THE family doctor knew all about St. Peter. It was summer, moreover, and
he had plenty of time. He devoted several mornings to the Professor and
made tests of the most searching kind. In the end he of course told St.
Peter there was nothing the matter with him.
“What made you come to me, any discomfort or pain?”
“None. I simply feel tired all the time.”
Dr. Dudley shrugged. “So do I! Sleep well?”
“Almost too much.”
“Eat well?”
“In every sense of the word, well. I am my own chef.”
“Always a _gourmet_, and never anything wrong with your digestive tract!
I wish you’d ask me to dine with you some night. Any of that sherry
left?”
“A little. I use it plentifully.”
“I’ll bet you do! But why did you think there was something wrong with
you? Low in your mind?”
“No, merely low in energy. Enjoy doing nothing. I came to you from a
sense of duty.”
“How about travel?”
“I shrink from the thought of it. As I tell you, I enjoy doing nothing.”
“Then do it! There’s nothing the matter with you. Follow your
inclination.”
St. Peter went home well satisfied. He did not mention to Dr. Dudley the
real reason for his asking for a medical examination. One doesn’t
mention such things. The feeling that he was near the conclusion of his
life was an instinctive conviction, such as we have when we waken in the
dark and know at once that it is near morning; or when we are walking
across the country and suddenly know that we are near the sea.
Letters came every week from France. Lillian and Louie alternated, so
that one or the other got off a letter to him on every fast boat. Louie
told him that wherever they went, when they had an especially delightful
day, they bought him a present. At Trouville, for instance, they had
laid in dozens of the brilliant rubber casquettes he liked to wear when
he went swimming. At Aix-les-Bains they found a gorgeous dressing-gown
for him in a Chinese shop. St. Peter was happy in his mind about them
all. He was glad they were there, and that he was here. Their generous
letters, written when there were so many pleasant things to do,
certainly deserved more than one reading. He used to carry them out to
the lake to read them over again. After coming out of the water he would
lie on the sand, holding them in his hand, but somehow never taking his
eyes off the pine-trees, appliquéd against the blue water, and their
ripe yellow cones, dripping with gum and clustering on the pointed tips
like a mass of golden bees in swarming-time. Usually he carried his
letters home unread.
His family wrote constantly about their plans for next summer, when they
were going to take him over with them. Next summer? The Professor
wondered.... Sometimes he thought he would like to drive up in front
of Notre Dame, in Paris, again, and see it standing there like the Rock
of Ages, with the frail generations breaking about its base. He hadn’t
seen it since the war.
But if he went anywhere next summer, he thought it would be down into
Outland’s country, to watch the sunrise break on sculptured peaks and
impassable mountain passes--to look off at those long, rugged, untamed
vistas dear to the American heart. Dear to all hearts, probably--at
least, calling to all. Else why had his grandfather’s grandfather, who
had tramped so many miles across Europe into Russia with the Grande
Armée, come out to the Canadian wilderness to forget the chagrin of his
Emperor’s defeat?