Carlin came back late that night, weary but triumphant, having seen his man safely lodged in the county jail. He was full of scorn for the futile malice of his fellow-citizens, and declared to Mary and the Judge, as he ate his supper, that he would get Barclay off, just to spite them. He was excited, his blue eyes gleamed with the elation of combat and success. He had identified himself completely now with the cause of his client. The odds against him roused all his energies, his fighting instinct as well as his instinct for protection. Carlin needed at the same time to hate and to love.
But he liked things in clear black and white, he wanted always a definite adversary whom he could hate with reason. He was profoundly impatient of certain feelings in himself which he could not explain nor justify. Some incidents of the day had irritated him deeply, stirring these feelings. Presently he broke out, addressing the Judge.
"I suppose you know that the preacher mixed himself up in it."
"Yes, yes, he certainly did. I will say for that fellow that he's always on hand when there's a scrap," replied the Judge easily. "Spoiled a good fighting man, I guess, when he took to preaching."
"Well, he ought tostickto preaching, and not come poking his nose into what doesn't concern him!"
"Oh, I don't know, Laurence, I guess he did a good turn today. The way he lit into that crowd—he gave them hell. And he has influence round here, people respect him, they know he's no milk-sop. Of course maybe the talk didn't do so much, I don't know—but his coming along with you—"
Carlin cut the Judge short impatiently.
"Wedidn't want him to go! But there he stuck—he would be in it.... And then he'd got in too and talked to Barclay. Got the poor fellow all mushed up, talking about his sin—as if he didn't feel enough like a sinner already!"
"Well, well, that's his business, you know," argued the Judge. "You can't blame him for that. And he showed he was willing to stand by Barclay. I guess he did about as much to protect him as the deputies did—"
"Oh, bosh!"
"Well, I think so. That crowd knew they'd have to hurt him to get at Barclay, and they didn't want to."
"I saw they cut his head open with a stone," observed Mary calmly. She was sitting beside the table, sewing.
"You saw?"
"I was down there in the square."
The two men stared at her incredulously. She went on, taking tiny neat stitches carefully in the baby's garment:
"I went down after you left. I was worried."
"Down there—in that crowd? Good Lord!"
The Judge looked horrified and guilty.
"Yes. My dress got torn and I lost my shawl. Butsome men helped me up into a doorway. I saw you go by."
She looked up reflectively at Carlin.
"You were crazy to do that!" he cried. "Why on earth—"
"Well, I was worried. I knew you wouldn't be taking that pistol for nothing."
Carlin gazed at her with softened eyes, with compunction, disturbed and pleased too.
"Why, you poor girl! I didn't think you'd worry. You always take everything so quietly. Why, Mary! You in that mob—!"
"I'm glad I went. The crowd was dreadful, but—I'm glad I saw you."
Her eyes lit up suddenly, glowed.
"You looked splendid!"
"Splendid?"
He laughed, stretched out his hand to hers, deeply pleased.
"I can't express it, but with all that howling crowd, and the stones, yes, you were splendid! Both of you."
Carlin withdrew his hand abruptly, and Mary serenely went on with her sewing.
She was well aware that Carlin disliked Hilary Robertson, but as she considered that his dislike was without reason, she ignored it as much as possible. Carlin's flings at "the preacher," she was accustomed to receive in silence. She considered that Hilary needed no defence, his life spoke for him, he was blameless. She put Carlin's sneers down to his unregenerate nature,his habit of scoffing at religion, which now seemed ingrained. Never would she have admitted the possibility that Carlin might be jealous. That would have been too degrading, it would have reflected upon her, and she was serenely conscious that her conduct and feelings were blameless also. She had tried to explain to him the nature of her admiration for Hilary, but he couldn't or wouldn't understand it. He had a wrong attitude toward it, and toward her church activities and charitable work. Most men, she thought, liked to have their wives religious, but Laurence would have preferred frivolity on her part. He was very fond of pleasure; he insisted on keeping wine in the house, and on taking her to Chicago for the evening on the rare occasions when she could get away. Mary felt that she yielded a good deal, perhaps more than she ought, to Laurence's light tendencies; but then, also, it was a wife's duty to yield, whenever she could consistently with higher duties. So she had a submissive attitude—except when some question of "right" came up.
In reality she ruled the house, and the Judge and Carlin, and the babies and the Swedish servant, with an iron hand. An exact order prevailed in the household, a definite routine for each day. Mary had her ideas about how a family should be managed, and she worked hard to carry them out, and made other people work too. She had a manner now of quiet authority. She did not scold, nor raise her voice when displeased; but visited the transgressor with an awful silence and with icy glances. Outside the house she seldom interfered with the doings of her husband or Judge Baxter. "Business" was the man's province, and she did notenquire, as a rule, into its details. And in her own province she did not expect to be interfered with.
The Judge and Carlin submitted meekly to her rules—refrained from smoking in certain rooms, were prompt at meals, careful about the sort of men they brought to the house, did not indulge in unseemly levity of conversation. The Judge had almost conquered a lifelong habit of profanity. He had a complete fealty to Mary, was touchingly pleased to be ruled by her. He was afraid of her, and often felt like a small boy in her presence. He despised her intellect, as he did that of all women. This contempt existed side by side in his mind with admiration and involuntary awe, and the conjunction never troubled him. He would have said that he admired women but didn't respect them. More difficult to overcome than swearing was his habit of cynical speech about the sex. It broke out now and then in Mary's presence, revealing his deep conviction that women (though angelic no doubt) were hardly human, but of a distinctly inferior species. Mary never troubled to defend her sex. She would merely look at the Judge with a calm, slightly ironical gaze, under which he sometimes blushed.
The next afternoon she went to visit Hilary, who was ill, Mrs. Lowell reported. There was no hesitation now about her entrance. She walked into the house, majestic in her sweeping grey dress, and the widow received her gladly. Confidential relations had long since been established between them on the subject of the minister.
"He's up and dressed, though the doctor ordered him to stay in bed," the widow complained in a subduedvoice. "And he won't take his chicken broth, that I made specially—"
"Well, bring it in and I'll see that he takes it," said Mary.
She knocked at the study door. A peevish voice said, "Oh, come in!"
Hilary was lying on the hard sofa, with a rumpled afghan over him. His head was swathed in bandages, his cheeks flushed with fever.
"Oh, it's you," he murmured apologetically. "I thought it was that old woman again."
Mary, laying aside her shawl, proceeded to spread the afghan more smoothly over him and to shake up his pillows. Then she took his wrist, her finger on the pulse.
"Why don't you stay in bed?" she enquired. "You have fever."
"Nonsense, no fever. I got tired yesterday, that's all."
"I should think so. Was the cut on your head very bad?"
"The doctor sewed it up. It's all right."
He spoke gently, and lay back quietly on his pillows. Mary sat down beside the sofa and picked up a book that lay open on the floor.
"Greek—a nice time for you to be reading Greek!" she remarked.
Hilary smiled.
"How are you getting on with it?" he asked.
"Oh, I can pretty nearly write the alphabet," she smiled too. "I practise when I have time. And I'm going to teach it to James when he's old enough."
"They say John Stuart Mill could read Greek when he was three."
"Then I don't see why James shouldn't."
At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, with a sad look, bearing a steaming cup, which Mary took from her and presented to Hilary.
"Drink your broth—and after this you must drink it whenever Mrs. Lewis brings it."
Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows and began to sip the broth, making a wry face.
"Awful stuff," he protested.
"Indeed, it's the best chicken broth, if I did make it myself!" muttered the widow, retiring with an offended air.
"I'm afraid you're a trying invalid," said Mary, amused.
"Hate to be treated like an invalid, that's all.... But women always have to be coddling something," Hilary said ungraciously.
He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of relief. Mary rose and began setting the room in order, restoring scattered books to their shelves, picking up articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the floor. Hilary's eyes followed her; he made no protest, even when she arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles.
"You know," said Mary suddenly, "Laurence and the Judge are going to defend that man—Barclay."
"Yes, I know it."
"Do you think it is right for a lawyer to defend a man he knows to be guilty?"
"There's something to be said even for the guilty," said Hilary after a moment.
"You mean he can be defended?"
Again he hesitated.
"As I understand it, they can't try to deny that he committed the murder, they can only plead extenuating circumstances."
"That means, try to justify it!... Do you believe in that?"
"I don't know all the circumstances.... But the law distinguishes—if it is done in the heat of passion, it may be called manslaughter—not murder."
"And what would he get for that?"
"A term of years, imprisonment."
"Well, I should think murder was murder, however it was done!... And as to circumstances, you know Mrs. Barclay was a good woman, a member of your church, you know what a hard time she had, especially afterhecame home, and now her children are left worse than orphans—I don't see how you can say that 'circumstances' make any difference!"
She stood straight, her eyes flashing reproach at him.
"Why, Mary, do you want the man hanged?"
"Well, if anybody is hanged,heought to be! So long as we have laws to punish criminals—"
"You stand up for the woman always, Mary," said Hilary, smiling faintly.
"And you—you and Laurence—it seems to me very queer that you two should be standing up for that man! Yesterday—risking your life for him—now I think it's very strange."
"That wasn't so much for him," said Hilary slowly. "It was to prevent another murder, that's all—to keep them from doing what he'd done."
He shut his eyes wearily, and Mary softened.
"I oughtn't to talk to you about it now. You must be quiet. I'll go now, and you must promise me to go to bed and not get up till the fever's gone. Will you?"
"Yes. But stay a little longer."
She sat down again beside him, and he lay still with his eyes closed.
"Did you go to see the children today?" he asked after a pause.
"Yes, I stopped in. They were playing in the yard—they're so little, you know, they don't realize anything—except perhaps the girl. I wanted to take one of them, but Mrs. Peters said she thought they were better off together."
"Yes, I should think so.... We'll have to find homes for them, though, and it isn't likely they can be together long."
"I know. Mrs. Peters said she would keep one of them—and I could take one. I'm sure Laurence would think that right, as he is so much interested in—the father."
Mary's face and tone expressed a sudden repugnance. Hilary half-opened his eyes and looked at her.
"You hate sinners, don't you, Mary? You don't understand why people sin?"
"From weakness," she said.
"And you haven't much pity for weakness.... You don't understand how a man can make a beast of himself with drink, because he's unhappy."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I understand it," said Hilary with a tortured look. "I know what unhappiness and loneliness can do.... Sometimes I wish I didn't. How can I condemn sin when I understand the sinner so well?"
"You must, though," said Mary calmly.
She knew well this mood of his, by this time she knew his weakness. The relation between these two had changed. No longer did she with humility look up to Hilary as a saint. The change was not so much in him as in her. In the old days, before her marriage, Hilary had often accused himself to her as a weak and erring man, he had passionately resisted her attempts to canonize him. Since then he had talked to her more frankly but in the same way, she knew his yearning for perfection, and his despair of it; she knew too, though not by direct expression, his human longings and his loneliness. She no longer idealized him, she did not need to. But he was intensely interesting to her. He was only a man now, but still better than other men, stronger, with higher aims. She admired him. But they now stood more on an equality; her manner toward him had even a tinge of maternal authority. For she felt that all men, all that she knew, however gifted and interesting, were somewhat childish.
She herself had reached maturity. With the birth of her children she had come into her heritage of life. She was now so firmly planted on the earth, so deeply rooted, that it seemed nothing could shake her. The dreams of her girlhood, of life beyond life, passed by her now like the clouds on the wind. She was satisfied, assured.
Hilary's life, even, seemed to her dream-like, cloud-like, because it was so restless, so tormented. The needfor incessant action and struggle that drove him, as it drove Laurence in a different direction, seemed to her sometimes absurd. Religion to her meant tranquillity, the calm certitude that one was on the right path, doing one's duty and refraining from wrong. Simple—and easy.
She stayed a little while longer with Hilary, but insisted that he should not talk. She knew that he liked to have her sitting beside him, immobile, her hands folded on her knee, not even looking at him. She knew now very well what her presence meant to him; their constant meeting in the work of the church; their talks, intimate in a sense, though she made no personal confessions to him and he never expressed his feeling for her in speech. She was quite satisfied with this relation, and sure that Hilary would never overstep the bounds of right and reason, even if tempted to do so. She herself had not the least temptation. All her pride lay in keeping things exactly as they were.