He saw that the boy's nerves were jumping, that he was
holding himself in with the greatest difficulty.
Peter said: "You don't know, Maradick. I've had to fight all my life--my
father, grandfather, all of them have given in at last--and now this child
... perhaps I shall see it growing, see him gradually learning to hate me,
see myself hating him ... at last, my God, see him go under--drink,
deviltry--I've fought it--I'm always fighting it--but to-night--"
"Good heavens, man--you're not going to tell me that your father, your
grandfather--the rest of them--are stronger than you. What about your soul,
your own blessed soul that can't be touched by any living thing or dead
thing either if you stick to it? Why, every man's got power enough in
himself to ride heaven and earth and all eternity if he only believed he'd
got it! Ride your scruples, man--ride 'em, drive 'em--send 'em scuttling.
Believe in yourself and stick to it--Courage!..."
Maradick pulled himself in. They were driving now, down the King's Road.
The people were pouring in a thick, buzzing crowd, out of the Chelsea
Palace. Middle-aged stockbrokers in hansom cabs--talking like the third act
of a problem play!--but Maradick had done his work. As they drove round the
corner, past the mad lady's painted house, he saw that Peter was calmer. He
had regained his self-control.
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