On Thursday morning, Henrietta began to awake from her sound night’s
rest. Was it a dream that she saw a head between her and the window? She
thought it was, and turned to sleep again; but at her movement the head
turned, the figure advanced, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford stood over her.
Henrietta opened her eyes, and gazed upon her without saying a word for
some moments; then, as her senses awakened, she half sprung up. “How is
mamma? Does she want me? Why?” Her aunt made an effort to speak, but it
seemed beyond her power.
“O, aunt, aunt!” cried she, “what is the matter? What has happened?
Speak to me!”
“Henrietta,” said her aunt, in a low, calm, but hoarse tone, “she bade
you bear up for your brother’s sake.”
“But--but--” said Henrietta, breathlessly; “and she--”
“My dear child, she is at rest.”
Henrietta laid her head back, as if completely stunned, and unable to
realise what she had heard.
“Tell me,” she said, after a few moments.
Her aunt knelt by her and steadily, without a tear, began to speak.
“It was at half-past twelve; she had been asleep some little time very
quietly. I was just going to lie down on the sofa, when I thought her
face looked different, and stood watching. She woke, said she felt
oppressed, and asked me to raise her pillows. While she was leaning
against my arm, there was a spasm, a shiver, and she was gone! Yes, we
must only think of her as in perfect peace!”
Henrietta lay motionless for some moments, then at last broke out with a
sort of anger, “O, why did you not call me?”
“There was not one instant, my dear, and I could not ring, for fear of
disturbing Fred. I could not call any one till it was too late.”
“O, why was I not there? I would--I would--she must have heard me.
I would not have let her go. O, mamma!” cried Henrietta, almost
unconscious of what she said, and bursting into a transport of
ungovernable grief; sobbing violently and uttering wild incoherent
exclamations. Her aunt tried in vain to soothe her by kind words, but
all she said seemed only to add impulse to the torrent; and at last she
found herself obliged to wait till the violence of the passion had in
some degree exhausted itself; and young, strong, and undisciplined as
poor Henrietta was, this was not quickly. At last, however, the sobs
grew less loud, and the exclamations less vehement. Aunt Geoffrey
thought she could be heard, leant down over her, kissed her, and said,
“Now we must pray that we may fulfil her last desire; bear it patiently,
and try to help your brother.”
“Fred, O poor Fred!” and she seemed on the point of another burst of
lamentation, but her aunt went on speaking--“I must go to him; he
has yet to hear it, and you had better come to him as soon as you are
dressed.”
“O aunt; I could not bear to see him. It will kill him, I know it will!
O no, no, I cannot, cannot see Fred! O, mamma, mamma!” A fresh fit of
weeping succeeded, and Mrs. Langford herself feeling most deeply, was in
great doubt and perplexity; she did not like to leave Henrietta in this
condition, and yet there was an absolute necessity that she should go
to poor Fred, before any chance accident or mischance should reveal the
truth.
“I must leave you, my dear,” said she, at last. “Think how your dear
mother bowed her head to His will. Pray to your Father in Heaven, Who
alone can comfort you. I must go to your brother, and when I return, I
hope you will be more composed.”
The pain of witnessing the passionate sorrow of Henrietta was no good
preparation for carrying the same tidings to one, whose bodily weakness
made it to be feared that he might suffer even more; but Mrs. Geoffrey
Langford feared to lose her composure by stopping to reflect, and
hastened down from Henrietta’s room with a hurried step.
She knocked at Fred’s door, and was answered by his voice. As she
entered he looked at her with anxious eyes, and before she could speak,
said, “I know what you are come to tell me.”
“Yes, Fred,” said she; “but how?”
“I was sure of it,” said Fred. “I knew I should never see her again; and
there were sounds this morning. Did not I hear poor Henrietta crying?”
“She has been crying very much,” said his aunt.
“Ah! she would never believe it,” said Fred. “But after last Sunday--O,
no one could look at that face, and think she was to stay here any
longer!”
“We could not wish it for her sake,” said his aunt, for the first time
feeling almost overcome.
“Let me hear how it was,” said Frederick, after a pause.
His aunt repeated what she had before told Henrietta, and then he asked
quickly, “What did you do? I did not hear you ring.”
“No, that was what I was afraid of. I was going to call some one, when I
met grandpapa, who was just going up. He came with me, and--and was very
kind--then he sent me to lie down; but I could not sleep, and went to
wait for Henrietta’s waking.”
Fred gave a long, deep, heavy sigh, and said, “Poor Henrietta! Is she
very much overcome?”
“So much, that I hardly know how to leave her.”
“Don’t stay with me, then, Aunt Geoffrey. It is very kind in you, but
I don’t think anything is much good to me.” He hid his face as he spoke
thus, in a tone of the deepest dejection.
“Nothing but prayer, my dear Fred,” said she, gently. “Then I will go to
your sister again.”
“Thank you.” And she had reached the door when he asked, “When does
Uncle Geoffrey come?”
“By the four o’clock train,” she answered, and moved on.
Frederick hid his head under the clothes, and gave way to a burst of
agony, which, silent as it was, was even more intense than his sister’s.
O! the blank that life seemed without her look, her voice, her tone! the
frightful certainty that he should never see her more! Then it would for
a moment seem utterly incredible that she should thus have passed away;
but then returned the conviction, and he felt as if he could not even
exist under it. But this excessive oppression and consciousness of
misery seemed chiefly to come upon him when alone. In the presence of
another person he could talk in the same quiet matter-of-fact way in
which he had already done to his aunt; and the blow itself, sudden as it
was, did not affect his health as the first anticipation of it had done.
With Henrietta things were quite otherwise. When alone she was quiet, in
a sort of stupor, in which she scarcely even thought; but the entrance
of any person into her room threw her into a fresh paroxysm of grief,
ever increasing in vehemence; then she was quieted a little, and was
left to herself, but she could not, or would not, turn where alone
comfort could be found, and repelled, almost as if it was an insult to
her affection, any entreaty that she would even try to be comforted.
Above all, in the perverse-ness of her undisciplined affliction, she
persisted in refusing to see her brother. “She should do him harm,” she
said. “No, it was utterly impossible for her to control herself so as
not to do him harm.” And thereupon her sobs and tears redoubled. She
would not touch a morsel of food; she would not consent to leave her bed
when asked to do so, though ten minutes after, in the restlessness
of her misery, she was found walking up and down her room in her
dressing-gown.
Never had Mrs. Geoffrey Langford known a more trying day. Old Mr.
Langford, who had loved “Mary” like his own child, did indeed bear
up under the affliction with all his own noble spirit of Christian
submission; but, excepting by his sympathy, he could be of little
assistance to her in the many painful offices which fell to her share.
Mrs. Langford walked about the house, active as ever; now sitting down
in her chair, and bursting into a flood of tears for “poor Mary,” or
“dear Frederick,” all the sorrow for whose loss seemed renewed; then
rising vigorously, saying, “Well, it is His will; it is all for the
best!” and hastening away to see how Henrietta and Fred were, to make
some arrangement about mourning, or to get Geoffrey’s room ready for
him. And in all these occupations she wanted Beatrice to consult, or to
sympathise, or to promise that Geoffrey would like and approve what she
did. In the course of the morning Mr. and Mrs. Roger Langford came from
Sutton Leigh, and the latter, by taking the charge of, talking to, and
assisting Mrs. Langford, greatly relieved her sister-in-law. Still there
were the two young mourners. Henrietta was completely unmanageable, only
resting now and then to break forth with more violence; and her sorrow
far too selfish and unsubmissive to be soothed either by the thought of
Him Who sent it, or of the peace and rest to which that beloved one was
gone; and as once the anxiety for her brother had swallowed up all care
for her mother, so now grief for her mother absorbed every consideration
for Frederick; so that it was useless to attempt to persuade her to make
any exertion for his sake. Nothing seemed in any degree to tranquillize
her except Aunt Geoffrey’s reading to her; and then it was only that
she was lulled by the sound of the voice, not that the sense reached
her mind. But then, how go on reading to her all day, when poor Fred was
left in his lonely room, to bear his own share of sorrow in solitude?
For though Mr. and Mrs. Langford, and Uncle and Aunt Roger, made him
many brief kind visits, they all of them had either too much on their
hands, or were unfitted by disposition to be the companions he wanted.
It was only Aunt Geoffrey who could come and sit by him, and tell him
all those precious sayings of his mother in her last days, which in her
subdued low voice renewed that idea of perfect peace and repose which
came with the image of his mother, and seemed to still the otherwise
overpowering thought that she was gone. But in the midst the door would
open, and grandmamma would come in, looking much distressed, with some
such request as this--“Beatrice, if Fred can spare you, would you just
go up to poor Henrietta? I thought she was better, and that it was as
well to do it at once; so I went to ask her for one of her dresses, to
send for a pattern for her mourning, and that has set her off crying
to such a degree, that Elizabeth and I can do nothing with her. I wish
Geoffrey was come!”
Nothing was expressed so often through the day as this wish, and no one
wished more earnestly than his wife, though, perhaps, she was the only
person who did not say so a dozen times. There was something cheering in
hearing that his brother had actually set off to meet him at Allonfield;
and at length Fred’s sharpened ears caught the sound of the carriage
wheels, and he was come. It seemed as if he was considered by all as
their own exclusive property. His mother had one of her quick, sudden
bursts of lamentation as soon as she saw him; his brother, as usual,
wanted to talk to him; Fred was above all eager for him; and it was only
his father who seemed even to recollect that his wife might want
him more than all. And so she did. Her feelings were very strong and
impetuous by nature, and the loss was one of the greatest she could have
sustained. Nothing save her husband and her child was so near to
her heart as her sister; and worn out as she was by long attendance,
sleepless nights, and this trying day, when all seemed to rest upon her,
she now completely gave way, and was no sooner alone with her husband
and daughter, than her long repressed feelings relieved themselves in
a flood of tears, which, though silent, were completely beyond her own
control. Now that he was come, she could, and indeed must, give way; and
the more she attempted to tell him of the peacefulness of her own dear
Mary, the more her tears would stream forth. He saw how it was, and
would not let her even reproach herself for her weakness, or attempt any
longer to exert herself; but made her lie down on her bed, and told her
that he and Queen Bee could manage very well.
Queen Bee stood there pale, still, and bewildered-looking. She had
scarcely spoken since she heard of her aunt’s death; and new as
affliction was to her sunny life, scarce knew where she was, or whether
this was her own dear Knight Sutton; and even her mother’s grief seemed
to her almost more like a dream.
“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, as soon as her daughter had been
named, “I ought to have sent you to Henrietta before.”
“Very well,” said Beatrice, though her heart sank within her as she
thought of her last attempt at consoling Henrietta.
“Go straight up to her,” continued her mother; “don’t wait to let her
think whether she will see you or not. I only wish poor Fred could do
the same.”
“If I could but do her any good,” sighed Beatrice, as she opened the
door and hastened upstairs. She knocked, and entered without waiting for
an answer: Henrietta lifted up her head, came forward with a little cry,
threw herself into her arms, and wept bitterly. Mournful as all around
was, there was a bright ray of comfort in Queen Bee’s heart when she
was thus hailed as a friend and comforter. She only wished and longed to
know what might best serve to console her poor Henrietta; but all that
occurred to her was to embrace and fondle her very affectionately, and
call her by the most caressing names. This was all that Henrietta was
as yet fit to bear; and after a time, growing quieter, she poured out
to her cousin all her grief, without fear of blame for its violence.
Beatrice was sometimes indeed startled by the want of all idea
of resignation, but she could not believe that any one could feel
otherwise,--least of all Henrietta, who had lost her only parent, and
that parent Aunt Mary. Neither did she feel herself good enough to talk
seriously to Henrietta; she considered herself as only sent to sit with
her, so she did not make any attempt to preach the resignation which was
so much wanted; and Henrietta, who had all day been hearing of it, and
rebelling against it, was almost grateful to her. So Henrietta talked
and talked, the same repeated lamentation, the same dreary views of the
future coming over and over again; and Beatrice’s only answer was to
agree with all her heart to all that was said of her own dear Aunt Mary,
and to assure Henrietta of the fervent love that was still left for her
in so many hearts on earth.
The hours passed on; Beatrice was called away and Henrietta was inclined
to be fretful at her leaving her; but she presently returned, and the
same discourse was renewed, until at last Beatrice began to read to
her, and thus did much to soothe her spirits, persuaded her to make a
tolerable meal at tea-time, bathed her eyelids that were blistered with
tears, put her to bed, and finally read her to sleep. Then, as she crept
quietly down to inquire after her mamma, and wish the others in the
drawing-room good night, she reflected whether she had done what she
ought for her cousin.
“I have not put a single right or really consoling thought into her
head,” said she to herself; “for as to the reading, she did not attend
to that. But after all I could not have done it. I must be better myself
before I try to improve other people; and it is not what I deserve to be
allowed to be any comfort at all.”
Thanks partly to Beatrice’s possessing no rightful authority over
Henrietta, partly to the old habit of relying on her, she contrived to
make her get up and dress herself at the usual time next morning. But
nothing would prevail on her to go down stairs. She said she could
not endure to pass “that door,” where ever before the fondest welcome
awaited her; and as to seeing her brother, that having been deferred
yesterday, seemed to-day doubly dreadful. The worst of this piece of
perverseness--for it really deserved no better name--was that it began
to vex Fred. “But that I know how to depend upon you, Uncle Geoffrey,”
said he, “I should really think she must be ill. I never knew anything
so strange.”
Uncle Geoffrey resolved to put an end to it, if possible; and soon after
leaving Fred’s room he knocked at his niece’s door. She was sitting by
the fire with a book in her hand, but not reading.
“Good morning, my dear,” said he, taking her languid hand. “I bring you
a message from Fred, that he hopes you are soon coming down to see him.”
She turned away her head. “Poor dear Fred!” said she; “but it is quite
impossible. I cannot bear it as he does; I should only overset him and
do him harm.”
“And why cannot you bear it as he does?” said her uncle gravely. “You
do not think his affection for her was less? and you have all the
advantages of health and strength.”
“Oh, no one can feel as I do!” cried Henrietta, with one of her
passionate outbreaks. “O how I loved her!”
“Fred did not love her less,” proceeded her uncle. “And why will you
leave him in sorrow and in weakness to doubt the sister’s love that
should be his chief stay?”
“He does not doubt it,” sobbed Henrietta. “He knows me better.”
“Nay, Henrietta, what reason has he to trust to that affection which
is not strong enough to overcome the dread of a few moments’ painful
emotion?”
“Oh, but it is not that only! I shall feel it all so much more out
of this room, where she has never been; but to see the rest of the
house--to go past her door! O, uncle, I have not the strength for it.”
“No, your affection for him is not strong enough.”
Henrietta’s pale cheeks flushed, and her tears were angry. “You do not
know me, Uncle Geoffrey,” said she proudly, and then she almost choked
with weeping at unkindness where she most expected kindness.
“I know this much of you, Henrietta. You have been nursing up your grief
and encouraging yourself in murmuring and repining, in a manner which
you will one day see to have been sinful: you are obstinate in making
yourself useless.”
Henrietta, little used to blame, was roused to defend herself with the
first weapon she could. “Aunt Geoffrey is just as much knocked up as I
am,” said she.
If ever Uncle Geoffrey was made positively angry, he was so now, though
if he had not thought it good that Henrietta should be roused, he would
have repressed even such demonstrations as he made. “Henrietta, this is
too bad! Has she been weakly yielding?--has she been shutting herself up
in her room, and keeping aloof from those who most needed her, lest she
should pain her own feelings? Have not you rather been perplexing and
distressing, and harassing her with your wilful selfishness, refusing to
do the least thing to assist her in the care of your own brother, after
she has been wearing herself out in watching over your mother? And now,
when her strength and spirits are exhausted by the exertions she
has made for you and yours, and I have been obliged to insist on her
resting, you fancy her example an excuse for you! Is this the way your
mother would have acted? I see arguing with you does you no good: I have
no more to say.”
He got up, opened the door, and went out: Henrietta, dismayed at the
accusation but too well founded on her words, had but one thought, that
she should not deem her regardless of his kindness. “Uncle Geoffrey!”
she cried, “O, uncle--” but he was gone; and forgetting everything else,
she flew after him down the stairs, and before she recollected anything
else, she found herself standing in the hall, saying, “O uncle, do not
think I meant that!”
At that moment her grandpapa came out of the drawing-room. “Henrietta!”
said he, “I am glad to see you downstairs.”
Henrietta hastily returned his kiss, and looked somewhat confused; then
laying her hand entreatingly on her uncle’s arm, said, “Only say you are
not angry with me.”
“No, no, Henrietta, not if you will act like a rational person,” said
he with something of a smile, which she could not help returning in her
surprise at finding herself downstairs after all.
“And you do not imagine me ungrateful?”
“Not when you are in your right senses.”
“Ungrateful!” exclaimed Mr. Langford. “What is he accusing you of,
Henrietta? What is the meaning of all this?”
“Nothing,” said Uncle Geoffrey, “but that Henrietta and I have both been
somewhat angry with each other; but we have made it up now, have we not,
Henrietta?”
It was wonderful how much good the very air of the hall was doing
Henrietta, and how fast it was restoring her energy and power of turning
her mind to other things. She answered a few remarks of grandpapa’s
with very tolerable cheerfulness, and even when the hall door opened
and admitted Uncle and Aunt Roger, she did not run away, but stayed to
receive their greetings before turning to ascend the stairs.
“You are not going to shut yourself up in your own room again?” said
grandpapa.
“No, I was only going to Fred,” said she, growing as desirous of seeing
him as she had before been averse to it.
“Suppose,” said Uncle Geoffrey, “that you were to take a turn or two
round the garden first. There is Queen Bee, she will go out with you,
and you will bring Fred in a fresher face.”
“I will fetch your bonnet,” said Queen Bee, who was standing at the top
of the stairs, wisely refraining from expressing her astonishment at
seeing her cousin in the hall.
And before Henrietta had time to object, the bonnet was on her head, a
shawl thrown round her, Beatrice had drawn her arm within hers, and had
opened the sashed door into the garden.
It was a regular April day, with all the brilliancy and clearness of the
sunshine that comes between showers, the white clouds hung in huge soft
masses on the blue sky, the leaves of the evergreens were glistening
with drops of rain, the birds sang sweetly in the shrubs around.
Henrietta’s burning eyes felt refreshed, and though she sighed heavily,
she could not help admiring, but Beatrice was surprised that the first
thing she began to say was an earnest inquiry after Aunt Geoffrey, and a
warm expression of gratitude towards her.
Then the conversation died away again, and they completed their two
turns in silence; but Henrietta’s heart began to fail her when she
thought of going in without having her to greet. She lingered and could
hardly resolve to go, but at length she entered, walked up the stairs,
gave her shawl and bonnet to Beatrice, and tapped at Fred’s door.
“Is that you?” was his eager answer, and as she entered he came forward
to meet her. “Poor Henrietta!” was all he said, as she put her arm round
his neck and kissed him, and then leaning on her he returned to his
sofa, made her sit by him, and showed all sorts of kind solicitude for
her comfort. She had cried so much that she felt as if she could cry no
longer, but she reproached herself excessively for having left him to
himself so long, when all he wanted was to comfort her; and she tried to
make some apology.
“I am sorry I did not come sooner, Fred.”
“O, it is of no use to talk about it,” said Fred, playing with her long
curls as she sat on a footstool close to him, just as she used to do in
times long gone by. “You are come now, and that is all I want. Have you
been out? I thought I heard the garden door just before you came in.”
“Yes, I took two turns with Queen Bee. How bright and sunny it is. And
how are you this morning, Freddy?”
“O, pretty well I think,” said he, sighing, as if he cared little about
the matter. “I wanted to show you this, Henrietta.” And he took up a
book where he had marked a passage for her. She saw several paper marks
in some other books, and perceived with shame that he had been reading
yesterday, and choosing out what might comfort her, his selfish sister,
as she could not help feeling herself.
And here was the first great point gained, though there was still
much for Henrietta to learn. It was the first time she had ever been
conscious of her own selfishness, or perhaps more justly, of her
proneness to make all give way to her own feeling of the moment.