notions at night; but this was nothing of the sort. I went upstairs in a hurry; I wasn’t encumbered with a sword then. The upstairs hall was dark, and there was something wrong in it. I don’t mean with it or about it, but in it. Did you ever have the feeling—something has passed this way, trailing, and the something is bad? I don’t suppose you have. …
“I was just going towards the light-switch when there was a bumping sort of noise, a sound like that of a key turned in a lock, and the door of Uncle Miles’s room bumped open about half-way. There was a dim light burning inside, and it half illuminated Miles and half silhouetted him. He was still on his feet, but he was bent far over forwards, with one hand pressed across his stomach, and the other hand holding to the door-post. I saw the big veins. He hung there wobbling, very nearly doubled, and then he managed to look up. His skin was like oiled paper across the bridge of the nose, his eyes seemed about twice as big as normal, and his forehead was wet. Every breath he drew seemed to shake clear down inside him: you could hear it. Then he looked up in a glazy sort of way. I suppose he saw me, but, when he spoke it didn’t seem to be to anyone in particular.
“He was muttering: ‘I can’t stand it any longer, I can’t stand the pain any longer. I tell you I can’t stand it any longer.’
“And he was mumbling this in French.
“I ran over and caught him before he tumbled. I picked him up—for some reason he flapped and fought as much as he could with the cramp—and I carried him to the bed in his room. He seemed to be trying to look at me, and haul back to look, and… what’s the word I want?… disentangle me in his mind, to straighten me out of the mist. First he said, like a very scared child, ‘Not you too?’ I tell you very simply it went through me hard. But evidently he came to himself, for his eyes cleared up a good deal, and he seemed to see my face in the dim reading-lamp over the bed; he stopped shrinking away like a child. It was a complete transformation I can’t describe; but he spoke dazedly, in English. He said something about ‘those tablets in the bathroom that would take the pain away,’ and cried out to me to get them. He said he hadn’t strength to get to the bathroom.
“They were the veronal tablets we had used when he had a bad attack before. Lucy and Edith were standing in the door, dead white. Lucy had heard what he said, and she ran off down the hall to get them. We all knew he was dying. Mind, there was no idea of poisoning then. It seemed like the old trouble; and when a man gets as far gone as that, you can’t do anything; you can only give him his medicine and grit your teeth. I told Edith quietly to phone for Doctor Baker in a hurry and she was quiet and efficient. All I wondered was about that expression on his face—what he had seen, or thought he had seen, that was so horrible. Why the expression of a scared child jumping away from you?
“I said, maybe with some idea of distracting his mind (from that pain), ‘How long have you been like this?’
“ ‘Three hours,’ he answered, and did not open his eyes. He lay on his side, pulled up together. I could hardly hear him for the pillow.
“ ‘But why didn’t you call out, or go to the door…?’
“ ‘I didn’t try,’ he said to the pillow. ‘I knew it had to be sooner or later; I thought it was better now than waiting for it; but I found I couldn’t stand it.’ Then he seemed to pull himself together. He looked up at me, as though he were looking up out of a hole. He was still a little scared, and his breathing was still shakily noisy. And he said, ‘Look here, Mark, I’m dying.’ He wouldn’t listen to my platitudes. ‘Don’t talk; listen. Mark, I’m to be buried in a wooden coffin. Do you understand: a wooden coffin. I want you to swear you’ll see to that.’
“He was too insistent; he wouldn’t look anywhere except straight at
“I was just going towards the light-switch when there was a bumping sort of noise, a sound like that of a key turned in a lock, and the door of Uncle Miles’s room bumped open about half-way. There was a dim light burning inside, and it half illuminated Miles and half silhouetted him. He was still on his feet, but he was bent far over forwards, with one hand pressed across his stomach, and the other hand holding to the door-post. I saw the big veins. He hung there wobbling, very nearly doubled, and then he managed to look up. His skin was like oiled paper across the bridge of the nose, his eyes seemed about twice as big as normal, and his forehead was wet. Every breath he drew seemed to shake clear down inside him: you could hear it. Then he looked up in a glazy sort of way. I suppose he saw me, but, when he spoke it didn’t seem to be to anyone in particular.
“He was muttering: ‘I can’t stand it any longer, I can’t stand the pain any longer. I tell you I can’t stand it any longer.’
“And he was mumbling this in French.
“I ran over and caught him before he tumbled. I picked him up—for some reason he flapped and fought as much as he could with the cramp—and I carried him to the bed in his room. He seemed to be trying to look at me, and haul back to look, and… what’s the word I want?… disentangle me in his mind, to straighten me out of the mist. First he said, like a very scared child, ‘Not you too?’ I tell you very simply it went through me hard. But evidently he came to himself, for his eyes cleared up a good deal, and he seemed to see my face in the dim reading-lamp over the bed; he stopped shrinking away like a child. It was a complete transformation I can’t describe; but he spoke dazedly, in English. He said something about ‘those tablets in the bathroom that would take the pain away,’ and cried out to me to get them. He said he hadn’t strength to get to the bathroom.
“They were the veronal tablets we had used when he had a bad attack before. Lucy and Edith were standing in the door, dead white. Lucy had heard what he said, and she ran off down the hall to get them. We all knew he was dying. Mind, there was no idea of poisoning then. It seemed like the old trouble; and when a man gets as far gone as that, you can’t do anything; you can only give him his medicine and grit your teeth. I told Edith quietly to phone for Doctor Baker in a hurry and she was quiet and efficient. All I wondered was about that expression on his face—what he had seen, or thought he had seen, that was so horrible. Why the expression of a scared child jumping away from you?
“I said, maybe with some idea of distracting his mind (from that pain), ‘How long have you been like this?’
“ ‘Three hours,’ he answered, and did not open his eyes. He lay on his side, pulled up together. I could hardly hear him for the pillow.
“ ‘But why didn’t you call out, or go to the door…?’
“ ‘I didn’t try,’ he said to the pillow. ‘I knew it had to be sooner or later; I thought it was better now than waiting for it; but I found I couldn’t stand it.’ Then he seemed to pull himself together. He looked up at me, as though he were looking up out of a hole. He was still a little scared, and his breathing was still shakily noisy. And he said, ‘Look here, Mark, I’m dying.’ He wouldn’t listen to my platitudes. ‘Don’t talk; listen. Mark, I’m to be buried in a wooden coffin. Do you understand: a wooden coffin. I want you to swear you’ll see to that.’
“He was too insistent; he wouldn’t look anywhere except straight at
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