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 n.o.ble spirit of Christian submission; but, excepting by his sympathy, he could be of little a.s.sistance 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 a.s.sisting 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 a.s.sure Henrietta of the fervent love that was still left for her in so many hearts on earth.

The hours pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s "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 pa.s.sionate 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 hara.s.sing her with your wilful selfishness, refusing to do the least thing to a.s.sist 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 ma.s.ses 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 grat.i.tude 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?"