“And do, mother, or some of ye, come out into the garden, and see the bed that I’ve dug, with my own hands, for my radishes—I’m as hot as fire, I know,” said Herbert, pushing his hat back from his forehead.
“Oh! don’t come near me with the watering-pot in your hand,” said Mrs. Harcourt, shrinking back, and looking at Herbert’s hands, which were not as white as her own.
“The carriage is but just come to the door, ma’am,” said Isabella, who next appeared in the hall; “I only want you for one instant, to show you something that is to hang up in your dressing-room, when I have finished it, mamma; it is really beautiful.”
“Well, don’t keep me long,” said Mrs. Harcourt, “for, indeed, I am too late already.”
“Oh, no! indeed you will not be too late, mamma—only look at my basket,” said Favoretta, gently pulling her mother by the hand into the parlour.—Isabella pointed to her silk globe, which was suspended in the window, and, taking up her camel-hair pencil, cried, “Only look, ma’am, how nicely I have traced the Rhine, the Po, the Elbe, and the Danube; you see I have not finished Europe; it will be quite another looking thing, when Asia, Africa, and America are done, and when the colours are quite dry.”
“Now, Isabella, pray let her look at my basket,” cried the eager Favoretta, holding up the scarcely begun basket—“I will do a row, to show you how it is done;” and the little girl, with busy fingers, began to weave. The ingenious and delicate appearance of the work, and the happy countenance of the little workwoman, fixed the mother’s pleased attention, and she, for a moment, forgot that her carriage was waiting.
“The carriage is at the door, ma’am,” said the footman.
“I must be gone!” cried Mrs. Harcourt, starting from her reverie. “What am I doing here? I ought to have been away this half-hour—Matilda!—why is not she amongst you?”
Matilda, apart from the busy company, was reading with so much earnestness, that her mother called twice before she looked up.
“How happy you all look,” continued Mrs. Harcourt; “and I am going to one of those terrible great dinners—I shan’t eat one morsel; then cards all night, which I hate as much as you do, Isabella—pity me, Mad. de Rosier!—Good bye, happy creatures!”—and with some real and some affected reluctance, Mrs. Harcourt departed.