“Well, give me that,” said Arthur, with the peevishness of physical depression.  When he had taken some sips, Adam said, “Hadn’t I better run to th’ house, sir, and get some more brandy?  I can be there and back pretty soon.  It’ll be a stiff walk home for you, if you don’t have something to revive you.”

“Yes—­go.  But don’t say I’m ill.  Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to get it from Mills, and not to say I’m at the Hermitage.  Get some water too.”

Adam was relieved to have an active task—­both of them were relieved to be apart from each other for a short time.  But Adam’s swift pace could not still the eager pain of thinking—­of living again with concentrated suffering through the last wretched hour, and looking out from it over all the new sad future.

Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly in the broken moonlight, seeking something.  It was a short bit of wax candle that stood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing materials.  There was more searching for the means of lighting the candle, and when that was done, he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure himself of the presence or absence of something.  At last he had found a slight thing, which he put first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought, took out again and thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket.  It was a woman’s little, pink, silk neckerchief.  He set the candle on the table, and threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the effort.

When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur from a doze.

“That’s right,” Arthur said; “I’m tremendously in want of some brandy-vigour.”

“I’m glad to see you’ve got a light, sir,” said Adam.  “I’ve been thinking I’d better have asked for a lanthorn.”

“No, no; the candle will last long enough—­I shall soon be up to walking home now.”

“I can’t go before I’ve seen you safe home, sir,” said Adam, hesitatingly.

“No:  it will be better for you to stay—­sit down.”

Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasy silence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visibly renovating effect.  He began to lie in a more voluntary position, and looked as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations.  Adam was keenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety about Arthur’s condition began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatience which every one knows who has had his just indignation suspended by the physical state of the culprit.  Yet there was one thing on his mind to be done before he could recur to remonstrance:  it was to confess what had been unjust in his own words.  Perhaps he longed all the more to make this confession, that his indignation might be free again; and as he saw the signs of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to his lips and went back, checked