"Here I am, my love. What has discomposed you? I am afraid you are feverish." Mr. Boscawen seated himself in the nurse's chair, and felt Isabel's pulse; he looked very grave. "My dear Isabel, this pulse won't do. Nurse, what has caused this fever?"
"Tabitha won't let me dress my child, Mr. Boscawen," sobbed Isabel, clasping her hands, and looking heart-broken.
"Give your mistress her child, nurse. My dear Isabel, you shall dress it whenever you please. Dress it now, my love, and let me see how maternally you can handle your infant." Mr. Boscawen took his boy from the nurse, and placed it in Isabel's arms. Delighted with the action, and feeling the kindness of her husband's manner, Isabel almost involuntarily kissed Mr. Boscawen's hand.
"Oh! brother, you are very wrong," exclaimed Miss Boscawen, looking anxiously at Isabel, whose delight was unbounded.
"A mother is performing a laudable and pleasing duty, Tabitha, when she nurses and fondles her child."
"Ah! but, brother, you are very wrong. Sister will be quite low and ill this evening. I foretold that cream business, brother."
What could Miss Boscawen do? Isabel continued to play with her child, and her brother authorised the deed; nay, he was watching his wife's movements with earnest and pleased attention. Her authority was of no avail, since her brother sanctioned such very improper exertions; she could only sigh, and resign herself to her own duties—the worsted frame, and ordering dinner.
Miss Boscawen had a kind heart; her own dictations were prompted by good-will to others, and a desire to give pleasure, but then those pleasures must proceed from herself. She loved Isabel, and watched carefully over her health; but Isabel must not think for herself; every idea must originate from Miss Boscawen, otherwise it could not be wisely carried into effect; it could not even be wisely planned, if Miss Boscawen had not been a party in its formation. This was irritating and vexatious. Christobelle was under many obligations to Miss Boscawen, and loved her, when circumstances did not bring her into contact with Isabel. She very patiently undertook to teach her all kinds and varieties of work. She learned all the worsted stitches, and could assist her in sorting colours very ably. Miss Boscawen protested always against idleness in young people, and loved to see Christobelle employed in reading, or, practising under her tuition, the tasteful arts of tatting, embroidery, and fancy-work. Miss Boscawen and Christobelle were very good friends; and she often drew her attention from Isabel, and prevented sundry visits to her sister's room, which would have terminated in mutual annoyance.
Christobelle had been a fortnight at Brierly, when a letter from Lady Wetheral threw her into consternation. It was a great honour to be noticed by her mother, but its contents were astounding.
"Dear Bell,
"You must make up your mind to return home, and be useful in spite of your stupidity, for I can't be left without a companion. Your father alarms me to death with his violence; and as to Clara, she has every excuse for the step she has taken. You know poor Clara and Sir Foster were very much attached, and it was tyranny to separate them. Nothing would serve your father but breaking off their engagement, so Clara ran away with Kerrison the day you quitted Wetheral. I declare I knew nothing about Clara's intention, for your sister always did as she pleased, without consulting me. However, she is Lady Kerrison now, and mistress of Ripley, which I always particularly wished might be her destiny.
"Your father has been ill, and confined some days to his room; but, I confess, I never was better, or more satisfied with the contemplation