He took the medicine which the new doctor
prescribed for him; and day by day he watched, and to his great
relief saw the troublesome symptoms gradually disappearing. He
began to take heart, and to look forward to life with his former
buoyancy. He had had a bad scare, but now everything was going
to be all right.
Three or four months passed, and the doctor told him he was
cured. He really was cured, so far as he could see. He was
sorry, now, that he had asked for so long a delay from Henriette;
but the new date for the wedding had been announced, and it would
be awkward to change it again. George told himself that he was
being "extra careful," and he was repaid for the inconvenience by
the feeling of virtue derived from the delay. He was relieved
that he did not have to cough any more, or to invent any more
tales of his interviews with the imaginary lung-specialist.
Sometimes he had guilty feelings because of all the lying he had
had to do; but he told himself that it was for Henriette's sake.
She loved him as much as he loved her. She would have suffered
needless agonies had she known the truth; she would never have
got over it--so it would have been a crime to tell her.
He really loved her devotedly, thoroughly. From the beginning he
had thought as much of her mental sufferings as he had of any
physical harm that the dread disease might do to him. How could
he possibly persuade himself to give her up, when he knew that
the separation would break her heart and ruin her whole life?
No; obviously, in such a dilemma, it was his duty to use his own
best judgment, and get himself cured as quickly as possible.
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