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Page 31
FATHER AND SON
The house seemed very quiet, though steadily, from a distant upper room,
came the sound of a violin. For more than an hour, Allison had worked
continuously at one difficult phrase. Colonel Kent smiled whimsically as
he sat in the library, thinking that, by this time, he could almost play
it himself.
Looking back over the thirty years, he could see where he had made
mistakes in moulding the human clay entrusted to his care, yet, in the
end, the mistakes had not mattered. Back in the beginning, he had
formulated certain cherished ideals for his son, and had worked steadily
toward them, unmindful of occasional difficulties and even failures.
Against his own judgment, he had yielded to Francesca in the choice of
the boy's career. "Look at his hands," she had said. "You couldn't put
hands like his at work in an office. If he isn't meant for music, we'll
find it out soon enough."
But Allison had gone on, happily, along the chosen path, with never a
question or doubt of his ultimate success. Just now, the Colonel was
deeply grateful to Francesca, for the years abroad had been pleasant
ones, and would have been wholly impossible had Allison been working in
an office.
With a sigh, he began to pace back and forth through the hall, his hands
in his pockets, and his grey head bowed. Before him was his own
portrait, in uniform, his hand upon his sword. The sword itself, hanging
in a corner of the hall, was dull and lifeless now. He had a curious
sense that his work was done.
The tiny stream, rising from some cool pool among the mountains, is not
unlike man's own beginning, for, at first, it gives no hint of its
boundless possibilities. Grown to a river, taking to itself the water
from a thousand secret channels, it leaps down the mountain, heedless of
rocky barriers, with all the joy of lusty youth.
The river itself portrays humanity precisely, with its tortuous
windings, its accumulation of driftwood, its unsuspected depths, and its
crystalline shallows, singing in the Summer sun. Barriers may be built
across its path, but they bring only power, as the conquering of an
obstacle is always sure to do. Sometimes when the rocks and stone-clad
hills loom large ahead, and eternity itself would be needed to carve a
passage, there is an easy way around. The discovery of it makes the
river sing with gladness and turns the murmurous deeps to living water,
bright with ripples and foam.
Ultimately, too, in spite of rocks and driftwood, of endless seeking for
a path, of tempestuous nights and days of ice and snow, man and the
river reach the eternal sea, to be merged forever with the Everlasting.
Upstairs the music ceased. A door opened, then closed, and presently
Allison came down, rubbing his hands. "It's a little cool up there," he
said, "and yet, by the calendar, it's Spring. I wish this climate could
be averaged up."
"Even then, we wouldn't be satisfied," the Colonel returned. "Who wants
all his days to be alike?"
"Nobody. Still, it's a bit trying to freeze your nose one day and be
obliged to keep all the windows open the next."
There was a long pause. The Colonel tapped his fingers restlessly upon
the library table. Allison went over to the open fire and stood with his
back to it, clasping his hands behind him. "What have you been doing all
the morning, Dad?"
"Nothing. Just sitting here, thinking."
"Pretty hopeless occupation unless you have something in particular to
think about."
"It's better to have nothing to think about than to be obliged to think
of something unpleasant, isn't it?"
"I don't know," Allison responded, smothering a yawn. "Almost anything
is better than being bored."
"You're not bored, are you?" asked the Colonel, quickly.
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