Mr. Draper at length perceived that she had rather lost than gained; he went for her physician, and requested him to recommend quiet to her. “I think,” said he, “she has over-fatigued herself.”
Dr. B. came to see her, conversed with her, counted the throbbings of her pulse, and made a minute examination of her case. The conference was long; when he entered the parlor, he found Mr. Draper waiting. He received him with a smile; but there was no responsive smile on the doctor’s face; it was solemn and thoughtful.
Mr. Draper grew alarmed. “You do not think my wife very sick, I hope,” said he. “Her cough is troublesome; but you know she has long been subject to it. Indeed, I think
it is constitutional, like my own. You recommended the white mixture to her last year: it did her good.”
“I recommended a voyage and a warm climate,” said the physician.
“Yes, I remember you did; but it was impossible for me to go away then. In the spring we took that unlucky journey; however, it was of benefit to her, and if you think it necessary, I will go the same route now.”
“I do not,” replied Dr. B.
“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.