CHAPTER XLVI.
HARRY DRINKS A GLASS AND SPILLS A GLASS.
About an hour after, old Dulcibella came to the door and knocked. Charles Fairfield had slept a little, and was again awake. Into that still darkened room she came to whisper her message.
“Mr. Harry’s come, and he’s downstairs, and he’d like to see you, and he wanted to know whether he could see the master.”
“I’ll go down and see him; say I’ll see him with pleasure,” said Alice. “Harry is here, darling,” she said gently, drawing near to the patient, “but you can’t see him, of course.”
“I must,” whispered the invalid peremptorily.
“Darling, are you well enough? I’m sure you ought not. If the doctor were here he would not allow it. Don’t think of it, darling Ry, and he’ll come again in a few days, when you are stronger.”
“It will do me good,” whispered Charles. “Bring him—you tire me; wait, she can tell him. I’ll see him alone; go, go, Ally, go.”
She would have remonstrated, but she saw that in his flushed and irritated looks, which warned her against opposing him further.
“You are to go down, Dulcibella, and bring Mr. Harry to the room to see your master; and, Dulcibella, like a dear good creature, won’t you tell him how weak Master Charles is?” she urged, following her to the lobby, “and beg of him not to stay long.”
In a minute or two more the clank of Harry Fairfield’s boot was heard on the stair. He pushed open the door, and stepped in.