Mrs. Warrender had her little triumph that afternoon. She said, with the most delicate politeness: “I hope, Minnie, that Eustace after all will be able to tolerate his new brother-in-law.” Minnie gave her mother a look of such astonishment as proved that the fine edge of the sarcasm was lost.
“To tolerate—a Cavendish! I can’t think what you mean, mamma! Eustace is not an ignorant goose, though you seem to think so; nor am I.”
“I am glad your Honours are pleased,” said the ironical mother, with a laugh. Minnie stared and repeated the speech to Eustace, who was not very clear either about its meaning. But “Depend upon it, dear, your mother meant to be nasty,” he said, which was quite true.
After this, all was commotion in the house. Dick, though he had been an uncertain lover, was very urgent now. He made a brief explanation to Mrs. Warrender that his proposal had not been made at the time they parted in London, “only because of an entanglement of early youth,” which made her look grave. “I do not inquire what you mean,” she said, “but I hope at least that it is entirely concluded.” “Entirely,” he replied with fervour; “nor am I to blame as you think, nor has it had any existence for six years. I was young then.” “Very young, poor boy!” she said with her old indulgent smile. He made the same brief explanation to Chatty, but Chatty had no understanding whatever of what the words meant and took no notice. If she thought of it at all she thought it was something about money, to her a matter of the most complete indifference. And so everything became bustle and commotion, and the preparations for the wedding were put in hand at once. The atmosphere was full of congratulations, of blushes and wreathed smiles. “Marriage is certainly contagious; when it once begins in a family, one never knows where it will stop,” the neighbours said: and some thought Mrs. Warrender much to be felicitated on getting all her young people settled; and some, much to be condoled with on losing her last girl just as she had settled down. But these last were in the minority, for to get rid of your daughters is a well understood advantage, which commends itself to the meanest capacity.
It was arranged for the convenience of everybody that the wedding was to take place in London. Dick’s relations were legion, and to stow them away in the Dower house at Highcombe, or even to find room to give them a sandwich and a glass of wine, let alone a breakfast, after the ceremony, was impossible. Dick himself was particularly urgent about this particular, he could not have told why, whether from a foreboding of disturbance or some other incomprehensible reason. But as for disturbance, there was no possibility of that. Every evil thing that could have interfered had been exorcised and lost its power. There was nothing in his way; nothing to alarm or trouble, but only general approval and the satisfaction of everybody concerned.
XLII
Lizzie Hampson heard, like everybody in the village, of what was about to happen. Miss Chatty was going to be married. At first all that was known was that the bridegroom was a gentleman from London, which in those days was a description imposing to rustics. He was a gentleman who had once been visiting at the Rectory, who had been seen in the rector’s pew at church, and walking about the village, and on the road to the Warren. Many of the village gossips remembered, or thought they remembered, to have seen him, and they said to each other, with a natural enjoyment of a love story which never fails in women, that no doubt that was when “it was all made up.” It gave many of them a great deal of pleasure to think that before Miss Minnie had ever seen “that parson,” her more popular sister had also had a lover, though he hadn’t spoken till after, being mayhap a shy gentleman, as is seen often and often. He was a fair-haired gentleman and very pleasant spoken. What his name was nobody cared so much; the villagers found it more easy to recollect him by the colour of his hair than by his name. It was some time before Lizzie identified the gentleman whom Miss Chatty was about to marry. She had a small part of the trousseau to prepare, one or two morning dresses to make, a commission which made her proud and happy, and gave her honour in the sight of her friends and detractors, a thing dear to all. And then at the very last Lizzie discovered who the bridegroom was. The discovery affected her very greatly. It was the occasion of innumerable self-arguments, carried on in the absolute seclusion of a mind occupied by matters, its acquaintance with which is unknown. Old Mrs. Bagley talked about the marriage to everyone who came into the shop. It was, she said, almost as if it was a child of her own.
Thus Lizzie heard—all that there was to hear: and her mind grew more perplexed as time went on. She had the strange ignorances and the still more strange beliefs common to her kind. She put her faith in those popular glosses of the
