Henrietta's Wish; Or, Domineering Part 24

At her voice w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y 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, w.i.l.l.y," 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 G.o.d," 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 w.i.l.l.y'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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 repet.i.tion 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 gla.s.s, 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 p.r.o.nunciation 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 p.r.o.nounced with increased confidence that there was no fracture, and gave considerable hopes of improvement.

While this was pa.s.sing, 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.