The Miller's Dance by Winston Graham Read Free Book Online

feet as they entered.
    'Thank you, Letitia,' said Mrs Pope, and the girl, with none of her stepmother's grace, ambled out.
    Mr Pope smelt of cinnamon and camphor and Peruvian bark . Boluses and draughts were neatl y arranged in order of size on the bedside table.
    Skullcap askew, he stared aridly at Dwight, clearly not liking the idea of not being the master of any situation in which he found himself, of being beholden or dependent on someone else for an opinion, a verdict, especially, when that someone was of an undetermined social status.
    The pains, Mr Pope said, had been over the breast-bone
and down the left arm. He had felt a constriction all across
the chest and a difficulty in taking a deep breath. He had no doubt whatever that it was th e prevalent fever, but he had been persuaded to avail himself of Dr Enys's reput ation to confirm this opinion. Still explaining to Dwight exactly what was the matter with hi m, he allowed his nightshirt to be unbuttoned and pulled down off his bony shoulders. |
Dwight tapped his chest an d back with bent knuckle. Then
he took his pulse, which was slower than normal and small and hard. There was no evidence of pyrexia, from feeling
the brow or hand. His tongue, for a man of his age, was clear enough, but he had a mouthful of decayed teeth. Resentfully Mr Pope allowed his st omach and belly to be pressed.
During this examination Mrs Selina Pope stood by the
window wrinkling her smoot h brow. She was in pale blue, her hair simply caught at the back with a darker blue bow;
navy blue pattens.
    Dwight asked his patient to s it up, and tested his kneecaps with a percussion hammer, asked him to stand and observed whethe r he swayed or trembled. Presently Mr Pope was back in bed, clearly further irritated by all this medical humbug, yet not really wishing to offend or antagonize the husband of Caroline Enys. D wight made a few notes in his book.
    'Well, sir?' said the patient.
    'Well, sir,' said Dwight; 'it is perfectly clear that you do not have peripneumonia.'
    'Both my daughters have had it. One is still abed.' I
    ‘I 'm sorry to learn this. It can be a distressing illness, though seldom so serious among the well-to-do.'
    'Then what is your diagnosis of this pain?'
    Dwight continued to write, while carefully considering what he should say, how much he should say. There was some evidence of dropsy. And the man's teeth ... Dwight had been successful in promoting a new health in one or two of his patients by taking out all the teeth. But he knew the prejudice against this: the accepted course, both among rich and poor, was not to touch the teeth unless toothache made it imperative. When teeth died without toothache they were allowed to remain in situ permanently, and people con gratulated themselves. But in any case a bad condition of the mouth was not Mr Pope's main complaint.
    Dwight said: ‘I think you have been over-taxing yourself. You should rest every day after dinner for at least two hours. I will mix you a draught which may prevent a recurrence of the pain, and, if it does recur, another draught to ease it.'
    Clement Pope adjusted his skullcap. 'What does that mean?'
    ‘I t means that you should not bother with all these potions you have been taking. I intend no offence to Mr Nat Irby, but I believe you are not helping your own health by swallowing so many medicines. I would advise a very light diet, Mrs Pope: eggs and milk and chicken and jelly. Only the lightest of wines or none at all. A little exercise every day, sir: a definite walk round the garden or to the sea and back. Be regular in everything and excessive in nothing. If you are troubled again please call me at once.'
    'You don't intend to bleed me?'
    'In this case it is of no value.'
    'What case? What do you suppose the case is?'
    'Over-fatigue. May I ask how old you are, Mr Pope?'
    'Fifty-nine. No age at all.'
    'Oh, I agree. But when one is nearing sixty it may be wise to ease off a little, take life at a slower