At dawn he awoke refreshed. The sun rose from the ocean like an indolent
girl from a bath. Before the house was astir he was out of doors
exploring the land. He strolled past the row of hotels that front the
sea, and pausing a moment at the Casino, fragrant then, and free of the
stench of drink that is the outcome of the later season, he wondered how
it was that, given money, and possibly brains, it was necessary to make
a building as awkward as was that. And then he strayed to the shore,
past the tenantless bath-houses, and on through the glories of the
morning to the untrodden beach beyond.
As he walked, the village faded in the haze. The tide was low and the
sand firm and hard. The waves broke leisurely in films and fringes of
white, gurgling an invitation to their roomy embrace. And when the
hotels were lost in the distance and the solitude was murmurous with
nature alone, Tristrem, captivated by the allurements of the sea, went
down into the waves and clasped them to him as lovers clasp those they
love.
The sun was well on its amble to the zenith before he returned to the
cottage. His hostess, he found, had not yet appeared, and as breakfast
seemed to be served in that pleasant fashion which necessitates nothing,
not even an appetite, Tristrem drank his coffee in solitude. And as he
idled over the meal he recalled the horrors of the night, and smiled.
The air of the morning, the long and quiet stroll, the plunge in the
sea, and the after-bath of sunlight that he had taken stretched full
length on the sand, had dissipated the enervating emotions of dream and
brought him in their stead a new invigoration. He was about to begin the
dithyrambs of the day before, when the servant appeared, bearing a
yellow envelope, and a book in which he was to put his name. He gave the
receipt and opened the message, wonderingly.
"_Please come to town_," it ran, "_your father is dying.--Robert
Harris._"
"Your father is dying," he repeated. "H'm. Robert Harris. I never knew
before what the butler's first name was. But what has that to do with
it? There are times when I am utterly imbecile. Your father is dying.
Yes, of course, I must go at once. But it isn't possible. H'm. I
remember. He looked ghastly when I saw him. I suppose--I ought to--good
God, why should I attempt to feign a sorrow that I do not feel? It is
his own fault. I would have--But there, what is the use?"
He bit his nail; he was perplexed at his absence of sensibility. "And
yet," he mused, "in his way he has been kind to me. He has been kind;
that is, if it be kindness in a father to let a son absolutely alone.
After all, filial affection must be like patriotism, ingrained as an
obligation, a thing to blush at if not possessed. Yet then, again, if a
country acts like a step-mother to its children, if a father treats a
son as a guardian might treat a ward, the ties are conventional; and on
what shall affection subsist? It was he who called me into being, and,
having done so, he assumed duties which he should not have shirked. It
was not for him to make himself a stranger to me; it was for him to
teach me to honor him so much, to love him so well that at his death my
head would be bowed in prostrations of grief. I used to try to school
myself to think that it was only his way; that, outwardly cold and
undemonstrative, his heart was warm as another's. But--well, it may have
been, it may have been. After all, if I can't grieve, I would cross the
continent to spare him a moment's pain. It was he, I suppose, who told
Harris to wire. Yes, I must hurry."
He called the servant to him. "Can you tell me, please, when the next
train goes?" But the servant had no knowledge whereon to base a reply.
She suggested, however, that information might be obtained at an inn
which stood a short distance up the road. He scribbled a few lines on a
card, and gave it to the woman. "Take that to Miss Raritan, please, will
you?" he said, and left the house.
At the inn a very large individual sat on the stoop, coatless, a straw
covering of a remoter summer far back on his head, and his feet turned
in. He listened to Tristrem with surly indifference, and spat profusely.
He didn't know; he reckoned the morning train had gone.
"Hay, Alf," he called out to the negro who had taken Tristrem from the
station the night before, and who was then driving by, "when's the next
train go?"
"'Bout ten minutes; I just took a party from Taylor's."
"Thank you," said Tristrem to the innkeeper, who spat again by way of
acknowledgment. "Can you take me to the station?" he asked the negro;
and on receiving an affirmative reply, he told him to stop at Mrs.
Raritan's for his traps.
As Tristrem entered the gate he saw Viola's assistant of the preceding
evening drive up, waving a hat.
"I got it," the man cried out, "here it is. First time it ever passed a
night out of doors, I'll bet. And none the worse for it, either." He
handed it over to Tristrem. "I dreamt about you last night," he added.
"That's odd," Tristrem answered, "I dreamed about you." The man laughed
at this as had he never heard anything so droll. "Well, I swan!" he
exclaimed, and cracked his whip with delight. His horse started. "Here,"
he said, "I near forgot. Whoa, there, can't you. This goes with the
hat." And he crumpled a handkerchief in his hand, and tossing it to
Tristrem, he let the horse continue his way unchecked.
The hat which the man had found did not indeed look as though it had
passed a night on the roadside. Save for an incidental speck or two it
might have come fresh from a bandbox. Tristrem carried it into the
cottage, and was placing it on the hall-table when Mrs. Raritan
appeared.
"I am so sorry," she began, "Viola has told me----"
"How is she? May I not see her?"
"She scarcely slept last night."
Tristrem looked in the lady's face. The lids of her eyes were red and
swollen.
"But may I not see her? May I not, merely for a moment."
"She is sleeping now," Mrs. Raritan answered; "perhaps," she added, "it
is better that you should not. The doctor has been here. He says that
she should be quiet. But you will come back, will you not? Truly I
sympathize with you."
Mrs. Raritan's eyes filled with tears, but to what they were due, who
shall say? She seemed to Tristrem unaccountably nervous and distressed.
"There is nothing serious the matter, is there?" he asked, anxiously.
And at the question, Mrs. Raritan almost choked. She shook her head,
however, but Tristrem was not assured. "I _must_ see her," he said, and
he made as would he mount the stair.
"Mr. Varick! she is asleep. She has had a wretched night. When you are
able to come back, it will be different. But if you care for her, let
her be."
The protest was almost incoherent. Mrs. Raritan appeared beside herself
with anxiety.
"Forgive me," said Tristrem, "I did not mean to vex you. Nor would I
disturb her." He paused a second, dumbly and vaguely afflicted. "You
will tell her, will you not?" he added; "tell her this, that I wanted to
see her. Mrs. Raritan, my whole life is wrapped up in her." He hesitated
again. "You are tired too, I can see. You were up with her last night,
were you not?"
Mrs. Raritan bowed her head.
"You must forgive me," he repeated, "I did not understand. Tell me," he
continued, "last night I awoke thinking that I heard her calling. Did
she call?"
"Call what?"
"I thought--you see I was half, perhaps wholly asleep, but I thought I
heard her voice. I was mistaken, was I not?"
"Yes, you must have been."
The negro had brought down the luggage, and stood waiting at the gate.
"You will tell her--Mrs. Raritan--I love her with all my heart and
soul."