Chapter VI: Part TWO: I (3)

"You see me every day, except when you're away--I should think you must be tired seeing me."

"I never see you alone, except at night and then you're always tired.... I want things arranged so you won't have so much to do, so that we can have an evening together sometimes--go out somewhere or be alone together, without your having to go and sit with some baby or other," said Laurence with sudden peevishness.

"Well, you know, bringing up a family isn't all pleasure," Mary reminded him with mild reproof.

"I should say it wasn't!... But there might be a little. You might think about me, once in a while, and put on a pretty dress and sing to me, the way you used to. You'll be getting old if you keep on this way!"

"With three children you can't expect me to look like a girl," Mary protested.

One of the trotters shied at a paper blown across the road, both horses reared and the light buggy rocked dangerously. Laurence lashed them, stinging blows, then checked their leap with a wrench, pulling them back on their haunches.

"Laurence! You shouldn't lose your temper with the horses," remonstrated Mary.

"They have to know who's master," he answered curtly. "But you make me angry, talking that way about yourself. You're not thirty yet, and you want to live like an old woman! Why don't you put on a cap and spectacles?"

"Well, my mother wore a cap when she was thirty. At thirty a woman can't pretend to be young," said Mary, smiling.

"Pooh, your mother! A woman with your looks, too! You'd be more beautiful than ever if you'd take care of yourself. You haven't ever worn that silk dress I brought you months ago."

"Oh, I haven't had it made up--it's much too gay, Laurence! You know I never wear colours."

"Well, you ought to.... I should think you might want to please me, once in a while.... But you women! All you think about is children, and a man can go hang himself, for all you care. You wouldn't even want him around, if you could have children without him!"

"How you talk! Anybody would think you didn't care about the children!"

"I care a lot more about you than I do about them--but it isn't the same with you. What's the _use_ of having children if nobody's going to enjoy life--if everybody's just to go along doing their duty and raising up another generation to do the same thing? Hey, what's the use of it?"

"I don't think the use of it is enjoyment," said Mary. "It isn't meant to be."

"Just like you! How do you know what it's meant to be? Have you had any private revelation from God about it?... Well, I tell you that I don't see any use in life if there isn't any pleasure in it--and that I'm going to enjoy _my_ life, anyhow, and when I don't, it will be time to quit!"

"Laurence, you're a pagan," said Mary gravely.

"A pagan is better than a psalm-singing hypocrite, that wants to take all the pleasure out of life!"

"Do you mean me by that?" she enquired gently.

"No, I don't mean you! You're not a hypocrite, whatever else you are.... If you'd only unbend a little, once in a while, and let yourself have a good time, you'd be all right. But you got a lot of foolish ideas into your head when you were a girl--and I know who put them there too. And you hang onto them like grim death, you're so obstinate you won't _ever_ give up an idea or anything else. You won't change--no matter if you see it makes me unhappy--"

He broke off suddenly, and for some moments they were both silent. They were now far beyond the town, out on the open prairie. Great fields of stubble from which the grain had been reaped, stretched on either side. In spite of the bright sun and the fresh wind, the outlook over these endless yellow-brown flats, broken by dull-green marsh or dark belts of new-turned soil, was not cheerful. Dreary, rather, and sombre was the prairie, its harvest yielded, waiting now for the sleep of winter. In the distance, a grey smudge on the horizon showed where lay the great sprawling smoky city. With his eyes fixed on this Laurence said:

"But I've known a long time that you don't really care anything about me."

"You shouldn't say such things--you know better.... It's only that we don't look at life in the same way."

"And you're contented to have it so! But I'm not. Why can't you see it more as I do, Mary? I think you would, if you cared about me."

"No, I can't, you are so personal about it. You want things so much for yourself, and you will always be disappointed, Laurence. Life isn't given us for our personal pleasure."

"You talk like a book or an old greyhead.... I don't think it's living at all to slide through life thinking about something else--not to want anything for fear you'll be disappointed! I think that's cowardly. It's better to try for things."

"Yes, but what things? I can't care much about worldly things--houses to live in and clothes to wear. I _can't_, Laurence."

"You seem to think that's all I care for," he said bitterly. "But you don't understand me and don't try to. What I wanted isn't houses and clothes! It was something very beautiful, to me. Something that would last for our whole life--and beyond it. But you couldn't see it. Even now you don't know what I mean."

The suffering in his voice touched her, she leaned toward him and laid her cheek to his.

"I wish I could be what you want--I wish you could be happy," she said.

"You _could_ be, if you wanted to be!... No, I'm not happy, and I can't be contented this way, Mary, I warn you, I can't be!"

The menace of his suppressed violence left her silent and impassive. He too fell into moody silence, and so they returned to the house.

That night the whole town was roused from sleep, to see a red glare in the sky where by day hung the grey smudge over the city. The news came over the wires--Chicago was burning. A strong wind blew the smoke over the prairie, the town was enveloped in a dim haze. Trains came in, bringing refugees. Later, crowded into all sorts of vehicles, they poured in. The town opened its houses to the flood of terrified homeless people. All night blazed that red light in the sky. The wires went down, but each new arrival brought a story of more complete destruction, of whole streets of wooden houses bursting into flame at once, of brick buildings melting like wax in the furnace. By morning the city of half a million people was in ashes.

X

But the energy of youth does not stop long to mourn over destruction. Hardly had the ground cooled under that vast heap of ashes when it was torn up for new foundations. Almost overnight a new city began to rise, a prouder city where brick and stone largely took the place of wood. Ruin was swept away and forgotten, men toiled in the busy ant-hill to rebuild their fortunes, and within a year it was done. The city spread along the shore of the lake and far inland, bigger than ever, busier than ever, more splendid and prosperous.

At first, in the general ruin, Laurence had thought himself involved. His rent-producing buildings were gone, and the insurance companies prostrate. But the land remained, and by the outleap of energy and hope in the people, became more valuable than before. Long before the end of the year Laurence was at ease about his property. And so the new house that he had planned began to rise from its deep foundations.

The house became to Laurence a symbol, a personal expression. Indeed, it had been that, from his first idea of it. But as time went on, more of his constructive energy went into it. Checked in another way, an immaterial way, he must still be building something. The house at least was his creation, all his own, and it became a keen interest, almost a passion. The plans were drawn and redrawn till they suited him, he scrutinized each detail, he spent all the time he could spare in watching the workmen. When from the stone foundation the walls began to grow, layer on layer of deep red brick, he sat or lounged about by the hour, smoking one thick cigar after another, impatient, already seeing in his mind the whole structure complete up to the spire on the cupola, and planning the decoration of the stately rooms.

Mary sometimes accompanied him. She made an effort to do so, and to join in his interest. But it was somewhat as she might have joined in a child's play, humoring him, and he saw this. Nevertheless, he was glad to have her there with him, to talk to her about it, to ask her advice. But the ideas were all his--she had not many suggestions to offer, and these were practical ones, about pantries, closets, and so forth. The scale of the house rather daunted her--sometimes she murmured that it was going to be hard to run it, with nothing but raw untrained servants to be had.

"Well, you can train them," said Laurence cheerfully.

He planned the entrance-hall with its stately stair, its niches for statues; the billiard-room on the top floor; the library, with long windows looking out on the lake and a chimney-piece of dark marble reaching to the ceiling.

He wanted the house to be gay, inviting, festive in appearance--yet his plan was rather sombre than gay, grandiose. In spite of himself, what he chose had this character. The wish to make a striking effect, to impress and dominate, was stronger than the desire to please. Perhaps this came from the poverty and bareness of his early life--perhaps from some lingering ancestral memories of the old world. He wanted splendour, but he wanted it somehow aged and mellow, he did not like the appearance of newness. So the colour of the house was dark, dark wood was used in it. When it came to wall-papers and hangings, he chose them of heavy textures and deep colours. A sombre and dusky red was a favorite--he used that in the hall, the billiard-room and the library. He wanted Mary to choose the colour for the parlours, but in the end he decided that too, and it was a dark gold, with heavy double curtains of lace and silk subduing the faint gleam of the walls, and great chandeliers to light it up on festive occasions.

All this cost a great deal of money--how much, Mary did not enquire. She took it for granted that Laurence could manage his own affairs--and they both looked upon the fortune inherited from the Judge as his, though of course it was left in trust to the children. That was a formality, the money had been meant for Laurence. Naturally he would not impair the capital, but would rather increase it, by good investments. The house was an investment--what could be safer than that? The Judge had always laid stress on the value and safety of real estate. And already the value of his estate had increased largely. Values were going up everywhere. A wave of prosperity had overflowed the country. With the settling of political troubles, the new sense of security, a feeling of boundless wealth and opportunity sprang up and prevailed. The great west opening its riches, the quick growth of cities, fortunes made overnight almost, golden fortunes beckoning on every hand--the eyes of men were dazzled, the gold-fever ran in their veins. Gaining and spending went hand-in-hand. A new luxury was spreading. Money-scandals spread too, and a cynical perception that those in high places were by no means above lining their pockets in alliance with the rising power of Wall street. Speculation was the note of the time. Merchant princes, railroad barons, money kings, made a new aristocracy, prodigal and flamboyant, and set the fashion for living.

* * * * *

These big splashes in the pool, spreading tumultuous waves, had subsided into ripples before they reached the inlet where Mary lived; but the quiet surface of her life was to some degree disturbed. The restlessness of the time reached even her, but as something to be resisted as far as possible. The few friends she had were staid people, rather older than herself, and with these or with her parents, she preferred to spend what leisure she had. Her household mainly absorbed her energies, not yet restored to their normal pitch. Even with Nora, the care of the children was a constant occupation. The delicate youngest child was Mary's special charge. He shared her room, sometimes banishing Laurence, who could not wake at night after working all day.

The other boys, now six and five years old, were handsome robust fellows, noisy and inventive of mischief. The question of their education troubled Mary. She herself taught them to read, and began their religious instruction. She did not want to send them to the town school, fearing profane influences. Her early passionate tenderness for them had become a grave solicitude. Nora petted and spoiled the boys, but Mary was their taskmaster and mentor. Nora often lost her temper with them, and slaps alternated with kisses. Mary was calm and serious, severe with their moral lapses, such as fibbing and disobedience, rarely caressing them. She felt for them much more tenderness than she showed, believing that it was not good for them to be petted. On Hilary's advice, she had not taught her boys Greek, though by this time she could read it pretty well herself. But she taught them the Bible; they went to church with her, and on Sundays they had to learn and recite to her a certain number of verses; and she heard them say their prayers at night, encouraging original efforts.

For some time past she had felt that Nora was not a good influence. She was too much of a child herself, stormy, impetuous, without any authority over the boys. When she could not control them, she would threaten, scold and at times use physical violence, always repenting it, though, and making up with kisses and fond words. Mary had forbidden her to slap the children and sharply reproved her when she broke any of the rules laid down for them. Then Nora would sulk. In fact her temper had become noticeably bad.

* * * * *

One day in late September, after a week's absence, trying a case at the county seat, Laurence was expected home. Nora dressed both the boys in clean white suits, combed their curls with nervous fluttering fingers, set them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran up to her own room to put on some adornment. The carriage drove up. Mary met Laurence at the door, and after his usual warm greeting stood a moment in the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his bags. Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the shrubbery. Both parents rushed out, to find the boys, just dragged out of a mud-puddle, daubed from head to foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the hands of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. Mary seized the children, ordered Nora away and received a rude answer; whereupon Laurence spoke sternly to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled to her room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild sobbing. She could hear too, while dressing the boys anew, that Laurence went in and spoke to Nora; could hear the firm curt tones of his voice.

Presently he came into the nursery, and she said:

"I really think I can't keep Nora. I can't have scenes like this."

"No, I've told her so," said Laurence, frowning. "I've told her that she can't speak to you like that, and that if she can't control herself she'll have to go."

He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time. Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed. Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a big fee--a will contest, involving a large estate. He had taken it because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish.

"I shall charge them ten thousand--they're willing to pay more than that. So you see, Mary, you needn't worry about the price of carpets," he laughed.

After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, relaxed, tired but still talkative, smoking his big black cigar and watching with bright and contented eyes Mary at her sewing. He was always happy at returning home, the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And Mary was always glad to have him come back. She missed him deeply when he was away. He often brought disturbance, but he brought too something that she needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower current, though it might be more peaceful.

He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his arrival, but Mary had not. She thought of the children and presently laid down her work and said that she must see if they were covered properly--the night had turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. A light was burning in the nursery. As she entered she saw Nora kneeling by one of the cribs, her face bowed, hidden. Nora raised her head and turned toward the door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean--that radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth half-opened and smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora dropped her eyes, all the light went out of her. She got up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping child. And Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the room without speaking.

She returned to the library, took up her work again, listened to Laurence, responded to him, smiling tranquilly on him; after a time moved to sit beside him at his behest, and answered his caress. But all the time there was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure, hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister way disturbed even the current of her blood, made her heart beat heavily. It was a kind of fear, a vague terror of--she knew not what exactly, but something there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from.

She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion of Laurence. Nothing of that sort had existed for her, it had never entered her world for an instant. Now she hardly recognized it, except as a formless shadow of evil. Deceit, treachery--could she phrase such things, even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poisoned her sleep, it was there at her waking.... In spite of herself, not admitting it to herself, she suspected--she watched.

XI

A wild November night. The wind tore furiously across the prairie, sweeping the rain in slanting sheets. It was growing colder; rain became sleet; before morning it would be snow.

It was nearly midnight when Mary shut the door behind her and gathering her shawl over her light dress, rushed out into the storm. She was not sure she had been seen, but she ran, fearful of being overtaken. The icy rain drove in her face, on her uncovered head, soaked her dress under the flapping shawl. She had not far to go, but she was drenched from head to foot before she reached Hilary's house. She met no one in the street, it was not a night to be abroad. The trees tossed wildly overhead, letting go their last yellow leaves, the street-lights flickered dimly in the gale. There was a light in Hilary's study. She opened the house-door and walked into his room without knocking.

He was writing at his table, and sprang up as she entered, with a startled exclamation. She held out her hands to him, dropping her wet shawl, clutched his arm, clung to him, unable to speak. For the first time Hilary held her in his arms, her head with dishevelled streaming hair lay on his shoulder. She would have fallen if he had not held her. He thought she had fainted. Half-lifting her, he put her on the sofa, where she sank limp, and knelt beside her, putting back the wet strands of hair from her face. Her eyes were shut, but her eyelids flickered, her lips moved.

"Mary, for heaven's sake, can't you tell me what has happened?"

She heard him, nodded faintly, groped for his hand and clutched it as though to save herself from sinking. He waited while she fought to get back her hold on herself. For the first time in her life she had nearly lost consciousness, and she was terrified; it was like a black wave rearing over her head, threatening to engulf her. That feeling passed, slowly, Hilary's grasp sustained her, lifted her out of the dark flood.... She drew a long sobbing breath and opened her eyes.

"Hilary...."

She had never called him so before.

"Yes, I'm here."

"I came to you.... I came.... There was nobody else...."

"Yes, Mary, you're cold, you're shivering.... Lie there a minute while I stir up the fire."

"Yes, but don't go away!"

"No, I'm not going."

Reluctantly she let go his hand. He shook down the coals of the stove, put on some sticks of wood, brought coverlets to put over her.

"Mary, you're wet through.... Don't you want me to speak to Mrs. Lewis, get you some dry clothes?"

"No, no--no! I'll be warm in a minute...."

She sat up, gathered her loose hair together, trying to wind it into a knot.

"Look here, Mary, I have a warm dressing-gown. Take off your wet dress and put it on--go into my room there. And take off your shoes--good heavens, you've only got thin slippers! Here, I'll get you my slippers.... I'll bring the things, you can change here."

"No, I'm all right now. I'll go in there."

She stood up and moved without faltering. When she came out, wrapped in the grey gown, her hair smoothed back and rolled into a heavy knot, she had regained something of her usual manner. But she was deadly pale and her eyes looked dull and dazed, as though she had received a heavy blow. She sat down before the fire. Hilary sat near her, and holding his hand tightly in both hers, she told him in broken sentences what she had discovered.

"You must tell me what to do.... I shall never go back to him."

Hilary was silent.

"What shall I do?" she repeated, looking imploringly at him.

"But if you have made up your mind already--" he hesitated.

"Not to go back? Oh, yes.... But where shall I go?"

"Why, I should think--to your parents. Where else could you go?"

Now she was silent, and an expression of profound dislike and unwillingness made her face sullen. She dropped Hilary's hand and sat looking at the fire. Then suddenly she began to weep violently.

* * * * *

It was long before she could control herself again. Then she was quiet, crouched before the fire, staring at it with a look of despair.

Indeed the foundations of her life seemed to have crumbled under her. She had a lost, helpless feeling. Something had been violently wrenched away from her--a support that she had thought secure. She had never thought that Laurence could fail her, she had been sure of him. But he had deceived, betrayed her confidence. He had wounded her pride in him and in herself, to the death. She hated his sin, she despised him for it. What she had seen filled her with loathing. Never would she forgive him.

But now--what could she do? How make her life over again? Take her children and go back to her parents, as Hilary suggested? A woman separated from her husband--what a humiliating position for her! A public confession of failure! How could she go to her parents and tell them that she had made a mistake, that their opposition to her marriage was justified? And the comments of her little world, how could she bear those, she who had always stood so proudly above criticism? No matter what the reason for the separation, a woman who left her husband was always criticized. And she did not want to give her reason--not to any one, not even to her parents. She wanted nobody to know. Rather would she bury the events of this night in darkness....

She looked at Hilary, who sat by her in silence. If he had uttered a word of pity or condolence, she would have regretted the impulse that brought her to him. But he met her look gravely; then glanced at the kettle he had set on the stove, which was now beginning to steam.

"I shall make you some coffee--you look exhausted," he said.

"Oh, don't bother--I don't care for it," she protested dully.

"No bother--I often make it when I'm up late. I have everything here."

He fetched the coffee-pot, poured on the boiling water, set it back on the stove. A pleasant aroma filled the room. He brought a tray, with a cup, and sugar, and crackers, and Mary took it with a murmur. The coffee was good--she drank two cups of it and felt revived.

"Won't you have some?" she said, with a faint smile.

"I haven't another cup--but I'll get a glass."

They drank together. It was warm before the fire, sitting there, hearing the wind roar and the rain beat against the windows.

"I'd like to stay here," said Mary dreamily.

"To stay ...?"

"Yes--tonight. Can I stay? It must be late."

Hilary looked at his watch.

"Nearly three o'clock ... of course you must stay, you can't go out in the rain. You can lie down on the sofa here--or take my bed. You ought to sleep."

"No, no, I don't want to sleep.... But I mustn't keep you up all night. You go to bed, Hilary, and I'll stay here by the fire. Please."

"Well, after a while.... But Mrs. Lewis gets up early and I want to see her--I'll have to tell her you're here--"

Mary's face darkened. For an instant she had lost the feeling of what had happened, now it swept back upon her. The morning was coming--how was she to face it? Laurence would know of her absence, perhaps knew it now. He might go to her parents, he might come here to fetch her. She must decide something.

"Don't you think I ought to leave him?" she asked, looking at Hilary.

"I don't know. Do you mean--divorce him?" he replied with an effort.

"Divorce! No!" Mary exclaimed with a look of horror. "_You_ don't believe in divorce!"

"I don't believe in it," said Hilary in a low voice. "Nor in separation."

"I know--I know you don't. But...."

"You know what I believe. That marriage is a sacrament ... that it can't be broken or annulled...."

"But if _one_ has broken it--"

"One may sin against it--but another's sin does not--does not justify--"

Hilary got up, putting down his glass with a shaking hand, and walked to the window.

"I know. I believe as you do," said Mary darkly.

"But ... how can I go back there?"

Over the pallor of her face swept a flaming colour, her eyes flashed with rage.

"In my own house!" she cried hoarsely.

She set her teeth, clenched her hand. Hilary, with his back to her, did not see her face, but he heard her tone.

"You have your children, you have your--duty," he said in a trembling voice. "Just because it is hard, you can't--forsake it."

"No," said Mary blankly. "But ... I can't see ... I have been dutiful ... but now--I can't be the same. I can never be the same! What can I do?"

"Not the same ... but perhaps ... better," said Hilary from the window.

"Better?" she cried in a low tone of astonishment.

"Better--yes.... When one near to us fails ... must we not feel _we_ have failed, too?... Can we stand aside, and condemn?... Are we not ... our brother's keeper?"

After these faltering yet firm words there was silence for a time. Then Mary said in a hard tone:

"I can't see where I have failed.... I have tried to do my duty, as I saw it.... I can't feel responsible for _this_ ... and I can never forgive it."

"Only love can forgive."

"No, that's why I can't forgive!... I did love him, and he deceived me, insulted my love--I will never forgive him!"

"It's pride that speaks--not love."

"You know nothing about it! You _can't_ know!"

"I _do_ know, Mary."

Hilary turned and faced her.

"How can you say that? You know that I loved you for many years, that I loved you as any man loves a woman, that I wanted you for my own ... I can tell you now, because it has passed. It has changed. But I suffered what one can suffer from that feeling--and from jealousy. Yes, I _do_ know.... And I know too that you have never loved any one."

"You are mistaken."

Her tone was proud and angry. But then all of a sudden she softened. She looked up at him and said with simplicity:

"I love you, Hilary. You are the best person I've ever known. You're like my brother ... only you're far, far above me. I always used to feel that way about you, and now I feel it more than ever. And I love you for it.... But there's another kind of love ... when you're bound to a person, and they hurt you, you _can't_ love them just the same and forgive them--you can't, Hilary! Because your faith has been destroyed, and what bound you to the person is broken, and it can never be the same.... Even if I haven't always been perfect, I didn't break my faith, but _he_ has broken it, and it's gone--gone forever!"

And she began to weep again, passionately. There was no pride about her now. She cried out her suffering and loss, with heartbroken sobs.

"I know I haven't always been good, I've been hard sometimes and took my own way and wouldn't give in--but I wouldn't have done what he has done.... I wouldn't have deceived him or hurt him as he has hurt me.... I wouldn't have broken our marriage, but he has done it.... It shows that he didn't care for it, it didn't mean much to him.... I thought he loved me, but because I wasn't everything he wanted, he took another woman ... there, in the same house with me.... And he doesn't love her either, I know he doesn't, he sinned from weakness, low temptation--oh, I wouldn't have believed it of him. I knew in some ways he was worldly, but I always thought he was honest and sincere, I was proud of him ... but now...."

When she grew quiet again, and raised her tear-blurred face, it was to see a dim light outside the windows--the stormy dawn.

"Oh, poor Hilary!" she cried. "I've kept you up all night--you haven't slept a wink!"

"That's nothing," he answered gently. "I often have sleepless nights."

XII

Then, forgetting him, she stared at the dim light of the window, her eyes wide open and fixed, her lips parted with long shuddering sighs. Slowly her breathing grew quieter. Hilary watched her face.

"Mary," he said in low voice.

She started, turning her blank unseeing eyes upon him.

"Be careful what you do now.... You are hardening your heart.... Judge not, that you be not judged.... When pain comes to us, it is a symptom, a sign that something is wrong in our life. We must look through the pain to what caused it, and set it right. We must do it humbly, not setting ourselves up above the sinner. If another has sinned against us, let us see why. Are we free of blame for that sin? If we had been all that we should have been, would this have happened? Let us try to understand.... They that have eyes to see, let them see...."

There was no response in those blank eyes, no sign that she had heard. In her intense preoccupation she simply stared at him instead of at the window.

Mary was making up her mind. Something in her heard and registered Hilary's words; but they did not enter into the question that was absorbing her. This was a purely practical question. She had to decide what she was going to do _now_. And those well-known phrases uttered in Hilary's deep urgent voice as though they were new--they to all appearance passed by her like the idle wind.

She could see already what she was going to do. She was not going to make a scandal, nor have any one talking about her or pitying her. Enough, that she had complained to Hilary!... This thing should be as if it never had been, so far as her outward life went--no one should know. She would not "leave" her husband. But the sinner would not go unpunished.... She knew well how to punish him. She knew how to make him suffer....

Now, resolved, she rose to her feet.

"The baby! He always wakes about five--if I'm not there he'll be frightened. I must go back at once."

Hilary looked piercingly at her.

"You're going back then?"

"Yes, I'm going back. You told me to, didn't you?"

Her tone and look were cool, faintly mocking.

"It's snowing hard," said Hilary.

He put out the lamp--a grey light filled the room.

"No matter--it's only a little way."

"I'll get a carriage for you--"

"No--I'd rather go back as I came."

"But you can't--you haven't any dry clothes--"

"No matter--it's only for a moment."

She went quickly into the bedroom, and came back in her limp white dress and slippers. She took the heavy India shawl and drew it over her head. Its damp folds completely covered her. Only her face was visible, white, composed, with a curious sinister light in it.

She put her hand out of the folds to Hilary. With that gesture he felt her put him away. He knew he was included in her unforgivingness, he had become a part of something she wanted to banish. She would hate him for knowing....

"Hilary," she said, "I want you to promise me something. Promise never to speak of this--not to any one else, I know you wouldn't--but not to me. Never speak of it to me again."

He dropped her hand, stood looking at her, and slowly his face became as inflexible as her own.

"You shut me out, then?... I count for nothing with you? You reject what you came here for--my help, my ... counsel...."

"No one can help me. You can't understand."

"You came to me, not for help or counsel. You came for sympathy, thinking I would stand with you against your husband. You counted on my feeling for you--you have always counted on it, though you would never admit it to yourself--"

"I don't know why I came.... But it was no use."

"No. Because you won't let it be. You'll go your own way ... repay evil for evil. I can see it in your face. I always knew you had it in you.... Oh, Mary, has it all gone for nothing--all that you said you believed in for so many years? Was it all on the surface--the first time life comes hard to you will you throw it all away?... No, I won't let you, I've cared too much for you--"

"What you say is no use, Hilary. You might as well promise."

"Of course not.... You know I won't."

"Then good-bye."

She looked at him indifferently and turned away. Noiselessly she left the house. She hoped that she might return unseen to her home, and rejoiced that no one was apt to be out so early. The snow fell thickly, blindingly, and covered her footsteps. The air was sweet, less cold than in the night, the wind had gone down. Each branch and twig was ridged with snow; it lay in a broad unbroken sheet over all surfaces, and seemed to give out light in the dim dawn.

As she approached the house, she wondered how she was to get in; the street-door locked with a catch and she had no key. But as she went up on the steps she heard the baby crying, and barely noticed that the door opened to her touch; some one had turned the catch back.... She ran upstairs. Laurence was in the room, dressed, holding the child, trying to quiet it. She threw off her shawl, put out her arms for the boy, gathered him to her breast. His cries ceased.

A flash of surprise and relief had lit Laurence's face at her entrance, but now he stood, looking pale and gloomy.

"How long has he been crying?" she asked.

"I don't know--not very long."

Still holding the child, she tried to light a spirit-lamp to heat some milk; Laurence silently helped her. When she had laid the baby on the bed, with his bottle, she said:

"You know I went out?"

"Yes, and I know where you went, too!"

Laurence's voice trembled, and his lips; she had noticed when he was lighting the lamp how his hands shook. His face showed deep lines that made him look ten years older. But Mary said with icy calmness:

"You didn't expect me to stay here, did you?"

"I know where you went," he repeated, his eyes dully flaming. "You ran to him, to--"

She was changing her dress for a warm wrapper, but suddenly she turned on him.

"Is that woman in the house?"

"No--she's gone."

"How is she gone--where?"

"What does it matter to you?... She went to the station, if you want to know. She meant to take the first train out."

"She can't go like that--like a thief in the night!... You are responsible toward her, Laurence."

"Don't worry about my responsibility. I'll take care of it."

"Yes, I suppose you will."

His harassed desperate eyes rested on Mary, searching, piercing.

"And you," he said thickly, "are responsible to me."

"For what?"

"For this whole thing--it's your fault."

"Is it indeed?"

"It is!... and your action tonight proves it. Flying out of the house--to your lover."

Mary was seated with her back to him, changing her wet shoes and stockings. She laughed--ironical laughter, deep with scorn.

"Yes, laugh! I know it's true!... Oh, I don't know what your actions have been, how can I know?... But I know your feeling, I know it hasn't been with me, but with some one else. You married me with that feeling in your heart--you did me a great wrong. I couldn't stand it.... For what I've done that's wrong, by God, you're responsible!"

Mary put on her slippers and stood up, tying the cord of the dressing-gown round her waist. She looked at him with cutting contempt.

"I don't care what you think.... But if I were a man I wouldn't try to shift my responsibility for my own sins to some one else."

"Will you take your own responsibility? Do you see that you've been wrong toward me?"

"No. I see that you're trying to throw the wrong on me to save yourself. Perhaps you want me to ask your forgiveness?"

"Yes, by God, I do."

She looked at him, under her long lids, with a blue icy gleam. Silence fell--charged throbbing silence; all the bitterness of those spoken words, all their venom, distilled in it. Words that sting and burn like fire--that leave ineffaceable scars....

Laurence waited a moment, then with a look of rage and anguish at her as she stood with averted face, he went out of the room, and she heard him leave the house. She was standing by the window, she saw him pass, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his coat flapping open. He disappeared in the veil of snow. A sharp pang shot through her. But she stood motionless.

On the bed the baby lay sucking at his bottle, holding it lovingly with his frail hands, making gurgling contented sounds. And now she heard the other children in the nursery, she must attend to them, there was no one else now to do it.

She was busy with the children for some hours. Then, leaving them all together in the nursery, she went into the big bedroom which had been Laurence's as well as hers, and set about removing all his clothes and other belongings into the smaller room at the back of the house where he sometimes slept. This room she arranged carefully, with her accustomed neatness, putting everything in convenient order, seeing that the lamp was filled and a fire laid ready for lighting.

In going and coming she had to pass the closed door of Nora's room. At last she stopped at this door, hesitated a moment, then flung it open. The room was swept and empty of all personal belongings--only there lingered a faint stale scent--Nora had been given to cheap perfumes. A look of disgust contracted Mary's pale face. She took out the key, locked the door on the outside, opened a window in the hall and flung the key far out into the snow.

She went once more into the neighbouring room and took from the table something she suddenly recollected to have seen lying there among Laurence's papers. It was a little leather case, containing a daguerreotype of herself, done at the age of sixteen. She had given it to Laurence when they were betrothed, and he had carried it through the four years of the war. The case was worn and shabby. She opened it and looked at the picture--a charming picture it was. The graceful dress, with its full skirt, and frilled fichu covering the girlish shoulders, the pure oval face framed in banded hair.... Laurence had loved it.

Mary took it into her room, and with tears running down her cheeks, she seized the fire-tongs, smashed the picture to pieces, and threw the whole thing into the waste-basket.