“Never a stone,” said Fred slowly. “No, it’s all like a cloud. It always is like a cloud over my mind when I’ve been having the cursed drink. It sends me mad.”
Claire gazed at him wildly.
“You ought not to be here, Clairy. Take her away, lad. I’m no fit company for her. But tell me—the old man? They have set him free?”
“No, not yet,” said Morton sadly.
“But he must be set free at once. Poor, weak old fellow! He has suffered enough. Morton, lad, go to him and try to get him out. Him kill the old woman? He hadn’t it in him.”
Fred Denville turned so faint that he seemed to be losing his senses, but Claire bathed his face, and he recovered and smiled up at her.
“It’s hard work to tell you to go, Clairy dear, but you mustn’t stay here. Say one kind word to me, though, my dear; I haven’t had much to do with kindness since I left home. I’m sorry I disgraced you all so. Ask the old man to forgive me, and tell him I should like to shake hands with him once, just once, before it’s all over.”
“Fred, my dear brother,” whispered Claire, pressing his hand to her breast, while Morton held the other.
“Ah!” sighed the wounded man, “that’s better. Morton, lad, it will soon be over, and people forget these things in a few days. I’m only in the way. I always have been. You’ll get on better when I’m gone.”
“Hush, Fred!”