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.