Isabelle did not go to Vickers as she firmly intended to that summer. Lane
offered a stubborn if silent opposition to the idea of her joining her
brother,--"so long as that woman is with him." He could not understand
Isabelle's passionate longing for her brother, nor the fact that his
loyalty to his mistake endeared Vickers all the more to her. She divined
the ashes in her brother's heart, the waste in which he dwelt, and the fact
that he "had made a complete mess of life" did not subtract from her love.
After all, did the others, their respectable acquaintance, often make much
of living?
It was not John's opposition, however, that prevented the journey, but the
alarming weakness of the Colonel. In spite of his activity and his exercise
the old man had been growing perceptibly weaker, and his digestive trouble
had developed until the doctors hinted at cancer. To leave the Colonel now
and go to the son he had put out of his life would be mere brutality.
Vickers might come back, but Mrs. Price felt that this would cause the
Colonel more pain than pleasure.
During the spring Isabelle made many expeditions about the city in company
with her father, who gave as an excuse for penetrating all sorts of new
neighborhoods that he wished to look at his real estate, which was widely
scattered. But this was merely an excuse, as Isabelle easily perceived;
what he really cared about was to see the city itself, the building, the
evidences of growth, of thriving.
"When your mother and I came to live in the city," he would say, laying a
large white hand on his daughter's knee, "it was all swamp out this
way,--we used to bring Ezra with us in the early spring and pick
pussy-willows. Now look at it!" And what Isabelle saw, when she looked in
the direction that the old man waved his hand, was a row of ugly brick
apartment houses or little suburban cottages, or brick stores and
tenements. There was nothing in the scene, for her, to inspire enthusiasm,
and yet the Colonel would smile and gaze fondly out of those kindly blue
eyes at the acres of human hive. It was not pride in his shrewd foresight
in investing his money, so much as a generous sympathy for the growth of
the city, the forthputting of a strong organism.
"I bought this tract in eighty-two," he said, pointing to a stretch of
factories and grain elevators. "Had to borrow part of the money to do it.
Parrott thought I was a fool, but I knew the time would come when it would
be sold by the foot,--folks are born and must work and live," he mused. He
made the man drive the car slowly through the rutty street while he looked
keenly at the hands pouring from the mills, the elevators, the railroad
yards. "Too many of those Polaks," he commented, "but they are better than
niggers. It is a great country!"
In the old man's pride there was more than selfish satisfaction, more than
flamboyant patriotism over his "big" country; there was an almost pathetic
belief in the goodness of life, merely as life. These breeding millions, in
this teeming country, were working out their destiny,--on the whole a
better destiny than the world had yet seen. And the old man, who had lived
his life and fought vitally, felt deep in the inner recesses of his being
that all was good; the more chance for the human organism to be born and
work out its day, the better. In the eyes of the woman of the newer
generation this was a singular-pantheism,--incomprehensible. Unless one
were born under favorable conditions, what good was there in the struggle?
Mere life was not interesting.
They went, too, to see the site of the coming Exposition. The great trees
were being cut down and uprooted to give space for the vast buildings. The
Colonel lamented the loss of the trees. "Your mother and I used to come out
here Sundays in summer," he said regretfully. "It was a great way from town
then--there was only a steam road--and those oaks were grateful, after the
heat. I used to lie on the ground and your mother would read to me. She had
a very sweet voice, Isabelle!"
But he believed in the Exposition, even if the old trees must be sacrificed
for it. He had contributed largely to the fund, and had been made a
director, though the days of his leadership were over. "It is good for
people to see how strong they are," he said. "These fairs are our Olympic
games!"
* * * * *
At first he did not wish to leave the city, which was part of his bone and
flesh; but as the summer drew on and he was unable to endure the motor his
thoughts turned back to his Connecticut hills, to the old farm and the
woods and the fields. Something deeper than all was calling to him to
return to the land that was first in his blood. So they carried him--now a
bony simulacrum of his vigorous self--to the old house at Grafton. For a
few weeks he lay wrapped in rugs on the veranda, his eyes on Dog Mountain.
At first he liked to talk with the farm-hands, who slouched past the
veranda. But more and more his spirit withdrew even from this peaceful
scene of his activity, and at last he died, as one who has no more concern
about life....
To Isabelle, who had been with him constantly these last fading months,
there was much that remained for a long time inexplicable in her father's
attitude towards life. He seemed to regret nothing, not even the death of
his elder son, nor his estrangement from Vickers, and he had little of the
old man's pessimism. There were certain modern manifestations that she knew
he disliked; but he seemed to have a fine tolerance even for them, as being
of no special concern to him. He had lived his life, such as it was,
without swerving, without doubts or hesitations, which beset the younger
generation, and now that it was over he had neither regret nor desire to
grasp more.
When the Colonel's will was opened, it caused surprise not only in his
family, but in the city where he had lived. It was long talked about. In
the first place his estate was much larger than even those nearest him had
supposed; it mounted upwards from eight millions. The will apparently had
been most carefully considered, largely rewritten after the departure of
Vickers. His son was not mentioned in the document. Nor were there the
large bequests, at least outright, to charities that had been expected of
so public spirited a man. The will was a document in the trust field. To
sum it all up, it seemed as if the old man had little faith in the
immediate generation, even in his daughter and her successful husband. For
he left Isabelle only the farm at Grafton and a few hundred thousand
dollars. To be sure, after his wife's death the bulk of the estate would be
held in trust for her child, or children, should her marriage prove more
fruitful in the future. Failing heirs, he willed that the bulk of the
estate should go to certain specified charities,--an Old Man's Home, The
Home for Crippled Children, etc. And it was arranged that the business
should be continued under the direction of the trustees. The name of
Parrott and Price should still stand for another generation!
"A singular will!" Lane, who was one of the trustees, said to his wife.
Isabelle was more hurt than she cared to have known. She had always
supposed that some day she would be a rich woman in her own right. But it
was the silent comment, the mark of disapproval, that she read in the lines
of the will which hurt. The Colonel had never criticised, never chided her;
but she had felt at times that he did not like the kind of life she had
elected to lead latterly.
"He thought we were extravagant, probably," she replied to her husband.
"I can't see why,--we never went to him for help!"
She knew that was not exactly the reason,--extravagance. The old man did
not like the modern spirit--at least the spirit of so many of her
friends--of spending for themselves. The Colonel did not trust the present
generation; he preferred that his money should wait until possibly the
passing of the years had brought wisdom.
"A selfish will!" the public said.
PART THREE