THE PARLOUR.
And with an excitement which they could not control, the two girls
hastened in to the Old Lodge, and to Miss Bridget’s dim parlour, where
the two candles shed their faint summer-evening light over Mr Atheling
reading an old newspaper, and Mamma reclining in the great old
easy-chair. The abstracted mirror, as loftily withdrawn from common life
as Mr Endicott, refused to give any reflection of these good people
sitting far below in their middle-aged and respectable quietness, but
owned a momentary vision of Agnes and Marian, as they came in with a
little haste and eagerness at the half-open door.
But, after all, to be very much excited, to hasten in to tell one’s
father and mother, with the heart beating faster than usual against
one’s breast, and to have one’s story calmly received with an “Indeed,
my dear!” is rather damping to youthful enthusiasm; and really, to tell
the truth, there was nothing at all extraordinary in the fact of Louis
passing by a door so near the great house which was his own distasteful
home. It was not at all a marvellous circumstance; and as for his
salutation, though that was remarkable, and caught their imagination,
Marian whispered that she had no doubt it was Louis’s “way.”
They began, accordingly, to look at the slender row of books in one
small open shelf above the little cabinet. The books were in old rich
bindings, and were of a kind of reading quite unknown to Agnes and
Marian. There were two (odd) volumes of the _Spectator_, _Rasselas_, the
Poems of Shenstone, the Sermons of Blair; besides these, a French copy
of Thomas-à-Kempis, the _Holy Living and Dying_ of Jeremy Taylor, and
one of the quaint little books of Sir Thomas Browne. Thrust in hastily
beside these ancient and well-attired volumes were two which looked
surreptitious, and which were consequently examined with the greatest
eagerness. One turned out, somewhat disappointingly, to be a volume of
Italian exercises, an old, old school-book, inscribed, in a small,
pretty, but somewhat faltering feminine handwriting--handwriting of the
last century--with the name of Anastasia Rivers, with a B. A. beneath,
which doubtless stood for Bridget Atheling, though it seemed to imply,
with a kindly sort of blundering comicality sad enough now, that
Anastasia Rivers, though she was no great hand at her exercises, had
taken a degree. The other volume was of more immediate interest. It was
one of those good and exemplary novels, ameliorated Pamelas, which
virtuous old ladies were wont to put into the hands of virtuous young
ones, and which was calculated to “instruct as well as to amuse” the
unfortunate mind of youth. Marian seized upon this _Fatherless Fanny_
with an instant appropriation, and in ten minutes was deep in its
endless perplexities. Agnes, who would have been very glad of the novel,
languidly took down the _Spectator_ instead. Yes, we are obliged to
confess--languidly; for, with an excited mind upon a lovely summer
night, with all the stars shining without, and only two pale candles
within, and Mamma visibly dropping to sleep in the easy-chair--who, we
demand, would not prefer, even to Steele and Addison, the mazy mysteries
of the Minerva Press?
And Agnes did not get on with her reading; she saw visibly before her
eyes Marian skimming with an eager interest the pages of her novel. She
heard Papa rustling his newspaper, watched the faint flicker of the
candles, and was aware of the very gentle nod by which Mamma gave
evidence of the condition of _her_ thoughts. Agnes’s imagination, never
averse to wandering, strayed off into speculations concerning the old
lady and her old pupil, and all the life, unknown and unrecorded, which
had happed within these quiet walls. Altogether it was somewhat hard to
understand the connection between the Athelings and the
Riverses--whether some secret of family history lay involved in it, or
if it was only the familiar bond formed a generation ago between teacher
and child. And this Louis!--his sudden appearance and disappearance--his
princely recognition as of new subjects. Agnes made nothing whatever of
her _Spectator_--her mind was possessed and restless--and by-and-by,
curious, impatient, and a little excited, she left the room with an idea
of hastening up-stairs to the chamber window, and looking out upon the
night. But the door of the kitchen stood invitingly open, and Hannah,
who had been waiting, slightly expectant of some visit, was to be seen
within, rising up hastily with old-fashioned respect and a little
wistfulness. Agnes, though she was a young lady of literary tastes, and
liked to look out upon moon and stars with the vague sentiment of youth,
had, notwithstanding, a wholesome relish for gossip, and was more
pleased with talk of other people than we are disposed to confess; so
she had small hesitation in changing her course and joining Hannah--that
homely Hannah bobbing her odd little curtsy, and smoothing down her
bright white apron, in the full glow of the kitchen-fire.
The kitchen was indeed the only really bright room in the Old Wood
Lodge, having one strip of carpet only on its white and sanded floor, a
large deal table, white and spotless, and wooden chairs hard and clear
as Hannah’s own toil-worn but most kindly hands. There was an
old-fashioned settle by the chimney corner, a small bit of looking-glass
hanging up by the window, and gleams of ruddy copper, and homely covers
of white metal, polished as bright as silver, ornamenting the walls.
Hannah wiped a chair which needed no wiping, and set it directly in
front of the fire for “Miss,” but would not on any account be so
“unmannerly” as to sit down herself in the young lady’s presence. Agnes
wisely contented herself with leaning on the chair, and smiled with a
little embarrassment at Hannah’s courtesy; it was not at all
disagreeable, but it was somewhat different from Susan at home.
“I’ve been looking at ’um, miss,” said Hannah, “sleeping like angels;
there ain’t no difference that I can see; they look, as nigh as can be,
both of an age.”
“They are twins,” said Agnes, finding out, with a smile, that Hannah’s
thoughts were taken up, not about Louis and Rachel, but Bell and Beau.
At this information Hannah brightened into positive delight. “Childer’s
ne’er been in this house,” said Hannah, “till this day; and twins is a
double blessing. There ain’t no more, miss? But bless us all, the time
between them darlins and you!”
“We have one brother, besides--and a great many little brothers and
sisters in heaven,” said Agnes, growing very grave, as they all did when
they spoke of the dead.
Hannah drew closer with a sympathetic curiosity. “If that ain’t a
heart-break, there’s none in this world,” said Hannah. “Bless their dear
hearts, it’s best for them. Was it a fever then, miss, or a catching
sickness? Dear, dear, it’s all one, when they’re gone, what it was.”
“Hannah, you must never speak of it to mamma,” said Agnes; “we used to
be so sad--so sad! till God sent Bell and Beau. Do you know Miss Rachel
at the Hall? her brother and she are twins too.”
“Yes, miss,” said Hannah, with a slight curtsy, and becoming at once
very laconic.
“And _we_ know her,” said Agnes, a little confused by the old woman’s
sudden quietness. “I suppose that was her brother who passed to-night.”
“Ay, poor lad!” Hannah’s heart seemed once more a little moved. “They
say miss is to be a play-actress, and I can’t abide her for giving in to
it; but Mr Louis, bless him! he ought to be a king.”
“You like him, then?” asked Agnes eagerly.
“Ay, poor boy!” Hannah went away hastily to the table, where, in a
china basin, in their cool crisp green, lay the homely salads of the
garden, about to be arranged for supper. A tray covered with a
snow-white cloth, and a small pile of eggs, waited in hospitable
preparation for the same meal. Hannah, who had been so long in
possession, felt like a humble mistress of the house, exercising the
utmost bounties of her hospitality towards her new guests. “Least said’s
best about them, dear,” said Hannah, growing more familiar as she grew a
little excited--“but, Lord bless us, it’s enough to craze a poor body to
see the likes of him, with such a spirit, kept out o’ his rights.”
“What are his rights, Hannah?” cried Agnes, with new and anxious
interest: this threw quite a new light upon the subject.
Hannah turned round a little perplexed. “Tell the truth, I dun know no
more nor a baby,” said Hannah; “but Miss Bridget, she was well acquaint
in all the ways of them, and she ever upheld, when his name was named,
that my lord kep’ him out of his rights.”
“And what did _he_ say?” asked Agnes.
“Nay, child,” said the old woman, “it ain’t no business of mine to tell
tales; and Miss Bridget had more sense nor all the men of larning I ever
heard tell of. She knew better than to put wickedness into his mind.
He’s a handsome lad and a kind, is Mr Louis; but I wouldn’t be my lord,
no, not for all Banburyshire, if I’d done that boy a wrong.”
“Then, do you think Lord Winterbourne has _not_ done him a wrong?” said
Agnes, thoroughly bewildered.
Hannah turned round upon her suddenly, with a handful of herbs and a
knife in her other hand. “Miss, he’s an unlawful child!” said Hannah,
with the most melodramatic effectiveness. Agnes involuntarily drew back
a step, and felt the blood rush to her face. When she had delivered
herself of this startling whisper, Hannah returned to her homely
occupation, talking in an under-tone all the while.
“Ay, poor lad, there’s none can mend that,” said Hannah; “he’s kep’ out
of his rights, and never a man can help him. If it ain’t enough to put
him wild, _I_ dun know.”
“And are you quite sure of that? Does everybody think him a son of Lord
Winterbourne’s?” said Agnes.
“Well, miss, my lord’s not like to own to it--to shame hisself,” said
Hannah; “but they’re none so full of charity at the Hall as to bother
with other folkses children. My lord’s kep’ him since they were babies,
and sent the lawyer hisself to fetch him when Mr Louis ran away. Bless
you, no; there ain’t no doubt about it. Whose son else could he be?”
“But if that was true, he would have no rights. And what did Miss
Bridget mean by rights?” asked Agnes, in a very low tone, blushing, and
half ashamed to speak of such a subject at all.
Hannah, however, who did not share in all the opinions of
respectability, but had a leaning rather, in the servant view of the
question, to the pariah of the great old house, took up somewhat sharply
this unguarded opinion. “Miss,” said Hannah, “you’ll not tell me that
there ain’t no rights belonging Mr Louis. The queen on the throne would
be glad of the likes of him for a prince and an heir; and Miss Bridget
was well acquaint in all the ways of the Riverses, and was as fine to
hear as a printed book: for the matter of that,” added Hannah, solemnly,
“Miss Taesie, though she would not go through the park-gates to save her
life, had a leaning to Mr Louis too.”
“And who is Miss Taesie?” said Agnes.
“Miss,” said Hannah, in a very grave and reproving tone, “you’re little
acquaint with our ways; it ain’t my business to go into stories--you ask
your papa.”
“So I will, Hannah; but who is Miss Taesie?” asked Agnes again, with a
smile.
Hannah answered only by placing her salad on the tray, and carrying it
solemnly to the parlour. Amused and interested, Agnes stood by the
kitchen fireside thinking over what she had heard, and smiling as she
mused; for Miss Taesie, no doubt, was the Honourable Anastasia Rivers,
beneath whose name, in the old exercise-book, stood that odd B. A.