IX

The minister lived in a small frame house near the church. A widow

woman of certain age and uncertain temper kept his house and provided

his ascetic fare. It was she who opened the door to Mary, with

the suspicious glance due to the visitor's youth and good looks.

Proclaiming that Mr. Robertson was busy writing his sermon, she

nevertheless consented to knock at his study door, and after a moment

Mary was admitted. Hilary rose from his desk to receive her, gave her

hand a quick nervous clasp, and indicated a chair facing the windows,

the only easy-chair in the bare room. For himself he was impatient

of comfort. He sat down again before his desk and waited for Mary to

speak, but seeing that she looked pale and troubled and hesitated, he

began with an effort to question her.

"What is it, Mary? You have something to tell me? How can I help you?"

She looked earnestly at him, her face was more youthful in its

expression of appeal and confidence.

"You're the only person I _can_ speak to.... Nobody else understands,"

she murmured. "Every one thinks I am wrong."

"How, wrong?"

"My mother is so unhappy, and she makes me unhappy.... Do you think I'm

wrong, to marry against her wish?"

Hilary was silent, looking at some papers on his desk and moving them

about. At last he said in a low voice:

"Not if you're sure, otherwise, that it's right--for you, I mean. We

have to judge for ourselves, nobody can judge for us.... Your parents

are opposed ... to your marriage?"

"Yes--in a different way, not for the same reason. My mother never has

liked Laurence, she doesn't trust him--and my father--doesn't trust

_me_, he doesn't think I know my own mind."

"And are you sure you do?"

"Oh, yes," said Mary. "I couldn't desert Laurence, possibly, and I

don't see why I should put him off longer--when it has been so long

already--"

"You want to marry soon, then?"

"Yes, in two weeks."

"Here?"

"Why, we would be married at home, I suppose."

"And then--are you going away?"

"No, Laurence is going into Judge Baxter's office, and we're going to

live at the Judge's house, for the present."

"I see," said Hilary, in a trembling voice.

"At first Laurence wanted to go away, to start somewhere else, but I

persuaded him to stay here," Mary went on. "I didn't want to go to a

strange place. All I care about is here. I don't want to go away from

you, Mr. Robertson, I depend on you--"

Hilary pushed back his chair sharply, then, controlling himself, folded

his arms tight across his breast. His back was to the light which fell

on Mary's face, raised toward him with a look of humility that perhaps

no one but he ever saw there.

"You've taught me so much, and helped me to see.... Before I knew you,

I didn't know anything about life, how one should live.... You're so

strong, so good...."

"_I_ am?... You know very little about it, Mary. Don't say that sort of

thing, please."

"Oh, it's just because you don't think you are that you're so

wonderful--"

Hilary looked into her eyes bright and liquid with feeling, and said to

himself that he must keep this faith, he must not disturb it by a look,

a word--or his hold on her would be gone. He said abruptly:

"Your mother has talked to me. She thinks--as you say, she doesn't

trust--Captain Carlin. She thinks he is irreligious and unsteady--and

with a bad inheritance. She is troubled about you, she thinks you are

marrying just because you gave your word, years ago, and don't like to

break it.... Is it so, Mary?"

In spite of himself, this question was a demand. Mary looked startled.

"No, no, she doesn't understand. I love Laurence, and he is good,

though--though in some ways.... Nobody is perfect, you know, and we

shouldn't stop loving people just because they aren't altogether--what

we would like.... We ought to try to help them, I know you think so--"

"You think you can help him, then?"

"I hope so, I--"

"Do you think you're strong enough to help another?"

Mary's bright look wavered a little, was shadowed.

"Aren't you too confident? Perhaps you have a little too much pride in

yourself. You may lose what you have instead of helping another."

She bowed her head, turning pale under this reproof, wincing, but she

said humbly:

"You will help me."

"I'm not sure that I can," said Hilary sharply. "When you are married,

it will be different--you may not be able to do as you would like, live

as you would--"

"But I must!" Mary got up, pale and agitated. "Laurence wouldn't

interfere with me in that way, he couldn't. Nothing could!"

She went a step toward Hilary, and stopped, suddenly bewildered and

almost frightened by his look. And Hilary could bear no more. He turned

away from her, bent over his papers, and said harshly:

"I must work now, I can't talk to you any longer.... Don't look for an

easy life, Mary, you won't have it."

"But I don't!" she protested.

With relief she seized upon his words, her eyes lit up again.

"Why should I look for an easy life? I don't want it--I expect struggle

and suffering, isn't that what life is? You have told me so--"

"Well, then, you won't be disappointed," cried Hilary almost savagely.

"If you _can_ suffer--I don't know whether you can or not...."

He took up a pen and dipped it blindly in the ink, and waited for the

closing of the door.

"You are against me too," said Mary blankly.

He made an impatient movement, but did not look around at her.

"You must not mind who is against you, as you call it, if you're sure

you are right. That's the hard thing, to be sure," he said in the same

harsh voice.

He was struggling. Why not be honest with Mary, tell her that he could

not advise her, tell her why?... He thought she could not be so blind

as she seemed to his feeling for her.... But it would be dishonourable

to express that feeling, as she was not free. And it would shock her

faith in him. She depended on him, not as a man who loved her, but as a

sexless superior being, who could teach and lead her.... But he was not

that, he was quite helpless himself for the moment at least, certainly

he could not help her. Why pretend to be what he was not?

He felt her bewilderment, her disappointment. He did not dare look

at her, still she lingered. What a child she was after all! Looking

for support, for approval, and yet so rigid in her own way, so sure

of herself! No, she never had suffered anything, and she was trying

to make of her religion an armour against life, that would keep her

from suffering. He mourned over her. She did not see anything as yet,

perhaps she never would, few women could. In his heart Hilary regarded

religion as the activity of a man, much as fighting. He was impatient

with the emotional religion of women; though he could hardly have

admitted it to himself, he had a tinge of the oriental feeling that

women have no souls of their own and that they can get into heaven

only by clinging to the garment of a man.... He would have said that

religion is too strenuous for women, they do not think, feel deeply

enough.... But it was his duty to help these weak sisters and manfully

he did it as best he could. They clung to his garment and he resisted

frequent impulses to twitch it out of their hands. In the case of

Mary he knew that she was as feminine as the worst of them. Only she

had more firmness, more clearness, there was some kind of strength in

her--and she did not chatter.

Oh, how beautiful she was!... He sat, making aimless scrawls on his

paper, and feeling her there behind him, feeling her gaze fixed on him.

She was waiting for him to say something, what on earth could he say?

Should he say that his heart was breaking at the thought that in two

weeks she would belong to another man, and that he, Hilary Robertson,

was expected to stand up and perform the ceremony that would give her

to this man, and that he would not do it?

He made a long dash across the paper, and rose, turned to her.

"You must go now, Mary--I'm busy.... You did not come to me because

you're in doubt yourself as to what you ought to do, or want to do?"

"No," faltered Mary.

"Then, if you're sure of yourself, I have no advice to give you. If

not, make sure. Don't fear to inflict suffering--some one suffers,

whatever we do. We can't avoid that, we have to look beyond it."

"Yes," breathed Mary devoutly, her eyes fixed on his face.

"But we needn't go out to look for martyrdom either--we can trust life

for that," said Hilary bitterly.

She went away, reluctantly, unsatisfied. She had wanted, expected, one

of those long talks, confidential yet impersonal, that had meant so

much to her during the year past. Never before had he treated her this

way, he had always had time for her, had shown an eager interest in

her difficulties. Her face was clouded as she walked slowly home. She

was bent on keeping this relation with her spiritual teacher just as

it had been. But now she wondered if her marriage was going to make a

difference, had already disturbed and troubled it. Why should that be?

It made no difference to her, why should it to him?

She did not want to think that Hilary was a man like other men, she

refused to think of him in that way. No, he was better, higher, he

was above personal feelings--that was her idea of him. She knew that

he cared about her, but the image of the shepherd and his sheep, the

pastor and his flock, dwelt in her mind. If she was distinguished from

the rest of the flock by a special care, then it was the mystic love

of a soul for another soul, it had nothing to do with mere human love,

the desire for personal satisfaction, for caresses and companionship.

To see Hilary seeking such things would spoil completely her idea of

him. She saw him as a sort of saint, who denied the flesh. Did he not

live in the most uncomfortable way, eating hardly enough to keep body

and soul together, as the widow said, and working beyond his strength,

always pale and tired-looking? He was devoted to service. It was

impossible to think of him as taking thought for the morrow, for food

and raiment, or as married and having a family.

She remembered how, when he had first come, the ladies of the

congregation had tried to make him comfortable--one had even worked

him a pair of slippers--and how he had brushed their ministrations

aside. He was subject to severe colds, but by now they had learned

not to offer any remedies, or even express solicitude. Mary never had

offended in that way. She liked his carelessness about himself, his

shabby clothes and frayed tie. She felt that probably he would work

himself to death, would go into a decline and die in a few years, but

she did not grieve over this prospect as the other sisters did. Truly

the earth had no hold on him, he was already like a spirit.

She had been profoundly shocked by her father's suggestion that she

might marry Hilary--the more so as the idea had before occurred to her

that possibly Hilary thought of it. But she had rejected this idea,

with all her obstinacy refused to consider it. Now it came back to her,

but she denied it. She would not have her idol spoiled by any such feet

of clay.

The fact that Hilary repulsed with irritation any attempts to idolize

him, or to regard him as a superior being, only affirmed her conviction

that he was one. As such he was precious to her, and as such she would

keep him.

X

Judge Baxter was happy. He decided at once that his house was not

fit for the reception of the fair bride, it must be made so. He took

Laurence with him to inspect the house from cellar to garret and

unfolded a scheme of complete renovation.

"Women like things bright and cheerful," he said, beaming. "Gay colours

and lots of little fixings, instead of this--" and he looked round the

chocolate and maroon parlours. "I'll run up to Chicago tomorrow and

see what I can find. The wall-papers now--they'll have to be changed.

Some light colours--roses, that kind of thing. New carpets. And the

furniture--hasn't been touched since I bought the place. Time it was.

And we need a piano for Mary--"

"Say, Judge, you mustn't buy out the town," protested Laurence. "We

don't want you to go to a lot of expense--"

"Pshaw, pshaw! Don't interfere with me--guess I can do what I like in

my own house, can't I? If I want some new furniture, what have you

got to say about it? But I tell you, Laurence--suppose you come along

with me--you know better than I do what women like. Or look here! Why

shouldn't we take Miss Mary? _That's_ the thing!"

He glowed with pleasure at this idea.

"I tell you, we three will go up together, say tomorrow morning, and

we'll make a day of it, or better, a couple of days! We'll see the

town, have a good dinner, go to the theatre, and Mary can pick out the

stuff we want. I'll arrange at the office, and you go along and fix it

up with Mary and her people. Tell 'em I'll look after her, and if she

_don't_ come I'll buy everything in sight!"

The Judge was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Not considering

this threat sufficient, he added a note of pathos.

"Tell her I haven't had a vacation for a coon's age, and if she wants

to please an old fellow and give him a good time, she'll come. You're

both my guests and I'm going to enjoy myself. Damn it, man, you _fetch_

her. If you don't I'll go after her myself!"

* * * * *

The Judge did enjoy himself. From the train he took a carriage

straight to the biggest furniture house on State Street, and there

he plunged into a fury of buying. Mary and Laurence stood by, but it

turned out that they had very little to say about it. When the Judge

found that Mary had no definite ideas about furniture and that she

demurred whenever any expensive article was in question, he over-rode

her bewildered protests and bought whatever struck his eye. He bought

a light carpet with red roses on it for the parlour, a set of shiny

mahogany upholstered in flowered brocade, a carved oak set for the

dining-room. He bought three cut-glass chandeliers and a grand piano;

marble vases, an onyx clock and a service of French china.

It did not take long. He walked rapidly through the room, followed by

the salesmen, glancing round with an eagle eye and pointing with his

cane to what he wanted. Sometimes he asked Mary's opinion, but she

was shy about giving it, and provided a thing was bright enough and

costly enough, the Judge was sure she must like it. He discovered that

he himself had more taste than he had suspected; he knew a good article

from an inferior one in a minute, and he didn't buy any cheap stuff.

Everything was handsome.

When they thought he was all through, he beckoned them and announced

that now things must be bought for _their_ part of the house, the big

rooms upstairs, and these Mary positively must select. But first they

would have lunch and take a drive.

* * * * *

The Judge took his party to the best hotel, engaged rooms and ordered

an elaborate luncheon, over which he was gay as a boy on a holiday.

Then, in an open carriage, they started out to see the city.

They drove through miles of badly paved dusty streets, faced with

wooden buildings. The Judge admitted that it was not a beautiful

city--business couldn't be beautiful, except to the mind--but it

appealed to his imagination.

Its history was romantic, going back into the dim past. Before the

whites came, this had been a meeting-place for the Indian tribes; and

later for voyageurs and traders. It had been French territory, then

English to the end of the Revolutionary War. Its Indian name meant

"wild onion"--a racy and flavoursome name, suggesting strength!

"Think of it--twenty-five years ago this city had less than five

thousand inhabitants--now it has a quarter of a million! It's growing

like a weed!"

They crossed the river which ran through the middle of the city, and

the Judge pointed to the thronged wharves where ten thousand vessels

arrived in a year and nearly as many cleared, bringing lumber,

carrying the yield of the prairie, wheat, corn, and oats. "Chicago

might yet have a direct European trade--a ship had sailed from there

to Liverpool, with wheat, and three European vessels had sailed to

Chicago...."

Built on the flat prairie, on sand and swamp, almost on the level of

the lake, nearly the whole city had now been raised a grade of ten

feet; an entire business block being raised at one time! With such

an energetic and growing population, with its marvellous situation,

commanding the lake trade and with all the western territory to draw

from, the city had a great future. "Half the country will be tributary

to it," said the Judge with glowing eyes....

They drove out along the lake shore, a broad beach of sand and gravel,

back of which rolled low sand-dunes. It was a warm June day, and the

great inland sea lay calm and blue, with a slight mist on the horizon.

The water sparkled in the sun, a slight motion sent wavelets lapping on

the sand. No land could be seen across it, yet there was the feeling of

land out there just beyond the line of vision. The air that blew over

those miles of water was flat, it had an inland flavour.

Here it was not the water that was boundless, but the land. The lake

was like a pond--the prairie was like the sea....

* * * * *

Judge Baxter talked on enthusiastically about the future of the city,

the vast tide of trade that was bound to pass through this, the heart

of the country. Mary, beside him, listened smiling. Laurence, sitting

opposite, watching Mary, was preoccupied, hardly spoke at all.

The drive lasted so long that there was no time for further shopping.

The Judge said they must dine early, so as to be in time for the

theatre. Mary went up to her room, to rest a little and to put on her

best dress and bonnet which she had brought carefully enveloped in

tissue paper, in a box. The dress was of grey silk, heavy and shining,

and the bonnet was white. When she was dressed, she stood looking at

herself in a long mirror for some time. The rich silk, hanging in full

folds, suited her tall stately figure. Inside the soft airy ruches

of the bonnet her bright hair rippled, each red-gold wave exactly in

order, making a clear crisp line like metal. Her cheeks were lightly

flushed, her grey eyes shining. She smiled reluctantly at herself

in the glass. Beauty, she knew, was a vain show, and vanity was a

weakness that she hoped was entirely beneath her. Still, one should

make a proper appearance, with due regard to decorum; should not appear

careless, nor above all eccentric. A lady should look like a lady.

As she was drawing on her white gloves a knock sounded at the door. She

went to open it, there stood Laurence.

"Let me come in a minute," he said.

She was startled at his tone, his pale and agitated look. He left the

door ajar, with a quick motion he drew her away from it, sat down

on the bed, his arms round her waist as she stood before him too

astonished to speak.

"Mary! Let us not go back there again till we are married! Marry me

now, here--tonight, or tomorrow!... Why wait any longer--and then all

the fuss about it.... Do, Mary--do this for me, please--"

He looked up at her, pleading, demanding, his eyes gleaming intensely,

humble and imperious.

"Sweetheart! Why shouldn't we?... The Judge will be a witness, it will

be all right, your parents won't mind very much, will they?... I hate

a show wedding anyhow, a lot of people round.... And I don't want to

wait any longer, Mary--I want it over and settled, and to be alone with

you.... We can stay here a few days.... Do, please, Mary--"

He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds

of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently

that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not

notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves.

"We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly.

"No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly.

"Yes, a letter!"

She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her

as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set

her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that

absent gaze.

"You will, Mary?" he breathed.

She did not answer, hardly heard.

She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult

time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who

even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face....

Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a

cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr.

Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them--he had rebuffed her.

None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her....

They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother,

she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to

be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any

outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have

to go through it. Anyhow--

She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled

faintly.

"What an idea!... It's time to go down now--"

"Yes, but--tell me.... Tomorrow?"

He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met

her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look.

He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild

impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by

it--it seemed reckless and adventurous to her--an elopement!

"I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate

tenderness.

She smiled mistily at him.

At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted

on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring

gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at

the play--it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the

person going through this experience--it seemed to be happening to

somebody else. That glass of golden wine--never had Mary Lowell tasted

anything of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was

delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to

feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide

was taking her....

* * * * *

The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night.

"The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly.

Laurence had an answer to all his objections. They would stop a few

days in the city, then they would go to Mary's parents for a time. The

Judge mustn't feel responsibility, nobody would blame him. They just

didn't want the fuss of a wedding at home. Mary would write to her

parents and it would be all right. In the end, the Judge was persuaded

that, if wrong-headed, it was a romantic thing to do, and entered into

it with spirit. But he had to have his part in it. A wedding-dinner,

in a private room, with an avalanche of flowers. A wedding-gift to the

young couple, a complete service of flat silver. And at the ceremony,

in the little parlour of a minister whom Laurence had taken at hazard,

the Judge, with paternal tears in his eyes, gave the bride away, and

kissed her fair cheek.