EVERYBODY’S FANCIES.
But the young adventurers had sufficient time to speculate upon their
“fate,” and to make up their minds whether this journey of theirs was
really a fortnight’s visit to Richmond, or a solemn expedition into the
world, as they drove along the pleasant summer roads on their way to the
Willows. They had leisure enough, but they had not inclination; they
were somewhat excited, but not at all solemnised. They thought of the
unknown paradise to which they were going--of their beautiful patroness
and her guests; but they never paused to inquire, as they bowled
pleasantly along under the elms and chestnuts, anything at all about
their fate.
“How grave every one looked,” said Marian. “What are all the people
afraid of? for I am sure Miss Willsie wanted us to go, though she was so
cross; and poor Harry Oswald, how he looked last night!”
At this recollection Marian smiled. To tell the truth, she was at
present only amused by the gradual perception dawning upon her of the
unfortunate circumstances of these young gentlemen. She might never have
found it out had she known only Harry Oswald; but Sir Langham Portland
threw light upon the subject which Marian had scarcely guessed at
before. Do you think she was grateful on that account to the handsome
Guardsman? Marian’s sweet face brightened all over with amused
half-blushing smiles. It was impossible to tell.
“But, Marian,” said Agnes, “I want to be particular about one thing. We
must not deceive any one. Nobody must suppose we are great ladies. If
anything _should_ happen of any importance, we must be sure to tell who
we are.”
“That you are the author of _Hope Hazlewood_,” said Marian, somewhat
provokingly. “Oh! Mrs Edgerley will tell everybody that; and as for me,
I am only your sister--nobody will mind me.”
So they drove on under the green leaves, which grew less and less dusty
as they left London in the distance, through the broad white line of
road, now and then passing by orchards rich with fruit--by suburban
gardens and pretty villakins of better fashion than their own; now and
then catching silvery gleams of the river quivering among its low green
banks, like a new-bended bow. They knew as little where they were going
as what was to befall them there, and were as unapprehensive in the one
case as in the other. At home the mother went about her daily business,
pondering with a mother’s anxiety upon all the little embarrassments and
distresses which might surround them among strangers, and seeing in her
motherly imagination a host of pleasant perils, half alarming, half
complimentary, a crowd of admirers and adorers collected round her
girls. At Messrs Cash and Ledger’s, Papa brooded over his desk, thinking
somewhat darkly of those innocent investigators whom he had sent forth
into an old world of former connections, unfortified against the ancient
grudge, if such existed, and unacquainted with the ancient story. Would
anything come of this acquaintanceship? Would anything come of the new
position which placed them once more directly in the way of Lord
Winterbourne? Papa shook his head slowly over his daybook, as ignorant
as the rest of us what might have to be written upon the fair blank of
the very next page--who could tell?
Charlie meanwhile, at Mr Foggo’s office, buckled on his harness this
important morning with a double share of resolution. As his brow rolled
down with all its furrows in a frown of defiance at the “old fellow”
whom he took down from the wired bookcase, it was not the old fellow,
but Lord Winterbourne, against whom Charlie bit his thumb. In the depths
of his heart he wished again that this natural enemy might “only try!”
to usurp possession of the Old Wood Lodge. A certain excitement
possessed him regarding the visit of his sisters. Once more the youth,
in his hostile imagination, beheld the pale face at the door, the
bloodless and spasmodic smile. “I knew I owed him something,” muttered
once more the instinctive enmity; and Charlie was curious and excited to
come once more in contact with this mysterious personage who had raised
so active and sudden an interest in his secret thoughts.
But the two immediate actors in this social drama--the family doves of
inquiry, who might bring back angry thorns instead of olive
branches--the innocent sweet pioneers of the incipient strife, went on
untroubled in their youthful pleasure, looking at the river and the
sunshine, dreaming the fairy dreams of youth. What new life they verged
and bordered--what great consequences might grow and blossom from the
seedtime of to-day--how their soft white hands, heedless and
unconscious, might touch the trembling strings of fate--no one of all
these anxious questions ever entered the charmed enclosure of this
homely carriage, where they leant back into their several corners, and
sung to themselves, in unthinking sympathy with the roll and hum of the
leisurely wheels, conveying them on and on to their new friends and
their future life. They were content to leave all questions of the kind
to a more suitable season--and so, singing, smiling, whispering (though
no one was near to interrupt them), went on, on their charmed way, with
their youth and their light hearts, to Armida and her enchanted
garden--to the world, with its syrens and its lions--forecasting no
difficulties, seeing no evil. They had no day-book to brood over like
Papa. To-morrow’s magnificent blank of possibility was always before
them, dazzling and glorious--they went forward into it with the freshest
smile and the sweetest confidence. Of all the evils and perils of this
wicked world, which they had heard so much of, they knew none which
they, in their happy safety, were called upon to fear.
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Athelings; vol. 1/3, by Margaret Oliphant