It was perhaps natural that my father should hardly be
devoted to a stranger who had practically reproached his negligence, but
the one thing that did draw him towards the old Indian officer was his
habit of early rising. My father was always up before any of us, but he
generally found the Colonel out before him, enjoying the early hours of
the day as men who have lived in hot climates are accustomed to do. They
used to come in together in very pleasant moods to breakfast; but with
the post-bag Lorraine's uncle was sure to be moved to voluble
indignation, or pity, or to Utopian plans to which my father listened
with puzzled impatience. He did not understand the Colonel, which was
perhaps not to be wondered at.
His moral courage had taken away our breath, and physical courage was
stamped upon his outward man. If he was anything he was manly. It was
because he was in some respects very womanly too, that he puzzled my
father's purely masculine brain. The mixture, and the vehemence of the
mixture, were not in his line. He would have turned "Crayshaw's"
matters over in his own mind as often as hay in a wet season before
grappling with the whole bad business as the Colonel had done.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182