“But should he get sick at the tavern?”
“Such a chance would follow him wherever he went. That is the risk which every man incurs when he goes abroad. He has a servant with him—no doubt a favorite servant.”
“Should he get sick, Julia, even a favorite servant will not be enough. It will be our duty to make other provision for him. I owe his father much; the old man evidently expects much from me by his last letter. I owe the son much. He has been a true friend to me. I must do for him as if he were a brother, and should he get sick, Julia, you must be his nurse.”
“Impossible, Mr. Clifford!” she replied, with unwonted energy, while a deep, dark flush settled over her otherwise placid features, which were now not merely discomposed but ruffled. “It is impossible that I should be what you require. Suffer me, in this case, to determine my duties for myself. Do for YOUR FRIEND what you think proper. You can provide a nurse, and secure by money, the best attendance in the town. I do not think that I can do better service than a hundred others whom you may procure; and you will permit me to say, without seeking to displease you, that I will not attempt it.”
I was not displeased at what she said, but it was not my policy to admit this. With an air almost of indignation, I replied:
“And you would leave my friend to perish?”
“I trust he will not perish—I sincerely trust he will continue in health while he remains here. I implore you, dear husband, to make no requisition such as this. I can not serve your friend in this capacity. I pray that he may not need it.”
“But should he?”
“I can not serve him.”
“Julia, you are a cold-hearted woman—you do not love me.”