His duty stood out plainly enough before him, but he was weak, and it was hard to do that duty. Some day—it would be years first in this case—he would look her in the face, and take her hand as his sister, and grasp his brother’s hand with all due warmth. But not yet—not yet. He must have time, and he felt that he would act wisely in going right away.
There was a sad pleasure in reviewing these events of the past, and there was a kind of solace in being alone there in that gloomy room, so shut in that the rattle of wheels in the square outside sounded subdued and calming to his weary spirit. He began thinking then once more of the future, of the great battle he had to fight.
“And I will fight manfully,” he said softly, as he sat gazing at the fire, “against self as well as against disease. And if I fall—well, better men die daily. I shall have done some good first, and I will fight to the last.”
His chin sank down upon his breast, and he sat there picturing in imagination the place to which he was going. How long he had been thinking thus he did not know, and he felt half resentful as Sir Denton’s hand was laid lightly on his shoulder.
“Asleep?”
“Oh, no: only thinking deeply.”
“Of—of—” said the old man nervously.
“Of my work, sir? The great work to come? Yes.”
“That’s right—that’s right, my dear boy; but you have had no wine. I’m so sorry I was called away, but you will forgive me, I know.”
“Don’t name it, Sir Denton,” said Neil quietly. “I have had so much to think about that the time has not seemed long.”