And the voices began, “Domum, Domum, dulce Domum;” even Aunt Mary herself caught the feelings of her young companions, felt herself coming to her own beloved home and parents, half forgot how changed was her situation, and threw herself into the delight of returning.
“Now, Fred,” said Henrietta, “let us try those verses that you found a tune for, that begin ‘What is home?’”
This also was sung, and by the time it was finished they had reached a gate leading into a long drive through dark beech woods. “This is the beautiful wood of which I have often told you, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford.
“The wood with glades like cathedral aisles,” said Henrietta. “O, how delightful it will be to see it come out in leaf!”
“Which I have never seen,” said Beatrice. “I tell papa he has made his fortune, and ought to retire, and he says he is too young for it.”
“In which I fully agree with him,” said her aunt. “I should not like to see him with nothing to do.”
“O, mamma, Uncle Geoffrey would never be anywhere with nothing to do,” said Henrietta.
“No,” said her mother, “but people are always happier with work made for them, than with what they make for themselves. Besides, Uncle Geoffrey has too much talent to be spared.”
“Ay,” said Fred, “I wondered to hear you so devoid of ambition, little Busy Bee.”
“It is only Knight Sutton and thinking of May flowers that makes me so,” said Beatrice. “I believe after all, I should break my heart if papa did retire without—”
“Without what, Bee?”
“Being Lord Chancellor, I suppose,” said Henrietta very seriously. “I am sure I should.”
“His being in Parliament will content me for the present,” said Beatrice, “for I have been told too often that high principles don’t rise in the world, to expect any more. We can be just as proud of him as if he was.”
“You are in a wondrously humble and philosophic mood, Queen Bee,” said Henrietta; “but where are we now?” added she, as a gate swung back.
“Coming into the paddock,” said Beatrice; “don’t you see the lights in the house? There, that is the drawing-room window to the right, and that large one the great hall window. Then upstairs, don’t you see that red fire-light? That is the south room, which Aunt Mary will be sure to have.”
Henrietta did not answer, for there was something that subdued her in the nervous pressure of her mother’s hand. The carriage stopped at the door, whence streamed forth light, dazzling to eyes long accustomed to darkness; but in the midst stood a figure which Henrietta could not but have recognized in an instant, even had not old Mr. Langford paid more than one visit to Rocksand. Tall, thin, unbent, with high bald forehead, clear eye, and long snowy hair; there he was, lifting rather than handing his daughter-in-law from the carriage, and fondly kissing her brow; then he hastily greeted the other occupants of the carriage, while she received the kiss of Mrs. Langford.
They were now in the hall, and turning again to his daughter-in-law, he gave her his arm, and led her into the drawing-room, where he once more embraced her, saying, “Bless you, my own dear Mary!” She clung to him for a moment as if she longed to weep with him, but recovering herself in an instant, she gave her attention to Mrs. Langford, who was trying to administer to her comfort with a degree of bustle and activity which suited well with the alertness of her small figure and the vivacity of the black eyes which still preserved their brightness, though her hair was perfectly white. “Well, Mary, my dear, I hope you are not tired. You had better sit down and take off your furs, or will you go to your room? But where is Geoffrey?”
“He went with Alex and Carey, round by Sutton Leigh,” said Beatrice.
“Ha! ha! my little Queen, are you there?” said grandpapa, holding out his arms to her. “And,” added he, “is not this your first introduction to the twins, grandmamma? Why you are grown as fine a pair as I would wish to see on a summer’s day. Last time I saw you I could hardly tell you apart, when you both wore straw hats and white trousers. No mistake now though. Well, I am right glad to have you here.”
“Won’t you take off some of your wraps, Mary?” proceeded Mrs. Langford, and her daughter-in-law, with a soft “Thank you,” passively obeyed. “And you too, my dear,” she added to Henrietta.
“Off with that bonnet, Miss Henrietta,” proceeded grandpapa. “Let me see whether you are as like your brother as ever. He has your own face, Mary.”
“Do not you think his forehead like—” and she looked to the end of the room where hung the portraits of two young children, the brothers Geoffrey and Frederick. Henrietta had often longed to see it, but now she could attend to nothing but her mamma.
“Like poor dear Frederick?” said grandmamma. “Well, I can’t judge by firelight, you know, my dear, but I should say they were both your very image.”
“You can’t be the image of any one I should like better,” said Mr. Langford, turning to them cheerfully, and taking Henrietta’s hand. “I wish nothing better than to find you the image of your mamma inside and out.”
“Ah, there’s Geoffrey!” cried Mrs. Langford, springing up and almost running to meet him.
“Well, Geoffrey, how d’ye do?” added his father with an indescribable tone and look of heartfelt delight. “Left all your cares behind you?”
“Left my wife behind me,” said Uncle Geoffrey, making a rueful face.
“Ay, it is a sad business that poor Beatrice cannot come,” said both the old people, “but how is poor Lady Susan?”
“As usual, only too nervous to be left with none of the family at hand. Well, Mary, you look tired.”
Overcome, Uncle Geoffrey would have said, but he thought the other accusation would answer the same purpose and attract less attention, and it succeeded, for Mrs. Langford proposed to take her up stairs. Henrietta thought that Beatrice would have offered to save her the trouble, but this would not have been at all according to the habits of grandmamma or granddaughter, and Mrs. Langford briskly led the way to a large cheerful-looking room, talking all the time and saying she supposed Henrietta would like to be with her mamma. She nodded to their maid, who was waiting there, and gave her a kindly greeting, stirred the already bright fire into a blaze, and returning to her daughter-in-law who was standing like one in a dream, she gave her a fond kiss, saying, “There, Mary, I thought you would like to be here.”
“Thank you, thank you, you are always kind.”
“There now, Mary, don’t let yourself be overcome. You would not bring him back again, I know. Come, lie down and rest. There—that is right—and don’t think of coming down stairs. You think your mamma had better not, don’t you?”
“Much better not, thank you, grandmamma,” said Henrietta, as she assisted in settling her mother on the sofa. “She is tired and overcome now, but she will be herself after a rest.”
“And ask for anything you like, my dear. A glass of wine or a cup of coffee; Judith will get you one in a moment. Won’t you have a cup of coffee, Mary, my dear?”
“Thank you, no thank you,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, raising herself. “Indeed I am sorry—it is very foolish.” Here the choking sob came again, and she was forced to lie down. Grandmamma stood by, warming a shawl to throw over her, and pitying her in audible whispers. “Poor thing, poor thing! it is very sad for her. There! a pillow, my dear? I’ll fetch one out of my room. No? Is her head high enough? Some sal-volatile? Yes, Mary, would you not like some sal-volatile?”
And away she went in search of it, while Henrietta, excessively distressed, knelt by her mother, who, throwing her arms round her neck, wept freely for some moments, then laid her head on the cushions again, saying, “I did not think I was so weak!”
“Dearest mamma,” said Henrietta, kissing her and feeling very guilty.
“If I have not distressed grandmamma!” said her mother anxiously. “No, never mind me, my dear, it was fatigue and—”
Still she could not finish, so painfully did the familiar voices, the unchanged furniture, recall both her happy childhood and the bridal days when she had last entered the house, that it seemed as it were a new thing, a fresh shock to miss the tone that was never to be heard there again. Why should all around be the same, when all within was altered? But it had been only the first few moments that had overwhelmed her, and the sound of Mrs. Langford’s returning footsteps recalled her habit of self-control; she thanked her, held out her quivering hand, drank the sal-volatile, pronounced herself much better, and asked pardon for having given so much trouble.
“Trouble? my dear child, no such thing! I only wish I could see you better. No doubt it is too much for you, this coming home the first time; but then you know poor Fred is gone to a better—Ah! well, I see you can’t bear to speak of him, and perhaps after all quiet is the best thing. Don’t let your mamma think of dressing and coming down, my dear.”
There was a little combat on this point, but it ended in Mrs. Frederick Langford yielding, and agreeing to remain upstairs. Grandmamma would have waited to propose to her each of the dishes that were to appear at table, and hear which she thought would suit her taste; but very fortunately, as Henrietta thought, a bell rang at that moment, which she pronounced to be “the half-hour bell,” and she hastened away, telling her granddaughter that dinner would be ready at half-past five, and calling the maid outside the door to giver her full directions where to procure anything that her mistress might want.
“Dear grandmamma! just like herself!” said Mrs. Frederick Langford. “But Henrietta, my dear,” she added with some alarm, “make haste and dress: you must never be too late in this house!”
Henrietta was not much accustomed to dress to a moment, and she was too anxious about her mamma to make speed with her whole will, and her hair was in no state of forwardness when the dinner-bell rang, causing her mamma to start and hasten her with an eager, almost alarmed manner. “You don’t know how your grandmamma dislikes being kept waiting,” said she.
At last she was ready, and running down, found all the rest assembled, evidently waiting for her. Frederick, looking anxious, met her at the door to receive her assurances that their mother was better; the rest inquired, and her apologies were cut short by grandmamma calling them to eat her turkey before it grew cold. The spirits of all the party were perhaps damped by Mrs. Frederick Langford’s absence and its cause, for the dinner was not a very lively one, nor the conversation very amusing to Henrietta and Frederick, as it was chiefly on the news of the country neighbourhood, in which Uncle Geoffrey showed much interest.
As soon as she was released from the dining-room, Henrietta ran up to her mamma, whom she found refreshed and composed. “But, O mamma, is this a good thing for you?” said Henrietta, looking at the red case containing her father’s miniature, which had evidently been only just closed on her entrance.
“The very best thing for me, dearest,” was the answer, now given in her own calm tones. “It does truly make me happier than anything else. No, don’t look doubtful, my Henrietta; if it were repining it might hurt me, but I trust it is not.”
“And does this really comfort you, mamma?” said Henrietta, as she pressed the spring, and gazed thoughtfully on the portrait. “O, I cannot fancy that! the more I think, the more I try to realize what it might have been, think what Uncle Geoffrey is to Beatrice, till sometimes, O mamma, I feel quite rebellious!”
“You will be better disciplined in time, my poor child,” said her mother, sadly. “As your grandmamma said, who could be so selfish as to wish him here?”
“And can you bear to say so, mamma?”
She clasped her hands and looked up, and Henrietta feared she had gone too far. Both were silent for some little time, until at last the daughter timidly asked, “And was this your old room, mamma?”
“Yes: look in that shelf in the corner; there are all our old childish books. Bring that one,” she added, as Henrietta took one out, and opening it, she showed in the fly-leaf the well-written “F.H. Langford,” with the giver’s name; and below in round hand, scrawled all over the page, “Mary Vivian, the gift of her cousin Fred.” “I believe that you may find that in almost all of them,” said she. “I am glad they have been spared from the children at Sutton Leigh. Will you bring me a few more to look over, before you go down again to grandmamma?”
Henrietta did not like to leave her, and lingered while she made a selection for her among the books, and from that fell into another talk, in which they were interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of Mrs. Langford herself. She sat a little time, and asked of health, strength, and diet, until she bustled off again to see if there was a good fire in Geoffrey’s room, telling Henrietta that tea would soon be ready.
Henrietta’s ideas of grandmammas were formed on the placid Mrs. Vivian, naturally rather indolent, and latterly very infirm, although considerably younger than Mrs. Langford; and she stood looking after in speechless amazement, her mamma laughing at her wonder. “But, my dear child,” she said, “I beg you will go down. It will never do to have you staying up here all the evening.”
Henrietta was really going this time, when as she opened the door, she was stopped by a new visitor. This was an elderly respectable-looking maid-servant, old Judith, whose name was well known to her. She had been nursery-maid at Knight Sutton at the time “Miss Mary” arrived from India, and was now, what in a more modernized family would have been called ladies’-maid or housekeeper, but here was a nondescript office, if anything, upper housemaid. How she was loved and respected is known to all who are happy enough to possess a “Judith.”
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said she, as Henrietta opened the door just before her, and Mrs. Frederick Langford, on hearing her voice, called out, “O Judith! is that you? I was in hopes you were coming to see me.”
She advanced with a courtesy, at the same time affectionately taking the thin white hand stretched out to her. “I hope you are better, ma’am. It is something like old times to have you here again.”
“Indeed I am very glad to be here, Judith,” was the answer, “and very glad to see you looking like your own dear self.”
“Ah! Miss Mary; I beg your pardon, ma’am; I wish I could see you looking better.”
“I shall, I hope, to-morrow, thank you, Judith. But you have not been introduced to Henrietta, there.”
“But I have often heard of you, Judith,” said Henrietta, cordially holding out her hand. Judith took it, and looked at her with affectionate earnestness. “Sure enough, miss,” said she, “as Missus says, you are the very picture of your mamma when she went away; but I think I see a look of poor Master Frederick too.”
“Have you seen my brother, Judith?” asked Henrietta, fearing a second discussion on likenesses.
“Yes, Miss Henrietta; I was coming down from Missus’s room, when Mr. Geoffrey stopped me to ask how I did, and he said ‘Here’s a new acquaintance for you, Judith,’ and there was Master Frederick. I should have known him anywhere, and he spoke so cheerful and pleasant. A fine young gentleman he is, to be sure.”
“Why, we must be like your grandchildren!” said Henrietta; “but O! here comes Fred.”
And Judith discreetly retreated as Fred entered bearing a summons to his sister to come down to tea, saying that he could scarcely prevail on grandmamma to let him take the message instead of coming herself.
They found Queen Bee perched upon the arm of her grandpapa’s chair, with one hand holding by his collar. She had been coaxing him to say Henrietta was the prettiest girl he ever saw, and he was teasing her by declaring he should never see anything like Aunt Mary in her girlish days. Then he called up Henrietta and Fred, and asked them about their home doings, showing so distinct a knowledge of them, that they laughed and stood amazed. “Ah,” said grandpapa, “you forgot that I had a Queen Bee to enlighten me. We have plenty to tell each other, when we go buzzing over the ploughed fields together on a sunny morning, haven’t we, Busy, Busy Bee?”