The inertia of seventy-five was not overcome by a mere intention. Emotion had exhausted him and in the morning he could not rise. As he looked out day after day from his bed upon the towering walls of the old buildings, he had blessed dreams which he did not deserve. He saw again the white-robed processions, heard the matin songs, and sometimes he lifted his hand and tolled an imaginary bell.
When at last he was able to go, he declined the offer of Amos's company. Amos had waited upon him with devotion; he was his only anchor to windward; upon him alone he could wholly depend; and therefore, as is natural to human nature, he valued him a little the less.
He did not begin his journey in the trolley car as did younger, braver spirits—steam was sufficiently dangerous as a motive power. Before he reached the railroad station he was the object of interested observation by the villagers, who did not often see him. It was one of the clear, bright mornings of Ellen's early life at the Lanfairs', and the invigorating winter air acted as a tonic to the old man. He looked about him with pleasure. In his youth he had dreamed of adventure, of journeying to the ocean which was not far away, but which he had never seen, and of visiting the West toward which many Pennsylvania Germans were then setting their faces.
But his light-heartedness did not long continue. The sky showed signs of change; fleecy clouds gathered, and the brightness of the river was soon dimmed. With the shadow there fell a cloud upon his spirit; he could not long hold any mood of youth.
The miles of furnaces and mills astonished and troubled him, signifying a great force which he felt was not of God, and when he arrived in Harrisburg he was bewildered by the crowd. The continual motion seemed to him to be in a circle, though in reality the only circular motion was that about himself as he stood, though bent, yet towering, prophet-like, gathering his faculties together for the plunge into the street.
He walked up the steep hill, pausing often to rest and passing each moment into a deeper bewilderment. There were moments when he could not recall, try as he might, the object of his journey. Then he stood quite still looking about him with dim, puzzled eyes.
At the end of an hour, when he had at last reached Hill Street, there had settled upon the city a thick mist in which black particles were suspended. He found Number 34 without difficulty and stood waiting until the rapid beating of his heart should subside. Ellen's face and figure were before him; he longed for their reality as a lover longs for a sight of his mistress. She was young and strong and she was a woman. Old as he was Grandfather missed that complementary association of which he had long been deprived. But he would not have accepted this analysis of his feelings; he was a shepherd and Ellen was his lost sheep; it was in that spirit that he sought her.
Mrs. Lebber's house still hung over the hill, it still sheltered a sad spirit, and it still exuded when its door was opened the same heavy odor. Mrs. Lebber appearing, blinked at Grandfather as though she were not sure whether he was real or whether he was a thickening of the mist into a human shape. But the shape gave forth human speech.
"Is my granddaughter, Ellen Levis, here?" he asked in his thin old voice.
Mrs. Lebber looked blankly upon the patriarchal figure. Nothing would ever happen to her; she was as stationary as her house and as gray as the mist, and the stories of other lives furnished her only entertainment. She now scented mystery.