The Doctor had providently brought a
flask of brandy in his pocket. He went on tiptoe up the creaking stairs
and gave it to Jane. She was standing, holding the handle of the door,
not turning it.
"What is it, Jane?" cheerfully. "What do you tremble for, eh?"
"Nothin'",--chewing her lips and opening the door. "It's ten years
since,"--to herself, as she went in.
Not when she was a shy girl had he been to her what these ten years of
desertion had made him.
It was half an hour before the Doctor and Andy went up softly into the
upper room and sat quietly down out of sight in the corner. Jane was
sitting on the low cot-bed, holding Starke's head on her breast. They
could not see her face in the feeble light. She had some brandy and
water in a glass, and gave him a spoonful of it now and then; and when
she had done that, smoothed the yellow face incessantly with her hard
fingers. The Doctor fancied that such dumb pain and affection as there
was in even that little action ought to bring him to life, if he were
dead. There was some color on his cheeks, and occasionally he opened his
eyes and tried to speak, but closed them wearily.
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