When I heard him drive away from the house, I went upstairs and began
to pack my trunk. The sooner I could get out of Lamoral, the better
for all concerned, Mr. Ewart included. Did he think for one moment
that I would consent to being loved for my mother's sake? Did he think
to make good, through me, the loss of the woman he loved? How had he
dared, knowing, yes, _knowing_ all, to love me for that other who never
loved him! Why did he try to force his love upon her and, by changing
the very channels of nature, bring all this devastation of misery upon
my life? Why, why?
I packed rapidly. There was not so much to take with me. Then I went
through the rooms one after another: the living-room--the office. I
looked at the Meryon etchings--the Pont Neuf and Ste. Etienne--on its
walls. Upstairs, too, I went; into Jamie's room, into Mrs. Macleod's,
then to Mr. Ewart's. I stopped short on the threshold.
"Why am I going in here?" I asked myself. "What am I doing here?" I
stepped in; looked about at my own handiwork--then at the bed. I
crossed quickly to it and laid my cheek down upon his pillow. It was
only for a moment. I heard wheels on the driveway. Cale was returning.
"I am ready, Cale. You can take us over with the trunk in the light
wagon; little Pete can go with us."
The look he gave me was pitiful, but it made no appeal to me.
"You will have to wait good forty minutes if you go now."
"I don't mind it. _You_ need not wait. I would rather not say goodby."
"Where are you goin', Marcia?"
"Don't ask me that, Cale; I don't want to lie to you. I shall send my
trunk to Spencerville. This is all I will say."
"What must I tell George?"
For a moment I failed to comprehend that he meant Mr. Ewart.
"Tell him what you please."
I set some supper on the kitchen table for him and little Pete, against
their return.
Cale reharnessed and brought the wagon to the side door.
We drove those nine miles in silence, except for little Pete who asked
several pertinent questions as to the reason of my going. In passing
through Richelieu-en-Bas, I looked for the apple-boat. It was still
there. Little Pete begged Cale to stop to see it on their way home.
"Not to-night, sonny, it 'll be dark," he said sternly; "we 'll try it
another day." I thought the small boy was ready to cry at his friend's
abrupt refusal.
Cale left me at the junction, after he had seen me buy a ticket for
Spencerville, and the trunk was checked to that place.
He put out his hand. "Marcia, I can't defend myself; all you say is
true--but I think you will come to see different, sometime. We 're all
human an' liable to make mistakes, big ones, an' I can't see as you 're
an exception."
The simple dignity of this speech impressed me even in those
circumstances. I put my hand in his.
"'Sometime', Cale? It has always been 'sometime' with me. It is going
to be 'never again' now; no more mistakes on my part."
"You _will_ write me a word--sometime, won't you, Marcia?"
"I won't promise, Cale. I want to be alone. After all, I am only
going away from here as I came--to find work and a livelihood. Goodby."
I think he understood. He did not bid me goodby, but went away down
the platform, walking slowly, stooping a little, his head drooping, as
if all courage had failed him. And my heart was hardened.