so much of strange incident had crowded with action the long years of my life in london, that, as i walked from the station down into the old cathedral town, a feeling of wonder was on me that the hand of time had dealt so gently with the landmarks of my youth. here were the same old gates and churches and houses i had known, unaltered unless for an additional film of the fragrant lichen of age. the very ruins of the ancient castle and palace were stone by stone such as i remembered them.
there was frost in the air, too; so that sometimes, as i moved dreamily onward, a sense as if all that gap of vivid life were a vanished vision and unreality moved strongly in me. then it seemed that presently i should saunter into the old mill to find my father and zyp and jason sitting down as usual to the midday meal.
my appearance was so changed that none of all who would formerly have somewhat sourly acknowledged my passing with a nod now recognized me.
suddenly i caught sight of dr. crackenthorpe, moving on in front of me in company with another man. the doctor was no more altered than his surroundings, judged at least by his back view. this presented the same long rusty coat of a chocolate color—relic of a bygone generation, i always thought—cut after a slightly sporting fashion, which he wore in all my memory of him throughout the winter; half-wellington boots, into which the ends of his trousers were tucked, and a flat-topped, hard felt hat, under the brim of which his lank tails of brick-colored hair fell in dry, thin tassels.
the man he walked with seemed old and bent, and he moved with a spiritless, hesitating step that appeared to cause the other some impatience.
i was so far from claiming knowledge of this second person that, when he turned his head aside a moment to gaze upon something as i came near, it was with a most painful shock that i discovered it to be my father.
i hurried up, calling to him. he gave a great start—they both did—and turned round to meet me.
then i was terribly taken aback to see the change that had come over him. he, whom four years ago i had left hale, self-reliant, powerful in body and intellect, was to all appearance a halting and decrepit old man, in whom the worst sign was the senile indecision of his eyes.
he came at me, holding out both his hands in welcome with trembling eagerness, and i was much moved to see some glint of tears furrowing his cheeks.
“renalt, my boy—renalt, my boy!” he cried in a gladsome, thin voice, and that was all; for he could find words for no more, but stood looking up in my face—i topped him now—with a half-searching, half-deprecating earnestness of perusal.
“well, dad,” i answered, cheerfully—for i would give no hint of surprise before the other—“you said ‘come,’ and here i am.”
“a brave fellow—a brown, strong man!” he was feeling me over as he spoke—running his thumb down the sinews of my hands—pinching the firm arm in my sleeve.
“a strong man, my boy,” he said. “i bred him—he’s my son—i was the same myself once.”
“you find your father altered—eh, mr. bookbinder?”
“if he is at all, doctor, it’s nothing that won’t improve on a little management and wholesome company.”
“well, he’s had plenty of mine.”
“then his state’s accounted for,” i said.
the long man looked at me with an expression not pleasant.
“ay,” he said. “there’s the old spirit forward again. we’ve done very well without it since the last of the fry took themselves off.”
“it’s not company you batten on, doctor,” i said. “but loneliness breeds other evils than coin-collecting.”
he stared at me a moment, then took off his hat with an ironical sweep.
“i mustn’t forget my manners to a london rattle,” he said. “no doubt you pride yourself on a very pretty wit, sir. but while you talk my lunch grows cold; so i’ll even take the liberty of wishing you good-morning.”
he walked off, snapping his fingers on either side of him.
when he was gone, i took my father’s arm and passed it through mine.
“strong boy,” he said, affectionately—then whispered in my ear: “that’s a terrible man, renalt! be careful before you offend him.”
i looked at him in startled wonder. this was not how he was used to speak.
“i hold him as cheap as any other dog,” said i.
he patted my hand with a little sigh of comfortable admiration.
“i want you at home,” he said, “all to myself. i’m glad that you’ve come, renalt. it’s lonely in the old mill nowadays.”
as we walked, my heart was filled with remorseful pondering over the wrecked figure at my side. why had i never known of this change in it? what had caused it, indeed? gloomy, sinister remembrances of my one-time suspicion of some nameless hold that the doctor had over my father stirred in me and woke a deep anger against fate. were we all of us, for no fault of our own, to be forever stunted in our lives and oppressed by the malign influence of the place that had given us birth? it was hateful and monstrous. what fight could a human being show against foes who shot their poison from places beyond the limits of his understanding?
a trifle more aged looking—a trifle more crazy and dark and weather-stained—the old mill looked to my returning vision, and that was all. the atmosphere of the place was cold and eerie and haunted as ever.
but a great feast awaited the returned prodigal. the sitting-room table fairly sparkled with unwonted dainties of the season, and a red fire crackled on the hearth.
my father pressed me into a chair; he heaped good things upon my plate; he could not do enough to prove the warmth of his welcome and the pathos of loneliness that underlay it.
“here’s to my strong son!” he cried, pledging me gayly in a glass of weak wine and water; “my son that i’m feasting for all the doctor—for all the doctor, i say!”
“the doctor, dad?”
“he wouldn’t have had it, renalt. he said it was throwing pearls before swine and most wicked waste. i wouldn’t listen to him this time—not i.”
“why, what has he got to do with it?”
“hush!” he paused in his sipping and looked all about him, with a fearful air of listening.
“he’s a secret man,” he whispered, “and the mill’s as full of ears as a king’s palace.”
i made no answer, but went on with my meal, though i had much ado to swallow it; but to please my father i made a great show of enjoying what was put before me.
one thing i noticed with satisfaction, and that was that my father drank sparingly and that only of wine watered to insipidity. indeed, i was to find that a complete change in him in this respect was not the least marvelous sign of the strange alteration in his temperament.
the meal over, we drew our chairs to the fire, and talked the afternoon away on desultory subjects. by and by some shadowy spirit of his old intellectual self seemed to flash and flicker fitfully through his conversation.
the afternoon deepened into dusk; strange phantoms, wrought of the leaping flame, came out of corners or danced from wall to ceiling and were gone. he was in the midst of a fine flow of words descriptive of some metaphysical passages he had lately encountered in a book, when his voice trailed off and died away. he crept to me and whispered in my ear: “he’s there, behind the door!”
i jumped to my feet, rushed across the room and—met dr. crackenthorpe on the threshold.
“can’t you come in like a decent visitor?” i cried, stamping my foot on the floor.
he looked pale and, i thought, embarrassed, and he backed a little before my onset.
“why, what’s all this?” he said. “i walked straight up the stairs, as a body should.”
“you made no noise,” i said, black and wrathful. “what right have you to prowl into a private house in that fashion?”
for a moment his face fell menacing. but it cleared—if such may express the lightening of those muddy features—almost immediately.
“here’s a fine reception!” he cried, “for one who comes to greet the returned prodigal in all good comradeship; and to an old friend, too!”
“you were never ours,” i muttered.
he plucked a bottle of gin from under his arm, where he had been carrying it.
“your father has given up the pernicious habit,” he said, with a grin, “but i thought, perhaps, he’d break his rule for once on such a stupendous occasion as this. let us pledge you in a full bumper, mr. renalt.”
“pledge whom you like,” i answered, surlily, “but don’t ask a return from me. i don’t drink spirit.”
“then you miss a very exquisite and esthetic pleasure, i may say. try it this only time. glasses, mr. trender.”
i saw my father waver, and guessed this unwonted liberality on the part of the doctor was calculated to some end of his own. in an access of rage i seized the full bottle and spun it with all my might against the wooden wall of the room. it crashed into a thousand flying splinters, and the pungent liquor flooded the floor beneath.
for an instant the doctor stood quite dumfounded, and went all the colors of the prism. then he walked very gently to the door and turned on the threshold.
“you were always an unlicked cub,” he said, softly, “but this transcends all your past pleasantries.”
“i mean it too,” i said, still in a towering passion. “i intend it as a hint that you had best keep away from here. i’ve no cause to remember you with love, and from this time, understand, you’ve no claim of friendship upon this household.”
“i will remember,” he said. “i always do. perhaps i’ve another sort of claim, though. who knows?”
he nodded at me grimly once or twice, like an evil mandarin, and walked off, down the stairs.
i looked at my father. he was sitting, his hands clasping the elbows of his chair, with a wild, lost look upon his face.
“what have you done?” he whispered. “renalt, what have you done? we are in that man’s power to ruin us at a word!”
