GOING FROM HOME.
“My dear children,” said Mrs Atheling solemnly, “you have never been
from home before.”
Suddenly arrested by the solemnity of this preamble, the girls
paused--they were just going up-stairs to their own room on the last
evening before setting out for the Willows. Marian’s pretty arms were
full of a collection of pretty things, white as the great apron with
which Susan had girded her. Agnes carried her blotting-book, two or
three other favourite volumes, and a candle. They stood in their pretty
sisterly conjunction, almost leaning upon each other, waiting with
youthful reverence for the address which Mamma was about to deliver. It
was true they were leaving home for the first time, and true also that
the visit was one of unusual importance. They prepared to listen with
great gravity and a little awe.
“My dears, I have no reason to distrust your good sense,” said Mrs
Atheling, “nor indeed to be afraid of you in any way--but to be in a
strange house is very different from being at home. Strangers will not
have the same indulgence as we have had for all your fancies--you must
not expect it; and people may see that you are of a different rank in
life, and perhaps may presume upon you. You must be very careful. You
must not copy Mrs Edgerley, or any other lady, but _observe_ what they
do, and rule yourselves by it; and take great care what acquaintances
you form; for even in such a house as that,” said Mamma, with emphasis
and dignity, suddenly remembering the “connection of the family” of whom
Mrs Edgerley had spoken, “there may be some who are not fit companions
for you.”
“Yes, mamma,” said Agnes. Marian looked down into the apronful of lace
and muslin, and answered nothing. A variable blush and as variable a
smile testified to a little consciousness on the part of the younger
sister. Agnes for once was the more matter-of-fact of the two.
“At your time of life,” continued the anxious mother, “a single day may
have as much effect as many years. Indeed, Marian, my love, it is
nothing to smile about. You must be very careful; and, Agnes, you are
the eldest--you must watch over your sister. Oh, take care!--you do not
know how much harm might be done in a single day.”
“Take care of what, mamma?” said Marian, glancing up quickly, with that
beautiful faint blush, and a saucy gleam in her eye. What do you suppose
she saw as her beautiful eyes turned from her mother with a momentary
imaginative look into the vacant space? Not the big head of Charlie,
bending over the grammars, but the magnificent stature of Sir Langham
Portland, drawn up in sentry fashion by her side; and at the
recollection Marian’s pretty lip could not refuse to smile.
“Hush, my dear!--you may easily know what I mean,” said Mrs Atheling
uneasily. “You must try not to be awkward or timid; but you must not
forget how great a difference there is between Mrs Edgerley’s friends
and you.”
“Nonsense, Mary,” cried her husband, energetically. “No such thing,
girls. Don’t be afraid to let them know who you are, or who you belong
to. But as for inferiority, if you yield to such a notion, you are no
girls of mine! One of the Riverses! A pretty thing! _You_, at least, can
tell any one who asks the question that your father is an honest man.”
“But I suppose, papa, no one is likely to have any doubt upon the
subject,” said Agnes, with a little spirit. “It will be time enough to
publish that when some one questions it; and that, I am sure, was not
what mamma meant.”
“No, my love, of course not,” said Mamma, who was somewhat agitated.
“What I meant is, that you are going to people whom we used to know--I
mean, whom we know nothing of. They are great people--a great deal
richer and higher in station than we are; and it is possible Papa may be
brought into contact with them about the Old Wood Lodge; and you are
young and inexperienced, and don’t know the dangers you may be subjected
to;--and, my dear children, what I have to say to you is, just to
remember your duty, and read your Bibles, and take care!”
“Mamma! we are only going to Richmond--we are not going away from you,”
cried Marian in dismay.
“My dears,” said Mrs Atheling, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “I
am an old woman--I know more than you do. You cannot tell where you are
going; you are going into the world.”
No one spoke for the moment. The young travellers themselves looked at
their mother with concern and a little solemnity. Who could tell? All
the young universe of romance lay at their very feet. They might be
going to their fate.
“And henceforward I know,” said the good mother, rising into homely and
unconscious dignity, “our life will no longer be your boundary, nor our
plans all your guidance. My darlings, it is not any fault of yours; you
are both as obedient as when you were babies; it is Providence, and
comes to every one. You are going away from me, and both your lives may
be determined before you come back again. You, Marian! it is not your
fault, my love; but, oh! take care.”
Under the pressure of this solemn and mysterious caution, the girls at
length went up-stairs. Very gravely they entered the little white room,
which was somewhat disturbed out of its usual propriety, and in
respectful silence Marian began to arrange her burden. She sat down upon
the white bed, with her great white apron full of snowy muslin and
dainty morsels of lace, stooping her beautiful head over them, with her
long bright hair falling down at one side like a golden framework to her
sweet cheek. Agnes stood before her holding the candle. Both were
perfectly grave, quite silent, separating the sleeves and kerchiefs and
collars as if it were the most solemn work in the world.
At length suddenly Marian looked up. In an instant smiles irrestrainable
threaded all the soft lines of those young faces. A momentary electric
touch sent them both from perfect solemnity into saucy and conscious but
subdued laughter. “Agnes! what do you suppose mamma could mean?” asked
Marian; and Agnes said “Hush!” and softly closed the door, lest Mamma
should hear the low and restrained overflow of those sudden sympathetic
smiles. Once more the apparition of the magnificent Sir Langham gleamed
somewhere in a bright corner of Marian’s shining eye. These incautious
girls, like all their happy kind, could not be persuaded to regard with
any degree of terror or solemnity the fate that came in such a shape as
this.