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of hurried travel. Only a moment more and the familiar sights and
sounds of the great city would greet her once again. She was going
home to what? Mrs. Marteen did not dare to picture the future.
Pursued, as if by the Furies themselves, she had been driven, madly,
blind with suffering, back to the scene of disaster to know to
know the worst, perhaps but to know!
Day and night, night and day, her iron will had fought the fever that
burned in her veins. Silent, self-controlled, she had given no sign of
her suffering and her terror, though her eyes were ringed with
sleeplessness and her mouth had grown stiff with its effort to
command. The tension was torture. Her heart strings were drawn to
the snapping point; her mind was a bowstring never relaxed, till
every fiber of her resistant body ached for relief.
At last they had arrived. At last the hollow rumble of the train in the
vast echoing station warned her of her journey s end. Instinctively
she gave her orders, thrusting her baggage checks into the hands of
her maid.
 I m going on at once, she said.  Attend to everything. Give me my
little nécessaire. I don t feel quite well, and I want to get home as
quickly as possible.
She hurried away before the servant could ask a question, and was
directed to the open cab stand. As she stepped in, she reeled.
Trepidation took hold upon her, but with enforced calm, she seated
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Out of the Ashes
herself, and gave the address to the starter. As the motor drew away
from the great buildings, she threw back her veil for the first time,
and opened a window. The rush of cool air revived her somewhat,
but her heart beat spasmodically, her blood seemed a thin, unliving
stream. Street after street slipped by like a panorama on a screen,
familiar, yet unreal. The world, her world, had changed in its
essence, in its every manifestation.
At last the taxi drew up before the door of her home was it home
still? she wondered. Her hand trembled so she could not unfasten
the latch, and the chauffeur, descending from his seat, came to her
assistance.
 Wait, she said in a strangled voice.  Wait; I may want you.
At the door of her apartment she had to pause, before she rang, to
gather courage, to obtain control of her whirling brain. At last the
ornate door swung inward and her butler faced her with welcoming
eye.
 Mrs. Marteen! Pray pardon the undress livery! No word had been
received.
She took note of the darkened rooms. Only one switch, whose glow
she had seen turned on as the servant came to the door, gave light.
The place was hollow and unlived in as an outworn shell.
 Miss Dorothy? she said, striving to give her voice a natural tone.
The butler h mmed.  Miss Dorothy has gone, Madam, with
Madam s sister since yesterday. They left no address, and said
nothing about when they might be expected. Mr. Gard had been
with Miss Dorothy in the afternoon.
Mrs. Marteen caught hold of the broad and solid back of a carved
hall chair and stood motionless, leaning her full weight on its ancient
oak for support.
 That s all right, Stevens, she said at length.  You needn t notify the
other servants that I have returned for the present. I m going right
out again. I just stopped in for some important papers I may have
need of. Just light the hall and the library, will you?
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Out of the Ashes
With the falling of the sword that severed her last hope a new self-
possession came to her the quiet of despair. Her brain cleared, her
fevered pulse became normal, the weariness that had racked her
frame passed from her. She only asked to be alone for a little alone
with her love and her memories. She quarreled no more with Fate.
The butler preceded her, lighting the way. At the door of the library,
she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Calmly she entered and
softly closed the door behind her. In the blaze of the electrics she saw
every nook and corner of the room photographically every tone
and color, every glint and gleam, but her mind fastened itself with
remorseless logic to one thing only the sliding panel. In her
distracted vision it seemed to move, to slip back even as she gazed.
The grain of the wood appeared to writhe, to creep up and down
and ripple as if with the evil life of what lay behind. She forced
herself to walk across the room to lay her weakened fingers, from
which all sense of touch seemed to have withdrawn, upon that
vibrating panel. The face of the safe stood revealed. Slowly with
growing fear she turned the numbers of the combination and
paused she could not face the ordeal, but with the releasing of the
clutch, the weight of the door caused it to open slowly, as if an
invisible force drew it outward and Mrs. Marteen saw before her the
empty shelves within. As if in a dream she pressed the spring, and
realized that the carefully planned hiding place, was hiding place no
more. She stood still with outstretched arms, as if crucified. The
mute evidence of that opened door was not to be refuted. Her enemy
had triumphed; her own sin had found her out. No self-pity eased
the awful moments. Hot pity poured in upon her heart, but not for
herself in this hour of misery but for her daughter, for the innocent
sweet soul of truth, whose faith had been shattered, whose deepest
love had been betrayed, whose belief in honor had been destroyed.
Where had she fled? Into whose heart had she poured the torrent of
her grief and shame? Could there be one thought of love, of
forgiveness? Ah, she was a mother no longer. She had sold her
sacred trust. She had no rights, no privileges. She must go go
quickly, efface herself forever. That was her duty, that was the only
way. Like a mortally wounded creature, she thought only of some
small, cramped, sheltered corner, some lair wherein to die.
With an effort she turned from the room, closed the door, and stood
uncertain where to turn. Down the corridor, at its far end, was
Dorothy s room. The thought drew her. She turned the knob, found
the switch, and hesitated on the thresh-hold. Should she go in?
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Out of the Ashes
Should she, the sin-stained soul, dare profane the sanctuary, the
virginal altar of the pure in heart! Yes ah, yes! for this last time!
She was a mother still.
She entered, and cast herself on her knees by the little pink and
white bed. She had no tears the springs of relief were dried in the
flame of her heart s hell. She found Dorothy s pillow, a mass of
dainty embroidery and foolish frills. She laid her hot cheek on its
cool linen surface. In a passion of loss she kissed each leaf and rose
of its needlework garland.
Then she rose to her feet. She must go, she must disappear now,
and forever from the world that had known her. She would send one [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]