IV

As old Nicholas arose from the table that Saturday night, he said, no more to his tall grandson than to himself, “I am glad I could live until now!”

The past eight years had been dreadfully unhappy for him. It was not that there had been fresh reasons for unhappiness, but leisure to realize how much of life’s solider satisfactions he had missed.

From his ’teens until his retirement from the business he had organized, Merrick’s consuming passion had been concerned with the development of a great industry; an enterprise singularly difficult in that it lacked the natural guidance of established precedents. There were rules to be made for it, but none to be followed. It was a business without an ancestry.

Men who dealt with any product in the field of ceramics had thousands of years of good tradition back of them. Weavers, tanners, jewellers, masons; builders of houses, ships, cathedrals; growers of grain, fruit, cattle⁠—these people could plot their economic curve and determine future policies by past experience. It was not so of motors.

The rise of that industry had been meteoric, dramatic! A prosperous young bicycle factory turned its attention to the experimental manufacture of a horseless carriage, as a tentative sideline. Young Merrick’s stockholders were frankly sceptical of the venture in the face of public hilarity over the noisy, undependable, cumbersome, dangerous gasoline buggy.

And then⁠—one day⁠—the power-driven vehicle was suddenly an accepted fact. But the distance between the fox-statured eohippus and the draft horse was no wider than that of the evil-smelling little rattle-trap of an automobile, when Nicholas Merrick first made its acquaintance, and the strong, swift, silent, streamline motorcar which eventually developed.

Its evolution involved hazards as foolhardy as investments at Monte Carlo. A bewildering succession of revolutionizing inventions made the business over, again and again, while investors wrung their hands and shrieked discordant counsel into the ears of apprehensive directors. Costly machinery, installed yesterday, would be scrapped today to be replaced by costlier tomorrow. Those were days when the man who bore the final responsibility for such a chaotic enterprise found that twenty-four hours’ devotion to business was demanded by this unprecedented industry, plunging impetuously over an uncharted course, narrowly skirting ruin every few weeks, and turning sharp corners every day.

Responsive to general clamour, prophetic of great fortunes to be made, innumerable companies hastily entered the motor-mart where competition became merciless, unscrupulous. Disaster was inevitable for all but a few of the keenest, the bravest, the luckiest. Merrick experienced all the anxiety of a pioneer leading a long wagon-train of scared emigrants across a trackless desert without a compass. For fully thirty years, but little of his time or thought had been deflected from his exacting responsibility.

When, therefore, at seventy-two, he wearily dismounted from the tiger he had ridden⁠—an event which called for a brilliant complimentary banquet at the Chamber of Commerce in the suburban town of Axion⁠—he was a very tired old man with a fortune estimated at twenty millions, a high blood pressure, and a large stock of disquieting memories.

Clif⁠ ⁠… God!⁠—what a tragedy!⁠ ⁠… Clif’s mother⁠—a timid, brown thrush of a woman⁠—had died when the boy was twelve. Nicholas had scarcely missed her. They had built the big shops, that year. He saw little of the boy. Occasionally there would be a brief and stormy session⁠—Nicholas violently hortatory, Clifford calmly insolent⁠—but nothing ever came of it beyond estrangement.

Nobody could say he had not done his utmost to surround his son with opportunities. Surely if money could have done it, Clif had a chance. Nicholas had always silenced his own misgivings with that reply.

“God knows I’ve spent enough on him!⁠ ⁠… I can’t nurse him, myself!”

But now that enforced idleness had brought opportunity for serious reflection, Nicholas milled it all over, elbows on knees, empty hands dangling. The old alibi was no good. Nor was there any reasonable expectation of better things to be expressed by the new generation. Bobby was a lovable youngster, to be sure. Nicholas rejoiced in his steady wit, his winning smile, his unfailing consideration of his grandfather’s moods, but he gave no promise of success. Beyond the fact that he played the piano like a professional artist, possessed an unusual capacity for making and retaining friendships, and had contrived to finish his college course, Bobby held out no encouragement that he would ever do anything worth a thought. He would drive and drink, gamble and golf, hunt and fish, marry some dizzy, dissipated, scarlet-lipped little flapper and tire of her; he would summer in Canada, winter in Cannes, clip his coupons, confer with his tailor, subsidize the symphony orchestra, appear on the stationery of a few charities and on the platform when the Republican candidate for President came to town; and, ultimately, be pushed into a crypt in the big, echoing, gothic mausoleum alongside Clifford, the waster.

Oh, there had been an occasional ray of hope; a mere phosphorescence; just enough to make the darkness a little more dense when the flash was over.

On the last day of his grandson’s senior year⁠ ⁠… it was a mid-year class, with ceremonies deferred until commencement⁠ ⁠… Nicholas had driven over to the little city of the State University, lunching with his old-time friend the head of the Department of Chemistry. He had straightened and beamed when Professor Garland said, “I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, Merrick, but that wild young cub of yours has the making of a chemist.”

“Honest? Speak to him about it; won’t you, Garland? It would mean more⁠—coming from you!”

Garland had made a lengthy rite of mixing his tea and hot water before replying, “Chemistry’s hard work, old chap! Your boy knows he doesn’t have to work!”

And when Nicholas’ face fell, Garland added, consolingly, “You can’t blame him. Why should he put on a rubber apron and puddle in nasty stews and noxious stinks when he can get some joy out of life.”

Tonight a great weight had been lifted from old Nicholas. He had not been prepared for the news of his good fortune, and though his spirit sang, his sagging shoulders testified to the gravity of the load he had now thrown off. He laid a brown, parchment-coloured hand affectionately on Bobby’s arm, and together they sauntered from the dining-room into the spacious library. This was the old man’s sanctuary. The walls were covered, literally from walnut-beamed ceiling to Chinese rug, with cases filled with unexcelled and unexplored classic literature. The mental pabulum on which Nicholas fed, these days, consisted for the most part of mystery stories strangely alike in plot and technique. It was not that Nicholas had no mind for better reading. It was only that he was tired of thinking.

They strolled into the library, and the weary old fellow sank with a sigh into the depths of his favourite chair. A gaudy-jacketed detective story lay, face downward, on the table. Bobby took it up, read its title aloud, and grinned.

“Light, Grandpère?”

He offered a flame at the tip of the old man’s cigar.

“Exciting yarn?”

Nicholas puffed energetically for a moment, like a leaky bellows, and replied, “The inspector is just questioning the cook, Bobby, and she says she knows the shot was fired at exactly eleven-ten, because that is the time she always puts out the cat.”

“You should be pretty well acquainted with the kitchen habits of that cook, by this time, Grandpère. It’s the same one, isn’t it, in all these stories?”

“By no means, sir,” protested Nicholas. “The last cook was a man!”

Bobby was restless to be by himself and eager to divert his grandfather to his novel so that he might escape. The emotional strain of the past hour had been decidedly wearing. The confidence he had extended to the old man represented many days of serious thought; and nights too when he had paced his room for hours considering his tentative decision from every possible angle of objection. Now that he had resolved upon his course, it was only fair that he should inform his grandfather. He had done so. He had made a conscious effort to avoid a dramatic moment. He hated scenes; he had been brought up on them. But old Nicholas had passed through quite too much despair and anxiety not to be raised to an exalted mood by the young fellow’s calm announcement of a programme committing him to a task at once expensively sacrificial and, as to duration, interminable.

For a moment, after Bobby had flung out the words, the old man had sat stupefied and incredulous. He had put down his fork. His jaw sagged and his chin chopped up and down as in a shaking palsy. The deep wrinkles about his mouth had joined the wrinkles about his eyes, in a series of half-circles, as he peered across the table. He dug his gnarled old fingers into the snowy cloth, rested his weight on his elbows and demanded, in a rasping treble, “How’s that, Robert? I don’t believe I caught what you just said! Say that again!”

Bobby had said it again, slowly, calmly, convincingly. Old Nicholas’ seamed face twitched, and he rubbed the corners of his cavernous eyes with the back of his mottled hand.

“You are a brave boy!” he said, his voice breaking.

Then, ashamed of his weakness, he violently cleared his throat, straightened his back, and declared with dignity, “I congratulate you, sir! I cannot remember when any member of my tribe has made a decision of greater moment than yours! May God⁠—bless you!” The benediction was spoken with a quaver⁠ ⁠… It was almost too much for both of them.

For an hour thereafter, Bobby had outlined his future plans with a breadth of scope and clarity of detail certifying to the vast amount of time and thought he had spent on them, the old man following every word with eager nods of his leonine head, and occasional hard bangings of his fist upon the table to emphasize his approval. “Yes, sir,” he would shout, tumultuously, “you can do it! You will do it! You have it in you! I always thought you had!” His mood was reminiscent of the good old days when it required a deal of table-pounding to convince the directors that a radical and immediate change of policy was necessary to meet new conditions, no matter what it cost.

Now that the first tidal wave of enthusiasm had broken and surfed, Bobby wanted the subject temporarily dismissed. He had lived with his problem⁠—eaten it, dreamed it, walked the floor with it, gone to the mat with it, cajoled it, cursed it, for a month; and, having now brought it to something like a climax, he was ready to see it tabled.

Sensing his grandson’s restlessness as he stood toying with a paperweight, Nicholas deliberately located his place in the book, meticulously polished his glasses, and smiled a very obvious adieu.

“Think I’ll step out for a little stroll, if you are to be reading, Grandpère,” said Bobby.

Nicholas nodded several times; puffed noisily, contentedly, buried himself in his story.

Immediately Bobby’s back was turned, however, he put down the book and stared after the receding figure, his old eyes wide with a new interest to which he had not yet become accustomed. Bobby looked back, as he passed through the doorway, and grinned. Nicholas caught up his book, frowned heavily over some abstruse passage he had just come upon, and puffed mightily on his long cigar.

Changing his pumps for tennis shoes and his dinner coat for a light sweater, Bobby let himself out through the carriage door, upon the driveway. There was a half moon in an unclouded sky and a few fireflies. He trudged aimlessly on the drive, left it for the grass, wandered along the narrow path by the rose arbor, found himself near the huge twin pillars of the gate, strolled out upon the highway. It was not a busy thoroughfare, but a narrow, gravelled motor-road serving chiefly the widely-spaced country estates fronting on the western shore of the lake. It was very quiet tonight. Hands in pockets, head tilted forward in moody meditation, he strode along indifferent to his random journey, his eyes becoming accommodated to the gloom.

He was glad he had told his grandfather. Tomorrow he would drive down to Brightwood and tell Nancy Ashford. It was like having strong anchors to windward that these two people should share his secret. He hoped Nancy Ashford would be content to say, “Very proper! Much as I expected!” and let it go at that. He wasn’t much of a success in moments crammed with sentimentality. It was all right in the case of Grandpère, of course. He was an old man, and a bit mellow. But he hoped Nancy would be sensible.

Bobby had walked a mile. A hundred yards ahead of him, at a sharp bend of the road, a pair of glaring headlights tilted at a precarious angle indicated that a car had listed heavily to starboard⁠ ⁠… In the ditch, he surmised. He heard the sudden churning of the motor, as power was violently applied to impotent wheels. “Green driver,” he reflected. Again the roar of the straining motor proclaimed that somebody was making a bad matter no better. “Fool!” he muttered; and quickened his steps.

Evidently the driver had sighted him, and, unsure of his intentions, was making a final effort at extrication before he reached the car; for, as he came within a few feet of it, the engine fairly bellowed with exasperation and the big coupé shuddered. There was a young woman at the wheel.

“My God, sister,” shouted Bobby, when the racket had subsided, “don’t do that any more!”

Sister accepted the admonition with wide eyes into which Bobby now gazed interestedly at close range. She smiled, and he reconsidered his earlier opinion of her. She was probably unaccustomed to driving in soft gravel; unacquainted with its treacheries; might be a most excellent driver almost anywhere else.

“Is it really down very deep?” she inquired, with anxiety.

There was a curious huskiness in her voice that gave it an intimate, just-between-us, confidential timbre.

Bobby walked to the rear and looked.

“Very!” he declared. “To the hub. Your differential is flat on the ground.”

Her face was perplexed. “I don’t know what that is,” she admitted, “but I’m sure it shouldn’t be.”

“No,” said Bobby paternally, “they do better when they’re up off the road.”

She sighed, and dabbed at a warm neck with a trifle of lace.

“It’s my fault, I suppose,” ruefully, “I was driving rather fast; and at that sharp turn a car came whopping toward me with the sort of lights they use on aviation fields. I turned out, slipped off⁠ ⁠…”

“And here you are!” finished Bobby. “Lucky you didn’t upset. You might have been badly hurt.”

She searched his shadowed face, slightly stirred by the note of concern for her safety⁠ ⁠… might be safer without it. What she saw caused her no anxiety.

“Well, at least we have no broken bones to worry about. All I have to do now is to get this car back on the road. Anything to suggest? I’m awfully helpless about such things. Not meaning,” she added quickly, “that I’m in the habit of ditching my car.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” said Bobby encouragingly. “This gravel is very slippery.”

“What do you think I’d better do?” she asked, in a tone that quite relinquished all further responsibility into his hands.

It was as if she had leaned her slight weight against him. For the past half hour, he had been thinking himself the loneliest, most utterly detached person on earth. His important resolution had quite cut him off from his habitual round of interests, but had not yet keyed him on to any new ones. Nobody had ever been so desperately in need of friendship.

He rested an elbow on the ledge of the open window and became whimsically didactic.

“In cases like this, when the local power-plant has proved insufficient, it is customary to seek aid. One calls in the neighbours. They, having suspected all along that their services might be required, have gone early to bed, and must be pounded out with loud noises and the offer of a king’s ransom. Having bathed, shaved, dressed and breakfasted, they come, growling, with a snorting tractor⁠ ⁠…”

“And when they are all ready to pull, the towline breaks, and they must drive the tractor to town for another.”

“Something like that,” agreed Bobby.

“Your advice seems clear,” she said, matching his mood. “First, one goes for the neighbours.” She tallied the item on her fingers. “But which one?”

“Which one of the neighbours?” Bobby countered with a chuckle. “Or which one of us?⁠ ⁠… I’ll go, of course, gladly. But,” he added commandingly, “you’re coming along! I won’t have you out here alone in a stalled car!”

It was spoken spontaneously. Doubtless it meant nothing more than an unintentionally peremptory way of saying he considered it unsafe for her to be left by herself on this unfrequented road. But the fervent phrasing of it, the implied possessorship he had put into his “I won’t have you out here alone” brought her a queer sensation. Nobody had ever used precisely that tone with her before. She felt⁠ ⁠… well⁠ ⁠… as if she were being absorbed⁠ ⁠… ever so little⁠ ⁠… just the tiniest mite of her; like the first almost invisible trickle of fine sand pouring through the needle-slim neck of an hourglass; nothing to be alarmed about, surely. She could easily enough reverse the glass, whenever she wished. For the moment, it was not unpleasant to let it run; just for the novelty of it. It wouldn’t be much. She would see to that. In a half hour, she and this delightful chap, with a clean-cut profile that might have graced a Grecian coin, would go their ways. If it pleased him to issue orders, she would humour him by coming to attention and clicking her heels.

Bobby opened the door and offered his hand. She took it without hesitation and stepped out upon the road.

“Should I have locked the gears?” she asked,

“No,” drawled Bobby, “it’ll be here when we come back.” They both laughed.

Leaving the highway, they entered a thickly-hedged narrow lane, cut through a dense tract of tall firs.

“I hope you know where we’re going,” she said, as Bobby strode forward.

“Can’t say that I do,” he confessed. “I never was in here before; but I think it must be the private road to the Foster estate. Doubtless we will find one of the farmers’ cottages presently.”

The girl trudged along beside him, taking two steps to his one on high heels not meant for hiking in country lanes. A sheep scuttled out of the left hedge and dashed frantically across the road, a few feet ahead of them. Instinctively she caught at Bobby’s sleeve.

“Oh⁠—but that startled me!”

“Here! Take my hand!”

It was a small hand that she gave him, and he held it as if he were leading a little child. Absurd as he was bound to admit it, his attitude toward her was proprietary; and, incautious as she knew it to be, her response to it was spontaneous. She had a sensation that just the smallest imaginable emanation of herself was being quietly assimilated by the strong fingers of this dominating boy.

Mentally, Bobby tightened his grip; physically, he led her as one would a younger sister.

“We might encounter all sorts of adventures,” she suggested. “Suppose we ran into a nest of⁠—of counterfeiters!”

“There aren’t any counterfeiters, any more,” scoffed Bobby. “They’re all bootlegging⁠ ⁠… More profits and less risk.”

“Oh⁠—how I hate it!” she cried, passionately. “What a vulgar, beastly thing it’s come to be! It never concerned me, one way or the other, until lately. But now⁠ ⁠… it’s destroying my best friend!”

Bobby was annoyed at his sudden stab of jealousy. But what right had he to be jealous?

“I have good reason to hate it too,” he rejoined bitterly; adding, with a growl, “but I believe I’ve got it licked!”

“Oh, I hope so!” she exclaimed, with a quick intake of breath. “It would be such a pity⁠ ⁠…”

Her sentence hung suspended, and for some time neither spoke.

“That’s the first time anybody ever said to me that it would be⁠—a pity.”

So⁠—the time had come now to reverse the glass. She would do it at once⁠ ⁠… presently⁠ ⁠… but not abruptly⁠ ⁠… How did one upend an hourglass gradually, imperceptibly, she wondered. Perhaps the proper technique would occur to her⁠ ⁠… Meantime⁠ ⁠… the silence was lengthening; and silence, at this juncture, was disturbing.

“You knew it⁠—without being told, didn’t you?”

“I’m not sure that I did. It wouldn’t have mattered much to anybody.”

“How silly!⁠ ⁠… No one concerned whether you fling yourself away?”

“That did sound melodramatic, didn’t it?⁠ ⁠… as if I wanted to play Orphan Annie.”

“You’ve been rather⁠—down, haven’t you?” Careful!⁠ ⁠… careful!⁠ ⁠… The glass couldn’t be upended by any such process as this!

“Horribly!⁠ ⁠… But⁠—I’m not now!”

“That’s good!⁠ ⁠… Fresh grip?”

Neither of them knew just why there was a momentary tightening of their handclasp. Naturally, the word suggested it. The sudden pressure of his fingers about her hand was but an affirmative; perhaps an acknowledgment of her encouragement. And her quick response was a mere friendly note of confidence to a fellow human, who had been down and was now on the way up. But each was aware⁠—and intuitively conscious that the other was aware⁠—of a compact; a curiously indefinable sense of belonging⁠ ⁠… She released her hand, a moment later, and instantly realized it was the wrong thing to have done⁠ ⁠… The withdrawal only seemed to be a retreat after an avowal⁠ ⁠… More than that, it hadn’t come about nearly so casually as it should. Her fingers had slipped slowly out of his hand, detained ever so slightly by his lingering pressure⁠ ⁠… So, she had turned the glass, had she?⁠ ⁠…

“Oh, I see a light!” she cried. “In a window!”

With droll predictions of the manner of welcome they might receive, they quickened their steps, and presently knocked at the door. A farmer opened it and stood framed in the glow of an acetylene lamp suspended from the ceiling. Two small children hugged a leg apiece, registering curiosity.

After a brief parley, the man retreated for his cap, joined the pair outside, told them he would be along soon, and went for his tractor.

Bobby made no attempt to resume the conversation interrupted by the sighting of the cottage. He took his new friend’s small hand, however, as they turned to retrace their steps, and tucked it under his arm. She gave it without shyness.

“You’ll be going back to college, I expect,” he hazarded.

“No, not this year⁠ ⁠… And you?”

“Oh, I’m through,” said Bobby, maturely. “Beginning my professional course in a few days.”

“Law⁠—maybe?”

“Is that what you would pick for me?”

She laughed.

“I think I should know a bit more about you before I selected your profession.”

“Well⁠ ⁠… if you were a man⁠ ⁠…”

“I should go in for surgery.”

“Any special kind?”

“Yes,” she replied, with quick decision, “I would be a brain surgeon.”

“That’s odd!”

“Why?”

Her question went unanswered. The noisy tractor was overtaking them. They were near the highway, and conversation gave way to the business at hand.

After much manoeuvring into position, the farmer was ready. Bobby took the wheel of the coupé, its owner waiting at a discreet distance until the car should be tugged back upon the road. It was simply done, but the emergency driver of the coupé stammered something about the possibility that the steering apparatus might be in need of inspection. Sometimes a strain like this affected the steering gear, he said. He was not pressed for specific explanations. Perhaps, he suggested, it would be best to run down to the village and make sure everything was safe. He would gladly go with her if she wished⁠ ⁠… It was quite agreeable to her, if he would be so good, and would he mind driving?⁠ ⁠… Under the circumstances, perhaps that would be better.

She asked the farmer for his charges and paid him more than he asked. He thanked her, awkwardly, feigning reluctance to accept so much. As she entered the car where Bobby sat at the wheel in proprietorial pose, his heart beating rapidly, the farmer, eager to be friendly, said, “That sure is one peach of a car! It looks just like the Packard that Doctor Hudson used to drive around up here.”

“It is,” said the girl quietly. “Good night; and thank you again.”

Mechanically, Bobby Merrick put the late Doctor Hudson’s big coupé in gear, and they were off toward the village.

“It seems all right, doesn’t it?” happily remarked the young woman in black who owned the big coupé that Doctor Hudson used to drive around up here.

Apparently, her new friend was not yet quite sure enough to reply. His eyes were intent upon the road ahead, and he grasped the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

Bobby was stirringly conscious of her on the seat beside him, more conscious of her than he had ever been of any woman he had known. There was no actual, physical contact; but she was most overpoweringly there.

“It’s all right,” he muttered thickly.

“I was on my way to the village, anyhow,” she continued. “I do hope the little drug store will still be open.”

Apparently her driver was not posted on the nocturnal habits of the druggist, for he did not venture an opinion.

The accelerator received an extra pressure at that moment, and the powerful car suddenly bounded forward.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” said the girl, a bit perplexed by his silence. “I’m sure I shouldn’t have known what to do, if you hadn’t happened along.”

Bobby was occupied with the adjustment of the ignition lever.

“But I’m afraid I’m putting you to a great deal of inconvenience,” she added anxiously.

He spoke at length, as from a considerable distance.

“The car is in perfect condition,” he said. “I’ll get out here. You need not go to the garage.” The brakes were applied with determination, and the car came to an abrupt stop. Bobby opened the door on the left and stepped out.

“Oh, but you’re miles from where you found me!” she exclaimed. “Do let me put you down where you’d rather be. Please!”

He could not meet her eyes. “I was just sauntering,” he said absently. “It’s no matter.”

She slipped over behind the wheel and held out her hand. It trembled a little as he wrapped his fingers around it. She was bewildered. Whatever had she said to hurt him?

“Good night, then; and thank you so much!” Her voice was unsteady.

He retained her hand for an instant, said “Good night” in a tone that might mean weariness, dejection, or disappointment, turned, and stepped away into the darkness. She engaged the gears. The car moved slowly, tentatively, hesitatingly forward. Bobby watched the little red taillight until it vanished at the next turn.

A half hour later, he sat down at his piano in the tomby drawing-room at Windymere, and, vastly occupied with his reflections, toyed with an experimental ending to Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.