Kitabı oku: «Henrietta's Wish; Or, Domineering», sayfa 16
“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.”
CHAPTER XVIII
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.
