CHAPTER XXXIII.
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.