Her voice was thrilling with its weakness and appeal, but Victor was
furious. He refused to listen. His brow was set and stern.
At last she cried out, poignantly, "They are not here. They have
deserted us. What shall I do?" She turned toward the table. "Rebuild my
altar. You said you would. Restore that and perhaps they will come to us
again. They are angry with me now. They have left me, perhaps forever."
"If 'they' have I shall be glad of it," he returned, brutally. "'They'
have been a curse to you and to me, also. We are better off without
them. Come, let us pack up the few things we have and go away into the
West, where no one will know even so much as our name. That is the only
way left open for us."
"No, no," she cried out, "that is impossible. I must remain here. I must
wait until they come back to me. I can't go now, and you must not desert
me," she ended, and in her voice was something very pitiful.
He moved away from her and took his seat in sullen rage. For a long time
he did not even look at her, though he knew she was waiting and
listening.
At last he rose, and his voice was harsh and hoarse. "Mother, my mind is
made up. There's no use talking against it. I leave this city to-morrow
morning. I shall go as far as my money will carry me. I shall change my
name and get rid of this whole accursed business. I've hated it, I've
hated your 'ghost-room' and your Voices all my life, and this is the end
of it for me. If you will not go with me then I must leave you behind."
She uttered a moaning cry of grief and ran like one stricken into her
room, flinging herself face downward upon her bed. He listened for a few
moments with something tugging at his heart-strings, but his face was
set in unrelenting lines. Then he rose and set to work repacking his
trunk.