It did not hurt her now as much as she once would have thought. She looked at him, scarcely knowing what to say. There was really not so much to say.
"Will you have to go soon, if you do have to go?" she ventured, wearily.
"I can't tell yet. Possibly to-night. Possibly Friday. Possibly not until Monday. I'm waiting to hear from Steger. I expect him here any minute."
To prison! To prison! Her Frank Cowperwood, her husband--the substance of their home here--and all their soul destruction going to prison. And even now she scarcely grasped why! She stood there wondering what she could do "Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked, starting forward as if out of a dream. "Do you want me to do anything? Don't you think perhaps you had better leave Philadelphia, Frank? You needn't go to prison unless you want to."
She was a little beside herself, for the first time in her life shocked out of a deadly calm.
He paused and looked at her for a moment in his direct, examining way, his hard commercial business judgment restored on the instant.
"That would be a confession of guilt, Lillian, and I'm not guilty," he replied, almost coldly. "I haven't done anything that warrants my running away or going to prison, either. I'm merely going there to save time at present. I can't be litigating this thing forever. I'll get out--be pardoned out or sued out in a reasonable length of time. Just now it's better to go, I think. I wouldn't think of running away from Philadelphia. Two of five judges found for me in the decision. That's pretty fair evidence that the State has no case against me."
His wife saw she had made a mistake. It clarified her judgment on the instant. "I didn't mean in that way, Frank," she replied, apologetically. "You know I didn't. Of course I know you're not guilty. Why should I think you were, of all people?"
She paused, expecting some retort, some further argument--a kind word maybe. A trace of the older, baffling love, but he had quietly turned to his desk and was thinking of other things.
At this point the anomaly of her own state came over her again.
It was all so sad and so hopeless. And what was she to do in the future? And what was he likely to do? She paused half trembling and yet decided, because of her peculiarly nonresisting nature--why trespass on his time? Why bother? No good would really come of it. He really did not care for her any more--that was it.
Nothing could make him, nothing could bring them together again, not even this tragedy. He was interested in another woman--Aileen--and so her foolish thoughts and explanations, her fear, sorrow, distress, were not important to him. He could take her agonized wish for his ******* as a comment on his probable guilt, a doubt of his innocence, a criticism of him! She turned away for a minute, and he started to leave the room.
"I'll be back again in a few moments," he volunteered. "Are the children here?"
"Yes, they're up in the play-room," she answered, sadly, utterly nonplussed and distraught.
"Oh, Frank!" she had it on her lips to cry, but before she could utter it he had bustled down the steps and was gone. She turned back to the table, her left hand to her mouth, her eyes in a queer, hazy, melancholy mist. Could it be, she thought, that life could really come to this--that love could so utterly, so thoroughly die?
Ten years before--but, oh, why go back to that? Obviously it could, and thoughts concerning that would not help now. Twice now in her life her affairs had seemed to go to pieces--once when her first husband had died, and now when her second had failed her, had fallen in love with another and was going to be sent off to prison.
What was it about her that caused such things? Was there anything wrong with her? What was she going to do? Where go? She had no idea, of course, for how long a term of years he would be sent away.
It might be one year or it might be five years, as the papers had said. Good heavens! The children could almost come to forget him in five years. She put her other hand to her mouth, also, and then to her forehead, where there was a dull ache. She tried to think further than this, but somehow, just now, there was no further thought. Suddenly quite outside of her own volition, with no thought that she was going to do such a thing, her bosom began to heave, her throat contracted in four or five short, sharp, aching spasms, her eyes burned, and she shook in a vigorous, anguished, desperate, almost one might have said dry-eyed, cry, so hot and few were the tears. She could not stop for the moment, just stood there and shook, and then after a while a dull ache succeeded, and she was quite as she had been before.
"Why cry?" she suddenly asked herself, fiercely--for her. "Why break down in this stormy, useless way? Would it help?"
But, in spite of her speculative, philosophic observations to herself, she still felt the echo, the distant rumble, as it were, of the storm in her own soul. "Why cry? Why not cry?" She might have said--but wouldn't, and in spite of herself and all her logic, she knew that this tempest which had so recently raged over her was now merely circling around her soul's horizon and would return to break again.
