One
evening, when we were invited to a party of young people at our
doctor's house, word was sent from Raymond that he was sick and
could not come, but that I must on no account stay home. But I did.
For me there was no pleasure without him, no, not anywhere in the
world. He recovered soon, however; but after that, short spells of
illness, mostly heavy colds, were the rule. He was a strong man
and had taken pride in being able to do things which few other
men could do without harm coming to them; for instance, to chop a
hole in the ice and go swimming in midwinter. But exposure to the
chill, damp air of that North Sea country and the heavy fogs that
drifted in from the ocean at night, when he rode alone, often many
miles over the moor on his tours of inspection, had undermined his
splendid constitution, and before the summer was over the doctors
pronounced my dear one a sufferer from bronchial consumption, and
told us that his only chance lay in his seeking a milder climate.
I grieved at the thought of separation for a whole winter, perhaps
longer, and at his suffering; but I felt sure that he would come
back to me from Switzerland a well man.
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