To cut it short, I consented, and next evening, when he sent Gwen for me to go to his bedroom, I gave him his first dose of digitalin, which was to initiate his final illness.
For the next two or three days I hardly dared look Gwen in the face. Poor little girl, she was very distressed over her father, and I was genuinely fond of her—for the time being.
"Is he very ill, Archie dear?" she often inquired. "He is going to get better, isn't he?"
"Yes, darling. He is very bad, but we must always be hopeful," I would say, feeling, I must admit, an awful blackguard. I was a bit thin-skinned still, but it wore off, as you will read later.
On the fourth night, when I visited my patient, he said: "D'Escombe, this must come to an end. I can't stand much more of it; but make it as sharp and sudden as you can, my boy. I'm very tired of it"—and I fancy I saw tears come into his eyes. "I can't do any more for my little girl than this, and I thank you for helping me; but God's curse on you if you don't treat her well after I'm gone. You promise, eh? You'll not fail me?"
