At the Gate of Samaria

by William John Locke

She would go forthwith to her old rooms in the King's Road, which she knew to be vacant. There she would live again as Clytie Davenant, and shut out of her memory the nightmare of the past months. The plan conceived, she hurried to put it into execution. She would have liked to open the street door there and then, to cross its threshold for the last time. But the practical side of life asserts itself in the midst of the intensest emotions. She would have to pack her boxes, select what things she would take with her. The aid, too, of the servants would be necessary. After a swift look at the glass she composed her features, summoned her maid, gave her orders in a calm, equable voice, as if she were going on an ordinary visit in the country.

While the servants packed the articles she designated, she went down to the studio in order to collect a few of the portable objects that were dear to her: Rupert Kent's etching, the Jacquemart that Kent had given her, a book or two, a favourite box of oil-tubes. All the rest she would leave behind, together with everything that Thornton had ever given her. The maid, an excellently trained servant, packed quickly, but to Clytie she seemed unutterably slow. It was an effort of control to refrain from urging the girl on, from snatching the articles from her hands and stowing them away anyhow, haphazard. Every moment that she lingered seemed an eternity of degradation. In after days she wondered that she had never reflected how far Thornton's possible presence in the house might have affected the ease of her escape. As it happened, he had flung out of doors as soon as he had left her stricken upon the floor; but she, in the fixity of her idea, never concerned herself as to his whereabouts.

At last, when the boxes were packed and locked, the maid, dangling the keys in her hand, asked Clytie when she should order the brougham.

“I shall go in a four-wheeled cab with the luggage,” said Clytie.

“Go and order one round at once.”

The maid retired wonderingly, and Clytie was left alone. She put on her bonnet and sat down on the edge of the bed to draw on her gloves. Then for the first time her eye fell consciously upon her wedding-ring, and thereupon came over her the sense of all that her present action implied: the final renunciation of the marriage-tie, the assertion of her own individuality, the beginning of another life. And yet, in spite of her repudiation, the tie remained, indissoluble except by death, and this little circlet of gold was the symbol. With a twinge of pain she wrenched it off, for it was tightly fitting, and went and threw it in a jewel box containing the jewellery that Thornton had given her. At any rate, she could spare herself the hourly misery of this visible bond. It was a poor kind of relief to leave it there with the other tokens of her wifehood.

Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few degrees. Whatever subsequent steps Thornton might take, her departure should at least not have the indignity of flight. A scribbled line would save her self-respect. When the servants came into the room to take down the boxes to the cab she had written the note.

“I am leaving your house. I go back to my old rooms in the King's Road, where I shall resume the life I led before I knew you.”

Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the footman whether Mr. Hammerdyke was in. The man, who was accustomed to the separation between the lives of his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone out just before lunch.

“Put this note in his room for him,” said Clytie. “I shall be away some time.”