He had drunk so long, and so deeply, that now, when he was suddenly checked, the change was terrible to witness. He grew timid, and seemed haunted by terrible spectres. Anon he would call to some fair-haired woman, and shout out that there was blood, clotted blood, on her ringlets; then, rolling himself up in the bed covering, he would shriek for the skies and mountains to hide him from the meek reproach of those girlish eyes!
"Something terrible is on his memory," said the doctor to Miss Jane. "Do you know aught of this?"
"Nothing," she replied with a shudder.
"Don't you remember," asked Miss Tildy, "how often Johnny's eyes seemed to recall a remorseful memory, and how father would, as now, cry for them to shut out that look which so tormented him?"
"Yes, yes," and they both fled from the room, and did not again go near their father. On the third evening of his illness, when Dr. Mandy (who had been constantly with him) sat by his bed, holding his pulse, he turned on his side, and asked in a mild tone, quite unusual to him,
"Doctor, must I die? Tell me the truth; I don't want to be deceived."
After a moment's pause, the doctor replied, "Yes, Mr. Peterkin, I will speak the truth; I don't think you can recover from this attack, and, if I am not very much mistaken, but a few hours of mortal life now remain to you."
"Then I must speak on a matter what has troubled me a good deal. If I was a good scholar I'd a writ it out, and left it fur you to read; but as I warn't much edicated, I couldn't do that, so I'll jist tell you all, and relieve my mind." Here Mr. Peterkin's face assumed a frightful expression; his eyes rolled terribly in his head, and blazed with an expression which no language can paint. His very hair seemed erect with terror.
"Don't excite yourself; be calm! Wait until another time, then tell me."