“You are not hurt, I hope,” exclaimed both cousins, hastening to Clementina’s assistance, and raising her; for, in her ball-dress, she was more helpless than ever.
“She is hurt, I fear,” cried Ernest, as he saw red drops trickling from her brow, and falling on her lace dress. “Oh, Charles, do call Mrs. Clayton directly.”
The lady’s maid was instantly summoned, and the hurts of the trembling, sobbing, almost hysterical Clementina examined. She had received rather a deep cut on the forehead, and a little contusion under the eye. There was nothing to alarm, but much to disfigure. Charles proposed sending at once for the doctor, but this the young lady would not hear of: she had some vague, terrible idea, of wounds being sewn up, and much preferred the mild surgery of Mrs. Clayton.
In the midst of the confusion occasioned by the accident, two lamps were seen to stop before the door, and the thundering double rap which succeeded announced the return of Mrs. Hope.
The servant who came to say that his mistress was waiting, laid at the same time a box on the table: it contained the much-wished-for pearls.
“I had better go down and tell what has happened,” said Charles, quitting the drawing-room. In two or three minutes he returned with Mrs. Hope.
“My darling child! my sweet Clemmy! what a sad business this is! How could it have happened? Why, you look as though you had been to the wars! you will never be able to go to the ball.”
Clementina leaned her head on the sofa, and sobbed piteously.
“Dear me! I hope, Clayton, that you have put on the plaster carefully. I only dread her being marked for life,” said the mother.