'Such forgiveness that she has forgotten there is anything to forgive,'
said Charles.
Philip Morville and Laura Edmonstone stood before Mr. Ross. It was not such a wedding as the last. There was more personal beauty, but no such air of freshness, youth, and peace. He was, indeed, a very fine-looking man, his countenance more noble than it had ever been, though pale and not only betraying the present suffering of the throbbing, burning brow, but with the appearance of a care-worn, harassed man, looking more as if his age was five-and-thirty than eight-and-twenty. And she, in her plain white muslin and quiet bonnet, was hardly bridal-looking in dress, and so it was with her face, still beautiful and brilliant in complexion, but with the weight of care permanent on it, and all the shades of feeling concealed by a fixed command of countenance, unable, however, to hide the oppression of dejection and anxiety.
Yet to the eyes that only beheld the surface, there was nothing but prosperity and happiness in a marriage between a pair who had loved so long and devotedly, and after going through so much for each other's sake, were united at length, with wealth, honour, and distinction before them. His health was re-established, and the last spring had proved that his talents would place him in such a position as had been the very object of his highest hopes. Was not everything here for which the fondest and most aspiring wishes could seek? Yet for the very reason that there was sadness at almost every heart, not one tear was shed.
Mrs. Edmonstone's thoughts were less engrossed with the bride than with the young slender figure in black, standing in her own drooping way, her head bent down, and the fingers of her right hand clasping tight her wedding-ring, through her white glove.
The service was over. Laura hung round her mother's neck in an ardent embrace.
'Your pardon! O, mamma, I see it all now!'
Poor thing! she had too much failed in a daughter's part to go forth from her home with the clear, loving, hopeful heart her sister had carried from it! Mrs. Edmonstone's kiss was a full answer, however, a kiss unlike what it had been with all her efforts for many and many a month.
'Amy, pray that it may not be visited!' were the last words breathed to her sister, as they were pressed in each other's arms.
Philip scarcely spoke, only met their kindnesses with grateful gestures and looks, and brief replies, and the parting was hastened that he might as soon as possible be at rest. His only voluntary speech was as he bade farewell to Amabel,--
'My sister now!'
'And _his_ brother,' she answered. 'Good-bye!'
As soon as Amabel was alone in the carriage with Charles, she leant back, and gave way to a flood of tears.
'Amy, has it been too much?'
'No,' she said, recovering herself; 'but I am so glad! It was _his_ chief desire. Now everything he wished is fulfilled.'
'And you are free of your great charge. He has been a considerable care to you, but now he is safe on Laura's hands, and well and satisfactory; so you have no care but your daughter, and we settle into our home life.'
Amabel smiled.
'Amy, I do wish I was sure you are happy.'
'Yes, dear Charlie, indeed I am. You are all so very kind to me, and it is a blessing, indeed, that my own dear home can open to take in me and baby. You know _he_ liked giving me back to you.'
'And it is happiness, not only thinking it ought to be! Don't let me tease you, Amy, don't answer if you had rather not.'
'Thank you, Charlie, it _is_ happiness. It must be when I remember how very happy he used to be, and there can be nothing to spoil it. When I see how all the duties of his station worry and perplex Philip, I am glad he was spared from it, and had all his freshness and brightness his whole life. It beams out on me more now, and it was such perfect happiness while I had him here, and it is such a pleasure and honour to be called by his name; besides, there is baby. Oh! Charlie, I must be happy--I am; do believe it! Indeed, you know I have you and mamma and all too. And, Charlie, I think he made you all precious to me over again by the way he loved you all, and sent me back, to you especially. Yes, Charlie, you must not fancy I grieve. I am very happy, for he is, and all I have is made bright and precious by him.'
'Yes,' said he, looking at her, as the colour had come into her face, and she looked perfectly lovely with eager, sincere happiness; one of her husband's sweetest looks reflected on her face; altogether, such a picture of youth, joy, and love, as had not been displayed by the bride that morning. 'Amy, I don't believe anything could make you long unhappy!'
'Nothing but my own fault. Nothing else can part me from him,' she whispered almost to herself.
'Yes; no one else had such a power of making happy,' said Charles, thoughtfully. 'Amy, I really don't know whether even you owe as much to your husband as I do. You were good for something before, but when I look back on what I was when first he came, I know that his leading, unconscious as it was, brought out the stifled good in me. What a wretch I should have been; what a misery to myself and to you all by this time, and now, I verily believe, that since he let in the sunlight from heaven on me, I am better off than if I had as many legs as other people.'
'Better off?'
'Yes. Nobody else lives in such an atmosphere of petting, and has so little to plague them. Nobody else has such a "mamma," to say nothing of silly little Amy, or Charlotte, or Miss Morville. And as to being of no use, which I used to pine about--why, when the member for Moorworth governs the country, I mean to govern him.'
'I am sure you are of wonderful use to every one,' said Amabel; 'neither Philip nor papa could get on without you to do their writing for them.
Besides, I want you to help me when baby grows older.'
'Is that the laudable result of that great book on education I saw you reading the other day?' said Charles. 'Why don't you borrow a few hints from Mrs. Henley?'
Amy's clear, playful laugh was just what it used to be.
'It is all settled, then, that you go on with us! Not that I ever thought you were going to do anything so absurd as to set up for yourself, you silly little woman: but it seems to be considered right to come to a formal settlement about such a grand personage as my Lady Morville.'
'Yes; it was better to come to an understanding,' said Amabel. 'It was better that papa should make up his mind to see that I can't turn into a young lady again. You see Charlotte will go out with him and be the Miss Edmonstone for company, and he is so proud of her liveliness and--how pretty she is growing--so that will keep him from being vexed. So now you see I can go on my own way, attend to baby, and take Laura's business about the school, and keep out of the way of company, so that it is very nice and comfortable. It is the very thing that Guy wished!'
Amabel's life is here pretty well shown. That of Philip and Laura may be guessed at. He was a distinguished man, one of the most honoured and respected in the country, admired for his talents and excellence, and regarded universally as highly prosperous and fortunate, the pride of all who had any connection with him. Yet it was a harassed, anxious life, with little of repose or relief; and Laura spent her time between watching him and tending his health, and in the cares and representation befitting her station, with little space for domestic pleasure and home comfort, knowing her children more intimately through her sister's observation than through her own.
Perfect and devoted as ever was their love, and they were thought most admirable and happy people. There was some wonder at his being a grave, melancholy man, when he had all before him so richly to enjoy, contrary to every probability when he began life. Still there was one who never could understand why others should think him stern and severe, and why even his own children should look up to him with love that partook of distant awe and respect, one to whom he never was otherwise than indulgent, nay, almost reverential, in the gentleness of his kindness, and that was Mary Verena Morville.
THE END.