But the horrors of her waking hours of yesterday had not vanished. They were waiting for her. She could not end them by the closing of her eyes. In the cool, clear light of day she saw still more problems than before—problems crying for decisions and contradicting each other with a hopeless conflict of moralities. To move in any direction was to commit ugly deeds; to move in no direction was to commit the ugliest of all.
She rang for her coffee, and she could hardly sit up to it. Her maid cried out at her age-worn look, and begged her to see a doctor.
“I'm going to as soon as I'm strong enough,” said Charity Coe. But she meant the Reverend Doctor Mosely. She thought that she could persuade even him that surgery was necessary upon that marriage. At any rate, she determined to force a decision from him. She telephoned the unsuspecting old darling, and he readily consented to see her. She spent an hour or two going over her Bible and concordance. They gave her little comfort in her plight.
When finally she dragged herself from her home to Doctor Mosely's his butler ushered her at once into the study. Doctor Mosely welcomed her both as a grown-up child and as an eminent dealer in good deeds.
She went right at her business. “Doctor Mosely, I loathe myself for adding to the burdens your parish puts upon your dear shoulders but you're responsible for my present dilemma.”
“My dear child, you don't tell me! Then you must let me help you out of it. But first tell me—what I'm responsible for.”
“You married me to Peter Cheever.”
“Why, yes, I believe I did. I marry so many dear girls. Yes, I remember your wedding perfectly. A very pretty occasion, and you looked extremely well. So did the bridegroom. I was quite proud of joining two such—such—”
“Please unjoin us.”
“Great Heavens, my child! What are you saying?”