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Logan Marshall - "Sinking of the Titanic and Great Sea Disasters"

Booth Tarkington - "The Turmoil, A Novel"

Edward Bulwer Lytton - "The Lady of Lyons"

Francis Thompson - "Poems"

The Heir of Redclyffe

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Heir of Redclyffe




He spoke in short half sentences of intense feeling, and Mrs.
Edmonstone was much moved by such affection in one said to have been
treated with an excess of strictness, much compassionating the lonely
boy, who had lost every family tie in one.

'When the first pain of the sudden parting has passed,' said she, 'you
will like to remember the affection which you knew how to value,'

'If I had but known!' said Guy; 'but there was I, hasty, reckless,
disregarding his comfort, rebelling against--0, what would I not give
to have those restraints restored!'

'It is what we all feel in such losses,' said Mrs. Edmonstone. 'There
is always much to wish otherwise; but I am sure you can have the
happiness of knowing you were his great comfort.'

'It was what I ought to have been.'

She knew that nothing could have been more filial and affectionate than
his conduct, and tried to say something of the kind, but he would not
listen.

'That is worst of all,' he said; 'and you must not trust what they say
of me. They would be sure to praise me, if I was anything short of a
brute.'

A silence ensued, while Mrs. Edmonstone was trying to think of some
consolation. Suddenly Guy looked up, and spoke eagerly:-

'I want to ask something--a great favour--but you make me venture. You
see how I am left alone--you know how little I can trust myself. Will
you take me in hand--let me talk to you--and tell me if I am wrong, as
freely as if I were Charles? I know it is asking a great deal, but you
knew my grandfather, and it is in his name.'

She held out her hand; and with tears answered--

'Indeed I will, if I see any occasion.'

'You will let me trust to you to tell me when I get too vehement? above
all, when you see my temper failing? Thank you; you don't know what a
relief it is!'

'But you must not call yourself alone. You are one of us now.'

'Yes; since you have made that promise,' said Guy; and for the first
time she saw the full beauty of his smile--a sort of sweetness and
radiance of which eye and brow partook almost as much as the lips. It
alone would have gained her heart.

'I must look on you as a kind of nephew,' she added, kindly. 'I used to
hear so much of you from my brother.'

'Oh!' cried Guy, lighting up, 'Archdeacon Morville was always so kind
to me. I remember him very well!'

'Ah! I wish--' there she paused, and added,-- tête-à-tête 'it is not
right to wish such things--and Philip is very like his father.'

'I am very glad his regiment is so near. I want to know him better.'

'You knew him at Redclyffe, when he was staying there?'

'Yes,' said Guy, his colour rising; 'but I was a boy then, and a very
foolish, headstrong one. I am glad to meet him again. What a grand-
looking person he is!'

'We are very proud of him,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling. 'I don't
think there has been an hour's anxiety about him since he was born.'

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of Charles's crutches
slowly crossing the hall. Guy sprang to help him to his sofa, and
then, without speaking, hurried up-stairs.

'Mamma, tete-a-tete with the silent one!' exclaimed Charles.

'I will not tell you all I think of him,' said she, leaving the room.

'Hum!' soliloquised Charles. 'That means that my lady mother has
adopted him, and thinks I should laugh at her, or straightway set up a
dislike to him, knowing my contempt for heroes and hero-worship. It's
a treat to have Philip out of the way, and if it was but possible to
get out of hearing of his perfection, I should have some peace. If I
thought this fellow had one spice of the kind, I'd never trouble my
head about him more; and yet I don't believe he has such a pair of
hawk's eyes for nothing!'

The hawk's eyes, as Charles called them, shone brighter from that day
forth, and their owner began to show more interest in what passed
around. Laura was much amused by a little conversation she held with
him one day when a party of their younger neighbours were laughing and
talking nonsense round Charles's sofa. He was sitting a little way off
in silence, and she took advantage of the loud laughing to say:

'You think this is not very satisfactory?' And as he gave a quick
glance of inquiry --'Don't mind saying so. Philip and I often agree
that it is a pity spend so much time in laughing at nothing--at such
nonsense.'

'It is nonsense?'

'Listen--no don't, it is too silly.'

'Nonsense must be an excellent thing if it makes people so happy,' said
Guy thoughtfully. 'Look at them; they are like--not a picture--that
has no life--but a dream--or, perhaps a scene in a play.'

'Did you never see anything like it?'

'Oh, no! All the morning calls I ever saw were formal, every one
stiff, and speaking by rote, or talking politics. How glad I used to
be to get on horseback again! But to see these--why, it is like the
shepherd's glimpse at the pixies!--as one reads a new book, or watches
what one only half understands--a rook's parliament, or a gathering of
sea-fowl on the Shag Rock.'

'A rook's parliament?'

'The people at home call it a rook's parliament when a whole cloud of
rooks settle on some bare, wide common, and sit there as if they were
consulting, not feeding, only stalking about, with drooping wings, and
solemn, black cloaks.'

'You have found a flattering simile,' said Laura, 'as you know that
rooks never open their mouths without cause.'

Guy had never heard the riddle, but he caught the pun instantly, and
the clear merry sound of his hearty laugh surprised Charles, who
instantly noted it as another proof that was some life in him.

Indeed, each day began to make it evident that he had, on the whole,
rather a superabundance of animation than otherwise. He was quite
confidential with Mrs. Edmonstone, on whom he used to lavish, with
boyish eagerness, all that interested him, carrying her the passages in
books that pleased him, telling her about Redclyffe's affairs, and
giving her his letters from Markham, the steward. His head was full of
his horse, Deloraine, which was coming to him under the charge of a
groom, and the consultations were endless about the means of transport,
Mr. Edmonstone almost as eager about it as he was himself.

He did not so quickly become at home with the younger portion of the
family, but his spirits rose every day. He whistled as he walked in
the garden, and Bustle, instead of pacing soberly behind him, now
capered, nibbled his pockets, and drew him into games of play which
Charles and Amabel were charmed to overlook from the dressing-room
window. There was Guy leaping, bounding, racing, rolling the dog over,
tripping him up, twitching his ears, tickling his feet, catching at his
tail, laughing at Bustle's springs, contortions, and harmless open-
mouthed attacks, while the dog did little less than laugh too, with his
intelligent amber eyes, and black and red mouth. Charles began to find
a new interest in his listless life in the attempt to draw Guy out, and
make him give one of his merry laughs. In this, however, he failed
when his wit consisted in allusions to the novels of the day, of which
Guy knew nothing. One morning he underwent a regular examination,
ending in--

'Have you read anything?'

'I am afraid I am very ignorant of modern books.'

'Have you read the ancient ones?' asked Laura.

'I've had nothing else to read.'

'Nothing to read but ancient books!' exclaimed Amabel, with a mixture
of pity and astonishment.

'Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus!' said Guy,
smiling.

'There, Amy,' said Charles, 'if he has the Vicar of Wakefield among his
ancient books, you need not pity him.'

'It is like Philip,' said Laura; 'he was brought up on the old standard
books, instead of his time being frittered away on the host of idle
modern ones.'

'He was free to concentrate his attention on Sir Charles Grandison,'
said Charles.

'How could any one do so?' said Guy. 'How could any one have any
sympathy with such a piece of self-satisfaction?'

'Who could? Eh, Laura?' said Charles.

'I never read it,' said Laura, suspecting malice.

'What is your opinion of perfect heroes?' continued Charles.

'Here comes one,' whispered Amy to her brother, blushing at her piece
of naughtiness, as Philip Morville entered the room.

After the first greetings and inquiries after his sister, whom he had
been visiting, Laura told him what they had been saying of the
advantage of a scanty range of reading.

'True,' said Philip; 'I have often been struck by finding how ignorant
people are, even of Shakspeare; and I believe the blame chiefly rests
on the cheap rubbish in which Charlie is nearly walled up there.'

'Ay,' said Charles, 'and who haunts that rubbish at the beginning of
every month? I suppose to act as pioneer, though whether any one but
Laura heeds his warnings, remains to be proved.'

'Laura does heed?' asked Philip, well pleased.

'I made her read me the part of Dombey that hurts women's feelings
most, just to see if she would go on--the part about little Paul--and I
declare, I shall think the worse of her ever after--she was so stony
hearted, that to this day she does not know whether he is dead or
alive.'

'I can't quite say I don't know whether he lived or died,' said Laura,
'for I found Amy in a state that alarmed me, crying in the green-house,
and I was very glad to find it was nothing worse than little Paul.'

'I wish you would have read it,' said Amy; and looking shyly at Guy,
she added--'Won't you?'

'Well done, Amy!' said Charles. 'In the very face of the young man's
companion!'

'Philip does not really think it wrong,' said Amy.

'No,' said Philip; 'those books open fields of thought, and as their
principles are negative, they are not likely to hurt a person well
armed with the truth.'

'Meaning,' said Charles, 'that Guy and Laura have your gracious
permission to read Dombey.'

'When Laura has a cold or toothache.'

'And I,' said Guy.

'I am not sure about, the expediency for you,' said Philip 'it would be
a pity to begin with Dickens, when there is so much of a higher grade
equally new to you. I suppose you do not understand Italian?'

'No,' said Guy, abruptly, and his dark eyebrows contracted.

Philip went on. 'If you did, I should not recommend you the
translation of "I promessi Sponsi," one of the most beautiful books in
any language. You have it in English, I think, Laura.'

Laura fetched it; Guy, with a constrained 'thank you,' was going to
take it up rather as if he was putting a force upon himself, when
Philip more quickly took the first volume, and eagerly turned over the
pages--I can't stand this,' he said, 'where is the original?'

It was soon produced; and Philip, finding the beautiful history of Fra
Cristoforo, began to translate it fluently and with an admirable choice
of language that silenced Charles's attempts to interrupt and
criticise. Soon Guy, who had at first lent only reluctant attention,
was entirely absorbed, his eyebrows relaxed, a look of earnest interest
succeeded, his countenance softened, and when Fra Cristoforo humbled
himself, exchanged forgiveness, and received "il pane del perdono,"
tears hung on his eyelashes.

The chapter was finished, and with a smothered exclamation of
admiration, he joined the others in begging Philip to proceed. The
story thus read was very unlike what it had been to Laura and Amy, when
they puzzled it out as an Italian lesson, or to Charles, when he
carelessly tossed over the translation in search of Don Abbondio's
humours; and thus between reading and conversation, the morning passed
very agreeably.

At luncheon, Mr. Edmonstone asked Philip to come and spend a day or two
at Hollywell, and he accepted the invitation for the next week. 'I
will make Thorndale drive me out if you will give him a dinner.'

'Of course, of course,' said Mr. Edmonstone, 'we shall be delighted.
We were talking of asking him, a day or two ago; eh, mamma?'

'Thank you,' said Philip; 'a family party is an especial treat to him,'
laying a particular stress on the word 'family party,' and looking at
his aunt.

At that moment the butler came in, saying, 'Sir Guy's servant is come,
and has brought the horse, sir.'

'Deloraine come!' cried Guy, springing up. 'Where?'

'At the door, sir.'

Guy darted out, Mr. Edmonstone following. In another instant, however,
Guy put his head into the room again. 'Mrs. Edmonstone, won't you come
and see him? Philip, you have not seen Deloraine.'

Off he rushed, and the others were just in time to see the cordial look
of honest gladness with which William, the groom, received his young
master's greeting, and the delighted recognition between Guy, Bustle,
and Deloraine. Guy had no attention for anything else till he had
heard how they had prospered on the journey; and then he turned to
claim his friend's admiration for the beautiful chestnut, his
grandfather's birthday present. The ladies admired with earnestness
that compensated for want of knowledge, the gentlemen with greater
science and discrimination; indeed, Philip, as a connoisseur, could not
but, for the sake of his own reputation, discover something to
criticise. Guy's brows drew together again, and his eyes glanced as if
he was much inclined to resent the remarks, as attacks at once on
Deloraine and on his grandfather; but he said nothing, and presently
went to the stable with Mr. Edmonstone, to see about the horse's
accommodations. Philip stood in the hall with the ladies.

'So I perceive you have dropped the title already,' observed he to
Laura.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, replying for her daughter, 'it seemed to
give him pain by reminding him of his loss, and he was so strange and
forlorn just at first, that we were glad to do what we could to make
him feel himself more at home.'

'Then you get on pretty well now?'

The reply was in chorus with variations--'Oh, excellently!'

'He is so entertaining,' said Charlotte.

'He sings so beautifully,' said Amabel.

'He is so right-minded,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

'So very well informed,' said Laura.

Then it all began again.

'He plays chess so well,' said Amy.

'Bustle is such a dear dog,' said Charlotte.

'He is so attentive to Charlie,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, going into the
drawing-room to her son.

'Papa says he will make up for the faults of all his ancestors,' said
Amabel.

'His music! oh, his music!' said Laura.

'Philip,' said Charlotte, earnestly, 'you really should learn to like
him.'

'Learn, impertinent little puss?' said Philip, smiling, 'why should I
not like him?'

'I was sure you would try,' said Charlotte, impressively.

'Is it hard?' said Amy. 'But, oh, Philip! you could not help liking
his singing.'

'I never heard such a splendid voice,' said Laura; 'so clear and
powerful, and yet so wonderfully sweet in the low soft notes. And a
very fine ear: he has a real talent for music.'

'Ah! inherited, poor fellow,' said Philip, compassionately.

'Do you pity him for it?' said Amy, smiling.

'Do you forget?' said Philip. 'I would not advise you to make much of
this talent in public; it is too much a badge of his descent.'

'Mamma did not think so,' said Amy. 'She thought it a pity he should
not learn regularly, with such a talent; so the other day, when Mr.
Radford was giving us a lesson, she asked Guy just to sing up and down
the scale. I never saw anything so funny as old Mr Radford's surprise,
it was almost like the music lesson in "La Figlia del Reggimento"; he
started, and looked at Guy, and seemed in a perfect transport, and now
Guy is to take regular lessons.

'Indeed.'

'But do you really mean,' said Laura, 'that if your mother had been a
musician's daughter, and you had inherited her talent, that you would
be ashamed of it.'

'Indeed, Laura,' said Philip, with a smile, 'I am equally far from
guessing what I should do if my mother had been anything but what she
was, as from guessing what I should do if I had a talent for music.'

Mrs. Edmonstone here called her daughters to get ready for their walk,
as she intended to go to East-hill, and they might as well walk with
Philip as far as their roads lay together.

Philip and Laura walked on by themselves, a little in advance of the
others. Laura was very anxious to arrive at a right understanding of
her cousin's opinion of Guy.

'I am sure there is much to like in him,' she said.

'There is; but is it the highest praise to say there is much to like?
People are not so cautious when they accept a man in toto.'

'Then, do you not?'

Philip's answer was--


'He who the lion's whelp has nurst,
At home with fostering hand,
Finds it a gentle thing at first,
Obedient to command,'


'Do you think him a lion's whelp?'

'I am afraid I saw the lion just now in his flashing eyes and
contracted brow. There is an impatience of advice, a vehemence of
manner that I can hardly deem satisfactory. I do not speak from
prejudice, for I think highly of his candour, warmth of heart, and
desire to do right; but from all I have seen, I should not venture as
yet to place much dependence on his steadiness of character or command
of temper.'

'He seems to have been very fond of his grandfather, in spite of his
severity. He is but just beginning to brighten up a little.'

'Yes; his disposition is very affectionate,--almost a misfortune to one
so isolated from family ties. He showed remarkably well at Redclyffe,
the other day; boyish of course, and without much self-command, but
very amiably. It is very well for him that he is removed from thence,
for all the people idolize him to such a degree that they could not
fail to spoil him.'

'It would be a great pity if he went wrong.'

'Great, for he has many admirable qualities, but still they are just
what persons are too apt to fancy compensation for faults. I never
heard that any of his family, except perhaps that unhappy old Hugh,
were deficient in frankness and generosity, and therefore these do not
satisfy me. Observe, I am not condemning him; I wish to be perfectly
just; all I say is, that I do not trust him till I have seen him
tried.'

Laura did not answer, she was disappointed; yet there was a justice and
guardedness in what Philip said, that made it impossible to gainsay it,
and she was pleased with his confidence. She thought how cool and
prudent he was, and how grieved she should be if Guy justified his
doubts; and so they walked on in such silence as is perhaps the
strongest proof of intimacy. She was the first to speak, led to do so
by an expression of sadness about her cousin's mouth. 'What are you
thinking of, Philip?'

'Of Locksley Hall. There is nonsense, there is affectation in that,
Laura, there is scarcely poetry, but there is power, for there is
truth.'

'Of Locksley Hall! I thought you were at Stylehurst.'

'So I was, but the one brings the other.'

'I suppose you went to Stylehurst while you were at St. Mildred's? Did
Margaret take you there?'

'Margaret? Not she; she is too much engaged with her book-club, and
her soirées, and her societies of every sort and kind.'

'How did you get on with the Doctor?'

'I saw as little of him as I could, and was still more convinced that
he does not know what conversation is. Hem!' Philip gave a deep sigh.
'No; the only thing to be done at St. Mildred's is to walk across the
moors to Stylehurst. It is a strange thing to leave that tumult of
gossip, and novelty, and hardness, and to enter on that quiet autumnal
old world, with the yellow leaves floating silently down, just as they
used to do, and the atmosphere of stillness round the green
churchyard.'

'Gossip!' repeated Laura.' Surely not with Margaret?'

'Literary, scientific gossip is worse than gossip in a primary sense,
without pretension.'

'I am glad you had Stylehurst to go to. How was the old sexton's
wife?'

'Very well; trotting about on her pattens as merrily as ever.'

'Did you go into the garden?'

'Yes; Fanny's ivy has entirely covered the south wall, and the acacia
is so tall and spreading, that I longed to have the pruning of it. Old
Will keeps everything in its former state.'

They talked on of the old home, till the stern bitter look of regret
and censure had faded from his brow, and given way to a softened
melancholy expression.




CHAPTER 4



A fig for all dactyls, a fig for all spondees,
A fig for all dunces and dominie grandees.--SCOTT


'How glad I am!' exclaimed Guy, entering the drawing-room.

'Wherefore?' inquired Charles.

'I thought I was too late, and I am very glad to find no one arrived,
and Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone not come down.'

'But where have you been?'

'I lost my way on the top of the down; I fancied some one told me there
was a view of the sea to be had there.'

'And can't you exist without a view of the sea?'

Guy laughed. 'Everything looks so dull--it is as if the view was dead
or imprisoned--walled up by wood and hill, and wanting that living
ripple, heaving and struggling.'

'And your fine rocks?' said Laura.

'I wish you could see the Shag stone,--a great island mass, sloping on
one side, precipitous on the other, with the spray dashing on it. If
you see it from ever so far off, there is still that white foam coming
and going--a glancing speck, like the light in an eye.'

'Hark! a carriage.'

'The young man and the young man's companion,' said Charles.

'How can you?' said Laura. 'What would any one suppose Mr. Thorndale
to be?'

'Not Philip's valet,' said Charles, 'if it is true that no man is a
hero to his "valley-de-sham"; whereas, what is not Philip to the
Honourable James Thorndale?'

'Philip, Alexander, and Bucephalus into the bargain,' suggested Amy, in
her demure, frightened whisper, sending all but Laura into a fit of
laughter, the harder to check because the steps of the parties
concerned were heard approaching.

Mr. Thorndale was a quiet individual, one of those of whom there is
least to be said, so complete a gentleman that it would have been an
insult, to call him gentleman-like; agreeable and clever rather than
otherwise, good-looking, with a high-bred air about him, so that it
always seemed strange that he did not make more impression.

A ring at the front-door almost immediately followed their arrival.

'Encore?' asked Philip, looking at Laura with a sort of displeased
surprise.

'Unfortunately, yes,' said Laura, drawing aside.

'One of my uncle's family parties,' said Philip. 'I wish I had not
brought Thorndale. Laura, what is to be done to prevent the tittering
that always takes place when Amy and those Harpers are together?'

'Some game?' said Laura. He signed approval; but she had time to say
no more, for her father and mother came down, and some more guests
entered.

It was just such a party that continually grew up at Hollywell, for Mr.
Edmonstone was so fond of inviting, that his wife never knew in the
morning how many would assemble at her table in the evening. But she
was used to it, and too good a manager even to be called so. She liked
to see her husband enjoy himself in his good-natured, open-hearted way.
The change was good for Charles, and thus it did very well, and there
were few houses in the neighbourhood more popular than Hollywell.

The guests this evening were Maurice de Courcy, a wild young Irishman,
all noise and nonsense, a great favourite with his cousin, Mr.
Edmonstone; two Miss Harpers, daughters of the late clergyman, good-
natured, second-rate girls; Dr. Mayerne, Charles's kind old physician,
the friend and much-loved counsellor at Hollywell, and the present
vicar, Mr. Ross with his daughter Mary.

Mary Ross was the greatest friend that the Miss Edmonstones possessed,
though, she being five-and-twenty, they had not arrived at perceiving
that they were on the equal terms of youngladyhood.

She had lost her mother early, and had owed a great deal to the
kindness of Mrs. Edmonstone, as she grew up among her numerous elder
brothers. She had no girlhood; she was a boy till fourteen, and then a
woman, and she was scarcely altered since the epoch of that transition,
the same in likings, tastes, and duties. 'Papa' was all the world to
her, and pleasing him had much the same meaning now as then; her
brothers were like playfellows; her delights were still a lesson in
Greek from papa, a school-children's feast, a game at play, a new book.
It was only a pity other people did not stand still too. 'Papa,'
indeed, had never grown sensibly older since the year of her mother's
death: but her brothers were whiskered men, with all the cares of the
world, and no holidays; the school-girls went out to service, and were
as a last year's brood to an old hen; the very children she had fondled
were young ladies, as old, to all intents and purposes, as herself, and
here were even Laura and Amy Edmonstone fallen into that bad habit of
growing up! though little Amy had still much of the kitten in her
composition, and could play as well as Charlotte or Mary herself, when
they had the garden to themselves.

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