“Listen to it, Mary,” he cried exultingly, and she smiled a cheerful response.
When the warning bell sounded he suddenly became grave.
“Say good-bye again to Elliston for me, dear,” he said, holding her hand close. “I hope he grows up like you.”
Her eyes were swimming now, in spite of herself. “Mary,” he went on, “this separation makes or mars us. I hope, dear, I believe, it will make us. God bless you.” He kissed her, pressed her to him. Suddenly they were both trembling.
“Why are we parting?” he cried, in a revulsion of feeling.
She smiled at him, wiping away her tears. “It's better, dearest,” she whispered; “let me go now.” They kissed again; she turned hurriedly away. He watched her cross the gangway—she waved to him from the dock—then the crowd swallowed her.
For a moment he felt bitterly bereaved. “How ironic life is,” he thought. Then a snatch of French chatter and a gay laugh reached him. The gangway lifted, water widened between the bulwarks and the dock. As the ship swung out he caught the sea breeze—a flight of gulls swept by—he was outbound!
With a deep breath Stefan turned a brilliant smile upon the deck ... Freedom!
Mary, hurrying home with aching heart and throat, let the slow tears run unheeded down her cheeks. From the train she watched the city's outskirts stream by, formless and ugly. She was very desolate. But when, tired out, she entered her house, peace enfolded her. Here were her child, the things she loved, her birds, her pleasant, smiling servant. Here were white walls and gracious calm. Her mate had flown, but the nest remained. Her heart ached still, but it was no longer torn.