The door opened, and Miss Beale entered. She looked warm and tired, but came forward with active step, and stood beside the bed. A spasm of disgust crossed her face. “What is the matter, my man?” she asked. “I am sorry to see you here.”
“Give me whisky,” groaned the man.
Miss Beale turned away with twitching mouth.
“The man is dying. Nothing but whisky can save him,” said Patience. “If you called a doctor he would tell you the same thing.”
“What?” said Miss Beale, coldly, “do you suppose that he can have whisky in Temperance Hall? Is that what we are here for? You must be crazy.”
“But you don’t want him to die on your hands, do you?” exclaimed Patience, who was losing her temper.
“My God!” screeched the man, “I am in Hell.”
“My good man,” said Miss Beale, gently, “it is for us to save you from Hell, not to send you there.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” His voice died to an inarticulate murmur; but he writhed, and doubled, and twisted, as men may have done when fanatics tortured in the name of religion.
“Good heavens, Miss Beale,” cried Patience, excitedly, “you can’t set yourself up in opposition to nature. That man must have whisky. If he were younger and stronger it wouldn’t matter so much; but can’t you see he hasn’t strength to resist the terrible strain? The torture is killing him, eating out his life—”