Lady F—— remained a few hours in London to learn the physician’s opinion of Waldie’s state, and to give notice at home of her approach. She had no rest, in town or on the road, from the visions which haunted her of what she had lately seen. Waldie’s countenance of fierce glee was for ever before her; his raised voice startled her imagination perpetually. She had no repose till her husband met her some miles from Weston, suffered her to alight at the park-gates, and invited her to wander with him to the ruin, and through the autumnal woods, to her beloved seat beside the stream that fed the lake. Refreshed and composed, she joined her guests at the dinner table, and was warmly welcomed back again: not the less so for no one but the earl and lady Frances having an idea what had caused her absence. All were ready with that delicate homage which may be supposed to have been as gratifying in its way to Letitia as it is to many who relish a grosser flattery than she would ever endure. All were ready with tidings of her protegés, from pheasants to men and women. One could assure her that a very favourite plant had not suffered from the frosts of the night after she left Weston. Another had tasted the cream of her dairy; a third admired her bantams; a fourth amused himself with Nanny White; a fifth conversed with the old sexton; and lady Frances herself condescended to hope that that good girl, Thérèse, had not been left behind in London. She was such a treasure! Thereby hung a confession, afterwards given in private, that Philips was really very much spoiled, and becoming a great trouble. Her manners were anything but improved, to say nothing of her temper. Miss Falconbridge, whom she knew to be as intimate as a sister with lady Frances, had taken a fancy to lady Frances’s style of hair; and as the easiest way of gratifying her, lady Frances had ordered Philips to dress Miss Falconbridge’s hair the day before; whereupon Philips sent word through Miss Falconbridge’s maid that she must beg to decline the honour! Lady Frances had insisted, and her maid in some sort obeyed: but never was anything seen so absurd as the young lady’s head. What was lady Frances to do? To part with Philips was altogether impossible; and to bear with her now was scarcely less so. Letitia could not answer for what she should do if compelled to retain such a person as Philips: she could only appeal to her own management of Thérèse as a proof of how easy a matter it is to make a valuable friend out of a hired attendant.
“O yes! by taking the trouble of educating her, no doubt. But that is a task I could not submit to. That reminds me—how does Thérèse get on with politics? I remember her one day, so eloquent about the revolution her father remembers, and the prospect of another revolution, and the glory of having seen Lafayette.”
“She knows more than she would probably have learned in the very heart of Paris. She has left off assuring me that all the kings of France have been royalists.”
“I suppose it is for the sake of keeping her innocent of some things which lady’s maids learn soon enough that you let her read and talk politics as she does?”
“Partly; and partly with a more direct view to my own interest. It will be of very great consequence to me that she should be, not only pure in her conduct, but well educated up to as high a point as I can carry her.”
“Ah! you mean for the sake of your little heir. I see Thérèse is as busy about the preparations as if she had taken her office upon her already. But you began your care of Thérèse from the day you knew her, she tells me.”
“I did; and so I should do still, if there were no heir in prospect. Should I be justified, think you, in placing any one where I myself order the circumstances which are to form her character, and at the same time neglecting to order those circumstances well?—It is perfectly true that, in engaging servants, we undertake a great task. In the case of Thérèse, however, the task has been all pleasure.”
“Well, for your reward, I suppose you will keep her always. You will not let her marry, I conclude; or, if she marries, will insist on her remaining with you. It would be too hard to lose all your pains.”
“Whenever Thérèse loves,—and I think I can trust her to commit no folly with that sound heart of hers,—she shall marry; and she shall enter upon her new state as I entered upon mine, with the view of being all and doing all for society of which that state admits. This may best be done by being wholly her husband’s, and a fixture in his home. I shall surrender my part in her on her marriage day.”
“By which, I suppose, you hope to retain at least half her heart, if none of her services. But, my dear, what a prospect for you!”