she--she had been delivered from a fate far worse. For she could never
have come to love him. She was certain of that. Lifelong misery would
have been her portion, school herself to submission though she might.
She believed that the awakening from that dream of lethargy could not
have been long deferred for either of them, and with it would have come
a bitterness immeasurable. She did not think he had ever honestly
believed that she loved him. But at least he had never guessed at the
actual repulsion with which at times she had been filled. She was
thankful to think that he could never know that now, thankful that now
she had come into her womanhood it was all her own. She valued her
freedom almost extravagantly since it had been given back to her. And
she also valued the fact that in no worldly sense was she the richer for
having been Ralph Dacre's wife. He had had no private means, and she was
thankful that this was so. She could not have endured to reap any
benefit from what she now regarded as a sin. She had borne her
punishment, she had garnered her experience. And now she walked once
more with unshackled feet; and though all her life she would carry the
marks of the chain that had galled her she had travelled far enough to
realize and be thankful for her liberty.

The train rattled on through the night. Anxiety came, wraith-like at
first, drifting into her busy brain. She had hardly had time to be
anxious in the rush of preparation and departure. But restlessness paved
the way. She began to ask herself with growing uneasiness what could be
awaiting her at the end of the journey. The summons had been so clear
and imperative. Her first thought, her instinct, had been to obey. Till
the enforced inaction of this train journey she had not had time to feel
the gnawing torture of suspense. But now it came and racked her. The
thought of Tommy and his need became paramount. Did he know that she was
hastening to him, she wondered? Or had he--had he already passed beyond