Suddenly she rose from the floor and stood erect. She looked at the closed door—then turned to where the body lay. She rested her hand upon Armstrong’s forehead. Then sitting upon the edge of the bed she gently lifted his arm and grasped his hand as her body became convulsed with heart-breaking sobs.
“Jack!” she cried, covering his hands with kisses, “Jack—speak to me! Tell me that you are not dead,” she implored. “Oh no, no—that cannot be; you are too grand, too noble to die like this!”
She rose and stood for a moment looking down at him.
“Dead!” she repeated, piteously—“dead!” A hectic glow came into her face. “Then you are mine!” she cried, fiercely. “Jack, my beloved, you are mine, dear—do you hear?—and I am yours. Oh, Jack, how I have loved you all these weeks! Now I can tell you of it, dear—it will do no harm!”
Again she sat upon the bed and placed her hands upon his cheeks.
“My darling, my beloved!” she whispered. “Open your eyes just once and tell me that I may call you mine if only for this one terrible moment. This is our moment, dear—no one can take it from us! Have you not seen how I have loved you, how I have struggled to keep you from knowing it. Jack, Jack! this is the beginning and the end.”
The room seemed to spin around, and before her eyes a mist gathered.
“I am dying, too, Jack,” she said, frankly—“thank God, I am dying, too.”
At last Nature applied her saving balm to the strained nerves, and Inez’ sufferings were temporarily assuaged by that sweet insensibility which stands between the human mind and madness. So Helen found her, a few moments later, when pale and trembling she entered the room.