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."