“Our hearts and all our members, being mortified from all worldly
and carnal lusts:” so speaks the collect with which we begin the new
year--such the prayer to which the lips of the young Langfords said,
“Amen:” but what was its application to them? What did they do with the
wicked world in their own guarded homes? There was Uncle Geoffrey, he
was in the world. It might be for him to pray for that spirit which
enabled him to pass unscathed through the perils of his profession,
neither tempted to grasp at the honours nor the wealth which lay in his
way, unhardened and unsoured by the contact of the sin and selfishness
on every side. This might indeed be the world. There was Jessie Carey,
with her love of dress, and admiration, and pleasure; she should surely
pray that she might live less to the vanities of the world; there were
others, whose worn countenances spoke of hearts devoted to the cares of
the world; but to those fair, fresh, happy young things, early taught
how to prize vain pomp and glory, their minds as yet free from anxiety,
looking from a safe distance on the busy field of trial and temptation;
were not they truly kept from that world which they had renounced?
Alas! that they did not lay to heart that the world is everywhere; that
if education had placed them above being tempted by the poorer, cheaper,
and more ordinary attractions, yet allurements there were for them also.
A pleasure pursued with headlong vehemence because it was of their own
devising, love of rule, the spirit of rivalry, the want of submission;
these were of the world. Other temptations had not yet reached them, but
if they gave way to those which assailed them in their early youth, how
could they expect to have strength to bear up against the darker and
stronger ones which would meet their riper years?
Even before daylight had fully found its way into Knight Sutton Hall,
there was many a note of preparation, and none clearer or louder than
those of the charade actors. Beatrice was up long before light, in the
midst of her preparations, and it was not long after, as, lamp in hand,
she whisked through the passages, Frederick’s voice was heard demanding
whether the Busy Bee had turned into a firefly, and if the paste was
made wherewith Midas was to have his crown stuck with gold paper.
Zealous indeed were the workers, and heartily did old Judith wish
them anywhere else, as she drove them, their lamps, their paste, and
newspaper, from one corner of the study to the other, and at last fairly
out into the hall, threatening them with what Missus would say to them.
At last grandmamma came down with a party of neat little notes in her
hand, to be immediately sent off by Martin and the cart to Allonfield,
and Martin came to the door leading to the kitchen regions to receive
his directions.
“O how lucky!” cried Queen Bee, springing up. “The cotton velvet for the
ears! I’ll write a note in a second!” Then she paused. “But I can’t do
it without Henrietta, I don’t know how much she wants. Half a yard
must do, I suppose; but then, how to describe it? Half a yard of
donkey-coloured velvet! It will never do; I must see Henrietta first!”
“Have not you heard her bell?” said Fred.
“No, shall I go and knock at the door? She must be up by this time.”
“You had better ask Bennet,” said Fred; “she sometimes gets up quietly,
and dresses herself without Bennet, if mamma is asleep, because it gives
her a palpitation to be disturbed in the morning.”
Bennet was shouted for, and proved not to have been into her mistress’s
room. The charade mania was not strong enough to make them venture upon
disturbing Mrs. Frederick Langford, and to their great vexation, Martin
departed bearing no commission for the asinine decorations.
About half an hour after, Henrietta made her appearance, as sorry as
any one that the opportunity had been lost, more especially as mamma had
been broad awake all the time, and the only reason she had not rung the
bell was, that she was not ready for Bennet.
As usual, she was called an incorrigible dawdle, and made humble
confession of the same, offering to do all in her power to make up for
the morning’s laziness. But what would Midas be without his ears?
The best plan that Queen Bee could devise, was, that, whilst Henrietta
was engaged with the other preparations, she should walk to Sutton Leigh
with Frederick, to despatch Alexander to Allonfield. No sooner said than
done, and off they set, but neither was this plan fated to meet with
success, for just as they came in sight of Sutton Leigh, they were
hailed by the loud hearty voice of Roger, and beheld him at the head of
four brothers, marching off to pay his respects to his Aunt Carey, some
three miles off. Alex came to hold council at Queen Bee’s summons, but
he could do nothing for her, for he had that morning been taken to
task for not having made a visit to Mrs. Carey, since he came home, and
especially ordered off to call upon her, before meeting her at the party
that evening.
“How abominably provoking!” cried Beatrice; “just as if it signified. If
I had but a fairy!”
“Carey!” called Alex, “here! Bee wants to send over to Allonfield: won’t
you take Dumple and go?”
“Not I,” responded Carey; “I want to walk with Roger. But there’s
Dumple, let her go herself.”
“What, ride him?” asked Beatrice, “thank you, Carey.”
“Fred might drive you,” said Carey; “O no, poor fellow, I suppose he
does not know how.”
Fred coloured with anger. “I do,” said he; “I have often driven our own
horses.”
“Ay,” said Beatrice, “with the coachman sitting by you, and Aunt Mary
little guessing what you were doing.”
“I assure you, Queen,” said Fred, very earnestly, “I do really know how
to drive, and if we may have the gig, and you will trust yourself with
me, I will bring you home quite safe.”
“I know you can have the gig,” said Carey, “for papa offered it to Roger
and Alex this morning; only we chose all to walk together. To think of
doubting whether to drive old Dumple!”
“I don’t question,” said Fred; “I only want to know if Busy Bee will go.
I won’t break your neck, I promise you.”
Beatrice was slightly mistrustful, and had some doubts about Aunt
Mary, but poor Alex did much to decide her, though intending quite the
reverse.
“I don’t advise you, Bee,” said he.
“O, as to that,” said she, pleased to see that he disliked the plan, “I
have great faith in Dumple’s experience, and I can sit tight in a chay,
as the boy said to grandpapa when he asked him if he could ride. My
chief doubt is about Aunt Mary.”
Fred’s successful disobedience in the matter of skating had decidedly
made him less scrupulous about showing open disregard of his mother’s
desires, and he answered in a certain superior patronizing manner, “O,
you know I only give way sometimes, because she does make herself so
intensely miserable about me; but as she will be spared all that now, by
knowing nothing about it, I don’t think it need be considered.”
Beatrice recollected what her father had said, but eluded it the next
moment, by replying to herself, that no commands had been given in this
case.
Alex stood fumbling with the button of his great coat, looking much
annoyed, and saying nothing; Roger called out to him that they could not
wait all day, and he exerted himself to take Beatrice by the arm, and
say, “Bee, I wish you would not, I am sure there will be a blow up about
it at home.”
“O, you think nobody can or may drive me but yourself, Master Alex,”
said Beatrice, laughing. “No, no, I know very well that nobody will care
when it is done, and there are no commands one way or the other. I love
my own neck, I assure you, Alex, and will not get that into a scrape.
Come, if that will put you into a better humour, I’ll dance with you
first to-night.” Alex turned away, muttering, “I don’t like it--I’d go
myself, but--Well, I shall speak to Fred.”
Beatrice smiled with triumph at the jealousy which she thought she had
excited, and watched to see the effect of the remonstrance.
“You are sure now,” said he, “that you can drive safely? Remember it
would be a tolerable piece of work if you were to damage that little
Bee.”
This eloquent expostulation might have had some weight, if it had come
from any one else; but Fred was too much annoyed at the superiority of
his rival to listen with any patience, and he replied rather sullenly,
that he could take as good care of her as Alex himself, and he only
wished that their own horses were come from Rocksand.
“Well, I have no more to say,” said Alex, “only please to mind this,
Langford junior, you may do just as you please with our horse, drive him
to Jericho for what I care. It was for your own sake and Beatrice’s that
I spoke.”
“Much obliged, Langford senior,” replied Fred, making himself as tall as
he could, and turning round to Carey with a very different tone, “Now,
Carey, we won’t stop you any longer, if you’ll only just be so good as
to tell your man to get out the gig.”
Carey did so, and Beatrice and Frederick were left alone, but not long,
for Uncle Roger presently came into the yard with Willy and Arthur
running after him. To take possession of his horse and carriage, in
his very sight, without permission, was quite impossible, and, besides,
Beatrice knew full well that her dexterity could obtain a sanction from
him which might be made to parry all blame. So tripping up to him, she
explained in a droll manner the distress in which the charade actors
stood, and how the boys had said that they might have Dumple to drive
to Allonfield. Good natured Uncle Roger, who did not see why Fred should
not drive as well as Alex or any of his other boys, knew little or
nothing of his sister-in-law’s fears, and would, perhaps, have taken
Fred’s side of the question if he had, did exactly as she intended,
declared them perfectly welcome to the use of Dumple, and sent Willy
into the house for the driving whip. Thus authorized, Beatrice did
not fear even her father, who was not likely to allow in words what a
nonentity the authority of Uncle Roger might really be esteemed.
Willy came back with a shilling in his hand, and an entreaty that he
might go with Queen Bee and Fred to buy a cannon for the little ships,
of which Roger’s return always produced a whole fleet at Sutton Leigh.
His cousins were in a triumphant temper of good nature, and willingly
consenting, he was perched between them, but for one moment Beatrice’s
complacency was diminished as Uncle Roger called out, “Ha! Fred take
care! What are you doing?--you’ll be against the gate-post--don’t bring
his head so short round. If you don’t take more care, you’ll certainly
come to a smash before you get home.”
If honour and credit had not been concerned, both Beatrice and Frederick
would probably have been much better satisfied to have given up their
bold design after this debut, but they were far too much bent on their
own way to yield, and Fred’s pride would never have allowed him to
acknowledge that he felt himself unequal to the task he had so rashly
undertaken. Uncle Roger, believing it to be only carelessness instead of
ignorance, and too much used to dangerous undertakings of his own boys
to have many anxieties on their account, let them go on without further
question, and turned off to visit his young wheat without the smallest
uneasiness respecting the smash he had predicted, as he had done, by way
of warning, at least twenty times before.
Busy Bee was in that stage of girlhood which is very sensible on some
points, in the midst of great folly upon others, and she was quite wise
enough to let Fred alone, to give full attention to his driving all the
way to Allonfield. Dumple knew perfectly well what was required of him,
and went on at a very steady well-behaved pace, up the hill, across the
common, and into the town, where, leaving him at the inn, they walked
into the street, and Beatrice, after an infinity of searching, succeeded
in obtaining certain grey cotton velvet, which, though Fred asserted
that donkeys had a tinge of lilac, was certainly not unfit to represent
their colour. As Fred’s finances were in a much more flourishing state
since New Year’s day, he proceeded to delight the very heart of Willy
by a present of a pair of little brass cannon, on which his longing eyes
had often before been fixed, and they then returned to the carriage, in
some dismay on perceiving that it was nearly one o’clock.
“We must go straight home,” said Beatrice, “or this velvet will be of no
use. There is no time to drive to Sutton Leigh and walk from thence.”
Unfortunately, however, there was an influential personage who was by no
means willing to consent to this arrangement, namely, Dumple, who,
well aware that an inexperienced hand held the reins, was privately
determined that his nose should not be turned away from the shortest
road to his own stable.
As soon, therefore, as he came to the turning towards Sutton Leigh, he
made a decided dash in that direction. Fred pulled him sharply, and a
little nervously; the horse resisted; Fred gave him a cut with the
whip, but Dumple felt that he had the advantage, and replying with a
demonstration of kicking, suddenly whisked round the corner, and set
off over the rough jolting road at a pace very like running away. Fred
pulled hard, but the horse went the faster. He stood up. “Sit still,”
cried Beatrice, now speaking for the first time, “the gate will stop
him;” but ere the words were uttered, Frederick, whether by a movement
of his own, or the rapid motion of the carriage, she knew not, was
thrown violently to the ground; and as she was whirled on, she saw him
no more. Instinct, rather than presence of mind, made her hold fast to
the carriage with one hand, and throw the other arm round little Willy,
to prevent him from being thrown out, as they were shaken from side to
side by the ruts and stones over which they were jolted. A few minutes
more, and their way was barred by a gate--that which she had spoken
of--the horse, used to stopping there, slackened his pace, and stood
still, looking over it as if nothing had happened.
Trembling in every limb, Beatrice stood safely on the ground, and Willy
beside her. Without speaking, she hurried back to seek for Fred, her
steps swifter than they had ever before been, though to herself it
seemed as if her feet were of lead, and the very throbbing of her heart
dragged her back. In every bush she fancied she saw Fred coming to meet
her, but it was only for a moment, and at length she saw him but
too plainly. He was stretched at full length on the ground,
senseless--motionless. She sank rather than knelt down beside him, and
called him; but not a token was there that he heard her. She lifted
his hand, it fell powerless, and clasping her own, she sat in an almost
unconscious state of horror, till roused by little Willy, who asked in a
terrified breathless whisper,
“Bee, is he dead?”
“No, no, no,” cried she, as if she could frighten away her own fears;
“he is only stunned. He is--he must be alive. He will come to him-self!
Help me to lift him up--here--that is it--his head on my lap--”
“O, the blood!” said Willy, recoiling in increased fear, as he saw it
streaming from one or two cuts and bruises on the side of the face.
“That is not the worst,” said Beatrice. “There--hold him toward the
wind.” She raised his head, untied his handkerchief, and hung over him;
but there was not a sound, not a breath; his head sank a dead weight
on her knee. She locked her hands together, and gazed wildly round for
help; but no one all over the wide lonely common could be seen, except
Willy, who stood helplessly looking at her.
“Aunt Mary! O, Aunt Mary!” cried she, in a tone of the bitterest anguish
of mind. “Fred--dear, dear Freddy, open your eyes, answer me! Oh, only
speak to me! O what shall I do?”
“Pray to God,” whispered Willy.
“You--you--Willy; I can’t--it was my doing. O, Aunt Mary!” A few moments
passed in silence, then she exclaimed, “What are we doing here?
Willy, you must go and call them. The Hall is nearest; go through the
plantation as fast as you can. Go to papa in the study; if he is not
there, find grandpapa--any one but Aunt Mary. Mind, Willy, don’t let her
hear it, it would kill her. Go, fly! You understand--any one but Aunt
Mary.”
Greatly relieved at being sent out of sight of that senseless form,
Willy required no second bidding, but rushed off at a pace which bade
fare to bring him to the Hall in a very brief space. Infinite were the
ramifications of thought that now began to chase each other over the
surface of her mind, as she sat supporting her cousin’s head, all clear
and distinct, yet all overshadowed by that agony of suspense which
made her sit as if she was all eye and ear, watching for the slightest
motion, the faintest sound, that hope might seize as a sign of life. She
wiped away the blood which was streaming from the cuts in the face, and
softly laid her trembling hand to seek for some trace of a blow amid the
fair shining hair; she felt the pulse, but she could not satisfy herself
whether it beat or not; she rubbed the cold hand between both her own,
and again and again started with the hope that the long black eyelashes
were being lifted from the white cheek, or that she saw a quivering of
lip or nostril. All this while her thoughts were straying miles away,
and yet so wondrously and painfully present. As she thought of her Uncle
Frederick, and, as it were, realized his death, which had happened so
nearly in this same manner, she experienced a sort of heart-sinking
which would almost make her believe in a fate on the family. And that
Fred should be cut off in the midst of an act of disobedience, and she
the cause! O thought beyond endurance! She tried to pray for him, for
herself, for her aunt, but no prayer would come; and suddenly she found
her mind pursuing Willy, following him through all the gates and gaps,
entering the garden, opening the study door, seeing her father’s sudden
start, hearing poor Henrietta’s cry, devising how it would be broken to
her aunt; and again, the misery of recollecting her overpowered her,
and she gave a groan, the very sound of which thrilled her with the hope
that Fred was reviving, and made her, if possible, watch with double
intenseness, and then utter a desponding sigh. She wished it was she who
lay there, unconscious of such exceeding wretchedness, and, strange
to say, her imagination began to devise all that would be said were it
really so; what all her acquaintance would say of the little Queen Bee,
how soon Matilda St. Leger would forget her, how long Henrietta would
cherish the thought of her, how deeply and silently Alex would grieve.
“He would be a son to papa,” she thought; but then came a picture of her
home, her father and mother without their only one, and tears came into
her eyes, which she brushed away, almost smiling at the absurdity of
crying for her own imagined death, instead of weeping over this but too
positive and present distress.
There was nothing to interrupt her; Fred lay as lifeless as before,
and not a creature passed along the lonely road. The frosty air was
perfectly still, and through it sounded the barking of dogs, the tinkle
of the sheep-bell, the woodsman’s axe in the plantations, and now and
then the rattle of Dumple’s harness, as she shook his head or shifted
his feet at the gate where he had been left standing. The rooks wheeled
above her head in a clear blue sky, the little birds answering each
other from the high furze-bushes, and the pee-wits came careering near
her with their broad wings, floating movement, and long melancholy note
like lamentation.
At length, far away, there sounded on the hard turnpike road a horse’s
tread, coming nearer and nearer. Help was at hand! Be it who it
might, some human sympathy would be with her, and that most oppressive
solitude, which seemed to have lasted for years instead of minutes,
would be relieved. In almost an agony of nervousness lest the newcomer
might pass by, she gently laid her cousin’s head on the grass, and flew
rather than ran towards the opening of the lane. She was too late, the
horseman had passed, but she recognised the shining hat, the form of the
shoulders, and with a scream almost wild in its energy, called “Philip!
O, Philip Carey!”
Joy, joy! he looked back, he turned his horse, and came up in amazement
at finding her there, and asking questions which she could only answer
by leading the way down the lane.
In another moment he was off his horse, and she could almost have adored
him when she heard him pronounce that Frederick lived.
A few moments passed whilst he was handling his patient, and asking
questions, when Beatrice beheld some figures advancing from the
plantation. She dashed through the heath and furze to meet them, sending
her voice before her with the good news, “He is alive! Philip Carey says
he is alive!” and with these words she stood before her father and her
Aunt Mary.
Her aunt seemed neither to see nor hear her; but with a face as white
and still as a marble figure, hastened on. Mr. Geoffrey Langford stopped
for an instant and looked at her with an expression such as she never
could forget. “Beatrice, my child!” he exclaimed, “you are hurt!”
“No, no, papa,” she cried. “It is Fred’s blood--I am quite, quite safe!”
He held her in his arms, pressed her close to him, and kissed her brow,
with a whispered exclamation of fervent thankfulness. Beatrice could
never remember that moment without tears; the tone, the look, the
embrace,--all had revealed to her the fervour of her father’s affection,
beyond--far beyond all that she had ever imagined. It was but for one
instant that he gave way; the next, he was hastening on, and stood
beside Frederick as soon as his sister-in-law.