Edith looked at him for a long time. She found no words with which to answer him. “Very well,” she said, at last, slowly. “At least I have my child.” She put out her arms. “Come, Bobbie,” she said.
Her husband swept the boy to him. “Get out of my way!” he cried roughly, as she attempted to intercept him; then started down the steps of the veranda.
“Donald!” she shrieked. “My God—what are you going to do?”
He paused on the steps. “I’m going to New York,” he cried. “You can live on the price of your shame, if you want to. I and my boy shall not!” He dashed down the steps, and out toward the entrance to the grounds, the child held closely to his breast.
“Donald! Donald!” she screamed after him. “Come back! Come back!”
He went on, not heeding her cries, and, as the bells on the yachts in the harbor marked the hour of seven, she crumpled up upon the veranda floor, clutching at the arm of a chair as she fell; and lay there, a pathetic, sobbing figure, until her mother and sister found her, some ten minutes later.
CHAPTER XVII
When Alice Pope and the others returned from their walk in the garden they did not at first see the crumpled-up figure on the veranda floor as they came up the steps. Suddenly Hall started back with an exclamation, then ran over to the prostrate woman and lifted her in his arms.