"I think--I am sure--he cared for me at first. But I suppose we
were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He--it
is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth--tired
of me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for
she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters
now--now that we've come to the parting of the ways."
"What do you mean?"
She answered quietly:
"I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles."
"You and John are not going to live here?"
"John may live here, but I shall not."
"You are going to leave him?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
She paused a long time, and said at last:
"Perhaps--because I want to be--free!"
And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin
tracts of forests, untrodden lands--and a realization of what
freedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed
to see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, as
untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A little
cry broke from her lips:
"You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been
prison to me!"
"I understand," I said, "but--but don't do anything rash.
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