A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the air and
the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the room he had not
left since the middle of September--and James was in deep waters. A
little cold, passing his little strength and flying quickly to his
lungs. "He mustn't catch cold," the doctor had declared, and he had gone
and caught it. When he first felt it in his throat he had said to his
nurse--for he had one now--"There, I knew how it would be, airing the
room like that!" For a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and
went in advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath
with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour. Emily was
not alarmed.
But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: "He won't have
his temperature taken."
Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said
softly, "How do you feel, James?" holding the thermometer to his lips.
James looked up at her.
"What's the good of that?" he murmured huskily; "I don't want to know."
Then she was alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked terribly
frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had 'had trouble' with
him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been James for nearly fifty
years; she couldn't remember or imagine life without James--James,
behind all his fussiness, his pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply
affectionate, really kind and generous to them all!
All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was in
his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his face which
told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope. His very stillness,
the way he conserved every little scrap of energy, showed the tenacity
with which he was fighting. It touched her deeply; and though her face
was composed and comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks
when she was out of it.
About tea-time on the third day--she had just changed her dress,
keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed
everything--she saw a difference. 'It's no use; I'm tired,' was
written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to him, he
muttered: "Send for Soames."
"Yes, James," she said comfortably; "all right--at once." And she kissed
his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it off she saw that
his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and without hope now, she sent
Soames the telegram.
When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was still as
a grave. Warmson's broad face looked almost narrow; he took the fur coat
with a sort of added care, saying: