The next year brought significant changes. Laurence made a brilliant personal success in his defence of Barclay, and melted the jury to the point where nearly half stood out for twenty-four hours in favour of a verdict of manslaughter. Finally however Barclay was convicted of murder in the second degree and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. Laurence was showered with praise and congratulations for his conduct of the case, his address to the jury had moved a crowded courtroom to irrepressible enthusiasm. His reputation was made.
The Judge had been able to give him some assistance, though he never recovered from his illness. The burden of the partnership now fell upon Laurence, the Judge could only consult and advise in important cases, and as time went on not even that, for his memory was impaired. He suffered and fretted under his restrictions, was a fractious invalid, and the loss of mental power was so sore a grief to him that he resorted for solace to the forbidden whiskey-bottle, perhaps with the desire, unconscious or not, to end it all the sooner.
Nora, now domesticated in the family, was of great assistance with the Judge. Her quick good-humour amused the old man, her energy was unfailing, she was deft and tactful. She became his special attendant, and also helped with the children, for another baby wascoming. Nora liked the Judge, but she loved the children, she became devoted to them. Soon she was indispensable in the household. Mary was a little ailing. Three children in less than four years had taxed her strength. But she was well content; she wanted another son, in fact she would have liked six of them, big strapping fellows. Sometimes she saw them in her mind's eye, a robust procession.
During that year the Judge made his will. He desired to leave his property, which was much larger than any one had suspected, to Laurence. But Laurence protested. There were relatives, sisters and nephews, and he couldn't take what ought to belong to them. The Judge, easily excited, flew into a rage, and declared that he didn't care a cuss for any of his relatives, and that he would leave his money to charity rather than to them; nay, lest they should contest his will, he would give away the lot of it during his lifetime, make ducks and drakes of it, throw it away, by God! He would do as he pleased!
Laurence had to calm him, tried to postpone the discussion.
"No," said the Judge fretfully. "Carpe diem—I haven't so many left. I want it settled."
"Judge, how can I take anything more from you? See what you've done for me already. It wouldn't be right—"
"Well, see what you've done forme, you and Mary. You've given me a home, the only one I ever had, you've been like my own children to me, and that's the way I feel about you. And I want you should have something to remember the old man by, when he's gone."
In the end, Mary being consulted and feeling as Laurence did about the money, a compromise was effected. Generous legacies were left to the near relatives, and the remainder, for those days a small fortune, to Laurence in trust for his children, the income to be Laurence's for his life. The Judge, having drawn up and executed what he considered an ironclad will with these provisions, was easier in his mind, and felt that he had nothing more to do in life, except to watch Laurence's progress and give an occasional counsel. Laurence was fairly launched, business poured in upon him, he had two juniors in the office. The Judge rather regretted his tendency to take criminal cases whenever they appealed to him; but he recognized too that Laurence's talent lay in this direction. And then the boy could afford it now, he needn't be looking closely after money. He could afford to take cases that brought him little except reputation, and to have it said that every poor man in trouble knew the way to Lawyer Carlin's office. If Laurence wanted to be the champion of the poor and oppressed, if he could be more eloquent in behalf of an ignorant negro cheated out of his small property than when he had a fat fee in prospect—why, let him go ahead. He was provided for, anyhow.
In his many vacant hours, the Judge fell back on reading, of which he had always been fond. He had a respectable library of classics, bound in calf. He liked Laurence to read aloud in the evenings when work permitted. The Judge had a taste for lofty and magnificent diction. Shakespeare, the Old Testament, Milton, Burton and Macaulay were his favourites. He liked DeQuincey too, and Burke's speeches. He could listen by the hour to Milton's prose, or the "Anatomy of Melancholy." He often dwelt on the advantages of such reading, in forming a style. He did not consider that Laurence as yet had a style—he was too simple, too colloquial in his speaking. Rolling sonorous periods, balanced and built up, a wide range of allusion and metaphor, a sombre and weighty splendour, was the Judge's ideal of eloquence.
Mary was usually present at these readings, sitting by and sewing. But her thoughts often wandered—she had not much æsthetic feeling, and poetry bored her. However, she liked the sound of Laurence's voice, as an accompaniment to thoughts which might have no concern with him.
One evening a strange thing happened—Hilary Robertson came to call on the Judge. Laurence happened to be away on business at the county seat—perhaps Hilary knew this. What the purpose of his visit was, did not appear at that time. The Judge received him politely, though a little nervous, and begged Mary to stay when she was about to leave them together. There was a little general conversation, which presently fell upon literature and ended by Hilary's reading at the Judge's request the "Urn Burial" of Sir Thomas Browne. The effect of this stately prose in Hilary's wonderful voice thrilled the two listeners. Mary dropped her work. Something of the feeling of old days came back upon her—some mysterious lifting of the heart, vague pain and yearning at the touch of unearthly beauty. She had hardly felt this since her girlhood, her present life had too much absorbed her.Her eyes were fixed upon Hilary with startled feeling—no one but he, she was thinking, had ever had the power to move this feeling in her, to make her conscious of a world beyond this narrow world she lived in, to make her dissatisfied with herself, unhappy.... And he could do this just by the tone of his voice, reading something that she did not attend to. Music, what little she had heard, produced a similar effect upon her—it was the only form of art that touched her.... But now she resented Hilary's power, she did not want to be stirred or made unhappy. Especially now, when she was carrying a child. Hearing the Judge issue a cordial invitation to Hilary to repeat his visit, she decided that next time she would avoid him.
In the next few months Laurence was away a good deal, and was obliged also to work late in the evenings when at home. The Judge came to depend upon Hilary for at least two weekly visits, when they would read and talk together, and Mary often sat with them, in spite of her judgment. Sometimes she was sorry for it, sometimes not.
Laurence learned of this intimacy with astonishment. Finding how it had begun, he was struck with Hilary's audacity. He had received the Judge's praise of his new friend in silence; all the more incensed because he couldn't openly oppose Hilary nor keep him out of the house.
"I think the Judge is getting childish," he said to Mary darkly.
"He is much weaker," she agreed.
"He must be—to let the preacher get hold of him. That would never have happened if he'd been himself."
She made no reply, but lay in her low chair, looking out across the lawn to where the sunset sparkled red through the trees. Laurence was sitting on the steps near her, carefully cutting the end of a thick black cigar. He glanced up. Mary's look of weariness and sadness startled him.
She was thinking that Laurence did not seem to realize that the Judge was dying, and needed what Hilary gave him. She knew that Hilary had begun to talk to him, gently, of the future, of what he must soon meet; the Judge did not resent it, he was a little frightened, and only clung the closer to the firm hand stretched out to him. Yes, he needed Hilary—to no one else could he confess that he was afraid of death, that he had lived a careless life, that he didn't want to believe in immortality but sometimes couldn't help it.... But, Mary thought, it was no use to try to explain to Laurence.
He felt her sadness without knowing its cause. A quick impulse of alarm and affection made him repentant. He moved closer to her, put his hand on hers.
"Mary, you're not looking well—I'm afraid you're doing too much. Are you very tired?"
"Yes, a little," she said vaguely, without responding to him, her eyes still fixed on the swaying trees and the red glow beyond.
Laurence moved back, struck a match sharply and lit his cigar. At that moment he felt acutely that she was far away from him in spirit. He did not know her thoughts, he had no part in them; if he asked her what she was thinking of, she would not tell him. He hadgiven up asking her. It seemed to him often that it was only the material part of her life that he had any connection with—that she willed it so. But she had another life, it seemed, jealously kept secret from him—a life of thought and feeling. He turned away from her, his face dark and brooding. Laurence could look evil. His narrow blue eyes, half-closed, were menacing. His heavy jaw, thrust forward, teeth clenched on the cigar, spoke the strength of passionate instinct that would not be repulsed nor foiled, that must be active, that would destroy if it could not build. Now he looked destructive.
He had changed much in these few years, grown heavier in body from his indoor life, grown handsomer. He still had his military erectness of carriage, something of the soldier remained in his alertness of movement and speech. But the spring and gaiety of youth were gone. Experience, thought, responsibility, were marked on his face—and there were lines of pain too, visible at times like this.
The Judge came up the walk with Nora. He had been taking his constitutional late, because of the heat, supported by his gold-headed cane and Nora's arm. They were laughing as they approached.
"She's been telling me some of her Irish stories," called out the old man tremulously. "Never was so amused in my life. She's a smart girl, Nora is—and a pretty girl too! Isn't she now?"
Laurence went to help the Judge up the steps. He sank heavily into a chair, keeping hold of Nora's hand, panting.
"Isn't she pretty now?... I like her red hair. I wish I was a young fellow, I'd make up to her.... She'd keep me laughing...."
Nora blushed, laughed, wrested her hand away and ran indoors. Laurence lounged for a moment against the door, and then went in too. He had to go to the office, and went upstairs to fill his cigar-case. Passing the open door of the children's room, he saw Nora, with a candle, bending to arrange a tossed coverlet. He stood looking at her. The candle-flame lit up her shining hair, her red lips and tender eyes. She came out softly, and as she passed him, smiling, Laurence, put his arm around her, drew her close.
"No!" she protested in a whisper.
"Yes!"
He felt her tremble in his clasp, felt her frightened, wishing to resist, unable, felt the emotion that shook her at his touch. He bent his head, kissed her on the mouth.