The Heir of Redclyffe

‘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.’