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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b42292f --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #62478 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62478) diff --git a/old/62478-8.txt b/old/62478-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3ce09d9..0000000 --- a/old/62478-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10099 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Proud Lady, by Neith Boyce - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Proud Lady - -Author: Neith Boyce - -Release Date: June 25, 2020 [EBook #62478] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROUD LADY *** - - - - -Produced by Karin Spence, Tim Lindell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - PROUD - LADY - - - - - _NEW BORZOI NOVELS_ - - _SPRING 1923_ - - - STAR OF EARTH - _Morris Dallett_ - - DOWNSTREAM - _Sigfrid Siwertz_ - - RALPH HERNE - _W. H. Hudson_ - - GATES OF LIFE - _Edwin Björkman_ - - DRUIDA - _John T. Frederick_ - - THE LONG JOURNEY - _Johannes V. Jensen_ - - THE BRIDAL WREATH - _Sigrid Undset_ - - THE HILL OF DREAMS - _Arthur Machen_ - - A ROOM WITH A VIEW - _E. M. Forster_ - - - - - PROUD LADY - - - NEITH BOYCE - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK··ALFRED·A·KNOPF - - 1923 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY - ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. - - _Published, January, 1923_ - - _Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y._ - _Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York._ - _Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York._ - - MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - PROUD - LADY - - - - - I - - -Across the ringing of the church bells came the whistle of the train. -Mary Lavinia, standing in the doorway, watched her mother go down the -walk to the gate. Mrs. Lowell's broad back, clad in black silk, her -black bonnet stiffly trimmed with purple pansies, bristled with anger. -She opened the gate and slammed it behind her. The wooden sidewalk -echoed her heavy tread. She went down the street out of sight, without -looking back. - -The slow melancholy bells were still sounding, but now they stopped. -Mrs. Lowell would be late to church. Mary listened, holding her breath. -She heard the noise of the train. Now it whistled again, at the -crossing, now it was coming into town--white puffs of smoke rose over -the trees. The engine-bell clanked, and the shrill sound of escaping -steam signalled its stopping. - -Mary listened, but there was no cheering, though a number of people had -gone to the depot to welcome the little knot of returning soldiers. She -remembered the day, three years before, when the company raised in the -town had marched to the train--there was plenty of cheering then. Now -perhaps half a dozen of those men were coming back. The war was over, -but the rest of them had been left on southern battle-fields. - -Mary stood looking out at the light brilliant green of the trees in the -yard. It was very quiet all around her. The house always seemed quiet -when her mother was out of it, and now there was a lull after the -storm. But she was breathing quickly, intent, listening, shivering a -little in her light print dress. The spring sunlight had little warmth, -the air was sharp, with a damp sweetness. In the silence, she heard the -rustling of a paper and the sound of a slight cough, behind a closed -door. Her father was there, in his office. He would have gone to meet -the train, she knew, but that these were his office-hours. But she -couldn't have gone--and neither could she go to church, however angry -her mother might be. A light flush rose in her cheeks, as she stood -expectant. - -She was beautiful--tall, slender, but with broad shoulders and a -straight proud way of holding herself. Her thick hair, of bright -auburn, with a natural small ripple, parted in the middle, was drawn -down over her ears into a heavy knot. She was dazzlingly fair, with a -few freckles on her high cheek-bones, with large clear grey eyes, with -scarlet, finely-cut lips. She looked mature for her twenty years and -yet completely virginal, untouched, unmoved. But her face expressed -very little of what she might be thinking or feeling. It was like a -calm mask--there was not a line in it, there was no record to be read. - -Footsteps began to echo down the wooden walk, and voices. She went into -the house and shut the door. In the office she heard a chair pushed -back, and as she did not want to speak to her father just then, she -walked quickly and lightly out through the big bright kitchen into the -garden at the back of the house, slipping on as she went a blue coat -that she had taken from the hall. - -The garden was long and narrow, bounded by rail fences along which was -set close together lilac bushes and other flowering shrubs of twenty -years' growth. It was carefully laid out, in neat squares or oblongs, -separated by rows of currant and gooseberry bushes or by grass-paths. -The fresh turned earth in the beds looked dark and rich. All the bushes -and shrubs were covered with light-green leaves. Bordering the central -path were two narrow beds of tulips, narcissus, jonquils, flowering in -thick bands of colour. At the end of the garden was a small orchard of -apple, cherry and peach trees, some of them in bloom. In summer there -was shade and seclusion here, but now there was no place to hide. Mary -stopped a moment, looking back at the house, then opened a gate and in -a panic fled out into the pasture. She was well aware that she ought -to be in the house, that the minister was coming to dinner, that the -roast would probably burn, but above all that some one was coming for -her, that they would be calling her any moment; so she hurried on, up -a slight rise of ground, over the top of it, and there she was out of -sight. - -The pasture stretched all about her, dotted with cattle nibbling the -short green grass. Below, the ground fell suddenly, and there was a -large pond. It was very deep, with a treacherous mud bottom near the -shores. Willows encircled it, and on the farther side marshes blended -it with the land. The water had a colour of its own, almost always -dark--now it was a dull blue, deeper than the light April sky. Beyond -it on every side was the prairie, flat, unbroken to the skyline. Trees, -fields, houses, scattered over it, seemed insignificant, did not -interrupt its monotony. It rolled away in long low wavering lines, -endless and sombre, like a dark sea. - - * * * * * - -A faint call from the direction of the house--that was her father's -gentle voice. Then a shout, lusty and clear--her name, shouted out over -the hill for the whole town to hear! Mary started, a confused cloud of -feelings made her heart beat heavily. But she stood still. In another -moment a man appeared at the top of the rise and came plunging down -toward her. In his blue uniform--cap tilted over one eye--just the -same! He caught her in his arms and kissed her, laughing, repeating -her name over and over, and kissed her again and again. Mary did not -return his kisses, but bowed her head to the storm. Released at last -from the tight clasp against his breast, but still held by his hands -on her shoulders, she looked at him, and he at her--their eyes were on -a level. But his eyes were full of an intoxication of joy, excited, -almost blinded, though they seemed to be searching her face keenly, -from brow to lips. Mary's eyes were clear. She saw the sword-cut on his -left cheek, a thin red scar--that was new to her. She saw that he was -thinner and the brown of his face was paler--he had been wounded and -in hospital since she had seen him. She saw what had always repelled -her--what she thought of vaguely as weakness, in his mouth and chin. -But then she saw too the crisp black hair brushed back from his square -forehead, the black eyebrows, sharp beautiful curves--and the long -narrow blue eyes--and these she loved, she did not know why, but they -had some strange appeal to her, something foreign, come from far away. -She never could look at those eyes without tenderness. Now she put up -her hands on his shoulders and bent toward him, and tenderness glowed -like a light through the mask. At that moment she did not look cold. - -He could not say anything except, "Oh, Mary! Mary!" And Mary did not -speak either, but only smiled. They sat down together on a stone in -the pasture. The young soldier held her hands in his clasp, his arm -around her, as though he could never let her go again. His heart -was overflowing. He held her clasped against him and stared at the -dull-blue water. This was like a dream. Many a time, on the bivouac, -on the march when he dozed from fatigue in his saddle, he had dreamed -vividly of Mary, he had felt her near him as now. He half expected to -wake and hear again the tramp of marching men, the jingle of the chains -of his battery behind him. The present, the future, were a dream, he -was living in the past. He had thought of Mary when the shell burst -among his guns. "This is death," he had thought too, wounded in the hip -by a fragment of shell, deluged with blood from the man killed beside -him. He had taken the place of the gunner and served his gun. That was -at the Wilderness. Yes, he had held them back, and brought off his -whole battery. "Distinguished gallantry." ... - -He sighed, and touched Mary's bright hair with his lips, and was -surprised that she did not vanish. Was it true, that life was over, -"Daredevil Carlin" was no more, his occupation gone? Then he must begin -the world at twenty-five, with empty hands. He turned and looked at the -woman beside him. It was hard to realize that now his life would be -with her, that what he had so longed for was his. - - - - - II - - -The roast _was_ burned. Dr. Lowell, at the head of the table, carved -and dispensed it, with sly chuckles. His mild blue eyes beamed through -his spectacles, and he kept up the slow flow of conversation, now -addressing the minister, who sat alone on one side of the table, now -Captain Carlin, who sat with Mary on the other side; and sending -propitiatory glances at his wife, who loomed opposite, stonily -indignant. She was outraged at having her dinner spoiled--in addition -to everything else. And if looks could have done it, the whole company, -except the minister, would have been annihilated. - -Yes, her husband too. This was one of the times when he exasperated -her beyond endurance. How ridiculous he was, with his perpetual -good-humour, his everlasting jokes! As he carved the leathery beef he -made a point of asking each person, "Will you have it well-done, or -rare?" And then he would wink at her. She glared back at him, looking -like a block of New England granite, as she was. - -It was strange that in a long life together she had not been able to -crush the light-mindedness out of that man. But she had not even made a -church member of him. He treated the minister as he did anybody else, -with gentle courtesy--beneath which, if you knew him well, you might -suspect a sparkle of amusement. He laughed at everything, everybody! At -times she suspected him of being an atheist. He had said that he was -too busy correcting God's mistakes in people's bodies to think about -their souls, or his own. Mrs. Lowell would not have dared repeat this -remark to the minister, for if she had an atheist in the family she -would conceal him to the last gasp, as she would a forger. - -Whenever she spoke, during this meal, she addressed herself pointedly -to the minister, for she was above being hypocritical or pretending -that Captain Carlin's presence was welcome to her. From the deep -respect of her manner toward the Reverend Mr. Robertson, he might -have been a very venerable personage indeed. But he was a young man, -under thirty and at first glance insignificant--slight and plain. -His straw-coloured hair was smoothed back from a brow rather narrow -than otherwise, his light eyebrows and lashes gave no emphasis to his -grey-blue eyes, his complexion was sallow, his mouth straight and -rather wide. Perhaps Mrs. Lowell's manner merely indicated respect to -the cloth. - -But when Hilary Robertson spoke, people listened to him--whether he -was in his pulpit or in a chance crowd of strangers. Sometimes on the -street, people would turn and look at him, at the sound of his voice. -It had a deep, low-toned bell-like resonance. The commonest words, -spoken in that rich voice, took on colour, might have an arresting -power. Perhaps this remarkable organ accounted for Hilary Robertson as -a minister of religion. No, it was only one of his qualifications. - -A second glance was apt to dwell on his face with attention. There were -deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth and across -the forehead and between the eyebrows. The pale-coloured eyes had a -luminous intensity, and the mouth a firm compression. A fiery irritable -spirit under strong control had written its struggle there. - -As he sat quietly, eating little, speaking less, but listening, -glancing attentively at each of the family in turn and at Captain -Carlin, only an uncommon pallor showed that he was feeling deeply. -No one--not Mrs. Lowell, though she suspected much, not Mary--no one -knew what the return of Carlin meant to Hilary Robertson. Two people -at that table would have been glad if Carlin never had come back. -Mrs. Lowell would have denied indignantly that she wished any ill to -Laurence Carlin--only she did not want her daughter to marry a nobody, -of unworthy foreign descent. But the minister faced the truth and knew -that he, Hilary Robertson, sinner, had hoped that Laurence Carlin would -die in battle; that when his imagination had shown him Carlin struck -down by a bullet, he felt as a murderer feels. His heart had leaped and -a deep feeling of solace had filled it, to think that Carlin might be -out of his way. Why not, where so many better men had died? Why must -just this man, whom his judgment condemned, come back to cross the -one strong personal desire of his life, his one chance of happiness? -Mary belonged to him already, in a sense--he shared the life of her -soul, its first stirring was due to him. Not a word of love had ever -been spoken between them. She was betrothed, he could not have spoken -to her. But all the same he felt that only a frail bond held her to -the other--the bond of her word and of a feeling less intense than -the spiritual sympathy between her and himself.... But now it was all -over--Carlin had come back and she would marry him. And a soul just -beginning to be awakened to eternal things would perhaps slip back into -the toils of the temporal and earthly.... - -Dr. Lowell asked questions about Washington city, the great review -of the army, about General Grant, and Sherman and the new President. -Carlin answered rather briefly, his natural buoyancy suppressed by the -hostility of two of his auditors. But this he felt only vaguely, his -happiness was like a bright cloud enfolding him, blurring his eyes. The -other people were like shadows to him, he was really only conscious of -Mary there beside him. He would have liked to be silent, as she was. - -There was no lingering over the table. The doctor had his round of -visits to make. The Indian pudding disposed of, he lit his pipe, put on -his old felt hat and his cape, took his black medicine-chest, and went -out to hitch up Satan, a fast trotter who had come cheap because of his -kicking and biting habits. Gentle Dr. Lowell liked a good horse, and as -he pointed out to his wife, he needed one, on his long country journeys -at all hours of the day or night. The horse's name had provoked a -protest, but as the doctor said, that _was_ his name and it suited him, -why change it? You might christen him the Angel Gabriel but it wouldn't -change his disposition. - -The minister took his leave, saying that he had work to do. At parting -he asked if he should see them at evening meeting. Mary felt a reproach -and blushed faintly and Mrs. Lowell said with asperity, "Certainly, -that is all except the doctor, nobody ever knows when he'll be back." -She escorted Mr. Robertson to the door, and then majestically -began gathering up the dinner dishes. There were no servants in the -household. Mary came to help, but her mother said sternly, "I'll attend -to these, you can go along." - -So Mary went along, to the parlour where Laurence Carlin was waiting. -This room was bright now because of the sunlight and the potted plants -in all the windows, between the looped-up lace curtains. But the -furniture was black walnut and horse-hair, and marble-topped tables. -On the walls were framed daguerreotypes and a wreath under glass, of -flowers made from hair. It was not a genial room. The blue and purple -hyacinths flowering in the south windows made the air sweet with rather -a funeral fragrance. - -Carlin turned to her with a tremulous wistful look. After the first joy -of seeing her, as always, timidity came upon him. Each time that he -had come back to her, during these four years, it seemed that he had -to woo her all over again. Each time she had somehow become a stranger -to him. Yet she had never repudiated the engagement made when she was -seventeen. It was always understood that they were to be married. But -it seemed almost as though she had accepted and then forgotten him. She -took their future together for granted, but his passionate eagerness -found no echo in her. So he always had to subdue himself to her calm, -her aloofness, and his wistful hungry eyes expressed his unsatisfied -yearning. Mary liked him best when only his eyes spoke, when his -caress, as now, was timid and restrained. He touched her bright hair -and looked adoringly at her untroubled face. They sat down together on -the slippery horse-hair sofa. - -"Captain!" said Mary, looking at the stripes on his sleeve with a -pensive smile. "So now you're Captain Carlin!" - -"That's all I am," he said ruefully. "I have to start all over again -now." - -"Yes." - -"Nothing to show for these four years." - -Mary smiled and touched with her square finger-tips the scar on his -cheek. - -"How did you get that?" - -"Sabre-cut." He looked hurt. "I wrote you from the hospital, don't you -remember?" - -"Oh, yes, I remember," she said serenely. "Well, it doesn't look so -bad. You aren't sorry, are you?" - -"For what, the--" - -"The four years." - -"No, I couldn't help it. But--but--" - -"I'm glad of it--I'm proud of you--and that you were promoted for -bravery--" - -"Oh, Mary, are you?... But bravery isn't anything, it's common. Why--" - -"Yes, I know. But you must have been uncommonly brave, or they wouldn't -have promoted you!" - -He laughed and drew her near him, venturing a kiss. - -"It seems strange that you have been through all that--battles, killing -people--and you just a boy too, just Laurence," said Mary dreamily. -"And wouldn't hurt a fly. I can remember yet what a fuss you made about -a kitten--you remember the kitten the boys were--" - -"Just Larry O'Carolan, the gossoon, divil a bit else," said Laurence. - -"Oh, don't be Irish!... O'Carolan is pretty, though, prettier than -Carlin, but it's too Irish!" - -"You can have it either way you like, Mary darling," said he tenderly. -"Just so you take it soon--will you?" - -She could feel the strong beating of his heart as he held her close. - -"And yet--I ought not to ask you, maybe! For I've got nothing in the -world, only my two hands!... You know I was studying law when it came. -Judge Baxter would take me back in his office, I think--but it would be -years before--" - -"He said you would be a good lawyer," pondered Mary. - -"Would you like that? I could make some money at something else, -perhaps, and be reading law too--at night or some time.... Or there's -business--there are a lot of chances now, Mary, all over the country. -I've heard of a lot of things.... Would you go away with me, Mary, go -west, if--" - -"West?" - -She looked startled, rather dismayed. - -"Well, we'll talk about that later, I'll tell you what I've heard," -said Laurence hastily. "But I'll do exactly what you want, Mary, about -everything. You shall have just what you want, always!" - -She smiled, her pensive dreamy smile, and looked at his eyes so near -her--blue mysterious eyes, radiant with love. This love, his complete -devotion, she accepted calmly, as her right and due. Laurence belonged -to her and she to him--that was settled, long ago. Her heart beat none -the quicker at his touch--except now and then when he frightened her a -little. Mary Lavinia was not in the least given to analysing her own -feelings. She took it for granted that they were what they should be. -And they remained largely below the threshold of consciousness. - -But now she moved a little away from him and studied his face -thoughtfully. This was not the handsome boy of four years ago, gay, -tumultuous, demanding, full of petulant ardour. The lines of his -mouth and jaw, which she had always thought too heavy, with a certain -grossness, were now firmly set. He was thinner, that helped--the scar -on his cheek, too. There was power in this face, and a look, sad, -almost stern, that she had never seen before. Suffering, combat, the -resolute facing of death, the habit of command, had formed the man. -She had been used to command Laurence Carlin, she had held him in the -palm of her hand. But here was something unfamiliar. Her instinct for -domination suffered an obscure check. - - - - - III - - -The doctor returned earlier than usual, and was able to work for an -hour in his garden, before dark. Mrs. Lowell, wrapped in a purple -shawl, stood in the path, while he was turning over the soil with a -pitchfork. She often objected to his working on Sunday. The doctor -pointed out that his hedges were thick enough to conceal him from -observation; she said that being seen wasn't what mattered, but -breaking the Sabbath; whereupon the doctor alleged that he felt more -religious when working in his garden than any other time, so that -Sunday seemed a particularly appropriate day to work in it. This would -reduce Mrs. Lowell to silence; she always looked scandalized when her -husband referred to religion, suspecting blasphemy somewhere. - -This old dispute was not in question now, however. In answer to a -question about "the young folks," Mrs. Lowell had said curtly that they -were out walking. Then she had stood silent, her broad pale face, with -its keen eyes and obstinate mouth, expressing so plainly trouble and -chagrin that the doctor spoke very gently. - -"You mustn't worry about it, Mother." - -Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly. - -"Of course I worry about it! I never liked it!" - -"No, I know you didn't. But Laurence isn't a bad fellow." - -"That's a high praise for a man that--that--!" - -"Yes, I know, you think he isn't good enough for Mary. But you wouldn't -think anybody good enough." - -"I've seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who is he, anyway--the -son of a labourer, a man that worked for day-wages when he wasn't too -drunk!" - -"Oh, come now, Mother! Don't shake the family crest at us. Your father -was a carpenter--and don't I work for wages?" - -"My father was a master-carpenter and had his own shops and workmen, -as you know very well!" cried Mrs. Lowell, flushing with wrath. "And -if you like to say you work for wages, when it isn't true, you can, -of course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good Americans for -generations back and not bog-trotting Irish peasants!" - -"Now, Mother, who told you Laurence's ancestors trotted in bogs? They -may have been--" - -"Didn't his father come over here with a bundle on his back, an -_immigrant_?" - -"Why, now, we're all immigrants, more or less, you know. Didn't _your_ -ancestors come over from England?" - -"James Lowell--" - -"Yes, I know, they came in the _Mayflower_, or pretty nearly ... that -is, those that _did_ come. Of course, on one side you're right, and -we're all immigrants and foreigners, except you! You're the only real -native American!" - -And the doctor chuckled, while his wife started to walk into the house. -A standing joke with him was Mrs. Lowell's aboriginal ancestry. Her -grandfather, in Vermont, had married a French-Canadian, and the doctor -pretended to have discovered that this grandmother was half Indian. He -would point to her miniature portrait on the parlour-wall, her straight -black hair and high cheek-bones, as confirmation. Mrs. Lowell and Mary -too had the high cheek-bones, they had also great capacity for silence, -which the doctor said was an Indian trait--not to mention the ferocity -of which he sometimes accused his wife. Equally a jest with him was -her undoubted descent from a genteel English family which actually did -boast a crest and motto--and the fact that Mrs. Lowell treasured a seal -with these family arms, and though she did not use it, she might, any -day. And how did she reconcile her pride in that seal with her pride in -the grandfather who had fought in the Revolution? - -But the doctor, seeing his wife walk away, stuck his pitchfork in the -ground and followed her, saying penitently: - -"There, there, now, I was only joking." - -"Yes, you'd joke if a person was dying!... But you know very well what -I'm thinking about is his _character_, that's what worries me. His -father drank. And he's got nothing to hold him anywhere, he's a rolling -stone, I'm sure. I don't believe he has principles. And he's been -roaming around for four years, getting into all sorts of bad habits, no -doubt--" - -The doctor sighed. It was useless to oppose his wife's idea that the -life of a soldier was mainly indulgence, not to say license. Useless -to point to Laurence's military record, for she did not approve of -the war, her position being that people should be let alone and not -interfered with. If they wanted to keep slaves, let them, they were -responsible for their sins. If they wanted to secede, it was a good -riddance. How did she reconcile this principle of non-resistance with -the fact that she imposed her own will whenever she could on all around -her? She didn't. That was her strength, she never tried to reconcile -any of her ideas with one another--it was impossible to argue with -her. So he sighed, for he knew she wanted comfort, her pride and her -love for Mary were bleeding--and he couldn't give it. He was doubtful -himself about this marriage. What he finally said was cold enough -comfort: - -"I don't think we can help it." - -"You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. "I've said all _I_ -can." - -"I'll talk to Mary," he said. - -"Oh--talk!" - -With that she went into the house and banged the door. Well, what did -she expect him to do--shut Mary up--or disinherit her? The doctor -smiled ruefully as he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, -but he would work as long as he could see. There was no set meal on -Sunday nights--people went to the pantry and helped themselves when -they felt like it. He liked the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed -with the manure he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and -over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous leaves, was a -thin crescent moon. He stood looking at it, leaning on his pitchfork, -thinking that tomorrow he would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had -time. Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tenderness and -melancholy, now as ever, though he was an old man.... - -He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he had deeply admired; of -the men now returning to their homes, the long struggle over; of the -many he had known who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, -had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been rejected on -the score of age. That might have been a good end, he thought. Now -what was before him but old age, with lessening powers, the routine of -life.... He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having come, went -slowly in. - - * * * * * - -To his wife's surprise, he offered to accompany her to church. She -was pleased, for now she could take his arm instead of Carlin's, who -followed with Mary. Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, -but as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked silently, -arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had been very sweet and gentle -to him, all day, and very serious--more so than ever before. She had -changed, he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a woman. -She had never been very gay--but yet she had had a glow of youth rather -than sparkle, an enthusiasm, that he missed now. They had talked over -plans for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him at once, if -he wished. She did not mind his being poor, she had said earnestly, she -expected they would be, at first. She had not expected it to be a path -of roses. There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. Marriage -with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle--not a sober reality. - -Still silently, they entered the church and took their seats. It was -the "meeting-house," plain, austere--nothing to touch the senses. No -mystery of shadowy lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But -the pews and benches were full, when the simple service began, there -were even people standing at the back, as in a theatre. - -Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad rim of her bonnet hid -her face from Laurence, but he felt this was the attitude of prayer. He -watched her for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. He -had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her absorption seemed to -set her away from him--it was one more change. She raised her head only -when the minister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and then -she looked directly at _him_. She joined in the singing, with a deep, -sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous. - -Hilary Robertson in the pulpit had no pomp of office. With his black -coat and black string tie he looked like any other respectable citizen, -and his manner was perfectly simple. But when he began his prayer, -there was an intense hush of attention in his audience. It was a brief -prayer, for help in present trouble, for guidance in darkness, like the -cry of a suffering heart. Many of the congregation were in mourning. -This appeal was perhaps in their behalf, but it had the note of -personal anguish. - -There was the secret of Hilary's power. He never appeared the priest, -set apart from the struggle of living--but a man like any other, a -sinner, for so he felt himself to be. And then, he had true dramatic -power, he could move and sway his hearers. His voice, his eloquence, -his personality, created an atmosphere, in that bare room, like -cathedral spaces, the colours of stained glass, deep organ melodies, -incense--an atmosphere of mystic passion, thrilling and startling. - -When the prayer ended and another hymn was sung, Carlin caught a -glimpse of Mary's face, pale, exalted; her eyes, shining with fervour, -fixed upon the minister. The mask for a moment had fallen, she was all -feeling, illuminated. Carlin saw it, with a sharp jealous pang. Some -strong emotion surely rapt her away from him, into a region where he -could not follow. She was as unconscious of him now as though he had -not existed, and so she remained through the service. - -Carlin listened, sitting rigidly upright, his arms folded, his narrow -blue eyes upon the speaker. He wanted to study and judge this man, for -whom he suddenly felt a personal dislike. - -He referred this dislike to Hilary's office--any assumption of -spiritual authority was repugnant to him, perhaps partly from memories -of his boyhood, when the priest had tried to direct him. His mood of -sharp criticism was not softened by the beginning of Hilary's brief -discourse. The first thing that struck his attention was a quotation -from Lincoln's inaugural address: - -"If God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the -bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be -sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid -by another drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, -so must it still be said, 'The judgments of the Lord are true and -righteous altogether'." - -This blood and treasure had been paid, the preacher said, the whole -nation had spent to cancel the debt incurred by our own and our -father's guilt, the measure had been filled up by the death of -Lincoln. In spite of himself, Carlin approved what was said about -Lincoln. It was true also, he admitted, that though peace had been -declared, the nation was still in the midst of turmoil arising out of -past errors, the evil spirit, departing, had rent and torn it. Peace -was not on the earth and never would be. Not peace but a sword had been -given to men. Yes, that was true, probably. The world was an eternal -battle-field, the field of a war without truce and without end, till -man should subjugate his own nature. In the heart of man, full of -pride, self-love and injustice, lay the root of all evil. He that could -overcome himself was greater than he that should take a city. That was -the true, the infinite struggle, of which all others were but ephemeral -incidents--that was the end and aim of man's existence on earth. Not -with earthly but with spiritual weapons must his battles be fought and -his eternal conquests made. - -Hilary spoke with curt simplicity, but with the fire of a spirit to -whom these things were realities, indeed the only realities, all else -being a shadow and a dream. There was nothing cold about his morality, -nothing soft or sweet--it was intense, hard and burning. - -A fanatic, Carlin thought, frowning--but all the same a man to be -reckoned with. - - - - - IV - - -At the close of the service, the minister stood at the door, to shake -hands with his departing congregation. Carlin, not disposed to shake -his hand, went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They moved -on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of the sidewalk, under -the maple trees, and waited. - -"He's a good speaker," said the doctor pensively. "I like to come and -hear him once in a while." - -"Yes," said Carlin, coldly. "He's an able man." - -"He's too mystical for me, though.... Seems to me you can think _too -much_ about salvation, you can look at your own soul so hard that you -get cross-eyed ... that's the way it affects some of them. The women -think a lot of him." - -"Yes." - -"I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous," went on the doctor -mildly. "It takes a strong head, you know, to keep it straight.... But -he's all right, himself, he's a good man. Got into trouble preaching -against slavery--he lost his first church that way, in Chicago--that -was before the war. Oh, yes, he's plucky." - -The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched the church door for -Mary, then he went on: - -"He doesn't pay much attention to worldly affairs, though--doesn't -care about political institutions and so on. We had a discussion when -he first came here, about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance -except the human soul, but each soul is of infinite importance, the -soul of the black slave is just as important as that of his white -master. He said he hated slavery because of its effect on the master -more than on the slave. He said the slave could develop Christian -virtues, but the master couldn't." - -The doctor paused and chuckled softly. - -"I asked him," he resumed, "why, if the slaves outnumbered the masters, -the sum of virtue might not be greater under slavery. But of course he -had his answer, we were not to do evil that good might come.... Shall -we walk on? The women-folks are probably consulting about something or -other. They do a lot of church-work." - -After a moment's hesitation, Carlin accompanied him. - -"I didn't know Mary was so much interested in the church," he said -moodily. "She wasn't, before." - -"Well," said the doctor. "The war has made a difference, you know. -Life has been harder--not many amusements--and lots of tragedies and -suffering. We've had losses in our own family.... The church was about -the only social thing that didn't seem wrong, to the women, you see. -And they've done a lot of work, through it, for the soldiers and all -that.... Yes, Mary's changed a good deal, she's very serious. I think -the preacher has had a good deal of influence." - -"How?" asked Carlin abruptly. - -"Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, a vale of tears, a -place of trial, and so on.... It _is_, maybe, but she's too young to -feel it so. I hope she'll get out of that and enjoy life a little," -the doctor ended, with much feeling. - -They walked on in silence. Carlin's heart was sore. The doctor had -not mentioned his absence and peril as having anything to do with the -change in Mary. Well, perhaps it hadn't had. He gave way to a sudden -impulse. - -"You're not against her marrying me, are you?" he asked tremulously. "I -know your wife is. She doesn't like me." - -"No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence," was the doctor's -grave answer. "As far as _you're_ concerned, I've no objection.... But -sometimes I think Mary isn't ready to marry yet." - -"She says she _is_," said Laurence quickly. - -"I don't pretend to understand anything," said the doctor plaintively, -and sighed. - -"Perhaps--you think she doesn't care enough about me--is that it?" - -"Sometimes I think she doesn't care about anybody," was the regretful -answer. - -When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in. - -"I'll walk on, for a bit," he said. - - * * * * * - -The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a lamp. This room was -arranged to suit him, and he did as he pleased in it. It smelt very -much of tobacco, though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a -couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture consisted -of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides some shelves full of -books. Out of it opened his bedroom, which had an outside door with a -night-bell. - -The doctor established himself in his easy-chair, with a pipe and a -medical review. But his attention wandered from the printed page, and -twice he let his pipe go out. Half an hour passed before the women-folk -returned, and he noted that they entered the house in silence. - -He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she came in, she asked -with surprise, "Where's Laurence?" - -"He went off for a little walk.... Sit down, my dear, I want to talk to -you." - -Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on the sofa. She -disliked the atmosphere of this room, not so much the tobacco-flavour -as the flavour of the confessional. She was used to hearing low-toned -murmurs coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes sounds -of pain and weeping. And now she had an instant feeling that _she_ was -in the confessional, as had happened a few times before during her -girlhood, occasions of which she retained a definite impression of fear. - -"Mary, are you sure you're doing right?" asked the doctor abruptly, yet -gently. - -"Right?" she murmured, defensively. - -"About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are ready to marry him, at -once." - -"Yes, I am ready," said Mary, with a forced calmness. "We have been -engaged four years. I always expected to marry him when he came back." - -"And you haven't changed your mind at all, in those four years? You -were very young, you know--it would be natural that you should change." - -"No--I haven't changed." - -"In some ways, you have.... But you mean not in that way. You still -love Laurence, as much as ever?" - -"Yes," said Mary, her heart beating fast and sending a deep flush into -her cheeks. - -"Because, you know, you are not bound to marry him," said the doctor -sharply. - -"Don't you think that a promise is binding?" asked Mary. - -"Certainly not--that kind of a promise! Are you going to marry him just -because you promised?" - -"I have no wish to break my promise," said Mary. - -"Because it's a promise, or because you want to marry him anyway and -would, if you hadn't promised? Come, Mary, answer me!" - -"I want to keep my promise," said Mary clearly, with a look of the most -perfect obstinacy in her fair eyes. - -The doctor was hot-tempered, and banged a book on his desk with -his fist. But instantly he controlled himself, for he loved this -exasperating child of his, and there was no one but himself to stand -between her and harm--so he felt it. - -"You mean," he said tenderly, "that you haven't any reason _not_ to -keep it?" - -Mary assented. - -"And Laurence loves you and depends on you." - -Her silence gave assent to this. - -"You feel it would be wrong to disappoint him--desert him." - -"Yes, of course it would be." - -"And there's no one else you care about?" - -The last question was sharp and sudden. Mary started slightly, and -cast a troubled and angry glance at her inquisitor. But such was the -personality of this little man with the gentle firm voice and pitying -eyes, such was his relation to his daughter, that she never thought of -denying his authority or right to question her. She felt obliged to -answer him, and truthfully too. - -"Nobody--in that way," she said faintly. - -"You don't love anyone else." - -"No." - -"And you haven't thought of marrying any one else?" - -There was just an instant's hesitation before she answered: - -"No." - -The doctor reflected, and Mary sat still, her long eyelids -drooping--the image of maiden calm. - -"Well, then, I was mistaken," said the doctor after a pause. "I thought -you were interested in some one else--and I guess your mother thought -so too.... But it wasn't that kind of interest." - -"No, it wasn't," said Mary quickly. - -"But it was--it is--an interest. I wish you could tell me what it is, -why you think so much of Mr. Robertson as you do, what your feeling is -about him." - -"But--it isn't a personal feeling!" cried Mary, no longer calm, -suddenly alert and on the defensive. "It has nothing to do with that!" - -"But you admire him and look up to him--" - -"Of course I do! But you don't understand, you don't believe--" - -"It's religious, you mean, it's your feeling for religion, and he -represents it--" - -"Yes," said Mary angrily. - -"Don't be vexed with me, my dear--perhaps I don't understand these -things, as you say.... But he is something like a spiritual director, -isn't he, now?" - -"I don't know what you mean by that--" - -"I mean, you talk to him about your religious feelings, and he gives -you counsel," said the doctor gravely. - -"Yes--yes, he does." - -"Have you talked to him about your marriage?" - -"I--why, no!" - -"You don't talk about worldly affairs, then--is that it? Do you think -marriage not important enough to talk about?" - -"It isn't that! I haven't, because--" - -Here was a pause, and the doctor asked: - -"Perhaps because, Mary, you thought he had a feeling for you that--" - -"No, it wasn't that! He hasn't--it isn't that at all!" - -Disturbed, distressed, she got up. - -"Wait a minute, Mary.... I wish you would talk to him about it," said -the doctor in his most serious tone. - -"But, why? Why should I?" - -"Why? Because it's a most important thing to you, and mixed up with -everything, or should be. Because you shouldn't keep your religion -separate from your marriage. Because you shouldn't shut Laurence out -from everything." - -"I shut him out?" - -"Now you do as I tell you, Mary," said the doctor quietly. - -He sat looking out of the window, feeling her bewilderment and silent -revolt. He hesitated whether he should tell Mary that he thought -her religion erotic in origin and her feeling for the minister very -personal indeed, but finally decided against it. She would deny it not -only to him but to herself--women's minds were made like that. At last -he said: - -"I think at first you were in love with Laurence--but four years is a -long time, and you were very young." - -"I haven't changed," said Mary proudly. - -"Yes, you have, but you don't want to admit it. You think there are -higher things than being in love. You seem to think of marriage as a -serious responsibility, a--sort of discipline." - -"Isn't it?" she asked. - -"Well, that isn't the way to go into it! Confound it, I tell you you -had better not!" - -He glared at her over his spectacles, then put out his hand and drew -her toward him. - -"What a child you are, Mary--with your airs of being a hundred and -fifty!... I don't think you understand anything. The basis of marriage -is physical, if that isn't right nothing is right--you want to think -of that, Mary. It's flesh and spirit, but _both_, not divided. If your -imagination is drawn away from Laurence to what you think are spiritual -things, then you oughtn't to marry--or you ought to marry Hilary." - -Mary stood like a stone--her fingers turned cold in his grasp. He saw -the tears flood her eyes, and got up and led her to the door, and -dismissed her with a kiss on her cold cheek. - - - - - V - - -She went out and stood at the gate, waiting for Laurence, uneasy -about him, troubled by many thoughts, oppressed. She was still crying -when she heard his step down the sidewalk, firm and quick. The thin -little moon was already sinking behind the trees, but there was bright -starlight, so that Laurence could see her face. - -"What's the matter, Mary?" he cried. - -"Where have you been? Why did you run off like that?" she demanded with -a sob. - -She swung the gate open for him, but he took her hand and drew her out. - -"It's early yet--come, we don't want to go in yet. Come, let's get away -from everybody!" - -She was quite willing at the moment to get away from everybody. Out -of a vague sense of injury she continued to weep, and to Laurence's -anxious inquiries she returned a sobbing answer: - -"I don't think older people ought to interfere!... It's our own -business, isn't it?... What do they know about it?..." - -Laurence agreed passionately that they knew nothing about it and had -better not interfere, and kissed her tearful eyes till she protested -that they must go on now or somebody would be coming. She said softly: - -"Poor Laurence! This isn't very gay, for your first evening home!" - -"Never mind about being gay!" - -He drew her hand firmly through his arm and strode down the street -with a feeling that he was bearing her off triumphantly from a legion -of enemies. When she was near him, and in a troubled and melting -mood, like this, he feared nothing, his doubts vanished, he felt sure -of her, and that was all he cared about at present. As for anybody -interfering, that was nonsense. His spirits rose with a bound out of -the evening's depression. Soon he was talking light-heartedly and -Mary was laughing. He was quick and fluent, when at ease, and full of -careless, gay and witty turns of speech that amused and charmed her. -No one had ever amused her so much as Laurence. With him life seemed -really a cheerful affair, he was so rich in confidence--he had the -brightest visions of the future. He was bubbling over now with plans, -schemes of all sorts.... The vastness, the richness of the country, its -endless opportunities, were in his imagination, a restless ambition -in his veins. He had a feeling of his power, more than mere youthful -self-confidence. Already he had been tried and proved in different -ways, and had stood the test. So far he had always been successful. His -mind was restless now because a definite channel for his activity was -to be fixed. He wanted Mary's advice--rather, he wanted to know what -she wanted. His own most marked bent was toward the law, with a vista -of political power beyond. And there was money in the law, too. But if -Mary wanted more money, a lot of money--well, she had only to say so! -As his talk came back to this point, Mary said that she didn't care -about money, and that he had better stick to the law and go into Judge -Baxter's office. - -"Not Chicago?... I thought you'd like to make a start in a big city," -he suggested persuasively. - -"Why not here?... You'd have a better start with Judge Baxter, and you -know he's a good lawyer, he has a big practice.... And then we could -live at home till you get started," Mary said practically. - -No, Laurence didn't like that at all, it wouldn't do, living with -Mary's parents!... She didn't press that point, but she was firm -about not going away--not to Chicago, still less to some vague point -"out west." Laurence argued. _Why_ did she want to stay here, in this -one-horse town? Why not the city? There was more life, there were more -chances, in the city, she would like it better.... No! Mary couldn't -explain why she wanted to stay, but with emotion she made it clear that -she _wanted_ to.... - -Laurence was silenced. He took her hand and kissed it, perhaps in -acquiescence. But he meditated, puzzled, asking himself _why_, after -all.... - -He looked at the town from the vantage-point of his four years' -wanderings. By contrast with the great cities he had seen, the east, -populous and civilized, the picturesque south, beautiful mountains and -valleys, stately old houses, glimpses of a life that had been rich in -colour and luxury--beside all this the little town, his birth-place, -seemed like a mere mud-spot on the prairie.... A little square, with -a few brick buildings, the bank, the courthouse, small shops--two or -three streets set with frame dwelling-houses, straggling out into the -prairie--what was the attraction, the interest of this place?... His -absence had broken all his own associations with it except as to Mary. -His mother, the last remaining member of his family, had died the year -before; his only brother had been killed at Shiloh. The friends of his -youth had scattered, most of them in the army. He could not see himself -settling here.... Perhaps, for a little while, till he had finished his -law-reading, if he decided on the law--they might stay till then, since -Mary wanted it. But _why_ did she? To be sure, she knew no other place, -what friends and interests she had were here--but she was young, she -must want to see something of the world! He shook his head, in pensive -bewilderment. Women were queer, decidedly! He made no pretence of -understanding the sex--in fact never had had time or occasion to make -an exhaustive study of it. - -They had come to the end of the board sidewalk; beyond was only a path -by the roadside. They went a little distance along this, but it was -muddy; a stream, dividing the road from the pasture, had overflowed. -Mary thought they had better turn back, but Laurence protested. So they -sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, among a clump of willows that -hung over the stream. - -The lights of the town were faintly visible on one side; on the other, -the prairie stretched out dark and silent, with the starry sky bright -by contrast. A slight breeze swayed the long fronds of the willows, the -stream gurgled softly along its mud-bed, and from a pond out in the -pasture rose the musical bassoon of an amorous bull-frog.... The damp -heavy air, hardly stirring, had a sweet oppression, a troubled languor, -the pulse of the spring.... - -Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary gently in his arms, -and kissed her lowered eyelids and her lips, first lightly, then -lingeringly, then as she began to resist, with passionate possession. - -"Don't--don't push me away," he begged. "Come near to me...." - -But she was frightened, and struggled against his strong clasp, till -she slipped down, bent backward over the tree-trunk, and cried out with -pain and anger. Laurence released her suddenly, roughly. - -"You don't love me," he said. - -She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat still, turning away -from her. - -"You don't love me," he repeated bitterly. "You'd better leave me--go -back." - -Without a word she moved away, her head bent, stumbling a little on -the dark path. He looked after her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like -that, without a word to him, without a sign.... Was she angry--was she -hurt?... That silence of hers was a strong weapon. She disappeared -beyond the trees.... No, he couldn't let her go like that. In a moment -he overtook her. - -"Take my arm," he said curtly. "The path's rough." - -She took it, and they went back in silence. As they came to a -street-light he looked at her, and saw the mysterious mask of her face -more immobile, more impassive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him, -now it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to break with her, -to tell her that he was going away. She was too elusive, too distant, -too cold.... But instead, when they came to her gate, he only murmured -sadly: - -"Forgive me, Mary." - -And to his surprise she bent toward him to kiss him good-night, and -said steadily: - -"You shouldn't have said what you did. I _do_ love you. Why should I -want to marry you if I don't love you?" - -"I don't know, Mary," said Laurence with a faint weary smile. - - - - - VI - - -Judge Baxter's office was in the Bank Building, up a flight of worn -and dingy stairs. Carlin, knowing the Judge's habits, appeared there -at eight o'clock the next morning, and was warmly welcomed. The judge -was a big man, with waves of white hair and beard and bright blue eyes; -carelessly dressed; with a quid of tobacco in his cheek, which did not -interfere with his speech, but gave him a somewhat bovine, meditative -air, as he rolled and nibbled at it in the intervals of conversation. - -"Coming back to me, Laurence?" he said at once, tilting back his chair -and beaming at the young man. - -"I don't know--I came to talk things over," Laurence hesitated. - -"Hope you will--don't see as you could do better. I always said you -ought to go into law. And I need an assistant. What's the objection?" - -"Well--I hadn't thought of settling here." - -"I know." The Judge nodded. "Hard to settle down now--I expect things -seem pretty dull and drab to you around here. Natural. A lot of good -fellows will have the _Wanderlust_--" - -"No, I want to settle down.... I want to be married soon," said -Laurence, slightly embarrassed. - -"Yes, I know--Miss Mary! Think of her waiting for you all this time--a -lot of girls wouldn't have done that, and I don't believe she even had -a sweetheart," said the Judge, his eyes twinkling. "Though I tell you, -if I'd been twenty years younger--you see, she used to run up here and -read me some of your letters.... She's a beautiful woman," ended the -old man warmly. - -"I must make some money--I haven't a dollar!" Laurence explained. "I -thought there'd be better chances in the city perhaps, or--" - -"No, no!" the Judge protested. "Why, look here, you'd have a -salary--not much, to be sure, at first--but you come into my office -and peg away at Blackstone and Chitty--and in a year or less you can -be admitted to the bar. And meantime you could live with the old -folks--they're so wrapped up in Mary, they'd like it--" - -"No," said Laurence positively, "I wouldn't do that. I must have a -place of my own to take her to." - -"Well, yes, I understand." The Judge chewed his cud for a moment, then -his face lit up. "See here, why shouldn't you live with me!... I've got -a good-sized house and there's the whole top floor I never use, and -I've got a sort of housekeeper, such as she is. You two young folks -could have all the room you want, and Mary could fix up the old place -and make it a hell of a lot more cheerful, and I'd have somebody to -eat with and something pretty to look at--why, Jesus, man! It would be -charity to me, it would, upon my soul! Say you will, now!" - -"Why, Judge, you're very kind, I don't know--I'll think it over, and -talk to Mary--we'd pay our board, of course," Laurence stammered, -rather overcome. - -"Board, hell!" said the Judge, excited. "Mary could fix up some pies -and things once in a while--I haven't had a decent doughnut for a -year.... Well, you can board if you want to, we won't quarrel.... And -you can be making something besides your salary, if you don't mind -work--" - -"I don't," said Laurence, smiling, curiously touched by the old man's -warmth. Somehow he felt at home now for the first time since his -return, he felt some wish to stay. - -The Judge pondered and rolled his quid. - -"Ever run a creamery?" he asked, suddenly, with a twinkle. - -Laurence shook his head. - -"I was principal of a school once," he remarked. - -"Well, I haven't got a school, but I've got a creamery--that is, I'm -the Receiver. Owner was killed at Vicksburg, and his widow has been -trying to run it--it's a big place at Elmville, about five miles from -here--I need a manager for it. I tell you what, Laurence, you have a -bite of dinner with me at twelve, and then we'll drive over there, I've -got to go anyway, and we can talk it over on the way--" - -There was a knock at the glazed door, the pale youth who occupied the -outer office put his head in and announced a client. Laurence rose. The -Judge escorted him out with an arm round his shoulders, and they were -to meet at the tavern. - -"It's only a little worse than at my house," Judge Baxter said -cheerfully. "We need a good hotel here. We need a lot of things, -principally some good, hustling young men--I tell you, we've missed you -fellows. But the town's all right, you mustn't look down on our town, -we're going ahead." - -Laurence strolled across the little square, the centre of the town, -and smiled at the Judge's civic fervour. He could not see any signs -of enterprise or change, except that the young maple trees along -the sidewalks had grown, and there were two or three new buildings. -The same row of country plugs tied to wooden posts in front of the -courthouse, the same row of loafers in front of the saloon. The -dry-goods store had a new window with a display of shirts and neckties. -There was a new Tonsorial Parlour, with a gaily painted striped pole, -the cigar-store had a wooden Indian standing on the sidewalk, holding -out a bunch of wooden cigars, and the Opera-house had been repainted, -and had large bills outside, announcing a minstrel show. Yes, there -was an ice-cream parlour, too, with a window full of confectionery. -Laurence stopped to buy a cigar, and spoke to two or three people -who recognized him; their greetings were friendly enough but not -especially cordial. Laurence had no great fund of friendship to draw -upon in his native town. He said to himself, as he walked on, that -Judge Baxter was his only friend there. Should he go and see Mary this -morning? It was too early to go yet--and there was a sore feeling in -him about Mary. No, he would wait till he had made his expedition with -the Judge and had something definite to talk to her about. Something -practical, that would suit her. He smiled wryly and went on along the -street. There was not much of the brass band about this home-coming, he -reflected, not much of Hail, the conquering hero comes. No, he would -sink into civilian life without any fuss being made over him--so would -all the other fellows, the men he had marched with this last week, -through the streets of Washington, Sherman's magnificent army. There -had been plenty of brass band there, they had felt pretty important -then--it was a shame that the Old Man hadn't been allowed to lead -his army in review, but had been sent straight off to the border. -Laurence had a feeling of personal affection for the Old Man, and he -realized suddenly, for his companions in arms. He was going to miss -them, those tough chaps, scattered now to the four winds of heaven. -The best soldiers on earth--now, like him, they would have to compete -empty-handed with the fat citizens who had stayed behind and been -piling up money these four years. - -Laurence scowled under the rim of his cap, and reflected that he must -get himself a suit of civilian clothes. The street he was on brought -him to the railroad tracks. A long freight-train was passing, car after -car loaded with cattle, going to Chicago. After it had passed, he -crossed the tracks, and the street became a road, which led up a slight -rise, to the cemetery. He followed it listlessly, his eyes fixed on the -wide expanse of tombstones, crosses, spires, slabs of grey and white, -that covered the swell of the prairie. The cemetery was considerably -more populous than the town, he thought; and now he was here, he would -go and look at his mother's grave. He had some difficulty in finding -it, though he vaguely remembered its location. The lot had been -neglected, the prairie-grass had grown long over it, hiding the grey -slab with her name, the date of her death and her age, forty-seven. -Another small stone, with a dove and the name "Evangeline," marked the -grave of his little sister, dead twenty years. And this was all that -remained of his family. Patrick lay on the field of Shiloh. As to his -father, he might be dead or living--he had run away ten years before, -and nothing had ever been heard of him. - -He stood looking sorrowfully down on the unkempt grass. Poor his mother -had lived, poor she had died, and alone too. Pat and he had both gone -and left her. He had been very fond of his mother. The proud woman -she was, and silent, with long black hair and fine little hands and -feet--and she worked at the wash-tub, and he and Pat, bare-footed boys, -carried the wash home in baskets. Oh, but she had a bitter tongue when -she did let it out, and she let his father have it. He remembered the -night when his father struck her, and he, Laurence, fifteen then, -knocked his father flat on the floor. That was the last night they saw -him, he had sworn he wouldn't stay to be beaten by his own son, and -they had all been glad he went.... - -He turned away, and went on across the rise, thinking he would get out -into the country. At the far side of the cemetery he passed a little -plot without even a headstone but neatly kept, where a girl in a grey -dress was kneeling, setting out some plants. He noticed her slim figure -and her copper-coloured hair, but passed without seeing her face. She -called after him. - -"Oh, Larry! Is it you?" - -He turned and she got up and put out both hands to him, smiling, -showing her big white teeth. - -"Well, Nora!" he cried, clasping her hands gladly. "Why, what a young -lady you've grown!" - -She was not pretty, her red mouth was too big and her nose turned up, -and she was freckled, but she had a slim graceful shape, her hair was -a glory and her eyes full of warmth. She had been Laurence's playmate -of old--she belonged to the only other Irish family in town. They had -lived in the slum together, and she had been his first sweetheart. - -"And you!" she said, looking at him shyly with artless admiration. "I -hardly knew you, and yet I knew it was you!" - -They stood and talked for a while. Laurence found out that she was -tending the grave of her brother, "Colin, you'll remember," who had -come back with the prison-fever on him, and died, "wasted to the bone." -And that she did very well, she had been working on a dairy farm but -it was too hard for her, and now she had got a place in the store, and -was to begin next week. She lived with her mother. When Laurence said -he would go to see her she seemed a little embarrassed, and asked, -couldn't they meet some evening outside, her mother was a bit queer. So -they arranged to meet on Sunday evening, (Mary would be at church) by -the big willow on the river road. Nora looked a little disappointed, -perhaps at having the meeting put off so long, but she was not one -to demand or expect much. Laurence remembered what she had been--an -humble, generous little creature, grateful for the least kindness, and -she didn't get much. She was always giving more than she got, to her -family and every one. She was hot-tempered, too, and would fly into a -rage easily, and then dissolve in repentant tears. He looked at her -rough red hands--poor Nora always had worked hard. But her neat dress, -her carefully arranged hair, showed that she was making the most of -herself. Her skin was soft and creamy, in spite of the freckles, her -eyes were almost the colour of her hair, deep reddish-brown. They were -like a dog's eyes, so soft and warm and wistful. Poor Nora, what a good -little thing she was! With a quick glance round, Laurence seized her -in his arms and kissed her very warmly on her red mouth. She blushed -and trembled, but did not resist. She never had been able to resist -any sign of affection, however careless. He kissed her again, and said -a few tender words to her, in a lordly way. The homage of her shining -dazzled eyes was sweet to him. And besides, the remembrance of old -times had wakened. - -As he left her and went on down the slope, along the country road, he -realized that his memories of this place were deep. He would still have -said that there was not much he cared to remember, that it was better -to cut loose and begin afresh in some new place. The poverty of his -boyhood still stung him, the community had looked down upon him and -his, and old slights rankled in him. And yet it seemed that, little by -little, things were shaping to tie him here. Not only outside, but in -himself he was feeling as if some root went down deep into the black -soil of the prairie and held him. - - - - - VII - - -It was late afternoon when they drove back behind the Judge's spanking -pair of bays, hitched to a light buggy. The roads were very rough, with -frequent mud-holes where the wheels sank nearly to the axle, but when -they got a fairly level stretch the trotters stepped out finely. - -Laurence had enjoyed this day. On the way over they had talked -politics. Judge Baxter was a fiery Republican. His face flushed red -with wrath as he spoke of Lincoln's murder and hoped they would -hang Jeff Davis for it. He was in favour of a heavy hand on the -South--Lincoln would have been gentle with them, they had killed him, -the blank rebels, now let them have it. _Vae victis!_ - -Laurence was cooler. He had no anger against the men he had helped to -fight and beat. They were good fighters, good men, most of them. He did -not think the southern leaders had plotted the attack on Lincoln and -Seward. They had fought for a wrong idea, a wrong political system, and -they had been beaten. Now they wanted peace, not revenge, he thought. -They had suffered enough. If they were still to be punished, it would -take longer to establish the Union in reality. The men who had fought -for the Union wanted to see it a reality, not one section against -another any more, but one country, united in spirit, great and powerful. - -The Judge had listened, and then said meditatively: - -"You fellows that did the fighting seem to have less bitterness than -some of us that had to stay at home--I've noticed that. I suppose you -worked it off in fighting." - -"Why, yes," Laurence agreed. "And then, when you come right up against -the other fellow, you find he's folks, just like yourself. Of course -he's wrong and you have to show him, but he fights the best he can for -what he believes in, he risks his life, the same as you do--and when -it's over you feel like shaking hands, in spite of--" - -"You think we ought to let them come back in the Union, as if nothing -had happened?" - -"Why," said Laurence slowly. "Aren't they in it? If we fought to prove -they couldn't go out when they felt like it--" - -"Well, authorities differ on that point. I've heard some right smart -arguments on both sides," said the Judge sharply. - -After a short silence, he went on: - -"I see you've been thinking and keeping track of things.... This is a -great time we live in, Laurence, I wish I was young like you and could -see all that's going to happen. Still, I've had my day, I've seen a -good deal--and maybe done a little. We had some kind of fighting to -do here at home, you know, we had plenty of black-hearted copperheads -here.... You ought to go into public life, my boy, and there's no -entering wedge like the law." - -But it was on the way home, after they had spent the afternoon -inspecting the creamery, a large brick building in the midst of a small -town, going over accounts and talking with various people, it was then -that Judge Baxter urged on Laurence the wisdom of following the path -before him here. - -"I don't see any use in rambling over the country looking for something -better, ten to one you won't find it," he argued. "And you haven't time -to lose, Laurence, you ought to be buckling right down to your job. Our -town may look small to you, but she's linked up to a lot of things. -To be the big man of this place is better than being a small fish in -Chicago--to be the best lawyer at the bar of your state is no small -thing. It might lead anywhere, and I believe you've got it in you.... -This is your state, Laurence--this country round here is a rich country -and it's going to be richer--you ought to stay with it." - -The Judge swept his whip in a wide circle over the prairie. They were -driving westward, the low sun was dazzling in their eyes. Laurence -looked to the left and the right, over the low rolling swells to the -horizon. Where the plough had cut, endless furrows stretched away, -black and heavy, with young green blades showing. Herds of cattle -spotted the pastures. Yes, it was rich land.... With the flood of -sunlight poured along it, the fresh green starting through, the piping -song of the birds that have their nests in the grass, the wind that -blew strongly over the great plain, smelling of the spring, it had a -strange sweetness to Laurence, even beauty.... No, it was not beauty, -but some sort of appeal, vague but strong.... - -"You'd have your own people behind you," said the Judge. - -That broke the spell, for the moment. Laurence smiled bitterly. - -"You know what my people were--and what _your_ people thought of them," -he said in a cutting tone. "To tell the truth, that's one reason I want -to go. I want to forget that I lived in Shanty-town and my mother was -Mrs. Carlin the washerwoman, not good enough to associate with _your_ -women--that weren't good enough, most of them, to tie the shoes on her -little feet!" - -The Judge turned, pulling the broad brim of his hat over his eyes, and -looked at the young man's face, pale and set with ugly lines. - -"Laurence," he said after a moment, "if you're the man I think you -are, you won't want to forget that. We can none of us forget what we -have been, what we came from. You can't do anything for your mother -now, and I know it's bitter to you. But you can make her name, her -son, respected and honoured here--not somewhere else, where she was -never known, but _here_, where she lived. That would mean a lot to her. -Doesn't it mean something to you?" - -The Judge continued to look earnestly at Laurence's face, and presently -saw it relax, soften, saw the stormy dark-blue eyes clear, become fixed -as though upon a light ahead. - -"Judge," said Laurence huskily, "you understand a lot of things. -Perhaps you're right--" - -The Judge, holding whip and reins in one hand, put out the other and -they shook hands warmly. They were silent for a while, then the Judge -began to talk about the local situation, finance and politics, with a -good many shrewd personal sketches mixed in. - -"You want to know every string to this town," he remarked. - -Judge Baxter knew all these strings, evidently, and could, he -insinuated, pull a good many of them. Though too modest to point the -fact, he himself illustrated his contention that, to live in a small -town, a man need not be small. If he knew Cook county thoroughly, the -county knew him too. He had rather the air of a magnate, in spite of -his seedy dress, his beard stained with tobacco. He had more money than -he cared for. His only adornment was a big diamond in an old-fashioned -ring on his little finger, but he drove as good horses as money could -buy. - -Near the end of their journey he asked: - -"Well, what do you say--about made up your mind?" - -"Pretty much. I'll talk to Mary tonight. I don't think she'll have -anything against it. But the women have to be consulted, you know," -said Laurence lightly. - -"Oh, of course, of course." - -The Judge didn't think the women had to be consulted--but then he was a -bachelor. - -"I really don't see why you should be so good to me--take all this -trouble about me," pondered Laurence. - -"Well," said the Judge judicially, "it isn't altogether for you, though -I may say that I like you, Laurence. But I'm looking out for myself -too. I calculate that you're going to be useful to me, you might say -a credit to me, if I have anything to do with giving you a start. I -see more in you than--well, I think you're one in a thousand. Remember -I've seen you grow up, I know pretty much all about you.... I tell -you, I felt mighty bad when you marched away. I knew it was right, you -had to go, I wouldn't have held you back if I could--and yet I said to -myself, ten to one a bullet will pick off that boy instead of some of -those lubbers along with him, and I felt _bad_. Why," the Judge ended -pensively, "I thought I knew then about how it feels to have a son go -to war--" - -Rather startled himself at this touch of sentiment, he flicked the -off-horse with his whip, and they dashed into the town at top speed. - - - - - VIII - - -In the dusk Mary stood waiting for him by the gate. He had thought she -might be piqued or angry at him, but she met him without the slightest -coquetry, asking only where on earth he had been all day. Her tone was -almost motherly, a little anxious, as if he had been a truant child. He -liked it. - -They sat on the steps. The wind had fallen and the evening was warm. -There was the crescent moon over the tree-tops, but tonight it was -hazy, a veil had drawn across the sky. There was rain in the air. A -syringa-bush beside the steps, in flower, and the honeysuckle over the -porch, were strongly fragrant. - -"I'll tell you in a little while, I'm tired," said Laurence lazily. He -leaned his head against her knee and she swept her cool finger-tips -over his crisp black hair, touching his temples and his eyelids. - -"Are you?" she asked softly. - -He sighed with pleasure, shutting his eyes, knowing that he could take -his time to speak, Mary was in no hurry, she never was. Sometimes her -silence and repose had irritated him, but more often it was a deep -pleasure to him. The night was as quiet as she. Not a leaf stirred. A -cricket chirped under the porch. The honeysuckle was almost too sweet -in the damp air. Thin veil upon veil hid the stars, and the moon was -only a soft blur. - -When her hand ceased to touch his hair, he reached up and took it, -clasping the cool strong fingers and soft palm. He moved and looked up -at her. She wore a white dress, sweeping out amply from the waist, open -a little at the neck, and she had a flower of the syringa in her hair. -The outline of her face, bent above him, was clear and lovely. - -"How beautiful you are," he murmured. "I love you." - -She put her arms around him and drew him up, his head to her shoulder. - -"And I'm very, very fond of you," she whispered. "More than I ever was -of anybody. But sometimes you're so impatient." - -"Yes," he said submissively. - -"You get angry with me. You always did." - -"Yes," he said humbly. "I'll try not to. But sometimes I think you -don't love me." - -"But I do," she assured him gently. - -"But sometimes--" he stopped. - -"Well, what?" - -"No, I won't say it." - -"Yes, tell me." - -"Well, sometimes--you don't seem to like to have me touch you, you--" - -"I don't like you to be rough," said Mary. - -"Am I--rough?" - -"Sometimes." - -"But if you liked me, you--" - -"No, I do, and you know it." - -"I don't see why you should, after all." - -"Should what?" - -"Love me." - -"Well, it's been so long now, I couldn't very well stop," said Mary, -smiling. - -"Yes, a long time.... And you really have, all the time?" - -"Oh, yes." - -"And nobody else? Ever?" - -"No, you know it," said Mary, lifting her head proudly. - -He was silent, thinking of the years past.... - -Yes, it had been a long time--six years. They had first met at the -High School, then at the country college where he was working his way -and Mary was preparing to teach. He hadn't made many friends--he had -been sensitive and apt to take offence, and had plenty of fighting to -do. But Mary had been his friend from the first. Hers was the first -"respectable" house in town to open its doors to him. He, however, did -not know what a battle-royal had been fought over his admission there. - -Mrs. Lowell of course had been against him. In that little town -where people apparently lived on terms of equality, caste-prejudice -was subtle and strong, and Mrs. Lowell had her full share. Money -didn't count for much, as nobody had very much, but education and -"family" counted heavily, also worldly position. The town had its -aristocracy--the banker, the minister, the lawyers and the doctor. - -Mary, with all her mother's obstinacy, had something of her father's -crystal outlook on the world, his perfect unworldliness. She cared -nothing for what "people would say," and she seemed to look serenely -over the heads of her neighbours and to see something, whatever it -was, beyond. When she and her mother had come to a deadlock about -Laurence, the doctor was called in, and gave his voice on Mary's side. -So Laurence had become a visitor, on equal terms with the other young -people--not invited to meals very often, for that was not the custom, -but free to drop in of an evening or to take Mary out. Their youthful -friendship had grown and deepened rapidly, and as Mary at seventeen -was old enough to teach school, she was able also to engage herself to -him, in spite of her mother's opposition and her father's wish that she -should wait. Many girls were married at seventeen or sixteen. Mary had -made up her mind, and when this happened, it was not apt to change. -Her nature had a rock-like immobility; hard to impress, it held an -impression as the rock a groove. - - * * * * * - -Memories and thoughts of her were passing through Carlin's mind--vague, -coloured by her warmth and nearness, a soft tide of adoration. He had -always admired her deeply, she appealed to his imagination as no other -woman ever had. He had known other women, more easily moved, more -loving, more ready to respond and give, than Mary. And he wanted love, -wanted it warm and expressive and caressing, wanted a long deep draught -of it. But--he wanted Mary, and no other woman. Now she would be his, -very soon. He was very happy there, with his head on her shoulder, -feeling the soft even beating of her heart; but at this thought he -moved, his arms closed around her impetuously, and the dreamy peace -that enfolded them was broken. - -"There, you bad boy," she said with mild chiding. "Don't pull my hair -down--now tell me what you've been doing all day." - -He told her, after some insistence--all except the meeting with Nora. -Laurence never, if he could help it, mentioned one woman he had any -liking for to another. But in this case he didn't think of Nora at -all. He told Mary all about the Judge and his offers; the prospect of -immediate work, of a temporary home with the Judge, if she liked the -idea. In that case they could be married at once. - -She moved away from him, clasped her arms round her knees, and sat -silent. - -"What is it--have I said anything to bother you?" asked Laurence -alarmed. - -"I'm just thinking," she answered absently. - -After a time she began to speak her thoughts. - -"It will seem odd, going to live at the Judge's house. Mother won't -like it, she'll want us to stay here, she will think that people will -think it's queer if we don't. But it wouldn't be best to live here. -Father will understand, I think. He doesn't care what people think, it -never bothers him at all. But Mother is different." - -"And how about you, Mary? Does it suit you?" - -"Oh, yes, until we can have a house of our own." - -"That won't be for long, I hope. I'll do my best." - -Mary turned and looked gravely at him. - -"Do you feel contented to stay here, after all?" - -"Perhaps it's best," said Laurence vaguely. - -"You know the Judge will be a great help to you, getting started." - -"Oh, yes, I see that, it makes a lot of difference. But the main reason -is, you want it." - -"Yes, I think it's better." - -They spoke in low tones, though the house was empty and dark behind -them. The doctor was off on his round, and Mrs. Lowell had gone out to -a neighbour's. About them now the leaves stirred softly, a damp breath -lifted the honeysuckle sprays. Then came a soft rustling. - -"Rain," said Laurence. - -They moved up into some low chairs on the porch. - -"Shall I get you a wrap?" - -"No, thank you." - -"Do you mind if I smoke?" - -"No." - -Laurence lit a cigar, and laid his left hand on Mary's knee. The gently -falling rain seemed to shut them in together, in a strange delicious -quiet. - -"Can you tell me, Mary, why it is that you feel so strongly about this -place?... You've always lived here, why is it you don't want something -new?" - -"I don't like new things," she said, after a pause. - -"You're a strange girl!... You don't seem like a girl at all, sometimes -you seem about a thousand years old. I feel like a boy beside you." - -"You _are_ a boy," said Mary. From her tone, she was smiling. - -"I would like to know where you get your air of experience, of having -seen everything! It's astonishing!" - -"Everything is everywhere," said Mary serenely. - -"Now, when you say a thing like that! Upon my word! Where do you get -it? I don't half like it, it doesn't seem natural!" - -Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great cloud of smoke. - -"I hope you're not going to be a saint," he said petulantly. - -Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away from his. - -"There, now, I've done it again!" he groaned. "You think I'm a -barbarian, don't you. I don't understand you? Well, I don't! I think -you're wonderful.... But you don't explain things to me, you don't -talk--I don't feel that you give me your confidence, not all of it--" - -"I don't like to talk much.... And you're in too much of a hurry about -everything," said Mary coldly. - -"Well, _you're_ not!... You have about as much speed as a glacier!" - -He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch and stood with his back -to her. But he couldn't stand there forever. And certainly Mary could -sit there forever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, the -white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all around, a great -wave of sweetness came from the honeysuckle. - -It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the slow turning of -the earth, he might as well be angry with the rain for falling.... She -was right--he was impatient and violent, and foolish--awfully foolish. -No wonder she called him a boy.... Hadn't he any self-control, any ...? - -He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing himself; she did not -accuse herself, but she put her arms around him. They made peace. - - - - - IX - - -The minister lived in a small frame house near the church. A widow -woman of certain age and uncertain temper kept his house and provided -his ascetic fare. It was she who opened the door to Mary, with -the suspicious glance due to the visitor's youth and good looks. -Proclaiming that Mr. Robertson was busy writing his sermon, she -nevertheless consented to knock at his study door, and after a moment -Mary was admitted. Hilary rose from his desk to receive her, gave her -hand a quick nervous clasp, and indicated a chair facing the windows, -the only easy-chair in the bare room. For himself he was impatient -of comfort. He sat down again before his desk and waited for Mary to -speak, but seeing that she looked pale and troubled and hesitated, he -began with an effort to question her. - -"What is it, Mary? You have something to tell me? How can I help you?" - -She looked earnestly at him, her face was more youthful in its -expression of appeal and confidence. - -"You're the only person I _can_ speak to.... Nobody else understands," -she murmured. "Every one thinks I am wrong." - -"How, wrong?" - -"My mother is so unhappy, and she makes me unhappy.... Do you think I'm -wrong, to marry against her wish?" - -Hilary was silent, looking at some papers on his desk and moving them -about. At last he said in a low voice: - -"Not if you're sure, otherwise, that it's right--for you, I mean. We -have to judge for ourselves, nobody can judge for us.... Your parents -are opposed ... to your marriage?" - -"Yes--in a different way, not for the same reason. My mother never has -liked Laurence, she doesn't trust him--and my father--doesn't trust -_me_, he doesn't think I know my own mind." - -"And are you sure you do?" - -"Oh, yes," said Mary. "I couldn't desert Laurence, possibly, and I -don't see why I should put him off longer--when it has been so long -already--" - -"You want to marry soon, then?" - -"Yes, in two weeks." - -"Here?" - -"Why, we would be married at home, I suppose." - -"And then--are you going away?" - -"No, Laurence is going into Judge Baxter's office, and we're going to -live at the Judge's house, for the present." - -"I see," said Hilary, in a trembling voice. - -"At first Laurence wanted to go away, to start somewhere else, but I -persuaded him to stay here," Mary went on. "I didn't want to go to a -strange place. All I care about is here. I don't want to go away from -you, Mr. Robertson, I depend on you--" - -Hilary pushed back his chair sharply, then, controlling himself, folded -his arms tight across his breast. His back was to the light which fell -on Mary's face, raised toward him with a look of humility that perhaps -no one but he ever saw there. - -"You've taught me so much, and helped me to see.... Before I knew you, -I didn't know anything about life, how one should live.... You're so -strong, so good...." - -"_I_ am?... You know very little about it, Mary. Don't say that sort of -thing, please." - -"Oh, it's just because you don't think you are that you're so -wonderful--" - -Hilary looked into her eyes bright and liquid with feeling, and said to -himself that he must keep this faith, he must not disturb it by a look, -a word--or his hold on her would be gone. He said abruptly: - -"Your mother has talked to me. She thinks--as you say, she doesn't -trust--Captain Carlin. She thinks he is irreligious and unsteady--and -with a bad inheritance. She is troubled about you, she thinks you are -marrying just because you gave your word, years ago, and don't like to -break it.... Is it so, Mary?" - -In spite of himself, this question was a demand. Mary looked startled. - -"No, no, she doesn't understand. I love Laurence, and he is good, -though--though in some ways.... Nobody is perfect, you know, and we -shouldn't stop loving people just because they aren't altogether--what -we would like.... We ought to try to help them, I know you think so--" - -"You think you can help him, then?" - -"I hope so, I--" - -"Do you think you're strong enough to help another?" - -Mary's bright look wavered a little, was shadowed. - -"Aren't you too confident? Perhaps you have a little too much pride in -yourself. You may lose what you have instead of helping another." - -She bowed her head, turning pale under this reproof, wincing, but she -said humbly: - -"You will help me." - -"I'm not sure that I can," said Hilary sharply. "When you are married, -it will be different--you may not be able to do as you would like, live -as you would--" - -"But I must!" Mary got up, pale and agitated. "Laurence wouldn't -interfere with me in that way, he couldn't. Nothing could!" - -She went a step toward Hilary, and stopped, suddenly bewildered and -almost frightened by his look. And Hilary could bear no more. He turned -away from her, bent over his papers, and said harshly: - -"I must work now, I can't talk to you any longer.... Don't look for an -easy life, Mary, you won't have it." - -"But I don't!" she protested. - -With relief she seized upon his words, her eyes lit up again. - -"Why should I look for an easy life? I don't want it--I expect struggle -and suffering, isn't that what life is? You have told me so--" - -"Well, then, you won't be disappointed," cried Hilary almost savagely. -"If you _can_ suffer--I don't know whether you can or not...." - -He took up a pen and dipped it blindly in the ink, and waited for the -closing of the door. - -"You are against me too," said Mary blankly. - -He made an impatient movement, but did not look around at her. - -"You must not mind who is against you, as you call it, if you're sure -you are right. That's the hard thing, to be sure," he said in the same -harsh voice. - -He was struggling. Why not be honest with Mary, tell her that he could -not advise her, tell her why?... He thought she could not be so blind -as she seemed to his feeling for her.... But it would be dishonourable -to express that feeling, as she was not free. And it would shock her -faith in him. She depended on him, not as a man who loved her, but as a -sexless superior being, who could teach and lead her.... But he was not -that, he was quite helpless himself for the moment at least, certainly -he could not help her. Why pretend to be what he was not? - -He felt her bewilderment, her disappointment. He did not dare look -at her, still she lingered. What a child she was after all! Looking -for support, for approval, and yet so rigid in her own way, so sure -of herself! No, she never had suffered anything, and she was trying -to make of her religion an armour against life, that would keep her -from suffering. He mourned over her. She did not see anything as yet, -perhaps she never would, few women could. In his heart Hilary regarded -religion as the activity of a man, much as fighting. He was impatient -with the emotional religion of women; though he could hardly have -admitted it to himself, he had a tinge of the oriental feeling that -women have no souls of their own and that they can get into heaven -only by clinging to the garment of a man.... He would have said that -religion is too strenuous for women, they do not think, feel deeply -enough.... But it was his duty to help these weak sisters and manfully -he did it as best he could. They clung to his garment and he resisted -frequent impulses to twitch it out of their hands. In the case of -Mary he knew that she was as feminine as the worst of them. Only she -had more firmness, more clearness, there was some kind of strength in -her--and she did not chatter. - -Oh, how beautiful she was!... He sat, making aimless scrawls on his -paper, and feeling her there behind him, feeling her gaze fixed on him. -She was waiting for him to say something, what on earth could he say? -Should he say that his heart was breaking at the thought that in two -weeks she would belong to another man, and that he, Hilary Robertson, -was expected to stand up and perform the ceremony that would give her -to this man, and that he would not do it? - -He made a long dash across the paper, and rose, turned to her. - -"You must go now, Mary--I'm busy.... You did not come to me because -you're in doubt yourself as to what you ought to do, or want to do?" - -"No," faltered Mary. - -"Then, if you're sure of yourself, I have no advice to give you. If -not, make sure. Don't fear to inflict suffering--some one suffers, -whatever we do. We can't avoid that, we have to look beyond it." - -"Yes," breathed Mary devoutly, her eyes fixed on his face. - -"But we needn't go out to look for martyrdom either--we can trust life -for that," said Hilary bitterly. - -She went away, reluctantly, unsatisfied. She had wanted, expected, one -of those long talks, confidential yet impersonal, that had meant so -much to her during the year past. Never before had he treated her this -way, he had always had time for her, had shown an eager interest in -her difficulties. Her face was clouded as she walked slowly home. She -was bent on keeping this relation with her spiritual teacher just as -it had been. But now she wondered if her marriage was going to make a -difference, had already disturbed and troubled it. Why should that be? -It made no difference to her, why should it to him? - -She did not want to think that Hilary was a man like other men, she -refused to think of him in that way. No, he was better, higher, he -was above personal feelings--that was her idea of him. She knew that -he cared about her, but the image of the shepherd and his sheep, the -pastor and his flock, dwelt in her mind. If she was distinguished from -the rest of the flock by a special care, then it was the mystic love -of a soul for another soul, it had nothing to do with mere human love, -the desire for personal satisfaction, for caresses and companionship. -To see Hilary seeking such things would spoil completely her idea of -him. She saw him as a sort of saint, who denied the flesh. Did he not -live in the most uncomfortable way, eating hardly enough to keep body -and soul together, as the widow said, and working beyond his strength, -always pale and tired-looking? He was devoted to service. It was -impossible to think of him as taking thought for the morrow, for food -and raiment, or as married and having a family. - -She remembered how, when he had first come, the ladies of the -congregation had tried to make him comfortable--one had even worked -him a pair of slippers--and how he had brushed their ministrations -aside. He was subject to severe colds, but by now they had learned -not to offer any remedies, or even express solicitude. Mary never had -offended in that way. She liked his carelessness about himself, his -shabby clothes and frayed tie. She felt that probably he would work -himself to death, would go into a decline and die in a few years, but -she did not grieve over this prospect as the other sisters did. Truly -the earth had no hold on him, he was already like a spirit. - -She had been profoundly shocked by her father's suggestion that she -might marry Hilary--the more so as the idea had before occurred to her -that possibly Hilary thought of it. But she had rejected this idea, -with all her obstinacy refused to consider it. Now it came back to her, -but she denied it. She would not have her idol spoiled by any such feet -of clay. - -The fact that Hilary repulsed with irritation any attempts to idolize -him, or to regard him as a superior being, only affirmed her conviction -that he was one. As such he was precious to her, and as such she would -keep him. - - - - - X - - -Judge Baxter was happy. He decided at once that his house was not -fit for the reception of the fair bride, it must be made so. He took -Laurence with him to inspect the house from cellar to garret and -unfolded a scheme of complete renovation. - -"Women like things bright and cheerful," he said, beaming. "Gay colours -and lots of little fixings, instead of this--" and he looked round the -chocolate and maroon parlours. "I'll run up to Chicago tomorrow and -see what I can find. The wall-papers now--they'll have to be changed. -Some light colours--roses, that kind of thing. New carpets. And the -furniture--hasn't been touched since I bought the place. Time it was. -And we need a piano for Mary--" - -"Say, Judge, you mustn't buy out the town," protested Laurence. "We -don't want you to go to a lot of expense--" - -"Pshaw, pshaw! Don't interfere with me--guess I can do what I like in -my own house, can't I? If I want some new furniture, what have you -got to say about it? But I tell you, Laurence--suppose you come along -with me--you know better than I do what women like. Or look here! Why -shouldn't we take Miss Mary? _That's_ the thing!" - -He glowed with pleasure at this idea. - -"I tell you, we three will go up together, say tomorrow morning, and -we'll make a day of it, or better, a couple of days! We'll see the -town, have a good dinner, go to the theatre, and Mary can pick out the -stuff we want. I'll arrange at the office, and you go along and fix it -up with Mary and her people. Tell 'em I'll look after her, and if she -_don't_ come I'll buy everything in sight!" - -The Judge was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Not considering -this threat sufficient, he added a note of pathos. - -"Tell her I haven't had a vacation for a coon's age, and if she wants -to please an old fellow and give him a good time, she'll come. You're -both my guests and I'm going to enjoy myself. Damn it, man, you _fetch_ -her. If you don't I'll go after her myself!" - - * * * * * - -The Judge did enjoy himself. From the train he took a carriage -straight to the biggest furniture house on State Street, and there -he plunged into a fury of buying. Mary and Laurence stood by, but it -turned out that they had very little to say about it. When the Judge -found that Mary had no definite ideas about furniture and that she -demurred whenever any expensive article was in question, he over-rode -her bewildered protests and bought whatever struck his eye. He bought -a light carpet with red roses on it for the parlour, a set of shiny -mahogany upholstered in flowered brocade, a carved oak set for the -dining-room. He bought three cut-glass chandeliers and a grand piano; -marble vases, an onyx clock and a service of French china. - -It did not take long. He walked rapidly through the room, followed by -the salesmen, glancing round with an eagle eye and pointing with his -cane to what he wanted. Sometimes he asked Mary's opinion, but she -was shy about giving it, and provided a thing was bright enough and -costly enough, the Judge was sure she must like it. He discovered that -he himself had more taste than he had suspected; he knew a good article -from an inferior one in a minute, and he didn't buy any cheap stuff. -Everything was handsome. - -When they thought he was all through, he beckoned them and announced -that now things must be bought for _their_ part of the house, the big -rooms upstairs, and these Mary positively must select. But first they -would have lunch and take a drive. - - * * * * * - -The Judge took his party to the best hotel, engaged rooms and ordered -an elaborate luncheon, over which he was gay as a boy on a holiday. -Then, in an open carriage, they started out to see the city. - -They drove through miles of badly paved dusty streets, faced with -wooden buildings. The Judge admitted that it was not a beautiful -city--business couldn't be beautiful, except to the mind--but it -appealed to his imagination. - -Its history was romantic, going back into the dim past. Before the -whites came, this had been a meeting-place for the Indian tribes; and -later for voyageurs and traders. It had been French territory, then -English to the end of the Revolutionary War. Its Indian name meant -"wild onion"--a racy and flavoursome name, suggesting strength! - -"Think of it--twenty-five years ago this city had less than five -thousand inhabitants--now it has a quarter of a million! It's growing -like a weed!" - -They crossed the river which ran through the middle of the city, and -the Judge pointed to the thronged wharves where ten thousand vessels -arrived in a year and nearly as many cleared, bringing lumber, -carrying the yield of the prairie, wheat, corn, and oats. "Chicago -might yet have a direct European trade--a ship had sailed from there -to Liverpool, with wheat, and three European vessels had sailed to -Chicago...." - -Built on the flat prairie, on sand and swamp, almost on the level of -the lake, nearly the whole city had now been raised a grade of ten -feet; an entire business block being raised at one time! With such -an energetic and growing population, with its marvellous situation, -commanding the lake trade and with all the western territory to draw -from, the city had a great future. "Half the country will be tributary -to it," said the Judge with glowing eyes.... - -They drove out along the lake shore, a broad beach of sand and gravel, -back of which rolled low sand-dunes. It was a warm June day, and the -great inland sea lay calm and blue, with a slight mist on the horizon. -The water sparkled in the sun, a slight motion sent wavelets lapping on -the sand. No land could be seen across it, yet there was the feeling of -land out there just beyond the line of vision. The air that blew over -those miles of water was flat, it had an inland flavour. - -Here it was not the water that was boundless, but the land. The lake -was like a pond--the prairie was like the sea.... - - * * * * * - -Judge Baxter talked on enthusiastically about the future of the city, -the vast tide of trade that was bound to pass through this, the heart -of the country. Mary, beside him, listened smiling. Laurence, sitting -opposite, watching Mary, was preoccupied, hardly spoke at all. - -The drive lasted so long that there was no time for further shopping. -The Judge said they must dine early, so as to be in time for the -theatre. Mary went up to her room, to rest a little and to put on her -best dress and bonnet which she had brought carefully enveloped in -tissue paper, in a box. The dress was of grey silk, heavy and shining, -and the bonnet was white. When she was dressed, she stood looking at -herself in a long mirror for some time. The rich silk, hanging in full -folds, suited her tall stately figure. Inside the soft airy ruches -of the bonnet her bright hair rippled, each red-gold wave exactly in -order, making a clear crisp line like metal. Her cheeks were lightly -flushed, her grey eyes shining. She smiled reluctantly at herself -in the glass. Beauty, she knew, was a vain show, and vanity was a -weakness that she hoped was entirely beneath her. Still, one should -make a proper appearance, with due regard to decorum; should not appear -careless, nor above all eccentric. A lady should look like a lady. - -As she was drawing on her white gloves a knock sounded at the door. She -went to open it, there stood Laurence. - -"Let me come in a minute," he said. - -She was startled at his tone, his pale and agitated look. He left the -door ajar, with a quick motion he drew her away from it, sat down -on the bed, his arms round her waist as she stood before him too -astonished to speak. - -"Mary! Let us not go back there again till we are married! Marry me -now, here--tonight, or tomorrow!... Why wait any longer--and then all -the fuss about it.... Do, Mary--do this for me, please--" - -He looked up at her, pleading, demanding, his eyes gleaming intensely, -humble and imperious. - -"Sweetheart! Why shouldn't we?... The Judge will be a witness, it will -be all right, your parents won't mind very much, will they?... I hate -a show wedding anyhow, a lot of people round.... And I don't want to -wait any longer, Mary--I want it over and settled, and to be alone with -you.... We can stay here a few days.... Do, please, Mary--" - -He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds -of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently -that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not -notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves. - -"We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly. - -"No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly. - -"Yes, a letter!" - -She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her -as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set -her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that -absent gaze. - -"You will, Mary?" he breathed. - -She did not answer, hardly heard. - -She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult -time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who -even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face.... -Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a -cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr. -Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them--he had rebuffed her. -None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her.... - -They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother, -she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to -be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any -outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have -to go through it. Anyhow-- - -She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled -faintly. - -"What an idea!... It's time to go down now--" - -"Yes, but--tell me.... Tomorrow?" - -He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met -her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look. -He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild -impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by -it--it seemed reckless and adventurous to her--an elopement! - -"I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate -tenderness. - -She smiled mistily at him. - -At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted -on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring -gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at -the play--it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the -person going through this experience--it seemed to be happening to -somebody else. That glass of golden wine--never had Mary Lowell tasted -anything of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was -delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to -feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide -was taking her.... - - * * * * * - -The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night. - -"The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly. - -Laurence had an answer to all his objections. They would stop a few -days in the city, then they would go to Mary's parents for a time. The -Judge mustn't feel responsibility, nobody would blame him. They just -didn't want the fuss of a wedding at home. Mary would write to her -parents and it would be all right. In the end, the Judge was persuaded -that, if wrong-headed, it was a romantic thing to do, and entered into -it with spirit. But he had to have his part in it. A wedding-dinner, -in a private room, with an avalanche of flowers. A wedding-gift to the -young couple, a complete service of flat silver. And at the ceremony, -in the little parlour of a minister whom Laurence had taken at hazard, -the Judge, with paternal tears in his eyes, gave the bride away, and -kissed her fair cheek. - - - - - XI - - -Summer lay hot and heavy on the prairie. Grass and trees were at their -fullest, most intense green. They were full of sap, luxuriant--the -heat had not begun to crisp them. But it hung like a blanket over the -town. People sweltered and panted as they went about their business -in the streets, where the slow creaking watering-cart could not keep -down the dust. When dusk came they sat out on their porches, fanning -themselves and fighting mosquitos. It was not the custom to go away in -summer, nobody thought of it. Life went on just the same, only at a -more languid pace. In the yards facing the street roses were blooming -and drooping. - -At Judge Baxter's house all was long since in order. The outside had -been repainted a clear white with bright green blinds, kept shut now -all day against the heat, with the shutters open to admit any breath -of air. Inside the half-light softened the newness of everything, the -medley of bright colours which the Judge had got together. At night, -shaded lamps toned down the glitter. - -Mary was constantly about the house, keeping it immaculate--she was -slow, methodical and thorough. But with the Judge's housekeeper to do -the work in the hot kitchen, she felt that she was living in pampered -luxury. It was not what she had expected for the beginning of her -married life. Sometimes she vaguely regretted that things were not -harder, more strenuous for her. There were long hours that seemed -vacant, with all she could do. Laurence was working hard. Three times a -week he drove over to Elmville and spent the afternoon at the creamery. -The rest of the time he was busy at the Judge's office, he worked at -night too over his law-books or papers. He did not mind the heat, he -was in radiant health and spirits. - -There was not much social life in the town except for the boys and -girls. Older people were supposed to stay at home. Married women were -out of the game, they had their houses and children to attend to, and -for relaxation, the church or gossip with a neighbour. The men had -their business and an occasional visit to Chicago; they met in the bar -of the tavern or the barbershop, or at the lodge, if they were Masons. -There was no general meeting-place, no restaurant or park. Very seldom -did any citizen take a meal outside his own home. The Opera-house did -not often open. There were a few dances, for the youth; older people -did not go, even as chaperones, nor were they wanted at the straw-rides -or picnics, nor in the front parlours where the girls received their -beaux. Once married, a person retired into private life, so far as -amusement was concerned. Anything else would have been scandalous. - -Mary did not feel these restrictions. She was, if not wholly content, -at least for the moment satisfied; it was a pause. If not radiance, -there was some sort of subdued glow about her, something that softened -and lightened her look and manner. She was silent as ever, not more -expressive, even more slow. Sometimes alone, she would give way to a -dreamy languor. - -She never had been very social, and now she was less so. She saw few -people, paid few visits. Friends of her own age she had none--she had -always felt herself older than other girls. She went regularly to -church and kept up the activities connected with it, and so constantly -saw the minister. But here had come a distinct break; she had not -talked with him at any length, or except about church-matters, since -her marriage. She did not mean this break to be permanent; she knew -that some time she would want to talk to him again, but just now she -did not, and he did not seek her, even for an ordinary pastoral visit. - -Each day she went in to see her parents, five minutes' walk up the -street, or one of them came to see her. They were quite reconciled now, -though there had been sore scenes at first, after her return. Mrs. -Lowell had wept bitterly, and told Mary that she was a selfish girl, -who never thought of any one but herself, a bad daughter who didn't -care how much she hurt her mother and father. At this Mary had cried -too, not with sobs and gaspings, but just big slow tears rolling down -her cheeks, as she sat looking unutterably injured. When she spoke, in -answer to her mother's long complaint, it was only to say gently; - -"But Mother, you know you never pretended to like Laurence or my -marrying him, so why should I think you cared about the wedding? It -wasn't as if you'd been pleased, and liked it. Everybody could see you -didn't like it, so I thought the sooner it was over the better." - -"Who says I don't like Laurence?" Mrs. Lowell demanded hotly. "Don't -you see it was just the way to make the whole town believe it, running -off that way! A pretty position it puts me in, and your father--as if -you couldn't be married at home, like other girls! As if we would have -prevented you, if you were set on it! We would have given you as nice a -wedding as any girl ever had here--" - -Then another burst of tears, at the end of which they found themselves -in one another's arms. Endearments were rare between them, but it was -with great relief to both that they now kissed and made it up, for they -did love one another. From that time it was understood that Mrs. Lowell -was very fond of her son-in-law. Woe to the person who should dare say -a word to the contrary or against him! He was now fully received into -the family; his status was fixed for all time. The doctor had not made -any scene; had welcomed them both warmly, as if nothing had happened. -Indeed, Mary thought he was pleased. They had stayed for two weeks -there, till the Judge's house was ready; a satisfaction to Mrs. Lowell, -as effectually giving the lie to any report that there was trouble in -her family. And she had done her utmost, after the first day, to make -things pleasant. By the end of the visit, Laurence was calling her -"Mother," and paying her compliments; every one was in good humour, the -house gayer than it had ever been; and Mrs. Lowell was nearly in love -with the scion of Irish bog-trotters. - -So Mary had no more defending of Laurence to do. It was understood -that she was happy, that her husband was full of promise and -well-befriended, and that everybody was satisfied. - -The Judge insisted that Laurence must help exercise his horses, so -often, when work and the heat of the day were over, Laurence drove -the trotters out over the prairie, with Mary in the buggy beside him. -He handled the spirited horses with ease, and she felt perfectly safe -with him. He would talk to her at length of his day's doings, of -anything that came into his head, and she listened, not saying much. -Sometimes he wanted her to talk, and she found she had nothing to say. -Her inexpressiveness often bothered him, sometimes made him angry. He -needed response and was impatient if he didn't get it, in all things. - -He was ardent and tumultuous in his love, constantly wanting expression -of love from her. He was demanding, impetuous, imperious in his -desire. He could not have patience, he could not woo any longer, he -must possess--all, to the uttermost, without reserve. His experience -of women had not taught him to understand a nature like hers--less -emotional than his own, really more sensual. His whole idea of women in -general, of Mary in particular was opposed to this understanding--he -would have reversed the judgment, and so would Mary. He thought Mary -cold to love, and her coldness often made him brusque and overbearing. - -Yet he was very happy. He loved to be with her, to talk to her even -when she did not answer, to look at her. He was proud of her beauty; -liked to drive with her through the town or to walk with her on his -arm; liked the admiring glances that followed her. He held his head -high; consciousness of power, confidence in himself and his destiny, -were strong in him. He felt that he could control the forces about him, -as his powerful wrists controlled the horses, and drive them at his -will, along the road he chose. - -Several times a week he saw Nora, the companion of his childhood, for -she was working now in the creamery at Elmville. He had not met her -that Sunday on the river road, for then he was in Chicago with Mary, -and had forgotten all about Nora. But he had remembered her afterwards, -and as she had lost her place in the store because she was not quick -at figures, he had found a place for her at the creamery. He meant to -look out for poor little Nora, had a desire to be kind to her. He had -a quick sympathy for the weak and helpless, always; he was full of -generous impulses, would kindle at any tale of distress or injustice -and was ready to help. Part of his feeling for "the under dog" came -by nature; part perhaps from his own circumstances in the years of -sensitive youth. - -A deep mark had been left upon him by these early hardships--he hated -and feared poverty. He was ambitious in a worldly and social way, he -wanted to count among men, he wanted power; and he was determined to -be rich. His power was to be beneficent, his riches were to benefit -others. Though he liked display and luxury, he liked better the feeling -that he could be a mainstay and rock of refuge to those weaker than -himself. He would be great, powerful, and generous. - -These ambitions and dreams came out clearly as he talked to Mary. But -she did not echo them, only listened gravely. She did not sympathize -with Laurence's desire for worldly things, and she knew he would not -sympathize with her indifference to them. When she expressed anything -of the kind he would say with irritation that she knew nothing of the -world and had better get some experience before she despised it. So -after a few attempts, she gave up trying to talk to him about it. The -time hadn't come, she felt, Laurence's spiritual eyes were not opened, -he was bound to earthly vanities. Perhaps he would have to experience -these things before he could despise them, see their nothingness. But -_she_ needn't, she felt serenely that no experience would change her -point of view. She loved Laurence, but she nourished in her heart -an ideal to which he did not correspond. A militant saint--that was -her ideal. Not a man struggling for the goods of this world, but one -who could put his feet upon them and whose vision was far beyond. A -look of infinite remoteness would come into her eyes sometimes and -she would fall into abstraction; and Laurence, when this happened in -his presence, would resent it instinctively and drag her out of it by -making love to her or quarrelling with her, or both at once. - -But they had many happy hours together in the long drowsy twilights, -many times of troubled exquisite sweetness in the dusk or the dark of -still summer nights. Their youthful tenderness was stronger than any -division of feeling; a deep unconscious bond was forming between them. - - * * * * * - -Sometimes in the evenings, the heat and mosquitos would drive them -indoors. Then in the dim light Mary would sit down at the piano. She -did not play very well, her fingers were strong rather than skilful, -but she sang old ballads in her husky contralto, for Laurence and Judge -Baxter. - -The Judge had a sentimental passion for these songs, and as he sat and -listened, pulling slowly at his cigar, he was happy, he had a feeling -of home. His bare bachelor existence had been cushioned, or he would -have said, glorified by the tender touch of a woman. He had a chivalric -affection for Mary, he admired her intensely. He and Laurence would sit -with their eyes fixed upon her as she sang, on the clear outline of her -cheek, her thick knot of burnished hair, her young figure, strong and -stately, in the light flowing gown of white muslin. She sang "Ye banks -and braes of bonnie Doon," and "Oh, tell me if all those endearing -young charms," and other old-world songs. The two men listened raptly, -the glowing tips of their cigars gathering thick cones of ashes. In -the intervals of the song, a chorus of night-insects could be heard -outside, shrilling in the grass and heavy-leaved trees. Or sometimes -the low rumbling of thunder heralded an approaching storm. - - - - - XII - - -On an August afternoon, Mary walked languidly up the street to her -father's house. She was bare-headed, dressed in a plain white muslin, -and carried a small parasol, though the sun was hidden in a thick haze. -It was about four o'clock. All day the heat had been intense, the air -was thick, motionless, stifling. The greyish haze hung low and heavy, -and darkened steadily. - -It was as though all the heat of the summer, of all the long monotonous -summer days, had been gathered up, concentrated in that one day; as if -it hung there between the baked earth and the thick blanket of cloud -sinking lower and lower, pressing down. - -There was no feeling of space. The prairie was stagnant, -torpid--nothing stirred on it, except the small ant-like motions of -men. The horizons of the vast plain had disappeared.... - -Day follows day, each with its little occupations, orderly, monotonous, -peaceful. Some little corner of the world seems a safe place to live -in--shut in upon itself, shut out from disturbance--perhaps too safe. -Life may grow dull and languid, sometimes, even when new pulses are -stirring in it, grow faint. Long summer days, one like another, each -with its weight of humid heat, pile up a burden.... - -Vast unbroken spaces are dangerous. Beyond that curtain of sullen -mist, who knows what is brewing? Unknown forces, long gathering and -brooding, strike suddenly out of darkness. That infinite monotony of -the prairie breeds violence--long suppressed, breaking at last.... - -Mary found her mother sitting on the porch, gasping, fanning herself -with a palm-leaf. - -"What a day--the worst yet," moaned Mrs. Lowell. "Have a glass of -lemonade, Mary? I made some for your father. It's on the dining-room -table." - -"Where is Father?" - -Mary dropped into the hammock, panting. - -"He hasn't come back yet. I wish he'd come. There's going to be a -storm." - -Mary lay against the cushion, her lips parted, breathing heavily. - -"How pale you are! What ails you, child?" Mrs. Lowell asked with alarm. - -"Nothing--the heat--" - -"Don't you want the lemonade? I'll get it for you--" - -"No, no--I'll go in a minute--" - -But Mrs. Lowell rose with an effort, and went in. When she brought the -lemonade, Mary sat up with a faint murmur of thanks, and drank it. Mrs. -Lowell stood looking at her with watchful tenderness. - -"There isn't anything the matter, is there? You ought to be careful, -this hot weather, and not overdo, Mary." - -"No, it isn't anything--" - -Mrs. Lowell took the empty glass and went back to her chair. - -"Laurence is over at Elmville," said Mary languidly. "I'm afraid he'll -get caught in the storm. How dark it's getting." - -She looked out at the low cloud that thickened momently and that now -was clotting into black masses against a greenish grey. The rattle of -the doctor's old buggy was heard approaching; he drove rapidly in past -the house. His horse was sweating heavily and flecked with foam. They -caught a glimpse of his pale face as he passed. - -"Thank goodness," murmured Mrs. Lowell. "Perhaps we'd better go in." - -But she remained, gazing at the clouds. A few people went by, more -hurriedly than usual. It was almost dark now, a strange twilight. Mary -left the hammock and came to look up at the sky. Up there were masses -of cloud in tumult, but down below not a breath of air stirred. - -"How queer it looks--I wish Laurence was home. He starts about this -time," she said uneasily. - -"Oh, he'll wait till it's over.... I wonder why your father doesn't -come in...." - -Mary turned and entered the house, but the doctor was not there, and -she went on out into the garden. At the door of the stable she saw the -horse hitched, he had not been unharnessed. Dr. Lowell stood there, -looking up. She went quickly along the path to him. - -"Say, Mary, this looks mighty queer. We're going to have a big wind," -he called to her. "You better go in." - -"Well, why don't _you_ come in? Aren't you going to unhitch?" - -"I suppose so," he said with a worried glance. "Satan acted like the -very deuce on the way home--" - -He looked at the wooden stable doubtfully. - -"I suppose I'll have to put him in there. I don't know but we're going -to get a twister." - -He unbuckled the tugs and pushed the buggy into the stable, and then, -holding the sweating, stamping horse firmly by the halter, led him in, -but did not take off the harness. He shut the stable-door and joined -Mary, gazing up at the boiling black clouds, which cast greenish -gleams. He looked around at his garden, kept fresh and full of blossom -by his labours. The yellow of late summer had begun to shoot through -its green, but it was still lovely, tall phlox blooming luxuriantly, -and many-coloured asters. In the sick light, the foliage and flowers -looked metallic, not a leaf moved. The doctor took Mary by the arm and -they went in. Mrs. Lowell was shutting all the windows. It was hot as a -furnace in the house. The cellar-door stood open. - -"It's cooler down there," suggested Mrs. Lowell in a trembling voice. - -"Well, we may have to," the doctor responded calmly, helping himself to -lemonade. - -Mary hurried to look out of the front windows. The passers-by were -running now, teams went by at a gallop. Then it was as if a great -sighing breath passed over, the trees waved and tossed their leaves, -and then--the wind struck. - -In an instant the air was full of tumult, of flying dust, leaves, -branches, and darkened to night, with a roar like the sea in storm. All -was blurred outside the windows, the house shook and seemed to shift on -its foundations, blinds tore loose and crashed like gun-fire. - -Mary felt a grasp on her arm, and saw her mother's face, white and -scared. Mrs. Lowell tried to drag her away, shouted something. But she -wrenched her arm loose, turned and ran upstairs. From the second-story -windows she could see nothing but a wild whirl, the trees bent down -and streaming, dim shapes in the visible darkness driving past. There -was still another stair, narrow and steep, to the attic. She climbed -up there. From the small window in the eaves she could see over the -tree-tops. The house shook and trembled under her, the roar of the wind -seemed to burst through the walls, but she crouched by the low window, -heedless. She started at a touch on her shoulder, her father was there -beside her. She made room for him at the window, and pointed out, -turning to him a white face of terror. - -The fury of the wind was lessening, the darkness was lifting. The outer -fringe of the storm-cloud had swept them--but out there on the prairie, -miles away, they could see now-- - -There it was, a murky green and black boiling centre in the sky, and -shooting down from it, trailing over the earth, something like a long -twisting finger-- - -An instant's vision of it. Then there came a deluge of rain, beating on -the sloping roof. Through the streaming window nothing could be seen. -The doctor raised Mary and led her down the stair, she clung to him -without a word. On the second floor they found Mrs. Lowell, about to -mount in search of them, trembling with fright. - - * * * * * - -"It's all over, Mother," shouted the doctor through the drumming of the -rain. "We only got the edge of it." - -They went down to the lower floor. Now it was perceptibly lighter. The -cloud fringe sweeping like a huge broom was passing as swiftly as it -had come. The rain lessened in force, the grey outside brightened. The -doctor and his wife looked at one another, and both looked at Mary, who -stood beside a window staring out. - -"Now, Mother," said Dr. Lowell briskly, "you get me a sandwich or -something, I've got to start out. Mary! help your mother, will you? You -might as well fill up a basket, as quick as you can--put in anything -you've got, in five minutes--don't know how long I may be--" - -He was already fastening his rubber coat, his old hat jammed down -on his head. Mary followed her mother, blindly obeying her quick -directions in the kitchen. The basket was packed by the time the doctor -came out with his medicine-chest and a big roll of surgical dressings. - -"Where you going?" Mrs. Lowell then demanded. - -"There'll be some damage where that thing struck," said the doctor -cheerfully. "I'm going over there. Don't you sit up for me, I may be -all night. You better keep Mary here, till Laurence comes for her." - -But Mary was putting on an old cloak of her mother's that hung in the -entry. - -"I'm going with you. Laurence is over there," she said. - -Mrs. Lowell started to protest, but looking at Mary's face, stopped, -and went to get a scarf to tie over her hair. The doctor said nothing, -but went to hitch up his horse and put a feed of grain into the back of -the buggy. They started. Satan indicated his displeasure at the turn -of things by rearing up in the shafts and then trying to kick the -dashboard in; but the doctor gave him the whip and he decided to go. - - * * * * * - -The road was mud-puddles, ruts and gullies, and strewn with branches, -sometime great boughs or fence-rails lay across it. Other people were -on the way now. Satan passed everything going in their direction. -Salutations and comments were shouted at the doctor. Then they began to -meet people coming the other way; the doctor did not stop to talk, but -a man called to him that Elmville had been wiped out by the cyclone. - -Two miles on they came to a cluster of houses where a crowd had -gathered, most of them refugees who had fled before the storm. Two -houses here had been un-roofed, sheds blown away, and the place was -littered with splinters, but nobody was seriously hurt. From there on -they met a stream of people, nearly all the population of Elmville, -including the people from the creamery who had escaped into the prairie -laden with whatever goods they could carry. Then they reached the last -buildings left standing by the storm--a farmhouse and barns, by some -freak of the wind untouched, a mile from Elmville. These were crowded -with people from the town, mostly women and children, and a few men, -some of them injured. The doctor pulled up his horse and shouted an -inquiry for Laurence. Oh, Captain Carlin was all right, he had been -there when the storm struck, had started home but decided he couldn't -make it and stopped there--he had driven back now to see what he could -do, and most of the men had gone after him. Wouldn't the doctor come -in? One of the men had a broken leg and there was a woman with her -head hurt by a flying brick, they thought she would die. The doctor -hesitated. Mary said: - -"You stay, Father, I'll drive on and find Laurence." - -"You drive Satan! You couldn't hold him a minute!" - -"I'll drive him." - -He looked at her, realized that she was quite irrational, called out -that he would come back, and drove on. - -The storm had come at an angle to the road, so the wreckage of the town -had blown the other way, but where its buildings had stood, with the -tall brick factory in their midst, the skyline was now absolutely empty. - -They came on Laurence's horse, tied to a fallen tree, and then Laurence -himself came running toward them, out of a group of men who were -lifting timbers. Mary was out of the buggy and in his arms in a moment, -sobbing on his shoulder, clinging to him wildly, the rain falling on -her bare head. She hid her face against his wet coat, not to see the -desolation around her. But then after a little she raised her head and -looked over his shoulder, her eyes full of the terror of death that had -passed so near, that had threatened to strike to her heart.... - -A rubbish-heap, in which men were frantically digging for the wounded -and dead, was all that was left of the town. A heap of splintered -boards and bricks, with pitiful odds and ends of household furniture -mixed in. Not a wall was standing, not one brick left on another, all -was levelled to the earth. - -The wind had roared away across the prairie and there, somewhere in -the midst of vast spaces, it would vanish. Over beyond, now, near the -horizon, a rift had opened in the grey clouds, and through it was -visible a long belt of blue sky--serene, limpid, smiling. - - - - - PART TWO - - - - - I - - -Carlin walked with a quick firm step across the square from the -courthouse to his office in the bank building. His usually ruddy face -was pale, his eyes gleamed with excitement under the brim of his soft -felt hat. He made his way through the crowd that filled the street -before the jail without halting, shaking off impatiently some attempts -to stop him, nodding or shaking his head for all answer to questions -shouted at him. - -It was a bright spring day. For the second time since his marriage the -maples round the square were putting out their brilliant young leaves. -But there was no brightness in the throng under the maples. A sombre -excitement moved them, a low-toned angry murmur followed Carlin's -progress. It was hardly personal to him, however, or only faintly, -doubtfully so. He was recognized respectfully, and responded with curt -nods, or sometimes a quick lifting of his hand, like a military salute. - -He ran up the steps into his own office, and through this to Judge -Baxter's, entering with a quick rap on the glass, closing the door -sharply behind him. The Judge was alone, writing at his desk, and -looked round rather absently, pushing his spectacles up on his -forehead. Carlin flung his hat on the rickety sofa in the corner and -standing by the desk, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, frowning, -he said firmly: - -"Judge, we must take this case." - -The Judge looked at him now with attention, but without answering. -Resistance showed in his face, but he put out his lower lip and -thoughtfully shifted his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other. - -"He sent for me and I was admitted to see him, as his counsel," -Laurence went on in the same quick urgent tone. "And then--we must do -it, that's all." - -The Judge looked at the sheet of paper before him, half-filled with his -crabbed painstaking writing, laid down his pen, and leaned back in his -chair. - -"Why?" he demanded coolly. - -"My God, Judge!" Carlin burst out. - -With an effort to master himself, he turned away and walked several -times across the floor. - -"If you'd seen the man--if you'd heard him!... I'm all smashed up by -it," he confessed huskily, stopping and staring out of the window. - -"I see you are," said the Judge. "Have a drink?" - -Carlin shook his head. But the Judge, opening a cupboard in his desk, -took out a bottle and one glass, poured a stiff allowance of whiskey -and tossed it off neat. - -"I'm glad you don't drink much, Laurence," he remarked as he put away -the glass. "With your excitable temperament you couldn't stand it." - -As Carlin stood silent, staring out, the Judge addressed his back. - -"I don't like murder cases--never did. Never could do anything with -'em. My clients were hanged, every time--that was long ago.... I -haven't touched a criminal case for--well, years. I'm no jury lawyer. -We don't want to go into that, Laurence ... and then, the fellow's a -brute." - -"No--no!... Wait until I tell you about it...." - -Laurence turned round. His tone was calmer but he still looked deeply -agitated, and began to pace the floor again. - -"Well, take your time.... But I can't see what it is to you," said -Judge Baxter curiously. - -His genial shrewd old face expressed a somewhat cynical perplexity. -If he had ever been deeply moved by human passion and folly, he had -forgotten it--for many years it had been only a spectacle to him. All -crimes spring from love, so-called, or money. One of these two great -mainsprings the Judge understood thoroughly. He knew all about human -cupidity. He had made his own fortune out of the desire of some of his -fellow-beings to over-reach others, and this golden fountain would -never run dry. The Judge had all the law of property at his fingers' -ends. His ability to help a corporation to use the law was abundantly -recognized and recompensed. He was a noted railroad counsel. Why turn -aside from this safe and profitable concern with people's purses, to -meddle with the wild impulses of their hearts, so-called? - -"You say you don't see what it is to me," Carlin began, turning -abruptly. "But I know the man, if you remember. He was in my -company--one of the best in it too--I knew him well--that's why he -thought of me, I suppose.... But even if I hadn't known him, if I'd -seen any man as he was this morning, if any man talked to me as he -did.... I never heard anything like it--I never saw anything so -friendless, forlorn.... He's like a lost beaten dog--there isn't a -soul in the world that isn't against him...." - -"Well, that's right, I guess," said the Judge cautiously. "He's worse -than friendless." He turned his head toward the window, giving ear to -the noise from the street--a low continuous murmur. "That crowd means -trouble.... When do they take him out?" - -"By the afternoon train. The Sheriff thinks he can do it--he's got -thirty deputies sworn in." - -"I've never seen a lynching here," said the Judge, getting up and going -to the window. "But--we came pretty near it once or twice during the -war. It looked a good deal like this, too.... You see, our people don't -make an awful lot of noise about a thing--when they mean business, -they're quiet." - -The two men stood side by side, looking down on the square, which was -by now closely packed. - -"Well, I guess we'll get him out just the same," said Carlin grimly. - -"'We'?" - -"They won't get him if I can help it.... But I'd like to know why they -_want_ to--don't understand a mob getting up like this about it--" - -"It runs like wildfire, once it starts.... Perhaps the boys want some -excitement, we haven't had much lately. And then," said the Judge -emphatically, "they don't _like_ it. It was an unprovoked brutal murder -of a woman--a good hardworking woman, with little children to look -after--and this fellow comes back, takes to drinking, quarrels with his -wife and smashes her head with an ax--by God, if they want to string -him up, I don't blame them!" - -"Look here, Judge, you're just like the rest of them, you don't -understand, you don't know! A man doesn't smash his wife with an ax for -_nothing_--" - -"If you're going to try to justify him--" - -"No, he doesn't want that, neither do I. He's a lost man and he -knows it.... All he seemed to want of me was to have one human being -understand it--just to tell me about it. He doesn't want to get off, he -wants to die." - -Carlin's intense blue eyes held the Judge's unwilling gaze; they both -forgot the crowd outside, turned from the window. The Judge sat down -again at his desk. - -"Well, tell me about it," he said reluctantly. "But I'm sorry to see -you so worked up.... I really don't see how we could handle a case -like this, even if we had a chance to do anything with it. I tell you -it isn't the thing, it's all off my beat--you know it. And you're -just getting your start, and to handicap yourself right off with an -unpopular case where you haven't the ghost of a show, where feeling's -dead against you--no, Laurence, my boy, I oughtn't to let you--we can't -do it!" - -Laurence drew a chair to the other side of the desk, facing the Judge. - -"If _we_ can't, I'll try it alone," he said quietly. "All I want for -Barclay is a hearing--just to have his side of it known, that's all. -He'll have to pay the penalty, of course--he'll get life imprisonment -at least and I'm not sure he wouldn't rather be hanged, in fact I'm -sure he would, _now_.... But he did have provocation--if you could get -anybody to see it." - -"Well, see if you can get me to see it. I guess that's a good test," -said the Judge coolly. "I'm as prejudiced against him as anybody. I -wouldn't lynch him, maybe--but I don't want you to lose your first -important case." - -He leaned back in his chair and fixed his old, wise, wary eyes on -Carlin, who, quite calm now, had an abstracted look. - -"Well, to begin I'd have to tell you what I knew about Barclay before -this.... He was in the first company to go from here--enlisted for -three months, you know. Just dropped his tools and went--he was a -machinist, making good wages, had a nice little home here, wife and two -children. They were dependent on him, but the wife was sturdy and said -she guessed they could get along somehow--and they did. She got work -and people helped them, and she kept up the home. Barclay was awfully -proud of her and the youngsters--another one was born after he went. -He used to show me their pictures and talk about them. He was good at -machinery--it was the only thing he _did_ know--he was a gunner in my -battery later and a good one. Strong as a horse and he'd fight like -the devil when things got hot. A big fellow, good-natured too and kind -of simple-minded--soft, you might say, except when he was fighting or -drunk. He didn't seem to have but two ideas in his head--one was the -war and the other was his family. He re-enlisted, of course, and went -through the whole thing, but he was homesick all the time. He used -to write home whenever he could, and when he didn't get letters as -often as he thought he ought to, he'd come to me and worry, and ask if -I'd heard and so on.... I'm telling you this, Judge," Carlin looked -earnestly at the Judge's impassive face, "so you can understand what -sort of a man he was and what his home meant to him--just everything, -outside of what he was fighting for. That man made a real sacrifice, -because he thought it his duty. He felt it all the time, but he thought -the country needed him, and he had to do it, and he had a pride in it -too--he didn't look for any reward, but I suppose he thought what he -did would be appreciated somehow--anyhow he didn't expect to lose out -altogether by it...." - -Carlin stopped for a moment, frowning till his eyes showed only a blue -glint. - -"Lots of us that went were remembered," he said slowly, "and some--were -forgotten." - -He picked up a pencil and began scoring deep lines on a sheet of paper. - -"Four years is a good slice out of a man's life. He loses a lot--in -his life, his work--other men get the start of him--he's far away, and -perhaps will never come back, and they're _here_.... When a man gives -that much, and risks everything, in what seems a holy cause to him, it -seems as if--it seems as if--" - -His voice trembled. The Judge was watching him now intently. He got up -and began to walk the floor again. - -"You see, Judge, that's natural--to want to have some recognition of -what you've done. And I know a lot of our fellows felt that the people -at home _didn't_ recognize it. They made a lot of fuss about us when we -went away, but when we came back--those of us that did come back--they -didn't get excited much about us. - -"They were busy--they'd been living their lives in peace while we were -fighting and protecting them--_we_ stood between them and the enemy and -most of them never felt what war is. They might know about it, but they -didn't _feel_ it, we saved them from that.... Then when we came back, -sometimes they were glad to see us, sometimes not. Anyhow, we had to -scramble around and see what we could do, to make a living, to get back -the place we'd lost. Lots of us found it hard. It wasn't only the time -lost, but those four years of war made a difference in us, sometimes -for the better, sometimes for the worse...." - -"Surely," said Judge Baxter, nodding. - -"You see, Judge, it upsets all a man's habits and way of living. You -can't make a good soldier of a man without loosening up some things in -him that are usually kept down. He faces violent death every day, and -he _kills_. It's a primitive thing, war is, and men get back to where -they were. They suffer and they try to make the other fellow suffer -more, they get callous, savage, lots of them. Then when they come back -to civilized life, it's hard for them to fit in. I wonder there wasn't -more trouble than there was, I wonder that that great army, nearly a -million men, melted away as quietly as it did.... Judge, it was a great -thing that we did--" - -Carlin stopped and fixed his eyes on the Judge, who nodded gravely. - -"We felt it so at the time, at least very many of us did, and looking -back, we can see how big a thing it was. We fought the good fight, we -crushed something evil, that would have destroyed our country. Every -man in our army has a right to be proud of it, proud of himself, if he -did his best ... he has a right to be remembered...." - -"Yes, surely," said Judge Baxter, with the same grave intentness, his -keen eyes watching Carlin's every look and motion. - -There was a brief silence. - -"Well," said Carlin, drawing a deep breath. "Barclay was forgotten.... -The last year, letters were scarce. We were on the jump and then we -went down into Georgia.... I don't know just what happened here. He -doesn't make any accusation against his wife, though it seems there -was somebody else she liked. But she'd settled her life without him. -She could support the family and she'd got used to doing without him. -Perhaps she never cared so much for him as he thought. But yet if -he'd been here, probably it would have gone along all right. But he -wasn't, you see.... And she heard things about him too. He was in the -guardhouse a few times for drinking, and somebody else would mention it -in writing home.... All that came out after he got back." - -Carlin was still walking about restlessly under the Judge's watchful -gaze. - -"When he got back he found he wasn't wanted--that's all. His wife could -do without him, and preferred to. His children were little--they'd -forgotten him. There was a baby he'd never seen. He felt like a -stranger in the house. And she made him feel it! At first he couldn't -realize it, and tried to have it all as it was before--but it was no -use. She didn't want him there.... Well, I suppose you can't see what -that meant to him--" - -"Yes, I can," said the Judge. - -"It was all he had, you know. And she'd taken it away from him--the -children and all. He could see that if he'd never come back, if he'd -been killed, she would have married this other man, and never missed -him. He saw that she wished he hadn't come back. In fact--she told him -so, after they got to quarrelling...." - -"That was pretty bad," muttered the Judge. - -"And he still loved her, you see. Otherwise he'd have gone away again. -But he wanted her and the children. So he took to drinking--" - -"Why, naturally." - -"He took to drinking hard and didn't work--couldn't. And he made the -house miserable, of course. They quarrelled terribly, he beat her.... -She reproached him for being a useless drunken loafer, spoiling her -life and the children's--then she told him she wished he'd died.... It -was after that...." - -Carlin was silent. The Judge nodded his white head and said abruptly: -"Yes, the poor simpleton--lost his head." - -"He doesn't remember how it happened--he was drunk. But he doesn't -deny it--can't, of course," said Carlin in a low voice. "He said to me -that he could hardly believe it ... he'd always loved her ... he said -it didn't seem possible he could have hurt her ... he thought he must -have been crazy ... he wished he had been killed down south, then it -wouldn't have happened and she would have been happy, and the children -taken care of, while now.... And then he cried...." - -Carlin's voice broke, and he turned away to the window. The Judge's -eyes followed him eagerly, dwelt on his bent head, his bowed shoulders -for some moments. - -"The poor fool," he said, taking off his spectacles and looking at them -critically. - -"Judge, it was an awful thing to see--that big fellow, all crumpled up -like a wet rag--broken, crushed--helpless as a baby,--not a soul to -put out a hand to him--and he was sinking, lost--lost forever.... And -a good man too, that's the mystery ... why, Judge, anybody might have -acted that way--_might_ have ... if people could only see that, feel -it...." - -The Judge had polished his spectacles to a nicety and now put them on -and stood up. - -"Well, Laurence, I guess you can make them feel it--I guess you can, my -boy!" he burst out. - -His broad face lighted up with enthusiasm, with professional ardour. - -"Laurence, you were right and I was wrong. If you feel the thing as -much as this, it's a chance for you. Nothing counts so much with a -jury as feeling--real feeling--and you've got it. We'll take that case -and you shall make the address--I'm not a jury lawyer myself, but I -know one when I see him! You won't save your man, Laurence, but many a -reputation has been made in a lost cause!" - -And the Judge, advancing, took Carlin's hand and shook it warmly. -Carlin looked at him with troubled, bewildered eyes, and the Judge -clapped him on the shoulder briskly. - -"Laurence, my boy, I knew you had it in you!" he cried. - -"I'm not taking this case to distinguish myself," Carlin said angrily. - -"No, no, of course not--that makes it all the better!" the Judge -assured him, with the utmost cheerfulness. - -But suddenly he became grave again and pondered. - -"If the boys try anything it will be when they take him to the train," -he reflected. - -"I'm going home now to get a bite of dinner--then I'll be on hand if -there's trouble. You coming, Judge?" Carlin took up his hat. - -"I've got a letter to finish--then I'll be along. But, say, Laurence--" - -The Judge stopped on the way to his desk. - -"Mary--she won't like this." - -Laurence was at the door, and turned a disturbed look on the Judge. - -"No, she won't. She liked Mrs. Barclay." - -"She won't like our defending him." - -"I'll explain--there's a lot she doesn't know--I'll tell her and she'll -understand." Carlin's tone had not much conviction. - -"Well, perhaps," said the Judge dubiously. - - - - - II - - -In Carlin's household there were now two children. The family still -lived at the Judge's house; he had resisted firmly their attempts -to leave him. He had turned over the whole house to them, reserving -only two rooms on the ground floor for himself, and by now he had -established himself as a member of the family. There was no more -thought of breaking up the arrangement. - -Carlin reached the house a little before the dinner hour. He found his -eldest son carefully penned up on the porch, exercising his fat legs -by rushes from side to side of his enclosure. In a chair beside the -pen sat Mary, with the new baby at her breast. In spite of his hurry -and preoccupation, Carlin smiled with pleasure at the group, stopped -to hold out a finger to the tottering golden-haired boy, bent to kiss -Mary, looking tenderly at her and the small blonde head against her -bosom. The baby was but three weeks old. Mary had still about her the -soft freshness and radiance of new motherhood. She was pale, her tall -figure had not yet regained its firm lines, but her beauty was at its -best. She had borne her children easily and happily. The fuller oval -of her face, her soft heavy-lidded eyes and the new tenderness of her -mouth, expressed the quiet joy of fulfilment, satisfaction. - -"I must hurry back--can I have a bite to eat now?" Carlin asked softly, -touching the baby's tiny hand outspread on Mary's breast. - -"Dinner's nearly ready--I'll see. He's asleep." - -"He's always asleep, when he isn't eating, and sometimes then," -commented Carlin, smiling. - -"So he ought to be," said Mary calmly. - -She rose with caution, and carried the baby indoors, the frills of her -muslin robe billowing about her. Both parents smiled as a wail from the -deserted first-born followed them. They had a robust attitude toward -the young James, and he was used to solitary communing with himself in -his pen, but didn't like it. Mary carried the baby into the Judge's -bedroom and laid him on the bachelor's bed. The Judge liked to have his -room used in this way; it delighted him to find articles of infant's -attire, or toys belonging to young James, in his quarters. He often -said that he was getting all the feeling of being a family man without -any of the bother. - -Mary went into the kitchen to hurry the stolid Swedish cook, and Carlin -ran lightly upstairs. When Mary came up to arrange her hair and dress, -a moment later, she found him loading his army revolver, which he -persisted in keeping in his top bureau drawer among his neckties. - -"What's that for?" she asked quickly. - -Carlin looked at her with concern, wishing to break the matter gently -to her, for it had been deeply impressed upon him that to disturb Mary -was to disturb the baby also, and that any interference with her sacred -function was a crime--sacrilege, in fact. He hesitated. - -"I know--it's that Barclay!... But what are you going to do?" - -"Why--there may be some trouble getting him out of town--" - -"Yes, I heard about it. But why do you--" - -"Well, I'm sworn in as a deputy to defend him, if--" - -"Laurence!" - -"Yes, defend him--he's going to have a fair trial, if I--and look here, -Mary, I might as well tell you, the Judge and I are going to defend him -at the trial." - -Paler than before, she laid down her comb and gazed at him. He finished -loading the revolver and slipped a box of cartridges into his pocket. - -"Defend that man? I don't believe you mean it, Laurence, the Judge -wouldn't." - -"Yes, he would. You ask him.... I haven't time to tell you all about it -now, Mary, I must eat and run. Come downstairs." - -Not having succeeded in breaking it gently, Carlin took the opposite -tack and spoke with curt military command. In silence Mary turned -to the glass, fastened her dress and smoothed her hair carefully. -In no circumstances would she be sloppy. She descended the stairs -after Carlin, they sat down at the table in the dining-room, and the -awkward Swedish girl brought in the dinner. Mary silently filled -Carlin's plate. He began to speak, but just then the Judge arrived, -winded from a rapid walk and looking worried. He greeted Mary rather -apologetically, as he tucked his napkin under his beard. - -"Laurence tell you?" he panted. "Now don't get mad, Mary--seems as if -we'd have to do it. Explain to you later." - -Mary lifted her chin haughtily as she gave the Judge his plate. - -"I'm not 'mad'--but I certainly don't understand why you and Laurence -want to defend a brute like that man. When I think of poor Sarah -Barclay, working and slaving away, and those poor little children--I -can't see how you can do it!" - -She looked indignantly at her husband, who was eating in haste and left -the Judge to reply. - -"Now, Mary, you don't understand--don't know _his_ side of it--" - -"_His_ side of it--a drunken worthless brute--Judge, I wonder at you, -defending murder!" - -"No, not murder--no, I don't defend murder, certainly not--" - -"You've just said you would! The murder of a helpless woman, with -little children depending on her!" - -Mary's grey eyes blazed with anger, and the Judge, cowed, continued to -splutter excuses with his mouth full. - -"Now, Mary! I tell you I don't defend what he did! But he did have -something on his side, she didn't treat him well--?" - -"Treat him well! He came back, wouldn't work, took her money for drink, -beat her--Judge, I'm ashamed of you, to make excuses for such a man!" - -The Judge, not liking his post of whipping-boy, glanced reproachfully -at the real culprit. Carlin pushed back his chair and lit a cigar. - -"Don't abuse the Judge, I got him to do it," he said coolly. "And I -did it because I was sorry for the man and because he hasn't a friend -on earth, nobody to look to but me, and he isn't half so bad as you -think. But you've made up your mind and you don't want to hear anything -on the other side. You just want him punished." - -"Of course I do!" she cried. - -"Well, now, I can't understand why you good church-people are so hard -on sinners. Your religion doesn't teach that." - -Mary flushed slowly at the bitterness of this speech. - -"It doesn't teach us to defend sin," she answered. "But I don't think -you know what it does teach." - -"Perhaps not. But I seem to remember something about there being more -joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine just -men--in _heaven_, of course, not on earth." - -"_Repents_, yes--" - -"Well, Barclay repents all right.... But the good people of this town -don't want to give him any time to repent, you see. They're in a great -hurry to send him, with all his imperfections on his head, to--well, I -suppose they think he'd go straight to hell. That's why I've got to go -right back." - -He got up, went round to Mary and bent to kiss her. - -"I'm sorry you don't like my doing this, but I've _got_ to do it," he -said gently. - -She did not respond, but sat looking straight before her. He started -away, then came back. - -"Mary--kiss me good-bye." - -Something in his tone pierced through her frozen resentment. She met -his look of anxious love, a sorrowful troubled look--the kiss was -given. He hurried out. - -The Judge hated to be disturbed at his meals, he was making a very bad -dinner. He said pettishly: - -"I've got to go right away too--I'll take some pie, please.... I wish -people wouldn't get up a fuss at dinner-time." - -Mary looked at him absently and handed him the bread. - -"Pie, please!... Now, you see, Mary, I was against it at the start," -the Judge explained rapidly, after getting what he wanted. "As you -know, I've never taken criminal cases, and I didn't want Laurence -to get the whole town down on him--for he _will_, you know, at the -beginning.... But do you know why I changed my mind? You may believe I -had a good reason--say, Mary, are you listening?" - -"Well? You were saying you had a good reason." - -"Well, sometimes it _pays_ to go against public feeling. It gets a -man noticed, anyway. And if he believes enough in his side and can -put it over on all the other fellows--why, then, you know, it's a -real success.... And I found out today that Laurence can do it--that -is, I _believe_ he can. Mary, that boy has lots of talent, lots of -it.... Why, look here, he nearly made me cry today, talking about that -Barclay,--and yet I believe the man's a low-down skunk, just as you -do.... You just let Laurence get at a jury, with that feeling he's got, -that sympathy, that simple way of appealing to their emotions--why, he -might almost get the man off! Anyhow, he'll make a reputation, Mary, -there isn't a doubt--" - -"I don't _want_ him to make a reputation doing what's wrong!" - -"Wrong? Why, Mary, it isn't wrong to defend a criminal! The law -insists that he be defended, it's a sacred part of our legal system. -They wouldn't think of hanging him unless he was properly defended. -Somebody'll have to do it. And Laurence believes he's _right_ to do -it--that's what makes him so strong. There's nothing like having right -on your side--that is, I mean, believing you have it, of course--" - -"Then Laurence thinks the man was right to murder his wife?" Mary said -ironically. - -"No, no, dash it all!--oh, well, you can't explain things to a woman," -groaned the Judge. "Excuse me, Mary, I've got to get back--" - -He took off his napkin, and rose, sighing. - -"But I should think you'd be proud of Laurence," he added as he -moved ponderously to the door. "To think he's willing to face public -disapproval, take all sorts of risks, just to stand by that poor hunted -beast--run into danger--" - -"Danger?" - -She was moved now. Her eyes, wide open, fixed the Judge piercingly. He -promptly hedged. - -"Oh, well, I don't mean actual danger, of course--life and limb.... -I mean,--why, I mean his career, that's all. But he doesn't give -a--doesn't think of that. I must run." - -The Judge fled ignominiously. - -Mary sat still. Her mind moved rapidly enough when her emotion was -stirred. In a flash she had pieced together the Judge's words--his -hurry and Laurence's--the revolver--Laurence's reference to the mob -and his saying he had been sworn in to defend Barclay. She saw it -now--certainly he was in danger, actual danger. She wondered she had -been so stupid, not to see it before, not to feel it when he said -good-bye. - -The girl came in to clear the table, and Mary remembered that it was -time for young James' nap. She went quickly out on the porch, picked -him up and carried him upstairs. When he was tucked into his crib, she -put on her bonnet and light shawl, and went down to look at the baby, -who was sleeping. She did not like leaving the children, she always got -her mother to stay with them if she went out, but now she would not -stop for that. She sent a message to her mother by a passing neighbour, -and hurried down the street toward the square. - - * * * * * - -Afterwards she remembered it shuddering, with the vividness of a bad -dream that has startled one from sleep. The crowd in the square, -in which she was caught at once, it seemed without the possibility -of getting forward or getting out. Waves of motion passed through -this crowd. She was pushed on, pushed back. Those near her seemed as -helpless as herself. A group of men about her tried to protect her, -but they too were swept on by the mass, sometimes a rush would almost -carry them off their feet. The frills of her dress were torn, her shawl -wrenched off her shoulders. In a sudden pressure that nearly crushed -her she cried out sharply. Her defenders, fighting back savagely, made -a united effort and beat their way across the sidewalk, up some steps, -lifting her into the embrasure of a closed shop-door, and there they -formed a line before her. - -She leaned against the wall, panting and faint, and looked over their -shoulders at the swaying crowd. All those faces--a vague blur, like -the noise that came from that mass of men--something bewildered, -indefinite, a formless suggestion of violence. It was a mob without -leaders. The feeling was there, the vague intent, but without shape. - -Above the groundswell of the crowd a voice was ringing out, deep and -powerful. Across the square, on the courthouse steps, Hilary Robertson -was speaking. Through the light veil of maple-branches, at the top of -the long crowded flight of steps, she could see him. His voice reached -her, not the words but the tones, sharp and hard, not pleading, rather -menacing, commanding, flashing like a keen sword of wrath. Now he -lifted his arm, with clenched fist, in an imperious gesture.... - -He stopped, turned and went into the building. There came a sudden -shout from the crowd and a struggle began, an eddy like a whirlpool, -about something advancing--a black closed vehicle, with horsemen -surrounding it, visible over the heads of the people. It passed slowly -along the side of the square. Cries, hisses greeted it, and a shower -of stones. It passed so close that she could clearly see the faces of -two men who stood on the step of the prison van, shielding its door -with their bodies. Both had the same look of hard pale resolution. The -narrow step gave them a bare foot-hold, they stood close together, -holding to the door. One was Carlin, with his revolver in his hand, the -other was Hilary Robertson, hatless, his forehead cut by a stone. - - - - - III - - -Carlin came back late that night, weary but triumphant, having seen -his man safely lodged in the county jail. He was full of scorn for the -futile malice of his fellow-citizens, and declared to Mary and the -Judge, as he ate his supper, that he would get Barclay off, just to -spite them. He was excited, his blue eyes gleamed with the elation of -combat and success. He had identified himself completely now with the -cause of his client. The odds against him roused all his energies, his -fighting instinct as well as his instinct for protection. Carlin needed -at the same time to hate and to love. - -But he liked things in clear black and white, he wanted always a -definite adversary whom he could hate with reason. He was profoundly -impatient of certain feelings in himself which he could not explain nor -justify. Some incidents of the day had irritated him deeply, stirring -these feelings. Presently he broke out, addressing the Judge. - -"I suppose you know that the preacher mixed himself up in it." - -"Yes, yes, he certainly did. I will say for that fellow that he's -always on hand when there's a scrap," replied the Judge easily. -"Spoiled a good fighting man, I guess, when he took to preaching." - -"Well, he ought to _stick_ to preaching, and not come poking his nose -into what doesn't concern him!" - -"Oh, I don't know, Laurence, I guess he did a good turn today. The way -he lit into that crowd--he gave them hell. And he has influence round -here, people respect him, they know he's no milk-sop. Of course maybe -the talk didn't do so much, I don't know--but his coming along with -you--" - -Carlin cut the Judge short impatiently. - -"_We_ didn't want him to go! But there he stuck--he would be in it.... -And then he'd got in too and talked to Barclay. Got the poor fellow all -mushed up, talking about his sin--as if he didn't feel enough like a -sinner already!" - -"Well, well, that's his business, you know," argued the Judge. "You -can't blame him for that. And he showed he was willing to stand by -Barclay. I guess he did about as much to protect him as the deputies -did--" - -"Oh, bosh!" - -"Well, I think so. That crowd knew they'd have to hurt him to get at -Barclay, and they didn't want to." - -"I saw they cut his head open with a stone," observed Mary calmly. She -was sitting beside the table, sewing. - -"You saw?" - -"I was down there in the square." - -The two men stared at her incredulously. She went on, taking tiny neat -stitches carefully in the baby's garment: - -"I went down after you left. I was worried." - -"Down there--in that crowd? Good Lord!" - -The Judge looked horrified and guilty. - -"Yes. My dress got torn and I lost my shawl. But some men helped me up -into a doorway. I saw you go by." - -She looked up reflectively at Carlin. - -"You were crazy to do that!" he cried. "Why on earth--" - -"Well, I was worried. I knew you wouldn't be taking that pistol for -nothing." - -Carlin gazed at her with softened eyes, with compunction, disturbed and -pleased too. - -"Why, you poor girl! I didn't think you'd worry. You always take -everything so quietly. Why, Mary! You in that mob--!" - -"I'm glad I went. The crowd was dreadful, but--I'm glad I saw you." - -Her eyes lit up suddenly, glowed. - -"You looked splendid!" - -"Splendid?" - -He laughed, stretched out his hand to hers, deeply pleased. - -"I can't express it, but with all that howling crowd, and the stones, -yes, you were splendid! Both of you." - -Carlin withdrew his hand abruptly, and Mary serenely went on with her -sewing. - - * * * * * - -She was well aware that Carlin disliked Hilary Robertson, but as she -considered that his dislike was without reason, she ignored it as much -as possible. Carlin's flings at "the preacher," she was accustomed to -receive in silence. She considered that Hilary needed no defence, his -life spoke for him, he was blameless. She put Carlin's sneers down to -his unregenerate nature, his habit of scoffing at religion, which -now seemed ingrained. Never would she have admitted the possibility -that Carlin might be jealous. That would have been too degrading, it -would have reflected upon her, and she was serenely conscious that her -conduct and feelings were blameless also. She had tried to explain -to him the nature of her admiration for Hilary, but he couldn't or -wouldn't understand it. He had a wrong attitude toward it, and toward -her church activities and charitable work. Most men, she thought, -liked to have their wives religious, but Laurence would have preferred -frivolity on her part. He was very fond of pleasure; he insisted on -keeping wine in the house, and on taking her to Chicago for the evening -on the rare occasions when she could get away. Mary felt that she -yielded a good deal, perhaps more than she ought, to Laurence's light -tendencies; but then, also, it was a wife's duty to yield, whenever -she could consistently with higher duties. So she had a submissive -attitude--except when some question of "right" came up. - -In reality she ruled the house, and the Judge and Carlin, and the -babies and the Swedish servant, with an iron hand. An exact order -prevailed in the household, a definite routine for each day. Mary had -her ideas about how a family should be managed, and she worked hard -to carry them out, and made other people work too. She had a manner -now of quiet authority. She did not scold, nor raise her voice when -displeased; but visited the transgressor with an awful silence and with -icy glances. Outside the house she seldom interfered with the doings of -her husband or Judge Baxter. "Business" was the man's province, and she -did not enquire, as a rule, into its details. And in her own province -she did not expect to be interfered with. - -The Judge and Carlin submitted meekly to her rules--refrained from -smoking in certain rooms, were prompt at meals, careful about the sort -of men they brought to the house, did not indulge in unseemly levity -of conversation. The Judge had almost conquered a lifelong habit of -profanity. He had a complete fealty to Mary, was touchingly pleased -to be ruled by her. He was afraid of her, and often felt like a small -boy in her presence. He despised her intellect, as he did that of all -women. This contempt existed side by side in his mind with admiration -and involuntary awe, and the conjunction never troubled him. He would -have said that he admired women but didn't respect them. More difficult -to overcome than swearing was his habit of cynical speech about the -sex. It broke out now and then in Mary's presence, revealing his deep -conviction that women (though angelic no doubt) were hardly human, but -of a distinctly inferior species. Mary never troubled to defend her -sex. She would merely look at the Judge with a calm, slightly ironical -gaze, under which he sometimes blushed. - - * * * * * - -The next afternoon she went to visit Hilary, who was ill, Mrs. Lowell -reported. There was no hesitation now about her entrance. She walked -into the house, majestic in her sweeping grey dress, and the widow -received her gladly. Confidential relations had long since been -established between them on the subject of the minister. - -"He's up and dressed, though the doctor ordered him to stay in bed," -the widow complained in a subdued voice. "And he won't take his -chicken broth, that I made specially--" - -"Well, bring it in and I'll see that he takes it," said Mary. - -She knocked at the study door. A peevish voice said, "Oh, come in!" - -Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled afghan over him. His -head was swathed in bandages, his cheeks flushed with fever. - -"Oh, it's you," he murmured apologetically. "I thought it was that old -woman again." - -Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the afghan more -smoothly over him and to shake up his pillows. Then she took his wrist, -her finger on the pulse. - -"Why don't you stay in bed?" she enquired. "You have fever." - -"Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that's all." - -"I should think so. Was the cut on your head very bad?" - -"The doctor sewed it up. It's all right." - -He spoke gently, and lay back quietly on his pillows. Mary sat down -beside the sofa and picked up a book that lay open on the floor. - -"Greek--a nice time for you to be reading Greek!" she remarked. - -Hilary smiled. - -"How are you getting on with it?" he asked. - -"Oh, I can pretty nearly write the alphabet," she smiled too. "I -practise when I have time. And I'm going to teach it to James when he's -old enough." - -"They say John Stuart Mill could read Greek when he was three." - -"Then I don't see why James shouldn't." - -At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, with a sad look, -bearing a steaming cup, which Mary took from her and presented to -Hilary. - -"Drink your broth--and after this you must drink it whenever Mrs. Lewis -brings it." - -Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows and began to sip -the broth, making a wry face. - -"Awful stuff," he protested. - -"Indeed, it's the best chicken broth, if I did make it myself!" -muttered the widow, retiring with an offended air. - -"I'm afraid you're a trying invalid," said Mary, amused. - -"Hate to be treated like an invalid, that's all.... But women always -have to be coddling something," Hilary said ungraciously. - -He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of relief. Mary rose and -began setting the room in order, restoring scattered books to their -shelves, picking up articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the -floor. Hilary's eyes followed her; he made no protest, even when she -arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles. - -"You know," said Mary suddenly, "Laurence and the Judge are going to -defend that man--Barclay." - -"Yes, I know it." - -"Do you think it is right for a lawyer to defend a man he knows to be -guilty?" - -"There's something to be said even for the guilty," said Hilary after a -moment. - -"You mean he can be defended?" - -Again he hesitated. - -"As I understand it, they can't try to deny that he committed the -murder, they can only plead extenuating circumstances." - -"That means, try to justify it!... Do you believe in that?" - -"I don't know all the circumstances.... But the law distinguishes--if -it is done in the heat of passion, it may be called manslaughter--not -murder." - -"And what would he get for that?" - -"A term of years, imprisonment." - -"Well, I should think murder was murder, however it was done!... And as -to circumstances, you know Mrs. Barclay was a good woman, a member of -your church, you know what a hard time she had, especially after _he_ -came home, and now her children are left worse than orphans--I don't -see how you can say that 'circumstances' make any difference!" - -She stood straight, her eyes flashing reproach at him. - -"Why, Mary, do you want the man hanged?" - -"Well, if anybody is hanged, _he_ ought to be! So long as we have laws -to punish criminals--" - -"You stand up for the woman always, Mary," said Hilary, smiling faintly. - -"And you--you and Laurence--it seems to me very queer that you two -should be standing up for that man! Yesterday--risking your life for -him--now I think it's very strange." - -"That wasn't so much for him," said Hilary slowly. "It was to prevent -another murder, that's all--to keep them from doing what he'd done." - -He shut his eyes wearily, and Mary softened. - -"I oughtn't to talk to you about it now. You must be quiet. I'll go -now, and you must promise me to go to bed and not get up till the -fever's gone. Will you?" - -"Yes. But stay a little longer." - -She sat down again beside him, and he lay still with his eyes closed. - -"Did you go to see the children today?" he asked after a pause. - -"Yes, I stopped in. They were playing in the yard--they're so little, -you know, they don't realize anything--except perhaps the girl. I -wanted to take one of them, but Mrs. Peters said she thought they were -better off together." - -"Yes, I should think so.... We'll have to find homes for them, though, -and it isn't likely they can be together long." - -"I know. Mrs. Peters said she would keep one of them--and I could -take one. I'm sure Laurence would think that right, as he is so much -interested in--the father." - -Mary's face and tone expressed a sudden repugnance. Hilary half-opened -his eyes and looked at her. - -"You hate sinners, don't you, Mary? You don't understand why people -sin?" - -"From weakness," she said. - -"And you haven't much pity for weakness.... You don't understand how a -man can make a beast of himself with drink, because he's unhappy." - -"Do you?" - -"Oh, yes, yes, I understand it," said Hilary with a tortured look. "I -know what unhappiness and loneliness can do.... Sometimes I wish I -didn't. How can I condemn sin when I understand the sinner so well?" - -"You must, though," said Mary calmly. - -She knew well this mood of his, by this time she knew his weakness. The -relation between these two had changed. No longer did she with humility -look up to Hilary as a saint. The change was not so much in him as in -her. In the old days, before her marriage, Hilary had often accused -himself to her as a weak and erring man, he had passionately resisted -her attempts to canonize him. Since then he had talked to her more -frankly but in the same way, she knew his yearning for perfection, and -his despair of it; she knew too, though not by direct expression, his -human longings and his loneliness. She no longer idealized him, she did -not need to. But he was intensely interesting to her. He was only a man -now, but still better than other men, stronger, with higher aims. She -admired him. But they now stood more on an equality; her manner toward -him had even a tinge of maternal authority. For she felt that all -men, all that she knew, however gifted and interesting, were somewhat -childish. - -She herself had reached maturity. With the birth of her children she -had come into her heritage of life. She was now so firmly planted on -the earth, so deeply rooted, that it seemed nothing could shake her. -The dreams of her girlhood, of life beyond life, passed by her now like -the clouds on the wind. She was satisfied, assured. - -Hilary's life, even, seemed to her dream-like, cloud-like, because -it was so restless, so tormented. The need for incessant action and -struggle that drove him, as it drove Laurence in a different direction, -seemed to her sometimes absurd. Religion to her meant tranquillity, the -calm certitude that one was on the right path, doing one's duty and -refraining from wrong. Simple--and easy. - -She stayed a little while longer with Hilary, but insisted that he -should not talk. She knew that he liked to have her sitting beside -him, immobile, her hands folded on her knee, not even looking at him. -She knew now very well what her presence meant to him; their constant -meeting in the work of the church; their talks, intimate in a sense, -though she made no personal confessions to him and he never expressed -his feeling for her in speech. She was quite satisfied with this -relation, and sure that Hilary would never overstep the bounds of right -and reason, even if tempted to do so. She herself had not the least -temptation. All her pride lay in keeping things exactly as they were. - - - - - IV - - -That night she proposed to Laurence that they should adopt one of -Barclay's children. Laurence did not like the idea at all; he looked -discomfited, and so did the Judge. Both felt it would be the intrusion -of a stranger into the domestic circle. Laurence had a good reason -to give for his objection, and a sincere one--it would be too much -for Mary, she had her hands full now, with the house and two small -children. Mary said she could manage it, and that it was only right for -her to do her part in helping the unfortunates. She looked so calmly -resolved as she spoke that Laurence and the Judge exchanged alarmed -glances. They did not oppose her directly, but devised a stratagem. -Laurence pointed out to Mary next morning that after all they were -living in the Judge's house, and the Judge didn't want a strange child -there. So they couldn't very well adopt the child, but he, Laurence, -would be responsible for its maintenance and care somewhere else. - -"Very well," said Mary austerely. "But I think the Judge is very -self-indulgent." - -"So am I, then," confessed Laurence. "I don't want it either. But -honestly, both of us think about you. I don't want you to undertake it, -dearest--it's too much." - -"If other people, not so well off as we are, can do it, I should think -we could." - -"It's a question of what we can do best. I'll gladly give the money, -and I'm doing all I can for Barclay too, and so is the Judge." - -"I know--for _him_. You're interested in him, but I think you'd do much -better to help the children." - -"Well, I _will_ help them, you'll see." - -Laurence kept his word, and in fact charged himself with the future, -as it turned out, of all three children. But Mary was for the moment -dissatisfied. She wished to put into instant practice her theories of -duty, and utterly scorned theory without practice. - -Looking in that afternoon, as she had said she would, to see if Hilary -had kept his promise and to report about the children, she mentioned -the attitude of her husband and the Judge as explaining why she could -not carry out her plan. - -"I think men are very inconsistent," she said caustically. "They like -to talk about what they'll do for other people, but when it really -comes to _doing_ it--" - -"A man's reach should exceed his grasp," quoted Hilary. "We always -_see_ much more than we can do." - -"I think it would be better, then, to see less and do more," remarked -Mary. - -Hilary looked very weak and pale. His fever was down, but he had kept -his bed, unwillingly. Mary had brought him a pot of jelly and a few -daffodils from her garden. He held the flowers in his hand, and looked -with brooding tender pleasure at their brilliant colour. Mary asked -questions about some church-business she was to do for him, and then, -in the short remaining time of her visit, they talked about sin. - -The conversation of the day before had remained in her mind and puzzled -her. She questioned him sharply: - -"What did you mean by saying that when you understood the sinner you -couldn't condemn sin? Do you really feel that?" - -"I often feel it," said Hilary in a low voice. - -"Then it would be better for you _not_ to understand the sinner. You -said so yourself, you said you wished you didn't." - -"Well, I can't help it," Hilary smiled wanly. "Because, you see, I'm a -sinner myself." - -"Of course you're not. You only like to think you are." - -"What is sin? You said it's weakness. Do you think I'm not weak, -sometimes?" - -"No, I don't think you are. You don't _act_ weakly, and that's the only -thing that counts." - -"Is it? Don't you think there are sinful thoughts and feelings?" - -"Of course. But if we fight against them--" - -"Well, don't you think that a man who carries a sinful feeling around -with him, even if he doesn't act on it, knows what a sinner is--and do -you think he can be very hard on another man who just happens to act?" - -Mary cast an angry glance at the pale face turned toward her. There was -a look about Hilary's mouth, as though he were repressing a smile. He -had a look of mischief, not merry either, but as though deliberately -trying to puzzle and disturb her--and she had seen this in him before. - -She arose from her chair, and gathered her shawl about her, lifting her -chin, stately in her displeasure. Her grey eyes looked down with cold -reproof. - -"I think instead of talking that way, you'd much better go to sleep." - -"Well, good-bye, then," said Hilary. - -He turned his head away sharply. His fingers closed tightly on the -yellow daffodils. Mary suddenly saw lying there before her, not a man, -but a forlorn sick child. For the first time she knew the impulse to -comfort this unhappiness, an impulse of tenderness. It frightened her, -and she went out quickly, without a word. - - * * * * * - -Returning home, she found trouble and confusion. The Judge had been -taken ill and Laurence had brought him home. Mrs. Lowell was there -in the room, a messenger had been sent to try to find the doctor. -The Judge was stretched out on his bed, unconscious, his face deeply -flushed. Laurence, with Mrs. Lowell's aid, was trying to get some of -his clothes off. - -"He's had a stroke--just toppled over at his desk--I wish you'd been at -home, Mary," said Laurence with sharp reproach. "I don't know what on -earth to do for him--" - -Silently Mary gave what help she could. They got his coat and boots -off, loosened his shirt-collar, put a cold compress on his head. He was -breathing heavily and the purple flush deepened, especially on the left -side of his face. In her alarm, Mary still remembered the children and -that it was the baby's nursing-time, and as there seemed nothing more -to do, she left the room. Laurence followed her out. - -"You remember he's complained of dizziness several times lately--I -tried to have him see your father but he wouldn't, said he thought -perhaps he'd been eating or smoking too much. At his age, you know, -it's pretty serious--" - -"He didn't look well this morning," began Mary, going into the -dining-room, where the cook was looking after the children. - -"Well, I should think you might have stayed at home, then--where were -you?" asked Laurence irritably. - -"Please put James in his pen," said Mary, taking the baby. "Hilda, -you'd better see that there's plenty of hot water--the doctor may want -it." - -She carried the baby upstairs and sat down in a low chair in their room -to nurse it. When Laurence came in the door, she said directly: - -"I went to see Mr. Robertson--he's ill." - -"You went yesterday too, didn't you?... You're very attentive to him." - -She looked up at him, opposing to harsh irritation her reproving -silence. - -"I tell you, I don't care to have you going to see him that way, alone. -Do you want to be talked about?" - -"Don't disturb me when I'm nursing the baby.... There--isn't that -Father?" - -The clatter of wheels and a hasty run up the steps in fact announced -the doctor's arrival. Laurence went downstairs, with an angry parting -glance. The baby cried a little, and Mary gathered it to her breast, -composing herself, shutting her eyes, trying to banish all disturbing -thoughts, even the thought of the Judge. She believed that any -disturbance in her when she was nursing reacted at once on the baby. -Indeed now the baby cried shrilly and at first refused the breast; but -after a few moments, quiet succeeded, and Mary sighed, relaxing. It -was a deep physical pleasure to her, to nurse her child--more so with -this one than with the first. The baby's strong pull at the breast, for -he was a robust infant--his hand opening and shutting on her flesh, -the warmth of his little body, the relation of complete confidence -and satisfaction--it moved and soothed her. She sank into a dreamy -contentment, isolated from all that hurry and trouble downstairs. - -But when the baby, replete, had gone to sleep, she laid him on the bed, -and at once went down. She was very much concerned about the Judge, -though her quiet face and motions did not betray her anxiety. She did -what could be done, and awaited her father's verdict silently. - -"Apoplexy--he'll recover, undoubtedly, but his left side is affected, -there may be a slight paralysis," Dr. Lowell told them. "His habits -have been bad--no exercise, too much whiskey and tobacco. And then -his age--he must be over seventy. Probably he'll be a good deal of an -invalid from now on." - -"He won't like that," Laurence said sorrowfully. - -"No, he's never taken care of himself, he'll hate it, naturally--but so -it is.... It will mean a good deal for you and Mary--the care of him -here, and then he won't be able to do any work for some time--perhaps -never again, to any extent." - -Laurence and Mary looked at one another gravely and sadly--both felt -what this would mean to the Judge. When they were alone, Laurence went -and took her into his arms. - -"I'm sorry I was cross to you," he said softly. "I didn't mean to be -rough." - -Mary kissed his cheek. - -"I know--of course you were terribly worried," was her forgiving -response. - -"This will be very hard for you, Mary, the Judge being ill--we must get -some one to help." - -"Well--we'll see.... You'll have a lot of extra work too, Laurence, and -you're working so hard now--" - -"Oh, I think I can manage," he said absently. "But the thing right now -is to get somebody here to help you--he'll have to be watched at night -now, and--I tell you, there's Nora. You remember the girl you saw at -the office the other day, Nora Skehan, you know I told you I used to -know her as a child. She's out of work again, and I'm sure she'd be -glad to come. You might try her." - -"Well, I'll see," said Mary again. - -Laurence held her and looked at her appealingly. - -"Mary--I can't bear to have anything wrong with you and me.... Other -things go wrong--there's a lot of trouble and worry--but I can't stand -it to feel angry at you, or have you angry with me--" - -"I don't think I'm ever angry with you," murmured Mary reflectively. - -"Well, worse ... you look at me sometimes as if you didn't like me! -When you're displeased--it's worse than being angry. I'd rather you'd -flame out, the way I do, and get it over with--" - -"I'm not like you." She smiled gravely. - -"I wish you felt as I do--that you'd do anything rather than have -trouble between us--" - -"Trouble? What trouble?" - -She drew away from him, an instinctive shrinking that hurt him. - -"I mean, you don't seem to care that certain things disturb me!" -he burst out. "You're so terribly reserved, you keep things to -yourself--you do things I don't like, and you don't _care_ that I don't -like them--" - -"I don't do anything wrong," said Mary proudly. - -"You're so sure everything you do is right! No matter how it affects -_me_!" - -"You do things _I_ don't like--Barclay, for instance." - -"That was a matter--I felt I _had_ to do it--I felt it was right--" - -"Well, you must allow me to judge what is right for _me_. I shall never -do what I think wrong." - -"What you think! You don't think it wrong then to disturb me by your -actions, not to give me your confidence--" - -"Confidence?" said Mary haughtily. "I will tell you anything you want -to know. I haven't anything to conceal. But you simply don't understand -my feelings, certain things I care about that you don't care about--" - -"That's it! You take it for granted I can't understand.... I don't want -you to have friendships apart from me!" - -Mary stood still, looking down, her eyes hidden by the long drooping -lids that gave her face a look of passionless calm, inflexible, -immovable. - -"Do you hear?" cried Laurence. - -He knew, even while he could not master his agitation, that it put him -in the wrong, that it gave her the advantage. But he could not bear -opposition from her. To know that they were not completely united, -completely one in feeling, was a torment to him. - -"Don't shout," she said. "I think this is a queer time for you to talk -like this, Laurence--it seems to me you ought to be thinking about the -Judge." - -"Ought!" he muttered. "Did you hear what I said?" - -"Yes, I heard, Laurence. But--" She looked full at him now, her clear -grey eyes very bright. "But I will not let you interfere with what I -think right to do." - -"You will not?... Don't you know that I'm master here, that you're -bound to do as I say?" - -Again the long lids veiled her eyes, and she stood without replying. -And Laurence's heart was burning. This harsh assertion of authority had -been wrong, it was not what he meant. He hated force. What good would -anything forced from Mary do to him? What he longed for was a tender -understanding--but if she would not understand, would not be tender, -what could he do but rage? - -At this point they were interrupted. Mrs. Lowell called to them from -the sickroom, and Mary hurried to take charge there, without a word or -look for her husband. Resentment smouldered in her mind, a feeling that -Laurence was wrong, and, in addition, undignified. All the rest of the -afternoon, busy as she was, and grieved too as she watched the Judge's -stricken figure--all this time a turmoil of feeling about Laurence -was going on below the surface of her mind. Never had she been so -disturbed. This was the first really serious clash in the two years of -their life together. - - - - - V - - -For the first time, her will and Laurence's were definitely, sharply -opposed. Heretofore, each of them had yielded, in much that concerned -the other, without a clear issue. She felt that she had yielded a -good deal to Laurence. He had associates that she did not like, -hard-drinking bachelors of the bar, with whom he spent an occasional -convivial evening, coming back flushed and gay though never overcome. -She did not like even his moderate drinking, nor the fact that he -never went to church, that he took no interest in religion except -to jest crudely about it. On the other hand, he had not, so far, -tried to interfere openly with her interest in the church nor her -association with Hilary in work, nor her taking up a course of reading -in history and beginning to study Greek under Hilary's direction. He -had acquiesced in her asking Hilary to supper a few times, as was -her social duty, and had behaved with courtesy, though she knew he -disliked "the preacher." He gave no good reason for his feeling, but -he expressed it in gibes and bitter jokes about "sky-pilots," the -fondness of women for priests, the power of "holiness," and so on. -These expressions irritated Mary deeply, but she had passed them over -in silence, withdrawing into herself and indicating to Laurence that -she did not expect him to understand nor take any part in this interest -of hers, any more than she could take part in his stag-suppers. - -But this division of interest, this separation, to some extent, of -activity, did not affect her feeling about Laurence nor disappoint any -desire in her. She was satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement -of her life. The achievement of maternity had given her the solid -basis, the central motive, to which everything else was incidental. -Laurence was most importantly connected with this motive, but yet in a -way he was outside it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against it. -What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between Mary and himself, -which should be the centre of all things, subordinating everything -else. And this, in his feeling, had not come to pass, because she could -not understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatisfied; therefore -demanding, often harsh and bitter, often unreasonable. - -Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a father; and this -appeared to Mary the height of unreason on his part. To be the head of -a family--what more dignified and satisfactory position could he wish, -so far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, he succeeded -in his profession, what more could he ask? Why, when everything -promised well, should he so often be moody, irritable and discontented? -It must be the nature of man, perpetually unquiet. - -On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or perhaps not clearly -conscious. Her plan assigned to Laurence the rôle of head of the -family; in reality what she expected him to be was a figurehead. This -was quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theoretically, of -course, the man was master of his household, and the wife as well -as the children owed him obedience. Mary would never have dreamed -of disputing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her -acquaintance. But practice--that was quite another thing. In practice, -the women ruled their households and themselves, and very often their -husbands also, allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine -matters, such as business, and a certain amount of license in regard to -their amusements. The woman's path was sharply marked out; she could -not overstep certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had -her authority and independence. - -In her own family, Mary could remember very few occasions on which her -mother's actions or decisions had been questioned by the nominal chief. -If she were subject to her husband, it did not appear; the household -produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was Mary's idea of the -proper constitution of a family. It was unthinkable that the man -should interfere in details, should try to dictate in matters outside -his province; by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he -should maintain. - -A wife must always speak to her husband with respect; must never -criticize him nor complain of him, even to her nearest friend or -relative; his dignity was hers. Also, a certain formality in her -address to him was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as -Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him Mr. Brown, rather -than John. Mary was conscious that her relation with Laurence, so far, -lacked formality. But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was -very young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he acted like a -boy, much of the time. - -That afternoon and evening, there were times when there was nothing to -be done in the sickroom but to sit and watch; and Mary was thinking. -She regretted bitterly the clash with Laurence--those sharp words, -her own assertion of independence. There she had made a mistake, had -transgressed her own code. Laurence's counter-assertion of authority -was also a mistake, but a natural consequence of hers. She should not -have set herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he -were wrong. She now found herself obliged either to give battle or to -retreat--both alternatives very distasteful to her. She was angry at -herself; she had fallen below her own standard, lost her self-control, -behaved in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her own position. - -She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actually _did_ command, she -would have to obey. She could not openly flout her husband's authority, -that was impossible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible -mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. She knew very well -that that was not the way to manage. - -Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, looking -straight before her, she thought it out. She did not like the idea -of "managing," or gaining any point by methods other than the most -simple and direct. Anything underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply -repugnant to her. She did not like even to "humour" people. How, then, -was one to deal with an unreasonable man--must one actually submit to -him when he was in the wrong? - -Laurence was wrong and unreasonable in this case because he could not -possibly think that there was any harm in her friendship with Hilary. -He could not possibly suspect her of anything approaching wrong, in -that connection. At the mere idea of it, her cheeks fired and her eyes -flashed proudly. She felt herself not only impeccable in thought and -deed, but above suspicion from him or any one else. Therefore in acting -as though he suspected her, or even disapproved of her, he was wronging -her deeply.... - -But let that be, for the moment. The thing to do now, was to retrieve -her own false step. She had done wrong--she would set that right, as -far as possible. Then at least _she_ would be right, whatever he might -be. And it was absolutely necessary for her to be right, in her own -feeling. What she saw as the right thing she would do, whatever it cost -her. - -Having made her decision, she became quieter in mind, and began to -think about the Judge. This day was evidently a day of disaster. The -Judge would never be the same again. Suddenly she realized that she had -grown very fond of him. Affection had been obscured in her by constant -disapproval of his character. She disdained fleshly indulgences, such -as eating and drinking too much. She had felt scornful when the Judge's -face would flush after dinner, when sometimes his speech was a little -thick of an evening, when he found difficulty in lifting his heavy -bulk. But now that the punishment of these carnal indulgences had -fallen upon him, she felt real sorrow. And even, as she thought what -was before him, the rare tears rose and softened her grey eyes. - -When she had a few minutes alone with Laurence, before he took up his -night-watch beside the Judge, she said to him gently: - -"I'm very sorry I spoke to you as I did this afternoon. I was wrong. I -shall never oppose your will, in anything that concerns myself, if I -can help it." - -Laurence's troubled gloomy face lit up with a flash of joy. He clasped -her in his arms, melting instantly when she showed a sign of yielding, -too happy to pause upon the manner of her yielding. His generous -spirit, impetuous and uncalculating, carried him much farther in -concession. He swept their difference away passionately. - -"Dearest, I was wrong too--more than you!... You know, Mary, I don't -want to interfere with any pleasure of yours--you know I want you to -have everything you want!... And I don't think you want anything wrong, -you know I don't think it, not for a minute!... Only I want you to love -me more than anything, not to need anything but me, that's all I really -want! And you do, don't you? Because I love you more than the whole -world--" - -"Of course I do," she said softly. "You know perfectly well, I do." - -"No, sometimes I don't, and then I get wild! Then I can't bear to have -you like any one else at all. Only make me feel that you love me, Mary, -and it will be all right. I shan't care what you do, if I'm sure of -you!" - -"As if you weren't sure of me!" said Mary, with a touch of austerity. - -"Oh, I don't mean what you do, I mean your feeling, don't you see?" - -"No, I don't. How queer you are, Laurence!" - -"No, it's you that's queer!... But I love you." - - * * * * * - -So the shadow passed, for the time being. But the reality which had -cast this shadow remained, the real difference. Both of them were -careful now not to bring it up, both repressed themselves somewhat. -Mary continued to see Hilary in connection with the church, but she did -not ask him to the house. Laurence did not speak of him, nor of Mary's -studies, and she kept her books out of his sight. But he knew that she -was going on, as he would have said, regardless of his feeling; and she -knew that he was still unreasonable about it. - -For some time, however, this remained an undercurrent in their life, -which was full of activities, interests, anxieties, in which they -generally accorded. It was on the whole a happy time for them, an -unconscious happiness. They were young and vigorous, life opened out -before them full of hope and promise, vaguely bright. - - - - - VI - - -The next year brought significant changes. Laurence made a brilliant -personal success in his defence of Barclay, and melted the jury to -the point where nearly half stood out for twenty-four hours in favour -of a verdict of manslaughter. Finally however Barclay was convicted -of murder in the second degree and was sentenced to a long term of -imprisonment. Laurence was showered with praise and congratulations for -his conduct of the case, his address to the jury had moved a crowded -courtroom to irrepressible enthusiasm. His reputation was made. - -The Judge had been able to give him some assistance, though he never -recovered from his illness. The burden of the partnership now fell upon -Laurence, the Judge could only consult and advise in important cases, -and as time went on not even that, for his memory was impaired. He -suffered and fretted under his restrictions, was a fractious invalid, -and the loss of mental power was so sore a grief to him that he -resorted for solace to the forbidden whiskey-bottle, perhaps with the -desire, unconscious or not, to end it all the sooner. - -Nora, now domesticated in the family, was of great assistance with -the Judge. Her quick good-humour amused the old man, her energy was -unfailing, she was deft and tactful. She became his special attendant, -and also helped with the children, for another baby was coming. Nora -liked the Judge, but she loved the children, she became devoted to -them. Soon she was indispensable in the household. Mary was a little -ailing. Three children in less than four years had taxed her strength. -But she was well content; she wanted another son, in fact she would -have liked six of them, big strapping fellows. Sometimes she saw them -in her mind's eye, a robust procession. - -During that year the Judge made his will. He desired to leave his -property, which was much larger than any one had suspected, to -Laurence. But Laurence protested. There were relatives, sisters and -nephews, and he couldn't take what ought to belong to them. The Judge, -easily excited, flew into a rage, and declared that he didn't care a -cuss for any of his relatives, and that he would leave his money to -charity rather than to them; nay, lest they should contest his will, -he would give away the lot of it during his lifetime, make ducks and -drakes of it, throw it away, by God! He would do as he pleased! - -Laurence had to calm him, tried to postpone the discussion. - -"No," said the Judge fretfully. "Carpe diem--I haven't so many left. I -want it settled." - -"Judge, how can I take anything more from you? See what you've done for -me already. It wouldn't be right--" - -"Well, see what you've done for _me_, you and Mary. You've given me -a home, the only one I ever had, you've been like my own children to -me, and that's the way I feel about you. And I want you should have -something to remember the old man by, when he's gone." - -In the end, Mary being consulted and feeling as Laurence did about the -money, a compromise was effected. Generous legacies were left to the -near relatives, and the remainder, for those days a small fortune, to -Laurence in trust for his children, the income to be Laurence's for -his life. The Judge, having drawn up and executed what he considered -an ironclad will with these provisions, was easier in his mind, and -felt that he had nothing more to do in life, except to watch Laurence's -progress and give an occasional counsel. Laurence was fairly launched, -business poured in upon him, he had two juniors in the office. The -Judge rather regretted his tendency to take criminal cases whenever -they appealed to him; but he recognized too that Laurence's talent lay -in this direction. And then the boy could afford it now, he needn't -be looking closely after money. He could afford to take cases that -brought him little except reputation, and to have it said that every -poor man in trouble knew the way to Lawyer Carlin's office. If Laurence -wanted to be the champion of the poor and oppressed, if he could be -more eloquent in behalf of an ignorant negro cheated out of his small -property than when he had a fat fee in prospect--why, let him go ahead. -He was provided for, anyhow. - - * * * * * - -In his many vacant hours, the Judge fell back on reading, of which he -had always been fond. He had a respectable library of classics, bound -in calf. He liked Laurence to read aloud in the evenings when work -permitted. The Judge had a taste for lofty and magnificent diction. -Shakespeare, the Old Testament, Milton, Burton and Macaulay were his -favourites. He liked De Quincey too, and Burke's speeches. He could -listen by the hour to Milton's prose, or the "Anatomy of Melancholy." -He often dwelt on the advantages of such reading, in forming a style. -He did not consider that Laurence as yet had a style--he was too -simple, too colloquial in his speaking. Rolling sonorous periods, -balanced and built up, a wide range of allusion and metaphor, a sombre -and weighty splendour, was the Judge's ideal of eloquence. - -Mary was usually present at these readings, sitting by and sewing. But -her thoughts often wandered--she had not much æsthetic feeling, and -poetry bored her. However, she liked the sound of Laurence's voice, as -an accompaniment to thoughts which might have no concern with him. - -One evening a strange thing happened--Hilary Robertson came to call -on the Judge. Laurence happened to be away on business at the county -seat--perhaps Hilary knew this. What the purpose of his visit was, -did not appear at that time. The Judge received him politely, though -a little nervous, and begged Mary to stay when she was about to leave -them together. There was a little general conversation, which presently -fell upon literature and ended by Hilary's reading at the Judge's -request the "Urn Burial" of Sir Thomas Browne. The effect of this -stately prose in Hilary's wonderful voice thrilled the two listeners. -Mary dropped her work. Something of the feeling of old days came -back upon her--some mysterious lifting of the heart, vague pain and -yearning at the touch of unearthly beauty. She had hardly felt this -since her girlhood, her present life had too much absorbed her. Her -eyes were fixed upon Hilary with startled feeling--no one but he, she -was thinking, had ever had the power to move this feeling in her, to -make her conscious of a world beyond this narrow world she lived in, -to make her dissatisfied with herself, unhappy.... And he could do -this just by the tone of his voice, reading something that she did not -attend to. Music, what little she had heard, produced a similar effect -upon her--it was the only form of art that touched her.... But now -she resented Hilary's power, she did not want to be stirred or made -unhappy. Especially now, when she was carrying a child. Hearing the -Judge issue a cordial invitation to Hilary to repeat his visit, she -decided that next time she would avoid him. - -In the next few months Laurence was away a good deal, and was obliged -also to work late in the evenings when at home. The Judge came to -depend upon Hilary for at least two weekly visits, when they would -read and talk together, and Mary often sat with them, in spite of her -judgment. Sometimes she was sorry for it, sometimes not. - -Laurence learned of this intimacy with astonishment. Finding how it -had begun, he was struck with Hilary's audacity. He had received the -Judge's praise of his new friend in silence; all the more incensed -because he couldn't openly oppose Hilary nor keep him out of the house. - -"I think the Judge is getting childish," he said to Mary darkly. - -"He is much weaker," she agreed. - -"He must be--to let the preacher get hold of him. That would never have -happened if he'd been himself." - -She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking out across the -lawn to where the sunset sparkled red through the trees. Laurence was -sitting on the steps near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick -black cigar. He glanced up. Mary's look of weariness and sadness -startled him. - -She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to realize that the Judge -was dying, and needed what Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had -begun to talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon meet; -the Judge did not resent it, he was a little frightened, and only -clung the closer to the firm hand stretched out to him. Yes, he needed -Hilary--to no one else could he confess that he was afraid of death, -that he had lived a careless life, that he didn't want to believe in -immortality but sometimes couldn't help it.... But, Mary thought, it -was no use to try to explain to Laurence. - -He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A quick impulse of alarm -and affection made him repentant. He moved closer to her, put his hand -on hers. - -"Mary, you're not looking well--I'm afraid you're doing too much. Are -you very tired?" - -"Yes, a little," she said vaguely, without responding to him, her eyes -still fixed on the swaying trees and the red glow beyond. - -Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit his cigar. At that -moment he felt acutely that she was far away from him in spirit. He did -not know her thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what -she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He had given up asking -her. It seemed to him often that it was only the material part of her -life that he had any connection with--that she willed it so. But she -had another life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him--a life -of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, his face dark and -brooding. Laurence could look evil. His narrow blue eyes, half-closed, -were menacing. His heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the -cigar, spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not be -repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would destroy if it -could not build. Now he looked destructive. - -He had changed much in these few years, grown heavier in body from -his indoor life, grown handsomer. He still had his military erectness -of carriage, something of the soldier remained in his alertness of -movement and speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone. -Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his face--and there -were lines of pain too, visible at times like this. - -The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had been taking his -constitutional late, because of the heat, supported by his gold-headed -cane and Nora's arm. They were laughing as they approached. - -"She's been telling me some of her Irish stories," called out the old -man tremulously. "Never was so amused in my life. She's a smart girl, -Nora is--and a pretty girl too! Isn't she now?" - -Laurence went to help the Judge up the steps. He sank heavily into a -chair, keeping hold of Nora's hand, panting. - -"Isn't she pretty now?... I like her red hair. I wish I was a young -fellow, I'd make up to her.... She'd keep me laughing...." - -Nora blushed, laughed, wrested her hand away and ran indoors. Laurence -lounged for a moment against the door, and then went in too. He had to -go to the office, and went upstairs to fill his cigar-case. Passing the -open door of the children's room, he saw Nora, with a candle, bending -to arrange a tossed coverlet. He stood looking at her. The candle-flame -lit up her shining hair, her red lips and tender eyes. She came out -softly, and as she passed him, smiling, Laurence, put his arm around -her, drew her close. - -"No!" she protested in a whisper. - -"Yes!" - -He felt her tremble in his clasp, felt her frightened, wishing to -resist, unable, felt the emotion that shook her at his touch. He bent -his head, kissed her on the mouth. - - - - - VII - - -Carlin could not have told himself how nor when his attitude toward -Nora had changed, nor when he first became aware that the most ardent -feeling of her warm heart was for him. It was all gradual and easy; -it seemed to reach far back in the past, and to grow out of their -childhood intimacy. Carlin could not remember the time when he had not -felt affection for Nora. Affection was still his feeling--but hers -was much stronger. And to know that she loved him, humbly, adoringly, -passionately, as without any words on her part it was evident she did, -could not but influence him. - -Nora had always looked up to him, even when they were playmates; he was -the bright romantic figure in her life. The years had set him apart -from her; he had risen in the social scale and she had remained where -she was. She was too humble to feel any bitterness at this. Nay, it was -only right, for wasn't it well known that Carlin came of gentlefolk -in Ireland? It was natural that Laurence should be a gentleman, and -that she, Nora, should be his handmaid. But it was also natural that -she should love him. He was the handsomest, cleverest man she had ever -seen; and no one else had ever been so kind to her. - -Up to the time she entered his household, Nora had certainly never -aspired to more than kindness and an occasional word of affection from -Laurence; and there for some time she was too happy to want more. She -was treated not like a servant, but almost like a member of the family. -She had her own pleasant room, she had no hard nor disagreeable work to -do; she was always nicely dressed, clean and fresh. She spent her time -with the children or the Judge; was in awe of Mary, who however always -spoke to her kindly and pleasantly; addressed Laurence as "Mr. Carlin," -at which, chatting with her, he would laughingly protest. - -Nora did her work with real devotion. Far from feeling that her -position was in any way an inferior or degrading one, she made her -service so willing, so thorough and complete, she gave it with such -pleasure, that it became an art. Mary soon learned that she need not -watch Nora, that her instructions would be followed exactly, that -nothing would be slurred nor forgotten, that Nora could be trusted to -the last detail. As the time approached for the third child to be born, -the other two came more and more under Nora's care. - -Nora loved Laurence's children. If her own life had been happily -arranged, she would by this time have had some children of her own. -She was twenty-eight years old, and had never had even a satisfactory -love-affair. For this no doubt Laurence was indirectly to blame. His -image, bright and radiant, made any swain who might sigh for Nora -appear too dull for more than a passing interest. It was not in Nora's -nature to be ungrateful for any affection, whatever the source, and she -had honestly tried to love her humble suitors, but in vain. She would -have liked to marry, her only life in fact being that of affection, -but instead she had drifted from one employment to another, untrained, -badly paid, always finding something in the rough conditions of her -work to disgust or hurt her. - -In Carlin's house she found for the first time a pleasant way of -living, gentleness, consideration, and she was so happy that her spirit -danced and sang all day long. She was deeply grateful to all of them, -especially to Laurence, for he had placed her here; she tried to show -her gratitude in service to them all. She quarrelled freely, to be -sure, with the Swedish cook, whose slowness and awkwardness provoked -her contempt. But with the family, inspired by love, she was tactful, -graceful, meek; even to Mary, whom she did not love, but admired from a -distance. - -As time went on she shared more intimately in the life of the family. -Through the children she began to feel that she belonged to it. -Keenly sensitive to anything that concerned Laurence, she was aware -of occasional friction between him and Mary; she saw that he was -unhappy sometimes. She began in her mind to criticize Mary, sometimes -to be angry with her, on Laurence's account; she sought out things -to do for Laurence, put a tender thoughtfulness into the care of his -personal belongings. She did not put herself in his way, at least not -consciously, but naturally they were always seeing one another. And -always her face, her whole being, welcomed him, glowed with pleasure -when he stopped to talk to her or bestowed a light caress. The caresses -grew more frequent, grew warmer, by insensible gradations. She came to -expect his kiss when they met alone; and to dream of it before he came. - -Now her happiness was no longer serene and childish, as at first. -It was poignant at moments--with intervals of depression and -restlessness. But Nora was nearly incapable of reflection or of looking -beyond the moment; she had no wisdom except what love gave her, and -that did not help her to take care of herself. - -Nora's helplessness had always been evident to Laurence. He had felt -that she needed to be taken care of, and he still felt it. He felt -that he _was_ taking care of her. Nora needed affection, she could -not work like a menial without any reward but money. Money could not -buy such service as hers. It was done for love, and love must be its -reward--tenderness such as one would give to a child, or a sister.... -Just when his affectionate recognition of Nora passed this line, -Laurence could hardly have told. It was connected, though, with his -feelings about Mary, with a wounded resentment that burned in him the -deeper for having little expression. When Mary hurt him by her coldness -or absorption in something apart from him, he was more apt to take or -make a chance of being with Nora alone. These interviews came to have -a secret, a stolen character; snatched moments, a word, a look, an -embrace. - -Laurence did not feel that he was doing harm to Nora. He did not feel -anything very deeply about her--his strong feelings were all for other -things. That he was irresponsible, unscrupulous, he would have denied -blankly. But his mood was reckless. He wanted the comfort of Nora's -warmth, her utter acceptance of him, her trembling joy in his caress. -From his obscure jealousy, he wanted obscurely to revenge himself on -Mary, though she was never to know that he had done so. Lately, Nora -had shown some fear--but fear was not resistance. Well he knew that she -could never resist any impulse, any desire of his. - - - - - VIII - - -On the thick summer air, in the close room, the scent of flowers was -overpowering. Laurence, standing by the door, looking round at the -silent black assemblage, at the black coffin heaped with roses, felt -deeply impatient with this show of grief. No one there grieved for the -Judge, except perhaps Nora, sobbing in a corner, and himself. Mary was -upstairs, not able to be present. - -He looked coldly at Hilary, reading in his deep musical voice the -funeral service. It was the custom to pronounce a panegyric on the -departed; and he wondered what Hilary would say, and waited cynically -for some hypocritical praise, for how could the preacher appreciate the -Judge's real qualities? But he underrated Hilary's honesty. In truth it -was impossible for Hilary to praise the Judge's life and character. It -was not for him to betray the confidence of the old man's last days, of -his fears, doubts and regrets, his halting steps toward the unknown. -So he uttered simply a brief prayer, full of solemn tenderness for the -passing soul. In Hilary's feeling the infinite was like the living air -surrounding, interpenetrating, every finite thing; there was no line -between life and death, except for a personal loss. To him also, the -funeral panoply was unpleasant; he also reflected that the Judge had -perhaps only one or two real mourners. - -When it was all over and Laurence had returned to the house alone, -he went up to see Mary. She was lying in bed, in the big room they -shared together; she looked very white and tired and had evidently been -weeping. Laurence bent to kiss her tenderly, and sat by her, holding -her hand. - -"He was a good friend to us," she said at last softly. - -"Yes, he was, indeed." - -"He thought everything of you, Laurence." - -"I didn't deserve it especially." - -"I'm sorry for him now, I'm afraid he feels very lonely." - -Laurence looked at her uneasily. - -"Because, you see," she went on slowly, "he never thought about his -soul, till just lately, or about another life. It will be very strange -to him. He was so worldly." - -"He was a good man," asserted Laurence, frowning. - -"No, Laurence, he wasn't," said Mary with inflexible regret. "He was -bound up in worldly things, and had no light. So it will be hard for -him." - -"I don't think you are in a position to judge him," said Laurence -sharply. - -But then, seeing her tears begin to flow again, he reproached himself -and tried to comfort her with soft words and kisses. He resolved once -more that until Mary was quite strong again he would not cross her in -anything, that even if she were unreasonable he would remember her -state and be patient. He was really alarmed about her, she had never -been ill before, never in the least morbid. Several times lately she -had frightened him by saying that she thought she would die when this -baby was born; and dissolving in tears for the other two babies who -would be left motherless. Altogether she was unlike herself. Laurence, -profoundly worried, had talked to Mary's father, who told him that -she had had her children too fast and was tired out for the time, and -naturally affected by the Judge's illness, but that there was no cause -for great alarm. But at the mere idea of losing Mary, Laurence was -deeply shaken. He would not have said that he was happy with her--in -fact for the past year he had seldom felt happy--but he couldn't -imagine being anything but miserable without her. He had loved her too -long, too exclusively, to live without her. And always he had the hope, -though sometimes unconscious, that she would change and love him as he -wanted her to. That was all that was lacking, he thought, to make him -perfectly happy. He believed in happiness and never ceased to expect it. - -"Laurence," said Mary, when her tears had stopped, insensibly soothed -by his tenderness, "I wish the Judge hadn't left us that money. We -didn't need it." - -"Well, sometimes I wish so too," he answered thoughtfully. - - * * * * * - -He was perfectly sincere in this. At times, after the Judge's will -was made, the thought of the money had weighed on him. He disliked -the feeling of obligation, even to the Judge; he would have liked to -owe his advancement to his own efforts alone. But the Judge had stood -behind him and helped him on, in every way. He was grateful, and yet he -was burdened by that help. - -In later years he was never able to forget it. Then it seemed to him -that he owed his career to the Judge and to the condemned criminal -Barclay, who had died in prison, for it was the Barclay case that gave -him his professional start. He showed gratitude as best he could. He -put up for the Judge a massive monument of granite; and he maintained -Barclay's children. But he would have preferred to be independent of -any assistance. He was conscious of powers that could make their way -unaided. And he disliked the feeling that he had not been able to mould -his life just as he wished, that in some ways it seemed made for him by -forces beyond his control. That feeling did not yet oppress him, he was -still too full of youthful energy; it was only an occasional shadow. - -But many times, in the course of the next months, Laurence wished -the Judge's money at the devil or in the hands of his disappointed -relatives. Laurence, as executor of the will, had to deal with -innumerable details and complexities that bored and bothered him; he -hated "business." When finally the estate was settled, the relatives -having decided not to contest the will, Laurence found himself in -possession of a handsome income. The Judge had shown his faith in the -future of Chicago by investing largely in real estate there; these -holdings were rapidly increasing in value. They were in the business -section and the rentals were high. In addition, the Judge's house and -its contents, and his horses, were left personally to Laurence. - -For a time, his enjoyment of these things was clouded. The attitude -of the Judge's relatives had stung him, in spite of his consciousness -that his efforts alone had procured them any share in the property. He -was extremely sensitive to disapproval, to criticism, especially to -any reflection on his independence. To feel that some people, perhaps -many of his fellow-citizens, thought his relation with the Judge an -interested one, that he might be suspected of "making a good thing" out -of the Judge's friendship, galled him deeply. He knew that never in -his life had he used any indirect means for his own advancement, that -he was incapable of using people for his own interest, and he hated to -appear what he was not. It was more than the pride of an honest man in -keeping his reputation clear of any spot. Laurence cared more than he -could admit about public opinion, about his position in the eyes of his -fellow-citizens. Their admiration was necessary to him. His ambition -could be satisfied only by predominance without any shadow on it, any -reproach or sneer. - -Professionally he understood how to keep himself safe from anything -of that sort. There he stood on solid rock. His reputation for -uprightness, for indifference to money, was unquestioned. He began to -be considered "eccentric"; no one could predict what cases he would -take, what refuse, except that the more unpromising a case appeared, -the more apt he was to take it. He made enemies, of course; but this -sort of enmity pleased him. He liked to be called "quixotic" and to -be accused of "tilting at windmills." In the law he knew perfectly -well what he was about. His law was sound; he worked faithfully and -constantly to build up his knowledge. He aspired to the judicial -ermine, and a spot upon it would have killed his pride. He would be -known as an able and incorruptible judge. - -He would not owe his position to politics, either, if he could help -it. Judge Baxter had been a busy politician, and had striven to -initiate Laurence into the local situation. But Laurence had not been -interested; he hated wire-pulling and contests for power. Naturally -he belonged to the party that had supported the war and was now -all-powerful. But he wanted none of the spoils, at present. His -political activity was confined to supporting what he thought good -candidates and opposing bad ones; his test being the public welfare. -He had identified himself more than he would have thought possible -with his town. Its growth and prosperity had become important to him. -He wanted the town improved and did not want it plundered, and had -made his position clear. It suited him--active, and yet aloof from any -vulgar scramble for profit. The enemies made for him by this activity -he despised; they could not hurt him, he was too strong. The public -esteem that he cared for was increased rather than otherwise by their -opposition. - - - - - IX - - -But he had his vulnerable point. - -When he saw money coming in faster than he could spend it, piling up at -the bank, he felt that the time had come to change their way of living. -The house that he had wanted to live in had been in his mind for years. -It remained only to get an architect from Chicago and have the plans -drawn for the stately mansion of his dreams. - -Yes, one other thing--to persuade Mary that she too wanted it. - -Mary had another son now--a frail infant in whom her life and thoughts -seemed centred. It had been a question whether this child would live, -and she still watched it with anxious care. She had not fully recovered -her own health after its birth--she was thinner, looked much older. -For the first time she was a little careless of her own appearance, -thought nothing of her dress, and even her rich hair lost its lustre -and sometimes straggled untidily from its heavy knot. - -Laurence did not like this change in her--her total absorption in the -nursery, her prevailing anxiety, which seemed to him exaggerated. His -children had not reached the stage of development necessary to interest -his mind. He was fond of them, proud of the two sturdy older ones, and -concerned about the sickly youngest. But he could not see why Mary -couldn't take a little interest in life outside them. It was partly his -desire to give her another interest, something that she could share -with him, that made him broach the subject of the house. He wanted -a more social life--something that they could join in, beside mere -parenthood. Magnificence would become Mary, if she only thought so. -She was a beautiful and stately woman, in spite of her present neglect -of herself, and would be in her proper place at the head of a big -establishment. She ought to have more servants, to entertain, to wear -rich dresses of silk, to be adorned with jewels. He wanted to see her -so--he wanted more amusement, more gaiety. They were both young--why -bury themselves in a mere daily round of work and care? - -Mary at first opposed his idea, but languidly, from mere lack of -interest in it. When he grew warm and petulant, and passionately -accused her of not caring for anything that he did or for any of his -wishes, she yielded the point without more ado. It was Laurence's -money, of course he could do as he liked with it. She thought they were -very comfortable as they were, but if he didn't like the house and -wanted a bigger one, very well, let it be built. One house or another -was much the same to her. - -Laurence drove out with her one day to see the site he had selected--on -the outskirts of the town, which was however rapidly growing. It was -a big pasture, running from the road back to the edge of the lake--a -rough piece of ground, thickly overgrown with weeds and with straggling -willows under which the cattle gathered. But Laurence already saw it -laid out in lawns and shrubbery, framing the great house of brick and -stone that should dominate the town. Here would be the stables, there -the gardens. There should be a boathouse on the lake, there should be -a screen of rapidly-growing trees along the road, a splendid entrance -with tall gates, a graveled drive leading to the house. - -His face lit up as he eagerly explained it all to Mary, pointing with -his whip, holding in the restive horses with a strong hand, turning -the light buggy dexterously around the rough prairie hillocks and -mud-holes. A bull came out of a group of cattle and looked at them -sullenly with lowered head. The horses wheeled and started nervously. -But Laurence with the lash of the whip and firm control, forced them -to pass directly in front of the menacing animal, and continued his -talk. Mary listened, wrapped up in her mantle, agreeing to all his -suggestions.... - -It was a bright autumnal day, clear and crisp, with a strong breeze -blowing. Yellow leaves from nut-trees and maples swirled in clouds -along the ground and covered the road. Laurence wanted to drive a -little further into the country; Mary assented, saying that she must be -at home by six o'clock. - -"You ought to get out more--even this little drive has done you good, -you have some colour," Laurence said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. - -She smiled, shut her eyes with pleasure, feeling the rush of the wind -as they drove against it. - -"Yes, I'd like to drive every day--you manage them so well." - -"Then we will! I'll try to get away for an hour each day, if you'll -come, Mary.... But you always have some tiresome thing to keep you at -home." - -"Do you call the children tiresome things?" she asked, smiling. - -"Well--I do, sometimes," he confessed. "They take so much of you.... -I'd like to drive you away somewhere, now, away from all of it, for a -while. I wish we could run away together. I hardly ever see you, Mary!" - -"You see me every day, except when you're away--I should think you must -be tired seeing me." - -"I never see you alone, except at night and then you're always -tired.... I want things arranged so you won't have so much to do, so -that we can have an evening together sometimes--go out somewhere or be -alone together, without your having to go and sit with some baby or -other," said Laurence with sudden peevishness. - -"Well, you know, bringing up a family isn't all pleasure," Mary -reminded him with mild reproof. - -"I should say it wasn't!... But there might be a little. You might -think about me, once in a while, and put on a pretty dress and sing to -me, the way you used to. You'll be getting old if you keep on this way!" - -"With three children you can't expect me to look like a girl," Mary -protested. - -One of the trotters shied at a paper blown across the road, both horses -reared and the light buggy rocked dangerously. Laurence lashed them, -stinging blows, then checked their leap with a wrench, pulling them -back on their haunches. - -"Laurence! You shouldn't lose your temper with the horses," -remonstrated Mary. - -"They have to know who's master," he answered curtly. "But you make -me angry, talking that way about yourself. You're not thirty yet, and -you want to live like an old woman! Why don't you put on a cap and -spectacles?" - -"Well, my mother wore a cap when she was thirty. At thirty a woman -can't pretend to be young," said Mary, smiling. - -"Pooh, your mother! A woman with your looks, too! You'd be more -beautiful than ever if you'd take care of yourself. You haven't ever -worn that silk dress I brought you months ago." - -"Oh, I haven't had it made up--it's much too gay, Laurence! You know I -never wear colours." - -"Well, you ought to.... I should think you might want to please me, -once in a while.... But you women! All you think about is children, and -a man can go hang himself, for all you care. You wouldn't even want him -around, if you could have children without him!" - -"How you talk! Anybody would think you didn't care about the children!" - -"I care a lot more about you than I do about them--but it isn't the -same with you. What's the _use_ of having children if nobody's going -to enjoy life--if everybody's just to go along doing their duty and -raising up another generation to do the same thing? Hey, what's the use -of it?" - -"I don't think the use of it is enjoyment," said Mary. "It isn't meant -to be." - -"Just like you! How do you know what it's meant to be? Have you had any -private revelation from God about it?... Well, I tell you that I don't -see any use in life if there isn't any pleasure in it--and that I'm -going to enjoy _my_ life, anyhow, and when I don't, it will be time to -quit!" - -"Laurence, you're a pagan," said Mary gravely. - -"A pagan is better than a psalm-singing hypocrite, that wants to take -all the pleasure out of life!" - -"Do you mean me by that?" she enquired gently. - -"No, I don't mean you! You're not a hypocrite, whatever else you -are.... If you'd only unbend a little, once in a while, and let -yourself have a good time, you'd be all right. But you got a lot of -foolish ideas into your head when you were a girl--and I know who put -them there too. And you hang onto them like grim death, you're so -obstinate you won't _ever_ give up an idea or anything else. You won't -change--no matter if you see it makes me unhappy--" - -He broke off suddenly, and for some moments they were both silent. They -were now far beyond the town, out on the open prairie. Great fields of -stubble from which the grain had been reaped, stretched on either side. -In spite of the bright sun and the fresh wind, the outlook over these -endless yellow-brown flats, broken by dull-green marsh or dark belts of -new-turned soil, was not cheerful. Dreary, rather, and sombre was the -prairie, its harvest yielded, waiting now for the sleep of winter. In -the distance, a grey smudge on the horizon showed where lay the great -sprawling smoky city. With his eyes fixed on this Laurence said: - -"But I've known a long time that you don't really care anything about -me." - -"You shouldn't say such things--you know better.... It's only that we -don't look at life in the same way." - -"And you're contented to have it so! But I'm not. Why can't you see it -more as I do, Mary? I think you would, if you cared about me." - -"No, I can't, you are so personal about it. You want things so much for -yourself, and you will always be disappointed, Laurence. Life isn't -given us for our personal pleasure." - -"You talk like a book or an old greyhead.... I don't think it's living -at all to slide through life thinking about something else--not to want -anything for fear you'll be disappointed! I think that's cowardly. It's -better to try for things." - -"Yes, but what things? I can't care much about worldly things--houses -to live in and clothes to wear. I _can't_, Laurence." - -"You seem to think that's all I care for," he said bitterly. "But you -don't understand me and don't try to. What I wanted isn't houses and -clothes! It was something very beautiful, to me. Something that would -last for our whole life--and beyond it. But you couldn't see it. Even -now you don't know what I mean." - -The suffering in his voice touched her, she leaned toward him and laid -her cheek to his. - -"I wish I could be what you want--I wish you could be happy," she said. - -"You _could_ be, if you wanted to be!... No, I'm not happy, and I can't -be contented this way, Mary, I warn you, I can't be!" - -The menace of his suppressed violence left her silent and impassive. He -too fell into moody silence, and so they returned to the house. - -That night the whole town was roused from sleep, to see a red glare -in the sky where by day hung the grey smudge over the city. The news -came over the wires--Chicago was burning. A strong wind blew the smoke -over the prairie, the town was enveloped in a dim haze. Trains came -in, bringing refugees. Later, crowded into all sorts of vehicles, -they poured in. The town opened its houses to the flood of terrified -homeless people. All night blazed that red light in the sky. The wires -went down, but each new arrival brought a story of more complete -destruction, of whole streets of wooden houses bursting into flame at -once, of brick buildings melting like wax in the furnace. By morning -the city of half a million people was in ashes. - - - - - X - - -But the energy of youth does not stop long to mourn over destruction. -Hardly had the ground cooled under that vast heap of ashes when it was -torn up for new foundations. Almost overnight a new city began to rise, -a prouder city where brick and stone largely took the place of wood. -Ruin was swept away and forgotten, men toiled in the busy ant-hill to -rebuild their fortunes, and within a year it was done. The city spread -along the shore of the lake and far inland, bigger than ever, busier -than ever, more splendid and prosperous. - -At first, in the general ruin, Laurence had thought himself involved. -His rent-producing buildings were gone, and the insurance companies -prostrate. But the land remained, and by the outleap of energy and hope -in the people, became more valuable than before. Long before the end of -the year Laurence was at ease about his property. And so the new house -that he had planned began to rise from its deep foundations. - -The house became to Laurence a symbol, a personal expression. Indeed, -it had been that, from his first idea of it. But as time went on, more -of his constructive energy went into it. Checked in another way, an -immaterial way, he must still be building something. The house at least -was his creation, all his own, and it became a keen interest, almost -a passion. The plans were drawn and redrawn till they suited him, he -scrutinized each detail, he spent all the time he could spare in -watching the workmen. When from the stone foundation the walls began to -grow, layer on layer of deep red brick, he sat or lounged about by the -hour, smoking one thick cigar after another, impatient, already seeing -in his mind the whole structure complete up to the spire on the cupola, -and planning the decoration of the stately rooms. - -Mary sometimes accompanied him. She made an effort to do so, and to -join in his interest. But it was somewhat as she might have joined in a -child's play, humoring him, and he saw this. Nevertheless, he was glad -to have her there with him, to talk to her about it, to ask her advice. -But the ideas were all his--she had not many suggestions to offer, and -these were practical ones, about pantries, closets, and so forth. The -scale of the house rather daunted her--sometimes she murmured that it -was going to be hard to run it, with nothing but raw untrained servants -to be had. - -"Well, you can train them," said Laurence cheerfully. - -He planned the entrance-hall with its stately stair, its niches for -statues; the billiard-room on the top floor; the library, with long -windows looking out on the lake and a chimney-piece of dark marble -reaching to the ceiling. - -He wanted the house to be gay, inviting, festive in appearance--yet his -plan was rather sombre than gay, grandiose. In spite of himself, what -he chose had this character. The wish to make a striking effect, to -impress and dominate, was stronger than the desire to please. Perhaps -this came from the poverty and bareness of his early life--perhaps -from some lingering ancestral memories of the old world. He wanted -splendour, but he wanted it somehow aged and mellow, he did not like -the appearance of newness. So the colour of the house was dark, dark -wood was used in it. When it came to wall-papers and hangings, he chose -them of heavy textures and deep colours. A sombre and dusky red was a -favorite--he used that in the hall, the billiard-room and the library. -He wanted Mary to choose the colour for the parlours, but in the end he -decided that too, and it was a dark gold, with heavy double curtains -of lace and silk subduing the faint gleam of the walls, and great -chandeliers to light it up on festive occasions. - -All this cost a great deal of money--how much, Mary did not enquire. -She took it for granted that Laurence could manage his own affairs--and -they both looked upon the fortune inherited from the Judge as his, -though of course it was left in trust to the children. That was -a formality, the money had been meant for Laurence. Naturally he -would not impair the capital, but would rather increase it, by good -investments. The house was an investment--what could be safer than -that? The Judge had always laid stress on the value and safety of real -estate. And already the value of his estate had increased largely. -Values were going up everywhere. A wave of prosperity had overflowed -the country. With the settling of political troubles, the new sense -of security, a feeling of boundless wealth and opportunity sprang up -and prevailed. The great west opening its riches, the quick growth -of cities, fortunes made overnight almost, golden fortunes beckoning -on every hand--the eyes of men were dazzled, the gold-fever ran in -their veins. Gaining and spending went hand-in-hand. A new luxury was -spreading. Money-scandals spread too, and a cynical perception that -those in high places were by no means above lining their pockets in -alliance with the rising power of Wall street. Speculation was the note -of the time. Merchant princes, railroad barons, money kings, made a new -aristocracy, prodigal and flamboyant, and set the fashion for living. - - * * * * * - -These big splashes in the pool, spreading tumultuous waves, had -subsided into ripples before they reached the inlet where Mary lived; -but the quiet surface of her life was to some degree disturbed. The -restlessness of the time reached even her, but as something to be -resisted as far as possible. The few friends she had were staid people, -rather older than herself, and with these or with her parents, she -preferred to spend what leisure she had. Her household mainly absorbed -her energies, not yet restored to their normal pitch. Even with Nora, -the care of the children was a constant occupation. The delicate -youngest child was Mary's special charge. He shared her room, sometimes -banishing Laurence, who could not wake at night after working all day. - -The other boys, now six and five years old, were handsome robust -fellows, noisy and inventive of mischief. The question of their -education troubled Mary. She herself taught them to read, and began -their religious instruction. She did not want to send them to the town -school, fearing profane influences. Her early passionate tenderness -for them had become a grave solicitude. Nora petted and spoiled the -boys, but Mary was their taskmaster and mentor. Nora often lost her -temper with them, and slaps alternated with kisses. Mary was calm -and serious, severe with their moral lapses, such as fibbing and -disobedience, rarely caressing them. She felt for them much more -tenderness than she showed, believing that it was not good for them -to be petted. On Hilary's advice, she had not taught her boys Greek, -though by this time she could read it pretty well herself. But she -taught them the Bible; they went to church with her, and on Sundays -they had to learn and recite to her a certain number of verses; and she -heard them say their prayers at night, encouraging original efforts. - -For some time past she had felt that Nora was not a good influence. -She was too much of a child herself, stormy, impetuous, without any -authority over the boys. When she could not control them, she would -threaten, scold and at times use physical violence, always repenting -it, though, and making up with kisses and fond words. Mary had -forbidden her to slap the children and sharply reproved her when she -broke any of the rules laid down for them. Then Nora would sulk. In -fact her temper had become noticeably bad. - - * * * * * - -One day in late September, after a week's absence, trying a case at -the county seat, Laurence was expected home. Nora dressed both the -boys in clean white suits, combed their curls with nervous fluttering -fingers, set them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran up -to her own room to put on some adornment. The carriage drove up. Mary -met Laurence at the door, and after his usual warm greeting stood a -moment in the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his bags. -Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the shrubbery. Both parents -rushed out, to find the boys, just dragged out of a mud-puddle, -daubed from head to foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the -hands of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. Mary seized -the children, ordered Nora away and received a rude answer; whereupon -Laurence spoke sternly to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled -to her room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild sobbing. -She could hear too, while dressing the boys anew, that Laurence went in -and spoke to Nora; could hear the firm curt tones of his voice. - -Presently he came into the nursery, and she said: - -"I really think I can't keep Nora. I can't have scenes like this." - -"No, I've told her so," said Laurence, frowning. "I've told her that -she can't speak to you like that, and that if she can't control herself -she'll have to go." - -He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time. -Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put -them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their -prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures -and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys -wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay -and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played -with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went -downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did -not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed. -Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and -was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a -big fee--a will contest, involving a large estate. He had taken it -because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew -and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a -man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a -son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just -cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish. - -"I shall charge them ten thousand--they're willing to pay more than -that. So you see, Mary, you needn't worry about the price of carpets," -he laughed. - -After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, relaxed, tired -but still talkative, smoking his big black cigar and watching with -bright and contented eyes Mary at her sewing. He was always happy at -returning home, the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And -Mary was always glad to have him come back. She missed him deeply when -he was away. He often brought disturbance, but he brought too something -that she needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower -current, though it might be more peaceful. - -He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his arrival, but Mary had -not. She thought of the children and presently laid down her work and -said that she must see if they were covered properly--the night had -turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. A light was -burning in the nursery. As she entered she saw Nora kneeling by one -of the cribs, her face bowed, hidden. Nora raised her head and turned -toward the door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean--that -radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth half-opened and -smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora dropped her eyes, all the light -went out of her. She got up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping -child. And Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the room -without speaking. - -She returned to the library, took up her work again, listened to -Laurence, responded to him, smiling tranquilly on him; after a time -moved to sit beside him at his behest, and answered his caress. But all -the time there was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure, -hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister way disturbed even -the current of her blood, made her heart beat heavily. It was a kind -of fear, a vague terror of--she knew not what exactly, but something -there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from. - -She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion of Laurence. -Nothing of that sort had existed for her, it had never entered her -world for an instant. Now she hardly recognized it, except as a -formless shadow of evil. Deceit, treachery--could she phrase such -things, even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poisoned her -sleep, it was there at her waking.... In spite of herself, not -admitting it to herself, she suspected--she watched. - - - - - XI - - -A wild November night. The wind tore furiously across the prairie, -sweeping the rain in slanting sheets. It was growing colder; rain -became sleet; before morning it would be snow. - -It was nearly midnight when Mary shut the door behind her and gathering -her shawl over her light dress, rushed out into the storm. She was not -sure she had been seen, but she ran, fearful of being overtaken. The -icy rain drove in her face, on her uncovered head, soaked her dress -under the flapping shawl. She had not far to go, but she was drenched -from head to foot before she reached Hilary's house. She met no one in -the street, it was not a night to be abroad. The trees tossed wildly -overhead, letting go their last yellow leaves, the street-lights -flickered dimly in the gale. There was a light in Hilary's study. She -opened the house-door and walked into his room without knocking. - -He was writing at his table, and sprang up as she entered, with a -startled exclamation. She held out her hands to him, dropping her wet -shawl, clutched his arm, clung to him, unable to speak. For the first -time Hilary held her in his arms, her head with dishevelled streaming -hair lay on his shoulder. She would have fallen if he had not held her. -He thought she had fainted. Half-lifting her, he put her on the sofa, -where she sank limp, and knelt beside her, putting back the wet strands -of hair from her face. Her eyes were shut, but her eyelids flickered, -her lips moved. - -"Mary, for heaven's sake, can't you tell me what has happened?" - -She heard him, nodded faintly, groped for his hand and clutched it as -though to save herself from sinking. He waited while she fought to get -back her hold on herself. For the first time in her life she had nearly -lost consciousness, and she was terrified; it was like a black wave -rearing over her head, threatening to engulf her. That feeling passed, -slowly, Hilary's grasp sustained her, lifted her out of the dark -flood.... She drew a long sobbing breath and opened her eyes. - -"Hilary...." - -She had never called him so before. - -"Yes, I'm here." - -"I came to you.... I came.... There was nobody else...." - -"Yes, Mary, you're cold, you're shivering.... Lie there a minute while -I stir up the fire." - -"Yes, but don't go away!" - -"No, I'm not going." - -Reluctantly she let go his hand. He shook down the coals of the stove, -put on some sticks of wood, brought coverlets to put over her. - -"Mary, you're wet through.... Don't you want me to speak to Mrs. Lewis, -get you some dry clothes?" - -"No, no--no! I'll be warm in a minute...." - -She sat up, gathered her loose hair together, trying to wind it into a -knot. - -"Look here, Mary, I have a warm dressing-gown. Take off your wet dress -and put it on--go into my room there. And take off your shoes--good -heavens, you've only got thin slippers! Here, I'll get you my -slippers.... I'll bring the things, you can change here." - -"No, I'm all right now. I'll go in there." - -She stood up and moved without faltering. When she came out, wrapped -in the grey gown, her hair smoothed back and rolled into a heavy knot, -she had regained something of her usual manner. But she was deadly pale -and her eyes looked dull and dazed, as though she had received a heavy -blow. She sat down before the fire. Hilary sat near her, and holding -his hand tightly in both hers, she told him in broken sentences what -she had discovered. - -"You must tell me what to do.... I shall never go back to him." - -Hilary was silent. - -"What shall I do?" she repeated, looking imploringly at him. - -"But if you have made up your mind already--" he hesitated. - -"Not to go back? Oh, yes.... But where shall I go?" - -"Why, I should think--to your parents. Where else could you go?" - -Now she was silent, and an expression of profound dislike and -unwillingness made her face sullen. She dropped Hilary's hand and sat -looking at the fire. Then suddenly she began to weep violently. - - * * * * * - -It was long before she could control herself again. Then she was quiet, -crouched before the fire, staring at it with a look of despair. - -Indeed the foundations of her life seemed to have crumbled under her. -She had a lost, helpless feeling. Something had been violently wrenched -away from her--a support that she had thought secure. She had never -thought that Laurence could fail her, she had been sure of him. But he -had deceived, betrayed her confidence. He had wounded her pride in him -and in herself, to the death. She hated his sin, she despised him for -it. What she had seen filled her with loathing. Never would she forgive -him. - -But now--what could she do? How make her life over again? Take her -children and go back to her parents, as Hilary suggested? A woman -separated from her husband--what a humiliating position for her! A -public confession of failure! How could she go to her parents and tell -them that she had made a mistake, that their opposition to her marriage -was justified? And the comments of her little world, how could she bear -those, she who had always stood so proudly above criticism? No matter -what the reason for the separation, a woman who left her husband was -always criticized. And she did not want to give her reason--not to any -one, not even to her parents. She wanted nobody to know. Rather would -she bury the events of this night in darkness.... - -She looked at Hilary, who sat by her in silence. If he had uttered a -word of pity or condolence, she would have regretted the impulse that -brought her to him. But he met her look gravely; then glanced at the -kettle he had set on the stove, which was now beginning to steam. - -"I shall make you some coffee--you look exhausted," he said. - -"Oh, don't bother--I don't care for it," she protested dully. - -"No bother--I often make it when I'm up late. I have everything here." - -He fetched the coffee-pot, poured on the boiling water, set it back on -the stove. A pleasant aroma filled the room. He brought a tray, with -a cup, and sugar, and crackers, and Mary took it with a murmur. The -coffee was good--she drank two cups of it and felt revived. - -"Won't you have some?" she said, with a faint smile. - -"I haven't another cup--but I'll get a glass." - -They drank together. It was warm before the fire, sitting there, -hearing the wind roar and the rain beat against the windows. - -"I'd like to stay here," said Mary dreamily. - -"To stay ...?" - -"Yes--tonight. Can I stay? It must be late." - -Hilary looked at his watch. - -"Nearly three o'clock ... of course you must stay, you can't go out in -the rain. You can lie down on the sofa here--or take my bed. You ought -to sleep." - -"No, no, I don't want to sleep.... But I mustn't keep you up all night. -You go to bed, Hilary, and I'll stay here by the fire. Please." - -"Well, after a while.... But Mrs. Lewis gets up early and I want to see -her--I'll have to tell her you're here--" - -Mary's face darkened. For an instant she had lost the feeling of what -had happened, now it swept back upon her. The morning was coming--how -was she to face it? Laurence would know of her absence, perhaps knew it -now. He might go to her parents, he might come here to fetch her. She -must decide something. - -"Don't you think I ought to leave him?" she asked, looking at Hilary. - -"I don't know. Do you mean--divorce him?" he replied with an effort. - -"Divorce! No!" Mary exclaimed with a look of horror. "_You_ don't -believe in divorce!" - -"I don't believe in it," said Hilary in a low voice. "Nor in -separation." - -"I know--I know you don't. But...." - -"You know what I believe. That marriage is a sacrament ... that it -can't be broken or annulled...." - -"But if _one_ has broken it--" - -"One may sin against it--but another's sin does not--does not justify--" - -Hilary got up, putting down his glass with a shaking hand, and walked -to the window. - -"I know. I believe as you do," said Mary darkly. - -"But ... how can I go back there?" - -Over the pallor of her face swept a flaming colour, her eyes flashed -with rage. - -"In my own house!" she cried hoarsely. - -She set her teeth, clenched her hand. Hilary, with his back to her, did -not see her face, but he heard her tone. - -"You have your children, you have your--duty," he said in a trembling -voice. "Just because it is hard, you can't--forsake it." - -"No," said Mary blankly. "But ... I can't see ... I have been -dutiful ... but now--I can't be the same. I can never be the same! What -can I do?" - -"Not the same ... but perhaps ... better," said Hilary from the window. - -"Better?" she cried in a low tone of astonishment. - -"Better--yes.... When one near to us fails ... must we not feel _we_ -have failed, too?... Can we stand aside, and condemn?... Are we not ... -our brother's keeper?" - -After these faltering yet firm words there was silence for a time. Then -Mary said in a hard tone: - -"I can't see where I have failed.... I have tried to do my duty, as -I saw it.... I can't feel responsible for _this_ ... and I can never -forgive it." - -"Only love can forgive." - -"No, that's why I can't forgive!... I did love him, and he deceived me, -insulted my love--I will never forgive him!" - -"It's pride that speaks--not love." - -"You know nothing about it! You _can't_ know!" - -"I _do_ know, Mary." - -Hilary turned and faced her. - -"How can you say that? You know that I loved you for many years, that I -loved you as any man loves a woman, that I wanted you for my own ... I -can tell you now, because it has passed. It has changed. But I suffered -what one can suffer from that feeling--and from jealousy. Yes, I _do_ -know.... And I know too that you have never loved any one." - -"You are mistaken." - -Her tone was proud and angry. But then all of a sudden she softened. -She looked up at him and said with simplicity: - -"I love you, Hilary. You are the best person I've ever known. You're -like my brother ... only you're far, far above me. I always used to -feel that way about you, and now I feel it more than ever. And I love -you for it.... But there's another kind of love ... when you're bound -to a person, and they hurt you, you _can't_ love them just the same and -forgive them--you can't, Hilary! Because your faith has been destroyed, -and what bound you to the person is broken, and it can never be the -same.... Even if I haven't always been perfect, I didn't break my -faith, but _he_ has broken it, and it's gone--gone forever!" - -And she began to weep again, passionately. There was no pride about her -now. She cried out her suffering and loss, with heartbroken sobs. - -"I know I haven't always been good, I've been hard sometimes and took -my own way and wouldn't give in--but I wouldn't have done what he has -done.... I wouldn't have deceived him or hurt him as he has hurt me.... -I wouldn't have broken our marriage, but he has done it.... It shows -that he didn't care for it, it didn't mean much to him.... I thought he -loved me, but because I wasn't everything he wanted, he took another -woman ... there, in the same house with me.... And he doesn't love her -either, I know he doesn't, he sinned from weakness, low temptation--oh, -I wouldn't have believed it of him. I knew in some ways he was worldly, -but I always thought he was honest and sincere, I was proud of him ... -but now...." - -When she grew quiet again, and raised her tear-blurred face, it was to -see a dim light outside the windows--the stormy dawn. - -"Oh, poor Hilary!" she cried. "I've kept you up all night--you haven't -slept a wink!" - -"That's nothing," he answered gently. "I often have sleepless nights." - - - - - XII - - -Then, forgetting him, she stared at the dim light of the window, her -eyes wide open and fixed, her lips parted with long shuddering sighs. -Slowly her breathing grew quieter. Hilary watched her face. - -"Mary," he said in low voice. - -She started, turning her blank unseeing eyes upon him. - -"Be careful what you do now.... You are hardening your heart.... Judge -not, that you be not judged.... When pain comes to us, it is a symptom, -a sign that something is wrong in our life. We must look through the -pain to what caused it, and set it right. We must do it humbly, not -setting ourselves up above the sinner. If another has sinned against -us, let us see why. Are we free of blame for that sin? If we had been -all that we should have been, would this have happened? Let us try to -understand.... They that have eyes to see, let them see...." - -There was no response in those blank eyes, no sign that she had heard. -In her intense preoccupation she simply stared at him instead of at the -window. - -Mary was making up her mind. Something in her heard and registered -Hilary's words; but they did not enter into the question that was -absorbing her. This was a purely practical question. She had to decide -what she was going to do _now_. And those well-known phrases uttered -in Hilary's deep urgent voice as though they were new--they to all -appearance passed by her like the idle wind. - -She could see already what she was going to do. She was not going to -make a scandal, nor have any one talking about her or pitying her. -Enough, that she had complained to Hilary!... This thing should be as -if it never had been, so far as her outward life went--no one should -know. She would not "leave" her husband. But the sinner would not go -unpunished.... She knew well how to punish him. She knew how to make -him suffer.... - -Now, resolved, she rose to her feet. - -"The baby! He always wakes about five--if I'm not there he'll be -frightened. I must go back at once." - -Hilary looked piercingly at her. - -"You're going back then?" - -"Yes, I'm going back. You told me to, didn't you?" - -Her tone and look were cool, faintly mocking. - -"It's snowing hard," said Hilary. - -He put out the lamp--a grey light filled the room. - -"No matter--it's only a little way." - -"I'll get a carriage for you--" - -"No--I'd rather go back as I came." - -"But you can't--you haven't any dry clothes--" - -"No matter--it's only for a moment." - -She went quickly into the bedroom, and came back in her limp white -dress and slippers. She took the heavy India shawl and drew it over her -head. Its damp folds completely covered her. Only her face was visible, -white, composed, with a curious sinister light in it. - -She put her hand out of the folds to Hilary. With that gesture he felt -her put him away. He knew he was included in her unforgivingness, he -had become a part of something she wanted to banish. She would hate -him for knowing.... - -"Hilary," she said, "I want you to promise me something. Promise never -to speak of this--not to any one else, I know you wouldn't--but not to -me. Never speak of it to me again." - -He dropped her hand, stood looking at her, and slowly his face became -as inflexible as her own. - -"You shut me out, then?... I count for nothing with you? You reject -what you came here for--my help, my ... counsel...." - -"No one can help me. You can't understand." - -"You came to me, not for help or counsel. You came for sympathy, -thinking I would stand with you against your husband. You counted on my -feeling for you--you have always counted on it, though you would never -admit it to yourself--" - -"I don't know why I came.... But it was no use." - -"No. Because you won't let it be. You'll go your own way ... repay -evil for evil. I can see it in your face. I always knew you had it in -you.... Oh, Mary, has it all gone for nothing--all that you said you -believed in for so many years? Was it all on the surface--the first -time life comes hard to you will you throw it all away?... No, I won't -let you, I've cared too much for you--" - -"What you say is no use, Hilary. You might as well promise." - -"Of course not.... You know I won't." - -"Then good-bye." - -She looked at him indifferently and turned away. Noiselessly she left -the house. She hoped that she might return unseen to her home, and -rejoiced that no one was apt to be out so early. The snow fell thickly, -blindingly, and covered her footsteps. The air was sweet, less cold -than in the night, the wind had gone down. Each branch and twig was -ridged with snow; it lay in a broad unbroken sheet over all surfaces, -and seemed to give out light in the dim dawn. - -As she approached the house, she wondered how she was to get in; the -street-door locked with a catch and she had no key. But as she went up -on the steps she heard the baby crying, and barely noticed that the -door opened to her touch; some one had turned the catch back.... She -ran upstairs. Laurence was in the room, dressed, holding the child, -trying to quiet it. She threw off her shawl, put out her arms for the -boy, gathered him to her breast. His cries ceased. - -A flash of surprise and relief had lit Laurence's face at her entrance, -but now he stood, looking pale and gloomy. - -"How long has he been crying?" she asked. - -"I don't know--not very long." - -Still holding the child, she tried to light a spirit-lamp to heat some -milk; Laurence silently helped her. When she had laid the baby on the -bed, with his bottle, she said: - -"You know I went out?" - -"Yes, and I know where you went, too!" - -Laurence's voice trembled, and his lips; she had noticed when he was -lighting the lamp how his hands shook. His face showed deep lines that -made him look ten years older. But Mary said with icy calmness: - -"You didn't expect me to stay here, did you?" - -"I know where you went," he repeated, his eyes dully flaming. "You ran -to him, to--" - -She was changing her dress for a warm wrapper, but suddenly she turned -on him. - -"Is that woman in the house?" - -"No--she's gone." - -"How is she gone--where?" - -"What does it matter to you?... She went to the station, if you want to -know. She meant to take the first train out." - -"She can't go like that--like a thief in the night!... You are -responsible toward her, Laurence." - -"Don't worry about my responsibility. I'll take care of it." - -"Yes, I suppose you will." - -His harassed desperate eyes rested on Mary, searching, piercing. - -"And you," he said thickly, "are responsible to me." - -"For what?" - -"For this whole thing--it's your fault." - -"Is it indeed?" - -"It is!... and your action tonight proves it. Flying out of the -house--to your lover." - -Mary was seated with her back to him, changing her wet shoes and -stockings. She laughed--ironical laughter, deep with scorn. - -"Yes, laugh! I know it's true!... Oh, I don't know what your actions -have been, how can I know?... But I know your feeling, I know it hasn't -been with me, but with some one else. You married me with that feeling -in your heart--you did me a great wrong. I couldn't stand it.... For -what I've done that's wrong, by God, you're responsible!" - -Mary put on her slippers and stood up, tying the cord of the -dressing-gown round her waist. She looked at him with cutting contempt. - -"I don't care what you think.... But if I were a man I wouldn't try to -shift my responsibility for my own sins to some one else." - -"Will you take your own responsibility? Do you see that you've been -wrong toward me?" - -"No. I see that you're trying to throw the wrong on me to save -yourself. Perhaps you want me to ask your forgiveness?" - -"Yes, by God, I do." - -She looked at him, under her long lids, with a blue icy gleam. Silence -fell--charged throbbing silence; all the bitterness of those spoken -words, all their venom, distilled in it. Words that sting and burn like -fire--that leave ineffaceable scars.... - -Laurence waited a moment, then with a look of rage and anguish at -her as she stood with averted face, he went out of the room, and she -heard him leave the house. She was standing by the window, she saw him -pass, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his coat flapping open. He -disappeared in the veil of snow. A sharp pang shot through her. But she -stood motionless. - -On the bed the baby lay sucking at his bottle, holding it lovingly with -his frail hands, making gurgling contented sounds. And now she heard -the other children in the nursery, she must attend to them, there was -no one else now to do it. - -She was busy with the children for some hours. Then, leaving them all -together in the nursery, she went into the big bedroom which had been -Laurence's as well as hers, and set about removing all his clothes -and other belongings into the smaller room at the back of the house -where he sometimes slept. This room she arranged carefully, with her -accustomed neatness, putting everything in convenient order, seeing -that the lamp was filled and a fire laid ready for lighting. - -In going and coming she had to pass the closed door of Nora's room. At -last she stopped at this door, hesitated a moment, then flung it open. -The room was swept and empty of all personal belongings--only there -lingered a faint stale scent--Nora had been given to cheap perfumes. -A look of disgust contracted Mary's pale face. She took out the key, -locked the door on the outside, opened a window in the hall and flung -the key far out into the snow. - -She went once more into the neighbouring room and took from the -table something she suddenly recollected to have seen lying there -among Laurence's papers. It was a little leather case, containing a -daguerreotype of herself, done at the age of sixteen. She had given it -to Laurence when they were betrothed, and he had carried it through the -four years of the war. The case was worn and shabby. She opened it and -looked at the picture--a charming picture it was. The graceful dress, -with its full skirt, and frilled fichu covering the girlish shoulders, -the pure oval face framed in banded hair.... Laurence had loved it. - -Mary took it into her room, and with tears running down her cheeks, she -seized the fire-tongs, smashed the picture to pieces, and threw the -whole thing into the waste-basket. - - - - - PART THREE - - - - - I - - -Lounging in an elegant attitude of ease against the stone balustrade, -a tall youth of seventeen was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, -and languidly regarding the scene before him. There was not much to -excite his interest. Passing vehicles were hidden from view by a thick -screen of maple trees and shrubs. On the broad lawn some younger boys -were playing croquet--he glanced at them with lofty scorn. A gardener -was clipping the evergreen hedge which divided the lawn from the -flower-garden. He was attended by a black puppy, which sometimes made -a dash at the rolling croquet-balls and was driven away by shouts and -brandished mallets. - -An iron fence with sharp pickets surrounded the lawn on three sides. -Tall iron gates, with lamps at the sides, stood open expectant. The two -iron deer on either side of the driveway also stood in an expectant -attitude, their heads raised and nostrils dilated. - -Early frosts had touched with yellow and red the leaves of the maples. -With every gust of the fresh breeze the leaves fell, littering the -neatly trimmed bright green grass. The sun was low in a deep cloudless -blue sky, the air brisk and crisp. Prairie mists and thick heat had -been broken by this first breath of autumn. - -An open carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of grey horses and driven by -a coachman in a bottle-green coat, turned in through the iron gates. -The boys stopped their play to wave a greeting to the lady in mauve -draperies, who lifted her white-gloved hand in reply. The youth on the -steps hastily threw away his cigarette and concealed the holder, as he -went down to assist his mother from the carriage. She laid her hand on -his with a smile and stepped out with a rich rustle of silken skirts. -He took her furred wrap and books and card case; and they mounted the -long curving flight of stone steps together. - -They were of the same height, and there was a strong resemblance -between them, though the boy was much darker in colouring; with -chestnut hair and dark grey eyes. His face was less delicately shaped, -heavier, but had the same self-contained look; the eyes, under heavy -lids, looked slumbering and secret. - -Mary had grown more slender; her tall figure was girlish in line. Her -auburn hair was less bright in colour, but as thick as ever, without a -touch of grey. She wore it in the same fashion, parted and drawn down -over her forehead, which now showed faint horizontal lines, the only -mark of age in her calm face. Her handsome dress followed the fashion -but a distance, with fewer frills and more amplitude. Her beauty had -stood the test of time; the slight hollows under her high cheek-bones, -her ivory pallor, only emphasized the fine modelling of her face. - -"There's a telegram," said Jim. - -He took it from a table in the hall. Mary opened and read it, standing -at the foot of the stairs. - -"From your father. He won't be back tonight--detained on business." - -A look of relief crossed Jim's face. - -"Well--it must be dinner-time," he said. - -In fact the tall clock on the landing began to strike the hour of six. - -"I'll be right down," said Mary. "Call the boys in." - -When she entered the dining-room she found her three sons seated and -the soup on the table, in its silver tureen. She ladled it out, and a -middle-aged waitress in black dress and white apron distributed the -plates. A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased on Mary's -entrance; both now sat in silence, looking sulkily at their plates. The -waitress left the room. - -"Well, what's the trouble now?" Mary enquired with a touch of irony. - -"I don't want Timothy to ride my horse, that's what!" declared Jim, in -his slow heavy voice. "He doesn't know how to ride. Last time he nearly -lamed--" - -"No such thing--the old horse cast a shoe, that's all," interrupted -Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. "It isn't your horse any more -than it's mine, anyway--" - -"It is. Father gave it to me--" - -"He said I was to learn to ride on it--" - -"He didn't say you were to take it when I want it, and lame it--" - -"I didn't lame it, confound you!" - -"Timothy!" - -Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy glanced at her -resentfully. - -"That will do, now. I won't have any such language here--or any -quarrelling either." - -Silence ensued. Timothy sent one flaming look across the table at Jim, -who responded by a slight superior smile. Jim was self-controlled and -knew how to seem reasonable in his desires; while Timothy generally -put himself impetuously in the wrong. The maternal decision was almost -certain to be given on the side of Jim, and both boys knew this. -Timothy bent his black brows, smarting under a familiar sense of -injustice. But Jim's certainty of triumph was tempered by a shade of -caution; Timothy, if their disputes came to a fight, had more than a -chance to beat him. Timothy never knew when he was beaten. - -At the head of the table, opposite Mary, stood Laurence's vacant -chair--a stately carved armchair, like hers. A cover was laid for him, -as always; for his presence was never certain, always possible. At the -right of his place sat the youngest of the family, a boy of fourteen, -blond and pale. His large grave blue eyes rested now on Jim's face, now -on Timothy's, now sought his mother's, with a troubled wistful look. -His face had a quivering sensitiveness; yet with its broad open brow -and square chin, it had strength too. - -The setting sun struck into the room between the heavy looped curtains -of plush and lace, cast a red light over its dark walls and carpet, -its shining mahogany, glittered on silver and crystal. In the centre -of the table covered with heavy white damask stood a massive silver -arrangement holding bottles of oil and vinegar, salt, pepper and -spices, and serving also for decoration. Crystal decanters of sherry -and claret were placed on either side. - -The soup being removed, Mary carved roast-beef and dispensed vegetables -with a liberal hand. The continued silence did not disturb her; it -was usual at meals, unless Laurence or a guest were present. She -pursued her own thoughts, occasionally glancing with calm pride at her -offspring. They were all handsome boys. Timothy was very like Laurence, -Jim was like her. But the youngest, John, was unaccountable, he did not -resemble either of his parents, or his brothers. He was like a stranger -in the family; in mind and character too he was strange to them all. -Yet with an unchildlike, almost uncanny sympathy, he seemed to know -them better than they knew one another. Long illness--he had never -grown strong--had perhaps given this delicacy to his mind as it had -to his body. Yet he seemed built for strength too. His shoulders were -broad, his large head nobly poised. His hands, with broad palms and -long sensitive fingers, curiously united strength and delicacy. - -He alone felt the silence. The others, absorbed in themselves, took it -as a matter of course. But he, depressed by it, sighed, hardly touched -the beef and heavy pudding, and more than once looked at his father's -empty chair regretfully. - -Mary's eye at length fell upon Jim in the act of filling his -claret-glass for the third time. She frowned. - -"I've told you that I don't want you to drink more than one glass of -wine at meals," she said. - -"Oh, this light wine--Father doesn't mind," said Jim easily. - -"He doesn't want you to _drink_. And I won't have it. I won't have wine -on the table at all if you can't do as I wish." - -Jim shrugged his shoulders. - -"Oh, well, let's not quarrel about it," he murmured, and pushed away -the wine-glass. - -His tone was amiable, he even smiled at her. But Mary knew that Jim was -not so easily managed as that. He would seem always to yield to her -wishes, would never openly oppose her, but he managed almost always to -do as he pleased. He had an unsounded depth of quiet obstinacy. And -he was secretive too, never explained himself. Timothy was much more -frank, and more violent, hence was constantly getting into hot water -and usually was in a state of revolt. Mary's rules were strict and -not elastic to the needs and impulses of growing youth. She had felt -strongly the duty of implanting good principles in her boys, and of -repressing the ebullitions of the old Adam. While they were very young -she had succeeded in teaching them to tell the truth, to respect other -people's property rights, and to conform a good deal to her standards -of behaviour. But as they grew out of childhood, she lost touch with -them, gradually, unconsciously. She looked after their health, their -schools; they found their amusements for themselves. Withdrawn in -growing isolation, in a dumb struggle with growing unhappiness, her -spirit had no youth, no buoyancy, to keep pace with theirs. While -in infancy they depended completely upon her and she could suffice -to all their wants, they had given her contentment. Now it was no -longer a simple relation; she tried to banish or ignore its growing -complexities; but they made her uneasy. She had a feeling that her duty -was not done, but she did not know how to do it; her rule of life was -too simple, too rigid, to meet its problems. - -John's childhood had lasted longer than the others; his ill health -had made him longer dependent on her physical care. But here a rival -affection had taken John's love and interest away from her.... When -John was ten he had scarlet fever, and Laurence insisted on nursing -him, devoted himself day and night to the boy; and through the long -convalescence, spent with him all the time he could wrest from his -business. From that time, John had depended on his father in a way -that, Mary felt acutely, he never had on her; with a feeling that grew -as he grew. With passionate rejecting jealousy she stood apart; felt -herself superseded; would not, could not, make an effort to recover -her hold. John had been all hers; she would not share his love, though -he made many timid efforts to draw her in. She felt her loss the more -bitterly that he was the most beautiful of her children; he was, she -knew, the flower of them all. There was something in him that hurt her -by its beauty; the same thing that she had felt in her youth, sometimes -in music, sometimes in a human expression. Something that called to -her spirit, an appeal that she could not meet, that made her restless. -Something that she had missed in life, had never been able to grasp, to -realize. - -She did not always feel this. Sometimes she had a surface contentment, -a pride merely in being the mother of three fine lads and in the -outward show of authority; in her worldly dignity too. Her position, as -the wife of a man of distinction and power, commanded public respect. -And then, she had made a place for herself in the life of the town. She -was an intellectual leader among the women; president of their literary -society; a moving force in the work of the church and in charity. So -long as proper deference was paid to her, she could be counted upon -for faithful, even arduous work. But she would not suffer any rivals; -would engage in no contest for power; and haughtily withdrew before -opposition to her will. Whereupon, the value of her influence and -activity being almost a tradition, any sister who might have dared -approach the throne would be suppressed. - - * * * * * - -The meal being over, the family promptly dispersed. That is, the two -elder boys vanished, to continue their disagreement about the horse. -Mary walked absently into the library, having in mind the composition -of a paper on the Greek dramatists for the literary club. She stood for -a moment by one of the long windows, looking out on the lake. - -The scene had changed, in these ten years. Instead of rough pastures -and the loneliness of the prairie, she saw now green lawns sloping -down to the dull-blue water; dotted on its banks were modern houses -sheltered by clumps of trees; and a little fleet of pleasure-boats rode -on its surface. The clear golden light of evening lay over all; the -branches of the trees waved and the water rippled in the fresh breeze. -Merry voices rose from the lake; some one in a boat was singing. - -A faint stir beside her made Mary turn her head. John stood there, his -footstep had made no noise on the thick carpet. - -"It's such a beautiful evening. Don't you want to come out with me on -the lake, Mother?" he asked in his rather nervous fluttering voice. - -"I'd like to--but I have some work to do," she said quickly. - -She seldom went out in the boat. She hated inactivity and mere -contemplation of any scene, however lovely; indeed, the lovelier it -was, the more painful. But now she saw John's wistful and disappointed -look. - -"Won't any of the boys go with you?" she asked gently. - -"No, I don't think so, they've gone out to the stable.... Did Father -say when he'd be home?" he asked, hesitatingly. - -"No, he never does." - -With this sharp answer, Mary walked away toward her desk. But then she -stopped and with an effort said: - -"I will go with you, John, if you want." - -"No, never mind--I thought you might like it, it's such a nice -evening--but you're busy--" - -"No, I have time enough, I'll just get my cloak." - -But now his sensitive face showed distress, and he protested: - -"I'd rather not--really. I know you don't like the boat so very much, -only I thought.... I'll go myself." - -He moved toward the door. - -"Perhaps Timothy would like to go--" - -"No, he won't--but no matter, I rather like to drift around, alone, and -look at the water." - -"Shall I play to you a little, first?" asked Mary. - -His face lighted up. - -"Why, yes--if you have time--" - -She led the way across the hall, where the lights had just been lit -and gleamed on the dark-red walls and the bronze statues of Mercury -and the Venus of Milo. The grand piano stood in one of the parlours: -its glossy lid was seldom raised. John drew a chair up beside it and -listened with a rapt face while Mary played his favorite, the "Grand -Sonata" of Beethoven, the only one she knew by heart. She made many -mistakes, her fingers were stiff from lack of practice; but still she -played conscientiously, with a feeling, a respect for the music. John -sat facing the window and the fading golden light. She glanced at him. -His face had a look of unearthly radiance and joy that shot a sharp -pain through her. With difficulty she continued. At the last notes her -head sank, bent over the keyboard, and she sat in silence. He drew a -long breath. - -"Thank you--that's wonderful, I love it," he said. - -"I wish I could play it better," said Mary huskily. "I must practise." - -"You play it beautifully. Thank you, Mother," he repeated softly. Then, -hesitating, looking at her, he got up. - -"I'll go out now and row a while." - -She nodded, and he went. - - - - - II - - -She sat at her desk, looking over her notes on Æschylus, now and then -writing a few words on a large sheet of paper. Then she would stop and -look fixedly before her, trying to concentrate her thoughts. It was ten -o'clock, the two younger boys were in bed. But Jim was off somewhere. -And he had taken the black horse, Laurence's own horse, that the boys -were forbidden to touch--a big powerful brute, hard to control. Lately -Jim had often been out at night. She did not know where he went, and -he would not tell. He would say easily, "Oh, I just went for a ride, -there's nothing to do in this dead place." But she suspected that he -found something to do; he might be getting into bad ways. She thought -he smoked, in spite of her prohibition; certainly he showed a taste for -drink; there were other vices, too. Her lips were compressed bitterly -as she thought, such tendencies were inherited. Perhaps Jim couldn't -help himself.... - -The big house was silent as the tomb. On the desk burned a shaded lamp, -the rest of the room was in darkness. It was rather cold, the fires -had not been lighted yet. The house with its thick walls of brick was -almost always chilly unless the furnaces were going. She drew her black -wrap closer round her shoulders, and bent over her notes. - -Then she heard the door-bell faintly sounding. After a moment there -was a knock and Anna came in, the middle-aged woman who waited on the -table and the door. - -"Mrs. Carlin--there's somebody here that wants to see you. He asked for -Judge Carlin, and says he'll wait to see him." - -"Wait? But he may not be home for days! Who is it?" asked Mary -impatiently. - -"An old--an old gentleman. He didn't give his name. He says he'd like -to see you," said Anna neutrally. - -"Where is he? What does he want?" - -"He didn't say. He's in the hall." - -Mary rose and went out, stately in the black mantle that wrapped her -from head to foot, its collar of black fur framing her face. The -stranger stood, holding his hat in his hand, contemplating the bronze -statue of Mercury. He was a small grey-haired man, in a shabby but neat -dark suit. Some client of Laurence's, she thought. She spoke to him. - -"Good evening. Did you want to see Judge Carlin?" - -He turned and looked at her. His thin smooth-shaven face showed a -rather shy, pleasant smile. - -"Yes--I'm Laurence's father," he said, in a gentle laughing tone. - -Mary stared at him. - -"I don't wonder you're surprised.... I was passing through here, -and thought I'd like to see you all," the old man said, without the -slightest embarrassment. "But I hear Laurence isn't at home." - -"No--but he may be--tomorrow, or almost any time," stammered Mary, at a -loss. - -"Well, then, I'll come again. I may be in town a day or so." - -"But--why, you must stay here, of course," protested Mary blankly. - -"Oh, I couldn't think of discommoding you--" - -"Discommoding? Why, of course not. Come right in. I'll get a room ready -for you at once." - -"Please don't let me give any trouble," he pleaded, smiling. "I can -stay at the hotel quite well." - -"Hotel? Of course not," she said, bewildered. - -What a queer old man, to drop from the skies like this--and so -perfectly at his ease about it! Was he Laurence's father or an -impostor? Was it right to take him in? He did not look as if he -had money enough to stay at the hotel. Certainly she couldn't turn -Laurence's father out! - -"Come in," she repeated with an effort, turning toward the library -doors, then stopping. "Wouldn't you like some supper?" - -"No, thank you, I dined at the hotel." - -"Is your baggage there? I'll send for it." - -"No baggage. I haven't any," he said, with his whimsical smile. "I -travel light." - -In consternation Mary led the way into the library. No baggage! He -must be a vagabond. To disappear for twenty-five years, and come back -like this, as if it were yesterday! It was certainly not a respectable -proceeding. He hadn't even an overcoat. Nothing but the worn felt hat, -which he had still carried in his hand as he followed her--as if he -were a casual visitor, come to stay half an hour.... - -She felt the chill of the big dimly-lit room, and went toward the -chimney-place. "There's a fire all ready here--" - -"Let me light it," he said. - -Nimbly he laid down his hat, knelt on the rug, and in a moment had -the fire going. The kindling blazed up, the dry wood caught. A more -cheerful light brightened the dusky room. The fire-place was broad and -deep, it held three-foot logs. Soon there was a glorious fire. - -They sat down before it, in armchairs facing one another. The old man -spread his hands to the blaze with enjoyment. His gaze rested on Mary -with admiration, then wandered round the room. - -"You have a fine place here," he said cheerfully. "How long have you -lived here?" - -"Ten years, Laurence built the house." - -She was scrutinizing him with covert glances, trying to find some -resemblance to Laurence. - -"Yes, so I heard.... Laurence has certainly done well, remarkably well. -I always thought he would--he was a smart boy," said this strange -parent calmly. - -No, he wasn't at all like Laurence, there was no resemblance in his -spare light frame, his long clear-cut face to ... yet there was -something familiar in his look. What was it? Something in the way his -thick grey hair grew over his forehead, his eyebrows.... Why, yes, -he looked like Jim--or was it Timothy? She had a sudden conviction, -anyhow, that he was what he assumed to be. - -With the assurance that this was a member of the family (however -unworthy) the duty of hospitality became manifest. Again she urged him -to have something to eat; he declined, but with a certain reservation -of manner which led her to say, though unwillingly: - -"Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?" - -"Thank you--if it doesn't trouble you too much--wine, or a little -whiskey--whatever is most convenient." - -Comprehending what he wanted, she brought from the dining-room a silver -tray, with decanters of whiskey and water, a glass and some biscuits. -The old man poured himself a modest drink, a third of a glass of -whiskey with a little water, and bowed to her. - -"I drink your good health.... Yes, Laurence is a fortunate man." - -"He has been very successful," she said gravely. - -"All the heart could desire--position, wealth, a fine family," he -continued musingly. "I'm glad to find him so well off.... Circumstances -have prevented me from knowing anything of it until today, when I -reached town." - -Circumstances! Mary gazed at him in mute astonishment. With an absent -air he filled his glass again and gazing at the fire went on, in a tone -of meditative detachment: - -"I have been a wanderer for the last quarter of a century--a rolling -stone. Much of the time I've been out on the coast--California and -so on--I went out there in fifty-five.... But I've seen the whole -country--a fine big country it is. I never liked to stay long in one -place, I'll soon be moving on. But passing through Chicago, I thought -I'd like to see what remained of my family.... Great changes--I didn't -know till I reached here and enquired, that they were all gone, except -Laurence.... Things change quickly, in this country. Chicago has grown -to an immense city, since I saw it last--and this town too, has become -very flourishing. I shouldn't have known it.... And all over the west, -cities springing up, there is hardly a frontier any more, the old -days are gone, the rough pioneer life. The whole country, almost, is -settled, civilized.... Yes, a great country, a great people." - -He basked in the warmth and drank his whiskey with gentle enjoyment, -gazing into the brilliant coals as though seeing there the whole vast -panorama that had passed before his eyes. Mary listened to him and -looked at him with a kind of fascinated surprise. He talked like a -visitor from the moon--so aloof, contemplative, as if he had no concern -in all this.... An old man who had deserted his family, run away, never -had known whether they were alive or dead, nor cared, apparently. -Disgraceful! A disreputable old man!... Yet there he sat, perfectly at -his ease, with no shadow of guilt, remorse, or regret on his placid -countenance. His grey eyes were clear and bright. His face was wise -and experienced, but hardly at all wrinkled, it had a queer look of -youth. His clothes were almost threadbare, but they were clean,--his -boots cracked on the side, but well polished. His hands were those of -a working-man, broad and stubby; but they showed no traces now of hard -work, the fingernails were clean and carefully trimmed. He smiled at -her. - -"You are Laurence's wife--but I don't know your name," he said with a -twinkle of amusement, but courteously. In spite of her disapproval, she -could not but smile at him as she answered. - -"Mary--a beautiful name, I always liked it. And you are Dr. Lowell's -daughter--I remember you as a slip of a girl, with wonderful flowing -hair.... And I remember your parents too. Are they living?" - -"My mother died two years ago," said Mary. - -"Ah, that was a loss, a great loss--I remember her, a strong woman, -impressive.... And your father--he goes on with his work?" - -"Oh, yes," Mary answered with astonishment. - -Of course he went on with his work, why shouldn't he?... But it came -to her with a shock that her father was really an old man, that people -thought of him as old. - -"I don't know what this town would do without Father," she said -quickly. "People depend on him--" - -She gazed pointedly and with a certain defiance at old Mr. Carlin, -who waved any possible comparison aside with a smile and a word of -hearty commendation of Dr. Lowell; and went on to enquire about other -old residents of the town, showing an accurate memory. A third time -he refilled his glass, and that emptied the decanter. The whiskey had -not the least visible effect on him. His hand was as steady, his eye -and speech as clear and unmoved, as Mary's own. She heard the clock -strike eleven, then the half hour, but still he chatted on, and she was -aware that she was entertained by him. Yes, he was an amusing, though a -scandalous old man; and conducted himself with propriety, even grace, -though all the time drinking whiskey as if it were water. - -At length he spoke of his grandchildren. Among other information he -had acquired this, that they were three in number and all boys. Now he -politely asked their names. Mary repeated them. - -"Timothy?" he questioned with surprise. - -"Yes, we named him after you," said Mary gravely. - -"After me!" - -For the first time she saw a flicker of emotion in his face. He set -down his glass, and looked at her with eyes troubled by that gleam of -feeling, almost distress. - -"Why did you do that?" he asked abruptly. - -"Why, James was named after my father, you see," Mary explained. "So -it was only right that the second boy should be named after you. It's -a matter of family feeling, it always has been so in my family. Our -youngest boy is named for my grandfather." - -"Family feeling," he repeated, mechanically. "Named after me.... So -there's another Timothy Carlin! I never expected it. Well, I hope--" he -stopped short, and after a moment took up his glass and drained it. "I -appreciate your remembering me, though I didn't expect it in the least. -I--I am touched by it. I should like to see the boys, and especially -my--namesake." His voice was a little uneven. - -"You will see them tomorrow.... But now, it's late, you must be tired. -Shall I show you to your room?" - -He followed in silence. Putting out the lights as she went, she led the -way through the lofty entrance-hall, up the thickly-carpeted stairs, -into the best spare-room, ready as always for a guest, since Laurence -often brought one unexpected. Mary lighted the room, and the old man -stood gazing round with a deprecating smile. It was a big room, with -high ceiling, furnished rather elaborately with carved black walnut, -enormous, heavy pieces. - -"It's much too grand for me," he said, humorously. "I shall rattle -around here like a dried kernel in a shell.... However, I thank you for -your hospitality." - -"Isn't there something I can get for you, something you need?" - -"No, thank you, my dear, I don't need anything," said the old man, with -his former manner of gentle cool composure. - - - - - III - - -The following day Laurence returned on the mid-afternoon train, but -stopped at his office, sending on a friend he had brought with him in a -hack with the valises. This was Horace Lavery, a Chicago lawyer, rather -a frequent visitor at the house. Mary was in the garden when the hack -drove up, and came round to see if it were Laurence. She gave Lavery -a stately, somewhat cool greeting. He was a man of middle age, florid -and rather stout, gay and talkative. Always a little dashed at first by -Mary's manner, he would speedily recover himself and amuse himself in -his own way. Now, a little embarrassed, he said, after dismissing the -hackman: - -"Well, here I am again. Laurence stopped down town, he'll be home by -seven.... Can I go upstairs and brush off, it was rather a dusty ride." - -"Yes, but not the usual room, we have another visitor--the one next to -it." - -"And shall I find you here when I come down?" - -"I'm working in the garden." - -"Perhaps I can help?" - -"If you do, you'll get yourself all dusty again." - -"Oh, I don't mind," he said effusively. "So long as it's in your -service." - -Mary laughed and turned away. She always laughed at Lavery's ponderous -gallantry. But under the sentimental surface that he presented to her -there was another man, of whom she caught occasional glimpses that -interested her. At present, however, she was vexed at his coming. -She preferred to see Laurence alone, to break to him the news of his -parent's reappearance. And what would Lavery, with his glossy freshness -of apparel and man-of-the-world air, think of a shabby parent, suddenly -produced? She didn't care, though, what Lavery thought, except that it -might vex Laurence. She wished she had telegraphed him. She might send -down to the office ... but no, he would be immersed in work, and only -the more upset by it. She went slowly back into the garden, a favourite -spot with her; it had been laid out years ago by her father, and he -often came to help her with it. - -Dr. Lowell had enjoyed having a good deal of money to spend on a -garden. It was enclosed by a brick wall covered with creepers on two -sides, the house on the third side, the other open, overlooking the -lake. There were gravel-walks, white wooden benches and trellises, -and in the centre, a sun-dial. The flower-beds had been touched by -the frost; but still blooming were verbenas and many-coloured asters. -The dead leaves had been raked up and smouldered here and there in -blackened heaps, sending out a sweet pungent smoke. Mary, bare-headed, -in a long black cloak, was down on her knees digging up bulbs when -Lavery approached, freshly groomed and enveloped in a delicate scent of -Florida-water. - -"Let me do that," he urged, bending over her. - -"What? In those immaculate clothes? You don't mean it." - -"I do--I'll sacrifice the clothes. Please get up and let me dig the -onions." - -"Onions! These are very rare bulbs, of a Chinese lily--they have to -be handled with great care and I always do it myself. So you may as -well sit down there and smoke your cigar. Some people are made to be -ornamental, you know, and others to be useful." - -"And some are both," said Lavery, looking down on her heavy rippling -hair. "And again, others are neither." - -He seated himself rather sulkily on the bench near by. - -"Of course I know I'm not handsome," he observed. "So that was rather a -nasty dig of yours about being 'ornamental.' But you made one mistake. -I _am_ useful." - -"Are you? For what?" enquired Mary, carefully separating bulbs. "I -always thought you just a bright butterfly." - -"You never thought about me at all," he declared with emphasis. "But I -have thought a good deal about you." - -He took out a cigar and a pearl-handled knife, cut the end of the cigar -neatly, and lit it with a match from a gold box. Then clasping his -broad white hands about his knee, he contemplated Mary's grave profile. -She seemed absorbed in her work and did not look up at him, nor betray -by the flicker of an eyelash any interest in what he thought. Still -less did she enquire into it. The silence lasted until he broke it, -petulantly. - -"Mrs. Carlin, why do you dislike me?" - -"I don't dislike you--at least I think not." - -"You think not! Don't you know whether you do or not?... You strike me -as a person who would know her own mind!" - -"Yes--but I'm not very quick about making up my mind. I don't feel I -know you at all well." - -"You've known me for two years.... How long does it take you to make up -your mind?" - -"Well, that depends--longer now than it used to. I don't feel that I -know very much about anybody. I used to be more sure about things." - -She lifted the last of the bulbs into the basket, and rose to her feet. - -"Won't you sit here and talk to me a little?... I almost never have -a chance to talk to you alone--that's why we don't know one another -better." - -She looked at him and smiled faintly, but the shadow of sadness and -weariness did not lift from her face. - -"I have some things to see to in the house--and then I must dress--" - -"But it's hardly five now." - -"Yes." - -She sat down on the bench, brushing the dust off her black cloak. - -"I like," said Lavery discontentedly, "to be friendly with people. I -don't like to be held off at arm's length and looked at as if I were a -queer beetle or something--or not looked at, that's even worse!" - -"Do you think I do that?" Mary enquired. - -"Yes, you do! You treat me as if I were hardly a human being!" - -"Oh, how absurd!... You're a different kind of human being, that's all, -you belong to a different world." - -"How a different world? I'm Laurence's friend, why can't I be yours?" - -A sudden sternness, a definite recoil, in her expression, warned him -off this ground. - -"How could you be my friend? There is nothing in common between you and -me," she said coldly. - -"Now, how do you know there isn't? You say yourself you don't know -me!... But I think you've made up your mind that you don't want to ... -you think I'm frivolous and ridiculous, because I manage to enjoy life, -don't you now? A middle-aged butterfly, a mere sensualist--isn't that -it?" - -"Well--something like that," Mary admitted. "But it oughtn't to matter -to you what I think.... I told you I don't understand people very well, -the older I get the less I understand them, and I can't make friends." - -This quiet statement had an air of finality. He was silent, looking at -her thoughtfully, with a keen shrewdness, a questioning puzzled gaze. - -"Well, friends or not, I admire you very much," he said abruptly. "I -hate to have you think me such a poor creature." - -"I imagine it won't disturb you very much, if I do. You wouldn't care -much for any woman's opinion, you like to amuse yourself with women but -you don't take them seriously, you look down on them. You think they're -all alike and that a few compliments and pretty speeches are all they -want or can understand. You like to take them in, and then laugh at -them, it amuses you.... And men too--you like to play with people, try -experiments. You're more cool-headed and sharp than most people, you -think almost every one is a fool, in some way or other, and you like -to find out how--turn them inside out. That's how you enjoy life." - -"Well, by Jove!" Lavery stared at her. "So you _have_ given me some -attention, after all--I wouldn't have guessed it! Now, do you know, -you're right about some things, but that isn't the whole story--" - -Mary stood up and took her basket. - -"No, I suppose not, but I must go in now." - -Reluctantly he rose, and walked with her to the door. - -"You're a severe judge--you won't even let the criminal speak in his -own defence," he said with some feeling. "'Give every man his deserts -and who should 'scape hanging?' Don't you think you might show a little -mercy?" - -"I believe in justice," said Mary, with a sudden hardening of her face. -"That's what we all get--not mercy." - -The bitterness of her tone remained with him after she had gone.... He -told himself that he would make her talk yet, he would find out what -was the trouble in this household, the shadow that hung over it. He had -tried to find out from Laurence, but in vain; even when he was drunk, -Laurence wouldn't talk about his wife. - - * * * * * - -Mary was dressed and listening for Laurence long before he came. Her -father-in-law had disappeared for the whole afternoon, and had not yet -returned; he had told her that he was going for a long walk, and John -had accompanied him. Mary perceived that the old man was very tactful. -She had seen it in his meeting with his grandsons, the manner in which -he at once took a certain place with them. He did not assert himself -in the least nor stress the relationship; he treated them not like -children, but with the courteous interest due to new acquaintance, -without familiarity. The two elder boys rather hung back from him; but -John had at once been friendly; they were all in some way impressed by -him. - -It was dark, the lamps had been lighted, when Laurence came. Lavery was -strolling about the lawn and met him; and they came upstairs together -and went into Laurence's room, laughing. Mary waited impatiently till -finally Lavery went to dress; then she knocked at Laurence's door -and entered. He was in his dressing-room, splashing vigorously, and -answered with surprise when she spoke to him. In a moment he came out, -wrapped in a loose robe, his thick black hair and beard wet and rough. - -"Laurence, something strange has happened. Some one is here--you -haven't heard?--your father has come." - -A look of apprehension on his face quickly gave place to astonishment -as she ended. - -"My father!... What the deuce!" - -He looked dismayed; then as she went on to describe the new arrival, -incredulous. - -"I don't believe it's my father. He wouldn't turn up like this after -twenty-five years without a word!... I've thought for a long time he -was dead." - -"Well, he isn't--it's your father, sure enough." - -Laurence, with a blank look, towelled his head and neck. - -"Jesus Christ!" he ejaculated. - -He went and stared into the mirror, rubbing his hair till it stood up -wildly all over his head. There were threads of grey all through it, -but the beard that covered his mouth and was cut square below his chin -was intensely black, and so were his arched brows, beneath which the -narrow eyes showed still their vivid blue. His broad shoulders, the -joining of the massive neck, were strong, unbowed. - -"What did you do with him?" he asked abruptly. - -"Put him in the best bedroom and gave him your special whiskey," said -Mary. - -"The deuce you did!... Killed the fatted calf, eh?... Well, where is he -now?" - -"He went to walk with John--John took a great fancy to him." - -"He did?" Laurence's face changed subtly, relaxed. "Well, that's -something.... But, say--it's awkward about Lavery being here. I wish -I'd known." - -"I might have telegraphed, but I didn't know where you were," said Mary. - -"You can always reach me at the hotel," he said sharply. - -She moved toward the door. - -"I wish to the deuce Lavery wasn't here," he muttered. - -"I wouldn't care about that." There was an edge in Mary's tone, but -with an effort she eliminated that touch of criticism. "Your father can -take care of himself--he's quite as much a gentleman as Lavery." - -"No, is he really?" - -Laurence turned round, a hairbrush in either hand, and gazed at her. - -"He's presentable, really?... I shouldn't have expected it." - -"He isn't very well dressed," said Mary quietly. "But you needn't be at -all ashamed of him. He's--there's something about him--well, I can't -describe it, but he has much better manners than Mr. Lavery." - -"Oh, you always have a knife up your sleeve for poor old Horace," said -Laurence, turning back again to the mirror and brushing vigorously. -"I'll be down in ten minutes--but I'd rather see him alone first, you -know. Do you suppose he's come back?" - -"I'll see." - -In the mirror Laurence's eyes dwelt on her tall figure and white face -shadowy in the background. He said slowly with an undertone of pain: - -"You look very beautiful tonight." - - - - - IV - - -Where Laurence sat was the head of the table; he dominated all by his -vivid colour, his intense physical vitality, and he kept the talk -going easily. He and Lavery were in evening dress, rather dandified, -with soft plaited shirt-bosoms and diamond studs. Old Mr. Carlin, -sitting between Timothy and John, appeared perfectly at ease in his -well-brushed suit. His bright grey eyes contemplated the scene and the -company with an aloof and philosophic interest. - -Mary, in her usual dress for the evening, of plain black velvet, cut -square at the neck, and with long close-fitting sleeves, was beautiful, -as Laurence had said and Lavery's long gaze recognized. She wore no -ornaments except a pair of heavy earrings of dull gold filagree. The -light from the big cut-glass chandelier over the table fell unshaded -upon her, bringing out the pale copper colour of her rippling hair and -the whiteness of her skin. It emphasized too the hollows in her cheeks -and at her temples, the lines of the forehead and of the neck below the -ear. Her face, as in her youth, was like a mask; but now it was a mask -of sorrow. Calm and unmoved in expression, it was yet an abstract of -sad experience. - -The years had left a more complex mark on Laurence. There were deeper -furrows in his brow and running down from the nostrils to bury -themselves in his black beard. A passionate expressiveness, a restless -irritability, spoke in his voice, his gestures, his constant flow of -talk. "Carlin's temper" was a proverb by now. A racial inheritance came -out strongly in him. He was "the black Irish"; dangerous at times. -But there was another side to this temperament. Often when he smiled, -and always when he looked at the boy who sat beside him, there was a -deep sweetness in his eyes, a deep tenderness. John's place was always -beside his father; he hung on Laurence's words and looks with hushed -eagerness. And Laurence, keenly conscious of the sensitive boy, was -careful what he said, instinctively suppressed anything that might -shock or hurt a young idealistic spirit; and never drank more than a -glass or two of wine, in his presence. - -The wine was always on the dinner-table, however. It was Laurence's -idea that the boys had better get used to seeing it, and to taking a -little now and then. Mary never touched it, and hated the sight of it; -but she had long since ceased to oppose Laurence in any detail of life. -The house was managed as he wished, though he was away more than half -the time. Now there were three kinds of wine on the table--sherry, -claret and port. Laurence was proud of his wine-cellar, down in the -deep foundations of the house. - -Lavery drank delicately. He had guided Laurence's choice of the -claret, and confined himself to that. He much preferred to remain -perfectly sober; especially when other people were drunk; but in any -case he disliked the least blurring of the fine edge of sensation -and perception. He liked to watch the play of human feeling, and to -guess what was going on below the surface; and for this one must -be alert and cool. He was immensely curious, for example, about the -human situation under his eyes. Old Mr. Carlin had suddenly come in -for a share of this interest. Lavery studied him across the table, and -addressed frequent remarks to him, with amenity. He discovered that the -old man, in point of quick wit, suavity and coolness, was by no means -his inferior, although the elder had, from the beginning of the dinner, -applied very steadily to each decanter in turn. - - * * * * * - -After the coffee Mary rose, as was her custom, leaving the men at the -table. The three boys followed her; Jim with evident reluctance. His -manly dignity was hurt at being classed with women and children; but -he was quite aware that his company would not be longer desired in the -room, where heavy drinking and free talk were apt to be the order of -the evening. Lavery sprang up to open the door for Mary, and she passed -out with a slight bow, the boys waiting till the edge of her long -velvet train had ebbed over the threshold. - -Timothy and John went upstairs to the billiard-room on the top floor; -and Mary, slipping her hand through Jim's arm, led him into the parlour -where the piano stood. She wanted to ask him about his excursion of the -night before--he had been out till three o'clock--but more than that -she wanted him to stay with her a little while. But Jim was restive, -wouldn't sit down. He feared an inquisition, and also he wanted to get -away to the stable and smoke. Mary, both irritated and hurt by his -unwillingness, spoke more sharply than she had intended. - -"Where were you all last night?" - -"I went out for a long ride," said Jim sulkily. - -"And were you riding from eight o'clock till three?" - -"No--I stopped a while to see a friend." - -"What friend?" - -"Oh, somebody you don't know--a fellow." - -Controlling himself, he answered more gently; his dark eyes met hers -imperturbably. - -"Well, you oughtn't to stay out all night!" - -"I didn't," said Jim reasonably. "And a fellow has to do something in -this dead place." - -"You shouldn't have taken your father's horse either, without -permission." - -"Why, Mother, he was simply spoiling for exercise--you know he doesn't -get ridden half enough." - -"I don't like you to ride him, he's dangerous--" - -"Oh, I can manage him, all right, don't you worry!" Jim smiled -cheerfully. "But I've got to run out now and see to the pony--he's a -bit lame still--" - -She let him go, turning away from him and walking to the end of the -long room. Yes, he wanted to escape--he had his own life now, was -beginning to be a man and to take his secret way, like the rest of -them. Her mouth curved bitterly. She did not believe Jim, about the -friend--she suspected something else, and she recoiled jealously, -miserably.... Yes, her son too--he was like the rest.... - -She stood by the open window, looking out blindly on the garden. The -night was mild, it was moonlight, greenish, like a glowworm's light. -The long lace curtains waved inward in the soft breeze. There were -sounds of life astir all about. She heard a burst of laughter from the -dining-room; then the faint click of the billiard-balls and a shout -from Timothy. Then, on the lake, some one began to sing Schubert's -boat-song. A clear soprano trilled out joyously the song of love and -youth.... - -A piercing sense of loneliness, of life passing by her, leaving her, -stabbed to her very heart. She gave a long, shuddering sigh.... Youth, -love--they had passed by. Like the song growing fainter, receding into -distance. And the bitter thing was, one did not realize them till they -were gone. The sweetness of life--all it was, might have been--one -did not feel it till it had slipped away.... Gone, lost--then, in -loneliness you felt it.... - -Some one came into the room. She turned, and at sight of her face, -Lavery's gay apology dropped half-spoken. He came and stood beside her -at the window. - -"I hate music," she said abruptly. "Some one was singing out there. It -makes one sad.... It makes one remember all the things--" - -"I don't like it myself," said Lavery, when she stopped as abruptly. -"Unless it's an opera--with gay dresses, lights, all that--then it -distracts you." - -"That's trying to shut it out, the sadness of life. Like making merry -in a room, shut in, with a storm outside." - -"Well, you know, that's the sensible thing to do. You _have_ to shut it -out." - -"But supposing you _can't_?" - -He met the misery of her eyes, her voice, with a gravity that he seldom -showed to any one. - -"We all have to go through that phase," he said curtly. "A kind of -despair. It comes--and passes, generally." - -"Does it? Does it pass?" - -"I think it does.... You see, it's natural. It comes to us at the end -of youth--it's the end of some things--then we have to take stock, see -what we've spent, what we've got left to go on with--" - -"And supposing we've spent everything?" - -"Well, that isn't likely--though it may look so. Most of us go through -a kind of bankruptcy. The hopes and ambitions of youth are gone--our -dreams are gone, as a rule. We face what we've actually done, what -we're really capable of--it doesn't correspond to what we believed -we could do, what we thought we were. The reality is hard, and we -despair.... But then, we get our second wind, so to speak, and go on, -somehow." - -"Do we? But why? Why go on--" - -"Well, most of us by that time have certain ties, responsibilities, -we're necessary, or think we are--" - -"But if we _don't_ think we are? If we're not needed?" - -Her lips quivered, her tone was hard and desperate. - -"Well, then--there may be some work we're interested in. Or if not -that, there's a good deal of pleasure to be got out of life, you know, -if one understands how to do it." - -"Pleasure?" - -"Yes, surely.... Youth doesn't appreciate the good things of life, it's -too eager, too intent on its own purposes.... The real pleasures of the -mind and the senses come later--they're the consolation for what we -were speaking of." - -"No, no! That's no consolation! It's impossible to live that way!" - -"You want to keep your youth," he said. "I think you're suffering from -youth unlived." - -"Youth unlived!" she repeated, in a low voice. "I didn't have it ... it -went by me somehow--" - -"Yes, and now you want it." - -"I don't want anything!" - -"That's what we say when we can't get what we want," observed Lavery. -"But then, we take what we can get." - -"No, I hate that!" she burst out. "That resignation, creeping into old -age! No, I can't live that way. That's being beaten!" - -"Well, most of us _are_ beaten," Lavery said philosophically, showing -his brilliant teeth in a smile. "But then, as I said, there are -consolations--" - -"No, there's no consolation for that." - -She moved, sat down on one of the long sofas, looking straight before -her with a fixed absent gaze. Lavery dropped into a chair beside her, -contemplative, admiring. - -Emotion was becoming to her. It called a faint colour to her cheeks -and lips, gave light to her still grey eyes. In some ways she looked -strangely young. The lines of her figure were wonderfully girlish.... -But also she looked as though she had lived ... not happily, though. -He judged a sympathetic silence best at the moment, though there were -a lot of things he wanted to say. He would have liked to preach his -own gospel of enjoyment, he thought he could be rather eloquent on -that theme. But still more he wanted _her_ to talk, so he was quiet, -glancing now and then about the big room, whose furniture had too much -gilt to suit him. His own taste ran to very quiet though rich effects, -and he thought the house "rococo" and out of date. Still, in a way, the -gilding and light stuffs and long mirrors made a good setting for her -tall figure in its sombre dress and her tragic face.... She sat there, -looking into space, apparently forgetting that a pleasant confidant was -at her elbow. She hadn't a touch of the ordinary agreeable coquetry, he -reflected--didn't seem to realize that people of their age could still -be agreeable to one another. Rather barbarous ... yes, both Carlin -and his wife were a little uncivilized. They would fit better into a -former, doubtless more heroic age, than into the present time. There -was a slightly rough-hewn pioneer quality about them. But, perhaps from -that very thing, they were both interesting, decidedly so. And he could -wait indefinitely for the interest to develop. His calm pulses never -hurried now for anything. - -His thought reverted to Laurence and to the old gentleman whom he had -left drinking whiskey. A queer fish, Laurence's father--he had never -known Laurence _had_ a father. A black sheep probably. Laurence was -plainly nervous about him. It was the tactful thing to leave them -together--even if there hadn't been Mrs. Carlin alone in here, needing -somebody to talk to. Laurence neglected her, that was quite evident, -and she felt it bitterly.... He wondered, with narrowed gaze, how much -she knew about Laurence's life. He could tell her a good deal more than -she knew, probably--but, naturally, he wouldn't. - - - - - V - - -The constraint that Laurence had felt from the moment of meeting his -long lost parent--for their parting rose up before him, the memory of -a blow--had vanished. The old man had brushed it away, as soon as they -were alone, by a quiet net statement. - -"You mustn't think, Laurence, that I've come back to fasten myself on -you. I shall stay here only a day or so. I have my own life, and I -don't need anything from you." - -"That isn't what I was thinking of--" - -"I know, but this is what I want to say, it would be ridiculous for me -to act as if I had any claim on you, after everything. I don't feel -any, don't expect anything. Naturally you couldn't have any affection -for me, I wouldn't have any place here, even if I wanted it. And I -don't need any money. I just wanted you to understand it." - -"Of course you have a claim--" - -"No, no, I gave all that up a long time ago, cut off that sort of -thing, by my own will, you know. I wasn't made for family life. -Couldn't stand it.... Of course I know you have a grudge against me, -and quite right. I didn't do my duty by my family, that's a fact. -Should never have had a family." - -They were sitting before a fire in the library. The old man had -refused the cigar Laurence offered, and was smoking a short black pipe. - -"I suppose we all feel that way at times," said Laurence moodily. - -"Yes, but most struggle along with it. I did, for a good many years, -not very well, though. It was against the grain. I got caught in the -wheel of things, it was grinding me to pieces." - -"The wheel of things," Laurence repeated absently. - -"Yes, and of course through a woman. They get us into it. Your mother -was a good woman, I've nothing to say against her. I fell in love with -her, that wasn't her fault, nor mine either.... But 'twas she led me -to the priest, and then over to this country. She was of better family -than me, you see, her father was a squire; and she had a great ambition -to get on in the world and be genteel. When she saw I couldn't do it, -she got bitter to me. Oh, it was all natural, she wanted her children -to be well off, educated. You can remember how we lived, nobody could -blame your mother, I didn't myself, but she made it hell to me. I -wanted to be my own master and have time to think.... So I cut loose -from it." - -Laurence nodded brusquely, but frowned, gazing at the neat, -gentle-voiced old man. - -"'Twas wrong, of course," old Timothy went on reflectively. "From the -usual point of view. But I can't say I'm sorry I did it. I've had time -to look about me and to learn some things. I always had a thirst for -learning--books and ideas--" - -"Yes, no doubt! But perhaps you don't know how my mother lived!" said -Laurence bitingly. - -"I couldn't have bettered it," the old man replied tranquilly. "I -couldn't really, Laurence. The drink had got hold of me, I'd have gone -from bad to worse. I couldn't help it ... 'twas because my life was -miserable, I was only a dumb brute, like an ox, just living to work, -feed and sleep. 'Twas no life for a man." - -"It wasn't a life for my mother, either, was it?" - -"No, but women can stand it better than we can, they don't like it but -it doesn't kill their souls.... I'd have drunk myself to death in a few -years. 'Tis they get us into it anyway--they're bound to the wheel, and -they draw us in. They think of food and clothing and being respectable. -A man has got other things to think of--he can't spend his life feeding -a lot of hungry mouths.... Nine we had, but they mostly died when -babies, the better for them." - -The old man leaned forward to shake the ashes out of his pipe, and -smiling, he added: - -"Of course I don't expect you to think anything but ill of me. You -always took your mother's part, and 'twas right.... And now you've got -a family of your own and done well by them, and you've got up in the -world--you'll feel accordingly and look down on me, naturally." - -"I don't look down--!" - -"Oh, maybe not because of the money and the fine house, I don't mean -that. But you're in the big machine, I'm not. You're a success, I've -been a failure, from a social point of view--" - -"Success?" said Laurence. - -Sunk deep in the big armchair, his head bent forward, he stared at the -fire from under his bent brows. - -"Surely. You're a big man here, Laurence, I found out--you've made -a fine name for yourself. You've got wealth too, a real lady and a -beautiful one for a wife, three fine boys--and this house you live in, -why, it's a palace." - -There was a faint veiled irony in the old man's voice. - -"Your mother would have been proud to see you, Laurence." - -"But you're not, eh?" Laurence smiled aggressively. "You've got -something else in your mind." - -"Well--yes ... I don't care much for all this. I find a man needs very -little to live, and all the rest is waste, so I think." - -"You've become a philosopher," growled Laurence. - -"Yes," the old man chuckled. "Long ago I took to the road. Since then -I've never owned anything nor had any care for the morrow. I travel -like the birds and pick up my living as I go." - - * * * * * - -Laurence made no comment but continued to gaze into the fire, sunk deep -in reverie. He looked very tired; his whole big frame relaxed, his -eyelids drooped. - -But he was thinking--or rather, whole scenes from the past were -flashing by him, things long forgotten, it seemed.... After a rather -long silence he said dreamily: - -"You know Pat was killed at Shiloh, I suppose?" - -"I heard he was killed, yes--that is, I didn't know it till I got back -here." - -"And you didn't know my mother was dead, either--or what had become of -me?" - -"No, Larry, no--how could I?" - -The old man filled his pipe again from a bag of tobacco that he carried -in his pocket. - -"Well, you _are_ an old bird," said Laurence sardonically. - -"Family isn't the only thing," was old Timothy's calm response. -"'Tisn't even the main thing." - -"Oh, what is, in your opinion?" - -"Why, a man's work--his ideas." - -"Work? I thought you didn't work." - -"I don't work for a boss, or for a society that only wants to exploit -me, and I haven't these many years. I've gone hungry rather, lived with -the lowest and _off_ them too, rather than that. Once I got out of that -hell, I wouldn't go back into it, sooner starve.... But I work for what -I'm interested in." - -"And what's that?" - -"The big change that's coming, Larry. The day when there'll be real -freedom for every man." - -The old man paused, then said abruptly: - -"You're your mother's son. It's her blood in you that's made you go the -way you have.... On my side we go another way. Far back my people were -all rebels. Hardly a man of 'em died in their beds.... There's a bigger -war coming in this country, Laurence, than the one you fought in. There -you were on the right side of the fence, but now you're not--you've -gone over." - -"Gone over? Gone over to what?" - -"To the rich, to the capitalists, to the whole rotten system. You're a -pillar of it now." - -Laurence opened his eyes, looked interested. - -"Do you think so, Dad?" he enquired, using for the first time the -familiar address of long ago. - -"Sure I think so!" - -A pugnacious spark lit the old man's eye, his philosophic calm wavered. - -"I'd been better pleased, Larry, if you'd stuck by your own class. It's -men like you we need--you could have been a leader! But it's the old -story, so soon as a man of ours shows the ability, the other side gets -him--he goes after the fleshpots, and he's lost to us!" - -"There are no classes in this country, you're thinking of the old -world, Dad," said Laurence tolerantly. - -"There's always two classes--them that have and them that want!" -declared the old man curtly. - -"You're for a class-war, then?" - -"I'm for it!... Not for myself, thank God the day's long past, if -it ever was, when I wanted anything for myself. But I belong to the -Knights of Labour and I've travelled the country over, helping to -organize here and there. I see the big fight coming. This country's -changed. The rich get richer and the poor poorer. The big fortunes are -piling up. You'll see ... you'll see." - -"You're a true Irishman, Dad, always spoiling for a fight--always -against the powers that be." - -"And you come of the same stock, but you've gone back on it! Maybe -you've sold yourself to the powers that be!" - -"No," said Laurence coolly. "No man can say that of me. Look over -my record, if you like to take the trouble. Ask what my reputation -is.... You'll find I've stood for the poor and oppressed as much as -you, or maybe more--I've fought many a poor man's case against a rich -corporation, and won it too." - -"Then how did you get all this?" - -The old man waved his hand, clasping the stubby black pipe, and fixed a -shrewd sparkling glance on his son. - -Laurence laughed abruptly. - -"Partly by inheritance, by investments, speculation sometimes, not by -bribery or corruption!... But it seems rather funny to me that you -should drop down on me this way, all of a sudden, and accuse me! Yes, -by George, it's funny! Life is certainly amusing, at times." - -"You mean I haven't any right to call you to account," said the old man -placidly. "But I don't do it because you're my son--but because you're -a strong man that was born of us and ought to have stayed with us." - -"Us? You mean I ought to have been a day-labourer?... You're a fanatic, -Dad.... If you were so anxious to have me go the right way, why didn't -you stay and train me up?" - -"It was weakness, I know, but, as I told you, I couldn't stand your -mother, God rest her soul.... But of course I didn't see as much then -as I do now. I've picked up some education, I've studied Marx and the -Internationalists...." - -"And you're for revolution. I see. But it won't come, not in this -country, not anyway in your lifetime or mine, and then only slowly, by -degrees.... Oh, I've looked into those things as well as you. Social -questions interest me. I see the battle of opposing forces, and I'm on -your side too, on the side of the advance, as I see it. _But_--it won't -come by a sudden blow--not here. Little by little, as a man's frame -changes. This country's built on the English model, little as you may -like it, slow to change but yet changing.... And that's where I come -in. Don't you see the cause needs a friend at court? You can batter -away on the outside as much as you like, but you need somebody inside!" - -"Maybe.... That wasn't what made you want to get inside, though, was -it, Larry?" said the old man cynically. - -"Oh, I don't know.... I don't know why I wanted to." - -Laurence stood up, stretching his arms with a look of nervous fatigue. - -"I promised the boys a game of billiards--come on up, will you?" - -"All right, all right." - -Laurence stood a moment with his back to the fire, looking about -the room. Its length on two sides was filled nearly to the ceiling -with books. There was Judge Baxter's private library in its stately -bindings, and many of his law-books, huge bound volumes of reports, -"commonplace" books filled with his neat crabbed writing, ponderous -commentaries in calf. Laurence had done a good deal of work in this -room.... - -"I wanted to count for something," he said absently. "Who doesn't?" - -"Yes, but for what--that's the point! What's all this good for, that -you've got? Loot!" - -"I wanted," said Laurence, deep in his own thoughts and oblivious of -this condemnation, "I wanted--human happiness, more than anything. -For myself, yes--and for other people.... I wanted life to be more -interesting, richer than it was, with more pleasure in it.... Why not? -Why can't it be?... I tried, here in this town--" - -"Oh, I know!" broke in the old man impatiently. "Public improvements -and all that. Suppose they _have_ got cement sidewalks and lots of -trees? Suppose ye _did_ give 'em a library? I know they say you've done -a lot for the town ... but you want to be a big man, the patron, the -boss, and give it to 'em out of charity! That's the same old story, it -doesn't interest me. Give the people justice, they won't want charity!" - -"Justice!" murmured Laurence with an abstracted smile. - -"Well, their rights, then, if you like it better. I don't mean the kind -of justice that you deal them out, sitting up on your high seat!" - -"I deal them out the best I can find," said Laurence gently. "The law -gets re-made rather slowly, you know.... But I'll admit to you that I -don't sleep well, the night after I've sentenced a man." - -"I never thought to see that--you, Larry Carlin, sentencing people to -prison!" - -"No, I don't sleep well," said Laurence vaguely. - -He rubbed his hand over his eyes and shrugged his shoulders with a look -of weariness. - -"Well, shall we go up?" he said shortly. "I'm mighty sorry, though, -that you don't approve of me." - -"Yes, yes, I understand!" - -The old man laughed, and suddenly resumed his former manner, his -placidity, with an ease that indicated long practice in adapting -himself to shifting scenes and moods. - -"You're not responsible to me, God knows.... To each his own life, and -I'm not to be the judge of yours!... Anyhow, Larry," he added as they -went toward the door, "you got what you wanted." - -"Oh, yes--yes, I got it,--in many ways." - -"And now you've got it--you wouldn't say now, as many do, that it's -vanity and vexation of spirit?" - -"Oh, of course!" Laurence laughed abruptly. "Still, when you go after a -thing it's better to get it.... Then you can see what it's worth." - - - - - VI - - -The billiard-room, on a suggestion from the architect, taken up with -amusement by Laurence, had been made to resemble a European café. It -had a low ceiling, red-plush benches round the panelled walls, long -mirrors, and small tables in the corners; there was even a miniature -bar. - -Laurence, with his coat off, moved quickly round the green table, -leaning half-way across it sometimes to make a difficult shot, managing -his cue deftly and surely. The two younger boys followed his motions -eagerly. John, who was playing his first real game, had a flush of -excitement in his cheeks; his big blue eyes shone, he bit his lips -nervously and his hands trembled; he laughed gaily when he made an -awkward play. Timothy hung at his elbow, jeering and waiting anxiously -for his turn. In the doorway lounged Jim maintaining a slightly -supercilious attitude. Mary and Lavery were sitting on one of the -plush benches; and the senior Carlin, standing at a little distance, -contemplated the group round the table with interest. The men were -smoking, the air was a little hazy. With the bright lights reflected -in the mirrors, the click of the balls, quick movements and laughing -comments of the players, the others watching, all seemed drawn together -for the moment in an atmosphere of pleasure. - -Laurence's face had brightened, his eyes smiled. When John had made his -last play, a terrible fumble, and thrown down his cue angrily, he put -his arm round the boy's shoulders and shook him with tender roughness. - -"Be a good sport! You've got to lose before you win, you young monkey!" - -John frowned, stamped his feet, and wrenched away, yet his eyes too -smiled, and he hurried to fetch the chalk demanded by Timothy. Then -when Timothy blundered John murmured a consoling word, little attended -to, and when Timothy made a good stroke he applauded vigorously. Now -and then he glanced happily at his mother, watching for her smile, or -spoke to Jim, who only dropped his eyelids in answer; or went and stood -beside his grandfather for a moment. He showed a quick consciousness -of every one in the room, as though with infinitely delicate feelers -touching them all. His physical motions were awkward, with the rapid -growth of adolescence his arms and legs were somewhat out of control. -He jostled Timothy at a critical point and received an impatient -rebuff. Dashed by this, he stood apart for a while; and his face had -its wistful, listening look, as if he sought among them all the human -echo of some harmony heard far off. - - * * * * * - -After Timothy, it was Jim's turn. Jim had some pretensions to skill, -but bore a smashing defeat with good grace, and complimented his -father in an off-hand manly fashion, on which they shook hands with a -cordiality rare between them. Jim as a rule irritated Laurence, either -by obvious faults, laziness or extravagance, or else by silence and -lack of response, a standing difference of temperament. But tonight -Laurence looked at him affectionately, noting with pleasure his dark -good looks, his lithe youth. Jim was almost a man--next year he would -be going to college, if he could manage to pass the examinations.... So -time passes.... - - * * * * * - -Laurence was aware of a dark whirl of thoughts, half-formed, somewhere -at the back of his mind; and of a weight pressing on the nape of -his neck. For some time he had slept little and had been conscious -of an increasing fatigue, something that piled up day by day, and -made increasing effort necessary to get through each day's activity. -He would have to work tonight. Downstairs he had the papers of an -important case in which he had reserved decision.... And then there -were a lot of business matters to be gone over with Lavery.... - -But he was reluctant to leave this bright room, to break up the family -gathering. It was rare that they were all together like this; Mary -very seldom came up to the billiard-room. The occasion seemed to him -significant, and searching for the reason, he wondered if his father's -strange presence had anything to do with it, or with his own unusual -mood. Perhaps so. Perhaps it was this that had, as it seemed, thrown -him back into the past, had curiously removed him to a distance so that -this present scene had a kind of unreality.... It was like a scene on -the stage which he was watching as it were through a reversed glass, so -that the figures of the actors, his own included, appeared very tiny -and as if at an immense distance. He watched himself going through the -motions of the game, talking, laughing, and the others moving about. It -seemed that some drama was moving to an obscure but deeply significant -climax, but what was it all about? - -At times he came to the surface of consciousness with what seemed -like a crash, the lights and sounds smote his senses as if magnified, -the actors became life-size or even bigger, and he waited for them -or for himself to say or do some unheard-of thing.... All through he -was conscious of an effort in himself to appear as usual, not to do -anything extraordinary, not to lose touch with these human beings round -him, all of whom seemed invested with some strange charm, newly felt, -as though a hidden beauty in them had suddenly come into view.... - -At one moment he wondered if he were ill, or going to be; and put his -hand on the back of his neck, where the dull pain pressed heavily. From -across the room he saw John's eyes fixed on him earnestly; and smiled -at him. The shadow of trouble in another person would trouble John. -Strange boy! He was like a harp so delicately strung that a breath of -air would stir it. What would happen to him in this world of harsh and -jarring contacts?... The other two, he thought, would shoulder their -way through well enough. They were strong normal boys with a good -supply of egotism. The stock was sound.... - -He realized that he was looking at them all as though on the eve of -departure, a farewell before a long journey.... The room swam in a -dazzle of light. With an immense effort he pulled himself together, -vanquished the momentary faintness, gave no other sign than a pallor, a -rapid blinking of his eyes.... - -He found himself standing beside his father, before one of the long -mirrors, and replying to some remark half-heard. His vision cleared, -he looked at the two figures in the glass, curiously. Would any one -have taken those two for father and son? - -No. In the first place, the elder looked absurdly young, with his -smooth-shaven unwrinkled face and wiry figure. And then, he looked like -a foreigner; the Irish was unmistakable. Old Timothy had never taken -root in American soil, but floated like thistledown above it, for forty -years.... And the other one there, the black-bearded one--with age the -Irish came out in him too, unmistakably.... But he was an American, -born here, with no dim shadow of allegiance elsewhere. A son of the -soil, he had fought for its nationality--there was the sign, the old -sabre-cut, a faint white line across his cheek. And those old American -ideals, of liberty, equality--he had believed in them passionately, -felt them a living current in his blood, would have given his life for -them. He still believed in them--and surely nothing in his life had -given the lie to that belief? - -The old man there had questioned, doubted him, on the score of -this material luxury, this big house he had built--which, for that -matter, was as unsubstantial as a soap-bubble, he could almost feel -it dissolving under him.... Why, that only proved the equality of -opportunity here for every man, he had started empty-handed. Here in -this country the stream of fortune ran swift, capricious.... Men were -all like gold-washers on the banks of a river, today the current would -wash the golden grains one way, tomorrow another.... Why, tomorrow -this bubble of a house that he had amused himself blowing into shape, -might vanish, and he be left empty-handed.... What matter? It was all -unreal, anyway, all a dream, what he had tried to build.... - -It seemed to him that he had been saying some of these things to his -father, but he was not sure, there was a humming sound in his ears.... -Again there was a flash of clear sight. John was there beside him, now -there were three figures reflected in the mirror. - -"Three generations!" said Laurence. - -He spoke in his natural tone, the haggard pallor of his face changed -suddenly; he felt that John had noticed it, was watching him. - -"Look, Father, can you see any likeness among us three?" he asked. - -The boy stood between them, straight as a young sapling, the radiance -of his blond head like a beam of sunlight, a bow of promise across a -cloud. - -"No--no," said the old man thoughtfully. "I see it now in you and me, -Larry--there's the same blood. But I don't see it in the boy." - -"John isn't like any of us, anyhow," said Laurence, with the tender -tones that he always had for this child. "He makes us look like a -couple of scarred old logs, doesn't he?" - -"Ah, youth--that's the pure gold," said the old man softly. - -The boy smiled, deprecating, shrinking a little from their gentle -scrutiny. - -"It isn't that alone, there's something else, that's unaccountable," -Laurence pondered, as if speaking to himself. - -"It's the mother, perhaps--he's more like her. That's a different -strain," said the old man. - -Laurence turned and looked across the room. Mary had risen, was still -talking to Lavery, but she was looking straight at them, at the group -before the mirror. - -"Mary, come here a minute," called Laurence. - -She came, with her slow stately step, and Laurence put out his hand and -drew her to his side. - -"What is it?" she asked, with a faint tremulousness in her voice. - -The old man, standing a step apart, and looking at the other three, -replied. - -"We were thinking of the likeness.... Yes, it's more on your side--yet -I don't know--" - -"Mary and I are different enough, eh?" said Laurence with a slight -laugh. "That might account for almost anything. She's pure English, you -see--English Puritan.... It was two enemy races mating when we married, -eh, Father?" - -"That makes the American, maybe," said the old man, still curiously -intent on the boy. - -But John, embarrassed by this prolonged attention, now broke away and -left them. - -"He's not like either of us," said Laurence abruptly, watching the -boy's retreating figure. "That is, only a little. He's like a flower, -sprung from heaven knows where." - -Glancing again at the mirror he saw the quick response in Mary's face. -In the mirror their eyes met with a deep flash of sympathy. Yes, this -was something they both felt deeply and in common--the strange beauty -of this child who had, nevertheless, sprung from _them_, from their two -lives, however marred and futile.... Their union had at least produced -this thing of beauty.... - -They looked at one another with a deep sad gaze. Laurence, with a -sharpened vision, saw something in Mary's face new to him. The physical -change must have come slowly--Mary had not been ill for a long time, -that sharpening of the contours that gave her beauty its new delicacy -was perhaps only age. But what he saw was not physical. He saw suddenly -that she was grieving, suffering, he did not know why; it gave him a -quick throb of pain. He would have put his arm around her, but that she -moved away sharply. At the same moment he felt again the clouding of -his sight, the dizziness.... But, abruptly alleging that he must get to -work, he was able to leave the room with only a slight unsteadiness of -gait, which, he knew, might easily be attributed to another cause. - - - - - VII - - -Mary watched him go; and thought exactly what he had guessed she -would. She said it was time for the boys to go to bed. They all went -downstairs. In her own room she lit her reading-lamp, but instead of -undressing she stood for a time looking out the window on the lake. -Then, when the house was quiet, she turned slowly, reluctantly, to -her door, and stopping more than once she descended to the ground -floor. The hall was dimly lit. The library door was shut; she heard -the rustle of papers and the thud of a book falling. She opened the -door noiselessly. There was Laurence, with a wet towel round his head, -working at his desk.... And there was Lavery, in a deep chair beside -him, looking over some papers. She retreated without a word, but the -closing of the door betrayed her. - -It was Lavery who came out and found her, wrapped in her long coat, -undoing the chain of the front door. He picked up a coat and joined -her, not doubting that she wished him to do so. - -"Laurence oughtn't to work tonight," she said sharply. "He isn't fit to -work." - -"Well, I guess he has to--some papers he has to go over.... And he -always says he works best at night," drawled Lavery. "Fact is, though, -he's not looking well--complains of headache the last few days. Perhaps -he ought to ease off a little--rest, if possible." - -"Rest!" Mary said with a short laugh. "I never knew him to rest." - -"No, that's so--he seems geared up to a certain speed.... But after all -we have to relax a bit as we get older. The machine won't stand the -speed. And Laurence burns the candle at both ends." - -They were walking down a path toward the lake. Mary did not ask what he -meant. But he insisted. - -"I don't mind a man drinking anything in reason. But I think Laurence -is getting to depend too much on it--he has to key himself up to his -work. That wonderful natural energy seems to be failing him." - -Still she was silent, and Lavery turned to her. - -"Why don't you do something about it?" he asked abruptly. - -"Nothing that any one could say would make any difference to Laurence," -said Mary coldly. "He has always done exactly as he chose, and he -always will." - -"Oh, has he?" murmured Lavery. "It strikes me he would be more apt to -do what you wanted him to." - -Mary laughed. "What I wanted!" She turned angrily on Lavery. "You know -that isn't true!" - -At the same time she was amazed at herself--speaking like this, of -Laurence and herself, to a stranger. And the reckless other self -over-ruled this protest--it could speak to this man and it would. - -"You know I never interfere in Laurence's life. He lives as he chooses." - -"He lives the way he has to, I guess," said Lavery meditatively, "I -don't know that there's much choice about it." - -"Has to!" ejaculated Mary with contempt. "I should think you would be -ashamed to say that." - -They had approached the border of the lake, the breeze blew sweet and -chill. Mary sat down on a bench, and Lavery, buttoning his coat, sat -beside her. He knew he should catch cold, perhaps have an attack of -lumbago, but no matter! - -"Now why should I be ashamed?" he asked, puzzled. - -"Why, because--that's no way for a man to talk.... We don't have to do -what we don't choose to." - -"Oh, don't we?" he murmured again. And after a moment, "Suppose there's -a clash between two wills, two people--one has to go down, doesn't he, -one has to submit, can't get what he wants, has to take what he doesn't -want? How about that?" - -"I'm not talking about what we want, of course we don't always get what -we want. I'm talking about the way we live, whether we do what we know -we ought to do or not--and I say we don't have to live and do what we -know is wrong. I say a man ought to die rather than do that!" - -"Well, what _is_ wrong?" enquired Lavery mildly. "Now I'll tell you -what I think.... I think the most important thing for a man is his -work, his output. If he's got work that he believes in and loves, he's -got the best thing on earth. And anything's right for him that helps -him to do that work. And anything's wrong, for him, that prevents -him from doing it. For that's what he's _for_, that's his reason for -living, what he creates, that's why he's different from every other -human being, so he can do just that thing.... As for any other right -and wrong, I don't believe in 'em. We don't get right and wrong handed -to us, we have to make them as we go along." - -"Well, I am surprised, to hear you feel that way about work," said -Mary, showing her claws. - -"You think I don't work?... Well, perhaps you wouldn't recognize it.... -I admit the law isn't my work, as it's Laurence's, in the creative -sense. He's been able to stick to that and do what he was meant to -do--but he's had to pay for it. That's what the drink means, and--other -things that you don't like, perhaps." - -He paused a moment, he didn't want to seem malicious, but he went on: -"Laurence is a strong man. He's taken what he could get, to help him -do his work, and I say he was right. But it wasn't what he wanted. He -didn't want drink and other women, not seriously. It was trouble with -you that made him turn to them." - -She sat marble-still, not an eyelash moving. Lavery added: - -"I ought to say, he never said a word about that. It's my own -observation, that's all." - -Again he was silent, watching her still profile, barely visible; -guessing at the tumult within her, the rage of offended pride. (If she -was determined to dislike him, he would give her something to dislike -him for.) He decided that it was time for her to speak now. - -But Mary was struck dumb. Her outleap of rage against Lavery recoiled -upon herself.... She deserved it, for talking to him in any sort -of confidence, for breaking her reserve, compromising her personal -dignity--of course he had taken advantage of this. She strove to -re-establish her contempt of him. He should not see that she had felt -his treacherous attack. - -It was some moments before she could say, coolly: - -"If you think Laurence has done right, why did you ask me to 'do -something about it'?" - -He lost the thread of the discourse for a moment, in irritation. - -"Why, I meant--I meant--that he had done the best he could, in the -circumstances.... But it seems to me he's under a heavy strain--in -fact, perhaps in danger of breaking down under it. I wonder if you -couldn't ease it, somehow." - -It was only partly a game. There was a sincere feeling in Lavery too. -He admired--even though unwillingly--the more gifted man. Yes, and he -had reluctant admiration for Mary too. - -"You don't know anything about it," she said. - -"No, perhaps I don't," he admitted. - -"I can't see that it's your business, at all." - -"Well, I suppose it isn't--unless on account of friendship." - -"I don't believe in friendship." - -"What do you believe in?" he asked. - -"I don't believe in anything." - -The words came out with violence. She was resisting the impulse to -speak out, and yet she was speaking. - -"I used to have faith--but now I haven't anything." - -"Oh, yes, you have," he said. "You have faith--everything shows it." - -"How? What?" - -"Well, what you just said, that a man ought to die rather than do -what is wrong--there's faith, in the ideal of what a man is, what -he ought to be.... And then you live without compromise, you don't -forgive--that's faith." - -"How do you know that--that I don't forgive?" - -"Well, I can guess that you didn't." - -"And you think that's good--not to forgive?" - -"I didn't say it was good. It depends on how it works out. I said it -showed faith. It means you have a standard and you can't condone an -offence against it--at any cost." - -"Yes, but it might be only--that I couldn't forgive an offence against -_me_.... It might be only--pride. You see how I mean, that I've lost -faith. I don't feel sure of anything." - -"You've lost faith in yourself, you mean, but--" - -"Oh, not only in myself--in everything else!" - -"And you used to feel sure?" - -"Oh, yes--I _knew_!" - -"And how was it, that you ceased to be sure?" - -"I think--people disappointed me--people I believed in--" - -"But you believe in something that isn't people, don't you--some rule -of right and wrong that is above human life--" - -"I did--yes, I was very religious--I believed in a rule and measured -people by it--" - -"And when they didn't measure up to it, you--" - -"Yes, I--didn't forgive. Even now I despise people, for all sorts of -reasons--can't help it.... But now I think I was wrong. I don't think -I was religious at all--because, you see, it didn't stand the test--I -lost it--" - -"And when was that--that you lost it?" - -"I don't know. It seems as if it had been going on for a long time, -dying.... I used to think that happiness didn't count, that we ought -not to think of it. But now I think that was when I was really happy. -It isn't so easy to live without it, really, for many years--it isn't -so easy!" - -She had lost all feeling of the personality of Lavery. It was like -speaking out to the night-wind and the starlight. She had spoken the -last sentences in a rush, passionately, and in her voice was the tremor -of a sob. But she compressed her lips sharply, and sat silent. Lavery -took her hand, and her fingers closed on his desperately.... All she -cared for just then was not to cry. - -"Well, it's true, we can't live without it," muttered Lavery. "You see, -we lose faith in ourselves, without it--we feel we've been wrong, and -we _have_ been wrong--that's the sign.... Then if we can't get it back -we take to dope--like me." - -She heard what he said, but she did not answer. She was absorbed in -the relief of her emotion, her confession, and the strange feeling of -kinship with him, with this person she--didn't like. For she did not -like him any better than before, only it didn't seem to matter now. -What mattered was not to be entirely alone. - -She was comforted, and keeping hold of his hand, she grew calmer, and -breathed a deep sigh. Then she noticed that Lavery was shivering. - -"Why, you'll catch your death of cold," she said, and got up. - -They walked back silently to the house. In the hall he put out his -hand to her again and said anxiously: - -"Look here now, you won't hate me more for this, will you? That -wouldn't be fair." - -"No!" she said with energy, smiling. "Not now.... I would, not long -ago--but now I wouldn't be so mean as that." - -"Well, that's good," he said wanly. - - - - - VIII - - -The next day, toward sunset, Mary was walking in to see her father. She -went often at the time when he would be home for his solitary supper. - -The Carlin place was no longer out of town. Past it stretched the -paved street, with wide sidewalks and gas-lamps at frequent intervals. -The maple trees now overarched it, a thinning cloud of pale yellow or -red, and the leaves lay in thick drifts in the gutters and along the -walks. They rustled under Mary's feet as she went holding up her long -violet-coloured dress. She wore a mantle to match the dress, and a -small bonnet made of violets and lace, tied under her chin with black -velvet ribbons. - -She walked at a good pace; there was a spring in her step, and unusual -colour in her cheeks. She breathed in deeply the cool crisp air, she -saw with pleasure the vivid colours of the leaves, the bright western -sky: it was long since she had felt this pleasure in the world. It -had zest to her; and she could not imagine why. All that had happened -to her consciousness was that she had transgressed her own code; had -forgotten her dignity and actually discussed her own most private -affairs and feelings, with a stranger. But now she had a strange sense -of freedom, of companionship in some impersonal way. She did not think -more of Lavery because of it. He had gone to the city with Laurence -that morning, and she did not seem to care whether she ever saw him -again or not. But if she saw him certainly she would talk to him again. -She was less a prisoner now; some barrier had been pierced, and she -looked out on the world. - -As she drew near the house, she saw a once familiar figure, a slim -black-coated figure, pushing a small baby-carriage. It was Hilary. He -had married a buxom efficient widow, three years before; and in the -carriage was his eighteen-months' old daughter, a small, very lively -baby, with bright blue eyes. Mary stopped and held out her hand to -Hilary, with a friendly warmth that she had not shown him for many -years. She asked after his wife, bent to speak to the baby, who bounced -up and down and fixed upon her eyes sparkling with energy. Hilary's -eyes too were upon her, in surprise. - -He had changed very little in ten years. His face was quieter, perhaps, -less drawn. The wife took care of him, fed and clothed him properly. No -one now thought that he would go into a decline. But his eyes showed -the same ardour and intensity of life. He worked harder than ever, for -his church had grown, and incidentally had become factious. Hilary -had to meet opposition within the fold to his idea of the preaching -of the gospel; the time would come when he would be forced to leave -this church too, and go forth. Mary knew this, though she rarely went -to church now. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how she had felt -about his marriage; disenchantment, almost disgust, though she had -long before that ceased her intimacy with him. Her idea of him, as -celibate, she now felt to have been merely romantic. Hilary was a man -like other men. No, after all, he was better than most, he was more of -a man. She smiled at him quite radiantly and said she was coming soon -to see his wife. - -"How well you are looking," he said as she started on, still with that -surprised gaze at her. - -"It must be this wonderful weather--it makes one feel so alive!" she -called back, laughing at the white lie. In this mood she could tell all -kinds of lies, without conscience! It was like a renewal of youth, no, -it was a youth she had never had, rather mischievous, irresponsible. In -this mood she wouldn't care what she did. Now why? She shook her head -and gave it up--couldn't say why. - -She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed that a hinge was -loose; and that the pickets needed painting. The grass was long too in -the front yard. She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low frame -house. That too needed a coat of paint--why, it was shabby, it was all -going to seed. Her brow wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn't noticed -this before--how long had it been this way? Her father had been used -always to keep the place trim and neat. Was he getting too old to look -after it, or to care? She felt a pang.... She must send down a gardener -to fix up the yard. - -She opened the creaking front door and entered the narrow hall. -The familiar odour met her--old wallpaper, old furniture, a slight -closeness, a faint smell of cooking. But she liked it--it was home. -She went into the sitting-room, where the housekeeper was setting the -table for Dr. Lowell's supper. - -"Oh, Mrs. Hansen, isn't Father home yet?" she asked. - -"Yes, Mrs. Carlin, he has just come. Out to the stable yet." - -The rosy-faced Swedish woman, in crisp calico dress and white apron, -went out into the kitchen. She came by the day to "do for" Dr. Lowell, -and he lived alone in the old house. Mary glanced critically at the -table, wrinkled her nose, and sat down in the rocker by the window, -where streaks of gold and red glimmered, making a rosy light within. -Nothing had been changed in this room, or for that matter in the house -since her mother's death. In fact, she couldn't remember when it had -not looked just this way. - -The brown carpet was a little more worn, perhaps, the brown and gilt -wallpaper a little more faded. There was dust on the furniture that -would not have been there in her mother's time. But the old clock -ticked to the same dreamy tune on the shelf, coals glowed in the open -stove, the cat stretched itself and yawned in the armchair, the glass -of cream stood as always by her father's plate. In this house it always -seemed afternoon, verging on evening.... Yes, and there, in the grass -under the window, the sound always associated with home--the faint wiry -chirping of the crickets.... Short bright autumn days--long cold nights -drawing on--was that why they were so plaintive? - -She heard her father come into the kitchen, and then the splashing of -water. Washing up in the kitchen--lazy father! Probably he even kept a -comb out there, behind the looking-glass! Men get shiftless, living by -themselves. Or perhaps he was just too tired to go upstairs. Yes, when -he came in, she saw his thin hair had been freshly combed--and he did -look very tired. And alas, how old he looked! Why hadn't she noticed -that he was getting old? - -He was delighted to see her, still more when she got up and kissed him -with uncommon warmth. - -"Well, now, this is nice! Can't you have supper with me?" he asked -happily, lifting the cat out of his chair and sitting down. Mary drew -up a chair opposite him and put her elbows on the table. - -"I can't eat, because there's the family dinner, you know, but I'll sit -with you anyway. What have you got?" - -Mrs. Hansen put the supper on the table and retired behind a closed -door. - -"Cream-toast--dried beef--soda-biscuits--well, I don't call that a -solid meal after a good day's work! That's an old lady's supper. Why -don't you have a steak, Father, something substantial?" - -"Can't, my dear," he said smiling. "Too heavy for me--can't eat much -meat. This is just what I like." - -He tucked the napkin under his thin beard, still auburn more than grey, -and began to eat. Mary took a biscuit and broke it open. - -"It's light," she conceded. "I guess she's a good enough cook." - -"Oh, she's first-rate--I live in clover," smiled Dr. Lowell. - -"Well, hardly that--" - -"Oh, yes.... But say, how splendid you look, Mary! Been to some grand -blowout?" - -"No, I made some calls. Do you like this bonnet?" - -"It's fine--what there is of it. Dress too--there's plenty of that. Why -have that long tail on it?" - -"Well, it's the fashion," said Mary indulgently. - -"You look very nice indeed. Better than you have all summer." - -"Well, Father, I can't say as much for you. You look tired out." - -"I am, at night. But I get up like a lark in the morning." - -"You work too hard. You ought to have a man to drive you now, and an -assistant--and only go out on great occasions, when you get a big fee, -you know!" - -A faint uneasiness showed in Dr. Lowell's face. - -"Now don't you go trying to take away my work. That's the quick way to -break a man up.... I'm going to die in harness," he declared. - -"Well, I'm afraid you will," and Mary's lips quivered. He was quick to -notice and to soothe her. - -"Don't you worry. There's a lot of work in the old man yet. I'm not -seventy. And I don't go out much at night any more, you know, or in -very bad weather--unless it's life or death.... Oh, they have to -consider me now!" - -"Well, it's time they did. You never considered yourself." - -There was unwonted emotion in her face and voice. He was touched, and -surprised. - -"I should think you'd be proud of me," he said lightly. "All these -smart young doctors in town--but they don't get _my_ practice unless -I want to give it to 'em.... People sending for me from all over the -county--pay my expenses and anything I want to ask. _They_ don't think -I'm too old to work." - -"I _am_ proud of you. I never said you were too old. I think you're a -great man." - -He laughed. "I wasn't fishing to that extent." - -"Well, I want you to know that I admire you. I think you've had the -most successful life I know about." - -"Sounds like my obituary," he commented. - -But Mary was groping for something she wanted to say, something newly -felt. Looking at his small bent figure, his face, so gentle yet with -something hard and firm in its calmness, suddenly she seemed to see -him, his long laborious life, in a flash of light. - -"I think you're beautiful," she said solemnly. - -It was a strange word, and Dr. Lowell was visibly abashed. He fidgeted, -made a feeble joke, and then looked sharply at Mary's unwonted colour -and bright eyes. - -"What's the matter? You're not going to--sure you feel perfectly well, -Mary?" - -"Why, yes.... But Laurence isn't. I wish you'd drop in and see him. -He'll be home tomorrow night. Suppose you come to dinner and take a -look at him." - -"What ails him?" - -"He complains of headaches lately and he looks--well, you'll see. Keeps -right on working, though. You'll come? The boys always want to see you -too, you know." - -"Well, they do. They drop in here quite often--especially Jim. I think -maybe we might make a doctor of Jim." - -"You do?" Mary's eyes opened wide. "Has he shown any interest that way? -He never said a word to me about it." - -"Yes, we've talked it over. He _is_ interested. He takes to science. -Has a good mind, that boy--kind of slow, but thorough. Likes to get to -the bottom of things. He could work hard if he was interested." - -"Well!" Mary pondered this. Then she said, "I've been worried about -him--he runs around at night and won't tell me where he goes." - -"I know where he goes," said Dr. Lowell placidly. - -"You do? He tells you?" - -"Oh, Jim and I are great friends. He's all right, Mary.... But you must -realize--Jim's almost a man, and he's a strapping healthy fellow--you -can't hold too tight a rein on him, if you do he'll kick over the -traces." - -Mary frowned, looked sullen. "I think I ought to know what he's doing." - -"Well, I'd just as soon tell you, but you'd very likely make a row and -it would be bad for Jim.... Use your imagination, Mary." - -She pushed back her chair, rose and walked to the window. Dr. Lowell -cast a shrewd glance at her and took a piece of custard pie. - -"I think you ought to be proud of your output, Mary--you ought to be a -proud and happy woman." - -"What, Father?" - -"Those three boys--fine fellows, all of them. What more d'ye want? And -you haven't spoiled them by petting. They think a lot of you. And you -haven't nagged them--not very much." - -Mary turned around. "Then you think--really--?" - -"Oh, yes, you've done well.... One thing more you might do--but I doubt -if you could--let them feel that they could tell you anything, whatever -they do. They might not tell you, wouldn't probably, but if they -felt they could, without you being horrified, it would be better for -them.... But of course you can only do that if you feel that what they -want or need is a lot more important than what they do.... Sometimes I -think, Mary, that you care more for what people do than for what they -are.... Think it over." - -Dr. Lowell folded his napkin and put it in its ring, got up and took -out his pipe, filled it from a leather bag and lit it. An acrid smoke -issued from the old meerschaum as he sank into an easy-chair by the -fire. Mary hated that pipe, but now though she coughed in the smoke -she didn't notice it. She had stood absorbed in some difficult and -displeasing thought--but turning and looking at her father she saw how -bent and shrivelled he looked in the big chair. - -"Father, aren't you awfully lonely here in the evenings?" she asked -suddenly. - -"No, no--I've got lots of reading to do, journals and new books--I try -to keep up with my profession, you know. No, I'm never lonely." - -"I should think you'd miss Mother a lot." - -"I do--yes, I miss her.... But it's quieter this way." - -"Father! The things you say!" - -"Why shouldn't I say them.... Your mother and I got on very well -indeed, and if I ever see her again I guess we'll get on just as well." - -"If you do! Why, don't you think you will?" - -"I don't know, my dear, I couldn't tell you." He puffed meditatively at -his pipe. "And I don't think anybody else can tell you either." - -"I don't see how you can bear to see so many people die if that's the -way you feel, if you think there's nothing more!" cried Mary. - -"I keep them from dying, if I can--that's my job.... I don't say -there's nothing more. But I say we haven't begun to learn about this -world--there's enough here to keep us busy for all the time we've -got--we're just ignorant. Life ... it's mystery on mystery.... We can -settle what death is when we get to it." - -"You're not afraid of death?" she asked absently. - -"No, child, no ... sometimes I feel I'd like a long rest ... or a new -set of feelings, ideas ... or something. There's only one thing I'm -afraid of, I confess--to live on when I'm no use any more and have to -be taken care of." He made a wry face. "Don't see how I could stand -that. I hope I die with my boots on." - -"Well, don't you do it yet awhile." Mary bent down and kissed the top -of his head. "We need you. I'll think over what you said--about the -boys--and then I guess I'd like to talk to you again about it.... I -must go now. You'll come tomorrow night?" - -"Yes, I'll come." - -On her way to the door she turned. "I declare! I forgot to ask you if -you'd seen old Mr. Carlin." - -"Yes, John fetched him in here yesterday. We had quite a chat." - -"Did you ever hear of such a thing--walking in like that and telling me -'I'm Laurence's father!' Cool as a cucumber! I never saw such an old -man!" - -"How did Laurence take it?" - -"Well, there never was any love lost between them, you know--he was -taken aback at first, but they seemed to get on well enough." - -"And he's gone?" - -"The old gentleman? Yes--went to Chicago today. He said he'd drop in -and see us again some time!" - -She laughed quite gaily as she went out. - -It had occurred to her to see if the garden at the back of the house -was neglected too, so she went round that way. Yes, the grass-borders -were unkempt, the only flowers were straggling marigolds and asters; -dahlias blackened by frost drooped forlornly. No wonder, he hadn't -strength now to keep it up. But she thought back and seemed to see that -from the time of her mother's death the garden had been running down. -"I guess he misses her more than he thinks," she reflected. - -She stood looking into the orchard, where among almost bare boughs a -few red apples still clung. She felt a desire to go on into the pasture -and look at the deep still pool there, which she had not seen for long. -She remembered the look of it well--how as a child it had fascinated -and frightened her, even haunting her dreams.... But the pasture was -trampled by cows, and in this dress and these thin shoes.... - -She turned to go home, wrapping her mantle round her. The wind was -rising, blowing out of a bank of cloud that now covered the western -sky. A few sunset embers glimmered there low down. In the wind sweeping -over the prairie there was a low booming sound and when the gusts rose -higher an ominous whistle. A storm was coming, out of those immense, -endless stretches to the west. - - - - - IX - - -All night long the wind roared round the house, dashing gusts of -sleety rain against the western windows. At times even the thick walls -shook. The lake rose into waves that pounded on the shore. Mary tried -to read herself to sleep but in vain. At last she put out her light, -and thoughts, images, questions, raced through her mind as she lay in -darkness. - -A happy woman ... proud and happy, she ought to be. But what had she -to be proud of.... Men were more fortunate, they had their work, -could really achieve something, could take anything they wanted.... -Laurence took what he wanted, to help him do his work, and I say he -was right.... Laurence went his own way, apart from her.... Of course -apart, she had driven him away. No, he had begun it before that. But -she hadn't done her duty by him, it was her duty to forgive.... No, she -didn't believe in forgiveness, didn't believe in duty. It wouldn't have -worked any better. He would have gone his own way anyhow. And now the -boys were beginning too.... Use your imagination, Mary.... - -She didn't want to use her imagination, she was afraid of it. Yes, -afraid.... All sorts of things that she had shut out in the dark, -wouldn't look at, and now they were horrible to her.... Why should -one have to look at the dark side of life, the animal side?... But -suppose that was really life, suppose we were just animals and nothing -more--all the rest words. That might very well be.... Her father had -spent his life taking care of the physical body, he didn't believe -in anything else, didn't look forward.... Life ... it's mystery on -mystery ... we're just ignorant.... What was it then that made him so -calm and strong, not afraid of anything? She had thought that this was -what religion did for you, but he had never had any religion, yet he -had always been like this, since she could remember him. Hilary had it -too, that same strength, and with him perhaps it was religion.... But -she didn't believe in religion, heaven was empty, God had melted away -completely, she didn't believe in him. - -She tossed restlessly, the tumult without echoing the storm within. It -seemed that the wind was driving through her head, her thoughts were -like whirling leaves.... - -Why should she be proud of her sons? They were not hers, they -were Laurence's as much as hers, perhaps more; they were distinct -individuals, did not belong to her, she had almost no part in them. And -she had not trained them in the way they should go ... how could she, -when since the early days she had ceased to believe in any definite -way? They had just grown up themselves.... You haven't nagged them, -not very much.... Was that what her father thought of moral teaching? -They had learned not to lie or steal, of course. But as they grew to -be men they would begin again. Jim had already begun. He lied to her, -and apparently told the truth to his grandfather.... Let them feel that -they could tell you anything--they wouldn't tell you probably.... No, -they would have their lives apart, and she would be alone still--In -her youth she had never felt lonely, but now.... - -Lavery knew what loneliness was, that was why she had talked to him. -He had known how she was feeling before she spoke, otherwise she would -never have spoken. He was worldly wise, but that was all, or nearly -all--it wasn't much. His consolations--what use were they? Soft living, -books, music, little adventures.... She would rather jump into the lake -than live like that. Why not?... Nobody would miss her very much. The -boys at first, it would be a shock, of course. And Laurence would have -to find somebody to run the house. Her father would miss her, and it -would be a town-scandal, a mystery.... Why on earth.... A woman with -everything to live for.... Temporary insanity.... And then, prying and -prowling gossip. - -Why not? Well, of course she would never do it. Life was too strong in -her--physical life. She would have to be inconceivably miserable before -she could seek death. She was afraid of death, now that beyond it lay -the void. - -And it was still good to live, in some ways. Even today she had known -pleasure, more than for a long time. Something had lifted her up. This -was the reaction.... If only she could sleep! If the wind would stop -howling like a lost soul round the house! - -Why was it that she had lost the faith that in her girlhood had made -her so strong and secure?... She had said to Lavery it was because -people had disappointed her. But was that a reason for losing her faith -in God? Wasn't there something above and beyond this human life, so -often petty and sordid, these weak human beings--something fixed, -sure, always good and beautiful, a refuge?... No, there was nothing, -or if there was, she could not find it. When she had thought she loved -God, it was only that she loved people--Hilary in one way, Laurence -in another--and believed in them. And then at one stroke she had lost -both of them. They had been cut away from her--or was it that she had -done it, cut them away, repelled and denied them both? If a man loves -not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath -not seen?... Then she had lost all that remained to her, the joy in her -children, her content with herself, and that feeling of rightness.... -From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.... -Now she would be glad to go away from everybody, even the children.... - - * * * * * - -Toward morning she slept, and woke unwillingly at a knock on her door. - -"Breakfast's ready--aren't you coming down?" - -It was Jim. She said sleepily, "Oh, I'm tired, hardly slept all night. -I guess I won't get up." - -Jim looked aggrieved. - -"It's rotten when you don't come down," he said. Then, turning away he -enquired sulkily, "Well, shall I bring up your breakfast?" - -How vigorous and vivid his young figure looked, in the grey morning -light--his brown glowing colour, how pleasant to see! - -"Yes--no, I'll get up," she said. - -Still he lingered. - -"Well, if you're very tired--I'll bring it up if you want me to." - -"No, I say I'll get up. Run along." - -"I'd just as soon bring it up--" - -"Run along!" - -She laughed as he shut the door, and sprang up, to see if she could -make it in ten minutes. It was rather more than that, but she got down -to find the three boys at the breakfast-table; and Jim rose and pulled -out her chair for her, a mark of special favour. A bright fire crackled -in the chimney, the silver coffee-urn hissed cheerfully in the middle -of the table; the room was warm and pleasant, with the rain beating -against the windows. The boys all smiled at her, and Jim, showing -his big white teeth, passed his cup for more coffee. One cup was his -allowance, but she filled it up. - -"What a night!" she said. "Did you hear the wind? I couldn't -sleep--could you?" - -They had all slept like tops, hadn't noticed any wind, that is, only -John had noticed it. "I like storms," he said. "I like a big storm, but -it doesn't keep me awake. I'd like to be out on the lake in a big wind." - -"Yes, you would," murmured Timothy sceptically. - -"Ma, I wish you'd make Tim brush his hair," drawled the eldest. "Look -at it." - -"I have brushed it--it won't lie down, that's all. It's a cowlick or -something." - -"Yes, or something! You need a hair-cut." - -"Yes, I guess you do," said Mary, looking at Timothy's thick disorderly -black mop. "You can go after school and get one." - -Jim picked up the silver hand-bell and rang it loudly. - -"What's that for?" - -"Pancakes. I told Hilda to make some and she's late as usual. It's -half-past eight now." - -The waitress brought in a big platter of cakes, and they vanished -quickly, with no comment except, "Pass the butter.... Maple-syrup, -please--I'll take a couple more, Mother." Then the three said, "Please -excuse me," and bolted for the door. In the hall arose the usual -hubbub. "That's my coat you've got.... Where's my cap?... Confound it, -who took my rubbers?..." - -Mary went out to say, "All your rubbers are on the shelf in the -coat-closet," to make sure that nobody rushed off without his rubbers, -to hear their shouted good-byes. The door banged behind them. She -smiled and went back to her coffee and the newspaper. Cold bath and -coffee made her feel fresh, full of energy, in spite of a bad night. -The world always looked more cheerful in the morning, especially when -the boys were about--they were so full of life, all of them, they were -nice even when they squabbled. Yes, if one could always be young, -things wouldn't be so bad. Life might be rather pleasant if you didn't -look into it too much. - -She finished her coffee and went into the big clean drab-coloured -kitchen to interview the cook about the day's meals and write lists for -the grocer and butcher. She ordered a good dinner--Laurence would be -home, her father was coming, there might be other guests, for Laurence -often brought some one. The cook stood by the table, rolling her hands -in her apron and looking rather sullen, and when Mary rose for her -usual quick inspection of pantries and ice-box, Hilda said: - -"Mrs. Carlin, I think I be leaving the end of the month." - -"Why?" asked Mary sharply. - -"Oh--I think I be leaving." - -"Is it the work--the wages?" - -"No--no, I like the place, but ... I think I be leaving." - -Mary gazed at her, and finally said, "I know what it is--you've been -quarrelling with Anna." - -The cook made no answer, but continued to look sullen. - -"Now, Hilda," said Mary firmly, "you've been with me a year; in that -time I've had three waitresses, and you've quarrelled with every one of -them. I like Anna and I'm not going to let her go. I like you too, but -you're hard to get along with. If you want to leave at the end of the -month you can. I don't want to hear what you've been fighting about. -I advise you to think it over, and remember you'll always quarrel, -wherever you go, that's the way you're made. Let me know in a week." - -She went her rounds, praised the good order she found, and departed -sighing. Another raw cook to train, probably! It took just about a -year to break them in, and then.... Anna was doing the dining-room as -she passed through and looked suspiciously bottled-up, but Mary gave -her no chance to complain. Of course they would fight, those two--any -two would, they hadn't enough else to occupy their minds. She wished -she could get along with one servant, but in this big house it was -impossible, it was hard work for two. - -The house felt cold--she must send for the furnace-man and have him -start the fires. She went back to tell Anna to tell the gardener to go -for Mike at once. Then she wrapped a mantle about her and went into the -parlours, two big connecting rooms. They were glacially cold. - -It had occurred to her this morning that the house was gloomy. She -didn't know why she hadn't noticed it before. Nothing had been changed -since they had lived in the house, ten years. Perhaps that was the -trouble. She had not been interested enough to want to change anything; -had accepted it all, as Laurence and the decorators presented it, with -indifference. She had never been interested in house-furnishings; if -Laurence liked this, it was enough. But it took an enormous amount of -work to keep all these heavy carpets and curtains clean, and all this -light furniture. And in spite of perpetual cleaning there was always a -musty smell when the windows were shut, as now. She frowned, looking -critically about her. - -The heavy cut-lace curtains covering the windows had turned yellow with -age. The thick silk draperies over these inner curtains showed streaks -where the sun had faded them. The figured satin upholstery of the -carved and fretted couches and chairs was rather faded too.... All this -expensive stuff--and now, after only ten years, it had to be replaced! -And the bric-a-brac on the gilt tables and the mantelpieces,--the -gilt clocks and all that fragile porcelain that took such a lot of -dusting--there was not a single thing that she had selected, or liked. -But when it came to replacing all this, her mind was a blank. Only -she would like something quieter, not gilt stuff, satin, or little -figures of shepherdesses, animals, boys riding on goats, and so on.... -Probably she would just have to get another decorator. How cold it all -looked in this grey light, reflected in the two long mirrors at either -end and the oblong mirrors over the mantelpieces! - -The boys liked this house. She had discovered just lately how much they -liked it. Its size--the big rooms--it was still the biggest house in -town. They had a lordly feeling about it. They were secretly proud of -their position, as sons of the town's most eminent citizen, and of this -house, as the symbol of his superiority.... Well, if they liked it, -there was no harm in making it a little more cheerful. - -She crossed the hall into the library, where she usually read or wrote -or received her visitors, for Laurence was never at home during the -day. There was a roaring big fire in the grate. This room was all -right. A library should be rather sombre, with big plain pieces of -furniture, the walls covered with books. It had the look of being used, -lived in; and its red hangings had kept their deep colour. Yes, this -would do--besides, Laurence probably wouldn't want it changed. It was -the only place in the house that seemed to belong to him. - -She went over to her table, where she had left her unfinished paper -on Æschylus. Her lips curled in a derisive smile. Æschylus! What did -those women care about Greek tragedies?... They brought their knitting -or fancy-work, sat and listened or didn't listen, while somebody -lectured to them. They felt they were getting culture, keeping up -with the times--or rather, it was the thing to belong to the Literary -Society, they didn't dare not to belong.... Before Mary had taken the -presidency, they had had readings from the novels of the day; some -lady who had travelled would read a paper on the Yosemite Valley; or -there would be a written debate on the respective merits of Dickens and -Thackeray. Oral discussion was unknown, the ladies had no practice in -public speaking.... Well, she had made them work, anyway. She had made -an elaborate program for the study of Greek civilization, and all this -past year had driven or coaxed them through it. She had bought a list -of books on Greece for the library; and insisted on the ladies reading -and reporting on them. At the meetings she asked questions, stooped to -flatter them a little and tried to make them talk. It was hard work. -They didn't really want to get anything for themselves, preferred to -be spoon-fed. There were not more than two women in town who had any -intellectual interests, and she was the only one who knew even a little -Greek. - -Why bother them? They had their own absorbing interests--family, -houses, friends, church. Most of them worked pretty hard at home too. -She had done it for her own amusement and occupation, or out of vanity, -to make them feel her superiority. They were afraid of her, and she had -liked that. She had not one real friend among them.... Better resign, -and let them have a good time. - -She sat down, throwing off her cloak, and began to look over her -manuscript. It represented a good deal of work. She had consulted many -authorities, and read the plays, with Greek text and translation side -by side. There were the books piled on the table, full of little -slips of paper with her notes. She had been conscientious, thorough, -giving the best work she could do. No doubt to impress them with her -scholarship. She smiled again sardonically as she listened to that -inner impish voice that had been her companion now for a long time, -commenting on everything she did, sneering.... - -Anna brought in a telegram. She took it, knowing in a flash what it -was. Yes. "Sorry cannot get out tonight important case needs all my -attention for several days will wire when I can get away Laurence." - -Yes, the usual thing. Only this message was longer than usual, he had -wasted several words. She crumpled up the paper and threw it into the -fire.... She had intended to talk to him tonight about doing over the -house. Then there was her father coming to see him. Well, he couldn't -be ill if he was staying away indefinitely. He was just--busy.... She -would send word to her father not to come, it was bad weather, a steady -driving rain that threatened to last all day. - -She took up her pen and looked at the page before her--sat a long time -looking at it. In spite of the glowing fire her hands grew cold, too -cramped finally to hold the pen, and she dropped it. - -Why should she care? All that was over long ago--buried. - -Only sometimes it seemed that nothing ever could be buried securely. It -was as if the long grown-over ground should stir, and something that -had been buried too soon, still alive.... - - - - - X - - -Two days passed, without word from Laurence. He seldom stayed away -as long as this without sending some message, except when he was on -circuit. The third day, as Mary was driving back from the meeting where -she had read her paper on Æschylus, she saw Jim on the street; he threw -up his hand, came running and jumped into the carriage. - -"I was coming for you, Mr. Lavery's at the house--Father's ill--he -wants you to go to the city. They think it's typhoid." He leaned -forward and told the coachman to drive faster. "You can get the -six-thirty in if you hurry." - -He could tell her no more in answer to her questions. He looked very -sober. As they turned in through the gates he said, "Don't you think -I'd better go with you? You'll want somebody besides that fellow." - -"I don't know--wait," said Mary sharply. - -Lavery was at the steps, came forward; but Jim sprang out and gave his -hand to Mary. Lavery looked pale and worried. - -"You'll just have the time to pack a bag.... The doctor isn't positive -yet, but looks like typhoid--he's got a high fever." - -The coachman was told to wait and they all hurried into the house. - -"How long has he been ill?" demanded Mary. - -"Well, since we went in, but--" - -"Why didn't some one let me know?" - -"He didn't want me to.... Now you better get ready. I'll talk to you on -the train." - -He turned away, perhaps to avoid further questions. Why had he come -for her instead of telegraphing?... But she was already on her way -upstairs, followed by the three boys and Anna. They stood about in -her room and tried to help while she got out her leather bag and put -the necessary things in it. She changed her silk dress for one of -dark cloth, tied her bonnet with shaking fingers; it was hard for her -to hurry. Jim went down and brought her a glass of sherry and some -crackers. - -"You'll miss your dinner, better drink this," he urged. - -She drank the wine and smiled faintly at him. - -"Can't I go with you?" he asked again. "Maybe you'll need me." - -"I'll see--but now I want you to look after things here. You'll have to -be the man of the house." - -A pang shot through her at those words, she frowned and snapped her bag -shut. She was ready. John, who had not uttered a word, took her hand as -they went downstairs. His fingers were cold and trembling. - -"Don't you worry," she said sharply. "I don't believe it's serious. -I'll telegraph Jim tomorrow. Now you all be good, get your lessons, go -to bed on time--and, Jim, you better go tell your grandfather--" - -They all swarmed after her to the carriage. The cook came too, calling: - -"We get along all right, Mrs. Carlin, don't worry about us--we do -everything we can, Anna and me--" - -The three boys kissed her, Jim the last, putting a manly arm around -her; she thought how grave and strong his young face looked. Lavery -stepped into the carriage, the coachman whipped up his horses; they -just made the train. - - * * * * * - -After a few questions and brief answers Mary sat silent, staring -blankly out of the window, during the hour's journey. She found -that Laurence had not sent for her, Lavery had come on his own -responsibility. The doctor had only this afternoon made the diagnosis -of typhoid--he was a smart young man, the best in the city, Lavery -thought. And Lavery had taken the tiresome journey instead of -telegraphing because he had to explain that Laurence was not at a hotel -or hospital, but staying at a friend's house, from which it was thought -best not to move him. Laurence had some rooms at this house, it seemed, -and--in fact generally stayed there when he was in the city. Mary did -not know the name or address--she addressed Laurence when necessary at -the Palmer Hotel. But she guessed whose house it was that she was going -to. He must be very ill. Otherwise Lavery would hardly be taking her -there.... When he had made his halting explanation she had listened, -said gravely, "Yes, I see. You did quite right," and then turned away. - - * * * * * - -There was a long drive over the rough cobble-stones, through streets -at first brightly lighted, then almost dark. They approached the lake -shore. The carriage stopped before a dimly lighted house standing by -itself, but not far from a block of houses of similar size. Lavery -helped Mary out and while he was paying the driver she took her bag and -walked up to the narrow porch. The door opened above; a woman's figure -appeared against the light in the hall. The gas-light had a red-glass -shade and cast a rosy glow down on the thin woman in a tight-fitting -black silk dress who stood aside to admit the visitor. Red hair, -twisted in a thick rough coil on top of her head ... eyes inflamed with -tears and now opened wide ... Mary recognized Nora. She bent her head -with an inarticulate murmur. Nora simply looked at her. Then Lavery -came in and shut the door. - -"This way," he said, starting up the narrow stairs. Mary followed. He -glanced down at Nora, and asked, "Any change since I left? Has the -doctor been?" - -She shook her head but did not speak, seemed unable to speak. - -On the landing, lit by a dim gas-jet, opened two large connecting -rooms. The one into which Lavery led the way was in some disorder. A -big table with a student-lamp and sheaves of papers was pushed into a -corner, easy-chairs littered with cigar-ashes stood in the middle of -the floor; on a stand with decanters and glasses lay Laurence's gold -repeater. The door into the farther room opened noiselessly and a young -woman in a light dress and white apron came out. - -"The nurse, Miss Macdonald," said Lavery in a low tone. "Mrs. Carlin. -How is he?" - -"About the same. Dr. Sayre will be in between eight and nine. He's very -restless." As Mary went toward the other room she added: "I'm afraid he -won't know you." - -On a wide bed, high-topped with its impending weight of carving, dark -as a catafalque, Laurence lay tossing, his hands grasping at the -coverlet, his head rolling on the pillow. His eyes were half-open and -he was murmuring faint hurried words. Sitting beside him, touching his -burning hands and forehead, bending over him, Mary could hear no word -clearly, only an inarticulate murmur of distress. He did not notice her -presence nor give any sign when she spoke to him, urgently called his -name. His face was dully flushed, his black hair rumpled wildly, his -eyes glassy under the half-shut lids. He tossed away from her, moaning -heavily. A dark-greenish shade had been pinned over the gas-globe; in -this light he looked ghastly. - -The nurse came in and stood at the foot of the bed. After a few moments -Mary got up and beckoned her to the window. - -"How long has he been like this?" - -"Since I came this morning--only a little more restless toward night." - -"He looks terribly ill." - -"The doctor ought to be here very soon," said the nurse non-committally. - -Mary turned away, stopped a moment at the bedside, then went back into -the study. Lavery was there, sunk in a deep leather chair, smoking. -Mary turned to close the connecting door and he got up, holding his -cigar in his fingers. She walked up to him, her face deathly pale, and -clutched his arm. - -"Laurence is going to die!... I want to telegraph for my father!" - -"He isn't going to die!" cried Lavery angrily. "I didn't think you'd -lose your head like this, first thing, or I wouldn't have gone for you." - -But when he felt her hand shake, saw her whole body trembling, he -softened somewhat. "Look here, you're too scared. Have you ever seen -anybody very sick before?" - -"No ... no...." she muttered. "My mother ... but not like this.... He's -so strong...." - -"Well, he's sick, but we're going to pull him through.... Now look -here, are you going to help or not? When I went for you I said to -myself, that woman's got good nerve, she'll be a help. But if you're -going to be scared to death, first look at him--" - -"No--I'll be all right--just a minute--he's never been sick before...." - -"Well, I know, but you're going to pull yourself together.... And you -come downstairs and eat a bit with me before the doctor gets here. -You haven't had dinner and neither have I.... I told them to have -something. About telegraphing your father, we'd better wait till you -can speak to Sayre about it--that's etiquette and it won't hinder -anything. I don't believe he could get a train in tonight, could he?" - -"Eleven-thirty." - -"Well, it would be too bad to keep him up all night, if not necessary. -You wait and see Sayre.... And now come down, you'll feel better when -you've got some food." - -She followed him down into the small brightly-lit dining-room, sat -opposite him at the table, took soup, wine and coffee. She was aware -of a black figure moving round the table, bringing dishes in and -taking them out.... Then suddenly, with an almost audible click of -the machinery, her mind began to work in its usual way. Her vision -cleared, she saw Lavery opposite drinking coffee and re-lighting his -cigar. She looked round the room--solid oak furniture, reddish carpet -and curtains, silver on the sideboard and rows of bright-coloured -wine-glasses, green and red, a fine damask cloth on the table.... - -A noise of wheels and hoofs in the street. Lavery got up. As he went -out one door, Nora came in the other, and stopped short. In a quick -glance, Mary took in her whole appearance. - - - - - XI - - -The girl Mary remembered had changed, more than the ten years accounted -for. There was nothing left of her youth. Her body was painfully thin, -a mere wisp, and the tight-fitting black dress emphasized each sharp -angle. There were great hollows in her face under the high cheek-bones -and in her neck, round which she wore a white lace collar fastened -by a large cameo brooch. Earrings to match the brooch, too heavy for -her face, brought out her dead pallor. Her brown eyes were dimmed and -slightly bloodshot from weeping. But her hair kept its vivid colour and -luxuriance. - -Seeing Mary alone, she had stopped--stood there, looking sullen, biting -her lips. They gazed at one another. Mary was conscious of a remote -astonishment that Nora should look so angry.... Voices sounded in the -hall. - -"There's the doctor," said Mary hurriedly, getting up. "Nora, how long -has--has he been ill exactly, do you know?" - -"Since he came here Thursday afternoon--he was sick then but he -wouldn't let me send for a doctor--I wanted to--" - -Her voice died away, again she had that sullen defensive look. - -"I know. It isn't your fault--I'm sure you did everything you could," -Mary said quickly in a neutral tone, and went out into the hall. She -felt extremely uncomfortable in Nora's presence, but there was no time -to think about that now. - - * * * * * - -Sayre was a young thickset man, with cool dark eyes, full of energy. -After seeing the patient, he sat down in the study and talked with -Mary. Finding her calm and alert, he explained the treatment he -proposed to give, a new method--plenty of air and food, and cold -baths. He cordially assented to calling Dr. Lowell, whom he had met -professionally. He thought they would need another nurse, as the -patient must be watched day and night. Mary eagerly asked if she could -not take the night-duty, but he shook his head; he preferred a trained -person, and it would take two of them to handle the baths. But she -could be on hand--when her husband was conscious he would want her -there. He was curt and grave and used no soothing phrases. Mary did not -ask what he thought of the outcome; she could tell from his manner what -he thought. He went away, saying that he would send for the night-nurse -and would return himself about midnight. She might telegraph to Dr. -Lowell if she wished. - - * * * * * - -Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he came up Mary was in -the sickroom. The nurse had to give some medicine; twice a restless -movement of the patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under -Laurence's head and held him still while the medicine was given. She -smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid her cool hand on his forehead. -For a moment he was quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids -closed. She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding him so, -close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she could not -breathe for the pain.... Then Lavery came in. Laurence began again that -murmuring and tossed away from her. Presently she got up and went out. - -She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, leaned back and -closed her eyes till she could control the nervous trembling that shook -her. Lavery, lighting one of his thick black cigars, came and sat down -near her. He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. She -looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shadows under the eyes. - -"You're tired out." - -"Well, I'm tired--I was up last night a good deal," he admitted. - -"You must go home now and rest, there's nothing more to do here. The -doctor's sending another nurse and he'll be in again himself.... You've -been very good." - -"Oh," he said brusquely, "I guess it will be all right." - -"Well, it may be a long illness, you know--weeks. Now--I want to ask -you--" she frowned and gazed at him haughtily. "Here we all are, you -see--the two nurses and me, and there'll be special cooking, and--Well, -how will she manage? It's her house, I suppose. I don't see how we can -all--" - -"Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I know, and you could -hire another one if you want. But she'll want to do something herself, -she,--oh, well, hang it, she's devoted to Laurence." - -"I suppose so.... You know her, don't you, pretty well?" - -"Oh, yes, I've been here a good deal. Laurence has always had his -rooms here ever since I've known him--it's quieter, you see, and--well, -Mary, I guess you knew about it, didn't you?" - -"I did, and I didn't," said Mary clearly. "Long ago I did." - -"Well, yes--he never said much to me, only that it was an old--affair. -Of course I could see how it was--more a responsibility, to him, than--" - -"Oh, I understand, you needn't worry, so far as I'm concerned," said -Mary, coldly. "I just want Laurence to get well, and everybody will -have to do the best they can. It's--well, I can't talk to her tonight, -she's so upset, but I don't want her to feel that I've just walked in -and taken possession--after all, it's her house. She looks so--afraid, -and angry at me too--I can't help it, she ought to know I have to be -here. But I don't want to make it harder for her than--oh, well, I'll -have to talk to her. It doesn't matter very much anyway, what she feels -or what I feel. It doesn't seem very important." - -"No, it doesn't," said Lavery absently. - -They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, and brooded -with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in the big chair, relaxed ... and a -feeling of the unreality of all about her made it seem that some bridge -between her and the world had dropped suddenly.... There was only a -tremendous vacancy, stillness, emptiness, pressed upon her.... - -Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from the sick man. She -started up. - - - - - XII - - -By next day the routine of life in these new circumstances was -arranged. Mary had a couch in the study, the two nurses having their -rooms upstairs; she watched her chance to be useful in the sickroom. -Dr. Lowell had come in, and concurred in the young doctor's diagnosis -and proposed method of treatment. Alone with Mary, he said: - -"Sayre is all right. Now it's a question of care--and of course, if -Laurence has the vitality to pull through. I think he has. You can keep -an eye on the nurses--the best will stand watching--careless, forget -things--" - -"Yes." - -"And you'll see there's plenty of good food--nourishing soups, eggs and -milk, meat jellies--" - -"Yes." Then she said. "You know, for some years past Laurence has been -drinking pretty steadily--a good deal. Do you think--?" - -Dr. Lowell shook his head. "Doesn't make a bit of difference." - -"Then you think he may--" - -"I don't know a thing about it, Mary, that's the truth--and it -generally is the truth. I think he has an even chance.... I suppose you -have no idea where he may have picked this up? So far as I know, we -haven't a case in town." - -"No--he's always moving about, you know--he was in Springfield last -week--" - -"Yes. Well, I'll come in, say tomorrow evening, and stay overnight. -Suit you? Got to get my train now." - -He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and departed. Mary was used -to that look from him. It was the only commentary he had ever made on -the course of her married life; and she had made no confidences to him. -Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly cool unemotional manner -meant: things were so serious that there was no use making a fuss. When -the balance hung between life and death one had to be ready for either. -No time for tears--a smile was a more natural thing--one could smile, -long after tears were all wept away. - -She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, because Nora's -eyes were perpetually reddened and she always seemed on the point of -crying. Even when discussing the preparation of soups, arranging for -extra service, expenses, all the details of a household in state of -siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. Nerves! - -Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized her. She thought -it probable, otherwise he would have asked how Laurence came to be at -this house. He had asked no questions. - -She recalled the violence with which Nora had rejected her offer to -get another servant. "We don't need anybody else, we can get along all -right." Then under her breath, "Too many people here now!" - -That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had been an old -habit of Nora's when her temper was roused. But this time she added -hurriedly. "I'll do the cooking myself, I want to do it. You just tell -me what you want and I'll get it--night or day, it's all the same to -me." - -She had spoken with intensity, looking away from Mary, her cheeks had -flushed hotly. For a moment she looked like the passionate girl of long -ago. - -Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did not want to call her -"Mrs. Carlin." Mary without thinking had called her Nora; she did not -like that, perhaps.... Mary shrugged her shoulders with an ironical -smile. - -After her father had gone, she remained sitting in her chair in the -study, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the smouldering -fire in the grate.... Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through -the years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing out like -sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering a lifetime almost.... - -She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for the first time, -as though they belonged to some one else. It seemed that a process, now -suddenly completed, had been going on for a long time--a process of -breaking, one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to the -self which she no longer felt to be hers.... Or rather, it was hers, -that self, but it no longer represented her, contained her, it was not -all of her. She could stand apart from it and criticize it without -feeling. - -She looked back to the time when she had been all one self, completely -contained in a firm shell: when she had been sure she was right, and -all other persons, when they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending -pride, pride that had outlasted even her self-righteousness--pride that -held fast to the form long after the substance of feeling had gone.... -Never had she been able to admit that she was wrong, even after she -had seen it clearly. Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her -unhappiness--or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her that she had -begun to feel wrong? Was it because of this wrong that she had lost her -religion--or was it that her religion was a false shell, and only after -breaking through it had she been able to see such light as this? - -It seemed that all she had been, that self she had loved and taken -pride in, had suffered a slow disintegration.... All that she could now -feel as surely hers, was the aloof merciless intelligence that sat in -judgment; and something else, that was suffering deeply, dumbly.... - -There was a dark chaos, into which she could hardly bear to look. -Instinct, emotion, long denied, suppressed, was struggling passionately -there for expression. This dark depth of feeling was common to the self -she had rejected and to what she now was--it spread far out beyond -either, it was limitless. It was a flood of pain, swelling to overwhelm -her ... it was terror and grief, common to all the world, from which -till now she had walled herself apart.... Only for a moment could she -bear that.... She had to keep calm, keep her head clear--she was on -guard. And she could do it, her nerve was good. If Laurence should -die--go out perhaps without a word to her--then the flood would break -over her. But till then she could hold it back. - - * * * * * - -Could a wrong done ever be atoned for? Would recognition that she had -done it, a sincere wish to atone for it, be of any use?... Yes, to that -self in which she no longer felt any interest. It would be good for -herself to repent--but she did not care now about being good or right. -She would like to make up for what she had done. And that was no doubt -impossible. By her own actions she had helped to fix the form of Nora's -life, and of Laurence's. In a real sense then atonement was impossible, -repentance was useless. One's acts were irrevocable. All she could do -was to recognize her responsibility and pay that part of the price that -was assessed against her; perhaps this would be, to see that others had -paid far more heavily than she. - - * * * * * - -How differently that old self of hers would have looked upon this -situation. There would have been two sinners and one righteous person -judging them. The same house would hardly have held Nora and that -other woman, who would have drawn aside her skirts lest she should -touch pitch and be defiled.... She remembered Hilary's attitude about -sin, and her own condemnation of it ... and reflected vaguely that she -had lost her hatred for sin along with her religion. Now everything -was mixed up together, she hardly knew black from white.... Only she -regretted--yes, bitterly regretted--long empty years.... Her wrongs, -and revenge, and hatred, clasped close and cherished, had eaten all the -good out of life and she had starved.... - - - - - XIII - - -A week passed. She watched Laurence's struggle, saw his strong body -wasting away day by day, saw him weakening under the incessant fever. -There had been no gleam of recognition for her; he was delirious or -lay in a stupor. She tried to follow his wanderings in that strange -borderland where the physical struggle was transmuted into fantasies -reflecting his past life. Broken phrases told her he was fighting old -battles over again.... He was contesting a field of war, leading his -men into action; he shouted hoarse words of command, then cried out--he -was down but the men must go on, take that position on the ridge.... -Then he saw his brother fall, but he couldn't stop, must go on, -on ... through the icy water, up that slope where the bullets sang.... -A soldier's funeral. He beat time to the Dead March and the last -bugle-call.... - -Or it was a courtroom scene. He was fighting hard for somebody's life, -he pleaded passionately in low murmurs. The man hadn't meant to do -wrong, Gentlemen of the Jury, he had meant well, only somehow things -were against him and he had got into trouble.... Your Honour, before -you pronounce sentence, I ask to be heard.... - -Then he was in a storm, the snow blinded him, he was freezing, couldn't -go on ... or in a desert, lost, crying for water. Always the struggle -of mind and body against odds, it seemed, a desperate losing battle.... - -Mary would watch this, always calm, cool, alert for anything she could -do to relieve or supplement the nurses. When she gave way it was after -she had locked herself into a room alone, and then it was not an -emotional breakdown but a drop into nothingness. She would lie with her -eyes shut, feeling nothing, caring for nothing. Somewhere there was a -dumb sense of injury, of injustice--but even this seemed not to matter, -since there was no one to complain to.... Things were like this. - -As the days went by, all outside the sickroom became more shadowy -to her. Even Jim coming in to see her, grown suddenly a man in this -trouble, stalwart and serious; her father's visits, the young doctor, -Horace Lavery, her daily consultations with Nora--her mind, aloof and -critical, received and registered all the detail of life, dealt with -it, but it had the thin quality of shadow. The reality was there with -Laurence. Sometimes he murmured her name, spoke to her; not recognizing -her there beside him, but seeing her far in the past--tenderly. There -seemed no harshness in his memory of her, no pain from those battles -they had gone through or the long estrangement. His tone was appealing, -it had a child-like pathetic demand. He wanted her to do something -about this that was bothering him. - - * * * * * - -Then came a day when the fever broke. Instead of going up toward night -it went down. The patient slept quietly a good deal of the night, and -woke in the dawn, conscious. - -Mary too had slept soundly that night for the first time; waking she -saw the beaming face of the nurse. - -"You can go in, he's quite himself.... But don't let him talk, he's too -weak." - -He lay there, too weak indeed even to put out his hand toward her, -but his eyes welcomed her. How young those eyes looked, vividly blue -in his wasted face! The outline of his face under the black beard was -that of his youth and his body was slender as in youth. He smiled at -her faintly. She knelt beside him and kissed him lightly with deep -tenderness, and whispered that he mustn't try to talk, thank God he was -better, but he must be very quiet and get back his strength, everything -was all right. His eyes smiled at her, rested on her face with the old -warmth of youthful love. He whispered her name. - -The nurse came in with some soup, and Mary fed him like a child, with -deep solicitude, with delight. His eyes closed, he must sleep again; -but when she moved he stirred to keep her there. She nodded and drew a -chair to the bedside and sat motionless long after he slept. - - * * * * * - -In the early afternoon, when Laurence had waked and was again sleeping, -with the fever still down, Horace Lavery insisted upon taking Mary out -for an airing. When she objected, he took her by the arm and led her to -a mirror. "Don't you think you need a change?" he enquired severely. -She smiled at the pallid face in the glass, looking certainly ten -years older in this fortnight, with deep lines in it, the hair -carelessly pushed back. - -"You've got to keep up your strength, you know, and you haven't poked -your nose outdoors since you came," Horace stated. "It's a lovely day. -I'll get a carriage." - -"Well," agreed Mary. "I feel like celebrating. But only an -hour--Laurence might wake and want me there." - -The whole atmosphere of the house was changed--a subdued rejoicing -had filled it as the black shadow lifted. Nora even for the first -time smiled at Mary coming downstairs in her long black cloak and -bonnet. And Mary smiled back radiantly and clasped Nora's rather limp -hand. Nora, by way of celebrating too, perhaps, had put on a lavender -silk dress, more striking than becoming in contrast to her red hair, -now neatly arranged. She had a visitor, at whom Mary just glanced in -passing--a stout woman in black satin, with a large feathered bonnet -and diamond earrings. Mary of course would never have thought of -wearing diamond earrings on the street. She possessed a very handsome -pair--she and Laurence always gave one another handsome presents on -Christmas--but she had hollow gold balls made to fit over the diamonds -for the street or in travelling.... Nora's visitor certainly looked -vulgar ... and that dress Nora was wearing was a terrible colour, -though it was very rich silk. Nora looked like a witch in it, with -her thin face and carroty hair.... Had Nora also, perhaps, a pair of -diamond earrings?... - -Mary, with a high colour in her cheeks, swept haughtily out of the -house. - - * * * * * - -The victoria drove slowly down the cobbled street, Mary and Lavery -sitting side by side. With an effort she turned her attention toward -her silent escort, and observed that he was attired in a frock-coat, -light grey trousers and a silk hat. - -"You're all dressed up!" she said with faint gaiety. - -"Yes--usher at a wedding at five o'clock--up to today I didn't think I -could do it--but now I don't mind. Why, today I'd hardly mind getting -married myself!" - -His smoothly-shaven face showed signs of the days of stress which, -after forty, man nor woman can encounter with impunity. There was a -tremor of the muscles round his mouth as he said abruptly: - -"I don't know why I got tied up this way with you and Laurence. Awful -mistake--and dead against my principles. Why, it spoils life, that's -what it does. And it ain't that I'm so fond of you two either--that is, -I don't think I am." He smiled uncertainly. "Old fool," he muttered. - -Mary laid her hand on his arm. - -"Don't do that, damn it," he said, drawing out a scented handkerchief. -"Can't you see I'm about to cry?" - -"Well, do, then," said Mary. - -"At my time of life a nervous strain like this is no joke," he retorted -peevishly. "I tell you I'm going to cut your acquaintance. I can't -afford it." - -"Well, do." - -He scowled. "At forty-five a man has a right to think of -himself--consider his little comforts and so on. He can't afford -emotions, they're simply ruinous.... And I might have known you and -Laurence would let me in for them. You're that kind. I suspected it all -along." - -It was a warm misty day of Indian summer. The carriage turned into the -drive on the shore of the lake. There trees were shedding softly their -last golden leaves. The lake was a deep cloudy blue, lapping in ripples -on the sand. - -"I think I'd like to walk a ways," said Mary suddenly. "It seems years -since I stepped foot on the ground." - -She left her wrap in the carriage, which followed them slowly as they -strolled along the shore, and halted when they sat down after a time -on a bench facing the water. They were silent, relaxed and weary, -each immersed in a separate stream of thought; but conscious too of -companionship. When Lavery spoke finally it was as though he were -thinking aloud. - -"I believe we are not meant to go through such emotional strain--I -mean, human beings simply aren't constructed for it," he meditated. "I -think we've gone off on a tangent, a wrong turning. We've overdeveloped -our emotions, and Nature penalizes us every time for it. When you -consider it, the physical world being what it is, really hostile to -us, so that we have to be always on guard, and with all our care we're -liable to an accident any minute--why, it's not reasonable for us to -care so much for life or death--our own or other people's. Is it now? -We put a wrong emphasis there, I'm sure." - -Mary remained silent, and he went on: - -"Of course, you may say that what we think is our highest development -is all, in a way, against Nature.... Nature works for the mass, for -the average, she wants quantity, not quality--she's inclined, when she -sees a head rising above the mass to hit it.... What does Nature do for -the finer, more sensitive human beings? She knocks them, every chance -she gets. Suppose we develop altruistic feelings, a disinterested -love for some other human being, we get hit through it, every time. -No, ma'am, it doesn't pay! This world is constructed for people with -tough shells--all others pass at their own risk.... And I think maybe -we'd do better by the world, and other people, and ourselves, if we -recognized that--if we had a real philosophy of toughness, instead of -what we've mistakenly developed.... The philosophy of tenderness is -the fashion, of course--people profess it, are actually ashamed not -to--and a few practise it. But what good is it? It doesn't fit the -facts, that's all, doesn't work. Since we're flung out defenceless into -a world that doesn't care a hang about us as individuals, we ought -to grow a tough shell as quick as we can, and stay in it if we want -to survive. The only philosophical solution is not to have personal -feelings.... You must either not admit them at all, but live like a -crab in your shell--or else you must transcend them. Mystics say this -can be done--I've never tried it myself. They say you can merge your -own individuality in the mass, so that you are simply a part of what is -going on, and don't feel personal loss or pain much.... What say about -that?" - -He turned to Mary, and saw that she had not been listening. She was -staring at the blue shimmering water--and suddenly she flushed -deeply, painfully, and looked distressed. - -"What's the matter?" asked Lavery sharply. "What's bothering you now?" - -"It's about Nora--" - -"Nora? What about her?" - -"Well, I just thought that I might have asked her to go up and see -Laurence for a minute, now he's better.... She hasn't been near the -room since I came.... And I took it that way, as if she had no business -there...." - -Lavery looked sideways at her, discomfited. - -"Well, you couldn't have too many people running in--he isn't fit for -it," he muttered. - -"No, but I do feel badly about her.... You see, it goes back years. -She was in our house, took care of the boys when they were little. She -really loved them--and I guess she'd always been fond of Laurence, -she knew him before I did. But I didn't notice it until ... well, -I discovered it suddenly and ... she was turned out of the house -practically.... I didn't concern myself about how she lived after -that...." - -"So that was the trouble," said Lavery, looking curiously at her. "I -never knew that--I mean, that she was concerned in it.... And you were -awfully angry?" - -Mary frowned. "I don't know what I was.... It did something to me--I -never got over it--couldn't." - -"I suppose you were very much in love with Laurence then." - -"I don't know whether I was or not, that wasn't the way I thought about -it.... I didn't think about it much anyway--I never liked thinking -about my feelings ... or talking about them." - -"You don't mind talking a little this way, do you?" - -"No, not now--it seems so long ago, and then--I'm hardly the same -person I was then." - -"And so you turned her out.... But you didn't want to leave Laurence?" - -Mary was silent for some moments. - -"Perhaps I did, perhaps not.... I didn't leave him, in one way, and in -another I did. It couldn't be the same." - -"Oh, no ... but still in the course of time you might have forgiven -him." - -"It wasn't that.... I don't believe there's such a thing as -forgiveness. We forget, that's all." - -"And you didn't forget.... I wonder if you loved Laurence." - -"I don't know. He always said I didn't.... But he's had his life -anyway." - -"No doubt. And you've had yours." - -Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, yes." - -He waited, watching her curiously, and after a moment she broke out: - -"I know this--the only times I've ever felt afraid--real fear--it was -on account of Laurence--when he was in danger." - -"You didn't exactly want him, then, but you didn't want to lose him -either?... You wanted him in some way." - -"Oh ... that's enough about that.... But I was talking about Nora. I -can see she thinks she'll be thrown out again. Any how she just hates -me." - -"Well, naturally." - -"But I tell you, I'm sorry for what I did. I'd like her to know it. But -I can't say anything to her. It seems, everything I could say would -sound--patronizing, or forgiving, or--wrong, anyway." - -"Of course. You're in possession, you see. She knows it, and that she -hasn't got any real hold. You can't get around that. I don't see what -you can do about it." - -"But, you see, she really gave up her life--first to my children, and -then.... She would have married and had children of her own." - -"No doubt. She might yet. But not while Laurence is around. It's a real -passion on her side." - -"Well--that's my doing. I mean, that it lasted as long as it did. It -was because I acted the way I did that he didn't break with her then." - -"He'd have been glad to, many times since, I guess. She is as -jealous as the devil, and makes scenes about any shadow of a woman. -Naturally--she knows she hasn't got much of a hold on him, only he -feels responsible.... I don't really see, Mary, why you should have -made such a fuss about her.... It isn't as if he'd ever been in love -with her.... Why couldn't you let him have his humble handmaiden ... or -at any rate, not upset the whole apple-cart on account of it?" - -"Oh, I know, you have no morality--hardly any man has. Anyhow it has -nothing to do with that.... I want to know what to do now." - -"Well, I don't see what you can do." - -They had spoken in calm neutral tones and now were silent again. Lavery -watched Mary; her face was intent, slightly frowning, baffled. He -reflected that she had a concrete sort of mind, abstract questions, -problems of character or conduct, did not interest her, she wanted to -"do something." And really now, what could she do about this situation? - -"You see," he said slowly, "things are changed now. Your being -there--right there in the house--don't you see? I think, when he gets -well, Laurence will want to break away for good and all from there. -Of course she'd be looked after, materially, that's only right. And -she'd probably have a chance to settle in life, it would be better, in -the long run, for her.... I'm sort of taking it for granted," he added -gravely, "that you want Laurence back." - -Mary's face was an expressionless mask; lowered eyelids hid her eyes. - -"I guess you want him back, and you don't want any other woman round. I -sort of think you're human, after all." - -"I'm afraid to say," she murmured. - -"What? How?" - -"I'm afraid.... It seems, I mustn't want anything now, I mustn't count -on anything.... I must try to do right, to make up what I can, in any -case, whether Laurence--" Suddenly she turned and cowered against -Lavery, hiding her face on his shoulder, clutching his arm. "I'm -afraid--I'm afraid!" - -He sat silent and nodded his head slightly, looking blank, then became -cheerful, expostulated: - -"Oh, I know we're not out of the woods yet--but, I say, you're not -going to pieces, are you, the first good day we've had, and me with -a wedding on my hands?... I say, this is unreasonable.... Poor girl, -you're tired out, I know ... but what d'ye suppose the coachman thinks?" - -"As if I cared!" But she sat up and straightened her bonnet. "We'd -better go back now." - -The sun was almost too warm on their bench.... And the water ... what a -blue, soft and cloudy, a heavenly colour.... The softness and warmth of -summer shed for a day over bare boughs and falling leaves.... - - - - - XIV - - -They drove back rapidly. In the hall, Mary found Nora waiting for her. -Nora, with flashing eyes and bright red spots on her cheek-bones, came -up to her and said: - -"There's a woman in there.... She wouldn't go away!" - -"Where? A woman? What woman?" - -"In the parlour. I don't know who she is.... She wants to see him." - -"Wants to see ...?" - -"I told her she couldn't, but she wouldn't go away. You better tell -her!" - -Lavery had come in and gone on upstairs. With a severe look at Nora, -Mary opened the parlour door and went in. A woman who had been standing -at the window turned to meet her. A woman, tall as herself, young and -slender--dressed in plain black but richly dressed. A faint perfume was -shaken out as she moved, from her silken clothes. - -"Mrs. Carlin?... I've been waiting.... I wanted to know just how he -is.... I'm a friend, I've been very anxious." - -A hat with a drooping lace veil partly hid her face. She was striking, -if not beautiful--a long narrow face, with intense dark eyes under -straight brows, thick hair of a dark auburn colour. Her look was as -direct and wilful as her words. - -"He is better today--conscious for the first time, but very weak," said -Mary evenly, with her stateliest manner. - -"Could I see him?... Oh, I don't mean to speak to him, I know that -wouldn't do.... But just to look at him for a minute?" - -The request was uttered politely enough, but like a command. - -"No. If he saw you it would disturb him perhaps. I can't risk it," said -Mary calmly. - -"You needn't. If he's awake I won't ask it. But if he isn't, it won't -hurt him if I just stand at the door for a minute.... That's all I -want, and I won't come again.... Won't you see? Please!" - -The woman was breathing quickly, her voice was agitated, and those -dark eyes burned.... Well, she was straightforward enough, anyway, no -excuses, no beating about the bush. Here was a woman who would know -what she wanted and wouldn't have any weak scruples about getting -it.... Refuse her?... Well, after all, why? Perhaps she too had a right -to be there.... - -"Come up with me.... I'll see how he is.... But you won't...." - -"Oh, he shan't know I'm here, depend on me." - -Mary led the way out into the hall and up the stairs. She saw Nora -standing at the back of the hall, her face convulsed with anger.... At -the head of the stairs was Lavery. - -"Still sleeping--that's fine," he whispered. - -Then as he saw the woman behind Mary on the stairs, utter amazement -showed in his face. He stepped back, bowed, and she acknowledged his -recognition by a slight bend of her head. - -"Come in this way," said Mary. - -The visitor followed her into the study, and then, when Mary beckoned -to her, to the door of the sickroom. She moved slowly, shrinkingly; -clasping her hands over her breast, fixing her dark eyes on Laurence's -face, just dimly visible. A look of terror came into those eyes, -her lips parted, but without a sound.... In a few moments she moved -noiselessly back. Hastily she dropped the veil over her face, turned to -Mary, said in a choked voice, "Thank you," bowed as she passed.... In a -moment she was down the stairs and out of the house. - - * * * * * - -Then the doctor came and went, much encouraged. And then Mary went -down to her solitary supper. Nora came in to wait upon her, still -incongruously attired in the lavender gown, but pale and lowering. - -"Nora, have you been in to see Laurence?" asked Mary gently. - -Nora shook her head sharply. - -"You'd like to see him tomorrow, wouldn't you, if he keeps as well as -today?" - -"He hasn't asked to see me, I guess," said Nora coldly. - -"No, he hasn't asked for anybody, he's too weak to talk. But I'm sure -he'd like to see you," Mary said, still studiously kind. - -"When he asks for me, I'll go," Nora flashed out. Her whole face was -ablaze, her eyes flamed. "And you shouldn't have let that woman up -there--she's always after him, she writes to him, there's packs of -letters from her--" - -"How do you know?" - -"Oh, I didn't open the letters ... but I know!... What right has she to -come here and want to see him?" - -"Well, I don't know.... She seemed very fond of him," said Mary calmly. - -Nora rushed out of the room. - - * * * * * - -And then Mary repented her malice. That poor thing, it was a shame to -torment her.... And how foolish to have made a fuss, as Lavery said, -about Nora.... That other woman, that was the dangerous one, Nora -was harmless, poor creature.... And heaven knows how many more there -are.... Yes, Laurence had had his life.... Sometime perhaps she too -would be angry about this, but not now.... Now she would prefer to be -kind, even to Nora. - -But perhaps Nora's instinct was right, and Lavery's. It might be -useless for her to try to approach Nora, or to try to be reasonable. -It might only make things worse. Nora was willing to do her best -practically--that was all that could be asked of her. Her personal -feelings were her own affair. - -But Mary was obstinate. That feeling of deep injury, of bitterness, -of hate perhaps which she had seen in Nora toward herself--how could -she consent to have that remain, if there was anything she could do to -soften it? She was willing to do anything possible, willing to admit -that she had been unjust. Her pride, from the moment she felt herself -in the wrong, was on the side of admitting it, practically forced -her to do it.... But why was it that she seemed to say or do just -the wrong thing, why was it so hard for her to approach people, even -when she wished them well--what stupidity in her made her offend? Was -it deeper than that? Was it after all that she perhaps _didn't_ feel -kindly to Nora, _didn't_ wish her well?... This incident tonight seemed -to show it. She had had a chance to annoy Nora and she had done it.... -Was she still bound then by the limitations of that old self, which she -saw so clearly? Were one's faults and weaknesses inherent, not to be -got rid of, even if one condemned them? Apparently.... - -No, one thing was different, her will. She willed to be different -from what she had been--she would force that old self of hers to be -different, at least to act in another way. And Nora should feel it too. - - * * * * * - -"Nora!" she called clearly. - -She waited a few minutes, then got up to go in search. But Nora came in -through the pantry-door and shut it behind her; leaning against it she -looked at Mary with defiant eyes. - -"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to do anything against you. -Do you think I want to hurt you? Don't you see?" - -"It's no matter whether you do or not," Nora said in a hard tone. - -"I want to tell you that I think I was wrong--long ago. I wasn't fair -to you. I--" - -"It's no matter now," Nora broke in again. - -"Yes, it is. I want to say--" - -"I don't want you to say anything!... I guess you were fair enough, -you treated me all right. Anybody would have...." - -She stopped and her lowering gaze shifted. - -"Well, I just want to say that I feel I owe you a good deal. I realized -it afterwards. The children.... I knew you'd really loved them--" - -Nora shrank at that and bit her lip. - -"It's no use talking, I don't want to talk about it," she cried. "I've -been a bad woman, and that's all there is to it." - -"No! I never thought you were bad--not even then. I don't think I -blamed _you_." - -"Oh, I guess I was to blame," muttered Nora, "I knew it, all right." - -"I want you to know that I don't blame you and that I don't think -you're bad." - -"I don't see that that's got anything to do with it. I guess I know if -I'm bad or not.... I know that I can't go to confession, and I believe -I'll go to hell ... and I don't care much if I do.... And I know what -happened on account of me too." - -Now it was Mary who changed colour, lost her composure. - -"That--my fault more than yours--" she stammered. - -And Nora grew more composed. There was even a strange air of dignity -about her as she said after a moment: - -"I don't want you to think about what's past, Mrs. Carlin. It won't do -any good. I've done what I knew was wicked and--I don't know if I'm -sorry or not. So you see I don't want you to forgive me, even if you -wanted to. I don't ask anybody's forgiveness, because what difference -would it make? It wouldn't change anything." - -Abruptly she retreated into the pantry and closed the door. Mary, with -shaking hands, poured herself a cup of strong coffee and drank it -black. Well, that was over. And Nora was right, it was no use talking -and nothing she could do would make any difference. - -She went slowly upstairs, thinking that she felt more respect and -liking for Nora than ever before--felt it now perhaps for the first -time. But it would be impossible to make Nora feel that--if she -tried she would strike the wrong note somehow, she was made like -that--clumsy--yes, and worse than that, with impulses to hurt, that -came so suddenly she couldn't resist. She shrugged her shoulders. Best -to drop it all. She had other things to think about anyway.... - - * * * * * - -Laurence was lying quiet, his eyes open. She sat down beside him and -took his hand. The light was dimmed, but she could see the glimmer of a -smile on his face. His fingers closed round hers with a faint pressure. -His eyes met hers, with a strange look, as if from a great distance. - -"You feel a little better, don't you?" she said bending down. - -"Yes," he answered, faintly. - -"Don't make him talk," warned the nurse, "Tomorrow will be time enough." - -"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," said Laurence's faint far-away -voice. "Lighting fools the way to dusty death." - -"Hush, you mustn't talk!" gasped Mary. - -Again came that glimmer, like the reflection of a smile, on his face. -And all the while that strange look in his eyes. - -She clasped his inert hand, thin and shrunken. How these weeks of -illness had wasted his strong body, withered him to a shadow. Man's -flesh is grass--it is cut down and cast into the oven.... Man born of -woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh up as a flower.... - -But Laurence was better, surely better, they all said so.... Hardly any -fever.... - -But his strength was gone--eaten up by that burning fire.... Was he -drifting away, calm, without pain, like this, had he gone too far to -come back? Surely he was far away, that was what his look meant.... -Untroubled ... indifferent ... he didn't care, it seemed. He wasn't -interested. Just looking on, a mere spectator, no emotion, perhaps -a slight amusement.... His eyes closed, he was breathing evenly and -quietly. - -Strange to see him like this, his restless and passionate spirit -stilled, so drawn away, so detached; it was not mere physical weakness, -it was as though he were ceasing to be identified with this weakened -body, deliberately withdrawing from it. _This_ was not Laurence.... -It was Laurence who had looked at her in that first return to -consciousness, with eyes of love ... and then with that remote and -passionless look, as though he had already said good-bye.... - -The wasted years.... Years that she had wasted ... when he had lived -his life, near her but apart, when she had held him away--for what?... -He had loved life, had been so intensely living. Now it seemed he -didn't care. He would make no effort to live--he was tired. They might -try all they could to keep him. He would slip away, perhaps, through -their fingers, with that glimmer of a smile at them.... She would be -punished. It was just. She had no reason to feel injured, to complain. -As she had sowed, she would reap.... A mortal chill was at her heart. - - * * * * * - -That night she could not sleep. The strong coffee she had taken keyed -her up; her heart beat nervously, a stream of restless thoughts rushed -through her brain. At intervals she would get up and look into the -sickroom. The night-nurse would be moving about, or sitting in the -large chair at the foot of the bed; all seemed quiet. Toward morning -Mary fell into a doze; troubled, uneasy, with the feeling that some one -was calling her, she must rouse herself. She woke suddenly in the dawn, -and heard a low moaning in the next room. She sprang up and went in. -The nurse said: - -"I was just going to call you. I have to go down and get some ice. -There's a little more fever. Will you see he doesn't get uncovered? -Keep the blankets that way over his chest." - -There was a dull flush again on his face, his hands were moving -restlessly, and he kept up that low moan of distress. Mary kept the -blankets over him, careful not to touch him, for her hands were icy -cold. The nurse came back with the cracked ice and filled a rubber bag -which she bound on his head. - -"When did you notice this change?" - -"About an hour ago he began to get restless." - -"I'd better call Dr. Sayre." - -"Not before seven o'clock, it wouldn't be any use. They won't wake -him unless it's absolutely necessary. And this may not be anything -serious--there's often a slight relapse. Don't worry, Mrs. Carlin. -Yesterday was too good to last, that's all. We must expect ups and -downs." - -"But he's so weak...." - -"Oh, I've seen them pull through, lots weaker than he is--he's got a -good strong physique.... Now don't stand around, it's too cold. You -better go and get dressed, if you want to be up." - -With a shivering look at Laurence's dark face and half-open eyes, she -went, dressed herself quickly, shook her long hair out of its braid -and twisted it up roughly. She put on her bonnet and cloak. Then she -started downstairs, careful to make no noise. She intended to get the -doctor. The gas-light in the hall was burning, turned down to a point -of light. As she fumbled with the chain on the door, Nora came into the -hall, wrapped in a pink dressing-gown, her hair flowing thick over her -shoulders. - -"What is it? I heard the nurse come down. Where are you going?" - -"To get the doctor. Laurence is worse." - -"Don't you go, this time of night--I'll go!" - -"No," said Mary, slipping the chain. - -"Wait, I'll go with you--" - -"No, I can't wait." - -"Is he--very bad?" A sob. - -"I don't know--the fever's up again." - -She opened the door. But Nora suddenly clutched her arm. - -"Don't you give up! Mrs. Carlin, don't look like that, don't give him -up! Surely he can't be taken, God wouldn't take him away--" - -"He's too weak ... he hasn't got strength to--" - -"Don't say that, how do you know? Did you pray for him? I did--he got -better--" - -"Let me go! I must go, Nora!" - -"Pray for him! Pray for him!" - -Mary wrenched her arm away and swung the door wide. Then suddenly she -bent and kissed Nora's cheek, wet with tears. - -Then she was out in the dim grey dawn, hurrying along the empty street. -A cold wind was blowing now from the lake, the air was thick with fog. - -Pray? Was it prayer--this voiceless cry of anguish from her heart -toward the unknown? She could cry, O God, don't take him from me, her -lips uttered the words as she ran. But who would hear?... Far, far -beyond reach or understanding, the force that moved this world of -beauty and terror, that made these poor human beings going their ways -in darkness, sinning and suffering they knew not why. -Cold ... harsh ... bleak was human fate, like this dim steely light, -this cutting wind, this stony street.... - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Proud Lady, by Neith Boyce - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROUD LADY *** - -***** This file should be named 62478-8.txt or 62478-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/7/62478/ - -Produced by Karin Spence, Tim Lindell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Proud Lady - -Author: Neith Boyce - -Release Date: June 25, 2020 [EBook #62478] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROUD LADY *** - - - - -Produced by Karin Spence, Tim Lindell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<p id="half-title" class="p6">PROUD<br /> -LADY</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center p-left"><i>NEW BORZOI NOVELS</i></p></div> - -<p class="center p-left"><i>SPRING 1923</i></p> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Star of Earth</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>Morris Dallett</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Downstream</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>Sigfrid Siwertz</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ralph Herne</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>W. H. Hudson</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Gates of Life</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>Edwin Björkman</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Druida</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>John T. Frederick</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Long Journey</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>Johannes V. Jensen</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Bridal Wreath</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>Sigrid Undset</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Hill of Dreams</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>Arthur Machen</i></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">A Room with a View</span><br /> -<span class="books"><i>E. M. Forster</i></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h1>PROUD LADY</h1></div> - -<p class="center p-left p2 xl">NEITH BOYCE</p> - - <div class="figcenter" id="i_title" > - <img - class="p6" - src="images/i_title.jpg" - alt="" /> - </div> - -<p class="center p-left p2">NEW YORK··ALFRED·A·KNOPF</p> - -<p class="center p-left">1923</p> - - -<p class="center p-left sm">COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY<br /> -ALFRED A. KNOPF, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span></p> - -<p class="center p-left xs"><i>Published, January, 1923</i></p> - -<p class="center p-left xs p6"><i>Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.</i><br /> -<i>Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York.</i><br /> -<i>Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York.</i></p> - -<p class="center p-left xs">MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center p-left xl"><b>PROUD<br /> -LADY</b></p></div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p></div> - - - -<h3>I</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Across the ringing of the church bells came the whistle of the train. -Mary Lavinia, standing in the doorway, watched her mother go down the -walk to the gate. Mrs. Lowell's broad back, clad in black silk, her -black bonnet stiffly trimmed with purple pansies, bristled with anger. -She opened the gate and slammed it behind her. The wooden sidewalk -echoed her heavy tread. She went down the street out of sight, without -looking back.</p> - -<p>The slow melancholy bells were still sounding, but now they stopped. -Mrs. Lowell would be late to church. Mary listened, holding her breath. -She heard the noise of the train. Now it whistled again, at the -crossing, now it was coming into town—white puffs of smoke rose over -the trees. The engine-bell clanked, and the shrill sound of escaping -steam signalled its stopping.</p> - -<p>Mary listened, but there was no cheering, though a number of people had -gone to the depot to welcome the little knot of returning soldiers. She -remembered the day, three years before, when the company raised in the -town had marched to the train—there was plenty of cheering then. Now -perhaps half a dozen of those men were coming back. The war was over, -but the rest of them had been left on southern battle-fields.</p> - -<p>Mary stood looking out at the light brilliant green of the trees in the -yard. It was very quiet all around her. The house always seemed quiet -when her mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> was out of it, and now there was a lull after the -storm. But she was breathing quickly, intent, listening, shivering a -little in her light print dress. The spring sunlight had little warmth, -the air was sharp, with a damp sweetness. In the silence, she heard the -rustling of a paper and the sound of a slight cough, behind a closed -door. Her father was there, in his office. He would have gone to meet -the train, she knew, but that these were his office-hours. But she -couldn't have gone—and neither could she go to church, however angry -her mother might be. A light flush rose in her cheeks, as she stood -expectant.</p> - -<p>She was beautiful—tall, slender, but with broad shoulders and a -straight proud way of holding herself. Her thick hair, of bright -auburn, with a natural small ripple, parted in the middle, was drawn -down over her ears into a heavy knot. She was dazzlingly fair, with a -few freckles on her high cheek-bones, with large clear grey eyes, with -scarlet, finely-cut lips. She looked mature for her twenty years and -yet completely virginal, untouched, unmoved. But her face expressed -very little of what she might be thinking or feeling. It was like a -calm mask—there was not a line in it, there was no record to be read.</p> - -<p>Footsteps began to echo down the wooden walk, and voices. She went into -the house and shut the door. In the office she heard a chair pushed -back, and as she did not want to speak to her father just then, she -walked quickly and lightly out through the big bright kitchen into the -garden at the back of the house, slipping on as she went a blue coat -that she had taken from the hall.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<p>The garden was long and narrow, bounded by rail fences along which was -set close together lilac bushes and other flowering shrubs of twenty -years' growth. It was carefully laid out, in neat squares or oblongs, -separated by rows of currant and gooseberry bushes or by grass-paths. -The fresh turned earth in the beds looked dark and rich. All the bushes -and shrubs were covered with light-green leaves. Bordering the central -path were two narrow beds of tulips, narcissus, jonquils, flowering in -thick bands of colour. At the end of the garden was a small orchard of -apple, cherry and peach trees, some of them in bloom. In summer there -was shade and seclusion here, but now there was no place to hide. Mary -stopped a moment, looking back at the house, then opened a gate and in -a panic fled out into the pasture. She was well aware that she ought -to be in the house, that the minister was coming to dinner, that the -roast would probably burn, but above all that some one was coming for -her, that they would be calling her any moment; so she hurried on, up -a slight rise of ground, over the top of it, and there she was out of -sight.</p> - -<p>The pasture stretched all about her, dotted with cattle nibbling the -short green grass. Below, the ground fell suddenly, and there was a -large pond. It was very deep, with a treacherous mud bottom near the -shores. Willows encircled it, and on the farther side marshes blended -it with the land. The water had a colour of its own, almost always -dark—now it was a dull blue, deeper than the light April sky. Beyond -it on every side was the prairie, flat, unbroken to the skyline. Trees, -fields, houses, scattered over it, seemed insignificant, did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -interrupt its monotony. It rolled away in long low wavering lines, -endless and sombre, like a dark sea.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A faint call from the direction of the house—that was her father's -gentle voice. Then a shout, lusty and clear—her name, shouted out over -the hill for the whole town to hear! Mary started, a confused cloud of -feelings made her heart beat heavily. But she stood still. In another -moment a man appeared at the top of the rise and came plunging down -toward her. In his blue uniform—cap tilted over one eye—just the -same! He caught her in his arms and kissed her, laughing, repeating -her name over and over, and kissed her again and again. Mary did not -return his kisses, but bowed her head to the storm. Released at last -from the tight clasp against his breast, but still held by his hands -on her shoulders, she looked at him, and he at her—their eyes were on -a level. But his eyes were full of an intoxication of joy, excited, -almost blinded, though they seemed to be searching her face keenly, -from brow to lips. Mary's eyes were clear. She saw the sword-cut on his -left cheek, a thin red scar—that was new to her. She saw that he was -thinner and the brown of his face was paler—he had been wounded and -in hospital since she had seen him. She saw what had always repelled -her—what she thought of vaguely as weakness, in his mouth and chin. -But then she saw too the crisp black hair brushed back from his square -forehead, the black eyebrows, sharp beautiful curves—and the long -narrow blue eyes—and these she loved, she did not know why, but they -had some strange appeal to her, something foreign, come from far away. -She never could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> look at those eyes without tenderness. Now she put up -her hands on his shoulders and bent toward him, and tenderness glowed -like a light through the mask. At that moment she did not look cold.</p> - -<p>He could not say anything except, "Oh, Mary! Mary!" And Mary did not -speak either, but only smiled. They sat down together on a stone in -the pasture. The young soldier held her hands in his clasp, his arm -around her, as though he could never let her go again. His heart -was overflowing. He held her clasped against him and stared at the -dull-blue water. This was like a dream. Many a time, on the bivouac, -on the march when he dozed from fatigue in his saddle, he had dreamed -vividly of Mary, he had felt her near him as now. He half expected to -wake and hear again the tramp of marching men, the jingle of the chains -of his battery behind him. The present, the future, were a dream, he -was living in the past. He had thought of Mary when the shell burst -among his guns. "This is death," he had thought too, wounded in the hip -by a fragment of shell, deluged with blood from the man killed beside -him. He had taken the place of the gunner and served his gun. That was -at the Wilderness. Yes, he had held them back, and brought off his -whole battery. "Distinguished gallantry." ...</p> - -<p>He sighed, and touched Mary's bright hair with his lips, and was -surprised that she did not vanish. Was it true, that life was over, -"Daredevil Carlin" was no more, his occupation gone? Then he must begin -the world at twenty-five, with empty hands. He turned and looked at the -woman beside him. It was hard to realize that now his life would be -with her, that what he had so longed for was his.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>II</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The roast <i>was</i> burned. Dr. Lowell, at the head of the table, carved -and dispensed it, with sly chuckles. His mild blue eyes beamed through -his spectacles, and he kept up the slow flow of conversation, now -addressing the minister, who sat alone on one side of the table, now -Captain Carlin, who sat with Mary on the other side; and sending -propitiatory glances at his wife, who loomed opposite, stonily -indignant. She was outraged at having her dinner spoiled—in addition -to everything else. And if looks could have done it, the whole company, -except the minister, would have been annihilated.</p> - -<p>Yes, her husband too. This was one of the times when he exasperated -her beyond endurance. How ridiculous he was, with his perpetual -good-humour, his everlasting jokes! As he carved the leathery beef he -made a point of asking each person, "Will you have it well-done, or -rare?" And then he would wink at her. She glared back at him, looking -like a block of New England granite, as she was.</p> - -<p>It was strange that in a long life together she had not been able to -crush the light-mindedness out of that man. But she had not even made a -church member of him. He treated the minister as he did anybody else, -with gentle courtesy—beneath which, if you knew him well, you might -suspect a sparkle of amusement. He laughed at everything, everybody! At -times she sus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>pected him of being an atheist. He had said that he was -too busy correcting God's mistakes in people's bodies to think about -their souls, or his own. Mrs. Lowell would not have dared repeat this -remark to the minister, for if she had an atheist in the family she -would conceal him to the last gasp, as she would a forger.</p> - -<p>Whenever she spoke, during this meal, she addressed herself pointedly -to the minister, for she was above being hypocritical or pretending -that Captain Carlin's presence was welcome to her. From the deep -respect of her manner toward the Reverend Mr. Robertson, he might -have been a very venerable personage indeed. But he was a young man, -under thirty and at first glance insignificant—slight and plain. -His straw-coloured hair was smoothed back from a brow rather narrow -than otherwise, his light eyebrows and lashes gave no emphasis to his -grey-blue eyes, his complexion was sallow, his mouth straight and -rather wide. Perhaps Mrs. Lowell's manner merely indicated respect to -the cloth.</p> - -<p>But when Hilary Robertson spoke, people listened to him—whether he -was in his pulpit or in a chance crowd of strangers. Sometimes on the -street, people would turn and look at him, at the sound of his voice. -It had a deep, low-toned bell-like resonance. The commonest words, -spoken in that rich voice, took on colour, might have an arresting -power. Perhaps this remarkable organ accounted for Hilary Robertson as -a minister of religion. No, it was only one of his qualifications.</p> - -<p>A second glance was apt to dwell on his face with attention. There were -deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth and across -the forehead and between the eyebrows. The pale-coloured eyes had a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -luminous intensity, and the mouth a firm compression. A fiery irritable -spirit under strong control had written its struggle there.</p> - -<p>As he sat quietly, eating little, speaking less, but listening, -glancing attentively at each of the family in turn and at Captain -Carlin, only an uncommon pallor showed that he was feeling deeply. -No one—not Mrs. Lowell, though she suspected much, not Mary—no one -knew what the return of Carlin meant to Hilary Robertson. Two people -at that table would have been glad if Carlin never had come back. -Mrs. Lowell would have denied indignantly that she wished any ill to -Laurence Carlin—only she did not want her daughter to marry a nobody, -of unworthy foreign descent. But the minister faced the truth and knew -that he, Hilary Robertson, sinner, had hoped that Laurence Carlin would -die in battle; that when his imagination had shown him Carlin struck -down by a bullet, he felt as a murderer feels. His heart had leaped and -a deep feeling of solace had filled it, to think that Carlin might be -out of his way. Why not, where so many better men had died? Why must -just this man, whom his judgment condemned, come back to cross the -one strong personal desire of his life, his one chance of happiness? -Mary belonged to him already, in a sense—he shared the life of her -soul, its first stirring was due to him. Not a word of love had ever -been spoken between them. She was betrothed, he could not have spoken -to her. But all the same he felt that only a frail bond held her to -the other—the bond of her word and of a feeling less intense than -the spiritual sympathy between her and himself.... But now it was all -over—Carlin had come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> back and she would marry him. And a soul just -beginning to be awakened to eternal things would perhaps slip back into -the toils of the temporal and earthly....</p> - -<p>Dr. Lowell asked questions about Washington city, the great review -of the army, about General Grant, and Sherman and the new President. -Carlin answered rather briefly, his natural buoyancy suppressed by the -hostility of two of his auditors. But this he felt only vaguely, his -happiness was like a bright cloud enfolding him, blurring his eyes. The -other people were like shadows to him, he was really only conscious of -Mary there beside him. He would have liked to be silent, as she was.</p> - -<p>There was no lingering over the table. The doctor had his round of -visits to make. The Indian pudding disposed of, he lit his pipe, put on -his old felt hat and his cape, took his black medicine-chest, and went -out to hitch up Satan, a fast trotter who had come cheap because of his -kicking and biting habits. Gentle Dr. Lowell liked a good horse, and as -he pointed out to his wife, he needed one, on his long country journeys -at all hours of the day or night. The horse's name had provoked a -protest, but as the doctor said, that <i>was</i> his name and it suited him, -why change it? You might christen him the Angel Gabriel but it wouldn't -change his disposition.</p> - -<p>The minister took his leave, saying that he had work to do. At parting -he asked if he should see them at evening meeting. Mary felt a reproach -and blushed faintly and Mrs. Lowell said with asperity, "Certainly, -that is all except the doctor, nobody ever knows when he'll be back." -She escorted Mr. Robertson to the door,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> and then majestically -began gathering up the dinner dishes. There were no servants in the -household. Mary came to help, but her mother said sternly, "I'll attend -to these, you can go along."</p> - -<p>So Mary went along, to the parlour where Laurence Carlin was waiting. -This room was bright now because of the sunlight and the potted plants -in all the windows, between the looped-up lace curtains. But the -furniture was black walnut and horse-hair, and marble-topped tables. -On the walls were framed daguerreotypes and a wreath under glass, of -flowers made from hair. It was not a genial room. The blue and purple -hyacinths flowering in the south windows made the air sweet with rather -a funeral fragrance.</p> - -<p>Carlin turned to her with a tremulous wistful look. After the first joy -of seeing her, as always, timidity came upon him. Each time that he -had come back to her, during these four years, it seemed that he had -to woo her all over again. Each time she had somehow become a stranger -to him. Yet she had never repudiated the engagement made when she was -seventeen. It was always understood that they were to be married. But -it seemed almost as though she had accepted and then forgotten him. She -took their future together for granted, but his passionate eagerness -found no echo in her. So he always had to subdue himself to her calm, -her aloofness, and his wistful hungry eyes expressed his unsatisfied -yearning. Mary liked him best when only his eyes spoke, when his -caress, as now, was timid and restrained. He touched her bright hair -and looked adoringly at her untroubled face. They sat down together on -the slippery horse-hair sofa.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Captain!" said Mary, looking at the stripes on his sleeve with a -pensive smile. "So now you're Captain Carlin!"</p> - -<p>"That's all I am," he said ruefully. "I have to start all over again -now."</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Nothing to show for these four years."</p> - -<p>Mary smiled and touched with her square finger-tips the scar on his -cheek.</p> - -<p>"How did you get that?"</p> - -<p>"Sabre-cut." He looked hurt. "I wrote you from the hospital, don't you -remember?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, I remember," she said serenely. "Well, it doesn't look so -bad. You aren't sorry, are you?"</p> - -<p>"For what, the—"</p> - -<p>"The four years."</p> - -<p>"No, I couldn't help it. But—but—"</p> - -<p>"I'm glad of it—I'm proud of you—and that you were promoted for -bravery—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mary, are you?... But bravery isn't anything, it's common. Why—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know. But you must have been uncommonly brave, or they wouldn't -have promoted you!"</p> - -<p>He laughed and drew her near him, venturing a kiss.</p> - -<p>"It seems strange that you have been through all that—battles, killing -people—and you just a boy too, just Laurence," said Mary dreamily. -"And wouldn't hurt a fly. I can remember yet what a fuss you made about -a kitten—you remember the kitten the boys were—"</p> - -<p>"Just Larry O'Carolan, the gossoon, divil a bit else," said Laurence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, don't be Irish!... O'Carolan is pretty, though, prettier than -Carlin, but it's too Irish!"</p> - -<p>"You can have it either way you like, Mary darling," said he tenderly. -"Just so you take it soon—will you?"</p> - -<p>She could feel the strong beating of his heart as he held her close.</p> - -<p>"And yet—I ought not to ask you, maybe! For I've got nothing in the -world, only my two hands!... You know I was studying law when it came. -Judge Baxter would take me back in his office, I think—but it would be -years before—"</p> - -<p>"He said you would be a good lawyer," pondered Mary.</p> - -<p>"Would you like that? I could make some money at something else, -perhaps, and be reading law too—at night or some time.... Or there's -business—there are a lot of chances now, Mary, all over the country. -I've heard of a lot of things.... Would you go away with me, Mary, go -west, if—"</p> - -<p>"West?"</p> - -<p>She looked startled, rather dismayed.</p> - -<p>"Well, we'll talk about that later, I'll tell you what I've heard," -said Laurence hastily. "But I'll do exactly what you want, Mary, about -everything. You shall have just what you want, always!"</p> - -<p>She smiled, her pensive dreamy smile, and looked at his eyes so near -her—blue mysterious eyes, radiant with love. This love, his complete -devotion, she accepted calmly, as her right and due. Laurence belonged -to her and she to him—that was settled, long ago. Her heart beat none -the quicker at his touch—except now and then when he frightened her a -little. Mary Lavinia was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> in the least given to analysing her own -feelings. She took it for granted that they were what they should be. -And they remained largely below the threshold of consciousness.</p> - -<p>But now she moved a little away from him and studied his face -thoughtfully. This was not the handsome boy of four years ago, gay, -tumultuous, demanding, full of petulant ardour. The lines of his -mouth and jaw, which she had always thought too heavy, with a certain -grossness, were now firmly set. He was thinner, that helped—the scar -on his cheek, too. There was power in this face, and a look, sad, -almost stern, that she had never seen before. Suffering, combat, the -resolute facing of death, the habit of command, had formed the man. -She had been used to command Laurence Carlin, she had held him in the -palm of her hand. But here was something unfamiliar. Her instinct for -domination suffered an obscure check.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>III</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The doctor returned earlier than usual, and was able to work for an -hour in his garden, before dark. Mrs. Lowell, wrapped in a purple -shawl, stood in the path, while he was turning over the soil with a -pitchfork. She often objected to his working on Sunday. The doctor -pointed out that his hedges were thick enough to conceal him from -observation; she said that being seen wasn't what mattered, but -breaking the Sabbath; whereupon the doctor alleged that he felt more -religious when working in his garden than any other time, so that -Sunday seemed a particularly appropriate day to work in it. This would -reduce Mrs. Lowell to silence; she always looked scandalized when her -husband referred to religion, suspecting blasphemy somewhere.</p> - -<p>This old dispute was not in question now, however. In answer to a -question about "the young folks," Mrs. Lowell had said curtly that they -were out walking. Then she had stood silent, her broad pale face, with -its keen eyes and obstinate mouth, expressing so plainly trouble and -chagrin that the doctor spoke very gently.</p> - -<p>"You mustn't worry about it, Mother."</p> - -<p>Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly.</p> - -<p>"Of course I worry about it! I never liked it!"</p> - -<p>"No, I know you didn't. But Laurence isn't a bad fellow."</p> - -<p>"That's a high praise for a man that—that—!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, I know, you think he isn't good enough for Mary. But you wouldn't -think anybody good enough."</p> - -<p>"I've seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who is he, anyway—the -son of a labourer, a man that worked for day-wages when he wasn't too -drunk!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, come now, Mother! Don't shake the family crest at us. Your father -was a carpenter—and don't I work for wages?"</p> - -<p>"My father was a master-carpenter and had his own shops and workmen, -as you know very well!" cried Mrs. Lowell, flushing with wrath. "And -if you like to say you work for wages, when it isn't true, you can, -of course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good Americans for -generations back and not bog-trotting Irish peasants!"</p> - -<p>"Now, Mother, who told you Laurence's ancestors trotted in bogs? They -may have been—"</p> - -<p>"Didn't his father come over here with a bundle on his back, an -<i>immigrant</i>?"</p> - -<p>"Why, now, we're all immigrants, more or less, you know. Didn't <i>your</i> -ancestors come over from England?"</p> - -<p>"James Lowell—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know, they came in the <i>Mayflower</i>, or pretty nearly ... that -is, those that <i>did</i> come. Of course, on one side you're right, and -we're all immigrants and foreigners, except you! You're the only real -native American!"</p> - -<p>And the doctor chuckled, while his wife started to walk into the house. -A standing joke with him was Mrs. Lowell's aboriginal ancestry. Her -grandfather, in Vermont, had married a French-Canadian, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> doctor -pretended to have discovered that this grandmother was half Indian. He -would point to her miniature portrait on the parlour-wall, her straight -black hair and high cheek-bones, as confirmation. Mrs. Lowell and Mary -too had the high cheek-bones, they had also great capacity for silence, -which the doctor said was an Indian trait—not to mention the ferocity -of which he sometimes accused his wife. Equally a jest with him was -her undoubted descent from a genteel English family which actually did -boast a crest and motto—and the fact that Mrs. Lowell treasured a seal -with these family arms, and though she did not use it, she might, any -day. And how did she reconcile her pride in that seal with her pride in -the grandfather who had fought in the Revolution?</p> - -<p>But the doctor, seeing his wife walk away, stuck his pitchfork in the -ground and followed her, saying penitently:</p> - -<p>"There, there, now, I was only joking."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you'd joke if a person was dying!... But you know very well what -I'm thinking about is his <i>character</i>, that's what worries me. His -father drank. And he's got nothing to hold him anywhere, he's a rolling -stone, I'm sure. I don't believe he has principles. And he's been -roaming around for four years, getting into all sorts of bad habits, no -doubt—"</p> - -<p>The doctor sighed. It was useless to oppose his wife's idea that the -life of a soldier was mainly indulgence, not to say license. Useless -to point to Laurence's military record, for she did not approve of -the war, her position being that people should be let alone and not -interfered with. If they wanted to keep slaves, let them, they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -responsible for their sins. If they wanted to secede, it was a good -riddance. How did she reconcile this principle of non-resistance with -the fact that she imposed her own will whenever she could on all around -her? She didn't. That was her strength, she never tried to reconcile -any of her ideas with one another—it was impossible to argue with -her. So he sighed, for he knew she wanted comfort, her pride and her -love for Mary were bleeding—and he couldn't give it. He was doubtful -himself about this marriage. What he finally said was cold enough -comfort:</p> - -<p>"I don't think we can help it."</p> - -<p>"You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. "I've said all <i>I</i> -can."</p> - -<p>"I'll talk to Mary," he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh—talk!"</p> - -<p>With that she went into the house and banged the door. Well, what did -she expect him to do—shut Mary up—or disinherit her? The doctor -smiled ruefully as he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, -but he would work as long as he could see. There was no set meal on -Sunday nights—people went to the pantry and helped themselves when -they felt like it. He liked the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed -with the manure he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and -over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous leaves, was a -thin crescent moon. He stood looking at it, leaning on his pitchfork, -thinking that tomorrow he would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had -time. Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tenderness and -melancholy, now as ever, though he was an old man....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> - -<p>He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he had deeply admired; of -the men now returning to their homes, the long struggle over; of the -many he had known who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, -had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been rejected on -the score of age. That might have been a good end, he thought. Now -what was before him but old age, with lessening powers, the routine of -life.... He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having come, went -slowly in.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>To his wife's surprise, he offered to accompany her to church. She -was pleased, for now she could take his arm instead of Carlin's, who -followed with Mary. Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, -but as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked silently, -arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had been very sweet and gentle -to him, all day, and very serious—more so than ever before. She had -changed, he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a woman. -She had never been very gay—but yet she had had a glow of youth rather -than sparkle, an enthusiasm, that he missed now. They had talked over -plans for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him at once, if -he wished. She did not mind his being poor, she had said earnestly, she -expected they would be, at first. She had not expected it to be a path -of roses. There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. Marriage -with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle—not a sober reality.</p> - -<p>Still silently, they entered the church and took their seats. It was -the "meeting-house," plain, austere—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>nothing to touch the senses. No -mystery of shadowy lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But -the pews and benches were full, when the simple service began, there -were even people standing at the back, as in a theatre.</p> - -<p>Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad rim of her bonnet hid -her face from Laurence, but he felt this was the attitude of prayer. He -watched her for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. He -had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her absorption seemed to -set her away from him—it was one more change. She raised her head only -when the minister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and then -she looked directly at <i>him</i>. She joined in the singing, with a deep, -sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous.</p> - -<p>Hilary Robertson in the pulpit had no pomp of office. With his black -coat and black string tie he looked like any other respectable citizen, -and his manner was perfectly simple. But when he began his prayer, -there was an intense hush of attention in his audience. It was a brief -prayer, for help in present trouble, for guidance in darkness, like the -cry of a suffering heart. Many of the congregation were in mourning. -This appeal was perhaps in their behalf, but it had the note of -personal anguish.</p> - -<p>There was the secret of Hilary's power. He never appeared the priest, -set apart from the struggle of living—but a man like any other, a -sinner, for so he felt himself to be. And then, he had true dramatic -power, he could move and sway his hearers. His voice, his eloquence, -his personality, created an atmosphere, in that bare room, like -cathedral spaces, the colours of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> stained glass, deep organ melodies, -incense—an atmosphere of mystic passion, thrilling and startling.</p> - -<p>When the prayer ended and another hymn was sung, Carlin caught a -glimpse of Mary's face, pale, exalted; her eyes, shining with fervour, -fixed upon the minister. The mask for a moment had fallen, she was all -feeling, illuminated. Carlin saw it, with a sharp jealous pang. Some -strong emotion surely rapt her away from him, into a region where he -could not follow. She was as unconscious of him now as though he had -not existed, and so she remained through the service.</p> - -<p>Carlin listened, sitting rigidly upright, his arms folded, his narrow -blue eyes upon the speaker. He wanted to study and judge this man, for -whom he suddenly felt a personal dislike.</p> - -<p>He referred this dislike to Hilary's office—any assumption of -spiritual authority was repugnant to him, perhaps partly from memories -of his boyhood, when the priest had tried to direct him. His mood of -sharp criticism was not softened by the beginning of Hilary's brief -discourse. The first thing that struck his attention was a quotation -from Lincoln's inaugural address:</p> - -<p>"If God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the -bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be -sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid -by another drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, -so must it still be said, 'The judgments of the Lord are true and -righteous altogether'."</p> - -<p>This blood and treasure had been paid, the preacher said, the whole -nation had spent to cancel the debt incurred by our own and our -father's guilt, the measure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> had been filled up by the death of -Lincoln. In spite of himself, Carlin approved what was said about -Lincoln. It was true also, he admitted, that though peace had been -declared, the nation was still in the midst of turmoil arising out of -past errors, the evil spirit, departing, had rent and torn it. Peace -was not on the earth and never would be. Not peace but a sword had been -given to men. Yes, that was true, probably. The world was an eternal -battle-field, the field of a war without truce and without end, till -man should subjugate his own nature. In the heart of man, full of -pride, self-love and injustice, lay the root of all evil. He that could -overcome himself was greater than he that should take a city. That was -the true, the infinite struggle, of which all others were but ephemeral -incidents—that was the end and aim of man's existence on earth. Not -with earthly but with spiritual weapons must his battles be fought and -his eternal conquests made.</p> - -<p>Hilary spoke with curt simplicity, but with the fire of a spirit to -whom these things were realities, indeed the only realities, all else -being a shadow and a dream. There was nothing cold about his morality, -nothing soft or sweet—it was intense, hard and burning.</p> - -<p>A fanatic, Carlin thought, frowning—but all the same a man to be -reckoned with.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>IV</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">At the close of the service, the minister stood at the door, to shake -hands with his departing congregation. Carlin, not disposed to shake -his hand, went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They moved -on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of the sidewalk, under -the maple trees, and waited.</p> - -<p>"He's a good speaker," said the doctor pensively. "I like to come and -hear him once in a while."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Carlin, coldly. "He's an able man."</p> - -<p>"He's too mystical for me, though.... Seems to me you can think <i>too -much</i> about salvation, you can look at your own soul so hard that you -get cross-eyed ... that's the way it affects some of them. The women -think a lot of him."</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous," went on the doctor -mildly. "It takes a strong head, you know, to keep it straight.... But -he's all right, himself, he's a good man. Got into trouble preaching -against slavery—he lost his first church that way, in Chicago—that -was before the war. Oh, yes, he's plucky."</p> - -<p>The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched the church door for -Mary, then he went on:</p> - -<p>"He doesn't pay much attention to worldly affairs, though—doesn't -care about political institutions and so on. We had a discussion when -he first came here,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance -except the human soul, but each soul is of infinite importance, the -soul of the black slave is just as important as that of his white -master. He said he hated slavery because of its effect on the master -more than on the slave. He said the slave could develop Christian -virtues, but the master couldn't."</p> - -<p>The doctor paused and chuckled softly.</p> - -<p>"I asked him," he resumed, "why, if the slaves outnumbered the masters, -the sum of virtue might not be greater under slavery. But of course he -had his answer, we were not to do evil that good might come.... Shall -we walk on? The women-folks are probably consulting about something or -other. They do a lot of church-work."</p> - -<p>After a moment's hesitation, Carlin accompanied him.</p> - -<p>"I didn't know Mary was so much interested in the church," he said -moodily. "She wasn't, before."</p> - -<p>"Well," said the doctor. "The war has made a difference, you know. -Life has been harder—not many amusements—and lots of tragedies and -suffering. We've had losses in our own family.... The church was about -the only social thing that didn't seem wrong, to the women, you see. -And they've done a lot of work, through it, for the soldiers and all -that.... Yes, Mary's changed a good deal, she's very serious. I think -the preacher has had a good deal of influence."</p> - -<p>"How?" asked Carlin abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, a vale of tears, a -place of trial, and so on.... It <i>is</i>, maybe, but she's too young to -feel it so. I hope she'll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> get out of that and enjoy life a little," -the doctor ended, with much feeling.</p> - -<p>They walked on in silence. Carlin's heart was sore. The doctor had -not mentioned his absence and peril as having anything to do with the -change in Mary. Well, perhaps it hadn't had. He gave way to a sudden -impulse.</p> - -<p>"You're not against her marrying me, are you?" he asked tremulously. "I -know your wife is. She doesn't like me."</p> - -<p>"No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence," was the doctor's -grave answer. "As far as <i>you're</i> concerned, I've no objection.... But -sometimes I think Mary isn't ready to marry yet."</p> - -<p>"She says she <i>is</i>," said Laurence quickly.</p> - -<p>"I don't pretend to understand anything," said the doctor plaintively, -and sighed.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps—you think she doesn't care enough about me—is that it?"</p> - -<p>"Sometimes I think she doesn't care about anybody," was the regretful -answer.</p> - -<p>When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in.</p> - -<p>"I'll walk on, for a bit," he said.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a lamp. This room was -arranged to suit him, and he did as he pleased in it. It smelt very -much of tobacco, though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a -couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture consisted -of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides some shelves full of -books. Out of it opened his bedroom, which had an outside door with a -night-bell.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> - -<p>The doctor established himself in his easy-chair, with a pipe and a -medical review. But his attention wandered from the printed page, and -twice he let his pipe go out. Half an hour passed before the women-folk -returned, and he noted that they entered the house in silence.</p> - -<p>He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she came in, she asked -with surprise, "Where's Laurence?"</p> - -<p>"He went off for a little walk.... Sit down, my dear, I want to talk to -you."</p> - -<p>Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on the sofa. She -disliked the atmosphere of this room, not so much the tobacco-flavour -as the flavour of the confessional. She was used to hearing low-toned -murmurs coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes sounds -of pain and weeping. And now she had an instant feeling that <i>she</i> was -in the confessional, as had happened a few times before during her -girlhood, occasions of which she retained a definite impression of fear.</p> - -<p>"Mary, are you sure you're doing right?" asked the doctor abruptly, yet -gently.</p> - -<p>"Right?" she murmured, defensively.</p> - -<p>"About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are ready to marry him, at -once."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am ready," said Mary, with a forced calmness. "We have been -engaged four years. I always expected to marry him when he came back."</p> - -<p>"And you haven't changed your mind at all, in those four years? You -were very young, you know—it would be natural that you should change."</p> - -<p>"No—I haven't changed."</p> - -<p>"In some ways, you have.... But you mean not in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> that way. You still -love Laurence, as much as ever?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Mary, her heart beating fast and sending a deep flush into -her cheeks.</p> - -<p>"Because, you know, you are not bound to marry him," said the doctor -sharply.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think that a promise is binding?" asked Mary.</p> - -<p>"Certainly not—that kind of a promise! Are you going to marry him just -because you promised?"</p> - -<p>"I have no wish to break my promise," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"Because it's a promise, or because you want to marry him anyway and -would, if you hadn't promised? Come, Mary, answer me!"</p> - -<p>"I want to keep my promise," said Mary clearly, with a look of the most -perfect obstinacy in her fair eyes.</p> - -<p>The doctor was hot-tempered, and banged a book on his desk with -his fist. But instantly he controlled himself, for he loved this -exasperating child of his, and there was no one but himself to stand -between her and harm—so he felt it.</p> - -<p>"You mean," he said tenderly, "that you haven't any reason <i>not</i> to -keep it?"</p> - -<p>Mary assented.</p> - -<p>"And Laurence loves you and depends on you."</p> - -<p>Her silence gave assent to this.</p> - -<p>"You feel it would be wrong to disappoint him—desert him."</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course it would be."</p> - -<p>"And there's no one else you care about?"</p> - -<p>The last question was sharp and sudden. Mary started slightly, and -cast a troubled and angry glance at her inquisitor. But such was the -personality of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> little man with the gentle firm voice and pitying -eyes, such was his relation to his daughter, that she never thought of -denying his authority or right to question her. She felt obliged to -answer him, and truthfully too.</p> - -<p>"Nobody—in that way," she said faintly.</p> - -<p>"You don't love anyone else."</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"And you haven't thought of marrying any one else?"</p> - -<p>There was just an instant's hesitation before she answered:</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>The doctor reflected, and Mary sat still, her long eyelids -drooping—the image of maiden calm.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, I was mistaken," said the doctor after a pause. "I thought -you were interested in some one else—and I guess your mother thought -so too.... But it wasn't that kind of interest."</p> - -<p>"No, it wasn't," said Mary quickly.</p> - -<p>"But it was—it is—an interest. I wish you could tell me what it is, -why you think so much of Mr. Robertson as you do, what your feeling is -about him."</p> - -<p>"But—it isn't a personal feeling!" cried Mary, no longer calm, -suddenly alert and on the defensive. "It has nothing to do with that!"</p> - -<p>"But you admire him and look up to him—"</p> - -<p>"Of course I do! But you don't understand, you don't believe—"</p> - -<p>"It's religious, you mean, it's your feeling for religion, and he -represents it—"</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Mary angrily.</p> - -<p>"Don't be vexed with me, my dear—perhaps I don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> understand these -things, as you say.... But he is something like a spiritual director, -isn't he, now?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know what you mean by that—"</p> - -<p>"I mean, you talk to him about your religious feelings, and he gives -you counsel," said the doctor gravely.</p> - -<p>"Yes—yes, he does."</p> - -<p>"Have you talked to him about your marriage?"</p> - -<p>"I—why, no!"</p> - -<p>"You don't talk about worldly affairs, then—is that it? Do you think -marriage not important enough to talk about?"</p> - -<p>"It isn't that! I haven't, because—"</p> - -<p>Here was a pause, and the doctor asked:</p> - -<p>"Perhaps because, Mary, you thought he had a feeling for you that—"</p> - -<p>"No, it wasn't that! He hasn't—it isn't that at all!"</p> - -<p>Disturbed, distressed, she got up.</p> - -<p>"Wait a minute, Mary.... I wish you would talk to him about it," said -the doctor in his most serious tone.</p> - -<p>"But, why? Why should I?"</p> - -<p>"Why? Because it's a most important thing to you, and mixed up with -everything, or should be. Because you shouldn't keep your religion -separate from your marriage. Because you shouldn't shut Laurence out -from everything."</p> - -<p>"I shut him out?"</p> - -<p>"Now you do as I tell you, Mary," said the doctor quietly.</p> - -<p>He sat looking out of the window, feeling her bewilderment and silent -revolt. He hesitated whether he should tell Mary that he thought -her religion erotic in origin and her feeling for the minister very -personal indeed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> but finally decided against it. She would deny it not -only to him but to herself—women's minds were made like that. At last -he said:</p> - -<p>"I think at first you were in love with Laurence—but four years is a -long time, and you were very young."</p> - -<p>"I haven't changed," said Mary proudly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you have, but you don't want to admit it. You think there are -higher things than being in love. You seem to think of marriage as a -serious responsibility, a—sort of discipline."</p> - -<p>"Isn't it?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Well, that isn't the way to go into it! Confound it, I tell you you -had better not!"</p> - -<p>He glared at her over his spectacles, then put out his hand and drew -her toward him.</p> - -<p>"What a child you are, Mary—with your airs of being a hundred and -fifty!... I don't think you understand anything. The basis of marriage -is physical, if that isn't right nothing is right—you want to think -of that, Mary. It's flesh and spirit, but <i>both</i>, not divided. If your -imagination is drawn away from Laurence to what you think are spiritual -things, then you oughtn't to marry—or you ought to marry Hilary."</p> - -<p>Mary stood like a stone—her fingers turned cold in his grasp. He saw -the tears flood her eyes, and got up and led her to the door, and -dismissed her with a kiss on her cold cheek.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>V</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">She went out and stood at the gate, waiting for Laurence, uneasy -about him, troubled by many thoughts, oppressed. She was still crying -when she heard his step down the sidewalk, firm and quick. The thin -little moon was already sinking behind the trees, but there was bright -starlight, so that Laurence could see her face.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Mary?" he cried.</p> - -<p>"Where have you been? Why did you run off like that?" she demanded with -a sob.</p> - -<p>She swung the gate open for him, but he took her hand and drew her out.</p> - -<p>"It's early yet—come, we don't want to go in yet. Come, let's get away -from everybody!"</p> - -<p>She was quite willing at the moment to get away from everybody. Out -of a vague sense of injury she continued to weep, and to Laurence's -anxious inquiries she returned a sobbing answer:</p> - -<p>"I don't think older people ought to interfere!... It's our own -business, isn't it?... What do they know about it?..."</p> - -<p>Laurence agreed passionately that they knew nothing about it and had -better not interfere, and kissed her tearful eyes till she protested -that they must go on now or somebody would be coming. She said softly:</p> - -<p>"Poor Laurence! This isn't very gay, for your first evening home!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Never mind about being gay!"</p> - -<p>He drew her hand firmly through his arm and strode down the street -with a feeling that he was bearing her off triumphantly from a legion -of enemies. When she was near him, and in a troubled and melting -mood, like this, he feared nothing, his doubts vanished, he felt sure -of her, and that was all he cared about at present. As for anybody -interfering, that was nonsense. His spirits rose with a bound out of -the evening's depression. Soon he was talking light-heartedly and -Mary was laughing. He was quick and fluent, when at ease, and full of -careless, gay and witty turns of speech that amused and charmed her. -No one had ever amused her so much as Laurence. With him life seemed -really a cheerful affair, he was so rich in confidence—he had the -brightest visions of the future. He was bubbling over now with plans, -schemes of all sorts.... The vastness, the richness of the country, its -endless opportunities, were in his imagination, a restless ambition -in his veins. He had a feeling of his power, more than mere youthful -self-confidence. Already he had been tried and proved in different -ways, and had stood the test. So far he had always been successful. His -mind was restless now because a definite channel for his activity was -to be fixed. He wanted Mary's advice—rather, he wanted to know what -she wanted. His own most marked bent was toward the law, with a vista -of political power beyond. And there was money in the law, too. But if -Mary wanted more money, a lot of money—well, she had only to say so! -As his talk came back to this point, Mary said that she didn't care -about money, and that he had better stick to the law and go into Judge -Baxter's office.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Not Chicago?... I thought you'd like to make a start in a big city," -he suggested persuasively.</p> - -<p>"Why not here?... You'd have a better start with Judge Baxter, and you -know he's a good lawyer, he has a big practice.... And then we could -live at home till you get started," Mary said practically.</p> - -<p>No, Laurence didn't like that at all, it wouldn't do, living with -Mary's parents!... She didn't press that point, but she was firm -about not going away—not to Chicago, still less to some vague point -"out west." Laurence argued. <i>Why</i> did she want to stay here, in this -one-horse town? Why not the city? There was more life, there were more -chances, in the city, she would like it better.... No! Mary couldn't -explain why she wanted to stay, but with emotion she made it clear that -she <i>wanted</i> to....</p> - -<p>Laurence was silenced. He took her hand and kissed it, perhaps in -acquiescence. But he meditated, puzzled, asking himself <i>why</i>, after -all....</p> - -<p>He looked at the town from the vantage-point of his four years' -wanderings. By contrast with the great cities he had seen, the east, -populous and civilized, the picturesque south, beautiful mountains and -valleys, stately old houses, glimpses of a life that had been rich in -colour and luxury—beside all this the little town, his birth-place, -seemed like a mere mud-spot on the prairie.... A little square, with -a few brick buildings, the bank, the courthouse, small shops—two or -three streets set with frame dwelling-houses, straggling out into the -prairie—what was the attraction, the interest of this place?... His -absence had broken all his own associations with it except as to Mary. -His mother, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> last remaining member of his family, had died the year -before; his only brother had been killed at Shiloh. The friends of his -youth had scattered, most of them in the army. He could not see himself -settling here.... Perhaps, for a little while, till he had finished his -law-reading, if he decided on the law—they might stay till then, since -Mary wanted it. But <i>why</i> did she? To be sure, she knew no other place, -what friends and interests she had were here—but she was young, she -must want to see something of the world! He shook his head, in pensive -bewilderment. Women were queer, decidedly! He made no pretence of -understanding the sex—in fact never had had time or occasion to make -an exhaustive study of it.</p> - -<p>They had come to the end of the board sidewalk; beyond was only a path -by the roadside. They went a little distance along this, but it was -muddy; a stream, dividing the road from the pasture, had overflowed. -Mary thought they had better turn back, but Laurence protested. So they -sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, among a clump of willows that -hung over the stream.</p> - -<p>The lights of the town were faintly visible on one side; on the other, -the prairie stretched out dark and silent, with the starry sky bright -by contrast. A slight breeze swayed the long fronds of the willows, the -stream gurgled softly along its mud-bed, and from a pond out in the -pasture rose the musical bassoon of an amorous bull-frog.... The damp -heavy air, hardly stirring, had a sweet oppression, a troubled languor, -the pulse of the spring....</p> - -<p>Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> gently in his arms, -and kissed her lowered eyelids and her lips, first lightly, then -lingeringly, then as she began to resist, with passionate possession.</p> - -<p>"Don't—don't push me away," he begged. "Come near to me...."</p> - -<p>But she was frightened, and struggled against his strong clasp, till -she slipped down, bent backward over the tree-trunk, and cried out with -pain and anger. Laurence released her suddenly, roughly.</p> - -<p>"You don't love me," he said.</p> - -<p>She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat still, turning away -from her.</p> - -<p>"You don't love me," he repeated bitterly. "You'd better leave me—go -back."</p> - -<p>Without a word she moved away, her head bent, stumbling a little on -the dark path. He looked after her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like -that, without a word to him, without a sign.... Was she angry—was she -hurt?... That silence of hers was a strong weapon. She disappeared -beyond the trees.... No, he couldn't let her go like that. In a moment -he overtook her.</p> - -<p>"Take my arm," he said curtly. "The path's rough."</p> - -<p>She took it, and they went back in silence. As they came to a -street-light he looked at her, and saw the mysterious mask of her face -more immobile, more impassive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him, -now it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to break with her, -to tell her that he was going away. She was too elusive, too distant, -too cold.... But instead, when they came to her gate, he only murmured -sadly:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Forgive me, Mary."</p> - -<p>And to his surprise she bent toward him to kiss him good-night, and -said steadily:</p> - -<p>"You shouldn't have said what you did. I <i>do</i> love you. Why should I -want to marry you if I don't love you?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know, Mary," said Laurence with a faint weary smile.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VI</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Judge Baxter's office was in the Bank Building, up a flight of worn -and dingy stairs. Carlin, knowing the Judge's habits, appeared there -at eight o'clock the next morning, and was warmly welcomed. The judge -was a big man, with waves of white hair and beard and bright blue eyes; -carelessly dressed; with a quid of tobacco in his cheek, which did not -interfere with his speech, but gave him a somewhat bovine, meditative -air, as he rolled and nibbled at it in the intervals of conversation.</p> - -<p>"Coming back to me, Laurence?" he said at once, tilting back his chair -and beaming at the young man.</p> - -<p>"I don't know—I came to talk things over," Laurence hesitated.</p> - -<p>"Hope you will—don't see as you could do better. I always said you -ought to go into law. And I need an assistant. What's the objection?"</p> - -<p>"Well—I hadn't thought of settling here."</p> - -<p>"I know." The Judge nodded. "Hard to settle down now—I expect things -seem pretty dull and drab to you around here. Natural. A lot of good -fellows will have the <i>Wanderlust</i>—"</p> - -<p>"No, I want to settle down.... I want to be married soon," said -Laurence, slightly embarrassed.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know—Miss Mary! Think of her waiting for you all this time—a -lot of girls wouldn't have done that, and I don't believe she even had -a sweetheart," said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> the Judge, his eyes twinkling. "Though I tell you, -if I'd been twenty years younger—you see, she used to run up here and -read me some of your letters.... She's a beautiful woman," ended the -old man warmly.</p> - -<p>"I must make some money—I haven't a dollar!" Laurence explained. "I -thought there'd be better chances in the city perhaps, or—"</p> - -<p>"No, no!" the Judge protested. "Why, look here, you'd have a -salary—not much, to be sure, at first—but you come into my office -and peg away at Blackstone and Chitty—and in a year or less you can -be admitted to the bar. And meantime you could live with the old -folks—they're so wrapped up in Mary, they'd like it—"</p> - -<p>"No," said Laurence positively, "I wouldn't do that. I must have a -place of my own to take her to."</p> - -<p>"Well, yes, I understand." The Judge chewed his cud for a moment, then -his face lit up. "See here, why shouldn't you live with me!... I've got -a good-sized house and there's the whole top floor I never use, and -I've got a sort of housekeeper, such as she is. You two young folks -could have all the room you want, and Mary could fix up the old place -and make it a hell of a lot more cheerful, and I'd have somebody to -eat with and something pretty to look at—why, Jesus, man! It would be -charity to me, it would, upon my soul! Say you will, now!"</p> - -<p>"Why, Judge, you're very kind, I don't know—I'll think it over, and -talk to Mary—we'd pay our board, of course," Laurence stammered, -rather overcome.</p> - -<p>"Board, hell!" said the Judge, excited. "Mary could fix up some pies -and things once in a while—I haven't had a decent doughnut for a -year.... Well, you can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> board if you want to, we won't quarrel.... And -you can be making something besides your salary, if you don't mind -work—"</p> - -<p>"I don't," said Laurence, smiling, curiously touched by the old man's -warmth. Somehow he felt at home now for the first time since his -return, he felt some wish to stay.</p> - -<p>The Judge pondered and rolled his quid.</p> - -<p>"Ever run a creamery?" he asked, suddenly, with a twinkle.</p> - -<p>Laurence shook his head.</p> - -<p>"I was principal of a school once," he remarked.</p> - -<p>"Well, I haven't got a school, but I've got a creamery—that is, I'm -the Receiver. Owner was killed at Vicksburg, and his widow has been -trying to run it—it's a big place at Elmville, about five miles from -here—I need a manager for it. I tell you what, Laurence, you have a -bite of dinner with me at twelve, and then we'll drive over there, I've -got to go anyway, and we can talk it over on the way—"</p> - -<p>There was a knock at the glazed door, the pale youth who occupied the -outer office put his head in and announced a client. Laurence rose. The -Judge escorted him out with an arm round his shoulders, and they were -to meet at the tavern.</p> - -<p>"It's only a little worse than at my house," Judge Baxter said -cheerfully. "We need a good hotel here. We need a lot of things, -principally some good, hustling young men—I tell you, we've missed you -fellows. But the town's all right, you mustn't look down on our town, -we're going ahead."</p> - -<p>Laurence strolled across the little square, the centre<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> of the town, -and smiled at the Judge's civic fervour. He could not see any signs -of enterprise or change, except that the young maple trees along -the sidewalks had grown, and there were two or three new buildings. -The same row of country plugs tied to wooden posts in front of the -courthouse, the same row of loafers in front of the saloon. The -dry-goods store had a new window with a display of shirts and neckties. -There was a new Tonsorial Parlour, with a gaily painted striped pole, -the cigar-store had a wooden Indian standing on the sidewalk, holding -out a bunch of wooden cigars, and the Opera-house had been repainted, -and had large bills outside, announcing a minstrel show. Yes, there -was an ice-cream parlour, too, with a window full of confectionery. -Laurence stopped to buy a cigar, and spoke to two or three people -who recognized him; their greetings were friendly enough but not -especially cordial. Laurence had no great fund of friendship to draw -upon in his native town. He said to himself, as he walked on, that -Judge Baxter was his only friend there. Should he go and see Mary this -morning? It was too early to go yet—and there was a sore feeling in -him about Mary. No, he would wait till he had made his expedition with -the Judge and had something definite to talk to her about. Something -practical, that would suit her. He smiled wryly and went on along the -street. There was not much of the brass band about this home-coming, he -reflected, not much of Hail, the conquering hero comes. No, he would -sink into civilian life without any fuss being made over him—so would -all the other fellows, the men he had marched with this last week, -through the streets of Washington,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> Sherman's magnificent army. There -had been plenty of brass band there, they had felt pretty important -then—it was a shame that the Old Man hadn't been allowed to lead -his army in review, but had been sent straight off to the border. -Laurence had a feeling of personal affection for the Old Man, and he -realized suddenly, for his companions in arms. He was going to miss -them, those tough chaps, scattered now to the four winds of heaven. -The best soldiers on earth—now, like him, they would have to compete -empty-handed with the fat citizens who had stayed behind and been -piling up money these four years.</p> - -<p>Laurence scowled under the rim of his cap, and reflected that he must -get himself a suit of civilian clothes. The street he was on brought -him to the railroad tracks. A long freight-train was passing, car after -car loaded with cattle, going to Chicago. After it had passed, he -crossed the tracks, and the street became a road, which led up a slight -rise, to the cemetery. He followed it listlessly, his eyes fixed on the -wide expanse of tombstones, crosses, spires, slabs of grey and white, -that covered the swell of the prairie. The cemetery was considerably -more populous than the town, he thought; and now he was here, he would -go and look at his mother's grave. He had some difficulty in finding -it, though he vaguely remembered its location. The lot had been -neglected, the prairie-grass had grown long over it, hiding the grey -slab with her name, the date of her death and her age, forty-seven. -Another small stone, with a dove and the name "Evangeline," marked the -grave of his little sister, dead twenty years. And this was all that -remained of his family. Patrick lay on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> field of Shiloh. As to his -father, he might be dead or living—he had run away ten years before, -and nothing had ever been heard of him.</p> - -<p>He stood looking sorrowfully down on the unkempt grass. Poor his mother -had lived, poor she had died, and alone too. Pat and he had both gone -and left her. He had been very fond of his mother. The proud woman -she was, and silent, with long black hair and fine little hands and -feet—and she worked at the wash-tub, and he and Pat, bare-footed boys, -carried the wash home in baskets. Oh, but she had a bitter tongue when -she did let it out, and she let his father have it. He remembered the -night when his father struck her, and he, Laurence, fifteen then, -knocked his father flat on the floor. That was the last night they saw -him, he had sworn he wouldn't stay to be beaten by his own son, and -they had all been glad he went....</p> - -<p>He turned away, and went on across the rise, thinking he would get out -into the country. At the far side of the cemetery he passed a little -plot without even a headstone but neatly kept, where a girl in a grey -dress was kneeling, setting out some plants. He noticed her slim figure -and her copper-coloured hair, but passed without seeing her face. She -called after him.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Larry! Is it you?"</p> - -<p>He turned and she got up and put out both hands to him, smiling, -showing her big white teeth.</p> - -<p>"Well, Nora!" he cried, clasping her hands gladly. "Why, what a young -lady you've grown!"</p> - -<p>She was not pretty, her red mouth was too big and her nose turned up, -and she was freckled, but she had a slim graceful shape, her hair was -a glory and her eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> full of warmth. She had been Laurence's playmate -of old—she belonged to the only other Irish family in town. They had -lived in the slum together, and she had been his first sweetheart.</p> - -<p>"And you!" she said, looking at him shyly with artless admiration. "I -hardly knew you, and yet I knew it was you!"</p> - -<p>They stood and talked for a while. Laurence found out that she was -tending the grave of her brother, "Colin, you'll remember," who had -come back with the prison-fever on him, and died, "wasted to the bone." -And that she did very well, she had been working on a dairy farm but -it was too hard for her, and now she had got a place in the store, and -was to begin next week. She lived with her mother. When Laurence said -he would go to see her she seemed a little embarrassed, and asked, -couldn't they meet some evening outside, her mother was a bit queer. So -they arranged to meet on Sunday evening, (Mary would be at church) by -the big willow on the river road. Nora looked a little disappointed, -perhaps at having the meeting put off so long, but she was not one -to demand or expect much. Laurence remembered what she had been—an -humble, generous little creature, grateful for the least kindness, and -she didn't get much. She was always giving more than she got, to her -family and every one. She was hot-tempered, too, and would fly into a -rage easily, and then dissolve in repentant tears. He looked at her -rough red hands—poor Nora always had worked hard. But her neat dress, -her carefully arranged hair, showed that she was making the most of -herself. Her skin was soft and creamy, in spite of the freckles, her -eyes were almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> the colour of her hair, deep reddish-brown. They were -like a dog's eyes, so soft and warm and wistful. Poor Nora, what a good -little thing she was! With a quick glance round, Laurence seized her -in his arms and kissed her very warmly on her red mouth. She blushed -and trembled, but did not resist. She never had been able to resist -any sign of affection, however careless. He kissed her again, and said -a few tender words to her, in a lordly way. The homage of her shining -dazzled eyes was sweet to him. And besides, the remembrance of old -times had wakened.</p> - -<p>As he left her and went on down the slope, along the country road, he -realized that his memories of this place were deep. He would still have -said that there was not much he cared to remember, that it was better -to cut loose and begin afresh in some new place. The poverty of his -boyhood still stung him, the community had looked down upon him and -his, and old slights rankled in him. And yet it seemed that, little by -little, things were shaping to tie him here. Not only outside, but in -himself he was feeling as if some root went down deep into the black -soil of the prairie and held him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">It was late afternoon when they drove back behind the Judge's spanking -pair of bays, hitched to a light buggy. The roads were very rough, with -frequent mud-holes where the wheels sank nearly to the axle, but when -they got a fairly level stretch the trotters stepped out finely.</p> - -<p>Laurence had enjoyed this day. On the way over they had talked -politics. Judge Baxter was a fiery Republican. His face flushed red -with wrath as he spoke of Lincoln's murder and hoped they would -hang Jeff Davis for it. He was in favour of a heavy hand on the -South—Lincoln would have been gentle with them, they had killed him, -the blank rebels, now let them have it. <i>Vae victis!</i></p> - -<p>Laurence was cooler. He had no anger against the men he had helped to -fight and beat. They were good fighters, good men, most of them. He did -not think the southern leaders had plotted the attack on Lincoln and -Seward. They had fought for a wrong idea, a wrong political system, and -they had been beaten. Now they wanted peace, not revenge, he thought. -They had suffered enough. If they were still to be punished, it would -take longer to establish the Union in reality. The men who had fought -for the Union wanted to see it a reality, not one section against -another any more, but one country, united in spirit, great and powerful.</p> - -<p>The Judge had listened, and then said meditatively:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You fellows that did the fighting seem to have less bitterness than -some of us that had to stay at home—I've noticed that. I suppose you -worked it off in fighting."</p> - -<p>"Why, yes," Laurence agreed. "And then, when you come right up against -the other fellow, you find he's folks, just like yourself. Of course -he's wrong and you have to show him, but he fights the best he can for -what he believes in, he risks his life, the same as you do—and when -it's over you feel like shaking hands, in spite of—"</p> - -<p>"You think we ought to let them come back in the Union, as if nothing -had happened?"</p> - -<p>"Why," said Laurence slowly. "Aren't they in it? If we fought to prove -they couldn't go out when they felt like it—"</p> - -<p>"Well, authorities differ on that point. I've heard some right smart -arguments on both sides," said the Judge sharply.</p> - -<p>After a short silence, he went on:</p> - -<p>"I see you've been thinking and keeping track of things.... This is a -great time we live in, Laurence, I wish I was young like you and could -see all that's going to happen. Still, I've had my day, I've seen a -good deal—and maybe done a little. We had some kind of fighting to -do here at home, you know, we had plenty of black-hearted copperheads -here.... You ought to go into public life, my boy, and there's no -entering wedge like the law."</p> - -<p>But it was on the way home, after they had spent the afternoon -inspecting the creamery, a large brick building in the midst of a small -town, going over accounts and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> talking with various people, it was then -that Judge Baxter urged on Laurence the wisdom of following the path -before him here.</p> - -<p>"I don't see any use in rambling over the country looking for something -better, ten to one you won't find it," he argued. "And you haven't time -to lose, Laurence, you ought to be buckling right down to your job. Our -town may look small to you, but she's linked up to a lot of things. -To be the big man of this place is better than being a small fish in -Chicago—to be the best lawyer at the bar of your state is no small -thing. It might lead anywhere, and I believe you've got it in you.... -This is your state, Laurence—this country round here is a rich country -and it's going to be richer—you ought to stay with it."</p> - -<p>The Judge swept his whip in a wide circle over the prairie. They were -driving westward, the low sun was dazzling in their eyes. Laurence -looked to the left and the right, over the low rolling swells to the -horizon. Where the plough had cut, endless furrows stretched away, -black and heavy, with young green blades showing. Herds of cattle -spotted the pastures. Yes, it was rich land.... With the flood of -sunlight poured along it, the fresh green starting through, the piping -song of the birds that have their nests in the grass, the wind that -blew strongly over the great plain, smelling of the spring, it had a -strange sweetness to Laurence, even beauty.... No, it was not beauty, -but some sort of appeal, vague but strong....</p> - -<p>"You'd have your own people behind you," said the Judge.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> - -<p>That broke the spell, for the moment. Laurence smiled bitterly.</p> - -<p>"You know what my people were—and what <i>your</i> people thought of them," -he said in a cutting tone. "To tell the truth, that's one reason I want -to go. I want to forget that I lived in Shanty-town and my mother was -Mrs. Carlin the washerwoman, not good enough to associate with <i>your</i> -women—that weren't good enough, most of them, to tie the shoes on her -little feet!"</p> - -<p>The Judge turned, pulling the broad brim of his hat over his eyes, and -looked at the young man's face, pale and set with ugly lines.</p> - -<p>"Laurence," he said after a moment, "if you're the man I think you -are, you won't want to forget that. We can none of us forget what we -have been, what we came from. You can't do anything for your mother -now, and I know it's bitter to you. But you can make her name, her -son, respected and honoured here—not somewhere else, where she was -never known, but <i>here</i>, where she lived. That would mean a lot to her. -Doesn't it mean something to you?"</p> - -<p>The Judge continued to look earnestly at Laurence's face, and presently -saw it relax, soften, saw the stormy dark-blue eyes clear, become fixed -as though upon a light ahead.</p> - -<p>"Judge," said Laurence huskily, "you understand a lot of things. -Perhaps you're right—"</p> - -<p>The Judge, holding whip and reins in one hand, put out the other and -they shook hands warmly. They were silent for a while, then the Judge -began to talk about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> the local situation, finance and politics, with a -good many shrewd personal sketches mixed in.</p> - -<p>"You want to know every string to this town," he remarked.</p> - -<p>Judge Baxter knew all these strings, evidently, and could, he -insinuated, pull a good many of them. Though too modest to point the -fact, he himself illustrated his contention that, to live in a small -town, a man need not be small. If he knew Cook county thoroughly, the -county knew him too. He had rather the air of a magnate, in spite of -his seedy dress, his beard stained with tobacco. He had more money than -he cared for. His only adornment was a big diamond in an old-fashioned -ring on his little finger, but he drove as good horses as money could -buy.</p> - -<p>Near the end of their journey he asked:</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you say—about made up your mind?"</p> - -<p>"Pretty much. I'll talk to Mary tonight. I don't think she'll have -anything against it. But the women have to be consulted, you know," -said Laurence lightly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course, of course."</p> - -<p>The Judge didn't think the women had to be consulted—but then he was a -bachelor.</p> - -<p>"I really don't see why you should be so good to me—take all this -trouble about me," pondered Laurence.</p> - -<p>"Well," said the Judge judicially, "it isn't altogether for you, though -I may say that I like you, Laurence. But I'm looking out for myself -too. I calculate that you're going to be useful to me, you might say -a credit to me, if I have anything to do with giving you a start. I -see more in you than—well, I think you're one in a thousand. Remember -I've seen you grow up, I know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> pretty much all about you.... I tell -you, I felt mighty bad when you marched away. I knew it was right, you -had to go, I wouldn't have held you back if I could—and yet I said to -myself, ten to one a bullet will pick off that boy instead of some of -those lubbers along with him, and I felt <i>bad</i>. Why," the Judge ended -pensively, "I thought I knew then about how it feels to have a son go -to war—"</p> - -<p>Rather startled himself at this touch of sentiment, he flicked the -off-horse with his whip, and they dashed into the town at top speed.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VIII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">In the dusk Mary stood waiting for him by the gate. He had thought she -might be piqued or angry at him, but she met him without the slightest -coquetry, asking only where on earth he had been all day. Her tone was -almost motherly, a little anxious, as if he had been a truant child. He -liked it.</p> - -<p>They sat on the steps. The wind had fallen and the evening was warm. -There was the crescent moon over the tree-tops, but tonight it was -hazy, a veil had drawn across the sky. There was rain in the air. A -syringa-bush beside the steps, in flower, and the honeysuckle over the -porch, were strongly fragrant.</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you in a little while, I'm tired," said Laurence lazily. He -leaned his head against her knee and she swept her cool finger-tips -over his crisp black hair, touching his temples and his eyelids.</p> - -<p>"Are you?" she asked softly.</p> - -<p>He sighed with pleasure, shutting his eyes, knowing that he could take -his time to speak, Mary was in no hurry, she never was. Sometimes her -silence and repose had irritated him, but more often it was a deep -pleasure to him. The night was as quiet as she. Not a leaf stirred. A -cricket chirped under the porch. The honeysuckle was almost too sweet -in the damp air. Thin veil upon veil hid the stars, and the moon was -only a soft blur.</p> - -<p>When her hand ceased to touch his hair, he reached up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> and took it, -clasping the cool strong fingers and soft palm. He moved and looked up -at her. She wore a white dress, sweeping out amply from the waist, open -a little at the neck, and she had a flower of the syringa in her hair. -The outline of her face, bent above him, was clear and lovely.</p> - -<p>"How beautiful you are," he murmured. "I love you."</p> - -<p>She put her arms around him and drew him up, his head to her shoulder.</p> - -<p>"And I'm very, very fond of you," she whispered. "More than I ever was -of anybody. But sometimes you're so impatient."</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said submissively.</p> - -<p>"You get angry with me. You always did."</p> - -<p>"Yes," he said humbly. "I'll try not to. But sometimes I think you -don't love me."</p> - -<p>"But I do," she assured him gently.</p> - -<p>"But sometimes—" he stopped.</p> - -<p>"Well, what?"</p> - -<p>"No, I won't say it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, tell me."</p> - -<p>"Well, sometimes—you don't seem to like to have me touch you, you—"</p> - -<p>"I don't like you to be rough," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"Am I—rough?"</p> - -<p>"Sometimes."</p> - -<p>"But if you liked me, you—"</p> - -<p>"No, I do, and you know it."</p> - -<p>"I don't see why you should, after all."</p> - -<p>"Should what?"</p> - -<p>"Love me."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, it's been so long now, I couldn't very well stop," said Mary, -smiling.</p> - -<p>"Yes, a long time.... And you really have, all the time?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes."</p> - -<p>"And nobody else? Ever?"</p> - -<p>"No, you know it," said Mary, lifting her head proudly.</p> - -<p>He was silent, thinking of the years past....</p> - -<p>Yes, it had been a long time—six years. They had first met at the -High School, then at the country college where he was working his way -and Mary was preparing to teach. He hadn't made many friends—he had -been sensitive and apt to take offence, and had plenty of fighting to -do. But Mary had been his friend from the first. Hers was the first -"respectable" house in town to open its doors to him. He, however, did -not know what a battle-royal had been fought over his admission there.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lowell of course had been against him. In that little town -where people apparently lived on terms of equality, caste-prejudice -was subtle and strong, and Mrs. Lowell had her full share. Money -didn't count for much, as nobody had very much, but education and -"family" counted heavily, also worldly position. The town had its -aristocracy—the banker, the minister, the lawyers and the doctor.</p> - -<p>Mary, with all her mother's obstinacy, had something of her father's -crystal outlook on the world, his perfect unworldliness. She cared -nothing for what "people would say," and she seemed to look serenely -over the heads of her neighbours and to see something, whatever it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -was, beyond. When she and her mother had come to a deadlock about -Laurence, the doctor was called in, and gave his voice on Mary's side. -So Laurence had become a visitor, on equal terms with the other young -people—not invited to meals very often, for that was not the custom, -but free to drop in of an evening or to take Mary out. Their youthful -friendship had grown and deepened rapidly, and as Mary at seventeen -was old enough to teach school, she was able also to engage herself to -him, in spite of her mother's opposition and her father's wish that she -should wait. Many girls were married at seventeen or sixteen. Mary had -made up her mind, and when this happened, it was not apt to change. -Her nature had a rock-like immobility; hard to impress, it held an -impression as the rock a groove.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Memories and thoughts of her were passing through Carlin's mind—vague, -coloured by her warmth and nearness, a soft tide of adoration. He had -always admired her deeply, she appealed to his imagination as no other -woman ever had. He had known other women, more easily moved, more -loving, more ready to respond and give, than Mary. And he wanted love, -wanted it warm and expressive and caressing, wanted a long deep draught -of it. But—he wanted Mary, and no other woman. Now she would be his, -very soon. He was very happy there, with his head on her shoulder, -feeling the soft even beating of her heart; but at this thought he -moved, his arms closed around her impetuously, and the dreamy peace -that enfolded them was broken.</p> - -<p>"There, you bad boy," she said with mild chiding.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> "Don't pull my hair -down—now tell me what you've been doing all day."</p> - -<p>He told her, after some insistence—all except the meeting with Nora. -Laurence never, if he could help it, mentioned one woman he had any -liking for to another. But in this case he didn't think of Nora at -all. He told Mary all about the Judge and his offers; the prospect of -immediate work, of a temporary home with the Judge, if she liked the -idea. In that case they could be married at once.</p> - -<p>She moved away from him, clasped her arms round her knees, and sat -silent.</p> - -<p>"What is it—have I said anything to bother you?" asked Laurence -alarmed.</p> - -<p>"I'm just thinking," she answered absently.</p> - -<p>After a time she began to speak her thoughts.</p> - -<p>"It will seem odd, going to live at the Judge's house. Mother won't -like it, she'll want us to stay here, she will think that people will -think it's queer if we don't. But it wouldn't be best to live here. -Father will understand, I think. He doesn't care what people think, it -never bothers him at all. But Mother is different."</p> - -<p>"And how about you, Mary? Does it suit you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, until we can have a house of our own."</p> - -<p>"That won't be for long, I hope. I'll do my best."</p> - -<p>Mary turned and looked gravely at him.</p> - -<p>"Do you feel contented to stay here, after all?"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps it's best," said Laurence vaguely.</p> - -<p>"You know the Judge will be a great help to you, getting started."</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, I see that, it makes a lot of difference. But the main reason -is, you want it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, I think it's better."</p> - -<p>They spoke in low tones, though the house was empty and dark behind -them. The doctor was off on his round, and Mrs. Lowell had gone out to -a neighbour's. About them now the leaves stirred softly, a damp breath -lifted the honeysuckle sprays. Then came a soft rustling.</p> - -<p>"Rain," said Laurence.</p> - -<p>They moved up into some low chairs on the porch.</p> - -<p>"Shall I get you a wrap?"</p> - -<p>"No, thank you."</p> - -<p>"Do you mind if I smoke?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>Laurence lit a cigar, and laid his left hand on Mary's knee. The gently -falling rain seemed to shut them in together, in a strange delicious -quiet.</p> - -<p>"Can you tell me, Mary, why it is that you feel so strongly about this -place?... You've always lived here, why is it you don't want something -new?"</p> - -<p>"I don't like new things," she said, after a pause.</p> - -<p>"You're a strange girl!... You don't seem like a girl at all, sometimes -you seem about a thousand years old. I feel like a boy beside you."</p> - -<p>"You <i>are</i> a boy," said Mary. From her tone, she was smiling.</p> - -<p>"I would like to know where you get your air of experience, of having -seen everything! It's astonishing!"</p> - -<p>"Everything is everywhere," said Mary serenely.</p> - -<p>"Now, when you say a thing like that! Upon my word! Where do you get -it? I don't half like it, it doesn't seem natural!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> - -<p>Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great cloud of smoke.</p> - -<p>"I hope you're not going to be a saint," he said petulantly.</p> - -<p>Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away from his.</p> - -<p>"There, now, I've done it again!" he groaned. "You think I'm a -barbarian, don't you. I don't understand you? Well, I don't! I think -you're wonderful.... But you don't explain things to me, you don't -talk—I don't feel that you give me your confidence, not all of it—"</p> - -<p>"I don't like to talk much.... And you're in too much of a hurry about -everything," said Mary coldly.</p> - -<p>"Well, <i>you're</i> not!... You have about as much speed as a glacier!"</p> - -<p>He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch and stood with his back -to her. But he couldn't stand there forever. And certainly Mary could -sit there forever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, the -white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all around, a great -wave of sweetness came from the honeysuckle.</p> - -<p>It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the slow turning of -the earth, he might as well be angry with the rain for falling.... She -was right—he was impatient and violent, and foolish—awfully foolish. -No wonder she called him a boy.... Hadn't he any self-control, any ...?</p> - -<p>He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing himself; she did not -accuse herself, but she put her arms around him. They made peace.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>IX</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The minister lived in a small frame house near the church. A widow -woman of certain age and uncertain temper kept his house and provided -his ascetic fare. It was she who opened the door to Mary, with -the suspicious glance due to the visitor's youth and good looks. -Proclaiming that Mr. Robertson was busy writing his sermon, she -nevertheless consented to knock at his study door, and after a moment -Mary was admitted. Hilary rose from his desk to receive her, gave her -hand a quick nervous clasp, and indicated a chair facing the windows, -the only easy-chair in the bare room. For himself he was impatient -of comfort. He sat down again before his desk and waited for Mary to -speak, but seeing that she looked pale and troubled and hesitated, he -began with an effort to question her.</p> - -<p>"What is it, Mary? You have something to tell me? How can I help you?"</p> - -<p>She looked earnestly at him, her face was more youthful in its -expression of appeal and confidence.</p> - -<p>"You're the only person I <i>can</i> speak to.... Nobody else understands," -she murmured. "Every one thinks I am wrong."</p> - -<p>"How, wrong?"</p> - -<p>"My mother is so unhappy, and she makes me unhappy.... Do you think I'm -wrong, to marry against her wish?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> - -<p>Hilary was silent, looking at some papers on his desk and moving them -about. At last he said in a low voice:</p> - -<p>"Not if you're sure, otherwise, that it's right—for you, I mean. We -have to judge for ourselves, nobody can judge for us.... Your parents -are opposed ... to your marriage?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—in a different way, not for the same reason. My mother never has -liked Laurence, she doesn't trust him—and my father—doesn't trust -<i>me</i>, he doesn't think I know my own mind."</p> - -<p>"And are you sure you do?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes," said Mary. "I couldn't desert Laurence, possibly, and I -don't see why I should put him off longer—when it has been so long -already—"</p> - -<p>"You want to marry soon, then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, in two weeks."</p> - -<p>"Here?"</p> - -<p>"Why, we would be married at home, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"And then—are you going away?"</p> - -<p>"No, Laurence is going into Judge Baxter's office, and we're going to -live at the Judge's house, for the present."</p> - -<p>"I see," said Hilary, in a trembling voice.</p> - -<p>"At first Laurence wanted to go away, to start somewhere else, but I -persuaded him to stay here," Mary went on. "I didn't want to go to a -strange place. All I care about is here. I don't want to go away from -you, Mr. Robertson, I depend on you—"</p> - -<p>Hilary pushed back his chair sharply, then, controlling himself, folded -his arms tight across his breast. His back was to the light which fell -on Mary's face,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> raised toward him with a look of humility that perhaps -no one but he ever saw there.</p> - -<p>"You've taught me so much, and helped me to see.... Before I knew you, -I didn't know anything about life, how one should live.... You're so -strong, so good...."</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> am?... You know very little about it, Mary. Don't say that sort of -thing, please."</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's just because you don't think you are that you're so -wonderful—"</p> - -<p>Hilary looked into her eyes bright and liquid with feeling, and said to -himself that he must keep this faith, he must not disturb it by a look, -a word—or his hold on her would be gone. He said abruptly:</p> - -<p>"Your mother has talked to me. She thinks—as you say, she doesn't -trust—Captain Carlin. She thinks he is irreligious and unsteady—and -with a bad inheritance. She is troubled about you, she thinks you are -marrying just because you gave your word, years ago, and don't like to -break it.... Is it so, Mary?"</p> - -<p>In spite of himself, this question was a demand. Mary looked startled.</p> - -<p>"No, no, she doesn't understand. I love Laurence, and he is good, -though—though in some ways.... Nobody is perfect, you know, and we -shouldn't stop loving people just because they aren't altogether—what -we would like.... We ought to try to help them, I know you think so—"</p> - -<p>"You think you can help him, then?"</p> - -<p>"I hope so, I—"</p> - -<p>"Do you think you're strong enough to help another?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary's bright look wavered a little, was shadowed.</p> - -<p>"Aren't you too confident? Perhaps you have a little too much pride in -yourself. You may lose what you have instead of helping another."</p> - -<p>She bowed her head, turning pale under this reproof, wincing, but she -said humbly:</p> - -<p>"You will help me."</p> - -<p>"I'm not sure that I can," said Hilary sharply. "When you are married, -it will be different—you may not be able to do as you would like, live -as you would—"</p> - -<p>"But I must!" Mary got up, pale and agitated. "Laurence wouldn't -interfere with me in that way, he couldn't. Nothing could!"</p> - -<p>She went a step toward Hilary, and stopped, suddenly bewildered and -almost frightened by his look. And Hilary could bear no more. He turned -away from her, bent over his papers, and said harshly:</p> - -<p>"I must work now, I can't talk to you any longer.... Don't look for an -easy life, Mary, you won't have it."</p> - -<p>"But I don't!" she protested.</p> - -<p>With relief she seized upon his words, her eyes lit up again.</p> - -<p>"Why should I look for an easy life? I don't want it—I expect struggle -and suffering, isn't that what life is? You have told me so—"</p> - -<p>"Well, then, you won't be disappointed," cried Hilary almost savagely. -"If you <i>can</i> suffer—I don't know whether you can or not...."</p> - -<p>He took up a pen and dipped it blindly in the ink, and waited for the -closing of the door.</p> - -<p>"You are against me too," said Mary blankly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p> - -<p>He made an impatient movement, but did not look around at her.</p> - -<p>"You must not mind who is against you, as you call it, if you're sure -you are right. That's the hard thing, to be sure," he said in the same -harsh voice.</p> - -<p>He was struggling. Why not be honest with Mary, tell her that he could -not advise her, tell her why?... He thought she could not be so blind -as she seemed to his feeling for her.... But it would be dishonourable -to express that feeling, as she was not free. And it would shock her -faith in him. She depended on him, not as a man who loved her, but as a -sexless superior being, who could teach and lead her.... But he was not -that, he was quite helpless himself for the moment at least, certainly -he could not help her. Why pretend to be what he was not?</p> - -<p>He felt her bewilderment, her disappointment. He did not dare look -at her, still she lingered. What a child she was after all! Looking -for support, for approval, and yet so rigid in her own way, so sure -of herself! No, she never had suffered anything, and she was trying -to make of her religion an armour against life, that would keep her -from suffering. He mourned over her. She did not see anything as yet, -perhaps she never would, few women could. In his heart Hilary regarded -religion as the activity of a man, much as fighting. He was impatient -with the emotional religion of women; though he could hardly have -admitted it to himself, he had a tinge of the oriental feeling that -women have no souls of their own and that they can get into heaven -only by clinging to the garment of a man.... He would have said that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -religion is too strenuous for women, they do not think, feel deeply -enough.... But it was his duty to help these weak sisters and manfully -he did it as best he could. They clung to his garment and he resisted -frequent impulses to twitch it out of their hands. In the case of -Mary he knew that she was as feminine as the worst of them. Only she -had more firmness, more clearness, there was some kind of strength in -her—and she did not chatter.</p> - -<p>Oh, how beautiful she was!... He sat, making aimless scrawls on his -paper, and feeling her there behind him, feeling her gaze fixed on him. -She was waiting for him to say something, what on earth could he say? -Should he say that his heart was breaking at the thought that in two -weeks she would belong to another man, and that he, Hilary Robertson, -was expected to stand up and perform the ceremony that would give her -to this man, and that he would not do it?</p> - -<p>He made a long dash across the paper, and rose, turned to her.</p> - -<p>"You must go now, Mary—I'm busy.... You did not come to me because -you're in doubt yourself as to what you ought to do, or want to do?"</p> - -<p>"No," faltered Mary.</p> - -<p>"Then, if you're sure of yourself, I have no advice to give you. If -not, make sure. Don't fear to inflict suffering—some one suffers, -whatever we do. We can't avoid that, we have to look beyond it."</p> - -<p>"Yes," breathed Mary devoutly, her eyes fixed on his face.</p> - -<p>"But we needn't go out to look for martyrdom either—we can trust life -for that," said Hilary bitterly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> - -<p>She went away, reluctantly, unsatisfied. She had wanted, expected, one -of those long talks, confidential yet impersonal, that had meant so -much to her during the year past. Never before had he treated her this -way, he had always had time for her, had shown an eager interest in -her difficulties. Her face was clouded as she walked slowly home. She -was bent on keeping this relation with her spiritual teacher just as -it had been. But now she wondered if her marriage was going to make a -difference, had already disturbed and troubled it. Why should that be? -It made no difference to her, why should it to him?</p> - -<p>She did not want to think that Hilary was a man like other men, she -refused to think of him in that way. No, he was better, higher, he -was above personal feelings—that was her idea of him. She knew that -he cared about her, but the image of the shepherd and his sheep, the -pastor and his flock, dwelt in her mind. If she was distinguished from -the rest of the flock by a special care, then it was the mystic love -of a soul for another soul, it had nothing to do with mere human love, -the desire for personal satisfaction, for caresses and companionship. -To see Hilary seeking such things would spoil completely her idea of -him. She saw him as a sort of saint, who denied the flesh. Did he not -live in the most uncomfortable way, eating hardly enough to keep body -and soul together, as the widow said, and working beyond his strength, -always pale and tired-looking? He was devoted to service. It was -impossible to think of him as taking thought for the morrow, for food -and raiment, or as married and having a family.</p> - -<p>She remembered how, when he had first come, the ladies of the -congregation had tried to make him com<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>fortable—one had even worked -him a pair of slippers—and how he had brushed their ministrations -aside. He was subject to severe colds, but by now they had learned -not to offer any remedies, or even express solicitude. Mary never had -offended in that way. She liked his carelessness about himself, his -shabby clothes and frayed tie. She felt that probably he would work -himself to death, would go into a decline and die in a few years, but -she did not grieve over this prospect as the other sisters did. Truly -the earth had no hold on him, he was already like a spirit.</p> - -<p>She had been profoundly shocked by her father's suggestion that she -might marry Hilary—the more so as the idea had before occurred to her -that possibly Hilary thought of it. But she had rejected this idea, -with all her obstinacy refused to consider it. Now it came back to her, -but she denied it. She would not have her idol spoiled by any such feet -of clay.</p> - -<p>The fact that Hilary repulsed with irritation any attempts to idolize -him, or to regard him as a superior being, only affirmed her conviction -that he was one. As such he was precious to her, and as such she would -keep him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>X</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Judge Baxter was happy. He decided at once that his house was not -fit for the reception of the fair bride, it must be made so. He took -Laurence with him to inspect the house from cellar to garret and -unfolded a scheme of complete renovation.</p> - -<p>"Women like things bright and cheerful," he said, beaming. "Gay colours -and lots of little fixings, instead of this—" and he looked round the -chocolate and maroon parlours. "I'll run up to Chicago tomorrow and -see what I can find. The wall-papers now—they'll have to be changed. -Some light colours—roses, that kind of thing. New carpets. And the -furniture—hasn't been touched since I bought the place. Time it was. -And we need a piano for Mary—"</p> - -<p>"Say, Judge, you mustn't buy out the town," protested Laurence. "We -don't want you to go to a lot of expense—"</p> - -<p>"Pshaw, pshaw! Don't interfere with me—guess I can do what I like in -my own house, can't I? If I want some new furniture, what have you -got to say about it? But I tell you, Laurence—suppose you come along -with me—you know better than I do what women like. Or look here! Why -shouldn't we take Miss Mary? <i>That's</i> the thing!"</p> - -<p>He glowed with pleasure at this idea.</p> - -<p>"I tell you, we three will go up together, say tomorrow morning, and -we'll make a day of it, or better, a couple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> of days! We'll see the -town, have a good dinner, go to the theatre, and Mary can pick out the -stuff we want. I'll arrange at the office, and you go along and fix it -up with Mary and her people. Tell 'em I'll look after her, and if she -<i>don't</i> come I'll buy everything in sight!"</p> - -<p>The Judge was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Not considering -this threat sufficient, he added a note of pathos.</p> - -<p>"Tell her I haven't had a vacation for a coon's age, and if she wants -to please an old fellow and give him a good time, she'll come. You're -both my guests and I'm going to enjoy myself. Damn it, man, you <i>fetch</i> -her. If you don't I'll go after her myself!"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Judge did enjoy himself. From the train he took a carriage -straight to the biggest furniture house on State Street, and there -he plunged into a fury of buying. Mary and Laurence stood by, but it -turned out that they had very little to say about it. When the Judge -found that Mary had no definite ideas about furniture and that she -demurred whenever any expensive article was in question, he over-rode -her bewildered protests and bought whatever struck his eye. He bought -a light carpet with red roses on it for the parlour, a set of shiny -mahogany upholstered in flowered brocade, a carved oak set for the -dining-room. He bought three cut-glass chandeliers and a grand piano; -marble vases, an onyx clock and a service of French china.</p> - -<p>It did not take long. He walked rapidly through the room, followed by -the salesmen, glancing round with an eagle eye and pointing with his -cane to what he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> wanted. Sometimes he asked Mary's opinion, but she -was shy about giving it, and provided a thing was bright enough and -costly enough, the Judge was sure she must like it. He discovered that -he himself had more taste than he had suspected; he knew a good article -from an inferior one in a minute, and he didn't buy any cheap stuff. -Everything was handsome.</p> - -<p>When they thought he was all through, he beckoned them and announced -that now things must be bought for <i>their</i> part of the house, the big -rooms upstairs, and these Mary positively must select. But first they -would have lunch and take a drive.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Judge took his party to the best hotel, engaged rooms and ordered -an elaborate luncheon, over which he was gay as a boy on a holiday. -Then, in an open carriage, they started out to see the city.</p> - -<p>They drove through miles of badly paved dusty streets, faced with -wooden buildings. The Judge admitted that it was not a beautiful -city—business couldn't be beautiful, except to the mind—but it -appealed to his imagination.</p> - -<p>Its history was romantic, going back into the dim past. Before the -whites came, this had been a meeting-place for the Indian tribes; and -later for voyageurs and traders. It had been French territory, then -English to the end of the Revolutionary War. Its Indian name meant -"wild onion"—a racy and flavoursome name, suggesting strength!</p> - -<p>"Think of it—twenty-five years ago this city had less than five -thousand inhabitants—now it has a quarter of a million! It's growing -like a weed!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p> - -<p>They crossed the river which ran through the middle of the city, and -the Judge pointed to the thronged wharves where ten thousand vessels -arrived in a year and nearly as many cleared, bringing lumber, -carrying the yield of the prairie, wheat, corn, and oats. "Chicago -might yet have a direct European trade—a ship had sailed from there -to Liverpool, with wheat, and three European vessels had sailed to -Chicago...."</p> - -<p>Built on the flat prairie, on sand and swamp, almost on the level of -the lake, nearly the whole city had now been raised a grade of ten -feet; an entire business block being raised at one time! With such -an energetic and growing population, with its marvellous situation, -commanding the lake trade and with all the western territory to draw -from, the city had a great future. "Half the country will be tributary -to it," said the Judge with glowing eyes....</p> - -<p>They drove out along the lake shore, a broad beach of sand and gravel, -back of which rolled low sand-dunes. It was a warm June day, and the -great inland sea lay calm and blue, with a slight mist on the horizon. -The water sparkled in the sun, a slight motion sent wavelets lapping on -the sand. No land could be seen across it, yet there was the feeling of -land out there just beyond the line of vision. The air that blew over -those miles of water was flat, it had an inland flavour.</p> - -<p>Here it was not the water that was boundless, but the land. The lake -was like a pond—the prairie was like the sea....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Judge Baxter talked on enthusiastically about the future of the city, -the vast tide of trade that was bound<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> to pass through this, the heart -of the country. Mary, beside him, listened smiling. Laurence, sitting -opposite, watching Mary, was preoccupied, hardly spoke at all.</p> - -<p>The drive lasted so long that there was no time for further shopping. -The Judge said they must dine early, so as to be in time for the -theatre. Mary went up to her room, to rest a little and to put on her -best dress and bonnet which she had brought carefully enveloped in -tissue paper, in a box. The dress was of grey silk, heavy and shining, -and the bonnet was white. When she was dressed, she stood looking at -herself in a long mirror for some time. The rich silk, hanging in full -folds, suited her tall stately figure. Inside the soft airy ruches -of the bonnet her bright hair rippled, each red-gold wave exactly in -order, making a clear crisp line like metal. Her cheeks were lightly -flushed, her grey eyes shining. She smiled reluctantly at herself -in the glass. Beauty, she knew, was a vain show, and vanity was a -weakness that she hoped was entirely beneath her. Still, one should -make a proper appearance, with due regard to decorum; should not appear -careless, nor above all eccentric. A lady should look like a lady.</p> - -<p>As she was drawing on her white gloves a knock sounded at the door. She -went to open it, there stood Laurence.</p> - -<p>"Let me come in a minute," he said.</p> - -<p>She was startled at his tone, his pale and agitated look. He left the -door ajar, with a quick motion he drew her away from it, sat down -on the bed, his arms round her waist as she stood before him too -astonished to speak.</p> - -<p>"Mary! Let us not go back there again till we are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> married! Marry me -now, here—tonight, or tomorrow!... Why wait any longer—and then all -the fuss about it.... Do, Mary—do this for me, please—"</p> - -<p>He looked up at her, pleading, demanding, his eyes gleaming intensely, -humble and imperious.</p> - -<p>"Sweetheart! Why shouldn't we?... The Judge will be a witness, it will -be all right, your parents won't mind very much, will they?... I hate -a show wedding anyhow, a lot of people round.... And I don't want to -wait any longer, Mary—I want it over and settled, and to be alone with -you.... We can stay here a few days.... Do, please, Mary—"</p> - -<p>He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds -of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently -that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not -notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves.</p> - -<p>"We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly.</p> - -<p>"No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, a letter!"</p> - -<p>She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her -as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set -her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that -absent gaze.</p> - -<p>"You will, Mary?" he breathed.</p> - -<p>She did not answer, hardly heard.</p> - -<p>She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult -time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who -even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face.... -Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr. -Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them—he had rebuffed her. -None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her....</p> - -<p>They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother, -she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to -be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any -outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have -to go through it. Anyhow—</p> - -<p>She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled -faintly.</p> - -<p>"What an idea!... It's time to go down now—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but—tell me.... Tomorrow?"</p> - -<p>He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met -her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look. -He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild -impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by -it—it seemed reckless and adventurous to her—an elopement!</p> - -<p>"I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate -tenderness.</p> - -<p>She smiled mistily at him.</p> - -<p>At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted -on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring -gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at -the play—it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the -person going through this experience—it seemed to be happening to -somebody else. That glass of golden wine—never had Mary Lowell tasted -anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was -delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to -feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide -was taking her....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night.</p> - -<p>"The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly.</p> - -<p>Laurence had an answer to all his objections. They would stop a few -days in the city, then they would go to Mary's parents for a time. The -Judge mustn't feel responsibility, nobody would blame him. They just -didn't want the fuss of a wedding at home. Mary would write to her -parents and it would be all right. In the end, the Judge was persuaded -that, if wrong-headed, it was a romantic thing to do, and entered into -it with spirit. But he had to have his part in it. A wedding-dinner, -in a private room, with an avalanche of flowers. A wedding-gift to the -young couple, a complete service of flat silver. And at the ceremony, -in the little parlour of a minister whom Laurence had taken at hazard, -the Judge, with paternal tears in his eyes, gave the bride away, and -kissed her fair cheek.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XI</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Summer lay hot and heavy on the prairie. Grass and trees were at their -fullest, most intense green. They were full of sap, luxuriant—the -heat had not begun to crisp them. But it hung like a blanket over the -town. People sweltered and panted as they went about their business -in the streets, where the slow creaking watering-cart could not keep -down the dust. When dusk came they sat out on their porches, fanning -themselves and fighting mosquitos. It was not the custom to go away in -summer, nobody thought of it. Life went on just the same, only at a -more languid pace. In the yards facing the street roses were blooming -and drooping.</p> - -<p>At Judge Baxter's house all was long since in order. The outside had -been repainted a clear white with bright green blinds, kept shut now -all day against the heat, with the shutters open to admit any breath -of air. Inside the half-light softened the newness of everything, the -medley of bright colours which the Judge had got together. At night, -shaded lamps toned down the glitter.</p> - -<p>Mary was constantly about the house, keeping it immaculate—she was -slow, methodical and thorough. But with the Judge's housekeeper to do -the work in the hot kitchen, she felt that she was living in pampered -luxury. It was not what she had expected for the beginning of her -married life. Sometimes she vaguely regretted that things were not -harder, more strenuous for her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> There were long hours that seemed -vacant, with all she could do. Laurence was working hard. Three times a -week he drove over to Elmville and spent the afternoon at the creamery. -The rest of the time he was busy at the Judge's office, he worked at -night too over his law-books or papers. He did not mind the heat, he -was in radiant health and spirits.</p> - -<p>There was not much social life in the town except for the boys and -girls. Older people were supposed to stay at home. Married women were -out of the game, they had their houses and children to attend to, and -for relaxation, the church or gossip with a neighbour. The men had -their business and an occasional visit to Chicago; they met in the bar -of the tavern or the barbershop, or at the lodge, if they were Masons. -There was no general meeting-place, no restaurant or park. Very seldom -did any citizen take a meal outside his own home. The Opera-house did -not often open. There were a few dances, for the youth; older people -did not go, even as chaperones, nor were they wanted at the straw-rides -or picnics, nor in the front parlours where the girls received their -beaux. Once married, a person retired into private life, so far as -amusement was concerned. Anything else would have been scandalous.</p> - -<p>Mary did not feel these restrictions. She was, if not wholly content, -at least for the moment satisfied; it was a pause. If not radiance, -there was some sort of subdued glow about her, something that softened -and lightened her look and manner. She was silent as ever, not more -expressive, even more slow. Sometimes alone, she would give way to a -dreamy languor.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> - -<p>She never had been very social, and now she was less so. She saw few -people, paid few visits. Friends of her own age she had none—she had -always felt herself older than other girls. She went regularly to -church and kept up the activities connected with it, and so constantly -saw the minister. But here had come a distinct break; she had not -talked with him at any length, or except about church-matters, since -her marriage. She did not mean this break to be permanent; she knew -that some time she would want to talk to him again, but just now she -did not, and he did not seek her, even for an ordinary pastoral visit.</p> - -<p>Each day she went in to see her parents, five minutes' walk up the -street, or one of them came to see her. They were quite reconciled now, -though there had been sore scenes at first, after her return. Mrs. -Lowell had wept bitterly, and told Mary that she was a selfish girl, -who never thought of any one but herself, a bad daughter who didn't -care how much she hurt her mother and father. At this Mary had cried -too, not with sobs and gaspings, but just big slow tears rolling down -her cheeks, as she sat looking unutterably injured. When she spoke, in -answer to her mother's long complaint, it was only to say gently;</p> - -<p>"But Mother, you know you never pretended to like Laurence or my -marrying him, so why should I think you cared about the wedding? It -wasn't as if you'd been pleased, and liked it. Everybody could see you -didn't like it, so I thought the sooner it was over the better."</p> - -<p>"Who says I don't like Laurence?" Mrs. Lowell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> demanded hotly. "Don't -you see it was just the way to make the whole town believe it, running -off that way! A pretty position it puts me in, and your father—as if -you couldn't be married at home, like other girls! As if we would have -prevented you, if you were set on it! We would have given you as nice a -wedding as any girl ever had here—"</p> - -<p>Then another burst of tears, at the end of which they found themselves -in one another's arms. Endearments were rare between them, but it was -with great relief to both that they now kissed and made it up, for they -did love one another. From that time it was understood that Mrs. Lowell -was very fond of her son-in-law. Woe to the person who should dare say -a word to the contrary or against him! He was now fully received into -the family; his status was fixed for all time. The doctor had not made -any scene; had welcomed them both warmly, as if nothing had happened. -Indeed, Mary thought he was pleased. They had stayed for two weeks -there, till the Judge's house was ready; a satisfaction to Mrs. Lowell, -as effectually giving the lie to any report that there was trouble in -her family. And she had done her utmost, after the first day, to make -things pleasant. By the end of the visit, Laurence was calling her -"Mother," and paying her compliments; every one was in good humour, the -house gayer than it had ever been; and Mrs. Lowell was nearly in love -with the scion of Irish bog-trotters.</p> - -<p>So Mary had no more defending of Laurence to do. It was understood -that she was happy, that her husband was full of promise and -well-befriended, and that everybody was satisfied.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Judge insisted that Laurence must help exercise his horses, so -often, when work and the heat of the day were over, Laurence drove -the trotters out over the prairie, with Mary in the buggy beside him. -He handled the spirited horses with ease, and she felt perfectly safe -with him. He would talk to her at length of his day's doings, of -anything that came into his head, and she listened, not saying much. -Sometimes he wanted her to talk, and she found she had nothing to say. -Her inexpressiveness often bothered him, sometimes made him angry. He -needed response and was impatient if he didn't get it, in all things.</p> - -<p>He was ardent and tumultuous in his love, constantly wanting expression -of love from her. He was demanding, impetuous, imperious in his -desire. He could not have patience, he could not woo any longer, he -must possess—all, to the uttermost, without reserve. His experience -of women had not taught him to understand a nature like hers—less -emotional than his own, really more sensual. His whole idea of women in -general, of Mary in particular was opposed to this understanding—he -would have reversed the judgment, and so would Mary. He thought Mary -cold to love, and her coldness often made him brusque and overbearing.</p> - -<p>Yet he was very happy. He loved to be with her, to talk to her even -when she did not answer, to look at her. He was proud of her beauty; -liked to drive with her through the town or to walk with her on his -arm; liked the admiring glances that followed her. He held his head -high; consciousness of power, confidence in himself and his destiny, -were strong in him. He felt that he could control the forces about him, -as his powerful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> wrists controlled the horses, and drive them at his -will, along the road he chose.</p> - -<p>Several times a week he saw Nora, the companion of his childhood, for -she was working now in the creamery at Elmville. He had not met her -that Sunday on the river road, for then he was in Chicago with Mary, -and had forgotten all about Nora. But he had remembered her afterwards, -and as she had lost her place in the store because she was not quick -at figures, he had found a place for her at the creamery. He meant to -look out for poor little Nora, had a desire to be kind to her. He had -a quick sympathy for the weak and helpless, always; he was full of -generous impulses, would kindle at any tale of distress or injustice -and was ready to help. Part of his feeling for "the under dog" came -by nature; part perhaps from his own circumstances in the years of -sensitive youth.</p> - -<p>A deep mark had been left upon him by these early hardships—he hated -and feared poverty. He was ambitious in a worldly and social way, he -wanted to count among men, he wanted power; and he was determined to -be rich. His power was to be beneficent, his riches were to benefit -others. Though he liked display and luxury, he liked better the feeling -that he could be a mainstay and rock of refuge to those weaker than -himself. He would be great, powerful, and generous.</p> - -<p>These ambitions and dreams came out clearly as he talked to Mary. But -she did not echo them, only listened gravely. She did not sympathize -with Laurence's desire for worldly things, and she knew he would not -sympathize with her indifference to them. When she expressed anything -of the kind he would say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> with irritation that she knew nothing of the -world and had better get some experience before she despised it. So -after a few attempts, she gave up trying to talk to him about it. The -time hadn't come, she felt, Laurence's spiritual eyes were not opened, -he was bound to earthly vanities. Perhaps he would have to experience -these things before he could despise them, see their nothingness. But -<i>she</i> needn't, she felt serenely that no experience would change her -point of view. She loved Laurence, but she nourished in her heart -an ideal to which he did not correspond. A militant saint—that was -her ideal. Not a man struggling for the goods of this world, but one -who could put his feet upon them and whose vision was far beyond. A -look of infinite remoteness would come into her eyes sometimes and -she would fall into abstraction; and Laurence, when this happened in -his presence, would resent it instinctively and drag her out of it by -making love to her or quarrelling with her, or both at once.</p> - -<p>But they had many happy hours together in the long drowsy twilights, -many times of troubled exquisite sweetness in the dusk or the dark of -still summer nights. Their youthful tenderness was stronger than any -division of feeling; a deep unconscious bond was forming between them.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Sometimes in the evenings, the heat and mosquitos would drive them -indoors. Then in the dim light Mary would sit down at the piano. She -did not play very well, her fingers were strong rather than skilful, -but she sang old ballads in her husky contralto, for Laurence and Judge -Baxter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Judge had a sentimental passion for these songs, and as he sat and -listened, pulling slowly at his cigar, he was happy, he had a feeling -of home. His bare bachelor existence had been cushioned, or he would -have said, glorified by the tender touch of a woman. He had a chivalric -affection for Mary, he admired her intensely. He and Laurence would sit -with their eyes fixed upon her as she sang, on the clear outline of her -cheek, her thick knot of burnished hair, her young figure, strong and -stately, in the light flowing gown of white muslin. She sang "Ye banks -and braes of bonnie Doon," and "Oh, tell me if all those endearing -young charms," and other old-world songs. The two men listened raptly, -the glowing tips of their cigars gathering thick cones of ashes. In -the intervals of the song, a chorus of night-insects could be heard -outside, shrilling in the grass and heavy-leaved trees. Or sometimes -the low rumbling of thunder heralded an approaching storm.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">On an August afternoon, Mary walked languidly up the street to her -father's house. She was bare-headed, dressed in a plain white muslin, -and carried a small parasol, though the sun was hidden in a thick haze. -It was about four o'clock. All day the heat had been intense, the air -was thick, motionless, stifling. The greyish haze hung low and heavy, -and darkened steadily.</p> - -<p>It was as though all the heat of the summer, of all the long monotonous -summer days, had been gathered up, concentrated in that one day; as if -it hung there between the baked earth and the thick blanket of cloud -sinking lower and lower, pressing down.</p> - -<p>There was no feeling of space. The prairie was stagnant, -torpid—nothing stirred on it, except the small ant-like motions of -men. The horizons of the vast plain had disappeared....</p> - -<p>Day follows day, each with its little occupations, orderly, monotonous, -peaceful. Some little corner of the world seems a safe place to live -in—shut in upon itself, shut out from disturbance—perhaps too safe. -Life may grow dull and languid, sometimes, even when new pulses are -stirring in it, grow faint. Long summer days, one like another, each -with its weight of humid heat, pile up a burden....</p> - -<p>Vast unbroken spaces are dangerous. Beyond that curtain of sullen -mist, who knows what is brewing?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> Unknown forces, long gathering and -brooding, strike suddenly out of darkness. That infinite monotony of -the prairie breeds violence—long suppressed, breaking at last....</p> - -<p>Mary found her mother sitting on the porch, gasping, fanning herself -with a palm-leaf.</p> - -<p>"What a day—the worst yet," moaned Mrs. Lowell. "Have a glass of -lemonade, Mary? I made some for your father. It's on the dining-room -table."</p> - -<p>"Where is Father?"</p> - -<p>Mary dropped into the hammock, panting.</p> - -<p>"He hasn't come back yet. I wish he'd come. There's going to be a -storm."</p> - -<p>Mary lay against the cushion, her lips parted, breathing heavily.</p> - -<p>"How pale you are! What ails you, child?" Mrs. Lowell asked with alarm.</p> - -<p>"Nothing—the heat—"</p> - -<p>"Don't you want the lemonade? I'll get it for you—"</p> - -<p>"No, no—I'll go in a minute—"</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Lowell rose with an effort, and went in. When she brought the -lemonade, Mary sat up with a faint murmur of thanks, and drank it. Mrs. -Lowell stood looking at her with watchful tenderness.</p> - -<p>"There isn't anything the matter, is there? You ought to be careful, -this hot weather, and not overdo, Mary."</p> - -<p>"No, it isn't anything—"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lowell took the empty glass and went back to her chair.</p> - -<p>"Laurence is over at Elmville," said Mary languidly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> "I'm afraid he'll -get caught in the storm. How dark it's getting."</p> - -<p>She looked out at the low cloud that thickened momently and that now -was clotting into black masses against a greenish grey. The rattle of -the doctor's old buggy was heard approaching; he drove rapidly in past -the house. His horse was sweating heavily and flecked with foam. They -caught a glimpse of his pale face as he passed.</p> - -<p>"Thank goodness," murmured Mrs. Lowell. "Perhaps we'd better go in."</p> - -<p>But she remained, gazing at the clouds. A few people went by, more -hurriedly than usual. It was almost dark now, a strange twilight. Mary -left the hammock and came to look up at the sky. Up there were masses -of cloud in tumult, but down below not a breath of air stirred.</p> - -<p>"How queer it looks—I wish Laurence was home. He starts about this -time," she said uneasily.</p> - -<p>"Oh, he'll wait till it's over.... I wonder why your father doesn't -come in...."</p> - -<p>Mary turned and entered the house, but the doctor was not there, and -she went on out into the garden. At the door of the stable she saw the -horse hitched, he had not been unharnessed. Dr. Lowell stood there, -looking up. She went quickly along the path to him.</p> - -<p>"Say, Mary, this looks mighty queer. We're going to have a big wind," -he called to her. "You better go in."</p> - -<p>"Well, why don't <i>you</i> come in? Aren't you going to unhitch?"</p> - -<p>"I suppose so," he said with a worried glance. "Satan acted like the -very deuce on the way home—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p> - -<p>He looked at the wooden stable doubtfully.</p> - -<p>"I suppose I'll have to put him in there. I don't know but we're going -to get a twister."</p> - -<p>He unbuckled the tugs and pushed the buggy into the stable, and then, -holding the sweating, stamping horse firmly by the halter, led him in, -but did not take off the harness. He shut the stable-door and joined -Mary, gazing up at the boiling black clouds, which cast greenish -gleams. He looked around at his garden, kept fresh and full of blossom -by his labours. The yellow of late summer had begun to shoot through -its green, but it was still lovely, tall phlox blooming luxuriantly, -and many-coloured asters. In the sick light, the foliage and flowers -looked metallic, not a leaf moved. The doctor took Mary by the arm and -they went in. Mrs. Lowell was shutting all the windows. It was hot as a -furnace in the house. The cellar-door stood open.</p> - -<p>"It's cooler down there," suggested Mrs. Lowell in a trembling voice.</p> - -<p>"Well, we may have to," the doctor responded calmly, helping himself to -lemonade.</p> - -<p>Mary hurried to look out of the front windows. The passers-by were -running now, teams went by at a gallop. Then it was as if a great -sighing breath passed over, the trees waved and tossed their leaves, -and then—the wind struck.</p> - -<p>In an instant the air was full of tumult, of flying dust, leaves, -branches, and darkened to night, with a roar like the sea in storm. All -was blurred outside the windows, the house shook and seemed to shift on -its foundations, blinds tore loose and crashed like gun-fire.</p> - -<p>Mary felt a grasp on her arm, and saw her mother's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> face, white and -scared. Mrs. Lowell tried to drag her away, shouted something. But she -wrenched her arm loose, turned and ran upstairs. From the second-story -windows she could see nothing but a wild whirl, the trees bent down -and streaming, dim shapes in the visible darkness driving past. There -was still another stair, narrow and steep, to the attic. She climbed -up there. From the small window in the eaves she could see over the -tree-tops. The house shook and trembled under her, the roar of the wind -seemed to burst through the walls, but she crouched by the low window, -heedless. She started at a touch on her shoulder, her father was there -beside her. She made room for him at the window, and pointed out, -turning to him a white face of terror.</p> - -<p>The fury of the wind was lessening, the darkness was lifting. The outer -fringe of the storm-cloud had swept them—but out there on the prairie, -miles away, they could see now—</p> - -<p>There it was, a murky green and black boiling centre in the sky, and -shooting down from it, trailing over the earth, something like a long -twisting finger—</p> - -<p>An instant's vision of it. Then there came a deluge of rain, beating on -the sloping roof. Through the streaming window nothing could be seen. -The doctor raised Mary and led her down the stair, she clung to him -without a word. On the second floor they found Mrs. Lowell, about to -mount in search of them, trembling with fright.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"It's all over, Mother," shouted the doctor through the drumming of the -rain. "We only got the edge of it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> - -<p>They went down to the lower floor. Now it was perceptibly lighter. The -cloud fringe sweeping like a huge broom was passing as swiftly as it -had come. The rain lessened in force, the grey outside brightened. The -doctor and his wife looked at one another, and both looked at Mary, who -stood beside a window staring out.</p> - -<p>"Now, Mother," said Dr. Lowell briskly, "you get me a sandwich or -something, I've got to start out. Mary! help your mother, will you? You -might as well fill up a basket, as quick as you can—put in anything -you've got, in five minutes—don't know how long I may be—"</p> - -<p>He was already fastening his rubber coat, his old hat jammed down -on his head. Mary followed her mother, blindly obeying her quick -directions in the kitchen. The basket was packed by the time the doctor -came out with his medicine-chest and a big roll of surgical dressings.</p> - -<p>"Where you going?" Mrs. Lowell then demanded.</p> - -<p>"There'll be some damage where that thing struck," said the doctor -cheerfully. "I'm going over there. Don't you sit up for me, I may be -all night. You better keep Mary here, till Laurence comes for her."</p> - -<p>But Mary was putting on an old cloak of her mother's that hung in the -entry.</p> - -<p>"I'm going with you. Laurence is over there," she said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lowell started to protest, but looking at Mary's face, stopped, -and went to get a scarf to tie over her hair. The doctor said nothing, -but went to hitch up his horse and put a feed of grain into the back of -the buggy. They started. Satan indicated his displeasure at the turn -of things by rearing up in the shafts and then try<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>ing to kick the -dashboard in; but the doctor gave him the whip and he decided to go.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The road was mud-puddles, ruts and gullies, and strewn with branches, -sometime great boughs or fence-rails lay across it. Other people were -on the way now. Satan passed everything going in their direction. -Salutations and comments were shouted at the doctor. Then they began to -meet people coming the other way; the doctor did not stop to talk, but -a man called to him that Elmville had been wiped out by the cyclone.</p> - -<p>Two miles on they came to a cluster of houses where a crowd had -gathered, most of them refugees who had fled before the storm. Two -houses here had been un-roofed, sheds blown away, and the place was -littered with splinters, but nobody was seriously hurt. From there on -they met a stream of people, nearly all the population of Elmville, -including the people from the creamery who had escaped into the prairie -laden with whatever goods they could carry. Then they reached the last -buildings left standing by the storm—a farmhouse and barns, by some -freak of the wind untouched, a mile from Elmville. These were crowded -with people from the town, mostly women and children, and a few men, -some of them injured. The doctor pulled up his horse and shouted an -inquiry for Laurence. Oh, Captain Carlin was all right, he had been -there when the storm struck, had started home but decided he couldn't -make it and stopped there—he had driven back now to see what he could -do, and most of the men had gone after him. Wouldn't the doctor come -in? One of the men had a broken leg and there was a woman with her -head<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> hurt by a flying brick, they thought she would die. The doctor -hesitated. Mary said:</p> - -<p>"You stay, Father, I'll drive on and find Laurence."</p> - -<p>"You drive Satan! You couldn't hold him a minute!"</p> - -<p>"I'll drive him."</p> - -<p>He looked at her, realized that she was quite irrational, called out -that he would come back, and drove on.</p> - -<p>The storm had come at an angle to the road, so the wreckage of the town -had blown the other way, but where its buildings had stood, with the -tall brick factory in their midst, the skyline was now absolutely empty.</p> - -<p>They came on Laurence's horse, tied to a fallen tree, and then Laurence -himself came running toward them, out of a group of men who were -lifting timbers. Mary was out of the buggy and in his arms in a moment, -sobbing on his shoulder, clinging to him wildly, the rain falling on -her bare head. She hid her face against his wet coat, not to see the -desolation around her. But then after a little she raised her head and -looked over his shoulder, her eyes full of the terror of death that had -passed so near, that had threatened to strike to her heart....</p> - -<p>A rubbish-heap, in which men were frantically digging for the wounded -and dead, was all that was left of the town. A heap of splintered -boards and bricks, with pitiful odds and ends of household furniture -mixed in. Not a wall was standing, not one brick left on another, all -was levelled to the earth.</p> - -<p>The wind had roared away across the prairie and there, somewhere in -the midst of vast spaces, it would vanish. Over beyond, now, near the -horizon, a rift had opened in the grey clouds, and through it was -visible a long belt of blue sky—serene, limpid, smiling.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p></div> - -<h2>PART TWO</h2> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p></div> - - -<h3>I</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Carlin walked with a quick firm step across the square from the -courthouse to his office in the bank building. His usually ruddy face -was pale, his eyes gleamed with excitement under the brim of his soft -felt hat. He made his way through the crowd that filled the street -before the jail without halting, shaking off impatiently some attempts -to stop him, nodding or shaking his head for all answer to questions -shouted at him.</p> - -<p>It was a bright spring day. For the second time since his marriage the -maples round the square were putting out their brilliant young leaves. -But there was no brightness in the throng under the maples. A sombre -excitement moved them, a low-toned angry murmur followed Carlin's -progress. It was hardly personal to him, however, or only faintly, -doubtfully so. He was recognized respectfully, and responded with curt -nods, or sometimes a quick lifting of his hand, like a military salute.</p> - -<p>He ran up the steps into his own office, and through this to Judge -Baxter's, entering with a quick rap on the glass, closing the door -sharply behind him. The Judge was alone, writing at his desk, and -looked round rather absently, pushing his spectacles up on his -forehead. Carlin flung his hat on the rickety sofa in the corner and -standing by the desk, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, frowning, -he said firmly:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Judge, we must take this case."</p> - -<p>The Judge looked at him now with attention, but without answering. -Resistance showed in his face, but he put out his lower lip and -thoughtfully shifted his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other.</p> - -<p>"He sent for me and I was admitted to see him, as his counsel," -Laurence went on in the same quick urgent tone. "And then—we must do -it, that's all."</p> - -<p>The Judge looked at the sheet of paper before him, half-filled with his -crabbed painstaking writing, laid down his pen, and leaned back in his -chair.</p> - -<p>"Why?" he demanded coolly.</p> - -<p>"My God, Judge!" Carlin burst out.</p> - -<p>With an effort to master himself, he turned away and walked several -times across the floor.</p> - -<p>"If you'd seen the man—if you'd heard him!... I'm all smashed up by -it," he confessed huskily, stopping and staring out of the window.</p> - -<p>"I see you are," said the Judge. "Have a drink?"</p> - -<p>Carlin shook his head. But the Judge, opening a cupboard in his desk, -took out a bottle and one glass, poured a stiff allowance of whiskey -and tossed it off neat.</p> - -<p>"I'm glad you don't drink much, Laurence," he remarked as he put away -the glass. "With your excitable temperament you couldn't stand it."</p> - -<p>As Carlin stood silent, staring out, the Judge addressed his back.</p> - -<p>"I don't like murder cases—never did. Never could do anything with -'em. My clients were hanged, every time—that was long ago.... I -haven't touched a criminal case for—well, years. I'm no jury lawyer. -We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> don't want to go into that, Laurence ... and then, the fellow's a -brute."</p> - -<p>"No—no!... Wait until I tell you about it...."</p> - -<p>Laurence turned round. His tone was calmer but he still looked deeply -agitated, and began to pace the floor again.</p> - -<p>"Well, take your time.... But I can't see what it is to you," said -Judge Baxter curiously.</p> - -<p>His genial shrewd old face expressed a somewhat cynical perplexity. -If he had ever been deeply moved by human passion and folly, he had -forgotten it—for many years it had been only a spectacle to him. All -crimes spring from love, so-called, or money. One of these two great -mainsprings the Judge understood thoroughly. He knew all about human -cupidity. He had made his own fortune out of the desire of some of his -fellow-beings to over-reach others, and this golden fountain would -never run dry. The Judge had all the law of property at his fingers' -ends. His ability to help a corporation to use the law was abundantly -recognized and recompensed. He was a noted railroad counsel. Why turn -aside from this safe and profitable concern with people's purses, to -meddle with the wild impulses of their hearts, so-called?</p> - -<p>"You say you don't see what it is to me," Carlin began, turning -abruptly. "But I know the man, if you remember. He was in my -company—one of the best in it too—I knew him well—that's why he -thought of me, I suppose.... But even if I hadn't known him, if I'd -seen any man as he was this morning, if any man talked to me as he -did.... I never heard anything like it—I never saw anything so -friendless, forlorn.... He's like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> a lost beaten dog—there isn't a -soul in the world that isn't against him...."</p> - -<p>"Well, that's right, I guess," said the Judge cautiously. "He's worse -than friendless." He turned his head toward the window, giving ear to -the noise from the street—a low continuous murmur. "That crowd means -trouble.... When do they take him out?"</p> - -<p>"By the afternoon train. The Sheriff thinks he can do it—he's got -thirty deputies sworn in."</p> - -<p>"I've never seen a lynching here," said the Judge, getting up and going -to the window. "But—we came pretty near it once or twice during the -war. It looked a good deal like this, too.... You see, our people don't -make an awful lot of noise about a thing—when they mean business, -they're quiet."</p> - -<p>The two men stood side by side, looking down on the square, which was -by now closely packed.</p> - -<p>"Well, I guess we'll get him out just the same," said Carlin grimly.</p> - -<p>"'We'?"</p> - -<p>"They won't get him if I can help it.... But I'd like to know why they -<i>want</i> to—don't understand a mob getting up like this about it—"</p> - -<p>"It runs like wildfire, once it starts.... Perhaps the boys want some -excitement, we haven't had much lately. And then," said the Judge -emphatically, "they don't <i>like</i> it. It was an unprovoked brutal murder -of a woman—a good hardworking woman, with little children to look -after—and this fellow comes back, takes to drinking, quarrels with his -wife and smashes her head with an ax—by God, if they want to string -him up, I don't blame them!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Look here, Judge, you're just like the rest of them, you don't -understand, you don't know! A man doesn't smash his wife with an ax for -<i>nothing</i>—"</p> - -<p>"If you're going to try to justify him—"</p> - -<p>"No, he doesn't want that, neither do I. He's a lost man and he -knows it.... All he seemed to want of me was to have one human being -understand it—just to tell me about it. He doesn't want to get off, he -wants to die."</p> - -<p>Carlin's intense blue eyes held the Judge's unwilling gaze; they both -forgot the crowd outside, turned from the window. The Judge sat down -again at his desk.</p> - -<p>"Well, tell me about it," he said reluctantly. "But I'm sorry to see -you so worked up.... I really don't see how we could handle a case -like this, even if we had a chance to do anything with it. I tell you -it isn't the thing, it's all off my beat—you know it. And you're -just getting your start, and to handicap yourself right off with an -unpopular case where you haven't the ghost of a show, where feeling's -dead against you—no, Laurence, my boy, I oughtn't to let you—we can't -do it!"</p> - -<p>Laurence drew a chair to the other side of the desk, facing the Judge.</p> - -<p>"If <i>we</i> can't, I'll try it alone," he said quietly. "All I want for -Barclay is a hearing—just to have his side of it known, that's all. -He'll have to pay the penalty, of course—he'll get life imprisonment -at least and I'm not sure he wouldn't rather be hanged, in fact I'm -sure he would, <i>now</i>.... But he did have provocation—if you could get -anybody to see it."</p> - -<p>"Well, see if you can get me to see it. I guess that's a good test," -said the Judge coolly. "I'm as prejudiced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> against him as anybody. I -wouldn't lynch him, maybe—but I don't want you to lose your first -important case."</p> - -<p>He leaned back in his chair and fixed his old, wise, wary eyes on -Carlin, who, quite calm now, had an abstracted look.</p> - -<p>"Well, to begin I'd have to tell you what I knew about Barclay before -this.... He was in the first company to go from here—enlisted for -three months, you know. Just dropped his tools and went—he was a -machinist, making good wages, had a nice little home here, wife and two -children. They were dependent on him, but the wife was sturdy and said -she guessed they could get along somehow—and they did. She got work -and people helped them, and she kept up the home. Barclay was awfully -proud of her and the youngsters—another one was born after he went. -He used to show me their pictures and talk about them. He was good at -machinery—it was the only thing he <i>did</i> know—he was a gunner in my -battery later and a good one. Strong as a horse and he'd fight like -the devil when things got hot. A big fellow, good-natured too and kind -of simple-minded—soft, you might say, except when he was fighting or -drunk. He didn't seem to have but two ideas in his head—one was the -war and the other was his family. He re-enlisted, of course, and went -through the whole thing, but he was homesick all the time. He used -to write home whenever he could, and when he didn't get letters as -often as he thought he ought to, he'd come to me and worry, and ask if -I'd heard and so on.... I'm telling you this, Judge," Carlin looked -earnestly at the Judge's impassive face, "so you can understand what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -sort of a man he was and what his home meant to him—just everything, -outside of what he was fighting for. That man made a real sacrifice, -because he thought it his duty. He felt it all the time, but he thought -the country needed him, and he had to do it, and he had a pride in it -too—he didn't look for any reward, but I suppose he thought what he -did would be appreciated somehow—anyhow he didn't expect to lose out -altogether by it...."</p> - -<p>Carlin stopped for a moment, frowning till his eyes showed only a blue -glint.</p> - -<p>"Lots of us that went were remembered," he said slowly, "and some—were -forgotten."</p> - -<p>He picked up a pencil and began scoring deep lines on a sheet of paper.</p> - -<p>"Four years is a good slice out of a man's life. He loses a lot—in -his life, his work—other men get the start of him—he's far away, and -perhaps will never come back, and they're <i>here</i>.... When a man gives -that much, and risks everything, in what seems a holy cause to him, it -seems as if—it seems as if—"</p> - -<p>His voice trembled. The Judge was watching him now intently. He got up -and began to walk the floor again.</p> - -<p>"You see, Judge, that's natural—to want to have some recognition of -what you've done. And I know a lot of our fellows felt that the people -at home <i>didn't</i> recognize it. They made a lot of fuss about us when we -went away, but when we came back—those of us that did come back—they -didn't get excited much about us.</p> - -<p>"They were busy—they'd been living their lives in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> peace while we were -fighting and protecting them—<i>we</i> stood between them and the enemy and -most of them never felt what war is. They might know about it, but they -didn't <i>feel</i> it, we saved them from that.... Then when we came back, -sometimes they were glad to see us, sometimes not. Anyhow, we had to -scramble around and see what we could do, to make a living, to get back -the place we'd lost. Lots of us found it hard. It wasn't only the time -lost, but those four years of war made a difference in us, sometimes -for the better, sometimes for the worse...."</p> - -<p>"Surely," said Judge Baxter, nodding.</p> - -<p>"You see, Judge, it upsets all a man's habits and way of living. You -can't make a good soldier of a man without loosening up some things in -him that are usually kept down. He faces violent death every day, and -he <i>kills</i>. It's a primitive thing, war is, and men get back to where -they were. They suffer and they try to make the other fellow suffer -more, they get callous, savage, lots of them. Then when they come back -to civilized life, it's hard for them to fit in. I wonder there wasn't -more trouble than there was, I wonder that that great army, nearly a -million men, melted away as quietly as it did.... Judge, it was a great -thing that we did—"</p> - -<p>Carlin stopped and fixed his eyes on the Judge, who nodded gravely.</p> - -<p>"We felt it so at the time, at least very many of us did, and looking -back, we can see how big a thing it was. We fought the good fight, we -crushed something evil, that would have destroyed our country. Every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -man in our army has a right to be proud of it, proud of himself, if he -did his best ... he has a right to be remembered...."</p> - -<p>"Yes, surely," said Judge Baxter, with the same grave intentness, his -keen eyes watching Carlin's every look and motion.</p> - -<p>There was a brief silence.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Carlin, drawing a deep breath. "Barclay was forgotten.... -The last year, letters were scarce. We were on the jump and then we -went down into Georgia.... I don't know just what happened here. He -doesn't make any accusation against his wife, though it seems there -was somebody else she liked. But she'd settled her life without him. -She could support the family and she'd got used to doing without him. -Perhaps she never cared so much for him as he thought. But yet if -he'd been here, probably it would have gone along all right. But he -wasn't, you see.... And she heard things about him too. He was in the -guardhouse a few times for drinking, and somebody else would mention it -in writing home.... All that came out after he got back."</p> - -<p>Carlin was still walking about restlessly under the Judge's watchful -gaze.</p> - -<p>"When he got back he found he wasn't wanted—that's all. His wife could -do without him, and preferred to. His children were little—they'd -forgotten him. There was a baby he'd never seen. He felt like a -stranger in the house. And she made him feel it! At first he couldn't -realize it, and tried to have it all as it was before—but it was no -use. She didn't want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> him there.... Well, I suppose you can't see what -that meant to him—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I can," said the Judge.</p> - -<p>"It was all he had, you know. And she'd taken it away from him—the -children and all. He could see that if he'd never come back, if he'd -been killed, she would have married this other man, and never missed -him. He saw that she wished he hadn't come back. In fact—she told him -so, after they got to quarrelling...."</p> - -<p>"That was pretty bad," muttered the Judge.</p> - -<p>"And he still loved her, you see. Otherwise he'd have gone away again. -But he wanted her and the children. So he took to drinking—"</p> - -<p>"Why, naturally."</p> - -<p>"He took to drinking hard and didn't work—couldn't. And he made the -house miserable, of course. They quarrelled terribly, he beat her.... -She reproached him for being a useless drunken loafer, spoiling her -life and the children's—then she told him she wished he'd died.... It -was after that...."</p> - -<p>Carlin was silent. The Judge nodded his white head and said abruptly: -"Yes, the poor simpleton—lost his head."</p> - -<p>"He doesn't remember how it happened—he was drunk. But he doesn't -deny it—can't, of course," said Carlin in a low voice. "He said to me -that he could hardly believe it ... he'd always loved her ... he said -it didn't seem possible he could have hurt her ... he thought he must -have been crazy ... he wished he had been killed down south, then it -wouldn't have happened and she would have been happy, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> children -taken care of, while now.... And then he cried...."</p> - -<p>Carlin's voice broke, and he turned away to the window. The Judge's -eyes followed him eagerly, dwelt on his bent head, his bowed shoulders -for some moments.</p> - -<p>"The poor fool," he said, taking off his spectacles and looking at them -critically.</p> - -<p>"Judge, it was an awful thing to see—that big fellow, all crumpled up -like a wet rag—broken, crushed—helpless as a baby,—not a soul to -put out a hand to him—and he was sinking, lost—lost forever.... And -a good man too, that's the mystery ... why, Judge, anybody might have -acted that way—<i>might</i> have ... if people could only see that, feel -it...."</p> - -<p>The Judge had polished his spectacles to a nicety and now put them on -and stood up.</p> - -<p>"Well, Laurence, I guess you can make them feel it—I guess you can, my -boy!" he burst out.</p> - -<p>His broad face lighted up with enthusiasm, with professional ardour.</p> - -<p>"Laurence, you were right and I was wrong. If you feel the thing as -much as this, it's a chance for you. Nothing counts so much with a -jury as feeling—real feeling—and you've got it. We'll take that case -and you shall make the address—I'm not a jury lawyer myself, but I -know one when I see him! You won't save your man, Laurence, but many a -reputation has been made in a lost cause!"</p> - -<p>And the Judge, advancing, took Carlin's hand and shook it warmly. -Carlin looked at him with troubled, bewildered eyes, and the Judge -clapped him on the shoulder briskly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Laurence, my boy, I knew you had it in you!" he cried.</p> - -<p>"I'm not taking this case to distinguish myself," Carlin said angrily.</p> - -<p>"No, no, of course not—that makes it all the better!" the Judge -assured him, with the utmost cheerfulness.</p> - -<p>But suddenly he became grave again and pondered.</p> - -<p>"If the boys try anything it will be when they take him to the train," -he reflected.</p> - -<p>"I'm going home now to get a bite of dinner—then I'll be on hand if -there's trouble. You coming, Judge?" Carlin took up his hat.</p> - -<p>"I've got a letter to finish—then I'll be along. But, say, Laurence—"</p> - -<p>The Judge stopped on the way to his desk.</p> - -<p>"Mary—she won't like this."</p> - -<p>Laurence was at the door, and turned a disturbed look on the Judge.</p> - -<p>"No, she won't. She liked Mrs. Barclay."</p> - -<p>"She won't like our defending him."</p> - -<p>"I'll explain—there's a lot she doesn't know—I'll tell her and she'll -understand." Carlin's tone had not much conviction.</p> - -<p>"Well, perhaps," said the Judge dubiously.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p></div> - - -<h3>II</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">In Carlin's household there were now two children. The family still -lived at the Judge's house; he had resisted firmly their attempts -to leave him. He had turned over the whole house to them, reserving -only two rooms on the ground floor for himself, and by now he had -established himself as a member of the family. There was no more -thought of breaking up the arrangement.</p> - -<p>Carlin reached the house a little before the dinner hour. He found his -eldest son carefully penned up on the porch, exercising his fat legs -by rushes from side to side of his enclosure. In a chair beside the -pen sat Mary, with the new baby at her breast. In spite of his hurry -and preoccupation, Carlin smiled with pleasure at the group, stopped -to hold out a finger to the tottering golden-haired boy, bent to kiss -Mary, looking tenderly at her and the small blonde head against her -bosom. The baby was but three weeks old. Mary had still about her the -soft freshness and radiance of new motherhood. She was pale, her tall -figure had not yet regained its firm lines, but her beauty was at its -best. She had borne her children easily and happily. The fuller oval -of her face, her soft heavy-lidded eyes and the new tenderness of her -mouth, expressed the quiet joy of fulfilment, satisfaction.</p> - -<p>"I must hurry back—can I have a bite to eat now?" Carlin asked softly, -touching the baby's tiny hand outspread on Mary's breast.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Dinner's nearly ready—I'll see. He's asleep."</p> - -<p>"He's always asleep, when he isn't eating, and sometimes then," -commented Carlin, smiling.</p> - -<p>"So he ought to be," said Mary calmly.</p> - -<p>She rose with caution, and carried the baby indoors, the frills of her -muslin robe billowing about her. Both parents smiled as a wail from the -deserted first-born followed them. They had a robust attitude toward -the young James, and he was used to solitary communing with himself in -his pen, but didn't like it. Mary carried the baby into the Judge's -bedroom and laid him on the bachelor's bed. The Judge liked to have his -room used in this way; it delighted him to find articles of infant's -attire, or toys belonging to young James, in his quarters. He often -said that he was getting all the feeling of being a family man without -any of the bother.</p> - -<p>Mary went into the kitchen to hurry the stolid Swedish cook, and Carlin -ran lightly upstairs. When Mary came up to arrange her hair and dress, -a moment later, she found him loading his army revolver, which he -persisted in keeping in his top bureau drawer among his neckties.</p> - -<p>"What's that for?" she asked quickly.</p> - -<p>Carlin looked at her with concern, wishing to break the matter gently -to her, for it had been deeply impressed upon him that to disturb Mary -was to disturb the baby also, and that any interference with her sacred -function was a crime—sacrilege, in fact. He hesitated.</p> - -<p>"I know—it's that Barclay!... But what are you going to do?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why—there may be some trouble getting him out of town—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I heard about it. But why do you—"</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm sworn in as a deputy to defend him, if—"</p> - -<p>"Laurence!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, defend him—he's going to have a fair trial, if I—and look here, -Mary, I might as well tell you, the Judge and I are going to defend him -at the trial."</p> - -<p>Paler than before, she laid down her comb and gazed at him. He finished -loading the revolver and slipped a box of cartridges into his pocket.</p> - -<p>"Defend that man? I don't believe you mean it, Laurence, the Judge -wouldn't."</p> - -<p>"Yes, he would. You ask him.... I haven't time to tell you all about it -now, Mary, I must eat and run. Come downstairs."</p> - -<p>Not having succeeded in breaking it gently, Carlin took the opposite -tack and spoke with curt military command. In silence Mary turned -to the glass, fastened her dress and smoothed her hair carefully. -In no circumstances would she be sloppy. She descended the stairs -after Carlin, they sat down at the table in the dining-room, and the -awkward Swedish girl brought in the dinner. Mary silently filled -Carlin's plate. He began to speak, but just then the Judge arrived, -winded from a rapid walk and looking worried. He greeted Mary rather -apologetically, as he tucked his napkin under his beard.</p> - -<p>"Laurence tell you?" he panted. "Now don't get mad, Mary—seems as if -we'd have to do it. Explain to you later."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary lifted her chin haughtily as she gave the Judge his plate.</p> - -<p>"I'm not 'mad'—but I certainly don't understand why you and Laurence -want to defend a brute like that man. When I think of poor Sarah -Barclay, working and slaving away, and those poor little children—I -can't see how you can do it!"</p> - -<p>She looked indignantly at her husband, who was eating in haste and left -the Judge to reply.</p> - -<p>"Now, Mary, you don't understand—don't know <i>his</i> side of it—"</p> - -<p>"<i>His</i> side of it—a drunken worthless brute—Judge, I wonder at you, -defending murder!"</p> - -<p>"No, not murder—no, I don't defend murder, certainly not—"</p> - -<p>"You've just said you would! The murder of a helpless woman, with -little children depending on her!"</p> - -<p>Mary's grey eyes blazed with anger, and the Judge, cowed, continued to -splutter excuses with his mouth full.</p> - -<p>"Now, Mary! I tell you I don't defend what he did! But he did have -something on his side, she didn't treat him well—?"</p> - -<p>"Treat him well! He came back, wouldn't work, took her money for drink, -beat her—Judge, I'm ashamed of you, to make excuses for such a man!"</p> - -<p>The Judge, not liking his post of whipping-boy, glanced reproachfully -at the real culprit. Carlin pushed back his chair and lit a cigar.</p> - -<p>"Don't abuse the Judge, I got him to do it," he said coolly. "And I -did it because I was sorry for the man and because he hasn't a friend -on earth, nobody to look<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> to but me, and he isn't half so bad as you -think. But you've made up your mind and you don't want to hear anything -on the other side. You just want him punished."</p> - -<p>"Of course I do!" she cried.</p> - -<p>"Well, now, I can't understand why you good church-people are so hard -on sinners. Your religion doesn't teach that."</p> - -<p>Mary flushed slowly at the bitterness of this speech.</p> - -<p>"It doesn't teach us to defend sin," she answered. "But I don't think -you know what it does teach."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps not. But I seem to remember something about there being more -joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine just -men—in <i>heaven</i>, of course, not on earth."</p> - -<p>"<i>Repents</i>, yes—"</p> - -<p>"Well, Barclay repents all right.... But the good people of this town -don't want to give him any time to repent, you see. They're in a great -hurry to send him, with all his imperfections on his head, to—well, I -suppose they think he'd go straight to hell. That's why I've got to go -right back."</p> - -<p>He got up, went round to Mary and bent to kiss her.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry you don't like my doing this, but I've <i>got</i> to do it," he -said gently.</p> - -<p>She did not respond, but sat looking straight before her. He started -away, then came back.</p> - -<p>"Mary—kiss me good-bye."</p> - -<p>Something in his tone pierced through her frozen resentment. She met -his look of anxious love, a sorrowful troubled look—the kiss was -given. He hurried out.</p> - -<p>The Judge hated to be disturbed at his meals, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> was making a very bad -dinner. He said pettishly:</p> - -<p>"I've got to go right away too—I'll take some pie, please.... I wish -people wouldn't get up a fuss at dinner-time."</p> - -<p>Mary looked at him absently and handed him the bread.</p> - -<p>"Pie, please!... Now, you see, Mary, I was against it at the start," -the Judge explained rapidly, after getting what he wanted. "As you -know, I've never taken criminal cases, and I didn't want Laurence -to get the whole town down on him—for he <i>will</i>, you know, at the -beginning.... But do you know why I changed my mind? You may believe I -had a good reason—say, Mary, are you listening?"</p> - -<p>"Well? You were saying you had a good reason."</p> - -<p>"Well, sometimes it <i>pays</i> to go against public feeling. It gets a -man noticed, anyway. And if he believes enough in his side and can -put it over on all the other fellows—why, then, you know, it's a -real success.... And I found out today that Laurence can do it—that -is, I <i>believe</i> he can. Mary, that boy has lots of talent, lots of -it.... Why, look here, he nearly made me cry today, talking about that -Barclay,—and yet I believe the man's a low-down skunk, just as you -do.... You just let Laurence get at a jury, with that feeling he's got, -that sympathy, that simple way of appealing to their emotions—why, he -might almost get the man off! Anyhow, he'll make a reputation, Mary, -there isn't a doubt—"</p> - -<p>"I don't <i>want</i> him to make a reputation doing what's wrong!"</p> - -<p>"Wrong? Why, Mary, it isn't wrong to defend a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> criminal! The law -insists that he be defended, it's a sacred part of our legal system. -They wouldn't think of hanging him unless he was properly defended. -Somebody'll have to do it. And Laurence believes he's <i>right</i> to do -it—that's what makes him so strong. There's nothing like having right -on your side—that is, I mean, believing you have it, of course—"</p> - -<p>"Then Laurence thinks the man was right to murder his wife?" Mary said -ironically.</p> - -<p>"No, no, dash it all!—oh, well, you can't explain things to a woman," -groaned the Judge. "Excuse me, Mary, I've got to get back—"</p> - -<p>He took off his napkin, and rose, sighing.</p> - -<p>"But I should think you'd be proud of Laurence," he added as he -moved ponderously to the door. "To think he's willing to face public -disapproval, take all sorts of risks, just to stand by that poor hunted -beast—run into danger—"</p> - -<p>"Danger?"</p> - -<p>She was moved now. Her eyes, wide open, fixed the Judge piercingly. He -promptly hedged.</p> - -<p>"Oh, well, I don't mean actual danger, of course—life and limb.... -I mean,—why, I mean his career, that's all. But he doesn't give -a—doesn't think of that. I must run."</p> - -<p>The Judge fled ignominiously.</p> - -<p>Mary sat still. Her mind moved rapidly enough when her emotion was -stirred. In a flash she had pieced together the Judge's words—his -hurry and Laurence's—the revolver—Laurence's reference to the mob -and his saying he had been sworn in to defend Barclay. She saw it -now—certainly he was in danger, actual danger. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> wondered she had -been so stupid, not to see it before, not to feel it when he said -good-bye.</p> - -<p>The girl came in to clear the table, and Mary remembered that it was -time for young James' nap. She went quickly out on the porch, picked -him up and carried him upstairs. When he was tucked into his crib, she -put on her bonnet and light shawl, and went down to look at the baby, -who was sleeping. She did not like leaving the children, she always got -her mother to stay with them if she went out, but now she would not -stop for that. She sent a message to her mother by a passing neighbour, -and hurried down the street toward the square.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Afterwards she remembered it shuddering, with the vividness of a bad -dream that has startled one from sleep. The crowd in the square, -in which she was caught at once, it seemed without the possibility -of getting forward or getting out. Waves of motion passed through -this crowd. She was pushed on, pushed back. Those near her seemed as -helpless as herself. A group of men about her tried to protect her, -but they too were swept on by the mass, sometimes a rush would almost -carry them off their feet. The frills of her dress were torn, her shawl -wrenched off her shoulders. In a sudden pressure that nearly crushed -her she cried out sharply. Her defenders, fighting back savagely, made -a united effort and beat their way across the sidewalk, up some steps, -lifting her into the embrasure of a closed shop-door, and there they -formed a line before her.</p> - -<p>She leaned against the wall, panting and faint, and looked over their -shoulders at the swaying crowd. All<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> those faces—a vague blur, like -the noise that came from that mass of men—something bewildered, -indefinite, a formless suggestion of violence. It was a mob without -leaders. The feeling was there, the vague intent, but without shape.</p> - -<p>Above the groundswell of the crowd a voice was ringing out, deep and -powerful. Across the square, on the courthouse steps, Hilary Robertson -was speaking. Through the light veil of maple-branches, at the top of -the long crowded flight of steps, she could see him. His voice reached -her, not the words but the tones, sharp and hard, not pleading, rather -menacing, commanding, flashing like a keen sword of wrath. Now he -lifted his arm, with clenched fist, in an imperious gesture....</p> - -<p>He stopped, turned and went into the building. There came a sudden -shout from the crowd and a struggle began, an eddy like a whirlpool, -about something advancing—a black closed vehicle, with horsemen -surrounding it, visible over the heads of the people. It passed slowly -along the side of the square. Cries, hisses greeted it, and a shower -of stones. It passed so close that she could clearly see the faces of -two men who stood on the step of the prison van, shielding its door -with their bodies. Both had the same look of hard pale resolution. The -narrow step gave them a bare foot-hold, they stood close together, -holding to the door. One was Carlin, with his revolver in his hand, the -other was Hilary Robertson, hatless, his forehead cut by a stone.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>III</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Carlin came back late that night, weary but triumphant, having seen -his man safely lodged in the county jail. He was full of scorn for the -futile malice of his fellow-citizens, and declared to Mary and the -Judge, as he ate his supper, that he would get Barclay off, just to -spite them. He was excited, his blue eyes gleamed with the elation of -combat and success. He had identified himself completely now with the -cause of his client. The odds against him roused all his energies, his -fighting instinct as well as his instinct for protection. Carlin needed -at the same time to hate and to love.</p> - -<p>But he liked things in clear black and white, he wanted always a -definite adversary whom he could hate with reason. He was profoundly -impatient of certain feelings in himself which he could not explain nor -justify. Some incidents of the day had irritated him deeply, stirring -these feelings. Presently he broke out, addressing the Judge.</p> - -<p>"I suppose you know that the preacher mixed himself up in it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, he certainly did. I will say for that fellow that he's -always on hand when there's a scrap," replied the Judge easily. -"Spoiled a good fighting man, I guess, when he took to preaching."</p> - -<p>"Well, he ought to <i>stick</i> to preaching, and not come poking his nose -into what doesn't concern him!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know, Laurence, I guess he did a good turn today. The way -he lit into that crowd—he gave them hell. And he has influence round -here, people respect him, they know he's no milk-sop. Of course maybe -the talk didn't do so much, I don't know—but his coming along with -you—"</p> - -<p>Carlin cut the Judge short impatiently.</p> - -<p>"<i>We</i> didn't want him to go! But there he stuck—he would be in it.... -And then he'd got in too and talked to Barclay. Got the poor fellow all -mushed up, talking about his sin—as if he didn't feel enough like a -sinner already!"</p> - -<p>"Well, well, that's his business, you know," argued the Judge. "You -can't blame him for that. And he showed he was willing to stand by -Barclay. I guess he did about as much to protect him as the deputies -did—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, bosh!"</p> - -<p>"Well, I think so. That crowd knew they'd have to hurt him to get at -Barclay, and they didn't want to."</p> - -<p>"I saw they cut his head open with a stone," observed Mary calmly. She -was sitting beside the table, sewing.</p> - -<p>"You saw?"</p> - -<p>"I was down there in the square."</p> - -<p>The two men stared at her incredulously. She went on, taking tiny neat -stitches carefully in the baby's garment:</p> - -<p>"I went down after you left. I was worried."</p> - -<p>"Down there—in that crowd? Good Lord!"</p> - -<p>The Judge looked horrified and guilty.</p> - -<p>"Yes. My dress got torn and I lost my shawl. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> some men helped me up -into a doorway. I saw you go by."</p> - -<p>She looked up reflectively at Carlin.</p> - -<p>"You were crazy to do that!" he cried. "Why on earth—"</p> - -<p>"Well, I was worried. I knew you wouldn't be taking that pistol for -nothing."</p> - -<p>Carlin gazed at her with softened eyes, with compunction, disturbed and -pleased too.</p> - -<p>"Why, you poor girl! I didn't think you'd worry. You always take -everything so quietly. Why, Mary! You in that mob—!"</p> - -<p>"I'm glad I went. The crowd was dreadful, but—I'm glad I saw you."</p> - -<p>Her eyes lit up suddenly, glowed.</p> - -<p>"You looked splendid!"</p> - -<p>"Splendid?"</p> - -<p>He laughed, stretched out his hand to hers, deeply pleased.</p> - -<p>"I can't express it, but with all that howling crowd, and the stones, -yes, you were splendid! Both of you."</p> - -<p>Carlin withdrew his hand abruptly, and Mary serenely went on with her -sewing.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>She was well aware that Carlin disliked Hilary Robertson, but as she -considered that his dislike was without reason, she ignored it as much -as possible. Carlin's flings at "the preacher," she was accustomed to -receive in silence. She considered that Hilary needed no defence, his -life spoke for him, he was blameless. She put Carlin's sneers down to -his unregenerate nature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> his habit of scoffing at religion, which -now seemed ingrained. Never would she have admitted the possibility -that Carlin might be jealous. That would have been too degrading, it -would have reflected upon her, and she was serenely conscious that her -conduct and feelings were blameless also. She had tried to explain -to him the nature of her admiration for Hilary, but he couldn't or -wouldn't understand it. He had a wrong attitude toward it, and toward -her church activities and charitable work. Most men, she thought, -liked to have their wives religious, but Laurence would have preferred -frivolity on her part. He was very fond of pleasure; he insisted on -keeping wine in the house, and on taking her to Chicago for the evening -on the rare occasions when she could get away. Mary felt that she -yielded a good deal, perhaps more than she ought, to Laurence's light -tendencies; but then, also, it was a wife's duty to yield, whenever -she could consistently with higher duties. So she had a submissive -attitude—except when some question of "right" came up.</p> - -<p>In reality she ruled the house, and the Judge and Carlin, and the -babies and the Swedish servant, with an iron hand. An exact order -prevailed in the household, a definite routine for each day. Mary had -her ideas about how a family should be managed, and she worked hard -to carry them out, and made other people work too. She had a manner -now of quiet authority. She did not scold, nor raise her voice when -displeased; but visited the transgressor with an awful silence and with -icy glances. Outside the house she seldom interfered with the doings of -her husband or Judge Baxter. "Business" was the man's province, and she -did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> enquire, as a rule, into its details. And in her own province -she did not expect to be interfered with.</p> - -<p>The Judge and Carlin submitted meekly to her rules—refrained from -smoking in certain rooms, were prompt at meals, careful about the sort -of men they brought to the house, did not indulge in unseemly levity -of conversation. The Judge had almost conquered a lifelong habit of -profanity. He had a complete fealty to Mary, was touchingly pleased -to be ruled by her. He was afraid of her, and often felt like a small -boy in her presence. He despised her intellect, as he did that of all -women. This contempt existed side by side in his mind with admiration -and involuntary awe, and the conjunction never troubled him. He would -have said that he admired women but didn't respect them. More difficult -to overcome than swearing was his habit of cynical speech about the -sex. It broke out now and then in Mary's presence, revealing his deep -conviction that women (though angelic no doubt) were hardly human, but -of a distinctly inferior species. Mary never troubled to defend her -sex. She would merely look at the Judge with a calm, slightly ironical -gaze, under which he sometimes blushed.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The next afternoon she went to visit Hilary, who was ill, Mrs. Lowell -reported. There was no hesitation now about her entrance. She walked -into the house, majestic in her sweeping grey dress, and the widow -received her gladly. Confidential relations had long since been -established between them on the subject of the minister.</p> - -<p>"He's up and dressed, though the doctor ordered him to stay in bed," -the widow complained in a subdued<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> voice. "And he won't take his -chicken broth, that I made specially—"</p> - -<p>"Well, bring it in and I'll see that he takes it," said Mary.</p> - -<p>She knocked at the study door. A peevish voice said, "Oh, come in!"</p> - -<p>Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled afghan over him. His -head was swathed in bandages, his cheeks flushed with fever.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's you," he murmured apologetically. "I thought it was that old -woman again."</p> - -<p>Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the afghan more -smoothly over him and to shake up his pillows. Then she took his wrist, -her finger on the pulse.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you stay in bed?" she enquired. "You have fever."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that's all."</p> - -<p>"I should think so. Was the cut on your head very bad?"</p> - -<p>"The doctor sewed it up. It's all right."</p> - -<p>He spoke gently, and lay back quietly on his pillows. Mary sat down -beside the sofa and picked up a book that lay open on the floor.</p> - -<p>"Greek—a nice time for you to be reading Greek!" she remarked.</p> - -<p>Hilary smiled.</p> - -<p>"How are you getting on with it?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I can pretty nearly write the alphabet," she smiled too. "I -practise when I have time. And I'm going to teach it to James when he's -old enough."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> - -<p>"They say John Stuart Mill could read Greek when he was three."</p> - -<p>"Then I don't see why James shouldn't."</p> - -<p>At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, with a sad look, -bearing a steaming cup, which Mary took from her and presented to -Hilary.</p> - -<p>"Drink your broth—and after this you must drink it whenever Mrs. Lewis -brings it."</p> - -<p>Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows and began to sip -the broth, making a wry face.</p> - -<p>"Awful stuff," he protested.</p> - -<p>"Indeed, it's the best chicken broth, if I did make it myself!" -muttered the widow, retiring with an offended air.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid you're a trying invalid," said Mary, amused.</p> - -<p>"Hate to be treated like an invalid, that's all.... But women always -have to be coddling something," Hilary said ungraciously.</p> - -<p>He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of relief. Mary rose and -began setting the room in order, restoring scattered books to their -shelves, picking up articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the -floor. Hilary's eyes followed her; he made no protest, even when she -arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles.</p> - -<p>"You know," said Mary suddenly, "Laurence and the Judge are going to -defend that man—Barclay."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know it."</p> - -<p>"Do you think it is right for a lawyer to defend a man he knows to be -guilty?"</p> - -<p>"There's something to be said even for the guilty," said Hilary after a -moment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You mean he can be defended?"</p> - -<p>Again he hesitated.</p> - -<p>"As I understand it, they can't try to deny that he committed the -murder, they can only plead extenuating circumstances."</p> - -<p>"That means, try to justify it!... Do you believe in that?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know all the circumstances.... But the law distinguishes—if -it is done in the heat of passion, it may be called manslaughter—not -murder."</p> - -<p>"And what would he get for that?"</p> - -<p>"A term of years, imprisonment."</p> - -<p>"Well, I should think murder was murder, however it was done!... And as -to circumstances, you know Mrs. Barclay was a good woman, a member of -your church, you know what a hard time she had, especially after <i>he</i> -came home, and now her children are left worse than orphans—I don't -see how you can say that 'circumstances' make any difference!"</p> - -<p>She stood straight, her eyes flashing reproach at him.</p> - -<p>"Why, Mary, do you want the man hanged?"</p> - -<p>"Well, if anybody is hanged, <i>he</i> ought to be! So long as we have laws -to punish criminals—"</p> - -<p>"You stand up for the woman always, Mary," said Hilary, smiling faintly.</p> - -<p>"And you—you and Laurence—it seems to me very queer that you two -should be standing up for that man! Yesterday—risking your life for -him—now I think it's very strange."</p> - -<p>"That wasn't so much for him," said Hilary slowly. "It was to prevent -another murder, that's all—to keep them from doing what he'd done."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p> - -<p>He shut his eyes wearily, and Mary softened.</p> - -<p>"I oughtn't to talk to you about it now. You must be quiet. I'll go -now, and you must promise me to go to bed and not get up till the -fever's gone. Will you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. But stay a little longer."</p> - -<p>She sat down again beside him, and he lay still with his eyes closed.</p> - -<p>"Did you go to see the children today?" he asked after a pause.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I stopped in. They were playing in the yard—they're so little, -you know, they don't realize anything—except perhaps the girl. I -wanted to take one of them, but Mrs. Peters said she thought they were -better off together."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I should think so.... We'll have to find homes for them, though, -and it isn't likely they can be together long."</p> - -<p>"I know. Mrs. Peters said she would keep one of them—and I could -take one. I'm sure Laurence would think that right, as he is so much -interested in—the father."</p> - -<p>Mary's face and tone expressed a sudden repugnance. Hilary half-opened -his eyes and looked at her.</p> - -<p>"You hate sinners, don't you, Mary? You don't understand why people -sin?"</p> - -<p>"From weakness," she said.</p> - -<p>"And you haven't much pity for weakness.... You don't understand how a -man can make a beast of himself with drink, because he's unhappy."</p> - -<p>"Do you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, yes, I understand it," said Hilary with a tortured look. "I -know what unhappiness and lone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>liness can do.... Sometimes I wish I -didn't. How can I condemn sin when I understand the sinner so well?"</p> - -<p>"You must, though," said Mary calmly.</p> - -<p>She knew well this mood of his, by this time she knew his weakness. The -relation between these two had changed. No longer did she with humility -look up to Hilary as a saint. The change was not so much in him as in -her. In the old days, before her marriage, Hilary had often accused -himself to her as a weak and erring man, he had passionately resisted -her attempts to canonize him. Since then he had talked to her more -frankly but in the same way, she knew his yearning for perfection, and -his despair of it; she knew too, though not by direct expression, his -human longings and his loneliness. She no longer idealized him, she did -not need to. But he was intensely interesting to her. He was only a man -now, but still better than other men, stronger, with higher aims. She -admired him. But they now stood more on an equality; her manner toward -him had even a tinge of maternal authority. For she felt that all -men, all that she knew, however gifted and interesting, were somewhat -childish.</p> - -<p>She herself had reached maturity. With the birth of her children she -had come into her heritage of life. She was now so firmly planted on -the earth, so deeply rooted, that it seemed nothing could shake her. -The dreams of her girlhood, of life beyond life, passed by her now like -the clouds on the wind. She was satisfied, assured.</p> - -<p>Hilary's life, even, seemed to her dream-like, cloud-like, because -it was so restless, so tormented. The need<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> for incessant action and -struggle that drove him, as it drove Laurence in a different direction, -seemed to her sometimes absurd. Religion to her meant tranquillity, the -calm certitude that one was on the right path, doing one's duty and -refraining from wrong. Simple—and easy.</p> - -<p>She stayed a little while longer with Hilary, but insisted that he -should not talk. She knew that he liked to have her sitting beside -him, immobile, her hands folded on her knee, not even looking at him. -She knew now very well what her presence meant to him; their constant -meeting in the work of the church; their talks, intimate in a sense, -though she made no personal confessions to him and he never expressed -his feeling for her in speech. She was quite satisfied with this -relation, and sure that Hilary would never overstep the bounds of right -and reason, even if tempted to do so. She herself had not the least -temptation. All her pride lay in keeping things exactly as they were.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>IV</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">That night she proposed to Laurence that they should adopt one of -Barclay's children. Laurence did not like the idea at all; he looked -discomfited, and so did the Judge. Both felt it would be the intrusion -of a stranger into the domestic circle. Laurence had a good reason -to give for his objection, and a sincere one—it would be too much -for Mary, she had her hands full now, with the house and two small -children. Mary said she could manage it, and that it was only right for -her to do her part in helping the unfortunates. She looked so calmly -resolved as she spoke that Laurence and the Judge exchanged alarmed -glances. They did not oppose her directly, but devised a stratagem. -Laurence pointed out to Mary next morning that after all they were -living in the Judge's house, and the Judge didn't want a strange child -there. So they couldn't very well adopt the child, but he, Laurence, -would be responsible for its maintenance and care somewhere else.</p> - -<p>"Very well," said Mary austerely. "But I think the Judge is very -self-indulgent."</p> - -<p>"So am I, then," confessed Laurence. "I don't want it either. But -honestly, both of us think about you. I don't want you to undertake it, -dearest—it's too much."</p> - -<p>"If other people, not so well off as we are, can do it, I should think -we could."</p> - -<p>"It's a question of what we can do best. I'll gladly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> give the money, -and I'm doing all I can for Barclay too, and so is the Judge."</p> - -<p>"I know—for <i>him</i>. You're interested in him, but I think you'd do much -better to help the children."</p> - -<p>"Well, I <i>will</i> help them, you'll see."</p> - -<p>Laurence kept his word, and in fact charged himself with the future, -as it turned out, of all three children. But Mary was for the moment -dissatisfied. She wished to put into instant practice her theories of -duty, and utterly scorned theory without practice.</p> - -<p>Looking in that afternoon, as she had said she would, to see if Hilary -had kept his promise and to report about the children, she mentioned -the attitude of her husband and the Judge as explaining why she could -not carry out her plan.</p> - -<p>"I think men are very inconsistent," she said caustically. "They like -to talk about what they'll do for other people, but when it really -comes to <i>doing</i> it—"</p> - -<p>"A man's reach should exceed his grasp," quoted Hilary. "We always -<i>see</i> much more than we can do."</p> - -<p>"I think it would be better, then, to see less and do more," remarked -Mary.</p> - -<p>Hilary looked very weak and pale. His fever was down, but he had kept -his bed, unwillingly. Mary had brought him a pot of jelly and a few -daffodils from her garden. He held the flowers in his hand, and looked -with brooding tender pleasure at their brilliant colour. Mary asked -questions about some church-business she was to do for him, and then, -in the short remaining time of her visit, they talked about sin.</p> - -<p>The conversation of the day before had remained in her mind and puzzled -her. She questioned him sharply:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What did you mean by saying that when you understood the sinner you -couldn't condemn sin? Do you really feel that?"</p> - -<p>"I often feel it," said Hilary in a low voice.</p> - -<p>"Then it would be better for you <i>not</i> to understand the sinner. You -said so yourself, you said you wished you didn't."</p> - -<p>"Well, I can't help it," Hilary smiled wanly. "Because, you see, I'm a -sinner myself."</p> - -<p>"Of course you're not. You only like to think you are."</p> - -<p>"What is sin? You said it's weakness. Do you think I'm not weak, -sometimes?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't think you are. You don't <i>act</i> weakly, and that's the only -thing that counts."</p> - -<p>"Is it? Don't you think there are sinful thoughts and feelings?"</p> - -<p>"Of course. But if we fight against them—"</p> - -<p>"Well, don't you think that a man who carries a sinful feeling around -with him, even if he doesn't act on it, knows what a sinner is—and do -you think he can be very hard on another man who just happens to act?"</p> - -<p>Mary cast an angry glance at the pale face turned toward her. There was -a look about Hilary's mouth, as though he were repressing a smile. He -had a look of mischief, not merry either, but as though deliberately -trying to puzzle and disturb her—and she had seen this in him before.</p> - -<p>She arose from her chair, and gathered her shawl about her, lifting her -chin, stately in her displeasure. Her grey eyes looked down with cold -reproof.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I think instead of talking that way, you'd much better go to sleep."</p> - -<p>"Well, good-bye, then," said Hilary.</p> - -<p>He turned his head away sharply. His fingers closed tightly on the -yellow daffodils. Mary suddenly saw lying there before her, not a man, -but a forlorn sick child. For the first time she knew the impulse to -comfort this unhappiness, an impulse of tenderness. It frightened her, -and she went out quickly, without a word.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Returning home, she found trouble and confusion. The Judge had been -taken ill and Laurence had brought him home. Mrs. Lowell was there -in the room, a messenger had been sent to try to find the doctor. -The Judge was stretched out on his bed, unconscious, his face deeply -flushed. Laurence, with Mrs. Lowell's aid, was trying to get some of -his clothes off.</p> - -<p>"He's had a stroke—just toppled over at his desk—I wish you'd been at -home, Mary," said Laurence with sharp reproach. "I don't know what on -earth to do for him—"</p> - -<p>Silently Mary gave what help she could. They got his coat and boots -off, loosened his shirt-collar, put a cold compress on his head. He was -breathing heavily and the purple flush deepened, especially on the left -side of his face. In her alarm, Mary still remembered the children and -that it was the baby's nursing-time, and as there seemed nothing more -to do, she left the room. Laurence followed her out.</p> - -<p>"You remember he's complained of dizziness several times lately—I -tried to have him see your father but he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> wouldn't, said he thought -perhaps he'd been eating or smoking too much. At his age, you know, -it's pretty serious—"</p> - -<p>"He didn't look well this morning," began Mary, going into the -dining-room, where the cook was looking after the children.</p> - -<p>"Well, I should think you might have stayed at home, then—where were -you?" asked Laurence irritably.</p> - -<p>"Please put James in his pen," said Mary, taking the baby. "Hilda, -you'd better see that there's plenty of hot water—the doctor may want -it."</p> - -<p>She carried the baby upstairs and sat down in a low chair in their room -to nurse it. When Laurence came in the door, she said directly:</p> - -<p>"I went to see Mr. Robertson—he's ill."</p> - -<p>"You went yesterday too, didn't you?... You're very attentive to him."</p> - -<p>She looked up at him, opposing to harsh irritation her reproving -silence.</p> - -<p>"I tell you, I don't care to have you going to see him that way, alone. -Do you want to be talked about?"</p> - -<p>"Don't disturb me when I'm nursing the baby.... There—isn't that -Father?"</p> - -<p>The clatter of wheels and a hasty run up the steps in fact announced -the doctor's arrival. Laurence went downstairs, with an angry parting -glance. The baby cried a little, and Mary gathered it to her breast, -composing herself, shutting her eyes, trying to banish all disturbing -thoughts, even the thought of the Judge. She believed that any -disturbance in her when she was nursing reacted at once on the baby. -Indeed now the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> baby cried shrilly and at first refused the breast; but -after a few moments, quiet succeeded, and Mary sighed, relaxing. It -was a deep physical pleasure to her, to nurse her child—more so with -this one than with the first. The baby's strong pull at the breast, for -he was a robust infant—his hand opening and shutting on her flesh, -the warmth of his little body, the relation of complete confidence -and satisfaction—it moved and soothed her. She sank into a dreamy -contentment, isolated from all that hurry and trouble downstairs.</p> - -<p>But when the baby, replete, had gone to sleep, she laid him on the bed, -and at once went down. She was very much concerned about the Judge, -though her quiet face and motions did not betray her anxiety. She did -what could be done, and awaited her father's verdict silently.</p> - -<p>"Apoplexy—he'll recover, undoubtedly, but his left side is affected, -there may be a slight paralysis," Dr. Lowell told them. "His habits -have been bad—no exercise, too much whiskey and tobacco. And then -his age—he must be over seventy. Probably he'll be a good deal of an -invalid from now on."</p> - -<p>"He won't like that," Laurence said sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>"No, he's never taken care of himself, he'll hate it, naturally—but so -it is.... It will mean a good deal for you and Mary—the care of him -here, and then he won't be able to do any work for some time—perhaps -never again, to any extent."</p> - -<p>Laurence and Mary looked at one another gravely and sadly—both felt -what this would mean to the Judge. When they were alone, Laurence went -and took her into his arms.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'm sorry I was cross to you," he said softly. "I didn't mean to be -rough."</p> - -<p>Mary kissed his cheek.</p> - -<p>"I know—of course you were terribly worried," was her forgiving -response.</p> - -<p>"This will be very hard for you, Mary, the Judge being ill—we must get -some one to help."</p> - -<p>"Well—we'll see.... You'll have a lot of extra work too, Laurence, and -you're working so hard now—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I think I can manage," he said absently. "But the thing right now -is to get somebody here to help you—he'll have to be watched at night -now, and—I tell you, there's Nora. You remember the girl you saw at -the office the other day, Nora Skehan, you know I told you I used to -know her as a child. She's out of work again, and I'm sure she'd be -glad to come. You might try her."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll see," said Mary again.</p> - -<p>Laurence held her and looked at her appealingly.</p> - -<p>"Mary—I can't bear to have anything wrong with you and me.... Other -things go wrong—there's a lot of trouble and worry—but I can't stand -it to feel angry at you, or have you angry with me—"</p> - -<p>"I don't think I'm ever angry with you," murmured Mary reflectively.</p> - -<p>"Well, worse ... you look at me sometimes as if you didn't like me! -When you're displeased—it's worse than being angry. I'd rather you'd -flame out, the way I do, and get it over with—"</p> - -<p>"I'm not like you." She smiled gravely.</p> - -<p>"I wish you felt as I do—that you'd do anything rather than have -trouble between us—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Trouble? What trouble?"</p> - -<p>She drew away from him, an instinctive shrinking that hurt him.</p> - -<p>"I mean, you don't seem to care that certain things disturb me!" -he burst out. "You're so terribly reserved, you keep things to -yourself—you do things I don't like, and you don't <i>care</i> that I don't -like them—"</p> - -<p>"I don't do anything wrong," said Mary proudly.</p> - -<p>"You're so sure everything you do is right! No matter how it affects -<i>me</i>!"</p> - -<p>"You do things <i>I</i> don't like—Barclay, for instance."</p> - -<p>"That was a matter—I felt I <i>had</i> to do it—I felt it was right—"</p> - -<p>"Well, you must allow me to judge what is right for <i>me</i>. I shall never -do what I think wrong."</p> - -<p>"What you think! You don't think it wrong then to disturb me by your -actions, not to give me your confidence—"</p> - -<p>"Confidence?" said Mary haughtily. "I will tell you anything you want -to know. I haven't anything to conceal. But you simply don't understand -my feelings, certain things I care about that you don't care about—"</p> - -<p>"That's it! You take it for granted I can't understand.... I don't want -you to have friendships apart from me!"</p> - -<p>Mary stood still, looking down, her eyes hidden by the long drooping -lids that gave her face a look of passionless calm, inflexible, -immovable.</p> - -<p>"Do you hear?" cried Laurence.</p> - -<p>He knew, even while he could not master his agitation, that it put him -in the wrong, that it gave her the ad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>vantage. But he could not bear -opposition from her. To know that they were not completely united, -completely one in feeling, was a torment to him.</p> - -<p>"Don't shout," she said. "I think this is a queer time for you to talk -like this, Laurence—it seems to me you ought to be thinking about the -Judge."</p> - -<p>"Ought!" he muttered. "Did you hear what I said?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I heard, Laurence. But—" She looked full at him now, her clear -grey eyes very bright. "But I will not let you interfere with what I -think right to do."</p> - -<p>"You will not?... Don't you know that I'm master here, that you're -bound to do as I say?"</p> - -<p>Again the long lids veiled her eyes, and she stood without replying. -And Laurence's heart was burning. This harsh assertion of authority had -been wrong, it was not what he meant. He hated force. What good would -anything forced from Mary do to him? What he longed for was a tender -understanding—but if she would not understand, would not be tender, -what could he do but rage?</p> - -<p>At this point they were interrupted. Mrs. Lowell called to them from -the sickroom, and Mary hurried to take charge there, without a word or -look for her husband. Resentment smouldered in her mind, a feeling that -Laurence was wrong, and, in addition, undignified. All the rest of the -afternoon, busy as she was, and grieved too as she watched the Judge's -stricken figure—all this time a turmoil of feeling about Laurence -was going on below the surface of her mind. Never had she been so -disturbed. This was the first really serious clash in the two years of -their life together.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>V</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">For the first time, her will and Laurence's were definitely, sharply -opposed. Heretofore, each of them had yielded, in much that concerned -the other, without a clear issue. She felt that she had yielded a -good deal to Laurence. He had associates that she did not like, -hard-drinking bachelors of the bar, with whom he spent an occasional -convivial evening, coming back flushed and gay though never overcome. -She did not like even his moderate drinking, nor the fact that he -never went to church, that he took no interest in religion except -to jest crudely about it. On the other hand, he had not, so far, -tried to interfere openly with her interest in the church nor her -association with Hilary in work, nor her taking up a course of reading -in history and beginning to study Greek under Hilary's direction. He -had acquiesced in her asking Hilary to supper a few times, as was -her social duty, and had behaved with courtesy, though she knew he -disliked "the preacher." He gave no good reason for his feeling, but -he expressed it in gibes and bitter jokes about "sky-pilots," the -fondness of women for priests, the power of "holiness," and so on. -These expressions irritated Mary deeply, but she had passed them over -in silence, withdrawing into herself and indicating to Laurence that -she did not expect him to understand nor take any part in this interest -of hers, any more than she could take part in his stag-suppers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> - -<p>But this division of interest, this separation, to some extent, of -activity, did not affect her feeling about Laurence nor disappoint any -desire in her. She was satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement -of her life. The achievement of maternity had given her the solid -basis, the central motive, to which everything else was incidental. -Laurence was most importantly connected with this motive, but yet in a -way he was outside it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against it. -What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between Mary and himself, -which should be the centre of all things, subordinating everything -else. And this, in his feeling, had not come to pass, because she could -not understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatisfied; therefore -demanding, often harsh and bitter, often unreasonable.</p> - -<p>Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a father; and this -appeared to Mary the height of unreason on his part. To be the head of -a family—what more dignified and satisfactory position could he wish, -so far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, he succeeded -in his profession, what more could he ask? Why, when everything -promised well, should he so often be moody, irritable and discontented? -It must be the nature of man, perpetually unquiet.</p> - -<p>On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or perhaps not clearly -conscious. Her plan assigned to Laurence the rôle of head of the -family; in reality what she expected him to be was a figurehead. This -was quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theoretically, of -course, the man was master of his household, and the wife as well -as the children owed him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> obedience. Mary would never have dreamed -of disputing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her -acquaintance. But practice—that was quite another thing. In practice, -the women ruled their households and themselves, and very often their -husbands also, allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine -matters, such as business, and a certain amount of license in regard to -their amusements. The woman's path was sharply marked out; she could -not overstep certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had -her authority and independence.</p> - -<p>In her own family, Mary could remember very few occasions on which her -mother's actions or decisions had been questioned by the nominal chief. -If she were subject to her husband, it did not appear; the household -produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was Mary's idea of the -proper constitution of a family. It was unthinkable that the man -should interfere in details, should try to dictate in matters outside -his province; by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he -should maintain.</p> - -<p>A wife must always speak to her husband with respect; must never -criticize him nor complain of him, even to her nearest friend or -relative; his dignity was hers. Also, a certain formality in her -address to him was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as -Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him Mr. Brown, rather -than John. Mary was conscious that her relation with Laurence, so far, -lacked formality. But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was -very young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he acted like a -boy, much of the time.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> - -<p>That afternoon and evening, there were times when there was nothing to -be done in the sickroom but to sit and watch; and Mary was thinking. -She regretted bitterly the clash with Laurence—those sharp words, -her own assertion of independence. There she had made a mistake, had -transgressed her own code. Laurence's counter-assertion of authority -was also a mistake, but a natural consequence of hers. She should not -have set herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he -were wrong. She now found herself obliged either to give battle or to -retreat—both alternatives very distasteful to her. She was angry at -herself; she had fallen below her own standard, lost her self-control, -behaved in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her own position.</p> - -<p>She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actually <i>did</i> command, she -would have to obey. She could not openly flout her husband's authority, -that was impossible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible -mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. She knew very well -that that was not the way to manage.</p> - -<p>Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, looking -straight before her, she thought it out. She did not like the idea -of "managing," or gaining any point by methods other than the most -simple and direct. Anything underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply -repugnant to her. She did not like even to "humour" people. How, then, -was one to deal with an unreasonable man—must one actually submit to -him when he was in the wrong?</p> - -<p>Laurence was wrong and unreasonable in this case<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> because he could not -possibly think that there was any harm in her friendship with Hilary. -He could not possibly suspect her of anything approaching wrong, in -that connection. At the mere idea of it, her cheeks fired and her eyes -flashed proudly. She felt herself not only impeccable in thought and -deed, but above suspicion from him or any one else. Therefore in acting -as though he suspected her, or even disapproved of her, he was wronging -her deeply....</p> - -<p>But let that be, for the moment. The thing to do now, was to retrieve -her own false step. She had done wrong—she would set that right, as -far as possible. Then at least <i>she</i> would be right, whatever he might -be. And it was absolutely necessary for her to be right, in her own -feeling. What she saw as the right thing she would do, whatever it cost -her.</p> - -<p>Having made her decision, she became quieter in mind, and began to -think about the Judge. This day was evidently a day of disaster. The -Judge would never be the same again. Suddenly she realized that she had -grown very fond of him. Affection had been obscured in her by constant -disapproval of his character. She disdained fleshly indulgences, such -as eating and drinking too much. She had felt scornful when the Judge's -face would flush after dinner, when sometimes his speech was a little -thick of an evening, when he found difficulty in lifting his heavy -bulk. But now that the punishment of these carnal indulgences had -fallen upon him, she felt real sorrow. And even, as she thought what -was before him, the rare tears rose and softened her grey eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> - -<p>When she had a few minutes alone with Laurence, before he took up his -night-watch beside the Judge, she said to him gently:</p> - -<p>"I'm very sorry I spoke to you as I did this afternoon. I was wrong. I -shall never oppose your will, in anything that concerns myself, if I -can help it."</p> - -<p>Laurence's troubled gloomy face lit up with a flash of joy. He clasped -her in his arms, melting instantly when she showed a sign of yielding, -too happy to pause upon the manner of her yielding. His generous -spirit, impetuous and uncalculating, carried him much farther in -concession. He swept their difference away passionately.</p> - -<p>"Dearest, I was wrong too—more than you!... You know, Mary, I don't -want to interfere with any pleasure of yours—you know I want you to -have everything you want!... And I don't think you want anything wrong, -you know I don't think it, not for a minute!... Only I want you to love -me more than anything, not to need anything but me, that's all I really -want! And you do, don't you? Because I love you more than the whole -world—"</p> - -<p>"Of course I do," she said softly. "You know perfectly well, I do."</p> - -<p>"No, sometimes I don't, and then I get wild! Then I can't bear to have -you like any one else at all. Only make me feel that you love me, Mary, -and it will be all right. I shan't care what you do, if I'm sure of -you!"</p> - -<p>"As if you weren't sure of me!" said Mary, with a touch of austerity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't mean what you do, I mean your feeling, don't you see?"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't. How queer you are, Laurence!"</p> - -<p>"No, it's you that's queer!... But I love you."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>So the shadow passed, for the time being. But the reality which had -cast this shadow remained, the real difference. Both of them were -careful now not to bring it up, both repressed themselves somewhat. -Mary continued to see Hilary in connection with the church, but she did -not ask him to the house. Laurence did not speak of him, nor of Mary's -studies, and she kept her books out of his sight. But he knew that she -was going on, as he would have said, regardless of his feeling; and she -knew that he was still unreasonable about it.</p> - -<p>For some time, however, this remained an undercurrent in their life, -which was full of activities, interests, anxieties, in which they -generally accorded. It was on the whole a happy time for them, an -unconscious happiness. They were young and vigorous, life opened out -before them full of hope and promise, vaguely bright.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VI</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The next year brought significant changes. Laurence made a brilliant -personal success in his defence of Barclay, and melted the jury to -the point where nearly half stood out for twenty-four hours in favour -of a verdict of manslaughter. Finally however Barclay was convicted -of murder in the second degree and was sentenced to a long term of -imprisonment. Laurence was showered with praise and congratulations for -his conduct of the case, his address to the jury had moved a crowded -courtroom to irrepressible enthusiasm. His reputation was made.</p> - -<p>The Judge had been able to give him some assistance, though he never -recovered from his illness. The burden of the partnership now fell upon -Laurence, the Judge could only consult and advise in important cases, -and as time went on not even that, for his memory was impaired. He -suffered and fretted under his restrictions, was a fractious invalid, -and the loss of mental power was so sore a grief to him that he -resorted for solace to the forbidden whiskey-bottle, perhaps with the -desire, unconscious or not, to end it all the sooner.</p> - -<p>Nora, now domesticated in the family, was of great assistance with -the Judge. Her quick good-humour amused the old man, her energy was -unfailing, she was deft and tactful. She became his special attendant, -and also helped with the children, for another baby was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> coming. Nora -liked the Judge, but she loved the children, she became devoted to -them. Soon she was indispensable in the household. Mary was a little -ailing. Three children in less than four years had taxed her strength. -But she was well content; she wanted another son, in fact she would -have liked six of them, big strapping fellows. Sometimes she saw them -in her mind's eye, a robust procession.</p> - -<p>During that year the Judge made his will. He desired to leave his -property, which was much larger than any one had suspected, to -Laurence. But Laurence protested. There were relatives, sisters and -nephews, and he couldn't take what ought to belong to them. The Judge, -easily excited, flew into a rage, and declared that he didn't care a -cuss for any of his relatives, and that he would leave his money to -charity rather than to them; nay, lest they should contest his will, -he would give away the lot of it during his lifetime, make ducks and -drakes of it, throw it away, by God! He would do as he pleased!</p> - -<p>Laurence had to calm him, tried to postpone the discussion.</p> - -<p>"No," said the Judge fretfully. "Carpe diem—I haven't so many left. I -want it settled."</p> - -<p>"Judge, how can I take anything more from you? See what you've done for -me already. It wouldn't be right—"</p> - -<p>"Well, see what you've done for <i>me</i>, you and Mary. You've given me -a home, the only one I ever had, you've been like my own children to -me, and that's the way I feel about you. And I want you should have -something to remember the old man by, when he's gone."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> - -<p>In the end, Mary being consulted and feeling as Laurence did about the -money, a compromise was effected. Generous legacies were left to the -near relatives, and the remainder, for those days a small fortune, to -Laurence in trust for his children, the income to be Laurence's for -his life. The Judge, having drawn up and executed what he considered -an ironclad will with these provisions, was easier in his mind, and -felt that he had nothing more to do in life, except to watch Laurence's -progress and give an occasional counsel. Laurence was fairly launched, -business poured in upon him, he had two juniors in the office. The -Judge rather regretted his tendency to take criminal cases whenever -they appealed to him; but he recognized too that Laurence's talent lay -in this direction. And then the boy could afford it now, he needn't -be looking closely after money. He could afford to take cases that -brought him little except reputation, and to have it said that every -poor man in trouble knew the way to Lawyer Carlin's office. If Laurence -wanted to be the champion of the poor and oppressed, if he could be -more eloquent in behalf of an ignorant negro cheated out of his small -property than when he had a fat fee in prospect—why, let him go ahead. -He was provided for, anyhow.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In his many vacant hours, the Judge fell back on reading, of which he -had always been fond. He had a respectable library of classics, bound -in calf. He liked Laurence to read aloud in the evenings when work -permitted. The Judge had a taste for lofty and magnificent diction. -Shakespeare, the Old Testament, Milton, Burton and Macaulay were his -favourites. He liked De<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> Quincey too, and Burke's speeches. He could -listen by the hour to Milton's prose, or the "Anatomy of Melancholy." -He often dwelt on the advantages of such reading, in forming a style. -He did not consider that Laurence as yet had a style—he was too -simple, too colloquial in his speaking. Rolling sonorous periods, -balanced and built up, a wide range of allusion and metaphor, a sombre -and weighty splendour, was the Judge's ideal of eloquence.</p> - -<p>Mary was usually present at these readings, sitting by and sewing. But -her thoughts often wandered—she had not much æsthetic feeling, and -poetry bored her. However, she liked the sound of Laurence's voice, as -an accompaniment to thoughts which might have no concern with him.</p> - -<p>One evening a strange thing happened—Hilary Robertson came to call -on the Judge. Laurence happened to be away on business at the county -seat—perhaps Hilary knew this. What the purpose of his visit was, -did not appear at that time. The Judge received him politely, though -a little nervous, and begged Mary to stay when she was about to leave -them together. There was a little general conversation, which presently -fell upon literature and ended by Hilary's reading at the Judge's -request the "Urn Burial" of Sir Thomas Browne. The effect of this -stately prose in Hilary's wonderful voice thrilled the two listeners. -Mary dropped her work. Something of the feeling of old days came -back upon her—some mysterious lifting of the heart, vague pain and -yearning at the touch of unearthly beauty. She had hardly felt this -since her girlhood, her present life had too much absorbed her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> Her -eyes were fixed upon Hilary with startled feeling—no one but he, she -was thinking, had ever had the power to move this feeling in her, to -make her conscious of a world beyond this narrow world she lived in, -to make her dissatisfied with herself, unhappy.... And he could do -this just by the tone of his voice, reading something that she did not -attend to. Music, what little she had heard, produced a similar effect -upon her—it was the only form of art that touched her.... But now -she resented Hilary's power, she did not want to be stirred or made -unhappy. Especially now, when she was carrying a child. Hearing the -Judge issue a cordial invitation to Hilary to repeat his visit, she -decided that next time she would avoid him.</p> - -<p>In the next few months Laurence was away a good deal, and was obliged -also to work late in the evenings when at home. The Judge came to -depend upon Hilary for at least two weekly visits, when they would -read and talk together, and Mary often sat with them, in spite of her -judgment. Sometimes she was sorry for it, sometimes not.</p> - -<p>Laurence learned of this intimacy with astonishment. Finding how it -had begun, he was struck with Hilary's audacity. He had received the -Judge's praise of his new friend in silence; all the more incensed -because he couldn't openly oppose Hilary nor keep him out of the house.</p> - -<p>"I think the Judge is getting childish," he said to Mary darkly.</p> - -<p>"He is much weaker," she agreed.</p> - -<p>"He must be—to let the preacher get hold of him. That would never have -happened if he'd been himself."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> - -<p>She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking out across the -lawn to where the sunset sparkled red through the trees. Laurence was -sitting on the steps near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick -black cigar. He glanced up. Mary's look of weariness and sadness -startled him.</p> - -<p>She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to realize that the Judge -was dying, and needed what Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had -begun to talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon meet; -the Judge did not resent it, he was a little frightened, and only -clung the closer to the firm hand stretched out to him. Yes, he needed -Hilary—to no one else could he confess that he was afraid of death, -that he had lived a careless life, that he didn't want to believe in -immortality but sometimes couldn't help it.... But, Mary thought, it -was no use to try to explain to Laurence.</p> - -<p>He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A quick impulse of alarm -and affection made him repentant. He moved closer to her, put his hand -on hers.</p> - -<p>"Mary, you're not looking well—I'm afraid you're doing too much. Are -you very tired?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, a little," she said vaguely, without responding to him, her eyes -still fixed on the swaying trees and the red glow beyond.</p> - -<p>Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit his cigar. At that -moment he felt acutely that she was far away from him in spirit. He did -not know her thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what -she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> given up asking -her. It seemed to him often that it was only the material part of her -life that he had any connection with—that she willed it so. But she -had another life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him—a life -of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, his face dark and -brooding. Laurence could look evil. His narrow blue eyes, half-closed, -were menacing. His heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the -cigar, spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not be -repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would destroy if it -could not build. Now he looked destructive.</p> - -<p>He had changed much in these few years, grown heavier in body from -his indoor life, grown handsomer. He still had his military erectness -of carriage, something of the soldier remained in his alertness of -movement and speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone. -Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his face—and there -were lines of pain too, visible at times like this.</p> - -<p>The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had been taking his -constitutional late, because of the heat, supported by his gold-headed -cane and Nora's arm. They were laughing as they approached.</p> - -<p>"She's been telling me some of her Irish stories," called out the old -man tremulously. "Never was so amused in my life. She's a smart girl, -Nora is—and a pretty girl too! Isn't she now?"</p> - -<p>Laurence went to help the Judge up the steps. He sank heavily into a -chair, keeping hold of Nora's hand, panting.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Isn't she pretty now?... I like her red hair. I wish I was a young -fellow, I'd make up to her.... She'd keep me laughing...."</p> - -<p>Nora blushed, laughed, wrested her hand away and ran indoors. Laurence -lounged for a moment against the door, and then went in too. He had to -go to the office, and went upstairs to fill his cigar-case. Passing the -open door of the children's room, he saw Nora, with a candle, bending -to arrange a tossed coverlet. He stood looking at her. The candle-flame -lit up her shining hair, her red lips and tender eyes. She came out -softly, and as she passed him, smiling, Laurence, put his arm around -her, drew her close.</p> - -<p>"No!" she protested in a whisper.</p> - -<p>"Yes!"</p> - -<p>He felt her tremble in his clasp, felt her frightened, wishing to -resist, unable, felt the emotion that shook her at his touch. He bent -his head, kissed her on the mouth.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Carlin could not have told himself how nor when his attitude toward -Nora had changed, nor when he first became aware that the most ardent -feeling of her warm heart was for him. It was all gradual and easy; -it seemed to reach far back in the past, and to grow out of their -childhood intimacy. Carlin could not remember the time when he had not -felt affection for Nora. Affection was still his feeling—but hers -was much stronger. And to know that she loved him, humbly, adoringly, -passionately, as without any words on her part it was evident she did, -could not but influence him.</p> - -<p>Nora had always looked up to him, even when they were playmates; he was -the bright romantic figure in her life. The years had set him apart -from her; he had risen in the social scale and she had remained where -she was. She was too humble to feel any bitterness at this. Nay, it was -only right, for wasn't it well known that Carlin came of gentlefolk -in Ireland? It was natural that Laurence should be a gentleman, and -that she, Nora, should be his handmaid. But it was also natural that -she should love him. He was the handsomest, cleverest man she had ever -seen; and no one else had ever been so kind to her.</p> - -<p>Up to the time she entered his household, Nora had certainly never -aspired to more than kindness and an occasional word of affection from -Laurence; and there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> for some time she was too happy to want more. She -was treated not like a servant, but almost like a member of the family. -She had her own pleasant room, she had no hard nor disagreeable work to -do; she was always nicely dressed, clean and fresh. She spent her time -with the children or the Judge; was in awe of Mary, who however always -spoke to her kindly and pleasantly; addressed Laurence as "Mr. Carlin," -at which, chatting with her, he would laughingly protest.</p> - -<p>Nora did her work with real devotion. Far from feeling that her -position was in any way an inferior or degrading one, she made her -service so willing, so thorough and complete, she gave it with such -pleasure, that it became an art. Mary soon learned that she need not -watch Nora, that her instructions would be followed exactly, that -nothing would be slurred nor forgotten, that Nora could be trusted to -the last detail. As the time approached for the third child to be born, -the other two came more and more under Nora's care.</p> - -<p>Nora loved Laurence's children. If her own life had been happily -arranged, she would by this time have had some children of her own. -She was twenty-eight years old, and had never had even a satisfactory -love-affair. For this no doubt Laurence was indirectly to blame. His -image, bright and radiant, made any swain who might sigh for Nora -appear too dull for more than a passing interest. It was not in Nora's -nature to be ungrateful for any affection, whatever the source, and she -had honestly tried to love her humble suitors, but in vain. She would -have liked to marry, her only life in fact being that of affection, -but instead she had drifted from one employment to another, untrained, -badly paid, always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> finding something in the rough conditions of her -work to disgust or hurt her.</p> - -<p>In Carlin's house she found for the first time a pleasant way of -living, gentleness, consideration, and she was so happy that her spirit -danced and sang all day long. She was deeply grateful to all of them, -especially to Laurence, for he had placed her here; she tried to show -her gratitude in service to them all. She quarrelled freely, to be -sure, with the Swedish cook, whose slowness and awkwardness provoked -her contempt. But with the family, inspired by love, she was tactful, -graceful, meek; even to Mary, whom she did not love, but admired from a -distance.</p> - -<p>As time went on she shared more intimately in the life of the family. -Through the children she began to feel that she belonged to it. -Keenly sensitive to anything that concerned Laurence, she was aware -of occasional friction between him and Mary; she saw that he was -unhappy sometimes. She began in her mind to criticize Mary, sometimes -to be angry with her, on Laurence's account; she sought out things -to do for Laurence, put a tender thoughtfulness into the care of his -personal belongings. She did not put herself in his way, at least not -consciously, but naturally they were always seeing one another. And -always her face, her whole being, welcomed him, glowed with pleasure -when he stopped to talk to her or bestowed a light caress. The caresses -grew more frequent, grew warmer, by insensible gradations. She came to -expect his kiss when they met alone; and to dream of it before he came.</p> - -<p>Now her happiness was no longer serene and childish, as at first. -It was poignant at moments—with intervals<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> of depression and -restlessness. But Nora was nearly incapable of reflection or of looking -beyond the moment; she had no wisdom except what love gave her, and -that did not help her to take care of herself.</p> - -<p>Nora's helplessness had always been evident to Laurence. He had felt -that she needed to be taken care of, and he still felt it. He felt -that he <i>was</i> taking care of her. Nora needed affection, she could -not work like a menial without any reward but money. Money could not -buy such service as hers. It was done for love, and love must be its -reward—tenderness such as one would give to a child, or a sister.... -Just when his affectionate recognition of Nora passed this line, -Laurence could hardly have told. It was connected, though, with his -feelings about Mary, with a wounded resentment that burned in him the -deeper for having little expression. When Mary hurt him by her coldness -or absorption in something apart from him, he was more apt to take or -make a chance of being with Nora alone. These interviews came to have -a secret, a stolen character; snatched moments, a word, a look, an -embrace.</p> - -<p>Laurence did not feel that he was doing harm to Nora. He did not feel -anything very deeply about her—his strong feelings were all for other -things. That he was irresponsible, unscrupulous, he would have denied -blankly. But his mood was reckless. He wanted the comfort of Nora's -warmth, her utter acceptance of him, her trembling joy in his caress. -From his obscure jealousy, he wanted obscurely to revenge himself on -Mary, though she was never to know that he had done so. Lately, Nora -had shown some fear—but fear was not resistance. Well he knew that she -could never resist any impulse, any desire of his.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VIII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">On the thick summer air, in the close room, the scent of flowers was -overpowering. Laurence, standing by the door, looking round at the -silent black assemblage, at the black coffin heaped with roses, felt -deeply impatient with this show of grief. No one there grieved for the -Judge, except perhaps Nora, sobbing in a corner, and himself. Mary was -upstairs, not able to be present.</p> - -<p>He looked coldly at Hilary, reading in his deep musical voice the -funeral service. It was the custom to pronounce a panegyric on the -departed; and he wondered what Hilary would say, and waited cynically -for some hypocritical praise, for how could the preacher appreciate the -Judge's real qualities? But he underrated Hilary's honesty. In truth it -was impossible for Hilary to praise the Judge's life and character. It -was not for him to betray the confidence of the old man's last days, of -his fears, doubts and regrets, his halting steps toward the unknown. -So he uttered simply a brief prayer, full of solemn tenderness for the -passing soul. In Hilary's feeling the infinite was like the living air -surrounding, interpenetrating, every finite thing; there was no line -between life and death, except for a personal loss. To him also, the -funeral panoply was unpleasant; he also reflected that the Judge had -perhaps only one or two real mourners.</p> - -<p>When it was all over and Laurence had returned to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> the house alone, -he went up to see Mary. She was lying in bed, in the big room they -shared together; she looked very white and tired and had evidently been -weeping. Laurence bent to kiss her tenderly, and sat by her, holding -her hand.</p> - -<p>"He was a good friend to us," she said at last softly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, he was, indeed."</p> - -<p>"He thought everything of you, Laurence."</p> - -<p>"I didn't deserve it especially."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry for him now, I'm afraid he feels very lonely."</p> - -<p>Laurence looked at her uneasily.</p> - -<p>"Because, you see," she went on slowly, "he never thought about his -soul, till just lately, or about another life. It will be very strange -to him. He was so worldly."</p> - -<p>"He was a good man," asserted Laurence, frowning.</p> - -<p>"No, Laurence, he wasn't," said Mary with inflexible regret. "He was -bound up in worldly things, and had no light. So it will be hard for -him."</p> - -<p>"I don't think you are in a position to judge him," said Laurence -sharply.</p> - -<p>But then, seeing her tears begin to flow again, he reproached himself -and tried to comfort her with soft words and kisses. He resolved once -more that until Mary was quite strong again he would not cross her in -anything, that even if she were unreasonable he would remember her -state and be patient. He was really alarmed about her, she had never -been ill before, never in the least morbid. Several times lately she -had frightened him by saying that she thought she would die when this -baby was born; and dissolving in tears<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> for the other two babies who -would be left motherless. Altogether she was unlike herself. Laurence, -profoundly worried, had talked to Mary's father, who told him that -she had had her children too fast and was tired out for the time, and -naturally affected by the Judge's illness, but that there was no cause -for great alarm. But at the mere idea of losing Mary, Laurence was -deeply shaken. He would not have said that he was happy with her—in -fact for the past year he had seldom felt happy—but he couldn't -imagine being anything but miserable without her. He had loved her too -long, too exclusively, to live without her. And always he had the hope, -though sometimes unconscious, that she would change and love him as he -wanted her to. That was all that was lacking, he thought, to make him -perfectly happy. He believed in happiness and never ceased to expect it.</p> - -<p>"Laurence," said Mary, when her tears had stopped, insensibly soothed -by his tenderness, "I wish the Judge hadn't left us that money. We -didn't need it."</p> - -<p>"Well, sometimes I wish so too," he answered thoughtfully.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>He was perfectly sincere in this. At times, after the Judge's will -was made, the thought of the money had weighed on him. He disliked -the feeling of obligation, even to the Judge; he would have liked to -owe his advancement to his own efforts alone. But the Judge had stood -behind him and helped him on, in every way. He was grateful, and yet he -was burdened by that help.</p> - -<p>In later years he was never able to forget it. Then it seemed to him -that he owed his career to the Judge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> and to the condemned criminal -Barclay, who had died in prison, for it was the Barclay case that gave -him his professional start. He showed gratitude as best he could. He -put up for the Judge a massive monument of granite; and he maintained -Barclay's children. But he would have preferred to be independent of -any assistance. He was conscious of powers that could make their way -unaided. And he disliked the feeling that he had not been able to mould -his life just as he wished, that in some ways it seemed made for him by -forces beyond his control. That feeling did not yet oppress him, he was -still too full of youthful energy; it was only an occasional shadow.</p> - -<p>But many times, in the course of the next months, Laurence wished -the Judge's money at the devil or in the hands of his disappointed -relatives. Laurence, as executor of the will, had to deal with -innumerable details and complexities that bored and bothered him; he -hated "business." When finally the estate was settled, the relatives -having decided not to contest the will, Laurence found himself in -possession of a handsome income. The Judge had shown his faith in the -future of Chicago by investing largely in real estate there; these -holdings were rapidly increasing in value. They were in the business -section and the rentals were high. In addition, the Judge's house and -its contents, and his horses, were left personally to Laurence.</p> - -<p>For a time, his enjoyment of these things was clouded. The attitude -of the Judge's relatives had stung him, in spite of his consciousness -that his efforts alone had procured them any share in the property. He -was extremely sensitive to disapproval, to criticism, espe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>cially to -any reflection on his independence. To feel that some people, perhaps -many of his fellow-citizens, thought his relation with the Judge an -interested one, that he might be suspected of "making a good thing" out -of the Judge's friendship, galled him deeply. He knew that never in -his life had he used any indirect means for his own advancement, that -he was incapable of using people for his own interest, and he hated to -appear what he was not. It was more than the pride of an honest man in -keeping his reputation clear of any spot. Laurence cared more than he -could admit about public opinion, about his position in the eyes of his -fellow-citizens. Their admiration was necessary to him. His ambition -could be satisfied only by predominance without any shadow on it, any -reproach or sneer.</p> - -<p>Professionally he understood how to keep himself safe from anything -of that sort. There he stood on solid rock. His reputation for -uprightness, for indifference to money, was unquestioned. He began to -be considered "eccentric"; no one could predict what cases he would -take, what refuse, except that the more unpromising a case appeared, -the more apt he was to take it. He made enemies, of course; but this -sort of enmity pleased him. He liked to be called "quixotic" and to -be accused of "tilting at windmills." In the law he knew perfectly -well what he was about. His law was sound; he worked faithfully and -constantly to build up his knowledge. He aspired to the judicial -ermine, and a spot upon it would have killed his pride. He would be -known as an able and incorruptible judge.</p> - -<p>He would not owe his position to politics, either, if he could help -it. Judge Baxter had been a busy pol<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>itician, and had striven to -initiate Laurence into the local situation. But Laurence had not been -interested; he hated wire-pulling and contests for power. Naturally -he belonged to the party that had supported the war and was now -all-powerful. But he wanted none of the spoils, at present. His -political activity was confined to supporting what he thought good -candidates and opposing bad ones; his test being the public welfare. -He had identified himself more than he would have thought possible -with his town. Its growth and prosperity had become important to him. -He wanted the town improved and did not want it plundered, and had -made his position clear. It suited him—active, and yet aloof from any -vulgar scramble for profit. The enemies made for him by this activity -he despised; they could not hurt him, he was too strong. The public -esteem that he cared for was increased rather than otherwise by their -opposition.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>IX</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">But he had his vulnerable point.</p> - -<p>When he saw money coming in faster than he could spend it, piling up at -the bank, he felt that the time had come to change their way of living. -The house that he had wanted to live in had been in his mind for years. -It remained only to get an architect from Chicago and have the plans -drawn for the stately mansion of his dreams.</p> - -<p>Yes, one other thing—to persuade Mary that she too wanted it.</p> - -<p>Mary had another son now—a frail infant in whom her life and thoughts -seemed centred. It had been a question whether this child would live, -and she still watched it with anxious care. She had not fully recovered -her own health after its birth—she was thinner, looked much older. -For the first time she was a little careless of her own appearance, -thought nothing of her dress, and even her rich hair lost its lustre -and sometimes straggled untidily from its heavy knot.</p> - -<p>Laurence did not like this change in her—her total absorption in the -nursery, her prevailing anxiety, which seemed to him exaggerated. His -children had not reached the stage of development necessary to interest -his mind. He was fond of them, proud of the two sturdy older ones, and -concerned about the sickly youngest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> But he could not see why Mary -couldn't take a little interest in life outside them. It was partly his -desire to give her another interest, something that she could share -with him, that made him broach the subject of the house. He wanted -a more social life—something that they could join in, beside mere -parenthood. Magnificence would become Mary, if she only thought so. -She was a beautiful and stately woman, in spite of her present neglect -of herself, and would be in her proper place at the head of a big -establishment. She ought to have more servants, to entertain, to wear -rich dresses of silk, to be adorned with jewels. He wanted to see her -so—he wanted more amusement, more gaiety. They were both young—why -bury themselves in a mere daily round of work and care?</p> - -<p>Mary at first opposed his idea, but languidly, from mere lack of -interest in it. When he grew warm and petulant, and passionately -accused her of not caring for anything that he did or for any of his -wishes, she yielded the point without more ado. It was Laurence's -money, of course he could do as he liked with it. She thought they were -very comfortable as they were, but if he didn't like the house and -wanted a bigger one, very well, let it be built. One house or another -was much the same to her.</p> - -<p>Laurence drove out with her one day to see the site he had selected—on -the outskirts of the town, which was however rapidly growing. It was -a big pasture, running from the road back to the edge of the lake—a -rough piece of ground, thickly overgrown with weeds and with straggling -willows under which the cattle gathered. But Laurence already saw it -laid out in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> lawns and shrubbery, framing the great house of brick and -stone that should dominate the town. Here would be the stables, there -the gardens. There should be a boathouse on the lake, there should be -a screen of rapidly-growing trees along the road, a splendid entrance -with tall gates, a graveled drive leading to the house.</p> - -<p>His face lit up as he eagerly explained it all to Mary, pointing with -his whip, holding in the restive horses with a strong hand, turning -the light buggy dexterously around the rough prairie hillocks and -mud-holes. A bull came out of a group of cattle and looked at them -sullenly with lowered head. The horses wheeled and started nervously. -But Laurence with the lash of the whip and firm control, forced them -to pass directly in front of the menacing animal, and continued his -talk. Mary listened, wrapped up in her mantle, agreeing to all his -suggestions....</p> - -<p>It was a bright autumnal day, clear and crisp, with a strong breeze -blowing. Yellow leaves from nut-trees and maples swirled in clouds -along the ground and covered the road. Laurence wanted to drive a -little further into the country; Mary assented, saying that she must be -at home by six o'clock.</p> - -<p>"You ought to get out more—even this little drive has done you good, -you have some colour," Laurence said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.</p> - -<p>She smiled, shut her eyes with pleasure, feeling the rush of the wind -as they drove against it.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'd like to drive every day—you manage them so well."</p> - -<p>"Then we will! I'll try to get away for an hour each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> day, if you'll -come, Mary.... But you always have some tiresome thing to keep you at -home."</p> - -<p>"Do you call the children tiresome things?" she asked, smiling.</p> - -<p>"Well—I do, sometimes," he confessed. "They take so much of you.... -I'd like to drive you away somewhere, now, away from all of it, for a -while. I wish we could run away together. I hardly ever see you, Mary!"</p> - -<p>"You see me every day, except when you're away—I should think you must -be tired seeing me."</p> - -<p>"I never see you alone, except at night and then you're always -tired.... I want things arranged so you won't have so much to do, so -that we can have an evening together sometimes—go out somewhere or be -alone together, without your having to go and sit with some baby or -other," said Laurence with sudden peevishness.</p> - -<p>"Well, you know, bringing up a family isn't all pleasure," Mary -reminded him with mild reproof.</p> - -<p>"I should say it wasn't!... But there might be a little. You might -think about me, once in a while, and put on a pretty dress and sing to -me, the way you used to. You'll be getting old if you keep on this way!"</p> - -<p>"With three children you can't expect me to look like a girl," Mary -protested.</p> - -<p>One of the trotters shied at a paper blown across the road, both horses -reared and the light buggy rocked dangerously. Laurence lashed them, -stinging blows, then checked their leap with a wrench, pulling them -back on their haunches.</p> - -<p>"Laurence! You shouldn't lose your temper with the horses," -remonstrated Mary.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> - -<p>"They have to know who's master," he answered curtly. "But you make -me angry, talking that way about yourself. You're not thirty yet, and -you want to live like an old woman! Why don't you put on a cap and -spectacles?"</p> - -<p>"Well, my mother wore a cap when she was thirty. At thirty a woman -can't pretend to be young," said Mary, smiling.</p> - -<p>"Pooh, your mother! A woman with your looks, too! You'd be more -beautiful than ever if you'd take care of yourself. You haven't ever -worn that silk dress I brought you months ago."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I haven't had it made up—it's much too gay, Laurence! You know I -never wear colours."</p> - -<p>"Well, you ought to.... I should think you might want to please me, -once in a while.... But you women! All you think about is children, and -a man can go hang himself, for all you care. You wouldn't even want him -around, if you could have children without him!"</p> - -<p>"How you talk! Anybody would think you didn't care about the children!"</p> - -<p>"I care a lot more about you than I do about them—but it isn't the -same with you. What's the <i>use</i> of having children if nobody's going -to enjoy life—if everybody's just to go along doing their duty and -raising up another generation to do the same thing? Hey, what's the use -of it?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think the use of it is enjoyment," said Mary. "It isn't meant -to be."</p> - -<p>"Just like you! How do you know what it's meant to be? Have you had any -private revelation from God about it?... Well, I tell you that I don't -see any use<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> in life if there isn't any pleasure in it—and that I'm -going to enjoy <i>my</i> life, anyhow, and when I don't, it will be time to -quit!"</p> - -<p>"Laurence, you're a pagan," said Mary gravely.</p> - -<p>"A pagan is better than a psalm-singing hypocrite, that wants to take -all the pleasure out of life!"</p> - -<p>"Do you mean me by that?" she enquired gently.</p> - -<p>"No, I don't mean you! You're not a hypocrite, whatever else you -are.... If you'd only unbend a little, once in a while, and let -yourself have a good time, you'd be all right. But you got a lot of -foolish ideas into your head when you were a girl—and I know who put -them there too. And you hang onto them like grim death, you're so -obstinate you won't <i>ever</i> give up an idea or anything else. You won't -change—no matter if you see it makes me unhappy—"</p> - -<p>He broke off suddenly, and for some moments they were both silent. They -were now far beyond the town, out on the open prairie. Great fields of -stubble from which the grain had been reaped, stretched on either side. -In spite of the bright sun and the fresh wind, the outlook over these -endless yellow-brown flats, broken by dull-green marsh or dark belts of -new-turned soil, was not cheerful. Dreary, rather, and sombre was the -prairie, its harvest yielded, waiting now for the sleep of winter. In -the distance, a grey smudge on the horizon showed where lay the great -sprawling smoky city. With his eyes fixed on this Laurence said:</p> - -<p>"But I've known a long time that you don't really care anything about -me."</p> - -<p>"You shouldn't say such things—you know better.... It's only that we -don't look at life in the same way."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And you're contented to have it so! But I'm not. Why can't you see it -more as I do, Mary? I think you would, if you cared about me."</p> - -<p>"No, I can't, you are so personal about it. You want things so much for -yourself, and you will always be disappointed, Laurence. Life isn't -given us for our personal pleasure."</p> - -<p>"You talk like a book or an old greyhead.... I don't think it's living -at all to slide through life thinking about something else—not to want -anything for fear you'll be disappointed! I think that's cowardly. It's -better to try for things."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but what things? I can't care much about worldly things—houses -to live in and clothes to wear. I <i>can't</i>, Laurence."</p> - -<p>"You seem to think that's all I care for," he said bitterly. "But you -don't understand me and don't try to. What I wanted isn't houses and -clothes! It was something very beautiful, to me. Something that would -last for our whole life—and beyond it. But you couldn't see it. Even -now you don't know what I mean."</p> - -<p>The suffering in his voice touched her, she leaned toward him and laid -her cheek to his.</p> - -<p>"I wish I could be what you want—I wish you could be happy," she said.</p> - -<p>"You <i>could</i> be, if you wanted to be!... No, I'm not happy, and I can't -be contented this way, Mary, I warn you, I can't be!"</p> - -<p>The menace of his suppressed violence left her silent and impassive. He -too fell into moody silence, and so they returned to the house.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> - -<p>That night the whole town was roused from sleep, to see a red glare -in the sky where by day hung the grey smudge over the city. The news -came over the wires—Chicago was burning. A strong wind blew the smoke -over the prairie, the town was enveloped in a dim haze. Trains came -in, bringing refugees. Later, crowded into all sorts of vehicles, -they poured in. The town opened its houses to the flood of terrified -homeless people. All night blazed that red light in the sky. The wires -went down, but each new arrival brought a story of more complete -destruction, of whole streets of wooden houses bursting into flame at -once, of brick buildings melting like wax in the furnace. By morning -the city of half a million people was in ashes.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>X</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">But the energy of youth does not stop long to mourn over destruction. -Hardly had the ground cooled under that vast heap of ashes when it was -torn up for new foundations. Almost overnight a new city began to rise, -a prouder city where brick and stone largely took the place of wood. -Ruin was swept away and forgotten, men toiled in the busy ant-hill to -rebuild their fortunes, and within a year it was done. The city spread -along the shore of the lake and far inland, bigger than ever, busier -than ever, more splendid and prosperous.</p> - -<p>At first, in the general ruin, Laurence had thought himself involved. -His rent-producing buildings were gone, and the insurance companies -prostrate. But the land remained, and by the outleap of energy and hope -in the people, became more valuable than before. Long before the end of -the year Laurence was at ease about his property. And so the new house -that he had planned began to rise from its deep foundations.</p> - -<p>The house became to Laurence a symbol, a personal expression. Indeed, -it had been that, from his first idea of it. But as time went on, more -of his constructive energy went into it. Checked in another way, an -immaterial way, he must still be building something. The house at least -was his creation, all his own, and it became a keen interest, almost -a passion. The plans were drawn and redrawn till they suited him, he -scruti<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>nized each detail, he spent all the time he could spare in -watching the workmen. When from the stone foundation the walls began to -grow, layer on layer of deep red brick, he sat or lounged about by the -hour, smoking one thick cigar after another, impatient, already seeing -in his mind the whole structure complete up to the spire on the cupola, -and planning the decoration of the stately rooms.</p> - -<p>Mary sometimes accompanied him. She made an effort to do so, and to -join in his interest. But it was somewhat as she might have joined in a -child's play, humoring him, and he saw this. Nevertheless, he was glad -to have her there with him, to talk to her about it, to ask her advice. -But the ideas were all his—she had not many suggestions to offer, and -these were practical ones, about pantries, closets, and so forth. The -scale of the house rather daunted her—sometimes she murmured that it -was going to be hard to run it, with nothing but raw untrained servants -to be had.</p> - -<p>"Well, you can train them," said Laurence cheerfully.</p> - -<p>He planned the entrance-hall with its stately stair, its niches for -statues; the billiard-room on the top floor; the library, with long -windows looking out on the lake and a chimney-piece of dark marble -reaching to the ceiling.</p> - -<p>He wanted the house to be gay, inviting, festive in appearance—yet his -plan was rather sombre than gay, grandiose. In spite of himself, what -he chose had this character. The wish to make a striking effect, to -impress and dominate, was stronger than the desire to please. Perhaps -this came from the poverty and bareness of his early life—perhaps -from some lingering ancestral memories of the old world. He wanted -splendour,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> but he wanted it somehow aged and mellow, he did not like -the appearance of newness. So the colour of the house was dark, dark -wood was used in it. When it came to wall-papers and hangings, he chose -them of heavy textures and deep colours. A sombre and dusky red was a -favorite—he used that in the hall, the billiard-room and the library. -He wanted Mary to choose the colour for the parlours, but in the end he -decided that too, and it was a dark gold, with heavy double curtains -of lace and silk subduing the faint gleam of the walls, and great -chandeliers to light it up on festive occasions.</p> - -<p>All this cost a great deal of money—how much, Mary did not enquire. -She took it for granted that Laurence could manage his own affairs—and -they both looked upon the fortune inherited from the Judge as his, -though of course it was left in trust to the children. That was -a formality, the money had been meant for Laurence. Naturally he -would not impair the capital, but would rather increase it, by good -investments. The house was an investment—what could be safer than -that? The Judge had always laid stress on the value and safety of real -estate. And already the value of his estate had increased largely. -Values were going up everywhere. A wave of prosperity had overflowed -the country. With the settling of political troubles, the new sense -of security, a feeling of boundless wealth and opportunity sprang up -and prevailed. The great west opening its riches, the quick growth -of cities, fortunes made overnight almost, golden fortunes beckoning -on every hand—the eyes of men were dazzled, the gold-fever ran in -their veins. Gaining and spending went hand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>-in-hand. A new luxury was -spreading. Money-scandals spread too, and a cynical perception that -those in high places were by no means above lining their pockets in -alliance with the rising power of Wall street. Speculation was the note -of the time. Merchant princes, railroad barons, money kings, made a new -aristocracy, prodigal and flamboyant, and set the fashion for living.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>These big splashes in the pool, spreading tumultuous waves, had -subsided into ripples before they reached the inlet where Mary lived; -but the quiet surface of her life was to some degree disturbed. The -restlessness of the time reached even her, but as something to be -resisted as far as possible. The few friends she had were staid people, -rather older than herself, and with these or with her parents, she -preferred to spend what leisure she had. Her household mainly absorbed -her energies, not yet restored to their normal pitch. Even with Nora, -the care of the children was a constant occupation. The delicate -youngest child was Mary's special charge. He shared her room, sometimes -banishing Laurence, who could not wake at night after working all day.</p> - -<p>The other boys, now six and five years old, were handsome robust -fellows, noisy and inventive of mischief. The question of their -education troubled Mary. She herself taught them to read, and began -their religious instruction. She did not want to send them to the town -school, fearing profane influences. Her early passionate tenderness -for them had become a grave solicitude. Nora petted and spoiled the -boys, but Mary was their taskmaster and mentor. Nora often lost her -temper with them, and slaps alternated with kisses. Mary was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> calm -and serious, severe with their moral lapses, such as fibbing and -disobedience, rarely caressing them. She felt for them much more -tenderness than she showed, believing that it was not good for them -to be petted. On Hilary's advice, she had not taught her boys Greek, -though by this time she could read it pretty well herself. But she -taught them the Bible; they went to church with her, and on Sundays -they had to learn and recite to her a certain number of verses; and she -heard them say their prayers at night, encouraging original efforts.</p> - -<p>For some time past she had felt that Nora was not a good influence. -She was too much of a child herself, stormy, impetuous, without any -authority over the boys. When she could not control them, she would -threaten, scold and at times use physical violence, always repenting -it, though, and making up with kisses and fond words. Mary had -forbidden her to slap the children and sharply reproved her when she -broke any of the rules laid down for them. Then Nora would sulk. In -fact her temper had become noticeably bad.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One day in late September, after a week's absence, trying a case at -the county seat, Laurence was expected home. Nora dressed both the -boys in clean white suits, combed their curls with nervous fluttering -fingers, set them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran up -to her own room to put on some adornment. The carriage drove up. Mary -met Laurence at the door, and after his usual warm greeting stood a -moment in the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his bags. -Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the shrubbery. Both parents -rushed out, to find the boys,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> just dragged out of a mud-puddle, -daubed from head to foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the -hands of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. Mary seized -the children, ordered Nora away and received a rude answer; whereupon -Laurence spoke sternly to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled -to her room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild sobbing. -She could hear too, while dressing the boys anew, that Laurence went in -and spoke to Nora; could hear the firm curt tones of his voice.</p> - -<p>Presently he came into the nursery, and she said:</p> - -<p>"I really think I can't keep Nora. I can't have scenes like this."</p> - -<p>"No, I've told her so," said Laurence, frowning. "I've told her that -she can't speak to you like that, and that if she can't control herself -she'll have to go."</p> - -<p>He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time. -Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put -them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their -prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures -and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys -wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay -and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played -with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went -downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did -not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed. -Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and -was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a -big fee—a will contest, involving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> a large estate. He had taken it -because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew -and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a -man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a -son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just -cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish.</p> - -<p>"I shall charge them ten thousand—they're willing to pay more than -that. So you see, Mary, you needn't worry about the price of carpets," -he laughed.</p> - -<p>After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, relaxed, tired -but still talkative, smoking his big black cigar and watching with -bright and contented eyes Mary at her sewing. He was always happy at -returning home, the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And -Mary was always glad to have him come back. She missed him deeply when -he was away. He often brought disturbance, but he brought too something -that she needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower -current, though it might be more peaceful.</p> - -<p>He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his arrival, but Mary had -not. She thought of the children and presently laid down her work and -said that she must see if they were covered properly—the night had -turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. A light was -burning in the nursery. As she entered she saw Nora kneeling by one -of the cribs, her face bowed, hidden. Nora raised her head and turned -toward the door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean—that -radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth half-opened and -smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora dropped her eyes, all the light -went out of her. She got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping -child. And Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the room -without speaking.</p> - -<p>She returned to the library, took up her work again, listened to -Laurence, responded to him, smiling tranquilly on him; after a time -moved to sit beside him at his behest, and answered his caress. But all -the time there was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure, -hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister way disturbed even -the current of her blood, made her heart beat heavily. It was a kind -of fear, a vague terror of—she knew not what exactly, but something -there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from.</p> - -<p>She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion of Laurence. -Nothing of that sort had existed for her, it had never entered her -world for an instant. Now she hardly recognized it, except as a -formless shadow of evil. Deceit, treachery—could she phrase such -things, even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poisoned her -sleep, it was there at her waking.... In spite of herself, not -admitting it to herself, she suspected—she watched.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XI</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">A wild November night. The wind tore furiously across the prairie, -sweeping the rain in slanting sheets. It was growing colder; rain -became sleet; before morning it would be snow.</p> - -<p>It was nearly midnight when Mary shut the door behind her and gathering -her shawl over her light dress, rushed out into the storm. She was not -sure she had been seen, but she ran, fearful of being overtaken. The -icy rain drove in her face, on her uncovered head, soaked her dress -under the flapping shawl. She had not far to go, but she was drenched -from head to foot before she reached Hilary's house. She met no one in -the street, it was not a night to be abroad. The trees tossed wildly -overhead, letting go their last yellow leaves, the street-lights -flickered dimly in the gale. There was a light in Hilary's study. She -opened the house-door and walked into his room without knocking.</p> - -<p>He was writing at his table, and sprang up as she entered, with a -startled exclamation. She held out her hands to him, dropping her wet -shawl, clutched his arm, clung to him, unable to speak. For the first -time Hilary held her in his arms, her head with dishevelled streaming -hair lay on his shoulder. She would have fallen if he had not held her. -He thought she had fainted. Half-lifting her, he put her on the sofa, -where she sank limp, and knelt beside her, putting back the wet strands -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> hair from her face. Her eyes were shut, but her eyelids flickered, -her lips moved.</p> - -<p>"Mary, for heaven's sake, can't you tell me what has happened?"</p> - -<p>She heard him, nodded faintly, groped for his hand and clutched it as -though to save herself from sinking. He waited while she fought to get -back her hold on herself. For the first time in her life she had nearly -lost consciousness, and she was terrified; it was like a black wave -rearing over her head, threatening to engulf her. That feeling passed, -slowly, Hilary's grasp sustained her, lifted her out of the dark -flood.... She drew a long sobbing breath and opened her eyes.</p> - -<p>"Hilary...."</p> - -<p>She had never called him so before.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'm here."</p> - -<p>"I came to you.... I came.... There was nobody else...."</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mary, you're cold, you're shivering.... Lie there a minute while -I stir up the fire."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but don't go away!"</p> - -<p>"No, I'm not going."</p> - -<p>Reluctantly she let go his hand. He shook down the coals of the stove, -put on some sticks of wood, brought coverlets to put over her.</p> - -<p>"Mary, you're wet through.... Don't you want me to speak to Mrs. Lewis, -get you some dry clothes?"</p> - -<p>"No, no—no! I'll be warm in a minute...."</p> - -<p>She sat up, gathered her loose hair together, trying to wind it into a -knot.</p> - -<p>"Look here, Mary, I have a warm dressing-gown. Take off your wet dress -and put it on—go into my room<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> there. And take off your shoes—good -heavens, you've only got thin slippers! Here, I'll get you my -slippers.... I'll bring the things, you can change here."</p> - -<p>"No, I'm all right now. I'll go in there."</p> - -<p>She stood up and moved without faltering. When she came out, wrapped -in the grey gown, her hair smoothed back and rolled into a heavy knot, -she had regained something of her usual manner. But she was deadly pale -and her eyes looked dull and dazed, as though she had received a heavy -blow. She sat down before the fire. Hilary sat near her, and holding -his hand tightly in both hers, she told him in broken sentences what -she had discovered.</p> - -<p>"You must tell me what to do.... I shall never go back to him."</p> - -<p>Hilary was silent.</p> - -<p>"What shall I do?" she repeated, looking imploringly at him.</p> - -<p>"But if you have made up your mind already—" he hesitated.</p> - -<p>"Not to go back? Oh, yes.... But where shall I go?"</p> - -<p>"Why, I should think—to your parents. Where else could you go?"</p> - -<p>Now she was silent, and an expression of profound dislike and -unwillingness made her face sullen. She dropped Hilary's hand and sat -looking at the fire. Then suddenly she began to weep violently.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was long before she could control herself again. Then she was quiet, -crouched before the fire, staring at it with a look of despair.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> - -<p>Indeed the foundations of her life seemed to have crumbled under her. -She had a lost, helpless feeling. Something had been violently wrenched -away from her—a support that she had thought secure. She had never -thought that Laurence could fail her, she had been sure of him. But he -had deceived, betrayed her confidence. He had wounded her pride in him -and in herself, to the death. She hated his sin, she despised him for -it. What she had seen filled her with loathing. Never would she forgive -him.</p> - -<p>But now—what could she do? How make her life over again? Take her -children and go back to her parents, as Hilary suggested? A woman -separated from her husband—what a humiliating position for her! A -public confession of failure! How could she go to her parents and tell -them that she had made a mistake, that their opposition to her marriage -was justified? And the comments of her little world, how could she bear -those, she who had always stood so proudly above criticism? No matter -what the reason for the separation, a woman who left her husband was -always criticized. And she did not want to give her reason—not to any -one, not even to her parents. She wanted nobody to know. Rather would -she bury the events of this night in darkness....</p> - -<p>She looked at Hilary, who sat by her in silence. If he had uttered a -word of pity or condolence, she would have regretted the impulse that -brought her to him. But he met her look gravely; then glanced at the -kettle he had set on the stove, which was now beginning to steam.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I shall make you some coffee—you look exhausted," he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't bother—I don't care for it," she protested dully.</p> - -<p>"No bother—I often make it when I'm up late. I have everything here."</p> - -<p>He fetched the coffee-pot, poured on the boiling water, set it back on -the stove. A pleasant aroma filled the room. He brought a tray, with -a cup, and sugar, and crackers, and Mary took it with a murmur. The -coffee was good—she drank two cups of it and felt revived.</p> - -<p>"Won't you have some?" she said, with a faint smile.</p> - -<p>"I haven't another cup—but I'll get a glass."</p> - -<p>They drank together. It was warm before the fire, sitting there, -hearing the wind roar and the rain beat against the windows.</p> - -<p>"I'd like to stay here," said Mary dreamily.</p> - -<p>"To stay ...?"</p> - -<p>"Yes—tonight. Can I stay? It must be late."</p> - -<p>Hilary looked at his watch.</p> - -<p>"Nearly three o'clock ... of course you must stay, you can't go out in -the rain. You can lie down on the sofa here—or take my bed. You ought -to sleep."</p> - -<p>"No, no, I don't want to sleep.... But I mustn't keep you up all night. -You go to bed, Hilary, and I'll stay here by the fire. Please."</p> - -<p>"Well, after a while.... But Mrs. Lewis gets up early and I want to see -her—I'll have to tell her you're here—"</p> - -<p>Mary's face darkened. For an instant she had lost the feeling of what -had happened, now it swept back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> upon her. The morning was coming—how -was she to face it? Laurence would know of her absence, perhaps knew it -now. He might go to her parents, he might come here to fetch her. She -must decide something.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think I ought to leave him?" she asked, looking at Hilary.</p> - -<p>"I don't know. Do you mean—divorce him?" he replied with an effort.</p> - -<p>"Divorce! No!" Mary exclaimed with a look of horror. "<i>You</i> don't -believe in divorce!"</p> - -<p>"I don't believe in it," said Hilary in a low voice. "Nor in -separation."</p> - -<p>"I know—I know you don't. But...."</p> - -<p>"You know what I believe. That marriage is a sacrament ... that it -can't be broken or annulled...."</p> - -<p>"But if <i>one</i> has broken it—"</p> - -<p>"One may sin against it—but another's sin does not—does not justify—"</p> - -<p>Hilary got up, putting down his glass with a shaking hand, and walked -to the window.</p> - -<p>"I know. I believe as you do," said Mary darkly.</p> - -<p>"But ... how can I go back there?"</p> - -<p>Over the pallor of her face swept a flaming colour, her eyes flashed -with rage.</p> - -<p>"In my own house!" she cried hoarsely.</p> - -<p>She set her teeth, clenched her hand. Hilary, with his back to her, did -not see her face, but he heard her tone.</p> - -<p>"You have your children, you have your—duty," he said in a trembling -voice. "Just because it is hard, you can't—forsake it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No," said Mary blankly. "But ... I can't see ... I have been dutiful -... but now—I can't be the same. I can never be the same! What can I -do?"</p> - -<p>"Not the same ... but perhaps ... better," said Hilary from the window.</p> - -<p>"Better?" she cried in a low tone of astonishment.</p> - -<p>"Better—yes.... When one near to us fails ... must we not feel <i>we</i> -have failed, too?... Can we stand aside, and condemn?... Are we not ... -our brother's keeper?"</p> - -<p>After these faltering yet firm words there was silence for a time. Then -Mary said in a hard tone:</p> - -<p>"I can't see where I have failed.... I have tried to do my duty, as -I saw it.... I can't feel responsible for <i>this</i> ... and I can never -forgive it."</p> - -<p>"Only love can forgive."</p> - -<p>"No, that's why I can't forgive!... I did love him, and he deceived me, -insulted my love—I will never forgive him!"</p> - -<p>"It's pride that speaks—not love."</p> - -<p>"You know nothing about it! You <i>can't</i> know!"</p> - -<p>"I <i>do</i> know, Mary."</p> - -<p>Hilary turned and faced her.</p> - -<p>"How can you say that? You know that I loved you for many years, that I -loved you as any man loves a woman, that I wanted you for my own ... I -can tell you now, because it has passed. It has changed. But I suffered -what one can suffer from that feeling—and from jealousy. Yes, I <i>do</i> -know.... And I know too that you have never loved any one."</p> - -<p>"You are mistaken."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> - -<p>Her tone was proud and angry. But then all of a sudden she softened. -She looked up at him and said with simplicity:</p> - -<p>"I love you, Hilary. You are the best person I've ever known. You're -like my brother ... only you're far, far above me. I always used to -feel that way about you, and now I feel it more than ever. And I love -you for it.... But there's another kind of love ... when you're bound -to a person, and they hurt you, you <i>can't</i> love them just the same and -forgive them—you can't, Hilary! Because your faith has been destroyed, -and what bound you to the person is broken, and it can never be the -same.... Even if I haven't always been perfect, I didn't break my -faith, but <i>he</i> has broken it, and it's gone—gone forever!"</p> - -<p>And she began to weep again, passionately. There was no pride about her -now. She cried out her suffering and loss, with heartbroken sobs.</p> - -<p>"I know I haven't always been good, I've been hard sometimes and took -my own way and wouldn't give in—but I wouldn't have done what he has -done.... I wouldn't have deceived him or hurt him as he has hurt me.... -I wouldn't have broken our marriage, but he has done it.... It shows -that he didn't care for it, it didn't mean much to him.... I thought he -loved me, but because I wasn't everything he wanted, he took another -woman ... there, in the same house with me.... And he doesn't love her -either, I know he doesn't, he sinned from weakness, low temptation—oh, -I wouldn't have believed it of him. I knew in some ways he was worldly, -but I always thought he was honest and sincere, I was proud of him ... -but now...."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> - -<p>When she grew quiet again, and raised her tear-blurred face, it was to -see a dim light outside the windows—the stormy dawn.</p> - -<p>"Oh, poor Hilary!" she cried. "I've kept you up all night—you haven't -slept a wink!"</p> - -<p>"That's nothing," he answered gently. "I often have sleepless nights."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Then, forgetting him, she stared at the dim light of the window, her -eyes wide open and fixed, her lips parted with long shuddering sighs. -Slowly her breathing grew quieter. Hilary watched her face.</p> - -<p>"Mary," he said in low voice.</p> - -<p>She started, turning her blank unseeing eyes upon him.</p> - -<p>"Be careful what you do now.... You are hardening your heart.... Judge -not, that you be not judged.... When pain comes to us, it is a symptom, -a sign that something is wrong in our life. We must look through the -pain to what caused it, and set it right. We must do it humbly, not -setting ourselves up above the sinner. If another has sinned against -us, let us see why. Are we free of blame for that sin? If we had been -all that we should have been, would this have happened? Let us try to -understand.... They that have eyes to see, let them see...."</p> - -<p>There was no response in those blank eyes, no sign that she had heard. -In her intense preoccupation she simply stared at him instead of at the -window.</p> - -<p>Mary was making up her mind. Something in her heard and registered -Hilary's words; but they did not enter into the question that was -absorbing her. This was a purely practical question. She had to decide -what she was going to do <i>now</i>. And those well-known phrases uttered -in Hilary's deep urgent voice as though they were new—they to all -appearance passed by her like the idle wind.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> - -<p>She could see already what she was going to do. She was not going to -make a scandal, nor have any one talking about her or pitying her. -Enough, that she had complained to Hilary!... This thing should be as -if it never had been, so far as her outward life went—no one should -know. She would not "leave" her husband. But the sinner would not go -unpunished.... She knew well how to punish him. She knew how to make -him suffer....</p> - -<p>Now, resolved, she rose to her feet.</p> - -<p>"The baby! He always wakes about five—if I'm not there he'll be -frightened. I must go back at once."</p> - -<p>Hilary looked piercingly at her.</p> - -<p>"You're going back then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'm going back. You told me to, didn't you?"</p> - -<p>Her tone and look were cool, faintly mocking.</p> - -<p>"It's snowing hard," said Hilary.</p> - -<p>He put out the lamp—a grey light filled the room.</p> - -<p>"No matter—it's only a little way."</p> - -<p>"I'll get a carriage for you—"</p> - -<p>"No—I'd rather go back as I came."</p> - -<p>"But you can't—you haven't any dry clothes—"</p> - -<p>"No matter—it's only for a moment."</p> - -<p>She went quickly into the bedroom, and came back in her limp white -dress and slippers. She took the heavy India shawl and drew it over her -head. Its damp folds completely covered her. Only her face was visible, -white, composed, with a curious sinister light in it.</p> - -<p>She put her hand out of the folds to Hilary. With that gesture he felt -her put him away. He knew he was included in her unforgivingness, he -had become a part<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> of something she wanted to banish. She would hate -him for knowing....</p> - -<p>"Hilary," she said, "I want you to promise me something. Promise never -to speak of this—not to any one else, I know you wouldn't—but not to -me. Never speak of it to me again."</p> - -<p>He dropped her hand, stood looking at her, and slowly his face became -as inflexible as her own.</p> - -<p>"You shut me out, then?... I count for nothing with you? You reject -what you came here for—my help, my ... counsel...."</p> - -<p>"No one can help me. You can't understand."</p> - -<p>"You came to me, not for help or counsel. You came for sympathy, -thinking I would stand with you against your husband. You counted on my -feeling for you—you have always counted on it, though you would never -admit it to yourself—"</p> - -<p>"I don't know why I came.... But it was no use."</p> - -<p>"No. Because you won't let it be. You'll go your own way ... repay -evil for evil. I can see it in your face. I always knew you had it in -you.... Oh, Mary, has it all gone for nothing—all that you said you -believed in for so many years? Was it all on the surface—the first -time life comes hard to you will you throw it all away?... No, I won't -let you, I've cared too much for you—"</p> - -<p>"What you say is no use, Hilary. You might as well promise."</p> - -<p>"Of course not.... You know I won't."</p> - -<p>"Then good-bye."</p> - -<p>She looked at him indifferently and turned away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> Noiselessly she left -the house. She hoped that she might return unseen to her home, and -rejoiced that no one was apt to be out so early. The snow fell thickly, -blindingly, and covered her footsteps. The air was sweet, less cold -than in the night, the wind had gone down. Each branch and twig was -ridged with snow; it lay in a broad unbroken sheet over all surfaces, -and seemed to give out light in the dim dawn.</p> - -<p>As she approached the house, she wondered how she was to get in; the -street-door locked with a catch and she had no key. But as she went up -on the steps she heard the baby crying, and barely noticed that the -door opened to her touch; some one had turned the catch back.... She -ran upstairs. Laurence was in the room, dressed, holding the child, -trying to quiet it. She threw off her shawl, put out her arms for the -boy, gathered him to her breast. His cries ceased.</p> - -<p>A flash of surprise and relief had lit Laurence's face at her entrance, -but now he stood, looking pale and gloomy.</p> - -<p>"How long has he been crying?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"I don't know—not very long."</p> - -<p>Still holding the child, she tried to light a spirit-lamp to heat some -milk; Laurence silently helped her. When she had laid the baby on the -bed, with his bottle, she said:</p> - -<p>"You know I went out?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, and I know where you went, too!"</p> - -<p>Laurence's voice trembled, and his lips; she had noticed when he was -lighting the lamp how his hands shook. His face showed deep lines that -made him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> look ten years older. But Mary said with icy calmness:</p> - -<p>"You didn't expect me to stay here, did you?"</p> - -<p>"I know where you went," he repeated, his eyes dully flaming. "You ran -to him, to—"</p> - -<p>She was changing her dress for a warm wrapper, but suddenly she turned -on him.</p> - -<p>"Is that woman in the house?"</p> - -<p>"No—she's gone."</p> - -<p>"How is she gone—where?"</p> - -<p>"What does it matter to you?... She went to the station, if you want to -know. She meant to take the first train out."</p> - -<p>"She can't go like that—like a thief in the night!... You are -responsible toward her, Laurence."</p> - -<p>"Don't worry about my responsibility. I'll take care of it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I suppose you will."</p> - -<p>His harassed desperate eyes rested on Mary, searching, piercing.</p> - -<p>"And you," he said thickly, "are responsible to me."</p> - -<p>"For what?"</p> - -<p>"For this whole thing—it's your fault."</p> - -<p>"Is it indeed?"</p> - -<p>"It is!... and your action tonight proves it. Flying out of the -house—to your lover."</p> - -<p>Mary was seated with her back to him, changing her wet shoes and -stockings. She laughed—ironical laughter, deep with scorn.</p> - -<p>"Yes, laugh! I know it's true!... Oh, I don't know what your actions -have been, how can I know?... But I know your feeling, I know it hasn't -been with me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> but with some one else. You married me with that feeling -in your heart—you did me a great wrong. I couldn't stand it.... For -what I've done that's wrong, by God, you're responsible!"</p> - -<p>Mary put on her slippers and stood up, tying the cord of the -dressing-gown round her waist. She looked at him with cutting contempt.</p> - -<p>"I don't care what you think.... But if I were a man I wouldn't try to -shift my responsibility for my own sins to some one else."</p> - -<p>"Will you take your own responsibility? Do you see that you've been -wrong toward me?"</p> - -<p>"No. I see that you're trying to throw the wrong on me to save -yourself. Perhaps you want me to ask your forgiveness?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, by God, I do."</p> - -<p>She looked at him, under her long lids, with a blue icy gleam. Silence -fell—charged throbbing silence; all the bitterness of those spoken -words, all their venom, distilled in it. Words that sting and burn like -fire—that leave ineffaceable scars....</p> - -<p>Laurence waited a moment, then with a look of rage and anguish at -her as she stood with averted face, he went out of the room, and she -heard him leave the house. She was standing by the window, she saw him -pass, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his coat flapping open. He -disappeared in the veil of snow. A sharp pang shot through her. But she -stood motionless.</p> - -<p>On the bed the baby lay sucking at his bottle, holding it lovingly with -his frail hands, making gurgling contented sounds. And now she heard -the other chil<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>dren in the nursery, she must attend to them, there was -no one else now to do it.</p> - -<p>She was busy with the children for some hours. Then, leaving them all -together in the nursery, she went into the big bedroom which had been -Laurence's as well as hers, and set about removing all his clothes -and other belongings into the smaller room at the back of the house -where he sometimes slept. This room she arranged carefully, with her -accustomed neatness, putting everything in convenient order, seeing -that the lamp was filled and a fire laid ready for lighting.</p> - -<p>In going and coming she had to pass the closed door of Nora's room. At -last she stopped at this door, hesitated a moment, then flung it open. -The room was swept and empty of all personal belongings—only there -lingered a faint stale scent—Nora had been given to cheap perfumes. -A look of disgust contracted Mary's pale face. She took out the key, -locked the door on the outside, opened a window in the hall and flung -the key far out into the snow.</p> - -<p>She went once more into the neighbouring room and took from the -table something she suddenly recollected to have seen lying there -among Laurence's papers. It was a little leather case, containing a -daguerreotype of herself, done at the age of sixteen. She had given it -to Laurence when they were betrothed, and he had carried it through the -four years of the war. The case was worn and shabby. She opened it and -looked at the picture—a charming picture it was. The graceful dress, -with its full skirt, and frilled fichu covering the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> girlish shoulders, -the pure oval face framed in banded hair.... Laurence had loved it.</p> - -<p>Mary took it into her room, and with tears running down her cheeks, she -seized the fire-tongs, smashed the picture to pieces, and threw the -whole thing into the waste-basket.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p></div> - -<h2>PART THREE</h2> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p></div> - - - -<h3>I</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Lounging in an elegant attitude of ease against the stone balustrade, -a tall youth of seventeen was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, -and languidly regarding the scene before him. There was not much to -excite his interest. Passing vehicles were hidden from view by a thick -screen of maple trees and shrubs. On the broad lawn some younger boys -were playing croquet—he glanced at them with lofty scorn. A gardener -was clipping the evergreen hedge which divided the lawn from the -flower-garden. He was attended by a black puppy, which sometimes made -a dash at the rolling croquet-balls and was driven away by shouts and -brandished mallets.</p> - -<p>An iron fence with sharp pickets surrounded the lawn on three sides. -Tall iron gates, with lamps at the sides, stood open expectant. The two -iron deer on either side of the driveway also stood in an expectant -attitude, their heads raised and nostrils dilated.</p> - -<p>Early frosts had touched with yellow and red the leaves of the maples. -With every gust of the fresh breeze the leaves fell, littering the -neatly trimmed bright green grass. The sun was low in a deep cloudless -blue sky, the air brisk and crisp. Prairie mists and thick heat had -been broken by this first breath of autumn.</p> - -<p>An open carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of grey horses and driven by -a coachman in a bottle-green coat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> turned in through the iron gates. -The boys stopped their play to wave a greeting to the lady in mauve -draperies, who lifted her white-gloved hand in reply. The youth on the -steps hastily threw away his cigarette and concealed the holder, as he -went down to assist his mother from the carriage. She laid her hand on -his with a smile and stepped out with a rich rustle of silken skirts. -He took her furred wrap and books and card case; and they mounted the -long curving flight of stone steps together.</p> - -<p>They were of the same height, and there was a strong resemblance -between them, though the boy was much darker in colouring; with -chestnut hair and dark grey eyes. His face was less delicately shaped, -heavier, but had the same self-contained look; the eyes, under heavy -lids, looked slumbering and secret.</p> - -<p>Mary had grown more slender; her tall figure was girlish in line. Her -auburn hair was less bright in colour, but as thick as ever, without a -touch of grey. She wore it in the same fashion, parted and drawn down -over her forehead, which now showed faint horizontal lines, the only -mark of age in her calm face. Her handsome dress followed the fashion -but a distance, with fewer frills and more amplitude. Her beauty had -stood the test of time; the slight hollows under her high cheek-bones, -her ivory pallor, only emphasized the fine modelling of her face.</p> - -<p>"There's a telegram," said Jim.</p> - -<p>He took it from a table in the hall. Mary opened and read it, standing -at the foot of the stairs.</p> - -<p>"From your father. He won't be back tonight—detained on business."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> - -<p>A look of relief crossed Jim's face.</p> - -<p>"Well—it must be dinner-time," he said.</p> - -<p>In fact the tall clock on the landing began to strike the hour of six.</p> - -<p>"I'll be right down," said Mary. "Call the boys in."</p> - -<p>When she entered the dining-room she found her three sons seated and -the soup on the table, in its silver tureen. She ladled it out, and a -middle-aged waitress in black dress and white apron distributed the -plates. A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased on Mary's -entrance; both now sat in silence, looking sulkily at their plates. The -waitress left the room.</p> - -<p>"Well, what's the trouble now?" Mary enquired with a touch of irony.</p> - -<p>"I don't want Timothy to ride my horse, that's what!" declared Jim, in -his slow heavy voice. "He doesn't know how to ride. Last time he nearly -lamed—"</p> - -<p>"No such thing—the old horse cast a shoe, that's all," interrupted -Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. "It isn't your horse any more -than it's mine, anyway—"</p> - -<p>"It is. Father gave it to me—"</p> - -<p>"He said I was to learn to ride on it—"</p> - -<p>"He didn't say you were to take it when I want it, and lame it—"</p> - -<p>"I didn't lame it, confound you!"</p> - -<p>"Timothy!"</p> - -<p>Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy glanced at her -resentfully.</p> - -<p>"That will do, now. I won't have any such language here—or any -quarrelling either."</p> - -<p>Silence ensued. Timothy sent one flaming look across the table at Jim, -who responded by a slight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> superior smile. Jim was self-controlled and -knew how to seem reasonable in his desires; while Timothy generally -put himself impetuously in the wrong. The maternal decision was almost -certain to be given on the side of Jim, and both boys knew this. -Timothy bent his black brows, smarting under a familiar sense of -injustice. But Jim's certainty of triumph was tempered by a shade of -caution; Timothy, if their disputes came to a fight, had more than a -chance to beat him. Timothy never knew when he was beaten.</p> - -<p>At the head of the table, opposite Mary, stood Laurence's vacant -chair—a stately carved armchair, like hers. A cover was laid for him, -as always; for his presence was never certain, always possible. At the -right of his place sat the youngest of the family, a boy of fourteen, -blond and pale. His large grave blue eyes rested now on Jim's face, now -on Timothy's, now sought his mother's, with a troubled wistful look. -His face had a quivering sensitiveness; yet with its broad open brow -and square chin, it had strength too.</p> - -<p>The setting sun struck into the room between the heavy looped curtains -of plush and lace, cast a red light over its dark walls and carpet, -its shining mahogany, glittered on silver and crystal. In the centre -of the table covered with heavy white damask stood a massive silver -arrangement holding bottles of oil and vinegar, salt, pepper and -spices, and serving also for decoration. Crystal decanters of sherry -and claret were placed on either side.</p> - -<p>The soup being removed, Mary carved roast-beef and dispensed vegetables -with a liberal hand. The continued silence did not disturb her; it -was usual at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> meals, unless Laurence or a guest were present. She -pursued her own thoughts, occasionally glancing with calm pride at her -offspring. They were all handsome boys. Timothy was very like Laurence, -Jim was like her. But the youngest, John, was unaccountable, he did not -resemble either of his parents, or his brothers. He was like a stranger -in the family; in mind and character too he was strange to them all. -Yet with an unchildlike, almost uncanny sympathy, he seemed to know -them better than they knew one another. Long illness—he had never -grown strong—had perhaps given this delicacy to his mind as it had -to his body. Yet he seemed built for strength too. His shoulders were -broad, his large head nobly poised. His hands, with broad palms and -long sensitive fingers, curiously united strength and delicacy.</p> - -<p>He alone felt the silence. The others, absorbed in themselves, took it -as a matter of course. But he, depressed by it, sighed, hardly touched -the beef and heavy pudding, and more than once looked at his father's -empty chair regretfully.</p> - -<p>Mary's eye at length fell upon Jim in the act of filling his -claret-glass for the third time. She frowned.</p> - -<p>"I've told you that I don't want you to drink more than one glass of -wine at meals," she said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, this light wine—Father doesn't mind," said Jim easily.</p> - -<p>"He doesn't want you to <i>drink</i>. And I won't have it. I won't have wine -on the table at all if you can't do as I wish."</p> - -<p>Jim shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, well, let's not quarrel about it," he murmured, and pushed away -the wine-glass.</p> - -<p>His tone was amiable, he even smiled at her. But Mary knew that Jim was -not so easily managed as that. He would seem always to yield to her -wishes, would never openly oppose her, but he managed almost always to -do as he pleased. He had an unsounded depth of quiet obstinacy. And -he was secretive too, never explained himself. Timothy was much more -frank, and more violent, hence was constantly getting into hot water -and usually was in a state of revolt. Mary's rules were strict and -not elastic to the needs and impulses of growing youth. She had felt -strongly the duty of implanting good principles in her boys, and of -repressing the ebullitions of the old Adam. While they were very young -she had succeeded in teaching them to tell the truth, to respect other -people's property rights, and to conform a good deal to her standards -of behaviour. But as they grew out of childhood, she lost touch with -them, gradually, unconsciously. She looked after their health, their -schools; they found their amusements for themselves. Withdrawn in -growing isolation, in a dumb struggle with growing unhappiness, her -spirit had no youth, no buoyancy, to keep pace with theirs. While -in infancy they depended completely upon her and she could suffice -to all their wants, they had given her contentment. Now it was no -longer a simple relation; she tried to banish or ignore its growing -complexities; but they made her uneasy. She had a feeling that her duty -was not done, but she did not know how to do it; her rule of life was -too simple, too rigid, to meet its problems.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> - -<p>John's childhood had lasted longer than the others; his ill health -had made him longer dependent on her physical care. But here a rival -affection had taken John's love and interest away from her.... When -John was ten he had scarlet fever, and Laurence insisted on nursing -him, devoted himself day and night to the boy; and through the long -convalescence, spent with him all the time he could wrest from his -business. From that time, John had depended on his father in a way -that, Mary felt acutely, he never had on her; with a feeling that grew -as he grew. With passionate rejecting jealousy she stood apart; felt -herself superseded; would not, could not, make an effort to recover -her hold. John had been all hers; she would not share his love, though -he made many timid efforts to draw her in. She felt her loss the more -bitterly that he was the most beautiful of her children; he was, she -knew, the flower of them all. There was something in him that hurt her -by its beauty; the same thing that she had felt in her youth, sometimes -in music, sometimes in a human expression. Something that called to -her spirit, an appeal that she could not meet, that made her restless. -Something that she had missed in life, had never been able to grasp, to -realize.</p> - -<p>She did not always feel this. Sometimes she had a surface contentment, -a pride merely in being the mother of three fine lads and in the -outward show of authority; in her worldly dignity too. Her position, as -the wife of a man of distinction and power, commanded public respect. -And then, she had made a place for herself in the life of the town. She -was an intellectual leader among the women; president of their literary -society;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> a moving force in the work of the church and in charity. So -long as proper deference was paid to her, she could be counted upon -for faithful, even arduous work. But she would not suffer any rivals; -would engage in no contest for power; and haughtily withdrew before -opposition to her will. Whereupon, the value of her influence and -activity being almost a tradition, any sister who might have dared -approach the throne would be suppressed.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The meal being over, the family promptly dispersed. That is, the two -elder boys vanished, to continue their disagreement about the horse. -Mary walked absently into the library, having in mind the composition -of a paper on the Greek dramatists for the literary club. She stood for -a moment by one of the long windows, looking out on the lake.</p> - -<p>The scene had changed, in these ten years. Instead of rough pastures -and the loneliness of the prairie, she saw now green lawns sloping -down to the dull-blue water; dotted on its banks were modern houses -sheltered by clumps of trees; and a little fleet of pleasure-boats rode -on its surface. The clear golden light of evening lay over all; the -branches of the trees waved and the water rippled in the fresh breeze. -Merry voices rose from the lake; some one in a boat was singing.</p> - -<p>A faint stir beside her made Mary turn her head. John stood there, his -footstep had made no noise on the thick carpet.</p> - -<p>"It's such a beautiful evening. Don't you want to come out with me on -the lake, Mother?" he asked in his rather nervous fluttering voice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I'd like to—but I have some work to do," she said quickly.</p> - -<p>She seldom went out in the boat. She hated inactivity and mere -contemplation of any scene, however lovely; indeed, the lovelier it -was, the more painful. But now she saw John's wistful and disappointed -look.</p> - -<p>"Won't any of the boys go with you?" she asked gently.</p> - -<p>"No, I don't think so, they've gone out to the stable.... Did Father -say when he'd be home?" he asked, hesitatingly.</p> - -<p>"No, he never does."</p> - -<p>With this sharp answer, Mary walked away toward her desk. But then she -stopped and with an effort said:</p> - -<p>"I will go with you, John, if you want."</p> - -<p>"No, never mind—I thought you might like it, it's such a nice -evening—but you're busy—"</p> - -<p>"No, I have time enough, I'll just get my cloak."</p> - -<p>But now his sensitive face showed distress, and he protested:</p> - -<p>"I'd rather not—really. I know you don't like the boat so very much, -only I thought.... I'll go myself."</p> - -<p>He moved toward the door.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps Timothy would like to go—"</p> - -<p>"No, he won't—but no matter, I rather like to drift around, alone, and -look at the water."</p> - -<p>"Shall I play to you a little, first?" asked Mary.</p> - -<p>His face lighted up.</p> - -<p>"Why, yes—if you have time—"</p> - -<p>She led the way across the hall, where the lights had just been lit -and gleamed on the dark-red walls and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> bronze statues of Mercury -and the Venus of Milo. The grand piano stood in one of the parlours: -its glossy lid was seldom raised. John drew a chair up beside it and -listened with a rapt face while Mary played his favorite, the "Grand -Sonata" of Beethoven, the only one she knew by heart. She made many -mistakes, her fingers were stiff from lack of practice; but still she -played conscientiously, with a feeling, a respect for the music. John -sat facing the window and the fading golden light. She glanced at him. -His face had a look of unearthly radiance and joy that shot a sharp -pain through her. With difficulty she continued. At the last notes her -head sank, bent over the keyboard, and she sat in silence. He drew a -long breath.</p> - -<p>"Thank you—that's wonderful, I love it," he said.</p> - -<p>"I wish I could play it better," said Mary huskily. "I must practise."</p> - -<p>"You play it beautifully. Thank you, Mother," he repeated softly. Then, -hesitating, looking at her, he got up.</p> - -<p>"I'll go out now and row a while."</p> - -<p>She nodded, and he went.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>II</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">She sat at her desk, looking over her notes on Æschylus, now and then -writing a few words on a large sheet of paper. Then she would stop and -look fixedly before her, trying to concentrate her thoughts. It was ten -o'clock, the two younger boys were in bed. But Jim was off somewhere. -And he had taken the black horse, Laurence's own horse, that the boys -were forbidden to touch—a big powerful brute, hard to control. Lately -Jim had often been out at night. She did not know where he went, and -he would not tell. He would say easily, "Oh, I just went for a ride, -there's nothing to do in this dead place." But she suspected that he -found something to do; he might be getting into bad ways. She thought -he smoked, in spite of her prohibition; certainly he showed a taste for -drink; there were other vices, too. Her lips were compressed bitterly -as she thought, such tendencies were inherited. Perhaps Jim couldn't -help himself....</p> - -<p>The big house was silent as the tomb. On the desk burned a shaded lamp, -the rest of the room was in darkness. It was rather cold, the fires -had not been lighted yet. The house with its thick walls of brick was -almost always chilly unless the furnaces were going. She drew her black -wrap closer round her shoulders, and bent over her notes.</p> - -<p>Then she heard the door-bell faintly sounding. After a moment there -was a knock and Anna came in, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> middle-aged woman who waited on the -table and the door.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Carlin—there's somebody here that wants to see you. He asked for -Judge Carlin, and says he'll wait to see him."</p> - -<p>"Wait? But he may not be home for days! Who is it?" asked Mary -impatiently.</p> - -<p>"An old—an old gentleman. He didn't give his name. He says he'd like -to see you," said Anna neutrally.</p> - -<p>"Where is he? What does he want?"</p> - -<p>"He didn't say. He's in the hall."</p> - -<p>Mary rose and went out, stately in the black mantle that wrapped her -from head to foot, its collar of black fur framing her face. The -stranger stood, holding his hat in his hand, contemplating the bronze -statue of Mercury. He was a small grey-haired man, in a shabby but neat -dark suit. Some client of Laurence's, she thought. She spoke to him.</p> - -<p>"Good evening. Did you want to see Judge Carlin?"</p> - -<p>He turned and looked at her. His thin smooth-shaven face showed a -rather shy, pleasant smile.</p> - -<p>"Yes—I'm Laurence's father," he said, in a gentle laughing tone.</p> - -<p>Mary stared at him.</p> - -<p>"I don't wonder you're surprised.... I was passing through here, -and thought I'd like to see you all," the old man said, without the -slightest embarrassment. "But I hear Laurence isn't at home."</p> - -<p>"No—but he may be—tomorrow, or almost any time," stammered Mary, at a -loss.</p> - -<p>"Well, then, I'll come again. I may be in town a day or so."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But—why, you must stay here, of course," protested Mary blankly.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I couldn't think of discommoding you—"</p> - -<p>"Discommoding? Why, of course not. Come right in. I'll get a room ready -for you at once."</p> - -<p>"Please don't let me give any trouble," he pleaded, smiling. "I can -stay at the hotel quite well."</p> - -<p>"Hotel? Of course not," she said, bewildered.</p> - -<p>What a queer old man, to drop from the skies like this—and so -perfectly at his ease about it! Was he Laurence's father or an -impostor? Was it right to take him in? He did not look as if he -had money enough to stay at the hotel. Certainly she couldn't turn -Laurence's father out!</p> - -<p>"Come in," she repeated with an effort, turning toward the library -doors, then stopping. "Wouldn't you like some supper?"</p> - -<p>"No, thank you, I dined at the hotel."</p> - -<p>"Is your baggage there? I'll send for it."</p> - -<p>"No baggage. I haven't any," he said, with his whimsical smile. "I -travel light."</p> - -<p>In consternation Mary led the way into the library. No baggage! He -must be a vagabond. To disappear for twenty-five years, and come back -like this, as if it were yesterday! It was certainly not a respectable -proceeding. He hadn't even an overcoat. Nothing but the worn felt hat, -which he had still carried in his hand as he followed her—as if he -were a casual visitor, come to stay half an hour....</p> - -<p>She felt the chill of the big dimly-lit room, and went toward the -chimney-place. "There's a fire all ready here—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Let me light it," he said.</p> - -<p>Nimbly he laid down his hat, knelt on the rug, and in a moment had -the fire going. The kindling blazed up, the dry wood caught. A more -cheerful light brightened the dusky room. The fire-place was broad and -deep, it held three-foot logs. Soon there was a glorious fire.</p> - -<p>They sat down before it, in armchairs facing one another. The old man -spread his hands to the blaze with enjoyment. His gaze rested on Mary -with admiration, then wandered round the room.</p> - -<p>"You have a fine place here," he said cheerfully. "How long have you -lived here?"</p> - -<p>"Ten years, Laurence built the house."</p> - -<p>She was scrutinizing him with covert glances, trying to find some -resemblance to Laurence.</p> - -<p>"Yes, so I heard.... Laurence has certainly done well, remarkably well. -I always thought he would—he was a smart boy," said this strange -parent calmly.</p> - -<p>No, he wasn't at all like Laurence, there was no resemblance in his -spare light frame, his long clear-cut face to ... yet there was -something familiar in his look. What was it? Something in the way his -thick grey hair grew over his forehead, his eyebrows.... Why, yes, -he looked like Jim—or was it Timothy? She had a sudden conviction, -anyhow, that he was what he assumed to be.</p> - -<p>With the assurance that this was a member of the family (however -unworthy) the duty of hospitality became manifest. Again she urged him -to have something to eat; he declined, but with a certain reservation -of manner which led her to say, though unwillingly:</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?"</p> - -<p>"Thank you—if it doesn't trouble you too much—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>wine, or a little -whiskey—whatever is most convenient."</p> - -<p>Comprehending what he wanted, she brought from the dining-room a silver -tray, with decanters of whiskey and water, a glass and some biscuits. -The old man poured himself a modest drink, a third of a glass of -whiskey with a little water, and bowed to her.</p> - -<p>"I drink your good health.... Yes, Laurence is a fortunate man."</p> - -<p>"He has been very successful," she said gravely.</p> - -<p>"All the heart could desire—position, wealth, a fine family," he -continued musingly. "I'm glad to find him so well off.... Circumstances -have prevented me from knowing anything of it until today, when I -reached town."</p> - -<p>Circumstances! Mary gazed at him in mute astonishment. With an absent -air he filled his glass again and gazing at the fire went on, in a tone -of meditative detachment:</p> - -<p>"I have been a wanderer for the last quarter of a century—a rolling -stone. Much of the time I've been out on the coast—California and -so on—I went out there in fifty-five.... But I've seen the whole -country—a fine big country it is. I never liked to stay long in one -place, I'll soon be moving on. But passing through Chicago, I thought -I'd like to see what remained of my family.... Great changes—I didn't -know till I reached here and enquired, that they were all gone, except -Laurence.... Things change quickly, in this country. Chicago has grown -to an immense city, since I saw it last—and this town too, has become -very flourishing. I shouldn't have known it.... And all over the west, -cities springing up, there is hardly a frontier any more, the old -days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> are gone, the rough pioneer life. The whole country, almost, is -settled, civilized.... Yes, a great country, a great people."</p> - -<p>He basked in the warmth and drank his whiskey with gentle enjoyment, -gazing into the brilliant coals as though seeing there the whole vast -panorama that had passed before his eyes. Mary listened to him and -looked at him with a kind of fascinated surprise. He talked like a -visitor from the moon—so aloof, contemplative, as if he had no concern -in all this.... An old man who had deserted his family, run away, never -had known whether they were alive or dead, nor cared, apparently. -Disgraceful! A disreputable old man!... Yet there he sat, perfectly at -his ease, with no shadow of guilt, remorse, or regret on his placid -countenance. His grey eyes were clear and bright. His face was wise -and experienced, but hardly at all wrinkled, it had a queer look of -youth. His clothes were almost threadbare, but they were clean,—his -boots cracked on the side, but well polished. His hands were those of -a working-man, broad and stubby; but they showed no traces now of hard -work, the fingernails were clean and carefully trimmed. He smiled at -her.</p> - -<p>"You are Laurence's wife—but I don't know your name," he said with a -twinkle of amusement, but courteously. In spite of her disapproval, she -could not but smile at him as she answered.</p> - -<p>"Mary—a beautiful name, I always liked it. And you are Dr. Lowell's -daughter—I remember you as a slip of a girl, with wonderful flowing -hair.... And I remember your parents too. Are they living?"</p> - -<p>"My mother died two years ago," said Mary.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Ah, that was a loss, a great loss—I remember her, a strong woman, -impressive.... And your father—he goes on with his work?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes," Mary answered with astonishment.</p> - -<p>Of course he went on with his work, why shouldn't he?... But it came -to her with a shock that her father was really an old man, that people -thought of him as old.</p> - -<p>"I don't know what this town would do without Father," she said -quickly. "People depend on him—"</p> - -<p>She gazed pointedly and with a certain defiance at old Mr. Carlin, -who waved any possible comparison aside with a smile and a word of -hearty commendation of Dr. Lowell; and went on to enquire about other -old residents of the town, showing an accurate memory. A third time -he refilled his glass, and that emptied the decanter. The whiskey had -not the least visible effect on him. His hand was as steady, his eye -and speech as clear and unmoved, as Mary's own. She heard the clock -strike eleven, then the half hour, but still he chatted on, and she was -aware that she was entertained by him. Yes, he was an amusing, though a -scandalous old man; and conducted himself with propriety, even grace, -though all the time drinking whiskey as if it were water.</p> - -<p>At length he spoke of his grandchildren. Among other information he -had acquired this, that they were three in number and all boys. Now he -politely asked their names. Mary repeated them.</p> - -<p>"Timothy?" he questioned with surprise.</p> - -<p>"Yes, we named him after you," said Mary gravely.</p> - -<p>"After me!"</p> - -<p>For the first time she saw a flicker of emotion in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> face. He set -down his glass, and looked at her with eyes troubled by that gleam of -feeling, almost distress.</p> - -<p>"Why did you do that?" he asked abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Why, James was named after my father, you see," Mary explained. "So -it was only right that the second boy should be named after you. It's -a matter of family feeling, it always has been so in my family. Our -youngest boy is named for my grandfather."</p> - -<p>"Family feeling," he repeated, mechanically. "Named after me.... So -there's another Timothy Carlin! I never expected it. Well, I hope—" he -stopped short, and after a moment took up his glass and drained it. "I -appreciate your remembering me, though I didn't expect it in the least. -I—I am touched by it. I should like to see the boys, and especially -my—namesake." His voice was a little uneven.</p> - -<p>"You will see them tomorrow.... But now, it's late, you must be tired. -Shall I show you to your room?"</p> - -<p>He followed in silence. Putting out the lights as she went, she led the -way through the lofty entrance-hall, up the thickly-carpeted stairs, -into the best spare-room, ready as always for a guest, since Laurence -often brought one unexpected. Mary lighted the room, and the old man -stood gazing round with a deprecating smile. It was a big room, with -high ceiling, furnished rather elaborately with carved black walnut, -enormous, heavy pieces.</p> - -<p>"It's much too grand for me," he said, humorously. "I shall rattle -around here like a dried kernel in a shell.... However, I thank you for -your hospitality."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Isn't there something I can get for you, something you need?"</p> - -<p>"No, thank you, my dear, I don't need anything," said the old man, with -his former manner of gentle cool composure.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>III</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The following day Laurence returned on the mid-afternoon train, but -stopped at his office, sending on a friend he had brought with him in a -hack with the valises. This was Horace Lavery, a Chicago lawyer, rather -a frequent visitor at the house. Mary was in the garden when the hack -drove up, and came round to see if it were Laurence. She gave Lavery -a stately, somewhat cool greeting. He was a man of middle age, florid -and rather stout, gay and talkative. Always a little dashed at first by -Mary's manner, he would speedily recover himself and amuse himself in -his own way. Now, a little embarrassed, he said, after dismissing the -hackman:</p> - -<p>"Well, here I am again. Laurence stopped down town, he'll be home by -seven.... Can I go upstairs and brush off, it was rather a dusty ride."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but not the usual room, we have another visitor—the one next to -it."</p> - -<p>"And shall I find you here when I come down?"</p> - -<p>"I'm working in the garden."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I can help?"</p> - -<p>"If you do, you'll get yourself all dusty again."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't mind," he said effusively. "So long as it's in your -service."</p> - -<p>Mary laughed and turned away. She always laughed at Lavery's ponderous -gallantry. But under the sen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>timental surface that he presented to her -there was another man, of whom she caught occasional glimpses that -interested her. At present, however, she was vexed at his coming. -She preferred to see Laurence alone, to break to him the news of his -parent's reappearance. And what would Lavery, with his glossy freshness -of apparel and man-of-the-world air, think of a shabby parent, suddenly -produced? She didn't care, though, what Lavery thought, except that it -might vex Laurence. She wished she had telegraphed him. She might send -down to the office ... but no, he would be immersed in work, and only -the more upset by it. She went slowly back into the garden, a favourite -spot with her; it had been laid out years ago by her father, and he -often came to help her with it.</p> - -<p>Dr. Lowell had enjoyed having a good deal of money to spend on a -garden. It was enclosed by a brick wall covered with creepers on two -sides, the house on the third side, the other open, overlooking the -lake. There were gravel-walks, white wooden benches and trellises, -and in the centre, a sun-dial. The flower-beds had been touched by -the frost; but still blooming were verbenas and many-coloured asters. -The dead leaves had been raked up and smouldered here and there in -blackened heaps, sending out a sweet pungent smoke. Mary, bare-headed, -in a long black cloak, was down on her knees digging up bulbs when -Lavery approached, freshly groomed and enveloped in a delicate scent of -Florida-water.</p> - -<p>"Let me do that," he urged, bending over her.</p> - -<p>"What? In those immaculate clothes? You don't mean it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I do—I'll sacrifice the clothes. Please get up and let me dig the -onions."</p> - -<p>"Onions! These are very rare bulbs, of a Chinese lily—they have to -be handled with great care and I always do it myself. So you may as -well sit down there and smoke your cigar. Some people are made to be -ornamental, you know, and others to be useful."</p> - -<p>"And some are both," said Lavery, looking down on her heavy rippling -hair. "And again, others are neither."</p> - -<p>He seated himself rather sulkily on the bench near by.</p> - -<p>"Of course I know I'm not handsome," he observed. "So that was rather a -nasty dig of yours about being 'ornamental.' But you made one mistake. -I <i>am</i> useful."</p> - -<p>"Are you? For what?" enquired Mary, carefully separating bulbs. "I -always thought you just a bright butterfly."</p> - -<p>"You never thought about me at all," he declared with emphasis. "But I -have thought a good deal about you."</p> - -<p>He took out a cigar and a pearl-handled knife, cut the end of the cigar -neatly, and lit it with a match from a gold box. Then clasping his -broad white hands about his knee, he contemplated Mary's grave profile. -She seemed absorbed in her work and did not look up at him, nor betray -by the flicker of an eyelash any interest in what he thought. Still -less did she enquire into it. The silence lasted until he broke it, -petulantly.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Carlin, why do you dislike me?"</p> - -<p>"I don't dislike you—at least I think not."</p> - -<p>"You think not! Don't you know whether you do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> or not?... You strike me -as a person who would know her own mind!"</p> - -<p>"Yes—but I'm not very quick about making up my mind. I don't feel I -know you at all well."</p> - -<p>"You've known me for two years.... How long does it take you to make up -your mind?"</p> - -<p>"Well, that depends—longer now than it used to. I don't feel that I -know very much about anybody. I used to be more sure about things."</p> - -<p>She lifted the last of the bulbs into the basket, and rose to her feet.</p> - -<p>"Won't you sit here and talk to me a little?... I almost never have -a chance to talk to you alone—that's why we don't know one another -better."</p> - -<p>She looked at him and smiled faintly, but the shadow of sadness and -weariness did not lift from her face.</p> - -<p>"I have some things to see to in the house—and then I must dress—"</p> - -<p>"But it's hardly five now."</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>She sat down on the bench, brushing the dust off her black cloak.</p> - -<p>"I like," said Lavery discontentedly, "to be friendly with people. I -don't like to be held off at arm's length and looked at as if I were a -queer beetle or something—or not looked at, that's even worse!"</p> - -<p>"Do you think I do that?" Mary enquired.</p> - -<p>"Yes, you do! You treat me as if I were hardly a human being!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, how absurd!... You're a different kind of human being, that's all, -you belong to a different world."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> - -<p>"How a different world? I'm Laurence's friend, why can't I be yours?"</p> - -<p>A sudden sternness, a definite recoil, in her expression, warned him -off this ground.</p> - -<p>"How could you be my friend? There is nothing in common between you and -me," she said coldly.</p> - -<p>"Now, how do you know there isn't? You say yourself you don't know -me!... But I think you've made up your mind that you don't want to ... -you think I'm frivolous and ridiculous, because I manage to enjoy life, -don't you now? A middle-aged butterfly, a mere sensualist—isn't that -it?"</p> - -<p>"Well—something like that," Mary admitted. "But it oughtn't to matter -to you what I think.... I told you I don't understand people very well, -the older I get the less I understand them, and I can't make friends."</p> - -<p>This quiet statement had an air of finality. He was silent, looking at -her thoughtfully, with a keen shrewdness, a questioning puzzled gaze.</p> - -<p>"Well, friends or not, I admire you very much," he said abruptly. "I -hate to have you think me such a poor creature."</p> - -<p>"I imagine it won't disturb you very much, if I do. You wouldn't care -much for any woman's opinion, you like to amuse yourself with women but -you don't take them seriously, you look down on them. You think they're -all alike and that a few compliments and pretty speeches are all they -want or can understand. You like to take them in, and then laugh at -them, it amuses you.... And men too—you like to play with people, try -experiments. You're more cool-headed and sharp than most people, you -think almost every one is a fool,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> in some way or other, and you like -to find out how—turn them inside out. That's how you enjoy life."</p> - -<p>"Well, by Jove!" Lavery stared at her. "So you <i>have</i> given me some -attention, after all—I wouldn't have guessed it! Now, do you know, -you're right about some things, but that isn't the whole story—"</p> - -<p>Mary stood up and took her basket.</p> - -<p>"No, I suppose not, but I must go in now."</p> - -<p>Reluctantly he rose, and walked with her to the door.</p> - -<p>"You're a severe judge—you won't even let the criminal speak in his -own defence," he said with some feeling. "'Give every man his deserts -and who should 'scape hanging?' Don't you think you might show a little -mercy?"</p> - -<p>"I believe in justice," said Mary, with a sudden hardening of her face. -"That's what we all get—not mercy."</p> - -<p>The bitterness of her tone remained with him after she had gone.... He -told himself that he would make her talk yet, he would find out what -was the trouble in this household, the shadow that hung over it. He had -tried to find out from Laurence, but in vain; even when he was drunk, -Laurence wouldn't talk about his wife.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Mary was dressed and listening for Laurence long before he came. Her -father-in-law had disappeared for the whole afternoon, and had not yet -returned; he had told her that he was going for a long walk, and John -had accompanied him. Mary perceived that the old man was very tactful. -She had seen it in his meeting with his grandsons, the manner in which -he at once took a certain place with them. He did not assert him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>self -in the least nor stress the relationship; he treated them not like -children, but with the courteous interest due to new acquaintance, -without familiarity. The two elder boys rather hung back from him; but -John had at once been friendly; they were all in some way impressed by -him.</p> - -<p>It was dark, the lamps had been lighted, when Laurence came. Lavery was -strolling about the lawn and met him; and they came upstairs together -and went into Laurence's room, laughing. Mary waited impatiently till -finally Lavery went to dress; then she knocked at Laurence's door -and entered. He was in his dressing-room, splashing vigorously, and -answered with surprise when she spoke to him. In a moment he came out, -wrapped in a loose robe, his thick black hair and beard wet and rough.</p> - -<p>"Laurence, something strange has happened. Some one is here—you -haven't heard?—your father has come."</p> - -<p>A look of apprehension on his face quickly gave place to astonishment -as she ended.</p> - -<p>"My father!... What the deuce!"</p> - -<p>He looked dismayed; then as she went on to describe the new arrival, -incredulous.</p> - -<p>"I don't believe it's my father. He wouldn't turn up like this after -twenty-five years without a word!... I've thought for a long time he -was dead."</p> - -<p>"Well, he isn't—it's your father, sure enough."</p> - -<p>Laurence, with a blank look, towelled his head and neck.</p> - -<p>"Jesus Christ!" he ejaculated.</p> - -<p>He went and stared into the mirror, rubbing his hair till it stood up -wildly all over his head. There were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> threads of grey all through it, -but the beard that covered his mouth and was cut square below his chin -was intensely black, and so were his arched brows, beneath which the -narrow eyes showed still their vivid blue. His broad shoulders, the -joining of the massive neck, were strong, unbowed.</p> - -<p>"What did you do with him?" he asked abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Put him in the best bedroom and gave him your special whiskey," said -Mary.</p> - -<p>"The deuce you did!... Killed the fatted calf, eh?... Well, where is he -now?"</p> - -<p>"He went to walk with John—John took a great fancy to him."</p> - -<p>"He did?" Laurence's face changed subtly, relaxed. "Well, that's -something.... But, say—it's awkward about Lavery being here. I wish -I'd known."</p> - -<p>"I might have telegraphed, but I didn't know where you were," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"You can always reach me at the hotel," he said sharply.</p> - -<p>She moved toward the door.</p> - -<p>"I wish to the deuce Lavery wasn't here," he muttered.</p> - -<p>"I wouldn't care about that." There was an edge in Mary's tone, but -with an effort she eliminated that touch of criticism. "Your father can -take care of himself—he's quite as much a gentleman as Lavery."</p> - -<p>"No, is he really?"</p> - -<p>Laurence turned round, a hairbrush in either hand, and gazed at her.</p> - -<p>"He's presentable, really?... I shouldn't have expected it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> - -<p>"He isn't very well dressed," said Mary quietly. "But you needn't be at -all ashamed of him. He's—there's something about him—well, I can't -describe it, but he has much better manners than Mr. Lavery."</p> - -<p>"Oh, you always have a knife up your sleeve for poor old Horace," said -Laurence, turning back again to the mirror and brushing vigorously. -"I'll be down in ten minutes—but I'd rather see him alone first, you -know. Do you suppose he's come back?"</p> - -<p>"I'll see."</p> - -<p>In the mirror Laurence's eyes dwelt on her tall figure and white face -shadowy in the background. He said slowly with an undertone of pain:</p> - -<p>"You look very beautiful tonight."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>IV</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Where Laurence sat was the head of the table; he dominated all by his -vivid colour, his intense physical vitality, and he kept the talk -going easily. He and Lavery were in evening dress, rather dandified, -with soft plaited shirt-bosoms and diamond studs. Old Mr. Carlin, -sitting between Timothy and John, appeared perfectly at ease in his -well-brushed suit. His bright grey eyes contemplated the scene and the -company with an aloof and philosophic interest.</p> - -<p>Mary, in her usual dress for the evening, of plain black velvet, cut -square at the neck, and with long close-fitting sleeves, was beautiful, -as Laurence had said and Lavery's long gaze recognized. She wore no -ornaments except a pair of heavy earrings of dull gold filagree. The -light from the big cut-glass chandelier over the table fell unshaded -upon her, bringing out the pale copper colour of her rippling hair and -the whiteness of her skin. It emphasized too the hollows in her cheeks -and at her temples, the lines of the forehead and of the neck below the -ear. Her face, as in her youth, was like a mask; but now it was a mask -of sorrow. Calm and unmoved in expression, it was yet an abstract of -sad experience.</p> - -<p>The years had left a more complex mark on Laurence. There were deeper -furrows in his brow and running down from the nostrils to bury -themselves in his black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> beard. A passionate expressiveness, a restless -irritability, spoke in his voice, his gestures, his constant flow of -talk. "Carlin's temper" was a proverb by now. A racial inheritance came -out strongly in him. He was "the black Irish"; dangerous at times. -But there was another side to this temperament. Often when he smiled, -and always when he looked at the boy who sat beside him, there was a -deep sweetness in his eyes, a deep tenderness. John's place was always -beside his father; he hung on Laurence's words and looks with hushed -eagerness. And Laurence, keenly conscious of the sensitive boy, was -careful what he said, instinctively suppressed anything that might -shock or hurt a young idealistic spirit; and never drank more than a -glass or two of wine, in his presence.</p> - -<p>The wine was always on the dinner-table, however. It was Laurence's -idea that the boys had better get used to seeing it, and to taking a -little now and then. Mary never touched it, and hated the sight of it; -but she had long since ceased to oppose Laurence in any detail of life. -The house was managed as he wished, though he was away more than half -the time. Now there were three kinds of wine on the table—sherry, -claret and port. Laurence was proud of his wine-cellar, down in the -deep foundations of the house.</p> - -<p>Lavery drank delicately. He had guided Laurence's choice of the -claret, and confined himself to that. He much preferred to remain -perfectly sober; especially when other people were drunk; but in any -case he disliked the least blurring of the fine edge of sensation -and perception. He liked to watch the play of human feeling, and to -guess what was going on below the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> surface; and for this one must -be alert and cool. He was immensely curious, for example, about the -human situation under his eyes. Old Mr. Carlin had suddenly come in -for a share of this interest. Lavery studied him across the table, and -addressed frequent remarks to him, with amenity. He discovered that the -old man, in point of quick wit, suavity and coolness, was by no means -his inferior, although the elder had, from the beginning of the dinner, -applied very steadily to each decanter in turn.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>After the coffee Mary rose, as was her custom, leaving the men at the -table. The three boys followed her; Jim with evident reluctance. His -manly dignity was hurt at being classed with women and children; but -he was quite aware that his company would not be longer desired in the -room, where heavy drinking and free talk were apt to be the order of -the evening. Lavery sprang up to open the door for Mary, and she passed -out with a slight bow, the boys waiting till the edge of her long -velvet train had ebbed over the threshold.</p> - -<p>Timothy and John went upstairs to the billiard-room on the top floor; -and Mary, slipping her hand through Jim's arm, led him into the parlour -where the piano stood. She wanted to ask him about his excursion of the -night before—he had been out till three o'clock—but more than that -she wanted him to stay with her a little while. But Jim was restive, -wouldn't sit down. He feared an inquisition, and also he wanted to get -away to the stable and smoke. Mary, both irritated and hurt by his -unwillingness, spoke more sharply than she had intended.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Where were you all last night?"</p> - -<p>"I went out for a long ride," said Jim sulkily.</p> - -<p>"And were you riding from eight o'clock till three?"</p> - -<p>"No—I stopped a while to see a friend."</p> - -<p>"What friend?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, somebody you don't know—a fellow."</p> - -<p>Controlling himself, he answered more gently; his dark eyes met hers -imperturbably.</p> - -<p>"Well, you oughtn't to stay out all night!"</p> - -<p>"I didn't," said Jim reasonably. "And a fellow has to do something in -this dead place."</p> - -<p>"You shouldn't have taken your father's horse either, without -permission."</p> - -<p>"Why, Mother, he was simply spoiling for exercise—you know he doesn't -get ridden half enough."</p> - -<p>"I don't like you to ride him, he's dangerous—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I can manage him, all right, don't you worry!" Jim smiled -cheerfully. "But I've got to run out now and see to the pony—he's a -bit lame still—"</p> - -<p>She let him go, turning away from him and walking to the end of the -long room. Yes, he wanted to escape—he had his own life now, was -beginning to be a man and to take his secret way, like the rest of -them. Her mouth curved bitterly. She did not believe Jim, about the -friend—she suspected something else, and she recoiled jealously, -miserably.... Yes, her son too—he was like the rest....</p> - -<p>She stood by the open window, looking out blindly on the garden. The -night was mild, it was moonlight, greenish, like a glowworm's light. -The long lace curtains waved inward in the soft breeze. There were -sounds of life astir all about. She heard a burst of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> laughter from the -dining-room; then the faint click of the billiard-balls and a shout -from Timothy. Then, on the lake, some one began to sing Schubert's -boat-song. A clear soprano trilled out joyously the song of love and -youth....</p> - -<p>A piercing sense of loneliness, of life passing by her, leaving her, -stabbed to her very heart. She gave a long, shuddering sigh.... Youth, -love—they had passed by. Like the song growing fainter, receding into -distance. And the bitter thing was, one did not realize them till they -were gone. The sweetness of life—all it was, might have been—one -did not feel it till it had slipped away.... Gone, lost—then, in -loneliness you felt it....</p> - -<p>Some one came into the room. She turned, and at sight of her face, -Lavery's gay apology dropped half-spoken. He came and stood beside her -at the window.</p> - -<p>"I hate music," she said abruptly. "Some one was singing out there. It -makes one sad.... It makes one remember all the things—"</p> - -<p>"I don't like it myself," said Lavery, when she stopped as abruptly. -"Unless it's an opera—with gay dresses, lights, all that—then it -distracts you."</p> - -<p>"That's trying to shut it out, the sadness of life. Like making merry -in a room, shut in, with a storm outside."</p> - -<p>"Well, you know, that's the sensible thing to do. You <i>have</i> to shut it -out."</p> - -<p>"But supposing you <i>can't</i>?"</p> - -<p>He met the misery of her eyes, her voice, with a gravity that he seldom -showed to any one.</p> - -<p>"We all have to go through that phase," he said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> curtly. "A kind of -despair. It comes—and passes, generally."</p> - -<p>"Does it? Does it pass?"</p> - -<p>"I think it does.... You see, it's natural. It comes to us at the end -of youth—it's the end of some things—then we have to take stock, see -what we've spent, what we've got left to go on with—"</p> - -<p>"And supposing we've spent everything?"</p> - -<p>"Well, that isn't likely—though it may look so. Most of us go through -a kind of bankruptcy. The hopes and ambitions of youth are gone—our -dreams are gone, as a rule. We face what we've actually done, what -we're really capable of—it doesn't correspond to what we believed -we could do, what we thought we were. The reality is hard, and we -despair.... But then, we get our second wind, so to speak, and go on, -somehow."</p> - -<p>"Do we? But why? Why go on—"</p> - -<p>"Well, most of us by that time have certain ties, responsibilities, -we're necessary, or think we are—"</p> - -<p>"But if we <i>don't</i> think we are? If we're not needed?"</p> - -<p>Her lips quivered, her tone was hard and desperate.</p> - -<p>"Well, then—there may be some work we're interested in. Or if not -that, there's a good deal of pleasure to be got out of life, you know, -if one understands how to do it."</p> - -<p>"Pleasure?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, surely.... Youth doesn't appreciate the good things of life, it's -too eager, too intent on its own purposes.... The real pleasures of the -mind and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> senses come later—they're the consolation for what we -were speaking of."</p> - -<p>"No, no! That's no consolation! It's impossible to live that way!"</p> - -<p>"You want to keep your youth," he said. "I think you're suffering from -youth unlived."</p> - -<p>"Youth unlived!" she repeated, in a low voice. "I didn't have it ... it -went by me somehow—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, and now you want it."</p> - -<p>"I don't want anything!"</p> - -<p>"That's what we say when we can't get what we want," observed Lavery. -"But then, we take what we can get."</p> - -<p>"No, I hate that!" she burst out. "That resignation, creeping into old -age! No, I can't live that way. That's being beaten!"</p> - -<p>"Well, most of us <i>are</i> beaten," Lavery said philosophically, showing -his brilliant teeth in a smile. "But then, as I said, there are -consolations—"</p> - -<p>"No, there's no consolation for that."</p> - -<p>She moved, sat down on one of the long sofas, looking straight before -her with a fixed absent gaze. Lavery dropped into a chair beside her, -contemplative, admiring.</p> - -<p>Emotion was becoming to her. It called a faint colour to her cheeks -and lips, gave light to her still grey eyes. In some ways she looked -strangely young. The lines of her figure were wonderfully girlish.... -But also she looked as though she had lived ... not happily, though. -He judged a sympathetic silence best at the moment, though there were -a lot of things he wanted to say. He would have liked to preach his -own gospel of enjoyment, he thought he could be rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> eloquent on -that theme. But still more he wanted <i>her</i> to talk, so he was quiet, -glancing now and then about the big room, whose furniture had too much -gilt to suit him. His own taste ran to very quiet though rich effects, -and he thought the house "rococo" and out of date. Still, in a way, the -gilding and light stuffs and long mirrors made a good setting for her -tall figure in its sombre dress and her tragic face.... She sat there, -looking into space, apparently forgetting that a pleasant confidant was -at her elbow. She hadn't a touch of the ordinary agreeable coquetry, he -reflected—didn't seem to realize that people of their age could still -be agreeable to one another. Rather barbarous ... yes, both Carlin -and his wife were a little uncivilized. They would fit better into a -former, doubtless more heroic age, than into the present time. There -was a slightly rough-hewn pioneer quality about them. But, perhaps from -that very thing, they were both interesting, decidedly so. And he could -wait indefinitely for the interest to develop. His calm pulses never -hurried now for anything.</p> - -<p>His thought reverted to Laurence and to the old gentleman whom he had -left drinking whiskey. A queer fish, Laurence's father—he had never -known Laurence <i>had</i> a father. A black sheep probably. Laurence was -plainly nervous about him. It was the tactful thing to leave them -together—even if there hadn't been Mrs. Carlin alone in here, needing -somebody to talk to. Laurence neglected her, that was quite evident, -and she felt it bitterly.... He wondered, with narrowed gaze, how much -she knew about Laurence's life. He could tell her a good deal more than -she knew, probably—but, naturally, he wouldn't.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>V</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The constraint that Laurence had felt from the moment of meeting his -long lost parent—for their parting rose up before him, the memory of -a blow—had vanished. The old man had brushed it away, as soon as they -were alone, by a quiet net statement.</p> - -<p>"You mustn't think, Laurence, that I've come back to fasten myself on -you. I shall stay here only a day or so. I have my own life, and I -don't need anything from you."</p> - -<p>"That isn't what I was thinking of—"</p> - -<p>"I know, but this is what I want to say, it would be ridiculous for me -to act as if I had any claim on you, after everything. I don't feel -any, don't expect anything. Naturally you couldn't have any affection -for me, I wouldn't have any place here, even if I wanted it. And I -don't need any money. I just wanted you to understand it."</p> - -<p>"Of course you have a claim—"</p> - -<p>"No, no, I gave all that up a long time ago, cut off that sort of -thing, by my own will, you know. I wasn't made for family life. -Couldn't stand it.... Of course I know you have a grudge against me, -and quite right. I didn't do my duty by my family, that's a fact. -Should never have had a family."</p> - -<p>They were sitting before a fire in the library. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> old man had -refused the cigar Laurence offered, and was smoking a short black pipe.</p> - -<p>"I suppose we all feel that way at times," said Laurence moodily.</p> - -<p>"Yes, but most struggle along with it. I did, for a good many years, -not very well, though. It was against the grain. I got caught in the -wheel of things, it was grinding me to pieces."</p> - -<p>"The wheel of things," Laurence repeated absently.</p> - -<p>"Yes, and of course through a woman. They get us into it. Your mother -was a good woman, I've nothing to say against her. I fell in love with -her, that wasn't her fault, nor mine either.... But 'twas she led me -to the priest, and then over to this country. She was of better family -than me, you see, her father was a squire; and she had a great ambition -to get on in the world and be genteel. When she saw I couldn't do it, -she got bitter to me. Oh, it was all natural, she wanted her children -to be well off, educated. You can remember how we lived, nobody could -blame your mother, I didn't myself, but she made it hell to me. I -wanted to be my own master and have time to think.... So I cut loose -from it."</p> - -<p>Laurence nodded brusquely, but frowned, gazing at the neat, -gentle-voiced old man.</p> - -<p>"'Twas wrong, of course," old Timothy went on reflectively. "From the -usual point of view. But I can't say I'm sorry I did it. I've had time -to look about me and to learn some things. I always had a thirst for -learning—books and ideas—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, no doubt! But perhaps you don't know how my mother lived!" said -Laurence bitingly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I couldn't have bettered it," the old man replied tranquilly. "I -couldn't really, Laurence. The drink had got hold of me, I'd have gone -from bad to worse. I couldn't help it ... 'twas because my life was -miserable, I was only a dumb brute, like an ox, just living to work, -feed and sleep. 'Twas no life for a man."</p> - -<p>"It wasn't a life for my mother, either, was it?"</p> - -<p>"No, but women can stand it better than we can, they don't like it but -it doesn't kill their souls.... I'd have drunk myself to death in a few -years. 'Tis they get us into it anyway—they're bound to the wheel, and -they draw us in. They think of food and clothing and being respectable. -A man has got other things to think of—he can't spend his life feeding -a lot of hungry mouths.... Nine we had, but they mostly died when -babies, the better for them."</p> - -<p>The old man leaned forward to shake the ashes out of his pipe, and -smiling, he added:</p> - -<p>"Of course I don't expect you to think anything but ill of me. You -always took your mother's part, and 'twas right.... And now you've got -a family of your own and done well by them, and you've got up in the -world—you'll feel accordingly and look down on me, naturally."</p> - -<p>"I don't look down—!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, maybe not because of the money and the fine house, I don't mean -that. But you're in the big machine, I'm not. You're a success, I've -been a failure, from a social point of view—"</p> - -<p>"Success?" said Laurence.</p> - -<p>Sunk deep in the big armchair, his head bent forward, he stared at the -fire from under his bent brows.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Surely. You're a big man here, Laurence, I found out—you've made -a fine name for yourself. You've got wealth too, a real lady and a -beautiful one for a wife, three fine boys—and this house you live in, -why, it's a palace."</p> - -<p>There was a faint veiled irony in the old man's voice.</p> - -<p>"Your mother would have been proud to see you, Laurence."</p> - -<p>"But you're not, eh?" Laurence smiled aggressively. "You've got -something else in your mind."</p> - -<p>"Well—yes ... I don't care much for all this. I find a man needs very -little to live, and all the rest is waste, so I think."</p> - -<p>"You've become a philosopher," growled Laurence.</p> - -<p>"Yes," the old man chuckled. "Long ago I took to the road. Since then -I've never owned anything nor had any care for the morrow. I travel -like the birds and pick up my living as I go."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Laurence made no comment but continued to gaze into the fire, sunk deep -in reverie. He looked very tired; his whole big frame relaxed, his -eyelids drooped.</p> - -<p>But he was thinking—or rather, whole scenes from the past were -flashing by him, things long forgotten, it seemed.... After a rather -long silence he said dreamily:</p> - -<p>"You know Pat was killed at Shiloh, I suppose?"</p> - -<p>"I heard he was killed, yes—that is, I didn't know it till I got back -here."</p> - -<p>"And you didn't know my mother was dead, either—or what had become of -me?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, Larry, no—how could I?"</p> - -<p>The old man filled his pipe again from a bag of tobacco that he carried -in his pocket.</p> - -<p>"Well, you <i>are</i> an old bird," said Laurence sardonically.</p> - -<p>"Family isn't the only thing," was old Timothy's calm response. -"'Tisn't even the main thing."</p> - -<p>"Oh, what is, in your opinion?"</p> - -<p>"Why, a man's work—his ideas."</p> - -<p>"Work? I thought you didn't work."</p> - -<p>"I don't work for a boss, or for a society that only wants to exploit -me, and I haven't these many years. I've gone hungry rather, lived with -the lowest and <i>off</i> them too, rather than that. Once I got out of that -hell, I wouldn't go back into it, sooner starve.... But I work for what -I'm interested in."</p> - -<p>"And what's that?"</p> - -<p>"The big change that's coming, Larry. The day when there'll be real -freedom for every man."</p> - -<p>The old man paused, then said abruptly:</p> - -<p>"You're your mother's son. It's her blood in you that's made you go the -way you have.... On my side we go another way. Far back my people were -all rebels. Hardly a man of 'em died in their beds.... There's a bigger -war coming in this country, Laurence, than the one you fought in. There -you were on the right side of the fence, but now you're not—you've -gone over."</p> - -<p>"Gone over? Gone over to what?"</p> - -<p>"To the rich, to the capitalists, to the whole rotten system. You're a -pillar of it now."</p> - -<p>Laurence opened his eyes, looked interested.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you think so, Dad?" he enquired, using for the first time the -familiar address of long ago.</p> - -<p>"Sure I think so!"</p> - -<p>A pugnacious spark lit the old man's eye, his philosophic calm wavered.</p> - -<p>"I'd been better pleased, Larry, if you'd stuck by your own class. It's -men like you we need—you could have been a leader! But it's the old -story, so soon as a man of ours shows the ability, the other side gets -him—he goes after the fleshpots, and he's lost to us!"</p> - -<p>"There are no classes in this country, you're thinking of the old -world, Dad," said Laurence tolerantly.</p> - -<p>"There's always two classes—them that have and them that want!" -declared the old man curtly.</p> - -<p>"You're for a class-war, then?"</p> - -<p>"I'm for it!... Not for myself, thank God the day's long past, if -it ever was, when I wanted anything for myself. But I belong to the -Knights of Labour and I've travelled the country over, helping to -organize here and there. I see the big fight coming. This country's -changed. The rich get richer and the poor poorer. The big fortunes are -piling up. You'll see ... you'll see."</p> - -<p>"You're a true Irishman, Dad, always spoiling for a fight—always -against the powers that be."</p> - -<p>"And you come of the same stock, but you've gone back on it! Maybe -you've sold yourself to the powers that be!"</p> - -<p>"No," said Laurence coolly. "No man can say that of me. Look over -my record, if you like to take the trouble. Ask what my reputation -is.... You'll find I've stood for the poor and oppressed as much as -you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> or maybe more—I've fought many a poor man's case against a rich -corporation, and won it too."</p> - -<p>"Then how did you get all this?"</p> - -<p>The old man waved his hand, clasping the stubby black pipe, and fixed a -shrewd sparkling glance on his son.</p> - -<p>Laurence laughed abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Partly by inheritance, by investments, speculation sometimes, not by -bribery or corruption!... But it seems rather funny to me that you -should drop down on me this way, all of a sudden, and accuse me! Yes, -by George, it's funny! Life is certainly amusing, at times."</p> - -<p>"You mean I haven't any right to call you to account," said the old man -placidly. "But I don't do it because you're my son—but because you're -a strong man that was born of us and ought to have stayed with us."</p> - -<p>"Us? You mean I ought to have been a day-labourer?... You're a fanatic, -Dad.... If you were so anxious to have me go the right way, why didn't -you stay and train me up?"</p> - -<p>"It was weakness, I know, but, as I told you, I couldn't stand your -mother, God rest her soul.... But of course I didn't see as much then -as I do now. I've picked up some education, I've studied Marx and the -Internationalists...."</p> - -<p>"And you're for revolution. I see. But it won't come, not in this -country, not anyway in your lifetime or mine, and then only slowly, by -degrees.... Oh, I've looked into those things as well as you. Social -questions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> interest me. I see the battle of opposing forces, and I'm on -your side too, on the side of the advance, as I see it. <i>But</i>—it won't -come by a sudden blow—not here. Little by little, as a man's frame -changes. This country's built on the English model, little as you may -like it, slow to change but yet changing.... And that's where I come -in. Don't you see the cause needs a friend at court? You can batter -away on the outside as much as you like, but you need somebody inside!"</p> - -<p>"Maybe.... That wasn't what made you want to get inside, though, was -it, Larry?" said the old man cynically.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know.... I don't know why I wanted to."</p> - -<p>Laurence stood up, stretching his arms with a look of nervous fatigue.</p> - -<p>"I promised the boys a game of billiards—come on up, will you?"</p> - -<p>"All right, all right."</p> - -<p>Laurence stood a moment with his back to the fire, looking about -the room. Its length on two sides was filled nearly to the ceiling -with books. There was Judge Baxter's private library in its stately -bindings, and many of his law-books, huge bound volumes of reports, -"commonplace" books filled with his neat crabbed writing, ponderous -commentaries in calf. Laurence had done a good deal of work in this -room....</p> - -<p>"I wanted to count for something," he said absently. "Who doesn't?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but for what—that's the point! What's all this good for, that -you've got? Loot!"</p> - -<p>"I wanted," said Laurence, deep in his own thoughts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> and oblivious of -this condemnation, "I wanted—human happiness, more than anything. -For myself, yes—and for other people.... I wanted life to be more -interesting, richer than it was, with more pleasure in it.... Why not? -Why can't it be?... I tried, here in this town—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know!" broke in the old man impatiently. "Public improvements -and all that. Suppose they <i>have</i> got cement sidewalks and lots of -trees? Suppose ye <i>did</i> give 'em a library? I know they say you've done -a lot for the town ... but you want to be a big man, the patron, the -boss, and give it to 'em out of charity! That's the same old story, it -doesn't interest me. Give the people justice, they won't want charity!"</p> - -<p>"Justice!" murmured Laurence with an abstracted smile.</p> - -<p>"Well, their rights, then, if you like it better. I don't mean the kind -of justice that you deal them out, sitting up on your high seat!"</p> - -<p>"I deal them out the best I can find," said Laurence gently. "The law -gets re-made rather slowly, you know.... But I'll admit to you that I -don't sleep well, the night after I've sentenced a man."</p> - -<p>"I never thought to see that—you, Larry Carlin, sentencing people to -prison!"</p> - -<p>"No, I don't sleep well," said Laurence vaguely.</p> - -<p>He rubbed his hand over his eyes and shrugged his shoulders with a look -of weariness.</p> - -<p>"Well, shall we go up?" he said shortly. "I'm mighty sorry, though, -that you don't approve of me."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, I understand!"</p> - -<p>The old man laughed, and suddenly resumed his for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>mer manner, his -placidity, with an ease that indicated long practice in adapting -himself to shifting scenes and moods.</p> - -<p>"You're not responsible to me, God knows.... To each his own life, and -I'm not to be the judge of yours!... Anyhow, Larry," he added as they -went toward the door, "you got what you wanted."</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes—yes, I got it,—in many ways."</p> - -<p>"And now you've got it—you wouldn't say now, as many do, that it's -vanity and vexation of spirit?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course!" Laurence laughed abruptly. "Still, when you go after a -thing it's better to get it.... Then you can see what it's worth."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VI</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The billiard-room, on a suggestion from the architect, taken up with -amusement by Laurence, had been made to resemble a European café. It -had a low ceiling, red-plush benches round the panelled walls, long -mirrors, and small tables in the corners; there was even a miniature -bar.</p> - -<p>Laurence, with his coat off, moved quickly round the green table, -leaning half-way across it sometimes to make a difficult shot, managing -his cue deftly and surely. The two younger boys followed his motions -eagerly. John, who was playing his first real game, had a flush of -excitement in his cheeks; his big blue eyes shone, he bit his lips -nervously and his hands trembled; he laughed gaily when he made an -awkward play. Timothy hung at his elbow, jeering and waiting anxiously -for his turn. In the doorway lounged Jim maintaining a slightly -supercilious attitude. Mary and Lavery were sitting on one of the -plush benches; and the senior Carlin, standing at a little distance, -contemplated the group round the table with interest. The men were -smoking, the air was a little hazy. With the bright lights reflected -in the mirrors, the click of the balls, quick movements and laughing -comments of the players, the others watching, all seemed drawn together -for the moment in an atmosphere of pleasure.</p> - -<p>Laurence's face had brightened, his eyes smiled. When John had made his -last play, a terrible fumble,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> and thrown down his cue angrily, he put -his arm round the boy's shoulders and shook him with tender roughness.</p> - -<p>"Be a good sport! You've got to lose before you win, you young monkey!"</p> - -<p>John frowned, stamped his feet, and wrenched away, yet his eyes too -smiled, and he hurried to fetch the chalk demanded by Timothy. Then -when Timothy blundered John murmured a consoling word, little attended -to, and when Timothy made a good stroke he applauded vigorously. Now -and then he glanced happily at his mother, watching for her smile, or -spoke to Jim, who only dropped his eyelids in answer; or went and stood -beside his grandfather for a moment. He showed a quick consciousness -of every one in the room, as though with infinitely delicate feelers -touching them all. His physical motions were awkward, with the rapid -growth of adolescence his arms and legs were somewhat out of control. -He jostled Timothy at a critical point and received an impatient -rebuff. Dashed by this, he stood apart for a while; and his face had -its wistful, listening look, as if he sought among them all the human -echo of some harmony heard far off.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>After Timothy, it was Jim's turn. Jim had some pretensions to skill, -but bore a smashing defeat with good grace, and complimented his -father in an off-hand manly fashion, on which they shook hands with a -cordiality rare between them. Jim as a rule irritated Laurence, either -by obvious faults, laziness or extravagance, or else by silence and -lack of response, a standing difference of temperament. But tonight -Laurence looked at him affectionately, noting with pleasure his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> dark -good looks, his lithe youth. Jim was almost a man—next year he would -be going to college, if he could manage to pass the examinations.... So -time passes....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Laurence was aware of a dark whirl of thoughts, half-formed, somewhere -at the back of his mind; and of a weight pressing on the nape of -his neck. For some time he had slept little and had been conscious -of an increasing fatigue, something that piled up day by day, and -made increasing effort necessary to get through each day's activity. -He would have to work tonight. Downstairs he had the papers of an -important case in which he had reserved decision.... And then there -were a lot of business matters to be gone over with Lavery....</p> - -<p>But he was reluctant to leave this bright room, to break up the family -gathering. It was rare that they were all together like this; Mary -very seldom came up to the billiard-room. The occasion seemed to him -significant, and searching for the reason, he wondered if his father's -strange presence had anything to do with it, or with his own unusual -mood. Perhaps so. Perhaps it was this that had, as it seemed, thrown -him back into the past, had curiously removed him to a distance so that -this present scene had a kind of unreality.... It was like a scene on -the stage which he was watching as it were through a reversed glass, so -that the figures of the actors, his own included, appeared very tiny -and as if at an immense distance. He watched himself going through the -motions of the game, talking, laughing, and the others moving about. It -seemed that some drama was moving to an obscure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> but deeply significant -climax, but what was it all about?</p> - -<p>At times he came to the surface of consciousness with what seemed -like a crash, the lights and sounds smote his senses as if magnified, -the actors became life-size or even bigger, and he waited for them -or for himself to say or do some unheard-of thing.... All through he -was conscious of an effort in himself to appear as usual, not to do -anything extraordinary, not to lose touch with these human beings round -him, all of whom seemed invested with some strange charm, newly felt, -as though a hidden beauty in them had suddenly come into view....</p> - -<p>At one moment he wondered if he were ill, or going to be; and put his -hand on the back of his neck, where the dull pain pressed heavily. From -across the room he saw John's eyes fixed on him earnestly; and smiled -at him. The shadow of trouble in another person would trouble John. -Strange boy! He was like a harp so delicately strung that a breath of -air would stir it. What would happen to him in this world of harsh and -jarring contacts?... The other two, he thought, would shoulder their -way through well enough. They were strong normal boys with a good -supply of egotism. The stock was sound....</p> - -<p>He realized that he was looking at them all as though on the eve of -departure, a farewell before a long journey.... The room swam in a -dazzle of light. With an immense effort he pulled himself together, -vanquished the momentary faintness, gave no other sign than a pallor, a -rapid blinking of his eyes....</p> - -<p>He found himself standing beside his father, before one of the long -mirrors, and replying to some remark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> half-heard. His vision cleared, -he looked at the two figures in the glass, curiously. Would any one -have taken those two for father and son?</p> - -<p>No. In the first place, the elder looked absurdly young, with his -smooth-shaven unwrinkled face and wiry figure. And then, he looked like -a foreigner; the Irish was unmistakable. Old Timothy had never taken -root in American soil, but floated like thistledown above it, for forty -years.... And the other one there, the black-bearded one—with age the -Irish came out in him too, unmistakably.... But he was an American, -born here, with no dim shadow of allegiance elsewhere. A son of the -soil, he had fought for its nationality—there was the sign, the old -sabre-cut, a faint white line across his cheek. And those old American -ideals, of liberty, equality—he had believed in them passionately, -felt them a living current in his blood, would have given his life for -them. He still believed in them—and surely nothing in his life had -given the lie to that belief?</p> - -<p>The old man there had questioned, doubted him, on the score of -this material luxury, this big house he had built—which, for that -matter, was as unsubstantial as a soap-bubble, he could almost feel -it dissolving under him.... Why, that only proved the equality of -opportunity here for every man, he had started empty-handed. Here in -this country the stream of fortune ran swift, capricious.... Men were -all like gold-washers on the banks of a river, today the current would -wash the golden grains one way, tomorrow another.... Why, tomorrow -this bubble of a house that he had amused himself blowing into shape, -might vanish, and he be left empty-handed.... What matter? It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> all -unreal, anyway, all a dream, what he had tried to build....</p> - -<p>It seemed to him that he had been saying some of these things to his -father, but he was not sure, there was a humming sound in his ears.... -Again there was a flash of clear sight. John was there beside him, now -there were three figures reflected in the mirror.</p> - -<p>"Three generations!" said Laurence.</p> - -<p>He spoke in his natural tone, the haggard pallor of his face changed -suddenly; he felt that John had noticed it, was watching him.</p> - -<p>"Look, Father, can you see any likeness among us three?" he asked.</p> - -<p>The boy stood between them, straight as a young sapling, the radiance -of his blond head like a beam of sunlight, a bow of promise across a -cloud.</p> - -<p>"No—no," said the old man thoughtfully. "I see it now in you and me, -Larry—there's the same blood. But I don't see it in the boy."</p> - -<p>"John isn't like any of us, anyhow," said Laurence, with the tender -tones that he always had for this child. "He makes us look like a -couple of scarred old logs, doesn't he?"</p> - -<p>"Ah, youth—that's the pure gold," said the old man softly.</p> - -<p>The boy smiled, deprecating, shrinking a little from their gentle -scrutiny.</p> - -<p>"It isn't that alone, there's something else, that's unaccountable," -Laurence pondered, as if speaking to himself.</p> - -<p>"It's the mother, perhaps—he's more like her. That's a different -strain," said the old man.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> - -<p>Laurence turned and looked across the room. Mary had risen, was still -talking to Lavery, but she was looking straight at them, at the group -before the mirror.</p> - -<p>"Mary, come here a minute," called Laurence.</p> - -<p>She came, with her slow stately step, and Laurence put out his hand and -drew her to his side.</p> - -<p>"What is it?" she asked, with a faint tremulousness in her voice.</p> - -<p>The old man, standing a step apart, and looking at the other three, -replied.</p> - -<p>"We were thinking of the likeness.... Yes, it's more on your side—yet -I don't know—"</p> - -<p>"Mary and I are different enough, eh?" said Laurence with a slight -laugh. "That might account for almost anything. She's pure English, you -see—English Puritan.... It was two enemy races mating when we married, -eh, Father?"</p> - -<p>"That makes the American, maybe," said the old man, still curiously -intent on the boy.</p> - -<p>But John, embarrassed by this prolonged attention, now broke away and -left them.</p> - -<p>"He's not like either of us," said Laurence abruptly, watching the -boy's retreating figure. "That is, only a little. He's like a flower, -sprung from heaven knows where."</p> - -<p>Glancing again at the mirror he saw the quick response in Mary's face. -In the mirror their eyes met with a deep flash of sympathy. Yes, this -was something they both felt deeply and in common—the strange beauty -of this child who had, nevertheless, sprung from <i>them</i>, from their two -lives, however marred and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> futile.... Their union had at least produced -this thing of beauty....</p> - -<p>They looked at one another with a deep sad gaze. Laurence, with a -sharpened vision, saw something in Mary's face new to him. The physical -change must have come slowly—Mary had not been ill for a long time, -that sharpening of the contours that gave her beauty its new delicacy -was perhaps only age. But what he saw was not physical. He saw suddenly -that she was grieving, suffering, he did not know why; it gave him a -quick throb of pain. He would have put his arm around her, but that she -moved away sharply. At the same moment he felt again the clouding of -his sight, the dizziness.... But, abruptly alleging that he must get to -work, he was able to leave the room with only a slight unsteadiness of -gait, which, he knew, might easily be attributed to another cause.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Mary watched him go; and thought exactly what he had guessed she -would. She said it was time for the boys to go to bed. They all went -downstairs. In her own room she lit her reading-lamp, but instead of -undressing she stood for a time looking out the window on the lake. -Then, when the house was quiet, she turned slowly, reluctantly, to -her door, and stopping more than once she descended to the ground -floor. The hall was dimly lit. The library door was shut; she heard -the rustle of papers and the thud of a book falling. She opened the -door noiselessly. There was Laurence, with a wet towel round his head, -working at his desk.... And there was Lavery, in a deep chair beside -him, looking over some papers. She retreated without a word, but the -closing of the door betrayed her.</p> - -<p>It was Lavery who came out and found her, wrapped in her long coat, -undoing the chain of the front door. He picked up a coat and joined -her, not doubting that she wished him to do so.</p> - -<p>"Laurence oughtn't to work tonight," she said sharply. "He isn't fit to -work."</p> - -<p>"Well, I guess he has to—some papers he has to go over.... And he -always says he works best at night," drawled Lavery. "Fact is, though, -he's not looking well—complains of headache the last few days. Perhaps -he ought to ease off a little—rest, if possible."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Rest!" Mary said with a short laugh. "I never knew him to rest."</p> - -<p>"No, that's so—he seems geared up to a certain speed.... But after all -we have to relax a bit as we get older. The machine won't stand the -speed. And Laurence burns the candle at both ends."</p> - -<p>They were walking down a path toward the lake. Mary did not ask what he -meant. But he insisted.</p> - -<p>"I don't mind a man drinking anything in reason. But I think Laurence -is getting to depend too much on it—he has to key himself up to his -work. That wonderful natural energy seems to be failing him."</p> - -<p>Still she was silent, and Lavery turned to her.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you do something about it?" he asked abruptly.</p> - -<p>"Nothing that any one could say would make any difference to Laurence," -said Mary coldly. "He has always done exactly as he chose, and he -always will."</p> - -<p>"Oh, has he?" murmured Lavery. "It strikes me he would be more apt to -do what you wanted him to."</p> - -<p>Mary laughed. "What I wanted!" She turned angrily on Lavery. "You know -that isn't true!"</p> - -<p>At the same time she was amazed at herself—speaking like this, of -Laurence and herself, to a stranger. And the reckless other self -over-ruled this protest—it could speak to this man and it would.</p> - -<p>"You know I never interfere in Laurence's life. He lives as he chooses."</p> - -<p>"He lives the way he has to, I guess," said Lavery meditatively, "I -don't know that there's much choice about it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Has to!" ejaculated Mary with contempt. "I should think you would be -ashamed to say that."</p> - -<p>They had approached the border of the lake, the breeze blew sweet and -chill. Mary sat down on a bench, and Lavery, buttoning his coat, sat -beside her. He knew he should catch cold, perhaps have an attack of -lumbago, but no matter!</p> - -<p>"Now why should I be ashamed?" he asked, puzzled.</p> - -<p>"Why, because—that's no way for a man to talk.... We don't have to do -what we don't choose to."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't we?" he murmured again. And after a moment, "Suppose there's -a clash between two wills, two people—one has to go down, doesn't he, -one has to submit, can't get what he wants, has to take what he doesn't -want? How about that?"</p> - -<p>"I'm not talking about what we want, of course we don't always get what -we want. I'm talking about the way we live, whether we do what we know -we ought to do or not—and I say we don't have to live and do what we -know is wrong. I say a man ought to die rather than do that!"</p> - -<p>"Well, what <i>is</i> wrong?" enquired Lavery mildly. "Now I'll tell you -what I think.... I think the most important thing for a man is his -work, his output. If he's got work that he believes in and loves, he's -got the best thing on earth. And anything's right for him that helps -him to do that work. And anything's wrong, for him, that prevents -him from doing it. For that's what he's <i>for</i>, that's his reason for -living, what he creates, that's why he's different from every other -human being, so he can do just that thing.... As for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> any other right -and wrong, I don't believe in 'em. We don't get right and wrong handed -to us, we have to make them as we go along."</p> - -<p>"Well, I am surprised, to hear you feel that way about work," said -Mary, showing her claws.</p> - -<p>"You think I don't work?... Well, perhaps you wouldn't recognize it.... -I admit the law isn't my work, as it's Laurence's, in the creative -sense. He's been able to stick to that and do what he was meant to -do—but he's had to pay for it. That's what the drink means, and—other -things that you don't like, perhaps."</p> - -<p>He paused a moment, he didn't want to seem malicious, but he went on: -"Laurence is a strong man. He's taken what he could get, to help him -do his work, and I say he was right. But it wasn't what he wanted. He -didn't want drink and other women, not seriously. It was trouble with -you that made him turn to them."</p> - -<p>She sat marble-still, not an eyelash moving. Lavery added:</p> - -<p>"I ought to say, he never said a word about that. It's my own -observation, that's all."</p> - -<p>Again he was silent, watching her still profile, barely visible; -guessing at the tumult within her, the rage of offended pride. (If she -was determined to dislike him, he would give her something to dislike -him for.) He decided that it was time for her to speak now.</p> - -<p>But Mary was struck dumb. Her outleap of rage against Lavery recoiled -upon herself.... She deserved it, for talking to him in any sort -of confidence, for breaking her reserve, compromising her personal -dignity—of course he had taken advantage of this. She strove to -re-establish her contempt of him. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> should not see that she had felt -his treacherous attack.</p> - -<p>It was some moments before she could say, coolly:</p> - -<p>"If you think Laurence has done right, why did you ask me to 'do -something about it'?"</p> - -<p>He lost the thread of the discourse for a moment, in irritation.</p> - -<p>"Why, I meant—I meant—that he had done the best he could, in the -circumstances.... But it seems to me he's under a heavy strain—in -fact, perhaps in danger of breaking down under it. I wonder if you -couldn't ease it, somehow."</p> - -<p>It was only partly a game. There was a sincere feeling in Lavery too. -He admired—even though unwillingly—the more gifted man. Yes, and he -had reluctant admiration for Mary too.</p> - -<p>"You don't know anything about it," she said.</p> - -<p>"No, perhaps I don't," he admitted.</p> - -<p>"I can't see that it's your business, at all."</p> - -<p>"Well, I suppose it isn't—unless on account of friendship."</p> - -<p>"I don't believe in friendship."</p> - -<p>"What do you believe in?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I don't believe in anything."</p> - -<p>The words came out with violence. She was resisting the impulse to -speak out, and yet she was speaking.</p> - -<p>"I used to have faith—but now I haven't anything."</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, you have," he said. "You have faith—everything shows it."</p> - -<p>"How? What?"</p> - -<p>"Well, what you just said, that a man ought to die rather than do -what is wrong—there's faith, in the ideal of what a man is, what -he ought to be.... And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> then you live without compromise, you don't -forgive—that's faith."</p> - -<p>"How do you know that—that I don't forgive?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I can guess that you didn't."</p> - -<p>"And you think that's good—not to forgive?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't say it was good. It depends on how it works out. I said it -showed faith. It means you have a standard and you can't condone an -offence against it—at any cost."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but it might be only—that I couldn't forgive an offence against -<i>me</i>.... It might be only—pride. You see how I mean, that I've lost -faith. I don't feel sure of anything."</p> - -<p>"You've lost faith in yourself, you mean, but—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, not only in myself—in everything else!"</p> - -<p>"And you used to feel sure?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes—I <i>knew</i>!"</p> - -<p>"And how was it, that you ceased to be sure?"</p> - -<p>"I think—people disappointed me—people I believed in—"</p> - -<p>"But you believe in something that isn't people, don't you—some rule -of right and wrong that is above human life—"</p> - -<p>"I did—yes, I was very religious—I believed in a rule and measured -people by it—"</p> - -<p>"And when they didn't measure up to it, you—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I—didn't forgive. Even now I despise people, for all sorts of -reasons—can't help it.... But now I think I was wrong. I don't think -I was religious at all—because, you see, it didn't stand the test—I -lost it—"</p> - -<p>"And when was that—that you lost it?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I don't know. It seems as if it had been going on for a long time, -dying.... I used to think that happiness didn't count, that we ought -not to think of it. But now I think that was when I was really happy. -It isn't so easy to live without it, really, for many years—it isn't -so easy!"</p> - -<p>She had lost all feeling of the personality of Lavery. It was like -speaking out to the night-wind and the starlight. She had spoken the -last sentences in a rush, passionately, and in her voice was the tremor -of a sob. But she compressed her lips sharply, and sat silent. Lavery -took her hand, and her fingers closed on his desperately.... All she -cared for just then was not to cry.</p> - -<p>"Well, it's true, we can't live without it," muttered Lavery. "You see, -we lose faith in ourselves, without it—we feel we've been wrong, and -we <i>have</i> been wrong—that's the sign.... Then if we can't get it back -we take to dope—like me."</p> - -<p>She heard what he said, but she did not answer. She was absorbed in -the relief of her emotion, her confession, and the strange feeling of -kinship with him, with this person she—didn't like. For she did not -like him any better than before, only it didn't seem to matter now. -What mattered was not to be entirely alone.</p> - -<p>She was comforted, and keeping hold of his hand, she grew calmer, and -breathed a deep sigh. Then she noticed that Lavery was shivering.</p> - -<p>"Why, you'll catch your death of cold," she said, and got up.</p> - -<p>They walked back silently to the house. In the hall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> he put out his -hand to her again and said anxiously:</p> - -<p>"Look here now, you won't hate me more for this, will you? That -wouldn't be fair."</p> - -<p>"No!" she said with energy, smiling. "Not now.... I would, not long -ago—but now I wouldn't be so mean as that."</p> - -<p>"Well, that's good," he said wanly.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>VIII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The next day, toward sunset, Mary was walking in to see her father. She -went often at the time when he would be home for his solitary supper.</p> - -<p>The Carlin place was no longer out of town. Past it stretched the -paved street, with wide sidewalks and gas-lamps at frequent intervals. -The maple trees now overarched it, a thinning cloud of pale yellow or -red, and the leaves lay in thick drifts in the gutters and along the -walks. They rustled under Mary's feet as she went holding up her long -violet-coloured dress. She wore a mantle to match the dress, and a -small bonnet made of violets and lace, tied under her chin with black -velvet ribbons.</p> - -<p>She walked at a good pace; there was a spring in her step, and unusual -colour in her cheeks. She breathed in deeply the cool crisp air, she -saw with pleasure the vivid colours of the leaves, the bright western -sky: it was long since she had felt this pleasure in the world. It -had zest to her; and she could not imagine why. All that had happened -to her consciousness was that she had transgressed her own code; had -forgotten her dignity and actually discussed her own most private -affairs and feelings, with a stranger. But now she had a strange sense -of freedom, of companionship in some impersonal way. She did not think -more of Lavery because of it. He had gone to the city with Laurence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> -that morning, and she did not seem to care whether she ever saw him -again or not. But if she saw him certainly she would talk to him again. -She was less a prisoner now; some barrier had been pierced, and she -looked out on the world.</p> - -<p>As she drew near the house, she saw a once familiar figure, a slim -black-coated figure, pushing a small baby-carriage. It was Hilary. He -had married a buxom efficient widow, three years before; and in the -carriage was his eighteen-months' old daughter, a small, very lively -baby, with bright blue eyes. Mary stopped and held out her hand to -Hilary, with a friendly warmth that she had not shown him for many -years. She asked after his wife, bent to speak to the baby, who bounced -up and down and fixed upon her eyes sparkling with energy. Hilary's -eyes too were upon her, in surprise.</p> - -<p>He had changed very little in ten years. His face was quieter, perhaps, -less drawn. The wife took care of him, fed and clothed him properly. No -one now thought that he would go into a decline. But his eyes showed -the same ardour and intensity of life. He worked harder than ever, for -his church had grown, and incidentally had become factious. Hilary -had to meet opposition within the fold to his idea of the preaching -of the gospel; the time would come when he would be forced to leave -this church too, and go forth. Mary knew this, though she rarely went -to church now. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how she had felt -about his marriage; disenchantment, almost disgust, though she had -long before that ceased her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> intimacy with him. Her idea of him, as -celibate, she now felt to have been merely romantic. Hilary was a man -like other men. No, after all, he was better than most, he was more of -a man. She smiled at him quite radiantly and said she was coming soon -to see his wife.</p> - -<p>"How well you are looking," he said as she started on, still with that -surprised gaze at her.</p> - -<p>"It must be this wonderful weather—it makes one feel so alive!" she -called back, laughing at the white lie. In this mood she could tell all -kinds of lies, without conscience! It was like a renewal of youth, no, -it was a youth she had never had, rather mischievous, irresponsible. In -this mood she wouldn't care what she did. Now why? She shook her head -and gave it up—couldn't say why.</p> - -<p>She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed that a hinge was -loose; and that the pickets needed painting. The grass was long too in -the front yard. She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low frame -house. That too needed a coat of paint—why, it was shabby, it was all -going to seed. Her brow wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn't noticed -this before—how long had it been this way? Her father had been used -always to keep the place trim and neat. Was he getting too old to look -after it, or to care? She felt a pang.... She must send down a gardener -to fix up the yard.</p> - -<p>She opened the creaking front door and entered the narrow hall. -The familiar odour met her—old wallpaper, old furniture, a slight -closeness, a faint smell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> of cooking. But she liked it—it was home. -She went into the sitting-room, where the housekeeper was setting the -table for Dr. Lowell's supper.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mrs. Hansen, isn't Father home yet?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mrs. Carlin, he has just come. Out to the stable yet."</p> - -<p>The rosy-faced Swedish woman, in crisp calico dress and white apron, -went out into the kitchen. She came by the day to "do for" Dr. Lowell, -and he lived alone in the old house. Mary glanced critically at the -table, wrinkled her nose, and sat down in the rocker by the window, -where streaks of gold and red glimmered, making a rosy light within. -Nothing had been changed in this room, or for that matter in the house -since her mother's death. In fact, she couldn't remember when it had -not looked just this way.</p> - -<p>The brown carpet was a little more worn, perhaps, the brown and gilt -wallpaper a little more faded. There was dust on the furniture that -would not have been there in her mother's time. But the old clock -ticked to the same dreamy tune on the shelf, coals glowed in the open -stove, the cat stretched itself and yawned in the armchair, the glass -of cream stood as always by her father's plate. In this house it always -seemed afternoon, verging on evening.... Yes, and there, in the grass -under the window, the sound always associated with home—the faint wiry -chirping of the crickets.... Short bright autumn days—long cold nights -drawing on—was that why they were so plaintive?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> - -<p>She heard her father come into the kitchen, and then the splashing of -water. Washing up in the kitchen—lazy father! Probably he even kept a -comb out there, behind the looking-glass! Men get shiftless, living by -themselves. Or perhaps he was just too tired to go upstairs. Yes, when -he came in, she saw his thin hair had been freshly combed—and he did -look very tired. And alas, how old he looked! Why hadn't she noticed -that he was getting old?</p> - -<p>He was delighted to see her, still more when she got up and kissed him -with uncommon warmth.</p> - -<p>"Well, now, this is nice! Can't you have supper with me?" he asked -happily, lifting the cat out of his chair and sitting down. Mary drew -up a chair opposite him and put her elbows on the table.</p> - -<p>"I can't eat, because there's the family dinner, you know, but I'll sit -with you anyway. What have you got?"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hansen put the supper on the table and retired behind a closed -door.</p> - -<p>"Cream-toast—dried beef—soda-biscuits—well, I don't call that a -solid meal after a good day's work! That's an old lady's supper. Why -don't you have a steak, Father, something substantial?"</p> - -<p>"Can't, my dear," he said smiling. "Too heavy for me—can't eat much -meat. This is just what I like."</p> - -<p>He tucked the napkin under his thin beard, still auburn more than grey, -and began to eat. Mary took a biscuit and broke it open.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> - -<p>"It's light," she conceded. "I guess she's a good enough cook."</p> - -<p>"Oh, she's first-rate—I live in clover," smiled Dr. Lowell.</p> - -<p>"Well, hardly that—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes.... But say, how splendid you look, Mary! Been to some grand -blowout?"</p> - -<p>"No, I made some calls. Do you like this bonnet?"</p> - -<p>"It's fine—what there is of it. Dress too—there's plenty of that. Why -have that long tail on it?"</p> - -<p>"Well, it's the fashion," said Mary indulgently.</p> - -<p>"You look very nice indeed. Better than you have all summer."</p> - -<p>"Well, Father, I can't say as much for you. You look tired out."</p> - -<p>"I am, at night. But I get up like a lark in the morning."</p> - -<p>"You work too hard. You ought to have a man to drive you now, and an -assistant—and only go out on great occasions, when you get a big fee, -you know!"</p> - -<p>A faint uneasiness showed in Dr. Lowell's face.</p> - -<p>"Now don't you go trying to take away my work. That's the quick way to -break a man up.... I'm going to die in harness," he declared.</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm afraid you will," and Mary's lips quivered. He was quick to -notice and to soothe her.</p> - -<p>"Don't you worry. There's a lot of work in the old man yet. I'm not -seventy. And I don't go out much at night any more, you know, or in -very bad weather—unless it's life or death.... Oh, they have to -consider me now!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, it's time they did. You never considered yourself."</p> - -<p>There was unwonted emotion in her face and voice. He was touched, and -surprised.</p> - -<p>"I should think you'd be proud of me," he said lightly. "All these -smart young doctors in town—but they don't get <i>my</i> practice unless -I want to give it to 'em.... People sending for me from all over the -county—pay my expenses and anything I want to ask. <i>They</i> don't think -I'm too old to work."</p> - -<p>"I <i>am</i> proud of you. I never said you were too old. I think you're a -great man."</p> - -<p>He laughed. "I wasn't fishing to that extent."</p> - -<p>"Well, I want you to know that I admire you. I think you've had the -most successful life I know about."</p> - -<p>"Sounds like my obituary," he commented.</p> - -<p>But Mary was groping for something she wanted to say, something newly -felt. Looking at his small bent figure, his face, so gentle yet with -something hard and firm in its calmness, suddenly she seemed to see -him, his long laborious life, in a flash of light.</p> - -<p>"I think you're beautiful," she said solemnly.</p> - -<p>It was a strange word, and Dr. Lowell was visibly abashed. He fidgeted, -made a feeble joke, and then looked sharply at Mary's unwonted colour -and bright eyes.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter? You're not going to—sure you feel perfectly well, -Mary?"</p> - -<p>"Why, yes.... But Laurence isn't. I wish you'd drop in and see him. -He'll be home tomorrow night. Suppose you come to dinner and take a -look at him."</p> - -<p>"What ails him?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p> - -<p>"He complains of headaches lately and he looks—well, you'll see. Keeps -right on working, though. You'll come? The boys always want to see you -too, you know."</p> - -<p>"Well, they do. They drop in here quite often—especially Jim. I think -maybe we might make a doctor of Jim."</p> - -<p>"You do?" Mary's eyes opened wide. "Has he shown any interest that way? -He never said a word to me about it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, we've talked it over. He <i>is</i> interested. He takes to science. -Has a good mind, that boy—kind of slow, but thorough. Likes to get to -the bottom of things. He could work hard if he was interested."</p> - -<p>"Well!" Mary pondered this. Then she said, "I've been worried about -him—he runs around at night and won't tell me where he goes."</p> - -<p>"I know where he goes," said Dr. Lowell placidly.</p> - -<p>"You do? He tells you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Jim and I are great friends. He's all right, Mary.... But you must -realize—Jim's almost a man, and he's a strapping healthy fellow—you -can't hold too tight a rein on him, if you do he'll kick over the -traces."</p> - -<p>Mary frowned, looked sullen. "I think I ought to know what he's doing."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'd just as soon tell you, but you'd very likely make a row and -it would be bad for Jim.... Use your imagination, Mary."</p> - -<p>She pushed back her chair, rose and walked to the window. Dr. Lowell -cast a shrewd glance at her and took a piece of custard pie.</p> - -<p>"I think you ought to be proud of your output,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> Mary—you ought to be a -proud and happy woman."</p> - -<p>"What, Father?"</p> - -<p>"Those three boys—fine fellows, all of them. What more d'ye want? And -you haven't spoiled them by petting. They think a lot of you. And you -haven't nagged them—not very much."</p> - -<p>Mary turned around. "Then you think—really—?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, you've done well.... One thing more you might do—but I doubt -if you could—let them feel that they could tell you anything, whatever -they do. They might not tell you, wouldn't probably, but if they -felt they could, without you being horrified, it would be better for -them.... But of course you can only do that if you feel that what they -want or need is a lot more important than what they do.... Sometimes I -think, Mary, that you care more for what people do than for what they -are.... Think it over."</p> - -<p>Dr. Lowell folded his napkin and put it in its ring, got up and took -out his pipe, filled it from a leather bag and lit it. An acrid smoke -issued from the old meerschaum as he sank into an easy-chair by the -fire. Mary hated that pipe, but now though she coughed in the smoke -she didn't notice it. She had stood absorbed in some difficult and -displeasing thought—but turning and looking at her father she saw how -bent and shrivelled he looked in the big chair.</p> - -<p>"Father, aren't you awfully lonely here in the evenings?" she asked -suddenly.</p> - -<p>"No, no—I've got lots of reading to do, journals and new books—I try -to keep up with my profession, you know. No, I'm never lonely."</p> - -<p>"I should think you'd miss Mother a lot."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I do—yes, I miss her.... But it's quieter this way."</p> - -<p>"Father! The things you say!"</p> - -<p>"Why shouldn't I say them.... Your mother and I got on very well -indeed, and if I ever see her again I guess we'll get on just as well."</p> - -<p>"If you do! Why, don't you think you will?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know, my dear, I couldn't tell you." He puffed meditatively at -his pipe. "And I don't think anybody else can tell you either."</p> - -<p>"I don't see how you can bear to see so many people die if that's the -way you feel, if you think there's nothing more!" cried Mary.</p> - -<p>"I keep them from dying, if I can—that's my job.... I don't say -there's nothing more. But I say we haven't begun to learn about this -world—there's enough here to keep us busy for all the time we've -got—we're just ignorant. Life ... it's mystery on mystery.... We can -settle what death is when we get to it."</p> - -<p>"You're not afraid of death?" she asked absently.</p> - -<p>"No, child, no ... sometimes I feel I'd like a long rest ... or a new -set of feelings, ideas ... or something. There's only one thing I'm -afraid of, I confess—to live on when I'm no use any more and have to -be taken care of." He made a wry face. "Don't see how I could stand -that. I hope I die with my boots on."</p> - -<p>"Well, don't you do it yet awhile." Mary bent down and kissed the top -of his head. "We need you. I'll think over what you said—about the -boys—and then I guess I'd like to talk to you again about it.... I -must go now. You'll come tomorrow night?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I'll come."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> - -<p>On her way to the door she turned. "I declare! I forgot to ask you if -you'd seen old Mr. Carlin."</p> - -<p>"Yes, John fetched him in here yesterday. We had quite a chat."</p> - -<p>"Did you ever hear of such a thing—walking in like that and telling me -'I'm Laurence's father!' Cool as a cucumber! I never saw such an old -man!"</p> - -<p>"How did Laurence take it?"</p> - -<p>"Well, there never was any love lost between them, you know—he was -taken aback at first, but they seemed to get on well enough."</p> - -<p>"And he's gone?"</p> - -<p>"The old gentleman? Yes—went to Chicago today. He said he'd drop in -and see us again some time!"</p> - -<p>She laughed quite gaily as she went out.</p> - -<p>It had occurred to her to see if the garden at the back of the house -was neglected too, so she went round that way. Yes, the grass-borders -were unkempt, the only flowers were straggling marigolds and asters; -dahlias blackened by frost drooped forlornly. No wonder, he hadn't -strength now to keep it up. But she thought back and seemed to see that -from the time of her mother's death the garden had been running down. -"I guess he misses her more than he thinks," she reflected.</p> - -<p>She stood looking into the orchard, where among almost bare boughs a -few red apples still clung. She felt a desire to go on into the pasture -and look at the deep still pool there, which she had not seen for long. -She remembered the look of it well—how as a child it had fascinated -and frightened her, even haunting her dreams.... But the pasture was -trampled by cows, and in this dress and these thin shoes....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p> - -<p>She turned to go home, wrapping her mantle round her. The wind was -rising, blowing out of a bank of cloud that now covered the western -sky. A few sunset embers glimmered there low down. In the wind sweeping -over the prairie there was a low booming sound and when the gusts rose -higher an ominous whistle. A storm was coming, out of those immense, -endless stretches to the west.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>IX</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">All night long the wind roared round the house, dashing gusts of -sleety rain against the western windows. At times even the thick walls -shook. The lake rose into waves that pounded on the shore. Mary tried -to read herself to sleep but in vain. At last she put out her light, -and thoughts, images, questions, raced through her mind as she lay in -darkness.</p> - -<p>A happy woman ... proud and happy, she ought to be. But what had she -to be proud of.... Men were more fortunate, they had their work, -could really achieve something, could take anything they wanted.... -Laurence took what he wanted, to help him do his work, and I say he -was right.... Laurence went his own way, apart from her.... Of course -apart, she had driven him away. No, he had begun it before that. But -she hadn't done her duty by him, it was her duty to forgive.... No, she -didn't believe in forgiveness, didn't believe in duty. It wouldn't have -worked any better. He would have gone his own way anyhow. And now the -boys were beginning too.... Use your imagination, Mary....</p> - -<p>She didn't want to use her imagination, she was afraid of it. Yes, -afraid.... All sorts of things that she had shut out in the dark, -wouldn't look at, and now they were horrible to her.... Why should -one have to look at the dark side of life, the animal side?... But -suppose that was really life, suppose we were just<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> animals and nothing -more—all the rest words. That might very well be.... Her father had -spent his life taking care of the physical body, he didn't believe -in anything else, didn't look forward.... Life ... it's mystery on -mystery ... we're just ignorant.... What was it then that made him so -calm and strong, not afraid of anything? She had thought that this was -what religion did for you, but he had never had any religion, yet he -had always been like this, since she could remember him. Hilary had it -too, that same strength, and with him perhaps it was religion.... But -she didn't believe in religion, heaven was empty, God had melted away -completely, she didn't believe in him.</p> - -<p>She tossed restlessly, the tumult without echoing the storm within. It -seemed that the wind was driving through her head, her thoughts were -like whirling leaves....</p> - -<p>Why should she be proud of her sons? They were not hers, they -were Laurence's as much as hers, perhaps more; they were distinct -individuals, did not belong to her, she had almost no part in them. And -she had not trained them in the way they should go ... how could she, -when since the early days she had ceased to believe in any definite -way? They had just grown up themselves.... You haven't nagged them, -not very much.... Was that what her father thought of moral teaching? -They had learned not to lie or steal, of course. But as they grew to -be men they would begin again. Jim had already begun. He lied to her, -and apparently told the truth to his grandfather.... Let them feel that -they could tell you anything—they wouldn't tell you probably.... No, -they would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> their lives apart, and she would be alone still—In -her youth she had never felt lonely, but now....</p> - -<p>Lavery knew what loneliness was, that was why she had talked to him. -He had known how she was feeling before she spoke, otherwise she would -never have spoken. He was worldly wise, but that was all, or nearly -all—it wasn't much. His consolations—what use were they? Soft living, -books, music, little adventures.... She would rather jump into the lake -than live like that. Why not?... Nobody would miss her very much. The -boys at first, it would be a shock, of course. And Laurence would have -to find somebody to run the house. Her father would miss her, and it -would be a town-scandal, a mystery.... Why on earth.... A woman with -everything to live for.... Temporary insanity.... And then, prying and -prowling gossip.</p> - -<p>Why not? Well, of course she would never do it. Life was too strong in -her—physical life. She would have to be inconceivably miserable before -she could seek death. She was afraid of death, now that beyond it lay -the void.</p> - -<p>And it was still good to live, in some ways. Even today she had known -pleasure, more than for a long time. Something had lifted her up. This -was the reaction.... If only she could sleep! If the wind would stop -howling like a lost soul round the house!</p> - -<p>Why was it that she had lost the faith that in her girlhood had made -her so strong and secure?... She had said to Lavery it was because -people had disappointed her. But was that a reason for losing her faith -in God? Wasn't there something above and beyond this human life, so -often petty and sordid, these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> weak human beings—something fixed, -sure, always good and beautiful, a refuge?... No, there was nothing, -or if there was, she could not find it. When she had thought she loved -God, it was only that she loved people—Hilary in one way, Laurence -in another—and believed in them. And then at one stroke she had lost -both of them. They had been cut away from her—or was it that she had -done it, cut them away, repelled and denied them both? If a man loves -not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath -not seen?... Then she had lost all that remained to her, the joy in her -children, her content with herself, and that feeling of rightness.... -From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.... -Now she would be glad to go away from everybody, even the children....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Toward morning she slept, and woke unwillingly at a knock on her door.</p> - -<p>"Breakfast's ready—aren't you coming down?"</p> - -<p>It was Jim. She said sleepily, "Oh, I'm tired, hardly slept all night. -I guess I won't get up."</p> - -<p>Jim looked aggrieved.</p> - -<p>"It's rotten when you don't come down," he said. Then, turning away he -enquired sulkily, "Well, shall I bring up your breakfast?"</p> - -<p>How vigorous and vivid his young figure looked, in the grey morning -light—his brown glowing colour, how pleasant to see!</p> - -<p>"Yes—no, I'll get up," she said.</p> - -<p>Still he lingered.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, if you're very tired—I'll bring it up if you want me to."</p> - -<p>"No, I say I'll get up. Run along."</p> - -<p>"I'd just as soon bring it up—"</p> - -<p>"Run along!"</p> - -<p>She laughed as he shut the door, and sprang up, to see if she could -make it in ten minutes. It was rather more than that, but she got down -to find the three boys at the breakfast-table; and Jim rose and pulled -out her chair for her, a mark of special favour. A bright fire crackled -in the chimney, the silver coffee-urn hissed cheerfully in the middle -of the table; the room was warm and pleasant, with the rain beating -against the windows. The boys all smiled at her, and Jim, showing -his big white teeth, passed his cup for more coffee. One cup was his -allowance, but she filled it up.</p> - -<p>"What a night!" she said. "Did you hear the wind? I couldn't -sleep—could you?"</p> - -<p>They had all slept like tops, hadn't noticed any wind, that is, only -John had noticed it. "I like storms," he said. "I like a big storm, but -it doesn't keep me awake. I'd like to be out on the lake in a big wind."</p> - -<p>"Yes, you would," murmured Timothy sceptically.</p> - -<p>"Ma, I wish you'd make Tim brush his hair," drawled the eldest. "Look -at it."</p> - -<p>"I have brushed it—it won't lie down, that's all. It's a cowlick or -something."</p> - -<p>"Yes, or something! You need a hair-cut."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I guess you do," said Mary, looking at Timothy's thick disorderly -black mop. "You can go after school and get one."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span></p> - -<p>Jim picked up the silver hand-bell and rang it loudly.</p> - -<p>"What's that for?"</p> - -<p>"Pancakes. I told Hilda to make some and she's late as usual. It's -half-past eight now."</p> - -<p>The waitress brought in a big platter of cakes, and they vanished -quickly, with no comment except, "Pass the butter.... Maple-syrup, -please—I'll take a couple more, Mother." Then the three said, "Please -excuse me," and bolted for the door. In the hall arose the usual -hubbub. "That's my coat you've got.... Where's my cap?... Confound it, -who took my rubbers?..."</p> - -<p>Mary went out to say, "All your rubbers are on the shelf in the -coat-closet," to make sure that nobody rushed off without his rubbers, -to hear their shouted good-byes. The door banged behind them. She -smiled and went back to her coffee and the newspaper. Cold bath and -coffee made her feel fresh, full of energy, in spite of a bad night. -The world always looked more cheerful in the morning, especially when -the boys were about—they were so full of life, all of them, they were -nice even when they squabbled. Yes, if one could always be young, -things wouldn't be so bad. Life might be rather pleasant if you didn't -look into it too much.</p> - -<p>She finished her coffee and went into the big clean drab-coloured -kitchen to interview the cook about the day's meals and write lists for -the grocer and butcher. She ordered a good dinner—Laurence would be -home, her father was coming, there might be other guests, for Laurence -often brought some one. The cook stood by the table, rolling her hands -in her apron and looking rather sullen, and when Mary rose for her -usual quick inspection of pantries and ice-box, Hilda said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Mrs. Carlin, I think I be leaving the end of the month."</p> - -<p>"Why?" asked Mary sharply.</p> - -<p>"Oh—I think I be leaving."</p> - -<p>"Is it the work—the wages?"</p> - -<p>"No—no, I like the place, but ... I think I be leaving."</p> - -<p>Mary gazed at her, and finally said, "I know what it is—you've been -quarrelling with Anna."</p> - -<p>The cook made no answer, but continued to look sullen.</p> - -<p>"Now, Hilda," said Mary firmly, "you've been with me a year; in that -time I've had three waitresses, and you've quarrelled with every one of -them. I like Anna and I'm not going to let her go. I like you too, but -you're hard to get along with. If you want to leave at the end of the -month you can. I don't want to hear what you've been fighting about. -I advise you to think it over, and remember you'll always quarrel, -wherever you go, that's the way you're made. Let me know in a week."</p> - -<p>She went her rounds, praised the good order she found, and departed -sighing. Another raw cook to train, probably! It took just about a -year to break them in, and then.... Anna was doing the dining-room as -she passed through and looked suspiciously bottled-up, but Mary gave -her no chance to complain. Of course they would fight, those two—any -two would, they hadn't enough else to occupy their minds. She wished -she could get along with one servant, but in this big house it was -impossible, it was hard work for two.</p> - -<p>The house felt cold—she must send for the furnace-man and have him -start the fires. She went back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> tell Anna to tell the gardener to go -for Mike at once. Then she wrapped a mantle about her and went into the -parlours, two big connecting rooms. They were glacially cold.</p> - -<p>It had occurred to her this morning that the house was gloomy. She -didn't know why she hadn't noticed it before. Nothing had been changed -since they had lived in the house, ten years. Perhaps that was the -trouble. She had not been interested enough to want to change anything; -had accepted it all, as Laurence and the decorators presented it, with -indifference. She had never been interested in house-furnishings; if -Laurence liked this, it was enough. But it took an enormous amount of -work to keep all these heavy carpets and curtains clean, and all this -light furniture. And in spite of perpetual cleaning there was always a -musty smell when the windows were shut, as now. She frowned, looking -critically about her.</p> - -<p>The heavy cut-lace curtains covering the windows had turned yellow with -age. The thick silk draperies over these inner curtains showed streaks -where the sun had faded them. The figured satin upholstery of the -carved and fretted couches and chairs was rather faded too.... All this -expensive stuff—and now, after only ten years, it had to be replaced! -And the bric-a-brac on the gilt tables and the mantelpieces,—the -gilt clocks and all that fragile porcelain that took such a lot of -dusting—there was not a single thing that she had selected, or liked. -But when it came to replacing all this, her mind was a blank. Only -she would like something quieter, not gilt stuff, satin, or little -figures of shepherdesses, animals, boys riding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> on goats, and so on.... -Probably she would just have to get another decorator. How cold it all -looked in this grey light, reflected in the two long mirrors at either -end and the oblong mirrors over the mantelpieces!</p> - -<p>The boys liked this house. She had discovered just lately how much they -liked it. Its size—the big rooms—it was still the biggest house in -town. They had a lordly feeling about it. They were secretly proud of -their position, as sons of the town's most eminent citizen, and of this -house, as the symbol of his superiority.... Well, if they liked it, -there was no harm in making it a little more cheerful.</p> - -<p>She crossed the hall into the library, where she usually read or wrote -or received her visitors, for Laurence was never at home during the -day. There was a roaring big fire in the grate. This room was all -right. A library should be rather sombre, with big plain pieces of -furniture, the walls covered with books. It had the look of being used, -lived in; and its red hangings had kept their deep colour. Yes, this -would do—besides, Laurence probably wouldn't want it changed. It was -the only place in the house that seemed to belong to him.</p> - -<p>She went over to her table, where she had left her unfinished paper -on Æschylus. Her lips curled in a derisive smile. Æschylus! What did -those women care about Greek tragedies?... They brought their knitting -or fancy-work, sat and listened or didn't listen, while somebody -lectured to them. They felt they were getting culture, keeping up -with the times—or rather, it was the thing to belong to the Literary -Society, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> didn't dare not to belong.... Before Mary had taken the -presidency, they had had readings from the novels of the day; some -lady who had travelled would read a paper on the Yosemite Valley; or -there would be a written debate on the respective merits of Dickens and -Thackeray. Oral discussion was unknown, the ladies had no practice in -public speaking.... Well, she had made them work, anyway. She had made -an elaborate program for the study of Greek civilization, and all this -past year had driven or coaxed them through it. She had bought a list -of books on Greece for the library; and insisted on the ladies reading -and reporting on them. At the meetings she asked questions, stooped to -flatter them a little and tried to make them talk. It was hard work. -They didn't really want to get anything for themselves, preferred to -be spoon-fed. There were not more than two women in town who had any -intellectual interests, and she was the only one who knew even a little -Greek.</p> - -<p>Why bother them? They had their own absorbing interests—family, -houses, friends, church. Most of them worked pretty hard at home too. -She had done it for her own amusement and occupation, or out of vanity, -to make them feel her superiority. They were afraid of her, and she had -liked that. She had not one real friend among them.... Better resign, -and let them have a good time.</p> - -<p>She sat down, throwing off her cloak, and began to look over her -manuscript. It represented a good deal of work. She had consulted many -authorities, and read the plays, with Greek text and translation side -by side. There were the books piled on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> table, full of little -slips of paper with her notes. She had been conscientious, thorough, -giving the best work she could do. No doubt to impress them with her -scholarship. She smiled again sardonically as she listened to that -inner impish voice that had been her companion now for a long time, -commenting on everything she did, sneering....</p> - -<p>Anna brought in a telegram. She took it, knowing in a flash what it -was. Yes. "Sorry cannot get out tonight important case needs all my -attention for several days will wire when I can get away Laurence."</p> - -<p>Yes, the usual thing. Only this message was longer than usual, he had -wasted several words. She crumpled up the paper and threw it into the -fire.... She had intended to talk to him tonight about doing over the -house. Then there was her father coming to see him. Well, he couldn't -be ill if he was staying away indefinitely. He was just—busy.... She -would send word to her father not to come, it was bad weather, a steady -driving rain that threatened to last all day.</p> - -<p>She took up her pen and looked at the page before her—sat a long time -looking at it. In spite of the glowing fire her hands grew cold, too -cramped finally to hold the pen, and she dropped it.</p> - -<p>Why should she care? All that was over long ago—buried.</p> - -<p>Only sometimes it seemed that nothing ever could be buried securely. It -was as if the long grown-over ground should stir, and something that -had been buried too soon, still alive....</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>X</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">Two days passed, without word from Laurence. He seldom stayed away -as long as this without sending some message, except when he was on -circuit. The third day, as Mary was driving back from the meeting where -she had read her paper on Æschylus, she saw Jim on the street; he threw -up his hand, came running and jumped into the carriage.</p> - -<p>"I was coming for you, Mr. Lavery's at the house—Father's ill—he -wants you to go to the city. They think it's typhoid." He leaned -forward and told the coachman to drive faster. "You can get the -six-thirty in if you hurry."</p> - -<p>He could tell her no more in answer to her questions. He looked very -sober. As they turned in through the gates he said, "Don't you think -I'd better go with you? You'll want somebody besides that fellow."</p> - -<p>"I don't know—wait," said Mary sharply.</p> - -<p>Lavery was at the steps, came forward; but Jim sprang out and gave his -hand to Mary. Lavery looked pale and worried.</p> - -<p>"You'll just have the time to pack a bag.... The doctor isn't positive -yet, but looks like typhoid—he's got a high fever."</p> - -<p>The coachman was told to wait and they all hurried into the house.</p> - -<p>"How long has he been ill?" demanded Mary.</p> - -<p>"Well, since we went in, but—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why didn't some one let me know?"</p> - -<p>"He didn't want me to.... Now you better get ready. I'll talk to you on -the train."</p> - -<p>He turned away, perhaps to avoid further questions. Why had he come -for her instead of telegraphing?... But she was already on her way -upstairs, followed by the three boys and Anna. They stood about in -her room and tried to help while she got out her leather bag and put -the necessary things in it. She changed her silk dress for one of -dark cloth, tied her bonnet with shaking fingers; it was hard for her -to hurry. Jim went down and brought her a glass of sherry and some -crackers.</p> - -<p>"You'll miss your dinner, better drink this," he urged.</p> - -<p>She drank the wine and smiled faintly at him.</p> - -<p>"Can't I go with you?" he asked again. "Maybe you'll need me."</p> - -<p>"I'll see—but now I want you to look after things here. You'll have to -be the man of the house."</p> - -<p>A pang shot through her at those words, she frowned and snapped her bag -shut. She was ready. John, who had not uttered a word, took her hand as -they went downstairs. His fingers were cold and trembling.</p> - -<p>"Don't you worry," she said sharply. "I don't believe it's serious. -I'll telegraph Jim tomorrow. Now you all be good, get your lessons, go -to bed on time—and, Jim, you better go tell your grandfather—"</p> - -<p>They all swarmed after her to the carriage. The cook came too, calling:</p> - -<p>"We get along all right, Mrs. Carlin, don't worry about us—we do -everything we can, Anna and me—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p> - -<p>The three boys kissed her, Jim the last, putting a manly arm around -her; she thought how grave and strong his young face looked. Lavery -stepped into the carriage, the coachman whipped up his horses; they -just made the train.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>After a few questions and brief answers Mary sat silent, staring -blankly out of the window, during the hour's journey. She found -that Laurence had not sent for her, Lavery had come on his own -responsibility. The doctor had only this afternoon made the diagnosis -of typhoid—he was a smart young man, the best in the city, Lavery -thought. And Lavery had taken the tiresome journey instead of -telegraphing because he had to explain that Laurence was not at a hotel -or hospital, but staying at a friend's house, from which it was thought -best not to move him. Laurence had some rooms at this house, it seemed, -and—in fact generally stayed there when he was in the city. Mary did -not know the name or address—she addressed Laurence when necessary at -the Palmer Hotel. But she guessed whose house it was that she was going -to. He must be very ill. Otherwise Lavery would hardly be taking her -there.... When he had made his halting explanation she had listened, -said gravely, "Yes, I see. You did quite right," and then turned away.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There was a long drive over the rough cobble-stones, through streets -at first brightly lighted, then almost dark. They approached the lake -shore. The carriage stopped before a dimly lighted house standing by -itself, but not far from a block of houses of similar size.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> Lavery -helped Mary out and while he was paying the driver she took her bag and -walked up to the narrow porch. The door opened above; a woman's figure -appeared against the light in the hall. The gas-light had a red-glass -shade and cast a rosy glow down on the thin woman in a tight-fitting -black silk dress who stood aside to admit the visitor. Red hair, -twisted in a thick rough coil on top of her head ... eyes inflamed with -tears and now opened wide ... Mary recognized Nora. She bent her head -with an inarticulate murmur. Nora simply looked at her. Then Lavery -came in and shut the door.</p> - -<p>"This way," he said, starting up the narrow stairs. Mary followed. He -glanced down at Nora, and asked, "Any change since I left? Has the -doctor been?"</p> - -<p>She shook her head but did not speak, seemed unable to speak.</p> - -<p>On the landing, lit by a dim gas-jet, opened two large connecting -rooms. The one into which Lavery led the way was in some disorder. A -big table with a student-lamp and sheaves of papers was pushed into a -corner, easy-chairs littered with cigar-ashes stood in the middle of -the floor; on a stand with decanters and glasses lay Laurence's gold -repeater. The door into the farther room opened noiselessly and a young -woman in a light dress and white apron came out.</p> - -<p>"The nurse, Miss Macdonald," said Lavery in a low tone. "Mrs. Carlin. -How is he?"</p> - -<p>"About the same. Dr. Sayre will be in between eight and nine. He's very -restless." As Mary went toward the other room she added: "I'm afraid he -won't know you."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> - -<p>On a wide bed, high-topped with its impending weight of carving, dark -as a catafalque, Laurence lay tossing, his hands grasping at the -coverlet, his head rolling on the pillow. His eyes were half-open and -he was murmuring faint hurried words. Sitting beside him, touching his -burning hands and forehead, bending over him, Mary could hear no word -clearly, only an inarticulate murmur of distress. He did not notice her -presence nor give any sign when she spoke to him, urgently called his -name. His face was dully flushed, his black hair rumpled wildly, his -eyes glassy under the half-shut lids. He tossed away from her, moaning -heavily. A dark-greenish shade had been pinned over the gas-globe; in -this light he looked ghastly.</p> - -<p>The nurse came in and stood at the foot of the bed. After a few moments -Mary got up and beckoned her to the window.</p> - -<p>"How long has he been like this?"</p> - -<p>"Since I came this morning—only a little more restless toward night."</p> - -<p>"He looks terribly ill."</p> - -<p>"The doctor ought to be here very soon," said the nurse non-committally.</p> - -<p>Mary turned away, stopped a moment at the bedside, then went back into -the study. Lavery was there, sunk in a deep leather chair, smoking. -Mary turned to close the connecting door and he got up, holding his -cigar in his fingers. She walked up to him, her face deathly pale, and -clutched his arm.</p> - -<p>"Laurence is going to die!... I want to telegraph for my father!"</p> - -<p>"He isn't going to die!" cried Lavery angrily. "I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> didn't think you'd -lose your head like this, first thing, or I wouldn't have gone for you."</p> - -<p>But when he felt her hand shake, saw her whole body trembling, he -softened somewhat. "Look here, you're too scared. Have you ever seen -anybody very sick before?"</p> - -<p>"No ... no...." she muttered. "My mother ... but not like this.... He's -so strong...."</p> - -<p>"Well, he's sick, but we're going to pull him through.... Now look -here, are you going to help or not? When I went for you I said to -myself, that woman's got good nerve, she'll be a help. But if you're -going to be scared to death, first look at him—"</p> - -<p>"No—I'll be all right—just a minute—he's never been sick before...."</p> - -<p>"Well, I know, but you're going to pull yourself together.... And you -come downstairs and eat a bit with me before the doctor gets here. -You haven't had dinner and neither have I.... I told them to have -something. About telegraphing your father, we'd better wait till you -can speak to Sayre about it—that's etiquette and it won't hinder -anything. I don't believe he could get a train in tonight, could he?"</p> - -<p>"Eleven-thirty."</p> - -<p>"Well, it would be too bad to keep him up all night, if not necessary. -You wait and see Sayre.... And now come down, you'll feel better when -you've got some food."</p> - -<p>She followed him down into the small brightly-lit dining-room, sat -opposite him at the table, took soup, wine and coffee. She was aware -of a black figure moving round the table, bringing dishes in and -taking them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> out.... Then suddenly, with an almost audible click of -the machinery, her mind began to work in its usual way. Her vision -cleared, she saw Lavery opposite drinking coffee and re-lighting his -cigar. She looked round the room—solid oak furniture, reddish carpet -and curtains, silver on the sideboard and rows of bright-coloured -wine-glasses, green and red, a fine damask cloth on the table....</p> - -<p>A noise of wheels and hoofs in the street. Lavery got up. As he went -out one door, Nora came in the other, and stopped short. In a quick -glance, Mary took in her whole appearance.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XI</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">The girl Mary remembered had changed, more than the ten years accounted -for. There was nothing left of her youth. Her body was painfully thin, -a mere wisp, and the tight-fitting black dress emphasized each sharp -angle. There were great hollows in her face under the high cheek-bones -and in her neck, round which she wore a white lace collar fastened -by a large cameo brooch. Earrings to match the brooch, too heavy for -her face, brought out her dead pallor. Her brown eyes were dimmed and -slightly bloodshot from weeping. But her hair kept its vivid colour and -luxuriance.</p> - -<p>Seeing Mary alone, she had stopped—stood there, looking sullen, biting -her lips. They gazed at one another. Mary was conscious of a remote -astonishment that Nora should look so angry.... Voices sounded in the -hall.</p> - -<p>"There's the doctor," said Mary hurriedly, getting up. "Nora, how long -has—has he been ill exactly, do you know?"</p> - -<p>"Since he came here Thursday afternoon—he was sick then but he -wouldn't let me send for a doctor—I wanted to—"</p> - -<p>Her voice died away, again she had that sullen defensive look.</p> - -<p>"I know. It isn't your fault—I'm sure you did everything you could," -Mary said quickly in a neutral tone, and went out into the hall. She -felt extremely uncom<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>fortable in Nora's presence, but there was no time -to think about that now.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Sayre was a young thickset man, with cool dark eyes, full of energy. -After seeing the patient, he sat down in the study and talked with -Mary. Finding her calm and alert, he explained the treatment he -proposed to give, a new method—plenty of air and food, and cold -baths. He cordially assented to calling Dr. Lowell, whom he had met -professionally. He thought they would need another nurse, as the -patient must be watched day and night. Mary eagerly asked if she could -not take the night-duty, but he shook his head; he preferred a trained -person, and it would take two of them to handle the baths. But she -could be on hand—when her husband was conscious he would want her -there. He was curt and grave and used no soothing phrases. Mary did not -ask what he thought of the outcome; she could tell from his manner what -he thought. He went away, saying that he would send for the night-nurse -and would return himself about midnight. She might telegraph to Dr. -Lowell if she wished.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he came up Mary was in -the sickroom. The nurse had to give some medicine; twice a restless -movement of the patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under -Laurence's head and held him still while the medicine was given. She -smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid her cool hand on his forehead. -For a moment he was quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids -closed. She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> so, -close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she could not -breathe for the pain.... Then Lavery came in. Laurence began again that -murmuring and tossed away from her. Presently she got up and went out.</p> - -<p>She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, leaned back and -closed her eyes till she could control the nervous trembling that shook -her. Lavery, lighting one of his thick black cigars, came and sat down -near her. He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. She -looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shadows under the eyes.</p> - -<p>"You're tired out."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm tired—I was up last night a good deal," he admitted.</p> - -<p>"You must go home now and rest, there's nothing more to do here. The -doctor's sending another nurse and he'll be in again himself.... You've -been very good."</p> - -<p>"Oh," he said brusquely, "I guess it will be all right."</p> - -<p>"Well, it may be a long illness, you know—weeks. Now—I want to ask -you—" she frowned and gazed at him haughtily. "Here we all are, you -see—the two nurses and me, and there'll be special cooking, and—Well, -how will she manage? It's her house, I suppose. I don't see how we can -all—"</p> - -<p>"Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I know, and you could -hire another one if you want. But she'll want to do something herself, -she,—oh, well, hang it, she's devoted to Laurence."</p> - -<p>"I suppose so.... You know her, don't you, pretty well?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, I've been here a good deal. Laurence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> has always had his -rooms here ever since I've known him—it's quieter, you see, and—well, -Mary, I guess you knew about it, didn't you?"</p> - -<p>"I did, and I didn't," said Mary clearly. "Long ago I did."</p> - -<p>"Well, yes—he never said much to me, only that it was an old—affair. -Of course I could see how it was—more a responsibility, to him, than—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I understand, you needn't worry, so far as I'm concerned," said -Mary, coldly. "I just want Laurence to get well, and everybody will -have to do the best they can. It's—well, I can't talk to her tonight, -she's so upset, but I don't want her to feel that I've just walked in -and taken possession—after all, it's her house. She looks so—afraid, -and angry at me too—I can't help it, she ought to know I have to be -here. But I don't want to make it harder for her than—oh, well, I'll -have to talk to her. It doesn't matter very much anyway, what she feels -or what I feel. It doesn't seem very important."</p> - -<p>"No, it doesn't," said Lavery absently.</p> - -<p>They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, and brooded -with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in the big chair, relaxed ... and a -feeling of the unreality of all about her made it seem that some bridge -between her and the world had dropped suddenly.... There was only a -tremendous vacancy, stillness, emptiness, pressed upon her....</p> - -<p>Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from the sick man. She -started up.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">By next day the routine of life in these new circumstances was -arranged. Mary had a couch in the study, the two nurses having their -rooms upstairs; she watched her chance to be useful in the sickroom. -Dr. Lowell had come in, and concurred in the young doctor's diagnosis -and proposed method of treatment. Alone with Mary, he said:</p> - -<p>"Sayre is all right. Now it's a question of care—and of course, if -Laurence has the vitality to pull through. I think he has. You can keep -an eye on the nurses—the best will stand watching—careless, forget -things—"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"And you'll see there's plenty of good food—nourishing soups, eggs and -milk, meat jellies—"</p> - -<p>"Yes." Then she said. "You know, for some years past Laurence has been -drinking pretty steadily—a good deal. Do you think—?"</p> - -<p>Dr. Lowell shook his head. "Doesn't make a bit of difference."</p> - -<p>"Then you think he may—"</p> - -<p>"I don't know a thing about it, Mary, that's the truth—and it -generally is the truth. I think he has an even chance.... I suppose you -have no idea where he may have picked this up? So far as I know, we -haven't a case in town."</p> - -<p>"No—he's always moving about, you know—he was in Springfield last -week—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes. Well, I'll come in, say tomorrow evening, and stay overnight. -Suit you? Got to get my train now."</p> - -<p>He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and departed. Mary was used -to that look from him. It was the only commentary he had ever made on -the course of her married life; and she had made no confidences to him. -Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly cool unemotional manner -meant: things were so serious that there was no use making a fuss. When -the balance hung between life and death one had to be ready for either. -No time for tears—a smile was a more natural thing—one could smile, -long after tears were all wept away.</p> - -<p>She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, because Nora's -eyes were perpetually reddened and she always seemed on the point of -crying. Even when discussing the preparation of soups, arranging for -extra service, expenses, all the details of a household in state of -siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. Nerves!</p> - -<p>Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized her. She thought -it probable, otherwise he would have asked how Laurence came to be at -this house. He had asked no questions.</p> - -<p>She recalled the violence with which Nora had rejected her offer to -get another servant. "We don't need anybody else, we can get along all -right." Then under her breath, "Too many people here now!"</p> - -<p>That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had been an old -habit of Nora's when her temper was roused. But this time she added -hurriedly. "I'll do the cooking myself, I want to do it. You just tell -me what you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span> want and I'll get it—night or day, it's all the same to -me."</p> - -<p>She had spoken with intensity, looking away from Mary, her cheeks had -flushed hotly. For a moment she looked like the passionate girl of long -ago.</p> - -<p>Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did not want to call her -"Mrs. Carlin." Mary without thinking had called her Nora; she did not -like that, perhaps.... Mary shrugged her shoulders with an ironical -smile.</p> - -<p>After her father had gone, she remained sitting in her chair in the -study, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the smouldering -fire in the grate.... Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through -the years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing out like -sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering a lifetime almost....</p> - -<p>She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for the first time, -as though they belonged to some one else. It seemed that a process, now -suddenly completed, had been going on for a long time—a process of -breaking, one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to the -self which she no longer felt to be hers.... Or rather, it was hers, -that self, but it no longer represented her, contained her, it was not -all of her. She could stand apart from it and criticize it without -feeling.</p> - -<p>She looked back to the time when she had been all one self, completely -contained in a firm shell: when she had been sure she was right, and -all other persons, when they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending -pride, pride that had outlasted even her self-righteousness—pride that -held fast to the form long after the substance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> feeling had gone.... -Never had she been able to admit that she was wrong, even after she -had seen it clearly. Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her -unhappiness—or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her that she had -begun to feel wrong? Was it because of this wrong that she had lost her -religion—or was it that her religion was a false shell, and only after -breaking through it had she been able to see such light as this?</p> - -<p>It seemed that all she had been, that self she had loved and taken -pride in, had suffered a slow disintegration.... All that she could now -feel as surely hers, was the aloof merciless intelligence that sat in -judgment; and something else, that was suffering deeply, dumbly....</p> - -<p>There was a dark chaos, into which she could hardly bear to look. -Instinct, emotion, long denied, suppressed, was struggling passionately -there for expression. This dark depth of feeling was common to the self -she had rejected and to what she now was—it spread far out beyond -either, it was limitless. It was a flood of pain, swelling to overwhelm -her ... it was terror and grief, common to all the world, from which -till now she had walled herself apart.... Only for a moment could she -bear that.... She had to keep calm, keep her head clear—she was on -guard. And she could do it, her nerve was good. If Laurence should -die—go out perhaps without a word to her—then the flood would break -over her. But till then she could hold it back.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Could a wrong done ever be atoned for? Would recognition that she had -done it, a sincere wish to atone for it, be of any use?... Yes, to that -self in which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> no longer felt any interest. It would be good for -herself to repent—but she did not care now about being good or right. -She would like to make up for what she had done. And that was no doubt -impossible. By her own actions she had helped to fix the form of Nora's -life, and of Laurence's. In a real sense then atonement was impossible, -repentance was useless. One's acts were irrevocable. All she could do -was to recognize her responsibility and pay that part of the price that -was assessed against her; perhaps this would be, to see that others had -paid far more heavily than she.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>How differently that old self of hers would have looked upon this -situation. There would have been two sinners and one righteous person -judging them. The same house would hardly have held Nora and that -other woman, who would have drawn aside her skirts lest she should -touch pitch and be defiled.... She remembered Hilary's attitude about -sin, and her own condemnation of it ... and reflected vaguely that she -had lost her hatred for sin along with her religion. Now everything -was mixed up together, she hardly knew black from white.... Only she -regretted—yes, bitterly regretted—long empty years.... Her wrongs, -and revenge, and hatred, clasped close and cherished, had eaten all the -good out of life and she had starved....</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XIII</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">A week passed. She watched Laurence's struggle, saw his strong body -wasting away day by day, saw him weakening under the incessant fever. -There had been no gleam of recognition for her; he was delirious or -lay in a stupor. She tried to follow his wanderings in that strange -borderland where the physical struggle was transmuted into fantasies -reflecting his past life. Broken phrases told her he was fighting old -battles over again.... He was contesting a field of war, leading his -men into action; he shouted hoarse words of command, then cried out—he -was down but the men must go on, take that position on the ridge.... -Then he saw his brother fall, but he couldn't stop, must go on, on -... through the icy water, up that slope where the bullets sang.... -A soldier's funeral. He beat time to the Dead March and the last -bugle-call....</p> - -<p>Or it was a courtroom scene. He was fighting hard for somebody's life, -he pleaded passionately in low murmurs. The man hadn't meant to do -wrong, Gentlemen of the Jury, he had meant well, only somehow things -were against him and he had got into trouble.... Your Honour, before -you pronounce sentence, I ask to be heard....</p> - -<p>Then he was in a storm, the snow blinded him, he was freezing, couldn't -go on ... or in a desert, lost,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> crying for water. Always the struggle -of mind and body against odds, it seemed, a desperate losing battle....</p> - -<p>Mary would watch this, always calm, cool, alert for anything she could -do to relieve or supplement the nurses. When she gave way it was after -she had locked herself into a room alone, and then it was not an -emotional breakdown but a drop into nothingness. She would lie with her -eyes shut, feeling nothing, caring for nothing. Somewhere there was a -dumb sense of injury, of injustice—but even this seemed not to matter, -since there was no one to complain to.... Things were like this.</p> - -<p>As the days went by, all outside the sickroom became more shadowy -to her. Even Jim coming in to see her, grown suddenly a man in this -trouble, stalwart and serious; her father's visits, the young doctor, -Horace Lavery, her daily consultations with Nora—her mind, aloof and -critical, received and registered all the detail of life, dealt with -it, but it had the thin quality of shadow. The reality was there with -Laurence. Sometimes he murmured her name, spoke to her; not recognizing -her there beside him, but seeing her far in the past—tenderly. There -seemed no harshness in his memory of her, no pain from those battles -they had gone through or the long estrangement. His tone was appealing, -it had a child-like pathetic demand. He wanted her to do something -about this that was bothering him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then came a day when the fever broke. Instead of going up toward night -it went down. The patient slept<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> quietly a good deal of the night, and -woke in the dawn, conscious.</p> - -<p>Mary too had slept soundly that night for the first time; waking she -saw the beaming face of the nurse.</p> - -<p>"You can go in, he's quite himself.... But don't let him talk, he's too -weak."</p> - -<p>He lay there, too weak indeed even to put out his hand toward her, -but his eyes welcomed her. How young those eyes looked, vividly blue -in his wasted face! The outline of his face under the black beard was -that of his youth and his body was slender as in youth. He smiled at -her faintly. She knelt beside him and kissed him lightly with deep -tenderness, and whispered that he mustn't try to talk, thank God he was -better, but he must be very quiet and get back his strength, everything -was all right. His eyes smiled at her, rested on her face with the old -warmth of youthful love. He whispered her name.</p> - -<p>The nurse came in with some soup, and Mary fed him like a child, with -deep solicitude, with delight. His eyes closed, he must sleep again; -but when she moved he stirred to keep her there. She nodded and drew a -chair to the bedside and sat motionless long after he slept.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In the early afternoon, when Laurence had waked and was again sleeping, -with the fever still down, Horace Lavery insisted upon taking Mary out -for an airing. When she objected, he took her by the arm and led her to -a mirror. "Don't you think you need a change?" he enquired severely. -She smiled at the pallid face<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span> in the glass, looking certainly ten -years older in this fortnight, with deep lines in it, the hair -carelessly pushed back.</p> - -<p>"You've got to keep up your strength, you know, and you haven't poked -your nose outdoors since you came," Horace stated. "It's a lovely day. -I'll get a carriage."</p> - -<p>"Well," agreed Mary. "I feel like celebrating. But only an -hour—Laurence might wake and want me there."</p> - -<p>The whole atmosphere of the house was changed—a subdued rejoicing -had filled it as the black shadow lifted. Nora even for the first -time smiled at Mary coming downstairs in her long black cloak and -bonnet. And Mary smiled back radiantly and clasped Nora's rather limp -hand. Nora, by way of celebrating too, perhaps, had put on a lavender -silk dress, more striking than becoming in contrast to her red hair, -now neatly arranged. She had a visitor, at whom Mary just glanced in -passing—a stout woman in black satin, with a large feathered bonnet -and diamond earrings. Mary of course would never have thought of -wearing diamond earrings on the street. She possessed a very handsome -pair—she and Laurence always gave one another handsome presents on -Christmas—but she had hollow gold balls made to fit over the diamonds -for the street or in travelling.... Nora's visitor certainly looked -vulgar ... and that dress Nora was wearing was a terrible colour, -though it was very rich silk. Nora looked like a witch in it, with -her thin face and carroty hair.... Had Nora also, perhaps, a pair of -diamond earrings?...</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mary, with a high colour in her cheeks, swept haughtily out of the -house.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The victoria drove slowly down the cobbled street, Mary and Lavery -sitting side by side. With an effort she turned her attention toward -her silent escort, and observed that he was attired in a frock-coat, -light grey trousers and a silk hat.</p> - -<p>"You're all dressed up!" she said with faint gaiety.</p> - -<p>"Yes—usher at a wedding at five o'clock—up to today I didn't think I -could do it—but now I don't mind. Why, today I'd hardly mind getting -married myself!"</p> - -<p>His smoothly-shaven face showed signs of the days of stress which, -after forty, man nor woman can encounter with impunity. There was a -tremor of the muscles round his mouth as he said abruptly:</p> - -<p>"I don't know why I got tied up this way with you and Laurence. Awful -mistake—and dead against my principles. Why, it spoils life, that's -what it does. And it ain't that I'm so fond of you two either—that is, -I don't think I am." He smiled uncertainly. "Old fool," he muttered.</p> - -<p>Mary laid her hand on his arm.</p> - -<p>"Don't do that, damn it," he said, drawing out a scented handkerchief. -"Can't you see I'm about to cry?"</p> - -<p>"Well, do, then," said Mary.</p> - -<p>"At my time of life a nervous strain like this is no joke," he retorted -peevishly. "I tell you I'm going to cut your acquaintance. I can't -afford it."</p> - -<p>"Well, do."</p> - -<p>He scowled. "At forty-five a man has a right to think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> of -himself—consider his little comforts and so on. He can't afford -emotions, they're simply ruinous.... And I might have known you and -Laurence would let me in for them. You're that kind. I suspected it all -along."</p> - -<p>It was a warm misty day of Indian summer. The carriage turned into the -drive on the shore of the lake. There trees were shedding softly their -last golden leaves. The lake was a deep cloudy blue, lapping in ripples -on the sand.</p> - -<p>"I think I'd like to walk a ways," said Mary suddenly. "It seems years -since I stepped foot on the ground."</p> - -<p>She left her wrap in the carriage, which followed them slowly as they -strolled along the shore, and halted when they sat down after a time -on a bench facing the water. They were silent, relaxed and weary, -each immersed in a separate stream of thought; but conscious too of -companionship. When Lavery spoke finally it was as though he were -thinking aloud.</p> - -<p>"I believe we are not meant to go through such emotional strain—I -mean, human beings simply aren't constructed for it," he meditated. "I -think we've gone off on a tangent, a wrong turning. We've overdeveloped -our emotions, and Nature penalizes us every time for it. When you -consider it, the physical world being what it is, really hostile to -us, so that we have to be always on guard, and with all our care we're -liable to an accident any minute—why, it's not reasonable for us to -care so much for life or death—our own or other people's. Is it now? -We put a wrong emphasis there, I'm sure."</p> - -<p>Mary remained silent, and he went on:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Of course, you may say that what we think is our highest development -is all, in a way, against Nature.... Nature works for the mass, for -the average, she wants quantity, not quality—she's inclined, when she -sees a head rising above the mass to hit it.... What does Nature do for -the finer, more sensitive human beings? She knocks them, every chance -she gets. Suppose we develop altruistic feelings, a disinterested -love for some other human being, we get hit through it, every time. -No, ma'am, it doesn't pay! This world is constructed for people with -tough shells—all others pass at their own risk.... And I think maybe -we'd do better by the world, and other people, and ourselves, if we -recognized that—if we had a real philosophy of toughness, instead of -what we've mistakenly developed.... The philosophy of tenderness is -the fashion, of course—people profess it, are actually ashamed not -to—and a few practise it. But what good is it? It doesn't fit the -facts, that's all, doesn't work. Since we're flung out defenceless into -a world that doesn't care a hang about us as individuals, we ought -to grow a tough shell as quick as we can, and stay in it if we want -to survive. The only philosophical solution is not to have personal -feelings.... You must either not admit them at all, but live like a -crab in your shell—or else you must transcend them. Mystics say this -can be done—I've never tried it myself. They say you can merge your -own individuality in the mass, so that you are simply a part of what is -going on, and don't feel personal loss or pain much.... What say about -that?"</p> - -<p>He turned to Mary, and saw that she had not been listening. She was -staring at the blue shimmering water<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>—and suddenly she flushed -deeply, painfully, and looked distressed.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" asked Lavery sharply. "What's bothering you now?"</p> - -<p>"It's about Nora—"</p> - -<p>"Nora? What about her?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I just thought that I might have asked her to go up and see -Laurence for a minute, now he's better.... She hasn't been near the -room since I came.... And I took it that way, as if she had no business -there...."</p> - -<p>Lavery looked sideways at her, discomfited.</p> - -<p>"Well, you couldn't have too many people running in—he isn't fit for -it," he muttered.</p> - -<p>"No, but I do feel badly about her.... You see, it goes back years. -She was in our house, took care of the boys when they were little. She -really loved them—and I guess she'd always been fond of Laurence, -she knew him before I did. But I didn't notice it until ... well, -I discovered it suddenly and ... she was turned out of the house -practically.... I didn't concern myself about how she lived after -that...."</p> - -<p>"So that was the trouble," said Lavery, looking curiously at her. "I -never knew that—I mean, that she was concerned in it.... And you were -awfully angry?"</p> - -<p>Mary frowned. "I don't know what I was.... It did something to me—I -never got over it—couldn't."</p> - -<p>"I suppose you were very much in love with Laurence then."</p> - -<p>"I don't know whether I was or not, that wasn't the way I thought about -it.... I didn't think about it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> much anyway—I never liked thinking -about my feelings ... or talking about them."</p> - -<p>"You don't mind talking a little this way, do you?"</p> - -<p>"No, not now—it seems so long ago, and then—I'm hardly the same -person I was then."</p> - -<p>"And so you turned her out.... But you didn't want to leave Laurence?"</p> - -<p>Mary was silent for some moments.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps I did, perhaps not.... I didn't leave him, in one way, and in -another I did. It couldn't be the same."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no ... but still in the course of time you might have forgiven -him."</p> - -<p>"It wasn't that.... I don't believe there's such a thing as -forgiveness. We forget, that's all."</p> - -<p>"And you didn't forget.... I wonder if you loved Laurence."</p> - -<p>"I don't know. He always said I didn't.... But he's had his life -anyway."</p> - -<p>"No doubt. And you've had yours."</p> - -<p>Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, yes."</p> - -<p>He waited, watching her curiously, and after a moment she broke out:</p> - -<p>"I know this—the only times I've ever felt afraid—real fear—it was -on account of Laurence—when he was in danger."</p> - -<p>"You didn't exactly want him, then, but you didn't want to lose him -either?... You wanted him in some way."</p> - -<p>"Oh ... that's enough about that.... But I was talking about Nora. I -can see she thinks she'll be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> thrown out again. Any how she just hates -me."</p> - -<p>"Well, naturally."</p> - -<p>"But I tell you, I'm sorry for what I did. I'd like her to know it. But -I can't say anything to her. It seems, everything I could say would -sound—patronizing, or forgiving, or—wrong, anyway."</p> - -<p>"Of course. You're in possession, you see. She knows it, and that she -hasn't got any real hold. You can't get around that. I don't see what -you can do about it."</p> - -<p>"But, you see, she really gave up her life—first to my children, and -then.... She would have married and had children of her own."</p> - -<p>"No doubt. She might yet. But not while Laurence is around. It's a real -passion on her side."</p> - -<p>"Well—that's my doing. I mean, that it lasted as long as it did. It -was because I acted the way I did that he didn't break with her then."</p> - -<p>"He'd have been glad to, many times since, I guess. She is as -jealous as the devil, and makes scenes about any shadow of a woman. -Naturally—she knows she hasn't got much of a hold on him, only he -feels responsible.... I don't really see, Mary, why you should have -made such a fuss about her.... It isn't as if he'd ever been in love -with her.... Why couldn't you let him have his humble handmaiden ... or -at any rate, not upset the whole apple-cart on account of it?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know, you have no morality—hardly any man has. Anyhow it has -nothing to do with that.... I want to know what to do now."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't see what you can do."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p> - -<p>They had spoken in calm neutral tones and now were silent again. Lavery -watched Mary; her face was intent, slightly frowning, baffled. He -reflected that she had a concrete sort of mind, abstract questions, -problems of character or conduct, did not interest her, she wanted to -"do something." And really now, what could she do about this situation?</p> - -<p>"You see," he said slowly, "things are changed now. Your being -there—right there in the house—don't you see? I think, when he gets -well, Laurence will want to break away for good and all from there. -Of course she'd be looked after, materially, that's only right. And -she'd probably have a chance to settle in life, it would be better, in -the long run, for her.... I'm sort of taking it for granted," he added -gravely, "that you want Laurence back."</p> - -<p>Mary's face was an expressionless mask; lowered eyelids hid her eyes.</p> - -<p>"I guess you want him back, and you don't want any other woman round. I -sort of think you're human, after all."</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid to say," she murmured.</p> - -<p>"What? How?"</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid.... It seems, I mustn't want anything now, I mustn't count -on anything.... I must try to do right, to make up what I can, in any -case, whether Laurence—" Suddenly she turned and cowered against -Lavery, hiding her face on his shoulder, clutching his arm. "I'm -afraid—I'm afraid!"</p> - -<p>He sat silent and nodded his head slightly, looking blank, then became -cheerful, expostulated:</p> - -<p>"Oh, I know we're not out of the woods yet—but, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> say, you're not -going to pieces, are you, the first good day we've had, and me with -a wedding on my hands?... I say, this is unreasonable.... Poor girl, -you're tired out, I know ... but what d'ye suppose the coachman thinks?"</p> - -<p>"As if I cared!" But she sat up and straightened her bonnet. "We'd -better go back now."</p> - -<p>The sun was almost too warm on their bench.... And the water ... what a -blue, soft and cloudy, a heavenly colour.... The softness and warmth of -summer shed for a day over bare boughs and falling leaves....</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h3>XIV</h3> - - -<p class="drop-cap p-left">They drove back rapidly. In the hall, Mary found Nora waiting for her. -Nora, with flashing eyes and bright red spots on her cheek-bones, came -up to her and said:</p> - -<p>"There's a woman in there.... She wouldn't go away!"</p> - -<p>"Where? A woman? What woman?"</p> - -<p>"In the parlour. I don't know who she is.... She wants to see him."</p> - -<p>"Wants to see ...?"</p> - -<p>"I told her she couldn't, but she wouldn't go away. You better tell -her!"</p> - -<p>Lavery had come in and gone on upstairs. With a severe look at Nora, -Mary opened the parlour door and went in. A woman who had been standing -at the window turned to meet her. A woman, tall as herself, young and -slender—dressed in plain black but richly dressed. A faint perfume was -shaken out as she moved, from her silken clothes.</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Carlin?... I've been waiting.... I wanted to know just how he -is.... I'm a friend, I've been very anxious."</p> - -<p>A hat with a drooping lace veil partly hid her face. She was striking, -if not beautiful—a long narrow face, with intense dark eyes under -straight brows, thick hair of a dark auburn colour. Her look was as -direct and wilful as her words.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> - -<p>"He is better today—conscious for the first time, but very weak," said -Mary evenly, with her stateliest manner.</p> - -<p>"Could I see him?... Oh, I don't mean to speak to him, I know that -wouldn't do.... But just to look at him for a minute?"</p> - -<p>The request was uttered politely enough, but like a command.</p> - -<p>"No. If he saw you it would disturb him perhaps. I can't risk it," said -Mary calmly.</p> - -<p>"You needn't. If he's awake I won't ask it. But if he isn't, it won't -hurt him if I just stand at the door for a minute.... That's all I -want, and I won't come again.... Won't you see? Please!"</p> - -<p>The woman was breathing quickly, her voice was agitated, and those -dark eyes burned.... Well, she was straightforward enough, anyway, no -excuses, no beating about the bush. Here was a woman who would know -what she wanted and wouldn't have any weak scruples about getting -it.... Refuse her?... Well, after all, why? Perhaps she too had a right -to be there....</p> - -<p>"Come up with me.... I'll see how he is.... But you won't...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, he shan't know I'm here, depend on me."</p> - -<p>Mary led the way out into the hall and up the stairs. She saw Nora -standing at the back of the hall, her face convulsed with anger.... At -the head of the stairs was Lavery.</p> - -<p>"Still sleeping—that's fine," he whispered.</p> - -<p>Then as he saw the woman behind Mary on the stairs, utter amazement -showed in his face. He stepped back,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> bowed, and she acknowledged his -recognition by a slight bend of her head.</p> - -<p>"Come in this way," said Mary.</p> - -<p>The visitor followed her into the study, and then, when Mary beckoned -to her, to the door of the sickroom. She moved slowly, shrinkingly; -clasping her hands over her breast, fixing her dark eyes on Laurence's -face, just dimly visible. A look of terror came into those eyes, -her lips parted, but without a sound.... In a few moments she moved -noiselessly back. Hastily she dropped the veil over her face, turned to -Mary, said in a choked voice, "Thank you," bowed as she passed.... In a -moment she was down the stairs and out of the house.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Then the doctor came and went, much encouraged. And then Mary went -down to her solitary supper. Nora came in to wait upon her, still -incongruously attired in the lavender gown, but pale and lowering.</p> - -<p>"Nora, have you been in to see Laurence?" asked Mary gently.</p> - -<p>Nora shook her head sharply.</p> - -<p>"You'd like to see him tomorrow, wouldn't you, if he keeps as well as -today?"</p> - -<p>"He hasn't asked to see me, I guess," said Nora coldly.</p> - -<p>"No, he hasn't asked for anybody, he's too weak to talk. But I'm sure -he'd like to see you," Mary said, still studiously kind.</p> - -<p>"When he asks for me, I'll go," Nora flashed out. Her whole face was -ablaze, her eyes flamed. "And you shouldn't have let that woman up -there—she's always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> after him, she writes to him, there's packs of -letters from her—"</p> - -<p>"How do you know?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I didn't open the letters ... but I know!... What right has she to -come here and want to see him?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know.... She seemed very fond of him," said Mary calmly.</p> - -<p>Nora rushed out of the room.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>And then Mary repented her malice. That poor thing, it was a shame to -torment her.... And how foolish to have made a fuss, as Lavery said, -about Nora.... That other woman, that was the dangerous one, Nora -was harmless, poor creature.... And heaven knows how many more there -are.... Yes, Laurence had had his life.... Sometime perhaps she too -would be angry about this, but not now.... Now she would prefer to be -kind, even to Nora.</p> - -<p>But perhaps Nora's instinct was right, and Lavery's. It might be -useless for her to try to approach Nora, or to try to be reasonable. -It might only make things worse. Nora was willing to do her best -practically—that was all that could be asked of her. Her personal -feelings were her own affair.</p> - -<p>But Mary was obstinate. That feeling of deep injury, of bitterness, -of hate perhaps which she had seen in Nora toward herself—how could -she consent to have that remain, if there was anything she could do to -soften it? She was willing to do anything possible, willing to admit -that she had been unjust. Her pride, from the moment she felt herself -in the wrong, was on the side of admitting it, practically forced -her to do it.... But why was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> it that she seemed to say or do just -the wrong thing, why was it so hard for her to approach people, even -when she wished them well—what stupidity in her made her offend? Was -it deeper than that? Was it after all that she perhaps <i>didn't</i> feel -kindly to Nora, <i>didn't</i> wish her well?... This incident tonight seemed -to show it. She had had a chance to annoy Nora and she had done it.... -Was she still bound then by the limitations of that old self, which she -saw so clearly? Were one's faults and weaknesses inherent, not to be -got rid of, even if one condemned them? Apparently....</p> - -<p>No, one thing was different, her will. She willed to be different -from what she had been—she would force that old self of hers to be -different, at least to act in another way. And Nora should feel it too.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Nora!" she called clearly.</p> - -<p>She waited a few minutes, then got up to go in search. But Nora came in -through the pantry-door and shut it behind her; leaning against it she -looked at Mary with defiant eyes.</p> - -<p>"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to do anything against you. -Do you think I want to hurt you? Don't you see?"</p> - -<p>"It's no matter whether you do or not," Nora said in a hard tone.</p> - -<p>"I want to tell you that I think I was wrong—long ago. I wasn't fair -to you. I—"</p> - -<p>"It's no matter now," Nora broke in again.</p> - -<p>"Yes, it is. I want to say—"</p> - -<p>"I don't want you to say anything!... I guess<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> you were fair enough, -you treated me all right. Anybody would have...."</p> - -<p>She stopped and her lowering gaze shifted.</p> - -<p>"Well, I just want to say that I feel I owe you a good deal. I realized -it afterwards. The children.... I knew you'd really loved them—"</p> - -<p>Nora shrank at that and bit her lip.</p> - -<p>"It's no use talking, I don't want to talk about it," she cried. "I've -been a bad woman, and that's all there is to it."</p> - -<p>"No! I never thought you were bad—not even then. I don't think I -blamed <i>you</i>."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I guess I was to blame," muttered Nora, "I knew it, all right."</p> - -<p>"I want you to know that I don't blame you and that I don't think -you're bad."</p> - -<p>"I don't see that that's got anything to do with it. I guess I know if -I'm bad or not.... I know that I can't go to confession, and I believe -I'll go to hell ... and I don't care much if I do.... And I know what -happened on account of me too."</p> - -<p>Now it was Mary who changed colour, lost her composure.</p> - -<p>"That—my fault more than yours—" she stammered.</p> - -<p>And Nora grew more composed. There was even a strange air of dignity -about her as she said after a moment:</p> - -<p>"I don't want you to think about what's past, Mrs. Carlin. It won't do -any good. I've done what I knew was wicked and—I don't know if I'm -sorry or not. So you see I don't want you to forgive me, even if you -wanted to. I don't ask anybody's forgiveness, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> what difference -would it make? It wouldn't change anything."</p> - -<p>Abruptly she retreated into the pantry and closed the door. Mary, with -shaking hands, poured herself a cup of strong coffee and drank it -black. Well, that was over. And Nora was right, it was no use talking -and nothing she could do would make any difference.</p> - -<p>She went slowly upstairs, thinking that she felt more respect and -liking for Nora than ever before—felt it now perhaps for the first -time. But it would be impossible to make Nora feel that—if she -tried she would strike the wrong note somehow, she was made like -that—clumsy—yes, and worse than that, with impulses to hurt, that -came so suddenly she couldn't resist. She shrugged her shoulders. Best -to drop it all. She had other things to think about anyway....</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Laurence was lying quiet, his eyes open. She sat down beside him and -took his hand. The light was dimmed, but she could see the glimmer of a -smile on his face. His fingers closed round hers with a faint pressure. -His eyes met hers, with a strange look, as if from a great distance.</p> - -<p>"You feel a little better, don't you?" she said bending down.</p> - -<p>"Yes," he answered, faintly.</p> - -<p>"Don't make him talk," warned the nurse, "Tomorrow will be time enough."</p> - -<p>"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," said Laurence's faint far-away -voice. "Lighting fools the way to dusty death."</p> - -<p>"Hush, you mustn't talk!" gasped Mary.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span></p> - -<p>Again came that glimmer, like the reflection of a smile, on his face. -And all the while that strange look in his eyes.</p> - -<p>She clasped his inert hand, thin and shrunken. How these weeks of -illness had wasted his strong body, withered him to a shadow. Man's -flesh is grass—it is cut down and cast into the oven.... Man born of -woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh up as a flower....</p> - -<p>But Laurence was better, surely better, they all said so.... Hardly any -fever....</p> - -<p>But his strength was gone—eaten up by that burning fire.... Was he -drifting away, calm, without pain, like this, had he gone too far to -come back? Surely he was far away, that was what his look meant.... -Untroubled ... indifferent ... he didn't care, it seemed. He wasn't -interested. Just looking on, a mere spectator, no emotion, perhaps -a slight amusement.... His eyes closed, he was breathing evenly and -quietly.</p> - -<p>Strange to see him like this, his restless and passionate spirit -stilled, so drawn away, so detached; it was not mere physical weakness, -it was as though he were ceasing to be identified with this weakened -body, deliberately withdrawing from it. <i>This</i> was not Laurence.... -It was Laurence who had looked at her in that first return to -consciousness, with eyes of love ... and then with that remote and -passionless look, as though he had already said good-bye....</p> - -<p>The wasted years.... Years that she had wasted ... when he had lived -his life, near her but apart, when she had held him away—for what?... -He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> loved life, had been so intensely living. Now it seemed he -didn't care. He would make no effort to live—he was tired. They might -try all they could to keep him. He would slip away, perhaps, through -their fingers, with that glimmer of a smile at them.... She would be -punished. It was just. She had no reason to feel injured, to complain. -As she had sowed, she would reap.... A mortal chill was at her heart.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That night she could not sleep. The strong coffee she had taken keyed -her up; her heart beat nervously, a stream of restless thoughts rushed -through her brain. At intervals she would get up and look into the -sickroom. The night-nurse would be moving about, or sitting in the -large chair at the foot of the bed; all seemed quiet. Toward morning -Mary fell into a doze; troubled, uneasy, with the feeling that some one -was calling her, she must rouse herself. She woke suddenly in the dawn, -and heard a low moaning in the next room. She sprang up and went in. -The nurse said:</p> - -<p>"I was just going to call you. I have to go down and get some ice. -There's a little more fever. Will you see he doesn't get uncovered? -Keep the blankets that way over his chest."</p> - -<p>There was a dull flush again on his face, his hands were moving -restlessly, and he kept up that low moan of distress. Mary kept the -blankets over him, careful not to touch him, for her hands were icy -cold. The nurse came back with the cracked ice and filled a rubber bag -which she bound on his head.</p> - -<p>"When did you notice this change?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span></p> - -<p>"About an hour ago he began to get restless."</p> - -<p>"I'd better call Dr. Sayre."</p> - -<p>"Not before seven o'clock, it wouldn't be any use. They won't wake -him unless it's absolutely necessary. And this may not be anything -serious—there's often a slight relapse. Don't worry, Mrs. Carlin. -Yesterday was too good to last, that's all. We must expect ups and -downs."</p> - -<p>"But he's so weak...."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I've seen them pull through, lots weaker than he is—he's got a -good strong physique.... Now don't stand around, it's too cold. You -better go and get dressed, if you want to be up."</p> - -<p>With a shivering look at Laurence's dark face and half-open eyes, she -went, dressed herself quickly, shook her long hair out of its braid -and twisted it up roughly. She put on her bonnet and cloak. Then she -started downstairs, careful to make no noise. She intended to get the -doctor. The gas-light in the hall was burning, turned down to a point -of light. As she fumbled with the chain on the door, Nora came into the -hall, wrapped in a pink dressing-gown, her hair flowing thick over her -shoulders.</p> - -<p>"What is it? I heard the nurse come down. Where are you going?"</p> - -<p>"To get the doctor. Laurence is worse."</p> - -<p>"Don't you go, this time of night—I'll go!"</p> - -<p>"No," said Mary, slipping the chain.</p> - -<p>"Wait, I'll go with you—"</p> - -<p>"No, I can't wait."</p> - -<p>"Is he—very bad?" A sob.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I don't know—the fever's up again."</p> - -<p>She opened the door. But Nora suddenly clutched her arm.</p> - -<p>"Don't you give up! Mrs. Carlin, don't look like that, don't give him -up! Surely he can't be taken, God wouldn't take him away—"</p> - -<p>"He's too weak ... he hasn't got strength to—"</p> - -<p>"Don't say that, how do you know? Did you pray for him? I did—he got -better—"</p> - -<p>"Let me go! I must go, Nora!"</p> - -<p>"Pray for him! Pray for him!"</p> - -<p>Mary wrenched her arm away and swung the door wide. Then suddenly she -bent and kissed Nora's cheek, wet with tears.</p> - -<p>Then she was out in the dim grey dawn, hurrying along the empty street. -A cold wind was blowing now from the lake, the air was thick with fog.</p> - -<p>Pray? Was it prayer—this voiceless cry of anguish from her heart -toward the unknown? She could cry, O God, don't take him from me, her -lips uttered the words as she ran. But who would hear?... Far, far -beyond reach or understanding, the force that moved this world of -beauty and terror, that made these poor human beings going their ways -in darkness, sinning and suffering they knew not why. Cold ... harsh -... bleak was human fate, like this dim steely light, this cutting -wind, this stony street....</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Proud Lady, by Neith Boyce - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROUD LADY *** - -***** This file should be named 62478-h.htm or 62478-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/7/62478/ - -Produced by Karin Spence, Tim Lindell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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