The moment conscience spoke thus
plainly to Tom, the little that was left of his physical
endurance gave way, his illness got the upper hand, and he took
to his bed--all he could have for bed, that is--namely, the sofa
in the sitting-room, widened out with chairs, and a mattress over
all. There he lay, and their landlady had enough to do. Not that
either of her patients was exacting; they were both too ill and
miserable for that. It is the self-pitiful, self-coddling invalid
that is exacting. Such, I suspect, require something sharper
still.
Tom groaned and tossed, and cursed himself, and soon passed into
delirium. Straightway his visions, animate with shame and
confusion of soul, were more distressing than even his ready
tongue could have told. Dead babies and ghastly women pursued him
everywhere. His fever increased. The cries of terror and dismay
that he uttered reached the ears of his wife, and were the first
thing that roused her from her lethargy. She rose from her bed,
and, just able to crawl, began to do what she could for him. If
she could but get near enough to him, the husband would yet be
dearer than any child. She had him carried to the bed, and
thereafter took on the sofa what rest there was for her. To and
fro between bed and sofa she crept, let the landlady say what she
might, gave him all the food he could be got to take, cooled his
burning hands and head, and cried over him because she could not
take him on her lap like the baby that was gone.
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