There are other occasions when we stand, it may seem through a lifetime of
anticipation bracing our backs for the inevitable moment. Every hour before
it comes is darkened, every light is dimmed by its implacable shadow. Then
when at last it is upon us we meet it with an indifference, almost with a
relief, because it has come at last.
So was it now with Peter. During many weeks he had been miserable,
apprehensive, seeing an enemy in every wind. Now, behold, his adversary in
the open.
"This," he might cry to that old man, down in Scaw House, "this is what you
have been preparing for me, is it? At last you've shown me--well, I'll
fight you."
Young Stephen was very ill. Peter was strangely assured that it was to be a
bad business. Well, it rested with him, Peter, to pull the boy through. If
he chose to put his back into it and give the kid some of his own vigour
and strength then it was bound to be all right.
Standing there in the dark, he stripped his mind naked; he flung from it
every other thought, every other interest--his work, Clare, everything
must go. Only Stephen mattered and Stephen should be pulled through.
For an instant, a little cold trembling fear struck his heart.
Supposing ...? Then fiercely, flinging the thought from him he trampled
it down.
He went to the telephone and called up a doctor who lived in Cheyne Walk.
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