She seemed to have finished at last, all to the signing of the name, and this she repeated aloud:
“Iris Tresilian,” adding, after a brief pause, during which she had sobbed like a child: “It is done, Oscar. I have bought your silence at the price of my daughter’s reputation, even as I purchased wealth at the cost of my husband’s honor.”
The last words were spoken very faintly, and Mrs. Hilton now came farther into the room, with her hands outstretched as if searching for something.
“My chair, Oscar; wheel it close to the fire,” she whispered, and Hilton sprang forward quickly to place a chair for her; but in his agitation his foot struck against a small ormolu stand upon which Isabel had placed a glass tank containing several gold fishes.
The stand was overturned, and the glass fell with a loud crash, shattered to pieces on the floor.
The eyes of the somnambulist sprang wide open; she gazed wildly from one to another of the surrounding faces, and with a cry that echoed from basement to attic, fell to the ground, writhing in strong convulsions.
“Good God, I have killed her!” And Oscar Hilton threw himself frantically on his knees beside her, while the guests, attracted by that wild and pitiful cry, came thronging to the spot, and Iris, sobbing out the words: “Mamma! Oh, my poor mother!” attempted to reach the spot where the latter lay, but fell back, feeble and helpless as an infant, in Chester St. John’s outstretched arms.
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE ARREST.
In less than half an hour after Mrs. Hilton’s cry had alarmed the ladies and gentlemen assembled to do honor to Isabel Hilton in this celebration of her birthday, the house was cleared of every guest with the exception of Grace and Chester St. John.
“Go home, dear, and trust me to take care of Iris as if she were indeed your sister,” Chester had said to Grace; but pretty Grace had answered with a decision and dignity quite new to her: