He pressed on somewhat better towards home, and Thomas Godolphin saw nothing else that could be done, except to press on with him, and give him all the help in his power. “My dear father, you should have waited until the morning,” he said, “and have gone out then.”
“But I wanted to see about a train, Thomas,” remonstrated the knight. “And I can’t do it in the day. She will not let me. When we drive past the railway station, she won’t get out, and won’t let me do so. Thomas, I want to go back to Ashlydyat.”
“I have come to take you back, my dear father.”
“Ay, ay. And mind you are firm when she says I must not go because of the fever. The fever will not hurt me, Thomas. I can’t be firm. I have grown feeble, and people take my will from me. You are my first-born son, Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“Then you must be firm for me, I say.”
“I will be, father.”
“This is a rough road, Thomas.”
“No, it is smooth; and I am glad that it is so. But you are tired.”
The old knight bent his head, as if choosing his steps. Presently he lifted his head: