“But, apart from anything just now, sir,” she pleaded, “what do you think of Charlie’s possibilities in the long run?”
She said the only words she could bear to say. It would have killed her to ask, “Has Charlie any chance of life? Must Charlie die?”
The doctor paused. This was not because he had to extinguish hope, but because he feared to fan it too much.
“My dear lady,” he said, “I am sure I need not tell you that such symptoms as his are always serious and always mean that grave mischief has been done. At the same time, apart from these lung troubles, his general health is unusually good. The mischief seems so local, that if he could get the right climatic conditions, I would incline to believe that he may live as long and as happily and usefully as most of us.”
Mrs. Challoner’s face brightened.
“And are such climatic conditions to be found anywhere in Great Britain?” she asked wistfully.
“I fear not,” said the doctor. “I was thinking of some of the colonies in the Southern Hemisphere.”
“I thought so,” she answered with patient sadness. She and Charlie had talked over these matters before. Even before his recent illness, her husband had said that if he had known his own constitution earlier, he would not have adopted such a profession as a solicitor’s, with all the limitations which would involve a new professional training in any change of sphere.
“Would there be any good for Charlie in a long, long sea voyage?” she asked in the tone of one pleading for a dear life.
The doctor brightened.