“As if I would trust her out of my hands! especially if she is going to be ill again. But here is the thing that puzzles me. Did you ever hear of Margaret being ill, Randal, at Earl’s-hall? But here is a girl that was as strong as—as strong as a little pony—in Fife, and she gets congestion of the lungs as soon as she comes to the South, and cannot stay two days in London! I never heard anything like it—of course I am very sorry for Margaret. What have I been doing but devoting myself to her for the last five months? And she was just blooming—would you not have called her blooming, Aubrey? But London does not agree with her. Fancy London not agreeing with a girl! I don’t know when I have been so much put out in all my life.”
“Is— Miss Leslie—ill?” said Randal, not knowing how to shape the question.
“Yes; she grew faint and ill just after we met you,” said Aubrey, looking at him with steady composure. “I thought the best thing to do was to get her out of that beastly atmosphere at once.”
“Oh, you did quite right, Aubrey; I am not in the least blaming you. Much better, in such a case, to leave at once; for if she had fainted outright, in the middle of the crowd, that would have been a pretty business! I never was used to girls who fainted,” said Mrs. Bellingham, plaintively. “I have known them to get bad headaches when there was nothing going on; but fainting, just when we were all amusing ourselves—and we have got a box at the opera to-night! it really is enough to send one out of one’s wits—a box at the opera! and you know what a chance that is.”
“But, dearest Jean! do you go; I will stay with dear Margaret. I shall not mind it; indeed, I shall not mind it much; and you know she has been persuaded; she has given up the idea of going home to-night.”
“Going to-night was simply impossible! we are not all born idiots!” said Mrs. Bellingham, with a vigor of language which betrayed her nationality. Then, calming down a little, she seated herself and began to pour out the tea, which had been neglected. “I am sure I beg your pardon, Randal, for letting you see me in such a ‘fuff.’ But it is provoking, you will allow. And as for going to the opera by myself, or with only Grace, instead of having a pretty, fresh young girl by our side that everybody would remark! I declare one would need to have the patience of a saint not to feel it. Oh, ill? No, I don’t think she is very ill; just upset, you know. Indeed, I should have said it was more like a fright than anything else; but Aubrey says there was nothing—no accident, nor runaway horse, nor man killed. I’ve seen that happen in London streets, and very awful it was.”
“No,” said Aubrey, steadily, “there was nothing of that sort; but the atmosphere was bad enough for anything; and then the fatigue of the journey—”
“Do you take sugar in your tea, Randal? So many people take no sugar, it is always a trouble to recollect what you young people take and what you don’t take. Well, I suppose we will just have to make up our minds to it. Steward can stay with Margaret to-night, and we will go. It is no use throwing away a box at the height of the season.”
“But, dearest Jean, let me stay with dear Margaret. I don’t really mind. I am sure I don’t mind—”
“And to-morrow we must just go back,” said Mrs. Bellingham, sweeping on in the larger current of her discourse. “You must remember me very kindly to your excellent father and mother, Randal. I hope we shall see them in the autumn. We are pretty sure to be in Fife in the autumn. Margaret will be distressed not to see you; but, after all that has happened, I thought the best place for her was just her bed; so I made her lie down, and I don’t like to disturb her. She will be quite distressed not to see you, when you have been so kind as to take up your time calling—which really is a thing, with people only up in town for a few days, that I never expect. You must have so many things to do.”