She uttered a cry, burying her face on his shoulder. Emily appeared behind her, in a state of dishevelment, her nose and eyes hopelessly red.
“Hush!” she warned them. “William hasn’t stopped tramping up and down the back piazza. I think he’s going crazy, and it’s got into his legs first. Honest, I do, Dan!”
Daniel made no reply to this, partly because his father had just emerged from the library. Mr. Carter had been busy all the afternoon trying to get his son out on bail. He was worn out, and looked it. His iron-gray hair was standing up in a frill on the top of his head, and his cheeks looked flabby. He had taken off his coat and his boots, and stood there in his shirt-sleeves and stockinged feet.
“Did they take bail?” he asked grimly, looking at Dan over the top of the reading-glasses, which he had forgotten to take off.
Daniel shook his head, and, without another word, Mr. Carter turned and went back into the library.
“She’s up there—locked in her room,” Mrs. Carter whispered between sobs on her son’s shoulder. “She won’t even see William, and she’s had her supper sent up. I don’t see how she could eat it, after what she’s done!” And she wept again, clinging to Daniel.
“She hasn’t,” said Emily, sniffing hard. “The tray’s outside in the hall. She never unlocked her door.”
“I wish it would choke her!” said Mrs. Carter, shaken with wrath. Then she drew back from her son’s arm, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Dan, what’s the good of your being a lawyer if you can’t get that boy right out?”
Daniel sighed.
“Give us a little time, mother,” he said gently. “You take her up to bed, Emily. She’s worn out, and she’ll only be ill.”