“If you care, if you ever cared. Your miserable weakness. Oh, if I only had a man about me!” She turned away from him for ease and he could hardly hear her. In the next paroxysm he lifted her gently on to the floor, placed a pillow under her head. He whispered to her, but she repelled him, entreated her, but she would not listen. All the time the pain went on. “You promised,” were not words,—but a moan.
Desperately he took the cachet from the wrong bottle, melted it, filled his needle. When he bade Stevens roll up her sleeve, she smiled on him, actually smiled.
“Dear Peter! How right I was to trust you!...” Her voice trailed. The change in her face was almost miraculous, the writhing body relaxed. She sighed. Almost it seemed as if the colour came back to her lips, to her tortured face. “Dear, good Peter,” were her last words, a message he stooped to hear.
“Thank the Lord,” said Stevens piously, “she’s getting easier.” She was still lying on the floor, a pillow under her head, and they watched her silently.
“Shall I lift her back?”
“No, leave her a few minutes.” He had the sense to add, “The morphia doesn’t usually act so quickly.” Stevens had seen him give her morphia before in the same way, with the same preliminaries. He had saved her, he must save himself. He was conscious now of nothing but gladness. He had feared his strength, but his strength had been equal to her need. She was out of pain. Nothing else mattered. She was out of pain, he had promised her and been equal to his promise. He was no Gabriel Stanton to argue and deny, deny and argue. He wiped his needle carefully, put it away. Then a cry from Stevens roused him, brought him quickly to her side.
“She’s gone. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! She’s gone!” He lifted her up, laid her on the sofa, the smile was still on her face, she looked asleep. But Stevens was there and he had to dissimulate.
“She is unconscious. Get on to the telephone. Ask Dr. Lansdowne to come over.”
Then he made a feint of trying remedies. Strychnine, more amyl, more brandy, artificial respiration. He was glad, glad, glad, exulting as the moments went on. He thanked God that she was at rest. “He giveth His beloved sleep.” He called her beloved, whispered it in her ear when Stevens was summoning that useless help. He had sealed her to him, she was his woman now, and for ever. No self-righteous iceberg could hold and deny her.
“Sleep well, beloved,” he whispered. “Sleep well. Smile on me, smile your thanks.”