“That comes later,” he reminded her. “We haven’t failed yet.”
“So much depends upon you!”
“Much more depends upon him. If his hunger for the boy is great enough, he will forget everything but the fact that he has at last something tangible—something to grasp.”
Again her eyes grew big as she studied him with the feeling that not until this very moment had she ever seen him before. Here in the intimacy of the upper chambers the boldness of the act oppressed her. Before, it had seemed only a theory, but now it became an actuality. He himself felt it. It would have taken little to have turned him back. But at this moment the orange-colored cat returned for them. Then the father called. Time was pressing. She took the lead but Barnes with a quicker pace stepped ahead of her.
At the door, he paused. He saw a large room bathed in the glow of the setting sun. In one corner stood a large four-posted bed. The white counterpane stood out like a snow-sheeted pool among evergreens. Bolstered up with fat pillows he saw a face that would have served for a model of a saint’s. He had but a second to study it and make his decision, but that was time enough. It was a child’s face grown old. White-bearded though it was, it was still a child’s face. All the man-fret was smoothed out of it, all the world marks rubbed away. He seemed more like a son lying there than a father. His eyes were closed and one thin arm lay outside the clothes by his side. His face was turned towards the door. The cat leaped upon the counterpane and instantly the father raised his head.
“Eleanor?” he called.
Barnes strode to his side as the cry escaped. He placed a strong hand upon the thin arm. The eyes though they remained closed seemed to strain in that direction. The lips moved.
“My son!” he trembled.
Barnes bowed his head. That was a cry to go to a man’s heart. He could not answer it. He felt the gentle fingers play up his arm to his hair. He felt them flutter over his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. Then, kneeling, he waited for the second cry. It came charged with such feeling as to bring a strain to his throat.
“My son!”