For a moment I stood where Martin had left me, throbbing through and
through like an open wound, telling myself that he had gone, that I
should never see him again, and that I had driven him away from me.
Those passionate kisses had deprived me of the power of consecutive
thought. I could only feel. And the one thing I felt above everything
else was that the remedy I had proposed to myself for my unhappy
situation--renunciation--was impossible, because Martin was a part of my
own being and without him I could not live.
"Martin! Martin! My love! My love!" cried the voice of my heart.
In fear lest I had spoken the words aloud, and in terror of what I might
do under the power of them, I hurried into my bedroom and locked and
bolted the door.
But the heart knows nothing of locks and bolts, and a moment afterwards
my spirit was following Martin to his room. I was seeing him as I had
seen him last, with his face full of despair, and I was accusing myself
of the pain I had caused him.
I had conquered Martin, but I had conquered myself also. I had compelled
him to submit, but his submission had vanquished me.
Even if I had a right to impose renunciation on myself, what right had I
to impose it upon him, who did not desire it, did not think it
necessary, was not reconciled to it, and only accepted it out of
obedience to my will?
He loved me. No man ever loved a woman more dearly. He deserved to be
loved in return. He had done nothing to forfeit love. He was bound by no
ties. And yet I was driving him away from me. What right had I to do so?
I began to see that I had acted throughout with the most abominable
selfishness. In his great love he had said little or nothing about
himself. But why had _I_ not thought of him? In the struggles of my
religious conscience I had been thinking of myself alone, but Martin had
been suffering too, and I had never once really thought of that? What
_right_ had I to make him suffer?
After a while I began to prepare for bed, but it took me long to
undress, for I stopped every moment to think.
I thought of the long years Martin had been waiting for me and while I
was telling myself that he had kept pure for my sake, my heart was
beating so fast that I could hardly bear the strain of it.
It cut me still deeper to think that even as there had been no other
woman for him in the past so there would be no other in the future.
Never as long as he lived! I was as sure of that as of the breath I
breathed, and when I remembered what he had said about wearing the
willow for me as if I were dead I was almost distracted.
His despairing words kept ringing mercilessly in my ears--"It's all as
one now"; "How happy we might have been." I wanted to go to him and tell
him that though I was sending him away still I loved him, and it was
_because_ I loved him that I was sending him away.
I had made one step towards the door before I remembered that it was too
late to carry out my purpose. The opportunity had passed. Martin had
gone to his room. He might even be in bed by this time.
But there are spiritual influences which control our bodies
independently of our will. I put on my dressing-gown (being partly
undressed) and went back to the boudoir. I hardly knew what impulse
impelled me to do so, and neither do I know why I went from the boudoir
to the balcony unless it was in hope of the melancholy joy of standing
once more where Martin and I had stood together a little while ago.
I was alone now. The low thunder was still rolling along the cliffs, but
I hardly heard it. The white sheet lightning was still pulsing in the
sky and rising, as it seemed, out of the sea, but I hardly saw it.
At one moment I caught a glimpse of a solitary fishing boat, under its
brown lugger sails, heading towards Blackwater; at the next moment my
eyes were dazzled as by a flashlight from some unseen battleship.
Leaning over the balcony and gazing into the intermittent darkness I
pictured to myself the barren desolation of Martin's life after he had
left me. Loving me so much he might fall into some excess, perhaps some
vice, and if that happened what would be the measure of my
responsibility?
Losing me he might lose his faith in God. I had read of men becoming
spiritual castaways after they had lost their anchorage in some great
love, and I asked myself what should I do if Martin became an infidel.
And when I told myself that I could only save Martin's soul by
sacrificing my own I was overwhelmed by a love so great that I thought I
could do even that.
"Martin! Martin! Forgive me, forgive me," I cried.
I felt so hot that I opened my dressing-gown to cool my bare breast.
After a while I began to shiver and then fearing I might take cold I
went back to the boudoir, and sat down.
I looked at my cuckoo clock. It was half-past twelve. Only half an hour
since Martin had left me! It seemed like hours and hours. What of the
years and years of my life that I had still to spend without him?
The room was so terribly silent, yet it seemed to be full of our dead
laughter. The ghost of our happiness seemed to haunt it. I was sure I
could never live in it again.
I wondered what Martin would be doing now. Would he be in bed and
asleep, or sitting up like this, and thinking of me as I was thinking of
him?
At one moment I thought I heard his footsteps. I listened, but the sound
stopped. At another moment, covering my face with my hands, I thought I
saw him in his room, as plainly as if there were no walls dividing us.
He was holding out his hands to me, and his face had the yearning,
loving, despairing expression which it had worn when he looked back at
me from the door.
At yet another moment I thought I heard him calling me.
"Mary!"
I listened again, but again all was still, and when I told myself that
if in actual fact he had spoken my name it was perhaps only to himself
(as I was speaking his) my heart throbbed up to my throat.
Once more I heard his voice.
"Mary!"
I could bear no more. Martin wanted me. I must go to him. Though body
and soul were torn asunder I must go.
Before I knew what I was doing I had opened the door and was walking
across the corridor in the direction of Martin's room.
The house was dark. Everybody had gone to bed. Light as my footsteps
were, the landing was creaking under me. I knew that the floors of the
grim old Castle sometimes made noises when nobody walked on them, but
none the less I felt afraid.
Half way to Martin's door I stopped. A ghostly hand seemed to be laid
on my shoulder and a ghostly voice seemed to say in my ear:
"Wait! Reflect! If you do what you are thinking of doing what will
happen? You will become an outcast. The whole body of your own sex will
turn against you. You will be a bad woman."
I knew what it was. It was my conscience speaking to me in the voice of
my Church--my Church, the mighty, irresistible power that was separating
me from Martin. I was its child, born in its bosom, but if I broke its
laws it would roll over me like a relentless Juggernaut.
It was not at first that I could understand why the Church should set
itself up against my Womanhood. My Womanhood was crying out for life and
love and liberty. But the Church, in its inexorable, relentless voice,
was saying, "Thou Shalt Not!"
After a moment of impenetrable darkness, within and without, I thought I
saw things more plainly. The Church was the soul of the world. It stood
for purity, which alone could hold the human family together. If all
women who had made unhappy marriages were to do as I was thinking of
doing (no matter under what temptation) the world would fall to wreck
and ruin.
Feeling crushed and ashamed, and oh, so little and weak, I groped my way
back to the boudoir and closed the door.
Then a strange thing happened--one of those little accidents of life
which seem to be thrown off by the mighty hand of Fate. A shaft of light
from my bedroom, crossing the end of my writing-desk, showed me a copy
of a little insular newspaper.
The paper, which must have come by the evening post, had probably been
opened by Martin, and for that reason only I took it up and glanced at
it.
The first thing that caught my eye was a short report headed "Charity
Performance."
It ran:
_"The English ladies and gentlemen from Castle Raa who are cruising
round the island in the handsome steam yacht, the_ Cleopatra, _gave a
variety entertainment last night in aid of the Catholic Mission at the
Palace, Ravenstown.
"At the end of the performance the Lord Bishop, who was present in
person and watched every item of the programme with obvious enjoyment,
proposed a vote of thanks in his usual felicitous terms, thanking Lord
Raa for this further proof of his great liberality of mind in helping a
Catholic charity, and particularly mentioning the beautiful and
accomplished Madame Lier, who had charmed all eyes and won all hearts by
her serpentine dances, and to whom the Church in Ellan would always be
indebted for the handsome sum which had been the result of her
disinterested efforts in promoting the entertainment.
"It is understood that the_ Cleopatra _will leave Ravenstown Harbour
to-morrow morning on her way back to Port Raa."_
That was the end of everything. It came upon me like a torrent and swept
all my scruples away.
Such was the purity of the Church--threatening _me_ with its censures
for wishing to follow the purest dictates of my heart, yet taking money
from a woman like Alma, who was bribing it to be blind to her misconduct
and to cover her with its good-will!
My husband too--his infidelities were flagrant and notorious, yet the
Church, through its minister, was flattering his vanity and condoning
his offences!
He was coming back to me, too--this adulterous husband, and when he came
the Church would require that I should keep "true faith" with him,
whatever his conduct, and deny myself the pure love that was now awake
within me.
But no, no, no! Never again! It would be a living death. Accursed be the
power that could doom a woman to a living death!
Perhaps I was no longer sane--morally sane--and if so God and the Church
will forgive me. But seeing that neither the Church nor the Law could
liberate me from this bond which I did not make, that both were
shielding the evil man and tolerating the bad woman, my whole soul rose
in revolt.
I told myself now that to leave my husband and go to Martin would be to
escape from shame to honour.
I saw Martin's despairing face again as I had seen it at the moment of
our parting, and my brain rang with his passionate words. "You are my
wife. I am your real husband. We love each other. We shall continue to
love each other. No matter where you are, or what they do with you, you
are mine and always will be."
Something was crying out within me: "Love him! Tell him you love him.
Now, now! He is going away. To-morrow will be too late. Go to him. This
will be your true marriage. The other was only legalised and sanctified
prostitution."
I leapt up, and tearing the door open, I walked with strong steps across
the corridor towards Martin's room.
My hair was down, my arms were bare in the ample sleeves of my
dressing-gown, and my breast was as open as it had been on the balcony,
but I thought nothing of all that.
I did not knock at Martin's door. I took hold of the handle as one who
had a right. It turned of itself and the door opened.
My mind was in a whirl, black rings were circling round my eyes, but I
heard my trembling, quivering, throbbing voice, as if it had been the
voice of somebody else, saying:
"Martin, I am coming in."
Then my heart which had been beating violently seemed to stop. My limbs
gave way. I was about to fall.
At the next moment strong arms were around me. I had no fear. But there
was a roaring in my brain such as the ice makes when it is breaking up.
Oh, you good women, who are happy in the love that guards you,
shields you, shelters you, wraps you round and keeps you pure and
true, tread lightly over the prostrate soul of your sister in her
hour of trial and fierce temptation.
And you blessed and holy saints who kneel before the Mother of all
Mothers, take the transgression of her guilty child to Him
who--long ago in the house of the self-righteous Pharisee--said to
the woman who was a sinner and yet loved much--the woman who had
washed His feet with her tears and dried them with the hair of her
head--"Thy sins are forgiven thee."