Читать книгу Proud Lady - Neith Boyce - Страница 6

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At the close of the service, the minister stood at the door, to shake hands with his departing congregation. Carlin, not disposed to shake his hand, went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They moved on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of the sidewalk, under the maple trees, and waited.

"He's a good speaker," said the doctor pensively. "I like to come and hear him once in a while."

"Yes," said Carlin, coldly. "He's an able man."

"He's too mystical for me, though.... Seems to me you can think too much about salvation, you can look at your own soul so hard that you get cross-eyed ... that's the way it affects some of them. The women think a lot of him."

"Yes."

"I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous," went on the doctor mildly. "It takes a strong head, you know, to keep it straight.... But he's all right, himself, he's a good man. Got into trouble preaching against slavery—he lost his first church that way, in Chicago—that was before the war. Oh, yes, he's plucky."

The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched the church door for Mary, then he went on:

"He doesn't pay much attention to worldly affairs, though—doesn't care about political institutions and so on. We had a discussion when he first came here, about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance except the human soul, but each soul is of infinite importance, the soul of the black slave is just as important as that of his white master. He said he hated slavery because of its effect on the master more than on the slave. He said the slave could develop Christian virtues, but the master couldn't."

The doctor paused and chuckled softly.

"I asked him," he resumed, "why, if the slaves outnumbered the masters, the sum of virtue might not be greater under slavery. But of course he had his answer, we were not to do evil that good might come.... Shall we walk on? The women-folks are probably consulting about something or other. They do a lot of church-work."

After a moment's hesitation, Carlin accompanied him.

"I didn't know Mary was so much interested in the church," he said moodily. "She wasn't, before."

"Well," said the doctor. "The war has made a difference, you know. Life has been harder—not many amusements—and lots of tragedies and suffering. We've had losses in our own family.... The church was about the only social thing that didn't seem wrong, to the women, you see. And they've done a lot of work, through it, for the soldiers and all that.... Yes, Mary's changed a good deal, she's very serious. I think the preacher has had a good deal of influence."

"How?" asked Carlin abruptly.

"Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, a vale of tears, a place of trial, and so on.... It is, maybe, but she's too young to feel it so. I hope she'll get out of that and enjoy life a little," the doctor ended, with much feeling.

They walked on in silence. Carlin's heart was sore. The doctor had not mentioned his absence and peril as having anything to do with the change in Mary. Well, perhaps it hadn't had. He gave way to a sudden impulse.

"You're not against her marrying me, are you?" he asked tremulously. "I know your wife is. She doesn't like me."

"No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence," was the doctor's grave answer. "As far as you're concerned, I've no objection.... But sometimes I think Mary isn't ready to marry yet."

"She says she is," said Laurence quickly.

"I don't pretend to understand anything," said the doctor plaintively, and sighed.

"Perhaps—you think she doesn't care enough about me—is that it?"

"Sometimes I think she doesn't care about anybody," was the regretful answer.

When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in.

"I'll walk on, for a bit," he said.

The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a lamp. This room was arranged to suit him, and he did as he pleased in it. It smelt very much of tobacco, though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture consisted of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides some shelves full of books. Out of it opened his bedroom, which had an outside door with a night-bell.

The doctor established himself in his easy-chair, with a pipe and a medical review. But his attention wandered from the printed page, and twice he let his pipe go out. Half an hour passed before the women-folk returned, and he noted that they entered the house in silence.

He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she came in, she asked with surprise, "Where's Laurence?"

"He went off for a little walk.... Sit down, my dear, I want to talk to you."

Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on the sofa. She disliked the atmosphere of this room, not so much the tobacco-flavour as the flavour of the confessional. She was used to hearing low-toned murmurs coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes sounds of pain and weeping. And now she had an instant feeling that she was in the confessional, as had happened a few times before during her girlhood, occasions of which she retained a definite impression of fear.

"Mary, are you sure you're doing right?" asked the doctor abruptly, yet gently.

"Right?" she murmured, defensively.

"About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are ready to marry him, at once."

"Yes, I am ready," said Mary, with a forced calmness. "We have been engaged four years. I always expected to marry him when he came back."

"And you haven't changed your mind at all, in those four years? You were very young, you know—it would be natural that you should change."

"No—I haven't changed."

"In some ways, you have.... But you mean not in that way. You still love Laurence, as much as ever?"

"Yes," said Mary, her heart beating fast and sending a deep flush into her cheeks.

"Because, you know, you are not bound to marry him," said the doctor sharply.

"Don't you think that a promise is binding?" asked Mary.

"Certainly not—that kind of a promise! Are you going to marry him just because you promised?"

"I have no wish to break my promise," said Mary.

"Because it's a promise, or because you want to marry him anyway and would, if you hadn't promised? Come, Mary, answer me!"

"I want to keep my promise," said Mary clearly, with a look of the most perfect obstinacy in her fair eyes.

The doctor was hot-tempered, and banged a book on his desk with his fist. But instantly he controlled himself, for he loved this exasperating child of his, and there was no one but himself to stand between her and harm—so he felt it.

"You mean," he said tenderly, "that you haven't any reason not to keep it?"

Mary assented.

"And Laurence loves you and depends on you."

Her silence gave assent to this.

"You feel it would be wrong to disappoint him—desert him."

"Yes, of course it would be."

"And there's no one else you care about?"

The last question was sharp and sudden. Mary started slightly, and cast a troubled and angry glance at her inquisitor. But such was the personality of this little man with the gentle firm voice and pitying eyes, such was his relation to his daughter, that she never thought of denying his authority or right to question her. She felt obliged to answer him, and truthfully too.

"Nobody—in that way," she said faintly.

"You don't love anyone else."

"No."

"And you haven't thought of marrying any one else?"

There was just an instant's hesitation before she answered:

"No."

The doctor reflected, and Mary sat still, her long eyelids drooping—the image of maiden calm.

"Well, then, I was mistaken," said the doctor after a pause. "I thought you were interested in some one else—and I guess your mother thought so too.... But it wasn't that kind of interest."

"No, it wasn't," said Mary quickly.

"But it was—it is—an interest. I wish you could tell me what it is, why you think so much of Mr. Robertson as you do, what your feeling is about him."

"But—it isn't a personal feeling!" cried Mary, no longer calm, suddenly alert and on the defensive. "It has nothing to do with that!"

"But you admire him and look up to him—"

"Of course I do! But you don't understand, you don't believe—"

"It's religious, you mean, it's your feeling for religion, and he represents it—"

"Yes," said Mary angrily.

"Don't be vexed with me, my dear—perhaps I don't understand these things, as you say.... But he is something like a spiritual director, isn't he, now?"

"I don't know what you mean by that—"

"I mean, you talk to him about your religious feelings, and he gives you counsel," said the doctor gravely.

"Yes—yes, he does."

"Have you talked to him about your marriage?"

"I—why, no!"

"You don't talk about worldly affairs, then—is that it? Do you think marriage not important enough to talk about?"

"It isn't that! I haven't, because—"

Here was a pause, and the doctor asked:

"Perhaps because, Mary, you thought he had a feeling for you that—"

"No, it wasn't that! He hasn't—it isn't that at all!"

Disturbed, distressed, she got up.

"Wait a minute, Mary.... I wish you would talk to him about it," said the doctor in his most serious tone.

"But, why? Why should I?"

"Why? Because it's a most important thing to you, and mixed up with everything, or should be. Because you shouldn't keep your religion separate from your marriage. Because you shouldn't shut Laurence out from everything."

"I shut him out?"

"Now you do as I tell you, Mary," said the doctor quietly.

He sat looking out of the window, feeling her bewilderment and silent revolt. He hesitated whether he should tell Mary that he thought her religion erotic in origin and her feeling for the minister very personal indeed, but finally decided against it. She would deny it not only to him but to herself—women's minds were made like that. At last he said:

"I think at first you were in love with Laurence—but four years is a long time, and you were very young."

"I haven't changed," said Mary proudly.

"Yes, you have, but you don't want to admit it. You think there are higher things than being in love. You seem to think of marriage as a serious responsibility, a—sort of discipline."

"Isn't it?" she asked.

"Well, that isn't the way to go into it! Confound it, I tell you you had better not!"

He glared at her over his spectacles, then put out his hand and drew her toward him.

"What a child you are, Mary—with your airs of being a hundred and fifty!... I don't think you understand anything. The basis of marriage is physical, if that isn't right nothing is right—you want to think of that, Mary. It's flesh and spirit, but both, not divided. If your imagination is drawn away from Laurence to what you think are spiritual things, then you oughtn't to marry—or you ought to marry Hilary."

Mary stood like a stone—her fingers turned cold in his grasp. He saw the tears flood her eyes, and got up and led her to the door, and dismissed her with a kiss on her cold cheek.