“It is home—it is our own house,” said Agnes, getting up for the occasion a little pride.
Marian shrugged her pretty shoulders. “But Susan had better bring any one who calls into the other room.”
Yes, the other room, when they returned to it, had brightened again marvellously. Mrs Atheling had put on her new gown, and had a pink ribbon in her cap. As she sat by the window with her work-basket, she was pleasanter to look at than a dozen pictures; and the sweetest Raphael in the world was not so sweet as these two little lovely fairies playing upon the faded old rug at the feet of Mamma. Not all the luxuries and all the prettinesses of Mrs Edgerley’s drawingrooms, not even the river lying in the sunshine, and the ruffled silvery willows drooping round their little island, were a fit balance to this dearest little group, the mother and the children, who made beautiful beyond all telling the sombre face of home.
CHAPTER XII.
A NEW ERA.
It came to be rather an exciting business to Agnes and Marian making their report of what had happened at the Willows—for it was difficult to distract Mamma’s attention from Sir Langham, and Papa was almost angrily interested in everything which touched upon Lord Winterbourne. Rachel, of course, was a very prominent figure in their picture; but Mrs Atheling was still extremely doubtful, and questioned much whether it was proper to permit such an acquaintance to her daughters. She was very particular in her inquiries concerning this poor girl—much approved of Rachel’s consciousness of her own equivocal position—thought it “a very proper feeling,” and received evidence with some solemnity as to her “manners” and “principles.” The girls described their friend according to the best of their ability; but as neither of them had any great insight into character, we will not pretend to say that their audience were greatly enlightened,—and extremely doubtful was the mind of Mrs Atheling. “My dear, I might be very sorry for her, but it would not be proper for me to forget you in my sympathy for her,” said Mamma, gravely and with dignity. Like so many tender-hearted mothers, Mrs Atheling took great credit to herself for an imaginary severity, and made up her mind that she was proof to the assaults of pity—she who at the bottom was the most credulous of all, when she came to hear a story of distress.
And Papa, who had been moved at once to forbid their acquaintance with children of Lord Winterbourne’s, changed his mind, and became very much interested when he heard of Rachel’s horror of the supposed relationship. When they came to this part of the story, Mrs Atheling was scandalised, but Papa was full of pity. He said “Poor child!” softly, and with emotion; while Charlie pricked his big ear to listen, though no one was favoured with the sentiments on this subject of the big boy.
“And about the Rector and the old lady who lives at Abingford—papa, why did you never tell us about these people?” said Marian; “for I am sure you must know very well who Aunt Bridget’s neighbours were in the Old Wood Lodge.”
“I know nothing about the Riverses,” said Papa hastily—and Mr Atheling himself, sober-minded man though he was, grew red with an angry glow—“there was a time when I hated the name,” he added in an impetuous and rapid undertone, and then he looked up as though he was perfectly aware of the restraining look of caution which his wife immediately turned upon him.
“Such neighbours as are proper for us you will find out when we get there,” said Mrs Atheling quietly. “Papa has not been at Winterbourne for twenty years, and we have had too many things to think of since then to remember people whom we scarcely knew.”
“Then, I suppose, since papa hated the name once, and Rachel hates it now, they must be a very wicked family,” said Marian; “but I hope the Rector is not very bad, for Agnes’s sake.”