I think it should hardly be imputed to John as a fault or a shortcoming
that he did not for a long time realize his father's failing powers.
True, as has been stated, he had noted some changes in appearance on his
return, but they were not great enough to be startling, and, though he
thought at times that his father's manner was more subdued than he had
ever known it to be, nothing really occurred to arouse his suspicion or
anxiety. After a few days the two men appeared to drop into their
accustomed relation and routine, meeting in the morning and at dinner;
but as John picked up the threads of his acquaintance he usually went
out after dinner, and even when he did not his father went early to his
own apartment.
From John's childhood he had been much of the time away from home, and
there had never, partly from that circumstance and partly from the older
man's natural and habitual reserve, been very much intimacy between
them. The father did not give his own confidence, and, while always kind
and sympathetic when appealed to, did not ask his son's; and, loving his
father well and loyally, and trusting him implicitly, it did not occur
to John to feel that there was anything wanting in the relation. It was
as it had always been. He was accustomed to accept what his father did
or said without question, and, as is very often the case, had always
regarded him as an old man. He had never felt that they could be in the
same equation. In truth, save for their mutual affection, they had
little in common; and if, as may have been the case, his father had any
cravings for a closer and more intimate relation, he made no sign,
acquiescing in his son's actions as the son did in his, without question
or suggestion. They did not know each other, and such cases are not
rare, more is the pity.
But as time went on even John's unwatchful eye could not fail to notice
that all was not well with his father. Haggard lines were multiplying in
the quiet face, and the silence at the dinner table was often unbroken
except by John's unfruitful efforts to keep some sort of a conversation
in motion. More and more frequently it occurred that his father would
retire to his own room immediately after dinner was over, and the food
on his plate would be almost untouched, while he took more wine than had
ever been his habit. John, retiring late, would often hear him stirring
uneasily in his room, and it would be plain in the morning that he had
spent a wakeful, if not a sleepless, night. Once or twice on such a
morning John had suggested to his father that he should not go down to
the office, and the suggestion had been met with so irritable a negative
as to excite his wonder.
* * * * *
It was a day in the latter part of March. The winter had been unusually
severe, and lingered into spring with a heart-sickening tenacity,
occasional hints of clemency and promise being followed by recurrences
which were as irritating as a personal affront.
John had held to his work in the office, if not with positive
enthusiasm, at least with industry, and thought that he had made some
progress. On the day in question the managing clerk commented briefly
but favorably on something of his which was satisfactory, and, such
experiences being rare, he was conscious of a feeling of mild elation.
He was also cherishing the anticipation of a call at Sixty-ninth Street,
where, for reasons unnecessary to recount, he had not been for a week.
At dinner that night his father seemed more inclined than for a long
time to keep up a conversation which, though of no special import, was
cheerful in comparison with the silence which had grown to be almost the
rule, and the two men sat for a while over the coffee and cigars.
Presently, however, the elder rose from the table, saying pleasantly, "I
suppose you are going out to-night."
"Not if you'd like me to stay in," was the reply. "I have no definite
engagement."
"Oh, no," said Mr. Lenox, "not at all, not at all," and as he passed his
son on the way out of the room he put out his hand and taking John's,
said, "Good night."
As John stood for a moment rather taken aback, he heard his father mount
the stairs to his room. He was puzzled by the unexpected and unusual
occurrence, but finally concluded that his father, realizing how
taciturn they had become of late, wished to resume their former status,
and this view was confirmed to his mind by the fact that they had been
more companionable than usual that evening, albeit that nothing of any
special significance had been said.
As has been stated, a longer interval than usual had elapsed since
John's last visit to Sixty-ninth Street, a fact which had been commented
on by Mr. Carling, but not mentioned between the ladies. When he found
himself at that hospitable house on that evening, he was greeted by Miss
Blake alone.
"Julius did not come down to-night, and my sister is with him," she
said, "so you will have to put up with my society--unless you'd like me
to send up for Alice. Julius is strictly _en retraite_, I should say."
"Don't disturb her, I beg," protested John, laughing, and wondering a
bit at the touch of coquetry in her speech, something unprecedented in
his experience of her, "if you are willing to put up with my society. I
hope Mr. Carling is not ill?"
They seated themselves as she replied: "No, nothing serious, I should
say. A bit of a cold, I fancy; and for a fortnight he has been more
nervous than usual. The changes in the weather have been so great and so
abrupt that they have worn upon his nerves. He is getting very uneasy
again. Now, after spending the winter, and when spring is almost at
hand, I believe that if he could make up his mind where to go he would
be for setting off to-morrow."
"Really?" said John, in a tone of dismay.
"Quite so," she replied with a nod.
"But," he objected, "it seems too late or too early. Spring may drop in
upon us any day. Isn't this something very recent?"
"It has been developing for a week or ten days," she answered, "and
symptoms have indicated a crisis for some time. In fact," she added,
with a little vexed laugh, "we have talked of nothing for a week but the
advantages and disadvantages of Florida, California, North Carolina,
South Carolina, and Virginia at large; besides St. Augustine, Monterey,
Santa Barbara, Aiken, Asheville, Hot Springs, Old Point Comfort,
Bermuda, and I don't know how many other places, not forgetting Atlantic
City and Lakewood, and only not Barbadoes and the Sandwich Islands
because nobody happened to think of them. Julius," remarked Miss Blake,
"would have given a forenoon to the discussion of the two latter places
as readily as to any of the others."
"Can't you talk him along into warm weather?" suggested John, with
rather a mirthless laugh. "Don't you think that if the weather were to
change for good, as it's likely to do almost any time now, he might put
off going till the usual summer flitting?"
"The change in his mind will have to come pretty soon if I am to retain
my mental faculties," she declared. "He might possibly, but I am afraid
not," she said, shaking her head. "He has the idea fixed in his mind,
and considerations of the weather here, while they got him started, are
not now so much the question. He has the moving fever, and I am afraid
it will have to run its course. I think," she said, after a moment,
"that if I were to formulate a special anathema, it would be, 'May
traveling seize you!'"
"Or restlessness," suggested John.
"Yes," she said, "that's more accurate, perhaps, but it doesn't sound
quite so smart. Julius is in that state of mind when the only place that
seems desirable is somewhere else."
"Of course you will have to go," said John mournfully.
"Oh, yes," she replied, with an air of compulsory resignation. "I shall
not only have to go, of course, but I shall probably have to decide
where in order to save my mind. But it will certainly be somewhere, so I
might as well be packing my trunks."
"And you will be away indefinitely, I suppose?"
"Yes, I imagine so."
"Dear me!" John ejaculated in a dismal tone.
They were sitting as described on a former occasion, and the young woman
was engaged upon the second (perhaps the third, or even the fourth) of
the set of doilies to which she had committed herself. She took some
stitches with a composed air, without responding to her companion's
exclamation.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said presently, leaning forward with his elbows
on his knees, his hands hanging in an attitude of unmistakable
dejection, and staring fixedly into the fire.
"I am very sorry myself," she said, bending her head a little closer
over her work. "I think I like being in New York in the spring better
than at any other time; and I don't at all fancy the idea of living in
my trunks again for an indefinite period."
"I shall miss you horribly," he said, turning his face toward her.
Her eyes opened with a lift of the brows, but whether the surprise so
indicated was quite genuine is a matter for conjecture.
"Yes," he declared desperately, "I shall, indeed."
"I should fancy you must have plenty of other friends," she said,
flushing a little, "and I have wondered sometimes whether Julius's
demands upon you were not more confident than warrantable, and whether
you wouldn't often rather have gone elsewhere than to come here to play
cards with him." She actually said this as if she meant it.
"Do you suppose--" he exclaimed, and checked himself. "No," he said, "I
have come because--well, I've been only too glad to come, and--I suppose
it has got to be a habit," he added, rather lamely. "You see, I've never
known any people in the way I have known you. It has seemed to me more
like home life than anything I've ever known. There has never been any
one but my father and I, and you can have no idea what it has been to me
to be allowed to come here as I have, and--oh, you must know--" He
hesitated, and instantly she advanced her point.
Her face was rather white, and the hand which lay upon the work in her
lap trembled a little, while she clasped the arm of the chair with the
other; but she broke in upon his hesitation with an even voice:
"It has been very pleasant for us all, I'm sure," she said, "and,
frankly, I'm sorry that it must be interrupted for a while, but that is
about all there is of it, isn't it? We shall probably be back not later
than October, I should say, and then you can renew your contests with
Julius and your controversies with me."
Her tone and what she said recalled to him their last night on board the
ship, but there was no relenting on this occasion. He realized that for
a moment he had been on the verge of telling the girl that he loved her,
and he realized, too, that she had divined his impulse and prevented the
disclosure; but he registered a vow that he would know before he saw her
again whether he might consistently tell her his love, and win or lose
upon the touch.
Miss Blake made several inaccurate efforts to introduce her needle at
the exact point desired, and when that endeavor was accomplished broke
the silence by saying, "Speaking of 'October,' have you read the novel?
I think it is charming."
"Yes," said John, with his vow in his mind, but not sorry for the
diversion, "and I enjoyed it very much. I thought it was immensely
clever, but I confess that I didn't quite sympathize with the love
affairs of a hero who was past forty, and I must also confess that I
thought the girl was, well--to put it in plain English--a fool."
Mary laughed, with a little quaver in her voice. "Do you know," she
said, "that sometimes it seems to me that I am older than you are?"
"I know you're awfully wise," said John with a laugh, and from that
their talk drifted off into the safer channels of their usual
intercourse until he rose to say good night.
"Of course, we shall see you again before we go," she said as she gave
him her hand.
"Oh," he declared, "I intend regularly to haunt the place."