CHAPTER IV
OPINIONS OF THE BENCH
Late the same night, after a disordered walk, Archie was admitted into Lord Glenalmond’s dining-room, where he sat, with a book upon his knee, beside three frugal coals of fire. In his robes upon the Bench, Glenalmond had a certain air of burliness: plucked of these, it was a may-pole of a man that rose unsteadily from his chair to give his visitor welcome. Archie had suffered much in the last days, he had suffered again that evening; his face was white and drawn, his eyes wild and dark. But Lord Glenalmond greeted him without the least mark of surprise or curiosity.
“Come in, come in,” said he. “Come in and take a seat. Carstairs” (to his servant), “make up the fire, and then you can bring a bit of supper,” and again to Archie, with a very trivial accent: “I was half expecting you,” he added.
“No supper,” said Archie. “It is impossible that I should eat.”
“Not impossible,” said the tall old man, laying his hand upon his shoulder, “and, if you will believe me, necessary.”
“You know what brings me?” said Archie, as soon as the servant had left the room.
“I have a guess, I have a guess,” replied Glenalmond. “We will talk of it presently—when Carstairs has come and gone, and you have had a piece of my good Cheddar cheese and a pull at the porter tankard: not before.”
“It is impossible I should eat,” repeated Archie.