‘Michael,’ he said.
‘Go!’ repeated Michael, in a stony voice.
Gilbert walked slowly out at the door, into the hall, took his hat, and left the house. They heard the hall door close after him, and it was with two of them, at least, as if the sound struck them like an actual blow. To turn one’s brother out of doors would generally be done figuratively—morally, perhaps. Michael had done it literally, and with a resistless determination and strength of will which none of them had credited him with. His hour had come at last, and the real stuff of which he was made, good or bad, was beginning to show itself.
After a moment’s silence, he turned again to the others and said—
‘I won’t detain you any longer. I wish I could have spared you such a scene, but as my two nearest friends, I wished you to be under no mistake as to what I was going to do. And now I should like to be alone for awhile.’
Roger heaved a deep sigh, and said nothing, but moved towards the door. The doctor, who had a tender heart, and down whose cheeks the tears were running, fell back into old Quaker phraseology, as he almost sobbed out—
‘Michael, my poor, poor lad, thou’ll come and sleep in thy own bed to-night, at my house, won’t thou?’
‘Yes, I will, doctor,’ replied Michael slowly; and they left him alone.
CHAPTER IX
THE GODDESS OF THE TENDER FEET
‘The goddess Calamity is delicate, and ... her feet are tender. Her feet are soft, he says, for she treads not upon the ground, but makes her path upon the heads of men.’