Edwin looked at his father, to be sure that all was in order, that nothing had been forgotten. The body seemed monstrous and shapeless beneath the thickly piled clothes; and from the edge of the eider-down, making a valley in the pillow, the bearded face projected, in a manner grotesque and ridiculous. A clock struck seven in another part of the house.
“What time’s that?” Darius murmured.
“Seven,” said Edwin, standing close to him.
Darius raised himself slowly and clumsily on one elbow.
“Here! But look here!” Edwin protested. “I’ve just fixed you up—”
The old man ignored him, and one of those unnaturally white hands stretched forth to the night-table, which was on the side of the bed opposite to Edwin. Darius’s gold watch and chain lay on the night-table.
“I’ve wound it up! I’ve wound it up!” said Edwin, a little crossly. “What are you worrying at?”
But Darius, silent, continued to manoeuvre his flannelled arm so as to possess the watch. At length he seized the chain, and, shifting his weight to the other elbow, held out the watch and chain to Edwin, with a most piteous expression. Edwin could see in the twilight that his father was ready to weep.
“I want ye—” the old man began, and then burst into violent sobs; and the watch dangled dangerously.
“Come now!” Edwin tried to soothe him, forcing himself to be kindly. “What is it? I tell you I’ve wound it up all right. And it’s correct time to a tick.” He consulted his own silver watch.