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Page 31
Doctor James now turned his attention to his patient. In whichever of
his "professions" he happened to be engaged he was wont to honor the
"case" or the "job" with his whole interest.
The sick man appeared to be about thirty. His countenance bore a look of
boldness and dissipation, but was not without a symmetry of feature and
the fine lines drawn by a taste and indulgence in humor that gave the
redeeming touch. There was an odor of spilled wine about his clothes.
The physician laid back his outer garments, and then, with a penknife,
slit the shirt-front from collar to waist. The obstacles cleared, he
laid his ear to the heart and listened intently.
"Mitral regurgitation?" he said, softly, when he rose. The words ended
with the rising inflection of uncertainty. Again he listened long; and
this time he said, "Mitral insufficiency," with the accent of an assured
diagnosis.
"Madam," he began, in the reassuring tones that had so often allayed
anxiety, "there is a probability--" As he slowly turned his head to face
the lady, he saw her fall, white and swooning, into the arms of the old
negress.
"Po' lamb! po' lamb! Has dey done killed Aunt Cindy's own blessed child?
May de Lawd'stroy wid his wrath dem what stole her away; what break dat
angel heart; what left--"
"Lift her feet," said Doctor James, assisting to support the drooping
form. "Where is her room? She must be put to bed."
"In here, suh." The woman nodded her kerchiefed head toward a door.
"Dat's Miss Amy's room."
They carried her in there, and laid her on the bed. Her pulse was faint,
but regular. She passed from the swoon, without recovering
consciousness, into a profound slumber.
"She is quite exhausted," said the physician. "Sleep is a good remedy.
When she wakes, give her a toddy--with an egg in it, if she can take
it. How did she get that bruise upon her forehead?"
"She done got a lick there, suh. De po' lamb fell--No, suh"--the old
woman's racial mutability swept her into a sudden flare of indignation
--"old Cindy ain't gwineter lie for dat debble. He done it, suh. May de
Lawd wither de hand what--dar now! Cindy promise her sweet lamb she
ain't gwine tell. Miss Amy got hurt, suh, on de head."
Doctor James stepped to a stand where a handsome lamp burned, and turned
the flame low.
"Stay here with your mistress," he ordered, "and keep quiet so she will
sleep. If she wakes, give her the toddy. If she grows any weaker, let me
know. There is something strange about it."
"Dar's mo' strange t'ings dan dat 'round here," began the negress, but
the physician hushed her in a seldom employed peremptory, concentrated
voice with which he had often allayed hysteria itself. He returned to
the other room, closing the door softly behind him. The man on the bed
had not moved, but his eyes were open. His lips seemed to form words.
Doctor James bent his head to listen. "The money! the money!" was what
they were whispering.
"Can you understand what I say?" asked the doctor, speaking low, but
distinctly.
The head nodded slightly.
"I am a physician, sent for by your wife. You are Mr. Chandler, I am
told. You are quite ill. You must not excite or distress yourself at
all."
The patient's eyes seemed to beckon to him. The doctor stooped to catch
the same faint words.
"The money--the twenty thousand dollars."
"Where is this money?--in the bank?"
The eyes expressed a negative. "Tell her"--the whisper was growing
fainter--"the twenty thousand dollars--her money"--his eyes wandered
about the room.
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