The door opened. Herbert stood on the threshold beckoning to her. She rose in terror, the child in her arms, and went out to him. In a minute she reappeared in the doorway, her face ashen-white, and called to the little boy. He ran to her, and Roger rose, looking for the hat he had put down on entering. Then French came in, and behind him a lady in black, dishevelled, bathed in tears. The vicar hung back. Roger turned in astonishment. "Mother! You here? Mother!"--he hurried to her--"what's the matter?" She tottered toward him with outstretched hands. "Oh Roger, Roger!" His name died away in a wail as she clasped him. "What is it, mother?" "It's Beatty--my son!--my darling Roger!" She put up her hands piteously, bending his head down to her. "It's a cable from Washington, from that woman, Mrs. Verrier. They did everything, Roger--it was only three days--and hopeless always. Yesterday convulsion came on--and this morning----" Her head dropped against her son's breast as her voice failed her. He put her roughly from him. "What are you talking of, mother! Do you mean that Beatty has been ill?" "She died last night. Roger--my darling son--my poor Roger!" "Died--last night--Beatty?" French in silence handed him the telegram. Roger disengaged himself and walked to the fireplace, standing motionless, with his back to them, for a minute, while they held their breaths. Then he began to grope again for his hat, without a word. "Come home with me, Roger!" implored his mother, pursuing him. "We must bear it--bear it together. You see--she didn't suffer"--she pointed to the message--"the darling!--the darling!" Her voice lost itself in tears. But Roger brushed her away, as though resenting her emotion, and made for the door. French also put out a hand. "Roger, dear, dear old fellow! Stay here with us--with your mother. Where are you going?" Roger looked at his watch unsteadily. "The office will be closed," he said to himself; "but I can put some things together." "Where are you going, Roger?" cried Lady Barnes, pursuing him. Roger faced her. "It's Tuesday. There'll be a White Star boat to-morrow." "But, Roger, what can you do? She's gone, dear--she's gone. And before you can get there--long before--she will be in her grave." A spasm passed over his face, into which the colour rushed. Without another word he wrenched himself from her, opened the front door, and ran out into the night. CHAPTER X "Was there ever anything so poetic, so suggestive?" said a charming voice. "One might make a new Turner out of it--if one just happened to be Turner!--to match 'Rain: Steam, and Speed.'" "What would you call it--'Mist, Light, and Spring'?" Captain Boyson leant forward, partly to watch the wonderful landscape effect through which the train was passing, partly because his young wife's profile, her pure cheek and soft hair, were so agreeably seen under the mingled light from outside.