One evening two or three days later I returned from the office to gaze up
at my house, to realize suddenly that it would be impossible for me to
live there, in those great, empty rooms, alone; and I told Maude that I
would go to the Club--during her absence. I preferred to keep up the
fiction that her trip would only be temporary. She forbore from
contradicting me, devoting herself efficiently to the task of closing the
house, making it seem, somehow, a rite,--the final rite in her capacity
as housewife. The drawing-room was shrouded, and the library; the books
wrapped neatly in paper; a smell of camphor pervaded the place; the
cheerful schoolroom was dismantled; trunks and travelling bags appeared.
The solemn butler packed my clothes, and I arranged for a room at the
Club in the wing that recently had been added for the accommodation of
bachelors and deserted husbands. One of the ironies of those days was
that the children began to suggest again possibilities of happiness I had
missed--especially Matthew. With all his gentleness, the boy seemed to
have a precocious understanding of the verities, and the capacity for
suffering which as a child I had possessed. But he had more self-control.
Though he looked forward to the prospect of new scenes and experiences
with the anticipation natural to his temperament, I thought he betrayed
at moments a certain intuition as to what was going on.
"When are you coming over, father?" he asked once. "How soon will your
business let you?"
He had been brought up in the belief that my business was a tyrant.
"Oh, soon, Matthew,--sometime soon," I said.
I had a feeling that he understood me, not intellectually, but
emotionally. What a companion he might have been!.... Moreton and Biddy
moved me less. They were more robust, more normal, less introspective and
imaginative; Europe meant nothing to them, but they were frankly
delighted and excited at the prospect of going on the ocean, asking
dozens of questions about the great ship, impatient to embark.....
"I shan't need all that, Hugh," Maude said, when I handed her a letter of
credit. "I--I intend to live quite simply, and my chief expenses will be
the children's education. I am going to give them the best, of course."
"Of course," I replied. "But I want you to live over there as you have
been accustomed to live here. It's not exactly generosity on my part,--I
have enough, and more than enough."
She took the letter.
"Another thing--I'd rather you didn't go to New York with us, Hugh. I
know you are busy--"
"Of course I'm going," I started to protest.
"No," she went on, firmly. "I'd rather you didn't. The hotel people will
put me on the steamer very comfortably,--and there are other reasons why
I do not wish it." I did not insist.... On the afternoon of her
departure, when I came uptown, I found her pinning some roses on her
jacket.
"Perry and Lucia sent them," she informed me. She maintained the
friendly, impersonal manner to the very end; but my soul, as we drove to
the train, was full of un-probed wounds. I had had roses put in her
compartments in the car; Tom and Susan Peters were there with more roses,
and little presents for the children. Their cheerfulness seemed forced,
and I wondered whether they suspected that Maude's absence would be
prolonged.
"Write us often, and tell us all about it, dear," said Susan, as she sat
beside Maude and held her hand; Tom had Biddy on his knee. Maude was
pale, but smiling and composed.
"I hope to get a little villa in France, near the sea," she said. "I'll
send you a photograph of it, Susan."
"And Chickabiddy, when she comes back, will be rattling off French like a
native," exclaimed Tom, giving her a hug.
"I hate French," said Biddy, and she looked at him solemnly. "I wish you
were coming along, Uncle Tom."
Bells resounded through the great station. The porter warned us off. I
kissed the children one by one, scarcely realizing what I was doing. I
kissed Maude. She received my embrace passively.
"Good-bye, Hugh," she said.
I alighted, and stood on the platform as the train pulled out. The
children crowded to the windows, but Maude did not appear.... I found
myself walking with Tom and Susan past hurrying travellers and porters to
the Decatur Street entrance, where my automobile stood waiting.
"I'll take you home, Susan," I said.
"We're ever so much obliged, Hugh," she answered, "but the street-cars go
almost to ferry's door. We're dining there."
Her eyes were filled with tears, and she seemed taller, more ungainly
than ever--older. A sudden impression of her greatness of heart was borne
home to me, and I grasped the value of such rugged friendship as hers--as
Tom's.
"We shouldn't know how to behave in an automobile," he said, as though to
soften her refusal. And I stood watching their receding figures as they
walked out into the street and hailed the huge electric car that came to
a stop beyond them. Above its windows was painted "The Ashuela Traction
Company," a label reminiscent of my professional activities. Then I heard
the chauffeur ask:--"Where do you wish to go, sir?"
"To the Club," I said.
My room was ready, my personal belongings, my clothes had been laid out,
my photographs were on the dressing-table. I took up, mechanically, the
evening newspaper, but I could not read it; I thought of Maude, of the
children, memories flowed in upon me,--a flood not to be dammed....
Presently the club valet knocked at my door. He had a dinner card.
"Will you be dining here, sir?" he inquired.