'Why do not you put on your bonnet, Dora?' said Winifred.
'I am not going,' said Dora.
'Why not?' asked Winifred.
'Because I had rather not,' was the answer.
'Why, you silly little child,' said Katherine; 'are you shy of Mr. Somerville? look there, Edward and Winifred are not shy, and you are quite a great girl. How Horace would laugh!'
'I cannot help it,' said Dora; 'I had rather not go.'
'If you are thinking of your little class, Dora,' said Elizabeth, 'I will hear them for you; you will trust them with me, will you not? and I will remember who is first.'
'Thank you,' said Dora; 'I had rather go to church and school with you.'
'Nonsense, Dora,' said Katherine; 'I wish you would come.'
'Now do,' said Harriet; 'you cannot think what a nice luncheon Mr. Somerville will have for you.'
'There is a very nice luncheon here,' said Dora.
'Oh! but not like a company luncheon,' said Harriet; 'besides, Mr. Somerville will be so disappointed if you do not come. Poor Mr. Somerville, won't you be sorry for him, Dora?'
'Oh no, he does not want me--does he, Lizzie?' said Dora.
'No, I do not suppose he does,' said Elizabeth; 'he only asked you out of good nature.'
'Well, if Dora will not come,' said Katherine, 'there is no use in staying.--Come, Winifred and Edward.'
Elizabeth was sure that Dora had reasons of her own for choosing to remain with her, but she thought it best to ask no questions; and the reasons appeared, when, as they came into the Alms-house Court after evening service, Dora pressed her hand, saying, in a low mysterious tone, 'Lizzie, will you shew me what you promised?'
Elizabeth knew what she meant, and returning through the church into the church-yard, led the way to the east end, where, close beside a projecting buttress, Dora beheld a plain flat white stone, with three small crosses engraven on it, and with a feeling between awe and wonder, read the simple inscription.
KATHERINE,
WIFE OF THE REV. HORATIO WOODBOURNE,
VICAR OF ABBEYCHURCH ST. MARY'S,
MAY 14TH, 1826,
AGED 28.
It was the first time that Elizabeth and Helen had stood together at their mother's grave, for Helen was but three years old at the time she had been deprived of her, and, after their father's second marriage, a kind of delicacy in Elizabeth, young as she was, had prevented her from ever mentioning her to her younger sisters.
After a few minutes, during which no one spoke, the three sisters turned away, and re-entered the church. Helen and Dora had reached the north door, and were leaving the church, when they missed Elizabeth, and looking round, saw her sitting in one of the low pews, in the centre aisle, her face raised towards the flamboyant tracery of the east window. Dora, who seemed to have a sort of perception that her presence was a restraint upon her sisters, whispered, 'I am going to feed the doves,' and hastened across the quadrangle, while Helen came back to Elizabeth's side. Her sister rose, and with her own bright smile, said,
'Helen, I could not help coming here, it was where I sat at the day of the funeral, and I wanted to look at that flame-shaped thing in the top of the window, as I did all through the reading of the Lesson. Do you see? What strange thoughts were in my head, as I sat looking at that deep blue glass, with its shape like an angel's head and meeting wings, and heard of glories celestial! I never hear those words without seeing that form.'
With these words Elizabeth and Helen left the church; Helen put her arm into her sister's, a thing which Elizabeth very seldom liked anyone to do, even Anne, but now the two girls walked slowly arm-in- arm, through the quadrangle, and along the broad gravel path in the Vicarage garden.
'Then you were at her funeral?' was the first thing Helen said.
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'Papa wished it, and I am sure I am very glad they let me go.'
No more was spoken till Helen began again. 'When I was at Dykelands, Mrs.
Staunton used often to talk to me about our mother, and I began to try to recollect her, but I had only an impression of something kind, some voice I should know again, but I could not remember her in the least.'
'Ah! I wish you could,' said Elizabeth thoughtfully.
'I suppose you remember her quite well,' said Helen, 'and all that happened?'
'Yes,' said Elizabeth, 'I remember some things as well as if they had happened yesterday, and others are all confusion in my mind; I quite remember going to kiss her, the last day, and how strange and silent and sad all the room looked, and Aunt Anne keeping quite calm and composed in the room, but beginning to cry as soon as she had led me out. I shall never forget the awful mysterious feelings I had then.'
'And could she speak to you?' said Helen; 'did she know you?'
'Yes, she gave me one of her own smiles, and said something in a very low voice.'
'Tell me a little more, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'for I have thought very much about her lately. Can you remember her before she was ill?'
'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, speaking slowly, and pausing now and then; 'I remember her well; I sometimes fancy I can hear her voice and her step at night, when she used to come up to the nursery to see us in bed. I always used to listen for her; and when she began to grow weak, and could not come up so many stairs, I used to lie and cry for half an hour. And now, when I am reading the same books with the children that I read with her, things that she said to me come back upon me.'
'Do you think,' said Helen, 'that you are as like her as Uncle Edward once said you were?'
Elizabeth paused; 'possibly,' said she, 'in eyes, nose, and mouth; but, Helen, I do not think there ever could be anyone really like our mother; I was much too young to know all that she was whilst she was alive, but as I have grown older, and compared what I have seen of other people with what I recollect of her, I have grown certain that she must have been the most excellent, sensible, clever, kind, charming person that ever lived.'
'So Mrs. Staunton says,' replied Helen; 'she used to tell me that I was a good deal like her, and should be more so; but I do not think she would have said so, if she had seen you. I am so slow and so dull, and so unlike to you in your quick active ways.'
'Do you know, Helen,' said Elizabeth, who had been pursuing her own thoughts, rather than listening to her sister's words, 'I do believe that we should all have been more like her if she had lived; at least, I am sure I should.'
Helen did not answer; and Elizabeth continued in her usual rapid manner, 'I do not mean to lay all my faults at Mamma's door, for I should have been much worse without her, and I have spurned away most of the good she would have done me in her kind gentle way; but I do believe no one but my own mother ever knew how to manage me. You never were so wild, Helen, and you will do far far better.'
'O Lizzie, what do you mean?' cried Helen.
'I mean, my dear Helen,' exclaimed Elizabeth, hardly knowing what she was saying, 'that I have been using you shamefully ever since you came home. I have done nothing but contradict you, and snap at you, whether right or wrong; and a pretty spectacle we must have made of ourselves. Now I see that you have twice the sense and understanding that I have, and are so unpretending as to be worth a hundred times more. I wish with all my heart that I had taken your advice, and that the Mechanics' Institute was at the bottom of the sea.'
Before Helen had recovered from her astonishment at this incoherent speech, sufficiently to make any sort of reply, the rest of the party were seen returning from St. Austin's, and Winifred and Edward hastened towards the two sisters, to tell them all the wonders they had seen.
During the remainder of that day, a few words in her mother's feeble voice rung in Elizabeth's ears more painfully even than the text she had mentioned the day before. It was, 'Lizzie, I know you will be a kind sister to Kate and poor little Helen.'