But when the time for Albert’s departure came, Violet forgot his inconvenient questions, and would have given the world to keep him. He was her own brother—a part of home; he loved her—she had felt inhospitable to him, and perhaps she should never see him again.
When he recurred to her pale looks and languid manner, and expressed concern, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears, and telling all her griefs; and she could not control the rapid agitated tones that belied her repeated assurances that nothing was amiss, and that he must not give a bad account of her and alarm her mother.
She could hardly let him go; and when he bade her goodbye, there was a moment’s intense desire to be going with him, from this lonely room, home to her mother and Annette, instantly followed by a horror at such a wish having occurred, and then came the sobs and tears. She dreaded that Arthur might be displeased at the visit; but he came home full of good humour, and on hearing of it, only hoped she had good news from Wrangerton, and said he was glad he had been out of the way, so that she had been able to have her brother all to herself.
Her fears of the effect of Albert’s account of her were better founded; for two mornings after, on coming down to breakfast, she found a letter from her mother to exhort her to be careful, assuring her that she need have no scruple in sending for her, and betraying so much uneasiness as to add to all her terrors. She saw this in one glance; for she knew that to dwell on the tender affectionate letter would bring on a fit of weeping, and left it and the dreadful consideration of her reply till Arthur should be gone, as he was to spend the day in fishing with a friend in the country. He had come home late last night, and was not yet dressed, and she waited long, gazing at the gleams of sunshine on the square gardens, thinking how bright this second day of April must be anywhere but here, where it was close and oppressive, and wondering whether Helvellyn was beginning to lose his snow; then, as Helvellyn brought the sensation that led to tears, she took the newspaper, and had read more than she cared for before Arthur appeared, in the state of impatience which voluntary lateness is sure to produce.
She gave him his tea as quickly as she could, but all went wrong: it was a horrid cold day, ALL east wind—there was a cold wind coming in somewhere.
‘The back drawing-room window! I’m sorry I did not see it was open.’
‘What makes you go to shut it?’ said he, hastily marching across the room, and closing it and the doors. ‘I shall be gone in a moment, and you may let in a hurricane if you like. Have you seen my cigar-case!’
‘It was on the ledge of your wardrobe.’
‘Some of your maids have been and hid it.’
‘I told Sarah never to put your things away. I think I could find it.’
‘No, don’t go, I have looked everywhere.’
As he never found things, even when before his eyes, this was not conclusive; and she undertook the search in spite of another careless ‘No, no, don’t,’ knowing it meant the contrary.
She could not find it in his dressing-room, and he looked annoyed, again accusing the maids. This made her feel injured, and though growing exhausted, as well she might, as she had not even begun breakfast, she said she would look in the sitting-room. He half remonstrated, without looking up from the paper, but she hoped to be gladdened by thanks, hunted in all his hiding-places in vain, and found she must give it up, after a consultation with Sarah, who resentfully denied all knowledge of it, and told her she looked ready to drop.
Dolefully coming into the hall, she saw Arthur’s black travelling-bag. Was it for more than the day? The evenings were bad enough—but a desolate night! And he had never told her!’
‘I suppose you have not found it?’
‘No; I wish I could!’
‘Never mind; it will turn up. You have tired yourself.’
‘But, Arthur, are you not coming home to-night?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? If I can’t get away by the seven o’clock train, I thought of sleeping there. Ten o’clock, I declare! I shall miss the train!’
She came to the head of the stairs with him, asking plaintively, ‘When DO you come home? To-morrow, at latest?’
Perhaps it was her querulous tone, perhaps a mere boyish dislike to being tied down, or even it might be mere hurry, that made him answer impatiently, ‘I can’t tell—as it may happen. D’ye think I want to run away! Only take care of yourself.’
This was in his coaxing voice; but it was not a moment when she could bear to be turned aside, like an importunate child, and she was going to speak; but he saw the wrong fishing-rod carried out, called hastily to James, ran down-stairs, and was gone, without even looking back at her.
The sound of the closing door conveyed a sense of utter desolation to her over-wrought mind—the house was a solitary prison; she sank on the sofa, sobbing, ‘Oh, I am very, very miserable! Why did he take me from home, if he could not love me! Oh, what will become of me? Oh, mamma! mamma!’
CHAPTER 2
What is so shrill as silent tears?
—GEORGE HERBERT
Arthur came home late in the afternoon of the following day. The door was opened to him by his brother, who abruptly said, ‘She is dying. You must not lose a moment if you would see her alive.’
Arthur turned pale, and gave an inarticulate exclamation of horror-stricken inquiry—‘Confined?’
‘Half-an-hour ago. She was taken ill yesterday morning immediately after you left her. She is insensible, but you may find her still living.’
Nothing but strong indignation could have made John Martindale thus communicate such tidings. He had arrived that day at noon to find that the creature he had left in the height of her bright loveliness was in the extremity of suffering and peril—her husband gone no one knew whither; and the servants, too angry not to speak plainly, reporting that he had left her in hysterics. John tried not to believe the half, but as time went on, bringing despair of the poor young mother’s life, and no tidings of Arthur; while he became more and more certain that there had been cruel neglect, the very gentleness and compassion of his nature fired and glowed against him who had taken her from her home, vowed to cherish her, and forsaken her at such a time. However, he was softened by seeing him stagger against the wall, perfectly stunned, then gathering breath, rush up-stairs without a word.
As Arthur pushed open the door, there was a whisper that it was he, too late, and room was made for him. All he knew was, that those around watched as if it was not yet death, but what else did he see on those ashy senseless features?
With a cry of despair he threw himself almost over her, and implored her but once to speak, or look at him. No one thought her capable even of hearing, but at his voice the eyelids and lips slightly moved, and a look of relief came over the face. A hand pressed his shoulder, and a spoon containing a drop of liquid was placed in his fingers, while some one said, ‘Try to get her to take this.’
Scarcely conscious he obeyed, and calling her by every endearing name, beyond hope succeeded in putting it between her lips. Her eyes opened and were turned on him, her hand closed on his, and her features assumed a look of peace. The spark of life was for a moment detained by the power of affection, but in a short space the breath must cease, the clasp of the hand relax.
Once more he was interrupted by a touch, and this time it was Sarah’s whisper—‘The minister is come, sir. What name shall it be!’
‘Anything—John,’ said he, without turning his head or taking in what she said.
The clergyman and John Martindale were waiting in the dressing-room, with poor Violet’s cathedral cup filled with water.
‘She does not know him?’ asked John, anxiously, as Sarah entered.
‘Yes, sir, she does,’ said Sarah, contorting her face to keep back the tears. ‘She looked at him, and has hold of his hand. I think she will die easier for it, poor dear.’
‘And at least the poor child is alive to be baptized?’
‘O, yes, sir, it seems a bit livelier now,’ said Sarah, opening a fold of the flannel in her arms. ‘It is just like its poor mamma.’
‘Is it a girl?’ he inquired, by no means perceiving the resemblance.
‘A boy, sir. His papa never asked, though he did say his name should be John.’
‘It matters little,’ said John, mournfully, for to his eye there was nothing like life in that tiny form. ‘And yet how marvellous,’ thought he, ‘to think of its infinite gain by these few moments of unconscious existence!’
At the touch of the water it gave a little cry, which Sarah heard with a start and glance of infinite satisfaction.
She returned to the chamber, where the same deathly stillness prevailed; the husband, the medical men, the nurse, all in their several positions, as if they had neither moved nor looked from the insensible, scarcely breathing figure.
The infant again gave a feeble sound, and once more the white features moved, the eyes opened, and a voice said, so faintly, that Arthur, as he hung over her, alone could hear it, ‘My baby! O, let me see it!’
‘Bring the child,’ and at the sound of those words the gleam of life spread over her face more completely.
He could not move from her side, and Sarah placed the little creature upon his broad hand. He held it close to her. ‘Our baby!’ again she murmured, and tried to kiss it, but it made another slight noise, and this overcame her completely, the deathly look returned, and he hastily gave back the infant.
She strove hard for utterance, and he could hardly catch her gasping words, ‘You’ll be fond of it, and think of me.’
‘Don’t, don’t talk so, dearest. You will soon be better. You are better. Let me give you this.’
‘Please, I had rather lie still. Do let me.’ Then again looking up, as if she had been losing the consciousness of his presence, ‘Oh! it is you. Are you come? Kiss me and wish me good-bye.’
‘You are better—only take this. Won’t you? You need not move; Violet, Violet, only try. To please me! There, well done, my precious one. Now you will be more comfortable.’
‘Thank you, oh no! But I am glad you are come. I did wish to be a good wife. I had so much to say to you—if I could—but I can’t remember. And my baby; but oh, this is dying,’ as the sinking returned. ‘O, Arthur, keep me, don’t let me die!’ and she clung to him in terror.
He flung his arm closer round her, looking for help to the doctors. ‘You shall not, you will not, my own, my darling.’
‘You can’t help it,’ sighed she. ‘And I don’t know how—if some one would say a prayer?’
He could only repeat protests that she must live, but she grew more earnest. ‘A prayer! I can’t recollect—Oh! is it wicked? Will God have mercy? Oh! would you but say a prayer?’
‘Yes, yes, but what? Give me a book.’
Sarah put one into his hand, and pointed to a place, but his eyes were misty, his voice faltered, broke down, and he was obliged to press his face down on the pillows to stifle his sobs.
Violet was roused to such a degree of bewildered distress and alarm at the sight of his grief, that the doctors insisted on removing him, and almost forced him away.
There had been prayers offered for her, of which she knew nothing.
The clergyman was gone, and John had despatched his melancholy letter to Lord Martindale, when he heard the steps on the stairs. Was it over! No, it was only one of the doctors with Arthur, and they did not come to him, but talked in the back drawing-room for some moments, after which the doctor took leave, repeating the words in John’s hearing, that Arthur must compose himself before returning to her—agitation would be at once fatal. Arthur had thrown himself on the sofa, with his face hidden in his hands, in such overpowering distress, that his brother’s displeasure could not continue for a moment, and he began to speak soothingly of the present improvement.
‘It cannot last,’ said Arthur. ‘They say it is but a question of minutes or hours,’ and again he gave way to a burst of grief, but presently it changed to an angry tone. ‘Why was I never sent for?’
John explained that no one knew whither to send. He could hardly credit this, and his wrath increased at the stupidity of the servants; it seemed to relieve him to declaim against them.
‘Then you left her well?’
‘Of course I did. She had been searching over the house for that abominable cigar-case of mine, which was in my pocket all the time! I shall never bear to see it again,’ and he launched it into the fire with vehemence. ‘I suppose that upset her! Why did I not prevent her? Fool that I was not to know it was not fit for her, though she chose to do it. But I never took care of her.’
‘She is so very unselfish,’ said John.
‘That was it. I thought women always looked out for themselves. I should have known I had one not like the rest! She had never one thought for herself, and it is killing her, the sweetest, loveliest, best—my precious Violet! John, John! is there nothing that can be done for her?’ cried he, starting up in a tumultuous agony of grief, and striking his foot on the floor.
‘Could we not send for her mother? Brown might set off at once to fetch her.’
‘Thank you, but no, it is of no use. No railroad within forty miles of the place. She could not be here till—till—and then I could not see her.’ He was pacing the room, and entangled his foot in Violet’s little work-table, and it fell. Her work-box flew open, and as they stooped to pick up the articles, Arthur again wept without control as he took up a little frock, half made, with the needle hanging to it. The table-drawer had fallen out, and with it the large account-book, the weekly bills, and a sheet of paper covered with figures, and blotted and blistered with tears. The sight seemed to overwhelm him more than all. ‘Crying over these! My Violet crying! Oh! what have I been doing?’
‘And why? What distressed her?’
‘It was too much for her. She would plague herself with these wretched household accounts! She knew I hated the sound of them. I never let her bring them to me; but little did I think that she cried over them alone!’
‘She was cheerful with you?’
‘Was not she?’ I never saw that dear face without its sweet smile, come when I would. I have never heard a complaint. I have left her to herself, madman as I was, when she was unwell and anxious! But—oh! if she could only recover, she should see—Ha! Sarah, can I come?’
‘Yes, sir, she is asking for you; but, if you please, sir, Mr. Harding says you must come very quiet. She seems wandering, and thinking you are not come home, sir,’ said Sarah, with a grisly satisfaction in dealing her blow home.
John tried to rectify the confusion in the work-box with a sort of reverential care; not able to bear to leave it in disorder, whether its mistress were ever to open it again or not, yet feeling it an intrusion to meddle with her little feminine hoards of precious trifles.
‘Poor Arthur!’ said he to himself, ‘he may fairly be acquitted of all but his usual inconsiderateness towards one too tender for such treatment. He deserves more pity than blame. And for her—thank Heaven for the blessing on them that mourn. Innocent creature, much will be spared her; if I could but dwell on that rather than on the phantom of delight she was, and my anticipations of again seeing the look that recalls Helen. If Helen was here, how she would be nursing her!’
John saw his brother no more that evening—only heard of Violet ‘as barely kept alive, as it seemed, by his care.’ Each report was such that the next must surely be the last; and John sat waiting on till his servant insisted on his going to bed, promising to call him if his brother needed him.
The night passed without the summons, and in the morning there was still life. John had been down-stairs for some little time, when he heard the medical man, who had spent the night there, speaking to Arthur on the stairs. ‘A shade of improvement’ was the report. ‘Asleep now; and if we can only drag her through the next few days there may be hope, as long as fever does not supervene.’
‘Thank Heaven!’ said John, fervently. ‘I did not venture to hope for this.’
But Arthur was utterly downcast, and could not take heart. It was his first real trouble, and there was little of the substance of endurance in his composition. That one night of watching, grief, and self-reproach, had made his countenance so pale and haggard, and his voice so dejected and subdued, that John was positively startled, as he heard his answer—
‘I never saw any one so ill.’
‘Come and have some breakfast, you look quite worn out’
‘I cannot stay,’ said he, sitting down, however. ‘She must not miss me, or all chance would be over. You don’t mind the door being open?’
‘No, indeed. Is she sensible now?’
‘Clear for a minute, if she has my hand; but then she dozes off, and talks about those miserable accounts—the numbers over and over again. It cuts me to the heart to hear her. They talk of an over-strain on the mind! Heigh-ho! Next she wakes with a dreadful frightened start, and stares about wildly, fancying I am gone.’
‘But she knows you,’ said John, trying to speak consolingly.
‘Yes, no one else can do anything with her. She does not so much as hear them. I must be back before she wakes; but I am parched with thirst. How is this? Where is the tea?’
‘I suppose you put in none. Is this the chest?’
Arthur let his head drop on his hand, helpless and overcome, as this little matter brought home the sense of missing his wife, and the remembrance of the attentions he had allowed her to lavish upon him. His brother tried the tea-chest, and, finding it locked, poured out some coffee, which he drank almost unconsciously, then gave his cup for more, sighed, pushed his hair back, and looked up somewhat revived. John tended him affectionately, persuading him to take food; and when he had passively allowed his plate to be filled, his appetite discovered that he had tasted nothing since yesterday morning, and therewith his spirits were refreshed; he looked up cheerfully, and there was less despondency in his tone as he spoke of her sleep towards morning having been less disturbed.
‘The child woke her with a squall, and I thought we were undone, but no such thing. I declare nothing has done her so much good; she had him brought, and was so happy over him, then went off to sleep again.’
‘This is a great relief,’ said John. ‘From your manner, I dreaded to ask for him, but I hope he may be doing well.’
‘I am sure I hope so, or it would be all over with her. I believe both their lives hang on one thread. To see her with him this morning—I did not know such fondness was in women. I declare I never saw anything like it; and she so weak! And such a creature as it is; the smallest thing that ever was born, they say, and looking—like nothing on earth but young mice.’
John could not help smiling: ‘That is better than yesterday, when I could scarcely believe he was alive.’
‘What! did you see him?’
‘When he was baptized.’
‘Was he? What did you call him?’
‘You sent word to name him John.’
‘Did I? I had not the least recollection of it. I forgot all about him till he made himself heard this morning, and she wanted to know whether he was boy or girl.’
‘A son and heir,’ said John, glad to see the young father able to look gratified.
‘Well, it is the best name; I hope she will like it. But, hollo, John, where did you drop from?’ as it suddenly occurred to him to be surprised.
‘I came home on some business of Fotheringham’s. I landed early yesterday, and came up from Southampton.’
‘A fine state of things to come to,’ sighed Arthur. ‘But you will not go away?’
‘Certainly not till she is better.’
‘Ah! you were always fond of her; you appreciated her from the first. There is no one whom I should have liked so well to have here.’ Then, with a pause, he added, in a tone of deep feeling: ‘John, you might well give me that warning about making her happy; but, indeed, I meant to do so!’ and his eyes filled with tears.
‘As far as affection could go, you have done so,’ said John, ‘or you could not have recalled her to life now.’
‘You little know,’ said Arthur sadly; ‘Heaven knows it was not want of affection; but I never guessed what she underwent. Sarah tells me she spent hours in tears, though she would never allow them to be noticed.’
‘Poor Violet! But what could be her trouble?’
‘Her household affairs seem to have overpowered her, and I never would attend to them; little thinking how she let them prey upon her. I never thought of her being lonely; and her sweet, bright face, and uncomplaining ways, never reminded me. There never was any one like her; she was too good for me, too good to live, that is the truth; and now I must lose her!’
‘Do not think so, Arthur; do not give way. The getting through this night is more than could have been hoped. Happiness is often the best cure; and if she is able to take so much pleasure in you, and in the child, it is surely a hopeful sign.’
‘So they said; that her noticing the child made them think better of her. If she can but get over it, she shall see. But you will stay with me, John,’ said he, as if he clung to the support.
‘That I will, thank you. I could not bear to go. I can sleep in Belgrave Square, if you want my room for her mother.’
‘We shall see how it is by post-time. I tried whether it would rouse her to tell her I would write to Mrs. Moss, but she took no heed, and the old nurse looked daggers at me.’
He was interrupted; Violet had awakened in an alarming fit of trembling, imploring to be told why he was angry, and whether he would ever come back.
So glimmered the feeble ray of life throughout the day; and when the post went out, the end was apparently so near, that it was thought in vain to send for Mrs. Moss; whom Arthur shrank from seeing, when it should be too late. He was so completely overwhelmed with distress, that in the short intervals he spent out of the sick-room, it was his brother’s whole work to cheer and sustain him sufficiently to perform those offices, which Violet was incapable of receiving from any one else.
It was no wonder he broke down; for it was a piteous sight to see that fair young mother, still a child in years, and in her exhausted state of wavering consciousness, alive only through her fond affections; gleams of perception, and momentary flashes of life, called forth only by her husband, or by the moanings of the little frail babe, which seemed to have as feeble and precarious a hold of life as herself. The doctors told John that they were haunted through the day by the remembrance of her face, so sweet, even in insensibility, and so very lovely, when the sound of her babe’s voice, for a moment, lighted up the features. Their anxiety for her was intense; and if this was the case with strangers, what must it not have been for her husband, to whom every delirious murmur was an unconscious reproach, and who had no root of strength within himself! The acuteness of his grief, and his effectiveness as a nurse, were such as to surprise his brother, who only now perceived how much warmth of heart had been formerly stifled in a cold, ungenial home.
Sustained from hour to hour by his unremitting care, she did, however, struggle through the next three days; and at last came a sounder sleep, and a wakening so tranquil, that Arthur did not perceive it, till he saw, in the dim lamp-light, those dark eyes calmly fixed upon him. The cry of the infant was heard, and she begged for it, fondling it, and murmuring over it with a soft inarticulate sound of happiness.
‘You purr like an old cat over her kitten,’ said Arthur, longing to see her smile once more; and he was not disappointed; it was a bright, contented, even joyous smile, that played on the colourless features, and the eyes beamed softly on him as she said, ‘Kiss him, papa.’
He would have done anything for her at that moment, and another bright look rewarded him.
‘Does mamma know about this dear little baby?’ she said, presently.
‘Yes, dearest, I have written every day. She sends you her love;’ and as Violet murmured something of ‘Dear mamma—’
‘Do you wish to have her here?’
‘No, indeed, I don’t wish it now,’ said Violet; ‘you do make me so very happy.’
She was returning to her full self, with all her submission to his will, and in fact she did not wish for any change; her content in his attention was so complete, so peaceful, that in her state of weakness there was an instinctive dread of breaking the charm. To lie still, her babe beside her, and Arthur watching her, was the perfect repose of felicity, and imperceptibly her faculties were, one by one, awakening. Her thoughtfulness for others had revived; Arthur had been giving her some nourishment, and, for the first time, she had taken it with a relish, when it so chanced that the light fell for a moment on his face, and she was startled by perceiving the effects of anxiety and want of sleep. In vain he assured her there was nothing the matter. She accused herself of having been exacting and selfish, and would not be comforted, till he had promised to take a good night’s rest. He left her, at length, nearly asleep, to carry the tidings to his brother, and enjoy his look of heart-felt rejoicing. Never had the two very dissimilar brothers felt so much drawn together; and as John began, as usual, to wait on him, and to pour out his coffee, he said, as he sat down wearied, ‘Thank you, John, I can’t think what would have become of me without you!’
‘My father would have come to you if I had not been here.’
‘Where’s his letter?—I forgot all about it. Is there none from Theodora?’
‘No; I suppose she waited for further accounts.’
Arthur began reading his father’s letter. ‘Very kind! a very kind letter indeed,’ said he, warmly. ‘“Earned so high a place in our regard—her sweetness and engaging qualities,”—I must keep that to show her. This is very kind too about what it must be to me. I did not think he had appreciated her so well!’
‘Yes, indeed, he did,’ said John. ‘This is what he says to me. “Never have I seen one more gentle and engaging, and I feel sure she would have gained more on our affections every day, and proved herself a treasure to the family.”’
‘That is right,’ said Arthur. ‘He will get to know her well when they come to London! I’ll write to him to-morrow, and thank him, and say, no need for him to come now! “Hopes his grandson will live to be a comfort to me!”’ and Arthur could not help laughing.
‘Well, I am not come to that yet!’
‘He is much pleased at its being a son,’ said John.
‘Poor little mortal!’ said Arthur, ‘if he means to be a comfort I wish he would stop that dismal little wail—have one good squall and have done with it. He will worry his mother and ruin all now she takes more notice. So here’s Mrs. Moss’s letter. I could not open it this morning, and I have been inventing messages to Violet from her—poor woman! I have some good news for her now. It is all about coming, but Violet says she does not want her. I can’t read it all, my eyes are so weak! Violet said they were bloodshot,’ and he began to examine them in the glass.
‘Yes, you are not equal to much more nursing; you are quite done for.’
‘I am!’ said Arthur, stretching. ‘I’m off to bed, as she begged me; but the worst is over now! We shall do very well when Theodora comes; and if she has a taste for the boy, she and Violet will make friends over him,—good night.’
With a long yawn, Arthur very stiffly walked up-stairs, where Sarah stood at the top waiting for him. ‘Mrs. Martindale is asleep, sir; you had best not go in,’ said she. ‘I have made up a bed in your dressing-room, and you’d best not be lying down in your clothes, but take a good sleep right out, or you’ll be fit for nothing next. I’ll see and call if she wants you.’
‘Thank you, Sarah; I wonder how long you have been up; you will be fit for nothing next.’
‘It don’t hurt me,’ said Sarah, in disdain; and as Arthur shut his door, she murmured to herself, ‘I’m not that sort to be knocked up with nothing; but he is an easy kind-spoken gentleman after all. I’ll never forget what he has done for missus. There is not so much harm in him neither; he is nothing but a great big boy as ought to be ashamed of hisself.’
The night passed off well; Violet, with a great exertion of self-command, actually composed herself on awaking in one of her nervous fits of terror; prevented his being called; and fairly deserved all the fond praise he lavished on her in the morning for having been so good a child.
‘You must not call me child now,’ said she, with a happy little pride. ‘I must be wiser now.’
‘Shall I call you the prettiest and youngest mamma in England?’
‘Ah! I am too young and foolish. I wish I was quite seventeen!’
‘Have you been awake long?’
‘Yes; but so comfortable. I have been thinking about baby’s name.’
‘Too late, Violet; they named him John: they say I desired it.’
‘What! was he obliged to be baptized? Is he so delicate? Oh, Arthur! tell me; I know he is tiny, but I did not think he was ill.’
Arthur tried to soothe her with assurances of his well-doing, and the nurse corroborated them; but though she tried to believe, she was not pacified, and would not let her treasure be taken from within her arms till Mr. Harding arrived—his morning visit having been hastened by a despatch from Arthur, who feared that she would suffer for her anxiety. She asked so many questions that he, who last night had seen her too weak to look up or speak, was quite taken by surprise. By a little exceeding the truth, he did at length satisfy her mind; but after this there was an alteration in her manner with her baby; it was not only the mere caressing, there was a sort of reverence, and look of reflection as she contemplated him, such as made Arthur once ask, what she could be studying in that queer little red visage?
‘I was thinking how very good he is!’ was her simple answer, and Arthur’s smile by no means comprehended her meaning.
Her anxious mind retarded her recovery, and Arthur’s unguarded voice on the stairs having revealed to her that a guest was in the house, led to inquiries, and an endless train of fears, lest Mr. Martindale should be uncomfortable and uncared for. Her elasticity of mind had been injured by her long course of care, and she could not shake off the household anxieties that revived as she became able to think.