Chapter 5

"I hope you will be very happy here, child, and make yourself at home. Take care of her, Mittens, and see that the boys don't tease her;" and Mr. Rivers kissed the trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead, and waved her out of the room. The interview had been brief, and conducted with absolute silence on the child's part. She was overpowered by the magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her new home.

"Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma'am?" she asked timidly, as she clung to the good-natured housekeeper's hand.

"Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will find him if you always do just as he tells you. Now you must come to my room, and have a cup of tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any luncheon, and dine with me at three o'clock. Your Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments: indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on the terrace. The children go in every evening to see him for half an hour, and you will go with them. We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your cousins drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor Mayson's school; they leave at half-past nine, and get back by three. Sometimes they ride their ponies, but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart; and I dare say a young person will come to give you lessons, but the master has not made any arrangement yet. You're to sleep in the room next to mine; and Prudence Briggs, the under housemaid, will wait upon you. But the first thing you must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and strong, and rosy. You have been ill, surely."

"No, ma'am, not worse than usual; but I have been up a good deal at night with father."

"You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what could folk be thinking of to let you?"

"There was no one else, ma'am, and father had to have his medicine regularly," Agnes replied gravely. "Even when Doctor Evans did send a nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget poor father."

Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on again, and looked earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a moment. That poor, fragile little creature up at night, ministering to the wants of a dying man! It seemed incredible, and yet the child's face and voice and words bore the living impress of truth.

"How old are you, my dear?"

"Twelve last birthday. I know I'm very little and weak, and my back aches dreadfully sometimes; but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do wonders for me. I never had much rest at home, and I was always very anxious about poor father; ever since my darling mamma died, four years ago, I had to take care of him."

"Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to your uncle?" Mrs. Mittens cried, holding up both her hands.

"I never knew I had an uncle till after father's death; then Doctor Evans told me, and sent me here. He was very, very kind, and so was my Aunt Amy. Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and never know it? But she came at once, and took me away to her house--ever so much a finer house than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine or beautiful as this; and she made my black frocks, and took me to dear father's funeral in a carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me very often, and said she wished she could keep me always, but Uncle Clair said it was best for me to come to Riversdale. Do you think it was best?"

"Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best for you to come," the old lady replied briskly.

"And do you think my cousins will love me?"

"I'm quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the best and dearest boys in the world."

"And Uncle Hugh?" Agnes added wistfully.

"Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like other people. He suffers a great deal with his nerves, and he has had a many sorrows, which he keeps all to himself; but he's the most just and most generous gentleman in the world, and I'm sure he will be very kind to you; only you must do just what he says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came of disobedience, I think, and have done so since the Garden of Eden. If poor Mr. Frank had only----but there, what is the use of talking?" and Mrs. Mittens sighed.

"Did you know my father, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."

"Did you love him, please?"

"Love him, Miss Agnes? _that_ I did! Who could help loving his bright bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of the house, but he would have his own way--he would have it, and I fear it led him through a tangled, thorny path."

Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.

"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously, yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"

"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he would have given his heart's best blood for him!"

"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so friendless, so--so unhappy?"

"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have loved him, but Master Frank would not."

"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."

"I tell you more, dearie," said the old housekeeper earnestly, holding both the child's hands, and looking into her pale, earnest face. "My master would have given half his fortune to have made your father happy, but the wrong was done before you were born; and it's righted at last, thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor lamb, we will talk of all those things no more; your troubles are over, and all you have to do is to get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as ever you can; and always remember, little one, you have a true friend in old Mittens. She loved your father, and she will always love you; and now you must lie down on that sofa, and rest for an hour. The boys are sure to be in for dinner, and I want you to be nice and bright."

So Agnes lay down very contentedly.

"Oh, how I shall enjoy this place!" she said to herself. "How I shall love it!--my own father's home, where he played as a child. Perhaps he lay on this sofa, just like me, and looked across the beautiful park, smelt the flowers, heard the birds sing. If he knew I was here now, how happy he would be!" So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the warm summer sunshine. Her thoughts flew back to the dreary London lodging where her whole short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she thought of the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter losses she had endured; and then her eyes overflowed with gratitude at finding such kind friends and such a beautiful home. At last, weary with her journey, she fell asleep.

After a while the sound of voices roused her, and in a bewildered kind of way she looked round.

"I say she's an ugly, miserable-looking little thing. I shouldn't think it worth my while to sketch her!" one voice said, contemptuously. "If she had been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid Sleeping Beauty!"

"She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too; but she's not ugly," another voice said decidedly. "She might not make a nice picture, but she looks pleasant enough curled up there. Come on away; don't let us wake her."

"I am awake," said Agnes, sitting up, her cheeks flushed, her eyes full of tears, but no one answered. The boys, who had been looking in at the window of the housekeeper's room, had turned into the shrubbery, and Agnes felt as if she had been guilty of a very mean, unworthy action in listening, even involuntarily, to a conversation not intended for her ears. Her cousins, too, she felt quite sure, would be exceedingly cross if they knew she had overheard them; and yet she said to herself--"I was only half awake. I did not want to listen, and I could not help it." It would not mend matters in the least to tell them that she had overheard their criticism, so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs. Mittens came, a little later, to conduct her to the dining-room, she was very shy and nervous. As she took her place, she looked at the boys wistfully, wondering which of them thought her "ugly," and which thought her pleasant enough to look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she hoped that Eddie was her champion, but before the dinner was over it was easy enough to see that Bertie was going to be the shy little girl's friend, for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her, much less speak to her, during the meal, while Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of all their favourite amusements and walks, and promising to show her all his treasures and lend her his storybooks. Still, though Bertie was kind, and Eddie cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin was far handsomer and cleverer than his brother. Perhaps he would be an artist, like Uncle Clair; and when he knew that she too could use her pencil a little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be kinder to her.