In spite of the experience of the whole race from time immemorial, when death comes to any one we know we helplessly regard it as an incident of life, which will presently go on as before.  Perhaps this is an instinctive perception of the truth that it does go on somewhere; but we have a sense of death as absolutely the end even for earth only if it relates to some one remote or indifferent to us.  March tried to project Lindau to the necessary distance from himself in order to realize the fact in his case, but he could not, though the man with whom his youth had been associated in a poetic friendship had not actually reentered the region of his affection to the same degree, or in any like degree.  The changed conditions forbade that.  He had a soreness of heart concerning him; but he could not make sure whether this soreness was grief for his death, or remorse for his own uncandor with him about Dryfoos, or a foreboding of that accounting with his conscience which he knew his wife would now exact of him down to the last minutest particular of their joint and several behavior toward Lindau ever since they had met him in New York.

He felt something knock against his shoulder, and he looked up to have his hat struck from his head by a horse’s nose.  He saw the horse put his foot on the hat, and he reflected, “Now it will always look like an accordion,” and he heard the horse’s driver address him some sarcasms before he could fully awaken to the situation.  He was standing bareheaded in the middle of Fifth Avenue and blocking the tide of carriages flowing in either direction.  Among the faces put out of the carriage windows he saw that of Dryfoos looking from a coupe.  The old man knew him, and said, “Jump in here, Mr. March”; and March, who had mechanically picked up his hat, and was thinking, “Now I shall have to tell Isabel about this at once, and she will never trust me on the street again without her,” mechanically obeyed.  Her confidence in him had been undermined by his being so near Conrad when he was shot; and it went through his mind that he would get Dryfoos to drive him to a hatter’s, where he could buy a new hat, and not be obliged to confess his narrow escape to his wife till the incident was some days old and she could bear it better.  It quite drove Lindau’s death out of his mind for the moment; and when Dryfoos said if he was going home he would drive up to the first cross-street and turn back with him, March said he would be glad if he would take him to a hat-store.  The old man put his head out again and told the driver to take them to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.  “There’s a hat-store around there somewhere, seems to me,” he said; and they talked of March’s accident as well as they could in the rattle and clatter of the street till they reached the place.  March got his hat, passing a joke with the hatter about the impossibility of pressing his old hat over again, and came out to thank Dryfoos and take leave of him.

“If you ain’t in any great hurry,” the old man said, “I wish you’d get in here a minute.  I’d like to have a little talk with you.”

“Oh, certainly,” said March, and he thought:  “It’s coming now about what he intends to do with ‘Every Other Week.’  Well, I might as well have all the misery at once and have it over.”

Dryfoos called up to his driver, who bent his head down sidewise to listen:  “Go over there on Madison Avenue, onto that asphalt, and keep drivin’ up and down till I stop you.  I can’t hear myself think on these pavements,” he said to March.  But after they got upon the asphalt, and began smoothly rolling over it, he seemed in no haste to begin.  At last he said, “I wanted to talk with you about that ­that Dutchman that was at my dinner ­Lindau,” and March’s heart gave a jump with wonder whether he could already have heard of Lindau’s death; but in an instant he perceived that this was impossible.  “I been talkin’ with Fulkerson about him, and he says they had to take the balance of his arm off.”

March nodded; it seemed to him he could not speak.  He could not make out from the close face of the old man anything of his motive.  It was set, but set as a piece of broken mechanism is when it has lost the power to relax itself.  There was no other history in it of what the man had passed through in his son’s death.

“I don’t know,” Dryfoos resumed, looking aside at the cloth window-strap, which he kept fingering, “as you quite understood what made me the maddest.  I didn’t tell him I could talk Dutch, because I can’t keep it up with a regular German; but my father was Pennsylvany Dutch, and I could understand what he was saying to you about me.  I know I had no business to understood it, after I let him think I couldn’t but I did, and I didn’t like very well to have a man callin’ me a traitor and a tyrant at my own table.  Well, I look at it differently now, and I reckon I had better have tried to put up with it; and I would, if I could have known ­” He stopped with a quivering lip, and then went on:  “Then, again, I didn’t like his talkin’ that paternalism of his.  I always heard it was the worst kind of thing for the country; I was brought up to think the best government was the one that governs the least; and I didn’t want to hear that kind of talk from a man that was livin’ on my money.  I couldn’t bear it from him.  Or I thought I couldn’t before ­before ­” He stopped again, and gulped.  “I reckon now there ain’t anything I couldn’t bear.”  March was moved by the blunt words and the mute stare forward with which they ended.  “Mr. Dryfoos, I didn’t know that you understood Lindau’s German, or I shouldn’t have allowed him he wouldn’t have allowed himself ­to go on.  He wouldn’t have knowingly abused his position of guest to censure you, no matter how much he condemned you.”  “I don’t care for it now,” said Dryfoos.  “It’s all past and gone, as far as I’m concerned; but I wanted you to see that I wasn’t tryin’ to punish him for his opinions, as you said.”

“No; I see now,” March assented, though he thought, his position still justified.  “I wish ­”

“I don’t know as I understand much about his opinions, anyway; but I ain’t ready to say I want the men dependent on me to manage my business for me.  I always tried to do the square thing by my hands; and in that particular case out there I took on all the old hands just as fast as they left their Union.  As for the game I came on them, it was dog eat dog, anyway.”

March could have laughed to think how far this old man was from even conceiving of Lindau’s point’of view, and how he was saying the worst of himself that Lindau could have said of him.  No one could have characterized the kind of thing he had done more severely than he when he called it dog eat dog.

“There’s a great deal to be said on both sides,” March began, hoping to lead up through this generality to the fact of Lindau’s death; but the old man went on: 

“Well, all I wanted him to know is that I wasn’t trying to punish him for what he said about things in general.  You naturally got that idea, I reckon; but I always went in for lettin’ people say what they please and think what they please; it’s the only way in a free country.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Dryfoos, that it would make little difference to Lindau now ­”

“I don’t suppose he bears malice for it,” said Dryfoos, “but what I want to do is to have him told so.  He could understand just why I didn’t want to be called hard names, and yet I didn’t object to his thinkin’ whatever he pleased.  I’d like him to know ­”

“No one can speak to him, no one can tell him,” March began again, but again Dryfoos prevented him from going on.

“I understand it’s a delicate thing; and I’m not askin’ you to do it.  What I would really like to do ­if you think he could be prepared for it, some way, and could stand it ­would be to go to him myself, and tell him just what the trouble was.  I’m in hopes, if I done that, he could see how I felt about it.”

A picture of Dryfoos going to the dead Lindau with his vain regrets presented itself to March, and he tried once more to make the old man understand.  “Mr. Dryfoos,” he said, “Lindau is past all that forever,” and he felt the ghastly comedy of it when Dryfoos continued, without heeding him.

“I got a particular reason why I want him to believe it wasn’t his ideas I objected to ­them ideas of his about the government carryin’ everything on and givin’ work.  I don’t understand ’em exactly, but I found a writin’ ­among ­my son’s-things” (he seemed to force the words through his teeth), “and I reckon he ­thought ­that way.  Kind of a diary ­where he ­put down ­his thoughts.  My son and me ­we differed about a good-many things.”  His chin shook, and from time to time he stopped.  “I wasn’t very good to him, I reckon; I crossed him where I guess I got no business to cross him; but I thought everything of ­Coonrod.  He was the best boy, from a baby, that ever was; just so patient and mild, and done whatever he was told.  I ought to ‘a’ let him been a preacher!  Oh, my son! my son!” The sobs could not be kept back any longer; they shook the old man with a violence that made March afraid for him; but he controlled himself at last with a series of hoarse sounds like barks.  “Well, it’s all past and gone!  But as I understand you from what you saw, when Coonrod was ­killed, he was tryin’ to save that old man from trouble?”

Yes, yes!  It seemed so to me.”

“That ’ll do, then!  I want you to have him come back and write for the book when he gets well.  I want you to find out and let me know if there’s anything I can do for him.  I’ll feel as if I done it ­for my ­son.  I’ll take him into my own house, and do for him there, if you say so, when he gets so he can be moved.  I’ll wait on him myself.  It’s what Coonrod ’d do, if he was here.  I don’t feel any hardness to him because it was him that got Coonrod killed, as you might say, in one sense of the term; but I’ve tried to think it out, and I feel like I was all the more beholden to him because my son died tryin’ to save him.  Whatever I do, I’ll be doin’ it for Coonrod, and that’s enough for me.”  He seemed to have finished, and he turned to March as if to hear what he had to say.

March hesitated.  “I’m afraid, Mr. Dryfoos ­Didn’t Fulkerson tell you that Lindau was very sick?”

“Yes, of course.  But he’s all right, he said.”

Now it had to come, though the fact had been latterly playing fast and loose with March’s consciousness.  Something almost made him smile; the willingness he had once felt to give this old man pain; then he consoled himself by thinking that at least he was not obliged to meet Dryfoos’s wish to make atonement with the fact that Lindau had renounced him, and would on no terms work for such a man as he, or suffer any kindness from him.  In this light Lindau seemed the harder of the two, and March had the momentary force to say ­

“Mr. Dryfoos ­it can’t be.  Lindau ­I have just come from him ­is dead.”