as she lay watchful in her bed the night before her escapade, she vowed that she had no love for tristram, none whatever. at the same moment she protested with a cry that she had none for her husband either; indeed, it was rather the other way. surely, surely, she was entitled to resentment against that poor gentleman. for what reason under heaven had he broken in upon her laborious days if, now that he had her, she was to be no more to him than a figure at his table? was this the whole duty of wives? she knew better than that. nay, then, had wives no rights? was she bought to be a nun? she declared to herself that she would be willing, should that enable her to help him in his work. but she knew that nothing would enable her; she had insight enough into character to read what manner of man he was. “he can tell me nothing—nothing. and the more he needs me the less he can say so. if i went to him on my knees and begged him to be open with me, he would shrivel before my face. no, no, he must be for ever bestowing favours—he loves to be the benefactor—and that’s all he loves. if he could pity me he would love me again—in his way. but—” and she clenched her little hands and stiffened her arms—“he shall never pity me—never.” and then she blushed all over to feel how she had crept to him to ask his leave of absence, and how she had cowered there, with drooping eyelids too heavy to be raised. alas! and how she had fibbed.

a thought of tristram here, of his kisses and strong arms about her, made her heart beat. the wild joy of being possessed by so fine a creature was not to be denied, once you blinked the truth that in the very act of taking possession he would despise you for suffering it. that had to be blinked, though. whatever she might have become by right of marriage, by intercourse with tristram’s own world, by familiarity with its ways—to tristram she was still a little governess, sent into this world to be kissed and fondled—but no possible companion for a gentleman, or man of parts. formerly, if she had felt this, she had accepted it; but now—well, it had to be blinked. mary was no fool. she knew quite well that she had learned the ways of the great. she knew that she was a success. she had been clever enough from the beginning to see that safety lay only in being absolutely herself. while she had gone in and out of misperton brand, from school-house to church and back, she had turned her eyes and ears—all her senses—upon these lords of the earth who were lords without effort. her cantacutes, james germains, and their friends—every gesture of theirs had been a study to her. by instinct she had bored into the very marrow of these people. they alone in the world could afford to be themselves. and directly she could afford it she put that into practice—with success, as she knew very well. tristram duplessis, however, would have none of that, ignored it. he was entirely himself, too, and never allowed her to forget that she was his inferior. every look he gave her was, in its way, an insult, implied “you are mine, my dear, for the picking up.” she knew that she ought to be offended—but she was not offended. she knew that such a homage as his was not flattering—and yet she was flattered by it. then why should she run away from what pleased her? as she asked herself this question, to which the answer had been so easy a little while before, she found herself now echoing more faintly her “why, indeed?” was not love a necessity to women? was she to have none of it? was she to be an unwedded wife for ever, and unloved? what had her friend told her, that wonderful day in the park when, it had seemed, the scales fell from her eyes and she saw men and women where before she had seen herds, dressed by the milliner and marshalled by the police? love, he had said, is a real thing—one of the few real things we have; and it has been turned by the lawyers into a means of securing real property. “it’s bad enough that women should lend themselves to that; but worse things are done in love’s name, i believe.” well then, if tristram loved her, in his way, was she not justified in giving him what she had left to give? at that moment she felt his arms about her, his breath upon her cheeks. yes, yes, he loved her—he had always loved her. let come what might of that.

she turned on the light and left her bed; she sat at her writing-table and scribbled a few words on a sheet—“i am going to blackheath to-morrow—by train. i shall leave charing-cross at 4.15.” she put that in an envelope, wrote his name and address, stamped it. now, what was the time? two o’clock? it could still be posted so that he would get it at eight. dressing gown, slippers, a hasty twist to her hair, a cloak and hood—she opened her door noiselessly and crept downstairs.

she was some time unfastening the front door—time enough to cool; time enough to decide with a leaden heart that she had no love for tristram. the keen pale air tempered her still further. “be yourself,” she had been told; and “sincerity is the whole matter.” insincerity! there lay the sin. she had to go to the corner of the square to the pillar-box; but not a soul was in sight: it could be done. gathering her cloak about her, she ventured out, and walked tiptoe forward, with eyes all astare for a policeman or late cab. . . .

the houses seemed made of eyes; there was not a blind window but had a witness in it. mocking, leering, incredulous, curious, heavily reproving she dragged before them her load of shame. oh, that it should have come to this, that she was a spectacle for all london’s reproach! but she sped onwards on light feet, her letter in her hand.

where hill-street broadens into the square stands a great lamp, the centre, as it were, of a pool of light. there had been a storm of wind and rain in the early part of that night, and the surface of the road was fretted with gleaming reflections where mud and water had been blown up into billows. as she stood for a second or two by the pillar-box, her letter not yet posted, her eyes, painfully acute, fell upon this wide, dimpled and cresseted bay, and, although her mind was disturbed, took some sort of interest in the effect. following the light inwards, she found her looks arrested by something else—a torn spray of a tree, blown, no doubt, from one of the planes in the square garden—which lay by the pillar-box, almost at her feet. it was about eighteen inches long, bent in the midst, and pointed to the north. strictly, it pointed north-west.

immediately she remembered the patteran which senhouse had explained to her. wonderful thing—if he had passed this way while she was contending with her sin, and had laid this sure sign in the road to show her where he was to be found! it pointed to the north—no! to the north-west. that seemed to make a certainty of it. her heart beat high, and the flood of happiness rose within her until she seemed to be bathed in it to the chin. she stood alone in that great glaring emptiness, unconscious of everything but her triumphant release from bondage. to the north—safety was in the north, comradeship, health, freedom to breathe and move her limbs! smiling to herself, she dropped her letter into the pillar-box, picked up the patteran and returned swiftly to the house, to bed and to happy sleep. absolved! she was absolved.

in the morning she arose with the feeling of elation one has at the opening of an honest adventure; the day is before you, the world lies mapped out; you are not to fail—you cannot. she dressed, breakfasted and read her letters. there was one from tristram, which she had not even the curiosity to open. she lit the corner of it at the spirit-lamp and held it daintily out while it curled and blackened under the flame and dropped in charred flakes into the slop basin. ghosts of words in silver characters flickered as they perished—she saw “homage,” “heart’s queen,” “kiss,” and “my arms.” she wrote to her mother at blackheath that she was unexpectedly delayed but hoped to come soon. she would write again, she said, or send a telegram. meantime a trunk would arrive and might wait for her. at eleven she asked if mr. germain was up, and being told that he was, went in to see him.

if he had been in the mood to notice anything but his own troubles, he must have remarked upon her altered habit. she was radiantly well, self-possessed, and cool. she kissed his forehead lightly, asked how he had slept, and then told him that she was lunching out and should have her luggage sent down to blackheath. she had given orders to her maid, and should not want the carriage.

mr. germain listened heavily, fingering a blue-book and a pencil. he made no inquiries, had no suggestions to offer. she anticipated what he might have had to say as to an approaching visit of the james germains by telling him that all arrangements had been made—and then she said, “i won’t disturb you again. i know that you are very busy.”

“yes, yes,” he said. “my work presses upon me.” he sighed, and then asked with studied politeness, “you go to-day?”

she laughed. “i’ve just been telling you about it.” she stooped and kissed his forehead again. “good-bye,” she said, “i’ll write, of course—if you’ll promise to read what i send you.”

he caught his breath, and shut his eyes tightly as if something hurt him; but he did not move from his chair. nor did he once seek to meet her eyes. she could see that he was deeply depressed, but felt no pity for him just then. her youth was too strong within her, her adventure too near, and her freedom too certain. yet she hovered above him looking down at him drooped in his chair, quivering over him, as it were, like some gossamer insect new-dawning to the sun. a word, a sigh, a look would have netted her in; but nothing came. he sat stonily astare, his face hidden by his hand—the other keeping his page in the blue-book. looking down, as from the battlements of heaven an archangel might survey the earth, she touched his shoulder with her finger-tips, and was gone.

in reasoning it all out, or rather in flashing her instinct upon events—for that was her way—she knew that senhouse could not himself have laid the patteran for her guidance. none the less, she was sure it was intended for her, and that it pointed truly to where he was. it was june; he would be in cumberland. wastwater would find him, he had said. her plan, as she worked it out, was to take train to kendal and inquire.

this she did. while her trunk and dressing-case were being delivered at heath view, and while duplessis was biting his nails under the clock at charing cross station, she was being carried smoothly to the north, snugly in a corner of a third-class carriage, her cheek to the window-pane, and her bright unwinking eyes watching the landscape as it rushed up to meet her. the villa gardens and hedgerows of herts, the broad leicestershire cornfields, bletchley with its spire, rugby, crewe, then the dark over all; but scarcely for a moment did her eyes leave the nearing north. she arrived at kendal at midnight, and had some tea. then she found the ladies’ waiting-room, lay on the sofa, and slept.