Neith Boyce

I

Carlin walked with a quick firm step across the square from the courthouse to his office in the bank building. His usually ruddy face was pale, his eyes gleamed with excitement under the brim of his soft felt hat. He made his way through the crowd that filled the street before the jail without halting, shaking off impatiently some attempts to stop him, nodding or shaking his head for all answer to questions shouted at him.

It was a bright spring day. For the second time since his marriage the maples round the square were putting out their brilliant young leaves. But there was no brightness in the throng under the maples. A sombre excitement moved them, a low-toned angry murmur followed Carlin's progress. It was hardly personal to him, however, or only faintly, doubtfully so. He was recognized respectfully, and responded with curt nods, or sometimes a quick lifting of his hand, like a military salute.

He ran up the steps into his own office, and through this to Judge Baxter's, entering with a quick rap on the glass, closing the door sharply behind him. The Judge was alone, writing at his desk, and looked round rather absently, pushing his spectacles up on his forehead. Carlin flung his hat on the rickety sofa in the corner and standing by the desk, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, frowning, he said firmly:

"Judge, we must take this case."

The Judge looked at him now with attention, but without answering. Resistance showed in his face, but he put out his lower lip and thoughtfully shifted his quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

"He sent for me and I was admitted to see him, as his counsel," Laurence went on in the same quick urgent tone. "And then—we must do it, that's all."

The Judge looked at the sheet of paper before him, half-filled with his crabbed painstaking writing, laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair.

"Why?" he demanded coolly.

"My God, Judge!" Carlin burst out.

With an effort to master himself, he turned away and walked several times across the floor.

"If you'd seen the man—if you'd heard him!... I'm all smashed up by it," he confessed huskily, stopping and staring out of the window.

"I see you are," said the Judge. "Have a drink?"

Carlin shook his head. But the Judge, opening a cupboard in his desk, took out a bottle and one glass, poured a stiff allowance of whiskey and tossed it off neat.

"I'm glad you don't drink much, Laurence," he remarked as he put away the glass. "With your excitable temperament you couldn't stand it."

As Carlin stood silent, staring out, the Judge addressed his back.

"I don't like murder cases—never did. Never could do anything with 'em. My clients were hanged, every time—that was long ago.... I haven't touched a criminal case for—well, years. I'm no jury lawyer. We don't want to go into that, Laurence ... and then, the fellow's a brute."

"No—no!... Wait until I tell you about it...."

Laurence turned round. His tone was calmer but he still looked deeply agitated, and began to pace the floor again.

"Well, take your time.... But I can't see what it is to you," said Judge Baxter curiously.

His genial shrewd old face expressed a somewhat cynical perplexity. If he had ever been deeply moved by human passion and folly, he had forgotten it—for many years it had been only a spectacle to him. All crimes spring from love, so-called, or money. One of these two great mainsprings the Judge understood thoroughly. He knew all about human cupidity. He had made his own fortune out of the desire of some of his fellow-beings to over-reach others, and this golden fountain would never run dry. The Judge had all the law of property at his fingers' ends. His ability to help a corporation to use the law was abundantly recognized and recompensed. He was a noted railroad counsel. Why turn aside from this safe and profitable concern with people's purses, to meddle with the wild impulses of their hearts, so-called?

"You say you don't see what it is to me," Carlin began, turning abruptly. "But I know the man, if you remember. He was in my company—one of the best in it too—I knew him well—that's why he thought of me, I suppose.... But even if I hadn't known him, if I'd seen any man as he was this morning, if any man talked to me as he did.... I never heard anything like it—I never saw anything so friendless, forlorn.... He's like a lost beaten dog—there isn't a soul in the world that isn't against him...."

"Well, that's right, I guess," said the Judge cautiously. "He's worse than friendless." He turned his head toward the window, giving ear to the noise from the street—a low continuous murmur. "That crowd means trouble.... When do they take him out?"

"By the afternoon train. The Sheriff thinks he can do it—he's got thirty deputies sworn in."

"I've never seen a lynching here," said the Judge, getting up and going to the window. "But—we came pretty near it once or twice during the war. It looked a good deal like this, too.... You see, our people don't make an awful lot of noise about a thing—when they mean business, they're quiet."

The two men stood side by side, looking down on the square, which was by now closely packed.

"Well, I guess we'll get him out just the same," said Carlin grimly.

"'We'?"

"They won't get him if I can help it.... But I'd like to know why they want to—don't understand a mob getting up like this about it—"

"It runs like wildfire, once it starts.... Perhaps the boys want some excitement, we haven't had much lately. And then," said the Judge emphatically, "they don't like it. It was an unprovoked brutal murder of a woman—a good hardworking woman, with little children to look after—and this fellow comes back, takes to drinking, quarrels with his wife and smashes her head with an ax—by God, if they want to string him up, I don't blame them!"

"Look here, Judge, you're just like the rest of them, you don't understand, you don't know! A man doesn't smash his wife with an ax for nothing—"

"If you're going to try to justify him—"

"No, he doesn't want that, neither do I. He's a lost man and he knows it.... All he seemed to want of me was to have one human being understand it—just to tell me about it. He doesn't want to get off, he wants to die."

Carlin's intense blue eyes held the Judge's unwilling gaze; they both forgot the crowd outside, turned from the window. The Judge sat down again at his desk.

"Well, tell me about it," he said reluctantly. "But I'm sorry to see you so worked up.... I really don't see how we could handle a case like this, even if we had a chance to do anything with it. I tell you it isn't the thing, it's all off my beat—you know it. And you're just getting your start, and to handicap yourself right off with an unpopular case where you haven't the ghost of a show, where feeling's dead against you—no, Laurence, my boy, I oughtn't to let you—we can't do it!"

Laurence drew a chair to the other side of the desk, facing the Judge.

"If we can't, I'll try it alone," he said quietly. "All I want for Barclay is a hearing—just to have his side of it known, that's all. He'll have to pay the penalty, of course—he'll get life imprisonment at least and I'm not sure he wouldn't rather be hanged, in fact I'm sure he would, now.... But he did have provocation—if you could get anybody to see it."

"Well, see if you can get me to see it. I guess that's a good test," said the Judge coolly. "I'm as prejudiced against him as anybody. I wouldn't lynch him, maybe—but I don't want you to lose your first important case."

He leaned back in his chair and fixed his old, wise, wary eyes on Carlin, who, quite calm now, had an abstracted look.

"Well, to begin I'd have to tell you what I knew about Barclay before this.... He was in the first company to go from here—enlisted for three months, you know. Just dropped his tools and went—he was a machinist, making good wages, had a nice little home here, wife and two children. They were dependent on him, but the wife was sturdy and said she guessed they could get along somehow—and they did. She got work and people helped them, and she kept up the home. Barclay was awfully proud of her and the youngsters—another one was born after he went. He used to show me their pictures and talk about them. He was good at machinery—it was the only thing he did know—he was a gunner in my battery later and a good one. Strong as a horse and he'd fight like the devil when things got hot. A big fellow, good-natured too and kind of simple-minded—soft, you might say, except when he was fighting or drunk. He didn't seem to have but two ideas in his head—one was the war and the other was his family. He re-enlisted, of course, and went through the whole thing, but he was homesick all the time. He used to write home whenever he could, and when he didn't get letters as often as he thought he ought to, he'd come to me and worry, and ask if I'd heard and so on.... I'm telling you this, Judge," Carlin looked earnestly at the Judge's impassive face, "so you can understand what sort of a man he was and what his home meant to him—just everything, outside of what he was fighting for. That man made a real sacrifice, because he thought it his duty. He felt it all the time, but he thought the country needed him, and he had to do it, and he had a pride in it too—he didn't look for any reward, but I suppose he thought what he did would be appreciated somehow—anyhow he didn't expect to lose out altogether by it...."

Carlin stopped for a moment, frowning till his eyes showed only a blue glint.

"Lots of us that went were remembered," he said slowly, "and some—were forgotten."

He picked up a pencil and began scoring deep lines on a sheet of paper.

"Four years is a good slice out of a man's life. He loses a lot—in his life, his work—other men get the start of him—he's far away, and perhaps will never come back, and they're here.... When a man gives that much, and risks everything, in what seems a holy cause to him, it seems as if—it seems as if—"

His voice trembled. The Judge was watching him now intently. He got up and began to walk the floor again.

"You see, Judge, that's natural—to want to have some recognition of what you've done. And I know a lot of our fellows felt that the people at home didn't recognize it. They made a lot of fuss about us when we went away, but when we came back—those of us that did come back—they didn't get excited much about us.

"They were busy—they'd been living their lives in peace while we were fighting and protecting them—we stood between them and the enemy and most of them never felt what war is. They might know about it, but they didn't feel it, we saved them from that.... Then when we came back, sometimes they were glad to see us, sometimes not. Anyhow, we had to scramble around and see what we could do, to make a living, to get back the place we'd lost. Lots of us found it hard. It wasn't only the time lost, but those four years of war made a difference in us, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse...."

"Surely," said Judge Baxter, nodding.

"You see, Judge, it upsets all a man's habits and way of living. You can't make a good soldier of a man without loosening up some things in him that are usually kept down. He faces violent death every day, and he kills. It's a primitive thing, war is, and men get back to where they were. They suffer and they try to make the other fellow suffer more, they get callous, savage, lots of them. Then when they come back to civilized life, it's hard for them to fit in. I wonder there wasn't more trouble than there was, I wonder that that great army, nearly a million men, melted away as quietly as it did.... Judge, it was a great thing that we did—"

Carlin stopped and fixed his eyes on the Judge, who nodded gravely.

"We felt it so at the time, at least very many of us did, and looking back, we can see how big a thing it was. We fought the good fight, we crushed something evil, that would have destroyed our country. Every man in our army has a right to be proud of it, proud of himself, if he did his best ... he has a right to be remembered...."

"Yes, surely," said Judge Baxter, with the same grave intentness, his keen eyes watching Carlin's every look and motion.

There was a brief silence.

"Well," said Carlin, drawing a deep breath. "Barclay was forgotten.... The last year, letters were scarce. We were on the jump and then we went down into Georgia.... I don't know just what happened here. He doesn't make any accusation against his wife, though it seems there was somebody else she liked. But she'd settled her life without him. She could support the family and she'd got used to doing without him. Perhaps she never cared so much for him as he thought. But yet if he'd been here, probably it would have gone along all right. But he wasn't, you see.... And she heard things about him too. He was in the guardhouse a few times for drinking, and somebody else would mention it in writing home.... All that came out after he got back."

Carlin was still walking about restlessly under the Judge's watchful gaze.

"When he got back he found he wasn't wanted—that's all. His wife could do without him, and preferred to. His children were little—they'd forgotten him. There was a baby he'd never seen. He felt like a stranger in the house. And she made him feel it! At first he couldn't realize it, and tried to have it all as it was before—but it was no use. She didn't want him there.... Well, I suppose you can't see what that meant to him—"

"Yes, I can," said the Judge.

"It was all he had, you know. And she'd taken it away from him—the children and all. He could see that if he'd never come back, if he'd been killed, she would have married this other man, and never missed him. He saw that she wished he hadn't come back. In fact—she told him so, after they got to quarrelling...."

"That was pretty bad," muttered the Judge.

"And he still loved her, you see. Otherwise he'd have gone away again. But he wanted her and the children. So he took to drinking—"

"Why, naturally."

"He took to drinking hard and didn't work—couldn't. And he made the house miserable, of course. They quarrelled terribly, he beat her.... She reproached him for being a useless drunken loafer, spoiling her life and the children's—then she told him she wished he'd died.... It was after that...."

Carlin was silent. The Judge nodded his white head and said abruptly: "Yes, the poor simpleton—lost his head."

"He doesn't remember how it happened—he was drunk. But he doesn't deny it—can't, of course," said Carlin in a low voice. "He said to me that he could hardly believe it ... he'd always loved her ... he said it didn't seem possible he could have hurt her ... he thought he must have been crazy ... he wished he had been killed down south, then it wouldn't have happened and she would have been happy, and the children taken care of, while now.... And then he cried...."

Carlin's voice broke, and he turned away to the window. The Judge's eyes followed him eagerly, dwelt on his bent head, his bowed shoulders for some moments.

"The poor fool," he said, taking off his spectacles and looking at them critically.

"Judge, it was an awful thing to see—that big fellow, all crumpled up like a wet rag—broken, crushed—helpless as a baby,—not a soul to put out a hand to him—and he was sinking, lost—lost forever.... And a good man too, that's the mystery ... why, Judge, anybody might have acted that way—might have ... if people could only see that, feel it...."

The Judge had polished his spectacles to a nicety and now put them on and stood up.

"Well, Laurence, I guess you can make them feel it—I guess you can, my boy!" he burst out.

His broad face lighted up with enthusiasm, with professional ardour.

"Laurence, you were right and I was wrong. If you feel the thing as much as this, it's a chance for you. Nothing counts so much with a jury as feeling—real feeling—and you've got it. We'll take that case and you shall make the address—I'm not a jury lawyer myself, but I know one when I see him! You won't save your man, Laurence, but many a reputation has been made in a lost cause!"

And the Judge, advancing, took Carlin's hand and shook it warmly. Carlin looked at him with troubled, bewildered eyes, and the Judge clapped him on the shoulder briskly.

"Laurence, my boy, I knew you had it in you!" he cried.

"I'm not taking this case to distinguish myself," Carlin said angrily.

"No, no, of course not—that makes it all the better!" the Judge assured him, with the utmost cheerfulness.

But suddenly he became grave again and pondered.

"If the boys try anything it will be when they take him to the train," he reflected.

"I'm going home now to get a bite of dinner—then I'll be on hand if there's trouble. You coming, Judge?" Carlin took up his hat.

"I've got a letter to finish—then I'll be along. But, say, Laurence—"

The Judge stopped on the way to his desk.

"Mary—she won't like this."

Laurence was at the door, and turned a disturbed look on the Judge.

"No, she won't. She liked Mrs. Barclay."

"She won't like our defending him."

"I'll explain—there's a lot she doesn't know—I'll tell her and she'll understand." Carlin's tone had not much conviction.

"Well, perhaps," said the Judge dubiously.

---

II

In Carlin's household there were now two children. The family still lived at the Judge's house; he had resisted firmly their attempts to leave him. He had turned over the whole house to them, reserving only two rooms on the ground floor for himself, and by now he had established himself as a member of the family. There was no more thought of breaking up the arrangement.

Carlin reached the house a little before the dinner hour. He found his eldest son carefully penned up on the porch, exercising his fat legs by rushes from side to side of his enclosure. In a chair beside the pen sat Mary, with the new baby at her breast. In spite of his hurry and preoccupation, Carlin smiled with pleasure at the group, stopped to hold out a finger to the tottering golden-haired boy, bent to kiss Mary, looking tenderly at her and the small blonde head against her bosom. The baby was but three weeks old. Mary had still about her the soft freshness and radiance of new motherhood. She was pale, her tall figure had not yet regained its firm lines, but her beauty was at its best. She had borne her children easily and happily. The fuller oval of her face, her soft heavy-lidded eyes and the new tenderness of her mouth, expressed the quiet joy of fulfilment, satisfaction.

"I must hurry back—can I have a bite to eat now?" Carlin asked softly, touching the baby's tiny hand outspread on Mary's breast.

"Dinner's nearly ready—I'll see. He's asleep."

"He's always asleep, when he isn't eating, and sometimes then," commented Carlin, smiling.

"So he ought to be," said Mary calmly.

She rose with caution, and carried the baby indoors, the frills of her muslin robe billowing about her. Both parents smiled as a wail from the deserted first-born followed them. They had a robust attitude toward the young James, and he was used to solitary communing with himself in his pen, but didn't like it. Mary carried the baby into the Judge's bedroom and laid him on the bachelor's bed. The Judge liked to have his room used in this way; it delighted him to find articles of infant's attire, or toys belonging to young James, in his quarters. He often said that he was getting all the feeling of being a family man without any of the bother.

Mary went into the kitchen to hurry the stolid Swedish cook, and Carlin ran lightly upstairs. When Mary came up to arrange her hair and dress, a moment later, she found him loading his army revolver, which he persisted in keeping in his top bureau drawer among his neckties.

"What's that for?" she asked quickly.

Carlin looked at her with concern, wishing to break the matter gently to her, for it had been deeply impressed upon him that to disturb Mary was to disturb the baby also, and that any interference with her sacred function was a crime—sacrilege, in fact. He hesitated.

"I know—it's that Barclay!... But what are you going to do?"

"Why—there may be some trouble getting him out of town—"

"Yes, I heard about it. But why do you—"

"Well, I'm sworn in as a deputy to defend him, if—"

"Laurence!"

"Yes, defend him—he's going to have a fair trial, if I—and look here, Mary, I might as well tell you, the Judge and I are going to defend him at the trial."

Paler than before, she laid down her comb and gazed at him. He finished loading the revolver and slipped a box of cartridges into his pocket.

"Defend that man? I don't believe you mean it, Laurence, the Judge wouldn't."

"Yes, he would. You ask him.... I haven't time to tell you all about it now, Mary, I must eat and run. Come downstairs."

Not having succeeded in breaking it gently, Carlin took the opposite tack and spoke with curt military command. In silence Mary turned to the glass, fastened her dress and smoothed her hair carefully. In no circumstances would she be sloppy. She descended the stairs after Carlin, they sat down at the table in the dining-room, and the awkward Swedish girl brought in the dinner. Mary silently filled Carlin's plate. He began to speak, but just then the Judge arrived, winded from a rapid walk and looking worried. He greeted Mary rather apologetically, as he tucked his napkin under his beard.

"Laurence tell you?" he panted. "Now don't get mad, Mary—seems as if we'd have to do it. Explain to you later."

Mary lifted her chin haughtily as she gave the Judge his plate.

"I'm not 'mad'—but I certainly don't understand why you and Laurence want to defend a brute like that man. When I think of poor Sarah Barclay, working and slaving away, and those poor little children—I can't see how you can do it!"

She looked indignantly at her husband, who was eating in haste and left the Judge to reply.

"Now, Mary, you don't understand—don't know his side of it—"

"His side of it—a drunken worthless brute—Judge, I wonder at you, defending murder!"

"No, not murder—no, I don't defend murder, certainly not—"

"You've just said you would! The murder of a helpless woman, with little children depending on her!"

Mary's grey eyes blazed with anger, and the Judge, cowed, continued to splutter excuses with his mouth full.

"Now, Mary! I tell you I don't defend what he did! But he did have something on his side, she didn't treat him well—?"

"Treat him well! He came back, wouldn't work, took her money for drink, beat her—Judge, I'm ashamed of you, to make excuses for such a man!"

The Judge, not liking his post of whipping-boy, glanced reproachfully at the real culprit. Carlin pushed back his chair and lit a cigar.

"Don't abuse the Judge, I got him to do it," he said coolly. "And I did it because I was sorry for the man and because he hasn't a friend on earth, nobody to look to but me, and he isn't half so bad as you think. But you've made up your mind and you don't want to hear anything on the other side. You just want him punished."

"Of course I do!" she cried.

"Well, now, I can't understand why you good church-people are so hard on sinners. Your religion doesn't teach that."

Mary flushed slowly at the bitterness of this speech.

"It doesn't teach us to defend sin," she answered. "But I don't think you know what it does teach."

"Perhaps not. But I seem to remember something about there being more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine just men—in heaven, of course, not on earth."

"Repents, yes—"

"Well, Barclay repents all right.... But the good people of this town don't want to give him any time to repent, you see. They're in a great hurry to send him, with all his imperfections on his head, to—well, I suppose they think he'd go straight to hell. That's why I've got to go right back."

He got up, went round to Mary and bent to kiss her.

"I'm sorry you don't like my doing this, but I've got to do it," he said gently.

She did not respond, but sat looking straight before her. He started away, then came back.

"Mary—kiss me good-bye."

Something in his tone pierced through her frozen resentment. She met his look of anxious love, a sorrowful troubled look—the kiss was given. He hurried out.

The Judge hated to be disturbed at his meals, he was making a very bad dinner. He said pettishly:

"I've got to go right away too—I'll take some pie, please.... I wish people wouldn't get up a fuss at dinner-time."

Mary looked at him absently and handed him the bread.

"Pie, please!... Now, you see, Mary, I was against it at the start," the Judge explained rapidly, after getting what he wanted. "As you know, I've never taken criminal cases, and I didn't want Laurence to get the whole town down on him—for he will, you know, at the beginning.... But do you know why I changed my mind? You may believe I had a good reason—say, Mary, are you listening?"

"Well? You were saying you had a good reason."

"Well, sometimes it pays to go against public feeling. It gets a man noticed, anyway. And if he believes enough in his side and can put it over on all the other fellows—why, then, you know, it's a real success.... And I found out today that Laurence can do it—that is, I believe he can. Mary, that boy has lots of talent, lots of it.... Why, look here, he nearly made me cry today, talking about that Barclay,—and yet I believe the man's a low-down skunk, just as you do.... You just let Laurence get at a jury, with that feeling he's got, that sympathy, that simple way of appealing to their emotions—why, he might almost get the man off! Anyhow, he'll make a reputation, Mary, there isn't a doubt—"

"I don't want him to make a reputation doing what's wrong!"

"Wrong? Why, Mary, it isn't wrong to defend a criminal! The law insists that he be defended, it's a sacred part of our legal system. They wouldn't think of hanging him unless he was properly defended. Somebody'll have to do it. And Laurence believes he's right to do it—that's what makes him so strong. There's nothing like having right on your side—that is, I mean, believing you have it, of course—"

"Then Laurence thinks the man was right to murder his wife?" Mary said ironically.

"No, no, dash it all!—oh, well, you can't explain things to a woman," groaned the Judge. "Excuse me, Mary, I've got to get back—"

He took off his napkin, and rose, sighing.

"But I should think you'd be proud of Laurence," he added as he moved ponderously to the door. "To think he's willing to face public disapproval, take all sorts of risks, just to stand by that poor hunted beast—run into danger—"

"Danger?"

She was moved now. Her eyes, wide open, fixed the Judge piercingly. He promptly hedged.

"Oh, well, I don't mean actual danger, of course—life and limb.... I mean,—why, I mean his career, that's all. But he doesn't give a—doesn't think of that. I must run."

The Judge fled ignominiously.

Mary sat still. Her mind moved rapidly enough when her emotion was stirred. In a flash she had pieced together the Judge's words—his hurry and Laurence's—the revolver—Laurence's reference to the mob and his saying he had been sworn in to defend Barclay. She saw it now—certainly he was in danger, actual danger. She wondered she had been so stupid, not to see it before, not to feel it when he said good-bye.

The girl came in to clear the table, and Mary remembered that it was time for young James' nap. She went quickly out on the porch, picked him up and carried him upstairs. When he was tucked into his crib, she put on her bonnet and light shawl, and went down to look at the baby, who was sleeping. She did not like leaving the children, she always got her mother to stay with them if she went out, but now she would not stop for that. She sent a message to her mother by a passing neighbour, and hurried down the street toward the square.

---

Afterwards she remembered it shuddering, with the vividness of a bad dream that has startled one from sleep. The crowd in the square, in which she was caught at once, it seemed without the possibility of getting forward or getting out. Waves of motion passed through this crowd. She was pushed on, pushed back. Those near her seemed as helpless as herself. A group of men about her tried to protect her, but they too were swept on by the mass, sometimes a rush would almost carry them off their feet. The frills of her dress were torn, her shawl wrenched off her shoulders. In a sudden pressure that nearly crushed her she cried out sharply. Her defenders, fighting back savagely, made a united effort and beat their way across the sidewalk, up some steps, lifting her into the embrasure of a closed shop-door, and there they formed a line before her.

She leaned against the wall, panting and faint, and looked over their shoulders at the swaying crowd. All those faces—a vague blur, like the noise that came from that mass of men—something bewildered, indefinite, a formless suggestion of violence. It was a mob without leaders. The feeling was there, the vague intent, but without shape.

Above the groundswell of the crowd a voice was ringing out, deep and powerful. Across the square, on the courthouse steps, Hilary Robertson was speaking. Through the light veil of maple-branches, at the top of the long crowded flight of steps, she could see him. His voice reached her, not the words but the tones, sharp and hard, not pleading, rather menacing, commanding, flashing like a keen sword of wrath. Now he lifted his arm, with clenched fist, in an imperious gesture....

He stopped, turned and went into the building. There came a sudden shout from the crowd and a struggle began, an eddy like a whirlpool, about something advancing—a black closed vehicle, with horsemen surrounding it, visible over the heads of the people. It passed slowly along the side of the square. Cries, hisses greeted it, and a shower of stones. It passed so close that she could clearly see the faces of two men who stood on the step of the prison van, shielding its door with their bodies. Both had the same look of hard pale resolution. The narrow step gave them a bare foot-hold, they stood close together, holding to the door. One was Carlin, with his revolver in his hand, the other was Hilary Robertson, hatless, his forehead cut by a stone.

---

III

Carlin came back late that night, weary but triumphant, having seen his man safely lodged in the county jail. He was full of scorn for the futile malice of his fellow-citizens, and declared to Mary and the Judge, as he ate his supper, that he would get Barclay off, just to spite them. He was excited, his blue eyes gleamed with the elation of combat and success. He had identified himself completely now with the cause of his client. The odds against him roused all his energies, his fighting instinct as well as his instinct for protection. Carlin needed at the same time to hate and to love.

But he liked things in clear black and white, he wanted always a definite adversary whom he could hate with reason. He was profoundly impatient of certain feelings in himself which he could not explain nor justify. Some incidents of the day had irritated him deeply, stirring these feelings. Presently he broke out, addressing the Judge.

"I suppose you know that the preacher mixed himself up in it."

"Yes, yes, he certainly did. I will say for that fellow that he's always on hand when there's a scrap," replied the Judge easily. "Spoiled a good fighting man, I guess, when he took to preaching."

"Well, he ought to stick to preaching, and not come poking his nose into what doesn't concern him!"

"Oh, I don't know, Laurence, I guess he did a good turn today. The way he lit into that crowd—he gave them hell. And he has influence round here, people respect him, they know he's no milk-sop. Of course maybe the talk didn't do so much, I don't know—but his coming along with you—"

Carlin cut the Judge short impatiently.

"We didn't want him to go! But there he stuck—he would be in it.... And then he'd got in too and talked to Barclay. Got the poor fellow all mushed up, talking about his sin—as if he didn't feel enough like a sinner already!"

"Well, well, that's his business, you know," argued the Judge. "You can't blame him for that. And he showed he was willing to stand by Barclay. I guess he did about as much to protect him as the deputies did—"

"Oh, bosh!"

"Well, I think so. That crowd knew they'd have to hurt him to get at Barclay, and they didn't want to."

"I saw they cut his head open with a stone," observed Mary calmly. She was sitting beside the table, sewing.

"You saw?"

"I was down there in the square."

The two men stared at her incredulously. She went on, taking tiny neat stitches carefully in the baby's garment:

"I went down after you left. I was worried."

"Down there—in that crowd? Good Lord!"

The Judge looked horrified and guilty.

"Yes. My dress got torn and I lost my shawl. But some men helped me up into a doorway. I saw you go by."

She looked up reflectively at Carlin.

"You were crazy to do that!" he cried. "Why on earth—"

"Well, I was worried. I knew you wouldn't be taking that pistol for nothing."

Carlin gazed at her with softened eyes, with compunction, disturbed and pleased too.

"Why, you poor girl! I didn't think you'd worry. You always take everything so quietly. Why, Mary! You in that mob—!"

"I'm glad I went. The crowd was dreadful, but—I'm glad I saw you."

Her eyes lit up suddenly, glowed.

"You looked splendid!"

"Splendid?"

He laughed, stretched out his hand to hers, deeply pleased.

"I can't express it, but with all that howling crowd, and the stones, yes, you were splendid! Both of you."

Carlin withdrew his hand abruptly, and Mary serenely went on with her sewing.

She was well aware that Carlin disliked Hilary Robertson, but as she considered that his dislike was without reason, she ignored it as much as possible. Carlin's flings at "the preacher," she was accustomed to receive in silence. She considered that Hilary needed no defence, his life spoke for him, he was blameless. She put Carlin's sneers down to his unregenerate nature, his habit of scoffing at religion, which now seemed ingrained. Never would she have admitted the possibility that Carlin might be jealous. That would have been too degrading, it would have reflected upon her, and she was serenely conscious that her conduct and feelings were blameless also. She had tried to explain to him the nature of her admiration for Hilary, but he couldn't or wouldn't understand it. He had a wrong attitude toward it, and toward her church activities and charitable work. Most men, she thought, liked to have their wives religious, but Laurence would have preferred frivolity on her part. He was very fond of pleasure; he insisted on keeping wine in the house, and on taking her to Chicago for the evening on the rare occasions when she could get away. Mary felt that she yielded a good deal, perhaps more than she ought, to Laurence's light tendencies; but then, also, it was a wife's duty to yield, whenever she could consistently with higher duties. So she had a submissive attitude—except when some question of "right" came up.

In reality she ruled the house, and the Judge and Carlin, and the babies and the Swedish servant, with an iron hand. An exact order prevailed in the household, a definite routine for each day. Mary had her ideas about how a family should be managed, and she worked hard to carry them out, and made other people work too. She had a manner now of quiet authority. She did not scold, nor raise her voice when displeased; but visited the transgressor with an awful silence and with icy glances. Outside the house she seldom interfered with the doings of her husband or Judge Baxter. "Business" was the man's province, and she did not enquire, as a rule, into its details. And in her own province she did not expect to be interfered with.

The Judge and Carlin submitted meekly to her rules—refrained from smoking in certain rooms, were prompt at meals, careful about the sort of men they brought to the house, did not indulge in unseemly levity of conversation. The Judge had almost conquered a lifelong habit of profanity. He had a complete fealty to Mary, was touchingly pleased to be ruled by her. He was afraid of her, and often felt like a small boy in her presence. He despised her intellect, as he did that of all women. This contempt existed side by side in his mind with admiration and involuntary awe, and the conjunction never troubled him. He would have said that he admired women but didn't respect them. More difficult to overcome than swearing was his habit of cynical speech about the sex. It broke out now and then in Mary's presence, revealing his deep conviction that women (though angelic no doubt) were hardly human, but of a distinctly inferior species. Mary never troubled to defend her sex. She would merely look at the Judge with a calm, slightly ironical gaze, under which he sometimes blushed.

The next afternoon she went to visit Hilary, who was ill, Mrs. Lowell reported. There was no hesitation now about her entrance. She walked into the house, majestic in her sweeping grey dress, and the widow received her gladly. Confidential relations had long since been established between them on the subject of the minister.

"He's up and dressed, though the doctor ordered him to stay in bed," the widow complained in a subdued voice. "And he won't take his chicken broth, that I made specially—"

"Well, bring it in and I'll see that he takes it," said Mary.

She knocked at the study door. A peevish voice said, "Oh, come in!"

Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled afghan over him. His head was swathed in bandages, his cheeks flushed with fever.

"Oh, it's you," he murmured apologetically. "I thought it was that old woman again."

Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the afghan more smoothly over him and to shake up his pillows. Then she took his wrist, her finger on the pulse.

"Why don't you stay in bed?" she enquired. "You have fever."

"Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that's all."

"I should think so. Was the cut on your head very bad?"

"The doctor sewed it up. It's all right."

He spoke gently, and lay back quietly on his pillows. Mary sat down beside the sofa and picked up a book that lay open on the floor.

"Greek—a nice time for you to be reading Greek!" she remarked.

Hilary smiled.

"How are you getting on with it?" he asked.

"Oh, I can pretty nearly write the alphabet," she smiled too. "I practise when I have time. And I'm going to teach it to James when he's old enough."

"They say John Stuart Mill could read Greek when he was three."

"Then I don't see why James shouldn't."

At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, with a sad look, bearing a steaming cup, which Mary took from her and presented to Hilary.

"Drink your broth—and after this you must drink it whenever Mrs. Lewis brings it."

Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows and began to sip the broth, making a wry face.

"Awful stuff," he protested.

"Indeed, it's the best chicken broth, if I did make it myself!" muttered the widow, retiring with an offended air.

"I'm afraid you're a trying invalid," said Mary, amused.

"Hate to be treated like an invalid, that's all.... But women always have to be coddling something," Hilary said ungraciously.

He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of relief. Mary rose and began setting the room in order, restoring scattered books to their shelves, picking up articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the floor. Hilary's eyes followed her; he made no protest, even when she arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles.

"You know," said Mary suddenly, "Laurence and the Judge are going to defend that man—Barclay."

"Yes, I know it."

"Do you think it is right for a lawyer to defend a man he knows to be guilty?"

"There's something to be said even for the guilty," said Hilary after a moment.

"You mean he can be defended?"

Again he hesitated.

"As I understand it, they can't try to deny that he committed the murder, they can only plead extenuating circumstances."

"That means, try to justify it!... Do you believe in that?"

"I don't know all the circumstances.... But the law distinguishes—if it is done in the heat of passion, it may be called manslaughter—not murder."

"And what would he get for that?"

"A term of years, imprisonment."

"Well, I should think murder was murder, however it was done!... And as to circumstances, you know Mrs. Barclay was a good woman, a member of your church, you know what a hard time she had, especially after he came home, and now her children are left worse than orphans—I don't see how you can say that 'circumstances' make any difference!"

She stood straight, her eyes flashing reproach at him.

"Why, Mary, do you want the man hanged?"

"Well, if anybody is hanged, he ought to be! So long as we have laws to punish criminals—"

"You stand up for the woman always, Mary," said Hilary, smiling faintly.

"And you—you and Laurence—it seems to me very queer that you two should be standing up for that man! Yesterday—risking your life for him—now I think it's very strange."

"That wasn't so much for him," said Hilary slowly. "It was to prevent another murder, that's all—to keep them from doing what he'd done."

He shut his eyes wearily, and Mary softened.

"I oughtn't to talk to you about it now. You must be quiet. I'll go now, and you must promise me to go to bed and not get up till the fever's gone. Will you?"

"Yes. But stay a little longer."

She sat down again beside him, and he lay still with his eyes closed.

"Did you go to see the children today?" he asked after a pause.

"Yes, I stopped in. They were playing in the yard—they're so little, you know, they don't realize anything—except perhaps the girl. I wanted to take one of them, but Mrs. Peters said she thought they were better off together."

"Yes, I should think so.... We'll have to find homes for them, though, and it isn't likely they can be together long."

"I know. Mrs. Peters said she would keep one of them—and I could take one. I'm sure Laurence would think that right, as he is so much interested in—the father."

Mary's face and tone expressed a sudden repugnance. Hilary half-opened his eyes and looked at her.

"You hate sinners, don't you, Mary? You don't understand why people sin?"

"From weakness," she said.

"And you haven't much pity for weakness.... You don't understand how a man can make a beast of himself with drink, because he's unhappy."

"Do you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I understand it," said Hilary with a tortured look. "I know what unhappiness and loneliness can do.... Sometimes I wish I didn't. How can I condemn sin when I understand the sinner so well?"

"You must, though," said Mary calmly.

She knew well this mood of his, by this time she knew his weakness. The relation between these two had changed. No longer did she with humility look up to Hilary as a saint. The change was not so much in him as in her. In the old days, before her marriage, Hilary had often accused himself to her as a weak and erring man, he had passionately resisted her attempts to canonize him. Since then he had talked to her more frankly but in the same way, she knew his yearning for perfection, and his despair of it; she knew too, though not by direct expression, his human longings and his loneliness. She no longer idealized him, she did not need to. But he was intensely interesting to her. He was only a man now, but still better than other men, stronger, with higher aims. She admired him. But they now stood more on an equality; her manner toward him had even a tinge of maternal authority. For she felt that all men, all that she knew, however gifted and interesting, were somewhat childish.

She herself had reached maturity. With the birth of her children she had come into her heritage of life. She was now so firmly planted on the earth, so deeply rooted, that it seemed nothing could shake her. The dreams of her girlhood, of life beyond life, passed by her now like the clouds on the wind. She was satisfied, assured.

Hilary's life, even, seemed to her dream-like, cloud-like, because it was so restless, so tormented. The need for incessant action and struggle that drove him, as it drove Laurence in a different direction, seemed to her sometimes absurd. Religion to her meant tranquillity, the calm certitude that one was on the right path, doing one's duty and refraining from wrong. Simple—and easy.

She stayed a little while longer with Hilary, but insisted that he should not talk. She knew that he liked to have her sitting beside him, immobile, her hands folded on her knee, not even looking at him. She knew now very well what her presence meant to him; their constant meeting in the work of the church; their talks, intimate in a sense, though she made no personal confessions to him and he never expressed his feeling for her in speech. She was quite satisfied with this relation, and sure that Hilary would never overstep the bounds of right and reason, even if tempted to do so. She herself had not the least temptation. All her pride lay in keeping things exactly as they were.

IV

That night she proposed to Laurence that they should adopt one of Barclay's children. Laurence did not like the idea at all; he looked discomfited, and so did the Judge. Both felt it would be the intrusion of a stranger into the domestic circle. Laurence had a good reason to give for his objection, and a sincere one—it would be too much for Mary, she had her hands full now, with the house and two small children. Mary said she could manage it, and that it was only right for her to do her part in helping the unfortunates. She looked so calmly resolved as she spoke that Laurence and the Judge exchanged alarmed glances. They did not oppose her directly, but devised a stratagem. Laurence pointed out to Mary next morning that after all they were living in the Judge's house, and the Judge didn't want a strange child there. So they couldn't very well adopt the child, but he, Laurence, would be responsible for its maintenance and care somewhere else.

"Very well," said Mary austerely. "But I think the Judge is very self-indulgent."

"So am I, then," confessed Laurence. "I don't want it either. But honestly, both of us think about you. I don't want you to undertake it, dearest—it's too much."

"If other people, not so well off as we are, can do it, I should think we could."

"It's a question of what we can do best. I'll gladly give the money, and I'm doing all I can for Barclay too, and so is the Judge."

"I know—for him. You're interested in him, but I think you'd do much better to help the children."

"Well, I will help them, you'll see."

Laurence kept his word, and in fact charged himself with the future, as it turned out, of all three children. But Mary was for the moment dissatisfied. She wished to put into instant practice her theories of duty, and utterly scorned theory without practice.

Looking in that afternoon, as she had said she would, to see if Hilary had kept his promise and to report about the children, she mentioned the attitude of her husband and the Judge as explaining why she could not carry out her plan.

"I think men are very inconsistent," she said caustically. "They like to talk about what they'll do for other people, but when it really comes to doing it—"

"A man's reach should exceed his grasp," quoted Hilary. "We always see much more than we can do."

"I think it would be better, then, to see less and do more," remarked Mary.

Hilary looked very weak and pale. His fever was down, but he had kept his bed, unwillingly. Mary had brought him a pot of jelly and a few daffodils from her garden. He held the flowers in his hand, and looked with brooding tender pleasure at their brilliant colour. Mary asked questions about some church-business she was to do for him, and then, in the short remaining time of her visit, they talked about sin.

The conversation of the day before had remained in her mind and puzzled her. She questioned him sharply:

"What did you mean by saying that when you understood the sinner you couldn't condemn sin? Do you really feel that?"

"I often feel it," said Hilary in a low voice.

"Then it would be better for you not to understand the sinner. You said so yourself, you said you wished you didn't."

"Well, I can't help it," Hilary smiled wanly. "Because, you see, I'm a sinner myself."

"Of course you're not. You only like to think you are."

"What is sin? You said it's weakness. Do you think I'm not weak, sometimes?"

"No, I don't think you are. You don't act weakly, and that's the only thing that counts."

"Is it? Don't you think there are sinful thoughts and feelings?"

"Of course. But if we fight against them—"

"Well, don't you think that a man who carries a sinful feeling around with him, even if he doesn't act on it, knows what a sinner is—and do you think he can be very hard on another man who just happens to act?"

Mary cast an angry glance at the pale face turned toward her. There was a look about Hilary's mouth, as though he were repressing a smile. He had a look of mischief, not merry either, but as though deliberately trying to puzzle and disturb her—and she had seen this in him before.

She arose from her chair, and gathered her shawl about her, lifting her chin, stately in her displeasure. Her grey eyes looked down with cold reproof.

"I think instead of talking that way, you'd much better go to sleep."

"Well, good-bye, then," said Hilary.

He turned his head away sharply. His fingers closed tightly on the yellow daffodils. Mary suddenly saw lying there before her, not a man, but a forlorn sick child. For the first time she knew the impulse to comfort this unhappiness, an impulse of tenderness. It frightened her, and she went out quickly, without a word.

Returning home, she found trouble and confusion. The Judge had been taken ill and Laurence had brought him home. Mrs. Lowell was there in the room, a messenger had been sent to try to find the doctor. The Judge was stretched out on his bed, unconscious, his face deeply flushed. Laurence, with Mrs. Lowell's aid, was trying to get some of his clothes off.

"He's had a stroke—just toppled over at his desk—I wish you'd been at home, Mary," said Laurence with sharp reproach. "I don't know what on earth to do for him—"

Silently Mary gave what help she could. They got his coat and boots off, loosened his shirt-collar, put a cold compress on his head. He was breathing heavily and the purple flush deepened, especially on the left side of his face. In her alarm, Mary still remembered the children and that it was the baby's nursing-time, and as there seemed nothing more to do, she left the room. Laurence followed her out.

"You remember he's complained of dizziness several times lately—I tried to have him see your father but he wouldn't, said he thought perhaps he'd been eating or smoking too much. At his age, you know, it's pretty serious—"

"He didn't look well this morning," began Mary, going into the dining-room, where the cook was looking after the children.

"Well, I should think you might have stayed at home, then—where were you?" asked Laurence irritably.

"Please put James in his pen," said Mary, taking the baby. "Hilda, you'd better see that there's plenty of hot water—the doctor may want it."

She carried the baby upstairs and sat down in a low chair in their room to nurse it. When Laurence came in the door, she said directly:

"I went to see Mr. Robertson—he's ill."

"You went yesterday too, didn't you?... You're very attentive to him."

She looked up at him, opposing to harsh irritation her reproving silence.

"I tell you, I don't care to have you going to see him that way, alone. Do you want to be talked about?"

"Don't disturb me when I'm nursing the baby.... There—isn't that Father?"

The clatter of wheels and a hasty run up the steps in fact announced the doctor's arrival. Laurence went downstairs, with an angry parting glance. The baby cried a little, and Mary gathered it to her breast, composing herself, shutting her eyes, trying to banish all disturbing thoughts, even the thought of the Judge. She believed that any disturbance in her when she was nursing reacted at once on the baby. Indeed now the baby cried shrilly and at first refused the breast; but after a few moments, quiet succeeded, and Mary sighed, relaxing. It was a deep physical pleasure to her, to nurse her child—more so with this one than with the first. The baby's strong pull at the breast, for he was a robust infant—his hand opening and shutting on her flesh, the warmth of his little body, the relation of complete confidence and satisfaction—it moved and soothed her. She sank into a dreamy contentment, isolated from all that hurry and trouble downstairs.

But when the baby, replete, had gone to sleep, she laid him on the bed, and at once went down. She was very much concerned about the Judge, though her quiet face and motions did not betray her anxiety. She did what could be done, and awaited her father's verdict silently.

"Apoplexy—he'll recover, undoubtedly, but his left side is affected, there may be a slight paralysis," Dr. Lowell told them. "His habits have been bad—no exercise, too much whiskey and tobacco. And then his age—he must be over seventy. Probably he'll be a good deal of an invalid from now on."

"He won't like that," Laurence said sorrowfully.

"No, he's never taken care of himself, he'll hate it, naturally—but so it is.... It will mean a good deal for you and Mary—the care of him here, and then he won't be able to do any work for some time—perhaps never again, to any extent."

Laurence and Mary looked at one another gravely and sadly—both felt what this would mean to the Judge. When they were alone, Laurence went and took her into his arms.

"I'm sorry I was cross to you," he said softly. "I didn't mean to be rough."

Mary kissed his cheek.

"I know—of course you were terribly worried," was her forgiving response.

"This will be very hard for you, Mary, the Judge being ill—we must get some one to help."

"Well—we'll see.... You'll have a lot of extra work too, Laurence, and you're working so hard now—"

"Oh, I think I can manage," he said absently. "But the thing right now is to get somebody here to help you—he'll have to be watched at night now, and—I tell you, there's Nora. You remember the girl you saw at the office the other day, Nora Skehan, you know I told you I used to know her as a child. She's out of work again, and I'm sure she'd be glad to come. You might try her."

"Well, I'll see," said Mary again.

Laurence held her and looked at her appealingly.

"Mary—I can't bear to have anything wrong with you and me.... Other things go wrong—there's a lot of trouble and worry—but I can't stand it to feel angry at you, or have you angry with me—"

"I don't think I'm ever angry with you," murmured Mary reflectively.

"Well, worse ... you look at me sometimes as if you didn't like me! When you're displeased—it's worse than being angry. I'd rather you'd flame out, the way I do, and get it over with—"

"I'm not like you." She smiled gravely.

"I wish you felt as I do—that you'd do anything rather than have trouble between us—"

"Trouble? What trouble?"

She drew away from him, an instinctive shrinking that hurt him.

"I mean, you don't seem to care that certain things disturb me!" he burst out. "You're so terribly reserved, you keep things to yourself—you do things I don't like, and you don't care that I don't like them—"

"I don't do anything wrong," said Mary proudly.

"You're so sure everything you do is right! No matter how it affects me!"

"You do things I don't like—Barclay, for instance."

"That was a matter—I felt I had to do it—I felt it was right—"

"Well, you must allow me to judge what is right for me. I shall never do what I think wrong."

"What you think! You don't think it wrong then to disturb me by your actions, not to give me your confidence—"

"Confidence?" said Mary haughtily. "I will tell you anything you want to know. I haven't anything to conceal. But you simply don't understand my feelings, certain things I care about that you don't care about—"

"That's it! You take it for granted I can't understand.... I don't want you to have friendships apart from me!"

Mary stood still, looking down, her eyes hidden by the long drooping lids that gave her face a look of passionless calm, inflexible, immovable.

"Do you hear?" cried Laurence.

He knew, even while he could not master his agitation, that it put him in the wrong, that it gave her the advantage. But he could not bear opposition from her. To know that they were not completely united, completely one in feeling, was a torment to him.

"Don't shout," she said. "I think this is a queer time for you to talk like this, Laurence—it seems to me you ought to be thinking about the Judge."

"Ought!" he muttered. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, I heard, Laurence. But—" She looked full at him now, her clear grey eyes very bright. "But I will not let you interfere with what I think right to do."

"You will not?... Don't you know that I'm master here, that you're bound to do as I say?"

Again the long lids veiled her eyes, and she stood without replying. And Laurence's heart was burning. This harsh assertion of authority had been wrong, it was not what he meant. He hated force. What good would anything forced from Mary do to him? What he longed for was a tender understanding—but if she would not understand, would not be tender, what could he do but rage?

At this point they were interrupted. Mrs. Lowell called to them from the sickroom, and Mary hurried to take charge there, without a word or look for her husband. Resentment smouldered in her mind, a feeling that Laurence was wrong, and, in addition, undignified. All the rest of the afternoon, busy as she was, and grieved too as she watched the Judge's stricken figure—all this time a turmoil of feeling about Laurence was going on below the surface of her mind. Never had she been so disturbed. This was the first really serious clash in the two years of their life together.

V

For the first time, her will and Laurence's were definitely, sharply opposed. Heretofore, each of them had yielded, in much that concerned the other, without a clear issue. She felt that she had yielded a good deal to Laurence. He had associates that she did not like, hard-drinking bachelors of the bar, with whom he spent an occasional convivial evening, coming back flushed and gay though never overcome. She did not like even his moderate drinking, nor the fact that he never went to church, that he took no interest in religion except to jest crudely about it. On the other hand, he had not, so far, tried to interfere openly with her interest in the church nor her association with Hilary in work, nor her taking up a course of reading in history and beginning to study Greek under Hilary's direction. He had acquiesced in her asking Hilary to supper a few times, as was her social duty, and had behaved with courtesy, though she knew he disliked "the preacher." He gave no good reason for his feeling, but he expressed it in gibes and bitter jokes about "sky-pilots," the fondness of women for priests, the power of "holiness," and so on. These expressions irritated Mary deeply, but she had passed them over in silence, withdrawing into herself and indicating to Laurence that she did not expect him to understand nor take any part in this interest of hers, any more than she could take part in his stag-suppers.

But this division of interest, this separation, to some extent, of activity, did not affect her feeling about Laurence nor disappoint any desire in her. She was satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement of her life. The achievement of maternity had given her the solid basis, the central motive, to which everything else was incidental. Laurence was most importantly connected with this motive, but yet in a way he was outside it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against it. What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between Mary and himself, which should be the centre of all things, subordinating everything else. And this, in his feeling, had not come to pass, because she could not understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatisfied; therefore demanding, often harsh and bitter, often unreasonable.

Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a father; and this appeared to Mary the height of unreason on his part. To be the head of a family—what more dignified and satisfactory position could he wish, so far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, he succeeded in his profession, what more could he ask? Why, when everything promised well, should he so often be moody, irritable and discontented? It must be the nature of man, perpetually unquiet.

On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or perhaps not clearly conscious. Her plan assigned to Laurence the rÔle of head of the family; in reality what she expected him to be was a figurehead. This was quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theoretically, of course, the man was master of his household, and the wife as well as the children owed him obedience. Mary would never have dreamed of disputing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her acquaintance. But practice—that was quite another thing. In practice, the women ruled their households and themselves, and very often their husbands also, allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine matters, such as business, and a certain amount of license in regard to their amusements. The woman's path was sharply marked out; she could not overstep certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had her authority and independence.

In her own family, Mary could remember very few occasions on which her mother's actions or decisions had been questioned by the nominal chief. If she were subject to her husband, it did not appear; the household produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was Mary's idea of the proper constitution of a family. It was unthinkable that the man should interfere in details, should try to dictate in matters outside his province; by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he should maintain.

A wife must always speak to her husband with respect; must never criticize him nor complain of him, even to her nearest friend or relative; his dignity was hers. Also, a certain formality in her address to him was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him Mr. Brown, rather than John. Mary was conscious that her relation with Laurence, so far, lacked formality. But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was very young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he acted like a boy, much of the time.

That afternoon and evening, there were times when there was nothing to be done in the sickroom but to sit and watch; and Mary was thinking. She regretted bitterly the clash with Laurence—those sharp words, her own assertion of independence. There she had made a mistake, had transgressed her own code. Laurence's counter-assertion of authority was also a mistake, but a natural consequence of hers. She should not have set herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he were wrong. She now found herself obliged either to give battle or to retreat—both alternatives very distasteful to her. She was angry at herself; she had fallen below her own standard, lost her self-control, behaved in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her own position.

She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actually did command, she would have to obey. She could not openly flout her husband's authority, that was impossible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. She knew very well that that was not the way to manage.

Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, looking straight before her, she thought it out. She did not like the idea of "managing," or gaining any point by methods other than the most simple and direct. Anything underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply repugnant to her. She did not like even to "humour" people. How, then, was one to deal with an unreasonable man—must one actually submit to him when he was in the wrong?

Laurence was wrong and unreasonable in this case because he could not possibly think that there was any harm in her friendship with Hilary. He could not possibly suspect her of anything approaching wrong, in that connection. At the mere idea of it, her cheeks fired and her eyes flashed proudly. She felt herself not only impeccable in thought and deed, but above suspicion from him or any one else. Therefore in acting as though he suspected her, or even disapproved of her, he was wronging her deeply....

But let that be, for the moment. The thing to do now, was to retrieve her own false step. She had done wrong—she would set that right, as far as possible. Then at least she would be right, whatever he might be. And it was absolutely necessary for her to be right, in her own feeling. What she saw as the right thing she would do, whatever it cost her.

Having made her decision, she became quieter in mind, and began to think about the Judge. This day was evidently a day of disaster. The Judge would never be the same again. Suddenly she realized that she had grown very fond of him. Affection had been obscured in her by constant disapproval of his character. She disdained fleshly indulgences, such as eating and drinking too much. She had felt scornful when the Judge's face would flush after dinner, when sometimes his speech was a little thick of an evening, when he found difficulty in lifting his heavy bulk. But now that the punishment of these carnal indulgences had fallen upon him, she felt real sorrow. And even, as she thought what was before him, the rare tears rose and softened her grey eyes.

When she had a few minutes alone with Laurence, before he took up his night-watch beside the Judge, she said to him gently:

"I'm very sorry I spoke to you as I did this afternoon. I was wrong. I shall never oppose your will, in anything that concerns myself, if I can help it."

Laurence's troubled gloomy face lit up with a flash of joy. He clasped her in his arms, melting instantly when she showed a sign of yielding, too happy to pause upon the manner of her yielding. His generous spirit, impetuous and uncalculating, carried him much farther in concession. He swept their difference away passionately.

"Dearest, I was wrong too—more than you!... You know, Mary, I don't want to interfere with any pleasure of yours—you know I want you to have everything you want!... And I don't think you want anything wrong, you know I don't think it, not for a minute!... Only I want you to love me more than anything, not to need anything but me, that's all I really want! And you do, don't you? Because I love you more than the whole world—"

"Of course I do," she said softly. "You know perfectly well, I do."

"No, sometimes I don't, and then I get wild! Then I can't bear to have you like any one else at all. Only make me feel that you love me, Mary, and it will be all right. I shan't care what you do, if I'm sure of you!"

"As if you weren't sure of me!" said Mary, with a touch of austerity.

"Oh, I don't mean what you do, I mean your feeling, don't you see?"

"No, I don't. How queer you are, Laurence!"

"No, it's you that's queer!... But I love you."

So the shadow passed, for the time being. But the reality which had cast this shadow remained, the real difference. Both of them were careful now not to bring it up, both repressed themselves somewhat. Mary continued to see Hilary in connection with the church, but she did not ask him to the house. Laurence did not speak of him, nor of Mary's studies, and she kept her books out of his sight. But he knew that she was going on, as he would have said, regardless of his feeling; and she knew that he was still unreasonable about it.

For some time, however, this remained an undercurrent in their life, which was full of activities, interests, anxieties, in which they generally accorded. It was on the whole a happy time for them, an unconscious happiness. They were young and vigorous, life opened out before them full of hope and promise, vaguely bright.

VI

The next year brought significant changes. Laurence made a brilliant personal success in his defence of Barclay, and melted the jury to the point where nearly half stood out for twenty-four hours in favour of a verdict of manslaughter. Finally however Barclay was convicted of murder in the second degree and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. Laurence was showered with praise and congratulations for his conduct of the case, his address to the jury had moved a crowded courtroom to irrepressible enthusiasm. His reputation was made.

The Judge had been able to give him some assistance, though he never recovered from his illness. The burden of the partnership now fell upon Laurence, the Judge could only consult and advise in important cases, and as time went on not even that, for his memory was impaired. He suffered and fretted under his restrictions, was a fractious invalid, and the loss of mental power was so sore a grief to him that he resorted for solace to the forbidden whiskey-bottle, perhaps with the desire, unconscious or not, to end it all the sooner.

Nora, now domesticated in the family, was of great assistance with the Judge. Her quick good-humour amused the old man, her energy was unfailing, she was deft and tactful. She became his special attendant, and also helped with the children, for another baby was coming. Nora liked the Judge, but she loved the children, she became devoted to them. Soon she was indispensable in the household. Mary was a little ailing. Three children in less than four years had taxed her strength. But she was well content; she wanted another son, in fact she would have liked six of them, big strapping fellows. Sometimes she saw them in her mind's eye, a robust procession.

During that year the Judge made his will. He desired to leave his property, which was much larger than any one had suspected, to Laurence. But Laurence protested. There were relatives, sisters and nephews, and he couldn't take what ought to belong to them. The Judge, easily excited, flew into a rage, and declared that he didn't care a cuss for any of his relatives, and that he would leave his money to charity rather than to them; nay, lest they should contest his will, he would give away the lot of it during his lifetime, make ducks and drakes of it, throw it away, by God! He would do as he pleased!

Laurence had to calm him, tried to postpone the discussion.

"No," said the Judge fretfully. "Carpe diem—I haven't so many left. I want it settled."

"Judge, how can I take anything more from you? See what you've done for me already. It wouldn't be right—"

"Well, see what you've done for me, you and Mary. You've given me a home, the only one I ever had, you've been like my own children to me, and that's the way I feel about you. And I want you should have something to remember the old man by, when he's gone."

In the end, Mary being consulted and feeling as Laurence did about the money, a compromise was effected. Generous legacies were left to the near relatives, and the remainder, for those days a small fortune, to Laurence in trust for his children, the income to be Laurence's for his life. The Judge, having drawn up and executed what he considered an ironclad will with these provisions, was easier in his mind, and felt that he had nothing more to do in life, except to watch Laurence's progress and give an occasional counsel. Laurence was fairly launched, business poured in upon him, he had two juniors in the office. The Judge rather regretted his tendency to take criminal cases whenever they appealed to him; but he recognized too that Laurence's talent lay in this direction. And then the boy could afford it now, he needn't be looking closely after money. He could afford to take cases that brought him little except reputation, and to have it said that every poor man in trouble knew the way to Lawyer Carlin's office. If Laurence wanted to be the champion of the poor and oppressed, if he could be more eloquent in behalf of an ignorant negro cheated out of his small property than when he had a fat fee in prospect—why, let him go ahead. He was provided for, anyhow.

In his many vacant hours, the Judge fell back on reading, of which he had always been fond. He had a respectable library of classics, bound in calf. He liked Laurence to read aloud in the evenings when work permitted. The Judge had a taste for lofty and magnificent diction. Shakespeare, the Old Testament, Milton, Burton and Macaulay were his favourites. He liked De Quincey too, and Burke's speeches. He could listen by the hour to Milton's prose, or the "Anatomy of Melancholy." He often dwelt on the advantages of such reading, in forming a style. He did not consider that Laurence as yet had a style—he was too simple, too colloquial in his speaking. Rolling sonorous periods, balanced and built up, a wide range of allusion and metaphor, a sombre and weighty splendour, was the Judge's ideal of eloquence.

Mary was usually present at these readings, sitting by and sewing. But her thoughts often wandered—she had not much Æsthetic feeling, and poetry bored her. However, she liked the sound of Laurence's voice, as an accompaniment to thoughts which might have no concern with him.

One evening a strange thing happened—Hilary Robertson came to call on the Judge. Laurence happened to be away on business at the county seat—perhaps Hilary knew this. What the purpose of his visit was, did not appear at that time. The Judge received him politely, though a little nervous, and begged Mary to stay when she was about to leave them together. There was a little general conversation, which presently fell upon literature and ended by Hilary's reading at the Judge's request the "Urn Burial" of Sir Thomas Browne. The effect of this stately prose in Hilary's wonderful voice thrilled the two listeners. Mary dropped her work. Something of the feeling of old days came back upon her—some mysterious lifting of the heart, vague pain and yearning at the touch of unearthly beauty. She had hardly felt this since her girlhood, her present life had too much absorbed her. Her eyes were fixed upon Hilary with startled feeling—no one but he, she was thinking, had ever had the power to move this feeling in her, to make her conscious of a world beyond this narrow world she lived in, to make her dissatisfied with herself, unhappy.... And he could do this just by the tone of his voice, reading something that she did not attend to. Music, what little she had heard, produced a similar effect upon her—it was the only form of art that touched her.... But now she resented Hilary's power, she did not want to be stirred or made unhappy. Especially now, when she was carrying a child. Hearing the Judge issue a cordial invitation to Hilary to repeat his visit, she decided that next time she would avoid him.

In the next few months Laurence was away a good deal, and was obliged also to work late in the evenings when at home. The Judge came to depend upon Hilary for at least two weekly visits, when they would read and talk together, and Mary often sat with them, in spite of her judgment. Sometimes she was sorry for it, sometimes not.

Laurence learned of this intimacy with astonishment. Finding how it had begun, he was struck with Hilary's audacity. He had received the Judge's praise of his new friend in silence; all the more incensed because he couldn't openly oppose Hilary nor keep him out of the house.

"I think the Judge is getting childish," he said to Mary darkly.

"He is much weaker," she agreed.

"He must be—to let the preacher get hold of him. That would never have happened if he'd been himself."

She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking out across the lawn to where the sunset sparkled red through the trees. Laurence was sitting on the steps near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick black cigar. He glanced up. Mary's look of weariness and sadness startled him.

She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to realize that the Judge was dying, and needed what Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had begun to talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon meet; the Judge did not resent it, he was a little frightened, and only clung the closer to the firm hand stretched out to him. Yes, he needed Hilary—to no one else could he confess that he was afraid of death, that he had lived a careless life, that he didn't want to believe in immortality but sometimes couldn't help it.... But, Mary thought, it was no use to try to explain to Laurence.

He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A quick impulse of alarm and affection made him repentant. He moved closer to her, put his hand on hers.

"Mary, you're not looking well—I'm afraid you're doing too much. Are you very tired?"

"Yes, a little," she said vaguely, without responding to him, her eyes still fixed on the swaying trees and the red glow beyond.

Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit his cigar. At that moment he felt acutely that she was far away from him in spirit. He did not know her thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He had given up asking her. It seemed to him often that it was only the material part of her life that he had any connection with—that she willed it so. But she had another life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him—a life of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, his face dark and brooding. Laurence could look evil. His narrow blue eyes, half-closed, were menacing. His heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the cigar, spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not be repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would destroy if it could not build. Now he looked destructive.

He had changed much in these few years, grown heavier in body from his indoor life, grown handsomer. He still had his military erectness of carriage, something of the soldier remained in his alertness of movement and speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone. Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his face—and there were lines of pain too, visible at times like this.

The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had been taking his constitutional late, because of the heat, supported by his gold-headed cane and Nora's arm. They were laughing as they approached.

"She's been telling me some of her Irish stories," called out the old man tremulously. "Never was so amused in my life. She's a smart girl, Nora is—and a pretty girl too! Isn't she now?"

Laurence went to help the Judge up the steps. He sank heavily into a chair, keeping hold of Nora's hand, panting.

"Isn't she pretty now?... I like her red hair. I wish I was a young fellow, I'd make up to her.... She'd keep me laughing...."

Nora blushed, laughed, wrested her hand away and ran indoors. Laurence lounged for a moment against the door, and then went in too. He had to go to the office, and went upstairs to fill his cigar-case. Passing the open door of the children's room, he saw Nora, with a candle, bending to arrange a tossed coverlet. He stood looking at her. The candle-flame lit up her shining hair, her red lips and tender eyes. She came out softly, and as she passed him, smiling, Laurence, put his arm around her, drew her close.

"No!" she protested in a whisper.

"Yes!"

He felt her tremble in his clasp, felt her frightened, wishing to resist, unable, felt the emotion that shook her at his touch. He bent his head, kissed her on the mouth.

VII

Carlin could not have told himself how nor when his attitude toward Nora had changed, nor when he first became aware that the most ardent feeling of her warm heart was for him. It was all gradual and easy; it seemed to reach far back in the past, and to grow out of their childhood intimacy. Carlin could not remember the time when he had not felt affection for Nora. Affection was still his feeling—but hers was much stronger. And to know that she loved him, humbly, adoringly, passionately, as without any words on her part it was evident she did, could not but influence him.

Nora had always looked up to him, even when they were playmates; he was the bright romantic figure in her life. The years had set him apart from her; he had risen in the social scale and she had remained where she was. She was too humble to feel any bitterness at this. Nay, it was only right, for wasn't it well known that Carlin came of gentlefolk in Ireland? It was natural that Laurence should be a gentleman, and that she, Nora, should be his handmaid. But it was also natural that she should love him. He was the handsomest, cleverest man she had ever seen; and no one else had ever been so kind to her.

Up to the time she entered his household, Nora had certainly never aspired to more than kindness and an occasional word of affection from Laurence; and there for some time she was too happy to want more. She was treated not like a servant, but almost like a member of the family. She had her own pleasant room, she had no hard nor disagreeable work to do; she was always nicely dressed, clean and fresh. She spent her time with the children or the Judge; was in awe of Mary, who however always spoke to her kindly and pleasantly; addressed Laurence as "Mr. Carlin," at which, chatting with her, he would laughingly protest.

Nora did her work with real devotion. Far from feeling that her position was in any way an inferior or degrading one, she made her service so willing, so thorough and complete, she gave it with such pleasure, that it became an art. Mary soon learned that she need not watch Nora, that her instructions would be followed exactly, that nothing would be slurred nor forgotten, that Nora could be trusted to the last detail. As the time approached for the third child to be born, the other two came more and more under Nora's care.

Nora loved Laurence's children. If her own life had been happily arranged, she would by this time have had some children of her own. She was twenty-eight years old, and had never had even a satisfactory love-affair. For this no doubt Laurence was indirectly to blame. His image, bright and radiant, made any swain who might sigh for Nora appear too dull for more than a passing interest. It was not in Nora's nature to be ungrateful for any affection, whatever the source, and she had honestly tried to love her humble suitors, but in vain. She would have liked to marry, her only life in fact being that of affection, but instead she had drifted from one employment to another, untrained, badly paid, always finding something in the rough conditions of her work to disgust or hurt her.

In Carlin's house she found for the first time a pleasant way of living, gentleness, consideration, and she was so happy that her spirit danced and sang all day long. She was deeply grateful to all of them, especially to Laurence, for he had placed her here; she tried to show her gratitude in service to them all. She quarrelled freely, to be sure, with the Swedish cook, whose slowness and awkwardness provoked her contempt. But with the family, inspired by love, she was tactful, graceful, meek; even to Mary, whom she did not love, but admired from a distance.

As time went on she shared more intimately in the life of the family. Through the children she began to feel that she belonged to it. Keenly sensitive to anything that concerned Laurence, she was aware of occasional friction between him and Mary; she saw that he was unhappy sometimes. She began in her mind to criticize Mary, sometimes to be angry with her, on Laurence's account; she sought out things to do for Laurence, put a tender thoughtfulness into the care of his personal belongings. She did not put herself in his way, at least not consciously, but naturally they were always seeing one another. And always her face, her whole being, welcomed him, glowed with pleasure when he stopped to talk to her or bestowed a light caress. The caresses grew more frequent, grew warmer, by insensible gradations. She came to expect his kiss when they met alone; and to dream of it before he came.

Now her happiness was no longer serene and childish, as at first. It was poignant at moments—with intervals of depression and restlessness. But Nora was nearly incapable of reflection or of looking beyond the moment; she had no wisdom except what love gave her, and that did not help her to take care of herself.

Nora's helplessness had always been evident to Laurence. He had felt that she needed to be taken care of, and he still felt it. He felt that he was taking care of her. Nora needed affection, she could not work like a menial without any reward but money. Money could not buy such service as hers. It was done for love, and love must be its reward—tenderness such as one would give to a child, or a sister.... Just when his affectionate recognition of Nora passed this line, Laurence could hardly have told. It was connected, though, with his feelings about Mary, with a wounded resentment that burned in him the deeper for having little expression. When Mary hurt him by her coldness or absorption in something apart from him, he was more apt to take or make a chance of being with Nora alone. These interviews came to have a secret, a stolen character; snatched moments, a word, a look, an embrace.

Laurence did not feel that he was doing harm to Nora. He did not feel anything very deeply about her—his strong feelings were all for other things. That he was irresponsible, unscrupulous, he would have denied blankly. But his mood was reckless. He wanted the comfort of Nora's warmth, her utter acceptance of him, her trembling joy in his caress. From his obscure jealousy, he wanted obscurely to revenge himself on Mary, though she was never to know that he had done so. Lately, Nora had shown some fear—but fear was not resistance. Well he knew that she could never resist any impulse, any desire of his.

VIII

On the thick summer air, in the close room, the scent of flowers was overpowering. Laurence, standing by the door, looking round at the silent black assemblage, at the black coffin heaped with roses, felt deeply impatient with this show of grief. No one there grieved for the Judge, except perhaps Nora, sobbing in a corner, and himself. Mary was upstairs, not able to be present.

He looked coldly at Hilary, reading in his deep musical voice the funeral service. It was the custom to pronounce a panegyric on the departed; and he wondered what Hilary would say, and waited cynically for some hypocritical praise, for how could the preacher appreciate the Judge's real qualities? But he underrated Hilary's honesty. In truth it was impossible for Hilary to praise the Judge's life and character. It was not for him to betray the confidence of the old man's last days, of his fears, doubts and regrets, his halting steps toward the unknown. So he uttered simply a brief prayer, full of solemn tenderness for the passing soul. In Hilary's feeling the infinite was like the living air surrounding, interpenetrating, every finite thing; there was no line between life and death, except for a personal loss. To him also, the funeral panoply was unpleasant; he also reflected that the Judge had perhaps only one or two real mourners.

When it was all over and Laurence had returned to the house alone, he went up to see Mary. She was lying in bed, in the big room they shared together; she looked very white and tired and had evidently been weeping. Laurence bent to kiss her tenderly, and sat by her, holding her hand.

"He was a good friend to us," she said at last softly.

"Yes, he was, indeed."

"He thought everything of you, Laurence."

"I didn't deserve it especially."

"I'm sorry for him now, I'm afraid he feels very lonely."

Laurence looked at her uneasily.

"Because, you see," she went on slowly, "he never thought about his soul, till just lately, or about another life. It will be very strange to him. He was so worldly."

"He was a good man," asserted Laurence, frowning.

"No, Laurence, he wasn't," said Mary with inflexible regret. "He was bound up in worldly things, and had no light. So it will be hard for him."

"I don't think you are in a position to judge him," said Laurence sharply.

But then, seeing her tears begin to flow again, he reproached himself and tried to comfort her with soft words and kisses. He resolved once more that until Mary was quite strong again he would not cross her in anything, that even if she were unreasonable he would remember her state and be patient. He was really alarmed about her, she had never been ill before, never in the least morbid. Several times lately she had frightened him by saying that she thought she would die when this baby was born; and dissolving in tears for the other two babies who would be left motherless. Altogether she was unlike herself. Laurence, profoundly worried, had talked to Mary's father, who told him that she had had her children too fast and was tired out for the time, and naturally affected by the Judge's illness, but that there was no cause for great alarm. But at the mere idea of losing Mary, Laurence was deeply shaken. He would not have said that he was happy with her—in fact for the past year he had seldom felt happy—but he couldn't imagine being anything but miserable without her. He had loved her too long, too exclusively, to live without her. And always he had the hope, though sometimes unconscious, that she would change and love him as he wanted her to. That was all that was lacking, he thought, to make him perfectly happy. He believed in happiness and never ceased to expect it.

"Laurence," said Mary, when her tears had stopped, insensibly soothed by his tenderness, "I wish the Judge hadn't left us that money. We didn't need it."

"Well, sometimes I wish so too," he answered thoughtfully.

He was perfectly sincere in this. At times, after the Judge's will was made, the thought of the money had weighed on him. He disliked the feeling of obligation, even to the Judge; he would have liked to owe his advancement to his own efforts alone. But the Judge had stood behind him and helped him on, in every way. He was grateful, and yet he was burdened by that help.

In later years he was never able to forget it. Then it seemed to him that he owed his career to the Judge and to the condemned criminal Barclay, who had died in prison, for it was the Barclay case that gave him his professional start. He showed gratitude as best he could. He put up for the Judge a massive monument of granite; and he maintained Barclay's children. But he would have preferred to be independent of any assistance. He was conscious of powers that could make their way unaided. And he disliked the feeling that he had not been able to mould his life just as he wished, that in some ways it seemed made for him by forces beyond his control. That feeling did not yet oppress him, he was still too full of youthful energy; it was only an occasional shadow.

But many times, in the course of the next months, Laurence wished the Judge's money at the devil or in the hands of his disappointed relatives. Laurence, as executor of the will, had to deal with innumerable details and complexities that bored and bothered him; he hated "business." When finally the estate was settled, the relatives having decided not to contest the will, Laurence found himself in possession of a handsome income. The Judge had shown his faith in the future of Chicago by investing largely in real estate there; these holdings were rapidly increasing in value. They were in the business section and the rentals were high. In addition, the Judge's house and its contents, and his horses, were left personally to Laurence.

For a time, his enjoyment of these things was clouded. The attitude of the Judge's relatives had stung him, in spite of his consciousness that his efforts alone had procured them any share in the property. He was extremely sensitive to disapproval, to criticism, especially to any reflection on his independence. To feel that some people, perhaps many of his fellow-citizens, thought his relation with the Judge an interested one, that he might be suspected of "making a good thing" out of the Judge's friendship, galled him deeply. He knew that never in his life had he used any indirect means for his own advancement, that he was incapable of using people for his own interest, and he hated to appear what he was not. It was more than the pride of an honest man in keeping his reputation clear of any spot. Laurence cared more than he could admit about public opinion, about his position in the eyes of his fellow-citizens. Their admiration was necessary to him. His ambition could be satisfied only by predominance without any shadow on it, any reproach or sneer.

Professionally he understood how to keep himself safe from anything of that sort. There he stood on solid rock. His reputation for uprightness, for indifference to money, was unquestioned. He began to be considered "eccentric"; no one could predict what cases he would take, what refuse, except that the more unpromising a case appeared, the more apt he was to take it. He made enemies, of course; but this sort of enmity pleased him. He liked to be called "quixotic" and to be accused of "tilting at windmills." In the law he knew perfectly well what he was about. His law was sound; he worked faithfully and constantly to build up his knowledge. He aspired to the judicial ermine, and a spot upon it would have killed his pride. He would be known as an able and incorruptible judge.

He would not owe his position to politics, either, if he could help it. Judge Baxter had been a busy politician, and had striven to initiate Laurence into the local situation. But Laurence had not been interested; he hated wire-pulling and contests for power. Naturally he belonged to the party that had supported the war and was now all-powerful. But he wanted none of the spoils, at present. His political activity was confined to supporting what he thought good candidates and opposing bad ones; his test being the public welfare. He had identified himself more than he would have thought possible with his town. Its growth and prosperity had become important to him. He wanted the town improved and did not want it plundered, and had made his position clear. It suited him—active, and yet aloof from any vulgar scramble for profit. The enemies made for him by this activity he despised; they could not hurt him, he was too strong. The public esteem that he cared for was increased rather than otherwise by their opposition.

IX

But he had his vulnerable point.

When he saw money coming in faster than he could spend it, piling up at the bank, he felt that the time had come to change their way of living. The house that he had wanted to live in had been in his mind for years. It remained only to get an architect from Chicago and have the plans drawn for the stately mansion of his dreams.

Yes, one other thing—to persuade Mary that she too wanted it.

Mary had another son now—a frail infant in whom her life and thoughts seemed centred. It had been a question whether this child would live, and she still watched it with anxious care. She had not fully recovered her own health after its birth—she was thinner, looked much older. For the first time she was a little careless of her own appearance, thought nothing of her dress, and even her rich hair lost its lustre and sometimes straggled untidily from its heavy knot.

Laurence did not like this change in her—her total absorption in the nursery, her prevailing anxiety, which seemed to him exaggerated. His children had not reached the stage of development necessary to interest his mind. He was fond of them, proud of the two sturdy older ones, and concerned about the sickly youngest. But he could not see why Mary couldn't take a little interest in life outside them. It was partly his desire to give her another interest, something that she could share with him, that made him broach the subject of the house. He wanted a more social life—something that they could join in, beside mere parenthood. Magnificence would become Mary, if she only thought so. She was a beautiful and stately woman, in spite of her present neglect of herself, and would be in her proper place at the head of a big establishment. She ought to have more servants, to entertain, to wear rich dresses of silk, to be adorned with jewels. He wanted to see her so—he wanted more amusement, more gaiety. They were both young—why bury themselves in a mere daily round of work and care?

Mary at first opposed his idea, but languidly, from mere lack of interest in it. When he grew warm and petulant, and passionately accused her of not caring for anything that he did or for any of his wishes, she yielded the point without more ado. It was Laurence's money, of course he could do as he liked with it. She thought they were very comfortable as they were, but if he didn't like the house and wanted a bigger one, very well, let it be built. One house or another was much the same to her.

Laurence drove out with her one day to see the site he had selected—on the outskirts of the town, which was however rapidly growing. It was a big pasture, running from the road back to the edge of the lake—a rough piece of ground, thickly overgrown with weeds and with straggling willows under which the cattle gathered. But Laurence already saw it laid out in lawns and shrubbery, framing the great house of brick and stone that should dominate the town. Here would be the stables, there the gardens. There should be a boathouse on the lake, there should be a screen of rapidly-growing trees along the road, a splendid entrance with tall gates, a graveled drive leading to the house.

His face lit up as he eagerly explained it all to Mary, pointing with his whip, holding in the restive horses with a strong hand, turning the light buggy dexterously around the rough prairie hillocks and mud-holes. A bull came out of a group of cattle and looked at them sullenly with lowered head. The horses wheeled and started nervously. But Laurence with the lash of the whip and firm control, forced them to pass directly in front of the menacing animal, and continued his talk. Mary listened, wrapped up in her mantle, agreeing to all his suggestions....

It was a bright autumnal day, clear and crisp, with a strong breeze blowing. Yellow leaves from nut-trees and maples swirled in clouds along the ground and covered the road. Laurence wanted to drive a little further into the country; Mary assented, saying that she must be at home by six o'clock.

"You ought to get out more—even this little drive has done you good, you have some colour," Laurence said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

She smiled, shut her eyes with pleasure, feeling the rush of the wind as they drove against it.

"Yes, I'd like to drive every day—you manage them so well."

"Then we will! I'll try to get away for an hour each day, if you'll come, Mary.... But you always have some tiresome thing to keep you at home."

"Do you call the children tiresome things?" she asked, smiling.

"Well—I do, sometimes," he confessed. "They take so much of you.... I'd like to drive you away somewhere, now, away from all of it, for a while. I wish we could run away together. I hardly ever see you, Mary!"

"You see me every day, except when you're away—I should think you must be tired seeing me."

"I never see you alone, except at night and then you're always tired.... I want things arranged so you won't have so much to do, so that we can have an evening together sometimes—go out somewhere or be alone together, without your having to go and sit with some baby or other," said Laurence with sudden peevishness.

"Well, you know, bringing up a family isn't all pleasure," Mary reminded him with mild reproof.

"I should say it wasn't!... But there might be a little. You might think about me, once in a while, and put on a pretty dress and sing to me, the way you used to. You'll be getting old if you keep on this way!"

"With three children you can't expect me to look like a girl," Mary protested.

One of the trotters shied at a paper blown across the road, both horses reared and the light buggy rocked dangerously. Laurence lashed them, stinging blows, then checked their leap with a wrench, pulling them back on their haunches.

"Laurence! You shouldn't lose your temper with the horses," remonstrated Mary.

"They have to know who's master," he answered curtly. "But you make me angry, talking that way about yourself. You're not thirty yet, and you want to live like an old woman! Why don't you put on a cap and spectacles?"

"Well, my mother wore a cap when she was thirty. At thirty a woman can't pretend to be young," said Mary, smiling.

"Pooh, your mother! A woman with your looks, too! You'd be more beautiful than ever if you'd take care of yourself. You haven't ever worn that silk dress I brought you months ago."

"Oh, I haven't had it made up—it's much too gay, Laurence! You know I never wear colours."

"Well, you ought to.... I should think you might want to please me, once in a while.... But you women! All you think about is children, and a man can go hang himself, for all you care. You wouldn't even want him around, if you could have children without him!"

"How you talk! Anybody would think you didn't care about the children!"

"I care a lot more about you than I do about them—but it isn't the same with you. What's the use of having children if nobody's going to enjoy life—if everybody's just to go along doing their duty and raising up another generation to do the same thing? Hey, what's the use of it?"

"I don't think the use of it is enjoyment," said Mary. "It isn't meant to be."

"Just like you! How do you know what it's meant to be? Have you had any private revelation from God about it?... Well, I tell you that I don't see any use in life if there isn't any pleasure in it—and that I'm going to enjoy my life, anyhow, and when I don't, it will be time to quit!"

"Laurence, you're a pagan," said Mary gravely.

"A pagan is better than a psalm-singing hypocrite, that wants to take all the pleasure out of life!"

"Do you mean me by that?" she enquired gently.

"No, I don't mean you! You're not a hypocrite, whatever else you are.... If you'd only unbend a little, once in a while, and let yourself have a good time, you'd be all right. But you got a lot of foolish ideas into your head when you were a girl—and I know who put them there too. And you hang onto them like grim death, you're so obstinate you won't ever give up an idea or anything else. You won't change—no matter if you see it makes me unhappy—"

He broke off suddenly, and for some moments they were both silent. They were now far beyond the town, out on the open prairie. Great fields of stubble from which the grain had been reaped, stretched on either side. In spite of the bright sun and the fresh wind, the outlook over these endless yellow-brown flats, broken by dull-green marsh or dark belts of new-turned soil, was not cheerful. Dreary, rather, and sombre was the prairie, its harvest yielded, waiting now for the sleep of winter. In the distance, a grey smudge on the horizon showed where lay the great sprawling smoky city. With his eyes fixed on this Laurence said:

"But I've known a long time that you don't really care anything about me."

"You shouldn't say such things—you know better.... It's only that we don't look at life in the same way."

"And you're contented to have it so! But I'm not. Why can't you see it more as I do, Mary? I think you would, if you cared about me."

"No, I can't, you are so personal about it. You want things so much for yourself, and you will always be disappointed, Laurence. Life isn't given us for our personal pleasure."

"You talk like a book or an old greyhead.... I don't think it's living at all to slide through life thinking about something else—not to want anything for fear you'll be disappointed! I think that's cowardly. It's better to try for things."

"Yes, but what things? I can't care much about worldly things—houses to live in and clothes to wear. I can't, Laurence."

"You seem to think that's all I care for," he said bitterly. "But you don't understand me and don't try to. What I wanted isn't houses and clothes! It was something very beautiful, to me. Something that would last for our whole life—and beyond it. But you couldn't see it. Even now you don't know what I mean."

The suffering in his voice touched her, she leaned toward him and laid her cheek to his.

"I wish I could be what you want—I wish you could be happy," she said.

"You could be, if you wanted to be!... No, I'm not happy, and I can't be contented this way, Mary, I warn you, I can't be!"

The menace of his suppressed violence left her silent and impassive. He too fell into moody silence, and so they returned to the house.

That night the whole town was roused from sleep, to see a red glare in the sky where by day hung the grey smudge over the city. The news came over the wires—Chicago was burning. A strong wind blew the smoke over the prairie, the town was enveloped in a dim haze. Trains came in, bringing refugees. Later, crowded into all sorts of vehicles, they poured in. The town opened its houses to the flood of terrified homeless people. All night blazed that red light in the sky. The wires went down, but each new arrival brought a story of more complete destruction, of whole streets of wooden houses bursting into flame at once, of brick buildings melting like wax in the furnace. By morning the city of half a million people was in ashes.

X

But the energy of youth does not stop long to mourn over destruction. Hardly had the ground cooled under that vast heap of ashes when it was torn up for new foundations. Almost overnight a new city began to rise, a prouder city where brick and stone largely took the place of wood. Ruin was swept away and forgotten, men toiled in the busy ant-hill to rebuild their fortunes, and within a year it was done. The city spread along the shore of the lake and far inland, bigger than ever, busier than ever, more splendid and prosperous.

At first, in the general ruin, Laurence had thought himself involved. His rent-producing buildings were gone, and the insurance companies prostrate. But the land remained, and by the outleap of energy and hope in the people, became more valuable than before. Long before the end of the year Laurence was at ease about his property. And so the new house that he had planned began to rise from its deep foundations.

The house became to Laurence a symbol, a personal expression. Indeed, it had been that, from his first idea of it. But as time went on, more of his constructive energy went into it. Checked in another way, an immaterial way, he must still be building something. The house at least was his creation, all his own, and it became a keen interest, almost a passion. The plans were drawn and redrawn till they suited him, he scrutinized each detail, he spent all the time he could spare in watching the workmen. When from the stone foundation the walls began to grow, layer on layer of deep red brick, he sat or lounged about by the hour, smoking one thick cigar after another, impatient, already seeing in his mind the whole structure complete up to the spire on the cupola, and planning the decoration of the stately rooms.

Mary sometimes accompanied him. She made an effort to do so, and to join in his interest. But it was somewhat as she might have joined in a child's play, humoring him, and he saw this. Nevertheless, he was glad to have her there with him, to talk to her about it, to ask her advice. But the ideas were all his—she had not many suggestions to offer, and these were practical ones, about pantries, closets, and so forth. The scale of the house rather daunted her—sometimes she murmured that it was going to be hard to run it, with nothing but raw untrained servants to be had.

"Well, you can train them," said Laurence cheerfully.

He planned the entrance-hall with its stately stair, its niches for statues; the billiard-room on the top floor; the library, with long windows looking out on the lake and a chimney-piece of dark marble reaching to the ceiling.

He wanted the house to be gay, inviting, festive in appearance—yet his plan was rather sombre than gay, grandiose. In spite of himself, what he chose had this character. The wish to make a striking effect, to impress and dominate, was stronger than the desire to please. Perhaps this came from the poverty and bareness of his early life—perhaps from some lingering ancestral memories of the old world. He wanted splendour, but he wanted it somehow aged and mellow, he did not like the appearance of newness. So the colour of the house was dark, dark wood was used in it. When it came to wall-papers and hangings, he chose them of heavy textures and deep colours. A sombre and dusky red was a favorite—he used that in the hall, the billiard-room and the library. He wanted Mary to choose the colour for the parlours, but in the end he decided that too, and it was a dark gold, with heavy double curtains of lace and silk subduing the faint gleam of the walls, and great chandeliers to light it up on festive occasions.

All this cost a great deal of money—how much, Mary did not enquire. She took it for granted that Laurence could manage his own affairs—and they both looked upon the fortune inherited from the Judge as his, though of course it was left in trust to the children. That was a formality, the money had been meant for Laurence. Naturally he would not impair the capital, but would rather increase it, by good investments. The house was an investment—what could be safer than that? The Judge had always laid stress on the value and safety of real estate. And already the value of his estate had increased largely. Values were going up everywhere. A wave of prosperity had overflowed the country. With the settling of political troubles, the new sense of security, a feeling of boundless wealth and opportunity sprang up and prevailed. The great west opening its riches, the quick growth of cities, fortunes made overnight almost, golden fortunes beckoning on every hand—the eyes of men were dazzled, the gold-fever ran in their veins. Gaining and spending went hand-in-hand. A new luxury was spreading. Money-scandals spread too, and a cynical perception that those in high places were by no means above lining their pockets in alliance with the rising power of Wall street. Speculation was the note of the time. Merchant princes, railroad barons, money kings, made a new aristocracy, prodigal and flamboyant, and set the fashion for living.

These big splashes in the pool, spreading tumultuous waves, had subsided into ripples before they reached the inlet where Mary lived; but the quiet surface of her life was to some degree disturbed. The restlessness of the time reached even her, but as something to be resisted as far as possible. The few friends she had were staid people, rather older than herself, and with these or with her parents, she preferred to spend what leisure she had. Her household mainly absorbed her energies, not yet restored to their normal pitch. Even with Nora, the care of the children was a constant occupation. The delicate youngest child was Mary's special charge. He shared her room, sometimes banishing Laurence, who could not wake at night after working all day.

The other boys, now six and five years old, were handsome robust fellows, noisy and inventive of mischief. The question of their education troubled Mary. She herself taught them to read, and began their religious instruction. She did not want to send them to the town school, fearing profane influences. Her early passionate tenderness for them had become a grave solicitude. Nora petted and spoiled the boys, but Mary was their taskmaster and mentor. Nora often lost her temper with them, and slaps alternated with kisses. Mary was calm and serious, severe with their moral lapses, such as fibbing and disobedience, rarely caressing them. She felt for them much more tenderness than she showed, believing that it was not good for them to be petted. On Hilary's advice, she had not taught her boys Greek, though by this time she could read it pretty well herself. But she taught them the Bible; they went to church with her, and on Sundays they had to learn and recite to her a certain number of verses; and she heard them say their prayers at night, encouraging original efforts.

For some time past she had felt that Nora was not a good influence. She was too much of a child herself, stormy, impetuous, without any authority over the boys. When she could not control them, she would threaten, scold and at times use physical violence, always repenting it, though, and making up with kisses and fond words. Mary had forbidden her to slap the children and sharply reproved her when she broke any of the rules laid down for them. Then Nora would sulk. In fact her temper had become noticeably bad.

One day in late September, after a week's absence, trying a case at the county seat, Laurence was expected home. Nora dressed both the boys in clean white suits, combed their curls with nervous fluttering fingers, set them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran up to her own room to put on some adornment. The carriage drove up. Mary met Laurence at the door, and after his usual warm greeting stood a moment in the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his bags. Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the shrubbery. Both parents rushed out, to find the boys, just dragged out of a mud-puddle, daubed from head to foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the hands of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. Mary seized the children, ordered Nora away and received a rude answer; whereupon Laurence spoke sternly to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled to her room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild sobbing. She could hear too, while dressing the boys anew, that Laurence went in and spoke to Nora; could hear the firm curt tones of his voice.

Presently he came into the nursery, and she said:

"I really think I can't keep Nora. I can't have scenes like this."

"No, I've told her so," said Laurence, frowning. "I've told her that she can't speak to you like that, and that if she can't control herself she'll have to go."

He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time. Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed. Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a big fee—a will contest, involving a large estate. He had taken it because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish.

"I shall charge them ten thousand—they're willing to pay more than that. So you see, Mary, you needn't worry about the price of carpets," he laughed.

After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, relaxed, tired but still talkative, smoking his big black cigar and watching with bright and contented eyes Mary at her sewing. He was always happy at returning home, the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And Mary was always glad to have him come back. She missed him deeply when he was away. He often brought disturbance, but he brought too something that she needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower current, though it might be more peaceful.

He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his arrival, but Mary had not. She thought of the children and presently laid down her work and said that she must see if they were covered properly—the night had turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. A light was burning in the nursery. As she entered she saw Nora kneeling by one of the cribs, her face bowed, hidden. Nora raised her head and turned toward the door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean—that radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth half-opened and smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora dropped her eyes, all the light went out of her. She got up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping child. And Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the room without speaking.

She returned to the library, took up her work again, listened to Laurence, responded to him, smiling tranquilly on him; after a time moved to sit beside him at his behest, and answered his caress. But all the time there was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure, hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister way disturbed even the current of her blood, made her heart beat heavily. It was a kind of fear, a vague terror of—she knew not what exactly, but something there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from.

She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion of Laurence. Nothing of that sort had existed for her, it had never entered her world for an instant. Now she hardly recognized it, except as a formless shadow of evil. Deceit, treachery—could she phrase such things, even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poisoned her sleep, it was there at her waking.... In spite of herself, not admitting it to herself, she suspected—she watched.

XI

A wild November night. The wind tore furiously across the prairie, sweeping the rain in slanting sheets. It was growing colder; rain became sleet; before morning it would be snow.

It was nearly midnight when Mary shut the door behind her and gathering her shawl over her light dress, rushed out into the storm. She was not sure she had been seen, but she ran, fearful of being overtaken. The icy rain drove in her face, on her uncovered head, soaked her dress under the flapping shawl. She had not far to go, but she was drenched from head to foot before she reached Hilary's house. She met no one in the street, it was not a night to be abroad. The trees tossed wildly overhead, letting go their last yellow leaves, the street-lights flickered dimly in the gale. There was a light in Hilary's study. She opened the house-door and walked into his room without knocking.

He was writing at his table, and sprang up as she entered, with a startled exclamation. She held out her hands to him, dropping her wet shawl, clutched his arm, clung to him, unable to speak. For the first time Hilary held her in his arms, her head with dishevelled streaming hair lay on his shoulder. She would have fallen if he had not held her. He thought she had fainted. Half-lifting her, he put her on the sofa, where she sank limp, and knelt beside her, putting back the wet strands of hair from her face. Her eyes were shut, but her eyelids flickered, her lips moved.

"Mary, for heaven's sake, can't you tell me what has happened?"

She heard him, nodded faintly, groped for his hand and clutched it as though to save herself from sinking. He waited while she fought to get back her hold on herself. For the first time in her life she had nearly lost consciousness, and she was terrified; it was like a black wave rearing over her head, threatening to engulf her. That feeling passed, slowly, Hilary's grasp sustained her, lifted her out of the dark flood.... She drew a long sobbing breath and opened her eyes.

"Hilary...."

She had never called him so before.

"Yes, I'm here."

"I came to you.... I came.... There was nobody else...."

"Yes, Mary, you're cold, you're shivering.... Lie there a minute while I stir up the fire."

"Yes, but don't go away!"

"No, I'm not going."

Reluctantly she let go his hand. He shook down the coals of the stove, put on some sticks of wood, brought coverlets to put over her.

"Mary, you're wet through.... Don't you want me to speak to Mrs. Lewis, get you some dry clothes?"

"No, no—no! I'll be warm in a minute...."

She sat up, gathered her loose hair together, trying to wind it into a knot.

"Look here, Mary, I have a warm dressing-gown. Take off your wet dress and put it on—go into my room there. And take off your shoes—good heavens, you've only got thin slippers! Here, I'll get you my slippers.... I'll bring the things, you can change here."

"No, I'm all right now. I'll go in there."

She stood up and moved without faltering. When she came out, wrapped in the grey gown, her hair smoothed back and rolled into a heavy knot, she had regained something of her usual manner. But she was deadly pale and her eyes looked dull and dazed, as though she had received a heavy blow. She sat down before the fire. Hilary sat near her, and holding his hand tightly in both hers, she told him in broken sentences what she had discovered.

"You must tell me what to do.... I shall never go back to him."

Hilary was silent.

"What shall I do?" she repeated, looking imploringly at him.

"But if you have made up your mind already—" he hesitated.

"Not to go back? Oh, yes.... But where shall I go?"

"Why, I should think—to your parents. Where else could you go?"

Now she was silent, and an expression of profound dislike and unwillingness made her face sullen. She dropped Hilary's hand and sat looking at the fire. Then suddenly she began to weep violently.

It was long before she could control herself again. Then she was quiet, crouched before the fire, staring at it with a look of despair.

Indeed the foundations of her life seemed to have crumbled under her. She had a lost, helpless feeling. Something had been violently wrenched away from her—a support that she had thought secure. She had never thought that Laurence could fail her, she had been sure of him. But he had deceived, betrayed her confidence. He had wounded her pride in him and in herself, to the death. She hated his sin, she despised him for it. What she had seen filled her with loathing. Never would she forgive him.

But now—what could she do? How make her life over again? Take her children and go back to her parents, as Hilary suggested? A woman separated from her husband—what a humiliating position for her! A public confession of failure! How could she go to her parents and tell them that she had made a mistake, that their opposition to her marriage was justified? And the comments of her little world, how could she bear those, she who had always stood so proudly above criticism? No matter what the reason for the separation, a woman who left her husband was always criticized. And she did not want to give her reason—not to any one, not even to her parents. She wanted nobody to know. Rather would she bury the events of this night in darkness....

She looked at Hilary, who sat by her in silence. If he had uttered a word of pity or condolence, she would have regretted the impulse that brought her to him. But he met her look gravely; then glanced at the kettle he had set on the stove, which was now beginning to steam.

"I shall make you some coffee—you look exhausted," he said.

"Oh, don't bother—I don't care for it," she protested dully.

"No bother—I often make it when I'm up late. I have everything here."

He fetched the coffee-pot, poured on the boiling water, set it back on the stove. A pleasant aroma filled the room. He brought a tray, with a cup, and sugar, and crackers, and Mary took it with a murmur. The coffee was good—she drank two cups of it and felt revived.

"Won't you have some?" she said, with a faint smile.

"I haven't another cup—but I'll get a glass."

They drank together. It was warm before the fire, sitting there, hearing the wind roar and the rain beat against the windows.

"I'd like to stay here," said Mary dreamily.

"To stay ...?"

"Yes—tonight. Can I stay? It must be late."

Hilary looked at his watch.

"Nearly three o'clock ... of course you must stay, you can't go out in the rain. You can lie down on the sofa here—or take my bed. You ought to sleep."

"No, no, I don't want to sleep.... But I mustn't keep you up all night. You go to bed, Hilary, and I'll stay here by the fire. Please."

"Well, after a while.... But Mrs. Lewis gets up early and I want to see her—I'll have to tell her you're here—"

Mary's face darkened. For an instant she had lost the feeling of what had happened, now it swept back upon her. The morning was coming—how was she to face it? Laurence would know of her absence, perhaps knew it now. He might go to her parents, he might come here to fetch her. She must decide something.

"Don't you think I ought to leave him?" she asked, looking at Hilary.

"I don't know. Do you mean—divorce him?" he replied with an effort.

"Divorce! No!" Mary exclaimed with a look of horror. "You don't believe in divorce!"

"I don't believe in it," said Hilary in a low voice. "Nor in separation."

"I know—I know you don't. But...."

"You know what I believe. That marriage is a sacrament ... that it can't be broken or annulled...."

"But if one has broken it—"

"One may sin against it—but another's sin does not—does not justify—"

Hilary got up, putting down his glass with a shaking hand, and walked to the window.

"I know. I believe as you do," said Mary darkly.

"But ... how can I go back there?"

Over the pallor of her face swept a flaming colour, her eyes flashed with rage.

"In my own house!" she cried hoarsely.

She set her teeth, clenched her hand. Hilary, with his back to her, did not see her face, but he heard her tone.

"You have your children, you have your—duty," he said in a trembling voice. "Just because it is hard, you can't—forsake it."

"No," said Mary blankly. "But ... I can't see ... I have been dutiful ... but now—I can't be the same. I can never be the same! What can I do?"

"Not the same ... but perhaps ... better," said Hilary from the window.

"Better?" she cried in a low tone of astonishment.

"Better—yes.... When one near to us fails ... must we not feel we have failed, too?... Can we stand aside, and condemn?... Are we not ... our brother's keeper?"

After these faltering yet firm words there was silence for a time. Then Mary said in a hard tone:

"I can't see where I have failed.... I have tried to do my duty, as I saw it.... I can't feel responsible for this ... and I can never forgive it."

"Only love can forgive."

"No, that's why I can't forgive!... I did love him, and he deceived me, insulted my love—I will never forgive him!"

"It's pride that speaks—not love."

"You know nothing about it! You can't know!"

"I do know, Mary."

Hilary turned and faced her.

"How can you say that? You know that I loved you for many years, that I loved you as any man loves a woman, that I wanted you for my own ... I can tell you now, because it has passed. It has changed. But I suffered what one can suffer from that feeling—and from jealousy. Yes, I do know.... And I know too that you have never loved any one."

"You are mistaken."

Her tone was proud and angry. But then all of a sudden she softened. She looked up at him and said with simplicity:

"I love you, Hilary. You are the best person I've ever known. You're like my brother ... only you're far, far above me. I always used to feel that way about you, and now I feel it more than ever. And I love you for it.... But there's another kind of love ... when you're bound to a person, and they hurt you, you can't love them just the same and forgive them—you can't, Hilary! Because your faith has been destroyed, and what bound you to the person is broken, and it can never be the same.... Even if I haven't always been perfect, I didn't break my faith, but he has broken it, and it's gone—gone forever!"

And she began to weep again, passionately. There was no pride about her now. She cried out her suffering and loss, with heartbroken sobs.

"I know I haven't always been good, I've been hard sometimes and took my own way and wouldn't give in—but I wouldn't have done what he has done.... I wouldn't have deceived him or hurt him as he has hurt me.... I wouldn't have broken our marriage, but he has done it.... It shows that he didn't care for it, it didn't mean much to him.... I thought he loved me, but because I wasn't everything he wanted, he took another woman ... there, in the same house with me.... And he doesn't love her either, I know he doesn't, he sinned from weakness, low temptation—oh, I wouldn't have believed it of him. I knew in some ways he was worldly, but I always thought he was honest and sincere, I was proud of him ... but now...."

When she grew quiet again, and raised her tear-blurred face, it was to see a dim light outside the windows—the stormy dawn.

"Oh, poor Hilary!" she cried. "I've kept you up all night—you haven't slept a wink!"

"That's nothing," he answered gently. "I often have sleepless nights."

XII

Then, forgetting him, she stared at the dim light of the window, her eyes wide open and fixed, her lips parted with long shuddering sighs. Slowly her breathing grew quieter. Hilary watched her face.

"Mary," he said in low voice.

She started, turning her blank unseeing eyes upon him.

"Be careful what you do now.... You are hardening your heart.... Judge not, that you be not judged.... When pain comes to us, it is a symptom, a sign that something is wrong in our life. We must look through the pain to what caused it, and set it right. We must do it humbly, not setting ourselves up above the sinner. If another has sinned against us, let us see why. Are we free of blame for that sin? If we had been all that we should have been, would this have happened? Let us try to understand.... They that have eyes to see, let them see...."

There was no response in those blank eyes, no sign that she had heard. In her intense preoccupation she simply stared at him instead of at the window.

Mary was making up her mind. Something in her heard and registered Hilary's words; but they did not enter into the question that was absorbing her. This was a purely practical question. She had to decide what she was going to do now. And those well-known phrases uttered in Hilary's deep urgent voice as though they were new—they to all appearance passed by her like the idle wind.

She could see already what she was going to do. She was not going to make a scandal, nor have any one talking about her or pitying her. Enough, that she had complained to Hilary!... This thing should be as if it never had been, so far as her outward life went—no one should know. She would not "leave" her husband. But the sinner would not go unpunished.... She knew well how to punish him. She knew how to make him suffer....

Now, resolved, she rose to her feet.

"The baby! He always wakes about five—if I'm not there he'll be frightened. I must go back at once."

Hilary looked piercingly at her.

"You're going back then?"

"Yes, I'm going back. You told me to, didn't you?"

Her tone and look were cool, faintly mocking.

"It's snowing hard," said Hilary.

He put out the lamp—a grey light filled the room.

"No matter—it's only a little way."

"I'll get a carriage for you—"

"No—I'd rather go back as I came."

"But you can't—you haven't any dry clothes—"

"No matter—it's only for a moment."

She went quickly into the bedroom, and came back in her limp white dress and slippers. She took the heavy India shawl and drew it over her head. Its damp folds completely covered her. Only her face was visible, white, composed, with a curious sinister light in it.

She put her hand out of the folds to Hilary. With that gesture he felt her put him away. He knew he was included in her unforgivingness, he had become a part of something she wanted to banish. She would hate him for knowing....

"Hilary," she said, "I want you to promise me something. Promise never to speak of this—not to any one else, I know you wouldn't—but not to me. Never speak of it to me again."

He dropped her hand, stood looking at her, and slowly his face became as inflexible as her own.

"You shut me out, then?... I count for nothing with you? You reject what you came here for—my help, my ... counsel...."

"No one can help me. You can't understand."

"You came to me, not for help or counsel. You came for sympathy, thinking I would stand with you against your husband. You counted on my feeling for you—you have always counted on it, though you would never admit it to yourself—"

"I don't know why I came.... But it was no use."

"No. Because you won't let it be. You'll go your own way ... repay evil for evil. I can see it in your face. I always knew you had it in you.... Oh, Mary, has it all gone for nothing—all that you said you believed in for so many years? Was it all on the surface—the first time life comes hard to you will you throw it all away?... No, I won't let you, I've cared too much for you—"

"What you say is no use, Hilary. You might as well promise."

"Of course not.... You know I won't."

"Then good-bye."

She looked at him indifferently and turned away. Noiselessly she left the house. She hoped that she might return unseen to her home, and rejoiced that no one was apt to be out so early. The snow fell thickly, blindingly, and covered her footsteps. The air was sweet, less cold than in the night, the wind had gone down. Each branch and twig was ridged with snow; it lay in a broad unbroken sheet over all surfaces, and seemed to give out light in the dim dawn.

As she approached the house, she wondered how she was to get in; the street-door locked with a catch and she had no key. But as she went up on the steps she heard the baby crying, and barely noticed that the door opened to her touch; some one had turned the catch back.... She ran upstairs. Laurence was in the room, dressed, holding the child, trying to quiet it. She threw off her shawl, put out her arms for the boy, gathered him to her breast. His cries ceased.

A flash of surprise and relief had lit Laurence's face at her entrance, but now he stood, looking pale and gloomy.

"How long has he been crying?" she asked.

"I don't know—not very long."

Still holding the child, she tried to light a spirit-lamp to heat some milk; Laurence silently helped her. When she had laid the baby on the bed, with his bottle, she said:

"You know I went out?"

"Yes, and I know where you went, too!"

Laurence's voice trembled, and his lips; she had noticed when he was lighting the lamp how his hands shook. His face showed deep lines that made him look ten years older. But Mary said with icy calmness:

"You didn't expect me to stay here, did you?"

"I know where you went," he repeated, his eyes dully flaming. "You ran to him, to—"

She was changing her dress for a warm wrapper, but suddenly she turned on him.

"Is that woman in the house?"

"No—she's gone."

"How is she gone—where?"

"What does it matter to you?... She went to the station, if you want to know. She meant to take the first train out."

"She can't go like that—like a thief in the night!... You are responsible toward her, Laurence."

"Don't worry about my responsibility. I'll take care of it."

"Yes, I suppose you will."

His harassed desperate eyes rested on Mary, searching, piercing.

"And you," he said thickly, "are responsible to me."

"For what?"

"For this whole thing—it's your fault."

"Is it indeed?"

"It is!... and your action tonight proves it. Flying out of the house—to your lover."

Mary was seated with her back to him, changing her wet shoes and stockings. She laughed—ironical laughter, deep with scorn.

"Yes, laugh! I know it's true!... Oh, I don't know what your actions have been, how can I know?... But I know your feeling, I know it hasn't been with me, but with some one else. You married me with that feeling in your heart—you did me a great wrong. I couldn't stand it.... For what I've done that's wrong, by God, you're responsible!"

Mary put on her slippers and stood up, tying the cord of the dressing-gown round her waist. She looked at him with cutting contempt.

"I don't care what you think.... But if I were a man I wouldn't try to shift my responsibility for my own sins to some one else."

"Will you take your own responsibility? Do you see that you've been wrong toward me?"

"No. I see that you're trying to throw the wrong on me to save yourself. Perhaps you want me to ask your forgiveness?"

"Yes, by God, I do."

She looked at him, under her long lids, with a blue icy gleam. Silence fell—charged throbbing silence; all the bitterness of those spoken words, all their venom, distilled in it. Words that sting and burn like fire—that leave ineffaceable scars....

Laurence waited a moment, then with a look of rage and anguish at her as she stood with averted face, he went out of the room, and she heard him leave the house. She was standing by the window, she saw him pass, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his coat flapping open. He disappeared in the veil of snow. A sharp pang shot through her. But she stood motionless.

On the bed the baby lay sucking at his bottle, holding it lovingly with his frail hands, making gurgling contented sounds. And now she heard the other children in the nursery, she must attend to them, there was no one else now to do it.

She was busy with the children for some hours. Then, leaving them all together in the nursery, she went into the big bedroom which had been Laurence's as well as hers, and set about removing all his clothes and other belongings into the smaller room at the back of the house where he sometimes slept. This room she arranged carefully, with her accustomed neatness, putting everything in convenient order, seeing that the lamp was filled and a fire laid ready for lighting.

In going and coming she had to pass the closed door of Nora's room. At last she stopped at this door, hesitated a moment, then flung it open. The room was swept and empty of all personal belongings—only there lingered a faint stale scent—Nora had been given to cheap perfumes. A look of disgust contracted Mary's pale face. She took out the key, locked the door on the outside, opened a window in the hall and flung the key far out into the snow.

She went once more into the neighbouring room and took from the table something she suddenly recollected to have seen lying there among Laurence's papers. It was a little leather case, containing a daguerreotype of herself, done at the age of sixteen. She had given it to Laurence when they were betrothed, and he had carried it through the four years of the war. The case was worn and shabby. She opened it and looked at the picture—a charming picture it was. The graceful dress, with its full skirt, and frilled fichu covering the girlish shoulders, the pure oval face framed in banded hair.... Laurence had loved it.

Mary took it into her room, and with tears running down her cheeks, she seized the fire-tongs, smashed the picture to pieces, and threw the whole thing into the waste-basket.