It was not until the following morning, however, that Nat saw his son. The nurse entered with a heavy roll of flannel and laid the baby in his arms. Gently Nat pulled aside the blanketing and a tiny hand came up. It was groping in its new-born blindness,—groping, groping, groping.
But it did not grope fruitlessly. That exquisite, shell-like little palm found a great talon claw,—the life-twisted hand of its father. And it gripped that calloused Thing tightly. It could always grip that calloused Thing tightly.
Nathan’s only comment came in a whisper. To his boy he spoke a promise:
“There shall be no Fog for you, little son. As you grow along—your dad—will understand!”
II
Hill Tops!
It was a night in November. Darkness had fallen early. A fire had been lighted in the open grate and the big southern living room was pungently warm. Shades had been drawn, shutting out the dreary autumn afterglow. Aside from the ruddy gleam of the crackling fire, the only illumination in the apartment came from the pedestal lamp beside a piano. The lamp had an old-rose shade. All the hues and angles of the room were softened and blended by its richness.
Nathan came down the wide front stairs, tying the cords of his dressing-gown as he descended. He turned into the living room. A few feet inside the door, he paused.
The room was perfect. White, mahogany, and old rose was the color scheme. The ceiling was shaded and the furniture was heavy. Yet so deftly had the latter been arranged and so perfect the spacing, that the room had an air of fine distance and perspective; relaxation and rest was the result and it soothed like an opiate.
The man’s artist-eye could neither miss nor pass lightly over the proportion and fastidiousness that gave the room its character,—the sense of perfect order without the least sacrifice of comfort. A few oil paintings filled appropriate spaces upon the warm brown walls. Smaller corners held etchings and exotic prints that Madelaine had brought from Japan. The dull polish of the piano, writing desk, music cabinet, table, reflected the glint of the firelight. An exquisite sculptural study showed at just the right point in the corner across the heavy divan drawn up before the grate. And as Nathan inventoried these things, a deep sense of peace grew upon him. It entered into his being with the atmosphere he breathed. An old phrase he had used somewhere before whispered softly again in his subconscious mind, something about “—art drawing-rooms, softly shaded at midnight.” This was home,—his home! One born to such things might never appreciate them as Nathan could appreciate them now.