Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 42
CHAPTER XLII.
In the course of the night Lady Anne found that she had got a very bad sore throat, that her oblivion of pleasure the preceding evening was the herald of pain, which universally pervaded her frame, and the Count's words, "you have got your death of cold," seemed to be the only ones she could remember, and they were registered in her mind as a sentence decreeing her destruction.
Of all other expenses, Lady Anne had most avoided those which belonged to the faculty. Often had the words been addressed to her, "Miss Granard is extremely delicate, I think she should have the best advice before winter sets in," but never was her mamma of a similar opinion—generally speaking, she took great care of herself, and, having an excellent constitution, regularly attributed any temporary ailment of her daughters to carelessness, for which she prescribed "water gruel, and keeping in bed," being certain that under so safe a regimen, "they would get well as soon as possible, and learn to keep well also." That her system was an excellent one, was fully evinced by the general health of her family, and the great care each sister evinced for the other's welfare. If the depletion had cured a bad cold, or averted a slight fever, and the patient came down declaring she was well, yet looking very ill, and an officious caller recommended "beef-tea, calves' foot jellies, or a glass of old port," Lady Anne, who well knew the value of such nutriments, seeing she constantly used them, would observe in reply, "at her time of life there is an innate power of resuscitation, which operates better without such stimulants, in my opinion;" nevertheless, she would after a time tell the delinquent (for the invalid was always considered criminal) to put on her things, and go to the Palmers for a couple of hours; "'tis but a step, and change of scene may do you good, and make you less an object. I hate to see pale faces always before my eyes, and fair people, when colourless, are either ghastly, or sallow: indeed, they are often both. Isabella, poor brown creature, as she is, stands a bad cold better than any of you."
We need not say how these fair sinners were received and relieved by Mrs. Palmer, who had established her character from the beginning of their acquaintance, for being a skilful nurse, and at the present time happy would Lady Anne have been, could she have secured the advice and care of the invaluable neighbour, whom she would probably have looked upon with contumely two days before. But the case was pressing, and the nearest medical practitioner was sent for. On examining the throat, he expressed his desire that a physician should be called in, and accordingly a gentleman, duly authorized, made his appearance, and prescribed gargles and diluents secundem artem.
"And will you send de nourse along wid de bottel?" said Fancbette.
"There is no occasion for a nurse," said Lady Anne; "as I cannot leave my bed, you will have nothing to do but give me my medicines, and can write for Miss Helen to come to me immediately."
"Oh! mon dieu, I can do nothing for de sick bed; Inglis constitution ver odd thing, if I gif bottel not right. I go for kill ma chère ladi."
"I will procure a nurse," said the apothecary, "for it is not a case to be trifled with. I question if this person can read a label, or apply a leech."
"Leech! leech!" shrieked Fanchette, in the horrors, "les noir diable! I will not live when I look in him face. I have de grand aversion."
"Leave the room, and send a housemaid; you alarm the patient, and will do more mischief in an hour, than a week can retrieve."
Whilst this gentleman was intreating the care of the mistress of the house, until a proper nurse could be procured, Count Riccardini arrived, and heard with more sorrow than surprise of the state Lady Anne was in, for, accustomed to the care long demanded by an ailing wife, and naturally a man of acute sensibility and great intelligence, he had become learned in symptoms, and seen clearly that she was becoming seriously ill. He expressed a desire to be shown to her room immediately, and, as he seemed to speak on the subject as if he were a relation, no objection was made by the medical man, save by the observation, "that sore throats were very infectious, and he would do well to keep at a distance from the patient," but Fanchette, in the most violent manner, protested against such a proceeding.
"You see my lady in the bed! you see her with the flannel all wrap up, no toilette! un vilain cœuffure you! O! she go die instant."
Riccardini recollected himself, and changed his purpose. The best thing he could do, was to fetch Helen, and in less than half an hour he was on his road to London, but not until he had authorized the landlady to take immediate possession of the purse and dressing-case of Lady Anne; a circumstance extremely offensive to Fanchette, until informed that it was always the custom when strange nurses were brought into sick rooms. She had, however, the comfort of knowing that her lady's wardrobe was in her power, but it did not avail her much, as the servants of the house were so shocked at the Frenchwoman's refusal to nurse her sick lady, that every eye was upon her in the way of espial and condemnation; and having declared most solemnly that the complaint of her lady was contagious, she effectually closed the housekeeper's room at the duke's, against herself.
That family, like many others, were now on the wing, and although, from the representations of her husband, her grace did not actually visit the chamber of the sufferer, she neglected no means of assisting her; the finest fruit being constantly selected for Lady Anne, and constant inquiries made as to their power of being useful. Alas! in these cases every one must bear her own burden; sympathy may soften the affliction, wealth may procure many alleviations, but the king must bear his individual pangs as surely as the pauper, with this difference, that he has been less used to them, in all probability, and, therefore, finds them more severe.
About the middle of the day following, Count Riccardini arrived with both the daughters of Lady Anne, for Louisa could not bear to be left behind, although her child and the nursemaid were unavoidable incumbrances; but, as the Count immediately took a lodging for Mrs. Penrhyn and himself, they were stationed there. This new relative, who constantly called himself their uncle, seemed to the sisters like a man dropped from the skies, for, although he had been mentioned by Mary in her latter letters, he had not in any manner become familiar to their ideas, and the very little which had ever dropped from their mother's lips respecting himself and their unfortunate aunt, was that of unqualified contempt and utter reprobation. They had actually ranked him with those of his country who travel with monkeys and white mice, and considered the degraded sister of their father as a woman following him with a ragged child on her back, a red and yellow handkerchief bound round her head, with a tanned skin, a haggard look, and penniless poverty joined with bitter repentance, being evident in every lineament of her once lovely countenance.
"Look at what she was, and think of what she is!" Lady Anne would say, when any one ventured to look on her picture at Granard Park—a picture she chose to leave there, saying, "it was better that her children should never remember that disgrace to her family." Under such circumstances, it was no wonder that their young imaginations depicted their aunt in the form of the only Italians they had happened to meet with—in childhood, the younger had some vague apprehensions, from time to time, of seeing her; and feeling sure that, if she were ever so little a bit like dear papa, speak to her they must; but they outgrew their fears and their memories, and for them she was dead long ere she died.
So far as Isabella was concerned, it might have been the apprehension of presentiment, for, in what a questionable shape did this lost aunt, in her fairest representative, appear to the unhappy and bewildered girl?—far easier would it have been to have clasped a wandering vagabond cousin to her pitying heart, than find the blameless and beauteous object of an idolized husband's love in that relation.
Poor Lady Anne, although her fever ran high, and she suffered much from rheumatic pains, as well as her ulcerated throat, was not subject to delirium; and she, therefore, could not fail to rejoice in the presence of her daughters—undoubtedly, she. had pleasure in seeing them, and must justly estimate the love which brought them so speedily to her, after they had given proof that pleasure could not draw them; but we fear the most sensible gratification derived from their attendance was the certainty that she might be cross with impunity; that even Louisa, unprotected by the presence of her husband, might be dealt with accord ing to the law of her former tenure.
Nothing could exceed the grief and pity her deplorable situation excited in them both, on their arrival; and, both night and day, did they watch her couch, and seek, by every medium, to allay her pain and mitigate her fever, discovering, by the happy intuition of affection, her wants by the slightest sign, her wishes by the faintest murmur; but the young mother was not equal to bear this fatigue long, for she could not suffer alone, and the plaintive wailings of her little one compelled her to leave poor Helen to her duties unaided.
The kind-hearted Count was as valuable to the sisters in England as he had been to those in Italy; he watched her little one so kindly that Louisa could, in a short time, go twice a day, with a heart at ease, to visit her mother; and, at such periods, send Helen out for a short walk, or for an hour's repose; and she soon learnt to arm herself with his name, in such a manner as to secure Lady Anne's consent. Indeed, it is only justice to say, she desired much to insure Helen's health, considering it as the means of preserving her beauty, without which she had no chance of marrying her—one daughter, she thought, it would really be desirable to retain, for they certainly could wait upon her better than the nurse (who had fairly yawned in her face repeatedly, and never hesitated to say, "she knew her duty, and was not to be told what to do by a patient"); but, then, Mary would unquestionably be at leisure for all useful purposes, and why keep two of them?—"Not that a daughter cost much—she must say servants cost more, a great deal; the nurse would ruin her in green tea, to keep her awake, and brandy to compose her nerves. Nevertheless, she must be kept, since the girls could never compel me to take the nauseous medicines, and unquestionably they are necessary."
In about a fortnight Lady Anne's throat was nearly well, but much general pain remained in her limbs, and she was more sensible of it than she had been before, and the confinement was more irksome. She could be taken out of bed, and sit up for a couple of hours, and this period she usually spent in bemoaning her sufferings and reproaching her daughters as the cause of them.
"It is entirely owing to you two making such a heap of things, and compelling me to sell them during that dreadful cold day, that has brought me into this wretched state. I have you to thank for all my misery; therefore, it is as little as you can do to wait upon me, and seek to alleviate it—in fact, if Charles Penrhyn is not a mean, ungrateful wretch, he will send me a hundred pounds at least, to make me some amends for his wife's share of the mischief."
"Indeed, mamma, Louisa did very little, for she was so busy with her baby; besides, she was extremely delicate, and only able to sit up part of the day in the beginning of the time."
"Delicate, indeed!—what made her delicate but undertaking to feed that great lump of a boy?—to be sure it was consistent with marrying a man who is a city merchant—what better could she expect than to be compelled to such low, I may say, such beastly employment, for all kind of creatures suckle their young. Royal mothers never dream of such a thing. Noble mothers never did, till the Duchess of Devonshire brought it into fashion, on the very same principle that she made bonnets the shape of coal-scuttles the rage. Odd things she could do and would do, because she had the power to do. However, she died soon after I was married, and I never followed her example, and trust no daughter of mine will do it, save those allied to city connections; one can expect nothing better of them, when a woman has once renounced all self-respect, so far as to form a lasting union with a man like Penrhyn; it is quite in character that she should, as Hamlet says in the play, proceed
"To suckle fools and chronicle small-beer."
"But surely, dear mamma, Mr. Glentworth is still more a city man than Mr. Penrhyn, who has been a merchant a very short time, whereas the other was engaged many years."
"Yes; but Glentworth's shame was hidden by transacting business abroad, and his rich uncle's estates covered the disgrace. Indeed, money, when there is plenty of it, will cover every thing; but a mere handsome competence leaves you exposed to a thousand remarks—you are numbered with respectable people, like the Palmers, for instance; you have no style, no debts (not that debts are desirable, but the contrary) no fashion, no ancient importance to turn back upon, no modern landmark, such as an extravagant entertainment, a costly embassy, a loss or gain at Newmarket, or a crash at Doncaster, to be talked of; you have no title, no caste, no any thing. It is far better to be a distinguished author than to be distinguished for nothing, which is generally the case with respectable people, who 'pay their way,' as the saying is, and delight in private charity, and bringing up large families well."
"Dear mamma," Helen replied, thankful by any medium to escape the fancy fair and its attendant reproaches, "however strange you may think it, Count Riccardini says" She hesitated, and Lady Anne, in an impatient tone, cried out—
"What does he say? Why do you act so like a fool, speaking very often when you should hold your tongue, and stopping when you should speak!"
"He says no person should ever incur debt for his own personal pleasure or celebrity; that it is a disgrace and an act of dishonesty, which places the highest nobleman (in a just and moral point of view) below the poorest artizan, who works for his bread and pays for his bread. There may be cases, he allows, where a man desires to effect a grand national purpose, in which he may incur risk, because the many must not be sacrificed for the few, and"
"There, there, be silent; I have had quite nonsense enough in one morning for my weak state. Come, and rub my right foot. It is shocking that the Count should talk so like an ass about the few and the many; but Italian people are dreadfully ignorant; their church keeps them so—I have heard him say so himself. Still he cannot but know that in every country the nobility are the few, the canaille the many, who work, dig, delve for them, and ought, as poor Lady Sarah Butterlip says, to be only too happy when they have it in their power either to lend them or give them any thing they will condescend to accept. It is on that principle I have been always so kind to the Palmers; every day of my life I wish I were at home on their account—I would eat no jellies but those made by their cook."
Helen trembled for the money she had had a hand in borrowing, and felt that no power on earth could induce her to be ungrateful to those dear neighbours, who once saved her life, and since then had largely contributed to its comforts. "If I were made a queen to-morrow," said she to herself, "could the attentions I should certainly shew dear Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, repay my obligation to them? impossible!"
"You do well to make no reply; young people ought to receive information, not dispute its correctness, which is indeed the fault of the times; and the nobility themselves (nine times out of ten) live so entirely without using the privileges of their order, that they render it difficult for others to assume them. Mind, I do not say either honesty or humility are bad things even in the highest classes, but I do say they ought not to be expected if inconvenient, which must be the case some times with some people; otherwise, as the great radical poet very justly observes,
'That if you have not got a very high rental,
’Tis hardly worth while to be very high born.'
Remember, however, in any future conversation you may happen to hold with Count Riccardini, never to induce him to suppose I question any of his silly and stupid dogmas. We ought to make allowances for foreigners; and, talk as he may, in person and manners he will always be très distingué, as you must perceive. Tell my page to ask him to walk with you, for you look wretchedly, and to be sure you have been on your knees a long time rubbing that foot, I must say."