As Mr. Bellingham’s explanation (delivered in
a rapid crescendo and ending almost in a shout)
had left him purple-faced and trembling, I thought
it best to bring our talk to an end. Accordingly
I proceeded to inspect the injured knee, which was
now nearly well, and to overhaul my patient generally;
and having given him detailed instructions as to his
general conduct, I rose to take my leave.
“And remember,” I said as I shook his
hand, “no tobacco, no coffee, no excitement
of any kind. Lead a quiet, bovine life.”
“That’s all very well,” he grumbled,
“but supposing people come here and excite me?”
“Disregard them,” said I, “and read
Whitaker’s Almanack.” And with
this parting advice I passed out into the other room.
Miss Bellingham was seated at the table with a pile
of blue-covered note-books before her, two of which
were open, displaying pages closely written in a small,
neat handwriting. She rose as I entered and looked
at me inquiringly.
“I heard you advising my father to read Whitaker’s
Almanack,” she said. “Was that
as a curative measure?”
“Entirely,” I replied. “I recommended
it for its medicinal virtues, as an antidote to mental
excitement.”
She smiled faintly. “It certainly is not
a highly emotional book,” she said, and then
asked: “Have you any other instructions
to give?”
“Well, I might give the conventional advice—to
maintain a cheerful outlook and avoid worry; but I
don’t suppose you would find it very helpful.”
“No,” she answered bitterly; “it
is a counsel of perfection. People in our position
are not a very cheerful class, I am afraid; but still
they don’t seek out worries from sheer perverseness.
The worries come unsought. But, of course, you
can’t enter into that.”
“I can’t give any practical help, I fear,
though I do sincerely hope that your father’s
affairs will straighten themselves out soon.”
She thanked me for my good wishes and accompanied
me down to the street door, where, with a bow and
a rather stiff handshake, she gave me my conge.
Very ungratefully the noise of Fetter Lane smote on
my ears as I came out through the archway, and very
squalid and unrestful the little street looked when
contrasted with the dignity and monastic quiet of the
old garden. As to the surgery, with its oilcloth
floor and walls made hideous with gaudy insurance
show-cards in sham gilt frames, its aspect was so
revolting that I flew to the day-book for distraction,
and was still busily entering the morning’s
visits when the bottle-boy, Adolphus, entered stealthily
to announce lunch.
JOHN THORNDYKE
