The Inner Shrine. Basil King

a question I have a right to ask."

      "But have I a right to answer?"

      "If you don't answer, you leave me to infer that he has."

      "Of course I can't keep you from inferring, but isn't that what they call meeting trouble half-way?"

      "I must meet trouble as it comes to me."

      "But not before it comes. That's my point."

      "It has come. It's here. I'm sure of it. He's gone to fight. You know it. You've sent him. Oh, Diane, if he comes to harm his blood will be on your head."

      Diane shrugged her shoulders, and took another sandwich.

      "I don't see that. In the first place, it's quite unlikely there'll be any blood at all—or more than a very little. One of the things I admire in men—our men, especially—is the maximum of courage with which they avenge their honor, coupled with the minimum of damage they work in doing it. It must require a great deal of skill. I know I should never have the nerve for it. I should kill my man every time he didn't kill me. But they hardly ever do."

      "How can you say that? Wasn't Monsieur de Cretteville killed? And Monsieur Lalanne?"

      "That makes two cases. I implied that it happens sometimes—generally by inadvertence. But it isn't likely to do so in this instance—at least not to George. He's an excellent shot—and I believe it was to be pistols."

      "Then it's true! Oh, my God, I know I shall lose him!"

      Mrs. Eveleth flung her cane to the floor and dropped into a seat, leaning on the table and covering her face with her hands. For a minute she moaned harshly, but when she looked up her eyes were tearless.

      "And this is my reward," she cried, "for the kindness I've shown you! After all, you are nothing but a wanton."

      Diane kept her self-control, but she grew pale.

      "That's odd," was all she permitted herself to say, delicately flicking the crumbs from her fingertips; "because it was to prove the contrary that George called Monsieur de Bienville out."

      "Bienville! You've stooped to him?"

      "Did I say so?" Diane asked, with a sudden significant lifting of the head.

      "There's no need to say so. There must have been something—"

      "There was something—something Monsieur de Bienville invented."

      "Wasn't it a pity for him to go to the trouble of invention—?"

      "When he could have found so much that was true," Diane finished, with dangerous quietness. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"

      "You have no right to ascribe words to me that I haven't uttered. I never said so."

      "No; that's true; I prefer to say it for you. It's safer, in that it leaves me nothing to resent."

      "Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" Mrs. Eveleth moaned, wringing her hands. "My boy is gone from me. He will never come back. I've always been sure that if he ever did this, it would be the end. It's my fault for having brought him up among your foolish, hot-headed people. He will have thrown his life away—and for nothing!"

      "No; not that," Diane corrected; "not even if the worst comes to the worst."

      "What do you mean? If the worst comes to the worst, he will have sacrificed himself—"

      "For my honor; and George himself would be the first to tell you that it's worth dying for."

      Diane rose as she spoke, Mrs. Eveleth following her example. For a brief instant they stood as if measuring each other's strength, till they started with a simultaneous shock at the sharp call of the telephone from an adjoining room. With a smothered cry Diane sprang to answer it, while Mrs. Eveleth, helpless with dread, remained standing, as though frozen to the spot.

      "Oui—oui—oui," came Diane's voice, speaking eagerly. "Oui, c'est bien Madame George Eveleth. Oui, oui. Non. Je comprends. C'est Monsieur de Melcourt. Oui—oui—Dites-le-moi tout de suite—j'insiste—Oui—oui. Ah-h-h!"

      The last, prolonged, choking exclamation came as the cry of one who sinks, smitten to the heart. Mrs. Eveleth was able to move at last. When she reached the other room, Diane was crouched in a little heap on the floor.

      "He's dead? He's dead?" the mother cried, in frenzied questioning.

      But Diane, with glazed eyes and parted lips, could only nod her head in affirmation.

      II

      During the days immediately following George Eveleth's death the two women who loved him found themselves separated by the very quality of their grief. While Diane's heart was clamorous with remorse, the mother's was poignantly calm. It was generally remarked, in the Franco-American circles where the tragedy was talked of, that Mrs. Eveleth displayed unexpected strength of character. It was a matter of common knowledge that she shrank from none of the terrible details it was necessary to supervise, and that she was capable of giving her attention to her son's practical affairs.

      It was not till a fortnight had passed that the two women came face to face alone. The few occasions on which they had met hitherto had been those of solemn public mourning, when the great questions between them necessarily remained untouched. The desire to keep apart was common to both, for neither was sufficiently mistress of herself to be ready for a meeting.

      The first move came from Diane. During her long, speechless days of self-upbraiding certain thoughts had been slowly forming themselves into resolutions; but it was on impulse rather than reflection that, at last, she summoned up strength to knock at Mrs. Eveleth's door.

      She entered timidly, expecting to find some manifestation of grief similar to her own. She was surprised, therefore, to see her mother-in-law sitting at her desk, with a number of businesslike papers before her. She held a pencil between her fingers, and was evidently in the act of adding up long rows of figures.

      "Oh, come in," she said, briefly, as Diane appeared. "Excuse me a minute. Sit down."

      Diane seated herself by an open window looking out on the garden. It was a hot morning toward the end of June, and from the neighboring streets came the dull rumble of Paris. Beyond the garden, through an opening, she could see a procession of carriages—probably a wedding on its way to Sainte-Clotilde. It was her first realizing glimpse of the outside world since that gray morning when she had driven home alone, and the very fact that it could be pursuing its round indifferent to her calamity impelled her to turn her gaze away.

      It was then that she had time to note the changes wrought in Mrs. Eveleth; and it was like finding winter where she expected no more than the first genial touch of autumn. The softnesses of lingering youth had disappeared, stricken out by the hard, straight lines of gravity. Never having known her mother-in-law as other than a woman of fashion, Diane was awed by this dignified, sorrowing matron, who carried the sword of motherhood in her heart.

      It was a long time before Mrs. Eveleth laid her pencil down and raised her head. For a few minutes neither had the power of words, but it was Diane who spoke at last.

      "I can understand," she faltered, "that you don't want to see me; but I've come to tell you that I'm going away."

      "You're going away? Where?"

      The words were spoken gently and as if in some absence of mind. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Eveleth was scarcely thinking of Diane's words—she was so intent on the poor little, tear-worn face before her. She had always known that Diane's attractions were those of coloring and vivacity, and now that she had lost these she was like an extinguished lamp.

      "I haven't made up my mind yet," Diane replied, "but I want you to know that you'll be freed from my presence."

      "What makes you think I want to be—freed?"

      "You must know that I killed George. You said that night that his blood would be on my head—and it