Mary Cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions ascending
the steps of the quiet mansion. She stood uncertainly and looked at the
opening and closing door. Then a policeman came by and looked at her.
"Come, move on," he brusquely ordered. Her vacillation promptly
vanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. She put out her hand to
ring, but the door flew silently open and a man-servant stood looking at
her.
"I have some friends here," she said, speaking coarsely.
"You will have to be introduced," said the man. She hesitated and
started to turn away. Thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed upon
her husband's card-case. She presented a card. It worked a rapid
transformation in the servant's manner, which did not escape her.
"Come in," he invited her.
She did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but glided
quickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women and strains of
music. Harry Cresswell was sitting opposite and bending over an impudent
blue-and-blonde beauty. Mary slipped straight across to him and leaned
across the table. The hat fell off, but she let it go.
"Harry!" she tried to say as he looked up.
Then the table swayed gently to and fro; the room bowed and whirled
about; the voices grew fainter and fainter--all the world receded
suddenly far away. She extended her hands languidly, then, feeling so
utterly tired, let her eyelids drop and fell asleep.
She awoke with a start, in her own bed. She was physically exhausted but
her mind was clear. She must go down and meet him at breakfast and talk
frankly with him. She would let bygones be bygones. She would explain
that she had followed him to save him, not to betray him. She would
point out the greater career before him if only he would be a man; she
would show him that they had not failed. For herself she asked nothing,
only his word, his confidence, his promise to try.
After his first start of surprise at seeing her at the table, Cresswell
uttered nothing immediately save the commonplaces of greeting. He
mentioned one or two bits of news from the paper, upon which she
commented while dawdling over her egg. When the servant went out and
closed the door, she paused a moment considering whether to open by
appeal or explanation. His smooth tones startled her:
"Of course, after your art exhibit and the scene of last night, Mary, it
will be impossible for us to live longer together."
She stared at him, utterly aghast--voiceless and numb.
"I have seen the crisis approaching for some time, and the Negro
business settles it," he continued. "I have now decided to send you to
my home in Alabama, to my father or your brother. I am sure you will be
happier there."
He rose. Bowing courteously, he waited, coldly and calmly, for her to
go.
All at once she hated him and hated his aristocratic repression; this
cold calm that hid hell and its fires. She looked at him, wide-eyed, and
said in a voice hoarse with horror and loathing:
"You brute! You nasty brute!"
_Thirty-two_