James Bell, dragoon, otherwise Fred Denville, the disgraced prodigal of the Master of the Ceremonies’ home, had a couple of shillings in his pocket as he strode towards the prison; and as he was on his way, low-spirited and despondent at the troubles of his house, a great thirst came upon him, and he felt that he could never go through the scene he had to encounter without a stimulant in some form.
Then he thought of what a curse drink was to him, and how he could not take one glass without wanting another, and many others, and with this thought he manfully passed the first public-house.
But, as he passed, the door was swung open, and the hot, spiritous odour of strong drinks floated out and half maddened him.
“Just one glass would tighten me up,” he muttered, “and I could go through with it better.”
He thought of his last interview with his father, their struggle, and how he had nearly struck him, and he shrank from what was to come.
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I must have a drop. It will steady a fellow’s nerves. Good God! how horrible to go and see that old man charged with murder.”
He had thought a great deal about it before, but now the whole affair struck him as if in a new light, and the examinations, the trial, and the following of that trial came upon him with a terrible force that frightened him. It had never seemed so horrible before, and he burst out in a cold perspiration as in imagination he saw the white bared head of the old man, with wild eyes and ghastly face—saw him in the grey of some chilly morning, pinioned and with the white-robed priest by his side, walking towards—
It was too horrible! A curious feeling of blind terror made him shiver and hurry on, as something seemed to whisper in his ear, “He did murder that wretched old woman, and he must suffer for his crime.”
“Curse me, I must have some brandy, or I shall never be able to face him,” he gasped, as he strode on, no longer the stern, upright, well-built cavalry soldier, but a bent, trembling man, at whom more than one passer-by looked askance. He even reeled, and albeit perfectly sober, he evoked comments upon “these drunken soldiers” in the streets.
“It is too horrible,” he said again. “I never saw it like this before;” and, hurrying on with unsteady step, he was making straight for a public-house he knew, when, on turning a corner, he suddenly encountered Major Rockley.