At last, when it was twelve, she heard Mr. Budd go out; she heard the door slam.  Dempster had not moved.  Was he asleep?  Would he forget?  The minute seemed long, while, with a quickening pulse, she was on the stretch to catch every sound.

‘Janet!’ The loud jarring voice seemed to strike her like a hurled weapon.

‘Janet!’ he called again, moving out of the dining-room to the foot of the stairs.

There was a pause of a minute.

‘If you don’t come, I’ll kill you.’

Another pause, and she heard him turn back into the dining-room.  He was gone for a light—­perhaps for a weapon.  Perhaps he would kill her.  Let him.  Life was as hideous as death.  For years she had been rushing on to some unknown but certain horror; and now she was close upon it.  She was almost glad.  She was in a state of flushed feverish defiance that neutralized her woman’s terrors.

She heard his heavy step on the stairs; she saw the slowly advancing light.  Then she saw the tall massive figure, and the heavy face, now fierce with drunken rage.  He had nothing but the candle in his hand.  He set it down on the table, and advanced close to the bed.

’So you think you’ll defy me, do you?  We’ll see how long that will last.  Get up, madam; out of bed this instant!’

In the close presence of the dreadful man—­of this huge crushing force, armed with savage will—­poor Janet’s desperate defiance all forsook her, and her terrors came back.  Trembling she got up, and stood helpless in her night-dress before her husband.

He seized her with his heavy grasp by the shoulder, and pushed her before him.

‘I’ll cool your hot spirit for you!  I’ll teach you to brave me!’

Slowly he pushed her along before him, down stairs and through the passage, where a small oil-lamp was still flickering.  What was he going to do to her?  She thought every moment he was going to dash her before him on the ground.  But she gave no scream—­she only trembled.

He pushed her on to the entrance, and held her firmly in his grasp while he lifted the latch of the door.  Then he opened the door a little way, thrust her out, and slammed it behind her.

For a short space, it seemed like a deliverance to Janet.  The harsh north-east wind, that blew through her thin night-dress, and sent her long heavy black hair streaming, seemed like the breath of pity after the grasp of that threatening monster.  But soon the sense of release from an overpowering terror gave way before the sense of the fate that had really come upon her.

This, then, was what she had been travelling towards through her long years of misery!  Not yet death.  O! if she had been brave enough for it, death would have been better.  The servants slept at the back of the house; it was impossible to make them hear, so that they might let her in again quietly, without her husband’s knowledge.  And she would not have tried.  He had thrust her out, and it should be for ever.