John saw Miss Blake the next morning in the saloon among the passengers
in line for the customs official. It was an easy conjecture that Mr.
Carling's nerves were not up to committing himself to a "declaration" of
any sort, and that Miss Blake was undertaking the duty for the party. He
did not see her again until he had had his luggage passed and turned it
over to an expressman. As he was on his way to leave the wharf he came
across the group, and stopped to greet them and ask if he could be of
service, and was told that their houseman had everything in charge, and
that they were just going to their carriage, which was waiting. "And,"
said Miss Blake, "if you are going up town, we can offer you a seat."
"Sha'n't I discommode you?" he asked. "If you are sure I shall not, I
shall be glad to be taken as far as Madison Avenue and Thirty-third
Street, for I suppose that will be your route."
"Quite sure," she replied, seconded by the Carlings, and so it happened
that John went directly home instead of going first to his father's
office. The weather was a chilly drizzle, and he was glad to be spared
the discomfort of going about in it with hand-bag, overcoat, and
umbrella, and felt a certain justification in concluding that, after
two years, a few hours more or less under the circumstances would make
but little difference. And then, too, the prospect of half or
three-quarters of an hour in Miss Blake's company, the Carlings
notwithstanding, was a temptation to be welcomed. But if he had hoped or
expected, as perhaps would have been not unnatural, to discover in that
young woman's air any hint or trace of the feeling she had exhibited,
or, perhaps it should be said, to a degree permitted to show itself,
disappointment was his portion. Her manner was as much in contrast with
that of the last days of their voyage together as the handsome street
dress and hat in which she was attired bore to the dress and headgear of
her steamer costume, and it almost seemed to him as if the contrasts
bore some relation to each other. After the question of the carriage
windows--whether they should be up or down, either or both, and how
much--had been settled, and, as usual in such dilemmas, by Miss Blake,
the drive up town was comparatively a silent one. John's mind was
occupied with sundry reflections and speculations, of many of which his
companion was the subject, and to some extent in noting the changes in
the streets and buildings which an absence of two years made noticeable
to him.
Mary looked steadily out of window, lost in her own thoughts save for an
occasional brief response to some casual comment or remark of John's.
Mr. Carling had muffled himself past all talking, and his wife preserved
the silence which was characteristic of her when unurged.
John was set down at Thirty-third Street, and, as he made his adieus,
Mrs. Carling said, "Do come and see us as soon as you can, Mr. Lenox";
but Miss Blake simply said "Good-by" as she gave him her hand for an
instant, and he went on to his father's house.
He let himself in with the latch-key which he had carried through all
his absence, but was at once encountered by Jeffrey, who, with his wife,
had for years constituted the domestic staff of the Lenox household.
"Well, Jeff," said John, as he shook hands heartily with the old
servant, "how are you? and how is Ann? You don't look a day older, and
the climate seems to agree with you, eh?"
"You're welcome home, Mr. John," replied Jeffrey, "and thank you, sir.
Me and Ann is very well, sir. It's a pleasure to see you again and home.
It is, indeed."
"Thank you, Jeff," said John. "It's rather nice to be back. Is my room
ready?"
"Yes, sir," said Jeffrey, "I think it's all right, though we thought
that maybe it 'd be later in the day when you got here, sir. We thought
maybe you'd go to Mr. Lenox's office first."
"I did intend to," said John, mounting the stairs, followed by Jeffrey
with his bag, "but I had a chance to drive up with some friends, and the
day is so beastly that I took advantage of it. How is my father?" he
asked after entering the chamber, which struck him as being so strangely
familiar and so familiarly strange.
"Well, sir," said Jeffrey, "he's much about the same most ways, and then
again he's different, too. Seeing him every day, perhaps I wouldn't
notice so much; but if I was to say that he's kind of quieter, perhaps
that'd be what I mean, sir."
"Well," said John, smiling, "my father was about the quietest person I
ever knew, and if he's grown more so--what do you mean?"
"Well, sir," replied the man, "I notice at table, sir, for one thing.
We've been alone here off and on a good bit, sir, and he used always to
have a pleasant word or two to say to me, and may be to ask me questions
and that, sir; but for a long time lately he hardly seems to notice me.
Of course, there ain't any need of his saying anything, because I know
all he wants, seeing I've waited on him so long, but it's different in a
way, sir."
"Does he go out in the evening to his club?" asked John.
"Very rarely, sir," said Jeffrey. "He mostly goes to his room after
dinner, an' oftentimes I hear him walking up an' down, up an' down, and,
sir," he added, "you know he often used to have some of his friends to
dine with him, and that ain't happened in, I should guess, for a year."
"Have things gone wrong with him in any way?" said John, a sudden
anxiety overcoming some reluctance to question a servant on such a
subject.
"You mean about business, and such like?" replied Jeffrey. "No, sir, not
so far as I know. You know, Mr. John, sir, that I pay all the house
accounts, and there hasn't never been no--no shortness, as I might say,
but we're living a bit simpler than we used to--in the matter of wine
and such like--and, as I told you, we don't have comp'ny no more."
"Is that all?" asked John, with some relief.
"Well, sir," was the reply, "perhaps it's because Mr. Lenox is getting
older and don't care so much about such things, but I have noticed that
he hasn't had anything new from the tailor in a long time, and really,
sir, though perhaps I oughtn't to say it, his things is getting a bit
shabby, sir, and he used to be always so partic'lar."
John got up and walked over to the window which looked out at the rear
of the house. The words of the old servant disquieted him,
notwithstanding that there was nothing so far that could not be
accounted for without alarm. Jeffrey waited for a moment and then asked:
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. John? Will you be having
luncheon here, sir?"
"No, thank you, Jeff," said John; "nothing more now, and I will lunch
here. I'll come down and see Ann presently."
"Thank you, sir," said Jeffrey, and withdrew.
The view from the back windows of most city houses is not calculated to
arouse enthusiasm at the best of times, and the day was singularly
dispiriting: a sky of lead and a drizzling rain, which emphasized the
squalor of the back yards in view. It was all very depressing. Jeffrey's
talk, though inconclusive, had stirred in John's mind an uneasiness
which was near to apprehension. He turned and walked about the familiar
room, recognizing the well-known furniture, his mother's picture over
the mantel, the bookshelves filled with his boyhood's accumulations, the
well-remembered pattern of the carpet, and the wall-paper--nothing was
changed. It was all as he had left it two years ago, and for the time it
seemed as if he had merely dreamed the life and experiences of those
years. Indeed, it was with difficulty that he recalled any of them for
the moment. And then suddenly there came into his mind the thought that
he was at the beginning of a new epoch--that on this day his boyhood
ended, for up to then he had been but a boy. The thought was very vivid.
It had come, the time when he must take upon himself the
responsibilities of his own life, and make it for himself; the time
which he had looked forward to as to come some day, but not hitherto at
any particular moment, and so not to be very seriously considered.
It has been said that life had always been made easy for him, and that
he had accepted the situation without protest. To easy-going natures the
thought of any radical change in the current of affairs is usually
unwelcome, but he was too young to find it really repugnant; and then,
too, as he walked about the room with his hands in his pockets, it was
further revealed to him that he had recently found a motive and impulse
such as he had never had before. He recalled the talk that he had had
with the companion of his voyage. He thought of her as one who could be
tender to misfortune and charitable to incapacity, but who would have
nothing but scorn for shiftlessness and malingering; and he realized
that he had never cared for anything as for the good opinion of that
young woman. No, there should be for him no more sauntering in the vales
and groves, no more of loitering or dallying. He would take his place in
the working world, and perhaps--some day--
A thought came to him with the impact of a blow: What could he do? What
work was there for him? How could he pull his weight in the boat? All
his life he had depended upon some one else, with easy-going
thoughtlessness. Hardly had it ever really occurred to him that he
might have to make a career for himself. Of business he had thought as
something which he should undertake some time, but it was always a
business ready made to his hand, with plenty of capital not of his own
acquiring--something for occupation, not of necessity. It came home to
him that his father was his only resource, and that of his father's
affairs he knew next to nothing.
In addition to his affection for him, he had always had an unquestioning
confidence in his father. It was his earliest recollection, and he still
retained it to almost a childish extent. There had always been plenty.
His own allowance, from time to time increased, though never
extravagant, had always been ample, and on the one occasion when he had
grievously exceeded it the excess had been paid with no more protest
than a gentle "I think you ought not to have done this." The two had
lived together when John was at home without ostentation or any
appearance of style, but with every essential of luxury. The house and
its furnishings were old-fashioned, but everything was of the best, and
when three or four of the elder man's friends would come to dine, as
happened occasionally, the contents of the cellar made them look at each
other over their glasses. Mr. Lenox was very reticent in all matters
relating to himself, and in his talks with his son, which were mostly at
the table, rarely spoke of business matters in general, and almost never
of his own. He had read well, and was fond of talking of his reading
when he felt in the vein of talking, which was not always; but John had
invariably found him ready with comment and sympathy upon the topics in
which he himself had interest, and there was a strong if undemonstrative
affection between the father and son.
It was not strange, perhaps, all things considered, that John had come
even to nearly six-and-twenty with no more settled intentions; that his
boyhood should have been so long. He was not at all of a reckless
disposition, and, notwithstanding the desultory way in which he had
spent time, he had strong mental and moral fiber, and was capable of
feeling deeply and enduringly. He had been desultory, but never before
had he had much reason or warning against it. But now, he reflected, a
time had come. Work he must, if only for work's sake, and work he would;
and there was a touch of self-reproach in the thought of his father's
increasing years and of his lonely life. He might have been a help and a
companion during those two years of his not very fruitful European
sojourn, and he would lose no time in finding out what there was for him
to do, and in setting about it.