and add
up a simple sum. The doctor, not a bad judge, called her a shrewd,
reasonable little lass. She had mother-wit, a warm heart, and a nice
face, as sweet and fresh as a bunch of roses with the dew on them, and
he did not see what she wanted with talking French and playing the
piano; if his wife would believe him, she would go through life quite as
creditably and comfortably without any fashionable foreign airs and
graces. Thus it resulted, partly from want of opportunity, and partly
from want of ambition in herself, that Bessie Fairfax remained a rustic
little maid, without the least tincture of modern accomplishments.
Still, the doctor's wife did not forget that her dear drudge and helpful
right hand was a waif of old gentry, whose restoration the chapter of
accidents might bring about any day. Nor did she suffer Bessie to forget
it, though Bessie was mighty indifferent, and cared as little for her
gentle kindred as they cared for her. And if these gentle kindred had
increased and multiplied according to the common lot, Bessie would
probably never have been remembered by them to any purpose; she might
have married as Mr. Carnegie's daughter, and have led an obscure, happy
life, without vicissitude to the end of it, and have died leaving no
story to tell.

But many things had happened at Abbotsmead since the love-match of
Geoffry Fairfax and Elizabeth Bulmer. When Geoffry married, his brothers
were both single men. The elder, Frederick, took to himself soon after a
wife of rank and fortune; but there was no living issue of the marriage;
and the lady, after a few years of eccentricity, went abroad for her
health--that is, her husband was obliged to place her under restraint.
Her malady was pronounced incurable, though her life might be prolonged.
The second son, Laurence, had distinguished himself at Oxford, and had
become a knight-errant of the Society of Antiquaries. His father said he
would traverse a continent to look at one old stone. He was hardly
persuaded to relinquish his liberty and choose a wife, when the failure
of heirs to Frederick disconcerted the squire's expectations, and, with
the proverbial ill-luck of learned men, he chose badly. His wife, from a
silly, pretty shrew, matured into a most bitter scold; and a blessed man
was he, when, after three years of tribulation, her temper and a strong
fever carried her off. His Xantippe left no child. Mr. Fairfax urged the
obligations of ancient blood, old e