Part 31 (1/2)
”A plague on my memory!” I exclaimed. ”We were in the parlor, and Miss Warren was singing. Your mother spoke--would that I might hear her again!--it's all tolerably clear up to that time, and then everything is confused.”
”Adah, how's this?” said Mrs. Yocomb reproachfully. ”Thee was not to let Richard Morton talk.”
”I only am to blame, Mrs. Yocomb: I would talk. I'm trying to get the past straightened out; I know that something happened the other evening when you spoke so beautifully to us, but my memory comes up to that point as to an abyss, and I can't bridge it over.”
”Richard Morton, doesn't thee believe that I'm thy friend?”
”My mind would indeed be a total blank if I doubted that.”
”Well, then, do what I ask thee: don't question, don't think. Isn't it sufficient to know that thee has been ill, and that thy life depends on quiet? Thee can scarcely lift thy hand to thy head; thy words are slow and feeble. Can't thee realize that it is thy sacred duty to rest and grow strong before taking up the cares and burdens that life brings to us all? Thee looks weak and exhausted.”
”I am indeed weak enough, but I felt almost well when I awoke.”
”Adah, I fear I can't trust thee as a nurse,” her mother began gravely.
”Please don't blame her; it was wholly my fault,” I whispered. ”I'll be very good now, and do just what you bid me.”
”Well, then, thee must take what I have prepared, and thy medicine, and sleep again.”
”Good-by, Adah,” I said, smiling. ”Don't look so concerned; you haven't done me a bit of harm. Your face was as bright and welcome as the suns.h.i.+ne.”
”If it hadn't been for thee--” she began.
Mrs. Yocomb raised a warning finger, and the girl stole away.
”Can--can I not see Miss Warren this morning?” I asked hesitatingly.
”Thee must sleep first.”
The medicine she gave evidently contained a sedative, or else sleep was the remedy that Nature instinctively grasped, for it gave back part of the strength that I had lost.
When I awoke again I felt wonderfully the better for a long rest that had not been broken, but made more beneficial from the fact that I was slightly roused from time to time to take stimulants and nourishment.
The heat and glare of the summer day had pa.s.sed. This I could perceive even through the half-closed window-blinds. At first I thought myself alone, but soon saw that Reuben was seated in the furthest corner, quietly carving on some woodwork that interested his boyish fancy. His round, fresh face was like a tonic.
”Well, old fellow,” I laughed, ”so you are playing nurse?”
”Is thee awake for good, Richard Morton?” he asked, springing up.
”I hope so.”
”'Cause mother said that as soon as thee really waked up I must call her.”
”Oh, wait a moment, and tell me all the news.”
”Mother said I mustn't tell thee anything but to get well.”
”I'm never going to get well.”
”What!” exclaimed the boy, in consternation.