"Are you sure of it, Pearl?" Mrs. Paine whispered. "Maybe there's something I can do. This young man is a lawyer—maybe he could tell us."
Sylvester Paine was trying to recover his point of view.
"Can you tell us," Pearl asked Peter, who sat in a corner, intensely listening, "what the law says."
"The law," said Peter miserably—as one who hates the word he is about to utter—"gives a married woman no rights. She has no claim on her home, nor on her children. A man can sell or will away his property from his wife. A man can will away his unborn child—and it's a hell of a law," he added fiercely.
Pearl turned to Robert Gilchrist, saying, "Mr. Gilchrist, the law is with you. The woman and the three children have no protection. Mr. Paine is willing that they should be turned out. It is up to you."
Mrs. Paine, who had come down the stairs with the deed in her hand, laid it on the table and waited. For some time no one spoke.
Sylvester Paine looked at the floor. He was a heavy-set man, with a huge head, bare-faced and rather a high forehead. He did not seem to be able to lift his eyes.
"I suppose," continued Pearl, "the people who made the laws did not think it would ever come to a show-down like this. They thought that when a man promised to love and cherish a woman—he would look after her and make her happy, and see to it that she had clothes to wear and a decent way of living—if he could. Of course, there are plenty of men who would gladly give their wives everything in life, but they can't, poor fellows—for they are poor; but Mr. Paine is one of the best off men in the district. He could have a beautiful home if he liked, and his wife could be the handsomest woman in the neighborhood. She is the sort of woman who would show off good clothes too. I suppose her love of pretty things has made her all the sorer, because she has not had them. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Gilchrist, before you closed the deal. Mrs. Paine would never tell you, and naturally enough Mr. Paine wouldn't. In fact he does not know just how things stand. But I feel that you should know just what you are doing if you take this farm. Of course, it is hardly fair to expect you to protect this woman's home and her children, and save her from being turned out, if her husband won't—you are under no obligation to protect her. She made her choice years ago—with her eyes open—when she married Sylvester Paine. It seems … she guessed wrong … and now … she must pay!"
Mrs. Paine sank into a chair with a sob that seemed to tear her heart out. The auburn hair fell across her face, her lovely curly hair, from which in her excitement she had pulled the pins. It lay on the table in ringlets of gold, which seemed to writhe, as if they too were suffering. Her breath came sobbing, like a dog's dream.
Sylvester Paine was the first to speak.