"Of course you will," returned Poindexter, pleasantly; "only, as it's a big contract to take, suppose we see how you can fill it.
It's forty miles to Los Cuervos, and you can't trust yourself to steamboat or stage-coach.The steamboat left an hour ago.""If I had only known this then!" ejaculated Mrs.Tucker.
"I knew it, but you had company then," said Poindexter, with ironical gallantry, "and I wouldn't disturb you." Without saying how he knew it, he continued, "In the stage-coach you might be recognized.You must go in a private conveyance and alone; even Ican not go with you, for I must go on before and meet you there.
Can you drive forty miles?"
Mrs.Tucker lifted up her abstracted pretty lids."I once drove fifty--at home," she returned simply.
"Good! and I dare say you did it then for fun.Do it now for something real and personal, as we lawyers say.You will have relays and a plan of the road.It's rough weather for a pasear, but all the better for that.You'll have less company on the road.""How soon can I go?" she asked.
"The sooner the better.I've arranged everything for you already,"he continued with a laugh."Come now, that's a compliment to you, isn't it?" He smiled a moment in her steadfast, earnest face, and then said, more gravely, "You'll do.Now listen."He then carefully detailed his plan.There was so little of excitement or mystery in their manner that the servant, who returned to light the gas, never knew that the ruin and bankruptcy of the house was being told before her, or that its mistress was planning her secret flight.
"Good afternoon; I will see you to-morrow then," said Poindexter, raising his eyes to hers as the servant opened the door for him.
"Good afternoon," repeated Mrs.Tucker quietly answering his look.
"You need not light the gas in my room, Mary," she continued in the same tone of voice as the door closed upon him; "I shall lie down for a few moments, and then I may run over to the Robinsons for the evening."She regained her room composedly.The longing desire to bury her head in her pillow and "think out" her position had gone.She did not apostrophize her fate, she did not weep; few real women do in the access of calamity, or when there is anything else to be done.
She felt that she knew it all; she believed she had sounded the profoundest depths of the disaster, and seemed already so old in her experience that she almost fancied she had been prepared for it.Perhaps she did not fully appreciate it; to a life like hers it was only an incident, the mere turning of a page of the illimitable book of youth; the breaking up of what she now felt had become a monotony.In fact, she was not quite sure she had ever been satisfied with their present success.Had it brought her all she expected? She wanted to say this to her husband, not only to comfort him, poor fellow, but that they might come to a better understanding of life in the future.She was not perhaps different from other loving women who, believing in this unattainable goal of matrimony, have sought it in the various episodes of fortune or reverses, in the bearing of children, or the loss of friends.In her childless experience there was no other life that had taken root in her circumstances and might suffer transplantation; only she and her husband could lose or profit by the change.The "perfect" understanding would come under other conditions than these.
She would have gone superstitiously to the window to gaze in the direction of the vanished ship, but another instinct restrained her.She would put aside all yearning for him until she had done something to help him, and earned the confidence he seemed to have withheld.Perhaps it was pride--perhaps she never really believed his exodus was distant or complete.
With a full knowledge that to-morrow the various ornaments and pretty trifles around her would be in the hands of the law, she gathered only a few necessaries for her flight and some familiar personal trinkets.I am constrained to say that this self-abnegation was more fastidious than moral.She had no more idea of the ethics of bankruptcy than any other charming woman; she simply did not like to take with her any contagious memory of the chapter of the life just closing.She glanced around the home she was leaving without a lingering regret; there was no sentiment of tradition or custom that might be destroyed; her roots lay too near the surface to suffer from dislocation; the happiness of her childless union had depended upon no domestic centre, nor was its flame sacred to any local hearthstone.It was without a sigh that, when night had fully fallen, she slipped unnoticed down the staircase.At the door of the drawing-room she paused and then entered with the first guilty feeling of shame she had known that evening.Looking stealthily around she mounted a chair before her husband's picture, kissed the irreproachable moustache hurriedly, said, "You foolish darling, you!" and slipped out again.With this touching indorsement of the views of a rival philosopher, she closed the door softly and left her home forever.
