He was startled, at a side glance, by something peculiar in the
appearance of the window. It was the first messenger of the dawn. Yes,
a faint greyness, very slowly working in secret against the power of the
gaslight: timid, delicate, but brightening by imperceptible degrees into
strength.
"Some of them will be getting up soon, now," he said to himself. The
hour was between four and half-past. He looked forward to release.
Maggie was sure to come and release him shortly. And even as he held
the sick man's arm, comforting him, he yawned.
But no one came. Five o'clock, half-past five! The first car rumbled
down. And still the victim, unbroken, went through his agony every two
minutes or oftener, with the most frightful regularity.
He extinguished the gas, and lo! there was enough daylight to see
clearly. He pulled up the blind. The night had gone. He had been
through the night. The entire surface of his head was tingling. Now he
would look at the martyrdom of the victim as at a natural curiosity,
having no capacity left for feeling. And now his sympathy would gush
forth anew, and he would cover with attentions his father, who, fiercely
preoccupied with the business of obtaining breath, gave no heed to them.
And now he would stand impressed, staggered, by the magnificence of the
struggle.
The suspense from six to seven was the longest. When would somebody
come? Had the entire household taken laudanum? He would go and rouse
Maggie. No, he would not. He was too proud.
At a quarter-past seven the knob of the door clicked softly. He could
scarcely believe his ears. Maggie entered. Darius was easier between
two crises.
"Well," said she tranquilly, "how is he?" She was tying her apron.
"Pretty bad," Edwin answered, with affected nonchalance.
"Nurse is a bit better. I've given her three fresh poultices since
midnight. You'd better go now, hadn't you?"
"All right. I've let the fire out."
"I'll tell Jane to light it. She's just making some tea for you."
He went. He did not need twice telling. As he went, carelessly
throwing off the dressing-gown and picking up his boots, Darius began to
pant afresh, to nerve himself instinctively afresh for another struggle.
Edwin, strong and healthy, having done nothing but watch, was
completely exhausted. But Darius, weakened by disease, having fought a
couple of hundred terrific and excruciating encounters, each a supreme
battle, in the course of a single night, was still drawing upon the
apparently inexhaustible reserves of his volition.
"I couldn't have stood that much longer," said Edwin, out on the
landing.