Milton.
Through the gathering darkness of the short, chilly December day the carriage swung up the driveway of The Birches, and in front of the porch came to a sudden halt. Doctor Morrison, hastily alighting, ran quickly up the piazza steps to find Henry Carleton, worried and anxious, already awaiting him at the open door.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Doctor,” he said, his relief plainly enough showing in his tone, “I’ve been reproaching myself for not letting you know before. Step into the parlor for a moment, though, and warm yourself before you go up. You must be cold.”
Pulling off his gloves, and laying aside his overcoat and bag, Doctor Morrison followed Carleton into the room, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the warmth of the open blaze. Then he turned. “And how is he now?” he asked. “Any change for the worse?”
“No, I think not,” Carleton answered, “he appears to be comfortable enough, and says he has no pain. Yet there seems something curious about it, too. It was almost a week ago, I suppose, that he first began to complain. There was nothing that you could fix on definitely, though. Only that he didn’t seem to be quite himself—not as bright as usual, or so interested in things—and wanted to sleep a great deal, even in the daytime; something, as you know, most unusual for him. I thought then of sending for you, and then I felt that that might alarm him, and to tell the truth, I expected every day to see him begin to pick up again; he’s had times like this before. And so things went along until to-day. But this morning, as I telephoned you, he didn’t get up at all—complained of feeling very weak and faint—so of course I rang you up at once. I only hope I’ve made no mistake in waiting so long.”
Doctor Morrison shook his head. “Oh, no, I don’t think so for a moment,” he answered, “I doubt if it’s anything serious at all. All men, as they get on in years, are apt to get queer notions at times, especially about their health. I’ll go right up and see him now, but I don’t anticipate that we’ll find there’s the slightest cause for alarm.”
For half an hour Henry Carleton sat alone in the firelight, in spite of all the doctor had said still anxious and disturbed. Then he rose quickly as he heard footsteps descending the stairs, and stood waiting, expectant and apprehensive. As the doctor entered the room, it was easy to see from the expression on his face that his news was certainly none of the best. Abruptly Henry Carleton stepped forward. “Is it serious?” he asked.
The doctor did not keep him in suspense. He nodded gravely. “Yes,” he answered, “I suppose I should tell you so at once. It is,” and then, seeing the unspoken question in the other’s eyes, he added quickly, “No, I don’t mean anything immediate, necessarily; but he’s failed terribly since I saw him last. I suppose it’s been all of six months now, at least, since I came out before; and probably to you, living with him and seeing him every day, the change has been so gradual that you haven’t noticed it, but it’s been going on steadily just the same, all the time. He’s certainly failed—alarmingly.”
Slowly Henry Carleton nodded. “I see,” he said half-mechanically, then added, “Is it anything particular, Doctor, or just a general breaking up?”
“Just that,” the doctor answered. “Just old age. It’s the same story with all of us, after all. The machine is built to run about so long. Sometimes it wears out gradually; sometimes, as in Mr. Carleton’s case, even at the allotted age, it seems almost as good as new; and those are the cases, where, when anything does go wrong, it’s apt to go wrong very suddenly indeed, so that to every one the shock is proportionately greater, and just so much harder to bear.”