“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?”