“No, I suppose not,” acquiesced Mrs. Carling faintly.
“No, I should say not,” remarked the girl. “If he were to say anything to me in the way of—declaration is the word, isn’t it?—it would be another matter. But there is no danger of that.”
“Why not, if he is fond of you?” asked her sister.
“Because,” said Mary, with an emphatic nod, “I won’t let him,” which assertion was rather weakened by her adding, “and he wouldn’t, if I would.”
“I don’t understand,” said her sister.
“Well,” said Mary, “I don’t pretend to know all that goes on in his mind; but allowing, or rather conjecturing, that he does care for me in the way you mean, I haven’t the least fear of his telling me so, and one of the reasons is this, that he is wholly dependent upon his father, with no other prospect for years to come.”
“I had the idea somehow,” said Mrs. Carling, “that his father was very well-to-do. The young man gives one the impression of a person who has always had everything that he wanted.”
“I think that is so,” said Mary, “but he told me one day, coming over on the steamer, that he knew nothing whatever of his own prospects or his father’s affairs. I don’t remember—at least, it doesn’t matter—how he came to say as much, but he did, and afterward gave me a whimsical catalogue of his acquirements and accomplishments, remarking, I remember, that ‘there was not a dollar in the whole list’; and lately, though you must not fancy that he discusses his own affairs with me, he has now and then said something to make me guess that he was somewhat troubled about them.”
“Is he doing anything?” asked Mrs. Carling.
“He told me the first evening he called here,” said Mary, “that he was studying law, at his father’s suggestion; but I don’t remember the name of the firm in whose office he is.”
“Why doesn’t he ask his father about his prospects?” said Mrs. Carling.
Mary laughed. “You seem to be so much more interested in the matter than I am,” she said, “why don’t you ask him yourself?” To which unjustifiable rejoinder her sister made no reply.
“I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” she remarked.
“I think I understand,” said Mary. “I fancy from what he has told me that his father is a singularly reticent man, but one in whom his son has always had the most implicit confidence. I imagine, too, that until recently, at any rate, he has taken it for granted that his father was wealthy. He has not confided any misgivings to me, but if he has any he is just the sort of person not to ask, and certainly not to press a question with his father.”
“It would seem like carrying delicacy almost too far,” remarked Mrs. Carling.
“Perhaps it would,” said her sister, “but I think I can understand and sympathize with it.”
Mrs. Carling broke the silence which followed for a moment or two as if she were thinking aloud. “You have plenty of money,” she said, and colored at her inadvertence. Her sister looked at her for an instant with a humorous smile, and then, as she rose and touched the bell button, said, “That’s another reason.”
X
I think it should hardly be imputed to John as a fault or a shortcoming that he did not for a long time realize his father’s failing powers. True, as has been stated, he had noted some changes in appearance on his return, but they were not great enough to be startling, and, though he thought at times that his father’s manner was more subdued than he had ever known it to be, nothing really occurred to arouse his suspicion or anxiety. After a few days the two men appeared to drop into their accustomed relation and routine, meeting in the morning and at dinner; but as John picked up the threads of his acquaintance he usually went out after dinner, and even when he did not his father went early to his own apartment.
From John’s childhood he had been much of the time away from home, and there had never, partly from that circumstance and partly from the older man’s natural and habitual reserve, been very much intimacy between them. The father did not give his own confidence, and, while always kind and sympathetic when appealed to, did not ask his son’s; and, loving his father well and loyally, and trusting him implicitly, it did not occur to John to feel that there was anything wanting in the relation. It was as it had always been. He was accustomed to accept what his father did or said without question, and, as is very often the case, had always regarded him as an old man. He had never felt that they could be in the same equation. In truth, save for their mutual affection, they had little in common; and if, as may have been the case, his father had any cravings for a closer and more intimate relation, he made no sign, acquiescing in his son’s actions as the son did in his, without question or suggestion. They did not know each other, and such cases are not rare, more is the pity.
But as time went on even John’s unwatchful eye could not fail to notice that all was not well with his father. Haggard lines were multiplying in the quiet face, and the silence at the dinner table was often unbroken except by John’s unfruitful efforts to keep some sort of a conversation in motion. More and more frequently it occurred that his father would retire to his own room immediately after dinner was over, and the food on his plate would be almost untouched, while he took more wine than had ever been his habit. John, retiring
