The drawing-room at Knight Sutton Hall was in that state of bustle
incidental to the expectation of company, which was sure to prevail
wherever Mrs. Langford reigned. She walked about, removing the covers
from chairs and ottomans, shaking out curtains, adjusting china, and
appealing to Mrs. Frederick Langford in various matters of taste, though
never allowing her to move to assist her. Henrietta, however, often
came to her help, and was certainly acting in a way to incur the severe
displeasure of the absent queen, by laying aside Midas’s robes to assist
in the arrangements. “That picture is crooked, I am sure!” said Mrs.
Langford; and of course she was not satisfied till she had summoned
Geoffrey from the study to give his opinion, and had made him mount upon
a chair to settle its position. In the midst of the operation, in walked
Uncle Roger. “Hollo! Geoffrey, what are you up to now? So, ma’am, you
are making yourself smart to-day. Where is my father?”
“He has ridden over to see the South Farm,” said Mrs. Langford.
“Oho! got out of the way of the beautifying,--I understand.”
“Have you seen anything of Fred and Busy Bee?” asked Mrs. Frederick
Langford. “They went out directly after breakfast to walk to Sutton
Leigh, and I have not seen them since.”
“O yes,” said Mr. Roger Langford, “I can tell you what has become of
them; they are gone to Allonfield. I have just seen them off in the gig,
and Will with them, after some of their acting affairs.”
Good, easy man; he little thought what a thunder-clap was this
intelligence. Uncle Geoffrey turned round on his elevation to look him
full in the face; every shade of colour left the countenance of Mrs.
Frederick Langford; Henrietta let her work fall, and looked up in
dismay.
“You don’t mean that Fred was driving?” said her mother.
“Yes, I do! Why my boys can drive long before they are that age,--surely
he knows how!”
“O, Roger, what have you done!” said she faintly, as if the exclamation
would break from her in spite of herself.
“Indeed, mamma,” said Henrietta, alarmed at her paleness, “I assure
you Fred has often told me how he has driven our own horses when he was
sitting up by Dawson.”
“Ay, ay, Mary,” said Uncle Roger, “never fear. Depend upon it, boys
do many and many a thing that mammas never guess at, and come out with
whole bones after all.”
Henrietta, meantime, was attentively watching Uncle Geoffrey’s face, in
hopes of discovering what he thought of the danger; but she could learn
nothing, for he kept his features as composed as possible.
“I do believe those children are gone crazy about their acting,” said
Mrs. Langford; “and how Mr. Langford can encourage them in it I cannot
think. So silly of Bee to go off in this way, when she might just as
well have sent by Martin!” And her head being pretty much engrossed with
her present occupation, she went out to obey a summons from the kitchen,
without much perception of the consternation that prevailed in the
drawing-room.
“Did you know they were going, Henrietta?” asked Uncle Geoffrey, rather
sternly.
“No! I thought they meant to sent Alex. But O! uncle, do you think there
is any danger?” exclaimed she, losing self-control in the infection of
fear caught from the mute terror which she saw her mother struggling
to overcome. Her mother’s inquiring, imploring glance followed her
question.
“Foolish children!” said Uncle Geoffrey, “I am very much vexed with the
Bee for her wilfulness about this scheme, but as for the rest, there is
hardly a steadier animal than old Dumple, and he is pretty well used to
young hands.”
Henrietta thought him quite satisfied, and even her mother was in some
degrees tranquillized, and would have been more so, had not Mr. Roger
Langford begun to reason with her in the following style:--“Come, Mary,
you need not be in the least alarmed. It is quite nonsense in you.
You know a boy of any spirit will always be doing things that sound
imprudent. I would not give a farthing for Fred if he was always to be
the mamma’s boy you would make him. He is come to an age now when you
cannot keep him up in that way, and he must get knocked about some time
or other.”
“O yes, I know I am very foolish,” said she, trying to smile.
“I shall send up Elizabeth to talk to you,” said Uncle Roger. “She would
have a pretty life of it if she went into such a state as you do on all
such occasions.”
“Enough to break the heart of ten horses, as they say in Ireland,” said
Uncle Geoffrey, seeing that the best chance for her was to appear at
his ease, and divert his brother’s attention. “And by the by, Roger, you
never told me if you heard any more of your poor Irish haymakers.”
“Why, Geoffrey, you have an absent fit now for once in your life,” said
his brother. “Are you the man to ask if I heard any more of them, when
you yourself gave me a sovereign to send them in the famine?”
Uncle Geoffrey, however, persevered, and finally succeeded in starting
Uncle Roger upon his favourite and inexhaustible subject of the doings
at the Allonfield Union. During this time Mrs. Frederick Langford put a
few stitches into her work, found it would not do, and paused, stood
up, seemed to be observing the new arrangement in the room,--then took
a long look out at the window, and at last left the room. Henrietta ran
after her to assure her that she was convinced that Uncle Geoffrey was
not alarmed, and to beg her to set her mind at rest. “Thank you, my
dear,” said she. “I--no, really--you know how foolish I am, my dear,
and I think I had rather be alone. Don’t stay here and frighten yourself
too; this is only my usual fright, and it will be better if I am left
alone. Go down, my dear, think about something else, and let me know
when they come home.”
With considerable reluctance Henrietta was obliged to obey, and
descended to the drawing-room, where the first words that met her ears
were from Uncle Roger. “Well, I wish, with all my heart, they were safe
at home again. But do you mean to say, Geoffrey, that I ought not to
have let them go?”
“I shall certainly come upon you for damages, if he breaks the neck of
little Bee,” said Uncle Geoffrey.
“If I had guessed it,” said Uncle Roger; “but then, you know, any of
my boys would think nothing of driving Dumple,--even Dick I have
trusted,--and they came up--you should have seen them--as confidently as
if he had been driving four-in-hand every day of his life. Upon my word
your daughter has a tolerable spirit of her own, if she knew that he
could not drive.”
“A tolerable spirit of self-will,” said Uncle Geoffrey, with a sigh.
“But did you see them off, how did they manage?”
“Ah! why there, I must confess, I was to blame,” said his brother. “They
did clear out of the yard in a strange fashion, certainly, and I might
have questioned a little closer. But never mind, ‘tis all straight road.
I would lay any wager they will come back safe,--boys always do.”
Uncle Geoffrey smiled, but Henrietta thought it a very bad sign that
he, too, looked out at the window; and the confidence founded on his
tranquillity deserted her.
Uncle Roger forthwith returned to the fighting o’er again of his battles
at the Board of Guardians, and Henrietta was able to get to the window,
where for some ten minutes she sat, and at length exclaimed with a
start, “Here is Willy running across the paddock!”
“All right!” said Uncle Roger, “they must have stopped at Sutton Leigh!”
“It is the opposite way!” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, who at the same
moment stepped up to the window. Henrietta’s heart throbbed fearfully as
she saw how wearied was the boy’s running, and yet how rapid. She could
hardly stand as she followed her uncles to the hall; her mother at the
same moment came downstairs, and all together met the little boy, as,
breathless, exhausted, unable to speak, he rushed into the hall, and
threw himself upon his father, leaning his head against him and clinging
as if he could not stand.
“Why Will, how now, my boy? Have you been racing?” said his father,
kneeling on one knee, and supporting the poor little wearied fellow, as
he almost lay upon his breast and shoulder. “What is the matter now?”
There was a deep silence only interrupted by the deep pantings of
the boy. Henrietta leant on the banisters, giddy with suspense. Uncle
Geoffrey stepped into the dining-room, and brought back a glass of
wine and some water. Aunt Mary parted the damp hair that hung over his
forehead, laid her cold hand on it, and said, “Poor little fellow.”
At her voice Willy looked up, clung faster to his father, and whispered
something unintelligible.
“What? Has anything happened? What is the matter?” were questions
anxiously asked, while Uncle Geoffrey in silence succeeded in
administering the wine; after which Willy managed to say, pointing to
his aunt,
“Don’t--tell--her.”
It was with a sort of ghastly composure that she leant over him, saying,
“Don’t be afraid, my dear, I am ready to hear it.”
He raised himself, and gazed at her in perplexity and wonder.
Henrietta’s violently throbbing heart took from her almost the
perception of what was happening.
“Take breath, Willy,” said his father; “don’t keep us all anxious.”
“Bee said I was to tell Uncle Geoffrey,” said the boy.
“Is she safe?” asked Aunt Mary, earnestly.
“Yes.”
“Thanks to God,” said she, holding out her hand to Uncle Geoffrey,
with a look of relief and congratulation, and yet of inexpressible
mournfulness which went to his heart.
“And Fred?” said Uncle Roger.
“Do not ask, Roger,” said she, still as calmly as before; “I always knew
how it would be.”
Henrietta tried to exclaim, to inquire, but her lips would not frame one
word, her tongue would not leave the roof of her mouth. She heard a few
confused sounds, and then a mist came over her eyes, a rushing of waters
in her ears, and she sank on the ground in a fainting fit. When she came
to herself she was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, and all was
still.
“Mamma!” said she.
“Here, dear child,”--but it was Mrs. Langford’s voice.
“Mamma!” again said she. “Where is mamma? Where are they all? Why does
the room turn round?”
“You have not been well, my dear,” said her grandmother; “but drink
this, and lie still, you will soon be better.”
“Where is mamma?” repeated Henrietta, gazing round and seeing no one but
Mrs. Langford and Bennet. “Was she frightened at my being ill? Tell her
I am better.”
“She knows it, my dear: lie still and try to go to sleep.”
“But weren’t there a great many people?” said Henrietta. “Were we not
in the hall? Did not Willy come? O! grandmamma, grandmamma, do tell me,
where are mamma and Fred?”
“They will soon be here, I hope.”
“But, grandmamma,” cried she vehemently, turning herself round as
clearer recollection returned, “something has happened--O! what has
happened to Fred?”
“Nothing very serious, we hope, my dear,” said Mrs. Langford. “It was
Willy who frightened you. Fred has had a fall, and your mamma and uncles
are gone to see about him.”
“A fall! O, tell me, tell me! I am sure it is something dreadful! O,
tell me all about it, grandmamma, is he much hurt? O, Freddy, Freddy!”
With more quietness than could have been anticipated from so active and
bustling a nature, Mrs. Langford gradually told her granddaughter all
that she knew, which was but little, as she had been in attendance
on her, and had only heard the main fact of Willy’s story. Henrietta
clapped her hands wildly together in an agony of grief. “He is
killed--he is, I’m sure of it!” said she. “Why do you not tell me so?”
“My dear, I trust and believe that he is only stunned.”
“No, no, no! papa was killed in that way, and I am sure he is! O, Fred,
Fred, my own dear, dear brother, my only one! O, I cannot bear it! O,
Fred!”
She rose up from the sofa, and walked and down the room in an ecstasy of
sorrow. “And it was I that helped to bring him here! It was my doing! O,
my own, my dearest, my twin brother, I cannot live without him!”
“Henrietta,” said Mrs. Langford, “you do not know what you are saying;
you must bear the will of God, be it what it may.”
“I can’t, I can not,” repeated Henrietta; “if I am to lose him, I can’t
live; I don’t care for anything without Fred!”
“Your mother, Henrietta.”
“Mamma! O, don’t speak of her; she would die, I am sure she would,
without him; and then I should too, for I should have nothing.”
Henrietta’s grief was the more ungovernable that it was chiefly selfish;
there was little thought of her mother,--little, indeed, for anything
but the personal loss to herself. She hid her face in her hands, and
sobbed violently, though without a tear, while Mrs. Langford vainly
tried to make her hear of patience and resignation, turning away, and
saying, “I can’t be patient--no, I can’t!” and then again repeating her
brother’s name with all the fondest terms of endearment.
Then came a sudden change: it was possible that he yet lived--and she
became certain that he had been only stunned for a moment, and required
her grandmamma to be so too. Mrs. Langford, at the risk of a cruel
disappointment, was willing to encourage her hope; but Henrietta,
fancying herself treated like a petted child, chose to insist on being
told really and exactly what was her view of the case. Then she was
urgent to go out and meet the others, and learn the truth; but this Mrs.
Langford would not permit. It was in kindness, to spare her some fearful
sight, which might shock and startle her, but Henrietta was far from
taking it so; her habitual want of submission made itself felt in spite
of her usual gentleness, now that she had been thrown off her balance,
and she burst into a passionate fit of weeping.
In such a dreadful interval of suspense, her conduct was, perhaps,
scarcely under her own control; and it is scarcely just to mention it
as a subject of blame. But, be it remembered that it was the effect of
a long previous selfishness and self-will; quiet, amiable selfishness;
gentle, caressing self-will; but no less real, and more perilous and
deceitful. But for this, Henrietta would have thought more of her
mother, prepared for her comfort, and braced herself in order to be a
support to her; she would have remembered how terrible must be the
shock to her grandmother in her old age, and how painful must be the
remembrances thus excited of the former bereavement; and in the attempt
to console her, the sense of her own sorrow would have been in some
degree relieved; whereas she now seemed to forget that Frederick
was anything to any one but herself. She prayed, but it was one wild
repetition of “O, give him back to me!--save his life!--let him be safe
and well!” She had no room for any other entreaty; she did not call
for strength and resignation on the part of herself and her mother, for
whatever might be appointed; she did not pray that his life might be
granted only if it was for his good; she could ask nothing but that her
own beloved brother might be spared to herself, and she ended her prayer
as unsubdued, and therefore as miserable, as when she began it.
The first intelligence that arrived was brought by Uncle Roger and
Beatrice, who, rather to their surprise, came back in the gig, and
greatly relieved their minds with the intelligence of Frederick’s life,
and of Philip Carey’s arrival. Henrietta had sprung eagerly up on their
first entrance, with parted lips and earnest eyes, and listened to their
narration with trembling throbbing hope, but with scarcely a word; and
when she heard that Fred still lay senseless and motionless, she again
turned away, and hid her face on the arm of the sofa, without one look
at Beatrice, reckless of the pang that shot through the heart of one
flesh from that trying watch over her brother. Beatrice hoped for one
word, one kiss, and looked wistfully at the long veil of half uncurled
ringlets that floated over the crossed arms on which her forehead
rested, and meantime submitted with a kind of patient indifference to
her grandmother’s caress, drank hot wine and water, sat by the fire,
and finally was sent upstairs to change her dress. Too restless, too
anxious, too wretched to stay there alone, longing for some interchange
of sympathy,--but her mind too turbid with agitation to seek it where it
would most surely have been found,--she hastened down again. Grandmamma
was busied in giving directions for the room which was being prepared
for Fred; Uncle Roger had walked out to meet those who were conveying
him home: and Henrietta was sitting in the window, her forehead resting
against the glass, watching intently for their arrival.
“Are they coming?” asked Beatrice anxiously.
“No!” was all the answer, hardly uttered, and without looking round, as
if her cousin’s entrance was perfectly indifferent to her. Beatrice went
up and stood by her, looking out for a few minutes; then taking the hand
that lay in her lap, she said in an imploring whisper, “Henrietta, you
forgive me?”
The hand lay limp and lifeless in hers, and Henrietta scarcely raised
her face as she answered, in a low, languid, dejected voice, “Of course,
Bee, only I am so wretched. Don’t talk to me.”
Her head sunk again, and Beatrice stepped hastily back to the fire, with
a more bitter feeling than she had ever known. This was no forgiveness;
it was worse than anger or reproach; it was a repulse, and that when her
whole heart was yearning to relieve the pent-up oppression that almost
choked her, by weeping with her. She leant her burning forehead on the
cool marble chimney-piece, and longed for her mother,--longed for her
almost as much for her papa’s, her Aunt Mary’s and her grandmother’s
sake, as for her own. But O! what an infinite relief would one talk with
her have been! She turned toward the table, and thought of writing to
her, but her hand was trembling--every pulse throbbing; she could not
even sit still enough to make the attempt.
At last she saw Henrietta spring to her feet, and hastening to the
window beheld the melancholy procession; Fred carried on a mattress by
Uncle Geoffrey and three of the labourers; Philip Carey walking at one
side, and on the other Mrs. Frederick Langford leaning on Uncle Roger’s
arm.
Both girls hurried out to meet them, but all attention was at that
moment for the patient, as he was carried in on his mattress, and
deposited for a few minutes on the large hall table. Henrietta pushed
between her uncles, and made her way up to him, unconscious of the
presence of anyone else--even of her mother--while she clasped his hand,
and hanging over him looked with an agonized intensity at his motionless
features. The next moment she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder,
and was forced to turn round and look into her face: the sweet mournful
meekness of which came for a moment like a soft cooling breeze upon the
dry burning desert of her grief.
“My poor child,” said the gentle voice.
“O, mamma, is--is--.” She could not speak; her face was violently
agitated, and the very muscles of her throat quivered.
“They hope for the best, my dear,” was the reply; but both Mr. Geoffrey
Langford and Beatrice distinguished her own hopelessness in the
intonation, and the very form of the expression: whereas Henrietta only
took in and eagerly seized the idea of comfort which it was intended
to convey to her. She would have inquired more, but Mrs. Langford was
telling her mother of the arrangements she had made, and entreating her
to take some rest.
“Thank you, ma’am,--thank you very much indeed--you are very kind: I am
very sorry to give you so much trouble,” were her answers; and simple as
were the words, there was a whole world of truth and reality in them.
Preparations were now made for carrying Fred up stairs, but even at
that moment Aunt Mary was not without thought for Beatrice, who was
retreating, as if she feared to be as much in her way as she had been in
Henrietta’s.
“I did not see you, before, Queenie,” she said, holding out her hand and
kissing her, “you have gone through more than any one.”
A thrill of fond grateful affection brought the tears into Queen Bee’s
eyes. How much there was even in the pronunciation of that pet playful
name to touch her heart, and fill it to overflowing with love and
contrition. She longed to pour out her whole confession, but there was
no one to attend to her--the patient occupied the whole attention of
all. He was carried to his mother’s room, placed in bed, and again
examined by young Mr. Carey, who pronounced with increased confidence
that there was no fracture, and gave considerable hopes of improvement.
While this was passing, Henrietta sat on the upper step of the stairs,
her head on her hands, scarcely moving or answering when addressed. As
evening twilight began to close in, the surgeon left the room, and went
down to make his report to those who were anxiously awaiting it in the
drawing-room; and she took advantage of his exit to come to the door,
and beg to be let in.
Uncle Geoffrey admitted her; and her mother, who was sitting by the
bed-side, held out her hand. Henrietta came up to her, and at first
stood by her, intently watching her brother; then after a time sat down
on a footstool, and, with her head resting on her mother’s lap, gave
herself up to a sort of quiet heavy dream, which might be called the
very luxury of grief. Uncle Geoffrey sat by the fire, watching
his sister-in-law even more anxiously than the patient, and thus a
considerable interval passed in complete silence, only broken by the
crackling of the fire, the ticking of the watches, or some slight change
of posture of one or other of the three nurses. At last the stillness
was interrupted by a little movement among the bedclothes, and with a
feeling like transport, Henrietta saw the hand, which had hitherto lain
so still and helpless, stretched somewhat out, and the head turned upon
the pillow. Uncle Geoffrey stood up, and Mrs. Frederick Langford pressed
her daughter’s hand with a sort of convulsive tremor. A faint voice
murmured “Mamma!” and while a flush of trembling joy illumined her pale
face, she bent over him, answering him eagerly and fondly, but he did
not seem to know her, and again repeating “Mamma,” opened his eyes with
a vacant gaze, and tried in vain to express some complaint.
In a short time, however, he regained a partial degree of consciousness.
He knew his mother, and was continually calling to her, as if for the
sake of feeling her presence, but without recognizing any other person,
not even his sister or his uncle. Henrietta stood gazing sadly upon him,
while his mother hung over him soothing his restlessness, and answering
his half-uttered complaints, and Uncle Geoffrey was ever ready with
assistance and comfort to each in turn, as it was needed, and especially
supporting his sister-in-law with that sense of protection and reliance
so precious to a sinking heart.
Aunt Roger came up to announce that dinner was ready, and to beg that
she might stay with Fred while the rest went down. Mrs. Frederick
Langford only shook her head, and thanked her, saying with a painful
smile that it was impossible, but begging Uncle Geoffrey and Henrietta
to go. The former complied, knowing how much alarm his absence would
create downstairs; but Henrietta declared that she could not bear the
thoughts of going down, and it was only by a positive order that he
succeeded in making her come with him. Grandpapa kissed her, and made
her sit by him, and grandmamma loaded her plate with all that was best
on the table, but she looked at it with disgust, and leaning back in her
chair, faintly begged not to be asked to eat.
Uncle Geoffrey poured out a glass of wine, and said in a tone which
startled her by its unwonted severity, “This will not do, Henrietta; I
cannot allow you to add to your mamma’s troubles by making yourself ill.
I desire you will eat, as you certainly can.”
Every one was taken by surprise, and perhaps Mrs. Langford might have
interfered, but for a sign from grandpapa. Henrietta, with a feeling
of being cruelly treated, silently obeyed, swallowed down the wine, and
having done so, found herself capable of making a very tolerable dinner,
by which she was greatly relieved and refreshed.
Uncle Geoffrey said a few cheering words to his father and mother,
and returned to Fred’s room as soon as he could, without giving that
appearance of hurry and anxiety which would have increased their alarm.
Henrietta, without the same thoughtfulness, rushed rather than ran after
him, and neither of the two came down again to tea.
Philip Carey was to stay all night, and though Beatrice was of course
very glad that he should do so, yet she was much harassed by the
conversation kept up with him for civility’s sake. She had been
leading a forlorn dreary life all the afternoon, busy first in helping
grandmamma to write notes to be sent to the intended guests, and
afterwards, with a feeling of intense disgust, putting out of sight all
the preparations for their own self-chosen sport. She desired quiet, and
yet when she found it, it was unendurable, and to talk to her father or
grandfather would be a great relief, yet the first beginning might well
be dreaded. Neither of them was forthcoming, and now in the evening to
hear the quiet grave discussion of Allonfield gossip was excessively
harassing and irritating. No one spoke for their own pleasure, the
thoughts of all were elsewhere, and they only talked thus for the sake
of politeness; but she gave them no credit for this, and felt fretted
and wearied beyond bearing. Even this, however, was better than when
they did return to the engrossing thought, and spoke of the accident,
requiring of her a more exact and particular account of it. She hurried
over it. Grandmamma praised her, and each word was a sting.
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Roger Langford, “what could have made you so
anxious to go to Allonfield?”
“O, Aunt Roger, it was very--” but here Beatrice, whose agitated spirits
made her particularly accessible to momentary emotion, was seized with
such a sense of the absurdity of undertaking so foolish an expedition,
with no other purpose than going to buy a pair of ass’s ears, that she
was overpowered by a violent fit of laughing. Grandmamma and Aunt Roger,
after looking at her in amazement for a moment, both started up, and
came towards her with looks of alarm that set her off again still more
uncontrollably. She struggled to speak, but that only made it worse, and
when she perceived that she was supposed to be hysterical, she laughed
the more, though the laughter was positive pain. Once she for a moment
succeeded in recovering some degree of composure, but every kind
demonstration of solicitude brought on a fresh access of laughter, and
a certain whispering threat of calling Philip Carey was worse than all.
When, however, Aunt Roger was actually setting off for the purpose, the
dread of his coming had a salutary effect, and enabled her to make a
violent effort, by which she composed herself, and at length sat quite
still, except for the trembling, which she could not control.
Grandmamma and Aunt Roger united in ordering her to bed, but she could
not bear to go without seeing her papa, nor would she accept Mrs.
Langford’s offer of calling him; and at last a compromise was made that
she should go up to bed on condition that her papa should come and visit
her when he came out of Fred’s room. Her grandmamma came up with her,
helped her to undress, gave her the unwonted indulgence of a fire, and
summoned Judith to prepare things as quickly and quietly as possible
for Henrietta, who was to sleep with her that night. It was with
much difficulty that she could avoid making a promise to go to bed
immediately, and not to get up to breakfast. At last, with a very
affectionate kiss, grandmamma left her to brush her hair, an operation
which she resolved to lengthen out until her papa’s visit.
It was long before he came, but at last his step was heard along the
passage, his knock was at her door. She flew to it, and stood before
him, her large black eyes looking larger, brighter, blacker than usual
from the contrast with the pale or rather sallow face, and the white
nightcap and dressing-gown.
“How is Fred?” asked she as well as her parched tongue would allow her
to speak.
“Much the same, only talking a little more. But why are you up still?
Your grandmamma said--”
“Never mind, papa,” interrupted she, “only tell me this--is Fred in
danger?”
“You have heard all we can tell, my dear--”
Beatrice interrupted him by an impatient, despairing look, and clasped
her hands: “I know--I know; but what do you think?”
“My own impression is,” said her father, in a calm, kind, yet almost
reproving tone, as if to warn her to repress her agitation, “that there
is no reason to give up hope, although it is impossible yet to ascertain
the extent of the injury.”
Beatrice retreated a step or two: she stood by the table, one hand upon
it, as if for support, yet her figure quite erect, her eyes fixed on his
face, and her voice firm, though husky, as she said, slowly and quietly,
“Papa, if Fred dies, it is my doing.”
His face did not express surprise or horror--nothing but kindness and
compassion, while he answered, “My poor girl, I was afraid how it might
have been.” Then he led her to a chair and sat down by her side, so
as to let her perceive that he was ready to listen, and would give her
time. He might be in haste, but it was no time to show it.
She now spoke with more hurry and agitation, “Yes, yes, papa, it was the
very thing you warned me against--I mean--I mean--the being set in my
own way, and liking to tease the boys. O if I could but speak to tell
you all, but it seems like a weight here choking me,” and she touched
her throat. “I can’t get it out in words! O!” Poor Beatrice even groaned
aloud with oppression.
“Do not try to express it,” said her father: “at least, it is not I who
can give you the best comfort. Here”--and he took up a Prayer Book.
“Yes, I feel as if I could turn there now I have told you, papa,” said
Beatrice; “but when I could not get at you, everything seemed dried up
in me. Not one prayer or confession would come;--but now, O! now you
know it, and--and--I feel as if He would not turn away His face. Do you
know I did try the 51st Psalm, but it would not do, not even ‘deliver me
from blood-guiltiness,’ it would only make me shudder! O, papa, it was
dreadful!”
Her father’s answer was to draw her down on her knees by his side, and
read a few verses of that very Psalm, and a few clauses of the prayer
for persons troubled in mind, and he ended with the Lord’s Prayer.
Beatrice, when it was over, leant her head against him, and did not
speak, nor weep, but she seemed refreshed and relieved. He watched her
anxiously and affectionately, doubting whether it was right to bestow so
much time on her exclusively, yet unwilling to leave her. When she again
spoke, it was in a lower, more subdued, and softer voice, “Aunt Mary
will forgive me, I know; you will tell her, papa, and then it will
not be quite so bad! Now I can pray that he may be saved--O,
papa--disobedient, and I the cause; how could I ever bear the thought?”
“You can only pray,” replied her father.
“Now that I can once more,” said Beatrice; and again there was a
silence, while she stood thinking deeply, but contrary to her usual
habit, not speaking, and he knowing well her tendency to lose her
repentant feelings by expressing them, was not willing to interrupt her.
So they remained for nearly ten minutes, until at last he thought it
time to leave her, and made some movement as if to do so. Then she
spoke, “Only tell me one thing, papa. Do you think Aunt Mary has any
hope? There was something--something death-like in her face. Does she
hope?”
Mr. Geoffrey Langford shook his head. “Not yet,” said he. “I think it
may be better after this first night is over. She is evidently reckoning
the hours, and I think she has a kind of morbid expectation that it
will be as it was with his father, who lived twelve hours after his
accident.”
“But surely, surely,” said Beatrice eagerly, “this is a very different
case; Fred has spoken so much more than my uncle did; and Philip says he
is convinced that there is no fracture--”
“It is a morbid feeling,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “and therefore
impossible to be reasoned away. I see she dreads to be told to hope, and
I shall not even attempt it till these fatal twelve hours are over.”
“Poor dear aunt!” sighed Beatrice. “I am glad, if it was to be, that you
were here, for nobody else would understand her.”
“Understand her!” said he, with something of a smile. “No, Bee,
such sorrow as hers has a sacredness in it which is not what can be
understood.”
Beatrice sighed, and then with a look as if she saw a ray of comfort,
said, “I suppose mamma will soon be here?”
“I think not,” said her father, “I shall tell her she had better wait
to see how things go on, and keep herself in reserve. At present it is
needlessly tormenting your aunt to ask her to leave Fred for a moment,
and I do not think she has even the power to rest. While this goes on,
I am of more use in attending to him than your mamma could be; but if
he is a long time recovering, it will be a great advantage to have her
coming fresh, and not half knocked up with previous attendance.”
“But how she will wish to be here!” exclaimed Beatrice, “and how you
will want her!”
“No doubt of that, Queenie,” said her father smiling, “but we must
reserve our forces, and I think she will be of the same mind. Well, I
must go. Where is Henrietta to sleep to-night?”
“With me,” said Beatrice.
“I will send her to you as soon as I can. You must do what you can with
her, Bee, for I can see that the way she hangs on her mamma is quite
oppressive. If she had but a little vigour!”
“I don’t know what to do about her!” said Beatrice with more dejection
than she had yet shown, “I wish I could be of any comfort to her, but I
can’t--I shall never do good to anybody--only harm.”
“Fear the harm, and the good will come,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford.
“Good night, my dear.”
Beatrice threw herself on her knees as soon as the door had closed on
her father, and so remained for a considerable time in one earnest,
unexpressed outpouring of confession and prayer, for how long she knew
not, all that she was sensible of was a feeling of relief, the repose of
such humility and submission, such heartfelt contrition as she had never
known before.
So she continued till she heard Henrietta’s approaching steps, when she
rose and opened the door, ready to welcome her with all the affection
and consolation in her power. There stood Henrietta, a heavy weight on
her eyes, her hair on one side all uncurled and flattened, the colour
on half her face much deepened, and a sort of stupor about her whole
person, as if but one idea possessed her. Beatrice went up to meet her,
and took her candle, asking what account she brought of the patient. “No
better,” was all the answer, and she sat down making no more detailed
answers to all her cousin’s questions. She would have done the same to
her grandmamma, or any one else, so wrapped up was she in her own grief,
but this conduct gave more pain to Beatrice than it could have done
to any one else, since it kept up the last miserable feeling of being
unforgiven. Beatrice let her sit still for some minutes, looking at
her all the time with an almost piteous glance of entreaty, of which
Henrietta was perfectly unconscious, and then began to beg her to
undress, seconding the proposal by beginning to unfasten her dress.
Henrietta moved pettishly, as if provoked at being disturbed.
“I beg your pardon, dear Henrietta,” said Beatrice; “if you would but
let me! You will be ill to-morrow, and that would be worse still.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Henrietta shortly, “never mind me.”
“But I must, dear Henrietta. If you would but--”
“I can’t go to bed,” replied Henrietta, “thank you, Bee, never mind--”
Beatrice stood still, much distressed at her own inability to be of any
service, and pained far more by the sight of Henrietta’s grief than by
the unkind rejection of herself. “Papa thinks there is great hope,” said
she abruptly.
“Mamma does not,” said Henrietta, edging away from her cousin as if to
put an end to the subject.
Beatrice almost wrung her hands. O this wilfulness of grief, how hard
it was to contend with it! At last there was a knock at the door--it was
grandmamma, suspecting that they were still up. Little recked Beatrice
of the scolding that fell on herself for not having been in bed hours
ago; she was only rejoiced at the determination that swept away all
Henrietta’s feeble opposition. The bell was rung, Bennet was summoned,
grandmamma peremptorily ordered her to be undressed, and in another
half-hour the cousins were lying side by side, Henrietta’s lethargy
had become a heavy sleep, Beatrice was broad awake, listening to every
sound, forming every possible speculation on the future, and to her own
overstretched fancy seeming actually to feel the thoughts chasing each
other through her throbbing head.