He had heard from Coldbrooks, of course; letters came often now. And the dark young nurse had written for him since he could not yet write for himself. He had said no word of seeing Adrienne. Nor had he let them know how near to death he had been and, perhaps, still was. He would have liked to have seen Lydia and Nancy if he were to die; but most of all he wanted to be sure of not losing Adrienne. And he knew that were he to tell them, were they to come, Adrienne would go.
She never spoke to him at all, he remembered—as getting stronger with every day, he pieced his memories of these nights together—unless he spoke to her; and she never smiled. And it came upon him one morning after he had read letters that brought so near the world from which she was now shut out, that she had, perhaps, never forgiven him. After all, though he could not see that he had been wrong, she had everything to forgive him and the thought made him restless. That night, for the first time, she volunteered a remark. His temperature had gone up a little. He must be very quiet and go to sleep directly.
“Yes; I know,” he said. “It’s because of you. Things I want to say. I’m really so much better. We can’t go on like this, can we,” he said, looking up at her as she sat beside him. “Why, you might slip out of my life any day, and I might never hear of you again.”
She sat looking down at him, a little askance, though gentle still, if gentle was the word for her changed face. “That’s what I mean to do,” she said.
“Oh, but—” Oldmeadow actually, in his alarm and resentment, struggled up on an elbow—“that won’t do. I want to see you, really see you, now that I’m myself again. I want to talk with you—now that I can talk coherently. I want to ask you; well, I won’t ask it now.” She had put out her hand, her small, potent hand, and quietly pressed him back, and down upon his pillow while her face took on its look of almost stern authority. “I’ll be good. But promise me you’ll not go without telling me. And haven’t you questions to ask, too?”
Her face kept its severity, but, as he found this last appeal, her eyes widened, darkened, looked, for a moment, almost frightened.
“I know that Barney is safe,” she said. “I have nothing to ask.”
“Well; no; I see.” He felt that he had been guilty of a blunder and it made him fretful. “For me, then. Not for you. Promise me. I won’t be good unless you promise me. You can’t go off and leave me like that.”
With eyes still dilated, she contemplated this rebellion.
“You must promise me something, then,” she said after a moment.