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 chee
rfulness, 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.
CHAPTER XIX.
THERE was some question as to who should attend the funeral. Henrietta shuddered and trembled all over as if it were a cruelty to mention it before her; but Frederick was very desirous that she should be there, partly from a sort of feeling that she would represent himself, and partly from a strong conviction that it would be good for her. She was willing to do anything or everything for him, to make up for her day's neglect: and she consented, though with many tears, and was glad that at least Fred seemed satisfied, and her uncle looked pleased with her.
Aunt Geoffrey undertook to stay with Fred, and Henrietta, who clung much to Beatrice, felt relieved by the thought of her support in such an hour of trial. She remembered the day when, with a kind of agreeable emotion, she had figured to herself her father's funeral, little thinking of the reality that so soon awaited her, so much worse, as she thought, than what any of them could even then have felt; and it seemed to her perfectly impossible that she should ever have power to go through with it.
In was much, however, that she should have agreed to what in the prospect gave her so much pain; and perhaps, for that very reason, she found the reality less overwhelming than she had dreaded. Seeing nothing, observing nothing, hardly conscious of anything, she walked along, wrapped in one absorbing sense of wretchedness; and the first words that "broke the stillness of that hour," healing as they were, seemed but to add certainty to that one thought that "she was gone." But while the Psalms and the Lessons were read, the first heavy oppression of grief seemed in some degree to grow lighter. She could listen, and the words reached her mind; a degree of thankfulness arose to Him Who had wiped away the tears from her mother's eyes, and by Whom the sting of death had been taken away. Yes; she had waited in faith, in patience, in meek submission, until now her long widowhood was over; and what better for her could those who most loved her desire, than that she should safely sleep in the chancel of the Church of her childhood, close to him whom she had so loved and so mourned, until the time when both should once more awaken,-the corruptible should put on incorruption, the mortal should put on immortality, and death be swallowed up in victory.
Something of this was what Henrietta began to feel; and though the tears flowed fast, they were not the bitter drops of personal sorrow. She was enabled to bear, without the agony she had expected, the standing round the grave in the chancel; nor did her heart swell rebelliously against the expression that it was "in great mercy that the soul of this our dear sister" was taken, even though she shrank and shivered at the sound of the earth cast in, which would seem to close up from her for ever the most loved and loving creature that she would ever know. No, not for ever,-might she too but keep her part in Him Who is the Resurrection and the Life-might she be found acceptable in His sight, and receive the blessing to be pronounced to all that love and fear Him.
It was over: they all stood round for a few minutes. At last Mr. Langford moved; Henrietta was also obliged to turn away, but before doing so, she raised her eyes to her father's name, to take leave of him as it were, as she always did before going out of Church. She met her Uncle Geoffrey's eye as she did so, and took his arm; and as soon as she was out of the church, she said almost in a whisper, "Uncle, I don't wish for him now."
He pressed her arm, and looked most kindly at her, but he did not speak, for he could hardly command his voice; and he saw, too, that she might safely be trusted to the influences of that only true consolation which was coming upon her.
They came home-to the home that looked as if it would fain be once more cheerful, with the front window blinds drawn up again, and the solemn stillness no longer observed. Henrietta hastened up to her own room, for she could not bear to show herself to her brother in her long crape veil. She threw her bonnet off, knelt down for a few minutes, but rose on hearing the approach of Beatrice, who still shared the same room. Beatrice came in, and looked at her for a few moments, as if doubtful how to address her; but at last she put her hand on her shoulder, and looking earnestly in her face, repeated-
"Then cheerly to your work again,
With hearts new braced and set,
To run untir'd love's blessed race,
As meet for those who, face to face,
Over the grave their LORD have met."
"Yes, Queenie," said Henrietta, giving a long sigh, "it is a very different world to me now; but I do mean to try. And first, dear Bee, you must let me thank you for having been very kind to me this long time past, though I am afraid I showed little thankfulness." She kissed her affectionately, and the tears almost choked Beatrice.
"Me! me, of all people," she said. "O, Henrietta!"
"We must talk of it all another time," said Henrietta, "but now it will not do to stay away from Fred
any longer. Don't think this like the days when I used to run away from you in the winter, Bee-that time when I would not stop and talk about the verses on the holly."
While she spoke, there was something of the "new bracing" visible in every movement, as she set her dress to rights, and arranged her curls, which of late she had been used to allow to hang in a deplorable way, that showed how little vigour or inclination to bear up there was about her whole frame.
"O no, do not stay with me," said Queen Bee, "I am going"-to mamma, she would have said, but she hardly knew how to use the word when speaking to Henrietta.
"Yes," said Henrietta, understanding her. "And tell her, Bee-for I am sure I shall never be able to say it to her,-all about our thanks, and how sorry I am that I cared so little about her or her comfort." "If I had only believed, instead of blinding myself so wilfully!" she almost whispered to herself with a deep sigh; but being now ready, she ran downstairs and entered her brother's room. His countenance bore traces of weeping, but he was still calm; and as she came in he looked anxiously at her. She spoke quietly as she sat down by him, put her hand into his, and said, "Thank you, dear Fred, for making me go."
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