 CHAPTER 14 THE HAND OF GOD DEALS GENTLY WITH EACH OF HIS CHILDREN But most gently of all, with the sleeping soul of a woman, touching her closed eyelid with caressing fingertips of dawn, bringing her by slow and exquisite degrees to a knowledge of the day, which is the external day of love, that day which can never be utterly clouded by mortal night nor lost in the soundless abysses of death. If there be anything that shall endure from everlasting to everlasting, it is love, and herein is a mystery not to be wholly known from eternity to eternity, for it is eternity itself, and the sum of all things that have been, that are, and that are to be. Mary could have explained, to no one, least of all who herself, the subtle process by which all other images in her soul were replaced by one upon which she gazed in silence. She was not yet wholly aware that she loved her husband. She knew only that his face was always before her, that she longed for it with a strange and painful longing, that his voice sounded in her ears by night and by day, and that life without him appeared dead and worthless. Yet she was nonetheless resolved upon her original project, because he expected her to go to Hawaii. She was bound to go there by every strong, compelling impulse of her soul. Feliz Vivian, no longer indeed the central son of her girlish firmament, had become its pallid moon, and to her she turned yarningly in this strange new turmoil of soul, which had come upon her unawares. We shall go soon now, Feliz, she wrote. You must come to me here, and we will arrange everything for our immediate departure at the beginning of the year. I am longing so to be gone, to be doing what we must do. Every night I mark off the day on the calendar, the way we used to do when we were in college and waiting for the holidays. Do you remember, dear? Miss Vivian did remember, and stamped her small foot in a sudden access of impatience. Then she put forth many sheets of violet tinted paper, and sat her down with a very becoming pucker between her pretty brows, to her task of final disillusionment. My dear old honey pot, she began remorsefully. I hardly know how to tell you what I must tell you, but it's got to be said, and the sooner the better. I've been hoping and waiting for something to happen far different for you, Mary. I did think you would see after a while the difference between a stiff, pokerish college president, for the sweetest of them are bound to grow stiff and pokerish in the course of years, you know. They simply can't help it, and the best be loved of the best be loved. That is the only real, true life for a woman, Mary. And you can be that, dear. You ought to be that. Really, when I think of everything, I wonder at you. I believe if you could have seen the way he snatched at your letters, just as a starving man would snatch at bread, even your stony heart would have been touched. The queer thing about it all, to me, is that your heart isn't really stony, not one bit. You're just made to be loved and to love, Mary. And when I think of the sweet affection you've lavished upon me all these years, I feel like a wretch, for I can't go to Hawaii with you. There, the truth is out at last. I've been dreading to tell you, and expecting all sorts of wild things to turn up. Hasn't he written to you? In the first place, daddy wouldn't allow it. He says it's utterly foolish for two girls of our age to even think of attempting such a thing. He says that if a college for women is ever built in Hawaii, which he doubts, but I don't, it must be done by the people themselves and because they want it. There are lots of rich planters and merchants there who could do for the Hawaiian girls what Matthew Vassar and Henry Durant did for us, and it's their place to do it. I put daddy's veto first, because, well, because I dread to tell you the other reason. But, honey, you know I've warned you all along that you were leaning on a broken reed in me. I do love you, dear, even more than in the old days when we were in college together. But there's no use of denying that I love somebody else better. Perhaps you've guessed it already. I've tried to make you ask me questions, and I've all but told you a dozen times, if you weren't so, so blind, you dear old honey-pot. You would have seen long ago that I loved Henry Caldwell. Please forgive me, dear. I couldn't help it, and I wouldn't help it if I could. I see so much clearer than I used to do, and I know, Mary, that there isn't any happiness half so dear as the happiness I have now. And to think this is only the beginning. I want you to be my mate of honour, Mary, or rather my matron of honour. You'll have to be that, won't you? The wedding will take place in January, and you must come and stay with me at least a month beforehand, because we are going abroad on our wedding tour, and Henry says we may not return for a year. I want you to see my house, too. Oh, Mary, I shall have such oceans to tell you, when you have said you forgive me for disappointing you so. Away down, deep in my heart of hearts, I can't believe I'm disappointing you so much. If you'll only call things by their right names, Mary, you'll see that you don't want to sail to the Sandwich Islands any more than I do. What you really want is... But I leave this for you to find out for yourself. Do try, honey. With heaps and heaps of love, you're always devoted, Felice. There, murmured Miss Vivian, with a great sigh of relief. I'm thankful, that's off my mind. Yes, mother dear, answering a maternal tap at the door, I'm coming right away. Did you say Miss Gubbins advises Valenceen's or the French hand embroidery on the petticoat? I think I should like both. No, not on the same petticoat, dear, but on another. I shall need heaps of them, you know. I've written to Mary, mother, and I've asked her to spend a month with me before the wedding. But honestly, I shan't cry if she doesn't come. She is so... well... so wearing. And I know I ought to save myself all I can. It's my duty. I don't approve of Mary, tripped Miss Vivian, comfortably. But your father admires her. He says all she needs is a firm hand over her to develop her into a really fine woman. Your father is so masterful. I've always had to manage him with the greatest tact. Felice giggled pleasantly. Daddy is an old dear, she said with decision, and he is quite right about Mary. But she'll never think of such a thing as managing her husband. She'll just glory in being mastered, if the time ever comes. I'm sure I hope so, said Mrs. Vivian, she hasn't a particle of tact. Mary read Felice's letter the next morning and shed a few quiet tears over it. That they were tears of resignation rather than a bitter disappointment she vaguely realized. But it would still be lonelier in Hawaii without Felice. She grew very pale as she contemplated her own inexorable resolution. Then for perhaps the hundredth time she read her husband's letter. I wonder, she said aloud, if this is an evil or annoyance. He said that I should tell him when the day came, and I should so like to tell him. Timidly she raised her letter to her lips, then all glowing with lovely shame, bowed her face upon it. She was slowly pondering Felice's words. If you could have seen, though he snatched at your letters, just as a starving man would snatch at bread. If he had, asked me to write to him, she sighed. That same afternoon Jerome Chantry called. It was quite characteristic of Mary that it had not occurred to her to refuse to see him on the occasions of his frequent visits. She came into the room with a light in her eyes and a delicate flush of color in her serious face, which stirred Jerome's middle-aged pulses to a quicker beat. She is growing more beautiful every day. He told himself, exultantly, she would be stunningly handsome as Mrs. Chantry. Gowned as Mrs. Chantry should be gowned. His eyes roved over her, tall, slight figure, with a coolly critical gaze of proprietorship. He was thinking of a certain sumptuous, ermined garment he had chanced to notice in a furrier's window that day. It would suit the future Mrs. Chantry admirably. He detained her hand in his own smooth palm while he said, I have something important to tell you, Mary. She did not reply, but her troubled eyes fell before his ardent gaze. Jerome noted this with approval. He felt that it augured well for his success. I have been out of town today in this bitter weather, he began cautiously. I very nearly congealed en route, upon my word, yet I'm glad I went, and I hope you will be too, Mary. I er… have had an interview with your—with the person who succeeded in persuading you into the extremely ill-advised marriage last summer. I refer, of course, to Mr. Gent. You have seen him? He perceived the quick start of amazement and the tide of rosy colour, which swept over the girl's fair face, and interpreted it according to his inmost convictions, which were, as usual, extremely complementary to himself. Is he… did he, stammered Mary, piteously, the tumultuous beating of her heart choked her. She clenched her slender hands tightly in her lap, and took refuge in silence. I had a most important interview with Gent this morning, would on Mr. Chantry, broadening his chest impressively. One which I trust will result in your future happiness and permanent well-being. Mary, I need not add that both are most dear to me. It will be unnecessary, I think, for me to enter at length into all the details of that interview. I will merely state. He paused to feast his eyes greedily upon the lovely appealing face of his listener. Is he… well? asked Mary timidly. The man pursed up his lips, frowningly. I confess that I take no particular interest in Gent, beyond, but, of course, I, here, appreciate your motives in inquiring. Really, it is awfully good of you to ask, Mary. The fellow doesn't deserve it. But is he… well? You saw him. Hmm. Ah. He seemed well enough, I should say. I never saw the man before. And by Joe, I hope I never run across him again. Mr. Chantry scowled reminiscently. Mary eyed him anxiously. Did he seem very… unhappy? She asked. I should say that was neither here nor there, cried Mr. Chantry warmly. Though it's like you, Mary, to have thought of inquiring. Upon my word, I don't believe there's another woman of my acquaintance who would have done it, under the… er, circumstances, you know. What I like to see a woman kind-hearted and considerate, I do indeed. He leaned back comfortably in his chair at the conclusion of this speech, and regarded his listener with a pleasantly intelligent expression of countenance. Do you know, he observed softly, that you have been growing handsome tremendously fast of late? You're not the same woman you were six months ago. It's astonishing. Mary flashed a look of haughty displeasure at him from under lowered lids. Why did you go to see my husband? She demanded coldly. I've already told you why I went, responded Jerome. He seemed lost in admiration of the charming face before him, upon which he gazed uninterruptedly. It was entirely on your behalf, Mary, and I was successful, perfectly successful. Gent is quite ready to release you from even the shadowy claim he has upon you. I was pleased to find him, upon the whole, so reasonable. He's a disagreeable chap, though, Mary. Mary's face whitened slowly. You? You asked him to... To release me? She faltered. What right had you? How dared you? Jerome seized his opportunity with the headlong impetuosity of a younger man. I have the right of one who has loved you long and devotedly. He murmured fervently. I dared because you are unhappy. Can you deny it, Mary? I... You are unhappy, dear girl. I could not help but see it. I told Gent so. And he... Her face suddenly glowed more with lovely color. You... You told him that I was unhappy? She asked breathlessly. Certainly I told him so, and very plainly. I'm not one to mince my words when there is an important issue at stake. What did he say? He said as any decent fellow would have said, under like circumstances. What can I do to help her? And then? And then I said to him... It is your plain duty to release her. He agreed to this. He was reasonable enough, as I said, but duly disagreeable and cherlish. I finally told him he was no gentleman. He drove me to it. But I got the better of him at last, though. Mary's white teeth were clenched upon her lower lip. How could you? Oh, how could you? She cried. Mr. Chantry's shrewd attention became suddenly riveted upon her. Do you know, he said at last, I can't quite understand the way you're taking this, Mary. It's quite impossible that you should care anything forget, after the way he has treated you. I... I... He was very good to me, and I... The man's eyes searched her pallet face. I asked him point blank if he cared for you. He went on deliberately. I love you, Mary. And I made no secret of the fact to him. I put the question plainly, for I felt it was my duty to do so before pushing my claims. And he... He said... The girl's voice was a low wail of pain. Jerome Chantry leaned forward in his chair. His voice was caressing and full of pity. Tell me this one thing, Mary. Did Gent ever tell you that he... er... loved you? Did he ever speak one word of the sword to you? No? Oh no. Then listen to me, my poor girl. He never will tell you so. He's perfectly willing to release you. I have his word for it. He demands only that you shall ask for your release. The marriage, as I understand it, was contracted solely for your own benefit and convenience. And Gent ungenuously insists that you shall humiliate yourself to the extent of asking him for its undoing. I'm sorry for you, Mary. It cuts me to the heart to see you grieve. And I beg to assure you that I did my best to move him from his resolution, but in vain. He is a churlish fellow. A sullen, resentful. Stop! cried Mary. She was trembling violently. But she faced him with a sort of frozen calm. Jerome deliberately unfolded a large white paper which he produced from an inner pocket. I have been at some pains to make it all as easy as possible for you, Mary, he said compassionately. I knew how you would feel regarding the matter, and I said as much to Gent. Mary is a proud and sensitive woman, I said. She will suffer under this cruel demand of yours. But he was inexorable. Now I have drawn up a paper here, which I am going to ask you to sign. It is merely a brief but exact compliance with his demand, and your signature will be all that is required to render it effective. Everything else can be quickly arranged, and it shall be done with just as little annoyance to you as possible. You may trust me, dear girl, to look out for that. He was stooping over her, almost caressingly. The paper in one hand, a fountain pen in the other. Mary could feel his heated breath upon her cheek. She seemed strangely bound, stupefied, helpless in the coils of his determined will. You may sign here, he murmured softly and pressed the pen into her cold hand. Be brave, dearest, for my sake, and your own. She started to her feet with a gasping moan, pushing him from her with a violent gesture of repulsion. I love him, she cried. God help me, I love him. Once more he stood listening to her hurrying feet upon the stair, a look of beast-like fear and hatred distorting his large face. Then quite calmly and deliberately he stooped to search for and recover his fountain pen, which Mary had swept from his hand. He examined its nib with anxious concern, restored it to its case, and the case to his pocket. This much accomplished he smiled thoughtfully. The smile was not a pleasant thing to behold. Even Peter's was startled by it, as he majestically showed Mr. Chantry to the door. He's a devilish deep sort of a chap, I'm thinking, reflected Peter's, as he fingered the bank note Mr. Chantry had pressed into his hand on entering the house. I wonder what he's up to with Miss Mary. That I do. Poor little Missy. The don't seem to be anybody to take her part. End of Chapter 14, Recording by John Brandon Chapter 15 of The Princess and the Plowman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon The Princess and the Plowman By Francis Morse Kingsley Chapter 15 Another woman in Mary's case might have sought sanctuary among the pillows of her bed, and there abandoned herself to that ecstasy of hysterical weeping which leaves its victim nervous and inert, a mere drifting bit of wreckage in the boiling torrent of human passion. But Mary stood by her bedroom fire, tall and still and tearless, reviewing all that had passed between Jerome Chantry and herself. Then by slow degrees, she became conscious of an overmastering desire to see her husband. He will know what I ought to do, she reminded herself, with a passionate faith in his truth, which a more ignoble nature could scarce have understood. Even though he does not love me, he will help me do what I must do. I shall tell him everything. The light of the winter afternoon was already waning when she passed out of the wide hall under the discreet surveillance of Peter's. "'Won't you have the carriage, Miss?' he ventured, touched vaguely by some unknown appeal in her troubled face. It's biting cold outside. She hesitated. "'Will you tell Mr. Chantry for me, Peter's, that I'm going away for several hours?' she said. I ought perhaps to have written him a word of explanation, but no matter. I may not return until late, but he is not to worry about me. I shall be perfectly safe.' Then she was gone, her slight figure hurrying down the street in the pink light of approaching sunset. Peter's wondered, respectfully, where the young lady might be going so fast, then shortly dismissed the matter by a still further exercise of that valuable function of mind, which had earned and retained for him his eminently respectable position in Judge Chantry's household. There were many trains passing out of the Great Railway Station at this hour of the day. Mary found a place in one of them. She was unreasoningly glad, now that she had started to go to him, and her mind quickened beyond its want, was going back over the past, reviewing, examining all that had happened in this new and wonderful flood of light which had poured down upon her out of the unseen. She thought confusedly of her wedding day, and of the solemn questions of the little minister. He had answered them clearly and firmly. He had promised what? The significance of this hitherto unthought-of-fact suddenly dawned upon her. He had promised to love her. He had promised. And afterward he had said, What was it that he had said? She held her breath, in a effort to recall the scene quite clearly. I promised yes, but you did not promise, Mary. There is no lie between us. She hid her face in her hands in a sudden tremor of hope and fear, and then suddenly it seemed to her the short journey was over. She stepped down onto the familiar platform in the red light of the winter evening, which gleamed cold and strange on snow- shrouded fields and woods, and on the empty road stretching away like a soiled ribbon into twilight distances. A solitary figure in great coat and muffler was stooping to examine a pile of boxes, left by the vanishing train. After a moment's hesitation, Mary approached this figure, which seemed somehow to have taken to itself the cold remoteness of the landscape. Can you tell me, she asked, timidly, when the petlers' cove stage will start? The man spat deliberately in the drift, then turned to face her. They ain't no stage tonight, he said laconically. But there was always a stage to meet this train, persisted Mary. I know, because this is the train I came on last June. The man whistled softly and turned over another box. Won't you tell me, please, she repeated. I've told you already, retorted the man. But, of course, if you know better than I do, what goes on at this year's station, why, change from me to instruct you. Then there isn't any stage? That's what I said. He raised his voice, as if speaking to a person at a distance. They's a summer schedule for stages, and there's a winter schedule. It'd be in the winter season, where I run in the winter schedule till further notice. Will you tell me how I can get over to the cove? Mary's voice trembled a little as she put to question. She remembered vaguely that she had eaten no luncheon. You have a telephone, Mary. No luncheon. You have a telephone? She added with hopeful afterthought. Gosh, no! Replied the man with a grimace. What on earth I'd do with a telephone? All alone here, and everything, and more too? A doing? Half the women folks in the country do. Be plaguing me with their everlasting questions about nothing. I made them yank the gall darn thing out come full. You bet Seth Van Housen ain't got no use for telephones round these parts in winter. Not if he knows it. Is there any way for me to get to the cove? The man stood up and surveyed the girl with an air of leisurely wonder. He was an old man, wrinkled and weather-beaten, and his small, deep-set eyes twinkled with a sort of fretful humor. Where do you want to go, miss? he asked, in a more respectful tone than he had yet employed. I'm going to Mr. Gents' house. Do you know where it is? urged Mary. I sure do, replied the man. It's about four miles from here, be the road. Not more than two miles and a half, as the crow flies. Guess you'd better keep to the road, though, seeing you ain't growed any wings yet. He paused to chuckle dryly at his own conceit. Keep to the road, he went on authoritatively. Tell you get to the Red Schoolhouse. Do you know where the Schoolhouse is? Yes, answered Mary. I remember it. Well, when you strike the Schoolhouse, you take your first right, then your first left. Gents' place is the third on the peaked cross-road. Big Stonehouse. You know it when you see it, eh? Yes, oh yes. Breathe the girl. She buried her hands, deep in her muff, and stepped eagerly down into the snowy road. Don't you forget what I told you. Call the man after her. Take your first right just beyond the Schoolhouse, then your first left, and Gents' house. She was walking rapidly now, the snow creaking noisily under her feet. She turned and waved her muff at the man in Togan that she understood, then hurried on with bedhead. The old station master stood still on the platform for a long minute, staring after the slight figure. I don't know as I ought to have letters start out all alone like that, he said, addressing the surrounding silence. But gracious I can't be bothering with every female woman that comes along asking foolish questions. Taint what I'm drawn my wages for. It was bitter cold, and a great silence seemed to brood over the twilight land. Mary stopped for an instant to listen, in a sudden childish panic of fear. There was neither sound nor motion. The frost crystals, which fringed the bowed weeds at the roadside, sparkled diamond clear in the pale light of the young moon. The stars shone resplendent in the vast blue dark overhead. Snow in silence and the cold lights of a faraway heaven. She buried her stiffened face in her muff, as if to shut out the sight. Then hurried forward in the slippery, broken track, left by infrequent sleigh runners in the soft snow. It was almost impossible to make rapid progress with her long skirts, weighted with the clinging snow, flapped heavily about her limbs. After what seemed a weary age of struggling effort, she reached the red schoolhouse. The man had said, Take the first right beyond the school. After that the first left. She would soon be there, and then. She strove to picture the old house as it would look in winter. A warm vision of a blazing hearth, before which he would be sitting alone. Rising, unbidden before her. He would welcome her, she was sure of it. He had said, This is your home from henceforth, Mary. Her home. And she was hastening toward it, cold and hungry and weary, longing for its peace in shelter. And for the sight of its master's face, as she had never yet longed for anything in her short life. It would be like heaven, she thought weakly, to meet him here upon this bleak and difficult road. How she would cry out to him. Yes, and cling to him, secure in the remembrance of his promise. Then she stopped, bewildered. Two roads stretched away from a broken finger-post. Horry with frost crystals to the right of the main track, and were lost to sight in the glimmering dusk beyond. After a moment of hesitation, she chose the lower road, which presently led her through a patch of lonely woods. It seemed to her that she remembered the woods with the broken rail fences on either side, overrun with bushes and long, snow-laden brambles. Her feet ached cruelly with the cold. She breathed with difficulty in the frosty air. I ought to have hired a carriage at the station, she told herself regretfully, and pressed on as fast as her strong young limbs could carry her. The track grew fainter as she followed it. In places the snow had blown in fantastic windrows across the road, quite obliterating it. She struggled through them determinately. Just beyond she was sure she could make out the dim outlines of a house, against the bleak hillside. She approached it hopefully, though its low dark windows gave forth no cheerful token to the night. There were masses of unpruned bushes crowding the unbroken path, which led to the front door. The sagging roof of the veranda supported a great curling drift, which sparkled in the keen light of the stars. Then she saw that the door stood open into the black darkness beyond, where the drift had ventured in before her, and lay in glimmering wreaths on the broken floor. She cried out in shivering dismay. She remembered the place now. She had visited it with a merry party of young people in the warmth and riotous cheerfulness of a July day. It was called in the parlance of the countryside, the haunted house on the hill. To distinguish it from another deserted cabin near the beach, known as the haunted house in the cove. She hurried back to the road once more, tears of fright and fear running down her cold cheeks. Oh, Hugh! she cried aloud. Hugh, where are you? It seemed to her excited fancy that she could hear a voice calling to her and reply. She ran wildly down the snowy road, stumbling weakly and crying as she went. End of Chapter 15 Recording by John Brandon CHAPTER XVI There are those who will tell you that the brain of man is an infinitely fine, infinitely powerful machine, capable of producing currents of energy which ray out in countless divergent streams, crossing and recrossing in the circumambient ether like the myriad service wires of a great city, yet each conveying its message drew an unbroken from sender to receiver. If this is, in truth, a dimly apprehended fact, scientifically demonstrable, it ought by every right of mankind to engage the most earnest attention of the great body of our scientific explorers. But whether so marvelous a function of brain be meant to serve universal ends in the present world or not, it remains an indisputable fact that upon rare occasions the brain does so act, transmitting and receiving vibrations which translated into thought may or may not be recognized by the consciousness as foreign to itself. Thus to Hugh Ghent, wielding his axe in the upper woodlot and nursing bitter thoughts of disillusionment, came the subtle intimation of Mary's sore and pressing need of his presence. He disputed the intruder for a hard fort hour, referring it to the well-meant advice of old Macalini, but in the end he yielded. Make ready to drive me to the station for the 640 train, he directed Andrew, then carried dire dismay to Vermilia's housewifely soul by a sudden demand for a weak supply of clean linen and supper to be prepared and eaten in the space of half an hour. And where might you be going so sudden and unexpected Master Hugh, inquired Miss Macalini, with the freedom born of long and unstinted service, both of heart and of body, I am going to town on important business, he told her briefly, as he buttoned himself into his great coat. And when will you come home? That I can't tell you, he called back over his shoulder, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a week's time, I can't say. But old Andrew was not to be put off so masterfully. You'll be taking my advice, Master Hugh, I'm thinking? He began guillessly, as the sleigh jingled slowly through the deep drifts of the carriage drive into the track of the high road, and I thank the Lord for it, he added fervently. Sound and wholesome advice is nay so easily come by, as some folks would have us believe. The counsel of the godly is like strong meat, but the advice of fools tendeth to leanness. She'll listen to ye gladly, lad, and ye'll find it so. She must listen to me whether gladly or not, I cannot say, but she shall listen. I, you're in the right of it, Master Hugh. Shall and must be strong, fine words to use in dealing with women and bairns. They need bindin' to the heart we cord so might, as well as of love. I keen it wheel. Hugh was silent, his head sunk in the collar of his coat. It is a bitter night, groaned old Andrew, after a silence filled with the monotonous ringing of the harness-bells and the blood of the old mayor's hoofs in the crisp snow. Woe be to only tender thing abroad this night. I, the lambs and young cattle, and as such, should be folded close when the black frost is abroad in the land. Hugh laid a sudden, impetuous grasp upon the reins. Stop, he commanded. An unbroken silence lay upon the glimmering fields, which stretched away to the black ocean on one side, and to the low-lying hills dim with forests on the other. There is naithing, said Andrew, and clucked cheerfully to the rest of mayor. We must make haste, or lose the train, I'm thinkin'. As he spoke, the yakking shriek of an approaching locomotive sounded afar off among the hills. I've a mind to wait till tomorrow, mused Hugh, turning along uneasy look back over the road. What was this sound ye heard like? inquired Mr. McElaney respectfully. You think I'm a fool, Andrew? But it was like her voice calling me. Answered Hugh with a quick shiver. It was your own fancy, lad. Ringing its love changes in your ears, observed old Andrew quaintly. I remember weal, how when I was Corten, my wife, every breeze spoke her name. Genie it was. And I give you my word, maester Hugh. I heard it in the bells of the cattle, and the croan of the cocks. It was I, Genie. Genie, ah, the day-lang. Hugh turned once more, and looked long and earnestly into the luminous night. I have a dread of going, he muttered. Then with a hasty, good-bye, leap to the platform, and boarded the waiting train. May the Lord host go wee him, and strengthen him mightily. He ejaculated Andrew fervently. Then he climbed stiffly out of the sleigh, drew a blanket over the smoking flanks of the mare, and approached the station-master, who stood flapping his long arms about his chest in a cloud of steamy breath. He'll mind the box of beehives, either flat. I was expecting last week, Van Hussen. Has it come to hand yet? So it's you, a Macalini? No, sir. They ain't no hair nor hide of a box come for you yet. I guess them folks in the city think they no special rage for beehives in zero weather. Beehives, either flat, was what I ordered, said Mr. Macalini, mildly. I have the leisure now, and the desire to set them up and paint them, and put the wax in the frames against the summertime. There's nay time to do it when spring opens. Time untied, and the swarm of the bees waits for nay man. Yes, you're about right, Andrew, as usual, jawed Mr. Van Hussen. I see you've got company to your house, even if tis cold weather. I tell you, these air-city folks knows where to go for real comfort, and plenty of good vitals, summer or winter. Friend, oh, permalise, eh? Company? Repeated, Andrew, interrogatively. Company? Yes, a young woman. She got off the five-five, and nothing would do her but the stage. She says to me, I've been on this train before, she says, and the stage always meets it. Well, I says, it ain't runnin' tonight. Sorry, I says, but I'm afeard we can't accommodate ye, so after a bit she starts off to walk. I told her how to get to your place all right. Take your first right, I says, from the Red School House. Then your first left. She said she'd know your place when she's seen it, been there before, I reckon. Mr. McEllaney shook his head. No one has come to the place tonight, he said positively, and I've just been over the road, we maester Huell. The station master pulled his cap more snugly about his ears, while he thoughtfully expectederated into the drift. Guess the ladies got stuck in the snow, he'll bind, with a dubious chuckle. She was too darn smart for these parts, in winter. He added, ill-humoredly. If you know more than I do about this here station, I says to her, well and good. She allowed the oughta be a stage-awaitin' cause she'd come to ride in it. That's a fool way with these ear-city folks. They know the Lord made the country all right, but they're darn sure he made it for their special benefit. Mr. McEllaney paused with one foot in the sleigh. What sort of looking lassy was she? He asked sharply. Tall, a, and fair in the face? The reddish hair, knotted low, in the neck behind. The station master stared at him contemplatively. That's her, he ejaculated. Sure thing. Say, Andrew, if the young woman ain't a rogue, time you get home, you best look her up. up. She's been gone from here long enough to get to your place twice over. And it's a night there to freeze the gizzard out of a brass monkey." He withdrew thoughtfully to the torrid comfort of the pipe of tobacco smoked in the close proximity of the red-bellied stove within the waiting room, while the sound of Andrew's clanking bells gradually died away along the road over which Mary had toiled nearly two hours earlier. Mr. McElhaney drove rapidly till he reached the red school house, then he stopped the impatient mayor and carefully examined the two divergent tracks by the dim light of his lantern. "'God help the poor lassie if she has wandered away a night like this,' he muttered. The loose trampled snow at the meeting place of the roads gave no token, but a few yards farther on Andrew came upon a spot where the wind had swept a hillock nearly bare of snow, and here clearly defined in the crisp whiteness were two slender footprints. "'Whose ever she be, and whatever her business we us, the poor young woman, has he entaken the wrong road,' murmured Andrew compassionately. Without hesitation he turned the mayor's head away from home and took the less-frequented hill road. The young moon had already declined her setting, and the brilliant sky was rapidly becoming overcast with heavy low-lying clouds, which seemed to emerge in vast droves from behind the rim of ocean, propelled by a silent wind which had not yet stooped to earth. "'More snow,' presaged Mr. Mechalini, casting a weather-wise eye, loft. Then he called aloud to the reluctant mayor and shook the reins over her broad back. They were entering the wood now, and thick darkness fell upon man and beast like a blanket. Andrew pulled the mayor down to a slow walk and hung the lantern upon the dashboard, where it cast a wan glimmer over the snowy road. Presently he stopped altogether and listened. It seemed to him he had heard a woman's voice. "'Wished, you fool,' he commanded the mayor, who was angrily shaking her harness, indignant at this unwanted detention from her warm stall, with its half-eaten fodder. Can't ye stand still whilst I listen?' "'If I should die before I wake, I pray thee, Lord, my soul.' These words, spoken clearly and distinctly, died away into a drowsy murmur of sound. "'Lassie, where are you?' shouted Andrew, leaping from the sleigh, and then in a moment he had found her, leaning back against the trunk of a great hemlock tree, whose sweeping snow-laden branches half-hidder from the anxious eyes of the old man. "'I was tired,' she said dreamily, when he had pulled her roughly to her feet. It seemed very warm in here, away from the wind. I think I was going to sleep.' Mr. Macklin, he wasted no store of warm breath in useless words. He half-lifted, half-dragged the girl into the sleigh, and wrapped the blankets about her. Then the old mayor was urged to a rate of speed which had never yet been demanded of her in all her leisurely life. She gave vent to her outraged feelings in a loud, distressed whinny, when her master finally pulled her to a standstill before the door of the farmhouse. Mrs. Macklinny had been employing the past hour in mild wonderment, pierced with somewhat quarrelous anxiety concerning father, who had a cold threatening his chest, while every one of his carefully constructed red flannan lung-pads were lying idle in his bureau drawer. Miss Macklinny was indignantly sure of this, for she had twice counted them. She opened the door promptly, at sound of the jingling vehicle without. Now, father, you come right straight into the house, she said peremptorily. Jesse has been waiting in the kitchen this last half-hour. He can stable the mayor quite as well as, wished woman, commanded her father, and help me get the lassie in the house. She's all but perished, wheat of cold. Mary smiled sweetly into promelia's astonished eyes. I am only very tired, she said, and fell back white and still, among the red cushions of Hugh's couch, where they laid her with all tenderness and dispatch. The energetic Miss Macklinny promptly stripped off the little fur jacket and the snowy shoes and stockings, and fell to chafing the girl's slender feet. She isn't really frozen anywhere as I can see, she said to Andrew, who was hanging over the limp figure in an agony of solicitude. She's just beat out with walking in the cold. Just you heat up a drop of old madam's current wine over the kitchen fire, father, and bring it here quick as you can. Please take a drop yourself," she called after him, with daughterly solicitude. Mary opened her eyes presently and obediently swallowed a mouthful of the hot wine promelia had urged to her lips. Then she sat up and looked around. Where is he? she asked. I came to see him. Miss Macklinny's kind, anxious face grew suddenly cold and unresponsive. If you was mean in Mr. Ghent, she said stiffly, he's not at home. Mary's lip quivered. She seemed on the verge of tears. I wanted to see him, she murmured weakly. Well, Mr. Ghent isn't at home, repeated Miss Macklinny crisply. He went away this very night. What time did you come? She added, her curiosity getting the better of her resentment. I came on the five o'clock train, said Mary faintly. I lost my way. I should have written instead of coming. Miss Macklinny, with tightly compressed lips, busied herself with the fire. It was with an effort that she restrained the bitter words which filled her heart. After a silence Mary roused herself to say, I must go back to the city tonight. I must go now, I think. Go back now to night, repeated promelia, endazed astonishment. That you can't do, mistress. There's no train. Sit you still and warm, while I fetch you something to eat. She hurried away, sternly admonishing her conscience the while. There's no train running that I'll allow Father to take her to to-night, she told herself, and he with a cold threatening his chest, and the red flannan lung-pads a lion idle in his drawer, and the mare all drenched with sweat, too, and the other horses staveled snug and warm. She must even spend one night beneath this roof, whether she will or no, and in the morning I'll say to her what's on my tongue to say. I will so, and Father, nor any other man, shall not keep me from it. The Lord has given her into my hand. End of CHAPTER XVI THE SINGULAR CONVICTION As to the futility of his journey, which had settled upon Hugh Ghent, as he boarded the city-bound train, had increased to a feeling of gloom and despondency by the time he found himself inquiring for Mary at the house of her guardian on the following morning. It occurred to him that he had known beforehand that the haughty personage stationed at Judge Chantry's door would say to him in reply to his query, Mrs. Ghent is not at home, sir. He hesitated visibly under Peter's stony gaze. My name is Ghent, he said at length. And won't you come in, sir? urged Peter's, undergoing a sudden metamorphosis from a footman to a man. Judge Chantry will be wanting to see you, sir. Judge Chantry, looking older than his want, and exceedingly worried, rose to greet his visitor with some warmth when Peter's ushered him into the library. I hope you have come to tell me that my ward is at your house, he began. Hugh looked at him carefully. You are referring to my wife, he asked? Yes, to your wife to Mary. She left my house last night with merely a word to Peter's. She has not, or as yet returned. Of course I have no doubt she is perfectly safe yet. I do not know where she is, said Hugh. This reply also he appeared to himself to have meditated for a long time previous to his utterance. I have not seen her since our wedding day, he added heavily. I have already telegraphed to Miss Vivian and received a reply, continued Judge Chantry, with tokens of rising anxiety. Mary has not been there. I was about wiring you. He looked keenly into the somber face before him. Why didn't you come before, he asked abruptly. Because she didn't ask me to come, replied Hugh, meeting the old man shrewd gaze with a look of defiant anger. You've allowed another man, your nephew, to torment her. You better ask him where she is. You mean Jerome? replied the Judge mildly. I admit I have not discouraged Jerome's addresses because Hugh's eyes blazed upon him. Well, to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Gint, I found that my ward was considerably interested in yourself. You had her somehow contrived to... In short, I gathered that while she herself was quite unaware of it, she had a very profound faith in and esteem for her husband. I felt confident that this would in time, in time, mind you, ripen into a truly wifely affection and so. And so you have allowed her to be decored away, no one knows where, by this fellow, Chantry. Where is he? He shall answer to me for her safety. Not so fast, sir. Jerome knows nothing whatever of Mary's whereabouts. I can assure you of that. He is quite as anxious as I. It was he, in fact, who proposed telegraphing you. It is fair, I think, Mr. Gint, that you should recognize the fact that I am entirely friendly to yourself. I was quite naturally displeased when I first heard of the marriage, for I had made different plans for Mary. I acknowledged it. But when I, er, had reason to believe that my ward cared for you, I took pains to look into your record, and I found to my surprise, sir, that your father was a very good friend of mine in earlier days. I also found that in many respects Mary could not have done better for herself. I did not see fit to make all of this known to her, nor did I press your claims by a hair's breadth. I recognized your sagacity in dealing with Mary's rather singular nature, and I suppose you were fully aware of your advantage and that you meant to follow it up. I own, sir, that I have been somewhat astonished at your negligence. I wrote to her, said you gloomily, and she did not acknowledge my letter by even a word. Yesterday he drew a deep, choking breath of anger. Your nephew, Mr. Jerome Chantry, came to me, asking for a release from the marriage, from her. The deuce he did exclaimed the old man sharply. He didn't tell me so. I said I would give it, when, when she asked for it. I, at this instant, the library door swung open softly, and Jerome Chantry walked in. While, uncle, he began, have you heard anything further? His face stiffened. You? Has Mary? No, said you, roughly. He leaped to his feet and confronted Jerome, who recovered himself on the instant. I merely thought, that is the conversation I had with Mary yesterday occurred to my mind, and Mr. Gent has just informed me of your visit to him yesterday and its object, interrupted the judge. You did not see fit to make me acquainted with the fact? On the contrary, I came to you for that express purpose this morning, uncle. Said Mr. Chantry smoothly. I had just succeeded in obtaining from Mary her signature to the paper, which Mr. Gent was pleased to demand. And what do you mean? His voice was hoarse and weak. Supposing for the moment, as I certainly choose to do until we hear to the contrary, that Mary has taken the not-on-usual liberty of spending the night with a friend. This is not a bad time to finish the business, preliminary to the annulment of the marriage. If Mr. Gent will kindly supplement this document with another, formerly granting the request herein named, I will at once place the matter in your hands for the usual legal procedures. And Jerome bowed politely to his elder relative. Hugh's haggard eyes devoured the brief contents of the paper, which the other handed him with a sneering smile. It was signed clearly, Mary Adams Gent. It contained a formal demand for an unconditional release from her marriage. When was this signed? He asked. Yesterday afternoon, answered Mr. Gentry, licking his lips nervously. Would you like to look at it, uncle? Judge Gentry scanned the paper carefully. You drew this up, Jerome? He asked, staring at his nephew keenly over the top of his glasses. Certainly, sir. I wish to spare her all unnecessary trouble and annoyance in the matter, said Jerome glibly. Mary is a most sensitive, shrinking woman, he added sentimentally. She particularly dreaded any. And she signed this, you say, when? Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Gentry occupied himself with an air of grave solicitude in producing a second paper from his pocket. If Mr. Gent will kindly, he stopped short for Hugh's lean, brown hand had closed like a powerful vice upon his plump shoulder. He said not a word, but there was murderous anger in his blue eyes. Let him alone, my boy! said Judge Gentry, compassionately, then he turned sharply to Jerome. This paper is worth nothing, sir. Why? Why not? stammered Jerome. He had turned a disagreeable, yellowish white about the lips. The signature is not witnessed for one thing, said the Judge solemnly. It would be well, Jerome. He went on after a pause. If you will see fit to burn this paper now. Do you understand? Mr. Gentry tore the document violently in twain and cast the fragments upon the blaze. She hates you, he snarled hysterically. She despises you. Tell me where she is, threatened Hugh, stooping over him menacingly. I don't know, upon my word, as a gentleman. I haven't seen her since yesterday. I left her, that is, I hurt her go upstairs. Peters will tell you that. That she left the house more than an hour after I did. That is true, interrupted Judge Gentry quietly. Jerome was edging toward the door. You will find everything I've told you is true. If you ever see her again, he added darkly. The two men heard the door close after him. Then they looked at each other fixedly. No, said the Judge quietly, answering a ghastly fear which looked out from the other's haggard eyes. Mary hasn't been very happy of late, but she is no coward. Go home, my boy. I believe you will find her there, and if you find her there, keep her this time. Hugh grasped the old man's outstretched hand. I will, he said solemnly. CHAPTER XVIII When Mary opened her eyes the next morning, she lay for a long time, conscious of nothing, save a sense of profound peace. Snow was falling silently past her window in great white feathery flakes, and through it the pink light of morning was shining. The room in which she lay repeated these tones of pearl and rose in its white shadowed ceiling, over which flickered wandering glints of pink, and in the garlands of faded flowers which shone dimly on its walls. All else was whiteness and immaculate purity, like the chambered recesses of a lily. In her waking dream she tranquilly watched the side-long flight of the fugitive drift as it swept unceasingly past the clear pain with its half-drawn draperies of shadowy muslin. She had not yet roused to a realisation of her whereabouts when a light step paused at her bedside, and Familia McKillanee's kind, anxious face stooped over her. Mary's grey eyes flew wide, and she gazed at the woman, wonderingly. Did you rest well, inquired Miss McKillanee, her soft contralto tones blending comfortably with the purring of the wood fire, which the girl, now fully awake, recognised as the source of the rosy reflections on the ceiling. Mary sat up in bed, her long red braids falling over her shoulders. I have rested so well, she murmured, that I'm afraid it is very late indeed. Miss McKillanee bethought herself in time to draw up her plump figure with dignity. I shall not have disturbed you, Mistress Skendt, she said. Only that I saw your eyes were open. Has—has he come yet? asked Mary, with a timid flutter of her long lashes. No, Madame, if you are meaning Master Hugh, he has not come. And he will not come today, nor yet tomorrow, if the storm continues, for the snow has filled the roads to choking. Whenever you are pleased to breakfast, Madame, I will serve you. Will you do so before you rise? Mary shook her head. No, she said meekly. I should prefer to come down, please. Half an hour later, she slowly descended the winding stairway and paused in the open door of the dining room. It presented a most cheerful appearance with its blazing hearth and its rows of scarlet geraniums glowing against the drifting snow without, like lessifiers. Miss McKillanee presently entered, followed by a stout red cheeked country girl, bearing fragrant coffee, eggs, and delicately browned rolls peeping out from a fringed napkin. Her demeanour was polite but chilling, as she invited Mary to be seated at the little round table, drawn into comfortable proximity to the blazing logs. I shall be very glad, said Mary after an embarrassed silence. If I may see a timetable, I must return to the city immediately. Miss McKillanee promptly laid a folded paper before her, her air of strong disapproval deepening as she did so. You're not thinking of going before Master Hugh comes home, she asked solemnly. A faint colour stolen to Mary's pale cheeks. I should like to see him, she said. That is why I came, but there's no trains running this morning and I thank the Lord for it, announced Pamelia conclusively. She searched the girl's downcast face with pitiless severity as she continued. There's words that I must say to you, Mistress Ghent, before ever you leave this house. I have prayed God for the chance and now that it has come I'll not pass it by. Mary lifted her grey eyes to the woman's face, with a kind of sweet hardy-hood. I am quite ready, she said, to hear what you have to say. Pamelia drew a deep breath. He has no mother to speak for him and no father, she began tremulously. The Lord has laid it upon me to say this to you, Madam. You've wronged Master Hugh. You'll not be caring whether it be so or not. But I can see, who have seen him every day since his birth, that his heart is just slow-breaking with the pain of it all. Pamelia lapsed into her father's scotch brogue on the rare occasions when excitement got the better of her American bread tongue. I do care, sighed Mary, with a troubled knitting of her white furrowed. I, but how much do you care, Mistress, went on Pamelia, her passionate tones deepening to an organ fullness. What is it to you that he neither eats nor sleeps as he once did, and that his face is sad at all times? When once it was contented and glad, I promised his mother on her deathbed that I would look after Master Hugh, and I must keep my word. Oh, I thought my task was well nigh over the day he was married to you. I said to Father, on the day the young Mistress comes home to bide, I said, you and I go to the cottage yonder, for I'll not interfere with the will of a lady-wife, and I've lived here oh-long with everything under my hand to be like an ordinary servant. But here I am yet, in your place, Mistress, in your place, and I'll ask you to tell me why. You wear his ring, you bear his name, it is happiness, his life, not to you? It is much to me, said Mary, in a low-shamed voice. Then tell me you'll not leave him again. Mary's fair face burned with painful blushes. You, you are cruel, you do not understand, she faulted. He has never asked me to stay. Ms. McKillanie shrugged her shoulders in a manner which revealed her scotch temper dangerously near the surface. I don't pretend to understand the sort of marriage you made with Master Hugh, she said, with strong indignation. It is true he made poor shift to explain to us about some institutional learning. Pamelia scorn almost passed bounds at this, situated in foreign parts and of how he wished to help you keep for yourself a great sum of money. What's an institutional learning, I'll ask you, Mistress, what's a great sum of money to a true and holy marriage in the sight of God? Mary trembled to her feet. It is nothing, nothing, she cried in a stifled voice. But I did not know it, then. Her eyes brimmed over with large tears. She made no effort to restrain them, and they rolled shining over her pale cheeks. Pamelia leaned forward and eyed her unflinchingly. These great sparkling tears did not touch her heart as they would have touched the heart of a man. She knew from how shallower source flowed the tears of many women, and this one she did not know. What think you of the tears of a man, eh? she asked in low vibrant tones. Aye, you may weep, Mistress, but I have seen the hard-rung water of pain standing in his eyes more than once or late. Mary hit her quivering face from the woman's searching gaze. Oh, she murmured brokenly. I would die at her saving pain. But what can I do? Pamelia's rugged face slowly relaxed. The puckers of wrath and strong indignation vanished from her brow, then her face brightened in the strong sunshine of a smile. God forgive me, she exclaimed softly. And to think I'm keeping you from your hot breakfast at this time with my foolish chatter. And the girl Nancy has brought you no strawberry jam as I bait her. There's a bit of fried chicken too, keep and hot before the fire. Master Hu will never forgive me if he finds you looking pale and spent as you do now, and you toiling through all the snow in the freezing weather. Miss McElaney hurried away with her apron to her eyes, leaving the girl to recover her vanished self-control. After Mary had breakfasted, Julie waited upon by the now beaming and gracious Pamelia. She was shown about the house in state. The cupboards, the china closets, the linen chests, with all their store of treasure, were opened wide for her inspection. Then the sellers, with their hordes of fruit both fresh and preserved, the many coloured vegetables in barrels and bins, and rows of plump rosy hams hanging from the rafters. After that the best rooms, fragrant with spiced rose leaves, and the guest chambers in their immaculate purity and order. And last of all, Master Hu's room, littered with mute tokens of its absinthe owner. The faint colour in Mary's cheeks deepened to a glorious rose when her eyes fell upon a picture of herself hanging on the wall at the foot of his narrow bed. Do you think, she hesitated, that he would like to have you, to have me, see all this? Miss McClellandy fixed reproachful eyes on the girl. Did you suppose I would take any other woman into Master Hu's rooms? She asked. Nay, madam, but his wife. Her eloquent gesture completed the sentence. Mary blushed and sighed as her eyes roved timidly about the little room, almost cell-like in its bareness and simplicity. He is not one to pray over much of his feelings, is Master Hu, went on familiar, quietly. I mined when he went away to college. He was an ambitious lad and fine at his books, and his mother was that proud and fond of him. So he went to Cambridge, as I said. At the holidays he came home and he saw, as I had not seen, being with her all the time, the change in his mother's face. She was never a rugged woman, and in those lonely months the white stillness which belongs to another world had somehow come upon her. As you have seen a field in autumn all shining with the silver frost, so it was with the madam. Very beautiful she was always, but never more beautiful than in those days, to my mind, with her snow-white hair and her face white like a white flower in the sun, and her eyes shining with unearthly light. I'll not leave her again, says Master Hu, and he kept his word. I never knew how he persuaded her, for she had I a keen ambition for her one son, but he made some plan with his professors whereby he studied at his home, going to Cambridge now and again for lectures and the like, but never spending a night away from her, though he rose long before the sun and came home late at night often times. If you come down now to the library I'll show you all his books and where the madam sat while Master Hu studied. I, there were as happy as two lovers in those days, and afterward he was not sorry that he had sacrificed his gay youth to her, for he grew old and thoughtful beyond his years did Master Hu. I saw it, and father saw it, but she did not. Toward the last she wandered gently in her mind, thinking he was her husband instead of her son. You'll not leave me, Hu, she would say, with the tears in her voice. No, dear, he would answer, I'll never leave you. And again she would say, I dreamed that you died, Hu, dear, and that I was all alone, but it was a foolish dream, wasn't it? A foolish, foolish dream, sweetheart, he would say to her, and then she would laugh gently and nestle close to his shoulder as he sat by her bed. These be his books, Mistress Kent, set together on these four shelves. He studied in them by the window yonder, where the light is good. At times the madam sat in the low chair at his side, and other times, as she grew weaker, she lay on the couch drawn near him, always near him. I'll not soon forget the day he brought home his scholar's degree, for he got it, I, he got it, Mistress, and you can see it hanging there. But it stands for more than me book-learning, I'm thinking. And now, if you'll be pleased to excuse me, I must look to the maid Nancy. She is a good maid and willing. I got her in the house the day of the wedding to train against the day of your homecoming, Madam. You will find her ignorant and foolish about many things, such as soap and the care of the drippings and the conserving of fruits, but in the end she'll make you a good servant. And for the matter of that, I shall be no farther away than the farm cottage, if you should need me. Left to herself, Mary sat quite still in Hugh's study chair, her eyes fixed dreamily on his hard-won bachelor's degree. She was thinking of the frail, deely-loved mother with hair like drifted snow, and flower-like face to whom he had been son and lover in one, unfalteringly faithful to the end. Then all on a sudden it seemed, her soul, but half-awakened and still dreaming, unfolded like the petals of a glorious rose into the full beauty of passionate womanhood. She did not perceive the tall shadow that passed over the drift without, nor hear the hushed voices of surprise and welcome at the door, but his step on the conscious floor roused her from the reverie into which she had fallen. Mary, he said, and waited for her to speak. I—I came to—see you, she stammered. Yes, he breathed. His somper eyes were fixed upon her face with an inscrutable look which she dared not interpret. She folded one white hand over the other and the dazzling snow-light glimmered on his ring. You said I was to come to you when, that is, if I was in any trouble, she said at last. That is why I came. I—I am—I have been very unhappy. He drew a hard breath. You did right to come to me, he said, hoarsely. After a difficult pause he went on. Won't you tell me, Mary, what I can do to help you? Still she was silent, and he saw her delicate fingertips whiten in the close grip of her tremulous hands. Mary, he said, his tones falling deep and compassionate on their shrinking silence. There must be no foolish barriers of reserve between us now. Everything must be said that is to be said. And then she half whispered the words, you know what he said? Are you referring to my interview with Jerome Chantry, Mary? He asked, his voice suddenly cold and steady through all its pain. Yes, she whispered. Her eyes entreated him. He demanded your release, Mary, in your name, and I told him I would give it to you, when you asked for it. Have you come here to ask me for that? She did not answer. She could not. But he saw a blighting change pass swiftly over her face. You need not ask, Mary. He went on quietly. You know, Mary, you are free. Absolutely. I am ready to sign any paper, to do anything. I had no right to lay the fetters of a loveless marriage upon your white soul. Nay, there is no bond between us, for my promise without yours is empty of all significance. I know this now, Mary, for I too have suffered. But before you go away from me, she had risen and was standing white and mute before him, as if turned into a lovely image of snow. I must tell you the truth, for it is the only shadow of excuse I can offer for the injury I have done you. I loved you, Mary, from the first moment I saw you coming across the fields. I loved you then, I love you now, and it is my dearest sorrow that I must love you forever. Then once again he beheld the holy miracle of her virgin blush, tinging the pallor of her downcast face with love's exquisite aurora. Mary, he cried aloud, in an anguish of entreaty. She turned to him with all the glory of her womanhood shining in her eyes. Hugh, I promise to love you, to cherish you, and forsaking all others, to keep you, till by death we are parted. She said the solemn words slowly and unfalteringly, and he knew in the deep places of his soul that his plighting of their truth was never to be interrupted by death, but would endure on and on, as a chord of celestial harmony which dawns out of the silence and returns to it again, but is never wholly lost, nor indeed can be, for it bears within itself that which is eternal. End of Chapter 18 Recording by Julian Pratley End of The Princess and the Plowman by Florence Morse Kingsley