“He is not at home now—where is he?” said the Rector.
There was a moment’s hesitation. Agnes turned to look at him, her colour rising violently, and Mrs Atheling faltered in her reply.
“He has gone abroad to —— to make some inquiries,” said Mrs Atheling; “though he is so very young, people have great confidence in him; and—and it may turn out very important indeed, what he has gone about.”
Once more Agnes cast a troubled glance upon the Rector—he heard of it with such perfect unconcern—this inquiry which in a moment might strike his ambition to the dust.
He ceased at once speaking on this subject, which did not interest him. He said, turning to her, that he had brought some books about which he wanted Miss Atheling’s opinion. Agnes shrank back immediately in natural diffidence, but revived again, before she was aware, in all her old impulse of opposition. “If it is wrong to write books, is it right to form opinions upon them?” said Agnes. Mr Rivers imperceptibly grew a little loftier and statelier as she spoke.
“I think I have explained my sentiments on that point,” said the Rector; “there is no one whose appreciation I should set so high a value on as that of an intelligent woman.”
It was Agnes’s turn to blush and say nothing, as she met his eye. When Mr Rivers said “an intelligent woman,” he meant, though the expression was not romantic, his own ideal; and there lay his books upon the table, evidences of his choice of a critic. She began to busy herself with them, looking quite vacantly at the title-pages; wondering if there was anything besides books, and controversies, and opinions, to be found in the Rector’s heart.
When Mrs Atheling, in her natural pride and satisfaction, bethought her of that pretty little book with its two illustrations, and its cover in crimson and gold, she brought a copy to the table immediately. “My dear, perhaps Mr Rivers might like to look at this?” said Mrs Atheling. “It has only been a week published, but people speak very well of it already. It is a very pretty story. I think you would like it—Agnes, my love, write Mr Rivers’ name.”
“No, no, mamma!” cried Agnes hurriedly; she put away the red book from her, and went away from the table in haste and agitation. Very true, it was written almost for him—but she was dismayed at the idea of being called to write in it Lionel Rivers’ name.
He took up the book, however, and looked at it in the gravest silence. The Heir;—he read the title aloud, and it seemed to strike him; then without another word he put the little volume safely in his pocket, repeated his message to Louis, and a few minutes afterwards, somewhat grave and abstracted, took his leave of them, and hastened away.