“I told her that I was married to Jack, and that we had to keep the marriage secret. And so she wrote you, breaking the engagement. She did that to help Jack—and help me; she didn’t know me, didn’t understand me, therefore she overestimated me and believed I could make a strong man out of Jack and could make him happy. For that part of what I did, even though it was trickery, I am glad. Maisie Jones is too good for Jack; he would have broken her heart. I saved her from life-long misery.”
Mr. Morton stared. And then: “But why have you told me all these things now?—when you had succeeded in your plan?”
“Because I see things differently now,” replied the same quiet voice. “Jack—he was attractive, and I liked him—but I never really loved him. I am sick of the things I tried to do, sick of the things I dreamed of. You may have Jack’s freedom any way you like. I’m through with it all.” She repeated the last sentence, still quietly, but vibrantly. “I’m through with it all!”
In Clifford there was wild exultation—a thrilling sense of triumph, too new as yet for him to think of its possible relation to himself. He had tried to influence her by influencing the events which touched her life—but never had he foreseen just such a dénouement of events, just such a dénouement of character. He had been right all the while, as to the fundamental worth of her nature!
Morton stared at the pale, composed face of his daughter-in-law, which gazed with such steadiness into his own. He was utterly without words for a few seconds. Then he burst out:—
“Even if all of what you have said is true,” he cried desperately, “you are nevertheless the one person who can save Jack. We’ll overlook what you’ve been and what you’ve done. You’re Jack’s wife. Well, you’ve got to stand by him!”
“I’m through with it all,” she said once more.
Morton’s desperate, suppliant manner changed. Once again he was the keen, powerful personality that made him master of men and things.
“You can’t slide out of it like that, Mary Morton,—to give you your right name for once,” he drove at her grimly. “Something seems to have awakened you—awakened you to what you regard as a real sense of honor. Well, here is something for this new sense of honor to consider: Whatever your motive was in marrying Jack, in marrying him you have incurred a definite obligation. It’s your duty, unless you want to be a quitter, and more of a crook than you were before, to fulfill that obligation!”
She looked at him fixedly—for a long time. Then she slowly looked around at Clifford—then she looked back again, and her figure tensed. For a long time no one spoke.