Читать книгу Proud Lady - Neith Boyce - Страница 7

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She went out and stood at the gate, waiting for Laurence, uneasy about him, troubled by many thoughts, oppressed. She was still crying when she heard his step down the sidewalk, firm and quick. The thin little moon was already sinking behind the trees, but there was bright starlight, so that Laurence could see her face.

"What's the matter, Mary?" he cried.

"Where have you been? Why did you run off like that?" she demanded with a sob.

She swung the gate open for him, but he took her hand and drew her out.

"It's early yet—come, we don't want to go in yet. Come, let's get away from everybody!"

She was quite willing at the moment to get away from everybody. Out of a vague sense of injury she continued to weep, and to Laurence's anxious inquiries she returned a sobbing answer:

"I don't think older people ought to interfere!... It's our own business, isn't it?... What do they know about it?..."

Laurence agreed passionately that they knew nothing about it and had better not interfere, and kissed her tearful eyes till she protested that they must go on now or somebody would be coming. She said softly:

"Poor Laurence! This isn't very gay, for your first evening home!"

"Never mind about being gay!"

He drew her hand firmly through his arm and strode down the street with a feeling that he was bearing her off triumphantly from a legion of enemies. When she was near him, and in a troubled and melting mood, like this, he feared nothing, his doubts vanished, he felt sure of her, and that was all he cared about at present. As for anybody interfering, that was nonsense. His spirits rose with a bound out of the evening's depression. Soon he was talking light-heartedly and Mary was laughing. He was quick and fluent, when at ease, and full of careless, gay and witty turns of speech that amused and charmed her. No one had ever amused her so much as Laurence. With him life seemed really a cheerful affair, he was so rich in confidence—he had the brightest visions of the future. He was bubbling over now with plans, schemes of all sorts.... The vastness, the richness of the country, its endless opportunities, were in his imagination, a restless ambition in his veins. He had a feeling of his power, more than mere youthful self-confidence. Already he had been tried and proved in different ways, and had stood the test. So far he had always been successful. His mind was restless now because a definite channel for his activity was to be fixed. He wanted Mary's advice—rather, he wanted to know what she wanted. His own most marked bent was toward the law, with a vista of political power beyond. And there was money in the law, too. But if Mary wanted more money, a lot of money—well, she had only to say so! As his talk came back to this point, Mary said that she didn't care about money, and that he had better stick to the law and go into Judge Baxter's office.

"Not Chicago?... I thought you'd like to make a start in a big city," he suggested persuasively.

"Why not here?... You'd have a better start with Judge Baxter, and you know he's a good lawyer, he has a big practice.... And then we could live at home till you get started," Mary said practically.

No, Laurence didn't like that at all, it wouldn't do, living with Mary's parents!... She didn't press that point, but she was firm about not going away—not to Chicago, still less to some vague point "out west." Laurence argued. Why did she want to stay here, in this one-horse town? Why not the city? There was more life, there were more chances, in the city, she would like it better.... No! Mary couldn't explain why she wanted to stay, but with emotion she made it clear that she wanted to....

Laurence was silenced. He took her hand and kissed it, perhaps in acquiescence. But he meditated, puzzled, asking himself why, after all....

He looked at the town from the vantage-point of his four years' wanderings. By contrast with the great cities he had seen, the east, populous and civilized, the picturesque south, beautiful mountains and valleys, stately old houses, glimpses of a life that had been rich in colour and luxury—beside all this the little town, his birth-place, seemed like a mere mud-spot on the prairie.... A little square, with a few brick buildings, the bank, the courthouse, small shops—two or three streets set with frame dwelling-houses, straggling out into the prairie—what was the attraction, the interest of this place?... His absence had broken all his own associations with it except as to Mary. His mother, the last remaining member of his family, had died the year before; his only brother had been killed at Shiloh. The friends of his youth had scattered, most of them in the army. He could not see himself settling here.... Perhaps, for a little while, till he had finished his law-reading, if he decided on the law—they might stay till then, since Mary wanted it. But why did she? To be sure, she knew no other place, what friends and interests she had were here—but she was young, she must want to see something of the world! He shook his head, in pensive bewilderment. Women were queer, decidedly! He made no pretence of understanding the sex—in fact never had had time or occasion to make an exhaustive study of it.

They had come to the end of the board sidewalk; beyond was only a path by the roadside. They went a little distance along this, but it was muddy; a stream, dividing the road from the pasture, had overflowed. Mary thought they had better turn back, but Laurence protested. So they sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, among a clump of willows that hung over the stream.

The lights of the town were faintly visible on one side; on the other, the prairie stretched out dark and silent, with the starry sky bright by contrast. A slight breeze swayed the long fronds of the willows, the stream gurgled softly along its mud-bed, and from a pond out in the pasture rose the musical bassoon of an amorous bull-frog.... The damp heavy air, hardly stirring, had a sweet oppression, a troubled languor, the pulse of the spring....

Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary gently in his arms, and kissed her lowered eyelids and her lips, first lightly, then lingeringly, then as she began to resist, with passionate possession.

"Don't—don't push me away," he begged. "Come near to me...."

But she was frightened, and struggled against his strong clasp, till she slipped down, bent backward over the tree-trunk, and cried out with pain and anger. Laurence released her suddenly, roughly.

"You don't love me," he said.

She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat still, turning away from her.

"You don't love me," he repeated bitterly. "You'd better leave me—go back."

Without a word she moved away, her head bent, stumbling a little on the dark path. He looked after her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like that, without a word to him, without a sign.... Was she angry—was she hurt?... That silence of hers was a strong weapon. She disappeared beyond the trees.... No, he couldn't let her go like that. In a moment he overtook her.

"Take my arm," he said curtly. "The path's rough."

She took it, and they went back in silence. As they came to a street-light he looked at her, and saw the mysterious mask of her face more immobile, more impassive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him, now it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to break with her, to tell her that he was going away. She was too elusive, too distant, too cold.... But instead, when they came to her gate, he only murmured sadly:

"Forgive me, Mary."

And to his surprise she bent toward him to kiss him good-night, and said steadily:

"You shouldn't have said what you did. I do love you. Why should I want to marry you if I don't love you?"

"I don't know, Mary," said Laurence with a faint weary smile.