The next morning I went to Boyd Madras's cabin. He welcomed me
gratefully, and said that he was much better; as he seemed; but he
carried a hectic flush, such as comes to a consumptive person. I said
little to him beyond what was necessary for the discussion of his case. I
cautioned him about any unusual exertion, and was about to leave, when an
impulse came to me, and I returned and said: "You will not let me help
you in any other way?"
"Yes," he answered; "I shall be very glad of your help, but not just yet.
And, Doctor, believe me, I think medicines can do very little. Though I
am thankful to you for visiting me, you need not take the trouble, unless
I am worse, and then I will send a steward to you, or go to you myself."
What lay behind this request, unless it was sensitiveness, I could not
tell; but I determined to take my own course, and to visit him when I
thought fit.
Still, I saw him but once or twice on the after-deck in the succeeding
days. He evidently wished to keep out of sight as much as possible. I am
ashamed to say there was a kind of satisfaction in this to me; for, when
a man's wife--and I believed she was Boyd Madras's wife--hangs on your
arm, and he himself is denied that privilege, and fares poorly beside her
sumptuousness, and lives as a stranger to her, you can scarcely regard
his presence with pleasure.
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