the Morville eye, I'll let him alone; but it _ryled_ me to be treated as
something beneath his anger, like a woman or a child.'

In about ten minutes, Guy came back: 'I am sorry that I was hasty just
now,' said he.

'I did not know you had such personal feelings about King Charles.'

'If you would do me a kindness,' proceeded Guy, 'you would just say you
did not mean it. I know you do not, but if you would only say so.'

'I am glad you have the wit to see I have too much taste to be a
roundhead.'

'Thank you,' said Guy; 'I hope I shall know your jest from your earnest
another time. Only if you would oblige me, you would never jest again
about King Charles.'

His brow darkened into a stern, grave expression, so entirely in
earnest, that Charles, though making no answer, could not do otherwise
than feel compliance unavoidable. Charles had never been so entirely
conquered, yet, strange to say, he was not, as usual, rendered sullen.

At night, when Guy had taken him to his room, he paused and said--'You
are sure that you have forgiven me?'

'What! You have not forgotten that yet?' said Charles.

'Of course not.'

'I am sorry you bear so much malice,' said Charles, smiling.

'What are you imagining?' cried Guy. 'It was my own part I was
remembering, as I must, you know.'

Charles did not choose to betray that he did not see the necessity.

'I thought King Charles's wrongs were rankling. I only spoke as taking
liberties with a friend.'

'Yes,' said Guy, thoughtfully, 'it may be foolish, but I do not feel as
if one could do so with King Charles. He is too near home; he suffered
to much from scoffs and railings; his heart was too tender, his
repentance too deep for his friends to add one word even in jest to the
heap of reproach. How one would have loved him!' proceeded Guy, wrapped
up in his own thoughts,--'loved him for the gentleness so little
accordant with the rude times and the part he had to act--served him
with half like a knight's devotion to his lady-love, half like devotion
to a saint, as Montrose did--

                 'Great, good, and just, could I but rate
                    My grief, and thy too rigid fate,
                  I'd weep the world in such a strain,
                    As it should deluge once again.'

'And, oh!' cried he, with sudden vehemence, 'how one would have fought
for him!'

'You would!' said Charles. 'I should like to see you and Deloraine
charging at the head of Prince Rupert's troopers.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Guy, suddenly recalled, and colouring deeply;
'I believe I forgot where I was, and have treated you to one of my old
dreams in my boatings at home. You may quiz me as much as you please
tomorrow. Good night.'

'It was a rhapsody!' thought Charles; 'yes it was. I wonder I don't
laugh at it; but I was naturally carried along. Fancy that! He did it so
naturally; in fact, it was all from the bottom of his heart, and I
could not quiz him--no, no more than Montrose himself. He is a strange
article! But he keeps one awake, which is more than most people do!'

Guy was indeed likely to keep every one awake just then; for Mr.
Edmonstone was going to take him out hunting for the first time, and
he was half wild about it. The day came, and half an hour before Mr.
Edmonstone was ready, Guy was walking about the hall, checking many an
incipient whistle, and telling every one that he was beforehand with the
world, for he had read one extra hour yesterday, and had got through
the others before breakfast. Laura thought it very true that, as Philip
said, he was only a boy, and moralized to Charlotte on his being the
same age as herself--very nearly eighteen. Mrs. Edmonstone told Charles
it was a treat to see any one so happy, and when he began to chafe at
the delay, did her best to beguile the time, but without much success.
Guy had ever learned to wait patiently, and had a custom of marching up
and down, and listening with his head thrown back, or, as Charles used
to call it, 'prancing in the hall.'

If Mrs. Edmonstone's patience was tried by the preparation for the hunt
in the morning, it was no less her lot to hear of it in the evening. Guy
came home in the highest spirits, pouring out his delight to every one,
with animation and power of description giving all he said a charm. The
pleasure did not lose by repetition; he was more engrossed by it
every time; and no one could be more pleased with his ardour than Mr.
Edmonstone, who, proud of him and his riding, gave a sigh to past hopes
of poor Charles, and promoted the hunting with far more glee that he had
promoted the reading.

The Redclyffe groom, William, whose surname of Robinson was entirely
forgotten in the appellation of William of Deloraine, was as proud of
Sir Guy as Mr. Edmonstone could be; but made representations to his
master that he must not hunt Deloraine two days in the week, and ride
him to Broadstone two more. Guy then walked to Broadstone; but
William was no better pleased, for he thought the credit of Redclyffe
compromised, and punished him by reporting Deloraine not fit to be
used next hunting day. Mr. Edmonstone perceived that Guy ought to have
another hunter; Philip heard of one for sale, and after due inspection
all admired--even William, who had begun by remarking that there might
be so many screw-looses about a horse, that a man did not know what to
be at with them.

Philip, who was conducting the negotiation, came to dine at Hollywell to
settle the particulars. Guy was in a most eager state; and they and Mr.
Edmonstone talked so long about horses, that they sent Charles to sleep;
his mother began to read, and the two elder girls fell into a low,
mysterious confabulation of their own till they were startled by a
question from Philip as to what could engross them so deeply.

'It was,' said Laura, 'a banshee story in Eveleen de Courcy's last
letter.'

'I never like telling ghost stories to people who don't believe in
them,' half whispered Amabel to her sister.

'Do you believe them?' asked Philip, looking full at her.

'Now I won't have little Amy asked the sort of question she most
dislikes,' interposed Laura; 'I had rather ask if you laugh at us for
thinking many ghost stories inexplicable?'

'Certainly not.'

'The universal belief could hardly be kept up without some grounds,'
said Guy.

'That would apply as well to fairies,' said Philip.

'Every one has an unexplained ghost story,' said Amy.

'Yes,' said Philip; 'but I would give something to meet any one whose
ghost story did not rest on the testimony of a friend's cousin's cousin,
a very strong-minded person.'

'I can't imagine how a person who has seen a ghost could ever speak of
it,' said Amy.

'Did you not tell us a story of pixies at Redclyffe?' said Laura.

'O yes; the people there believe in them firmly. Jonas Ledbury heard
them laughing one night when he could not get the gate open,' said Guy.

'Ah! You are the authority for ghosts,' said Philip.

'I forgot that,' said Laura: 'I wonder we never asked you about your
Redclyffe ghost.'

'You look as if you had seen it yourself,' said Philip.

'You have not?' exclaimed Amy, almost frightened.

'Come, let us have the whole story,' said Philip. 'Was it your own
reflection in the glass? was it old sir Hugh? or was it the murderer of
Becket? Come, the ladies are both ready to scream at the right moment.
Never mind about giving him a cocked-hat, for with whom may you take a
liberty, if not with an ancestral ghost of your own?'

Amy could not think how Philip could have gone on all this time; perhaps
it was because he was not watching how Guy's colour varied, how he bit
his lip; and at last his eyes seemed to grow dark in the middle, and
to sparkle with fire, as with a low, deep tone, like distant thunder,
conveying a tremendous force of suppressed passion, he exclaimed,
'Beware of trifling--' then breaking off hastened out of the room.

'What's the matter?' asked Mr. Edmonstone, startled from his nap; and
his wife looked up anxiously, but returned to her book, as her nephew
replied, 'Nothing.'

'How could you Philip?' said Laura.

'I really believe he has seen it!' said Amy, in a startled whisper.

'He has felt it, Amy--the Morville spirit,' said Philip.

'It is a great pity you spoke of putting a cocked hat to it,' said
Laura; 'he must have suspected us of telling you what happened about
Mrs. Brownlow.'

'And are you going to do it now?' said her sister in a tone of
remonstrance.

'I think Philip should hear it!' said Laura; and she proceeded to relate
the story. She was glad to see that her cousin was struck with it;
he admired this care to maintain strict truth, and even opened a
memorandum-book--the sight of which Charles dreaded--and read the
following extract: 'Do not think of one falsity as harmless, and another
as slight, and another as unintended. Cast them all aside. They may be
light and accidental, but they are an ugly soot from the smoke of the
pit, for all that; and it is better that our hearts should be swept
clean of them, without over care as to which is the largest or
blackest.'

Laura and Amy were much pleased; but he went on to regret that such
excellent dispositions should be coupled with such vehemence of
character and that unhappy temper. Amy was glad that her sister ventured
to hint that he might be more cautious in avoiding collisions.

'I am cautious', replied he, quickly and sternly; 'I am not to be told
of the necessity of exercising forbearance with this poor boy; but it is
impossible to reckon on all the points on which he is sensitive.'

'He is sensitive,' said Laura. 'I don't mean only in temper, but in
everything. I wonder if it is part of his musical temperament to be as
keenly alive to all around, as his ear is to every note. A bright day,
a fine view, is such real happiness to him; he dwells on every beauty of
Redclyffe with such affection; and then, when he reads, Charles says it
is like going over the story again himself to watch his face act it in
that unconscious manner.'

'He makes all the characters so real in talking them over,' said Amy,
'and he does not always know how they will end before they begin.'

'I should think it hardly safe for so excitable a mind to dwell much on
the world of fiction,' said Philip.

'Nothing has affected him so much as Sintram,' said Laura. 'I never saw
anything like it. He took it up by chance, and stood reading it while
all those strange expressions began to flit over his face, and at last
he fairly cried over it so much, that he was obliged to fly out of the
room. How often he has read it I cannot tell; I believe he has bought
one for himself, and it is as if the engraving had a fascination for
him; he stands looking at it as if he was in a dream.'

'He is a great mystery,' said Amy.

'All men are mysterious,' said Philip 'but he not more than others,
though he may appear so to you, because you have not had much
experience, and also because most of the men you have seen have been
rounded into uniformity like marbles, their sharp angles rubbed off
against each other at school.'

'Would it be better if there were more sharp angles?' said Laura, thus
setting on foot a discussion on public schools, on which Philip had, of
course, a great deal to say.

Amy's kind little heart was meanwhile grieving for Guy, and longing to
see him return, but he did not come till after Philip's departure. He
looked pale and mournful, his hair hanging loose and disordered, and
her terror was excited lest he might actually have seen his ancestor's
ghost, which, in spite of her desire to believe in ghosts, in general,
she did not by any means wish to have authenticated. He was surprised
and a good deal vexed to find Philip gone, but he said hardly anything,
and it was soon bedtime. When Charles took his arm, he exclaimed, on
finding his sleeve wet--'What can you have been doing?'

'Walking up and down under the wall,' replied Guy, with some reluctance.

'What, in the rain?'

'I don't know, perhaps it was.'

Amy, who was just behind, carrying the crutch, dreaded Charles's making
any allusion to Sintram's wild locks and evening wanderings, but ever
since the outburst about King Charles, the desire to tease and irritate
Guy had ceased.

They parted at the dressing-room door, and as Guy bade her good night,
he pushed back the damp hair that had fallen across his forehead,
saying, 'I am sorry I disturbed your evening. I will tell you the
meaning of it another time.'

'He has certainly seen the ghost!' said silly little Amy, as she shut
herself into her own room in such a fit of vague 'eerie' fright, that it
was not till she had knelt down, and with her face hidden in her hands,
said her evening prayer, that she could venture to lift up her head and
look into the dark corners of the room.

'Another time!' Her heart throbbed at the promise.

The next afternoon, as she and Laura were fighting with a refractory
branch of wisteria which had been torn down by the wind, and refused to
return to its place, Guy, who had been with his tutor, came in from the
stable-yard, reduced the trailing bough to obedience, and then joined
them in their walk. He looked grave, was silent at first, and then spoke
abruptly--'It is due to you to explain my behaviour last night.'

'Amy thinks you must have seen the ghost,' said Laura, trying to be gay.

'Did I frighten you?' said Guy, turning round, full of compunction.
'No, no. I never saw it. I never even heard of its being seen. I am very
sorry.'

'I was very silly,' said Amy smiling.

'But,' proceeded Guy, 'when I think of the origin of the ghost story, I
cannot laugh, and if Philip knew all--'

'Oh! He does not,' cried Laura; 'he only looks on it as we have always
done, as a sort of romantic appendage to Redclyffe. I should think
better of a place for being haunted.'

'I used to be proud of it,' said Guy. 'I wanted to make out whether it
was old Sir Hugh or the murderer of Becket, who was said to groan and
turn the lock of Dark Hugh's chamber. I hunted among old papers, and a
horrible story I found. That wretched Sir Hugh,--the same who began the
quarrel with your mother's family--he was a courtier of Charles II, as
bad or worse than any of that crew--'

'What was the quarrel about?' said Laura.

'He was believed to have either falsified or destroyed his father's
will, so as to leave his brother, your ancestor, landless; his brother
remonstrated, and he turned him out of doors. The forgery never was
proved, but there was little doubt of it. There are traditions of his
crimes without number, especially his furious anger and malice. He
compelled a poor lady to marry him, though she was in love with another
man; then he was jealous; he waylaid his rival, shut him up in the
turret chamber, committed him to prison, and bribed Judge Jeffries
to sentence him--nay it is even said he carried his wife to see the
execution! He was so execrated that he fled the country; he went to
Holland, curried favour with William of Orange, brought his wealth to
help him, and that is the deserving action which got him the baronetcy!
He served in the army a good many years, and came home when he thought
his sins would be forgotten. But do you remember those lines?' and Guy
repeated them in the low rigid tone, almost of horror, in which he had
been telling the story:--

                 'On some his vigorous judgments light,
                  In that dread pause 'twixt day and night,
                      Life's closing twilight hour;
                  Round some, ere yet they meet their doom,
                  Is shed the silence of the tomb,
                      The eternal shadows lower.'

'It was so with him; he lost his senses, and after many actions of mad
violence, he ended by hanging himself in the very room where he had
imprisoned his victim.'

'Horrible!' said Laura. 'Yet I do not see why, when it is all past, you
should feel it so deeply.'

'How should I not feel it?' answered Guy. 'Is it not written that the
sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children? You wonder to
see me so foolish about Sintram. Well, it is my firm belief that such
a curse of sin and death as was on Sintram rests on the descendants of
that miserable man.'

The girls were silent, struck with awe and dismay at the fearful reality
with which he pronounced the words. At last, Amy whispered, 'But Sintram
conquered his doom.'

At the same time Laura gathered her thoughts together, and said, 'This
must be an imagination. You have dwelt on it and fostered it till you
believe it, but such notions should be driven away or they will work
their own fulfilment.'

'Look at the history of the Morvilles, and see if it be an imagination,'
said Guy. 'Crime and bloodshed have been the portion of each--each has
added weight and darkness to the doom which he had handed on. My own
poor father, with his early death, was, perhaps, the happiest!'

Laura saw the idea was too deeply rooted to be treated as a fancy, and
she found a better argument. 'The doom of sin and death is on us all,
but you should remember that if you are a Morville, you are also a
Christian.'

'He does remember it!' said Amy, raising her eyes to his face, and then
casting them down, blushing at having understood his countenance, where,
in the midst of the gloomy shades, there rested for an instant the gleam
which her mother had likened to the expression of Raffaelle's cherub.'

They walked on for some time in silence. At last Laura exclaimed, 'Are
you really like the portrait of this unfortunate Sir Hugh?'

Guy made a sign of assent.

'Oh! It must have been taken before he grew wicked,' said Amy; and Laura
felt the same conviction, that treacherous revenge could never have
existed beneath so open a countenance, with so much of highmindedness,
pure faith and contempt of wrong in every glance of the eagle eye, in
the frank expansion of the smooth forehead.

They were interrupted by Mr. Edmonstone's hearty voice, bawling across
the garden for one of the men. 'O Guy! are you there?' cried he, as
soon as he saw him. 'Just what I wanted! Your gun, man! We are going to
ferret a rabbit.'

Guy ran off at full speed in search of his gun, whistling to Bustle. Mr.
Edmonstone found his man, and the sisters were again alone.

'Poor fellow!' said Laura.

'You will not tell all this to Philip?' said Amy.

'It would show why he was hurt, and it can be no secret.'

'I dare say you are right, but I have a feeling against it. Well, I am
glad he had not seen the ghost!'

The two girls had taken their walk, and were just going in, when,
looking round, they saw Philip walking fast and determinedly up the
approach, and as they turned back to meet him, the first thing he said
was, 'Where is Guy?'

'Ferreting rabbits with papa. What is the matter?'

'And where is my aunt?'

Driving out with Charles and Charlotte. What is the matter?'

'Look here. Can you tell me the meaning of this which I found on my
table when I came in this morning?'

It was a card of Sir Guy Morville, on the back of which was written in
pencil, 'Dear P., I find hunting and reading don't agree, so take no
further steps about the horse. Many thanks for your trouble.--G.M.'

'There,' said Philip, 'is the result of brooding all night on his
resentment.' 'Oh no!' cried Laura, colouring with eagerness, 'you do not
understand him. He could not bear it last night, because, as he has been
explaining to us, that old Sir Hugh's story was more shocking than we
ever guessed, and he has a fancy that their misfortunes are a family
fate, and he could not bear to hear it spoken of lightly.'

'Oh! He has been telling you his own story, has he?'

Laura's colour grew still deeper, 'If you had been there,' she said,
'you would have been convinced. Why will you not believe that he finds
hunting interfere with reading?'

'He should have thought of that before,' said Philip.

'Here have I half bought the horse! I have wasted the whole morning on
it, and now I have to leave it on the man's hands. I had a dozen times
rather take it myself, if I could afford it. Such a bargain as I had
made, and such an animal as you will not see twice in your life.'

'It is a great pity,' said Laura. 'He should have known his own mind. I
don't like people to give trouble for nothing.'

'Crazy about it last night, and giving it up this morning! A most
extraordinary proceeding. No, no, Laura, this is not simple fickleness,
it would be too absurd. It is temper, temper, which makes a man punish
himself, in hopes of punishing others.

Laura still spoke for Guy, and Amy rejoiced; for if her sister had not
taken up the defence of the absent, she must, and she felt too strongly
to be willing to speak. It seemed too absurd for one feeling himself
under such a doom to wrangle about a horse, yet she was somewhat amused
by the conviction that if Guy had really wished to annoy Philip he had
certainly succeeded.

There was no coming to an agreement. Laura's sense of justice revolted
at the notion of Guy's being guilty of petty spite; while Philip, firm
in his preconceived idea of his character, and his own knowledge of
mankind, was persuaded that he had imputed the true motive, and was
displeased at Laura's attempting to argue the point. He could not wait
to see any one else, as he was engaged to dine out, and he set off again
at his quick, resolute pace.

'He is very unfair!' exclaimed Amy.

'He did not mean to be so,' said Laura; 'and though he is mistaken in
imputing such motives, Guy's conduct has certainly been vexatious.'

They were just turning to go in, when they were interrupted by the
return of the carriage; and before Charles had been helped up the steps,
their father and Guy came in sight. While Guy went to shut up Bustle,
who was too wet for the drawing-room, Mr. Edmonstone came up to the
others, kicking away the pebbles before him, and fidgeting with his
gloves, as he always did when vexed.

'Here's a pretty go!' said he. 'Here is Guy telling me he won't hunt any
more!'

'Not hunt!' cried Mrs. Edmonstone and Charles at once; 'and why?'

'Oh! something about its taking his mind from his reading; but that
can't be it--impossible, you know; I'd give ten pounds to know what has
vexed him. So keen as he was about it last night, and I vow, one of the
best riders in the whole field. Giving up that horse, too--I declare
it is a perfect sin! I told him he had gone too far, and he said he had
left a note with Philip this morning.'

'Yes,' said Laura; Philip has just been here about it. Guy left a card,
saying, hunting and reading would not agree.'

'That is an excuse, depend upon it,' said Mr. Edmonstone. 'Something has
nettled him, I am sure. It could not be that Gordon, could it, with
his hail-fellow-well-met manner? I thought Guy did not half like it the
other day, when he rode up with his "Hollo, Morville!" The Morvilles
have a touch of pride of their own; eh, mamma?'

'I should be inclined to believe his own account of himself,' said she.

'I tell you, 'tis utterly against reason,' said Mr. Edmonstone, angrily.
'If he was a fellow like Philip, or James Ross, I could believe it; but
he--he make a book-worm! He hates it, like poison, at the bottom of his
heart, I'll answer for it; and the worst of it is, the fellow putting
forward such a fair reason one can't--being his guardian, and all--say
what one thinks of it oneself. Eh, mamma?'

'Not exactly,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.

'Well, you take him in hand, mamma. I dare say he will tell you the
rights of it, and if it is only that Gordon, explain it rightly to him,
show him 'tis only the man's way; tell him he treats me so for ever, and
would the Lord-Lieutenant if he was in it.'

'For a' that and a' that,' said Charles, as Amy led him into the
drawing-room.

'You are sure the reading is the only reason?' said Amy.'

'He's quite absurd enough for it,' said Charles; but 'absurd' was
pronounced in a way that made its meaning far from annoying even to
Guy's little champion.

Guy came in the next moment, and running lightly up-stairs after Mrs.
Edmonstone, found her opening the dressing-room door, and asked if he
might come in.

'By all means,' she said; 'I am quite ready for one of our twilight
talks.'

'I am afraid I have vexed Mr. Edmonstone,' began Guy; 'and I am very
sorry.'

'He was only afraid that something might have occurred to vex you, which
you might not like to mention to him,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, hesitating
a little.

'Me! What could I have done to make him think so? I am angry with no one
but myself. The fact is only this, the hunting is too pleasant; it fills
up my head all day and all night; and I don't attend rightly to anything
else. If I am out in the morning and try to pay for it at night, it will
not do; I can but just keep awake and that's all; the Greek letters all
seem to be hunting each other, the simplest things grow difficult, and
at last all I can think of, is how near the minute hand of my watch is
near to the hour I have set myself. So, for the last fortnight, every
construing with Mr. Lascelles has been worse than the last; and as to my
Latin verses, they were beyond everything shocking, so you see there is
no making the two things agree, and the hunting must wait till I grow
steadier, if I ever do. Heigho! It is a great bore to be so stupid, for
I thought--But it is of no use to talk of it!'

'Mr. Edmonstone would be a very unreasonable guardian, indeed, to be
displeased,' said his friend, smiling. You say you stopped the purchase
of the horse. Why so? Could you not keep him till you are more sure of
yourself?'

'Do you think I might?' joyously exclaimed Guy. 'I'll write to Philip
this minute by the post. Such a splendid creature: it would do you good
to see it--such action--such a neck--such spirit. It would be a shame
not to secure it. But no--no--' and he checked himself sorrowfully. 'I
have made my mind before that I don't deserve it. If it was here, it
would always have to be tried: if I heard the hounds I don't know I
should keep from riding after them; whereas, now I can't, for William
won't let me take Deloraine. No, I can't trust myself to keep such a
horse, and not hunt. It will serve me right to see Mr. Brownlow on it,
and he will never miss such a chance!' and the depth of his sigh bore
witness to the struggle it cost him.

'I should not like to use anyone as you use yourself,' said Mrs.
Edmonstone, looking at him with affectionate anxiety, which seemed
suddenly to change the current of his thought, for he exclaimed
abruptly--'Mrs. Edmonstone, can you tell me anything about my mother?'

'I am afraid not,' said she, kindly; 'you know we had so little
intercourse with your family, that I heard little but the bare facts.'

'I don't think,' said Guy, leaning on the chimneypiece, 'that I ever
thought much about her till I knew you, but lately I have fancied a
great deal about what might have been if she had but lived.'

It was not Mrs. Edmonstone's way to say half what she felt, and she went
on--'Poor thing! I believe she was quite a child.'

'Only seventeen when she died,' said Guy.

Mrs. Edmonstone went to a drawer, took out two or three bundles of
old letters, and after searching in them by the fire-light, said--'Ah!
here's a little about her; it is in a letter from my sister-in-law,
Philip's mother, when they were staying at Stylehurst.'

'Who? My father and mother?' cried Guy eagerly.

'Did you not know they had been there three or four days?'

'No--I know less about them than anybody,' said he, sadly: but as Mrs.
Edmonstone waited, doubtful as to whether she might be about to make
disclosures for which he was unprepared, he added, hastily--'I do
know the main facts of the story; I was told them last autumn;' and an
expression denoting the remembrance of great suffering came over his
face; then, pausing a moment, he said--'I knew Archdeacon Morville had
been very kind.'

'He was always interested about your father,' said Mrs. Edmonstone; 'and
happening to meet him in London some little time after his marriage,
he--he was pleased with the manner in which he was behaving then,
thought--thought--' And here, recollecting that she must not speak ill
of old Sir Guy, nor palliate his son's conduct, poor Mrs. Edmonstone
got into an inextricable confusion--all the worse because the fierce
twisting of a penwiper in Guy's fingers denoted that he was suffering a
great trial of patience. She avoided the difficulty thus: 'It is hard
to speak of such things when there is so much to be regretted on both
sides; but the fact was, my brother thought your father was harshly
dealt with at that time. Of course he had done very wrong; but he had
been so much neglected and left to himself, that it seemed hardly
fair to visit his offence on him as severely as if he had had more
advantages. So it ended in their coming to spend a day or two at
Stylehurst; and this is the letter my sister-in-law wrote at the time:

'"Our visitors have just left us, and on the whole I am much better
pleased than I expected. The little Mrs. Morville is a very pretty
creature, and as engaging as long flaxen curls, apple-blossom
complexion, blue eyes, and the sweetest of voices can make her; so
full of childish glee and playfulness, that no one would stop to think
whether she was lady-like any more than you would with a child. She
used to go singing like a bird about the house as soon as the first
strangeness wore off, which was after her first game of play with Fanny
and Little Philip. She made them very fond of her, as indeed she would
make every one who spent a day or two in the same house with her. I
could almost defy Sir Guy not to be reconciled after one sight of
her sweet sunny face. She is all affection and gentleness, and with
tolerable training anything might be made of her; but she is so young
in mind and manners, that one cannot even think of blaming her for her
elopement, for she had no mother, no education but in music; and her
brother seems to have forced it on, thrown her in Mr. Morville's way,
and worked on his excitable temperament, until he hurried them into
marriage. Poor little girl, I suppose she little guesses what she has
done; but it was very pleasant to see how devotedly attached he seemed
to her; and there was something beautiful in the softening of his
impetuous tones when he said, 'Marianne;' and her pride in him was very
pretty, like a child playing at matronly airs."'

Guy gave a long, heavy sigh, brushed away a tear, and after a long
silence, said, 'Is that all?'

'All that I like to read to you. Indeed, there is no more about her;
and it would be of no use to read all the reports that were going
about.--Ah! here,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking into another letter,
'she speaks of your father as a very fine young man, with most generous
impulses,'--but here again she was obliged to stop, for the next
sentence spoke of 'a noble character ruined by mismanagement.' 'She
never saw them again,' continued Mrs. Edmonstone; 'Mr. Dixon, your
mother's brother, had great influence with your father, and made matters
worse--so much worse, that my brother did not feel himself justified in
having any more to do with them.'

'Ah! he went to America,' said Guy; 'I don't know any more about him
except that he came to the funeral and stood with his arms folded, not
choosing to shake hands with my poor grandfather.' After another silence
he said, 'Will you read that again?' and when he had heard it, he sat
shading his brow with his hand, as if to bring the fair, girlish picture
fully before his mind, while Mrs. Edmonstone sought in vain among her
letters for one which did not speak of the fiery passions ignited on
either side, in terms too strong to be fit for his ears.

When next he spoke it was to repeat that he had not been informed of
the history of his parents till within the last few months. He had,
of course, known the manner of their death, but had only lately become
aware of the circumstances attending it.

The truth was that Guy had grown up peculiarly shielded from evil, but
ignorant of the cause of the almost morbid solicitude with which he was
regarded by his grandfather. He was a very happy, joyous boy, leading
an active, enterprising life, though so lonely as to occasion greater
dreaminess and thoughtfulness than usual at such an early age. He was
devotedly attached to his grandfather, looking on him as the first and
best of human beings, and silencing the belief that Sir Hugh Morville
had entailed a doom of crime and sorrow on the family, by a reference to
him, as one who had been always good and prosperous.

When, however, Guy had reached an age at which he must encounter the
influences which had proved so baneful to others of his family, his
grandfather thought it time to give him the warning of his own history.

The sins, which the repentance of years had made more odious in the
eyes of the old man, were narrated; the idleness and insubordination
at first, then the reckless pursuit of pleasure, the craving for
excitement, the defiance of rule and authority, till folly had become
vice, and vice had led to crime.

He had fought no fewer than three duels, and only one had been
bloodless. His misery after the first had well-nigh led to a reform;
but time had dulled its acuteness--it had been lost in fresh scenes
of excitement--and at the next offence rage had swept away such
recollections. Indeed, so far had he lost the natural generosity of his
character, that his remorse had been comparatively slight for the last,
which was the worst of all, since he had forced the quarrel on his
victim, Captain Wellwood, whose death had left a wife and children
almost destitute. His first awakening to a sense of what his course had
been, was when he beheld his only child, in the prime of youth, carried
lifeless across his threshold, and attributed his death to his own
intemperance and violence. That hour made Sir Guy Morville an old and a
broken-hearted man; and he repented as vigorously as he had sinned.

From the moment he dared to hope that his son's orphan would be spared,
he had been devoted to him, but still mournfully, envying and pitying
his innocence as something that could not last.

He saw bright blossoms put forth, as the boy grew older; but they were
not yet fruits, and he did not dare to believe they ever would be.
The strength of will which had, in his own case, been the slave of his
passions, had been turned inward to subdue the passions themselves, but
this was only the beginning--the trial was not yet come. He could hope
his grandson might repent, but this was the best that he dared to think
possible. He could not believe that a Morville could pass unscathed
through the world, or that his sins would not be visited on the head of
his only descendant; and the tone of his narration was throughout such
as might almost have made the foreboding cause its own accomplishment.

The effect was beyond what he had expected; for a soul deeply dyed
in guilt, even though loathing its own stains, had not the power of
conceiving how foul was the aspect of vice, to one hitherto guarded from
its contemplation, and living in a world of pure, lofty day-dreams. The
boy sat the whole time without a word, his face bent down and hidden
by his clasped hands, only now and then unable to repress a start or
shudder at some fresh disclosure; and when it was ended, he stood up,
gazed round, and walked uncertainly, as if he did not know where he
was. His next impulse was to throw himself on his knee beside his
grandfather, and caress him as he used to when a child. The 'good-night'
was spoken, and Guy was shut into his room, with his overwhelming
emotions.

His grandfather a blood-stained, remorseful man! The doom was complete,
himself heir to the curse of Sir Hugh, and fated to run the same career;
and as he knew full well, with the tendency to the family character
strong within him, the germs of these hateful passions ready to take
root downwards and bear fruit upwards, with the very countenance of Sir
Hugh, and the same darkening, kindling eyes, of which traditions had
preserved the remembrance.

He was crushed for awhile. The consciousness of strength not his own,
of the still small voice that could subdue the fire, the earthquake, and
the whirlwind, was slow in coming to him; and when it came, he, like his
grandfather, had hope rather of final repentance than of keeping himself
unstained.

His mind had not recovered the shock when his grandfather died,--died
in faith and fear, with good hope of accepted repentance, but unable to
convey the assurance of such hope to his grandson. Grief for the only
parent he had ever known, and the sensation of being completely alone in
the world, were joined to a vague impression of horror at the suddenness
of the stroke, and it was long before the influence of Hollywell, or the
elasticity of his own youthfulness, could rouse him from his depression.

Even then it was almost against his will that he returned to enjoyment,
unable to avoid being amused, but feeling as if joy was not meant for
him, and as if those around were walking 'in a world of light,' where he
could scarcely hope to tread a few uncertain steps. In this despondency
was Guy's chief danger, as it was likely to make him deem a struggle
with temptation fruitless, while his high spirits and powers of keen
enjoyment increased the peril of recklessness in the reaction.

It was Mrs. Edmonstone who first spoke with him cheerfully of
a successful conflict with evil, and made him perceive that his
temptations were but such as is common to man. She had given him a clue
to discover when and how to trust himself to enjoy; the story of Sintram
had stirred him deeply, and this very day, Amy's words, seemingly
unheeded and unheard, had brought home to him the hope and encouragement
of that marvellous tale.

They had helped him in standing, looking steadfastly upwards, and
treading down not merely evil, but the first token of coming evil,
regardless of the bruises he might inflict on himself. Well for him if
he was constant.

Such was Guy's inner life; his outward life, frank and joyous, has been
shown, and the two flowed on like a stream, pure as crystal, but into
which the eye cannot penetrate from its depth. The surface would be
sometimes obscured by cloud or shade, and reveal the sombre wells
beneath; but more often the sunshine would penetrate the inmost
recesses, and make them glance and sparkle, showing themselves as clear
and limpid as the surface itself.

CHAPTER 6

      Can piety the discord heal,
      Or stanch the death-feud's enmity?
                                --Scott

It must not be supposed that such a history of Guy's mind was expressed
by himself, or understood by Mrs. Edmonstone; but she saw enough to
guess at his character, perceive the sort of guidance he needed, and be
doubly interested in him. Much did she wish he could have such a friend
as her brother would have been, and hope that nothing would prevent a
friendship with her nephew.

The present question about the horse was, she thought, unfortunate,
since, though Guy had exercised great self-denial, it was no wonder
Philip was annoyed. Mr. Edmonstone's vexation was soon over. As soon as
she had persuaded him that there had been no offence, he strove to say
with a good grace, that it was very proper, and told Guy he would be
a thorough book-worm and tremendous scholar, which Guy took as an
excellent joke.

Philip had made up his mind to be forbearing, and to say no more about
it. Laura thought this a pity, as they could thus never come to an
understanding; but when she hinted it, he wore such a dignified air of
not being offended, that she was much ashamed of having tried to direct
one so much better able to judge. On his side Guy had no idea the
trouble he had caused; so, after bestowing his thanks in a gay, off-hand
way, which Philip thought the worst feature of the case, he did his best
to bring Hecuba back into his mind, drive the hunters out of it, and
appease the much-aggrieved William of Deloraine.

When all William's manoeuvres resulted in his master's not hunting at
all, he was persuaded it was Mr. Edmonstone's fault, compassionated
Sir Guy with all his heart, and could only solace himself by taking
Deloraine to exercise where he was most likely to meet the hounds. He
further chose to demonstrate that he was not Mr. Edmonstone's servant,
by disregarding some of his stable regulations; but as soon as this came
to his master's knowledge, a few words were spoken so sharp and stern,
that William never attempted to disobey again.

It seemed as if it was the perception that so much was kept back by a
strong force, that made Guy's least token of displeasure so formidable.
A village boy, whom he caught misusing a poor dog, was found a few
minutes after, by Mr. Ross, in a state of terror that was positively
ludicrous, though it did not appear that Sir Guy had said or done much
to alarm him; it was only the light in his eyes, and the strength
of repressed indignation in his short broken words that had made the
impression.

It appeared as if the force of his anger might be fearful, if once it
broke forth without control; yet at the same time he had a gentleness
and attention, alike to small and great, which, with his high spirit
and good nature, his very sweet voice and pleasant smile, made him a
peculiarly winning and engaging person; and few who saw him could help
being interested in him.

No wonder he had become in the eyes of the Edmonstones almost a part of
their family. Mrs. Edmonstone had assumed a motherly control over him,
to which he submitted with a sort of affectionate gratitude.

One day Philip remarked, that he never saw any one so restless as
Guy, who could neither talk nor listen without playing with something.
Scissors, pencil, paper-knife, or anything that came in his way, was
sure to be twisted or tormented; or if nothing else was at hand, he
opened and shut his own knife so as to put all the spectators in fear
for his fingers.

'Yes,' said Laura, 'I saw how it tortured your eyebrows all the time you
were translating Schiller to us. I wondered you were not put out.'

'I consider that to be put out--by which you mean to have the intellect
at the mercy of another's folly--is beneath a reasonable creature,'
said Philip; 'but that I was annoyed, I do not deny. It is a token of a
restless, ill-regulated mind.'

'Restless, perhaps,' said Mrs. Edmonstone 'but not necessarily
ill-regulated. I should think it rather a sign that he had no one to
tell him of the tricks which mothers generally nip in the bud.'

'I was going to say that I think he fidgets less,' said Laura; 'but I
think his chief contortions of the scissors have been when Philip has
been here.'

'They have, I believe,' said her mother, I was thinking of giving him a
hint.'

'Well, aunt, you are a tamer of savage beasts if you venture on such a
subject,' said Philip.

'Do you dare me?' she asked, smiling.

'Why, I don't suppose he would do more than give you one of his
lightning glances: but that, I think, is more than you desire.'

'Considerably,' said Mrs. Edmonstone; 'for his sake as much as my own.'

'But,' said Laura, 'mamma has nearly cured him of pawing like a horse in
the hall when he is kept waiting. He said he knew it was impatience,
and begged her to tell him how to cure it. So she treated him as an old
fairy might, and advised him in a grave, mysterious way, always to go
and play the "Harmonious Blacksmith," when he found himself getting
into "a taking", just as if it was a charm. And he always does it most
dutifully.'

'It has a very good effect,' said Mrs. Edmonstone; 'for it is apt to act
as a summons to the other party, as well as a sedative to him.'

'I must say I am curious to see what you will devise this time,' said
Philip; 'since you can't set him to play on the piano; and very few can
bear to be told of a trick of the kind.'

In the course of that evening, Philip caused the great atlas to be
brought out in order to make investigations on the local habitation of
a certain Khan of Kipchack, who existed somewhere in the dark ages. Then
he came to Marco Polo, and Sir John Mandeville; and Guy, who knew both
the books in the library at Redclyffe, grew very eager in talking them
over, and tracing their adventures--then to the Genoese merchants, where
Guy confessed himself perfectly ignorant. Andrea Doria was the only
Genoese he ever heard of; but he hunted out with great interest all the
localities of their numerous settlements. Then came modern Italy, and
its fallen palaces; then the contrast between the republican merchant
and aristocratic lord of the soil; then the corn laws; and then, and not
till then, did Philip glance at his aunt, to show her Guy balancing a
Venetian weight on as few of his fingers as could support it.

'Guy,' said she, smiling, 'does that unfortunate glass inspire you with
any arguments in favour of the Venetians?'

Guy put it down at once, and Philip proceeded to improved methods of
farming, to enable landlords to meet the exigencies of the times. Guy
had got hold of Mr. Edmonstone's spectacle-case, and was putting its
spring to a hard trial. Mrs. Edmonstone doubted whether to interfere
again; she knew this was not the sort of thing that tried his temper,
yet she particularly disliked playing him off, as it were for Philip's
amusement, and quite as much letting him go on, and lower himself in her
nephew's estimation. The spectacle-case settled the matter--a crack was
heard, it refused to snap at all; and Guy, much discomfited, made many
apologies.

Amy laughed; Philip was much too well-bred to do anything but curl his
lip unconsciously. Mrs. Edmonstone waited till he was gone, then, when
she was wishing Guy 'good-night' at Charles's door, she said,--

'The spectacle-case forestalled me in giving you a lecture on sparing
our nerves. Don't look so very full of compunction--it is only a trick
which your mother would have stopped at five years old, and which you
can soon stop for yourself.'

'Thank you, I will!' said Guy; 'I hardly knew I did it, but I am very
sorry it has teased you.'

Thenceforward it was curious to see how he put down and pushed away all
he had once begun to touch and torture. Mrs. Edmonstone said it was
self command in no common degree; and Philip allowed that to cure so
inveterate a habit required considerable strength of will.

'However,' he said, 'I always gave the Morvilles credit for an iron
resolution. Yes, Amy, you may laugh; but if a man is not resolute in a
little, he will never be resolute in great matters.'

'And Guy has been resolute the right way this time,' said Laura.

'May he always be the same,' said Philip.

Philip had undertaken, on his way back to Broadstone, to conduct
Charlotte to East-hill, where she was to spend the day with a little
niece of Mary Ross. She presently came down, her bonnet-strings tied
in a most resolute-looking bow, and her little figure drawn up so as to
look as womanly is possible for her first walk alone with Philip. She
wished the party at home 'goodbye;' and as Amy and Laura stood watching
her, they could not help laughing to see her tripping feet striving to
keep step, her blue veil discreetly composed and her little head turned
up, as if she was trying hard to be on equal terms with the tall cousin,
who meanwhile looked graciously down from his height, patronising her
like a very small child. After some space, Amy began to wonder what
they could talk about, or whether they would talk at all; but Laura said
there was no fear of Charlotte's tongue ever being still, and Charles
rejoined,--

'Don't you know that Philip considers it due to himself that his
audience should never be without conversation suited to their capacity?'

'Nonsense, Charlie!'

'Nay, I give him credit for doing it as well as it is in nature of
things for it to be done. The strongest proof I know of his being a
superior man, is the way he adapts himself to his company. He lays down
the law to us, because he knows we are all born to be his admirers; he
calls Thorndale his dear fellow and conducts him like a Mentor; but
you may observe how different he is with other people--Mr. Ross, for
instance. It is not showing off; it is just what the pattern hero should
be with the pattern clergyman. At a dinner party he is quite in his
place; contents himself with leaving an impression on his neighbour that
Mr. Morville is at home on every subject; and that he is the right thing
with his brother officers is sufficiently proved, since not even Maurice
either hates or quizzes him.'

'Well, Charlie,' said Laura, well pleased, I am glad you are convinced
at last.'

'Do you think I ever wanted to be convinced that we were created for
no other end than to applaud Philip? I was fulfilling the object of our
existence by enlarging on a remark of Guy's, that nothing struck him
more than the way in which Philip could adapt his conversation to the
hearers. So the hint was not lost on me; and I came to the conclusion
that it was a far greater proof of his sense than all the maxims he
lavishes on us.'

'I wonder Guy was the person to make the remark,' said Laura; 'for it is
strange that those two never appear to the best advantage together.'

'Oh, Laura, that would be the very reason,' said Amy.

'The very reason?' said Charles. Draw out your meaning, Miss.'

'Yes,' said Amy, colouring, 'If Guy--if a generous person, I mean--were
vexed with another sometimes, it would be the very reason he would make
the most of all his goodness.'

'Heigh-ho!' yawned Charles. What o'clock is it? I wonder when Guy is
ever coming back from that Lascelles.'

'Your wonder need not last long,' said Laura; 'for I see him riding into
the stable yard.'

In a few minutes he had entered; and, on being asked if he had met
Philip and Charlotte, and how they were getting on, he replied,--'A good
deal like the print of Dignity and Impudence,' at the same time throwing
back his shoulders, and composing his countenance to imitate Philip's
lofty deportment and sedate expression, and the next moment putting his
head on one side with a sharp little nod, and giving a certain espiegle
glance of the eye, and knowing twist of one corner of the mouth, just
like Charlotte.

'By the by,' added he, 'would Philip have been a clergyman if he had
gone to Oxford?'

'I don't know; I don't think it was settled,' said Laura, 'Why?'

'I could never fancy him one' said Guy. 'He would not have been what
he is now if he had gone to Oxford,' said Charles. 'He would have lived
with men of the same powers and pursuits with himself, and have found
his level.'

'And that would have been a very high one,' said Guy.

'It would; but there would be all the difference there is between a
feudal prince and an Eastern despot. He would know what it is to live
with his match.'

'But you don't attempt to call him conceited!' cried Guy, with a sort of
consternation.

'He is far above that; far too grand,' said Amy.

'I should as soon think of calling Jupiter conceited,' said Charles; and
Laura did not know how far to be gratified, or otherwise.

Charles had not over-estimated Philip's readiness of self adaptation.
Charlotte had been very happy with him, talking over the "Lady of the
Lake", which she had just read, and being enlightened, partly to
her satisfaction, partly to her disappointment, as to how much was
historical. He listened good-naturedly to a fit of rapture, and threw in
a few, not too many, discreet words of guidance to the true principles
of taste; and next told her about an island, in a pond at Stylehurst,
which had been by turns Ellen's isle and Robinson Crusoe's. It was at
this point in the conversation that Guy came in sight, riding slowly,
his reins on his horse's neck, whistling a slow, melancholy tune, his
eyes fixed on the sky, and so lost in musings, that he did not perceive
them till Philip arrested him by calling out, 'That is a very bad plan.
No horse is to be trusted in that way, especially such a spirited one.'

Guy started, and gathered up his reins, owning it was foolish.

'You look only half disenchanted yet,' said Philip. 'Has Lascelles put
you into what my father's old gardener used to call a stud?'

'Nothing so worthy of a stud,' said Guy, smiling and colouring a little.
'I was only dreaming over a picture of ruin--

                 'The steed is vanish'd from the stall,
                  No serf is seen in Hassan's hall,
                  The lonely spider's thin grey pall
                  Waves, slowly widening o'er the wall.'

'Byron!' exclaimed Philip. 'I hope you are not dwelling on him?'

'Only a volume I found in my room.'

'Oh, the "Giaour"!' said Philip. 'Well, there is no great damage done;
but it is bad food for excitable minds. Don't let it get hold of you.'

'Very well;' and there was a cloud, but it cleared in a moment, and,
with a few gay words to both, he rode off at a quick pace.

'Foolish fellow!' muttered Philip, looking after him.

After some space of silence, Charlotte began in a very grave tone--

'Philip.'

'Well?'

'Philip.'

Another 'Well!' and another long pause.

'Philip, I don't know whether you'll be angry with me.'

'Certainly not,' said Philip, marvelling at what was coming.

'Guy says he does not want to keep up the feud, and I wish you would
not.'

'What do you mean?'

'The deadly feud!' said Charlotte.

'What nonsense is this?' said Philip.

'Surely--Oh Philip, there always was a deadly feud between our
ancestors, and the Redclyffe Morvilles, and it was very wrong, and ought
not to be kept up now.'

'It is not I that keep it up.'

'Is it not?' said Charlotte. 'But I am sure you don't like Guy. And I
can't think why not, unless it is the deadly feud, for we are all so
fond of him. Laura says it is a different house since he came.'

'Hum!' said Philip. 'Charlotte, you did well to make me promise not to
be angry with you, by which, I presume, you mean displeased. I should
like to know what put this notion into your head.'

'Charlie told me,' almost whispered Charlotte, hanging down her head.
'And--and--'

'And what? I can't hear.'

Charlotte was a good deal frightened; but either from firmness, or from
the female propensity to have the last word, or it might be the spirit
of mischief, she got out--'You have made me quite sure of it yourself.'

She was so alarmed at having said this, that had it not been
undignified, she would have run quite away, and never stopped till
she came to East-hill. Matters were not mended when Philip said
authoritatively, and as if he was not in the least bit annoyed (which
was the more vexatious), 'What do you mean, Charlotte?'

She had a great mind to cry, by way of getting out of the scrape; but
having begun as a counsellor and peacemaker, it would never do to be
babyish; and on his repeating the question, she said, in a tone which
she could not prevent from being lachrymose, 'You make Guy almost angry,
you tease him, and when people praise him, you answer as if it would not
last! And it is very unfair of you,' concluded she, with almost a sob.

'Charlotte,' replied Philip, much more kindly than she thought she
deserved, after the reproach that seemed to her so dreadfully naughty,
'you may dismiss all fear of deadly feud, whatever you may mean by it.
Charles has been playing tricks on you. You know, my little cousin, that
I am a Christian, and we live in the nineteenth century.'

Charlotte felt as if annihilated at the aspect of her own folly. He
resumed--'You misunderstood me. I do think Guy very agreeable. He is
very attentive to Charles, very kind to you, and so attractive, that I
don't wonder you like him. But those who are older than you see that he
has faults, and we wish to set him on his guard against them. It may be
painful to ourselves, and irritating to him, but depend upon it, it is
the proof of friendship. Are you satisfied, my little cousin?'

She could only say humbly, 'I beg your pardon.'

'You need not ask pardon. Since you had the notion, it was right to
speak, as it was to me, one of your own family. When you are older, you
need never fear to speak out in the right place. I am glad you have
so much of the right sort of feminine courage, though in this case you
might have ventured to trust to me.'

So ended Charlotte's anxieties respecting the deadly feud, and she had
now to make up her mind to the loss of her playfellow, who was to go to
Oxford at Easter, when he would be just eighteen, his birthday being the
28th of March. Both her playmates were going, Bustle as well as Guy, and
it was at first proposed that Deloraine should go too, but Guy bethought
himself that Oxford would be a place of temptation for William; and not
choosing to trust the horse to any one else, resolved to leave both at
Hollywell.

His grandfather had left an allowance for Guy, until his coming of age,
such as might leave no room for extravagance, and which even Philip
pronounced to be hardly sufficient for a young man in his position. 'You
know,' said Mr. Edmonstone, in his hesitating, good-natured way, 'if
ever you have occasion sometimes for a little--a little more--you need
only apply to me. Don't be afraid, anything rather than run into debt.
You know me, and 'tis your own.'

'This shall do,' said Guy, in the same tone as he had fixed his hours of
study.

Each of the family made Guy a birthday present, as an outfit for Oxford;
Mr. Edmonstone gave him a set of studs, Mrs. Edmonstone a Christian
Year, Amabel copied some of his favourite songs, Laura made a drawing
of Sintram, Charlotte worked a kettle-holder, with what was called by
courtesy a likeness of Bustle. Charles gave nothing, professing that he
would do nothing to encourage his departure.

'You don't know what a bore it is to lose the one bit of quicksilver in
the house!' said he, yawning. 'I shall only drag on my existence till
you come back.'

'You, Charles, the maker of fun!' said Guy, amazed.

'It is a case of flint and steel,' said Charles; 'but be it owing to who
it will, we have been alive since you came here. You have taken care
to be remembered. We have been studying you, or laughing at you, or
wondering what absurdity was to come next.'

'I am very sorry--that is, if you are serious. I hoped at least I
appeared like other people.'

'I'll tell you what you appear like. Just what I would be if I was a
free man.'

'Never say that, Charlie!'

'Nay, wait a bit. I would never be so foolish. I would never give my
sunny mornings to Euripides; I would not let the best hunter in the
county go when I had wherewithal to pay for him.'

'You would not have such an ill-conditioned self to keep in rule.'

'After all,' continued Charles, yawning, 'it is no great compliment to
say I am sorry you are going. If you were an Ethiopian serenader, you
would be a loss to me. It is something to see anything beyond this old
drawing-room, and the same faces doing the same things every day. Laura
poking over her drawing, and meditating upon the last entry in Philip's
memorandum-book, and Amy at her flowers or some nonsense or other,
and Charlotte and the elders all the same, and a lot of stupid people
dropping in and a lot of stupid books to read, all just alike. I can
tell what they are like without looking in!' Charles yawned again,
sighed, and moved wearily. 'Now, there came some life and freshness with
you. You talk of Redclyffe, and your brute creation there, not like
a book, and still less like a commonplace man; you are innocent and
unsophisticated, and take new points of view; you are something to
interest oneself about; your coming in is something to look forward
to; you make the singing not such mere milk-and-water, your reading the
Praelectiones is an additional landmark to time; besides the mutton of
to-day succeeding the beef of yesterday. Heigh-ho! I'll tell you what,
Guy. Though I may carry it off with a high hand, 'tis no joke to be
a helpless log all the best years of a man's life,--nay, for my whole
life,--for at the very best of the contingencies the doctors are always
flattering me with, I should make but a wretched crippling affair of it.
And if that is the best hope they give me, you may guess it is likely to
be a pretty deal worse. Hope? I've been hoping these ten years, and much
good has it done me. I say, Guy,' he proceeded, in a tone of extreme
bitterness, though with a sort of smile, 'the only wonder is that I
don't hate the very sight of you! There are times when I feel as if I
could bite some men,--that Tomfool Maurice de Courcy, for instance, when
I hear him rattling on, and think--'

'I know I have often talked thoughtlessly, I have feared afterwards I
might have given you pain.'

'No, no, you never have; you have carried me along with you. I like
nothing better than to hear of your ridings, and shootings, and
boatings. It is a sort of life.'

Charles had never till now alluded seriously to his infirmity before
Guy, and the changing countenance of his auditor showed him to be
much affected, as he stood leaning over the end of the sofa, with his
speaking eyes earnestly fixed on Charles, who went on:

'And now you are going to Oxford. You will take your place among the men
of your day. You will hear and be heard of. You will be somebody. And
I!--I know I have what they call talent--I could be something. They
think me an idle dog; but where's the good of doing anything? I only
know if I was not--not condemned to--to this--this life,' (had it not
been for a sort of involuntary respect to the gentle compassion of the
softened hazel eyes regarding him so kindly, he would have used the
violent expletive that trembled on his lip;) 'if I was not chained down
here, Master Philip should not stand alone as the paragon of the family.
I've as much mother wit as he.'

'That you have,' said Guy. 'How fast you see the sense of a passage. You
could excel very much if you only tried.'

'Tried?' And what am I to gain by it?'

'I don't know that one ought to let talents rust,' said Guy,
thoughtfully; 'I suppose it is one's duty not; and surely it is a pity
to give up those readings.'

'I shall not get such another fellow dunce as you,' said Charles, 'as I
told you when we began, and it would be a mere farce to do it alone. I
could not make myself, if I would.'

'Can't you make yourself do what you please?' said Guy, as if it was the
simplest thing in the world.

'Not a bit, if the other half of me does not like it. I forget it, or
put it off, and it comes to nothing. I do declare, though, I would get
something to break my mind on, merely as a medical precaution, just to
freshen myself up, if I could find any one to do it with. No, nothing in
the shape of a tutor, against that I protest.'

'Your sisters,' suggested Guy.

'Hum'! Laura is too intellectual already, and I don't mean to poach on
Philip's manor; and if I made little Amy cease to be silly, I should do
away with all the comfort I have left me in life. I don't know, though,
if she swallowed learning after Mary Ross's pattern, that it need do her
much harm.'

Amy came into the room at the moment. 'Amy, here is Guy advising me to
take you to read something awfully wise every day, something that will
make you as dry as a stick, and as blue--'

'As a gentianella,' said Guy.

'I should not mind being like a gentianella,' said Amy. 'But what
dreadful thing were you setting him to do?'

'To make you read all the folios in my uncle's old library,' said
Charles. 'All that Margaret has in keeping against Philip has a house of
his own.'

'Sancho somebody, and all you talked of when first you came?' said Amy.

'We were talking of the hour's reading that Charlie and I have had
together lately,' said Guy.

'I was thinking how Charlie would miss that hour,' said Amy; 'and we
shall be very sorry not to have you to listen to.'

'Well, then, Amy, suppose you read with me?'

'Oh, Charlie, thank you! Should you really like it?' cried Amy,
colouring with delight. 'I have always thought it would be so very
delightful if you would read with me, as James Ross used with Mary, only
I was afraid of tiring you with my stupidity. Oh, thank you!'

So it was settled, and Charles declared that he put himself on honour to
give a good account of their doings to Guy, that being the only way of
making himself steady to his resolution; but he was perfectly determined
not to let Philip know anything about the practice he had adopted,
since he would by no means allow him to guess that he was following his
advice.

Charles had certainly grown very fond of Guy, in spite of his propensity
to admire Philip, satisfying himself by maintaining that, after all, Guy
only tried to esteem his cousin because he thought it a point of duty,
just as children think it right to admire the good boy in a story book;
but that he was secretly fretted and chafed by his perfection. No one
could deny that there were often occasions when little misunderstandings
would arise, and that, but for Philip's coolness and Guy's readiness to
apologise they might often have gone further; but at the same time no
one could regret these things more than Guy himself, and he was willing
and desirous to seek Philip's advice and assistance when needed. In
especial, he listened earnestly to the counsel which was bestowed on him
about Oxford: and Mrs. Edmonstone was convinced that no one could have
more anxiety to do right and avoid temptation. She had many talks
with him in her dressing-room, promising to write to him, as did also
Charles; and he left Hollywell with universal regrets, most loudly
expressed by Charlotte, who would not be comforted without a lock of
Bustle's hair, which she would have worn round her neck if she had not
been afraid that Laura would tell Philip.

'He goes with excellent intentions,' said Philip, as they watched him
from the door.

'I do hope he will do well,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

'I wish he may,' said Philip; 'the agreeableness of his whole character
makes one more anxious. It is very dangerous. His name, his wealth, his
sociable, gay disposition, that very attractive manner, all are so many
perils, and he has not that natural pleasure in study that would be of
itself a preservative from temptation. However, he is honestly anxious
to do right, and has excellent principles. I only fear his temper and
his want of steadiness. Poor boy, I hope he may do well!'

CHAPTER 7

                    --Pray, good shepherd, what
      Fair swain is this that dances with your daughter?
        *         *         *         *          *
      He sings several times faster than you'll tell money;
      he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men's
      ears grow to his tunes.
                                  --WINTER'S TALE

It was a glorious day in June, the sky of pure deep dazzling blue, the
sunshine glowing with brightness, but with cheerful freshness in the
air that took away all sultriness, the sun tending westward in his
long day's career, and casting welcome shadows from the tall firs and
horse-chestnuts that shaded the lawn. A long rank of haymakers--men
and women--proceeded with their rakes, the white shirt-sleeves, straw
bonnets, and ruddy faces, radiant in the bath of sunshine, while in the
shady end of the field were idler haymakers among the fragrant piles,
Charles half lying on the grass, with his back against a tall haycock;
Mrs. Edmonstone sitting on another, book in hand; Laura sketching the
busy scene, the sun glancing through the chequered shade on her glossy
curls; Philip stretched out at full length, hat and neck-tie off,
luxuriating in the cool repose after a dusty walk from Broadstone; and a
little way off, Amabel and Charlotte pretending to make hay, but really
building nests with it, throwing it at each other, and playing as
heartily as the heat would allow.

They talked and laughed, the rest were too hot, too busy, or too sleepy
for conversation, even Philip being tired into enjoying the "dolce far
niente"; and they basked in the fresh breezy heat and perfumy hay with
only now and then a word, till a cold, black, damp nose was suddenly
thrust into Charles's face, a red tongue began licking him; and at the
same moment Charlotte, screaming 'There he is!' raced headlong across
the swarths of hay, to meet Guy, who had just ridden into the field.
He threw Deloraine's rein to one of the haymakers, and came bounding to
meet her, just in time to pick her up as she put her foot into a hidden
hole, and fell prostrate.

In another moment he was in the midst of the whole party, who crowded
round and welcomed him as if he had been a boy returning from his
first half-year's schooling; and never did little school-boy look more
holiday-like than he, with all the sunshine of that June day reflected,
as it were, in his glittering eyes and glowing face, while Bustle
escaping from Charles's caressing arm, danced round, wagging his tail
in ecstasy, and claiming his share of the welcome. Then Guy was on
the ground by Charles, rejoicing to find him out there, and then, some
dropping into their former nests on the hay, some standing round, they
talked fast and eagerly in a confusion of sound that did not subside for
the first ten minutes so as to allow anything to be clearly heard. The
first distinct sentence was Charlotte's 'Bustle, darling old fellow, you
are handsomer than ever!'

'What a delicious day!' next exclaimed Guy, following Philip's example,
by throwing off hat and neck-tie.

'A spontaneous tribute to the beauty of the day,' said Charles.

'Really it is so ultra-splendid as to deserve notice!' said Philip,
throwing himself completely back, and looking up.

'One cannot help revelling in that deep blue!' said Laura.

'Tomorrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new year,' hummed Guy.

'Ah you will teach us all now,' said Laura, 'after your grand singing
lessons.'

'Do you know what is in store for you, Guy?' said Amy. 'Oh! haven't you
heard about Lady Kilcoran's ball?'

'You are to go, Guy,' said Charlotte. 'I am glad I am not. I hate
dancing.'

'And I know as much about it as Bustle,' said Guy, catching the dog by
his forepaws, and causing him to perform an uncouth dance.

'Never mind, they will soon teach you,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

'Must I really go?'

'He begins to think it serious,' said Charles.

'Is Philip going?' exclaimed Guy, looking as if he was taken by
surprise.

'He is going to say something about dancing being a healthful recreation
for young people,' said Charles.

'You'll be disappointed,' said Philip. 'It is much too hot to moralize.'

'Apollo unbends his bow,' exclaimed Charles. 'The captain yields the
field.'

'Ah! Captain Morville, I ought to have congratulated you,' said Guy. 'I
must come to Broadstone early enough to see you on parade.'

'Come to Broadstone! You aren't still bound to Mr. Lascelles,' said
Charles.

'If he has time for me,' said Guy. 'I am too far behind the rest of the
world to afford to be idle this vacation.'

'That's right, Guy,' exclaimed Philip, sitting up, and looking full of
approval. 'With so much perseverance, you must get on at last. How did
you do in collections?'

'Tolerably, thank you.'

'You must be able to enter into the thing now,' proceeded Philip. 'What
are you reading?'

'Thucydides.'

'Have you come to Pericles' oration? I must show you some notes that I
have on that. Don't you get into the spirit of it now?'

'Up-hill work still,' answered Guy, disentangling some cinders from the
silky curls of Bustle's ear.

'Which do you like best--that or the ball?' asked Charles.

'The hay-field best of all,' said Guy, releasing Bustle, and blinding
him with a heap of hay.

'Of course!' said Charlotte, 'who would not like hay-making better than
that stupid ball?'

'Poor Charlotte!' said Mrs. Edmonstone; commiseration which irritated
Charlotte into standing up and protesting,

'Mamma, you know I don't want to go.'

'No more do I, Charlotte,' said her brother, in a mock consoling tone.
'You and I know what is good for us, and despise sublunary vanities.'

'But you will go, Guy,' said Laura; 'Philip is really going.'

'In spite of Lord Kilcoran's folly in going to such an expense as either
taking Allonby or giving the ball,' said Charles.

'I don't think it is my business to bring Lord Kilcoran to a sense of
his folly,' said Philip. 'I made all my protests to Maurice when first
he started the notion, but if his father chose to take the matter up, it
is no concern of mine.'

'You will understand, Guy,' said Charles, 'that this ball is specially
got up by Maurice for Laura's benefit.'

'Believe as little as you please of that speech, Guy,' said Laura; 'the
truth is that Lord Kilcoran is very good-natured, and Eveleen was very
much shocked to hear that Amy had never been to any ball, and I to only
one, and so it ended in their giving one.'

'When is it to be?'

'On Thursday week,' said Amy. 'I wonder if you will think Eveleen as
pretty as we do!'

'She is Laura's great friend, is not she?'

'I like her very much; I have known her all my life, and she has much
more depth than those would think who only know her manner.' And Laura
looked pleadingly at Philip as she spoke.

'Are there any others of the family at home?' said Guy.

'The two younger girls, Mabel and Helen, and the little boys,' said Amy.
'Lord de Courcy is in Ireland, and all the others are away.'

'Lord de Courcy is the wisest man of the family, and sets his face
against absenteeism,' said Philip, 'so he is never visible here.'

'But you aren't going to despise it, I hope, Guy,' said Amy, earnestly;
'it will be so delightful! And what fun we shall have in teaching you to
dance!'

Guy stretched himself, and gave a quaint grunt.

'Never mind, Guy,' said Philip, 'very little is required. You may easily
pass in the crowd. I never learnt.'

'Your ear will guide you,' said Laura.

'And no one can stay at home, since Mary Ross is going,' said Amy.
'Eveleen was always so fond of her, that she came and forced a promise
from her by telling her she should come with mamma, and have no
trouble.'

'You have not seen Allonby,' said Laura. 'There are such Vandykes, and
among them, such a King Charles!'

'Is not that the picture,' said Charles, 'before which Amy--'

'O don't, Charlie!'

'Was found dissolved in tears?'

'I could not help it,' murmured Amy, blushing crimson.

'There is all Charles's fate in his face,' said Philip,--'earnest,
melancholy, beautiful! It would stir the feelings--were it an unknown
portrait. No, Amy, you need not be ashamed of your tears.'

But Amy turned away, doubly ashamed.

'I hope it is not in the ball-room,' said Guy.

'No said Laura, 'it is in the library.'

Charlotte, whose absence had become perceptible from the general
quietness, here ran up with two envelopes, which she put into Guy's
hands. One contained Lady Kilcoran's genuine card of invitation for Sir
Guy Morville, the other Charlotte had scribbled in haste for Mr. Bustle.

This put an end to all rationality. Guy rose with a growl and a roar,
and hunted her over half the field, till she was caught, and came back
out of breath and screaming, 'We never had such a haymaking!'

'So I think the haymakers will say!' answered her mother, rising to go
indoors. 'What ruin of haycocks!'

'Oh, I'll set all that to rights,' said Guy, seizing a hay-fork.

'Stop, stop, take care!' cried Charles. 'I don't want to be built up in
the rick, and by and by, when my disconsolate family have had all the
ponds dragged for me, Deloraine will be heard to complain that they give
him very odd animal food.'

'Who could resist such a piteous appeal!' said Guy, helping him to rise,
and conducting him to his wheeled chair. The others followed, and when,
shortly after, Laura looked out at her window, she saw Guy, with his
coat off, toiling like a real haymaker, to build up the cocks in all
their neat fairness and height, whistling meantime the 'Queen of the
May,' and now and then singing a line. She watched the old cowman come
up, touching his hat, and looking less cross than usual; she saw Guy's
ready greeting, and perceived they were comparing the forks and rakes,
the pooks and cocks of their counties; and, finally, she beheld her
father ride into the field, and Guy spring to meet him.

No one could have so returned to what was in effect a home, unless his
time had been properly spent; and, in fact, all that Mr. Edmonstone or
Philip could hear of him, was so satisfactory, that Philip pronounced
that the first stage of the trial had been passed irreproachably, and
Laura felt and looked delighted at this sanction to the high estimation
in which she held him.

His own account of himself to Mrs. Edmonstone would not have been
equally satisfactory if she had not had something else to check it with.
It was given by degrees, and at many different times, chiefly as they
walked round the garden in the twilight of the summer evenings, talking
over the many subjects mentioned in the letters which had passed
constantly. It seemed as if there were very few to whom Guy would ever
give his confidence; but that once bestowed, it was with hardly any
reserve, and that was his great relief and satisfaction to pour out his
whole mind, where he was sure of sympathy.

To her, then, he confided how much provoked he was with himself, his
'first term,' he said, 'having only shown him what an intolerable fool
he had to keep in order.' By his account, he could do nothing 'without
turning his own head, except study, and that stupefied it.' 'Never was
there a more idle fellow; he could work himself for a given time, but
his sense would not second him; and was it not most absurd in him to
take so little pleasure in what was his duty, and enjoy only what was
bad for him?'

He had tried boating, but it had distracted him from his work; so he had
been obliged to give it up, and had done so in a hasty vehement manner,
which had caused offence, and for which he blamed himself. It had
been the same with other things, till he had left himself no regular
recreation but walking and music. 'The last,' he said, 'might engross
him in the same way; but he thought (here he hesitated a little) there
were higher ends for music, which made it come under Mrs. Edmonstone's
rule, of a thing to be used guardedly, not disused.' He had resumed
light reading, too, which he had nearly discontinued before he went to
Oxford. 'One wants something,' he said, 'by way of refreshment, where
there is no sea nor rock to look at, and no Laura and Amy to talk to.'

He had made one friend, a scholar of his own college, of the name of
Wellwood. This name had been his attraction; Guy was bent on friendship
with him; if, as he tried to make him out to be, he was the son of that
Captain Wellwood whose death had weighed so heavily on his grandfather's
conscience, feeling almost as if it were his duty to ask forgiveness in
his grandfather's name, yet scarcely knowing how to venture on advances
to one to whom his name had such associations. However, they had
gradually drawn together, and at length entered on the subject, and Guy
then found he was the nephew, not the son of Captain Wellwood; indeed,
his former belief was founded on a miscalculation, as the duel had
taken place twenty-eight years ago. He now heard all his grandfather had
wished to know of the family. There were two unmarried daughters, and
their cousin spoke in the highest terms of their self-devoted life,
promising what Guy much wished, that they should hear what deep
repentance had followed the crime which had made them fatherless. He was
to be a clergyman, and Guy admired him extremely, saying, however, that
he was so shy and retiring, it was hard to know him well.

From not having been at school, and from other causes, Guy had made few
acquaintance; indeed, he amused Mrs. Edmonstone by fearing he had been
morose. She was ready to tell him he was an ingenious self-tormentor;
but she saw that the struggle to do right was the main spring of
the happiness that beamed round him, in spite of his self-reproach,
heart-felt as it was. She doubted whether persons more contented with
themselves were as truly joyous, and was convinced that, while thus
combating lesser temptations, the very shadow of what are generally
alone considered as real temptations would hardly come near him.

If it had not been for these talks, and now and then a thoughtful look,
she would have believed him one of the most light-hearted and merriest
of beings. He was more full of glee and high spirits than she had ever
seen him; he seemed to fill the whole house with mirth, and keep every
one alive by his fun and frolic, as blithe and untiring as Maurice de
Courcy himself, though not so wild.

Very pleasant were those summer days--reading, walking, music,
gardening. Did not they all work like very labourers at the new arbour
in the midst of the laurels, where Charles might sit and see the spires
of Broadstone? Work they did, indeed! Charles looking on from his
wheeled chair, laughing to see Guy sawing as if for his living and Amy
hammering gallantly, and Laura weaving osiers, and Charlotte flying
about with messages.

One day, they were startled by an exclamation from Charles. 'Ah, ha!
Paddy, is that you?' and beheld the tall figure of a girl, advancing
with a rapid, springing step, holding up her riding habit with one hand,
with the other whisking her coral-handled whip. There was something
distinguished in her air, and her features, though less fine than
Laura's, were very pretty, by the help of laughing dark blue eyes, and
very black hair, under her broad hat and little waving feather. She
threatened Charles with her whip, calling out--'Aunt Edmonstone said I
should find you here. What is the fun now?'

'Arbour building,' said Charles; 'don't you see the head carpenter!'

'Sir Guy?' whispered she to Laura, looking up at him, where he was
mounted on the roof, thatching it with reed, the sunshine full on his
glowing face and white shirt sleeves.

'Here!' said Charles, as Guy swung himself down with a bound, his face
much redder than sun and work had already made it, 'here's another wild
Irisher for you.'

'Sir Guy Morville--Lady Eveleen de Courcy,' began Laura; but Lady
Eveleen cut her short, frankly holding out her hand, and saying, 'You
are almost a cousin, you know. Oh, don't leave off. Do give me something
to do. That hammer, Amy, pray--Laura, don't you remember how dearly I
always loved hammering?'

'How did you come?' said Laura.

'With papa--'tis his visit to Sir Guy. 'No, don't go,' as Guy began to
look for his coat; 'he is only impending. He is gone on to Broadstone,
but he dropped me here, and will pick me up on his way back. Can't you
give me something to do on the top of that ladder? I should like it
mightily; it looks so cool and airy.'

'How can you, Eva?' whispered Laura, reprovingly; but Lady Eveleen only
shook her head at her, and declaring she saw a dangerous nail sticking
out, began to hammer it in with such good will, that Charles stopped his
ears, and told her it was worse than her tongue. 'Go on about the ball,
do.'

'Oh,' said she earnestly, 'do you think there is any hope of Captain
Morville's coming?'

'Oh yes,' said Laura.

'I am so glad! That is what papa is gone to Broadstone about. Maurice
said he had given him such a lecture, that he would not be the one to
think of asking him, and papa must do it himself; for if he sets his
face against it, it will spoil it all.'

'You may make your mind easy,' said Charles, 'the captain is lenient,
and looks on the ball as a mere development of Irish nature. He has been
consoling Guy on the difficulties of dancing.'

'Can't you dance?' said Lady Eveleen, looking at him with compassion.

'Such is my melancholy ignorance,' said Guy.

'We have been talking of teaching him,' said Laura.

'Talk! will that do it?' cried Lady Eveleen, springing up. 'We will
begin this moment. Come out on the lawn. Here, Charles,' wheeling him
along, 'No, thank you, I like it,' as Guy was going to help her. 'There,
Charles, be fiddler go on, tum-tum, tee! that'll do. Amy, Laura, be
ladies. I'm the other gentleman,' and she stuck on her hat in military
style, giving it a cock. She actually set them quadrilling in spite of
adverse circumstances, dancing better, in her habit, than most people
without one, till Lord Kilcoran arrived.

While he was making his visit, she walked a little apart, arm-in-arm
with Laura. 'I like him very much,' she said; 'he looks up to anything.
I had heard so much of his steadiness, that it is a great relief to my
mind to see him so unlike his cousin.'

'Eveleen!'

'No disparagement to the captain, only I am so dreadfully afraid of him.
I am sure he thinks me such an unmitigated goose. Now, doesn't he?'

'If you would but take the right way to make him think otherwise, dear
Eva, and show the sense you really have.'

'That is just what my fear of him won't let me do. I would not for the
world let him guess it, so there is nothing for it but sauciness to
cover one's weakness. I can't be sensible with those that won't give
me credit for it. But you'll mind and teach Sir Guy to dance; he has so
much spring in him, he deserves to be an Irishman.'

In compliance with this injunction, there used to be a clearance
every evening; Charles turned into the bay window out of the way, Mrs.
Edmonstone at the piano, and the rest figuring away, the partnerless
one, called 'puss in the corner', being generally Amabel, while
Charlotte, disdaining them all the time, used to try to make them
imitate her dancing-master's graces, causing her father to perform such
caricatures of them, as to overpower all with laughing.

Mr. Edmonstone was half Irish. His mother, Lady Mabel Edmonstone, had
never thoroughly taken root in England, and on his marriage, had gone
with her daughter to live near her old home in Ireland. The present Earl
of Kilcoran was her nephew, and a very close intercourse had always been
kept up between the families, Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone being adopted by
their younger cousins as uncle and aunt, and always so called.

The house at Allonby was in such confusion, that the family there
expected to dine nowhere on the day of the ball, and the Hollywell party
thought it prudent to secure their dinner at home, with Philip and Mary
Ross, who were to go with them.

By special desire, Philip wore his uniform; and while the sisters were
dressing Charlotte gave him a thorough examination, which led to a talk
between him and Mary on accoutrements and weapons in general; but while
deep in some points of chivalrous armour, Mary's waist was pinched
by two mischievous hands, and a little fluttering white figure danced
around her.

'O Amy! what do you want with me?'

'Come and be trimmed up,' said Amy.

'I thought you told me I was to have no trouble. I am dressed,' said
Mary, looking complacently at her full folds of white muslin.

'No more you shall; but you promised to do as you were told.' And Amy
fluttered away with her.

'Do you remember,' said Philip, 'the comparison of Rose Flammock
dragging off her father, to a little carved cherub trying to uplift a
solid monumental hero?'

'O, I must tell Mary!' cried Charlotte; but Philip stopped her, with
orders not to be a silly child.

'It is a pity Amy should not have her share,' said Charles.

'The comparison to a Dutch cherub?' asked Guy.

'She is more after the pattern of the little things on little wings, in
your blotting-book,' said Charles; 'certain lines in the predicament of
the cherubs of painters--heads "et proeterea nihil".'

'O Guy, do you write verses? cried Charlotte.

'Some nonsense,' muttered Guy, out of countenance; 'I thought I had made
away with that rubbish; where is it?'

'In the blotting-book in my room,' said Charles. 'I must explain that
the book is my property, and was put into your room when mamma was
beautifying it for you, as new and strange company. On its return to me,
at your departure, I discovered a great accession of blots and sailing
vessels, beside the aforesaid little things.'

'I shall resume my own property,' said Guy, departing in haste.

Charlotte ran after him, to beg for a sight of it; and Philip asked
Charles what it was like.

'A romantic incident,' said Charles, 'just fit for a novel. A Petrarch
leaving his poems about in blotting-books.'

Charles used the word Petrarch to stand for a poet, not thinking what
lady's name he suggested; and he was surprised at the severity of
Philip's tone as he inquired, 'Do you mean anything, or do you not?'

Perceiving with delight that he had perplexed and teased, he rejoiced in
keeping up the mystery:

'Eh? is it a tender subject with you, too?'

Philip rose, and standing over him, said, in a low but impressive tone:

'I cannot tell whether you are trifling or not; but you are no boy now,
and can surely see that this is no subject to be played with. If you are
concealing anything you have discovered, you have a great deal to answer
for. I can hardly imagine anything more unfortunate than that he should
become attached to either of your sisters.'

'Et pourquoi?' asked Charles, coolly.

'I see,' said Philip, retreating to his chair, and speaking with great
composure, 'I did you injustice by speaking seriously.' Then, as his
uncle came into the room, he asked some indifferent question, without
betraying a shade of annoyance.

Charles meanwhile congratulated himself on his valour in keeping his
counsel, in spite of so tall a man in scarlet; but he was much nettled
at the last speech, for if a real attachment to his sister had been
in question, he would never have trifled about it. Keenly alive to his
cousin's injustice, he rejoiced in having provoked and mystified the
impassable, though he little knew the storm he had raised beneath that
serene exterior of perfect self-command.

The carriages were announced, and Mr. Edmonstone began to call the
ladies, adding tenfold to the confusion in the dressing-room. There was
Laura being completed by the lady's maid, Amabel embellishing Mary, Mrs.
Edmonstone with her arm loaded with shawls, Charlotte flourishing about.
Poor Mary--it was much against her will--but she had no heart to refuse
the wreath of geraniums that Amy's own hands had woven for her; and
there she sat, passive as a doll, though in despair at their all waiting
for her. For Laura's toilette was finished, and every one began dressing
her at once; while Charlotte, to make it better, screamed over the
balusters that all were ready but Mary. Sir Guy was heard playing the
'Harmonious Blacksmith,' and Captain Morville's step was heard, fast and
firm. At last, when a long chain was put round her neck, she cried out,
'I have submitted to everything so far; I can bear no more!' jumped
up, caught hold of her shawl, and was putting it on, when there was a
general outcry that they must exhibit themselves to Charles.

They all ran down, and Amy, flying up to her brother, made a splendid
sweeping curtsey, and twirled round in a pirouette.

'Got up, regardless of expense!' cried Charles; 'display yourselves.'

The young ladies ranged themselves in imitation of the book of fashions.
The sisters were in white, with wreaths of starry jessamine. It was
particularly becoming to Laura's bella-donna lily complexion, rich brown
curls, and classical features, and her brother exclaimed:

'Laura is exactly like Apollo playing the lyre, outside mamma's old
manuscript book of music.'

'Has not Amy made beautiful wreaths?' said Laura. 'She stripped the
tree, and Guy had to fetch the ladder, to gather the sprays on the top
of the wall.'

'Do you see your bit of myrtle, Guy,' said Amy, pointing to it, on
Laura's head, 'that you tried to persuade me would pass for jessamine?'

'Ah! it should have been all myrtle,' said Guy.

Philip leant meantime against the door. Laura only once glanced towards
him, thinking all this too trifling for him, and never imagining the
intense interest with which he gave a meaning to each word and look.

'Well done, Mary!' cried Charles, 'they have furbished you up
handsomely.'

Mary made a face, and said she should wonder who was the fashionable
young lady she should meet in the pier-glasses at Allonby. Then Mr.
Edmonstone hurried them away, and they arrived in due time.

The saloon at Allonby was a beautiful room, one end opening into a
conservatory, full of coloured lamps, fresh green leaves, and hot-house
plants. There they found as yet only the home party, the good-natured,
merry Lord Kilcoran, his quiet English wife, who had bad health, and
looked hardly equal to the confusion of the evening; Maurice, and two
younger boys; Eveleen, and her two little sisters, Mabel and Helen.

'This makes it hard on Charlotte,' thought Amy, while the two girls
dragged her off to show her the lamps in the conservatory; and the rest
attacked Mrs. Edmonstone for not having brought Charlotte, reproaching
her with hardness of heart of which they had never believed her
capable--Lady Eveleen, in especial, talking with that exaggeration of
her ordinary manner which her dread of Captain Morville made her assume.
Little he recked of her; he was absorbed in observing how far Laura's
conduct coincided with Charles's hints. On the first opportunity, he
asked her to dance, and was satisfied with her pleased acquiescence;
but the next moment Guy came up, and in an eager manner made the same
request.

'I am engaged,' said she, with a bright, proud glance at Philip; and Guy
pursued Amabel into the conservatory, where he met with better success.
Mr. Edmonstone gallantly asked Mary if he was too old a partner, and was
soon dancing with the step and spring that had once made him the best
dancer in the county.

Mrs. Edmonstone watched her flock, proud and pleased, thinking how well
they looked and that, in especial, she had never been sensible how much
Laura's and Philip's good looks excelled the rest of the world. They
were much alike in the remarkable symmetry both of figure and feature,
the colour of the deep blue eye, and fairness of complexion.

'It is curious,' thought Mrs. Edmonstone, 'that, so very handsome as
Philip is, it is never the first thing remarked about him, just as his
height never is observed till he is compared with other people. The fact
is, that his superior sense carries off a degree of beauty which
would be a misfortune to most men. It is that sedate expression and
distinguished air that make the impression. How happy Laura looks, how
gracefully she moves. No, it is not being foolish to think no one equal
to Laura. My other pair!' and she smiled much more; 'you happy young
things, I would not wish to see anything pleasanter than your merry
faces. Little Amy looks almost as pretty as Laura, now she is lighted
up by blush and smile, and her dancing is very nice, it is just like her
laughing, so quiet, and yet so full of glee. I don't think she is less
graceful than her sister, but the complete enjoyment strikes one more.
And as to enjoyment--there are those bright eyes of her partner's
perfectly sparkling with delight; he looks as if it was a world of
enchantment to him. Never had any one a greater capacity for happiness
than Guy.'

Mrs. Edmonstone might well retain her opinion when, after the quadrille,
Guy came to tell her that he had never seen anything so delightful; and
he entertained Mary Ross with his fresh, joyous pleasure, through the
next dance.

'Laura,' whispered Eveleen, 'I've one ambition. Do you guess it? Don't
tell him; but if he would, I should have a better opinion of myself ever
after. I'm afraid he'll depreciate me to his friend; and really with Mr.
Thorndale, I was no more foolish than a ball requires.'

Lady Eveleen hoped in vain. Captain Morville danced with little Lady
Helen, a child of eleven, who was enchanted at having so tall a partner;
then, after standing still for some time, chose his cousin Amabel.

'You are a good partner and neighbour,' said he, giving her his arm,
'you don't want young lady talk.'

'Should you not have asked Mary? She has been sitting down this long
time.'

'Do you think she cares for such a sport as dancing?'

Amy made no answer.

'You have been well off. You were dancing with Thorndale just now.'

'Yes. It was refreshing to have an old acquaintance among so many
strangers. And he is so delighted with Eveleen; but what is more,
Philip, that Mr. Vernon, who is dancing with Laura, told Maurice he
thought her the prettiest and most elegant person here.'

'Laura might have higher praise,' said Philip, 'for hers is beauty of
countenance even more than of feature. If only--'

'If?' said Amy.

'Look round, Amy, and you will see many a face which speaks of intellect
wasted, or, if cultivated, turned aside from its true purpose, like the
double blossom, which bears leaves alone.'

'Ah! you forget you are talking to silly little Amy. I can't see all
that. I had rather think people as happy and good as they look.'

'Keep your child-like temper as long as you can--all your life,'
perhaps, for this is one of the points where it is folly to be wise.'

'Then you only meant things in general? Nothing about Laura?'

'Things in general,' repeated Philip; 'bright promises blighted or
thrown away--'

But he spoke absently, and his eye was following Laura. Amy thought he
was thinking of his sister, and was sorry for him. He spoke no more, but
she did not regret it, for she could not moralize in such a scene, and
the sight and the dancing were pleasure enough.

Guy, in the meantime, had met an Oxford acquaintance, who introduced him
to his sisters--pretty girls--whose father Mr. Edmonstone knew, but
who was rather out of the Hollywell visiting distance. They fell into
conversation quickly, and the Miss Alstons asked him with some interest,
'Which was the pretty Miss Edmonstone?' Guy looked for the sisters, as
if to make up his mind, for the fact was, that when he first knew Laura
and Amy, the idea of criticising beauty had not entered his mind, and
to compare them was quite a new notion. 'Nay,' said he at last, 'if you
cannot discover for yourselves when they are both before your eyes, I
will do nothing so invidious as to say which is _the_ pretty one. I'll
tell which is the eldest and which the youngest, but the rest you must
decide for yourself.'

'I should like to know them,' said Miss Alston. 'Oh! they are both very
nice-looking girls.'

'There, that is Laura--Miss Edmonstone,' said Guy, 'that tall young
lady, with the beautiful hair and jessamine wreath.'

He spoke as if he was proud of her, and had a property in her. The tone
did not escape Philip, who at that moment was close to them, with Amy
on his arm; and, knowing the Alstons slightly, stopped and spoke, and
introduced his cousin, Miss Amabel Edmonstone. At the same time Guy took
one of the Miss Alstons away to get some tea.

'So you knew my cousin at Oxford?' said Philip, to the brother.

'Yes, slightly. What an amusing fellow he is!'

'There is something very bright, very unlike other people about him,'
said Miss Alston.

'How does he get on? Is he liked?'

'Why, yes, I should say so, on the whole; but it is rather as my sister
says, he is not like other people.'

'In what respect?'

'Oh I can hardly tell. He is a very pleasant person, but he ought to
have been at school. He is a man of crotchets.'

'Hard-working?'

'Very; he makes everything give way to that. He is a capital companion
when he is to be had, but he lives very much to himself. He is a man of
one friend, and I don't see much of him.'

Another dance began, Mr. Alston went to look for his partner, Philip and
Amy moved on in search of ice. 'Hum!' said Philip to himself, causing
Amy to gaze up at him, but he was musing too intently for her to venture
on a remark. She was thinking that she did not wonder that strangers
deemed Guy crotchety, since he was so difficult to understand; and then
she considered whether to take him to see King Charles, in the library,
and concluded that she would wait, for she felt as if the martyr king's
face would look on her too gravely to suit her present tone.

Philip helped her to ice, and brought her back to her mother's
neighbourhood without many more words. He then stood thoughtful for some
time, entered into conversation with one of the elder gentlemen, and,
when that was interrupted, turned to talk to his aunt.

Lady Eveleen and her two cousins were for a moment together. 'What is
the matter, Eva?' said Amy, seeing a sort of dissatisfaction on her
bright face.

'The roc's egg?' said Laura, smiling. 'The queen of the evening can't be
content--'

'No; you are the queen, if the one thing can make you so--the one thing
wanting to me.'

'How absurd you are, Eva--when you say you are so afraid of him, too.'

'That is the very reason. I should get a better opinion of myself!
Besides, there is nobody else so handsome. I declare I'll make a bold
attempt.'

'Oh! you don't think of such a thing,' cried Laura, very much shocked.

'Never fear,' said Eveleen, 'faint heart, you know.' And with a nod, a
flourish, of her bouquet, and an arch smile at her cousin's horror,
she moved on, and presently they heard her exclaiming, gaily, 'Captain
Morville, I really must scold you. You are setting a shocking example
of laziness! Aunt Edmonstone, how can you encourage such proceedings!
Indolence is the parent of vice, you know.'

Philip smiled just as much as the occasion required, and answered, 'I
beg your pardon, I had forgotten my duty. I'll attend to my business
better in future.' And turning to a small, shy damsel, who seldom met
with a partner, he asked her to dance. Eveleen came back to Laura with
a droll disappointed gesture. 'Insult to injury,' said she,
disconsolately.

'Of course,' said Amy, 'he could not have thought you wanted to dance
with him, or you would not have gone to stir him up.'

'Well, then, he was very obtuse.'

'Besides, you are engaged.'

'O yes, to Mr. Thorndale! But who would be content with the squire when
the knight disdains her?'

Mr. Thorndale came to claim Eveleen at that moment. It was the second
time she had danced with him, and it did not pass unobserved by Philip,
nor the long walk up and down after the dance was over. At length his
friend came up to him and said something warm in admiration of her.
'She is very Irish,' was Philip's answer, with a cold smile, and Mr.
Thorndale stood uncomfortable under the disapprobation, attracted by
Eveleen's beauty and grace, yet so unused to trust his own judgment
apart from 'Morville's,' as to be in an instant doubtful whether he
really admired or not.

'You have not been dancing with her?' he said, presently.

'No: she attracts too many to need the attention of a nobody like
myself.'

That 'too many,' seeming to confound him with the vulgar herd, made Mr.
Thorndale heartily ashamed of having been pleased with her.

Philip was easy about him for the present, satisfied that admiration had
been checked, which, if it had been allowed to grow into an attachment,
would have been very undesirable.

The suspicions Charles had excited were so full in Philip's mind,
however, that he could not as easily set it at rest respecting his
cousin. Guy had three times asked her to dance, but each time she had
been engaged. At last, just as the clock struck the hour at which the
carriage had been ordered, he came up, and impetuously claimed her. 'One
quadrille we must have, Laura, if you are not tired?'

'No! Oh, no! I could dance till this time to-morrow.'

'We ought to be going,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

'O pray, Mrs. Edmonstone, this one more,' cried Guy, eagerly. 'Laura
owes me this one.'

'Yes, this one more, mamma,' said Laura, and they went off together,
while Philip remained, in a reverie, till requested by his aunt to see
if the carriage was ready.

The dance was over, the carriage was waiting, but Guy and Laura did not
appear till, after two or three minutes spent in wonder and inquiries,
they came quietly walking back from the library, where they had been
looking at King Charles.

All the way home the four ladies in the carriage never ceased laughing
and talking. The three gentlemen in theirs acted diversely. Mr.
Edmonstone went to sleep, Philip sat in silent thought, Guy whistled
and hummed the tunes, and moved his foot very much as if he was still
dancing.

They met for a moment, and parted again in the hall at Hollywell, where
the daylight was striving to get in through the closed shutters. Philip
went on to Broadstone, Guy said he could not go to bed by daylight,
called Bustle, and went to the river to bathe, and the rest crept
upstairs to their rooms. And so ended Lord Kilcoran's ball.

CHAPTER 8

     Like Alexander, I will reign,
     And I will reign alone,
     My thoughts shall ever more disdain
     A rival near my throne.
     But I must rule and govern still,
     And always give the law,
     And have each subject at my will,
     And all to stand in awe.
                         --MONTROSE.

One very hot afternoon, shortly after the ball, Captain Morville walked
to Hollywell, accelerating his pace under the influence of anxious
reflections.

He could not determine whether Charles had spoken in jest; but in spite
of Guy's extreme youth, he feared there was ground for the suspicion
excited by the hint, and was persuaded that such an attachment could
produce nothing but unhappiness to his cousin, considering how little
confidence could be placed in Guy. He perceived that there was much to
inspire affection--attractive qualities, amiable disposition, the talent
for music, and now this recently discovered power of versifying, all
were in Guy's favour, besides the ancient name and long ancestry, which
conferred a romantic interest, and caused even Philip to look up to him
with a feudal feeling as head of the family. There was also the familiar
intercourse to increase the danger; and Philip, as he reflected on these
things, trembled for Laura, and felt himself her only protector; for his
uncle was nobody, Mrs. Edmonstone was infatuated, and Charles would not
listen to reason. To make everything worse, he had that morning
heard that there was to be a grand inspection of the regiment, and a
presentation of colours; Colonel Deane was very anxious; and it was
plain that in the interval the officers would be allowed little
leisure. The whole affair was to end with a ball, which would lead to a
repetition of what had already disturbed him.

Thus meditating, Philip, heated and dusty, walked into the smooth green
enclosure of Hollywell. Everything, save the dancing clouds of
insect youth which whirled in his face, was drooping in the heat. The
house--every door and window opened--seemed gasping for breath; the
cows sought refuge in the shade; the pony drooped its head drowsily; the
leaves hung wearily; the flowers were faint and thirsty; and Bustle was
stretched on the stone steps, mouth open, tongue out, only his tail now
and then moving, till he put back his ears and crested his head to greet
the arrival. Philip heard the sounds that had caused the motion of the
sympathizing tail--the rich tones of Guy's voice. Stepping over the dog,
he entered, and heard more clearly--

          'Two loving hearts may sever,
           For sorrow fails them never.'

And then another voice--

          'Who knows not love in sorrow's night,
           He knows not love in light.'

In the drawing-room, cool and comfortable in the green shade of the
Venetian blinds of the bay window, stood Laura, leaning on the piano,
close to Guy, who sat on the music-stool, looking thoroughly at home in
his brown shooting-coat, and loosely-tied handkerchief.

Any one but Philip would have been out of temper, but he shook hands
as cordially as usual, and would not even be the first to remark on the
heat.

Laura told him he looked hot and tired, and invited him to come out to
the others, and cool himself on the lawn. She went for her parasol, Guy
ran for her camp stool, and Philip, going to the piano, read what they
had been singing. The lines were in Laura's writing, corrected, here and
there, in Guy's hand.

           BE STEADFAST.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           Yet love shall fail them never.
           Love brightest beams in sorrow's night,
           Love is of life the light.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           Yet hope shall fail them never.
           Hope is a star in sorrow's night,
           Forget-me-not of light.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           Yet faith may fail them never.
           Trust on through sorrow's night,
           Faith is of love and hope the light.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           For sorrow fails them never.
           Who knows not love in sorrow's night,
           He knows not love in light.

Philip was by no means pleased. However, it was in anything but a
sentimental manner that Guy, looking over him, said, 'For sever, read,
be separated, but "a" wouldn't rhyme.'

'I translated it into prose, and Guy made it verse,' said Laura; 'I hope
you approve of our performance.'

'It is that thing of Helmine von Chezy, "Beharre", is it not?' said
Philip, particularly civil, because he was so much annoyed. 'You have
rendered the spirit very well', but you have sacrificed a good deal to
your double rhymes.'

'Yes; those last lines are not troubled with any equality of feet,' said
Guy; 'but the repetition is half the beauty. It put me in mind of those
lines of Burns--

          "Had we never loved so kindly,
           Had we never loved so blindly,
           Never met and never parted,
           We had ne'er been broken hearted;"

but there is a trust in these that is more touching than that despair.'

'Yes; the despair is ready, to wish the love had never been,' said
Laura. 'It does not see the star of trust. Why did you use that word
"trust" only once, Guy?'

'I did not want to lose the three--faith, hope, love,--faith keeping the
other two alive.'

'My doubt was whether it was right to have that analogy.'

'Surely,' said Guy, eagerly, 'that analogy must be the best part of
earthly love.'

Here Charlotte came to see if Guy and Laura meant to sing all the
afternoon; and they went out. They found the others in the arbour,
and Charlotte's histories of its construction, gave Philip little
satisfaction. They next proceeded to talk over the ball.

'Ah!' said Philip, 'balls are the fashion just now. What do you say,
Amy, [he was more inclined to patronize her than any one else] to the
gaieties we are going to provide for you?'

'You! Are you going to have your new colours? Oh! you are not going to
give us a ball?'

'Well! that is fun!' cried Guy. 'What glory Maurice de Courcy must be
in!'

'He is gone to Allonby,' said Philip, 'to announce it; saying, he must
persuade his father to put off their going to Brighton. Do you think he
will succeed?'

'Hardly,' said Laura; 'poor Lady Kilcoran was so knocked up by their
ball, that she is the more in want of sea air. Oh, mamma, Eva must come
and stay here.'

'That she must,' said Mrs. Edmonstone; 'that will make it easy. She is
the only one who will care about the ball.'

Philip was obliged to conceal his vexation, and to answer the many eager
questions about the arrangements. He stayed to dinner, and as the others
went in-doors to dress, he lingered near Charlotte, assuming, with some
difficulty, an air of indifference, and said--'Well, Charlotte, did you
tease Guy into showing you those verses?'

'Oh yes,' said Charlotte, with what the French call "un air capable".'

'Well, what were they?'

'That I mustn't tell. They were very pretty; but I've promised.'

'Promised what?'

'Never to say anything about them. He made it a condition with me, and I
assure you, I am to be trusted.'

'Right,' said Philip; 'I'll ask no more.'

'It would be of no use,' said Charlotte, shaking her head, as if she
wished he would prove her further.

Philip was in hopes of being able to speak to Laura after dinner,
but his uncle wanted him to come and look over the plans of an estate
adjoining Redclyffe, which there was some idea of purchasing. Such an
employment would in general have been congenial; but on this occasion,
it was only by a strong force that he could chain his attention, for
Guy was pacing the terrace with Laura and Amabel, and as they passed and
repassed the window, he now and then caught sounds of repeating poetry.

In this Guy excelled. He did not read aloud well; he was too rapid, and
eyes and thoughts were apt to travel still faster than the lips, thus
producing a confusion; but no one could recite better when a passage had
taken strong hold of his imagination, and he gave it the full effect
of the modulations of his fine voice, conveying in its inflections the
impressions which stirred him profoundly. He was just now enchanted
with his first reading of 'Thalaba,' where he found all manner of deep
meanings, to which the sisters listened with wonder and delight. He
repeated, in a low, awful, thrilling tone, that made Amy shudder, the
lines in the seventh book, ending with--

          "Who comes from the bridal chamber!
           It is Azrael, angel of death."'

'You have not been so taken up with any book since Sintram.' said Laura.

'It is like Sintram,' he replied.

'Like it?'

'So it seems to me. A strife with the powers of darkness; the victory,
forgiveness, resignation, death.

          "Thou know'st the secret wishes of my heart,
           Do with me as thou wilt, thy will is best."'

'I wish you would not speak as if you were Thalaba yourself,' said Amy,
'you bring the whole Domdaniel round us.'

'I am afraid he is going to believe himself Thalaba as well as Sintram,'
said Laura. 'But you know Southey did not see all this himself, and did
not understand it when it was pointed out.'

'Don't tell us that,' said Amy.

'Nay; I think there is something striking in it,' said Guy then, with a
sudden transition, 'but is not this ball famous?'

And their talk was of balls and reviews till nine o'clock, when they
were summoned to tea.

On the whole, Philip returned to Broadstone by no means comforted.

Never had he known so much difficulty in attending with patience to his
duties as in the course of the next fortnight. They became a greater
durance, as he at length looked his feelings full in the face, and
became aware of their true nature.

He perceived that the loss of Laura would darken his whole existence;
yet he thought that, were he only secure of her happiness, he could have
resigned her in silence. Guy was, however, one of the last men in the
world whom he could bear to see in possession of her; and probably
she was allowing herself to be entangled, if not in heart, at least in
manner. If so, she should not be unwarned. He had been her guide from
childhood, and he would not fail her now.

Three days before the review, he succeeded in finding time for a walk to
Hollywell, not fully decided on the part he should act, though resolved
on making some remonstrance. He was crossing a stile, about a mile and a
half from Hollywell, when he saw a lady sitting on the stump of a tree,
sketching, and found that fate had been so propitious as to send Laura
thither alone. The rest had gone to gather mushrooms on a down, and had
left her sketching the view of the spires of Broadstone, in the cleft
between the high green hills. She was very glad to see him, and held up
her purple and olive washes to be criticised; but he did not pay much
attention to them. He was almost confused at the sudden manner in which
the opportunity for speaking had presented itself.

'It is a long time since I have seen you,' said he, at last.

'An unheard-of time.'

'Still longer since we have had any conversation.'

'I was just thinking so. Not since that hot hay-making, when Guy came
home. Indeed, we have had so much amusement lately that I have hardly
had time for thought. Guy says we are all growing dissipated.'

'Ah! your German, and dancing, and music, do not agree with thought.'

'Poor music!' said Laura, smiling. 'But I am ready for a lecture; I have
been feeling more like a butterfly than I like.'

'I know you think me unjust about music, and I freely confess that I
cannot estimate the pleasure it affords, but I doubt whether it is a
safe pleasure. It forms common ground for persons who would otherwise
have little in common, and leads to intimacies which occasion results
never looked for.'

'Yes,' said Laura, receiving it as a general maxim.

'Laura, you complain of feeling like a butterfly. Is not that a sign
that you were made for better things?'

'But what can I do? I try to read early and at night, but I can't
prevent the fun and gaiety; and, indeed, I don't think I would. It is
innocent, and we never had such a pleasant summer. Charlie is so--so
much more equable, and mamma is more easy about him, and I can't help
thinking it does them all good, though I do feel idle.'

'It is innocent, it is right for a little while,' said Philip; 'but your
dissatisfaction proves that you are superior to such things. Laura, what
I fear is, that this summer holiday may entangle you, and so fix your
fate as to render your life no holiday. O Laura take care; know what you
are doing!'

'What am I doing?' asked Laura, with an alarmed look of ingenuous
surprise.

Never had it been so hard to maintain his composure as now, when her
simplicity forced him to come to plainer terms. 'I must speak,' he
continued, 'because no one else will. Have you reflected whither this
may tend? This music, this versifying, this admitting a stranger so
unreservedly into your pursuits?'

She understood now, and hung her head. He would have given worlds to
judge of the face hidden by her bonnet; but as she did not reply,
he spoke on, his agitation becoming so strong, that the struggle was
perceptible in the forced calmness of his tone. 'I would not say a word
if he were worthy, but Laura--Laura, I have seen Locksley Hall acted
once; do not let me see it again in a way which--which would give me
infinitely more pain.'

The faltering of his voice, so resolutely subdued, touched, her
extremely, and a thrill of exquisite pleasure glanced through her, on
hearing confirmed what she had long felt, that she had taken Margaret's
place--nay, as she now learnt, that she was even more precious to him.
She only thought of reassuring him.

'No, you need never fear _that_. He has no such thought, I am sure.'
She blushed deeply, but looked in his face. 'He treats us both alike,
besides, he is so young.'

'The mischief is not done,' said Philip, trying to resume his usual
tone; 'I only meant to speak in time. You might let your manner go too
far; you might even allow your affections to be involved without knowing
it, if you were not on your guard.'

'Never!' said Laura. 'Oh, no; I could never dream of that with Guy. I
like Guy very much; I think better of him than you do; but oh no; he
could never be my first and best; I could never care for him in _that_
way. How could you think so, Philip?'

'Laura, I cannot but look on you with what may seem over-solicitude.
Since I lost Fanny, and worse than lost Margaret, you have been my
home; my first, my most precious interest. O Laura!' and he did not even
attempt to conceal the trembling and tenderness of his voice, 'could I
bear to lose you, to see you thrown away or changed--you, dearest, best
of all?'

Laura did not turn away her head this time, but raising her beautiful
face, glowing with such a look as had never beamed there before, while
tears rose to her eyes, she said, 'Don't speak of my changing towards
you. I never could; for if there is anything to care for in me, it is
you that have taught it to me.'

If ever face plainly told another that he was her first and best,
Laura's did so now. Away went misgivings, and he looked at her in
happiness too great for speech, at least, he could not speak till he
had mastered his emotion, but his countenance was sufficient reply. Even
then, in the midst of this flood of ecstasy, came the thought, 'What
have I done?'

He had gone further than he had ever intended. It was a positive avowal
of love; and what would ensue? Cessation of intercourse with her,
endless vexations, the displeasure of her family, loss of influence,
contempt, and from Mr. Edmonstone, for the pretensions of a penniless
soldier. His joy was too great to be damped, but it was rendered
cautious. 'Laura, my own!' (what delight the words gave her,) 'you have
made me very happy. We know each other now, and trust each other for
ever.'

'O yes, yes; nothing can alter what has grown up with us.'

'It is for ever!' repeated Philip. 'But, Laura, let us be content with
our own knowledge of what we are to each other. Do not let us call in
others to see our happiness.'

Laura looked surprised, for she always considered any communication
about his private feelings too sacred to be repeated, and wondered he
should think the injunction necessary. 'I never can bear to talk about
the best kinds of happiness,' said she; 'but oh!' and she sprang up,
'here they come.'

Poor Mrs. Edmonstone, as she walked back from her mushroom-field, she
little guessed that words had been spoken which would give the colouring
to her daughter's whole life--she little guessed that her much-loved and
esteemed nephew had betrayed her confidence! As she and the girls came
up, Philip advanced to meet them, that Laura might have a few moments to
recover, while with an effort he kept himself from appearing absent in
the conversation that ensued. It was brief, for having answered some
questions with regard to the doings on the important day, he said, that
since he had met them he would not come on to Hollywell, and bade them
farewell, giving Laura a pressure of the hand which renewed the glow on
her face.

He walked back, trying to look through the dazzling haze of joy so as
to see his situation clearly. It was impossible for him not to perceive
that there had been an absolute declaration of affection, and that he
had established a private understanding with his cousin. It was not,
however, an engagement, nor did he at present desire to make it so.
It was impossible for him as yet to marry, and he was content to wait
without a promise, since that could not add to his entire reliance on
Laura. He could not bear to be rejected by her parents: he knew his
poverty would be the sole ground of objection, and he was not asking her
to share it. He believed sincerely that a long, lingering attachment to
himself would be more for her good than a marriage with one who would
have been a high prize for worldly aims, and was satisfied that by
winning her heart he had taken the only sure means of securing her from
becoming attached to Guy, while secrecy was the only way of preserving
his intercourse with her on the same footing, and exerting his influence
over the family.

It was calmly reflected, for Philip's love was tranquil, though deep and
steady, and the rather sought to preserve Laura as she was than to
make her anything more; and this very calmness contributed to his
self-deception on this first occasion that he had ever actually swerved
from the path of right.

With an uncomfortable sensation, he met Guy riding home from his tutor,
entirely unsuspicious. He stopped and talked of the preparations at
Broadstone, where he had been over the ground with Maurice de Courcy,
and had heard the band.

'What did you think of it? said Philip, absently.

'They _should_ keep better time! Really, Philip, there is one fellow
with a bugle that ought to be flogged every day of his life!' said Guy,
making a droll, excruciated face.

How a few words can change the whole current of ideas. The band was
connected with Philip, therefore he could not bear to hear it found
fault with, and adduced some one's opinion that the man in question was
one of the best of their musicians.

Guy could not help shrugging his shoulders, as he laughed, and
said,--'Then I shall be obliged to take to my heels if I meet the rest.
Good-bye.'

'How conceited they have made that boy about his fine ear,' thought
Philip. 'I wonder he is not ashamed to parade his music, considering
whence it is derived.'

CHAPTER 9

      Ah! county Guy, the hour is nigh,
      The sun has left the lea,
      The orange flower perfumes the bower,
      The breeze is on the sea.
      The lark, his lay, who thrilled all day,
      Sits hushed, his partner nigh,
      Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
      But where is county Guy?
                                --SCOTT

How was it meantime with Laura? The others were laughing and talking
round her, but all seemed lost in the transcendent beam that had shone
out on her. To be told by Philip that she was all to him that he had
always been to her! This one idea pervaded her--too glorious, too happy
for utterance, almost for distinct thought. The softening of his voice,
and the look with which he had regarded her, recurred again and again,
startling her with a sudden surprise of joy almost as at the first
moment. Of the future Laura thought not. Never had a promise of love
been made with less knowledge of what it amounted to: it seemed merely
an expression of sentiments that she had never been without; for had she
not always looked up to Philip more than any other living creature,
and gloried in being his favourite cousin? Ever since the time when
he explained to her the plates in the Encyclopaedia, and made her read
'Joyce's Scientific Dialogues,' when Amy took fright at the first page.
That this might lead further did not occur to her; she was eighteen,
she had no experience, not even in novels, she did not know what she
had done; and above all, she had so leant to surrender her opinions
to Philip, and to believe him always right, that she would never have
dreamt of questioning wherever he might choose to lead her. Even the
caution of secrecy did not alarm her, though she wondered that he
thought it required, safe as his confidence always was with her. Mrs.
Edmonstone had been so much occupied by Charles's illness, as to have
been unable to attend to her daughters in their girlish days; and in
the governess's time the habit had been disused of flying at once to her
with every joy or grief. Laura's thoughts were not easy of access, and
Philip had long been all in all to her. She was too ignorant of life to
perceive that it was her duty to make this conversation known; or, more
truly, she did not awaken her mind to consider that anything could be
wrong that Philip desired.

On coming home, she ran up to her own room, and sitting by the open
window, gave herself up to that delicious dream of new-found joy.

There she still sat when Amy came in, opening the door softly, and
treading lightly and airily as she entered, bringing two or three roses
of different tints.

'Laura! not begun to dress?'

'Is it time?'

'Shall I answer you according to what Philip calls my note of time, and
tell you the pimpernels are closed, and the tigridias dropping their
leaves? It would be a proper answer for you; you look as if you were in
Fairy Land.'

'Is papa come home?'

'Long ago! and Guy too. Why, where could you have been, not to have
heard Guy and Eveleen singing the Irish melodies?'

'In a trance,' said Laura, starting up, and laughing, with a slight
degree of constraint, which caused Amy, who was helping her to dress, to
exclaim, 'Has anything happened, Laura?'

'What should have happened?'

'I can't guess, unless the fairies in the great ring on Ashendown came
to visit you when we were gone. But seriously, dear Laura, are you sure
you are not tired? Is nothing the matter?'

'Nothing at all, thank you. I was only thinking over the talk I had with
Philip.'

'Oh!'

Amy never thought of entering into Philip's talks with Laura, and was
perfectly satisfied.