“You’re ill!” she exclaimed.
The nurse shook her head. “No—but it’s awful…this afternoon….” Her glance turned to the sick- room.
“Go and rest—I’ll stay till bedtime,” Justine said.
“Miss Safford’s down with another headache.”
“I know: it doesn’t matter. I’m quite fresh.”
“You do look rested!” the other exclaimed, her eyes lingering enviously on Justine’s face.
She stole away, and Justine entered the room. It was true that she felt fresh—a new spring of hope had welled up in her. She had her nerves in hand again, she had regained her steady vision of life….
But in the room, as the nurse had said, it was awful. The time had come when the effect of the an?sthetics must be carefully husbanded, when long intervals of pain must purchase the diminishing moments of relief. Yet from Wyant’s standpoint it was a good day—things were looking well, as he would have phrased it. And each day now was a fresh victory.
Justine went through her task mechanically. The glow of strength and courage remained, steeling her to bear what had broken down Miss Mace’s professional fortitude. But when she sat down by the bed Bessy’s moaning began to wear on her. It was no longer the utterance of human pain, but the monotonous whimper of an animal—the kind of sound that a compassionate hand would instinctively crush into silence. But her hand had other duties; she must keep watch on pulse and heart, must reinforce their action with the tremendous stimulants which Wyant was now using, and, having revived fresh sensibility to pain, must presently try to allay it by the cautious use of narcotics.
It was all simple enough—but suppose she should not do it? Suppose she left the stimulants untouched? Wyant was absent, one nurse exhausted with fatigue, the other laid low by headache. Justine had the field to herself. For three hours at least no one was likely to cross the threshold of the sick-room…. Ah, if no more time were needed! But there was too much life in Bessy—her youth was fighting too hard for her! She would not sink out of life in three hours…and Justine could not count on more than that.
She looked at the little travelling-clock on the dressing-table, and saw that its hands marked four. An hour had passed already…. She rose and administered the prescribed restorative; then she took the pulse, and listened to the beat of the heart. Strong still—too strong!
As she lifted her head, the vague animal wailing ceased, and she heard her name: “Justine–-“
She bent down eagerly. “Yes?”
No answer: the wailing had begun again. But the one word showed her that the mind still lived in its torture-house, that the poor powerless body before her was not yet a mere bundle of senseless reflexes, but her friend Bessy Amherst, dying, and feeling herself die….
Justine reseated herself, and the vigil began again. The second hour ebbed slowly—ah, no, it was flying now! Her eyes were on the hands of the clock and they seemed leagued against her to devour the precious minutes. And now she could see by certain spasmodic symptoms that another crisis of pain was approaching—one of the struggles that Wyant, at times, had almost seemed to court and exult in.
Bessy’s eyes turned on her again. ”Justine–-“
She knew what that meant: it was an appeal for the hypodermic needle. The little instrument lay at hand, beside a newly-filled bottle of morphia. But she must wait—must let the pain grow more severe. Yet she could not turn her gaze from Bessy, and Bessy’s eyes entreated her again—_Justine_! There was really no word now—the whimperings were uninterrupted. But Justine heard an inner voice, and its pleading shook her heart. She rose and filled the syringe—and returning with it, bent above the bed….
She lifted her head and looked at the clock. The second hour had passed. As she looked, she heard a step in the sitting-room. Who could it be? Not Dr. Garford’s assistant—he was not due till seven. She listened again…. One of the nurses? No, not a woman’s step–-
The door opened, and Wyant came in. Justine stood by the bed without moving toward him. He paused also, as if surprised to see her there motionless. In the intense silence she fancied for a moment that she heard Bessy’s violent agonized breathing. She tried to speak, to drown the sound of the breathing; but her lips trembled too much, and she remained silent.
Wyant seemed to hear nothing. He stood so still that she felt she must move forward. As she did so, she picked up from the table by the bed the memoranda that it was her duty to submit to him.
“Well?” he said, in the familiar sick-room whisper.
“She is dead.”
He fell back a step, glaring at her, white and incredulous.
