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 cheerily 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!”