“Only a bad headache, mother,” he said. “Better soon. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean to kill the old woman. I can’t remember doing it. What a time it is since I’ve seen you. But look here, mother. Mind Claire. That scoundrel Rockley! I know him. Stand at nothing. Mind poor Claire, and—”
A spasm seemed to shoot through him, and he uttered a faint cry of agony as he knit his brow.
“Did you speak, dear?” he said huskily. “Have I been asleep?”
“I—I think so,” faltered Claire.
“Yes, I fell asleep. I was dreaming of the poor mother. Claire dear, it would have killed her to see me here like this. There, there, it’s all for the best. I want to sleep. Tell the old man he must come and forgive me before I go. Bring him, Morton, lad. No: you bring him, Claire. It will be pain to you, my child, but it is to help me. He will forgive me—brave, noble old fellow that he is—if you are standing by.”
The door opened, and the military nurse appeared.
“The doctor says that you must not stay longer now, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Quite right,” said Fred softly, and with the manner of one accustomed to yield to discipline. “Come again to-morrow—bring the old man to me—good-bye, dear, good-bye.”
He hardly turned his head to Morton, but feebly pressed the hand that held his. His eyes were fixed with a wild yearning on the sweet, tender face that bent over him, and then closed as he uttered a sigh of content with the long loving embrace that ensued.
Then, utterly prostrate, Morton led his sister from the room used as an infirmary, and across the barrack-yard to the gates where a carriage was in waiting.