“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?”