In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream she now moved and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither this dream would lead, the while her every perception was quickened. And this dream of hers was immensely compelling, so that all that she did seemed clearly predestined; she could not have acted otherwise, nor could she have made a false step, although dreaming. Like those who in sleep tread the edge of a chasm unappalled, having lost all sense of danger, so now Stephen walked on the brink of her fate, having only one fear; a nightmare fear of what she must do to give Mary her freedom.
In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had taken control of this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl’s tenderness, nor would she consent that they two should be lovers. Ruthless as the world itself she became, and almost as cruel in this ceaseless wounding. For in spite of Mary’s obvious misgivings, she went more and more often to see Valérie Seymour, so that gradually, as the days slipped by, Mary’s mind became a prey to suspicion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and again, desperately wounding herself in the process, though scarcely feeling the pain of her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to Mary. But even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each fresh blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of her sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that Stephen had stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered; with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle with Martin. The hand that had loaded Mary with chains was powerless, it seemed, to strike them from her.
Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she turned upon Stephen, pale and accusing: “Can’t you understand? Are you utterly blind—have you only got eyes now for Valérie Seymour?”
And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen’s lips remained closed and she answered nothing.
Then Mary wept and cried out against her: “I won’t let you go—I won’t let you, I tell you! It’s your fault if I love you the way I do. I can’t do without you, you’ve taught me to need you, and now …” In half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand there and plead for what Stephen withheld, and Stephen must listen to such pleading from Mary. Then before the girl realized it she had said: “But for you, I could have loved Martin Hallam!”
Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: “But for me, you could have loved Martin Hallam.”
Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: “No, no! Not that, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
III
The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary’s young cherry tree in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches.
Then Martin wrote: “Stephen, where can I see you? It must be alone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don’t mind, because of Mary.”
She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du Vieux Logis in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the following evening. When she left the house without saying a word, Mary thought she was going to Valérie Seymour.
Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin’s coming—she herself was early. The table was gay with a new check cloth—red and white, white and red, she counted the squares, tracing them carefully out with her finger. The woman behind the bar nudged her companion: “En voilà une originale—et quelle cicatrice, bon Dieu!” The scar across Stephen’s pale face stood out livid.
Martin came and sat quietly down at her side, ordering some coffee for appearances’ sake. For appearances’ sake, until it was brought, they smiled at each other and made conversation. But when the waiter had turned away, Martin said: “It’s all over—you’ve beaten me, Stephen … The bond was too strong.”
Their unhappy eyes met as she answered: “I tried to strengthen that bond.”
He nodded: “I know … Well, my dear, you succeeded.” Then he said: “I’m leaving Paris next week;” and in spite of his effort to be calm his voice broke, “Stephen … do what you can to take care of Mary …”
She found that she was holding his hand. Or was it someone else who sat there beside him, who looked into his sensitive, troubled face, who spoke such queer words?
“No, don’t go—not yet.”
“But I don’t understand …”
“You must trust me, Martin.” And now she heard herself speaking very gravely: “Would you trust me enough to do anything I asked, even although it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I said that I asked it for Mary, for her happiness?”
His fingers tightened: “Before God, yes. You know that I’d trust you!”
“Very well then, don’t leave Paris—not now.”
“You really want me to stay on, Stephen?”
“Yes, I can’t explain.”
He hesitated, then he suddenly
