Hilary answered that the sale was to take place next week; whereupon he observed that he should then probably be at Paris, as he and Miss Barham had agreed to pass through France, intending to go by way of Marseilles to Italy, and to spend great part of the winter at Naples, with Lord Dunsmore. Accounts from him continued very variable, and it was his uncertain state that made them desirous to have the wedding a quiet one.
Hilary was surprised. “A quiet wedding!” thought she; “I wonder what they would have had.” She had heard of guests to the number nearly of a hundred expected at church: she had heard of feasting of the tenantry, and ale and bonfires, garlands, and flower-strewing, processions of children in new frocks and bonnets, and other gayeties, which Isabel seemed indefatigable in planning in the most poetical style, and arranging in the most symmetrical manner. It seemed very right and suitable for those in the rank and station of Mr. Barham’s daughters; perfectly consistent with their future expectations also, for they were co-heiresses of a large property, and held a leading position among the county society. Mrs. Hepburn had not a word to say against the facts, but it amazed her to hear such proceedings styled “quietness;” so she contented herself with observing that she had no doubt but that it would all be extremely elegant, and kept her other opinions to herself.
Mr. Ufford seemed to take for granted that his auditors felt a
strong interest in his proceedings, and accordingly conversed for some time with fluency on his bride’s various plans; but at length, remembering that he must go home, he took leave, with sundry good wishes for their welfare, and a kindness of manner which would have been very pleasing, had there been no private unacknowledged feelings to turn it into pain.
Gwyneth, whose face looked in a white heat, perfectly intelligible to those who knew her well, watched him out of the room, and listened for the closing of the house-door, then turning away, she murmured, with a sigh of relief, “To-morrow.”
The morrow came, and early in the dull morning the sisters, accompanied by one attached domestic, who had lived with them from girlhood, when she waited on Hilary’s mother, and was now an active and respectable woman, a little above forty, set off on their journey to meet some branch of the complicated iron framework which ramifies so widely through our land, and which, after a due number of changes, a sufficient degree of waiting at some stations, hurry at others, and misunderstanding at all, of trouble, of anxiety, and of delay, landed them safely within as short a distance of their future home as they could hope to attain.
Mrs. Lawrence kindly met them at the station, and her carriage conveyed the somewhat dispirited and weary travelers from thence to their new abode. It had been a mournful day, and one which required every support that trusting love and humble faith could afford, not to overpower composure. After catching the last glimpse of those dear old trees, Gwyneth had drawn down her thick crape vail, and long after that time no unnecessary word had passed her lips; but whether she were crying or not her sister could not tell.
Hilary had so many important trifles to attend to that she could not give her mind wholly to thought or feeling, and for some time she scarcely realized what had occurred. Still, in those periods of tranquillity which intervened, when she could think composedly, there was ever a light rising up clear and pure, although distant far, which brightened the gloom of
her prospects, and prevented her being overwhelmed with sorrow. Hurstdene was not to her the whole world, as it was to Gwyneth; and though tender remembrances and buried affections must hover round the graves of the dear ones lying there, her heart was not at the Vicarage now: the tie that had bound her was broken, and another and a stronger bore her on in hope. It was her husband’s wish she was fulfilling, and she felt as if, now that she was brought more entirely to depend on him, they were more closely united than ever. She might now give him the first claim on her thoughts, which before had been shared with her father; and though hardly yet accustomed to the void which their recent and great loss had occasioned, she had hope and tender love to fill it up. Every step seemed to bring her nearer to her husband, since every step was in obedience to him, and although the parting from her old home had been a bitter effort, she was able to throw her mind forward, with some degree of cheerfulness, to the future.
And more than all the earthly love which brightened her path was that high and holy, that deeply reverent affection, of which conjugal union is but a type and an emblem; that trust and simple faith which can always support the most lonely, and soothe the most sad.