Neith Boyce

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There's a telegram," said Jim.

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

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

A look of relief crossed Jim's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is. Father gave it to me—"

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

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

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

"Timothy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, he never does."

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

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

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

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

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

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

He moved toward the door.

"Perhaps Timothy would like to go—"

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

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

His face lighted up.

"Why, yes—if you have time—"

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, and he went.

---

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is he? What does he want?"

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

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

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

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

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

Mary stared at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let me light it," he said.

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

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

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

"Ten years, Laurence built the house."

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes," Mary answered with astonishment.

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

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

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

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

"Timothy?" he questioned with surprise.

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

"After me!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

III

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

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

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

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

"I'm working in the garden."

"Perhaps I can help?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seated himself rather sulkily on the bench near by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But it's hardly five now."

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary stood up and took her basket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jesus Christ!" he ejaculated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She moved toward the door.

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

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

"No, is he really?"

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

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

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

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

"I'll see."

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

"You look very beautiful tonight."

IV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where were you all last night?"

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

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

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

"What friend?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But supposing you can't?"

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

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

"Does it? Does it pass?"

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

"And supposing we've spent everything?"

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

"Do we? But why? Why go on—"

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

"But if we don't think we are? If we're not needed?"

Her lips quivered, her tone was hard and desperate.

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

"Pleasure?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes, and now you want it."

"I don't want anything!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thought reverted to Laurence and to the old gentleman whom he had left drinking whiskey. A queer fish, Laurence's father—he had never known Laurence had a father. A black sheep probably. Laurence was plainly nervous about him. It was the tactful thing to leave them together—even if there hadn't been Mrs. Carlin alone in here, needing somebody to talk to. Laurence neglected her, that was quite evident, and she felt it bitterly.... He wondered, with narrowed gaze, how much she knew about Laurence's life. He could tell her a good deal more than she knew, probably—but, naturally, he wouldn't.

V

The constraint that Laurence had felt from the moment of meeting his long lost parent—for their parting rose up before him, the memory of a blow—had vanished. The old man had brushed it away, as soon as they were alone, by a quiet net statement.

"You mustn't think, Laurence, that I've come back to fasten myself on you. I shall stay here only a day or so. I have my own life, and I don't need anything from you."

"That isn't what I was thinking of—"

"I know, but this is what I want to say, it would be ridiculous for me to act as if I had any claim on you, after everything. I don't feel any, don't expect anything. Naturally you couldn't have any affection for me, I wouldn't have any place here, even if I wanted it. And I don't need any money. I just wanted you to understand it."

"Of course you have a claim—"

"No, no, I gave all that up a long time ago, cut off that sort of thing, by my own will, you know. I wasn't made for family life. Couldn't stand it.... Of course I know you have a grudge against me, and quite right. I didn't do my duty by my family, that's a fact. Should never have had a family."

They were sitting before a fire in the library. The old man had refused the cigar Laurence offered, and was smoking a short black pipe.

"I suppose we all feel that way at times," said Laurence moodily.

"Yes, but most struggle along with it. I did, for a good many years, not very well, though. It was against the grain. I got caught in the wheel of things, it was grinding me to pieces."

"The wheel of things," Laurence repeated absently.

"Yes, and of course through a woman. They get us into it. Your mother was a good woman, I've nothing to say against her. I fell in love with her, that wasn't her fault, nor mine either.... But 'twas she led me to the priest, and then over to this country. She was of better family than me, you see, her father was a squire; and she had a great ambition to get on in the world and be genteel. When she saw I couldn't do it, she got bitter to me. Oh, it was all natural, she wanted her children to be well off, educated. You can remember how we lived, nobody could blame your mother, I didn't myself, but she made it hell to me. I wanted to be my own master and have time to think.... So I cut loose from it."

Laurence nodded brusquely, but frowned, gazing at the neat, gentle-voiced old man.

"'Twas wrong, of course," old Timothy went on reflectively. "From the usual point of view. But I can't say I'm sorry I did it. I've had time to look about me and to learn some things. I always had a thirst for learning—books and ideas—"

"Yes, no doubt! But perhaps you don't know how my mother lived!" said Laurence bitingly.

"I couldn't have bettered it," the old man replied tranquilly. "I couldn't really, Laurence. The drink had got hold of me, I'd have gone from bad to worse. I couldn't help it ... 'twas because my life was miserable, I was only a dumb brute, like an ox, just living to work, feed and sleep. 'Twas no life for a man."

"It wasn't a life for my mother, either, was it?"

"No, but women can stand it better than we can, they don't like it but it doesn't kill their souls.... I'd have drunk myself to death in a few years. 'Tis they get us into it anyway—they're bound to the wheel, and they draw us in. They think of food and clothing and being respectable. A man has got other things to think of—he can't spend his life feeding a lot of hungry mouths.... Nine we had, but they mostly died when babies, the better for them."

The old man leaned forward to shake the ashes out of his pipe, and smiling, he added:

"Of course I don't expect you to think anything but ill of me. You always took your mother's part, and 'twas right.... And now you've got a family of your own and done well by them, and you've got up in the world—you'll feel accordingly and look down on me, naturally."

"I don't look down—!"

"Oh, maybe not because of the money and the fine house, I don't mean that. But you're in the big machine, I'm not. You're a success, I've been a failure, from a social point of view—"

"Success?" said Laurence.

Sunk deep in the big armchair, his head bent forward, he stared at the fire from under his bent brows.

"Surely. You're a big man here, Laurence, I found out—you've made a fine name for yourself. You've got wealth too, a real lady and a beautiful one for a wife, three fine boys—and this house you live in, why, it's a palace."

There was a faint veiled irony in the old man's voice.

"Your mother would have been proud to see you, Laurence."

"But you're not, eh?" Laurence smiled aggressively. "You've got something else in your mind."

"Well—yes ... I don't care much for all this. I find a man needs very little to live, and all the rest is waste, so I think."

"You've become a philosopher," growled Laurence.

"Yes," the old man chuckled. "Long ago I took to the road. Since then I've never owned anything nor had any care for the morrow. I travel like the birds and pick up my living as I go."

Laurence made no comment but continued to gaze into the fire, sunk deep in reverie. He looked very tired; his whole big frame relaxed, his eyelids drooped.

But he was thinking—or rather, whole scenes from the past were flashing by him, things long forgotten, it seemed.... After a rather long silence he said dreamily:

"You know Pat was killed at Shiloh, I suppose?"

"I heard he was killed, yes—that is, I didn't know it till I got back here."

"And you didn't know my mother was dead, either—or what had become of me?"

"No, Larry, no—how could I?"

The old man filled his pipe again from a bag of tobacco that he carried in his pocket.

"Well, you are an old bird," said Laurence sardonically.

"Family isn't the only thing," was old Timothy's calm response. "'Tisn't even the main thing."

"Oh, what is, in your opinion?"

"Why, a man's work—his ideas."

"Work? I thought you didn't work."

"I don't work for a boss, or for a society that only wants to exploit me, and I haven't these many years. I've gone hungry rather, lived with the lowest and off them too, rather than that. Once I got out of that hell, I wouldn't go back into it, sooner starve.... But I work for what I'm interested in."

"And what's that?"

"The big change that's coming, Larry. The day when there'll be real freedom for every man."

The old man paused, then said abruptly:

"You're your mother's son. It's her blood in you that's made you go the way you have.... On my side we go another way. Far back my people were all rebels. Hardly a man of 'em died in their beds.... There's a bigger war coming in this country, Laurence, than the one you fought in. There you were on the right side of the fence, but now you're not—you've gone over."

"Gone over? Gone over to what?"

"To the rich, to the capitalists, to the whole rotten system. You're a pillar of it now."

Laurence opened his eyes, looked interested.

"Do you think so, Dad?" he enquired, using for the first time the familiar address of long ago.

"Sure I think so!"

A pugnacious spark lit the old man's eye, his philosophic calm wavered.

"I'd been better pleased, Larry, if you'd stuck by your own class. It's men like you we need—you could have been a leader! But it's the old story, so soon as a man of ours shows the ability, the other side gets him—he goes after the fleshpots, and he's lost to us!"

"There are no classes in this country, you're thinking of the old world, Dad," said Laurence tolerantly.

"There's always two classes—them that have and them that want!" declared the old man curtly.

"You're for a class-war, then?"

"I'm for it!... Not for myself, thank God the day's long past, if it ever was, when I wanted anything for myself. But I belong to the Knights of Labour and I've travelled the country over, helping to organize here and there. I see the big fight coming. This country's changed. The rich get richer and the poor poorer. The big fortunes are piling up. You'll see ... you'll see."

"You're a true Irishman, Dad, always spoiling for a fight—always against the powers that be."

"And you come of the same stock, but you've gone back on it! Maybe you've sold yourself to the powers that be!"

"No," said Laurence coolly. "No man can say that of me. Look over my record, if you like to take the trouble. Ask what my reputation is.... You'll find I've stood for the poor and oppressed as much as you, or maybe more—I've fought many a poor man's case against a rich corporation, and won it too."

"Then how did you get all this?"

The old man waved his hand, clasping the stubby black pipe, and fixed a shrewd sparkling glance on his son.

Laurence laughed abruptly.

"Partly by inheritance, by investments, speculation sometimes, not by bribery or corruption!... But it seems rather funny to me that you should drop down on me this way, all of a sudden, and accuse me! Yes, by George, it's funny! Life is certainly amusing, at times."

"You mean I haven't any right to call you to account," said the old man placidly. "But I don't do it because you're my son—but because you're a strong man that was born of us and ought to have stayed with us."

"Us? You mean I ought to have been a day-labourer?... You're a fanatic, Dad.... If you were so anxious to have me go the right way, why didn't you stay and train me up?"

"It was weakness, I know, but, as I told you, I couldn't stand your mother, God rest her soul.... But of course I didn't see as much then as I do now. I've picked up some education, I've studied Marx and the Internationalists...."

"And you're for revolution. I see. But it won't come, not in this country, not anyway in your lifetime or mine, and then only slowly, by degrees.... Oh, I've looked into those things as well as you. Social questions interest me. I see the battle of opposing forces, and I'm on your side too, on the side of the advance, as I see it. But—it won't come by a sudden blow—not here. Little by little, as a man's frame changes. This country's built on the English model, little as you may like it, slow to change but yet changing.... And that's where I come in. Don't you see the cause needs a friend at court? You can batter away on the outside as much as you like, but you need somebody inside!"

"Maybe.... That wasn't what made you want to get inside, though, was it, Larry?" said the old man cynically.

"Oh, I don't know.... I don't know why I wanted to."

Laurence stood up, stretching his arms with a look of nervous fatigue.

"I promised the boys a game of billiards—come on up, will you?"

"All right, all right."

Laurence stood a moment with his back to the fire, looking about the room. Its length on two sides was filled nearly to the ceiling with books. There was Judge Baxter's private library in its stately bindings, and many of his law-books, huge bound volumes of reports, "commonplace" books filled with his neat crabbed writing, ponderous commentaries in calf. Laurence had done a good deal of work in this room....

"I wanted to count for something," he said absently. "Who doesn't?"

"Yes, but for what—that's the point! What's all this good for, that you've got? Loot!"

"I wanted," said Laurence, deep in his own thoughts and oblivious of this condemnation, "I wanted—human happiness, more than anything. For myself, yes—and for other people.... I wanted life to be more interesting, richer than it was, with more pleasure in it.... Why not? Why can't it be?... I tried, here in this town—"

"Oh, I know!" broke in the old man impatiently. "Public improvements and all that. Suppose they have got cement sidewalks and lots of trees? Suppose ye did give 'em a library? I know they say you've done a lot for the town ... but you want to be a big man, the patron, the boss, and give it to 'em out of charity! That's the same old story, it doesn't interest me. Give the people justice, they won't want charity!"

"Justice!" murmured Laurence with an abstracted smile.

"Well, their rights, then, if you like it better. I don't mean the kind of justice that you deal them out, sitting up on your high seat!"

"I deal them out the best I can find," said Laurence gently. "The law gets re-made rather slowly, you know.... But I'll admit to you that I don't sleep well, the night after I've sentenced a man."

"I never thought to see that—you, Larry Carlin, sentencing people to prison!"

"No, I don't sleep well," said Laurence vaguely.

He rubbed his hand over his eyes and shrugged his shoulders with a look of weariness.

"Well, shall we go up?" he said shortly. "I'm mighty sorry, though, that you don't approve of me."

"Yes, yes, I understand!"

The old man laughed, and suddenly resumed his former manner, his placidity, with an ease that indicated long practice in adapting himself to shifting scenes and moods.

"You're not responsible to me, God knows.... To each his own life, and I'm not to be the judge of yours!... Anyhow, Larry," he added as they went toward the door, "you got what you wanted."

"Oh, yes—yes, I got it,—in many ways."

"And now you've got it—you wouldn't say now, as many do, that it's vanity and vexation of spirit?"

"Oh, of course!" Laurence laughed abruptly. "Still, when you go after a thing it's better to get it.... Then you can see what it's worth."

VI

The billiard-room, on a suggestion from the architect, taken up with amusement by Laurence, had been made to resemble a European cafÉ. It had a low ceiling, red-plush benches round the panelled walls, long mirrors, and small tables in the corners; there was even a miniature bar.

Laurence, with his coat off, moved quickly round the green table, leaning half-way across it sometimes to make a difficult shot, managing his cue deftly and surely. The two younger boys followed his motions eagerly. John, who was playing his first real game, had a flush of excitement in his cheeks; his big blue eyes shone, he bit his lips nervously and his hands trembled; he laughed gaily when he made an awkward play. Timothy hung at his elbow, jeering and waiting anxiously for his turn. In the doorway lounged Jim maintaining a slightly supercilious attitude. Mary and Lavery were sitting on one of the plush benches; and the senior Carlin, standing at a little distance, contemplated the group round the table with interest. The men were smoking, the air was a little hazy. With the bright lights reflected in the mirrors, the click of the balls, quick movements and laughing comments of the players, the others watching, all seemed drawn together for the moment in an atmosphere of pleasure.

Laurence's face had brightened, his eyes smiled. When John had made his last play, a terrible fumble, and thrown down his cue angrily, he put his arm round the boy's shoulders and shook him with tender roughness.

"Be a good sport! You've got to lose before you win, you young monkey!"

John frowned, stamped his feet, and wrenched away, yet his eyes too smiled, and he hurried to fetch the chalk demanded by Timothy. Then when Timothy blundered John murmured a consoling word, little attended to, and when Timothy made a good stroke he applauded vigorously. Now and then he glanced happily at his mother, watching for her smile, or spoke to Jim, who only dropped his eyelids in answer; or went and stood beside his grandfather for a moment. He showed a quick consciousness of every one in the room, as though with infinitely delicate feelers touching them all. His physical motions were awkward, with the rapid growth of adolescence his arms and legs were somewhat out of control. He jostled Timothy at a critical point and received an impatient rebuff. Dashed by this, he stood apart for a while; and his face had its wistful, listening look, as if he sought among them all the human echo of some harmony heard far off.

After Timothy, it was Jim's turn. Jim had some pretensions to skill, but bore a smashing defeat with good grace, and complimented his father in an off-hand manly fashion, on which they shook hands with a cordiality rare between them. Jim as a rule irritated Laurence, either by obvious faults, laziness or extravagance, or else by silence and lack of response, a standing difference of temperament. But tonight Laurence looked at him affectionately, noting with pleasure his dark good looks, his lithe youth. Jim was almost a man—next year he would be going to college, if he could manage to pass the examinations.... So time passes....

Laurence was aware of a dark whirl of thoughts, half-formed, somewhere at the back of his mind; and of a weight pressing on the nape of his neck. For some time he had slept little and had been conscious of an increasing fatigue, something that piled up day by day, and made increasing effort necessary to get through each day's activity. He would have to work tonight. Downstairs he had the papers of an important case in which he had reserved decision.... And then there were a lot of business matters to be gone over with Lavery....

But he was reluctant to leave this bright room, to break up the family gathering. It was rare that they were all together like this; Mary very seldom came up to the billiard-room. The occasion seemed to him significant, and searching for the reason, he wondered if his father's strange presence had anything to do with it, or with his own unusual mood. Perhaps so. Perhaps it was this that had, as it seemed, thrown him back into the past, had curiously removed him to a distance so that this present scene had a kind of unreality.... It was like a scene on the stage which he was watching as it were through a reversed glass, so that the figures of the actors, his own included, appeared very tiny and as if at an immense distance. He watched himself going through the motions of the game, talking, laughing, and the others moving about. It seemed that some drama was moving to an obscure but deeply significant climax, but what was it all about?

At times he came to the surface of consciousness with what seemed like a crash, the lights and sounds smote his senses as if magnified, the actors became life-size or even bigger, and he waited for them or for himself to say or do some unheard-of thing.... All through he was conscious of an effort in himself to appear as usual, not to do anything extraordinary, not to lose touch with these human beings round him, all of whom seemed invested with some strange charm, newly felt, as though a hidden beauty in them had suddenly come into view....

At one moment he wondered if he were ill, or going to be; and put his hand on the back of his neck, where the dull pain pressed heavily. From across the room he saw John's eyes fixed on him earnestly; and smiled at him. The shadow of trouble in another person would trouble John. Strange boy! He was like a harp so delicately strung that a breath of air would stir it. What would happen to him in this world of harsh and jarring contacts?... The other two, he thought, would shoulder their way through well enough. They were strong normal boys with a good supply of egotism. The stock was sound....

He realized that he was looking at them all as though on the eve of departure, a farewell before a long journey.... The room swam in a dazzle of light. With an immense effort he pulled himself together, vanquished the momentary faintness, gave no other sign than a pallor, a rapid blinking of his eyes....

He found himself standing beside his father, before one of the long mirrors, and replying to some remark half-heard. His vision cleared, he looked at the two figures in the glass, curiously. Would any one have taken those two for father and son?

No. In the first place, the elder looked absurdly young, with his smooth-shaven unwrinkled face and wiry figure. And then, he looked like a foreigner; the Irish was unmistakable. Old Timothy had never taken root in American soil, but floated like thistledown above it, for forty years.... And the other one there, the black-bearded one—with age the Irish came out in him too, unmistakably.... But he was an American, born here, with no dim shadow of allegiance elsewhere. A son of the soil, he had fought for its nationality—there was the sign, the old sabre-cut, a faint white line across his cheek. And those old American ideals, of liberty, equality—he had believed in them passionately, felt them a living current in his blood, would have given his life for them. He still believed in them—and surely nothing in his life had given the lie to that belief?

The old man there had questioned, doubted him, on the score of this material luxury, this big house he had built—which, for that matter, was as unsubstantial as a soap-bubble, he could almost feel it dissolving under him.... Why, that only proved the equality of opportunity here for every man, he had started empty-handed. Here in this country the stream of fortune ran swift, capricious.... Men were all like gold-washers on the banks of a river, today the current would wash the golden grains one way, tomorrow another.... Why, tomorrow this bubble of a house that he had amused himself blowing into shape, might vanish, and he be left empty-handed.... What matter? It was all unreal, anyway, all a dream, what he had tried to build....

It seemed to him that he had been saying some of these things to his father, but he was not sure, there was a humming sound in his ears.... Again there was a flash of clear sight. John was there beside him, now there were three figures reflected in the mirror.

"Three generations!" said Laurence.

He spoke in his natural tone, the haggard pallor of his face changed suddenly; he felt that John had noticed it, was watching him.

"Look, Father, can you see any likeness among us three?" he asked.

The boy stood between them, straight as a young sapling, the radiance of his blond head like a beam of sunlight, a bow of promise across a cloud.

"No—no," said the old man thoughtfully. "I see it now in you and me, Larry—there's the same blood. But I don't see it in the boy."

"John isn't like any of us, anyhow," said Laurence, with the tender tones that he always had for this child. "He makes us look like a couple of scarred old logs, doesn't he?"

"Ah, youth—that's the pure gold," said the old man softly.

The boy smiled, deprecating, shrinking a little from their gentle scrutiny.

"It isn't that alone, there's something else, that's unaccountable," Laurence pondered, as if speaking to himself.

"It's the mother, perhaps—he's more like her. That's a different strain," said the old man.

Laurence turned and looked across the room. Mary had risen, was still talking to Lavery, but she was looking straight at them, at the group before the mirror.

"Mary, come here a minute," called Laurence.

She came, with her slow stately step, and Laurence put out his hand and drew her to his side.

"What is it?" she asked, with a faint tremulousness in her voice.

The old man, standing a step apart, and looking at the other three, replied.

"We were thinking of the likeness.... Yes, it's more on your side—yet I don't know—"

"Mary and I are different enough, eh?" said Laurence with a slight laugh. "That might account for almost anything. She's pure English, you see—English Puritan.... It was two enemy races mating when we married, eh, Father?"

"That makes the American, maybe," said the old man, still curiously intent on the boy.

But John, embarrassed by this prolonged attention, now broke away and left them.

"He's not like either of us," said Laurence abruptly, watching the boy's retreating figure. "That is, only a little. He's like a flower, sprung from heaven knows where."

Glancing again at the mirror he saw the quick response in Mary's face. In the mirror their eyes met with a deep flash of sympathy. Yes, this was something they both felt deeply and in common—the strange beauty of this child who had, nevertheless, sprung from them, from their two lives, however marred and futile.... Their union had at least produced this thing of beauty....

They looked at one another with a deep sad gaze. Laurence, with a sharpened vision, saw something in Mary's face new to him. The physical change must have come slowly—Mary had not been ill for a long time, that sharpening of the contours that gave her beauty its new delicacy was perhaps only age. But what he saw was not physical. He saw suddenly that she was grieving, suffering, he did not know why; it gave him a quick throb of pain. He would have put his arm around her, but that she moved away sharply. At the same moment he felt again the clouding of his sight, the dizziness.... But, abruptly alleging that he must get to work, he was able to leave the room with only a slight unsteadiness of gait, which, he knew, might easily be attributed to another cause.

VII

Mary watched him go; and thought exactly what he had guessed she would. She said it was time for the boys to go to bed. They all went downstairs. In her own room she lit her reading-lamp, but instead of undressing she stood for a time looking out the window on the lake. Then, when the house was quiet, she turned slowly, reluctantly, to her door, and stopping more than once she descended to the ground floor. The hall was dimly lit. The library door was shut; she heard the rustle of papers and the thud of a book falling. She opened the door noiselessly. There was Laurence, with a wet towel round his head, working at his desk.... And there was Lavery, in a deep chair beside him, looking over some papers. She retreated without a word, but the closing of the door betrayed her.

It was Lavery who came out and found her, wrapped in her long coat, undoing the chain of the front door. He picked up a coat and joined her, not doubting that she wished him to do so.

"Laurence oughtn't to work tonight," she said sharply. "He isn't fit to work."

"Well, I guess he has to—some papers he has to go over.... And he always says he works best at night," drawled Lavery. "Fact is, though, he's not looking well—complains of headache the last few days. Perhaps he ought to ease off a little—rest, if possible."

"Rest!" Mary said with a short laugh. "I never knew him to rest."

"No, that's so—he seems geared up to a certain speed.... But after all we have to relax a bit as we get older. The machine won't stand the speed. And Laurence burns the candle at both ends."

They were walking down a path toward the lake. Mary did not ask what he meant. But he insisted.

"I don't mind a man drinking anything in reason. But I think Laurence is getting to depend too much on it—he has to key himself up to his work. That wonderful natural energy seems to be failing him."

Still she was silent, and Lavery turned to her.

"Why don't you do something about it?" he asked abruptly.

"Nothing that any one could say would make any difference to Laurence," said Mary coldly. "He has always done exactly as he chose, and he always will."

"Oh, has he?" murmured Lavery. "It strikes me he would be more apt to do what you wanted him to."

Mary laughed. "What I wanted!" She turned angrily on Lavery. "You know that isn't true!"

At the same time she was amazed at herself—speaking like this, of Laurence and herself, to a stranger. And the reckless other self over-ruled this protest—it could speak to this man and it would.

"You know I never interfere in Laurence's life. He lives as he chooses."

"He lives the way he has to, I guess," said Lavery meditatively, "I don't know that there's much choice about it."

"Has to!" ejaculated Mary with contempt. "I should think you would be ashamed to say that."

They had approached the border of the lake, the breeze blew sweet and chill. Mary sat down on a bench, and Lavery, buttoning his coat, sat beside her. He knew he should catch cold, perhaps have an attack of lumbago, but no matter!

"Now why should I be ashamed?" he asked, puzzled.

"Why, because—that's no way for a man to talk.... We don't have to do what we don't choose to."

"Oh, don't we?" he murmured again. And after a moment, "Suppose there's a clash between two wills, two people—one has to go down, doesn't he, one has to submit, can't get what he wants, has to take what he doesn't want? How about that?"

"I'm not talking about what we want, of course we don't always get what we want. I'm talking about the way we live, whether we do what we know we ought to do or not—and I say we don't have to live and do what we know is wrong. I say a man ought to die rather than do that!"

"Well, what is wrong?" enquired Lavery mildly. "Now I'll tell you what I think.... I think the most important thing for a man is his work, his output. If he's got work that he believes in and loves, he's got the best thing on earth. And anything's right for him that helps him to do that work. And anything's wrong, for him, that prevents him from doing it. For that's what he's for, that's his reason for living, what he creates, that's why he's different from every other human being, so he can do just that thing.... As for any other right and wrong, I don't believe in 'em. We don't get right and wrong handed to us, we have to make them as we go along."

"Well, I am surprised, to hear you feel that way about work," said Mary, showing her claws.

"You think I don't work?... Well, perhaps you wouldn't recognize it.... I admit the law isn't my work, as it's Laurence's, in the creative sense. He's been able to stick to that and do what he was meant to do—but he's had to pay for it. That's what the drink means, and—other things that you don't like, perhaps."

He paused a moment, he didn't want to seem malicious, but he went on: "Laurence is a strong man. He's taken what he could get, to help him do his work, and I say he was right. But it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want drink and other women, not seriously. It was trouble with you that made him turn to them."

She sat marble-still, not an eyelash moving. Lavery added:

"I ought to say, he never said a word about that. It's my own observation, that's all."

Again he was silent, watching her still profile, barely visible; guessing at the tumult within her, the rage of offended pride. (If she was determined to dislike him, he would give her something to dislike him for.) He decided that it was time for her to speak now.

But Mary was struck dumb. Her outleap of rage against Lavery recoiled upon herself.... She deserved it, for talking to him in any sort of confidence, for breaking her reserve, compromising her personal dignity—of course he had taken advantage of this. She strove to re-establish her contempt of him. He should not see that she had felt his treacherous attack.

It was some moments before she could say, coolly:

"If you think Laurence has done right, why did you ask me to 'do something about it'?"

He lost the thread of the discourse for a moment, in irritation.

"Why, I meant—I meant—that he had done the best he could, in the circumstances.... But it seems to me he's under a heavy strain—in fact, perhaps in danger of breaking down under it. I wonder if you couldn't ease it, somehow."

It was only partly a game. There was a sincere feeling in Lavery too. He admired—even though unwillingly—the more gifted man. Yes, and he had reluctant admiration for Mary too.

"You don't know anything about it," she said.

"No, perhaps I don't," he admitted.

"I can't see that it's your business, at all."

"Well, I suppose it isn't—unless on account of friendship."

"I don't believe in friendship."

"What do you believe in?" he asked.

"I don't believe in anything."

The words came out with violence. She was resisting the impulse to speak out, and yet she was speaking.

"I used to have faith—but now I haven't anything."

"Oh, yes, you have," he said. "You have faith—everything shows it."

"How? What?"

"Well, what you just said, that a man ought to die rather than do what is wrong—there's faith, in the ideal of what a man is, what he ought to be.... And then you live without compromise, you don't forgive—that's faith."

"How do you know that—that I don't forgive?"

"Well, I can guess that you didn't."

"And you think that's good—not to forgive?"

"I didn't say it was good. It depends on how it works out. I said it showed faith. It means you have a standard and you can't condone an offence against it—at any cost."

"Yes, but it might be only—that I couldn't forgive an offence against me.... It might be only—pride. You see how I mean, that I've lost faith. I don't feel sure of anything."

"You've lost faith in yourself, you mean, but—"

"Oh, not only in myself—in everything else!"

"And you used to feel sure?"

"Oh, yes—I knew!"

"And how was it, that you ceased to be sure?"

"I think—people disappointed me—people I believed in—"

"But you believe in something that isn't people, don't you—some rule of right and wrong that is above human life—"

"I did—yes, I was very religious—I believed in a rule and measured people by it—"

"And when they didn't measure up to it, you—"

"Yes, I—didn't forgive. Even now I despise people, for all sorts of reasons—can't help it.... But now I think I was wrong. I don't think I was religious at all—because, you see, it didn't stand the test—I lost it—"

"And when was that—that you lost it?"

"I don't know. It seems as if it had been going on for a long time, dying.... I used to think that happiness didn't count, that we ought not to think of it. But now I think that was when I was really happy. It isn't so easy to live without it, really, for many years—it isn't so easy!"

She had lost all feeling of the personality of Lavery. It was like speaking out to the night-wind and the starlight. She had spoken the last sentences in a rush, passionately, and in her voice was the tremor of a sob. But she compressed her lips sharply, and sat silent. Lavery took her hand, and her fingers closed on his desperately.... All she cared for just then was not to cry.

"Well, it's true, we can't live without it," muttered Lavery. "You see, we lose faith in ourselves, without it—we feel we've been wrong, and we have been wrong—that's the sign.... Then if we can't get it back we take to dope—like me."

She heard what he said, but she did not answer. She was absorbed in the relief of her emotion, her confession, and the strange feeling of kinship with him, with this person she—didn't like. For she did not like him any better than before, only it didn't seem to matter now. What mattered was not to be entirely alone.

She was comforted, and keeping hold of his hand, she grew calmer, and breathed a deep sigh. Then she noticed that Lavery was shivering.

"Why, you'll catch your death of cold," she said, and got up.

They walked back silently to the house. In the hall he put out his hand to her again and said anxiously:

"Look here now, you won't hate me more for this, will you? That wouldn't be fair."

"No!" she said with energy, smiling. "Not now.... I would, not long ago—but now I wouldn't be so mean as that."

"Well, that's good," he said wanly.

VIII

The next day, toward sunset, Mary was walking in to see her father. She went often at the time when he would be home for his solitary supper.

The Carlin place was no longer out of town. Past it stretched the paved street, with wide sidewalks and gas-lamps at frequent intervals. The maple trees now overarched it, a thinning cloud of pale yellow or red, and the leaves lay in thick drifts in the gutters and along the walks. They rustled under Mary's feet as she went holding up her long violet-coloured dress. She wore a mantle to match the dress, and a small bonnet made of violets and lace, tied under her chin with black velvet ribbons.

She walked at a good pace; there was a spring in her step, and unusual colour in her cheeks. She breathed in deeply the cool crisp air, she saw with pleasure the vivid colours of the leaves, the bright western sky: it was long since she had felt this pleasure in the world. It had zest to her; and she could not imagine why. All that had happened to her consciousness was that she had transgressed her own code; had forgotten her dignity and actually discussed her own most private affairs and feelings, with a stranger. But now she had a strange sense of freedom, of companionship in some impersonal way. She did not think more of Lavery because of it. He had gone to the city with Laurence that morning, and she did not seem to care whether she ever saw him again or not. But if she saw him certainly she would talk to him again. She was less a prisoner now; some barrier had been pierced, and she looked out on the world.

As she drew near the house, she saw a once familiar figure, a slim black-coated figure, pushing a small baby-carriage. It was Hilary. He had married a buxom efficient widow, three years before; and in the carriage was his eighteen-months' old daughter, a small, very lively baby, with bright blue eyes. Mary stopped and held out her hand to Hilary, with a friendly warmth that she had not shown him for many years. She asked after his wife, bent to speak to the baby, who bounced up and down and fixed upon her eyes sparkling with energy. Hilary's eyes too were upon her, in surprise.

He had changed very little in ten years. His face was quieter, perhaps, less drawn. The wife took care of him, fed and clothed him properly. No one now thought that he would go into a decline. But his eyes showed the same ardour and intensity of life. He worked harder than ever, for his church had grown, and incidentally had become factious. Hilary had to meet opposition within the fold to his idea of the preaching of the gospel; the time would come when he would be forced to leave this church too, and go forth. Mary knew this, though she rarely went to church now. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how she had felt about his marriage; disenchantment, almost disgust, though she had long before that ceased her intimacy with him. Her idea of him, as celibate, she now felt to have been merely romantic. Hilary was a man like other men. No, after all, he was better than most, he was more of a man. She smiled at him quite radiantly and said she was coming soon to see his wife.

"How well you are looking," he said as she started on, still with that surprised gaze at her.

"It must be this wonderful weather—it makes one feel so alive!" she called back, laughing at the white lie. In this mood she could tell all kinds of lies, without conscience! It was like a renewal of youth, no, it was a youth she had never had, rather mischievous, irresponsible. In this mood she wouldn't care what she did. Now why? She shook her head and gave it up—couldn't say why.

She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed that a hinge was loose; and that the pickets needed painting. The grass was long too in the front yard. She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low frame house. That too needed a coat of paint—why, it was shabby, it was all going to seed. Her brow wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn't noticed this before—how long had it been this way? Her father had been used always to keep the place trim and neat. Was he getting too old to look after it, or to care? She felt a pang.... She must send down a gardener to fix up the yard.

She opened the creaking front door and entered the narrow hall. The familiar odour met her—old wallpaper, old furniture, a slight closeness, a faint smell of cooking. But she liked it—it was home. She went into the sitting-room, where the housekeeper was setting the table for Dr. Lowell's supper.

"Oh, Mrs. Hansen, isn't Father home yet?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Carlin, he has just come. Out to the stable yet."

The rosy-faced Swedish woman, in crisp calico dress and white apron, went out into the kitchen. She came by the day to "do for" Dr. Lowell, and he lived alone in the old house. Mary glanced critically at the table, wrinkled her nose, and sat down in the rocker by the window, where streaks of gold and red glimmered, making a rosy light within. Nothing had been changed in this room, or for that matter in the house since her mother's death. In fact, she couldn't remember when it had not looked just this way.

The brown carpet was a little more worn, perhaps, the brown and gilt wallpaper a little more faded. There was dust on the furniture that would not have been there in her mother's time. But the old clock ticked to the same dreamy tune on the shelf, coals glowed in the open stove, the cat stretched itself and yawned in the armchair, the glass of cream stood as always by her father's plate. In this house it always seemed afternoon, verging on evening.... Yes, and there, in the grass under the window, the sound always associated with home—the faint wiry chirping of the crickets.... Short bright autumn days—long cold nights drawing on—was that why they were so plaintive?

She heard her father come into the kitchen, and then the splashing of water. Washing up in the kitchen—lazy father! Probably he even kept a comb out there, behind the looking-glass! Men get shiftless, living by themselves. Or perhaps he was just too tired to go upstairs. Yes, when he came in, she saw his thin hair had been freshly combed—and he did look very tired. And alas, how old he looked! Why hadn't she noticed that he was getting old?

He was delighted to see her, still more when she got up and kissed him with uncommon warmth.

"Well, now, this is nice! Can't you have supper with me?" he asked happily, lifting the cat out of his chair and sitting down. Mary drew up a chair opposite him and put her elbows on the table.

"I can't eat, because there's the family dinner, you know, but I'll sit with you anyway. What have you got?"

Mrs. Hansen put the supper on the table and retired behind a closed door.

"Cream-toast—dried beef—soda-biscuits—well, I don't call that a solid meal after a good day's work! That's an old lady's supper. Why don't you have a steak, Father, something substantial?"

"Can't, my dear," he said smiling. "Too heavy for me—can't eat much meat. This is just what I like."

He tucked the napkin under his thin beard, still auburn more than grey, and began to eat. Mary took a biscuit and broke it open.

"It's light," she conceded. "I guess she's a good enough cook."

"Oh, she's first-rate—I live in clover," smiled Dr. Lowell.

"Well, hardly that—"

"Oh, yes.... But say, how splendid you look, Mary! Been to some grand blowout?"

"No, I made some calls. Do you like this bonnet?"

"It's fine—what there is of it. Dress too—there's plenty of that. Why have that long tail on it?"

"Well, it's the fashion," said Mary indulgently.

"You look very nice indeed. Better than you have all summer."

"Well, Father, I can't say as much for you. You look tired out."

"I am, at night. But I get up like a lark in the morning."

"You work too hard. You ought to have a man to drive you now, and an assistant—and only go out on great occasions, when you get a big fee, you know!"

A faint uneasiness showed in Dr. Lowell's face.

"Now don't you go trying to take away my work. That's the quick way to break a man up.... I'm going to die in harness," he declared.

"Well, I'm afraid you will," and Mary's lips quivered. He was quick to notice and to soothe her.

"Don't you worry. There's a lot of work in the old man yet. I'm not seventy. And I don't go out much at night any more, you know, or in very bad weather—unless it's life or death.... Oh, they have to consider me now!"

"Well, it's time they did. You never considered yourself."

There was unwonted emotion in her face and voice. He was touched, and surprised.

"I should think you'd be proud of me," he said lightly. "All these smart young doctors in town—but they don't get my practice unless I want to give it to 'em.... People sending for me from all over the county—pay my expenses and anything I want to ask. They don't think I'm too old to work."

"I am proud of you. I never said you were too old. I think you're a great man."

He laughed. "I wasn't fishing to that extent."

"Well, I want you to know that I admire you. I think you've had the most successful life I know about."

"Sounds like my obituary," he commented.

But Mary was groping for something she wanted to say, something newly felt. Looking at his small bent figure, his face, so gentle yet with something hard and firm in its calmness, suddenly she seemed to see him, his long laborious life, in a flash of light.

"I think you're beautiful," she said solemnly.

It was a strange word, and Dr. Lowell was visibly abashed. He fidgeted, made a feeble joke, and then looked sharply at Mary's unwonted colour and bright eyes.

"What's the matter? You're not going to—sure you feel perfectly well, Mary?"

"Why, yes.... But Laurence isn't. I wish you'd drop in and see him. He'll be home tomorrow night. Suppose you come to dinner and take a look at him."

"What ails him?"

"He complains of headaches lately and he looks—well, you'll see. Keeps right on working, though. You'll come? The boys always want to see you too, you know."

"Well, they do. They drop in here quite often—especially Jim. I think maybe we might make a doctor of Jim."

"You do?" Mary's eyes opened wide. "Has he shown any interest that way? He never said a word to me about it."

"Yes, we've talked it over. He is interested. He takes to science. Has a good mind, that boy—kind of slow, but thorough. Likes to get to the bottom of things. He could work hard if he was interested."

"Well!" Mary pondered this. Then she said, "I've been worried about him—he runs around at night and won't tell me where he goes."

"I know where he goes," said Dr. Lowell placidly.

"You do? He tells you?"

"Oh, Jim and I are great friends. He's all right, Mary.... But you must realize—Jim's almost a man, and he's a strapping healthy fellow—you can't hold too tight a rein on him, if you do he'll kick over the traces."

Mary frowned, looked sullen. "I think I ought to know what he's doing."

"Well, I'd just as soon tell you, but you'd very likely make a row and it would be bad for Jim.... Use your imagination, Mary."

She pushed back her chair, rose and walked to the window. Dr. Lowell cast a shrewd glance at her and took a piece of custard pie.

"I think you ought to be proud of your output, Mary—you ought to be a proud and happy woman."

"What, Father?"

"Those three boys—fine fellows, all of them. What more d'ye want? And you haven't spoiled them by petting. They think a lot of you. And you haven't nagged them—not very much."

Mary turned around. "Then you think—really—?"

"Oh, yes, you've done well.... One thing more you might do—but I doubt if you could—let them feel that they could tell you anything, whatever they do. They might not tell you, wouldn't probably, but if they felt they could, without you being horrified, it would be better for them.... But of course you can only do that if you feel that what they want or need is a lot more important than what they do.... Sometimes I think, Mary, that you care more for what people do than for what they are.... Think it over."

Dr. Lowell folded his napkin and put it in its ring, got up and took out his pipe, filled it from a leather bag and lit it. An acrid smoke issued from the old meerschaum as he sank into an easy-chair by the fire. Mary hated that pipe, but now though she coughed in the smoke she didn't notice it. She had stood absorbed in some difficult and displeasing thought—but turning and looking at her father she saw how bent and shrivelled he looked in the big chair.

"Father, aren't you awfully lonely here in the evenings?" she asked suddenly.

"No, no—I've got lots of reading to do, journals and new books—I try to keep up with my profession, you know. No, I'm never lonely."

"I should think you'd miss Mother a lot."

"I do—yes, I miss her.... But it's quieter this way."

"Father! The things you say!"

"Why shouldn't I say them.... Your mother and I got on very well indeed, and if I ever see her again I guess we'll get on just as well."

"If you do! Why, don't you think you will?"

"I don't know, my dear, I couldn't tell you." He puffed meditatively at his pipe. "And I don't think anybody else can tell you either."

"I don't see how you can bear to see so many people die if that's the way you feel, if you think there's nothing more!" cried Mary.

"I keep them from dying, if I can—that's my job.... I don't say there's nothing more. But I say we haven't begun to learn about this world—there's enough here to keep us busy for all the time we've got—we're just ignorant. Life ... it's mystery on mystery.... We can settle what death is when we get to it."

"You're not afraid of death?" she asked absently.

"No, child, no ... sometimes I feel I'd like a long rest ... or a new set of feelings, ideas ... or something. There's only one thing I'm afraid of, I confess—to live on when I'm no use any more and have to be taken care of." He made a wry face. "Don't see how I could stand that. I hope I die with my boots on."

"Well, don't you do it yet awhile." Mary bent down and kissed the top of his head. "We need you. I'll think over what you said—about the boys—and then I guess I'd like to talk to you again about it.... I must go now. You'll come tomorrow night?"

"Yes, I'll come."

On her way to the door she turned. "I declare! I forgot to ask you if you'd seen old Mr. Carlin."

"Yes, John fetched him in here yesterday. We had quite a chat."

"Did you ever hear of such a thing—walking in like that and telling me 'I'm Laurence's father!' Cool as a cucumber! I never saw such an old man!"

"How did Laurence take it?"

"Well, there never was any love lost between them, you know—he was taken aback at first, but they seemed to get on well enough."

"And he's gone?"

"The old gentleman? Yes—went to Chicago today. He said he'd drop in and see us again some time!"

She laughed quite gaily as she went out.

It had occurred to her to see if the garden at the back of the house was neglected too, so she went round that way. Yes, the grass-borders were unkempt, the only flowers were straggling marigolds and asters; dahlias blackened by frost drooped forlornly. No wonder, he hadn't strength now to keep it up. But she thought back and seemed to see that from the time of her mother's death the garden had been running down. "I guess he misses her more than he thinks," she reflected.

She stood looking into the orchard, where among almost bare boughs a few red apples still clung. She felt a desire to go on into the pasture and look at the deep still pool there, which she had not seen for long. She remembered the look of it well—how as a child it had fascinated and frightened her, even haunting her dreams.... But the pasture was trampled by cows, and in this dress and these thin shoes....

She turned to go home, wrapping her mantle round her. The wind was rising, blowing out of a bank of cloud that now covered the western sky. A few sunset embers glimmered there low down. In the wind sweeping over the prairie there was a low booming sound and when the gusts rose higher an ominous whistle. A storm was coming, out of those immense, endless stretches to the west.

IX

All night long the wind roared round the house, dashing gusts of sleety rain against the western windows. At times even the thick walls shook. The lake rose into waves that pounded on the shore. Mary tried to read herself to sleep but in vain. At last she put out her light, and thoughts, images, questions, raced through her mind as she lay in darkness.

A happy woman ... proud and happy, she ought to be. But what had she to be proud of.... Men were more fortunate, they had their work, could really achieve something, could take anything they wanted.... Laurence took what he wanted, to help him do his work, and I say he was right.... Laurence went his own way, apart from her.... Of course apart, she had driven him away. No, he had begun it before that. But she hadn't done her duty by him, it was her duty to forgive.... No, she didn't believe in forgiveness, didn't believe in duty. It wouldn't have worked any better. He would have gone his own way anyhow. And now the boys were beginning too.... Use your imagination, Mary....

She didn't want to use her imagination, she was afraid of it. Yes, afraid.... All sorts of things that she had shut out in the dark, wouldn't look at, and now they were horrible to her.... Why should one have to look at the dark side of life, the animal side?... But suppose that was really life, suppose we were just animals and nothing more—all the rest words. That might very well be.... Her father had spent his life taking care of the physical body, he didn't believe in anything else, didn't look forward.... Life ... it's mystery on mystery ... we're just ignorant.... What was it then that made him so calm and strong, not afraid of anything? She had thought that this was what religion did for you, but he had never had any religion, yet he had always been like this, since she could remember him. Hilary had it too, that same strength, and with him perhaps it was religion.... But she didn't believe in religion, heaven was empty, God had melted away completely, she didn't believe in him.

She tossed restlessly, the tumult without echoing the storm within. It seemed that the wind was driving through her head, her thoughts were like whirling leaves....

Why should she be proud of her sons? They were not hers, they were Laurence's as much as hers, perhaps more; they were distinct individuals, did not belong to her, she had almost no part in them. And she had not trained them in the way they should go ... how could she, when since the early days she had ceased to believe in any definite way? They had just grown up themselves.... You haven't nagged them, not very much.... Was that what her father thought of moral teaching? They had learned not to lie or steal, of course. But as they grew to be men they would begin again. Jim had already begun. He lied to her, and apparently told the truth to his grandfather.... Let them feel that they could tell you anything—they wouldn't tell you probably.... No, they would have their lives apart, and she would be alone still—In her youth she had never felt lonely, but now....

Lavery knew what loneliness was, that was why she had talked to him. He had known how she was feeling before she spoke, otherwise she would never have spoken. He was worldly wise, but that was all, or nearly all—it wasn't much. His consolations—what use were they? Soft living, books, music, little adventures.... She would rather jump into the lake than live like that. Why not?... Nobody would miss her very much. The boys at first, it would be a shock, of course. And Laurence would have to find somebody to run the house. Her father would miss her, and it would be a town-scandal, a mystery.... Why on earth.... A woman with everything to live for.... Temporary insanity.... And then, prying and prowling gossip.

Why not? Well, of course she would never do it. Life was too strong in her—physical life. She would have to be inconceivably miserable before she could seek death. She was afraid of death, now that beyond it lay the void.

And it was still good to live, in some ways. Even today she had known pleasure, more than for a long time. Something had lifted her up. This was the reaction.... If only she could sleep! If the wind would stop howling like a lost soul round the house!

Why was it that she had lost the faith that in her girlhood had made her so strong and secure?... She had said to Lavery it was because people had disappointed her. But was that a reason for losing her faith in God? Wasn't there something above and beyond this human life, so often petty and sordid, these weak human beings—something fixed, sure, always good and beautiful, a refuge?... No, there was nothing, or if there was, she could not find it. When she had thought she loved God, it was only that she loved people—Hilary in one way, Laurence in another—and believed in them. And then at one stroke she had lost both of them. They had been cut away from her—or was it that she had done it, cut them away, repelled and denied them both? If a man loves not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath not seen?... Then she had lost all that remained to her, the joy in her children, her content with herself, and that feeling of rightness.... From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.... Now she would be glad to go away from everybody, even the children....

Toward morning she slept, and woke unwillingly at a knock on her door.

"Breakfast's ready—aren't you coming down?"

It was Jim. She said sleepily, "Oh, I'm tired, hardly slept all night. I guess I won't get up."

Jim looked aggrieved.

"It's rotten when you don't come down," he said. Then, turning away he enquired sulkily, "Well, shall I bring up your breakfast?"

How vigorous and vivid his young figure looked, in the grey morning light—his brown glowing colour, how pleasant to see!

"Yes—no, I'll get up," she said.

Still he lingered.

"Well, if you're very tired—I'll bring it up if you want me to."

"No, I say I'll get up. Run along."

"I'd just as soon bring it up—"

"Run along!"

She laughed as he shut the door, and sprang up, to see if she could make it in ten minutes. It was rather more than that, but she got down to find the three boys at the breakfast-table; and Jim rose and pulled out her chair for her, a mark of special favour. A bright fire crackled in the chimney, the silver coffee-urn hissed cheerfully in the middle of the table; the room was warm and pleasant, with the rain beating against the windows. The boys all smiled at her, and Jim, showing his big white teeth, passed his cup for more coffee. One cup was his allowance, but she filled it up.

"What a night!" she said. "Did you hear the wind? I couldn't sleep—could you?"

They had all slept like tops, hadn't noticed any wind, that is, only John had noticed it. "I like storms," he said. "I like a big storm, but it doesn't keep me awake. I'd like to be out on the lake in a big wind."

"Yes, you would," murmured Timothy sceptically.

"Ma, I wish you'd make Tim brush his hair," drawled the eldest. "Look at it."

"I have brushed it—it won't lie down, that's all. It's a cowlick or something."

"Yes, or something! You need a hair-cut."

"Yes, I guess you do," said Mary, looking at Timothy's thick disorderly black mop. "You can go after school and get one."

Jim picked up the silver hand-bell and rang it loudly.

"What's that for?"

"Pancakes. I told Hilda to make some and she's late as usual. It's half-past eight now."

The waitress brought in a big platter of cakes, and they vanished quickly, with no comment except, "Pass the butter.... Maple-syrup, please—I'll take a couple more, Mother." Then the three said, "Please excuse me," and bolted for the door. In the hall arose the usual hubbub. "That's my coat you've got.... Where's my cap?... Confound it, who took my rubbers?..."

Mary went out to say, "All your rubbers are on the shelf in the coat-closet," to make sure that nobody rushed off without his rubbers, to hear their shouted good-byes. The door banged behind them. She smiled and went back to her coffee and the newspaper. Cold bath and coffee made her feel fresh, full of energy, in spite of a bad night. The world always looked more cheerful in the morning, especially when the boys were about—they were so full of life, all of them, they were nice even when they squabbled. Yes, if one could always be young, things wouldn't be so bad. Life might be rather pleasant if you didn't look into it too much.

She finished her coffee and went into the big clean drab-coloured kitchen to interview the cook about the day's meals and write lists for the grocer and butcher. She ordered a good dinner—Laurence would be home, her father was coming, there might be other guests, for Laurence often brought some one. The cook stood by the table, rolling her hands in her apron and looking rather sullen, and when Mary rose for her usual quick inspection of pantries and ice-box, Hilda said:

"Mrs. Carlin, I think I be leaving the end of the month."

"Why?" asked Mary sharply.

"Oh—I think I be leaving."

"Is it the work—the wages?"

"No—no, I like the place, but ... I think I be leaving."

Mary gazed at her, and finally said, "I know what it is—you've been quarrelling with Anna."

The cook made no answer, but continued to look sullen.

"Now, Hilda," said Mary firmly, "you've been with me a year; in that time I've had three waitresses, and you've quarrelled with every one of them. I like Anna and I'm not going to let her go. I like you too, but you're hard to get along with. If you want to leave at the end of the month you can. I don't want to hear what you've been fighting about. I advise you to think it over, and remember you'll always quarrel, wherever you go, that's the way you're made. Let me know in a week."

She went her rounds, praised the good order she found, and departed sighing. Another raw cook to train, probably! It took just about a year to break them in, and then.... Anna was doing the dining-room as she passed through and looked suspiciously bottled-up, but Mary gave her no chance to complain. Of course they would fight, those two—any two would, they hadn't enough else to occupy their minds. She wished she could get along with one servant, but in this big house it was impossible, it was hard work for two.

The house felt cold—she must send for the furnace-man and have him start the fires. She went back to tell Anna to tell the gardener to go for Mike at once. Then she wrapped a mantle about her and went into the parlours, two big connecting rooms. They were glacially cold.

It had occurred to her this morning that the house was gloomy. She didn't know why she hadn't noticed it before. Nothing had been changed since they had lived in the house, ten years. Perhaps that was the trouble. She had not been interested enough to want to change anything; had accepted it all, as Laurence and the decorators presented it, with indifference. She had never been interested in house-furnishings; if Laurence liked this, it was enough. But it took an enormous amount of work to keep all these heavy carpets and curtains clean, and all this light furniture. And in spite of perpetual cleaning there was always a musty smell when the windows were shut, as now. She frowned, looking critically about her.

The heavy cut-lace curtains covering the windows had turned yellow with age. The thick silk draperies over these inner curtains showed streaks where the sun had faded them. The figured satin upholstery of the carved and fretted couches and chairs was rather faded too.... All this expensive stuff—and now, after only ten years, it had to be replaced! And the bric-a-brac on the gilt tables and the mantelpieces,—the gilt clocks and all that fragile porcelain that took such a lot of dusting—there was not a single thing that she had selected, or liked. But when it came to replacing all this, her mind was a blank. Only she would like something quieter, not gilt stuff, satin, or little figures of shepherdesses, animals, boys riding on goats, and so on.... Probably she would just have to get another decorator. How cold it all looked in this grey light, reflected in the two long mirrors at either end and the oblong mirrors over the mantelpieces!

The boys liked this house. She had discovered just lately how much they liked it. Its size—the big rooms—it was still the biggest house in town. They had a lordly feeling about it. They were secretly proud of their position, as sons of the town's most eminent citizen, and of this house, as the symbol of his superiority.... Well, if they liked it, there was no harm in making it a little more cheerful.

She crossed the hall into the library, where she usually read or wrote or received her visitors, for Laurence was never at home during the day. There was a roaring big fire in the grate. This room was all right. A library should be rather sombre, with big plain pieces of furniture, the walls covered with books. It had the look of being used, lived in; and its red hangings had kept their deep colour. Yes, this would do—besides, Laurence probably wouldn't want it changed. It was the only place in the house that seemed to belong to him.

She went over to her table, where she had left her unfinished paper on Æschylus. Her lips curled in a derisive smile. Æschylus! What did those women care about Greek tragedies?... They brought their knitting or fancy-work, sat and listened or didn't listen, while somebody lectured to them. They felt they were getting culture, keeping up with the times—or rather, it was the thing to belong to the Literary Society, they didn't dare not to belong.... Before Mary had taken the presidency, they had had readings from the novels of the day; some lady who had travelled would read a paper on the Yosemite Valley; or there would be a written debate on the respective merits of Dickens and Thackeray. Oral discussion was unknown, the ladies had no practice in public speaking.... Well, she had made them work, anyway. She had made an elaborate program for the study of Greek civilization, and all this past year had driven or coaxed them through it. She had bought a list of books on Greece for the library; and insisted on the ladies reading and reporting on them. At the meetings she asked questions, stooped to flatter them a little and tried to make them talk. It was hard work. They didn't really want to get anything for themselves, preferred to be spoon-fed. There were not more than two women in town who had any intellectual interests, and she was the only one who knew even a little Greek.

Why bother them? They had their own absorbing interests—family, houses, friends, church. Most of them worked pretty hard at home too. She had done it for her own amusement and occupation, or out of vanity, to make them feel her superiority. They were afraid of her, and she had liked that. She had not one real friend among them.... Better resign, and let them have a good time.

She sat down, throwing off her cloak, and began to look over her manuscript. It represented a good deal of work. She had consulted many authorities, and read the plays, with Greek text and translation side by side. There were the books piled on the table, full of little slips of paper with her notes. She had been conscientious, thorough, giving the best work she could do. No doubt to impress them with her scholarship. She smiled again sardonically as she listened to that inner impish voice that had been her companion now for a long time, commenting on everything she did, sneering....

Anna brought in a telegram. She took it, knowing in a flash what it was. Yes. "Sorry cannot get out tonight important case needs all my attention for several days will wire when I can get away Laurence."

Yes, the usual thing. Only this message was longer than usual, he had wasted several words. She crumpled up the paper and threw it into the fire.... She had intended to talk to him tonight about doing over the house. Then there was her father coming to see him. Well, he couldn't be ill if he was staying away indefinitely. He was just—busy.... She would send word to her father not to come, it was bad weather, a steady driving rain that threatened to last all day.

She took up her pen and looked at the page before her—sat a long time looking at it. In spite of the glowing fire her hands grew cold, too cramped finally to hold the pen, and she dropped it.

Why should she care? All that was over long ago—buried.

Only sometimes it seemed that nothing ever could be buried securely. It was as if the long grown-over ground should stir, and something that had been buried too soon, still alive....

X

Two days passed, without word from Laurence. He seldom stayed away as long as this without sending some message, except when he was on circuit. The third day, as Mary was driving back from the meeting where she had read her paper on Æschylus, she saw Jim on the street; he threw up his hand, came running and jumped into the carriage.

"I was coming for you, Mr. Lavery's at the house—Father's ill—he wants you to go to the city. They think it's typhoid." He leaned forward and told the coachman to drive faster. "You can get the six-thirty in if you hurry."

He could tell her no more in answer to her questions. He looked very sober. As they turned in through the gates he said, "Don't you think I'd better go with you? You'll want somebody besides that fellow."

"I don't know—wait," said Mary sharply.

Lavery was at the steps, came forward; but Jim sprang out and gave his hand to Mary. Lavery looked pale and worried.

"You'll just have the time to pack a bag.... The doctor isn't positive yet, but looks like typhoid—he's got a high fever."

The coachman was told to wait and they all hurried into the house.

"How long has he been ill?" demanded Mary.

"Well, since we went in, but—"

"Why didn't some one let me know?"

"He didn't want me to.... Now you better get ready. I'll talk to you on the train."

He turned away, perhaps to avoid further questions. Why had he come for her instead of telegraphing?... But she was already on her way upstairs, followed by the three boys and Anna. They stood about in her room and tried to help while she got out her leather bag and put the necessary things in it. She changed her silk dress for one of dark cloth, tied her bonnet with shaking fingers; it was hard for her to hurry. Jim went down and brought her a glass of sherry and some crackers.

"You'll miss your dinner, better drink this," he urged.

She drank the wine and smiled faintly at him.

"Can't I go with you?" he asked again. "Maybe you'll need me."

"I'll see—but now I want you to look after things here. You'll have to be the man of the house."

A pang shot through her at those words, she frowned and snapped her bag shut. She was ready. John, who had not uttered a word, took her hand as they went downstairs. His fingers were cold and trembling.

"Don't you worry," she said sharply. "I don't believe it's serious. I'll telegraph Jim tomorrow. Now you all be good, get your lessons, go to bed on time—and, Jim, you better go tell your grandfather—"

They all swarmed after her to the carriage. The cook came too, calling:

"We get along all right, Mrs. Carlin, don't worry about us—we do everything we can, Anna and me—"

The three boys kissed her, Jim the last, putting a manly arm around her; she thought how grave and strong his young face looked. Lavery stepped into the carriage, the coachman whipped up his horses; they just made the train.

After a few questions and brief answers Mary sat silent, staring blankly out of the window, during the hour's journey. She found that Laurence had not sent for her, Lavery had come on his own responsibility. The doctor had only this afternoon made the diagnosis of typhoid—he was a smart young man, the best in the city, Lavery thought. And Lavery had taken the tiresome journey instead of telegraphing because he had to explain that Laurence was not at a hotel or hospital, but staying at a friend's house, from which it was thought best not to move him. Laurence had some rooms at this house, it seemed, and—in fact generally stayed there when he was in the city. Mary did not know the name or address—she addressed Laurence when necessary at the Palmer Hotel. But she guessed whose house it was that she was going to. He must be very ill. Otherwise Lavery would hardly be taking her there.... When he had made his halting explanation she had listened, said gravely, "Yes, I see. You did quite right," and then turned away.

There was a long drive over the rough cobble-stones, through streets at first brightly lighted, then almost dark. They approached the lake shore. The carriage stopped before a dimly lighted house standing by itself, but not far from a block of houses of similar size. Lavery helped Mary out and while he was paying the driver she took her bag and walked up to the narrow porch. The door opened above; a woman's figure appeared against the light in the hall. The gas-light had a red-glass shade and cast a rosy glow down on the thin woman in a tight-fitting black silk dress who stood aside to admit the visitor. Red hair, twisted in a thick rough coil on top of her head ... eyes inflamed with tears and now opened wide ... Mary recognized Nora. She bent her head with an inarticulate murmur. Nora simply looked at her. Then Lavery came in and shut the door.

"This way," he said, starting up the narrow stairs. Mary followed. He glanced down at Nora, and asked, "Any change since I left? Has the doctor been?"

She shook her head but did not speak, seemed unable to speak.

On the landing, lit by a dim gas-jet, opened two large connecting rooms. The one into which Lavery led the way was in some disorder. A big table with a student-lamp and sheaves of papers was pushed into a corner, easy-chairs littered with cigar-ashes stood in the middle of the floor; on a stand with decanters and glasses lay Laurence's gold repeater. The door into the farther room opened noiselessly and a young woman in a light dress and white apron came out.

"The nurse, Miss Macdonald," said Lavery in a low tone. "Mrs. Carlin. How is he?"

"About the same. Dr. Sayre will be in between eight and nine. He's very restless." As Mary went toward the other room she added: "I'm afraid he won't know you."

On a wide bed, high-topped with its impending weight of carving, dark as a catafalque, Laurence lay tossing, his hands grasping at the coverlet, his head rolling on the pillow. His eyes were half-open and he was murmuring faint hurried words. Sitting beside him, touching his burning hands and forehead, bending over him, Mary could hear no word clearly, only an inarticulate murmur of distress. He did not notice her presence nor give any sign when she spoke to him, urgently called his name. His face was dully flushed, his black hair rumpled wildly, his eyes glassy under the half-shut lids. He tossed away from her, moaning heavily. A dark-greenish shade had been pinned over the gas-globe; in this light he looked ghastly.

The nurse came in and stood at the foot of the bed. After a few moments Mary got up and beckoned her to the window.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Since I came this morning—only a little more restless toward night."

"He looks terribly ill."

"The doctor ought to be here very soon," said the nurse non-committally.

Mary turned away, stopped a moment at the bedside, then went back into the study. Lavery was there, sunk in a deep leather chair, smoking. Mary turned to close the connecting door and he got up, holding his cigar in his fingers. She walked up to him, her face deathly pale, and clutched his arm.

"Laurence is going to die!... I want to telegraph for my father!"

"He isn't going to die!" cried Lavery angrily. "I didn't think you'd lose your head like this, first thing, or I wouldn't have gone for you."

But when he felt her hand shake, saw her whole body trembling, he softened somewhat. "Look here, you're too scared. Have you ever seen anybody very sick before?"

"No ... no...." she muttered. "My mother ... but not like this.... He's so strong...."

"Well, he's sick, but we're going to pull him through.... Now look here, are you going to help or not? When I went for you I said to myself, that woman's got good nerve, she'll be a help. But if you're going to be scared to death, first look at him—"

"No—I'll be all right—just a minute—he's never been sick before...."

"Well, I know, but you're going to pull yourself together.... And you come downstairs and eat a bit with me before the doctor gets here. You haven't had dinner and neither have I.... I told them to have something. About telegraphing your father, we'd better wait till you can speak to Sayre about it—that's etiquette and it won't hinder anything. I don't believe he could get a train in tonight, could he?"

"Eleven-thirty."

"Well, it would be too bad to keep him up all night, if not necessary. You wait and see Sayre.... And now come down, you'll feel better when you've got some food."

She followed him down into the small brightly-lit dining-room, sat opposite him at the table, took soup, wine and coffee. She was aware of a black figure moving round the table, bringing dishes in and taking them out.... Then suddenly, with an almost audible click of the machinery, her mind began to work in its usual way. Her vision cleared, she saw Lavery opposite drinking coffee and re-lighting his cigar. She looked round the room—solid oak furniture, reddish carpet and curtains, silver on the sideboard and rows of bright-coloured wine-glasses, green and red, a fine damask cloth on the table....

A noise of wheels and hoofs in the street. Lavery got up. As he went out one door, Nora came in the other, and stopped short. In a quick glance, Mary took in her whole appearance.

XI

The girl Mary remembered had changed, more than the ten years accounted for. There was nothing left of her youth. Her body was painfully thin, a mere wisp, and the tight-fitting black dress emphasized each sharp angle. There were great hollows in her face under the high cheek-bones and in her neck, round which she wore a white lace collar fastened by a large cameo brooch. Earrings to match the brooch, too heavy for her face, brought out her dead pallor. Her brown eyes were dimmed and slightly bloodshot from weeping. But her hair kept its vivid colour and luxuriance.

Seeing Mary alone, she had stopped—stood there, looking sullen, biting her lips. They gazed at one another. Mary was conscious of a remote astonishment that Nora should look so angry.... Voices sounded in the hall.

"There's the doctor," said Mary hurriedly, getting up. "Nora, how long has—has he been ill exactly, do you know?"

"Since he came here Thursday afternoon—he was sick then but he wouldn't let me send for a doctor—I wanted to—"

Her voice died away, again she had that sullen defensive look.

"I know. It isn't your fault—I'm sure you did everything you could," Mary said quickly in a neutral tone, and went out into the hall. She felt extremely uncomfortable in Nora's presence, but there was no time to think about that now.

Sayre was a young thickset man, with cool dark eyes, full of energy. After seeing the patient, he sat down in the study and talked with Mary. Finding her calm and alert, he explained the treatment he proposed to give, a new method—plenty of air and food, and cold baths. He cordially assented to calling Dr. Lowell, whom he had met professionally. He thought they would need another nurse, as the patient must be watched day and night. Mary eagerly asked if she could not take the night-duty, but he shook his head; he preferred a trained person, and it would take two of them to handle the baths. But she could be on hand—when her husband was conscious he would want her there. He was curt and grave and used no soothing phrases. Mary did not ask what he thought of the outcome; she could tell from his manner what he thought. He went away, saying that he would send for the night-nurse and would return himself about midnight. She might telegraph to Dr. Lowell if she wished.

Lavery had gone back to finish his dinner. When he came up Mary was in the sickroom. The nurse had to give some medicine; twice a restless movement of the patient had spilt it. Mary slipped her arm under Laurence's head and held him still while the medicine was given. She smoothed back his tumbled hair and laid her cool hand on his forehead. For a moment he was quieter; the low muttering ceased, his eyelids closed. She was on her knees by the bedside; and holding him so, close to her, suddenly she felt stabbed to the heart, she could not breathe for the pain.... Then Lavery came in. Laurence began again that murmuring and tossed away from her. Presently she got up and went out.

She sank into one of the deep chairs in the study, leaned back and closed her eyes till she could control the nervous trembling that shook her. Lavery, lighting one of his thick black cigars, came and sat down near her. He moved stiffly and a half-stifled groan escaped him. She looked at his face, pale and puffy with bluish shadows under the eyes.

"You're tired out."

"Well, I'm tired—I was up last night a good deal," he admitted.

"You must go home now and rest, there's nothing more to do here. The doctor's sending another nurse and he'll be in again himself.... You've been very good."

"Oh," he said brusquely, "I guess it will be all right."

"Well, it may be a long illness, you know—weeks. Now—I want to ask you—" she frowned and gazed at him haughtily. "Here we all are, you see—the two nurses and me, and there'll be special cooking, and—Well, how will she manage? It's her house, I suppose. I don't see how we can all—"

"Nothing else to be done. She has a servant, I know, and you could hire another one if you want. But she'll want to do something herself, she,—oh, well, hang it, she's devoted to Laurence."

"I suppose so.... You know her, don't you, pretty well?"

"Oh, yes, I've been here a good deal. Laurence has always had his rooms here ever since I've known him—it's quieter, you see, and—well, Mary, I guess you knew about it, didn't you?"

"I did, and I didn't," said Mary clearly. "Long ago I did."

"Well, yes—he never said much to me, only that it was an old—affair. Of course I could see how it was—more a responsibility, to him, than—"

"Oh, I understand, you needn't worry, so far as I'm concerned," said Mary, coldly. "I just want Laurence to get well, and everybody will have to do the best they can. It's—well, I can't talk to her tonight, she's so upset, but I don't want her to feel that I've just walked in and taken possession—after all, it's her house. She looks so—afraid, and angry at me too—I can't help it, she ought to know I have to be here. But I don't want to make it harder for her than—oh, well, I'll have to talk to her. It doesn't matter very much anyway, what she feels or what I feel. It doesn't seem very important."

"No, it doesn't," said Lavery absently.

They sat in silence for awhile. He pulled at his cigar, and brooded with half-shut eyes. Mary lay back in the big chair, relaxed ... and a feeling of the unreality of all about her made it seem that some bridge between her and the world had dropped suddenly.... There was only a tremendous vacancy, stillness, emptiness, pressed upon her....

Then into the void came a hoarse choking cry from the sick man. She started up.

XII

By next day the routine of life in these new circumstances was arranged. Mary had a couch in the study, the two nurses having their rooms upstairs; she watched her chance to be useful in the sickroom. Dr. Lowell had come in, and concurred in the young doctor's diagnosis and proposed method of treatment. Alone with Mary, he said:

"Sayre is all right. Now it's a question of care—and of course, if Laurence has the vitality to pull through. I think he has. You can keep an eye on the nurses—the best will stand watching—careless, forget things—"

"Yes."

"And you'll see there's plenty of good food—nourishing soups, eggs and milk, meat jellies—"

"Yes." Then she said. "You know, for some years past Laurence has been drinking pretty steadily—a good deal. Do you think—?"

Dr. Lowell shook his head. "Doesn't make a bit of difference."

"Then you think he may—"

"I don't know a thing about it, Mary, that's the truth—and it generally is the truth. I think he has an even chance.... I suppose you have no idea where he may have picked this up? So far as I know, we haven't a case in town."

"No—he's always moving about, you know—he was in Springfield last week—"

"Yes. Well, I'll come in, say tomorrow evening, and stay overnight. Suit you? Got to get my train now."

He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and departed. Mary was used to that look from him. It was the only commentary he had ever made on the course of her married life; and she had made no confidences to him. Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly cool unemotional manner meant: things were so serious that there was no use making a fuss. When the balance hung between life and death one had to be ready for either. No time for tears—a smile was a more natural thing—one could smile, long after tears were all wept away.

She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, because Nora's eyes were perpetually reddened and she always seemed on the point of crying. Even when discussing the preparation of soups, arranging for extra service, expenses, all the details of a household in state of siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. Nerves!

Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized her. She thought it probable, otherwise he would have asked how Laurence came to be at this house. He had asked no questions.

She recalled the violence with which Nora had rejected her offer to get another servant. "We don't need anybody else, we can get along all right." Then under her breath, "Too many people here now!"

That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had been an old habit of Nora's when her temper was roused. But this time she added hurriedly. "I'll do the cooking myself, I want to do it. You just tell me what you want and I'll get it—night or day, it's all the same to me."

She had spoken with intensity, looking away from Mary, her cheeks had flushed hotly. For a moment she looked like the passionate girl of long ago.

Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did not want to call her "Mrs. Carlin." Mary without thinking had called her Nora; she did not like that, perhaps.... Mary shrugged her shoulders with an ironical smile.

After her father had gone, she remained sitting in her chair in the study, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the smouldering fire in the grate.... Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through the years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing out like sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering a lifetime almost....

She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for the first time, as though they belonged to some one else. It seemed that a process, now suddenly completed, had been going on for a long time—a process of breaking, one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to the self which she no longer felt to be hers.... Or rather, it was hers, that self, but it no longer represented her, contained her, it was not all of her. She could stand apart from it and criticize it without feeling.

She looked back to the time when she had been all one self, completely contained in a firm shell: when she had been sure she was right, and all other persons, when they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending pride, pride that had outlasted even her self-righteousness—pride that held fast to the form long after the substance of feeling had gone.... Never had she been able to admit that she was wrong, even after she had seen it clearly. Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her unhappiness—or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her that she had begun to feel wrong? Was it because of this wrong that she had lost her religion—or was it that her religion was a false shell, and only after breaking through it had she been able to see such light as this?

It seemed that all she had been, that self she had loved and taken pride in, had suffered a slow disintegration.... All that she could now feel as surely hers, was the aloof merciless intelligence that sat in judgment; and something else, that was suffering deeply, dumbly....

There was a dark chaos, into which she could hardly bear to look. Instinct, emotion, long denied, suppressed, was struggling passionately there for expression. This dark depth of feeling was common to the self she had rejected and to what she now was—it spread far out beyond either, it was limitless. It was a flood of pain, swelling to overwhelm her ... it was terror and grief, common to all the world, from which till now she had walled herself apart.... Only for a moment could she bear that.... She had to keep calm, keep her head clear—she was on guard. And she could do it, her nerve was good. If Laurence should die—go out perhaps without a word to her—then the flood would break over her. But till then she could hold it back.

Could a wrong done ever be atoned for? Would recognition that she had done it, a sincere wish to atone for it, be of any use?... Yes, to that self in which she no longer felt any interest. It would be good for herself to repent—but she did not care now about being good or right. She would like to make up for what she had done. And that was no doubt impossible. By her own actions she had helped to fix the form of Nora's life, and of Laurence's. In a real sense then atonement was impossible, repentance was useless. One's acts were irrevocable. All she could do was to recognize her responsibility and pay that part of the price that was assessed against her; perhaps this would be, to see that others had paid far more heavily than she.

How differently that old self of hers would have looked upon this situation. There would have been two sinners and one righteous person judging them. The same house would hardly have held Nora and that other woman, who would have drawn aside her skirts lest she should touch pitch and be defiled.... She remembered Hilary's attitude about sin, and her own condemnation of it ... and reflected vaguely that she had lost her hatred for sin along with her religion. Now everything was mixed up together, she hardly knew black from white.... Only she regretted—yes, bitterly regretted—long empty years.... Her wrongs, and revenge, and hatred, clasped close and cherished, had eaten all the good out of life and she had starved....

XIII

A week passed. She watched Laurence's struggle, saw his strong body wasting away day by day, saw him weakening under the incessant fever. There had been no gleam of recognition for her; he was delirious or lay in a stupor. She tried to follow his wanderings in that strange borderland where the physical struggle was transmuted into fantasies reflecting his past life. Broken phrases told her he was fighting old battles over again.... He was contesting a field of war, leading his men into action; he shouted hoarse words of command, then cried out—he was down but the men must go on, take that position on the ridge.... Then he saw his brother fall, but he couldn't stop, must go on, on ... through the icy water, up that slope where the bullets sang.... A soldier's funeral. He beat time to the Dead March and the last bugle-call....

Or it was a courtroom scene. He was fighting hard for somebody's life, he pleaded passionately in low murmurs. The man hadn't meant to do wrong, Gentlemen of the Jury, he had meant well, only somehow things were against him and he had got into trouble.... Your Honour, before you pronounce sentence, I ask to be heard....

Then he was in a storm, the snow blinded him, he was freezing, couldn't go on ... or in a desert, lost, crying for water. Always the struggle of mind and body against odds, it seemed, a desperate losing battle....

Mary would watch this, always calm, cool, alert for anything she could do to relieve or supplement the nurses. When she gave way it was after she had locked herself into a room alone, and then it was not an emotional breakdown but a drop into nothingness. She would lie with her eyes shut, feeling nothing, caring for nothing. Somewhere there was a dumb sense of injury, of injustice—but even this seemed not to matter, since there was no one to complain to.... Things were like this.

As the days went by, all outside the sickroom became more shadowy to her. Even Jim coming in to see her, grown suddenly a man in this trouble, stalwart and serious; her father's visits, the young doctor, Horace Lavery, her daily consultations with Nora—her mind, aloof and critical, received and registered all the detail of life, dealt with it, but it had the thin quality of shadow. The reality was there with Laurence. Sometimes he murmured her name, spoke to her; not recognizing her there beside him, but seeing her far in the past—tenderly. There seemed no harshness in his memory of her, no pain from those battles they had gone through or the long estrangement. His tone was appealing, it had a child-like pathetic demand. He wanted her to do something about this that was bothering him.

Then came a day when the fever broke. Instead of going up toward night it went down. The patient slept quietly a good deal of the night, and woke in the dawn, conscious.

Mary too had slept soundly that night for the first time; waking she saw the beaming face of the nurse.

"You can go in, he's quite himself.... But don't let him talk, he's too weak."

He lay there, too weak indeed even to put out his hand toward her, but his eyes welcomed her. How young those eyes looked, vividly blue in his wasted face! The outline of his face under the black beard was that of his youth and his body was slender as in youth. He smiled at her faintly. She knelt beside him and kissed him lightly with deep tenderness, and whispered that he mustn't try to talk, thank God he was better, but he must be very quiet and get back his strength, everything was all right. His eyes smiled at her, rested on her face with the old warmth of youthful love. He whispered her name.

The nurse came in with some soup, and Mary fed him like a child, with deep solicitude, with delight. His eyes closed, he must sleep again; but when she moved he stirred to keep her there. She nodded and drew a chair to the bedside and sat motionless long after he slept.

In the early afternoon, when Laurence had waked and was again sleeping, with the fever still down, Horace Lavery insisted upon taking Mary out for an airing. When she objected, he took her by the arm and led her to a mirror. "Don't you think you need a change?" he enquired severely. She smiled at the pallid face in the glass, looking certainly ten years older in this fortnight, with deep lines in it, the hair carelessly pushed back.

"You've got to keep up your strength, you know, and you haven't poked your nose outdoors since you came," Horace stated. "It's a lovely day. I'll get a carriage."

"Well," agreed Mary. "I feel like celebrating. But only an hour—Laurence might wake and want me there."

The whole atmosphere of the house was changed—a subdued rejoicing had filled it as the black shadow lifted. Nora even for the first time smiled at Mary coming downstairs in her long black cloak and bonnet. And Mary smiled back radiantly and clasped Nora's rather limp hand. Nora, by way of celebrating too, perhaps, had put on a lavender silk dress, more striking than becoming in contrast to her red hair, now neatly arranged. She had a visitor, at whom Mary just glanced in passing—a stout woman in black satin, with a large feathered bonnet and diamond earrings. Mary of course would never have thought of wearing diamond earrings on the street. She possessed a very handsome pair—she and Laurence always gave one another handsome presents on Christmas—but she had hollow gold balls made to fit over the diamonds for the street or in travelling.... Nora's visitor certainly looked vulgar ... and that dress Nora was wearing was a terrible colour, though it was very rich silk. Nora looked like a witch in it, with her thin face and carroty hair.... Had Nora also, perhaps, a pair of diamond earrings?...

Mary, with a high colour in her cheeks, swept haughtily out of the house.

The victoria drove slowly down the cobbled street, Mary and Lavery sitting side by side. With an effort she turned her attention toward her silent escort, and observed that he was attired in a frock-coat, light grey trousers and a silk hat.

"You're all dressed up!" she said with faint gaiety.

"Yes—usher at a wedding at five o'clock—up to today I didn't think I could do it—but now I don't mind. Why, today I'd hardly mind getting married myself!"

His smoothly-shaven face showed signs of the days of stress which, after forty, man nor woman can encounter with impunity. There was a tremor of the muscles round his mouth as he said abruptly:

"I don't know why I got tied up this way with you and Laurence. Awful mistake—and dead against my principles. Why, it spoils life, that's what it does. And it ain't that I'm so fond of you two either—that is, I don't think I am." He smiled uncertainly. "Old fool," he muttered.

Mary laid her hand on his arm.

"Don't do that, damn it," he said, drawing out a scented handkerchief. "Can't you see I'm about to cry?"

"Well, do, then," said Mary.

"At my time of life a nervous strain like this is no joke," he retorted peevishly. "I tell you I'm going to cut your acquaintance. I can't afford it."

"Well, do."

He scowled. "At forty-five a man has a right to think of himself—consider his little comforts and so on. He can't afford emotions, they're simply ruinous.... And I might have known you and Laurence would let me in for them. You're that kind. I suspected it all along."

It was a warm misty day of Indian summer. The carriage turned into the drive on the shore of the lake. There trees were shedding softly their last golden leaves. The lake was a deep cloudy blue, lapping in ripples on the sand.

"I think I'd like to walk a ways," said Mary suddenly. "It seems years since I stepped foot on the ground."

She left her wrap in the carriage, which followed them slowly as they strolled along the shore, and halted when they sat down after a time on a bench facing the water. They were silent, relaxed and weary, each immersed in a separate stream of thought; but conscious too of companionship. When Lavery spoke finally it was as though he were thinking aloud.

"I believe we are not meant to go through such emotional strain—I mean, human beings simply aren't constructed for it," he meditated. "I think we've gone off on a tangent, a wrong turning. We've overdeveloped our emotions, and Nature penalizes us every time for it. When you consider it, the physical world being what it is, really hostile to us, so that we have to be always on guard, and with all our care we're liable to an accident any minute—why, it's not reasonable for us to care so much for life or death—our own or other people's. Is it now? We put a wrong emphasis there, I'm sure."

Mary remained silent, and he went on:

"Of course, you may say that what we think is our highest development is all, in a way, against Nature.... Nature works for the mass, for the average, she wants quantity, not quality—she's inclined, when she sees a head rising above the mass to hit it.... What does Nature do for the finer, more sensitive human beings? She knocks them, every chance she gets. Suppose we develop altruistic feelings, a disinterested love for some other human being, we get hit through it, every time. No, ma'am, it doesn't pay! This world is constructed for people with tough shells—all others pass at their own risk.... And I think maybe we'd do better by the world, and other people, and ourselves, if we recognized that—if we had a real philosophy of toughness, instead of what we've mistakenly developed.... The philosophy of tenderness is the fashion, of course—people profess it, are actually ashamed not to—and a few practise it. But what good is it? It doesn't fit the facts, that's all, doesn't work. Since we're flung out defenceless into a world that doesn't care a hang about us as individuals, we ought to grow a tough shell as quick as we can, and stay in it if we want to survive. The only philosophical solution is not to have personal feelings.... You must either not admit them at all, but live like a crab in your shell—or else you must transcend them. Mystics say this can be done—I've never tried it myself. They say you can merge your own individuality in the mass, so that you are simply a part of what is going on, and don't feel personal loss or pain much.... What say about that?"

He turned to Mary, and saw that she had not been listening. She was staring at the blue shimmering water—and suddenly she flushed deeply, painfully, and looked distressed.

"What's the matter?" asked Lavery sharply. "What's bothering you now?"

"It's about Nora—"

"Nora? What about her?"

"Well, I just thought that I might have asked her to go up and see Laurence for a minute, now he's better.... She hasn't been near the room since I came.... And I took it that way, as if she had no business there...."

Lavery looked sideways at her, discomfited.

"Well, you couldn't have too many people running in—he isn't fit for it," he muttered.

"No, but I do feel badly about her.... You see, it goes back years. She was in our house, took care of the boys when they were little. She really loved them—and I guess she'd always been fond of Laurence, she knew him before I did. But I didn't notice it until ... well, I discovered it suddenly and ... she was turned out of the house practically.... I didn't concern myself about how she lived after that...."

"So that was the trouble," said Lavery, looking curiously at her. "I never knew that—I mean, that she was concerned in it.... And you were awfully angry?"

Mary frowned. "I don't know what I was.... It did something to me—I never got over it—couldn't."

"I suppose you were very much in love with Laurence then."

"I don't know whether I was or not, that wasn't the way I thought about it.... I didn't think about it much anyway—I never liked thinking about my feelings ... or talking about them."

"You don't mind talking a little this way, do you?"

"No, not now—it seems so long ago, and then—I'm hardly the same person I was then."

"And so you turned her out.... But you didn't want to leave Laurence?"

Mary was silent for some moments.

"Perhaps I did, perhaps not.... I didn't leave him, in one way, and in another I did. It couldn't be the same."

"Oh, no ... but still in the course of time you might have forgiven him."

"It wasn't that.... I don't believe there's such a thing as forgiveness. We forget, that's all."

"And you didn't forget.... I wonder if you loved Laurence."

"I don't know. He always said I didn't.... But he's had his life anyway."

"No doubt. And you've had yours."

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, yes."

He waited, watching her curiously, and after a moment she broke out:

"I know this—the only times I've ever felt afraid—real fear—it was on account of Laurence—when he was in danger."

"You didn't exactly want him, then, but you didn't want to lose him either?... You wanted him in some way."

"Oh ... that's enough about that.... But I was talking about Nora. I can see she thinks she'll be thrown out again. Any how she just hates me."

"Well, naturally."

"But I tell you, I'm sorry for what I did. I'd like her to know it. But I can't say anything to her. It seems, everything I could say would sound—patronizing, or forgiving, or—wrong, anyway."

"Of course. You're in possession, you see. She knows it, and that she hasn't got any real hold. You can't get around that. I don't see what you can do about it."

"But, you see, she really gave up her life—first to my children, and then.... She would have married and had children of her own."

"No doubt. She might yet. But not while Laurence is around. It's a real passion on her side."

"Well—that's my doing. I mean, that it lasted as long as it did. It was because I acted the way I did that he didn't break with her then."

"He'd have been glad to, many times since, I guess. She is as jealous as the devil, and makes scenes about any shadow of a woman. Naturally—she knows she hasn't got much of a hold on him, only he feels responsible.... I don't really see, Mary, why you should have made such a fuss about her.... It isn't as if he'd ever been in love with her.... Why couldn't you let him have his humble handmaiden ... or at any rate, not upset the whole apple-cart on account of it?"

"Oh, I know, you have no morality—hardly any man has. Anyhow it has nothing to do with that.... I want to know what to do now."

"Well, I don't see what you can do."

They had spoken in calm neutral tones and now were silent again. Lavery watched Mary; her face was intent, slightly frowning, baffled. He reflected that she had a concrete sort of mind, abstract questions, problems of character or conduct, did not interest her, she wanted to "do something." And really now, what could she do about this situation?

"You see," he said slowly, "things are changed now. Your being there—right there in the house—don't you see? I think, when he gets well, Laurence will want to break away for good and all from there. Of course she'd be looked after, materially, that's only right. And she'd probably have a chance to settle in life, it would be better, in the long run, for her.... I'm sort of taking it for granted," he added gravely, "that you want Laurence back."

Mary's face was an expressionless mask; lowered eyelids hid her eyes.

"I guess you want him back, and you don't want any other woman round. I sort of think you're human, after all."

"I'm afraid to say," she murmured.

"What? How?"

"I'm afraid.... It seems, I mustn't want anything now, I mustn't count on anything.... I must try to do right, to make up what I can, in any case, whether Laurence—" Suddenly she turned and cowered against Lavery, hiding her face on his shoulder, clutching his arm. "I'm afraid—I'm afraid!"

He sat silent and nodded his head slightly, looking blank, then became cheerful, expostulated:

"Oh, I know we're not out of the woods yet—but, I say, you're not going to pieces, are you, the first good day we've had, and me with a wedding on my hands?... I say, this is unreasonable.... Poor girl, you're tired out, I know ... but what d'ye suppose the coachman thinks?"

"As if I cared!" But she sat up and straightened her bonnet. "We'd better go back now."

The sun was almost too warm on their bench.... And the water ... what a blue, soft and cloudy, a heavenly colour.... The softness and warmth of summer shed for a day over bare boughs and falling leaves....

XIV

They drove back rapidly. In the hall, Mary found Nora waiting for her. Nora, with flashing eyes and bright red spots on her cheek-bones, came up to her and said:

"There's a woman in there.... She wouldn't go away!"

"Where? A woman? What woman?"

"In the parlour. I don't know who she is.... She wants to see him."

"Wants to see ...?"

"I told her she couldn't, but she wouldn't go away. You better tell her!"

Lavery had come in and gone on upstairs. With a severe look at Nora, Mary opened the parlour door and went in. A woman who had been standing at the window turned to meet her. A woman, tall as herself, young and slender—dressed in plain black but richly dressed. A faint perfume was shaken out as she moved, from her silken clothes.

"Mrs. Carlin?... I've been waiting.... I wanted to know just how he is.... I'm a friend, I've been very anxious."

A hat with a drooping lace veil partly hid her face. She was striking, if not beautiful—a long narrow face, with intense dark eyes under straight brows, thick hair of a dark auburn colour. Her look was as direct and wilful as her words.

"He is better today—conscious for the first time, but very weak," said Mary evenly, with her stateliest manner.

"Could I see him?... Oh, I don't mean to speak to him, I know that wouldn't do.... But just to look at him for a minute?"

The request was uttered politely enough, but like a command.

"No. If he saw you it would disturb him perhaps. I can't risk it," said Mary calmly.

"You needn't. If he's awake I won't ask it. But if he isn't, it won't hurt him if I just stand at the door for a minute.... That's all I want, and I won't come again.... Won't you see? Please!"

The woman was breathing quickly, her voice was agitated, and those dark eyes burned.... Well, she was straightforward enough, anyway, no excuses, no beating about the bush. Here was a woman who would know what she wanted and wouldn't have any weak scruples about getting it.... Refuse her?... Well, after all, why? Perhaps she too had a right to be there....

"Come up with me.... I'll see how he is.... But you won't...."

"Oh, he shan't know I'm here, depend on me."

Mary led the way out into the hall and up the stairs. She saw Nora standing at the back of the hall, her face convulsed with anger.... At the head of the stairs was Lavery.

"Still sleeping—that's fine," he whispered.

Then as he saw the woman behind Mary on the stairs, utter amazement showed in his face. He stepped back, bowed, and she acknowledged his recognition by a slight bend of her head.

"Come in this way," said Mary.

The visitor followed her into the study, and then, when Mary beckoned to her, to the door of the sickroom. She moved slowly, shrinkingly; clasping her hands over her breast, fixing her dark eyes on Laurence's face, just dimly visible. A look of terror came into those eyes, her lips parted, but without a sound.... In a few moments she moved noiselessly back. Hastily she dropped the veil over her face, turned to Mary, said in a choked voice, "Thank you," bowed as she passed.... In a moment she was down the stairs and out of the house.

Then the doctor came and went, much encouraged. And then Mary went down to her solitary supper. Nora came in to wait upon her, still incongruously attired in the lavender gown, but pale and lowering.

"Nora, have you been in to see Laurence?" asked Mary gently.

Nora shook her head sharply.

"You'd like to see him tomorrow, wouldn't you, if he keeps as well as today?"

"He hasn't asked to see me, I guess," said Nora coldly.

"No, he hasn't asked for anybody, he's too weak to talk. But I'm sure he'd like to see you," Mary said, still studiously kind.

"When he asks for me, I'll go," Nora flashed out. Her whole face was ablaze, her eyes flamed. "And you shouldn't have let that woman up there—she's always after him, she writes to him, there's packs of letters from her—"

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I didn't open the letters ... but I know!... What right has she to come here and want to see him?"

"Well, I don't know.... She seemed very fond of him," said Mary calmly.

Nora rushed out of the room.

And then Mary repented her malice. That poor thing, it was a shame to torment her.... And how foolish to have made a fuss, as Lavery said, about Nora.... That other woman, that was the dangerous one, Nora was harmless, poor creature.... And heaven knows how many more there are.... Yes, Laurence had had his life.... Sometime perhaps she too would be angry about this, but not now.... Now she would prefer to be kind, even to Nora.

But perhaps Nora's instinct was right, and Lavery's. It might be useless for her to try to approach Nora, or to try to be reasonable. It might only make things worse. Nora was willing to do her best practically—that was all that could be asked of her. Her personal feelings were her own affair.

But Mary was obstinate. That feeling of deep injury, of bitterness, of hate perhaps which she had seen in Nora toward herself—how could she consent to have that remain, if there was anything she could do to soften it? She was willing to do anything possible, willing to admit that she had been unjust. Her pride, from the moment she felt herself in the wrong, was on the side of admitting it, practically forced her to do it.... But why was it that she seemed to say or do just the wrong thing, why was it so hard for her to approach people, even when she wished them well—what stupidity in her made her offend? Was it deeper than that? Was it after all that she perhaps didn't feel kindly to Nora, didn't wish her well?... This incident tonight seemed to show it. She had had a chance to annoy Nora and she had done it.... Was she still bound then by the limitations of that old self, which she saw so clearly? Were one's faults and weaknesses inherent, not to be got rid of, even if one condemned them? Apparently....

No, one thing was different, her will. She willed to be different from what she had been—she would force that old self of hers to be different, at least to act in another way. And Nora should feel it too.

"Nora!" she called clearly.

She waited a few minutes, then got up to go in search. But Nora came in through the pantry-door and shut it behind her; leaning against it she looked at Mary with defiant eyes.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to do anything against you. Do you think I want to hurt you? Don't you see?"

"It's no matter whether you do or not," Nora said in a hard tone.

"I want to tell you that I think I was wrong—long ago. I wasn't fair to you. I—"

"It's no matter now," Nora broke in again.

"Yes, it is. I want to say—"

"I don't want you to say anything!... I guess you were fair enough, you treated me all right. Anybody would have...."

She stopped and her lowering gaze shifted.

"Well, I just want to say that I feel I owe you a good deal. I realized it afterwards. The children.... I knew you'd really loved them—"

Nora shrank at that and bit her lip.

"It's no use talking, I don't want to talk about it," she cried. "I've been a bad woman, and that's all there is to it."

"No! I never thought you were bad—not even then. I don't think I blamed you."

"Oh, I guess I was to blame," muttered Nora, "I knew it, all right."

"I want you to know that I don't blame you and that I don't think you're bad."

"I don't see that that's got anything to do with it. I guess I know if I'm bad or not.... I know that I can't go to confession, and I believe I'll go to hell ... and I don't care much if I do.... And I know what happened on account of me too."

Now it was Mary who changed colour, lost her composure.

"That—my fault more than yours—" she stammered.

And Nora grew more composed. There was even a strange air of dignity about her as she said after a moment:

"I don't want you to think about what's past, Mrs. Carlin. It won't do any good. I've done what I knew was wicked and—I don't know if I'm sorry or not. So you see I don't want you to forgive me, even if you wanted to. I don't ask anybody's forgiveness, because what difference would it make? It wouldn't change anything."

Abruptly she retreated into the pantry and closed the door. Mary, with shaking hands, poured herself a cup of strong coffee and drank it black. Well, that was over. And Nora was right, it was no use talking and nothing she could do would make any difference.

She went slowly upstairs, thinking that she felt more respect and liking for Nora than ever before—felt it now perhaps for the first time. But it would be impossible to make Nora feel that—if she tried she would strike the wrong note somehow, she was made like that—clumsy—yes, and worse than that, with impulses to hurt, that came so suddenly she couldn't resist. She shrugged her shoulders. Best to drop it all. She had other things to think about anyway....

Laurence was lying quiet, his eyes open. She sat down beside him and took his hand. The light was dimmed, but she could see the glimmer of a smile on his face. His fingers closed round hers with a faint pressure. His eyes met hers, with a strange look, as if from a great distance.

"You feel a little better, don't you?" she said bending down.

"Yes," he answered, faintly.

"Don't make him talk," warned the nurse, "Tomorrow will be time enough."

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," said Laurence's faint far-away voice. "Lighting fools the way to dusty death."

"Hush, you mustn't talk!" gasped Mary.

Again came that glimmer, like the reflection of a smile, on his face. And all the while that strange look in his eyes.

She clasped his inert hand, thin and shrunken. How these weeks of illness had wasted his strong body, withered him to a shadow. Man's flesh is grass—it is cut down and cast into the oven.... Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh up as a flower....

But Laurence was better, surely better, they all said so.... Hardly any fever....

But his strength was gone—eaten up by that burning fire.... Was he drifting away, calm, without pain, like this, had he gone too far to come back? Surely he was far away, that was what his look meant.... Untroubled ... indifferent ... he didn't care, it seemed. He wasn't interested. Just looking on, a mere spectator, no emotion, perhaps a slight amusement.... His eyes closed, he was breathing evenly and quietly.

Strange to see him like this, his restless and passionate spirit stilled, so drawn away, so detached; it was not mere physical weakness, it was as though he were ceasing to be identified with this weakened body, deliberately withdrawing from it. This was not Laurence.... It was Laurence who had looked at her in that first return to consciousness, with eyes of love ... and then with that remote and passionless look, as though he had already said good-bye....

The wasted years.... Years that she had wasted ... when he had lived his life, near her but apart, when she had held him away—for what?... He had loved life, had been so intensely living. Now it seemed he didn't care. He would make no effort to live—he was tired. They might try all they could to keep him. He would slip away, perhaps, through their fingers, with that glimmer of a smile at them.... She would be punished. It was just. She had no reason to feel injured, to complain. As she had sowed, she would reap.... A mortal chill was at her heart.

That night she could not sleep. The strong coffee she had taken keyed her up; her heart beat nervously, a stream of restless thoughts rushed through her brain. At intervals she would get up and look into the sickroom. The night-nurse would be moving about, or sitting in the large chair at the foot of the bed; all seemed quiet. Toward morning Mary fell into a doze; troubled, uneasy, with the feeling that some one was calling her, she must rouse herself. She woke suddenly in the dawn, and heard a low moaning in the next room. She sprang up and went in. The nurse said:

"I was just going to call you. I have to go down and get some ice. There's a little more fever. Will you see he doesn't get uncovered? Keep the blankets that way over his chest."

There was a dull flush again on his face, his hands were moving restlessly, and he kept up that low moan of distress. Mary kept the blankets over him, careful not to touch him, for her hands were icy cold. The nurse came back with the cracked ice and filled a rubber bag which she bound on his head.

"When did you notice this change?"

"About an hour ago he began to get restless."

"I'd better call Dr. Sayre."

"Not before seven o'clock, it wouldn't be any use. They won't wake him unless it's absolutely necessary. And this may not be anything serious—there's often a slight relapse. Don't worry, Mrs. Carlin. Yesterday was too good to last, that's all. We must expect ups and downs."

"But he's so weak...."

"Oh, I've seen them pull through, lots weaker than he is—he's got a good strong physique.... Now don't stand around, it's too cold. You better go and get dressed, if you want to be up."

With a shivering look at Laurence's dark face and half-open eyes, she went, dressed herself quickly, shook her long hair out of its braid and twisted it up roughly. She put on her bonnet and cloak. Then she started downstairs, careful to make no noise. She intended to get the doctor. The gas-light in the hall was burning, turned down to a point of light. As she fumbled with the chain on the door, Nora came into the hall, wrapped in a pink dressing-gown, her hair flowing thick over her shoulders.

"What is it? I heard the nurse come down. Where are you going?"

"To get the doctor. Laurence is worse."

"Don't you go, this time of night—I'll go!"

"No," said Mary, slipping the chain.

"Wait, I'll go with you—"

"No, I can't wait."

"Is he—very bad?" A sob.

"I don't know—the fever's up again."

She opened the door. But Nora suddenly clutched her arm.

"Don't you give up! Mrs. Carlin, don't look like that, don't give him up! Surely he can't be taken, God wouldn't take him away—"

"He's too weak ... he hasn't got strength to—"

"Don't say that, how do you know? Did you pray for him? I did—he got better—"

"Let me go! I must go, Nora!"

"Pray for him! Pray for him!"

Mary wrenched her arm away and swung the door wide. Then suddenly she bent and kissed Nora's cheek, wet with tears.

Then she was out in the dim grey dawn, hurrying along the empty street. A cold wind was blowing now from the lake, the air was thick with fog.

Pray? Was it prayer—this voiceless cry of anguish from her heart toward the unknown? She could cry, O God, don't take him from me, her lips uttered the words as she ran. But who would hear?... Far, far beyond reach or understanding, the force that moved this world of beauty and terror, that made these poor human beings going their ways in darkness, sinning and suffering they knew not why. Cold ... harsh ... bleak was human fate, like this dim steely light, this cutting wind, this stony street....