XXXV
SUNSET
"I do not wish to seem selfish, Oliver, but sit a little nearer
the window where I can see you whenever I open my eyes. Twelve
years is a long time to make up, and I have such a little while in
which to do it."
Oliver moved. The moisture sprang to his eyes as he did so. He had
caught a glimpse of the face on the pillow and the changes made in
a week were very apparent. Always erect, his father had towered
above them then even in his self-abasement, but he looked now as
though twenty years, instead of a few days, had passed over his
stately head and bowed his incomparable figure. And not that
alone. His expression was different. Had Oliver not seen him in
his old likeness for that one terrible half-hour, he would not
know these features, so sunken, yet so eloquent with the peace of
one for whom all struggle is over, and the haven of his long rest
near.
The heart, which had held unflinchingly to its task through every
stress of self-torture, succumbed under the relief of confession,
and as he himself had said, there was but little time left him to
fill his eyes and heart with the sight of this strong man who had
replaced his boy Oliver.
He had hungered so for his presence even in those days of final
shrinking and dismay. And now, the doubts, the dread, the
inexpressible humiliation are all in the past and there remains
only this,--to feast his eyes where his heart has so long feasted,
and to thank God for the blessedness of a speedy going, which has
taken the sword from the hand of Justice and saved Oliver the
anguished sight of a father's public humiliation.
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