Moreover he was
helpless. Ever since that first day when as a tiny child of four or
five he had awakened to behold that figure, enormous in a long
night-shirt, summoning God in the middle of the night with a candle
flickering fantastic shadows on to the wall behind them, Martin had
been weak as putty in his father's hands. Against other men he could
stand up; against that strange company of fears, affections,
superstitions, shadowy terrors, dim expectations that his father
presented to him he could do nothing.
Well--that conversation had to come some time. He must show that he
was a man now, moulded by the world with his own beliefs, purposes,
resolves. But if he did not love him, how much easier it would be!
When he went downstairs he found the old man in the little pink
drawing-room--he looked tired and worn. Martin remembered with alarm
the things that he had heard recently about his father's heart. He
glanced up and the older man's hand fastened on his shoulder; they
stood there side by side. After a few minutes they all went in to
supper.
Mr. Thurston's nose was flushed with the success of the mission from
which he had just returned.
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