“They’d not have—if I had known!� Rosval gasped.
“If I annoy you,� said Mrs. Rosval, with icy tolerance, “I can go!� She turned, meaning to call the nurse; but a claw-like hand went weakly out and caught at her skirts. The grasp was no stronger than that of a newborn child, but, just for that it was so feeble, it held her.
“You’ll not go! Three years—you’ve treated me—like a leper! Never would—listen to what I’d got to say. But now ... I—tell you, she—sat on—my knee and—kissed me! Before I knew it—and then—the husband came in! A plant, by Gad!�
Mrs. Rosval said, “You must not talk. The Doctor says you are not to talk,� and busied herself with the bottles and glasses that occupied a little stand near the bedside.
Rosval condemned the Doctor. Mrs. Rosval measured out his medicine, raised his head with professional skill, and offered him the glass. He clenched his teeth, and defied her with gaunt eyes across the brim.
“No! No milk—no doctor’s stuff. I’ve been going to the devil—for three years past,� proclaimed the sinner, feebly. “Why not go—at once—and have done with it?� Then he fell back heavily on the pillow.
Mrs. Rosval summoned the nurse. The nurse could do nothing. For the moribund was obdurate, and every fresh manifestation of obduracy drove not one, but half a gross of nails into his coffin. That casket was fast progressing toward completion, when Mrs. Rosval conceived a desperate idea. The execution of it cost her a severe struggle. Stooping down, she whispered to the sinking man:
“Jack!�
His faded eyes rolled in their sunken sockets until they rested on her. He said with difficulty:
“Well?�