They drove back rapidly. In the hall, Mary found Nora waiting for her. Nora, with flashing eyes and bright red spots on her cheek-bones, came up to her and said:
"There's a woman in there.... She wouldn't go away!"
"Where? A woman? What woman?"
"In the parlour. I don't know who she is.... She wants to see him."
"Wants to see ...?"
"I told her she couldn't, but she wouldn't go away. You better tell her!"
Lavery had come in and gone on upstairs. With a severe look at Nora, Mary opened the parlour door and went in. A woman who had been standing at the window turned to meet her. A woman, tall as herself, young and slender—dressed in plain black but richly dressed. A faint perfume was shaken out as she moved, from her silken clothes.
"Mrs. Carlin?... I've been waiting.... I wanted to know just how he is.... I'm a friend, I've been very anxious."
A hat with a drooping lace veil partly hid her face. She was striking, if not beautiful—a long narrow face, with intense dark eyes under straight brows, thick hair of a dark auburn colour. Her look was as direct and wilful as her words.
"He is better today—conscious for the first time, but very weak," said Mary evenly, with her stateliest manner.
"Could I see him?... Oh, I don't mean to speak to him, I know that wouldn't do.... But just to look at him for a minute?"
The request was uttered politely enough, but like a command.
"No. If he saw you it would disturb him perhaps. I can't risk it," said Mary calmly.
"You needn't. If he's awake I won't ask it. But if he isn't, it won't hurt him if I just stand at the door for a minute.... That's all I want, and I won't come again.... Won't you see? Please!"
The woman was breathing quickly, her voice was agitated, and those dark eyes burned.... Well, she was straightforward enough, anyway, no excuses, no beating about the bush. Here was a woman who would know what she wanted and wouldn't have any weak scruples about getting it.... Refuse her?... Well, after all, why? Perhaps she too had a right to be there....
"Come up with me.... I'll see how he is.... But you won't...."
"Oh, he shan't know I'm here, depend on me."
Mary led the way out into the hall and up the stairs. She saw Nora standing at the back of the hall, her face convulsed with anger.... At the head of the stairs was Lavery.
"Still sleeping—that's fine," he whispered.
Then as he saw the woman behind Mary on the stairs, utter amazement showed in his face. He stepped back,bowed, and she acknowledged his recognition by a slight bend of her head.
"Come in this way," said Mary.
The visitor followed her into the study, and then, when Mary beckoned to her, to the door of the sickroom. She moved slowly, shrinkingly; clasping her hands over her breast, fixing her dark eyes on Laurence's face, just dimly visible. A look of terror came into those eyes, her lips parted, but without a sound.... In a few moments she moved noiselessly back. Hastily she dropped the veil over her face, turned to Mary, said in a choked voice, "Thank you," bowed as she passed.... In a moment she was down the stairs and out of the house.
Then the doctor came and went, much encouraged. And then Mary went down to her solitary supper. Nora came in to wait upon her, still incongruously attired in the lavender gown, but pale and lowering.
"Nora, have you been in to see Laurence?" asked Mary gently.
Nora shook her head sharply.
"You'd like to see him tomorrow, wouldn't you, if he keeps as well as today?"
"He hasn't asked to see me, I guess," said Nora coldly.
"No, he hasn't asked for anybody, he's too weak to talk. But I'm sure he'd like to see you," Mary said, still studiously kind.
"When he asks for me, I'll go," Nora flashed out. Her whole face was ablaze, her eyes flamed. "And you shouldn't have let that woman up there—she's alwaysafter him, she writes to him, there's packs of letters from her—"
"How do you know?"
"Oh, I didn't open the letters ... but I know!... What right has she to come here and want to see him?"
"Well, I don't know.... She seemed very fond of him," said Mary calmly.
Nora rushed out of the room.
And then Mary repented her malice. That poor thing, it was a shame to torment her.... And how foolish to have made a fuss, as Lavery said, about Nora.... That other woman, that was the dangerous one, Nora was harmless, poor creature.... And heaven knows how many more there are.... Yes, Laurence had had his life.... Sometime perhaps she too would be angry about this, but not now.... Now she would prefer to be kind, even to Nora.
But perhaps Nora's instinct was right, and Lavery's. It might be useless for her to try to approach Nora, or to try to be reasonable. It might only make things worse. Nora was willing to do her best practically—that was all that could be asked of her. Her personal feelings were her own affair.
But Mary was obstinate. That feeling of deep injury, of bitterness, of hate perhaps which she had seen in Nora toward herself—how could she consent to have that remain, if there was anything she could do to soften it? She was willing to do anything possible, willing to admit that she had been unjust. Her pride, from the moment she felt herself in the wrong, was on the side of admitting it, practically forced her to do it.... But why wasit that she seemed to say or do just the wrong thing, why was it so hard for her to approach people, even when she wished them well—what stupidity in her made her offend? Was it deeper than that? Was it after all that she perhapsdidn'tfeel kindly to Nora,didn'twish her well?... This incident tonight seemed to show it. She had had a chance to annoy Nora and she had done it.... Was she still bound then by the limitations of that old self, which she saw so clearly? Were one's faults and weaknesses inherent, not to be got rid of, even if one condemned them? Apparently....
No, one thing was different, her will. She willed to be different from what she had been—she would force that old self of hers to be different, at least to act in another way. And Nora should feel it too.
"Nora!" she called clearly.
She waited a few minutes, then got up to go in search. But Nora came in through the pantry-door and shut it behind her; leaning against it she looked at Mary with defiant eyes.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to do anything against you. Do you think I want to hurt you? Don't you see?"
"It's no matter whether you do or not," Nora said in a hard tone.
"I want to tell you that I think I was wrong—long ago. I wasn't fair to you. I—"
"It's no matter now," Nora broke in again.
"Yes, it is. I want to say—"
"I don't want you to say anything!... I guessyou were fair enough, you treated me all right. Anybody would have...."
She stopped and her lowering gaze shifted.
"Well, I just want to say that I feel I owe you a good deal. I realized it afterwards. The children.... I knew you'd really loved them—"
Nora shrank at that and bit her lip.
"It's no use talking, I don't want to talk about it," she cried. "I've been a bad woman, and that's all there is to it."
"No! I never thought you were bad—not even then. I don't think I blamedyou."
"Oh, I guess I was to blame," muttered Nora, "I knew it, all right."
"I want you to know that I don't blame you and that I don't think you're bad."
"I don't see that that's got anything to do with it. I guess I know if I'm bad or not.... I know that I can't go to confession, and I believe I'll go to hell ... and I don't care much if I do.... And I know what happened on account of me too."
Now it was Mary who changed colour, lost her composure.
"That—my fault more than yours—" she stammered.
And Nora grew more composed. There was even a strange air of dignity about her as she said after a moment:
"I don't want you to think about what's past, Mrs. Carlin. It won't do any good. I've done what I knew was wicked and—I don't know if I'm sorry or not. So you see I don't want you to forgive me, even if you wanted to. I don't ask anybody's forgiveness, becausewhat difference would it make? It wouldn't change anything."
Abruptly she retreated into the pantry and closed the door. Mary, with shaking hands, poured herself a cup of strong coffee and drank it black. Well, that was over. And Nora was right, it was no use talking and nothing she could do would make any difference.
She went slowly upstairs, thinking that she felt more respect and liking for Nora than ever before—felt it now perhaps for the first time. But it would be impossible to make Nora feel that—if she tried she would strike the wrong note somehow, she was made like that—clumsy—yes, and worse than that, with impulses to hurt, that came so suddenly she couldn't resist. She shrugged her shoulders. Best to drop it all. She had other things to think about anyway....
Laurence was lying quiet, his eyes open. She sat down beside him and took his hand. The light was dimmed, but she could see the glimmer of a smile on his face. His fingers closed round hers with a faint pressure. His eyes met hers, with a strange look, as if from a great distance.
"You feel a little better, don't you?" she said bending down.
"Yes," he answered, faintly.
"Don't make him talk," warned the nurse, "Tomorrow will be time enough."
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," said Laurence's faint far-away voice. "Lighting fools the way to dusty death."
"Hush, you mustn't talk!" gasped Mary.
Again came that glimmer, like the reflection of a smile, on his face. And all the while that strange look in his eyes.
She clasped his inert hand, thin and shrunken. How these weeks of illness had wasted his strong body, withered him to a shadow. Man's flesh is grass—it is cut down and cast into the oven.... Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh up as a flower....
But Laurence was better, surely better, they all said so.... Hardly any fever....
But his strength was gone—eaten up by that burning fire.... Was he drifting away, calm, without pain, like this, had he gone too far to come back? Surely he was far away, that was what his look meant.... Untroubled ... indifferent ... he didn't care, it seemed. He wasn't interested. Just looking on, a mere spectator, no emotion, perhaps a slight amusement.... His eyes closed, he was breathing evenly and quietly.
Strange to see him like this, his restless and passionate spirit stilled, so drawn away, so detached; it was not mere physical weakness, it was as though he were ceasing to be identified with this weakened body, deliberately withdrawing from it.Thiswas not Laurence.... It was Laurence who had looked at her in that first return to consciousness, with eyes of love ... and then with that remote and passionless look, as though he had already said good-bye....
The wasted years.... Years that she had wasted ... when he had lived his life, near her but apart, when she had held him away—for what?... He hadloved life, had been so intensely living. Now it seemed he didn't care. He would make no effort to live—he was tired. They might try all they could to keep him. He would slip away, perhaps, through their fingers, with that glimmer of a smile at them.... She would be punished. It was just. She had no reason to feel injured, to complain. As she had sowed, she would reap.... A mortal chill was at her heart.
That night she could not sleep. The strong coffee she had taken keyed her up; her heart beat nervously, a stream of restless thoughts rushed through her brain. At intervals she would get up and look into the sickroom. The night-nurse would be moving about, or sitting in the large chair at the foot of the bed; all seemed quiet. Toward morning Mary fell into a doze; troubled, uneasy, with the feeling that some one was calling her, she must rouse herself. She woke suddenly in the dawn, and heard a low moaning in the next room. She sprang up and went in. The nurse said:
"I was just going to call you. I have to go down and get some ice. There's a little more fever. Will you see he doesn't get uncovered? Keep the blankets that way over his chest."
There was a dull flush again on his face, his hands were moving restlessly, and he kept up that low moan of distress. Mary kept the blankets over him, careful not to touch him, for her hands were icy cold. The nurse came back with the cracked ice and filled a rubber bag which she bound on his head.
"When did you notice this change?"
"About an hour ago he began to get restless."
"I'd better call Dr. Sayre."
"Not before seven o'clock, it wouldn't be any use. They won't wake him unless it's absolutely necessary. And this may not be anything serious—there's often a slight relapse. Don't worry, Mrs. Carlin. Yesterday was too good to last, that's all. We must expect ups and downs."
"But he's so weak...."
"Oh, I've seen them pull through, lots weaker than he is—he's got a good strong physique.... Now don't stand around, it's too cold. You better go and get dressed, if you want to be up."
With a shivering look at Laurence's dark face and half-open eyes, she went, dressed herself quickly, shook her long hair out of its braid and twisted it up roughly. She put on her bonnet and cloak. Then she started downstairs, careful to make no noise. She intended to get the doctor. The gas-light in the hall was burning, turned down to a point of light. As she fumbled with the chain on the door, Nora came into the hall, wrapped in a pink dressing-gown, her hair flowing thick over her shoulders.
"What is it? I heard the nurse come down. Where are you going?"
"To get the doctor. Laurence is worse."
"Don't you go, this time of night—I'll go!"
"No," said Mary, slipping the chain.
"Wait, I'll go with you—"
"No, I can't wait."
"Is he—very bad?" A sob.
"I don't know—the fever's up again."
She opened the door. But Nora suddenly clutched her arm.
"Don't you give up! Mrs. Carlin, don't look like that, don't give him up! Surely he can't be taken, God wouldn't take him away—"
"He's too weak ... he hasn't got strength to—"
"Don't say that, how do you know? Did you pray for him? I did—he got better—"
"Let me go! I must go, Nora!"
"Pray for him! Pray for him!"
Mary wrenched her arm away and swung the door wide. Then suddenly she bent and kissed Nora's cheek, wet with tears.
Then she was out in the dim grey dawn, hurrying along the empty street. A cold wind was blowing now from the lake, the air was thick with fog.
Pray? Was it prayer—this voiceless cry of anguish from her heart toward the unknown? She could cry, O God, don't take him from me, her lips uttered the words as she ran. But who would hear?... Far, far beyond reach or understanding, the force that moved this world of beauty and terror, that made these poor human beings going their ways in darkness, sinning and suffering they knew not why. Cold ... harsh ... bleak was human fate, like this dim steely light, this cutting wind, this stony street....