THE RETURN
The Dead Man came home.
The old collie, lying stretched in the deep porch, safe from the storm,
knew him. As the Dead Man came up the walk between the trim beds of
rain-soaked flowers, the old dog crawled rheumatically to its feet, the
bleared eyes brightening, the feathered tail awag in joyous greeting to
the loved master who had been so long and so unaccountably absent.
Peter Grimm laid a hand caressingly on his old pet's head; then passed
into his former home.
And so, at Frederik's frightened demand, "Who came into the room?" the
Dead Man stood among his own again. Before him was the nephew he had
loved. Nearby were the husband and wife whose follies and harmless
affectations he had forgiven with a laugh of amusement, for the sake of
their goodness and for the devotion they bore himself. Lounging in the
chair that had been his own was the lawyer who had been his dear friend
and adviser. The friends he had cared for, the nephew on whom his every
hope had been set.
With a wistful half-smile, Peter Grimm surveyed the group.
And, as Marta brought in one lighted lamp and then bustled about
lighting another, he stood in clear view of them all. Clad in the same
old-fashioned garb with which they were so familiar, he was unchanged,
save that all age and all care lines were wiped from his face.
He was not a wraith, no grisly spectre, no half-nebulous Shape. He was
Peter Grimm, rugged, homespun, the man whose iron individuality had
undergone and could undergo no change.
He stood there in the lamplight, plainly visible--to such as had eyes to
see him.
The dog, with that sense which God gives to all animals and withholds
from all humans, had had no more difficulty in recognising him than when
Peter Grimm had walked the earth in the flesh.
The faculty which makes a sleeping dog awake, raise its head, wag its
tail and follow with its eyes the movements of some invisible form that
moves from place to place in a room,--which makes a flock of chickens
scatter squawking and fluttering when no human being can discern cause
for their flight--which makes a horse shy violently when travelling a
patch of road, apparently barren of anything to alarm him,--which makes
a cat suddenly arch its back and spit and strike at the Unseen, or else
rub purringly against an invisible hand--this faculty made Peter Grimm
very real to his blear-eyed, asthmatic old collie.
But the inmates of the room, being but human, had seen and heard
nothing. Frederik, it is true, being in a constant state of nervous
tension that rendered his senses less dense and earthy than usual, had
fancied he heard--or felt--some one enter the room. But at the
disclaimers of the rest, the notion vanished as such notions do. And the
warm flood of lamplight dispelled whatever of the psychic may have
brooded over the little group, bringing back their comfortable
materialism with a rush.
Wherefore, in his old home and among his own, Peter Grimm stood unseen;
that deprecatory half-smile on his square, ageless face.
The lighting of the lamps and Marta's noisy return to her own culinary
domain served as signals to break up the group about the desk. Mr.
Batholommey crossed the room and took his hat and coat from the rack,
passing within a hand's-breadth of the smiling, expectant Peter Grimm as
he did so.
"Well, Frederik," said the rector doubtfully by way of farewell, "I hope
that you'll follow your uncle's example at least as far as our parish
poor are concerned,--and keep on with _some_ of his charities."
Mrs. Batholommey, dutifully following her husband to the rack and
helping him on with his coat, turned to hear Frederik answer the
question she and the rector had so often and so anxiously discussed
during the past ten days. The heir did his best to settle their every
doubt in the fewest possible words.
"I may as well tell you now, as any time," said he, "that you needn't
look to me for any charitable graft at all. Your parish poor will have
to begin hustling for a living now. I don't intend to waste good money
in feeding what you Americans call 'a bunch of panhandlers.'"
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Batholommey, inexpressibly disappointed.
The smile died on Peter Grimm's face and the light of happy expectancy
was gone from his eyes.
"I am very sorry, Frederik," said the rector stiffly, "not only that
you can speak so of God's poor, but that you are not willing to continue
your uncle's splendid philanthropies. It--it doesn't seem possible that
he never told you how dear his charities were to him. Well," he broke
off with a shrug, and glancing at his watch, "I've got thirty minutes to
make a call before tea time."
"I must be toddling, too," said Colonel Lawton. "Are you going my way,
Mr. Batholommey? It's queer, Frederik," he added, bidding his host
good-bye, "it's queer--deucedly queer how things turn out. There's one
thing certain: the old gentleman should have made a will. But it's too
late now for us to grumble about that. By the way, what are you going to
do with all his relics and family heirlooms, Frederik? Have you thought
of it? I supposed, of course, you'd keep everything just as he left it.
But from the way you've talked this afternoon, I wonder----"
"Heirlooms? Relics?" queried Frederik, puzzled. "Oh--you mean all this
junk?" with a comprehensive hand wave that included Dutch clock, Dutch
warming pans, Dutch bric-a-brac, and Dutch furniture. "This junk all
over the house? Oh, I'll have it carted to the nearest ash heap. It
isn't worth a red cent of any one's money."
Peter Grimm strode forward, his lips parted in quick protest. But
Colonel Lawton was already answering, with an appraising look about the
room:
"I don't know about that, Frederik. It may not be as worthless as you
seem to think. Better let me send for a dealer to sort it over after
you've gone on your honeymoon. I've heard that some people are fools
enough to pay a lot of good money for this sort of antique trash."
"Not a bad idea," approved Frederik. "See what you can do about it,
won't you? I want it cleared out. And if I can get rid of it and do it
at a profit, too, why, all the better."
"If I could get that old clock," put in Mrs. Batholommey, the light of
the bargain hunt shining in her large face, "I might consent to take it
off your hands. Of course it isn't really worth anything. But----"
"I've an idea," replied Frederik, with charming dearth of civility,
"that it's worth a lot more than you'd pay me for it."
"I hope," she snapped angrily as she glared at Frederik, "that your poor
dear uncle is where he can see his mistake now!"
"I am where I can see several," said the Dead Man to ears that could not
hear.
"Do you know," pursued Mrs. Batholommey, whose depths of professional
sweetness had been turned faintly sub-acid by the events of the day--"do
you know, Frederik, what I would like to say to your uncle if I could
just once stand face to face with him, this very minute?"
"Yes," smiled Peter Grimm sadly, as he looked deep into her eyes, "I
know."
"I should say to him----" began Mrs. Batholommey.
Then she checked herself as at some impulse she herself did not
understand, and finished somewhat lamely:
"No, I wouldn't say it, either. He's dead. And we're told we must speak
no ill of the dead. Though, for my part, I never could see what right we
gain to immunity just by dying. And--oh, by the way, Henry," she broke
off as her husband and the lawyer passed out of the vestibule, "Kathrien
expects you back for supper. Don't forget, will you, dear? Good-night,
Colonel Lawton."
She followed them, closed the front door behind them, and bustled off to
look after the arrangements for supper.
Frederik yawned, lighted a cigarette, and sauntered out into the office,
Peter Grimm watching him with infinitely sad reproach in his luminous
eyes.
Then, left alone in the room he had loved, the Dead Man looked about him
at the dear old bits of furniture and ornaments that had meant so much
to him and whose fate he had just heard weighed between auctioneer's
hammer and rubbish heap.
He moved across to the rack, as if by lifelong instinct, and hung his
antique hat on its accustomed peg. The simple, everyday action brought
him so vividly close to older days that, as Marta pottered in with
another newly filled lamp, he accosted her.
"Marta!" he called, as she gave no sign of recognition to his kindly nod
and smile.
She set down the lamp in its place on the piano, crossed to the
pulley-weight clock, and noisily wound it. As the old woman started back
toward her kitchen, the Dead Man put himself once more in her way.
"Marta!" said he, then more loudly and peremptorily, "_Marta!_"
She passed within an inch of his outstretched hand and entered the
kitchen, shutting the door behind her. Peter Grimm stared blankly after
his housekeeper.
"I seem to be a stranger in my own house," he murmured. "My friends pass
me by. Their gross eyes cannot see me. Their gross ears will not hear
me. But--Lad knew me. He came to meet me, wagging his tail just as he
used to. I--I remember I've more than once noticed his going to meet
other people like that. People _I_ couldn't see in those days."
Frederik lounged back from the office, cigarette in mouth. He took out
his watch, compared it with the clock on the wall, slipped it back into
his pocket, and was crossing to the outer door when the telephone bell
on the desk jangled.
Frederik laid down his cigarette, seated himself at the desk, and picked
up the receiver.
"Hello!" he called.
At the reply, he glanced around hastily, to make sure he was not likely
to be overheard. Then, sinking his voice almost to a whisper and
speaking with a nervous, almost guilty eagerness, he answered:
"Yes. Yes. This is Mr. Grimm. Mr. Frederik Grimm. I've been waiting all
day to hear from you, Mr. Hicks. How are you? Wait one moment, please."
He rose, crossed the room, closed the door into the dining-room,--the
only door that had been open,--glanced up into the bedroom gallery to
make certain it was empty, then hurried back to the telephone.
"Yes," said he. "Go ahead."
There was a brief pause while he listened. Then he replied, in a tone of
laboured indifference:
"Oh, no. You're quite mistaken. I am not 'eager to sell.' Not at all. As
a matter of fact," he continued unctuously, "I much prefer to carry out
my dear uncle's wishes and keep the business in the family. You must
surely remember how determined he was that it should be kept
on.--What?--'If I could get my price,' eh? That's different, of course.
It puts a new aspect on the whole affair.--What? Oh, well, an offer such
as that deserves careful thought. I could not decline it offhand.--No, I
admit it is very tempting.--'Talk it over?' Certainly."
He paused, then went on in answer to a query from the other end of the
wire:
"To-morrow? No, I'm afraid not. You see, I'm going to be married
to-morrow. A man does not want to be bothered with business deals on his
wedding day.--No, the next day won't do, either, I'm afraid. You see, we
are sailing directly for Europe. Thank you. Yes, I deserve all the
congratulations you can offer me.--What?--Very well. This evening, then.
That will suit me perfectly. You're in New York, I suppose? What time
will it be convenient to you to get to Grimm Manor?--What?--Yes, that's
all right. No. Not here at the house. I'll meet you at the hotel. The
tavern.--Yes, I'll be there promptly.--What?"
He listened a moment, then laughed in evident, if subdued, amusement.
"So the dear old gentleman used to tell you his plans never failed, did
he?" he questioned. "Yes, I've heard the same boast from him hundreds of
times. That's one reason why I want the deal kept quiet till it's
settled. So I asked you to meet me at the tavern instead of here at the
house. I don't want it thought by other people that I'd run counter to
his plans in any way. God rest his soul! Hey? 'What would he say if he
knew?' I hate to think. He could express himself very forcibly when his
dear, stubborn old will was crossed. You may remember that. Oh, well,
it's _life_. Everything must change."
There was a roll of thunder. At the same instant the windows flared
pink-white with lightning. A flash of electricity ran purring and
crackling along the telephone itself.
Frederik, with a sharp cry of surprise, dropped the instrument, and
squeezed his electrically shocked arm. Then gingerly he picked up the
telephone, replaced the receiver, and turned away toward the window
seat.
Peter Grimm stood eyeing the telephone as if the man who had so lately
been at the other end of the wire were directly in front of him.
"You don't know it, Hicks," said the Dead Man quietly, "but you will
never carry this plan of yours through. We are going to meet very soon,
you and I."
As if in response to his strange prophecy, the telephone jangled once
more. Frederik returned to the desk and put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello!" he called. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Hicks? No, they didn't cut us
off. I thought you were through.--What?--A little louder, please. I
can't hear you very well.--What?--You're feeling ill? Oh, I'm
sorry.--What?--Oh, yes, it will do just as well to send your lawyer
instead, if you find you're too sick to make the journey. Your lawyer
will be empowered to attend to everything in your name, I
suppose?--Good.--Then we can close the deal to-night. At the hotel and
at the same time. All right. What did you say his name was?--Shelp?--All
right. Good-bye. I hope you'll feel much better in the morning, Mr.
Hicks."
He relighted his cigarette, humming a little tune under his breath as he
walked from the desk. His narrow face was very content.
"And that's the boy I loved and trusted!" said Peter Grimm, half aloud,
watching Frederik take his hat and umbrella from the rack and leave the
house. "I wonder if I am to unearth many more of my mistakes. I come
upon a new one at every turn."
His wandering gaze rested on the door of Kathrien's room, in the gallery
above. His lips parted in the old whimsical smile. Lifting his voice, he
gave the odd call that had for years been a signal to Kathrien of his
presence in the house and his desire to see her.
"_Ou-oo!_" rang out the familiar cry.
And, before its echoes could die away, Kathrien was out of her room and
at the stairhead. She stood there an instant, dazed, wondering, like
some one half-awakened from heavy sleep.
Looking down into the room below, she slowly descended the stairs.
"I thought some one called me," she said.
And though she spoke the words in her own brain and not from the lips,
Peter Grimm heard and answered her.
"You did," said he. "I called you."
Filled with a sense that she was not alone, yet seeing and hearing no
one, she came down into the seemingly vacant room. And, still without
words, she said:
"I thought I heard a voice like--like----"
"Yes," answered the Dead Man again, "you wanted me, little girl. That's
why I have come. There, there!" he soothed, as she stood with troubled
face trying to formulate and understand the strange sensation that had
suddenly taken possession of her. "Don't worry, Katje. It'll come out
all right. We'll arrange things very differently. I've come back to----"
She moved away, unhearing. She passed unseeing from the loving
outstretched arms.
"Katje!" he called tenderly.
But she did not turn at the loving appeal in his soundless voice.
"Oh, Katje! Katje!" he pleaded, following her. "Can't I make my presence
known to you? Oh, _don't_ cry!"
For the tears had welled up, unbidden, in her eyes.
And this time his words, in a vague, roundabout way, seemed to reach her
understanding.
"Oh, well," she sighed, drying her eyes. "Crying doesn't help."
"Ah!" exclaimed Peter Grimm eagerly. "Good! _Good!_ She hears me! Smile,
little girl! _Smile_, I say."
A trembling ghost of a smile played about her sad lips.
"That's right!" he encouraged. "Smile! _Smile!_ You haven't smiled
before since I--since I found there was a place a million times happier
and lovelier and more wonderful than this world that I left. Listen,
little girl! Listen, Katje, and try to understand me. _There are no
dead._ We never _really_ die. We couldn't if we tried to. See the
gardens out there. Look!"
As if in response to his words, Kathrien's half-smiling face was turned
toward the flowering garden beds that stretched away on every hand,
just outside the window.
"See the gardens," he went on, glad at his own seeming success in
catching and holding her attention. "They die. But they come back all
the better for it. All the fresher and younger and more beautiful. What
people call death is nothing more than a nap. We wake from it
freshened--rested--made over again. It's a wonderful sleep that people
fall into, old and slow and tired out. And they spring up from it like
happy children tumbling out of bed,--ready to frolic through another
world. It is as foolish and wrong to mourn for people who fall into that
dear sleep as to mourn for the children when they close their eyes at
the end of the day. _There is no death._ There are no dead. It is all
rest and wonder and beauty and perfect bliss. So stop being sad for me,
my own little girl!
"There!" he cried in triumph, as the smile deepened on her pale face.
"You're happier already! And you begin to understand me. You can hear
what I am saying. Because no sin, no grossness has ever shut your ears
to all but earthly sounds. Now listen to me carefully: Katje, I want you
to break that silly, wicked promise I wheedled you into making. I want
you to break it. You mustn't ruin your life--and James's--by marrying
Frederik. It would mean misery for every one. Most of all for _you_,
little girl. That's why I came here. To undo the harm that my blindness
and obstinacy brought about. When that is settled I can take my journey
back in peace. I can't go until you break that promise. And--and oh, I
_long_ to go, Katje! _Katje!_" his voice rising in yearning entreaty, as
the smile faded from her face and her big eyes once more filled. "Isn't
my message _any_ clearer to you?"
"Oh," sighed Kathrien, half aloud. "I'm so alone--so _alone_!"
"Alone?" he echoed. "You are not alone, Katje. I'm here. Can't you feel
my presence? And then there's your mother. The mother you were too
little to remember. I have met her, Katje. I have met your mother. She
knew me at once. After all those years. 'You are Peter Grimm!' she said.
I told her you had a happy home here. And she said she knew that. Then I
told her about the future I had arranged, and the plans I'd made for you
and Frederik. And she said: 'Peter Grimm, you have overlooked the most
important thing in the world:--_Love!_ Give her the right to the choice
of her lover. It is her right.' Then it came over me all at once that I
had made a terrible mistake. That I had been presumptuous and had tried
to play Providence and shape the future of another. At that moment,
Katje, you called to me. And I came back to show you the way."
He moved nearer to her.
"Your mother," he whispered, bending over the girl as she sank into a
chair by the fire, her eyes dreaming and full of a new joy, "your mother
told me to lay my hand on your dear head and give you her blessing. And
she said I must tell you she will be with you,--close--_close_ to
you--in heart and thought, until the day shall come when she can hold
you in her arms. You and your loved husband."
Kathrien's dreamy gaze strayed from the fire-flicker on the hearth to
the office door, on whose farther side she knew Hartmann was at work.
"Yes," smiled Peter Grimm, noting her glance. "You and James. And the
message ended in this kiss."
He touched his lips to her forehead. And, at the unfelt contact, the
light again sprang into her eyes.
"Can't you see I'm trying to help you, Katje?" he begged. "Can't you
even hope? Come, come! _Hope!_ Why, anybody can hope. It is the very
easiest and most natural thing on earth. Especially when one is
young--as you and I are. What _is_ Youth but perpetual Hope?"
The light in her eyes deepened. Her look strayed again to the closed
office door. She rose and took a step toward it, then turned, passed her
hand caressingly over the flowers on the desk, and moved over to the
piano.
She seated herself on the music stool and, for the first time in ten
endless days, let her fingers stray over the keys. In a hushed little
voice she began to sing:
"The bird so free in the heavens
Is but the slave of the nest.
For all things must toil as God wills it,
Must laugh and toil and rest.
The rose must bloom in the garden,
The bee must gather its store.
The cat must watch the mousehole,
And the dog must guard the door."
"Oh!" she broke off in sudden self-reproach. "How _can_ I sit here
singing,--at a time like this!"
"Sing!" urged the Dead Man. "Why not? Why not at a time like this as
well as at any other time? Is it because you are afraid you are not
being sad enough at losing me? You _haven't_ lost me. Nothing is ever
lost. The old uncle you loved doesn't sleep out in the churchyard dust.
That is only a dream. He is _here_--alive! More alive than ever he was.
A thousandfold more alive. All his age and weaknesses and faults are
gone. Youth is glowing in his heart. He is bathed in it. It radiates
from him. Eternal Youth that no one still on earth can know. Oh, little
girl of mine, if only I could tell you what is ahead of you! It's the
wonderful secret of the Universe. And you _won't_ hear me? You won't
understand?"
Still smiling, but without turning toward the loving, eager Spirit close
beside her, Kathrien was looking out into the fragrant June dusk. Peter
Grimm shrugged his shoulders.
"I must try some other way of making you hear," said he.
He looked up at the closed door of Willem's sick room for a moment, then
nodded.
"Here comes some one," he announced, with the old whimsical twist of his
lips, "who will know all about it. The secrets of the other world are as
plain as day to him. He has told me so himself."