Dandy sat on the extreme edge, and Mrs. Mel pursued:
“Now, Dandy, tell me what your master said at the table.”
“Talked at ’em like a lord, he did,” said Dandy, stupidly consoling the boxed ear.
“What were his words?”
Dandy’s peculiarity was, that he never remembered anything save when drunk, and Mrs. Mel’s dose had rather sobered him. By degrees, scratching at his head haltingly, he gave the context.
“‘Gentlemen, I hear for the first time, you’ve claims against my poor father. Nobody shall ever say he died, and any man was the worse for it. I’ll meet you next week, and I’ll bind myself by law. Here’s Lawyer Perkins. No; Mr. Perkins. I’ll pay off every penny. Gentlemen, look upon me as your debtor, and not my father.’”
Delivering this with tolerable steadiness, Dandy asked, “Will that do?”
“That will do,” said Mrs. Mel. “I’ll send you up some tea presently. Lie down, Dandy.”
The house was dark and silent when Evan, refreshed by his rest, descended to seek his mother. She was sitting alone in the parlour. With a tenderness which Mrs. Mel permitted rather than encouraged, Evan put his arm round her neck, and kissed her many times. One of the symptoms of heavy sorrow, a longing for the signs of love, made Evan fondle his mother, and bend over her yearningly. Mrs. Mel said once: “Dear Van; good boy!” and quietly sat through his caresses.
“Sitting up for me, mother?” he whispered.