Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled afghan over him. His
head was swathed in bandages, his cheeks flushed with fever.
"Oh, it's you," he murmured apologetically. "I thought it was that old
woman again."
Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the afghan more
smoothly over him and to shake up his pillows. Then she took his wrist,
her finger on the pulse.
"Why don't you stay in bed?" she enquired. "You have fever."
"Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that's all."
"I should think so. Was the cut on your head very bad?"
"The doctor sewed it up. It's all right."
He spoke gently, and lay back quietly on his pillows. Mary sat down
beside the sofa and picked up a book that lay open on the floor.
"Greek--a nice time for you to be reading Greek!" she remarked.
Hilary smiled.
"How are you getting on with it?" he asked.
"Oh, I can pretty nearly write the alphabet," she smiled too. "I
practise when I have time. And I'm going to teach it to James when he's
old enough."
"They say John Stuart Mill could read Greek when he was three."
"Then I don't see why James shouldn't."
At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, with a sad look,
bearing a steaming cup, which Mary took from her and presented to
Hilary.
"Drink your broth--and after this you must drink it whenever Mrs. Lewis
brings it."
Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows and began to sip
the broth, making a wry face.
"Awful stuff," he protested.
"Indeed, it's the best chicken broth, if I did make it myself!"
muttered the widow, retiring with an offended air.
"I'm afraid you're a trying invalid," said Mary, amused.
"Hate to be treated like an invalid, that's all.... But women always
have to be coddling something," Hilary said ungraciously.
He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of relief. Mary rose and
began setting the room in order, restoring scattered books to their
shelves, picking up articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the
floor. Hilary's eyes followed her; he made no protest, even when she
arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles.
"You know," said Mary suddenly, "Laurence and the Judge are going to
defend that man--Barclay."
"Yes, I know it."
"Do you think it is right for a lawyer to defend a man he knows to be
guilty?"
"There's something to be said even for the guilty," said Hilary after a
moment.
"You mean he can be defended?"
Again he hesitated.
"As I understand it, they can't try to deny that he committed the
murder, they can only plead extenuating circumstances."
"That means, try to justify it!... Do you believe in that?"
"I don't know all the circumstances.... But the law distinguishes--if
it is done in the heat of passion, it may be called manslaughter--not
murder."
"And what would he get for that?"
"A term of years, imprisonment."
"Well, I should think murder was murder, however it was done!... And as
to circumstances, you know Mrs. Barclay was a good woman, a member of
your church, you know what a hard time she had, especially after _he_
came home, and now her children are left worse than orphans--I don't
see how you can say that 'circumstances' make any difference!"
She stood straight, her eyes flashing reproach at him.
"Why, Mary, do you want the man hanged?"
"Well, if anybody is hanged, _he_ ought to be! So long as we have laws
to punish criminals--"
"You stand up for the woman always, Mary," said Hilary, smiling faintly.
"And you--you and Laurence--it seems to me very queer that you two
should be standing up for that man! Yesterday--risking your life for
him--now I think it's very strange."
"That wasn't so much for him," said Hilary slowly. "It was to prevent
another murder, that's all--to keep them from doing what he'd done."
He shut his eyes wearily, and Mary softened.
"I oughtn't to talk to you about it now. You must be quiet. I'll go
now, and you must promise me to go to bed and not get up till the
fever's gone. Will you?"
"Yes. But stay a little longer."
She sat down again beside him, and he lay still with his eyes closed.
"Did you go to see the children today?" he asked after a pause.
"Yes, I stopped in. They were playing in the yard--they're so little,
you know, they don't realize anything--except perhaps the girl. I
wanted to take one of them, but Mrs. Peters said she thought they were
better off together."
"Yes, I should think so.... We'll have to find homes for them, though,
and it isn't likely they can be together long."
"I know. Mrs. Peters said she would keep one of them--and I could
take one. I'm sure Laurence would think that right, as he is so much
interested in--the father."
Mary's face and tone expressed a sudden repugnance. Hilary half-opened
his eyes and looked at her.
"You hate sinners, don't you, Mary? You don't understand why people
sin?"
"From weakness," she said.
"And you haven't much pity for weakness.... You don't understand how a
man can make a beast of himself with drink, because he's unhappy."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I understand it," said Hilary with a tortured look. "I
know what unhappiness and loneliness can do.... Sometimes I wish I
didn't. How can I condemn sin when I understand the sinner so well?"
"You must, though," said Mary calmly.
She knew well this mood of his, by this time she knew his weakness. The
relation between these two had changed. No longer did she with humility
look up to Hilary as a saint. The change was not so much in him as in
her. In the old days, before her marriage, Hilary had often accused
himself to her as a weak and erring man, he had passionately resisted
her attempts to canonize him. Since then he had talked to her more
frankly but in the same way, she knew his yearning for perfection, and
his despair of it; she knew too, though not by direct expression, his
human longings and his loneliness. She no longer idealized him, she did
not need to. But he was intensely interesting to her. He was only a man
now, but still better than other men, stronger, with higher aims. She
admired him. But they now stood more on an equality; her manner toward
him had even a tinge of maternal authority. For she felt that all
men, all that she knew, however gifted and interesting, were somewhat
childish.
She herself had reached maturity. With the birth of her children she
had come into her heritage of life. She was now so firmly planted on
the earth, so deeply rooted, that it seemed nothing could shake her.
The dreams of her girlhood, of life beyond life, passed by her now like
the clouds on the wind. She was satisfied, assured.
Hilary's life, even, seemed to her dream-like, cloud-like, because
it was so restless, so tormented. The need for incessant action and
struggle that drove him, as it drove Laurence in a different direction,
seemed to her sometimes absurd. Religion to her meant tranquillity, the
calm certitude that one was on the right path, doing one's duty and
refraining from wrong. Simple--and easy.
She stayed a little while longer with Hilary, but insisted that he
should not talk. She knew that he liked to have her sitting beside
him, immobile, her hands folded on her knee, not even looking at him.
She knew now very well what her presence meant to him; their constant
meeting in the work of the church; their talks, intimate in a sense,
though she made no personal confessions to him and he never expressed
his feeling for her in speech. She was quite satisfied with this
relation, and sure that Hilary would never overstep the bounds of right
and reason, even if tempted to do so. She herself had not the least
temptation. All her pride lay in keeping things exactly as they were.