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 himself! 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 new-comer 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.