were not easy—those days that followed; they were not easy for any of the Gilmore family, least of all for Sister Sue, the answerer of every question, the buffer for every complaint, the final arbiter of every dispute.
They were the easiest, perhaps, for the suddenly-grown-old man in the master's chamber upstairs. John Gilmore was up and dressed, and about his room now. The doctor said he was much better; that he would probably continue to gain until he was physically able to do most of the things that any fairly healthy man sixty-five years old could do. There was nothing to be done, therefore, but to keep him in the best health possible—until the inevitable final breakdown came, perhaps in one year, perhaps in two years, perhaps not for five, or even ten years. He had the mentality at present of a child. That might improve, and it might not. He should be kept happy and contented—and it would take very little to do that, usually. Though there might be times— The doctor did not finish his sentence; and Sister Sue, to whom he had been speaking, did not press the matter, after a glance at his face, and at her father's.
John Gilmore recognized his children, realized where he was, and understood that he had been sick and was getting better. He even knew that he was going to his old home in Gilmoreville before long; and he was anticipating the trip very much, he said. He liked Gilmoreville, and it would be good to see the old home again. He asked his daughter Sue if his mother was going to be there. And his daughter, with only a little catch of the breath to betray the fact that she knew his mother had been dead twenty-five years, told him quietly no, she would not be there.
There was little that John Gilmore could do to occupy his time. He could read, but reading seemed to tire him. He liked better to cut out the advertising pictures from the papers; and his daughter Sue, seeing this, brought in some children's bright-colored picture books one day, which pleased him greatly. He never spoke of business. He never mentioned the firm of Gilmore and Glode. And those who talked with him were only too glad that he should keep silence on the subject. They were very thankful that Memory, however sadly she had served him, had at least done him this one good turn.
Not that there were many who talked with him or who saw him. The doctor, of course, came, but only twice a week now. Mr. Loring had come once; but, though Mr. Gilmore called him by name, and asked politely for his health, yet his presence seemed to fill the invalid with a vague unrest, evidenced by uneasy, searching glances into the visitor's face, and a nervous tapping of the fingers on the arms of the chair. So Mr. Loring did not come again.
Martin Kent had called once; but he, too, had not come again, though John Gilmore had greeted him cordially, and had seemed to enjoy showing him the new pictures he had been cutting out.
Gordon and May never came into the room now. Urged by Sister Sue they had come a few times at first, for a very few moments. But almost at once they had fled, shuddering, with their hands to their ears and a horror-stricken "Oh, Sister Sue, Sister Sue, how can you bear to see him like that?"
Even Mary did not come into the room now to make the bed and "tidy up." After the third burst of tears and the third shriek on her part in answer to her master's query as to whether or not she liked to cut out the pretty pictures, Sister Sue excused her from further duties in the room, thenceforth taking upon herself the task of keeping the chamber in order, except for the weekly cleaning when Mary came in, and John Gilmore walked through his bathroom to his "den" beyond—a room in which he had never cared to stay and which he now seemed to dislike more than ever.
The nurse at first engaged had been discharged. He did not need a nurse, the doctor said, and her presence seemed to fret and distress him. It had simmered down then to the doctor and Sister Sue as being his only visitors, day in and day out. As yet he had not appeared to care to go downstairs, nor had his daughter tried to have him go. His meals she brought in herself on the tray left by Mary three times a day just outside his door.