I told you a few pages back, that I was so cruel as to rejoice in my aunt's being rendered unable to write, by a violent inflammation in the eyes; but as that did not deprive her of locomotion, most unexpectedly one day, Mr. and Mrs. Pendarves drove up to my mother's door, and soon after she accompanied them to our house. I was dressing when they arrived, and I saw myself change even to alarming paleness when my mother came up to announce them. I also saw she was as much disconcerted as I was.
"Oh! if my dear uncle had but come alone," said she, "the visit would have been delightful!" But, here we were interrupted by Pendarves, who came in with "So, Helen! I suppose you know who is come. Oh! that one could but transfer the disease from the eyes to the tongue, and bandage that up instead of the former! What shall we do? For, probably, as she can't use her eyes, she makes her tongue work double tide."
"Suppose," replied I, "we bribe our surgeon to assure her that entire silence is the only cure for inflamed eyes?"
"The best thing we can do," observed my mother, "is to bear with fortitude this unavoidable evil; and also to try to remember her virtues more than her faults."
When I went down, I found my mother admiring her beaver hat and feathers.
"Yes," she replied, "I think my beaver very pretty. What is it the mad poet says about 'my beaver?' Oh! I have it—
| 'When glory like a plume of feathers stood |
| Perched on my beaver in the briny flood.'" |
"Do you then bathe in the sea with your beaver on?" said my mother.
"Well! there's a question for a sensible woman!" cried my aunt, not seeing the sarcasm: then turning to me, she welcomed me with a cordial kiss; but I was struck by the great coldness with which she greeted Seymour.
My uncle, however, received us both with the kindest manner possible.