He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and departed. Mary was used to that look from him. It was the only commentary he had ever made on the course of her married life; and she had made no confidences to him. Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly cool unemotional manner meant: things were so serious that there was no use making a fuss. When the balance hung between life and death one had to be ready for either. No time for tears—a smile was a more natural thing—one could smile, long after tears were all wept away.
She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, because Nora's eyes were perpetually reddened and she always seemed on the point of crying. Even when discussing the preparation of soups, arranging for extra service, expenses, all the details of a household in state of siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. Nerves!
Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized her. She thought it probable, otherwise he would have asked how Laurence came to be at this house. He had asked no questions.
She recalled the violence with which Nora had rejected her offer to get another servant. "We don't need anybody else, we can get along all right." Then under her breath, "Too many people here now!"
That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had been an old habit of Nora's when her temper was roused. But this time she added hurriedly. "I'll do the cooking myself, I want to do it. You just tell me what you want and I'll get it—night or day, it's all the same to me."
She had spoken with intensity, looking away from Mary, her cheeks had flushed hotly. For a moment she looked like the passionate girl of long ago.
Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did not want to call her "Mrs. Carlin." Mary without thinking had called her Nora; she did not like that, perhaps.... Mary shrugged her shoulders with an ironical smile.
After her father had gone, she remained sitting in her chair in the study, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the smouldering fire in the grate.... Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through the years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing out like sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering a lifetime almost....
She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for the first time, as though they belonged to some one else. It seemed that a process, now suddenly completed, had been going on for a long time—a process of breaking, one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to the self which she no longer felt to be hers.... Or rather, it was hers, that self, but it no longer represented her, contained her, it was not all of her. She could stand apart from it and criticize it without feeling.
She looked back to the time when she had been all one self, completely contained in a firm shell: when she had been sure she was right, and all other persons, when they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending pride, pride that had outlasted even her self-righteousness—pride that held fast to the form long after the substance of feeling had gone.... Never had she been able to admit that she was wrong, even after she had seen it clearly. Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her unhappiness—or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her that she had begun to feel wrong? Was it because of this wrong that she had lost her religion—or was it that her religion was a false shell, and only after breaking through it had she been able to see such light as this?