The morning after the entertainment at Hall's Opera House Gareth came down to breakfast in a state of high excitement. He, too, had passed a sleepless night. He found his father hidden behind the spread-out sheet of the Morning Star. His mother was drinking her coffee.
Good morning, mother, he said, as he bent over her chair to kiss her.
Good morning, Gareth dear.
Good morning, father.
Morning, Henry Johns grunted rather than greeted; nor did he remove the paper which masked his face.
Gareth began to excavate an orange with a spoon.
What awful stuff they gave that wonderful woman last night, mother.
Mrs. Johns was a little uncertain how to take this remark. She tried, conscientiously, simply because she loved him, to mould her taste on Gareth's, but she sometimes faltered in her attempts to understand this taste. Further, she did not want this taste to drift too far abroad, to cease entirely to discover interest in such things as it was possible to admire in Maple Valley.
Professor Hendricks was quite good, I thought, she advanced timidly.
O, not bad, not bad for Maple Valley, that is, but think of him having the nerve to play before her. Why, she's probably heard Rubinstein and Paderewski . . . may be even Liszt. And think of Clara singing to a woman who has listened to Melba and Calvé.
I see what you mean, Gareth. Are you ready for your coffee?
Yes, mother.
Mary made some of your favourite graham gems.
Presently, Mr. Johns laid down his paper, poured some coffee out of his cup into his saucer, permitted it to cool for a few seconds, and took a great gulp. Then he growled: How much longer do you intend to waste your time, young man?
That's what I want to know, father. If I'm going to college I ought to be preparing for exams.
So you haven't got that fool idea out of your head yet?
Not yet, father.
Henry, Mrs. Johns interrupted anxiously, do let the boy go. He wants to so bad.
I suppose I've got to let him do every blessed thing he wants to. Mr. Johns's tone was sarcastic.
No, of course not, but this is more important than most things, Henry, Mrs. Johns pleaded.
Well, I don't see it at all. Wasting his time going to . . . Henry Johns shook out the Star and pointed to the double column story on the front page. What good is it going to do any one going to affairs like this? Good! It's bad for him!
Why, Henry, everybody was there. Dr. Sinclair and . . .
I suppose you call that old rake everybody!
The Atkinsons, Mrs. Townsend . . .
That old battle-face! Thinks she runs the town. Actually came to see me before the last election to ask me how I was going to vote.
Henry, let's not talk about last night any more. Please, try to see this thing my way for once. You know there are two sides to every question. Now, Gareth has set his heart on going to college, and I want to help him go. Every teacher he had in High School says he's the one boy in his class that ought to go. It's hard for me to give him up, harder, you know, than it is for you, but when his interest is at stake I'm not selfish . .
O, yes, I know! He's not my son. He's nothing to do with me! He's yours, all right. Henry Johns was working himself up into a magnificent rage. Well, we'll see. He turned suddenly to Gareth: Young man, you come down to my office this morning and go to work.
Father! Gareth and his mother both knew that if he worked in the office this summer he would work there all his life.
Henry, you don't mean it, Mrs. Johns expostulated.
I do mean it. Get your hat, Gareth. You're coming along with me. I'm tired of your nonsense. It's about time you had some manliness knocked into you.
Henry Johns rose from the table without folding his napkin. He was in a furious temper. Gareth stole a look at his mother and what he saw in her face alarmed him more than anything his father had said. Her complexion had turned an ashy green. She began to groan: O! the pains have come back! She pressed her hand against her side, and tears of anguish rolled down her cheeks.
Why, Gertrude! In his crude, awkward way, Mr. Johns was as much alarmed as his son. Gareth, run for the doctor!
Mother! Mother! Gareth cried, I'll have him here right away. He rushed out of the door.
Mr. Johns, in a futile effort to alleviate his wife's suffering, began to rub her hands. She was now unconscious. She was loosely dressed in a morning robe, without stays, but he unfastened this, opening her collar. Then he carried her into the sitting-room, where he laid her gently on a couch.
Gertrude, he addressed her inanimate figure, I'm sorry I said what I did. Perhaps, I didn't mean it. We'll see.
Presently Dr. Sinclair, who, in spite of his unsavoury reputation, was the only good physician in Maple Valley, consequently including among his patients many of his most vehement defamers, arrived. His first act was to order father and son out of the room, while he opened his black bag, removing instruments and vials and tubes, and prepared to make an examination of the sick woman. Henry Johns returned to the dining-room and lit a cigar; Gareth went out to the front porch. Mr. Arlington, the old Negro, was cutting the grass. His mother was mortally ill, probably dying, and yet everything went on as usual, the sun shone, the flowers bloomed, the birds sang, and Mr. Arlington was cutting the grass. The persistent clutter of the lawn-mower distracted Gareth's attention for a second or two. He felt deadened, almost forgetting who he was or where he was. Then a fresh burst of grief almost stopped the beating of his heart. Mother! Mother! he whispered. Don't die! He vowed to himself that he would follow out his father's wishes rather than submit his mother to another such scene.
Chet Porter passed the house, a tennis racket under his arm.
Come on an' play tennis, Gareth, he called out.
Can't.
Aw, come on. What's the matter?
Don't feel like it this morning.
Chet strolled on, unconcernedly whistling, I want you, ma honey, yes, I do.
Gareth, his senses numbed, rocked back and forth in the great porch chair. Presently, Dr. Sinclair opened the screen-door, and emerged with his black bag.
Gareth rose. How's mother? he asked.
The crisis is past. She's better, but she must be kept quiet all day. Don't talk to her. Ive got her in bed, and she'll soon be asleep. Ive given her some drops. Where's your father?
I don't know. Inside, I guess. Do you want me to get him? Can't I do anything?
Nothing to do, sonny, but leave her alone. She needs rest. Later, well, perhaps in a month or two, we'll see, we can take her to the hospital. It's her only hope . . . an operation. But she's not fit for it now. Her heart . . . Sonny, did anything happen to excite her?
Yes, said Gareth, something did.
Family squabble?
Yes, Gareth replied.
It mustn't happen again, the doctor warned him, gravely. She might not be able to withstand another attack.
Henry Johns appeared in the doorway. Well, doctor? he queried anxiously.
Mother's asleep, father, Gareth explained. She's better, he added.
Must go along, the doctor said. I've got to see another patient. Gareth will tell you all about it. I'll drop in again after supper tonight. If there's more trouble . . . where won't be if she's left alone . . . send for me.
The younger man turned to the older. Father, he said, I've decided to do what you want me to, to go into the office with you, if you'll wait till tomorrow when mother's better. I don't want to leave her today. Father . . . his voice became more impassioned now . . . the doctor says any excitement is likely to kill mother. If we had another row like the one we had this morning, she isn't strong enough to stand it.
Like most obstinate men, Johns invariably crumbled under this kind of reproach. There was even a suspicion of hoarseness in his voice as he replied. Nothing's settled. Nothing's decided. You've got time. College don't begin till fall. We'll let things go on as they are for a little while.
Mother's in bed, Gareth continued, disregarding his father's advances. The doctor's coming back later. He's given her something to quiet her nerves, and he says she must be left alone.
Henry Johns began to fumble awkwardly with the great walrus-tooth charm attached to his watch-chain. After a moment, he said, Well, good-bye, Gareth. I may as well go down to the office. If anything happens—if your mother gets worse, let me know. You can ride down on your bicycle. I must have a telephone put in; it'll be easier to get the doctor then. What if anything happened in the night? I'll be home for dinner.
Rather more self-consciously pompous than ever, Henry Johns started off down the cement walk, under the spreading boughs of the box-elders and cottonwoods. Gareth stared at the retreating figure. He was immediately aware that he hated his father more in this kindly aspect than he did when the man was his active enemy. There was something sickeningly inadequate and stupidly weak about these changes of front which always occurred after his father had been particularly unpleasant. Gareth settled back into his chair on the verandah, musing. Life was beginning to appear desperately unattractive to him. If, as he had promised, he went into business with his father that would mean the end of all his plans. On the other hand, supposing his father relented, now that his mother was so hopelessly ill, he could not go away. Whichever way he turned he seemed still imprisoned in this dull, sordid village. For the future, so it appeared, his study in the barn would be his only form of distraction, and that would only serve to remind him of the career he wanted to carve out in the world away from this narrow, provincial town. He thought of Lennie Colman and what she had meant to him, but now that he had analyzed her feeling for him he had acquired a faint distaste for Lennie Colman. Besides, he coldly considered, she had nothing more to give him. He was telling her what books to read now; he was more familiar with the theatres in New York and Chicago, the stars and their plays, than she was. He was, to put it bluntly, more important to Lennie Colman than she was to him. One single method of escape from his bondage seemed to offer itself: the Countess Nattatorrini had asked him to call. She had appeared to be interested in him; she had even exhibited enthusiasm. In any case he could scarcely foresee what this introduction might lead to. She might not like him once she had' seen him again; she might leave town any day. His brow knit with a fierce despair; after all, now, with his mother ill, whatever happened was of little import. He watched the old Negro, Mr. Arlington, marching up and down the lawn, pushing the heavy lawn-mower slowly in front of him, the clipped grass falling in showers on either side. In the back of his mind a dull anxiety persisted, that worry, that fear, which is more insidious, more dangerous to the system, than real physical pain. Today, his life seemed a hopeless muddle with which he had nothing at all to do. He had come to an impasse.
Rising from his chair, Gareth softly tiptoed up the carpeted steps until he stood before the closed door of his mother's chamber. Opening this door with the greatest precaution to be noiseless, he peeped into the partially darkened room. His mother lay on the bed, her hands by her sides, her face paler and more waxlike than he remembered ever to have seen it before. There was something in her appearance and her position which reminded him of death, and the ghost of a smile which hovered about her lips did not serve to destroy this impression. Did not dead people smile?
He returned to his seat on the verandah. Clara Barnes was passing.
Hello, Gareth.
Hello, Clara.
Did you hear me last night?
Yes. He descended from the porch and joined her on the side-walk. I can't yell, he explained. Mother's asleep. Yes, I heard you. You had quite a little triumph, Clara. When are you going to Chicago?
In September, Gareth.
And some day you'll be singing in opera. . . .
In two years, Gareth.
I've never yet heard an opera . . . but I know about them all. I can tell you why Melba sang Brinnhilde in Siegfried only once. I know about Nordica's row with Jean de Reszke. I've got all their pictures, he concluded lamely.
In a few years, Gareth, I'll send you mine. I'm going to be as great as any of them. You'll see. I'd like to look at your pictures again, Gareth. Show them to me, will you?
Now? he asked, not with much enthusiasm.
Why yes, she replied, let's.
He led the way slowly back to the barn. As they passed through the doorway, she said, It's been a long time since I've been up here with you, Gareth.
He did not reply, but stood back to allow her to pass ahead of him up the stairs.
Why, Gareth, she exclaimed, as she entered the apartment, how nicely you've got it fixed up! I haven't been up here since . . .
Chet Porter used to chin himself on the trapeze, he finished her sentence quickly.
I've been here since then, she corrected him.
Again he did not reply.
What a lot of books you've got, Clara went on, her eyes roving about. I love to read.
Who's your favourite author?
Shakespeare, Clara responded promptly. I'm reading his plays straight through.
Who's your favourite modern author?
She appeared to be considering her answer. After hesitating a moment, she replied, Du Maurier, I guess. I just loved Trilby. She was a singer, you know.
Gareth opened a drawer in his old desk and drew out a big scrap-book. These are all opera stars in here, he said. I've cut them out of the Illustrated American, the Standard, Munsey's, all the magazines I could get hold of. As he and Clara seated themselves in adjacent chairs he opened the book, pointing out pictures of Melba in Pagliacci, Eames as the Countess in Figaro, Chartran's drawing of Jean de Reszke as Siegfried, Zélie de Lussan as Carmen, Clémentine de Vere as Doña Elvira, Félia Litvinne in Le Cid, Jean Lassalle in Les Huguenots, Calvé as Ophelia. Clara, who had asked to see these pictures, did not appear to be very much interested in examining them, after all. Crossing her massive ankles, she placed her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair.
I will be a great singer some day, Gareth greater than any of these. I will sing at the Metropolitan Opera House and you will come to hear me. Just think, she terminated, I go to Chicago in September!
Gareth was not much impressed by this fanfare; he had discovered long since that his interest in people depended entirely on what they had to give him, and assuredly Clara could give him nothing more. He found her misplaced ambition a little vulgar. She had no adaptability; she was stupid; she was smug; she lived in castles constructed of smoke. Melba, Nordica, and Eames meant nothing to her except names of singers who were older than she and consequently were finishing their careers just when she was nearly ready to begin her own.
Gareth . . . Clara's voice was tender.
What is it? His thought took a new turning, reverting to the Countess. How soon, he wondered, could he decently call on her?
Gareth, you're not nice to me any more.
I'm just the same as I always was. Would a week, he questioned himself, be too soon, a week from today? Considering this, he decided that a week would not be too soon.
No, you're not, Clara pouted coquettishly. You used to kiss me.
Don't be foolish, Clara. Five or six days . . . After all, why not day after tomorrow, or tomorrow?
He shut the book hastily, the book which neither had been looking at for some time, and replaced it in the drawer. He was too conscious of Clara's thick ankles, of the effect her presence produced in this room, to be very comfortable. The atmosphere of Maple Valley seemed to have invaded it. How could he ever . . . ? Thinking back, he realized that she had given him a kind of knowledge. He had not made a mistake. The mistake would be to continue something that was over.
Come, Clara, he urged. Mother is sick. I must go see how she is getting on.
I thought you said she was asleep.
I am supposed to be taking care of her.
He led the way down the old staircase out into the bright sunlight. Mr. Arlington was now cutting the grass in the back-yard, and Bessie, the hired-girl, was seated on the back porch, chopping something in a wooden bowl, and singing a Bohemian melody to herself. Gareth bade a hasty good-bye to the astonished Clara and vanished through the kitchen door. He did not, however, visit his mother, whom he believed to be still asleep, but after walking slowly through the house, slowly enough to give Clara time to disappear down the street, he emerged on the front porch and sat down in the great rocker again.
Tomorrow. Yes, he would go tomorrow. The Countess was his last chance. If she did not interest him nothing else would, and now, with his mother seriously ill, he was committed to a life in Maple Valley. If the Countess did not offer him a spiritual escape from this humdrum existence he might as well go to work for his father, conform himself to the town traditions, become an Elk, an Episcopalian, and a Republican. He smiled dismally as he considered the prospect, adding to himself bitterly, I might even grow to like it. After a little more meditation in this morbid vein, he heard the noon whistles of the factories blowing, the bells of the schools ringing in different tones all over town. It was the hour for the midday meal: his father came up the walk.
Is your mother better, Gareth? Mr. Johns asked.
She's still asleep, I think, Gareth replied.
They went into the house together. Ulis father washed his hands in a little wash-room which opened off the hall, just inside the vestibule door. Gareth turned over the leaves of a magazine on the sitting-room table. A bell tinkled to warn them that dinner was ready, and the two men sat down before the laden board. It was a very rare occurrence for them to eat alone together. Indeed, at the moment, Gareth could not remember that it had happened before for at least a year. His father, as a consequence, was somewhat embarrassed, but Gareth was perfectly at ease. Some people acquire poise, some never do, but Gareth had been born with it.
For dinner, there was hot veal-loaf (what remained would be served cold, garnished with parsley, for supper), boiled potatoes in cream, asparagus chopped into minute bits and stewed in milk and butter, minced lettuce and cabbage, swimming in vinegar and seasoned with salt and pepper, and hot baking-powder biscuit. In the absence of his mother, Gareth poured the tea.
There's hope for the country if the Dingley tariff bill passes, his father was making conversation. Mr. Johns never knew what to talk about with Gareth. Cleveland and the Democrats left this country in pretty bad shape . . . McKinley's doing what he can . . . Mark Hanna . . . that fool Bryan . . . may be war with Spain . . . ought to do something about Cuba . . . everybody rushing to the Klondike . . . fools . . . not enough food . . . they'll die of starvation. . . .
Gareth did not find it necessary to apply his mind to this conversation. He merely interjected a yes or a no occasionally and went on thinking about the Countess. Why not, he asked himself, go today? He must satisfy his curiosity. He could wait no longer. His impatience grew. First, Clara Barnes, now his father. Nearly every one in Maple Valley talked nonsense. Yes, he determined, he would go today, unless his mother was worse. He could be back before the doctor arrived in the evening.
After the bread-pudding, Johns senior retired to the sitting-room, extended himself on the couch and soon began to snore. It was his invariable custom to sleep every day after his heavy midday meal. Gareth tiptoed softly upstairs to peep into his mother's room. Apparently, she had not moved. Her arms still lay relaxed by her sides; her face retained its waxy pallor and the pleasant smile. Gareth observed, however, that her bosom rose and fell regularly with her breath. Under the power of the opiate that the doctor had given her she seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She would continue, probably, to sleep until evening, when her nerves would 'be quiet and the pain gone. Gareth withdrew to his own bedroom and sat by the window until he saw his father off down the street; then he returned to his rocking-chair on the front porch.
About four o'clock he began to make preparations to go out. He dressed himself in a white linen shirt, a high stiff collar with a tied, white Ascot cravat, which fastened in the back, a blue serge, double-breasted suit, and high, patent-leather boots, with pointed toes. His hair was carefully brushed and parted in the centre. Last, he adjusted his broad, straw sailor. Before departing, he gave, for reassurance, one more glance into his mother's chamber; then he sallied forth down the street.
At the corner of Brewster Street and Pleasant Avenue, only two blocks above Lou Poore's house, he encountered the one person he had the least desire to meet, especially today, Lennie Colman. He would have avoided the meeting, had he had sufficient warning of her approach, but she had turned the corner so suddenly that she was upon him before escape was possible. Fortunately, however, she was headed in the opposite direction to that he was taking.
Good afternoon, Gareth, she said, and he noted a suspiciously tremulous quality in her voice.
Good afternoon, Miss Colman.
Both stopped, but there was silence for a moment. Then the school-teacher asked: Well, how did you like the Countess? Lennie's manner was far from easy or assured.
O, all right. I just wanted to meet her. He spoke casually.
She asked you to call . . .
Yes.
Are you going to?
I don't know. I don't suppose she meant it.
Gareth, she reproached him, you haven't been to see me for days.
Mother's sick, you know.
No, I didn't. I'm so sorry. Is she in bed?
Yes . . . I'm going on an errand for her now.
In that case, of course, I mustn't keep you. She hesitated, and then went on awkwardly, I was going to ask you to come home with me and drink a pitcher of lemonade.
I can't today. I'm sorry.
Some other day . . . soon.
They bade each other farewell and went their separate ways, but Gareth walked very slowly and did not ascend the stone steps leading to the Poores' house until Lennie had disappeared over the brow of the hill. As he stood on the porch, about to ring the bell, two voices in unison from across the street sang out, Where did you get that hat? Those awful twins, Gareth muttered to himself, but he did not turn around. When Anna, answering the door, informed him that the Countess was out, he regretted that he had not followed his first instinct of waiting longer before accepting her invitation to call. He had overlooked the possibility of this contretemps. He fumbled for a card and left it with the maid. As he walked away he felt very dismal. It would now be impossible for him to repeat his call on the Countess for at least a week, and since he had come so near to seeing her he realized quite fully what a week's waiting would mean to him.
That evening, after Gareth and his father had eaten their cold supper together, Dr. Sinclair returned. Mrs. Johns had awakened at last. She was weak, but the pain was gone, her nerves were quiet. You'll be better in the morning, the doctor assured her, but to her husband he said. She must undergo that operation as soon as she is strong enough. 'That's her only chance. Dr. Sinclair was fond of making brutal remarks to the relatives of his patients, the more so because he was entirely cognizant of their real opinions concerning his private life.
Gareth did not hear this bad news immediately. When the physician departed, he was sitting on the front porch, rocking back and forth in the big chair. His father was somewhere upstairs preparing for bed. What an awful day! Gareth reviewed its events; first, his father's temper, then his mother's illness, Clara Barnes's visit, the unfortunate encounter with Lennie Colman, and finally his frustrated call on the Countess.
Presently, down the street, he descried William, Lou Poore's hired-man, approaching; he was utterly astonished when William turned into the private walk leading to the Johns' porch.
Are you Master Johns? William inquired grufily.
Gareth blushed. It had been a long time since any one had addressed him as master.
I am Gareth Johns, he replied.
Same thing, growled William. Here's a letter fer yeh!
The man dispossessed himself of a large, square envelope and departed without saying another word.
Gareth examined the envelope: in high, sprawling letters he saw his name inscribed, followed by Esq., and below was written, By messenger. He tore the envelope open. At the head of the paper in one corner of the sheet he noted the Nattatorrini crest: a stork clutching a snake in one of its claws while he destroyed it with his beak, and the motto: Unguibus et Rostro. The lines which followed he read again and again:
My Dear Mr. Johns:
I am so sorry that I missed you today. I was out such a little while. I do not want to miss you next time and so I am suggesting an occasion when you may find me at home. If you have nothing better to do, drop in tomorrow evening after supper. Eight o'clock will not be too early. Hoping to see you then, I remain