Chapter V: Part TWO: I (2)

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!"