"Suppose papa was to let me have you," said Flora. "If he wants you, he must come after you."
Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was gone, but she said, "If I am not too awkward for you, dear Flora. You will miss Meta terribly."
"I can't keep the humming-bird caged, with her heart far away," said Flora.
Dr. May came in to break up the conversation, and Ethel quickly guessed from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. Flora told him that she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meta had much better not miss this opportunity. He was far less startled than Ethel had expected; indeed, the proposal was rather a relief to his mind, and his chief objection was the fear that Flora would be fatigued by the extra bustle; but she promised not to trouble herself about it, otherwise than that if Norman could not persuade Meta, she would. The sisters parted, much more comfortable than before. Ethel felt as if she had found something like a dim reflection of Margaret, and Flora's fear of Ethel had fled away from the mere force of sisterhood.
As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to make the proposal to Meta, though he was only too grateful; so his father carried it to the humming-bird; and, as soon as she found that it was not improper, nor would hurt any one's feelings, she gave ready consent--only begging that it might be as best suited every one, especially Flora; and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly friend, owning that she was "very glad--she meant she was very glad there would be nobody there."
So Norman and Meta settled their plans as they walked home together from evening service, after listening to the prophecies of the blessings to be spread into the waste and desolate places, which should yet become the heritage of the Chosen, and with the evening star shining on them, like a faint reflex of the Star of the East, Who came to be a Light to lighten the Gentiles.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Euna delle facolta singolari ed incommunicabili della religione Cristiana questa, di poter dare indirizzo e quiete a chiunoque, in qualsivoglia congiuntura, a qualsivoglia termine, ricorra ad essa.
Se al passato v'e rimedio, essa lo prescrive, lo somministra, presta lume e vigore per metterlo in opera a qualunque costo; se non v'e, essa da il, modo di fare realmento e in effeto, cio che 1' uom dice in proverbio, della necessita virtu. Insegna a continuare con sapienza cio che e stato intrapreso per leggerezza, piega l'animo ad abbracciare con propensione cio che e stato imposto dalla prepotenza, e da ad un elezione che fu temeraria, ma che e irrevocabile, tutta la santita, tutto il consiglio, diciamolo pur francamenta, tutte le gioje della vocazione.--MANZONI.
The wedding-day was fixed for the 20th of January, since it was less risk to Flora as an absolute invalid, than as convalescent enough to take any share in the doings.
Meta managed her correspondence with her own relatives, and obtained her uncle's kind approval, since he saw there could be nothing else; while her aunt treated her as an infatuated victim, but wished, for her mother's sake, to meet her in London before she sailed.
The worst stroke of all was to Bellairs, who had never chosen to believe that her mistress could move without her, and though mortally afraid in crossing to the Isle of Wight, and utterly abhorring all "natives," went into hysterics on finding that her young lady would take out no maid but a little hard-working village girl; and though transferred in the most flattering manner to Mrs. Rivers's service, shed a tear for every stitch she set in the trousseau, and assured her betrothed butler that, if Miss Rivers would only have heard reason, she would have followed her to the world's end, rather than that her beautiful hair should never look like anything again.
So the wedding-day came, and grass and trees wore a fitting suit of crisp hoariness. Nothing could be quieter. Meta was arrayed by the sobbing Bellairs in her simple bridal white, wrapped herself in a large shawl, took her brother's arm, and walked down the frosty path with him and Mrs. Arnott, as if going merely to the daily service.
The time had not been made known, and there was hardly an addition to the ordinary congregation, except the May family and Dr. Spencer; but the Christmas evergreens still adorned aisle and chancel, and over the altar stood the motto that Meta herself had woven of holly, on that Christmas Eve of grief and anxiety, without knowing how it would speak to her.
Fear not, for behold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy, that shall be unto you and to all people.
Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for hardship, privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad tidings are to all people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye have your portion in the great joy--ye have freely cast in your lot with those, whose feet are beautiful on the mountains, who bear the good tidings. Fear not, for He is with you, who will never forsake.
Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked at his son's clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when he made his Confirmation vow--his natural nervous excitability quelled by a spirit not his own, and chastened into strong purpose; and the bride, her young face the more lovely for the depth of enthusiasm restrained by awe and humility, as she stood without trembling or faltering, the strength of innocence expressed in the whole bearing of her slight figure in her white drapery. Around were the four sisterly bride's-maids, their black dresses showing that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and that none would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour of love.
When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband's arm, turned for a last look at the altar of her own church, "Fear not," in evergreen letters, was the greeting she bore away.
Ethel was left at the Grange for the ensuing fortnight--a time of unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized highly, for it taught them to know each other as they had never done before.
Flora's confidence to her aunt had been a good thing for her, though so partial; it opened the way for further unreserve to one who knew the circumstances better, and, as to dread of Ethel, that could seldom prevail in her presence, partly from long habit, partly from her deficiency of manner, and still more from her true humility and affection. Gradually she arrived at the perception of the history of her sister's mind; understood what gloom had once overshadowed it; and how, since light had once shone upon her, she shrank not merely from the tasks that had become wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing among them her present peace.
"They are your duty," argued Ethel. "Duty brings peace."
"They were not," said Flora.
"They are now," said Ethel.
"Dinners and parties, empty talk and vain show," said Flora languidly.
"Are you come to their defence, Ethel? If you could guess how sick one gets of them, and how much worse it is for them not to be hateful!
And to think of bringing my poor little girl up to the like, if she is spared!"
"If they are not duties, I would not do them," said Ethel.
"Ethel," cried her sister, raising herself from her couch eagerly, "I will say it to you! What should you think of George resigning his seat, and living in peace here?"
"Would he?" said Ethel.
"If I wished it."
"But what would he do with himself?" said Ethel, not in too complimentary a strain.
"Yachting, farming, Cochin-Chinese--or something," said Flora. "Anything not so wearing as this!"
"That abominable candidate of Tomkins's would come in!" exclaimed Ethel.
"Oh, Flora, that would be horrid!"
"That might be guarded against," said Flora. "Perhaps Sir Henry--But oh!
let us leave politics in peace while we can. I thought we should do some great good, but it is all a maze of confusion. It is so hard to know principles from parties, and everything goes wrong! It is of no use to contend with it!"
"It is never vain to contend with evil," said Ethel.
"We are not generalising," said Flora. "There is evil nearer home than the state of parties, and I can't see that George's being in Parliament--being what he is--is anything like the benefit to things in general--that it is temptation and plague to me, besides the risk of London life for the baby, now and hereafter."
"I can't say that I think it is," said Ethel. "How nice it would be to have you here! I am so glad you are willing to give it up."
"It would have been better to have given it up untasted--like Norman,"
sighed Flora. "I will talk to George."
"But, Flora," said Ethel, a little startled, "you ought not to do such a thing without advice."
"There will be worry enough before it is done!" sighed Flora. "No fear of that!"
"Stop a minute," said Ethel, as if poor Flora could have done anything but lie still on her sofa. "I think you ought to consider well before you set it going."
"Have not I longed for it day and night? It is an escape from peril for ourselves and our child."
"I can't be sure!" said Ethel. "It may be more wrong to make George desert the post which--"
"Which I thrust him into," said Flora. "My father told me as much."
"I did not mean you to say that! But it is a puzzle. It seems as if it were right to give up such things; yet, when I recollect the difficulty of carrying an election right at Stoneborough, I think papa would be very sorry. I don't think his interest would bring in any sound man but his son-in-law; and George himself seems to like his parliamentary life better than anything else."
"Yes," said Flora hesitatingly; for she knew it was true--he liked to think himself important, and it gave him something to think of, and regular occupation--not too active or onerous; but she could not tell Ethel what she herself felt; that all she could do for him could not prevent him from being held cheap by the men among whom she had placed him.