Through the bleak March morning, past piles of grimy, half-melted snow, Mary Bradley went. Two blocks up, at the corner of the street which led from the mill, she met Barry Malleson. He had gone early, as he had said he would, to procure her check. He drew it from his pocket now and gave it to her.
“It only needs your endorsement,” he said, “and you can get the money at any bank.”
“Thank you, Barry! Now I want you to go with me.”
“Where?” And before she could reply he added: “It doesn’t matter where. I’ll go, and be glad to.”
But she told him where she wished him to go.
“I’m going to see Mr. Farrar,” she said. “Perhaps he can do something to put an end to this unbearable tragedy.”
They found him in his study. The darkness of the morning had made necessary the lighting of his table-lamp, and vague shadows filled the room and moved unsteadily up and down his gray face as he bent to his work or sat back in his chair to ponder. And he had work to do as well as cause to ponder. The suffering he had witnessed during these last days lay heavy on his heart. His eyes were dim with it; the lines on his face were deep with it. His sympathies were stirred as they had never in his life been stirred before. His wife entered the room softly but he neither saw nor heard her. She paused and looked at him for a moment and then went out without speaking to him. She was not vexed nor sullen, but she was inexpressibly troubled and sad, and she pitied him. In his work among the poor he had not consulted her, nor had he asked her aid. She forgave him for that, much as it grieved her. For, of course, he knew that she had her own burdens to bear, her children to care for, her house to be kept under ever more and more straitened circumstances and embarrassing conditions. So why should he burden her with his cares or sorrows, or harass her mind by recitals of the sufferings of others? Yet she had abundant reason to be despondent and distressed, and worn out in both body and soul. Society which had ceased to recognize him had, of necessity, gradually, but unobtrusively, closed its doors to her. Her whole life, in these bitter days, was compassed by the four walls of the rectory. If she could only have been his companion and helpmate how gladly she would have borne it all. But she knew her limitations, her childish incapacity, her deplorable lack of every resource on which he might have drawn to aid him in solving his problems or in performing the tasks that confronted him. How natural it was that, in default of this aid from her, he should accept, or even seek it from another. And with this thought the poignancy of her suffering reached its climax. For she saw, or believed she saw, the place that should have been hers as her husband’s friend and counselor and loyal and helpful companion successfully filled by another. What cause, other than this, could bring more bitter sorrow into the heart of a loving wife? She was not angry nor resentful, but she was inexpressibly grieved and hurt.
When Barry and his companion entered the study the minister rose and welcomed them with sad cordiality. He saw that the woman was excited and distressed, and he knew that there must be some disastrous development in the already unbearable situation.
“What is it now?” he asked her. “Has any new limit of suffering been reached?”
“Yes,” she replied, “my limit has been reached. I can’t bear it any longer. I came to ask you to make one more effort to put an end to this horrible strife.”