expression which Conrad had noted upon first seeing him.
Harold asked a few questions after Conrad had finished, and then inquired as to what time Conrad thought he should begin.
“Right after lunch, no later. That way you will have time for three attempts, should something go wrong. Can you get away from the mill?”
“Yes, I’ll just leave. Father will have to stay. He won’t like it, I know; I suppose you’ve noticed that he doesn’t stay at the mill any more on Saturday afternoons?”
Conrad said he was aware of that: “Nor does he ever go on Sundays.”
“No, he doesn’t.—It’s funny,” Harold continued after a moment, his usual dreamy expression replacing his look of studied concentration, “very funny about Father. He used to love the mill. He used to love going there—not that he really had to. It’s so well organized that he has little more to do than watch it in operation. But it gave him something to do, something to build his day around. But he has been changing—just within the last few months. He no longer likes to go there. And sometimes he doesn’t get there until the afternoon. And then when he does get there I have the feeling that he would like to leave and come back here. I haven’t talked to him about it, but I think he would rather stay home all the time. You’ve noticed that he never goes out any more in the evening. And he used to dine out at least twice a week, either at the Vales’ or at the Prominence Inn . . .” Harold trailed off in an abstracted way.
From the way he was talking he did not seem worried about his father’s health or state of mind.
“I’m sure he’s in excellent health,” Conrad said, reading Harold’s thoughts.
“Oh, I’m sure he is too,” Harold agreed. “It’s just strange that—I wonder why the dogs are kicking up such a fuss?”
The sound of furious barking had suddenly erupted in the night.
22
“It’s Rudolph. He’s drunk again and has fallen into the snow at the edge of the road; he can never make it all the way back from Cobb. It happens every night.”
Harold looked mildly surprised but said nothing.
“I’ll have to help him,” Conrad said, getting up. “Only the alarum of the dogs saves him from freezing to death.—We’re going to have to get rid of him. He’s as worthless as Maxfield, or almost. Maxfield has been in bed for a week now. And of course,” he added with a contemptuous snort, “there’s that gem of a maid—Betsy.”
“Has he?” Harold murmured vaguely. “I thought I hadn’t seen him.”
The two of them went downstairs into the moon-lit night.
Conrad told Harold he would get Rudolph—Harold hadn’t his coat with him. “I shall see you tomorrow after lunch.”
The white moon was resting on the far parapet of the Prominence, bathing the ancient structure in light, and Conrad stood contemplating it for a long time, ignoring the loud snores of the crumpled figure at his feet.
At last a thin smile relieved the fixity of Conrad’s expression.
A few minutes later he began kicking Rudolph to his feet.
When Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen, Betsy was still there stacking up some of the dishes. Mrs. Hill dismissed her. “That girl,” she said impatiently, “makes me nervous just watching her. I’m surprised we have any dishes left. But when we get our new sets . . . Now, isn’t there something I can do here?”
Conrad told her there was nothing more to do except put the glasses away, and he indicated the cupboard where they belonged.
The two of them rapidly got the kitchen in order, Mrs. Hill humming to herself the while. When she had finished she settled on Conrad’s stool, and he told her that he would have their broth ready in a jiffy.
“Is my broth the same as yours?” Mrs. Hill asked, as she did practically every night, and Conrad replied, as he always did, that there was little difference: “Mine is a tick more highly seasoned.”
“I must try yours sometime,” Mrs. Hill
Harold asked a few questions after Conrad had finished, and then inquired as to what time Conrad thought he should begin.
“Right after lunch, no later. That way you will have time for three attempts, should something go wrong. Can you get away from the mill?”
“Yes, I’ll just leave. Father will have to stay. He won’t like it, I know; I suppose you’ve noticed that he doesn’t stay at the mill any more on Saturday afternoons?”
Conrad said he was aware of that: “Nor does he ever go on Sundays.”
“No, he doesn’t.—It’s funny,” Harold continued after a moment, his usual dreamy expression replacing his look of studied concentration, “very funny about Father. He used to love the mill. He used to love going there—not that he really had to. It’s so well organized that he has little more to do than watch it in operation. But it gave him something to do, something to build his day around. But he has been changing—just within the last few months. He no longer likes to go there. And sometimes he doesn’t get there until the afternoon. And then when he does get there I have the feeling that he would like to leave and come back here. I haven’t talked to him about it, but I think he would rather stay home all the time. You’ve noticed that he never goes out any more in the evening. And he used to dine out at least twice a week, either at the Vales’ or at the Prominence Inn . . .” Harold trailed off in an abstracted way.
From the way he was talking he did not seem worried about his father’s health or state of mind.
“I’m sure he’s in excellent health,” Conrad said, reading Harold’s thoughts.
“Oh, I’m sure he is too,” Harold agreed. “It’s just strange that—I wonder why the dogs are kicking up such a fuss?”
The sound of furious barking had suddenly erupted in the night.
22
“It’s Rudolph. He’s drunk again and has fallen into the snow at the edge of the road; he can never make it all the way back from Cobb. It happens every night.”
Harold looked mildly surprised but said nothing.
“I’ll have to help him,” Conrad said, getting up. “Only the alarum of the dogs saves him from freezing to death.—We’re going to have to get rid of him. He’s as worthless as Maxfield, or almost. Maxfield has been in bed for a week now. And of course,” he added with a contemptuous snort, “there’s that gem of a maid—Betsy.”
“Has he?” Harold murmured vaguely. “I thought I hadn’t seen him.”
The two of them went downstairs into the moon-lit night.
Conrad told Harold he would get Rudolph—Harold hadn’t his coat with him. “I shall see you tomorrow after lunch.”
The white moon was resting on the far parapet of the Prominence, bathing the ancient structure in light, and Conrad stood contemplating it for a long time, ignoring the loud snores of the crumpled figure at his feet.
At last a thin smile relieved the fixity of Conrad’s expression.
A few minutes later he began kicking Rudolph to his feet.
When Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen, Betsy was still there stacking up some of the dishes. Mrs. Hill dismissed her. “That girl,” she said impatiently, “makes me nervous just watching her. I’m surprised we have any dishes left. But when we get our new sets . . . Now, isn’t there something I can do here?”
Conrad told her there was nothing more to do except put the glasses away, and he indicated the cupboard where they belonged.
The two of them rapidly got the kitchen in order, Mrs. Hill humming to herself the while. When she had finished she settled on Conrad’s stool, and he told her that he would have their broth ready in a jiffy.
“Is my broth the same as yours?” Mrs. Hill asked, as she did practically every night, and Conrad replied, as he always did, that there was little difference: “Mine is a tick more highly seasoned.”
“I must try yours sometime,” Mrs. Hill
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