Part 71 (1/2)

”Was the town quiet when you were out for the bacon, Nancy?” she said.

”Quiet enough,” said Nancy. ”Everybody flying off Le-zayre way already--except what were making for the quay.”

”Is the steamer sailing to-night, then?''

”Yes, the _Peveril_; but not water enough to float her till half-past seven, they were saying. Here's the lil one's nightdress, and here's her binder, bless her--just big enough for a bandage for a person's wrist if she sprained it churning.”

”Lay them on the fender to air, Nancy--I'll not undress baby yet awhile.

And see--it's nearly seven.”

”I'll be pinning my shawl on and away like the wind,” said Nancy. ”The bogh!” she said, with the pin between her teeth. ”She's off again. Do you really think, now, the angels in heaven are as sweet and innocent, Kirry? I don't. They can't if they're grown up. And having to climb Jacob's ladder, poor things, they must be. Then, if they're men--but that's ridiculous, anyway.”

”The clock is striking, Nancy. No use going when everything's over,”

said Kate, and the foot with which she rocked the child went faster now that the little one was asleep.

”Sakes alive! Let me tie the strings of my bonnet, woman. Pity you can't come yourself, Kitty. But if they're worth their salt they'll be whipping round this way and giving you a lil tune, anyway.”

”Have you got the key, Nancy?”

”Yes, and I'll be back in an hour. And mind you put baby to bed soon, and mind you--and mind you----”

With as many warnings as if she had been mistress and Kate the servant, Nancy backed herself out of the house. It was now dark outside.

Kate rose immediately, put the child in the cradle, and began to lay the table for Pete's supper--the cruet, the plates, the teapot on the hob to warm, and then--by force of habit--two cups and saucers. But sight of the cups awakened her to painful consciousness. She put one of them back in the cupboard, broke the coal on the fire, settled the kettle up to the blaze, fixed the Dutch oven with three rashers of bacon before the bars, then lit a candle, and, with a nervous look around, turned to go upstairs.

In the bedroom she drew on her cloak, pinned her hat and veil with trembling fingers, then took her purse from her pocket and emptied its contents onto the dressing-table.

”Not mine,” she thought. And standing before the mirror at that moment, she caught sight of her earrings. ”I must take nothing of his,” she told herself, and she raised her hands to her ears. Then her heart smote her.

”As if Pete would ever think of such things,” she thought. ”No, not if I took everything he has in the world. And must _I_ be thinking of them?... Yet I cannot--I will not take them with me.”

She opened a drawer and hurried everything into it--the money, the earrings, the keeper off her finger, and then she paused at the touch of the wedding-ring. A superst.i.tious instinct restrained her. Yet the ring was the badge of her broken covenant. ”With this ring I thee wed----”

She tore off the wedding-ring also, and cast it with the rest.

”He will find them,” she thought. ”There will be nothing else to tell him what has happened. He will come, and I shall be gone. He will call, and there will be no answer. He will look for me, and I shall be lost to him for ever. Not a word left behind. Not a line to say, 'Thank you and good-bye and G.o.d bless you, dear Pete, for all your love and goodness to rae.”'

It was cruel--very cruel--yet what could she write? What could she say that had not better be left unsaid? The least syllable--no, the uncertainty would be kinder. Perhaps Pete would think she was dead--perhaps that she had destroyed herself. Even that would not be so bitter as the truth. He would get over it--he would become reconciled.

”No,” she thought, ”I can write nothing--I can leave no message.”

She shut the drawer quickly, and picked up the candle. As she did so, the shadow of herself moved about her. It mounted from the floor to the wall, from the wall to the ceiling. When she walked it seemed to be on top of her, hanging over her, pressing down on her, crus.h.i.+ng her. She grew cold and sick, and hastened to the door. The room was full of other shadows--the memories of sleepless nights and of painful awakenings.

These stared at her from every familiar thing--the watch ticking in its stand on the mantelpiece, the handle of the wardrobe, the pink curtains of the bed, the white pillow beneath them. She felt like a frightened child. With a terrified glance over her shoulder she crept out of the room.

Being downstairs again, she breathed more freely. There was light all about her, and the hall-parlour was bright and warm. The kettle was now singing in the cheerful blaze, the cat was purring on the rug, and there was a smell of bacon slowly frying. She looked at the clock--it was a quarter after seven. ”Time to waken baby,” she thought.

She took from a chest the child's outdoor clothes--a robe, a pelisse, and a white hood. Her fingers had touched a scarlet hood in a cardboard box, but ”not that” she thought, and left it. She spread the clothes about her chair, and then lifted the little one from the cradle to her pillowing arm. The child awoke as she raised it, and made a fretful cry, which she smothered in a gurgling kiss.

”I can love the darling without shame now,” she thought. ”It's sweet face will reproach me no more.”

With soft cooings at the baby's cheek, she was stooping to take the robe that lay at her feet, when her eyes fell on the round place in the cradle where the child had been. That made her think again of Pete. He would come home and find the little nest cold and empty. It would kill him; it would be a second bereavement. Was it not enough that she should go away herself? Must she rob him of the child as well? He loved it; he doted on it. It was the light of his eyes, the joy of his life. To lose it would be a blow like the blow of death.

Yet could a mother leave her child behind her? Impossible! The full tide of motherhood came over her, and its tender selfishness swept down everything. ”I cannot,” she thought; ”come what may, I cannot and I will not leave her.” And then she reached her hand for the child's pelisse.