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Allen, James Lane, 1849-1925

"The Mettle of the Pasture"


Isabel, white, listless, had sunk into the nearest chair, and now
said, quietly and wearily, noticing nothing:
"Grandmother, do not get up to see me off in the morning. My trunk
is packed; the others are already at the station. All my
arrangements are made. I'll say good-by to you now," and she stood
up.
Mrs. Conyers stood looking at her. Gradually a change passed over
her face; her eyes grew dull, the eyelids narrowed upon the balls;
the round jaws relaxed; and instead of the smile, hatred came
mysteriously out and spread itself rapidly over her features: true
horrible revelation. Her fingers tightened and loosened about the
necklace until it was forced out through them, until it glided,
crawled, as though it were alive and were being strangled and were
writhing. She spoke with entire quietness:
"After all that I have seen to-night, are you not going to marry
Rowan?"
Isabel stirred listlessly as with remembrance of a duty:
"I had forgotten, grandmother, that I owe you an explanation. I
found, after all, that I should have to see Rowan again: there was
a matter about which I was compelled to speak with him. That is
all I meant by being with him to-night: everything now is ended
between us."
"And you are going away without giving me the reason of all this?"
Isabel gathered her gloves and shawl together and said with simple
distaste:
"Yes."
As she did so, Mrs. Conyers, suddenly beside herself with aimless
rage, raised one arm and hurled the necklace against the opposite
wall of the room.


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