Frederick had lost much ground, and yet on the whole his relapse was of
no slight service to him. In the earlier part of his illness he had been
so stupefied by the accident, that he had neither been conscious of his
danger, nor was able to preserve any distinct remembrance of what he
had suffered. But this return to his former state, with all his senses
perfect, made him realise the rest, and begin to perceive how near to
the grave he had been brought. A deep shuddering sense of awe came over
him, as he thought what it would have been to die then, without a minute
of clear recollection, and his last act one of wilful disobedience. And
how had he requited the mercy which had spared him? He had shown as much
of that same spirit of self-will as his feebleness would permit; he had
been exacting, discontented, rebellious, and well indeed had he deserved
to be cut off in the midst of the sin in which he had persisted.
He was too weak to talk, but his mind was wide awake; and many an
earnest thanksgiving, and resolution strengthened by prayer, were made
in silence during the two or three days that passed, partly in such
thoughts as these, and for many hours more in sleep; while sometimes
his aunt, sometimes his sister, and sometimes even Bennet, sat by his
bed-side unchidden for not being “mamma.”
“Above all,” said he to himself, “he would for the future devote
himself, to make up to her for all that he had caused her to suffer for
his sake. Even if he were never to mount a horse or fire a gun for the
rest of his life, what would such a sacrifice be for such a mother?” It
was very disappointing that, at present, all he could even attempt to do
for her was to send her messages--and affection does not travel well by
message,--and at the same time to show submission to her known
wishes. And after all, it would have been difficult not to have shown
submission, for Aunt Geoffrey, as he already felt, was not a person to
be argued with, but to be obeyed; and for very shame he could not have
indulged himself in his Philippics after the proof he had experienced of
their futility.
So, partly on principle, and partly from necessity, he ceased to
grumble, and from that time forth it was wonderful how much less
unpleasant even external things appeared, and how much his health
benefited by the tranquillity of spirits thus produced. He was willing
to be pleased with all that was done with that intent; and as he grew
better, it certainly was a strange variety with which he had to be
amused throughout the day. Very good naturedly he received all such
civilities, especially when Willy brought him a bottle of the first live
sticklebacks of the season, accompanied by a message from Arthur that he
hoped soon to send him a basin of tame tadpoles,--and when John rushed
up with a basket of blind young black satin puppies, their mother
following in a state of agitation only equalled by that of Mrs. Langford
and Judith.
Willy, a nice intelligent little fellow, grew very fond of him, and
spent much time with him, taking delight in his books and prints, beyond
what could have been thought possible in one of the Sutton Leigh party.
When he was strong enough to guide a pencil or pen, a very enjoyable
correspondence commenced between him and his mother, who was still
unable to leave her apartment; and hardly any one ever passed between
the two rooms without being the bearer of some playful greeting, or
droll descriptions of the present scene and occupation, chronicles of
the fashionable arrivals of the white clouds before the window, of
a bunch of violets, or a new book; the fashionable departure of the
headache, the fire, or a robin; notices that tom-tits were whetting
their saws on the next tree, or of the domestic proceedings of the rooks
who were building their house opposite to Mrs. Frederick Langford’s
window, and whom she watched so much that she was said to be in a fair
way of solving the problem of how many sticks go to a crow’s nest;
criticisms of the books read by each party, and very often a reference
to that celebrated billet, unfortunately delivered over night to Prince
Talleyrand, informing him that his devoted friend had scarcely closed
her eyes all night, and then only to dream of him!
Henrietta grew very happy. She had her brother again, as wholly hers
as in their younger days,--depending upon her, participating in all her
pleasures, or rather giving her favourite occupations double zest,
by their being for him, for his amusement. She rode and walked in the
beautiful open spring country with grandpapa, to whom she was a most
valuable companion; and on her return she had two to visit, both of whom
looked forward with keen interest and delight to hearing her histories
of down and wood, of field and valley, of farm-house, cottage, or
school; had a laugh for the least amusing circumstance, admiration
for the spring flower or leaf, and power to follow her descriptions of
budding woods, soft rising hills, and gorgeous sunsets. How her mamma
enjoyed comparing notes with her about those same woods and dells, and
would describe the adventures of her own youth! And now it might be
noticed that she did not avoid speaking of those in which Henrietta’s
father had been engaged; nay, she dwelt on them by preference, and
without the suppressed sigh which had formerly followed anything like
a reference to him. Sometimes she would smile to identify the bold open
down with the same where she had run races with him, and even laugh to
think of the droll adventures. Sometimes the shady woodland walk would
make her describe their nutting parties, or it would bring her thoughts
to some fit of childish mischief and concealment, and to the confession
to which his bolder and more upright counsel had at length led her.
Or she would tell of the long walks they had taken together when older
grown, when each had become prime counsellor and confidante of the
other; and the interests and troubles of home and of school were poured
out to willing ears, and sympathy and advice exchanged. How Fred and
Mary had been companions from the very first, how their love had grown
up unconsciously, in the sports in the sunny fields, shady coombs, and
green woods of their home: how it had strengthened and ripened with
advancing years, and how bright and unclouded their sunshine had been
to dwell on: this was her delight, while the sadness which once spoke of
crushed hopes, and lost happiness, had gone from her smile. It was as if
she still felt herself walking in the light of his love, and at the same
time, as if she wished to show him to his daughter as he was, and to
tell Henrietta of those words and those ways of his which were most
characteristic, and which used to be laid up so fast in her heart,
that she could never have borne to speak of them. The bitterness of his
death, as it regarded herself, seemed to have passed, the brightness of
his memory alone remaining. Henrietta loved to listen, but scarcely so
much as her mother loved to tell; and instead of agitating her, these
recollections always seemed to soothe and make her happy.
Henrietta knew that Aunt Geoffrey and grandpapa were both of them
anxious about her mother’s health, but for her own part she did not
think her worse than she had often been before; and whilst she continued
in nearly the same state, rose every day, sat in her arm-chair, and was
so cheerful, and even lively, there could not be very much amiss, even
though there was no visible progress in amendment. Serious complaint
there was, as she knew of old, to cause the spasms; but it had existed
so long, that after the first shock of being told of it two years ago,
she had almost ceased to think about it. She satisfied herself to her
own mind that it could not, should not be progressing, and that this was
only a very slow recovery from the last attack.
Time went on, and a shade began to come over Fred. He was bright and
merry when anything occurred to amuse him, did not like reading less, or
take less interest in his occupations; but in the intervals of quiet
he grew grave and almost melancholy, and his inquiries after his mother
grew minute and anxious.
“Henrietta,” said he, one day when they were alone together, “I was
trying to reckon how long it is since I have seen mamma.”
“O, I think she will come and see you in a few days more,” said
Henrietta.
“You have told me that so many times,” said Fred. “I think I must try to
get to her. That passage, if it was not so very long! If Uncle Geoffrey
comes on Saturday, I am sure he can manage to take me there.”
“It will be a festival day indeed when you meet!” said Henrietta.
“Yes,” said he thoughtfully. Then returning to the former subject, “But
how long is it, Henrietta? This is the twenty-seventh of March, is it
not?”
“Yes; a whole quarter of a year you have been laid up here.”
“It was somewhere about the beginning of February that Uncle Geoffrey
went.”
“The fourth,” said Henrietta.
“And it was three days after he went away that mamma had those first
spasms. Henrietta, she has been six weeks ill!”
“Well,” said Henrietta, “you know she was five weeks without stirring
out of the room, that last time she was ill at Rocksand, and she is
getting better.”
“I don’t think it is getting better,” said Fred. “You always say so, but
I don’t think you have anything to show for it.”
“You might say the same for yourself,” said Henrietta, laughing. “You
have been getting better these three months, poor man, and you need not
boast.”
“Well, at least I can show something for it,” said Fred; “they allow
me a lark’s diet instead of a wren’s, I can hold up my head like other
people now, and I actually made my own legs and the table’s carry me
to the window yesterday, which is what I call getting on. But I do not
think it is so with mamma. A fortnight ago she used to be up by ten or
eleven o’clock; now I don’t believe she ever is till one.”
“It has been close, damp weather,” said Henrietta, surprised at the
accurate remembrance, which she could not confute. “She misses the cold
bracing wind.”
“I don’t like it,” said Fred, growing silent, and after a short interval
beginning again more earnestly, “Henrietta, neither you nor any one else
are keeping anything from me, I trust?”
“O, no, no!” said Henrietta, eagerly.
“You are quite sure?”
“Quite,” responded she. “You know all I know, every bit; and I know all
Aunt Geoffrey does, I am sure I do, for she always tells me what Mr.
Philip Carey says. I have heard Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey both say strong
things about keeping people in the dark, and I am convinced they would
not do so.”
“I don’t think they would,” said Fred; “but I am not satisfied.
Recollect and tell me clearly, are they convinced that this is only
recovering slowly--I do not mean that; I know too well that this is not
a thing to be got rid of; but do they think that she is going to be as
well as usual?”
“I do,” said Henrietta, “and you know I am more used to her illness than
any of them. Bennet and I were agreeing to-day that, considering how
bad the spasms were, and how much fatigue she had been going through, we
could not expect her to get on faster.”
“You do? But that is not Aunt Geoffrey.”
“O! Aunt Geoffrey is anxious, and expected her to get on faster, just
like Busy Bee expecting everything to be so quick; but I am sure
you could not get any more information from her than from me, and
impressions--I am sure you may trust mine, used as I am to watch mamma.”
Fred asked no more; but it was observable that from that day he never
lost one of his mother’s little notes, placing them as soon as read in
his pocket-book, and treasuring them carefully. He also begged Henrietta
to lend him a miniature of her mother, taken at the time of her
marriage. It represented her in all her youthful loveliness, with the
long ringlets and plaits of dark brown hair hanging on her neck, the
arch suppressed smile on her lips, and the laughing light in her deep
blue eye. He looked at it for a little while, and then asked Henrietta
if she thought that she could find, among the things sent from Rocksand
which had not yet been unpacked, another portrait, taken in the earlier
months of her widowhood, when she had in some partial degree recovered
from her illness, but her life seemed still to hang on a thread. Mrs.
Vivian, at whose especial desire it had been taken, had been very fond
of it, and had always kept it in her room, and Fred was very anxious to
see it again. After a long search, with Bennet’s help, Henrietta found
it, and brought it to him. Thin, wan, and in the deep black garments,
there was much more general resemblance to her present appearance in
this than in the portrait of the beautiful smiling bride. “And yet,”
said Fred, as he compared them, “do not you think, Henrietta, that there
is more of mamma in the first?”
“I see what you mean,” said Henrietta. “You know it is by a much better
artist.”
“Yes,” said he, “the other is like enough in feature,--more so certainly
to anything we have ever seen: but what a difference! And yet what is
it? Look! Her eyes generally have something melancholy in their look,
and yet I am sure those bright happy ones put me much more in mind of
hers than these, looking so weighed down with sorrow. And the sweet
smile, that is quite her own!”
“If you could but see her now, Fred,” said Henrietta, “I think you would
indeed say so. She has now and then a beautiful little pink flush, that
lights up her eyes as well as her cheeks; and when she smiles and talks
about those old times with papa, she does really look just like the
miniature, all but her thinness.”
“I do not half like to hear of all that talking about my father,”
murmured Fred to himself as he leant back. Henrietta at first opened her
eyes; then a sudden perception of his meaning flashed over her, and she
began to speak of something else as fast as she could.
Uncle Geoffrey came on Saturday afternoon, and after paying a
minute’s visit to Fred, had a conference of more than an hour with his
sister-in-law. Fred did not seem pleased with his sister’s information
that “it was on business,” and only was in a slight degree reassured by
being put in mind that there was always something to settle at Lady-day.
Henrietta thought her uncle looked grave; and as she was especially
anxious to prevent either herself or Fred from being frightened, she
would not leave him alone in Fred’s room, knowing full well that
no questions would be asked except in private--none at least of the
description which she dreaded.
All Fred attempted was the making his long-mediated request that he
might visit his mother, and Uncle Geoffrey undertook to see whether it
was possible. Numerous messages passed, and at length it was arranged
that on Sunday, just before afternoon service, when the house was quiet,
his uncle should help him to her room, where his aunt would read to them
both.
Frederick made quite a preparation for what was to him a great
undertaking. He sat counting the hours all the morning; and when at
length the time arrived, his heart beat so violently, that it seemed to
take away all the little strength he had. His uncle came in, but waited
a few moments; then said, with some hesitation, “Fred, you must be
prepared to see her a good deal altered.”
“Yes,” said Fred, impatiently.
“And take the greatest care not to agitate her. Can you be trusted? I do
not ask it for your own sake.”
“Yes,” said Fred, resolutely.
“Then come.”
And in process of time Fred was at her door. There he quitted his
uncle’s arm, and came forward alone to the large easy chair where she
sat by the fire-side. She started joyfully forward, and soon he was on
one knee before her, her arms round his neck, her tears dropping on
his face, and a quiet sense of excessive happiness felt by both. Then
rising, he sank back into another great chair, which his sister had
arranged for him close to hers, and too much out of breath to speak, he
passively let Henrietta make him comfortable there; while holding his
mother’s hand, he kept his eyes fixed upon her, and she, anxious only
for him, patted his cushions, offered her own, and pushed her footstool
towards him.
A few words passed between Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford outside the
door.
“I still think it a great risk,” said she.
“But I should not feel justified in preventing it,” was his answer,
“only do not leave them long alone.” Then opening the door he called,
“Henrietta, there is the last bell.” And Henrietta, much against her
will, was obliged to go with him to Church.
“Good-bye, my dear,” said her mother. “Think of us prisoners in the
right way at Church, and not in the wrong one.”
Strangely came the sound of the Church bell to their ears through the
window, half open to admit the breezy breath of spring; the cawing of
the rooks and the song of the blackbird came with it; the sky was clear
and blue, the buds were bursting into life.
“How very lovely it is!” added she.
Fred made a brief reply, but without turning his head to the window. His
eyes, his thoughts, his whole soul, were full of the contemplation of
what was to him a thousand times more lovely,--that frail wasted form,
namely, whose hand he held. The delicate pink colour which Henrietta had
described was on her cheek, contrasting with the ivory whiteness of the
rest of her face; the blue eyes shone with a sweet subdued brightness
under their long black lashes; the lips smiled, though languidly yet as
sunnily as ever; the dark hair lay in wavy lines along the sides of her
face; and but for the helplessness with which the figure rested in the
chair, there was less outward token of suffering than he had often seen
about her,--more appearance almost of youth and beauty. But it was not
an earthly beauty; there was something about it which filled him with
a kind of indescribable undefined awe, together with dread of a sorrow
towards which he shrank from looking. She thought him fatigued with the
exertion he had made, and allowed him to rest, while she contemplated
with pleasure even the slight advances which he had already made in
shaking off the traces of illness.
The silence was not broken till Aunt Geoffrey came in, just as the last
stroke of the Church-bell died away, bringing in her hand a fragrant
spray of the budding sweet-briar.
“The bees are coming out with you, Freddy,” said she. “I have just been
round the garden watching them revelling in the crocuses.”
“How delicious!” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, to whom she had offered
the sweet-briar. “Give it to him, poor fellow; he is quite knocked up
with his journey.”
“O no, not in the least, mamma, thank you,” said Fred, sitting up
vigorously; “you do not know how strong I am growing.” And then turning
to the window, he made an effort, and began observing on her rook’s
nest, as she called it, and her lilac buds. Then came a few more
cheerful questions and comments on the late notes, and then Mrs.
Frederick Langford proposed that the reading of the service should
begin.
Aunt Geoffrey, kneeling at the table, read the prayers, and Fred took
the alternate verses of the Psalms. It was the last day of the month,
and as he now and then raised his eyes to his mother’s face, he saw
her lips follow the glorious responses in those psalms of praise, and a
glistening in her lifted eyes such as he could never forget.
“He healeth those that are broken in heart, and giveth medicine to heal
their sickness.”
“He telleth the number of the stars, and calleth them all by their
names.”
He read this verse as he had done many a time before, without thinking
of the exceeding beauty of the manner in which it is connected with the
former one; but in after years he never read it again without that whole
room rising before his eyes, and above all his mother’s face. It was a
sweet soft light, and not a gloom, that rested round that scene in his
memory; springtide sights and sounds; the beams of the declining sun,
with its quiet spring radiance; the fresh mild air; even the bright
fire, and the general look of calm cheerfulness which pervaded all
around, all conduced to that impression which never left him.
The service ended, Aunt Geoffrey read the hymn for the day in the
“Christian Year,” and then left them for a few minutes; but strange as
it may seem, those likewise were spent in silence, and though there
was some conversation when she returned, Fred took little share in it.
Silent as he was, he could hardly believe that he had been there more
than ten minutes, when sounds were heard of the rest of the family
returning from Church, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford went down to meet
them.
In another instant Henrietta came up, very bright and joyous, with many
kind messages from Aunt Roger. Next came Uncle Geoffrey, who, after a
few cheerful observations on the beauty of the day, to which his sister
responded with pleasure, said, “Now, Freddy, I must be hard-hearted; I
am coming back almost directly to carry you off.”
“So soon!” exclaimed Henrietta. “Am I to be cheated of all the pleasure
of seeing you together?”
No one seemed to attend to her; but as soon as the door had closed
behind his uncle, Fred moved as if to speak, paused, hesitated, then
bent forward, and, shading his face with his hand, said in a low voice,
“Mamma, say you forgive me.”
She held out her arm, and again he sank on his knee, resting his head
against her.
“My own dear boy,” said she, “I will not say I have nothing to forgive,
for that I know is not what you want; but well do you know how freely
forgiven and forgotten is all that you may ever feel to have been
against my wish. God bless you, my own dear Frederick!” she added,
pressing her hand upon his head. “His choicest blessings be with you
forever.”
Uncle Geoffrey’s knock was heard; Frederick hastily rose to his feet,
was folded in one more long embrace, then, without another word,
suffered his uncle to lead him out of the room, and support him back to
his own. He stretched himself on the sofa, turned his face inwards,
and gave two or three long gasping sighs, as if completely overpowered,
though his uncle could scarcely determine whether by grief or by
physical exhaustion.
Henrietta looked frightened, but her uncle made her a sign to say
nothing: and after watching him anxiously for some minutes, during which
he remained perfectly still, her uncle left the room, and she sat down
to watch for him, taking up a book, for she dreaded the reveries in
which she had once been so prone to indulge. Fred remained for a long
time tranquil, if not asleep; and when at length he was disturbed,
complained that his head ached, and seemed chiefly anxious to be left in
quiet. It might be that, in addition to his great weariness, he felt
a charm upon him which he could not bear to break. At any rate, he
scarcely looked up or spoke all the rest of the evening, excepting that,
when he went to bed, he sent a message that he hoped Uncle Geoffrey
would come to his room the next morning before setting off, as he was
obliged to do at a very early hour.
He came, and found Fred awake, looking white and heavy-eyed, as if he
had slept little, and allowing that his head still ached.
“Uncle Geoffrey,” said he, raising himself on his elbow, and looking at
him earnestly, “would it be of no use to have further advice?”
His uncle understood him, and answered, “I hope that Dr. ---- will come
this evening or to-morrow morning. But,” added he, slowly and kindly,
“you must not build your hopes upon that, Fred. It is more from the
feeling that nothing should be untried, than from the expectation that
he can be of use.”
“Then there is no hope?” said Fred, with a strange quietness.
“Man can do nothing,” answered his uncle. “You know how the case stands;
the complaint cannot be reached, and there is scarcely a probability of
its becoming inactive. It may be an affair of days or weeks, or she may
yet rally, and be spared to us for some time longer.”
“If I could but think so!” said Fred. “But I cannot. Her face will not
let me hope.”
“If ever a ray from heaven shone out upon a departing saint,” said
Uncle Geoffrey,--but he could not finish the sentence, and turning away,
walked to the window.
“And you must go?” said Fred, when he came back to his side again.
“I must,” said Uncle Geoffrey. “Nothing but the most absolute necessity
could make me leave you now. I scarcely could feel myself an honest man
if I was not in my place to-morrow. I shall be here again on Thursday,
at latest, and bring Beatrice. Your mother thinks she may be a comfort
to Henrietta.”
“Henrietta knows all this?” asked Fred.
“As far as she will bear to believe it,” said his uncle. “We cannot
grudge her her unconsciousness, but I am afraid it will be worse for
her in the end. You must nerve yourself, Fred, to support her. Now,
good-bye, and may God bless and strengthen you in your trial!”
Fred was left alone again to the agony of the bitterest thoughts he had
ever known. All his designs of devoting himself to her at an end! Her
whom he loved with such an intensity of enthusiastic admiration and
reverence,--the gentlest, the most affectionate, the most beautiful
being he knew! Who would ever care for him as she did? To whom would
it matter now whether he was in danger or in safety? whether he
distinguished himself or not? And how thoughtlessly had he trifled with
her comfort, for the mere pleasure of a moment, and even fancied himself
justified in doing so! Even her present illness, had it not probably
been brought on by her anxiety and attendance on him? and it was his own
wilful disobedience to which all might be traced. It was no wonder that,
passing from one such miserable thought to another, his bodily weakness
was considerably increased, and he remained very languid and unwell;
so much so that had Philip Carey ever presumed to question anything
Mr. Geoffrey Langford thought fit to do, he would have pronounced
yesterday’s visit a most imprudent measure. In the afternoon, as Fred
was lying on his sofa, he heard a foot on the stairs, and going along
the passage.
“Who is that?” said he; “the new doctor already? It is a strange step.”
“O! Fred, don’t be the fairy Fine Ear, as you used to be when you were
at the worst,” said Henrietta.
“But do you know who it is?” said Fred.
“It is Mr. Franklin,” said Henrietta. “You know mamma has only been once
at Church since your accident, and then there was no Holy Communion. So
you must not fancy she is worse, Fred.”
“I wish we were confirmed,” said Fred, sighing, and presently adding,
“My Prayer-Book, if you please, Henrietta.”
“You will only make your head worse, with trying to read the small
print,” said she; “I will read anything you want to you.”
He chose nevertheless to have it himself, and when he next spoke, it was
to say, “I wish, when Mr. Franklin leaves her, you would ask him to come
to me.”
Henrietta did not like the proposal at all, and said all she could
against it; but Fred persisted, and made her at last undertake to ask
Aunt Geoffrey’s consent. Even then she would have done her best to miss
the opportunity; but Fred heard the first sounds, and she was obliged to
fetch Mr. Franklin. The conference was not long, and she found no
reason to regret that it had taken place; for Fred did not seem so much
oppressed and weighted down when she again returned to him.
The physician who had been sent for arrived. He had seen Mrs. Frederick
Langford some years before, and well understood her case, and his
opinion was now exactly what Fred had been prepared by his uncle to
expect. It was impossible to conjecture how long she might yet survive:
another attack might come at any moment, and be the last. It might be
deferred for weeks or months, or even now it was possible that she might
rally, and return to her usual state of health.
It was on this possibility, or as she chose to hear the word,
probability, that Henrietta fixed her whole mind. The rest was to her as
if unsaid; she would not hear nor believe it, and shunned anything that
brought the least impression of the kind. The only occasion when she
would avow her fears even to herself, was when she knelt in prayer; and
then how wild and unsubmissive were her petitions! How embittered and
wretched she would feel at her own powerlessness! Then the next minute
she would drive off her fears as by force; call up a vision of a
brightly smiling future; think, speak, and act as if hiding her eyes
would prevent the approach of the enemy she dreaded.
Her grandmamma was as determined as herself to hope; and her grandpapa,
though fully alive to the real state of the case, could not bear to
sadden her before the time, and let her talk on and build schemes for
the future, till he himself almost caught a glance of her hopes, and his
deep sigh was the only warning she received from him. Fred, too weak for
much argument, and not unwilling to rejoice now and then in an illusion,
was easily silenced, and Aunt Geoffrey had no time for anyone but the
patient. Her whole thought, almost her whole being, was devoted to
“Mary,” the friend, the sister of her childhood, whom she now attended
upon with something of the reverent devotedness with which an angel
might be watched and served, were it to make a brief sojourn upon earth;
feeling it a privilege each day that she was still permitted to attend
her, and watching for each passing word and expression as a treasure to
be dwelt on in many a subsequent year.
It could not be thus with Henrietta, bent on seeing no illness, on
marking no traces of danger; shutting her eyes to all the tokens that
her mother was not to be bound down to earth for ever. She found her
always cheerful, ready to take interest in all that pleased her, and
still with the playfulness which never failed to light up all that
approached her. A flower,--what pleasure it gave her! and how sweet her
smile would be!
It was on the evening of the day after the physician’s visit, that
Henrietta came in talking, with the purpose of, as she fancied, cheering
her mother’s spirits, of some double lilac primroses which Mrs. Langford
had promised her for the garden at the Pleasance. Her mamma smelt the
flowers, admired them, and smiled as she said, “Your papa planted a root
of those in my little garden the first summer I was here.”
“Then I am sure you will like to have them at the Pleasance, mamma.”
“My dear child,”--she paused, while Henrietta started, and gazed upon
her, frightened at the manner--“you must not build upon our favourite
old plan; you must prepare--”
“O but, mamma, you are better! You are so much better than two days ago;
and these clear days do you so much good; and it is all so bright.”
“Thanks to Him Who has made it bright!” said her mother, taking her
hand. “But I fear, my own dearest, that it will seem far otherwise to
you. I want you to make up your mind--”
Henrietta broke vehemently upon the feeble accents. “Mamma! mamma!
you must not speak so! It is the worst thing people can do to think
despondingly of themselves. Aunt Geoffrey, do tell her so!”
“Despondingly! my child; you little know what the thought is to me!”
The words were almost whispered, and Henrietta scarcely marked them.
“No, no, you must not! It is too cruel to me,--I can’t bear it!” she
cried; the tears in her eyes, and a violence of agitation about her,
which her mother, feeble as she was, could not attempt to contend
with. She rested her head on her cushions, and silently and mournfully
followed with her eyes the hasty trembling movements of her daughter,
who continued to arrange the things on the table, and make desperate
attempts to regain her composure; but completely failing, caught up her
bonnet, and hurried out of the room.
“Poor dear child,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, “I wish she was more
prepared. Beatrice, the comforting her is the dearest and saddest task I
leave you. Fred, poor fellow, is prepared, and will bear up like a man;
but it will come fearfully upon her. And Henrietta and I have been more
like sisters than mother and daughter. If she would only bear to hear
me--but no, if I were to be overcome while speaking to her, it might
give her pain in the recollection. Beatrice, you must tell her all I
would say.”
“If I could!”
“You must tell her, Beatrice, that I was as undisciplined as she is now.
Tell her how I have come to rejoice in the great affliction of my life:
how little I knew how to bear it when Frederick was taken from me and
his children, in the prime of his health and strength. You remember how
crushed to the ground I was, and how it was said that my life was saved
chiefly by the calmness that came with the full belief that I was dying.
And O! how my spirit rebelled when I found myself recovering! Do you
remember the first day I went to Church to return thanks?”
“It was after we were gone home.”
“Ah! yes. I had put it off longer than I ought, because I felt so
utterly unable to join in the service. The sickness of heart that came
with those verses of thanksgiving! All I could do was to pray to be
forgiven for not being able to follow them. Now I can own with all
my heart the mercy that would not grant my blind wish for death. My
treasure was indeed in heaven, but O! it was not the treasure that was
meant. I was forgetting my mother, and so selfish and untamed was
I, that I was almost forgetting my poor babies! Yes, tell her this,
Beatrice, and tell her that, if duties and happiness sprang up all
around me, forlorn and desolate as I thought myself, so much the more
will they for her; and ‘at evening time there shall be light.’ Tell her
that I look to her for guiding and influencing Fred. She must never
let a week pass without writing to him, and she must have the honoured
office of waiting on the old age of her grandfather and grandmother. I
think she will be a comfort to them, do not you? They are fond of her,
and she seems to suit them.”
“Yes, I have little doubt that she will be everything to them. I have
especially noted her ways with Mrs. Langford, they are so exactly what I
have tried to teach Beatrice.”
“Dear little Busy Bee! I am glad she is coming; but in case I should
not see her, give her her godmother’s love, and tell her that she and
Henrietta must be what their mammas have been to each other; and that I
trust that after thirty-five years’ friendship, they will still have as
much confidence in one another as I have in you, my own dear Beatrice.
I have written her name in one of these books,” she added after a short
interval, touching some which were always close to her. “And, Beatrice,
one thing more I had to say,” she proceeded, taking up a Bible, and
finding out a place in it. “Geoffrey has always been a happy prosperous
man, as he well deserves; but if ever trouble should come to him in his
turn, then show him this.” She pointed out the verse, “Be as a father to
the fatherless, and instead of a husband to their mother; so shalt thou
be as the son of the Most High, and He shall love thee more than thy
mother doth.” “Show him that, and tell him it is his sister Mary’s last
blessing.”