The next day he said to Aunt Katrina, "I should like to have seen that girl before she was married; there's such an extraordinary richness in her beauty that I don't believe she ever had an awkward age; she was probably graceful at sixteen."
"She was designing at sixteen."
"No! For whom could she have been designing down here?"
"Evert."
"And the idiot let her slip through his fingers?"
"Deliver us!" said the lady. "If I've got to hear you admire her too!"
Late in the evening of the day when she had threatened to speak to Lanse about his wife's health, Garda came and knocked at Margaret's door. "I wanted to see you," she said, entering.
Adolfo had gone an hour before, and she had been in her own room meanwhile; but she had not taken off her white lace attire, or loosened the braids of her hair. Margaret too was fully dressed.
"What have you been doing?" Garda demanded, suspiciously, as she looked at her. "Not crying?"
"I think I have forgotten how to cry."
"Well, your eyes are dry," Garda admitted. She closed the door, then went to one of the windows and looked out. There had been a heavy rain during the evening, and the air was much cooler; it was very dark. She closed the shutters of all the three windows and fastened them. "It's so gloomy out there! Pine cones? What luck! we'll have a fire."
"Garda – we shall melt!"
"No, the room is too large." She piled the cones on the hearth and set fire to them; in an instant the blaze flared out and lighted up all the dusky corners. "That's better. Only one poor miserable little candle?" And she proceeded to light four others that stood about here and there.
"Are you preparing for a ball?"
"I am preparing for a talk. I'm lonely to-night, Margaret, and I can't bear to feel lonely; how long may I stay? Are you sure you haven't got to go and do something? – say good-night to Mr. Harold, for instance?"
"He has been asleep these two hours. He always has one of his men in the room with him."
"Yes, I know. But why haven't you undressed, then, all this time?" Garda went on, with returning suspicion.
"Why haven't you? But have you no conscience, thinking of poor Adolfo banging into all the trees and falling into all the ditches on his way home?"
"No, Adolfo and I are not troubled about conscience, – Adolfo and I understand each other perfectly. It's in the blood, I suppose; we belong to the same race," said the daughter of the Dueros.
She had been standing watching her fire; now she drew up a chair before it and sat down. "I did not say anything to Mr. Harold about you, after all," she said.
"I thought you wouldn't when I told you I did not wish it."
"I shall do it to-morrow; you are to come north with me the next time I go."
"I shall not leave East Angels."
"I saw Evert in New York," Garda began again, after a short silence. "I wrote a note asking him to come. He came – he came three times. But three times isn't much?" And she glanced towards Margaret.
Margaret had kept her place on the sofa where she was sitting when Garda entered; but she had drawn forward on its casters a tall screen to shield herself from the fire, and this threw her face into shadow. "No, not much," she answered from her dark nook.
"I love to tell you things," Garda resumed, gazing at the blaze. "Well – he wouldn't like me – what would you say to that? I had thought that perhaps he might; but no, he wouldn't."
This time there was no answer from the shadow.
"I used to think – long ago – that it was because he couldn't," Garda went on; "I mean, couldn't care for any one very much; care as I care. But I was mistaken. Completely. He can care. But not for me."
She got up and went to the long mirror, in the bright light her face and figure were clearly reflected; here she stood looking at herself for some time in silence, as if touched by a new curiosity. She moved nearer the glass, so that she could see her face; then back to get a view of the image as a whole; she turned half round, with her head over her shoulder, in order to see herself in profile. She adjusted the ribbon round her supple waist, and gave a touch, musingly, to her hair; she lifted her white hands and looked at them; dropping them, she clasped them behind her, and indulged in another general survey. "Such as I am, he cares nothing for me," she said at last, speaking not in surprise, but simply, as one who states a fact.
She looked at herself again. "I don't say he's not a fool!" And she gave a good-humored laugh.
She left the glass and came towards Margaret. "I've got to tell you something," she said. "Do you know, I tried. Yes, I tried; for I like him so much! You remember I thought everything of him once, when we were first engaged, long ago? I appreciate him better now. And I like him so much!" While she was saying these last words she came and knelt down beside the sofa in her old caressing fashion, her clasped hands on Margaret's knees. But her movement had pushed the screen, and it rolled back, letting the fire-light shine suddenly across Margaret's face.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried Garda, springing to her feet as she saw the expression there; "do you care for him? – is that it? The cause of all – the change in you, and in him too? Oh, how blind I have been! – how blind! But I never once suspected it. Don't think of a word I have said, he didn't look at me; I tried, but he wouldn't; he despises me, I know. I like him better than any one in the world, now that Lucian is gone," she went on, with her bare frankness. "But he will never care for me; and a very good reason, too, when it is you he cares for!"
Margaret had bowed her head upon her arm, which rested upon the sofa's back. Garda sat down beside her. "How many times have you comforted me!" she said. "If I could only be of the smallest comfort to you, Margaret!"
Margaret did not answer.
"And it has been so all these long years," Garda murmured, after sitting still and thinking of it. "You are better than I am!"
"Better!"
"There isn't an angel in heaven at this moment better than you are," Garda responded, vehemently. "But you mustn't keep on in this way, you know," she added, after a moment.
"I can't talk, Garda."
"That is it, Evert has talked! He has tired you out. I can imagine that when once he is in earnest – Margaret, let me tell you this one thing: you can't live under all this, you'll die."
"It's not so easy to die," answered Lansing Harold's wife.
"You think I don't know about Mr. Harold. But I do. Lucian heard the whole in Rome; I even saw her myself – in a carriage on the Pincio. I know that he left you twice to go to her – twice; what claim has he, then, upon you? But what is the use of my talking, if Evert has been able to do nothing!"
Margaret sat up. "Go now, Garda. I would rather be alone."
But Garda would not go. "I could never be like you," she went on. "And this is a case where you had better be more like me. Margaret! Margaret!" and she clung to her, suddenly. "Such a love as his would be!" she whispered – "how can you refuse it? I think it's wicked, too, because it's his whole life, he isn't Lansing Harold! And you love him so; you needn't deny it; I can feel your heart beating now."
"Go," said Margaret, drawing herself free, and rising. "You only hurt me, Garda. And you cannot change me."
But Garda followed her. "You adore him. And he – And you give all that up? Why – it's the dearest thing there is, the dearest thing we have; what are you made of?" She kept up with her, walking by her side.
Margaret was pacing the room aimlessly; she put out her arm as if to keep Garda off.
The girl accepted this, moving to that distance; but still she walked by her side. "And don't you ever think of the life he's leading? – the life you're making him lead?" she went on. "He's unhappy – of course he didn't tell me why. He's growing hard and bitter, he's ever so much changed; remember that I have just seen him, only a few days ago. It's dreadful to have to say that he has changed for the worse, because I like him so much; but I am afraid he has, – yes, he has. You see he needs some one – I like him so much."
"Marry him yourself, then, and be the some one," answered Margaret, sharply. And by a sudden turn in her quick walk she seemed to be again trying to get rid of her.
"I would, if he would marry me," Garda answered; "yes, even if he should keep on caring for you just the same, for that doesn't hurt him in my eyes. I should be content to come after you; and if I could have just a little edge of his love – But he wouldn't look at me, I tell you – though I tried. He is like you, with him it is once. But you are the one I am thinking of most, Margaret. For you are fading away, and it's this stifled love that's killing you; now I understand it. Women do die of such feelings, you are one of them. Do you think you'll have any praise when you get to the next world " – here she came closer – "after killing yourself, and breaking down all the courage of a man like Evert, like Evert– two whole lives wasted – and all for the sake of an idea?"
Margaret's face had been averted. But now she looked at her. "An idea which you cannot comprehend," she said. And she turned away again.
"Yes, I know you think me your inferior," Garda answered; "and I acknowledge that I am your inferior; I am nothing compared with you, I never was. But I don't care what you say to me, I only want you to be happier." She waited an instant, then came up behind Margaret, whose back was towards her, and with a touch that was full of humility, took hold of a little fold of her skirt. "Listen a moment," she said, holding it closely, as if that would make Margaret listen more; "I don't believe Mr. Harold would oppose a suit at all. He couldn't succeed, of course, no matter what he should do, for it's all against him, but I don't believe he would even try; he isn't that sort of a man at least, malicious and petty. If he could be made comfortable here, as he is now? It's very far away – Gracias-á-Dios; that is, people think so, I find; they thought so in New York; so he could stay on here as quietly as he pleased, and it would make no difference to anybody. He could have everything he liked; why, I would undertake to stay for a while at first, stay and amuse him, play checkers and all that. It's a pity Mrs. Rutherford dislikes me so," Garda concluded, in a tone of regret.
"Perhaps you would undertake to marry him, by way of a change?" said Margaret, leaving her again, with another sharp movement that pulled the dress from the touch of the humble little hand.
"There are some things, Margaret, that even you must not say to me," Garda answered, smiling bravely and brightly, though the tears were just behind.
And then Margaret's cruel coldness broke; she came to her, took her hands, and held them across her hot eyes. "Forgive me, Garda, I don't know what I am saying. You don't mean it, but you keep turning the knife in the wound. I shall never do any of the things you talk of, I shall go on staying here. I must bear my life – the life I made for myself, with my eyes open; no one made it for me, I made it for myself, and I must bear it as well as I can. I have said cruel things, but it was because – " She dropped the girl's hands. "I have always thought you so – so beautiful; and if you care for him, as you now tell me you do, what more natural than that he – " But she could not finish, her face contracted with a quiver, and took on suddenly and strangely the tints of age.
"I am not worthy to tie your shoe!" cried Garda, in her soft voice, which even in high excitement could not rise above its sweet tones.
But Margaret had controlled herself again, the spectre face had vanished. "When you tell me that he has changed so much, that he is growing harsh, hard, – that is the worst for me," she said. "I can bear everything about myself, everything here; but I cannot bear that." She paused. "Men are all alike" – she began again. Then she put that aside too – her last bitterness. "Garda," she resumed, "I shall go on living here, as I have said; and it is for always; I am, I intend to be, as far removed from his life as though I were dead. And now – if you will marry him? You are so beautiful he cannot help but love you, you needn't be afraid! You must never come here – I tell you that in the beginning. And he must never come. But" – she moved swiftly forward and took the girl in her arms with a passionate tenderness – "but your little children, Garda, if you should have any, if they could come, it would be good for me; my life would not be so bitter and hard; I should be a better woman than I am now, yes, I am sure I should be better." She put her face down upon Garda's for a moment. Garda could feel how very cold it was.
Then she released her; she began moving about the room, setting the chairs in their places, she extinguished some of the candles; she was quite calm.
Garda stood where she had been left; her face was hidden.
Margaret crossed to one of the windows and threw open the shutters; the cool night air rushed in, laden with the perfume of flowers. Then she came back to Garda. "I will go with you to your room," she said; "it is very, very late." She put her arm round her to lead her away. Garda submitted, though still with her face hidden; they went together down the hall.
There was a light in Garda's room. Margaret kissed her before leaving her. "Good-night," she said.
"I am ashamed," Garda murmured.
"Ashamed?"
"Ashamed of being glad."
Margaret went swiftly away, she almost seemed to flee. Garda, standing on her lighted threshold, heard her door close. Then she heard the sound of the bolt within, as it was shot sharply forward.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
"Did you ever hear of anything so absurd?" said Aunt Katrina. "How she will look at sea! – Those prunello gaiters of hers on deck when the wind blows!"
"Jolly old soul," commented Lanse. He was playing solitaire, and had paused reflectively with a card in his hand while he gazed at the spread-out piles before him. "Jolly old soul! – I am glad she is going to see something at last, before she dies."
"What expressions you do use, Lanse! one would think she was ninety. As for seeing, she'll see nothing but Garda Thorne, and have her hands full at that."
"Her eyes, you mean," said Lanse, slipping his card deftly upon a pile which contained already its legal three, and fitting the edges accurately as he did so to those of the card beneath, in order to cheat himself with the greater skill.
Aunt Katrina's comments were based upon some recent tidings. Betty had journeyed down to East Angels that afternoon in the black boat of Uncle Cato to convey to her dearest Kate a wonderful piece of news: Garda had suddenly decided to go abroad for the winter – to Italy, and she had written from New York, where she was staying with Lish-er and Trude, to beg Betty to come north immediately and go with her, "like the dear, kind old aunt" that she was. Betty's mind, driven into confusion by this sudden proposal, was a wild mixture of the sincerest regrets at leaving dear Kate, of the sincerest gratification at this proof of Garda's attachment, and the sincerest (and most dreadful) apprehensions concerning the ocean passage.
Garda's second visit at East Angels – a very short one – had terminated only six weeks before; at that time she had no intention of going to Italy. This, then, was some sudden new idea, and Lanse had amused himself imagining causes for it. He imagined them on such a scale of splendor, however, that Aunt Katrina declared at last that she could listen to no more of them; they were too ridiculously silly.
She brought herself to listen, however, when, four months later, Betty, having survived a recrossing of the ocean, came down to East Angels, with the lion carpet-bag, to tell "everything" to her friend.
Poor Betty had been so homesick in foreign lands that Garda had not had the heart to detain her longer. "And she said that she had hoped I would stay with her a long time, perhaps always," narrated Betty. "And of course I enjoyed being in New York ever so much, of course; and Rome too – Rome was so instructive. But then you know, as I told the dear child, Rome is not my home, nor can I make it so at my age, of course."
"It's not age; it's experience," said Kate.
"Very likely you're right, Kate; but then, you know, I've had so little experience; since I came from Georgia with Mr. Carew, ever so many years ago, I've never put my foot outside of Florida until now, and I suppose I've grown like those Swiss exiles we read about, who can't hear that call for cows, you know, that Ranz something, without getting so homesick, though to everybody else it's a dreadfully yelling sound, – though I ought to say, too, that as we've next to no cows in Florida, the comparison isn't a very good one; but then there were next to no cows in Rome either, for that matter, though it was there that a cow brought up little Castor and Pollux, who built the city – no, no, I'm mistaken, that was Romulus and Remus; Castor and Pollux tamed the horses on the Quirinal; but in either case it shows that the milk must have been good, because they were so strong, you know."
"Are we talking of milk, Elizabeth?" asked Kate, in despair.
"Of course not," answered Elizabeth, good-naturedly; "how could you think so? I know you never cared for milk in the least, Kate, and I shouldn't be likely, therefore, to bring it up. – And right there in the Forum I'd see my own flower-garden. And in the Colosseum I'd see our little church here, and even hear the bell."
"Absurd!" said Kate.
"I reckon it was absurd," Betty agreed, though wiping her eyes at the same time. "And at the Vatican, there among the statues, Kate – do you know I was always seeing likenesses to you."
"Oh, well —that," responded Kate, as if there might be grounds for associations of that nature. "And Garda Thorne, by this time, I suppose, is living there quite alone?" she went on, comfortably.
"Oh no; she has a companion, Madame Clementer."
"Clementi," said Lanse; "I know her – an American, Miss Morris. He ran through all her money."
"Yes, that is the one; the Bogarduses arranged it by letter; they know her very well."
"She's a cousin of theirs, and a very nice woman; about fifty-five. Nothing could be more respectable," Lanse went on, glancing with an amused eye at Aunt Katrina's unwilling face. "You were there some time, Mrs. Carew; I suppose you saw some men?"
"The population seemed to me to consist principally of men," Betty answered, naïvely; "the streets were always crowded with them."
"That's because the Italian women don't knock about. But some of these men came to see you, I suppose?"
"Oh, you mean gentlemen? Yes, a good many came; but for my part, I was always gladdest to see Adolfo Torres. He wasn't so foreign."
"Is he there?" said Lanse, with a delighted laugh; "has he followed her all that distance? Bravo for Adolfo!"
"I don't see where he got the money to go," remarked Aunt Katrina, with one of her well-bred sniffs.
Betty flushed at this. "Mr. Torres has property, Kate," she said, with dignity. Then her usual humble sincerity came back to her. "I don't reckon it's much," she went on. "I've no idea where he stayed, nor anything about it; but I'm sure, whenever he came to see us, he always looked like a dignified gentleman."
"Naturally," said Lanse. "Because that is what he is. Well, I give him my vote."
As this conversation was beginning, word was brought to Margaret that Mr. Winthrop was in the drawing-room, and wished to see her. Celestine was the messenger.
"Has he come to stay? You and Looth must put the east room in order, then," said the mistress of the house. "Have you told the others?"
"Yes'm," said Celestine, disappearing.
When Margaret entered the drawing-room, twenty minutes later, Winthrop was there alone. Celestine had told nobody. Minerva Poindexter, meanwhile, sweeping a remote corridor, had had a tussle with her conscience; and gagged it.
"No one here?" said Margaret in surprise. "Where are the others?"
"I didn't come to see the others," Winthrop answered.
Though many months had elapsed since their last meeting, no greeting passed between them beyond this; they did not even shake hands. She had seen upon entering that angry feelings had possession of him, that this time he would not go through any of the forms. This made her only the more anxious to keep to them strictly herself.
"I hope you have come to stay with us a while," she said.
He paid no attention to this. "Shall we go out – to the garden, or somewhere? I wish to see you alone."
"We couldn't well be more alone than this, could we?" she answered, looking about the room.
"But they may interrupt us. If they do, I shall ask you very soon to come out, and you must come." He crossed the room and closed the door. "You got my letter?"
"I was answering it when you came."
"I didn't want a written answer. It came over me, after I had sent mine, that I knew just what you would write in reply – the very words. Not that you have written so often; in two years and a half I think three notes of six lines each would about sum it up. But I know every written phrase of yours just the same; so I have come to get an answer in person – a more sensible and reasonable one."
She did not say, "There will be nothing more reasonable." It was what was in her thoughts; but it seemed wiser not to express her thoughts now.
"How changed you are!" he said; "even in eighteen months so much changed."
"No one here sees such a change." She faced his gaze proudly.
"The same old look! Of course they don't; so long as you keep everything going smoothly and everybody comfortable, they don't want to see any; they never will see one till you're in your coffin."
He was still gazing at her. "Arrange your life as you like," he went on, abruptly, "but at least come away from here. You can do that. And I shall insist upon it."
The fear of him that she had felt from the time of entering was increasing. He had never looked quite as he did at this moment; his voice had never had quite these tones before. The long months that had stretched into years had made no difference, then; everything was to be as hard, perhaps harder than ever!
Her fear caused her to answer with something like appeal. "But I do not wish to go away. I like it much better here than I should like being in New York. It is quiet; I am of some use; I am – I am really contented here."
"Since when have you learned to speak so falsely? You are probably afraid of me! You see, and correctly, that I am not to be put off this time, as I was when I came before – put off with a little preaching, a few compliments and exhortations. You are afraid I shall smash the pretty glass walls you have built up round your sham life here, your charming domestic life, your happy home circle."
"I don't think you have any right to take that tone."
"Yes, I have; the right of our love."
"We must forget that. We are not growing any younger; at least I am not. Men are different, perhaps."
Winthrop laughed. "Very well done, Margaret. But not well enough. You are trying to pretend that you have outlived it; and that I have. But our two faces contradict that; yours is wasted and drawn, and look at me – have I the appearance of a man who is even moderately happy?"
She had not trusted herself to look at him much; she remembered too vividly Garda's description – "changed," "bitter," "hard." But involuntarily now she did look at him. And she saw all that Garda had described; and more.
"What is it you wish me to do?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Come away from here."
"But where?"
"Anywhere you like. – Where I could see you sometimes."
"No – no."
"Very well, then; anywhere you like. And I won't see you."
"It wouldn't do me any good!" These words burst from her almost unconsciously. She dropped into the nearest chair.
He came and seated himself near her in silence.
"You saw Garda before she went abroad?" she said, beginning again.
"Yes."
"She wished to see you, I know."
"How you say that – how timidly! Garda, at least, is not troubled by timidity."
"Perhaps you will go abroad again yourself?"
"Not to see Mrs. Lucian Spenser! Would you like to have me go?" he added.
"Yes."
"I am very much obliged to you. It's a plan, is it? – you wouldn't have spoken of her otherwise. I see; I am growing older, I'm lonely, I'm sad; perhaps I'm wicked. A 'home,' therefore, is the thing I need – you women think so much of a home – and so you've planned this. It's very ingenious. But unfortunately I don't fall in with it. Don't waste any more time talking of Garda," he said, sharply.
Margaret's head was bent.
"It isn't possible that you have thought I could care for her, Margaret – such a woman as that. Why, you're trembling" (he rose and pulled down her shielding hand), "you're relieved! You have really dreamed, then, that it might happen!"
"It makes me hate myself," he went on, a mist showing itself in his eyes – "to see your unselfishness; you have thought of this because you believe that it would be better for me, that I should be happier. And if you had succeeded, if it could really have come about, how you would have lived up to it! To the very last hour of your life you wouldn't have swerved."
He looked at her; he seemed to be studying her. Then he grew sarcastic again, perhaps on account of her continued silence. "Garda, on her side, is perfectly capable of having a real affection for me for a while – real while it lasts; she hasn't any especial mission on her hands just now, so that would have done very well. You planned it together, I suppose. You are certainly a wonderful pair! May I ask how far did the plan extend? You would have pampered me up between you (she temporarily); you would have arranged what was 'best' for my life, like two Sunday-school teachers over a case of reform! Once and for all, Margaret, let us put Edgarda Thorne aside; she has nothing whatever to do with the matters that lie between you and me; she is no more to me than an old glove."
He walked about the room impatiently. "Of course I might lie to you," he went on; "I might say that if you persist in your present course – keeping me entirely off, separating your life utterly from mine – I should go to the bad. But it wouldn't be true; I shall not go to the bad, unless becoming hard and disagreeable is that. Later, if you still go on in this way, I shall become callous and selfish probably – self-indulgent. I shall never be vicious or low-lived, I hope; but I am not a woman, I can't live on air – as you will do. Don't see me at fifty-five – I'll give you that advice! For you will always remain the same; with the exception of growing paler and thinner, you'll be the same till you die; and I really think it would be a greater blow to you than even what we're bearing now to find me like that – selfish, fond of my ease, slow to disturb myself for anybody, mightily taken up with my dinner! – But you don't believe in the least what I am saying to you; I can't bring it before you. I love you – love you at this moment with every fibre of my being." He sat down and folded his arms doggedly. "But I shall not stay sentimental; no man does after a certain age, though women always expect it, as you expect it now."
"What do you intend to do?" he continued, as she did not answer any of this.
"Just what I have been doing."
"You have no mercy, then?" He looked at her with angry gloom.
"If I can bear it, surely you can."
"No, that doesn't follow. Women are better than men; in some things they are stronger. But that's because they are sustained – the ones of your nature at least – by their terrible love of self-sacrifice; I absolutely believe there are women who like to be tortured!"
"Yes – sometimes we like it," answered the woman he spoke to, a beautiful, mysterious, exalted expression showing itself for a moment in her eyes.
He sprang from his chair. But the look of his face as he came towards her, frightened her, brought her back to the actual present; moving hurriedly, she put her hand upon the cord of the bell.
"No, not that, that's cruel, that humiliates me – don't, don't. See, it isn't necessary, I shall be perfectly quiet and reasonable now. Here are two chairs; come and sit down. Now listen. I will do all that is proper here – see the people, and make a little visit; then I will go back to New York. After that, in due time, you must tell them that you are tired of Florida, that you need a change; you certainly do need a change, as a plain matter-of-fact; and I see no reason, in any case, for your spending your entire life here. Of course it will be an uphill undertaking to get Aunt Katrina started; she will believe that it would kill her instantly. But it won't kill her; she is stronger than she thinks. As for Lanse, he can make the journey up as well as he made it down; he's certainly no worse. Both of them, if you are firm, will end by doing as you wish, because you are indispensable to their comfort. The thing is that you must hold firm. Once established in New York, or near there, I could see you now and then – I mean see you all; Lanse would ask nothing better than to have me about again. I speak in all honor, Margaret – I'm not a vile hypocrite, whatever else I may be. I am growing older; see, I will take your view of that, you are growing older too; why shouldn't we, then, see each other in this way at intervals? where would be the harm? It would brighten our lives a little; and as for the 'home' you wished me to have, its good influences and all that, I could find them there."
"I shall never see you again," Margaret answered, strangely. She had not seated herself in the chair he had placed for her; she stood with her hand resting upon its back.
"What do you mean?"
"All you have said I believe; I believe you would keep to it, carry it out. But with me it would be different – it would be too much pain; I would far rather not see you at all. I love you too much," she added. A burning blush covered her face and throat as she met his eyes. Then it faded suddenly to so deathly a white that his old fear rushed back upon him. He had almost forgotten this fear in the lapse of time; but these terrible waves of color and of pallor, these overwhelming emotions that made her unable to stand – they brought back to him the old conviction, "She has no strength, she will not be able to endure it; she will die!" He took her in his arms and laid her down upon the cushions of a couch, made sick at heart as he did so by the lightness of her weight. Anything but that – that she should go from earth forever; anything but that!