Mary watched him go; and thought exactly what he had guessed she would. She said it was time for the boys to go to bed. They all went downstairs. In her own room she lit her reading-lamp, but instead of undressing she stood for a time looking out the window on the lake. Then, when the house was quiet, she turned slowly, reluctantly, to her door, and stopping more than once she descended to the ground floor. The hall was dimly lit. The library door was shut; she heard the rustle of papers and the thud of a book falling. She opened the door noiselessly. There was Laurence, with a wet towel round his head, working at his desk.... And there was Lavery, in a deep chair beside him, looking over some papers. She retreated without a word, but the closing of the door betrayed her.
It was Lavery who came out and found her, wrapped in her long coat, undoing the chain of the front door. He picked up a coat and joined her, not doubting that she wished him to do so.
"Laurence oughtn't to work tonight," she said sharply. "He isn't fit to work."
"Well, I guess he has to—some papers he has to go over.... And he always says he works best at night," drawled Lavery. "Fact is, though, he's not looking well—complains of headache the last few days. Perhaps he ought to ease off a little—rest, if possible."
"Rest!" Mary said with a short laugh. "I never knew him to rest."
"No, that's so—he seems geared up to a certain speed.... But after all we have to relax a bit as we get older. The machine won't stand the speed. And Laurence burns the candle at both ends."
They were walking down a path toward the lake. Mary did not ask what he meant. But he insisted.
"I don't mind a man drinking anything in reason. But I think Laurence is getting to depend too much on it—he has to key himself up to his work. That wonderful natural energy seems to be failing him."
Still she was silent, and Lavery turned to her.
"Why don't you do something about it?" he asked abruptly.
"Nothing that any one could say would make any difference to Laurence," said Mary coldly. "He has always done exactly as he chose, and he always will."
"Oh, has he?" murmured Lavery. "It strikes me he would be more apt to do what you wanted him to."
Mary laughed. "What I wanted!" She turned angrily on Lavery. "You know that isn't true!"
At the same time she was amazed at herself—speaking like this, of Laurence and herself, to a stranger. And the reckless other self over-ruled this protest—it could speak to this man and it would.
"You know I never interfere in Laurence's life. He lives as he chooses."
"He lives the way he has to, I guess," said Lavery meditatively, "I don't know that there's much choice about it."
"Has to!" ejaculated Mary with contempt. "I should think you would be ashamed to say that."
They had approached the border of the lake, the breeze blew sweet and chill. Mary sat down on a bench, and Lavery, buttoning his coat, sat beside her. He knew he should catch cold, perhaps have an attack of lumbago, but no matter!
"Now why should I be ashamed?" he asked, puzzled.
"Why, because—that's no way for a man to talk.... We don't have to do what we don't choose to."
"Oh, don't we?" he murmured again. And after a moment, "Suppose there's a clash between two wills, two people—one has to go down, doesn't he, one has to submit, can't get what he wants, has to take what he doesn't want? How about that?"
"I'm not talking about what we want, of course we don't always get what we want. I'm talking about the way we live, whether we do what we know we ought to do or not—and I say we don't have to live and do what we know is wrong. I say a man ought to die rather than do that!"
"Well, whatiswrong?" enquired Lavery mildly. "Now I'll tell you what I think.... I think the most important thing for a man is his work, his output. If he's got work that he believes in and loves, he's got the best thing on earth. And anything's right for him that helps him to do that work. And anything's wrong, for him, that prevents him from doing it. For that's what he'sfor, that's his reason for living, what he creates, that's why he's different from every other human being, so he can do just that thing.... As forany other right and wrong, I don't believe in 'em. We don't get right and wrong handed to us, we have to make them as we go along."
"Well, I am surprised, to hear you feel that way about work," said Mary, showing her claws.
"You think I don't work?... Well, perhaps you wouldn't recognize it.... I admit the law isn't my work, as it's Laurence's, in the creative sense. He's been able to stick to that and do what he was meant to do—but he's had to pay for it. That's what the drink means, and—other things that you don't like, perhaps."
He paused a moment, he didn't want to seem malicious, but he went on: "Laurence is a strong man. He's taken what he could get, to help him do his work, and I say he was right. But it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want drink and other women, not seriously. It was trouble with you that made him turn to them."
She sat marble-still, not an eyelash moving. Lavery added:
"I ought to say, he never said a word about that. It's my own observation, that's all."
Again he was silent, watching her still profile, barely visible; guessing at the tumult within her, the rage of offended pride. (If she was determined to dislike him, he would give her something to dislike him for.) He decided that it was time for her to speak now.
But Mary was struck dumb. Her outleap of rage against Lavery recoiled upon herself.... She deserved it, for talking to him in any sort of confidence, for breaking her reserve, compromising her personal dignity—of course he had taken advantage of this. She strove to re-establish her contempt of him. Heshould not see that she had felt his treacherous attack.
It was some moments before she could say, coolly:
"If you think Laurence has done right, why did you ask me to 'do something about it'?"
He lost the thread of the discourse for a moment, in irritation.
"Why, I meant—I meant—that he had done the best he could, in the circumstances.... But it seems to me he's under a heavy strain—in fact, perhaps in danger of breaking down under it. I wonder if you couldn't ease it, somehow."
It was only partly a game. There was a sincere feeling in Lavery too. He admired—even though unwillingly—the more gifted man. Yes, and he had reluctant admiration for Mary too.
"You don't know anything about it," she said.
"No, perhaps I don't," he admitted.
"I can't see that it's your business, at all."
"Well, I suppose it isn't—unless on account of friendship."
"I don't believe in friendship."
"What do you believe in?" he asked.
"I don't believe in anything."
The words came out with violence. She was resisting the impulse to speak out, and yet she was speaking.
"I used to have faith—but now I haven't anything."
"Oh, yes, you have," he said. "You have faith—everything shows it."
"How? What?"
"Well, what you just said, that a man ought to die rather than do what is wrong—there's faith, in the ideal of what a man is, what he ought to be.... Andthen you live without compromise, you don't forgive—that's faith."
"How do you know that—that I don't forgive?"
"Well, I can guess that you didn't."
"And you think that's good—not to forgive?"
"I didn't say it was good. It depends on how it works out. I said it showed faith. It means you have a standard and you can't condone an offence against it—at any cost."
"Yes, but it might be only—that I couldn't forgive an offence againstme.... It might be only—pride. You see how I mean, that I've lost faith. I don't feel sure of anything."
"You've lost faith in yourself, you mean, but—"
"Oh, not only in myself—in everything else!"
"And you used to feel sure?"
"Oh, yes—Iknew!"
"And how was it, that you ceased to be sure?"
"I think—people disappointed me—people I believed in—"
"But you believe in something that isn't people, don't you—some rule of right and wrong that is above human life—"
"I did—yes, I was very religious—I believed in a rule and measured people by it—"
"And when they didn't measure up to it, you—"
"Yes, I—didn't forgive. Even now I despise people, for all sorts of reasons—can't help it.... But now I think I was wrong. I don't think I was religious at all—because, you see, it didn't stand the test—I lost it—"
"And when was that—that you lost it?"
"I don't know. It seems as if it had been going on for a long time, dying.... I used to think that happiness didn't count, that we ought not to think of it. But now I think that was when I was really happy. It isn't so easy to live without it, really, for many years—it isn't so easy!"
She had lost all feeling of the personality of Lavery. It was like speaking out to the night-wind and the starlight. She had spoken the last sentences in a rush, passionately, and in her voice was the tremor of a sob. But she compressed her lips sharply, and sat silent. Lavery took her hand, and her fingers closed on his desperately.... All she cared for just then was not to cry.
"Well, it's true, we can't live without it," muttered Lavery. "You see, we lose faith in ourselves, without it—we feel we've been wrong, and wehavebeen wrong—that's the sign.... Then if we can't get it back we take to dope—like me."
She heard what he said, but she did not answer. She was absorbed in the relief of her emotion, her confession, and the strange feeling of kinship with him, with this person she—didn't like. For she did not like him any better than before, only it didn't seem to matter now. What mattered was not to be entirely alone.
She was comforted, and keeping hold of his hand, she grew calmer, and breathed a deep sigh. Then she noticed that Lavery was shivering.
"Why, you'll catch your death of cold," she said, and got up.
They walked back silently to the house. In the hallhe put out his hand to her again and said anxiously:
"Look here now, you won't hate me more for this, will you? That wouldn't be fair."
"No!" she said with energy, smiling. "Not now.... I would, not long ago—but now I wouldn't be so mean as that."
"Well, that's good," he said wanly.