without getting it up,” replied Fred. “I never was more rejoiced in my whole life,” and he began to hum Domum.
“Sing it, sing it; let us join in chorus as homage to Knight Sutton,” cried Henrietta.
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
