CHAPTER XIV.
“Half-past one,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, as if it was a mere casual observation, though in reality it was the announcement that the fatal twelve hours had passed more than half-an-hour since.
There was no answer, but he heard a slight movement, and though carefully avoiding any attempt to penetrate the darkness around the sick bed, he knew full well that his sister was on her knees, and when he again heard her voice in reply to some rambling speech of her son, it had a tremulous tone, very unlike its former settled hopelessness.
Again, when Philip Carey paid his morning visit, she studied the expression of his face with anxious, inquiring, almost hopeful eyes, the crushed heart-broken indifference of yesterday had passed away; and when the expedience of obtaining further advice was hinted at, she caught at the suggestion with great eagerness, though the day before her only answer had been, “As you think right.” She spoke so as to show the greatest consideration for the feelings of Philip Carey, then with her usual confiding spirit, she left the selection of the person to be called in entirely to him, to her brother and father-in-law, and returned to her station by Frederick, who had already missed and summoned her.
Philip, in spite of the small follies which provoked Beatrice’s sarcasm, was by no means deficient in good sense or ability; his education had owed much to the counsels of Mr. Geoffrey Langford, whom he regarded with great reverence, and he was so conscious of his own inexperience and diffident of his own opinion, as to be very anxious for assistance in this, the first very serious case which had fallen under his own management. The proposal had come at first from himself, and this was a cause of great rejoicing to those who had to reconcile Mrs. Langford to the measure. In her eyes a doctor was a doctor, member of a privileged fraternity in which she saw no distinctions, and to send for advice from London would, she thought, not only hurt the feelings of Mrs. Roger Langford, and all the Carey connection, but seriously injure the reputation of young Mr. Carey in his own neighbourhood.
Grandpapa answered, and Beatrice was glad he did so, that such considerations were as nothing when weighed in the scale against Frederick’s life; she was silenced, but unconvinced, and unhappy till her son Geoffrey, coming down late to breakfast, greatly comforted her by letting her make him some fresh toast with her own hands, and persuading her that it would be greatly in favour of Philip’s practice that his opinion should be confirmed by an authority of note.
The electric telegraph and the railroad brought the surgeon even before she had begun seriously to expect him, and his opinion was completely satisfactory as far as regarded Philip Carey and the measures already taken; Uncle Geoffrey himself feeling convinced that his approval was genuine, and not merely assumed for courtesy’s sake. He gave them, too, more confident hope of the patient than Philip, in his diffidence, had ventured to do, saying that though there certainly was concussion of the brain, he thought there was great probability that the patient would do well, provided that they could combat the feverish symptoms which had begun to appear. He consulted with Philip Carey, the future treatment was agreed upon, and he left them with cheered and renewed spirits to enter on a long and anxious course of attendance. Roger, who was obliged to go away the next day, cheered up his brother Alex into a certainty that Fred would be about again in a week, and though no one but the boys shared the belief, yet the assurances of any one so sanguine, inspired them all with something like hope.
The attendance at first fell almost entirely on Mrs. Frederick Langford and Uncle Geoffrey, for the patient, who had now recovered a considerable degree of consciousness, would endure no one else. If his mother’s voice did not answer him the first moment, he instantly grew restless and uneasy, and the plaintive inquiry, “Is Uncle Geoffrey here?” was many times repeated. He would recognise Henrietta, but his usual answer to her was “You speak so loud;” though in reality, her tone was almost exactly the same as her mother’s; and above all others he disliked the presence of Philip Carey.
“Who is that?” inquired he, the first time that he was at all conscious of the visits of other people: and when his mother explained, he asked quickly, “Is he gone?”
The next day, Fred was alive to all that was going on, but suffering considerable pain, and with every sense quickened to the most acute and distressing degree, his eyes dazzled by light which, as he declared, glanced upon the picture frames in a room where his mother and uncle could scarcely see to find their way, and his ears pierced, as it were, by the slightest sound in the silent house, sleepless with pain, incapable of thought, excessively irritable in temper, and his faculties, as it seemed, restored only to be the means of suffering. Mrs. Langford came to the door to announce that Philip Carey was come. Mr. Geoffrey Langford went to speak to him, and grandmamma and Henrietta began to arrange the room a little for his reception. Fred, however, soon stopped this. “I can’t bear the shaking,” said he. “Tell them to leave off, mamma.”
Grandmamma, unconscious of the pain she was inflicting, and believing that she made not the slightest noise, continued to put the chairs in order, but Fred gave an impatient, melancholy sort of groan and exclamation, and Mrs. Langford remarked, “Well, if he cannot bear it, it cannot be helped; but it is quite dangerous in this dark room!” And out she went, Fred frowning with pain at every step she took.
“Why do you let people come?” asked he sharply of his mother. “Where is Uncle Geoffrey gone?”
“He is speaking with Mr. Philip Carey, my dear, he will be here with him directly.”
“I don’t want Philip Carey; don’t let him come.”
“My dear boy, he must come; he has not seen you to-day, perhaps he may do something for this sad pain.”
Fred turned away impatiently, and at the same moment Uncle Geoffrey opened the door to ask if Fred was ready.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford: and Philip entered. But Fred would not turn towards him till desired to do so, nor give his hand readily for his pulse to be felt. Philip thought it necessary to see his face a little more distinctly, and begged his pardon for having the window shutters partly opened; but Fred contrived completely to frustrate his intention, as with an exclamation which had in it as much of anger as of pain, he turned his face inwards to the pillow, and drew the bed-clothes over it.
“My dear boy,” said his mother, pleadingly, “for one moment only!”
“I told you I could not bear the light,” was all the reply.
“If you would but oblige me for a few seconds,” said Philip.
“Fred!” said his uncle gravely; and Fred made a slight demonstration as if to obey, but at the first glimpse of the dim light, he hid his face again, saying, “I can’t;” and Philip gave up the attempt, closed the shutter, unfortunately not quite as noiselessly as Uncle Geoffrey had opened it, and proceeded to ask sundry questions; to which the patient scarcely vouchsafed a short and pettish reply. When at last he quitted the room, and was followed by Mrs. Frederick Langford, a “Don’t go, mamma,” was immediately heard.
“You must spare me for a very little while, my dear,” said she, gently but steadily.
“Don’t stay long, then,” replied he.
Uncle Geoffrey came up to his bedside, and with a touch soft and light as a woman’s, arranged the coverings disturbed by his restlessness, and for a few moments succeeded in tranquillizing him, but almost immediately he renewed his entreaties that his mother would return, and had it been any other than his uncle who had taken her place, would have grumbled at his not going to call her. On her return, she was greeted with a discontented murmur. “What an immense time you have stayed away!”—presently after, “I wish you would not have that Carey!” and then, “I wish we were at Rocksand,—I wish Mr. Clarke were here.”
Patience in illness is a quality so frequently described in books as well as actually found in real life, that we are apt to believe that it comes as a matter of course, and without previous training, particularly in the young, and that peevishness is especially reserved for the old and querulous, who are to try the amiability of the heroine. To a certain degree, this is often the case; the complete prostration of strength, and the dim awe of approaching death in the acute illnesses of the young, often tame down the stubborn or petulant temper, and their patience and forbearance become the wonder and admiration of those who have seen germs of far other dispositions. And when this is not the case, who would have the heart to complain? Certainly not those who are like the mother and uncle who had most to endure from the exacting humours of Frederick Langford. High spirits, excellent health, a certain degree of gentleness of character, and a home where, though he was not over indulged, there was little to ruffle him, all had hitherto combined to make him appear one of the most amiable good-tempered boys that ever existed; but there was no substance in this apparent good quality, it was founded on no real principle of obedience or submission, and when to an habitual spirit of determination to have his own way, was superadded the irritability of nerves which was a part of his illness, when his powers of reflection were too much weakened to endure or comprehend argument; when, in fact, nothing was left to fall back upon but the simple obedience which would have been required in a child, and when that obedience was wanting, what could result but increased discomfort to himself and all concerned? Yes, even as we should lay up a store of prayers against that time when we shall be unable to pray for ourselves, so surely should we lay up a store of habits against the time when we may be unable to think or reason for ourselves! How often have lives been saved by the mere instinct of unquestioning instantaneous obedience!
Had Frederick possessed that instinct, how much present suffering and future wretchedness might have been spared him! His ideas were as yet too disconnected for him to understand or bear in mind that he was subjecting his mother to excessive fatigue, but the habit of submission would have led him to bear her absence patiently, instead of perpetually interrupting even the short repose which she would now and then be persuaded to seek on the sofa. He would have spared her his perpetual, harassing complaints, not so much of the pain he suffered, as of every thing and every person who approached him, his Uncle Geoffrey being the only person against whom he never murmured. Nor would he have rebelled against measures to which he was obliged to submit in the end, after he had distressed every one and exhausted himself by his fruitless opposition.
It was marvellous that the only two persons whose attendance he would endure could bear up under the fatigue. Even Uncle Geoffrey, one of those spare wiry men, who, without much appearance of strength are nevertheless capable of such continued exertion, was beginning to look worn and almost aged, and yet Mrs. Frederick Langford was still indefatigable, unconscious of weariness, quietly active, absorbed in the thought of her son, and yet not so absorbed as not to be full of consideration for all around. All looked forward with apprehension to the time when the consequences of such continued exertion must be felt, but in the meantime it was not in the power of any one except her brother Geoffrey to be of any assistance to her, and her relations could only wait and watch with such patience as they could command, for the period when their services might be effectual.
Mrs. Langford was the most visibly impatient. The hasty bustling of her very quietest steps gave such torture to Frederick, as to excuse the upbraiding eyes which he turned on his poor perplexed mother whenever she entered the room; and her fresh arrangements and orders always created a disturbance, which created such positive injury, that it was the aim of the whole family to prevent her visits there. This was, as may be supposed, no easy task. Grandpapa’s “You had better not, my dear,” checked her for a little while, but was far from satisfying her: Uncle Geoffrey, who might have had the best chance, had not time to spare for her; and no one could persuade her how impossible, nay, how dangerous it was to attempt to reason with the patient: so she blamed the whole household for indulging his fancies, and half a dozen times a day pronounced that he would be the death of his mother. Beatrice did the best she could to tranquillise her; but two spirits so apt to clash did not accord particularly well even now, though Busy Bee was too much depressed to queen it as usual. To feel herself completely useless in the midst of the suffering she had occasioned was a severe trial; and above all, poor child, she longed for her mother, and the repose of confession and parental sympathy. She saw her father only at meal times; she was anxious and uneasy at his worn looks, and even he could not be all that her mother was. Grandpapa was kind as ever, but the fault that sat so heavy on her mind was not one for discussion with any one but a mother, and this consciousness was the cause of a little reserve with him, such as had never before existed between them.
Alexander was more of a comfort to her than any one else, and that chiefly because he wanted her to be a comfort to him. All the strong affection and esteem which he really entertained for Frederick was now manifested, and the remembrance of old rivalries and petty contentions served but to make the reaction stronger. He kept aloof from his brothers, and spent every moment he could at the Hall, either reading in the library, or walking up and down the garden paths with Queen Bee. One of the many conversations which they held will serve as a specimen of the rest.
“So they do not think he is much better to-day?” said Alex, walking into the library, where Beatrice was sealing some letters.
Beatrice shook her head. “Every day that he is not worse is so much gained,” said she.
“It is very odd,” meditated Alex: “I suppose the more heads have in them, the easier it is to knock them!”
Beatrice smiled. “Thick skulls are proverbial, you know, Alex.”
“Well, I really believe it is right. Look, Bee,” and he examined his own face in the glass over the chimney; “there, do you see a little bit of a scar under my eyebrow?—there! Well, that was where I was knocked over by a cricket-ball last half, pretty much harder than poor Fred could have come against the ground,—but what harm did it do me? Why everything spun round with me for five minutes or so, and I had a black eye enough to have scared you, but I was not a bit the worse otherwise. Poor Fred, he was quite frightened for me I believe; for the first thing I saw was him, looking all green and yellow, standing over me, and so I got up and laughed at him for thinking I could care about it. That was the worst of it! I wish I had not been always set against him. I would give anything now.”
“Well, but Alex, I don’t understand. You were very good friends at the bottom, after all; you can’t have anything really to repent of towards him.”
“Oh, haven’t I though?” was the reply. “It was more the other fellows’ doing than my own, to be sure, and yet, after all, it was worse, knowing all about him as I did; but somehow, every one, grandmamma and all of you, had been preaching up to me all my life that cousin Fred was to be such a friend of mine. And then when he came to school, there he was—a fellow with a pink and white face, like a girl’s, and that did not even know how to shy a stone, and cried for his mamma! Well, I wish I could begin it all over again.”
“But do you mean that he was really a—a—what you call a Miss Molly?”
“Who said so? No, not a bit of it!” said Alex. “No one thought so in reality, though it was a good joke to put him in a rage, and pretend to think that he could not do anything. Why, it took a dozen times more spirit for him to be first in everything than for me, who had been knocked about all my life. And he was up to anything, Bee, to anything. The matches at foot-ball will be good for nothing now; I am sure I shan’t care if we do win.”
“And the prize,” said Beatrice, “the scholarship!”
“I have no heart to try for it now! I would not, if Uncle Geoffrey had not a right to expect it of me. Let me see: if Fred is well by the summer, why then—hurrah! Really, Queenie, he might get it all up in no time, clever fellow as he is, and be first after all. Don’t you think so?”
Queen Bee shook her head. “They say he must not read or study for a very long time,” said she.
“Yes, but six months—a whole year is an immense time,” said Alex. “O yes, he must, Bee! Reading does not cost him half the trouble it does other people; and his verses, they never fail—never except when he is careless; and the sure way to prevent that is to run him up for time. That is right. Why there!” exclaimed Alex joyfully, “I do believe this is the very best thing for his success!” Beatrice could not help laughing, and Alex immediately sobered down as the remembrance crossed him, that if Fred were living a week hence, they would have great reason to be thankful.
“Ah! they will all of them be sorry enough to hear of this,” proceeded he. “There was no one so much thought of by the fellows, or the masters either.”
“The masters, perhaps,” said Beatrice; “but I thought you said there was a party against him among the boys?”
“Oh, nonsense! It was only a set of stupid louts who, just because they had pudding-heads themselves, chose to say that I did better without all his reading and Italian, and music, and stuff; and I was foolish enough to let them go on, though I knew all the time it was nothing but chaff. I shall let them all know what fools they were for their pains, as soon as I go back. Why, Queenie, you, who only know Fred at home, you have not the slightest notion what a fellow he is. I’ll just tell you one story of him.”
Alexander forthwith proceeded to tell not one story alone, but many, to illustrate the numerous excellences which he ascribed to Fred, and again and again blaming himself for the species of division which had existed between them, although the fact was that he had always been the more conciliatory of the two. Little did he guess, good, simple-hearted fellow, that each word was quite as much, or more, to his credit, as to Frederick’s; but Beatrice well appreciated them, and felt proud of him.
These talks were her chief comfort, and always served to refresh her, if only by giving her the feeling that some one wanted her, and not that the only thing she could do for anybody was the sealing of the letters which her father, whose eyes were supposed to be acquiring the power of those of cats, contrived to write in the darkness of Fred’s room. She thought she could have borne everything excepting Henrietta’s coldness, which still continued, not from intentional unkindness or unwillingness to forgive, but simply because Henrietta was too much absorbed in her own troubles to realise to herself the feelings which she wounded. Her uncle Geoffrey had succeeded in awakening her consideration for her mother; but with her and Fred it began and ended, and when outside the sick room, she seemed not to have a thought beyond a speedy return to it. She seldom or never left it, except at meal-times, or when her grandfather insisted on her taking a walk with him, as he did almost daily. Then he walked between her and Beatrice, trying in vain to arouse her to talk, and she, replying as shortly as possible when obliged to speak, left her cousin to sustain the conversation.
The two girls went to church with grandpapa on the feast of the Epiphany, and strange it was to them to see again the wreaths which their own hands had woven, looking as bright and festal as ever, the glistening leaves unfaded, and the coral berries fresh and gay. A tear began to gather in Beatrice’s eye, and Henrietta hung her head, as if she could not bear the sight of those branches, so lately gathered by her brother. As they were leaving the church, both looked towards the altar at the wreath which Henrietta had once started to see, bearing a deeper and more awful meaning than she had designed. Their eyes met, and they saw that they had the same thought in their minds.
When they were taking off their bonnets in their own room, Queen Bee stretched out a detaining hand, not in her usual commanding manner, but with a gesture that was almost timid, saying,
“Look, Henrietta, one moment, and tell me if you were not thinking of this.”
And hastily opening the Lyra Innocentium, she pointed out the verse—
“Such garland grave and fair, His church to-day adorns, And—mark it well—e’en there He wears His Crown of Thorns.
“Should aught profane draw near, Full many a guardian spear Is set around, of power to go Deep in the reckless hand, and stay the grasping foe.”
“They go very deep,” sighed Henrietta, raising her eyes, with a mournful complaining glance.
Beatrice would have said more, but when she recollected her own conduct on Christmas Eve, it might well strike her that she was the “thing profane” that had then dared to draw near; and it pained her that she had even appeared for one moment to accuse her cousin. She was beginning to speak, but Henrietta cut her short by saying, “Yes, yes, but I can’t stay,” and was flying along the passage the next moment.
Beatrice sighed heavily, and spent the next quarter of an hour in recalling, with all the reality of self-reproach, the circumstances of her recklessness, vanity and self-will on that day. She knelt and poured out her confession, her prayer for forgiveness, and grace to avoid the very germs of these sins for the future, before Him Who seeth in secret: and a calm energetic spirit of hope, in the midst of true repentance, began to dawn on her.
It was good for her, but was it not selfish in Henrietta thus to leave her alone to bear her burthen? Yes, selfish it was; for Henrietta had heard the last report of Frederick since their return, and knew that her presence in his room was quite useless; and it was only for the gratification of her own feelings that she hurried thither without even stopping to recollect that her cousin might also be unhappy, and be comforted by talking to her.
Her thought was only the repining one: “the thorns go deep!” Poor child, had they yet gone deep enough? The patient may cry out, but the skilful surgeon will nevertheless probe on, till he has reached the hidden source of the malady.
CHAPTER XV.
On a soft hazy day in the beginning of February, the Knight Sutton carriage was on the road to Allonfield, and in it sat the Busy Bee and her father, both of them speaking far less than was their wont when alone together.
Mr. Geoffrey Langford took off his hat, so as to let the moist spring breeze play round his temples and in the thin locks where the silvery threads had lately grown more perceptible, and gazed upon the dewy grass, the tiny woodbine leaf, the silver “pussycats” on the withy, and the tasselled catkin of the hazel, with the eyes of a man to whom such sights were a refreshment—a sort of holiday—after the many springs spent in close courts of law and London smoke; and now after his long attendance in a warm dark sick-room. His daughter sat by him, thinking deeply, and her heart full of a longing earnestness which seemed as if it would not let her speak. She was going to meet her mother, whom she had not seen for so long a time; but it was only to be for one evening! Her father, finding that his presence was absolutely required in London, and no longer actually indispensable at Knight Sutton, had resolved on changing places with his wife, and she was to go with him and take her mother’s place in attending on Lady Susan St. Leger. They were now going to fetch Mrs. Geoffrey Langford home from the Allonfield station, and they would have one evening at Knight Sutton with her, returning themselves the next morning to Westminster.
They arrived at Allonfield, executed various commissions with which Mrs. Langford had been delighted to entrust Geoffrey; they ordered some new books for Frederick, and called at Philip Carey’s for some medicines; and then driving up to the station watched eagerly for the train.
Soon it was there, and there at length she was; her own dear self,—the dark aquiline face, with its sweetest and brightest of all expressions; the small youthful figure, so active, yet so quiet and elegant; the dress so plain and simple, yet with that distinguished air. How happy Beatrice was that first moment of feeling herself at her side!
“My dear! my own dear child!” Then anxiously following her husband with her eye, as he went to look for her luggage, she said, “How thin he looks, Queenie!”
“O, he has been doing so much,” said Busy Bee. “It is only for this last week he has gone to bed at all, and then only on the sofa in Fred’s room. This is the first time he has been out, except last Sunday to Church, and a turn or two round the garden with grandmamma.”
He came back before Queen Bee had done speaking. “Come, Beatrice,” said he to his wife, “I am in great haste to have you at home; that fresh face of yours will do us all so much good.”
“One thing is certain,” said she; “I shall send home orders that you shall be allowed no strong coffee at night, and that Busy Bee shall hide half the mountain of letters in the study. But tell me honestly, Geoffrey, are you really well?”
“Perfectly, except for a growing disposition to yawn,” said her husband laughing.
“Well, what are the last accounts of the patient?”
“He is doing very well: the last thing I did before coming away, was to lay him down on the sofa, with Retzsch’s outlines to look at: so you may guess that he is coming on quickly. I suppose you have brought down the books and prints?”
“Such a pile, that I almost expected my goods would be over weight.”
“It is very fortunate that he has a taste for this kind of thing: only take care, they must not be at Henrietta’s discretion, or his own, or he will be overwhelmed with them,—a very little oversets him, and might do great mischief.”
“You don’t think the danger of inflammation over yet, then?”
“O, no! his pulse is so very easily raised, that we are obliged to keep him very quiet, and nearly to starve him, poor fellow; and his appetite is returning so fast, that it makes it very difficult to manage him.”
“I should be afraid that now would be the time to see the effects of poor Mary’s over gentleness.”
“Yes; but what greatly increases the difficulty is that Fred has some strange prejudice against Philip Carey.”
Busy Bee, who had heard nothing of this, felt her cheeks flush, while her father proceeded.
“I do not understand it at all: Philip’s manners in a sick room are particularly good—much better than I should have expected, and he has been very attentive and gentle-handed; but, from the first, Fred has shown a dislike to him, questioned all his measures, and made the most of it whenever he was obliged to give him any pain. The last time the London doctor was here, I am sure he hurt Fred a good deal more than Philip has ever done, yet the boy bore it manfully, though he shrinks and exclaims the moment Philip touches him. Then he is always talking of wishing for old Clarke at Rocksand, and I give Mary infinite credit for never having proposed to send for him. I used to think she had great faith in the old man, but I believe it was only her mother.”
“Of course it was. It is only when Mary has to act alone that you really are obliged to perceive all her excellent sense and firmness; and I am very glad that you should be convinced now and then, that in nothing but her fears, poor thing, has she anything of the spoiling mamma about her.”
“As if I did not know that,” said he, smiling.
“And so she would not yield to this fancy? Very wise indeed. But I should like to know the reason of this dislike on Fred’s part. Have you ever asked him?”
“No; he is not in a fit state for argument; and, besides, I think the prejudice would only be strengthened. We have praised Philip again and again, before him, and said all we could think of to give him confidence in him, but nothing will do; in fact, I suspect Mr. Fred was sharp enough to discover that we were talking for a purpose. It has been the great trouble this whole time, though neither Mary nor I have mentioned it, for fear of annoying my mother.”
“Papa,” said Busy Bee, “I am afraid I know the reason but too well. It was my foolish way of talking about the Careys; I used to tease poor Fred about Roger’s having taken him for Philip, and say all sorts of things that I did not really mean.”
“Hem!” said her father. “Well, I should think it might be so; it always struck me that the prejudice must be grounded upon some absurd notion, the memory of which had passed away, while the impression remained.”
“And do you think I could do anything towards removing it? You know I am to go and wish Fred good-bye this afternoon.”
“Why, yes; you might as well try to say something cheerful, which might do away with the impression. Not that I think it will be of any use; only do not let him think it has been under discussion.”
Beatrice assented, and was silent again while they went on talking.
“Aunt Mary has held out wonderfully?” said her mother.
“Too wonderfully,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “in a way which I fear will cost her dearly. I have been positively longing to see her give way as she ought to have done under the fatigue; and now I am afraid of the old complaint: she puts her hand to her side now and then, and I am persuaded that she had some of those spasms a night or two ago.”
“Ah!” said his wife, with great concern, “that is just what I have been dreading the whole time. When she consulted Dr. ——, how strongly he forbade her to use any kind of exertion. Why would you not let me come? I assure you it was all I could do to keep myself from setting off.”
“It was very well behaved in you, indeed, Beatrice,” said he, smiling; “a sacrifice which very few husbands would have had resolution either to make themselves, or to ask of their wives. I thanked you greatly when I did not see you.”
“But why would you not have me? Do you not repent it now?”
“Not in the least. Fred would let no one come near him but his mother and me; you could not have saved either of us an hour’s nursing then, whereas now you can keep Fred in order, and take care of Mary, if she will suffer it, and that she will do better from you than from any one else.”
They were now reaching the entrance of Sutton Leigh Lane, and Queen Bee was called upon for the full history of the accident, which, often as it had been told by letter, must again be narrated in all its branches. Even her father had never had time to hear it completely; and there was so much to ask and to answer on the merely external circumstances, that they had not begun to enter upon feelings and thoughts when they arrived at the gate of the paddock, which was held open by Dick and Willy, excessively delighted to see Aunt Geoffrey.
In a few moments more she was affectionately welcomed by old Mrs. Langford, whose sentiments with regard to the two Beatrices were of a curiously varying and always opposite description. When her daughter-in-law was at a distance, she secretly regarded with a kind of respectful aversion, both her talents, her learning, and the fashionable life to which she had been accustomed; but in her presence the winning, lively simplicity of her manners completely dispelled all these prejudices in an instant, and she loved her most cordially for her own sake, as well as because she was Geoffrey’s wife. On the contrary, the younger Beatrice, while absent, was the dear little granddaughter,—the Queen of Bees, the cleverest of creatures; and while present, it has already been shown how constantly the two tempers fretted each other, or had once done so, though now, so careful had Busy Bee lately been, there had been only one collision between them for the last ten days, and that was caused by her strenuous attempts to convince grandmamma that Fred was not yet fit for boiled chicken and calves’ foot jelly.
Mrs. Langford’s greetings were not half over when Henrietta and her mamma hastened down stairs to embrace dear Aunt Geoffrey.
“My dear Mary, I am so glad to be come to you at last!”
“Thank you, O! thank you, Beatrice. How Fred will enjoy having you now!”
“Is he tired?” asked Uncle Geoffrey.
“No, not at all; he seems to be very comfortable. He has been talking of Queen Bee’s promised visit. Do you like to go up now, my dear?”
Queen Bee consented eagerly, though with some trepidation, for she had not seen her cousin since his accident, and besides, she did not know how to begin about Philip Carey. She ran to take off her bonnet, while Henrietta went to announce her coming. She knocked at the door, Henrietta opened it, and coming in, she saw Fred lying on the sofa by the fire, in his dressing-gown, stretched out in that languid listless manner that betokens great feebleness. There were the purple marks of leeches on his temples; his hair had been cropped close to his head; his face was long and thin, without a shade of colour, but his eyes looked large and bright; and he smiled and held out his hand: “Ah, Queenie, how d’ye do?”
“How d’ye do, Fred? I am glad you are better.”
“You see I have the asses’ ears after all,” said he, pointing to his own, which were very prominent in his shorn and shaven condition.
Beatrice could not very easily call up a smile, but she made an effort, and succeeded, while she said, “I should have complimented you on the increased wisdom of your looks. I did not know the shape of your head was so like papa’s.”
“Is Aunt Geoffrey come?” asked Fred.
“Yes,” said his sister: “but mamma thinks you had better not see her till to-morrow.”
“I wish Uncle Geoffrey was not going,” said Fred. “Nobody else has the least notion of making one tolerably comfortable.”
“O, your mamma, Fred!” said Queen Bee.
“O yes, mamma, of course! But then she is getting fagged.”
“Mamma says she is quite unhappy to have kept him so long from his work in London,” said Henrietta; “but I do not know what we should have done without him.”
“I do not know what we shall do now,” said Fred, in a languid and doleful tone.
The Queen Bee, thinking this a capital opportunity, spoke with almost alarmed eagerness, “O yes, Fred, you will get on famously; you will enjoy having my mamma so much, and you are so much better already, and Philip Carey manages you so well—”
“Manages!” said Fred; “ay, and I’ll tell you how, Queenie; just as the man managed his mare when he fed her on a straw a day. I believe he thinks I am a ghool, and can live on a grain of rice. I only wish he knew himself what starvation is. Look here! you can almost see the fire through my hand, and if I do but lift up my head, the whole room is in a merry-go-round. And that is nothing but weakness; there is nothing else on earth the matter with me, except that I am starved down to the strength of a midge!”
“Well, but of course he knows,” said Busy Bee; “Papa says he has had an excellent education, and he must know.”
“To be sure he does, perfectly well: he is a sharp fellow, and knows how to keep a patient when he has got one.”
“How can you talk such nonsense, Fred? One comfort is, that it is a sign you are getting well, or you would not have spirits to do it.”
“I am talking no nonsense,” said Fred, sharply; “I am as serious as possible.”
“But you can’t really think that if Philip was capable of acting in such an atrocious way, that papa would not find it out, and the other doctor too?”
“What! when that man gets I don’t know how many guineas from mamma every time he comes, do you think that it is for his interest that I should get well?”
“My dear Fred,” interposed his sister, “you are exciting yourself, and that is so very bad for you.”
“I do assure you, Henrietta, you would find it very little exciting to be shut up in this room with half a teaspoonful of wishy-washy pudding twice a day, and all just to fill Philip Carey’s pockets! Now, there was old Clarke at Rocksand, he had some feeling for one, poor old fellow; but this man, not the slightest compunction has he; and I am ready to kick him out of the room when I hear that silky voice of his trying to be gen-tee-eel, and condoling; and those boots—O! Busy Bee! those boots! whenever he makes a step I always hear them say, ‘O what a pretty fellow I am!’”
“You seem to be very merry here, my dears,” said Aunt Mary, coming in; “but I am afraid you will tire yourself, Freddy; I heard your voice even before I opened the door.”
Fred was silent, a little ashamed, for he had sense enough not absolutely to believe all that he had been saying, and his mother, sitting down, began to talk to the visitor, “Well, my little Queen, we have seen very little of you of late, but we shall be very sorry to lose you. I suppose your mamma will have all your letters, and Henrietta must not expect any, but we shall want very much to know how you get on with Aunt Susan and her little dog.”
“O very well, I dare say,” said Beatrice, rather absently, for she was looking at her aunt’s delicate fragile form, and thinking of what her father had been saying.
“And Queenie,” continued her aunt, earnestly, “you must take great care of your papa—make him rest, and listen to your music, and read story-books instead of going back to his work all the evening.”
“To be sure I shall, Aunt Mary, as much as I possibly can.”
“But Bee,” said Fred, “you don’t mean that you are going to be shut up with that horrid Lady Susan all this time? Why don’t you stay here, and let her take care of herself?”
“Mamma would not like that; and besides, to do her justice, she is really ill, Fred,” said Beatrice.
“It is too bad, now I am just getting better—if they would let me, I mean,” said Fred: “just when I could enjoy having you, and now there you go off to that old woman. It is a downright shame.”
“So it is, Fred,” said Queen Bee gaily, but not coquettishly, as once she would have answered him, “a great shame in you not to have learned to feel for other people, now you know what it is to be ill yourself.”
“That is right, Bee,” said Aunt Mary, smiling; “tell him he ought to be ashamed of having monopolized you all so long, and spoilt all the comfort of your household. I am sure I am,” added she, her eyes filling with tears, as she affectionately patted Beatrice’s hand.
Queen Bee’s heart was very full, but she knew that to give way to the expression of her feelings would be hurtful to Fred, and she only pressed her aunt’s long thin fingers very earnestly, and turned her face to the fire, while she struggled down the rising emotion. There was a little silence, and when they began to talk again, it was of the engravings at which Fred had just been looking. The visit lasted till the dressing bell rang, when Beatrice was obliged to go, and she shook hands with Fred, saying cheerfully, “Well, good-bye, I hope you will be better friends with the doctors next time I see you.”
“Never will I like one inch of a doctor, never!” repeated Fred, as she left the room, and ran to snatch what moments she could with her mamma in the space allowed for dressing.
Grandmamma was happy that evening, for, except poor Frederick’s own place, there were no melancholy gaps at the dinner-table. He had Bennet to sit with him, and besides, there was within call the confidential old man-servant, who had lived so many years at Rocksand, and in whom both Fred and his mother placed considerable dependence.
Everything looked like recovery; Mrs. Frederick Langford came down and talked and smiled like her own sweet self; Mrs. Geoffrey Langford was ready to hear all the news, old Mr. Langford was quite in spirits again, Henrietta was bright and lively. The thought of long days in London with Lady Susan, and of long evenings with no mamma, and with papa either writing or at his chambers, began from force of contrast to seem doubly like banishment to poor little Queen Bee, but whatever faults she had, she was no repiner. “I deserve it,” said she to herself, “and surely I ought to bear my share of the trouble my wilfulness has occasioned. Besides, with even one little bit of papa’s company I am only too well off.”
So she smiled, and answered grandpapa in her favourite style, so that no one would have guessed from her demeanour that a task had been imposed upon her which she so much disliked, and in truth her thoughts were much more on others than on herself. She saw all hopeful and happy about Fred, and as to her aunt, when she saw her as usual with all her playful gentleness, she could not think that there was anything seriously amiss with her, or if there was, mamma would find out and set it all to rights. Then how soothing and comforting, now that the first acute pain of remorse was over, was that affectionate kindness, which, in every little gesture and word, Aunt Mary had redoubled to her ever since the accident.
Fred was all this time lying on his sofa, very glad to rest after so much talking: weak, dizzy, and languid, and throwing all the blame of his uncomfortable sensations on Philip Carey and the starvation system, but still, perhaps, not without thoughts of a less discontented nature, for when Mr. Geoffrey Langford came to help him to bed, he said, as he watched the various arrangements his uncle was for the last time sedulously making for his comfort, “Uncle Geoffrey, I ought to thank you very much; I am afraid I have been a great plague to you.”
Perhaps Fred did not say this in all sincerity, for any one but Uncle Geoffrey would have completely disowned the plaguing, and he fully expected him to do so; but his uncle had a stern regard for truth, coupled with a courtesy which left it no more harshness than was salutary.
“Anything for your good, my dear sir,” said he, with a smile. “You are welcome to plague me as much as you like, only remember that your mamma is not quite so tough.”
“Well, I do try to be considerate about her,” said Fred. “I mean to make her rest as much as possible; Henrietta and I have been settling how to save her.”
“You could save her more than all, Fred, if you would spare her discussions.”
Fred held his tongue, for though his memory was rather cloudy about the early part of his illness, he did remember having seen her look greatly harassed one day lately when he had been arguing against Philip Carey.
Uncle Geoffrey proceeded to gather up some of the outlines which Henrietta had left on the sofa. “I like those very much,” said Fred, “especially the Fight with the Dragon.”
“You know Schiller’s poem on it?” said Uncle Geoffrey.
“Yes, Henrietta has it in German.”
“Well, it is what I should especially recommend to your consideration.”
“I am afraid it will be long enough before I am able to go out on a dragon-killing expedition,” said Fred, with a weary helpless sigh.
“Fight the dragon at home, then, Freddy. Now is the time for—