Yet, when it was all summed up, how little she had to tell Gortre after all! True, her information was of some value; it seemed to confirm what he and his friends suspected. But still it was very little, and it meant long delay, if she could provide no other key to open this dark door.

And meanwhile souls were dying and sinking....

She had asked Gortre to come to her again in a week.

In that time, she had said, she might have some further information for him.

And now she was out here, alone on the sands, to ask her soul and G.o.d what she was to do.

The clouds fell lower, a cutting wind began to moan and cry over the sand, which was swept up and swirled in her face. And still she went on with a bitterness and chill as of death in her heart.

She knew her power over her former lover,--if that pure word could describe such an unhallowed pa.s.sion,--knew her power well. He would be as wax in her hands, and it had always been so. From the very first she had done what she liked with him, and there had always been an undercurrent of contempt in her thoughts that a man could be led so easily, could be made the doll and puppet of his own pa.s.sion. Nor did she doubt that her power still remained. She felt sure of that. Even in her seclusion some news of his frantic attempts to find her had reached her. Her beauty still remained, heightened indeed by the slow complaint from which she was suffering. He knew nothing of that. And, as for the rest--the rouge-pot, the belladonna--well, they were still available, though she had thought to have done with them for ever.

The idea began to emerge from the mist, as it were, and to take form and colour. She thought definitely of it, though with horror; looked it in the face, though shuddering as she did so.

It resolved itself into a statement, a formula, which rang and dinned itself repeatedly into her consciousness like the ominous strokes of a bell heard through the turmoil of the gathering storm,--

"_If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being good, he will tell me all he's done._"

Over and over again the girl repeated the sentence to herself. It glowed in her brain, and burnt it like letters of heated wire. She looked up at the leaden canopy which held the wind, and it flashed out at her in letters of violet lightning. The wind carved it in the sand,--

"_If I go back to Bob and pretend I'm tired of being good, he will tell me what he has done._"

Could she do this thing for the sake of Gortre, for the sake of the world? What did it mean exactly? She would be sinning terribly once more, going back to the old life. It was possible that she might never be able to break away again after achieving her purpose; one did not twice escape h.e.l.l. It would mean that she sinned a deadly sin in order to help others. Ought she to do that! Was that right?

The wind fifed round her, shrieking.

_Could she do this thing?_

She would only be sinning with her body, not with her heart, and Christ would know why she did so. Would He cast her out for this?

The struggle went on in her brain. She was not a subtle person, unused to any self-communing that was not perfectly straightforward and simple.

The efforts she was making now were terribly hard for her to endure. Yet she forced her mind to the work by a great effort of will, summoned all her flagging energies to high consideration.

If she went back it _might_ mean utter d.a.m.nation, even though she found out what she wanted to find out. She had been a Christian so short a time, she knew very little of the truth about these matters.

In her misery and struggle she began more and more to think in this way.

Suddenly she saw the thing, as she fancied, and indeed said half aloud to herself, "in a common-sense light." Her face worked horribly, though she was quite unconscious of it.

"It's better that one person, especially one that's been as bad as I have, should go to h.e.l.l than hundreds and thousands of others."

And then her decision was taken.

The light died out of her face, the hope also. She became old in a sudden moment.

And, with one despairing prayer for forgiveness, she began to walk towards her cottage--there was a fast train to town.

She believed that there could hardly be forgiveness for her act, and yet the thought of "the others" gave her strength to sin.

And so, out of her great love for Christ, this poor harlot set out to sin a sin which she thought would take Him away from her for ever.

END OF BOOK II

BOOK III

" ... Woman fearing and trembling"

CHAPTER I

WHAT IT MEANT TO THE WORLD'S WOMEN

In her house in the older, early-Victorian remnants of Kensington, Mrs.

Hubert Armstrong sat at breakfast. Her daughter, a pretty, unintellectual girl, was pouring out tea with a suggestion of flippancy in her manner. The room was grave and somewhat formal. Portraits of Matthew Arnold, Professor Green, and Mark Pattison hung upon the sombre, olive walls.

Over the mantel-shelf, painted in ornamental chocolate-coloured letters, the famous auth.o.r.ess's pet motto was austerely blazoned,--

"_The decisive events of the world take place in the intellect._"

Indeed, save for the bright-haired girl at the urn, the room struck just that note. It would be difficult to imagine an ordinary conversation taking place there. It was a place in which solid chunks of thought were gravely handed about.

Mrs. Armstrong wore a flowing morning wrap of dark red material. It was clasped at the smooth white throat by a large cameo brooch, a dignified bauble once the property of George Eliot. The clear, steady eyes, the smooth bands of shining hair, the full, calm lips of the lady were all eloquent of splendid unemotional health, a.s.sisted by a careful system of hygiene.

She was opening her letters, cutting the envelopes carefully with a silver knife.

"Shall I give you some more tea, Mother?" the daughter asked in a somewhat impatient voice. The offer was declined, and the girl rose to go. "I'm off now to skate with the Tremaines at Henglers," she said, and hurriedly left the room.

Mrs. Armstrong sighed in a sort of placid wonder, as Minerva might have sighed coming suddenly upon Psyche running races with Cupid in a wood, and turned to another letter.

It was written in firm, strong writing on paper headed with some official-looking print.

THE WORLD'S WOMAN'S LEAGUE

LONDON HEADQUARTERS, 100 REGENT STREET, S. W.

SECRETARY, MISS PAULL

"MY DEAR CHARLOTTE,--I should be extremely glad to see you here to-day about lunch time. I must have a long and important talk with you. The work is in a bad way. I know you are extremely busy, but trust to see you as the matters for conference are urgent.

Your affectionate Sister,