IV

That night she proposed to Laurence that they should adopt one of

Barclay's children. Laurence did not like the idea at all; he looked

discomfited, and so did the Judge. Both felt it would be the intrusion

of a stranger into the domestic circle. Laurence had a good reason

to give for his objection, and a sincere one--it would be too much

for Mary, she had her hands full now, with the house and two small

children. Mary said she could manage it, and that it was only right for

her to do her part in helping the unfortunates. She looked so calmly

resolved as she spoke that Laurence and the Judge exchanged alarmed

glances. They did not oppose her directly, but devised a stratagem.

Laurence pointed out to Mary next morning that after all they were

living in the Judge's house, and the Judge didn't want a strange child

there. So they couldn't very well adopt the child, but he, Laurence,

would be responsible for its maintenance and care somewhere else.

"Very well," said Mary austerely. "But I think the Judge is very

self-indulgent."

"So am I, then," confessed Laurence. "I don't want it either. But

honestly, both of us think about you. I don't want you to undertake it,

dearest--it's too much."

"If other people, not so well off as we are, can do it, I should think

we could."

"It's a question of what we can do best. I'll gladly give the money,

and I'm doing all I can for Barclay too, and so is the Judge."

"I know--for _him_. You're interested in him, but I think you'd do much

better to help the children."

"Well, I _will_ help them, you'll see."

Laurence kept his word, and in fact charged himself with the future,

as it turned out, of all three children. But Mary was for the moment

dissatisfied. She wished to put into instant practice her theories of

duty, and utterly scorned theory without practice.

Looking in that afternoon, as she had said she would, to see if Hilary

had kept his promise and to report about the children, she mentioned

the attitude of her husband and the Judge as explaining why she could

not carry out her plan.

"I think men are very inconsistent," she said caustically. "They like

to talk about what they'll do for other people, but when it really

comes to _doing_ it--"

"A man's reach should exceed his grasp," quoted Hilary. "We always

_see_ much more than we can do."

"I think it would be better, then, to see less and do more," remarked

Mary.

Hilary looked very weak and pale. His fever was down, but he had kept

his bed, unwillingly. Mary had brought him a pot of jelly and a few

daffodils from her garden. He held the flowers in his hand, and looked

with brooding tender pleasure at their brilliant colour. Mary asked

questions about some church-business she was to do for him, and then,

in the short remaining time of her visit, they talked about sin.

The conversation of the day before had remained in her mind and puzzled

her. She questioned him sharply:

"What did you mean by saying that when you understood the sinner you

couldn't condemn sin? Do you really feel that?"

"I often feel it," said Hilary in a low voice.

"Then it would be better for you _not_ to understand the sinner. You

said so yourself, you said you wished you didn't."

"Well, I can't help it," Hilary smiled wanly. "Because, you see, I'm a

sinner myself."

"Of course you're not. You only like to think you are."

"What is sin? You said it's weakness. Do you think I'm not weak,

sometimes?"

"No, I don't think you are. You don't _act_ weakly, and that's the only

thing that counts."

"Is it? Don't you think there are sinful thoughts and feelings?"

"Of course. But if we fight against them--"

"Well, don't you think that a man who carries a sinful feeling around

with him, even if he doesn't act on it, knows what a sinner is--and do

you think he can be very hard on another man who just happens to act?"

Mary cast an angry glance at the pale face turned toward her. There was

a look about Hilary's mouth, as though he were repressing a smile. He

had a look of mischief, not merry either, but as though deliberately

trying to puzzle and disturb her--and she had seen this in him before.

She arose from her chair, and gathered her shawl about her, lifting her

chin, stately in her displeasure. Her grey eyes looked down with cold

reproof.

"I think instead of talking that way, you'd much better go to sleep."

"Well, good-bye, then," said Hilary.

He turned his head away sharply. His fingers closed tightly on the

yellow daffodils. Mary suddenly saw lying there before her, not a man,

but a forlorn sick child. For the first time she knew the impulse to

comfort this unhappiness, an impulse of tenderness. It frightened her,

and she went out quickly, without a word.

* * * * *

Returning home, she found trouble and confusion. The Judge had been

taken ill and Laurence had brought him home. Mrs. Lowell was there

in the room, a messenger had been sent to try to find the doctor.

The Judge was stretched out on his bed, unconscious, his face deeply

flushed. Laurence, with Mrs. Lowell's aid, was trying to get some of

his clothes off.

"He's had a stroke--just toppled over at his desk--I wish you'd been at

home, Mary," said Laurence with sharp reproach. "I don't know what on

earth to do for him--"

Silently Mary gave what help she could. They got his coat and boots

off, loosened his shirt-collar, put a cold compress on his head. He was

breathing heavily and the purple flush deepened, especially on the left

side of his face. In her alarm, Mary still remembered the children and

that it was the baby's nursing-time, and as there seemed nothing more

to do, she left the room. Laurence followed her out.

"You remember he's complained of dizziness several times lately--I

tried to have him see your father but he wouldn't, said he thought

perhaps he'd been eating or smoking too much. At his age, you know,

it's pretty serious--"

"He didn't look well this morning," began Mary, going into the

dining-room, where the cook was looking after the children.

"Well, I should think you might have stayed at home, then--where were

you?" asked Laurence irritably.

"Please put James in his pen," said Mary, taking the baby. "Hilda,

you'd better see that there's plenty of hot water--the doctor may want

it."

She carried the baby upstairs and sat down in a low chair in their room

to nurse it. When Laurence came in the door, she said directly:

"I went to see Mr. Robertson--he's ill."

"You went yesterday too, didn't you?... You're very attentive to him."

She looked up at him, opposing to harsh irritation her reproving

silence.

"I tell you, I don't care to have you going to see him that way, alone.

Do you want to be talked about?"

"Don't disturb me when I'm nursing the baby.... There--isn't that

Father?"

The clatter of wheels and a hasty run up the steps in fact announced

the doctor's arrival. Laurence went downstairs, with an angry parting

glance. The baby cried a little, and Mary gathered it to her breast,

composing herself, shutting her eyes, trying to banish all disturbing

thoughts, even the thought of the Judge. She believed that any

disturbance in her when she was nursing reacted at once on the baby.

Indeed now the baby cried shrilly and at first refused the breast; but

after a few moments, quiet succeeded, and Mary sighed, relaxing. It

was a deep physical pleasure to her, to nurse her child--more so with

this one than with the first. The baby's strong pull at the breast, for

he was a robust infant--his hand opening and shutting on her flesh,

the warmth of his little body, the relation of complete confidence

and satisfaction--it moved and soothed her. She sank into a dreamy

contentment, isolated from all that hurry and trouble downstairs.

But when the baby, replete, had gone to sleep, she laid him on the bed,

and at once went down. She was very much concerned about the Judge,

though her quiet face and motions did not betray her anxiety. She did

what could be done, and awaited her father's verdict silently.

"Apoplexy--he'll recover, undoubtedly, but his left side is affected,

there may be a slight paralysis," Dr. Lowell told them. "His habits

have been bad--no exercise, too much whiskey and tobacco. And then

his age--he must be over seventy. Probably he'll be a good deal of an

invalid from now on."

"He won't like that," Laurence said sorrowfully.

"No, he's never taken care of himself, he'll hate it, naturally--but so

it is.... It will mean a good deal for you and Mary--the care of him

here, and then he won't be able to do any work for some time--perhaps

never again, to any extent."

Laurence and Mary looked at one another gravely and sadly--both felt

what this would mean to the Judge. When they were alone, Laurence went

and took her into his arms.

"I'm sorry I was cross to you," he said softly. "I didn't mean to be

rough."

Mary kissed his cheek.

"I know--of course you were terribly worried," was her forgiving

response.

"This will be very hard for you, Mary, the Judge being ill--we must get

some one to help."

"Well--we'll see.... You'll have a lot of extra work too, Laurence, and

you're working so hard now--"

"Oh, I think I can manage," he said absently. "But the thing right now

is to get somebody here to help you--he'll have to be watched at night

now, and--I tell you, there's Nora. You remember the girl you saw at

the office the other day, Nora Skehan, you know I told you I used to

know her as a child. She's out of work again, and I'm sure she'd be

glad to come. You might try her."

"Well, I'll see," said Mary again.

Laurence held her and looked at her appealingly.

"Mary--I can't bear to have anything wrong with you and me.... Other

things go wrong--there's a lot of trouble and worry--but I can't stand

it to feel angry at you, or have you angry with me--"

"I don't think I'm ever angry with you," murmured Mary reflectively.

"Well, worse ... you look at me sometimes as if you didn't like me!

When you're displeased--it's worse than being angry. I'd rather you'd

flame out, the way I do, and get it over with--"

"I'm not like you." She smiled gravely.

"I wish you felt as I do--that you'd do anything rather than have

trouble between us--"

"Trouble? What trouble?"

She drew away from him, an instinctive shrinking that hurt him.

"I mean, you don't seem to care that certain things disturb me!"

he burst out. "You're so terribly reserved, you keep things to

yourself--you do things I don't like, and you don't _care_ that I don't

like them--"

"I don't do anything wrong," said Mary proudly.

"You're so sure everything you do is right! No matter how it affects

_me_!"

"You do things _I_ don't like--Barclay, for instance."

"That was a matter--I felt I _had_ to do it--I felt it was right--"

"Well, you must allow me to judge what is right for _me_. I shall never

do what I think wrong."

"What you think! You don't think it wrong then to disturb me by your

actions, not to give me your confidence--"

"Confidence?" said Mary haughtily. "I will tell you anything you want

to know. I haven't anything to conceal. But you simply don't understand

my feelings, certain things I care about that you don't care about--"

"That's it! You take it for granted I can't understand.... I don't want

you to have friendships apart from me!"

Mary stood still, looking down, her eyes hidden by the long drooping

lids that gave her face a look of passionless calm, inflexible,

immovable.

"Do you hear?" cried Laurence.

He knew, even while he could not master his agitation, that it put him

in the wrong, that it gave her the advantage. But he could not bear

opposition from her. To know that they were not completely united,

completely one in feeling, was a torment to him.

"Don't shout," she said. "I think this is a queer time for you to talk

like this, Laurence--it seems to me you ought to be thinking about the

Judge."

"Ought!" he muttered. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, I heard, Laurence. But--" She looked full at him now, her clear

grey eyes very bright. "But I will not let you interfere with what I

think right to do."

"You will not?... Don't you know that I'm master here, that you're

bound to do as I say?"

Again the long lids veiled her eyes, and she stood without replying.

And Laurence's heart was burning. This harsh assertion of authority had

been wrong, it was not what he meant. He hated force. What good would

anything forced from Mary do to him? What he longed for was a tender

understanding--but if she would not understand, would not be tender,

what could he do but rage?

At this point they were interrupted. Mrs. Lowell called to them from

the sickroom, and Mary hurried to take charge there, without a word or

look for her husband. Resentment smouldered in her mind, a feeling that

Laurence was wrong, and, in addition, undignified. All the rest of the

afternoon, busy as she was, and grieved too as she watched the Judge's

stricken figure--all this time a turmoil of feeling about Laurence

was going on below the surface of her mind. Never had she been so

disturbed. This was the first really serious clash in the two years of

their life together.

V

For the first time, her will and Laurence's were definitely, sharply

opposed. Heretofore, each of them had yielded, in much that concerned

the other, without a clear issue. She felt that she had yielded a

good deal to Laurence. He had associates that she did not like,

hard-drinking bachelors of the bar, with whom he spent an occasional

convivial evening, coming back flushed and gay though never overcome.

She did not like even his moderate drinking, nor the fact that he

never went to church, that he took no interest in religion except

to jest crudely about it. On the other hand, he had not, so far,

tried to interfere openly with her interest in the church nor her

association with Hilary in work, nor her taking up a course of reading

in history and beginning to study Greek under Hilary's direction. He

had acquiesced in her asking Hilary to supper a few times, as was

her social duty, and had behaved with courtesy, though she knew he

disliked "the preacher." He gave no good reason for his feeling, but

he expressed it in gibes and bitter jokes about "sky-pilots," the

fondness of women for priests, the power of "holiness," and so on.

These expressions irritated Mary deeply, but she had passed them over

in silence, withdrawing into herself and indicating to Laurence that

she did not expect him to understand nor take any part in this interest

of hers, any more than she could take part in his stag-suppers.

But this division of interest, this separation, to some extent, of

activity, did not affect her feeling about Laurence nor disappoint any

desire in her. She was satisfied with Laurence and with the arrangement

of her life. The achievement of maternity had given her the solid

basis, the central motive, to which everything else was incidental.

Laurence was most importantly connected with this motive, but yet in a

way he was outside it. And he felt this and raged dumbly against it.

What he had dreamed of was a mystic bond between Mary and himself,

which should be the centre of all things, subordinating everything

else. And this, in his feeling, had not come to pass, because she could

not understand nor respond to his desire. He was unsatisfied; therefore

demanding, often harsh and bitter, often unreasonable.

Laurence was not contented to be a husband and a father; and this

appeared to Mary the height of unreason on his part. To be the head of

a family--what more dignified and satisfactory position could he wish,

so far as his private life was concerned? If, in addition, he succeeded

in his profession, what more could he ask? Why, when everything

promised well, should he so often be moody, irritable and discontented?

It must be the nature of man, perpetually unquiet.

On one point Mary was a little disingenuous, or perhaps not clearly

conscious. Her plan assigned to Laurence the rôle of head of the

family; in reality what she expected him to be was a figurehead. This

was quite in accordance with custom and tradition. Theoretically, of

course, the man was master of his household, and the wife as well

as the children owed him obedience. Mary would never have dreamed

of disputing this axiom. It was accepted by all the women of her

acquaintance. But practice--that was quite another thing. In practice,

the women ruled their households and themselves, and very often their

husbands also, allowing them liberty of course in exclusively masculine

matters, such as business, and a certain amount of license in regard to

their amusements. The woman's path was sharply marked out; she could

not overstep certain limits. But keeping within those limits, she had

her authority and independence.

In her own family, Mary could remember very few occasions on which her

mother's actions or decisions had been questioned by the nominal chief.

If she were subject to her husband, it did not appear; the household

produced the effect of a matriarchy. And this was Mary's idea of the

proper constitution of a family. It was unthinkable that the man

should interfere in details, should try to dictate in matters outside

his province; by so doing, he lost dignity, which it was essential he

should maintain.

A wife must always speak to her husband with respect; must never

criticize him nor complain of him, even to her nearest friend or

relative; his dignity was hers. Also, a certain formality in her

address to him was proper. She should use his title, if he had one, as

Judge, Doctor or Colonel; or if not, should call him Mr. Brown, rather

than John. Mary was conscious that her relation with Laurence, so far,

lacked formality. But Laurence hated that sort of thing, and he was

very young, for his years. He was nearly thirty, yet he acted like a

boy, much of the time.

That afternoon and evening, there were times when there was nothing to

be done in the sickroom but to sit and watch; and Mary was thinking.

She regretted bitterly the clash with Laurence--those sharp words,

her own assertion of independence. There she had made a mistake, had

transgressed her own code. Laurence's counter-assertion of authority

was also a mistake, but a natural consequence of hers. She should not

have set herself up against him, in a personal matter, even if he

were wrong. She now found herself obliged either to give battle or to

retreat--both alternatives very distasteful to her. She was angry at

herself; she had fallen below her own standard, lost her self-control,

behaved in an unseemly fashion; and had much weakened her own position.

She perceived now, aghast, that if Laurence actually _did_ command, she

would have to obey. She could not openly flout her husband's authority,

that was impossible, her own pride would not permit it. The terrible

mistake was to have brought him to issue a command. She knew very well

that that was not the way to manage.

Sitting by the bedside, her hands folded on her knee, looking

straight before her, she thought it out. She did not like the idea

of "managing," or gaining any point by methods other than the most

simple and direct. Anything underhand, any ruse or scheme, was deeply

repugnant to her. She did not like even to "humour" people. How, then,

was one to deal with an unreasonable man--must one actually submit to

him when he was in the wrong?

Laurence was wrong and unreasonable in this case because he could not

possibly think that there was any harm in her friendship with Hilary.

He could not possibly suspect her of anything approaching wrong, in

that connection. At the mere idea of it, her cheeks fired and her eyes

flashed proudly. She felt herself not only impeccable in thought and

deed, but above suspicion from him or any one else. Therefore in acting

as though he suspected her, or even disapproved of her, he was wronging

her deeply....

But let that be, for the moment. The thing to do now, was to retrieve

her own false step. She had done wrong--she would set that right, as

far as possible. Then at least _she_ would be right, whatever he might

be. And it was absolutely necessary for her to be right, in her own

feeling. What she saw as the right thing she would do, whatever it cost

her.

Having made her decision, she became quieter in mind, and began to

think about the Judge. This day was evidently a day of disaster. The

Judge would never be the same again. Suddenly she realized that she had

grown very fond of him. Affection had been obscured in her by constant

disapproval of his character. She disdained fleshly indulgences, such

as eating and drinking too much. She had felt scornful when the Judge's

face would flush after dinner, when sometimes his speech was a little

thick of an evening, when he found difficulty in lifting his heavy

bulk. But now that the punishment of these carnal indulgences had

fallen upon him, she felt real sorrow. And even, as she thought what

was before him, the rare tears rose and softened her grey eyes.

When she had a few minutes alone with Laurence, before he took up his

night-watch beside the Judge, she said to him gently:

"I'm very sorry I spoke to you as I did this afternoon. I was wrong. I

shall never oppose your will, in anything that concerns myself, if I

can help it."

Laurence's troubled gloomy face lit up with a flash of joy. He clasped

her in his arms, melting instantly when she showed a sign of yielding,

too happy to pause upon the manner of her yielding. His generous

spirit, impetuous and uncalculating, carried him much farther in

concession. He swept their difference away passionately.

"Dearest, I was wrong too--more than you!... You know, Mary, I don't

want to interfere with any pleasure of yours--you know I want you to

have everything you want!... And I don't think you want anything wrong,

you know I don't think it, not for a minute!... Only I want you to love

me more than anything, not to need anything but me, that's all I really

want! And you do, don't you? Because I love you more than the whole

world--"

"Of course I do," she said softly. "You know perfectly well, I do."

"No, sometimes I don't, and then I get wild! Then I can't bear to have

you like any one else at all. Only make me feel that you love me, Mary,

and it will be all right. I shan't care what you do, if I'm sure of

you!"

"As if you weren't sure of me!" said Mary, with a touch of austerity.

"Oh, I don't mean what you do, I mean your feeling, don't you see?"

"No, I don't. How queer you are, Laurence!"

"No, it's you that's queer!... But I love you."

* * * * *

So the shadow passed, for the time being. But the reality which had

cast this shadow remained, the real difference. Both of them were

careful now not to bring it up, both repressed themselves somewhat.

Mary continued to see Hilary in connection with the church, but she did

not ask him to the house. Laurence did not speak of him, nor of Mary's

studies, and she kept her books out of his sight. But he knew that she

was going on, as he would have said, regardless of his feeling; and she

knew that he was still unreasonable about it.

For some time, however, this remained an undercurrent in their life,

which was full of activities, interests, anxieties, in which they

generally accorded. It was on the whole a happy time for them, an

unconscious happiness. They were young and vigorous, life opened out

before them full of hope and promise, vaguely bright.