On the thick summer air, in the close room, the scent of flowers was
overpowering. Laurence, standing by the door, looking round at the
silent black assemblage, at the black coffin heaped with roses, felt
deeply impatient with this show of grief. No one there grieved for the
Judge, except perhaps Nora, sobbing in a corner, and himself. Mary was
upstairs, not able to be present.
He looked coldly at Hilary, reading in his deep musical voice the
funeral service. It was the custom to pronounce a panegyric on the
departed; and he wondered what Hilary would say, and waited cynically
for some hypocritical praise, for how could the preacher appreciate the
Judge's real qualities? But he underrated Hilary's honesty. In truth it
was impossible for Hilary to praise the Judge's life and character. It
was not for him to betray the confidence of the old man's last days, of
his fears, doubts and regrets, his halting steps toward the unknown.
So he uttered simply a brief prayer, full of solemn tenderness for the
passing soul. In Hilary's feeling the infinite was like the living air
surrounding, interpenetrating, every finite thing; there was no line
between life and death, except for a personal loss. To him also, the
funeral panoply was unpleasant; he also reflected that the Judge had
perhaps only one or two real mourners.
When it was all over and Laurence had returned to the house alone,
he went up to see Mary. She was lying in bed, in the big room they
shared together; she looked very white and tired and had evidently been
weeping. Laurence bent to kiss her tenderly, and sat by her, holding
her hand.
"He was a good friend to us," she said at last softly.
"Yes, he was, indeed."
"He thought everything of you, Laurence."
"I didn't deserve it especially."
"I'm sorry for him now, I'm afraid he feels very lonely."
Laurence looked at her uneasily.
"Because, you see," she went on slowly, "he never thought about his
soul, till just lately, or about another life. It will be very strange
to him. He was so worldly."
"He was a good man," asserted Laurence, frowning.
"No, Laurence, he wasn't," said Mary with inflexible regret. "He was
bound up in worldly things, and had no light. So it will be hard for
him."
"I don't think you are in a position to judge him," said Laurence
sharply.
But then, seeing her tears begin to flow again, he reproached himself
and tried to comfort her with soft words and kisses. He resolved once
more that until Mary was quite strong again he would not cross her in
anything, that even if she were unreasonable he would remember her
state and be patient. He was really alarmed about her, she had never
been ill before, never in the least morbid. Several times lately she
had frightened him by saying that she thought she would die when this
baby was born; and dissolving in tears for the other two babies who
would be left motherless. Altogether she was unlike herself. Laurence,
profoundly worried, had talked to Mary's father, who told him that
she had had her children too fast and was tired out for the time, and
naturally affected by the Judge's illness, but that there was no cause
for great alarm. But at the mere idea of losing Mary, Laurence was
deeply shaken. He would not have said that he was happy with her--in
fact for the past year he had seldom felt happy--but he couldn't
imagine being anything but miserable without her. He had loved her too
long, too exclusively, to live without her. And always he had the hope,
though sometimes unconscious, that she would change and love him as he
wanted her to. That was all that was lacking, he thought, to make him
perfectly happy. He believed in happiness and never ceased to expect it.
"Laurence," said Mary, when her tears had stopped, insensibly soothed
by his tenderness, "I wish the Judge hadn't left us that money. We
didn't need it."
"Well, sometimes I wish so too," he answered thoughtfully.
* * * * *
He was perfectly sincere in this. At times, after the Judge's will
was made, the thought of the money had weighed on him. He disliked
the feeling of obligation, even to the Judge; he would have liked to
owe his advancement to his own efforts alone. But the Judge had stood
behind him and helped him on, in every way. He was grateful, and yet he
was burdened by that help.
In later years he was never able to forget it. Then it seemed to him
that he owed his career to the Judge and to the condemned criminal
Barclay, who had died in prison, for it was the Barclay case that gave
him his professional start. He showed gratitude as best he could. He
put up for the Judge a massive monument of granite; and he maintained
Barclay's children. But he would have preferred to be independent of
any assistance. He was conscious of powers that could make their way
unaided. And he disliked the feeling that he had not been able to mould
his life just as he wished, that in some ways it seemed made for him by
forces beyond his control. That feeling did not yet oppress him, he was
still too full of youthful energy; it was only an occasional shadow.
But many times, in the course of the next months, Laurence wished
the Judge's money at the devil or in the hands of his disappointed
relatives. Laurence, as executor of the will, had to deal with
innumerable details and complexities that bored and bothered him; he
hated "business." When finally the estate was settled, the relatives
having decided not to contest the will, Laurence found himself in
possession of a handsome income. The Judge had shown his faith in the
future of Chicago by investing largely in real estate there; these
holdings were rapidly increasing in value. They were in the business
section and the rentals were high. In addition, the Judge's house and
its contents, and his horses, were left personally to Laurence.
For a time, his enjoyment of these things was clouded. The attitude
of the Judge's relatives had stung him, in spite of his consciousness
that his efforts alone had procured them any share in the property. He
was extremely sensitive to disapproval, to criticism, especially to
any reflection on his independence. To feel that some people, perhaps
many of his fellow-citizens, thought his relation with the Judge an
interested one, that he might be suspected of "making a good thing" out
of the Judge's friendship, galled him deeply. He knew that never in
his life had he used any indirect means for his own advancement, that
he was incapable of using people for his own interest, and he hated to
appear what he was not. It was more than the pride of an honest man in
keeping his reputation clear of any spot. Laurence cared more than he
could admit about public opinion, about his position in the eyes of his
fellow-citizens. Their admiration was necessary to him. His ambition
could be satisfied only by predominance without any shadow on it, any
reproach or sneer.
Professionally he understood how to keep himself safe from anything
of that sort. There he stood on solid rock. His reputation for
uprightness, for indifference to money, was unquestioned. He began to
be considered "eccentric"; no one could predict what cases he would
take, what refuse, except that the more unpromising a case appeared,
the more apt he was to take it. He made enemies, of course; but this
sort of enmity pleased him. He liked to be called "quixotic" and to
be accused of "tilting at windmills." In the law he knew perfectly
well what he was about. His law was sound; he worked faithfully and
constantly to build up his knowledge. He aspired to the judicial
ermine, and a spot upon it would have killed his pride. He would be
known as an able and incorruptible judge.
He would not owe his position to politics, either, if he could help
it. Judge Baxter had been a busy politician, and had striven to
initiate Laurence into the local situation. But Laurence had not been
interested; he hated wire-pulling and contests for power. Naturally
he belonged to the party that had supported the war and was now
all-powerful. But he wanted none of the spoils, at present. His
political activity was confined to supporting what he thought good
candidates and opposing bad ones; his test being the public welfare.
He had identified himself more than he would have thought possible
with his town. Its growth and prosperity had become important to him.
He wanted the town improved and did not want it plundered, and had
made his position clear. It suited him--active, and yet aloof from any
vulgar scramble for profit. The enemies made for him by this activity
he despised; they could not hurt him, he was too strong. The public
esteem that he cared for was increased rather than otherwise by their
opposition.