Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

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.