The following day Laurence returned on the mid-afternoon train, but
stopped at his office, sending on a friend he had brought with him in a
hack with the valises. This was Horace Lavery, a Chicago lawyer, rather
a frequent visitor at the house. Mary was in the garden when the hack
drove up, and came round to see if it were Laurence. She gave Lavery
a stately, somewhat cool greeting. He was a man of middle age, florid
and rather stout, gay and talkative. Always a little dashed at first by
Mary's manner, he would speedily recover himself and amuse himself in
his own way. Now, a little embarrassed, he said, after dismissing the
hackman:
"Well, here I am again. Laurence stopped down town, he'll be home by
seven.... Can I go upstairs and brush off, it was rather a dusty ride."
"Yes, but not the usual room, we have another visitor--the one next to
it."
"And shall I find you here when I come down?"
"I'm working in the garden."
"Perhaps I can help?"
"If you do, you'll get yourself all dusty again."
"Oh, I don't mind," he said effusively. "So long as it's in your
service."
Mary laughed and turned away. She always laughed at Lavery's ponderous
gallantry. But under the sentimental surface that he presented to her
there was another man, of whom she caught occasional glimpses that
interested her. At present, however, she was vexed at his coming.
She preferred to see Laurence alone, to break to him the news of his
parent's reappearance. And what would Lavery, with his glossy freshness
of apparel and man-of-the-world air, think of a shabby parent, suddenly
produced? She didn't care, though, what Lavery thought, except that it
might vex Laurence. She wished she had telegraphed him. She might send
down to the office ... but no, he would be immersed in work, and only
the more upset by it. She went slowly back into the garden, a favourite
spot with her; it had been laid out years ago by her father, and he
often came to help her with it.
Dr. Lowell had enjoyed having a good deal of money to spend on a
garden. It was enclosed by a brick wall covered with creepers on two
sides, the house on the third side, the other open, overlooking the
lake. There were gravel-walks, white wooden benches and trellises,
and in the centre, a sun-dial. The flower-beds had been touched by
the frost; but still blooming were verbenas and many-coloured asters.
The dead leaves had been raked up and smouldered here and there in
blackened heaps, sending out a sweet pungent smoke. Mary, bare-headed,
in a long black cloak, was down on her knees digging up bulbs when
Lavery approached, freshly groomed and enveloped in a delicate scent of
Florida-water.
"Let me do that," he urged, bending over her.
"What? In those immaculate clothes? You don't mean it."
"I do--I'll sacrifice the clothes. Please get up and let me dig the
onions."
"Onions! These are very rare bulbs, of a Chinese lily--they have to
be handled with great care and I always do it myself. So you may as
well sit down there and smoke your cigar. Some people are made to be
ornamental, you know, and others to be useful."
"And some are both," said Lavery, looking down on her heavy rippling
hair. "And again, others are neither."
He seated himself rather sulkily on the bench near by.
"Of course I know I'm not handsome," he observed. "So that was rather a
nasty dig of yours about being 'ornamental.' But you made one mistake.
I _am_ useful."
"Are you? For what?" enquired Mary, carefully separating bulbs. "I
always thought you just a bright butterfly."
"You never thought about me at all," he declared with emphasis. "But I
have thought a good deal about you."
He took out a cigar and a pearl-handled knife, cut the end of the cigar
neatly, and lit it with a match from a gold box. Then clasping his
broad white hands about his knee, he contemplated Mary's grave profile.
She seemed absorbed in her work and did not look up at him, nor betray
by the flicker of an eyelash any interest in what he thought. Still
less did she enquire into it. The silence lasted until he broke it,
petulantly.
"Mrs. Carlin, why do you dislike me?"
"I don't dislike you--at least I think not."
"You think not! Don't you know whether you do or not?... You strike me
as a person who would know her own mind!"
"Yes--but I'm not very quick about making up my mind. I don't feel I
know you at all well."
"You've known me for two years.... How long does it take you to make up
your mind?"
"Well, that depends--longer now than it used to. I don't feel that I
know very much about anybody. I used to be more sure about things."
She lifted the last of the bulbs into the basket, and rose to her feet.
"Won't you sit here and talk to me a little?... I almost never have
a chance to talk to you alone--that's why we don't know one another
better."
She looked at him and smiled faintly, but the shadow of sadness and
weariness did not lift from her face.
"I have some things to see to in the house--and then I must dress--"
"But it's hardly five now."
"Yes."
She sat down on the bench, brushing the dust off her black cloak.
"I like," said Lavery discontentedly, "to be friendly with people. I
don't like to be held off at arm's length and looked at as if I were a
queer beetle or something--or not looked at, that's even worse!"
"Do you think I do that?" Mary enquired.
"Yes, you do! You treat me as if I were hardly a human being!"
"Oh, how absurd!... You're a different kind of human being, that's all,
you belong to a different world."
"How a different world? I'm Laurence's friend, why can't I be yours?"
A sudden sternness, a definite recoil, in her expression, warned him
off this ground.
"How could you be my friend? There is nothing in common between you and
me," she said coldly.
"Now, how do you know there isn't? You say yourself you don't know
me!... But I think you've made up your mind that you don't want to ...
you think I'm frivolous and ridiculous, because I manage to enjoy life,
don't you now? A middle-aged butterfly, a mere sensualist--isn't that
it?"
"Well--something like that," Mary admitted. "But it oughtn't to matter
to you what I think.... I told you I don't understand people very well,
the older I get the less I understand them, and I can't make friends."
This quiet statement had an air of finality. He was silent, looking at
her thoughtfully, with a keen shrewdness, a questioning puzzled gaze.
"Well, friends or not, I admire you very much," he said abruptly. "I
hate to have you think me such a poor creature."
"I imagine it won't disturb you very much, if I do. You wouldn't care
much for any woman's opinion, you like to amuse yourself with women but
you don't take them seriously, you look down on them. You think they're
all alike and that a few compliments and pretty speeches are all they
want or can understand. You like to take them in, and then laugh at
them, it amuses you.... And men too--you like to play with people, try
experiments. You're more cool-headed and sharp than most people, you
think almost every one is a fool, in some way or other, and you like
to find out how--turn them inside out. That's how you enjoy life."
"Well, by Jove!" Lavery stared at her. "So you _have_ given me some
attention, after all--I wouldn't have guessed it! Now, do you know,
you're right about some things, but that isn't the whole story--"
Mary stood up and took her basket.
"No, I suppose not, but I must go in now."
Reluctantly he rose, and walked with her to the door.
"You're a severe judge--you won't even let the criminal speak in his
own defence," he said with some feeling. "'Give every man his deserts
and who should 'scape hanging?' Don't you think you might show a little
mercy?"
"I believe in justice," said Mary, with a sudden hardening of her face.
"That's what we all get--not mercy."
The bitterness of her tone remained with him after she had gone.... He
told himself that he would make her talk yet, he would find out what
was the trouble in this household, the shadow that hung over it. He had
tried to find out from Laurence, but in vain; even when he was drunk,
Laurence wouldn't talk about his wife.
* * * * *
Mary was dressed and listening for Laurence long before he came. Her
father-in-law had disappeared for the whole afternoon, and had not yet
returned; he had told her that he was going for a long walk, and John
had accompanied him. Mary perceived that the old man was very tactful.
She had seen it in his meeting with his grandsons, the manner in which
he at once took a certain place with them. He did not assert himself
in the least nor stress the relationship; he treated them not like
children, but with the courteous interest due to new acquaintance,
without familiarity. The two elder boys rather hung back from him; but
John had at once been friendly; they were all in some way impressed by
him.
It was dark, the lamps had been lighted, when Laurence came. Lavery was
strolling about the lawn and met him; and they came upstairs together
and went into Laurence's room, laughing. Mary waited impatiently till
finally Lavery went to dress; then she knocked at Laurence's door
and entered. He was in his dressing-room, splashing vigorously, and
answered with surprise when she spoke to him. In a moment he came out,
wrapped in a loose robe, his thick black hair and beard wet and rough.
"Laurence, something strange has happened. Some one is here--you
haven't heard?--your father has come."
A look of apprehension on his face quickly gave place to astonishment
as she ended.
"My father!... What the deuce!"
He looked dismayed; then as she went on to describe the new arrival,
incredulous.
"I don't believe it's my father. He wouldn't turn up like this after
twenty-five years without a word!... I've thought for a long time he
was dead."
"Well, he isn't--it's your father, sure enough."
Laurence, with a blank look, towelled his head and neck.
"Jesus Christ!" he ejaculated.
He went and stared into the mirror, rubbing his hair till it stood up
wildly all over his head. There were threads of grey all through it,
but the beard that covered his mouth and was cut square below his chin
was intensely black, and so were his arched brows, beneath which the
narrow eyes showed still their vivid blue. His broad shoulders, the
joining of the massive neck, were strong, unbowed.
"What did you do with him?" he asked abruptly.
"Put him in the best bedroom and gave him your special whiskey," said
Mary.
"The deuce you did!... Killed the fatted calf, eh?... Well, where is he
now?"
"He went to walk with John--John took a great fancy to him."
"He did?" Laurence's face changed subtly, relaxed. "Well, that's
something.... But, say--it's awkward about Lavery being here. I wish
I'd known."
"I might have telegraphed, but I didn't know where you were," said Mary.
"You can always reach me at the hotel," he said sharply.
She moved toward the door.
"I wish to the deuce Lavery wasn't here," he muttered.
"I wouldn't care about that." There was an edge in Mary's tone, but
with an effort she eliminated that touch of criticism. "Your father can
take care of himself--he's quite as much a gentleman as Lavery."
"No, is he really?"
Laurence turned round, a hairbrush in either hand, and gazed at her.
"He's presentable, really?... I shouldn't have expected it."
"He isn't very well dressed," said Mary quietly. "But you needn't be at
all ashamed of him. He's--there's something about him--well, I can't
describe it, but he has much better manners than Mr. Lavery."
"Oh, you always have a knife up your sleeve for poor old Horace," said
Laurence, turning back again to the mirror and brushing vigorously.
"I'll be down in ten minutes--but I'd rather see him alone first, you
know. Do you suppose he's come back?"
"I'll see."
In the mirror Laurence's eyes dwelt on her tall figure and white face
shadowy in the background. He said slowly with an undertone of pain:
"You look very beautiful tonight."