Kenyon had rallied: nearly a week had passed. It had done no good, but
it had not killed him.
The afternoon was hot, and still, and golden. The window of Kenyon's
room was wide open; it had been wide open every day. Below, on the
court beyond the drive, Forrester and Ethel were playing at playing
a single. Kenyon had rallied so surprisingly, and had himself begged
them to play. He could not hear them, he was asleep; it was a pity;
but he was sleeping continually. Mr. Harwood sat by Kenyon in the
deep arm-chair. He had sent the nurse to lie down in her room. The
afternoon, though brilliant, was still and oppressive.
How long he slept! Mr. Harwood seldom took his eyes from the smooth
white forehead, whiter than usual under its thatch of brown hair. It
was damp also, and the hair clung to it. Mr. Harwood would smooth back
the hair, and actually not wake Kenyon with the sponge. His untrained
fingers were grown incredibly light and tender. He would stand for
minutes when he had done this, gazing down on the pale young face with
the long brown locks and lashes. They were Kenyon's mother's eyelashes,
as long and as dark. When Mr. Harwood raised his eyes from the boy, it
was to gaze at her photograph on the screen. Kenyon in his sleep was
extremely like her. The eyes in the portrait were downcast a little;
they seemed to rest on Kenyon, to beckon him.
The voices of Ethel and Forrester, never loud, were audible all the
time. And Mr. Harwood was glad to hear them. He did not want those two
up here. He would not have Forrester up here any more; only Kenyon
would. It was Forrester who had held the child's unconscious hand
during the operation, and until Kenyon became sensible, when "C. J."
was the first sound he uttered. There had been too much Forrester all
through, much too much since the operation. It was Kenyon's doing, and
Kenyon must have all his wishes now. It was not Forrester's fault. Mr.
Harwood knew this, and hated Kenyon's friend the more bitterly for the
feeling that another man would have loved him.
How Kenyon slept! How strange, how shallow, his breath seemed all at
once! Mr. Harwood rose again, and again smoothed the long hair back
from the forehead. The forehead glistened: and this time Kenyon awoke.
There was a dim unseeing look in his eyes. He held out a hand, and Mr.
Harwood grasped it, dropping on his knees beside the bed.
"Stick to my hand. Never let go again. Remember what you told me? _I_
do--I'm thinking of it now!"
Mr. Harwood did not remember telling him any one thing. He was kneeling
with his back to the window. Kenyon's sentences had come with long
intervals between them, and accompanied by the most loving glances
his father had ever received from him. The father's heart throbbed
violently. Perhaps he realised that his boy was dying; he was more
acutely conscious that Kenyon and he were alone together, and that
childish love and trust had come at last into the dear, dying eyes. He
had striven so hard to win this look--had longed for it of late with so
mighty a longing! And at the last it was his. What else was there to
grasp?
Kenyon began to murmur indistinctly--about cricket--about getting out.
Mr. Harwood leant closer to catch the words, and to drink deeper while
he could of the dim loving eyes. But there came suddenly a change of
expression. Kenyon was silent. And Mr. Harwood never knew why.
In the garden they heard the cry, and sped into the house, and up the
stairs and into the room, warm from their game. They opened the door
and stood still; for they saw Kenyon as none ever had seen him before,
with his face upon his father's shoulder, and a smile there such as
Forrester himself had never won.