The man’s eyes were searching Murchison’s face. He had been a fat and hearty liver, a full-blooded man who had loved life, where his wife was not, and was loath to leave it. There was something pathetic in his almost bovine dread, as though like one of his own oxen he had an instinct of the end. Murchison pitied him. He had seen many such men die, some like frightened animals, others sullen and sturdy against their doom.
“You must keep up your pluck, Baxter,” he said.
“I know, sir, but—”
“My dear fellow, you are very bad, it is no use shirking it. I hope yet to see you recover.”
“All right, doctor, you’ve done your best,” and he turned his face away with a groan of despair.
Murchison took the nurse out with him to the head of the stairs, and questioned her as to any symptoms she had observed during the night. Her evidence only tended to strengthen the gloomy prognosis he had already made. Nothing remained for him but to consider Mrs. Baxter’s unsensitive soul.
The lady did not weep. On the contrary, she displayed gathering resentment, the prejudice of an inferior nature, and gave Murchison the benefit of her free opinion.
“I may as well tell you, doctor, that I’m not satisfied. If my Tom had had proper attention from the first—”
“Well?”
“You wouldn’t have had to use that there knife. And it’s my opinion, sir, that you’ve done more harm than good.”