“I was afraid it would be too much for her,” said Lady Bertram; “but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home.”

“But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?”

“No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry. Unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again.”

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been a very ill-managed business.”

“I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,” cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself. But I cannot be in two places at once. And I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother’s dairymaid—” in this she went on for some time, finally—“but really I cannot do everything at once, and oh, not with these tedious giant crates underfoot everyplace! And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to my house for me—it is not much above a quarter of a mile. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, with the moon full and gone, and say nothing about it?”

“I wish Fanny had half your preternatural strength, ma’am.”

“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up[9] so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long while, and when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her. But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot. Between ourselves, Edmund,” nodding significantly at his mother, “it was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the mischief.”

“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; “I am very much afraid she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody, and moreover, enough to dry them out something awful, so that they lie in a dreadful desiccated condition for many, many, many years. . . . It was as much as I could bear myself. Lying there dry as a stick of leather for two, nay three thousand years—that is, sitting and calling to pug, or is it Amen-Ra, and trying to keep him from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me. Gracious! That is, I do not intend to imply Amen-Ra be kept from the flower-beds—”