CHAPTER II.

THE ATHELINGS

OR

THE THREE GIFTS

BY MARGARET OLIPHANT

“I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,

In simple and low things, to prince it much

Beyond the trick of others.”

CYMBELINE

COMPLETE

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCLVII

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

THE ATHELINGS

BOOK I.--BELLEVUE

THE ATHELINGS.

BOOK I.--CHAPTER I.

IN THE STREET.

One of them is very pretty--you can see that at a glance: under the

simple bonnet, and through the thin little veil, which throws no cloud

upon its beauty, shines the sweetest girl’s face imaginable. It is only

eighteen years old, and not at all of the heroical cast, but it

brightens like a passing sunbeam through all the sombre line of

passengers, and along the dull background of this ordinary street. There

is no resisting that sweet unconscious influence: people smile when they

pass her, unawares; it is a natural homage paid involuntarily to the

young, sweet, innocent loveliness, unconscious of its own power. People

have smiled upon her all her days; she thinks it is because everybody is

amiable, and seeks no further for a cause.

The other one is not very pretty; she is twenty: she is taller, paler,

not so bright of natural expression, yet as far from being commonplace

as can be conceived. They are dressed entirely alike, thriftily dressed

in brown merino, with little cloaks exact to the same pattern, and

bonnets, of which every bow of ribbon outside, and every little pink

rosebud within, is a complete fac-simile of its sister bud and bow. They

have little paper-parcels in their hands each of them; they are about

the same height, and not much different in age; and to see these twin

figures, so entirely resembling each other, passing along at the same

inconsistent youthful pace, now rapid and now lingering, you would

scarcely be prepared for the characteristic difference in their looks

and in their minds.

It is a spring afternoon, cheery but cold, and lamps and shop-windows

are already beginning to shine through the ruddy twilight. This is a

suburban street, with shops here and there, and sombre lines of houses

between. The houses are all graced with “front gardens,” strips of

ground enriched with a few smoky evergreens, and flower-plots ignorant

of flowers; and the shops are of a highly miscellaneous character,

adapted to the wants of the locality. Vast London roars and travails far

away to the west and to the south. This is Islington, a mercantile and

clerkish suburb. The people on the omnibuses--and all the omnibuses are

top-heavy with outside passengers--are people from the City; and at this

time in the afternoon, as a general principle, everybody is going home.

The two sisters, by a common consent, come to a sudden pause: it is

before a toy-shop; and it is easy to discover by the discussion which

follows that there are certain smaller people who form an important part

of the household at home.

“Take this, Agnes,” says the beautiful sister; “see how pretty! and they

could both play with this; but only Bell would care for the doll.”

“It is Bell’s turn,” said Agnes; “Beau had the last one. This we could

dress ourselves, for I know mamma has a piece over of their last new

frocks. The blue eyes are the best. Stand at the door, Marian, and look

for my father, till I buy it; but tell me first which they will like

best.”

This was not an easy question. The sisters made a long and anxious

survey of the window, varied by occasional glances behind them “to see

if papa was coming,” and concluded by a rapid decision on Agnes’s part

in favour of one of the ugliest of the dolls. But still Papa did not

come; and the girls were proceeding on their way with the doll, a soft

and shapeless parcel, added to their former burdens, when a rapid step

came up behind them, and a clumsy boy plunged upon the shoulder of the

elder.

“Oh, Charlie!” exclaimed Agnes in an aggrieved but undoubting tone. She

did not need to look round. This big young brother was unmistakable in

his salutations.

“I say, my father’s past,” said Charlie. “Won’t he be pleased to find

you two girls out? What do you wander about so late for? it’s getting

dark. I call that foolish, when you might be out, if you pleased, all

the day.”

“My boy, you do not know anything about it,” said the elder sister with

dignity; “and you shall go by yourself if you do not walk quietly.

There! people are looking at us; they never looked at us till you came.”

“Charlie is so handsome,” said Marian laughing, as they all turned a

corner, and, emancipated from the public observation, ran along the

quiet street, a straggling group, one now pressing before, and now

lagging behind. This big boy, however, so far from being handsome, was

strikingly the opposite. He had large, loose, ill-compacted limbs, like

most young animals of a large growth, and a face which might be called

clever, powerful, or good-humoured, but certainly was, without any

dispute, ugly. He was of dark complexion, had natural furrows in his

brow, and a mouth, wide with fun and happy temper at the present moment,

which could close with indomitable obstinacy when occasion served. No

fashion could have made Charlie Atheling fashionable; but his plain

apparel looked so much plainer and coarser than his sisters’, that it

had neither neatness nor grace to redeem its homeliness. He was

seventeen, tall, _big_, and somewhat clumsy, as unlike as possible to

the girls, who had a degree of natural and simple gracefulness not very

common in their sphere. Charlie’s masculine development was unequivocal;

he was a thorough _boy_ now, and would be a manful man.

“Charlie, boy, have you been thinking?” asked Agnes suddenly, as the

three once more relapsed into a sober pace, and pursued their homeward

way together. There was the faintest quiver of ridicule in the elder

sister’s voice, and Marian looked up for the answer with a smile. The

young gentleman gave some portentous hitches of his broad shoulders,

twisted his brow into ominous puckers, set his teeth--and at last burst

out with indignation and unrestrained vehemence--

“Have I been thinking?--to be sure! but I can’t make anything of it, if

I think for ever.”

“You are worse than a woman, Charlie,” said the pretty Marian; “you

never can make up your mind.”

“Stuff!” cried the big boy loudly; “it isn’t making up my mind, it’s

thinking what will do. You girls know nothing about it. I can’t see that

one thing’s better than another, for my part. One man succeeds and

another man’s a failure, and yet the one’s as good a fellow and as

clever to work as the other. I don’t know what it means.”

“So I suppose you will end with being misanthropical and doing nothing,”

said Agnes; “and all Charlie Atheling’s big intentions will burst, like

Beau’s soap-bubbles. I would not have that.”

“I won’t have that, and so you know very well,” said Charlie, who was by

no means indisposed for a quarrel. “You are always aggravating, you

girls--as if you knew anything about it! I’ll tell you what; I don’t

mind how it is, but I’m a man to be something, as sure as I live.”

“You are not a man at all, poor little Charlie--you are only a boy,”

said Marian.

“And we are none of us so sure to live that we should swear by it,” said

Agnes. “If you are to be something, you should speak better sense than

that.”

“Oh, a nice pair of tutors you are!” cried Master Charlie. “I’m bigger

than the two of you put together--and I’m a man. You may be as envious

as you like, but you cannot alter that.”

Now, though the girls laughed, and with great contempt scouted the idea

of being envious, it is not to be denied that some small morsel of envy

concerning masculine privileges lay in the elder sister’s heart. It was

said at home that Agnes was clever--this was her distinction in the

family; and Agnes, having a far-away perception of the fact, greatly

longed for some share of those wonderful imaginary advantages which

“opened all the world,” as she herself said, to a man’s ambition; she

coloured a little with involuntary excitement, while Marian’s sweet and

merry laughter still rang in her ear. Marian could afford to laugh--for

this beautiful child was neither clever nor ambitious, and had, in all

circumstances, the sweetest faculty of content.

“Well, Charlie, a man can do anything,” said Agnes; “_we_ are obliged to

put up with trifles. If I were a man, I should be content with nothing

less than the greatest--I know that!”

“Stuff!” answered the big boy once more; “you may romance about it as

you like, but I know better. Who is to care whether you are content or

not? You must be only what you can, if you were the greatest hero in the

world.”

“I do not know, for my part, what you are talking of,” said Marian. “Is

this all about what you are going to do, Charlie, and because you cannot

make up your mind whether you will be a clerk in papa’s office, or go to

old Mr Foggo’s to learn to be a lawyer? I don’t see what heroes have to

do with it either one way or other. You ought to go to your business

quietly, and be content. Why should _you_ be better than papa?”

The question was unanswerable. Charlie hitched his great shoulders, and

made marvellous faces, but replied nothing. Agnes went on steadily in a

temporary abstraction; Marian ran on in advance. The street was only

half-built--one of those quietest of surburban streets which are to be

found only in the outskirts of great towns. The solitary little houses,

some quite apart, some in pairs--detached and semi-detached, according

to the proper description--stood in genteel retirement within low walls

and miniature shrubberies. There was nothing ever to be seen in this

stillest of inhabited places--therefore it was called Bellevue: and the

inhabitants veiled their parlour windows behind walls and boarded

railings, lest their privacy should be invaded by the vulgar vision of

butcher, or baker, or green-grocer’s boy. Other eyes than those of the

aforesaid professional people never disturbed the composure of Laurel

Cottage and Myrtle Cottage, Elmtree Lodge and Halcyon House--wherefore

the last new house had a higher wall and a closer railing than any of

its predecessors; and it was edifying to observe everybody’s virtuous

resolution to see nothing where there was visibly nothing to see.

At the end of this closed-up and secluded place, one light, shining from

an unshuttered window, made a gleam of cheerfulness through the

respectable gloom. Here you could see shadows large and small moving

upon the white blind--could see the candles shifted about, and the

sudden reddening of the stirred fire. A wayfarer, when by chance there

was one, could scarcely fail to pause with a momentary sentiment of

neighbourship and kindness opposite this shining window. It was the only

evidence in the darkness of warm and busy human life. This was the home

of the three young Athelings--as yet the centre and boundary of all

their pleasures, and almost all their desires.

CHAPTER II.

HOME.

The house is old for this locality--larger than this family could have

afforded, had it been in better condition,--a cheap house out of repair.

It is impossible to see what is the condition of the little garden

before the door; but the bushes are somewhat straggling, and wave their

long arms about in the rising wind. There is a window on either side of

the door, and the house is but two stories high: it is the most

commonplace of houses, perfectly comfortable and uninteresting, so far

as one may judge from without. Inside, the little hall is merely a

passage, with a door on either side, a long row of pegs fastened against

the wall, and a strip of brightly-painted oil-cloth on the floor. The

parlour door is open--there are but two candles, yet the place is

bright; and in it is the lighted window which shines so cheerily into

the silent street. The father sits by the fire in the only easy-chair

which this apartment boasts; the mother moves about on sundry nameless

errands, of which she herself could scarcely give a just explanation;

yet somehow that comfortable figure passing in and out through light and

shadow adds an additional charm to the warmth and comfort of the place.

Two little children are playing on the rug before the fire--very little

children, twins scarcely two years old--one of them caressing the

slippered foot of Mr Atheling, the other seated upon a great paper book

full of little pictures, which serves at once as amusement for the

little mind, and repose for the chubby little frame. They are rosy,

ruddy, merry imps, as ever brightened a fireside; and it is hard to

believe they are of the same family as Charlie and Agnes and Marian. For

there is a woeful gap between the elder and the younger children of this

house--an interval of heavy, tardy, melancholy years, the records of

which are written, many names, upon one gravestone, and upon the hearts

of these two cheerful people, among their children at their own hearth.

They have lived through their day of visitation, and come again into the

light beyond; but it is easy to understand the peculiar tenderness with

which father and mother bend over these last little children--angels of

consolation--and how everything in the house yields to the pretty

childish caprice of little Bell and little Beau.

Yes, of course, you have found it out: everybody finds it out at the

first glance; everybody returns to it with unfailing criticism. To tell

the truth, the house is a very cheap house, being so large a one. Had it

been in good order, the Athelings could never have pretended to such a

“desirable family residence” as this house in Bellevue; and so you

perceive this room has been papered by Charlie and the girls and Mrs

Atheling. It is a very pretty paper, and was a great bargain; but

unfortunately it is not matched--one-half of the pattern, in two or

three places, is hopelessly divorced from the other half. They were very

zealous, these amateur workpeople, but they were not born paperhangers,

and, with the best intentions in the world, have drawn the walls awry.

At the time Mrs Atheling was extremely mortified, and Agnes overcome

with humiliation; but Charlie and Marian thought it very good fun; Papa

burst into shouts of laughter; Bell and Beau chorused lustily, and at

length even the unfortunate managers of the work forgave themselves. It

never was altered, because a new paper is an important consideration

where so many new frocks, coats, and bonnets are perpetually wanting:

everybody became accustomed to it; it was an unfailing source of family

witticism; and Mrs Atheling came to find so much relaxation from her

other cares in the constant mental effort to piece together the

disjointed pattern, that even to her there was consolation in this dire

and lamentable failure. Few strangers came into the family-room, but

every visitor who by chance entered it, with true human perversity

turned his eyes from the comfort and neatness of the apartment, and from

the bright faces of its occupants, to note the flowers and arabesques of

the pretty paper, wandering all astray over this unfortunate wall.

Yet it was a pretty scene--with Marian’s beautiful face at one side of

the table, and the bright intelligence of Agnes at the other--the rosy

children on the rug, the father reposing from his day’s labour, the

mother busy with her sweet familiar never-ending cares; even Charlie,

ugly and characteristic, added to the family completeness. The head of

the house was only a clerk in a merchant’s office, with a modest stipend

of two hundred pounds a-year. All the necessities of the family, young

and old, had to be supplied out of this humble income. You may suppose

there was not much over, and that the household chancellor of the

exchequer had enough to do, even when assisted by that standing

committee with which she consulted solemnly over every little outlay.

The committee was prudent, but it was not infallible. Agnes, the leading

member, had extravagant notions. Marian, more careful, had still a

weakness for ribbons and household embellishments, bright and clean and

new. Sometimes the committee _en permanence_ was abruptly dismissed by

its indignant president, charged with revolutionary sentiments, and a

total ignorance of sound financial principles. Now and then there

occurred a monetary crisis. On the whole, however, the domestic kingdom

was wisely governed, and the seven Athelings, parents and children,

lived and prospered, found it possible to have even holiday dresses, and

books from the circulating library, ribbons for the girls, and toys for

the babies, out of their two hundred pounds a-year.

Tea was on the table; yet the first thing to be done was to open out the

little paper parcels, which proved to contain enclosures no less

important than those very ribbons, which the finance committee had this

morning decided upon as indispensable. Mrs Atheling unrolled them

carefully, and held them out to the light. She shook her head; they had

undertaken this serious responsibility all by themselves, these rash

imprudent girls.

“Now, mamma, what do you think? I told you we could choose them; and the

man said they were half as dear again six months ago,” cried the

triumphant Marian.

Again Mrs Atheling shook her head. “My dears,” said the careful mother,

“how do you think such a colour as this can last till June?”

This solemn question somewhat appalled the youthful purchasers. “It is a

very pretty colour, mamma,” said Agnes, doubtfully.

“So it is,” said the candid critic; “but you know it will fade directly.

I always told you so. It is only fit for people who have a dozen

bonnets, and can afford to change them. I am quite surprised at you,

girls; you ought to have known a great deal better. Of course the colour

will fly directly: the first sunny day will make an end of that. But _I_

cannot help it, you know; and, faded or not faded, it must do till

June.”

The girls exchanged glances of discomfiture. “Till June!” said Agnes;

“and it is only March now. Well, one never knows what may happen before

June.”

This was but indifferent consolation, but it brought Charlie to the

table to twist the unfortunate ribbon, and let loose his opinion. “They

ought to wear wide-awakes. That’s what they ought to have,” said

Charlie. “Who cares for all that trumpery? not old Foggo, I’m sure, nor

Miss Willsie; and they are all the people we ever see.”

“Hold your peace, Charlie,” said Mrs Atheling, “and don’t say old Foggo,

you rude boy. He is the best friend you have, and a real gentleman; and

what would your papa do with such a set of children about him, if Mr

Foggo did not drop in now and then for some sensible conversation. It

will be a long time before you try to make yourself company for papa.”

“Foggo is not so philanthropical, Mary,” said Papa, for the first time

interposing; “he has an eye to something else than sensible

conversation. However, be quiet and sit down, you set of children, and

let us have some tea.”

The ribbons accordingly were lifted away, and placed in a heap upon a

much-used work-table which stood in the window. The kettle sang by the

fire. The tea was made. Into two small chairs of wickerwork, raised upon

high stilts to reach the table, were hoisted Bell and Beau. The talk of

these small interlocutors had all this time been incessant, but

untranslatable. It was the unanimous opinion of the family Atheling that

you could “make out every word” spoken by these little personages, and

that they were quite remarkable in their intelligibility; yet there were

difficulties in the way, and everybody had not leisure for the close

study of this peculiar language, nor the abstract attention necessary

for a proper comprehension of all its happy sayings. So Bell and Beau,

to the general public, were but a merry little chorus to the family

drama, interrupting nothing, and being interrupted by nobody. Like

crickets and singing-birds, and all musical creatures, their happy din

grew louder as the conversation rose; but there was not one member of

this loving circle who objected to have his voice drowned in the

jubilant uproar of those sweet small voices, the unceasing music of this

happy house.

After tea, it was Marian’s “turn,” as it appeared, to put the little

orchestra to bed. It was well for the little cheeks that they were made

of a more elastic material than those saintly shrines and reliquaries

which pious pilgrims wore away with kissing; and Charlie, mounting one

upon each shoulder, carried the small couple up-stairs. It was touching

to see the universal submission to these infants: the house had been

very sad before they came, and these twin blossoms had ushered into a

second summer the bereaved and heavy household life.

When Bell and Beau were satisfactorily asleep and disposed of, Mrs

Atheling sat down to her sewing, as is the wont of exemplary mothers.

Papa found his occupation in a newspaper, from which now and then he

read a scrap of news aloud. Charlie, busy about some solitary study,

built himself round with books at a side-table. Agnes and Marian, with

great zeal and some excitement, laid their heads together over the

trimming of their bonnets. The ribbon was very pretty, though it was

unprofitable; perhaps in their secret hearts these girls liked it the

better for its unthrifty delicacy, but they were too “well brought up”

to own to any such perverse feeling. At any rate, they were very much

concerned about their pretty occupation, and tried a hundred different

fashions before they decided upon the plainest and oldest fashion of

all. They had taste enough to make their plain little straw-bonnets very

pretty to look at, but were no more skilled in millinery than in

paperhanging, and timid of venturing upon anything new. The night flew

on to all of them in these quiet businesses; and Time went more heavily

through many a festive and courtly place than he did through this little

parlour, where there was no attempt at pleasure-making. When the bonnets

were finished, it had grown late. Mr Foggo had not come this night for

any sensible conversation; neither had Agnes been tempted to join

Charlie at the side-table, where lay a miscellaneous collection of

papers, packed within an overflowing blotting-book, her indisputable

property. Agnes had other ambition than concerned the trimming of

bonnets, and had spoiled more paper in her day than the paper of this

parlour wall; but we pause till the morning to exhibit the gift of Agnes

Atheling, how it was regarded, and what it was.

CHAPTER III.

AGNES.

Dearest friend! most courteous reader! suspend your judgment. It was not

her fault. This poor child had no more blame in the matter than Marian

had for her beauty, which was equally involuntary. Agnes Atheling was

not wise; she had no particular gift for conversation, and none whatever

for logic; no accomplishments, and not a very great deal of information.

To tell the truth, while it was easy enough to discover what she had

not, it was somewhat difficult to make out precisely what she had to

distinguish her from other people. She was a good girl, but by no means

a model one; full of impatiences, resentments, and despairs now and

then, as well as of hopes, jubilant and glorious, and a vague but grand

ambition. She herself knew herself quite as little as anybody else did;

for consciousness of power and prescience of fame, if these are signs of

genius, did not belong to Agnes. Yet genius, in some kind and degree,

certainly did belong to her, for the girl had that strange faculty of

expression which is as independent of education, knowledge, or culture

as any wandering angel. When she had anything to say (upon paper), she

said it with so much grace and beauty of language, that Mr Atheling’s

old correspondents puzzled and shook their grey heads over it, charmed

and astonished without knowing why, and afterwards declared to each

other that Atheling must be a clever fellow, though they had never

discovered it before; and a clever fellow he must have been indeed,

could he have clothed these plain sober sentiments of his in such a

radiant investiture of fancy and youth. For Agnes was the letter-writer

of the household, and in her young sincerity, and with her visionary

delight in all things beautiful, was not content to make a dutiful

inquiry, on her mother’s part, for an old ailing country aunt, or to

convey a bit of city gossip to some clerkish contemporary of her

father’s, without induing the humdrum subject with such a glow and glory

of expression that the original proprietors of the sentiment scarcely

knew it in its dazzling gear. She had been letting her pearls and her

diamonds drop from her lips after this fashion, with the prodigality of

a young spendthrift--only astonishing the respectable people who were on

letter-writing terms with Mr and Mrs Atheling--for two or three years

past. But time only strengthened the natural bent of this young

creature, to whom Providence had given, almost her sole dower, that gift

of speech which is so often withheld from those who have the fullest and

highest opportunity for its exercise. Agnes, poor girl! young,

inexperienced, and uninstructed, had not much wisdom to communicate to

the world--not much of anything, indeed, save the vague and splendid

dreams--the variable, impossible, and inconsistent speculations of

youth; but she had the gift, and with the gift she had the sweet

spontaneous impulse which made it a delight. They were proud of her at

home. Mr and Mrs Atheling, with the tenderest exultation, rejoiced over

Marian, who was pretty, and Agnes, who was clever; yet, loving these two

still more than they admired them, they by no means realised the fact

that the one had beauty and the other genius of a rare and unusual kind.

We are even obliged to confess that at times their mother had

compunctions, and doubted whether Agnes, a poor man’s daughter, and like

to be a poor man’s wife, ought to be permitted so much time over that

overflowing blotting-book. Mrs Atheling, when her own ambition and pride

in her child did not move her otherwise, pondered much whether it would

not be wiser to teach the girls dress-making or some other practical

occupation, “for they may not marry; and if anything should happen to

William or me!--as of course we are growing old, and will not live for

ever,” she said to herself in her tender and anxious heart. But the

girls had not yet learned dress-making, in spite of Mrs Atheling’s

fears; and though Marian could “cut out” as well as her mother, and

Agnes, more humble, worked with her needle to the universal admiration,

no speculations as to “setting them up in business” had entered the

parental brain. So Agnes continued at the side-table, sometimes writing

very rapidly and badly, sometimes copying out with the most elaborate

care and delicacy--copying out even a second time, if by accident or

misfortune a single blot came upon the well-beloved page. This

occupation alternated with all manner of domestic occupations. The young

writer was as far from being an abstracted personage as it is possible

to conceive; and from the momentous matter of the household finances to

the dressing of the doll, and the childish play of Bell and Beau,

nothing came amiss to the incipient author. With this sweet stream of

common life around her, you may be sure her genius did her very little

harm.

And when all the domestic affairs were over--when Mr Atheling had

finished his newspaper, and Mrs Atheling put aside her work-basket, and

Mr Foggo was out of the way--then Papa was wont to look over his

shoulder to his eldest child. “You may read some of your nonsense, if

you like, Agnes,” said the household head; and it was Agnes’s custom

upon this invitation, though not without a due degree of coyness, to

gather up her papers, draw her chair into the corner, and read what she

had written. Before Agnes began, Mrs Atheling invariably stretched out

her hand for her work-basket, and was invariably rebuked by her husband;

but Marian’s white hands rustled on unreproved, and Charlie sat still at

his grammar. It was popularly reported in the family that Charlie kept

on steadily learning his verbs even while he listened to Agnes’s story.

He said so himself, who was the best authority; but we by no means

pledge ourselves to the truth of the statement.

And so the young romance was read: there was some criticism, but more

approval; and in reality none of them knew what to think of it, any more

than the youthful author did. They were too closely concerned to be cool

judges, and, full of interest and admiration as they were, could not

quite overcome the oddness and novelty of the idea that “our Agnes”

might possibly one day be famous, and write for the world. Mr Atheling

himself, who was most inclined to be critical, had the strangest

confusion of feelings upon this subject, marvelling much within himself

whether “the child” really had this singular endowment, or if it was

only their own partial judgment which magnified her powers. The family

father could come to no satisfactory conclusion upon the subject, but

still smiled at himself, and wondered, when his daughter’s story

brought tears to his eyes, or sympathy or indignation to his heart. It

moved _him_ without dispute,--it moved Mamma there, hastily rubbing out

the moisture from the corner of her eyes. Even Charlie was disturbed

over his grammar. “Yes,” said Mr Atheling, “but then you see she belongs

to us; and though all this certainly never could have come into _my_

head, yet it is natural I should sympathise with it; but it is a very

different thing when you think of the world.”

So it was, as different a thing as possible; for the world had no

anxious love to sharpen _its_ criticism--did not care a straw whether

the young writer was eloquent or nonsensical; and just in proportion to

its indifference was like to be the leniency of its judgment. These good

people did not think of that; they made wonderful account of their own

partiality, but never reckoned upon that hypercritical eye of love which

will not be content with a questionable excellence; and so they pondered

and marvelled with an excitement half amusing and half solemn. What

would other people think?--what would be the judgment of the world?

As for Agnes, she was as much amused as the rest at the thought of being

“an author,” and laughed, with her bright eyes running over, at this

grand anticipation; for she was too young and too inexperienced to see

more than a delightful novelty and unusualness in her possible fame. In

the mean time she was more interested in what she was about than in the

result of it, and pleased herself with the turn of her pretty sentences,

and the admirable orderliness of her manuscript; for she was only a

girl.

CHAPTER IV.

MARIAN.

Marian Atheling had as little choice in respect to her particular

endowment as her sister had; less, indeed, for it cost her nothing--not

an hour’s thought or a moment’s exertion. She could not help shining

forth so fair and sweet upon the sober background of this family life;

she could not help charming every stranger who looked into her sweet

eyes. She was of no particular “style” of beauty, so far as we are

aware; she was even of no distinct complexion of loveliness, but wavered

with the sweetest shade of uncertainty between dark and fair, tall and

little. For hers was not the beauty of genius--it was not exalted and

heroical expression--it was not tragic force or eloquence of features;

it was something less distinct and more subtle even than these. Hair

that caught the sunshine, and brightened under its glow; eyes which

laughed a sweet response of light before the fair eyelids fell over them

in that sweet inconsistent mingling of frankness and shyness which is

the very charm of girlhood; cheeks as soft and bloomy and fragrant as

any flower,--these seemed but the appropriate language in which alone

this innocent, radiant, beautiful youth could find fit expression. For

beauty of expression belonged to Marian as well as more obvious

beauties; there was an entire sweet harmony between the language and the

sentiment of nature upon this occasion. The face would have been

beautiful still, had its possessor been a fool or discontented; as it

was, being only the lovely exponent of a heart as pure, happy, and

serene as heart could be, the face was perfect. Criticism had nothing to

do with an effect so sudden and magical: this young face shone and

brightened like a sunbeam, touching the hearts of those it beamed upon.

Mere admiration was scarcely the sentiment with which people looked at

her; it was pure tenderness, pleasure, unexpected delight, which made

the chance passengers in the street smile as they passed her by. Their

hearts warmed to this fair thing of God’s making--they “blessed her

unaware.” Eighteen years old, and possessed of this rare gift, Marian

still did not know what rude admiration was, though she went out day by

day alone and undefended, and would not have faltered at going anywhere,

if her mother bade or necessity called. _She_ knew nothing of those

stares and impertinent annoyances which fastidious ladies sometimes

complained of, and of which she had read in books. Marian asserted

roundly, and with unhesitating confidence, that “it was complete

nonsense”--“it was not true;” and went upon her mother’s errands through

all the Islingtonian streets as safely as any heroine ever went through

ambuscades and prisons. She believed in lovers and knights of romance

vaguely, but fervently,--believed even, we confess, in the melodramatic

men who carry off fair ladies, and also in disguised princes and Lords

of Burleigh; but knew nothing whatever, in her own most innocent and

limited experience, of any love but the love of home. And Marian had

heard of bad men and bad women,--nay, _knew_, in Agnes’s story, the most

impossible and short-sighted of villains--a true rascal of romance,

whose snares were made on purpose for discovery,--but had no more fear

of such than she had of lions or tigers, the Gunpowder Plot, or the

Spanish Inquisition. Safe as among her lawful vassals, this young girl

went and came--safe as in a citadel, dwelt in her father’s house,

untempted, untroubled, in the most complete and thorough security. So

far as she had come upon the sunny and flowery way of her young life,

her beauty had been no gift of peril to Marian, and she had no fear of

what was to come.

And no one is to suppose that Mrs Atheling’s small means were strained

to do honour to, or “set off,” her pretty daughter. These good people,

though they loved much to see their children happy and well esteemed,

had no idea of any such unnecessary efforts; and Marian shone out of her

brown merino frock, and her little pink rosebuds, as sweetly as ever

shone a princess in the purple and pall of her high estate. Mrs Atheling

thought Marian “would look well in anything,” in the pride of her heart,

as she pinched the bit of white lace round Marian’s neck when Mr Foggo

and Miss Willsie were coming to tea. It was indeed the general opinion

of the household, and that other people shared it was sufficiently

proved by the fact that Miss Willsie herself begged for a pattern of

that very little collar, which was so becoming. Marian gave the pattern

with the greatest alacrity, yet protested that Miss Willsie had many

collars a great deal prettier--which indeed was very true.

And Marian was her mother’s zealous assistant in all household

occupations--not more willing, but with more execution and practical

power than Agnes, who, by dint of a hasty anxiety for perfection, made

an intolerable amount of blunders. Marian was more matter-of-fact, and

knew better what she could do; she was constantly busy, morning and

night, keeping always in hand some morsel of fancy-work, with which to

occupy herself at irregular times after the ordinary work was over.

Agnes also had bits of fancy-work in hand; but the difference herein

between the two sisters was this, that Marian finished _her_ pretty

things, while Agnes’s uncompleted enterprises were always turning up in

some old drawer or work-table, and were never brought to a conclusion.

Marian made collars for her mother, frills for Bell and Beau, and a very

fine purse for Charlie; which Charlie, having nothing to put in the

same, rejected disdainfully: but it was a very rare thing indeed for

Agnes to come to an end of any such labour. With Marian, too, lay the

honour of far superior accuracy and precision in the important

particular of “cutting out.” These differences furthered the appropriate

division of labour, and the household work made happy progress under

their united hands.

To this we have only to add, that Marian Atheling was merry without

being witty, and intelligent without being clever. She, too, was a good

girl; but she also had her faults: she was sometimes saucy, very often

self-willed, yet had fortunately thus far shown a sensible perception of

cases which were beyond her own power of settling. She had the greatest

interest in Agnes’s story-telling, but was extremely impatient to know

the end before the beginning, which the hapless young author was not

always in circumstances to tell; and Marian made countless suggestions,

interfering arbitrarily and vexatiously with the providence of fiction,

and desiring all sorts of impossible rewards and punishments. But

Marian’s was no quiet or superficial criticism: how she burned with

indignation at that poor unbelievable villain!--how she triumphed when

all the good people put him down!--with what entire and fervid interest

she entered into everybody’s fortune! It was worth while being present

at one of these family readings, if only to see the flutter and tumult

of sympathies which greeted the tale.

And we will not deny that Marian had possibly a far-off idea that she

was pretty--an idea just so indistinct and distant as to cause a

momentary blush and sparkle--a momentary flutter, half of pleasure and

half of shame, when it chanced to glide across her young unburdened

heart; but of her beauty and its influence this innocent girl had

honestly no conception. Everybody smiled upon her everywhere. Even Mr

Foggo’s grave and saturnine countenance slowly brightened when her sweet

face shone upon him. Marian did not suppose that these smiles had

anything to do with her; she went upon her way with a joyous young

belief in the goodness of everybody, except the aforesaid impossible

people, who were unspeakably black, beyond anything that ever was

painted, to the simple imagination of Marian. She had no great

principle of abstract benevolence to make her charitable; she was

strongly in favour of the instant and overwhelming punishment of all

these imaginary criminals; but for the rest of the world, Marian looked

them all in the face, frank and shy and sweet, with her beautiful eyes.

She was content to offer that small right hand of kindliest fellowship,

guileless and unsuspecting, to them all.

CHAPTER V.

CHARLIE.

This big boy was about as far from being handsome as any ordinary

imagination could conceive: his large loose limbs, his big features, his

swarthy complexion, though they were rather uglier in their present

development than they were likely to be when their possessor was

full-grown and a man, could never, by any chance, gain him the moderate

credit of good looks. He was not handsome emphatically, and yet there

never was a more expressive face: that great furrowed brow of his went

up in ripples and waves of laughter when the young gentleman was so

minded, and descended in rolls of cloud when there was occasion for such

a change. His mouth was not a pretty mouth: the soft curve of Cupid’s

bow, the proud Napoleonic curl, were as different as you could suppose

from the indomitable and graceless upper-lip of Charlie Atheling. Yet

when that obstinate feature came down in fixed and steady

impenetrability, a more emphatic expression never sat on the haughtiest

curve of Greece. He was a tolerably good boy, but he had his foible.

Charlie, we are grieved to say, was obstinate--marvellously obstinate,

unpersuadable, and beyond the reach of reasoning. If anything could have

made this propensity justifiable--as nothing could possibly make it more

provoking--it was, that the big boy was very often in the right. Time

after time, by force of circumstances, everybody else was driven to give

in to him: whether it really was by means of astute and secret

calculation of all the chances of the question, nobody could tell; but

every one knew how often Charlie’s opinion was confirmed by the course

of events, and how very seldom his odd penetration was deceived. This,

as a natural consequence, made everybody very hot and very resentful who

happened to disagree with Charlie, and caused a great amount of

jubilation and triumph in the house on those occasions, unfrequent as

they were, when his boyish infallibility was proved in the wrong.

Yet Charlie was not clever. The household could come to no satisfactory

conclusion upon this subject. He did not get on with his moderate

studies either quicker or better than any ordinary boy of his years. He

had no special turn for literature either, though he did not disdain

_Peter Simple_ and _Midshipman Easy_. These renowned productions of

genius held the highest place at present in that remote corner of

Charlie’s interest which was reserved for the fine arts; but we are

obliged to confess that this big boy had wonderfully bad taste in

general, and could not at all appreciate the higher excellences of art.

Besides all this, no inducement whatever could tempt Charlie to the

writing of the briefest letter, or to any exercise of his powers of

composition, if any such powers belonged to him. No, he could not be

clever--and yet----

They did not quite like to give up the question, the mother and sisters.

They indulged in the loftiest flights of ambition for him, as

heaven-aspiring, and built on as slender a foundation, as any bean-stalk

of romance. They endeavoured greatly, with much anxiety and care, to

make him clever, and to make him ambitious, after their own model; but

this obstinate and self-willed individual was not to be coerced. So far

as this matter went, Charlie had a certain affectionate contempt for

them all, with their feminine fancies and imaginations. He said only

“Stuff!” when he listened to the grand projects of the girls, and to

Agnes’s flush of enthusiastic confidence touching that whole unconquered

world which was open to “a man!” Charlie hitched his great shoulders,

frowned down upon her with all the furrows of his brow, laughed aloud,

and went off to his grammar. This same grammar he worked at with his

usual obstinate steadiness. He had not a morsel of liking for “his

studies;” but he “went in” at them doggedly, just as he might have

broken stones or hewed wood, had that been a needful process. Nobody

ever does know the secret of anybody else’s character till life and time

have evolved the same; so it is not wonderful that these good people

were a little puzzled about Charlie, and did not quite know how to

dispose of their obstinate big boy.

Charlie himself, however, we are glad to say, was sometimes moved to

take his sisters into his confidence. _They_ knew that some ambition did

stir within that Titanic boyish frame. They were in the secret of the

great discussion which was at present going on in the breast of Charlie,

whose whole thoughts, to tell the truth, were employed about the

momentous question--What he was to be? There was not a very wide choice

in his power. He was not seduced by the red coat and the black coat,

like the ass of the problem. The syrens of wealth and fame did not sing

in his ears, to tempt him to one course or another. He had two homely

possibilities before him--a this, and a that. He had a stout intention

to be _something_, and no such ignoble sentiment as content found place

in Charlie’s heart; wherefore long, animated, and doubtful was the

self-controversy. Do not smile, good youth, at Charlie’s two

chances--they are small in comparison of yours, but they were the only

chances visible to him; the one was the merchant’s office over which Mr

Atheling presided--head clerk, with his two hundred pounds a-year; the

other was, grandiloquently--by the girls, not by Charlie--called the

law; meaning thereby, however, only the solicitor’s office, the lawful

empire and domain of Mr Foggo. Between these two legitimate and likely

regions for making a fortune, the lad wavered with a most doubtful and

inquiring mind. His introduction to each was equally good; for Mr

Atheling was confidential and trusted, and Mr Foggo, as a mysterious

rumour went, was not only most entirely trusted and confidential, but

even in secret a partner in the concern. Wherefore long and painful were

the ruminations of Charlie, and marvellous the balance which he made of

precedent and example. Let nobody suppose, however, that this question

was discussed in idleness. Charlie all this time was actually in the

office of Messrs Cash, Ledger, and Co., his father’s employers. He was

there on a probationary and experimental footing, but he was very far

from making up his mind to remain. It was an extremely difficult

argument, although carried on solely in the deep invisible caverns of

the young aspirant’s mind.

The same question, however, was also current in the family, and remained

undecided by the household parliament. With much less intense and

personal earnestness, “everybody” went over the for and against, and

contrasted the different chances. Charlie listened, but made no sign.

When he had made up his own mind, the young gentleman proposed to

himself to signify his decision publicly, and win over this committee of

the whole house to his view of the question. In the mean time he

reserved what he had to say; but so far, it is certain that Mr Foggo

appeared more tempting than Mr Atheling. The family father had been

twenty or thirty years at this business of his, and his income was two

hundred pounds--“that would not do for me,” said Charlie; whereas Mr

Foggo’s income, position, and circumstances were alike a mystery, and

might be anything. This had considerable influence in the argument, but

was not conclusive; for successful merchants were indisputably more

numerous than successful lawyers, and Charlie was not aware how high a

lawyer who was only an attorney could reach, and had his doubts upon the

subject. In the mean time, however, pending the settlement of this

momentous question, Charlie worked at two grammars instead of one, and

put all his force to his study. Force was the only word which could

express the characteristic power of this boy, if even _that_ can give a

sufficient idea of it. He had no love for his French or for his Latin,

yet learned his verbs with a manful obstinacy worthy all honour; and it

is not easy to define what was the special gift of Charlie. It was not a

describable thing, separate from his character, like beauty or like

genius--it _was_ his character, intimate and not to be distinguished

from himself.

CHAPTER VI.

PAPA AND MAMMA.

The father of this family, as we have already said, was a clerk in a

merchant’s office, with a salary of two hundred pounds a-year. He was a

man of fifty, with very moderate abilities, but character

unimpeachable--a perfect type of his class--steadily marching on in his

common routine--doing all his duties without pretension--somewhat given

to laying down the law in respect to business--and holding a very grand

opinion of the importance of commerce in general, and of the marvellous

undertakings of London in particular. Yet this good man was not entirely

circumscribed by his “office.” He had that native spring of life and

healthfulness in him which belongs to those who have been born in, and

never have forgotten, the country. The country, most expressive of

titles!--he had always kept in his recollection the fragrance of the

ploughed soil, the rustle of the growing grass; so, though he lived in

Islington, and had his office in the City, he was not a Cockney--a

happy and most enviable distinction. His wife, too, was country born and

country bred; and two ancestral houses, humble enough, yet standing

always among the trees and fields, belonged to the imagination of their

children. This was a great matter--for the roses on her grandmother’s

cottage-wall bloomed perpetually in the fancy of Agnes; and Marian and

Charlie knew the wood where Papa once went a-nutting, as well as--though

with a more ideal perception than, Papa himself had known it. Even

little Bell and Beau knew of a store of secret primroses blooming for

ever on a fairy bank, where their mother long ago, in the days of her

distant far-off childhood, had seen them blow, and taken them into her

heart. Happy primroses, that never faded! for all the children of this

house had dreamed and gathered them in handfuls, yet there they were for

ever. It was strange how this link of connection with the far-off rural

life refined the fancy of these children; it gave them a region of

romance, into which they could escape at all times. They did not know

its coarser features, and they found refuge in it from the native

vulgarity of their own surroundings. Happy effect to all imaginative

people, of some ideal and unknown land.

The history of the family was a very common one. Two-and-twenty years

ago, William Atheling and Mary Ellis had ventured to marry, having only

a very small income, limited prospects, and all the indescribable hopes

and chances of youth. Then had come the children, joy, toil, and

lamentation--then the way of life had opened up upon them, step by step;

and they had fainted, and found it weary, yet, helpless and patient, had

toiled on. They never had a chance, these good people, of running away

from their fate. If such a desperate thought ever came to them, it must

have been dismissed at once, being hopeless; and they stood at their

post under the heavy but needful compulsion of ordinary duties, living

through many a heartbreak, bearing many a bereavement--voiceless souls,

uttering no outcry except to the ear of God. Now they had lived through

their day of visitation. God had removed the cloud from their heads and

the terror from their heart: their own youth was over, but the youth of

their children, full of hopes and possibilities still brighter than

their own had been, rejoiced these patient hearts; and the warm little

hands of the twin babies, children of their old age, led them along with

delight and hopefulness upon their own unwearying way. Such was the

family story; it was a story of life, very full, almost overflowing with

the greatest and first emotions of humanity, but it was not what people

call eventful. The private record, like the family register, brimmed

over with those first makings and foundations of history, births and

deaths; but few vicissitudes of fortune, little success and little

calamity, fell upon the head of the good man whose highest prosperity

was this two hundred pounds a-year. And so now they reckoned themselves

in very comfortable circumstances, and were disturbed by nothing but

hopes and doubts about the prospects of the children--hopes full of

brightness present and visible, doubts that were almost as good as hope.

There was but one circumstance of romance in the simple chronicle. Long

ago--the children did not exactly know when, or how, or in what

manner--Mr Atheling did somebody an extraordinary and mysterious

benefit. Papa was sometimes moved to tell them of it in a general way,

sheltering himself under vague and wide descriptions. The story was of a

young man, handsome, gay, and extravagant, of rank far superior to Mr

Atheling’s--of how he fell into dissipation, and was tempted to

crime--and how at the very crisis “I happened to be in the way, and got

hold of him, and showed him the real state of the case; how I heard what

he was going to do, and of course would betray him; and how, even if he

could do it, it would be certain ruin, disgrace, and misery. That was

the whole matter,” said Mr Atheling--and his affectionate audience

listened with awe and a mysterious interest, very eager to know

something more definite of the whole matter than this concise account of

it, yet knowing that all interrogation was vain. It was popularly

suspected that Mamma knew the full particulars of this bit of romance,

but Mamma was as impervious to questions as the other head of the house.

There was also a second fytte to this story, telling how Mr Atheling

himself undertook the venture of revealing his hapless hero’s

misfortunes to the said hero’s elder brother, a very grand and exalted

personage; how the great man, shocked, and in terror for the family

honour, immediately delivered the culprit, and sent him abroad. “Then he

offered me money,” said Mr Atheling quietly. This was the climax of the

tale, at which everybody was expected to be indignant; and very

indignant, accordingly, everybody was.

Yet there was a wonderful excitement in the thought that this hero of

Papa’s adventure was now, as Papa intimated, a man of note in the

world--that they themselves unwittingly read his name in the papers

sometimes, and that other people spoke of him to Mr Atheling as a public

character, little dreaming of the early connection between them. How

strange it was!--but no entreaty and no persecution could prevail upon

Papa to disclose his name. “Suppose we should meet him some time!”

exclaimed Agnes, whose imagination sometimes fired with the thought of

reaching that delightful world of society where people always spoke of

books, and genius was the highest nobility--a world often met with in

novels. “If you did,” said Mr Atheling, “it will be all the better for

you to know nothing about this,” and so the controversy always ended;

for in this matter at least, firm as the most scrupulous old knight of

romance, Papa stood on his honour.

As for the good and tender mother of this house, she had no story to

tell. The girls, it is true, knew about _her_ girlish companions very

nearly as well as if these, now most sober and middle-aged personages,

had been playmates of their own; they knew the names of the pigeons in

the old dovecote, the history of the old dog, the number of the apples

on the great apple-tree; also they had a kindly recollection of one old

lover of Mamma’s, concerning whom they were shy to ask further than she

was pleased to reveal. But all Mrs Atheling’s history was since her

marriage: she had been but a young girl with an untouched heart before

that grand event, which introduced her, in her own person, to the

unquiet ways of life; and her recollections chiefly turned upon the

times “when we lived in---- Street,”--“when we took that new house in

the terrace,”--“when we came to Bellevue.” This Bellevue residence was a

great point in the eyes of Mrs Atheling. She herself had always kept her

original weakness for gentility, and to live in a street where there was

no straight line of commonplace houses, but only villas, detached and

semi-detached, and where every house had a name to itself, was no small

step in advance--particularly as the house was really cheap, really

large, as such houses go, and had only the slight disadvantage of being

out of repair. Mrs Atheling lamed her most serviceable finger with

attempts at carpentry, and knocked her own knuckles with misdirected

hammering, yet succeeded in various shifts that answered very well, and

produced that grand _chef-d’œuvre_ of paperhanging which made more

amusement than any professional decoration ever made, and was just as

comfortable. So the good mother was extremely well pleased with her

house. She was not above the ambition of calling it either Atheling

Lodge, or Hawthorn Cottage, but it was very hard to make a family

decision upon the prettiest name; so the house of the Athelings, with

its eccentric garden, its active occupants, and its cheery

parlour-window, was still only Number Ten, Bellevue.

And there in the summer sunshine, and in the wintry dawning, at eight

o’clock, Mr Atheling took his seat at the table, said grace, and

breakfasted; from thence at nine to a moment, well brushed and buttoned,

the good man went upon his daily warfare to the City. There all the day

long the pretty twins played, the mother exercised her careful

housewifery, the sweet face of Marian shone like a sunbeam, and the

fancies of Agnes wove themselves into separate and real life. All the

day long the sun shone in at the parlour window upon a thrifty and

well-worn carpet, which all his efforts could not spoil, and dazzled the

eyes of Bell and Beau, and troubled the heart of Mamma finding out spots

of dust, and suspicions of cobwebs which had escaped her own detection.

And when the day was done, and richer people were thinking of dinner,

once more, punctual to a moment, came the well-known step on the gravel,

and the well-known summons at the door; for at six o’clock Mr Atheling

came home to his cheerful tea-table, as contented and respectable a

householder, as happy a father, as was in England. And after tea came

the newspaper and Mr Foggo; and after Mr Foggo came the readings of

Agnes; and so the family said good-night, and slept and rested, to rise

again on the next morning to just such another day. Nothing interrupted

this happy uniformity; nothing broke in upon the calm and kindly usage

of these familiar hours. Mrs Atheling had a mighty deal of thinking to

do, by reason of her small income; now and then the girls were obliged

to consent to be disappointed of some favourite project of their

own--and sometimes even Papa, in a wilful fit of self-denial, refused

himself for a few nights his favourite newspaper; but these were but

passing shadows upon the general content. Through all these long winter

evenings, the one lighted window of this family room brightened the

gloomy gentility of Bellevue, and imparted something of heart and

kindness to the dull and mossy suburban street. They “kept no company,”

as the neighbours said. That was not so much the fault of the Athelings,

as the simple fact that there was little company to keep; but they

warmed the old heart of old Mr Foggo, and kept that singular personage

on speaking terms with humanity; and day by day, and night by night,

lived their frank life before their little world, a family life of love,

activity, and cheerfulness, as bright to look at as their happy open

parlour-window among the closed-up retirements of this genteel little

street.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST WORK.

“Now,” said Agnes, throwing down her pen with a cry of triumph--“now,

look here, everybody--it is done at last.”

And, indeed, there it was upon the fair and legible page, in Agnes’s

best and clearest handwriting, “The End.” She had written it with

girlish delight, and importance worthy the occasion; and with admiring

eyes Mamma and Marian looked upon the momentous words--The End! So now

it was no longer in progress, to be smiled and wondered over, but an

actual thing, accomplished and complete, out of anybody’s power to check

or to alter. The three came together to look at it with a little awe. It

was actually finished--out of hand--an entire and single production. The

last chapter was to be read in the family committee to-night--and then?

They held their breath in sudden excitement. What was to be done with

the Book, which could be smiled at no longer? That momentous question

would have to be settled to-night.

So they piled it up solemnly, sheet by sheet, upon the side-table. Such

a manuscript! Happy the printer into whose fortunate hands fell this

unparalleled _copy_! And we are grieved to confess that, for the whole

afternoon thereafter, Agnes Atheling was about as idle as it is possible

even for a happy girl to be. No one but a girl could have attained to

such a delightful eminence of doing nothing! She was somewhat unsettled,

we admit, and quite uncontrollable,--dancing about everywhere, making

her presence known by involuntary outbursts of singing and sweet

laughter; but sterner lips than Mamma’s would have hesitated to rebuke

that fresh and spontaneous delight. It was not so much that she was glad

to be done, or was relieved by the conclusion of her self-appointed

labour. She did not, indeed, quite know what made her so happy. Like all

primal gladness, it was involuntary and unexplainable; and the event of

the day, vaguely exciting and exhilarating on its own account, was novel

enough to supply that fresh breeze of excitement and change which is so

pleasant always to the free heart of youth.

Then came all the usual routine of the evening--everything in its

appointed time--from Susan, who brought the tea-tray, to Mr Foggo. And

Mr Foggo stayed long, and was somewhat prosy. Agnes and Marian, for

this one night, were sadly tired of the old gentleman, and bade him a

very hasty and abrupt good-night when at last he took his departure.

Even then, with a perverse inclination, Papa clung to his newspaper. The

chances were much in favour of Agnes’s dignified and stately withdrawal

from an audience which showed so little eagerness for what she had to

bestow upon them; but Marian, who was as much excited as Agnes,

interposed. “Papa, Agnes is done--finished--done with her story--do you

hear me, papa?” cried Marian in his ear, shaking him by the shoulder to

give emphasis to her words--“she is going to read the last chapter, if

you would lay down that stupid paper--do you hear, papa?”

Papa heard, but kept his finger at his place, and read steadily in spite

of this interposition. “Be quiet, child,” said the good Mr Atheling; but

the child was not in the humour to be quiet. So after a few minutes,

fairly persecuted out of his paper, Papa gave in, and threw it down; and

the household circle closed round the fireside, and Agnes lifted her

last chapter; but what that last chapter was, we are unable to tell,

without infringing upon the privacy of Number Ten, Bellevue.

It was satisfactory--that was the great matter: everybody was satisfied

with the annihilation of the impossible villain and the triumph of all

the good people--and everybody concurred in thinking that the

winding-up was as nearly perfect as it was in the nature of mortal

winding-up to be. The MS. accordingly was laid aside, crowned with

applauses and laurels;--then there was a pause of solemn

consideration--the wise heads of the house held their peace and

pondered. Marian, who was not wise, but only excited and impatient,

broke the silence with her own eager, sincere, and unsolicited opinion;

and this was the advice of Marian to the family committee of the whole

house: “Mamma, I will tell you what ought to be done. It ought to be

taken to somebody to-morrow, and published every month, like Dickens and

Thackeray. It is quite as good! Everybody would read it, and Agnes would

be a great author. I am quite sure that is the way.”

At which speech Charlie whistled a very long “whew!” in a very low

under-tone; for Mamma had very particular notions on the subject of

“good-breeding,” and kept careful watch over the “manners” even of this

big boy.

“Like Dickens and Thackeray! Marian!” cried Agnes in horror; and then

everybody laughed--partly because it was the grandest and most

magnificent nonsense to place the young author upon this astonishing

level, partly because it was so very funny to think of “our Agnes”

sharing in ever so small a degree the fame of names like these.

“Not quite that,” said Papa, slowly and doubtfully, “yet I think

somebody might publish it. The question is, whom we should take it to. I

think I ought to consult Foggo.”

“Mr Foggo is not a literary man, papa,” said Agnes, somewhat

resentfully. She did not quite choose to receive this old gentleman, who

thought her a child, into her confidence.

“Foggo knows a little of everything,--he has a wonderful head for

business,” said Mr Atheling. “As for a literary man, we do not know such

a person, Agnes; and I can’t see what better we should be if we did.

Depend upon it, business is everything. If they think they can make

money by this story of yours, they will take it, but not otherwise; for,

of course, people trade in books as they trade in cotton, and are not a

bit more generous in one than another, take my word for that.”

“Very well, my dear,” said Mamma, roused to assert her dignity, “but we

do not wish any one to be generous to Agnes--of course not!--that would

be out of the question; and nobody, you know, could look at that book

without feeling sure of everybody else liking it. Why, William, it is so

natural! You may speak of Thackeray and Dickens as you like; I know

they are very clever--but I am sure I never read anything of theirs like

that scene--that last scene with Helen and her mother. I feel as if I

had been present there my own self.”

Which was not so very wonderful after all, seeing that the mother in

Agnes’s book was but a delicate, shy, half-conscious sketch of this

dearest mother of her own.

“I think it ought to be taken to somebody to-morrow,” repeated Marian

stoutly, “and published every month with pictures. How strange it would

be to read in the newspapers how everybody wondered about the new book,

and who wrote it!--such fun!--for nobody but _us_ would know.”

Agnes all this time remained very silent, receiving everybody’s

opinion--and Charlie also locked up his wisdom in his own breast. There

was a pause, for Papa, feeling that his supreme opinion was urgently

called for, took time to ponder upon it, and was rather afraid of giving

a deliverance. The silence, however, was broken by the abrupt

intervention, when nobody expected it, of the big boy.

“Make it up into a parcel,” said Master Charlie with business-like

distinctness, “and look in the papers what name you’ll send it to, and

I’ll take it to-morrow.”

This was so sudden, startling, and decisive, that the audience were

electrified. Mr Atheling looked blankly in his son’s face; the young

gentleman had completely cut the ground from under the feet of his papa.

After all, let any one advise or reason, or argue the point at his

pleasure, this was the only practical conclusion to come at. Charlie

stopped the full-tide of the family argument; they might have gone on

till midnight discussing and wondering; but the big boy made it up into

a parcel, and finished it on the spot. After that they all commenced a

most ignorant and innocent discussion concerning “the trade;” these good

people knew nothing whatever of that much contemned and long-suffering

race who publish books. Two ideal types of them were present to the

minds of the present speculators. One was that most fatal and fictitious

savage, the Giant Despair of an oppressed literature, who sits in his

den for ever grinding the bones of those dismal unforgettable hacks of

Grub Street, whose memory clings unchangeably to their profession; the

other was that bland and genial imagination, equally fictitious, the

author’s friend--he who brings the neglected genius into the full

sunshine of fame and prosperity, seeking only the immortality of such a

connection with the immortal. If one could only know which of these

names in the newspapers belonged to this last wonder of nature! This

discussion concerning people of whom absolutely nothing but the names

were known to the disputants, was a very comical argument; and it was

not concluded when eleven o’clock struck loudly on the kitchen clock,

and Susan, very slumbrous, and somewhat resentful, appeared at the door

to see if anything was wanted. Everybody rose immediately, as Susan

intended they should, with guilt and confusion: eleven o’clock! the

innocent family were ashamed of themselves.

And this little room up-stairs, as you do not need to be told, is the

bower of Agnes and of Marian. There are two small white beds in it,

white and fair and simple, draped with the purest dimity, and covered

with the whitest coverlids. If Agnes, by chance or in haste--and Agnes

is very often “in a great hurry”--should leave her share of the

apartment in a less orderly condition than became a young lady’s room,

Marian never yielded to such a temptation. Marian was the completest

woman in all her simple likings; their little mirror, their

dressing-table, everything which would bear such fresh and inexpensive

decoration, was draped with pretty muslin, the work of these pretty

fingers. And there hung their little shelf of books over Agnes’s head,

and here upon the table was their Bible. Yet in spite of the quiet night

settling towards midnight--in spite of the unbroken stillness of

Bellevue, where every candle was extinguished, and all the world at

rest, the girls could not subdue all at once their eager anticipations,

hopes, and wondering. Marian let down all her beautiful hair over her

shoulders, and pretended to brush it, looking all the time out of the

shining veil, and throwing the half-curled locks from her face, when

something occurred to her bearing upon the subject. Agnes, with both her

hands supporting her forehead, leaned over the table with downcast

eyes--seeing nothing, thinking nothing, with a faint glow on her soft

cheek, and a vague excitement at her heart. Happy hearts! it was so easy

to stir them to this sweet tumult of hope and fancy; and so small a

reason was sufficient to wake these pure imaginations to all-indefinite

glory and delight.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHARLIE’S ENTERPRISE.

It was made into a parcel, duly packed and tied up; not in a delicate

wrapper, or with pretty ribbons, as perhaps the affectionate regard of

Agnes might have suggested, but in the commonest and most matter-of-fact

parcel imaginable. But by that time it began to be debated whether

Charlie, after all, was a sufficiently dignified messenger. He was only

a boy--that was not to be disputed; and Mrs Atheling did not think him

at all remarkable for his “manners,” and Papa doubted whether he was

able to manage a matter of business. But, then, who could go?--not the

girls certainly, and not their mother, who was somewhat timid out of her

own house. Mr Atheling could not leave his office; and really, after all

their objections, there was nobody but Charlie, unless it was Mr Foggo,

whom Agnes would by no means consent to employ. So they brushed their

big boy, as carefully as Moses Primrose was brushed before he went to

the fair, and gave him strict injunctions to look as grave, as

sensible, and as _old_ as possible. All these commands Charlie received

with perfect coolness, hoisting his parcel under his arm, and remaining

entirely unmoved by the excitement around him. “_I_ know well

enough--don’t be afraid,” said Charlie; and he strode off like a young

ogre, carrying Agnes’s fortune under his arm. They all went to the

window to look after him with some alarm and some hope; but though they

were troubled for his youth, his abruptness, and his want of “manners,”

there was exhilaration in the steady ring of Charlie’s manful foot, and

his own entire and undoubting confidence. On he went, a boyish giant, to

throw down that slender gage and challenge of the young genius to all

the world. Meanwhile they returned to their private occupations, this

little group of women, excited, doubtful, much expecting, marvelling

over and over again what Mr Burlington would say. Such an eminence of

lofty criticism and censorship these good people recognised in the

position of Mr Burlington! He seemed to hold in his hands the universal

key which opened everything: fame, honour, and reward, at that moment,

appeared to these simple minds to be mere vassals of his pleasure; and

all the balance of the future, as Agnes fancied, lay in the doubtful

chance whether he was propitious or unpropitious. Simple imaginations!

Mr Burlington, at that moment taking off his top-coat, and placing his

easy-chair where no draught could reach it, was about as innocent of

literature as Charlie Atheling himself.

But Charlie, who had to go to “the office” after he fulfilled his

mission, could not come home till the evening; so they had to be patient

in spite of themselves. The ordinary occupations of the day in Bellevue

were not very novel, nor very interesting. Mrs Atheling had ambition,

and aimed at gentility; so, of course, they had a piano. The girls had

learned a very little music; and Marian and Agnes, when they were out of

humour, or disinclined for serious occupation, or melancholy (for they

were melancholy sometimes in the “prodigal excess” of their youth and

happiness), were wont to bethink themselves of the much-neglected

“practising,” and spend a stray hour upon it with most inconsistent and

variable zeal. This day there was a great deal of “practising”--indeed,

these wayward girls divided their whole time between the piano and the

garden, which was another recognised safety-valve. Mamma had not the

heart to chide them; instead of that, her face brightened to hear the

musical young voices, the low sweet laughter, the echo of their flying

feet through the house and on the garden paths. As she sat at her work

in her snug sitting-room, with Bell and Beau playing at her feet, and

Agnes and Marian playing too, as truly, and with as pure and

spontaneous delight, Mrs Atheling was very happy. She did not say a

word that any one could hear--but God knew the atmosphere of unspoken

and unspeakable gratitude, which was the very breath of this good

woman’s heart.

When their messenger came home, though he came earlier than Papa, and

there was full opportunity to interrogate him--Charlie, we are grieved

to say, was not very satisfactory in his communications. “Yes,” said

Charlie, “I saw him: I don’t know if it was the head-man: of course, I

asked for Mr Burlington--and he took the parcel--that’s all.”

“That’s all?--you little savage!” cried Marian, who was not half as big

as Charlie. “Did he say he would be glad to have it? Did he ask who had

written it? What did he say?”

“Are you sure it was Mr Burlington?” said Agnes. “Did he look pleased?

What do you think he thought? What did you say to him? Charlie, boy,

tell us what you said?”

“I won’t tell you a word, if you press upon me like that,” said the big

boy. “Sit down and be quiet. Mother, make them sit down. I don’t know if

it was Mr Burlington; I don’t think it was: it was a washy man, that

never could have been head of that place. He took the papers, and made a

face at me, and said, ‘Are they your own?’ I said ‘No’ plain enough; and

then he looked at the first page, and said they must be left. So I left

them. Well, what was a man to do? Of course, that is all.”

“What do you mean by making a face at you, boy?” said the watchful

mother. “I do trust, Charlie, my dear, you were careful how to behave,

and did not make any of your faces at him.”

“Oh, it was only a smile,” said Charlie, with again a grotesque

imitation. “‘Are they your own?’--meaning I was just a boy to be laughed

at, you know--I should think so! As if I could not make an end of

half-a-dozen like him.”

“Don’t brag, Charlie,” said Marian, “and don’t be angry about the

gentleman, you silly boy; he always must have something on his mind

different from a lad like you.”

Charlie laughed with grim satisfaction. “He hasn’t a great deal on his

mind, that chap,” said the big boy; “but I wouldn’t be him, set up there

for no end but reading rubbish--not for--five hundred a-year.”

Now, we beg to explain that five hundred a-year was a perfectly

magnificent income to the imagination of Bellevue. Charlie could not

think at the moment of any greater inducement.

“Reading rubbish! And he has Agnes’s book to read!” cried Marian. That

was indeed an overpowering anti-climax.

“Yes, but how did he look? Do you think he was pleased? And will it be

sure to come to Mr Burlington safe?” said Agnes. Agnes could not help

having a secret impression that there might be some plot against this

book of hers, and that everybody knew how important it was.

“Why, he looked--as other people look who have nothing to say,” said

Charlie; “and I had nothing to say--so we got on together. And he said

it looked original--much he could tell from the first page! And so, of

course, I came away--they’re to write when they’ve read it over. I tell

you, that’s all. I don’t believe it was Mr Burlington; but it was the

man that does that sort of thing, and so it was all the same.”

This was the substance of Charlie’s report. He could not be prevailed

upon to describe how this important critic looked, or if he was pleased,

or anything about him. He was a washy man, Charlie said; but the

obstinate boy would not even explain what washy meant, so they had to

leave the question in the hands of time to bring elucidation to it. They

were by no means patient; many and oft-repeated were the attacks upon

Charlie--many the wonderings over the omnipotent personage who had the

power of this decision in his keeping; but in the mean time, and for

sundry days and weeks following, these hasty girls had to wait, and to

be content.

CHAPTER IX.

A DECISION.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Charlie Atheling slowly. Having made this

preface, the big boy paused: it was his manner of opening an important

subject, to which the greater part of his cogitations were directed. His

sisters came close to him immediately, half-embracing this great fellow

in their united arms, and waiting for his communication. It was the

twilight of an April evening, soft and calm. There were no stars in the

sky--no sky even, except an occasional break of clear deep heavenly blue

through the shadowy misty shapes of clouds, crowding upon each other

over the whole arch of heaven. The long boughs of the lilac-bushes

rustled in the night wind with all their young soft leaves--the prim

outline of the poplar was ruffled with brown buds, and low on the dark

soil at its feet was a faint golden lustre of primroses. Everything was

as still--not as death, for its deadly calm never exists in nature; but

as life, breathing, hushing, sleeping in that sweet season, when the

grass is growing and the bud unfolding, all the night and all the day.

Even here, in this suburban garden, with the great Babel muffling its

voices faintly in the far distance, you could hear, if you listened,

that secret rustle of growth and renewing which belongs to the sweet

spring. Even here, in this colourless soft light, you could see the

earth opening her unwearied bosom, with a passive grateful sweetness, to

the inspiring touch of heaven. The brown soil was moist with April

showers, and the young leaves glistened faintly with blobs of dew. Very

different from the noonday hope was this hope of twilight; but not less

hopeful in its silent operations, its sweet sighs, its soft tears, and

the heart that stirred within it, in the dark, like a startled bird.

These three young figures, closely grouped together, which you could see

only in outline against the faint horizon and the misty sky, were as

good a human rendering as could be made of the unexpressed sentiment of

the season and the night--they too were growing, with a sweet

involuntary progression, up to their life, and to their fate. They stood

upon the threshold of the world innocent adventurers, fearing no evil;

and it was hard to believe that these hopeful neophytes could ever be

made into toil-worn, care-hardened people of the world by any sum of

hardships or of years.

“I’ve been thinking;”--all this time Charlie Atheling had added nothing

to his first remarkable statement, and we are compelled to admit that

the conclusion which he now gave forth did not seem to justify the

solemnity of the delivery--“yes, I’ve made up my mind; I’ll go to old

Foggo and the law.”

“And why, Charlie, why?”

Charlie was not much given to rendering a reason.

“Never mind the why,” he said, abruptly; “that’s best. There’s old Foggo

himself, now; nobody can reckon his income, or make a balance just what

he is and what he has, and all about him, as people could do with us. We

are plain nobodies, and people know it at a glance. My father has five

children and two hundred a-year--whereas old Foggo, you see--”

“_I_ don’t see--I do not believe it!” cried Marian, impatiently. “Do you

mean to say, you bad boy, that Mr Foggo is better than papa--_my_

father? Why, he has mamma, and Bell and Beau, and all of us: if anything

ailed him, we should break our hearts. Mr Foggo has only Miss Willsie:

he is an old man, and snuffs, and does not care for anybody: do you call

_that_ better than papa?”

But Charlie only laughed. Certain it was that this lad had not the

remotest intention of setting up Mr Foggo as his model of happiness.

Indeed, nobody quite knew what Charlie’s ideal was; but the boy, spite

of his practical nature, had a true boyish liking for that margin of

uncertainty which made it possible to surmise some unknown power or

greatness even in the person of this ancient lawyer’s clerk. Few lads,

we believe, among the range of those who have to make their own fortune,

are satisfied at their outset to decide upon being “no better than

papa.”

“Well,” said Agnes, with consideration, “I should not like Charlie to be

just like papa. Papa can do nothing but keep us all--so many

children--and he never can be anything more than he is now. But

Charlie--Charlie is quite a different person. I wish he could be

something great.”

“Agnes--don’t! it is such nonsense!” cried Marian. “Is there anything

great in old Mr Foggo’s office? He is a poor old man, _I_ think, living

all by himself with Miss Willsie. I had rather be Susan in our house,

than be mistress in Mr Foggo’s: and how could _he_ make Charlie anything

great?”

“Stuff!” said Charlie; “nobody wants to be _made_; that’s a man’s own

business. Now, you just be quiet with your romancing, you girls. I’ll

tell you what, though, there’s one man I think I’d like to be--and I

suppose you call him great--I’d like to be Rajah Brooke.”

“Oh, Charlie! and hang people!” cried Marian.

“Not people--only pirates,” said the big boy: “wouldn’t I string them up

too! Yes, if that would please you, Agnes, I’d like to be Rajah Brooke.”

“Then why, Charlie,” exclaimed Agnes--“why do you go to Mr Foggo’s

office? A merchant may have a chance for such a thing--but a lawyer!

Charlie, boy, what do you mean?”

“Never mind,” said Charlie; “your Brookes and your Layards and such

people don’t begin by being merchants’ clerks. I know better: they have

birth and education, and all that, and get the start of everybody, and

then they make a row about it. I don’t see, for my part,” said the young

gentleman meditatively, “what it is but chance. A man may succeed, or a

man may fail, and it’s neither much to his credit nor his blame. It is a

very odd thing, and I can’t understand it--a man may work all his life,

and never be the better for it. It’s chance, and nothing more, so far as

I can see.”

“Hush, Charlie--say Providence,” said Agnes, anxiously.

“Well, I don’t know--it’s very odd,” answered the big boy.

Whereupon there began two brief but earnest lectures for the good of

Charlie’s mind, and the improvement of his sentiments. The girls were

much disturbed by their brother’s heterodoxy; they assaulted him

vehemently with the enthusiastic eagerness of the young faith which had

never been tried, and would not comprehend any questioning. Chance! when

the very sparrows could not fall to the ground--The bright face of Agnes

Atheling flushed almost into positive beauty; she asked indignantly,

with a trembling voice and tears in her eyes, how Mamma could have

endured to live if it had not been God who did it? Charlie, rough as he

was, could not withstand an appeal like this: he muttered something

hastily under his breath about success in business being a very

different thing from _that_, and was indisputably overawed and

vanquished. This allusion made them all very silent for a time, and the

young bright eyes involuntarily glanced upward where the pure faint

stars were gleaming out one by one among the vapoury hosts of cloud.

Strangely touching was the solemnity of this link, not to be broken,

which connected the family far down upon the homely bosom of the

toilsome earth with yonder blessed children in the skies. Marian, saying

nothing, wiped some tears silently from the beautiful eyes which turned

such a wistful, wondering, longing look to the uncommunicating heaven.

Charlie, though you could scarcely see him in the darkness, worked those

heavy furrows of his brow, and frowned fiercely upon himself. The long

branches came sweeping towards them, swayed by the night wind; up in the

east rose the pale spring moon, pensive, with a misty halo like a saint.

The aspect of the night was changed; instead of the soft brown gloaming,

there was broad silvery light and heavy masses of shadow over sky and

soil--an instant change all brought about by the rising of the moon. As

swift an alteration had passed upon the mood of these young speculators.

They went in silently, full of thought--not so sad but that they could

brighten to the fireside brightness, yet more meditative than was their

wont; even Charlie--for there was a warm heart within the clumsy form of

this big boy!

CHAPTER X.

MR FOGGO.

They went in very sedately out of the darkness, their eyes dazzled with

the sudden light. Bell and Beau were safely disposed of for the night,

and on the side-table, beside Charlie’s two grammars and Agnes’s

blotting-book, now nearly empty, lay the newspaper of Papa; for the

usual visitor was installed in the usual place at the fireside, opposite

Mr Atheling. Good companion, it is time you should see the friend of the

family: there he was.

And there also, it must be confessed, was a certain faint yet expressive

fragrance, which delicately intimated to one sense at least, before he

made his appearance, the coming of Mr Foggo. We will not affirm that it

was lundyfoot--our own private impression, indeed, is strongly in favour

of black rappee--but the thing was indisputable, whatever might be the

species. He was a large brown man, full of folds and wrinkles; folds in

his brown waistcoat, where secret little sprinklings of snuff, scarcely

perceptible, lay undisturbed and secure; wrinkles, long and forcible,

about his mouth; folds under his eyelids, deep lines upon his brow.

There was not a morsel of smooth surface visible anywhere even in his

hands, which were traced all over with perceptible veins and sinews,

like a geographical exercise. Mr Foggo wore a wig, which could not by

any means be complimented with the same title as Mr Pendennis’s “’ead of

’air.” He was between fifty and sixty, a genuine old bachelor, perfectly

satisfied with his own dry and unlovely existence. Yet we may suppose it

was something in Mr Foggo’s favour, the frequency of his visits here. He

sat by the fireside with the home-air of one who knows that this chair

is called his, and that he belongs to the household circle, and turned

to look at the young people, as they entered, with a familiar yet

critical eye. He was friendly enough, now and then, to deliver little

rebukes and remonstrances, and was never complimentary, even to Marian;

which may be explained, perhaps, when we say that he was a Scotsman--a

north-country Scotsman--with “peculiarities” in his pronunciation, and

very distinct opinions of his own. How he came to win his way into the

very heart of this family, we are not able to explain; but there he was,

and there Mr Foggo had been, summer and winter, for nearly half-a-score

of years.

He was now an institution, recognised and respected. No one dreamt of

investigating his claims--possession was the whole law in his case, his

charter and legal standing-ground; and the young commonwealth recognised

as undoubtingly the place of Mr Foggo as they did the natural throne and

pre-eminence of Papa and Mamma.

“For my part,” said Mr Foggo, who, it seemed, was in the midst of what

Mrs Atheling called a “sensible conversation,”--and Mr Foggo spoke

slowly, and with a certain methodical dignity,--“for my part, I see

little in the art of politics, but just withholding as long as ye can,

and giving as little as ye may; for a statesman, ye perceive, be he

Radical or Tory, must ever consent to be a stout Conservative when he

gets the upper hand. It’s in the nature of things--it’s like father and

son--it’s the primitive principle of government, if ye take my opinion.

So I am never sanguine myself about a new ministry keeping its word. How

should it keep its word? Making measures and opposing them are two as

different things as can be. There’s father and son, a standing example:

the young man is the people and the old man is the government,--the lad

spurs on and presses, the greybeard holds in and restrains.”

“Ah, Foggo! all very well to talk,” said Mr Atheling; “but men should

keep their word, government or no government--that’s what I say. Do you

mean to tell me that a father would cheat his son with promises? No! no!

no! Your excuses won’t do for me.”

“And as for speaking of the father and son, as if it was natural they

should be opposed to each other, I am surprised at _you_, Mr Foggo,”

said Mrs Atheling, with emphatic disapproval. “There’s my Charlie, now,

a wilful boy; but do you think _he_ would set his face against anything

his papa or I might say?”

“Charlie,” said Mr Foggo, with a twinkle of the grey-brown eye which

shone clear and keen under folds of eyelid and thickets of eyebrow, “is

an uncommon boy. I’m speaking of the general principle, not of

exceptional cases. No! men and measures are well enough to make a noise

or an election about; but to go against the first grand rule is not in

the nature of man.”

“Yes, yes!” said Mr Atheling, impatiently; “but I tell you he’s broken

his word--that’s what I say--told a lie, neither more nor less. Do you

mean to tell me that any general principle will excuse a man for

breaking his promises? I challenge your philosophy for that.”

“When ye accept promises that it’s not in the nature of things a man can

keep, ye must even be content with the alternative,” said Mr Foggo.

“Oh! away with your nature of things!” cried Papa, who was unusually

excited and vehement,--“scarcely civil,” as Mrs Atheling assured him in

her private reproof. “It’s the nature of the man, that’s what’s wrong.

False in youth, false in age,--if I had known!”

“Crooked ways are ill to get clear of,” said Mr Foggo oracularly.

“What’s that you’re about, Charlie, my boy? Take you my advice, lad, and

never be a public man.”

“A public man! I wish public men had just as much sense,” said Mrs

Atheling in an indignant under-tone. This good couple, like a great many

other excellent people, were pleased to note how all the national

businesses were mismanaged, and what miserable ’prentice-hands of pilots

held the helm of State.

“I grant you it would not be overmuch for them,” said Mr Foggo; “and

speaking of government, Mrs Atheling, Willsie is in trouble again.”

“I am very sorry,” exclaimed Mrs Atheling, with instant interest. “Dear

me, I thought this was such a likely person. You remember what I said to

you, Agnes, whenever I saw her. She looked so neat and handy, I thought

her quite the thing for Miss Willsie. What has she done?”

“Something like the Secretary of State for the Home Department,” said Mr

Foggo,--“made promises which could not be kept while she was on trial,

and broke them when she took office. Shall I send the silly thing

away?”

“Oh, Mr Foggo! Miss Willsie was so pleased with her last week--she could

do so many things--she has so much good in her,” cried Marian; “and then

you can’t tell--you have not tried her long enough--don’t send her

away!”

“She is so pretty, Mr Foggo,” said Agnes.

Mr Foggo chuckled, thinking, not of Miss Willsie’s maid-servant, but of

the Secretary of State. Papa looked at him across the fireplace

wrathfully. What the reason was, nobody could tell; but Papa was visibly

angry, and in a most unamiable state of mind: he said “Tush!” with an

impatient gesture, in answer to the chuckle of his opponent. Mr Atheling

was really not at all polite to his friend and guest.

But we presume Mr Foggo was not sensitive--he only chuckled the more,

and took a pinch of snuff. The snuff-box was a ponderous silver one,

with an inscription on the lid, and always revealed itself most

distinctly, in shape at least, within the brown waistcoat-pocket of its

owner. As he enjoyed this refreshment, the odour diffused itself more

distinctly through the apartment, and a powdery thin shower fell from Mr

Foggo’s huge brown fingers. Susan’s cat, if she comes early to the

parlour, will undoubtedly be seized with many sneezes to-morrow.

But Marian, who was innocently unconscious of any double meaning,

continued to plead earnestly for Miss Willsie’s maid. “Yes, Mr Foggo,

she is so pretty,” said Marian, “and so neat, and smiles. I am sure Miss

Willsie herself would be grieved after, if she sent her away. Let mamma

speak to Miss Willsie, Mr Foggo. She smiles as if she could not help it.

I am sure she is good. Do not let Miss Willsie send her away.”

“Willsie is like the public--she is never content with her servants,”

said Mr Foggo. “Where’s all the poetry to-night? no ink upon Agnes’s

finger! I don’t understand that.”

“I never write poetry, Mr Foggo,” said Agnes, with superb disdain. Agnes

was extremely annoyed by Mr Foggo’s half-knowledge of her authorship.

The old gentleman took her for one of the young ladies who write verses,

she thought; and for this most amiable and numerous sisterhood, the

young genius, in her present mood, had a considerable disdain.

“And ink on her finger! You never saw ink on Agnes’s finger--you know

you never did!” cried the indignant Marian. “If she did write poetry, it

is no harm; and I know very well you only mean to tease her: but it is

wrong to say what never was true.”

Mr Foggo rose, diffusing on every side another puff of his peculiar

element. “When I have quarrelled with everybody, I reckon it is about

time to go home,” said Mr Foggo. “Charlie, step across with me, and get

some nonsense-verses Willsie has been reading, for the girls. Keep in

the same mind, Agnes, and never write poetry--it’s a mystery; no man

should meddle with it till he’s forty--that’s _my_ opinion--and then

there would be as few poets as there are Secretaries of State.”

“Secretaries of State!” exclaimed Papa, restraining his vehemence,

however, till Mr Foggo was fairly gone, and out of hearing--and then Mr

Atheling made a pause. You could not suppose that his next observation

had any reference to this indignant exclamation; it was so oddly out of

connection that even the girls smiled to each other. “I tell you what,

Mary, a man should not be led by fantastic notions--a man should never

do anything that does not come directly in his way,” said Mr Atheling,

and he pushed his grizzled hair back from his brow with heat and

excitement. It was an ordinary saying enough, not much to be marvelled

at. What did Papa mean?

“Then, papa, nothing generous would ever be done in the world,” said

Marian, who, somewhat excited by Mr Foggo, was quite ready for an

argument on any subject, or with any person.

“But things that have to be done always come in people’s way,” said

Agnes; “is not that true? I am sure, when you read people’s lives, the

thing they have to do seems to pursue them; and even if they do not want

it, they cannot help themselves. Papa, is not that true?”

“Ay, ay--hush, children,” said Mr Atheling, vaguely; “I am busy--speak

to your mother.”

They spoke to their mother, but not of this subject. They spoke of Miss

Willsie’s new maid, and conspired together to hinder her going away; and

then they marvelled somewhat over the book which Charlie was to bring

home. Mr Foggo and his maiden sister lived in Bellevue, in one of the

villas semi-detached, which Miss Willsie had named Killiecrankie Lodge,

yet Charlie was some time absent. “He is talking to Mr Foggo, instead of

bringing our book,” said Marian, pouting with her pretty lips. Papa and

Mamma had each of them settled into a brown study--a very brown study,

to judge from appearances. The fire was low--the lights looked dim.

Neither of the girls were doing anything, save waiting on Charlie. They

were half disposed to be peevish. “It is not too late; come and practise

for half an hour, Agnes,” said Marian, suddenly. Mrs Atheling was too

much occupied to suggest, as she usually did, that the music would wake

Bell and Beau: they stole away from the family apartment unchidden and

undetained, and, lighting another candle, entered the genteel and

solemn darkness of the best room. You have not been in the best room;

let us enter with due dignity this reserved and sacred apartment, which

very few people ever enter, and listen to the music which nobody ever

hears.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BEST ROOM.

The music, we are grieved to say, was not at all worth listening to--it

would not have disturbed Bell and Beau had the two little beds been on

the top of the piano. Though Marian with a careless hand ran over three

or four notes, the momentary sound did not disturb the brown study of

Mrs Atheling, and scarcely roused Susan, nodding and dozing, as she

mended stockings by the kitchen fire. We are afraid this same practising

was often an excuse for half an hour’s idleness and dreaming. Sweet

idleness! happy visions! for it certainly was so to-night.

The best room was of the same size exactly as the family sitting-room,

but looked larger by means of looking prim, chill, and uninhabited--and

it was by no means crowded with furniture. The piano in one corner and a

large old-fashioned table in another, with a big leaf of black and

bright mahogany folded down, were the only considerable articles in the

room, and the wall looked very blank with its array of chairs. The sofa

inclined towards the unlighted fire, and the round table stood before

it; but you could not delude yourself into the idea that this at any

time could be the family hearth. Mrs Atheling “kept no company;” so,

like other good people in the same condition, she religiously preserved

and kept in order the company-room; and it was a comfort to her heart to

recollect that in this roomy house there was always an orderly place

where strangers could be shown into, although the said strangers never

came.

The one candle had been placed drearily among the little coloured glass

vases on the mantel-shelf; but the moonlight shone broad and full into

the window, and, pouring its rays over the whole visible scene without,

made something grand and solemn even of this genteel and silent

Bellevue. The tranquil whiteness on these humble roofs--the distinctness

with which one branch here and there, detached and taken possession of

by the light, marked out its half-developed buds against the sky--the

strange magic which made that faint ascending streak of smoke the

ethereal plaything of these moonbeams--and the intense blackness of the

shadow, deep as though it fell from one of the pyramids, of these homely

garden-walls--made a wonderful and striking picture of a scene which had

not one remarkable feature of its own; and the solitary figure crossing

the road, all enshrined and hallowed in this silvery glory, but itself

so dark and undistinguishable, was like a figure in a vision--an

emblematic and symbolical appearance, entering like a picture to the

spectator’s memory. The two girls stood looking out, with their arms

entwined, and their fair heads close together, as is the wont of such

companions, watching the wayfarer, whose weary footstep was inaudible in

the great hush and whisper of the night.

“I always fancy one might see ghosts in moonlight,” said Marian, under

her breath. Certainly that solitary passenger, with all the silvered

folds of his dress, and the gliding and noiseless motion of his

progress, was not entirely unlike one.

“He looks like a man in a parable,” said Agnes, in the same tone. “One

could think he was gliding away mysteriously to do something wrong. See,

now, he has gone into the shadow. I cannot see him at all--he has quite

disappeared--it is so black. Ah! I shall think he is always standing

there, looking over at us, and plotting something. I wish Charlie would

come home--how long he is!”

“Who would plot anything against us?” said innocent Marian, with her

fearless smile. “People do not have enemies now as they used to have--at

least not common people. I wish he would come out again, though, out of

that darkness. I wonder what sort of man he could be.”

But Agnes was no longer following the man; her eye was wandering vaguely

over the pale illumination of the sky. “I wonder what will happen to us

all?” said Agnes, with a sigh--sweet sigh of girlish thought that knew

no care! “I think we are all beginning now, Marian, every one of us. I

wonder what will happen--Charlie and all?”

“Oh, I can tell you,” said Marian; “and you first of all, because you

are the eldest. We shall all be famous, Agnes, every one of us; all

because of you.”

“Oh, hush!” cried Agnes, a smile and a flush and a sudden brightness

running over all her face; “but suppose it _should_ be so, you know,

Marian--only suppose it for our own pleasure--what a delight it would

be! It might help Charlie on better than anything; and then what we

could do for Bell and Beau! Of course it is nonsense,” said Agnes, with

a low laugh and a sigh of excitement, “but how pleasant it would be!”

“It is not nonsense at all; I think it is quite certain,” said Marian;

“but then people would seek you out, and you would have to go and visit

them--great people--clever people. Would it not be odd to hear real

ladies and gentlemen talking in company as they talk in books?”

“I wonder if they do,” said Agnes, doubtfully. “And then to meet people

whom we have heard of all our lives--perhaps Bulwer even!--perhaps

Tennyson! Oh, Marian!”

“And to know they were very glad to meet _you_,” exclaimed the sister

dreamer, with another low laugh of absolute pleasure: that was very near

the climax of all imaginable honours--and for very awe and delight the

young visionaries held their breath.

“And I think now,” said Marian, after a little interval, “that perhaps

it is better Charlie should be a lawyer, for he would have so little at

first in papa’s office, and he never could get on, more than papa; and

you would not like to leave all the rest of us behind you, Agnes? I know

you would not. But I hope Charlie will never grow like Mr Foggo, so old

and solitary; to be poor would be better than that.”

“Then I could be Miss Willsie,” said Agnes, “and we should live in a

little square house, with two bits of lawn and two fir-trees; but I

think we would not call it Killiecrankie Lodge.”

Over this felicitous prospect there was a great deal of very quiet

laughing--laughing as sweet and as irrepressible as any other natural

music, but certainly not evidencing any very serious purpose on the

part of either of the young sisters to follow the example of Miss

Willsie. They had so little thought, in their fair unconscious youth, of

all the long array of years and changes which lay between their sweet

estate and that of the restless kind old lady, the mistress of Mr

Foggo’s little square house.

“And then, for me--what should I do?” said Marian. There were smiles

hiding in every line of this young beautiful face, curving the pretty

eyebrow, moving the soft lip, shining shy and bright in the sweet eyes.

No anxiety--not the shadow of a shade--had ever crossed this young

girl’s imagination touching her future lot. It was as rosy as the west

and the south, and the cheeks of Maud in Mr Tennyson’s poem. She had no

thought of investigating it too closely; it was all as bright as a

summer day to Marian, and she was ready to spend all her smiles upon the

prediction, whether it was ill or well.

“Then I suppose you must be married, May. I see nothing else for you,”

said Agnes, “for there could not possibly be two Miss Willsies; but I

should like to see, in a fairy glass, who my other brother was to be. He

must be clever, Marian, and it would be very pleasant if he could be

rich, and I suppose he ought to be handsome too.”

“Oh, Agnes! handsome of course, first of all!” cried Marian, laughing,

“nobody but you would put that last.”

“But then I rather like ugly people, especially if they are clever,”

said Agnes; “there is Charlie, for example. If he was _very_ ugly, what

an odd couple you would be!--he ought to be ugly for a balance--and very

witty and very pleasant, and ready to do anything for you, May. Then if

he were only rich, and you could have a carriage, and be a great lady, I

think I should be quite content.”

“Hush, Agnes! mamma will hear you--and now there is Charlie with a

book,” said Marian. “Look! he is quite as mysterious in the moonlight as

the other man--only Charlie could never be like a ghost--and I wonder

what the book is. Come, Agnes, open the door.”

This was the conclusion of the half-hour’s practising; they made

grievously little progress with their music, yet it was by no means an

unpleasant half-hour.

CHAPTER XII.

A SERIOUS QUESTION.

Mrs Atheling has been calling upon Miss Willsie, partly to intercede for

Hannah, the pretty maid, partly on a neighbourly errand of ordinary

gossip and kindliness; but in decided excitement and agitation of mind

Mamma has come home. It is easy to perceive this as she hurries

up-stairs to take off her shawl and bonnet; very easy to notice the

fact, as, absent and preoccupied, she comes down again. Bell and Beau

are in the kitchen, and the kitchen-door is open. Bell has Susan’s cat,

who is very like to scratch her, hugged close in her chubby arms. Beau

hovers so near the fire, on which there is no guard, that his mother

would think him doomed did she see him; but--it is true, although it is

almost unbelievable--Mamma actually passes the open kitchen-door without

observing either Bell or Beau!

The apples of her eye! Mrs Atheling has surely something very important

to occupy her thoughts; and now she takes her usual chair, but does not

attempt to find her work-basket. What can possibly have happened to

Mamma?

The girls have not to wait very long in uncertainty. The good mother

speaks, though she does not distinctly address either of them. “They

want a lad like Charlie in Mr Foggo’s office,” said Mrs Atheling. “I

knew that, and that Charlie could have the place; but they also want an

articled clerk.”

“An articled clerk!--what is that, mamma?” said Agnes, eagerly.

To tell the truth, Mrs Atheling did not very well know what it was, but

she knew it was “something superior,” and that was enough for her

motherly ambition.

“Well, my dear, it is a gentleman,” said Mrs Atheling, “and of course

there must be far greater opportunities of learning. It is a superior

thing altogether, I believe. Now, being such old friends, I should think

Mr Foggo might get them to take a very small premium. Such a thing for

Charlie! I am sure we could all pinch for a year or two to give him a

beginning like _that_!”

“Would it be much better, mamma?” said Marian. They had left what they

were doing to come closer about her, pursuing their eager

interrogations. Marian sat down upon a stool on the rug where the

fire-light brightened her hair and reddened her cheek at its pleasure.

Agnes stood on the opposite side of the hearth, looking down upon the

other interlocutors. They were impatient to hear all that Mrs Atheling

had heard, and perfectly ready to jump to an unanimous opinion.

“Better, my dear!” said Mrs Atheling--“just as much better as a young

man learning to be a master can be better than one who is only a

servant. Then, you know, it would give Charlie standing, and get him

friends of a higher class. I think it would be positively a sin to

neglect such an opportunity; we might never all our lives hear of

anything like it again.”

“And how did you hear of it, mamma?” said Marian. Marian had quite a

genius for asking questions.

“I heard of it from Miss Willsie, my love. It was entirely by accident.

She was telling me of an articled pupil they had at the office, who had

gone all wrong, poor fellow, in consequence of----; but I can tell you

that another time. And then she said they wanted one now, and then it

flashed upon me just like an inspiration. I was quite agitated. I do

really declare to you, girls, I thought it was Providence; and I

believe, if we only were bold enough to do it in faith, God would

provide the means; and I feel sure it would be the making of Charlie. I

think so indeed.”

“I wonder what he would say himself?” said Agnes; for not even Mrs

Atheling knew so well as Agnes did the immovable determination, when he

had settled upon anything, of this obstinate big boy.

“We will speak of it to-night, and see what your papa says, and I would

not mind even mentioning it to Mr Foggo,” said Mrs Atheling: “we have

not very much to spare, yet I think we could all spare something for

Charlie’s sake; we must have it fully discussed to-night.”

This made, for the time, a conclusion of the subject, since Mrs

Atheling, having unburthened her mind to her daughters, immediately

discovered the absence of the children, rebuked the girls for suffering

them to stray, and set out to bring them back without delay. Marian sat

musing before the fire, scorching her pretty cheek with the greatest

equanimity. Agnes threw herself into Papa’s easy-chair. Both hurried off

immediately into delightful speculations touching Charlie--a lawyer and

a gentleman; and already in their secret hearts both of these rash girls

began to entertain the utmost contempt for the commonplace name of

clerk.

We are afraid Mr Atheling’s tea was made very hurriedly that night. He

could not get peace to finish his third cup, that excellent papa: they

persecuted him out of his ordinary play with Bell and Beau; his

invariable study of the newspaper. He could by no means make out the

cause of the commotion. “Not another story finished already, Agnes?”

said the perplexed head of the house. He began to think it would be

something rather alarming if they succeeded each other like this.

“Now, my dears, sit down, and do not make a noise with your work, I beg

of you. I have something to say to your papa,” said Mrs Atheling, with

state and solemnity.

Whereupon Papa involuntarily put himself on his defence; he had not the

slightest idea what could be amiss, but he recognised the gravity of the

preamble. “What _is_ the matter, Mary?” cried poor Mr Atheling. He could

not tell what he had done to deserve this.

“My dear, I want to speak about Charlie,” said Mrs Atheling, becoming

now less dignified, and showing a little agitation. “I went to call on

Miss Willsie to-day, partly about Hannah, partly for other things; and

Miss Willsie told me, William, that besides the youth’s place which we

thought would do for Charlie, there was in Mr Foggo’s office a vacancy

for an articled clerk.”

Mrs Atheling paused, out of breath. She did not often make long

speeches, nor had she frequently before originated and led a great

movement like this, so she showed fully as much excitement as the

occasion required. Papa listened with composure and a little surprise,

relieved to find that he was not on his trial. Charlie pricked his big

red ears, as he sat at his grammar, but made no other sign; while the

girls, altogether suspending their work, drew their chairs closer, and

with a kindred excitement eagerly followed every word and gesture of

Mamma.

“And you must see, William,” said Mrs Atheling, rapidly, “what a great

advantage it would be to Charlie, if he could enter the office like a

gentleman. Of course, I know he would get no salary; but we could go on

very well for a year or two as we are doing--quite as well as before,

certainly; and I have no doubt Mr Foggo could persuade them to be

content with a very small premium; and then think of the advantage to

Charlie, my dear!”

“Premium! no salary!--get on for a year or two! Are you dreaming, Mary?”

exclaimed Mr Atheling. “Why, this is a perfect craze, my dear. Charlie

an articled clerk in Foggo’s office! it is pure nonsense. You don’t mean

to say such a thought has ever taken possession of _you_. I could

understand the girls, if it was their notion--but, Mary! you!”

“And why not me?” said Mamma, somewhat angry for the moment. “Who is so

anxious as me for my boy? I know what our income is, and what it can do

exactly to a penny, William--a great deal better than you do, my dear;

and of course it would be my business to draw in our expenses

accordingly; and the girls would give up anything for Charlie’s sake.

And then, except Beau, who is so little, and will not want anything much

done for him for many a year--he is our only boy, William. It was not

always so,” said the good mother, checking a great sob which had nearly

stopped her voice--“it was not always so--but there is only Charlie left

of all of them; and except little Beau, the son of our old age, he is

our only boy!”

She paused now, because she could not help it; and for the same reason

her husband was very slow to answer. All-prevailing was this woman’s

argument; it was very near impossible to say the gentlest Nay to

anything thus pleaded in the name of the dead.

“But, my dear, we cannot do it,” said Mr Atheling very quietly. The good

man would have given his right hand at that moment to be able to procure

this pleasure for the faithful mother of those fair boys who were in

heaven.

“We could do it if we tried, William,” said Mrs Atheling, recovering

herself slowly. Her husband shook his head, pondered, shook his head

again.

“It would be injustice to the other children,” he said at last. “We

could not keep Charlie like a gentleman without injuring the rest. I am

surprised you do not think of that.”

“But the rest of us are glad to be injured,” cried Agnes, coming to her

mother’s aid; “and then I may have something by-and-by, and Charlie

could get on so much better. I am sure you must see all the advantages,

papa.”

“And we can’t be injured either, for we shall just be as we are,” said

Marian, “only a little more economical; and I am sure, papa, if it is so

great a virtue to be thrifty, as you and Mr Foggo say, you ought to be

more anxious than we are about this for Charlie; and you would, if you

carried out your principles--and you must submit. I know we shall

succeed at last.”

“If it is a conspiracy, I give in,” said Mr Atheling. “Of course you

must mulct yourselves if you have made up your minds to it. I protest

against suffering your thrift myself, and I won’t have any more economy

in respect to Bell and Beau. But do your will, Mary--I don’t interfere.

A conspiracy is too much for me.”

“Mother!” said Charlie--all this time there had been nothing visible of

the big boy, except the aforesaid red ears; now he put down his grammar

and came forward, with some invisible wind working much among the

furrows of his brow--“just hear what I’ve got to say. This won’t do--I’m

not a gentleman, you know; what’s the good of making me like one?--of

course I mean,” said Charlie, somewhat hotly, in a parenthesis, as

Agnes’s eyes flashed upon him, “not a gentleman, so far as being idle

and having plenty of money goes;--I’ve got to work for my bread. Suppose

I was articled, at the end of my time I should have to work for my bread

all the same. What is the difference? It’s only making a sham for two

years, or three years, or whatever the time might be. I don’t want to go

against what anybody says, but you wouldn’t make a sham of me, would

you, mother? Let me go in my proper place--like what I’ll have to be,

all my life; then if I rise you will be pleased; and if I don’t rise,

still nobody will be able to say I have come down. I can’t be like a

gentleman’s son, doing nothing. Let me be myself, mother--the best thing

for me.”

Charlie said scarcely any more that night, though much was said on every

side around; but Charlie was the conqueror.

CHAPTER XIII.

KILLIECRANKIE LODGE.

Killiecrankie Lodge held a dignified position in this genteel locality:

it stood at the end of the road, looking down and superintending

Bellevue. Three square houses, all duly walled and gardened, made the

apex and conclusion of this suburban retirement. The right-hand one was

called Buena Vista House; the left-hand one was Green View Cottage, and

in the centre stood the lodge of Killiecrankie. The lodge was not so

jealously private as its neighbours: in the upper part of the door in

the wall was an open iron railing, through which the curious passenger

might gain a beatific glimpse of Miss Willsie’s wallflowers, and of the

clean white steps by which you ascended to the house-door. The

corresponding loopholes at the outer entrance of Green View and Buena

Vista were carefully boarded; so the house of Mr Foggo had the sole

distinction of an open eye.

Within the wall was a paved path leading to the house, with a square

bit of lawn on either side, each containing in its centre a very small

round flower-plot and a minute fir-tree. These were the pine forests of

the Islingtonian Killiecrankie; but there were better things within the

brief enclosure. The borders round about on every side were full of

wallflowers--double wallflower, streaked wallflower, yellow wallflower,

brown wallflower--every variety under the sun. This was the sole

remarkable instance of taste displayed by Miss Willsie; but it gave a

delicate tone of fragrance to the whole atmosphere of Bellevue.

This is a great day at Killiecrankie Lodge. It is the end of April now,

and already the days are long, and the sun himself stays up till after

tea, and throws a slanting golden beam over the daylight table. Miss

Willsie, herself presiding, is slightly heated. She says, “Bless me,

it’s like July!” as she sets down upon the tray her heavy silver teapot.

Miss Willsie is not half as tall as her brother, but makes up the

difference in another direction. She is stout, though she is so

restlessly active. Her face is full of wavering little lines and

dimples, though she is an old lady; and there are the funniest

indentations possible in her round chin and cheeks. You would fancy a

laugh was always hiding in those crevices. Alas! Hannah knows better.

You should see how Miss Willsie can frown!

But the old lady is in grand costume to-night; she has her brown satin

dress on, her immense cairngorm brooch, her overwhelming blue turban.

This sublime head-dress has an effect of awe upon the company; no one

was prepared for such a degree of grandeur, and the visitors

consequently are not quite at their ease. These visitors are rather

numerous for a Bellevue tea-party. There is Mr Richards from Buena

Vista, Mrs Tavistock from Woburn Lodge, and Mr Gray, the other Scotch

inhabitant, from Gowanbrae; and there is likewise Mr Foggo Silas

Endicott, Miss Willsie’s American nephew, and her Scotch nephew, Harry

Oswald; and besides all this worshipful company, there are all the

Athelings--all except Bell and Beau, left, with many cautions, in the

hands of Susan, over whom, in fear and self-reproach, trembles already

the heart of Mamma.

“So he would not hear of it--he was not blate!” said Miss Willsie. “My

brother never had the like in his office--that I tell you; and there’s

no good mother at home to do as much for Harry. Chairles, lad, you’ll

find out better some time. If there’s one thing I do not like, it’s a

wilful boy!”

“But I can scarcely call him wilful either,” said Mrs Atheling, hastily.

“He is very reasonable, Miss Willsie; he gives his meaning--it is not

out of opposition. He has always a good reason for what he does--he is a

very reasonable boy.”

“And if there’s one thing I object to,” said Miss Willsie, “it’s the

assurance of these monkeys with their reasons. When we were young, we

were ill bairns, doubtless, like other folk; but if I had dared to make

my excuses, pity me! There is Harry, now, will set up his face to me as

grand as a Lord of Session; and Marian this very last night making her

argument about these two spoiled babies of yours, as if she knew better

than me! Misbehaviour’s natural to youth. I can put up with that, but I

cannot away with their reasons. Such things are not for me.”

“Very true--_so_ true, Miss Willsie,” said Mrs Tavistock, who was a

sentimental and sighing widow. “There is my niece, quite an example. I

am sadly nervous, you know; and that rude girl will ‘prove’ to me, as

she calls it, that no thief could get into the house, though I know they

try the back-kitchen window every night.”

“If there’s one thing I’m against,” said Miss Willsie, solemnly, “it’s

that foolish fright about thieves--thieves! Bless me, what would the

ragamuffins do here? A man may be a robber, but that’s no to say he’s an

idiot; and a wise man would never put his life or his freedom in

jeopardy for what he could get in Bellevue.”

Mrs Tavistock was no match for Miss Willsie, so she prudently abstained

from a rejoinder. A large old china basin full of wallflowers stood

under a grim portrait, and between a couple of huge old silver

candlesticks upon the mantelpiece; Miss Willsie’s ancient tea-service,

at present glittering upon the table, was valuable and massive silver:

nowhere else in Bellevue was there so much “plate” as in Killiecrankie

Lodge; and this was perfectly well known to the nervous widow. “I am

sure I wonder at your courage, Miss Willsie; but then you have a

gentleman in the house, which makes a great difference,” said Mrs

Tavistock, woefully. Mrs Tavistock was one of those proper and

conscientious ladies who make a profession of their widowhood, and are

perpetually executing a moral suttee to the edification of all

beholders. “I was never nervous before. Ah, nobody knows what a

difference it makes to me!”

“Young folk are a troublesome handful. Where are the girls--what are

they doing with Harry?” said Miss Willsie. “Harry’s a lad for any kind

of antics, but you’ll no see Foggo demeaning himself. Foggo writes poems

and letters to the papers: they tell me that in his own country he’s a

very rising young man.”

“He looks intellectual. What a pleasure, Miss Willsie, to you!” said the

widow, with delightful sympathy.

“If there’s one thing I like worse than another, it’s your writing young

men,” said Miss Willsie, vehemently. “I lighted on a paper this very

day, that the young leasing-maker had gotten from America, and what do

you think I saw therein, but just a long account--everything about

us--of my brother and me. My brother Robert Foggo, as decent a man as

there is in the three kingdoms--and _me_! What do you think of that, Mrs

Atheling?--even Harry in it, and the wallflowers! If it had not been for

my brother, he never should have set foot in this house again.”

“Oh dear, how interesting!” said the widow. Mrs Tavistock turned her

eyes to the other end of the room almost with excitement. She had not

the least objection, for her own part, in the full pomp of sables and

sentiment, to figure at full length in the _Mississippi Gazette_.

“And what was it for?” said Mrs Atheling, innocently; “for I thought it

was only remarkable people that even the Americans put in the papers.

Was it simply to annoy you?”

“Me!--do you think a lad like yon could trouble _me_?” exclaimed Miss

Willsie. “He says, ‘All the scenes through which he has passed will be

interesting to his readers.’ That’s in a grand note he sent me this

morning--the impertinent boy! My poor Harry, though he’s often in

mischief, and my brother thinks him unsteady--I would not give his

little finger for half-a-dozen lads like yon.”

“But Harry is doing well _now_, Miss Willsie?” said Mrs Atheling. There

was a faint emphasis on the now which proved that Harry had not always

done well.

“Ay,” said Miss Willsie, drily; “and so Chairles has settled to his

business--that’s aye a comfort. If there’s one thing that troubles me,

it is to see young folk growing up in idleness; I pity them, now, that

are genteel and have daughters. What are you going to do, Mrs Atheling,

with these girls of yours?”

Mrs Atheling’s eyes sought them out with fond yet not untroubled

observation. There was Marian’s beautiful head before the other window,

looking as if it had arrested and detained the sunbeams, long ago

departed in the west; and there was Agnes, graceful, animated, and

intelligent, watching, with an affectionate and only half-conscious

admiration, her sister’s beauty. Their mother smiled to herself and

sighed. Even her anxiety, looking at them thus, was but another name for

delight.

“Agnes,” said Marian at the other window, half whispering, half

aloud--“Agnes! Harry says Mr Endicott has published a book.”

With a slight start and a slight blush Agnes turned round. Mr Foggo S.

Endicott was tall, very thin, had an extremely lofty mien, and a pair of

spectacles. He was eight-and-twenty, whiskerless, sallow, and by no

means handsome: he held his thin head very high, and delivered his

sentiments into the air when he spoke, but rarely bent from his

altitude to address any one in particular. But he heard the whisper in a

moment: in his very elbows, as you stood behind him, you could see the

sudden consciousness. He perceived, though he did not look at her, the

eager, bright, blushing, half-reverential glance of Agnes, and,

conscious to his very finger-points, raised his thin head to its fullest

elevation, and pretended not to hear.

Agnes blushed: it was with sudden interest, curiosity, reverence, made

more personal and exciting by her own venture. Nothing had been heard

yet of this venture, though it was nearly a month since Charlie took it

to Mr Burlington, and the young genius looked with humble and earnest

attention upon one who really had been permitted to make his utterance

to the ear of all the world. He _had_ published a book; he was a real

genuine printed author. The lips of Agnes parted with a quick breath of

eagerness; she looked up at him with a blush on her cheek, and a light

in her eye. A thrill of wonder and excitement came over her: would

people by-and-by regard herself in the same light?

“Oh, Mr Endicott!--is it poems?” said Agnes, shyly, and with a deepening

colour. The simple girl was almost as much embarrassed asking him about

his book, as if she had been asking about the Transatlantic lady of this

Yankee young gentleman’s love.

“Oh!” said Mr Endicott, discovering suddenly that she addressed

him--“yes. Did you speak to me?--poems?--ah! some little fugitive

matters, to be sure. One has no right to refuse to publish, when

everybody comes to know that one does such things.”

“Refuse?--no, indeed; I think not,” said Agnes, in spite of herself

feeling very much humbled, and speaking very low. This was so elevated a

view of the matter, and her own was so commonplace a one, that the poor

girl was completely crestfallen. She so anxious to get into print; and

this _bonâ fide_ author, doubtless so very much her superior, explaining

how he submitted, and could not help himself! Agnes was entirely put

down.

“Yes, really one ought not to keep everything for one’s own private

enjoyment,” said the magnanimous Mr Endicott, speaking very high up into

the air with his cadenced voice. “I do not approve of too much reserve

on the part of an author myself.”

“And what are they about, Mr Endicott?” asked Marian, with respect, but

by no means so reverentially as Agnes. Mr Endicott actually looked at

Marian; perhaps it was because of her very prosaic and improper

question, perhaps for the sake of the beautiful face.

“About!” said the poet, with benignant disdain. “No, I don’t approve of

narrative poetry; it’s after the time. My sonnets are experiences. I

live them before I write them; that is the true secret of poetry in our

enlightened days.”

Agnes listened, much impressed and cast down. She was far too simple to

perceive how much superior her natural bright impulse, spontaneous and

effusive, was to this sublime concentration. Agnes all her life long had

never lived a sonnet; but she was so sincere and single-minded herself,

that, at the first moment of hearing it, she received all this nonsense

with unhesitating faith. For she had not yet learned to believe in the

possibility of anybody, save villains in books, saying anything which

they did not thoroughly hold as true.

So Agnes retired a little from the conversation. The young genius began

to take herself to task, and was much humiliated by the contrast. Why

had she written that famous story, now lying storm-stayed in the hands

of Mr Burlington? Partly to please herself--partly to please

Mamma--partly because she could not help it. There was no grand motive

in the whole matter. Agnes looked with reverence at Mr Endicott, and sat

down in a corner. She would have been completely conquered if the

sublime American had been content to hold his peace.

But this was the last thing which occurred to Mr Endicott. He continued

his utterances, and the discouraged girl began to smile. She was no

judge of character, but she began to be able to distinguish nonsense

when she heard it. This was very grand nonsense on the first time of

hearing, and Agnes and Marian, we are obliged to confess, were somewhat

annoyed when Mamma made a movement of departure. They kept very early

hours in Bellevue, and before ten o’clock all Miss Willsie’s guests had

said good-night to Killiecrankie Lodge.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE HOUSE OF FOGGO.

It was ten o’clock, and now only this little family circle was left in

the Lodge of Killiecrankie. Miss Willsie, with one of the big silver

candlesticks drawn so very close that her blue turban trembled, and

stood in jeopardy, read the _Times_; Mr Foggo sat in his armchair, doing

nothing save contemplating the other light in the other candlestick; and

at the unoccupied sides of the table, between the seniors, were the two

young men.

These nephews did not live at Killiecrankie Lodge; but Miss Willsie, who

was very careful, and a notable manager, considered it would be unsafe

for “the boys” to go home to their lodgings at so late an hour as

this--so her invitations always included a night’s lodging; and the kind

and arbitrary little woman was not accustomed to be disobeyed. Yet “the

boys” found it dull, we confess. Mr Foggo was not pleased with Harry,

and by no means “took” to Endicott. Miss Willsie could not deny herself

her evening’s reading. They yawned at each other, these unfortunate

young men, and with a glance of mutual jealousy thought of Marian

Atheling. It was strange to see how dull and disenchanted this place

looked when the beautiful face that brightened it was gone.

So Mr Foggo S. Endicott took from his pocket his own paper, the

_Mississippi Gazette_, and Harry possessed himself of the half of Miss

Willsie’s _Times_. It was odd to observe the difference between them

even in manner and attitude. Harry bent half over the table, with his

hands thrust up into the thick masses of his curling hair; the American

sat perfectly upright, lifting his thin broadsheet to the height of his

spectacles, and reading loftily his own lucubrations. You could scarcely

see the handsome face of Harry as he hung over his half of the paper,

partly reading, partly dreaming over certain fond fancies of his own;

but you could not only see the lofty lineaments of Foggo, which were not

at all handsome, but also could perceive at a glance that he had “a

remarkable profile,” and silently called your attention to it.

Unfortunately, nobody in the present company was at all concerned about

the profile of Mr Endicott. That philosophical young gentleman,

notwithstanding, read his “Letter from England” in his best manner, and

demeaned himself as loftily as if he were a “portrait of a distinguished

literary gentleman” in an American museum. What more could any man do?

Meanwhile Mr Foggo sat in his armchair steadily regarding the candle

before him. He loved conversation, but he was not talkative, especially

in his own house. Sometimes the old man’s acute eyes glanced from under

his shaggy brow with a momentary keenness towards Harry--sometimes they

shot across the table a momentary sparkle of grim contempt; but to make

out from Mr Foggo’s face what Mr Foggo was thinking, was about the

vainest enterprise in the world. It was different with his sister: Miss

Willsie’s well-complexioned countenance changed and varied like the sky.

You could pursue her sudden flashes of satisfaction, resentment,

compassion, and injury into all her dimples, as easily as you could

follow the clouds over the heavens. Nor was it by her looks alone that

you could discover the fluctuating sympathies of Miss Willsie. Short,

abrupt, hasty exclamations, broke from her perpetually. “The

vagabond!--to think of that!” “Ay, that’s right now; I thought there was

something in _him_.” “Bless me--such a story!” After this manner ran on

her unconscious comments. She was a considerable politician, and this

was an interesting debate; and you could very soon make out by her

continual observations the political opinions of the mistress of

Killiecrankie. She was a desperate Tory, and at the same moment the

most direful and unconstitutional of Radicals. With a hereditary respect

she applauded the sentiments of the old country-party, and clung to

every institution with the pertinacity of a martyr; yet with the same

breath, and the most delightful inconsistency, was vehement and

enthusiastic in favour of the wildest schemes of reform; which, we

suppose, is as much as to say that Miss Willsie was a very feminine

politician, the most unreasonable of optimists, and had the sublimest

contempt for all practical considerations when she had convinced herself

that anything was _right_.

“I knew it!” cried Miss Willsie, with a burst of triumph; “he’s out, and

every one disowning him--a mean crew, big and little! If there’s one

thing I hate, it’s setting a man forward to tell an untruth, and then

letting him bear all the blame!”

“He’s got his lawful deserts,” said Mr Foggo. This gentleman, more

learned than his sister, took a very philosophical view of public

matters, and acknowledged no particular leaning to any “party” in his

general interest in the affairs of state.

“I never can find out now,” said Miss Willsie suddenly, “what the like

of Mr Atheling can have to do with this man--a lord and a great person,

and an officer of state--but his eye kindles up at the name of him, as

if it was the name of a friend. There cannot be ill-will unless there is

acquaintance, that’s my opinion; and an ill-will at this lord I am sure

Mr Atheling has.”

“They come from the same countryside,” said Mr Foggo; “when they were

lads they knew each other.”

“And who is this Mr Atheling?” said Endicott, speaking for the first

time. “I have a letter of introduction to Viscount Winterbourne myself.

His son, the Honourable George Rivers, travelled in the States a year or

two since, and I mean to see him by-and-by; but who is Mr Atheling, to

know an English Secretary of State?”

“He’s Cash and Ledger’s chief clerk,” said Mr Foggo, very laconically,

looking with a steady eye at the candlestick, and bestowing as little

attention upon his questioner as his questioner did upon him.

“Marvellous! in this country!” said the American; but Mr Endicott

belonged to that young America which is mightily respectful of the old

country. He thought it vulgar to do too much republicanism. He only

heightened the zest of his admiration now and then by a refined little

sneer.

“In this country! Where did ye ever see such a country, I would like to

know?” cried Miss Willsie. “If it was but for your own small concerns,

you ought to be thankful; for London itself will keep ye in writing

this many a day. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it’s ingratitude!

I’m a long-suffering person myself; but that, I grant, gets the better

of me.”

“Mr Atheling, I suppose, has not many lords in his acquaintance,” said

Harry Oswald, looking up from his paper. “Endicott is right enough,

aunt; he is not quite in the rank for that; he has better----” said

Harry, something lowering his voice; “I would rather know myself welcome

at the Athelings’ than in any other house in England.”

This was said with a little enthusiasm, and brought the rising colour to

Harry Oswald’s brow. His cousin looked at him, with a curl of his thin

lip and a somewhat malignant eye. Miss Willsie looked at him hastily,

with a quick impatient nod of her head, and a most rapid and emphatic

frown. Finally, Mr Foggo lifted to the young man’s face his acute and

steady eye.

“Keep to your physic, Harry,” said Mr Foggo. The hapless Harry did not

meet the glance, but he understood the tone.

“Well, uncle, well,” said Harry hastily, raising his eyes; “but a man

cannot always keep to physic. There are more things in the world than

drugs and lancets. A man must have some margin for his thoughts.”

Again Miss Willsie gave the culprit a nod and a frown, saying as plain

as telegraphic communication ever said, “I am your friend, but this is

not the time to plead.” Again Mr Endicott surveyed his cousin with a

vague impulse of malice and of rivalry. Harry Oswald plunged down again

on his paper, and was no more heard of that night.

CHAPTER XV.

THE PROPOSAL.

“I suppose we are not going to hear anything about it. It is very hard,”

said Agnes disconsolately. “I am sure it is so easy to show a little

courtesy. Mr Burlington surely might have written to let us know.”

“But, my dear, how can we tell?” said Mrs Atheling; “he may be ill, or

he may be out of town, or he may have trouble in his family. It is very

difficult to judge another person--and you don’t know what may have

happened; he may be coming here himself, for aught we know.”

“Well, I think it is very hard,” said Marian; “I wish we only could

publish it ourselves. What is the good of a publisher? They are only

cruel to everybody, and grow rich themselves; it is always so in books.”

“He might surely have written at least,” repeated Agnes. These young

malcontents were extremely dissatisfied, and not at all content with Mrs

Atheling’s explanation that he might be ill, or out of town, or have

trouble in his family. Whatever extenuating circumstances there might

be, it was clear that Mr Burlington had not behaved properly, or with

the regard for other people’s feelings which Agnes concluded to be the

only true mark of a gentleman. Even the conversation of last night, and

the state and greatness of Mr Endicott, stimulated the impatience of the

girls. “It is not for the book so much, as for the uncertainty,” Agnes

said, as she disconsolately took out her sewing; but in fact it was just

because they had so much certainty, and so little change and commotion

in their life, that they longed so much for the excitement and novelty

of this new event.

They were very dull this afternoon, and everything out of doors

sympathised with their dulness. It was a wet day--a hopeless, heavy,

persevering, not-to-be-mended day of rain. The clouds hung low and

leaden over the wet world; the air was clogged and dull with moisture,

only lightened now and then by an impatient shrewish gust, which threw

the small raindrops like so many prickles full into your face. The long

branches of the lilacs blew about wildly with a sudden commotion, when

one of these gusts came upon them, like a group of heroines throwing up

their arms in a tragic appeal to heaven. The primroses, pale and

drooping, sullied their cheeks with the wet soil; hour after hour, with

the most sullen and dismal obstinacy, the rain rained down upon the

cowering earth; not a sound was in Bellevue save the trickle of the

water, a perfect stream, running strong and full down the little channel

on either side the street. It was in vain to go to the window, where not

a single passenger--not a baker’s boy, nor a maid on pattens, nobody but

the milkman in his waterproof-coat--hurrying along, a peripatetic

fountain, with little jets of water pouring from his hat, his cape, and

his pails--was visible through the whole dreary afternoon. It is

possible to endure a wet morning--easy enough to put up with a wet

night; but they must have indeed high spirits and pleasurable

occupations who manage to keep their patience and their cheerfulness

through the sullen and dogged monotony of a wet afternoon.

So everybody had a poke at the fire, which had gone out twice to-day

already, and was maliciously looking for another opportunity of going

out again; every person here present snapped her thread and lost her

needle; every one, even, each for a single moment, found Bell and Beau

in her way. You may suppose, this being the case, how very dismal the

circumstances must have been. But suddenly everybody started--the outer

gate swung open--an audible footstep came towards the door! Fairest of

readers, a word with you! If you are given to morning-calls, and love to

be welcomed, make your visits on a wet day!

It was not a visitor, however welcome--better than that--ecstatic sound!

it was the postman--the postman, drenched and sullen, hiding his crimson

glories under an oilskin cape; and it was a letter, solemn and

mysterious, in an unknown hand--a big blue letter, addressed to Miss

Atheling. With trembling fingers Agnes opened it, taking, with awe and

apprehension, out of the big blue envelope, a blue and big enclosure and

a little note. The paper fell to the ground, and was seized upon by

Marian. The excited girl sprang up with it, almost upsetting Bell and

Beau. “It is in print! Memorandum of an agreement--oh, mamma!” cried

Marian, holding up the dangerous instrument. Agnes sat down immediately

in her chair, quite hushed for the instant. It was an actual reality, Mr

Burlington’s letter--and a veritable proposal--not for herself, but for

her book.

The girls, we are obliged to confess, were slightly out of their wits

for about an hour after this memorable arrival. Even Mrs Atheling was

excited, and Bell and Beau ran about the room in unwitting exhilaration,

shouting at the top of their small sweet shrill voices, and tumbling

over each other unreproved. The good mother, to tell the truth, would

have liked to cry a little, if she could have managed it, and was much

moved, and disposed to take this, not as a mere matter of business, but

as a tender office of friendship and esteem on the part of the

unconscious Mr Burlington. Mrs Atheling could not help fancying that

somehow this wonderful chance had happened to Agnes because she was “a

good girl.”

And until Papa and Charlie came home they were not very particular about

the conditions of the agreement; the event itself was the thing which

moved them: it quickened the slow pace of this dull afternoon to the

most extraordinary celerity; the moments flew now which had lagged with

such obstinate dreariness before the coming of that postman; and all the

delight and astonishment of the first moment remained to be gone over

again at the home-coming of Papa.

And Mr Atheling, good man, was almost as much disturbed for the moment

as his wife. At first he was incredulous--then he laughed, but the laugh

was extremely unsteady in its sound--then he read over the paper with

great care, steadily resisting the constant interruptions of Agnes and

Marian, who persecuted him with their questions, “What do you think of

it, papa?” before the excellent papa had time to think at all. Finally,

Mr Atheling laughed again with more composure, and spread out upon the

table the important “Memorandum of Agreement.” “Sign it, Agnes,” said

Papa; “it seems all right, and quite business-like, so far as I can see.

She’s not twenty-one, yet--I don’t suppose it’s legal--that child! Sign

it, Agnes.”

This was by no means what Papa was expected to say; yet Agnes, with

excitement, got her blotting-book and her pen. This innocent family were

as anxious that Agnes’s autograph should be _well written_ as if it had

been intended for a specimen of caligraphy, instead of the signature to

a legal document; nor was the young author herself less concerned; and

she made sure of the pen, and steadied her hand conscientiously before

she wrote that pretty “Agnes Atheling,” which put the other ugly

printer-like handwriting completely to shame. And now it was done--there

was a momentary pause of solemn silence, not disturbed even by Bell and

Beau.

“So this is the beginning of Agnes’s fortune,” said Mr Atheling. “Now

Mary, and all of you, don’t be excited; every book does not succeed

because it finds a publisher; and you must not place your expectations

too high; for you know Agnes knows nothing of the world.”

It was very good to say “don’t be excited,” when Mr Atheling himself was

entirely oblivious of his newspaper, indifferent to his tea, and

actually did not hear the familiar knock of Mr Foggo at the outer door.

“And these half profits, papa, I wonder what they will be,” said Agnes,

glad to take up something tangible in this vague delight.

“Oh, something very considerable,” said Papa, forgetting his own

caution. “I should not wonder if the publisher made a great deal of

money by it: _they_ know what they’re about. Get up and get me my

slippers, you little rascals. When Agnes comes into her fortune, what a

paradise of toys for Bell and Beau!”

But the door opened, and Mr Foggo came in like a big brown cloud. There

was no concealing from him the printed paper--no hiding the overflowings

of the family content. So Agnes and Marian hurried off for half an

hour’s practising, and then put the twins to bed, and gossiped over the

fire in the little nursery. What a pleasant night it was!

CHAPTER XVI.

FAMILY EXCITEMENT.

It would be impossible to describe, after that first beginning, the

pleasant interest and excitement kept up in this family concerning the

fortune of Agnes. All kinds of vague and delightful magnificences

floated in the minds of the two girls: guesses of prodigious sums of

money and unimaginable honours were constantly hazarded by Marian; and

Agnes, though she laughed at, and professed to disbelieve, these

splendid imaginations, was, beyond all controversy, greatly influenced

by them. The house held up its head, and began to dream of fame and

greatness. Even Mr Atheling, in a trance of exalted and exulting fancy,

went down self-absorbed through the busy moving streets, and scarcely

noticed the steady current of the Islingtonian public setting in strong

for the City. Even Mamma, going about her household business, had

something visionary in her eye; she saw a long way beyond to-day’s

little cares and difficulties--the grand distant lights of the future

streaming down on the fair heads of her two girls. It was not possible,

at least in the mother’s fancy, to separate these two who were so

closely united. No one in the house, indeed, could recognise Agnes

without Marian, or Marian without Agnes; and this new fortune belonged

to both.

And then there followed all those indefinite but glorious adjuncts

involved in this beginning of fate--society, friends, a class of people,

as those good dreamers supposed, more able to understand and appreciate

the simple and modest refinement of these young minds;--all the world

was to be moved by this one book--everybody was to render homage--all

society to be disturbed with eagerness. Mr Atheling adjured the family

not to raise their expectations too high, yet raised his own to the most

magnificent level of unlikely greatness. Mrs Atheling had generous

compunctions of mind as she looked at the ribbons already half faded.

Agnes now was in a very different position from her who made the

unthrifty purchase of a colour which would not bear the sun. Mamma held

a very solemn synod in her own mind, and was half resolved to buy new

ones upon her own responsibility. But then there was something shabby in

building upon an expectation which as yet was so indefinite. And we are

glad to say there was so much sobriety and good sense in the house of

the Athelings, despite their glorious anticipations, that the ribbons

of Agnes and Marian, though they began to fulfil Mrs Atheling’s

prediction, still steadily did their duty, and bade fair to last out

their appointed time.

This was a very pleasant time to the whole household. Their position,

their comfort, their external circumstances, were in no respect changed,

yet everything was brightened and radiant in an overflow of hope. There

was neither ill nor sickness nor sorrow to mar the enjoyment; everything

at this period was going well with them, to whom many a day and many a

year had gone full heavily. They were not aware themselves of their

present happiness; they were all looking eagerly forward, bent upon a

future which was to be so much superior to to-day, and none dreamed how

little pleasure was to be got out of the realisation, in comparison with

the delight they all took in the hope. They could afford so well to

laugh at all their homely difficulties--to make jokes upon Mamma’s grave

looks as she discovered an extravagant shilling or two in the household

accounts--or found out that Susan had been wasteful in the kitchen. It

was so odd, so _funny_, to contrast these minute cares with the golden

age which was to come.

And then the plans and secret intentions, the wonderful committees which

sat in profound retirement; Marian plotting with Mamma what Agnes

should have when she came into her fortune, and Agnes advising, with the

same infallible authority, for the advantage of Marian. The vast and

ambitious project of the girls for going to the country--the country or

the sea-side--some one, they did not care which, of those beautiful

unknown beatific regions out of London, which were to them all fairyland

and countries of magic. We suppose nobody ever did enjoy the sea breezes

as Agnes and Marian Atheling, in their little white bed-chamber, enjoyed

the imaginary gale upon the imaginary sands, which they could perceive

brightening the cheek of Mamma, and tossing about the curls of the

twin-babies, at any moment of any night or day. This was to be the grand

triumph of the time when Agnes came into her fortune, though even Mamma

as yet had not heard of the project; but already it was a greater

pleasure to the girls than any real visit to any real sea-side in this

visible earth ever could be.

And then there began to come, dropping in at all hours, from the

earliest post in the morning to the last startling delivery at nine

o’clock at night, packets of printed papers--the proof-sheets of this

astonishing book. You are not to suppose that those proofs needed much

correcting--Agnes’s manuscript was far too daintily written for that;

yet every one read them with the utmost care and attention, and Papa

made little crosses in pencil on the margin when he came to a doubtful

word. Everybody read them, not once only, but sometimes twice, or even

three times over--everybody but Charlie, who eat them up with his bread

and butter at tea, did not say a word on the subject, and never looked

at them again. All Bellevue resounded with the knocks of that incessant

postman at Number Ten. Public opinion was divided on the subject. Some

people said the Athelings had been extravagant, and were now suffering

under a very Egyptian plague, a hailstorm of bills; others, more

charitable, had private information that both the Miss Athelings were

going to be married, and believed this continual dropping to be a

carnival shower of flowers and _bonbons_, the love-letters of the

affianced bridegrooms; but nobody supposed that the unconscious and

innocent postman stood a respectable deputy for the little Beelzebub, to

whose sooty hands of natural right should have been committed the

custody of those fair and uncorrectable sheets. Sometimes, indeed, this

sable emissary made a hasty and half-visible appearance in his own

proper person, with one startling knock, as loud, but more solemn than

the postman--“That’s the Devil!” said Charlie, with unexpected

animation, the second time this emphatic sound was heard; and Susan

refused point-blank to open the door.

How carefully these sheets were corrected! how punctually they were

returned!--with what conscientious care and earnestness the young author

attended to all the requirements of printer and publisher! There was

something amusing, yet something touching as well, in the sincere and

natural humbleness of these simple people. Whatever they said, they

could not help thinking that some secret spring of kindness had moved Mr

Burlington; that somehow this unconscious gentleman, most innocent of

any such intention, meant to do them all a favour. And moved by the

influence of this amiable delusion, Agnes was scrupulously attentive to

all the suggestions of the publisher. Mr Burlington himself was somewhat

amused by his new writer’s obedience, but doubtful, and did not half

understand it; for it is not always easy to comprehend downright and

simple sincerity. But the young author went on upon her guileless way,

taking no particular thought of her own motives; and on with her every

step went all the family, excited and unanimous. To her belonged the

special joy of being the cause of this happy commotion; but the pleasure

and the honour and the delight belonged equally to them all.

CHAPTER XVII.

AN AMERICAN SKETCH.

“Here! there’s reading for you,” said Miss Willsie, throwing upon the

family table a little roll of papers. “They tell me there’s something of

the kind stirring among yourselves. If there’s one thing I cannot put up

with, it’s to see a parcel of young folk setting up to read lessons to

the world!”

“Not Agnes!” cried Marian eagerly; “only wait till it comes out. I know

so well, Miss Willsie, how you will like her book.”

“No such thing,” said Miss Willsie indignantly. “I would just like to

know--twenty years old, and never out of her mother’s charge a week at a

time--I would just like any person to tell me what Agnes Atheling can

have to say to the like of me!”

“Indeed, nothing at all,” said Agnes, blushing and laughing; “but it is

different with Mr Endicott. Now nobody must speak a word. Here it is.”

“No! let me away first,” cried Miss Willsie in terror. She was rather

abrupt in her exits and entrances. This time she disappeared

instantaneously, shaking her hand at some imaginary culprit, and had

closed the gate behind her with a swing, before Agnes was able to begin

the series of “Letters from England” which were to immortalise the name

of Mr Foggo S. Endicott. The New World biographist began with his

voyage, and all the “emotions awakened in his breast” by finding himself

at sea; and immediately thereafter followed a special chapter, headed

“Killiecrankie Lodge.”

“How delightful,” wrote the traveller, “so many thousand miles from

home, so far away from those who love us, to meet with the sympathy and

communion of kindred blood! To this home of the domestic affections I am

glad at once to introduce my readers, as a beautiful example of that Old

England felicity, which is, I grieve to say, so sadly outbalanced by

oppression and tyranny and crime! This beautiful suburban retreat is the

home of my respected relatives, Mr F. and his maiden sister Miss

Wilhelmina F. Here they live with old books, old furniture, and old

pictures around them, with old plate upon their table, old servants in

waiting, and an old cat coiled up in comfort upon their cosy hearth! A

graceful air of antiquity pervades everything. The inkstand from which I

write belonged to a great-grandfather; the footstool under my feet was

worked by an old lady of the days of the lovely Queen Mary; and I cannot

define the date of the china in that carved cabinet: all this, which

would be out of place in one of the splendid palaces of our buzy

citizens, is here in perfect harmony with the character of the inmates.

It is such a house as naturally belongs to an old country, an old

family, and an old and secluded pair.

“My uncle is an epitome of all that is worthy in man. Like most

remarkable Scotsmen, he takes snuff; and to perceive his penetration and

wise sagacity, one has only to look at the noble head which he carries

with a hereditary loftiness. His sister is a noble old lady, and

entirely devoted to him. In fact, they are all the world to each other;

and the confidence with which the brother confides all his cares and

sorrows to the faithful bosom of his sister, is a truly touching sight;

while Miss Wilhelmina F., on her part, seldom makes an observation

without winding up by a reference to ‘my brother.’ It is a long time

since I have found anywhere so fresh and delightful an object of study

as the different characteristics of this united pair. It is beautiful to

watch the natural traits unfolding themselves. One has almost as much

pleasure in the investigation as one has in studying the developments of

childhood; and my admirable relatives are as delightfully unconscious of

their own distinguishing qualities as even children could be.

“Their house is a beautiful little suburban villa, far from the noise

and din of the great city. Here they spend their beautiful old age in

hospitality and beneficence; beggars (for there are always beggars in

England) come to the door every morning with patriarchal familiarity,

and receive their dole through an opening in the door, like the ancient

buttery-hatch; every morning, upon the garden paths crumbs are strewed

for the robins and the sparrows, and the birds come hopping fearlessly

about the old lady’s feet, trusting in her gracious nature. All the

borders are filled with wallflowers, the favourite plant of Miss

Wilhelmina, and they seemed to me to send up a sweeter fragrance when

she watered them with her delicate little engine, or pruned them with

her own hand; for everything, animate and inanimate, seems to know that

she is good.

“To complete this delightful picture, there is just that shade of

solicitude and anxiety wanting to make it perfect. They have a nephew,

this excellent couple, over whom they watch with the characteristic

jealousy of age watching youth. While my admirable uncle eats his egg at

breakfast, he talks of Harry; while aunt Wilhelmina pours out the tea

from her magnificent old silver teapot, she makes apologies and excuses

for him. They will make him their heir, I do not doubt, for he is a

handsome and prepossessing youth; and however this may be to _my_

injury, I joyfully waive my claim; for the sight of their tender

affection and beautiful solicitude is a greater boon to a student of

mankind like myself than all their old hereditary hoards or patrimonial

acres; and so I say, Good fortune to Harry, and let all my readers say

Amen!”

We are afraid to say how difficult Agnes found it to accomplish this

reading in peace; but in spite of Marian’s laughter and Mrs Atheling’s

indignant interruptions, Agnes herself was slightly impressed by these

fine sentiments and pretty sentences. She laid down the paper with an

air of extreme perplexity, and could scarcely be tempted to smile.

“Perhaps that is how Mr Endicott sees things,” said Agnes; “perhaps he

has so fine a mind--perhaps--Now, I am sure, mamma, if you had not known

Miss Willsie, you would have thought it very pretty. I know you would.”

“Do not speak to me, child,” cried Mrs Atheling energetically. “Pretty!

why, he is coming here to-night!”

And Marian clapped her hands. “Mamma will be in the next one!” cried

Marian; “and he will find out that Agnes is a great author, and that we

are all so anxious about Charlie. Oh, I hope he will send us a copy.

What fun it would be to read about papa and his newspaper, and what

everybody was doing at home here in Bellevue!”

“It would be very impertinent,” said Mrs Atheling, reddening with anger;

“and if anything of the kind should happen, I will never forgive Mr

Foggo. You will take care to speak as little as possible to him, Marian;

he is not a safe person. Pretty! Does he think he has a right to come

into respectable houses and make his pretty pictures? You must be very

much upon your guard, girls. I forbid you to be friendly with such a

person as _that_!”

“But perhaps”--said Agnes.

“Perhaps--nonsense,” cried Mamma indignantly; “he must not come in here,

that I am resolved. Go and tell Susan we will sit in the best room

to-night.”

But Agnes meditated the matter anxiously--perhaps, though she did not

say it--perhaps to be a great literary personage, it was necessary to

“find good in everything,” after the newest fashion, like Mr Endicott.

Agnes was much puzzled, and somewhat discouraged, on her own account.

She did not think it possible she could ever come to such a sublime and

elevated view of ordinary things; she felt herself a woeful way behind

Mr Endicott, and with a little eagerness looked forward to his visit.

Would he justify himself--what would he say?

CHAPTER XVIII.

COMPANY.

The best room was not by any means so bright, so cheerful, or so kindly

as the family parlour, with its family disarrangement, and the amateur

paperhanging upon its walls. Before their guests arrived the girls made

an effort to improve its appearance. They pulled the last beautiful

bunches of the lilac to fill the little glass vases, and placed candles

in the ornamental glass candlesticks upon the mantelpiece. But even a

double quantity of light did not bring good cheer to this dull and

solemn apartment. Had it been winter, indeed, a fire might have made a

difference; but it was early summer--one of those balmy nights so sweet

out of doors, which give an additional shade of gloom to

dark-complexioned parlours, shutting out the moon and the stars, the

night air and the dew. Agnes and Marian, fanciful and visionary, kept

the door open themselves, and went wandering about the dark garden,

where the summer flowers came slowly, and the last primrose was dying

pale and sweet under the poplar tree. They went silently and singly, one

after the other, through the garden paths, hearing, without observing,

the two different footsteps which came to the front door. If they were

thinking, neither of them knew or could tell what she was thinking

about, and they returned to the house without a word, only knowing how

much more pleasant it was to be out here in the musical and breathing

darkness, than to be shut closely within the solemn enclosure of the

best room.

But there, by the table where Marian had maliciously laid his paper, was

the stately appearance of Mr Endicott, holding high his abstracted head,

while Harry Oswald, anxious, and yet hesitating, lingered at the door,

eagerly on the watch for the light step of which he had so immediate a

perception when it came. Harry, who indeed had no great inducement to be

much in love with himself, forgot himself altogether as his quick ear

listened for the foot of Marian. Mr Endicott, on the contrary, added a

loftier shape to his abstraction, by way of attracting and not

expressing admiration. Unlucky Harry was in love with Marian; his

intellectual cousin only aimed at making Marian in love with _him_.

And she came in, slightly conscious, we admit, that she was the heroine

of the night, half aware of the rising rivalry, half-enlightened as to

the different character of these two very different people, and of the

one motive which brought them here. So a flitting changeable blush went

and came upon the face of Marian. Her eyes, full of the sweet darkness

and dew of the night, were dazzled by the lights, and would not look

steadily at any one; yet a certain gleam of secret mischief and

amusement in her face betrayed itself to Harry Oswald, though not at all

to the unsuspicious American. She took her seat very sedately at the

table, and busied herself with her fancy-work. Mr Endicott sat opposite,

looking at her; and Harry, a moving shadow in the dim room, hovered

about, sitting and standing behind her chair.

Besides these young people, Mr Atheling, Mr Foggo, and Mamma, were in

the room, conversing among themselves, and taking very little notice of

the other visitors. Mamma was making a little frock, upon which she

bestowed unusual pains, as it seemed; for no civility of Mr Endicott

could gain any answer beyond a monosyllable from the virtuous and

indignant mistress of the house. He was playing with his own papers as

Agnes and Marian came to the table, affectionately turning them over,

and looking at the heading of the “Letter from England” with a loving

eye.

“You are interested in literature, I believe?” said Mr Endicott. Agnes,

Marian, and Harry, all of them glancing at him in the same moment,

could not tell which he addressed; so there was a confused murmur of

reply. “Not in the slightest,” cried Harry Oswald, behind Marian’s

chair. “Oh, but Agnes is!” cried Marian; and Agnes herself, with a

conscious blush, acknowledged--“Yes, indeed, very much.”

“But not, I suppose, very well acquainted with the American press?” said

Mr Endicott. “The bigotry of Europeans is marvellous. We read your

leading papers in the States, but I have not met half-a-dozen people in

England--actually not six individuals--who were in the frequent habit of

seeing the _Mississippi Gazette_.”

“We rarely see any newspapers at all,” said Agnes, apologetically. “Papa

has his paper in the evenings, but except now and then, when there is a

review of a book in it----”

“That is the great want of English contemporary literature,” interrupted

Mr Endicott. “You read the review--good! but you feel that something

else is wanted than mere politics--that votes and debates do not supply

the wants of the age!”

“If the wants of the age were the wants of young ladies,” said Harry

Oswald, “what would become of my uncle and Mr Atheling? Leave things in

their proper place, Endicott. Agnes and Marian want something different

from newspaper literature and leading articles. Don’t interfere with the

girls.”

“These are the slavish and confined ideas of a worn out civilisation,”

said the man of letters; “in my country we respect the opinions of our

women, and give them full scope.”

“Respect!--the old humbug!” muttered Harry behind Marian’s chair. “Am I

disrespectful? I choose to be judged by you.”

Marian glanced over her shoulder with saucy kindness. “Don’t quarrel,”

said Marian. No! Poor Harry was so glad of the glance, the smile, and

the confidence, that he could have taken Endicott, who was the cause of

it, to his very heart.

“The functions of the press,” said Mr Endicott, “are unjustly limited in

this country, like most other enlightened influences. In these days we

have scarcely time to wait for books. It is not with us as it was in old

times, when the soul lay fallow for a century, and then blossomed into

its glorious epic, or drama, or song! Our audience must perceive the

visible march of mind, hour by hour and day by day. We are no longer

concerned about mere physical commotions, elections, or debates, or

votes of the Senate. In these days we care little for the man’s

opinions; what we want is an advantageous medium for studying the man.”

As she listened to this, Agnes Atheling held her breath, and suspended

her work unawares. It sounded very imposing, indeed--to tell the truth,

it sounded something like that magnificent conversation in books over

which Marian and she had often marvelled. Then this simple girl believed

in everybody; she was rather inclined to suppose of Mr Endicott that he

was a man of very exalted mind.

“I do not quite know,” said Agnes humbly, “whether it is right to tell

all about great people in the newspapers, or even to put them in books.

Do you think it is, Mr Endicott?”

“I think,” said the American, solemnly, “that a public man, and, above

all, a literary man, belongs to the world. All the exciting scenes of

life come to us only that we may describe and analyse them for the

advantage of others. A man of genius has no private life. Of what

benefit is the keenness of his emotions if he makes no record of them?

In my own career,” continued the literary gentleman, “I have been

sometimes annoyed by foolish objections to the notice I am in the habit

of giving of friends who cross my way. Unenlightened people have

complained of me, in vulgar phrase, that I ‘put them in the newspapers.’

How strange a misconception! for you must perceive at once that it was

not with any consideration of them, but simply that my readers might see

every scene I passed through, and in reality feel themselves travelling

with _me_!”

“Oh!” Agnes made a faint and very doubtful exclamation; Harry Oswald

turned on his heel, and left the room abruptly; while Marian bent very

closely over her work, to conceal that she was laughing. Mr Endicott

thought it was a natural youthful reverence, and gave her all due credit

for her “ingenuous emotions.”

“The path of genius necessarily reveals certain obscure individuals,”

said Mr Endicott; “they cross its light, and the poet has no choice. I

present to my audience the scenes through which I travel. I introduce

the passengers on the road. Is it for the sake of these passengers? No.

It is that my readers may be enabled, under all circumstances, to form a

just realisation of _me_. That is the true vocation of a poet: he ought

to be in himself the highest example of everything--joy, delight,

suffering, remorse, and ruin--yes, I am bold enough to say, even crime.

No man should be able to suppose that he can hide himself in an

indescribable region of emotion where the poet cannot follow. Shall

murder be permitted to attain an experience beyond the reach of genius?

No! Everything must be possessed by the poet’s intuitions, for he

himself is the great lesson of the world.”

“Charlie,” said Harry Oswald behind the door, “come in, and punch this

fellow’s head.”

CHAPTER XIX.

CONVERSATION.

Charlie came in, but not to punch the head of Mr Endicott. The big boy

gloomed upon the dignified American, pushed Harry Oswald aside, and

brought his two grammars to the table. “I say, what do you want with

me?” said Charlie; he was not at all pleased at having been disturbed.

“Nobody wanted you, Charlie,--no one ever wants you, you disagreeable

boy,” said Marian: “it was all Harry Oswald’s fault; he thought we were

too pleasant all by ourselves here.”

To which complimentary saying Mr Endicott answered by a bow. He quite

understood what Miss Marian meant! he was much flattered to have gained

her sympathy! So Marian pleased both her admirers for once, for Harry

Oswald laughed in secret triumph behind her chair.

“And you are still with Mr Bell, Harry,” said Mrs Atheling, suddenly

interposing. “I am very glad you like this place--and what a pleasure

it must be to all your sisters! I begin to think you are quite settled

now.”

“I suppose it was time,” said Harry the unlucky, colouring a little, but

smiling more as he came out from the shadow of Marian’s chair, in

compliment to Marian’s mother; “yes, we get on very well,--we are not

overpowered with our practice; so much the better for me.”

“But you ought to be more ambitious,--you ought to try to extend your

practice,” said Mrs Atheling, immediately falling into the tone of an

adviser, in addressing one to whom everybody gave good advice.

“I might have some comfort in it, if I was a poet,” said Harry; “but to

kill people simply in the way of business is too much for me.--Well,

uncle, it is no fault of mine. I never did any honour to my doctorship.

I am as well content to throw physic to the dogs as any Macbeth in the

world.”

“Ay, Harry,” said Mr Foggo; “but I think it is little credit to a man to

avow ill inclinations, unless he has the spirit of a man to make head

against them. That’s my opinion--but I know you give it little weight.”

“A curious study!” said Mr Endicott, reflectively. “I have watched it

many times,--the most interesting conflict in the world.”

But Harry, who had borne his uncle’s reproof with calmness, reddened

fiercely at this, and seemed about to resent it. The study of character,

though it is so interesting a study, and so much pursued by superior

minds, is not, as a general principle, at all liked by the objects of

it. Harry Oswald, under the eye of his cousin’s curious inspection, had

the greatest mind in the world to knock that cousin down.

“And what do you think of our domestic politics, on the other side of

the Atlantic?” asked Papa, joining the more general conversation: “a

pretty set of fellows manage us in Old England here. I never take up a

newspaper but there’s a new job in it. If it were only for other

countries, they might have a sense of shame!”

“Well, sir,” said Mr Endicott, “considering all things--considering the

worn-out circumstances of the old country, your oligarchy and your

subserviency, I am rather disposed, on the whole, to be in favour of the

government of England. So far as a limited intelligence goes, they

really appear to me to get on pretty well.”

“Humph!” said Mr Atheling. He was quite prepared for a dashing

republican denunciation, but this cool patronage stunned the humble

politician--he did not comprehend it. “However,” he continued, reviving

after a little, and rising into triumph, “there is principle among them

yet. They cannot tolerate a man who wants the English virtue of keeping

his word; no honourable man will keep office with a traitor.

Winterbourne’s out. There’s some hope for the country when one knows

that.”

“And who is Winterbourne, papa?” asked Agnes, who was near her father.

Mr Atheling was startled. “Who is Lord Winterbourne, child? why, a

disgraced minister--everybody knows!”

“You speak as if you were glad,” said Agnes, possessed with a perfectly

unreasonable pertinacity: “do you know him, papa,--has he done anything

to you?”

“I!” cried Mr Atheling, “how should I know him? There! thread your

needle, and don’t ask ridiculous questions. Lord Winterbourne for

himself is of no consequence to me.”

From which everybody present understood immediately that this unknown

personage _was_ of consequence to Mr Atheling--that Papa certainly knew

him, and that he had “done something” to call for so great an amount of

virtuous indignation. Even Mr Endicott paused in the little account he

proposed to give of Viscount Winterbourne’s title and acquirements, and

his own acquaintance with the Honourable George Rivers, his lordship’s

only son. A vision of family feuds and mysteries crossed the active

mind of the American: he stopped to make a mental note of this

interesting circumstance; for Mr Endicott did not disdain to embellish

his “letters” now and then with a fanciful legend, and this was

certainly “suggestive” in the highest degree.

“I remember,” said Mrs Atheling, suddenly, “when we were first married,

we went to visit an old aunt of papa’s, who lived quite close to

Winterbourne Hall. Do you remember old Aunt Bridget, William? We have

not heard anything of her for many a day; she lived in an old house,

half made of timber, and ruinous with ivy. I remember it very well; I

thought it quite pretty when I was a girl.”

“Ruinous! you mean beautiful with ivy, mamma,” said Marian.

“No, my dear; ivy is a very troublesome thing,” said Mrs Atheling, “and

makes a very damp house, I assure you, though it looks pretty. This was

just upon the edge of a wood, and on a hill. There was a very fine view

from it; all the spires, and domes, and towers looked beautiful with the

morning sun upon them. I suppose Aunt Bridget must still be living,

William? I wonder why she took offence at us. What a pleasant place that

would have been to take the children in summer! It was called the Old

Wood Lodge, and there was a larger place near which was the Old Wood

House, and the nearest house to that, I believe, was the Hall. It was a

very pretty place; I remember it so well.”

Agnes and Marian exchanged glances; this description was quite enough to

set their young imaginations a-glow;--perhaps, for the sake of her old

recollections, Mamma would like this better than the sea-side.

“Should you like to go again, mamma?” said Agnes, in a half whisper.

Mamma smiled, and brightened, and shook her head.

“No, my dear, no; you must not think of such a thing--travelling is so

very expensive,” said Mrs Atheling; but the colour warmed and brightened

on her cheek with pleasure at the thought.

“And of course there’s another family of children,” said Papa, in a

somewhat sullen under-tone. “Aunt Bridget, when she dies, will leave the

cottage to one of them. They always wanted it. Yes, to be sure,--to him

that hath shall be given,--it is the way of the world.”

“William, William; you forget what you say!” cried Mrs Atheling, in

alarm.

“I mean no harm, Mary,” said Papa, “and the words bear that meaning as

well as another: it is the way of the world.”

“Had I known your interest in the family, I might have brought you some

information,” interposed Mr Endicott. “I have a letter of introduction

to Viscount Winterbourne--and saw a great deal of the Honourable George

Rivers when he travelled in the States.”

“I have no interest in them--not the slightest,” said Mr Atheling,

hastily; and Harry Oswald moved away from where he had been standing to

resume his place by Marian, a proceeding which instantly distracted the

attention of his cousin and rival. The girls were talking to each other

of this new imaginary paradise. Harry Oswald could not explain how it

was, but he began immediately with all his skill to make a ridiculous

picture of the old house, which was half made of timber, and ruinous

with ivy: he could not make out why he listened with such a jealous pang

to the very name of this Old Wood Lodge.

CHAPTER XX.

AUNT BRIDGET.

“Very strange!” said Mr Atheling--he had just laid upon the

breakfast-table a letter edged with black, which had startled them all

for the moment into anxiety,--“very strange!”

“What is very strange?--who is it, William?” asked Mrs Atheling,

anxiously.

“Do you remember how you spoke of her last night?--only last night--my

Aunt Bridget, of whom we have not heard for years? I could almost be

superstitious about this,” said Papa. “Poor old lady! she is gone at

last.”

Mrs Atheling read the letter eagerly. “And she spoke of us, then?--she

was sorry. Who could have persuaded her against us, William?” said the

good mother--“and wished you should attend her funeral. You will

go?--surely you must go.” But as she spoke, Mrs Atheling paused and

considered--travelling is not so easy a matter, when people have only

two hundred a-year.

“It would do her no pleasure now, Mary,” said Mr Atheling, with a

momentary sadness. “Poor Aunt Bridget; she was the last of all the old

generation; and now it begins to be our turn.”

In the mean time, however, it was time for the respectable man of

business to be on his way to his office. His wife brushed his hat with

gravity, thinking upon his words. The old old woman who was gone, had

left no responsibility behind her; but these children!--how could the

father and the mother venture to die, and leave these young ones in the

unfriendly world!

Charlie had gone to his office an hour ago--other studies, heavier and

more discouraging even than the grammars, lay in the big law-books of Mr

Foggo’s office, to be conquered by this big boy. Throughout the day he

had all the miscellaneous occupations which generally fall to the lot of

the youngest clerk. Charlie said nothing about it to any one, but went

in at these ponderous tomes in the morning. They were frightfully tough

reading, and he was not given to literature; he shook his great fist at

them, his natural enemies, and went in and conquered. These studies were

pure pugilism so far as Charlie was concerned: he knocked down his

ponderous opponent, mastered him, stowed away all his wisdom in his own

prodigious memory, and replaced him on his shelf with triumph. “Now that

old fellow’s done for,” said Charlie--and next morning the young student

“went in” at the next.

Agnes and Marian were partly in this secret, as they had been in the

previous one; so these young ladies came down stairs at seven o’clock to

make breakfast for Charlie. It was nine now, and the long morning began

to merge into the ordinary day; but the girls arrested Mamma on the

threshold of her daily business to make eager inquiry about the Aunt

Bridget, of whom, the only one among all their relatives, they knew

little but the name.

“My dears, this is not a time to ask me,” said Mrs Atheling: “there is

Susan waiting, and there is the baker and the butterman at the door.

Well, then, if you must know, she was just simply an old lady, and your

grandpapa’s sister; and she was once governess to Miss Rivers, and they

gave her the old Lodge when the young lady should have been married.

They made her a present of it--at least the old lord did--and she lived

there ever after. It had been once in your grandpapa’s family. I do not

know the rights of the story--you can ask about it some time from your

papa; but Aunt Bridget took quite a dislike to us after we were

married--I cannot tell you why; and since the time I went to the Old

Wood Lodge to pay her a visit, when I was a bride, I have never heard a

kind word from her, poor old lady, till to-day. Now, my dears, let me

go; do you see the people waiting? I assure you that is all.”

And that was all that could be learned about Aunt Bridget, save a few

unimportant particulars gleaned from the long conversation concerning

her, which the father and the mother, much moralising, fell into that

night. These young people had the instinct of curiosity most healthily

developed; they listened eagerly to every new particular--heard with

emotion that she had once been a beauty, and incontinently wove a string

of romances about the name of the aged and humble spinster; and then

what a continual centre of fancy and inquiry was that Old Wood Lodge!

A few days passed, and Aunt Bridget began to fade from her temporary

prominence in the household firmament. A more immediate interest

possessed the mind of the family--the book was coming out! Prelusive

little paragraphs in the papers, which these innocent people did not

understand to be advertisements, warned the public of a new and original

work of fiction by a new author, about to be brought out by Mr

Burlington, and which was expected to make a sensation when it came.

Even the known and visible advertisements themselves were read with a

startling thrill of interest. _Hope Hazlewood, a History_--everybody

concluded it was the most felicitous title in the world.

The book was coming out, and great was the excitement of the household

heart. The book came out!--there it lay upon the table in the family

parlour, six fair copies in shiny blue cloth, with its name in letters

of gold. These Mr Burlington intended should be sent to influential

friends: but the young author had no influential friends; so one copy

was sent to Killiecrankie Lodge, to the utter amazement of Miss Willsie,

and another was carefully despatched to an old friend in the country,

who scarcely knew what literature was; then the family made a solemn

pause, and waited. What would everybody say?

Saturday came, full of fate. They knew all the names of all those dread

and magnificent guides of public opinion, the literary newspapers; and

with an awed and trembling heart, the young author waited for their

verdict. She was so young, however, and in reality so ignorant of what

might be the real issue of this first step into the world, that Agnes

had a certain pleasure in her trepidation, and, scarcely knowing what

she expected, knew only that it was in the highest degree novel,

amusing, and extraordinary that these sublime and lofty people should

ever be tempted to notice her at all. It was still only a matter of

excitement and curiosity and amusing oddness to them all. If the young

adventurer had been a man, this would have been a solemn crisis, full of

fate: it was even so to a woman, seeking her own independence; but Agnes

Atheling was only a girl in the heart of her family, and, looking out

with laughing eyes upon her fortune, smiled at fate.

It is Saturday--yes, Saturday afternoon, slowly darkening towards the

twilight. Agnes and Marian at the window are eagerly looking out, Mamma

glances over their bright heads with unmistakable impatience, Papa is

palpably restless in his easy-chair. Here he comes on flying feet, that

big messenger of fortune--crossing the whole breadth of Bellevue in two

strides, with ever so many papers in his hands. “Oh, I wonder what they

will say!” cries Marian, clasping her pretty fingers. Agnes, too

breathless to speak, makes neither guess nor answer--and here he comes!

It is half dark, and scarcely possible to read these momentous papers.

The young author presses close to the window with the uncut _Athenæum_.

There is Papa, half-risen from his chair; there is Mamma anxiously

contemplating her daughter’s face; there is Marian, reading over her

shoulder; and Charlie stands with his hat on in the shade, holding fast

in his hand the other papers. “One at a time!” says Charlie. He knows

what they are, the grim young ogre, but he will not say a word.

And Agnes begins to read aloud--reads a sentence or two, suddenly stops,

laughs hurriedly. “Oh, I cannot read that--somebody else take it,” cried

Agnes, running a rapid eye down the page; her cheeks are tingling, her

eyes overflowing, her heart beating so loud that she does not hear her

own voice. And now it is Marian who presses close to the window and

reads aloud. Well! after all, it is not a very astonishing paragraph; it

is extremely condescending, and full of the kindest patronage;

recognises many beauties--a great deal of talent; and flatteringly

promises the young author that by-and-by she will do very well. The

reading is received with delight and disappointment. Mrs Atheling is not

quite pleased that the reviewer refuses entire perfection to _Hope

Hazlewood_, but by-and-by even the good mother is reconciled. Who could

the critic be?--innocent critic, witting nothing of the tumult of kindly

and grateful feelings raised towards him in a moment! Mrs Atheling

cannot help setting it down certainly that he must be some unknown

friend.

The others come upon a cooled enthusiasm--nobody feels that they have

said the first good word. Into the middle of this reading Susan suddenly

interposes herself and the candles. What tell-tales these lights are!

Papa and Mamma, both of them, look mighty dazzled and unsteady about the

eyes, and Agnes’s cheeks are burning crimson-deep, and she scarcely

likes to look at any one. She is half ashamed in her innocence--half as

much ashamed as if they had been love-letters detected and read aloud.

And then after a while they come to a grave pause, and look at each

other. “I suppose, mamma, it is sure to succeed now,” says Agnes, very

timidly, shading her face with her hand, and glancing up under its

cover; and Papa, with his voice somewhat shaken, says solemnly,

“Children, Agnes’s fortune has come to-night.”

For it was so out of the way--so uncommon and unexpected a fortune, to

their apprehension, that the father and the mother looked on with wonder

and amazement, as if at something coming down, without any human

interposition, clear out of the hand of Providence, and from the

treasures of heaven.

Upon the Monday morning following, Mr Atheling had another letter. It

was a time of great events, and the family audience were interested even

about this. Papa looked startled and affected, and read it without

saying a word; then it was handed to Mamma: but Mrs Atheling, more

demonstrative, ran over it with a constant stream of comment and

exclamation, and at last read the whole epistle aloud. It ran thus:--

“DEAR SIR,--Being intrusted by your Aunt, Miss Bridget Atheling,

with the custody of her will, drawn up about a month before her

death, I have now to communicate to you, with much pleasure, the

particulars of the same. The will was read by me, upon the day of

the funeral, in presence of the Rev. Lionel Rivers, rector of the

parish; Dr Marsh, Miss Bridget’s medical attendant; and Mrs

Hardwicke, her niece. You are of course aware that your aunt’s

annuity died with her. Her property consisted of a thousand pounds

in the Three per Cents, a small cottage in the village of

Winterbourne, three acres of land in the hundred of Badgeley, and

the Old Wood Lodge.

“Miss Bridget has bequeathed her personal property, all except the

two last items, to Mrs Susannah Hardwicke, her niece--the Old Wood

Lodge and the piece of land she bequeaths to you, William Atheling,

being part, as she says, ‘of the original property of the family.’

She leaves it to you ‘as a token that she had now discovered the

falseness of the accusations made to her, twenty years ago, against

you, and desires you to keep and to hold it, whatever attempts may

be made to dislodge you, and whatever it may cost.’ A copy of the

will, pursuant to her own directions, will be forwarded to you in a

few days.

“As an old acquaintance, I gladly congratulate you upon this

legacy; but I am obliged to tell you, as a friend, that the

property is not of that value which could have been desired. The

land, which is of inferior quality, is let for fifteen shillings an

acre, and the house, I am sorry to say, is not in very good

condition, is very unlikely to find a tenant, and would cost half

as much as it is worth to put it in tolerable repair--besides

which, it stands directly in the way of the Hall, and was, as I

understand, a gift to Miss Bridget only, with power, on the part of

the Winterbourne family, to reclaim after her death. Under these

circumstances, I doubt if you will be allowed to retain possession;

notwithstanding, I call your attention to the emphatic words of my

late respected client, to which you will doubtless give their due

weight.--I am, dear sir, faithfully yours,

“FRED. R. LEWIS, _Attorney_.”

“And what shall we do? If we were only able to keep it, William--such a

thing for the children!” cried Mrs Atheling, scarcely pausing to take

breath. “To think that the Old Wood Lodge should be really ours--how

strange it is! But, William, who could possibly have made false

accusations against _you_?”

“Only one man,” said Mr Atheling, significantly. The girls listened with

interest and astonishment. “Only one man.”

“No, no, my dear--no, it could not be----,” cried his wife: “you must

not think so, William--it is quite impossible. Poor Aunt Bridget! and so

she found out the truth at last.”

“It is easy to talk,” said the head of the house, looking over his

letter; “very easy to leave a bequest like this, which can bring nothing

but difficulty and trouble. How am I ‘to keep and to hold it, at

whatever cost?’ The old lady must have been crazy to think of such a

thing: she had much better have given it to my Lord at once without

making any noise about it; for what is the use of bringing a quarrel

upon me?”

“But, papa, it is the old family property,” said Agnes, eagerly.

“My dear child, you know nothing about it,” said Papa. “Do you think I

am able to begin a lawsuit on behalf of the old family property? How

were we to repair this tumble-down old house, if it had been ours on the

securest holding? but to go to law about it, and it ready to crumble

over our ears, is rather too much for the credit of the family. No, no;

nonsense, children; you must not think of it for a moment; and you,

Mary, surely you must see what folly it is.”

But Mamma would not see any folly in the matter; her feminine spirit was

roused, and her maternal pride. “You may depend upon it, Aunt Bridget

had some motive,” said Mrs Atheling, with a little excitement, “and

real property, William, would be such a great thing for the children.

Money might be lost or spent; but property--land and a house. My dear,

you ought to consider how important it is for the children’s sake.”

Mr Atheling shook his head. “You are unreasonable,” said the family

father, who knew very well that he was pretty sure to yield to them,

reason or no--“as unreasonable as you can be. Do you suppose I am a

landed proprietor, with that old crazy Lodge, and forty-five shillings

a-year? Mary, Mary, you ought to know better. We could not repair it, I

tell you, and we could not furnish it; and nobody would rent it from us.

We should gain nothing but an enemy, and that is no great advantage for

the children. I do not remember that Aunt Bridget was ever remarkable

for good sense; and it was no such great thing, after all, to transfer

her family quarrel to me.”

“Oh, papa, the old family property, and the beautiful old house in the

country, where we could go and live in the summer!” said Marian. “Agnes

is to be rich--Agnes would be sure to want to go somewhere in the

country. We could do all the repairs ourselves--and mamma likes the

place. Papa, papa, you will never have the heart to let other people

have it. I think I can see the place; we could all go down when Agnes

comes to her fortune--and the country would be so good for Bell and

Beau.”

This, perhaps, was the most irresistible of arguments. The eyes of the

father and mother fell simultaneously upon the twin babies. They were

healthy imps as ever did credit to a suburban atmosphere--yet somehow

both Papa and Mamma fancied that Bell and Beau looked pale to-day.

“It is ten minutes past nine,” exclaimed Mr Atheling, solemnly rising

from the table. “I have not been so late for years--see what your

nonsense has brought me to. Now, Mary, think it over reasonably, and I

will hear all that you have to say to-night.”

So Mr Atheling hastened to his desk to turn over this all-important

matter as he walked and as he laboured. The Old Wood Lodge obliterated

to the good man’s vision the very folios of his daily companionship--old

feelings, old incidents, old resentment and pugnacity, awoke again in

his kindly but not altogether patient and self-commanded breast. The

delight of being able to leave something--a certain patrimonial

inheritance--to his son after him, gradually took possession of his mind

and fancy; and the pleasant dignity of a house in the country--the happy

power of sending off his wife and his children to the sweet air of his

native place--won upon him gradually before he was aware. By slow

degrees Mr Atheling brought himself to believe that it would be

dishonourable to give up this relic of the family belongings, and make

void the will of the dead. The Old Wood Lodge brightened before him into

a very bower for his fair girls. The last poor remnant of his yeoman

grandfather’s little farm became a hereditary and romantic nucleus,

which some other Atheling might yet make into a great estate. “There is

Charlie--he will not always be a lawyer’s clerk, that boy!” said his

father to himself, with involuntary pride; and then he muttered under

his breath, “and to give it up to _him_!”

Under this formidable conspiracy of emotions, the excellent Mr Atheling

had no chance: old dislike, pungent and prevailing, though no one knew

exactly its object or its cause, and present pride and tenderness still

more strong and earnest, moved him beyond his power of resistance. There

was no occasion for the attack, scientifically planned, which was to

have been made upon him in the evening. If they had been meditating at

home all day upon this delightful bit of romance in their own family

history, and going over, with joy and enthusiasm, every room and closet

in Miss Bridget’s old house, Papa had been no less busy at the office.

The uncertain tenor of a lawsuit had no longer any place in the good

man’s memory, and the equivocal advantage of the ruinous old house

oppressed him no longer. He began to think, by an amiable and agreeable

sophistry, self-delusive, that it was his sacred duty to carry out the

wishes of the dead.

CHAPTER XXI.

A LAW STUDENT.

Steadily and laboriously these early summer days trudged on with

Charlie, bringing no romantic visions nor dreams of brilliant fortune to

tempt the imagination of the big boy. How his future looked to him no

one knew. Charlie’s aspirations--if he had any--dwelt private and secure

within his own capacious breast. He was not dazzled by his sudden

heirship of the Old Wood Lodge; he was not much disturbed by the growing

fame of his sister; those sweet May mornings did not tempt him to the

long ramble through the fields, which Agnes and Marian did their best to

persuade him to. Charlie was not insensible to the exhilarating morning

breeze, the greensward under foot, and the glory of those great

thorn-hedges, white with the blossoms of the May--he was by no means a

stoic either, as regarded his own ease and leisure, to which inferior

considerations this stout youth attached their due importance; but still

it remained absolute with Charlie, his own unfailing answer to all

temptations--he had “something else to do!”

And his ordinary day’s work was not of a very elevating character; he

might have kept to that for years without acquiring much knowledge of

his profession; and though he still was resolute to occupy no sham

position, and determined that neither mother nor sisters should make

sacrifices for him, Charlie felt no hesitation in making a brief and

forcible statement to Mr Foggo on the subject. Mr Foggo listened with a

pleased and gracious ear. “I’m not going to be a copying-clerk all my

life,” said Charlie. He was not much over seventeen; he was not

remarkably well educated; he was a poor man’s son, without connection,

patronage, or influence. Notwithstanding, the acute old Scotsman looked

at Charlie, lifting up the furrows of his brow, and pressing down his

formidable upper-lip. The critical old lawyer smiled, but believed him.

There was no possibility of questioning that obstinate big boy.

So Mr Foggo (acknowledged to be the most influential of chief clerks,

and supposed to be a partner in the firm) made interest on behalf of

Charlie, that he might have access, before business hours, to the law

library of the house. The firm laughed, and gave permission graciously.

The firm joked with its manager upon his credulity: a boy of seventeen

coming at seven o’clock to voluntary study--and to take in a

Scotsman--old Foggo! The firm grew perfectly jolly over this capital

joke. Old Foggo smiled too, grimly, knowing better; and Charlie

accordingly began his career.

It was not a very dazzling beginning. At seven o’clock the office was

being dusted; in winter, at that hour, the fires were not alight, and

extremely cross was the respectable matron who had charge of

the same. Charlie stumbled over pails and brushes; dusters

descended--unintentionally--upon his devoted head; he was pursued into

every corner by his indefatigable enemy, and had to fly before her big

broom with his big folio in his arms. But few people have pertinacity

enough to maintain a perfectly unprofitable and fruitless warfare. Mrs

Laundress, a humble prophetic symbol of that other virago, Fate, gave in

to Charlie. He sat triumphant upon his high stool, no longer incommoded

by dusters. While the moted sunbeams came dancing in through the dusty

office window, throwing stray glances on his thick hair, and on the

ponderous page before him, Charlie had a good round with his enemy, and

got him down. The big boy plundered the big books with silent

satisfaction, arranged his spoil on the secret shelves and pigeon-holes

of that big brain of his, all ready and in trim for using; made his own

comments on the whole complicated concern, and, with his whole mind bent

on what was before him, mastered that, and thought of nothing else. Let

nobody suppose he had the delight of a student in these strange and

unattractive studies, or regarded with any degree of affectionateness

the library of the House. Charlie looked at these volumes standing in

dim rows, within their wired case, as Captain Bobadil might have looked

at the army whom--one down and another come on--he meant to demolish,

man by man. When he came to a knotty point, more hard than usual, the

lad felt a stir of lively pleasure: he scorned a contemptible opponent,

this stout young fighter, and gloried in a conquest which proved him, by

stress and strain of all his healthful faculties, the better man. If

they had been easy, Charlie would scarcely have cared for them.

Certainly, mere literature, even were it as attractive as _Peter

Simple_, could never have tempted him to the office at seven o’clock.

Charlie stood by himself, like some primitive and original champion,

secretly hammering out the armour which he was to wear in the field, and

taking delight in the accomplishment of gyve and breastplate and morion,

all proved and tested steel. Through the day he went about all his

common businesses as sturdily and steadily as if his best ambition was

to be a copying-clerk. If any one spoke of ambition, Charlie said

“Stuff!” and no one ever heard a word of his own anticipations; but on

he went, his foot ringing clear upon the pavement, his obstinate purpose

holding as sure as if it were written on a rock. While all the household

stirred and fluttered with the new tide of imaginative life which

brightened upon it in all these gleams of the future, Charlie held

stoutly on, pursuing his own straightforward and unattractive path. With

his own kind of sympathy he eked out the pleasure of the family, and no

one of them ever felt a lack in him; but nothing yet which had happened

to the household in the slightest degree disturbed Charlie from his own

bold, distinct, undemonstrative, and self-directed way.

CHAPTER XXII.

ANOTHER EVENT.

We will not attempt to describe the excitement, astonishment, and

confusion produced in the house of the Athelings by the next

communication received from Mr Burlington. It came at night, so that

every one had the benefit, and its object was to announce the astounding

and unexampled news of A Second Edition!

The letter dropped from Agnes’s amazed fingers; Papa actually let fall

his newspaper; and Charlie, disturbed at his grammar, rolled back the

heavy waves of his brow, and laughed to himself. As for Mamma and

Marian, each of them read the letter carefully over. There was no

mistake about it--_Hope Hazelwood_ was nearly out of print. True, Mr

Burlington confessed that this first edition had been a small one, but

the good taste of the public demanded a second; and the polite publisher

begged to have an interview with Miss Atheling, to know whether she

would choose to add or revise anything in the successful book.

Upon this there ensued a consultation. Mrs Atheling was doubtful as to

the proprieties of the case; Papa was of opinion that the easiest and

simplest plan was, that the girls should call; but Mamma, who was

something of a timid nature, and withal a little punctilious, hesitated,

and did not quite see which was best. Bellevue, doubtless, was very far

out of the way, and the house, though so good a house, was not “like

what Mr Burlington must have been accustomed to.” The good mother was a

long time making up her mind; but at last decided, with some

perturbation, on the suggestion of Mr Atheling. “Yes, you can put on

your muslin dresses; it is quite warm enough for them, and they always

look well; and you must see, Marian, that your collars and sleeves are

very nice, and your new bonnets. Yes, my dears, as there are two of you,

I think you may call.”

The morning came; and by this time it was the end of June, almost

midsummer weather. Mrs Atheling herself, with the most anxious care,

superintended the dressing of her daughters. They were dressed with the

most perfect simplicity; and nobody could have supposed, to see the

result, that any such elaborate overlooking had been bestowed upon their

toilette. They were dressed well, in so far that their simple

habiliments made no pretension above the plain pretty inexpensive

reality. They were not intensely fashionable, like Mrs Tavistock’s

niece, who was a regular Islingtonian “swell” (if that most felicitous

of epithets can be applied to anything feminine), and reminded everybody

who saw her of work-rooms and dressmakers and plates of the fashions.

Agnes and Marian, a hundred times plainer, were just so many times the

better dressed. They were not quite skilled in the art of gloves--a

difficult branch of costume, grievously embarrassing to those good

girls, who had not much above a pair in three months, and were

constrained to select thrifty colours; but otherwise Mrs Atheling

herself was content with their appearance as they passed along Bellevue,

brightening the sunny quiet road with their light figures and their

bright eyes. They had a little awe upon them--that little shade of sweet

embarrassment and expectation which gives one of its greatest charms to

youth. They were talking over what they were to say, and marvelling how

Mr Burlington would receive them; their young footsteps chiming as

lightly as any music to her tender ear--their young voices sweeter than

the singing of the birds, their bright looks more pleasant than the

sunshine--it is not to be wondered at if the little street looked

somewhat dim and shady to Mrs Atheling when these two young figures had

passed out of it, and the mother stood alone at the window, looking at

nothing better than the low brick-walls and closed doors of Laurel House

and Green View.

And so they went away through the din and tumult of the great London,

with their own bright young universe surrounding them, and their own

sweet current of thought and emotion running as pure as if they had been

passing through the sweetest fields of Arcadia. They had no eyes for

impertinent gazers, if such things were in their way. Twenty stout

footmen at their back could not have defended them so completely as did

their own innocence and security. We confess they did not even shrink,

with a proper sentimental horror, from all the din and all the commotion

of this noonday Babylon; they liked their rapid glance at the wonderful

shop-windows; they brightened more and more as their course lay along

the gayest and most cheerful streets. It was pleasant to look at the

maze of carriages, pleasant to see the throngs of people, exhilarating

to be drawn along in this bright flood-tide and current of the world.

But they grew a little nervous as they approached the house of Mr

Burlington--a little more irregular in their pace, lingering and

hastening as timidity or eagerness got the upper hand--and a great deal

more silent, being fully occupied with anticipations of, and

preparations for, this momentous interview. What should Agnes--what

would Mr Burlington say?

This silence and shyness visibly increased as they came to the very

scene and presence of the redoubtable publisher--where Agnes called the

small attendant clerk in the outer office “Sir” and deferentially asked

for Mr Burlington. When they had waited there for a few minutes, they

were shown into a matted parlour containing a writing-table and a

coal-scuttle, and three chairs. Mr Burlington would be disengaged in a

few minutes, the little clerk informed them, as he solemnly displaced

two of the chairs, an intimation that they were to sit down. They sat

down accordingly, with the most matter-of-course obedience, and held

their breath as they listened for the coming steps of Mr Burlington. But

the minutes passed, and Mr Burlington did not come. They began to look

round with extreme interest and curiosity, augmented all the more by

their awe. There was nothing in the least interesting in this bare

little apartment, but their young imaginations could make a great deal

out of nothing. At Mr Burlington’s door stood a carriage, with a grand

powdered coachman on the box, and the most superb of flunkies gracefully

lounging before the door. No doubt Mr Burlington was engaged with the

owner of all this splendour. Immediately they ran over all the great

names they could remember, forgetting for the moment that authors, even

of the greatest, are not much given, as a general principle, to gilded

coaches and flunkies of renown. Who could it be?

When they were in the very height of their guessing, the door suddenly

opened. They both rose with a start; but it was only the clerk, who

asked them to follow him to the presence of Mr Burlington. They went

noiselessly along the long matted passage after their conductor, who was

not much of a Ganymede. At the very end, a door stood open, and there

were two figures half visible between them and a big round-headed

window, full of somewhat pale and cloudy sky. These two people turned

round, as some faint sound of the footsteps of Ganymede struck aside

from the matting. “Oh, what a lovely creature!--what a beautiful girl!

Now I do hope that is the one!” cried, most audibly, a feminine voice.

Marian, knowing by instinct that she was meant, shrank back grievously

discomfited. Even Agnes was somewhat dismayed by such a preface to their

interview; but Ganymede was a trained creature, and much above the

weakness of a smile or hesitation--_he_ pressed on unmoved, and hurried

them into the presence and the sanctum of Mr Burlington. They came into

the full light of the big window, shy, timid, and graceful, having very

little self-possession to boast of, their hearts beating, their colour

rising--and for the moment it was scarcely possible to distinguish which

was the beautiful sister; for Agnes was very near as pretty as Marian in

the glow and agitation of her heart.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A NEW FRIEND.

The big window very nearly filled up the whole room. The little place

had once been the inmost heart of a long suite of apartments when this

was a fashionable house--now it was an odd little nook of seclusion,

with panelled walls, painted of so light a colour as to look almost

white in the great overflow of daylight; and what had looked like a pale

array of clouds in the window at a little distance, made itself out now

to be various blocks and projections of white-washed wall pressing very

close on every side, and leaving only in the upper half-circle a clear

bit of real clouds and unmistakable sky. The room had a little table, a

very few chairs, and the minutest and most antique of Turkey carpets

laid over the matting. The walls were very high; there was not even a

familiar coal-scuttle to lessen the solemnity of the publisher’s retreat

and sanctuary; and Mr Burlington was not alone.

And even the inexperienced eyes of Agnes and Marian were not slow to

understand that the lady who stood by Mr Burlington’s little table was a

genuine fine lady, one of that marvellous and unknown species which

flourishes in novels, but never had been visible in such a humble

hemisphere as the world of Bellevue. She was young still, but had been

younger, and she remained rich in that sweetest of all mere external

beauties, the splendid English complexion, that lovely bloom and

fairness, which is by no means confined to the flush of youth. She

looked beautiful by favour of these natural roses and lilies, but she

was not beautiful in reality from any other cause. She was lively,

good-natured, and exuberant to an extent which amazed these shy young

creatures, brought up under the quiet shadow of propriety, and

accustomed to the genteel deportment of Bellevue. They, in their simple

girlish dress, in their blushes, diffidence, and hesitation--and she,

accustomed to see everything yielding to her pretty caprices, arbitrary,

coquettish, irresistible, half a spoiled child and half a woman of the

world--they stood together, in the broad white light of that big window,

like people born in different planets. They could scarcely form the

slightest conception of each other. Nature itself had made difference

enough; but how is it possible to estimate the astonishing difference

between Mayfair and Bellevue?

“Pray introduce me, Mr Burlington; oh pray introduce me!” cried this

pretty vision before Mr Burlington himself had done more than bow to his

shy young visitors. “I am delighted to know the author of _Hope

Hazlewood_! charmed to be acquainted with Miss Atheling! My dear child,

how is it possible, at your age, to know so much of the world?”

“It is my sister,” said Marian very shyly, almost under her breath.

Marian was much disturbed by this mistake of identity; it had never

occurred to her before that any one could possibly be at a loss for the

real Miss Atheling. The younger sister was somewhat indignant at so

strange a mistake.

“Now that is right! that is poetic justice! that is a proper

distribution of gifts!” said the lady, clasping her hands with a pretty

gesture of approval. “If you will not introduce me, I shall be compelled

to do it myself, Mr Burlington: Mrs Edgerley. I am charmed to be the

first to make your acquaintance; we were all dying to know the author of

_Hope Hazlewood_. What a charming book it is! I say there has been

nothing like it since _Ellen Fullarton_, and dear Theodosia herself

entirely agrees with me. You are staying in town? Oh I am delighted! You

must let me see a great deal of you, you must indeed; and I shall be

charmed to introduce you to Lady Theodosia, whose sweet books every one

loves. Pray, Mr Burlington, have you any very great secrets to say to

these young ladies, for I want so much to persuade them to come with

me?”

“I shall not detain Miss Atheling,” said the publisher, with a bow, and

the ghost of a smile: “we will bring out the second edition in a week or

two; a very pleasant task, I assure you, and one which repays us for our

anxiety. Now, how about a preface? I shall be delighted to attend to

your wishes.”

But Agnes, who had thought so much about him beforehand, had been too

much occupied hitherto to do more than glance at Mr Burlington. She

scarcely looked up now, when every one was looking at her, but said,

very low and with embarrassment, that she did not think she had any

wishes--that she left it entirely to Mr Burlington--he must know best.

“Then we shall have no preface?” said Mr Burlington, deferentially.

“No,” said Agnes, faltering a little, and glancing up to see if he

approved; “for indeed I do not think I have anything to say.”

“Oh that is what a preface is made for,” cried the pretty Mrs Edgerley.

“You dear innocent child, do you never speak except when you have

something to say? Delightful! charming! I shall not venture to

introduce you to Lady Theodosia; if she but knew, how she would envy me!

You must come home with me to luncheon--you positively must; for I am

quite sure Mr Burlington has not another word to say.”

The two girls drew back a little, and exchanged glances. “Indeed you are

very good, but we must go home,” said Agnes, not very well aware what

she was saying.

“No, you must come with me--you must positively; I should break my

heart,” said their new acquaintance, with a pretty affectation of

caprice and despotism altogether new to the astonished girls. “Oh, I

assure you no one resists me. Your mamma will not have a word to say if

you tell her it is Mrs Edgerley. Good morning, Mr Burlington; how

fortunate I was to call to-day!”

So saying, this lady of magic swept out, rustling through the long

matted passages, and carrying her captives, half delighted, half afraid,

in her train. They were too shy by far to make a pause and a commotion

by resisting; they had nothing of the self-possession of the trained

young ladies of society. The natural impulse of doing what they were

told was very strong upon them, and before they were half aware, or had

time to consider, they were shut into the carriage by the sublime

flunky, and drove off into those dazzling and undiscovered regions, as

strange to them as Lapland or Siberia, where dwells The World. Agnes was

placed by the side of the enchantress; Marian sat shyly opposite, rather

more afraid of Mrs Edgerley’s admiring glance than she had ever been

before of the gaze of strangers. It seemed like witchcraft and sudden

magic--half-an-hour ago sitting in the little waiting-room, looking out

upon the fairy chariot, and now rolling along in its perfumy and warm

enclosure over the aristocratic stones of St James’s. The girls were

bewildered with their marvellous position, and could not make it out,

while into their perplexity stole an occasional thought of what Mamma

would say, and how very anxious she would grow if they did not get soon

home.

Mrs Edgerley in the meanwhile ran on with a flutter of talk and

enthusiasm, pretty gestures, and rapid inquiries, so close and constant

that there was little room for answer and none for comment. And then,

long before they could be at their ease in the carriage, it drew up,

making a magnificent commotion, before a door which opened immediately

to admit the mistress of the house. Agnes and Marian followed her humbly

as she hastened up-stairs. They were bewildered with the long suite of

lofty apartments through which their conductress hurried, scarcely

aware, they supposed, that they, not knowing what else to do, followed

where she led, till they came at last to a pretty boudoir, furnished, as

they both described it unanimously, “like the Arabian Nights!” Here Mrs

Edgerley found some letters, the object, as it seemed, of her search,

and good-naturedly paused, with her correspondence in her hand, to point

out to them the Park, which could be seen from the window, and the books

upon the tables. Then she left them, looking at each other doubtfully,

and half afraid to remain. “Oh, Agnes, what will mamma say?” whispered

Marian. All their innocent lives, until this day, they had never made a

visit to any one without the permission or sanction of Mamma.

“We could not help it,” said Agnes. That was very true; so with a

relieved conscience, but very shyly, they turned over the pretty

picture-books, the pretty nicknacks, all the elegant nothings of Mrs

Edgerley’s pretty bower. Good Mrs Atheling could very seldom be tempted

to buy anything that was not useful, and there was scarcely a single

article in the whole house at home which was not good for something.

This being the case, it is easy to conceive with what perverse youthful

delight the girls contemplated the hosts of pretty things around, which

were of no use whatever, nor good for anything in the world. It gave

them an idea of exuberance, of magnificence, of prodigality, more than

the substantial magnitude of the great house or the handsome equipage.

Besides, they were alone for the moment, and so much less embarrassed,

and the rose-coloured atmosphere charmed them all the more that they

were quite unaccustomed to it. Yet they spoke to each other in whispers

as they peeped into the sunny Park, all bright and green in the

sunshine, and marvelled much what Mamma would say, and how they should

get home.

When Mrs Edgerley returned to them, they were stooping over the table

together, looking over some of the most splendid of the “illustrated

editions” of this age of sumptuous bookmaking. When they saw their

patroness they started, and drew a little apart from each other. She

came towards them through the great drawing-room, radiant and rustling,

and they looked at her with shy admiration. They were by no means sure

of their own position, but their new acquaintance certainly was the

kindest and most delightful of all sudden friends.

“Do you forgive me for leaving you?” said Mrs Edgerley, holding out both

her pretty hands; “but now we must not wait here any longer, but go to

luncheon, where we shall be all by ourselves, quite a snug little party;

and now, you dear child, come and tell me everything about it. What was

it that first made you think of writing that charming book?”

Mrs Edgerley had drawn Agnes’s arm within her own, a little to the

discomposure of the shy young genius, and, followed closely by Marian,

led them down stairs. Agnes made no answer in her confusion. Then they

came to a pretty apartment on the lower floor, with a broad window

looking out to the Park. The table was near the window; the pretty scene

outside belonged to the little group within, as they placed themselves

at the table, and the room itself was green and cool and pleasant, not

at all splendid, lined with books, and luxurious with easy-chairs. There

was a simple vase upon the table, full of roses, but there was no

profusion of prettinesses here.

“This is my own study; I bring every one to see it. Is it not a charming

little room?” said Mrs Edgerley (it would have contained both the

parlours and the two best bedrooms of Number Ten, Bellevue); “but now I

am quite dying to hear--really, how did it come into your head to write

that delightful book?”

“Indeed I do not know,” said Agnes, smiling and blushing. It seemed

perfectly natural that the book should have made so mighty a sensation,

and yet it was rather embarrassing, after all.

“I think because she could not help it,” said Marian shyly, her

beautiful face lighting up as she spoke with a sweet suffusion of

colour. Their hearts were beginning to open to the kindness of their new

friend.

“And you are so pleased and so proud of your sister--I am sure you

are--it is positively delightful,” said Mrs Edgerley. “Now tell me, were

you not quite heartbroken when you finished it--such a delightful

interest one feels in one’s characters--such an object it is to live

for, is it not? The first week after my first work was finished I was

_triste_ beyond description. I am sure you must have been quite

miserable when you were obliged to come to an end.”

The sisters glanced at each other rather doubtfully across the table.

Everybody else seemed to have feelings so much more elevated than

they--for they both remembered with a pang of shame that Agnes had

actually been glad and jubilant when this first great work was done.

“And such a sweet heroine--such a charming character!” said Mrs

Edgerley. “Ah, I perceive you have taken your sister for your model, and

now I shall always feel sure that she is Hope Hazlewood; but at your age

I cannot conceive where you got so much knowledge of the world. Do you

go out a great deal? do you see a great many people? But indeed, to tell

the truth,” said Mrs Edgerley, with a pretty laugh, “I do believe you

have no right to see any one yet. You ought to be in the schoolroom,

young creatures like you. Are you both _out_?”

This was an extremely puzzling question, and some answer was necessary

this time. The girls again looked at each other, blushing over neck and

brow. In their simple honesty they thought themselves bound to make a

statement of their true condition--what Miss Willsie would have called

“their rank in life.”

“We see very few people. In our circumstances people do not speak about

coming out,” said Agnes, hesitating and doubtful--the young author had

no great gift of elegant expression. But in fact Mrs Edgerley did not

care in the slightest degree about their “circumstances.” She was a

hundred times more indifferent on that subject than any genteel and

respectable matron in all Bellevue.

“Oh then, that is so much better,” said Mrs Edgerley, “for I see you

must have been observing character all your life. It is, after all, the

most delightful study; but such an eye for individuality! and so young!

I declare I shall be quite afraid to make friends with you.”

“Indeed, I do not know at all about character,” said Agnes hurriedly, as

with her pretty little ringing laugh, Mrs Edgerley broke off in a pretty

affected trepidation; but their patroness shook her hand at her, and

turned away in a graceful little terror.

“I am sure she must be the most dreadful critic, and keep you quite in

awe of her,” said their new friend, turning to Marian. “But now pray

tell me your names. I have such an interest in knowing every one’s

Christian name; there is so much character in them. I do think that is

the real advantage of a title. There is dear Lady Theodosia, for

instance: suppose her family had been commoners, and she had been called

Miss Piper! Frightful! odious! almost enough to make one do some harm to

oneself, or get married. And now tell me what are your names?”

“My sister is Agnes, and I am Marian,” said the younger. Now we are

obliged to confess that by this time, though Mrs Edgerley answered with

the sweetest and most affectionate of smiles and a glance of real

admiration, she began to feel the novelty wear off, and flagged a little

in her sudden enthusiasm. It was clear to her young visitors that she

did not at all attend to the answer, despite the interest with which she

had asked the question. A shade of weariness, half involuntary, half of

will and purpose, came over her face. She rushed away immediately upon

another subject; asked another question with great concern, and was

completely indifferent to the answer. The girls were not used to this

phenomenon, and did not understand it; but at last, after hesitating and

doubting, and consulting each other by glances, Agnes made a shy

movement of departure, and said Mamma would be anxious, and they should

have to go away.

“The carriage is at the door, I believe,” said Mrs Edgerley, with her

sweet smile; “for of course you must let me send you home--positively

you must, my love. You are a great author, but you are a young lady, and

your sister is much too pretty to walk about alone. Delighted to have

seen you both! Oh, I shall write to you very soon; do not fear.

Everybody wants to make your acquaintance. I shall be besieged for

introductions. You are engaged to me for Thursday next week, remember! I

never forgive any one who disappoints me. Good-by! Adieu! I am charmed

to have met you both.”

While this valedictory address was being said, the girls were slowly

making progress to the door; then they were ushered out solemnly to the

carriage which waited for them. They obeyed their fate in their going as

they did in their coming. They could not help themselves; and with

mingled fright, agitation, and pleasure, were once more shut up by that

superbest of flunkies, but drove off at a slow pace, retarded by the

intense bewilderment of the magnificent coachman as to the locality of

Bellevue.

CHAPTER XXIV.

GOING HOME.

Driving slowly along while the coachman ruminated, Agnes and Marian, in

awe and astonishment, looked in each other’s faces--then they put up

their hands simultaneously to their faces, which were a little heated

with the extreme confusion, embarrassment, and wonder of the last two

hours--lastly, they both fell into a little outburst of low and somewhat

tremulous laughter--laughing in a whisper, if that is possible--and

laughing, not because they were very merry, but because, in their

extreme amazement, no other expression of their sentiments occurred to

them. Were they two enchanted princesses? and had they been in

fairyland?

“Oh Agnes!” exclaimed Marian under her breath, “what will mamma say?”

“I do not think mamma can be angry,” said Agnes, who had gained some

courage, “for I am sure we could not help ourselves. What could we

do?--but when they see us coming home like this--oh May!”

There was another pause. “I wonder very much what she has written. We

have never heard of her,” said Marian, “and yet I suppose she must be

quite a great author. How respectful Mr Burlington was! I am afraid it

will not be good for you, Agnes, that we live so much out of the

world--you ought to know people’s names at least.”

Agnes did not dispute this advantage. “But I don’t quite think she can

be a great author,” said the young genius, looking somewhat puzzled,

“though I am sure she was very kind--how kind she was, Marian! And do

you think she really wants us to go on Thursday? Oh, I wonder what mamma

will say!”

As this was the burden of the whole conversation, constantly recurring,

as every new phase of the question was discussed, the conversation

itself was not quite adapted for formal record. While it proceeded, the

magnificent coachman blundered towards the unknown regions of Islington,

much marvelling, in his lofty and elevated intelligence, what sort of

people his mistress’s new acquaintances could be. They reached Bellevue

at last by a grievous roundabout. What a sound and commotion they made

in this quiet place, where a doctor’s brougham was the most fashionable

of equipages, and a pair of horses an unknown glory! The dash of that

magnificent drawing-up startled the whole neighbourhood, and the

population of Laurel House and Buena Vista flew to their bedroom windows

when the big footman made that prodigious assault upon the knocker of

Number Ten. Then came the noise of letting down the steps and opening

the carriage door; then the girls alighted, almost as timid as Susan,

who stood scared and terror-stricken within the door; and then Agnes, in

sudden temerity, but with a degree of respectfulness, offered, to the

acceptance of the footman, a precious golden half-sovereign, intrusted

to her by her mother this morning, in case they should want anything.

Poor Mrs Atheling, sitting petrified in her husband’s easy-chair, did

not know how the coin was being disposed of. They came in--the humble

door was closed--they stood again in the close little hall, with its

pegs and its painted oil-cloth--what a difference!--while the fairy

coach and the magical bay-horses, the solemn coachman and the superb

flunky, drove back into the world again with a splendid commotion, which

deafened the ears and fluttered the heart of all Bellevue.

“My dears, where have you been? What have you been doing, girls? Was

that Mr Burlington’s carriage? Have you seen any one? Where have you

been?” asked Mrs Atheling, while Agnes cried eagerly, “Mamma, you are

not to be angry!” and Marian answered, “Oh, mamma! we have been in

fairyland!”

And then they sat down upon the old hair-cloth sofa beside the family

table, upon which, its sole ornaments, stood Mrs Atheling’s full

work-basket, and some old toys of Bell’s and Beau’s; and thus, sometimes

speaking together, sometimes interrupting each other, with numberless

corrections on the part of Marian and supplementary remarks from Agnes,

they told their astonishing story. They had leisure now to enjoy all

they had seen and heard when they were safe in their own house, and

reporting it all to Mamma. They described everything, remembered

everything, went over every word and gesture of Mrs Edgerley, from her

first appearance in Mr Burlington’s room until their parting with her;

and Marian faithfully recorded all her compliments to _Hope Hazlewood_,

and Agnes her admiration of Marian. It was the prettiest scene in the

world to see them both, flushed and animated, breaking in, each upon the

other’s narrative, contradicting each other, after a fashion;

remonstrating “Oh Agnes!” explaining, and adding description to

description; while the mother sat before them in her easy-chair,

sometimes quietly wiping her eyes, sometimes interfering or commanding,

“One at a time, my dears,” and all the time thinking to herself that the

honours that were paid to “girls like these!” were no such wonder after

all. And indeed Mrs Atheling would not be sufficiently amazed at all

this grand and wonderful story. She was extremely touched and affected

by the kindness of Mrs Edgerley, and dazzled with the prospect of all

the great people who were waiting with so much anxiety to make

acquaintance with the author of _Hope Hazlewood_, but she was by no

means properly _surprised_.

“My dears, I foresaw how it would be,” said Mrs Atheling with her simple

wisdom. “I knew quite well all this must happen, Agnes. I have not read

about famous people for nothing, though I never said much about it. To

be sure, my dear, I knew people would appreciate you--it is quite

natural--it is quite proper, my dear child! I know they will never make

you forget what is right, and your duty, let them flatter as they will!”

Mrs Atheling said this with a little effusion, and with wet eyes. Agnes

hung her head, blushed very deeply, grew extremely grave for a moment,

but concluded by glancing up suddenly again with a little overflow of

laughter. In the midst of all, she could not help recollecting how

perfectly ridiculous it was to make all this commotion about _her_.

“Me!” said Agnes with a start; “they will find me out directly--they

must, mamma. You know I cannot talk or do anything; and indeed everybody

that knew me would laugh to think of people seeing anything in _me_!”

Now this was perfectly true, though the mother and the sister, for the

moment, were not quite inclined to sanction it. Agnes was neither

brilliant nor remarkable, though she had genius, and was, at twenty and

a half, a successful author in her way. As she woke from her first awe

and amazement, Agnes began to find out the ludicrous side of her new

fame. It was all very well to like the book; there was some reason in

that, the young author admitted candidly; but surely those people must

expect something very different from the reality, who were about to

besiege Mrs Edgerley for introductions to “_me_!”

However, it was very easy to forget this part of the subject in

returning to the dawn of social patronage, and in anticipating the

invitation they had received. Mrs Atheling, too, was somewhat

disappointed that they had made so little acquaintance with Mr

Burlington, and could scarcely even describe him, how he looked or what

he said. Mr Burlington had quite gone down in the estimation of the

girls. His lady client had entirely eclipsed, overshadowed, and taken

the glory out of the publisher. The talk was all of Mrs Edgerley, her

beauty, her kindness, her great house, her approaching party. They began

already to be agitated about this, remembering with terror the important

article of dress, and the simple nature and small variety of their

united wardrobe. Before they had been an hour at home, Miss Willsie made

an abrupt and sudden visit from Killiecrankie Lodge, to ascertain all

about the extraordinary apparition of the carriage, and to find out

where the girls had been; and it did not lessen their own excitement to

discover the extent of the commotion which they had caused in Bellevue.

The only drawback was, that a second telling of the story was not

practicable for the instruction and advantage of Papa--for, for the

first time in a dozen years, Mr Atheling, all by himself, and solitary,

was away from home.

CHAPTER XXV.

PAPA’S OPINION.

Papa was away from home. That very day on which the charmed light of

society first shone upon his girls, Papa, acting under the instructions

of a family conference, hurried at railway speed to the important

neighbourhood of the Old Wood Lodge. He was to be gone three days, and

during that time his household constituents expected an entire

settlement of the doubtful and difficult question which concerned their

inheritance. Charlie, perhaps, might have some hesitation on the

subject, but all the rest of the family believed devoutly in the

infallible wisdom and prowess of Papa.

Yet it was rather disappointing that he should be absent at such a

crisis as this, when there was so much to tell him. They had to wonder

every day what he would think of the adventure of Agnes and Marian, and

how contemplate their entrance into the world; and great was the family

satisfaction at the day and hour of his return. Fortunately it was

evening; the family tea-table was spread with unusual care, and the best

china shone and glistened in the sunshine, as Agnes, Marian, and Charlie

set out for the railway to meet their father. They went along together

very happily, excited by the expectation of all there was to tell, and

all there was to hear. The suburban roads were full of leisurely people,

gossiping, or meditating like old Isaac at eventide, with a breath of

the fields before them, and the big boom of the great city filling all

the air behind. The sun slanted over the homely but pleasant scene,

making a glorious tissue of the rising smoke, and brightening the dusky

branches of the wayside trees. “If we could but live in the country!”

said Agnes, pausing, and turning round to trace the long sun-bright line

of road, falling off into that imaginary Arcadia, or rather into the

horizon, with its verge of sunny and dewy fields. The dew falls upon the

daisies even in the vicinity of Islington--let students of natural

history bear this significant fact in mind.

“Stuff! the train’s in,” said Charlie, dragging along his half-reluctant

sister, who, quite proud of his bigness and manly stature, had taken his

arm. “Charlie, don’t make such strides--who do you think can keep up

with you?” said Marian. Charlie laughed with the natural triumphant

malice of a younger brother; he was perfectly indifferent to the fact

that one of them was a genius and the other a beauty; but he liked to

claim a certain manly and protective superiority over “the girls.”

To the great triumph, however, of these victims of Charlie’s obstinate

will, the train was not in, and they had to walk about upon the platform

for full five minutes, pulling (figuratively) his big red ear, and

waiting for the exemplary second-class passenger, who was scrupulous to

travel by that golden mean of respectability, and would on no account

have put up with a parliamentary train. Happy Papa, it was better than

Mrs Edgerley’s magnificent pair of bays pawing in superb impatience the

plebeian causeway. He caught a glimpse of three eager faces as he looked

out of his little window--two pretty figures springing forward, one big

one holding back, and remonstrating. “Why, you’ll lose him in the

crowd--do you hear?” cried Charlie. “What good could you do, a parcel of

girls? See! you stand here, and I’ll fetch my father out.”

Grievously against their will, the girls obeyed. Papa was safely evolved

out of the crowd, and went off at once between his daughters, leaving

Charlie to follow--which Charlie did accordingly, with Mr Atheling’s

greatcoat in one hand and travelling-bag in the other. They made quite a

little procession as they went home, Marian half dancing as she clasped

Papa’s arm, and tantalised him with hints of their wondrous tale; Agnes

walking very demurely on the other side, with a pretence of rebuking her

giddy sister; Charlie trudging with his burden in the rear. By way of

assuring him that he was not to know till they got home, Papa was put in

possession of all the main facts of their adventure, before they came

near enough to see two small faces at the bright open window, shouting

with impatience to see him. Happy Papa! it was almost worth being away a

year, instead of three days, to get such a welcome home.

“Well, but who is this fine lady--and how were you introduced to

her--and what’s all this about a carriage?” said Papa. “Here’s Bell and

Beau, with all their good sense, reduced to be as crazy as the rest of

you. What’s this about a carriage?”

For Bell and Beau, we are constrained to confess, had made immense ado

about the “two geegees” ever since these fabulous and extraordinary

animals drew up before the gate with that magnificent din and concussion

which shook to its inmost heart the quiet of Bellevue.

“Oh, it is Mrs Edgerley’s, papa,” said Marian; “such a beautiful pair of

bay horses--she sent us home in it--and we met her at Mr Burlington’s,

and we went to luncheon at her house--and we are going there again on

Thursday to a great party. She says everybody wishes to see Agnes; she

thinks there never was a book like _Hope_. She is very pretty, and has

the grandest house, and is kinder than anybody I ever saw. You never saw

such splendid horses. Oh, mamma, how pleasant it would be to keep a

carriage! I wonder if Agnes will ever be as rich as Mrs Edgerley; but

then, though _she_ is an author, she is a great lady besides.”

“Edgerley!” said Mr Atheling; “do you know, I heard that name at the Old

Wood Lodge.”

“But, papa, what about the Lodge? you have never told us yet: is it as

pretty as you thought it was? Can we go to live there? Is there a

garden? I am sure _now_,” said Agnes, blushing with pleasure, “that we

will have money enough to go down there--all of us--mamma, and Bell and

Beau!”

“I don’t deny it’s rather a pretty place,” said Mr Atheling; “and I

thought of Agnes immediately when I looked out from the windows. There

is a view for you! Do you remember it, Mary?--the town below, and the

wood behind, and the river winding about everywhere. Well, I confess to

you it _is_ pretty, and not in such bad order either, considering all

things; and nothing said against our title yet, Mr Lewis tells me. Do

you know, children, if you were really to go down and take possession,

and then my lord made any attempt against us, I should be tempted to

stand out against him, cost what it might?”

“Then, papa, we ought to go immediately,” said Marian. “To be sure, you

should stand out--it belonged to our family; what has anybody else got

to do with it? And I tell you, Charlie, you ought to read up all about

it, and make quite sure, and let the gentleman know the real law.”

“Stuff! I’ll mind my own business,” said Charlie. Charlie did not choose

to have any allusion made to his private studies.

“And there are several people there who remember us, Mary,” said Mr

Atheling. “My lord is not at home--that is one good thing; but I met a

youth at Winterbourne yesterday, who lives at the Hall they say, and is

a--a--sort of a son; a fine boy, with a haughty look, more like the old

lord a great deal. And what did you say about Edgerley? There’s one of

the Rivers’s married to an Edgerley. I won’t have such an acquaintance,

if it turns out one of them.”

“Why, William?” said Mrs Atheling. “Fathers and daughters are seldom

very much like each other. I do not care much about such an acquaintance

myself,” added the good mother, in a moralising tone. “For though it may

be very pleasant for the girls at first, I do not think it is good, as

Miss Willsie says, to have friends far out of our own rank of life. My

dear, Miss Willsie is very sensible, though she is not always pleasant;

and I am sure you never can be very easy or comfortable with people whom

you cannot have at your own house; and you know such a great lady as

that could not come _here_.”

Agnes and Marian cast simultaneous glances round the room--it was

impossible to deny that Mrs Atheling was right.

“But then the Old Wood Lodge, mamma!” cried Agnes, with sudden relief

and enthusiasm. “There we could receive any one--anybody could come to

see us in the country. If the furniture is not very good, we can improve

it a little. For you know, mamma----.” Agnes once more blushed with shy

delight and satisfaction, but came to a sudden conclusion there, and

said no more.

“Yes, my dear, I know,” said Mrs Atheling, with a slight sigh, and a

careful financial brow; “but when your fortune comes, papa must lay it

by for you, Agnes, or invest it. William, what did you say it would be

best to do?”

Mr Atheling immediately entered _con amore_ into a consideration of the

best means of disposing of this fabulous and unarrived fortune. But the

girls looked blank when they heard of interest and percentage; they did

not appreciate the benefits of laying by.

“Are we to have no good of it, then, at all?” said Agnes disconsolately.

Mr Atheling’s kind heart could not resist an appeal like this. “Yes,

Mary, they must have their pleasure,” said Papa; “it will not matter

much to Agnes’s fortune, the little sum that they will spend on the

journey, or the new house. No, you must go by all means; I shall fancy

it is in mourning for poor old Aunt Bridget, till my girls are there to

pull her roses. If I knew you were all there, I should begin to think

again that Winterbourne and Badgely Wood were the sweetest places in the

world.”

“And there any one could come to see us,” said Marian, clapping her

hands. “Oh, papa, what a good thing for Agnes that Aunt Bridget left you

the Old Wood Lodge!”

CHAPTER XXVI.

MRS EDGERLY’S THURSDAY.

Mr Atheling’s visit to the country had, after all, not been so necessary

as the family supposed; no one seemed disposed to pounce upon the small

bequest of Miss Bridget. The Hall took no notice either of the death or

the will which changed the proprietorship of the Old Wood Lodge. It

remained intact and unvisited, dilapidated and picturesque, with Miss

Bridget’s old furniture in its familiar place, and her old maid in

possession. The roses began to brush the little parlour window, and

thrust their young buds against the panes, from which no one now looked

out upon their sweetness. Papa himself, though his heart beat high to

think of his own beautiful children blooming in this retired and

pleasant place, wept a kindly tear for his old aunt, as he stood in the

chamber of her long occupation, and found how empty and mournful was

this well-known room. It was a quaint and touching mausoleum, full of

relics; and good Mr Atheling felt himself more and more bound to carry

out the old lady’s wishes as he stood in the vacant room.

And then it would be such a good thing for Agnes! That was the most

flattering and pleasant view of the subject possible; and ambitious

ideas of making the Old Wood Lodge the prettiest of country cottages,

entered the imagination of the house. It was pretty enough for anything,

Papa said, looking as he spoke at his beautiful Marian, who was

precisely in the same condition; and if some undefined notion of a

prince of romance, carrying off from the old cottage the sweetest bride

in the world, did flash across the thoughts of the father and mother,

who would be hard enough to blame so natural a vision? As for Marian

herself, she thought of nothing but Agnes, unless, indeed, it was Mrs

Edgerley’s party; and there must, indeed, have been quite a moral

earthquake in London had all the invitees to this same party been as

much disturbed about it as these two sisters. They wondered a hundred

times in a day if it was quite right to go without any further

invitation--if Mrs Edgerley would write to them--who would be there? and

finally, and most momentous of all, if it would be quite proper to go in

those simple white dresses, which were, in fact, the only dresses they

could wear. Over these girlish robes there was great discussion, and

councils manifold; people, however, who have positively no choice, have

facilities for making up their minds unknown to more encumbered

individuals, and certainly there was no alternative here.

Another of these much discussed questions was likewise very shortly set

to rest. Mrs Edgerley did write to Agnes the most affectionate and

emphatic of notes--deeply, doubly underscored in every fourth word,

adjuring her to “_remember_ that I NEVER _forgive_ any one who _forgets_

my _Thursday_.” Nobody could possibly be more innocent of this

unpardonable crime than Agnes and Marian, from whose innocent minds,

since they first heard of it, Mrs Edgerley’s Thursday had scarcely been

absent for an hour at a stretch; but they were mightily gratified with

this reminder, and excited beyond measure with the prospect before them.

They had also ascertained with much care and research the names of their

new acquaintance’s works--of which one was called _Fashion_, one

_Coquetry_, and one _The Beau Monde_. On the title-page of these famous

productions she was called the Honourable Mrs Edgerley--a distinction

not known to them before; and the girls read with devotion the three

sets of three volumes each, by which their distinguished friend had made

herself immortal. These books were not at all like _Hope Hazlewood_. It

was not indeed very easy to define what they were like; they were very

fine, full of splendid upholstery and elevated sentiments, diamonds of

the finest water, and passions of the loftiest strain. The girls

prudently reserved their judgment on the matter. “It is only some people

who can write good books,” said Marian, in the tone of an indulgent

critic; and nobody disputed the self-evident truth.

Meanwhile Mr Foggo continued to pay his usual visit every night, and

Miss Willsie, somewhat curious and full of disapprovals, “looked in”

through the day. Miss Willsie, who in secret knew _Hope Hazlewood_

nearly by heart, disapproved of everything. If there was one thing she

did not like, it was young people setting up their opinion, and

especially writing books; and if there was one thing she could not bear,

it was to see folk in a middling way of life aiming to be like their

betters. Miss Willsie “could not put up with” Mrs Edgerley’s presumption

in sending the girls home in her carriage; she thought it was just as

much as taunting decent folk because they had no carriage of their own.

Altogether the mistress of Killiecrankie was out of temper, and would

not be pleased--nothing satisfied her; and she groaned in spirit over

the vanity of her young _protégés_.

“Silly things!” said Miss Willsie, as she came in on the eventful

morning of Thursday itself, that golden day; “do you really think

there’s satisfaction in such vanities? Do you think any person finds

happiness in the pleasures of this world?”

“Oh, Miss Willsie! if they were not very pleasant, why should people be

so frightened for them?” cried Marian, who was carefully trimming, with

some of her mother’s lace, the aforesaid white dress.

“And then we are not trying to _find_ happiness,” said Agnes, looking up

from her similar occupation with a radiant face, and a momentary

perception of the philosophy of the matter. After all, that made a

wonderful difference. Miss Willsie was far too Scotch to remain

unimpressed by the logical distinction.

“Well, that’s true,” acknowledged Miss Willsie; “but you’re no to think

I approve of such a way of spending your happiness, though ye have got

it, ye young prodigals. If there is one thing I cannot endure, it’s

countenancing the like of you in your nonsense and extravagance; but I’m

no for doing things by halves either--Here!”

Saying which, Miss Willsie laid a parcel upon the table and disappeared

instantly, opening the door for herself, and closing it after her with

the briskest energy. There was not much time lost in examining the

parcel; and within it, in a double wrapper, lay two little pairs of

satin shoes, the whitest, daintiest, prettiest in the world.

Cinderella’s glass slippers! But Cinderella in the story was not half so

much disturbed as these two girls. It seemed just the last proof

wanting of the interest all the world took in this momentous and

eventful evening. Miss Willsie, the general critic and censor, who

approved of nothing! If it had not been for a little proper pride in the

presence of Susan, who just then entered the parlour, Marian and Agnes

would have been disposed for half a minute to celebrate this pleasure,

in true feminine fashion, by a very little “cry.”

And then came the momentous duties of the toilette. The little white

bedchamber looked whiter to-night than it had done all its days before,

under the combined lustre of the white dresses, the white ribbons, and

the white shoes. They were both so young and both so bright that their

colourless and simple costume looked in the prettiest harmony imaginable

with their sweet youth--which was all the more fortunate, that they

could not help themselves, and had nothing else to choose. One of those

useful and nondescript vehicles called “flies” stood at the door.

Charlie, with his hat on, half laughing, half ashamed of his office,

lingered in the hall, waiting to accompany them. They kissed Bell and

Beau (dreadfully late for this one night, and in the highest state of

exultation) with solemnity--submitted themselves to a last inspection on

the part of Mrs Atheling, and with a little fright and sudden terror

were put into the “carriage.” Then the carriage drove away through the

late summer twilight, rambling into the distance and the darkness. Then

at last Mamma ventured to drop into the easy-chair, and rest for a

moment from her labours and her anxieties. At this great crisis of the

family history, small events looked great events to Mrs Atheling; as if

they had been going out upon a momentous enterprise, this good mother

paused awhile in the darkness, and blessed them in her heart.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE WORLD.

They were bewildered, yet they lost nothing of the scene. The great

rooms radiant with light, misty with hangings, gleaming with

mirrors--the magnificent staircase up which they passed, they never

could tell how, ashamed of the echo of their own names--the beautiful

enchantress of a hostess, who bestowed upon each of them that light

perfumy kiss of welcome, at the momentary touch of which the girls

blushed and trembled--the strange faces everywhere around them--their

own confusion, and the shyness which they thought so awkward. Though all

these things together united to form a dazzling jumble for the first

moment, the incoherence of the vision lasted no longer. With a touch of

kindness Mrs Edgerley led them (for of course they were scrupulously

early, and punctual to the hour) to her pretty boudoir, where they had

been before, and which was not so bright nor like to be so thronged as

the larger rooms. Here already a young matron sat in state, with a

little circle of worshippers. Mrs Edgerley broke into the midst of them

to introduce to the throned lady her young strangers. “They have no one

with them--pray let them be beside you,” whispered the beautiful hostess

to her beautiful guest. The lady bowed, and stared, and assented. When

Mrs Edgerley left them, Agnes and Marian looked after her wistfully, the

only face they had ever seen before, and stood together in their shy

irresolute grace, blushing, discouraged, and afraid. They supposed it

was not right to speak to any one whom they had not been introduced to;

but no one gave them any inconvenience for the moment in the matter of

conversation. They stood for a short time shyly, expecting some notice

from their newly-elected chaperone, but she had half-a-dozen flirtations

in hand, and no leisure for a charge which was a bore. This, it must be

confessed, was somewhat different from Mrs Edgerley’s anticipation of

being “besieged for introductions” to the author of _Hope Hazlewood_.

The young author looked wistfully into the brightness of the great

drawing-room, with some hope of catching the eye of her patroness; but

Mrs Edgerley was in the full business of “receiving,” and had no eye

except for the brilliant stream of arrivals. Marian began to be

indignant, and kept her beautiful eyes full upon Agnes, watching her

sister with eager sympathy. Never before, in all their serene and quiet

lives, had they needed to be proud. For a moment the lip of Agnes curved

and quivered--a momentary pang of girlish mortification passed over her

face--then they both drew back suddenly to a table covered with books

and portfolios, which stood behind them. They did not say a word to each

other--they bent down over the prints and pictures with a sudden impulse

of self-command and restraint: no one took the slightest notice of them;

they stood quite alone in these magnificent rooms, which were slowly

filling with strange faces. Agnes was afraid to look up, lest any one

should see that there were actual tears under her eyelids. How she

fancied she despised herself for such a weakness! But, after all, it was

a hard enough lesson for neophytes so young and innocent,--so they stood

very silent, bending closely over the picture-books, overcoming as they

could their sudden mortification and disappointment. No one disturbed

them in their solitary enjoyment of their little table, and for once in

their life they did not say a word to each other, but bravely fought out

the crisis within themselves, and rose again with all the pride of

sensitive and imaginative natures to the emergency. With a sudden

impulsive movement Agnes drew a chair to the table, and made Marian sit

down upon it. “Now, we will suppose we are at the play,” said Agnes,

with youthful contempt and defiance, leaning her arm upon the back of

the chair, and looking at the people instead of the picture-books.

Marian was not so rapid in her change of mood--she sat still, shading

her face with her hand, with a flush upon her cheek, and an angry cloud

on her beautiful young brow. Yes, Marian was extremely angry.

Mortification on her own account did not affect her--but that all these

people, who no doubt were only rich people and nobodies--that they

should neglect Agnes!--this was more than her sisterly equanimity could

bear.

Agnes Atheling was not beautiful. When people looked at her, they never

thought of her face, what were its features or its complexion. These

were both agreeable enough to make no detraction from the interest of

the bright and animated intelligence which was indeed the only beauty

belonging to her. She did not know herself with what entire and

transparent honesty her eyes and her lips expressed her sentiments; and

it never occurred to her that her own looks, as she stood thus, somewhat

defiant, and full of an imaginative and heroical pride, looking out upon

all those strangers, made the brightest comment possible upon the scene.

How her eye brightened with pleasure as it fell on a pleasant face--how

her lip laughed when something ridiculous caught her rapid

attention--how the soft lines on her forehead drew together when

something displeased her delicate fancy--and how a certain natural

delight in the graceful grouping and brilliant action of the scene

before her lighted up all her face--was quite an unknown fact to Agnes.

It was remarkable enough, however, in an assembly of people whose looks

were regulated after the most approved principles, and who were

generally adepts in the admirable art of expressing nothing. And then

there was Marian, very cloudy, looking up under the shadow of her hand

like an offended fairy queen. Though Mrs Edgerley was lost in the stream

of her arriving guests, and the beautiful young chaperone she had

committed them to took no notice whatever of her charge, tired eyes,

which were looking out for something to interest them, gradually fixed

upon Agnes and Marian. One or two observers asked who they were, but

nobody could answer the question. They were quite by themselves, and

evidently knew no one; and a little interest began to rise about them,

which the girls, making their own silent observations upon everything,

and still sometimes with a little wistfulness looking for Mrs Edgerley,

had not yet begun to see.

When an old gentleman came to their table, and startled them a little by

turning over the picture-books. He was an ancient beau--the daintiest of

old gentlemen--with a blue coat and a white waistcoat, and the most

delicate of ruffles. His hair--so much as he had--was perfectly white,

and his high bald forehead, and even his face, looked like a piece of

ivory curiously carved into wrinkles. He was not by any means a handsome

old man, yet it was evident enough that this peculiar look and studied

dress belonged to a notability, whose coat and cambric, and the great

shining diamond upon whose wrinkled ashen-white hand, belonged to his

character, and were part of himself. He was an old connoisseur, critic,

and fine gentleman, with a collection of old china, old jewels, rare

small pictures, and curious books, enough to craze the whole dilettanti

world when it came to the prolonged and fabulous sale, which was its

certain end. And he was a connoisseur in other things than silver and

china. He was somewhat given to patronising young people; and the common

judgment gave him credit for great kindness and benignity. But it was

not benignity and kindness which drew Mr Agar to the side of Agnes and

Marian. Personal amusement was a much more prevailing inducement than

benevolence with the dainty old dilettante. They were deceived, of

course, as youth is invariably; for despite the pure selfishness of the

intention, the effect, as it happened, was kind.

Mr Agar began a conversation by remarking upon the books, and drew forth

a shy reply from both; then he managed gradually to change his

position, and to survey the assembled company along with them, but with

his most benign and patriarchal expression. He was curious to hear in

words those comments which Agnes constantly made with her eyes; and he

was pleased to observe the beauty of the younger sister--the perfect

unconscious grace of all her movements and attitudes. They thought they

had found the most gracious of friends, these simple girls; they had not

the remotest idea that he was only a connoisseur.

“Then you do not know many of those people?” said Mr Agar, following

Agnes’s rapid glances. “Ah, old Lady Knightly! is that a friend of

yours?”

“No; I was thinking of the old story of ‘Thank you for your Diamonds,”

said Agnes, who could not help drawing back a little, and casting down

her eyes for the moment, while the sound of her own voice, low as it

was, brought a sudden flush to her cheek. “I did not think diamonds had

been so pretty; they look as if they were alive.”

“Ah, the diamonds!” said the old critic, looking at the unconscious

object of Agnes’s observation, who was an old lady, wrinkled and

gorgeous, with a leaping, twinkling band of light circling her

time-shrivelled brow. “Yes, she looks as if she had dressed for a

masquerade in the character of Night--eh? Poor old lady, with her lamps

of diamonds! Beauty, you perceive, does not need so many tapers to show

its whereabouts.”

“But there are a great many beautiful people here,” said Agnes, “and a

great many jewels. I think, sir, it is kind of people to wear them,

because all the pleasure is to us who look on.”

“You think so? Ah, then beauty itself, I suppose, is pure generosity,

and _we_ have all the pleasure of it,” said the amused old gentleman;

“that is comfortable doctrine, is it not?” And he looked at Marian, who

glanced up blushingly, yet with a certain pleasure. He smiled, yet he

looked benignant and fatherly; and this was an extremely agreeable view

of the matter, and made it much less embarrassing to acknowledge oneself

pretty. Marian felt herself indebted to this kind old man.

“And you know no one--not even Mrs Edgerley, I presume?” said the old

gentleman. They both interrupted him in haste to correct this, but he

only smiled the more, and went on. “Well, I shall be benevolent, and

tell you who your neighbours are; but I cannot follow those rapid eyes.

Yes, I perceive you have made a good pause for a beginning--that is our

pretty hostess’s right honourable papa. Poor Winterbourne! he was sadly

clumsy about his business. He is one of those unfortunate men who cannot

do a wicked thing without doing it coarsely. You perceive, he is

stopping to speak to Lady Theodosia--dear Lady Theodosia, who writes

those sweet books! Nature intended she should be merry and vulgar, and

art has made her very fine, very sentimental, and full of tears. There

is an unfortunate youth wandering alone behind everybody’s back. That is

a miserable new poet, whom Mrs Edgerley has deluded hither under the

supposition that he is to be the lion of the evening. Poor fellow! he is

looking demoniacal, and studying an epigram. Interested in the

poet--eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Agnes, with her usual respect; “but we were thinking of

ourselves, who were something the same,” she added quickly; for Mr Agar

had seen the sudden look which passed between the sisters.

“Something the same! then I am to understand that you are a poet?” said

the old gentleman, with his unvarying benignity. “No!--what then? A

musician? No; an artist? Come, you puzzle me. I shall begin to suppose

you have written a novel if you do not explain.”

The animated face of Agnes grew blank in a moment; she drew farther

back, and blushed painfully. Marian immediately drew herself up and

stood upon the defensive. “Is it anything wrong to write a novel?” said

Marian. Mr Agar turned upon her with his benignant smile.

“It is so, then?” said the old gentleman; “and I have not the least

doubt it is an extremely clever novel. But hold! who comes here? Ah, an

American! Now we must do our best to talk very brilliantly, for friend

Jonathan loves the conversation of distinguished circles. Let me find a

seat for you, and do not be angry that I am not an enthusiast in

literary matters. We have all our hobbies, and that does not happen to

be mine.”

Agnes sat down passively on the chair he brought for her. The poor girl

felt grievously ashamed of herself. After all, what was that poor little

book, that she should ground such mighty claims upon it? Who cared for

the author of _Hope Hazlewood_? Mr Agar, though he was so kind, did not

even care to inquire what book it was, nor showed the smallest curiosity

about its name. Agnes was so much cast down that she scarcely noticed

the upright figure approaching towards them, carrying an abstracted head

high in the air, and very like to run over smaller people; but Mr Agar

stepped aside, and Marian touched her sister’s arm. “It is Mr

Endicott--look, Agnes!” whispered Marian. Both of them were stirred with

sudden pleasure at sight of him; it was a known face in this dazzling

wilderness, though it was not a very comely one. Mr Endicott was as much

startled as themselves when glancing downward from his lofty altitude,

his eye fell upon the beautiful face which had made sunshine even in the

shady place of that Yankee young gentleman’s self-admiring breast. The

sudden discovery brightened his lofty languor for a moment. He hastened

to shake hands with them, so impressively that the pretty lady and her

cloud of admirers paused in their flutter of satire and compliment to

look on.

“This is a pleasure I was not prepared for,” said Mr Endicott. “I

remember that Mr Atheling had an early acquaintance with Viscount

Winterbourne--I presume an old hereditary friendship. I am rejoiced to

find that such things are, even in this land of sophistication. This is

a brilliant scene!”

“Indeed I do not think papa knows Lord Winterbourne,” said Agnes

hastily; but her low voice did not reach the ears which had been so far

enlightened by Mr Endicott. “Hereditary friendship--old connections of

the family; no doubt daughters of some squire in Banburyshire,” said

their beautiful neighbour, in a half-offended tone, to one of her

especial retainers, who showed strong symptoms of desertion, and had

already half-a-dozen times asked Marian’s name. Unfortunate Mr Endicott!

he gained a formidable rival by these ill-advised words.

“I find little to complain of generally in the most distinguished

circles of your country,” said Mr Endicott. “Your own men of genius may

be neglected, but a foreigner of distinction always finds a welcome.

This is true wisdom--for by this means we are enabled to carry a good

report to the world.”

“I say, what nice accounts these French fellows give of us!” burst in

suddenly a very young man, who stood under the shadow of Mr Endicott.

The youth who hazarded this brilliant remark did not address anybody in

particular, and was somewhat overpowered by the unexpected honour of an

answer from Mr Agar.

“Trench journalists, and newspaper writers of any country, are of course

the very best judges of manners and morals,” said the old gentleman,

with a smile; “the other three estates are more than usually fallible;

the fourth is the nearest approach to perfection which we can find in

man.”

“Sir,” said Mr Endicott, “in my country we can do without Queen, Lords,

and Commons; but we cannot do without the Press--that is, the exponent

of every man’s mind and character, the legitimate vehicle of instructive

experiences. The Press, sir, is Progress--the only effective agency ever

invented for the perfection of the human race.”

“Oh, I am sure I quite agree with you. I am quite in love with the

newspapers; they do make one so delightfully out of humour,” said Mrs

Edgerley, suddenly making her appearance; “and really, you know, when

they speak of society, it is quite charming--so absurd! Sir Langham

Portland--Miss Atheling. I have been so longing to come to you. Oh, and

you must know Mr Agar. Mr Agar, I want to introduce you to my charming

young friend, the author of _Hope Hazlewood_; is it not wonderful? I was

sure you, who are so fond of people of genius, would be pleased to know

her. And there is dear Lady Theodosia, but she is so surrounded. You

must come to the Willows--you must indeed; I positively insist upon it.

For what can one do in an evening? and so many of my friends want to

know you. We go down in a fortnight. I shall certainly calculate upon

you. Oh, I never take a refusal; it was _so_ kind of you to come

to-night.”

Before she had ceased speaking, Mrs Edgerley was at the other end of the

room, conversing with some one else, by her pretty gestures. Sir Langham

Portland drew himself up like a guardsman, as he was, on the other side

of Marian, and made original remarks about the picture-books, somewhat

to the amusement, but more to the dismay of the young beauty,

unaccustomed to such distinguished attentions. Mr Agar occupied himself

with Agnes; he told her all about the Willows, Mrs Edgerley’s pretty

house at Richmond, which was always amusing, said the old gentleman. He

was very pleasantly amused himself with Agnes’s bright respondent face,

which, however, this wicked old critic was fully better pleased with

while its mortification and disappointment lasted. Mr Endicott remained

standing in front of the group, watching the splendid guardsman with a

misanthropic eye. This, however, was not very amusing; and the

enlightened American gracefully took from his pocket the daintiest of

pocket-books, fragrant with Russia leather and clasped with gold. From

this delicate enclosure Mr Endicott selected with care a letter and a

card, and, armed with these formidable implements, turned round upon the

unconscious old gentleman. When Mr Agar caught a glimpse of this

impending assault, his momentary look of dismay would have delighted

himself, could he have seen it. “I have the honour of bearing a letter

of introduction,” said Mr Endicott, closing upon the unfortunate

connoisseur, and thrusting before his eyes the weapons of offence--the

moral bowie-knife and revolver, which were the weapons of this young

gentleman’s warfare. Mr Agar looked his assailant in the face, but did

not put forth his hand.

“At my own house,” said the ancient beau, with a gracious smile: “who

could be stoic enough to do justice to the most distinguished of

strangers, under such irresistible distractions as I find here?”

Poor Mr Endicott! He did not venture to be offended, but he was

extinguished notwithstanding, and could not make head against his double

disappointment; for there stood the guardsman speaking through his

mustache of Books of Beauty, and holding his place like the most

faithful of sentinels by Marian Atheling’s side.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A FOE.

“I shall have to relinquish my charge of you,” said the young chaperone,

for the first time addressing Agnes. Agnes started immediately, and

rose.

“It is time for us to go,” she said with eager shyness, “but I did not

like. May we follow you? If it would not trouble you, it would be a

great kindness, for we know no one here.”

“Why did you come, then?” said the lady. Agnes’s ideas of politeness

were sorely tried to-night.

“Indeed,” said the young author, with a sudden blush and courage, “I

cannot tell why, unless because Mrs Edgerley asked us; but I am sure it

was very foolish, and we will know better another time.”

“Yes, it is always tiresome, unless one knows everybody,” said the

pretty young matron, slowly rising, and accepting with a careless grace

the arm which somebody offered her. The girls rose hastily to follow. Mr

Agar had left them some time before, and even the magnificent guardsman

had been drawn away from his sentryship. With a little tremor, looking

at nobody, and following very close in the steps of their leader, they

glided along through the brilliant groups of the great drawing-room.

But, alas! they were not fated to reach the door in unobserved safety.

Mr Endicott, though he was improving his opportunities, though he had

already fired another letter of introduction at somebody else’s head,

and listened to his heart’s content to various snatches of that most

brilliant and wise conversation going on everywhere around him, had

still kept up a distant and lofty observation of the lady of his love.

He hastened forward to them now, as with beating hearts they pursued

their way, keeping steadily behind their careless young guide. “You are

going?” said Mr Endicott, making a solemn statement of the fact. “It is

early; let me see you to your carriage.”

But they were glad to keep close to him a minute afterwards, while they

waited for that same carriage, the Islingtonian fly, with Charlie in it,

which was slow to recognise its own name when called. Charlie rolled

himself out as the vehicle drew up, and came to the door like a man to

receive his sisters. A gentleman stood by watching the whole scene with

a little amusement--the shy girls, the big brother, the officious

American. This was a man of singularly pale complexion, very black

hair, and a face over which the skin seemed to be strained so tight that

his features were almost ghastly. He was old, but he did not look like

his age; and it was impossible to suppose that he ever could have looked

young. His smile was not at all a pleasant smile. Though it came upon

his face by his own will, he seemed to have no power of putting it off

again; and it grew into a faint spasmodic sneer, offensive and

repellent. Charlie looked him in the face with a sudden impulse of

pugnacity--he looked at Charlie with this bloodless and immovable smile.

The lad positively lingered, though his fly “stopped the way,” to bestow

another glance upon this remarkable personage, and their eyes met in a

full and mutual stare. Whether either person, the old man or the youth,

were moved by a thrill of presentiment, we are not able to say; but

there was little fear hereafter of any want of mutual recognition.

Despite the world of social distinction, age, and power which lay

between them, Charlie Atheling looked at Lord Winterbourne, and Lord

Winterbourne looked at Charlie. It was their first point of contact;

neither of them could read the fierce mutual conflict, the ruin,

despair, and disgrace which lay in the future, in that first look of

impulsive hostility; but as the great man entered his carriage, and the

boy plunged into the fly, their thoughts for the moment were full of

each other--so full that neither could understand the sudden distinct

recognition of this first touch of fate.

“No; mamma was quite right,” said Agnes; “we cannot be great friends nor

very happy with people so different from ourselves.”

And the girls sighed. They were pleased, yet they were disappointed. It

was impossible to deny that the reality was as far different from the

imagination as anything could be; and really nobody had been in the

smallest degree concerned about the author of _Hope Hazlewood_. Even

Marian was compelled to acknowledge that.

“But then,” cried this eager young apologist, “they were not literary

people; they were not good judges; they were common people, like what

you might see anywhere, though they might be great ladies and fine

gentlemen; it was easy to see _we_ were not very great, and they did not

understand _you_.”

“Hush,” said Agnes quickly; “they were rather kind, I think--especially

Mr Agar; but they did not care at all for us: and why should they, after

all?”

“So it was a failure,” said Charlie. “I say, who was that man--that

fellow at the door?”

“Oh, Charlie, you dreadful boy! that was Lord Winterbourne,” cried

Marian. “Mr Agar told us who he was.”

“Who’s Mr Agar?” asked Charlie. “And so that’s him--that’s the man that

will take the Old Wood Lodge! I wish he would. I knew I owed him

something. I’d like to see him try!”

“And Mrs Edgerley is his daughter,” said Agnes. “Is it not strange? And

I suppose we shall all be neighbours in the country. But Mr Endicott

said quite loud, so that everybody could hear, that papa was a friend of

Lord Winterbourne’s. I do not like people to slight us; but I don’t like

to deceive them either. There was _that_ gentleman--that Sir Langham. I

suppose he thought _we_ were great people, Marian, like the rest of the

people there.”

In the darkness Marian pouted, frowned, and laughed within herself. “I

don’t think it matters much what Sir Langham thought,” said Marian; for

already the young beauty began to feel her “greatness,” and smiled at

her own power.

CHAPTER XXIX.

FAMILY SENTIMENTS.

When the fly jumbled into Bellevue, the lighted window, which always

illuminated the little street, shone brighter than ever in the profound

darkness of this late night, when all the respectable inhabitants for

more than an hour had been asleep. Papa and Mamma, somewhat drowsily,

yet with a capacity for immediate waking-up only to be felt under these

circumstances, had unanimously determined to sit up for the girls; and

the window remained bright, and the inmates wakeful, for a full hour

after the rumbling “fly,” raising all the dormant echoes of the

neighbourhood, had rolled off to its nightly shelter. The father and the

mother listened with the most perfect patience to the detail of

everything, excited in spite of themselves by their children’s

companionship with “the great,” yet considerably resenting, and much

disappointed by the failure of those grand visions, in which all night

the parental imagination had pictured to itself an admiring assembly

hanging upon the looks of those innocent and simple girls. Mr and Mrs

Atheling on this occasion were somewhat disposed, we confess, to make

out a case of jealousy and malice against the fashionable guests of Mrs

Edgerley. It was always the way, Papa said. They always tried to keep

everybody down, and treated aspirants superciliously; and in the climax

of his indignation, under his breath, he added something about those

“spurns which patient merit of the unworthy takes.” Mrs Atheling did not

quote Shakespeare, but she was quite as much convinced that it was their

“rank in life” which had prevented Agnes and Marian from taking a

sovereign place in the gay assembly they had just left. The girls

themselves gave no distinct judgment on the subject; but now that the

first edge of her mortification had worn off, Agnes began to have great

doubts upon this matter. “We had no claim upon them--not the least,”

said Agnes; “they never saw us before; we were perfect strangers; why

should they trouble themselves about us, simply because I had written a

book?”

“Do not speak nonsense, my dear--do not tell me,” said Mrs Atheling,

with agitation: “they had only to use their own eyes and see--as if they

often had such an opportunity! My dear, I know better; you need not

speak to me!”

“And everybody has read your book, Agnes--and no doubt there are scores

of people who would give anything to know you,” said Papa with dignity.

“The author of _Hope Hazlewood_ is a different person from Agnes

Atheling. No, no--it is not that they don’t know your proper place; but

they keep everybody down as long as they can. Now, mind, one day you

will turn the tables upon them; I am very sure of that.”

Agnes said no more, but went up to her little white room completely

unconvinced upon the subject. Miss Willsie saw the tell-tale light in

this little high window in the middle of the night--when it was nearly

daylight, the old lady said--throwing a friendly gleam upon the two

young controversialists as they debated this difficult question. Agnes,

of course, with all the heat of youth and innovation, took the extreme

side of the question. “It is easy enough to write--any one can write,”

said the young author, triumphant in her argument, yet in truth somewhat

mortified by her triumph. “But even if it was not, there are greater

things in this world than books, and almost all other books are greater

than novels; and I do think it was the most foolish thing in the world

to suppose that clever people like these--for they were all clever

people--would take any notice of me.”

To which arguments, all and several, Marian returned only a direct,

unhesitating, and broad negative. It was _not_ easy to write, and there

were _not_ greater things than books, and it was not at all foolish to

expect a hundred times more than ever their hopes had expected. “It is

very wrong of you to say so, Agnes,” said Marian. “Papa is quite right;

it will all be as different as possible by-and-by; and if you have

nothing more sensible to say than that, I shall go to sleep.”

Saying which, Marian turned round upon her pillow, virtuously resisted

all further temptations, and closed her beautiful eyes upon the faint

grey dawn which began to steal in between the white curtains. They

thought their minds were far too full to go to sleep. Innocent

imaginations! five minutes after, they were in the very sweetest

enchanted country of the true fairyland of dreams.

While Charlie, in his sleep in the next room, laboriously struggled all

night with a bloodless apparition, which smiled at him from an open

doorway--fiercely fought and struggled against it--mastered it--got it

down, but only to begin once more the tantalising combat. When he rose

in the morning, early as usual, the youth set his teeth at the

recollection, and with an attempt to give a reason for this instinctive

enmity, fiercely hoped that Lord Winterbourne would try to take from his

father his little inheritance. Charlie, who was by no means of a

metaphysical turn, did not trouble himself at all to inquire into the

grounds of his own unusual pugnacity. He “knew he owed him something,”

and though my Lord Winterbourne was a viscount and an ex-minister, and

Charlie only a poor man’s son and a copying-clerk, he fronted the great

man’s image with indomitable confidence, and had no more doubt of his

own prowess than of his entire goodwill in the matter. He did not think

very much more of his opponent in this case than he did of the big

folios in the office, and had as entire confidence in his own ability to

bring the enemy down.

But it was something of a restless night to Papa and Mamma. They too

talked in their darkened chamber, too proper and too economical to waste

candlelight upon subjects so unprofitable, of old events and people half

forgotten;--how the first patroness of Agnes should be the daughter of

the man between whom and themselves there existed some unexplained

connection of old friendship or old enmity, or both;--how circumstances

beyond their guidance conspired to throw them once more in the way of

persons and plans which they had heard nothing of for more than twenty

years. These things were very strange and troublous events to Mr

Atheling and his wife. The past, which nearer grief and closer

pleasure--all their family life, full as that was of joy and sorrow--had

thrown so far away and out of remembrance, came suddenly back before

them in all the clearness of youthful recollection. Old feelings

returned strong and fresh into their minds. They went back, and took up

the thread of this history, whatever it might be, where they had dropped

it twenty years ago; and with a thrill of deeper interest, wondered and

inquired how this influence would affect their children. To themselves

now little could happen; their old friend or their old enemy could do

neither harm nor benefit to their accomplished lives--but the

children!--the children, every one so young, so hopeful, and so well

endowed; all so strangely brought into sudden contact, at a double

point, with this one sole individual, who had power to disturb the rest

of the father and the mother. They relapsed into silence suddenly, and

were quieted by the thought.

“It is not our doing--it is not our seeking,” said Mr Atheling at

length. “If the play wants a last act, Mary, it will not be your

planning nor mine; and as for the children, they are in the hands of

God.”

So in the grey imperfect dawn which lightened on the faces of the

sleeping girls, whose sweet youthful rest was far too deep to be broken

even by the growing light, these elder people closed their eyes, not to

sleep, but to pray. If evil were about to come--if danger were lurking

in the air around them--they had this only defence against it. It was

not the simple faith of youth which dictated these prayers; it was a

deeper and a closer urgency, which cried aloud and would not cease, but

yet was solemn with the remembrance of times when God’s pleasure was not

to grant them their petitions. The young ones slept in peace, but with

fights and triumphs manifold in their young dreams. The father and the

mother held a vigil for them, holding up holy hands for their defence

and safety; and so the morning came at last, brightly, to hearts which

feared no evil, or when they feared, put their apprehensions at once

into the hand of God.

CHAPTER XXX.

AGNES’S FORTUNE.

The morning, like a good fairy, came kindly to these good people,

increasing in the remembrance of the girls the impression of pleasure,

and lessening that of disappointment. They came, after all, to be very

well satisfied with their reception at Mrs Edgerley’s. And now her

second and most important invitation remained to be discussed--the

Willows--the pretty house at Richmond, with the river running sweetly

under the shadow of its trees; the company, which was sure to include,

as Mr Agar said, _some_ people worth knowing, and which that ancient

connoisseur himself did not refuse to join. Agnes and Marian looked with

eager eyes on the troubled brow of Mamma; a beautiful vision of the lawn

and the river, flowers and sunshine, the sweet silence of “the country,”

and the unfamiliar music of running water and rustling trees, possessed

the young imaginations for the time to the total disregard of all

sublunary considerations. _They_ did not think for a moment of Lord

Winterbourne’s daughter, and the strange chance which could make them

inmates of her house; for Lord Winterbourne himself was not a person of

any importance in the estimation of the girls. But more than that, they

did not even think of their wardrobe, important as that consideration

was; they did not recollect how entirely unprovided they were for such a

visit, nor how the family finances, strait and unelastic, could not

possibly stretch to so new and great an expenditure. But all these

things, which brought no cloud upon Agnes and Marian, conspired to

embarrass the brow of the family mother. She thought at the same moment

of Lord Winterbourne and of the brown merinos; of this strange

acquaintanceship, mysterious and full of fate as it seemed; and of the

little black silk cloaks which were out of fashion, and the bonnets with

the faded ribbons. It was hard to deny the girls so great a pleasure;

but how could it be done?

And for a day or two following the household remained in great

uncertainty upon this point, and held every evening, on the engrossing

subject of ways and means, a committee of the whole house. This,

however, we are grieved to say, was somewhat of an unprofitable

proceeding; for the best advice which Papa could give on so important a

subject was, that the girls must of course have everything proper if

they went. “If they went!--that is exactly the question,” said the

provoked and impatient ruler of all. “But are they to go? and how are we

to get everything proper for them?” To these difficult questions Mr

Atheling attempted no answer. He was a wise man, and knew his own

department, and prudently declined any interference in the legitimate

domain of the other head of the house.

Mrs Atheling was by no means addicted to disclosing the private matters

of her own family life, yet she carried this important question through

the faded wallflowers to crave the counsel of Miss Willsie. Miss Willsie

was not at all pleased to have such a matter submitted to her. _Her_

supreme satisfaction would have lain in criticising, finding fault, and

helping on. Now reduced to the painful alternative of giving an opinion,

the old lady pronounced a vague one in general terms, to the effect that

if there was one thing she hated, it was to see poor folk striving for

the company of them that were in a different rank in life; but whenever

this speech was made, and her conscience cleared, Miss Willsie began to

inquire zealously what “the silly things had,” and what they wanted, and

set about a mental turning over of her own wardrobe, where were a great

many things which she had worn in her own young days, and which were

“none the worse,” as she said--but they were not altogether adapted for

the locality of the Willows. Miss Willsie turned them over not only in

her own mind, but in her own parlour, where her next visitor found her

as busy with her needle and her shears as any cottar matron ever was,

and anxiously bent on the same endeavour to “make auld things look

amaist as weel’s the new.” It cost Miss Willsie an immense deal of

trouble, but it was not half so successful a business as the repairs of

that immortal Saturday Night.

But the natural course of events, which had cleared their path for them

many times before, came in once more to make matters easy. Mr

Burlington, of whom nothing had been heard since the day of that

eventful visit to his place--Mr Burlington, who since then had brought

out a second edition of _Hope Hazlewood_, announced himself ready to

“make a proposal” for the book. Now, there had been many and great

speculations in the house on this subject of “Agnes’s fortune.” They

were as good at the magnificent arithmetic of fancy as Major Pendennis

was, and we will not say that, like him, they had not leaped to their

thousands a-year. They had all, however, been rather prudent in

committing themselves to a sum--nobody would guess positively what it

was to be--but some indefinite and fabulous amount, a real fortune,

floated in the minds of all: to the father and mother a substantial

provision for Agnes, to the girls an inexhaustible fund of pleasure,

comfort, and charity. The proposal came--it was not a fabulous and

magnificent fortune, for the author of _Hope Hazlewood_ was only Agnes

Atheling, and not Arthur Pendennis. For the first moment, we are

compelled to confess, they looked at each other with blank faces,

entirely cast down and disappointed: it was not an inexhaustible fairy

treasure--it was only a hundred and fifty pounds.

Yes, most tender-hearted reader! these were not the golden days of Sir

Walter, nor was this young author a literary Joan of Arc. She got her

fortune in a homely fashion like other people--at first was grievously

disappointed about it--formed pugnacious resolutions, and listened to

all the evil stories of the publishing ghouls with satisfaction and

indignant faith. But by-and-by this angry mood softened down; by-and-by

the real glory of such an unrealisable heap of money began to break upon

the girls. A hundred and fifty pounds, and nothing to do with it--no

arrears to pay--nothing to make up--can any one suppose a position of

more perfect felicity? They came to see it bit by bit dawning upon them

in gradual splendour--content blossomed into satisfaction, satisfaction

unfolded into delight. And then to think of laying by such a small sum

would be foolish, as the girls reasoned; so its very insignificance

increased the pleasure. It was not a dull treasure, laid up in a bank,

or “invested,” as Papa had solemnly proposed to invest “Agnes’s

fortune;” it was a delightful little living stream of abundance, already

in imagination overflowing and brightening everything. It would buy

Mamma the most magnificent of brocades, and Bell and Beau such frocks as

never were seen before out of fairyland. It would take them all to the

Old Wood Lodge, or even to the seaside; it would light up with books and

pictures, and pretty things, the respectable family face of Number Ten,

Bellevue. There was no possibility of exhausting the capacities of this

marvellous sum of money, which, had it been three or four times as much,

as the girls discovered, could not have been half as good for present

purposes. The delight of spending money was altogether new to them: they

threw themselves into it with the most gleeful abandonment (in

imagination), and threw away their fortune royally, and with genuine

enjoyment in the process; and very few millionaires have ever found as

much pleasure in the calculation of their treasures as Agnes and Marian

Atheling, deciding over and over again how they were to spend it, found

in this hundred and fifty pounds.

In the mean time, however, Papa carried it off to the office, and locked

it up there for security--for they all felt that it would not be right

to trust to the commonplace defences of Bellevue with such a prodigious

sum of money in the house.

CHAPTER XXXI.

EXTRAVAGANCE.

It was a July day, brilliant and dazzling; the deep-blue summer sky

arched over these quiet houses, a very heaven of sunshine and calm; the

very leaves were golden in the flood of light, and grateful shadows fell

from the close walls, and a pleasant summer fragrance came from within

the little enclosures of Bellevue. Nothing was stirring in the silent

little suburban street--the very sounds came slow and soft through the

luxurious noonday air, into which now and then blew the little

capricious breath of a cool breeze, like some invisible fairy fan making

a current in the golden atmosphere. Safe under the shelter of green

blinds and opened windows, the feminine population reposed in summer

indolence, mistresses too languid to scold, and maids to be improved by

the same. In the day, the other half of mankind, all mercantile and

devoted to business, deserted Bellevue and perhaps were not less drowsy

in their several offices, where dust had to answer all the purpose of

those trim venetian defences, than their wives and daughters were at

home.

But before the door of Number Ten stood a vehicle--let no one scorn its

unquestioned respectability,--it was The Fly. The fly was drawn by an

old white horse, of that bony and angular development peculiar to this

rank of professional eminence. This illustrious animal gave character

and distinction at once to the equipage. The smartest and newest

brougham in existence, with such a steed attached to it, must at once

have taken rank, in the estimation of all beholders, as a true and

unmistakable Fly. The coachman was in character; he had a long white

livery-coat, and a hat very shiny, and bearing traces of various

indentations. As he sat upon his box in the sunshine, he nodded in

harmony with the languid branches of the lilac-bushes. Though he was not

averse to a job, he marvelled much how anybody who could stay at home

went abroad under this burning sun, or troubled themselves with

occupations. So too thought the old white horse, switching his old white

tail in vain pursuit of the summer flies which troubled him; and so even

thought Hannah, Miss Willsie’s pretty maid, as she looked out from the

gate of Killiecrankie Lodge, shading her eyes with her hand,

marvelling, half in envy, half in pity, how any one could think even of

“pleasuring” on such a day.

With far different sentiments from these languid and indolent observers,

the Athelings prepared for their unusual expedition. Firmly compressed

into Mrs Atheling’s purse were five ten-pound notes, crisp and new, and

the girls, with a slight tremor of terror enhancing their delight, had

secretly vowed that Mamma should not be permitted to bring anything in

the shape of money home. They were going to spend fifty pounds. That was

their special mission--and when you consider that very rarely before had

they helped at the spending of more than fifty shillings, you may fancy

the excitement and delight of this family enterprise. They had

calculated beforehand what everything was to cost--they had left a

margin for possibilities--they had all their different items written

down on a very long piece of paper, and now the young ladies were

dancing Bell and Beau through the garden, and waiting for Mamma.

For the twin babies were to form part of this most happy party. Bell and

Beau were to have an ecstatic drive in that most delightful of carriages

which the two big children and the two little ones at present stood

regarding with the sincerest admiration. If Agnes had any doubt at all

about the fly, it was a momentary fear lest somebody should suppose it

to be their own carriage--a contingency not at all probable. In every

other view of the question, the fly was scarcely second even to Mrs

Edgerley’s sublime and stately equipage; and it is quite impossible to

describe the rapture with which this magnificent vehicle was

contemplated by Bell and Beau.

At last Mamma came down stairs in somewhat of a flutter, and by no means

satisfied that she was doing right in thus giving in to the girls. Mrs

Atheling still, in spite of all their persuasions, could not help

thinking it something very near a sin to spend wilfully, and at one

doing, so extraordinary a sum as fifty pounds--“a quarter’s income!” she

said solemnly. But Papa was very nearly as foolish on the subject as

Agnes and Marian, and the good mother could not make head against them

all. She was alarmed at this first outbreak of “awful” extravagance, but

she could not quite refuse to be pleased either with the pleasant piece

of business, with the delight of the girls, and the rapture of the

babies, nor to feel the glory in her own person of “shopping” on so

grand a scale--

“My sister and my sister’s child,

Myself and children three.”

The fly was not quite so closely packed as the chaise of Mrs Gilpin, yet

it was very nearly as full as that renowned conveyance. They managed to

get in “five precious souls,” and the white horse languidly set out

upon his journey, and the coachman, only half awake, still nodded on his

box. Where they went to, we will not betray their confidence by telling.

It was an erratic course, and included all manner of shops and

purchases. Before they had got nearly to the end of their list, they

were quite fatigued with their labours, and found it rather cumbrous,

after all, to choose the shops they wanted from the “carriage” windows,

a splendid but inconvenient necessity. Then Bell and Beau grew very

tired, wanted to go home, and were scarcely to be solaced even with

cakes innumerable. Perfect and unmixed delights are not to be found

under the sun; and though the fly went back to Bellevue laden with

parcels beyond the power of arithmetic; though the girls had

accomplished their wicked will, and the purse of Mrs Atheling had shrunk

into the ghost of its former size, yet the accomplished errand was not

half so delightful as were those exuberant and happy intentions, which

could now be talked over no more. They all grew somewhat silent, as they

drove home--“vanity of vanities--” Mrs Atheling and her daughters were

in a highly reflective state of mind, and rather given to moralising;

while extremely wearied, sleepy, and uncomfortable were poor little Bell

and Beau.

But at last they reached home--at last the pleasant sight of Susan, and

the fragrance of the tea, which, as it was now pretty late in the

afternoon, Susan had prepared to refresh them, restored their flagging

spirits. They began to open out their parcels, and fight their battles

over again. They examined once more, outside and inside, the pretty

little watches which Papa had insisted on as the first of all their

purchases. Papa thought a watch was a most important matter--the money

spent in such a valuable piece of property was _invested_; and Mrs

Atheling herself, as she took her cup of tea, looked at these new

acquisitions with extreme pride, good pleasure, and a sense of

importance. They had put their bonnets on the sofa--the table overflowed

with rolls of silk and pieces of ribbon half unfolded; Bell and Beau,

upon the hearth-rug, played with the newest noisiest toys which could be

found for them; and even Susan, when she came to ask if her mistress

would take another cup, secretly confessed within herself that there

never was such a littered and untidy room.

When there suddenly came a dash and roll of rapid wheels, ringing into

all the echoes. Suddenly, with a gleam and bound, a splendid apparition

crossed the window, and two magnificent bay-horses drove up before the

little gate. Her very watch, new and well-beloved, almost fell from the

fingers of Agnes. They looked at each other with blank faces--they

listened in horror to the charge of artillery immediately discharged

upon their door--nobody had self-possession to apprehend Susan on the

way, and exhort her to remember the best room. And Susan, greatly

fluttered, forgot the sole use of this sacred apartment. They all stood

dismayed, deeply sensible of the tea upon the table, and the

extraordinary confusion of the room, when suddenly into the midst of

them, radiant and splendid, floated Mrs Edgerley--Mayfair come to visit

Bellevue.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A GREAT VISITOR.

Mayfair came in, radiant, blooming, splendid, with a rustle of silks, a

flutter of feathers, an air of fragrance, like a fairy creature not to

be molested by the ruder touches of fortune or the world. Bellevue stood

up to receive her in the person of Mrs Atheling, attired in a black silk

gown which had seen service, and hastily setting down a cup of tea from

her hand. The girls stood between the two, an intermediate world,

anxious and yet afraid to interpret between them; for Marian’s beautiful

hair had fallen down upon her white neck, and Agnes’s collar had been

pulled awry, and her pretty muslin dress sadly crushed and broken by the

violent hands of Bell and Beau. The very floor on which Mrs Edgerley’s

pretty foot pressed the much-worn carpet, was strewed with little frocks

for those unruly little people. The sofa was occupied by three bonnets,

and Mamma’s new dress hung over the back of the easy-chair. You may

laugh at this account of it, but Mamma, and Marian, and Agnes were a

great deal more disposed to cry at the reality. To think that, of all

days in the world, this great lady should have chosen to come to-day!

“Now, pray don’t let me disturb anything. Oh, I am so delighted to find

you quite at home! It is quite kind of you to let me come in,” cried Mrs

Edgerley--“and indeed you need not introduce me. When one has read _Hope

Hazlewood_, one knows your mamma. Oh, that charming, delightful book!

Now, confess you are quite proud of her. I am sure you must be.”

“She is a very good girl,” said Mrs Atheling doubtfully, flattered, but

not entirely pleased--“and we are very deeply obliged to Mrs Edgerley

for the kindness she has shown to our girls.”

“Oh, I have been quite delighted,” said Mayfair; “but pray don’t speak

in the third person. How charmingly fragrant your tea is!--may I have

some? How delightful it must be to be able to keep rational hours. What

lovely children! What beautiful darlings! Are they really yours?”

“My youngest babies,” said Bellevue, somewhat stiffly, yet a little

moved by the question. “We have just come in, and were fatigued. Agnes,

my dear!”

But Agnes was already gone, seizing the opportunity to amend her

collar, while Marian put away the bonnets, and cleared the parcels from

the feet of Mrs Edgerley. With this pretty figure half-bending before

her, and the other graceful cup-bearer offering her the homely

refreshment she had asked for, Mrs Edgerley, though quite aware of it,

did not think half so much as Mrs Atheling did about their “rank in

life.” The great lady was not at all nervous on this subject, but was

most pleasantly and meritoriously conscious, as she took her cup of tea

from the hand of Agnes, that by so doing she set them all “at their

ease.”

“And pray, do tell me now,” said Mrs Edgerley, “how you manage in this

quarter, so far from everything? It is quite delightful, half as good as

a desolate island--such a pretty, quiet place! You must come to the

Willows--I have quite made up my mind and settled it: indeed, you must

come--so many people are dying to know you. And I must have your mamma

know,” said the pretty flutterer, turning round to Mrs Atheling with

that air of irresistible caprice and fascinating despotism which was the

most amazing thing in the world to the family mother, “that no one ever

resists me: I am always obeyed, I assure you. Oh, you _must_ come; I

consider it quite a settled thing. Town gets so tiresome just at this

time--don’t you think so? I always long for the Willows--for it is

really the sweetest place, and in the country one cares so much more for

one’s home.”

“You are very kind,” said Mrs Atheling, not knowing what other answer to

make, and innocently supposing that her visitor had paused for a reply.

“Oh, I assure you, nothing of the kind--perfectly selfish, on the

contrary,” said Mrs Edgerley, with a sweet smile. “I shall be so charmed

with the society of my young friends. I quite forgot to ask if you were

musical. We have the greatest little genius in the world at the Willows.

Such a voice!--it is a shame to hide such a gift in a drawing-room. She

is--a sort of connection--of papa’s family. I say it is very good of him

to acknowledge her even so far, for people seldom like to remember their

follies; but of course the poor child has no position, and I

have even been blamed for having her in my house. She is quite a

genius--wonderful: she ought to be a singer--it is quite her duty--but

such a shy foolish young creature, and not to be persuaded. What

charming tea! I am quite refreshed, I assure you. Oh, pray, do not

disturb anything. I am so pleased you have let me come when you were

_quite_ at home. Now, Tuesday, remember! We shall have a delightful

little party. I know you will quite enjoy it. Good-by, little darlings.

On Tuesday, my love; you must on no account forget the day.”

“But I am afraid they will only be a trouble--and they are not used to

society,” said Mrs Atheling, rising hastily before her visitor should

have quite flown away; “they have never been away from home. Excuse

me--I am afraid----”

“Oh, I assure you, nobody ever resists me,” cried Mrs Edgerley,

interrupting this speech; “I never hear such a naughty word as No. It is

not possible--you cannot conceive how it would affect me; I should break

my heart! It is quite decided--oh, positively it is--Tuesday--I shall so

look forward to it! And a charming little party we shall be--not too

many, and _so_ congenial! I shall quite long for the day.”

Saying which, Mrs Edgerley took her departure, keeping up her stream of

talk while they all attended her to the door, and suffering no

interruption. Mrs Atheling was by no means accustomed to so dashing and

sudden an assault. She began slowly to bring up her reasons for

declining the invitation as the carriage rolled away, carrying with it

her tacit consent. She was quite at a loss to believe that this visit

was real, as she returned into the encumbered parlour--such haste,

patronage, and absoluteness were entirely out of Mrs Atheling’s way.

“I have no doubt she is very kind,” said the good mother, puzzled and

much doubting; “but I am not at all sure that I approve of her--indeed,

I think I would much rather you did not go.”

“But she will expect us, mamma,” said Agnes.

That was unquestionable. Mrs Atheling sat very silent all the remainder

of the day, pondering much upon this rapid and sudden visitation, and

blaming herself greatly for her want of readiness. And then the “poor

child” who had no position, and whose duty it was to be a singer, was

she a proper person to breathe the same air as Agnes and Marian?

Bellevue was straiter in its ideas than Mayfair. The mother reflected

with great self-reproach and painful doubts; for the girls were so

pleased with the prospect, and it was so hard to deny them the expected

pleasure. Mrs Atheling at last resigned herself with a sigh. “If you

must go, I expect you to take great care whom you associate with,” said

Mrs Atheling, very pointedly; and she sent off their new purchases

up-stairs, and gave her whole attention, with a certain energy and

impatience, to the clearing of the room. This had not been by any means

a satisfactory day.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

GOING FROM HOME.

“My dear children,” said Mrs Atheling solemnly, “you have never been

from home before.”

Suddenly arrested by the solemnity of this preamble, the girls

paused--they were just going up-stairs to their own room on the last

evening before setting out for the Willows. Marian’s pretty arms were

full of a collection of pretty things, white as the great apron with

which Susan had girded her. Agnes carried her blotting-book, two or

three other favourite volumes, and a candle. They stood in their pretty

sisterly conjunction, almost leaning upon each other, waiting with

youthful reverence for the address which Mamma was about to deliver. It

was true they were leaving home for the first time, and true also that

the visit was one of unusual importance. They prepared to listen with

great gravity and a little awe.

“My dears, I have no reason to distrust your good sense,” said Mrs

Atheling, “nor indeed to be afraid of you in any way--but to be in a

strange house is very different from being at home. Strangers will not

have the same indulgence as we have had for all your fancies--you must

not expect it; and people may see that you are of a different rank in

life, and perhaps may presume upon you. You must be very careful. You

must not copy Mrs Edgerley, or any other lady, but _observe_ what they

do, and rule yourselves by it; and take great care what acquaintances

you form; for even in such a house as that,” said Mamma, with emphasis

and dignity, suddenly remembering the “connection of the family” of whom

Mrs Edgerley had spoken, “there may be some who are not fit companions

for you.”

“Yes, mamma,” said Agnes. Marian looked down into the apronful of lace

and muslin, and answered nothing. A variable blush and as variable a

smile testified to a little consciousness on the part of the younger

sister. Agnes for once was the more matter-of-fact of the two.

“At your time of life,” continued the anxious mother, “a single day may

have as much effect as many years. Indeed, Marian, my love, it is

nothing to smile about. You must be very careful; and, Agnes, you are

the eldest--you must watch over your sister. Oh, take care!--you do not

know how much harm might be done in a single day.”

“Take care of what, mamma?” said Marian, glancing up quickly, with that

beautiful faint blush, and a saucy gleam in her eye. What do you suppose

she saw as her beautiful eyes turned from her mother with a momentary

imaginative look into the vacant space? Not the big head of Charlie,

bending over the grammars, but the magnificent stature of Sir Langham

Portland, drawn up in sentry fashion by her side; and at the

recollection Marian’s pretty lip could not refuse to smile.

“Hush, my dear!--you may easily know what I mean,” said Mrs Atheling

uneasily. “You must try not to be awkward or timid; but you must not

forget how great a difference there is between Mrs Edgerley’s friends

and you.”

“Nonsense, Mary,” cried her husband, energetically. “No such thing,

girls. Don’t be afraid to let them know who you are, or who you belong

to. But as for inferiority, if you yield to such a notion, you are no

girls of mine! One of the Riverses! A pretty thing! _You_, at least, can

tell any one who asks the question that your father is an honest man.”

“But I suppose, papa, no one is likely to have any doubt upon the

subject,” said Agnes, with a little spirit. “It will be time enough to

publish that when some one questions it; and that, I am sure, was not

what mamma meant.”

“No, my love, of course not,” said Mamma, who was somewhat agitated.

“What I meant is, that you are going to people whom we used to know--I

mean, whom we know nothing of. They are great people--a great deal

richer and higher in station than we are; and it is possible Papa may be

brought into contact with them about the Old Wood Lodge; and you are

young and inexperienced, and don’t know the dangers you may be subjected

to;--and, my dear children, what I have to say to you is, just to

remember your duty, and read your Bibles, and take care!”

“Mamma! we are only going to Richmond--we are not going away from you,”

cried Marian in dismay.

“My dears,” said Mrs Atheling, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “I

am an old woman--I know more than you do. You cannot tell where you are

going; you are going into the world.”

No one spoke for the moment. The young travellers themselves looked at

their mother with concern and a little solemnity. Who could tell? All

the young universe of romance lay at their very feet. They might be

going to their fate.

“And henceforward I know,” said the good mother, rising into homely and

unconscious dignity, “our life will no longer be your boundary, nor our

plans all your guidance. My darlings, it is not any fault of yours; you

are both as obedient as when you were babies; it is Providence, and

comes to every one. You are going away from me, and both your lives may

be determined before you come back again. You, Marian! it is not your

fault, my love; but, oh! take care.”

Under the pressure of this solemn and mysterious caution, the girls at

length went up-stairs. Very gravely they entered the little white room,

which was somewhat disturbed out of its usual propriety, and in

respectful silence Marian began to arrange her burden. She sat down upon

the white bed, with her great white apron full of snowy muslin and

dainty morsels of lace, stooping her beautiful head over them, with her

long bright hair falling down at one side like a golden framework to her

sweet cheek. Agnes stood before her holding the candle. Both were

perfectly grave, quite silent, separating the sleeves and kerchiefs and

collars as if it were the most solemn work in the world.

At length suddenly Marian looked up. In an instant smiles irrestrainable

threaded all the soft lines of those young faces. A momentary electric

touch sent them both from perfect solemnity into saucy and conscious but

subdued laughter. “Agnes! what do you suppose mamma could mean?” asked

Marian; and Agnes said “Hush!” and softly closed the door, lest Mamma

should hear the low and restrained overflow of those sudden sympathetic

smiles. Once more the apparition of the magnificent Sir Langham gleamed

somewhere in a bright corner of Marian’s shining eye. These incautious

girls, like all their happy kind, could not be persuaded to regard with

any degree of terror or solemnity the fate that came in such a shape as

this.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

EVERYBODY’S FANCIES.

But the young adventurers had sufficient time to speculate upon their

“fate,” and to make up their minds whether this journey of theirs was

really a fortnight’s visit to Richmond, or a solemn expedition into the

world, as they drove along the pleasant summer roads on their way to the

Willows. They had leisure enough, but they had not inclination; they

were somewhat excited, but not at all solemnised. They thought of the

unknown paradise to which they were going--of their beautiful patroness

and her guests; but they never paused to inquire, as they bowled

pleasantly along under the elms and chestnuts, anything at all about

their fate.

“How grave every one looked,” said Marian. “What are all the people

afraid of? for I am sure Miss Willsie wanted us to go, though she was so

cross; and poor Harry Oswald, how he looked last night!”

At this recollection Marian smiled. To tell the truth, she was at

present only amused by the gradual perception dawning upon her of the

unfortunate circumstances of these young gentlemen. She might never have

found it out had she known only Harry Oswald; but Sir Langham Portland

threw light upon the subject which Marian had scarcely guessed at

before. Do you think she was grateful on that account to the handsome

Guardsman? Marian’s sweet face brightened all over with amused

half-blushing smiles. It was impossible to tell.

“But, Marian,” said Agnes, “I want to be particular about one thing. We

must not deceive any one. Nobody must suppose we are great ladies. If

anything _should_ happen of any importance, we must be sure to tell who

we are.”

“That you are the author of _Hope Hazlewood_,” said Marian, somewhat

provokingly. “Oh! Mrs Edgerley will tell everybody that; and as for me,

I am only your sister--nobody will mind me.”

So they drove on under the green leaves, which grew less and less dusty

as they left London in the distance, through the broad white line of

road, now and then passing by orchards rich with fruit--by suburban

gardens and pretty villakins of better fashion than their own; now and

then catching silvery gleams of the river quivering among its low green

banks, like a new-bended bow. They knew as little where they were going

as what was to befall them there, and were as unapprehensive in the one

case as in the other. At home the mother went about her daily business,

pondering with a mother’s anxiety upon all the little embarrassments and

distresses which might surround them among strangers, and seeing in her

motherly imagination a host of pleasant perils, half alarming, half

complimentary, a crowd of admirers and adorers collected round her

girls. At Messrs Cash and Ledger’s, Papa brooded over his desk, thinking

somewhat darkly of those innocent investigators whom he had sent forth

into an old world of former connections, unfortified against the ancient

grudge, if such existed, and unacquainted with the ancient story. Would

anything come of this acquaintanceship? Would anything come of the new

position which placed them once more directly in the way of Lord

Winterbourne? Papa shook his head slowly over his daybook, as ignorant

as the rest of us what might have to be written upon the fair blank of

the very next page--who could tell?

Charlie meanwhile, at Mr Foggo’s office, buckled on his harness this

important morning with a double share of resolution. As his brow rolled

down with all its furrows in a frown of defiance at the “old fellow”

whom he took down from the wired bookcase, it was not the old fellow,

but Lord Winterbourne, against whom Charlie bit his thumb. In the depths

of his heart he wished again that this natural enemy might “only try!”

to usurp possession of the Old Wood Lodge. A certain excitement

possessed him regarding the visit of his sisters. Once more the youth,

in his hostile imagination, beheld the pale face at the door, the

bloodless and spasmodic smile. “I knew I owed him something,” muttered

once more the instinctive enmity; and Charlie was curious and excited to

come once more in contact with this mysterious personage who had raised

so active and sudden an interest in his secret thoughts.

But the two immediate actors in this social drama--the family doves of

inquiry, who might bring back angry thorns instead of olive

branches--the innocent sweet pioneers of the incipient strife, went on

untroubled in their youthful pleasure, looking at the river and the

sunshine, dreaming the fairy dreams of youth. What new life they verged

and bordered--what great consequences might grow and blossom from the

seedtime of to-day--how their soft white hands, heedless and

unconscious, might touch the trembling strings of fate--no one of all

these anxious questions ever entered the charmed enclosure of this

homely carriage, where they leant back into their several corners, and

sung to themselves, in unthinking sympathy with the roll and hum of the

leisurely wheels, conveying them on and on to their new friends and

their future life. They were content to leave all questions of the kind

to a more suitable season--and so, singing, smiling, whispering (though

no one was near to interrupt them), went on, on their charmed way, with

their youth and their light hearts, to Armida and her enchanted

garden--to the world, with its syrens and its lions--forecasting no

difficulties, seeing no evil. They had no day-book to brood over like

Papa. To-morrow’s magnificent blank of possibility was always before

them, dazzling and glorious--they went forward into it with the freshest

smile and the sweetest confidence. Of all the evils and perils of this

wicked world, which they had heard so much of, they knew none which

they, in their happy safety, were called upon to fear.

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

* * * * *

THE ATHELINGS

THE ATHELINGS

OR

THE THREE GIFTS

BY MARGARET OLIPHANT

“I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,

In simple and low things, to prince it much

Beyond the trick of others.”

CYMBELINE

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCLVII

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

THE ATHELINGS

BOOK II.--THE OLD WOOD LODGE

THE ATHELINGS.

BOOK II--CHAPTER I.

THE WILLOWS.

The Willows was a large low house, with no architectural pretensions,

but bright as villa could be upon the sunniest side of the Thames. The

lawn sloped to the river, and ended in a deep fringe and border of

willows, sweeping into the water; while half-way across the stream lay a

little fairy island, half enveloped in the same silvery foliage, but

with bowers and depths of leaves within, through which some stray

sunbeam was always gleaming. The flower-beds on the lawn were in a flush

with roses; the crystal roof of a large conservatory glistened in the

sun. Flowers and sunshine, fragrance and stillness, the dew on the

grass, and the morning light upon the river--no marvel that to eyes so

young and inexperienced, this Richmond villa looked like a paradise on

earth.

It was early morning--very early, when nobody seemed awake but

themselves in the great house; and Agnes and Marian came down stairs

softly, and, half afraid of doing wrong, stole out upon the lawn. The

sun had just begun to gather those blobs of dew from the roses, but all

over the grass lay jewels, bedded deep in the close-shorn sod, and

shining in the early light. An occasional puff of wind came crisp across

the river, and turned to the sun the silvery side of all those drooping

willow-leaves, and the willows themselves swayed and sighed towards the

water, and the water came up upon them now and then with a playful

plunge and flow. The two girls said nothing to each other as they

wandered along the foot of the slope, looking over to the island, where

already the sun had penetrated to his nest of trees. All this simple

beauty, which was not remarkable to the fashionable guests of Mrs

Edgerley, went to the very heart of these simple children of Bellevue.

It moved them to involuntary delight--joy which could give no reason,

for they thought there had never been such a beautiful summer morning,

or such a scene.

And by-and-by they began to talk of last night--last night, their first

night at the Willows, their first entrance into the home life of “the

great.” They had no moral maxims at their finger-ends, touching the

vanity of riches, nor had the private opinion entertained by Papa and

Mamma, that “the country” paid for the folly of “the aristocracy,” and

that the science of Government was a mere piece of craft for the benefit

of “the privileged classes,” done any harm at all to the unpolitical

imaginations of Agnes and Marian. They were scarcely at their ease yet,

and were a great deal more timid than was comfortable; yet they took

very naturally to this fairy life, and found an unfailing fund of wonder

and admiration in it. They admired everything indeed, had a certain awe

and veneration for everybody, and could not sufficiently admire the

apparent accomplishments and real grace of their new associates.

“Agnes!--I wonder if there is anything I could learn?” said Marian,

rather timidly; “everybody here can do something; it is very different

from doing a little of everything, like Miss Tavistock at Bellevue--and

we used to think her accomplished!--but do you think there is anything I

could learn?”

“And me!” said Agnes, somewhat disconsolately.

“You? no, indeed, you do not need it,” said Marian, with a little pride.

“You can do what none of them can do;--but they can talk about

everything these people, and every one of them can do something. There

is that Sir Langham--you would think he was only a young gentleman--but

Mrs Edgerley says he makes beautiful sketches. We did not understand

people like these when we were at home.”

“What do you think of Sir Langham, May?” asked Agnes seriously.

“Think of him? oh, he is very pleasant,” said Marian, with a smile and a

slight blush: “but never mind Sir Langham; do you think there is

anything I could learn?”

“I do not know,” said Agnes; “perhaps you could sing. I think you might

sing, if you would only take courage and try.”

“Sing! oh no, no!”; said Marian; “no one could venture to sing after the

young lady--did you hear her name, Agnes?--who sang last night. She did

not speak to any one, she was more by herself than we were. I wonder who

she could be.”

“Mrs Edgerley called her Rachel,” said Agnes. “I did not hear any other

name. I think it must be the same that Mrs Edgerley told mamma about;

you remember she said----”

“I am here,” said a low voice suddenly, close beside them. The girls

started back, exceedingly confused and ashamed. They had not perceived a

sort of little bower, woven among the willows, from which now hastily

appeared the third person who spoke. She was a little older than Agnes,

very slight and girlish in her person--very dark of complexion, with a

magnificent mass of black hair, and large liquid dark eyes. Nothing else

about her was remarkable; her features were small and delicate, her

cheeks colourless, her very lips pale; but her eyes, which were not of a

slumbrous lustre, but full of light, rapid, earnest, and irregular,

lighted up her dark pallid face with singular power and attractiveness.

She turned upon them quickly as they stood distressed and irresolute

before her.

“I did not mean to interrupt you,” said this new-comer; “but you were

about to speak of me, and I thought it only honest to give you notice

that I was here.”

“Thank you,” said Agnes with humility. “We are strangers, and did not

know--we scarcely know any one here; and we thought you were nearly

about our own age, and perhaps would help us--” Here Agnes stopped

short; she was not skilled in making overtures of friendship.

“No, indeed no,” cried their new acquaintance, hurriedly. “I never make

friends. I could be of no use. I am only a dependent, scarcely so good

as that. I am nothing here.”

“And neither are we,” said Agnes, following shyly the step which this

strange girl took away from them. “We never were in a house like this

before. We do not belong to great people. Mrs Edgerley asked us to

come, because we met her at Mr Burlington’s, and she has been very kind,

but we know no one. Pray, do not go away.”

The thoughtful eyes brightened into a sudden gleam. “We are called

Atheling,” said Marian, interposing in her turn. “My sister is Agnes,

and I am Marian--and you Miss----”

“My name is Rachel,” said their new friend, with a sudden and violent

blush, making all her face crimson. “I have no other--call me so, and I

will like it. You think I am of your age; but I am not like you--you do

not know half so much as I know.”

“No--that is very likely,” said Agnes, somewhat puzzled; “but I think

you do not mean education,” said the young author immediately, seeing

Marian somewhat disposed to resent on her behalf this broad assertion.

“You mean distress and sorrow. But we have had a great deal of grief at

home. We have lost dear little children, one after another. We are not

ignorant of grief.”

Rachel looked at them with strange observation, wonder, and uncertainty.

“But you are ignorant of me--and I am ignorant of you,” she said slowly,

pausing between her words. “I suppose you mean just what you say, do

you? and I am not much used to that. Do you know what I am here

for?--only to sing and amuse the people--and you still want to make

friends with me!”

“Mrs Edgerley said you were to be a singer, but you did not like it,”

said Marian; “and I think you are very right.”

“Did she say so?--and what more?” said Rachel, smiling faintly. “I want

to hear now, though I did not when I heard your voices first.”

“She said you were a connection of the family,” said Agnes.

The blood rushed again to the young stranger’s brow. “Ah! I understand,”

she said; “she implied--yes. I know how she would do. And you will still

be friends with _me_?”

At that moment it suddenly flashed upon the recollection of both the

girls that Mamma had disapproved of this prospective acquaintance. They

both blushed with instant consciousness, and neither of them spoke. In

an instant Rachel became frozen into a haughtiness far exceeding

anything within the power of Mrs Edgerley. Little and slight as she was,

her girlish frame rose to the dignity of a young queen. Before Agnes

could say a word, she had left them with a slight and lofty bow. Without

haste, but with singular rapidity, she crossed the dewy lawn, and went

into the house, acknowledging, with a stately inclination of her head,

some one who passed her. The girls were so entirely absorbed, watching

her progress, that they did not perceive who this other person was.

CHAPTER II.

AN EMBARRASSING COMPANION.

“Strange creature!” said Sir Langham Portland, who had joined the girls

almost before they were aware; “Odd girl! If Lucifer had a sister, I

should know where to find her; but a perfect siren so far as music is

concerned. Did you hear her sing last night--that thing of

Beethoven’s--what is the name of it? Do you like Beethoven, though?

_She_, I suppose, worships him.”

“We know very little about music,” said Marian. She thought it proper to

make known the fact, but blushed in spite of herself, and was much

ashamed of her own ignorance. Marian was quite distressed and impatient

to find herself so much behind every one else.

“Oh!” said Sir Langham--which meant that the handsome guardsman was a

good deal flattered by the blush, and did not care at all for the want

of information--in fact, he was cogitating within himself, being no

great master of the art of conversation, what to speak of next.

“I am afraid Miss--Rachel was not pleased,” said Agnes; “we disturbed

her here. I am afraid she will think we were rude.”

“Eh!” said Sir Langham, with a look of astonishment. “Oh, don’t trouble

yourself--she’s accustomed to that. Pretty place this. Suppose a fellow

on the island over there, what a capital sketch he could make;--with two

figures instead of three, the effect would be perfect!”

“We were two figures before you came,” said Marian, turning half away,

and with a smile.

“Ah! quite a different suggestion,” said Sir Langham. “Your two figures

were all white and angelical--maiden meditation--mine would be--Elysium.

Happy sketcher! happier hero!--and you could not suppose a more

appropriate scene.”

But Agnes and Marian were much too shy and timid to answer this as they

might have answered Harry Oswald under the same circumstances. Agnes

half interrupted him, being somewhat in haste to change the

conversation. “You are an artist yourself?” said Agnes.

“No,” said Sir Langham; “not at all,--no more than everybody else is. I

have no doubt you know a hundred people better at it than I.”

“I do not think, counting every one,” said Marian, “that we know a

hundred, or the half of a hundred, people altogether; and none of them

make sketches. Mrs Edgerley said yours were quite remarkable.”

“A great many things are quite remarkable with Mrs Edgerley,” said Sir

Langham through his mustache. “But what an amazing circle yours must be!

One must do something with one’s spare time. That old fellow is the

hardest rascal to kill of any I know--don’t you find him so?”

“No--not when we are at home,” said Marian.

“Ah! in the country, I suppose; and you are Lady Bountifuls, and attend

to all the village,” said Sir Langham. He had quite made up his mind

that these young girls, who were not fashionable nor remarkable in any

way, save for the wonderful beauty of the youngest, were daughters of

some squire in Banburyshire, whom it was Lord Winterbourne’s interest to

do a service to.

“No, indeed, we have not any village--we are not Lady Bountifuls; but we

do a great many things at home,” said Marian. Something restrained them

both, however, from their heroic purpose of declaring at once their

“rank in life;” they shrank, with natural delicacy, from saying anything

about themselves to this interrogator, and were by no means clear that

it would be right to tell Sir Langham Portland that they lived in

Bellevue.

“May we go through the conservatory, I wonder?” said Agnes;--the elder

sister, remembering the parting charge of her mother, began to be

somewhat uneasy about their handsome companion--he might possibly fall

in love with Marian--that was not so very dreadful a hypothesis,--for

Agnes was human, and did not object to see the natural enemies of

womankind taken captive, subjugated, or even entirely slain. But Marian

might fall in love with _him_! That was an appalling thought; two

distinct lines of anxiety began to appear in Agnes’s forehead; and the

imagination of the young genius instantly called before her the most

touching and pathetic picture, of a secret love and a broken heart.

“Marian, we may go into the conservatory,” repeated Agnes; and she took

her sister’s hand and led her to where the Scotch gardener was opening

the windows of that fairy palace. Sir Langham still gave them his

attendance, following Marian as she passed through the ranks of flowers,

and echoing her delight. Sir Langham was rather relieved to find them at

last in enthusiasm about something. This familiar and well-known feature

of young ladyhood set him much more at his ease.

And the gardener, with benign generosity, gathered some flowers for his

young visitors. They thanked him with such thoroughly grateful thanks,

and were so respectful of his superior knowledge, that this worthy

functionary brightened under their influence. Sir Langham followed

surprised and amused. He thought Marian’s simple ignorance of all those

delicate splendid exotic flowers, as pretty as he would have thought her

acquaintance with them had she been better instructed; and when one of

her flowers fell from her hand, lifted it up with the air of a paladin,

and placed it in his breast. Marian, though she had turned aside, _saw_

him do it by some mysterious perception--not of the eye--and blushed

with a secret tremor, half of pleasure, half of amusement. Agnes

regarded it a great deal more seriously. Agnes immediately discovered

that it was time to go in. She was quite indifferent, we are grieved to

say, to the fate of Sir Langham, and thought nothing of disturbing the

peace of that susceptible young gentleman; but her protection and

guardianship of Marian was a much more serious affair. Their windows

were in the end of the house, and commanded no view--so Mrs Edgerley,

with a hundred regrets, was grieved to tell them--but these windows

looked over an orchard and a clump of chestnuts, where birds sang and

dew fell, and the girls were perfectly contented with the prospect; they

had three rooms--a dressing-room, and two pretty bedchambers--into all

of which the morning sun threw a sidelong glance as he passed; and they

had been extremely delighted with their pretty apartments last night.

“Well!” said Agnes, as they arranged their flowers and put them in

water, “everything is very pretty, May, but I almost wish we were at

home.”

“Why?” said Marian; but the beautiful sister had so much perception of

the case, that she did not look up, nor show any particular surprise.

“Why?--because--because people don’t understand what we are, nor who we

belong to, nor how different---- Marian, you know quite well what is the

cause!”

“But suppose people don’t want to know?” said Marian, who was

provokingly calm and at her ease; “we cannot go about telling

everybody--no one cares. Suppose we were to tell Sir Langham, Agnes? He

would think we meant that he has to come to Bellevue; and I am sure you

would not like to see him there!”

This was a very conclusive argument, but Agnes had made up her mind to

be annoyed.

“And there was Rachel,” said Agnes, “I wonder why just at that moment we

should have thought of mamma--and now I am sure she will not speak to us

again.”

“Mamma did not think it quite proper,” said Marian doubtfully;--“I am

sure I cannot tell why--but we were very near making up friendship

without thinking; perhaps it is better as it is.”

“It is never proper to hurt any one’s feelings--and she is lonely and

neglected and by herself,” said Agnes. “Mamma cannot be displeased when

I tell her; and I will try all I can to-day to meet with Rachel again. I

think Rachel would think better of our house than of the Willows. Though

it is a beautiful place, it is not kindly; it never could look like

home.”

“Oh, nonsense! if we had it to ourselves, and they were all here!” cried

Marian. That indeed was a paradisaical conception. Agnes’s uneasy mood

could not stand against such an idea, and she arranged her hair with

renewed spirits, having quite given up for the moment all desire for

going home.