Lady Clonbrony was taken ill the day after her gala;
she had caught cold by standing, when much overheated,
in a violent draught of wind, paying her parting compliments
to the Duke of V—, who thought her a bore,
and wished her in heaven all the time for keeping
his horses standing. Her ladyship’s illness
was severe and long; she was confined to her room for
some weeks by a rheumatic fever, and an inflammation
in her eyes. Every day, when Lord Colambre went
to see his mother, he found Miss Nugent in her apartment,
and every hour he found fresh reason to admire this
charming girl. The affectionate tenderness, the
indefatigable patience, the strong attachment she
showed for her aunt, actually raised Lady Clonbrony
in her son’s opinion. He was persuaded she
must surely have some good or great qualities, or
she could not have excited such strong affection.
A few foibles out of the question, such as her love
of fine people, her affectation of being English,
and other affectations too tedious to mention, Lady
Clonbrony was really a good woman, had good principles,
moral and religious, and, selfishness not immediately
interfering, she was good-natured; and though her soul
and attention were so completely absorbed in the duties
of acquaintanceship that she did not know it, she
really had affections—they were concentrated
upon a few near relations. She was extremely
fond and extremely proud of her son. Next to
her son, she was fonder of her niece than of any other
creature. She had received Grace Nugent into her
family when she was left an orphan, and deserted by
some of her other relations. She had bred her
up, and had treated her with constant kindness.
This kindness and these obligations had raised the
warmest gratitude in Miss Nugent’s heart; and
it was the strong principle of gratitude which rendered
her capable of endurance and exertions seemingly far
above her strength. This young lady was not of
a robust appearance, though she now underwent extraordinary
fatigue. Her aunt could scarcely bear that she
should leave her for a moment: she could not
close her eyes unless Grace sat up with her many hours
every night. Night after night she bore this
fatigue; and yet, with little sleep or rest, she preserved
her health, at least supported her spirits; and every
morning, when Lord Colambre came into his mother’s
room, he saw Miss Nugent look as blooming as if she
had enjoyed the most refreshing sleep. The bloom
was, as he observed, not permanent; it came and went,
with every emotion of her feeling heart; and he soon
learned to fancy her almost as handsome when she was
pale as when she had a colour. He had thought
her beautiful when he beheld her in all the radiance
of light, and with all the advantages of dress at
the gala, but he found her infinitely more lovely and
interesting now, when he saw her in a sick-room—a
half-darkened chamber—where often he could
but just discern her form, or distinguish her, except
by her graceful motion as she passed, or when, but
for a moment, a window-curtain drawn aside let the
sun shine upon her face, or on the unadorned ringlets
of her hair.
Copyrights
The Absentee from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
