'You are wet through, poor child; come up at once, and change,' said Amy, flying nimbly up the stairs,--up even to Charlotte's own room, the old nursery, and there she was unfastening the drenched finery.
'O Amy, don't do all this. Let me ring.'
'No, the servants are either not come home or are too busy. Charles won't want me, he has Guy. Can I find your white frock?'
'Oh, but Amy--let me see!' Charlotte made prisoner the left hand, and looked up with an arch smile at the face where she had called up a blush. 'Lady Morville must not begin by being lady's-maid.'
'Let me--let me, Charlotte, dear, I sha'n't be able to do anything for you this long time.' Amy's voice trembled, and Charlotte held her fast to kiss her again.
'We must make haste,' said Amy, recovering herself. 'There are the carriages.'
While the frock was being fastened, Charlotte looked into the Prayer-book Amy had laid down. There was the name, Amabel Frances Morville, and the date.
'Has he just written it?' said Charlotte.
'Yes; when we came home.'
'O Amy! dear, dear Amy; I don't know whether I am glad or sorry!'
'I believe I am both,' said Amy.
At that moment Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura hastened in. Then was the time for broken words, tears and smiles, as Amy leant against her mother, who locked her in a close embrace, and gazed on her in a sort of trance, at once of maternal pride and of pain, at giving up her cherished nestling. Poor Laura! how bitter were her tears, and how forced her smiles,--far unlike the rest!
No one would care to hear the details of the breakfast, and the splendours of the cake; how Charlotte recovered her spirits while distributing the favours: and Lady Eveleen set up a flirtation with Markham, and forced him into wearing one, though he protested, with many a grunt, that she was making a queer fool of him; how often Charles was obliged to hear it had been a pretty wedding; and how well Lord Kilcoran made his speech proposing the health of Sir Guy and Lady Morville. All the time, Laura was active and useful,--feeling as if she was acting a play, sustaining the character of Miss Edmonstone, the bridesmaid at her sister's happy marriage; while the true Laura, Philip's Laura, was lonely, dejected, wretched; half fearing for her sister, half jealous of her happiness, forced into pageantry with an aching heart,--with only one wish, that it was over, and that she might be again alone with her burden.