Besides, David was dead. David, with his wild ideas for the progress of civilization and the reform of agricultural conditions, could carry out none of them now. He had died, horribly, wastefully, futilely. Such horror and such futility would hardly bear contemplating, because he had been so much alive, so full of purpose, possessing such an ardent desire for work. That was why she must go. Because, if David was dead, it wasn't fair to spoil his work even if one didn't believe in it. If the changes which David desired in Anderby were to come, then she and John must go. For, if they stayed, they would prevent the completion of his work. They could not help it. They were made like that. Whatever they might mean to do, they would slip back at last into the old ways. So, only by going could she in any way make up to David for the folly of his dying ... and she must go. Market Burton was a dull place, but she supposed there would be work of some kind to be done there. There would always be a girl's club or a nursing association or something—something that couldn't do anyone much harm....
She smiled a little bitterly. Once she had thought so much of all the good she was going to do to people....
Of course nothing mattered very much now, but she supposed that one day she would wake up and remember that she was under thirty still, and want again desperately all the things she had missed. David, the smile of the labourers as she passed them by the stackyard gate, the brown, full-bosomed, curve of the hills, and the scent of cream and butter in a red-tiled dairy....
But they were nothing to the things that David would miss. That was why one must remember all the time the things that he had said. Of course it might be consoling to realize that Jack Greenwood and Hunting and Coast and Fred Stephens were the heirs of the future and that by going away quietly she was doing the only thing she could do to ensure them the contentment of proceeding....
But Mary had seen enough of Market Burton to know that she would find little satisfaction in noble sentiments when her maid gave notice, or the rector altered the date of the missionary bazaar, or Mrs. Marly-Thompson wouldn't call.
Perhaps though, even if one did not think of them, even if in one's own limited, unsatisfactory life there seemed no room for them, those fine things were there just the same—courage, service, progress....
David's courage and service not wantonly wasted, his desire for progress not frustrated, but fulfilled at last because of him—even remotely because of her....
Just now, though, she must be practical and get to work. The morning was here already and there were policemen and insurance agents to be interviewed and the labourers to be seen and plans to be made for the sheltering of cattle and implements. For a few months until she and John left Anderby she would be too busy to think. Well, perhaps it was just as well and—after that—she might even understand a little better....
She moved suddenly and flung back the curtains. Outside, the rain had ceased and it was light again. The pungent smell of rain-washed earth came in from the autumn garden, and with it another smell of charred wood and blackened straw. From the church on the hill a bell was ringing for the seven o'clock service. Golden beyond the sodden shrubbery the sun rose slowly over Anderby Wold.
THE END