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Still she was silent. He wondered for a moment if she could continue in anger. But her slender body was pliant in his arms. He stifled the impulse to cry out, “Forgive me,” for he had done nothing to forgive. She had been very angry, but for no cause of his. In her own self there was something — what, he could not know, that kept her angry with him for what he was, a man and her husband. He sighed and loosened his arms. She lay for a moment as if surprised, and then of her own accord, firmly she put his hands upon her breasts.

Standing beside Lucinda next day in the little Episcopalian church which had been built by a Wyeth two hundred years before, Pierce listened to Martin declare his vows to the little lace-veiled figure at his side. He was beset by doubts. Why had he not taken more pains to discover what sort of a woman Mary Lou was? Why had he merely accepted her as another pretty girl, sweet-tempered, yielding, feminine, charming — when actually she had the power to make his son happy or wretched?

It was too late—“I, Martin, take thee, Mary Louise, to be my wedded wife—”

It suddenly became more solemn, more portentous than his own marriage had been. For now he knew that marriage was heart and hearth in a man’s life. When it went wrong nothing was right. But his marriage had been good. He loved Lucinda and would love her until he died. What folly to ask more than he had! She had been true to him, faithful to the letter and to the spirit. Poor John MacBain! Lucinda had fitted Malvern as the queen fits the castle. She had given him sons and daughters, superbly she had given him these. Then why was he ungrateful and why was he fearful for his sons? Last night in bed, Lucinda had given herself — no, she had given her body. And he had taken her body. He had strained her in his arms, searching for what he did not have — her complete trust, her whole love.

And then he understood. These he would never have because he was man and she was woman. His maleness she would distrust until she died. His maleness was his weakness against which she would protect herself. Secretly, while she loved him, she hated him because he was a man. And yet as a man she needed him and depended upon him and must please him and sometimes serve him that she might be served, and for this she hated him. Above all men she preferred him — ah, there was no doubt of that — but she hated him.

The organ burst into triumphant music and he looked up, bewildered. While he had been mulling his bitter thoughts his son had been married. The young husband and wife turned and marched down the aisle, Martin’s head high, Mary Lou’s face downcast and tenderly smiling. She pressed her cheek for one brief second against Martin’s arm and he turned his head quickly and looked down at her. Pierce could not bear the sight. His yearning rose to agony.

“Let it be a good marriage!” he prayed suddenly, and stared down at his hands gripped upon the rail of the seat in front of him.

“Come, Pierce!” Lucinda whispered. She slipped her hand in his arm and they mingled with the slowly moving crowd.

“A beautiful wedding,” people said and looked at one another with wet eyes. “A lovely wedding!”

Wyeth met him at the door and seized his hand. “I can sleep nights,” he said to Pierce. “I know she’s going into a fine old Southern family — you never know, these days!”

“She is very welcome,” Pierce said with dignity and lifted his head high.

Chapter Ten

WHEN HE WAS AT HOME again he felt the necessity to build. Building Malvern gave him the conviction of growth and increase and substance and permanence. He determined to begin a new library at once and he considered the enlargement of the dairy barns. Hitherto he had grown cattle for beef for sale beyond the family use of milk and cream. But milk was a coming industry. He read of a new bottling machine which had been patented the year before and he toyed with the idea of a huge retail milk business. That would need more land and he called his head farmer Mathews and together they reviewed the outlying farms and who might be willing to sell.

Mathews was a white man, a tenacious, hardworking, greedy fellow who knew how to get work out of the hands — a poor white from Virginia. He was obsequious to Pierce and his sons and flattering to Lucinda and her daughters and ruthless to everyone else. He was married to a fat white woman and they had a half-grown family of children who stared hungrily at everyone from the big house. They lived in the stone tenant house.

Now in the office, beyond which he never went, Mathews talked. “We can get Blake’s farm cheap, Mr. Delaney. I know he can’t meet the mortgage.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Pierce inquired.

“His sons are no good — they buy a lot of machinery and let it lay around outside.”

“Machinery!” Pierce grunted. “Men think it will work for them but nothing takes the place of elbow grease.”

His faint mist of pity for the Blakes disappeared. “Get it as cheaply as you can,” he told Mathews.

He spent the next year in poring over plans and watching foundations rise. Martin came home from Europe with Mary Lou and they took their place in the house. When he could remember to do so, Pierce asked his son’s opinion about such small things as the placing of a gable and the piping of water into the new barn. Most of the time he forgot to ask. The hunting season came and Martin and Mary Lou were away day after day. He saw them canter off in the morning over the lawns silvered with frost and took a moment’s pride in their grace and bearing. Red coats on horseback were handsome on an autumn morning.

“Life can go peacefully if I only let it alone,” he told himself. He talked little with Lucinda, and being tired at night he slept heavily. He took on weight because he ate too much, and unaware of it himself, he drank more than he had before. He was out all day and the fresh air made him hungry. Business was excellent. He scarcely heard from John MacBain any more and his railroad dividends were steady. Tom wrote his letters twice a year, long and careful. Georgy was developing a real voice. It looked as though she and Georgia would not be coming home for three or four years.

Pierce told Lucinda with what he hoped was carelessness that Tom’s second daughter was going to be a singer.

“Pray tell,” Lucinda remarked, examining the needlepoint piece upon which she was working.

“They’re in Paris,” he went on.

Lucinda laughed. “Oh, the French!” she said. She did not look up. He wanted to tell her that Georgia was there, too. But she refused to show any interest and he was afraid that if he mentioned Georgia’s name she would revive her secret, undying anger.

“None of my family ever could sing,” he said instead.

“Singing and play-acting don’t come in good families,” Lucinda replied.

He gave up and went away. There was no use in trying to talk to Lucinda. He wanted to forget all women. Then he thought of Sally. Irritation mounted in him. Why didn’t Sally get married? She had beaux by the dozen, in and out of the house, hanging around. She had stopped school suddenly, declaring that she was tired of it, and he had expected that of course she would marry. Then she wanted him to travel with her, but he did not feel like traveling. She had suggested to him one evening when they were alone that he let her go to Paris and join Georgy.

“I might study something in Paris,” she said.

He looked at her grimly. Sally was now so pretty that she was a menace and he so considered her. “If you can persuade your mama to allow you to do that, I will say nothing,” he told her.

She made a face at him. “Coward!” she exclaimed.