Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled, in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St. George, Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and they all felt it to be such.
The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a little while; and several times during the evening he took possession of one of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own withered palms.
“You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,” had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed, just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor did her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was, considering all that she had gone through during the last twelve months, that she looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside, whom we have not seen for some little time, it may be said that she looked plumper and more matronly than ever. But then nothing could have kept Mrs. Garside from looking plump and matronly. She was one of those people off whom the troubles and anxieties of life slip as easily as water slips off a duck’s back. Although she had a copious supply of tears at command, nothing ever troubled her deeply or for long, simply because there was no depth to be troubled. She was always cheerful, because she was shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so long as her kindness of heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on her part. “What a very pleasant person Mrs. Garside is,” was the general verdict of society. And so she was—very pleasant. If her father had been hanged on a Monday for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she would have been as pleasant and cheerful as ever.
But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith’s tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her—had not even thought of deserting her; and now, for Edith’s sake, she had buried herself alive in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping, now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture of health and content.