Artful as she was, Mrs. Tenbruggen failed to conceal a momentary expression of relief which betrayed itself, partly in her manner, partly in her face. She had ascertained, to her own complete satisfaction, that my speedy departure was an event which might be relied on.
“But I have not yet answered you,” she resumed. “To tell the truth, I am eager to try my hands on you. Massage, as I practice it, would lighten your weight, and restore your figure; I may even say would lengthen your life. You will think of me, one of these days, won’t you? In the meanwhile—yes! I am here in my professional capacity. Several interesting cases; and one very remarkable person, brought to death’s door by the doctors; a rich man who is liberal in paying his fees. There is my quarrel with London and Londoners. Some of their papers, medical newspapers, of course, declare that my fees are exorbitant; and there is a tendency among the patients—I mean the patients who are rolling in riches—to follow the lead of the newspapers. I am no worm to be trodden on, in that way. The London people shall wait for me, until they miss me—and, when I do go back, they will find the fees increased. My fingers and thumbs, Mr. Governor, are not to be insulted with impunity.”
Miss Jillgall nodded her head at me. It was an eloquent nod. “Admire my spirited friend,” was the interpretation I put on it.
At the same time, my private sentiments suggested that Mrs. Tenbruggen’s reply was too perfectly satisfactory, viewed as an explanation. My suspicions were by no means set at rest; and I was resolved not to let the subject drop yet. “Speaking of Mr. Gracedieu, and of the chances of his partial recovery,” I said, “do you think the Minister would benefit by Massage?”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, if you can get rid of the doctor.”
“You think he would be an obstacle in the way?”
“There are some medical men who are honorable exceptions to the general rule; and he may be one of them,” Mrs. Tenbruggen admitted. “Don’t be too hopeful. As a doctor, he belongs to the most tyrannical trades-union in existence. May I make a personal remark?”
“Certainly.”
“I find something in your manner—pray don’t suppose that I am angry—which looks like distrust; I mean, distrust of me.”
Miss Jillgall’s ever ready kindness interfered in my defense: “Oh, no, Elizabeth! You are not often mistaken; but indeed you are wrong now. Look at my distinguished friend. I remember my copy book, when I was a small creature learning to write, in England. There were first lines that we copied, in big letters, and one of them said, ‘Distrust Is Mean.’ I know a young person, whose name begins with H, who is one mass of meanness. But”—excellent Selina paused, and pointed to me with a gesture of triumph—“no meanness there!”