_From the same to the same._
As you are become reasonable, Lucy, I will tell you that Doctor Douglas
is still of opinion, that I am better in the house than I should be
by another buffeting from the north wind, to which he principally
ascribes my late indisposition. My saline draughts, however, have now
given place to orange jelly, which, as it pleases the _pet_, Mrs.
Allen makes according to her recipe. She left me this morning to
replenish her store, and Mrs. Warner’s little parlour being convenient
for the purpose, the cookery was done there; the kind hearted Mrs.
Warner aiding and assisting. “I wish,” said she, “I could persuade my
lady to exchange her taste for rum and water, for this pleasant and
refreshing jelly; I am sure it would be better for her: she is in a
constant fever; and what with her poor leg, and her fretting, she is
hourly sinking.” Mrs. Allen expressed her concern. “You would indeed
pity her,” replied Warner, “if you knew all: she is, at times, the most
miserable creature in the world; and between ourselves, I think she is
losing her senses. That was _a warning voice_, Mrs. Allen, that reached
her from the poor captain, the last time he was in this house, or I
am much mistaken. I have heard that Miss Flint was very unkind to her
sister, Mrs. Howard, and the captain roused her _sleeping conscience_.
I have lived with her nine years, and I can safely say that she is a
changed woman in less than nine weeks. She has of late taken it into
her head to send me to bed before her, and I hear her for hours after
walking about her room. Within the last fortnight she has been writing
all day, and rummaging in her cabinet for letters, which she burns
by dozens: then again, her temper madam, is now quite altered; for I
do assure you she is as patient as a lamb! and if you could but see
her knee, you would never forget it. I am sure it makes me tremble to
see how she suffers.” “Why do you not persuade her to have more able
advice than her apothecary’s?” observed Mrs. Allen. “Bless you, my dear
madam!” replied she, “Lady Maclairn has almost on her bended knees
begged her to consult Doctor Douglas, with whom she is so pleased; but
she will not consent. She says, ‘Do not urge me; _you know, Harriet,
that no doctor can cure me_. I must bear with patience this visitation
of the Almighty,’ and then she weeps for hours.”
You know Mrs Allen, and you will not be surprised to hear that she has
seen the miserable invalid this morning; whom she found much more
changed than even Warner’s report had led her to expect. To-morrow
I am to dine with the Heartleys: my doctor is the promoter of this
enlargement, and will be here to see me properly equipped for the
coach. I mean to be docile, for I expected this morning that Mrs.
Patty, our maid, would have laid violent hands on me, for daring to
cross the hall without clogs and my shawl. Be cheerful, my Lucy. I have
to write to our Horace: and remember when you write from Heathcot, the
words of the poet: “Where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.”
Not a word of my _dreadful scarlet fever_, He might fancy fiction were
truth, and that your Rachel Cowley had really been in danger of death,
and of thus cheating him _of a wife to rule_.
Your’s, as truly as _his_,