“No, I am not the sort of man to change.”
He had always known his own mind. When he had been in a position to rule he had done so with a rod of iron. His purpose had ever been inflexible. Jack had been the only person who had ever openly opposed his desire. In this, as in other matters, his indomitable will had carried the day, and in the moment of triumph it is only the weak who repine. Success should have no disappointment for the man who has striven for it if his will be strong.
Sir John rather liked the letter. It could only have been written by a son of his—admitting nothing, not even defeat. But he was disappointed. He had hoped that Jack would come—that some sort of a reconciliation would be patched up. And somehow the disappointment affected him physically. It attacked him in the back, and intensified the pain there. It made him feel weak and unlike himself. He rang the bell.
“Go round,” he said to the butler, “to Dr. Damer, and ask him to call in during the evening if he has time.”
The butler busied himself with the coffee tray, hesitating, desirous of gaining time.
“Anything wrong, sir? I hope you are not feeling ill,” he said nervously.
“Ill, sir,” cried Sir John. “D—n it, no; do I look ill? Just obey my orders if you please.”
CHAPTER XLIV. MADE UP
My faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.