"Can't we?" Lavinia whispered the words, as if she were afraid utterance would confirm the fear they imported.
"Well--that's what they all say," Marley insisted.
"But papa's always talking that way," Lavinia protested. "I suppose all old men do. They forget that they were ever young, and I don't see what right they have to destroy your faith, your confidence, or the confidence of any young man!" Lavinia blazed out these words indignantly. It was consoling to Marley to hear them, he liked her passionate partizanship in his cause. He longed for her to go on, and he waited, anxious to be reassured in spite of himself. He could see her face dimly in the starlight, and feel her figure rigid with protest beside him.
"It's simply wicked in them," she said presently. "I don't care what they say. We can and we will!"
"I like to have you put it that way, dear," said Marley. "I like to have you say 'we'!"
"And you think we can?" he said presently.
"And have a little home, here, in one of these quiet streets, with the shade, and the happiness--"
"And it wouldn't matter much if we were poor?"
"Just at first, you know. I'd work hard, and we could be so happy, so happy, just we two, together!"
"I love Macochee so," Marley said presently. "I just couldn't leave it!"
"Don't! Don't!" she protested. "Don't even speak of it!"
It was Sunday morning and Marley sat in church looking at a shaft of soft light that fell through one of the tall windows. From gazing at the shaft of light, he began to study the symbols in the different windows, the cross and crown, the lamb, the triangle that represented the Trinity, all the Roman symbols that Protestantism still retains in its decorations. Then he counted the pipes in the organ, back and forth, never certain that he had counted them correctly. All about him the people were going through the service, but it had lost all meaning for Marley, because he had been accustomed to it from childhood.
Having been reassured by Lavinia, he felt that he should be happy, yet a strong sense of dissatisfaction, of uncertainty, flowed persistently under all his thoughts, belying his heart's assurance of its happiness. When Doctor Marley, advancing to the pulpit, buttoned his coat down before him, pushed aside the vase of flowers the ladies' committee always put in his way, and stood with his strong, expressive hand laid on the open Bible, Marley's thoughts fixed themselves for a moment in the pride and love he had always had for his father. There swept before him hundreds of scenes like this when his father had stood up to preach, and then suddenly he realized that his father had grown old: he was white-haired and in his rugged, smooth-shaven face deep lines were drawn--the lines of a beautiful character.