now cold and clammy, enwrapped them; even the bright lights of the hotel, but a stone"s throw distant, were barely visible; and the carriage still standing at the steps had vanished.
Suddenly, some common impulse born of the moment and the scene--of its inhuman ghostliness and grandeur--drew them to each other. Boyson threw his arm round his young wife and pressed her to him, kissing her face and hair, bedewed by the spray. She clung to him pa.s.sionately, trembling a little, as the roar deafened them and the fog swept round them.
As the Boysons lingered in the central hall of the hotel, reading some letters which had been handed to them, a lady in black pa.s.sed along the gallery overhead and paused a moment to look at the new arrivals brought by the evening train.
As she perceived Captain Boyson there was a quick, startled movement; she bent a moment over the staircase, as though to make sure of his ident.i.ty, and then ran along the gallery to a room at the farther end.
As she opened the door a damp cold air streamed upon her, and the thunder of the Falls, with which the hotel is perpetually filled, seemed to redouble.
Three large windows opposite to her were, in fact, wide open; the room, with its lights dimmed by fog, seemed hung above the abyss.
An invalid couch stood in front of the window, and upon it lay a pale, emaciated woman, breathing quickly and feebly. At the sound of the closing door, Madeleine Verrier turned.
"Oh, Daphne, I was afraid you had gone out! You do such wild things!"
Daphne Barnes came to the side of the couch.
"Darling, I only went to speak to your maid for a moment. Are you sure you can stand all this damp fog?"
As she spoke Daphne took up a fur cloak lying on a chair near, and wrapped herself warmly in it.
"I can"t breathe when they shut the windows. But it is too cold for you."
"Oh, I"m all right in this." Daphne drew the cloak round her.
Inwardly she said to herself, "Shall I tell her the Boysons are here?
Yes, I must. She is sure to hear it in some way."
So, stooping over the couch, she said:
"Do you know who arrived this evening? The Alfred Boysons. I saw them in the hall just now."