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    Chapter 1

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    Chapter 2
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    CHAPTER I - 'HASTE TO THE WEDDING'

    'Wooed and married and a'.'

    'Edith!' said Margaret, gently, 'Edith!'

    But, as Margaret half suspected, Edith had fallen asleep. She lay
    curled up on the sofa in the back drawing-room in Harley Street,
    looking very lovely in her white muslin and blue ribbons. If
    Titania had ever been dressed in white muslin and blue ribbons,
    and had fallen asleep on a crimson damask sofa in a back
    drawing-room, Edith might have been taken for her. Margaret was
    struck afresh by her cousin s beauty. They had grown up together
    from childhood, and all along Edith had been remarked upon by
    every one, except Margaret, for her prettiness; but Margaret had
    never thought about it until the last few days, when the prospect
    of soon losing her companion seemed to give force to every sweet
    quality and charm which Edith possessed. They had been talking
    about wedding dresses, and wedding ceremonies; and Captain
    Lennox, and what he had told Edith about her future life at
    Corfu, where his regiment was stationed; and the difficulty of
    keeping a piano in good tune (a difficulty which Edith seemed to
    consider as one of the most formidable that could befall her in
    her married life), and what gowns she should want in the visits
    to Scotland, which would immediately succeed her marriage; but
    the whispered tone had latterly become more drowsy; and Margaret,
    after a pause of a few minutes, found, as she fancied, that in
    spite of the buzz in the next room, Edith had rolled herself up
    into a soft ball of muslin and ribbon, and silken curls, and gone
    off into a peaceful little after-dinner nap.

    Margaret had been on the point of telling her cousin of some of
    the plans and visions which she entertained as to her future life
    in the country parsonage, where her father and mother lived; and
    where her bright holidays had always been passed, though for the
    last ten years her aunt Shaw's house had been considered as her
    home. But in default of a listener, she had to brood over the
    change in her life silently as heretofore. It was a happy
    brooding, although tinged with regret at being separated for an
    indefinite time from her gentle aunt and dear cousin. As she
    thought of the delight of filling the important post of only
    daughter in Helstone parsonage, pieces of the conversation out of
    the next room came upon her ears. Her aunt Shaw was talking to
    the five or six ladies who had been dining there, and whose
    husbands were still in the dining-room. They were the familiar
    acquaintances of the house; neighbours whom Mrs. Shaw called
    friends, because she happened to dine with them more frequently
    than with any other people, and because if she or Edith wanted
    anything from them, or they from her, they did not scruple to
    make a call at each other's houses before luncheon. These ladies
    and their husbands were invited, in their capacity of friends, to
    eat a farewell dinner in honour of Edith's approaching marriage.
    Edith had rather objected to this arrangement, for Captain Lennox
    was expected to arrive by a late train this very evening; but,
    although she was a spoiled child, she was too careless and idle
    to have a very strong will of her own, and gave way when she
    found that her mother had absolutely ordered those extra
    delicacies of the season which are always supposed to be
    efficacious against immoderate grief at farewell dinners. She
    contented herself by leaning back in her chair, merely playing
    with the food on her plate, and looking grave and absent; while
    all around her were enjoying the mots of Mr. Grey, the gentleman
    who always took the bottom of the table at Mrs. Shaw's dinner
    parties, and asked Edith to give them some music in the
    drawing-room. Mr. Grey was particularly agreeable over this
    farewell dinner, and the gentlemen staid down stairs longer than
    usual. It was very well they did--to judge from the fragments of
    conversation which Margaret overheard.

    'I suffered too much myself; not that I was not extremely happy
    with the poor dear General, but still disparity of age is a
    drawback; one that I was resolved Edith should not have to
    encounter. Of course, without any maternal partiality, I foresaw
    that the dear child was likely to marry early; indeed, I had
    often said that I was sure she would be married before she was
    nineteen. I had quite a prophetic feeling when Captain
    Lennox'--and here the voice dropped into a whisper, but Margaret
    could easily supply the blank. The course of true love in Edith's
    case had run remarkably smooth. Mrs. Shaw had given way to the
    presentiment, as she expressed it; and had rather urged on the
    marriage, although it was below the expectations which many of
    Edith's acquaintances had formed for her, a young and pretty
    heiress. But Mrs. Shaw said that her only child should marry for
    love,--and sighed emphatically, as if love had not been her
    motive for marrying the General. Mrs. Shaw enjoyed the romance of
    the present engagement rather more than her daughter. Not but
    that Edith was very thoroughly and properly in love; still she
    would certainly have preferred a good house in Belgravia, to all
    the picturesqueness of the life which Captain Lennox described at
    Corfu. The very parts which made Margaret glow as she listened,
    Edith pretended to shiver and shudder at; partly for the pleasure
    she had in being coaxed out of her dislike by her fond lover, and
    partly because anything of a gipsy or make-shift life was really
    distasteful to her. Yet had any one come with a fine house, and a
    fine estate, and a fine title to boot, Edith would still have
    clung to Captain Lennox while the temptation lasted; when it was
    over, it is possible she might have had little qualms of
    ill-concealed regret that Captain Lennox could not have united in
    his person everything that was desirable. In this she was but her
    mother's child; who, after deliberately marrying General Shaw
    with no warmer feeling than respect for his character and
    establishment, was constantly, though quietly, bemoaning her hard
    lot in being united to one whom she could not love.

    'I have spared no expense in her trousseau,' were the next words
    Margaret heard.

    'She has all the beautiful Indian shawls and scarfs the General
    gave to me, but which I shall never wear again.'

    'She is a lucky girl,' replied another voice, which Margaret knew
    to be that of Mrs. Gibson, a lady who was taking a double
    interest in the conversation, from the fact of one of her
    daughters having been married within the last few weeks.

    'Helen had set her heart upon an Indian shawl, but really when I
    found what an extravagant price was asked, I was obliged to
    refuse her. She will be quite envious when she hears of Edith
    having Indian shawls. What kind are they? Delhi? with the lovely
    little borders?'

    Margaret heard her aunt's voice again, but this time it was as if
    she had raised herself up from her half-recumbent position, and
    were looking into the more dimly lighted back drawing-room.
    'Edith! Edith!' cried she; and then she sank as if wearied by the
    exertion. Margaret stepped forward.

    'Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it anything I can do?'

    All the ladies said 'Poor child!' on receiving this distressing
    intelligence about Edith; and the minute lap-dog in Mrs. Shaw's
    arms began to bark, as if excited by the burst of pity.

    'Hush, Tiny! you naughty little girl! you will waken your
    mistress. It was only to ask Edith if she would tell Newton to
    bring down her shawls: perhaps you would go, Margaret dear?'

    Margaret went up into the old nursery at the very top of the
    house, where Newton was busy getting up some laces which were
    required for the wedding. While Newton went (not without a
    muttered grumbling) to undo the shawls, which had already been
    exhibited four or five times that day, Margaret looked round upon
    the nursery; the first room in that house with which she had
    become familiar nine years ago, when she was brought, all untamed
    from the forest, to share the home, the play, and the lessons of
    her cousin Edith. She remembered the dark, dim look of the London
    nursery, presided over by an austere and ceremonious nurse, who
    was terribly particular about clean hands and torn frocks. She
    recollected the first tea up there--separate from her father and
    aunt, who were dining somewhere down below an infinite depth of
    stairs; for unless she were up in the sky (the child thought),
    they must be deep down in the bowels of the earth. At
    home--before she came to live in Harley Street--her mother's
    dressing-room had been her nursery; and, as they kept early hours
    in the country parsonage, Margaret had always had her meals with
    her father and mother. Oh! well did the tall stately girl of
    eighteen remember the tears shed with such wild passion of grief
    by the little girl of nine, as she hid her face under the
    bed-clothes, in that first night; and how she was bidden not to
    cry by the nurse, because it would disturb Miss Edith; and how
    she had cried as bitterly, but more quietly, till her newly-seen,
    grand, pretty aunt had come softly upstairs with Mr. Hale to show
    him his little sleeping daughter. Then the little Margaret had
    hushed her sobs, and tried to lie quiet as if asleep, for fear of
    making her father unhappy by her grief, which she dared not
    express before her aunt, and which she rather thought it was
    wrong to feel at all after the long hoping, and planning, and
    contriving they had gone through at home, before her wardrobe
    could be arranged so as to suit her. grander circumstances, and
    before papa could leave his parish to come up to London, even for
    a few days.

    Now she had got to love the old nursery, though it was but a
    dismantled place; and she looked all round, with a kind of
    cat-like regret, at the idea of leaving it for ever in three
    days.

    'Ah Newton!' said she, 'I think we shall all be sorry to leave
    this dear old room.'

    'Indeed, miss, I shan't for one. My eyes are not so good as they
    were, and the light here is so bad that I can't see to mend laces
    except just at the window, where there's always a shocking
    draught--enough to give one one's death of cold.'

    Well, I dare say you will have both good light and plenty of
    warmth at Naples. You must keep as much of your darning as you
    can till then. Thank you, Newton, I can take them down--you're
    busy.'

    So Margaret went down laden with shawls, and snuffing up their
    spicy Eastern smell. Her aunt asked her to stand as a sort of lay
    figure on which to display them, as Edith was still asleep. No
    one thought about it; but Margaret's tall, finely made figure, in
    the black silk dress which she was wearing as mourning for some
    distant relative of her father's, set off the long beautiful
    folds of the gorgeous shawls that would have half-smothered
    Edith. Margaret stood right under the chandelier, quite silent
    and passive, while her aunt adjusted the draperies. Occasionally,
    as she was turned round, she caught a glimpse of herself in the
    mirror over the chimney-piece, and smiled at her own appearance
    there-the familiar features in the usual garb of a princess. She
    touched the shawls gently as they hung around her, and took a
    pleasure in their soft feel and their brilliant colours, and
    rather liked to be dressed in such splendour--enjoying it much as
    a child would do, with a quiet pleased smile on her lips. Just
    then the door opened, and Mr. Henry Lennox was suddenly
    announced. Some of the ladies started back, as if half-ashamed of
    their feminine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw held out her hand to
    the new-comer; Margaret stood perfectly still, thinking she might
    be yet wanted as a sort of block for the shawls; but looking at
    Mr. Lennox with a bright, amused face, as if sure of his sympathy
    in her sense of the ludicrousness at being thus surprised.

    Her aunt was so much absorbed in asking Mr. Henry Lennox--who had
    not been able to come to dinner--all sorts of questions about his
    brother the bridegroom, his sister the bridesmaid (coming with
    the Captain from Scotland for the occasion), and various other
    members of the Lennox family, that Margaret saw she was no more
    wanted as shawl-bearer, and devoted herself to the amusement of
    the other visitors, whom her aunt had for the moment forgotten.
    Almost immediately, Edith came in from the back drawing-room,
    winking and blinking her eyes at the stronger light, shaking back
    her slightly-ruffled curls, and altogether looking like the
    Sleeping Beauty just startled from her dreams. Even in her
    slumber she had instinctively felt that a Lennox was worth
    rousing herself for; and she had a multitude of questions to ask
    about dear Janet, the future, unseen sister-in-law, for whom she
    professed so much affection, that if Margaret had not been very
    proud she might have almost felt jealous of the mushroom rival.
    As Margaret sank rather more into the background on her aunt's
    joining the conversation, she saw Henry Lennox directing his look
    towards a vacant seat near her; and she knew perfectly well that
    as soon as Edith released him from her questioning, he would take
    possession of that chair. She had not been quite sure, from her
    aunt's rather confused account of his engagements, whether he
    would come that night; it was almost a surprise to see him; and
    now she was sure of a pleasant evening. He liked and disliked
    pretty nearly the same things that she did. Margaret's face was
    lightened up into an honest, open brightness. By-and-by he came.
    She received him with a smile which had not a tinge of shyness or
    self-consciousness in it.

    'Well, I suppose you are all in the depths of business--ladies'
    business, I mean. Very different to my business, which is the
    real true law business. Playing with shawls is very different
    work to drawing up settlements.

    'Ah, I knew how you would be amused to find us all so occupied in
    admiring finery. But really Indian shawls are very perfect things
    of their kind.'

    'I have no doubt they are. Their prices are very perfect, too.
    Nothing wanting.' The gentlemen came dropping in one by one, and
    the buzz and noise deepened in tone.

    'This is your last dinner-party, is it not? There are no more
    before Thursday?'

    'No. I think after this evening we shall feel at rest, which I am
    sure I have not done for many weeks; at least, that kind of rest
    when the hands have nothing more to do, and all the arrangements
    are complete for an event which must occupy one's head and heart.
    I shall be glad to have time to think, and I am sure Edith will.'

    'I am not so sure about her; but I can fancy that you will.
    whenever I have seen you lately, you have been carried away by a
    whirlwind of some other person's making.'

    'Yes,' said Margaret, rather sadly, remembering the never-ending
    commotion about trifles that had been going on for more than a
    month past: 'I wonder if a marriage must always be preceded by
    what you call a whirlwind, or whether in some cases there might
    not rather be a calm and peaceful time just before it.'

    'Cinderella's godmother ordering the trousseau, the
    wedding-breakfast, writing the notes of invitation, for
    instance,' said Mr. Lennox, laughing.

    'But are all these quite necessary troubles?' asked Margaret,
    looking up straight at him for an answer. A sense of
    indescribable weariness of all the arrangements for a pretty
    effect, in which Edith had been busied as supreme authority for
    the last six weeks, oppressed her just now; and she really wanted
    some one to help her to a few pleasant, quiet ideas connected
    with a marriage.

    'Oh, of course,' he replied with a change to gravity in his tone.
    'There are forms and ceremonies to be gone through, not so much
    to satisfy oneself, as to stop the world's mouth, without which
    stoppage there would be very little satisfaction in life. But how
    would you have a wedding arranged?'

    'Oh, I have never thought much about it; only I should like it to
    be a very fine summer morning; and I should like to walk to
    church through the shade of trees; and not to have so many
    bridesmaids, and to have no wedding-breakfast. I dare say I am
    resolving against the very things that have given me the most
    trouble just now.'

    'No, I don't think you are. The idea of stately simplicity
    accords well with your character.'

    Margaret did not quite like this speech; she winced away from it
    more, from remembering former occasions on which he had tried to
    lead her into a discussion (in which he took the complimentary
    part) about her own character and ways of going on. She cut his
    speech rather short by saying:

    'It is natural for me to think of Helstone church, and the walk
    to it, rather than of driving up to a London church in the middle
    of a paved street.'

    'Tell me about Helstone. You have never described it to me. I
    should like to have some idea of the place you will be living in,
    when ninety-six Harley Street will be looking dingy and dirty,
    and dull, and shut up. Is Helstone a village, or a town, in the
    first place?'

    'Oh, only a hamlet; I don't think I could call it a village at
    all. There is the church and a few houses near it on the
    green--cottages, rather--with roses growing all over them.'

    'And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas--make
    your picture complete,' said he.

    'No,' replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, 'I am not making a
    picture. I am trying to describe Helstone as it really is. You
    should not have said that.'

    'I am penitent,' he answered. 'Only it really sounded like a
    village in a tale rather than in real life.'

    'And so it is,' replied Margaret, eagerly. 'All the other places
    in England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking,
    after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in a poem--in
    one of Tennyson's poems. But I won't try and describe it any
    more. You would only laugh at me if I told you what I think of
    it--what it really is.'

    'Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very
    resolved. Well, then, tell me that which I should like still
    better to know what the parsonage is like.'

    'Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its
    charm into words.'

    'I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret.

    'How?' said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him.
    'I did not know I was.'

    'Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me
    what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home,
    though I have told you how much I want to hear about both, the
    latter especially.'

    'But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I don't quite
    think it is a thing to be talked about, unless you knew it.'

    'Well, then'--pausing for a moment--'tell me what you do there.
    Here you read, or have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind,
    till the middle of the day; take a walk before lunch, go a drive
    with your aunt after, and have some kind of engagement in the
    evening. There, now fill up your day at Helstone. Shall you ride,
    drive, or walk?'

    'Walk, decidedly. We have no horse, not even for papa. He walks
    to the very extremity of his parish. The walks are so beautiful,
    it would be a shame to drive--almost a shame to ride.'

    'Shall you garden much? That, I believe, is a proper employment
    for young ladies in the country.'

    'I don't know. I am afraid I shan't like such hard work.'

    'Archery parties--pic-nics--race-balls--hunt-balls?'

    'Oh no!' said she, laughing. 'Papa's living is very small; and
    even if we were near such things, I doubt if I should go to
    them.'

    'I see, you won't tell me anything. You will only tell me that
    you are not going to do this and that. Before the vacation ends,
    I think I shall pay you a call, and see what you really do employ
    yourself in.'

    'I hope you will. Then you will see for yourself how beautiful
    Helstone is. Now I must go. Edith is sitting down to play, and I
    just know enough of music to turn over the leaves for her; and
    besides, Aunt Shaw won't like us to talk.' Edith played
    brilliantly. In the middle of the piece the door half-opened, and
    Edith saw Captain Lennox hesitating whether to come in. She threw
    down her music, and rushed out of the room, leaving Margaret
    standing confused and blushing to explain to the astonished
    guests what vision had shown itself to cause Edith's sudden
    flight. Captain Lennox had come earlier than was expected; or was
    it really so late? They looked at their watches, were duly
    shocked, and took their leave.

    Then Edith came back, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly,
    half-proudly leading in her tall handsome Captain. His brother
    shook hands with him, and Mrs. Shaw welcomed him in her gentle
    kindly way, which had always something plaintive in it, arising
    from the long habit of considering herself a victim to an
    uncongenial marriage. Now that, the General being gone, she had
    every good of life, with as few drawbacks as possible, she had
    been rather perplexed to find an anxiety, if not a sorrow. She
    had, however, of late settled upon her own health as a source of
    apprehension; she had a nervous little cough whenever she thought
    about it; and some complaisant doctor ordered her just what she
    desired,--a winter in Italy. Mrs. Shaw had as strong wishes as
    most people, but she never liked to do anything from the open and
    acknowledged motive of her own good will and pleasure; she
    preferred being compelled to gratify herself by some other
    person's command or desire. She really did persuade herself that
    she was submitting to some hard external necessity; and thus she
    was able to moan and complain in her soft manner, all the time
    she was in reality doing just what she liked.

    It was in this way she began to speak of her own journey to
    Captain Lennox, who assented, as in duty bound, to all his future
    mother-in-law said, while his eyes sought Edith, who was busying
    herself in rearranging the tea-table, and ordering up all sorts
    of good things, in spite of his assurances that he had dined
    within the last two hours.

    Mr. Henry Lennox stood leaning against the chimney-piece, amused
    with the family scene. He was close by his handsome brother; he
    was the plain one in a singularly good-looking family; but his
    face was intelligent, keen, and mobile; and now and then Margaret
    wondered what it was that he could be thinking about, while he
    kept silence, but was evidently observing, with an interest that
    was slightly sarcastic, all that Edith and she were doing. The
    sarcastic feeling was called out by Mrs. Shaw's conversation with
    his brother; it was separate from the interest which was excited
    by what he saw. He thought it a pretty sight to see the two
    cousins so busy in their little arrangements about the table.
    Edith chose to do most herself. She was in a humour to enjoy
    showing her lover how well she could behave as a soldier's wife.
    She found out that the water in the urn was cold, and ordered up
    the great kitchen tea-kettle; the only consequence of which was
    that when she met it at the door, and tried to carry it in, it
    was too heavy for her, and she came in pouting, with a black mark
    on her muslin gown, and a little round white hand indented by the
    handle, which she took to show to Captain Lennox, just like a
    hurt child, and, of course, the remedy was the same in both
    cases. Margaret's quickly-adjusted spirit-lamp was the most
    efficacious contrivance, though not so like the gypsy-encampment
    which Edith, in some of her moods, chose to consider the nearest
    resemblance to a barrack-life. After this evening all was bustle
    till the wedding was over.
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