“Frank, my boy, why do you hesitate?” she whispered, as she passed her soft, warm hand over his forehead, which was wet and cold. “Come, speak out like a brave lad. A boy of your age should be manly, and if he has done wrong own to it, and be ready to bear the reproof or punishment he has earned. Come, let me help you.”
“You help me?” he gasped.
“Yes, I think I can. You dined at the mess last night; your face is flushed and feverish, your head is hot, and your hands wet and cold. Phoebe tells me that in her sleep she heard you ringing at the bell soon after five. Is this so?”
“Yes,” he said with his eyes and a quick nod of the head.
“Hah! And am I right in saying that you have had scarcely any or no sleep during the night?”
He nodded again quickly, and felt as if it would be impossible to try and set his mother right.
“Hah! I am angry with you. I feel that I ought to be. There has been some escapade. Your father would have watched over you while he was there. It must have been afterwards—Andrew Forbes and some of the wild young officers. Yes, I see it now; and I never warned you against such a peril, though it is real enough, I fear.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” groaned the boy in agony.
“I knew it,” she said sternly; “they have led you away to some card- or dice-playing, and you have lost. Now you are fully awake to your folly.”
The boy made a brave effort to speak out, but still no words would come.