# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 58

CHAPTER LVIII.
The parting between Georgiana and her kind friends was exceedingly affecting, for the aged have not the faculty which "travels through nor quits us when we die," in any comparison with the young, and at this time the poor girl could not forbear rather to share their evident fears, than give way to those hopes natural to her age. She had heard her mother's words to Mrs. Palmer, but, alas! she could not venture to believe that Lady Anne thought what she said, otherwise such was her opinion of her judgment, that she would have had a comfort in relying upon it, however slight the foundation on which it might rest. "No; mamma said that which suited her whim or her convenience, not that which she knew, or believed to be true." What a conclusion for a young, ingenuous heart to come to respecting its only parent, but how unavoidable in a case like that before us, and how natural was it that she should cling, with a tenacity almost beyond ​consanguinity, to those who had received her with such abundant and disinterested kindness.
The good old baronet reiterated his assurance of love and protection, "come what might," and Mrs. Margaret deeply regretted the circumstance which prevented her accompanying them, especially when she learned that she seldom attended her mamma except in the night, to which she would have objected seriously, if she had not believed that this sad trial would be soon over; and she observed "it was no wonder poor Lady Anne wished to have two such angels of daughters near her, for that really in her whole life she had never seen two in one family so amiable." Turning to Georgiana, she said, "Don't be jealous, my dear, but I really do love Helen almost as well as you, because she loves you so dearly. I shall never forget how pale that poor girl looked when she thought my brother would be angry about the ring, her heart throbbed not a little for you. Ah! it is a sweet thing to see 'sisters or brethren dwell together in unity.'"
Just as her foot was on the step of the carriage, she gave Mrs. Palmer a carte blanche to get what ever might be wanted from Meersbrook for her own use or that of Lady Anne. "There will be pheasants and woodcocks, or, at any rate, snipes, and she may fancy—" But the carriage drove off.
​ When Georgiana had taken what Mrs. Palmer called a hearty cry in her dining-parlour on their return, the good lady inquired "whether she thought it advisable to communicate the message to Lady Anne?"
"Certainly," said Georgiana, "for mamma's appetite, which has been very capricious, has returned again; and it would be a great pity to deprive her, you know, of any thing she liked."
Mr. Palmer was shortly afterwards announced to Lady Anne, and, after certain preliminaries, admitted. These only amounted to an adjustment of the cap and the shawl; madame had no occasion for rouge—her own was en peu trop. Lady Anne's good dinner had not arrived at the retributive period; she was in good spirits, glad to see her worthy neighbour, and take him by way of dessert, so far treating him as an orange that, wherever she could find an available reservoir of juice, she seized upon it without mercy, by no means unfrequently reminding him "that she had actually paid him the hundred and fifty pounds she borrowed of him, which, with her narrow means, was a great thing to have done, especially after the dreadful expences she had been impelled to incur at Brighton, both as regarded the fancy fair and the consequent illness. But she did not regret ​past—it was only natural that a widowed mother should be the sacrifice for her children."
Mr. Palmer had a keen perception of the ludicrous; he was naturally a humourist, which was indicated by a peculiar twinkle of the eye-lid at those times when he determined to repress a hearty cachinnation, and pursue the subject that tickled him to its utmost. That Lady Anne should play tender mother to him he considered the very essence of folly, but he held it to be the perfection of good acting at the same time; and, as his pity for the fair, shadowy thing before him inclined him to "fool her to her bent " as much as his curiosity, he listened to her plans and her reasons, promised the assistance of his lady and servants, but declared positively that, unless something more favourable was ascertained respecting the fate of Lieutenant Hales, neither himself nor any one of his family should enter any "house of feasting," since "that of mourning" would be more congenial to their feelings.
"I set out," he added, "to go with the dear old people to Reading, but left them at Hounslow in consequence of one or other recollecting a certain bin of very, very old hock at Meersbrook, which they think would be of especial service to you, in consequence of which (that no time might be lost) I left them, put myself in an omnibus, and am here at your service."
​ "It is the very thing I want—the very thing to do me good."
"If you may have any wine, it is; but we must ask the medical men's leave in your predicament—nothing can be done without them. As you value your life, Lady Anne, as you value your noble daughter, and your rich daughter, to whom you may look for years of enjoyment, avoid all quacks and quackeries, stick to the very clever man you have wisely selected, and do just what he bids you."
The solemnity of Mr. Palmer's adjuration, the recollection of the many pleasures, and the unquestionable importance of the houses in question, together with the certainty that the mistresses of them would be entirely under her command, rose before her in the most striking point of view; she therefore gave Mr. Palmer a positive promise to comply with his request by recalling the physician, whom she had not seen for four days, and obeying him literally; but she added, very earnestly, "do not delay sending for the old hock, as we are sure somebody can drink it, at all events."
Mr. Palmer cast his eyes on Helen, and thought to himself somebody ought to have it, and shall have a little; and he inquired if she might not step home with him, and tell Mrs. P. what her ladyship had been talking about, "for his memory was very leaky."
​ Lady Anne readily consented, for by this time her fever was sensibly high, her cough bad, her limbs weary; and Georgiana and Fanchette were ordered to put her to bed.
Lady Anne could not sleep, therefore they could not talk; and, in a short time, she ordered Georgiana to her own room till five, when she would be called up to relieve Helen, who happily did, after a while, recal somewhat of that sweet emotion she blamed herself for indulging.
She paced slowly up and down the room, now renewing the fire, now moistening the parched lips of her mother, or gently raising her head when the cough was troublesome, but not speaking unless she was called for. By degrees the hectic heat subsided, the irritation abated, and the patient sunk into short snatches of sleep, each of which promised to be lasting. Helen gazed long upon her with tears in her eyes, and those hopes mustering at her heart which so naturally belong to the inexperienced. At length she sunk on her knees, and became absorbed in devout and ardent prayer for her suffering mother—it was the humble petition of a deeply affected heart, and, perhaps, some sounds escaped her lips unknown to her in the earnestness and anguish of the moment, for Lady Anne became awake, shook herself, and said, "Where are you, Helen?"
​ "Close by you, dear mamma."
"What are you doing there?"
"I was praying, mamma," she answered, in a low, tremulous voice, "praying to God Almighty."
"I did not know you were as bad as Georgiana. I cannot see that the sailor is any thing to you. I don't like sentimental misses, I assure you."
With these words Lady Anne dropped again into slumber, leaving poor Helen with a revulsion of feeling so strange and so painful, with so much of horror added to her sorrow, that all of grief she had hitherto felt seemed happiness in comparison.