"Oh, yes, you've done well.... One thing more you might do--but I doubt
if you could--let them feel that they could tell you anything, whatever
they do. They might not tell you, wouldn't probably, but if they
felt they could, without you being horrified, it would be better for
them.... But of course you can only do that if you feel that what they
want or need is a lot more important than what they do.... Sometimes I
think, Mary, that you care more for what people do than for what they
are.... Think it over."
Dr. Lowell folded his napkin and put it in its ring, got up and took
out his pipe, filled it from a leather bag and lit it. An acrid smoke
issued from the old meerschaum as he sank into an easy-chair by the
fire. Mary hated that pipe, but now though she coughed in the smoke
she didn't notice it. She had stood absorbed in some difficult and
displeasing thought--but turning and looking at her father she saw how
bent and shrivelled he looked in the big chair.
"Father, aren't you awfully lonely here in the evenings?" she asked
suddenly.
"No, no--I've got lots of reading to do, journals and new books--I try
to keep up with my profession, you know. No, I'm never lonely."
"I should think you'd miss Mother a lot."
"I do--yes, I miss her.... But it's quieter this way."
"Father! The things you say!"
"Why shouldn't I say them.... Your mother and I got on very well
indeed, and if I ever see her again I guess we'll get on just as well."
"If you do! Why, don't you think you will?"
"I don't know, my dear, I couldn't tell you." He puffed meditatively at
his pipe. "And I don't think anybody else can tell you either."
"I don't see how you can bear to see so many people die if that's the
way you feel, if you think there's nothing more!" cried Mary.
"I keep them from dying, if I can--that's my job.... I don't say
there's nothing more. But I say we haven't begun to learn about this
world--there's enough here to keep us busy for all the time we've
got--we're just ignorant. Life ... it's mystery on mystery.... We can
settle what death is when we get to it."
"You're not afraid of death?" she asked absently.
"No, child, no ... sometimes I feel I'd like a long rest ... or a new
set of feelings, ideas ... or something. There's only one thing I'm
afraid of, I confess--to live on when I'm no use any more and have to
be taken care of." He made a wry face. "Don't see how I could stand
that. I hope I die with my boots on."
"Well, don't you do it yet awhile." Mary bent down and kissed the top
of his head. "We need you. I'll think over what you said--about the
boys--and then I guess I'd like to talk to you again about it.... I
must go now. You'll come tomorrow night?"
"Yes, I'll come."
On her way to the door she turned. "I declare! I forgot to ask you if
you'd seen old Mr. Carlin."
"Yes, John fetched him in here yesterday. We had quite a chat."
"Did you ever hear of such a thing--walking in like that and telling me
'I'm Laurence's father!' Cool as a cucumber! I never saw such an old
man!"
"How did Laurence take it?"
"Well, there never was any love lost between them, you know--he was
taken aback at first, but they seemed to get on well enough."
"And he's gone?"
"The old gentleman? Yes--went to Chicago today. He said he'd drop in
and see us again some time!"
She laughed quite gaily as she went out.
It had occurred to her to see if the garden at the back of the house
was neglected too, so she went round that way. Yes, the grass-borders
were unkempt, the only flowers were straggling marigolds and asters;
dahlias blackened by frost drooped forlornly. No wonder, he hadn't
strength now to keep it up. But she thought back and seemed to see that
from the time of her mother's death the garden had been running down.
"I guess he misses her more than he thinks," she reflected.
She stood looking into the orchard, where among almost bare boughs a
few red apples still clung. She felt a desire to go on into the pasture
and look at the deep still pool there, which she had not seen for long.
She remembered the look of it well--how as a child it had fascinated
and frightened her, even haunting her dreams.... But the pasture was
trampled by cows, and in this dress and these thin shoes....
She turned to go home, wrapping her mantle round her. The wind was
rising, blowing out of a bank of cloud that now covered the western
sky. A few sunset embers glimmered there low down. In the wind sweeping
over the prairie there was a low booming sound and when the gusts rose
higher an ominous whistle. A storm was coming, out of those immense,
endless stretches to the west.