Thomas devoutly believed in ghosts. He never forgot a scene at Klondyke, where a murdered man had shown himself in the light of the camp fire. There had been men there who, though terrified enough at the time, had declared that the ghost was the man himself—alive, though he had been left for dead. But Thomas had always been convinced it was a spirit they had seen.
When Mrs. Le Breton returned from Hastings, she found Thomas just awake from his drunken sleep, and shivering in the dark dining-room, where supper had been laid while he slept.
She put down a parcel and lit the lamp.
Then she saw him and understood.
“I am glad you have come,” he whimpered. “I saw John. I am sure I saw John—”
“Drink,” interrupted Mrs. Le Breton. “If you are going to take to that, we are lost.”
“I don’t mean to,” the man answered penitently. (He was in that foolish state which exists when a man is recovering, but not yet recovered, from an alcoholic excess.)
“And don’t ill-use the poor girl again either,” went on Mrs. Le Breton virtuously.
Mrs. Le Breton’s cruelty was of a more refined description, and covered up by kind words and attempted caresses—attempted only, because always repulsed.
“I swear I won’t strike her again,” whimpered Alvin. “I hate myself for it.”