“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