“Gone to bed, sir, with a sick headache.”
“She’s always got a sick headache,” growled Richard.
“I wish you had ’em your sen,” muttered the girl.
“There, bring some hot water and a tumbler into the dining-room,” said Richard, as the girl was turning to go.
He went into the dining-room, got out the spirit-stand, and, on the hot water being brought, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy and water, and drank it rapidly, listening occasionally to the footsteps and loud talking without.
A second glass followed shortly after, and then, tired out with the day’s work, the young man threw himself on the sofa. The sounds outside by degrees grew indistinct and distant, and then, with a pale, ghost-like Eve following him always, he was journeying through foreign lands with Daisy, who looked lovingly up in his face. Then, Tom Podmore seemed to be pursuing him and threatening his life. Next it was the vicar; and then, at last, after struggling hard to get away, Joe Banks stood over him with a flashing light, and as he waited to hear him say, “Where is my child?”—waited with a feeling of suspense that seemed prolonged for years, the voice said coldly and sternly:
“Why are you not in bed?”
He started into wakefulness to see that it was his mother standing over him with a chamber candlestick, looking very cold and white.
“How could I go to bed when you were not back?” he said sulkily.
“You can go to bed now,” she said, quietly.