She dropped into a near-by chair, hid her face in her hands and fell to sobbing. It was the first time that either of these men had seen her thus broken in pride and strength, and for a moment they gazed at her and at each other in silence. Then the rector went to her, and laid a quieting hand on her shoulder.
"You mustn't give way like this," he said. "We need you. We need your courage, more now than ever before. I can't understand this. You must have been misinformed. Lamar must be mistaken. If the men are willing to go back on Mr. Malleson's terms he certainly can't refuse them; he dare not; he must not!"
He was growing as excited and indignant over the situation as was Mary Bradley herself.
"Tell him so, Mr. Farrar!" exclaimed the woman. "Please go to him and tell him so. He won't listen to the men. He won't listen to Barry. He won't listen to anybody. But maybe—there's just a chance—that if you go to him again, and tell him this, he may see the wisdom of it, the justice of it, the absolute necessity of it."
"I'll go," said the rector.
"And I'll go with you," exclaimed Barry, "to clinch the argument. He hasn't listened to me before. Maybe he will now."
She rose from her chair and looked at the two men from tear-filled eyes.
"You are both very brave," she said, "and noble. And I know you'll succeed. I know it. It can't be otherwise. If you fail it will kill me, and I'll have to go up to God with this sin on my soul."
Again the rector sought to soothe and encourage her. He did not know what she meant by her self-accusations, but he knew that this was no time to inquire. Moreover, he was eager to be off on his errand. He took her hand and, holding it in his, walked with her down the hall to his street door, trying to speak comforting words. How comforting he did not know.
