But he had his vulnerable point.
When he saw money coming in faster than he could spend it, piling up at
the bank, he felt that the time had come to change their way of living.
The house that he had wanted to live in had been in his mind for years.
It remained only to get an architect from Chicago and have the plans
drawn for the stately mansion of his dreams.
Yes, one other thing--to persuade Mary that she too wanted it.
Mary had another son now--a frail infant in whom her life and thoughts
seemed centred. It had been a question whether this child would live,
and she still watched it with anxious care. She had not fully recovered
her own health after its birth--she was thinner, looked much older.
For the first time she was a little careless of her own appearance,
thought nothing of her dress, and even her rich hair lost its lustre
and sometimes straggled untidily from its heavy knot.
Laurence did not like this change in her--her total absorption in the
nursery, her prevailing anxiety, which seemed to him exaggerated. His
children had not reached the stage of development necessary to interest
his mind. He was fond of them, proud of the two sturdy older ones, and
concerned about the sickly youngest. But he could not see why Mary
couldn't take a little interest in life outside them. It was partly his
desire to give her another interest, something that she could share
with him, that made him broach the subject of the house. He wanted
a more social life--something that they could join in, beside mere
parenthood. Magnificence would become Mary, if she only thought so.
She was a beautiful and stately woman, in spite of her present neglect
of herself, and would be in her proper place at the head of a big
establishment. She ought to have more servants, to entertain, to wear
rich dresses of silk, to be adorned with jewels. He wanted to see her
so--he wanted more amusement, more gaiety. They were both young--why
bury themselves in a mere daily round of work and care?
Mary at first opposed his idea, but languidly, from mere lack of
interest in it. When he grew warm and petulant, and passionately
accused her of not caring for anything that he did or for any of his
wishes, she yielded the point without more ado. It was Laurence's
money, of course he could do as he liked with it. She thought they were
very comfortable as they were, but if he didn't like the house and
wanted a bigger one, very well, let it be built. One house or another
was much the same to her.
Laurence drove out with her one day to see the site he had selected--on
the outskirts of the town, which was however rapidly growing. It was
a big pasture, running from the road back to the edge of the lake--a
rough piece of ground, thickly overgrown with weeds and with straggling
willows under which the cattle gathered. But Laurence already saw it
laid out in lawns and shrubbery, framing the great house of brick and
stone that should dominate the town. Here would be the stables, there
the gardens. There should be a boathouse on the lake, there should be
a screen of rapidly-growing trees along the road, a splendid entrance
with tall gates, a graveled drive leading to the house.
His face lit up as he eagerly explained it all to Mary, pointing with
his whip, holding in the restive horses with a strong hand, turning
the light buggy dexterously around the rough prairie hillocks and
mud-holes. A bull came out of a group of cattle and looked at them
sullenly with lowered head. The horses wheeled and started nervously.
But Laurence with the lash of the whip and firm control, forced them
to pass directly in front of the menacing animal, and continued his
talk. Mary listened, wrapped up in her mantle, agreeing to all his
suggestions....
It was a bright autumnal day, clear and crisp, with a strong breeze
blowing. Yellow leaves from nut-trees and maples swirled in clouds
along the ground and covered the road. Laurence wanted to drive a
little further into the country; Mary assented, saying that she must be
at home by six o'clock.
"You ought to get out more--even this little drive has done you good,
you have some colour," Laurence said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
She smiled, shut her eyes with pleasure, feeling the rush of the wind
as they drove against it.
"Yes, I'd like to drive every day--you manage them so well."
"Then we will! I'll try to get away for an hour each day, if you'll
come, Mary.... But you always have some tiresome thing to keep you at
home."
"Do you call the children tiresome things?" she asked, smiling.
"Well--I do, sometimes," he confessed. "They take so much of you....
I'd like to drive you away somewhere, now, away from all of it, for a
while. I wish we could run away together. I hardly ever see you, Mary!"
"You see me every day, except when you're away--I should think you must
be tired seeing me."
"I never see you alone, except at night and then you're always
tired.... I want things arranged so you won't have so much to do, so
that we can have an evening together sometimes--go out somewhere or be
alone together, without your having to go and sit with some baby or
other," said Laurence with sudden peevishness.
"Well, you know, bringing up a family isn't all pleasure," Mary
reminded him with mild reproof.
"I should say it wasn't!... But there might be a little. You might
think about me, once in a while, and put on a pretty dress and sing to
me, the way you used to. You'll be getting old if you keep on this way!"
"With three children you can't expect me to look like a girl," Mary
protested.
One of the trotters shied at a paper blown across the road, both horses
reared and the light buggy rocked dangerously. Laurence lashed them,
stinging blows, then checked their leap with a wrench, pulling them
back on their haunches.
"Laurence! You shouldn't lose your temper with the horses,"
remonstrated Mary.
"They have to know who's master," he answered curtly. "But you make
me angry, talking that way about yourself. You're not thirty yet, and
you want to live like an old woman! Why don't you put on a cap and
spectacles?"
"Well, my mother wore a cap when she was thirty. At thirty a woman
can't pretend to be young," said Mary, smiling.
"Pooh, your mother! A woman with your looks, too! You'd be more
beautiful than ever if you'd take care of yourself. You haven't ever
worn that silk dress I brought you months ago."
"Oh, I haven't had it made up--it's much too gay, Laurence! You know I
never wear colours."
"Well, you ought to.... I should think you might want to please me,
once in a while.... But you women! All you think about is children, and
a man can go hang himself, for all you care. You wouldn't even want him
around, if you could have children without him!"
"How you talk! Anybody would think you didn't care about the children!"
"I care a lot more about you than I do about them--but it isn't the
same with you. What's the _use_ of having children if nobody's going
to enjoy life--if everybody's just to go along doing their duty and
raising up another generation to do the same thing? Hey, what's the use
of it?"
"I don't think the use of it is enjoyment," said Mary. "It isn't meant
to be."
"Just like you! How do you know what it's meant to be? Have you had any
private revelation from God about it?... Well, I tell you that I don't
see any use in life if there isn't any pleasure in it--and that I'm
going to enjoy _my_ life, anyhow, and when I don't, it will be time to
quit!"
"Laurence, you're a pagan," said Mary gravely.
"A pagan is better than a psalm-singing hypocrite, that wants to take
all the pleasure out of life!"
"Do you mean me by that?" she enquired gently.
"No, I don't mean you! You're not a hypocrite, whatever else you
are.... If you'd only unbend a little, once in a while, and let
yourself have a good time, you'd be all right. But you got a lot of
foolish ideas into your head when you were a girl--and I know who put
them there too. And you hang onto them like grim death, you're so
obstinate you won't _ever_ give up an idea or anything else. You won't
change--no matter if you see it makes me unhappy--"
He broke off suddenly, and for some moments they were both silent. They
were now far beyond the town, out on the open prairie. Great fields of
stubble from which the grain had been reaped, stretched on either side.
In spite of the bright sun and the fresh wind, the outlook over these
endless yellow-brown flats, broken by dull-green marsh or dark belts of
new-turned soil, was not cheerful. Dreary, rather, and sombre was the
prairie, its harvest yielded, waiting now for the sleep of winter. In
the distance, a grey smudge on the horizon showed where lay the great
sprawling smoky city. With his eyes fixed on this Laurence said:
"But I've known a long time that you don't really care anything about
me."
"You shouldn't say such things--you know better.... It's only that we
don't look at life in the same way."
"And you're contented to have it so! But I'm not. Why can't you see it
more as I do, Mary? I think you would, if you cared about me."
"No, I can't, you are so personal about it. You want things so much for
yourself, and you will always be disappointed, Laurence. Life isn't
given us for our personal pleasure."
"You talk like a book or an old greyhead.... I don't think it's living
at all to slide through life thinking about something else--not to want
anything for fear you'll be disappointed! I think that's cowardly. It's
better to try for things."
"Yes, but what things? I can't care much about worldly things--houses
to live in and clothes to wear. I _can't_, Laurence."
"You seem to think that's all I care for," he said bitterly. "But you
don't understand me and don't try to. What I wanted isn't houses and
clothes! It was something very beautiful, to me. Something that would
last for our whole life--and beyond it. But you couldn't see it. Even
now you don't know what I mean."
The suffering in his voice touched her, she leaned toward him and laid
her cheek to his.
"I wish I could be what you want--I wish you could be happy," she said.
"You _could_ be, if you wanted to be!... No, I'm not happy, and I can't
be contented this way, Mary, I warn you, I can't be!"
The menace of his suppressed violence left her silent and impassive. He
too fell into moody silence, and so they returned to the house.
That night the whole town was roused from sleep, to see a red glare
in the sky where by day hung the grey smudge over the city. The news
came over the wires--Chicago was burning. A strong wind blew the smoke
over the prairie, the town was enveloped in a dim haze. Trains came
in, bringing refugees. Later, crowded into all sorts of vehicles,
they poured in. The town opened its houses to the flood of terrified
homeless people. All night blazed that red light in the sky. The wires
went down, but each new arrival brought a story of more complete
destruction, of whole streets of wooden houses bursting into flame at
once, of brick buildings melting like wax in the furnace. By morning
the city of half a million people was in ashes.
X
But the energy of youth does not stop long to mourn over destruction.
Hardly had the ground cooled under that vast heap of ashes when it was
torn up for new foundations. Almost overnight a new city began to rise,
a prouder city where brick and stone largely took the place of wood.
Ruin was swept away and forgotten, men toiled in the busy ant-hill to
rebuild their fortunes, and within a year it was done. The city spread
along the shore of the lake and far inland, bigger than ever, busier
than ever, more splendid and prosperous.
At first, in the general ruin, Laurence had thought himself involved.
His rent-producing buildings were gone, and the insurance companies
prostrate. But the land remained, and by the outleap of energy and hope
in the people, became more valuable than before. Long before the end of
the year Laurence was at ease about his property. And so the new house
that he had planned began to rise from its deep foundations.
The house became to Laurence a symbol, a personal expression. Indeed,
it had been that, from his first idea of it. But as time went on, more
of his constructive energy went into it. Checked in another way, an
immaterial way, he must still be building something. The house at least
was his creation, all his own, and it became a keen interest, almost
a passion. The plans were drawn and redrawn till they suited him, he
scrutinized each detail, he spent all the time he could spare in
watching the workmen. When from the stone foundation the walls began to
grow, layer on layer of deep red brick, he sat or lounged about by the
hour, smoking one thick cigar after another, impatient, already seeing
in his mind the whole structure complete up to the spire on the cupola,
and planning the decoration of the stately rooms.
Mary sometimes accompanied him. She made an effort to do so, and to
join in his interest. But it was somewhat as she might have joined in a
child's play, humoring him, and he saw this. Nevertheless, he was glad
to have her there with him, to talk to her about it, to ask her advice.
But the ideas were all his--she had not many suggestions to offer, and
these were practical ones, about pantries, closets, and so forth. The
scale of the house rather daunted her--sometimes she murmured that it
was going to be hard to run it, with nothing but raw untrained servants
to be had.
"Well, you can train them," said Laurence cheerfully.
He planned the entrance-hall with its stately stair, its niches for
statues; the billiard-room on the top floor; the library, with long
windows looking out on the lake and a chimney-piece of dark marble
reaching to the ceiling.
He wanted the house to be gay, inviting, festive in appearance--yet his
plan was rather sombre than gay, grandiose. In spite of himself, what
he chose had this character. The wish to make a striking effect, to
impress and dominate, was stronger than the desire to please. Perhaps
this came from the poverty and bareness of his early life--perhaps
from some lingering ancestral memories of the old world. He wanted
splendour, but he wanted it somehow aged and mellow, he did not like
the appearance of newness. So the colour of the house was dark, dark
wood was used in it. When it came to wall-papers and hangings, he chose
them of heavy textures and deep colours. A sombre and dusky red was a
favorite--he used that in the hall, the billiard-room and the library.
He wanted Mary to choose the colour for the parlours, but in the end he
decided that too, and it was a dark gold, with heavy double curtains
of lace and silk subduing the faint gleam of the walls, and great
chandeliers to light it up on festive occasions.
All this cost a great deal of money--how much, Mary did not enquire.
She took it for granted that Laurence could manage his own affairs--and
they both looked upon the fortune inherited from the Judge as his,
though of course it was left in trust to the children. That was
a formality, the money had been meant for Laurence. Naturally he
would not impair the capital, but would rather increase it, by good
investments. The house was an investment--what could be safer than
that? The Judge had always laid stress on the value and safety of real
estate. And already the value of his estate had increased largely.
Values were going up everywhere. A wave of prosperity had overflowed
the country. With the settling of political troubles, the new sense
of security, a feeling of boundless wealth and opportunity sprang up
and prevailed. The great west opening its riches, the quick growth
of cities, fortunes made overnight almost, golden fortunes beckoning
on every hand--the eyes of men were dazzled, the gold-fever ran in
their veins. Gaining and spending went hand-in-hand. A new luxury was
spreading. Money-scandals spread too, and a cynical perception that
those in high places were by no means above lining their pockets in
alliance with the rising power of Wall street. Speculation was the note
of the time. Merchant princes, railroad barons, money kings, made a new
aristocracy, prodigal and flamboyant, and set the fashion for living.
* * * * *
These big splashes in the pool, spreading tumultuous waves, had
subsided into ripples before they reached the inlet where Mary lived;
but the quiet surface of her life was to some degree disturbed. The
restlessness of the time reached even her, but as something to be
resisted as far as possible. The few friends she had were staid people,
rather older than herself, and with these or with her parents, she
preferred to spend what leisure she had. Her household mainly absorbed
her energies, not yet restored to their normal pitch. Even with Nora,
the care of the children was a constant occupation. The delicate
youngest child was Mary's special charge. He shared her room, sometimes
banishing Laurence, who could not wake at night after working all day.
The other boys, now six and five years old, were handsome robust
fellows, noisy and inventive of mischief. The question of their
education troubled Mary. She herself taught them to read, and began
their religious instruction. She did not want to send them to the town
school, fearing profane influences. Her early passionate tenderness
for them had become a grave solicitude. Nora petted and spoiled the
boys, but Mary was their taskmaster and mentor. Nora often lost her
temper with them, and slaps alternated with kisses. Mary was calm
and serious, severe with their moral lapses, such as fibbing and
disobedience, rarely caressing them. She felt for them much more
tenderness than she showed, believing that it was not good for them
to be petted. On Hilary's advice, she had not taught her boys Greek,
though by this time she could read it pretty well herself. But she
taught them the Bible; they went to church with her, and on Sundays
they had to learn and recite to her a certain number of verses; and she
heard them say their prayers at night, encouraging original efforts.
For some time past she had felt that Nora was not a good influence.
She was too much of a child herself, stormy, impetuous, without any
authority over the boys. When she could not control them, she would
threaten, scold and at times use physical violence, always repenting
it, though, and making up with kisses and fond words. Mary had
forbidden her to slap the children and sharply reproved her when she
broke any of the rules laid down for them. Then Nora would sulk. In
fact her temper had become noticeably bad.
* * * * *
One day in late September, after a week's absence, trying a case at
the county seat, Laurence was expected home. Nora dressed both the
boys in clean white suits, combed their curls with nervous fluttering
fingers, set them on the porch with injunctions not to stir and ran up
to her own room to put on some adornment. The carriage drove up. Mary
met Laurence at the door, and after his usual warm greeting stood a
moment in the hall while he took off his coat and brought in his bags.
Suddenly piercing shrieks sounded from the shrubbery. Both parents
rushed out, to find the boys, just dragged out of a mud-puddle,
daubed from head to foot and undergoing corporal punishment at the
hands of Nora, whose angry shouts vied with their screams. Mary seized
the children, ordered Nora away and received a rude answer; whereupon
Laurence spoke sternly to Nora; and she turned white, trembled and fled
to her room. Passing her door later Mary could hear her wild sobbing.
She could hear too, while dressing the boys anew, that Laurence went in
and spoke to Nora; could hear the firm curt tones of his voice.
Presently he came into the nursery, and she said:
"I really think I can't keep Nora. I can't have scenes like this."
"No, I've told her so," said Laurence, frowning. "I've told her that
she can't speak to you like that, and that if she can't control herself
she'll have to go."
He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time.
Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put
them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their
prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures
and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys
wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay
and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played
with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went
downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did
not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed.
Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and
was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a
big fee--a will contest, involving a large estate. He had taken it
because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew
and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a
man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a
son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just
cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish.
"I shall charge them ten thousand--they're willing to pay more than
that. So you see, Mary, you needn't worry about the price of carpets,"
he laughed.
After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, relaxed, tired
but still talkative, smoking his big black cigar and watching with
bright and contented eyes Mary at her sewing. He was always happy at
returning home, the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And
Mary was always glad to have him come back. She missed him deeply when
he was away. He often brought disturbance, but he brought too something
that she needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower
current, though it might be more peaceful.
He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his arrival, but Mary had
not. She thought of the children and presently laid down her work and
said that she must see if they were covered properly--the night had
turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. A light was
burning in the nursery. As she entered she saw Nora kneeling by one
of the cribs, her face bowed, hidden. Nora raised her head and turned
toward the door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean--that
radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth half-opened and
smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora dropped her eyes, all the light
went out of her. She got up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping
child. And Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the room
without speaking.
She returned to the library, took up her work again, listened to
Laurence, responded to him, smiling tranquilly on him; after a time
moved to sit beside him at his behest, and answered his caress. But all
the time there was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure,
hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister way disturbed even
the current of her blood, made her heart beat heavily. It was a kind
of fear, a vague terror of--she knew not what exactly, but something
there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from.
She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion of Laurence.
Nothing of that sort had existed for her, it had never entered her
world for an instant. Now she hardly recognized it, except as a
formless shadow of evil. Deceit, treachery--could she phrase such
things, even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poisoned her
sleep, it was there at her waking.... In spite of herself, not
admitting it to herself, she suspected--she watched.