‘Did he go in the carriage?’
‘No, mem; he gaed upo’ ’s ain fit.’
‘Perhaps he’s come home by this time!’
‘I’m sure he’s no that, mem.’
Mrs. Gordon went to her room, all but finished the bottle of whisky, and threw herself on her bed.
Toward morning she woke with aching head and miserable mind. Now dozing, now tossing about in wretchedness, she lay till the afternoon. No one came near her, and she wanted no one.
At length, dizzy and despairing, her head in torture, and her heart sick, she managed to get out of bed, and, unable to walk, literally crawled to the cupboard in which she had put away the precious bottle:—joy! there was yet a glass in it! With the mouth of it to her lips, she was tilting it up to drain the last drop, when the voice of her son came cheerily from the drive, on which her window looked down:
‘See what I’ve brought you, mother!’ he called.
Fear came upon her; she took the bottle from her mouth, put it again in the cupboard, and crept back to her bed, her brain like a hive buzzing with devils.
When Francis entered the house, he was not surprised to learn that she had not left her room. He did not try to see her.