Mrs. Bowles cheerfully took on herself the duties of lady’s-maid in addition to her housekeeping tasks, and called in a sick-nurse from the neighborhood to attend to the invalid. In about three days she began to convalesce, though it was five before she was able to assist Mrs. Bowles with the necessary packing for the southward fight.
In the meantime, Mrs. Flint was also improving fast, the pleasing prospect of the journey southward having exerted on her mind a more beneficial effect than all Doctor Savoy’s pills and potions.
She dwelt with keen delight on the thought of seeing her niece again, and disconcerted her brother by wondering if Cinthia had recovered from her disappointment at losing Arthur Varian.
“Oh, yes, yes; she was over all that long ago,” he replied, hastily, anxious to dismiss the subject.
But Mrs. Flint continued, feelingly:
“Poor Cinthy! it was hard on her to have to give him up, he was such a dear young man. And such a grand match, too, for a poor girl like her! Oh, I never can forget the night she came home from Idlewild in the grand carriage with Arthur, in his mother’s grand dress and cloak, and told me she was engaged to him. It was all so sudden, it nearly took my breath away. And what a beauty she looked! and how happy she was! Oh, my! Poor Cinthy!”
She sighed deeply, but Everard Dawn made no comment, only looked out of the window at the cold winter sunshine on the leaf-strewn garden-walks, where a light snow of last night’s falling was fast melting away.
Mrs. Flint continued, retrospectively:
“She told me how sweet and kind Mrs. Varian was to her that night—not proud and haughty as she had imagined she would be. She could see plainly that she did not mind it a bit for Arthur to fall in love with her, though she was a poor girl. And how bad that kind lady must have felt when Arthur told her you would not let him have your daughter.”
“It is all past and done now, Rebecca, and no use discussing it,” her brother said, restlessly.