THE WORLD.
They were bewildered, yet they lost nothing of the scene. The great
rooms radiant with light, misty with hangings, gleaming with
mirrors--the magnificent staircase up which they passed, they never
could tell how, ashamed of the echo of their own names--the beautiful
enchantress of a hostess, who bestowed upon each of them that light
perfumy kiss of welcome, at the momentary touch of which the girls
blushed and trembled--the strange faces everywhere around them--their
own confusion, and the shyness which they thought so awkward. Though all
these things together united to form a dazzling jumble for the first
moment, the incoherence of the vision lasted no longer. With a touch of
kindness Mrs Edgerley led them (for of course they were scrupulously
early, and punctual to the hour) to her pretty boudoir, where they had
been before, and which was not so bright nor like to be so thronged as
the larger rooms. Here already a young matron sat in state, with a
little circle of worshippers. Mrs Edgerley broke into the midst of them
to introduce to the throned lady her young strangers. “They have no one
with them--pray let them be beside you,” whispered the beautiful hostess
to her beautiful guest. The lady bowed, and stared, and assented. When
Mrs Edgerley left them, Agnes and Marian looked after her wistfully, the
only face they had ever seen before, and stood together in their shy
irresolute grace, blushing, discouraged, and afraid. They supposed it
was not right to speak to any one whom they had not been introduced to;
but no one gave them any inconvenience for the moment in the matter of
conversation. They stood for a short time shyly, expecting some notice
from their newly-elected chaperone, but she had half-a-dozen flirtations
in hand, and no leisure for a charge which was a bore. This, it must be
confessed, was somewhat different from Mrs Edgerley’s anticipation of
being “besieged for introductions” to the author of _Hope Hazlewood_.
The young author looked wistfully into the brightness of the great
drawing-room, with some hope of catching the eye of her patroness; but
Mrs Edgerley was in the full business of “receiving,” and had no eye
except for the brilliant stream of arrivals. Marian began to be
indignant, and kept her beautiful eyes full upon Agnes, watching her
sister with eager sympathy. Never before, in all their serene and quiet
lives, had they needed to be proud. For a moment the lip of Agnes curved
and quivered--a momentary pang of girlish mortification passed over her
face--then they both drew back suddenly to a table covered with books
and portfolios, which stood behind them. They did not say a word to each
other--they bent down over the prints and pictures with a sudden impulse
of self-command and restraint: no one took the slightest notice of them;
they stood quite alone in these magnificent rooms, which were slowly
filling with strange faces. Agnes was afraid to look up, lest any one
should see that there were actual tears under her eyelids. How she
fancied she despised herself for such a weakness! But, after all, it was
a hard enough lesson for neophytes so young and innocent,--so they stood
very silent, bending closely over the picture-books, overcoming as they
could their sudden mortification and disappointment. No one disturbed
them in their solitary enjoyment of their little table, and for once in
their life they did not say a word to each other, but bravely fought out
the crisis within themselves, and rose again with all the pride of
sensitive and imaginative natures to the emergency. With a sudden
impulsive movement Agnes drew a chair to the table, and made Marian sit
down upon it. “Now, we will suppose we are at the play,” said Agnes,
with youthful contempt and defiance, leaning her arm upon the back of
the chair, and looking at the people instead of the picture-books.
Marian was not so rapid in her change of mood--she sat still, shading
her face with her hand, with a flush upon her cheek, and an angry cloud
on her beautiful young brow. Yes, Marian was extremely angry.
Mortification on her own account did not affect her--but that all these
people, who no doubt were only rich people and nobodies--that they
should neglect Agnes!--this was more than her sisterly equanimity could
bear.
Agnes Atheling was not beautiful. When people looked at her, they never
thought of her face, what were its features or its complexion. These
were both agreeable enough to make no detraction from the interest of
the bright and animated intelligence which was indeed the only beauty
belonging to her. She did not know herself with what entire and
transparent honesty her eyes and her lips expressed her sentiments; and
it never occurred to her that her own looks, as she stood thus, somewhat
defiant, and full of an imaginative and heroical pride, looking out upon
all those strangers, made the brightest comment possible upon the scene.
How her eye brightened with pleasure as it fell on a pleasant face--how
her lip laughed when something ridiculous caught her rapid
attention--how the soft lines on her forehead drew together when
something displeased her delicate fancy--and how a certain natural
delight in the graceful grouping and brilliant action of the scene
before her lighted up all her face--was quite an unknown fact to Agnes.
It was remarkable enough, however, in an assembly of people whose looks
were regulated after the most approved principles, and who were
generally adepts in the admirable art of expressing nothing. And then
there was Marian, very cloudy, looking up under the shadow of her hand
like an offended fairy queen. Though Mrs Edgerley was lost in the stream
of her arriving guests, and the beautiful young chaperone she had
committed them to took no notice whatever of her charge, tired eyes,
which were looking out for something to interest them, gradually fixed
upon Agnes and Marian. One or two observers asked who they were, but
nobody could answer the question. They were quite by themselves, and
evidently knew no one; and a little interest began to rise about them,
which the girls, making their own silent observations upon everything,
and still sometimes with a little wistfulness looking for Mrs Edgerley,
had not yet begun to see.
When an old gentleman came to their table, and startled them a little by
turning over the picture-books. He was an ancient beau--the daintiest of
old gentlemen--with a blue coat and a white waistcoat, and the most
delicate of ruffles. His hair--so much as he had--was perfectly white,
and his high bald forehead, and even his face, looked like a piece of
ivory curiously carved into wrinkles. He was not by any means a handsome
old man, yet it was evident enough that this peculiar look and studied
dress belonged to a notability, whose coat and cambric, and the great
shining diamond upon whose wrinkled ashen-white hand, belonged to his
character, and were part of himself. He was an old connoisseur, critic,
and fine gentleman, with a collection of old china, old jewels, rare
small pictures, and curious books, enough to craze the whole dilettanti
world when it came to the prolonged and fabulous sale, which was its
certain end. And he was a connoisseur in other things than silver and
china. He was somewhat given to patronising young people; and the common
judgment gave him credit for great kindness and benignity. But it was
not benignity and kindness which drew Mr Agar to the side of Agnes and
Marian. Personal amusement was a much more prevailing inducement than
benevolence with the dainty old dilettante. They were deceived, of
course, as youth is invariably; for despite the pure selfishness of the
intention, the effect, as it happened, was kind.
Mr Agar began a conversation by remarking upon the books, and drew forth
a shy reply from both; then he managed gradually to change his
position, and to survey the assembled company along with them, but with
his most benign and patriarchal expression. He was curious to hear in
words those comments which Agnes constantly made with her eyes; and he
was pleased to observe the beauty of the younger sister--the perfect
unconscious grace of all her movements and attitudes. They thought they
had found the most gracious of friends, these simple girls; they had not
the remotest idea that he was only a connoisseur.
“Then you do not know many of those people?” said Mr Agar, following
Agnes’s rapid glances. “Ah, old Lady Knightly! is that a friend of
yours?”
“No; I was thinking of the old story of ‘Thank you for your Diamonds,”
said Agnes, who could not help drawing back a little, and casting down
her eyes for the moment, while the sound of her own voice, low as it
was, brought a sudden flush to her cheek. “I did not think diamonds had
been so pretty; they look as if they were alive.”
“Ah, the diamonds!” said the old critic, looking at the unconscious
object of Agnes’s observation, who was an old lady, wrinkled and
gorgeous, with a leaping, twinkling band of light circling her
time-shrivelled brow. “Yes, she looks as if she had dressed for a
masquerade in the character of Night--eh? Poor old lady, with her lamps
of diamonds! Beauty, you perceive, does not need so many tapers to show
its whereabouts.”
“But there are a great many beautiful people here,” said Agnes, “and a
great many jewels. I think, sir, it is kind of people to wear them,
because all the pleasure is to us who look on.”
“You think so? Ah, then beauty itself, I suppose, is pure generosity,
and _we_ have all the pleasure of it,” said the amused old gentleman;
“that is comfortable doctrine, is it not?” And he looked at Marian, who
glanced up blushingly, yet with a certain pleasure. He smiled, yet he
looked benignant and fatherly; and this was an extremely agreeable view
of the matter, and made it much less embarrassing to acknowledge oneself
pretty. Marian felt herself indebted to this kind old man.
“And you know no one--not even Mrs Edgerley, I presume?” said the old
gentleman. They both interrupted him in haste to correct this, but he
only smiled the more, and went on. “Well, I shall be benevolent, and
tell you who your neighbours are; but I cannot follow those rapid eyes.
Yes, I perceive you have made a good pause for a beginning--that is our
pretty hostess’s right honourable papa. Poor Winterbourne! he was sadly
clumsy about his business. He is one of those unfortunate men who cannot
do a wicked thing without doing it coarsely. You perceive, he is
stopping to speak to Lady Theodosia--dear Lady Theodosia, who writes
those sweet books! Nature intended she should be merry and vulgar, and
art has made her very fine, very sentimental, and full of tears. There
is an unfortunate youth wandering alone behind everybody’s back. That is
a miserable new poet, whom Mrs Edgerley has deluded hither under the
supposition that he is to be the lion of the evening. Poor fellow! he is
looking demoniacal, and studying an epigram. Interested in the
poet--eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Agnes, with her usual respect; “but we were thinking of
ourselves, who were something the same,” she added quickly; for Mr Agar
had seen the sudden look which passed between the sisters.
“Something the same! then I am to understand that you are a poet?” said
the old gentleman, with his unvarying benignity. “No!--what then? A
musician? No; an artist? Come, you puzzle me. I shall begin to suppose
you have written a novel if you do not explain.”
The animated face of Agnes grew blank in a moment; she drew farther
back, and blushed painfully. Marian immediately drew herself up and
stood upon the defensive. “Is it anything wrong to write a novel?” said
Marian. Mr Agar turned upon her with his benignant smile.
“It is so, then?” said the old gentleman; “and I have not the least
doubt it is an extremely clever novel. But hold! who comes here? Ah, an
American! Now we must do our best to talk very brilliantly, for friend
Jonathan loves the conversation of distinguished circles. Let me find a
seat for you, and do not be angry that I am not an enthusiast in
literary matters. We have all our hobbies, and that does not happen to
be mine.”
Agnes sat down passively on the chair he brought for her. The poor girl
felt grievously ashamed of herself. After all, what was that poor little
book, that she should ground such mighty claims upon it? Who cared for
the author of _Hope Hazlewood_? Mr Agar, though he was so kind, did not
even care to inquire what book it was, nor showed the smallest curiosity
about its name. Agnes was so much cast down that she scarcely noticed
the upright figure approaching towards them, carrying an abstracted head
high in the air, and very like to run over smaller people; but Mr Agar
stepped aside, and Marian touched her sister’s arm. “It is Mr
Endicott--look, Agnes!” whispered Marian. Both of them were stirred with
sudden pleasure at sight of him; it was a known face in this dazzling
wilderness, though it was not a very comely one. Mr Endicott was as much
startled as themselves when glancing downward from his lofty altitude,
his eye fell upon the beautiful face which had made sunshine even in the
shady place of that Yankee young gentleman’s self-admiring breast. The
sudden discovery brightened his lofty languor for a moment. He hastened
to shake hands with them, so impressively that the pretty lady and her
cloud of admirers paused in their flutter of satire and compliment to
look on.
“This is a pleasure I was not prepared for,” said Mr Endicott. “I
remember that Mr Atheling had an early acquaintance with Viscount
Winterbourne--I presume an old hereditary friendship. I am rejoiced to
find that such things are, even in this land of sophistication. This is
a brilliant scene!”
“Indeed I do not think papa knows Lord Winterbourne,” said Agnes
hastily; but her low voice did not reach the ears which had been so far
enlightened by Mr Endicott. “Hereditary friendship--old connections of
the family; no doubt daughters of some squire in Banburyshire,” said
their beautiful neighbour, in a half-offended tone, to one of her
especial retainers, who showed strong symptoms of desertion, and had
already half-a-dozen times asked Marian’s name. Unfortunate Mr Endicott!
he gained a formidable rival by these ill-advised words.
“I find little to complain of generally in the most distinguished
circles of your country,” said Mr Endicott. “Your own men of genius may
be neglected, but a foreigner of distinction always finds a welcome.
This is true wisdom--for by this means we are enabled to carry a good
report to the world.”
“I say, what nice accounts these French fellows give of us!” burst in
suddenly a very young man, who stood under the shadow of Mr Endicott.
The youth who hazarded this brilliant remark did not address anybody in
particular, and was somewhat overpowered by the unexpected honour of an
answer from Mr Agar.
“Trench journalists, and newspaper writers of any country, are of course
the very best judges of manners and morals,” said the old gentleman,
with a smile; “the other three estates are more than usually fallible;
the fourth is the nearest approach to perfection which we can find in
man.”
“Sir,” said Mr Endicott, “in my country we can do without Queen, Lords,
and Commons; but we cannot do without the Press--that is, the exponent
of every man’s mind and character, the legitimate vehicle of instructive
experiences. The Press, sir, is Progress--the only effective agency ever
invented for the perfection of the human race.”
“Oh, I am sure I quite agree with you. I am quite in love with the
newspapers; they do make one so delightfully out of humour,” said Mrs
Edgerley, suddenly making her appearance; “and really, you know, when
they speak of society, it is quite charming--so absurd! Sir Langham
Portland--Miss Atheling. I have been so longing to come to you. Oh, and
you must know Mr Agar. Mr Agar, I want to introduce you to my charming
young friend, the author of _Hope Hazlewood_; is it not wonderful? I was
sure you, who are so fond of people of genius, would be pleased to know
her. And there is dear Lady Theodosia, but she is so surrounded. You
must come to the Willows--you must indeed; I positively insist upon it.
For what can one do in an evening? and so many of my friends want to
know you. We go down in a fortnight. I shall certainly calculate upon
you. Oh, I never take a refusal; it was _so_ kind of you to come
to-night.”
Before she had ceased speaking, Mrs Edgerley was at the other end of the
room, conversing with some one else, by her pretty gestures. Sir Langham
Portland drew himself up like a guardsman, as he was, on the other side
of Marian, and made original remarks about the picture-books, somewhat
to the amusement, but more to the dismay of the young beauty,
unaccustomed to such distinguished attentions. Mr Agar occupied himself
with Agnes; he told her all about the Willows, Mrs Edgerley’s pretty
house at Richmond, which was always amusing, said the old gentleman. He
was very pleasantly amused himself with Agnes’s bright respondent face,
which, however, this wicked old critic was fully better pleased with
while its mortification and disappointment lasted. Mr Endicott remained
standing in front of the group, watching the splendid guardsman with a
misanthropic eye. This, however, was not very amusing; and the
enlightened American gracefully took from his pocket the daintiest of
pocket-books, fragrant with Russia leather and clasped with gold. From
this delicate enclosure Mr Endicott selected with care a letter and a
card, and, armed with these formidable implements, turned round upon the
unconscious old gentleman. When Mr Agar caught a glimpse of this
impending assault, his momentary look of dismay would have delighted
himself, could he have seen it. “I have the honour of bearing a letter
of introduction,” said Mr Endicott, closing upon the unfortunate
connoisseur, and thrusting before his eyes the weapons of offence--the
moral bowie-knife and revolver, which were the weapons of this young
gentleman’s warfare. Mr Agar looked his assailant in the face, but did
not put forth his hand.
“At my own house,” said the ancient beau, with a gracious smile: “who
could be stoic enough to do justice to the most distinguished of
strangers, under such irresistible distractions as I find here?”
Poor Mr Endicott! He did not venture to be offended, but he was
extinguished notwithstanding, and could not make head against his double
disappointment; for there stood the guardsman speaking through his
mustache of Books of Beauty, and holding his place like the most
faithful of sentinels by Marian Atheling’s side.