And then at last, somewhere out of the twilight, somewhere out of those lowest, unplumbed depths of her own heart, came the first tremor of doubt, come the tardy vibration of the silver cord which Page had struck so sharply.Was it--after all--Love, that she cherished and strove for--love, or self-love? Ever since Page had spoken she seemed to have fought against the intrusion of this idea.But, little by little, it rose to the surface.At last, for an instant, it seemed to confront her.
Was this, after all, the right way to win her husband back to her--this display of her beauty, this parade of dress, this exploitation of self?
Self, self.Had she been selfish from the very first?
What real interest had she taken in her husband's work?" Right or wrong, good or bad, I would put my two hands into the fire to help him." Was this the way? Was not this the only way? Win him back to her? What if there were more need for her to win back to him? Oh, once she had been able to say that love, the supreme triumph of a woman's life, was less a victory than a capitulation.Had she ordered her life upon that ideal? Did she even believe in the ideal at this day?
Whither had this cruel cult of self led her?
Dimly Laura Jadwin began to see and to understand a whole new conception of her little world.The birth of a new being within her was not for that night.It was conception only--the sensation of a new element, a new force that was not herself, somewhere in the inner chambers of her being.
The woman in her was too complex, the fibres of character too intricate and mature to be wrenched into new shapes by any sudden revolution.But just so surely as the day was going, just so surely as the New Day would follow upon the night, conception had taken place within her.Whatever she did that evening, whatever came to her, through whatever crises she should hurry, she would not now be quite the same.She had been accustomed to tell herself that there were two Lauras.Now suddenly, behold, she seemed to recognise a third--a third that rose above and forgot the other two, that in some beautiful, mysterious way was identity ignoring self.
But the change was not to be abrupt.Very, very vaguely the thoughts came to her.The change would be slow, slow--would be evolution, not revolution.The consummation was to be achieved in the coming years.
For to-night she was--what was she? Only a woman, weak, torn by emotion, driven by impulse, and entering upon what she imagined was a great crisis in her life.
But meanwhile the time was passing.Laura descended to the library and, picking up a book, composed herself to read.When six o'clock struck, she made haste to assure herself that of course she could not expect him exactly on the hour.No, she must make allowances; the day--as Page had suspected--had probably been an important one.He would be a little late, but he would come soon."If you love me, you will come," she had said.
But an hour later Laura paced the room with tight-shut lips and burning cheeks.She was still alone; her day, her hour, was passing, and he had not so much as sent word.For a moment the thought occurred to her that he might perhaps be in great trouble, in great straits, that there was an excuse.But instantly she repudiated the notion.
"No, no," she cried, beneath her breath."He should come, no matter what has happened.Or even, at the very least, he could send word."The minutes dragged by.No roll of wheels echoed under the carriage porch; no step sounded at the outer door.
The house was still, the street without was still, the silence of the midsummer evening widened, unbroken around her, like a vast calm pool.Only the musical Gregorians of the newsboys chanting the evening's extras from corner to corner of the streets rose into the air from time to time.She was once more alone.
Was she to fail again? Was she to be set aside once more, as so often heretofore--set aside, flouted, ignored, forgotten? "If you love me," she had said.
And this was to be the supreme test.This evening was to decide which was the great influence of his life--was to prove whether or not love was paramount.This was the crucial hour."And he knows it," cried Laura.
"He knows it.He did not forget, could not have forgotten."The half hour passed, then the hour, and as eight o'clock chimed from the clock over the mantelshelf Laura stopped, suddenly rigid, in the midst of the floor.
Her anger leaped like fire within her.All the passion of the woman scorned shook her from head to foot.At the very moment of her triumph she had been flouted, in the pitch of her pride! And this was not the only time.
All at once the past disappointments, slights, and humiliations came again to her memory.She had pleaded, and had been rebuffed again and again; she had given all and had received neglect--she, Laura, beautiful beyond other women, who had known love, devoted service, and the most thoughtful consideration from her earliest girlhood, had been cast aside.
Suddenly she bent her head quickly, listening intently.
Then she drew a deep breath, murmuring "At last, at last!"For the sound of a footstep in the vestibule was unmistakable.He had come after all.But so late, so late! No, she could not be gracious at once; he must be made to feel how deeply he had offended; he must sue humbly, very humbly, for pardon.The servant's step sounded in the hall on the way towards the front door.
"I am in here, Matthew," she called."In the library.
Tell him I am in here."
She cast a quick glance at herself in the mirror close at hand, touched her hair with rapid fingers, smoothed the agitation from her forehead, and sat down in a deep chair near the fireplace, opening a book, turning her back towards the door.
She heard him come in, but did not move.Even as he crossed the floor she kept her head turned away.The footsteps paused near at hand.There was a moment's silence.Then slowly Laura, laying down her book, turned and faced him.
