North and South
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 depth 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—picnics—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
re-arranging 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