Three days later Major Ames was walking back home in the middle of the afternoon, returning from the house in which he had lately spent so considerable a portion of his time. But this was the last day on which he would go there, nor would he, except for this one time more, cross the threshold of his own house. The climax had come, and within an hour or two he and Millie were going to leave Riseborough together.

Now that their decision had been made, it seemed to him that it had been inevitable from the first. Ever since the summer, when, from some mixture of genuine liking and false gallantry, he had allowed himself to drift into relations with her, the force that drew and held him had steadily increased in strength, and to-day it had proved itself irresistible. The determining factor no doubt had been his quarrel with his wife; that gave the impulse that had been still lacking, the final push which upset the equilibrium of that which was tottering and ready to fall over.

The scene this afternoon had been both short and quiet, as such scenes are. Dr. Evans had been called up to town on business yesterday morning, returning possibly this evening but more probably to-morrow, and they had lunched alone. Afterwards Major Ames had again spoken of his wife.

“The situation is intolerable,” he had said. “I can’t stand it. If it wasn’t for you, Millie, I should go away.”

She had come close to him.

“I’m not very happy, either,” she said. “If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I could stand it.”

And then it was already inevitable.

“It’s too strong for us,” she said. “We can’t help it. I will face anything with you. We will go right away, Lyndhurst, and live, instead of being starved like this.”

She took both his hands in hers, completely carried away for the first time in her life by something outside herself. Treacherous and mean as was that course on which she was determined, she was, perhaps, a finer woman at this moment of supreme disloyalty than in all the years of her blameless married life.

“I’ve never loved before, Lyndhurst,” she said quietly, “nor have I ever known what it meant. Now I can’t consider anything else; it doesn’t matter what happens to Wilfred and Elsie. Nothing matters except you.”

This time it was not he who kissed her; it was she who pressed her mouth to his.

There was but little to settle, their plans were perfectly simple and ruthless. They would cross over to Boulogne that night, and, as soon as the law set them free, marry each other. A train to Folkestone left Riseborough in a little over an hour’s time, running in connection with the boat. They could easily catch it. But it was wiser not to go to the station together: they would meet there.

As he walked home through the gleaming October afternoon, Major Ames was conscious neither of struggle nor regret. The power which Millie had had over him all these months, so that it was she always who really took the lead, and urged him one step forward and then another, gripped him and led him on here to the last step of all. He still obeyed and followed that slender, fragile woman who so soon would be his; it was as necessary to do her bidding here as it had been to kiss her, when first, under the mulberry-tree, she had put up her face towards his. These last days seemed to have killed all sense of loyalty and manhood within him; he gave no thought at all to his wife, and thought of Harry only as Amy’s son. Besides, he was not responsible: man though he was, he was completely in the hands of this woman. All his life he had had no real principles to direct him, he had lived a decent life only because no temptation to live otherwise had ever really come near him, and even now it was in no way the wickedness of what he purposed that at all dragged him back; it was mere timidity at taking an irrevocable step.

Amy, he knew, was out: at breakfast she had announced to him that she did not expect to be in till dinner-time, and he had told her that he would be out for dinner. Such sentences dealing with household arrangements had been the sum of their discourse for the last days, and they were spoken not so much to each other as to the air, heard by, rather than addressed to any one in particular.

And yet the prospect of the life that should open for him, when once this irrevocable step had been taken, did not fill him with the resistless longing which, though it cannot excuse, at any rate accounts for the step itself. Millie, though throughout she had led him on until the climax was reached, had at least the authentic goad to drive her: life with him seemed to her to be real life: it was passionately that she desired it. But with him, apart from the force with which she dominated him, it was the escape from the very uncomfortable circumstances of home that chiefly attracted him. In a way, he loved her; he felt for her a warmth and a tenderness of stronger quality than he could remember having ever experienced before, and since it is not given to all men to love violently, it may be granted that he was feeling the utmost fire of which his nature was capable. But it was of sufficient ardour to burn up in his mind the rubbish of minor considerations and material exigencies.

Cabs were of infrequent occurrence at this far end of St. Barnabas Road, and meeting one by hazard just outside his house, he told the driver to wait. Then, letting himself in, he went straight up to his dressing-room. There was not time for him to pack his whole wardrobe, and a moderate portmanteau would be all he really needed. And here the trivialities began to wax huge and engrossing: though the afternoon was warm, it would no doubt be fresh, if not chilly on the boat, and it would certainly be advisable to take his thick overcoat, which at present had not left its summer quarters. Those were in a big cupboard in the passage outside, overlooking the garden, where it was packed away with prophylactic little balls of naphthaline. These had impregnated it somewhat powerfully, but it was better to be odorously than insufficiently clad. Passing the window he saw that the chrysanthemums had responded bravely to his comforting a few mornings ago: if there was no more frost they would be gay for another fortnight yet. Should he take a bouquet of them with him? He did not see why he should not have the enjoyment of them. Yet there was scarcely time to pick them: he must hurry on with the packing of his small portmanteau, which presented endless problems.

A panama hat should certainly be included; also a pair of white tennis shoes, in which he saw himself promenading on the parade: a white flannel suit, though it was October, seemed to complete the costume. He need not cumber himself with a dress coat: a dinner jacket was all that would be necessary. She had told him she had six hundred a year of her own: he had another three. It was annoying that his sponge was rather ragged; he had meant to buy a new one this morning. Perhaps Parker could draw it together with a bit of thread. An untidy sponge always vexed him: it was unsoldierly and slovenly. “Show me a man’s washhand-stand,” he had once said, “and I’ll tell you about the owner.” His own did not invite inspection, with its straggly sponge.

Then for a moment all these trivialities stood away from him, and for an interval he saw where he stood and what he was doing—the vileness, the sordidness, the vulgarity of it. High principles, nobility of life were not subjects with which hitherto he had much concerned himself, and it would be useless to expect that they should come to his rescue now, but for this moment his kindliness, such as it was, his affection for his wife, such as it was, but above all the continuous, unbroken smug respectability of his days read him a formidable indictment. What could he plead against such an accusation? No irresistible or imperative necessity of soul that claimed Millie as his by right of love. He knew that his desire for her was not of that fiery order, for he could see, undazzled and unburned, the qualities which attracted him. He admired her frail beauty, the youth that still encompassed her, he fed with the finest appetite on the devotion and admiration which she brought him. He loved being the god and the hero of this attractive woman, and it was this, far more than the devotion he brought her, that dominated him.

Respectability cried out against him and his foolishness. There would be no more strutting and swelling about the club among the mild and honourable men who frequented it, and looked up to him as an authority on India and gardening, nor any more of those pompous and satisfactory evenings when General Fortescue assured him that there was not such a good glass of port in Kent as that with which the Major supplied his guests. To be known as Major Ames, late of the Indian Army, had been to command respect; now, the less that he was known as Major Ames, late of Riseborough, the better would be the chance of being held in esteem. And to what sort of life would he condemn the woman, who for his sake was leaving a respectability no less solid than his own? To the companionship of such as herself, to the soiled doves of a French watering-place. That, of course, would be but a temporary habitation, but after that, what? Where was the society which would receive them, by which there would be any satisfaction in being received? Neither of them had the faintest touch of Bohemianism in their natures: both were of the school that is accustomed to silver teapots and life in houses with a garden behind. For a moment he hesitated as he folded back the sleeves of his dinner-jacket: then the tide of trivialities swept over him again, and he noticed that there was a spot of spilled wax on the cuff.

Among other engagements that Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Ames was occupied with the decoration of St. Barnabas’ Church for the Sunday service next day, and she had gone there after lunch with an adornment of foliage tinted red by October, for she had not felt disposed to ask Lyndhurst if she might pick the remnant of his chrysanthemums. She, too, like him, felt the impossibility of the present situation, and, as she worked, she asked herself if it was in any way in her power to end this parody of domestic life. Every day she had made the attempt to begin the breaking of this ridiculous and most uncomfortable silence which lay between them, by the introduction of ordinary topics, hoping by degrees to build up again the breach that yawned between them, but at present she had got no sense of the slightest answering effort on his side. Psychically no less than conversationally he had nothing whatever to say to her. If in the common courtesies of daily life he had nothing for her, it seemed idle to hope to find further receptiveness if she opened discussion of their quarrel. Besides, a certain very natural pride blocked her way: he owed her an apology, and when she indicated that, he had sworn at her. It did not seem unreasonable (even when decorating a church) to expect the initiatory step to be taken by him. But what if he did not do so?

Mrs. Ames gave a little sigh, and her mouth and throat worked uncomfortably. The quarrel was so childish, yet it was serious, for it was not a light thing, whatever her provocation might have been, to pass days like these. Half-a-dozen times she went over the circumstances, and half-a-dozen times she felt that it was only just that he should make the advance to her, or at any rate behave with ordinary courtesy in answer to her ordinary civilities. It was true that the original dissension was due to her, but she believed with her whole heart in the cause for which she provoked it. All these last months she had felt her nature expand under the influence of this idea: she knew herself to be a better and a bigger woman than she had been. She believed in the rights of her sex, but had they not their duties too? It was nearly twenty-five years since she had voluntarily undertaken a certain duty. What if that came first, before any rights or privileges? What if that which she had undertaken then as a duty was in itself a right?

Yet even then, what could she do? In itself, she was very far from being ashamed of the part she had taken, yet was it possible to weigh this independently, without considering the points at which it conflicted with duties which certainly concerned her no less? She could not hope to convince her husband of the justice of the cause, nor of the expediency of promoting it in ways like these. For herself, she knew the justice of it, and saw no other expedient for promoting it. Those who had worked for the cause for years said that all else had been tried, that there remained only this violent crusading. But was not she personally, considering what her husband felt about it, debarred from taking part in the crusade? She had deeply offended and vexed him. Could anything but the stringency of moral law justify that? Nothing that he had done, nothing that he could do, short of the violation of the essential principles of married life, could absolve her from the accomplishment of one tittle of her duty towards him.

For a moment, in spite of her perplexity and the difficulty of her decision, Mrs. Ames smiled at herself for the mental use of all these great words like duty and privilege, over so small an incident. For what had happened? She had been a militant Suffragette on one occasion only, and at breakfast next morning he had, in matters arising therefrom, allowed himself to swear at her. Yet it seemed to her that, with all the pettiness and insignificance of it, great laws were concerned. For the law of kindness is broken by the most trumpery exhibition of inconsiderateness, the law of generosity by the most minute word of spite or backbiting. Indeed, it is chiefly in little things, since most of us are not concerned with great matters, that these violations occur, and in cups of cold water that they are fulfilled. And for once Mrs. Ames did not finish her decoration with tidiness and precision, a fact clearly noted by Mrs. Altham next day.

There was a Suffragette meeting at four, but she was prepared to be late for that, or, if necessary, to fail in attendance altogether. In any case, she would call in at home on her way there, on the chance that her husband might be in. She made no definite plan: it was impossible to forecast her share in the interview. But she had determined to try to suffer long, to be kind ... to keep the promise of twenty-five years ago. There was a cab drawn up at the entrance, and it vaguely occurred to her that Millie might be here, for she had not seen her for some days, and it was possible she might have called. Yet it was hardly likely that she would have waited, since the servants would have told her that she herself was not expected home till dinner-time. Or was Lyndhurst giving her tea? And Mrs. Ames grew suddenly alert again about matters to which she had scarcely given a thought during these last months.

She let herself in, and went to the drawing-room: there was no one there, nor in the little room next it where they assembled before dinner on nights when they gave a party. But directly overhead she heard steps moving: that was in Lyndhurst’s dressing-room.

She went up there, knocked, and in answer to his assent went in. The portmanteau was nearly packed, he stood in shirt-sleeves by it. In his hand was his sponge-bag—he had anticipated the entry of Parker with the stitched sponge.

She looked from the portmanteau to him, and back and back again.

“You are going away, Lyndhurst?” she asked.

He made a ghastly attempt to devise a reasonable answer, and thought he succeeded.

“Yes, I’m going—going to your cousin’s to shoot. I told you he had asked me. You objected to my going, but I’m going all the same. I should have left you a note. Back to-morrow night.”

Then she felt she knew all, as certainly as if he had told her.

“Since when has Cousin James been giving shooting parties on Sunday?” she asked. “Please don’t lie to me, Lyndhurst. It makes it much worse. You are not going to Cousin James, and—you are not going alone. Shall I tell you any more?”

She was not guessing: all the events of the last month, the Shakespeare ball, Harrogate, their own quarrel, and on the top this foolish lie about a shooting party made a series of data which proclaimed the conclusion. And the suddenness of the discovery, the magnitude of the issues involved, but served to steady her. There was an authentic valour in her nature; even as she had stood up to interrupt the political meeting, without so much as dreaming of shirking her part, so now her pause was not timorous, but rather the rallying of all her forces, that came eager and undismayed to her summons.

Apparently Lyndhurst did not want to be told any more: he did not, at any rate, ask for it. Just then Parker came in with the mended sponge. She gave it him, and he stood with sponge-bag in one hand, sponge in the other.

“Shall I bring up tea, ma’am?” she said to Mrs. Ames.

“Yes, take it to the drawing-room now. And send the cab away. The Major won’t want it.”

Lyndhurst crammed the sponge into its bag.

“I shall want the cab, Parker,” he said. “Don’t send it away.”

Mrs. Ames whisked round on Parker with amazing rapidity.

“Do as I tell you, Parker,” she said, “and be quick!”

It was a mere conflict of will that, for the next five seconds, silently raged between them, but as definite and as hard-hitting as any affair of the prize ring. And it was impossible that there should be any but the one end to it, for Mrs. Ames devoted her whole strength and will to it, while from the first her husband’s heart was not in the battle. But she was fighting for her all, and not only her all, but his, and not only his, but Millie’s. Three existences were at stake, and the ruin of two homes was being hazarded. And when he spoke, she knew she was winning.

“I must go,” he said. “She will be waiting at the station.”

“She will wait to no purpose,” said Mrs. Ames.

“She will be”—no word seemed adequate—“be furious,” he said. “A man cannot treat a woman like that.”

Any blow would do: he had no defence: she could strike him as she pleased.

“Elsie comes home next week,” she said. “A pleasant home-coming. And Harry will have to leave Cambridge!”

“But I love her!” he said.

“Nonsense, my dear,” she said. “Men don’t ruin the women they love. Men, I mean!”

That stung; she meant that it should.

“But men keep their word,” he said. “Let me pass.”

“Keep your word to me,” said she, “and try to help poor Millie to keep hers to her husband. It is not a fine thing to steal a man’s wife, Lyndhurst. It is much finer to be respectable.”

“Respectable!” he said. “And to what has respectability brought us? You and me, I mean?”

“Not to disgrace, anyhow,” she said.

“It’s too late,” said he.

“Never quite too late, thank God,” she said.

Mrs. Ames gave a little sigh. She knew she had won, and quite suddenly all her strength seemed to leave her. Her little trembling legs refused to uphold her, a curious buzzing was in her ears, and a crinkled mist swam before her eyes.

“Lyndhurst, I’m afraid I am going to make a goose of myself and faint,” she said. “Just help me to my room, and get Parker——”

She swayed and tottered, and he only just caught her before she fell. He laid her down on the floor and opened the door and window wide. There was a flask of brandy in his portmanteau, laid on the top, designed to be easily accessible in case of an inclement crossing of the Channel. He mixed a tablespoonful of this with a little water, and as she moved, and opened her eyes again, he knelt down on the floor by her, supporting her.

“Take a sip of this, Amy,” he said.

She obeyed him.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said. “I am better. So silly of me.”

“Another sip, then.”

“You want to make me drunk, Lyndhurst,” she said.

Then she smiled: it would be a pity to lose the opportunity for a humorous allusion to what at the time had been so far from humour.

“Really drunk, this time,” she said. “And then you tell Cousin James he was right.”

She let herself rest longer than was physically necessary in the encircling crook of his arm, and let herself keep her eyes closed, though, if she had been alone, she would most decidedly have opened them. But those first few minutes had somehow to be traversed, and she felt that silence bridged them over better than speech. It was appropriate, too, that his arm should be round her.

“There, I am better,” she said at length. “Let me get up, Lyndhurst. Thank you for looking after me.”

She got on to her feet, but then sat down again in his easy-chair.

“Not quite steady yet?” he said.

“Very nearly. I shall be quite ready to come downstairs and give you your tea by the time you have unpacked your little portmanteau.”

She did not even look at him, but sat turned away from him and the little portmanteau. But she heard the rustle of paper, the opening and shutting of drawers, the sound of metallic articles of toilet being deposited on dressing-table and washing-stand. After that came the click of a hasp. Then she got up.

“Now let us have tea,” she said.

“And if Millie comes?” he asked.

She had been determined that he should mention her name first. But when once he had mentioned it she was more than ready to discuss the questions that naturally arose.

“You mean she may come back here to see what has happened to you?” she asked. “That is well thought of, dear. Let us see. But we will go downstairs.”

She thought intently as they descended the staircase, and busied herself with tea-making before she got to her conclusion.

“She will ask for you,” she said, “if she comes, and it would not be very wise for you to see her. On the other hand, she must be told what has happened. I will see her, then. It would be best that way.”

Major Ames got up.

“No, I can’t have that,” he said. “I can’t have that!”

“My dear, you have got to have it. You are in a dreadful mess. I, as your wife, am the only person who can get you out of it. I will do my best, anyhow.”

She rang the bell.

“I am going to tell Parker to tell Millie that you are at home if she asks for you, and to show her in here,” she said. “There is no other way that I can see. I do not intend to have nothing more to do with her. At least I want to avoid that, if possible, for that is a weak way out of difficulties. I shall certainly have to see her some time, and there is no use in putting it off. I am afraid, Lyndhurst, that you had better finish your tea at once, or take it upstairs. Take another cup upstairs; you have had but one, and drink it in your dressing-room, in the comfortable chair.”

There was an extraordinary wisdom in this minute attention to detail, and it was by this that she was able to rise to a big occasion. It was necessary that he should feel that her full intention was to forgive him, and make the best of the days that lay before them. She had no great words and noble sentiment with which to convey this impression, but, in a measure, she could show him her mind by minute arrangements for his comfort. But he lingered, irresolute.

“You have got to trust me,” she said. “Do as I tell you, my dear.”

She had not long to wait after he had gone upstairs. She heard the ring at the bell, and next moment Millie came into the room. Her face was flushed, her breathing hurried, her eyes alight with trouble, suspense, and resentment.

“Lyndhurst,” she began. “I waited——”

Then she saw Mrs. Ames, and turned confusedly about, as if to leave the room again. But Amy got up quickly.

“Come and sit down at once, Millie,” she said. “We have got to talk. So let us make it as easy as we can for each other.”

Millie was holding her muff up to her face, and peered at her from above it, wild-eyed, terrified.

“It isn’t you I want,” she said. “Where is Lyndhurst? I—I had an appointment with him. He was late—we—we were going a drive together. What do you know, Cousin Amy?” she almost shrieked; “and where is he?”

“Sit down, Millie, as I tell you,” said Mrs. Ames very quietly. “There is nothing to be frightened at. I know everything.”

“We were going a drive,” began Millie again, still looking wildly about. “He did not come, and I was frightened. I came to see where he was. I asked you if you knew—if you knew anything about him, did I not? Why do you say you know everything?”

Suddenly Mrs. Ames saw that there was something here infinitely more worthy of pity than she had suspected. There was no question as to the agonized earnestness that underlay this futile, childish repetition of nonsense. And with that there came into her mind a greater measure of understanding with regard to her husband. It was not so wonderful that he had been unable to resist the face that had drawn him.

“Let us behave like sensible women, Millie,” she said. “You have come down from the station. Lyndhurst was not there. Do you want me to tell you anything more?”

Millie wavered where she stood, then she stumbled into a chair.

“Has he given me up?” she said.

“Yes, if you care to put it like that. It would be truer to say that he has saved you and himself. But he is not coming with you.”

“You made him?” she asked.

“I helped to make him,” said Mrs. Ames.

Millie got up again.

“I want to see him,” she said. “You don’t understand, Cousin Amy. He has got to come. I don’t care whether it is wicked or not. I love him. You don’t understand him either. You don’t know how splendid he is. He is unhappy at home; he has often told me so.”

Mrs. Ames took hold of the wretched woman by both hands.

“You are raving, Millie,” she said. “You must stop being hysterical. You hardly know whom you are talking to. If you do not pull yourself together, I shall send for your husband, and say you have been taken ill.”

Millie gave a sudden gasp of laughter.

“Oh, I am not so stupid as you think!” she said. “Wilfred is away. Where is Lyndhurst?”

Mrs. Ames did not let go of her.

“Millie,” she said, “if you are not sensible at once, I will tell you I shall do. I shall call Parker, and together we will put you into your cab, and you shall be driven straight home. I am perfectly serious. I hope you will not oblige me to do that. You will be much wiser to pull yourself together, and let us have a talk. But understand one thing quite clearly. You are not going to see Lyndhurst.”

The tension of those wide, childish eyes slowly relaxed, and her head sank forward, and there came the terrible and blessed tears, in wild cataract and streaming storm. And Mrs. Ames, looking at her, felt all her righteousness relax; she had only pity for this poor destitute soul, who was blind to all else by force of that mysterious longing which, in itself, is so divine that, though it desires the disgraceful and the impossible, it cannot wholly make itself abominable, nor discrown itself of its royalty. Something of the truth of that, though no more than mere fragments and moulted feather, came to Mrs. Ames now, as she sat waiting till the tempest of tears should have abated. The royal eagle had passed over her; as sign of his passage there was this feather that had fallen, and she understood its significance.

Slowly the tears ceased and the sobs were still, and Millie raised her dim, swollen eyes.

“I had better go home,” she said. “I wonder if you would let me wash my face, Cousin Amy. I must be a perfect fright.”

“Yes, dear Millie,” said she; “but there is no hurry. See, shall I send your cab back to your house? It has your luggage on it; yes? Then Parker shall go with it, and tell them to take it back to your room and unpack it, and put everything back in place. Afterwards, when we have talked a little, I will walk back with you.”

Again the comfort of having little things attended to reached Millie, that and the sense that she was not quite alone. She was like a child that has been naughty and has been punished, and she did not much care whether she had been naughty or not. What she wanted primarily was to be comforted, to be assured that everybody was not going to be angry with her for ever. Then, returning, Mrs. Ames made her some fresh tea, and that comforted her too.

“But I don’t see how I can ever be happy again,” she said.

There was something childlike about this, as well as childish.

“No, Millie,” said the other. “None of us three see that exactly. We shall all have to be very patient. Very patient and ordinary.”

There was a long silence.

“I must tell you one thing,” said Millie, “though I daresay that will make you hate me more. But it was my fault from the first. I led him on—I—I didn’t let him kiss me, I made him kiss me. It was like that all through!”

She felt that Mrs. Ames was waiting for something more, and she knew exactly what it was. But it required a greater effort to speak of that than she could at once command. At last she raised her eyes to those of Mrs. Ames.

“No, never,” she said.

Mrs. Ames nodded.

“I see,” she said baldly. “Now, as I said, we have got to be patient and ordinary. We have got, you and I, to begin again. You have your husband, so have I. Men are so easily pleased and made happy. It would be a shame if we failed.”

Again the helpless, puzzled look came over Millie’s face.

“But I don’t see how to begin,” she said. “To-morrow, for instance, what am I to do all to-morrow? I shall only be thinking of what might have happened.”

Mrs. Ames took up her soft, unresisting, unresponsive hand.

“Yes, by all means, think what might have happened,” she said. “Utter ruin, utter misery, and—and all your fault. You led him on, as you said. He didn’t care as you did. He wouldn’t have thought of going away with you, if he hadn’t been so furious with me. Think of all that.”

Some straggler from that host of sobs shook Millie for a moment.

“Perhaps Wilfred would take me away instead,” she said. “I will ask him if he cannot. Do you think I should feel better if I went away for a fortnight, Cousin Amy?”

Mrs. Ames’ twisted little smile played about her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “I think that is an excellent plan. I am quite sure you will feel better in a fortnight, if you can look forward like that, and want to be better. And now would you like to wash your face? After that, I will walk home with you.”