“Oh,” she said, “I am quite recovered.
Indeed, I am as well as ever, and I wish to spend
more time here. Will you not let me stay here
longer?”
“How can I? The confinement would wear
you out.”
“It would not be more fatiguing than staying
in my own room,” persisted Edith.
“I’m afraid there would be very much difference,”
said Dudleigh. “In your own room you have
no particular anxiety, but here you would have the
incessant responsibility of a nurse. You would
have to watch your father, and every movement would
give you concern.”
“And this harassing care is what I wish to save
you from, and share with you,” said Edith, earnestly.
“Will you not consent to this?”
“To share it with you?” said Dudleigh
looking at her with unutterable tenderness. “To
share it with you?” he repeated. “It
would be only too much happiness for me to do so,
but not if you are going to overwork yourself.”
“But I will not,” said Edith. “If
I do, I can stop. I only ask to be allowed to
come in during the morning, so as to relieve you of
some of your work. You will consent, will you
not?”
Edith asked him this as though Dudleigh had exclusive
right here, and she had none. She could not help
feeling as if this was so, and this feeling arose
from those memories which she had of that terrible
past, when she ignorantly hurled at that father’s
heart words that stung like the stings of scorpions.
Never could she forgive herself for that, and for
this she now humbled herself in this way. Her
tone was so pleading that Dudleigh could refuse no
longer. With many deprecatory expressions, and
many warnings and charges, he at last consented to
let her divide the morning attendance with him.
She was to come in at eleven o’clock.
This arrangement was at once acted upon. On the
following day Edith came to her father’s room
at eleven. Dudleigh had much to ask her, and
much to say to her, about her father’s condition.
He was afraid that she was not strong enough.
He seemed to half repent his agreement. On the
other hand, Edith assured him most earnestly that she
was strong enough, that she would come here for the
future regularly at eleven o’clock, and urged
him to take care of his own health, and seek some recreation
by riding about the grounds. This Dudleigh promised
to do in the afternoon, but just then he seemed in
no hurry to go. He lingered on. They talked
in low whispers, with their heads close together.
They had much to talk about; her health, his health,
her father’s condition—all these had
to be discussed. Thus it was that the last vestiges
of mutual reserve began to be broken down.
Day succeeded to day, and Edith always came to her
father’s room in the morning. At first
she always urged Dudleigh to go off and take exercise,
but at length she ceased to urge him. For two
or three hours every day they saw much of one another,
and thus associated under circumstances which enforced
the closest intimacy and the strongest mutual sympathy.
