“It is not impossible: have some energy, man.You thought you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are all alive and talking now. There!—Carter has done with you or nearly so; I’ll make you decent in a trice.Jane” (he turned to me for the first time since his re-entrance), “take this key:go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into my dressing-room:open the top drawer of the wardrobe and take out a clean shirt and neck-handkerchief: bring them here; and be nimble.”
I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found the articles named, and returned with them.
“Now,” said he, “go to the other side of the bed while I order his toilet; but don’t leave the room: you may be wanted again.”
I retired as directed.
“Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?” inquired Mr. Rochester presently.
“No, sir; all was very still.”
“We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be better, both for your sake,and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure,and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with his waist-coat. Where did you leave your furred cloak?You can’t travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold climate. In your room?—Jane, run down to Mr. Mason’s room,—the one next mine,—and fetch a cloak you will see there.”
Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense mantle lined and edged with fur.
“Now, I’ve another errand for you,” said my untiring master; “you must away to my room again.What a mercy you are shod with velvet, Jane!—a clod-hopping messenger would never do at this juncture.You must open the middle drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a little glass you will find there, —quick!”
I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.
“That’s well!Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a dose myself, on my own responsibility.I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italian charlatan—a fellow you would have kicked, Carter.It is not a thing to be used indiscriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now, for instance. Jane, a little water.”
He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the water-bottle on the washstand.
“That will do;—now wet the lip of the phial.”
I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid, and presented it to Mason.
“Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for an hour or so.”
“But will it hurt me?—is it inflammatory?”
“Drink!drink!drink!”
Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to resist. He was dressed now:he still looked pale, but he was no longer gory and sullied. Mr.Rochester let him sit three minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his arm—
“Now I am sure you can get on your feet,” he said—“try.”
The patient rose.
“Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good cheer, Richard; step out—that’s it!”
“I do feel better,” remarked Mr. Mason.
“I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to the backstairs;unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard—or just outside,for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over the pavement—to be ready; we are coming: and,Jane, if any one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem.”
It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising;but I found the kitchen still dark and silent. The side-passage door was fastened;I opened it with as little noise as possible: all the yard was quiet;but the gates stood wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed,and driver seated on the box, stationed outside. I approached him,and said the gentlemen were coming; he nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened.The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere;the curtains were yet drawn over the servants’ chamber windows;little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees,whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard;the carriage horses stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all else was still.
The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr. Rochester and the surgeon,seemed to walk with tolerable ease: they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed.
“Take care of him,” said Mr. Rochester to the latter,“and keep him at your house till he is quite well:I shall ride over in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with you?”
“The fresh air revives me, Fairfax.”
“Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no wind—good-bye, Dick.”
“Fairfax—”
“Well what is it?”
“Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as may be:let her—” he stopped and burst into tears.
“I do my best; and have done it, and will do it,” was the answer: he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove away.
“Yet would to God there was an end of all this!” added Mr. Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.
This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard.I, supposing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house; again, however, I heard him call “Jane!” He had opened the portal and stood at it, waiting for me.
“Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,” he said; “that house is a mere dungeon: don’t you feel it so?”
“It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.”
“The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,” he answered;“and you see it through a charmed medium:you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs;that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark.Now _here_” (he pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) “all is real, sweet, and pure.”
He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side,and a border on the other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams,primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs.They were fresh now as a succession of April showers and gleams,followed by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was just entering the dappled east,and his light illumined the wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them.
“Jane, will you have a flower?”
He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to me.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you like this sunrise, Jane?That sky with its high and light clouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes warm—this placid and balmly atmosphere?”
“I do, very much.”
“You have passed a strange night, Jane.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And it has made you look pale—were you afraid when I left you alone with Mason?”
“I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room.”
“But I had fastened the door—I had the key in my pocket:I should have been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb—my pet lamb—so near a wolf’s den, unguarded: you were safe.”
“Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?”
“Oh yes!don’t trouble your head about her—put the thing out of your thoughts.”
“Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she stays.”
“Never fear—I will take care of myself.”
“Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now, sir?”
“I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor even then. To live, for me, Jane,is to stand on a crater-crust which may crack and spue fire any day.”
“But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence, sir, is evidently potent with him:he will never set you at defiance or wilfully injure you.”
“Oh, no!Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me—but, unintentionally, he might in a moment,by one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of happiness.”
“Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear, and show him how to avert the danger.”
He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as hastily threw it from him.
“If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger be?Annihilated in a moment. Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to him ‘Do that,’ and the thing has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this case:I cannot say ‘Beware of harming me, Richard;’ for it is imperative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible.Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you further. You are my little friend, are you not?”
“I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right.”
“Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait and mien, your eye and face,when you are helping me and pleasing me—working for me, and with me, in,as you characteristically say, ‘_all that is right_:’ for if I bid you do what you thought wrong,there would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity,no lively glance and animated complexion. My friend would then turn to me, quiet and pale,and would say, ‘No, sir; that is impossible: I cannot do it, because it is wrong;’ and would become immutable as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure me:yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should transfix me at once.”
“If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you have from me, sir, you are very safe.”
“God grant it may be so!Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down.”
The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat. Mr.Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but I stood before him.
“Sit,” he said; “the bench is long enough for two. You don’t hesitate to take a place at my side, do you?Is that wrong, Jane?”
I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.
“Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew—while all the flowers in this old garden awake and expand,and the birds fetch their young ones’ breakfast out of the Thornfield,and the early bees do their first spell of work—I’ll put a case to you,which you must endeavour to suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you are at ease,and not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err in staying.”
“No, sir; I am content.”
“Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy:—suppose you were no longer a girl well reared and disciplined,but a wild boy indulged from childhood upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land;conceive that you there commit a capital error, no matter of what nature or from what motives,but one whose consequences must follow you through life and taint all your existence. Mind,I don’t say a _crime_; I am not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty act,which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my word is _error_.The results of what you have done become in time to you utterly insupportable;you take measures to obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable.Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you on the very confines of life:your sun at noon darkens in an eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till the time of setting.Bitter and base associations have become the sole food of your memory: you wander here and there,seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure—I mean in heartless,sensual pleasure—such as dulls intellect and blights feeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered,you come home after years of voluntary banishment:you make a new acquaintance—how or where no matter:you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have sought for twenty years,and never before encountered; and they are all fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint.Such society revives, regenerates: you feel better days come back—higher wishes, purer feelings;you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy of an immortal being.To attain this end, are you justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom—a mere conventional impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor your judgment approves?”
He paused for an answer: and what was I to say?Oh, for some good spirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory response!Vain aspiration!The west wind whispered in the ivy round me;but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a medium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops;but their song, however sweet, was inarticulate.
Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query:
“Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant,man justified in daring the world’s opinion, in order to attach to him for ever this gentle,gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and regeneration of life?”
“Sir,” I answered, “a wanderer’s repose or a sinner’s reformation should never depend on a fellow-creature.Men and women die; philosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians in goodness:if any one you know has suffered and erred,let him look higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace to heal.”
“But the instrument—the instrument!God, who does the work, ordains the instrument.I have myself—I tell it you without parable—been a worldly, dissipated, restless man;and I believe I have found the instrument for my cure in—”
He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling.I almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the suspended revelation;but they would have had to wait many minutes—so long was the silence protracted.At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.
“Little friend,” said he, in quite a changed tone—while his face changed too,losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic—“you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram:don’t you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?”
He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk,and when he came back he was humming a tune.
“Jane, Jane,” said he, stopping before me, “you are quite pale with your vigils:don’t you curse me for disturbing your rest?”
“Curse you?No, sir.”
“Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers!They were warmer last night when I touched them at the door of the mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again?”
“Whenever I can be useful, sir.”
“For instance, the night before I am married!I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company?To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s a rare one, is she not, Jane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A strapper—a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom;with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me!there’s Dent and Lynn in the stables!Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket.”
As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying cheerfully—
“Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: I rose at four to see him off.”
CHAPTER XXI
Presentiments are strange things!and so are sympathies; and so are signs;and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key.I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies,I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent,wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation,the unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension.And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only six years old,I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child;and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’s kin.The saying might have worn out of my memory,had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there.The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident;for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant,which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee,sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water.It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close to me,and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore,it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.
I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image,and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near.It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry;and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs.Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me,having the appearance of a gentleman’s servant: he was dressed in deep mourning,and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.
“I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,” he said, rising as I entered; “but my name is Leaven:I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still.”
“Oh, Robert!how do you do?I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana’s bay pony. And how is Bessie?You are married to Bessie?”
“Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you;she brought me another little one about two months since—we have three now—and both mother and child are thriving. ”
“And are the family well at the house, Robert?”
“I am sorry I can’t give you better news of them, Miss:they are very badly at present—in great trouble.”
“I hope no one is dead,” I said, glancing at his black dress.He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied—
“Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London.”
“Mr. John?”
“Yes.”
“And how does his mother bear it?”
“Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild:these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking.”
“I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.”
“Doing well!He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women.He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice,but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong:the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard.He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him.Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again,and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!—they say he killed himself.”
I was silent: the tidings were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed—
“Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout,but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down.The information about Mr. John’s death and the manner of it came too suddenly:it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking;but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something,and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however,that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words,‘Bring Jane—fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.’ Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words;but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you.The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready,Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go.”
“I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse:but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?”
“Yes; and I will do it now;” and having directed him to the servants’ hall,and recommended him to the care of John’s wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester.
He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds.I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;—yes:she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened:the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram,the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game.It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however,was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram’s side.She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand,“What can the creeping creature want now?” and when I said, in a low voice, “Mr. Rochester,” she made a movement as if tempted to order me away.I remember her appearance at the moment—it was very graceful and very striking:she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair.She had been all animation with the game,and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments.
“Does that person want you?” she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the “person” was.He made a curious grimace—one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations—threw down his cue and followed me from the room.
“Well, Jane?” he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut.
“If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two.”
“What to do?—where to go?”
“To see a sick lady who has sent for me.”
“What sick lady?—where does she live?”
“At Gateshead; in ——shire.”
“-shire?That is a hundred miles off!Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?”
“Her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.”
“Reed of Gateshead?There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.”
“It is his widow, sir.”
“And what have you to do with her?How do you know her?”
“Mr. Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother.”
“The deuce he was!You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations.”
“None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.”
“Why?”
“Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.”
“But Reed left children?—you must have cousins?Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said,was one of the veriest rascals on town;and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place,who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London.”
“John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family,and is supposed to have committed suicide.The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack.”
“And what good can you do her?Nonsense, Jane!I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps,be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off.”
“Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different:I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now.”
“How long will you stay?”
“As short a time as possible, sir.”
“Promise me only to stay a week—”
“I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it.”
“At all events you _will_ come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?”
“Oh, no!I shall certainly return if all be well.”
“And who goes with you?You don’t travel a hundred miles alone.”
“No, sir, she has sent her coachman.”
“A person to be trusted?”
“Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.”
Mr. Rochester meditated. “When do you wish to go?”
“Early to-morrow morning, sir.”
“Well, you must have some money; you can’t travel without money, and I daresay you have not much:I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?” he asked, smiling.
I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. “Five shillings, sir.” He took the purse,poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him.Soon he produced his pocket-book: “Here,” said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds,and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.
“I don’t want change; you know that. Take your wages.”
I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said—
“Right, right!Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?”
“Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.”
“Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds.”
“Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity. ”
“Matter of business?I am curious to hear it.”
“You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?”
“Yes; what then?”
“In that case, sir, Adèle ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it.”
“To get her out of my bride’s way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically?There’s sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adèle, as you say, must go to school; and you,of course, must march straight to—the devil?”
“I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere.”
“In course!” he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.
“And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?”
“No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them—but I shall advertise. ”
“You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!” he growled. “At your peril you advertise!I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I’ve a use for it.”
“And so have I, sir,” I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me.“I could not spare the money on any account.”
“Little niggard!” said he, “refusing me a pecuniary request!Give me five pounds, Jane.”
“Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.”
“Just let me look at the cash.”
“No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”
“Jane!”
“Sir?”
“Promise me one thing.”
“I’ll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform.”
“Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I’ll find you one in time.”
“I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn,will promise that I and Adèle shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”
“Very well!very well!I’ll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?”
“Yes, sir; early.”
“Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?”
“No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.”
“Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane?Teach me; I’m not quite up to it.”
“They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer.”
“Then say it.”
“Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.”
“What must I say?”
“The same, if you like, sir.”
“Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?”
“Yes.”
“It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else:a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance;but no—that would not content me either. So you’ll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?”
“It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.”
“Very likely; but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”
“How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?” I asked myself; “I want to commence my packing.” The dinner-bell rang,and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no more during the day,and was off before he had risen in the morning.
I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o’clock in the afternoon of the first of May:I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat:the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless;the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth,nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner.
“Bless you!—I knew you would come!” exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.
“Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I had kissed her; “and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?—Alive still, I hope.”
“Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was.The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.”
“Has she mentioned me lately?”
“She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but she is sleeping now,or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house.She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven.Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?”
Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him:afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea;for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality;and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.