And now a sound of wheels was heard, and all the inmates of the house crowded into the hall. A minute more and the steps were reached, and the hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful hand. The young people were the first to alight; and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out of the carriage by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered once more the home she had left so sadly. Her husband’s arms were at once round her, but he restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drew her gently very closely to him, whispering to her, as audibly as tears would let him, “Welcome home again, my dear, dear wife.” And she returned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued voice her thankfulness to be at home with him once more; and then they stood apart and gazed earnestly at each other. Ay, there was change in each. Time and care and sorrow had done their work and ploughed their furrows; but there was a sweet peace which neither had before seen in the other, and, to Mr Huntingdon’s glad surprise and almost awe, a heavenly beauty in his recovered wife’s face which he knew not then how to account for, but he was not long in learning its source.
And now, as husband and wife, once more united, were about to move on, old Harry stepped forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a very unsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health and happiness for many long years among them. Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself to speak, but she held out her hand to him, which he took as gently in his own as if it had been some article of ornamental glass of a peculiarly brittle nature, and then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which, rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back, and allowed the happy travellers to make their way upstairs. But he could not be satisfied with having given so partial a vent to his feelings. So, when the hall was again all his own, he began to trip round it in a measured sort of dance, to the intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who were looking over the banisters from above on the performer, who was not conscious at the moment of being so observed. On the old man went, waxing more and more energetic, till at last he swayed himself into the centre of the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his feelings in a complicated sort of movement which he intended for a jump or spring, but which brought him down on all fours, amidst a burst of irrepressible laughter from the young people who were looking on. A little disconcerted, Harry was just recovering his feet, when the parrot, who had learned a few short phrases in times past, principally from Walter, and had now been eyeing Harry’s movements, with his grey head on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling restlessly, exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice, “What’s up now?” The old man stared comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said, as he brushed the dust off his knees, “What’s up now? why, you stupid old bird, there’s a great deal that’s up now. I’m up now, though I was down a minute ago. And Miss Julia as was and Master Walter’s up now, for they’re up on the landing a-laughing at me. And the dear old missus is up now; she’s up in her room with master, and we don’t want her to be down in spirits no more. There, Polly, I’ve answered your question, and answered it well, I think.”
Never did a happier party gather round the dinner-table at Flixworth Manor; never did the old butler ply his office with a readier hand and a brighter countenance. Dinner over, and all being grouped together in the drawing-room, where many loving words had passed, Walter turned to his father and said, “I have two requests to make to you, dear father.”
“Well, my boy, what are they? they must be strange and unreasonable indeed if I refuse to grant them on such a night as this.”
“I don’t think, father, that you will call them so.”
“Well, what are they?”
“The first is, that Amos may be our chaplain just for once at family prayers to-night.”
All looked surprised, but none more so than Amos himself. Half rising from his seat, he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother’s arm; but it was now too late. The colour flushed over his face, and he looked uneasily at his father’s countenance, which was much troubled; yet there was no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep sadness had crept over it. The truth was, Mr Huntingdon had always entertained a profound respect for religion, and an equally profound contempt for hypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately been thought by him to be necessary for his taking his place in society as a respectably religious man. He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest, and to go to church, read their Bibles, and say their prayers; and what more could be required of him or them? And, in order to set a good example in his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted family prayers night and morning, reading a few verses of Scripture, and a plain and suitable prayer. Nevertheless, he had simply done this hitherto as a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his knees with a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having performed a duty, and of relief that a somewhat irksome task was over. But now a new view of religion, its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him; but still he had scarce light enough yet to see his way to taking a different stand. So, when Walter preferred his request that Amos should be chaplain for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on his own part clouded his spirit, while at the same time he was truly anxious to do anything which would be a step in the direction of real improvement and spiritual blessing to his household. The cloud, however, soon melted away, and holding out his hand to Walter, and grasping his hand warmly, he said, “With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could be better. Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and not to-night only. I am getting old, and his younger voice and more experience in such matters will make it a good thing for us all if he will take the family prayers whenever he is at home.” As he concluded with faltering voice, Amos began to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but his father stopped him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, kindly said, “Do it to please me, and to please us all, dear boy.” Then, turning to Walter, with every shade removed from his countenance, he asked, “And what is your second request?”
“That’s not a very hard one to grant,” replied Walter, smiling, “though perhaps you may repent of saying ‘Yes’ when you suffer the consequences. My second request is, that I may be allowed to make a short speech when family prayers are over.”
“Granted at once, my son,” was Mr Huntingdon’s reply; “I am sure you will have an attentive audience.”