Ethel recognised Alan Ernescliffe’s pearl hoop, the betrothal ring, and looked at her sister without a word.
“I wish it,” said Margaret gently. “I shall like best to know it there.”
So Margaret joined in Alan’s offering, and Ethel dared say no more, as she thought how the “relic of a frail love lost” was becoming the “token of endless love begun.” There was more true union in this, than in clinging to the mere tangible emblem—for broken and weak is all affection that is not knit together above in the One Infinite Love.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Of lowly fields you think no scorn,
Yet gayest gardens would adorn,
And grace wherever set;
Home, seated in your lowly bower,
Or wedded, a transplanted flower,
I bless you, Margaret.—CHARLES LAMB.
George Rivers had an antipathy to ladies’ last words keeping the horses standing, and his wife and sister dutifully seated themselves in the carriage at once, without an attempt to linger.
Four of the young gentlemen were to walk across to Abbotstoke and dine at the Grange; and Tom, who, reasoning from analogy, had sent on his black tie and agate studs, was so dismally disconcerted on finding that Norman treated his own going as a matter of course, that Richard, whose chief use of his right of primogeniture was to set himself aside, discovered that he was wanted at home, and that Tom would be much better at the Grange, offering, at the same time, to send Norman’s dressing things by Dr. Spencer.
“Which,” observed Thomas, “he would never have recollected for himself.”
“Tom would have had to lend him the precious studs.”—“He would not have had them; who would wear imitation?” “I say, Tom, what did you give for them?” “Better ask what the Jew gave for them, that bought them at Windsor Fair; not a bad imitation, either—pity they weren’t Malachite; but, no doubt, the Jew thought green would be personal.” “As if they had any business to talk, who didn’t know a respectable stud when they saw it—Harry, especially, with his hat set on the back of his head, like a sailor on the stage”—(a leap to set it to rights—a skirmish, knocking Tom nearly into the ditch). “Fine experience of the stage—all came from Windsor Fair.” “Ay, Hector might talk, but didn’t he pay a shilling to see the Irish giant. He wouldn’t confess, but it was a famous take in—giant had potatoes in his shoes.” “Not he; he was seven feet ten high.” “Ay, when he stood upon a stool—Hector would swallow anything—even the lady of a million postage stamps had not stuck in his throat—he had made Margaret collect for her.” “And, had not Tom, himself, got a bottle of ointment to get the red out of his hair?”—(great fury). “His hair wasn’t red—didn’t want to change the colour—not half so red as Hector’s own.” “What was it then? lively auburn?” But for fear of Norman’s losing his bearings, Harry would fetch a carrot, to compare. “Better colour than theirs could ever be.” “Then what was the ointment for? to produce whiskers? that was the reason Tom oiled himself like a Loyalty islander—his hair was so shiny, that Harry recommended a top-knot, like theirs, etc.”