She started. Crowdie had seemed better when she had left his side for a moment. It had eased him to move his head. But now he was worse again, and the room almost shook with the noise of his breathing. It was as though he were inhaling water that choked him and gurgled in his throat and nostrils. She was frightened again, and ran to his side. She took her little handkerchief which lay on the small table at her elbow, and passed it delicately over his mouth. Her hand trembled as soon as she had done it, and the handkerchief fell upon the woollen blanket, and gently unfolded itself a little after it had fallen. It caught the light and seemed to be alive, as though it had taken some of the sleeping man’s life from him. She started again, and seized it to crumple it and thrust it away, with something between fear and impatience in her movement, and she bent over her husband’s face once more, and realized where her real fear was, as she tenderly smoothed his fair hair and softly touched his temples.
There was nothing to be done but to wait, and she waited, not patiently. Sometimes the noise of his breathing hurt her, and she pressed her hand to her side, and hid her eyes for a moment. The dismal minutes that would not go by, nor make way for one another, dragged on through a long half-hour, and more. Then there was a rumbling of wheels on the cobble stones, and she was at the window in an instant, flattening her face against the glass as she tried to look northward, whence the sound should come. It was Routh’s carriage. That was a certainty, even before she caught sight of the yellow glare of the lamps, moving fan-like along the broad way. It was not likely that any other carriage should stray into the loneliness of Lafayette Place at that time of night. The carriage stopped. Hester saw a man get out, and heard the clap of the door of the brougham as it was sharply closed behind him. Immediately she was at the door, her hand on the handle, but her eyes turned anxiously upon Crowdie’s face. The steps came up the stairs, and she looked out. It was Doctor Routh himself, for she had sent a very urgent message.
Without going upon the landing, she stretched out her hand and almost dragged him into the room, for somehow her terror increased to a frenzy as she saw him, and she felt that her heart could not go on beating long enough for him to speak. Her face was very grave, but she was only conscious of his deep violet-blue eyes that glanced at her keenly as he passed her. He had half guessed what was the matter, for the terrible breathing could be heard on the stairs.
Without hesitation he took the shade from the light, and held the little lamp close to Crowdie’s face. He raised first one eyelid and then the other. The pupils were enormously dilated. Then he felt the pulse, listened to the heart, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. A moment later he was scratching words hastily in his note-book.
“Why didn’t you send word that it was morphia?” he asked, sharply, without looking up. “Send that by the carriage, and tell them to be quick!” He thrust the note into her hands and almost pushed her from the room. “Make haste! I must have the things at once!” he called after her as she flew downstairs.
Then he tried such means as he had at hand, though he knew how useless they must be, doing everything possible to rouse the man from the poisoned sleep. He smiled grimly at his own folly, and laid the head upon its pillow again. Hester was in the room in a moment.
“It’s morphia,” he said, “and he’s had an overdose. How did he come to get it? Who gave it to him?”
“I did,” answered Hester, in a clear voice, and her lips were white. “Will he die?” she whispered, with sudden horror.
She almost sprang at Routh as she asked the question, grasping his arm in both her hands.
“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I’ll try to bring him round. Control yourself, Mrs. Crowdie. This isn’t the time for crying. Tell me what happened.”