"Then you think he may--"
"I don't know a thing about it, Mary, that's the truth--and it
generally is the truth. I think he has an even chance.... I suppose you
have no idea where he may have picked this up? So far as I know, we
haven't a case in town."
"No--he's always moving about, you know--he was in Springfield last
week--"
"Yes. Well, I'll come in, say tomorrow evening, and stay overnight.
Suit you? Got to get my train now."
He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and departed. Mary was used
to that look from him. It was the only commentary he had ever made on
the course of her married life; and she had made no confidences to him.
Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly cool unemotional manner
meant: things were so serious that there was no use making a fuss. When
the balance hung between life and death one had to be ready for either.
No time for tears--a smile was a more natural thing--one could smile,
long after tears were all wept away.
She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, because Nora's
eyes were perpetually reddened and she always seemed on the point of
crying. Even when discussing the preparation of soups, arranging for
extra service, expenses, all the details of a household in state of
siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. Nerves!
Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized her. She thought
it probable, otherwise he would have asked how Laurence came to be at
this house. He had asked no questions.
She recalled the violence with which Nora had rejected her offer to
get another servant. "We don't need anybody else, we can get along all
right." Then under her breath, "Too many people here now!"
That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had been an old
habit of Nora's when her temper was roused. But this time she added
hurriedly. "I'll do the cooking myself, I want to do it. You just tell
me what you want and I'll get it--night or day, it's all the same to
me."
She had spoken with intensity, looking away from Mary, her cheeks had
flushed hotly. For a moment she looked like the passionate girl of long
ago.
Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did not want to call her
"Mrs. Carlin." Mary without thinking had called her Nora; she did not
like that, perhaps.... Mary shrugged her shoulders with an ironical
smile.
After her father had gone, she remained sitting in her chair in the
study, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the smouldering
fire in the grate.... Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through
the years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing out like
sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering a lifetime almost....
She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for the first time,
as though they belonged to some one else. It seemed that a process, now
suddenly completed, had been going on for a long time--a process of
breaking, one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to the
self which she no longer felt to be hers.... Or rather, it was hers,
that self, but it no longer represented her, contained her, it was not
all of her. She could stand apart from it and criticize it without
feeling.
She looked back to the time when she had been all one self, completely
contained in a firm shell: when she had been sure she was right, and
all other persons, when they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending
pride, pride that had outlasted even her self-righteousness--pride that
held fast to the form long after the substance of feeling had gone....
Never had she been able to admit that she was wrong, even after she
had seen it clearly. Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her
unhappiness--or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her that she had
begun to feel wrong? Was it because of this wrong that she had lost her
religion--or was it that her religion was a false shell, and only after
breaking through it had she been able to see such light as this?
It seemed that all she had been, that self she had loved and taken
pride in, had suffered a slow disintegration.... All that she could now
feel as surely hers, was the aloof merciless intelligence that sat in
judgment; and something else, that was suffering deeply, dumbly....
There was a dark chaos, into which she could hardly bear to look.
Instinct, emotion, long denied, suppressed, was struggling passionately
there for expression. This dark depth of feeling was common to the self
she had rejected and to what she now was--it spread far out beyond
either, it was limitless. It was a flood of pain, swelling to overwhelm
her ... it was terror and grief, common to all the world, from which
till now she had walled herself apart.... Only for a moment could she
bear that.... She had to keep calm, keep her head clear--she was on
guard. And she could do it, her nerve was good. If Laurence should
die--go out perhaps without a word to her--then the flood would break
over her. But till then she could hold it back.
* * * * *
Could a wrong done ever be atoned for? Would recognition that she had
done it, a sincere wish to atone for it, be of any use?... Yes, to that
self in which she no longer felt any interest. It would be good for
herself to repent--but she did not care now about being good or right.
She would like to make up for what she had done. And that was no doubt
impossible. By her own actions she had helped to fix the form of Nora's
life, and of Laurence's. In a real sense then atonement was impossible,
repentance was useless. One's acts were irrevocable. All she could do
was to recognize her responsibility and pay that part of the price that
was assessed against her; perhaps this would be, to see that others had
paid far more heavily than she.
* * * * *
How differently that old self of hers would have looked upon this
situation. There would have been two sinners and one righteous person
judging them. The same house would hardly have held Nora and that
other woman, who would have drawn aside her skirts lest she should
touch pitch and be defiled.... She remembered Hilary's attitude about
sin, and her own condemnation of it ... and reflected vaguely that she
had lost her hatred for sin along with her religion. Now everything
was mixed up together, she hardly knew black from white.... Only she
regretted--yes, bitterly regretted--long empty years.... Her wrongs,
and revenge, and hatred, clasped close and cherished, had eaten all the
good out of life and she had starved....