The Athelings. Маргарет Олифант

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СКАЧАТЬ It was strange to see how dull and disenchanted this place looked when the beautiful face that brightened it was gone.

      So Mr Foggo S. Endicott took from his pocket his own paper, the Mississippi Gazette, and Harry possessed himself of the half of Miss Willsie’s Times. It was odd to observe the difference between them even in manner and attitude. Harry bent half over the table, with his hands thrust up into the thick masses of his curling hair; the American sat perfectly upright, lifting his thin broadsheet to the height of his spectacles, and reading loftily his own lucubrations. You could scarcely see the handsome face of Harry as he hung over his half of the paper, partly reading, partly dreaming over certain fond fancies of his own; but you could not only see the lofty lineaments of Foggo, which were not at all handsome, but also could perceive at a glance that he had “a remarkable profile,” and silently called your attention to it. Unfortunately, nobody in the present company was at all concerned about the profile of Mr Endicott. That philosophical young gentleman, notwithstanding, read his “Letter from England” in his best manner, and demeaned himself as loftily as if he were a “portrait of a distinguished literary gentleman” in an American museum. What more could any man do?

      Meanwhile Mr Foggo sat in his armchair steadily regarding the candle before him. He loved conversation, but he was not talkative, especially in his own house. Sometimes the old man’s acute eyes glanced from under his shaggy brow with a momentary keenness towards Harry—sometimes they shot across the table a momentary sparkle of grim contempt; but to make out from Mr Foggo’s face what Mr Foggo was thinking, was about the vainest enterprise in the world. It was different with his sister: Miss Willsie’s well-complexioned countenance changed and varied like the sky. You could pursue her sudden flashes of satisfaction, resentment, compassion, and injury into all her dimples, as easily as you could follow the clouds over the heavens. Nor was it by her looks alone that you could discover the fluctuating sympathies of Miss Willsie. Short, abrupt, hasty exclamations, broke from her perpetually. “The vagabond!—to think of that!” “Ay, that’s right now; I thought there was something in him.” “Bless me—such a story!” After this manner ran on her unconscious comments. She was a considerable politician, and this was an interesting debate; and you could very soon make out by her continual observations the political opinions of the mistress of Killiecrankie. She was a desperate Tory, and at the same moment the most direful and unconstitutional of Radicals. With a hereditary respect she applauded the sentiments of the old country-party, and clung to every institution with the pertinacity of a martyr; yet with the same breath, and the most delightful inconsistency, was vehement and enthusiastic in favour of the wildest schemes of reform; which, we suppose, is as much as to say that Miss Willsie was a very feminine politician, the most unreasonable of optimists, and had the sublimest contempt for all practical considerations when she had convinced herself that anything was right.

      “I knew it!” cried Miss Willsie, with a burst of triumph; “he’s out, and every one disowning him—a mean crew, big and little! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s setting a man forward to tell an untruth, and then letting him bear all the blame!”

      “He’s got his lawful deserts,” said Mr Foggo. This gentleman, more learned than his sister, took a very philosophical view of public matters, and acknowledged no particular leaning to any “party” in his general interest in the affairs of state.

      “I never can find out now,” said Miss Willsie suddenly, “what the like of Mr Atheling can have to do with this man—a lord and a great person, and an officer of state—but his eye kindles up at the name of him, as if it was the name of a friend. There cannot be ill-will unless there is acquaintance, that’s my opinion; and an ill-will at this lord I am sure Mr Atheling has.”

      “They come from the same countryside,” said Mr Foggo; “when they were lads they knew each other.”

      “And who is this Mr Atheling?” said Endicott, speaking for the first time. “I have a letter of introduction to Viscount Winterbourne myself. His son, the Honourable George Rivers, travelled in the States a year or two since, and I mean to see him by-and-by; but who is Mr Atheling, to know an English Secretary of State?”

      “He’s Cash and Ledger’s chief clerk,” said Mr Foggo, very laconically, looking with a steady eye at the candlestick, and bestowing as little attention upon his questioner as his questioner did upon him.

      “Marvellous! in this country!” said the American; but Mr Endicott belonged to that young America which is mightily respectful of the old country. He thought it vulgar to do too much republicanism. He only heightened the zest of his admiration now and then by a refined little sneer.

      “In this country! Where did ye ever see such a country, I would like to know?” cried Miss Willsie. “If it was but for your own small concerns, you ought to be thankful; for London itself will keep ye in writing this many a day. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it’s ingratitude! I’m a long-suffering person myself; but that, I grant, gets the better of me.”

      “Mr Atheling, I suppose, has not many lords in his acquaintance,” said Harry Oswald, looking up from his paper. “Endicott is right enough, aunt; he is not quite in the rank for that; he has better–” said Harry, something lowering his voice; “I would rather know myself welcome at the Athelings’ than in any other house in England.”

      This was said with a little enthusiasm, and brought the rising colour to Harry Oswald’s brow. His cousin looked at him, with a curl of his thin lip and a somewhat malignant eye. Miss Willsie looked at him hastily, with a quick impatient nod of her head, and a most rapid and emphatic frown. Finally, Mr Foggo lifted to the young man’s face his acute and steady eye.

      “Keep to your physic, Harry,” said Mr Foggo. The hapless Harry did not meet the glance, but he understood the tone.

      “Well, uncle, well,” said Harry hastily, raising his eyes; “but a man cannot always keep to physic. There are more things in the world than drugs and lancets. A man must have some margin for his thoughts.”

      Again Miss Willsie gave the culprit a nod and a frown, saying as plain as telegraphic communication ever said, “I am your friend, but this is not the time to plead.” Again Mr Endicott surveyed his cousin with a vague impulse of malice and of rivalry. Harry Oswald plunged down again on his paper, and was no more heard of that night.

      CHAPTER XV.

      THE PROPOSAL

      “I suppose we are not going to hear anything about it. It is very hard,” said Agnes disconsolately. “I am sure it is so easy to show a little courtesy. Mr Burlington surely might have written to let us know.”

      “But, my dear, how can we tell?” said Mrs Atheling; “he may be ill, or he may be out of town, or he may have trouble in his family. It is very difficult to judge another person—and you don’t know what may have happened; he may be coming here himself, for aught we know.”

      “Well, I think it is very hard,” said Marian; “I wish we only could publish it ourselves. What is the good of a publisher? They are only cruel to everybody, and grow rich themselves; it is always so in books.”

      “He might surely have written at least,” repeated Agnes. These young malcontents were extremely dissatisfied, and not at all content with Mrs Atheling’s explanation that he might be ill, or out of town, or have trouble in his family. Whatever extenuating circumstances there might be, it was clear that Mr Burlington had not behaved properly, or with the regard for other people’s feelings which Agnes concluded to be the only true mark of a gentleman. Even the conversation of last night, and the state and greatness of Mr Endicott, stimulated the impatience of the girls. “It is not for the book so much, as for the uncertainty,” Agnes said, as she disconsolately took out her sewing; but in fact it was just because they had so much certainty, СКАЧАТЬ