Firm, light steps came hastily to the outer door, the door clicked open and shut, the steps came down the hall. Mrs. Mortimer sat up and opened her eyes. She saw a tall man in rough clothes, hatless, with raindrops glistening on his bright, close-cropped hair and beard. He was hesitating at the foot of the stairs, but at her slight movement he caught sight of her and rushed toward her. “Has she—is there—” he began.
Mrs. Mortimer gazed intently into his quivering face. “My sister has given birth to a son, and lies at the point of death,” she said with her unsparing conciseness, but not harshly.
The man she addressed threw up one hand as though she had struck him, and took an aimless, unsteady step. Mrs. Mortimer did not turn away her eyes from the revelation of his face. Her own grew sterner. She was trying to bring herself to speak again. She put her hand on his arm to attract his attention, and looked with a fierce earnestness into his face. “Listen,” she said. “We were wrong, all of us, about Lydia. We were wrong about everything. You were right. I wanted to tell you. If my sister had lived—she is so young—I hoped—” She turned away to hide the sudden break-up of her rigid calm. “Little Lydia!” she cried. “Oh, misery! misery!”
Behind them was the sound of a shutting door and a key turned in the lock. They both spun about and saw Mrs. Lowder slip the key into the bosom of her dress. Her aspect of white determination suited this theatrical gesture, as she placed herself quickly before the door. “If you will promise me solemnly that you will leave the house at once, I will let you out,” she said, in a high, shaking voice.
Rankin did not answer. He looked at her as though he did not see her.
“What business have you here, anyhow?” she went on fiercely.
“I am here to adopt Mrs. Hollister’s second child,” stated Rankin, collecting himself with an effort.
Mrs. Lowder’s pale face flushed. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. I shall adopt my brother’s child myself! How dare you—a perfect stranger—”
“Mrs. Hollister wishes it,” said Rankin.
“Lydia is out of her mind—if she is alive!” said Madeleine, trembling excitedly, “and the child’s own relatives are the proper—you needn’t think you are going to keep Ariadne, either! It can be proved in any court that Lydia was crazy, and that her family are the ones that ought to—”