No! She did not blame Denis; she felt, instead, that she must fly to him. Caution was now abandoned to the winds in the extremity of her anguish and, with a strained face, she walked along Main Street, at the far end of which stood the Lomond Wine and Spirit Vaults Owen Foyle, proprietor. Around the corner was a wide, double gate leading into a yard, from which an open, winding stair ascended to the Foyle house.
She crept up this stairway and knocked faintly at the door. From inside came the tinkle of a piano. The tinkle continued, but no one came in answer; then she heard a voice cry, "Rosie, me chick, is that somebody at the door ? See if anybody's there." Some one replied, in childish tones, "I'm at my scales, Mother; you go, or wait and let them knock again." And the sound of the piano was resumed with redoubled energy and a loudness expressive of intense application.
After a moment's irresolute pause Mary was about to knock upon the door more loudly, when suddenly, as she advanced her hand, a sharp whistle shrilled from outside the yard and drew gradually nearer to her.
She turned and, at the same moment, Denis appeared at the foot of the stairs, his head tilted back enquiringly, his eyes widening with surprise as he perceived her. Observing immediately that Mary was in acute distress, he ran up the steps.
"Mary!" he exclaimed hurriedly, "what is it?"
She could not reply, could not utter his name.
"What is the matter, dearest Mary?" murmured Denis, coming close to her, taking her cold hand and smoothing it gently in his. "Is it your father?"
She shook her head without gazing at him, knowing that if she did so, she must break down abjectly.
"Come away," she whispered. "Come away before anyone comes."
Oppressed, he followed her slowly down the steps.
In the street, he asked fiercely, "Have they been bad to you at home? Tell me quickly what the trouble is, dear? If anybody has touched you, I'll kill him."
There was a pause, then she said slowly, indistinctly, painfully, dropping each word from her lips like a leaden weight:
"I am going to have a baby."
His face whitened as if he had received a frightful wound and became gradually more pale, as though his strength and vigour flowed out from him. He dropped her hand and looked at her with dilated, starting eyes.
"Are you sure?" he jerked out at last.
"I'm sure."
"How do you know?"
"Something seemed wrong with me. I went to a doctor. He told me."
"A a doctor ? It's certain, then ?"
"Certain," she echoed dully.
It was irrevocable, then. With one sentence she had thrust upon his shoulders a load of misery and responsibility, which turned him from a gay, whistling boy into a mature and harassed man. Their love-making had been a trap, the playful dalliance and the secret meetings of the past merely snares to lure and entangle him in this draggled predicament. The pleasant, sanguine expectations of marrying her, all the alluring preparations which he had contemplated, now felt like chains binding and drawing him towards an obligation he must inevitably fulfil. A heavy sigh burst from him. In the masculine society in which he moved nothing was considered more derogatory to the male, or more ridiculous, than to be victimised into a marriage of necessity. His prestige would be lost, he would
be lampooned at the street corners, his name would become an obloquy. He felt the position so intolerably for himself that he was moved by a desire to escape and in a flash he thought of Canada, Australia, America. He had often thought of emigrating and the prospects that existed in these new countries for an unattached young man never appealed to him more entrancingly than at this moment. Another thought struck him.
"When did the doctor say that you would " he paused, unable to complete the sentence. Nevertheless she was now able to understand his meaning.
"He said February," she replied, with an averted face.
Only five more months and he would be the father of her child! That exquisite night they had spent together by the Leven was to produce a child, a child that would be nameless unless he married her immediately. The pressing necessity for marriage again obtruded itself distastefully upon him. He did not know how long she might remain undiscovered before the condition of her pregnancy became obvious. Although he had at times heard stories bandied amongst his companions of how peasant girls working on the land had remained in this state of pregnancy, undetected until the actual birth occurred, he doubted if Mary had the strength or fortitude to continue the concealment for any length of time. And yet she must do so. He was not in a position to provide a home for her immediately. She must wait. There was, of course, nothing visible yet. He looked at her closely, and as he observed her pendent figure, weighted with an infinitely heavier despondency than his, for the first time he began to think of her rather than himself.
Now that she had told him she waited helplessly, as if, attending in submission for him to direct her movements, her attitude invoked him dumbly as to what she should do. With a powerful effort he pulled himself together; yet, as he spoke, his words sounded harsh and unconvincing in his ears.
"This is a bit of a mess we're in, Mary, but we'll straighten it out all right. We must go and talk it over."
"Have I got to go back home to Levenford?" she asked in a low tone.
He pondered a minute before replying. "I'm afraid it's best for you to do that. Did you come in by train?"
"Yes, and if I'm going back, I must leave here at four," He took out his watch, which indicated half-past three. Although they had exchanged only a few sentences they had been standing there, in the street, for half an hour.
"You can't wait till the next," he agreed. "It's too late."
An idea struck him. The waiting room at the station was usually empty at this time; they could go there until her train departed. He took her arm and drew it into his. At this, the first sign of tenderness he had manifested towards her since she had told him the dreadful news, she looked at him piteously and her drawn features were transcended by a pale smile.
“I’ve only got you, Denis," she whispered, as they moved off together. At the station, however, the waiting room was unfortunately full; an old woman, some farm servants and two dye workers from the print works sat staring at each other and at the plain board walls.
It was impossible to talk there, so Denis took Mary to the far end of the platform, where, as the short walk had given him time to collect himself and the soft feel of her arm reminded him of her charm and beauty, of the delightful attractions of her fresh body, he mustered a smile.
"It's not so bad, Mary, after all, so long as we stick together."
"If you left me now, Denis, I should drown myself in the Leven. I'd kill myself somehow."
As her eyes met his, he could see that she meant absolutely every grim word she uttered, and he pressed her arm again, tenderly. How could he, even for an instant, have considered leaving this lovely, defenceless creature who, but for him, would still have been a virgin and who now, because of him, was soon to be a mother. And how passionately attached to him she was! It thrilled him with a fierce joy to see her complete dependence upon him and her submission to his
will. His spirit was recovering from the cutting injury which it had received and he began to think coherently, as his normal self.
"You'll leave everything to me!" he said.
"Everything," she echoed.
"Then you must go home, dear, and try to behave as if nothing had happened. I know how difficult it will be but you must give me as long as possible to make our arrangements."