The Ancient Grudge/Chapter 20
XX
LAST WORDS
The day after he had delivered his address to his workmen, Colonel Halket suffered a collapse from which he never rallied. A paralysis seized him, and he lay helpless in his bed, able to move his arms, able to torn his head and speak; but beyond that motionless.
"I am not going to get well," he said to the doctor. "Shall I be like this for long?"
There was a consultation of doctors, and when they told him that it would not be long, he seemed relieved.
They said to Floyd, more definitely, that the end was near.
"It's like counting off the minutes on a clock that has almost run down. It's not a bad way to die—peaceful and painless," said one of the doctors to Floyd.
Every morning Colonel Halket was moved to a couch in his sitting-room, where he could recline on pillows close by the window and look down the steep slope of his grounds upon the city park. There was an orchard of apple-trees on this slope, much frequented by birds; and the ivy that was massed against all that side of the house was a nesting-place for sparrows; for a week or two Colonel Halket amused himself arranging morsels of food along the window-sill with which to tempt the little creatures; day by day, having spread out his crumbs, he would watch and wait patiently.
"They never come," he said one day to Floyd rather wistfully. "I think I should feel quite a good deal better if only one would come.—I never cared before about birds."
"They don't know you yet; when they know you, they'll come," Floyd assured him.
"Ah, but how are they going to know me?" Colonel Halket asked. "I keep changing so from day to day; I can hardly expect a human being, let alone a bird, to recognize me."
One day a sparrow did hop on the window-sill and peck at the crumbs, and Colonel Halket described the episode to Floyd with more animation than he had shown during his illness.
"I think I have heard they like caraway seeds," he remarked. "Something or some one must like caraway seeds. I will try them to-morrow for the birds."
So daily he planned and watched; this little thing which he had never done before had now become the chief occupation of his days. He did not care to have people read to him, he did not care to have people sit with him and talk, he manifested no interest in business or in the situation which had developed as the outcome of his surrender at New Rome; and so long as he remained indifferent, Floyd had not the slightest desire to inform him. The accounts in the newspapers had been sufficiently sensational, and there had been some rather unpleasant correspondence with Kerr the banker, as well as interviews with disappointed manufacturers who had been prepared to realize a large profit on the sale of their works to the corporation and were disposed to blame any one of the house of Halket now that the plan was frustrated; Floyd did not concern himself much with these complaints. But he made a special effort to conciliate the workmen at New Rome, and to bring about a better feeling in the mills; it seemed to him that any concession might be justified which would permit Colonel Halket to die in tranquillity. So he received the delegations and committees and told them he was convinced the only serious question that had for some time been at issue and had provoked a sense of general distrust was that of the combination; he assured them that Colonel Halket had withdrawn from that freely and entirely, realizing what a mistake he had contemplated, and chagrined at having failed to comprehend more immediately the attitude of the people. Floyd begged them to believe that the spirit of their employer towards them was as friendly as it had ever been, and asked them to be patient, since, during Colonel Halket's illness, he himself must assume all the responsibilities. Tustin kept himself in the background, and this made Floyd's conciliatory attitude more possible. He wondered somewhat at Tustin's restraint, and began to conceive a greater respect for the man's shrewdness and judgment; he expected to hear almost any day a demand from the union for Farrell's discharge. But so far as he could learn, Hugh did not suffer so much as a threat in consequence of his defiant speech; Floyd continued to wonder at Tustin's moderation. He spoke of it to Gregg; the superintendent was skeptical.
"They may not think it's the time for it now, but they'll knife him one of these days," Gregg said. "They've got their share of vindictiveness,—and they're schemers."
"Well," Floyd answered, "I have n't any great confidence in Tustin; but we don't need to worry—as long as Farrell does n't."
The hours when he was not at the office, attending to business, Floyd spent in his grandfather's room or within call; although the physicians had predicted no danger of a sudden sinking. Colonel Halket seemed better satisfied if Floyd was at hand. As the days went by, he grew too weak to be propped up at the window, and his pastime of feeding the birds and looking down on the park was denied him. Then he asked for Floyd more often.
"It must bore you, I know," he said one afternoon, "but I'd rather have you sitting in the room with me than the nurse. She's a good woman, but her cheerful incredulity whenever I mention my approaching end annoys me sometimes—a little, not much; nothing could annoy me much. It seems to me that when a man's dying, he's entitled to have everybody agree with him on everything—for once in his life. Instead of being disputed so obstinately on one or two minor points. You don't dispute me—that's why I get you in here so often and bore you."
"Oh, you don't bore me," Floyd said, with a laugh. "It's so calm and restful sitting here with you that I like it. In fact I think I like you sick better than well, Grandfather."
"I believe I agree with you; I like myself better," Colonel Halket said.
"We never used to be able to sit together idly this way," Floyd continued. "We were always too much preoccupied and bothered, and we had too many details to discuss—and differ about. But taking things easy and sort of dreaming along together—yes, I think you improve quite a lot on acquaintance."
"It's dying that does it," Colonel Halket replied philosophically. "I feel better myself—morally, that is—better pleased with myself. I've got so docile and submissive; and when you have n't been that way for years and years, it makes you feel virtuous. And another thing that makes you feel virtuous is knowing that your condition is bringing out the best in the people round you—I mean sympathy and compassion and all that sort of thing; and that gives you a human kind of pleasure, too. It seems to me that dying is just a gradual refining away of a man; there's less and less left of him every day, but what there is grows infinitely contented."
"Of course," said Floyd, "if it's good to live, it must also be good to die. For if it were n't, there would be a hideous, universal cruelty in the scheme of things that one simply can't believe."
"There's no cruelty," Colonel Halket answered. "It's all good. It's good if you fail—for then you give yourself up with relief to a pleasant resignation. It must be good if you succeed; for then you must know you've done what was implanted in you to do, you've fulfilled some inscrutable purpose, you're tired and sink comfortably down to rest. I've succeeded a little and failed a good bit—so I get a double satisfaction out of dying."
He smiled with an abstracted amusement and without any conscious glance inviting Floyd to share it.
"Grandmother was always afraid that you would some time have the disappointment of failure," Floyd observed. "She would be proud of you if she could only see the way you've met it."
"Ah, it's the serenity of dying," his grandfather answered. "And to think what a dread of death I've had all my life! Whenever a hearse has passed in the street, I've thought with a chill of the day when I should be lying in it; whenever I've been to a funeral I've always imagined it to be my funeral—and that always made it so much sadder! I've been a good churchman, but when I knelt to pray, it was with the heart of an agnostic; and when I thought of death, I was always afraid. But now—I'm as much an agnostic as ever, I suppose, but I don't feel afraid. At the very worst I'm only going to lay myself down close by my wife's side and sleep. It was good to do that in life,—and I haven't any fear—of lying asleep by her side forever."
He was silent for a few moments; then he asked,—
"What are your plans, Floyd?"
"My plans?" Floyd repeated, not understanding.
"Yes—when you have your freedom. For of course you have n't ever yet been free. It's going to be quite different for you now."
"I'll try to keep the mills running," Floyd answered. "That's as far as I've got with my plans."
"Ah, I don't mean the mills—I wasn't thinking of them. I've been thinking how little I know about you except in relation to the mills. I'm afraid I've never bothered myself much about your personal designs and desires."
"They've hardly been worth troubling anybody but myself with," Floyd said modestly.
"Oh, perhaps not well people," remarked Colonel Halket. "But sick people—might n't they be good enough to amuse sick people with?" he asked whimsically. "If I knew more about you, I might construct some sort of future for you in my imagination.—Are you interested in any girl?"
"Grandmother asked me that," Floyd answered. "And I had to tell her no."
"But the situation may have changed since then."
"Not materially." Floyd saw that his grandfather looked disappointed, and it at once seemed to him rather ungenerous to give the old man such negative replies. It was no doubt true that he wished employment for his mind and fancy, and if one could help him by supplying anything to build on, it was hardly less than a duty to do so. Prompted by this filial feeling, Floyd after a moment said awkwardly, "I suppose I know Marion Clark rather well. I like her very much—but I would n't say more than that."
"Marion Clark was a great favorite of your grandmother's," Colonel Halket said. "In fact, your grandmother mentioned her more than once to me in—in this connection." He smiled. "There was no better judge of women, Floyd."
"I daresay we shall never be more than friends," Floyd said cautiously. "Very likely I'll never have more than the friendly interest in her I have now; or very likely she would n't respond to anything more than that. I just meant that I knew her on the whole better than any other girl."
"You're a shy fellow; I don't believe you'd reveal to any one just what you really felt," Colonel Halket observed. "But you can't deceive me by any such old-man's talk about a friendly interest! You're not a cold-blooded youth to weigh the merits of a girl before deciding whether to fall in love with her or not. You've got too much healthy impetuosity for that, thank heaven."
"I wonder if I have, any longer!" Floyd thought moodily; he made no answer to his grandfather's comment, and presently Colonel Halket continued in a voice that was for him quite unusually sympathetic,—
"I'm glad to have this confidence, Floyd. It makes it easier—and more interesting for me."
Floyd, with an effort, assumed a humorous gayety.
"You must n't run round talking about it to people," he said. "For it has n't got so far as that."
"I won't," Colonel Halket promised with a faint smile. "If there's any way of hurrying it up, though—it would be a special favor."
"I'm afraid there's not very much hope of that."
"Why not? You're certainly in a better position to get married than most men of your age—and you don't need to feel there's any uncertainty about your future. Everything that's mine is to be yours—practically everything; of course there are some bequests; I was sure you would n't begrudge them."
"I'd rather you would n't leave me so much," said Floyd.
"You'll soon get used to managing it—and I can trust you to manage it well. Better to put it in the hands of one thoroughly responsible, competent person—who's not selfish—than spread it out among a lot of charities and institutions that I'll no longer be alive to watch. I'll be criticised, of course—but I haven't used my money entirely for myself—and leaving it to you won't be shutting it up in die family—though it may seem so. Well, there is one public bequest—a large one—that may stop the cynic's mouth—though God knows that's not its purpose." The old man, lying still on the pillow, winked away sudden tears. "I'm counting on you to give your attention to that, too," he said. "It's something you will be glad to do."
"Do you want to talk it over with me so that I may know what your idea is?" Floyd asked.
"No. I have n't developed it in any detail. I've had a lawyer collect for me all the data that I needed; it was Barstow; he's accurate; you'll be working on it with him and another. There's no use in my telling you about it now—any more than there is of my giving you advice about the works. I'd rather have you go at it without any hint from me; it will be better done."
"You don't need to feel such a sad certainty about that," Floyd said, with a laugh.
"I'm not sad because I'm so certain. I'm rather proud because I could have at the very end so big an idea; the idea's a fine one; even the conservative Barstow admits that. But it's better that I should rest contented with the idea. Besides, if it goes through we should both want to share in it; your share shall be in executing it."
"Considering the way I have frowned on some of your ideas in the past, I am very proud to be intrusted with the execution of this," said Floyd.
"Ah, this is different, quite different; you won't frown on this," Colonel Halket assured him. "I should n't take chances intrusting it to anybody about whose sympathy I could n't feel sure.—And Marion Clark would be a help, too," he added craftily. "Sympathetic and efficient; I should n't wonder, Floyd, if she had a touch of your grandmother's quality."
"Is the idea one that can afford to wait indefinitely?"
"Nonsense; why should it? You can afford not to wait. I see I'll have to make a codicil to the will—and offer you a bonus if you get married within a certain time.—Only I don't believe I can reach you by appealing to avarice.—Look here, Floyd,"—his playful tone turned more gentle and serious,—"perhaps you've got some little delicacy of feeling in mind, that yon ought n't immediately, you know, it would be more respectful to wait—that sort of sentiment, maybe. I hope you won't be influenced by that. I never have believed much in holding up the business—or even the amusements—of the world out of respect to the dead—and when it comes to delaying such a thing as marriage—it should n't be allowed; married life is always too short, anyway. I hope, Floyd, you'll respect my wishes, my sentiment, in this rather than a convention."
"I shall try to do that always," said Floyd, "whenever I am confronted with such a choice."
This ambiguous assurance seemed to satisfy Colonel Halket, who now turned his head away and looked silently out of the window.
"It's curious," he said after a while, "how interested one is in the affairs of life up to within a few hours of the moment when one passes into eternal ignorance—or"—he added faintly—"or—knowledge."
"That," Floyd said gently, "shows the nobility and courage of the man."
Colonel Halket did not seem to hear; by and by he began murmuring fragments of verse to himself—"'So sad, so fresh—That sinks with all we love below the verge—' How does it go?" he asked. "Those lines—Ah, wait: this is the part," and he repeated in a low voice, almost drowsily,—
"'As in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square—'
Ah, yes—dawn is the time—and let death come to me so!"
He lay for a long time quiet, with his face turned towards the window; he lay so still that at last Floyd thought he must be asleep. Floyd rose to tip-toe out of the room and summon the nurse. He had hardly taken a step when there was a movement on the pillow and his grandfather was looking up at him with wide-open eyes.
"Floyd," Colonel Halket said with a calm distinctness, "it would please me very much if some time you would bring Marion Clark in here to me—so that I could give you both my blessing."
"Oh, if we should ever get as far as that!" Floyd replied, with embarrassment.
"It would please me very much," Colonel Halket repeated obstinately. Then he added in a tired voice, "I think I will go to sleep."
Floyd left the room, feeling mortified at the position in which he had placed not only himself but also a girl. He was not in love with Marion Clark; he had merely thought to provide his grandfather with a little harmless interest by giving him her name; and instantly Colonel Halket had jumped to conclusions which it was not the least use to refute. Indeed Floyd had frankly to confess that his naming a girl at all was misleading; if you are n't in love with her, what are you, why do you mention her? he could imagine his grandfather's exclamation. Now Colonel Halket seemed cunningly determined to drive the matter to an issue, to perform one last friendly act for his grandson, who was exhibiting a pardonable want of self-confidence. Floyd feared lest his inability—or reluctance—to produce Marion for the bestowal of the proposed blessing might be construed by his grandfather as an ungrateful neglect of a dying man's wish; he feared the coercion of a last appeal to his sympathy. Obviously it would have to be denied, cruel though the denial might seem; he regretted now the mistaken kindness of furnishing Colonel Halket with a vain clue.
That had been done impulsively; the freedom of the act puzzled him. He would not have been so wanton as to suggest to his grandfather an attachment for which no foundation existed in fact; he admitted that at times the idea of substituting Marion for Lydia as an object of affectionate regard had possessed him speculatively; it had appealed to him at various moments by reason perhaps of its superior availability. At other times this had seemed a sufficient reason for its rejection; and then he had only to imagine the positive yes with which, if Marion were well disposed, she would accept a proposal of marriage,—and the very idea was unpleasant. Even when he had been most hospitably and considerately inclined towards it, he believed that the idea had for him mainly the value of a lay figure, on which he occasionally gave himself the pleasure of disposing and arranging at their best his most virtuous and domesticated sentiments; he believed that his interest was devoted to these trappings, which were his own possession, and to making a good show of them, rather than to the figure which all unawares participated in the display. He believed that he was exercising and airing his agreeable sentiments just as one might at intervals wear a long-folded suit of clothes merely to keep it always fresh.
He was disturbed to think that he could have recklessly intimated an interest in a girl when he had so cynical a conception of the depth and permanence of his feeling for her. It was almost as if he had committed himself by an insincere avowal of affection. It annoyed and perplexed him to think how naturally and spontaneously, in response to his grandfather's pressure, Marion's name had rushed to his lips.
After all, Floyd was destined to escape without further awkwardness from the difficulty of the situation which he had created. Colonel Halket made only one reference to Marion after the conversation which has been described. This was two days later, when he remarked that he thought Floyd was spending too much time at home with him and was neglecting somebody more interesting. "There is n't a great deal more time," he added. "I hope you will hurry up; I'm sure you need n't feel backward. It would be a pleasure to me, Floyd."
The wistfulness of the suggestion wrung the young man's heart; he could make no answer, and Colonel Halket did not press him further.
The next morning Colonel Halket began to fail rapidly; in twenty-four hours he had passed into a doze from which he was never wholly roused; and three days later he died, as he had hoped, at dawn.