he had gone she sprang up: Yes, she was a bad wife! A wife
who had reached the end of her tether. A wife who hated instead of
loving. A wife in prison! Bad wife! Martyrdom, then, for the sake of a
faith in her that was lost already, could be but folly. If she seemed
bad and false to him, there was no longer reason to pretend to be
otherwise. No longer would she, in the words of the old song:--'sit and
sigh--pulling bracken, pulling bracken.' No more would she starve for
want of love, and watch the nights throb and ache, as last night had
throbbed and ached, with the passion that she might not satisfy.

And while she was dressing she wondered why she did not look tired. To
get out quickly! To send her lover word at once to hasten to her while
it was safe--that she might tell him she was coming to him out of prison!
She would telegraph for him to come that evening with a boat, opposite
the tall poplar. She and her Aunt and Uncle were to go to dinner at the
Rectory, but she would plead headache at the last minute. When the
Ercotts had gone she would slip out, and he and she would row over to the
wood, and be together for two hours of happiness. And they must make a
clear plan, too--for to-morrow they would begin their life together. But
it would not be safe to send that message from the village; she must go
down and over the bridge to the post-office on the other side, where they
did not know her. It was too late now before breakfast. Better after,
when she could slip away, knowing for certain that her husband had gone.
It would still not be too late for her telegram--Lennan never left his
rooms till the midday post which brought her letters.

She finished dressing, and knowing that she must show no trace of her
excitement, sat quite still for several minutes, forcing herself into
languor. Then she went down. Her husband had breakfasted and gone. At
everything she did, and every word she spoke, she was now smiling with a
sort of wonder, as if she were watching a self, that she had abandoned
like an old garment, perform for her amusement. It even gave her no
feeling of remorse to think she was going to do what would be so painful
to the good Colonel. He was dear to her--but it did not matter. She was
past all that. Nothing mattered--nothing in the world! It amused her to
believe that her Uncle and Aunt misread her last night's walk in the dark
garden, misread her languor and serenity. And at the first