“Yes, I imagine so.”
“Dear me!” John ejaculated in a dismal tone.
They were sitting as described on a former occasion, and the young woman was engaged upon the second (perhaps the third, or even the fourth) of the set of doilies to which she had committed herself. She took some stitches with a composed air, without responding to her companion’s exclamation.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said presently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging in an attitude of unmistakable dejection, and staring fixedly into the fire.
“I am very sorry myself,” she said, bending her head a little closer over her work. “I think I like being in New York in the spring better than at any other time; and I don’t at all fancy the idea of living in my trunks again for an indefinite period.”
“I shall miss you horribly,” he said, turning his face toward her.
Her eyes opened with a lift of the brows, but whether the surprise so indicated was quite genuine is a matter for conjecture.
“Yes,” he declared desperately, “I shall, indeed.”
“I should fancy you must have plenty of other friends,” she said, flushing a little, “and I have wondered sometimes whether Julius’s demands upon you were not more confident than warrantable, and whether you wouldn’t often rather have gone elsewhere than to come here to play cards with him.” She actually said this as if she meant it.
“Do you suppose—” he exclaimed, and checked himself. “No,” he said, “I have come because—well, I’ve been only too glad to come, and—I suppose it has got to be a habit,” he added, rather lamely. “You see, I’ve never known any people in the way I have known you. It has seemed to me more like home life than anything I’ve ever known. There has never been anyone but my father and I, and you can have no idea what it has been to me to be allowed to come here as I have, and—oh, you must know—” He hesitated, and instantly she advanced her point.
Her face was rather white, and the hand which lay upon the work in her lap trembled a little, while she clasped the arm of the chair with the other; but she broke in upon his hesitation with an even voice:
“It has been very pleasant for us all, I’m sure,” she said, “and, frankly, I’m sorry that it must be interrupted for a while, but that is about all there is of it, isn’t it? We shall probably be back not later than October, I should say, and then you can renew your contests with Julius and your controversies with me.”
Her tone and what she said recalled to him their last night on board the ship, but there was no relenting on this occasion. He realized that for a moment he had been on the verge of telling the girl that he loved her, and he realized, too, that she had divined his impulse and prevented the disclosure; but he registered a vow that he would know before he saw her again whether he might consistently tell her his love, and win or lose upon the touch.
Miss Blake made several inaccurate efforts to introduce her needle at the exact point desired, and when that endeavor was accomplished broke the silence by saying, “Speaking of ‘October,’ have you read the novel? I think it is charming.”
“Yes,” said John, with his vow in his mind, but not sorry for the diversion, “and I enjoyed it very much. I thought it was immensely clever, but I confess that I didn’t quite sympathize with the love affairs of a hero who was past forty, and I must also confess that I thought the girl was, well—to put it in plain English—a fool.”
Mary laughed, with a little quaver in her voice. “Do you know,” she said, “that sometimes it seems to me that I am older than you are?”
“I know you’re awfully wise,” said John with a laugh, and from that their talk drifted off into the safer channels of their usual intercourse until he rose to say good night.
“Of course, we shall see you again before we go,” she said as she gave him her hand.
“Oh,” he declared, “I intend regularly to haunt the place.”
XI
When John came down the next morning his father, who was, as a rule, the most punctual of men, had not appeared. He opened the paper and sat down to wait. Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. He rang the bell. “Have you heard my father this morning?” he said to Jeffrey, remembering for the first time that he himself had not.
“No, sir,” said the man. “He most generally coughs a little in the morning, but I don’t think I heard him this morning, sir.”
“Go up and see why he doesn’t come down,” said John, and a moment later he followed the servant upstairs, to find him standing at the chamber door with a frightened face.
“He must be very sound asleep, sir,” said Jeffrey. “He hasn’t answered to my knockin’ or callin’, sir.” John tried the door. He found the chain bolt on, and it opened but a few inches. “Father!” he called, and then again, louder. He turned almost unconsciously to Jeffrey, and found his own apprehensions reflected in the man’s face. “We must break in the door,” he said. “Now, together!” and the bolt gave way.
His father lay as if asleep. “Go for the doctor at once! Bring him back with you. Run!” he cried to the servant. Custom and instinct said, “Send for the doctor,” but he knew in his heart that no ministrations would ever reach the still figure on the bed, upon which, for the moment, he could not look. It was but a few minutes (how long such minutes are!) before the doctor came—Doctor Willis, who had brought John into the world, and had been a lifelong friend of both father and son. He went swiftly to the bed without speaking,
