His grandfather stirred in his sleep. "Oh, what a noise," he muttered,
"with the rain and all."
But Mr. Westcott removed with a careful hand the melodrama that his young
son had flung about the room.
"That's enough noise," he said, "you will _not_ go to London--nor indeed
anywhere else--and for your own peace of mind I should advise you not to
mention the subject again. The hour is a little early but I recommend your
bedroom."
Peter went. He was trembling from head to foot. Why? He undressed and
prepared himself for battle. Battle it was to be, for the Wednesday in
Easter week would find him in the London train--of that there was to be no
question.
Meanwhile, with the candle blown out, and no moon across the floor, it was
quite certain that courage would be necessary. He was fighting more than
his father.
V
He woke suddenly. A little wind, blowing through the open door flickered
the light of a candle that flung a dim circle about the floor. Within the
circle was his father--black clothes and white face, he was looking with
the candle held high, across the room to the bed.
He drew back the candle and closed the door softly behind him. His feet
made no sound as they passed away down the passage.
Peter lay quaking, wide eyed in his bed, until full morning and time for
getting up.
The opening, certainly, of a campaign.
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