"I would that I were low laid in my grave."
She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix's departure,
when the door opens once again to admit her husband. His hands are full
of papers.
"Are you at liberty?" says he. "Have you a moment? These," pointing to
the papers, "want signing. Can you give your attention to them now?"
"What are they?" asks she, rising.
"Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified." His tone is bitter.
"There are certain matters that must be arranged before my
departure--matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here,"
laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. "You sign
your name here."
"But," recoiling, "what is it? What does it all mean?"
"It is not your death warrant, I assure you," says he, with a sneer.
"Come, sign!" Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who
shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst
of anger?
"Do you want your son to live and die a poor man?" says he. "Come! there
is yourself to be considered, too! Once I am out of your way, you will
be able to begin life again with a light heart; and this," tapping the
paper heavily, "will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boy
everything--at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live."
"It should be the other way," says she. "Take everything, and leave us
enough on which to live."
"Why?" says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles
remorse striking him.
"We--shall have each other," says she, faintly.
"Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and
husband. Well, you will be the happier so," rejoins he with a laugh that
hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. "'Two is
company,' you know, according to the good old proverb, 'three trumpery.'
You and he will get on very well without me, no doubt."
"It is your arrangement," says she.
"If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so," rejoins
he. "It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time." He hands her
the pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it.
"You will at least tell me where you are going?" says she.
"Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but that
is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not
reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the
North Pole; it is as likely a destination as another."
"But not to know!" says she, lifting her dark eyes to his--dark eyes
that seem to glow like fire in her white face. "That would be terrible.
It is unfair. You should think--think--" Her voice grows husky and
uncertain. She stops abruptly.
"Don't be uneasy about that," says he. "I shall take care that my death,
when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind
shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage.
The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger."
She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns away.
"Insult me to the last if you will!" she says; "but consider your son.
He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is
impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me."
"It appears you can be unjust to the last," says he, flinging her own
accusation back at her. "Have I put you out of my life?"
"Ah! was I ever in it?" says she. "But--you will write?"
"No. Not a line. Once for all I break with you. Should my death occur
you will hear of it. And I have arranged so, that now and after that
event you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That is
all you can possibly require of me. Even if you marry again your
jointure will be secured to you."
"Baltimore!" exclaims she, turning upon him passionately. She seems to
struggle with herself for words. "Has marriage proved so sweet a thing?"
cries she presently, "that I should care to try it again? There! Go! I
shall sign none of these things." She makes a disdainful gesture towards
the loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away.
"You have your son to consider."
"Your son will inherit the title and the property without those papers."
"There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand."
"Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing."
"In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles of
the meaner kinds after my departure. The child cannot inherit until
after my death and----"
"I don't care," says she, sullenly. "Go, if you will. I refuse to
benefit by it."
"What a stubborn woman you are," cries he, in great wrath. "You have for
years declined to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by your
manner almost commanded my absence from your side; yet now when I bring
you the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me,
you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire to
keep me near you for the purposes of torture? It is too late for that.
You have gone a trifle too far. The hope you have so clearly expressed
in many ways that time would take me out of your path is at last about
to be fulfilled."
"I have had no such hope."
"No! You can look me in the face and say that! Saintly lips never lie,
however, do they? Well, I'm sick of this life; you are not. I have borne
a good deal from you, as I told you before. I'll bear no more. I give
in. Fate has been too strong for me."
"You have created your own fate."
"You are my fate! You are inexorable! There is no reason why I should
stay."
Here the sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can be heard
outside the door, and a merry little shout of laughter. The door is
suddenly burst open in rather unconventional style, and Bertie rushes
into the room, a fox terrier at his heels. The dog is evidently quite as
much up to the game as the boy, and both race tempestuously up the room
and precipitate themselves against Lady Baltimore's skirts. Round and
round her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting away from his
mother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after him.
There isn't so much scope for talent in a pair of trousers as in a mass
of dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himself
down upon the ground, and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joust
is virtually at an end.
Lady Baltimore, who has stood immoveable during the attack upon her,
always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now points
to the stricken child lying panting, laughing, and playing with the dog
at his father's feet.
"There is a reason!" says she, almost inaudibly.
Baltimore shakes his head. "I have thought all that out. It is not
enough," says he.
"Bertie!" says his mother, turning to the child. "Do you know this, that
your father is going to leave you?"
"Going?" says the boy vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment and
glancing upward. "Where?"
"Away. Forever."
"Where?" says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looks
anxiously at his father; then he smiles and flings himself into his
arms. "Oh, no!" says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way.
"Forever! Forever!" repeals Isabel in a curious monotone.
"Take me up," says the child, tugging at his father's arms. "What does
mamma mean? Where are you going?"
"To America, to shoot bears," returns Baltimore with an embarrassed
laugh. How near to tears it is.
"Real live bears?"
"Yes."
"Take me with you"? says the child, excitedly.
"And leave mamma?"
"Oh, she'll come, too," says Bertie, confidently. "She'll come where I
go." Where he would go--the child! But would she go where the father
went? Baltimore's brow darkens.
"I am afraid it is out of the question," he says, putting Bertie back
again upon the carpet where the fox terrier is barking furiously and
jumping up and down in a frenzied fashion as if desirous of devouring
the child's legs. "The bears might eat you. When you are big and
strong----"
"You will come back for me?" cries Bertie, eagerly.
"Perhaps."
"He will not," breaks in Lady Baltimore violently. "He will come back no
more. When he goes you will never see him again. He has said so. He is
going forever!" These last two terrible words seem to have sunk into
her soul. She cannot cease from repeating them.
"Let the boy alone," says Baltimore angrily.
The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled,
expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Childhood can grasp a great deal, but
not all. The more unhappy the childhood, the more it can understand of
the sudden and larger ways of life. But children delicately brought up
and clothed in love from their cradle find it hard to realize that an
end to their happiness can ever come.
"Tell me, papa!" says he at last in a vague, sweet little way.
"What is there to tell?" replies his father with a most meagre laugh,
"except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hour
ago. Perhaps he hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him for
one----"
"I'll find him," cries Bertie brightly, forgetting everything but the
present moment. "Come, Trixy, come," to his dog, "you shall have some,
too."
"You see there' won't be much trouble with him," says Baltimore, when
the boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. "It will take him
a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't
sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and
tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them
over."
He walks quickly down the room, opens the door, and closes it after him.