I had six doctors and two nurses, and
we watched and tended him for fifteen days; and I telegraphed for an
English doctor to England by express, who came, and lives and travels
with us, as Richard insisted on coming to Trieste, not to England,
and will return with us. It took us, _after his arrival_, twenty-
eight days to accomplish the twenty-eight hours of express between
Cannes and Trieste in toil, anguish, and anxiety. We arrived April
5 at home in rest and comfort. He has been making daily progress to
health. He is now out walking with his doctor. We had a consultation
a few days ago. He will always require _great care and watching_ all
his life--diet and internal health; must not climb, as his heart is
weak, nor take Turkish baths, nor overwork; and he may so live fifteen
years, but he may die any moment of heart disease. And I need not say
that I shall never have a really happy, peaceful moment again. In the
midst of this my uncle,[3] who was like my father to me, was found dead
in his bed. Then I have had a bad lip and money losses, and altogether
a bad time of it."[4]
At Trieste Burton led the life of a confirmed invalid, and his wife
attended him with unfailing devotion, which was in no way abated by the
presence of the resident doctor "a disagreeable luxury," as she called
him. They used to sit a good deal under their favourite linden tree
in the garden and receive visitors. Burton's love for his wife, always
deep, though never demonstrative, seems to have shown itself more at
this time; and in the few remaining years he came to lean on her more
and more, making her his _confidante_ in all things.
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