“O God, who makest us glad with the yearly remembrance of the birth of Thy Son—­”

XLVIII

David was beaten; most tragic defeat of all, beaten by those he had loved and faithfully served.

He did not rise on Christmas morning, and Dick, visiting him after an almost untasted breakfast, found him still in his bed and questioned him anxiously.

“I’m all right,” he asserted.  “I’m tired, Dick, that’s all.  Tired of fighting.  You’re young.  You can carry it on, and win.  But I’ll never see it.  They’re stronger than we are.”

Later he elaborated on that.  He had kept the faith.  He had run with courage the race that was set before him.  He had stayed up at night and fought for them.  But he couldn’t fight against them.

Dick went downstairs again and shutting himself in his office fell to pacing the floor.  David was right, the thing was breaking him.  Very seriously now he contemplated abandoning the town, taking David with him, and claiming his estate.  They could travel then; he could get consultants in Europe; there were baths there, and treatments—­

The doorbell rang.  He heard Minnie’s voice in the hail, not too friendly, and her tap at the door.

“Some one in the waiting-room,” she called.

When he opened the connecting door he found Elizabeth beyond it, a pale and frightened Elizabeth, breathless and very still.  It was a perceptible moment before he could control his voice to speak.  Then: 

“I suppose you want to see David.  I’m sorry, but he isn’t well to-day.  He is still in bed.”

“I didn’t come to see David, Dick.”

“I cannot think you want to see me, Elizabeth.”

“I do, if you don’t mind.”

He stood aside then and let her pass him into the rear office.

But he was not fooled at all.  Not he.  He had been enough.  He knew why she had come, in the kindness of heart. (She was so little.  Good heavens, a man could crush her to nothing!) She had come because she was sorry for him, and she had brought forgiveness.  It was like her.  It was fine.  It was damnable.

His voice hardened, for fear it might be soft.

“Is this a professional visit, or a Christmas call, Elizabeth?  Or perhaps I shouldn’t call you that.”

“A Christmas call?”

“You know what I mean.  The day of peace.  The day—­what do you think I’m made of, Elizabeth?  To have you here, gentle and good and kind—­”

He got up and stood over her, tall and almost threatening.

“You’ve been to church, and you’ve been thinking things over, I know.  I was there.  I heard it all, peace on earth, goodwill to men.  Bosh.  Peace, when there is no peace.  Good will!  I don’t want your peace and good will.”

She looked up at him timidly.

“You don’t want to be friends, then?”