"Scarcely."
When the doctor was gone Crawford sat a long time in deep thought. It was daylight now, and he lay down on a couch in his own room to ponder over the whole affair. The income of the property would be lost to him on her death. The three thousand pounds of savings would come to him. But how, and after what delay? There would be legal formalities and bother, and he hated both. That fool the doctor either could not or would not say how long the present state of things was likely to last. Yet, as he had said, it was wise to be ready for anything, for everything. Plainly, the best plan for him to adopt would be to induce his wife to make him a deed of gift of the three thousand pounds. That would diminish trouble in case of her death. There was no need of cruelty in asking her to do this. The only thing absolutely necessary was success. He need not even hint to her that he was taking the precaution because of the fragility of her life. He could manage to make the deed of gift seem desirable because of some other reason. One should seldom tell men the truth, and women never. The truth was too strong for women. Their delicate natures were not constructed to bear it with advantage to themselves, and if you told the truth to men they were likely to use it to their own advantage. Quite right: truth was a jewel, but, like any other jewel, it was fit only for holiday wear.
As soon as he got that deed of gift executed there would not be much more for him to do at Singleton Terrace. Viewed as a place of mere free board and lodgings, it was not of much consequence. With three thousand pounds and his present turn of luck he should be well off. Viewed as the home of a confirmed invalid who doted on him, Singleton Terrace was distasteful.
There would not be the least necessity for brutality or unkindness. Unkindness and brutality were always cardinal mistakes. He believed he could manage the whole matter with his wife, and appear in it greatly to his own advantage. He'd try that very day to arrange matters, so that at any hour he could quit Richmond for ever. What a merciful deliverance that would be for him! During the past few months he had scarcely dared to call his soul his own. Yes, if that deed could be got ready and executed in twenty-four hours, there was no reason why he should not shake the dust of Richmond off his feet in twenty-five.
Whither should he go? Ultimately back to the States, no doubt; but in the first instance to Welford. The latter place would be perfect only for two circumstances: first, that infernal Philip Ray visited Boland's Ait close by, and, second, Hetty--that charming Hetty--had a brother, a most forbidding and ruffianly-looking man, who might make himself intensely disagreeable. But it would be delightful to be under the same roof with that beautiful girl and saying agreeable things to her when they met. In all his life he never saw any girl so lovely as Hetty; and then look at the luck she had brought him! He would try Welford for a week or two--try the effect of Hetty's luck by playing every night for a fortnight. If he had won a good sum at the end of his trial, he should then be certain it was owing to Hetty. It would be easy to avoid Ray. He was engaged at his office until the afternoon. Every afternoon Crawford could leave Welford, go to the Counter Club, dine there, and not come back till morning. The affair was as simple as possible.
Then he thought of his escape from drowning and his meeting with Kate. But these were unpleasant memories, and he made it a rule never to cherish any reminiscences which could depress him, so he banished them from his mind and fell into a peaceful sleep.
It was late when he awoke. Some letters had come for him, and, after reading them, he went to his wife's room, and put them down impressively on a small table by the bedside. His inquiries were exhaustive, sympathetic, affectionate. He kissed her tenderly, and sat by her, holding her hand in his, and patting it. He said all the soothing words he could think of, and assured her of his conviction that in a few days she would be as well as she had been when they were so happily married.
She smiled, and answered him in gentle words, and in her soft sweet voice. She thanked him for his encouraging sayings, but told him with a shake of her head that she felt certain she should never be better--that this was the beginning of the end.
"But, indeed, you must get well," he said. "You must get well for my sake. Look, what glorious news I have had this morning! Here is a letter from my place in South America. It is, unfortunately, full of technicalities. Shall I read it to you? or tell you the substance of it?" He held up a bulky envelope, with several foreign stamps on it.
"O, tell me the substance, by all means! I am not clever like you over technicalities."