SEPTEMBER had begun, but my lord and his expected guests had not yet arrived at the Hall. Much talk and great preparations were reported in the village, and came in little rivulets of intelligence, through Hannah and the humble merchants at the place, to the Old Wood Lodge; but Agnes and Marian, who had not contrived to write to her, knew nothing whatever of Rachel, and vainly peeped in at the great gates of the park, early and late, for the small rapid figure which had made so great an impression upon their youthful fancy. Then came the question, should they speak to Louis, who was to be seen sometimes with a gun and a gamekeeper, deep in the gorse and ferns of Badgeley Wood. Hannah said this act of rebellious freedom had been met by a threat on the part of my lord to “have him up” for poaching, which threat only quickened the haughty boy in his love of sport. “You may say what you like, children, but it is very wrong and very sinful,” said Mrs Atheling, shaking her head with serious disapproval, “and especially if he brings in some poor gamekeeper, and risks his children’s bread;” and Mamma was scarcely to be satisfied with Hannah’s voluble and eager disclaimer—Mr Louis would put no man in peril. This excellent mother held her prejudices almost as firmly as her principles, and compassionately added that it was no wonder—poor boy, considering—for she could not understand how Louis could be virtuous and illegitimate, and stood out with a repugnance, scarcely to be overcome, against any friendship between her own children and these unfortunate orphans at the Hall.
One of these bright afternoons, the girls were in the garden discussing eagerly this difficult question; for it would be very sad to bring Rachel to the house, full of kind and warm expectations, and find her met by the averted looks of Mamma. Her two daughters, however, though they were grieved, did not find it at all in their way to criticise the opinions of their mother; they concerted little loving attacks against them, but thought of nothing more.
And these two found great occupation in the garden, where Bell and Beau played all the day long, and which Mrs Atheling commanded as she sat by the parlour window with her work-basket. This afternoon the family group was fated to interruption. One of the vehicles ascending the high-road, which was not far from the house, drew up suddenly at sight of these young figures in old Miss Bridget’s garden. Even at this distance a rather rough and very peremptory voice was audible ordering the groom, and then a singular-looking personage appeared on the grassy path. This was a very tall woman, dressed in an old-fashioned brown cloth pelisse and tippet, with an odd bonnet on her head which seemed an original design, contrived for mere comfort, and owning no fashion at all. She was not young certainly, but she was not so old either, as the archæological “detail” of her costume might have warranted a stranger in supposing. Fifty at the very utmost, perhaps only forty-five, with a fresh cheek, a bright eye, and all the demeanour of a country gentleman, this lady advanced upon the curious and timid girls. That her errand was with them was sufficiently apparent from the moment they saw her, and they stood together very conscious, under the steady gaze of their approaching visitor, continuing to occupy themselves a little with the children, yet scarcely able to turn from this unknown friend. She came along steadily, without a pause, holding still in her hand the small riding-whip which had been the sceptre of her sway over the two stout grey ponies waiting in the high-road—came along steadily to the door, pushed open the gate, entered upon them without either compliment or salutation, and only, when she was close upon the girls, paused for an instant to make the brusque and sudden inquiry, “Well, young people, who are you?”
They did not answer for the moment, being surprised in no small degree by such a question; upon which the stranger repeated it rather more peremptorily. “We are called Atheling,” said Agnes, with a mixture of pride and amusement. The lady laid her hand heavily upon the girl’s shoulder, and turned her half round to the light. “What relation?” said this singular inquisitor; but while she spoke, there became evident a little moistening and relaxation of her heavy grey eyelid, as if it was with a certain emotion she recalled the old owner of the old lodge, whom she did not name.
“My father was Miss Bridget’s nephew; she left the house to him,” said Agnes; and Marian too drew near in wondering regard and sympathy, as two big drops, like the thunder-rain, fell suddenly and quietly over this old lady’s cheeks.
“So! you are Will Atheling’s daughters,” said their visitor, a little more roughly than before, as if from some shame of her emotion; “and that is your mother at the window. Where’s Hannah? for I suppose you don’t know me.”
“No,” said Agnes, feeling rather guilty; it seemed very evident that this lady was a person universally known.
“Will Atheling married—married—whom did he marry?” said the visitor, making her way to the house, and followed by the girls. “Eh! don’t you know, children, what was your mother’s name? Franklin? yes, to be sure, I remember her a timid pretty sort of creature; ah! just like Will.”
By this time they were at the door of the parlour, which she opened with an unhesitating hand. Mrs Atheling, who had seen her from the window, was evidently prepared to receive the stranger, and stood up to greet her with a little colour rising on her cheek, and, as the girls were astonished to perceive, water in her eyes.
This abrupt and big intruder into the family room showed more courtesy to the mother than she had done to the girls; she made a sudden curtsy, which expression of respect seemed to fill up all the requirements of politeness in her eyes, and addressed Mrs Atheling at once, without any prelude. “Do you remember me?”
“I think so—Miss Rivers?” said Mrs Atheling with considerable nervousness.
“Just so—Anastasia Rivers—once not any older than yourself. So—so—and here are you and all your children in my old professor’s room.”
“We have made no change in it; everything is left as it was,” said Mrs Atheling.
“The more’s the pity,” answered the abrupt and unscrupulous caller. “Why, it’s not like them—not a bit; as well dress them in her old gowns, dear old soul! Ay well, it was a long life—no excuse for grieving; but at the last, you see, at the last, it’s come to its end.”
“We did not see her,” said Mrs Atheling, with an implied apology for “want of feeling,” “for more than twenty years. Some one, for some reason, we cannot tell what, prejudiced her mind against William and me.”
“Some one!” said Miss Rivers, with an emphatic toss of her head. “You don’t know of course who it was. I do: do you wish me to tell you?”
Mrs Atheling made no answer. She looked down with some confusion, and began to trifle with the work which all this time had lain idly on her knee.
“If there’s any ill turn he can do you now,” said Miss Rivers pointedly, “he will not miss the chance, take my word for it; and in case he tries it, let me know. Will Atheling and I are old friends, and I like the look of the children. Good girls, are they? And is this all your family?”
“All I have alive but one boy,” said Mrs Atheling.
“Ah!” said her visitor, looking up quickly. “Lost some?—never mind, child, you’ll find them again; and here am I, in earth and heaven a dry tree!”
After a moment’s pause she began to speak again, in an entirely different tone. “These young ones must come to see me,” said their new friend—“I like the look of them. You are very pretty, my dear, you are quite as good as a picture; but I like your sister just as well as you. Come here, child. Have you had a good education? Are you clever? Nonsense! Why do you blush? People can’t have brains without knowing of it. Are you clever, I say?”
“I don’t think so,” said Agnes, unable to restrain a smile; “but mamma does, and so does Marian.” Here she came to an abrupt conclusion, blushing at herself. Miss Rivers rose up from her seat, and stood before her, looking down into the shy eyes of the young genius with all the penetrating steadiness of her own.
“I like an honest girl,” said the Honourable Anastasia, patting Agnes’s shoulder rather heavily with her strong hand. “Marian—is she called Marian? That’s not an Atheling name. Why didn’t you call her Bride?”
“She is named for me,” said Mrs Atheling with some dignity. And then she added, faltering, “We had a Bridget too; but——”
“Never mind,” said Miss Rivers, lifting her hand quickly—“never mind, you’ll find them again. She’s very pretty—prettier than any one I know about Banburyshire; but for heaven’s sake, child, mind what you’re about, and don’t let any one put nonsense in your head. Your mother could tell you what comes of such folly, and so could I. By the by, children, you are much of an age. Do you know anything of those poor children at the Hall?”
“We know Rachel,” said Agnes eagerly. “We met her at Richmond, and were very fond of her; and I suppose she is coming here.”
“Rachel!” said Miss Rivers, with a little contempt. “I mean the boy. Has Will Atheling seen the boy?”
“My husband met him once when he came here first,” said Mrs Atheling; “and he fancied—fancied—imagined—he was like——”
“My father!” The words were uttered with an earnestness and energy which brought a deep colour over those unyouthful cheeks. “Yes, to be sure—every one says the same. I’d give half my fortune to know the true story of that boy!”
“Rachel says,” interposed Agnes, eagerly taking advantage of anything which could be of service to her friend, “that Louis will not believe that they belong to Lord Winterbourne.”
The eyes of the Honourable Anastasia flashed positive lightning; then a shadow came over her face. “That’s nothing,” she said abruptly. “No one who could help it would be content to belong to him. Now, I’ll send some day for the children: send them over to see me, will you? Ah, where’s Hannah—does she suit you? She was very good to her, dear old soul!”
“And she is very good to the children,” said Mrs Atheling, as she followed her visitor punctiliously to the door. When they reached it, Miss Rivers turned suddenly round upon her—
“You are not rich, are you? Don’t be offended; but, if you are able, change all this. I’m glad to see you in the house; but this, you know, this is like her gowns and her turbans—make a change.”
Here Hannah appeared from her kitchen, curtsying deeply to Miss Taesie, who held a conversation with her at the gate; and finally went away, with her steady step and her riding-whip, having first plucked one of the late pale roses from the wall. Mrs Atheling came in with a degree of agitation not at all usual to the family mother. “The first time I ever saw her,” said Mrs Atheling, “when I was a young girl newly married, and she a proud young beauty just on the eve of the same. I remember her, in her hat and her riding-habit, pulling a rose from Aunt Bridget’s porch—and there it is again.”
“Ma’am,” said Hannah, coming in to spread the table, “Miss Taesie never comes here, late or early, but she gathers a rose.”