In Carlin's household there were now two children. The family still lived at the Judge's house; he had resisted firmly their attempts to leave him. He had turned over the whole house to them, reserving only two rooms on the ground floor for himself, and by now he had established himself as a member of the family. There was no more thought of breaking up the arrangement.
Carlin reached the house a little before the dinner hour. He found his eldest son carefully penned up on the porch, exercising his fat legs by rushes from side to side of his enclosure. In a chair beside the pen sat Mary, with the new baby at her breast. In spite of his hurry and preoccupation, Carlin smiled with pleasure at the group, stopped to hold out a finger to the tottering golden-haired boy, bent to kiss Mary, looking tenderly at her and the small blonde head against her bosom. The baby was but three weeks old. Mary had still about her the soft freshness and radiance of new motherhood. She was pale, her tall figure had not yet regained its firm lines, but her beauty was at its best. She had borne her children easily and happily. The fuller oval of her face, her soft heavy-lidded eyes and the new tenderness of her mouth, expressed the quiet joy of fulfilment, satisfaction.
"I must hurry back—can I have a bite to eat now?" Carlin asked softly, touching the baby's tiny hand outspread on Mary's breast.
"Dinner's nearly ready—I'll see. He's asleep."
"He's always asleep, when he isn't eating, and sometimes then," commented Carlin, smiling.
"So he ought to be," said Mary calmly.
She rose with caution, and carried the baby indoors, the frills of her muslin robe billowing about her. Both parents smiled as a wail from the deserted first-born followed them. They had a robust attitude toward the young James, and he was used to solitary communing with himself in his pen, but didn't like it. Mary carried the baby into the Judge's bedroom and laid him on the bachelor's bed. The Judge liked to have his room used in this way; it delighted him to find articles of infant's attire, or toys belonging to young James, in his quarters. He often said that he was getting all the feeling of being a family man without any of the bother.
Mary went into the kitchen to hurry the stolid Swedish cook, and Carlin ran lightly upstairs. When Mary came up to arrange her hair and dress, a moment later, she found him loading his army revolver, which he persisted in keeping in his top bureau drawer among his neckties.
"What's that for?" she asked quickly.
Carlin looked at her with concern, wishing to break the matter gently to her, for it had been deeply impressed upon him that to disturb Mary was to disturb the baby also, and that any interference with her sacred function was a crime—sacrilege, in fact. He hesitated.
"I know—it's that Barclay!... But what are you going to do?"
"Why—there may be some trouble getting him out of town—"
"Yes, I heard about it. But why do you—"
"Well, I'm sworn in as a deputy to defend him, if—"
"Laurence!"
"Yes, defend him—he's going to have a fair trial, if I—and look here, Mary, I might as well tell you, the Judge and I are going to defend him at the trial."
Paler than before, she laid down her comb and gazed at him. He finished loading the revolver and slipped a box of cartridges into his pocket.
"Defend that man? I don't believe you mean it, Laurence, the Judge wouldn't."
"Yes, he would. You ask him.... I haven't time to tell you all about it now, Mary, I must eat and run. Come downstairs."
Not having succeeded in breaking it gently, Carlin took the opposite tack and spoke with curt military command. In silence Mary turned to the glass, fastened her dress and smoothed her hair carefully. In no circumstances would she be sloppy. She descended the stairs after Carlin, they sat down at the table in the dining-room, and the awkward Swedish girl brought in the dinner. Mary silently filled Carlin's plate. He began to speak, but just then the Judge arrived, winded from a rapid walk and looking worried. He greeted Mary rather apologetically, as he tucked his napkin under his beard.
"Laurence tell you?" he panted. "Now don't get mad, Mary—seems as if we'd have to do it. Explain to you later."
Mary lifted her chin haughtily as she gave the Judge his plate.
"I'm not 'mad'—but I certainly don't understand why you and Laurence want to defend a brute like that man. When I think of poor Sarah Barclay, working and slaving away, and those poor little children—I can't see how you can do it!"
She looked indignantly at her husband, who was eating in haste and left the Judge to reply.
"Now, Mary, you don't understand—don't knowhisside of it—"
"Hisside of it—a drunken worthless brute—Judge, I wonder at you, defending murder!"
"No, not murder—no, I don't defend murder, certainly not—"
"You've just said you would! The murder of a helpless woman, with little children depending on her!"
Mary's grey eyes blazed with anger, and the Judge, cowed, continued to splutter excuses with his mouth full.
"Now, Mary! I tell you I don't defend what he did! But he did have something on his side, she didn't treat him well—?"
"Treat him well! He came back, wouldn't work, took her money for drink, beat her—Judge, I'm ashamed of you, to make excuses for such a man!"
The Judge, not liking his post of whipping-boy, glanced reproachfully at the real culprit. Carlin pushed back his chair and lit a cigar.
"Don't abuse the Judge, I got him to do it," he said coolly. "And I did it because I was sorry for the man and because he hasn't a friend on earth, nobody to lookto but me, and he isn't half so bad as you think. But you've made up your mind and you don't want to hear anything on the other side. You just want him punished."
"Of course I do!" she cried.
"Well, now, I can't understand why you good church-people are so hard on sinners. Your religion doesn't teach that."
Mary flushed slowly at the bitterness of this speech.
"It doesn't teach us to defend sin," she answered. "But I don't think you know what it does teach."
"Perhaps not. But I seem to remember something about there being more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine just men—inheaven, of course, not on earth."
"Repents, yes—"
"Well, Barclay repents all right.... But the good people of this town don't want to give him any time to repent, you see. They're in a great hurry to send him, with all his imperfections on his head, to—well, I suppose they think he'd go straight to hell. That's why I've got to go right back."
He got up, went round to Mary and bent to kiss her.
"I'm sorry you don't like my doing this, but I'vegotto do it," he said gently.
She did not respond, but sat looking straight before her. He started away, then came back.
"Mary—kiss me good-bye."
Something in his tone pierced through her frozen resentment. She met his look of anxious love, a sorrowful troubled look—the kiss was given. He hurried out.
The Judge hated to be disturbed at his meals, hewas making a very bad dinner. He said pettishly:
"I've got to go right away too—I'll take some pie, please.... I wish people wouldn't get up a fuss at dinner-time."
Mary looked at him absently and handed him the bread.
"Pie, please!... Now, you see, Mary, I was against it at the start," the Judge explained rapidly, after getting what he wanted. "As you know, I've never taken criminal cases, and I didn't want Laurence to get the whole town down on him—for hewill, you know, at the beginning.... But do you know why I changed my mind? You may believe I had a good reason—say, Mary, are you listening?"
"Well? You were saying you had a good reason."
"Well, sometimes itpaysto go against public feeling. It gets a man noticed, anyway. And if he believes enough in his side and can put it over on all the other fellows—why, then, you know, it's a real success.... And I found out today that Laurence can do it—that is, Ibelievehe can. Mary, that boy has lots of talent, lots of it.... Why, look here, he nearly made me cry today, talking about that Barclay,—and yet I believe the man's a low-down skunk, just as you do.... You just let Laurence get at a jury, with that feeling he's got, that sympathy, that simple way of appealing to their emotions—why, he might almost get the man off! Anyhow, he'll make a reputation, Mary, there isn't a doubt—"
"I don'twanthim to make a reputation doing what's wrong!"
"Wrong? Why, Mary, it isn't wrong to defend acriminal! The law insists that he be defended, it's a sacred part of our legal system. They wouldn't think of hanging him unless he was properly defended. Somebody'll have to do it. And Laurence believes he'srightto do it—that's what makes him so strong. There's nothing like having right on your side—that is, I mean, believing you have it, of course—"
"Then Laurence thinks the man was right to murder his wife?" Mary said ironically.
"No, no, dash it all!—oh, well, you can't explain things to a woman," groaned the Judge. "Excuse me, Mary, I've got to get back—"
He took off his napkin, and rose, sighing.
"But I should think you'd be proud of Laurence," he added as he moved ponderously to the door. "To think he's willing to face public disapproval, take all sorts of risks, just to stand by that poor hunted beast—run into danger—"
"Danger?"
She was moved now. Her eyes, wide open, fixed the Judge piercingly. He promptly hedged.
"Oh, well, I don't mean actual danger, of course—life and limb.... I mean,—why, I mean his career, that's all. But he doesn't give a—doesn't think of that. I must run."
The Judge fled ignominiously.
Mary sat still. Her mind moved rapidly enough when her emotion was stirred. In a flash she had pieced together the Judge's words—his hurry and Laurence's—the revolver—Laurence's reference to the mob and his saying he had been sworn in to defend Barclay. She saw it now—certainly he was in danger, actual danger. Shewondered she had been so stupid, not to see it before, not to feel it when he said good-bye.
The girl came in to clear the table, and Mary remembered that it was time for young James' nap. She went quickly out on the porch, picked him up and carried him upstairs. When he was tucked into his crib, she put on her bonnet and light shawl, and went down to look at the baby, who was sleeping. She did not like leaving the children, she always got her mother to stay with them if she went out, but now she would not stop for that. She sent a message to her mother by a passing neighbour, and hurried down the street toward the square.
Afterwards she remembered it shuddering, with the vividness of a bad dream that has startled one from sleep. The crowd in the square, in which she was caught at once, it seemed without the possibility of getting forward or getting out. Waves of motion passed through this crowd. She was pushed on, pushed back. Those near her seemed as helpless as herself. A group of men about her tried to protect her, but they too were swept on by the mass, sometimes a rush would almost carry them off their feet. The frills of her dress were torn, her shawl wrenched off her shoulders. In a sudden pressure that nearly crushed her she cried out sharply. Her defenders, fighting back savagely, made a united effort and beat their way across the sidewalk, up some steps, lifting her into the embrasure of a closed shop-door, and there they formed a line before her.
She leaned against the wall, panting and faint, and looked over their shoulders at the swaying crowd. Allthose faces—a vague blur, like the noise that came from that mass of men—something bewildered, indefinite, a formless suggestion of violence. It was a mob without leaders. The feeling was there, the vague intent, but without shape.
Above the groundswell of the crowd a voice was ringing out, deep and powerful. Across the square, on the courthouse steps, Hilary Robertson was speaking. Through the light veil of maple-branches, at the top of the long crowded flight of steps, she could see him. His voice reached her, not the words but the tones, sharp and hard, not pleading, rather menacing, commanding, flashing like a keen sword of wrath. Now he lifted his arm, with clenched fist, in an imperious gesture....
He stopped, turned and went into the building. There came a sudden shout from the crowd and a struggle began, an eddy like a whirlpool, about something advancing—a black closed vehicle, with horsemen surrounding it, visible over the heads of the people. It passed slowly along the side of the square. Cries, hisses greeted it, and a shower of stones. It passed so close that she could clearly see the faces of two men who stood on the step of the prison van, shielding its door with their bodies. Both had the same look of hard pale resolution. The narrow step gave them a bare foot-hold, they stood close together, holding to the door. One was Carlin, with his revolver in his hand, the other was Hilary Robertson, hatless, his forehead cut by a stone.