ANOTHER EVENT.
We will not attempt to describe the excitement, astonishment, and
confusion produced in the house of the Athelings by the next
communication received from Mr Burlington. It came at night, so that
every one had the benefit, and its object was to announce the astounding
and unexampled news of A Second Edition!
The letter dropped from Agnes’s amazed fingers; Papa actually let fall
his newspaper; and Charlie, disturbed at his grammar, rolled back the
heavy waves of his brow, and laughed to himself. As for Mamma and
Marian, each of them read the letter carefully over. There was no
mistake about it--_Hope Hazelwood_ was nearly out of print. True, Mr
Burlington confessed that this first edition had been a small one, but
the good taste of the public demanded a second; and the polite publisher
begged to have an interview with Miss Atheling, to know whether she
would choose to add or revise anything in the successful book.
Upon this there ensued a consultation. Mrs Atheling was doubtful as to
the proprieties of the case; Papa was of opinion that the easiest and
simplest plan was, that the girls should call; but Mamma, who was
something of a timid nature, and withal a little punctilious, hesitated,
and did not quite see which was best. Bellevue, doubtless, was very far
out of the way, and the house, though so good a house, was not “like
what Mr Burlington must have been accustomed to.” The good mother was a
long time making up her mind; but at last decided, with some
perturbation, on the suggestion of Mr Atheling. “Yes, you can put on
your muslin dresses; it is quite warm enough for them, and they always
look well; and you must see, Marian, that your collars and sleeves are
very nice, and your new bonnets. Yes, my dears, as there are two of you,
I think you may call.”
The morning came; and by this time it was the end of June, almost
midsummer weather. Mrs Atheling herself, with the most anxious care,
superintended the dressing of her daughters. They were dressed with the
most perfect simplicity; and nobody could have supposed, to see the
result, that any such elaborate overlooking had been bestowed upon their
toilette. They were dressed well, in so far that their simple
habiliments made no pretension above the plain pretty inexpensive
reality. They were not intensely fashionable, like Mrs Tavistock’s
niece, who was a regular Islingtonian “swell” (if that most felicitous
of epithets can be applied to anything feminine), and reminded everybody
who saw her of work-rooms and dressmakers and plates of the fashions.
Agnes and Marian, a hundred times plainer, were just so many times the
better dressed. They were not quite skilled in the art of gloves--a
difficult branch of costume, grievously embarrassing to those good
girls, who had not much above a pair in three months, and were
constrained to select thrifty colours; but otherwise Mrs Atheling
herself was content with their appearance as they passed along Bellevue,
brightening the sunny quiet road with their light figures and their
bright eyes. They had a little awe upon them--that little shade of sweet
embarrassment and expectation which gives one of its greatest charms to
youth. They were talking over what they were to say, and marvelling how
Mr Burlington would receive them; their young footsteps chiming as
lightly as any music to her tender ear--their young voices sweeter than
the singing of the birds, their bright looks more pleasant than the
sunshine--it is not to be wondered at if the little street looked
somewhat dim and shady to Mrs Atheling when these two young figures had
passed out of it, and the mother stood alone at the window, looking at
nothing better than the low brick-walls and closed doors of Laurel House
and Green View.
And so they went away through the din and tumult of the great London,
with their own bright young universe surrounding them, and their own
sweet current of thought and emotion running as pure as if they had been
passing through the sweetest fields of Arcadia. They had no eyes for
impertinent gazers, if such things were in their way. Twenty stout
footmen at their back could not have defended them so completely as did
their own innocence and security. We confess they did not even shrink,
with a proper sentimental horror, from all the din and all the commotion
of this noonday Babylon; they liked their rapid glance at the wonderful
shop-windows; they brightened more and more as their course lay along
the gayest and most cheerful streets. It was pleasant to look at the
maze of carriages, pleasant to see the throngs of people, exhilarating
to be drawn along in this bright flood-tide and current of the world.
But they grew a little nervous as they approached the house of Mr
Burlington--a little more irregular in their pace, lingering and
hastening as timidity or eagerness got the upper hand--and a great deal
more silent, being fully occupied with anticipations of, and
preparations for, this momentous interview. What should Agnes--what
would Mr Burlington say?
This silence and shyness visibly increased as they came to the very
scene and presence of the redoubtable publisher--where Agnes called the
small attendant clerk in the outer office “Sir” and deferentially asked
for Mr Burlington. When they had waited there for a few minutes, they
were shown into a matted parlour containing a writing-table and a
coal-scuttle, and three chairs. Mr Burlington would be disengaged in a
few minutes, the little clerk informed them, as he solemnly displaced
two of the chairs, an intimation that they were to sit down. They sat
down accordingly, with the most matter-of-course obedience, and held
their breath as they listened for the coming steps of Mr Burlington. But
the minutes passed, and Mr Burlington did not come. They began to look
round with extreme interest and curiosity, augmented all the more by
their awe. There was nothing in the least interesting in this bare
little apartment, but their young imaginations could make a great deal
out of nothing. At Mr Burlington’s door stood a carriage, with a grand
powdered coachman on the box, and the most superb of flunkies gracefully
lounging before the door. No doubt Mr Burlington was engaged with the
owner of all this splendour. Immediately they ran over all the great
names they could remember, forgetting for the moment that authors, even
of the greatest, are not much given, as a general principle, to gilded
coaches and flunkies of renown. Who could it be?
When they were in the very height of their guessing, the door suddenly
opened. They both rose with a start; but it was only the clerk, who
asked them to follow him to the presence of Mr Burlington. They went
noiselessly along the long matted passage after their conductor, who was
not much of a Ganymede. At the very end, a door stood open, and there
were two figures half visible between them and a big round-headed
window, full of somewhat pale and cloudy sky. These two people turned
round, as some faint sound of the footsteps of Ganymede struck aside
from the matting. “Oh, what a lovely creature!--what a beautiful girl!
Now I do hope that is the one!” cried, most audibly, a feminine voice.
Marian, knowing by instinct that she was meant, shrank back grievously
discomfited. Even Agnes was somewhat dismayed by such a preface to their
interview; but Ganymede was a trained creature, and much above the
weakness of a smile or hesitation--_he_ pressed on unmoved, and hurried
them into the presence and the sanctum of Mr Burlington. They came into
the full light of the big window, shy, timid, and graceful, having very
little self-possession to boast of, their hearts beating, their colour
rising--and for the moment it was scarcely possible to distinguish which
was the beautiful sister; for Agnes was very near as pretty as Marian in
the glow and agitation of her heart.