"It is no time for kind words, Felix Houston. It is only bitterness and hatred that I have now! Why should I feel kindly towards a woman who has brought a man here that he might kill my husband? When she has lost as I have, then I shall be kind, perhaps! And it will not be long that she will wait! I shall not leave a stone unturned to punish with death the one who caused it."
She turned abruptly back into the room and closed the door. In the intense stillness of the house the key grated harshly in the lock, as she turned it. Without a word Mrs. Houston put her arm around Natalia and led her toward the stairs. When she stood on the steps Natalia turned and faced them.
"Don't any of you come with me," she said faintly. "I must be alone. No, Millicent, not to-night. I only want to be alone now." And turning from them, she walked slowly up the stairs, clinging to the rail to steady herself while the others stood silently watching her.
Opening the door, the flickering light of a candle burned far into its socket greeted her. At first she stopped in the centre of the room, her hands clasped vise-like, while the excitement and strain gradually dropped away from her, leaving only a wave of utter weariness. She sank into a chair near the massive, four-post bed, gazing listlessly at her wedding veil and bouquet of gardenias which lay carelessly upon the sheets where they had been thrown. Vaguely she felt their significance; in a way they represented her wedding day—the day that had dawned so brilliantly, and was now only a crumpled, withered memory.
A rasping pain shot through her, and leaning forward she pressed both hands to her temples. Was this the real side of life that had come to her at last? Was this what she had so yearned for—a grappling with things that counted? Ah, no, it could not be that, for this was only despair and horror. Suddenly she shivered violently with the thought that perhaps she was no better fitted to combat it than her mother had been.
A weird, ghostly light on her bride's veil drew her back once more to her surroundings. Looking up she saw the pale outline of the window against the dark room. With the realization that another day was dawning, there rushed over her for the first time, in its full meaning, the horrifying thought that her lover had killed a man. Hitherto the excitement had kept her from any analysis of her own emotions—everything had been swept aside in the thought of Morgan. But now, facing her pitilessly, was the awful necessity of introspection, of seeing the situation from her viewpoint, of being honest with herself. Would it make any difference to her? A feeling of self-hate swept over her that she should consider herself in the least. Yet, fight against it as she would, the question insistently remained. But there would be time enough for all such thoughts after the trial. The trial! Mrs. Jervais' words rang in her ears again. She started at the thought. Would Morgan be cleared? Was there any doubt? The horror of her fancies choked her and she rose from her chair as if seeking something that moment, that would aid her.
As she turned towards the window, her eyes fell upon Dicey, sitting upright in a chair against the wall, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes staring straight into her own. The old slave had kept the vigil with her mistress.
Dicey rose and made towards her.
"Will yer go ter bed, now, honey?" Her voice was very low, caressing and gentle. "Hit'll soon be day and yer ought ter tak er lil res'."
"Rest! I can't, Mammy. I must do something to help him. He is to be tried for murder! He must be saved. Oh, Mammy," her voice broke with a sob. "What can I do?"