“Nelly, you are not too civil,” said Mrs. Eastwood, touching the toe of Nelly’s pretty shoe with her own velvet slipper, in warning and reproof. The girl drew her toes out of the way, but did not make any apology. She was not fond of Mrs. Everard, nor indeed was any one in the house.
“Of course, I don’t mean that your decision had anything whatever to do with Frederick’s illness,” Mrs. Everard resumed, “that I don’t need to say. He might have been ill at home as much as abroad. I am speaking now on the original question. Of course, if Frederick had not gone away, you would have been spared this anxiety, and might have nursed him comfortably at home. But that is incidental. What I am sorry for is that you are bringing a girl into your house whom you know nothing of. She may be very nice, but she may be quite the reverse. Of course one can never tell whether it may or may not be a happy change even for her—but it is a great risk for you. It is a very brave thing to do. I should not have the courage to make such an experiment, though it would be a great deal simpler in my house, where there is no one to be affected but myself.”
“I don’t see where the courage lies,” said Nelly; “a girl of sixteen. What harm could she do to any one?”
“Oh, a great deal of harm, if she chose,” said Mrs. Everard; “a girl of sixteen, in a house full of young men! One or the other of them will fall in love with her to a certainty if she is at all pretty——”
“Oh, please!” said Mrs. Eastwood; “you do think so oddly, pardon me for saying so, about the boys. Frederick is grown up, of course, but the last young man in the world to think of a little cousin. And as for Dick, he is a mere boy; and Jenny? Don’t be vexed if I laugh. This is too funny.”
“I hope you will always think it as funny,” said the Privy Councillor solemnly, “but I know you and I don’t think alike on these subjects. Half the ridiculous marriages in the world spring out of the fact that parents will not see when boys and girls start up into men and women. I don’t mean to say that harm will come of it immediately—but once she is in your house there is no telling how you are to get rid of her. However, I suppose your mind is made up. About the other matter here are the facts of the case. Frederick is ill, you don’t know how or with what; he has taken a long and dangerous journey——”
“Not dangerous, dear, not dangerous——”
“Well, not dangerous if you please, but long and fatiguing, and troublesome to a man who is ill. He has gone on to Pisa in a bad state of health. You know that he has reached so far; and you know no more. Of course he will be anxious to get home again as quickly as possible. What if he were to get worse on the road? There is nothing more likely, and the torturing anxiety you would feel in such circumstances I need not suggest to you. You will be terribly unhappy. You will wait for news until you feel it impossible to wait any longer, and then when your strength and patience are exhausted, you will rush off to go to him—most likely too late.”
“Oh, have a little pity upon me! Don’t talk so—don’t think so——”
“I can’t stop my thoughts,” said Mrs. Everard, not without a little complacency, “and I have known such things to happen before now. What more likely than that he should start before he is equal to the journey, and break down on the way home? Then you would certainly go to him; and my advice is, go to him now. Anticipating the evil in that way, you would probably prevent it. In your place I would not lose a day.”