To have David go away for the long-anticipated trip with Dr.
Lavendar, was a relief to Helena struggling up from a week of profound
prostration. Most of the time she had been in bed, only getting up to
sit with David at breakfast and supper, to take what comfort she might
in the little boy's joyous but friendly unconcern. He was full of
importance in the prospect of his journey; there was to be one night
on a railroad-car, which in itself was a serious experience; another
in an hotel; hotel! David glowed at the word.
In Philadelphia they were to see the sights in the morning; in the afternoon, to be sure,
Dr. Lavendar had warned him that it would be necessary to sit still
while some one talked. However, it is never necessary to listen. After
the talking, they would go and see the ships at the wharves, and
Liberty Bell. Then--David's heart sank; bed loomed before him, But it
would be an hotel bed;--there was some comfort in that! Besides, it is
never necessary to sleep. The next day going home on the cars they
would see the Horseshoe Curve; the very words made his throat swell
with excitement.
"Did the locomotive engine ever drop off of it?" he asked Helena.
"No, dear," she said languidly, but with a smile. She always had a
smile for David.
After the Horseshoe Curve there would be a night at Mercer. Mercer, of
course, was less exciting than Philadelphia; still, it was
"travelling," and could be boasted of at recess. But as David thought
of Mercer, he had a bleak revelation. For weeks his mind had been on
this journey; beyond it, his thought did not go. Now, there rushed
upon him the staggering knowledge that after the night in Mercer,
life would still go on! Yes, he would be at home; in Miss Rose
Knight's school-room; at supper with Mrs. Richie. It is a heavy
moment, this first consciousness that nothing lasts. It made David
feel sick; he put his spoon down and looked at Mrs. Richie. "I shall
be back," he said blankly.
And at that her eyes filled. "Yes, darling! Won't that be nice!"
And yet his absence for the next few days would be a relief to her.
She could think the whole thing out, she said to herself. She had not
been well enough to think clearly since Lloyd had gone. To adjust her
mind to the bitter finality meant swift oscillations of hate and the
habit of affection--the spirit warring with the flesh. She would never
see him again;--she would send for him! she despised him;--what should
she do without him? Yet she never wavered about David. She had made
her choice. William King's visit had not shaken her decision for an
instant; it had only frightened her horribly. How should she defend
herself? She meant to think it all out, undisturbed by the sweet
interruptions of David's presence. And yet she knew she should miss
him every minute of his absence. Miss him? If Dr. King had known what
even three days without David would mean to her, he would not have
wasted his breath in suggesting that she should give him up! Yet the
possibility of such a thing had the allurement of terror; she played
with the thought, as a child, wincing, presses a thorn into its flesh
to see how long it can bear the smart. Suppose, instead of this three
days' trip with Dr. Lavendar, David was going away to stay? The mere
question made her catch him in her arms as if to assure herself he was
hers.