The Letter of the Contract | Page 8

couldn't get rid of her. I
couldn't shake her off--or pay her off--or do any of the usual things. It
was agreed between us before I married you--long before I married
you--that everything was at an end. But, poor soul, she doesn't know
what an agreement is. There's something lacking in her. She's always
been like a child, and of late years she's been more so. If you knew her
as I do you'd be sorry for her."
"Oh, I am sorry for her. Her whole mind is ravaged by suffering."
"I know it's my fault; but it isn't wholly or even chiefly my fault. A
woman like that has no right to suffer. She lost the privilege of
suffering when she became what she is. At any rate, she has no right to
haunt like a shadow the man who's befriended her--"
"But, I presume, she's befriended him. And--and continues to befriend
him--since that's the word."
He avoided her eyes, looking up the street and whistling tunelessly
beneath his breath.
"I said--continues to befriend him," she repeated.
The tuneless whistling went on. She allowed him time to get the full
effect of her meaning. As far as she could see her way, her line of
action depended on his response. When he dodged the question she
knew what she would have to do.
"Look here, Edith," he said, at last, "the long and short of it is this.
She's on my hands--and I can't abandon her. I must see that she's
provided for, at the very least. Hang it all, she's--she's attached to me;
has been attached to me for more than ten years. I can't ignore that;
now, can I? And she's helpless. How can I desert her? I can't do it, any
more than I could desert a poor old faithful dog--or a baby. Can I,
now?"

"No; I dare say not."
"But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll undertake never to see her again--of
my own free will. I'll give you my word of honor--"
She shook her head. "Oh, I'm not asking for that."
"Then what do you ask for? Just tell me, and whatever it is--"
"It's that, since you can't abandon her, you abandon me."
"What?"
She repeated the words more firmly.
"Never."
"Then I'm afraid it will be for me to abandon you." She gave him a
little nod. "Good-by."
She had turned and taken a step or two along the pavement before his
astonishment allowed him to overtake her.
"Edith, for God's sake, what do you mean? You're not crazy, are you?"
"Quite possibly I am; I can't tell yet. Or perhaps I can tell. It's like this,"
she went on, after an instant's thinking. "A half-hour ago, while I was
talking to that--that poor creature--before you came up--I was quite
aware of being like a woman with a dose of cyanide of potassium in her
hand, and doubting whether or not to take it. Well, I took it. I took it
and I--died. That is, the Edith who was your wife--died. What survives
of her personality is something else. I don't know what it is yet--it's too
soon to say--but it isn't your wife.... It's--it's something like that."
"Oh, don't!" he groaned. "Don't talk that way. Come in. You can't stay
out here."
She looked over at the house again. He thought she shuddered. "I can't
stay out here; but I don't have to go in--there."

"What do you mean? Where are you going?"
"Just now I'm going to Aunt Emily's."
"Very well. I'll send a carriage for you after dinner--if you stay so late."
"No; don't do that."
"Do you mean--?"
"I mean that I may stay there for two or three days--perhaps longer.
After that I'll--I'll see."
"You'll see--what?"
"Where to go next."
"Oh, come, Edie, let's talk sense. You know I can't allow that."
She smiled again, with that queer, forlorn smile that seemed to stab him.
"I'm afraid the authority is out of your hands--now."
He let that pass.
"Even so, there are the children. Think of them."
"I am thinking of them--which is why I must hurry away. They'll be
here in a minute; and I--I can't see them yet. I shouldn't be able to bear
it."
"And do you think you'll be able to bear our being separated for two or
three days, when you know I adore you? Why, you'll break down within
an hour."
"That's just it. That's why I must hurry. I shall break down within half
an hour. You don't suppose I can go on like this? I'm almost breaking
down now. I must get to Aunt Emily's before--"
She was interrupted by a cry: "Hello, papa!"

Up the pathway leading from the Zoo a little white-suited man of five
came prancing