Thunder in the Air

The only malady that put Herbert Dorrance in frequent and unpleasant
remembrance of his mortality was a fierce headache, which had of
late years supervened upon any imprudence in diet, and upon
excessive agitation of mind or physical exertion. His invariable
custom, when he awoke at morning with one of these, was to trace it
to its supposed source, and after determining that it was nothing
more than might have been expected from the circumstance, to commit
himself to his wife's nursing for the day.

She ought, therefore, to have been surprised when, while admitting
that the pain in his head was intense, he yet, on the morrow
succeeding Mrs. Tazewell's funeral, persisted in rising and dressing
for breakfast.

"It must have been the roast duck at dinner yesterday," he calmly
and languidly explained the attack. "It was fat, and the stuffing
reeked with butter, sage, and onion. An ostrich could not have
digested it. I was tired, too, and should not have eaten heartily of
even the plainest food."

Mabel neither opposed nor sustained the theory. She had slept so ill
herself as to know how restless he had been; had heard his hardly
suppressed sighs and tossings to and fro, infallible indications
with him of serious perturbation. Had his discomfort been bodily
only, he would have felt no compunction in calling her to his aid,
as he had done scores of times. Her sleepless hours had also been
fraught with melancholy disquiet. Putting away from her--with
firmness begotten by virtue born of will--and so much of this
thoughtfulness as pertained to the bygone days with which Frederic
Chilton was inseparable associated, she yet deliberated seriously
upon the expediency of speaking out courageously to Herbert of the
relation this man had once borne to her, the incidents of their
recent meeting, and the effect she saw was produced upon her
husband's mind by the sight of him.