“I shall divorce you!” he broke in.
“Oh, no, you won’t. I won’t let you. You’ve no grounds. I believe one has to have grounds for that sort of thing. But you shall have relief. I am going away for a long time. Months and months, perhaps years. But you will not forget me, Peter.”
“Where are you going?” he asked with a tone of relief in his voice. “When?” he added.
“Are you anxious for me to go?” she asked. Peter nodded his head in assent. Again he wiped his forehead with his hand, but in his eyes there came a look of relief. He even looked at her. She seemed different. She seemed to him to have expanded, her figure was different, her face was more beautiful and her eyes had a strange look in them.
“Where are you going?” he asked again.
“In a few days I am going. Where I don’t know. Europe I suppose. All broken, unhappy women go to Europe. They say they forget there. It must be the lights, the chairs on the boulevards. I may go to California. I may not. It makes no difference. You will tell lies about me and you will say the strain I have been under has been too great, that you are sorry that I’ve gone, and that you intend to join me in the fall or spring. But you do not. You will shake your head and look for sympathy and probably you will get it. You will lie manfully, Peter.” Clarinda laughed. Peter wiped his forehead with his hand. It was wet.
“I shall be divorced!” he repeated.
“Because my health is broken with the strain. No, you won’t, Peter. You won’t be divorced. If you do I shall kill you. If you besmirch my good name—” Clarinda’s voice rose in anger. “I shall come back. It is easy to kill. It amounts to nothing. You should know, for you killed the thing that loved you. You killed a trust. It is worse to kill that than anything else. I didn’t die, I couldn’t die. More is the pity.”
“Clarinda!” Peter exclaimed.
“Listen, I have it all arranged. Tomorrow, or the day after. We shall go back to Father’s house. The lawyer will be there, he will read the will. Father’s things will be given to those whom he wished. You will sit there with a crease in your forehead and will look wise. You will acquiesce and wonder why he did not leave you more. Inside your heart will be hurt. You will not say anything, you will smile, and pretend to be very much surprised that he has left you anything at all. You will draw upon your philosophy, and maybe you will be comforted. I doubt that very much. It will end in a farce. Mother will groan, and feel hurt. I—I shall not care. After this is done I shall go away to Europe or California or some other place and you, Peter, will meet me next fall or spring. You will lie.”