When I awoke in the morning I took myself severely to task.  Was this how I was fulfilling the promise I had made to Martin’s mother, or preparing to carry out the counsel of Father Dan?

“I must be more careful,” I told myself.  “I must keep a stronger hold of myself.”

The church bells began to ring, and I determined to go to mass.  I wanted to go alone and much as I grudged every minute of Martin’s company which I lost, I was almost glad when, on going into the boudoir with my missal in my hand, I found him at a table covered with papers and heard him say: 

“Helloa!  See these letters and telegrams?  Sunday as it is I’ve got to answer them.”

Our church was a little chapel-of-ease on the edge of my husband’s estate, opened, after centuries of neglect, by the bad Lord Raa, in his regenerate days, for the benefit of the people of his own village.  It was very sweet to see their homely faces as they reverently bowed and rose, and even to hear their creachy voices when they joined in the singing of the Gloria.

Following the gospel there was a sermon on the words “Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.”  The preacher was a young curate, the brother of my husband’s coachman; and it occurred to me that he could know very little of temptation for himself, but the instruction he gave us was according to the doctrine of our Church, as I had received it from the Reverend Mother and the Cardinals who used to hold retreats at the convent.

“Beware of the temptations of the flesh, my children,” said the priest.  “The Evil One is very subtle, and not only in our moments of pride and prosperity, but also in our hours of sorrow and affliction, he is for ever waiting and watching to betray us to our downfall and damnation.”

In the rustling that followed the sermon a poor woman who sat next to me, with a print handkerchief over her head, whispered in my ear that she was sorry she had not brought her husband, for he had given way to drink, poor fellow, since the island had had such good times and wages had been so high.

But the message came closer home to me.  Remembering the emotions of the night before, I prayed fervently to be strengthened against all temptation and preserved from all sin.  And when the mass was resumed I recalled some of the good words with which I had been taught to assist at the Holy Sacrifice ­praying at the Credo that as I had become a child in the bosom of the Church I might live and die in it.

When the service was over I felt more at ease and I emptied my purse, I remember, partly into the plate and partly to the poor people at the church door.

It was in this spirit that I returned home in the broad sunshine of noonday.  But half way up the drive I met Martin walking briskly down to meet me.  He was bareheaded and in flannels; and I could not help it if he looked to me so good, so strong, and so well able to protect a woman against every danger, that the instructions I had received in church, and the resolutions I had formed there, seemed to run out of my heart as rapidly as the dry sand of the sea-shore runs through one’s fingers.

“Helloa!” he cried, as usual.  “The way I’ve been wasting this wonderful morning over letters and telegrams!  But not another minute will I give to anything under the stars of God but you.”

If there was any woman in the world who could have resisted that greeting I was not she, and though I was a little confused I was very happy.

As we walked back to the house we talked of my father and his sudden illness, then of his mother and my glimpse of her, and finally of indifferent things, such as the weather, which had been a long drought and might end in a deluge.

By a sort of mutual consent we never once spoke of the central subject of our thoughts ­my marriage and its fatal consequences ­but I noticed that Martin’s voice was soft and caressing, that he was walking close to my side, and that as often as I looked up at him he was looking down at me and smiling.

It was the same after luncheon when we went out into the garden and sat on a seat in the shrubbery almost immediately facing my windows, and he spread a chart on a rustic table and pointing to a red line on it said: 

“Look, this is the course of our new cruise, please God.”

He talked for a long time, about his captain and crew; the scientific experts who had volunteered to accompany him, his aeronautic outfit, his sledges and his skis; but whatever he talked about ­if it was only his dogs and the food he had found for them ­it was always in that soft, caressing voice which made me feel as if (though he never said one word of love) he were making love to me, and saying the sweetest things a man could say to a woman.

After a time I found myself answering in the same tones, and even when speaking on the most matter-of-fact subjects I felt as if I were saying the sweetest things a woman could say to a man.

We sat a long time so, and every moment we were together seemed to make our relation more perilous, until at length the sweet seductive twilight of the shortening autumn day began to frighten me, and making excuse of a headache I said I must go indoors.

He walked with me up the stone-stairway and into my boudoir, until we got to the very door of my room, and then suddenly he took up both my hands and kissed them passionately.

I felt the colour rushing to my cheeks and I had an almost irresistible impulse to do something in return.  But conquering it with a great effort, I turned quickly into my bedroom, shut the door, pulled down the blinds and then sat and covered my face and asked myself, with many bitter pangs, if it could possibly be true (as I had been taught to believe) that our nature was evil and our senses were always tempting us to our destruction.

Several hours passed while I sat in the darkness with this warfare going on between my love and my religion, and then Price came to dress me for dinner, and she was full of cheerful gossip.

“Men are such children,” she said; “they can’t help giving themselves away, can they?”

It turned out that after I had left the lawn she had had some conversation with Martin, and I could see that she was eager to tell me what he had said about myself.

“The talk began about your health and altered looks, my lady.  ’Don’t you think your mistress is looking ill?’ said he.  ‘A little,’ I said.  ‘But her body is not so ill as her heart, if you ask me,’ said I.”

“You never said that, Price?”

“Well, I could not help saying it if I thought so, could I?”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything then, my lady, but when I said, ’You see, sir, my lady is tied to a husband she doesn’t love,’ he said, ’How can she, poor thing?  ‘Worse than that,’ I said, ’her husband loves another woman.’  ‘The fool!  Where does he keep his eyes?’ said he.  ‘Worse still,’ said I, ‘he flaunts his infidelities in her very face.’  ‘The brute!’ he said, and his face looked so fierce that you would have thought he wanted to take his lordship by the throat and choke him.  ’Why doesn’t she leave the man?’ said he.  ’That’s what I say, sir, but I think it’s her religion,’ I said.  ’Then God help her, for there’s no remedy for that,’ said he.  And then seeing him so down I said, ’But we women are always ruled by our hearts in the long run.’  ‘Do you think so?’ said he.  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said I, ‘only we must have somebody to help us,’ I said.  ‘There’s her father,’ said he.  ’A father is of no use in a case like this,’ I said, ’especially such a one as my lady’s is, according to all reports.  No,’ said I, ’it must be somebody else ­somebody who cares enough for a woman to risk everything for her, and just take her and make her do what’s best for herself whether she likes it or not.  Now if somebody like that were to come to my lady, and get her out of her trouble,’ I said. . . .  ‘Somebody will,’ said he.  ’Make your mind easy about that.  Somebody will,’ he said, and then he went on walking to and fro.”

Price told this story as if she thought she was bringing me the gladdest of glad tidings; but the idea that Martin had come back into my life to master me, to take possession of me, to claim me as his own (just as he did when I was a child) and thereby compel me to do what I had promised his mother and Father Dan not to do ­this was terrifying.

But there was a secret joy in it too, and every woman will know what I mean if I say that my heart was beating high with the fierce delight of belonging to somebody when I returned to the boudoir where Martin was waiting to sit down to dinner.

Then came a great surprise.

Martin was standing with his back to the fire-place, and I saw in a moment that the few hours which had intervened had changed him as much as they had changed me.

“Helloa!  Better, aren’t we?” he cried, but he was now cold, almost distant, and even his hearty voice seemed to have sunk to a kind of nervous treble.

I could not at first understand this, but after a while I began to see that we two had reached the point beyond which it was impossible to go without encountering the most tremendous fact of our lives ­my marriage and all that was involved by it.

During dinner we spoke very little.  He seemed intentionally not to look at me.  The warm glances of his sea-blue eyes, which all the afternoon had been making the colour mount to my cheeks, had gone, and it sent a cold chill to my heart to look across the table at his clouded face.  But sometimes when he thought my own face was down I was conscious that his eyes were fixed on me with a questioning, almost an imploring gaze.  His nervousness communicated itself to me.  It was almost as if we had begun to be afraid of each other and were hovering on the brink of fatal revelations.

When dinner was over, the table cleared and the servants gone, I could bear the strain no longer, so making excuse of a letter I had to write to the Reverend Mother I sat down at my desk, whereupon Martin lit a cigar and said he would stroll over the headland.

I heard his footsteps going down the stone stairway from the balcony; I heard their soft thud on the grass of the lawn; I heard their sharper crackle on the gravel of the white path, and then they mingled with the surge and wash of the flowing tide and died away in the distance.

I rose from the desk, and going over to the balcony door looked out into the darkness.  It was a beautiful, pathetic, heart-breaking night.  No moon, but a perfect canopy of stars in a deep blue sky.  The fragrance of unseen flowers ­sweetbriar and rose as well as ripening fruit ­came up from the garden.  There was no wind either, not even the rustle of a leaf, and the last bird of evening was silent.  All the great orchestra of nature was still, save for the light churning of the water running in the glen and the deep organ song of the everlasting sea.

“What can I do?” I asked myself.

Now that Martin was gone I had begun to understand him.  His silence had betrayed his heart to me even more than his speech could have done.  Towering above him like a frowning mountain was the fact that I was a married woman and he was trying to stand erect in his honour as a man.

“He must be suffering too,” I told myself.

That was a new thought to me and it cut me to the quick.

When it came to me first I wanted to run after him and throw myself into his arms, and then I wanted to run away from him altogether.

I felt as if I were on the brink of two madnesses ­the madness of breaking my marriage vows and the madness of breaking the heart of the man who loved me.

“Oh, what can I do?” I asked myself again.

I wanted him to go; I wanted him to stay; I did not know what I wanted.  At length I remembered that in ordinary course he would be going in two days more, and I said to myself: 

“Surely I can hold out that long.”

But when I put this thought to my breast, thinking it would comfort me, I found that it burnt like hot iron.

Only two days, and then he would be gone, lost to me perhaps for ever.  Did my renunciation require that?  It was terrible!

There was a piano in the room, and to strengthen and console myself in my trouble I sat down to it and played and sang.  I sang “Ave Maria Stella.”

I was singing to myself, so I know I began softly ­so softly that my voice must have been a whisper scarcely audible outside the room ­

     “Hail thou star of ocean,
     Portal of the sky.”

But my heart was full and when I came to the verses which always moved me most ­

     “Virgin of all virgins,
     To thy shelter take us” ­

my voice, without my knowing it, may have swelled out into the breathless night until it reached Martin, where he walked on the dark headland, and sounded to him like a cry that called him back.

I cannot say.  I only know that when with a thickening throat I had come to an end, and my forehead had fallen on to the key-board, and there was no other sound in the air but the far-off surging of the sea.  I heard somebody calling me in a soft and tremulous whisper,

“Mary!”

It was he.  I went out to the balcony and there he was on the lawn below.  The light of the room was on him and never before had I seen his strong face so full of agitation.

“Come down,” he said.  “I have something to say to you.”

I could not resist him.  He was my master.  I had to obey.

When I reached the bottom of the stairway he took my hand, and I did not know whether it was his hand or mine that was trembling.  He led me across the lawn to the seat in the shrubbery that almost faced my windows.  In the soft and soundless night I could hear his footsteps on the turf and the rustle of my dress over the grass.

We sat, and for a moment he did not speak.  Then with a passionate rush of words he said: 

“Mary, I hadn’t meant to say what I’m going to say now, but I can’t do anything else.  You are in trouble, and I can’t stand by and see you so ill-used.  I can’t and I won’t!”

I tried to answer him, but my throat was fluttering and I could not speak.

“It’s only a few days before I ought to sail, but they may be enough in which to do something, and if they’re not I’ll postpone the expedition or put it off, or send somebody in my place, for go away I cannot and leave you like this.”

I tried to say that he should not do that whatever happened to me, but still I could not speak.

“Mary.  I want to help you.  But I can only do so if you give me the right to do it.  Nobody must tell me I’m a meddler, butting in where I have no business.  There are people enough about you who would be only too ready to do that ­people related to you by blood and by law.”

I knew what he was coming to, for his voice was quivering in my ears like the string of a bow.

“There is only one sort of right, Mary, that is above the right of blood, and you know what that is.”

My eyes were growing so dim that I could hardly see the face which was so close to mine.

“Mary,” he said, “I have always cared for you.  Surely you know that.  By the saints of God I swear there has never been any other girl for me, and now there never will he.  Perhaps I ought to have told you this before, and I wanted to do so when I met you in Rome.  But it didn’t seem fair, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

His passionate voice was breaking; I thought my heart was breaking also.

“All I could do I did, but it came to nothing; and now you are here and you are unhappy, and though it is so late I want to help you, to rescue you, to drag you out of this horrible situation before I go away.  Let me do it.  Give me the right of one you care enough for to allow him to speak on your behalf.”

I knew what that meant.  I knew that I was tottering on the very edge of a precipice, and to save myself I tried to think of Father Dan, of Martin’s mother, of my own mother, and since I could not speak I struggled to pray.

“Don’t say you can’t.  If you do I shall go away a sorrowful man.  I shall go at once too ­to-night or to-morrow morning at latest, for my heart bleeds to look at you and I can’t stay here any longer to see you suffer.  It is not torture to me ­it’s hell!”

And then the irrepressible, overwhelming, inevitable moment came.  Martin laid hold of my right hand and said in his tremulous voice: 

“Mary . . .  Mary . . .  I . . .  I love you!”

I could hear no more.  I could not think or pray or resist any longer.  The bitter struggle was at an end.  Before I knew what I was doing I was dropping my head on to his breast and he with a cry of joy was gathering me in his arms.

I was his.  He had taken his own.  Nothing counted in the presence of our love.  To be only we two together ­that was everything.  The world and the world’s laws, the Church and the Canons of the Church were blotted out, forgotten, lost.

For some moments I hardly breathed.  I was only conscious that over my head Martin was saying something that seemed to come to me with all the deep and wonderful whispers of his heart.

“Then it’s true!  It’s true that you love me!  Yes, it’s true!  It’s true!  No one shall hurt you again.  Never again!  No, by the Lord God!”

And then suddenly ­as suddenly as the moment of intoxication had come to me ­I awoke from my delirium.  Some little thing awakened me.  I hardly know what it was.  Perhaps it was only the striking of the cuckoo clock in my room.

“What are we doing?” I said.

Everything had rolled back on me ­my marriage, Father Dan’s warning, my promise to Martin’s mother.

“Where are we?” I said.

“Hush!  Don’t speak,” said Martin.  “Let us think of nothing to-night ­nothing except our love.”

“Don’t say that,” I answered.  “We are not free to love each other,” and then, trying to liberate myself from his encircling arms I cried: 

“God help me!  God forgive me!”

“Wait!” said Martin, holding me a moment longer.  “I know what you feel, and I’m not the man to want a girl to wrong her conscience.  But there’s one question I must ask you.  If you were free, could you love me then?”

“Don’t ask me that.  I must not answer it.”

“You must and shall,” said Martin.  “Could you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s enough for me ­enough for to-night anyway.  Have no fear.  All shall be well.  Go to your room now.”

He raised me to my feet and led me back to the foot of the balcony, and there he kissed my hand and let me go.

“Good night!” he said softly.

“Good night!” I answered.

“God bless you, my pure sweet girl!”

At the next moment I was in my room, lying face down on my bed ­seeing no hope on any side, and sobbing my heart out for what might have been but for the hard law of my religion and the cruel tangle of my fate.