'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.