By next day the routine of life in these new circumstances was arranged. Mary had a couch in the study, the two nurses having their rooms upstairs; she watched her chance to be useful in the sickroom. Dr. Lowell had come in, and concurred in the young doctor's diagnosis and proposed method of treatment. Alone with Mary, he said:
"Sayre is all right. Now it's a question of care—and of course, if Laurence has the vitality to pull through. I think he has. You can keep an eye on the nurses—the best will stand watching—careless, forget things—"
"Yes."
"And you'll see there's plenty of good food—nourishing soups, eggs and milk, meat jellies—"
"Yes." Then she said. "You know, for some years past Laurence has been drinking pretty steadily—a good deal. Do you think—?"
Dr. Lowell shook his head. "Doesn't make a bit of difference."
"Then you think he may—"
"I don't know a thing about it, Mary, that's the truth—and it generally is the truth. I think he has an even chance.... I suppose you have no idea where he may have picked this up? So far as I know, we haven't a case in town."
"No—he's always moving about, you know—he was in Springfield last week—"
"Yes. Well, I'll come in, say tomorrow evening, and stay overnight. Suit you? Got to get my train now."
He looked at her gravely, kissed her cheek, and departed. Mary was used to that look from him. It was the only commentary he had ever made on the course of her married life; and she had made no confidences to him. Now in this crisis, she knew what his perfectly cool unemotional manner meant: things were so serious that there was no use making a fuss. When the balance hung between life and death one had to be ready for either. No time for tears—a smile was a more natural thing—one could smile, long after tears were all wept away.
She was conscious of a definite irritation against Nora, because Nora's eyes were perpetually reddened and she always seemed on the point of crying. Even when discussing the preparation of soups, arranging for extra service, expenses, all the details of a household in state of siege, Nora had difficulty in controlling herself. Nerves!
Mary wondered if her father had seen Nora, recognized her. She thought it probable, otherwise he would have asked how Laurence came to be at this house. He had asked no questions.
She recalled the violence with which Nora had rejected her offer to get another servant. "We don't need anybody else, we can get along all right." Then under her breath, "Too many people here now!"
That sullen muttering of words meant to be heard had been an old habit of Nora's when her temper was roused. But this time she added hurriedly. "I'll do the cooking myself, I want to do it. You just tell me what youwant and I'll get it—night or day, it's all the same to me."
She had spoken with intensity, looking away from Mary, her cheeks had flushed hotly. For a moment she looked like the passionate girl of long ago.
Not once had she addressed Mary by name; she did not want to call her "Mrs. Carlin." Mary without thinking had called her Nora; she did not like that, perhaps.... Mary shrugged her shoulders with an ironical smile.
After her father had gone, she remained sitting in her chair in the study, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the smouldering fire in the grate.... Her thoughts moved fast, flashing back through the years, turning a vivid light into dark corners, throwing out like sparks a crowd of scenes and images, covering a lifetime almost....
She was looking at herself, her life and actions, for the first time, as though they belonged to some one else. It seemed that a process, now suddenly completed, had been going on for a long time—a process of breaking, one by one, innumerable tiny threads that bound her to the self which she no longer felt to be hers.... Or rather, it was hers, that self, but it no longer represented her, contained her, it was not all of her. She could stand apart from it and criticize it without feeling.
She looked back to the time when she had been all one self, completely contained in a firm shell: when she had been sure she was right, and all other persons, when they differed, wrong. She saw an unbending pride, pride that had outlasted even her self-righteousness—pride that held fast to the form long after the substance offeeling had gone.... Never had she been able to admit that she was wrong, even after she had seen it clearly. Was it the feeling of wrong that had caused her unhappiness—or was it only as unhappiness grew upon her that she had begun to feel wrong? Was it because of this wrong that she had lost her religion—or was it that her religion was a false shell, and only after breaking through it had she been able to see such light as this?
It seemed that all she had been, that self she had loved and taken pride in, had suffered a slow disintegration.... All that she could now feel as surely hers, was the aloof merciless intelligence that sat in judgment; and something else, that was suffering deeply, dumbly....
There was a dark chaos, into which she could hardly bear to look. Instinct, emotion, long denied, suppressed, was struggling passionately there for expression. This dark depth of feeling was common to the self she had rejected and to what she now was—it spread far out beyond either, it was limitless. It was a flood of pain, swelling to overwhelm her ... it was terror and grief, common to all the world, from which till now she had walled herself apart.... Only for a moment could she bear that.... She had to keep calm, keep her head clear—she was on guard. And she could do it, her nerve was good. If Laurence should die—go out perhaps without a word to her—then the flood would break over her. But till then she could hold it back.
Could a wrong done ever be atoned for? Would recognition that she had done it, a sincere wish to atone for it, be of any use?... Yes, to that self in which sheno longer felt any interest. It would be good for herself to repent—but she did not care now about being good or right. She would like to make up for what she had done. And that was no doubt impossible. By her own actions she had helped to fix the form of Nora's life, and of Laurence's. In a real sense then atonement was impossible, repentance was useless. One's acts were irrevocable. All she could do was to recognize her responsibility and pay that part of the price that was assessed against her; perhaps this would be, to see that others had paid far more heavily than she.
How differently that old self of hers would have looked upon this situation. There would have been two sinners and one righteous person judging them. The same house would hardly have held Nora and that other woman, who would have drawn aside her skirts lest she should touch pitch and be defiled.... She remembered Hilary's attitude about sin, and her own condemnation of it ... and reflected vaguely that she had lost her hatred for sin along with her religion. Now everything was mixed up together, she hardly knew black from white.... Only she regretted—yes, bitterly regretted—long empty years.... Her wrongs, and revenge, and hatred, clasped close and cherished, had eaten all the good out of life and she had starved....