Martt and Frannie met me at the outer gateway. Their manner held a
singular gravity. I had expected them to be excited, of course. But
their grave, somber smiles of greeting, their instinctively hushed
voices, seemed unnatural. This was no reckless, devil-may-care spirit
of high adventure which I had anticipated the twins of Dr. Gryce would
display. Sober drama. Their involuntary glances at the white house
nestling against the hillside carried a foreboding.
Drama, but it seemed almost to be tragedy. My heart sank. There was
something very wrong here with the Gryces; something more imminent than
the fact of Brett's absence over four years.
But I said nothing. Dear little Frannie gave me her two hands. They
were cold.
Martt said, "Thank you for coming, Frank. Father is--waiting for you."
His voice, usually flaunting, mocking at everything with the reckless
spirit of youth, chilled me with its queerly broken tone.
We crossed the flowering gardens to the white house standing so
peaceful in the afternoon sunlight. Martt led the way. The twins were
twenty-one years old now. Alike physically, and in temperament. Both
smaller than average height; slim and delicate of mold; blue-eyed,
and fair of hair. They were always laughing; carefree--the spirit of
irresponsible youth. But not today. I regarded Martt, trudging ahead
of me--debonair, jaunty of figure in his tight black silk trousers and
loose white shirt, bare-headed, his crisp, curly hair tousled by the
wind. But there was a slump to his shoulders, a heaviness to his tread.
And little Frannie behind him: girlishly beautiful, with her tossing
golden curls, her familiar house costume of gray blouse and widely
flaring knee-length trousers. But there was upon her a preternatural
solemnity; a maturity of aspect indefinable.
At the doorway Martt turned and fixed me with his somber, blue-eyed
gaze. And spoke with the same queer hush to his voice.
"Father is upstairs, Frank. He is--dying. He wants very much to live
until you arrive."
Upon the pillows in the darkened room lay Dr. Gryce's head with its
shaggy, snow-white hair, the mound of the sheet betraying his pitifully
wasted body.
Martt said softly, very gently, "Frank is here, Father. You see he came
in time--plenty of time."
But the head, with face to the wall, did not move; no stirring marked
the fragile body lying there.
Martt gave a cry; with Frannie he rushed to the bedside. It was all
too evident. In a moment Martt stood up, leaned silently against the
bedpost, a hand before his eyes as though dazed. And Frannie knelt at
the bed and sobbed.
We expect death all our lives, yet the instinct of life within us never
ceases to feel a shock, and a revulsion. For a long time these children
of Dr. Gryce did not move or speak. Then Frannie leaped to her feet.
Her face was tear-stained; but her sobs were suddenly checked, and her
eyes were blazing.
"Martt! His last wish--the very last thing he said--was that we go out
ourselves and find Brett. He said it--he said Brett might need us--his
dying wish. And I'm going, and so are you. We've got to, Martt! And
we want Frank with us. Oh, Frank, you'll go with us, won't you? Out
there--to join Brett?"