I must have been tight last night,” he reflected.
“Treacherous drink that.”
He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever.
He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence.
On the way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply.
When he reached the house he found Mr. Todd sitting there.
“Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon.
There is scarcely another half hour of light.
How do you feel?”
“Rotten.
That drink doesn't seem to agree with me.”
“I will give you something to make you better.
The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep.”
“You haven't seen my watch anywhere?”
“You have missed it?”
“Yes. I thought I was wearing it.
I say, I've never slept long.”
“Not since you were a baby.
Do you know how long?
Two days.”
“Nonsense.
I can't have.”
“Yes, indeed.
It is a long time.
It is a pity because you missed our guests.”
“Guests?”
“Why, yes.
I have been quite gay while you were asleep.
Three men from outside.
Englishmen.
It is a pity you missed them.
A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you.
But what could I do?
You were so sound asleep.
They had come all the way to find you, so — I thought you would not mind — as you could not greet them yourself I gave them a little souvenir, your watch.
They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it.
And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming.
They were pleased with that, too.
They were very easily pleased.
But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired … no pleasures except reading … I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again … well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better.
Your head aches, does it not? … We will not have any Dickens today … but tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.
Let us read Little Dorrit again.
There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep.”
CHAPTER SEVEN English Gothic — III
A LIGHT breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year for it had been a mild winter.
High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen.
It was half past eight.
The clock had been irregular lately.
It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit.
Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair.