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!