Her strength seemed all at once to leave her.  All the fabric of her character, so mercilessly assaulted, appeared in that moment to reel, topple, and go crashing to its wreck.  She was shattered, broken, humbled, and beaten down to the dust.  Her pride was gone, her faith in herself was gone, her fine, strong energy was gone.  The pity of it, the grief of it; all that she held dearest; her fine and confident steadfastness; the great love that had brought such happiness into her life—­that had been her inspiration, all torn from her and tossed aside like chaff.  And her patient—­Ferriss, the man who loved her, who had undergone such suffering, such hardship, who trusted her and whom it was her duty to nurse back to life and health—­if he should perish for want of her care, then what infinite sorrow, then what endless remorse, then what long agony of unavailing regret!  Her world, her universe grew dark to her; she was driven from her firm stand.  She was lost, she was whirled away—­away with the storm, landmarks obliterated, lights gone; away with the storm; out into the darkness, out into the void, out into the waste places and wilderness and trackless desolation.

“Hurry, oh, hurry!”

It was too late.  She had failed; the mistake had been made, the question had been decided.  That insensate, bestial determination, iron-hearted, iron-strong, had beaten down opposition, had carried its point.  Life and love had been crushed beneath its trampling without pity, without hesitation.  The tragedy of the hour was done; the tragedy of the long years to come was just beginning.

Lloyd sank down in the chair before the table, and the head that she had held so high bowed down upon her folded arms.  The violence of her grief shook her from head to foot like a dry, light reed.  Her heart seemed literally to be breaking.  She must set her teeth with all her strength to keep from groaning aloud, from crying out in her hopeless sorrow her impotent shame and despair.

Once more came the cry for help.  Then the house fell silent.  The minutes passed.  But for Lloyd’s stifled grief there was no sound.  Bennett—­leaning heavily against the door, his great shoulders stooping and bent, his face ashen, his eyes fixed—­did not move.  He did not speak to Lloyd.  There was no word of comfort he could address to her—­that would have seemed the last mockery.  He had prevailed, as he knew he should, as he knew he must, when once his resolve was taken.  The force that, once it was unleashed, was beyond him to control, had accomplished its purpose.  His will remained unbroken; but at what cost?  However, that was for future consideration.  The costs?  Had he not his whole life before him in which to count them?  The present moment still called upon him to act.  He looked at his watch.

The next quarter of an hour was all a confusion to him.  Its incidents refused to define themselves upon his memory when afterward he tried to recall them.  He could remember, however, that when he helped Lloyd into the carryall that was to take her to the depot in the village she had shrunk from his touch and had drawn away from him as if from a criminal—­a murderer.  He placed her satchel on the front seat with the driver, and got up beside the driver himself.  She had drawn her veil over her face, and during the drive sat silent and motionless.