Proud lady

Front matter

p \f S,

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm

PROUD

II

T HE roast was burned. Dr. Lowell, at the head of the table, carved and dispensed it, with sly chuckles. His mild blue eyes beamed through his spectacles, and he kept up the slow flow of con¬ versation, now addressing the minister, who sat alone on one side of the table, now Captain Carlin, who sat with Mary on the other side; and sending propitiatory glances at his wife, who loomed opposite, stonily indig¬ nant. She was outraged at having her dinner spoiled— in addition to everything else. And if looks could have done it, the whole company, except the minister, would have been annihilated.

Yes, her husband too. This was one of the times when he exasperated her beyond endurance. How ridiculous he was, with his perpetual good-humour, his everlasting jokes! As he carved the leathery beef he made a point of asking each person, “Will you have it well-done, or rare?” And then he would wink at her. She glared back at him, looking like a block of New England granite, as she was.

It was strange that in a long life together she had not been able to crush the light-mindedness out of that man. But she had not even made a church member of him. He treated the minister as he did anybody else, with gentle courtesy—beneath which, if you knew him well, you might suspect a sparkle of amusement. He

laughed at everything, everybody! At times she suspected him of being an atheist. He had said that he was too busy correcting God’s mistakes in people’s bod¬ ies to think about their souls, or his own. Mrs. Lowell would not have dared repeat this remark to the minister, for if she had an atheist in the family she would conceal him to the last gasp, as she would a forger.

Whenever she spoke, during this meal, she addressed herself pointedly to the minister, for she was above being hypocritical or pretending that Captain Carlin’s pres¬ ence was welcome to her. Prom the deep respect of her manner toward the Reverend Mr. Robertson, he might have been a very venerable personage indeed. But he was a young man, under thirty and at first glance insignificant—slight and plain. His straw-coloured hair was smoothed back from a brow rather narrow than otherwise, his light eyebrows and lashes gave no empha¬ sis to his grey-blue eyes, his complexion was sallow, his mouth straight and rather wide. Perhaps Mrs. Lowell’s manner merely indicated respect to the cloth.

But when Hilary Robertson spoke, people listened to him—whether he was in his pulpit or in a chance crowd of strangers. Sometimes on the street, people would turn and look at him, at the sound of his voice. It had a deep, low-toned bell-like resonance. The commonest words, spoken in that rich voice, took on colour, might have an arresting power. Perhaps this remarkable organ accounted for Hilary Robertson as a minister of religion. No, it was only one of his qualifications.

A second glance was apt to dwell on his face with attention. There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth and across the forehead and between the eyebrows. The pale-coloured eyes had a luminous intensity, and the mouth a firm compression. A fiery irritable spirit under strong control had writ¬ ten its struggle there.

As he sat quietly, eating little, speaking less, but listening, glancing attentively at each of the family in turn and at Captain Carlin, only an uncommon pallor showed that he was feeling deeply. No one—not Mrs. Lowell, though she suspected much, not Mary—no one knew what the return of Carlin meant to Hilary Robertson. Two people at that table would have been glad if Carlin never had come back. Mrs. Lowell would have denied indignantly that she wished any ill to Laurence Carlin—only she did not want her daughter to marry a nobody, of unworthy foreign descent. But the minister faced the truth and knew that he, Hilarj' Robertson, sinner, had hoped that Laurence Carlin would die in battle; that when his imagination had shown him Carlin struck down by a bullet, he felt as a murderer feels. His heart had leaped and a deep feeling of solace had filled it, to think that Carlin might be out of his way. Why not, where so many better men had died? Why must just this man, whom his judg¬ ment condemned, come back to cross the one strong personal desire of his life, his one chance of happiness? Mary belonged to him already, in a sense—he shared the life of her soul, its first stirring was due to him. Not a word of love had ever been spoken between them. She was betrothed, he could not have spoken to her. But all the same he felt that only a frail bond held her to the other—the bond of her word and of a feeling less intense than the spiritual sympathy between her and himself. . . . But now it was all over—Carlin had come back and she would marry him. And a soul just begin¬ ning to be awakened to eternal things would perhaps slip back into the toils of the temporal and earthly. . . .

Dr. Lowell asked questions about Washington city, the great review of the army, about General Grant, and Sherman and the new President. Carlin answered rather briefly, his natural buoyancy suppressed by the hostility of two of his auditors. But this he felt only vaguely, his happiness was like a bright cloud enfolding him, blurring his eyes. The other people were like shad¬ ows to him, he was really only conscious of Mary there beside him. He would have liked to be silent, as she was.

There was no lingering over the table. The doctor had his round of visits to make. The Indian pudding disposed of, he lit his pipe, put on his old felt hat and his cape, took his black medicine-chest, and went out to hitch up Satan, a fast trotter who had come cheap because of his kicking and biting habits. Gentle Dr. Lowell liked a good horse, and as he pointed out to his wife, he needed one, on his long country journeys at all hours of the day or night. The horse’s name had provoked a protest, but as the doctor said, that was his name and it suited him, why change it? You might christen him the Angel Gabriel but it wouldn’t change his disposition.

The minister took his leave, saying that he had work to do. At parting he asked if he should see them at evening meeting. Mary felt a reproach and blushed faintly and Mrs. Lowell said with asperity, “Certainly, that is all except the doctor, nobody ever knows when he’ll be back.” She escorted Mr. Robertson to the door, and then majestically began gathering up the dinner dishes. There were no servants in the household. Mary came to help, but her mother said sternly, “I’ll attend to these, you can go along.”

So Mary went along, to the parlour where Laurence Carlin was waiting. This room was bright now because of the sunlight and the potted plants in all the windows, between the looped-up lace curtains. But the furniture was black-walnut and horse-hair, and marble-topped tables. On the walls were framed daguerreotypes and a wreath under glass, of flowers made from hair. It was not a genial room. The blue and purple hyacinths flowering in the south windows made the air sweet with rather a funeral fragrance.

Carlin turned to her with a tremulous wistful look. After the first joy of seeing her, as always, timidity came upon him. Each time that he had come back to her, during these four years, it seemed that he had to woo her all over again. Each time she had somehow become a stranger to him. Yet she had never repudiated the engagement made when she was seventeen. It was always understood that they were to be married. But it seemed almost as though she had accepted and then forgotten him. She took their future together for granted, but his passionate eagerness found no echo in her. So he always had to subdue himself to her calm, her aloofness, and his wistful hungry eyes expressed his unsatisfied yearning. Mary liked him best when only his eyes spoke, when his caress, as now, was timid and restrained. He touched her bright hair and looked adoringly at her untroubled face. They sat down together on the slippery horse-hair sofa.

Captain! ’ said Mary, looking 1 at the stripes on his sleeve with a pensive smile. “So now you’re Captain Carlin! ’ ’

That s all I am, ’ ’ he said ruefully. 11 1 have to start all over again now.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing to show for these four years.”

Mary smiled and touched with her square finger-tips the scar on his cheek.

“How did you get that?”

“Sabre-cut.” He looked hurt. “I wrote you from the hospital, don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” she said serenely. “Well, it doesn’t look so bad. You aren’t sorry, are you?”

“For what, the—”

“The four years.”

“No, I couldn’t help it. But—but—”

“I’m glad of it—I’m proud of you—and that you were promoted for bravery—”

“Oh, Mary, are you? . . . But bravery isn’t any¬ thing, it’s common. Why—”

“Yes, I know. But you must have been uncommonly brave, or they wouldn’t have promoted you!”

He laughed and drew her near him, venturing a kiss.

“It seems strange that you have been through all that—battles, killing people—and you just a boy too, just Laurence,” said Mary dreamily. “And wouldn’t hurt q fly. I can remember yet what a fuss you made about a kitten—you remember the kitten the boys were—”

“Just Larry O’Carolan, the gossoon, divil a bit else,” said Laurence.

“Oh, don’t be Irish! . . . O’Carolan is pretty, though, prettier than Carlin, but it’s too Irish!”

“You can have it either way you like, Mary darling,” said he tenderly. ‘ ‘ Just so you take it soon—will you ? ’ ’

She could feel the strong beating of his heart as he held her close.

“And yet—I ought not to ask you, maybe! For I’ve got nothing in the world, only my two hands! ... You know I was studying law when it came. Judge Baxter would take me back in his office, I think—but it would be years before—”

“He said you would be a good lawyer,” pondered Mary.

“Would you like that? I could make some money at something else, perhaps, and be reading law too—at night or some time. ... Or there’s business—there are a lot of chances now, Mary, all over the country. I’ve heard of a lot of things. . . . Would you go away with me, Mary, go west, if—”

“West?”

She looked startled, rather dismayed.

“Well, we’ll talk about that later, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard,” said Laurence hastily. “But I’ll do ex¬ actly what you want, Mary, about everything. You shall have just what you want, always! ’ ’

She smiled, her pensive dreamy smile, and looked at his eyes so near her—blue mysterious eyes, radiant with love. This love, his complete devotion, she accepted calmly, as her right and due. Laurence belonged to her and she to him—that was settled, long ago. Her heart beat none the quicker at his touch—except now and then when he frightened her a little. Mary Lavinia was not in the least given to analysing her own feelings. She took it for granted that they were what they should be. And they remained largely below the threshold of con¬ sciousness.

But now she moved a little away from him and studied his face thoughtfully. This was not the hand¬ some boy of four years ago, gay, tumultuous, demanding, full of petulant ardour. The lines of his mouth and jaw, wdiich she had always thought too heavy, with a certain grossness, were now firmly set. He was thinner, that helped—the scar on his cheek, too. There was power in this face, and a look, sad, almost stern, that she had never seen before. Suffering, combat, the resolute fac¬ ing of death, the habit of command, had formed the man. She had been used to command Laurence Carlin, she had held him in the palm of her hand. But here was something unfamiliar. Her instinct for domina¬ tion suffered an obscure check.

Ill

T HE doctor returned earlier than usual, and was able to work for an hour in his garden, before dark. Mrs. Lowell, wrapped in a purple shawl, stood in the path, while he was turning over the soil with a pitchfork. She often objected to his working on Sunday. The doctor pointed out that his hedges were thick enough to conceal him from observation; she said that being seen wasn’t what mattered, but breaking the Sabbath; whereupon the doctor alleged that he felt more religious when working in his garden than any other time, so that Sunday seemed a particularly appropriate day to work in it. This would reduce Mrs. Lowell to silence; she always looked scandalized when her hus¬ band referred to religion, suspecting blasphemy some¬ where.

This old dispute was not in question now, however. In answer to a question about “the young folks,” Mrs. Lowell had said curtly that they were out walking. Then she had stood silent, her broad pale face, with its keen eyes and obstinate mouth, expressing so plainly trouble and chagrin that the doctor spoke very gently. “You mustn’t worry about it, Mother.”

Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly. ‘ 1 Of course I worry about it! I never liked it! ” “No, I know you didn’t. But Laurence isn’t a bad fellow. ’ ’

“That’s a high praise for a man that—that—!”

“Yes, I know, yon think he isn’t good enough for Mary. But you wouldn’t think anybody good enough.”

“ I’ve seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who is he, anyway—the son of a labourer, a man that worked for day-wages when he wasn’t too drunk!”

“Oh, come now, Mother! Don’t shake the family crest at us. Your father was a carpenter—and don’t I work for wages ? ’ ’

“My father was a master-carpenter and had his own shops and workmen, as you know very well! ’ ’ cried Mrs. Lowell, flushing with wrath. “And if you like to say you work for wages, when it isn’t true, you can, of course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good Americans for generations back and not bog-trotting Irish peasants!”

“Now, Mother, who told you Laurence’s ancestors trotted in bogs? They may have been—”

“Didn’t his father come over here with a bundle on his back, an immigrant t"

“Why, now, we’re all immigrants, more or less, you know. Didn’t your ancestors come over from Eng¬ land?”

“James Lowell—”

“Yes, I know, they came in the Mayflower, or pretty nearly . . . that is, those that did come. Of course, on one side you’re right, and we’re all immigrants and foreigners, except you! You’re the only real native American! ’ ’

And the doctor chuckled, while his wife started to walk into the house. A standing joke with him was Mrs. Lowell’s aboriginal ancestry. Her grandfather, in Vermont, had married a French-Canadian, and the doctor pretended to have discovered that this grand¬ mother was half Indian. He would point to her minia¬ ture portrait on the parlour-wall, her straight black hair and high cheek-bones, as confirmation. Mrs. Lowell and Mary too had the high cheek-bones, they had also great capacity for silence, which the doctor said was an Indian trait—not to mention the ferocity of which he sometimes accused his wife. Equally a jest with him was her undoubted descent from a genteel English family which actually did boast a crest and motto—and the fact that Mrs. Lowell treasured a seal with these family arms, and though she did not use it, she might, any day. And how did she reconcile her pride in that seal with her pride in the grandfather who had fought in the Revolution?

But the doctor, seeing his wife walk away, stuck his pitchfork in the ground and followed her, saying peni¬ tently :

“There, there, now, I was only joking.’’

“Yes, you’d joke if a person was dying! . . But you know very well what I’m thinking about is his character, that’s what worries me. His father drank. And he’s got nothing to hold him anywhere, he’s a rolling stone, I’m sure. I don’t believe he has principles. And he’s been roaming around for four years, getting into all sorts of bad habits, no doubt—”

The doctor sighed. It was useless to oppose his wife’s idea that the life of a soldier was mainly indulgence, not to say license. Useless to point to Laurence’s military record, for she did not approve of the war, her position being that people should be let alone and not interfered with. If they wanted to keep slaves, let them, they were responsible for their sins. If they wanted to secede, it was a good riddance. How did she reconcile this prin¬ ciple of non-resistance with the fact that she imposed her own will whenever she could on all around her? She didn't. That was her strength, she never tried to reconcile any of her ideas with one another—it was impossible to argue with her. So he sighed, for he knew she wanted comfort, her pride and her love for Mary were bleeding—and he couldn't give it. He was doubt¬ ful himself about this marriage. What he finally said was cold enough comfort:

‘ 1 1 don't think we can help it. ’ ’

“You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. I’ve said all 1 can."

“I’ll talk to Mary," he said.

“Oh—talk!"

With that she went into the house and banged the door. Well, what did she expect him to do—shut Mary up—or disinherit her? The doctor smiled ruefully as he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, but he would work as long as he could see. There was no set meal on Sunday nights—people went to the pantry and helped themselves when they felt like it. He liked the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed with the manure he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous leaves, was a thin crescent moon. He stood looking at it, leaning on his pitchfork, thinking that tomorrow he would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had time. Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tender¬ ness and melancholy, now as ever, though he was an old man. . . .

He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he had deeply admired; of the men now returning to their homes, the long struggle over; of the many he had known who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been rejected on the score of age. That might have been a good end, he thought. Now what was before him but old age, with lessening powers, the routine of life. . . . He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having come, went slowly in.

To his wife’s surprise, he offered to accompany her to church. She was pleased, for now she could take his arm instead of Carlin’s, who followed with Mary. Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, but as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked silently, arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had been very sweet and gentle to him, all day, and very serious—more so than ever before. She had changed, he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a woman. She had never been very gay—but yet she had had a glow of youth rather than sparkle, an enthu¬ siasm, that he missed now. They had talked over plans for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him at once, if he wished. She did not mind his being poor, she had said earnestly, she expected they would be, at first. She had not expected it to be a path of roses. There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. Marriage with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle —not a sober reality.

Still silently, they entered the church and took their seats. It was the “meeting-house,” plain, austere— nothing to touch the senses. No mystery of shadowy lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But the pews and benches were full, when the simple service began, there were even people standing at the back, as in a theatre.

Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad rim of her bonnet hid her face from Laurence, but he felt this was the attitude of prayer. He watched her for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. He had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her absorption seemed to set her away from him—it was one more change. She raised her head only when the min¬ ister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and then she looked directly at him . She joined in the sing¬ ing, with a deep, sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous.

Hilary Robertson in the pulpit had no pomp of office. With his black coat and black string tie he looked like any other respectable citizen, and his manner was per¬ fectly simple. But when he began his prayer, there was an intense hush of attention in his audience. It was a brief prayer, for help in present trouble, for guidance in darkness, like the cry of a suffering heart. Many of the congregation were in mourning. This ap¬ peal was perhaps in their behalf, but it had the note of personal anguish.

There was the secret of Hilary’s power. He never appeared the priest, set apart from the struggle of living—but a man like any other, a sinner, for so he felt himself to be. And then, he had true dramatic power, he could move and sway his hearers. His voice, his eloquence, his personality, created an atmosphere, in that bare room, like cathedral spaces, the colours of stained glass, deep organ melodies, incense—an atmos¬ phere of mystic passion, thrilling and startling.

When the prayer ended and another hymn was sung, Carlin caught a glimpse of Mary’s face, pale, exalted; her eyes, shining with fervour, fixed upon the minister. The mask for a moment had fallen, she was all feeling, illuminated. Carlin saw it, with a sharp jealous pang. Some strong emotion surely rapt her away from him, into a region where he could not follow. She was as unconscious of him now as though he had not existed, and so she remained through the service.

Carlin listened, sitting rigidly upright, his arms folded, his narrow blue eyes upon the speaker. He wanted to study and judge this man, for whom he sud¬ denly felt a personal dislike.

He referred this dislike to Hilary’s office—any assumption of spiritual authority was repugnant to him, perhaps partly from memories of his boyhood, when the priest had tried to direct him. His mood of sharp criticism was not softened by the beginning of Hilary’s brief discourse. The first thing that struck his attention was a quotation from Lincoln’s inaugural address:

“If God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so must it still be said, ‘The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether’.”

This blood and treasure had been paid, the preacher said, the whole nation had spent to cancel the debt in¬ curred by our own and our father’s guilt, the measure had been filled up by the death of Lincoln. In spite of himself, Carlin approved what was said about Lincoln. It was true also, he admitted, that though peace had been declared, the nation was still in the midst of turmoil arising out of past errors, the evil spirit, de¬ parting, had rent and torn it. Peace was not on the earth and never would be. Not peace but a sword had been given to men. Yes, that was true, probably. The w T orld was an eternal battle-field, the field of a war with¬ out truce and without end, till man should subjugate his own nature. In the heart of man, full of pride, self-love and injustice, lay the root of all evil. He that could overcome himself was greater than he that should take a city. That was the true, the infinite struggle, of which all others were but ephemeral incidents—that was the end and aim of man’s existence on earth. Not with earthly but with spiritual weapons must his battles be fought and his eternal conquests made.

Hilary spoke with curt simplicity, but with the fire of a spirit to whom these things were realities, indeed the only realities, all else being a shadow and a dream. There was nothing cold about his morality, nothing soft or sweet—it was intense, hard and burning.

A fanatic, Carlin thought, frowning—but all the same a man to be reckoned with.

IV

A T the close of the service, the minister stood at the door, to shake hands with his departing congrega¬ tion. Carlin, not disposed to shake his hand, went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They moved on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of the sidewalk, under the maple-trees, and waited.

“He’s a good speaker,” said the doctor pensively. “I like to come and hear him once in a while.”

“Yes,” said Carlin, coldly. “He’s an able man.” “He’s too mystical for me, though. . . . Seems to me you can think too much about salvation, you can look at your own soul so hard that you get cross-eyed . . . that’s the way it affects some of them. The women think a lot of him.”

“Yes.”

“I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous,” went on the doctor mildly. “It takes a strong head, you know, to keep it straight. . . . But he’s all right, himself, he’s a good man. Got into trouble preaching against slavery—he lost his first church that way, in Chicago—that was before the war. Oh, yes, he’s plucky. ’ ’

The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched the church door for Mary, then he went on:

“He doesn’t pay much attention to worldly affairs, though—doesn’t care about political institutions and

so on. We had a discussion when he first came here, about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance ex¬ cept the human soul, but each soul is of infinite impor¬ tance, the soul of the black slave is just as important as that of his white master. He said he hated slavery because of its effect on the master more than on the slave. He said the slave could develop Christian virtues, but the master couldn’t.”

The doctor paused and chuckled softly.

“I asked him,” he resumed, “why, if the slaves out¬ numbered the masters, the sum of virtue might not be greater under slavery. But of course he had his an¬ swer, we were not to do evil that good might come. . . . Shall we walk on? The women-folks are probably con¬ sulting about something or other. They do a lot of church-work. ’ ’

After a moment’s hesitation, Carlin accompanied him.

“I didn’t know Mary was so much interested in the church,” he said moodily. “She wasn’t, before.”

“Well,” said the doctor. “The war has made a difference, you know. Life has been harder—not many amusements—and lots of tragedies and suffering. We’ve had losses in our own family. . . . The church was about the only social thing that didn’t seem wrong, to the women, you see. And they’ve done a lot of work, through it, for the soldiers and all that. . . . Yes, Mary’s changed a good deal, she’s very serious. I think the preacher has had a good deal of influ¬ ence.”

“How?” asked Carlin abruptly.

“Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, a vale of tears, a place of trial, and so on. ... It is, maybe, but she’s too young to feel it so. I hope she’ll get out of that and enjoy life a little,” the doctor ended, with much feeling.

They walked on in silence. Carlin’s heart was sore. The doctor had not mentioned his absence and peril as having anything to do with the change in Mary. Well, perhaps it hadn’t had. He gave way to a sudden impulse.

“You’re not against her marrying me, are you?” he asked tremulously. ‘ ‘ I know your wife is. She doesn’t like me.”

“No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence,” was the doctor’s grave answer. “As far as you’re con¬ cerned, I’ve no objection. . . . But sometimes I think Mary isn’t ready to marry yet.”

“She says she is,” said Laurence quickly.

“I don’t pretend to understand anything,” said the doctor plaintively, and sighed.

“Perhaps—you think she doesn’t care enough about me—is that it ? ”

“Sometimes I think she doesn’t care about anybody,” was the regretful answer.

When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in.

“ I ’ll walk on, for a bit, ’ ’ he said.

The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a lamp. This room was arranged to suit him, and he did as he pleased in it. It smelt very much of tobacco, though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture consisted of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides some shelves full of books. Out of it opened his bed¬ room, which had an outside door with a night-bell.