The brilliant receptions and displays that _Mere_ and the children had
planned were abandoned without regret. All minor regrets were lost in
the one big regret for the poor old, worn-out man up-stairs.
There was a dignity about Pop now. The lowliest peasant takes on majesty
when he is battling for his life and his home.
There was dismay in all the hearts now--dismay at the things they had
said and the thoughts and sneers; dismay at the future without this
shabby but unfailing provider.
The proofs of the family photograph lay scattered about the living-room.
Pop was not there. They had smiled about it before. Now it looked
ominous! What would become of this family if Pop were not there?
The house was filled with a thick sense of hush like a heavy fog; but
thoughts seemed to be all the louder in the silence--jumbled thoughts of
selfish alarm; filial terror; remorse; tenderness; mutual rebuke; dread
of death, of the future, of the past.
The day nurse and the night nurse were in command of the house. The only
events were the arrivals of the doctor, his long stops, his whispered
conferences with the nurses, and the unsatisfactory, evasive answers he
gave as the family ambushed him at the foot of the stairs on his way
out.
Meanwhile they could not help Pop in his long wrestle. They had drained
his strength and bruised his heart while he had his power, and now that
he needed their help and their youth they could not lend him anything;
they could not pay a single instalment on the mortgages they had
incurred.
They could only stand at the door now and then and look in at him. They
could not beat off one of the invisible vultures of fever and pain that
hovered over him, swooped, and tore him.
They could not even get word to him--not a message of love or of
repentance or of hope. His brain was in a turmoil of its own. His white
lips were muttering delirious nonsense; his soul was fluttering from
scene to scene and year to year, like a restless dragon-fly. He was
young; he was old; he was married; he was a bachelor; he was at home;
he was in his store; he was pondering campaigns of business, slicing
pennies or making daring purchases; he was retrenching; he was
advertising; but he was afraid always that he might sink in the bog of
competition with rival merchants, with creditors, debtors, bankers, with
his wife, his children, his neighbors, his ideals, his business
axioms----
"Ain't the moon pirty to-night, honey! Gee! I'm scared of that preacher!
What do I say when he says, 'Do you take this woman for your'--The
pay-roll? I can't meet it Saturday. How am I going to meet the pay-roll?
I don't see how we can sell those goods any cheaper, but we got to get
rid of 'em. My premium! My premium! I haven't paid my premium! What'll
become of the children? Three cents a yard--it's robbery! Eight cents a
yard--that's givin' it away! Don't misunderstand me, Sally. It's my way
of making love. I can't say pirty things like some folks can, but I can
think 'em. My premium--the pay-roll--so many children! Couldn't they do
without that? I ain't a millionaire, you know. Every time I begin to get
ahead a little seems like one of the children gets sick or in
trouble--the pay-roll! Three cents a yard--the new invoice--I can't buy
myself a noo soot. The doctor's bills! I ain't complaining of 'em; but
I've got to pay 'em! Let me stay home--I'd rather. I've had a hard day.
My premium! Don't put false notions in their heads! The pay-roll! Don't
scold me, honey! I got feelings, too. You haven't said a word of love
to me in years! I'll raise the money somehow. I know I'm close; but
somebody's got to be--the pay-roll--so many people depending on me. So
many mouths to feed--the children--all the clerks--the delivery-wagon
drivers--the advertising bills--the pay-roll--the children! I ain't as
young as I was--honey, don't scold me!"
The ceaseless babbling grew intolerable. Then it ceased; and the stupor
that succeeded was worse, for it meant exhaustion. The doctor grew more
grave. He ceased to talk of hope. He looked ashamed. He tried to throw
the blame from himself.
And one dreadful day he called the family together in the living-room.
Once more they were all there--all those expensively shod feet; those
well-clothed, well-fed bodies. In the chair where Pop had slumped the
doctor sat upright. He was saying:
"Of course there's always hope. While there's life there's always hope.
The fever is pretty well gone, but so is the patient. The crisis left
him drained. You see he has lived this American business man's life--no
exercise, no vacations, no change. The worst of it is that he seems to
have given up the fight. You know we doctors can only stand guard
outside. The patient has to fight it out inside himself. It's a very
serious sign when the sick man loses interest in the battle. Mr. Grout
does not rally. His powerful mind has given up."
In spite of themselves there was a general lifting of the brows of
surprise at the allusion to Pop's poor little footling brain as a
powerful mind. Perhaps the doctor saw it. He said:
"For it was a powerful mind! Mr. Grout has carried that store of his
from a little shop to a big institution; he has kept it afloat in a dull
town through hard times. He has kept his credit good and he has given
his family wonderful advantages. Look where he has placed you all! He
was a great man."
When the doctor had gone they began to understand that the town had
looked upon Pop as a giant of industry, a prodigal of vicarious
extravagance. They began to feel more keenly still how good a man he
was. While they were flourishing like orchids in the sun and air, he had
grubbed in the earth, sinking roots everywhere in search of moisture and
of sustenance. Through him, things that were lowly and ugly and cheap
were gathered and transformed and sent aloft as sap to make flowers of
and color them and give them velvet petals and exquisite perfume.
They gathered silently in his room to watch him. He was white and still,
hardly breathing, already the overdue chattel of the grave.
They talked of him in whispers, for he did not answer when they praised
him. He did not move when they caressed him. He was very far away and
drifting farther.
They spoke of how much they missed him, of how perfect a father he had
been, competing with one another in regrets and in praise. Back of all
this belated tribute there was a silent dismay they did not give voice
to--the keen, immediately personal reasons for regret.
"What will become of us?" they were thinking, each in his or her own
terrified soul.
"I can't go back to school!"
"This means no college for me!"
"I'll have to stay in this awful town the rest of my life!"
"I can't go to San Francisco! The greatest honor of my life is taken
from me just as I grasped it."
"I had a commission to paint the portrait of an ambassador at
Washington--it would have been the making of me! It meant a lot of
money, too. I came home to ask Pop to stake me to money enough to live
on until it was finished."
"My business will go to smash! I'll be saddled with debts for the rest
of my life. If I could have hung on a little longer I'd have reached the
shore; but the bank wouldn't lend me a cent. Nobody would. I came home
to ask Pop to raise me some cash. I counted on him. He never failed me
before."
"What will become of us all?"
There was a stir on the pillow. The still head began to rock, the throat
to swell, the lips to twitch.
_Mere_ ran to the bedside and knelt by it, laying her hand on the
forehead. A miracle had been wrought in the very texture of his brow.
He was whispering something. She put her ear to his lips.
"Yes, honey. What is it? I'm here."
She caught the faint rustling of words. It was as if his hovering soul
had been eavesdropping on their thoughts. Perhaps it was merely that he
had learned so well in all these years just what each of them would be
thinking. For he murmured:
"I've been figuring out--how much the--funeral will cost--you know
they're awful expensive--funerals are--of course I wouldn't want
anything fancy--but--well--besides--and I've been thinking the children
have got to have so many things--I can't afford to--be away from the
store any longer. I ain't got time to die! I've had vacation enough!
Where's my clothes at?"
They held him back. But not for long. He was the most irritatingly
impatient of convalescents. In due course of time the family was
redistributed about the face of the earth. Ethelwolf was at preparatory
school; Beatrice and Consuelo were acquiring and lending luster at
Wellesley and Vassar; Gerald was painting a portrait at Washington; and
J. Pennock was like a returned Napoleon in Wall Street.
Pop was at his desk in the store. All his employees had gone home. He
was fretfully twiddling a telegram from San Francisco: