He went to his mother's room. She was lying on a couch, and was still hysterical. From her he heard the story; and though, as ever, she was selfishly alive to her own sufferings, she evinced an almost motherly tenderness in her sympathy for Sylvie.
Fred spoke of the return. If it could be to-morrow; if he could settle them in their own home, and go quite away for a while! he thought.
"And leave Sylvie here alone?" said his mother reproachfully.
"I do not know what you can do for—for Miss Barry." How studiously cold and calm the tone was! "The doctor wishes to remove her as speedily as possible. I thought we would be out of the way, at least."
"It is terrible here; and if you considered it quite right—the summer is so nearly ended, and the nights are growing cool,—yes, we might go."
They settled it over their quiet supper. "Miss Barry was comfortable," Martha said, "and Miss Sylvie was lying down."
Mrs. Lawrence retired early, her nerves were so shattered by the terrible incident. Irene had disappeared; and, when Fred could stand his loneliness no longer, he went to walk upon the beach.
It was a moonless night, but with an intensely blue sky that gave the Milky Way the appearance of a luminous trail across the heavens. The murmur of the waves seemed sad and softened, and they touched the heart of the man who paced beside them. Once he had held so much in his hands! Surely he could have won the love of this woman then. Oh the blind, insensate, idiotic folly! He could have thrust his own soul down here on the sand, and trampled the very life out of it!
Hark! some one was coming with hasty strides. With the wild instinct of a wounded animal he turned to flee, and yet—whither should he go?
The hand was on his shoulder. The well-known voice uttered his name, and he turned at bay.