And so it came to pass that a new Sir Hildebrand Oates, with a humble
and a contrite heart, which we are told the Lord doth not despise, came
into residence once more at Eresby Manor, agent for his son and
guardian of his daughter's children. Godfrey transferred his legal
business from Haversham to a younger practitioner in the neighbourhood
to whom Sir Hildebrand showed a stately deference. And every day,
being a man of habit--instinctive habit which no revolution of the soul
can alter--he visited his wife's grave in the little churchyard, a
stone's throw from the manor house, and in his fancy a cloud of pigeons
came iridescent, darkening the air....
The County called, but he held himself aloof. He was no longer the
all-important unassailable man. He had come through many fires to a
wisdom undreamed of by the County. Human love had touched him with its
simple angel wing--the love of son and daughter, the love of the rude
souls in the squalid Venetian _Campiello_; and the patter of children's
feet, the soft and trusting touch of children's hands, the glad welcome
of children's voices, had brought him back to the elemental wells of
happiness.
One afternoon, the butler entering the dining-room with the
announcement "His Grace, the Duke of----" gasped, unable to finish the
title. For there was Sir Hildebrand Oates--younger at fifty-nine than
he was at thirty--lying prone on the hearthrug, with a pair of flushed
infants astride on the softer portions of his back, using the once
almighty man as a being of little account. Sir Hildebrand turned his
long chin and long nose up towards his visitor, and there was a new
smile in his eyes.
"Sorry, Duke," said he, "but you see, I can't get up."