The next day, toward sunset, Mary was walking in to see her father. She
went often at the time when he would be home for his solitary supper.
The Carlin place was no longer out of town. Past it stretched the
paved street, with wide sidewalks and gas-lamps at frequent intervals.
The maple trees now overarched it, a thinning cloud of pale yellow or
red, and the leaves lay in thick drifts in the gutters and along the
walks. They rustled under Mary's feet as she went holding up her long
violet-coloured dress. She wore a mantle to match the dress, and a
small bonnet made of violets and lace, tied under her chin with black
velvet ribbons.
She walked at a good pace; there was a spring in her step, and unusual
colour in her cheeks. She breathed in deeply the cool crisp air, she
saw with pleasure the vivid colours of the leaves, the bright western
sky: it was long since she had felt this pleasure in the world. It
had zest to her; and she could not imagine why. All that had happened
to her consciousness was that she had transgressed her own code; had
forgotten her dignity and actually discussed her own most private
affairs and feelings, with a stranger. But now she had a strange sense
of freedom, of companionship in some impersonal way. She did not think
more of Lavery because of it. He had gone to the city with Laurence
that morning, and she did not seem to care whether she ever saw him
again or not. But if she saw him certainly she would talk to him again.
She was less a prisoner now; some barrier had been pierced, and she
looked out on the world.
As she drew near the house, she saw a once familiar figure, a slim
black-coated figure, pushing a small baby-carriage. It was Hilary. He
had married a buxom efficient widow, three years before; and in the
carriage was his eighteen-months' old daughter, a small, very lively
baby, with bright blue eyes. Mary stopped and held out her hand to
Hilary, with a friendly warmth that she had not shown him for many
years. She asked after his wife, bent to speak to the baby, who bounced
up and down and fixed upon her eyes sparkling with energy. Hilary's
eyes too were upon her, in surprise.
He had changed very little in ten years. His face was quieter, perhaps,
less drawn. The wife took care of him, fed and clothed him properly. No
one now thought that he would go into a decline. But his eyes showed
the same ardour and intensity of life. He worked harder than ever, for
his church had grown, and incidentally had become factious. Hilary
had to meet opposition within the fold to his idea of the preaching
of the gospel; the time would come when he would be forced to leave
this church too, and go forth. Mary knew this, though she rarely went
to church now. She smiled inwardly as she recalled how she had felt
about his marriage; disenchantment, almost disgust, though she had
long before that ceased her intimacy with him. Her idea of him, as
celibate, she now felt to have been merely romantic. Hilary was a man
like other men. No, after all, he was better than most, he was more of
a man. She smiled at him quite radiantly and said she was coming soon
to see his wife.
"How well you are looking," he said as she started on, still with that
surprised gaze at her.
"It must be this wonderful weather--it makes one feel so alive!" she
called back, laughing at the white lie. In this mood she could tell all
kinds of lies, without conscience! It was like a renewal of youth, no,
it was a youth she had never had, rather mischievous, irresponsible. In
this mood she wouldn't care what she did. Now why? She shook her head
and gave it up--couldn't say why.
She opened the gate of the old place, and noticed that a hinge was
loose; and that the pickets needed painting. The grass was long too in
the front yard. She stopped a moment looking at it and at the low frame
house. That too needed a coat of paint--why, it was shabby, it was all
going to seed. Her brow wrinkled as she wondered why she hadn't noticed
this before--how long had it been this way? Her father had been used
always to keep the place trim and neat. Was he getting too old to look
after it, or to care? She felt a pang.... She must send down a gardener
to fix up the yard.
She opened the creaking front door and entered the narrow hall.
The familiar odour met her--old wallpaper, old furniture, a slight
closeness, a faint smell of cooking. But she liked it--it was home.
She went into the sitting-room, where the housekeeper was setting the
table for Dr. Lowell's supper.
"Oh, Mrs. Hansen, isn't Father home yet?" she asked.
"Yes, Mrs. Carlin, he has just come. Out to the stable yet."
The rosy-faced Swedish woman, in crisp calico dress and white apron,
went out into the kitchen. She came by the day to "do for" Dr. Lowell,
and he lived alone in the old house. Mary glanced critically at the
table, wrinkled her nose, and sat down in the rocker by the window,
where streaks of gold and red glimmered, making a rosy light within.
Nothing had been changed in this room, or for that matter in the house
since her mother's death. In fact, she couldn't remember when it had
not looked just this way.
The brown carpet was a little more worn, perhaps, the brown and gilt
wallpaper a little more faded. There was dust on the furniture that
would not have been there in her mother's time. But the old clock
ticked to the same dreamy tune on the shelf, coals glowed in the open
stove, the cat stretched itself and yawned in the armchair, the glass
of cream stood as always by her father's plate. In this house it always
seemed afternoon, verging on evening.... Yes, and there, in the grass
under the window, the sound always associated with home--the faint wiry
chirping of the crickets.... Short bright autumn days--long cold nights
drawing on--was that why they were so plaintive?
She heard her father come into the kitchen, and then the splashing of
water. Washing up in the kitchen--lazy father! Probably he even kept a
comb out there, behind the looking-glass! Men get shiftless, living by
themselves. Or perhaps he was just too tired to go upstairs. Yes, when
he came in, she saw his thin hair had been freshly combed--and he did
look very tired. And alas, how old he looked! Why hadn't she noticed
that he was getting old?
He was delighted to see her, still more when she got up and kissed him
with uncommon warmth.
"Well, now, this is nice! Can't you have supper with me?" he asked
happily, lifting the cat out of his chair and sitting down. Mary drew
up a chair opposite him and put her elbows on the table.
"I can't eat, because there's the family dinner, you know, but I'll sit
with you anyway. What have you got?"
Mrs. Hansen put the supper on the table and retired behind a closed
door.
"Cream-toast--dried beef--soda-biscuits--well, I don't call that a
solid meal after a good day's work! That's an old lady's supper. Why
don't you have a steak, Father, something substantial?"
"Can't, my dear," he said smiling. "Too heavy for me--can't eat much
meat. This is just what I like."
He tucked the napkin under his thin beard, still auburn more than grey,
and began to eat. Mary took a biscuit and broke it open.
"It's light," she conceded. "I guess she's a good enough cook."
"Oh, she's first-rate--I live in clover," smiled Dr. Lowell.
"Well, hardly that--"
"Oh, yes.... But say, how splendid you look, Mary! Been to some grand
blowout?"
"No, I made some calls. Do you like this bonnet?"
"It's fine--what there is of it. Dress too--there's plenty of that. Why
have that long tail on it?"
"Well, it's the fashion," said Mary indulgently.
"You look very nice indeed. Better than you have all summer."
"Well, Father, I can't say as much for you. You look tired out."
"I am, at night. But I get up like a lark in the morning."
"You work too hard. You ought to have a man to drive you now, and an
assistant--and only go out on great occasions, when you get a big fee,
you know!"
A faint uneasiness showed in Dr. Lowell's face.
"Now don't you go trying to take away my work. That's the quick way to
break a man up.... I'm going to die in harness," he declared.
"Well, I'm afraid you will," and Mary's lips quivered. He was quick to
notice and to soothe her.
"Don't you worry. There's a lot of work in the old man yet. I'm not
seventy. And I don't go out much at night any more, you know, or in
very bad weather--unless it's life or death.... Oh, they have to
consider me now!"
"Well, it's time they did. You never considered yourself."
There was unwonted emotion in her face and voice. He was touched, and
surprised.
"I should think you'd be proud of me," he said lightly. "All these
smart young doctors in town--but they don't get _my_ practice unless
I want to give it to 'em.... People sending for me from all over the
county--pay my expenses and anything I want to ask. _They_ don't think
I'm too old to work."
"I _am_ proud of you. I never said you were too old. I think you're a
great man."