The Grand Sophy

Chapter 14

THE NOTION of writing a tragedy having taken possession of Mr. Fawnhope’s mind, he appeared to remove from it any immediate plan for seeking remunerative employment. On several occasions he arrived in Berkeley Square quite impervious to Mr. Rivenhall’s brutal snubs, carrying his pocket the latest installment of his play, which he read to Cecilia and to Sophy, and once even to Lady Ombersley who complained afterward that she had not understood a word of it. He seemed to spend a good many afternoons at Merton as well, but when Sophy questioned him about Sancia’s other guests he could never remember with any clarity who had been present. But Sir Vincent, when he came to call in Berkeley Square, made no secret of the fact that he was very often at Merton. Sophy, a blunt creature, told him roundly that she mistrusted him and would thank him to remember that Sancia was betrothed to Sir Horace.

Sir Vincent laughed gently, and pinched her chin, holding it an instant too long and tilting up her face. “Will you, Sophy?” he said, quizzing her. “But when I offered to run in your harness you would have none of me! Be reasonable, Juno! If you reject me, you cannot expect me to respond docilely to your hand on my rein!”

She put up her hand to grasp his wrist. “Sir Vincent, you shall not serve Sir Horace a backhanded turn!” she said.

“Why not?” he asked coolly. “Do you think he would not do the same to me? You are such a splendid innocent, adorable Juno!”

Since Mr. Rivenhall chose this inauspicious moment to come into the drawing room, Sophy was unable to say more. Without embarrassment, Sir Vincent released her and moved forward to greet his host. His reception was frosty; he was given no encouragement to prolong his visit; and no sooner had he taken leave and departed than Mr. Rivenhall gave his cousin, without reserve, the benefit of his opinion of her behavior in encouraging a notorious rake to practice familiarities with her.

Sophy listened to him with an air of great interest, but if he had hoped to abash her he was disappointed, for all she said in reply was, “I think your scolds are capital, Charles, for you are never at a loss for a word! But would you call me an incorrigible flirt?”

“Yes, I would! You encourage every scarlet coat you have ever met to haunt the house! You set the town talking with your shameless conduct in keeping Charlbury dangling after you, and not content with that, you allow a fellow like Talgarth to behave to you as though you had been an inn servant!”

She opened her eyes at him. “Charles! Is that what you do? Pinch their chins? Well, I was never more astonished! I don’t think you should!”

“Don’t try my temper too far, Sophy!” he said dangerously. “If you knew how my hands itch to box your ears, you would take care!”

“Oh, I am sure you never would!” she said, smiling. “You know Sir Horace did not teach me how to box and how unfair it would be! Besides, why should you care a button what I do? I am not one of your sisters!”

“Thank God for it!”

“Yes, indeed, for you are the horridest brother, you know! Do stop making a cake of yourself! Sir Vincent is a sad case, but he would never do me any harm, I assure you. That would be quite against his code, for he knew me when I ‘ was a little girl, and he is a friend of Sir Horace’s. I must say, he is the oddest creature! Sancia, it is perfectly plain, he does not hold to be in the least sacred.” Her brow creased. “I am much afraid of what he may do in that direction. I wonder if I ought to say I will marry him after all?”

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Rivenhall. “Marry that fellow? Not while you are under this roof!”

“Yes, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps I owe it to Sir Horace,” she explained. “I own, it would be a sacrifice, but I am sure he trusts me to take care of Sancia while he is away, and I don’t at all perceive how I am to prevent Vincent from stealing her affections, unless I marry him self. He has so much address, you know!”

“You appear to me,” said Mr. Rivenhall scathingly, have taken leave of your senses! You will scarcely expect to believe that you would entertain the thought of m with that man!”

“But, Charles, I find you most unreasonable!” she pointed out. “Not a week ago you said that the sooner I was ma: and out of this house the better pleased you would but when I said perhaps I might marry Charlbury you flew into a passion, and now you will not hear of poor Sir Vincent; either!”

Mr. Rivenhall made no attempt to answer this. He merely cast a darkling glance at his cousin, and said, “Only one thing could surprise me, and that would be to learn that Talgarth had offered for you!”

“Well, you must be surprised,” said Sophy placidly, “because he has done so a score of times. It is become a habit with him, I think. But I know what you mean, and you are right; he would be very much disconcerted if I took him at his word. I might, of course, become engaged to him, and cry off when Sir Horace returns, but it seems rather a shabby thing to do, don’t you think?”

“Extremely so!”

She sighed. “Yes, and he is so clever that I daresay he would guess what I was about. I might, I suppose, remove to Merton, and that would certainly make it awkward for Sir Vincent. But Sancia would not like that at all, I fear.”

“She has my sympathy!”

Sophy looked at him. Under his amazed and horrified gaze, large tears slowly welled over her eyelids and rolled down her cheeks. She did not sniff, or gulp, or even sob; merely she allowed her tears to gather and fall.

“Sophy!” ejaculated Mr. Rivenhall, visibly shaken. He took an involuntary step toward her, checked himself, and said rather disjointedly, “Pray do not! I did not mean — I had no intention — You know how it is with me! I say more than I mean, when — Sophy, for God’s sake do not cry!”

“Oh, do not stop me!” begged Sophy. “Sir Horace says it is my only accomplishment!”

Mr. Rivenhall glared at her. “What?”

“Very few persons are able to do it,” Sophy assured him. “I discovered it by the veriest accident when I was only ten years old. Sir Horace said I should cultivate it, for I should find it most useful.”

‘You — you — ” Words failed Mr. Rivenhall. “Stop at once!”

“Oh, I have stopped!” said Sophy, carefully wiping the drops away. “I cannot continue if I don’t keep sad thoughts in my mind, such as you saying unkind things to me, or — ”

“I do not believe you felt the slightest inclination to cry!” declared Mr. Rivenhall roundly. “You did it only to set me at a disadvantage! You are, without exception, the most abominable, shameless — Don’t start again!”

She laughed. “Very well, but if I am so horrid, perhaps it would be better for me to go to stay with Sancia.”

“Understand this!” said Mr. Rivenhall. “My uncle left you expressly to my mother’s care, and in this house you will remain until such time as he returns to England! As for these nonsensical notions about the Marquesa, you are not to be held responsible for anything she may choose to do!”

“Where the well-being of the persons to whom one is attached is concerned, one cannot say that one is not responsible,” said Sophy simply. “One should make a push to be of service. Yet I do not perceive what I should do in this event. I wish it had been possible for Sancia to have stayed in Sir Horace’s own house!”

“At Ashtead? How should that serve?”

“It is not so near to town,” she pointed out.

“Sixteen or seventeen miles only, I daresay!”

“More than twice as far away as Merton, however, But it is useless to repine over that. Sir Horace says the place is in disrepair, quite unfit to live in. He means to set it all to rights when he comes back to England — I only wish it may not be too late!”

“Why should it be too late?” asked Mr. Rivenhall, willfully misunderstanding her. “I assume Lacy Manor does not stand entirely empty! Does not my uncle leave some servants in charge?”

“Only the Claverings, and, I suppose, a man to look after the gardens and the farm. But that, you know very well, is not what I meant!”

“If you take my advice,” said Mr. Rivenhall, “you will not meddle in the Marquesa’s affairs!” He added caustically, “Or in anyone else’s! And spare yourself the trouble of telling me that you do not mean to take my advice, for that I know already!”

Sophy folded her hands in her lap and began to twiddle her thumbs, so absurd an expression of docility on her face that he was obliged to smile.

But as the season advanced he smiled less and less frequently. Since she had not yet been presented at Court, Sophy was not invited to the Regent’s grand fete at Carlton House, but there was scarcely another society event which she did not grace. In honor bound, Mr. Rivenhall accompanied his mother and her two charges to many of these functions, but as he was obliged to spend a considerable part of his time watching his sister dancing with Mr. Fawnhope and his cousin flirting outrageously with Charlbury, it was scarcely surprising that he should have been goaded into saying that he would be thankful when July saw the Ombersley household safely bestowed at Ombersley Court. He also expressed the wish that Sophy would choose between her various suitors, so that he might one day return to a house empty of visitors. Miss Wraxton said hopefully that perhaps Sir Horace would not be much longer absent from England, but as the one letter so far received from this erratic gentleman had not mentioned any prospect of a speedy return from Brazil, he was unable to set much store by this.

“If,” said Miss Wraxton, casting down her eyes in pretty bashfulness, “she should still be with dear Lady Ombersley in September, Charles, I think I must beg her to be one of my bridesmaids. It would be only civil!”

He agreed to it, but only after a moment’s pause. “I trust that by then my uncle may have returned. God knows what mischief she will find to plague me — us — with at Ombersley, but no doubt she will discover something!”

But when July came there was no question of Ombersley. Mr. Rivenhall, fulfilling an old promise, took his three younger sister to Astley’s Amphitheatre, to celebrate Gertrude’s birthday, and within a week of this dissipation Dr. Baillie had been called in to prescribe for Amabel.

She had begun to show signs of ill health almost at once, and although the doctor repeatedly assured Mr. Rivenhall later that there was no saying where she might have contracted fever, he continued obstinately to blame himself. It was evident that the little girl was very ill, her head aching continually, her feverishness increasing alarmingly at night.

The dread specter of typhus raised its head, and not all Dr. Baillie’s assurances that Amabel’s complaint was a milder form of this scourge, neither so infectious nor so dangerous, could allay Lady Ombersley’s fears. Miss Adderbury, with Selina and Gertrude, was sent off incontinent to Ombersley; and Hubert, staying for the first few weeks of the long vacation with relatives in Yorkshire, warned ,by express not to venture near Berkeley Square until all danger should be past.

Lady Ombersley would have banished Cecilia and Sophy too could she have prevailed upon either of them to have listened to her prayers, but they were adamant. Sophy said that she had had much experience of far deadlier fevers than Amabel’s and had never yet caught any worse infection than the measles; and Cecilia, hanging affectionately over her mother, told her that nothing short of force would detach her from her side. Poor Lady Ombersley could only cling to her and weep. Her constitution was not strong enough to enable her to support with fortitude the illnesses of her children. With all the wish in the world to tend Amabel with her own hands, she could not bear the sight of the child’s discomfort. Her sensibility overcame her resolution; the very sight of the hectic flush on Amabel’s cheeks brought on one of her worst spasms, so that Cecilia had to help her from the sickroom to her own bed, and to send her maid to beg Dr. Baillie to visit her before he should leave the house.

Lady Ombersley could not forget the tragic death, under similar circumstances, of the little daughter who had followed Maria into the world, and from the start of Amabel’s illness abandoned hope of her recovery. It was felt to be unfortunate that Mr. Rivenhall should also have gone to stay with his aunt in Yorkshire, for his presence always exercised a calming effect upon his mother in times of stress; and Amabel, as the fever waxed, often cried for Charles to come to her. It was hoped that a man’s voice might soothe her, so her father was introduced into her room, and tried clumsily to coax her into rationality. He was not afraid of infection, the doctor having told him that it was rare for an adult person to contract the disease, but although he was much affected by the sight of his little daughter’s condition, he had never paid much attention to his children and now failed to quiet her. Indeed, his tears flowed so freely that he was obliged to leave the room. Dr. Baillie, dubiously eyeing old Nurse, shook his head, and sent Mrs. Pebworth to Berkeley Square.

Mrs. Pebworth, a voluminous female, with a watery eye and a mountainous bonnet, smiled fondly upon the two young ladies who received her, and bade them, in a husky voice, to have no fears, since the little dear would be safe in her charge. Within twelve hours of her arrival, she was addressing, vituperative remarks to the closed door of the mansion, having been, at the orders of Miss Stanton-Lacy, shown off the premises by the redoubtable Jane Storridge. A nurse, Sophy bluntly informed Dr. Baillie, who refreshed herself continually from a square bottle and slept the night through in a chair by the fire while her patient tossed and moaned, they could well dispense with. So, when Mr. Rivenhall, posting south immediately on receipt of the tidings from London, arrived in Berkeley Square, it was to find his mother suffering from nervous palpitations, his father seeking relief at White’s or Wattier’s, his sister snatching an hour’s sleep on her bed, and his cousin in command of the sickroom.

When trouble descended upon the household, Lady Ombersley forgot all Charles’s disagreeable ways and was much inclined to think him her only support. Her joy at seeing him walk into her dressing room was only allayed by her fear that he might catch the typhus. She was reclining on the sofa but heaved herself up to cast her arms about his neck, exclaiming, “Charles! Oh, my dear son, thank God you are come! It is so terrible, and I know she will be taken from me like my poor little Clara!”

A burst of tears ended this speech, and for some minutes he was fully occupied in soothing the agitation of her spirits. When she was calmer, he ventured to question her on the nature of Amabel’s complaint. Her replies were disjointed, but she said enough to convince him that the case was desperate, and the illness contracted perhaps at Astley’s Amphitheatre. He was so much appalled that he could say nothing for several moments but got up abruptly from the chair by the sofa and strode over to stare out of the window. His mother, wiping her eyes, said, “If only I were not so wretchedly weak! You know, Charles, how I must long to be beside my child! But the sight of her, so wasted, so flushed, brings on my worst palpitations, and if she recognizes me at all she cannot help but be distressed! They will scarcely allow me to enter the room!”

“It is not fit for you,” he said mechanically. “Who nurses her? Is Addy here?”

“No, no, Dr. Baillie thought it wiser to send the other children off to Ombersley. He sent us a dreadful creature — at least, I never saw her, but Cecilia said she was a drunken wretch — and Sophy sent her packing. Old Nurse is in charge, and you know how she is to be trusted! And the girls help her, so that Dr. Baillie assures me I need feel no uneasiness on that head. He says that dearest Sophy is a capital sick nurse and that the disease is running its proper course, but oh, Charles, I cannot persuade myself that she will be spared!” He came back to her side at once and devoted himself to the task of comforting her alarms with more patience than might have been expected in one of his hasty temper. When he could escape, he did so, and went upstairs to find his sister. She had just got up from her bed and was coming out of her room as he reached the landing. She was looking pale and tired, but her face lit up at sight of him, and she exclaimed in a hushed voice, “Charles! I knew we might depend upon your coming! Have you been to my mother? She has felt the need of your presence so much!”

“I have this instant come from her dressing room. Cilly, Cilly, she tells me Amabel began to ail within a few days of that accursed evening at Astley’s!”

“Hush! Come into my room! Amabel is in the blue spare room, and you must not talk so loud just here! We thought that too, but Dr. Baillie says it could hardly be so. Recollect that the other two are well! Addy sent up word only yesterday.” She softly closed the door of her bedroom. “I must not stay above a minute. Mama will be needing me.”

“My poor girl, you look fagged to death!”

“No, no, I am not! Why, there is hardly anything that I do, so that it chafes me dreadfully sometimes, when I see Sophy and that good, kind maid of hers carrying all the burden on their shoulders! For Nurse is growing too old to be able to manage, you know, and it affects her sadly to see poor little Amabel so uncomfortable. But if one of us is not continually with Mama she frets herself into one of her spasms — you know her way! But now you are here you will relieve me of that duty!” She smiled, and pressed his hand. “I never thought to be so glad to see anyone! Amabel too! She so often calls for you, and wonders where you can be! If I had not known that you would come, I must have sent for you! You are not afraid of infection?”

He made an impatient gesture.

“No, I was sure you would not think of that. Sophy is out walking. Dr. Baillie impresses on us the need for exercise in the fresh air, and we are very obedient, I assure you! Nurse sits with Amabel during the afternoon.”

“May I see her? It would not agitate her?”

“No, indeed! It must soothe her, I believe. If she is awake, and — and herself. Would you care to come to her room now? You will find her wretchedly altered, poor little thing!”

She led him to the sickroom and went softly in. Amabel was restless and very hot, fretfully rejecting any suggestions for her relief, but when she saw her favorite brother, her heavy eyes brightened perceptibly, and a faint smile came into her little flushed face. She held out her hand, and he took it, and spoke gently and cheerfully to her, in a way that seemed to do her good. She did not wish to let him go, but at a sign from Cecilia he disengaged his hand from the feeble clutch on it, promising to come back again presently if Amabel would be a good girl and swallow the medicine Nurse had ready for her.

He was a good deal shocked by her appearance and found it difficult to believe Cecilia’s assurance that when the fever had passed the patient would speedily recover her lost weight. Nor could he feel that old Nurse was competent to have the command of a sickroom. Cecilia agreed to this, but comforted him by saying that it was Sophy who was in command.

“Dr. Baillie says that no one could manage better, and, indeed, Charles, you would not doubt it could you but see how good Amabel is with her! She has such resolution, such firmness! Poor Nurse does not like to force the little dear to do what she does not wish to, and then, too, she has old-fashioned notions that will not do for Dr. Baillie. But our cousin, he says, may be trusted to obey his directions implicitly. Oh, you could not wrest her away from Amabel! It would be fatal, for she frets if Sophy is too long absent from her room.”

“We are very much obliged to Sophy,” he said. “But it is not right that she should be doing such work! Setting aside the risk of infection, she did not come to us to act as sick nurse!”

“No,” Cecilia said. “She did not, of course, but — but — I don’t know how it is, but she seems to be so much a part of our family that one does not consider such things as that!”

He was silent, and she left him, saying that she must go to their mother. When, later, he saw Sophy and attempted to remonstrate with her, she cut him very short.

“I am delighted you are come home, my dear Charles, for nothing could do Amabel more good. Your poor mama, too, needs the support of your presence. But if you mean to talk in that nonsensical style I shall soon be wishing you a thousand miles off!”

“You have your own engagements,” he persisted. “I daresay I must have seen as many as a dozen cards of invitation on the mantelpiece in the Yellow Saloon! I cannot think it right that you should forgo all your amusements for the sake of my little sister!”

Her eyes laughed at him. “No, indeed! What a shocking thing that I should be obliged to forgo a few balls! How shall I survive it, I wonder? How delightful it would be in me to be demanding my aunt’s chaperonage at parties with the house, in this upset! Now, pray do not let me hear anymore on this head, but instead of vexing yourself with such absurdities, try what you may do to divert my aunt’s mind! You know her nervous disposition and how the least thing upsets her constitution! The charge of keeping her soothed and calm falls wholly upon poor Cecy, for your papa, if you will not be offended with me for saying so, is not of the smallest use in such a crisis as this!”

“I know it,” he responded. “I will do what I may. I can well imagine how arduous a task Cecilia finds it. Indeed, I was shocked to see her looking so fagged!” He hesitated, and said, a little stiffly, “Miss Wraxton, perhaps might be of service there. I would not suggest her entering Amabel’s room, but I am sure if she would sit with my mother sometimes it must be of benefit! The tone of her mind is such that — ” He broke off, perceiving a change in his cousin’s expression, and said with some asperity, “I am aware that you dislike Miss Wraxton, but even you will allow that her calm good sense must be of value in this predicament!”

“My dear Charles, do not eat me! I have no doubt it is just as you say!” Sophy replied. “Try if she will come to this house!”

More she would not say, but it was not long before Mr. Rivenhall had discovered that his betrothed, while sympathizing most sincerely with his family on their affliction, had no intention of exposing her person to the dangers of infection. She told him, clasping his hand fondly, that her mama had most expressly forbidden her to enter the house until all danger should be past. It was true. Lady Brinklow herself told Mr. Rivenhall so. Upon learning that he had had the imprudence to visit Amabel, she became visible alarmed and begged him not to repeat the visit. Miss Wraxton added the weight of her own counsel. “Indeed, Charles, it is not wise! There can be no need for you to run such a risk, moreover. Gentlemen in sickrooms are quite out of place!”

“Are you afraid that I may take the disease and convey it to you?” he asked, in his blunt way. “I beg your pardon! I should not have come to call upon you! I will not do so again until Amabel is well.” Lady Brinklow hailed this decision with obvious relief, but it was going too far for her daughter, who at once assured Mr. Rivenhall that he was talking nonsense and must always be a welcome caller in Brook Street. He thanked her but took his leave of her almost immediately.

His opinion of her was not improved by finding, upon his return to Berkeley Square, that Lord Charlbury was sitting with his mother. It soon transpired that he was a regular visitor to the house, and, whatever his motive might be, Mr. Rivenhall could not but honor him for his indifference to the danger of infection.

Another regular caller was Mr. Fawnhope, but since his only object in coming was to see Cecilia, Mr. Rivenhall was easily able to refrain from succumbing to any feelings of gratitude toward him for his intrepid visits. But Cecilia was looking so worn and anxious that, with rare restraint, he curbed his bitter tongue, and made no reference whatsoever to her lover’s frequent presence in the house.

Had he but known it, Mr. Fawnhope’s visits were affording Cecilia quite as little pleasure as he could have desired. It was midway through the second week of Amabel’s illness, and that she was very seriously unwell Dr. Baillie did not waste his time denying to her nurses. Cecilia had no inclination toward any form of dalliance and no interest in poetic drama. She carried up to the sickroom a remarkably fine bunch of grapes, saying in a low tone to Sophy that Lord Charlbury had brought them for Amabel, having sent all the way to his country seat for them. He was said to possess some of the finest succession houses in the country, besides a pinery which, he promised, should yield the best of its fruits to Amabel, as soon as they should become ripe enough to be eaten.

“How very kind!” said Sophy, setting the dish upon a table. “I did not know Charlbury had called. I had thought it was Augustus.”

“They were both here,” Cecilia replied. “Augustus wished to give me a poem he has written on a sick child.”

Her tone was noncommittal. Sophy said, “Dear me! I mean, how charming! Was it pretty?”

“I daresay it may have been. I find I do not care for poems on such a subject,” Cecilia said quietly.

Sophy said nothing. After a moment, Cecilia added, “Although it was impossible for me to return Lord Charlbury’s regard, I must always be sensible of the delicacy of his behavior and the extreme kindness he has shown us in our trouble. I — I wish you may be brought to reward him, Sophy! You are in general above stairs, and so cannot know the many hours he has spent with my mother, talking to her, and playing at backgammon with her, only, I am persuaded, to relieve us a little of that duty.”

Sophy could not help smiling at this. “Not to relieve me, Cecy, for he must know that the care of my aunt does not fall upon me! If a compliment is intended, you must certainly take it to yourself.”

“No, no, it is mere goodness of heart! That he has an ulterior motive I will not credit.” She smiled, and added quizzingly, “I could wish that your other beau would do half as much!”

“Bromford? Do “not tell me he has ventured within a hundred paces of the house! I should certainly not believe you!”

“No, indeed! And I have it from Charles that he avoids him as though he, too, were infected. Charles makes a jest of it, but Eugenia’s conduct he does not mention.”

“It would be too much to expect of him.”

A movement from the bed put an end to the conversation, nor was the subject again referred to by the cousins. Amabel’s illness, reaching its climax, banished all other thoughts from their heads. For several days, the gravest fears possessed the minds of all those who continually saw the invalid; and old Nurse, obstinately refusing to believe in newfangled diseases, brought on one of Lady Ombersley’s worst attacks of nervous spasms by confiding in her that she had recognized the complaint from the start as being typhus. It took the combined exertions of Lady Ombersley’s son, daughter, and physician to disabuse her mind of this hideous conviction; while his lordship, to whom she had communicated it, sought relief in the only way that seemed to him possible, and, in consequence, not only had to be escorted home from his club, but suffered so severe a recrudescence of his gout that he was unable to leave his room for several days afterward.

But Amabel survived the crisis. The fever began to abate; and although its ravages left her listless and emaciated, Dr. Baillie was able to assure her mother that, provided that there was no relapse, he now entertained reasonable hopes of her complete recovery. He handsomely gave Sophy much of the credit for the improvement in the little girl’s condition; and Lady Ombersley, shedding tears, said that she shuddered to think where they would any of them have been without her dearest niece.

“Well, well, she is a very capable young lady, and so too is Miss Rivenhall,” said the doctor. “While they are with Miss Amabel you may be easy, ma’am!”

Mr. Fawnhope, ushered into the room five minutes later, was the first recipient of the glad tidings, and instantly dashed off a little lyric in commemoration of Amabel’s emergence from danger. Lady Ombersley thought it particularly touching and begged to be given a copy; but since it dealt more with the pretty picture of Cecilia bending over the sickbed than with Amabel’s sufferings, it quite failed to please the person for whom it was intended. With far more gratitude did Cecilia receive an exquisite bouquet of flowers brought by Lord Charlbury for her small sister. She saw him only to thank him. He did not importune her to remain in his company, but said, upon her excusing herself immediately, “Indeed I understand! I had not hoped to have been granted even a minute of your time. It was like you to have come downstairs. If only I could be sure that I have not interrupted your too hard-earned rest!”

“No, no!” she said, scarcely able to command her voice. “I was sitting with my sister, and when your flowers were brought up to her room I could not help but run down to tell you of her delight in them. Too good, too kind! Forgive me! I must not stay!”

It had been hoped that when the invalid began to mend the constant attendance on her of her sister or her cousin might become less necessary, but it was soon found that she was too weak to be patient and became fretful if left for too long in the care of Nurse or Jane Storridge. Mr. Rivenhall, softly entering the sickroom one evening shortly after midnight, was shocked to discover not Nurse but Sophy seated by the small fire that was kept burning in the grate. She was sewing by the light of a branch of candles, but she looked up when the door opened, and smiled, and laid a finger to her lips. A screen was drawn between the candles and the bed, so that Mr. Rivenhall could only dimly perceive his sister. She seemed to be sleeping. He closed the door soundlessly and trod over to the fire, whispering, “I understood Nurse was to sit up with her at night. How is this? It is not fit for you, Sophy!”

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and began to fold up her work. Nodding toward the door that stood ajar into the dressing room, she replied in a low tone, “Nurse is laid down upon the sofa there. Poor soul, she is knocked out! Amabel is very restless tonight, has been so all day. Don’t be alarmed! It is an excellent sign when a patient becomes peevish and hard to manage. But she has been so much in the habit of getting her own way with Nurse that she will not mind her as she should. Sit down. I am going to heat some milk for her to drink, and, if you will, you may coax her to do so when she wakes.”

“You must be tired to death!” he said.

“No, not at all. I was asleep all the afternoon,” she returned, setting a small saucepan on the hob. “Like the Duke, I can sleep at any hour! Poor Cecy can never get a wink during the day, so we have decided that she must not attempt to sit up at night.”

“You mean that you have decided it,” he said.

She only smiled and shook her head. He said no more but sat watching her as she knelt by the fire, her attention on the milk slowly heating on the hob. After a few minutes, Amabel began to stir. Almost before her feeble, plaintive cry of “Sophy!” had been uttered, Sophy had risen to her feet and moved to the bedside. Amabel was hot, thirsty, uncomfortable, and disinclined to believe that anything could do her good. To be raised, so that her pillows could be shaken and turned, made her cry; she wanted Sophy to bathe her forehead, but complained that the lavender water stung her eyes when she did so.

“Hush, you will shock your visitor if you cry!” Sophy said, smoothing her tangled curls. “Do you know there is a gentleman come to see you?”

“Charles?” Amabel asked, forgetting her woes for a moment.

“Yes, Charles, so you must let me tidy you a little, and straighten the sheets. There! Now, Charles, Miss Rivenhall will be pleased to receive you!”

She moved the screen, so that the candlelight fell on the bed, and nodded to Charles to sit down beside his sister. He did so, holding the claw like little hand in his and talking to the child in a cheerful way that succeeded in diverting her until Sophy brought a cup of milk to the bedside. The sight of this at once made her peevish. She wanted nothing; it would make her sick to swallow any milk; why would not Sophy leave her in peace?

“I hope you don’t mean to be so unkind as to refuse it, when I have come especially to hold the cup for you,” Charles said, taking it from his cousin. “A cup with roses on it, too! Now, where had you this? I am sure I do not recognize it!”

“Cecilia gave it to me for my very own,” Amabel replied. “But I don’t wish for any milk. It is the middle of the night, not the proper time for drinking milk!”

“I hope Charles has admired your real roses,” said Sophy, sitting down on the edge of the bed and raising Amabel to rest against her shoulder. “We are so jealous, Charles, Cecy and I! Amabel has such a fine beau that we are cast quite into the shade. Only look at the bouquet he brought her!”

“Charlbury?” he said, smiling.

“Yes, but I like your posy best,” Amabel said.

“Of course you do,” said Sophy. “So take a sip of the milk he is offering you. I must tell you that a gentleman’s feelings are very easily wounded, my dear, and that, you know, would never do!”

“Very true,” Charles corroborated. “I shall be thinking that you have a greater regard for Charlbury than for me, and that will very likely make me fall into a melancholy.”

That made her laugh weakly, and so, between nonsense and coaxing, she was persuaded to drink nearly all the milk. Sophy laid her gently down again, but nothing would do but that both Charles and Sophy should stay beside her.

“Yes, but no more talking,” Sophy said. “I am going to tell you about another of my adventures, and if you interrupt me I shall lose the thread.”

“Oh, yes, tell about the time you were lost in the Pyrenees!” begged Amabel drowsily.

Sophy did so, her voice sinking as the little girl’s eyelids began to droop. Mr. Rivenhall sat still and silent on the other side of the bed, watching his sister. Presently Amabel’s deeper breathing betrayed that she slept. Sophy’s voice ceased; she looked up and met Mr. Rivenhall’s eyes. He was staring at her, as though a thought, blinding in its novelty, had occurred to him. Her gaze remained steady, a little questioning. He rose abruptly, half stretched out his hand but let it fall again, and, turning, went quickly out of the room.