Jeff's head sank into his hands again.
"He wants—to see me? I can't—seem to realize——"
"It's true—he asked me to bring you."
There was a long period of silence, during which Jeff's long, bony fingers clasped and unclasped back of his head as he struggled with himself. "I can't," he groaned at last. "I can't. It has been too long—too much." He straightened in disorder and went on wildly: "Why, he has dogged my steps for months—used all his genius and cunning to do away with me—tried to rid himself of me as he did years ago—and even hired men to swear my liberty away." His head dropped into his hands again and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "No, I can't, Cort. I can't. It's too much to ask—too much."
Cortland stood in the middle of the floor, his arms folded, head bent, waiting for the storm to pass, his own pain engulfed in the greater pain of the man before him. He did not try to answer Jeff, for there was no answer to be made. It was not a moment for words, and he knew he had no right even to petition. It was a matter for Jeff's heart alone—a heart so long embittered that even if it refused this charity, Cortland could not find it in his own heart to condemn.
With a glance at Cortland, Camilla went over to Jeff and laid her fingers lightly on his shoulder.
"Jeff," she said with gentle firmness, "you must go—to your father." But, as he did not move, she went on. "You forget—he did not know. Perhaps if he had known he would have tried to make atonement before. Do you realize what it means for a man like General Bent to make such a request at such a time? You can't refuse, Jeff. You can't."
Jeff moved his head and stared for a long time at the fireplace, his fingers clenched on the chair arms, turning at last to Cortland.
"Do you—do you think he'll die?" he asked. "What do they say?"
"His heart is bad," said Cort gravely. "I don't know—a man of father's years seldom recovers from a thing like that——"