“But even if my health should suffer, it would not be of much consequence. So at least let me relieve you of something.”
“Your health?” said Dudleigh, looking at her with an earnest glance; “your health? Why, that is every thing. Mine is nothing. Can you suggest such a thing to me as that I should allow any trouble to come to you? Besides, your delicate health already alarms me. You have not yet recovered from your illness. You are not capable of enduring fatigue, and I am always reproaching myself for allowing you to stay here as much as you do. The Dudleighs have done enough. They have brought the father to this;” and he pointed mournfully to the bed. “But,” he added, in a tremulous voice, “the daughter should at least be saved, and to have harm come to her would be worse than death itself—to me.”
Edith was silent for a few moments. Her heart was beating fast. When she spoke, it was with an effort, and in as calm a voice as possible.
“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?”