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 justanimals 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 havetheir 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, theseweak 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 totell 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 ridingon 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, theydidn'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 thetable, 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....