"I am better now, Phoebe," said Mrs Enderby, sinking back faintly in
her easy-chair, after one of her attacks of spasms. "I am better now;
and if you will fan me for a minute or two, I shall be quite fit to see
the children--quite delighted to have them."
"I declare," said the maid, "here are the drops standing upon your face
this cold day, as if it was August! But if the pain is cone, never mind
anything else! And I, for one, won't say anything against your having
the children in; for I'm sure the seeing your friends has done you no
harm, and nothing but good."
"Pray, draw up the blind, Phoebe, and let me see something of the
sunshine. Bless me! how frosty the field looks, while I have been
stifled with heat for this hour past! I had better not go to the
window, however, for I begin to feel almost chilly already. Thank you,
Phoebe; you have fanned me enough. Now call the children, Phoebe."
Phoebe wrapped a cloak about her mistress's knees, pinned her shawl up
closer around her throat, and went to call the children in from the
parlour below. Matilda drew up her head and flattened her back, and
then asked her grandmamma how she did. George looked up anxiously in
the old lady's face.
"Ah, George," said she, smiling; "it is an odd face to look at, is not
it? How would you like your face to look as mine does?"
"Not at all," said George.
Mrs Enderby laughed heartily, and then told him that her face was not
unlike his once--as round, and as red, and as shining in frosty weather.
"Perhaps if you were to go out now into the frost, your face would look
as it used to do."
"I am afraid not. When my face looked like yours, it was when I was a
little girl, and used to slide and make snowballs as you do. That was a
long time ago. My face is wrinkled now, because I am old; and it is
pale, because I am ill."
George heard nothing after the word "snowballs." "I wish some more snow
would come," he observed. "We have plenty of ice down in the meadows,
but there has been only one fall of snow, and that melted almost
directly."
"Papa thinks there will be more snow very soon," observed Matilda.
"If there is, you children can do something for me that I should like
very much," said grandmamma. "Shall I tell you what it is?"
"Yes."
"You can make a snow-man in that field. I am sure Mr Grey will give
you leave."
"What good will that do you?" asked Matilda.
"I can sit here and watch you; and I shall like that exceedingly. I
shall see you gathering the snow, and building up your man: and if you
will turn about and shake your hand this way now and then, I shall be
sure to observe it, and I shall think you are saying something kind to
me."
"I wish the snow would come," cried George, stamping with impatience.
"I do not believe mamma will let us," observed Matilda. "She prohibits
our going into Mr Grey's field."
"But she shall let us, that one time," cried George. "I will ask papa,
and Mr Grey, and Sydney, and Uncle Philip, and all. When will Uncle
Philip come again?"
"Some time soon, I dare say. But, George, we must do as your mamma
pleases about my plan, you know. If she does not wish you to go into
Mr Grey's field, you can make your snow-man somewhere else."
"But then you won't see us. But I know what I will do. I will speak to
Sydney, and he and Fanny and Mary shall make you a snow-man yonder,
where we should have made him."
Mrs Enderby pressed the boy to her, and laughed while she thanked him,
but said it was not the same thing seeing the Greys make a snow-man.
"Why, George!" said Matilda, contemptuously.
"When _will_ Uncle Philip come?" asked the boy, who was of opinion that
Uncle Philip could bring all things to pass.
"Why, I will tell you how it is, my dear. Uncle Philip is very busy
learning his lessons."
The boy stared.
"Yes: grown-up people who mean to be great lawyers, as I believe Uncle
Philip does, have to learn lessons like little boys, only much longer
and much harder."
"When will he have done them?"
"Not for a long while yet: but he will make a holiday some time soon,
and come to see us. I should like to get well before that. Sometimes I
think I shall, and sometimes I think not."
"Does he expect you will?"
"He expects nothing about it. He does not know that I am ill. I do not
wish that he should know it, my dears; so, when I feel particularly
well, and when I have heard anything that pleases me, I ask Phoebe to
bring me the pen and ink, and I write to Uncle Philip."
"And why does not mamma tell him how you are?"
"Ah! why, indeed," muttered Phoebe.
"She knows that I do not wish it. Uncle Philip writes charming long
letters to me, as I will show you. Bring me my reticule. Here--here is
a large sheet of paper, quite full, you see--under the seal and all.
When will you write such long letters, I wonder?"
"I shall when I am married, I suppose," said Matilda, again drawing up
her little head.
"You married, my love! And pray when are you to be married?"
"Mamma often talks of the time when she shall lose me, and of what
things have to be done while she has me with her."
"There is a great deal to be done indeed, love, before that day, if it
ever comes."
"There are more ways than one of losing a child," observed Phoebe, in
her straightforward way. "If Mrs Rowland thinks so long beforehand of
the one way, it is to be hoped she keeps Miss Matilda up to the thought
of the other, which must happen sooner or later, while marrying may
not."
"Well, Phoebe," said the old lady, "we will not put any dismal thoughts
into this little head: time enough for that: we will leave all that to
Miss Young." Then, stroking Matilda's round cheek, she inquired, "My
love, did you ever in your life feel any pain?"
"Oh, dear, yes, grandmamma: to be sure I have; twice. Why, don't you
remember, last spring, I had a dreadful pain in my head for nearly two
hours, on George's birthday? And last week, after I went to bed, I had
such a pain in my arm, I did not know how to bear it."
"And what became of it?"
"Oh, I found at last I could bear it no longer, and I began to think
what I should do. I meant to ring the bell, but I fell asleep."
Phoebe laughed with very little ceremony, and grandmamma could not help
joining. She supposed Matilda hoped it might be long enough before she
had any more pain. In the night-time, certainly, Matilda said. And not
in the daytime? Is not pain as bad in the daytime? Matilda
acknowledged that she should like to be ill in the daytime. Mamma took
her on her lap when she was ill; and Miss Young was so very sorry for
her; and she had something nice to drink.
"Then I am afraid, my dear, you don't pity me at all," said grandmamma.
"Perhaps you think you would like to live in a room like this, with a
sofa and a screen, and Phoebe to wait upon you, and whatever you might
fancy to eat and drink. Would you like to be ill as I am?"
"Not at present," said Matilda: "not till I am married. I shall enjoy
doing as I like when I am married."
"How the child's head runs upon being married!" said Phoebe. "And to
suppose that being ill is doing as one likes, of all odd things!"
"I should often like to fly all over the world," said Mrs Enderby, "and
to get anywhere out of this room--I am so tired of it: but I know I
cannot: so I get books, and read about all the strange places, far off,
that Mungo Park tells us about, and Gulliver, and Captain Parry. And I
should often like to sleep at night when I cannot; and then I get up
softly, without waking Phoebe, and look out at the bright stars, and
think over all we are told about them--about their being all full of men
and women. Did you know that, George?" asked she--George being now at
the window.
"Oh, yes," answered Matilda for him, "we know all about those things."
"Are falling stars all full of men and women?" asked George.
"There were none on a star that my father saw fall on the Dingleford
road," observed Phoebe. "It wasn't big enough to hold men and women."
"Did it fall in the middle of the road?" asked George, turning from the
window. "What was it like?"
"It was a round thing, as big as a house, and all bright and crystal
like," said Phoebe, with absolute confidence. "It blocked up the road
from the great oak that you may remember, close by the second milestone,
to the ditch on the opposite side."
"Phoebe, are you sure of that?" asked Mrs Enderby, with a face full of
anxious doubt.
"Ma'am, my father came straight home after seeing it fall, and he let my
brother John and me go the next morning early, to bring home some of the
splinters."
"Oh, well," said Mrs Enderby, who always preferred believing to
doubting; "I have heard of stones falling from the moon."
"This was a falling star, ma'am."
"Can you show me any of the splinters?" asked George, eagerly.
"There was nothing whatsoever left of them," said Phoebe, "by the time
John and I went. We could not find a piece of crystal so big as my
thimble. My father has often laughed at John and me since, for not
having been there in time, before it was all gone."
"It is a good thing, my dears, depend upon it, as I was saying,"
observed Mrs Enderby, "to know all such things about the stars, and so
on, against the time when you cannot do as you like, and go where you
please. Matilda, my jewel, when you are married, as you were talking
about, and can please yourself, you will take great care to be kind to
your mamma, my dear, if poor mamma should be old and ill. You will
always wish to be tender to your mother, love, I am sure; and that will
do her more good than anything."
"Perhaps mamma won't be ill," replied Matilda.
"Then if she is never ill, she will certainly be old, some day; and then
you will be as kind to her as ever you can be,--promise me, my love.
Your mamma loves you dearly, Matilda."
"She says I dance better than any girl in Miss Anderson's school,
grandmamma. I heard her tell Mrs Levitt so, yesterday."
"Here comes mamma," said George, from the window.
"Your mamma, my dear? Phoebe, sweep up the hearth. Hang that curtain
straight. Give me that letter,--no, not that,--the large letter.
There! now put it into my knitting-basket. Make haste down, Phoebe, to
be ready to open the door for Mrs Rowland. Don't keep her waiting a
moment on the steps."
"She has not got to the steps yet," said George. "She is talking to
Mrs Grey. Mrs Grey was coming here, and mamma went and spoke to her.
Oh, Matilda, come and look how they are nodding their bonnets at each
other! I think Mrs Grey is very angry, she wags her head about so.
There! now she is going away. There she goes across the road! and mamma
is coming up the steps."
After a minute or two of silent expectation, Mrs Rowland entered her
mother's room. She brought with her a draught of wintry air, which, as
she jerked aside her ample silk cloak, on taking her seat on the sofa,
seemed to chill the invalid, though there was now a patch of colour on
each withered cheek.
"How much better you look, ma'am!" was the daughter's greeting. "I
always thought it would be a pity to disturb Philip about you: and now,
if he were to see you, he would not believe that you had been ill. Mr
Rowland would be satisfied that I am right, I am sure, if he were to
come in."
"My mistress is noways better," said Phoebe, bluntly. "She is not the
better for that flush she has got now, but the worse."
"Never mind, Phoebe! I shall do very well, I dare say," said Mrs
Enderby, with a sigh. "Well, my dear, how do you all go on at home?"
"Much as usual, ma'am. But that reminds me--Matilda, my own love, Miss
Young must be wanting you for your lesson on objects. Go, my dear."
"I hoped Matilda was come for the day," said Mrs Enderby. "I quite
expected she was to stay with me to-day. Do let me have her, my dear:
it will do me so much good."
"You are very kind, ma'am, but it is quite impossible. It is totally
out of the question, I assure you. Matilda, my love, go this instant.
We make a great point of the lessons on objects. Pray, Phoebe, tie Miss
Rowland's bonnet, and make haste."
Phoebe did so, taking leave to observe that little girls were likely to
live long enough to know plenty of things after they had no grandmammas
left to be a comfort to.
Mrs Enderby struggled to say, "Hush, Phoebe;" but she found she could
not speak. George was desired to go with his sister, and was scarcely
allowed time to kiss his grandmamma. While Phoebe was taking the
children down stairs, Mrs Rowland wondered that some people allowed
their servants to take such liberties as were taken; and gave notice
that though she tolerated Phoebe, because Phoebe's mistress had taken a
fancy to her, she could not allow her family plans to be made a subject
of remark to her mother's domestics. Mrs Enderby had not quite decided
upon her line of reply, when Phoebe came back, and occupied herself in
supplying her mistress, first with a freshly-heated footstool, and then
with a cup of arrowroot.
"Where do you get your arrowroot, ma'am?" asked Mrs Rowland. "I want
some extremely for my poor dear Anna; and I can procure none that is at
all to compare with yours."
"Mrs Grey was so kind as to send me some, my dear; and it really is
excellent. Phoebe, how much of it is there left? I dare say there may
be enough for a cup or two for dear little Anna."
Phoebe replied, that there was very little left--not any more than her
mistress would require before she could grow stronger. Mrs Rowland
would not take the rest of the arrowroot on any account: she was only
wondering where Mrs Grey got it, and how it was that the Greys always
contrived to help themselves to the best of everything. Phoebe was
going to observe that they helped their neighbours to good things as
well as themselves; but a look from her mistress stopped her. Mrs
Enderby remarked that she had no doubt she could learn from Mrs Grey or
Sophia, the next time she saw either of them, where they procured their
arrowroot. "It is a long time since I saw Mrs Grey," she observed,
timidly.
"My dear ma'am, how can you think of seeing any one in your present
state?" inquired the daughter. "One need but see the flush in your
face, to know that it would be highly improper for you to admit company.
I could not take the responsibility of allowing it."
"But Mrs Grey is not company, my love."
"Any one is company to an invalid. I assure you I prevented Mr
Rowland's coming for the reason I assign. He was coming yesterday, but
I would not let him."
"I should like to see him, however. And I should like to see Mrs Grey
too."
Under pretence of arranging her mistress's shawl, Phoebe touched the old
lady's shoulder, in token of intelligence. Mrs Enderby was somewhat
flurried at the liberty which she felt her maid had taken with her
daughter; but she could not notice it now; and she introduced another
subject. Had everybody done calling on the Hopes? Were the wedding
visits all over? Oh, yes, Mrs Rowland was thankful to say; that fuss
was at an end at last. One would think nobody had ever been married
before, by the noise that had been made in Deerbrook about this young
couple.
"Mr Hope is such a favourite!" observed Mrs Enderby.
"He has been so; but it won't last. I never saw a young man so gone off
as he is. He has not been like the same man since he connected himself
with the Greys so decidedly. Surely, ma'am, you must perceive that."
"It had not occurred to me, my dear. He comes very often, and he is
always extremely kind and very entertaining. He brought his bride with
him yesterday, which I thought very attentive, as I could not go and pay
my respects to her. And really, Priscilla, whether it was that I had
not seen her for some time, or that pretty young ladies look prettiest
in an old woman's sick-room, I thought she was more beautiful than
ever."
"She is handsome," admitted Mrs Rowland. "Poor thing! it makes one
sorry for her, when one thinks what is before her."
"What is before her?" ask Mrs Enderby, alarmed.
"If she loves her husband at all, she must suffer cruelly in seeing him
act as he persists in doing; and she must tremble in looking forward to
the consequences. He is quite obstinate about voting for Mr Lowry,
though there is not a soul in Deerbrook to keep him in countenance; and
everybody knows how strongly Sir William Hunter has expressed himself in
favour of Mr Ballinger. It is thought the consequences will be very
serious to Mr Hope. There is his almshouse practice at stake, at all
events; and I fancy a good many families will have no more to do with
him if he defies the Hunters, and goes against the opinions of all his
neighbours. His wife must see that he has nobody with him. I do pity
the poor young thing!"
"Dear me!" said the old lady, "can nothing be done, I wonder. I declare
I am quite concerned. I should hope something may be done. I would
take the liberty of speaking to him myself, rather than that any harm
should happen to him. He has always been so very kind to me, that I
think I could venture to say anything to him. I will turn it over in my
mind, and see what can be done."
"You will not prevail with him, ma'am, I am afraid. If Mr Grey speaks
in vain (as I know he has done), it is not likely that any one else will
have any influence over him. No, no; the wilful must be left to their
own devices. Whatever you do, ma'am, do not speak to the bride about
it, or there is no knowing what you may bring upon yourself."
"What could I bring upon myself, my dear?"
"Oh, those who do not see the vixen in that pretty face of hers, have
not such good eyes as she has herself. For God's sake, ma'am, do not
offend her!"
Mrs Enderby was now full of concern; and being as unhappy as she could
be made for the present, her daughter took her leave. The old lady
looked into the fire and sighed, for some minutes after she was left
alone. When Phoebe re-entered, her mistress declared that she felt
quite tired out, and must lie down. Before she closed her eyes, she
raised her head again, and said--
"Phoebe, I am surprised at you--"
"Oh, ma'am, you mean about my taking the liberty to make a sign to you.
But, ma'am, I trust you will excuse it, because I am sure Mr Hope would
have no objection to your seeing Mrs Grey; and, to my thought, there is
no occasion to consult with anybody else; and I have no doubt Mrs Grey
will be calling again some day soon, just at a time when you are fit to
see her. Is not there any book, or anything, ma'am, that I could be
carrying over to Mrs Grey's while you are resting yourself, ma'am?"
"Ah! do so, Phoebe. Carry that book,--it is not quite due, but that
does not signify; carry that book over, and give my regards, and beg to
know how Mrs Grey and all the family are. And if Mrs Grey _should_
come in this evening," she continued, in excuse to herself for her
devices, "I shall be able to find out, in a quiet way, where she gets
her arrowroot; and Priscilla will be glad to know."
Whatever it might be that Phoebe said to Alice, and that brought Mrs
Grey out into the hall to speak herself to Phoebe, the result was that
Mrs Grey's lantern was ordered as soon as it grew dark, and that she
arrived in Mrs Enderby's apartment just as the old lady had waked from
her doze, and while the few tears that had escaped from under her
eyelids before she slept were yet scarcely dried upon her cheeks.