Her brows were knitted fast as she uttered the last words, and her lips were drawn tight, as though she spoke under the pressure of some intense constraint.
“There, there!” said he, rising. “I knew all this talking was injurious, and I am much to blame for having permitted it.”
“And you are going?”
“I must; I have no choice in the matter.”
“Well, give me a minute more. Sit down again, and I will not detain you more than a minute or two. When I asked to speak with you alone, Doctor, it was to beg of you to make my will. You need not be afraid that it will take long. I have only one legacy and one heir. Now, mind what I shall say to you. It may happen—I myself think it will happen—that I shall get better of this fever. Much of my raving—what they call my raving—was such wandering as passes through my head any day; so that it may easily be I have never been so ill as I seemed to be, and all the wonderful stories Mrs. Simcox told you in the window last night—my strange fancies about my bare feet bleeding with the sharp stones—no matter, fact or fancy, it was in my head before this. You are attending to me?”
“I am.”
“I was afraid you thought that this explanation was only ‘wandering’ of another sort; but I see you do not. I see you follow me.”
He nodded.
“If, however, your skill be better than my second sight—if I can call it so—I have a task for you to do. When it shall be all over, before I am buried, you will take care but wait, let us do it regularly.” She raised herself on one arm as she spoke, and with the other hand she pointed to a small writing-table at the farther part of the room. “Open that desk, and take out an envelope. It ought to be black-edged for the occasion,” said she, with a sad smile, “but I don’t think it matters much. Yes, that one will do very well. Write now the address I shall give you: Mr. Peter Malone.’ Show it to me—is it large and plain? No; take another. It must be clear, bold writing. I think I ought to write it myself—of course I ought, and I will.”
“All this excitement is wrong.”