The Letter of the Contract | Page 8

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 and screaming, followed by another of three doing the same. The French governess marched primly and sedately behind them.
"You see?" Edith said, quickly. "I must go. I can't see them to-night--or speak to them--or kiss them--or hear them say their prayers--or anything. You wouldn't understand; but--but I couldn't bear it. You must tell them I've gone to spend a few nights with Aunt Emily, as I did when she was ill. You must say that to the servants, too. Tell Jenny she needn't send me anything--yet. I have some things there--that I left the last time--"
"Oh, you're not going to stay all night," he groaned. "You'll come back."
"Very well. If I come back--I come back. It will be so much the better or so much the worse, as the case may be. If I come back, it will be because I accept the compromise you make between me and--and your other--"
He broke in hastily. "It's not a compromise--and there's no 'other.' If you could see how far from vital the whole thing is, from a man's point of view--"
"Unfortunately, I'm only a woman, and can see it only from a woman's point of view. So that, if I don't come back, it will be because--because--the Edith who was your wife is dead beyond resurrection."
"But she isn't!"
"Perhaps not. We must see. I shall know better when I've--I've been