Читать книгу Proud Lady - Neith Boyce - Страница 10

Table of Contents

In the dusk Mary stood waiting for him by the gate. He had thought she might be piqued or angry at him, but she met him without the slightest coquetry, asking only where on earth he had been all day. Her tone was almost motherly, a little anxious, as if he had been a truant child. He liked it.

They sat on the steps. The wind had fallen and the evening was warm. There was the crescent moon over the tree-tops, but tonight it was hazy, a veil had drawn across the sky. There was rain in the air. A syringa-bush beside the steps, in flower, and the honeysuckle over the porch, were strongly fragrant.

"I'll tell you in a little while, I'm tired," said Laurence lazily. He leaned his head against her knee and she swept her cool finger-tips over his crisp black hair, touching his temples and his eyelids.

"Are you?" she asked softly.

He sighed with pleasure, shutting his eyes, knowing that he could take his time to speak, Mary was in no hurry, she never was. Sometimes her silence and repose had irritated him, but more often it was a deep pleasure to him. The night was as quiet as she. Not a leaf stirred. A cricket chirped under the porch. The honeysuckle was almost too sweet in the damp air. Thin veil upon veil hid the stars, and the moon was only a soft blur.

When her hand ceased to touch his hair, he reached up and took it, clasping the cool strong fingers and soft palm. He moved and looked up at her. She wore a white dress, sweeping out amply from the waist, open a little at the neck, and she had a flower of the syringa in her hair. The outline of her face, bent above him, was clear and lovely.

"How beautiful you are," he murmured. "I love you."

She put her arms around him and drew him up, his head to her shoulder.

"And I'm very, very fond of you," she whispered. "More than I ever was of anybody. But sometimes you're so impatient."

"Yes," he said submissively.

"You get angry with me. You always did."

"Yes," he said humbly. "I'll try not to. But sometimes I think you don't love me."

"But I do," she assured him gently.

"But sometimes—" he stopped.

"Well, what?"

"No, I won't say it."

"Yes, tell me."

"Well, sometimes—you don't seem to like to have me touch you, you—"

"I don't like you to be rough," said Mary.

"Am I—rough?"

"Sometimes."

"But if you liked me, you—"

"No, I do, and you know it."

"I don't see why you should, after all."

"Should what?"

"Love me."

"Well, it's been so long now, I couldn't very well stop," said Mary, smiling.

"Yes, a long time.... And you really have, all the time?"

"Oh, yes."

"And nobody else? Ever?"

"No, you know it," said Mary, lifting her head proudly.

He was silent, thinking of the years past....

Yes, it had been a long time—six years. They had first met at the High School, then at the country college where he was working his way and Mary was preparing to teach. He hadn't made many friends—he had been sensitive and apt to take offence, and had plenty of fighting to do. But Mary had been his friend from the first. Hers was the first "respectable" house in town to open its doors to him. He, however, did not know what a battle-royal had been fought over his admission there.

Mrs. Lowell of course had been against him. In that little town where people apparently lived on terms of equality, caste-prejudice was subtle and strong, and Mrs. Lowell had her full share. Money didn't count for much, as nobody had very much, but education and "family" counted heavily, also worldly position. The town had its aristocracy—the banker, the minister, the lawyers and the doctor.

Mary, with all her mother's obstinacy, had something of her father's crystal outlook on the world, his perfect unworldliness. She cared nothing for what "people would say," and she seemed to look serenely over the heads of her neighbours and to see something, whatever it was, beyond. When she and her mother had come to a deadlock about Laurence, the doctor was called in, and gave his voice on Mary's side. So Laurence had become a visitor, on equal terms with the other young people—not invited to meals very often, for that was not the custom, but free to drop in of an evening or to take Mary out. Their youthful friendship had grown and deepened rapidly, and as Mary at seventeen was old enough to teach school, she was able also to engage herself to him, in spite of her mother's opposition and her father's wish that she should wait. Many girls were married at seventeen or sixteen. Mary had made up her mind, and when this happened, it was not apt to change. Her nature had a rock-like immobility; hard to impress, it held an impression as the rock a groove.

Memories and thoughts of her were passing through Carlin's mind—vague, coloured by her warmth and nearness, a soft tide of adoration. He had always admired her deeply, she appealed to his imagination as no other woman ever had. He had known other women, more easily moved, more loving, more ready to respond and give, than Mary. And he wanted love, wanted it warm and expressive and caressing, wanted a long deep draught of it. But—he wanted Mary, and no other woman. Now she would be his, very soon. He was very happy there, with his head on her shoulder, feeling the soft even beating of her heart; but at this thought he moved, his arms closed around her impetuously, and the dreamy peace that enfolded them was broken.

"There, you bad boy," she said with mild chiding. "Don't pull my hair down—now tell me what you've been doing all day."

He told her, after some insistence—all except the meeting with Nora. Laurence never, if he could help it, mentioned one woman he had any liking for to another. But in this case he didn't think of Nora at all. He told Mary all about the Judge and his offers; the prospect of immediate work, of a temporary home with the Judge, if she liked the idea. In that case they could be married at once.

She moved away from him, clasped her arms round her knees, and sat silent.

"What is it—have I said anything to bother you?" asked Laurence alarmed.

"I'm just thinking," she answered absently.

After a time she began to speak her thoughts.

"It will seem odd, going to live at the Judge's house. Mother won't like it, she'll want us to stay here, she will think that people will think it's queer if we don't. But it wouldn't be best to live here. Father will understand, I think. He doesn't care what people think, it never bothers him at all. But Mother is different."

"And how about you, Mary? Does it suit you?"

"Oh, yes, until we can have a house of our own."

"That won't be for long, I hope. I'll do my best."

Mary turned and looked gravely at him.

"Do you feel contented to stay here, after all?"

"Perhaps it's best," said Laurence vaguely.

"You know the Judge will be a great help to you, getting started."

"Oh, yes, I see that, it makes a lot of difference. But the main reason is, you want it."

"Yes, I think it's better."

They spoke in low tones, though the house was empty and dark behind them. The doctor was off on his round, and Mrs. Lowell had gone out to a neighbour's. About them now the leaves stirred softly, a damp breath lifted the honeysuckle sprays. Then came a soft rustling.

"Rain," said Laurence.

They moved up into some low chairs on the porch.

"Shall I get you a wrap?"

"No, thank you."

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

"No."

Laurence lit a cigar, and laid his left hand on Mary's knee. The gently falling rain seemed to shut them in together, in a strange delicious quiet.

"Can you tell me, Mary, why it is that you feel so strongly about this place?... You've always lived here, why is it you don't want something new?"

"I don't like new things," she said, after a pause.

"You're a strange girl!... You don't seem like a girl at all, sometimes you seem about a thousand years old. I feel like a boy beside you."

"You are a boy," said Mary. From her tone, she was smiling.

"I would like to know where you get your air of experience, of having seen everything! It's astonishing!"

"Everything is everywhere," said Mary serenely.

"Now, when you say a thing like that! Upon my word! Where do you get it? I don't half like it, it doesn't seem natural!"

Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great cloud of smoke.

"I hope you're not going to be a saint," he said petulantly.

Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away from his.

"There, now, I've done it again!" he groaned. "You think I'm a barbarian, don't you. I don't understand you? Well, I don't! I think you're wonderful.... But you don't explain things to me, you don't talk—I don't feel that you give me your confidence, not all of it—"

"I don't like to talk much.... And you're in too much of a hurry about everything," said Mary coldly.

"Well, you're not!... You have about as much speed as a glacier!"

He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch and stood with his back to her. But he couldn't stand there forever. And certainly Mary could sit there forever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, the white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all around, a great wave of sweetness came from the honeysuckle.

It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the slow turning of the earth, he might as well be angry with the rain for falling.... She was right—he was impatient and violent, and foolish—awfully foolish. No wonder she called him a boy.... Hadn't he any self-control, any ...?

He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing himself; she did not accuse herself, but she put her arms around him. They made peace.