“Hem!” said her father. “Well, I should think it might be so; it always struck me that the prejudice must be grounded upon some absurd notion, the memory of which had passed away, while the impression remained.”
“And do you think I could do anything towards removing it? You know I am to go and wish Fred good-bye this afternoon.”
“Why, yes; you might as well try to say something cheerful, which might do away with the impression. Not that I think it will be of any use; only do not let him think it has been under discussion.”
Beatrice assented, and was silent again while they went on talking.
“Aunt Mary has held out wonderfully?” said her mother.
“Too wonderfully,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “in a way which I fear will cost her dearly. I have been positively longing to see her give way as she ought to have done under the fatigue; and now I am afraid of the old complaint: she puts her hand to her side now and then, and I am persuaded that she had some of those spasms a night or two ago.”
“Ah!” said his wife, with great concern, “that is just what I have been dreading the whole time. When she consulted Dr. ——, how strongly he forbade her to use any kind of exertion. Why would you not let me come? I assure you it was all I could do to keep myself from setting off.”
“It was very well behaved in you, indeed, Beatrice,” said he, smiling; “a sacrifice which very few husbands would have had resolution either to make themselves, or to ask of their wives. I thanked you greatly when I did not see you.”
“But why would you not have me? Do you not repent it now?”
“Not in the least. Fred would let no one come near him but his mother and me; you could not have saved either of us an hour’s nursing then, whereas now you can keep Fred in order, and take care of Mary, if she will suffer it, and that she will do better from you than from any one else.”