She wanted him; she longed for him; he was her boy.
He could get to her to-night. She was only twenty or twenty-two miles
away, as the crow flies--say half an hour's journey if one had the
wings of a heron. He could rush home, jump into his gig, and send the
horse at a gallop; he could get there by road or rail, somehow; he
could telegraph, telling her not to go to bed, telling her to go to
the station and wait for him there.
Then he would walk with her in the moonlight by the sea, on the wet
sand, close to the breaking waves. When they came back to the
Institution no light would be showing from any of the windows, and she
might say, "I'm shut out. When they come down to let me in, won't they
make a fuss?" But he would say, "You are not going in there again."
"What," she would say, "are you taking me back to Vine-Pits after only
two days? Don't you think Mrs. Dale will be angry?"
Then he would say, "I'm not taking you back. I'm going to take you
half across the world with me. I've tried hard, Norah, but I can't do
without you. I own up, I'm beat, I take the consequences. I'm not
good, I'm bad. I've done wicked things, and now I'm ripe for the
crowning wickedness. I'm going to break my wife's heart, dishonor my
children's name, and take you down to hell with me.
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