He could no longer see to read.He too heard the call without, and when he looked at the young, sweet thing upon whom he was dependent for the news, and glanced about the room so full of memories of his own departed youth, he said to himself with more bitterness than usual: "I'm old; I'm very old, and helpless; life has no use for me, and it's an infernal shame."Joan read on patiently, glancing from time to time at the man who seemed to her to be older than the hills, startlingly, terribly old, and stopped only when, having lowered himself into his arm-chair, he seemed to have fallen asleep.Then, as usual, she laid the paper aside, eager to be up and doing, but sat on, fearful of moving.Her grandfather had a way of looking as though he would never wake up again, and of being as ready as a tiger to pounce upon her if she tried to slip away.She would never forget some of the sarcastic things he had said at these times, never! He seemed to take an unexplainable delight in making her feel that she had no right to be so young.He had never confided to her the tragedy of having a young mind and an old body, young desires and winter in his blood.He had never opened the door in his fourth wall and let her see how bitterly he resented having been forced out of life and the great chase, to creep like an old hound the ancient dogs among.He had never let her suspect that the tragedy of old age had hit him hard, filling his long hours with regret for what he might have done or done better.Perhaps he was ashamed to confess these things that were so futile and so foolish.Perhaps he was afraid to earn a young incredulous laugh at the pathetic picture of himself playing Canute with the on-coming tide of years.He was not understood by this girl, because he had never allowed her to get a glimpse into his heart; and so she failed to know that he insisted upon keeping her in his house, even to the point of extreme selfishness, because he lived his youth over again in the constant sight of her.What a long and exquisite string of pearls there could be made of our unspoken words!
The logs glowed red; the hard tick of the pompous clock marked off the precious moments; and outside, spring had come.But Joan sat on with mutinous thoughts, and the man who not so long ago had stalked the beasts whose heads and skins were silent reminders of his strength, lay back in his chair with nodding head.
"He's old," she said to herself, "dreadfully, awfully old, and he's punishing me for being young.Oh! It's wicked, it's wicked.If only I had a father to spoil me and let me live! If only Mother hadn't forgotten all about me in her own happiness! If only I had money of my own and could run away and join the throng!"She heard a sigh that was almost a groan, turned quickly and saw two slow tears running down her grandfather's face.He had been kicking against the pricks again and had hurt his foot.
With all the elaborate care of a Deerslayer, Joan got up, gave the boards that creaked a wide berth--she knew them all--and tiptoed to the door.The fact that she, at eighteen years of age, a full-grown woman in her own estimation, should be obliged to resort to such methods made her angry and humiliated.She was, however, rejoicing at one thing.Her grandfather had fallen asleep several pages of the paper earlier than usual, and she was to be spared from the utter boredom of wading through the leading articles which dealt with subways and Tammany and foreign politics and other matters for which she had a lofty contempt.She was never required to read the notices of new plays and operas and the doings of society, which alone were interesting to her and made her mouth water.
Just as she had maneuvered her way across the wide, long room and was within reach of the door, it opened and her grandmother hobbled in, leaning on her stick.There was a chuckle from the other end of the room.The blood flew to the girl's face.She knew without turning to look that the old man had been watching her careful escape and was enjoying the sight of her, caught at the moment when freedom was at hand.
Mrs.Ludlow was one of those busy little women who are thorns in the flesh of servants.Her eyes had always been like those of an inspecting general.No detail, however small, went unnoticed and unrectified.