Of a sudden the voices ceased, and she heard Slade take a step or two. Next, the faint crackling of paper, the inadvertent snapping of a rubber band, were barely distinguishable—and silence.
Her stretched imagination insensibly portrayed a vivid picture of the scene: the man probably had handed her mother some document, and was awaiting her perusal of it; he stood awkwardly fumbling that ridiculous hat, while her mother searched vainly—no, she had her glasses. Possibly, under stress of the excitement, her faculties were quite normal. If so, she was reading the document—and what was its effect?
But if Mrs. Fairchild was indeed reading, she did not read far. A sudden horrified exclamation almost caused Charlotte to hasten into the room; but it was followed so quickly by the voices again that she paused. Now her mother was talking volubly. Charlotte even fancied she could detect contempt and scorn in the tones. Such being the case, the usually clouded faculties must now be abnormally active. Slade was by turns protesting, pleading, and giving way to his peevish temper. The spirited colloquy came to an abrupt end in a single piercing cry:
"Charlotte!"
For an instant her heart ceased beating; a benumbing chill paralyzed her power of volition; then she rushed to the door and threw it open with a crash.
What she beheld explained but little to her alarmed senses. Her own appearance must have been awe-inspiring, for simultaneously with her advent, Slade recoiled in obvious alarm. She could see that her mother had been powerfully moved by some recent agitation, the exciting influence of which had by no means subsided; and whatever the different phases of that emotion might have been, they had undoubtedly crystallized into a violently active antipathy for Mr. William Slade. Her right hand was extended toward Slade, palm outward, as if to ward off an expected attack; or was it to guard the papers crushed so convulsively in her left hand and pressed so fiercely against her laboring bosom?
As for the man, it was patent that the situation was an unexpected and deeply disappointing outcome of his visit. More than that, he appeared overwhelmed, stunned, crushed, as if the issue involved an essential to his being. Nevertheless, however, whether his conduct had been intentional or not, an anger, terrible in its quietness, gushed from the deep well of Charlotte's passionate nature, stirring the man from his despondency by its very intensity.
"Go!" she commanded, her flexible voice striking its deepest note; and Slade stepped back as though he had been slapped in the face.
With a swift, lithe movement, Charlotte stooped and gathered her mother's head to her own heaving breast. Slade opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the words were stopped by a repetition of the inexorable, compelling, low-voiced command:
"Go!"