CHAPTER X

THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT

Her brain was a steam-wheel throughout the night; everything that could

be thought of was tossed, nothing grasped.

The unfriendliness of the friends who sought to retain her recurred. For

look--to fly could not be interpreted as a flight. It was but a stepping

aside, a disdain of defending herself, and a wrapping herself in her

dignity. Women would be with her. She called on the noblest of them to

justify the course she chose, and they did, in an almost audible murmur.

And O the rich reward. A black archway-gate swung open to the glittering

fields of freedom.

Emma was not of the chorus. Emma meditated as an invalid. How often had

Emma bewailed to her that the most, grievous burden of her malady was her

fatal tendency to brood sickly upon human complications! She could not

see the blessedness of the prospect of freedom to a woman abominably

yoked. What if a miserable woman were dragged through mire to reach it!

Married, the mire was her portion, whatever she might do. That man--but

pass him!

And that other--the dear, the kind, careless, high-hearted old friend. He

could honestly protest his guiltlessness, and would smilingly leave the

case to go its ways. Of this she was sure, that her decision and her

pleasure would be his. They were tied to the stake. She had already

tasted some of the mortal agony. Did it matter whether the flames

consumed her?

Reflecting on the interview with Redworth, though she had performed her