The second night after his daughter's departure, Judge Kent had indulged in stimulants to an unprecedented and alarming extent. With a decanter of brandy at his elbow, he dozed in his arm-chair until roused by Aaron, who delivered a telegram. Eliza was going upstairs to her own room, when the boy rang the bell and handed in the message.
"Lock up the house, Aaron. I think the judge is sleepy and will soon go to bed."
An hour later she sat reading her Bible, and heard a sound as of some heavy object falling. Snatching her lamp, she went swiftly to the library. The overturned decanter was slowly emptying itself on the table, and Judge Kent lay on the floor, his head resting against the cushioned seat of his chair. Evidently he had risen, slipped on the polished floor, dropped the decanter, and lost consciousness.
His face was purple, his breathing stertorous. Holding his head, she pushed the chair back and laid him flat on the floor.
Was it apoplectic seizure or intoxication? Her inexperience justified no independent action, yet if drunkenness explained existing conditions, she shrank from publishing the disgrace that would mortally wound Eglah.
Bathing his head and face, she administered such restoratives as she possessed, and loosened his vest and collar. Finally it seemed necessary to summon Aaron and send Oliver for the doctor, but as she rose to ring the bell Judge Kent opened his eyes. A dark, turbid red still stained his face, but his respiration was less labored.
"Don't move. After a little I can get Oliver to help you into bed."
"I had a fall?"
His utterance was thick, his articulation indistinct, and he hiccoughed.
"Yes, sir. You are better, I think, and if you will only lie still a while you can soon be made comfortable in your own room."