David had gone; he did not believe that she meant
it. Isabella believed that he did not care whether
she meant it or not. David Spencer left behind him
a woman, calm outwardly, inwardly a seething volcano of anger, wounded pride, and thwarted will.
He found precisely the same woman when he came home, tanned, joyous, tamed for a while of his wanderlust, ready, with something of real affection, to go back to the farm fields and the stock-yard.
Isabella met him at the door, smileless, cold-eyed, set-lipped.
“What do you want here?” she said, in the tone she was accustomed to use to tramps and Syrian peddlers.
“Want!” David’s surprise left him at a loss for words. “Want! Why, I — I — want my wife. I’ve come home.”
“This is not your home. [I’m no wife of yours. You made your choice when you went away,” Isabella had replied. Then she had gone in, shut the door, and locked it in his face.
David had stood there for a few minutes like a man stunned. Then he had turned and walked away up the lane under the birches. He said nothing — then or at any other time. From that day no reference to his wife or her concerns ever crossed his lips.
He went directly to the harbor, and shipped with
