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 Chapter 8 Lab
More Classes and Objects

Lab Objectives
 Be able to write a copy constructor
 Be able to write equals and toString methods
 Be able to use objects made up of other objects (aggregation)
 Be able to write methods that pass and return objects

Introduction
We discussed objects in Chapter 6, and we modeled a television in the Chapter 6 lab. We
want build on that lab, and work more with objects. This time, the object that we are
choosing is more complicated. It is made up of other objects. This is called aggregation.
A credit card is an object that is very common, but not as simple as a television.

Attributes of the credit card include information about the owner, as well as a balance and
credit limit. These things would be our instance fields. A credit card allows you to make
payments and charges. These would be methods. As we have seen before, there would
also be other methods associated with this object in order to construct the object and
access its fields.

Examine the UML diagram that follows. Notice that the instance fields in the
CreditCard class are other types of objects: a Person object and a Money object.
We can say that the CreditCard object “has a” Person object, which means
aggregation, and the Person object “has a” Address object as one of its instance
fields. This aggregation structure can create a very complicated object. We will try to
keep this lab reasonably simple.

To start with, we will be editing a partially written class, Money. The constructor that
you will be writing is a copy constructor. This means it should create a new object, but
with the same values in the instance variables as the object that is being copied.

Next, we will write the equals and toString methods. These are very common
methods that are needed when you write a class to model an object. You will also see a
compareTo method that is also a common method for objects.

After we have finished the Money class, we will write a CreditCard class. This class
contains Money objects, so you will use the methods that you have written to complete
the Money class. The CreditCard class will explore passing objects and the possible
security problems associated with it. We will use the copy constructor we wrote for the
Money class to create new objects with the same information to return to the user
through the accessor methods.

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ
Task #1 Writing a Copy Constructor
1. Copy the files Address.java (Code Listing 8.1), Person.java (Code Listing 8.2),
Money.java (Code Listing 8.3), MoneyDemo.java (Code Listing 8.4), and
CreditCardDemo.java (Code Listing 8.5) from the Student CD or as directed by
your instructor. Address.java, Person.java, MoneyDemo.java, and
CreditCardDemo.java are complete and will not need to be modified. We
will start by modifying Money.java.
2. Overload the constructor. The constructor that you will write will be a copy
constructor. It should use the parameter Money object to make a duplicate
Money object, by copying the value of each instance variable from the parameter
object to the instance variable of the new object.

Task #2 Writing the equals and toString methods

1. Write and document an equals method. The method compares the instance
variables of the calling object with instance variables of the parameter object for
equality and returns true if the dollars and the cents of the calling object
are the same as the dollars and the cents of the parameter object. Otherwise,
it returns false.
2. Write and document a toString method. This method will return a String
that looks like currency, including the dollar sign. Remember that if you have less
than 10 cents, you will need to put a 0 before printing the cents so that it
appears correctly with 2 decimal places.
3. Compile, debug, and test by running the MoneyDemo program. You should get
the following output:
The current amount is $500.00
Adding $10.02 gives $510.02
Subtracting $10.88 gives $499.14
$10.02 equals $10.02
$10.88 does not equal $10.02

Task #3 Passing and Returning Objects

1. Create the CreditCard class according to the UML diagram. It should have
data fields that include an owner of type Person, a balance of type Money,
and a creditLimit of type Money.
2. It should have a constructor that has two parameters, a reference to a Person
object to initialize the owner and a reference to a Money object to initialize the
creditLimit. The balance can be initialized to a Money object with a value
of zero. Remember you are passing in objects (passed by reference), so you are
passing the memory address of an object. If you want your CreditCard to have
its own creditLimit and balance, you should create a new object of each
using the copy constructor in the Money class.

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

3. It should have accessor methods to get the balance and the creditLimit.
Since these are Money objects (passed by reference), we don’t want to create a
security issue by passing out addresses to components in our CreditCard class,
so we must return a new object with the same values. Again, use the copy
constructor to create a new object of type Money that can be returned.
4. It should have an accessor method to get the information about the owner, but in
the form of a String that can be printed out. This can be done by calling the
toString method for the owner (an instance of the Person class).
5. It should have a method that will charge to the CreditCard by adding the
amount passed in the parameter to the balance, but only if it will not exceed
the creditLimit. If the creditLimit will be exceeded, the amount
should not be added, and an error message can be printed to the console.
6. It should have a method that will make a payment on the CreditCard by
subtracting the amount passed in the parameter from the balance.
7. Compile, debug, and test it out completely by running the CreditCardDemo
program.
8. You should get the output:
Diane Christie, 237J Harvey Hall, Menomonie, WI 54751
Balance: $0.00
Credit Limit: $1000.00

Attempting to charge $200.00

Charge: $200.00
Balance: $200.00

Attempting to charge $10.02

Charge: $10.02
Balance: $210.02

Attempting to pay $25.00

Payment: $25.00
Balance: $185.02

Attempting to charge $990.00

Exceeds credit limit
Balance: $185.02

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

Code Listing 8.1 (Address.java)
/**
This class defines an address using a street,
city, state, and zipcode.
*/

public class Address

{
// The street number and name
private String street;

// The city in which the address is located

private String city;

// The state in which the address is located

private String state;

// The zip code associated with the city and street

private String zip;

/**
Constructor
@param road Describes the street number and name.
@param town Describes the city.
@param st Describes the state.
@param zipCode Describes the zip code.
*/

public Address(String road, String town, String st,

String zipCode)
{
street = road;
city = town;
state = st;
zip = zipCode;
}

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

 /**
The toString method
@return Information about the address.
*/

public String toString()

{
return (street + ", " + city +
", " + state + " " + zip);
}
}

Code Listing 8.2 (Person.java)

/**
This class defines a person by name and address.
*/

public class Person

{
// The person's last name
private String lastName;

// The person's first name

private String firstName;

// The person's address

private Address home;

/**
Constructor
@param last The person's last name.
@param first The person's first name.
@param residence The person's address.
*/

public Person(String last, String first,

Address residence)
{
lastName = last;
firstName = first;
home = residence;
}

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

 /**
The toString method
@return Information about the person.
*/

public String toString()

{
return(firstName + " " + lastName +
", " + home.toString());
}
}

Code Listing 8.3 (Money.java)

/**
This class represents nonnegative amounts of money.
*/

public class Money

{
// The number of dollars
private long dollars;

// The number of cents

private long cents;

/**
Constructor
@param amount The amount in decimal format.
*/

public Money(double amount)

{
if (amount < 0)
{
System.out.println("Error: Negative amounts " +
"of money are not allowed.");
System.exit(0);
}
else
{
long allCents = Math.round(amount * 100);
dollars = allCents / 100;
cents = allCents % 100;
}
}

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

// ADD LINES FOR TASK #1 HERE
// Document and write a copy constructor

/**
The add method
@param otherAmount The amount of money to add.
@return The sum of the calling Money object
and the parameter Money object.
*/

public Money add(Money otherAmount)

{
Money sum = new Money(0);

sum.cents = this.cents + otherAmount.cents;

long carryDollars = sum.cents / 100;

sum.cents = sum.cents % 100;

sum.dollars = this.dollars +
otherAmount.dollars +
carryDollars;

return sum;
}

/**
The subtract method
@param amount The amount of money to subtract.
@return The difference between the calling Money
object and the parameter Money object.
*/

public Money subtract (Money amount)

{
Money difference = new Money(0);

if (this.cents < amount.cents)

{
this.dollars = this.dollars - 1;
this.cents = this.cents + 100;
}

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

 difference.dollars = this.dollars - amount.dollars;
difference.cents = this.cents - amount.cents;

return difference;
}

/**
The compareTo method
@param amount The amount of money to compare against.
@return -1 if the dollars and the cents of the
calling object are less than the dollars and
the cents of the parameter object.
0 if the dollars and the cents of the calling
object are equal to the dollars and cents of
the parameter object.
1 if the dollars and the cents of the calling
object are more than the dollars and the
cents of the parameter object.
*/

public int compareTo(Money amount)

{
int value;

if(this.dollars < amount.dollars)

value = -1;
else if (this.dollars > amount.dollars)
value = 1;
else if (this.cents < amount.cents)
value = -1;
else if (this.cents > amount.cents)
value = 1;
else
value = 0;

return value;
}

// ADD LINES FOR TASK #2 HERE

// Document and write an equals method
// Document and write a toString method
}

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

Code Listing 8.4 (MoneyDemo.java)
/**
This program demonstrates the Money class.
*/

public class MoneyDemo

{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
// Named constants
final int BEGINNING = 500; // Beginning balance
final Money FIRST_AMOUNT = new Money(10.02);
final Money SECOND_AMOUNT = new Money(10.02);
final Money THIRD_AMOUNT = new Money(10.88);

// Create an instance of the Money class with

// the beginning balance.
Money balance = new Money(BEGINNING);

// Display the current balance.

System.out.println("The current amount is " +
balance.toString());

// Add the second amount to the balance

// and display the results.
balance = balance.add(SECOND_AMOUNT);
System.out.println("Adding " + SECOND_AMOUNT +
" gives " + balance.toString());

// Subtract the third amount from the balance

// and display the results.
balance = balance.subtract(THIRD_AMOUNT);
System.out.println("Subtracting " + THIRD_AMOUNT +
" gives " + balance.toString());

// Determine if the second amount equals

// the first amount and store the result.
boolean equal = SECOND_AMOUNT.equals(FIRST_AMOUNT);

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

 // Display the result.
if(equal)
{
// The first and second amounts are equal.
System.out.println(SECOND_AMOUNT + " equals " +
FIRST_AMOUNT);
}
else
{
// The first and second amounts are not equal.
System.out.println(SECOND_AMOUNT +
" does not equal " +
FIRST_AMOUNT);
}

// Determine if the third amount equals

// the first amount and store the result.
equal = THIRD_AMOUNT.equals(FIRST_AMOUNT);

// Display the result.

if(equal)
{
// The third and first amounts are equal.
System.out.println(THIRD_AMOUNT + " equals " +
FIRST_AMOUNT);
}
else
{
// The third and first amounts are not equal.
System.out.println(THIRD_AMOUNT +
" does not equal " +
FIRST_AMOUNT);
}
}
}

Code Listing 8.5 (CreditCardDemo.java)

/**
This program demonstrates the CreditCard class.
*/

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

public class CreditCardDemo
{
public static void main(String[] args)
{
// Named constants
final Money CREDIT_LIMIT = new Money(1000);
final Money FIRST_AMOUNT = new Money(200);
final Money SECOND_AMOUNT = new Money(10.02);
final Money THIRD_AMOUNT = new Money(25);
final Money FOURTH_AMOUNT = new Money(990);

// Create an instance of the Person class.

Person owner = new Person("Christie", "Diane",
new Address("237J Harvey Hall",
"Menomonie", "WI", "54751"));

// Create an instance of the CreditCard class.

CreditCard visa = new CreditCard(owner,
CREDIT_LIMIT);

// Display the credit card information.

System.out.println(visa.getPersonals());
System.out.println("Balance: " + visa.getBalance());
System.out.println("Credit Limit: " +
visa.getCreditLimit());

System.out.println(); // To print a new line

// Attempt to charge the first amount and

// display the results.
System.out.println("Attempting to charge " +
FIRST_AMOUNT);
visa.charge(FIRST_AMOUNT);
System.out.println("Balance: " + visa.getBalance());

System.out.println(); // To print a new line

// Attempt to charge the second amount and

// display the results.
System.out.println("Attempting to charge " +
SECOND_AMOUNT);
visa.charge(SECOND_AMOUNT);
System.out.println("Balance: " + visa.getBalance());

System.out.println(); // To print a new line

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

 // Attempt to pay using the third amount and
// display the results.
System.out.println("Attempting to pay " +
THIRD_AMOUNT);
visa.payment(THIRD_AMOUNT);
System.out.println("Balance: " + visa.getBalance());

System.out.println(); // To print a new line

// Attempt to charge using the fourth amount and

// display the results.
System.out.println("Attempting to charge " +
FOURTH_AMOUNT);
visa.charge(FOURTH_AMOUNT);
System.out.println("Balance: " + visa.getBalance());
}
}

Copyright © 2016 Pearson Education, Inc., Hoboken NJ

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the top of their small sweet shrill voices, and tumbling over each other
unreproved. The good mother, to tell the truth, would have liked to cry a
little, if she could have managed it, and was much moved, and disposed to
take this, not as a mere matter of business, but as a tender office of
friendship and esteem on the part of the unconscious Mr Burlington. Mrs
Atheling could not help fancying that somehow this wonderful chance had
happened to Agnes because she was “a good girl.”
And until Papa and Charlie came home they were not very particular
about the conditions of the agreement; the event itself was the thing which
moved them: it quickened the slow pace of this dull afternoon to the most
extraordinary celerity; the moments flew now which had lagged with such
obstinate dreariness before the coming of that postman; and all the delight
and astonishment of the first moment remained to be gone over again at the
home-coming of Papa.
And Mr Atheling, good man, was almost as much disturbed for the
moment as his wife. At first he was incredulous—then he laughed, but the
laugh was extremely unsteady in its sound—then he read over the paper
with great care, steadily resisting the constant interruptions of Agnes and
Marian, who persecuted him with their questions, “What do you think of it,
papa?” before the excellent papa had time to think at all. Finally, Mr
Atheling laughed again with more composure, and spread out upon the
table the important “Memorandum of Agreement.” “Sign it, Agnes,” said
Papa; “it seems all right, and quite business-like, so far as I can see. She’s
not twenty-one, yet—I don’t suppose it’s legal—that child! Sign it, Agnes.”
This was by no means what Papa was expected to say; yet Agnes, with
excitement, got her blotting-book and her pen. This innocent family were as
anxious that Agnes’s autograph should be well written as if it had been
intended for a specimen of caligraphy, instead of the signature to a legal
document; nor was the young author herself less concerned; and she made
sure of the pen, and steadied her hand conscientiously before she wrote that
pretty “Agnes Atheling,” which put the other ugly printer-like handwriting
completely to shame. And now it was done—there was a momentary pause
of solemn silence, not disturbed even by Bell and Beau.
“So this is the beginning of Agnes’s fortune,” said Mr Atheling. “Now
Mary, and all of you, don’t be excited; every book does not succeed because
it finds a publisher; and you must not place your expectations too high; for
you know Agnes knows nothing of the world.”
It was very good to say “don’t be excited,” when Mr Atheling himself
was entirely oblivious of his newspaper, indifferent to his tea, and actually
did not hear the familiar knock of Mr Foggo at the outer door.
“And these half profits, papa, I wonder what they will be,” said Agnes,
glad to take up something tangible in this vague delight.
“Oh, something very considerable,” said Papa, forgetting his own
caution. “I should not wonder if the publisher made a great deal of money
by it: they know what they’re about. Get up and get me my slippers, you
little rascals. When Agnes comes into her fortune, what a paradise of toys
for Bell and Beau!”
But the door opened, and Mr Foggo came in like a big brown cloud.
There was no concealing from him the printed paper—no hiding the
overflowings of the family content. So Agnes and Marian hurried off for
half an hour’s practising, and then put the twins to bed, and gossiped over
the fire in the little nursery. What a pleasant night it was!
 CHAPTER XVI.

FAMILY EXCITEMENT.

It would be impossible to describe, after that first beginning, the pleasant

interest and excitement kept up in this family concerning the fortune of
Agnes. All kinds of vague and delightful magnificences floated in the minds
of the two girls: guesses of prodigious sums of money and unimaginable
honours were constantly hazarded by Marian; and Agnes, though she
laughed at, and professed to disbelieve, these splendid imaginations, was,
beyond all controversy, greatly influenced by them. The house held up its
head, and began to dream of fame and greatness. Even Mr Atheling, in a
trance of exalted and exulting fancy, went down self-absorbed through the
busy moving streets, and scarcely noticed the steady current of the
Islingtonian public setting in strong for the City. Even Mamma, going about
her household business, had something visionary in her eye; she saw a long
way beyond to-day’s little cares and difficulties—the grand distant lights of
the future streaming down on the fair heads of her two girls. It was not
possible, at least in the mother’s fancy, to separate these two who were so
closely united. No one in the house, indeed, could recognise Agnes without
Marian, or Marian without Agnes; and this new fortune belonged to both.
And then there followed all those indefinite but glorious adjuncts
involved in this beginning of fate—society, friends, a class of people, as
those good dreamers supposed, more able to understand and appreciate the
simple and modest refinement of these young minds;—all the world was to
be moved by this one book—everybody was to render homage—all society
to be disturbed with eagerness. Mr Atheling adjured the family not to raise
their expectations too high, yet raised his own to the most magnificent level
of unlikely greatness. Mrs Atheling had generous compunctions of mind as
she looked at the ribbons already half faded. Agnes now was in a very
different position from her who made the unthrifty purchase of a colour
which would not bear the sun. Mamma held a very solemn synod in her
own mind, and was half resolved to buy new ones upon her own
responsibility. But then there was something shabby in building upon an
expectation which as yet was so indefinite. And we are glad to say there
was so much sobriety and good sense in the house of the Athelings, despite
their glorious anticipations, that the ribbons of Agnes and Marian, though
they began to fulfil Mrs Atheling’s prediction, still steadily did their duty,
and bade fair to last out their appointed time.
This was a very pleasant time to the whole household. Their position,
their comfort, their external circumstances, were in no respect changed, yet
everything was brightened and radiant in an overflow of hope. There was
neither ill nor sickness nor sorrow to mar the enjoyment; everything at this
period was going well with them, to whom many a day and many a year
had gone full heavily. They were not aware themselves of their present
happiness; they were all looking eagerly forward, bent upon a future which
was to be so much superior to to-day, and none dreamed how little pleasure
was to be got out of the realisation, in comparison with the delight they all
took in the hope. They could afford so well to laugh at all their homely
difficulties—to make jokes upon Mamma’s grave looks as she discovered
an extravagant shilling or two in the household accounts—or found out that
Susan had been wasteful in the kitchen. It was so odd, so funny, to contrast
these minute cares with the golden age which was to come.
And then the plans and secret intentions, the wonderful committees
which sat in profound retirement; Marian plotting with Mamma what Agnes
should have when she came into her fortune, and Agnes advising, with the
same infallible authority, for the advantage of Marian. The vast and
ambitious project of the girls for going to the country—the country or the
sea-side—some one, they did not care which, of those beautiful unknown
beatific regions out of London, which were to them all fairyland and
countries of magic. We suppose nobody ever did enjoy the sea breezes as
Agnes and Marian Atheling, in their little white bed-chamber, enjoyed the
imaginary gale upon the imaginary sands, which they could perceive
brightening the cheek of Mamma, and tossing about the curls of the twin-
babies, at any moment of any night or day. This was to be the grand triumph
of the time when Agnes came into her fortune, though even Mamma as yet
had not heard of the project; but already it was a greater pleasure to the girls
than any real visit to any real sea-side in this visible earth ever could be.
And then there began to come, dropping in at all hours, from the earliest
post in the morning to the last startling delivery at nine o’clock at night,
packets of printed papers—the proof-sheets of this astonishing book. You
are not to suppose that those proofs needed much correcting—Agnes’s
manuscript was far too daintily written for that; yet every one read them
with the utmost care and attention, and Papa made little crosses in pencil on
the margin when he came to a doubtful word. Everybody read them, not
once only, but sometimes twice, or even three times over—everybody but
Charlie, who eat them up with his bread and butter at tea, did not say a
word on the subject, and never looked at them again. All Bellevue
resounded with the knocks of that incessant postman at Number Ten. Public
opinion was divided on the subject. Some people said the Athelings had
been extravagant, and were now suffering under a very Egyptian plague, a
hailstorm of bills; others, more charitable, had private information that both
the Miss Athelings were going to be married, and believed this continual
dropping to be a carnival shower of flowers and bonbons, the love-letters of
the affianced bridegrooms; but nobody supposed that the unconscious and
innocent postman stood a respectable deputy for the little Beelzebub, to
whose sooty hands of natural right should have been committed the custody
of those fair and uncorrectable sheets. Sometimes, indeed, this sable
emissary made a hasty and half-visible appearance in his own proper
person, with one startling knock, as loud, but more solemn than the postman
—“That’s the Devil!” said Charlie, with unexpected animation, the second
time this emphatic sound was heard; and Susan refused point-blank to open
the door.
How carefully these sheets were corrected! how punctually they were
returned!—with what conscientious care and earnestness the young author
attended to all the requirements of printer and publisher! There was
something amusing, yet something touching as well, in the sincere and
natural humbleness of these simple people. Whatever they said, they could
not help thinking that some secret spring of kindness had moved Mr
Burlington; that somehow this unconscious gentleman, most innocent of
any such intention, meant to do them all a favour. And moved by the
influence of this amiable delusion, Agnes was scrupulously attentive to all
the suggestions of the publisher. Mr Burlington himself was somewhat
amused by his new writer’s obedience, but doubtful, and did not half
understand it; for it is not always easy to comprehend downright and simple
sincerity. But the young author went on upon her guileless way, taking no
particular thought of her own motives; and on with her every step went all
the family, excited and unanimous. To her belonged the special joy of being
the cause of this happy commotion; but the pleasure and the honour and the
delight belonged equally to them all.
 CHAPTER XVII.

AN AMERICAN SKETCH.

“Here! there’s reading for you,” said Miss Willsie, throwing upon the
family table a little roll of papers. “They tell me there’s something of the
kind stirring among yourselves. If there’s one thing I cannot put up with, it’s
to see a parcel of young folk setting up to read lessons to the world!”
“Not Agnes!” cried Marian eagerly; “only wait till it comes out. I know
so well, Miss Willsie, how you will like her book.”
“No such thing,” said Miss Willsie indignantly. “I would just like to
know—twenty years old, and never out of her mother’s charge a week at a
time—I would just like any person to tell me what Agnes Atheling can have
to say to the like of me!”
“Indeed, nothing at all,” said Agnes, blushing and laughing; “but it is
different with Mr Endicott. Now nobody must speak a word. Here it is.”
“No! let me away first,” cried Miss Willsie in terror. She was rather
abrupt in her exits and entrances. This time she disappeared instantaneously,
shaking her hand at some imaginary culprit, and had closed the gate behind
her with a swing, before Agnes was able to begin the series of “Letters from
England” which were to immortalise the name of Mr Foggo S. Endicott.
The New World biographist began with his voyage, and all the “emotions
awakened in his breast” by finding himself at sea; and immediately
thereafter followed a special chapter, headed “Killiecrankie Lodge.”
“How delightful,” wrote the traveller, “so many thousand miles from
home, so far away from those who love us, to meet with the sympathy and
communion of kindred blood! To this home of the domestic affections I am
glad at once to introduce my readers, as a beautiful example of that Old
England felicity, which is, I grieve to say, so sadly outbalanced by
oppression and tyranny and crime! This beautiful suburban retreat is the
home of my respected relatives, Mr F. and his maiden sister Miss
Wilhelmina F. Here they live with old books, old furniture, and old pictures
around them, with old plate upon their table, old servants in waiting, and an
old cat coiled up in comfort upon their cosy hearth! A graceful air of
antiquity pervades everything. The inkstand from which I write belonged to
a great-grandfather; the footstool under my feet was worked by an old lady
of the days of the lovely Queen Mary; and I cannot define the date of the
china in that carved cabinet: all this, which would be out of place in one of
the splendid palaces of our buzy citizens, is here in perfect harmony with
the character of the inmates. It is such a house as naturally belongs to an old
country, an old family, and an old and secluded pair.
“My uncle is an epitome of all that is worthy in man. Like most
remarkable Scotsmen, he takes snuff; and to perceive his penetration and
wise sagacity, one has only to look at the noble head which he carries with a
hereditary loftiness. His sister is a noble old lady, and entirely devoted to
him. In fact, they are all the world to each other; and the confidence with
which the brother confides all his cares and sorrows to the faithful bosom of
his sister, is a truly touching sight; while Miss Wilhelmina F., on her part,
seldom makes an observation without winding up by a reference to ‘my
brother.’ It is a long time since I have found anywhere so fresh and
delightful an object of study as the different characteristics of this united
pair. It is beautiful to watch the natural traits unfolding themselves. One has
almost as much pleasure in the investigation as one has in studying the
developments of childhood; and my admirable relatives are as delightfully
unconscious of their own distinguishing qualities as even children could be.
“Their house is a beautiful little suburban villa, far from the noise and
din of the great city. Here they spend their beautiful old age in hospitality
and beneficence; beggars (for there are always beggars in England) come to
the door every morning with patriarchal familiarity, and receive their dole
through an opening in the door, like the ancient buttery-hatch; every
morning, upon the garden paths crumbs are strewed for the robins and the
sparrows, and the birds come hopping fearlessly about the old lady’s feet,
trusting in her gracious nature. All the borders are filled with wallflowers,
the favourite plant of Miss Wilhelmina, and they seemed to me to send up a
sweeter fragrance when she watered them with her delicate little engine, or
pruned them with her own hand; for everything, animate and inanimate,
seems to know that she is good.
“To complete this delightful picture, there is just that shade of solicitude
and anxiety wanting to make it perfect. They have a nephew, this excellent
couple, over whom they watch with the characteristic jealousy of age
watching youth. While my admirable uncle eats his egg at breakfast, he
talks of Harry; while aunt Wilhelmina pours out the tea from her
magnificent old silver teapot, she makes apologies and excuses for him.
They will make him their heir, I do not doubt, for he is a handsome and
prepossessing youth; and however this may be to my injury, I joyfully waive
my claim; for the sight of their tender affection and beautiful solicitude is a
greater boon to a student of mankind like myself than all their old
hereditary hoards or patrimonial acres; and so I say, Good fortune to Harry,
and let all my readers say Amen!”
We are afraid to say how difficult Agnes found it to accomplish this
reading in peace; but in spite of Marian’s laughter and Mrs Atheling’s
indignant interruptions, Agnes herself was slightly impressed by these fine
sentiments and pretty sentences. She laid down the paper with an air of
extreme perplexity, and could scarcely be tempted to smile. “Perhaps that is
how Mr Endicott sees things,” said Agnes; “perhaps he has so fine a mind
—perhaps—Now, I am sure, mamma, if you had not known Miss Willsie,
you would have thought it very pretty. I know you would.”
“Do not speak to me, child,” cried Mrs Atheling energetically. “Pretty!
why, he is coming here to-night!”
And Marian clapped her hands. “Mamma will be in the next one!” cried
Marian; “and he will find out that Agnes is a great author, and that we are
all so anxious about Charlie. Oh, I hope he will send us a copy. What fun it
would be to read about papa and his newspaper, and what everybody was
doing at home here in Bellevue!”
“It would be very impertinent,” said Mrs Atheling, reddening with anger;
“and if anything of the kind should happen, I will never forgive Mr Foggo.
You will take care to speak as little as possible to him, Marian; he is not a
safe person. Pretty! Does he think he has a right to come into respectable
houses and make his pretty pictures? You must be very much upon your
guard, girls. I forbid you to be friendly with such a person as that!”
“But perhaps”—said Agnes.
“Perhaps—nonsense,” cried Mamma indignantly; “he must not come in
here, that I am resolved. Go and tell Susan we will sit in the best room to-
night.”
But Agnes meditated the matter anxiously—perhaps, though she did not
say it—perhaps to be a great literary personage, it was necessary to “find
good in everything,” after the newest fashion, like Mr Endicott. Agnes was
much puzzled, and somewhat discouraged, on her own account. She did not
think it possible she could ever come to such a sublime and elevated view
of ordinary things; she felt herself a woeful way behind Mr Endicott, and
with a little eagerness looked forward to his visit. Would he justify himself
—what would he say?
 CHAPTER XVIII.

COMPANY.

The best room was not by any means so bright, so cheerful, or so kindly as
the family parlour, with its family disarrangement, and the amateur
paperhanging upon its walls. Before their guests arrived the girls made an
effort to improve its appearance. They pulled the last beautiful bunches of
the lilac to fill the little glass vases, and placed candles in the ornamental
glass candlesticks upon the mantelpiece. But even a double quantity of light
did not bring good cheer to this dull and solemn apartment. Had it been
winter, indeed, a fire might have made a difference; but it was early summer
—one of those balmy nights so sweet out of doors, which give an additional
shade of gloom to dark-complexioned parlours, shutting out the moon and
the stars, the night air and the dew. Agnes and Marian, fanciful and
visionary, kept the door open themselves, and went wandering about the
dark garden, where the summer flowers came slowly, and the last primrose
was dying pale and sweet under the poplar tree. They went silently and
singly, one after the other, through the garden paths, hearing, without
observing, the two different footsteps which came to the front door. If they
were thinking, neither of them knew or could tell what she was thinking
about, and they returned to the house without a word, only knowing how
much more pleasant it was to be out here in the musical and breathing
darkness, than to be shut closely within the solemn enclosure of the best
room.
But there, by the table where Marian had maliciously laid his paper, was
the stately appearance of Mr Endicott, holding high his abstracted head,
while Harry Oswald, anxious, and yet hesitating, lingered at the door,
eagerly on the watch for the light step of which he had so immediate a
perception when it came. Harry, who indeed had no great inducement to be
much in love with himself, forgot himself altogether as his quick ear
listened for the foot of Marian. Mr Endicott, on the contrary, added a loftier
shape to his abstraction, by way of attracting and not expressing admiration.
Unlucky Harry was in love with Marian; his intellectual cousin only aimed
at making Marian in love with him.
And she came in, slightly conscious, we admit, that she was the heroine
of the night, half aware of the rising rivalry, half-enlightened as to the
different character of these two very different people, and of the one motive
which brought them here. So a flitting changeable blush went and came
upon the face of Marian. Her eyes, full of the sweet darkness and dew of the
night, were dazzled by the lights, and would not look steadily at any one;
yet a certain gleam of secret mischief and amusement in her face betrayed
itself to Harry Oswald, though not at all to the unsuspicious American. She
took her seat very sedately at the table, and busied herself with her fancy-
work. Mr Endicott sat opposite, looking at her; and Harry, a moving shadow
in the dim room, hovered about, sitting and standing behind her chair.
Besides these young people, Mr Atheling, Mr Foggo, and Mamma, were
in the room, conversing among themselves, and taking very little notice of
the other visitors. Mamma was making a little frock, upon which she
bestowed unusual pains, as it seemed; for no civility of Mr Endicott could
gain any answer beyond a monosyllable from the virtuous and indignant
mistress of the house. He was playing with his own papers as Agnes and
Marian came to the table, affectionately turning them over, and looking at
the heading of the “Letter from England” with a loving eye.
“You are interested in literature, I believe?” said Mr Endicott. Agnes,
Marian, and Harry, all of them glancing at him in the same moment, could
not tell which he addressed; so there was a confused murmur of reply. “Not
in the slightest,” cried Harry Oswald, behind Marian’s chair. “Oh, but
Agnes is!” cried Marian; and Agnes herself, with a conscious blush,
acknowledged—“Yes, indeed, very much.”
“But not, I suppose, very well acquainted with the American press?” said
Mr Endicott. “The bigotry of Europeans is marvellous. We read your
leading papers in the States, but I have not met half-a-dozen people in
England—actually not six individuals—who were in the frequent habit of
seeing the Mississippi Gazette.”
“We rarely see any newspapers at all,” said Agnes, apologetically. “Papa
has his paper in the evenings, but except now and then, when there is a
review of a book in it——”
 “That is the great want of English contemporary literature,” interrupted
Mr Endicott. “You read the review—good! but you feel that something else
is wanted than mere politics—that votes and debates do not supply the
wants of the age!”
“If the wants of the age were the wants of young ladies,” said Harry
Oswald, “what would become of my uncle and Mr Atheling? Leave things
in their proper place, Endicott. Agnes and Marian want something different
from newspaper literature and leading articles. Don’t interfere with the
girls.”
“These are the slavish and confined ideas of a worn out civilisation,”
said the man of letters; “in my country we respect the opinions of our
women, and give them full scope.”
“Respect!—the old humbug!” muttered Harry behind Marian’s chair.
“Am I disrespectful? I choose to be judged by you.”
Marian glanced over her shoulder with saucy kindness. “Don’t quarrel,”
said Marian. No! Poor Harry was so glad of the glance, the smile, and the
confidence, that he could have taken Endicott, who was the cause of it, to
his very heart.
“The functions of the press,” said Mr Endicott, “are unjustly limited in
this country, like most other enlightened influences. In these days we have
scarcely time to wait for books. It is not with us as it was in old times, when
the soul lay fallow for a century, and then blossomed into its glorious epic,
or drama, or song! Our audience must perceive the visible march of mind,
hour by hour and day by day. We are no longer concerned about mere
physical commotions, elections, or debates, or votes of the Senate. In these
days we care little for the man’s opinions; what we want is an advantageous
medium for studying the man.”
As she listened to this, Agnes Atheling held her breath, and suspended
her work unawares. It sounded very imposing, indeed—to tell the truth, it
sounded something like that magnificent conversation in books over which
Marian and she had often marvelled. Then this simple girl believed in
everybody; she was rather inclined to suppose of Mr Endicott that he was a
man of very exalted mind.
“I do not quite know,” said Agnes humbly, “whether it is right to tell all
about great people in the newspapers, or even to put them in books. Do you
think it is, Mr Endicott?”
 “I think,” said the American, solemnly, “that a public man, and, above
all, a literary man, belongs to the world. All the exciting scenes of life come
to us only that we may describe and analyse them for the advantage of
others. A man of genius has no private life. Of what benefit is the keenness
of his emotions if he makes no record of them? In my own career,”
continued the literary gentleman, “I have been sometimes annoyed by
foolish objections to the notice I am in the habit of giving of friends who
cross my way. Unenlightened people have complained of me, in vulgar
phrase, that I ‘put them in the newspapers.’ How strange a misconception!
for you must perceive at once that it was not with any consideration of
them, but simply that my readers might see every scene I passed through,
and in reality feel themselves travelling with me!”
“Oh!” Agnes made a faint and very doubtful exclamation; Harry Oswald
turned on his heel, and left the room abruptly; while Marian bent very
closely over her work, to conceal that she was laughing. Mr Endicott
thought it was a natural youthful reverence, and gave her all due credit for
her “ingenuous emotions.”
“The path of genius necessarily reveals certain obscure individuals,” said
Mr Endicott; “they cross its light, and the poet has no choice. I present to
my audience the scenes through which I travel. I introduce the passengers
on the road. Is it for the sake of these passengers? No. It is that my readers
may be enabled, under all circumstances, to form a just realisation of me.
That is the true vocation of a poet: he ought to be in himself the highest
example of everything—joy, delight, suffering, remorse, and ruin—yes, I
am bold enough to say, even crime. No man should be able to suppose that
he can hide himself in an indescribable region of emotion where the poet
cannot follow. Shall murder be permitted to attain an experience beyond the
reach of genius? No! Everything must be possessed by the poet’s intuitions,
for he himself is the great lesson of the world.”
“Charlie,” said Harry Oswald behind the door, “come in, and punch this
fellow’s head.”
 CHAPTER XIX.

CONVERSATION.

Charlie came in, but not to punch the head of Mr Endicott. The big boy
gloomed upon the dignified American, pushed Harry Oswald aside, and
brought his two grammars to the table. “I say, what do you want with me?”
said Charlie; he was not at all pleased at having been disturbed.
“Nobody wanted you, Charlie,—no one ever wants you, you
disagreeable boy,” said Marian: “it was all Harry Oswald’s fault; he thought
we were too pleasant all by ourselves here.”
To which complimentary saying Mr Endicott answered by a bow. He
quite understood what Miss Marian meant! he was much flattered to have
gained her sympathy! So Marian pleased both her admirers for once, for
Harry Oswald laughed in secret triumph behind her chair.
“And you are still with Mr Bell, Harry,” said Mrs Atheling, suddenly
interposing. “I am very glad you like this place—and what a pleasure it
must be to all your sisters! I begin to think you are quite settled now.”
“I suppose it was time,” said Harry the unlucky, colouring a little, but
smiling more as he came out from the shadow of Marian’s chair, in
compliment to Marian’s mother; “yes, we get on very well,—we are not
overpowered with our practice; so much the better for me.”
“But you ought to be more ambitious,—you ought to try to extend your
practice,” said Mrs Atheling, immediately falling into the tone of an adviser,
in addressing one to whom everybody gave good advice.
“I might have some comfort in it, if I was a poet,” said Harry; “but to kill
people simply in the way of business is too much for me.—Well, uncle, it is
no fault of mine. I never did any honour to my doctorship. I am as well
content to throw physic to the dogs as any Macbeth in the world.”
“Ay, Harry,” said Mr Foggo; “but I think it is little credit to a man to
avow ill inclinations, unless he has the spirit of a man to make head against
them. That’s my opinion—but I know you give it little weight.”
 “A curious study!” said Mr Endicott, reflectively. “I have watched it
many times,—the most interesting conflict in the world.”
But Harry, who had borne his uncle’s reproof with calmness, reddened
fiercely at this, and seemed about to resent it. The study of character,
though it is so interesting a study, and so much pursued by superior minds,
is not, as a general principle, at all liked by the objects of it. Harry Oswald,
under the eye of his cousin’s curious inspection, had the greatest mind in
the world to knock that cousin down.
“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.
“No, my dear; ivy is a very troublesome thing,” said Mrs Atheling, “and
makes a very damp house, I assure you, though it looks pretty. This was just
upon the edge of a wood, and on a hill. There was a very fine view from it;
all the spires, and domes, and towers looked beautiful with the morning sun
upon them. I suppose Aunt Bridget must still be living, William? I wonder
why she took offence at us. What a pleasant place that would have been to
take the children in summer! It was called the Old Wood Lodge, and there
was a larger place near which was the Old Wood House, and the nearest
house to that, I believe, was the Hall. It was a very pretty place; I remember
it so well.”
Agnes and Marian exchanged glances; this description was quite enough
to set their young imaginations a-glow;—perhaps, for the sake of her old
recollections, Mamma would like this better than the sea-side.
“Should you like to go again, mamma?” said Agnes, in a half whisper.
Mamma smiled, and brightened, and shook her head.
“No, my dear, no; you must not think of such a thing—travelling is so
very expensive,” said Mrs Atheling; but the colour warmed and brightened
on her cheek with pleasure at the thought.
 “And of course there’s another family of children,” said Papa, in a
somewhat sullen under-tone. “Aunt Bridget, when she dies, will leave the
cottage to one of them. They always wanted it. Yes, to be sure,—to him that
hath shall be given,—it is the way of the world.”
“William, William; you forget what you say!” cried Mrs Atheling, in
alarm.
“I mean no harm, Mary,” said Papa, “and the words bear that meaning as
well as another: it is the way of the world.”
“Had I known your interest in the family, I might have brought you some
information,” interposed Mr Endicott. “I have a letter of introduction to
Viscount Winterbourne—and saw a great deal of the Honourable George
Rivers when he travelled in the States.”
“I have no interest in them—not the slightest,” said Mr Atheling, hastily;
and Harry Oswald moved away from where he had been standing to resume
his place by Marian, a proceeding which instantly distracted the attention of
his cousin and rival. The girls were talking to each other of this new
imaginary paradise. Harry Oswald could not explain how it was, but he
began immediately with all his skill to make a ridiculous picture of the old
house, which was half made of timber, and ruinous with ivy: he could not
make out why he listened with such a jealous pang to the very name of this
Old Wood Lodge.
 CHAPTER XX.

AUNT BRIDGET.

“Very strange!” said Mr Atheling—he had just laid upon the breakfast-table
a letter edged with black, which had startled them all for the moment into
anxiety,—“very strange!”
“What is very strange?—who is it, William?” asked Mrs Atheling,
anxiously.
“Do you remember how you spoke of her last night?—only last night—
my Aunt Bridget, of whom we have not heard for years? I could almost be
superstitious about this,” said Papa. “Poor old lady! she is gone at last.”
Mrs Atheling read the letter eagerly. “And she spoke of us, then?—she
was sorry. Who could have persuaded her against us, William?” said the
good mother—“and wished you should attend her funeral. You will go?—
surely you must go.” But as she spoke, Mrs Atheling paused and considered
—travelling is not so easy a matter, when people have only two hundred a-
year.
“It would do her no pleasure now, Mary,” said Mr Atheling, with a
momentary sadness. “Poor Aunt Bridget; she was the last of all the old
generation; and now it begins to be our turn.”
In the mean time, however, it was time for the respectable man of
business to be on his way to his office. His wife brushed his hat with
gravity, thinking upon his words. The old old woman who was gone, had
left no responsibility behind her; but these children!—how could the father
and the mother venture to die, and leave these young ones in the unfriendly
world!
Charlie had gone to his office an hour ago—other studies, heavier and
more discouraging even than the grammars, lay in the big law-books of Mr
Foggo’s office, to be conquered by this big boy. Throughout the day he had
all the miscellaneous occupations which generally fall to the lot of the
youngest clerk. Charlie said nothing about it to any one, but went in at these
ponderous tomes in the morning. They were frightfully tough reading, and
he was not given to literature; he shook his great fist at them, his natural
enemies, and went in and conquered. These studies were pure pugilism so
far as Charlie was concerned: he knocked down his ponderous opponent,
mastered him, stowed away all his wisdom in his own prodigious memory,
and replaced him on his shelf with triumph. “Now that old fellow’s done
for,” said Charlie—and next morning the young student “went in” at the
next.
Agnes and Marian were partly in this secret, as they had been in the
previous one; so these young ladies came down stairs at seven o’clock to
make breakfast for Charlie. It was nine now, and the long morning began to
merge into the ordinary day; but the girls arrested Mamma on the threshold
of her daily business to make eager inquiry about the Aunt Bridget, of
whom, the only one among all their relatives, they knew little but the name.
“My dears, this is not a time to ask me,” said Mrs Atheling: “there is
Susan waiting, and there is the baker and the butterman at the door. Well,
then, if you must know, she was just simply an old lady, and your
grandpapa’s sister; and she was once governess to Miss Rivers, and they
gave her the old Lodge when the young lady should have been married.
They made her a present of it—at least the old lord did—and she lived there
ever after. It had been once in your grandpapa’s family. I do not know the
rights of the story—you can ask about it some time from your papa; but
Aunt Bridget took quite a dislike to us after we were married—I cannot tell
you why; and since the time I went to the Old Wood Lodge to pay her a
visit, when I was a bride, I have never heard a kind word from her, poor old
lady, till to-day. Now, my dears, let me go; do you see the people waiting? I
assure you that is all.”
And that was all that could be learned about Aunt Bridget, save a few
unimportant particulars gleaned from the long conversation concerning her,
which the father and the mother, much moralising, fell into that night. These
young people had the instinct of curiosity most healthily developed; they
listened eagerly to every new particular—heard with emotion that she had
once been a beauty, and incontinently wove a string of romances about the
name of the aged and humble spinster; and then what a continual centre of
fancy and inquiry was that Old Wood Lodge!
A few days passed, and Aunt Bridget began to fade from her temporary
prominence in the household firmament. A more immediate interest
possessed the mind of the family—the book was coming out! Prelusive
little paragraphs in the papers, which these innocent people did not
understand to be advertisements, warned the public of a new and original
work of fiction by a new author, about to be brought out by Mr Burlington,
and which was expected to make a sensation when it came. Even the known
and visible advertisements themselves were read with a startling thrill of
interest. Hope Hazlewood, a History—everybody concluded it was the most
felicitous title in the world.
The book was coming out, and great was the excitement of the
household heart. The book came out!—there it lay upon the table in the
family parlour, six fair copies in shiny blue cloth, with its name in letters of
gold. These Mr Burlington intended should be sent to influential friends:
but the young author had no influential friends; so one copy was sent to
Killiecrankie Lodge, to the utter amazement of Miss Willsie, and another
was carefully despatched to an old friend in the country, who scarcely knew
what literature was; then the family made a solemn pause, and waited. What
would everybody say?
Saturday came, full of fate. They knew all the names of all those dread
and magnificent guides of public opinion, the literary newspapers; and with
an awed and trembling heart, the young author waited for their verdict. She
was so young, however, and in reality so ignorant of what might be the real
issue of this first step into the world, that Agnes had a certain pleasure in
her trepidation, and, scarcely knowing what she expected, knew only that it
was in the highest degree novel, amusing, and extraordinary that these
sublime and lofty people should ever be tempted to notice her at all. It was
still only a matter of excitement and curiosity and amusing oddness to them
all. If the young adventurer had been a man, this would have been a solemn
crisis, full of fate: it was even so to a woman, seeking her own
independence; but Agnes Atheling was only a girl in the heart of her family,
and, looking out with laughing eyes upon her fortune, smiled at fate.
It is Saturday—yes, Saturday afternoon, slowly darkening towards the
twilight. Agnes and Marian at the window are eagerly looking out, Mamma
glances over their bright heads with unmistakable impatience, Papa is
palpably restless in his easy-chair. Here he comes on flying feet, that big
messenger of fortune—crossing the whole breadth of Bellevue in two
strides, with ever so many papers in his hands. “Oh, I wonder what they
will say!” cries Marian, clasping her pretty fingers. Agnes, too breathless to
speak, makes neither guess nor answer—and here he comes!
It is half dark, and scarcely possible to read these momentous papers.
The young author presses close to the window with the uncut Athenæum.
There is Papa, half-risen from his chair; there is Mamma anxiously
contemplating her daughter’s face; there is Marian, reading over her
shoulder; and Charlie stands with his hat on in the shade, holding fast in his
hand the other papers. “One at a time!” says Charlie. He knows what they
are, the grim young ogre, but he will not say a word.
And Agnes begins to read aloud—reads a sentence or two, suddenly
stops, laughs hurriedly. “Oh, I cannot read that—somebody else take it,”
cried Agnes, running a rapid eye down the page; her cheeks are tingling, her
eyes overflowing, her heart beating so loud that she does not hear her own
voice. And now it is Marian who presses close to the window and reads
aloud. Well! after all, it is not a very astonishing paragraph; it is extremely
condescending, and full of the kindest patronage; recognises many beauties
—a great deal of talent; and flatteringly promises the young author that by-
and-by she will do very well. The reading is received with delight and
disappointment. Mrs Atheling is not quite pleased that the reviewer refuses
entire perfection to Hope Hazlewood, but by-and-by even the good mother
is reconciled. Who could the critic be?—innocent critic, witting nothing of
the tumult of kindly and grateful feelings raised towards him in a moment!
Mrs Atheling cannot help setting it down certainly that he must be some
unknown friend.
The others come upon a cooled enthusiasm—nobody feels that they have
said the first good word. Into the middle of this reading Susan suddenly
interposes herself and the candles. What tell-tales these lights are! Papa and
Mamma, both of them, look mighty dazzled and unsteady about the eyes,
and Agnes’s cheeks are burning crimson-deep, and she scarcely likes to
look at any one. She is half ashamed in her innocence—half as much
ashamed as if they had been love-letters detected and read aloud.
And then after a while they come to a grave pause, and look at each
other. “I suppose, mamma, it is sure to succeed now,” says Agnes, very
timidly, shading her face with her hand, and glancing up under its cover;
and Papa, with his voice somewhat shaken, says solemnly, “Children,
Agnes’s fortune has come to-night.”
 For it was so out of the way—so uncommon and unexpected a fortune,
to their apprehension, that the father and the mother looked on with wonder
and amazement, as if at something coming down, without any human
interposition, clear out of the hand of Providence, and from the treasures of
heaven.
Upon the Monday morning following, Mr Atheling had another letter. It
was a time of great events, and the family audience were interested even
about this. Papa looked startled and affected, and read it without saying a
word; then it was handed to Mamma: but Mrs Atheling, more
demonstrative, ran over it with a constant stream of comment and
exclamation, and at last read the whole epistle aloud. It ran thus:—
“Dear Sir,—Being intrusted by your Aunt, Miss Bridget Atheling, with
the custody of her will, drawn up about a month before her death, I have
now to communicate to you, with much pleasure, the particulars of the
same. The will was read by me, upon the day of the funeral, in presence of
the Rev. Lionel Rivers, rector of the parish; Dr Marsh, Miss Bridget’s
medical attendant; and Mrs Hardwicke, her niece. You are of course aware
that your aunt’s annuity died with her. Her property consisted of a thousand
pounds in the Three per Cents, a small cottage in the village of
Winterbourne, three acres of land in the hundred of Badgeley, and the Old
Wood Lodge.
“Miss Bridget has bequeathed her personal property, all except the two
last items, to Mrs Susannah Hardwicke, her niece—the Old Wood Lodge
and the piece of land she bequeaths to you, William Atheling, being part, as
she says, ‘of the original property of the family.’ She leaves it to you ‘as a
token that she had now discovered the falseness of the accusations made to
her, twenty years ago, against you, and desires you to keep and to hold it,
whatever attempts may be made to dislodge you, and whatever it may cost.’
A copy of the will, pursuant to her own directions, will be forwarded to you
in a few days.
“As an old acquaintance, I gladly congratulate you upon this legacy; but
I am obliged to tell you, as a friend, that the property is not of that value
which could have been desired. The land, which is of inferior quality, is let
for fifteen shillings an acre, and the house, I am sorry to say, is not in very
good condition, is very unlikely to find a tenant, and would cost half as
much as it is worth to put it in tolerable repair—besides which, it stands
directly in the way of the Hall, and was, as I understand, a gift to Miss
Bridget only, with power, on the part of the Winterbourne family, to reclaim
after her death. Under these circumstances, I doubt if you will be allowed to
retain possession; notwithstanding, I call your attention to the emphatic
words of my late respected client, to which you will doubtless give their
due weight.—I am, dear sir, faithfully yours,
“Fred. R. Lewis, Attorney.”
“And what shall we do? If we were only able to keep it, William—such a
thing for the children!” cried Mrs Atheling, scarcely pausing to take breath.
“To think that the Old Wood Lodge should be really ours—how strange it
is! But, William, who could possibly have made false accusations against
you?”
“Only one man,” said Mr Atheling, significantly. The girls listened with
interest and astonishment. “Only one man.”
“No, no, my dear—no, it could not be——,” cried his wife: “you must
not think so, William—it is quite impossible. Poor Aunt Bridget! and so she
found out the truth at last.”
“It is easy to talk,” said the head of the house, looking over his letter;
“very easy to leave a bequest like this, which can bring nothing but
difficulty and trouble. How am I ‘to keep and to hold it, at whatever cost?’
The old lady must have been crazy to think of such a thing: she had much
better have given it to my Lord at once without making any noise about it;
for what is the use of bringing a quarrel upon me?”
“But, papa, it is the old family property,” said Agnes, eagerly.
“My dear child, you know nothing about it,” said Papa. “Do you think I
am able to begin a lawsuit on behalf of the old family property? How were
we to repair this tumble-down old house, if it had been ours on the securest
holding? but to go to law about it, and it ready to crumble over our ears, is
rather too much for the credit of the family. No, no; nonsense, children; you
must not think of it for a moment; and you, Mary, surely you must see what
folly it is.”
But Mamma would not see any folly in the matter; her feminine spirit
was roused, and her maternal pride. “You may depend upon it, Aunt Bridget
had some motive,” said Mrs Atheling, with a little excitement, “and real
property, William, would be such a great thing for the children. Money
might be lost or spent; but property—land and a house. My dear, you ought
to consider how important it is for the children’s sake.”
Mr Atheling shook his head. “You are unreasonable,” said the family
father, who knew very well that he was pretty sure to yield to them, reason
or no—“as unreasonable as you can be. Do you suppose I am a landed
proprietor, with that old crazy Lodge, and forty-five shillings a-year? Mary,
Mary, you ought to know better. We could not repair it, I tell you, and we
could not furnish it; and nobody would rent it from us. We should gain
nothing but an enemy, and that is no great advantage for the children. I do
not remember that Aunt Bridget was ever remarkable for good sense; and it
was no such great thing, after all, to transfer her family quarrel to me.”
“Oh, papa, the old family property, and the beautiful old house in the
country, where we could go and live in the summer!” said Marian. “Agnes
is to be rich—Agnes would be sure to want to go somewhere in the country.
We could do all the repairs ourselves—and mamma likes the place. Papa,
papa, you will never have the heart to let other people have it. I think I can
see the place; we could all go down when Agnes comes to her fortune—and
the country would be so good for Bell and Beau.”
This, perhaps, was the most irresistible of arguments. The eyes of the
father and mother fell simultaneously upon the twin babies. They were
healthy imps as ever did credit to a suburban atmosphere—yet somehow
both Papa and Mamma fancied that Bell and Beau looked pale to-day.
“It is ten minutes past nine,” exclaimed Mr Atheling, solemnly rising
from the table. “I have not been so late for years—see what your nonsense
has brought me to. Now, Mary, think it over reasonably, and I will hear all
that you have to say to-night.”
So Mr Atheling hastened to his desk to turn over this all-important
matter as he walked and as he laboured. The Old Wood Lodge obliterated to
the good man’s vision the very folios of his daily companionship—old
feelings, old incidents, old resentment and pugnacity, awoke again in his
kindly but not altogether patient and self-commanded breast. The delight of
being able to leave something—a certain patrimonial inheritance—to his
son after him, gradually took possession of his mind and fancy; and the
pleasant dignity of a house in the country—the happy power of sending off
his wife and his children to the sweet air of his native place—won upon him
gradually before he was aware. By slow degrees Mr Atheling brought