Chapter VII: Part THREE: I (1)

Lounging in an elegant attitude of ease against the stone balustrade, a tall youth of seventeen was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, and languidly regarding the scene before him. There was not much to excite his interest. Passing vehicles were hidden from view by a thick screen of maple trees and shrubs. On the broad lawn some younger boys were playing croquet--he glanced at them with lofty scorn. A gardener was clipping the evergreen hedge which divided the lawn from the flower-garden. He was attended by a black puppy, which sometimes made a dash at the rolling croquet-balls and was driven away by shouts and brandished mallets.

An iron fence with sharp pickets surrounded the lawn on three sides. Tall iron gates, with lamps at the sides, stood open expectant. The two iron deer on either side of the driveway also stood in an expectant attitude, their heads raised and nostrils dilated.

Early frosts had touched with yellow and red the leaves of the maples. With every gust of the fresh breeze the leaves fell, littering the neatly trimmed bright green grass. The sun was low in a deep cloudless blue sky, the air brisk and crisp. Prairie mists and thick heat had been broken by this first breath of autumn.

An open carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of grey horses and driven by a coachman in a bottle-green coat, turned in through the iron gates. The boys stopped their play to wave a greeting to the lady in mauve draperies, who lifted her white-gloved hand in reply. The youth on the steps hastily threw away his cigarette and concealed the holder, as he went down to assist his mother from the carriage. She laid her hand on his with a smile and stepped out with a rich rustle of silken skirts. He took her furred wrap and books and card case; and they mounted the long curving flight of stone steps together.

They were of the same height, and there was a strong resemblance between them, though the boy was much darker in colouring; with chestnut hair and dark grey eyes. His face was less delicately shaped, heavier, but had the same self-contained look; the eyes, under heavy lids, looked slumbering and secret.

Mary had grown more slender; her tall figure was girlish in line. Her auburn hair was less bright in colour, but as thick as ever, without a touch of grey. She wore it in the same fashion, parted and drawn down over her forehead, which now showed faint horizontal lines, the only mark of age in her calm face. Her handsome dress followed the fashion but a distance, with fewer frills and more amplitude. Her beauty had stood the test of time; the slight hollows under her high cheek-bones, her ivory pallor, only emphasized the fine modelling of her face.

"There's a telegram," said Jim.

He took it from a table in the hall. Mary opened and read it, standing at the foot of the stairs.

"From your father. He won't be back tonight--detained on business."

A look of relief crossed Jim's face.

"Well--it must be dinner-time," he said.

In fact the tall clock on the landing began to strike the hour of six.

"I'll be right down," said Mary. "Call the boys in."

When she entered the dining-room she found her three sons seated and the soup on the table, in its silver tureen. She ladled it out, and a middle-aged waitress in black dress and white apron distributed the plates. A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased on Mary's entrance; both now sat in silence, looking sulkily at their plates. The waitress left the room.

"Well, what's the trouble now?" Mary enquired with a touch of irony.

"I don't want Timothy to ride my horse, that's what!" declared Jim, in his slow heavy voice. "He doesn't know how to ride. Last time he nearly lamed--"

"No such thing--the old horse cast a shoe, that's all," interrupted Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. "It isn't your horse any more than it's mine, anyway--"

"It is. Father gave it to me--"

"He said I was to learn to ride on it--"

"He didn't say you were to take it when I want it, and lame it--"

"I didn't lame it, confound you!"

"Timothy!"

Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy glanced at her resentfully.

"That will do, now. I won't have any such language here--or any quarrelling either."

Silence ensued. Timothy sent one flaming look across the table at Jim, who responded by a slight superior smile. Jim was self-controlled and knew how to seem reasonable in his desires; while Timothy generally put himself impetuously in the wrong. The maternal decision was almost certain to be given on the side of Jim, and both boys knew this. Timothy bent his black brows, smarting under a familiar sense of injustice. But Jim's certainty of triumph was tempered by a shade of caution; Timothy, if their disputes came to a fight, had more than a chance to beat him. Timothy never knew when he was beaten.

At the head of the table, opposite Mary, stood Laurence's vacant chair--a stately carved armchair, like hers. A cover was laid for him, as always; for his presence was never certain, always possible. At the right of his place sat the youngest of the family, a boy of fourteen, blond and pale. His large grave blue eyes rested now on Jim's face, now on Timothy's, now sought his mother's, with a troubled wistful look. His face had a quivering sensitiveness; yet with its broad open brow and square chin, it had strength too.

The setting sun struck into the room between the heavy looped curtains of plush and lace, cast a red light over its dark walls and carpet, its shining mahogany, glittered on silver and crystal. In the centre of the table covered with heavy white damask stood a massive silver arrangement holding bottles of oil and vinegar, salt, pepper and spices, and serving also for decoration. Crystal decanters of sherry and claret were placed on either side.

The soup being removed, Mary carved roast-beef and dispensed vegetables with a liberal hand. The continued silence did not disturb her; it was usual at meals, unless Laurence or a guest were present. She pursued her own thoughts, occasionally glancing with calm pride at her offspring. They were all handsome boys. Timothy was very like Laurence, Jim was like her. But the youngest, John, was unaccountable, he did not resemble either of his parents, or his brothers. He was like a stranger in the family; in mind and character too he was strange to them all. Yet with an unchildlike, almost uncanny sympathy, he seemed to know them better than they knew one another. Long illness--he had never grown strong--had perhaps given this delicacy to his mind as it had to his body. Yet he seemed built for strength too. His shoulders were broad, his large head nobly poised. His hands, with broad palms and long sensitive fingers, curiously united strength and delicacy.

He alone felt the silence. The others, absorbed in themselves, took it as a matter of course. But he, depressed by it, sighed, hardly touched the beef and heavy pudding, and more than once looked at his father's empty chair regretfully.

Mary's eye at length fell upon Jim in the act of filling his claret-glass for the third time. She frowned.

"I've told you that I don't want you to drink more than one glass of wine at meals," she said.

"Oh, this light wine--Father doesn't mind," said Jim easily.

"He doesn't want you to _drink_. And I won't have it. I won't have wine on the table at all if you can't do as I wish."

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, well, let's not quarrel about it," he murmured, and pushed away the wine-glass.

His tone was amiable, he even smiled at her. But Mary knew that Jim was not so easily managed as that. He would seem always to yield to her wishes, would never openly oppose her, but he managed almost always to do as he pleased. He had an unsounded depth of quiet obstinacy. And he was secretive too, never explained himself. Timothy was much more frank, and more violent, hence was constantly getting into hot water and usually was in a state of revolt. Mary's rules were strict and not elastic to the needs and impulses of growing youth. She had felt strongly the duty of implanting good principles in her boys, and of repressing the ebullitions of the old Adam. While they were very young she had succeeded in teaching them to tell the truth, to respect other people's property rights, and to conform a good deal to her standards of behaviour. But as they grew out of childhood, she lost touch with them, gradually, unconsciously. She looked after their health, their schools; they found their amusements for themselves. Withdrawn in growing isolation, in a dumb struggle with growing unhappiness, her spirit had no youth, no buoyancy, to keep pace with theirs. While in infancy they depended completely upon her and she could suffice to all their wants, they had given her contentment. Now it was no longer a simple relation; she tried to banish or ignore its growing complexities; but they made her uneasy. She had a feeling that her duty was not done, but she did not know how to do it; her rule of life was too simple, too rigid, to meet its problems.

John's childhood had lasted longer than the others; his ill health had made him longer dependent on her physical care. But here a rival affection had taken John's love and interest away from her.... When John was ten he had scarlet fever, and Laurence insisted on nursing him, devoted himself day and night to the boy; and through the long convalescence, spent with him all the time he could wrest from his business. From that time, John had depended on his father in a way that, Mary felt acutely, he never had on her; with a feeling that grew as he grew. With passionate rejecting jealousy she stood apart; felt herself superseded; would not, could not, make an effort to recover her hold. John had been all hers; she would not share his love, though he made many timid efforts to draw her in. She felt her loss the more bitterly that he was the most beautiful of her children; he was, she knew, the flower of them all. There was something in him that hurt her by its beauty; the same thing that she had felt in her youth, sometimes in music, sometimes in a human expression. Something that called to her spirit, an appeal that she could not meet, that made her restless. Something that she had missed in life, had never been able to grasp, to realize.

She did not always feel this. Sometimes she had a surface contentment, a pride merely in being the mother of three fine lads and in the outward show of authority; in her worldly dignity too. Her position, as the wife of a man of distinction and power, commanded public respect. And then, she had made a place for herself in the life of the town. She was an intellectual leader among the women; president of their literary society; a moving force in the work of the church and in charity. So long as proper deference was paid to her, she could be counted upon for faithful, even arduous work. But she would not suffer any rivals; would engage in no contest for power; and haughtily withdrew before opposition to her will. Whereupon, the value of her influence and activity being almost a tradition, any sister who might have dared approach the throne would be suppressed.

* * * * *

The meal being over, the family promptly dispersed. That is, the two elder boys vanished, to continue their disagreement about the horse. Mary walked absently into the library, having in mind the composition of a paper on the Greek dramatists for the literary club. She stood for a moment by one of the long windows, looking out on the lake.

The scene had changed, in these ten years. Instead of rough pastures and the loneliness of the prairie, she saw now green lawns sloping down to the dull-blue water; dotted on its banks were modern houses sheltered by clumps of trees; and a little fleet of pleasure-boats rode on its surface. The clear golden light of evening lay over all; the branches of the trees waved and the water rippled in the fresh breeze. Merry voices rose from the lake; some one in a boat was singing.

A faint stir beside her made Mary turn her head. John stood there, his footstep had made no noise on the thick carpet.

"It's such a beautiful evening. Don't you want to come out with me on the lake, Mother?" he asked in his rather nervous fluttering voice.

"I'd like to--but I have some work to do," she said quickly.

She seldom went out in the boat. She hated inactivity and mere contemplation of any scene, however lovely; indeed, the lovelier it was, the more painful. But now she saw John's wistful and disappointed look.

"Won't any of the boys go with you?" she asked gently.

"No, I don't think so, they've gone out to the stable.... Did Father say when he'd be home?" he asked, hesitatingly.

"No, he never does."

With this sharp answer, Mary walked away toward her desk. But then she stopped and with an effort said:

"I will go with you, John, if you want."

"No, never mind--I thought you might like it, it's such a nice evening--but you're busy--"

"No, I have time enough, I'll just get my cloak."

But now his sensitive face showed distress, and he protested:

"I'd rather not--really. I know you don't like the boat so very much, only I thought.... I'll go myself."

He moved toward the door.

"Perhaps Timothy would like to go--"

"No, he won't--but no matter, I rather like to drift around, alone, and look at the water."

"Shall I play to you a little, first?" asked Mary.

His face lighted up.

"Why, yes--if you have time--"

She led the way across the hall, where the lights had just been lit and gleamed on the dark-red walls and the bronze statues of Mercury and the Venus of Milo. The grand piano stood in one of the parlours: its glossy lid was seldom raised. John drew a chair up beside it and listened with a rapt face while Mary played his favorite, the "Grand Sonata" of Beethoven, the only one she knew by heart. She made many mistakes, her fingers were stiff from lack of practice; but still she played conscientiously, with a feeling, a respect for the music. John sat facing the window and the fading golden light. She glanced at him. His face had a look of unearthly radiance and joy that shot a sharp pain through her. With difficulty she continued. At the last notes her head sank, bent over the keyboard, and she sat in silence. He drew a long breath.

"Thank you--that's wonderful, I love it," he said.

"I wish I could play it better," said Mary huskily. "I must practise."

"You play it beautifully. Thank you, Mother," he repeated softly. Then, hesitating, looking at her, he got up.

"I'll go out now and row a while."

She nodded, and he went.

II

She sat at her desk, looking over her notes on Æschylus, now and then writing a few words on a large sheet of paper. Then she would stop and look fixedly before her, trying to concentrate her thoughts. It was ten o'clock, the two younger boys were in bed. But Jim was off somewhere. And he had taken the black horse, Laurence's own horse, that the boys were forbidden to touch--a big powerful brute, hard to control. Lately Jim had often been out at night. She did not know where he went, and he would not tell. He would say easily, "Oh, I just went for a ride, there's nothing to do in this dead place." But she suspected that he found something to do; he might be getting into bad ways. She thought he smoked, in spite of her prohibition; certainly he showed a taste for drink; there were other vices, too. Her lips were compressed bitterly as she thought, such tendencies were inherited. Perhaps Jim couldn't help himself....

The big house was silent as the tomb. On the desk burned a shaded lamp, the rest of the room was in darkness. It was rather cold, the fires had not been lighted yet. The house with its thick walls of brick was almost always chilly unless the furnaces were going. She drew her black wrap closer round her shoulders, and bent over her notes.

Then she heard the door-bell faintly sounding. After a moment there was a knock and Anna came in, the middle-aged woman who waited on the table and the door.

"Mrs. Carlin--there's somebody here that wants to see you. He asked for Judge Carlin, and says he'll wait to see him."

"Wait? But he may not be home for days! Who is it?" asked Mary impatiently.

"An old--an old gentleman. He didn't give his name. He says he'd like to see you," said Anna neutrally.

"Where is he? What does he want?"

"He didn't say. He's in the hall."

Mary rose and went out, stately in the black mantle that wrapped her from head to foot, its collar of black fur framing her face. The stranger stood, holding his hat in his hand, contemplating the bronze statue of Mercury. He was a small grey-haired man, in a shabby but neat dark suit. Some client of Laurence's, she thought. She spoke to him.

"Good evening. Did you want to see Judge Carlin?"

He turned and looked at her. His thin smooth-shaven face showed a rather shy, pleasant smile.

"Yes--I'm Laurence's father," he said, in a gentle laughing tone.

Mary stared at him.

"I don't wonder you're surprised.... I was passing through here, and thought I'd like to see you all," the old man said, without the slightest embarrassment. "But I hear Laurence isn't at home."

"No--but he may be--tomorrow, or almost any time," stammered Mary, at a loss.

"Well, then, I'll come again. I may be in town a day or so."

"But--why, you must stay here, of course," protested Mary blankly.

"Oh, I couldn't think of discommoding you--"

"Discommoding? Why, of course not. Come right in. I'll get a room ready for you at once."

"Please don't let me give any trouble," he pleaded, smiling. "I can stay at the hotel quite well."

"Hotel? Of course not," she said, bewildered.

What a queer old man, to drop from the skies like this--and so perfectly at his ease about it! Was he Laurence's father or an impostor? Was it right to take him in? He did not look as if he had money enough to stay at the hotel. Certainly she couldn't turn Laurence's father out!

"Come in," she repeated with an effort, turning toward the library doors, then stopping. "Wouldn't you like some supper?"

"No, thank you, I dined at the hotel."

"Is your baggage there? I'll send for it."

"No baggage. I haven't any," he said, with his whimsical smile. "I travel light."

In consternation Mary led the way into the library. No baggage! He must be a vagabond. To disappear for twenty-five years, and come back like this, as if it were yesterday! It was certainly not a respectable proceeding. He hadn't even an overcoat. Nothing but the worn felt hat, which he had still carried in his hand as he followed her--as if he were a casual visitor, come to stay half an hour....

She felt the chill of the big dimly-lit room, and went toward the chimney-place. "There's a fire all ready here--"

"Let me light it," he said.

Nimbly he laid down his hat, knelt on the rug, and in a moment had the fire going. The kindling blazed up, the dry wood caught. A more cheerful light brightened the dusky room. The fire-place was broad and deep, it held three-foot logs. Soon there was a glorious fire.

They sat down before it, in armchairs facing one another. The old man spread his hands to the blaze with enjoyment. His gaze rested on Mary with admiration, then wandered round the room.

"You have a fine place here," he said cheerfully. "How long have you lived here?"

"Ten years, Laurence built the house."

She was scrutinizing him with covert glances, trying to find some resemblance to Laurence.

"Yes, so I heard.... Laurence has certainly done well, remarkably well. I always thought he would--he was a smart boy," said this strange parent calmly.

No, he wasn't at all like Laurence, there was no resemblance in his spare light frame, his long clear-cut face to ... yet there was something familiar in his look. What was it? Something in the way his thick grey hair grew over his forehead, his eyebrows.... Why, yes, he looked like Jim--or was it Timothy? She had a sudden conviction, anyhow, that he was what he assumed to be.

With the assurance that this was a member of the family (however unworthy) the duty of hospitality became manifest. Again she urged him to have something to eat; he declined, but with a certain reservation of manner which led her to say, though unwillingly:

"Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?"

"Thank you--if it doesn't trouble you too much--wine, or a little whiskey--whatever is most convenient."

Comprehending what he wanted, she brought from the dining-room a silver tray, with decanters of whiskey and water, a glass and some biscuits. The old man poured himself a modest drink, a third of a glass of whiskey with a little water, and bowed to her.

"I drink your good health.... Yes, Laurence is a fortunate man."

"He has been very successful," she said gravely.

"All the heart could desire--position, wealth, a fine family," he continued musingly. "I'm glad to find him so well off.... Circumstances have prevented me from knowing anything of it until today, when I reached town."

Circumstances! Mary gazed at him in mute astonishment. With an absent air he filled his glass again and gazing at the fire went on, in a tone of meditative detachment:

"I have been a wanderer for the last quarter of a century--a rolling stone. Much of the time I've been out on the coast--California and so on--I went out there in fifty-five.... But I've seen the whole country--a fine big country it is. I never liked to stay long in one place, I'll soon be moving on. But passing through Chicago, I thought I'd like to see what remained of my family.... Great changes--I didn't know till I reached here and enquired, that they were all gone, except Laurence.... Things change quickly, in this country. Chicago has grown to an immense city, since I saw it last--and this town too, has become very flourishing. I shouldn't have known it.... And all over the west, cities springing up, there is hardly a frontier any more, the old days are gone, the rough pioneer life. The whole country, almost, is settled, civilized.... Yes, a great country, a great people."

He basked in the warmth and drank his whiskey with gentle enjoyment, gazing into the brilliant coals as though seeing there the whole vast panorama that had passed before his eyes. Mary listened to him and looked at him with a kind of fascinated surprise. He talked like a visitor from the moon--so aloof, contemplative, as if he had no concern in all this.... An old man who had deserted his family, run away, never had known whether they were alive or dead, nor cared, apparently. Disgraceful! A disreputable old man!... Yet there he sat, perfectly at his ease, with no shadow of guilt, remorse, or regret on his placid countenance. His grey eyes were clear and bright. His face was wise and experienced, but hardly at all wrinkled, it had a queer look of youth. His clothes were almost threadbare, but they were clean,--his boots cracked on the side, but well polished. His hands were those of a working-man, broad and stubby; but they showed no traces now of hard work, the fingernails were clean and carefully trimmed. He smiled at her.

"You are Laurence's wife--but I don't know your name," he said with a twinkle of amusement, but courteously. In spite of her disapproval, she could not but smile at him as she answered.

"Mary--a beautiful name, I always liked it. And you are Dr. Lowell's daughter--I remember you as a slip of a girl, with wonderful flowing hair.... And I remember your parents too. Are they living?"

"My mother died two years ago," said Mary.

"Ah, that was a loss, a great loss--I remember her, a strong woman, impressive.... And your father--he goes on with his work?"

"Oh, yes," Mary answered with astonishment.

Of course he went on with his work, why shouldn't he?... But it came to her with a shock that her father was really an old man, that people thought of him as old.

"I don't know what this town would do without Father," she said quickly. "People depend on him--"

She gazed pointedly and with a certain defiance at old Mr. Carlin, who waved any possible comparison aside with a smile and a word of hearty commendation of Dr. Lowell; and went on to enquire about other old residents of the town, showing an accurate memory. A third time he refilled his glass, and that emptied the decanter. The whiskey had not the least visible effect on him. His hand was as steady, his eye and speech as clear and unmoved, as Mary's own. She heard the clock strike eleven, then the half hour, but still he chatted on, and she was aware that she was entertained by him. Yes, he was an amusing, though a scandalous old man; and conducted himself with propriety, even grace, though all the time drinking whiskey as if it were water.

At length he spoke of his grandchildren. Among other information he had acquired this, that they were three in number and all boys. Now he politely asked their names. Mary repeated them.

"Timothy?" he questioned with surprise.

"Yes, we named him after you," said Mary gravely.

"After me!"

For the first time she saw a flicker of emotion in his face. He set down his glass, and looked at her with eyes troubled by that gleam of feeling, almost distress.

"Why did you do that?" he asked abruptly.

"Why, James was named after my father, you see," Mary explained. "So it was only right that the second boy should be named after you. It's a matter of family feeling, it always has been so in my family. Our youngest boy is named for my grandfather."

"Family feeling," he repeated, mechanically. "Named after me.... So there's another Timothy Carlin! I never expected it. Well, I hope--" he stopped short, and after a moment took up his glass and drained it. "I appreciate your remembering me, though I didn't expect it in the least. I--I am touched by it. I should like to see the boys, and especially my--namesake." His voice was a little uneven.

"You will see them tomorrow.... But now, it's late, you must be tired. Shall I show you to your room?"

He followed in silence. Putting out the lights as she went, she led the way through the lofty entrance-hall, up the thickly-carpeted stairs, into the best spare-room, ready as always for a guest, since Laurence often brought one unexpected. Mary lighted the room, and the old man stood gazing round with a deprecating smile. It was a big room, with high ceiling, furnished rather elaborately with carved black walnut, enormous, heavy pieces.

"It's much too grand for me," he said, humorously. "I shall rattle around here like a dried kernel in a shell.... However, I thank you for your hospitality."

"Isn't there something I can get for you, something you need?"

"No, thank you, my dear, I don't need anything," said the old man, with his former manner of gentle cool composure.

III

The following day Laurence returned on the mid-afternoon train, but stopped at his office, sending on a friend he had brought with him in a hack with the valises. This was Horace Lavery, a Chicago lawyer, rather a frequent visitor at the house. Mary was in the garden when the hack drove up, and came round to see if it were Laurence. She gave Lavery a stately, somewhat cool greeting. He was a man of middle age, florid and rather stout, gay and talkative. Always a little dashed at first by Mary's manner, he would speedily recover himself and amuse himself in his own way. Now, a little embarrassed, he said, after dismissing the hackman:

"Well, here I am again. Laurence stopped down town, he'll be home by seven.... Can I go upstairs and brush off, it was rather a dusty ride."

"Yes, but not the usual room, we have another visitor--the one next to it."

"And shall I find you here when I come down?"

"I'm working in the garden."

"Perhaps I can help?"

"If you do, you'll get yourself all dusty again."

"Oh, I don't mind," he said effusively. "So long as it's in your service."

Mary laughed and turned away. She always laughed at Lavery's ponderous gallantry. But under the sentimental surface that he presented to her there was another man, of whom she caught occasional glimpses that interested her. At present, however, she was vexed at his coming. She preferred to see Laurence alone, to break to him the news of his parent's reappearance. And what would Lavery, with his glossy freshness of apparel and man-of-the-world air, think of a shabby parent, suddenly produced? She didn't care, though, what Lavery thought, except that it might vex Laurence. She wished she had telegraphed him. She might send down to the office ... but no, he would be immersed in work, and only the more upset by it. She went slowly back into the garden, a favourite spot with her; it had been laid out years ago by her father, and he often came to help her with it.

Dr. Lowell had enjoyed having a good deal of money to spend on a garden. It was enclosed by a brick wall covered with creepers on two sides, the house on the third side, the other open, overlooking the lake. There were gravel-walks, white wooden benches and trellises, and in the centre, a sun-dial. The flower-beds had been touched by the frost; but still blooming were verbenas and many-coloured asters. The dead leaves had been raked up and smouldered here and there in blackened heaps, sending out a sweet pungent smoke. Mary, bare-headed, in a long black cloak, was down on her knees digging up bulbs when Lavery approached, freshly groomed and enveloped in a delicate scent of Florida-water.

"Let me do that," he urged, bending over her.

"What? In those immaculate clothes? You don't mean it."

"I do--I'll sacrifice the clothes. Please get up and let me dig the onions."

"Onions! These are very rare bulbs, of a Chinese lily--they have to be handled with great care and I always do it myself. So you may as well sit down there and smoke your cigar. Some people are made to be ornamental, you know, and others to be useful."

"And some are both," said Lavery, looking down on her heavy rippling hair. "And again, others are neither."

He seated himself rather sulkily on the bench near by.

"Of course I know I'm not handsome," he observed. "So that was rather a nasty dig of yours about being 'ornamental.' But you made one mistake. I _am_ useful."

"Are you? For what?" enquired Mary, carefully separating bulbs. "I always thought you just a bright butterfly."

"You never thought about me at all," he declared with emphasis. "But I have thought a good deal about you."

He took out a cigar and a pearl-handled knife, cut the end of the cigar neatly, and lit it with a match from a gold box. Then clasping his broad white hands about his knee, he contemplated Mary's grave profile. She seemed absorbed in her work and did not look up at him, nor betray by the flicker of an eyelash any interest in what he thought. Still less did she enquire into it. The silence lasted until he broke it, petulantly.

"Mrs. Carlin, why do you dislike me?"

"I don't dislike you--at least I think not."

"You think not! Don't you know whether you do or not?... You strike me as a person who would know her own mind!"

"Yes--but I'm not very quick about making up my mind. I don't feel I know you at all well."

"You've known me for two years.... How long does it take you to make up your mind?"

"Well, that depends--longer now than it used to. I don't feel that I know very much about anybody. I used to be more sure about things."

She lifted the last of the bulbs into the basket, and rose to her feet.

"Won't you sit here and talk to me a little?... I almost never have a chance to talk to you alone--that's why we don't know one another better."

She looked at him and smiled faintly, but the shadow of sadness and weariness did not lift from her face.

"I have some things to see to in the house--and then I must dress--"

"But it's hardly five now."

"Yes."

She sat down on the bench, brushing the dust off her black cloak.

"I like," said Lavery discontentedly, "to be friendly with people. I don't like to be held off at arm's length and looked at as if I were a queer beetle or something--or not looked at, that's even worse!"

"Do you think I do that?" Mary enquired.

"Yes, you do! You treat me as if I were hardly a human being!"

"Oh, how absurd!... You're a different kind of human being, that's all, you belong to a different world."

"How a different world? I'm Laurence's friend, why can't I be yours?"

A sudden sternness, a definite recoil, in her expression, warned him off this ground.

"How could you be my friend? There is nothing in common between you and me," she said coldly.

"Now, how do you know there isn't? You say yourself you don't know me!... But I think you've made up your mind that you don't want to ... you think I'm frivolous and ridiculous, because I manage to enjoy life, don't you now? A middle-aged butterfly, a mere sensualist--isn't that it?"

"Well--something like that," Mary admitted. "But it oughtn't to matter to you what I think.... I told you I don't understand people very well, the older I get the less I understand them, and I can't make friends."

This quiet statement had an air of finality. He was silent, looking at her thoughtfully, with a keen shrewdness, a questioning puzzled gaze.

"Well, friends or not, I admire you very much," he said abruptly. "I hate to have you think me such a poor creature."

"I imagine it won't disturb you very much, if I do. You wouldn't care much for any woman's opinion, you like to amuse yourself with women but you don't take them seriously, you look down on them. You think they're all alike and that a few compliments and pretty speeches are all they want or can understand. You like to take them in, and then laugh at them, it amuses you.... And men too--you like to play with people, try experiments. You're more cool-headed and sharp than most people, you think almost every one is a fool, in some way or other, and you like to find out how--turn them inside out. That's how you enjoy life."

"Well, by Jove!" Lavery stared at her. "So you _have_ given me some attention, after all--I wouldn't have guessed it! Now, do you know, you're right about some things, but that isn't the whole story--"

Mary stood up and took her basket.

"No, I suppose not, but I must go in now."

Reluctantly he rose, and walked with her to the door.

"You're a severe judge--you won't even let the criminal speak in his own defence," he said with some feeling. "'Give every man his deserts and who should 'scape hanging?' Don't you think you might show a little mercy?"

"I believe in justice," said Mary, with a sudden hardening of her face. "That's what we all get--not mercy."

The bitterness of her tone remained with him after she had gone.... He told himself that he would make her talk yet, he would find out what was the trouble in this household, the shadow that hung over it. He had tried to find out from Laurence, but in vain; even when he was drunk, Laurence wouldn't talk about his wife.

* * * * *

Mary was dressed and listening for Laurence long before he came. Her father-in-law had disappeared for the whole afternoon, and had not yet returned; he had told her that he was going for a long walk, and John had accompanied him. Mary perceived that the old man was very tactful. She had seen it in his meeting with his grandsons, the manner in which he at once took a certain place with them. He did not assert himself in the least nor stress the relationship; he treated them not like children, but with the courteous interest due to new acquaintance, without familiarity. The two elder boys rather hung back from him; but John had at once been friendly; they were all in some way impressed by him.

It was dark, the lamps had been lighted, when Laurence came. Lavery was strolling about the lawn and met him; and they came upstairs together and went into Laurence's room, laughing. Mary waited impatiently till finally Lavery went to dress; then she knocked at Laurence's door and entered. He was in his dressing-room, splashing vigorously, and answered with surprise when she spoke to him. In a moment he came out, wrapped in a loose robe, his thick black hair and beard wet and rough.

"Laurence, something strange has happened. Some one is here--you haven't heard?--your father has come."

A look of apprehension on his face quickly gave place to astonishment as she ended.

"My father!... What the deuce!"

He looked dismayed; then as she went on to describe the new arrival, incredulous.

"I don't believe it's my father. He wouldn't turn up like this after twenty-five years without a word!... I've thought for a long time he was dead."

"Well, he isn't--it's your father, sure enough."

Laurence, with a blank look, towelled his head and neck.

"Jesus Christ!" he ejaculated.

He went and stared into the mirror, rubbing his hair till it stood up wildly all over his head. There were threads of grey all through it, but the beard that covered his mouth and was cut square below his chin was intensely black, and so were his arched brows, beneath which the narrow eyes showed still their vivid blue. His broad shoulders, the joining of the massive neck, were strong, unbowed.

"What did you do with him?" he asked abruptly.

"Put him in the best bedroom and gave him your special whiskey," said Mary.

"The deuce you did!... Killed the fatted calf, eh?... Well, where is he now?"

"He went to walk with John--John took a great fancy to him."

"He did?" Laurence's face changed subtly, relaxed. "Well, that's something.... But, say--it's awkward about Lavery being here. I wish I'd known."

"I might have telegraphed, but I didn't know where you were," said Mary.

"You can always reach me at the hotel," he said sharply.

She moved toward the door.

"I wish to the deuce Lavery wasn't here," he muttered.

"I wouldn't care about that." There was an edge in Mary's tone, but with an effort she eliminated that touch of criticism. "Your father can take care of himself--he's quite as much a gentleman as Lavery."

"No, is he really?"

Laurence turned round, a hairbrush in either hand, and gazed at her.

"He's presentable, really?... I shouldn't have expected it."

"He isn't very well dressed," said Mary quietly. "But you needn't be at all ashamed of him. He's--there's something about him--well, I can't describe it, but he has much better manners than Mr. Lavery."

"Oh, you always have a knife up your sleeve for poor old Horace," said Laurence, turning back again to the mirror and brushing vigorously. "I'll be down in ten minutes--but I'd rather see him alone first, you know. Do you suppose he's come back?"

"I'll see."

In the mirror Laurence's eyes dwelt on her tall figure and white face shadowy in the background. He said slowly with an undertone of pain:

"You look very beautiful tonight."

IV

Where Laurence sat was the head of the table; he dominated all by his vivid colour, his intense physical vitality, and he kept the talk going easily. He and Lavery were in evening dress, rather dandified, with soft plaited shirt-bosoms and diamond studs. Old Mr. Carlin, sitting between Timothy and John, appeared perfectly at ease in his well-brushed suit. His bright grey eyes contemplated the scene and the company with an aloof and philosophic interest.

Mary, in her usual dress for the evening, of plain black velvet, cut square at the neck, and with long close-fitting sleeves, was beautiful, as Laurence had said and Lavery's long gaze recognized. She wore no ornaments except a pair of heavy earrings of dull gold filagree. The light from the big cut-glass chandelier over the table fell unshaded upon her, bringing out the pale copper colour of her rippling hair and the whiteness of her skin. It emphasized too the hollows in her cheeks and at her temples, the lines of the forehead and of the neck below the ear. Her face, as in her youth, was like a mask; but now it was a mask of sorrow. Calm and unmoved in expression, it was yet an abstract of sad experience.

The years had left a more complex mark on Laurence. There were deeper furrows in his brow and running down from the nostrils to bury themselves in his black beard. A passionate expressiveness, a restless irritability, spoke in his voice, his gestures, his constant flow of talk. "Carlin's temper" was a proverb by now. A racial inheritance came out strongly in him. He was "the black Irish"; dangerous at times. But there was another side to this temperament. Often when he smiled, and always when he looked at the boy who sat beside him, there was a deep sweetness in his eyes, a deep tenderness. John's place was always beside his father; he hung on Laurence's words and looks with hushed eagerness. And Laurence, keenly conscious of the sensitive boy, was careful what he said, instinctively suppressed anything that might shock or hurt a young idealistic spirit; and never drank more than a glass or two of wine, in his presence.

The wine was always on the dinner-table, however. It was Laurence's idea that the boys had better get used to seeing it, and to taking a little now and then. Mary never touched it, and hated the sight of it; but she had long since ceased to oppose Laurence in any detail of life. The house was managed as he wished, though he was away more than half the time. Now there were three kinds of wine on the table--sherry, claret and port. Laurence was proud of his wine-cellar, down in the deep foundations of the house.

Lavery drank delicately. He had guided Laurence's choice of the claret, and confined himself to that. He much preferred to remain perfectly sober; especially when other people were drunk; but in any case he disliked the least blurring of the fine edge of sensation and perception. He liked to watch the play of human feeling, and to guess what was going on below the surface; and for this one must be alert and cool. He was immensely curious, for example, about the human situation under his eyes. Old Mr. Carlin had suddenly come in for a share of this interest. Lavery studied him across the table, and addressed frequent remarks to him, with amenity. He discovered that the old man, in point of quick wit, suavity and coolness, was by no means his inferior, although the elder had, from the beginning of the dinner, applied very steadily to each decanter in turn.

* * * * *

After the coffee Mary rose, as was her custom, leaving the men at the table. The three boys followed her; Jim with evident reluctance. His manly dignity was hurt at being classed with women and children; but he was quite aware that his company would not be longer desired in the room, where heavy drinking and free talk were apt to be the order of the evening. Lavery sprang up to open the door for Mary, and she passed out with a slight bow, the boys waiting till the edge of her long velvet train had ebbed over the threshold.

Timothy and John went upstairs to the billiard-room on the top floor; and Mary, slipping her hand through Jim's arm, led him into the parlour where the piano stood. She wanted to ask him about his excursion of the night before--he had been out till three o'clock--but more than that she wanted him to stay with her a little while. But Jim was restive, wouldn't sit down. He feared an inquisition, and also he wanted to get away to the stable and smoke. Mary, both irritated and hurt by his unwillingness, spoke more sharply than she had intended.

"Where were you all last night?"

"I went out for a long ride," said Jim sulkily.

"And were you riding from eight o'clock till three?"

"No--I stopped a while to see a friend."

"What friend?"

"Oh, somebody you don't know--a fellow."

Controlling himself, he answered more gently; his dark eyes met hers imperturbably.

"Well, you oughtn't to stay out all night!"

"I didn't," said Jim reasonably. "And a fellow has to do something in this dead place."

"You shouldn't have taken your father's horse either, without permission."

"Why, Mother, he was simply spoiling for exercise--you know he doesn't get ridden half enough."

"I don't like you to ride him, he's dangerous--"

"Oh, I can manage him, all right, don't you worry!" Jim smiled cheerfully. "But I've got to run out now and see to the pony--he's a bit lame still--"

She let him go, turning away from him and walking to the end of the long room. Yes, he wanted to escape--he had his own life now, was beginning to be a man and to take his secret way, like the rest of them. Her mouth curved bitterly. She did not believe Jim, about the friend--she suspected something else, and she recoiled jealously, miserably.... Yes, her son too--he was like the rest....

She stood by the open window, looking out blindly on the garden. The night was mild, it was moonlight, greenish, like a glowworm's light. The long lace curtains waved inward in the soft breeze. There were sounds of life astir all about. She heard a burst of laughter from the dining-room; then the faint click of the billiard-balls and a shout from Timothy. Then, on the lake, some one began to sing Schubert's boat-song. A clear soprano trilled out joyously the song of love and youth....

A piercing sense of loneliness, of life passing by her, leaving her, stabbed to her very heart. She gave a long, shuddering sigh.... Youth, love--they had passed by. Like the song growing fainter, receding into distance. And the bitter thing was, one did not realize them till they were gone. The sweetness of life--all it was, might have been--one did not feel it till it had slipped away.... Gone, lost--then, in loneliness you felt it....

Some one came into the room. She turned, and at sight of her face, Lavery's gay apology dropped half-spoken. He came and stood beside her at the window.

"I hate music," she said abruptly. "Some one was singing out there. It makes one sad.... It makes one remember all the things--"

"I don't like it myself," said Lavery, when she stopped as abruptly. "Unless it's an opera--with gay dresses, lights, all that--then it distracts you."

"That's trying to shut it out, the sadness of life. Like making merry in a room, shut in, with a storm outside."

"Well, you know, that's the sensible thing to do. You _have_ to shut it out."

"But supposing you _can't_?"

He met the misery of her eyes, her voice, with a gravity that he seldom showed to any one.

"We all have to go through that phase," he said curtly. "A kind of despair. It comes--and passes, generally."

"Does it? Does it pass?"

"I think it does.... You see, it's natural. It comes to us at the end of youth--it's the end of some things--then we have to take stock, see what we've spent, what we've got left to go on with--"

"And supposing we've spent everything?"

"Well, that isn't likely--though it may look so. Most of us go through a kind of bankruptcy. The hopes and ambitions of youth are gone--our dreams are gone, as a rule. We face what we've actually done, what we're really capable of--it doesn't correspond to what we believed we could do, what we thought we were. The reality is hard, and we despair.... But then, we get our second wind, so to speak, and go on, somehow."

"Do we? But why? Why go on--"

"Well, most of us by that time have certain ties, responsibilities, we're necessary, or think we are--"

"But if we _don't_ think we are? If we're not needed?"

Her lips quivered, her tone was hard and desperate.

"Well, then--there may be some work we're interested in. Or if not that, there's a good deal of pleasure to be got out of life, you know, if one understands how to do it."

"Pleasure?"

"Yes, surely.... Youth doesn't appreciate the good things of life, it's too eager, too intent on its own purposes.... The real pleasures of the mind and the senses come later--they're the consolation for what we were speaking of."

"No, no! That's no consolation! It's impossible to live that way!"

"You want to keep your youth," he said. "I think you're suffering from youth unlived."

"Youth unlived!" she repeated, in a low voice. "I didn't have it ... it went by me somehow--"

"Yes, and now you want it."

"I don't want anything!"

"That's what we say when we can't get what we want," observed Lavery. "But then, we take what we can get."

"No, I hate that!" she burst out. "That resignation, creeping into old age! No, I can't live that way. That's being beaten!"

"Well, most of us _are_ beaten," Lavery said philosophically, showing his brilliant teeth in a smile. "But then, as I said, there are consolations--"

"No, there's no consolation for that."

She moved, sat down on one of the long sofas, looking straight before her with a fixed absent gaze. Lavery dropped into a chair beside her, contemplative, admiring.

Emotion was becoming to her. It called a faint colour to her cheeks and lips, gave light to her still grey eyes. In some ways she looked strangely young. The lines of her figure were wonderfully girlish.... But also she looked as though she had lived ... not happily, though. He judged a sympathetic silence best at the moment, though there were a lot of things he wanted to say. He would have liked to preach his own gospel of enjoyment, he thought he could be rather eloquent on that theme. But still more he wanted _her_ to talk, so he was quiet, glancing now and then about the big room, whose furniture had too much gilt to suit him. His own taste ran to very quiet though rich effects, and he thought the house "rococo" and out of date. Still, in a way, the gilding and light stuffs and long mirrors made a good setting for her tall figure in its sombre dress and her tragic face.... She sat there, looking into space, apparently forgetting that a pleasant confidant was at her elbow. She hadn't a touch of the ordinary agreeable coquetry, he reflected--didn't seem to realize that people of their age could still be agreeable to one another. Rather barbarous ... yes, both Carlin and his wife were a little uncivilized. They would fit better into a former, doubtless more heroic age, than into the present time. There was a slightly rough-hewn pioneer quality about them. But, perhaps from that very thing, they were both interesting, decidedly so. And he could wait indefinitely for the interest to develop. His calm pulses never hurried now for anything.