I began to notice that Dorothy was unusually quiet. She complained of
fatigue, of pain. We had done too much perhaps. One morning she could
not arise. Abigail and Aldington were returning to Chicago. We had
expected to go with them. But Dorothy could not travel now--she could
not stand that terrible journey of boats and cars, of changes and
delays. So we bade adieu to our friends.
Dorothy did not rally, as I had expected. She grew weaker day by day.
She became gravely ill. In the midst of the extra labor thrown upon
Mammy, she too was compelled to take to her bed. I was forced to look
about for servants, finding two Irish girls at last. Then quite suddenly
Mammy died. She was very old. And thus we were cut off from all our
past, Nashville, the old days. And I stayed almost constantly by
Dorothy's side, trying to bring back her strength. It entered my mind at
times that after all I was not as tender a husband to Dorothy as I
should have been. I was with her a good deal, to be sure. At the same
time, I was much preoccupied. She did not like politics, and could not
share my interest in that direction. The condition of the country really
distressed her. She had seen slavery in its benign aspect, and she was
impatient with any criticism of the institution.
It was months before Dorothy sat up and began to walk again.
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