“Come and look at something I have got here,” cried Nelly, at the table, sending meaning looks at her mother.
“Leave me alone, Nelly, I think it’s my duty to speak. As the wife of the eldest son I have a right to interfere; the Eastwoods are not so rich that the little they have should be spent on strangers.”
“My dear Mrs. Frederick,” said Mrs. Eastwood, with a forced smile, while old Lady Doul hurried to the other end of the room to speak to Nelly; “I have been used to manage my own affairs without reference either to my sons or my son’s wife.”
“And so much the worse for you,” cried Amanda, with flushed cheeks. “What can you know about business?—women never do—you ought to take sensible advice; you ought to consider your own children, and not a lot of hangers-on; you ought not just to take your own way, without ever thinking of us, starving our children for a pack of poor relations. Oh, I know what I am saying, and I ain’t to be put down by looks. I’m one of the family; and a poor enough thing for me, too, with my looks and my expectations; but to see a great beggar girl eating all up with her useless ways—what ought to come to us and our children. I cannot put up with it. I will say what I’ve got to say.”
“What is the matter, Amanda?” said Frederick, behind her. He had heard the raised tone of his wife’s voice, and had rushed in, in dismay. He found his mother risen from her chair, indignant, and burning with suppressed anger, and his wife standing before her, aiding her words by gestures, her white arm raised, her cheeks deeply flushed, her breath coming quick, and her eyes flashing red fire. He put his hand on her arm. “Come and sit down here on the sofa; the other men are just coming in. For heaven’s sake, Amanda, compose yourself! Do you want to be ill again? do you want to make a scene?”
“I don’t care twopence for making a scene. I want to have it out now it’s been started,” cried Amanda. “I say that great girl oughtn’t to be kept up in idleness and luxury. She ought to be sent out into the world to make her living. Ain’t we the natural heirs, and haven’t we a right to speak? Oh, what do I care for the men coming in? let ’em come in. It’s only right and justice; since you haven’t the heart to speak up, I must. Innocent, indeed! a nice sort of Innocent, to eat up what ought to be for us. There isn’t so much of it; and a pack of younger brothers already, and that sort. Oh, I have no patience; let me have it out.”
“For God’s sake, Amanda——”
She made an ineffectual attempt to go on, but breath failed her, and she allowed herself to be drawn to the sofa, and laid herself back upon the pillows panting, her white shoulders and forehead stained with patches of vivid pink. “It’s all very well to say ‘don’t excite yourself,’” she said. “How can I help it, when people are so self-willed and stupid!”
The unhappy Frederick sat down by her and endeavoured to soothe her. Surely a little recompense for his many offences was doled out to him that evening; he talked to her in a low tone, expostulating, entreating. “Think of your health,” was the burden of his argument. He fanned her, he held her hand, he wiped her hot forehead with her laced handkerchief. Poor Frederick! He had pleased himself, and he was paying the penalty. Nelly and Lady Doul had rushed with a common impulse towards the door to meet the other gentlemen, and stood there involuntarily pointing out old pictures to their admiration, and plunging into depths of conversation which bewildered the new-comers. Mrs. Eastwood, too angry to think for the moment of keeping up appearances, had pushed back her chair as far as it would go, and after sitting down in it a minute, had risen again to look for Innocent, who stood with one hand upon the table, gazing with wide-open eyes at Frederick and his wife. No sort of offence was upon Innocent’s dreamy face. Awakened attention, a slight startled wonder, but nothing painful was in her expression, and perhaps that wonder was more roused by the sight of Amanda’s excitement and exhaustion than by anything she had said. Mrs. Eastwood hastened to her, took the girl into her arms, and held her close. “My poor child, my dear child. You must not mind her, Innocent,” she said.
“Is she ill?” asked Innocent, wondering.