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.