“And what do you think of our domestic politics, on the other side of the Atlantic?” asked Papa, joining the more general conversation: “a pretty set of fellows manage us in Old England here. I never take up a newspaper but there’s a new job in it. If it were only for other countries, they might have a sense of shame!”
“Well, sir,” said Mr Endicott, “considering all things—considering the worn-out circumstances of the old country, your oligarchy and your subserviency, I am rather disposed, on the whole, to be in favour of the government of England. So far as a limited intelligence goes, they really appear to me to get on pretty well.”
“Humph!” said Mr Atheling. He was quite prepared for a dashing republican denunciation, but this cool patronage stunned the humble politician—he did not comprehend it. “However,” he continued, reviving after a little, and rising into triumph, “there is principle among them yet. They cannot tolerate a man who wants the English virtue of keeping his word; no honourable man will keep office with a traitor. Winterbourne’s out. There’s some hope for the country when one knows that.”
“And who is Winterbourne, papa?” asked Agnes, who was near her father.
Mr Atheling was startled. “Who is Lord Winterbourne, child? why, a disgraced minister—everybody knows!”
“You speak as if you were glad,” said Agnes, possessed with a perfectly unreasonable pertinacity: “do you know him, papa,—has he done anything to you?”
“I!” cried Mr Atheling, “how should I know him? There! thread your needle, and don’t ask ridiculous questions. Lord Winterbourne for himself is of no consequence to me.”
From which everybody present understood immediately that this unknown personage was of consequence to Mr Atheling—that Papa certainly knew him, and that he had “done something” to call for so great an amount of virtuous indignation. Even Mr Endicott paused in the little account he proposed to give of Viscount Winterbourne’s title and acquirements, and his own acquaintance with the Honourable George Rivers, his lordship’s only son. A vision of family feuds and mysteries crossed the active mind of the American: he stopped to make a mental note of this interesting circumstance; for Mr Endicott did not disdain to embellish his “letters” now and then with a fanciful legend, and this was certainly “suggestive” in the highest degree.
“I remember,” said Mrs Atheling, suddenly, “when we were first married, we went to visit an old aunt of papa’s, who lived quite close to Winterbourne Hall. Do you remember old Aunt Bridget, William? We have not heard anything of her for many a day; she lived in an old house, half made of timber, and ruinous with ivy. I remember it very well; I thought it quite pretty when I was a girl.”
“Ruinous! you mean beautiful with ivy, mamma,” said Marian.