“Now, Mrs. Braithwaite, if you will remain calm, you shall see your husband.”
“I am calm,” she said, simply.
She could not have cried, or moaned, or lamented her fate, if her life had depended upon her showing some emotion.
So he led her into the next room; and there, not dead, but sitting in a faded chintz arm-chair, with his left arm bound up, was Harry. It was then that her calmness gave way. She was not very demonstrative indeed over the passion of joy which lit up and transfigured her whole face; but she fell upon her knees by the side of his chair, shaking from head to feet.
“I thought—you were—killed!” whispered she.
“Why, my poor darling, who told you so?” he asked, tenderly.
“I shall never forgive Stephen!” she hissed, clinching her teeth.
“Yes, you will, Annie. He is to be pitied, not I—only we musn’t tell him that. He hasn’t even hurt me much—the arm is not broken; the only danger possible to me through it was loss of blood; and, if I keep quiet, I shall be all right again in no time. Is that George’s voice I hear in the next room?”
“Yes; he came with me and William.”
“I must get William to come down with me to Kirby Park for a day or two till I can ride again. He’ll be very glad to come and I to have him. If I had to stay indoors alone, I think I should throw myself off the roof.”