“Gracious me! I’m glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate,” cried Mrs. Theresa. “And here comes Miss Sophy, too.”
“Sophy!” cried Frederick. “Oh, Sophy, don’t you come—don’t look at me; you’ll despise me.”
“My brother! where? where?” said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.
“It’s Frederick,” said Marianne: “that’s my brother.”
“Miss Sophy, don’t be alarmed,” Mrs. Theresa began; “but gracious goodness! I wish Miss Bertha—”
At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her. “Oh, Miss Bertha!” cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick. “Oh, Miss Eden, your beautiful India muslin! take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven’s sake.” But she pressed forward.
“It’s my brother, will he die?” cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order. “Will he bleed to death?”
“No, my love!” answered a sweet voice: “do not frighten thyself.”
“I’ve done bleeding,” said Frederick.
“Dear me, Miss Marianne, if you would not make such a rout,” cried Mrs. Tattle. “Miss Bertha, it’s nothing but a frolic. You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress. Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma’am. You see he’s stopped bleeding. I was frightened out of my wits at first. I thought it was his eye, but I see it’s only his nose. All’s well that ends well. Mr. Frederick, we’ll keep your counsel. Pray, ma’am, let us ask no questions; it’s only a boyish frolic. Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, into my room, and I’ll give you a towel and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress. Make haste, for fear your father and mother should drop in upon us.”