The only malady that put Herbert Dorrance in frequent and unpleasant
remembrance of his mortality was a fierce headache, which had of
late years supervened upon any imprudence in diet, and upon
excessive agitation of mind or physical exertion. His invariable
custom, when he awoke at morning with one of these, was to trace it
to its supposed source, and after determining that it was nothing
more than might have been expected from the circumstance, to commit
himself to his wife's nursing for the day.
She ought, therefore, to have been surprised when, while admitting
that the pain in his head was intense, he yet, on the morrow
succeeding Mrs. Tazewell's funeral, persisted in rising and dressing
for breakfast.
"It must have been the roast duck at dinner yesterday," he calmly
and languidly explained the attack. "It was fat, and the stuffing
reeked with butter, sage, and onion. An ostrich could not have
digested it. I was tired, too, and should not have eaten heartily of
even the plainest food."
Mabel neither opposed nor sustained the theory. She had slept so ill
herself as to know how restless he had been; had heard his hardly
suppressed sighs and tossings to and fro, infallible indications
with him of serious perturbation. Had his discomfort been bodily
only, he would have felt no compunction in calling her to his aid,
as he had done scores of times. Her sleepless hours had also been
fraught with melancholy disquiet. Putting away from her--with
firmness begotten by virtue born of will--and so much of this
thoughtfulness as pertained to the bygone days with which Frederic
Chilton was inseparable associated, she yet deliberated seriously
upon the expediency of speaking out courageously to Herbert of the
relation this man had once borne to her, the incidents of their
recent meeting, and the effect she saw was produced upon her
husband's mind by the sight of him.
"If we would have this negative happiness continue, this matter
ought to be settled at once and forever," she said, inwardly. "He
must not suspect me of weak and wicked clinging to the phantoms of
my youth; must believe that I do not harbor a regret or wish
incompatible with my duty as his wife. I will avail myself of the
first favorable moment to assure him of the folly of his fears and
of his discomfort."
Another consideration--the natural sequence of her conviction of his
unhappiness--was a touching appeal to her woman's heart. If he had
not loved her more fervently than his phlegmatic temperament and
undemonstrative bearing would induce one to suppose, he would not
dread the rekindling of her olden fancy for another. The image of
him who, she had confessed, had taught her the depth and weight of
her own affections, whom she had loved as she had never professed to
care for him, would not have haunted his pillow to chase sleep, and
torture him with forebodings.