"You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. "I've said all I can."
"I'll talk to Mary," he said.
"Oh—talk!"
With that she went into the house and banged the door. Well, what did she expect him to do—shut Mary up—or disinherit her? The doctor smiled ruefully as he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, but he would work as long as he could see. There was no set meal on Sunday nights—people went to the pantry and helped themselves when they felt like it. He liked the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed with the manure he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous leaves, was a thin crescent moon. He stood looking at it, leaning on his pitchfork, thinking that tomorrow he would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had time. Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tenderness and melancholy, now as ever, though he was an old man....
He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he had deeply admired; of the men now returning to their homes, the long struggle over; of the many he had known who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been rejected on the score of age. That might have been a good end, he thought. Now what was before him but old age, with lessening powers, the routine of life.... He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having come, went slowly in.
To his wife's surprise, he offered to accompany her to church. She was pleased, for now she could take his arm instead of Carlin's, who followed with Mary. Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, but as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked silently, arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had been very sweet and gentle to him, all day, and very serious—more so than ever before. She had changed, he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a woman. She had never been very gay—but yet she had had a glow of youth rather than sparkle, an enthusiasm, that he missed now. They had talked over plans for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him at once, if he wished. She did not mind his being poor, she had said earnestly, she expected they would be, at first. She had not expected it to be a path of roses. There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. Marriage with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle—not a sober reality.
Still silently, they entered the church and took their seats. It was the "meeting-house," plain, austere—nothing to touch the senses. No mystery of shadowy lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But the pews and benches were full, when the simple service began, there were even people standing at the back, as in a theatre.
Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad rim of her bonnet hid her face from Laurence, but he felt this was the attitude of prayer. He watched her for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. He had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her absorption seemed to set her away from him—it was one more change. She raised her head only when the minister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and then she looked directly at him. She joined in the singing, with a deep, sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous.