THE FOGGOS.
The first thing to be done in the morning, before it was time even for
the postman, was to hasten to Killiecrankie Lodge, and ascertain all
that could be ascertained concerning Louis from Mr Foggo. This mission
was confided to Agnes. It was a soft spring-like morning, and the first
of Miss Willsie’s wallflowers were beginning to blow. Miss Willsie
herself was walking in her little garden, scattering crumbs upon the
gravel-path for the poor dingy town-sparrows, and the stray robin whom
some unlucky wind had blown to Bellevue. But Miss Willsie was disturbed
out of her usual equanimity; she looked a little heated, as if she had
come here to recover herself, and rather frightened her little feathered
acquaintances by the vehemence with which she threw them her daily dole.
She smoothed her brow a little at sight of Agnes. “And what may _you_ be
wanting at such an hour as this?” said Miss Willsie; “if there is one
thing I cannot bide, it is to see young folk wandering about, without
any errand, at all the hours of the day!”
“But I have an errand,” said Agnes. “I want to ask Mr Foggo about--about
Mr Louis--if he knows where he has gone!”
Mr Louis--his surname, as everybody supposed--was the name by which
Louis was known in Bellevue.
Miss Willsie’s brow puckered with a momentary anger. “I would like to
know,” said Miss Willsie, “why that monkey could not content herself
with a kindly lad at home: but my brother’s in the parlour; you’ll find
him there, Agnes. Keep my patience!--Foggie’s there too--the lad from
America. If there’s one thing in this world I cannot endure, it’s just a
young man like yon!”
Miss Willsie, however, reluctantly followed her young visitor into the
breakfast parlour, from which the old lady had lately made an indignant
and unceremonious exit. It was a very comfortable breakfast-table, fully
deserving the paragraph it obtained in those “Letters from England,”
which are so interesting to all the readers of the _Mississippi
Gazette_. There was a Scottish prodigality of creature comforts, and the
fine ancient table-linen was white as snow, and there was a very unusual
abundance, for a house of this class, of heavy old plate. Mr Foggo was
getting through his breakfast methodically, with the _Times_ erected
before him, and forming a screen between himself and his worshipful
nephew; while Mr Foggo S. Endicott, seated with a due regard to his
profile, at such an angle with the light as to exhibit fitly that noble
outline, conveyed his teacup a very long way up from the table, at
dignified intervals, to his handsome and expressive mouth.
Agnes hastened to the elder gentleman at once, and drew him aside to
make her inquiries. Mr Foggo smiled, and took a pinch of snuff. “All
quite true,” said Mr Foggo; “he came to me yesterday with a paper in his
hand--a long story about next of kin wanted somewhere, and of two
children belonging to some poor widow woman, who had been lost sight of
a long time ago, one of whom was named Louis. That’s the story; it’s a
mare’s nest, Agnes, if you know what that is; but I thought it might
divert the boy; so instead of opposing, I furnished him for his journey,
and let him go without delay. No reason why the lad should not do his
endeavour for his own hand. It’s good for him, though it’s sure to be a
failure. He has told you perfectly true.”
“And where has he gone?” asked Agnes anxiously.
“It’s in one of the midland counties--somewhere beyond Birmingham--at
this moment I do not remember the place,” said Mr Foggo; “but I took a
note of it, and you’ll hear from him to-morrow. We’ve been hearing news
ourselves, Agnes. Did you tell her, Willsie, what fortune has come to
you and me?”
“No,” said Miss Willsie. She was turning her back upon her dutiful
nephew, and frowning darkly upon the teapot. The American had no chance
with his offended aunt.
“A far-away cousin of ours,” said Mr Foggo, who was very bland, and in a
gracious humour, “has taken it into his head to die; and a very bonny
place indeed, in the north country--a cosy little estate and a good
house--comes to me.”
“I am very glad,” said Agnes, brightening in sympathy; “that is good
news for everybody. Oh, Miss Willsie, how pleased Mr Foggo must be!”
Miss Willsie did not say a word--Mr Foggo smiled. “Then you think a cosy
estate a good thing, Agnes?” said the old gentleman. “I am rather
afraid, though you write books, you are not poetical; for that is not
the view of the subject taken by my nephew here.”
“I despise wealth,” said Mr Endicott. “An estate, sir, is so much dirty
soil. The mind is the true riches; a spark of genius is worth all the
inheritances in the world!”
“And that’s just so much the better for you, Foggie, my man,” cried Miss
Willsie suddenly; “seeing the inheritances of this world are very little
like to come to your share. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a lee!”
Mr Endicott took no notice of this abstract deliverance. “A very great
estate--the ancient feudal domain--the glens and the gorges of the
Highland chief, I respect, sir,” said the elevated Yankee; “but a man
who can influence a thousand minds--a man whose course is followed
eagerly by the eyes of half a nation--such a man is not likely to be
tempted to envy by a mile of indifferent territory. My book, by which I
can move a world, is my lever of Archimedes; this broadsheet”--and he
laid his hand upon the pages of the _Mississippi Gazette_--“is my
kingdom! Miss Atheling, I shall have the honour of paying my respects to
your family to-day. I shall soon take leave of Europe. I have learned
much--I have experienced much--I am rejoiced to think I have been able
to throw some light upon the manners and customs of your people; and
henceforward I intend to devote myself to the elucidation of my own.”
“We shall be very glad to see you, Mr Endicott,” said Agnes, who was
rather disposed to take his part, seeing he stood alone. “Now I must
hasten home and tell them. We were all very anxious; but every one will
be glad, Mr Foggo, to hear of you. We shall feel as if the good fortune
had come to ourselves.”
“Ay, Agnes, and so it might, if Marian, silly monkey, had kept a thought
for one that liked her well,” said Miss Willsie, as she went with her
young visitor. “Poor Harry! his uncle’s heart yearns to him; _our_ gear
will never go the airt of a fool like yon!” said Miss Willsie, growing
very Scotch and very emphatic, as she inclined her head in the direction
of Mr Endicott; “but Harry will be little heeding who gets the siller
_now_.”
Poor Harry! since he had heard of _it_--since he had known of Marian’s
engagement, he had never had the heart to make a single appearance in
Bellevue.
Mr Endicott remembered his promise; he went forth in state, as soon
after noon as he could go, with a due regard to the proper hour for a
morning call. Mr Endicott, though he had endured certain exquisite pangs
of jealousy, was not afraid of Louis; he could not suppose that any one
was so blind, having _his_ claims fairly placed before them, as to
continue to prefer another; such an extent of human perversity did not
enter into the calculations of Mr Endicott. And he was really “in love,”
like the rest of these young people. All the readers of the _Mississippi
Gazette_ knew of a certain lovely face, which brightened the
imagination of their “representative man,” and it was popularly expected
on the other side of the water, in those refined circles familiar with
Mr Endicott, that he was about to bring his bride home. He had an
additional stimulus from this expectation, and went forth to-day with
the determination of securing Marian Atheling. He was a little nervous,
because there was a good deal of real emotion lying at the bottom of his
heart; but, after all, was more doubtful of getting an opportunity than
of the answer which should follow when the opportunity was gained.
To his extreme amazement, he found Marian alone. He understood it in a
moment--they had left her on purpose--they comprehended his intentions!
She was pale, her beautiful eyes glistened, and were wet and dewy.
Perhaps she, too, had an intuition of what was coming. He thought her
subdued manner, the tremble in her voice, the eyes, which were cast down
so often, and did not care to meet his full gaze, were all signs of that
maiden consciousness about which he had written many a time. In the full
thought of this, the eloquent young American dispensed with all
preamble. He came to her side with the delightful benevolence of a lover
who could put this beautiful victim of his fascinations out of her
suspense at once. He addressed her by her name--he added the most
endearing words he could think of--he took her hand. The young beauty
started from him absolutely with violence. “What do you mean, sir?” said
Marian. Then she stood erect at a little distance, her eyes flashing,
her cheek burning, holding her hands tight together, with an air of
petulant and angry defiance. Mr Endicott was thunderstruck. “Did you not
expect me--do you not understand me?” said the lover, not yet daunted.
“Pardon me; I have shocked your delicate feelings. You cannot think I
mean to do it, Marian, sweet British rose? You know me too well for
that; you know my mind--you appreciate my feelings. You were born to be
a poet’s bride--I come to offer you a poet’s heart!”
Before he had concluded, Marian recovered herself; into the dewy eyes,
that had been musing upon Louis, the old light of girlish mischief came
arch and sweet. “I did not quite understand you, Mr Endicott,” said
Marian, demurely. “You alarmed me a little; but I am very much obliged,
and you are very good; only, I--I am sorry. I suppose you do not know
I--I am engaged!”
She said this with a bright blush, casting down her eyes. She thought,
after all, it was the honestest and the easiest fashion of dismissing
her new lover.
“Engaged! Marian, you did not know of me--you were not acquainted with
my sentiments,” cried the American. “Oh, for a miserable dream of
honour, will you blight my life and your own? You were not aware of my
love--you were ignorant of my devotion. Beautiful Mayflower! you are
free of what you did in ignorance--you are free for me!”
Marian snatched away her hand again with resentment. “I suppose you do
not mean to be very impertinent, Mr Endicott, but you are so,” cried the
indignant little beauty. “I do not like you--I never did like you. I am
very sorry, indeed, if you really cared for me. If I were free a hundred
times over--if I never had seen any one,” cried Marian vehemently,
blushing with sudden passion, and feeling disposed to cry, “I never
could have had anything to say to you. Mamma--oh, I am sure it is very
cruel!--Mamma, will you speak to Mr Endicott? He has been very rude to
me!”
Mamma, who came in at the moment out of the garden, started with
amazement to see the flushed cheeks of Marian, and Mr Endicott, who
stood in an appealing attitude, with the most crestfallen and astonished
face. Marian ran from the room in an instant, scarcely able to restrain
her tears of vexation and annoyance, till she was out of sight. Mrs
Atheling placed a chair for her daughter’s suitor very solemnly. “What
has happened?--what have you been saying, Mr Endicott?” said the
indignant mother.
“I have only been offering to your daughter’s acceptance all that a man
has to offer,” said the American, with a little real dignity. “It is
over; the young lady has made her own election--she rejects _me_! It is
well! it is but another depth of human suffering opening to _his_ feet
who must tread them all! But I have nothing to apologise for. Madam,
farewell!”
“Oh, stay a moment! I am very sorry--she is so young. I am sure she did
not mean to offend you,” said Mrs Atheling, with distress. “She is
engaged, Mr Endicott. Miss Willsie knew of it. I am sure I am grieved if
the foolish child has answered you unkindly; but she is engaged.”
“So I am aware, madam,” said Mr Endicott, gloomily; “may it be for her
happiness--may no poetic retribution attend her! As for me, my art is my
lifelong consolation. This, even, is for the benefit of the world; do
not concern yourself for me.”
But Mrs Atheling hastened up-stairs when he was gone, to reprove her
daughter. To her surprise, Marian defended herself with spirit. “He was
impertinent, mamma,” said Marian; “he said if I had known he cared for
me, I would not have been engaged. He! when everybody knows I never
would speak to him. It was he who insulted me!”
So Mr Endicott’s English romance ended, after all, in a paragraph which,
when the time comes, we shall feel a melancholy pleasure in transcribing
from the eloquent pages of the _Mississippi Gazette_.