The end?  But he might live another twenty years.  The thought was intolerable.  The apathy in which he had been lately living gave way.  He realised, with quickened breath, what this parting from his inheritance and all the associations of his life would mean.  He saw himself as a tree, dragged violently out of its native earth—­rootless and rotten.

Poor Duggy!  Duggy was as proud and wilful as himself; with more personal ambition however, and less of that easy, sensuous recklessness, that gambler’s spirit, which had led his father into such quagmires.  Duggy had shown up well these last weeks.  He was not a boy to talk, but in acts he had been good.

And through the man’s remorseful soul there throbbed the one deep, disinterested affection of his life—­his love for his son.  He had been very fond of Laura, but when it came to moments like this she meant little to him.

He gave himself up to this feeling of love.  How strange that it should both rend and soothe!—­that it and it alone brought some comfort, some spermaceti for the inward bruise, amid all the bitterness connected with it.  Duggy, in his arms, as a little toddling fellow, Duggy at school—­playing for Harrow at Lord’s—­Duggy at college—­

But of that part of his son’s life, as he realised with shame, he knew very little.  He had been too entirely absorbed, when it arrived, in the frantic struggle, first for money, and then for solvency.  Duggy had become in some ways during the last two years a stranger to him—­his own fault!  What had he done to help him through his college life—­to “influence him for good,” as people said?  Nothing.  He had been enormously proud of his son’s university distinctions; he had supplied him lavishly with money; he had concealed from him his own financial situation till it was hopeless; he had given him the jolliest possible vacation, and that was all that could be said.

The father groaned within himself.  And yet again—­how strangely!—­did some fraction of healing virtue flow from his very distress?—­from his remembrance, above all, of how Duggy had tried to help him?—­during these few weeks since he knew?

Ah!—­Tidswell Church coming out of the shadows!  He remembered how one winter he had been coming home late on horseback through dark lanes, when he met the parson of that church, old and threadbare and narrow-chested, trudging on, head bent, against a spitting rain.  The owner of Flood had been smitten with a sudden compunction, and dismounting he had walked his horse beside the old man.  The living of Tidswell was in his own gift.  It amounted, he remembered, to some L140 a year.  The old man, whose name was Trevenen, had an old wife, to whom Sir Arthur thought Lady Laura had sometimes sent some cast-off clothes.

Mr. Trevenen had been baptising a prematurely born child in a high moorland farm.  The walk there and back had been steep and long, and his thin lantern-jawed face shone very white through the wintry dusk.