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So he brought his letter to a close with a tender and uneasy inquiry concerning her health, which, she had intimated, was not exactly satisfactory, and for that reason she had opened the house in town in order to be near Dr. Grisby, their family doctor. Sealing and directing the letter, he looked up to see Sylvia standing at his elbow.
I said in two weeks." "Perhaps." "Will you give me your word?" demanded the doctor sharply. "No, doctor." "Why not?" "Because I may have to be here on business. There seems to be some sort of crisis coming which I don't understand." "There's a crisis right here, Steve, which I understand!" snapped Dr. Grisby. "Face it like a man! Face it like a man! You're sick to your bones, boy sick! sick!
And Dr. Grisby came into the room from the outer shadows of the hall. He was very small, very meagre, very bald, and clean-shaven, with a face like a nut-cracker; and the brown wig he wore was atrocious, and curled forward over his colourless ears.
"Good God!" whispered Ferrall; "is it bad?" And Siward's glazed eyes stared and stared at the scrawled and inky message: "YOUR MOTHER IS VERY ILL. COME AT ONCE." The signature was the name of their family physician, Grisby.
The loose mouth, the smeared eyes, the palsy-like tremors that twitched the hands where they tightened on the arms of his chair, became repulsive to the verge of fascination. She tried to look away, but could not. "You had better see Dr. Grisby," she managed to say. "I'd better see you; that's what I'd better do," he retorted thickly. "You'll do all the doctoring I want. And I want it, all right."
"I'm tired of clubs." "Don't talk that way." "Very well, I won't," said Siward, smiling. "Tell me what is happening out there," he made a gesture toward the window; "all the gossip the newspapers miss. I've talked Dr. Grisby to death; I've talked Gumble to death; I've read myself stupid. What's going on, Billy?"
Grisby sat, doubled almost in two, cuddling his bony little knees and studying the patterns in the faded carpet. "I guess you'd better go, Stephen," he said at length. "Up the river to Mulqueen's?" "Yes. Let's try it, Steve. You'll be on your feet in two weeks. Then you'd better go up the river to Mulqueen's." "I I'll go, if you say so. But I can't go now." "I didn't say go now.
Well, now, what the devil's the trouble?" "You know," muttered Siward, abandoning his wrist to the little man, who seated himself beside him. Dr. Grisby scarcely noted the pulse; the delicate pressure had become a strong caress. "Know what?" he grunted. "How do I know what's the matter with you? Hey? Now, now, don't try to explain, Steve; don't fly off the handle!
And he went on loquaciously, grumbling and muttering, and never ceasing his talk, while Siward, wincing as the dressing was removed, lay back and closed his eyes. Half an hour later Gumble appeared, to announce dinner. "I don't want any," said Siward. "Eat!" said Dr. Grisby harshly. "I don't care to." "Eat, I tell you! Do you think I don't mean what I say?"
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