Part 6 (2/2)
The doctor seemed desirous to consider before he answered. He put up his long, thin hand to stroke his bristly chin. Moving a few steps, he leaned over the foot of the bed, and from that point attentively regarded her.
”Madam, I do not wish to trouble you with the medical names of all the complicated diseases with which Mr. Grahame is afflicted. I am not sure that I am myself acquainted with them all; some of them puzzle even me. Among other troubles he is paralysed. He cannot move hand or foot of his own volition, or crook a finger. Again, straying into the paths of prophecy, I dare a.s.sert that he never will be able to. He has his senses--after a fas.h.i.+on; he is sane--also after a fas.h.i.+on. That is, he is legally capable of making a will, or of taking a wife.
But if he desires to affix his signature to a doc.u.ment a pen will have to be placed between his fingers, his hand will have to be guided. To that extent he has recovered, beyond that he almost certainly will never go.”
”But he is not dying?”
”No, madam, he is not dying.”
”Nor likely to die?”
”No office would insure his life for four-and-twenty hours, though it is quite within the range of possibility that the breath may continue in his body for years. Such cases have been known. Some people death takes at the first call; some have to be called again and again; some seem to go beyond the portal and yet return. Cuthbert Grahame is one of them. He'll not go till death is very much in earnest; when that will be I cannot say. I mistook death's mood the other night--the oldest of us make such mistakes at times. In this case my mistake may seem to press a little hardly upon you.”
She looked at him askance. There was a whimsical gravity in his tone which was a little beyond her comprehension, a something which was almost sympathetic. She changed the subject; a fresh intonation had come into her voice also.
”I wish you'd look at my foot. It's better. I think that before long I'll be able to get about again as usual. I want to very much; it's awful being a prisoner in bed. I'm not good at keeping still.”
He did as she requested, then p.r.o.nounced a verdict.
”Your foot is better--much better, as you say. There is no reason why you should not get up, though it may be some little time before you have the entire use of it again.”
”At any rate I'll get out of bed--at once.”
”And, then, what do you propose to do when you are up?”
”I'm going to see my husband.”
”Your husband?”
”Can't I? Why can't I?”
”Mrs. Grahame!--if it is your wish that you should be Mrs.
Grahame.”
”Aren't I Mrs. Grahame? If I am, what's the good of pretending that I'm not? I am Mrs. Grahame, so there's an end of it.”
”Mrs. Grahame, haven't you any friends?”
”What do you mean by friends?”
”Haven't you any relatives? Is there no one to whom you are near and dear? no one to whom you are in any sense responsible for your actions; with whom in a measure your happiness or unhappiness must be shared?”
”No one in this world!”
He smiled at her vehemence, observing her closely all the time.
”Since I am, in a degree, responsible for the--we will call it situation--you are in, I am not unnaturally desirous of having my conscience as clear as I conveniently can. I would, therefore, beg you earnestly to let the first thing you do be this: If you have--we will say an acquaintance--on whose judgment you can rely, write to him; lay the facts before him clearly, and await his response before you take any further step whatever--certainly before you seek to have an interview with Mr. Grahame.”
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