Mrs. Bruce did not sleep much after her stormy ebullition. She heard Irving and Robert come in, and knew that Irving came softly to her door and tried it. Finding it locked, he moved away as quietly. She knew he was feeling a tardy anxiety about her, and she wept again.

Toward morning she fell asleep, and when next her eyes opened, the sun was high.

Only the slumberous sound of the sea broke the Sabbath stillness.

From force of habit Mrs. Bruce put her hand out to touch the bell on the table beside her bed. It always summoned Betsy with the cup of hot water she liked to drink before she rose.

She arrested her own movement. What! Was Betsy to be allowed to fall into the usual routine and minister to her mistress’s needs as if nothing had happened?

Summon her? Certainly not. Betsy must be made to feel that a change had taken place, and that she must exhibit some regret before she could be received back into favor.

So Mrs. Bruce arose and made her toilet, and donning a negligÉe of silk and lace, proceeded to the dining-room.

Irving and Robert were already there, and Alice, the cook, was putting breakfast on the table. Irving strode forward to meet her. He noted her heavy eyes as he kissed her forehead.

“Pardon, Madama, I thought you weren’t coming down. Nixie and I are in a hurry, and as long as Betsy was busy with you, I asked Alice to put the things on the table.”

Mrs. Bruce moved to her place. “Betsy hasn’t been with me,” she said.

“She hasn’t? The poor dear must be ill then,” said Irving with concern. “Alice says she hasn’t been downstairs. Go up, will you,” he continued to the cook who was just leaving the room, “please go up to Betsy’s room and see what is the matter.”

The three seated themselves, and Mrs. Bruce’s dainty hands grew busy with the coffee percolator. Irving’s furtive glances assured him that there had been a storm. Discretion suggested that no reference be made to last evening. Fearing therefore that Nixie might err in that line, he hastened to speak.

“We’ve a great plan on for to-day, Madama,” he began, “and you’re in it.”

“That is certainly surprising,” rejoined the lady.

“We tried to find you at the inn to tell you about it last night,” said Nixie with insistent cheer, “but you were so exclusive, nobody knew where you were, and at last we found you had come home.”

Mrs. Bruce’s lips compressed firmly and her eyes could not lift above the percolator.

Irving stepped warningly on his friend’s foot under the table. At this juncture Alice returned. She seemed to be laboring under some excitement which made her forget her previous embarrassment in the unfamiliar region of the dining-room.

“Betsy isn’t there,” she said.

“Queer,” remarked Irving, without looking up from the egg he was breaking.

“She’s gone!” declared the girl.

“Look on the dresser!” burst forth Robert dramatically. “The note will be found.”

Mrs. Bruce paused, coffee-cup in hand, and looked at the cook, but did not speak.

“All right, Alice,” said Irving carelessly. “She has run into a neighbor’s.”

“No, sir, it looks queer up there,” returned the girl, her brogue increasing. “The bedclothes is all folded. Not a thing is on the dresser, sir. She’s gone.”

Alice’s blank expression began to be reflected in Irving’s face.

“Folded? What does that signify?” he asked.

“’Tis her trunk there too, sir. Locked and strapped it is. Sure she niver said a word to me!”

Irving pushed his chair back from the table. He looked at Mrs. Bruce. She had grown very white.

“Very well, Alice,” he said quietly. “I’ll see what it means. Thank you. You may go.”

The Irish girl withdrew, marvelling as she went.

Robert looked from mother to son, puzzled at their seriousness.

“Did you know this, Madama?”

“Certainly not,” she replied stiffly.

“Do you believe it?”

“I don’t know what to think. Betsy grows more erratic every day. She didn’t bring my hot water this morning.”

Irving studied her face an instant more, then he left the room and ran upstairs to Betsy’s room. It was dismantled. The dresser, where a flexible case had always stood open, containing six pictures of himself from babyhood to college days, was bare, even of a cover. A trunk, locked and strapped, stood a little way out from the bare wall.

Irving sat down on it in the desolate chamber, unnerved by the shock; and although the riddle seemed a horribly easy one to solve, the solution was so repulsive that he prayed to find another explanation.

Mrs. Bruce’s early disappearance from the inn, her heavy eyes this morning, Betsy’s warnings and exhortations to him in the Park, and Mrs. Bruce’s exhibition of unfriendliness to Rosalie last night, all pointed to one conclusion. His teeth clenched as he sat there, thinking back from his earliest remembrance, and all along through his life, of the unselfish care which a fine nature had devoted to his family. And this was the end. It was a nightmare. It was impossible, unthinkable.

Robert Nixon, left alone with his hostess, had seldom spent a more uncomfortable season than that first five minutes after Irving’s departure.

Mrs. Bruce stared straight before her, her face wearing an expression of fright and obstinacy.

Robert, with increasing embarrassment, began to feel that he was in the midst of some mysterious crisis, and fervently wished himself in the bosom of his family at the inn.

“I’m sorry to see you look so tired, Mrs. Bruce,” he said, when the long minutes had made the silence impossible.

“Shouldn’t you think he’d come down by this time?” she asked in a strained voice. “You see how it is, Nixie. Betsy rules this household with a rod of iron. Here is Irving upset, won’t eat his breakfast, just because she has taken a notion for an early stroll.”

Robert did not answer, and a cuckoo popping out of its door and remarking that it was half-past nine, made him jump nervously.

An instant later Mrs. Bruce pushed her chair back from the table, unable longer to endure the suspense.

“You’ll excuse me, Nixie, if I see—” she said, and rose. The laces of her silken gown trailed so hurriedly through the door, that Robert had time but to take a step after her.

He sank back in his chair.

“Well, what does it all mean?” he murmured. “This is a cozy little vacation breakfast!”

Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth as she mounted the stairs.

“Whatever has happened,” she thought, “I shall hold my own. What I said to Betsy was nothing but the truth. Irving will cross-question me, but I don’t care—”

Her excitement was at fever-heat by the time she reached the open door of Betsy’s room.

She paused there and supported herself against the jamb. What she saw acted like a shower-bath upon her.

The familiar walls were stripped, the breeze blew through the silent, empty room, and there, seated on the trunk, was Irving, his face buried in his hands, his broad shoulders convulsed.

The only time she had ever seen him weep was when his father died. This room, too, seemed like the chamber of death.

“Irving!” she cried out in sudden pain, and ran to him.

He put out one hand and held her off. She pressed her own lips with her fingers to hold their quivering, and stared at him, miserably.

He rose from the trunk, walked over to the window, and stood there with his back to her, controlling himself and wiping his eyes.

Betsy’s words seemed to echo in her heart as she stood, hesitating and wretched.

“Of the unspoken word you are master. The spoken word is master of you.”

Her breath came fast. “Why has she done this, Irving?” she asked unsteadily.

“That is for you to tell,—if you will,” he answered. His voice was low and thick.

She drew a long sobbing breath. He had pushed her away. He had shrunk from her.

“You blame me, do you, before you have heard a word?” she asked.

“Let’s not have any nonsense, or justification,” he answered, without turning. “Something has occurred which I would have given ten years of my life to prevent.”

The iron entered his listener’s soul. All her body trembled. She did not know that at this very moment he was fighting for her against his own heart; forcing himself to remember her love for him, and the long years of her devotion. A petty, petted woman, he reminded himself, whose shallows he had perceived even as a child; and he controlled the anger against her which filled him; setting a guard upon the tongue that longed to lash her until her pitiful vanity should be dead beyond recall. She stood there, mute, and he continued to stand with his back to her.

“You left the inn last night, in anger,” he said at last.

“Hurt! So hurt, Irving,” she cried.

“You came home and wreaked your ill-temper on Betsy—Betsy, whose little finger is of more worth than your whole body and mine.”

Mrs. Bruce panted and flushed. “I did talk to her of her ill judgment—you don’t know, Irving—what do you think of her spending her savings of years on Rosalie Vincent?”

“She didn’t.”

“Why, of course she did. Who else paid the hundreds of dollars which brought her here and equipped her?”

“An old friend of her father’s family. Betsy had no need to spend a cent for her, although she would have asked nothing better, I have no doubt; because her life has been spent in doing for others. She knew that Rosalie would not accept such gifts from her, because that girl is a kindred noble soul.”

Mrs. Bruce took a step backward in this destruction of the very foundation of her defense.

“I don’t ask to know all the pitiful scene that took place. This,” Irving indicated the desolation of the room with a wave of his hand, “this speaks. Betsy has gone—”

“She did it in revenge,” cried Mrs. Bruce. “She knew how it would make you suffer. She wanted to punish me.”

“Alas!” said Irving, “I know Betsy. She has been driven out of my father’s house—my house—without first talking to me; without putting her good arms around my neck—” The speaker’s voice stopped short; his shoulders were again convulsed.

Mrs. Bruce stood in the same spot, watching him with miserable eyes, wringing her hands.

“Don’t—don’t say such things, Irving. Don’t feel so. I’ll—I’ll do anything. I’ll find her and—and apologize—I was mistaken—I’ll say so.”

Irving made a gesture of repression. She gazed at him, mute and miserable.

At last he turned and faced her. She was a figure to excite compassion in that moment, as she met the regard of his reddened eyes.

“It is too late for that, Madama. The break has come. It can’t be mended. Betsy would never go in this way if there were a possibility of her coming back.”

A sense of her own loss came to Mrs. Bruce with the kinder tone of Irving’s voice.

“I wish to speak to you also of another matter; of the cause of your excitement last night, before we part.”

“Part!” she repeated acutely.

“I mean only leaving this room. I wish for your own sake that you may regret the unwomanliness of your attitude toward Miss Vincent—Rosalie.”

Mrs. Bruce lifted questioning, dilated eyes.

“To think that it was she—that innocent girl, who could move you to cause this disaster. Examine your own consciousness. See what it is that could give the Powers of Darkness such easy access and sway.”

“I was jealous, Irving—jealous of Mrs. Nixon—”

“And angry because you could not dominate the situation,” added Irving.

A painful color burned Mrs. Bruce’s face.

“I’m going to tell you,” he went on after a pause, “that no girl I have ever met has attracted me as Rosalie Vincent does.”

“Irving!”

“I’ve known many charming girls. They are all in one class. She is in another. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what it may mean. I tell you this because it may mean everything to me; and I feel it is due you to know it, since your sentiment toward Rosalie seems so strong. Then you can decide what your attitude will be for the remainder of the summer.”

Mrs. Bruce regarded him, her lips apart.

After a pause he spoke in his ordinary voice.

“We planned last evening that the Yellowstone party should go on a picnic to-day with Captain Salter. Do you care to go?”

She shook her head.

“Nor I. I would give a great deal to have this day, alone.” Again his throat closed.

“To mourn! to mourn!” thought Mrs. Bruce, wretchedly.

“But I can’t. I must go at once to see the captain, and then up to the inn. Good-by, Madama.” He approached and laid a hand on her shoulder. He realized the blow he had given her. “We must do the best we can,” he said, and left the room.

She stood there, long, in the same position.

“I wonder,” she thought confusedly, “if I am not the most miserable woman in the world.”

After a while she moved, and spoke through a tube which led to the kitchen. She told Alice that she would not need to get any dinner. Then she went to her room and closed the door. Stillness reigned again but for the subdued roar of waves.

“Some one will come for her trunk,” she reflected. “If she took a morning train it will have to be expressed.”

She held to that thought in the long hours of exhaustion that followed. Some one would come for the trunk, and she must not be asleep.

The middle of the afternoon a wagon stopped before the house. Mrs. Bruce was off her bed, alertly.

The feet of the expressman sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Bruce met him in the upper hall. To her relief it was a stranger who appeared.

“A trunk to go from here?” he said.

“Yes.” She led the way. “Is it prepaid?” she asked as he laid hands upon it.

“No.”

“Sha’n’t I do it then? Where is it to go?” The speaker’s heart beat fast under the careless words.

“No, ma’am. No need. Cap’n Salter’s good.”

“Captain—” She arrested herself. “Oh, it’s to go to the captain’s.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bruce returned to her room and sat on the side of the bed in deep meditation. Betsy might store her possessions in the house of an old friend until her plans were made.

The sense of desolation that overtook her as the trunk had disappeared submerged her afresh; and Irving’s words returned to pierce her.

Rosalie Vincent—in a class by herself. Her splendid Irving, whose career was to have made her life one pageant of gratified pride.

She sank upon her pillows with a groan. Her world was falling about her like a flimsy house of cards.

In the evening she heard him come in. He had to pass her room to get to his. She stood in the open doorway.

“Did you enjoy your picnic, dear?” she asked, as he appeared.

“We didn’t have any. I found Captain Salter’s house deserted, and his boat gone. I’ve been taking a long walk.”

“Indeed! I thought perhaps you would find—find Betsy at Captain Salter’s.”

“Why?” the question was quick.

“Her trunk went there this afternoon.”

“Madama!”

Mrs. Bruce felt a faint satisfaction in the amazement her information conveyed.

“I wonder—” said Irving; and repeated vaguely, “I wonder.”

“I thought she might be storing it there,” hazarded Mrs. Bruce meekly.

Irving stood, thinking, for a minute, but to her disappointment he made no reply.

“Good-night,” he said, and kissed her forehead as he had always done.

He went on to his room, his thoughts busy.

The house was deserted. The boat was gone. That was what she had done, then.

“Betsy! Dear Betsy!” he murmured.

He looked at his watch, then took a sudden determination.

Like a thief he stole downstairs without a sound, and out of doors.

Then he started on a slow, steady run down the village street. It was not a long pull to the isolated cottage among the rocks, and when he came in sight of it he was rewarded by seeing a light in the windows.

Stealthily drawing near, he peered within. There he could see a cheerful tea-table, and Captain Salter and Betsy eating their late supper.

A lump rose in his throat. The trunk still stood on the piazza, and he passed it, to open the door gently. Smiling and dim-eyed he stood before the pair, who pushed their chairs back from the table.

“Well, Irving!” cried the captain’s big voice.

He extended a welcoming hand, but the visitor did not see it. He had fallen on his knees beside the bride’s chair, and buried his face in her lap.

She put both arms around his shoulders as she had done a hundred times to console some childish grief, and sudden tears rained from the eyes she raised to her husband.

The captain rose, and walked over to the window.

Irving lifted his cheek to Betsy’s breast.

“Mr. Irving, dear,” she said brokenly, “you know—”

“Yes. Don’t explain. Don’t speak. I know. But I remember, Betsy. I remember so much, that I couldn’t stay away. My mother and you, Betsy. My mother and you.—So much.—So much that I can’t say—But my heart is full of it—and I wanted to kiss you—to kiss you before I went to sleep.”

“Darling boy! Darling child!” said Betsy, and pressed her cheek against his hair.

Then she kissed him tenderly, and he her, and he rose, and with a parting caress of his hand upon hers, crossed to the bridegroom, quietly blowing his nose by the window.

“Congratulations,” he said thickly.

The captain seized his offered hand speechlessly, and a mighty mutual grip ensued.

Then Irving slipped out of the open door, closed it softly behind him, and ran down the garden’s perfumed path.