VI
John saw Miss Blake the next morning in the saloon among the passengers in line for the customs official. It was an easy conjecture that Mr. Carling’s nerves were not up to committing himself to a “declaration” of any sort, and that Miss Blake was undertaking the duty for the party. He did not see her again until he had had his luggage passed and turned it over to an expressman. As he was on his way to leave the wharf he came across the group, and stopped to greet them and ask if he could be of service, and was told that their houseman had everything in charge, and that they were just going to their carriage, which was waiting. “And,” said Miss Blake, “if you are going up town, we can offer you a seat.”
“Shan’t I discommode you?” he asked. “If you are sure I shall not, I shall be glad to be taken as far as Madison Avenue and Thirty-third Street, for I suppose that will be your route.”
“Quite sure,” she replied, seconded by the Carlings, and so it happened that John went directly home instead of going first to his father’s office. The weather was a chilly drizzle, and he was glad to be spared the discomfort of going about in it with handbag, overcoat, and umbrella, and felt a certain justification in concluding that, after two years, a few hours more or less under the circumstances would make but little difference. And then, too, the prospect of half or three-quarters of an hour in Miss Blake’s company, the Carlings notwithstanding, was a temptation to be welcomed. But if he had hoped or expected, as perhaps would have been not unnatural, to discover in that young woman’s air any hint or trace of the feeling she had exhibited, or, perhaps it should be said, to a degree permitted to show itself, disappointment was his portion. Her manner was as much in contrast with that of the last days of their voyage together as the handsome street dress and hat in which she was attired bore to the dress and headgear of her steamer costume, and it almost seemed to him as if the contrasts bore some relation to each other. After the question of the carriage windows—whether they should be up or down, either or both, and how much—had been settled, and, as usual in such dilemmas, by Miss Blake, the drive up town was comparatively a silent one. John’s mind was occupied with sundry reflections and speculations, of many of which his companion was the subject, and to some extent in noting the changes in the streets and buildings which an absence of two years made noticeable to him.
Mary looked steadily out of window, lost in her own thoughts save for an occasional brief response to some casual comment or remark of John’s. Mr. Carling had muffled himself past all talking, and his wife preserved the silence which was characteristic of her when unurged.
John was set down at Thirty-third Street, and, as he made his adieus, Mrs. Carling said, “Do come and see us as soon as you can, Mr. Lenox”; but Miss Blake simply said “Goodbye” as she gave him her hand for an instant, and he went on to his father’s house.
He let himself in with the latchkey which he had carried through all his absence, but was at once encountered by Jeffrey, who, with his wife, had for years constituted the domestic staff of the Lenox household.
“Well, Jeff,” said John, as he shook hands heartily with the old servant, “how are you? and how is Ann? You don’t look a day older, and the climate seems to agree with you, eh?”
“You’re welcome home, Mr. John,” replied Jeffrey, “and thank you, sir. Me and Ann is very well, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again and home. It is, indeed.”
“Thank you, Jeff,” said John. “It’s rather nice to be back. Is my room ready?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jeffrey, “I think it’s all right, though we thought that maybe it ’d be later in the day when you got here, sir. We thought maybe you’d go to Mr. Lenox’s office first.”
“I did intend to,” said John, mounting the stairs, followed by Jeffrey with his bag, “but I had a chance to drive up with some friends, and the day is so beastly that I took advantage of it. How is my father?” he asked after entering the chamber, which struck him as being so strangely familiar and so familiarly strange.
“Well, sir,” said Jeffrey, “he’s much about the same most ways, and then again he’s different, too. Seeing him every day, perhaps I wouldn’t notice so much; but if I was to say that he’s kind of quieter, perhaps that’d be what I mean, sir.”
“Well,” said John, smiling, “my father was about the quietest person I ever knew, and if he’s grown more so—what do you mean?”
“Well, sir,” replied the man, “I notice at table, sir, for one thing. We’ve been alone here off and on a good bit, sir, and he used always to have a pleasant word or two to say to me, and may be to ask me questions and that, sir; but for a long time lately he hardly seems to notice me. Of course, there ain’t any need of his saying anything, because I know all he wants, seeing I’ve waited on him so long, but it’s different in a way, sir.”
“Does he go out in the evening to his club?” asked John.
“Very rarely, sir,” said Jeffrey. “He mostly goes to his room after dinner, an’ oftentimes I hear him walking up an’ down, up an’ down, and, sir,” he added, “you know he often used to have some of his friends to dine with him, and that ain’t happened in, I should guess,
