Maria felt as if she had caught sight of a stone of shame in the place where a wife's and mother's heart should have been. She felt sick with disgust, as if she had seen some monster. It never occurred to her that she was possibly unjust to Ida, who was, after all, as she was made, a being on a very simple and primitive plan, with an acute perception of her own welfare and the means whereby to achieve it. Ida was in reality as innocently self-seeking as a butterfly or a honey-bee. She had never really seen anybody in the world except herself. She had been born humanity blind, and it was possibly no more her fault than if she had been born with a hump.
The next day Ida went to New York with Mrs. Voorhees to complete some preparations for her journey, and to meet Mrs. Voorhees's sister, who was expected to arrive from the South, where she had been spending the winter. That evening the Voorheeses came over and discussed their purchases, and Miss Wyatt, the sister, came with them. She was typically like Mrs. Voorhees, only younger, and with her figure in better restraint. She had so far successfully fought down an hereditary tendency to avoirdupois. She had brilliant yellow hair and a brilliant complexion, like her sister, and she was as well, even better, dressed. Ida had purchased that day a steamer-rug, a close little hat, and a long coat for the voyage, and the women talked over the purchases and their plans for travel with undisguised glee. Once, when Ida met Maria's sarcastic eyes, she colored a little and complained of a headache, which she had been suffering with all day.
“Yes, there is no doubt that you are simply a nervous wreck, and you would break down entirely without the sea-voyage and the change of scene,” said Mrs. Voorhees, in her smooth, emotionless voice and with a covert glance at Maria. Ida had confided to her the attitude which she knew Maria took with reference to her going away.
“All I regret—all that mars my perfect delight in the prospect of the trip—is parting with my darling little Paul,” Mrs. Voorhees said, with a sigh.
“That is the way I feel with regard to Evelyn,” said Ida.
Maria, who was sewing, took another stitch. She did not seem to hear.
The next day but one Maria and Evelyn started for Amity. Ida did not go to the station with them. She was not up when they started. The curtains in her room were down, and she lay in bed, drawing down the corners of her mouth with resolution when Maria and Evelyn entered to bid her good-bye. Maria said good-bye first, and bent her cheek to Ida's lips; then it was Evelyn's turn. The little girl looked at her mother with fixed, solemn eyes, but there were no tears in them.
“Mamma is so sorry she cannot even go to the station with her darling little girl,” said Ida, “but she is completely exhausted, and has not slept all night.”
Evelyn continued to look at her, and there came into her face an innocent, uncomplaining accusation.
“Mamma cannot tell you how much she feels leaving her precious little daughter,” whispered Ida, drawing the little figure, which resisted rigidly, towards her. “She would not do it if she were not afraid of losing her health completely.” Evelyn remained in her attitude of constrained affection, bending over her mother. “Mamma will write you very often,” continued Ida. “Think how nice it will be for you to get letters! And she will bring you some beautiful things when she comes back.” Then Ida's voice broke, and she found her handkerchief under her pillow and put it to her eyes.