“All right! All right! Don’t be alarmed, dad!” Albert reassured him, picking up the things. “I was asking ye, did ye ever speak there—make a speech?”
“Yes,” said Darius heavily.
“Did you now!” Albert murmured, staring at Darius. And it was exactly as if he had said, “Well, it’s extraordinary that a foolish physical and mental wreck such as you are now, should ever have had wit and courage enough to rise and address the glorious Felons!”
Darius glanced up at the gas, with a gesture that was among Edwin’s earliest recollections, and then he fixed his eyes dully on the fire, with head bent and muscles lax.
“Have a cigarette—that’ll cheer ye up,” said Albert.
Darius made a negative sign.
“He’s very tired, seemingly,” Albert remarked to Edwin, as if Darius had not been present.
“Yes,” Edwin muttered, examining his father. Darius appeared ten years older than his age. His thin hair was white, though the straggling beard that had been allowed to grow was only grey. His face was sunken and pale, but even more striking was the extreme pallor of the hands with their long clean fingernails, those hands that had been red and rough, tools of all work. His clothes hung somewhat loosely on him, and a shawl round his shoulders was awry. The comatose melancholy in his eyes was acutely painful to see—so much so that Edwin could not bear to look long at them. “Father,” Edwin asked him suddenly, “wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”
And to his surprise Darius said, “Yes.”
“Well, come on then.”