it was her mental opposition, the
trees felt, that stood in their way. Once that was overcome,
obliterated, her physical presence did not matter. She would be
harmless.

Having accepted defeat, because she had come to feel that his obsession
was not actually evil, she accepted at the same time the conditions of
an atrocious loneliness. She stood now from her husband farther than
from the moon. They had no visitors. Callers were few and far between,
and less encouraged than before. The empty dark of winter was before
them. Among the neighbors was none in whom, without disloyalty to her
husband, she could confide. Mr. Mortimer, had he been single, might have
helped her in this desert of solitude that preyed upon her mind, but his
wife was there the obstacle; for Mrs. Mortimer wore sandals, believed
that nuts were the complete food of man, and indulged in other
idiosyncrasies that classed her inevitably among the "latter signs"
which Mrs. Bittacy had been taught to dread as dangerous. She stood most
desolately alone.

Solitude, therefore, in which the mind unhindered feeds upon its own
delusions, was the assignable cause of her gradual mental disruption and
collapse.

With the definite arrival of the colder weather her husband gave up his
rambles after dark; evenings were spent together over the fire; he read
The Times; they even talked about their postponed visit abroad in the
coming spring. No restlessness was on him at the change; he seemed
content and easy in his mind; spoke little of the trees and woods;
enjoyed far better health than if there had been change of scene, and to
herself was tender, kind, solicitous over trifles, as in the distant
days of their first honeymoon.

But this deep calm could not deceive her; it meant, she fully
understood, that he felt sure of himself, sure of her, and sure of the
trees as well. It all lay buried in the depths of him, too secure and
deep, too intimately established in his central being to permit of those
surface fluctuations which betray disharmony within. His life was hid
with trees. Even the fever, so dreaded in the damp of winter, left him
free. She now knew why: the fever was due to their efforts to obtain
him, his efforts to respond and go--physical results of a fierce unrest
he had never understood till Sanderson came with his wicked
explanations. Now it was otherwise. The bridge was made. And--he had
gone.

And she, brave, loyal, and consistent soul, found hersel