There was a long pause, and she thought he was not going to answer.
But she waited restfully, and at last he sighed.
"Yes," he said wearily, "that's what I want."
His voice had the flat tones of Cockneydom, but Mary took no note of it.
"Then let me show you the way," she said, still gently; and he rose at the word and followed her upstairs.
In this manner the new patient was installed in the household of Dr. Pond. He slipped into his place like a shadow, displacing nothing. The Doctor, swollen with the distinction of a visit by Professor Fish in person, would willingly have made a fuss of him, if it had been possible. But Smith was not amenable to polite attentions. To attempts to render him particular consideration he opposed a barren inertia; one could as easily have been obliging to a lamp-post. The man's consciousness seemed to exist in a vacuum; he lived in a solitude to which the kindly Doctor could never penetrate. Once, certainly, his persistent geniality won him a rebuff. It was at breakfast, and he was following his custom of endeavoring to trap Smith into conversation. Smith sat opposite him at the table, staring vacantly at the tablecloth.
"It is a fine morning," the Doctor observed, "I wonder, now, Mr. Smith, if you would care for a little drive with me. I have some brief visits to pay here and there, and I could drop you here again before I go on. The fresh air would do you good—freshen you up, you know; put a little life into you. Come, now! what do you say to accompanying me?"
Smith said nothing, but his cheek twitched once. "Come now!" pressed the Doctor persuasively. "See what a lovely day it is. Sun, fresh air, the smell and sight of the fields—it'll put fresh life into you."
Smith's white face worked slightly. "Ere," he said, and paused. The
Doctor bent forward, pleased. "Go to 'ell!" said Smith thoughtfully.
Mary had much more success with him; a slender link of sympathy had established itself between the healthy, tranquil girl and this dreary wisp of a man. She asked him no questions, and in return for her forbearance he would sometimes speak to her voluntarily. He would emerge from his trance-like apathy to watch her as she went about her household duties. Professor Fish had spoken truly when he said that Mary Pond knew how to create about her an atmosphere of serenity. The tones of her quiet voice, the gentleness of her movements, the kindly sobriety of her regard seemed to fortify her patient. For her part, a genuine compassion for the little man was mixed with some liking; he was a furtive and vulgar creature at the best, but his dependence on her, his helplessness and trouble, reached to the maternal in her honest heart. She could manage him; but for her strategy he would have lived in his bed, day and night, in a sort of half torpor.
"It's remarkable what a control you have over these low natures, Mary," Dr. Pond said to her. He had come home one afternoon to find that she had actually sent Smith out for a walk. "I confess it's a case that's beyond me altogether. There doesn't seem to be any thing to take hold of in the man. It would be better if he felt a little pain now and again; it would give one an opening, as it were."