Shortly before, she had gone with Dorothy, for the first time, to see the Old House, and there had had rather a narrow escape.  Walking down the garden they came to the pond or small lake, so well known to the children of Glaston as bottomless.  Two stone steps led from the end of the principal walk down to the water, which was, at the time, nearly level with the top of the second.  On the upper step Juliet was standing, not without fear, gazing into the gulf, which was yet far deeper than she imagined, when, without the smallest preindication, the lower step suddenly sank.  Juliet sprung back to the walk, but turned instantly to look again.  She saw the stone sinking, and her eyes opened wider and wider, as it swelled and thinned to a great, dull, wavering mass, grew dimmer and dimmer, then melted away and vanished utterly.  With “stricken look,” and fright-filled eyes, she turned to Dorothy, who was a little behind her, and said,

“How will you be able to sleep at night?  I should be always fancying myself sliding down into it through the darkness.”

To this place of terror she was now on the road.  When consciousness returned to her as she lay on the floor of her husband’s dressing-room, it brought with it first the awful pool and the sinking stone.  She seemed to stand watching it sink, lazily settling with a swing this way and a sway that, into the bosom of the earth, down and down, and still down.  Nor did the vision leave her as she came more to herself.  Even when her mental eyes were at length quite open to the far more frightful verities of her condition, half of her consciousness was still watching the ever sinking stone; until at last she seemed to understand that it was showing her a door out of her misery, one easy to open.

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.”