After a long time by superhuman effort she collected herself, and forced a new spirit into her life. She was no more the Clarinda who had existed. Her love for Peter died. She stood untrammelled—free.
She rang the bell that was near at hand.
“I will go out,” she said to the maid as she entered the room. “Order my car.”
The maid whispered almost to herself. “Something has happened.”
Clarinda put on her wraps, and it was only a few moments when the car was at the door. She entered it and gave an order to the driver.
Then, “Horrors!” she muttered.
II
The car sped over the road. Occasionally the driver turned for directions. Clarinda’s only reply was to drive faster. It seemed to her the only thing she desired was motion, such motion as might keep pace with her thoughts.
A feeling of despair overcame her, for her body suffered with her mind. Futility was even more dominant than ever. She had become imbued with the spirit of Peter, that nothing in the world was of any avail, that to fight against a surrounding condition was of no use, that all things were controlled by an invisible force, a force that laughed at any effort to set it aside from its driven path. There was nothing left. It was all reduced to her as a difficulty without a sign of relief.
All that she believed in was destroyed. Even the struggle she had made to make for herself and Peter a life as near an approach to the ideal as possible had fallen to pieces. There was left of her endeavor—nothing.