The sight which met his eyes at the pond, had it been less serious, would have been ludicrous. Feversham still lay on the ice, grasping Blanche, who was white and motionless; while Jack, standing in perfect safety on the bank, was favouring the hero with sundry scraps of cheap advice.
“Hasten!” said Feversham in a low, constrained voice, when he heard help coming. “I am wellnigh spent.”
Sir Thomas was really angry with his son. A few words of withering scorn made that young gentleman—afraid of his father for the first time—assist with his own courtly hands in pushing the plank across the ice.
The relief reached those endangered just in time.
Blanche was carried home in her father’s arms, and delivered to Rachel to be nursed; while Feversham, the moment that he recognised himself to be no longer responsible for her safety, fainted where he lay. He was borne to the house by Sim and Dick—Master Jack following in a leisurely manner, with his gentlemanly hands in his pockets.
When all was safely over, Sir Thomas put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. For the first time that the father could remember, the son looked slightly abashed.
“Jack, which was the coward?”
And Jack failed to answer.
John Feversham joined the party again at supper. He looked very pale, but otherwise maintained his usual imperturbable demeanour, though scarcely seeming to like the expressions of admiration which were showered upon him.