When I heard him drive away from the house, I went upstairs and began to pack my trunk. The sooner I could get out of Lamoral, the better for all concerned, Mr. Ewart included. Did he think for one moment that I would consent to being loved for my mother's sake? Did he think to make good, through me, the loss of the woman he loved? How had he dared, knowing, yes, knowing all, to love me for that other who never loved him! Why did he try to force his love upon her and, by changing the very channels of nature, bring all this devastation of misery upon my life? Why, why?
I packed rapidly. There was not so much to take with me. Then I went through the rooms one after another: the living-room—the office. I looked at the Méryon etchings—the Pont Neuf and Ste. Etienne—on its walls. Upstairs, too, I went; into Jamie's room, into Mrs. Macleod's, then to Mr. Ewart's. I stopped short on the threshold.
"Why am I going in here?" I asked myself. "What am I doing here?" I stepped in; looked about at my own handiwork—then at the bed. I crossed quickly to it and laid my cheek down upon his pillow. It was only for a moment. I heard wheels on the driveway. Cale was returning.
"I am ready, Cale. You can take us over with the trunk in the light wagon; little Pete can go with us."
The look he gave me was pitiful, but it made no appeal to me.
"You will have to wait good forty minutes if you go now."
"I don't mind it. You need not wait. I would rather not say goodby."
"Where are you goin', Marcia?"
"Don't ask me that, Cale; I don't want to lie to you. I shall send my trunk to Spencerville. This is all I will say."
"What must I tell George?"