Part 3 (1/2)
”It's swollen; it looks as if it were going to be an awkward business. Your boot and stocking will have to be cut away; but there's no time to do it now--moments are precious. You will have to wait until you're married. It's only on the first floor.
Do you think you'll be able to get up with the aid of my arm and of the bal.u.s.ter?”
”I'll try.”
”Might I suggest, before we start, that it would do no harm if you were to remove your hat and jacket. It would seem more in keeping.”
She acted on his suggestion.
”I ought to wash and tidy myself; I know I'm all anyhow.”
”Now you will do very well. Your future husband is too far gone to be able to tell if your hair is straight or crooked; at the point he's reached that sort of thing doesn't matter.” When they had reached the landing at the top of the stairs the doctor said to her: ”By the way, the name of your future husband is Grahame--Cuthbert Grahame. May I ask what yours is? It is just as well that he should know it.”
She hesitated a moment.
”My name is Isabel Burney.”
”Miss Burney, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Grahame's room.”
He threw open the door of the room in front of which they had been standing. As he did so Isabel slipped off her left-hand glove, bringing with it, at the same time, her wedding-ring.
Crumpling up her glove she squeezed it into her waistband, the ring inside it. On the doctor's arm she hobbled to a big armchair, into which she sank with a sigh of unmistakable relief.
The room in which she found herself, although low-ceilinged, was a s.p.a.cious one. It seemed to her that all the furniture it contained was old-fas.h.i.+oned, a fact which, although she did not know it, increased its value perhaps a hundred-fold. She thought it simply dowdy. A huge Chippendale bed was in the centre of the room. In it, propped up on pillows, was the figure of a man which, if only from the point of size, fitly matched the bed.
Leaning over him, on the other side, was Nannie, the old woman who had admitted them into the house. The doctor addressed himself to her.
”How is he?”
”About the same.”
Although they had both spoken in a whisper their voices were audible to the man in the bed.
”Is that that old devil Twelves come back again?”
The tone was harsh, and it was obvious that the speaker spoke with difficulty, but the words themselves were plain enough. The doctor evinced no sign of annoyance at the other's somewhat uncomplimentary reference to himself; on the contrary, he chose to apply to himself the other's epithet as he answered:--
”Yes, it's the old devil back again, and, what's more, he's brought the young devil too--begging your pardon, Miss Burney, for speaking of you in such a manner. But it's the fas.h.i.+on in this house to use strong language, and always has been. Laird, I've brought the lady.”
”Where is she?”
”At this moment she's sitting in your armchair. As I told you, she's sprained her ankle, which makes it difficult for her to walk, or even stand.”
”d.a.m.n her ankle!”
”By all means. You should know more about that sort of thing than I do. You're nearer to it than I am.”
”You think that hurts me?”
”Not I. I know that nothing hurts you. I doubt if even the torments of h.e.l.l will trouble you much. You're past all hurting.
Shall I tell Miss Burney she isn't wanted, and can go again?”
”What's her name?”