PART THREE (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, hardly that—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds like my obituary," he commented.

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

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

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

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

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

"What ails him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You do? He tells you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What, Father?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Father! The things you say!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I'll come."

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

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

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

"How did Laurence take it?"

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

"And he's gone?"

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

She laughed quite gaily as she went out.

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

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

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

IX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jim looked aggrieved.

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

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

"Yes—no, I'll get up," she said.

Still he lingered.

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

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

"I'd just as soon bring it up—"

"Run along!"

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

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

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

"Yes, you would," murmured Timothy sceptically.

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

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

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

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

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

"What's that for?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" asked Mary sharply.

"Oh—I think I be leaving."

"Is it the work—the wages?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, since we went in, but—"

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

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

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

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

She drank the wine and smiled faintly at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long has he been like this?"

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

"He looks terribly ill."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eleven-thirty."

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

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

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

XI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're tired out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XII

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Then you think he may—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary laid her hand on his arm.

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

"Well, do, then," said Mary.

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

"Well, do."

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

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

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

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

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

Mary remained silent, and he went on:

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

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

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

"It's about Nora—"

"Nora? What about her?"

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

Lavery looked sideways at her, discomfited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary was silent for some moments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, yes."

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

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

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

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

"Well, naturally."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? How?"

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

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

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

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

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

XIV

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

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

"Where? A woman? What woman?"

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

"Wants to see ...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in this way," said Mary.

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

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

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

Nora shook her head sharply.

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

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

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

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

"How do you know?"

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

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

Nora rushed out of the room.

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

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

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

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

"Nora!" she called clearly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, it is. I want to say—"

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

She stopped and her lowering gaze shifted.

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

Nora shrank at that and bit her lip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," he answered, faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When did you notice this change?"

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

"I'd better call Dr. Sayre."

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

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

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

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

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

"To get the doctor. Laurence is worse."

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

"No," said Mary, slipping the chain.

"Wait, I'll go with you—"

"No, I can't wait."

"Is he—very bad?" A sob.

"I don't know—the fever's up again."

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

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

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

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

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

"Pray for him! Pray for him!"

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

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

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