Scene II. presented but a half-length, a shawl being hung in front, so

HENRIETTA’S WISH;

OR, DOMINEERING

By Charlotte M. Yonge

CHAPTER I.

On the afternoon of a warm day in the end of July, an open carriage was

waiting in front of the painted toy-looking building which served as

the railway station of Teignmouth. The fine bay horses stood patiently

enduring the attacks of hosts of winged foes, too well-behaved to

express their annoyance otherwise than by twitchings of their sleek

shining skins, but duly grateful to the coachman, who roused himself now

and then to whisk off some more pertinacious tormentor with the end of

his whip.

Less patient was the sole occupant of the carriage, a maiden of about

sixteen years of age, whose shady dark grey eyes, parted lips, and

flushed complexion, were all full of the utmost eagerness, as every two

or three minutes she looked up from the book which she held in her hand

to examine the clock over the station door, compare it with her watch,

and study the countenances of the bystanders to see whether they

expressed any anxiety respecting the non-arrival of the train. All,

however, seemed quite at their ease, and after a time the arrival of the

railway omnibus and two or three other carriages, convinced her that the

rest of the world only now began to consider it to be due. At last the

ringing of a bell quickened everybody into a sudden state of activity,

and assured her that the much-desired moment was come. The cloud of

smoke was seen, the panting of the engine was heard, the train displayed

its length before the station, men ran along tapping the doors of the

carriages, and shouting a word which bore some distant resemblance to

“Teignmouth,” and at the same moment various travellers emerged from the

different vehicles.

Her eye eagerly sought out one of these arrivals, who on his side, after

a hasty greeting to the servant who met him on the platform, hurried to

the carriage, and sprang into it. The two faces, exactly alike in form,

complexion, and features, were for one moment pressed together, then

withdrawn, in the consciousness of the publicity of the scene, but the

hands remained locked together, and earnest was the tone of the “Well,

Fred!” “Well, Henrietta!” which formed the greeting of the twin brother

and sister.

“And was not mamma well enough to come?” asked Frederick, as the

carriage turned away from the station.

“She was afraid of the heat. She had some business letters to write

yesterday, which teased her, and she has not recovered from them yet;

but she has been very well, on the whole, this summer. But what of your

school affairs, Fred? How did the examination go off?”

“I am fourth, and Alex Langford fifth. Every one says the prize will lie

between us next year.”

“Surely,” said Henrietta, “you must be able to beat him then, if you are

before him now.”

“Don’t make too sure, Henrietta,” said Frederick, shaking his head,

“Langford is a hard-working fellow, very exact and accurate; I should

not have been before him now if it had not been for my verses.”

“I know Beatrice is very proud of Alexander,” said Henrietta, “she would

make a great deal of his success.”

“Why of his more than of that of any other cousin?” said Frederick with

some dissatisfaction.

“O you know he is the only one of the Knight Sutton cousins whom she

patronizes; all the others she calls cubs and bears and Osbaldistones.

And indeed, Uncle Geoffrey says he thinks it was in great part owing to

her that Alex is different from the rest. At least he began to think

him worth cultivating from the time he found him and Busy Bee perched

up together in an apple-tree, she telling him the story of Alexander the

Great. And how she always talks about Alex when she is here.”

“Is she at Knight Sutton?”

“Yes, Aunt Geoffrey would not come here, because she did not wish to

be far from London, because old Lady Susan has not been well. And only

think, Fred, Queen Bee says there is a very nice house to be let close

to the village, and they went to look at it with grandpapa, and he kept

on saying how well it would do for us.”

“O, if we could but get mamma there!” said Fred. “What does she say?”

“She knows the house, and says it is a very pleasant one,” said

Henrietta; “but that is not an inch--no, not the hundredth part of an

inch--towards going there!”

“It would surely be a good thing for her if she could but be brought

to believe so,” said Frederick. “All her attachments are there--her own

home; my father’s home.”

“There is nothing but the sea to be attached to, here,” said

Henrietta. “Nobody can take root without some local interest, and as to

acquaintance, the people are always changing.”

“And there is nothing to do,” added Fred; “nothing possible but boating

and riding, which are not worth the misery which they cause her, as

Uncle Geoffrey says. It is very, very--”

“Aggravating,” said Henrietta, supplying one of the numerous stock of

family slang words.

“Yes, aggravating,” said he with a smile, “to be placed under the

necessity of being absurd, or of annoying her!”

“Annoying! O, Fred, you do not know a quarter of what she goes through

when she thinks you are in any danger. It could not be worse if you were

on the field of battle! And it is very strange, for she is not at all a

timid person for herself. In the boat, that time when the wind rose, I

am sure Aunt Geoffrey was more afraid than she was, and I have seen it

again and again that she is not easily frightened.”

“No: and I do not think she is afraid for you.”

“Not as she is for you, Fred; but then boys are so much more precious

than girls, and besides they love to endanger themselves so much, that I

think that is reasonable.”

“Uncle Geoffrey thinks there is something nervous and morbid in it,”

said Fred: “he thinks that it is the remains of the horror of the sudden

shock--”

“What? Our father’s accident?” asked Henrietta. “I never knew rightly

about that. I only knew it was when we were but a week old.”

“No one saw it happen,” said Fred; “he went out riding, his horse came

home without him, and he was lying by the side of the road.”

“Did they bring him home?” asked Henrietta, in the same low thrilling

tone in which her brother spoke.

“Yes, but he never recovered his senses: he just said ‘Mary,’ once or

twice, and only lived to the middle of the night!”

“Terrible!” said Henrietta, with a shudder. “O! how did mamma ever

recover it?--at least, I do not think she has recovered it now,--but I

meant live, or be even as well as she is.”

“She was fearfully ill for long after,” said Fred, “and Uncle Geoffrey

thinks that these anxieties for me are an effect of the shock. He says

they are not at all like her usual character. I am sure it is not to be

wondered at.”

“O no, no,” said Henrietta. “What a mystery it has always seemed to us

about papa! She sometimes mentioning him in talking about her childish

days and Knight Sutton, but if we tried to ask any more, grandmamma

stopping us directly, till we learned to believe we ought never to utter

his name. I do believe, though, that mamma herself would have found it a

comfort to talk to us about him, if poor dear grandmamma had not always

cut her short, for fear it should be too much for her.”

“But had you not always an impression of something dreadful about his

death?”

“O yes, yes; I do not know how we acquired it, but that I am sure we

had, and it made us shrink from asking any questions, or even from

talking to each other about it. All I knew I heard from Beatrice. Did

Uncle Geoffrey tell you this?”

“Yes, he told me when he was here last Easter, and I was asking him to

speak to mamma about my fishing, and saying how horrid it was to be kept

back from everything. First he laughed, and said it was the penalty of

being an only son, and then he entered upon this history, to show me how

it is.”

“But it is very odd that she should have let you learn to ride, which

one would have thought she would have dreaded most of all.”

“That was because she thought it right, he says. Poor mamma, she said

to him, ‘Geoffrey, if you think it right that Fred should begin to

ride, never mind my folly.’ He says that he thinks it cost her as much

resolution to say that as it might to be martyred. And the same about

going to school.”

“Yes, yes; exactly,” said Henrietta, “if she thinks it is right, bear it

she will, cost her what it may! O there is nobody like mamma. Busy Bee

says so, and she knows, living in London and seeing so many people as

she does.”

“I never saw anyone so like a queen,” said Fred. “No, nor anyone so

beautiful, though she is so pale and thin. People say you are like her

in her young days, Henrietta; and to be sure, you have a decent face of

your own, but you will never be as beautiful as mamma, not if you live

to be a hundred.”

“You are afraid to compliment my face because it is so like your own,

Master Fred,” retorted his sister; “but one comfort is, that I shall

grow more like her by living to a hundred, whereas you will lose all

the little likeness you have, and grow a grim old Black-beard! But I was

going to say, Fred, that, though I think there is a great deal of truth

in what Uncle Geoffrey said, yet I do believe that poor grandmamma made

it worse. You know she had always been in India, and knew less about

boys than mamma, who had been brought up with papa and my uncles, so

she might really believe that everything was dangerous; and I have

often seen her quite as much alarmed, or more perhaps, about you--her

consolations just showing that she was in a dreadful fright, and making

mamma twice as bad.”

“Well,” said Fred, sighing, “that is all over now, and she thought she

was doing it all for the best.”

“And,” proceeded Henrietta, “I think, and Queen Bee thinks, that this

perpetual staying on at Rocksand was more owing to her than to mamma.

She imagined that mamma could not bear the sight of Knight Sutton, and

that it was a great kindness to keep her from thinking of moving--”

“Ay, and that nobody can doctor her but Mr. Clarke,” added Fred.

“Till now, I really believe,” said Henrietta, “that the possibility of

moving has entirely passed out of her mind, and she no more believes

that she can do it than that the house can.”

“Yes,” said Fred, “I do not think a journey occurs to her among events

possible, and yet without being very fond of this place.”

“Fond! O no! it never was meant to be a home, and has nothing homelike

about it! All her affections are really at Knight Sutton, and if she

once went there, she would stay and be so much happier among her own

friends, instead of being isolated here with me. In grandmamma’s time

it was not so bad for her, but now she has no companion at all but me.

Rocksand has all the loneliness of the country without its advantages.”

“There is not much complaint as to happiness, after all,” said Fred.

“No, O no! but then it is she who makes it delightful, and it cannot be

well for her to have no one to depend upon but me. Besides, how useless

one is here. No opportunity of doing anything for the poor people, no

clergyman who will put one into the way of being useful. O how nice it

would be at Knight Sutton!”

“And perhaps she would be cured of her fears,” added Fred; “she would

find no one to share them, and be convinced by seeing that the cousins

there come to no harm. I wish Uncle Geoffrey would recommend it!”

“Well, we will see what we can do,” said Henrietta. “I do think we may

persuade her, and I think we ought; it would be for her happiness and

for yours, and on all accounts I am convinced that it ought to be done.”

And as Henrietta came to this serious conclusion, they entered the steep

straggling street of the little town of Rocksand, and presently were

within the gates of the sweep which led to the door of the verandahed

Gothic cottage, which looked very tempting for summer’s lodging, but was

little fitted for a permanent abode.

In spite of all the longing wishes expressed during the drive, no

ancestral home, beloved by inheritance, could have been entered with

more affectionate rapture than that with which Frederick Langford sprung

from the carriage, and flew to the arms of his mother, receiving and

returning such a caress as could only be known by a boy conscious that

he had done nothing to forfeit home love and confidence.

Turning back the fair hair that hung over his forehead, Mrs. Langford

looked into his eyes, saying, half-interrogatively, half-affirmatively,

“All right, Fred? Nothing that we need be afraid to tell Uncle Geoffrey?

Well, Henrietta, he is grown, but he has not passed you yet. And now,

Freddy, tell us about your examination,” added she, as fondly leaning on

his arm, she proceeded into the drawing-room, and they sat down together

on the sofa, talking eagerly and joyously.

Mrs. Frederick Henry Langford, to give her her proper style, was in

truth one whose peculiar loveliness of countenance well deserved the

admiration expressed by her son. It was indeed pale and thin, but the

features were beautifully formed, and had that expression of sweet

placid resignation which would have made a far plainer face beautiful.

The eyes were deep dark blue, and though sorrow and suffering had dimmed

their brightness, their softness was increased; the smile was one of

peace, of love, of serenity; of one who, though sorrow-stricken, as it

were, before her time, had lived on in meek patience and submission,

almost a child in her ways, as devoted to her mother, as little with

a will and way of her own, as free from the cares of this work-a-day

world. The long luxuriant dark brown hair, which once, as now with

Henrietta, had clustered in thick glossy ringlets over her comb and

round her face, was in thick braids beneath the delicate lace cap which

suited with her plain black silk dress. Her figure was slender, so tall

that neither her well-grown son nor daughter had yet reached her height,

and, as Frederick said, with something queenlike in its unconscious

grace and dignity.

As a girl she had been the merriest of the merry, and even now she had

great playfulness of manner, and threw herself into the occupation of

the moment with a life and animation that gave an uncommon charm to

her manners, so that how completely sorrow had depressed and broken her

spirit would scarcely have been guessed by one who had not known her in

earlier days.

Frederick’s account of his journey and of his school news was heard and

commented on, a work of time extending far into the dinner; the next

matter in the regular course of conversation on the day of arrival

was to talk over Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey’s proceedings, and the Knight

Sutton affairs.

“So, Uncle Geoffrey has been in the North?” said Fred.

“Yes, on a special retainer,” said Mrs. Langford, “and very much he

seems to have enjoyed his chance of seeing York Cathedral.”

“He wrote to me in court,” said Fred, “to tell me what books I had

better get up for this examination, and on a bit of paper scribbled

all over one side with notes of the evidence. He said the Cathedral was

beautiful beyond all he ever imagined.”

“Had he never seen it before?” said Henrietta. “Lawyers seem made to

travel in their vacations.”

“Uncle Geoffrey could not be spared,” said her mamma; “I do not know

what Grandmamma Langford would do if he cheated her of any more of his

holidays than he bestows upon us. He is far too valuable to be allowed

to take his own pleasure.”

“Besides, his own pleasure is at Knight Sutton,” said Henrietta.

“He goes home just as he used from school,” said Mrs. Langford. “Indeed,

except a few grey hairs and crows feet, he is not in the least altered

from those days; his work and play come in just the same way.”

“And, as his daughter says, he is just as much the home pet,” added

Henrietta, “only rivalled by Busy Bee herself.”

“No,” said Fred, “according to Aunt Geoffrey, there are two suns in one

sphere: Queen Bee is grandpapa’s pet, Uncle Geoffrey grandmamma’s. It

must be great fun to see them.”

“Happy people!” said Mrs. Langford.

“Henrietta says,” proceeded Fred, “that there is a house to be let at

Knight Sutton.”

“The Pleasance; yes, I know it well,” said his mother: “it is not

actually in the parish, but close to the borders, and a very pretty

place.”

“With a pretty little stream in the garden, Fred, “said Henrietta, “and

looking into that beautiful Sussex coom, that there is a drawing of in

mamma’s room.”

“What size is it?” added Fred.

“The comparative degree,” said Mrs. Langford, “but my acquaintance

with it does not extend beyond the recollection of a pretty-looking

drawing-room with French windows, and a lawn where I used to be allowed

to run about when I went with Grandmamma Langford to call on the old

Miss Drakes. I wonder your Uncle Roger does not take it, for those boys

can scarcely, I should think, be wedged into Sutton Leigh when they are

all at home.”

“I wish some one else would take it,” said Fred.

“Some one,” added Henrietta, “who would like it of all things, and be

quite at home there.”

“A person,” proceeded the boy, “who likes Knight Sutton and its

inhabitants better than anything else.”

“Only think,” joined in the young lady, “how delightful it would be. I

can just fancy you, mamma, sitting out on this lawn you talk of, on a

summer’s day, and nursing your pinks and carnations, and listening to

the nightingales, and Grandpapa and Grandmamma Langford, and Uncle

and Aunt Roger, and the cousins coming walking in at any time without

ringing at the door! And how nice to have Queen Bee and Uncle and Aunt

Geoffrey all the vacation!”

“Without feeling as if we were robbing Knight Sutton,” said Mrs.

Langford. “Why, we should have you a regular little country maid,

Henrietta, riding shaggy ponies, and scrambling over hedges, as your

mamma did before you.”

“And being as happy as a queen,” said Henrietta; “and the poor people,

you know them all, don’t you, mamma?”

“I know their names, but my generation must have nearly passed away. But

I should like you to see old Daniels the carpenter, whom the boys used

to work with, and who was so fond of them. And the old schoolmistress

in her spectacles. How she must be scandalized by the introduction of a

noun and a verb!”

“Who has been so cruel?” asked Fred. “Busy Bee, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Henrietta, “she teaches away with all her might; but she

says she is afraid they will forget it all while she is in London, for

there is no one to keep it up. Now, I could do that nicely. How I should

like to be Queen Bee’s deputy.”

“But,” said Fred, “how does Beatrice manage to make grandmamma endure

such novelties? I should think she would disdain them more than the old

mistress herself.”

“Queen Bee’s is not merely a nominal sovereignty,” said Mrs. Langford.

“Besides,” said Henrietta, “the new Clergyman approves of all that sort

of thing; he likes her to teach, and puts her in the way of it.”

CHAPTER II.

From this time forward everything tended towards Knight Sutton: castles

in the air, persuasions, casual words which showed the turn of thought

of the brother and sister, met their mother every hour. Nor was she, as

Henrietta truly said, entirely averse to the change; she loved to talk

of what she still regarded as her home, but the shrinking dread of the

pang it must give to return to the scene of her happiest days, to the

burial-place of her husband, to the abode of his parents, had been

augmented by the tender over-anxious care of her mother, Mrs. Vivian,

who had strenuously endeavoured to prevent her from ever taking such a

proposal into consideration, and fairly led her at length to believe it

out of the question.

A removal would in fact have been impossible during the latter years of

Mrs. Vivian’s life: but she had now been dead about eighteen months, her

daughter had recovered from the first grief of her loss, and there was

a general impression throughout the family that now was the time for

her to come amongst them again. For herself, the possibility was but

beginning to dawn upon her; just at first she joined in building castles

and imagining scenes at Knight Sutton, without thinking of their being

realized, or that it only depended upon her, to find herself at home

there; and when Frederick and Henrietta, encouraged by this manner of

talking, pressed it upon her, she would reply with some vague intention

of a return some time or other, but still thinking of it as something

far away, and rather to be dreaded than desired.

It was chiefly by dint of repetition that it fully entered her mind

that it was their real and earnest wish that she should engage to take

a lease of the Pleasance, and remove almost immediately from her present

abode; and from this time it might be perceived that she always shrank

from entering on the subject in a manner which gave them little reason

to hope.

“Yet, I think,” said Henrietta to her brother one afternoon as they

were walking together on the sands; “I think if she once thought it was

right, if Uncle Geoffrey would tell her so, or if grandpapa would really

tell her that he wished it, I am quite sure that she would resolve upon

it.”

“But why did he not do so long ago?” said Fred.

“O! because of grandmamma, I suppose,” said Henrietta; “but he really

does wish it, and I should not at all wonder if the Busy Bee could put

it into his head to do it.”

“Or if Uncle Geoffrey would advise her,” said Fred; “but it never

answers to try to make him propose anything to her. He never will do it;

he always says he is not the Pope, or something to that effect.”

“If I was not fully convinced that it was right, and the best for all

parties, I would not say so much about it,” said Henrietta, in a tone

rather as if she was preparing for some great sacrifice, instead of

domineering over her mother.

To domineering, her temptation was certainly great. With all her good

sense and ability, Mrs. Langford had seldom been called upon to decide

for herself, but had always relied upon her mother for counsel; and

during her long and gradual decline had learnt to depend upon her

brother-in-law, Mr. Geoffrey Langford, for direction in great affairs,

and in lesser ones upon her children. Girls are generally older of their

age than boys, and Henrietta, a clever girl and her mother’s constant

companion, occupied a position in the family which amounted to something

more than prime minister. Some one person must always be leader, and

thus she had gradually attained, or had greatness thrust upon her; for

justice requires it to be stated, that she more frequently tried to know

her mamma’s mind for her, than to carry her own point, though perhaps to

do so always was more than could be expected of human nature at sixteen.

The habit of being called on to settle whether they should use the

britska or the pony carriage, whether satin or silk was best, or this or

that book should be ordered, was, however, sufficient to make her very

unwilling to be thwarted in other matters of more importance, especially

in one on which were fixed the most ardent hopes of her brother, and the

wishes of all the family.

Their present abode was, as she often said to herself, not the one best

calculated for the holiday sports of a boy of sixteen, yet Frederick,

having been used to nothing else, was very happy, and had tastes formed

on their way of life. The twins, as little children, had always had the

same occupations, Henrietta learning Latin, marbles, and trap-ball, and

Frederick playing with dolls and working cross-stitch; and even now the

custom was so far continued, that he gave lessons in Homer and Euclid

for those which he received in Italian and music. For present amusement

there was no reason to complain; the neighbourhood supplied many

beautiful walks, while longer expeditions were made with Mrs. Langford

in the pony carriage, and sketching, botanizing, and scrambling, were

the order of the day. Boating too was a great delight, and had it not

been for an occasional fretting recollection that he could not go out

sailing without his mamma, and that most of his school fellows were

spending their holidays in a very different manner, he would have been

perfectly happy. Fortunately he had not sufficient acquaintance with the

boys in the neighbourhood for the contrast to be often brought before

him.

Henrietta did not do much to reconcile him to the anxious care

with which he was guarded. She was proud of his talents, of his

accomplishments, of his handsome features, and she would willingly have

been proud of his excellence in manly sports, but in lieu of this she

was proud of the spirit which made him long for them, and encouraged it

by her full and entire sympathy. The belief that the present restraints

must be diminished at Knight Sutton, was a moving spring with her, as

much as her own wish for the scenes round which imagination had thrown

such a brilliant halo. Of society they had hitherto seen little or

nothing; Mrs. Langford’s health and spirits had never been equal to

visiting, nor was there much to tempt her in the changing inhabitants of

a watering-place. Now and then, perhaps, an old acquaintance or distant

connexion of some part of the family came for a month or six weeks, and

a few calls were exchanged, and it was one of these visits that led to

the following conversation.

“By the by, mamma,” said Fred, “I meant to ask you what that foolish

woman meant about the St. Legers, and their not having thoroughly

approved of Aunt Geoffrey’s marriage.”

“About the most ill-placed thing she could have said, Freddy,” replied

Mrs. Langford, “considering that I was always accused of having made the

match.”

“Made the match! O tell us, mamma; tell us all about it. Did you

really?”

“Not consciously; Fred, and Frank St. Leger deserves as much of the

credit as I do.”

“Who was he? a brother of Aunt Geoffrey’s?”

“O yes, Fred,” said Henrietta, “to be sure you knew that. You have heard

how mamma came home from India with General St. Leger and his little boy

and girl. But by the by, mamma, what became of their mother?”

“Lady Beatrice? She died in India just before we came home. Well, I used

to stay with them after we came back to England, and of course talked to

my friend--”

“Call her Beatrice, mamma, and make a story of it.”

“I talked to her about my Knight Sutton home, and cousins, and on the

other hand, then, Frank was always telling her about his school friend

Geoffrey Langford. At last Frank brought him home from Oxford one Easter

vacation. It was when the general was in command at ----, and Beatrice

was in the midst of all sorts of gaieties, the mistress of the house,

entertaining everybody, and all exactly what a novel would call

brilliant.”

“Were you there, mamma?”

“Yes, Beatrice had made a point of our coming to stay with her, and very

droll it was to see how she and Geoffrey were surprised at each other;

she to find her brother’s guide, philosopher, and friend, the Langford

who had gained every prize, a boyish-looking, boyish-mannered youth,

very shy at first, and afterwards, excellent at giggling and making

giggle; and he to find one with the exterior of a fine gay lady, so

really simple in tastes and habits.”

“Was Aunt Geoffrey ever pretty?” asked Fred.

“She is just what she was then, a little brown thing with no actual

beauty but in her animation and in her expression. I never saw a really

handsome person who seemed to me nearly as charming. Then she had, and

indeed has now, so much air and grace, so much of what, for want of a

better word, I must call fashion in her appearance, that she was always

very striking.”

“Yes,” said Henrietta, “I can quite see that; it is not gracefulness,

and it is not beauty, nor is it what she ever thinks of, but there is

something distinguished about her. I should look twice at her if I met

her in the street, and expect her to get into a carriage with a coronet.

And then and there they fell in love, did they?”

“In long morning expeditions with the ostensible purpose of sketching,

but in which I had all the drawing to myself, while the others talked

either wondrous wisely or wondrous drolly. However, you must not suppose

that anything of the novel kind was said then; Geoffrey was only twenty,

and Beatrice seemed as much out of his reach as the king’s daughter of

Hongarie.”

“O yes, of course,” said Henrietta, “but that only makes it more

delightful! Only to think of Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey having a novel in

their history.”

“That there are better novels in real life than in stories, is a truth

or a truism often repeated, Henrietta,” said her mother with a soft

sigh, which she repressed in an instant, and proceeded: “Poor Frank’s

illness and death at Oxford brought them together the next year in a

very different manner. Geoffrey was one of his chief nurses to the last,

and was a great comfort to them all; you may suppose how grateful they

were to him. Next time I saw him, he seemed quite to have buried his

youthful spirits in his studies: he was reading morning, noon, and

night, and looking ill and overworked.”

“O, Uncle Geoffrey! dear good Uncle Geoffrey,” cried Henrietta, in an

ecstasy; “you were as delightful as a knight of old, only as you could

not fight tournaments for her, you were obliged to read for her; and

pining away all the time and saying nothing about it.”

“Nothing beyond a demure inquiry of me when we were alone together,

after the health of the General. Well, you know how well his reading

succeeded; he took a double first class, and very proud of him we were.”

“And still he saw nothing of her,” said Fred.

“Not till some time after he had been settled in his chambers at the

Temple. Now you must know that General St. Leger, though in most matters

a wise man, was not by any means so in money matters: and by some

unlucky speculation which was to have doubled his daughter’s fortune,

managed to lose the whole of it, leaving little but his pay.”

“Capital!” cried Frederick, “that brings her down to him.”

“So it did,” said his mother, smiling; “but the spectators did not

rejoice quite so heartily as you do. The general’s health was failing,

and it was hard to think what would become of Beatrice; for Lord St.

Leger’s family, though very kind, were not more congenial than they are

now. As soon as all this was pretty well known, Geoffrey spoke, and the

general, who was very fond of him, gave full consent. They meant to wait

until it was prudent, of course, and were well contented; but just after

it was all settled, the general had a sudden seizure, and died. Geoffrey

was with him, and he treated him like a son, saying it was his great

comfort to know that her happiness was in his hands. Poor Beatrice, she

went first to the St. Legers, stayed with them two or three months, then

I would have her to be my bridesmaid, though”--and Mrs. Langford tried

to smile, while again she strangled a sobbing sigh--“she warned me that

her mourning was a bad omen. Well, she stayed with my mother while we

went abroad, and on our return went with us to be introduced at Knight

Sutton. Everybody was charmed, Mrs. Langford and Aunt Roger had expected

a fine lady or a blue one, but they soon learnt to believe all her

gaiety and all her cleverness a mere calumny, and grandpapa was

delighted with her the first moment. How well I remember Geoffrey’s

coming home and thanking us for having managed so well as to make her

like one of the family, while the truth was that she had fitted herself

in, and found her place from the first moment. Now came a time of grave

private conferences. A long engagement which might have been very well

if the general had lived, was a dreary prospect now that Beatrice was

without a home; but then your uncle was but just called to the bar,

and had next to nothing of his own, present or to come. However, he

had begun his literary works, and found them answer so well, that he

believed he could maintain himself till briefs came in, and he had the

sort of talent which gives confidence. He thought, too, that even in

the event of his death she would be better off as one of us, than as

a dependent on the St. Legers; and at last by talking to us, he nearly

persuaded himself to believe it would be a very prudent thing to marry.

It was a harder matter to persuade his father, but persuade him he did,

and the wedding was at Knight Sutton that very summer.”

“That’s right,” cried Fred, “excellent and glorious! A farthing for all

the St. Legers put together.”

“Nevertheless, Fred, in spite of your disdain, we were all of opinion

that it was a matter of rejoicing that Lord St. Leger and Lady

Amelia were present, so that no one had any reason to say that they

disapproved. Moreover, lest you should learn imprudence from my story,

I would also suggest that if your uncle and aunt had not been a couple

comme il-y-en a peu, it would neither have been excellent nor glorious.”

“Why, they are very well off,” said Fred; “he is quite at the head of

his profession. The first thing a fellow asks me when he hears my name

is, if I belong to Langford the barrister.”

“Yes, but he never would have been eminent, scarcely have had daily

bread, if he had not worked fearfully hard, so hard that without the

buoyant school-boy spirit, which can turn from the hardest toil like a

child to its play, his health could never have stood it.”

“But then it has been success and triumph,” said Fred; “one could work

like a galley-slave with encouragement, and never feel it drudgery.”

“It was not all success at first,” said his mother; “there was hard

work, and disappointment, and heavy sorrow too; but they knew how to

bear it, and to win through with it.”

“And were they very poor?” asked Henrietta.

“Yes: but it was beautiful to see how she accommodated herself to it.

The house that once looked dingy and desolate, was very soon pretty and

cheerful, and the wirtschaft so well ordered and economical, that Aunt

Roger was struck dumb with admiration. I shall not forget Lady Susan’s

visit the last morning we spent with her in London, how amazed she was

to find ‘poor Beatrice’ looking so bright and like herself, and how

little she guessed at her morning’s work, the study of shirt-making, and

the copying out a review of her husband’s, full of Greek quotations.”

“Well, the poverty is all over now,” said Henrietta; “but still they

live in a very quiet way, considering Aunt Geoffrey’s connexions and the

fortune he has made.”

“Who put that notion into your head, my wise daughter?” said Mrs.

Langford.

Henrietta blushed, laughed, and mentioned Lady Matilda St. Leger, a

cousin of her aunt Geoffrey’s of whom she had seen something in the last

year.

“The truth is,” said Mrs. Langford, “that your aunt had display and

luxury enough in her youth to value it as it deserves, and he could not

desire it except for her sake. They had rather give with a free hand,

beyond what any one knows or suspects.”

“Ah! I know among other things that he sends Alexander to school,” said

Fred.

“Yes, and the improvements at Knight Sutton,” said Henrietta, “the

school, and all that grandpapa wished but could never afford. Well,

mamma, if you made the match, you deserve to be congratulated on your

work.”

“There’s nobody like Uncle Geoffrey, I have said, and shall always

maintain,” said Fred.

His mother sighed, saying, “I don’t know what we should have done

without him!” and became silent. Henrietta saw an expression on her

countenance which made her unwilling to disturb her, and nothing more

was said till it was discovered that it was bed time.

CHAPTER III.

“Where is Madame?” asked Frederick of his sister, as she entered the

breakfast room alone the next morning with the key of the tea-chest in

her hand.

“A headache,” answered Henrietta, “and a palpitation.”

“A bad one?”

“Yes, very; and I am afraid it is our fault, Freddy; I am convinced it

will not do, and we must give it up.”

“How do you mean? The going to Knight Sutton? What has that to do with

it? Is it the reviving old recollections that is too much for her?”

“Just listen what an effect last evening’s conversation had upon her.

Last night, after I had been asleep a long time, I woke up, and there

I saw her kneeling before the table with her hands over her face. Just

then it struck one, and soon after she got into bed. I did not let her

know I was awake, for speaking would only have made it worse, but I am

sure she did not sleep all night, and this morning she had one of her

most uncomfortable fits of palpitation. She had just fallen asleep, when

I looked in after dressing, but I do not think she will be fit to come

down to-day.”

“And do you think it was talking of Uncle and Aunt Geoffrey that brought

it on?” said Fred, with much concern; “yet it did not seem to have much

to do with my father.”

“O but it must,” said Henrietta. “He must have been there all the time

mixed up in everything. Queen Bee has told me how they were always

together when they were children.”

“Ah! perhaps; and I noticed how she spoke about her wedding,” said

Fred. “Yes, and to compare how differently it has turned out with Aunt

Geoffrey and with her, after they had been young and happy together.

Yes, no doubt it was he who persuaded the people at Knight Sutton into

letting them marry!”

“And their sorrow that she spoke of must have been his death,” said

Henrietta. “No doubt the going over those old times renewed all those

thoughts.”

“And you think going to Knight Sutton might have the same effect. Well,

I suppose we must give it up,” said Fred, with a sigh. “After all, we

can be very happy here!”

“O yes! that we can. It is more on your account than mine, that I wished

it,” said the sister.

“And I should not have thought so much of it, if I had not thought it

would be pleasanter for you when I am away,” said Fred.

“And so,” said Henrietta, laughing yet sighing, “we agree to persuade

each other that we don’t care about it.”

Fred performed a grimace, and remarked that if Henrietta continued to

make her tea so scalding, there would soon be a verdict against her

of fratricide; but the observation, being intended to conceal certain

feelings of disappointment and heroism, only led to silence.

After sleeping for some hours, Mrs. Langford awoke refreshed, and got

up, but did not leave her room. Frederick and Henrietta went to take a

walk by her desire, as she declared that she preferred being alone, and

on their return they found her lying on the sofa.

“Mamma has been in mischief,” said Fred. “She did not think herself

knocked up enough already, so she has been doing it more thoroughly.”

“Oh, mamma!” was Henrietta’s reproachful exclamation, as she looked at

her pale face and red swollen eyelids.

“Never mind, my dears,” said she, trying to smile, “I shall be better

now this is done, and I have it off my mind.” They looked at her in

anxious interrogation, and she smiled outright with lip and eye. “You

will seal that letter with a good will, Henrietta,” she said. “It is to

ask Uncle Geoffrey to make inquiries about the Pleasance.”

“Mamma!” and they stood transfixed at a decision beyond their hopes:

then Henrietta exclaimed--

“No, no, mamma, it will be too much for you; you must not think of it.”

“Yes,” said Fred; “indeed we agreed this morning that it would be

better not. Put it out of your head, mamma, and go on here in peace and

comfort. I am sure it suits you best.”

“Thank you, thank you, my dear ones,” said she, drawing them towards

her, and fondly kissing them, “but it is all settled, and I am sure it

is better for you. It is but a dull life for you here.”

“O no, no, no, dearest mamma: nothing can be dull with you,” cried

Henrietta, wishing most sincerely to undo her own work. “We are, indeed

we are, as happy as the day is long. Do not fancy we are discontented;

do not think we want a change.”

Mrs. Langford replied by an arch though subdued smile.

“But we would not have you to do it on our account,” said Fred. “Pray

put it out of your head, for we do very well here, and it was only a

passing fancy.”

“You will not talk me out of it, my dears,” said Mrs. Langford. “I know

it is right, and it shall be done. It is only the making up my mind that

was the struggle, and I shall look forward to it as much as either of

you, when I know it is to be done. Now walk off, my dears, and do not

let that letter be too late for the post.”

“I do not half like it,” said Fred, pausing at the door.

“I have not many fears on that score,” said she, smiling. “No, do not

be uneasy about me, my dear Fred, it is my proper place, and I must be

happy there. I shall like to be near the Hall, and to see all the dear

old places again.”

“O, mamma, you cannot talk about them without your voice quivering,”

said Henrietta. “You do not know how I wish you would give it up!”

“Give it up! I would not for millions,” said Mrs. Langford. “Now go, my

dears, and perhaps I shall go to sleep again.”

The spirits of the brother and sister did not just at first rise enough

for rejoicing over the decision. Henrietta would willingly have kept

back the letter, but this she could not do; and sealing it as if

she were doing wrong, she sat down to dinner, feeling subdued and

remorseful, something like a tyrant between the condemnation and

execution of his victim. But by the time the first course was over, and

she and Frederick had begun to recollect their long-cherished wishes,

they made up their minds to be happy, and fell into their usual strain

of admiration of the unknown haven of their hopes, and of expectations

that it would in the end benefit their mother.

The next morning she was quite in her usual spirits, and affairs

proceeded in the usual manner; Frederick’s holidays came to an end, and

he returned to school with many a fond lamentation from the mother and

sister, but with cheerful auguries from both that the next meeting might

be at Knight Sutton.

“Here, Henrietta,” said her mother, as they sat at breakfast together a

day or two after Frederick’s departure, turning over to her the letter

of which she had first broken the seal, while she proceeded to open some

others. It was Uncle Geoffrey’s writing, and Henrietta read eagerly:

“MY DEAR MARY,--I would not write till I could give you some positive

information about the Pleasance, and that could not be done without a

conference with Hardy, who was not at home. I am heartily glad that you

think of coming among us again, but still I should like to feel certain

that it is you that feel equal to it, and not the young ones who are set

upon the plan. I suppose you will indignantly refute the charge, but you

know I have never trusted you in that matter. However, we are too much

the gainers to investigate motives closely, and I cannot but believe

that the effort once over, you would find it a great comfort to be among

your own people, and in your own country. I fully agree with you also in

what you say of the advantage to Henrietta and Fred. My father is going

to write, and I must leave him to do justice to his own cordiality, and

proceed to business.”

Then came the particulars of freehold and copyhold, purchase or lease,

repair or disrepair, of which Henrietta knew nothing, and cared less;

she knew that her mamma was considered a great heiress, and trusted to

her wealth for putting all she pleased in her power: but it was rather

alarming to recollect that Uncle Geoffrey would consider it right to

make the best terms he could, and that the house might be lost to them

while they were bargaining for it.

“O, mamma, never mind what he says about its being dear,” said she, “I

dare say it will not ruin us.”

“Not exactly,” said Mrs. Langford, smiling, “but gentlemen consider it a

disgrace not to make a good bargain, and Uncle Geoffrey must be allowed

to have his own way.”

“O but, mamma, suppose some one else should take it.”

“A village house is not like these summer lodgings, which are snapped up

before you can look at them,” said Mrs. Langford; “I have no fears but

that it is to be had.” But Henrietta could not help fancying that her

mother would regard it somewhat as a reprieve, if the bargain was to go

off independently of any determination of hers.

Still she had made up her mind to look cheerfully at the scheme, and

often talked of it with pleasure, to which the cordial and affectionate

letters of her father-in-law and the rest of the family, conduced not a

little. She now fully perceived that it had only been from forbearance,

that they had not before urged her return, and as she saw how earnestly

it was desired by Mr. and Mrs. Langford, reproached herself as for

a weakness for not having sooner resolved upon her present step.

Henrietta’s work was rather to keep up her spirits at the prospect,

than to prevent her from changing her purpose, which never altered,

respecting a return to the neighbourhood of Knight Sutton, though

whether to the house of the tempting name, was a question which remained

in agitation during the rest of the autumn, for as surely as Rome was

not built in a day, so surely cannot a house be bought or sold in a day,

especially when a clever and cautious lawyer acts for one party.

Matters thus dragged on, till the space before the Christmas holidays

was reckoned by weeks, instead of months, and as Mrs. Frederick Langford

laughingly said, she should be fairly ashamed to meet her boy again at

their present home. She therefore easily allowed herself to be persuaded

to accept Mr. Langford’s invitation to take up her quarters at the Hall,

and look about her a little before finally deciding upon the Pleasance.

Christmas at Knight Sutton Hall had the greatest charms in the eyes

of Henrietta and Frederick; for many a time had they listened to the

descriptions given con amore by Beatrice Langford, to whom that place

had ever been a home, perhaps the more beloved, because the other half

of her life was spent in London.

It was a great disappointment, however, to hear that Mrs. Geoffrey

Langford was likely to be detained in London by the state of health of

her aunt, Lady Susan St. Leger, whom she did not like to leave, while no

other of the family was at hand. This was a cruel stroke, but she could

not bear that her husband should miss his yearly holiday, her daughter

lose the pleasure of a fortnight with Henrietta, or Mr. and Mrs.

Langford be deprived of the visit of their favourite son: and she

therefore arranged to go and stay with Lady Susan, while Beatrice and

her father went as usual to Knight Sutton.

Mr. Geoffrey Langford offered to escort his sister-in-law from

Devonshire, but she did not like his holidays to be so wasted. She had

no merely personal apprehensions, and new as railroads were to her,

declared herself perfectly willing and able to manage with no companions

but her daughter and maid, with whom she was to travel to his house

in London, there to be met in a day or two by the two school-boys,

Frederick and his cousin Alexander, and then proceed all together to

Knight Sutton.

Henrietta could scarcely believe that the long-wished-for time was

really come, packing up actually commencing, and that her waking would

find her under a different roof from that which she had never left. She

did not know till now that she had any attachments to the place she

had hitherto believed utterly devoid of all interest; but she found she

could not bid it farewell without sorrow. There was the old boatman with

his rough kindly courtesy, and his droll ways of speaking; there was the

rocky beach where she and her brother had often played on the verge of

the ocean, watching with mysterious awe or sportive delight the ripple

of the advancing waves, the glorious sea itself, the walks, the woods,

streams, and rocks, which she now believed, as mamma and Uncle Geoffrey

had often told her, were more beautiful than anything she was likely to

find in Sussex. Other scenes there were, connected with her grandmother,

which she grieved much at parting with, but she shunned talking over her

regrets, lest she should agitate her mother, whom she watched with great

anxiety.

She was glad that so much business was on her hands, as to leave little

time for dwelling on her feelings, to which she attributed the

calm quietness with which she went through the few trying days that

immediately preceded their departure. Henrietta felt this constant

employment so great a relief to her own spirits, that she was sorry on

her own account, as well as her mother’s, when every possible order had

been given, every box packed, and nothing was to be done, but to sit

opposite to each other, on each side of the fire, in the idleness which

precedes candle-light. Her mother leant back in silence, and she watched

her with an anxious gaze. She feared to say anything of sympathy

with what she supposed her feeling, lest she should make her weep. An

indifferent speech would be out of place even if Henrietta herself could

have made it, and yet to remain silent was to allow melancholy thoughts

to prey upon her. So thought the daughter, longing at the same time that

her persuasions were all unsaid.

“Come here, my dear child,” said her mother presently, and Henrietta

almost started at the calmness of the voice, and the serenity of the

tranquil countenance. She crossed to her mother, and sat down on a

low footstool, leaning against her. “You are very much afraid for me,”

continued Mrs. Langford, as she remarked upon the anxious expression of

her face, far different from her own, “but you need not fear, it is all

well with me; it would be wrong not to be thankful for those who are not

really lost to me as well as for those who were given to me here.”

All Henrietta’s consideration for her mother could not prevent her from

bursting into tears. “O mamma, I did not know it would be so like going

away from dear grandmamma.”

“Try to feel the truth, my dear, that our being near to her depends on

whether we are in our duty or not.”

“Yes, yes, but this place is so full of her! I do so love it! I did not

know it till now!”

“Yes, we must always love it, my dear child; but we are going to our

home, Henrietta, to your father’s home in life and death, and it must be

good for us to be there. With your grandfather, who has wished for us.

Knight Sutton is our true home, the one where it is right for us to be.”

Henrietta still wept bitterly, and strange it was that it should be she

who stood in need of consolation, for the fulfilment of her own most

ardent wish, and from the very person to whom it was the greatest trial.

It was not, however, self-reproach that caused her tears, that her

mother’s calmness prevented her from feeling, but only attachment to the

place she was about to leave, and the recollections, which she accused

herself of having slighted. Her mother, who had made up her mind to do

what was right, found strength and peace at the moment of trial, when

the wayward and untrained spirits of the daughter gave way. Not that she

blamed Henrietta, she was rather gratified to find that she was so much

attached to her home and her grandmother, and felt so much with her; and

after she had succeeded in some degree in restoring her to composure,

they talked long and earnestly over old times and deeper feelings.

CHAPTER IV.

The journey to London was prosperously performed, and Mrs. Frederick

Langford was not overfatigued when she arrived at Uncle Geoffrey’s house

at Westminster. The cordiality of their greeting may be imagined, as a

visit from Henrietta had been one of the favourite visions of her cousin

Beatrice, through her whole life; and the two girls were soon deep in

the delights of a conversation in which sense and nonsense had an equal

share.

The next day was spent by the two Mrs. Langfords in quiet together,

while Henrietta was conducted through a rapid whirl of sight-seeing by

Beatrice and Uncle Geoffrey, the latter of whom, to his niece’s great

amazement, professed to find almost as much novelty in the sights as she

did. A short December day, though not what they would have chosen, had

this advantage, that the victim could not be as completely fagged and

worn out as in a summer’s day, and Henrietta was still fresh and in high

spirits when they drove home and found to their delight that the two

schoolboys had already arrived.

Beatrice met both alike as old friends and almost brothers, but

Alexander, though returning her greeting with equal cordiality, looked

shyly at the new aunt and cousin, and as Henrietta suspected, wished

them elsewhere. She had heard much of him from Beatrice, and knew that

her brother regarded him as a formidable rival; and she was therefore

surprised to see that his broad honest face expressed more good

humour than intellect, and his manners wanted polish. He was tolerably

well-featured, with light eyes and dark hair, and though half a year

older than his cousin, was much shorter, more perhaps in appearance than

reality, from the breadth and squareness of his shoulders, and from not

carrying himself well.

Alexander was, as ought previously to have been recorded, the third son

of Mr. Roger Langford, the heir of Knight Sutton, at present living at

Sutton Leigh, a small house on his father’s estate, busied with farming,

sporting, and parish business; while his active wife contrived to make

a narrow income feed, clothe, and at least half educate their endless

tribe of boys. Roger, the eldest, was at sea; Frederick, the second, in

India; and Alexander owed his more learned education to Uncle Geoffrey,

who had been well recompensed by his industry and good conduct. Indeed

his attainments had always been so superior to those of his brothers,

that he might have been considered as a prodigy, had not his cousin

Frederick been always one step before him.

Fred had greater talent, and had been much better taught at home, so

that on first going to school, he took and kept the higher place; but

this was but a small advantage in his eyes, compared with what he had to

endure out of school during his first half-year. Unused to any training

or companionship save of womankind, he was disconsolate, bewildered,

derided in that new rude world; while Alex, accustomed to fight his

way among rude brothers, instantly found his level, and even extended

a protecting hand to his cousin, who requited it with little gratitude.

Soon overcoming his effeminate habits, he grew expert and dexterous,

and was equal to Alex in all but main bodily strength; but the spirit

of rivalry once excited, had never died away, and with a real friendship

and esteem for each other, their names or rather their nicknames had

almost become party words among their schoolfellows.

Nor was it probable that this competition would be forgotten on this

first occasion of spending their holidays together. Fred felt himself

open to that most galling accusation of want of manliness, on account

at once of his ignorance of country sports, and of his knowledge

of accomplishments; but he did not guess at the feeling which made

Alexander on his side regard those very accomplishments with a feeling

which, if it were not jealousy, was at least very nearly akin to it.

Beatrice Langford had not the slightest claim to beauty. She was very

little, and so thin that her papa did her no injustice when he called

her skin and bones; but her thin brown face, with the aid of a pair

of very large deep Italian-looking eyes, was so full of brilliant

expression, and showed such changes of feeling from sad to gay, from

sublime to ridiculous, that no one could have wished one feature

otherwise. And if instead of being “like the diamond bright,” they had

been “dull as lead,” it would have been little matter to Alex. Beatrice

had been, she was still, his friend, his own cousin, more than what he

could believe a sister to be if he had one,--in short his own little

Queen Bee. He had had a monopoly of her; she had trained him in all

the civilization which he possessed, and it was with considerable

mortification that he thought himself lowered in her eyes by comparison

with his old rival, as old a friend of hers, with the same claim to

cousinly 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 there!”

“Ay, it is your fatherland, too, Aunt Mary! Is there not something

inspiring in the very air? Come, Fred, can’t you get up a little

enthusiasm?”

“Oceans, 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 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?”

Here grandmamma summoned them all to tea. She liked every one to sit

round the table, and put away work and book, as for a regular meal, and

it was rather a long one. Then, when all was over, grandpapa called out,

“Come, young ladies, I’ve been wearying for a tune these three months. I

hope you are not too tired to give us one.”

“O no, no, grandpapa!” cried Beatrice, “but you must hear Henrietta. It

is a great shame of her to play so much better than I do, with all my

London masters too.”

And in music the greater part of the evening was passed away. Beatrice

came to her aunt’s room to wish her good-night, and to hear

Henrietta’s opinions, which were of great delight, and still greater

wonder--grandmamma so excessively kind, and grandpapa, O, he was a

grandpapa to be proud of!

CHAPTER V.

It was an agreeable surprise to Henrietta that her mother waked free

from headache, very cheerful, and feeling quite able to get up to

breakfast. The room looked very bright and pleasant by the first morning

light that shone upon the intricate frost-work on the window; and

Henrietta, as usual, was too much lost in gazing at the branches of the

elms and the last year’s rooks’ nests, to make the most of her time;

so that the bell for prayers rang long before she was ready. Her mamma

would not leave her, and remained to help her. Just as they were going

down at last, they met Mrs. Langford on her way up with inquiries for

poor Mary. She would have almost been better pleased with a slight

indisposition than with dawdling; but she kindly accepted Henrietta’s

apologies, and there was one exclamation of joy from all the assembled

party at Mrs. Frederick Langford’s unhoped-for entrance.

“Geoffrey, my dear,” began Mrs. Langford, as soon as the greetings and

congratulations were over, “will you see what is the matter with the

lock of this tea-chest?--it has been out of order these three weeks, and

I thought you could set it to rights.”

While Uncle Geoffrey was pronouncing on its complaints, Atkins, the old

servant, put in his head.

“If you please, sir, Thomas Parker would be glad to speak to Mr.

Geoffrey about his son on the railway.”

Away went Mr. Geoffrey to the lower regions, where Thomas Parker awaited

him, and as soon as he returned was addressed by his father: “Geoffrey,

I put those papers on the table in the study, if you will look over them

when you have time, and tell me what you think of the turnpike trust.”

A few moments after the door was thrown wide open, and in burst three

boys, shouting with one voice--“Uncle Geoffrey, Uncle Geoffrey, you must

come and see which of Vixen’s puppies are to be saved!”

“Hush, hush, you rogues, hush!” was Uncle Geoffrey’s answer; “don’t you

know that you are come into civilized society? Aunt Mary never saw such

wild men of the woods.”

“All crazy at the sight of Uncle Geoffrey,” said grandmamma. “Ah, he

spoils you all! but, come here, Johnny, come and speak to your aunt.

There, this is Johnny, and here are Richard and Willie,” she added, as

they came up and awkwardly gave their hands to their aunt and cousins.

Henrietta was almost bewildered by seeing so many likenesses of

Alexander. “How shall I ever know them apart?” said she to Beatrice.

“Like grandmamma’s nest of teacups, all alike, only each one size below

another,” said Beatrice. “However, I don’t require you to learn them all

at once; only to know Alex and Willie from the rest. Here, Willie, have

you nothing to say to me? How are the rabbits?”

Willie, a nice-looking boy of nine or ten years old, of rather slighter

make than his brothers, and with darker eyes and hair, came to Queen

Bee’s side, as if he was very glad to see her, and only slightly

discomposed by Henrietta’s neighbourhood.

John gave the information that papa and Alex were only just behind, and

in another minute they made their appearance. “Good morning sir; good

morning, ma’am,” were Uncle Roger’s greetings, as he came in. “Ah, Mary,

how d’ye do? glad to see you here at last; hope you are better.---Ah,

good morning, good morning,” as he quickly shook hands with the younger

ones. “Good morning, Geoffrey; I told Martin to take the new drill into

the outfield, for I want your opinion whether it is worth keeping.”

And thereupon the three gentlemen began a learned discussion on drills,

during which Henrietta studied her uncle. She was at first surprised to

see him look so young--younger, she thought, than Uncle Geoffrey; but

in a moment or two she changed her mind, for though mental labour had

thinned and grizzled Uncle Geoffrey’s hair, paled his cheek, and traced

lines of thought on his broad high brow, it had not quenched the light

that beamed in his eyes, nor subdued the joyous merriment that often

played over his countenance, according with the slender active figure

that might have belonged to a mere boy. Uncle Roger was taller, and

much more robust and broad; his hair still untouched with grey, his face

ruddy brown, and his features full of good nature, but rather heavy. In

his plaid shooting coat and high gaiters, as he stood by the fire, he

looked the model of a country squire; but there was an indescribable

family likeness, and something of the same form about the nose and

lip, which recalled to Henrietta the face she loved so well in Uncle

Geoffrey.

The drill discussion was not concluded when Mrs. Langford gave the

signal for the ladies to leave the breakfast table. Henrietta ran up

stairs for her mother’s work, and came down again laughing. “I am sure,

Queenie,” said she, “that your papa chose his trade rightly. He may

well be called a great counsel. Besides all the opinions asked of him at

breakfast, I have just come across a consultation on the stairs between

him and Judith about--what was it?--some money in a savings’ bank.”

“Yes,” said Beatrice, “Judith has saved a sum that is wondrous in these

degenerate days of maids in silk gowns, and she is wise enough to give

‘Master Geoffrey’ all the management of it. But if you are surprised

now, what will you be by the end of the day? See if his advice is not

asked in at least fifty matters.”

“I’ll count,” said Henrietta: “what have we had already?” and she took

out pencil and paper--“Number one, the tea-chest; then the poor man, and

the turnpike trust--”

“Vixen’s puppies and the drill,” suggested her mamma.

“And Judith’s money,” added Henrietta. “Six already--”

“To say nothing of all that will come by the post, and we shall not hear

of,” said Beatrice; “and look here, what I am going to seal for him,

one, two, three--eight letters.”

“Why! when could he possibly have written them?”

“Last night after we were gone to bed. It shows how much more grandmamma

will let him do than any one else, that she can allow him to sit up

with a candle after eleven o’clock. I really believe that there is not

another living creature in the world who could do it in this house.

There, you may add your own affairs to the list, Henrietta, for he is

going to the Pleasance to meet some man of brick and mortar.”

“O, I wish we could walk there!”

“I dare say we can. I’ll manage. Aunt Mary, should you not like

Henrietta to go and see the Pleasance?”

“Almost as much as Henrietta would like it herself, Busy Bee,” said Aunt

Mary; “but I think she should walk to Sutton Leigh to-day.”

“Walk to Sutton Leigh!” echoed old Mrs. Langford, entering at the

moment; “not you, surely, Mary?”

“O no, no, grandmamma,” said Beatrice, laughing; “she was only talking

of Henrietta’s doing it.”

“Well, and so do, my dears; it will be a very nice thing, if you go this

morning before the frost goes off. Your Aunt Roger will like to see you,

and you may take the little pot of black currant jelly that I wanted to

send over for poor Tom’s sore mouth.”

Beatrice looked at Henrietta and made a face of disgust as she asked,

“Have they no currant jelly themselves?”

“O no, they never can keep anything in the garden. I don’t mean that the

boys take the fruit; but between tarts and puddings and desserts, poor

Elizabeth can never make any preserves.”

“But,” objected Queen Bee, “if one of the children is ill, do you think

Aunt Roger will like to have us this morning? and the post girl could

take the jelly.”

“O nonsense, Bee,” said Mrs. Langford, somewhat angrily; “you don’t

like to do it, I see plain enough. It is very hard you can’t be as

good-natured to your own little cousin as to one of the children in the

village.”

“Indeed, grandmamma, I did not mean that.”

“O no, no, grandmamma,” joined in Henrietta, “we shall be very glad to

take it. Pray let us.”

“Yes,” added Beatrice, “if it is really to be of any use, no one can be

more willing.”

“Of any use?” repeated Mrs. Langford. “No! never mind. I’ll send

someone.”

“No, pray do not, dear grandmamma,” eagerly exclaimed Henrietta; “I do

beg you will let us take it. It will be making me at home directly to

let me be useful.”

Grandmamma was pacified. “When will you set out?” she asked; “you had

better not lose this bright morning.”

“We will go directly,” said Queen Bee; “we will go by the west turning,

so that Henrietta may see the Pleasance.”

“My dear! the west turning will be a swamp, and I won’t have you getting

wet in your feet and catching cold.”

“O, we have clogs; and besides, the road does not get so dirty since it

has been mended. I asked Johnny this morning.”

“As if he knew, or cared anything about it!--and you will be late for

luncheon. Besides, grandpapa will drive your aunt there the first day

she feels equal to it, and Henrietta may see it then. But you will

always have your own way.”

Henrietta had seldom been more uncomfortable than during this

altercation; and but for reluctance to appear more obliging than her

cousin, she would have begged to give up the scheme. Her mother would

have interfered in another moment, but the entrance of Uncle Geoffrey

gave a sudden turn to affairs.

“Who likes to go to the Pleasance?” said he, as he entered. “All whose

curiosity lies that way may prepare their seven-leagued boots.”

“Here are the girls dying to go,” said Mrs. Langford, as well pleased as

if she had not been objecting the minute before.

“Very well. We go by Sutton Leigh: so make haste, maidens.” Then,

turning to his mother, “Didn’t I hear you say you had something to send

to Elizabeth, ma’am?”

“Only some currant jelly for little Tom; but if--”

“O grandmamma, that is my charge; pray don’t cheat me,” exclaimed

Henrietta. “If you will lend me a basket, it will travel much better

with me than in Uncle Geoffrey’s pocket.”

“Ay, that will be the proper division of labour,” said Uncle Geoffrey,

looking well pleased with his niece; “but I thought you were off to get

ready.”

“Don’t keep your uncle waiting, my dear,” added her mamma; and Henrietta

departed, Beatrice following her to her room, and there exclaiming, “If

there is a thing I can’t endure, it is going to Sutton Leigh when one of

the children is poorly! It is always bad enough--”

“Bad enough! O, Busy Bee!” cried Henrietta, quite unprepared to hear of

any flaw in her paradise.

“You will soon see what I mean. The host of boys in the way; the wooden

bricks and black horses spotted with white wafers that you break your

shins over, the marbles that roll away under your feet, the whips that

crack in your ears, the universal air of nursery that pervades the

house. It is worse in the morning, too; for one is always whining over

sum, es, est, and another over his spelling. O, if I had eleven brothers

in a small house, I should soon turn misanthrope. But you are laughing

instead of getting ready.”

“So are you.”

“My things will be on in a quarter of the time you take. I’ll tell you

what, Henrietta, the Queen Bee allows no drones, and I shall teach you

to ‘improve each shining hour;’ for nothing will get you into such dire

disgrace here as to be always behind time. Besides, it is a great shame

to waste papa’s time. Now, here is your shawl ready folded, and now I

will trust you to put on your boots and bonnet by yourself.”

In five minutes the Queen Bee flew back again, and found Henrietta still

measuring the length of her bonnet strings before the glass. She hunted

her down stairs at last, and found the two uncles and grandpapa at

the door, playing with the various dogs, small and great, that usually

waited there. Fred and the other boys had gone out together some time

since, and the party now set forth, the three gentlemen walking together

first. Henrietta turned as soon as she had gone a sufficient distance

that she might study the aspect of the house. It did not quite fulfil

her expectations; it was neither remarkable for age nor beauty; the

masonry was in a sort of chessboard pattern, alternate squares of

freestone and of flints, the windows were not casements as she thought

they ought to have been, and the long wing, or rather excrescence,

which contained the drawing-room, was by no means ornamental. It was a

respectable, comfortable mansion, and that was all that was to be

said in its praise, and Beatrice’s affection had so embellished it

in description, that it was no wonder that Henrietta felt slightly

disappointed. She had had some expectation, too, of seeing it in the

midst of a park, instead of which the carriage-drive along which they

were walking, only skirted a rather large grass field, full of elm

trees, and known by the less dignified name of the paddock. But she

would not confess the failure of her expectations even to herself, and

as Beatrice was evidently looking for some expressions of admiration,

she said the road must be very pretty in summer.

“Especially when this bank is one forest of foxgloves,” said Queen Bee.

“Only think! Uncle Roger and the farmer faction wanted grandpapa to have

this hedge row grubbed up, and turned into a plain dead fence; but I

carried the day, and I dare say Aunt Mary will be as much obliged to

me as the boys who would have lost their grand preserve of stoats and

rabbits. But here are the outfield and the drill.”

And going through a small gate at the corner of the paddock, they

entered a large ploughed field, traversed by a footpath raised and

gravelled, so as to be high and dry, which was well for the two girls,

as the gentlemen left them to march up and down there by themselves,

whilst they were discussing the merits of the brilliant blue machine

which was travelling along the furrows. It was rather a trial of

patience, but Beatrice was used to it, and Henrietta was in a temper to

be pleased with anything.

At last the inspection was concluded, and Mr. Langford came to his

granddaughters, leaving his two sons to finish their last words with

Martin.

“Well, young ladies,” said he, “this is fine drilling, in patience at

least. I only wish my wheat may be as well drilled with Uncle Roger’s

new-fangled machines.”

“That is right, grandpapa,” said Queen Bee; “you hate them as much as I

do, don’t you now?”

“She is afraid they will make honey by steam,” said grandpapa, “and

render bees a work of supererogation.”

“They are doing what they can towards it,” said Beatrice. “Why, when Mr.

Carey took us to see his hives, I declare I had quite a fellow-feeling

for my poor subjects, boxed up in glass, with all their privacy

destroyed. And they won’t even let them swarm their own way--a most

unwarrantable interference with the liberty of the subject.”

“Well done, Queenie,” said Mr. Langford, laughing; “a capital champion.

And so you don’t look forward to the time when we are to have our hay

made by one machine, our sheep washed by another, our turkeys crammed by

a third--ay, and even the trouble of bird-starving saved us?”

“Bird-starving!” repeated Henrietta.

“Yes; or keeping a few birds, according to the mother’s elegant

diminutive,” said Beatrice, “serving as live scarecrows.”

“I should have thought a scarecrow would have answered the purpose,”

said Henrietta.

“This is one that is full of gunpowder, and fires off every ten

minutes,” said grandpapa; “but I told Uncle Roger we would have none

of them here unless he was prepared to see one of his boys blown up at

every third explosion.”

“Is Uncle Roger so very fond of machines?” said Henrietta.

“He goes about to cattle shows and agricultural meetings, and comes home

with his pockets crammed with papers of new inventions, which I leave

him to try as long as he does not empty my pockets too fast.”

“Don’t they succeed, then?” said Henrietta.

“Why--ay--I must confess we get decent crops enough. And once we

achieved a prize ox,--such a disgusting overgrown beast, that I could

not bear the sight of it; and told Uncle Roger I would have no more such

waste of good victuals, puffing up the ox instead of the frog.”

Henrietta was not quite certain whether all this was meant in jest or

earnest; and perhaps the truth was, that though grandpapa had little

liking for new plans, he was too wise not to adopt those which possessed

manifest advantage, and only indulged himself in a good deal of playful

grumbling, which greatly teased Uncle Roger.

“There is Sutton Leigh,” said grandpapa, as they came in sight of a low

white house among farm buildings. “Well, Henrietta, are you prepared for

an introduction to an aunt and half-a-dozen cousins, and Jessie Carey

into the bargain?”

“Jessie Carey!” exclaimed Beatrice in a tone of dismay.

“Did you not know she was there? Why they always send Carey over for her

with the gig if there is but a tooth-ache the matter at Sutton Leigh.”

“Is she one of Aunt Roger’s nieces?” asked Henrietta.

“Yes,” said Beatrice. “And--O! grandpapa, don’t look at me in that way.

Where is the use of being your pet, if I may not tell my mind?”

“I won’t have Henrietta prejudiced,” said Mr. Langford. “Don’t listen to

her, my dear: and I’ll tell you what Jessie Carey is. She is an honest,

good-natured girl as ever lived; always ready to help every one, never

thinking of trouble, without an atom of selfishness.”

“Now for the but, grandpapa,” cried Beatrice. “I allow all that, only

grant me the but.”

“But Queen Bee, chancing to be a conceited little Londoner, looks down

on us poor country folks as unfit for her most refined and intellectual

society.”

“O grandpapa, that is not fair! Indeed, you don’t really believe that.

O, say you don’t!” And Beatrice’s black eyes were full of tears.

“If I do not believe the whole, you believe the half, Miss Bee,” and he

added, half whispering, “take care some of us do not believe the other

half. But don’t look dismal on the matter, only put it into one of your

waxen cells, and don’t lose sight of it. And if it is any comfort to

you, I will allow that perhaps poor Jessie is not the most entertaining

companion for you. Her vanity maggots are not of the same sort as

yours.”

They had by this time nearly reached Sutton Leigh, a building little

altered from the farm-house it had originally been, with a small garden

in front, and a narrow footpath up to the door. As soon as they came in

sight there was a general rush forward of little boys in brown holland,

all darting on Uncle Geoffrey, and holding him fast by legs and arms.

“Let me loose, you varlets,” he cried, and disengaging one hand, in

another moment drew from his capacious pocket a beautiful red ball,

which he sent bounding over their heads, and dancing far away with all

the urchins in pursuit.

At the same moment the rosy, portly, good-humoured Mrs. Roger Langford

appeared at the door, welcoming them cordially, and, as usual, accusing

Uncle Geoffrey of spoiling her boys. Henrietta thought she had never

seen a happier face than hers in the midst of cares, and children, and

a drawing-room which, with its faded furniture strewn with toys, had in

fact, as Beatrice said, something of the appearance of a nursery.

Little Tom, the youngest, was sitting on the lap of his cousin, Jessie

Carey, at whom Henrietta looked with some curiosity. She was a pretty

girl of twenty, with a brilliant gipsy complexion, fine black hair, and

a face which looked as good-natured as every other inhabitant of Sutton

Leigh.

But it would be tedious to describe a visit which was actually very

tedious to Beatrice, and would have been the same to Henrietta but

for its novelty. Aunt Roger asked all particulars about Mrs. Frederick

Langford, then of Aunt Geoffrey and Lady Susan St. Leger, and then gave

the history of the misfortunes of little Tom, who was by this time on

Uncle Geoffrey’s knee looking at himself in the inside of the case of

his watch. Henrietta’s list, too, was considerably lengthened; for Uncle

Geoffrey advised upon a smoky chimney, mended a cart of Charlie’s, and

assisted Willie in a puzzling Latin exercise.

It was almost one o’clock, and as a certain sound of clattering plates

was heard in the next room, Aunt Roger begged her guests to come in to

luncheon. Uncle Geoffrey accepted for the girls, who were to walk on

with him; but Mr. Langford, no eater of luncheons, returned to his own

affairs at home. Henrietta found the meal was the family dinner. She had

hardly ever been seated at one so plain, or on so long a table; and she

was not only surprised, but tormented herself by an uncomfortable and

uncalled-for fancy, that her hosts must be supposing her to be remarking

on deficiencies. The younger children were not so perfect in the

management of knife, fork, and spoon, as to be pleasant to watch; nor

was the matter mended by the attempts at correction made from time

to time by their father and Jessie. But Henrietta endured better

than Beatrice, whose face ill concealed an expression of disgust and

weariness, and who maintained a silence very unlike her usual habits.

At last Uncle Geoffrey, to the joy of both, proposed to pursue their

walk, and they took leave. Queen Bee rejoiced as soon as they had

quitted the house, that the boys were too well occupied with their

pudding to wish to accompany them, but she did not venture on any

further remarks before her papa. He gave a long whistle, and then turned

to point out all the interesting localities to Henrietta. There was

something to tell of every field, every tree, or every villager, with

whom he exchanged his hearty greeting. If it were only a name, it

recalled some story of mamma’s, some tradition handed on by Beatrice.

Never was walk more delightful; and the girls were almost sorry to find

themselves at the green gate of the Pleasance, leading to a gravel

road, great part of which had been usurped by the long shoots of the

evergreens. Indeed, the place could hardly be said to correspond in

appearance to its name, in its chilly, deserted, unfurnished state; but

the girls were resolved to admire, and while Uncle Geoffrey was deep in

the subject of repairs and deficiencies, they flitted about from garret

to cellar, making plans, fixing on rooms, and seeing possibilities, in

complete enjoyment. But even this could not last for ever; and rather

tired, and very cold, they seated themselves on a step of the stairs,

and there built a marvellous castle of delight for next summer; then

talked over the Sutton Leigh household, discussed the last books they

had read, and had just begun to yawn, when Uncle Geoffrey, being more

merciful than most busy men, concluded his business, and summoned them

to return home. Their homeward walk was by a different road, through the

village of Knight Sutton itself, which Henrietta had not yet seen. It

was a long straggling street, the cottages for the most part in gardens,

and with a general look of comfort and neatness that showed the care of

the proprietor.

“O, here is the church,” said Henrietta, in a subdued voice, as they

came to the low flint wall that fenced in the slightly rising ground

occupied by the churchyard, surrounded by a whole grove of noble elm

trees, amongst which could just be seen the small old church, with its

large deep porch and curious low tower.

“The door is open,” said Beatrice; “I suppose they are bringing in the

holly for Christmas. Should you like to look in, Henrietta?”

“I do not know,” said she, looking at her uncle. “Mamma--”

“I think it might be less trying if she has not to feel for you and

herself too,” said Uncle Geoffrey.

“I am sure I should wish it very much,” said Henrietta, and they entered

the low, dark, solemn-looking building, the massive stone columns and

low-browed arches of which had in them something peculiarly awful and

impressive to Henrietta’s present state of mind. Uncle Geoffrey led her

on into the chancel, where, among numerous mural tablets recording

the names of different members of the Langford family, was one chiefly

noticeable for the superior taste of its Gothic canopy, and which bore

the name of Frederick Henry Langford, with the date of his death, and

his age, only twenty-six. One of the large flat stones below also had

the initials F.H.L., and the date of the year. Henrietta stood and

looked in deep silence, Beatrice watching her earnestly and kindly, and

her uncle’s thoughts almost as much as hers, on what might have been.

Her father had been so near him in age, so constantly his companion, so

entirely one in mind and temper, that he had been far more to him than

his elder brother, and his death had been the one great sorrow of Uncle

Geoffrey’s life.

The first sound which broke the stillness was the opening of the

door, as the old clerk’s wife entered with a huge basket of holly, and

dragging a mighty branch behind her. Uncle Geoffrey nodded in reply to

her courtesy, and gave his daughter a glance which sent her to the other

end of the church to assist in the Christmas decorations.

Henrietta turned her liquid eyes upon her uncle. “This is coming very

near him!” said she in a low voice. “Uncle; I wish I might be quite sure

that he knows me.”

“Do not wish too much for certainty which has not been granted to us,”

said Uncle Geoffrey. “Think rather of ‘I shall go to him, but he shall

not return to me.’”

“But, uncle, you would not have me not believe that he is near to me

and knows how--how I would have loved him, and how I do love him,” she

added, while the tears rose to her eyes.

“It may be so, my dear, and it is a thought which is not only most

comforting, but good for us, as bringing us closer to the unseen world:

but it has not been positively revealed, and it seems to me better to

dwell on that time when the meeting with him is so far certain that it

depends but on ourselves.”

To many persons, Uncle Geoffrey would scarce have spoken in this way;

but he was aware of a certain tendency in Henrietta’s mind to merge the

reverence and respect she owed to her parents, in a dreamy unpractical

feeling for the father whom she had never known, whose voice she had

never heard, and from whom she had not one precept to obey; while she

lost sight of that honour and duty which was daily called for towards

her mother. It was in honour, not in love, that Henrietta was wanting,

and with how many daughters is it not the same? It was therefore,

that though even to himself it seemed harsh, and cost him a pang, Mr.

Geoffrey Langford resolved that his niece’s first visit to her father’s

grave should not be spent in fruitless dreams of him or of his presence,

alluring because involving neither self-reproach nor resolution; but in

thoughts which might lead to action, to humility, and to the yielding up

of self-will.

Henrietta looked very thoughtful. “That time is so far away!” said she.

“How do you know that?” said her uncle in the deep low tone that brought

the full perception that “it is nigh, even at the doors.”

She gave a sort of shuddering sigh, the reality being doubly brought

home to her, by the remembrance of the suddenness of her father’s

summons.

“It is awful,” she said. “I cannot bear to think of it.”

“Henrietta,” said her uncle solemnly, “guard yourself from being so

satisfied with a dream of the present as to lose sight of the real,

most real future.” He paused, and as she did not speak, went on: “The

present, which is the means of attaining to that future, is one not of

visions and thoughts, but of deeds.”

Again Henrietta sighed, but presently she said, “But, uncle, that would

bring us back to the world of sense. Are we not to pray that we may in

heart and mind ascend?”

“Yes, but to dwell with Whom? Not to stop short with objects once of

earthly affection.”

“Then would you not have me think of him at all?” said she, almost

reproachfully.

“I would have you take care, Henrietta, lest the thought should absorb

the love and trust due to your true and Heavenly Father, and at the same

time you forget what on earth is owed to your mother. Do you think that

is what your father would desire?”

“You mean,” she said sadly, “that while I do not think enough of God,

and while I love my own way so well, I have no right to dwell on the

thought I love best, the thought that he is near.”

“Take it rather as a caution than as blame,” said Uncle Geoffrey. A long

silence ensued, during which Henrietta thought deeply on the new idea

opened to her. Her vision, for it could not be called her memory of

her father, had in fact been too highly enshrined in her mind, too much

worshipped, she had deemed this devotion a virtue, and fostered as it

was by the solitude of her life, and the temper of her mother’s mind,

the truth was as Uncle Geoffrey had hinted, and she began to perceive

it, but still it was most unwillingly, for the thought was cherished

so as to be almost part of herself. Uncle Geoffrey’s manner was so kind

that she could not be vexed with him, but she was disappointed, for she

had hoped for a narration of some part of her father’s history, and for

the indulgence of that soft sorrow which has in it little pain. Instead

of this she was bidden to quit her beloved world, to soar above it,

or to seek for a duty which she had rather not believe that she had

neglected, though--no, she did not like to look deeper.

Mr. Geoffrey Langford gave her time for thought, though of what nature

it might be, he could not guess, and then said, “One thing more before

we leave this place. Whether Fred cheerfully obeys the fifth commandment

in its full extent, may often, as I believe, depend on your influence.

Will you try to exert it in the right way?”

“You mean when he wishes to do things like other boys of his age,” said

Henrietta.

“Yes. Think yourself, and lead him to think, that obedience is better

than what he fancies manliness. Teach him to give up pleasure for the

sake of obedience, and you will do your work as a sister and daughter.”

While Uncle Geoffrey was speaking, Beatrice’s operations with the holly

had brought her a good deal nearer to them, and at the same time the

church door opened, and a gentleman entered, whom the first glance

showed Henrietta to be Mr. Franklin, the clergyman of the parish, of

whom she had heard so much. He advanced on seeing Beatrice with the

holly in her hand. “Miss Langford! This is just what I was wishing.”

“I was just helping old Martha,” said Beatrice; “we came in to show my

cousin the church, and--”

By this time the others had advanced.

“How well the church looks this dark afternoon,” said Uncle Geoffrey,

speaking in a low tone, “it is quite the moment to choose for seeing

it for the first time. But you are very early in beginning your

adornments.”

“I thought if I had the evergreens here in time, I might see a little to

the arrangement myself,” said Mr. Franklin, “but I am afraid I know very

little about the matter. Miss Langford, I wish you would assist us with

your taste.”

Beatrice and Henrietta looked at each other, and their eyes sparkled

with delight. “I should like it exceedingly,” said the former; “I was

just thinking what capabilities there are. And Henrietta will do it

beautifully.”

“Then will you really be kind enough to come to-morrow, and see what can

be done?”

“Yes, we will come as soon as ever breakfast is over, and work hard,”

said Queen Bee. “And we will make Alex and Fred come too, to do the

places that are out of reach.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Mr. Franklin, eagerly; “I assure you the

matter was quite upon my mind, for the old lady there, good as she is,

certainly has not the best taste in church dressing.”

“And pray, Mr. Franklin, let us have a step ladder, for I am sure there

ought to be festoons round those two columns of the chancel arch. Look,

papa, do you not think so?”

“You might put a twining wreath like the columns at Roslin chapel,” said

her papa, “and I should try how much I could cover the Dutch cherubs at

the head of the tables of commandments.”

“O, and don’t you see,” said Henrietta, “there in front of the altar

is a space, where I really think we might make the cross and ‘I H S’ in

holly?”

“But could you, Henrietta?” asked Beatrice.

“O yes, I know I can; I made ‘M.L.’ in roses on mamma’s last birthday,

and set it up over the chimney-piece in the drawing-room, and I am sure

we could contrive this. How appropriate it will look!”

“Ah!” said Mr. Franklin, “I have heard of such things, but I had always

considered them as quite above our powers.”

“They would be, without Henrietta,” said Queen Bee, “but she was always

excellent as wreath weaving, and all those things that belong to choice

taste and clever fingers. Only let us have plenty of the wherewithal,

and we will do our work so as to amaze the parish.”

“And now,” said Uncle Geoffrey, “we must be walking home, my young

ladies. It is getting quite dark.”

It was indeed, for as they left the church the sunlight was fast fading

on the horizon, and Venus was already shining forth in pure quiet beauty

on the clear blue sky. Mr. Franklin walked a considerable part of the

way home with them, adding to Henrietta’s list by asking counsel about

a damp spot in the wall of the church, and on the measures to be adopted

with a refractory farmer.

By the time they reached home, evening was fast closing in; and at the

sound of their entrance Mrs. Langford and Frederick both came to meet

them in the hall, the former asking anxiously whether they had not been

lingering in the cold and damp, inspecting the clogs to see that they

were dry, and feeling if the fingers were cold. She then ordered the two

girls up stairs to dress before going into the drawing-room with their

things on, and told Henrietta to remember that dinner would be at

half-past five.

“Is mamma gone up?” asked Henrietta.

“Yes, my dear, long ago; she has been out with your grandpapa, and is

gone to rest herself.”

“And how long have you been at home, Fred?” said Queen Bee. “Why, you

have performed your toilette already! Why did you not come to meet us?”

“I should have had a long spy-glass to see which way you were gone,”

said Fred, in a tone which, to Henrietta’s ears, implied that he was not

quite pleased, and then, following his sister up stairs, he went on to

her, “I wish I had never come in, but it was about three, and Alex and

Carey thought we might as well get a bit of something for luncheon, and

thereby they had the pleasure of seeing mamma send her pretty dear up to

change his shoes and stockings. So there was an end of me for the day.

I declare it is getting too absurd! Do persuade mamma that I am not made

of sugar candy.”

With Uncle Geoffrey’s admonitions fresh in her mind, these complaints

sounded painfully in Henrietta’s ears, and she would gladly have soothed

away his irritation; but, however convenient Judith might find the

stairs for private conferences, they did not appear to her equally

appropriate, especially when at the very moment grandpapa was coming

down from above and grandmamma up from below. Both she and Fred

therefore retreated into their mamma’s room, where they found her

sitting on a low stool by the fire, reading by its light one of the old

childish books, of which she seemed never to weary. Fred’s petulance,

to do him justice, never could endure the charm of her presence, and his

brow was as bright and open as his sister’s as he came forward, hoping

that she was not tired.

“Quite the contrary, thank you, my dear,” said she, smiling; “I enjoyed

my walk exceedingly.”

“A walk!” exclaimed Henrietta.

“A crawl, perhaps you would call it, but a delightful crawl it was with

grandpapa up and down what we used to call the sun walk, by the kitchen

garden wall. And now, Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where have you been?”

“I’ve been to Sutton Leigh, with the good Queen,” answered Henrietta,

gaily. “I have seen everything--Sutton Leigh, and the Pleasance, and the

church! And, mamma, Mr. Franklin has asked us to go and dress the church

for Christmas! Is not that what of all things is delightful? Only think

of church-decking! What I have read and heard of, but I always thought

it something too great and too happy for me ever to do.”

“I hope you will be able to succeed in it,” said her mamma. “What a

treat it will be to see your work on Sunday.”

“And you are to help, too, Fred; you and Alexander are to come and reach

the high places for us. But do tell us your adventures.”

Fred had been all over the farm; had been introduced to the whole

live stock, including ferrets and the tame hedge-hog; visited the

plantations, and assisted at the killing of a stoat; cut his name out on

the bark of the old pollard; and, in short, had been supremely happy.

He “was just going to see Dumpling and Vixen’s puppies at Sutton Leigh,

when--”

“When I caught you, my poor boy,” said his mamma; “and very cruel it

was, I allow, but I thought you might have gone out again.”

“I had no other thick shoes upstairs; but really, mamma, no one thinks

of minding those things.”

“You should have seen him, Henrietta,” said his mother; “his shoes

looked as if he had been walking through a river.”

“Well, but so were all the others,” said Fred.

“Very likely, but they are more used to it; and, besides, they are such

sturdy fellows. I should as soon think of a deal board catching cold.

But you--if there is as much substance in you, it is all height; and you

know, Fred, you would find it considerably more tiresome to be laid up

with a bad cold.”

“I never catch cold,” said Fred.

“Boys always say so,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford; “it is a--what shall

I call it?--a puerile delusion, which their mammas can always defeat

when they choose by a formidable list of colds and coughs; but I won’t

put you in mind of how often you have sat with your feet on the fender

croaking like an old raven, and solacing yourself with stick-liquorice

and Ivanhoe.”

“You had better allow him to proceed in his pursuit of a cold, mamma,”

said Henrietta, “just to see how grandmamma will nurse it.”

A knock at the door here put an end to the conversation, by announcing

the arrival of Bennet, Mrs. Frederick Langford’s maid; who had come in

such good time that Henrietta was, for once in her life, full dressed

a whole quarter of an hour before dinner time. Nor was her involuntary

punctuality without a reward, for the interval of waiting for dinner,

sitting round the fire, was particularly enjoyed by Mr. and Mrs.

Langford; and Uncle Geoffrey, therefore, always contrived to make it a

leisure time; and there was so much merriment in talking over the walk,

and discussing the plans for the Pleasance, that Henrietta resolved

never again to miss such a pleasant reunion by her own tardiness.

Nor was the evening less agreeable. Henrietta pleased grandmamma by

getting her carpet-work out of some puzzle, and by flying across the

room to fetch the tea-chest: she delighted grandpapa by her singing, and

by finding his spectacles for him; she did quite a praiseworthy piece of

her own crochet purse, and laughed a great deal at the battle that was

going on between Queen Bee and Fred about the hero of some new book.

She kept her list of Uncle Geoffrey’s manifold applicants on the table

before her, and had the pleasure of increasing it by two men, business

unknown, who sent to ask him to come and speak to them; by a loud

and eager appeal from Fred and Beatrice to decide their contest, by a

question of taste on the shades of grandmamma’s carpet-work, and by her

own query how to translate a difficult German passage which had baffled

herself, mamma, and Fred.

However, Queen Bee’s number, fifty, had not been attained, and her

majesty was obliged to declare that she meant in a week instead of

a day, for which reason the catalogue was written out fair, to be

continued.

Mrs. Frederick Langford thought herself well recompensed for the pain

her resolution had cost her, by the pleasure that Mr. and Mrs. Langford

evidently took in her son and daughter, by the brightness of her two

children’s own faces, and especially when Henrietta murmured in her

sleep something about “delightful,” “bright leaves and red berries,” and

then, “and ‘tis for my own dear papa.”

And after all, in the attainment of their fondest wish, were Henrietta

and Frederick as serenely happy as she was?

CHAPTER VI.

Christmas Eve, which was also a Saturday, dawned brightly on Henrietta,

but even her eagerness for her new employment could not so far overcome

her habitual dilatoriness as not to annoy her cousin, Busy Bee, even to

a degree of very unnecessary fidgeting when there was any work in hand.

She sat on thorns all breakfast time, devoured what her grandpapa called

a sparrow’s allowance, swallowed her tea scalding, and thereby gained

nothing but leisure to fret at the deliberation with which Henrietta cut

her bread into little square dice, and spread her butter on them as if

each piece was to serve as a model for future generations.

The subject of conversation was not precisely calculated to soothe her

spirits. Grandmamma was talking of giving a young party--a New-year’s

party on Monday week, the second of January. “It would be pleasant for

the young people,” she thought, “if Mary did not think it would be too

much for her.”

Beatrice looked despairingly at her aunt, well knowing what her answer

would be, that it would not be at all too much for her, that she should

be very glad to see her former neighbours, and that it would be a great

treat to Henrietta and Fred.

“We will have the carpet up in the dining-room,” added Mrs. Langford,

“and Daniels, the carpenter, shall bring his violin, and we can get up a

nice little set for a dance.”

“O thank you, grandmamma,” cried Henrietta eagerly, as Mrs. Langford

looked at her.

“Poor innocent, you little know!” murmured Queen Bee to herself.

“That is right, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Langford, “I like to see young

people like young people, not above a dance now and then,--all in

moderation.”

“Above dancing,” said grandpapa, who, perhaps, took this as a reflection

on his pet, Queen Bee, “that is what you call being on the high rope,

isn’t it?”

Beatrice, though feeling excessively savage, could not help laughing.

“Are you on the high rope, Queenie?” asked Fred, who sat next to her:

“do you despise the light fantastic--?”

“I don’t know: I do not mind it much,” was all she could bring herself

to say, though she could not venture to be more decidedly ungracious

before her father. “Not much in itself,” she added, in a lower tone,

as the conversation grew louder, “it is the people, Philip Carey, and

all,--but hush! listen.”

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.”

“I will come in a minute,” said Henrietta, who was assisting in

adjusting the prop to which the old daphne was tied.

“Don’t stop for me, my dear,” said Mrs. Langford: “there, don’t let me

be in your way.”

“O, grandmamma, I like to do this very much.”

“But, Henrietta,” persisted the despotic Queen Bee, “we really ought to

be there.”

“What is all this about?” said grandmamma, not particularly well

pleased. “There, go, go, my dear; I don’t want any more, thank you: what

are you in such a fuss for now, going out all day again?”

“Yes, grandmamma,” said Beatrice, “did you not hear that Mr. Franklin

asked us to dress the church for to-morrow? and we must not waste time

in these short days.”

“Dress the church! Well, I suppose you must have your own way, but I

never heard of such things in my younger days. Young ladies are very

different now!”

Beatrice drove Henrietta up-stairs with a renewed “Do make haste,” and

then replied in a tone of argument and irritation, “I do not see why

young ladies should not like dressing churches for festivals better than

arraying themselves for balls and dances!”

True as the speech was, how would Beatrice have liked to have seen her

father or mother stand before her at that moment?

“Ah, well! it is all very well,” said grandmamma, shaking her head, as

she always did when out-argued by Beatrice, “you girls think yourselves

so clever, there is no talking to you; but I think you had much better

let old Martha alone; she has done it well enough before ever you were

born, and such a litter as you will make the Church won’t be fit to be

seen to-morrow! All day in that cold damp place too! I wonder Mary could

consent, Henrietta looks very delicate.”

“O no, grandmamma, she is quite strong, very strong indeed.”

“I am sure she is hoarse this morning,” proceeded Mrs. Langford; “I

shall speak to her mamma.”

“O don’t, pray, grandmamma; she would be so disappointed. And what would

Mr. Franklin do?”

“O very well, I promise you, as he has done before,” said Mrs. Langford,

hastening off to the drawing-room, while her granddaughter darted

upstairs to hurry Henrietta out of the house before a prohibition could

arrive. It was what Henrietta had too often assisted Fred in doing to

have many scruples, besides which she knew how grieved her mamma would

be to be obliged to stop her, and how glad to find her safe out of

reach; so she let her cousin heap on shawls, fur cuffs, and boas in a

far less leisurely and discriminating manner than was usual with her.

“It would be absolute sneaking (to use an elegant word), I suppose,”

said Beatrice, “to go down the back stairs.”

“True,” said Henrietta, “we will even take the bull by the horns.”

“And trust to our heels,” said Beatrice, stealthily opening the door;

“the coast is clear, and I know both your mamma and my papa will not

stop us if they can help it. One, two, three, and away!”

Off they flew, down the stairs, across the hall, and up the long green

walk, before they ventured to stop for Henrietta to put on her gloves,

and take up the boa that was dragging behind her like a huge serpent.

And after all, there was no need for their flight; they might have

gone openly and with clear consciences, had they but properly and

submissively waited the decision of their elders. Mr. Geoffrey Langford,

who did not know how ill his daughter had been behaving, would have been

very sorry to interfere with the plan, and easily reconciled his mother

to it, in his own cheerful pleasant way. Indeed her opposition had

been entirely caused by Beatrice herself; she had not once thought of

objecting when it had been first mentioned the evening before, and

had not Beatrice not first fidgeted and then argued, would only have

regarded it as a pleasant way of occupying their morning.

“I could scold you, Miss Drone,” said Beatrice when the two girls had

set themselves to rights, and recovered breath; “it was all the fault of

your dawdling.”

“Well, perhaps it was,” said Henrietta, “but you know I could not see

grandmamma lifting those flower-pots without offering to help her.”

“How many more times shall I have to tell you that grandmamma hates to

be helped?”

“Then she was very kind to me,” replied Henrietta.

“I see how it will be,” said Beatrice, smiling, “you will be

grandmamma’s pet, and it will be a just division. I never yet could get

her to let me help her in anything, she is so resolutely independent.”

Queen Bee did not take into account how often her service was either

grudgingly offered, or else when she came with a good will, it was also

with a way, it might be better, it might be worse, but in which she was

determined to have the thing done, and against which her grandmamma was

of course equally resolute.

“She is an amazing person!” said Henrietta. “Is she eighty yet?”

“Seventy-nine,” said Beatrice; “and grandpapa eighty-two. I always say

I think we should get the prize in a show of grandfathers and

grandmothers, if there was one like Uncle Roger’s fat cattle shows. You

know she thinks nothing of walking twice to church on a Sunday, and

all over the village besides when there is anybody ill. But here is the

Sutton Leigh path. Let me see if those boys are to be trusted. Yes, yes,

that’s right! Capital!” cried she in high glee; “here is Birnam wood

coming across the field.” And springing on one of the bars of the gate

near the top, she flourished her handkerchief, chanting or singing,

“Greet thee well, thou holly green, Welcome, welcome, art thou seen,

With all thy glittering garlands bending, As to greet my--quick

descending:”

she finished in an altered tone, as she was obliged to spring

precipitately down to avoid a fall. “It made a capital conclusion,

however, though not quite what I had proposed. Well, gentlemen,” as

four or five of the boys came up, each bearing a huge holly bush--“Well,

gentlemen, you are a sight for sair een.”

“With sair fingers, you mean,” said Fred; “these bushes scratch like

half a dozen wild cats.”

“It is in too good a cause for me to pity you,” said Beatrice.

“Nor would I accept it if you would,” said Fred.

His sister, however, seemed determined on bestowing it whether he would

or not,--“How your hands are bleeding! Have you any thorns in them? Let

me see, I have my penknife.”

“Stuff!” was Fred’s gracious reply, as he glanced at Alex and Carey.

“But why did you not put on your gloves?” proceeded Henrietta.

“Gloves, nonsense!” said Fred, who never went without them at Rocksand.

“He will take up the gauntlet presently,” said Beatrice. “By the by,

Alex, how many pairs of gloves have you had or lost in your life?”

“O, I always keep a pair for Sundays and for Allonfield,” said Alex.

“Jessie says she will never let me drive her again without them,” said

Carey, “but trust me for that: I hate them, they are such girl’s things;

I tell her then she can’t be driven.”

Fred could not bear to hear of Carey’s driving, a thing which he had not

yet been permitted to attempt, and he hastily broke in, “You have not

told the news yet.”

“What news?”

“The Euphrosyne is coming home,” cried the boys with one voice. “Had we

not told you? The Euphrosyne is coming home, and Roger may be here any

day!”

“That is something like news,” said Queen Bee; “I thought it would

only be that the puppies could see, or that Tom’s tooth was through.

Grandpapa has not heard it?”

“Papa is going up to tell him,” said John. “I was going too, only Alex

bagged me to carry his holly-bush.”

“And so the great Rogero is coming home!” said Beatrice. “How you will

learn to talk sea slang! And how happy grandmamma will be, especially

if he comes in time for her great affair. Do you hear, Alex? you must

practise your steps, for grandmamma is going to give a grand party,

Careys and Evanses, and all, on purpose to gratify Fred’s great love of

dancing.”

“I love dancing?” exclaimed Fred, in a tone of astonishment and

contempt.

“Why, did you not look quite enraptured at breakfast when it was

proposed? I expected you every moment to ask the honour of my hand for

the first quadrille, but I suppose you leave it for Philip Carey!”

“If it comes at all you must start me, Bee,” said Alex, “for I am sure I

can’t dance with any one but you.”

“Let me request it now,” said Fred, “though why you should think I like

dancing I cannot imagine! I am sure nothing but your Majesty can make it

endurable.”

“There are compliments to your Majesty,” cried Henrietta, laughing; “one

will not or cannot dance at all without her, the other cannot find it

endurable! I long to see which is to be gratified.”

“Time will show,” said Beatrice; “I shall ponder on their requests,

and decide maturely, Greek against Prussian, lover of the dance against

hater of the dance.”

“I don’t love it, I declare,” exclaimed Fred.

“I don’t mind it, if you dance with me,” said Alex.

And Beatrice was in her glory, teasing them both, and feeling herself

the object of attention to both.

Flirtation is not a pleasant word, and it is one which we are apt to

think applies chiefly to the manners of girls, vain of their personal

appearance, and wanting in sense or education. Beatrice would have

thought herself infinitely above it; but what else was her love of

attention, her delight in playing off her two cousins against each

other? Beauty, or the consciousness of beauty, has little to do with it.

Henrietta, if ever the matter occurred to her, could not help knowing

that she was uncommonly pretty, yet no one could be more free from any

tendency to this habit. Beatrice knew equally well that she was plain,

but that did not make the least difference; if any, it was rather on the

side of vanity, in being able without a handsome face, so to attract and

engross her cousins. It was amusing, gratifying, flattering, to feel

her power to play them off, and irritate the little feelings of jealousy

which she had detected; and thoughtless as to the right or wrong, she

pursued her course.

On reaching the church they found that, as was usual with her, she had

brought them before any one was ready; the doors were locked, and they

had to wait while Carey and John went to old Martha’s to fetch the key.

In a few minutes more Mr. Franklin arrived, well pleased to see them

ready to fulfil their promise; the west door was opened, and disclosed a

huge heap of holly laid up under the tower, ready for use.

The first thing the boys did was to go up into the belfry, and out on

the top of the tower, and Busy Bee had a great mind to follow them; but

she thought it would not be fair to Mr. Franklin, and the wide field

upon which she had to work began to alarm her imagination.

Before the boys came down again, she had settled the plan of operations

with Henrietta and Mr. Franklin, dragged her holly bushes into the

aisle, and brought out her knife and string. They came down declaring

that they could be of no use, and they should go away, and Beatrice made

no objection to the departure of Carey and Johnny, who, as she justly

observed, would be only in the way; but she insisted on keeping Fred and

Alex.

“Look at all those pillars! How are we ever to twine them by ourselves?

Look at all those great bushes! How are we to lift them? No, no, indeed,

we cannot spare you, Fred. We must have some stronger hands to help us,

and you have such a good eye for this sort of thing.”

Had Alexander gone, Fred would have found some excuse for following him,

rather than he should leave him with young ladies, doing young ladies’

work; but, as Beatrice well knew, Alex would never withdraw his

assistance when she asked Fred’s, and she felt secure of them both.

“There, Alex, settle that ladder by the screen, please. Now will you see

if there is anything to tie a piece of string to? for it is of no use to

make a festoon if we cannot fasten it.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Here, give me your hand, and I’ll look.” Up tripped the little Bee,

just holding by his hand. “Yes, to be sure there is! Here is a great

rough nail sticking out. Is it firm? Yes, capitally. Now, Alex, make a

sailor’s knot round it. Help me down first though--thank you. Fred, will

you trim that branch into something like shape. You see how I mean. We

must have a long drooping wreath of holly and ivy, to blend with the

screen. How tough this ivy is! Thank you--that’s it. Well, Mr. Franklin,

I hope we shall get on in time.”

Mr. Franklin was sure of it; and seeing all actively employed, and

himself of little use, he took his leave for the present, hoping that

the Misses Langford would not tire themselves.

Angels’ work is Church decoration--work fit for angels, that is to say;

but how pure should be the hands and hearts engaged in it! Its greatness

makes it solemn and awful. It is work immediately for the glory of

God; it is work like that of the children who strewed the palm-branches

before the steps of the Redeemer! Who can frame in imagination a

more favoured and delightful occupation, than that of the four young

creatures who were, in very deed, greeting the coming of their Lord with

those bright and glistening wreaths with which they were adorning His

sanctuary?

Angels’ work! but the angels veil their faces and tremble; and we

upon earth have still greater cause to tremble and bow down in awful

reverence, when we are allowed to approach so near His shrine. And was

that spirit of holy fear--that sole desire for His glory--the chief

thought with these young people?

Not that there was what even a severe judge could call irreverence in

word or deed; there was no idle laughter, and the conversation was in a

tone and a style which showed that they were all well trained in respect

for the sanctity of the place. Even in all the helping up and down

ladders and steps, in the reaching over for branches, in all the little

mishaps and adventures that befell them, their behaviour was outwardly

perfectly what it ought to have been; and that is no small praise for

four young people, under seventeen, left in church alone together for so

many hours.

But still Beatrice’s great aim was, unconsciously perhaps, to keep the

two boys entirely devoted to herself, and to exert her power. Wonderful

power it was in reality, which kept them interested in employment

so little accordant with their nature; kept them amused without

irreverence, and doing good service all the time. But it was a power of

which she greatly enjoyed the exercise, and which did nothing to lessen

the rivalry between them. As to Henrietta, she was sitting apart on a

hassock, very happy, and very busy in arranging the Monogram and wreath

which she had yesterday proposed. She was almost forgotten by the other

three--certainly neglected--but she did not feel it so; she had rather

be quiet, for she could not work and talk like Queen Bee; and she liked

to think over the numerous verses and hymns that her employment brought

to her mind. Uncle Geoffrey’s conversation dwelt upon her too; she began

to realize his meaning, and she was especially anxious to fulfil his

desire, by entreating Fred to beware of temptations to disobedience.

Opportunities for private interviews were, however, very rare at Knight

Sutton, and she had been looking forward to having him all to herself

here, when he must wish to visit his father’s grave with her. She was

vexed for a moment that his first attention was not given to it; but she

knew that his first thought was there, and boys never showed what was

uppermost in their minds to anyone but their sisters. She should have

him by and by, and the present was full of tranquil enjoyment.

If Henrietta had been free from blame in coming to Knight Sutton at all,

or in her way of leaving the house this morning, there would have been

little or no drawback to our pleasure in contemplating her.

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Queen Bee, as the last reverberation of

the single stroke of the deep-toned clock fell quivering on her ear. “I

thought you would have given us at least eleven more.”

“What a quantity remains to be done!” sighed Henrietta, laying down

the wreath which she had just completed. “Your work looks beautiful,

Queenie, but how shall we ever finish?”

“A short winter’s day, too!” said Beatrice. “One thing is certain--that

we can’t go home to luncheon.”

“What will grandmamma think of that?” said Henrietta doubtfully. “Will

she like it?”

Beatrice could have answered, “Not at all;” but she said, “O never mind,

it can’t be helped; we should be late even if we were to set off now,

and besides we might be caught and stopped.”

“Oh, that would be worse than anything,” said Henrietta, quite

convinced.

“So you mean to starve,” said Alex.

“See what slaves men are to creature comforts,” said Beatrice; “what do

you say, Henrietta?”

“I had much rather stay here,” said Henrietta; “I want nothing.”

“Much better fun to go without,” said Fred, who had not often enough

missed a regular meal not to think doing so an honour and a joke.

“I’ll tell you what will do best of all!” cried Queen Bee. “You go to

Dame Reid’s, and buy us sixpennyworth of the gingerbread papa calls

the extreme of luxury, and we will eat it on the old men’s bench in the

porch.”

“Oho! her Majesty is descending to creature comforts,” said Alex. “I

thought she would soon come down to other mortals.”

“Only to gratify her famishing subjects,” said Beatrice, “you disloyal

vassal, you! Fred is worth a dozen of you. Come, make haste. She is

sure to have a fresh stock, for she always has a great baking when Mr.

Geoffrey is coming.”

“For his private eating?” said Fred.

“He likes it pretty well, certainly; and he seldom goes through the

village without making considerable purchase for the benefit of the

children in his path, who take care to be not a few. I found little

Jenny Woods made small distinction between Mr. Geoffrey and Mr. Ginger.

But come, Alex, why are you not off?”

“Because I don’t happen to have a sixpence,” said Alex, with an honest

openness, overcoming his desire to add “in my pocket.” It cost him

an effort; for at school, where each slight advantage was noted,

and comparisons perpetually made, Fred’s superior wealth and larger

allowance had secured him the adherence of some; and though he either

knew it not, or despised such mammon worship, his rival was sufficiently

awake to it to be uncomfortable in acknowledging his poverty.

“Every one is poor at the end of the half,” said Fred, tossing up his

purse and catching it again, so as to demonstrate its lightness. “Here

is a sixpence, though, at her Majesty’s service.”

“And do you think she would take your last sixpence, you honour to

loyalty?” said Beatrice, feeling in her pocket. “We are not fallen quite

so low. But alas! the royal exchequer is, as I now remember, locked up

in my desk at home.”

“And my purse is in my workbox,” said Henrietta.

“So, Fred, I must be beholden to you for the present,” said Beatrice,

“if it won’t quite break you down.”

“There are more where that came from,” said Fred, with a careless air.

“Come along, Alex.”

Away they went. “That is unlucky,” soliloquised Queen Bee: “if I could

have sent Alex alone, it would have been all right, and he would have

come back again; but now one will carry away the other, and we shall see

them no more.”

“No, no, that would be rather too bad,” said Henrietta. “I am sure Fred

will behave better.”

“Mark what I say,” said Beatrice. “I know how it will be; a dog or a gun

is what a boy cannot for a moment withstand, and if we see them again

‘twill be a nine days’ wonder. But come, we must to the work; I want to

look at your wreath.”

She did not, however, work quite as cheerily as before, and lost much

time in running backwards and forwards to peep out at the door, and

in protesting that she was neither surprised nor annoyed at the

faithlessness of her envoys. At last a droll little frightened knock was

heard at the door. Beatrice went to open it, and a whitey-brown paper

parcel was held out to her by a boy in a green canvas round frock, and

a pair of round, hard, red, solid-looking cheeks; no other than Dame

Reid’s grandson.

“Thank you,” said she. “Did Master Alexander give you this?”

“Ay.”

“Thank you, that’s right!” and away he went.

“You see,” said Queen Bee, holding up the parcel to Henrietta, who came

out to the porch. “Let us look. O, they have vouchsafed a note!” and

she took out a crumpled envelope, directed in Aunt Mary’s handwriting

to Fred, on the back of which Alex had written, “Dear B., we beg pardon,

but Carey and Dick are going up to Andrews’s about his terrier.--A. L.”

“Very cool, certainly!” said Beatrice, laughing, but still with a little

pique. “What a life I will lead them!”

“Well, you were a true prophet,” said Henrietta, “and after all it does

not much signify. They have done all the work that is out of reach; but

still I thought Fred would have behaved better.”

“You have yet to learn the difference between Fred with you or with me,

and Fred with his own congeners,” said Beatrice; “you don’t know half

the phases of boy nature.”

Henrietta sighed; for Fred had certainly not been quite what she

expected him to-day. Not because he had appeared to forget her, for that

was nothing--that was only appearance, and her love was too healthy and

true even to feel it neglect; but he had forgotten his father’s grave.

He was now neglecting the church; and far from its consoling her to hear

that it was the way with all boys when they came together, it gave her

one moment’s doubt whether they were not happier, when they were all in

all to each other at Rocksand.

It was but for one instant that she felt this impression; the next it

had passed away, and she was sharing the gingerbread with her cousin,

and smiling at the great admiration in which it seemed to be held by

the natives of Knight Sutton. They took a short walk up and down the

churchyard while eating it, and then returned to their occupation, well

pleased, on re-entering, to see how much show they had made already.

They worked together very happily; indeed, now that all thought of her

squires was quite out of her head, Beatrice worked much more in earnest

and in the right kind of frame; something more of the true spirit of

this service came over her, and she really possessed some of that temper

of devotion which she fancied had been with her the whole day.

It was a beautiful thing when Henrietta raised her face, as she was

kneeling by the font, and her clear sweet voice began at first in a low,

timid note, but gradually growing fuller and stronger--

“Hark! the herald angels sing Glory to the new-born King, Peace on

earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled.”

Beatrice took up the strain at the first line, and sweetly did their

tones echo through the building; while their hearts swelled with delight

and thankfulness for the “good tidings of great joy.” Another and

another Christmas hymn was raised, and never were carols sung by happier

voices; and the decorations proceeded all the better and more suitably

beneath their influence. They scarcely knew how time passed away, till

Henrietta, turning round, was amazed to see Uncle Geoffrey standing just

within the door watching them.

“Beautiful!” said he, as she suddenly ceased, in some confusion; “your

work is beautiful! I came here prepared to scold you a little, but I

don’t think I can. Who made that wreath and Monogram?”

“She did, of course, papa,” said Beatrice, pointing to her cousin. “Who

else could?”

“It is a very successful arrangement,” said Uncle Geoffrey, moving about

to find the spot for obtaining the best view. “It is an arrangement to

suggest so much.”

Henrietta came to the place where he stood, and for the first time

perceived the full effect of her work. It was placed in front of the

altar, the dark crimson covering of which relieved the shining leaves

and scarlet berries of the holly. The three letters, I H S, were in

the centre, formed of small sprays fastened in the required shape; and

around them was a large circle of holly, plaited and twined together,

the many-pointed leaves standing out in every direction in their

peculiar stiff gracefulness.

“I see it now!” said she, in a low voice full of awe. “Uncle, I did not

mean to make it so!”

“How?” he asked.

“It is like Good Friday!” said she, as the resemblance to the crown of

thorns struck her more and more strongly.

“Well, why not, my dear?” said her uncle, as she shrunk closer to him in

a sort of alarm. “Would Christmas be worth observing if it were not for

Good Friday?”

“Yes, it is right uncle; but somehow it is melancholy.”

“Where are those verses that say--let me see--

‘And still Thy Church’s faith Shall link,

In all her prayer and praise,

Thy glory with Thy death.’

So you see, Henrietta, you have been guided to do quite right.”

Henrietta gave a little sigh, but did not answer: and Beatrice said,

“It is a very odd thing, whenever any work of art--or, what shall I call

it?--is well done, it is apt to have so much more in it than the author

intended. It is so in poetry, painting, and everything else.”

“There is, perhaps, more meaning than we understand, when we talk of the

spirit in which a thing is done,” said her father: “But have you much

more to do? Those columns look very well.”

“O, are you come to help us, papa?”

“I came chiefly because grandmamma was a good deal concerned at your

not coming home to luncheon. You must not be out the whole morning again

just at present. I have some sandwiches in my pocket for you.”

Beatrice explained how they had been fed, and her papa said, “Very well,

we will find some one who will be glad of them; but mind, do not make

her think you unsociable again. Do you hear and heed?”

It was the sort of tone which, while perfectly kind and gentle, shows

that it belongs to a man who will be obeyed, and ready compliance was

promised. He proceeded to give his very valuable aid at once in taste

and execution, the adornment prospered greatly, and when Mr. Franklin

came in, his surprise and delight were excited by the beauty which

had grown up in his absence. The long, drooping, massive wreaths of

evergreen at the east end, centring in the crown and letters; the spiral

festoons round the pillars; the sprays in every niche; the tower of

holly over the font--all were more beautiful, both together and singly,

than he had even imagined, and he was profuse in admiration and thanks.

The work was done; and the two Misses Langford, after one well-satisfied

survey from the door, bent their steps homeward, looking forward to the

pleasure with which grandpapa and Aunt Mary would see it to-morrow. As

they went in the deepening twilight, the whole village seemed vocal:

children’s voices, shrill and tuneless near, but softened by distance,

were ringing out here, there, and everywhere, with

“As shepherds watch’d their flocks by night.”

And again, as they walked on, the sound from another band of little

voices was brought on the still frosty wind--

“Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.”

Imperfect rhymes, bad voices, no time observed; but how joyous,--how

really Christmas-like--how well it suited the soft half-light, the last

pale shine of sunset lingering in the south-west! the large solemn stars

that one by one appeared! How Uncle Geoffrey caught up the lines and

sang them over to himself! How light and free Beatrice walked!--and how

the quiet happy tears would rise in Henrietta’s eyes!

The singing in the drawing-room that evening, far superior as it was,

with Henrietta, Beatrice, Frederick, and even Aunt Mary’s beautiful

voice, was not equal in enjoyment to that. Was it because Beatrice was

teasing Fred all the time about his defection? The church singers came

up to the Hall, and the drawing-room door was set open for the party

to listen to them; grandpapa and Uncle Geoffrey went out to have a talk

with them, and so passed the space till tea-time; to say nothing of the

many little troops of young small voices outside the windows, to whom

Mrs. Langford’s plum buns, and Mr. Geoffrey’s sixpences, were a very

enjoyable part of the Christmas festivities.

CHAPTER VII.

The double feast of Sunday and Christmas-day dawned upon Henrietta with

many anxieties for her mother, to whom the first going to church must

be so great a trial. Would that she could, as of old, be at her side the

whole day! but this privilege, unrecked of at Rocksand, was no longer

hers. She had to walk to church with grandmamma and the rest of the

party, while Mrs. Frederick Langford was driven in the open carriage

by old Mr. Langford, and she was obliged to comfort herself with

recollecting that no companion ever suited her better than grandpapa. It

was a sight to be remembered when she came into church, leaning upon his

arm, her sweet expression of peace and resignation, making her even more

lovely than when last she entered there--her face in all its early bloom

of youthful beauty, and radiant with innocent happiness.

But Henrietta knew not how to appreciate that “peace which passeth all

understanding;” and all that she saw was the glistening of tears in her

eyes, and the heaving of her bosom, as she knelt down in her place; and

she thought that if she had calculated all that she would have to go

through, and all her own anxieties for her, she should never have urged

their removal. She viewed it, however, as a matter of expediency rather

than of duty, and her feelings were not in the only right and wholesome

channel. As on the former occasion, Knight Sutton Church seemed to her

more full of her father’s presence than of any other, so now, throughout

the service, she was chiefly occupied with watching her mother; and

entirely by the force of her own imagination, she contrived to work

herself into a state of nervous apprehension, only equalled by her

mamma’s own anxieties for Fred.

Neither she nor any of her young cousins were yet confirmed, so they all

left the church together. What would she not have given to be able to

talk her fears over with either Frederick or Beatrice, and be assured

by them that her mamma had borne it very well, and would not suffer from

it. But though neither of them was indifferent or unfeeling, there was

not much likelihood of sympathy from them just at present. Beatrice had

always been sure that Aunt Mary would behave like an angel; and when

Fred saw that his mother looked tranquil, and showed no symptoms of

agitation, he dismissed anxiety from his mind, and never even guessed at

his sister’s alarms.

Nor in reality had he many thoughts for his sister of any kind; for he

was, as usual, engrossed with Queen Bee, criticising the decorations

which had been completed in his absence, and, together with Alex,

replying to the scolding with which she visited their desertion.

Nothing could have been more eminently successful than the decorations,

which looked to still greater advantage in the brightness of the morning

sun than in the dimness of the evening twilight; and many were the

compliments which the two young ladies received upon their handiwork.

The old women had “never seen nothing like it,”--the school children

whispered to each other, “How pretty!” Uncle Geoffrey and Mr. Franklin

admired even more than before; grandpapa and Aunt Mary were delighted;

grandmamma herself allowed it was much better than she had expected; and

Jessie Carey, by way of climax, said it “was like magic.”

It was a very different Sunday from those to which Henrietta had been

accustomed, in the complete quiet and retirement of Rocksand. The Hall

was so far from the church, that there was but just time to get back in

time for evening service. After which, according to a practice of which

she had often heard her mamma speak with many agreeable reminiscences,

the Langford family almost always went in a body on a progress to the

farmyard, to visit the fatting oxen and see the cows milked.

Mrs. Roger Langford was at home with little Tom, and Mrs. Frederick

Langford was glad to seek the tranquillity and repose of her own

apartment; but all the rest went in procession, greatly to the amusement

of Fred and Henrietta, to the large barn-like building, where a narrow

path led them along the front of the stalls of the gentle-looking

sweet-breathed cows, and the huge white-horned oxen.

Uncle Roger, as always happened, monopolised his brother, and kept

him estimating the weight of the great Devon ox, which was next for

execution. Grandmamma was escorting Charlie and Arthur (whom their

grandfather was wont to call penultimus and antepenultimus), helping

them to feed the cows with turnips, and guarding them from going behind

their heels. Henrietta was extremely happy, for grandpapa himself was

doing the honours for her, and instructing her in the difference between

a Guernsey cow and a short-horn; and so was Alexander, for he had Queen

Bee all to himself in a remote corner of the cow-house, rubbing old

spotted Nancy’s curly brow, catching at her polished black-tipped horn,

and listening to his hopes and fears for the next half year. Not so

Frederick, as he stood at the door with Jessie Carey, who, having no

love for the cow-house, especially when in her best silk, thought always

ready to take care of the children there, was very glad to secure a

companion outside, especially one so handsome, so much more polished

than any of her cousins, and so well able to reply to her small talk.

Little did she guess how far off he wished her, or how he longed to be

listening to his uncles, talking to Beatrice, sticking holly into the

cows’ halters with John and Richard, scrambling into the hay-loft with

Carey and William--anywhere, rather than be liable to the imputation of

being too fine a gentleman to enter a cow-house.

This accusation never entered the head of any one but himself; but still

an attack was in store for him. After a few words to Martin the cowman,

and paying their respects to the pigs, the party left the farm-yard, and

the inhabitants of Sutton Leigh took the path to their own abode, while

Beatrice turned round to her cousin, saying, “Well, Fred, I congratulate

you on your politeness! How well you endured being victimised!”

“I victimised! How do you know I was not enchanted?”

“Nay, you can’t deceive me while you have a transparent face. Trust me

for finding out whether you are bored or not. Besides, I would not pay

so bad a compliment to your taste as to think otherwise.”

“How do you know I was not exercising the taste of Rubens himself? I

was actually admiring you all, and thinking how like it all was to that

great print from one of his pictures; the building with its dark gloomy

roof, and open sides, the twilight, the solitary dispersed snow-flakes,

the haze of dust, the sleek cattle, and their long white horns.”

“Quite poetical,” said Queen Bee, in a short, dry, satirical manner.

“How charmed Jessie must have been!”

“Why?” said Fred, rather provoked.

“Such masterly eyes are not common among our gentlemen. You will be

quite her phoenix; and how much ‘Thomson’s Seasons’ you will have to

hear! I dare say you have had it already--

‘Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind!’”

“Well, very good advice, too,” said Fred.

“I hate and detest Thomson,” said Beatrice; “above all, for travestying

Ruth into ‘the lovely young Lavinia;’ so whenever Jessie treated me to

any of her quotations, I criticised him without mercy, and at last I

said, by great good luck, that the only use of him was to serve as an

imposition for young ladies at second-rate boarding schools. It was a

capital hit, for Alex found out that it was the way she learnt so much

of him, and since that time I have heard no more of ‘Jemmy Thomson!

Jemmy Thomson! O!’”

The laughter which followed this speech had a tone in it, which,

reaching Mr. Geoffrey Langford, who was walking a little in front with

his mother, made him suspect that the young people were getting into

such spirits as were not quite Sunday-like; and, turning round, he asked

them some trifling question, which made him a party to the conversation,

and brought it back to a quieter, though not less merry tone.

Dinner was at five, and Henrietta was dressed so late that Queen Bee had

to come up to summon her, and bring her down after every one was in the

dining-room--an entrée all the more formidable, because Mr. Franklin was

dining there, as well as Uncle Roger and Alexander.

Thanks in some degree to her own dawdling, she had been in a hurry the

whole day, and she longed for a quiet evening: but here it seemed to

her, as with the best intentions it usually is, in a large party, that,

but for the laying aside of needlework, of secular books and secular

music, it might as well have been any other day of the week.

Her mamma was very tired, and went to bed before tea, the gentlemen had

a long talk over the fire, the boys and Beatrice laughed and talked, and

she helped her grandmamma to hand about the tea, answering her questions

about her mother’s health and habits, and heard a good deal that

interested her, but still she could not feel as if it were Sunday.

At Rocksand she used to sit for many a pleasant hour, either in the

darkening summer twilight, or the bright red light of the winter fire,

repeating or singing hymns, and enjoying the most delightful talks that

the whole week had to offer, and now she greatly missed the conversation

that would have “set this strange week to rights in her head,” as she

said to herself.

She thought over it a good deal whilst Bennet was brushing her hair at

night, feeling as if it had been a week-day, and as if it would be as

difficult to begin a new fresh week on Monday morning, as it would a

new day after sitting up a whole night. How far this was occasioned by

Knight Sutton habits, and how far it was her own fault, was not what she

asked herself, though she sat up for a long time musing on the change

in her way of life, and scarcely able to believe that it was only last

Sunday that she had been sitting with her mother over their fire at

Rocksand. Enough had happened for a whole month. Her darling project was

fulfilled; the airy castle of former days had become a substance, and

she was inhabiting it: and was she really so very much happier? There

she went into a reverie--but musing is not meditating, nor vague

dreamings wholesome reflections; she went on sitting their, chiefly

for want of energy to move, till the fire burnt low, the clock struck

twelve, and Mrs. Frederick Langford exclaimed in a sleepy voice, “My

dear, are you going to sleep there?”

CHAPTER VIII.

Breakfast was nearly over on Monday morning, when a whole party of the

Sutton Leigh boys entered with the intelligence that the great pond in

Knight’s Portion was quite frozen over, and that skating might begin

without loss of time.

“You are coming, are you not, Bee?” said Alex, leaning over the back of

her chair.

“O yes,” said she, nearly whispering “only take care. It is taboo

there,”--and she made a sign with her hand towards Mrs. Langford, “and

don’t frighten Aunt Mary about Fred. O it is too late, Carey’s doing the

deed as fast as he can.”

Carey was asking Fred whether he had ever skated, or could skate, and

Fred was giving an account of his exploits in that line at school,

hoping it might prove to his mother that he might be trusted to take

care of himself since he had dared the danger before. In vain: the

alarmed expression had come over her face, as she asked Alexander

whether his father had looked at the ice.

“No,” said Alex, “but it is perfectly safe. I tried it this morning, and

it is as firm as this marble chimney-piece.”

“He is pretty well to be trusted,” said his grandfather, “more

especially as it would be difficult to get drowned there.”

“I would give a shilling to anyone who could drown himself there,” said

Alex.

“The travelling man did,” exclaimed at once Carey, John, and Richard.

“Don’t they come in just like the Greek chorus?” said Beatrice, in a

whisper to Fred, who gave a little laugh, but was too anxious to attend

to her.

“I thought he was drowned in the river,” said Alex.

“No, it was in the deep pool under the weeping willow, where the

duckweed grows so rank in summer,” said Carey.

Uncle Geoffrey laughed. “I am sorry to interfere with your romantic

embellishments, Carey, or with the credit of your beloved pond, since

you are determined not to leave it behindhand with its neighbours.”

“I always thought it was there,” said the boy.

“And thought wrong; the poor man was found in the river two miles off.”

“I always heard it was at Knight’s Pool,” repeated Carey.

“I do not know what you may have heard,” said Uncle Geoffrey; “but as it

happened a good while before you were born, I think you had better not

argue the point.”

“Grandpapa,” persisted Carey, “was it not in Knight’s Pool?”

“Certainly not,” was the answer drily given.

“Well,” continued Carey, “I am sure you might drown yourself there.”

“Rather than own yourself mistaken,” said Uncle Geoffrey.

“Carey, Carey, I hate contradiction,” said grandmamma, rising and

rustling past where he stood with a most absurd, dogged, unconvinced

face. “Take your arm off the mantelpiece, let that china cup alone, and

stand like a gentleman. Do!”

“All in vain!” said Beatrice. “To the end of his life he will maintain

that Knight’s Pool drowned the travelling man!”

“Well, never mind,” said John, impatiently, “are we coming to skate this

morning or are we not?”

“I really wish,” said Aunt Mary, as if she could not help it, “without

distrusting either old Knight’s Pool or your judgment, Alexander, that

you would ask some one to look at it.”

“I should like just to run down and see the fun,” said Uncle Geoffrey,

thus setting all parties at rest for the moment. The two girls ran

joyfully up to put on their bonnets, as Henrietta wished to see,

Beatrice to join in, the sport. At that instant Mrs. Langford asked

her son Geoffrey to remove some obstacle which hindered the comfortable

shutting of the door, and though a servant might just as well have done

it, he readily complied, according to his constant habit of making all

else give way to her, replying to the discomfited looks of the boys, “I

shall be ready by the time the young ladies come down.”

So he was, long before Henrietta was ready, and just as she and Beatrice

appeared on the stairs, Atkins was carrying across the hall what the

boys looked at with glances of dismay, namely, the post-bag. Knight

Sutton, being small and remote, did not possess a post-office, but

a messenger came from Allonfield for the letters on every day except

Sunday, and returned again in the space of an hour. A very inconvenient

arrangement, as everyone had said for the last twenty years, and might

probably say for twenty years more.

As usual, more than half the contents were for G. Langford, Esq.,

and Fred’s face grew longer and longer as he saw the closely-written

business-like sheets.

“Fred, my poor fellow,” said his uncle, looking up, “I am sorry for you,

but one or two must be answered by this day’s post. I will not be longer

than I can help.”

“Then do let us come on,” exclaimed the chorus.

“Come, Queenie,” added Alex.

She delayed, however, saying, “Can I do any good, papa?”

“Thank you, let me see. I do not like to stop you, but it would save

time if you could just copy a letter.”

“O thank you, pray let me,” said Beatrice, delighted. “Go on, Henrietta,

I shall soon come.”

Henrietta would have waited, but she saw a chance of speaking to her

brother, which she did not like to lose.

Her mother had taken advantage of the various conversations going on in

the hall, to draw her son aside, saying, “Freddy, I believe you think me

very troublesome, but do let me entreat of you not to venture on the ice

till one of your uncles has said it is safe.”

“Uncle Roger trusts Alex,” said Fred.

“Yes, but he lets all those boys take their chance, and a number of

you together are likely to be careless, and I know there used to be

dangerous places in that pond. I will not detain you, my dear,” added

she, as the others were preparing to start, “only I beg you will not

attempt to skate till your uncle comes.”

“Very well,” said Frederick, in a tone of as much annoyance as ever he

showed his mother, and with little suspicion how much it cost her not

to set her mind at rest by exacting a promise from him. This she had

resolutely forborne to do in cases like the present, from his earliest

days, and she had her reward in the implicit reliance she could place

on his word when once given. And now, sighing that it had not been

voluntarily offered, she went to her sofa, to struggle and reason in

vain with her fears, and start at each approaching step, lest it should

bring the tidings of some fatal accident, all the time blaming herself

for the entreaties which might, as she dreaded, place him in peril of

disobedience.

In a few moments Mr. Geoffrey Langford was sitting in the great red

leathern chair in the study, writing as fast as his fingers would move,

apparently without a moment for thought, though he might have said, like

the great painter, that what seemed the work of half an hour, was in

fact the labour of years. His daughter, her bonnet by her side, sat

opposite to him, writing with almost equal rapidity, and supremely

happy, for to the credit of our little Queen Bee let it be spoken, that

no talk with Henrietta, no walk with grandpapa, no new exciting tale,

no, not even a flirtation with Fred and Alex, one or both, was equal in

her estimation to the pleasure and honour of helping papa, even though

it was copying a dry legal opinion, instead of gliding about on the

smooth hard ice, in the bright winter morning’s sunshine.

The two pens maintained a duet of diligent scratching for some twenty

or five and twenty minutes without intermission, but at last Beatrice

looked up, and without speaking, held up her sheet.

“Already? Thank you, my little clerk, I could think it was mamma. Now

then, off to the skating. My compliments to Fred, and tell him I feel

for him, and will not keep him waiting longer than I can avoid:” and

muttering a resumption of his last sentence, on went the lawyer’s

indefatigable pen; and away flew the merry little Busy Bee, bounding off

with her droll, tripping, elastic, short-stepped run, which suited so

well with her little alert figure, and her dress, a small plain black

velvet bonnet, a tight black velvet “jacket,” as she called it, and a

brown silk dress, with narrow yellow stripes (chosen chiefly in joke,

because it was the colour of a bee), not a bit of superfluous shawl,

boa, or ribbon about her, but all close and compact, fit for the

diversion which she was eager to enjoy. The only girl among so many

boys, she had learnt to share in many of their sports, and one of the

prime favourites was skating, a diversion which owes as much of its

charm to the caprices of its patron Jack Frost, as to the degree of

skill which it requires.

She arrived at the stile leading to “Knight’s Portion,” as it was

called, and a very barren portion must the poor Knight have possessed if

it was all his property. It was a sloping chalky field or rather corner

of a down, covered with very short grass and thistles, which defied

all the attacks of Uncle Roger and his sheep. On one side was a sort of

precipice, where the chalk had been dug away, and a rather extensive old

chalk pit formed a tolerable pond, by the assistance of the ditch at the

foot of a hedge. On the glassy surface already marked by many a sharply

traced circular line, the Sutton Leigh boys were careering, the younger

ones with those extraordinary bends, twists, and contortions to which

the unskilful are driven in order to preserve their balance. Frederick

and Henrietta stood on the brink, neither of them looking particularly

cheerful; but both turned gladly at the sight of the Busy Bee, and came

to meet her with eager inquiries for her papa.

She was a very welcome sight to both, especially Henrietta, who had from

the first felt almost out of place alone with all those boys, and

who hoped that she would be some comfort to poor Fred, who had been

entertaining her with every variety of grumbling for the last half-hour,

and perversely refusing to walk out of sight of the forbidden pleasure,

or to talk of anything else. Such a conversation as she was wishing for

was impossible whilst he was constantly calling out to the others, and

exclaiming at their adventures, and in the intervals lamenting his

own hard fate, scolding her for her slowness in dressing, which had

occasioned the delay, and magnifying the loss of his pleasure, perhaps

in a sort of secret hope that the temptation would so far increase as

to form in his eyes an excuse for yielding to it. Seldom had he shown

himself so unamiable towards her, and with great relief and satisfaction

she beheld her cousin descending the steep slippery path from the height

above, and while the cloud began to lighten on his brow, she thought to

herself, “It will be all right now, he is always happy with Busy Bee!”

So he might have been had Beatrice been sufficiently unselfish for once

to use her influence in the right direction, and surrender an amusement

for the sake of another; but to give up or defer such a pleasure as

skating with Alex never entered her mind, though a moment’s reflection

might have shown her how much more annoying the privation would be

rendered by the sight of a girl fearlessly enjoying the sport from which

he was debarred. It would, perhaps, be judging too hardly to reckon

against her as a fault that her grandmamma could not bear to hear of

anything so “boyish,” and had long ago entreated her to be more like a

young lady. There was no positive order in this case, and her papa

and mamma did not object. So she eagerly answered Alexander’s summons,

fastened on her skates, and soon was gliding merrily on the surface of

the Knight’s Pool, while her cousins watched her dexterity with surprise

and interest; but soon Fred once more grew gloomy, sighed, groaned,

looked at his watch, and recommenced his complaints. At first she

had occupation enough in attending to her own security to bestow any

attention on other things, but in less than a quarter of an hour, she

began to feel at her ease, and her spirits rising to the pitch where

consideration is lost, she “could not help,” in her own phrase, laughing

at the disconsolate Fred.

“How woebegone he looks!” said she, as she whisked past, “but never

mind, Fred, the post must go some time or other.”

“It must be gone,” said Fred. “I am sure we have been here above an

hour!”

“Henrietta looks blue with cold, like an old hen obliged to follow her

ducklings to the water!” observed Beatrice, again gliding near, and in

the midst of her next circular sweep she chanted--

“Although their feet are pointed, and my feet are round, Pray, is that

any reason why I should be drowned?”

It was a great aggravation of Fred’s calamities to be obliged to laugh,

nor were matters mended by the sight of the party now advancing from the

house, Jessie Carey, with three of the lesser boys.

“What news of Uncle Geoffrey?”

“I did not see him,” said Jessie: “I think he was in the study, Uncle

Roger went to him there.”

“No hope then!” muttered the unfortunate Fred.

“Can’t you skate, Fred?” asked little Arthur with a certain most

provoking face of wonder and curiosity.

“Presently,” said Fred.

“He must not,” cried Richard, in a tone which Fred thought malicious,

though it was only rude.

“Must not?” and Arthur looked up in amazement to the boy so much taller

than his three brothers, creatures in his eyes privileged to do what

they pleased.

“His mamma won’t let him,” was Dick’s polite answer. Fred could have

knocked him down with the greatest satisfaction, but in the first place

he was out of reach, in the second, the young ladies were present, in

the third he was a little boy, and a stupid one, and Fred had temper

enough left to see that there would be nothing gained by quarrelling

with him, so contenting himself with a secret but most ardent wish that

he had him as his fag at school, he turned to Jessie, and asked her what

she thought of the weather, if the white frost would bring rain, &c.,

&c.

Jessie thought the morning too bright not to be doubtful, and the hoar

frost was so very thick and white that it was not likely to continue

much longer.

“How beautiful these delicate white crests are to every thorn in the

hedge!” said Henrietta; “and look, these pieces of chalk are almost

cased in glass.”

“O I do love such a sight!” said Jessie. “Here is a beautiful bit of

stick crusted over.”

“It is a perfect little Giant’s Causeway,” said Henrietta; “do look at

these lovely little columns, Fred.”

“Ah!” said Jessie, “Myriads of little salts, or hook’d or shaped like

double wedges.--”

She thought Beatrice safe out of hearing, but that very moment by she

came, borne swiftly along, and catching the cadence of that one line,

looked archly at Fred, and shaped with her lips rather than uttered--“O

Jemmy Thomson! Jemmy Thomson, O!”

It filled up the measure. That Beatrice, Alexander and Chorus should be

making him a laughing-stock, and him pinned to Miss Carey’s side, was

more than he could endure. He had made up his mind that Uncle Geoffrey

was not coming at all, his last feeble hold of patience and obedience

gave way, and he exclaimed, “Well, I shan’t wait any longer, it is not

of the least use.”

“O, Fred, consider!” said his sister.

“That’s right, Freddy,” shouted Carey, “he’ll not come now, I’ll answer

for it.”

“You know he promised he would,” pleaded Henrietta.

“Uncle Roger has got hold of him, and he is as bad as the old man of the

sea,” said Fred, “the post has been gone this half-hour, and I shall not

wait any longer.”

“Think of mamma.”

“How can you talk such nonsense, Henrietta?” exclaimed Fred impatiently,

“do you think that I am so awfully heavy that the ice that bears them

must needs break with me?”

“I do not suppose there is any danger,” said Henrietta, “but for the

sake of poor mamma’s entreaties!”

“Do you think I am going to be kept in leading-strings all the rest of

my life?” said Fred, obliged to work himself into a passion in order to

silence his sister and his conscience. “I have submitted to such absurd

nonsense a great deal too long already, I will not be made a fool of in

the sight of everybody; so here goes!”

And breaking away from her detaining arm, he ran down to the verge of

the pond, and claimed the skates which he had lent to John. Henrietta

turned away her eyes full of tears.

“Never mind, Henrietta,” shouted the good-natured Alexander, “I’ll

engage to fish him out if he goes in.”

“It is as likely I may fish you out, Mr. Alex,” returned Fred, slightly

affronted.

“Or more likely still there will be no fishing in the case,” said the

naughty little Syren, who felt all the time a secret satisfaction in the

consciousness that it was she who had made the temptation irresistible,

then adding, to pacify Henrietta and her own feelings of compunction,

“Aunt Mary must be satisfied when she hears with what exemplary patience

he waited till papa was past hope, and the pond past fear.”

Whether Alex smiled at the words “past fear,” or whether Fred only

thought he did, is uncertain, the effect was that he exclaimed, “I only

wish there was a place in this pond that you did not like to skate over,

Alex.”

“Well, there is one,” said Alex, laughing, “where Carey drowns the

travelling man: there is a spring there, and the ice is never so firm,

so you may try--”

“Don’t, Fred--I beg you won’t!” cried Beatrice.

“O, Fred, Fred, think, think, if anything should happen!” implored

Henrietta.

“I shan’t look, I can’t bear it!” exclaimed Jessie, turning away.

Fred without listening skated triumphantly towards the hedge, and across

the perilous part, and fortunately it was without disaster. In the

middle of the shout of applause with which the chorus celebrated his

achievement, a gate in the hedge suddenly opened, and the two uncles

stood before them. The first thing Uncle Geoffrey did was to take a

short run, and slide right across the middle of the pond, while Uncle

Roger stood by laughing and saying, “Well done, Geoffrey, you are not

quite so heavy as I am.”

Uncle Geoffrey reaching the opposite side, caught up little Charley by

the arms and whirled him round in the air, then shouted in a voice

that had all the glee and blithe exultation of a boy just released

from school, “I hereby certify to all whom it may concern, the pond is

franked! Where’s Fred?”

Fred wished himself anywhere else, and so did Henrietta. Even Queen

Bee’s complacency gave way before her father, and it was only Alexander

who had spirit to answer, “We thought you were not coming at all.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Geoffrey; and little Willy exclaimed, “Why, Alex,

Uncle Geoffrey always comes when he promises,” a truth to which every

one gave a mental assent.

Without taking the smallest notice of Frederick by word or look, Uncle

Geoffrey proceeded to join the other boys, to the great increase of

their merriment, instructing them in making figures of eight, and in all

the other mysteries of the skating art, which they could scarcely enjoy

more than he seemed to do. Henrietta, cold and unhappy, grieved at her

brother’s conduct, and still more grieved at the displeasure of her

uncle, wished to return to the house, yet could not make up her mind

to do so, for fear of her mamma’s asking about Fred; and whilst she was

still doubting and hesitating, the Church bell began to ring, reminding

her of the saint’s day service, one of the delights of Knight Sutton

to which she had so long looked forward. Yet here was another

disappointment. The uncles and the two girls immediately prepared to go.

Jessie said she must take Arthur and Charley home, and set off. The boys

could do as they pleased, and Willy holding Uncle Geoffrey’s hand was

going with him, but the rest continued their sport, and among them was

Fred. He had never disobeyed a Church bell before, and had rather not

have done so now, but as he saw none of his male companions setting off,

he fancied that to attend a week-day service in the holidays might be

reckoned a girlish proceeding, imagined his cousins laughing at him as

soon as his back was turned, and guessed from Uncle Geoffrey’s grave

looks that he might be taken to task when no longer protected by the

presence of the rest.

He therefore replied with a gruff short “No” to his sister’s anxious

question whether he was not coming, and flourished away to the other end

of the pond; but a few seconds after he was not a little surprised and

vexed at finding himself mistaken after all--at least so far as regarded

Alex, who had been only going on with his sport to the last moment, and

now taking off his skates, vaulted over the gate, and ran at full speed

after the rest of the party, overtaking them before they reached the

village.

Henrietta was sadly disappointed when, looking round at the sound of

footsteps, she saw him instead of her brother. His refusal to go to

Church grieved her more than his disobedience, on which she did not in

general look with sufficient seriousness, and for which in the present

case there were many extenuating circumstances, which she longed to

plead to Uncle Geoffrey, who would, she thought, relax in his severity

towards her poor Fred, if he knew how long he had waited, and how

much he had been teased. This, however, she could not tell him without

complaining of his daughter, and in fact it was an additional pain

that Queen Bee should have used all her powerful influence in the wrong

direction.

It was impossible to be long vexed with the little Busy Bee, even in

such circumstances as these, especially when she came up to her, put

her arm into hers, and looked into her face with all the sweetness that

could sometimes reside in those brown features of hers, saying, “My

poor Henrietta, I am afraid we have been putting you to torture all this

time, but you know that it is quite nonsense to be afraid of anything

happening.”

“O yes, I know that, but really, Queenie, you should not have persuaded

him.”

“I? Well, I believe it was rather naughty of me to laugh at him, for

persuade him I did not, but if you had but seen him in the point I did,

and known how absurd you two poor disconsolate creatures looked, you

would not have been able to help it. And how was I to know that he would

go into the only dangerous place he could find, just by way of bravado?

I could have beaten myself when I saw that, but it is all safe, and no

harm done.”

“There is your papa displeased with him.”

“O, I will settle that; I will tell him it was half of it my fault, and

beg him to say nothing about it. And as for Fred--I should like to make

a charade of fool-hardy, with a personal application. Did you ever act a

charade, Henrietta?”

“Never; I scarcely know what it is.”

“O charming, charming! What rare fun we will have! I wish I had not told

you of fool-hardy, for now we can’t have that, but this evening, O, this

evening, I am no Queen Bee if you do not see what will amaze you! Alex!

Alex! Where is the boy? I must speak to you this instant.”

Pouncing upon Alexander, she drew him a little behind the others, and

was presently engaged in an eager low-voiced conference, apparently

persuading him to something much against his inclination, but Henrietta

was not sufficiently happy to bestow much curiosity on the subject. All

her thoughts were with Fred, and she had not long been in Church before

all her mother’s fears seemed to have passed to her. Her mother had

recovered her serenity, and was able to trust her boy in the hands of

his Heavenly Father, while Henrietta, haunted by the remembrance of

many a moral tale, was tormenting herself with the expectation of

retribution, and dwelling on a fancied figure of her brother lifted

senseless out of the water, with closed eyes and dripping hair.

CHAPTER IX.

With all her faults, Queen Bee was a good-natured, generous little

thing, and it was not what every one would have done, when, as soon as

she returned from Church, she followed her father to the study, saying,

“Papa, you must not be displeased with Fred, for he was very much

plagued, and he only had just begun when you came.”

“The other boys had been teasing him?”

“Dick had been laughing at him, saying his mamma would not let him go on

the ice, and that, you know, was past all bearing. And honestly, it was

my fault too; I laughed, not at that joke, of course, for it was only

worthy of Dick himself, but at poor Fred’s own disconsolate looks.”

“Was not his case unpleasant enough, without your making it worse?”

“Of course, papa, I ought to have been more considerate, but you know

how easily I am run away with by high spirits.”

“And I know you have the power to restrain them, Beatrice. You have no

right to talk of being run away with, as if you were helpless.”

“I know it is very wrong; I often think I will check myself, but

there are many speeches which, when once they come to my lips, are

irresistible, or seem so. However, I will not try to justify myself; I

know I was to blame, only you must not be angry with Fred, for it really

did seem rather unreasonable to keep him there parading about with

Henrietta and Jessie, when the ice was quite safe for everybody else.”

“I am not angry with him, Bee; I cannot but be sorry that he gave way

to the temptation, but there was so much to excuse him, that I shall not

show any further displeasure. He is often in a very vexatious position

for a boy of his age. I can imagine nothing more galling than these

restraints.”

“And cannot you--” said Beatrice, stopping short.

“Speak to your aunt? I will not make her miserable. Anything she thinks

right she will do, at whatever cost to herself, and for that very

reason I will not interfere. It is a great deal better for Fred that

his amusement should be sacrificed to her peace, than her peace to his

amusement.”

“Yet surely this cannot go on for life,” said Beatrice, as if she was

half afraid to hazard the remark.

“Never mind the future. She will grow more used to the other boys, and

gain more confidence in Fred. Things will right themselves, if we do

not set them wrong. And now, mark me. You are not a mere child, who can

plead the excuse of thoughtlessness for leading him into mischief;

you know the greatness of the sin of disobedience, and the fearful

responsibility incurred by conducing to it in others. Do not help to

lead him astray for the sake of--of vanity--of amusement.”

Something in the manner in which he pronounced these words conveyed to

Beatrice a sense of the emptiness and worthlessness of her motives,

and she answered earnestly, “I was wrong, papa; I know it is a love of

saying clever things that often leads me wrong. It was so to-day, for

I could have stopped myself, but for the pleasure of making fun. It is

vanity, and I will try to subdue it.”

Beatrice had a sort of candid way of reasoning about her faults, and

would blame herself, and examine her motives in a manner which disarmed

reproof by forestalling it. She was perfectly sincere, yet it was

self-deception, for it was not as if it was herself whom she was

analysing, but rather as if it was some character in a book; indeed, she

would have described herself almost exactly as she is here described,

except that her delineation would have been much more clever and more

exact. She would not have spared herself--for this reason, that her

own character was more a study to her than a reality, her faults rather

circumstances than sins; it was her mind, rather than her soul, that

reflected and made resolutions, or more correctly, what would have been

resolutions, if they had possessed any real earnestness, and not been

done, as it were, mechanically, because they became the occasion.

The conversation was concluded by the sound of the luncheon bell, and

she ran up to take off her bonnet, her thoughts taking the following

course: “I am very sorry; it is too bad to tease poor Fred, cruel and

wrong, and all that, only if he would not look absurd! It is too droll

to see how provoked he is, when I take the least notice of Alex, and

after all, I don’t think he cares for me half as much as Alex does, only

it flatters his vanity. Those great boys are really quite as vain as

girls, not Alex though, good downright fellow, who would do anything for

me, and I have put him to a hard proof to-night. What a capital thought

those charades are! Fred will meet the others on common, nay, on

superior ground, and there will be none of these foolish questions who

can be most manly mad. Fred is really a fine spirited fellow though, and

I thought papa could not find it in his heart to be angry with him. How

capitally he will act, and how lovely Henrietta will look! I must make

them take to the charades, it will be so very delightful, and keep Fred

quite out of mischief, which will set Aunt Mary at ease. And how amused

grandpapa will be! What shall it be to-night? What Alex can manage to

act tolerably. Ce n’est que le premier pas qui conte, and the premier

pas must be with our best foot foremost. I give myself credit for the

thought; it will make all smooth.”

These meditations occupied her during a hasty toilette and a still more

rapid descent, and were abruptly concluded by her alighting from her

swinging jump down the last four steps close to Fred himself, who was

standing by the hall fire with a gloomy expression of countenance,

which with inconsiderate good nature she hastened to remove. “Don’t look

dismal, Freddy; I have told papa all about it, and he does not mind it.

Cheer up, you adventurous knight, I have some glorious fun for you this

evening.”

Not mind it! The impression thus conveyed to one but too willing to

receive it, was that Uncle Geoffrey, that external conscience, thought

him excused from attending to unreasonable prohibitions. Away went all

the wholesome self-reproach which he had begun to feel, away went all

fear of Uncle Geoffrey’s eye, all compunction in meeting his mother,

and he entered the dining-room in such lively spirits that his uncle

was vexed to see him so unconcerned, and his mother felt sure that her

entreaty had not been disregarded. She never heard to the contrary, for

she liked better to trust than to ask questions, and he, like far too

many boys, did not think concealment blameable where there was no actual

falsehood.

All the time they were at table, Queen Bee was in one of her states of

wild restlessness, and the instant she was at liberty she flew away,

and was seen no more that afternoon, except in certain flittings into

different apartments, where she appeared for a moment or two with some

extraordinary and mysterious request. First she popped upon grandpapa,

and with the expense of a little coaxing and teasing, obtained from him

the loan of his Deputy-Lieutenant’s uniform; then she darted into the

drawing-room, on hearing Uncle Roger’s voice, and conjured him not to

forget to give a little note to Alex, containing these words, “Willy

must wear his cap without a peak. Bring Roger’s dirk, and above all,

beg, borrow, or steal, Uncle Roger’s fishing boots.” Her next descent

was upon Aunt Mary, in her own room: “Aunt, would you do me a great

favour, and ask no questions, nor tell Henrietta? Do just lend me the

three little marabout feathers which you had in your cap yesterday

evening. Only for this one evening, and I’ll take great care.”

“I am sure, my dear, you are very welcome to them; I do not feel like

myself in such finery,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, smiling, as

Beatrice took possession of the elegant little white cap, which she had

the discretion to carry to Bennet, its lawful protector, to be bereft

of its plumed honours. Bennet, an old friend of nursery days, was in

the secret of her plans for the evening; her head-quarters were in the

work-room, which had often served her as a playroom in days gone by, and

Judith, gratified by a visit from “Miss Bee,” dived for her sake into

boxes and drawers, amid hoards where none but Judith would have dared to

rummage.

All this might ultimately be for Henrietta’s entertainment, but at

present it did not much conduce towards it, as she was left to her own

resources in the drawing-room. She practised a little, worked a little,

listened to a consultation between grandpapa and Uncle Roger, about the

new pig-sty, wrote it down in her list when they went into the study to

ask Uncle Geoffrey’s advice, tried to talk over things in general with

her mamma, but found it impossible with grandmamma continually coming

in and out of the room, yawned, wondered what Busy Bee was about, felt

deserted, gave up work, and had just found an entertaining book, when

grandmamma came in, and invited her to visit the poultry yard. She

readily accepted, but for want of Queen Bee to hurry her, kept her

grandmamma waiting longer than she liked, and had more of a scolding

than was agreeable. The chickens were all gone to roost by the time they

arrived, the cock just peering down at them with his coral-bordered eye,

and the ducks waddling stealthily in one by one, the feeding was over,

the hen-wife gone, and Mrs. Langford vexed at being too late.

Henrietta was annoyed with herself and with the result of the day, but

she had some consolation, for as they were going towards the house,

they met Mr. Langford, who called out, “So you have been walking with

grandmamma! Well, if you are not tired, come and have a little turn with

grandpapa. I am going to speak to Daniels, the carpenter, and my ‘merry

Christmas’ will be twice as welcome to his old father, if I take you

with me.”

Henrietta might be a little tired, but such an invitation was not to be

refused, and she was at her grandpapa’s side in an instant, thanking him

so much that he laughed and said the favour was to him. “I wish we had

Fred here too,” said he, as they walked on, “the old man will be very

glad to see you.”

“Was he one of mamma’s many admirers in the village?”

“All the village admired Miss Mary, but it was your father who was

old Daniels’ chief friend. The boys used to have a great taste for

carpentry, especially your father, who was always at his elbow when he

was at work at the Hall. Poor old man, I thought he would never have

held up his head again when our great trouble came on us. He used to

touch his hat, and turn away without looking me in the face. And there

you may see stuck up over the chimney-piece in his cottage the new

chisel that your father gave him when he had broken his old one.”

“Dear old man!” said Henrietta, warmly, “I am so very glad that we have

come here, where people really care for us, and are interested in us,

and not for our own sake. How delightful it is! I feel as if we were

come out of banishment.”

“Well, it is all the better for you,” said Mr. Langford; “if we had

had you here, depend upon it, we should have spoilt you. We have so few

granddaughters that we cannot help making too much of them. There is

that little Busy Bee--by the by, what is her plan this evening, or are

not you in her secret?”

“O no, I believe she is to surprise us all. I met her just before I came

out dragging a huge bag after her: I wanted to help her, but she would

not let me.”

“She turns us all round her finger,” said grandpapa. “I never found the

person who could resist Queen Bee, except grandmamma. But I am glad you

do not take after her, Henrietta, for one such grandchild is enough, and

it is better for woman-kind to have leadable spirits than leading.”

“O, grandpapa!”

“That is a dissentient O. What does it mean? Out with it.”

“Only that I was thinking about weakness; I beg your pardon, grandpapa.”

“Look here!” and Mr. Langford bent the slender cane in his hand (he

disdained a stronger walking-stick) to its full extent of suppleness.

“Is this weak?”

“No, it is strong in energy,” said Henrietta, laughing, as the elastic

cane sprang back to its former shape.

“Yet to a certain point you can bend it as far as you please. Well, that

should be the way with you: be turned any way but the wrong, and let

your own determination be only to keep upright.”

“But women are admired for influence.”

“Influence is a good thing in its way, but only of a good sort when it

is unconscious. At any rate, when you set to work to influence people,

take care it is only with a view to their good, and not to your own

personal wishes, or influencing becomes a dangerous trade, especially

for young ladies towards their elders.”

Grandpapa, who had only seen Henrietta carried about by Beatrice,

grandmamma, or Fred, and willing to oblige them all, had little idea how

applicable to her case was his general maxim, nor indeed did she at the

moment take it to herself, although it was one day to return upon her.

It brought them to the neat cottage of the carpenter, with the thatched

workshop behind, and the garden in front, which would have looked neat

but for the melancholy aspect of the frost-bitten cabbages.

This was Henrietta’s first cottage visit, and she was all eagerness

and interest, picturing to herself a venerable old man, almost as

fine-looking as her grandfather, and as eloquent as old men in cottages

always are in books; but she found it rather a disappointing meeting. It

was a very nice trim-looking daughter-in-law who opened the door, on

Mr. Langford’s knock, and the room was neatness itself, but the old

carpenter was not at all what she had imagined. He was a little stooping

old man, with a shaking head, and weak red eyes under a green shade, and

did not seem to have anything to say beyond “Yes, sir,” and “Thank

you, sir,” when Mr. Langford shouted into his deaf ears some of

the “compliments of the season.” Looking at the young lady, whom he

evidently mistook for Beatrice, he hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey were

quite well. His face lighted up a little for a moment when Mr. Langford

told him this was Mr. Frederick’s daughter, but it was only for an

instant, and in a somewhat querulous voice he asked if there was not a

young gentleman too.

“O yes,” said Mr. Langford, “he shall come and see you some day.”

“He would not care to see a poor old man,” said Daniels, turning a

little away, while his daughter-in-law began to apologise for him by

saying, “He is more lost than usual to-day, sir; I think it was getting

tired going to church, yesterday morning; he did not sleep well, and he

has been so fretful all the morning, a body did not know what to do with

him.”

Mr. Langford said a few more cheerful words to the poor old man, then

asked the daughter where her husband was, and, hearing that he was in

the workshop, refused offers of fetching him in, and went out to speak

to him, leaving Henrietta to sit by the fire and wait for him. A weary

waiting time she found it; shy as she was of poor people, as of a class

with whom she was utterly unacquainted, feeling bound to make herself

agreeable, but completely ignorant how to set about it, wishing to talk

to the old man, and fearing to neglect him, but finding conversation

quite impossible except with Mrs. Daniels, and not very easy with

her--she tried to recollect what storied young ladies did say to old

men, but nothing she could think of would do, or was what she could find

herself capable of saying. At last she remembered, in “Gertrude,” the

old nurse’s complaint that Laura did not inquire after the rheumatism,

and she hazarded her voice in expressing a hope that Mr. Daniels did not

suffer from it. Clear as the sweet voice was, it was too tremulous (for

she was really in a fright of embarrassment) to reach the old man’s

ear, and his daughter-in-law took it upon her to repeat the inquiry in

a shrill sharp scream, that almost went through her ears; then while

the old man was answering something in a muttering maundering way, she

proceeded with a reply, and told a long story about his ways with the

doctor, in her Sussex dialect, almost incomprehensible to Henrietta. The

conversation dropped, until Mrs. Daniels began hoping that every one at

the Hall was quite well, and as she inquired after them one by one,

this took up a reasonable time; but then again followed a silence. Mrs.

Daniels was not a native of Knight Sutton, or she would have had more to

say about Henrietta’s mother; but she had never seen her before, and had

none of that interest in her that half the parish felt. Henrietta wished

there had been a baby to notice, but she saw no trace in the room of the

existence of children, and did not like to ask if there were any. She

looked at the open hearth, and said it was very comfortable, and was

told in return that it made a great draught, and smoked very much. Then

she bethought herself of admiring an elaborately worked frame sampler,

that hung against the wall; and the conversation this supplied lasted

her till, to her great joy, grandpapa made his appearance again, and

summoned her to return, as it was already growing very dark.

She thought he might have made something of an apology for the

disagreeableness of his friend; but, being used to it, and forgetting

that she was not, he did no such thing; and she was wondering that

cottage visiting could ever have been represented as so pleasant an

occupation, when he began on a far more interesting subject, asking

about her mother’s health, and how she thought Knight Sutton agreed with

her, saying how very glad he was to have her there again, and how like

his own daughter she had always been. He went on to tell of his first

sight of his two daughters-in-law, when, little guessing that they would

be such, he went to fetch home the little Mary Vivian, who had come from

India under the care of General St. Leger. “There they were,” said he;

“I can almost see them now, as their black nurse led them in; your aunt

a brown little sturdy thing, ready to make acquaintance in a moment,

and your mamma such a fair, shrinking, fragile morsel of a child, that I

felt quite ashamed to take her among all my great scrambling boys.”

“Ah! mamma says her recollection is all in bits and scraps; she

recollects the ship, and she remembers sitting on your knee in a

carriage; but she cannot remember either the parting with Aunt Geoffrey

or the coming here.”

“I do not remember about the parting with Aunt Geoffrey; they managed

that in the nursery, I believe, but I shall never forget the boys

receiving her,--Fred and Geoffrey, I mean,--for Roger was at school. How

they admired her like some strange curiosity, and played with her like

a little girl with a new doll. There was no fear that they would be too

rough with her, for they used to touch her as if she was made of glass.

And what a turn out of old playthings there was in her service!”

“That was when she was six,” said Henrietta, “and papa must have been

ten.”

“Yes, thereabouts, and Geoffrey a year younger. How they did pet her!

and come down to all their old baby-plays again for her sake, till I was

almost afraid that cricket and hockey would be given up and forgotten.”

“And were they?”

“No, no, trust boys for that. Little Mary came to be looker on, if she

did not sometimes play herself. She was distressed damsel, and they

knight and giant, or dragon, or I cannot tell what, though many’s the

time I have laughed over it. Whatever they pleased was she: never lived

creature more without will of her own.”

“Never,” responded Henrietta; but that for which Mr. Langford

might commend his little Mary at seven years old, did not appear so

appropriate a subject of observation in Mrs. Frederick Langford, and by

her own daughter.

“Eh!” said her grandfather. Then answering his mental objection in

another tone, “Ay, ay, no will for her own pleasure; that depends more

on you than on any one else.”

“I would do anything on earth for her!” said Henrietta, feeling it from

the bottom of her heart.

“I am sure you would, my dear,” said Mr. Langford, “and she deserves it.

There are few like her, and few that have gone through so much. To think

of her as she was when last she was here and to look at her now! Well,

it won’t do to talk of it; but I thought when I saw her face yesterday,

that I could see, as well as believe, it was all for the best for her,

as I am sure it was for us.”

He was interrupted just as they reached the gate by the voice of his

eldest son calling “Out late, sir,” and looking round, Henrietta saw

what looked in the darkness like a long procession, Uncle and Aunt

Roger, and their niece, and all the boys, as far down as William, coming

to the Hall for the regular Christmas dinner-party.

Joining company, Henrietta walked with Jessie and answered her inquiries

whether she had got wet or cold in the morning; but it was in an absent

manner, for she was all the time dwelling on what her grandfather had

been saying. She was calling up in imagination the bright scenes of her

mother’s youth; those delightful games of which she had often heard, and

which she could place in their appropriate setting now that she knew the

scenes. She ran up to her room, where she found only Bennet, her mother

having dressed and gone down; and sitting down before the fire, and

resigning her curls to her maid, she let herself dwell on the ideas the

conversation had called up, turning from the bright to the darker side.

She pictured to herself the church, the open grave, her uncles and her

grandfather round it, the villagers taking part in their grief, the old

carpenter’s averted head--she thought what must have been the agony of

the moment, of laying in his untimely grave one so fondly loved, on whom

the world was just opening so brightly,--and the young wife--the

infant children--how fearful it must have been! “It was almost a cruel

dispensation,” thought Henrietta. “O, how happy and bright we might have

been! What would it not have been to hold by his hand, to have his kiss,

to look for his smile! And mamma, to have had her in all her joyousness

and blitheness, with no ill health, and no cares! O, why was it not so?

And yet grandpapa said it was for the best! And in what a manner he did

say it, as if he really felt and saw, and knew the advantage of it!

To dear papa himself I know it was for the best, but for us, mamma,

grandpapa--no, I never shall understand it. They were good before; why

did they need punishment? Is this what is called saying ‘Thy will be

done?’ Then I shall never be able to say it, and yet I ought!”

“Your head a little higher, if you please, Miss Henrietta,” said Bennet;

“it is that makes me so long dressing you, and your mamma has been

telling me that I must get you ready faster.”

Henrietta slightly raised her head for the moment, but soon let it sink

again in her musings, and when Bennet reminded her, replied, “I can’t,

Bennet, it breaks my neck.” Her will was not with her mother’s, in a

trifling matter of which the reasonableness could not but approve itself

to her. How, then, was it likely to be bent to that of her Heavenly

Parent, in what is above reason?

The toilet was at length completed, and in time for her to be handed

in to dinner by Alexander, an honour which she owed to Beatrice having

already been secured by Frederick, who was resolved not to be again

abandoned to Jessie. Alex did not favour her with much conversation,

partly because he was thinking with perturbation of the task set him for

the evening, and partly because he was trying to hear what Queen Bee was

saying to Fred, in the midst of the clatter of knives and forks, and the

loud voice of Mr. Roger Langford, which was enough to drown most other

sounds. Some inquiries had been made about Mrs. Geoffrey Langford and

her aunt, Lady Susan St. Leger, which had led Beatrice into a great

lamentation for her mother’s absence, and from thence into a description

of what Lady Susan exacted from her friends. “Aunt Susan is a regular

fidget,” said she; “not such a fidget as some people,” with an

indication of Mrs. Langford. “Some people are determined to make others

comfortable in a way of their own, and that is a fidget to be regarded

with considerable respect; but Aunt Susan’s fidgeting takes the turn

of sacrificing the comfort of every one else to her own and her little

dog’s.”

“But that is very hard on Aunt Geoffrey,” said Fred.

“Frightfully. Any one who was less selfish would have insisted on

mamma’s coming here, instead of which Aunt Susan only complains of her

sister and brother, and everybody else, for going out of London, when

she may be taken suddenly ill at any time. She is in such a nervous

state that Mr. Peyton cannot tell what might be the consequence,” said

Beatrice, in an imitative tone, which made Fred laugh.

“I am sure I should leave her to take care of herself,” said he.

“So do the whole family except ourselves; they are all worn out by

her querulousness, and are not particularly given to patience or

unselfishness either. But mamma is really fond of her, because she was

kind to her when she came home from India, and she manages to keep her

quiet better than anyone else can. She can very seldom resist mamma’s

cheerful voice, which drives off half her nerves at once. You cannot

think how funny it is to see how Aunt Amelia always seems to stroke the

cat the wrong way, and mamma to smooth her down the right.”

A lull in the conversation left these last words audible, and Mr.

Langford said, “What is that about stroking the cat, Queenie?”

“O you are telling it all--O don’t, Bee!” cried Willy.

And with certain jokes about cats and bags, which seemed excessively to

discomfit Willy, who protested the cat was not in the bag at all--it

was the partridges--the conversation drifted away again from the younger

party.

As soon as dinner was over, Beatrice again disappeared, after begging

her grandmamma to allow the great Indian screen to remain as it at

present stood, spread out so as to cut off one end of the room, where

there was a door opening into the study. Behind this screen frequent

rustlings were heard, with now and then a burst of laughing or

whispering, and a sound of moving furniture, which so excited Mrs.

Langford, that, starting up, she exclaimed that she must go and see what

they were doing.

“We are taking great care, grandmamma,” called Alexander. “We won’t hurt

it.”

This, by showing so far that there was something to be hurt, was so far

from reassuring her, that she would certainly have set out on a voyage

of discovery, but for Mr. Langford, who professed himself convinced that

all was right, and said he would not have the Busy Bee disturbed.

She came in to tea, bringing Alex and Willy with her--the latter, in a

marvellous state of mystery and excitement, longing to tell all himself,

and yet in great terror lest the others should tell.

As soon as the tea was despatched, the three actors departed, and

presently there was a call from behind the screen, “Are you ready, good

people?”

“Go it,” answered Carey.

“Are the elders ready?” said Beatrice’s voice.

“Papa, don’t go on talking to Uncle Geoffrey!” cried Willy.

“Ay, ay, all attention,” said grandpapa. “Now for it!”

The screen was folded back, and discovered Alex in a pasteboard crown,

ermine tippet, and purple mantle, sitting enthroned with Beatrice (a

tiara and feathers on her head) at his side, and kneeling before them

a nondescript article, consisting chiefly of a fur cloak, a fur cap,

adorned with a pair of grey squirrel cuffs, sewn ingeniously into the

form of ears, a boa by way of tail, and an immense pair of boots.

As Uncle Geoffrey said, the cat was certainly out of the bag, and it

proceeded in due form to take two real partridges from the bag, and

present them to the king and princess in the name of the Marquis

Carabbas.

The king and princess made some consultation as to who the marquis

might be, the princess proposing to send for the Peerage, and the king

cross-examining puss in an incredulous way which greatly puzzled him,

until at last he bethought himself of exclaiming, in a fierce manner,

“I’ve told you the truth, Mr. King, and if you won’t believe me, I can’t

help it!” and walked off on his hind legs in as dignified and resentful

a manner as his boots would let him; repairing to the drawing-room to

have his accoutrements admired, while the screen was again spread in

preparation for Scene II.

Scene II. presented but a half-length, a shawl being hung in front, so

as to conceal certain incongruities. A great arm-chair was wheeled close

to the table, on which stood an aged black jack out of the hall, a quart

measure, and a silver tankard; while in the chair, a cushion on his

head, and a great carving-knife held like a sceptre in his hand,

reclined Alex, his bulk enlarged by at least two pillows, over which an

old, long-breasted white satin waistcoat, embroidered with silver, had

with some difficulty been brought to meet. Before him stood a little

figure in a cloth cap, set jauntily on one side, decorated with a fox’s

brush, and with Mrs. Frederick Langford’s three feathers, and a coat

bearing marvellous resemblance to Beatrice’s own black velvet spencer,

crossed over one shoulder by a broad blue ribbon, which Henrietta knew

full well. “Do thou stand for my father,” began this droll little shape,

“and examine me in the particulars of my life.”

It was not badly carried out; Prince Henry, when he did not giggle,

acted beautifully; and Falstaff really did very well, though his eyes

were often directed downwards, and the curious, by standing on tiptoe,

obtained not only a view of Prince Hal’s pink petticoat, but of a great

Shakespeare laid open on the floor; and a very low bow on the part of

the heir apparent, when about to change places with his fat friend, was

strongly suspected of being for the purpose of turning over a leaf. It

was with great spirit that the parting appeal was given, “Banish fat

Jack, and banish all the world!” And there was great applause when fat

Jack and Prince Hal jumped up and drew the screen forward again;

though Uncle Geoffrey and Aunt Mary were cruel enough to utter certain

historical and antiquarian doubts as to whether the Prince of Wales was

likely to wear the three feathers and ribbon of the garter in his haunts

at Eastcheap.

In the concluding scene the deputy lieutenant’s uniform made a great

figure, with the addition of the long-breasted waistcoat, a white scarf,

and the white cockade, adorning Alex, who, with a boot-jack under his

arm, looked as tall and as rigid as he possibly could, with a very low

bow, which was gracefully returned by a royal personage in a Scottish

bonnet, also bearing the white cockade, a tartan scarf, and the blue

ribbon. Altogether, Prince Charles Edward and the Baron of Bradwardine

stood confessed; the character was solemnly read, and the shoe pulled

off, or supposed to be, as the lower screen still remained to cut off

the view; and then the Baron indulged in a lengthy yawn and stretch,

while Prince Charlie, skipping into the midst of the audience, danced

round Mr. Langford, asking if he had guessed it.