“Can’t we send all these people away?” she asked.
“Not yet. We had better make no unnecessary disturbance. There will be time enough if anything be amiss. I am going down to Hazlitt’s Gate.”
Anne was too late. Charlie had not outgrown the instinct of rushing to his mother with his troubles; and he was despairingly telling the report he had heard of a direful catastrophe, fatal to an unknown quantity of passengers, while she, strong and composed because he gave way, was trying to sift his intelligence. No sooner did he hear from Anne that Julius was going to the station, than he started up to accompany him—the best thing he could do in his present state. Hardly, however, had he closed the door, before he returned with fresh tears in his eyes, leading in Eleonora Vivian, whom he had found leaning against the wall outside, white and still, scarce drawing her breath.
“Come,” he said; and before she knew what he was doing, she was at Mrs. Poynsett’s side. “Here, mother,” he said, “take her.” And he was gone.
Mrs. Poynsett stretched out her arms. The hearts of the two women who loved Frank could not help meeting. Eleonora sank on her knees, hiding her face on the mother’s breast, with two tender arms clasped round her.
Anne was kneeling too, but she was no longer the meek, shy stranger. Now, in the hour of trouble, she poured forth, in a voice fervent and sweet, a prayer for protection and support for their beloved one, so that it might be well with him, whatever might be his Heavenly Father’s Will.
As she paused, Mrs. Poynsett, in a choked voice, said, “Thank you, dear child;” when there were steps in the hall. Anne started up, Lenore buried her face on Mrs. Poynsett’s bosom, the mother clasped her hands over her convulsively, then beheld, as the door opened, a tall figure, with a dark bright face full of ineffable softness and joy. Frank himself, safe and sound, with his two brothers behind him. They stayed not to speak, but hastened to spread the glad tidings; while he flung himself down, including both his mother and Lenore in one rapturous embrace, and carrying his kiss from one to the other—conscious, if no one else was, that this first seal of his love was given in his mother’s arms.
Lenore did indeed extricate herself, and stand up as rosy red as she had been pale; but she had no room for any thought beyond his mother’s trembling “Not hurt, my dear?”
“Not hurt! Not a scratch! Thank God! Oh! thank God!” answered Frank, quivering all over with thankfulness, though probably far more at the present joy than the past peril.
“Yes—oh, thanks for His mercy!” echoed Anne, giving fervent hand and tearful cheek to the eager salutation, which probably would have been as energetic to Clio or old Betty at that moment!