affection; and instead of understanding only what she had taught him, familiar with the tastes and pursuits on which she set perhaps too great a value.
Fred did not care nearly as much for Beatrice’s preference: it might be that he took it as a matter of course, or perhaps that having a sister of his own, he did not need her sympathy, but still it was a point on which he was likely to be sensitive, and thus her favour was likely to be secretly quite as much a matter of competition as their school studies and pastimes.
For instance, dinner was over, and Henrietta was admiring some choice books of prints, such luxuries as Uncle Geoffrey now afforded himself, and which his wife and daughter greatly preferred to the more costly style of living which some people thought befitted them. She called to her brother who was standing by the fire, “Fred, do come and look at this beautiful Albert Durer of Sintram.”
He hesitated, doubting whether Alexander would scorn him for an acquaintance with Albert Durer, but Beatrice added, “Yes, it was an old promise that I would show it to you. There now, look, admire, or be pronounced insensible.”
“A wonderful old fellow was that Albert,” said Fred, looking, and forgetting his foolish false shame in the pleasure of admiration. “Yes; O how wondrously the expression on Death’s face changes as it does in the story! How easy it is to see how Fouque must have built it up! Have you seen it, mamma?”
His mother came to admire. Another print was produced, and another, and Fred and Beatrice were eagerly studying the elaborate engravings of the old German, when Alex, annoyed at finding her too much engrossed to have a word for him, came to share their occupation, and took up one of the prints with no practised hand. “Take care, Alex, take care,” cried Beatrice, in a sort of excruciated tone; “don’t you see what a pinch you are giving it! Only the initiated ought to handle a print: there is a pattern for you,” pointing to Fred.
She cut right and left: both looked annoyed, and retreated from the table. Fred thinking how Alex must look down on fingers which possessed any tenderness; Alex provoked at once and pained. Queen Bee’s black eyes perceived their power, and gave a flash of laughing triumph.
But Beatrice was not quite in her usual high spirits, for she was very sorry to leave her mother; and when they went up stairs for the night, she stood long over the fire talking to her, and listening to certain parting cautions.
“How I wish you could have come, mamma! I am so sure that grandmamma in her kindness will tease Aunt Mary to death. You are the only person who can guard her without affronting grandmamma. Now I—”
“Had better let it alone,” rejoined Mrs. Geoffrey Langford. “You will do more harm than by letting things take their course. Remember, too, that Aunt Mary was at home there long before you or I knew the place.”
“Oh, if that tiresome Aunt Amelia would but have had some consideration! To go out of town and leave Aunt Susan on our hands just when we always go home!”
“We have lamented that often enough,” said her mother smiling. “It is unlucky, but it cannot be too often repeated, that wills and wishes must sometimes bend.”
“You say that for me, mamma,” said Beatrice. “You think grandmamma and I have too much will for each other.”
“If you are conscious of that, Bee, I hope that you will bend that wilful will of yours.”
“I hope I shall,” said Beatrice, “but.... Well, I must go to bed. Good night, mamma.”
And Mrs. Geoffrey Langford looked after her daughter anxiously, but she well knew that Beatrice knew her besetting fault, and she trusted to the many fervent resolutions she had made against it.
The next morning the party bade adieu to Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, and set out on their journey to Knight Sutton. They filled a whole railroad carriage, and were a very cheerful party. Alexander and Beatrice sat opposite to each other, talking over Knight Sutton delights with animation, Beatrice ever and anon turning to her other cousins with explanations, or referring to her papa, who was reading the newspaper and talking with Mrs. Frederick Langford.
The day was not long enough for all the talk of the cousins, and the early winter twilight came on before their conversation was exhausted, or they had reached the Allonfield station.
“Here we are!” exclaimed Beatrice, as the train stopped, and at the same moment a loud voice called out, “All right! where are you, Alex?” upon which Alexander tumbled across Henrietta to feel for the handle of the carriage-door, replying, “Here, old fellow, let us out. Have you brought Dumpling?” And Uncle Geoffrey and Beatrice exclaimed, “How d’ye do, Carey?”
When Alexander had succeeded in making his exit, Henrietta beheld him shaking hands with a figure not quite his own height, and in its rough great-coat not unlike a small species of bear. Uncle Geoffrey and Fred handed out the ladies, and sought their appurtenances in the dark, and Henrietta began to give Alex credit for a portion of that which maketh man, when he shoved his brother, admonishing him that there was Aunt Mary, upon which Carey advanced, much encumbered with sheepish shyness, presented a great rough driving-glove, and shortly and bluntly replied to the soft tones which kindly greeted him, and inquired for all at home.
“Is the Hall carriage come?” asked Alex, and, receiving a gruff affirmative, added, “then, Aunt Mary, you had better come to it while Uncle Geoffrey looks after the luggage,” offered his arm with tolerable courtesy, and conducted her to the carriage. “There,” said he, “Carey has driven in our gig, and I suppose Fred and I had better go back with him.”
“Is the horse steady?” asked his aunt, anxiously.
“Dumple? To be sure! Never does wrong! do you, old fellow?” said Alex, patting his old friend.
“And no lamps?”
“O, we know the way blindfold, and you might cross Sutton Heath a dozen times without meeting anything but a wheelbarrow-full of peat.”
“And how is the road now? It used to be very bad in my time.”
“Lots of ruts,” muttered Carey to his brother, who interpreted it, “A few ruts this winter, but Dumpling knows all the bad places.”
By this time Uncle Geoffrey came up, and instantly perceiving the state of things, said, “I say, Freddy, do you mind changing places with me? I should like to have a peep at Uncle Roger before going up to the house, and then Dumpling’s feelings won’t be hurt by passing the turn to Sutton Leigh.”
Fred could not object, and his mother rejoiced in the belief that Uncle Geoffrey would take the reins, nor did Beatrice undeceive her, though, as the vehicle rattled past the carriage at full speed, she saw Alexander’s own flourish of the whip, and knew that her papa was letting the boys have their own way. She had been rather depressed in the morning on leaving her mother, but as she came nearer home her spirits mounted, and she was almost wild with glee. “Aunt Mary, do you know where you are?”
“On Sutton Heath, I presume, from the absence of landmarks.”
“Yes, that we are. You dear old place, how d’ye do? You beginning of home! I don’t know when it is best coming to you: on a summer’s evening, all glowing with purple heath, or a frosty star-light night like this. There is the Sutton Leigh turn! Hurrah! only a mile further to the gate.”
“Where I used to go to meet the boys coming home from school,” said her aunt, in a low tone of deep feeling. But she would not sadden their blithe young hearts, and added cheerfully, “Just the same as ever, I see: how well I know the outline of the bank
