The poor woman would not believe that life was gone. She disregarded the little one, who screamed for mammy and clutched her skirts, in spite of the attempts of the women to lift her up and comfort her; and gathering the poor lifeless boy in her arms, she alternately screamed for the doctor and uttered coaxing, caressing calls to the child.
She neither heard nor heeded Miss Mohun, with whom, indeed, her relations had not been agreeable; and as a young surgeon, sniffing the accident from afar, had appeared on the scene, and had, at the first glance, made an all too significant gesture, Jane thought it safe to leave the field to him and a kind, motherly, good neighbour, who promised her to send up to Beechcroft Cottage in case there was anything to be done for the unhappy woman or the poor father. Mr. Hablot, who now found his way to the spot, promised to walk on and prepare him: he was gone with a marble cross to a churchyard some five miles off.
Gillian had not spoken a word all this time. She felt perfectly stunned and bewildered, as if it was a dream, and she could not understand it. Only for a moment did she see the bleeding face and prone limbs of the poor boy, and that sent a shuddering horror over her, so that she felt like fainting; but she had so much recollection and self-consciousness, that horror of causing a sensation and giving trouble sent the blood back to her heart, and she kept her feet by holding hard to her aunt’s arm and presently Miss Mohun felt how tight and trembling was the grasp, and then saw how white she was.
‘My dear, we must get home directly,’ she said kindly. ‘Lean on me—there.’
There was leisure now, as they turned away, for others to see the young lady’s deadly paleness, and there were invitations to houses and offers of all succours at hand, but the dread of ‘a fuss’ further revived Gillian, and all that was accepted was a seat for a few moments and a glass of water, which Aunt Jane needed almost as much as she did.
Though the girl’s colour was coming back, and she said she could walk quite well, both had such aching knees and such shaken limbs that they were glad to hold by each other as they mounted the sloping road, and half-way up Gillian came to a sudden stop.
‘Aunt Jane,’ she said, panting and turning pale again, ‘you heard that dreadful man. Oh! do you think it was true? Fergus’s bit of spar—Alexis not minding. Oh! then it is all our doing!’
‘I can’t tell. Don’t you think about it now,’ said Aunt Jane, feeling as if the girl were going to swoon on the spot in the shock. ‘Consequences are not in our hands. Whatever it came from, and very sad it was, there was great mercy, and we have only to thank God it was no worse.’
When at last aunt and niece reached home, they had no sooner opened the front door than Adeline came almost rushing out of the drawing-room.
‘Oh! my dearest Jane,’ she cried, clasping and kissing her sister, ‘wasn’t it dreadful? Where were you? Mr. White knows no one was hurt below, but I could not be easy till you came in.’