She must atone.
No sooner, in this brief moment, did she see herself honestly than her
old habits swept her on tumultuously. No ordinary atonement would do.
The sacrifice must be vast; the world must stand in wonder before this
clever woman sinking her soul in another and raising him by sheer will
to the highest.
So after six endless months Mary Cresswell walked into her Washington
home again. She knew she had changed in appearance, but she had
forgotten to note how much until she saw the stare--almost the
recoil--of her husband, the muttered exclamation, the studied, almost
overdone welcome. Then she went up to her mirror and looked long, and
knew.
She was strong; she felt well; but she was slight, almost scrawny, and
her beauty was gone forever. It had been of that blonde white-and-pink
type that fades in a flash, and its going left her body flattened and
angular, her skin drawn and dead white, her eyes sunken. From the
radiant girl whom Cresswell had met three years earlier the change was
startling, and yet the contrast seemed even greater than it was, for her
glory then had been her abundant and almost golden hair. Now that hair
was faded, and falling so fast that at last the doctor advised her to
cut it short. This left her ill-shaped head exposed and emphasized the
sunken hollows of her face.
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