He began to get strength to talk, and he conversed with her or listened while she read to him, eliciting occasionally her opinions upon the subject he had selected, and he was pleased with the evidence she gave of a sensible and practical mind, as well as of a pure taste. Soon his conversation, chatty and familiar, began to revert to herself, and became embarrassingly personal. Still he did not identify her.
He knew, indeed, that her name was Clinton, but the name itself struck him no more than if it had been Brown or Thompson, at least in connection with the individual whom his son frantically, as he considered, designed to marry. In fact it was not likely to occur to him that a young damsel, against whose admission into his family he had so vehemently and determinedly set his face, should have absolutely taken possession of his sick chamber, to act a daughter’s part. And as he had adopted, as soon as he began to be sensible of her kind attention, the appellation of “my little nurse,” in addressing or speaking of her, the name of Clinton quickly left his memory.
Only from her hand would he take his medicine; she never made any mistake, or gave him more or less than he ought to have had, and if she was not there to administer it, he insisted that it was not the proper time to take it. She gave him his food; it was always correct as to its quality, quantity, and fitness. Hers was the first face to greet his opening eyes in the morning, the last upon whom they closed at night. Ay, even in the night, at times, he would wake and find the same pleasant, patient face hanging over him, and when he asked why she had not retired, she was always ready to answer him with a plea, that during the previous day she had observed him to be not so well, and as a restless night usually followed those symptoms of retrogression, she was merely at hand to administer to him some soothing medicine which the physician had provided for such contingencies.
Her hand alone could smooth and arrange his pillow to his satisfaction. She was never impatient under the caprices of his temper or his ever-varying whims. She moved always with such alacrity—so light of foot when requested to do anything for him. She submitted so gently and patiently to his querulous testiness, and bore his peevish remarks, as she had throughout executed the task allotted to her, without a cloud upon her brow or a ruffle on her equanimity. “Of course,” cry the selfish, shrugging their shoulders, “such conduct was eminently politic; she had a deep game to play, and had the shrewdness as well as the ability to understand the part assigned to her, and to perform it well.” But “far-seeing” people are not always correct in their assumptions, and in jumping to a conclusion sometimes arrive only at the mire of their own ungenerous instincts; being as far from the truth as they are from the possession of tenderness of heart or magnanimity of soul.
The policy of such conduct formed no element in Lotte’s demeanour or action; it was in fact the result of her organisation, having undertaken such a duty, to so fulfil it.
Mr. Wilton, now rapidly approaching a state of convalescence, began, to weary of his chamber, and to long to inhale the fresh air without his stately dwelling. He sketched out to Lotte walks upon the terrace, and of the pleasure he should enjoy in again being enabled to take them, and how much that pleasure would be enhanced by her favouring him with the support of her kind arm. He promised to enlighten her upon many subjects of science and art, of which she knew nothing, and he promised himself also the pleasure of listening to her simple but always pertinent and sensible remarks.
Flora, too, had recovered her strength and her spirits. Communion with Lotte had toned down the perturbation of her mind, and rendered her far more contented and hopeful than she had been for some time past.
Poor Lotte! her own heart-canker exhibited no sign. The acute agony of her own thoughts was never suffered to display any influence upon her actions or manner in the presence of others; it was only when alone, and offering up her prayers to Heaven for strength to sustain her in the performance of her duty to others, no less than to herself, that the convulsions of a poignant sorrow bore down all opposition, and prostrated her.
Poor Lotte! if she had entertained any misgivings, even during Mark’s most sanguine representations to her of becoming his wife, they resolved themselves into a certainty now. She had only to cast her eyes upon the picturesque antique hall, with its saloons and its galleries, its rich appointments, its paintings, and its sculptures—upon the terrace-garden, with its fountains, its flowers, its rare shrubs, its elegant exotics and trees, and smoothly gravelled serpentine paths—upon the park, with its slopes and undulations of green sward—upon the plantation, and the woods beyond, to feel that it was not for her, so humble in her position, to share these grand and beautiful things.
It was a sorrowful conviction, but she did not quarrel now with Mr. Wilton’s opposition to her becoming Mark’s wife; it seemed, indeed, merely natural, taking life as she had found it, that he should do so, and not unreasonable. And it was to bear this conviction without repining that she prayed earnestly, and wrestled with her wishes ardently.