The Inner Shrine | Page 5

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?"