In the dusk Mary stood waiting for him by the gate. He had thought she
might be piqued or angry at him, but she met him without the slightest
coquetry, asking only where on earth he had been all day. Her tone was
almost motherly, a little anxious, as if he had been a truant child. He
liked it.
They sat on the steps. The wind had fallen and the evening was warm.
There was the crescent moon over the tree-tops, but tonight it was
hazy, a veil had drawn across the sky. There was rain in the air. A
syringa-bush beside the steps, in flower, and the honeysuckle over the
porch, were strongly fragrant.
"I'll tell you in a little while, I'm tired," said Laurence lazily. He
leaned his head against her knee and she swept her cool finger-tips
over his crisp black hair, touching his temples and his eyelids.
"Are you?" she asked softly.
He sighed with pleasure, shutting his eyes, knowing that he could take
his time to speak, Mary was in no hurry, she never was. Sometimes her
silence and repose had irritated him, but more often it was a deep
pleasure to him. The night was as quiet as she. Not a leaf stirred. A
cricket chirped under the porch. The honeysuckle was almost too sweet
in the damp air. Thin veil upon veil hid the stars, and the moon was
only a soft blur.
When her hand ceased to touch his hair, he reached up and took it,
clasping the cool strong fingers and soft palm. He moved and looked up
at her. She wore a white dress, sweeping out amply from the waist, open
a little at the neck, and she had a flower of the syringa in her hair.
The outline of her face, bent above him, was clear and lovely.
"How beautiful you are," he murmured. "I love you."
She put her arms around him and drew him up, his head to her shoulder.
"And I'm very, very fond of you," she whispered. "More than I ever was
of anybody. But sometimes you're so impatient."
"Yes," he said submissively.
"You get angry with me. You always did."
"Yes," he said humbly. "I'll try not to. But sometimes I think you
don't love me."
"But I do," she assured him gently.
"But sometimes--" he stopped.
"Well, what?"
"No, I won't say it."
"Yes, tell me."
"Well, sometimes--you don't seem to like to have me touch you, you--"
"I don't like you to be rough," said Mary.
"Am I--rough?"
"Sometimes."
"But if you liked me, you--"
"No, I do, and you know it."
"I don't see why you should, after all."
"Should what?"
"Love me."
"Well, it's been so long now, I couldn't very well stop," said Mary,
smiling.
"Yes, a long time.... And you really have, all the time?"
"Oh, yes."
"And nobody else? Ever?"
"No, you know it," said Mary, lifting her head proudly.
He was silent, thinking of the years past....
Yes, it had been a long time--six years. They had first met at the
High School, then at the country college where he was working his way
and Mary was preparing to teach. He hadn't made many friends--he had
been sensitive and apt to take offence, and had plenty of fighting to
do. But Mary had been his friend from the first. Hers was the first
"respectable" house in town to open its doors to him. He, however, did
not know what a battle-royal had been fought over his admission there.
Mrs. Lowell of course had been against him. In that little town
where people apparently lived on terms of equality, caste-prejudice
was subtle and strong, and Mrs. Lowell had her full share. Money
didn't count for much, as nobody had very much, but education and
"family" counted heavily, also worldly position. The town had its
aristocracy--the banker, the minister, the lawyers and the doctor.
Mary, with all her mother's obstinacy, had something of her father's
crystal outlook on the world, his perfect unworldliness. She cared
nothing for what "people would say," and she seemed to look serenely
over the heads of her neighbours and to see something, whatever it
was, beyond. When she and her mother had come to a deadlock about
Laurence, the doctor was called in, and gave his voice on Mary's side.
So Laurence had become a visitor, on equal terms with the other young
people--not invited to meals very often, for that was not the custom,
but free to drop in of an evening or to take Mary out. Their youthful
friendship had grown and deepened rapidly, and as Mary at seventeen
was old enough to teach school, she was able also to engage herself to
him, in spite of her mother's opposition and her father's wish that she
should wait. Many girls were married at seventeen or sixteen. Mary had
made up her mind, and when this happened, it was not apt to change.
Her nature had a rock-like immobility; hard to impress, it held an
impression as the rock a groove.
* * * * *
Memories and thoughts of her were passing through Carlin's mind--vague,
coloured by her warmth and nearness, a soft tide of adoration. He had
always admired her deeply, she appealed to his imagination as no other
woman ever had. He had known other women, more easily moved, more
loving, more ready to respond and give, than Mary. And he wanted love,
wanted it warm and expressive and caressing, wanted a long deep draught
of it. But--he wanted Mary, and no other woman. Now she would be his,
very soon. He was very happy there, with his head on her shoulder,
feeling the soft even beating of her heart; but at this thought he
moved, his arms closed around her impetuously, and the dreamy peace
that enfolded them was broken.
"There, you bad boy," she said with mild chiding. "Don't pull my hair
down--now tell me what you've been doing all day."
He told her, after some insistence--all except the meeting with Nora.
Laurence never, if he could help it, mentioned one woman he had any
liking for to another. But in this case he didn't think of Nora at
all. He told Mary all about the Judge and his offers; the prospect of
immediate work, of a temporary home with the Judge, if she liked the
idea. In that case they could be married at once.
She moved away from him, clasped her arms round her knees, and sat
silent.
"What is it--have I said anything to bother you?" asked Laurence
alarmed.
"I'm just thinking," she answered absently.
After a time she began to speak her thoughts.
"It will seem odd, going to live at the Judge's house. Mother won't
like it, she'll want us to stay here, she will think that people will
think it's queer if we don't. But it wouldn't be best to live here.
Father will understand, I think. He doesn't care what people think, it
never bothers him at all. But Mother is different."
"And how about you, Mary? Does it suit you?"
"Oh, yes, until we can have a house of our own."
"That won't be for long, I hope. I'll do my best."
Mary turned and looked gravely at him.
"Do you feel contented to stay here, after all?"
"Perhaps it's best," said Laurence vaguely.
"You know the Judge will be a great help to you, getting started."
"Oh, yes, I see that, it makes a lot of difference. But the main reason
is, you want it."
"Yes, I think it's better."
They spoke in low tones, though the house was empty and dark behind
them. The doctor was off on his round, and Mrs. Lowell had gone out to
a neighbour's. About them now the leaves stirred softly, a damp breath
lifted the honeysuckle sprays. Then came a soft rustling.
"Rain," said Laurence.
They moved up into some low chairs on the porch.
"Shall I get you a wrap?"
"No, thank you."
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
"No."
Laurence lit a cigar, and laid his left hand on Mary's knee. The gently
falling rain seemed to shut them in together, in a strange delicious
quiet.
"Can you tell me, Mary, why it is that you feel so strongly about this
place?... You've always lived here, why is it you don't want something
new?"
"I don't like new things," she said, after a pause.
"You're a strange girl!... You don't seem like a girl at all, sometimes
you seem about a thousand years old. I feel like a boy beside you."
"You _are_ a boy," said Mary. From her tone, she was smiling.
"I would like to know where you get your air of experience, of having
seen everything! It's astonishing!"
"Everything is everywhere," said Mary serenely.
"Now, when you say a thing like that! Upon my word! Where do you get
it? I don't half like it, it doesn't seem natural!"
Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great cloud of smoke.
"I hope you're not going to be a saint," he said petulantly.
Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away from his.
"There, now, I've done it again!" he groaned. "You think I'm a
barbarian, don't you. I don't understand you? Well, I don't! I think
you're wonderful.... But you don't explain things to me, you don't
talk--I don't feel that you give me your confidence, not all of it--"
"I don't like to talk much.... And you're in too much of a hurry about
everything," said Mary coldly.
"Well, _you're_ not!... You have about as much speed as a glacier!"
He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch and stood with his back
to her. But he couldn't stand there forever. And certainly Mary could
sit there forever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, the
white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all around, a great
wave of sweetness came from the honeysuckle.
It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the slow turning of
the earth, he might as well be angry with the rain for falling.... She
was right--he was impatient and violent, and foolish--awfully foolish.
No wonder she called him a boy.... Hadn't he any self-control, any ...?
He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing himself; she did not
accuse herself, but she put her arms around him. They made peace.