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Updated: July 28, 2025
But even as she hoped, she knew that there would be no objection on the part of either Marraville or his children. He was an old man, he was fatally ill, he was through with life. There would be no obstacle placed in the way of Death. His time had come and there was no one to ask for a respite. He would die under the knife and every one would be convinced that it was for the best.
She had witnessed the suffering of Templeton Thorpe, she had prayed for death to relieve him; he had called upon her to be merciful, and she had denied him. She wondered if James Marraville had turned to those nearest and dearest to him with the cry for mercy. She wondered if the little pellets had been left at his bedside. She knew the extent of his agony, and yet she had no pity for him.
He had cheated Death out of an easy victory, but Death would come again and sit down beside James Marraville to wait for another day. Down near Washington Square, Wade blinked his eyes and shook his head, and always re-read the reports from the sick-room. He was puzzled and sometimes there was a faraway look in his eyes. Lutie's baby came.
In her heart she was hoping, almost praying that they would report the death of James Marraville during the night. Then, as she read with burning eyes, she found herself hoping against hope that the old man would, at the last moment, refuse to undergo the operation, or that some member of his family would protest.
He came home with a medal for conspicuous and unexampled valour while actually under fire. One report had it that on more than one occasion he appeared not only to scorn death but to invite it, so reckless were his deeds. Meanwhile James Marraville died in great agony. Those nearest to him said, in so many words, that it was a great pity he did not die at the time of the operation.
"We may quote you as saying, Dr. Thorpe, that you have not abandoned your theories?" "Certainly. I shall go on preaching, as you are pleased to call my advocacy. A great many years from to-day—centuries, no doubt,—the world will think as I do now. Thank you, gentlemen, for your courtesy in—" "Have you heard that James Marraville died last week, Dr. Thorpe?" broke in one of the reporters.
Now, here comes James Marraville, willing to take a chance with him—because it's the only chance left, I'll admit,—and you can bet your last dollar, Anne, that Braden isn't going to make a philanthropic job of it." "But if he fails, Lutie,—if he fails don't you see what the papers will say? They will crush him to—" "Why should they? Bigger men than he have failed, haven't they?"
Wintermill, that Braden would consent to—But, why should I insult him by attempting to defend him when no defence is necessary? I know him well enough to say that he would not operate on James Marraville for all the money in the world unless he believed that there was a chance to pull him through." She spoke rapidly and rather too intensely for Mrs. Wintermill's peace of mind.
James Marraville called Thorpe a coward and a poltroon. This was a week after the operation. They were alone in the room. For days his wondering, questioning eyes had sought those of the man on whom he had depended for everlasting peace, and always there had been a look of reproach in them.
A faint ray of comfort rested on the possibility that these great surgeons, appreciating, the wide-spread interest that naturally would attend the fate of so great a man as James Marraville, were loth to face certain failure, but even that comfort was destroyed by an intelligence that argued for these surgeons instead of against them. They had said that the case was hopeless. They were honest men.
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