“My dear child,” said Mrs. Chick, who held it as a duty incumbent on her, to improve the occasion, “when you are as old as I am—”
“Which will be the prime of life,” observed Miss Tox.
“You will then,” pursued Mrs. Chick, gently squeezing Miss Tox’s hand in acknowledgment of her friendly remark, “you will then know that all grief is unavailing, and that it is our duty to submit.”
“I will try, dear aunt I do try,” answered Florence, sobbing.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Chick, “because, my love, as our dear Miss Tox—of whose sound sense and excellent judgment, there cannot possibly be two opinions—”
“My dear Louisa, I shall really be proud, soon,” said Miss Tox.
“—will tell you, and confirm by her experience,” pursued Mrs. Chick, “we are called upon on all occasions to make an effort It is required of us. If any—my dear,” turning to Miss Tox, “I want a word. Mis—Mis—”
“Demeanour?” suggested Miss Tox.
“No, no, no,” said Mrs. Chic “How can you! Goodness me, it’s on, the end of my tongue. Mis—”
“Placed affection?” suggested Miss Tox, timidly.
“Good gracious, Lucretia!” returned Mrs. Chick “How very monstrous! Misanthrope, is the word I want. The idea! Misplaced affection! I say, if any misanthrope were to put, in my presence, the question ‘Why were we born?’ I should reply, ‘To make an effort.’ ”
“Very good indeed,” said Miss Tox, much impressed by the originality of the sentiment. “Very good.”
“Unhappily,” pursued Mrs. Chick, “we have a warning under our own eyes. We have but too much reason to suppose, my dear child, that if an effort had been made in time, in this family, a train of the most trying and distressing circumstances might have been avoided. Nothing shall ever persuade me,” observed the good matron, with a resolute air, “but that if that effort had been made by poor dear Fanny, the poor dear darling child would at least have had a stronger constitution.”
Mrs. Chick abandoned herself to her feelings for half a moment; but, as a practical illustration of her doctrine, brought herself up short, in the middle of a sob, and went on again.
“Therefore, Florence, pray let us see that you have some strength of mind, and do not selfishly aggravate the distress in which your poor Papa is plunged.”
“Dear aunt!” said Florence, kneeling quickly down before her, that she might the better and more earnestly look into her face. “Tell me more about Papa. Pray tell me about him! Is he quite heartbroken?”
Miss Tox was of a tender nature, and there was something in this appeal that moved her very much. Whether she saw it in a succession, on the part of the neglected child, to the affectionate concern so often expressed by her dead brother—or a love that sought to twine itself about the heart that had loved him, and that could not bear to be shut out from sympathy with such a sorrow, in such sad community of love and grief—or whether she only recognised the earnest and devoted spirit which, although discarded and repulsed, was wrung with tenderness long unreturned, and in the waste and solitude of this bereavement cried to him to seek a comfort in it, and to give some, by some small response—whatever may have been her understanding of it, it moved Miss Tox. For the moment she forgot the majesty of Mrs. Chick, and, patting Florence hastily on the cheek, turned aside and suffered the tears to gush from her eyes, without waiting for a lead from that wise matron.
Mrs. Chick herself lost, for a moment, the presence of mind on which she so much prided herself; and remained mute, looking on the beautiful young face that had so long, so steadily, and patiently, been turned towards the little bed. But recovering her voice—which was synonymous with her presence of mind, indeed they were one and the same thing—she replied with dignity:
“Florence, my dear child, your poor Papa is peculiar at times; and to question me about him, is to question me upon a subject which I really do not pretend to understand. I believe I have as much influence with your Papa as anybody has. Still, all I can say is, that he has said very little to me; and that I have only seen him once or twice for a minute at a time, and indeed have hardly seen him then, for his room has been dark. I have said to your Papa, ‘Paul!’—that is the exact expression I used—‘Paul! why do you not take something stimulating?’ Your Papa’s reply has always been, ‘Louisa, have the goodness to leave me. I want nothing. I am better by myself.’ If I was to be put upon my oath tomorrow, Lucretia, before a magistrate,” said Mrs. Chick, “I have no doubt I could venture to swear to those identical words.”
Miss Tox expressed her admiration by saying, “My Louisa is ever methodical!”
“In short, Florence,” resumed her aunt, “literally nothing has passed between your poor Papa and myself, until today; when I mentioned to your Papa that Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles had written exceedingly kind notes—our sweet boy! Lady Skettles loved him like a—where’s my pocket handkerchief?”
Miss Tox produced one.
“Exceedingly kind notes, proposing that you should visit them for change of scene. Mentioning to your Papa that I thought Miss Tox and myself might now go home (in which he quite agreed), I inquired if he had any objection to your accepting this invitation. He said, ‘No, Louisa, not the least!’ ”
Florence raised her tearful eye.
“At the same time, if you would prefer staying here, Florence, to paying this visit at present, or to going home with me—”
“I should much prefer it, aunt,” was the faint rejoinder.
“Why then, child,” said Mrs. Chick, “you can. It’s a strange choice, I must say. But you always were strange. Anybody else at your time of life, and after what has passed—my dear
