My lord took his first walk in the kitchen of Thorn leaning upon John Gore’s shoulder, the son’s arm about the father’s body. Any one who had seen the pair would have judged them to have been the best of friends, for the son steadied the father’s steps with the grave, patient air of one whose care was almost a devotion. And the father, who had the look of a man who had aged very rapidly, what with the white in his hair and the deep lines upon his face, seemed to lean upon the son with a sense of confidence and trust. He was wearing a new suit of plain black cloth, with a white scarf about his throat. Some of his little gestures and tricks of expression came to him as in the old days, save that they were less emphatic and less characteristic of the aggressive self.
At the third turn Stephen Gore looked at the window that was lit by the March sunlight, and a sudden wistfulness swept into his eyes, as though he were touched by pathetic memories. He paused, leaning his weight upon his son, for he was feeble and easily out of breath after those weeks upon his back.
“I should like to go into the open air, John, and sit in the sun.”
John Gore looked at him doubtfully.
“You are safer here,” he said.
My lord gave a shake of the head.
“Are you cautious for my sake, my son? John—John, you do not understand me yet.”
There seemed a new atmosphere of sympathy enveloping them, for John Gore answered his father very gently.
“It shall be as you wish.”
“Then put your arm under my shoulders, John—so. What a strong fellow you are! I can just toddle like a dot of two.”