“I think of Kansas City.”
“That is a good place.”
When he went away, I looked steadily at Robert and asked, “Will you wait until tomorrow?”
“No, love, I will go tonight. There will be no crush on the bridge tonight. It will be as empty as it is on Sunday.”
“Why did you tell him tomorrow?”
“It is a case of life and death. I will trust no one.”
“Oh!”
“He is a black Highland Celt. He would sell his brother for a bawbee. I believe he is a spy for my enemies. Take care of him—talk as you do not mean before him.”
Then we went upstairs together, and I repacked his valise, and showed him the one thousand dollars I had saved. “I call it my emergency fund,” I said, and I counted out five hundred dollars. He quietly pushed four hundred dollars back to me. “One hundred is sufficient for me,” he said. “It will take me to Memphis, and there I shall find work and friends.”
It was then five o’clock, and I had tea brought to the parlor fireside, and saw that Robert had a good meal. There was no necessity for hurrying it, and without tears, and with sad little efforts to be hopeful and cheerful, we ate what might be our last meal together. As we finished it, the children came in to 163 say good night and I turned away until that loving ceremony was over. Then I brought him his hat and coat, and we were both silent as he put them on. Indeed there was no room for words. All had been said. And equally it was no time for tears. We looked at each other and parted. Until his strong, swift steps were no longer audible on the wooden pavements, I stood at the open door. When I could neither see nor hear him, I went in, called a servant, and had the children’s cots removed to my room and when the fire had been rebuilt, and plenty of wood brought, I locked myself in. That night I went to bed without prayer. I only told God, as I undressed, that I was too tired and too sorrowful. And God knew, knew all about it, and gave me the sweetest night’s sleep I ever remember.