She sat at her desk, looking over her notes on Æschylus, now and then
writing a few words on a large sheet of paper. Then she would stop and
look fixedly before her, trying to concentrate her thoughts. It was ten
o'clock, the two younger boys were in bed. But Jim was off somewhere.
And he had taken the black horse, Laurence's own horse, that the boys
were forbidden to touch--a big powerful brute, hard to control. Lately
Jim had often been out at night. She did not know where he went, and
he would not tell. He would say easily, "Oh, I just went for a ride,
there's nothing to do in this dead place." But she suspected that he
found something to do; he might be getting into bad ways. She thought
he smoked, in spite of her prohibition; certainly he showed a taste for
drink; there were other vices, too. Her lips were compressed bitterly
as she thought, such tendencies were inherited. Perhaps Jim couldn't
help himself....
The big house was silent as the tomb. On the desk burned a shaded lamp,
the rest of the room was in darkness. It was rather cold, the fires
had not been lighted yet. The house with its thick walls of brick was
almost always chilly unless the furnaces were going. She drew her black
wrap closer round her shoulders, and bent over her notes.
Then she heard the door-bell faintly sounding. After a moment there
was a knock and Anna came in, the middle-aged woman who waited on the
table and the door.
"Mrs. Carlin--there's somebody here that wants to see you. He asked for
Judge Carlin, and says he'll wait to see him."
"Wait? But he may not be home for days! Who is it?" asked Mary
impatiently.
"An old--an old gentleman. He didn't give his name. He says he'd like
to see you," said Anna neutrally.
"Where is he? What does he want?"
"He didn't say. He's in the hall."
Mary rose and went out, stately in the black mantle that wrapped her
from head to foot, its collar of black fur framing her face. The
stranger stood, holding his hat in his hand, contemplating the bronze
statue of Mercury. He was a small grey-haired man, in a shabby but neat
dark suit. Some client of Laurence's, she thought. She spoke to him.
"Good evening. Did you want to see Judge Carlin?"
He turned and looked at her. His thin smooth-shaven face showed a
rather shy, pleasant smile.
"Yes--I'm Laurence's father," he said, in a gentle laughing tone.
Mary stared at him.
"I don't wonder you're surprised.... I was passing through here,
and thought I'd like to see you all," the old man said, without the
slightest embarrassment. "But I hear Laurence isn't at home."
"No--but he may be--tomorrow, or almost any time," stammered Mary, at a
loss.
"Well, then, I'll come again. I may be in town a day or so."
"But--why, you must stay here, of course," protested Mary blankly.
"Oh, I couldn't think of discommoding you--"
"Discommoding? Why, of course not. Come right in. I'll get a room ready
for you at once."
"Please don't let me give any trouble," he pleaded, smiling. "I can
stay at the hotel quite well."
"Hotel? Of course not," she said, bewildered.
What a queer old man, to drop from the skies like this--and so
perfectly at his ease about it! Was he Laurence's father or an
impostor? Was it right to take him in? He did not look as if he
had money enough to stay at the hotel. Certainly she couldn't turn
Laurence's father out!
"Come in," she repeated with an effort, turning toward the library
doors, then stopping. "Wouldn't you like some supper?"
"No, thank you, I dined at the hotel."
"Is your baggage there? I'll send for it."
"No baggage. I haven't any," he said, with his whimsical smile. "I
travel light."
In consternation Mary led the way into the library. No baggage! He
must be a vagabond. To disappear for twenty-five years, and come back
like this, as if it were yesterday! It was certainly not a respectable
proceeding. He hadn't even an overcoat. Nothing but the worn felt hat,
which he had still carried in his hand as he followed her--as if he
were a casual visitor, come to stay half an hour....
She felt the chill of the big dimly-lit room, and went toward the
chimney-place. "There's a fire all ready here--"
"Let me light it," he said.
Nimbly he laid down his hat, knelt on the rug, and in a moment had
the fire going. The kindling blazed up, the dry wood caught. A more
cheerful light brightened the dusky room. The fire-place was broad and
deep, it held three-foot logs. Soon there was a glorious fire.
They sat down before it, in armchairs facing one another. The old man
spread his hands to the blaze with enjoyment. His gaze rested on Mary
with admiration, then wandered round the room.
"You have a fine place here," he said cheerfully. "How long have you
lived here?"
"Ten years, Laurence built the house."
She was scrutinizing him with covert glances, trying to find some
resemblance to Laurence.
"Yes, so I heard.... Laurence has certainly done well, remarkably well.
I always thought he would--he was a smart boy," said this strange
parent calmly.
No, he wasn't at all like Laurence, there was no resemblance in his
spare light frame, his long clear-cut face to ... yet there was
something familiar in his look. What was it? Something in the way his
thick grey hair grew over his forehead, his eyebrows.... Why, yes,
he looked like Jim--or was it Timothy? She had a sudden conviction,
anyhow, that he was what he assumed to be.
With the assurance that this was a member of the family (however
unworthy) the duty of hospitality became manifest. Again she urged him
to have something to eat; he declined, but with a certain reservation
of manner which led her to say, though unwillingly:
"Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?"
"Thank you--if it doesn't trouble you too much--wine, or a little
whiskey--whatever is most convenient."
Comprehending what he wanted, she brought from the dining-room a silver
tray, with decanters of whiskey and water, a glass and some biscuits.
The old man poured himself a modest drink, a third of a glass of
whiskey with a little water, and bowed to her.
"I drink your good health.... Yes, Laurence is a fortunate man."
"He has been very successful," she said gravely.
"All the heart could desire--position, wealth, a fine family," he
continued musingly. "I'm glad to find him so well off.... Circumstances
have prevented me from knowing anything of it until today, when I
reached town."
Circumstances! Mary gazed at him in mute astonishment. With an absent
air he filled his glass again and gazing at the fire went on, in a tone
of meditative detachment:
"I have been a wanderer for the last quarter of a century--a rolling
stone. Much of the time I've been out on the coast--California and
so on--I went out there in fifty-five.... But I've seen the whole
country--a fine big country it is. I never liked to stay long in one
place, I'll soon be moving on. But passing through Chicago, I thought
I'd like to see what remained of my family.... Great changes--I didn't
know till I reached here and enquired, that they were all gone, except
Laurence.... Things change quickly, in this country. Chicago has grown
to an immense city, since I saw it last--and this town too, has become
very flourishing. I shouldn't have known it.... And all over the west,
cities springing up, there is hardly a frontier any more, the old
days are gone, the rough pioneer life. The whole country, almost, is
settled, civilized.... Yes, a great country, a great people."
He basked in the warmth and drank his whiskey with gentle enjoyment,
gazing into the brilliant coals as though seeing there the whole vast
panorama that had passed before his eyes. Mary listened to him and
looked at him with a kind of fascinated surprise. He talked like a
visitor from the moon--so aloof, contemplative, as if he had no concern
in all this.... An old man who had deserted his family, run away, never
had known whether they were alive or dead, nor cared, apparently.
Disgraceful! A disreputable old man!... Yet there he sat, perfectly at
his ease, with no shadow of guilt, remorse, or regret on his placid
countenance. His grey eyes were clear and bright. His face was wise
and experienced, but hardly at all wrinkled, it had a queer look of
youth. His clothes were almost threadbare, but they were clean,--his
boots cracked on the side, but well polished. His hands were those of
a working-man, broad and stubby; but they showed no traces now of hard
work, the fingernails were clean and carefully trimmed. He smiled at
her.
"You are Laurence's wife--but I don't know your name," he said with a
twinkle of amusement, but courteously. In spite of her disapproval, she
could not but smile at him as she answered.
"Mary--a beautiful name, I always liked it. And you are Dr. Lowell's
daughter--I remember you as a slip of a girl, with wonderful flowing
hair.... And I remember your parents too. Are they living?"
"My mother died two years ago," said Mary.
"Ah, that was a loss, a great loss--I remember her, a strong woman,
impressive.... And your father--he goes on with his work?"
"Oh, yes," Mary answered with astonishment.
Of course he went on with his work, why shouldn't he?... But it came
to her with a shock that her father was really an old man, that people
thought of him as old.
"I don't know what this town would do without Father," she said
quickly. "People depend on him--"
She gazed pointedly and with a certain defiance at old Mr. Carlin,
who waved any possible comparison aside with a smile and a word of
hearty commendation of Dr. Lowell; and went on to enquire about other
old residents of the town, showing an accurate memory. A third time
he refilled his glass, and that emptied the decanter. The whiskey had
not the least visible effect on him. His hand was as steady, his eye
and speech as clear and unmoved, as Mary's own. She heard the clock
strike eleven, then the half hour, but still he chatted on, and she was
aware that she was entertained by him. Yes, he was an amusing, though a
scandalous old man; and conducted himself with propriety, even grace,
though all the time drinking whiskey as if it were water.
At length he spoke of his grandchildren. Among other information he
had acquired this, that they were three in number and all boys. Now he
politely asked their names. Mary repeated them.
"Timothy?" he questioned with surprise.
"Yes, we named him after you," said Mary gravely.
"After me!"
For the first time she saw a flicker of emotion in his face. He set
down his glass, and looked at her with eyes troubled by that gleam of
feeling, almost distress.
"Why did you do that?" he asked abruptly.
"Why, James was named after my father, you see," Mary explained. "So
it was only right that the second boy should be named after you. It's
a matter of family feeling, it always has been so in my family. Our
youngest boy is named for my grandfather."
"Family feeling," he repeated, mechanically. "Named after me.... So
there's another Timothy Carlin! I never expected it. Well, I hope--" he
stopped short, and after a moment took up his glass and drained it. "I
appreciate your remembering me, though I didn't expect it in the least.
I--I am touched by it. I should like to see the boys, and especially
my--namesake." His voice was a little uneven.
"You will see them tomorrow.... But now, it's late, you must be tired.
Shall I show you to your room?"
He followed in silence. Putting out the lights as she went, she led the
way through the lofty entrance-hall, up the thickly-carpeted stairs,
into the best spare-room, ready as always for a guest, since Laurence
often brought one unexpected. Mary lighted the room, and the old man
stood gazing round with a deprecating smile. It was a big room, with
high ceiling, furnished rather elaborately with carved black walnut,
enormous, heavy pieces.
"It's much too grand for me," he said, humorously. "I shall rattle
around here like a dried kernel in a shell.... However, I thank you for
your hospitality."
"Isn't there something I can get for you, something you need?"
"No, thank you, my dear, I don't need anything," said the old man, with
his former manner of gentle cool composure.