What she did or said--though probably the first was little and the other
a great deal--was happily unknown to Mrs. Grey. Her one duty lay
clear before her, to save her poor boy's life, if any human means could
do it. And sometimes, when she saw the agony and anxiety in his
father's face, Christian felt a wild joy in spending herself and being
spent, even to the last extremity, if by such means she could repay to
her most good and tender husband that never-counted, unaccountable
debt of love, which nothing ever does pay except return in kind.
Concerning Arthur himself, the matter was simple enough now. All his
fractiousness, restlessness, and innumerable wants were easy to put up
with; she loved the child. And he, who (except from his father) had
never known any love before, took it with a wondering complacency,
half funny, half pathetic. Sometimes he would say, looking at her
wistfully, "Oh, it's so nice to be ill!" And once, the first time she
untied his right arm, and allowed it to move freely, he slipped it
around her neck, whispering, "You are very good to me, mother."
Christian crept away. She dared not clasp him or cry over him, he
was so weak still; but she stole aside into the oriel window, her
heart full almost to bursting.
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