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 Laurencethat 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 herintimacy 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 smellof 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 getmypractice 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.Theydon't think I'm too old to work."
"Iamproud of you. I never said you were too old. I think you're a great man."
He laughed. "I wasn't fishing to that extent."
"Well, I want you to know that I admire you. I think you've had the most successful life I know about."
"Sounds like my obituary," he commented.
But Mary was groping for something she wanted to say, something newly felt. Looking at his small bent figure, his face, so gentle yet with something hard and firm in its calmness, suddenly she seemed to see him, his long laborious life, in a flash of light.
"I think you're beautiful," she said solemnly.
It was a strange word, and Dr. Lowell was visibly abashed. He fidgeted, made a feeble joke, and then looked sharply at Mary's unwonted colour and bright eyes.
"What's the matter? You're not going to—sure you feel perfectly well, Mary?"
"Why, yes.... But Laurence isn't. I wish you'd drop in and see him. He'll be home tomorrow night. Suppose you come to dinner and take a look at him."
"What ails him?"
"He complains of headaches lately and he looks—well, you'll see. Keeps right on working, though. You'll come? The boys always want to see you too, you know."
"Well, they do. They drop in here quite often—especially Jim. I think maybe we might make a doctor of Jim."
"You do?" Mary's eyes opened wide. "Has he shown any interest that way? He never said a word to me about it."
"Yes, we've talked it over. Heisinterested. He takes to science. Has a good mind, that boy—kind of slow, but thorough. Likes to get to the bottom of things. He could work hard if he was interested."
"Well!" Mary pondered this. Then she said, "I've been worried about him—he runs around at night and won't tell me where he goes."
"I know where he goes," said Dr. Lowell placidly.
"You do? He tells you?"
"Oh, Jim and I are great friends. He's all right, Mary.... But you must realize—Jim's almost a man, and he's a strapping healthy fellow—you can't hold too tight a rein on him, if you do he'll kick over the traces."
Mary frowned, looked sullen. "I think I ought to know what he's doing."
"Well, I'd just as soon tell you, but you'd very likely make a row and it would be bad for Jim.... Use your imagination, Mary."
She pushed back her chair, rose and walked to the window. Dr. Lowell cast a shrewd glance at her and took a piece of custard pie.
"I think you ought to be proud of your output,Mary—you ought to be a proud and happy woman."
"What, Father?"
"Those three boys—fine fellows, all of them. What more d'ye want? And you haven't spoiled them by petting. They think a lot of you. And you haven't nagged them—not very much."
Mary turned around. "Then you think—really—?"
"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.