All night long the wind roared round the house, dashing gusts of
sleety rain against the western windows. At times even the thick walls
shook. The lake rose into waves that pounded on the shore. Mary tried
to read herself to sleep but in vain. At last she put out her light,
and thoughts, images, questions, raced through her mind as she lay in
darkness.
A happy woman ... proud and happy, she ought to be. But what had she
to be proud of.... Men were more fortunate, they had their work,
could really achieve something, could take anything they wanted....
Laurence took what he wanted, to help him do his work, and I say he
was right.... Laurence went his own way, apart from her.... Of course
apart, she had driven him away. No, he had begun it before that. But
she hadn't done her duty by him, it was her duty to forgive.... No, she
didn't believe in forgiveness, didn't believe in duty. It wouldn't have
worked any better. He would have gone his own way anyhow. And now the
boys were beginning too.... Use your imagination, Mary....
She didn't want to use her imagination, she was afraid of it. Yes,
afraid.... All sorts of things that she had shut out in the dark,
wouldn't look at, and now they were horrible to her.... Why should
one have to look at the dark side of life, the animal side?... But
suppose that was really life, suppose we were just animals and nothing
more--all the rest words. That might very well be.... Her father had
spent his life taking care of the physical body, he didn't believe
in anything else, didn't look forward.... Life ... it's mystery on
mystery ... we're just ignorant.... What was it then that made him so
calm and strong, not afraid of anything? She had thought that this was
what religion did for you, but he had never had any religion, yet he
had always been like this, since she could remember him. Hilary had it
too, that same strength, and with him perhaps it was religion.... But
she didn't believe in religion, heaven was empty, God had melted away
completely, she didn't believe in him.
She tossed restlessly, the tumult without echoing the storm within. It
seemed that the wind was driving through her head, her thoughts were
like whirling leaves....
Why should she be proud of her sons? They were not hers, they
were Laurence's as much as hers, perhaps more; they were distinct
individuals, did not belong to her, she had almost no part in them. And
she had not trained them in the way they should go ... how could she,
when since the early days she had ceased to believe in any definite
way? They had just grown up themselves.... You haven't nagged them,
not very much.... Was that what her father thought of moral teaching?
They had learned not to lie or steal, of course. But as they grew to
be men they would begin again. Jim had already begun. He lied to her,
and apparently told the truth to his grandfather.... Let them feel that
they could tell you anything--they wouldn't tell you probably.... No,
they would have their lives apart, and she would be alone still--In
her youth she had never felt lonely, but now....
Lavery knew what loneliness was, that was why she had talked to him.
He had known how she was feeling before she spoke, otherwise she would
never have spoken. He was worldly wise, but that was all, or nearly
all--it wasn't much. His consolations--what use were they? Soft living,
books, music, little adventures.... She would rather jump into the lake
than live like that. Why not?... Nobody would miss her very much. The
boys at first, it would be a shock, of course. And Laurence would have
to find somebody to run the house. Her father would miss her, and it
would be a town-scandal, a mystery.... Why on earth.... A woman with
everything to live for.... Temporary insanity.... And then, prying and
prowling gossip.
Why not? Well, of course she would never do it. Life was too strong in
her--physical life. She would have to be inconceivably miserable before
she could seek death. She was afraid of death, now that beyond it lay
the void.
And it was still good to live, in some ways. Even today she had known
pleasure, more than for a long time. Something had lifted her up. This
was the reaction.... If only she could sleep! If the wind would stop
howling like a lost soul round the house!
Why was it that she had lost the faith that in her girlhood had made
her so strong and secure?... She had said to Lavery it was because
people had disappointed her. But was that a reason for losing her faith
in God? Wasn't there something above and beyond this human life, so
often petty and sordid, these weak human beings--something fixed,
sure, always good and beautiful, a refuge?... No, there was nothing,
or if there was, she could not find it. When she had thought she loved
God, it was only that she loved people--Hilary in one way, Laurence
in another--and believed in them. And then at one stroke she had lost
both of them. They had been cut away from her--or was it that she had
done it, cut them away, repelled and denied them both? If a man loves
not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath
not seen?... Then she had lost all that remained to her, the joy in her
children, her content with herself, and that feeling of rightness....
From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath....
Now she would be glad to go away from everybody, even the children....
* * * * *
Toward morning she slept, and woke unwillingly at a knock on her door.
"Breakfast's ready--aren't you coming down?"
It was Jim. She said sleepily, "Oh, I'm tired, hardly slept all night.
I guess I won't get up."
Jim looked aggrieved.
"It's rotten when you don't come down," he said. Then, turning away he
enquired sulkily, "Well, shall I bring up your breakfast?"
How vigorous and vivid his young figure looked, in the grey morning
light--his brown glowing colour, how pleasant to see!
"Yes--no, I'll get up," she said.
Still he lingered.
"Well, if you're very tired--I'll bring it up if you want me to."
"No, I say I'll get up. Run along."
"I'd just as soon bring it up--"
"Run along!"
She laughed as he shut the door, and sprang up, to see if she could
make it in ten minutes. It was rather more than that, but she got down
to find the three boys at the breakfast-table; and Jim rose and pulled
out her chair for her, a mark of special favour. A bright fire crackled
in the chimney, the silver coffee-urn hissed cheerfully in the middle
of the table; the room was warm and pleasant, with the rain beating
against the windows. The boys all smiled at her, and Jim, showing
his big white teeth, passed his cup for more coffee. One cup was his
allowance, but she filled it up.
"What a night!" she said. "Did you hear the wind? I couldn't
sleep--could you?"
They had all slept like tops, hadn't noticed any wind, that is, only
John had noticed it. "I like storms," he said. "I like a big storm, but
it doesn't keep me awake. I'd like to be out on the lake in a big wind."
"Yes, you would," murmured Timothy sceptically.
"Ma, I wish you'd make Tim brush his hair," drawled the eldest. "Look
at it."
"I have brushed it--it won't lie down, that's all. It's a cowlick or
something."
"Yes, or something! You need a hair-cut."
"Yes, I guess you do," said Mary, looking at Timothy's thick disorderly
black mop. "You can go after school and get one."
Jim picked up the silver hand-bell and rang it loudly.
"What's that for?"
"Pancakes. I told Hilda to make some and she's late as usual. It's
half-past eight now."
The waitress brought in a big platter of cakes, and they vanished
quickly, with no comment except, "Pass the butter.... Maple-syrup,
please--I'll take a couple more, Mother." Then the three said, "Please
excuse me," and bolted for the door. In the hall arose the usual
hubbub. "That's my coat you've got.... Where's my cap?... Confound it,
who took my rubbers?..."
Mary went out to say, "All your rubbers are on the shelf in the
coat-closet," to make sure that nobody rushed off without his rubbers,
to hear their shouted good-byes. The door banged behind them. She
smiled and went back to her coffee and the newspaper. Cold bath and
coffee made her feel fresh, full of energy, in spite of a bad night.
The world always looked more cheerful in the morning, especially when
the boys were about--they were so full of life, all of them, they were
nice even when they squabbled. Yes, if one could always be young,
things wouldn't be so bad. Life might be rather pleasant if you didn't
look into it too much.
She finished her coffee and went into the big clean drab-coloured
kitchen to interview the cook about the day's meals and write lists for
the grocer and butcher. She ordered a good dinner--Laurence would be
home, her father was coming, there might be other guests, for Laurence
often brought some one. The cook stood by the table, rolling her hands
in her apron and looking rather sullen, and when Mary rose for her
usual quick inspection of pantries and ice-box, Hilda said:
"Mrs. Carlin, I think I be leaving the end of the month."
"Why?" asked Mary sharply.
"Oh--I think I be leaving."
"Is it the work--the wages?"
"No--no, I like the place, but ... I think I be leaving."
Mary gazed at her, and finally said, "I know what it is--you've been
quarrelling with Anna."
The cook made no answer, but continued to look sullen.
"Now, Hilda," said Mary firmly, "you've been with me a year; in that
time I've had three waitresses, and you've quarrelled with every one of
them. I like Anna and I'm not going to let her go. I like you too, but
you're hard to get along with. If you want to leave at the end of the
month you can. I don't want to hear what you've been fighting about.
I advise you to think it over, and remember you'll always quarrel,
wherever you go, that's the way you're made. Let me know in a week."
She went her rounds, praised the good order she found, and departed
sighing. Another raw cook to train, probably! It took just about a
year to break them in, and then.... Anna was doing the dining-room as
she passed through and looked suspiciously bottled-up, but Mary gave
her no chance to complain. Of course they would fight, those two--any
two would, they hadn't enough else to occupy their minds. She wished
she could get along with one servant, but in this big house it was
impossible, it was hard work for two.
The house felt cold--she must send for the furnace-man and have him
start the fires. She went back to tell Anna to tell the gardener to go
for Mike at once. Then she wrapped a mantle about her and went into the
parlours, two big connecting rooms. They were glacially cold.
It had occurred to her this morning that the house was gloomy. She
didn't know why she hadn't noticed it before. Nothing had been changed
since they had lived in the house, ten years. Perhaps that was the
trouble. She had not been interested enough to want to change anything;
had accepted it all, as Laurence and the decorators presented it, with
indifference. She had never been interested in house-furnishings; if
Laurence liked this, it was enough. But it took an enormous amount of
work to keep all these heavy carpets and curtains clean, and all this
light furniture. And in spite of perpetual cleaning there was always a
musty smell when the windows were shut, as now. She frowned, looking
critically about her.
The heavy cut-lace curtains covering the windows had turned yellow with
age. The thick silk draperies over these inner curtains showed streaks
where the sun had faded them. The figured satin upholstery of the
carved and fretted couches and chairs was rather faded too.... All this
expensive stuff--and now, after only ten years, it had to be replaced!
And the bric-a-brac on the gilt tables and the mantelpieces,--the
gilt clocks and all that fragile porcelain that took such a lot of
dusting--there was not a single thing that she had selected, or liked.
But when it came to replacing all this, her mind was a blank. Only
she would like something quieter, not gilt stuff, satin, or little
figures of shepherdesses, animals, boys riding on goats, and so on....
Probably she would just have to get another decorator. How cold it all
looked in this grey light, reflected in the two long mirrors at either
end and the oblong mirrors over the mantelpieces!
The boys liked this house. She had discovered just lately how much they
liked it. Its size--the big rooms--it was still the biggest house in
town. They had a lordly feeling about it. They were secretly proud of
their position, as sons of the town's most eminent citizen, and of this
house, as the symbol of his superiority.... Well, if they liked it,
there was no harm in making it a little more cheerful.
She crossed the hall into the library, where she usually read or wrote
or received her visitors, for Laurence was never at home during the
day. There was a roaring big fire in the grate. This room was all
right. A library should be rather sombre, with big plain pieces of
furniture, the walls covered with books. It had the look of being used,
lived in; and its red hangings had kept their deep colour. Yes, this
would do--besides, Laurence probably wouldn't want it changed. It was
the only place in the house that seemed to belong to him.
She went over to her table, where she had left her unfinished paper
on Æschylus. Her lips curled in a derisive smile. Æschylus! What did
those women care about Greek tragedies?... They brought their knitting
or fancy-work, sat and listened or didn't listen, while somebody
lectured to them. They felt they were getting culture, keeping up
with the times--or rather, it was the thing to belong to the Literary
Society, they didn't dare not to belong.... Before Mary had taken the
presidency, they had had readings from the novels of the day; some
lady who had travelled would read a paper on the Yosemite Valley; or
there would be a written debate on the respective merits of Dickens and
Thackeray. Oral discussion was unknown, the ladies had no practice in
public speaking.... Well, she had made them work, anyway. She had made
an elaborate program for the study of Greek civilization, and all this
past year had driven or coaxed them through it. She had bought a list
of books on Greece for the library; and insisted on the ladies reading
and reporting on them. At the meetings she asked questions, stooped to
flatter them a little and tried to make them talk. It was hard work.
They didn't really want to get anything for themselves, preferred to
be spoon-fed. There were not more than two women in town who had any
intellectual interests, and she was the only one who knew even a little
Greek.
Why bother them? They had their own absorbing interests--family,
houses, friends, church. Most of them worked pretty hard at home too.
She had done it for her own amusement and occupation, or out of vanity,
to make them feel her superiority. They were afraid of her, and she had
liked that. She had not one real friend among them.... Better resign,
and let them have a good time.
She sat down, throwing off her cloak, and began to look over her
manuscript. It represented a good deal of work. She had consulted many
authorities, and read the plays, with Greek text and translation side
by side. There were the books piled on the table, full of little
slips of paper with her notes. She had been conscientious, thorough,
giving the best work she could do. No doubt to impress them with her
scholarship. She smiled again sardonically as she listened to that
inner impish voice that had been her companion now for a long time,
commenting on everything she did, sneering....
Anna brought in a telegram. She took it, knowing in a flash what it
was. Yes. "Sorry cannot get out tonight important case needs all my
attention for several days will wire when I can get away Laurence."
Yes, the usual thing. Only this message was longer than usual, he had
wasted several words. She crumpled up the paper and threw it into the
fire.... She had intended to talk to him tonight about doing over the
house. Then there was her father coming to see him. Well, he couldn't
be ill if he was staying away indefinitely. He was just--busy.... She
would send word to her father not to come, it was bad weather, a steady
driving rain that threatened to last all day.
She took up her pen and looked at the page before her--sat a long time
looking at it. In spite of the glowing fire her hands grew cold, too
cramped finally to hold the pen, and she dropped it.
Why should she care? All that was over long ago--buried.
Only sometimes it seemed that nothing ever could be buried securely. It
was as if the long grown-over ground should stir, and something that
had been buried too soon, still alive....
X
Two days passed, without word from Laurence. He seldom stayed away
as long as this without sending some message, except when he was on
circuit. The third day, as Mary was driving back from the meeting where
she had read her paper on Æschylus, she saw Jim on the street; he threw
up his hand, came running and jumped into the carriage.
"I was coming for you, Mr. Lavery's at the house--Father's ill--he
wants you to go to the city. They think it's typhoid." He leaned
forward and told the coachman to drive faster. "You can get the
six-thirty in if you hurry."
He could tell her no more in answer to her questions. He looked very
sober. As they turned in through the gates he said, "Don't you think
I'd better go with you? You'll want somebody besides that fellow."
"I don't know--wait," said Mary sharply.
Lavery was at the steps, came forward; but Jim sprang out and gave his
hand to Mary. Lavery looked pale and worried.
"You'll just have the time to pack a bag.... The doctor isn't positive
yet, but looks like typhoid--he's got a high fever."
The coachman was told to wait and they all hurried into the house.
"How long has he been ill?" demanded Mary.
"Well, since we went in, but--"
"Why didn't some one let me know?"
"He didn't want me to.... Now you better get ready. I'll talk to you on
the train."
He turned away, perhaps to avoid further questions. Why had he come
for her instead of telegraphing?... But she was already on her way
upstairs, followed by the three boys and Anna. They stood about in
her room and tried to help while she got out her leather bag and put
the necessary things in it. She changed her silk dress for one of
dark cloth, tied her bonnet with shaking fingers; it was hard for her
to hurry. Jim went down and brought her a glass of sherry and some
crackers.
"You'll miss your dinner, better drink this," he urged.
She drank the wine and smiled faintly at him.
"Can't I go with you?" he asked again. "Maybe you'll need me."
"I'll see--but now I want you to look after things here. You'll have to
be the man of the house."
A pang shot through her at those words, she frowned and snapped her bag
shut. She was ready. John, who had not uttered a word, took her hand as
they went downstairs. His fingers were cold and trembling.
"Don't you worry," she said sharply. "I don't believe it's serious.
I'll telegraph Jim tomorrow. Now you all be good, get your lessons, go
to bed on time--and, Jim, you better go tell your grandfather--"
They all swarmed after her to the carriage. The cook came too, calling:
"We get along all right, Mrs. Carlin, don't worry about us--we do
everything we can, Anna and me--"
The three boys kissed her, Jim the last, putting a manly arm around
her; she thought how grave and strong his young face looked. Lavery
stepped into the carriage, the coachman whipped up his horses; they
just made the train.
* * * * *
After a few questions and brief answers Mary sat silent, staring
blankly out of the window, during the hour's journey. She found
that Laurence had not sent for her, Lavery had come on his own
responsibility. The doctor had only this afternoon made the diagnosis
of typhoid--he was a smart young man, the best in the city, Lavery
thought. And Lavery had taken the tiresome journey instead of
telegraphing because he had to explain that Laurence was not at a hotel
or hospital, but staying at a friend's house, from which it was thought
best not to move him. Laurence had some rooms at this house, it seemed,
and--in fact generally stayed there when he was in the city. Mary did
not know the name or address--she addressed Laurence when necessary at
the Palmer Hotel. But she guessed whose house it was that she was going
to. He must be very ill. Otherwise Lavery would hardly be taking her
there.... When he had made his halting explanation she had listened,
said gravely, "Yes, I see. You did quite right," and then turned away.
* * * * *
There was a long drive over the rough cobble-stones, through streets
at first brightly lighted, then almost dark. They approached the lake
shore. The carriage stopped before a dimly lighted house standing by
itself, but not far from a block of houses of similar size. Lavery
helped Mary out and while he was paying the driver she took her bag and
walked up to the narrow porch. The door opened above; a woman's figure
appeared against the light in the hall. The gas-light had a red-glass
shade and cast a rosy glow down on the thin woman in a tight-fitting
black silk dress who stood aside to admit the visitor. Red hair,
twisted in a thick rough coil on top of her head ... eyes inflamed with
tears and now opened wide ... Mary recognized Nora. She bent her head
with an inarticulate murmur. Nora simply looked at her. Then Lavery
came in and shut the door.
"This way," he said, starting up the narrow stairs. Mary followed. He
glanced down at Nora, and asked, "Any change since I left? Has the
doctor been?"
She shook her head but did not speak, seemed unable to speak.
On the landing, lit by a dim gas-jet, opened two large connecting
rooms. The one into which Lavery led the way was in some disorder. A
big table with a student-lamp and sheaves of papers was pushed into a
corner, easy-chairs littered with cigar-ashes stood in the middle of
the floor; on a stand with decanters and glasses lay Laurence's gold
repeater. The door into the farther room opened noiselessly and a young
woman in a light dress and white apron came out.
"The nurse, Miss Macdonald," said Lavery in a low tone. "Mrs. Carlin.
How is he?"
"About the same. Dr. Sayre will be in between eight and nine. He's very
restless." As Mary went toward the other room she added: "I'm afraid he
won't know you."
On a wide bed, high-topped with its impending weight of carving, dark
as a catafalque, Laurence lay tossing, his hands grasping at the
coverlet, his head rolling on the pillow. His eyes were half-open and
he was murmuring faint hurried words. Sitting beside him, touching his
burning hands and forehead, bending over him, Mary could hear no word
clearly, only an inarticulate murmur of distress. He did not notice her
presence nor give any sign when she spoke to him, urgently called his
name. His face was dully flushed, his black hair rumpled wildly, his
eyes glassy under the half-shut lids. He tossed away from her, moaning
heavily. A dark-greenish shade had been pinned over the gas-globe; in
this light he looked ghastly.
The nurse came in and stood at the foot of the bed. After a few moments
Mary got up and beckoned her to the window.
"How long has he been like this?"
"Since I came this morning--only a little more restless toward night."
"He looks terribly ill."
"The doctor ought to be here very soon," said the nurse non-committally.
Mary turned away, stopped a moment at the bedside, then went back into
the study. Lavery was there, sunk in a deep leather chair, smoking.
Mary turned to close the connecting door and he got up, holding his
cigar in his fingers. She walked up to him, her face deathly pale, and
clutched his arm.
"Laurence is going to die!... I want to telegraph for my father!"
"He isn't going to die!" cried Lavery angrily. "I didn't think you'd
lose your head like this, first thing, or I wouldn't have gone for you."
But when he felt her hand shake, saw her whole body trembling, he
softened somewhat. "Look here, you're too scared. Have you ever seen
anybody very sick before?"
"No ... no...." she muttered. "My mother ... but not like this.... He's
so strong...."
"Well, he's sick, but we're going to pull him through.... Now look
here, are you going to help or not? When I went for you I said to
myself, that woman's got good nerve, she'll be a help. But if you're
going to be scared to death, first look at him--"
"No--I'll be all right--just a minute--he's never been sick before...."
"Well, I know, but you're going to pull yourself together.... And you
come downstairs and eat a bit with me before the doctor gets here.
You haven't had dinner and neither have I.... I told them to have
something. About telegraphing your father, we'd better wait till you
can speak to Sayre about it--that's etiquette and it won't hinder
anything. I don't believe he could get a train in tonight, could he?"
"Eleven-thirty."
"Well, it would be too bad to keep him up all night, if not necessary.
You wait and see Sayre.... And now come down, you'll feel better when
you've got some food."
She followed him down into the small brightly-lit dining-room, sat
opposite him at the table, took soup, wine and coffee. She was aware
of a black figure moving round the table, bringing dishes in and
taking them out.... Then suddenly, with an almost audible click of
the machinery, her mind began to work in its usual way. Her vision
cleared, she saw Lavery opposite drinking coffee and re-lighting his
cigar. She looked round the room--solid oak furniture, reddish carpet
and curtains, silver on the sideboard and rows of bright-coloured
wine-glasses, green and red, a fine damask cloth on the table....
A noise of wheels and hoofs in the street. Lavery got up. As he went
out one door, Nora came in the other, and stopped short. In a quick
glance, Mary took in her whole appearance.