the tale of germain’s posthumous disposition of his chattels ran, as such tales will, all about town, and lost nothing in the running. women took it complacently, after their kind. of course it was odd; and yet, in its way, was it not a tribute? one or two pretty young wives told each other that it was touching; a miss lavender shed tears. in the clubs they said plainly that duplessis had been bought off. palmer lovell, with his back to the fireplace, cried out in his strident boy’s voice, “if that’s not compounding a felony, it’s compounding a felon. but what the devil of a right has old germain, alive or dead, to whip his wife in public?” no clubman had an answer to this. the best thing of all was said by lord kesteven in paris: “god be good to us, what turks we all are! here’s old germain taking the harem-key into the grave with him.”

that keen-faced old lord came to london and called on mary in hill-street. he observed her pale in her black weeds, but with a haunted kind of beauty upon her which she had never had before. her eyes were enormous, he said. she was very quiet in her manner, seemed dazed, but not cowed—apprehensive, you might think. she looked up at him in a mutely expectant way, as if she expected him momentarily to hit her, and was too tired even to flinch at the impending blow. he felt deeply for her—all sorts of things, and after his manner, therefore, was more bluff and direct than usual. “well, my young friend, and what are you going to do with yourself? i should advise you to get out of this. no woman can be expected to stand it.”

she flushed at the bold attack, but did not avoid it. “i hear nothing of what is being said. i am sure he did not mean to be unkind. that is not like him. i was to blame.”

“i won’t talk about it, or i shall get angry. cant—in a man’s will—to disguise something worse, and nastier—pouf! look here, my dear, try france—try paris. my sister margaret de guiche would like you to pay her a visit. she said so. she’s alone, and you need see nobody. de guiche is in petersburg. you couldn’t have a better due?a than margaret. it will be a kindness to her—and a kindness to me. i wish you’d think of it.”

she listened with hanging head, and veiled eyes. her eyelids, always heavy, seemed now as if they were of intolerable weight. she watched her twisting fingers as she thanked him for the proposal. she would think of it, she told him—she had everything to think of.

“i know that very well,” kesteven said; “but there are some things which i hope you need not consider. one of them is the great regard i have for you.”

oh, yes, she was sure of that. he had shown her so much kindness.

“i’m glad to hear it,” he continued; “and i’ll go as far as this. if you decide to renounce your legacy—on reflection—i should claim the privilege of helping you to do it. i can hardly go further—but so far i am ready to go. remember that. remember that i am allowed to call myself your friend. remember, if you choose, that i am five-and-sixty, and take heart—if you need heart.”

it was clear what was implied in this speech; but she did not feel equal to quieting the anxiety which underlay it. she made no remark.

“at any rate,” said his lordship, “i tell you that you may command the h?tel de guiche. margaret may be trusted—and perhaps i need not add that you may trust me, too.” but he couldn’t get her to say more than she would think of it, so took his leave. he kissed her hand.

so far she had not seen duplessis, nor heard from him; but the sense that an interview with him was impending, was, as it were, swinging like a sword over her head, fretted her nerves so badly that she was incapable of thinking what she could say to him when he came to her—as of course he would—with an offer of instant marriage. that would be, in his view, the only possible answer to the public affront he had received. but as the days went on and he made no sign she began to wonder dimly whether, after all, she might not escape—and from such faint sighings thrown out into the vague she came by degrees to hopes—and from hopes to plans and shifts.

everything in town conspired together to make her position impossible. the chill reserve of mrs. james—whose frozen civility was worse than any rebuke; the letters of her parents from blackheath, kind, repining, half-informed letters which said in effect, we don’t know what is being cried against you, but be sure that we are on your side; and the terrible letters of jinny (almost mrs. podmore by now, and vigorously on the side of decorum)—“the disgrace which has been cast upon our family . . . your unfortunate liaison, . . . one can only hope that you will let them be a warning, child. . . . let us be thankful that things are no worse . . .”—all this made the poor girl so self-conscious that she could hardly lift her head. she thought that the very servants were judging her—as, no doubt, they were; she felt beaten to the earth; and the fund of common-sense, the fund of charity, which she had at her call—through mere panic—suspended payment.

if she had been left to herself she would have borne her husband no grudge for seeking to tie her publicly to his name. she would have pitied, not blamed him, for supposing that three thousand or thirty thousand a year could have held her. and certainly that midnight confession absolved her in her own conscience. if she had looked back upon her dealings with duplessis it would have been to see what a little fool she had been—to blush at her ignorance, not at her shame. but now her world insisted on her disgrace; she was made to stand in a sheet like a jane shore; the straight, clinging, disgraceful robe imprisoned her body and soul. she felt that she must die if she stayed where she was, a public mock; but until duplessis delayed so obviously his coming she had felt bound in honour to see him.

to be just to duplessis, he kept himself away by violence, obeying an instinct—which was a true one. he had no doubt but that she would marry him now—he could not for the life of him see how any two people could otherwise reply to posthumous impudence of the sort. indeed, he felt in his heart of hearts that she owed him that. but his instinct told him that that could not be put to her for the present, and that to be seen in her society, to visit her, even to write to her, would make her burden heavier to bear. he contented himself by renouncing his legacy in the most precise terms—in a letter to dockwra the lawyer, and in another to james germain. if this act came to mary’s ears, as he hoped it would, no harm would be done to his affair. rather, she would see in it a plain declaration of his feelings. but, unfortunately for him, it did not. james germain was at misperton by this time, and dockwra communicated directly with him, not through his wife. james germain, true to his fastidious sense, thought it no business of mary’s—and was thankful it was none of his.

the delay of a week, ten days, a fortnight, gave her courage. her feverish dreams, hopes of a release, left her. she knew now that she was to be free, and, once resolved, schemes began to gather in her brain, to develop; her mind went to work, and she became happy. there was no doubt at all where she would go. all her ideas of freedom were centred in one place—land’s end. the sea, the rocks, the birds—and the low white cottage facing them all—open-doored to them all. her dream of nearly three years; now to come true! if senhouse was at the back of her mind, he was kept rigorously there. she felt virginal now when she thought of senhouse, found herself blushing, and put the image away as not lawful. freedom from the intolerable eyes about her—the butler’s—her maid’s—mrs. james’s—this ghastly mummery of clothes and ceremony—she agonized to be quit of it all; but now she intended to be, and could not afford time to agonize. she turned all her quick wits to the work, applied method and deliberation to it, and could almost fix a day, so plain did everything seem.

method cautioned her to go slowly to work; the first thing to do was to accustom mrs. james to her walks abroad. she devoted a week to this—went alone, deeply veiled, into the park every day, and spent gradually increasing hours there, doing nothing more.

then, one morning, she went circuitously to the bank in burlington-gardens, and asked for her pass-book. there was some ￡300 to her credit—the remains of her pin-money allowance. two days later she presented a cheque for ￡300—which left her a balance of ￡27 10s.—and asked for the money in gold. the porter took the sack to her cab, and she gave the direction “hill-street”—but once out of hearing she put her hand through the window at the top and gave another order—the army and navy stores.

leaving her sack of money in the cab, she bought herself a gladstone bag. perhaps it is evidence at once of the folly and fortune of women that she was not robbed; she may well have deserved to be, for, being full of her ingenious schemes, she had given no thought to the matter—had neither taken the man’s number, nor told him what she was entrusting to him. she had not so much as troubled to shut the cab door after her. the man himself, with a “well, i’m damned!” had done that, and it may be that the very magnitude of his opportunities had bereft him of the means of using them; for she found him smiling on the rank when she came out. the bag was handed in to her—uncovered—she gave the new direction “paddington,” and en route deposited her sack of sovereigns and locked it in the bag.

at paddington she dismissed the cab, not extravagantly, and disappeared with a porter and the bag. she put it in the cloak-room, took a ticket for it, then went back to hill-street.

two things must be done, two letters be written—one to her mother, one to james germain. he had always been her friend; she was really fond of him, and liked to think that he would regret her loss, while she was bound to guard against his trying to recover her. to her mother she wrote very simply that she was suddenly called away on affairs connected with her husband’s death, and might have to go abroad. it would be difficult to write—but she would send an address as soon as she had one of any permanence. she added, “darling mother, be as sure of my love for you and father and all of you, as i am of yours. i promise to tell you how i succeed in my business, or if i fail in it. you will never be out of my thoughts, as you are never out of my prayers. love me always, in spite of anything that you may hear against me. i have been foolish, very ignorant, and very blind—but no worse, mother, upon my honour. i am wiser now, and intend to be a good woman. trust your mary; who loves you and kisses this paper.”

she wrote in the same strain to the rector of misperton. “i am not able to bear the strain of london for the present, and intend to travel for some time before making my plans. i feel the need of quiet, and shall trust in you to do all you can to ensure it to me. after the comforting words you gave me i am sure that you may rely upon my doing nothing which should make me unworthy of them. i am resolved not to see mr. duplessis again. i could never be happy with him, nor make him happy after what has passed. if he should inquire for me, pray tell him that this is my sincere conviction, and ask him not to attempt to dissuade me from it. i can never thank you enough for your invariable kindness to me; that must always be one of my happy recollections of the life that i have ended. if i have to begin again without it, it is because i cannot ask you to continue it until i have proved myself more worthy to have it. i am going away now by myself, to work and to learn, and to forget much, but never to forget your kindness. i beg you to, remember sometimes with charity your affectionate friend, mary s. germain.”

it was on the tip of her pen to write to tristram; as she sat hesitating the phrases printed themselves, one after another in her head, and she wrote them down. “you never loved me—but i was proud to be even in your notice. i am greatly to blame for the renewal of what was idle on your part and foolish vanity on mine in the beginning. i can only be glad that my husband, though he knew everything, heard it all again from my own lips—i told him the night he died. i hope that you will be happy and famous, i know that both are in your power. do not try to find me, i beg of you. forget me, and love a woman who is more suited to you by birth and education. i know that if you try you can succeed in this. if you have any feeling of regard for me you will do as i ask you now.—mary s. germain.”

two of these letters she posted with her own hand that night. tristram’s she reserved.

then she made her last preparations. she packed her jewel-case carefully, tied and sealed it, and addressed it to the bank. she dined in her boudoir and spent the rest of the evening with bradshaw, planning out her route. love of secrecy, love of intricacy, which were both characteristic of her, decided her against so simple a course as a journey from paddington to penzance. she worked out a way more to her taste: waterloo to basingstoke, thence to swindon, and thence by the great western to exeter, where she would stay for a while. this necessitated an early start in the morning, for she must go to paddington and recover her three hundred pounds. she would take no luggage whatever, would buy what she wanted in exeter. loyalty to senhusian ethics decided her to this.

meantime, it was necessary to be rid of her maid for an hour. that she effected by the simple means of sending her with the note to duplessis, and with her jewel-box, to be taken to the bank, and a receipt obtained. the moment she was alone she dressed herself as she intended to appear—in black jacket and skirt and a grey silk blouse—in hat and veil studiously plain. then she left the house in hill-street on foot, got a cab in davies-street, and was free.

all went well with her as far as basingstoke; but there she was imprudent. she asked at the office whether she could book through to penzance, and break her journey for a week, and being told, after some delay, that she could not—“then exeter, please,” she said. “second single to exeter,” and receiving it, holding it in her mouth, she half turned to get a better light into her purse, and caught sight of horace wing—the courtly horace—who must have heard her. in the shock, as he hastened forward, cap in one hand, golf-clubs dragging by the other, she left her change on the counter, bowed and fairly ran. this was very indiscreet; but she escaped, and the porter came after her with her bag. horace wing, after gaping, had a shuddering fit. he did not follow her, and was not able to smile at the encounter for some weeks.

her carriage was empty: she was alone now, with all her life, like an open sea, in front of her. she sat, looking out towards the west, her hands quiet in her lap; she had no sense of high adventure, no bosom full of hope—peace possessed her altogether. she felt that she could lie her length upon some green bank, sheltered from the wind, and sleep herself to death. such a feeling as this was so foreign to her nature that she was surprised at herself, asked herself whether some chord in her had not been broken. she was sanguine by temperament and always lived in the future; if on any morning of any week she could not wake up with the sense of an excitement to come, to be waited for, to be felt nearer—that day was so much dead weight, so much space of drab, to be got through, in order that she might live to-morrow. she told herself that she was mortally tired—that her present reward was to be able to live unwatched and unjudged. that was enough for any girl surely—let the morrow’s outlook provide for the morrow.

even while she was thinking these thoughts she caught herself unawares. she found herself watching the flying landscape anxiously, and smiling as she watched. the open common, the duck-pond, and the white road—yes, and the tilt-cart drawn by a white horse—plodding to the west! three years ago, almost to a day—she and the tilt-cart had taken that road. and then she had been a bride of an hour—and now she was a widow of an hour. she caught herself blushing, was confused, felt eyes upon her: the carriage seemed full of eyes. for a while, she continued to watch, to watch through the mist in her own eyes—and then she turned suddenly in her place, opened her novel and read diligently in it until the train, stopping at taunton, showed her that the place of dangerous memories was past.

she would not allow her thoughts to recur to that curious little drama of the mind: in fact, she worked hard to avoid the temptation. she abandoned her novel, opened her purse, and did her accounts. she made lists of necessary purchases, and began to post up the diary with which she had provided herself.

when she reached exeter she stepped out—miss mary middleham. her bag bore a label to that effect.