“No, Roger, not in your mother’s house,” he whispered, interposing a hand of authority between Roger and the brandy. “Though you may drink to an unseemly extent in town, you shall not here.”
“Roger got some brandy-and-water from mamma this afternoon,” volunteered Miss Tottams, dancing up to them. She had been allowed to sit up to help dress the rooms; and, of all little pitchers, she had the sharpest ears. “He said he felt sick, Uncle John.”
They came back to the fire and sat down again, Roger looking in truth sick; sick almost unto death.
Mr. Brandon went up to bed; Lady Bevere soon followed, and we began the rooms, Harriet and Jacob coming in to help. Roger exclaimed at the splendid heaps of holly. Of late years he had seen only the poor scraps they get in London.
“A merry Christmas to you, Roger!”
“Don’t, Johnny! Better that you should wish me dead.”
The bright sun was shining into his room as I entered it on this Christmas morning: Roger stood brushing his hair at the glass. He looked very ill.
“How can I look otherwise?” retorted poor Roger. “Two nights and not a wink of sleep!—nothing but fever and apprehension and intolerable restlessness. And you come wishing me a merry Christmas!”
Well, of course it did sound like a mockery. “I will wish you a happier one for next year, then, Roger. Things may be brighter then.”
“How can they be?—with that dreadful weight that I must carry about with me for life? Do you see this?”—sweeping his hand round towards the window.