He seemed rather pathetic—the brave look had gone from his eyes, and his face and hands were more shrivelled than ever. He gave the impression of cowering in bed as though wishing to avoid a blow. Harry was with him continually now, and the old man was never happy if his son was not there. He rambled at times and fancied himself back in his youth again. Harry had found his father's room a refuge from the family, and he sat, hour after hour, watching the old man asleep, thinking of his own succession and puzzling over the hopeless tangle that seemed to surround him. How to get out of it! He had no longer any thought of turning his back; he had gone too far for that, and they would think it cowardice, but things couldn't remain as they were. What would come out of it?
He had, as Robin had said, changed. The effect of the explosion had been to reveal in him qualities whose very existence he had formerly never expected. He even found, strangely enough, a kind of joy in the affair. It was like playing a game. He had made, he felt, the right move and was in the stronger position. In earlier days he had never been able to quarrel with any one. Whenever such a thing had happened, he had been the first to make overtures; he hated the idea of an enemy, his happiness depended on his friends, and sometimes now, when he saw his own people's hostility, he was near surrender. But the memory of his sister's words had held him firm, and now he was beginning to feel in tune with the situation.
He watched Robin furtively at times and wondered how he was taking it all. Sometimes he fancied that he caught glances that pointed to Robin's own desire to see how he was taking it. Once they had passed on the stairs, and for a moment they had both paused as though they would speak. It had been all Harry could do to restrain himself from flinging his arms on to his son's shoulders and shaking him for a fool and then forcing him into surrender, but he had held himself back, and they had passed on without a word.
After all, what children they all were! That's what it came to—children playing a game that they did not understand!
"I wish it would end," said Sir Jeremy; "I'm getting damned sick of it. Why can't he take you out straight away, and be done with it? Do you know, Harry, my boy, I think I'm frightened. It's lying here thinking of it. I never had much imagination—it isn't a Trojan habit, but it grows on one. I fancy—well, what's the use o' talking?" and he sank back into his pillows again.
The room was dark save for the leaping light of the fire. It was almost time to dress for dinner, but Harry sat there, forgetting time and place in the unchanging question, How would it all work out?
"By Gad, it's Tom! Hullo, old man, I was just thinking of you. Comin' round to Horrocks' to-night for a game? Supper at Galiani's—but it's damned cold. I don't know where that sun's got to. I've been wandering up and down the street all day and I can't find the place. I've forgotten the number—I can't remember whether it was 23 or 33, and I keep getting into that passage. There I am again! Bring a light, old man—it's so dark. What's that? Who's there? Can't you answer? Darn you, come out, you——" He sat up in bed, quivering all over. Harry put his hand on his arm.
"It's all right, father," he said. "No one's here—only myself."
"Ugh! I was dreaming—" he answered, lying down again. "Let's have some light—not that electric glare. Candles!"
Harry was sitting in the corner by the bed away from the fire. He was about to rise and move the candles into a clump on the mantelpiece when there was a tap on the door and some one came in. It was Robin.