the fact of her having a daughter-in-law whom she had never seen, of whose connections and antecedents she knew positively nothing, weighed a good deal on mrs. ludlow's mind. "if she had been an indian, my dear," she said to her daughter matilda, "at least, i don't mean an indian, not black you know; of course not--ridiculous; but one of those young women who are sent out to india by their friends to pick up husbands,--it would be a different matter. of course, then i could not have seen her until she came over to england; and as geoff has never been in india, i don't quite see how it could have happened; but you know what i mean. but to think that she should have been living in london, within the bills of thingummy--mortality, and geoff never to bring her to see me, is most extraordinary--most extraordinary! however, it only goes to prove what ive said--that i have a cross to bear; and now my son's marrying himself in a most mysterious and arabian-nights-like manner is added to the short-weight which we always get from the baker, and to the exceeding forwardness shown by that young man with the pomatumed hair and the steel heart stuck into his apron, whenever you go into the grocer's shop."

and although miss matilda combated this idea with great resolution, albeit by no means comfortable in her own mind as to geoffrey's proceedings, the old lady continued in a state of mind in which indignation at a sense of what she imagined the slight put upon her was only exceeded by her curiosity to catch a glimpse of her son's intended: under the influence of which latter feeling she even proposed to til that they should attend the church on the occasion of the marriage-ceremony. "i can put on my maltese-lace veil, you know, my dear: and if we gave the pew-opener sixpence, she'd put us into a place in the gallery where we could hide behind a pillar, and be unseen spectators of the proceedings." but this suggestion was received with so much disfavour by her daughter that the old lady was compelled to abandon it, together with an idea, which she subsequently broached, of having mr. potts to supper,--giving him sprats, or tripe, or some of those odd things that men like; and then, when he was having a glass of spirits-and-water and smoking a pipe, getting him to tell us all about it, and how it went off. so mrs. ludlow was obliged to content herself with a line from geoffrey,--received two or three days after his marriage, saying that he was well and happy, and that his margaret sent her love ("she might have written that herself, i think!" said the old lady; "it would have been only respectful; but perhaps she can't write. lord, lord! to think we should have come to this!"),--and with a short report from mr. potts, whom til had met, accidentally of course, walking one morning near the house, and who said that all had gone off capitally, and that the bride had looked perfectly lovely.

but there was balm in gilead; and consolation came to old mrs. ludlow in the shape of a letter from geoffrey at the end of the first week of his absence, requesting his mother and sister to see to the arrangement of his new house, the furniture of which was all ordered, and would be sent in on a certain day, when he wished til and his mother to be present. now the taking of this new house, and all in connection with it, had been a source of great disquietude and much conversation to the old lady, who had speculated upon its situation, its size, shape, conveniences, &c., with every one of her little circle of acquaintance. "might be in the moon, my dear, for all we know about it," she used to say; "one would think that one's own son would mention where he was going to live--to his mother, at least: but geoff is that tenacious, that--well, i suppose it's part of the cross of my life." but the information had come at last, and the old lady was to have a hand, however subordinate, in the arrangements; and she was proportionately pleased. "and now, til, where is it, once more! just read the letter again, will you?--for we're to be there the first thing to-morrow morning, geoff says. what?--o, the vans will be there the first thing to-morrow morning! yes, i know what the vans' first thing is--eleven o'clock or thereabouts; and then the men to go out for dinner at twelve, and not come back till half-past two, if somebody isn't there to hunt them up! the elm lodge, lowbar! lowbar! why, that's holloway and whittington, and all that turn-again nonsense about the bells! well, i'm sure! talk about the poles being asunder, my dear; they're not more asunder than brompton and lowbar. o, of course that's done that he needn't see more of us than he chooses, though there was no occasion for that, i'm sure, at least so far as i'm concerned; i know when i'm wanted fast enough, and act accordingly."

"i don't think there was any such idea in geoff's mind, mamma," said til; "he always had a wish to go to the other side of town, as he found this too relaxing."

"other side of town, indeed, my dear?--other side of england, you mean! this side has always been good enough for me; but then, you see, i never was a public character. however, if we are to go, we'd better have brown's fly; it's no good our trapesing about in omnibuses that distance, and perhaps taking the wrong one, and i don't know what."

but the old lady's wrath (which, indeed, did not deserve the name of wrath, but would be better described as a kind of perpetual grumble, in which she delighted) melted away when, on the following morning, brown's fly, striking off to the left soon after it commenced ascending the rise of lowbar hill, turned into a pretty country road, and stopped before a charming little house, bearing the name "elm lodge" on its gate-pillars. the house, which stood on a small eminence, was approached by a little carriage-sweep; had a little lawn in front, on which it opened from french windows, covered by a veranda, nestling under climbing clematis and jasmine; had the prettiest little rustic portico, floored with porcelain tiles; a cosy dining-room, a pretty little drawing-room with the french windows before named, and a capital painting-room. from the windows you had a splendid view over broad fields leading to hampstead, with harrow church fringing the distant horizon. nobody could deny that it was a charming little place; and mrs. ludlow admitted the fact at once.

"very nice, very nice indeed, my dear til!" said she; "geoffrey has inherited my taste--that i will say for him. rather earwiggy, i should think, all that green stuff over the balcony; too much so for me; however, i'm not going to live here, so it don't matter. oh! the vans have arrived! well, my stars! all in suites! walnut and green silk for the drawing room, black oak and dark-brown velvet for the dining-room, did you say, man? it's never--no, my dear, i thought not; it's _not_ real velvet,--utrecht, my dear; i just felt it. i thought geoff would never be so insane as to have real; though, as it is, it must have cost a pretty penny. well, he never gave us any thing of this sort at brompton; of course not."

"o, mother, how can you talk so!" said til; "geoff has always been nobly generous; but recollect he's only just beginning to make money."

"quite true, my dear, quite true; and he's been the best of sons. only i should have liked for once to have had the chance of showing my taste in such matters. in your poor father's time every thing was so heavy and clumsy compared to what it is nowadays, and--there! i would have had none of your rubbishing cupids like that, holding up those stupid baskets."

so the old lady chattered on, by no means allowing her energy to relax by reason of her talk, but bustling about with determined vigour. when she had tucked up her dress, and got a duster into her hand, she was happy, flying at looking-glasses and picture-frames, and rubbing off infinitesimal atoms of dirt; planting herself resolutely in every body's way, and hunting up, or, as she termed it "hinching," the upholsterer's men in the most determined manner.

"i know 'em, my dear; a pack of lazy carpet-caps; do nothing unless you hinch 'em;" and so she worried and nagged and hustled and drove the men, until the pointed inquiry of one of them as to "who _was_ that _h_old cat?" suggested to miss til the propriety of withdrawing her mother from the scene of action. but she had done an immense deal of good, and caused such progress to be made, that before they left, the rooms had begun to assume something like a habitable appearance. they went to take one more look round the house before getting into brown's fly; and it was while they were upstairs that mrs. ludlow opened a door which she had not seen before--a door leading into a charming little room, with light chintz paper and chintz hangings, with a maple writing-table in the window, and a cosy lounge-chair and a _prie-dieu_; and niches on either side the fireplace occupied by little bookcases, into which the foreman of the upholsterers was placing a number of handsomely-bound books, which he took from a box on the floor.

"why, good lord! what's this?" said the old lady, as soon as she recovered her breath.

"this is the budwaw, mum," said the foreman, thinking he had been addressed.

"the what, man? what does he say, matilda?"

"the budwaw, mum; mrs. ludlow's own room as is to be. mr. ludlow was most partickler about this room, mum; saw all the furniture for it before he went away, mum; and give special directions as to where it was to be put."

"ah, well, it's all right, i daresay. come along, my dear."

but brown's horse had scarcely been persuaded by his driver to comprehend that he was required to start off homewards with brown's fly, when the old lady turned round to her daughter, and said solemnly:

"you mark my words, matilda, and after i'm dead and gone don't you forget 'em--your brother's going to make a fool of himself with this wife of his. i don't care if she were an angel, he'd spoil her. boudoir, indeed!--room all to herself, with such a light chintz as that, and maple too; there's not one woman in ten thousand could stand it; and geoffrey's building up a pretty nest for himself, you mark my words."

two days later a letter was received from geoffrey to say that they had arrived home, and that by the end of the week the house would be sufficiently in order, and margaret sufficiently rested from her fatigue, to receive them, if they would come over to elm lodge to lunch. as the note was read aloud by til, this last word struck upon old mrs. ludlow's ear, and roused her in an instant.

"to what, my dear?" she asked. "i beg your pardon, i didn't catch the word."

"to lunch, mamma."

"o, indeed; then i did catch the word, and it wasn't your mumbling tone that deceived me. to lunch, eh? well, upon my word! i know i'm a stupid old woman, and i begin to think i live in heathenish times; but i know in my day that a son would no more have thought of asking his mother to lunch than--well, it's good enough for us, i suppose."

"mamma, how _can_ you say such things! they're scarcely settled yet, and don't know any thing about their cook; and no doubt margaret's a little frightened at first--i'm sure i should be, going into such a house as that."

"well, my dear, different people are differently constituted. i shouldn't feel frightened to walk into buckingham palace as mistress to-morrow. however, i daresay you're right;" and then mrs. ludlow went into the momentous question of "what she was to go in." it was lucky that in this matter she had til at her elbow; for whatever the old lady's taste may have been in houses and furniture, it was very curious in dress, leaning towards wild stripes and checks and large green leaves, with veins like caterpillars, spread over brown grounds; towards portentous bonnets, bearing cockades and bows of ribbon where such things were never seen before; to puce-coloured gloves, and parasols rescued at an alarming sacrifice from a cheap draper's sale. but under til's supervision mrs. ludlow was relegated to a black-silk dress, and the bonnet which geoffrey had presented to her on her birthday, and which til had chosen; and to a pair of lavender gloves which fitted her exactly, and had not those caverns at the tips of the fingers and that wrinkled bagginess in the thumbs which were usually to be found in the old lady's hand-coverings; and as she took her seat in brown's fly, the neighbours on either side, with their noses firmly pressed against their parlour-windows, were envious of her personal appearance, though both of them declared afterwards that she wanted a "little more lighting-up."

when the fly was nearing its destination, mrs. ludlow began to grow very nervous, a state which was exhibited by her continually tugging at her bonnet-strings and shaking out the skirt of her dress, requesting to be informed whether she was "quite straight," and endeavouring to catch the reflection of herself in the front glasses of the fly. these performances were scarcely over before the fly stopped at the gate, and mrs. ludlow descending was received into her son's strong arms. the old lady's maternal feelings were strongly excited at that moment, for she never uttered a word of complaint or remonstrance, though geoff squeezed up all the silk skirt which she had taken such pains to shake out, and hugged her until her bonnet was all displaced. then, after giving til a hearty embrace, geoff took his mother's hand and led her across the little lawn to the french window, at which margaret was waiting to receive her.

naturally enough, old mrs. ludlow had thought very much over this interview, and had pictured it to herself in anticipation a score of times. she had never taken any notice of the allusions to the likeness between her daughter-in-law that was to be and the scylla-head which geoff had painted; but had drawn entirely upon her own imagination for the sort of person who was to be presented to her. this ideal personage had at various times undergone a good deal of change. at one time she would appear as a slight girl with long fair hair and blue eyes ("what i call a wax-doll beauty," the old lady would think); then she would have large black eyes, long black hair, and languishing manners; then she would be rather plain, but with a finely-developed figure, mrs. ludlow having a theory that most artists thought of figure more than face; but in any case she would be some little chit of a girl, just the one to catch such a man as our geoff, who stuck to his paintings, and had seen so little of the world.

so much for mrs. ludlow's ideal; the realisation was this. on the step immediately outside the window stood margaret, a slight rose-flush tinting her usually pale cheeks just under her eyes; her deep-violet eyes wider open than usual, but still soft and dreamy; her red-gold hair in bands round her face, but twisted up at the back into one large knot at the top of her head. she was dressed in a bright-blue cambric dress, which fell naturally and gracefully round her, neither bulging out with excess of crinoline, nor sticking limply to her like a bathing-gown; across her shoulders was a large white muslin-cape, such as that which marie antoinette is represented as wearing in delaroche's splendid picture; muslin-cuffs and a muslin-apron. a gleam of sun shone upon her, bathing her in light; and as the old lady stood staring at her in amazement, a recollection came across her of something which she had not seen for more than forty years, nor ever thought of since,--a reminiscence of a stained-glass figure of the virgin in some old belgian cathedral, pointed out to her by her husband in her honeymoon.

as this idea passed through her mind, the tears rose into mrs. ludlow's eyes. she was an excitable old lady and easily touched; and simultaneously with the painted figure she thought of the husband pointing it out,--the young husband then so brave and handsome, now for so many years at rest,--and she only dimly saw margaret coming forward to meet her. but remembering that tears would be a bad omen for such an introduction, she brushed them hastily away, and looked up in undisguised admiration at the handsome creature moving gracefully towards her. geoffrey, in a whirl of stuttering doubt, said, "my mother, margaret; mother, this is--margaret--my wife;" and each woman moved forward a little, and neither knew what to do. should they shake hands or kiss? and from whom should the suggestion come? it came eventually from the old lady, who said simply, "i'm glad to see you, my dear;" and putting one hand on margaret's shoulder, kissed her affectionately. there was no need of introduction between the others. til's bright eyes were sparkling with admiration and delight; and margaret, seeing the expression in them, reciprocated it at once, saying, "and this is til!" and then they embraced, as warmly as girls under such circumstances always do. then they went into the house, mrs. ludlow leaning on her son's arm, and til and margaret following.

"now, mother," said geoff, as they passed through the little hall, "margaret will take you upstairs. you'll find things much more settled than when you were here last." and upstairs the women went accordingly.

when they were in the bedroom, mrs. ludlow seated herself comfortably in a chair, with her back to the light, and said to margaret:

"now, my dear, come here and let me have a quiet look at you. ive thought of you a thousand times, and wondered what you were like; but i never thought of any thing like this."

"you--you are not disappointed, i hope," said margaret. she knew it was a dull remark, and she made it in a constrained manner. but what else was she to say?

"disappointed! no, indeed, my dear. but i won't flatter you; you'll have quite enough of that from geoffrey. i shall always think of you in future as a saint; you're so like the pictures of the saints in the churches abroad."

"you see you flatter me at once."

"no, my dear, i don't. for you are like them, i'm sure; not that you're to wear horsehair next your skin, or be chopped up into little pieces, or made to walk on hot iron, or any thing of that sort, you know; but i can see by your face that you're a good girl, and will make my geoff a good wife."

"i will try to do so, mrs. ludlow," said margaret, earnestly.

"and you'll succeed, my dear. i knew i could always trust geoff for that; he might marry a silly girl, one that hadn't any proper notions of keeping house or managing those nuisances of servants but i knew he would choose a good one. and don't call me 'mrs. ludlow,' please, my dear. i'm your mother now; and with such a daughter-in-law i'm proud of the title!" this little speech was sealed with a kiss, which drove away the cloud that was gathering on margaret's brow, and they all went down to lunch together. the meal passed off without any particular incident to be recorded. margaret was self-possessed, and did the honours of her table gracefully, paying particular attention to her guests, and generally conducting herself infinitely better than geoff, who was in a flurry of nervous excitement, and was called to order by his mother several times for jumping up to fetch things when he ought to have rung the bell. "a habit that i trust you'll soon break him of, margaret, my dear; for nothing goes to spoil a servant so quickly; and calling over the bannisters for what he wants is another trick, as though servants' legs weren't given them to answer bells." but mrs. ludlow did not talk much, being engaged, during the intervals of eating, in mentally appraising the articles on the table, in quietly trying the weight of the spoons, and in administering interrogative taps to the cow on the top of the butter-dish to find if she were silver or plated, in private speculations as to which quality of romford ale geoffrey had ordered and what he paid for it, and various other little domestic whereto her experience as a household manager prompted her. geoffrey too was silent; but the conversation, though not loud, was very brisk between margaret and til, who seemed, to geoff's intense delight, to have taken a great fancy for each other.

it was not until late in the afternoon, when the hour at which brown's fly had been ordered was rapidly approaching, and they were all seated in the veranda enjoying the distant view, the calm stillness, and the fresh air, that the old lady, who had been looking with a full heart at geoffrey--who, seated close behind margaret, was playing with the ends of her hair as she still kept up her conversation with til--said:

"well, geoffrey, i don't think i ought to leave you to-night without saying how much i am pleased with my new daughter. o, i don't mind her hearing me; she's too good a girl to be upset by a little truthful praise--ain't you, my dear? come and sit by me for a minute and give me your hand, margaret; and you, geoff, on the other side. god bless you both, my children, and make you happy in one another! you're strange to one another, and you'll have some little worries at first; but you'll soon settle down into happiness. and that's the blessing of your both being young and fresh. i'm very glad you didn't marry poor joe telford's widow, geoff, as we thought you would, ten years ago. i don't think, if i had been a man, i should have liked marrying a widow. of course every one has their little love-affairs before they marry, but that's nothing; but with a widow it's different, you know; and she'd be always comparing you with the other one, and perhaps the comparison might not be flattering. no; it's much better to begin life both together, with no past memories to--why, geoffrey, how your hand shakes, my dear! what's the matter? it can't be the cold, for margaret is as steady as a rock."

geoffrey muttered something about "a sudden shiver," and just at that moment the fly appeared at the gate so they parted with renewed embraces and promises of meeting again very shortly; geoffrey was to bring margaret over to brompton, and the next time they came to elm lodge they must spend a long day, and perhaps sleep there; and it was not until brown's fly turned the corner which shut the house out of sight that mrs. ludlow ceased stretching her head out of the window and nodding violently. then she burst out at once with her long-pent-up questioning.

"well, matilda, and what do you think of your new relation? i'm sure you've been as quiet as quiet; there's been no getting a word out of you. but i suppose you don't mind telling your mother. what _do_ you think of her?"

"she is very handsome, mamma, and seems very kind, and very fond of geoff."

"handsome, my dear! she's really splendid! there's a kind of _je ne sais quoi_ about her that--and tall too, like a duchess! well, i don't think the wilkinsons in the crescent will crow any longer. why, that girl that alfred wilkinson married the other day, and that they all went on so about, isn't a patch upon margaret. did you notice her cape and cuffs, matilda? rather frenchified, i thought; rather like that nurse that the dixons brought from boulogne last year, but very pretty. i hope she'll wear them when she comes to spend the day with us, and that some of those odious people in the crescent will come to call. their cook seems to have a light hand at pie-crust; and _did_ you taste the jelly, my dear? i wonder if it was made at home; if so, the cook's a treasure, and dirt-cheap at seventeen and every thing found except beer, which margaret tells me is all she gives! i see they didn't like my arrangement of the furniture; theyve pulled the grand-piano away from the wall, and put the ottoman in its place: nice for the people who sit on it to rub the new paper with their greasy heads!"

and so the old lady chattered on until she felt sleepy, and stumbled out at her own door in an exhausted state, from which the delicious refreshment of a little cold brandy-and-water and a particularly hard and raspy biscuit did not rouse her. but just as til was stepping into bed her mother came into the room, perfectly bright and preternaturally sharp, to say, "do you know, my dear, i think, after all, geoffrey was very fond of joe telford's widow? you were too young then to recollect her; for when i was speaking about her to-night, and saying how much better it was that both husband and wife should come fresh to each other, geoff s hand shook like an aspen-leaf, and his face was as pale as death."