The next day he received the following letter, on scented paper:
"MY DEAR DOCTOR TOWNLEY: You cannot think how rejoiced I am
to receive the tidings of my husband's convalescence. I have
been so tortured with anxiety during the last four weeks! You
cannot think how wretchedly anxious I have been. I could not
have endured to stay away from his bedside but that my duty
imperatively required it. I have lost flesh, and my anxiety
has worn upon me. Now, how gladly will I resume my place at
the bedside of my husband, restored by your skill. I am glad
the nurse has proved faithful. It was a good chance for her,
for she shall be liberally paid, and no doubt the money will
be welcome. But don't you think it might be more prudent for
me to defer my return until next week? It will be safer, I
think, and I owe it to my boy to be very careful. You know,
the contagion may still exist. It is hard for me to remain
longer away, when I would fain fly to the bedside of Mr.
Preston, but I feel that it is best. Say to him, with my
love, that he may expect me next week. Accept my thanks for
your attention to him. I shall never forget it; and believe
me to be, my dear doctor, your obliged
"Lucinda Preston."
Dr. Townley threw down this letter with deep disgust.
"Was ever any woman more disgustingly selfish?" he exclaimed. "Her husband might have died, so far as she was concerned."
Of course, he had to show this letter to Colonel Preston.
The latter read it, with grave face, and the doctor thought he heard a sigh.
"My wife is very prudent," he said, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
"She will be here next week," said the doctor, having nothing else to answer.
"I think she will run no risk then," said the sick man, cynically.
But Mrs. Preston did not return in a week. It was a full week and a half before she arrived at her own house.