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--
‘The duty hardest to fulfil,
To learn to yield our own self-will.’”
“There is very little hasty pudding in the case,” said Fred, rather
disconsolately, and at the same time rather drolly, and with a sort of
resolution of this kind, “I will try then, I will not bother mamma, let
that Carey serve me as he may. I will not make a fuss, if I can help it,
unless he is very unreasonable indeed, and when I get well I will submit
to be coddled in an exemplary manner; I only wonder when I shall feel up
to anything again! O! what a nuisance it is to have this swimming head
and aching knees, all by the fault of that Carey!”
Uncle Geoffrey said no more, for he thought a hint often was more useful
than a lecture, even if Fred had been in a state for the latter, and
besides he was in greater request than ever on this last evening, so
much so that it seemed as if no one was going to spare him even to have
half an hour’s talk with his wife. He did find the time for this at
last, however, and his first question was, “What do you think of the
little Bee?”
“I think with great hope, much more satisfactorily than I have been able
to do for some time past,” was the answer.
“Poor child, she has felt it very deeply,” said he, “I have been grieved
to have so little time to bestow on her.”
“I am disposed to think,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, thoughtfully,
“that it was the best thing for her to be thrown on herself. Too much
talk has always been the mischief with her, as with many another only
child, and it struck me to-day as a very good sign that she said so
little. There was something very touching in the complete absence of
moralizing to-day.”
“None of her sensible sayings,” said her father, with a gratified though
a grave smile. “It was perfectly open confession, and yet with no self
in it. Ever since the accident there has been a staidness and sedateness
about her manner which seemed like great improvement, as far as I have
seen. And when it was proposed for her to go to Lady Susan, I was much
pleased with her, she was so simple: ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I hope I
shall be able to make her comfortable:’ no begging off, no heroism. And
really, Beatrice, don’t you think we could make some other arrangement?
It is too great a penance for her, poor child. Lady Susan will do very
well, and I can have an eye to her; I am much inclined to leave the poor
little Queen here with you.”
“No, no, Geoffrey,” said his wife, “that would never do: I do not mean
on my aunt’s account, but on the Busy Bee’s; I am sure, wish it as we
may,” and the tears were in her eyes, “this is no time for even the
semblance of neglecting a duty for her sake.”
“Not so much hers as yours,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “you have more
on your hands than I like to leave you alone to encounter, and she is a
valuable little assistant. Besides you have been without her so long, it
is your turn to keep her now.”
“No, no, no,” she repeated, though not without an effort, “it is best as
it is settled for all, and decidedly so for me, for with her to write
to me about you every day, and to look after you, I shall be a hundred
times more at ease than if I thought you were working yourself to death
with no one to remonstrate.”
So it remained as before decided, and the pain that the decision cost
both mother and daughter was only to be inferred by the way in which
they kept close together, as if determined not to lose unnecessarily one
fragment of each other’s company; but they had very few moments alone
together, and those were chiefly employed in practical matters, in
minute directions as to the little things that conduced to keep Lady
Susan in good humour, and above all, the arrangements for papa’s
comfort. There was thus not much time for Beatrice to spend with
Henrietta, nor indeed would much have resulted if there had been more.
As she grew more at ease about her brother, Henrietta had gradually
resumed her usual manner, and was now as affectionate to Beatrice as
ever, but she was quite unconscious of her previous unkindness, and
therefore made no attempt to atone for it. Queen Bee had ceased to think
of it, and if a reserve had grown up between the two girls, they neither
of them perceived it.
Mr. Geoffrey Langford and his daughter set out on their return to London
so early the next morning that hardly any of the family were up; but
their hurried breakfast in the grey of morning was enlivened by Alex,
who came in just in time to exchange some last words with Uncle Geoffrey
about his school work, and to wish Queen Bee good-bye, with hopes of a
merrier meeting next summer.