She went the same way into the park that Dorothy had then taken
her--through a little door of privilege which she had shown her how to
open, and not by the lodge. The light was growing fast, but the sun was
not yet up. With feeble steps but feverous haste she hurried over the
grass. Her feet were wet through her thin shoes. Her dress was fringed
with dew. But there was no need for taking care of herself now; she felt
herself already beyond the reach of sickness. The still pond would soon
wash off the dew.

Suddenly, with a tremor of waking hope, came the thought that, when she
was gone from his sight, the heart of her husband would perhaps turn
again toward her a little. For would he not then be avenged? would not
his justice be satisfied? She had been well drilled in the theological
lie, that punishment is the satisfaction of justice.

"Oh, now I thank you, Paul!" she said, as she hastened along. "You
taught me the darkness, and made me brave to seek its refuge. Think of
me sometimes, Paul. I will come back to you if I can--but no, there is
no coming back, no greeting more, no shadows even to mingle their loves,
for in a dream there is but one that dreams. I shall be the one that
does not dream. There is nothing where I am going--not even the
darkness--nothing but nothing. Ah, would I were in it now! Let me make
haste. All will be one, for all will be none when I am there. Make you
haste too, and come into the darkness, Paul. It is soothing and soft and
cool. It will wash away the sin of the girl and leave you a----nothing."

While she was hurrying toward the awful pool, her husband sat in his
study, sunk in a cold fury of conscious disgrace--not because of his
cruelty, not because he had cast a woman into hell--but because his
honor, his self-satisfaction in his own fate, was thrown to the worms.