MAKING FRIENDS.
The next morning, and the next again, Agnes and Marian vainly sought the
little bower of willows looking for Rachel. Once they saw her escape
hastily out of the shrubbery as they returned from their search, and
knew by that means that she wished to avoid them; but though they heard
her sing every night, they made no advance in their friendship, for that
was the only time in which Rachel was visible, and then she defied all
intrusion upon her haughty solitude. Mr Agar himself wisely kept aloof
from the young singer. The old gentleman did not choose to subject
himself to the chance of a repulse.
But if Rachel avoided them, Sir Langham certainly did not. This
enterprising youth, having discovered their first early walk, took care
to be in the way when they repeated it, and on the fourth morning,
without saying anything to each other, the sisters unanimously decided
to remain within the safe shelter of their own apartments. From a
corner of their window they could see Sir Langham in vexation and
impatience traversing the slope of the lawn, and pulling off the long
ashy willow-leaves to toss them into the river. Marian laughed to
herself without giving a reason, and Agnes was very glad they had
remained in the house; but the elder sister, reasoning with elaborate
wisdom, made up her mind to ask no further questions about Sir Langham,
how Marian liked him, or what she thought of his attentions. Agnes
thought too many inquiries might “put something into her head.”
Proceeding upon this astute line of policy, Agnes took no notice
whatever of all the assiduities of the handsome guardsman, not even his
good-natured and brotherly attentions to herself. They were only to
remain a fortnight at the Willows--very little harm, surely, could be
done in that time, and they had but a slender chance of meeting again.
So the elder sister, in spite of her charge of Marian, quieted her
conscience and her fears--and in the mean time the two girls, with
thorough and cordial simplicity, took pleasure in their holiday, finding
everybody kind to them, and excusing with natural humbleness any chance
symptom of neglect.
They had been a week at the Willows, and every day had used every means
in their power to see Rachel again, when one morning, suddenly, without
plot or premeditation, Agnes encountered her in a long passage which
ran from the hall to the morning-room of Mrs Edgerley. There was a long
window at the end of this passage, against which the small rapid figure,
clothed in a dark close-fitting dress, without the smallest relief of
ornament, stood out strangely, outlined and surrounded by the light.
Agnes had some flowers in her hand, the gift of her acquaintance the
gardener. She fancied that Rachel glanced at them wistfully, and she was
eager of the opportunity. “They are newly gathered--will you take some?”
said Agnes, holding out her hands to her. The young stranger paused, and
looked for an instant distrustfully at her and the flowers. Agnes hoped
nothing better than to be dismissed with a haughty word of thanks; but
while Rachel lingered, the door of the morning-room was opened, and an
approaching footstep struck upon the tiled floor. The young singer did
not look behind her, did not pause to see who it was, but recognising
the step, as it seemed, with a sudden start and tremor, suddenly laid
her hand on Agnes’s arm, and drew her hurriedly in within a door which
she flung open. As soon as they were in, Rachel closed the door with
haste and force, and stood close by it with evident agitation and
excitement. “I beg your pardon--but hush, do not speak till he is past,”
she said in a whisper. Agnes, much discomposed and troubled, went to
the window, as people generally do in embarrassment, and looked out
vacantly for a moment upon the kitchen-garden and the servants’
“offices,” the only prospect visible from it. She could not help sharing
a little the excitement of her companion, as she thought upon her own
singular position here, and listened with an involuntary thrill to the
slow step of the unknown person from whom they had fled, pacing along
the long cool corridor to pass this door.
But he did not pass the door; he made a moment’s pause at it, and then
entered, coming full upon Rachel as she stood, agitated and defiant,
close upon the threshold. Agnes scarcely looked round, yet she could see
it was Lord Winterbourne.
“Good morning, Rachel. I trust you get on well here,” said the new-comer
in a soft and stealthy tone: “is this your sitting-room? Ah, bare
enough, I see. Your are in splendid voice, I am glad to hear; some one
is coming to-night, I understand, whose good opinion is important. You
must take care to do yourself full justice. Are you well, child?”
He had approached close to her, and bestowed a cold kiss upon the brow
which burned under his touch. “Perfectly well,” said Rachel, drawing
back with a voice unusually harsh and clear. Her agitation and
excitement had for the moment driven all the music from her tones.
“And your brother is quite well, and all going on in the usual way at
Winterbourne,” continued the stranger. “I expect to have the house very
full in a few weeks, and you must arrange with the housekeeper where to
bestow yourselves. _You_, of course, I shall want frequently. As for
Louis, I suppose he does nothing but fish and mope as usual. I have no
desire to see more than I can help of _him_.”
“There is no fear; his desire is as strong as yours,” cried Rachel
suddenly, her face varying from the most violent flush to a sudden
passionate paleness. Lord Winterbourne answered by his cold smile of
ridicule.
“I know his amiable temper,” he said. “Now, remember what I have said
about to-night. Do yourself justice. It will be for your advantage.
Good-by. Remember me to Louis.”
The door opened again, and he was gone. Rachel closed it almost
violently, and threw herself upon a chair. “We owe him no duty--none. I
will not believe it,” cried Rachel. “No--no--no--I do not belong to him!
Louis is not his!”
All this time, in the greatest distress and embarrassment, Agnes stood
by the window, grieved to be an unwilling listener, and reluctant to
remind Rachel of her presence by going away. But Rachel had not
forgotten that she was there. With a sudden effort this strange solitary
girl composed herself and came up to Agnes. “Do you know Lord
Winterbourne?” she said quickly; “have you heard of him before you came
here?”
“I think---- but, indeed, I may be mistaken,” said Agnes timidly; “I
think papa once knew him long ago.”
“And did he think him a good man?” said Rachel.
This was a very embarrassing question. Agnes turned away, retreated
uneasily, blushed, and hesitated. “He never speaks of him; I cannot
tell,” said Agnes.
“Do you know,” said Rachel, eagerly, “they say he is my father--Louis’s
father; but we do not believe it, neither I nor he.”
To this singular statement Agnes made no answer, save by a look of
surprise and inquiry; the frightful uncertainty of such a position as
this was beyond the innocent comprehension of Agnes Atheling. She looked
with a blank and painful surprise into her young companion’s face.
“And I will not sing to-night; I will not, because he bade me!” said
Rachel. “Is it my fault that I can sing? but I am to be punished for it;
they make me come to amuse them; and they want me to be a public singer.
I should not care,” cried the poor girl suddenly, in a violent burst of
tears, passing from her passion and excitement to her natural
character--“I would not mind it for myself, if it were not for Louis. I
would do anything they bade me myself; I do not care, nothing matters to
me; but Louis--Louis! he thinks it is disgrace, and it would break his
heart!”
“Is that your brother?” said Agnes, bending over her, and endeavouring
to soothe her excitement. Rachel made no immediate answer.
“He has disgrace enough already, poor boy,” said Rachel. “We are
nobody’s children; or we are Lord Winterbourne’s; and he who might be a
king’s son--and he has not even a name! Yes, he is my brother, my poor
Louis: we are twins; and we have nobody but each other in the whole
world.”
“If he is as old as you,” said Agnes, who was only accustomed to the
usages of humble houses, and knew nothing of the traditions of a noble
race, “you should not stay at Winterbourne: a man can always work--you
ought not to stay.”
“Do you think so?” cried Rachel eagerly. “Louis says so always, and I
beg and plead with him. When he was only eighteen he ran away: he went
and enlisted for a soldier--a common man--and was away a year, and then
they bought him off, and promised to get him a commission; and I made
him promise to me--perhaps it was selfish, for I could not live when he
was gone--I made him promise not to go away again. And there he is at
Winterbourne. I know you never saw any one like him; and now all these
heartless people are going there, and Lord Winterbourne is afraid of
him, and never will have him seen, and the whole time I will be sick to
the very heart lest he should go away.”
“But I think he ought to go away,” said Agnes gravely.
Her new friend looked up in her face with an earnest and trembling
scrutiny. This poor girl had a great deal more passion and vehemence in
her character than had ever been called for in Agnes, but, an
uninstructed and ill-trained child, knew nothing of the primitive
independence, and had never been taught to think of right and wrong.
“We have a little house there,” said Agnes, with a sudden thought. “Do
you know the Old Wood Lodge? Papa’s old aunt left it to him, and they
say it is very near the Hall.”
At the name Rachel started suddenly, rose up at once with one of her
quick inconsiderate movements, and, throwing her arms round Agnes,
kissed her cheek. “I knew I ought to know you,” said Rachel, “and yet I
did not think of the name. Dear old Miss Bridget, she loved Louis. I am
sure she loved him; and we know every room in the house, and every leaf
on the trees. If you come there, we will see you every day.”
“We are coming there--and my mother,” said Agnes. “I know you will be
pleased to see mamma,” said the good girl, her face brightening, and her
eyes filling in spite of herself; “every one thinks she is like their
own mother--and when you come to us you will think you are at home.”
“We never had any mother,” said Rachel, sadly; “we never had any home;
we do not know what it is. Look, this is my home here.”
Agnes looked round the large bare apartment, in which the only article
of furniture worth notice was an old piano, and which looked only upon
the little square of kitchen-garden and the servants’ rooms. It was
somewhat larger than both the parlours in Bellevue, and for a best room
would have rejoiced Mrs Atheling’s ambitious heart; but Agnes was
already a little wiser than she had been in Islington, and it chilled
her heart to compare this lonely and dreary apartment with all the
surrounding luxuries, which Rachel saw and did not share.
“Come up with me and see Marian,” said Agnes, putting her arm through
her companion’s; “you are not to avoid us now any more; we are all to be
friends after to-day.”
And Rachel, who did not know what friendship was, yielded, thinking of
Louis. Had she been wrong throughout in keeping him, by her entreaties,
so long at Winterbourne? A vision of a home, all to themselves, burst
once in a great delight upon the mind of Rachel. If Louis would only
consent to it! With such a motive before her as that, the poor girl
fancied she “would not mind” being a singer after all.