Carlin could not have told himself how nor when his attitude toward Nora had changed, nor when he first became aware that the most ardent feeling of her warm heart was for him. It was all gradual and easy; it seemed to reach far back in the past, and to grow out of their childhood intimacy. Carlin could not remember the time when he had not felt affection for Nora. Affection was still his feeling—but hers was much stronger. And to know that she loved him, humbly, adoringly, passionately, as without any words on her part it was evident she did, could not but influence him.
Nora had always looked up to him, even when they were playmates; he was the bright romantic figure in her life. The years had set him apart from her; he had risen in the social scale and she had remained where she was. She was too humble to feel any bitterness at this. Nay, it was only right, for wasn't it well known that Carlin came of gentlefolk in Ireland? It was natural that Laurence should be a gentleman, and that she, Nora, should be his handmaid. But it was also natural that she should love him. He was the handsomest, cleverest man she had ever seen; and no one else had ever been so kind to her.
Up to the time she entered his household, Nora had certainly never aspired to more than kindness and an occasional word of affection from Laurence; and therefor some time she was too happy to want more. She was treated not like a servant, but almost like a member of the family. She had her own pleasant room, she had no hard nor disagreeable work to do; she was always nicely dressed, clean and fresh. She spent her time with the children or the Judge; was in awe of Mary, who however always spoke to her kindly and pleasantly; addressed Laurence as "Mr. Carlin," at which, chatting with her, he would laughingly protest.
Nora did her work with real devotion. Far from feeling that her position was in any way an inferior or degrading one, she made her service so willing, so thorough and complete, she gave it with such pleasure, that it became an art. Mary soon learned that she need not watch Nora, that her instructions would be followed exactly, that nothing would be slurred nor forgotten, that Nora could be trusted to the last detail. As the time approached for the third child to be born, the other two came more and more under Nora's care.
Nora loved Laurence's children. If her own life had been happily arranged, she would by this time have had some children of her own. She was twenty-eight years old, and had never had even a satisfactory love-affair. For this no doubt Laurence was indirectly to blame. His image, bright and radiant, made any swain who might sigh for Nora appear too dull for more than a passing interest. It was not in Nora's nature to be ungrateful for any affection, whatever the source, and she had honestly tried to love her humble suitors, but in vain. She would have liked to marry, her only life in fact being that of affection, but instead she had drifted from one employment to another, untrained, badly paid, alwaysfinding something in the rough conditions of her work to disgust or hurt her.
In Carlin's house she found for the first time a pleasant way of living, gentleness, consideration, and she was so happy that her spirit danced and sang all day long. She was deeply grateful to all of them, especially to Laurence, for he had placed her here; she tried to show her gratitude in service to them all. She quarrelled freely, to be sure, with the Swedish cook, whose slowness and awkwardness provoked her contempt. But with the family, inspired by love, she was tactful, graceful, meek; even to Mary, whom she did not love, but admired from a distance.
As time went on she shared more intimately in the life of the family. Through the children she began to feel that she belonged to it. Keenly sensitive to anything that concerned Laurence, she was aware of occasional friction between him and Mary; she saw that he was unhappy sometimes. She began in her mind to criticize Mary, sometimes to be angry with her, on Laurence's account; she sought out things to do for Laurence, put a tender thoughtfulness into the care of his personal belongings. She did not put herself in his way, at least not consciously, but naturally they were always seeing one another. And always her face, her whole being, welcomed him, glowed with pleasure when he stopped to talk to her or bestowed a light caress. The caresses grew more frequent, grew warmer, by insensible gradations. She came to expect his kiss when they met alone; and to dream of it before he came.
Now her happiness was no longer serene and childish, as at first. It was poignant at moments—with intervalsof depression and restlessness. But Nora was nearly incapable of reflection or of looking beyond the moment; she had no wisdom except what love gave her, and that did not help her to take care of herself.
Nora's helplessness had always been evident to Laurence. He had felt that she needed to be taken care of, and he still felt it. He felt that hewastaking care of her. Nora needed affection, she could not work like a menial without any reward but money. Money could not buy such service as hers. It was done for love, and love must be its reward—tenderness such as one would give to a child, or a sister.... Just when his affectionate recognition of Nora passed this line, Laurence could hardly have told. It was connected, though, with his feelings about Mary, with a wounded resentment that burned in him the deeper for having little expression. When Mary hurt him by her coldness or absorption in something apart from him, he was more apt to take or make a chance of being with Nora alone. These interviews came to have a secret, a stolen character; snatched moments, a word, a look, an embrace.
Laurence did not feel that he was doing harm to Nora. He did not feel anything very deeply about her—his strong feelings were all for other things. That he was irresponsible, unscrupulous, he would have denied blankly. But his mood was reckless. He wanted the comfort of Nora's warmth, her utter acceptance of him, her trembling joy in his caress. From his obscure jealousy, he wanted obscurely to revenge himself on Mary, though she was never to know that he had done so. Lately, Nora had shown some fear—but fear was not resistance. Well he knew that she could never resist any impulse, any desire of his.