Mr. Tredegar’s coming was a distinct relief. His dryness was like cautery to her wound. Mr. Tredegar undoubtedly grieved for Bessy; but his grief struck inward, exuding only now and then, through the fissures of his hard manner, in a touch of extra solemnity, the more laboured rounding of a period. Yet, on the whole, it was to his feeling that Justine felt her own to be most akin. If his stoic acceptance of the inevitable proceeded from the resolve to spare himself pain, that at least was a form of strength, an indication of character. She had never cared for the fluencies of invertebrate sentiment.
Now, on the evening of the day after her talk with Bessy, it was more than ever a solace to escape from the torment of her thoughts into the rarefied air of Mr. Tredegar’s presence. The day had been a bad one for the patient, and Justine’s distress had been increased by the receipt of a cable from Mr. Langhope, announcing that, owing to delay in reaching Brindisi, he had missed the fast steamer from Cherbourg, and would not arrive till four or five days later than he had expected. Mr. Tredegar, in response to her report, had announced his intention of coming down by a late train, and now he and Justine and Dr. Wyant, after dining together, were seated before the fire in the smoking-room.
“I take it, then,” Mr. Tredegar said, turning to Wyant, “that the chances of her living to see her father are very slight.”
The young doctor raised his head eagerly. “Not in my opinion, sir. Unless unforeseen complications arise, I can almost promise to keep her alive for another month—I’m not afraid to call it six weeks!”
“H’m—Garford doesn’t say so.”
“No; Dr. Garford argues from precedent.”
“And you?” Mr. Tredegar’s thin lips were visited by the ghost of a smile.
“Oh, I don’t argue—I just feel my way,” said Wyant imperturbably.
“And yet you don’t hesitate to predict–-“
“No, I don’t, sir; because the case, as I see it, presents certain definite indications.” He began to enumerate them, cleverly avoiding the use of technicalities and trying to make his point clear by the use of simple illustration and analogy. It sickened Justine to listen to his passionate exposition—she had heard it so often, she believed in it so little.
Mr. Tredegar turned a probing glance on him as he ended. “Then, today even, you believe not only in the possibility of prolonging life, but of ultimate recovery?”
Wyant hesitated. “I won’t call it recovery—today. Say—life indefinitely prolonged.”
“And the paralysis?”
“It might disappear—after a few months—or a few years.”
“Such an outcome would be unusual?”
“Exceptional. But then there
“And the suffering—such as today’s, for instance—is unavoidable?”
“Unhappily.”
“And bound to increase?”
“Well—as the an?sthetics lose their effect….”
There was a tap on the door, and one of the nurses entered to report to Wyant. He went out with her, and Justine was left with Mr. Tredegar.
He turned to her thoughtfully. “That young fellow seems sure of himself. You believe in him?”
Justine hesitated. “Not in his expectation of recovery—no one does.”
“But you think they can keep the poor child alive till Langhope and her husband get back?”
There was a moment’s pause; then Justine murmured: “It can be done…I think….”
“Yes—it’s horrible,” said Mr. Tredegar suddenly, as if in answer to her thought.
She looked up in surprise, and saw his eye resting on her with what seemed like a mist of sympathy on its vitreous surface. Her lips trembled, parting as if for speech—but she looked away without answering.
“These new devices for keeping people alive,” Mr. Tredegar continued; “they increase the suffering besides prolonging it?”
“Yes—in some cases.”
“In this case?”
“I am afraid so.”
The lawyer drew out his fine cambric handkerchief, and furtively wiped a slight dampness from his forehead. “I wish to God she had been killed!” he said.
Justine lifted her head again, with an answering exclamation. “Oh, yes!”
“It’s infernal—the time they can make it last.”
“It’s useless!” Justine broke out.
“Useless?” He turned his critical glance on her. “Well, that’s beside the point—since it’s inevitable.”
She wavered a moment—but his words had loosened the bonds about her heart, and she could not check herself so suddenly. “Why inevitable?”
Mr. Tredegar looked at her in surprise, as though wondering at so unprofessional an utterance from one who, under ordinary circumstances, showed the absolute self-control and submission of the well-disciplined nurse.
