"What is it?" was the first eager question.
"He has been attempting rather too much of late," was the answer, "and has knocked himself up. I came to tell you, because I think I had better stay with him, and perhaps you might miss me."
"O no, no, pray go to him. Nothing satisfies me so well about him as that you should be there, except that I cannot bear to give you so much trouble. Don't stay here answering questions. He will be so restless if he misses you-"
"Don't you sit imagining, Mary; let Henrietta read to you."
This proposal made Henrietta look so piteous and wistful that her mother said, "No, no, let her go to Freddy, poor child. I dare say he wants her."
"By no means," said Aunt Geoffrey, opening the door; "he will be quieter without her."
Henrietta was annoyed, and walked about the room, instead of sitting down to read. She was too fond of her own will to like being thus checked, and she thought she had quite as good a right to be with her brother as her aunt could have. Every temper has one side or other on which it is susceptible; and this was hers. She thought it affection for her brother, whereas it was impatience of being ordered.
Her mother forced herself to speak cheerfully. "Aunt Geoffrey is a capital nurse," said she; "there is something so decided about her that it always does one good. It saves all the trouble and perplexity of thinking for oneself."
"I had rather judge for myself," said Henrietta.
"That is all very well to talk of," said her mother, smiling sadly, "but it is a very different thing when you are obliged to do it."
"Well, what do you like to hear?" said Henrietta, who found herself too cross for conversation. "The old man's home?"
"Do not read unless you like it, my dear; I think you must be tired. You would want 'lungs of brass' to go on all day to both of us. You had better not. I should like to talk."
Henrietta being in a wilful fit, chose nevertheless to read, because it gave her the satisfaction of feeling that Aunt Geoffrey was inflicting a hardship upon her; although her mother would have preferred conversation. So she took up a book, and began, without any perception of the sense of what she was reading, but her thoughts dwelling partly on her brother, and partly on her aunt's provoking ways. She read on through a whole chapter, then closing the book hastily, exclaimed, "I must go and see what Aunt Geoffrey is doing with Fred."
"She is not such a very dangerous person," said Mrs. Frederick Langford, almost laughing at the form of the expression.
"Well, but you surely want to know how he is, mamma?"
"To be sure I do, but I am so afraid of his being disturbed. If he was just going to sleep now."
"Yes, but you know how softly I can open the door."
"Your aunt would let us know if there was anything to hear. Pray take care, my dear."
"I must go, I can't bear it any longer; I will only just listen," said Henrietta; "I will not be a moment."
"Let me have the book, my dear," said her mother, who knew but too well the length of Henrietta's moments, and who had just, by means of a great effort, succeeded in making herself take interest in the book.
Henrietta gave it to her, and darted off. The door of Fred's room was ajar, and she entered. Aunt Geoffrey, Bennet, and Judith were standing round the bed, her aunt sponging away the blood that was flowing from Frederick's temples. His eyes were closed, and he now and then gave long gasping sighs of oppression and faintness. "Leeches!" thought Henrietta, as she started with consternation and displeasure. "This is pretty strong! Without telling me or mamma! Well, this is what I call doing something with him indeed."
She advanced to the table, but no one saw her for more than a minute, till at last Aunt Geoffrey stepped quickly up to it in search of some bottle.
"Let me do something," said Henrietta, catching up the bottle that she thought likely to be the right one.
Her aunt looked vexed, and answered in a low quick tone, "You had better stay with your mamma."
"But why are you doing this? Is he worse? Is Mr. Philip Carey here? Has he ordered it?"
"He is not come yet. My dear, I cannot talk to you: I should be much obliged if you would go back to your mamma."
Aunt Geoffrey went back to Fred, but a few minutes after she looked up and still saw Henrietta standing by the table. She came up to her, "Henrietta, you are of no use here; every additional person oppresses him; your mamma must be kept tranquil. Why will you stay?"
"I was just going," said Henrietta, taking this hurrying as an additional offence, and walking off in a dignified way.
It was hard to say what had affronted her most, the proceeding itself, the neglect, or the commands which Aunt Geoffrey had presumed to lay upon her, and away she went to her mamma, a great deal too much displeased, and too distrustful to pay the smallest attention to any precautions which her aunt might have tried to impress upon her.
"Well!" asked her mother anxiously.
"She would not let me stay," answered Henrietta. "She has been putting on leeches."
"Leeches!" exclaimed her mother. "He must be much worse. Poor fellow! Is Mr. Carey here?"
"No, that is the odd thing."
"Has he not been sent for?"
"I am sure I don't know. Aunt Geoffrey seems to like to do things in her own way."
"It must be very bad indeed if she cannot venture to wait for him!" said Mrs. Frederick Langford, much alarmed.
"And never to tell you!" said Henrietta.
"O, that was her consideration. She knew how foolishly anxious I should be. I have no doubt that she is doing right. How did he seem to be?"
"Very faint, I thought," said Henrietta, "there seemed to be a great deal of bleeding, but Aunt Geoffrey would not let me come near."
"She knows exactly what to do," said Mrs. Frederick Langford. "How well it was that she should be here."
Henrietta began to be so fretted at her mother's complete confidence in her aunt, that without thinking of the consequences she tried to argue it away. "Aunt Geoffrey is so quick-she does things without half the consideration other people do. And she likes to settle everything."
But happily the confiding friendship of a lifetime was too strong to be even harassed for a moment by the petulant suspicions of an angry girl.
"My dear, if you were not vexed and anxious, I should tell you that you were speaking very improperly of your aunt. I am perfectly satisfied that she is doing what is right by dear Fred, as well as by me; and if I am satisfied, no one else has any right to object."
There was nothing left for Henrietta in her present state of spirits but to have a hearty cry, one of the best possible ways she could find of distressing her mother, who all the time was suffering infinitely more than she could imagine from her fears, her efforts to silence them, and the restraint which she was exercising upon herself, longing as she did to fly to her son's room, to see with her own eyes, and only detained by the fear that her sudden appearance there might agitate him. The tears, whatever might be their effect upon her, did Henrietta good, and restored her to something more like her proper senses. She grew rather alarmed, too, when she saw her mamma's pale looks, as she leant back almost exhausted with anxiety and repressed agitation.
Mrs. Langford came up to bring them some tea, and she, having little idea of the real state of things, took so encouraging a view as to cheer them both, and her visit did much service at least to Henrietta. Then they heard sounds announcing Philip Carey's arrival, and presently after in came Bennet with a message from Mr. Frederick that he was better, and that his mother was not to be frightened. At last came Aunt Geoffrey, saying, "Well, Mary, he is better. I have been very sorry to leave you so long, and I believe Henrietta," looking at her with a smile, "thinks I have used you very ill."
"I believe she did," said her mother, "but I was sure you would do right; you say he is better? Let me hear."
"Much better; only-. But Mary, you look quite worn out, you should go to bed."
"Let me hear about him firs
t."
Aunt Geoffrey accordingly told the whole history, as, perhaps, every one would not have told it, for one portion of it in some degree justified Henrietta's opinion that she had been doing a great deal on her own responsibility. It had been very difficult to stop the bleeding, and Fred, already very weak, had been so faint and exhausted that she had felt considerable alarm, and was much rejoiced by the arrival of Philip Carey, who had not been at home when the messenger reached his house. Now, however, all was well; he had fully approved all that she had done, and, although she did not repeat this to Mrs. Frederick Langford, had pronounced that her promptitude and energy had probably saved the patient's life. Fred, greatly relieved, had fallen asleep, and she had now come, with almost an equal sense of relief, to tell his mother all that had passed, and ask her pardon.
"Nay, Beatrice, what do you mean by that? Is it not what you and Geoffrey have always done to treat him as your own son instead of mine? and is it not almost my chief happiness to feel assured that you always will do so? You know that is the reason I never thank you."
Henrietta hung her head, and felt that she had been very unjust and ungrateful, more especially when her aunt said, "You thought it very hard to have your mouth stopped, Henrietta, my dear, and I was sorry for it, but I had not much time to be polite."
"I am sorry I was in the way," said she, an acknowledgment such as she had seldom made.
Fred awoke the next morning much better, though greatly fallen back in his progress towards recovery, but his mother had during the night the worst fit of spasms from which she had ever suffered.
But Henrietta thought it all so well accounted for by all the agitations of the evening before, that there was no reason for further anxiety.
It was a comfort to Aunt Geoffrey, who took it rather more seriously, that she received that morning a letter from her husband, concluding,
"As to the Queen Bee, I have no doubt that you can judge of her frame better from the tone of her letters than from anything I have to tell. I think her essentially improved and improving, and you will think I do not speak without warrant, when I tell you that Lady Susan expressed herself quite warmly respecting her this morning. She continues to imagine that she has the charge of Queen Bee, and not Queen Bee of her, and I think it much that she has been allowed to continue in the belief. Lady Amelia comes to-morrow, and then I hope the poor little woman's penance may be over, for though she makes no complaints, there is no doubt that it is a heavy one, as her thorough enjoyment of a book, and an hour's freedom from that little gossiping flow of plaintive talk sufficiently testify."
CHAPTER XVII.
FREDERICK had lost much ground, and yet on the whole his relapse was of no slight service to him. In the earlier part of his illness he had been so stupefied by the accident, that he had neither been conscious of his danger, nor was able to preserve any distinct remembrance of what he had suffered. But this return to his former state, with all his senses perfect, made him realise the rest, and begin to perceive how near to the grave he had been brought. A deep shuddering sense of awe came over him, as he thought what it would have been to die then, without a minute of clear recollection, and his last act one of wilful disobedience. And how had he requited the mercy which had spared him? He had shown as much of that same spirit of self-will as his feebleness would permit; he had been exacting, discontented, rebellious, and well indeed had he deserved to be cut off in the midst of the sin in which he had persisted.
He was too weak to talk, but his mind was wide awake; and many an earnest thanksgiving, and resolution strengthened by prayer, were made in silence during the two or three days that passed, partly in such thoughts as these, and for many hours more in sleep; while sometimes his aunt, sometimes his sister, and sometimes even Bennet, sat by his bed-side unchidden for not being "mamma."
"Above all," said he to himself, "he would for the future devote himself, to make up to her for all that he had caused her to suffer for his sake. Even if he were never to mount a horse or fire a gun for the rest of his life, what would such a sacrifice be for such a mother?" It was very disappointing that, at present, all he could even attempt to do for her was to send her messages-and affection does not travel well by message,-and at the same time to show submission to her known wishes. And after all, it would have been difficult not to have shown submission, for Aunt Geoffrey, as he already felt, was not a person to be argued with, but to be obeyed; and for very shame he could not have indulged himself in his Philippics after the proof he had experienced of their futility.
So, partly on principle, and partly from necessity, he ceased to grumble, and from that time forth it was wonderful how much less unpleasant even external things appeared, and how much his health benefited by the tranquillity of spirits thus produced. He was willing to be pleased with all that was done with that intent; and as he grew better, it certainly was a strange variety with which he had to be amused throughout the day. Very good naturedly he received all such civilities, especially when Willy brought him a bottle of the first live sticklebacks of the season, accompanied by a message from Arthur that he hoped soon to send him a basin of tame tadpoles,-and when John rushed up with a basket of blind young black satin puppies, their mother following in a state of agitation only equalled by that of Mrs. Langford and Judith.
Willy, a nice intelligent little fellow, grew very fond of him, and spent much time with him, taking delight in his books and prints, beyond what could have been thought possible in one of the Sutton Leigh party.
When he was strong enough to guide a pencil or pen, a very enjoyable correspondence commenced between him and his mother, who was still unable to leave her apartment; and hardly any one ever passed between the two rooms without being the bearer of some playful greeting, or droll descriptions of the present scene and occupation, chronicles of the fashionable arrivals of the white clouds before the window, of a bunch of violets, or a new book; the fashionable departure of the headache, the fire, or a robin; notices that tom-tits were whetting their saws on the next tree, or of the domestic proceedings of the rooks who were building their house opposite to Mrs. Frederick Langford's window, and whom she watched so much that she was said to be in a fair way of solving the problem of how many sticks go to a crow's nest; criticisms of the books read by each party, and very often a reference to that celebrated billet, unfortunately delivered over night to Prince Talleyrand, informing him that his devoted friend had scarcely closed her eyes all night, and then only to dream of him!
Henrietta grew very happy. She had her brother again, as wholly hers as in their younger days,-depending upon her, participating in all her pleasures, or rather giving her favourite occupations double zest, by their being for him, for his amusement. She rode and walked in the beautiful open spring country with grandpapa, to whom she was a most valuable companion; and on her return she had two to visit, both of whom looked forward with keen interest and delight to hearing her histories of down and wood, of field and valley, of farm-house, cottage, or school; had a laugh for the least amusing circumstance, admiration for the spring flower or leaf, and power to follow her descriptions of budding woods, soft rising hills, and gorgeous sunsets. How her mamma enjoyed comparing notes with her about those same woods and dells, and would describe the adventures of her own youth! And now it might be noticed that she did not avoid speaking of those in which Henrietta's father had been engaged; nay, she dwelt on them by preference, and without the suppressed sigh which had formerly followed anything like a reference to him. Sometimes she would smile to identify the bold open down with the same where she had run races with him, and even laugh to think of the droll adventures. Sometimes the shady woodland walk would make her describe their nutting parties, or it would bring her thoughts to some fit of childish mischief and concealment, and to the confession to which his bolder and more upright counsel had at length led her. Or she would tell of the long walks they had taken together when older grown, when each had become prime counsellor and confidante of the
other; and the interests and troubles of home and of school were poured out to willing ears, and sympathy and advice exchanged. How Fred and Mary had been companions from the very first, how their love had grown up unconsciously, in the sports in the sunny fields, shady coombs, and green woods of their home: how it had strengthened and ripened with advancing years, and how bright and unclouded their sunshine had been to dwell on: this was her delight, while the sadness which once spoke of crushed hopes, and lost happiness, had gone from her smile. It was as if she still felt herself walking in the light of his love, and at the same time, as if she wished to show him to his daughter as he was, and to tell Henrietta of those words and those ways of his which were most characteristic, and which used to be laid up so fast in her heart, that she could never have borne to speak of them. The bitterness of his death, as it regarded herself, seemed to have passed, the brightness of his memory alone remaining. Henrietta loved to listen, but scarcely so much as her mother loved to tell; and instead of agitating her, these recollections always seemed to soothe and make her happy.
Henrietta knew that Aunt Geoffrey and grandpapa were both of them anxious about her mother's health, but for her own part she did not think her worse than she had often been before; and whilst she continued in nearly the same state, rose every day, sat in her arm-chair, and was so cheerful, and even lively, there could not be very much amiss, even though there was no visible progress in amendment. Serious complaint there was, as she knew of old, to cause the spasms; but it had existed so long, that after the first shock of being told of it two years ago, she had almost ceased to think about it. She satisfied herself to her own mind that it could not, should not be progressing, and that this was only a very slow recovery from the last attack.
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