Madame Vamiglia seemed full of anxiety lest the experiment should prove too much for the flickering remnant of life; but, after much preparation, John was called, and the poor sufferer transferred, mattress and all, to the back seat. Mrs. Waldorf and her mother took the front, and in this way they drove slowly out towards the country.
At first the poor little signorina seemed exhausted almost unto death, and her mother watched her with the most agonized solicitude; but after awhile she became accustomed to the gentle motion, and seemed revived by the fresh air. As the road wound through a green lane shaded with old trees, Ippolita looked about her with animation, and made a sign of pleasure with her wasted hand. Tears started to her mother’s eyes, and she looked to Mrs. Waldorf for sympathy, and not in vain.
At length the invalid murmured, “Assia!” and they turned about. When they reached the lodging-house, Ippolita was in a quiet sleep, and they carried her back to her own room almost undisturbed.
“To-morrow at eleven!” whispered Mrs. Waldorf, at parting. Madame Vamiglia pressed her hand, but could not speak.
We need not describe the morning rides which succeeded this auspicious commencement. We need not trace, step by step, the slow amendment of the young Italian, nor attempt to express, by words, the gratitude of both mother and daughter. They felt words to be totally inadequate. We may mention, however, the rapid improvement of Mrs. Waldorf’s health and spirits, which must of course be ascribed to that excellent medicine of Doctor R——’s. This enabled that lady to study Italian most strenuously, both at home and by familiar lessons from Madame Vamiglia and her daughter, during their prolonged excursions. This pursuit was never found to increase the palpitations, and seemed also a specific against headache.
Before Ippolita had so far recovered as to be independent of the daily airing, Mrs. Waldorf picked up a new object of interest. We say picked up, for it was a road-side acquaintance, and, as Mrs. Waldorf has since observed, one which she never would have made if she had been reading during her ride, as was her custom formerly. She had, every morning for some time, observed a poor woman drawing a basket-wagon of curious construction, in which lay a child much larger than is usually found in such vehicles. The child was pretty, and tastefully, though plainly, drest; but the whole establishment bespoke any thing but abundant means, so that Mrs. Waldorf was puzzled to make out the character of the group. The woman had not the air of a servant, and yet the child did not look as if it could be her child. In short, after seeing the same thing a dozen times, Mrs. Waldorf’s curiosity was a good deal excited.
She did not, however, venture to make any inquiries until it so chanced that, in the very green lane we have spoken of—the favorite resort of the grateful Ippolita—they found the poor woman, with the child fainting in her arms. Grief and anxiety were painted on her honest face, and she was so absorbed in her efforts for the recovery of the child that she scarcely answered Mrs. Waldorf’s sympathizing inquiries.
“Oh don’t trouble yourself, ma’am! It is nothing new! She’s this way very often. It’s the hoopin’-cough, ma’am; and I’m afeard it’ll be the death of her, poor lamb! in spite of all we can do!” And she tossed the child in the air, and fanned its face till the breath returned.
“Is it your own?” asked Mrs. Waldorf.
“No indeed, ma’am! mine are other guess lookin’ children, thank God! This dear babe’s mother is a delicate young lady that lives neighbor to me, as has a sick husband that she can’t leave. I’m a washerwoman, ma’am, if you please, and I have to go quite away down town every day almost, and so I take this poor thing in my basket—it’s large enough, you see—and so gives her a turn in the open air, ’cause the doctor says it’s the open air, if any thing, that’ll do her good.”