“But I am always to be a helpless cripple?” said Elthorne bitterly.
Sir Denton did not reply for a few moments, but sat gazing in the patient’s eyes.
“You wish me to answer that question?” he said at last.
“Of course.”
“Then I will. I can answer a man of your strength of intellect, Mr Elthorne. Yes, sir. No surgical skill could restore you.”
He stopped short and watched the patient intently. “That’s well,” he went on. “You bear the announcement manfully. Quite right, for your life has been saved, Mr Elthorne; and with the palliatives that mechanical skill can supply you with, you ought to and can enjoy many years of useful life. Your son has thoroughly explained to me his intentions regarding your future treatment, and I fully endorse his ideas. They will benefit you, but do not expect too much.”
“Condemned to a life of helplessness!” muttered Elthorne in a low voice.
“No, sir, you have your brain intact,” said Sir Denton. “Thank God for that.”
“Yes,” said Elthorne, gripping the surgeon’s hand, “thank God for that. I will not repine, Sir Denton, for I can think, and will, and be obeyed. Do you hear, Neil? and be obeyed. The head is right.”
“Yes, and the heart, Mr Elthorne. So no despair, sir. Meet your trouble like a man. You can be a successful general yet in the battle of life.”