“We can only hope there may be some hand to save him even from these depths,” said Mr Rimbolt; “for, from what I know of Jeffreys, he will find it hard now to keep his head above water. Of course, Raby, I have only told you this because you have heard the story from another point of view which does poor Jeffreys injustice.”
“I am so grateful to you,” said the girl.
Mr Rimbolt let her go without saying more. Even the man of books had eyes that could see; and Raby’s face during this interview had told a tale of something more than casual sympathy.
The season dragged on, and nothing occurred to mend matters at Clarges Street. Percy moped and could settle down to nothing. He spurned his books, he neglected his horse, and gave up the river entirely. It was vain to reason or expostulate with him, and after a couple of months his parents marked with anxiety that the boy was really ill. Yet nothing would induce him to quit London. Even his father’s offer to take him abroad for a few weeks did not tempt him.
Raby herself made the final appeal the day before they started.
“Percy, dear, won’t you come for my sake?” said she.
“If I came for anybody I would for you,” replied he, “but I can’t.”
“But I had so looked forward to you seeing father.”
“I’ll see him as soon as he gets to town.”
“It will spoil my pleasure so much,” said she. “I shall be miserable thinking of you.”