My uncle came to see me. He was so alarmed that he insisted on a consultation being held with his own physician. Another great authority was called in, at the same time, by the urgent request of my own medical man. These distinguished persons held more than one privy council, before they would consent to give a positive opinion. It was an evasive opinion (encumbered with hard words of Greek and Roman origin) when it was at last pronounced. I waited until they had taken their leave, and then appealed to my own doctor. "What do these men really think?" I asked. "Shall I live, or die?"The doctor answered for himself as well as for his illustrious colleagues. "We have great faith in the new prescriptions," he said.
I understood what that meant. They were afraid to tell me the truth. I insisted on the truth.
"How long shall I live?" I said. "Till the end of the year?"The reply followed in one terrible word:
"Perhaps."
It was then the first week in December. I understood that I might reckon--at the utmost--on three weeks of life. What I felt, on arriving at this conclusion, I shall not say. It is the one secret I keep from the readers of these lines.
