Cassius had gone to the library, sat down at the desk and rested his head on his hands. Once or twice he raised it and drew some papers towards him, but soon relinquished them. Ainger entered, laid the list of wine before him, and withdrew in one swift movement. Cassius looked up at him as he reached the door.
‘So it is thought that wine matters, Ainger. What is your feeling about it?’
‘Well, sir, in our ordinary life ordinary things have their niche.’
‘I somehow feel I am no longer living it. There has come a change for me of late. I hardly know how to express it.’
‘I should suggest you have not been yourself since your illness, sir.’
‘That is a kind way of putting it, Ainger. It holds a kind thought. Everyone’s thought of me is not so kind. I have to get used to hostile eyes.’
‘Would it not be truer to say “disapproving”, sir? There is no hostility in any glance I have seen cast upon you.’
‘Disapproval is a cheerless companion. It throws a cold shadow on one’s path. I may have invited it, but it dogs my steps. I ask myself if I shall always be followed by it.’
‘Not if you give it time and make no more place for it, sir.’
‘Ah, you too think the less of me.’
‘I think the more about you, sir, and with no less feeling,’ said Ainger, as he went to the door.
Cassius looked at the list of wine as if he did not follow it, took up an envelope and put the two together, but seemed unable to connect them, and remained with them in his hands.
An hour or two later Ainger came to Mr Clare.
‘We are in trouble again, sir. I hesitate to tell you. I hardly like to employ the words.’
‘Well, make up your mind. Either use them or tell someone else to do so.’
‘The master again, sir. He is lying on the sofa, as before. And it is not two hours since we exchanged a word. What course are we to follow? Making much of it defeats its purpose.’
‘I will come with you and see him.’
‘It is what I hoped you would suggest, sir.’
The two men went to the library and Mr Clare stood by his son.’
‘Yes, the same thing again. A second time. I suppose breakfast was leading up to it. I see now that it was.’
‘It did strike a warning note, sir. But we could not forecast this. We have had breakfasts of that kind before.’
‘What is our life to be, if we are to fear it? We cannot live under the threat. It would be not to live at all.’
‘If you will be advised, sir, you will do nothing. Notice feeds the desire for prominence and has the outcome. Neglect is sometimes wholesome. Our seeming to become inured may prevent recurrence. It would have to be done without reward, if you understand me.’.
‘It seems little reward in itself,’ said Mr Clare, looking at his son. ‘Well, he recovered by himself before; the doctor did nothing. We may leave it to happen as it did then, as no doubt he relied on its doing. And we will not have the after-scenes. That was our mistake.’
‘Yes, sir, we crowned it with success, as it were. Were the tablets where he would come on them?’
‘There are some in the desk. I keep them for myself, and must do so. I did not turn the key on them. Why should I do such a thing? He is a man of fifty and my son. And I felt he had done this once and for all. I thought there were signs of it. And there were signs. I know him.’
‘I should have said the same of myself, sir. It seems we are not to know each other.’
‘I know my son. I have foretold his actions. I have seen them in his words. I did not foretell this. Can there be a change?’
‘I should have thought not, sir. I should have said there was something immutable. I hope this is not part of it,’ said Ainger, ending almost with a smile.
‘We must see that it is not. We must protect him from himself, and ourselves from him. But it serves no purpose to stand with our eyes on him. He looks as he did last time, and for a while must do so. Last time! What a way to have to talk!’
Mr Clare turned with a silent step, as if his son were asleep.
‘Let me lead you away, sir,’ said Ainger, putting his hand under his arm. ‘I will look in on the master myself. Though he does not know it, my eye will be on him. It will not be the first time.’
‘Come to me, if there is any change. And when your mistress returns, bring her to me.’
‘I will break it to her myself, sir. I can spare you that. And you may rely on the method. It is fortunate that she is to be away for some hours. When she returns, the worst will be over.’
‘And the rest will begin. And we have had enough. I do not see why a woman should bear anything, or an old man either. He will not teach me to forget that I am his father, but I can only answer for myself.’
‘We all have to make our sacrifice for the master, sir. And it seems to bind us together. In a way it is the meaning of the house.’
When Flavia returned late in the day, Ainger was waiting in the. hall.
‘I am both glad and sorry to see you, ma’am. I hope we have done right. We have had our trouble again, and have had to use our own judgement. It could not have been foreseen.’
‘What is the matter?’
‘It is the same thing again, ma’am. The master was found as before. I happened to look in on him. It is a good thing the instinct prompted me. I don’t know if the coming event cast its shadow before.’
‘There was some kind of shadow. It has followed me all day. I ought to have stayed at home. What is the truth?’
‘Simply the same as previously, ma’am. Or I trust we can say it is. We thought it best to leave him, as the doctor found nothing to do. But as the hours passed and there was no change, I took it upon myself to send for him. He should be here at any moment. I did riot tell Mr Clare for fear of alarming him. Yes, ma’am, on the sofa, as before.’
Flavia was standing by Cassius, as his father had stood. She turned to Ainger at once.
‘You are not right that there has been no change. There have been more than one. When did the last one come?’
‘I admit I am alarmed myself, ma’am.’
‘It is useless for me to say that the doctor should have come at once.’
‘It may partake of wisdom after the event, ma’am.’
‘It is wisdom nevertheless,’ said Flavia, turning again to her husband.
The minutes passed in silence. There was nothing to do but live through them. Ainger waited at the door for the doctor, and they hastened to the library. Mr Clare entered with them, summoned by the sounds.
The silence, held and grew. The doctor bent over Cassius. Ainger moved to his hand, obeyed his hurried word. Some necessary things were done, and he turned and faced the wife and father.
‘It is worse this time,’ said Mr Clare. ‘Has he taken more than before?’
‘He has taken nothing. This is a different thing. It is a sudden illness. It is an affection of the heart not unusual in middle-aged men. If stimulants had been given in time, it might have been different. I can say it would have been. I should have been sent for at once, as, if you had known, you would have sent for me.’
‘But how could we know? How could we suspect this second thing? It had all the appearance of the first.’
‘You could not know. You are not to blame. You thought and did what was natural.’
‘And now is there any hope?’
The doctor did not answer, and Mr Clare turned to his son.
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ he said.
‘Can nothing be done?’ said Flavia.
The doctor looked at the sick man, and Flavia followed his eyes. Nothing could be done but stand by Cassius, feeling there might be comfort in their presence, knowing there was none; nothing but watch the shortening breath, and feel their own stop, as a sudden deep sigh preceded a silence.