A NEW FRIEND.
The big window very nearly filled up the whole room. The little place
had once been the inmost heart of a long suite of apartments when this
was a fashionable house--now it was an odd little nook of seclusion,
with panelled walls, painted of so light a colour as to look almost
white in the great overflow of daylight; and what had looked like a pale
array of clouds in the window at a little distance, made itself out now
to be various blocks and projections of white-washed wall pressing very
close on every side, and leaving only in the upper half-circle a clear
bit of real clouds and unmistakable sky. The room had a little table, a
very few chairs, and the minutest and most antique of Turkey carpets
laid over the matting. The walls were very high; there was not even a
familiar coal-scuttle to lessen the solemnity of the publisher’s retreat
and sanctuary; and Mr Burlington was not alone.
And even the inexperienced eyes of Agnes and Marian were not slow to
understand that the lady who stood by Mr Burlington’s little table was a
genuine fine lady, one of that marvellous and unknown species which
flourishes in novels, but never had been visible in such a humble
hemisphere as the world of Bellevue. She was young still, but had been
younger, and she remained rich in that sweetest of all mere external
beauties, the splendid English complexion, that lovely bloom and
fairness, which is by no means confined to the flush of youth. She
looked beautiful by favour of these natural roses and lilies, but she
was not beautiful in reality from any other cause. She was lively,
good-natured, and exuberant to an extent which amazed these shy young
creatures, brought up under the quiet shadow of propriety, and
accustomed to the genteel deportment of Bellevue. They, in their simple
girlish dress, in their blushes, diffidence, and hesitation--and she,
accustomed to see everything yielding to her pretty caprices, arbitrary,
coquettish, irresistible, half a spoiled child and half a woman of the
world--they stood together, in the broad white light of that big window,
like people born in different planets. They could scarcely form the
slightest conception of each other. Nature itself had made difference
enough; but how is it possible to estimate the astonishing difference
between Mayfair and Bellevue?
“Pray introduce me, Mr Burlington; oh pray introduce me!” cried this
pretty vision before Mr Burlington himself had done more than bow to his
shy young visitors. “I am delighted to know the author of _Hope
Hazlewood_! charmed to be acquainted with Miss Atheling! My dear child,
how is it possible, at your age, to know so much of the world?”
“It is my sister,” said Marian very shyly, almost under her breath.
Marian was much disturbed by this mistake of identity; it had never
occurred to her before that any one could possibly be at a loss for the
real Miss Atheling. The younger sister was somewhat indignant at so
strange a mistake.
“Now that is right! that is poetic justice! that is a proper
distribution of gifts!” said the lady, clasping her hands with a pretty
gesture of approval. “If you will not introduce me, I shall be compelled
to do it myself, Mr Burlington: Mrs Edgerley. I am charmed to be the
first to make your acquaintance; we were all dying to know the author of
_Hope Hazlewood_. What a charming book it is! I say there has been
nothing like it since _Ellen Fullarton_, and dear Theodosia herself
entirely agrees with me. You are staying in town? Oh I am delighted! You
must let me see a great deal of you, you must indeed; and I shall be
charmed to introduce you to Lady Theodosia, whose sweet books every one
loves. Pray, Mr Burlington, have you any very great secrets to say to
these young ladies, for I want so much to persuade them to come with
me?”
“I shall not detain Miss Atheling,” said the publisher, with a bow, and
the ghost of a smile: “we will bring out the second edition in a week or
two; a very pleasant task, I assure you, and one which repays us for our
anxiety. Now, how about a preface? I shall be delighted to attend to
your wishes.”
But Agnes, who had thought so much about him beforehand, had been too
much occupied hitherto to do more than glance at Mr Burlington. She
scarcely looked up now, when every one was looking at her, but said,
very low and with embarrassment, that she did not think she had any
wishes--that she left it entirely to Mr Burlington--he must know best.
“Then we shall have no preface?” said Mr Burlington, deferentially.
“No,” said Agnes, faltering a little, and glancing up to see if he
approved; “for indeed I do not think I have anything to say.”
“Oh that is what a preface is made for,” cried the pretty Mrs Edgerley.
“You dear innocent child, do you never speak except when you have
something to say? Delightful! charming! I shall not venture to
introduce you to Lady Theodosia; if she but knew, how she would envy me!
You must come home with me to luncheon--you positively must; for I am
quite sure Mr Burlington has not another word to say.”
The two girls drew back a little, and exchanged glances. “Indeed you are
very good, but we must go home,” said Agnes, not very well aware what
she was saying.
“No, you must come with me--you must positively; I should break my
heart,” said their new acquaintance, with a pretty affectation of
caprice and despotism altogether new to the astonished girls. “Oh, I
assure you no one resists me. Your mamma will not have a word to say if
you tell her it is Mrs Edgerley. Good morning, Mr Burlington; how
fortunate I was to call to-day!”
So saying, this lady of magic swept out, rustling through the long
matted passages, and carrying her captives, half delighted, half afraid,
in her train. They were too shy by far to make a pause and a commotion
by resisting; they had nothing of the self-possession of the trained
young ladies of society. The natural impulse of doing what they were
told was very strong upon them, and before they were half aware, or had
time to consider, they were shut into the carriage by the sublime
flunky, and drove off into those dazzling and undiscovered regions, as
strange to them as Lapland or Siberia, where dwells The World. Agnes was
placed by the side of the enchantress; Marian sat shyly opposite, rather
more afraid of Mrs Edgerley’s admiring glance than she had ever been
before of the gaze of strangers. It seemed like witchcraft and sudden
magic--half-an-hour ago sitting in the little waiting-room, looking out
upon the fairy chariot, and now rolling along in its perfumy and warm
enclosure over the aristocratic stones of St James’s. The girls were
bewildered with their marvellous position, and could not make it out,
while into their perplexity stole an occasional thought of what Mamma
would say, and how very anxious she would grow if they did not get soon
home.
Mrs Edgerley in the meanwhile ran on with a flutter of talk and
enthusiasm, pretty gestures, and rapid inquiries, so close and constant
that there was little room for answer and none for comment. And then,
long before they could be at their ease in the carriage, it drew up,
making a magnificent commotion, before a door which opened immediately
to admit the mistress of the house. Agnes and Marian followed her humbly
as she hastened up-stairs. They were bewildered with the long suite of
lofty apartments through which their conductress hurried, scarcely
aware, they supposed, that they, not knowing what else to do, followed
where she led, till they came at last to a pretty boudoir, furnished, as
they both described it unanimously, “like the Arabian Nights!” Here Mrs
Edgerley found some letters, the object, as it seemed, of her search,
and good-naturedly paused, with her correspondence in her hand, to point
out to them the Park, which could be seen from the window, and the books
upon the tables. Then she left them, looking at each other doubtfully,
and half afraid to remain. “Oh, Agnes, what will mamma say?” whispered
Marian. All their innocent lives, until this day, they had never made a
visit to any one without the permission or sanction of Mamma.
“We could not help it,” said Agnes. That was very true; so with a
relieved conscience, but very shyly, they turned over the pretty
picture-books, the pretty nicknacks, all the elegant nothings of Mrs
Edgerley’s pretty bower. Good Mrs Atheling could very seldom be tempted
to buy anything that was not useful, and there was scarcely a single
article in the whole house at home which was not good for something.
This being the case, it is easy to conceive with what perverse youthful
delight the girls contemplated the hosts of pretty things around, which
were of no use whatever, nor good for anything in the world. It gave
them an idea of exuberance, of magnificence, of prodigality, more than
the substantial magnitude of the great house or the handsome equipage.
Besides, they were alone for the moment, and so much less embarrassed,
and the rose-coloured atmosphere charmed them all the more that they
were quite unaccustomed to it. Yet they spoke to each other in whispers
as they peeped into the sunny Park, all bright and green in the
sunshine, and marvelled much what Mamma would say, and how they should
get home.
When Mrs Edgerley returned to them, they were stooping over the table
together, looking over some of the most splendid of the “illustrated
editions” of this age of sumptuous bookmaking. When they saw their
patroness they started, and drew a little apart from each other. She
came towards them through the great drawing-room, radiant and rustling,
and they looked at her with shy admiration. They were by no means sure
of their own position, but their new acquaintance certainly was the
kindest and most delightful of all sudden friends.
“Do you forgive me for leaving you?” said Mrs Edgerley, holding out both
her pretty hands; “but now we must not wait here any longer, but go to
luncheon, where we shall be all by ourselves, quite a snug little party;
and now, you dear child, come and tell me everything about it. What was
it that first made you think of writing that charming book?”
Mrs Edgerley had drawn Agnes’s arm within her own, a little to the
discomposure of the shy young genius, and, followed closely by Marian,
led them down stairs. Agnes made no answer in her confusion. Then they
came to a pretty apartment on the lower floor, with a broad window
looking out to the Park. The table was near the window; the pretty scene
outside belonged to the little group within, as they placed themselves
at the table, and the room itself was green and cool and pleasant, not
at all splendid, lined with books, and luxurious with easy-chairs. There
was a simple vase upon the table, full of roses, but there was no
profusion of prettinesses here.
“This is my own study; I bring every one to see it. Is it not a charming
little room?” said Mrs Edgerley (it would have contained both the
parlours and the two best bedrooms of Number Ten, Bellevue); “but now I
am quite dying to hear--really, how did it come into your head to write
that delightful book?”
“Indeed I do not know,” said Agnes, smiling and blushing. It seemed
perfectly natural that the book should have made so mighty a sensation,
and yet it was rather embarrassing, after all.
“I think because she could not help it,” said Marian shyly, her
beautiful face lighting up as she spoke with a sweet suffusion of
colour. Their hearts were beginning to open to the kindness of their new
friend.
“And you are so pleased and so proud of your sister--I am sure you
are--it is positively delightful,” said Mrs Edgerley. “Now tell me, were
you not quite heartbroken when you finished it--such a delightful
interest one feels in one’s characters--such an object it is to live
for, is it not? The first week after my first work was finished I was
_triste_ beyond description. I am sure you must have been quite
miserable when you were obliged to come to an end.”
The sisters glanced at each other rather doubtfully across the table.
Everybody else seemed to have feelings so much more elevated than
they--for they both remembered with a pang of shame that Agnes had
actually been glad and jubilant when this first great work was done.
“And such a sweet heroine--such a charming character!” said Mrs
Edgerley. “Ah, I perceive you have taken your sister for your model, and
now I shall always feel sure that she is Hope Hazlewood; but at your age
I cannot conceive where you got so much knowledge of the world. Do you
go out a great deal? do you see a great many people? But indeed, to tell
the truth,” said Mrs Edgerley, with a pretty laugh, “I do believe you
have no right to see any one yet. You ought to be in the schoolroom,
young creatures like you. Are you both _out_?”
This was an extremely puzzling question, and some answer was necessary
this time. The girls again looked at each other, blushing over neck and
brow. In their simple honesty they thought themselves bound to make a
statement of their true condition--what Miss Willsie would have called
“their rank in life.”
“We see very few people. In our circumstances people do not speak about
coming out,” said Agnes, hesitating and doubtful--the young author had
no great gift of elegant expression. But in fact Mrs Edgerley did not
care in the slightest degree about their “circumstances.” She was a
hundred times more indifferent on that subject than any genteel and
respectable matron in all Bellevue.
“Oh then, that is so much better,” said Mrs Edgerley, “for I see you
must have been observing character all your life. It is, after all, the
most delightful study; but such an eye for individuality! and so young!
I declare I shall be quite afraid to make friends with you.”
“Indeed, I do not know at all about character,” said Agnes hurriedly, as
with her pretty little ringing laugh, Mrs Edgerley broke off in a pretty
affected trepidation; but their patroness shook her hand at her, and
turned away in a graceful little terror.
“I am sure she must be the most dreadful critic, and keep you quite in
awe of her,” said their new friend, turning to Marian. “But now pray
tell me your names. I have such an interest in knowing every one’s
Christian name; there is so much character in them. I do think that is
the real advantage of a title. There is dear Lady Theodosia, for
instance: suppose her family had been commoners, and she had been called
Miss Piper! Frightful! odious! almost enough to make one do some harm to
oneself, or get married. And now tell me what are your names?”
“My sister is Agnes, and I am Marian,” said the younger. Now we are
obliged to confess that by this time, though Mrs Edgerley answered with
the sweetest and most affectionate of smiles and a glance of real
admiration, she began to feel the novelty wear off, and flagged a little
in her sudden enthusiasm. It was clear to her young visitors that she
did not at all attend to the answer, despite the interest with which she
had asked the question. A shade of weariness, half involuntary, half of
will and purpose, came over her face. She rushed away immediately upon
another subject; asked another question with great concern, and was
completely indifferent to the answer. The girls were not used to this
phenomenon, and did not understand it; but at last, after hesitating and
doubting, and consulting each other by glances, Agnes made a shy
movement of departure, and said Mamma would be anxious, and they should
have to go away.
“The carriage is at the door, I believe,” said Mrs Edgerley, with her
sweet smile; “for of course you must let me send you home--positively
you must, my love. You are a great author, but you are a young lady, and
your sister is much too pretty to walk about alone. Delighted to have
seen you both! Oh, I shall write to you very soon; do not fear.
Everybody wants to make your acquaintance. I shall be besieged for
introductions. You are engaged to me for Thursday next week, remember! I
never forgive any one who disappoints me. Good-by! Adieu! I am charmed
to have met you both.”
While this valedictory address was being said, the girls were slowly
making progress to the door; then they were ushered out solemnly to the
carriage which waited for them. They obeyed their fate in their going as
they did in their coming. They could not help themselves; and with
mingled fright, agitation, and pleasure, were once more shut up by that
superbest of flunkies, but drove off at a slow pace, retarded by the
intense bewilderment of the magnificent coachman as to the locality of
Bellevue.