"She is a lucky girl," replied another voice, which Margaret knew to bethat of Mrs. Gibson, a lady who was taking a double interest in theconversation, from the fact of one of her daughters having been marriedwithin the last few weeks. "Helen had set her heart upon an Indianshawl, but really when I found what an extravagant price was asked, Iwas obliged to refuse her. She will be quite envious when she hears ofEdith having Indian shawls. What kind are they? Delhi? with the lovelylittle borders?"
Margaret heard her aunt"s voice again, but this time it was as if she hadraised herself up from her half-recumbent position, and were lookinginto the more dimly lighted back drawing-room. "Edith! Edith!" criedshe; and then she sank as if wearied by the exertion. Margaret steppedforward.
"Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw. Is it anything I can do?"
All the ladies said "Poor child!" on receiving this distressing intelligenceabout 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. Itwas only to ask Edith if she would tell Newton to bring down hershawls: 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 forthe wedding. While Newton went (not without a muttered grumbling) toundo the shawls, which had already been exhibited four or five timesthat day, Margaret looked round upon the nursery; the first room in thathouse with which she had become familiar nine years ago, when shewas brought, all untamed from the forest, to share the home, the play,and the lessons of her cousin Edith. She remembered the dark, dim lookof the London nursery, presided over by an austere and ceremoniousnurse, 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; forunless she were up in the sky (the child thought), they must be deepdown in the bowels of the earth. At home--before she came to live inHarley Street--her mother"s dressing-room had been her nursery; and, asthey kept early hours in the country parsonage, Margaret had alwayshad her meals with her father and mother. Oh! well did the tall statelygirl of eighteen remember the tears shed with such wild passion of griefby the little girl of nine, as she hid her face under the bed-clothes, inthat first night; and how she was bidden not to cry by the nurse, becauseit would disturb Miss Edith; and how she had cried as bitterly, but morequietly, till her newly-seen, grand, pretty aunt had come softly upstairswith Mr. Hale to show him his little sleeping daughter. Then the littleMargaret had hushed her sobs, and tried to lie quiet as if asleep, for fearof making her father unhappy by her grief, which she dared not expressbefore her aunt, and which she rather thought it was wrong to feel at allafter the long hoping, and planning, and contriving they had gonethrough at home, before her wardrobe could be arranged so as to suither. grander circumstances, and before papa could leave his parish tocome up to London, even for a few days.
Now she had got to love the old nursery, though it was but a dismantledplace; and she looked all round, with a kind of cat-like regret, at theidea of leaving it for ever in three days.
"Ah Newton!" said she, "I think we shall all be sorry to leave this dearold 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 atthe window, where there"s always a shocking draught--enough to giveone one"s death of cold."
Well, I dare say you will have both good light and plenty of warmth atNaples. 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 spicyEastern smell. Her aunt asked her to stand as a sort of lay figure onwhich to display them, as Edith was still asleep. No one thought aboutit; but Margaret"s tall, finely made figure, in the black silk dress whichshe was wearing as mourning for some distant relative of her father"s,set off the long beautiful folds of the gorgeous shawls that would havehalf-smothered Edith. Margaret stood right under the chandelier, quitesilent and passive, while her aunt adjusted the draperies. Occasionally,as she was turned round, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrorover the chimney-piece, and smiled at her own appearance there-thefamiliar features in the usual garb of a princess. She touched the shawlsgently as they hung around her, and took a pleasure in their soft feel andtheir brilliant colours, and rather liked to be dressed in such splendour-enjoyingit much as a child would do, with a quiet pleased smile on herlips. Just then the door opened, and Mr. Henry Lennox was suddenlyannounced. Some of the ladies started back, as if half-ashamed of theirfeminine interest in dress. Mrs. Shaw held out her hand to the newcomer;Margaret stood perfectly still, thinking she might be yet wantedas a sort of block for the shawls; but looking at Mr. Lennox with abright, amused face, as if sure of his sympathy in her sense of theludicrousness at being thus surprised.
