The next year brought significant changes. Laurence made a brilliant
personal success in his defence of Barclay, and melted the jury to
the point where nearly half stood out for twenty-four hours in favour
of a verdict of manslaughter. Finally however Barclay was convicted
of murder in the second degree and was sentenced to a long term of
imprisonment. Laurence was showered with praise and congratulations for
his conduct of the case, his address to the jury had moved a crowded
courtroom to irrepressible enthusiasm. His reputation was made.
The Judge had been able to give him some assistance, though he never
recovered from his illness. The burden of the partnership now fell upon
Laurence, the Judge could only consult and advise in important cases,
and as time went on not even that, for his memory was impaired. He
suffered and fretted under his restrictions, was a fractious invalid,
and the loss of mental power was so sore a grief to him that he
resorted for solace to the forbidden whiskey-bottle, perhaps with the
desire, unconscious or not, to end it all the sooner.
Nora, now domesticated in the family, was of great assistance with
the Judge. Her quick good-humour amused the old man, her energy was
unfailing, she was deft and tactful. She became his special attendant,
and also helped with the children, for another baby was coming. Nora
liked the Judge, but she loved the children, she became devoted to
them. Soon she was indispensable in the household. Mary was a little
ailing. Three children in less than four years had taxed her strength.
But she was well content; she wanted another son, in fact she would
have liked six of them, big strapping fellows. Sometimes she saw them
in her mind's eye, a robust procession.
During that year the Judge made his will. He desired to leave his
property, which was much larger than any one had suspected, to
Laurence. But Laurence protested. There were relatives, sisters and
nephews, and he couldn't take what ought to belong to them. The Judge,
easily excited, flew into a rage, and declared that he didn't care a
cuss for any of his relatives, and that he would leave his money to
charity rather than to them; nay, lest they should contest his will,
he would give away the lot of it during his lifetime, make ducks and
drakes of it, throw it away, by God! He would do as he pleased!
Laurence had to calm him, tried to postpone the discussion.
"No," said the Judge fretfully. "Carpe diem--I haven't so many left. I
want it settled."
"Judge, how can I take anything more from you? See what you've done for
me already. It wouldn't be right--"
"Well, see what you've done for _me_, you and Mary. You've given me
a home, the only one I ever had, you've been like my own children to
me, and that's the way I feel about you. And I want you should have
something to remember the old man by, when he's gone."
In the end, Mary being consulted and feeling as Laurence did about the
money, a compromise was effected. Generous legacies were left to the
near relatives, and the remainder, for those days a small fortune, to
Laurence in trust for his children, the income to be Laurence's for
his life. The Judge, having drawn up and executed what he considered
an ironclad will with these provisions, was easier in his mind, and
felt that he had nothing more to do in life, except to watch Laurence's
progress and give an occasional counsel. Laurence was fairly launched,
business poured in upon him, he had two juniors in the office. The
Judge rather regretted his tendency to take criminal cases whenever
they appealed to him; but he recognized too that Laurence's talent lay
in this direction. And then the boy could afford it now, he needn't
be looking closely after money. He could afford to take cases that
brought him little except reputation, and to have it said that every
poor man in trouble knew the way to Lawyer Carlin's office. If Laurence
wanted to be the champion of the poor and oppressed, if he could be
more eloquent in behalf of an ignorant negro cheated out of his small
property than when he had a fat fee in prospect--why, let him go ahead.
He was provided for, anyhow.
* * * * *
In his many vacant hours, the Judge fell back on reading, of which he
had always been fond. He had a respectable library of classics, bound
in calf. He liked Laurence to read aloud in the evenings when work
permitted. The Judge had a taste for lofty and magnificent diction.
Shakespeare, the Old Testament, Milton, Burton and Macaulay were his
favourites. He liked De Quincey too, and Burke's speeches. He could
listen by the hour to Milton's prose, or the "Anatomy of Melancholy."
He often dwelt on the advantages of such reading, in forming a style.
He did not consider that Laurence as yet had a style--he was too
simple, too colloquial in his speaking. Rolling sonorous periods,
balanced and built up, a wide range of allusion and metaphor, a sombre
and weighty splendour, was the Judge's ideal of eloquence.
Mary was usually present at these readings, sitting by and sewing. But
her thoughts often wandered--she had not much æsthetic feeling, and
poetry bored her. However, she liked the sound of Laurence's voice, as
an accompaniment to thoughts which might have no concern with him.
One evening a strange thing happened--Hilary Robertson came to call
on the Judge. Laurence happened to be away on business at the county
seat--perhaps Hilary knew this. What the purpose of his visit was,
did not appear at that time. The Judge received him politely, though
a little nervous, and begged Mary to stay when she was about to leave
them together. There was a little general conversation, which presently
fell upon literature and ended by Hilary's reading at the Judge's
request the "Urn Burial" of Sir Thomas Browne. The effect of this
stately prose in Hilary's wonderful voice thrilled the two listeners.
Mary dropped her work. Something of the feeling of old days came
back upon her--some mysterious lifting of the heart, vague pain and
yearning at the touch of unearthly beauty. She had hardly felt this
since her girlhood, her present life had too much absorbed her. Her
eyes were fixed upon Hilary with startled feeling--no one but he, she
was thinking, had ever had the power to move this feeling in her, to
make her conscious of a world beyond this narrow world she lived in,
to make her dissatisfied with herself, unhappy.... And he could do
this just by the tone of his voice, reading something that she did not
attend to. Music, what little she had heard, produced a similar effect
upon her--it was the only form of art that touched her.... But now
she resented Hilary's power, she did not want to be stirred or made
unhappy. Especially now, when she was carrying a child. Hearing the
Judge issue a cordial invitation to Hilary to repeat his visit, she
decided that next time she would avoid him.
In the next few months Laurence was away a good deal, and was obliged
also to work late in the evenings when at home. The Judge came to
depend upon Hilary for at least two weekly visits, when they would
read and talk together, and Mary often sat with them, in spite of her
judgment. Sometimes she was sorry for it, sometimes not.
Laurence learned of this intimacy with astonishment. Finding how it
had begun, he was struck with Hilary's audacity. He had received the
Judge's praise of his new friend in silence; all the more incensed
because he couldn't openly oppose Hilary nor keep him out of the house.
"I think the Judge is getting childish," he said to Mary darkly.
"He is much weaker," she agreed.
"He must be--to let the preacher get hold of him. That would never have
happened if he'd been himself."
She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking out across the
lawn to where the sunset sparkled red through the trees. Laurence was
sitting on the steps near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick
black cigar. He glanced up. Mary's look of weariness and sadness
startled him.
She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to realize that the Judge
was dying, and needed what Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had
begun to talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon meet;
the Judge did not resent it, he was a little frightened, and only
clung the closer to the firm hand stretched out to him. Yes, he needed
Hilary--to no one else could he confess that he was afraid of death,
that he had lived a careless life, that he didn't want to believe in
immortality but sometimes couldn't help it.... But, Mary thought, it
was no use to try to explain to Laurence.
He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A quick impulse of alarm
and affection made him repentant. He moved closer to her, put his hand
on hers.
"Mary, you're not looking well--I'm afraid you're doing too much. Are
you very tired?"
"Yes, a little," she said vaguely, without responding to him, her eyes
still fixed on the swaying trees and the red glow beyond.
Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit his cigar. At that
moment he felt acutely that she was far away from him in spirit. He did
not know her thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what
she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He had given up asking
her. It seemed to him often that it was only the material part of her
life that he had any connection with--that she willed it so. But she
had another life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him--a life
of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, his face dark and
brooding. Laurence could look evil. His narrow blue eyes, half-closed,
were menacing. His heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the
cigar, spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not be
repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would destroy if it
could not build. Now he looked destructive.
He had changed much in these few years, grown heavier in body from
his indoor life, grown handsomer. He still had his military erectness
of carriage, something of the soldier remained in his alertness of
movement and speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone.
Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his face--and there
were lines of pain too, visible at times like this.
The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had been taking his
constitutional late, because of the heat, supported by his gold-headed
cane and Nora's arm. They were laughing as they approached.
"She's been telling me some of her Irish stories," called out the old
man tremulously. "Never was so amused in my life. She's a smart girl,
Nora is--and a pretty girl too! Isn't she now?"
Laurence went to help the Judge up the steps. He sank heavily into a
chair, keeping hold of Nora's hand, panting.
"Isn't she pretty now?... I like her red hair. I wish I was a young
fellow, I'd make up to her.... She'd keep me laughing...."
Nora blushed, laughed, wrested her hand away and ran indoors. Laurence
lounged for a moment against the door, and then went in too. He had to
go to the office, and went upstairs to fill his cigar-case. Passing the
open door of the children's room, he saw Nora, with a candle, bending
to arrange a tossed coverlet. He stood looking at her. The candle-flame
lit up her shining hair, her red lips and tender eyes. She came out
softly, and as she passed him, smiling, Laurence, put his arm around
her, drew her close.
"No!" she protested in a whisper.
"Yes!"
He felt her tremble in his clasp, felt her frightened, wishing to
resist, unable, felt the emotion that shook her at his touch. He bent
his head, kissed her on the mouth.