"I regret that I cannot have the honor of receiving you, as we are leaving suddenly and for an indefinite time," wrote Mrs. Lynn. "I must say that your letter was all Greek to me. You seem laboring under some strange hallucination of the brain. I fear you are threatened with a brain fever. I would advise you to consult a physician. Delays are dangerous in such cases."
Mrs. Le Roy went home like one dazed. She had not counted on such a terrible disappointment. She had staked everything on Laurel's sweet, forgiving disposition. She had made no allowance for a woman's pride.
She went to the library, where St. Leon sat among his books—dreaming, not reading—dreaming of a fair, cold, scornful face that shone on him from the walls of memory—
"Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound;
Woman-like, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong."
He glanced up absently at his mother's entrance, too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice her irrepressible agitation.
"Oh, St. Leon," she cried out, distressfully. "Mrs. Lynn has gone away!"
She saw the handsome face whiten under its healthy brown. He did not speak for a moment, only put out his hand and drew her gently to him. Then he said, in a hoarse, strained voice:
"Well, mother?"
The tone told her more than words. She broke out, vehemently:
"My son, did you know, did you understand? It was Laurel, your wife, it was your own child. Can you realize it, my son?"