Henrietta tried to exclaim, to inquire, but her lips would not frame one word, her tongue would not leave the roof of her mouth. She heard a few confused sounds, and then a mist came over her eyes, a rushing of waters in her ears, and she sank on the ground in a fainting fit. When she came to herself she was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, and all was still.
“Mamma!” said she.
“Here, dear child,”—but it was Mrs. Langford’s voice.
“Mamma!” again said she. “Where is mamma? Where are they all? Why does the room turn round?”
“You have not been well, my dear,” said her grandmother; “but drink this, and lie still, you will soon be better.”
“Where is mamma?” repeated Henrietta, gazing round and seeing no one but Mrs. Langford and Bennet. “Was she frightened at my being ill? Tell her I am better.”
“She knows it, my dear: lie still and try to go to sleep.”
“But weren’t there a great many people?” said Henrietta. “Were we not in the hall? Did not Willy come? O! grandmamma, grandmamma, do tell me, where are mamma and Fred?”
“They will soon be here, I hope.”
“But, grandmamma,” cried she vehemently, turning herself round as clearer recollection returned, “something has happened—O! what has happened to Fred?”