He did so, and heard Careys, Dittons, Evanses, &c., enumerated, and at each name Beatrice looked gloomier, but she was not observed, for her Aunt Mary had much to hear about the present state of the families, and the stream of conversation flowed away from the fête.
The meal was at last concluded, and Beatrice in great haste ordered Frederick off to Sutton Leigh, with a message to Alex to meet them at the Church, and bring as much holly as he could, and his great knife. “Bring him safe,” said she, “for if you fail, and prove a corbie messenger, I promise you worse than the sharpest sting of the most angry bee.”
Away she ran to fetch her bonnet and shawl, while Henrietta walked up after her, saying she would just fetch her mamma’s writing-case down for her, and then get ready directly. On coming down, she could not help waiting a moment before advancing to the table, to hear what was passing between her mother and uncle.
“Do you like for me to drive you down to the Church to-day?” he asked.
“Thank you,” she answered, raising her mild blue eyes, “I think not.”
“Remember, it will be perfectly convenient, and do just what suits you,” said he in a voice of kind solicitude.
“Thank you very much, Geoffrey,” she replied, in an earnest tone, “but indeed I had better go for the first time to the service, especially on such a day as to-morrow, when thoughts must be in better order.”
“I understand,” said Uncle Geoffrey: and Henrietta, putting down the writing-case, retreated with downcast eyes, with a moment’s perception of the higher tone of mind to which he had tried to raise her.
In the hall she found Mrs. Langford engaged in moving her precious family of plants from their night quarters near the fire to the bright sunshine near the window. Henrietta seeing her lifting heavy flower-pots, instantly sprang forward with, “O grandmamma, let me help.”
Little as Mrs. Langford was wont to allow herself to be assisted, she was gratified with the obliging offer, and Henrietta had carried the myrtle, the old-fashioned oak-leaved geranium, with its fragrant deeply-indented leaves, a grim-looking cactus, and two or three more, and was deep in the story of the orange-tree, the pip of which had been planted by Uncle Geoffrey at five years old, but which never seemed likely to grow beyond the size of a tolerable currant-bush, when Beatrice came down and beheld her with consternation—“Henrietta! Henrietta! what are you about?” cried she, breaking full into the story. “Do make haste.”