Chapter XIV

On the two days following Christmas Day there had been a slight frost. Then came a harder one; and on this, the fifth day, there was an early announcement by Simon Devereux and another boy who was of the party at Thorneybank, that the lake in the grounds would bear.

It was a brilliant, exhilarating day. The frost was hard and the air keen, but there was not a breath of wind, and the sky was as blue, and the sun as bright as on a day in June. Mr. Elliott was as eager as the boys to be on the ice. In all sincerity he observed that in the days of his youth an English winter had been composed of frosts of the present delightful nature, and he hurried off to enjoy himself as soon as breakfast was over. Although refraining from partaking very actively in the amusements, he remained constantly upon and around the scene.

Towards noon Mrs. Elliott, with Nora, and two other ladies, joined the party also. Henry was skating when they drew near, but owing to the suddenness of the frost many persons were unprovided with skates, and he had already promised to give up his. Shortly after the arrival of Mrs. Elliott he did so, resigning them for a time to another gentleman. He came and stood on the banks, and assisted Annabella in her slides.

Nora’s youth had been passed abroad, and since her return to England she had lived the life of a matron of fifty rather than that of a young girl. She had never ventured on the ice beyond a few careful steps, and was nervous at the mere idea of launching herself freely upon it. The exhilaration of the scene, however, and the pressing entreaties of Mr. Elliott, at length animating her to overcome her fears, she consented to be instructed.

The very first rudiments, the suffering herself to be carried down a slide, had to be taught, and with good-humoured helplessness she put herself into Mr. Elliott’s hands. He, not Henry, was her instructor. Henry, as before said, was occupying himself with Annabella.

There was a curve in the lake at the place where they stood, and across the curve a slide for the children, short and safe, had already been made. Annabella was tired of it, and was venturing on a longer one, but on this safe slide Nora began her practice. She went two or three times slowly and carefully across. Becoming confident, and warmed and animated, she, after two or three ventures, desirous of shewing her improvement, and obtaining exercise of a livelier kind, withdrew from the edge of the bank on the opposite side, and took a run of some yards before she launched herself on the slide.

The operation was more rapid than she had been prepared for, and she came to the edge on the further side with a shock so violent that she lost her balance and her head. She stretched out her arms to recover herself, catching at she knew not what; but the support she had expected to find, gave way under her, and she and it fell.

The support was Henry. He had been at the moment, bending forward and stretching out his hand to a little girl who was in difficulties. He was not attending to Nora, or conscious of her violent approach, and when she suddenly grasped him he fell.

Nora rose in an instant, ashamed, but laughing, and not exactly conscious of what had occurred. But the laugh was over in a moment; for Henry did not rise; and the next instant there was a scream from Annabella.

“Oh! Henry, are you hurt?”

A general rush to the spot followed, while Nora stood stupefied with horror.

He had fallen with his head against a stone, and the blow had been unbroken by the soft hat he wore. He lay back with an expression of pain on his face, but pale and motionless.

A plank was procured in a moment from a neighbouring boat-house; messengers were dispatched for medical advice, and Henry was borne off to the house.

“How was it?” Mrs. Elliott said to Nora, as they slowly followed. “I did not see what happened.”

“I did it,” Nora said, forcing out the words. “In saving myself I threw him down.” She was pale and cold, but quiet.

“I think he is only stunned,” Mrs. Elliott observed compassionately. She took no special notice of what Nora said. She felt it to be a case in which words were useless.

Henry was carried to the house, and medical advice was very shortly procured. But no decisive opinion could be given. He lay during the whole day speechless and immovable; except, indeed, that one or two faint moans were heard, and there were once or twice faint movements of his head. The extent of the injury it was impossible to tell; but the grave faces betrayed the fears that were entertained.

During that whole day Nora sat in simple endurance like the rest. Had she not known it before she knew it now, that the life of her life was threatened; yet she had no rights, no power to say that during these fleeting moments she would watch over him. She had to endure like the rest, with only this sad superiority in her case, that she was the cause of the ill that had befallen.

The human mind can hardly admit of two overpowering sensations, and this consciousness, “and I the cause,” although it was there, although she knew the fact, and was made constantly aware of it through the pitying avoidance of the subject by all about her, was hardly felt. Henry’s life was trembling in the balance, and she had no power to divert her eyes from that one consideration. She was to feel it; but it scarcely added its sting to that day of horror and suspense.

Towards evening there was a slight change. Mrs. Elliott, who alone was permitted to go near the room, bore the news and made the most of it; and before the general separation for the night, she was able to give a yet more favourable report. Henry had moved and spoken. There might be other dangers--there was a fear of fever; but the first worst fear that he never would speak again was at an end. And the first relief from dread, however qualified by other fear, was what no words can express, or comparison describe.