BY THE FOUNTAIN
By Margaret Houston
There was nothing in the aspect of the white brick mansion to indicate that a tragedy was going on inside. A woman quietly dressed, her face showing delicately above her dark furs, came lightly down the steps. She paused a half second at the gateway and looked back, but there was no hesitation in the glance.
“Jules,” she said to the coachman, “you may drive to the park.”
She did not look back as they drove away.
There should be no gossiping among the servants. Everything should be done decently. From the park she could take the suburban and go quietly into town. From there—the world was wide. There was a note on his dresser, he would read it to-night and understand—no, not understand, she had ceased to expect that of him—but he would know—in some dull, stern way he would see—he would see. She caught sight of her face in the little mirror of the brougham and lowered her veil. Ah, it was a bitter, barren thing, this striving, striving, endlessly striving to be understood. She had endured it for four years and she was worn heartsick with the strain. Her soul cried out for warmth, for life, for breathing room; was not one’s first duty to one’s self after all? She turned suddenly—Jules stood by the open door.
“Jules,” she said, summoning a little severity of manner to counterbalance the tremor in her voice, “you need not come back for me. Jules,” she added, turning again, “good-by—you have—you have been very faithful.”