“It doesn’t interest me.”
“Yes, I think it will, Tarver. She answered, with a sob, that she had been strewing pale lilies on your grave.”
“On my what!” I screamed.
“Your grave, dear old boy! The last doctor gave in three days ago, and as the whole committee were then of one opinion, there seemed naturally nothing to do but to inter you. The people at your office sent a wreath of cheap hardy annuals, and your executors told me to-day that you had cut up rather better than they expected. You notice I choose to appear in this black monkey; that is a compliment to you. In fact, you’re dead, Tarver—dead as a door-nail. It’s your own fault, and be blessed if I know what programme to arrange for you now.”
Of course I saw that it was no good asking to go back to my earthly tabernacle if the wretched thing was six feet underground. That must simply mean being buried alive. I looked at Robinson speechlessly, and I think my expression touched him, for he spoke again.
“Poor old bounder! No, no; I’m getting at you, my son. It isn’t as bad as all that, really. I wouldn’t let ’em bury you. But the position must come to a climax pretty soon. Your landlady’s getting sick of it, and your nephew—the youngster to whom you have left everything—is simply clamouring to have you buried.”
Even marriage with Primrose Robinson presented a bright picture compared to the last.
“I tell you, then, that I will give in; I will wed Miss Robinson; I will do as you desire; only let me get back. I’m evidently wanted at home. I shall lose my official appointment and everything,” I said.
“All right,” answered Robinson, cheerfully. “They’re going to measure you for your last resting-place to-night, so if you start sharp you’ll be there in time to see some fun. Are you ready to go?”
Before I had replied to this ironical question, I found myself at home in bed, while several medical men were in the room, all talking at once.