“I will tell her,” answered the doctor firmly, “and to-night.”

CHAPTER XI

MORTON COBDENS DAUGHTER

The cold wind from the sea freighted with the raw mist churned by the breakers cut sharply against Doctor John’s cheeks as he sprang into his gig and dashed out of his gate toward Yardley.  Under the shadow of the sombre pines, along the ribbon of a road, dull gray in the light of the stars, and out on the broader highway leading to Warehold, the sharp click of the mare’s hoofs striking the hard road echoed through the night.  The neighbors recognized the tread and the speed, and Uncle Ephraim threw up a window to know whether it was a case of life or death, an accident, or both; but the doctor only nodded and sped on.  It was life and death—­life for the woman he loved, death for all who traduced her.  The strange news that had dropped from the captain’s lips did not affect him except as would the ending of any young life; neither was there any bitterness in his heart against the dead boy who had wrecked Lucy’s career and brought Jane humiliation and despair.  All he thought of was the injustice of Jane’s sufferings.  Added to this was an overpowering desire to reach her side before her misery should continue another moment; to fold her in his arms, stand between her and the world; help her to grapple with the horror which was slowly crushing out her life.  That it was past her hour for retiring, and that there might be no one to answer his summons, made no difference to him.  He must see her at all hazards before he closed his eyes.

As he whirled into the open gates of Yardley and peered from under the hood of the gig at the outlines of the old house, looming dimly through the avenue of bushes, he saw that the occupants were asleep; no lights shone from the upper windows and none burned in the hall below.  This discovery checked to some extent the impetus with which he had flung himself into the night, his whole being absorbed and dominated by one idea.  The cool wind, too, had begun to tell upon his nerves.  He drew rein on the mare and stopped.  For the first time since the captain’s story had reached his ears his reason began to work.  He was never an impetuous man; always a thoughtful and methodical one, and always overparticular in respecting the courtesies of life.  He began suddenly to realize that this midnight visit was at variance with every act of his life.  Then his better judgment became aroused.  Was it right for him to wake Jane and disturb the house at this hour, causing her, perhaps, a sleepless night, or should he wait until the morning, when he could break the news to her in a more gentle and less sensational way?

While he sat thus wondering, undetermined whether to drive lightly out of the gate again or to push forward in the hope that someone would be awake, his mind unconsciously reverted to the figure of Jane making her way with weary steps down the gangplank of the steamer, the two years of her suffering deep cut into every line of her face.  He recalled the shock her appearance had given him, and his perplexity over the cause.  He remembered her refusal to give him her promise, her begging him to wait, her unaccountable moods since her return.