“Nay, nay, Huntingdon,” said he, “you’re too hard upon her; she must have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man! she’s worn to a shadow already.”
“What are her sufferings to mine?” said the poor invalid. “You don’t grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?”
“No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life to save you, if I might.”
“Would you, indeed? No!”
“Most willingly I would.”
“Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die!”
There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy reflections; but while I pondered for something to say that might benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing almost the same course, broke silence with, “I say, Huntingdon, I would send for a parson of some sort: if you didn’t like the vicar, you know, you could have his curate, or somebody else.”
“No; none of them can benefit me if she can’t,” was the answer. And the tears gushed from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, “Oh, Helen, if I had listened to you, it never would have come to this! and if I had heard you long ago—oh, God! how different it would have been!”
“Hear me now, then, Arthur,” said I, gently pressing his hand.
“It’s too late now,” said he despondingly. And after that another paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we feared his death was approaching: but an opiate was administered: his sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better when he calls to-morrow.