He looked disturbed and distressed, and Mary said no more at the time. Nora stayed in her room, and Mary gave the boys their supper and put them to bed. They were angelically good. As she was hearing their prayers, Laurence came in, looked at the two little kneeling figures and at Mary, with a touched and tender smile. Prayers over, the boys wanted to romp with their father, whom they adored, who was always gay and playful with them, a radiant visitor bringing gifts. He played with them until dinner-time, tucked them into their cribs, and went downstairs with his arm around Mary, whistling boyishly. Nora did not appear to serve the dinner, but her absence was hardly noticed. Laurence had much to tell of his week away. He had won his case, and was jubilant. It was one of the few cases he took which would mean a big fee—a will contest, involving a large estate. He had taken it because the personality of the defendants appealed to him, and he knew and disliked the man who was contesting the will. Laurence held that a man had a right to leave his money as he pleased, and to disinherit a son who had offended him. He felt that he had been defending the just cause, and the elation of his victory was without blemish.
"I shall charge them ten thousand—they're willing to pay more than that. So you see, Mary, you needn't worry about the price of carpets," he laughed.
After dinner he lounged in an easy-chair in the library, relaxed, tired but still talkative, smoking his big black cigar and watching with bright and contented eyes Mary at her sewing. He was always happy at returning home, the first hours at least were bright and cloudless. And Mary was always glad to have him come back. She missed him deeply when he was away. He often brought disturbance, but he brought too something that she needed. Life without him had a duller surface, a slower current, though it might be more peaceful.
He had forgotten the unpleasant incident of his arrival, but Mary had not. She thought of the children and presently laid down her work and said that she must see if they were covered properly—the night had turned cold. She went upstairs, with her firm slow step. A light was burning in the nursery. As she entered she saw Nora kneeling by one of the cribs, her face bowed, hidden. Nora raised her head and turned toward the door a look that startled Mary. What did that mean—that radiant face, eyes gleaming with tenderness, mouth half-opened and smiling? In a flash it changed. Nora dropped her eyes, all the light went out of her. She got up, smoothed the coverlet over the sleeping child. And Mary with a glance at the other crib, went out of the room without speaking.
She returned to the library, took up her work again, listened to Laurence, responded to him, smiling tranquilly on him; after a time moved to sit beside him at his behest, and answered his caress. But all the time there was a puzzled question in her mind, something obscure, hauntingly unpleasant. Something that in a sinister way disturbed even the current of her blood, made her heart beat heavily. It was a kind of fear, a vague terror of—she knew not what exactly, but something there, close to her, that she loathed and shrank from.
She had never had a moment of jealousy or suspicion of Laurence. Nothing of that sort had existed for her, it had never entered her world for an instant. Now she hardly recognized it, except as a formless shadow of evil. Deceit, treachery—could she phrase such things, even to herself? But the shadow remained. It poisoned her sleep, it was there at her waking.... In spite of herself, not admitting it to herself, she suspected—she watched.
XI
A wild November night. The wind tore furiously across the prairie, sweeping the rain in slanting sheets. It was growing colder; rain became sleet; before morning it would be snow.