Part 117 (1/2)

'Such forgiveness that she has forgotten there is anything to forgive,'

said Charles.

Philip Morville and Laura Edmonstone stood before Mr. Ross. It was not such a wedding as the last. There was more personal beauty, but no such air of freshness, youth, and peace. He was, indeed, a very fine-looking man, his countenance more n.o.ble than it had ever been, though pale and not only betraying the present suffering of the throbbing, burning brow, but with the appearance of a care-worn, hara.s.sed man, looking more as if his age was five-and-thirty than eight-and-twenty. And she, in her plain white muslin and quiet bonnet, was hardly bridal-looking in dress, and so it was with her face, still beautiful and brilliant in complexion, but with the weight of care permanent on it, and all the shades of feeling concealed by a fixed command of countenance, unable, however, to hide the oppression of dejection and anxiety.

Yet to the eyes that only beheld the surface, there was nothing but prosperity and happiness in a marriage between a pair who had loved so long and devotedly, and after going through so much for each other's sake, were united at length, with wealth, honour, and distinction before them. His health was re-established, and the last spring had proved that his talents would place him in such a position as had been the very object of his highest hopes. Was not everything here for which the fondest and most aspiring wishes could seek? Yet for the very reason that there was sadness at almost every heart, not one tear was shed.

Mrs. Edmonstone's thoughts were less engrossed with the bride than with the young slender figure in black, standing in her own drooping way, her head bent down, and the fingers of her right hand clasping tight her wedding-ring, through her white glove.

The service was over. Laura hung round her mother's neck in an ardent embrace.

'Your pardon! O, mamma, I see it all now!'

Poor thing! she had too much failed in a daughter's part to go forth from her home with the clear, loving, hopeful heart her sister had carried from it! Mrs. Edmonstone's kiss was a full answer, however, a kiss unlike what it had been with all her efforts for many and many a month.

'Amy, pray that it may not be visited!' were the last words breathed to her sister, as they were pressed in each other's arms.

Philip scarcely spoke, only met their kindnesses with grateful gestures and looks, and brief replies, and the parting was hastened that he might as soon as possible be at rest. His only voluntary speech was as he bade farewell to Amabel,--

'My sister now!'

'And _his_ brother,' she answered. 'Good-bye!'

As soon as Amabel was alone in the carriage with Charles, she leant back, and gave way to a flood of tears.

'Amy, has it been too much?'

'No,' she said, recovering herself; 'but I am so glad! It was _his_ chief desire. Now everything he wished is fulfilled.'

'And you are free of your great charge. He has been a considerable care to you, but now he is safe on Laura's hands, and well and satisfactory; so you have no care but your daughter, and we settle into our home life.'

Amabel smiled.

'Amy, I do wish I was sure you are happy.'