At the close of the service, the minister stood at the door, to shake
hands with his departing congregation. Carlin, not disposed to shake
his hand, went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They moved
on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of the sidewalk, under
the maple trees, and waited.
"He's a good speaker," said the doctor pensively. "I like to come and
hear him once in a while."
"Yes," said Carlin, coldly. "He's an able man."
"He's too mystical for me, though.... Seems to me you can think _too
much_ about salvation, you can look at your own soul so hard that you
get cross-eyed ... that's the way it affects some of them. The women
think a lot of him."
"Yes."
"I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous," went on the doctor
mildly. "It takes a strong head, you know, to keep it straight.... But
he's all right, himself, he's a good man. Got into trouble preaching
against slavery--he lost his first church that way, in Chicago--that
was before the war. Oh, yes, he's plucky."
The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched the church door for
Mary, then he went on:
"He doesn't pay much attention to worldly affairs, though--doesn't
care about political institutions and so on. We had a discussion when
he first came here, about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance
except the human soul, but each soul is of infinite importance, the
soul of the black slave is just as important as that of his white
master. He said he hated slavery because of its effect on the master
more than on the slave. He said the slave could develop Christian
virtues, but the master couldn't."
The doctor paused and chuckled softly.
"I asked him," he resumed, "why, if the slaves outnumbered the masters,
the sum of virtue might not be greater under slavery. But of course he
had his answer, we were not to do evil that good might come.... Shall
we walk on? The women-folks are probably consulting about something or
other. They do a lot of church-work."
After a moment's hesitation, Carlin accompanied him.
"I didn't know Mary was so much interested in the church," he said
moodily. "She wasn't, before."
"Well," said the doctor. "The war has made a difference, you know.
Life has been harder--not many amusements--and lots of tragedies and
suffering. We've had losses in our own family.... The church was about
the only social thing that didn't seem wrong, to the women, you see.
And they've done a lot of work, through it, for the soldiers and all
that.... Yes, Mary's changed a good deal, she's very serious. I think
the preacher has had a good deal of influence."
"How?" asked Carlin abruptly.
"Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, a vale of tears, a
place of trial, and so on.... It _is_, maybe, but she's too young to
feel it so. I hope she'll get out of that and enjoy life a little,"
the doctor ended, with much feeling.
They walked on in silence. Carlin's heart was sore. The doctor had
not mentioned his absence and peril as having anything to do with the
change in Mary. Well, perhaps it hadn't had. He gave way to a sudden
impulse.
"You're not against her marrying me, are you?" he asked tremulously. "I
know your wife is. She doesn't like me."
"No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence," was the doctor's
grave answer. "As far as _you're_ concerned, I've no objection.... But
sometimes I think Mary isn't ready to marry yet."
"She says she _is_," said Laurence quickly.
"I don't pretend to understand anything," said the doctor plaintively,
and sighed.
"Perhaps--you think she doesn't care enough about me--is that it?"
"Sometimes I think she doesn't care about anybody," was the regretful
answer.
When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in.
"I'll walk on, for a bit," he said.
* * * * *
The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a lamp. This room was
arranged to suit him, and he did as he pleased in it. It smelt very
much of tobacco, though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a
couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture consisted
of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides some shelves full of
books. Out of it opened his bedroom, which had an outside door with a
night-bell.
The doctor established himself in his easy-chair, with a pipe and a
medical review. But his attention wandered from the printed page, and
twice he let his pipe go out. Half an hour passed before the women-folk
returned, and he noted that they entered the house in silence.
He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she came in, she asked
with surprise, "Where's Laurence?"
"He went off for a little walk.... Sit down, my dear, I want to talk to
you."
Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on the sofa. She
disliked the atmosphere of this room, not so much the tobacco-flavour
as the flavour of the confessional. She was used to hearing low-toned
murmurs coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes sounds
of pain and weeping. And now she had an instant feeling that _she_ was
in the confessional, as had happened a few times before during her
girlhood, occasions of which she retained a definite impression of fear.
"Mary, are you sure you're doing right?" asked the doctor abruptly, yet
gently.
"Right?" she murmured, defensively.
"About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are ready to marry him, at
once."
"Yes, I am ready," said Mary, with a forced calmness. "We have been
engaged four years. I always expected to marry him when he came back."
"And you haven't changed your mind at all, in those four years? You
were very young, you know--it would be natural that you should change."
"No--I haven't changed."
"In some ways, you have.... But you mean not in that way. You still
love Laurence, as much as ever?"
"Yes," said Mary, her heart beating fast and sending a deep flush into
her cheeks.
"Because, you know, you are not bound to marry him," said the doctor
sharply.
"Don't you think that a promise is binding?" asked Mary.
"Certainly not--that kind of a promise! Are you going to marry him just
because you promised?"
"I have no wish to break my promise," said Mary.
"Because it's a promise, or because you want to marry him anyway and
would, if you hadn't promised? Come, Mary, answer me!"
"I want to keep my promise," said Mary clearly, with a look of the most
perfect obstinacy in her fair eyes.
The doctor was hot-tempered, and banged a book on his desk with
his fist. But instantly he controlled himself, for he loved this
exasperating child of his, and there was no one but himself to stand
between her and harm--so he felt it.
"You mean," he said tenderly, "that you haven't any reason _not_ to
keep it?"
Mary assented.
"And Laurence loves you and depends on you."
Her silence gave assent to this.
"You feel it would be wrong to disappoint him--desert him."
"Yes, of course it would be."
"And there's no one else you care about?"
The last question was sharp and sudden. Mary started slightly, and
cast a troubled and angry glance at her inquisitor. But such was the
personality of this little man with the gentle firm voice and pitying
eyes, such was his relation to his daughter, that she never thought of
denying his authority or right to question her. She felt obliged to
answer him, and truthfully too.
"Nobody--in that way," she said faintly.
"You don't love anyone else."
"No."
"And you haven't thought of marrying any one else?"
There was just an instant's hesitation before she answered:
"No."
The doctor reflected, and Mary sat still, her long eyelids
drooping--the image of maiden calm.
"Well, then, I was mistaken," said the doctor after a pause. "I thought
you were interested in some one else--and I guess your mother thought
so too.... But it wasn't that kind of interest."
"No, it wasn't," said Mary quickly.
"But it was--it is--an interest. I wish you could tell me what it is,
why you think so much of Mr. Robertson as you do, what your feeling is
about him."
"But--it isn't a personal feeling!" cried Mary, no longer calm,
suddenly alert and on the defensive. "It has nothing to do with that!"
"But you admire him and look up to him--"
"Of course I do! But you don't understand, you don't believe--"
"It's religious, you mean, it's your feeling for religion, and he
represents it--"
"Yes," said Mary angrily.
"Don't be vexed with me, my dear--perhaps I don't understand these
things, as you say.... But he is something like a spiritual director,
isn't he, now?"
"I don't know what you mean by that--"
"I mean, you talk to him about your religious feelings, and he gives
you counsel," said the doctor gravely.
"Yes--yes, he does."
"Have you talked to him about your marriage?"
"I--why, no!"
"You don't talk about worldly affairs, then--is that it? Do you think
marriage not important enough to talk about?"
"It isn't that! I haven't, because--"
Here was a pause, and the doctor asked:
"Perhaps because, Mary, you thought he had a feeling for you that--"
"No, it wasn't that! He hasn't--it isn't that at all!"
Disturbed, distressed, she got up.
"Wait a minute, Mary.... I wish you would talk to him about it," said
the doctor in his most serious tone.
"But, why? Why should I?"
"Why? Because it's a most important thing to you, and mixed up with
everything, or should be. Because you shouldn't keep your religion
separate from your marriage. Because you shouldn't shut Laurence out
from everything."
"I shut him out?"
"Now you do as I tell you, Mary," said the doctor quietly.
He sat looking out of the window, feeling her bewilderment and silent
revolt. He hesitated whether he should tell Mary that he thought
her religion erotic in origin and her feeling for the minister very
personal indeed, but finally decided against it. She would deny it not
only to him but to herself--women's minds were made like that. At last
he said:
"I think at first you were in love with Laurence--but four years is a
long time, and you were very young."
"I haven't changed," said Mary proudly.
"Yes, you have, but you don't want to admit it. You think there are
higher things than being in love. You seem to think of marriage as a
serious responsibility, a--sort of discipline."
"Isn't it?" she asked.
"Well, that isn't the way to go into it! Confound it, I tell you you
had better not!"
He glared at her over his spectacles, then put out his hand and drew
her toward him.
"What a child you are, Mary--with your airs of being a hundred and
fifty!... I don't think you understand anything. The basis of marriage
is physical, if that isn't right nothing is right--you want to think
of that, Mary. It's flesh and spirit, but _both_, not divided. If your
imagination is drawn away from Laurence to what you think are spiritual
things, then you oughtn't to marry--or you ought to marry Hilary."
Mary stood like a stone--her fingers turned cold in his grasp. He saw
the tears flood her eyes, and got up and led her to the door, and
dismissed her with a kiss on her cold cheek.
V
She went out and stood at the gate, waiting for Laurence, uneasy
about him, troubled by many thoughts, oppressed. She was still crying
when she heard his step down the sidewalk, firm and quick. The thin
little moon was already sinking behind the trees, but there was bright
starlight, so that Laurence could see her face.
"What's the matter, Mary?" he cried.
"Where have you been? Why did you run off like that?" she demanded with
a sob.
She swung the gate open for him, but he took her hand and drew her out.
"It's early yet--come, we don't want to go in yet. Come, let's get away
from everybody!"
She was quite willing at the moment to get away from everybody. Out
of a vague sense of injury she continued to weep, and to Laurence's
anxious inquiries she returned a sobbing answer:
"I don't think older people ought to interfere!... It's our own
business, isn't it?... What do they know about it?..."
Laurence agreed passionately that they knew nothing about it and had
better not interfere, and kissed her tearful eyes till she protested
that they must go on now or somebody would be coming. She said softly:
"Poor Laurence! This isn't very gay, for your first evening home!"
"Never mind about being gay!"
He drew her hand firmly through his arm and strode down the street
with a feeling that he was bearing her off triumphantly from a legion
of enemies. When she was near him, and in a troubled and melting
mood, like this, he feared nothing, his doubts vanished, he felt sure
of her, and that was all he cared about at present. As for anybody
interfering, that was nonsense. His spirits rose with a bound out of
the evening's depression. Soon he was talking light-heartedly and
Mary was laughing. He was quick and fluent, when at ease, and full of
careless, gay and witty turns of speech that amused and charmed her.
No one had ever amused her so much as Laurence. With him life seemed
really a cheerful affair, he was so rich in confidence--he had the
brightest visions of the future. He was bubbling over now with plans,
schemes of all sorts.... The vastness, the richness of the country, its
endless opportunities, were in his imagination, a restless ambition
in his veins. He had a feeling of his power, more than mere youthful
self-confidence. Already he had been tried and proved in different
ways, and had stood the test. So far he had always been successful. His
mind was restless now because a definite channel for his activity was
to be fixed. He wanted Mary's advice--rather, he wanted to know what
she wanted. His own most marked bent was toward the law, with a vista
of political power beyond. And there was money in the law, too. But if
Mary wanted more money, a lot of money--well, she had only to say so!
As his talk came back to this point, Mary said that she didn't care
about money, and that he had better stick to the law and go into Judge
Baxter's office.
"Not Chicago?... I thought you'd like to make a start in a big city,"
he suggested persuasively.
"Why not here?... You'd have a better start with Judge Baxter, and you
know he's a good lawyer, he has a big practice.... And then we could
live at home till you get started," Mary said practically.
No, Laurence didn't like that at all, it wouldn't do, living with
Mary's parents!... She didn't press that point, but she was firm
about not going away--not to Chicago, still less to some vague point
"out west." Laurence argued. _Why_ did she want to stay here, in this
one-horse town? Why not the city? There was more life, there were more
chances, in the city, she would like it better.... No! Mary couldn't
explain why she wanted to stay, but with emotion she made it clear that
she _wanted_ to....
Laurence was silenced. He took her hand and kissed it, perhaps in
acquiescence. But he meditated, puzzled, asking himself _why_, after
all....
He looked at the town from the vantage-point of his four years'
wanderings. By contrast with the great cities he had seen, the east,
populous and civilized, the picturesque south, beautiful mountains and
valleys, stately old houses, glimpses of a life that had been rich in
colour and luxury--beside all this the little town, his birth-place,
seemed like a mere mud-spot on the prairie.... A little square, with
a few brick buildings, the bank, the courthouse, small shops--two or
three streets set with frame dwelling-houses, straggling out into the
prairie--what was the attraction, the interest of this place?... His
absence had broken all his own associations with it except as to Mary.
His mother, the last remaining member of his family, had died the year
before; his only brother had been killed at Shiloh. The friends of his
youth had scattered, most of them in the army. He could not see himself
settling here.... Perhaps, for a little while, till he had finished his
law-reading, if he decided on the law--they might stay till then, since
Mary wanted it. But _why_ did she? To be sure, she knew no other place,
what friends and interests she had were here--but she was young, she
must want to see something of the world! He shook his head, in pensive
bewilderment. Women were queer, decidedly! He made no pretence of
understanding the sex--in fact never had had time or occasion to make
an exhaustive study of it.
They had come to the end of the board sidewalk; beyond was only a path
by the roadside. They went a little distance along this, but it was
muddy; a stream, dividing the road from the pasture, had overflowed.
Mary thought they had better turn back, but Laurence protested. So they
sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, among a clump of willows that
hung over the stream.
The lights of the town were faintly visible on one side; on the other,
the prairie stretched out dark and silent, with the starry sky bright
by contrast. A slight breeze swayed the long fronds of the willows, the
stream gurgled softly along its mud-bed, and from a pond out in the
pasture rose the musical bassoon of an amorous bull-frog.... The damp
heavy air, hardly stirring, had a sweet oppression, a troubled languor,
the pulse of the spring....
Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary gently in his arms,
and kissed her lowered eyelids and her lips, first lightly, then
lingeringly, then as she began to resist, with passionate possession.
"Don't--don't push me away," he begged. "Come near to me...."
But she was frightened, and struggled against his strong clasp, till
she slipped down, bent backward over the tree-trunk, and cried out with
pain and anger. Laurence released her suddenly, roughly.
"You don't love me," he said.
She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat still, turning away
from her.
"You don't love me," he repeated bitterly. "You'd better leave me--go
back."
Without a word she moved away, her head bent, stumbling a little on
the dark path. He looked after her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like
that, without a word to him, without a sign.... Was she angry--was she
hurt?... That silence of hers was a strong weapon. She disappeared
beyond the trees.... No, he couldn't let her go like that. In a moment
he overtook her.
"Take my arm," he said curtly. "The path's rough."
She took it, and they went back in silence. As they came to a
street-light he looked at her, and saw the mysterious mask of her face
more immobile, more impassive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him,
now it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to break with her,
to tell her that he was going away. She was too elusive, too distant,
too cold.... But instead, when they came to her gate, he only murmured
sadly:
"Forgive me, Mary."
And to his surprise she bent toward him to kiss him good-night, and
said steadily:
"You shouldn't have said what you did. I _do_ love you. Why should I
want to marry you if I don't love you?"
"I don't know, Mary," said Laurence with a faint weary smile.