The Athelings. Маргарет Олифант
by superior minds, is not, as a general principle, at all liked by the objects of it. Harry Oswald, under the eye of his cousin’s curious inspection, had the greatest mind in the world to knock that cousin down.
“And what do you think of our domestic politics, on the other side of the Atlantic?” asked Papa, joining the more general conversation: “a pretty set of fellows manage us in Old England here. I never take up a newspaper but there’s a new job in it. If it were only for other countries, they might have a sense of shame!”
“Well, sir,” said Mr Endicott, “considering all things—considering the worn-out circumstances of the old country, your oligarchy and your subserviency, I am rather disposed, on the whole, to be in favour of the government of England. So far as a limited intelligence goes, they really appear to me to get on pretty well.”
“Humph!” said Mr Atheling. He was quite prepared for a dashing republican denunciation, but this cool patronage stunned the humble politician—he did not comprehend it. “However,” he continued, reviving after a little, and rising into triumph, “there is principle among them yet. They cannot tolerate a man who wants the English virtue of keeping his word; no honourable man will keep office with a traitor. Winterbourne’s out. There’s some hope for the country when one knows that.”
“And who is Winterbourne, papa?” asked Agnes, who was near her father.
Mr Atheling was startled. “Who is Lord Winterbourne, child? why, a disgraced minister—everybody knows!”
“You speak as if you were glad,” said Agnes, possessed with a perfectly unreasonable pertinacity: “do you know him, papa,—has he done anything to you?”
“I!” cried Mr Atheling, “how should I know him? There! thread your needle, and don’t ask ridiculous questions. Lord Winterbourne for himself is of no consequence to me.”
From which everybody present understood immediately that this unknown personage was of consequence to Mr Atheling—that Papa certainly knew him, and that he had “done something” to call for so great an amount of virtuous indignation. Even Mr Endicott paused in the little account he proposed to give of Viscount Winterbourne’s title and acquirements, and his own acquaintance with the Honourable George Rivers, his lordship’s only son. A vision of family feuds and mysteries crossed the active mind of the American: he stopped to make a mental note of this interesting circumstance; for Mr Endicott did not disdain to embellish his “letters” now and then with a fanciful legend, and this was certainly “suggestive” in the highest degree.
“I remember,” said Mrs Atheling, suddenly, “when we were first married, we went to visit an old aunt of papa’s, who lived quite close to Winterbourne Hall. Do you remember old Aunt Bridget, William? We have not heard anything of her for many a day; she lived in an old house, half made of timber, and ruinous with ivy. I remember it very well; I thought it quite pretty when I was a girl.”
“Ruinous! you mean beautiful with ivy, mamma,” said Marian.
“No, my dear; ivy is a very troublesome thing,” said Mrs Atheling, “and makes a very damp house, I assure you, though it looks pretty. This was just upon the edge of a wood, and on a hill. There was a very fine view from it; all the spires, and domes, and towers looked beautiful with the morning sun upon them. I suppose Aunt Bridget must still be living, William? I wonder why she took offence at us. What a pleasant place that would have been to take the children in summer! It was called the Old Wood Lodge, and there was a larger place near which was the Old Wood House, and the nearest house to that, I believe, was the Hall. It was a very pretty place; I remember it so well.”
Agnes and Marian exchanged glances; this description was quite enough to set their young imaginations a-glow;—perhaps, for the sake of her old recollections, Mamma would like this better than the sea-side.
“Should you like to go again, mamma?” said Agnes, in a half whisper. Mamma smiled, and brightened, and shook her head.
“No, my dear, no; you must not think of such a thing—travelling is so very expensive,” said Mrs Atheling; but the colour warmed and brightened on her cheek with pleasure at the thought.
“And of course there’s another family of children,” said Papa, in a somewhat sullen under-tone. “Aunt Bridget, when she dies, will leave the cottage to one of them. They always wanted it. Yes, to be sure,—to him that hath shall be given,—it is the way of the world.”
“William, William; you forget what you say!” cried Mrs Atheling, in alarm.
“I mean no harm, Mary,” said Papa, “and the words bear that meaning as well as another: it is the way of the world.”
“Had I known your interest in the family, I might have brought you some information,” interposed Mr Endicott. “I have a letter of introduction to Viscount Winterbourne—and saw a great deal of the Honourable George Rivers when he travelled in the States.”
“I have no interest in them—not the slightest,” said Mr Atheling, hastily; and Harry Oswald moved away from where he had been standing to resume his place by Marian, a proceeding which instantly distracted the attention of his cousin and rival. The girls were talking to each other of this new imaginary paradise. Harry Oswald could not explain how it was, but he began immediately with all his skill to make a ridiculous picture of the old house, which was half made of timber, and ruinous with ivy: he could not make out why he listened with such a jealous pang to the very name of this Old Wood Lodge.
CHAPTER XX.
AUNT BRIDGET
“Very strange!” said Mr Atheling—he had just laid upon the breakfast-table a letter edged with black, which had startled them all for the moment into anxiety,—“very strange!”
“What is very strange?—who is it, William?” asked Mrs Atheling, anxiously.
“Do you remember how you spoke of her last night?—only last night—my Aunt Bridget, of whom we have not heard for years? I could almost be superstitious about this,” said Papa. “Poor old lady! she is gone at last.”
Mrs Atheling read the letter eagerly. “And she spoke of us, then?—she was sorry. Who could have persuaded her against us, William?” said the good mother—“and wished you should attend her funeral. You will go?—surely you must go.” But as she spoke, Mrs Atheling paused and considered—travelling is not so easy a matter, when people have only two hundred a-year.
“It would do her no pleasure now, Mary,” said Mr Atheling, with a momentary sadness. “Poor Aunt Bridget; she was the last of all the old generation; and now it begins to be our turn.”
In the mean time, however, it was time for the respectable man of business to be on his way to his office. His wife brushed his hat with gravity, thinking upon his words. The old old woman who was gone, had left no responsibility behind her; but these children!—how could the father and the mother venture to die, and leave these young ones in the unfriendly world!
Charlie had gone to his office an hour ago—other studies, heavier and more discouraging even than the grammars, lay in the big law-books of Mr Foggo’s office, to be conquered by this big boy. Throughout the day he had all the miscellaneous occupations which generally fall to the lot of the youngest clerk. Charlie said nothing about it to any one, but went in at these ponderous tomes in the morning. They were frightfully tough reading, and he was not given to literature; he shook his great fist at them, his natural enemies, and went in and conquered. These studies were pure pugilism so far as Charlie was concerned: he knocked down his ponderous opponent, mastered him, stowed away all his wisdom in his own prodigious memory, and replaced him on his shelf with triumph. “Now that old fellow’s done for,” said Charlie—and next morning the young student “went in” at the next.
Agnes and Marian were partly in this secret, as they had been in the previous one; so these young ladies came down stairs at seven o’clock to make breakfast for Charlie. It was nine now, and the long morning began to merge into the ordinary day; but the girls arrested Mamma on the threshold of her daily business to make eager inquiry about the Aunt Bridget, of whom, the only one among all their relatives, they knew