Sir Oliver asked, as Philip appeared to hand his sister out.
“I will tell you, sir, in a moment,” replied Philip. “Allow me to speak to Henrietta first.” “Surely, surely,” said Sir Oliver, perceiving that there was some bad news. He quickly alighted, cast a glance at one or two bowing strangers on the steps, and hastened to open the door of his own private sitting-room for Henrietta and her brother, shutting it after them before he did the honours to anybody else.
“What is it, Philip?” asked Henrietta.
“Sit down, my dear sister, and I will tell you.—Yes, I bring bad news. You will be a dearer sister than ever henceforward, Henrietta.”
“Margaret!” she exclaimed. “Have we lost Margaret? O! our poor father!”
“We have not lost her yet: but we must submit to part with her. There is a dead infant, and she is dying. Her father and her husband are with her—”
“And I am to go. O Philip! take me at once.”
“That is why I am here. But, Henrietta, hear me further. I have more to say;—no, not more of ill news. God knows this is as much as we can bear. But, Henrietta, my father will never be happy again, unless—”
“And O! how desolate for Richard! Perhaps we ought to think of Richard first: but, Philip,
she was the joy of our father’s life! How is he? How does he look and speak?”
“He is calm,—quite calm: but he looks as if he could never smile again.”
Henrietta covered her face with her hands, and sobs burst their way.
“Now Henrietta, hear me! You and you alone have power to console him. If he must lose one daughter, may not another be restored? I may have been wrong; but I dared not oppose the leading of God’s hand, as it seems to us to be given. Neither dared Harry.”
“Harry!” Henrietta exclaimed, at once calmed, and in an awestruck voice.
“Harry is here,” Philip said. “If you have ceased to love him,—but we cannot believe that it is so,—he will depart without seeing you. He will bear that one stroke more. But, Henrietta, you may be the greatest blessing to our father! You may make so many happy! Margaret herself,—let us hope to find her—not departed; and you know how she wished it.”
Henrietta raised her hand, and her brother stopped.
“It is God’s will,” she said, solemnly. “Never was there a plainer leading.”
Philip was gone, and Harry entered. In a moment both understood that all was again as it had been long ago. Their love had never, in all that dreary time, run low.
“I was afraid,” pleaded Henrietta; “and I am afraid still, though this is the last time that I will say it. O, Harry! may you never repent this return to me,—to one so weak, so passionate—”
“We have both been weak and passionate,—too like idle children for so serious a time and so deep a love. We must help each other, and God will perhaps forgive and strengthen us.”
“And now I must go to Margaret. O! my Margaret,—my sister!”
“We will go; but hear me once more,” pleaded Harry.
He was all powerful with her now. His voice entranced her; his mind filled and overbore her own; he was at once a messenger from Heaven to her, and her own beloved one. She saw everything as he saw it, and admitted all that he prescribed. He told her that his mother answered for Mr. Hampden, that he would approve of there being no delay. If they were to marry at all, they might marry at any hour; for there was nothing to wait for. The waiting had been all too long: and what could so cheer Margaret, what could be such a parting blessing, as this restoration of Henrietta to her house, and this binding of a new son to the family? As for her father, this was the one only possible consolation.
Henrietta had no resistance to make. Messengers should be sent forward instantly, to provide relays of horses all the way to Fawsley; and thus no time would be lost. Dr. Giles—
Dr. Giles! Was he here?
Yes; as an escort,—the minister who had baptised her was next to her father at such a time, even if he were not permitted to marry her to his young friend Harry. But now Dr. Giles would marry them in the early morning. Helen Masham and her sister Joanna were sent for. Henrietta should be at Fawsley at the first possible moment; and she would be a wife,—bringing a husband to help to comfort the sorrowing family.
There was no resistance. To Henrietta it was all irresistible; for it was manifestly ordered for her. Sir Oliver rejoiced without disguise. Henrietta would be happy, and she would not forget her old uncle. There were persons too,—persons in comparison with whom old ruined gentlemen were nothing,—who would be pleased to hear the news; and how could he have any objection to a thing which they were pleased to desire? If his kinsman Hampden must lose his eldest daughter, it was a grievous pity; but here was another daughter, the most loyal-hearted damsel in the world, going to be married to the man she loved; and that was not the less a happy thing that other matters were painful and unfortunate. It was true, the young man was a Puritan, but if some good Royalists did not object on that account, others need not: and it was a question how long a youth who was in that kind of mistake would require to come round under a wife who could teach him better than his guardians had done. There could be no doubt that all would end well where such a woman as his pet Henrietta was concerned. Sir Oliver’s orders were energetic accordingly. The chapel of the mansion was swept and garnished, and something of a wedding breakfast prepared in the course of the night. A coachful of the Mashams arrived early, bringing flowers, and some bridal adornments for Henrietta.
“You will consider others,—you will consider Harry, and Sir Oliver,” said Helen apologetically to Henrietta, as she brought these things into her chamber, soon after sunrise. “We are not