“Aw, it’s the koind av ye!” said Kilquhanity, with difficulty, out of the half shadows.
The Avocat took one burning hand in both of his, held it for a moment, and pressed it two or three times. He did not know what to say.
“We must have a light,” said he at last, and taking a candle from the shelf he lighted it at the stove and came into the bedroom again. This time he was startled. Even in this short illness, Kilquhanity’s flesh had dropped away from him, leaving him but a bundle of bones, on which the skin quivered with fever. Every word the sick man tried to speak cut his chest like a knife, and his eyes half started from his head with the agony of it. The Avocat’s heart sank within him, for he saw that a life was hanging in the balance. Not knowing what to do, he tucked in the bedclothes gently.
“I do be thinkin’,” said the strained, whispering voice—“I do be thinkin’ I could shmoke.”
The Avocat looked round the room, saw the pipe on the window, and cutting some tobacco from a “plug,” he tenderly filled the old black corn-cob. Then he put the stem in Kilquhanity’s mouth and held the candle to the bowl. Kilquhanity smiled, drew a long breath, and blew out a cloud of thick smoke. For a moment he puffed vigorously, then, all at once, the pleasure of it seemed to die away, and presently the bowl dropped down on his chin. M. Garon lifted it away. Kilquhanity did not speak, but kept saying something over and over again to himself, looking beyond M. Garon abstractedly.
At that moment the front door of the house opened, and presently a shrill voice came through the door: “Shmokin’, shmokin’, are ye, Kilquhanity? As soon as me back’s turned, it’s playin’ the fool—” She stopped short, seeing the Avocat.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Misther Garon,” she said, “I thought it was only Kilquhanity here, an’ he wid no more sense than a babby.”
Kilquhanity’s eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears.
“The Little Chemist ‘ll be comin’ in a minit, dear Misther Garon,” said the wife presently, and she began to fuss with the bedclothes and to be nervously and uselessly busy.
“Aw, lave thim alone, darlin’,” whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest.