The Athelings

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.

CHAPTER XXV.

GOOD FORTUNE

This evening was extremely quiet, and something dull, to the inhabitants of Bellevue. Though everybody knew of the little adventure of Mr Endicott, the young people were all too reverential of the romance of youth themselves to laugh very freely at the disappointed lover. Charlie sat by himself in the best room, sedulously making out his case. Charlie had risen into a person of great importance at the office since his return, and, youth as he was, was trusted so far, under Mr Foggo’s superintendence, as to draw up the brief for the counsel who was to conduct this great case; so they had not even his presence to enliven the family circle, which was very dull without Louis. Then Agnes, for her part, had grown daily more self-occupied; Mrs Atheling pondered over this, half understood it, and did not ask a question on the subject. She glanced very often at the side-table, where her elder daughter sat writing. This was not a common evening occupation with Agnes; but she found a solace in that making of fables, and was forth again, appealing earnestly, with all the power and privilege of her art, not so much to her universal audience as to one among them, who by-and-by might find out the second meaning—the more fervent personal voice.

As for Marian and Rachel, they both sat at work somewhat melancholy, whispering to each other now and then, speaking low when they spoke to any one else. Papa was at his newspaper, reading little bits of news to them; but even Papa was cloudy, and there was a certain shade of dulness and melancholy over all the house.

Some one came to the door when the evening was far advanced, and held a long parley with Susan; the issue of which was, that Susan made her appearance in the parlour to ask information. “A man, ma’am, that Mr Louis appointed to come to him to-night,” said Susan, “and he wants to know, please, when Mr Louis is coming home.”

Mrs Atheling went to the door to answer the inquiry; then, having become somewhat of a plotter herself by force of example, she bethought her of calling Charlie. The man was brought into the best room; he was an ordinary-looking elderly man, like a small shopkeeper. He stated what he wanted slowly, without any of the town sharpness. He said the young gentleman was making out some account—as he understood—about Lord Winterbourne, and hearing that he had been once about the Hall in his young days, had come to him to ask some questions. He was a likely young gentleman, and summat in his own mind told the speaker he had seen his face afore, whether it were about the Hall, or where it were, deponent did not know; but thinking upon it, just bethought him at this moment that he was mortal like the old lord. Now the young gentleman—as he heard—had gone sudden away to the country, and the lady of the house where he lived had sent the perplexed caller here.

“I know very well about that quarter myself,” said Mrs Atheling. “Do you know the Old Wood Lodge? that belongs to us; and if you have friends in the village, I daresay I shall know your name.”

The man put up his hand to his forehead respectfully. “I knowed the old lady at the Lodge many a year ago,” said he. “My name’s John Morrall. I was no more nor a helper at the stables in my day; and a sister of mine had charge of some children about the Hall.”

“Some children—who were they?” said Charlie. “Perhaps Lord Winterbourne’s children; but that would be very long ago.”

“Well, sir,” said the man with a little confusion, glancing aside at Mrs Atheling, “saving the lady’s presence, I’d be bold to say that they was my lord’s, but in a sort of an—unlawful way; two poor little morsels of twins, that never had nothing like other children. He wasn’t any way kind to them, wasn’t my lord.”

“I think I know the children you mean,” said Charlie, to the surprise and admiration of his mother, who checked accordingly the exclamation on her own lips. “Do you know where they came from?—were you there when they were brought to the Hall?”

“Ay, sir, I know—no man better,” said Morrall. “Sally was the woman—all along of my lord’s man that she was keeping company with the same time, little knowing, poor soul, what she was to come to—that brought them unfortunate babbies out of London. I don’t know no more. Sally’s opinion was, they came out o’ foreign parts afore that; for the nurse they had with them, Sally said, was some outlandish kind of a Portugee.”

“A Portuguese!” exclaimed both the listeners in dismay—but Charlie added immediately, “What made your sister suppose she was a Portuguese?”

“Well, sir, she was one of them foreign kind of folks—but noways like my lady’s French maid, Sally said—so taking thought what she was, a cousin of ours that’s a sailor made no doubt but she was a Portugee—so she gave up the little things to Sally, not one of them able to say a word to each other; for the foreign woman, poor soul, knew no English, and Sally brought down the babbies to the Hall.”

“Does your sister live at Winterbourne?” asked Charlie.

“What, Sally, sir? poor soul!” said John Morrall, “to her grief she married my lord’s man, again all we could say, and he went pure to the bad, as was to be seen of him, and listed—and now she’s off in Ireland with the regiment, a poor creature as you could see—five children, ma’am, alive, and she’s had ten; always striving to do her best, but never able, poor soul, to keep a decent gown to her back.”

“Will you tell me where she is?” said Charlie, while his mother went hospitably away to bring a glass of wine, a rare and unusual dainty, for the refreshment of this most welcome visitor—“there is an inquiry going on at present, and her evidence might be of great value: it will be good for her, don’t fear. Let me know where she is.”

While Charlie took down the address, his mother, with her own hand, served Mr John Morrall with a slice of cake and a comfortable glass of port-wine. “But I am sure you are comfortable yourself—you look so, at least.”

“I am in the green-grocery trade,” said their visitor, putting up his hand again with “his respects,” “and got a good wife and three as likely childer as a man could desire. It ain’t just as easy as it might be keeping all things square, but we always get on; and lord! if folks had no crosses, they’d ne’er know they were born. Look at Sally, there’s a picture!—and after that, says I, it don’t become such like as us to complain.”

Finally, having finished his refreshment, and left his own address with a supplementary note, and touch of the forehead—“It ain’t very far off; glad to serve you, ma’am”—Mr John Morrall withdrew. Then Charlie returned to his papers, but not quite so composedly as usual. “Put up my travelling-bag, mother,” said Charlie, after a few ineffectual attempts to resume; “I’ll not write any more to-night; it’s just nine o’clock. I’ll step over and see old Foggo, and be off to Ireland to-morrow, without delay.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE OXFORD ASSIZES

April, as cloudless and almost as warm as summer, a day when all the spring was swelling sweet in all the young buds and primroses, and the broad dewy country smiled and glistened under the rising of that sun, which day by day shone warmer and fuller on the woods and on the fields. But the point of interest was not the country; it was not a spring festival which drew so many interested faces along the high-road. An expectation not half so amiable was abroad among the gentry of Banburyshire—a great many people, quite an unusual crowd, took their way to the spring assizes to listen to a trial which was not at all important on its own account. The defendants were not even known among the county people, nor was there much curiosity about them. It was a family quarrel which roused the kind and amiable expectations of all these excellent people,—The Honourable Anastasia Rivers against Lord Winterbourne. It was popularly anticipated that Miss Anastasia herself was to appear in the witness-box, and everybody who knew the belligerents, delighted at the prospect of mischief, hastened to be present at the fight.

And there was a universal gathering, besides, of all the people more immediately interested in this beginning of the war. Lord Winterbourne himself, with a certain ghastly levity in his demeanour, which sat ill upon his bloodless face, and accorded still worse with the mourner’s dress which he wore, graced the bench. Charlie Atheling sat in his proper place below, as agent for the defendant, within reach of the counsel for the same. His mother and sisters were with Miss Anastasia, in a very favourable place for seeing and hearing; the Rector was not far from them, very much interested, but exceedingly surprised at the unchanging paleness of Agnes, and the obstinacy with which she refused to meet his eye; for that she avoided him, and seemed overwhelmed by some secret and uncommunicated mystery, which no one else, even in her own family, shared, was clear enough to a perception quickened by the extreme “interest” which Lionel Rivers felt in Agnes Atheling. Even Rachel had been brought thither in the train of Miss Anastasia; and though rather disturbed by her position, and by the disagreeable and somewhat terrifying consciousness of being observed by Lord Winterbourne, in whose presence she had not been before, since the time she left the Hall—Rachel, with her veil over her face, had a certain timid enjoyment of the bustle and novelty of the scene. Louis, too, was there, sent down on the previous night with a commission from Mr Foggo; there was no one wanting. The two or three who knew the tactics of the day, awaited their disclosure with great secret excitement, speculating upon their effect; and those who did not, looked on eagerly with interest and anxiety and hope.

Only Agnes sat drawing back from them, between her mother and sister, letting her veil hang with a pitiful unconcern in thick double folds half over her pale face. She did not care to lift her eyes; she looked heavy, wretched, spiritless; she could not keep her thoughts upon the smiling side of the picture; she thought only of the sudden blow about to fall—of the bitter sense of deception and craftiness, of the overwhelming disappointment which this day must bring forth.

The case commenced. Lord Winterbourne’s counsel stated the plea of his noble client; it did not occupy a very long time, for no one supposed it very important. The statement was, that Miss Bridget Atheling had been presented by the late Lord Winterbourne with a life-interest in the little property involved; that the Old Wood Lodge, the only property in the immediate neighbourhood which was not in the peaceful possession of Lord Winterbourne, had never been separated or alienated from the estate; that, in fact, the gift to Miss Bridget was a mere tenant’s claim upon the house during her lifetime, with no power of bequest whatever; and the present Lord Winterbourne’s toleration of its brief occupancy by the persons in possession, was merely a good-humoured carelessness on the part of his lordship of a matter not sufficiently important to occupy his thoughts. The only evidence offered was the distinct enumeration of the Old Wood Lodge along with the Old Wood House, and the cottages in the village of Winterbourne, as in possession of the family at the accession of the late lord; and the learned gentleman concluded his case by declaring that he confidently challenged his opponent to produce any deed or document whatever which so much as implied that the property had been bestowed upon Bridget Atheling. No deed of gift—no conveyance—nothing whatever in the shape of title-deeds, he was confident, existed to support the claim of the defendant; a claim which, if it was not a direct attempt to profit by the inadvertence of his noble client, was certainly a very ugly and startling mistake.

So far everything was brief enough, and conclusive enough, as it appeared. The audience was decidedly disappointed: if the answer was after this style, there was no “fun” to be expected, and it had been an entire hoax which seduced the Banburyshire notabilities to waste the April afternoon in a crowded court-house. But Miss Anastasia, swelling with anxiety and yet with triumph, was visible to every one; visible also to one eye was something very different—Agnes, pale, shrinking, closing her eyes, looking as if she would faint. The Rector made his way behind, and spoke to her anxiously. He was afraid she was ill; could he assist her through the crowd? Agnes turned her face to him for a moment, and her eyes, which looked so dilated and pitiful, but only said “No, no,” in a hurried whisper, and turned again. The counsel on the other side had risen, and was about to begin the defence.

“My learned brother is correct, and doubtless knows himself to be so,” said the advocate of the Athelings. “We have no deed to produce, though we have something nearly as good; but, my lord, I am instructed suddenly to change the entire ground of my plea. Certain information which has come to the knowledge of my clients, but which it was not their wish to make public at present, has been now communicated to me; and I beg to object at once to the further progress of the suit, on a ground which your lordship will at once acknowledge to be just and forcible. I assert that the present bearer of the title is not the true Lord Winterbourne.”

There rose immediately a hum and murmur of the strangest character—not applause, not disapproval—simple consternation, so extreme that no one could restrain its utterance. People rose up and stared at the speaker, as if he had been seized with sudden madness in their presence; then there ensued a scene of much tumult and agitation. The judges on the bench interposed indignantly. The counsel for Lord Winterbourne sprang to his feet, appealing with excitement to their lordships—was this to be permitted? Even the audience, Lord Winterbourne’s neighbours, who had no love for him, pressed forward as if to support him in this crisis, and with resentment and disapproval looked upon Miss Anastasia, to whom every one turned instinctively, as to a conspirator who had overshot the mark. It was scarcely possible for the daring speaker to gain himself a hearing. When he did so, at last, it was rather as a culprit than an accuser. But even the frown of a chief-justice did not appal a man who held Charlie Atheling’s papers in his hands; he was heard again, declaring, with force and dignity, that he was incapable of making such a statement without proofs in his possession which put it beyond controversy. He begged but a moment’s patience, in justice to himself and to his client, while he placed an abstract of the case and the evidence in their lordships’ hands.