But I must speak now of poor Murchison, lying helplessly on his bed. A few days brought him back to clear consciousness; and though his head was weak still, from the blow it had received, improvement in that direction was pretty steady, and the broken bones were slowly mending. In other directions matters were less satisfactory. There was a marked powerlessness of the lower limbs,—whether likely to be permanent no one could or would say. Dr. Wray seemed reluctant to give a decided opinion; yet I thought from the first that he was not very hopeful.
Murchison had two devoted nurses—Mrs. Coles and his wife. My husband took care that Coles should be no loser; and indeed for many weeks we undertook nearly all the expense of rent for the lodgings. This could not, of course, go on indefinitely. Our purse had many and heavy calls upon it, and we were paying Miles beyond his real due, so far as his powers of work were concerned.
Happily, the little home at Littleburgh had found a tenant, otherwise I do not know how the Murchisons would have managed to get on, despite our help and Miles' earnings.
For a while it seemed to me that Mrs. Murchison hardly realised how the days were slipping by, and how slight was the improvement in her husband's state, until one particular afternoon when the whole appeared to come upon her sharply, like a fresh blow. I had seen her in the morning, anxious, yet placid, able to smile and be pleased when I told her how we all liked Miles. Later in the day I went again, to find her alone, seemingly overwhelmed. I cannot forget the hollow look of misery in her eyes, as she stood gazing at me.
"He will never get well, ma'am," she said quietly, with the quiet of despair, "never! Jervis asked the doctor himself, and I was there. The doctor didn't say just that, you know, but he meant it. He said it would be long—long—and he bid my husband not look forward."
"No," I said, "I don't think either of you ought to look forward too much just now. 'Day by day' must be your motto."
"But if it's to be always?" she said.
"You cannot tell that it is to be always," I answered. "Don't be sure that you know what the doctor meant, beyond what he said."
"I couldn't help knowing, ma'am, and Jervis knows too," she said. "Dr. Wray is a kind man. He's young, but he's uncommon kind. He said he made no doubt my husband would get better; only he couldn't promise he'd ever be up to hard work again. He said he wouldn't be the man he had been. And Jervis says to him, 'Shall I be able to walk?' and the doctor said he couldn't promise; time might do a deal, but he couldn't promise. And when the doctor was gone, Jervis says, 'I know what that means, Annie. I'm a cripple for life,' says he. And then he groaned, like as if he'd break his heart, and he says, 'I'd better have died; a deal better,' says he. And I came away, for I couldn't stand it, ma'am. If the trouble's got to be, it's got to be borne; but, oh, it's hard! He's been a good husband to me; God bless him!"
I don't know how much more she said, but she came to a stop suddenly, and hid her face, rocking to and fro. I heard her whisper, "My husband's all alone."