“I am glad of it; it would be particularly inconvenient to me just now to leave the city. Times are perplexing: bills come back protested—bad news from England—sudden and unlooked-for failures—no one can tell where it will end. We have been obliged to stop our works at Clyde Farm, and there are from ninety to a hundred laborers thrown out of employment. This is peculiarly vexatious to me, as they made out before to earn a living in their own humdrum way, and they now accuse me of having taken the bread from their children’s mouths, to promote my own speculations, though, while I employed them, I gave them enormous wages. But this, sir, is the gratitude of the world.”
The doctor still remained silent. It seemed as if Mr. Draper began to tremble for something dearer than money, for he grasped the hand of the physician.
“You do not think my wife dangerously ill, I trust,” said he.
The doctor replied, in a low voice, “I fear she is.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Draper; “she was remarkably well when we left Clyde. But what do you prescribe? I will do any thing, every thing, say but the word. I will take her to Europe—I will go to any part of the world you recommend.”
The physician shook his head.
“My dear doctor, you must go with us. I will indemnify you a thousand times for all losses; you can save her life; you know her constitution. When shall we go? and where? I will charter a vessel; we can be off in three days;”—and he actually took his hat.
Dr. B. said impressively, “Pray be seated, and prepare yourself to hear, like a man, what you must inevitably learn. It will not answer any useful purpose to go to a milder climate; it is now too late!”
“You do not mean to say,” said Mr. Draper, impetuously, “that if she had gone last year she would have been restored?”
“No, I do not mean to say that; but then, there would have been a chance; now, there is none.”