‘You must, indeed, have been different. Mamma, I heard the front-door open. If it is my uncle coming in, just ask him to step upstairs, and let me hear his assurance that I am truly awake and collected, and not dreaming or delirious.’
The Rector, of his own accord, was mounting the stairs, and Mrs. Pryor summoned him to his niece’s apartment.
‘She’s not worse, I hope?’ he inquired hastily.
‘I think her better; she is disposed to converse; she seems stronger.’
‘Good!’ said he, brushing quickly into the room. ‘Ha, Cary! how do? Did you drink my cup of tea? I made it for you just as I like it myself.’
‘I drank it every drop, uncle; it did me good—it has made me quite alive. I have a wish for company, so I begged Mrs. Pryor to call you in.’
The respected ecclesiastic looked pleased, and yet embarrassed. He was willing enough to bestow his company on his sick niece for ten minutes, since it was her whim to wish it; but what means to employ for her entertainment he knew not. He hemmed—he fidgeted.
‘You’ll be up in a trice,’ he observed, by way of saying something. ‘The little weakness will soon pass off; and then you must drink port-wine—a pipe, if you can—and eat game and oysters. I’ll get them for you, if they are to be had anywhere. Bless me! we’ll make you as strong as Samson before we’ve done with you.’
‘Who is that lady, uncle, standing beside you at the bed-foot?’
‘Good God!’ he ejaculated. ‘She’s not wandering—is she, ma’am?’
Mrs. Pryor smiled.
‘I am wandering in a pleasant world,’ said Caroline, in a soft, happy voice, ‘and I want you to tell me whether it is real or visionary. What lady is that? Give her a name, uncle.’
‘We must have Dr. Rile again, ma’am, or, better still, MacTurk: he’s less of a humbug. Thomas must saddle the pony, and go for him.’
‘No, I don’t want a doctor; mamma shall be my only physician. Now do you understand, uncle?’
Mr. Helstone pushed up his spectacles from his nose to his forehead, handled his snuff-box, and administered to himself a portion of the contents. Thus fortified, he answered briefly:
‘I see daylight. You’ve told her, then, ma’am?’
‘And is it true?’ demanded Caroline, rising on her pillow. ‘Is she really my mother?’
‘You won’t cry, or make any scene, or turn hysterical, if I answer Yes?’
‘Cry? I’d cry if you said No. It would be terrible to be disappointed now. But give her a name; how do you call her?’
‘I call this stout lady in a quaint black dress, who looks young enough to wear much smarter raiment if she would—I call her Agnes Helstone; she married my brother James, and is his widow.’
‘And my mother?’