Chapter XXV: A Trying Position

SHE sat on, resolutely, bravely, though with a heart-sinking which she had never felt before, as she thought of the time which must pass before John could possibly come up.

Now and then a heave or quiver passed through Prince's massive frame; and Julia knew that but for her weight upon his head he would doubtless begin struggling to get up. Sometimes the quiver passed on to those great hoofs, all but resting against her husband, and each time Julia's heart leaped with a wild fear lest the struggle should take place despite all she could do. She knew little of horses from practical experience, and she could not feel Harvey's security that so long as she sat there he was safe.

The other horse lay entirely motionless, with every appearance of death. Poor Emperor! he had borne the brunt of the collision, his broad chest coming full against the cart.

It was lonely country around, with no sign of human habitations. The pony browsing in the hedge browsed still, but farther off, whither he had been startled by the accident. Had any human being stood near, that crash must have acted as a summons. Julia felt this, and though she forced herself to call for help, she did it hopelessly, expecting no result.

When she called, Harvey opened his eyes for a moment. That was all. He seemed unable or disinclined to speak. Julia was frightened at his increasing ghastliness of hue; yet there were no actual signs of pain on his face, and he lay quietly, not appearing to suffer from the weight which held down his lower limbs. She longed to get to him, to do something for his personal relief; but he was out of reach, and she dared not stir—knew she must not. Would John never come?

Twice again she asked her husband how he was, and each time he answered faintly, "I don't know." She longed to know what was wrong and where he was injured, yet she dreaded to annoy him by questions if he wished to be let alone.

So there seemed nothing to be done but to wait, keeping her seat, and refusing to listen to her own fears. She watched for John intensely, yet he did not come. Now and then a horrible doubt assailed her; what if John tried some other road, and failed to find them? But this she knew was not likely. They had come in a direct line, following the main road.

How the minutes dragged, one by one, each trailing its slow length more wearily than the last. Julia began to feel that she must have sat there for hours. Her head swam and her eyes grew heavy with the strain. She had left her watch at home, and had therefore no means of gauging the lapse of time.

Harvey's eyes opened again, and she said, "Do you feel very bad? Please tell me."

"Yes."

"Where? If you could just say what is wrong!"

"I don't know."

"Do you think any bones are broken?"

"I can't tell."

"But is it great pain anywhere? Your leg?"

"No—not pain—only—"

"If you would tell me just once! Only—what?"

"I don't know—" in the same dull undertone, as if he were scarcely conscious of what he said.

"Is it sinking—faintness?"

"Yes."

"If you had a little water!—" and a craving look responded, but he only whispered—

"No; don't move."

"No, I know I must not. Harvey, it is only faintness, nothing worse!"

For another thought had come, with a beat of anguish at her heart. How if this were death? The ghastly pallor, the dim and half-shut eyes, the panting breath, the feeble voice, these might mean the worst! Julia had seen little of illness, and she knew nothing of how death might look, but the terror assailed her.

"If I am killed, and you get through!" he had said. Those words recurred now.

And she could not get to him; she might not stir to touch him; she was debarred from seeking help. She had only to sit there, close at hand yet parted, looking on at what he had to bear.

Again she spoke, because she could not endure the terrible silence and her own helplessness, but there was no reply. Harvey did not seem to hear.

"Take care that Hermione has her rights!" This command came up next. One thought after another floated through Julia's mind, while her whole attention seemed to be bent upon the present emergency and upon her husband's condition.

Hermione's rights! But what rights? Harvey had plainly declared to his wife that Hermione had no rights, that he was in no sense bound. What did he mean by Hermione's "rights"? And how was Julia to reconcile his two utterances?

"What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?"

Julia's whole being cried out at this, "Have we 'done justly' towards Hermione?" She did not say, "Has Harvey?" though in truth the responsibility was his, not hers; but she linked herself with him, she felt that she might perhaps have said more, have used stronger influence, and tears came streaming at the thought. If Harvey were in danger, if he were to die, and if indeed he had allowed himself to do not justly, how should she ever forgive herself? She could not get over those few strong words, "Take care that Hermione has her rights!"

"Aunt Julia—why don't you tell Jesus?"

It was curious how this simple little question of Mittie's flashed into Julia's mind. For she was so helpless, so direfully in need, so terror-stricken with her own position and her husband's peril. There seemed to be absolutely nothing that she could do. The one thing which she might do she had scarcely remembered. Here it was, briefly and childishly stated, but holding a mighty truth for all that. Why should she not "tell Jesus"?

Julia did not hesitate. She bent her face into her hands, and sobbed out a prayer. No words were audible, but the passionate appeal went up through those heart-rending sobs.

"Julia!" The hollow voice startled her, "Don't cry. It's no use."

She dashed away her tears in a moment.

"Yea," she whispered.

"No signs of John?"

"I can't see him yet. If only—"

"Hush! listen!" Harvey spoke with a faint imperiousness. "If some one doesn't come soon, I don't believe I can hold out."

Julia's lips whitened.

"Something is wrong—I don't know what. I feel as if—"

Another pause. Drops stood out like beads all over his brow.

"Harvey, you are faint. It is only faintness. If I could get you some water."

"No, don't stir. This brute's hoofs would be the death of me—if—but I feel—" and again there was a break. "Julia, if I don't get through— mind—"

His voice sank, and he seemed to strive for speech in vain. Julia could hardly bear up against the wave of terror and grief which threatened to overwhelm her, yet she spoke at once in answer.

"Yes, I will—I will—indeed. I will not forget Hermione's rights."

The drooping eyelids half opened.

"How could you know? Who told it?"

"You did—you yourself, as we came down the hill."

"Ah, I forgot," and a gasp broke into the words. "Yes, twenty thousand pounds. Mr. Selwyn knows. Julia, I think—I almost think I must be—dying."

The eyes closed, and the breathing grew more feeble.

"Harvey! Harvey! Oh, what can I do?" sobbed Julia in agony. "Oh, this is terrible."

And in her distress she did not see, any more than did her unconscious husband, that John, with three stout labouring men, was hastening from the corner to their help.