"So might Uncle Tucker when he went into the war," was his retort.He was a little thinner, a little graver, and the sunburn upon his face had faded to a paler shade.After the short absence his powerful figure struck them as almost gigantic; physically, he had never appeared more impressive than he did standing there in the sunlight that filled the kitchen doorway.
"But that was different," protested Lila, flushing, "and this-this--why, you hardly knew Uncle Isam when you passed him in the road.""And half the time forgot to speak to him," added Tucker, laughing.His eyes were on the young man's figure, and they grew a little wistful, as they always did in the presence of perfect masculine strength."Well, I'm glad your search for adventures didn't end in disaster," he added pleasantly.
To Christopher's surprise, Cynthia was the single member of the family who showed a sympathy with his reckless knight errantry.
"There was nothing else for you to do, of course," she said in a resolute voice, lifting her worn face where the lines had deepened in his absence; "he used to be father's coachman before the war."She had gone from the kitchen as she spoke, and Christopher, following her, threw an anxious glance along the little platform to the closed door of the house.
"And mother, Cynthia?" he asked quickly.
"Her mind still wanders, but at times she seems to come back to herself for a little while, and only this morning she awoke from a nap and asked for you quite clearly.We told her you had gone hunting.""May I see her now? Who is with her?"
"Jim.He has been so good."
The admission was wrung shortly from her rigid honesty, and there was no visible softening of her grim reserve, when, entering the house with Christopher, she found herself presently beside Jim Weatherby, who was chatting merrily in Mrs.Blake's room.
The old lady, shrivelled and faded as the dried goldenrod which filled the great jars on the hearth, lay half hidden among the pillows in her high white bed, her vacant eyes fixed upon the sunshine which fell through the little window.At Christopher's step her memory flickered back for an instant, and the change showed in the sudden animation of her glance.
"I was dreaming of your father, my son, and you have his voice.""I am like him in other ways, I hope, mother.""If I could only see you, Christopher--it is so hard to remember.
You had golden curls and wore a white pinafore.I trimmed it with the embroidery from my last set of petticoats.And your hands were dimpled all over; you would suck your thumb: there was no breaking you, though I wrapped it in a rag soaked in quinine--""That was almost thirty years ago, mother," broke in Cynthia, catching her breath sharply."He is a man now, and big--oh, so big--and his hair has grown a little darker.""I know, Cynthia; I know," returned Mrs.Blake, with a peevish movement of her thin hand, "but you won't let me remember.I am trying to remember." She fell to whimpering like a hurt child, and then growing suddenly quiet, reached out until she touched Christopher's head."You're a man, I know," she said, "older than your father was when his first child was born.There have been two crosses in my life, Christopher--my blindness and my never having heard the voices of my grandchildren playing in the house.
Such a roomy old house, too, with so much space for them to fill with cheerful noise.I always liked noise, you know; it tells of life, and never disturbs me so long as it is pleasant.What Ihate is the empty silence that reminds one of the grave."She was quite herself now, and, bending over, he kissed the hand upon the counterpane.
"Oh, mother, mother, if I could only have made you happy!""And you couldn't, Christopher?"
"I couldn't marry, dear; I couldn't."
"There was no one, you mean--no woman whom you could have loved and who would have given you children.Surely there are still good and gentle women left in the world.""There was none for me."
She sighed hopelessly.
"You have never--never had a low fancy, Christopher?""Never, mother."
"Thank God; it is one thing I could not forgive.A gentleman may have his follies, your father used to say, but he must never stoop for them.Let him keep to his own level, even in his indiscretions.Ah, your father had his faults, my son, but he never forgot for one instant in his life that he was born a gentleman.He was a good husband, too, a good husband, and I was married to him for nearly forty years.The greatest trial of my marriage was that he would throw his cigar ashes on the floor.
Women think so much of little things, you know, and I've always felt that I should have been a happier woman if he had learned to use an ash-tray.But he never would--he never would, though Igave him one every Christmas for almost forty years."Falling silent, her hands played fitfully upon the counterpane, and when next she spoke the present had slipped from her and her thoughts had gone back to her early triumphs.
She wandered aimlessly and waveringly on in a feeble vacancy, and Christopher, after watching her for an agonised moment, left the room and went out into the fresh air of the yard.He could always escape by flight from the slow death-bed; it was Cynthia who faced hourly the final tragedy of a long and happy life.
The thought of Will had oppressed him like a nightmare for the last two weeks, and it was almost unconsciously that he tuned now in the direction of the store and passed presently into the shaded lane leading to Sol Peterkin's.His mood was heavy upon him, and so deep was the abstraction in which he walked that it was only when he heard his name called softly from a little distance that he looked up to find Maria Fletcher approaching him over the pale gray shadows in the road.Her eyes were luminous, and she stretched her hand toward him in a happy gesture.
"Oh, if you only knew how wonderful I think you!" she cried impulsively.
