Charlotte Yonge - The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations

“There’s nurse,” and Ethel flew up to her. “What is it? Oh, nurse!”

“My poor, poor children,” said old nurse, passionately kissing Ethel. Harry and Mary were on the stairs behind her, clinging together.

A stranger looked into the house, followed by Adams, the stableman. “They are going to bring Miss May in,” some one said.

Ethel could bear it no longer. As if she could escape, she fled upstairs into her room, and, falling on her knees, hid her face on her bed.

There were heavy steps in the house, then a sound of hasty feet coming up to her. Norman dashed into the room, and threw himself on a chair. He was ghastly pale, and shuddered all over.

“Oh, Norman, Norman, speak! What is it?” He groaned, but could not speak; he rested his head against her, and gasped. She was terribly frightened. “I’ll call—” and she would have gone, but he held her. “No—no—they can’t!” He was prevented from saying more, by chattering teeth and deadly faintness. She tried to support him, but could only guide him as he sank, till he lay at full length on the floor, where she put a pillow under his head, and gave him some water. “Is it—oh, tell me! Are they much hurt? Oh, try to say!”

“They say Margaret is alive,” said Norman, in gasps; “but—And papa—he stood up—sat—walked—was better-”

“Is he hurt—much hurt?”

“His arm—” and the tremor and fainting stopped him again.

“Mamma?” whispered Ethel; but Norman only pressed his face into the pillow.

She was so bewildered as to be more alive to the present distress of his condition than to the vague horrors downstairs. Some minutes passed in silence, Norman lying still, excepting a nervous trembling that agitated his whole frame. Again was heard the strange tread, doors opening and shutting, and suppressed voices, and he turned his face upwards, and listened with his hand pressed to his forehead, as if to keep himself still enough to listen.

“Oh! what is the matter? What is it?” cried Ethel, startled and recalled to the sense of what was passing.

“Oh, Norman!” Then springing up, with a sudden thought, “Mr. Ward! Oh! is he there?”

“Yes,” said Norman, in a low hopeless tone, “he was at the place. He said it—”

“What?”

Again Norman’s face was out of sight.

“Mamma?” Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind refused to grasp the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, save a convulsive squeezing of her hand.

Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action.

“Where is she? What are they doing for her? What—”

“There’s nothing to be done. She—when they lifted her up, she was—”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the floor, too much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, neither moving nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, “The carriage turned right over—her head struck on the kerb stone—”

“Did you see?” said Ethel presently.

“I saw them lift her up.” He spoke at intervals, as he could get breath and bear to utter the words. “And papa—he was stunned—but soon he sat up, said he would go to her—he looked at her—felt her pulse, and then—sank down over her!”

“And did you say—I can’t remember—was he hurt?”

The shuddering came again, “His arm—all twisted—broken,” and his voice sank into a faint whisper; Ethel was obliged to sprinkle him again with water. “But he won’t die?” said she, in a tone calm from its bewilderment.

“Oh! no, no, no—”

“And Margaret?”

“They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh! what’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed he, scolding himself, as, sitting up, he was forced to rest his head on his shaking hand.

“You are still faint, dear Norman; you had better lie still, and I’ll go and see.”

“Faint—stuff—how horridly stupid!” but he was obliged to lay his head down again; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept carefully towards the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet came over her, and she turned towards the nursery.

The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was on a low chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and Harry leaning against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held up her finger as Ethel entered, and whispered, “Hush! don’t wake baby for anything!”

The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, stabbing and taking away her breath, “Where are they?” she said; “how is papa? who is with him?”

“Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,” said Harry. “Nurse came up just now, and said they were setting his arm.”

“Where is he?”

“On the bed in his dressing-room,” said Harry.

“Has he come to himself—is he better?”

They did not seem to know, and Ethel asked where to find Flora. “With Margaret,” she was told, and she was thinking whether she could venture to seek her, when she herself came fast up the stairs. Ethel and Harry both darted out. “Don’t stop me,” said Flora—“they want some handkerchiefs.”

“What, is not she in her own room?”

“No,” said Harry, “in mamma’s;” and then his face quivered all over, and he turned away. Ethel ran after her sister, and pulling out drawers without knowing what she sought, begged to hear how papa and Margaret were.

“We can’t judge of Margaret—she has moved, and made a little moaning—there are no limbs broken, but we are afraid for her head. Oh! if papa could but—”

“And papa?”

“Mr. Ward is with him now—his arm is terribly hurt.”

“But oh! Flora—one moment—is he sensible?”

“Hardly; he does not take any notice—but don’t keep me.”

“Can I do anything?” following her to the head of the stairs.

“No; I don’t see what you can do. Miss Winter and I are with Margaret; there’s nothing to do for her.”

It was a relief. Etheldred shrank from what she might have to behold, and Flora hastened down, too busy and too useful to have time to think. Harry had gone back to his refuge in the nursery, and Ethel returned to Norman. There they remained for a long time, both unwilling to speak or stir, or even to observe to each other on the noises that came in to them, as their door was left ajar, though in those sounds they were so absorbed, that they did not notice the cold of a frosty October evening, or the darkness that closed in on them.

They heard the poor babe crying, one of the children going down to call nurse, and nurse coming up; then Harry, at the door of the room where the boys slept, calling Norman in a low voice. Norman, now nearly recovered, went and brought him into his sister’s room, and his tidings were, that their father’s arm had been broken in two places, and the elbow frightfully injured, having been crushed and twisted by the wheel. He was also a good deal bruised, and though Mr. Ward trusted there was no positive harm to the head, he was in an unconscious state, from which the severe pain of the operation had only roused him, so far as to evince a few signs of suffering. Margaret was still insensible.

The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their hearts. Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he should go down, he could not bear it; but he could not make up his mind to go, and after about a quarter of an hour, to their great relief, it ceased.

Next Mary opened the door, saying, “Norman, here’s Mr. Wilmot come to ask if he can do anything—Miss Winter sent word that you had better go to him.”

“How is baby?” asked Harry.

“Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet now,” said Mary; “will you go down, Norman?”