“She has fainted, poor child!” she said, quietly, divining that the girl’s insensibility was not serious. “Let us take her into the next room.”
Leaving the woman to provide for Inez’ necessities, and giving her instructions how to act, Helen turned from the improvised cot to go back to Jack. His hands were still warm, but she could find no perceptible pulsation. She loosened his collar and moved his head a little to one side, discovering the wound for the first time. A cry of pain burst from her as she drew back sick and dizzy, her lips quivering and tears starting to her eyes. Then she leaned over him again, gently washing away the slight flow of blood with a moist cloth which one of the women handed her.
“Look!” she cried, pathetically, to Uncle Peabody, who entered the room a moment later, pointing to the wound and gazing into his eyes with her own distended by her suffering and her sense of helplessness.
Uncle Peabody put his arm about her, and rested his other hand upon Armstrong’s wrist. “Dr. Montgomery will be here in a moment, Helen,” he said, quietly, feeling instinctively that this was no time for words of sympathy. “I caught him at the Grand Hotel, and there was a motor-car at the door.”
“He is dead!” was Helen’s response, piteous in its intensity.
“Perhaps not, dear,” replied Uncle Peabody, soothingly. “Let us stand by the window until the doctor comes.”
Helen refused to suffer herself to be led away from her husband’s side.
“I can’t,” she said, simply, shaking her head; “I must watch over him.”
Then she turned back to resume her self-appointed vigil, and suddenly found herself looking into his open eyes.
“Jack!” she cried, seizing his face in her hands as she again sank upon her knees—“oh, Jack!”