There was one thing Fisbee's shame had made the old man
unable not to suppress when he told Parker his story; the wraith of a
torrid palate had pursued him from his youth, and the days of drink and
despair from which Harkless had saved him were not the first in his life.
Meredith wondered as much as did Harkless where Fisbee had picked up the
journalistic "young relative" who signed his extremely business-like
missives in such a thundering hand. It was evident that the old man was
grateful to his patron, but it did not occur to Meredith that Fisbee's
daughter might have an even stronger sense of gratitude, one so strong
that she could give all her young strength to work for the man who had
been good to her father.
There came a day in August when Meredith took the convalescent from the
hospital in a victoria, and installed him in his own home. Harkless's
clothes hung on his big frame limply; however, there was a drift of light
in his eyes as they drove slowly through the pretty streets of Rouen. The
bandages and splints and drugs and swathings were all gone now, and his
sole task was to gather strength. The thin face was sallow no longer; it
was the color of evening shadows; indeed he lay among the cushions
seemingly no more than a gaunt shadow of the late afternoon, looking old
and gray and weary. They rolled along abusing each other, John sometimes
gratefully threatening his friend with violence.
Pages:
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295