His report was not a very favourable one. The practice
had declined considerably. People had no doubt
accustomed themselves to his eccentricities, and these
had ceased to impress them. Again, there had been
one or two coroner's inquests, which had spread the
impression that he had been rash in the use of powerful
drugs. If the coroner could have seen the hundreds of
cures which Cullingworth had effected by that same
rashness he would have been less confident with his
censures. But, as you can understand, C.'s rival medical
men were not disposed to cover him in any way. He had
never had much consideration for them.
Besides this decline in his practice, I was sorry to
hear that Cullingworth had shown renewed signs of that
curious vein of suspicion which had always seemed to me
to be the most insane of all his traits. His whole frame
of mind towards me had been an example of it, but as far
back as I can remember it had been a characteristic.
Even in those early days when they lived in four little
rooms above a grocer's shop, I recollect that he insisted
upon gumming up every chink of one bedroom for fear of
some imaginary infection. He was haunted, too, with a
perpetual dread of eavesdroppers, which used to make him
fly at the door and fling it open in the middle of his
conversation, pouncing out into the passage with the
idea of catching somebody in the act. Once it was
the maid with the tea tray that he caught, I remember;
and I can see her astonished face now, with an aureole of
flying cups and lumps of sugar.
Pages:
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290