She had brought to the window the tall bamboo cage, had opened the tiny gate of intricately interwoven strips. All about her stood trunks and boxes. From the back came the clatter of the carters carrying stuff out to the cart. She had waited with this to the very last. Now she stood back, watching the lark as it hopped about on the bottom of the cage, eyeing curiously the opened door. She had often been disturbed by the thought that she should not keep this bird a prisoner; but she had been assured that it had been born in captivity, that it would prefer the comfortable life, protected behind the slender bamboo bars. Now, it seemed as if it really did. It was in no hurry to grasp at freedom.
The bird hopped up into the opening and sat, cocking its head, as if in doubt, peering into the world before it. Now, what would it do; would it really be happier in the protection of confinement, or would it have the courage to grasp the freedom of unknown distances?
Unknown distances! She felt that she herself was uneasily uncertain, tremulous at the idea of setting behind her the small world into which she had fitted herself so agreeably. She was cowardly, like the bird, then, not venturesome enough to face the unknown. No, it was not that. She must be frank with herself; her cowardice lay in not daring to remain; and, moreover, she was not acting honestly to Kent. The suggestion of the Wilson creature, the mere effrontery of her making such an insinuation, had dumbfounded her. Of course, she had known always—so long as she had known him; on board the Tenyo—that he was married. She could not even remember whether he had told her, had ever mentioned it, or whether she had come to know from an extraneous source, ship's gossip. It had been a matter of no moment whatever, utterly inconsequential. And to him it must have been inconsequential too; a thing which had no bearing whatever on their relation. The effrontery of this woman, and of the others, all those who, she had said, were now whispering among themselves about them. She had smiled at her assurance that she had known, that it was a matter of no consequence one way or the other, the incredulous smile, updrawn brows, that was an insult in itself. And then the hard shamelessness with which she had tried to pursue the matter, to gain more pabulum for gossip; endeavoring to establish a pretense of intimacy which was entirely inexistent, she had hoped, she said, meretriciously solicitous, that she did not really love him, that this would not hurt her. Sylvia might have taken her by the hair, dragged her forth, thrown her out, her fierce desire for primitive methods of combat, to rend this foully insulting female into tatters, had surprised her. The intense repression, the nervous bewildered casting about for escape, had left her trembling, white.
And when she had finally gotten rid of the woman somehow, and had sat down to compose herself to think, she had been confused, bewildered, unable to seize upon some starting point from which to develop a line of thought. Instinctively she wanted to hide, to shelter herself in some place where all this foulness could not reach her, to escape. It had always been her intention to wander on beyond Japan, to grapple with new landscapes, new colors, feathery palm fronds swaying beneath the stars, the iridescent brilliance of the tropics. She had already long overstayed the time she had originally decided to devote to Japan. She had found so much more material than she had expected, and—yes, of course, if she were to think this thing out, she must be entirely honest, probe into herself with the dissecting knife no matter how she might shrink—yes, the truth was that she had not wished to abandon her friendship with Kent. Yes, friendship. It had been just that, only that. That, at least, she might say with absolute truth. True, there had been moments where the thought had come to her that if he had been free, their relation might have been enhanced, vivified by the rosy light of romance. She had even—she was going to have this thing out with herself, go to the very most intimate essence thereof—yes, there had been a time when she had wondered what was really the relation between Kent and his wife; was there not a possibility that freedom might come to him? But she had put the thought behind her, ashamed, disgusted with herself that she could thus be tempted to contemplate gaining a love which was the rightful property of another, insidiously coveting affection which belonged rightfully to that other woman. So, even though it was evident that the day might come when the barrier might be removed, she had refused to consider the possibility, as an unworthy thought. The line between considering the potentiality and wishing that it might be brought about was too fine. And now that she had gotten past all that, and their relation had crystallized safely on a firmly constructed foundation, she was forced to leave it all. But was it not cowardly thus to concede victory to the mischief makers, to desert Kent? Would it not be cleaner, more worthy to remain, stick it out. She wished she were strong enough to stay, to continue, defiantly, the relation, safe in her knowledge that not the slightest suspicion of a thought of sex entered into the minds of Kent and herself. And still, there was no escape from the certainty that the thought could not be ignored; the gossips had injected it. She must always wonder whether Kent had heard what they thought. He must wonder whether she had. They had soiled their friendship with the foulness of their insinuating suggestion. No matter how she and Kent might try to erase it from their minds, some faint trace, some ineradicable smudge must remain.
The bird was hopping about on the window sill, lifting its wings in little tentative flaps, restless, fluttering in indecision. She stepped up to it. Why didn't the silly little thing have the initiative to make the break into freedom, to grasp the alluring promises of the new, unknown beyond. She watched it. "Oh, we are poor things, you and I. But, out you go." With her hand she pushed it gently out. It had to use its wings to save itself. It fluttered; then it stretched them out, strongly, boldly, circled slowly, then more surely, gained upwards, rose higher and higher, disappeared in the blue.
CHAPTER VIII
Divorce!
Kent read the letter over again, carefully, laboriously, for his thoughts would not concentrate on the sentences. He had to force himself to bring his mind on them. The letters from Isabel had shown indifference, every evidence of having been written as a matter of duty in their painstaking regularity, one a month; they had been cold even; but he had never for a moment suspected that she would, suddenly, without leaving room for discussion, thus make the end bluntly, finally.