"You're honest, Henry, and loyal and affectionate. Stick to those three things for all you're worth. You've been born into a wonderful time. Make something of it. Don't be passive. Throw yourself into it. And take all this with you. Make the past and the present and the future one. Join them all together for the glory of God—and sometimes think of your old friend who loves you."
He came across to Henry, kissed him on the forehead and patted him on the shoulder.
"I'm tired," he said, "damned tired. These haven't been easy weeks."
Henry said: "I think you're going to come through. If you do it will be wonderful for me. If you don't I'll never forget you. I'll think of you always. I'll try to do as you say."
Duncombe smiled. "Look after my sister. Bring out the book with a bang. We'll meet again one day."
Henry saw the candle-light trail down the passage and disappear. He fumbled his way to his room.
Next morning Charles Duncombe went up to London. There was no sign of emotion at his departure; it was as though he would be back before they could turn round. He was his dry, cynical self. He merely nodded to Henry, looking at him a little sternly before he climbed into the car. "I'll see that Spencer sends you those notes," he said. "Meanwhile you'd better be getting on with that Ballantyne press." He nodded still sternly, smiled with his accustomed irony at his sister and was gone.
Tom Duncombe and Alicia Penrose disappeared then for the day, rattling over in a very ancient hired taxi to see the Seddons, who were living just then some thirty miles away. Henry tried to fling himself into his work; manfully he sat in the little library driving through the intricacies of Ballantyne finances, striving desperately to lose himself in that old Edinburgh atmosphere and friendly company. It could not be done. He saw, stalking towards him across the leaf-sodden lawn, the harshest melancholy that his young life had ever known. He had faced before now his unhappy times—in his younger years he had rebelled and sulked and made himself a curse to every one around him! he was growing older now. He was becoming a man, but the struggle was none the easier because he was learning how to deal with it.
He gave up his work, stared out for a little on to the grass pale under a thin autumn sun, then felt that he must move about or die. . . .