VIII
The next day, toward sunset, Mary was walking in to see her father. She went often at the time when he would be home for his solitary supper.
The Carlin place was no longer out of town. Past it stretched the paved street, with wide sidewalks and gas-lamps at frequent intervals. The maple trees now overarched it, a thinning cloud of pale yellow or red, and the leaves lay in thick drifts in the gutters and along the walks. They rustled under Mary's feet as she went holding up her long violet-coloured dress. She wore a mantle to match the dress, and a small bonnet made of violets and lace, tied under her chin with black velvet ribbons.
She walked at a good pace; there was a spring in her step, and unusual colour in her cheeks. She breathed in deeply the cool crisp air, she saw with pleasure the vivid colours of the leaves, the bright western sky: it was long since she had felt this pleasure in the world. It had zest to her; and she could not imagine why. All that had happened to her consciousness was that she had transgressed her own code; had forgotten her dignity and actually discussed her own most private affairs and feelings, with a stranger. But now she had a strange sense of freedom, of companionship in some impersonal way. She did not think more of Lavery because of it. He had gone to the city with Laurence that morning, and she did not seem to care whether she ever saw him again or not. But if she saw him certainly she would talk to him again. She was less a prisoner now; some barrier had been pierced, and she looked out on the world.
As she drew near the house, she saw a once familiar figure, a slim black-coated figure, pushing a small baby-carriage. It was Hilary. He had married a buxom efficient widow, three years before; and in the carriage was his eighteen-months' old daughter, a small, very lively baby, with bright blue eyes. Mary stopped and held out her hand to Hilary, with a friendly warmth that she had not shown him for many years. She asked after his wife, bent to speak to the baby, who bounced up and down and fixed upon her eyes sparkling with energy. Hilary's eyes too were upon her, in surprise.
He had changed very little in ten years. His face was quieter, perhaps, less drawn. The wife took care of him, fed and clothed him properly. No one now thought that he would go into a decline. But his eyes showed the same ardour and intensity of life. He worked harder than ever, for his church had grown, and incidentally had become factious. Hilary had to meet opposition within the fold to his idea of the preaching of the gospel; the time would come when he would be forced to leave this church too, and go forth. Mary knew this, though she rarely went to church now. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how she had felt about his marriage; disenchantment, almost disgust, though she had long before that ceased her intimacy with him. Her idea of him, as celibate, she now felt to have been merely romantic. Hilary was a man like other men. No, after all, he was better than most, he was more of a man. She smiled at him quite radiantly and said she was coming soon to see his wife.
"How well you are looking," he said as she started on, still with that surprised gaze at her.
"It must be this wonderful weather—it makes one feel so alive!" she called back, laughing at the white lie. In this mood she could tell all kinds of lies, without conscience! It was like a renewal of youth, no, it was a youth she had never had, rather mischievous, irresponsible. In this mood she wouldn't care what she did. Now why? She shook her head and gave it up—couldn't say why.
She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed that a hinge was loose; and that the pickets needed painting. The grass was long too in the front yard. She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low frame house. That too needed a coat of paint—why, it was shabby, it was all going to seed. Her brow wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn't noticed this before—how long had it been this way? Her father had been used always to keep the place trim and neat. Was he getting too old to look after it, or to care? She felt a pang.... She must send down a gardener to fix up the yard.