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."