And, meantime, Steenie was finding that when one has a handsome face and jolly humour, it is easy to live by one's wits, even though honour be in the mire.
So the years rolled by. He watched them go as the wood spattered and burnt on the hearth, spurting out little jets of flame or leaping up the chimney in long, red tongues of fiery heat.
Michael, his son! His son. His father, it seemed at times, for here was Sir Henry over again, save for sudden fits of wild, rollicking devilry, which came of an Irish birthright, and delighted Sir Stephen hugely.
Mike and he might have been the jolliest of comrades were it not for the young fool's absurd ideas of honour.
Again Sir Stephen filled up his glass. He would at least drown melancholy and memory too.
After all, he hoped spoil-sport Mike would stay at Kérnak. The lad took life like an old man, and left his father behind in the merry ranks of youth.
Yes! of youth. He was not old—would not be old. He was young—merry. Laughter on his lips—in his heart, now the ghosts of the past were laid.
Confusion to memory! Con——
How darkly the shadows fell.
And behind him one was moving forward, nearer—nearer—nearer.