The Heir of Redclyffe

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 cliders 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--'

'0 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.'

'0h,' 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.

'0 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?'

'0, 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".'

'0 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.'

'0 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.

'0 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. 0 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. 0 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.'

'0 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.

By this time Laura was herself again, come back to common life, and resolved to watch over her intercourse with Guy; since, though she was convinced that all was safe at present, she had Philip's word for it that there might be danger in continuing the pleasant freedom of their behaviour.

Nothing could be more reassuring than Guy's demeanour. His head seemed entirely full of the Thursday, and of a plan of his own for enabling Charles to go to the review. It had darted into his head while he was going over the ground with Maurice. It was so long since Charles had thought it possible to attempt any amusement away from home, and former experiments had been so unsuccessful, that it had never even occurred to him to think of it; but he caught at the idea with great delight and eagerness. Mrs. Edmonstone seemed not to know what to say; she had much rather that it had not been proposed; yet it was very kind of Guy, and Charles was so anxious about it that she knew not how to oppose him.

She could not bear to have Charles in a crowd, helpless as he was; and she had an unpleasing remembrance of the last occasion when they had taken him to a flower-show, where they had lost, first Mr, Edmonstone, next the carriage, and lastly, Amy and Charlotte--all had been frightened, and Charles laid up for three days from the fatigue.

Answers, however, met each objection. Charles was much stronger; Guy's arm would be ready for him; Guy would find the carriage. Philip would be there to help, besides Maurice; and whenever Charles was tired, Guy would take him home at once, without spoiling any one's pleasure.

'Except your own,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

'Thank you; but this would be so delightful.'

'Ah!' said Charles, 'it would be as great a triumph as the dog's that caught the hare with the clog round his neck--the dog's, I mean.'

'If you will but trust me with him,' said Guy, turning on her all the pleading eloquence of his eyes, 'you know he can get in and out of the pony-carriage quite easily.'

'As well as walk across the room,' said Charles.

'I would drive him in it, and tell William to ride in and be at hand to hold the pony or take it out; and the tent is so near, that you could get to the breakfast, unless the review had been enough for you. I paced the distance to make sure, and it is no further than from the garden-door to the cherry-tree.'

'That is nothing,' said Charles.

'And William shall be in waiting to bring the pony the instant you are ready, and we can go home independently of every one else.'

'I thought,' interposed Mrs. Edmonstone, 'that you were to go to the mess-dinner--what is to become of that?'

'O,' said Charles, 'that will be simply a bore, and he may rejoice to be excused from going the whole hog.'

'To be sure, I had rather dine in peace at home.'

Mrs. Edmonstone was not happy, but she had great confidence in Guy; and her only real scruple was, that she did not think it fair to occupy him entirely with attendance on her son. She referred it to papa, which, as every one knew, was the same as yielding the point, and consoled herself by the certainty that to prevent it would be a great disappointment to both the youths. Laura was convinced that to achieve the adventure of Charles at the review, was at present at least a matter of far more prominence with Guy than anything relating to herself.

All but Laura and her mother were wild about the weather, especially on Wednesday, when there was an attempt at a thunder storm. Nothing was studied but the sky; and the conversation consisted of prognostications, reports of rises and falls of the glass, of the way weather-cocks were turning, or about to turn, of swallows flying high or low, red sunsets, and halos round the moon, until at last Guy, bursting into a merry laugh, begged Mrs. Edmonstone's pardon for being such a nuisance, and made a vow, and kept it, that be the weather what it might, he would say not another word about it that evening; it deserved to be neglected, for he had not been able to settle to anything all day.

He might have said for many days before; for since the last ball, and still more since Lady Eveleen had been at Hollywell, it had been one round of merriment and amusement. Scrambling walks, tea-drinkings out of doors, dances among themselves, or with the addition of the Harpers, were the order of the day. Amy, Eveleen, and Guy, could hardly come into the room without dancing, and the piano was said to acknowledge nothing but waltzes, polkas, and now and then an Irish jig, for the special benefit of Mr. Edmonstone's ears. The morning was almost as much spent in mirth as the afternoon, for the dawdlings after breakfast, and before luncheon, had a great tendency to spread out and meet, there was new music and singing to be practised, or preparations made for evening's diversion, or councils to be held, which Laura's absence could not break up, though it often made Amy feel how much less idle and frivolous Laura was than herself. Eveleen said the same, but she was visiting, and it was a time to be idle; and Mr. Lascelles seemed to be of the same opinion with regard to his pupil; for, when Guy was vexed at not having done as much work as usual, he only laughed at him for expecting to be able to go to balls, and spend a summer of gaiety, while he studied as much as at Oxford.

Thursday morning was all that heart could wish, the air cooled by the thunder, and the clouds looking as if raining was foreign to their nature. Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone, their daughters, and Lady Eveleen, were packed inside and outside the great carriage, while Guy, carefully settling Charles in the low phaeton, putting in all that any one recommended, from an air-cushion to an umbrella, flourished his whip, and drove off with an air of exultation and delight.

Everything went off to admiration. No one was more amused than Charles. The scene was so perfectly new and delightful to one accustomed to such a monotonous life, that the very sight of people was a novelty. Nowhere was there so much laughing and talking as in that little carriage, and whenever Mrs. Edmonstone's anxious eye fell upon it, she always saw Charles sitting upright, with a face so full of eager interest as to banish all thought of fatigue. Happy, indeed, he was. He enjoyed the surprise of his acquaintance at meeting him; he enjoyed Dr. Mayerne's laugh and congratulation; he enjoyed seeing how foolish Philip thought him, nodding to his mother and sisters, laughing at the dreadful faces Guy could not help making at any particularly discordant note of the offensive bugle; and his capabilities rising with his spirits, he did all that the others did, walked further than he had done for years, was lifted up steps without knowing how, sat out the whole breakfast, talked to all the world, and well earned the being thoroughly tired, as he certainly was when Guy put him into the carriage and drove him home, and still more so when Guy all but carried him up stairs, and laid him on the sofa in the dressing-room.

However, his mother announced that it would have been so unnatural if he had not been fatigued, that she should have been more anxious, and leaving him to repose, they all, except Mr. Edmonstone, who had stayed to dine at the mess, sat down to dinner.

Amy came down dressed just as the carriage had been announced, and found Laura and Eveleen standing by the table, arranging their bouquets, while Guy, in the dark, behind the piano, was playing--not, as usual, in such cases, the Harmonious Blacksmith, but a chant.

'Is mamma ready?' asked Laura.

'Nearly,' said Amy, 'but I wish she was not obliged to go! I am sure she cannot bear to leave Charlie.'

'I hope she is not going on my account,' said Eveleen.

'No, said Laura, 'we must go; it would so frighten papa if we did not come. Besides, there is nothing to be uneasy about with Charles.'

'O no,' said Amy; 'she says so, only she is always anxious, and she is afraid he is too restless to go to sleep.'

'We must get home as fast as we can; if you don't mind, Eva,' said Laura, remembering how her last dance with Guy had delayed them.

'Can I do any good to Charlie?' said Guy, ceasing his music. I don't mean to go.'

'Not go!' cried the girls in consternation.

'He is joking!' said Eveleen. 'But, I declare!' added she, advancing towards him, 'he is not dressed! Come, nonsense, this is carrying it too far; you'll make us all too late, and then I'll set Maurice at you.'

'I am afraid it is no joke,' said Guy, smiling.

'You must go. It will never do for you to stay away,' said Laura, decidedly.

'Are you tired? Aren't you well?' asked Amy.

'Quite well, thank you, but I am sure I had better not.'

Laura thought she had better not seem anxious to take him, so she left the task of persuasion, to the others, and Amy went on.

'Neither Mamma nor Charlie could bear to think you stayed because of him.'

'I don't, I assure you, Amy. I meant it before. I have been gradually finding out that it must come to this.'

'Oh, you think it a matter of right and wrong! But you don't think balls wrong?'

'Oh no; only they won't do for such an absurd person as I am. The last turned my head for a week, and I am much too unsteady for this.'

'Well, if you think it a matter of duty, it can't be helped,' said Amy sorrowfully; 'but I am very sorry.'

'Thank you,' said Guy, thinking it compassion, not regret; 'but I shall do very well. I shall be all the happier to-morrow for a quiet hour at my Greek, and you'll tell me all the fun.'

'You liked it so much!' said Amy; 'but you have made up your mind and I ought not to tease you.'

'That's right Amy; he does it on purpose to be teased,' said Eveleen, 'and I never knew anybody so provoking. Mind, Sir Guy, if you make us all too late, you shan't have the ghost of a quadrille with me.'

'I shall console myself by quadrilling with Andromache,' said Guy.

'Come, no nonsense--off to dress directly! How can you have the conscience to stand there when the carriage is at the door?'

'I shall have great pleasure in handing you in when you are ready.'

'Laura--Amy! Does he really mean it?'

'I am afraid he does,' said Amy.

Eveleen let herself fall on the sofa as if fainting. 'Oh,' she said, 'take him away! Let me never see the face of him again! I'm perfectly overcome! All my teaching thrown away!'

'I am sorry for you,' said Guy, laughing.

'And how do you mean to face Maurice?'

'Tell him his first bugle has so distracted me that I can't answer for the consequences if I come to-night.

'Mrs. Edmonstone came in, saying,--

'Come, I have kept you waiting shamefully, but I have been consoling myself by thinking you must be well entertained, as I heard no Harmonious Blacksmith. Papa will be wondering where we are.'

'Oh, mamma! Guy won't go.'

'Guy! is anything the matter?' 'Nothing, thank you, only idleness.'

'This will never do. You really must go, Guy.'

'Indeed! I think not. Pray don't order me, Mrs. Edmonstone.'

'What o'clock is it, Amy? Past ten! Papa will be in despair! What is to be done? How long do you take to dress, Guy?'

'Not under an hour,' said Guy, smiling.

'Nonsense! But if there was time I should certainly send you. Self- discipline may be carried too far, Guy. But now it can't be helped--I don't know how to keep papa waiting any longer. Laura, what shall I do?'

'Let me go to Charles,' answered Guy. 'Perhaps I can read him to sleep.'

'Thank you; but don't talk, or he will be too excited. Reading would be the very thing! It will be a pretty story to tell every one who asks for you that I have left you to nurse my son!'

'No, for no such good reason,' said Guy; 'only because I am a great fool.'

'Well, Sir Guy, I am glad you can say one sensible word,' said Lady Eveleen.

'Too true, I assure you,' he answered, as he handed her in. 'Good night! You will keep the quadrille for me till I am rational.'

He handed the others in, and shut the door. Mrs. Edmonstone, ruffled out of her composure, exclaimed,--

'Well, this is provoking!'

'Every one will be vexed,' said Laura.

'It will be so stupid,' said Amy.

'I give him up,' said Eveleen. 'I once had hopes of him.'

'If it was not for papa, I really would turn back this moment and fetch him,' cried Mrs. Edmonstone, starting forward. 'I'm sure it will give offence. I wish I had not consented.'

'He can't be made to see that his presence is of importance to any living creature,' said Laura.

'What is the reason of this whim?' said Eveleen.

'No, Eveleen, it is not whim,' said Laura; 'it is because he thinks dissipation makes him idle.'

'Then if he is idle I wonder what the rest of the world is!' said Eveleen. 'I am sure we all ought to stay at home too.'

'I think so,' said Amy. 'I know I shall feel all night as if I was wrong to be there.'

'I am angry,' said Mrs. Edmonstone; 'and yet I believe it is a great sacrifice.'

'Yes, mamma; after all our looking forward to it,' said Amy. 'Oh! yes,' and her voice lost its piteous tone, 'it is a real sacrifice.'

'If he was not a mere boy, I should say a lover's quarrel was at the bottom of it,' said Eveleen. 'Depend upon it, Laura, it is all your fault. You only danced once with him at our ball, and all this week you have played for us, as if it was on purpose to cut him.'

Laura was glad of the darkness, and her mother, who had a particular dislike to jokes of this sort, went on,--'If it were only ourselves I should not care, but there are so many who will fancy it caprice, or worse.'

'The only comfort is,' said Amy, 'that it is Charlie's gain.'

'I hope they will not talk,' said Mrs. Edmonstone. 'But Charlie will never hold his tongue. He will grow excited, and not sleep all night.'

Poor Mrs. Edmonstone! her trials did not end here, for when she replied to her husband's inquiry for Guy, Mr. Edmonstone said offence had already been taken at his absence from the dinner; he would not have had this happen for fifty pounds; she ought not to have suffered it; but it was all her nonsense about Charles, and as to not being late, she should have waited till midnight rather than not have brought him. In short, he said as much more than he meant, as a man in a pet is apt to say, and nevertheless Mrs. Edmonstone had to look as amiable and smiling as if nothing was the matter.

The least untruthful answer she could frame to the inquiries for Sir Guy Morville was, that young men were apt to be lazy about balls, and this sufficed for good-natured Mrs. Deane, but Maurice poured out many exclamations about his ill-behaviour, and Philip contented himself with the mere fact of his not being there, and made no remark.

Laura turned her eyes anxiously on Philip. They had not met since the important conversation on Ashen-down, and she found herself looking with more pride than ever at his tall, noble figure, as if he was more her own; but the calmness of feeling was gone. She could not meet his eye, nor see him turn towards her without a start and tremor for which she could not render herself a reason, and her heart beat so much that it was at once a relief and a disappointment that she was obliged to accept her other cousin as her first partner. Philip had already asked Lady Eveleen, for he neither wished to appear too eager in claiming Laura, nor to let his friend think he had any dislike to the Irish girl.

Eveleen was much pleased to have him for her partner, and told herself she would be on her good behaviour. It was a polka, and there was not much talk, which, perhaps, was all the better for her. She admired the review, and the luncheon, and spoke of Charles without any sauciness, and Philip was condescending and agreeable.

'I must indulge myself in abusing that stupid cousin of yours!' said she. Did you ever know a man of such wonderful crotchets?'

'This is a very unexpected one,' said Philip.

'It came like a thunder clap. I thought till the last moment he was joking, for he likes dancing so much; he was the life of our ball, and how could any one suppose he would fly off at the last moment?'

'He seems rather to enjoy doing things suddenly.'

'I tell Laura she has affronted him,' said Eveleen, laughing. 'She has been always busy of late when we have wanted her; and I assure her his pride has been piqued. Don't you think that is an explanation, Captain Morville?'

It was Captain Morvilles belief, but he would not say so.

'Isn't Laura looking lovely?' Eveleen went on. 'I am sure she is the beauty of the night!' She was pleased to see Captain Morville's attention gained. 'She is even better dressed than at our ball--those Venetian pins suit the form of her head so well. Her beauty is better than almost any one's, because she has so much countenance.'

'True,' said Philip.

'How proud Maurice looks of having her on his arm. Does not he? Poor Maurice! he is desperately in love with her!'

'As is shown by his pining melancholy.'

Eveleen laughed with her clear hearty laugh. 'I see you know what we mean by being desperately in love! No,' she added more gravely, 'I am very glad it is only that kind of desperation. One could not think of Maurice and Laura together. He does not know the best part of Laura.'

Eveleen was highly flattered by Captain Morville conducting her a second time round the room, instead of at once restoring her to her aunt.

He secured Laura next, and leading her away from her own party, said, 'Laura, have yon been overdoing it?'

'It is not that,' said Laura, wishing she could keep from blushing.

'It is the only motive that could excuse his extraordinary behaviour.'

'Surely you know he says that he is growing unsettled. It is part of his rule of self discipline.'

'Absurd!--exaggerated!--incredible! This is the same story as there was about the horse. It is either caprice or temper, and I am convinced that some change in your manner--nay, I say unconscious, and am far from blaming you--is the cause. Why else did he devote himself to Charles, and leave you all on my uncle's hands in the crowd?'

'We could shift for ourselves much better than Charlie.'

'This confirms my belief that my warning was not mistimed. I wish it could have been done without decidedly mortifying him and rousing his temper, because I am sorry others should be slighted; but if he takes your drawing back so much to heart, it shows that it was time you should do so.'

'If I thought I had!'

'It was visible to others--to another, I should say.'

'0, that is only Eveleen's nonsense! The only difference I am conscious of having made, was keeping more up-stairs, and not trying to persuade him to come here to-night.'

'I have no doubt it was this that turned the scale, He only waited for persuasion, and you acted very wisely in not flattering his self-love.'

'Did I?--I did not know it.'

'A woman's instinct is often better than reasoning, Laura; to do the right thing without knowing why. But come, I suppose we must play our part in the pageant of the night.'

For that evening Laura, contrary to the evidence of her senses, was persuaded by her own lover that Guy was falling in love with her; and after musing all through the dance, she said, 'What do you think of the scheme that has been started for my going to Ireland with papa?'

'Your going to Ireland?'

'Yes; you know none of us, except papa, have seen grandmamma since Charles began to be ill, and there is some talk of his taking me with him when he goes this summer.'

'I knew he was going, but I thought it was not to be till later in the year--not till after the long vacation.'

'So he intended, but he finds he must be at home before the end of October, and it would suit him best to go in August.'

'Then what becomes of Guy?'

'He stays at Hollywell. It will be much better for Charles to have him there while papa is away. I thought when the plan was first mentioned I should be sorry, except that it is quite right to go to grandmamma; but if it is so, about Guy, this absence would be a good thing--it would make a break, and I could begin again on different terms.'

'Wisely judged, Laura. Yes, on that account it would be very desirable, though it will be a great loss to me, and I can hardly hope to be so near you on your return.'

'Ah! yes, so I feared!' sighed Laura.

'But we must give up something; and for Guy's own sake, poor fellow, it will be better to make a break, as you say. It will save him pain by and by.'

'I dare say papa will consult you about when his journey is to be. His only doubt was whether it would do to leave Guy so long alone, and if you say it would be safe, it would decide him at once.'

'I see little chance of mischief. Guy has few temptations here, and a strong sense of honour; besides, I shall be at hand. Taking all things into consideration, Laura, I think that, whatever the sacrifice to ourselves, it is expedient to recommend his going at once, and your accompanying him.'

All the remainder of the evening Philip was occupied with attentions to the rest of the world, but Laura's eyes followed him everywhere, and though she neither expected nor desired him to bestow more time on her, she underwent a strange restlessness and impatience of feeling. Her numerous partners teased her by hindering her from watching him moving about the room, catching his tones, and guessing what he was talking of;--not that she wanted to meet his eye, for she did not like to blush, nor did she think it pleased him to see her do so, for he either looked away immediately or conveyed a glance which she understood as monitory. She kept better note of his countenance than of her own partner's.

Mr. Thorndale, meanwhile, kept aloof from Lady Eveleen de Courcy, but Captain Morville perceived that his eyes were often turned towards her, and well knew it was principle, and not inclination, that held him at a distance. He did indeed once ask her to dance, but she was engaged, and he did not ask her to reserve a future dance for him, but contented himself with little Amy.

Amy was doing her best to enjoy herself, because she thought it ungrateful not to receive pleasure from those who wished to give it, but to her it wanted the zest and animation of Lady Kilcoran's ball. Besides, she knew she had been as idle as Guy, or still more so, and she thought it wrong she should have pleasure while he was doing penance. It was on her mind, and damped her spirits, and though she smiled, and talked, and admired, and danced lightly and gaily, there was a sensation of weariness throughout, and no one but Eveleen was sorry when Mrs. Edmonstone sent Maurice to see for the carriage.

Philip was one of the gentlemen who came to shawl them. As he put Laura's cloak round her shoulders he was able to whisper, 'Take care; you must be cautious--self-command.'

Laura, though blushing and shrinking the moment before was braced by his words and tone to attempt all he wished. She looked up in what she meant to be an indifferent manner, and made some observation in a careless tone--anything rather than let Philip think her silly. After what he had said, was she not bound more than ever to exert herself to the utmost, that he might not be disappointed in her? She loved him only the better for what others might have deemed a stern coldness of manner, for it made the contrast of his real warmth of affection more precious. She mused over it, as much as her companions' conversation would allow, on the road home. They arrived, Mrs. Edmonstone peeped into Charles's room, announced that he was quietly asleep, and they all bade each other good night, or good morning, and parted.

CHAPTER 10

Leonora. Yet often with respect he speaks of thee. Tasso. Thou meanest with forbearance, prudent, subtle, 'Tis that annoys me, for he knows to use Language so smooth and so conditional, That seeming praise from him is actual blame. GOETHE'S Tasso

When the Hollywell party met at breakfast, Charles showed himself by no means the worse for his yesterday's experiment. He said he had gone to sleep in reasonable time, lulled by some poetry, he knew not what, of which Guy's voice had made very pretty music, and he was now full of talk about the amusement he had enjoyed yesterday, which seemed likely to afford food for conversation for many a week to come. After all the care Guy had taken of him, Mrs. Edmonstone could not find it in her heart to scold, and her husband, having spent his vexation upon her, had none left to bestow on the real culprit. So when Guy, with his bright morning face, and his hair hanging shining and wet round it, opened the dining-room door, on his return from bathing in the river, Mr. Edmonstone's salutation only conveyed that humorous anger that no one cares for.

'Good morning to you, Sir Guy Morville! I wonder what you have to say for yourself.'

'Nothing,' said Guy, smiling; then, as he took his place by Mrs. Edmonstone, 'I hope you are not tired after your hard day's work?'

'Not at all, thank you.'

'Amy, can you tell me the name of this flower?'

'Oh! have you really found the arrow-head? How beautiful! Where did you get it? I didn't know it grew in our river.'

'There is plenty of it in that reedy place beyond the turn. I thought it looked like something out of the common way.'

'Yes! What a purple eye it has! I must draw it. 0, thank you.'

'And, Charlotte, Bustle has found you a moorhen's nest.'

'How delightful! Is it where I can go and see the dear little things?'

'It is rather a swamp; but I have been putting down stepping-stones for you, and I dare say I can jump you across. It was that which made me so late, for which I ought to have asked pardon,' said he to Mrs. Edmonstone, with his look of courtesy.

Never did man look less like an offended lover, or like a morose self- tormentor.

'There are others later,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking at Lady Eveleen's empty chair.

'So you think that is all you have to ask pardon for,' said Mr. Edmonstone. 'I advise you to study your apologies, for you are in pretty tolerable disgrace.'

'Indeed, I am very sorry,' said Guy, with such a change of countenance that Mr. Edmonstone's good nature could not bear to see it.

'Oh, 'tis no concern of mine! It would be going rather the wrong way, indeed, for you to be begging my pardon for all the care you've been taking of Charlie; but you had better consider what you have to say for yourself before you show your face at Broadstone.'

'No?' said Guy, puzzled for a moment, but quickly looking relieved, and laughing, 'What! Broadstone in despair for want of me?'

'And we perfectly exhausted with answering questions as to what was become of Sir Guy.'

'Dreadful,' said Guy, now laughing heartily, in the persuasion that it was all a joke.

'0, Lady Eveleen, good morning; you are come in good time to give me the story of the ball, for no one else tells me one word about it.'

'Because you don't deserve it,' said she. 'I hope you have repented by this time.'

'If you want to make me repent, you should give me a very alluring description.'

'I shan't say one word about it; I shall send you to Coventry, as Maurice and all the regiment mean to do,' said Eveleen, turning away from him with a very droll arch manner of offended dignity.

'Hear, hear! Eveleen send any one to Coventry!' cried Charles. 'See what the regiment say to you.'

'Ay, when I am sent to Coventry?'

'0, Paddy, Paddy!' cried Charles, and there was a general laugh.

'Laura seems to be doing it in good earnest without announcing it,' added Charles, when the laugh was over, 'which is the worst sign of all.'

'Nonsense, Charles,' said Laura, hastily; then afraid she had owned to annoyance, she blushed and was angry with herself for blushing.

'Well, Laura, do tell me who your partners were?'

Very provoking, thought Laura, that I cannot say what is so perfectly natural and ordinary, without my foolish cheeks tingling. He may think it is because he is speaking to me. So she hurried on: 'Maurice first, then Philip,' and then showed, what Amy and Eveleen thought, strange oblivion of the rest of her partners.

They proceeded into the history of the ball; and Guy thought no more of his offences till the following day, when he went to Broadstone. Coming back, he found the drawing-room full of visitors, and was obliged to sit down and join in the conversation; but Mrs. Edmonstone saw he was inwardly chafing, as he betrayed by his inability to remain still, the twitchings of his forehead and lip, and a tripping and stumbling of the words on his tongue. She was sure he wanted to talk to her, and longed to get rid of Mrs. Brownlow; but the door was no sooner shut on the visitors, than Mr. Edmonstone came in, with a long letter for her to read and comment upon. Guy took himself out of the way of the consultation, and began to hurry up and down the terrace, until, seeing Amabel crossing the field towards the little gate into the garden, he went to open it for her.

She looked up at him, and exclaimed--'Is anything the matter?'

'Nothing to signify,' he said; 'I was only waiting for your mother. I have got into a mess, that is all.'

'I am sorry,' began Amy, there resting in the doubt whether she might inquire further, and intending not to burthen him with her company, any longer than till she reached the house door; but Guy went on,--

'No, you have no occasion to be sorry; it is all my own fault; at least, if I was clear how it is my fault, I should not mind it so much. It is that ball. I am sure I had not the least notion any one would care whether I was there or not.'

'I am sure we missed you very much.'

'You are all so kind; beside, I belong in a manner you; but what could it signify to any one else? And here I find that I have vexed every one.'

'Ah!' said Amy, 'mamma said she was afraid it would give offence.'

'I ought to have attended to her. It was a fit of self-will in managing myself,' said Guy, murmuring low, as if trying to find the real indictment; 'yet I thought it a positive duty; wrong every way.'

'What has happened?' said Amy, turning back with him, though she had reached the door.

'Why, the first person I met was Mr. Gordon; and he spoke like your father, half in joke, and I thought entirely so; he said something about all the world being in such a rage, that I was a bold man to venture into Broadstone. Then, while I was at Mr. Lascelles', in came Dr. Mayerne. 'We missed you at the dinner,' he said; 'and I hear you shirked the ball, too.' I told him how it was, and he said he was glad that was all, and advised me to go and call on Colonel Deane and explain. I thought that the best way--indeed, I meant it before, and was walking to his lodgings when Maurice de Courcy met me. 'Ha!' he cries out, 'Morville! I thought at least you would have been laid up for a month with the typhus fever! As a friend, I advise you to go home and catch something, for it is the only excuse that will serve you. I am not quite sure that it will not be high treason for me to be seen speaking to you.' I tried to get at the rights of it, but he is such a harum-scarum fellow there was no succeeding. Next I met Thorndale, who only bowed and passed on the other side of the street-- sign enough how it was with Philip; so I thought it best to go at once to the Captain, and get a rational account of what was the matter.'

'Did you?' said Amy, who, though concerned and rather alarmed, had been smiling at the humorous and expressive tones with which he could not help giving effect to his narration.

'Yes. Philip was at home, and very--very--'

'Gracious?' suggested Amy, as he hesitated for a word.

'Just so. Only the vexatious thing was, that we never could succeed in coming to an understanding. He was ready to forgive; but I could not disabuse him of an idea--where he picked it up I cannot guess--that I had stayed away out of pique. He would not even tell me what he thought had affronted me, though I asked him over and over again to be only straightforward; he declared I knew.'

'How excessively provoking!' cried Amy. 'You cannot guess what he meant?'

'Not the least in the world. I have not the most distant suspicion. It was of no use to declare I was not offended with any one; he only looked in that way of his, as if he knew much better than I did myself, and told me he could make allowances.'

'Worse than all! How horrid of him.'

'No, don't spoil me. No doubt he thinks he has grounds, and my irritation was unjustifiable. Yes, I got into my old way. He cautioned me, and nearly made me mad! I never was nearer coming to a regular outbreak. Always the same! Fool that I am.'

'Now, Guy, that is always your way; when other people are provoking, you abuse yourself. I am sure Philip was so, with his calm assertion of being right.'

'The more provoking, the more trial for me.'

'But you endured it. You say it was only nearly an outbreak. You parted friends? I am sure of that.'

'Yes, it would have been rather too bad not to do that.'

'Then why do you scold yourself, when you really had the victory?'

'The victory will be if the inward feeling as well as the outward token is ever subdued.'

'0, that must be in time, of course. Only let me hear how you got on with Colonel Deane.'

'He was very good-natured, and would have laughed it off, but Philip went with me, and looked grand, and begged in a solemn way that no more might be said. I could have got on better alone; but Philip was very kind, or, as you say, gracious.'

'And provoking,' added Amy, 'only I believe you do not like me to say so.'

'It is more agreeable to hear you call him so at this moment than is good for me. I have no right to complain, since I gave the offence.'

'The offence?'

'The absenting myself.'

'Oh! that you did because you thought it right.'

'I want to be clear that it was right.'

'What do you mean?' cried she, astonished. 'It was a great piece of self-denial, and I only felt it wrong not to be doing the same.'

'Nay, how should such creatures as you need the same discipline as I?'

She exclaimed to herself how far from his equal she was--how weak, idle, and self-pleasing she felt herself to be; but she could not say so--the words would not come; and she only drooped her little head, humbled by his treating her as better than himself.

He proceeded:--

'Something wrong I have done, and I want the clue. Was it self-will in choosing discipline contrary to your mother's judgment? Yet she could not know all. I thought it her kindness in not liking me to lose the pleasure. Besides, one must act for oneself, and this was only my own personal amusement.'

'Yes,' said Amy, timidly hesitating.

'Well?' said he, with the gentle, deferential tone that contrasted with his hasty, vehement self-accusations. 'Well?' and he waited, though not so as to hurry or frighten her, but to encourage, by showing her words had weight.

'I was thinking of one thing,' said Amy; 'is it not sometimes right to consider whether we ought to disappoint people who want us to be pleased?' 'There it is, I believe,' said Guy, stopping and considering, then going on with a better satisfied air, 'that is a real rule. Not to be so bent on myself as to sacrifice other people's feelings to what seems best for me. But I don't see whose pleasure I interfered with.'

Amy could have answered, 'Mine;' but the maidenly feeling checked her again, and she said, 'We all thought you would like it.'

'And I had no right to sacrifice your pleasure! I see, I see. The pleasure of giving pleasure to others is so much the best there is on earth, that one ought to be passive rather than interfere with it.'

'Yes,' said Amy, 'just as I have seen Mary Ross let herself be swung till she was giddy, rather than disappoint Charlotte and Helen, who thought she liked it.'

'If one could get to look at everything with as much indifference as the swinging! But it is all selfishness. It is as easy to be selfish for one's own good as for one's own pleasure; and I dare say, the first is as bad as the other.'

'I was thinking of something else,' said Amy. 'I should think it more like the holly tree in Southey. Don't you know it? The young leaves are sharp and prickly, because they have so much to defend themselves from, but as the tree grows older, it leaves off the spears, after it has won the victory.'

'Very kind of you, and very pretty, Amy,' said he, smiling; 'but, in the meantime, it is surely wrong to be more prickly than is unavoidable, and there is the perplexity. Selfish! selfish! selfish! Oneself the first object. That is the root.'

'Guy, if it is not impertinent to ask, I do wish you would tell me one thing. Why did you think it wrong to go to that ball?' said Amy, timidly.

'I don't know that I thought it wrong to go to that individual ball,' said Guy; 'but my notion was, that altogether I was getting into a rattling idle way, never doing my proper quantity of work, or doing it properly, and talking a lot of nonsense sometimes. I thought, last Sunday, it was time to make a short turn somewhere and bring myself up. I could not, or did not get out of the pleasant talks as Laura does, so I thought giving up this ball would punish me at once, and set me on a new tack of behaving like a reasonable creature.'

'Don't call yourself too many names, or you won't be civil to us. We all, except Laura, have been quite as bad.'

'Yes; but you had not so much to do.'

'We ought,' said Amy; 'but I meant to be reasonable when Eveleen is gone.'

Perhaps I ought to have waited till then, but I don't know. Lady Eveleen is so amusing that it leads to farther dawdling, and it would not do to wait to resist the temptation till it is out of the way.'

As he spoke, they saw Mrs. Edmonstone coming out, and went to meet her. Guy told her his trouble, detailing it more calmly than before he had found out his mistake. She agreed with him that this had been in forgetting that his attending the ball did not concern only himself, but he then returned to say that he could not see what difference it made, except to their own immediate circle.

'If it was not you, Guy, who made that speech, I should call it fishing for a compliment. You forget that rank and station make people sought after.'

'I suppose there is something in that,' said Guy, thoughtfully; 'at any rate, it is no bad thing to think so, it is so humiliating.'

'That is not the way most people would take it.'

'No? Does not it prevent one from taking any attention as paid to one's real self? The real flattering thing would be to be made as much of as Philip is, for one's own merits, and not for the handle to one's name.'

'Yes, I think so,' said Amy.

'Well, then,' as if he wished to gather the whole conversation into one resolve, the point is to consider whether abstaining from innocent things that may be dangerous to oneself mortifies other people. If so, the vexing them is a certain wrong, whereas the mischief of taking the pleasure is only a possible contingency. But then one must take it out of oneself some other way, or it becomes an excuse for self- indulgence.'

'Hardly with you,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.

'Because I had rather go at it at once, and forget all about other people. You must teach me consideration, Mrs. Edmonstone, and in the meantime will you tell me what you think I had better do about this scrape?'

'Let it alone,' said Mrs. Edmonstone. 'You have begged every one's pardon, and it had better be forgotten as fast as possible. They have made more fuss already than it is worth. Don't torment yourself about it any more; for, if you have made a mistake, it is on the right side; and on the first opportunity, I'll go and call on Mrs. Deane, and see if she is very implacable.'

The dressing-bell rang, and Amy ran up-stairs, stopping at Laura's door, to ask how she prospered in the drive she had been taking with Charles and Eveleen.

Amy told her of Guy's trouble, and oh! awkward question, inquired if she could guess what it could be that Philip imagined that Guy had been offended at.

'Can't he guess?' said poor Laura, to gain time, and brushing her hair over her face.

'No, he has no idea, though Philip protested that he knew, and would not tell him. Philip must have been most tiresome.'

'What? Has Guy been complaining?'

'No, only angry with himself for being vexed. I can't think how Philip can go on so!'

'Hush! hush, Amy, you know nothing about it. He has reasons--'

'I know,' said Amy, indignantly; 'but what right has he to go on mistrusting? If people are to be judged by their deeds, no one is so good as Guy, and it is too bad to reckon up against him all his ancestors have done. It is wolf and lamb, indeed.'

'He does not!' cried Laura. 'He never is unjust! How can you say so, Amy?'

'Then why does he impute motives, and not straightforwardly tell what he means?'

'It is impossible in this case,' said Laura.

'Do you know what it is?'

'Yes,' said Laura, perfectly truthful, and feeling herself in a dreadful predicament.

'And you can't tell me?'

'I don't think I can.'

'Nor Guy?'

'Not for worlds,' cried Laura, in horror.

'Can't you get Philip to tell him?'

'Oh no, no! I can't explain it, Amy; and all that can be done is to let it die away as fast as possible. It is only the rout about it that is of consequence.'

'It is very odd,' said Amy, 'but I must dress,' and away she ran, much puzzled, but with no desire to look into Philip's secrets.

Laura rested her head on her hand, sighed, and wondered why it was so hard to answer. She almost wished she had said Philip had been advising her to discourage any attachment on Guy's part; but then Amy might have laughed, and asked why. No! no! Philip's confidence was in her keeping, and cost her what it might, she would be faithful to the trust.

There was now a change. The evenings were merry, but the mornings were occupied. Guy went off to his room, as he used to do last winter; Laura commenced some complicated perspective, or read a German book with a great deal of dictionary; Amy had a book of history, and practised her music diligently; even Charles read more to himself, and resumed the study with Guy and Amy; Lady Eveleen joined in every one's pursuits, enjoyed them, and lamented to Laura that it was impossible to be rational at her own home.

Laura tried to persuade her that there was no need that she should be on the level of the society round her, and it ended in her spending an hour in diligent study every morning, promising to continue it when she went home, while Laura made such sensible comments that Eveleen admired her more than ever; and she, knowing that some were second-hand from Philip, others arising from his suggestions, gave him all the homage paid to herself, as a tribute to him who reigned over her whole being.

Yet she was far from happy. Her reserve towards Guy made her feel stiff and guarded; she had a craving for Philip's presence, with a dread of showing it, which made her uncomfortable. She wondered he had not been at Hollywell since the bail, for he must know that she was going to Ireland in a fortnight, and was not likely to return till his regiment had left Broadstone.

An interval passed long enough for her not to be alone in her surprise at his absenting himself before he at length made his appearance, just before luncheon, so as to miss the unconstrained morning hours he used so much to enjoy. He found Guy, Charles, and Amy, deep in Butler's Analogy.

'Are you making poor little Amy read that?' said he.

'Bravo!' cried Charles; 'he is so disappointed that it is not Pickwick that he does not know what else to say.'

'I don't suppose I take much in,' said Amy; 'but I like to be told what it means.'

'Don't imagine I can do that,' said Guy.

'I never spent much time over it,' said Philip; 'but I should think you were out of your depth.'

'Very well,' said Charles; 'we will return to Dickens to oblige you.'

'It is your pleasure to wrest my words,' replied Philip, in his own calm manner, though he actually felt hurt, which he had never done before. His complacency was less secure, so that there was more need for self-assertion.

'Where are the rest?' he asked.

'Laura and Eveleen are making a dictation lesson agreeable to Charlotte,' said Amy; 'I found Eva making mistakes on purpose.'

'How much longer does she stay?'

'Till Tuesday. Lord Kilcoran is coming to fetch her.'

Charlotte entered, and immediately ran up-stairs to announce her cousin's arrival. Laura was glad of this previous notice, and hoped her blush and tremor were not observed. It was a struggle, through luncheon time, to keep her colour and confusion within bounds; but she succeeded better than she fancied she did, and Philip gave her as much help as he could, by not looking at her. Seeing that he dreaded nothing so much as her exciting suspicion, she was at once braced and alarmed.

Her father was very glad to see him, and reproached him for making himself a stranger, while her sisters counted up the days of his absence.

'There was the time, to be sure, when we met you on Ashen-down, but that was a regular cheat. Laura had you all to herself.'

Laura bent down to feed Bustle, and Philip felt his colour deepening.

Mr. Edmonstone went on to ask him to come and stay at Hollywell for a week, vowing he would take no refusal. 'A week was out of the question, said Philip; 'but he could come for two nights.' Amabel hinted that there was to be a dinner-party on Thursday, thinking it fair to give him warning of what he disliked, but he immediately chose that very day. Again he disconcerted all expectations, when it was time to go out. Mrs. Edmonstone and Charles were going to drive, the young ladies and Guy to walk, but Philip disposed himself to accompany his uncle in a survey of the wheat.

Laura perceived that he would not risk taking another walk with her when they might be observed. It showed implicit trust to leave her to his rival; but she was sorry to find that caution must put an end to the freedom of their intercourse, and would have stayed at home, but that Eveleen was so wild and unguarded that Mrs. Edmonstone did not like her to be without Laura as a check on her, especially when Guy was of the party. There was some comfort in that warm pressure of her hand when she bade Philip good-bye, and on that she lived for a long time. He stood at the window watching them till they were out of sight, then moved towards his aunt, who with her bonnet on, was writing an invitation for Thursday, to Mr. Thorndale.

'I was thinking,' said he, in a low voice, 'if it would not be as well, if you liked, to ask Thorndale here for those two days.'

'If you think so,' returned Mrs. Edmonstone, looking at him more inquiringly than he could well bear.

'You know how he enjoys being here, and I owe them all so much kindness.'

'Certainly; I will speak to your uncle,' said she, going in search of him. She presently returned, saying they should be very glad to see Mr, Thorndale, asking him at the same time, in her kind tones of interest, after an old servant for whom he had been spending much thought and pains. The kindness cut him to the heart, for it evidently arose from a perception that he was ill at ease, and his conscience smote him. He answered shortly, and was glad when the carriage came; he lifted Charles into it, and stood with folded arms as they drove away.

'The air is stormy,' said Charles, looking back at him.'

'You thought so, too?' said Mrs. Edmonstone, eagerly.

'You did!'

'I have wondered for some time past.'

'It was very decided to-day--that long absence--and there was no provoking him to be sententious. His bringing his young man might be only to keep him in due subjection; but his choosing the day of the party, and above all, not walking with the young ladies.'

'It not like himself,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, in a leading tone.

'Either the sweet youth is in love, or in the course of some strange transformation.'

'In love!' she exclaimed. 'Have you any reason for thinking so?'

'Only as a solution of phenomena; but you look as if I had hit on the truth.'

'I hope it is no such thing; yet--'

'Yet?' repeated Charles, seriously. 'I think he has discovered the danger.'

'The danger of falling in love with Laura? Well, it would be odd if he was not satisfied with his own work. But he must know how preposterous that would be.'

'And you think that would prevent it?' said his mother, smiling. 'He is just the man to plume himself on making his judgment conquer his inclination, setting novels at defiance. How magnanimously he would resolve to stifle a hopeless attachment!'

'That is exactly what I think he is doing. I think he has found out the state of his feelings, and is doing all in his power to check them by avoiding her, especially in tete-a-tetes, and an unconstrained family party. I am nearly convinced that is his reason for bringing Mr. Thorndale, and fixing on the day of the dinner. Poor fellow, it must cost him a great deal, and I long to tell him how I thank him.'

'Hm! I don't think it unlikely,' said Charles. 'It agrees with what happened the evening of the Kilcoran ball, when he was ready to eat me up for saying something he fancied was a hint of a liking of Guy's for Laura. It was a wild mistake, for something I said about Petrarch, forgetting that Petrarch suggested Laura; but it put him out to a degree, and he made all manner of denunciations on the horror of Guy's falling in love with her. Now, as far as I see, Guy is much more in love with you, or with Deloraine, and the idea argues far more that the Captain himself is touched.'

'Depend upon it, Charlie, it was this that led to his detecting the true state of the case. Ever since that he has kept away. It is noble!'

'And what do you think about Laura?'

'Poor child! I doubt if it was well to allow so much intimacy; yet I don't see how it could have been helped.'

'So you think she is in for it? I hope not; but she has not been herself of late.'

'I think she misses what she has been used to from him, and thinks him estranged, but I trust it goes no further. I see she is out of spirits; I wish I could help her, dear girl, but the worst of all would be to let her guess the real name and meaning of all this, so I can't venture to say a word.'

'She is very innocent of novels,' said Charles, 'and that is well. It would be an unlucky business to have our poor beauty either sitting 'like Patience on a monument', or 'cockit up on a baggage-waggon.' But that will never be. Philip is not the man to have a wife in barracks. He would have her like his books, in morocco, or not at all.'

'He would never involve her in discomforts. He may be entirely trusted, and as long as he goes on as he has begun, there is no harm done; Laura will cheer up, will only consider him as her cousin and friend, and never know he has felt more for her.'

'Her going to Ireland is very fortunate.'

'It has made me still more glad that the plan should take place at once.'

'And you say "nothing to nobody"?'

'Of course not. We must not let him guess we have observed anything; there is no need to make your father uncomfortable, and such things need not dawn on Amy's imagination.'

It may be wondered at that Mrs. Edmonstone should confide such a subject to her son, but she knew that in a case really affecting his sister, and thus introduced, his silence was secure. In fact, confidence was the only way to prevent the shrewd, unscrupulous raillery which would have caused great distress, and perhaps led to the very disclosure to be deprecated. Of late, too, there had been such a decrease of petulance in Charles, as justified her in trusting him, and lastly, it must be observed that she was one of those open-hearted people who cannot make a discovery nor endure an anxiety without imparting it. Her tact, indeed, led her to make a prudent choice of confidants, and in this case her son was by far the best, though she had spoken without premeditation. Her nature would never have allowed her to act as her daughter was doing; she would have been without the strength to conceal her feelings, especially when deprived of the safety-valve of free intercourse with their object.

The visit took place as arranged, and very uncomfortable it was to all who looked deeper than the surface. In the first place, Philip found there the last person he wished his friend to meet--Lady Eveleen, who had been persuaded to stay for the dinner-party; but Mr. Thorndale was, as Charles would have said, on his good behaviour, and, ashamed of the fascination her manners exercised over him, was resolved to resist it, answered her gay remarks with brief sentences and stiff smiles, and consorted chiefly with the gentlemen.

Laura was grave and silent, trying to appear unconscious, and only succeeding in being visibly constrained. Philip was anxious and stern in his attempts to appear unconcerned, and even Guy was not quite as bright and free as usual, being puzzled as to how far he was forgiven about the ball.

Amabel could not think what had come to every one, and tried in vain to make them sociable. In the evening they had recourse to a game, said to be for Charlotte's amusement, but in reality to obviate some of the stiffness and constraint; yet even this led to awkward situations. Each person was to set down his or her favourite character in history and fiction, flower, virtue, and time at which to have lived, and these were all to be appropriated to the writers. The first read was--

'Lily of the valley--truth--Joan of Arc--Padre Cristoforo--the present time.'

'Amy!' exclaimed Guy.

'I see you are right,' said Charles; 'but tell me your grounds!'

'Padre Cristoforo,' was the answer.

'Fancy little Amy choosing Joan of Arc,' said Eveleen, 'she who is afraid of a tolerable sized grasshopper.'

'I should like to have been Joan's sister, and heard her tell about her visions,' said Amy.

'You would have taught her to believe them,' said Philip.

'Taught her!' cried Guy. 'Surely you take the high view of her.'

'I think,' said Philip, 'that she is a much injured person, as much by her friends as her enemies; but I don't pretend to enter either enthusiastically or philosophically into her character.'

What was it that made Guy's brow contract, as he began to strip the feather of a pen, till, recollecting himself, he threw it from him with a dash, betraying some irritation, and folded his hands.

'Lavender,' read Charlotte.

'What should make any one choose that?' cried Eveleen.

'I know!' said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking up. 'I shall never forget the tufts of lavender round the kitchen garden at Stylehurst.'

Philip smiled. Charlotte proceeded, and Charles saw Laura's colour deepening as she bent over her work.

'"Lavender--steadfastness--Strafford--Cordelia in 'King Lear'--the late war." How funny!' cried Charlotte. 'For hear the next: 'Honeysuckle-- steadfastness--Lord Strafford--Cordelia--the present time." Why, Laura, you must have copied it from Philip's.'

Laura neither looked nor spoke. Philip could hardly command his countenance as Eveleen laughed, and told him he was much flattered by those becoming blushes. But here Charles broke in,--'Come, make haste, Charlotte, don't be all night about it;' and as Charlotte paused, as if to make some dangerous remark, he caught the paper, and read the next himself. Nothing so startled Philip as this desire to cover their confusion. Laura was only sensible of the relief of having attention drawn from her by the laugh that followed.

'A shamrock--Captain Rock--the tailor that was "blue moulded for want of a bating"--Pat Riotism--the time of Malachy with the collar of gold.'

'Eva!' cried Charlotte.

'Nonsense,' said Eveleen; 'I am glad I know your tastes, Charles. They do you honour.'

'More than yours do, if these are yours,' said Charles, reading them contemptuously; 'Rose--generosity--Charles Edward--Catherine Seyton-- the civil wars.'

'You had better not have disowned Charlie's, Lady Eveleen,' said Guy.

'Nay do you think I would put up with such a set as these?' retorted Charles; 'I am not fallen so low as the essence of young ladyism.'

'What can you find to say against them?' said Eveleen.

'Nothing,' said Charles, 'No one ever can find anything to say for or against young ladies' tastes.'

'You seem to be rather in the case of the tailor yourself,' said Guy, 'ready to do battle, if you could but get any opposition.'

'Only tell me,' said Amy, 'how you could wish to live in the civil wars?'

'O, because they would be so entertaining.'

'There's Paddy, genuine Paddy at last!' exclaimed Charles. 'Depend upon it, the conventional young lady won't do, Eva.'

After much more discussion, and one or two more papers, came Guy's--the last. 'Heather--Truth--King Charles--Sir Galahad--the present time.'

'Sir how much? exclaimed Charles.

'Don't you know him?' said Guy. 'Sir Galahad--the Knight of the Siege Perilous--who won the Saint Greal.'

'What language is that?' said Charles.

'What! Don't you know the Morte d'Arthur! I thought every one did! Don't you, Philip!'

'I once looked into it. It is very curious, in classical English; but it is a book no one could read through.'

'0h!' cried Guy, indignantly; then, 'but you only looked into it. If you had lived with its two fat volumes, you could not help delighting in it. It was my boating-book for at least three summers.'

'That accounts for it,' said Philip; 'a book so studied in boyhood acquires a charm apart from its actual merits.'

'But it has actual merits. The depth, the mystery, the allegory--the beautiful characters of some of the knights.'

'You look through the medium of your imagination,' said Philip; but you must pardon others for seeing a great sameness of character and adventure, and for disapproving of the strange mixture of religion and romance.'

'You've never read it,' said Guy, striving to speak patiently.

'A cursory view is sufficient to show whether a book will repay the time spent in reading it.'

'A cursory view enable one to judge better than making it your study? Eh, Philip?' said Charles.

'It is no paradox. The actual merits are better seen by an unprejudiced stranger than by an old friend who lends them graces of his own devising.'

Charles laughed: Guy pushed back his chair, and went to look out at the window. Perhaps Philip enjoyed thus chafing his temper; for after all he had said to Laura, it was satisfactory to see his opinion justified, so that he might not feel himself unfair. It relieved his uneasiness lest his understanding with Laura should be observed. It had been in great peril that evening, for as the girls went up to bed, Eveleen gaily said, 'Why, Laura, have you quarrelled with Captain Morville?'

'How can you say such things, Eva? Good night.' And Laura escaped into her own room.

'What's the meaning of it, Amy?' pursued Eveleen.

'Only a stranger makes us more formal,' said Amy.

'What an innocent you are! It is of no use to talk to you!' said Eveleen, running away.

'No; but Eva,' said Amy, pursuing her, 'don't go off with a wrong fancy. Charles has teased Laura so much about Philip, that of course it makes her shy of him before strangers; and it would never have done to laugh about their choosing the same things when Mr. Thorndale was there.'

'I must be satisfied, I suppose. I know that is what you think, for you could not say any other.'

'But what do you think?' said Amy, puzzled.

'I won't tell you, little innocence--it would only shock you.'

'Nothing you really thought about Laura could shock me,' said Amy; 'I don't mean what you might say in play.'

'Well, then, shall you think me in play or earnest when I say that I think Laura likes Philip very much?'

'In play' said Amy; 'for you know that if we had not got our own Charlie to show us what a brother is, we should think of Philip as just the same as a brother.'

'A brother! You are pretending to be more simple than you really are, Amy! Don't you know what I mean?'

'O,' said Amy, her cheeks lighting up, 'that must be only play, for he has never asked her.'

'Ah, but suppose she was in the state just ready to be asked?'

'No, that could never be, for he could never ask her,'

'Why not, little Amy?'

'Because we are cousins, and everything,' said Amy, confused. 'Don't talk any more about it, Eva; for though I know it is all play, I don't like it, and mamma, would not wish me to talk of such things. And don't you laugh about it, dear Eva, pray; for it only makes every one uncomfortable. Pray!'

Amy had a very persuasive way of saying 'pray,' and Eveleen thought she must yield to it. Besides, she respected Laura and Captain Morville too much to resolve to laugh at them, whatever she might do when her fear of the Captain made her saucy.

Mrs. Edmonstone thought it best on all accounts to sit in the drawing- room the next morning; but she need not have taken so much pains to chaperon her young ladies, for the gentlemen did not come near them.

Laura was more at ease in manner, though very far from happy, for she was restlessly eager for a talk with Philip; while he was resolved not to seek a private interview, sure that it would excite suspicion, and willing to lose the consciousness of his underhand proceedings.

This was the day of the dinner-party, and Laura's heart leaped as she calculated that it must fall to Philip's lot to hand her in to dinner. She was not mistaken, he did give her his arm; and they found themselves most favourably placed, for Philip's other neighbour was Mrs. Brownlow, talking at a great rate to Mr. de Courcy, and on Laura's side was the rather deaf Mr. Hayley, who had quite enough to do to talk to Miss Brownlow. Charles was not at table, and not one suspicious eye could rest on them, yet it was not till the second course was in progress that he said anything which the whole world might not have heard. Something had passed about Canterbury, and its distance from Hollywell.

'I can be here often,' said Philip.

'I am glad.'

'If you can only be guarded,--and I think you are becoming so.'

'Is this a time to speak of--? Oh, don't!'

'It is the only time. No one is attending, and I have something to say to you.'

Overpowering her dire confusion, in obedience to him, she looked at the epergne, and listened.

'You have acted prudently. You have checked--' and he indicated Guy-- 'without producing more than moderate annoyance. You have only to guard your self-possession.'

'It is very foolish,' she murmured.

'Ordinary women say so, and rest contented with the folly. You can do better things.'

There was a thrill of joy at finding him conversing with her as his 'own;' it overcame her embarrassment and alarm, and wishes he would not choose such a time for speaking.'

'How shall I?' said she.

'Employ yourself. Employ and strengthen your mind!'

'How shall I, and without you?'

'Find something to prevent you from dwelling on the future. That drawing is dreamy work, employing the fingers and leaving the mind free.'

'I have been trying to read, but I cannot fix my mind.'

'Suppose you take what will demand attention. Mathematics, algebra. I will send you my first book of algebra, and it will help you to work down many useless dreams and anxieties.'

'Thank you; pray do; I shall be very glad of it.'

'You will find it give a power and stability to your mind, and no longer have to complain of frivolous occupation.'

'I don't feel frivolous now,' said Laura, sadly; 'I don't know why it is that everything is so altered, I am really happier, but my light heart is gone.'

'You have but now learnt the full powers of your soul, Laura, you have left the world of childhood, with the gay feelings which have no depth.'

'I have what is better,' she whispered.

'You have, indeed. But those feelings must be regulated, and strengthening the intellect strengthens the governing power.'

Philip, with all his sense, was mystifying himself, because he was departing from right, the only true 'good sense.' His right judgment in all things was becoming obscured, so he talked metaphysical jargon, instead of plain practical truth, and thought he was teaching Laura to strengthen her powers of mind, instead of giving way to dreams, when he was only leading her to stifle meditation, and thus securing her complete submission to himself.

She was happier after this conversation, and better able to pay attention to the guests, nor did she feel guilty when obliged to play and sing in the evening--for she knew he must own that she could do no otherwise.

Lady Eveleen gave, however, its brilliancy to the party. She had something wonderfully winning and fascinating about her, and Philip owned to himself that it took no small resolution on the part of Mr. Thorndale to keep so steadily aloof from the party in the bay window, where she was reigning like a queen, and inspiring gaiety like a fairy. She made Guy sing with her; it was the first time he had ever sung, except among themselves, as Mrs. Edmonstone had never known whether he would like to be asked; but Eveleen refused to sing some of the Irish melodies unless he would join her, and without making any difficulty he did so. Mrs. Brownlow professed to be electrified, and Eveleen declaring that she knew she sung like a peacock, told Mrs. Brownlow that the thing to hear was Sir Guy singing glees with Laura and Amy. Of course, they were obliged to sing. Mrs. Brownlow was delighted; and as she had considerable knowledge of music, they all grew eager and Philip thought it very foolish of Guy to allow so much of his talent and enthusiasm to display themselves.

When all the people were gone, and the home party had wished each other good-night, Philip lingered in the drawing-room to finish a letter. Guy, after helping Charles up-stairs, came down a few moments after, to fetch something which he had forgotten. Philip looked up,--'You contributed greatly to the entertainment this evening,' he said.

Guy coloured, not quite sure that this was not said sarcastically, and provoked with himself for being vexed.

'You think one devoid of the sixth sense has no right to speak,' said Philip.

'I can't expect all to think it, as I do, one of the best things in this world or out of it,' said Guy, speaking quickly.

'I know it is so felt by those who understand its secrets,' said Philip. 'I would not depreciate it; so you may hear me patiently, Guy. I only meant to warn you, that it is often the means of bringing persons into undesirable intimacies, from which they cannot disentangle themselves as easily as they enter them.'

A flush crossed Guy's cheek, but it passed, and he simply said--'I suppose it may. Good-night.'

Philip looked after him, and pondered on what it was that had annoyed him--manner, words, or advice. He ascribed it to Guy's unwillingness to be advised, since he had observed that his counsel was apt to irritate him, though his good sense often led him to follow it. In the present case, Philip thought Mrs. Brownlow and her society by no means desirable for a youth like Guy; and he was quite right.

Philip and his friend went the next morning; and in the afternoon Laura received the book of algebra--a very original first gift from a lover. It came openly, with a full understanding that she was to use it by his recommendation; her mother and brother both thought they understood the motive, which one thought very wise, and the other very characteristic.

Lord Kilcoran and Lady Eveleen also departed. Eveleen very sorry to go, though a little comforted by the prospect of seeing Laura so soon in Ireland, where she would set her going in all kinds of 'rationalities--reading, and school teaching, and everything else.'

'Ay,' said Charles, when all were out of hearing but his mother; 'and I shrewdly suspect the comfort would be still greater if it was Sir Guy Morville who was coming.'

'It would be no bad thing,' said his mother: 'Eveleen is a nice creature with great capabilities.'

'Capabilities! but will they ever come to anything?'

'In a few years,' said Mrs. Edmonstone; 'and he is a mere boy at present, so there is plenty of time for both to develop themselves.'

'Most true, madame mere; but it remains to be proved whether the liking for Sir Guy, which has taken hold of my lady Eveleen, is strong enough to withstand all the coquetting with young Irishmen, and all the idling at Kilcoran.'

'I hope she has something better to be relied on than the liking for Sir Guy.'

'You may well do so, for I think he has no notion of throwing off his allegiance to you--his first and only love. He liked very well to make fun with Eva; but he regarded her rather as a siren, who drew him off from his Latin and Greek.'

'Yes; I am ashamed of myself for such a fit of match-making! Forget it, Charlie, as fast as you can.'

CHAPTER 11

This warld's wealth, when I think o't,

Its pride, and a' the lave o't,

Fie, fie on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't.--BURNS

In another week Mr. Edmonstone and his eldest daughter were to depart on their Irish journey. Laura, besides the natural pain in leaving home, was sorry to be no longer near Philip, especially as it was not likely that he would be still at Broadstone on their return; yet she was so restless and dissatisfied, that any change was welcome, and the fear of betraying herself almost took away the pleasure of his presence.

He met them at the railway station at Broadstone, where Mr. Edmonstone, finding himself much too early, recollected something he had forgotten in the town, and left his daughter to walk up and down the platform under Philip's charge. They felt it a precious interval, but both were out of spirits, and could hardly profit by it.

'You will be gone long before we come back,' said Laura.

'In a fortnight or three weeks, probably.'

'But you will still be able to come to Hollywell now and then?'

'I hope so. It is all the pleasure I can look for. We shall never see such a summer again.'

'Oh, it has been a memorable one!'

'Memorable! Yes. It has given me an assurance that compensates for all I have lost; yet it has made me feel, more than ever before, how poverty withers a man's hopes.'

'0 Philip, I always thought your poverty a great, noble thing!'

'You thought like a generous-tempered girl who has known nothing of its effects.'

'And do you know that Guy says the thing to be proud of is of holding the place you do, without the aid of rank or riches.'

'I would not have it otherwise--I would not for worlds that my father had acted otherwise,' said Philip. 'You understand that, Laura.'

'Of course I do.'

'But when you speak--when Guy speaks of my holding the place I do, you little know what it is to feel that powers of usefulness are wasted--to know I have the means of working my way to honour and distinction, such as you would rejoice in Laura, to have it all within, yet feel it thrown away. Locksley Hall, again--"every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.'"

'I wish there was anything to be done,' said Laura.

'It is my profession that is the bar to everything. I have sold the best years of my life, and for what? To see my sister degrade herself by that marriage.'

'That is the real grief,' said Laura.

'But for that, I should never have cast a look back on what I relinquished. However, why do I talk of these things, these vain regrets? They only occurred because my welfare does not concern myself alone--and here's your father.'

Mr. Edmonstone returned, out of breath, in too much bustle remark his daughter's blushes. Even when the train was moving off, he still had his head out at the window, calling to Philip that they should expect a visit from him as soon as ever they returned. Such cordiality gave Philip a pang; and in bitterness of spirit he walked back to the barracks. On the way he met Mrs. Deane who wanted to consult him about inviting his cousin, Sir Guy to a dinner-party she intended to give next week. 'Such an agreeable, sensible youth, and we feel we owe him some attention, he took so much pains to make apologies about the ball.'

'I dare say he will be very happy to come.'

'We will write at once. He is a very fine young man, without a shade of vanity or nonsense.'

'Yes; he has very pleasant, unaffected manners.'

'I am sure he will do credit to his estate. It is a very handsome fortune, is it not?'

'It is a very large property.'

'I am glad of it; I have no doubt we shall see him one of the first men of his time.'

These words brought into contrast in Philip's mind the difference between Guy's position and his own. The mere possession of wealth was winning for Guy, at an age when his merits could only be negative, that estimation which his own tried character had scarcely achieved, placing him not merely on a level with himself, but in a situation where happiness and influence came unbidden. His own talents, attainments, and equal, if not superior claims, to gentle blood, could not procure him what seemed to lie at Guy's feet. His own ability and Laura's heart alone were what wealth could not affect; yet when he thought how the want of it wasted the one, and injured the hopes of the other, he recurred to certain visions of his sister Margaret's, in days gone by, of what he was to do as Sir Philip, lord of Redclyffe. He was speculating on what would have happened had Guy died in his sickly infancy, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he turned his mind to other objects.

Guy was not much charmed with Mrs. Deane's invitation. He said he knew he must go to make up for his rudeness about the ball; but he grumbled enough to make Mrs. Edmonstone laugh at him for being so stupid as to want to stay hum-drum in the chimney corner. No doubt it was very pleasant there. There was that peculiar snugness which belongs to a remnant of a large party, when each member of it feels bound to prevent the rest from being dull. Guy devoted himself to Charles more than ever, and in the fear that he might miss the late variety of amusement, exerted even more of his powers of entertainment than Lady Eveleen had called forth.

There were grave readings in the mornings, and long walks in the afternoons, when he dragged Charles, in his chair, into many a place he had never expected to see again, and enabled him to accompany his mother and sisters in many a delightful expedition. In the evening there was music, or light reading, especially poetry, as this was encouraged by Mrs. Edmonstone, in the idea that it was better that so excitable and enthusiastic a person as Guy should have his objects of admiration tested by Charles's love of ridicule.

Mr. Edmonstone had left to Guy the office of keeping the 1st of September, one which he greatly relished. Indeed, when he thought of his own deserted manors, he was heard to exclaim, in commiseration for the neglect, 'Poor partridges!' The Hollywell shooting was certainly not like that at Redclyffe, where he could hardly walk out of his own grounds, whereas here he had to bear in mind so many boundaries, that Philip was expecting to have to help him out of some direful scrape. He had generally walked over the whole extent, and assured himself that the birds were very wild, and Bustle the best of dogs, before breakfast, so as to be ready for all the occupations of the day. He could scarcely be grateful when the neighbours, thinking it must be very dull for him to be left alone with Mrs. Edmonstone and her crippled son, used to ask him to shoot or dine. He always lamented at first, and ended by enjoying himself.

One night, he came home, in such a state of eagerness, that he must needs tell his good news; and, finding no one in the drawing-room, he ran up-stairs, opened Charles's door, and exclaimed--'There's to be a concert at Broadstone!' Then perceiving that Charles was fast asleep, he retreated noiselessly, reserving his rejoicings till morning, when it appeared that Charles had heard, but had woven the announcement into a dream.

This concert filled Guy's head. His only grief was that it was to be in the evening, so that Charles could not go to it; and his wonder was not repressed at finding that Philip did not mean to favour it with his presence, since Guy would suffice for squire to Mrs. Edmonstone and her daughters.

In fact, Philip was somewhat annoyed by the perpetual conversation about the concert, and on the day on which it was to take place resolved on making a long expedition to visit the ruins of an old abbey, far out of all reports of it. As he was setting out, he was greeted, in a very loud voice, by Mr. Gordon.

'Hollo, Morville! how are you? So you have great doings to-night, I hear!' and he had only just forced himself from him, when he was again accosted, this time in a hasty, embarrassed manner,--

'I beg your pardon, sir, but the ties of relationship--'

He drew himself up as if he was on parade, faced round, and replied with an emphatic 'Sir!' as he behold a thin, foreign-looking man, in a somewhat flashy style of dress, who, bowing low, repeated breathlessly,--

'I beg your pardon--Sir Guy Morville, I believe!'

'Captain Morville, sir!'

'I beg your pardon--I mistook. A thousand pardons,' and he retreated; while Philip, after a moment's wonder, pursued his walk.

The Hollywell party entered Broadstone in a very different temper, and greatly did they enjoy the concert, both for themselves and for each other. In the midst of it, while Amy was intent on the Italian words of a song, Guy touched her hand, and pointed to a line in the programme--

Solo on the violin . . . . MR. S. B. DIXON.

She looked up in his face with an expression full of inquiry; but it was no time for speaking, and she only saw how the colour mantled on his cheek when the violinist appeared, and how he looked down the whole time of the performance, only now and then venturing a furtive though earnest glance.

He did not say anything till they were seated in the carriage, and then astonished Mrs. Edmonstone by exclaiming--

'It must be my uncle!--I am sure it must. I'll ride to Broadstone the first thing to-morrow, and find him out.'

'Your uncle!' exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone. 'I never thought of that.'

S. B. Dixon,' said Guy. 'I know his name is Sebastian. It cannot be any one else. You know he went to America. How curious it is! I suppose there is no fear of his being gone before I can come in to- morrow.'

'I should think not. Those musical people keep late hours.'

'I would go before breakfast. Perhaps it would be best to go to old Redford, he will know all about him; or to the music-shop. I am so glad! It is the very thing I always wished.'

'Did you?' said Mrs. Edmonstone to herself. 'I can't say every one would be of your mind; but I can't help liking you the better for it. I wish the man had kept further off. I wish Mr. Edmonstone was at home. I hope no harm will come of it. I wonder what I ought to do. Shall I caution him? No; I don't think I can spoil his happiness--and perhaps the man may be improved. He is his nearest relation, and I have no right to interfere. His own good sense will protect him--but I wish Mr. Edmonstone was at home.'

She therefore did not check his expressions of delight, nor object to his going to Broadstone early the next morning. He had just dismounted before the inn-yard, when a boy put a note into his hand, and he was so absorbed in its contents, that he did not perceive Philip till after two greetings had passed unheard. When at length he was recalled, he started, and exclaimed, rapturously, as he put the note into his cousin's hand,

'See here--it is himself!'

'Who?'

'My uncle. My poor mother's own brother.'

'Sebastian Bach Dixon,' read Philip. 'Ha! it was he who took me for you yesterday.'

'I saw him at the concert--I was sure it could be no other. I came in on purpose to find him, and here he is waiting for me. Is not it a happy chance?'

'Happy!' echoed Philip, in a far different tone.

'How I have longed for this--for any one who could remember and tell me of her--of my mother--my poor, dear young mother! And her own brother! I have been thinking of it all night, and he knows I am here, and is as eager as myself. He is waiting for me,' ended Guy, hurrying off.

'Stop!' said Philip, gravely. 'Think before acting. I seriously advise you to have nothing to do with this man, at least personally. Let me see him, and learn what he wants.'

'He wants me,' impatiently answered Guy. 'You are not his nephew.'

'Thank heaven!' thought Philip. 'Do you imagine your relationship is the sole cause of his seeking you?'

'I don't know--I don't care!' cried Guy, with vehemence. 'I will not listen to suspicions of my mother's brother.'

'It is more than suspicion. Hear me calmly. I speak for your good. I know this man's influence was fatal to your father. I know he did all in his power to widen the breach with your grandfather.'

'That was eighteen years ago,' said Guy, walking on, biting his lip in a fiery fit of impatience.

'You will not hear. Remember, that his position and associates render him no fit companion for you. Nay, listen patiently. You cannot help the relationship. I would not have you do otherwise than assist him. Let him not complain of neglect, but be on your guard. He will either seriously injure you, or be a burden for life.'

'I have heard you so far--I can hear no more,' said Guy, no longer restraining his impetuosity. 'He is my uncle, that I know, I care for nothing else. Position--nonsense! what has that to do with it? I will not be set against him.'

He strode off; but in a few moments turned back, overtook Philip, said- -

'Thank you for your advice. I beg your pardon for my hastiness. You mean kindly, but I must see my uncle.' And, without waiting for an answer, he was gone.

In short space he was in the little parlour of the music-shop, shaking hands with his uncle, and exclaiming,--

'I am so glad! I hoped it was you!'

'It is very noble-hearted! I might have known it would be so with the son of my dearest sister and of my generous friend!' cried Mr. Dixon, with eagerness that had a theatrical air, though it was genuine feeling that filled his eyes with tears.

'I saw your name last night' continued Guy. 'I would have tried to speak to you at once, but I was obliged to stay with Mrs, Edmonstone, as I was the only gentleman with her.'

'Ah! I thought it possible you might not be able to follow the dictate of your own heart; but this is a fortunate conjuncture, in the absence of your guardian.'

Guy recollected Philip's remonstrance, and it crossed him whether his guardian might be of the same mind; but he felt confident in having told all to Mrs. Edmonstone.

'How did you know I was here?' he asked.

'I learnt it in a most gratifying way. Mr. Redford, without knowing our connection--for on that I will always be silent--mentioned that the finest tenor he had ever known, in an amateur, belonged to his pupil, Sir Guy Morville. You can imagine my feelings at finding you so near, and learning that you had inherited your dear mother's talent and taste.'

The conversation was long, for there was much to hear. Mr. Dixon had kept up a correspondence at long intervals with Markham, from whom he heard that his sister's child survived, and was kindly treated by his grandfather; and inquiring again on the death of old Sir Guy, learnt that he was gone to live with his guardian, whose name, and residence Markham had not thought fit to divulge. He had been much rejoiced to hear his name from the music-master, and he went on to tell how he had been misled by the name of Morville into addressing the captain, who had a good deal of general resemblance to Guy's father, a fine tall young man, of the same upright, proud deportment. He supposed he was the son of the Archdeacon, and remembering how strongly his own proceedings had been discountenanced at Stylehurst, had been much disconcerted, and deeming the encounter a bad omen, had used more caution in his advances to his nephew. It was from sincere affection that he sought his acquaintance, though very doubtful as to the reception he might meet, and was both delighted and surprised at such unembarrassed, open-hearted affection.

The uncle and nephew were not made to understand each other. Sebastian Dixon was a man of little education, and when, in early youth, his talents had placed him high in his own line, he had led a careless, extravagant life. Though an evil friend, and fatal counsellor, he had been truly attached to Guy's father, and the secret engagement, and runaway marriage with his beautiful sister, had been the romance of his life, promoted by him with no selfish end. He was a proud and passionate man, and resenting Sir Guy's refusal to receive his sister as a daughter, almost as much as Sir Guy was incensed at the marriage, had led his brother-in-law to act in a manner which cut off the hope of reconciliation, and obliged Archdeacon Morville to give up his cause. He had gloried in supporting his sister and her husband, and enabling them to set the old baronet at defiance. But young Morville's territorial pride could not brook that he should be maintained, and especially that his child, the heir of Redclyffe, should be born while he was living at the expense of a musician. This feeling, aided by a yearning for home, and a secret love for his father, mastered his resentment; he took his resolution, quarrelled with Dixon, and carried off his wife, bent with desperation on forcing his father into receiving her.

Sebastian had not surmounted his anger at this step when he learnt its fatal consequences. Ever since that time, nothing had prospered with him: he had married and sunk himself lower, and though he had an excellent engagement, the days were past when he was the fashion, and his gains and his triumphs were not what they had been. He had a long list of disappointments and jealousies with which to entertain Guy, who, on his side, though resolved to like him, and dreading to be too refined to be friends with his relations, could not feel as thoroughly pleased as he intended to have been.

Music was, however, a subject on which they could meet with equal enthusiasm, and by means of this, together with the aid of his own imagination, Guy contrived to be very happy. He stayed with his uncle as long as he could, and promised to spend a day with him in London, on his way to Oxford, in October.

The next morning, when Philip knew that Guy would be with his tutor, he walked to Hollywell, came straight up to his aunt's dressing-room, asked her to send Charlotte down to practise, and, seating himself opposite to her, began--

'What do you mean to do about this unfortunate rencontre?'

'Do you mean Guy and his uncle? He is very much pleased, poor boy! I like his entire freedom from false shame.'

'A little true shame would be hardly misplaced about such a connection.'

'It is not his fault, and I hope it will not be his misfortune,' said Mrs. Edmonstone.

'That it will certainly be,' replied Philip, 'if we are not on our guard; and, indeed, if we are, there is little to be done with one so wilful. I might as well have interfered with the course of a whirlwind.'

'No, no, Philip; he is too candid to be wilful.'

'I cannot be of your opinion, when I have seen him rushing into this acquaintance in spite of the warnings he must have had here--to say nothing of myself.'

'Nay, there I must defend him, though you will think me very unwise; I could not feel that I ought to withhold him from taking some notice of so near a relation.'

Philip did think her so unwise, that he could only reply, gravely--

'We must hope it may produce no evil effects.'

'How?' she exclaimed, much alarmed. 'Have you heard anything against him?'

'You remember, of course, that Guy's father was regularly the victim of this Dixon.'

'Yes, yes; hut he has had enough to sober him. Do you know nothing more?' said Mrs. Edmonstone, growing nervously anxious lest she had been doing wrong in her husband's absence.

'I have been inquiring about him from old Redford, and I should judge him to be a most dangerous companion; as, indeed, I could have told from his whole air, which is completely that of a roué.'

'You have seen him, then?'

'Yes. He paid me the compliment of taking me for Sir Guy, and of course made off in dismay when he discovered on whom he had fallen. I have seldom seen a less creditable-looking individual.'

'But what did Mr. Redford say? Did he know of the connection?'

'No; I am happy to say he did not. The fellow has decency enough not to boast of that. Well, Redford did not know much of him personally: he said he had once been much thought of, and had considerable talent and execution, but taste changes, or he has lost something, so that, though he stands tolerably high in his profession, he is not a leader. So much for his musical reputation. As to his character, he is one of those people who are called no one's enemy but their own, exactly the introduction Guy has hitherto happily wanted to every sort of mischief.'

'I think,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, trying to console herself, 'that Guy is too much afraid of small faults to be invited by larger evils. While he punishes himself for an idle word, he is not likely to go wrong in greater matters.'

'Not at present.'

'Is the man in debt or difficulties? Guy heard nothing of that, and I thought it a good sign.'

'I don't suppose he is. He ought not, for he has a fixed salary, besides what he gets by playing at concerts when it is not the London season. The wasting money on a spendthrift relation would be a far less evil than what I apprehend.'

'I wish I knew what to do! It is very unlucky that your uncle is from home.'

'Very.'

Mrs. Edmonstone was frightened by the sense of responsibility, and was only anxious to catch hold of something to direct her.

'What would you have me do?' she asked, hopelessly.

'Speak seriously to Guy. He must attend to you: he cannot fly out with a woman as he does with me. Show him the evils that must result from such an intimacy. If Dixon was in distress, I would not say a word, for he would be bound to assist him but as it is, the acquaintance can serve no purpose but degrading Guy, and showing him the way to evil. Above all, make a point of his giving up visiting him in London. That is the sure road to evil. A youth of his age, under the conduct of a worn-out roué, connected with the theatres! I can hardly imagine anything more mischievous.'

'Yes, yes; I will speak to him,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, perfectly appalled.

She promised, but she found the fulfilment difficult, in her dislike of vexing Guy, her fear of saying what was wrong, and a doubt whether the appearance of persecuting Mr. Dixon was not the very way to prevent Guy's own good sense from finding out his true character, so she waited, hoping Mr. Edmonstone might return before Guy went to Oxford, or that he might write decisively.

Mrs. Edmonstone might have known her husband better than to expect him to write decisively when he had neither herself nor Philip at his elbow. The same post had brought him a letter from Guy, mentioning his meeting with his uncle, and frankly explaining his plans for London; another from Philip, calling on him to use all his authority to prevent this intercourse, and a third from his wife. Bewildered between them, he took them to his sister, who, being as puzzle-headed as himself, and only hearing his involved history of the affair, confused him still more; so he wrote to Philip, saying he was sorry the fellow had turned up, but he would guard against him. He told Guy he was sorry to say that his uncle used to be a sad scamp, and he must take care, or it would be his poor father's story over again; and to Mrs. Edmonstone he wrote that it was very odd that everything always did go wrong when he was away.

He thought these letters a great achievement, but his wife's perplexity was not materially relieved.

After considering a good while, she at length spoke to Guy; but it was not at a happy time, for Philip, despairing of her, had just taken on himself to remonstrate, and had angered him to the verge of an outbreak.

Mrs. Edmonstone, as mildly as she could, urged on him that such intercourse could bring him little satisfaction, and might be very inconvenient; that his uncle was in no distress, and did not require assistance; and that it was too probable that in seeking him out he might meet with persons who might unsettle his principles,--in short, that he had much better give up the visit to London.

'This is Philip's advice,' said Guy.

'It is; but--'

Guy looked impatient, and she paused.

'You must forgive me,' he said, 'if I follow my own judgment. If Mr. Edmonstone chose to lay his commands on me, I suppose I must submit; but I cannot see that I am bound to obey Philip.'

'Not to obey, certainly; but his advice--'

'He is prejudiced and unjust,' said Guy.

'I don't believe that my uncle would attempt to lead me into bad company; and surely you would not have me neglect or look coldly on one who was so much attached to my parents. If he is not a gentleman, and is looked down on by the world, it is not for his sister's son to make him conscious of it.'

'I like your feelings, Guy; I can say nothing against it, but that I am much afraid your uncle is not highly principled.'

'You have only Philip's account of him.'

'You are resolved?'

'Yes. I do not like not to take your advice, but I do believe this is my duty. I do not think my determination is made in self-will,' said Guy, thoughtfully; 'I cannot think that I ought to neglect my uncle, because I happen to have been born in a different station, which is all I have heard proved against him,' he added, smiling. 'You will forgive me, will you not, for not following your advice? for really and truly, if you will let me say so, I think you would not have given it if Philip had not been talking to you.'

Mrs. Edmonstone confessed, with a smile, that perhaps it was so; but said she trusted much to Philip's knowledge of the world. Guy agreed to this; though still declaring Philip had no right to set him against his uncle, and there the discussion ended.

Guy went to London. Philip thought him very wilful, and his aunt very weak; and Mr. Edmonstone, on coming home, said it could not be helped, and he wished to hear no more about the matter.

CHAPTER 12

Her playful smile, her buoyance wild,

Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child;

But in her forehead's broad expanse,

Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance,

Is mingled, with the child's light glee,

The modest maiden's dignity.

One summer's day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,--

'If you don't want me this afternoon, papa, I think I shall walk to Hollywell. You know Eveleen de Courcy is there.'

'No, I did not. What has brought her?'

'As Charles expresses it, she has over-polked herself in London, and is sent here for quiet and country air. I want to call on her, and to ask Sir Guy to give me some idea as to the singing the children should practise for the school-feast?'

'Then you think Sir Guy will come to the feast?'

'I reckon on him to conceal all the deficiencies in the children's singing.'

'He won't desert you, as he did Mrs. Brownlow?'

'0 papa! you surely did not think him to blame in that affair?'

'Honestly, Mary, if I thought about the matter at all, I thought it a pity he should go so much to the Brownlows.'

'I believe I could tell you the history, if you thought it worth while; and though it may be gossip, I should like you to do justice to Sir Guy.'

'Very well; though I don't think there is much danger of my doing otherwise. I only wondered he should become intimate there at all.'

'I believe Mrs. Edmonstone thinks it right he should see as much of the world as possible, and not be always at home in their own set.'

'Fair and proper.'

'You know she has shown him all the people she could,--had Eveleen staying there, and the Miss Nortons, and hunted him out to parties, when he had rather have been at home.'

'I thought he was fond of society. I remember your telling me how amused you were with his enjoyment of his first ball.'

'Ah! he was two years younger then, and all was new. He seems to me too deep and sensitive not to find more pain than pleasure in commonplace society. I have sometimes seen that he cannot speak either lightly or harshly of what he disapproves, and people don't understand him. I was once sitting next him, when there was some talking going on about an elopement; he did not laugh, looked almost distressed, and at last said in a very low voice, to me, "I wish people would not laugh about such things."'

'He is an extraordinary mixture of gaiety of heart, and seriousness.'

'Well, when Mrs. Brownlow had her nieces with her, and was giving those musical parties, his voice made him valuable; and Mrs. Edmonstone told him he ought to go to them. I believe he liked it at first, but he found there was no end to it; it took up a great deal of time, and was a style of thing altogether that was not desirable. Mrs Edmonstone thought at first his reluctance was only shyness and stay-at-home nonsense, that ought to be overcome; but when she had been there, and saw how Mrs. Brownlow beset him, and the unpleasant fuss they made about his singing, she quite came round to his mind, and was very sorry she had exposed him to so much that was disagreeable.'

'Well, Mary, I am glad to hear your account. My impression arose from something Philip Morville said.'

'Captain Morville never can approve of anything Sir Guy does! It is not like Charles.'

'How improved Charles Edmonstone is. He has lost that spirit of repining and sarcasm, and lives as if he had an object.'

'Yes; he employs himself now, and teaches Amy to do the same. You know, after the governess went, we were afraid little Amy would never do anything but wait on Charles, and idle in her pretty gentle way; but when he turned to better things so did she, and her mind has been growing all this time. Perhaps you don't see it, for she has not lost her likeness to a kitten, and looks all demure silence with the elders, but she takes in what the wise say.'

'She is a very good little thing; and I dare say will not be the worse for growing up slowly.'

'Those two sisters are specimens of fast and slow growth. Laura has always seemed to be so much more than one year older than Amy, especially of late. She is more like five-and-twenty than twenty. I wonder if she overworks herself. But how we have lingered over our dinner!'

By half-past three, Mary was entering a copse which led into Mr. Edmonstone's field, when she heard gay tones, and a snatch of one of the sweetest of old songs,--

Weep no more, lady; lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain; For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again.

A merry, clear laugh followed, and a turn in the path showed her Guy, Amy, and Charlotte, busy over a sturdy stock of eglantine. Guy, little changed in these two years,--not much taller, and more agile than robust,--was lopping vigorously with his great pruning-knife, Amabel nursing a bundle of drooping rose branches, Charlotte, her bonnet in a garland of wild sweet-brier, holding the matting and continually getting entangled in the long thorny wreaths.

'And here comes the "friar of orders gray," to tell you so,' exclaimed Guy, as Mary, in her gray dress, came on them.

'Oh, that is right, dear good friar,' cried Amy.

'We are so busy,' said Charlotte; 'Guy has made Mr. Markham send all these choice buds from Redclyffe.'

'Not from the park,' said Guy, 'we don't deal much in gardening; but Markham is a great florist, and these are his bounties.'

'And are you cutting that beautiful wild rose to pieces?'

'Is it not a pity?' said Amy. 'We have used up all the stocks in the garden, and this is to be transplanted in the autumn.'

'She has been consoling it all the time by telling it it is for its good,' said Guy; 'cutting off wild shoots, and putting in better things.'

'I never said anything so pretty; and, after all, I don't know that the grand roses will be equal to these purple shoots and blushing buds with long whiskers.'

'So Sir Guy was singing about the violets plucked to comfort you. But you must not leave off, I want to see how you do it. I am gardener enough to like to look on.'

'We have only two more to put in.'

Knife and fingers were busy, and Mary admired the dexterity with which the slit was made in the green bark, well armed with firm red thorns, and the tiny scarlet gem inserted, and bound with cotton and matting. At the least critical parts of the work, she asked after the rest of the party, and was answered that papa had driven Charles out in the pony carriage, and that Laura and Eveleen were sitting on the lawn, reading and working with mamma. Eveleen was better, but not strong, or equal to much exertion in the heat. Mary went on to speak of her school feast and ask her questions.

'0 Guy, you must not go before that!' cried Charlotte.

'Are you going away?'

'He is very naughty, indeed,' said Charlotte. 'He is going, I don't know where all, to be stupid, and read mathematics.'

'A true bill, I am sorry to say,' said Guy; 'I am to join a reading- party for the latter part of the vacation.'

'I hope not before Thursday week, though we are not asking you to anything worth staying for.'

'Oh, surely you need not go before that!' said Amy, 'need you?'

'No; I believe I may stay till Friday, and I should delight in the feast, thank you, Miss Ross,--I want to study such things. A bit more matting, Amy, if you please. There, I think that will do.'

'Excellently. Here is its name. See how neatly Charlie has printed it, Mary. Is it not odd, that he prints so well when he writes so badly?'

'"The Seven Sisters." There, fair sisterhood, grow and thrive, till I come to transplant you in the autumn. Are there any more?'

'No, that is the last. Now, Mary, let us come to mamma.'

Guy waited to clear the path of the numerous trailing briery branches, and the others walked on, Amy telling how sorry they were to lose Guy's vacation, but that he thought he could not give time enough to his studies here, and had settled, at Oxford, to make one of a reading- party, under the tutorship of his friend, Mr. Wellwood.

'Where do they go?'

'It is not settled. Guy wished it to be the sea-side; but Philip has been recommending a farmhouse in Stylehurst parish, rather nearer St. Mildred's Wells than Stylehurst, but quite out in the moor, and an immense way from both.'

'Do you think it will be the place?'

'Yes; Guy thinks it would suit Mr. Wellwood, because he has friends at St. Mildred's, so he gave his vote for it. He expects to hear how it is settled to-day or to-morrow.'

Coming out on the lawn, they found the three ladies sitting under the acacia, with their books and work. Laura did, indeed, look older than her real age, as much above twenty as Amy looked under nineteen. She was prettier than ever; her complexion exquisite in delicacy, her fine figure and the perfect outline of her features more developed; but the change from girl to woman had passed over her, and set its stamp on the anxious blue eye, and almost oppressed brow. Mary thought it would be hard to define where was that difference. It was not want of bloom, for of that Laura had more than any of the others, fresh, healthy, and bright, while Amy was always rather pale, and Lady Eveleen was positively wan and faded by London and late hours; nor was it loss of animation, for Laura talked and laughed with interest and eagerness; nor was it thought, for little Amy, when at rest, wore a meditative, pensive countenance; but there was something either added or taken away, which made it appear that the serenity and carelessness of early youth had fled from her, and the air of the cares of life had come over her.

Mary told her plans,--Church service at four, followed by a tea- drinking in the fields; tea in the garden for the company, and play for the school children and all who liked to join them. Every one likes such festivals, which have the recommendation of permitting all to do as they please, bringing friends together in perfect ease and freedom, with an object that raises them above the rank of mere gatherings for the pleasure of rich neighbours.

Mrs. Edmonstone gladly made the engagement and Lady Eveleen promised to be quite well, and to teach the children all manner of new games, though she greatly despised the dullness of English children, and had many droll stories of the stupidity of Laura's pupils, communicated to her, with perhaps a little exaggeration, by Charles, and still further embellished by herself, for the purpose of exciting Charlotte's indignation.

Mary proceeded to her consultation about the singing, and was conducted by Guy and Amy to the piano, and when her ears could not be indoctrinated by their best efforts, they more than half engaged to walk to East-hill, and have a conversation with the new school-master, whom Mary pitied for having fallen on people so unable to appreciate his musical training as herself and her father. The whole party walked back with her as far as the shade lasted; and at the end of the next field she turned, saw them standing round the stile, thought what happy people they were, and then resumed her wonder whither Laura's youthfulness had flown.

The situation of Philip and Laura had not changed. His regiment had never been at any great distance from Hollywell, and he often came, venturing more as Laura learnt to see him with less trepidation. He seldom or never was alone with her; but his influence was as strong as ever, and look, word, and gesture, which she alone could understand, told her what she was to him, and revealed his thoughts. To him she was devoted, all her doings were with a view to please him, and deserve his affection; he was her world, and sole object. Indeed, she was sometimes startled by perceiving that tenderly as she loved her own family, all were subordinate to him. She had long since known the true name of her feelings for him; she could not tell when or how the certainty had come, but she was conscious that it was love that they had acknowledged for one another and that she only lived in the light of his love. Still she did not realize the evil of concealment; it was so deep a sensation of her innermost heart, that she never could imagine revealing it to any living creature, and she had besides so surrendered her judgment to her idol, that no thought could ever cross her that he had enjoined what was wrong. Her heart and soul were his alone, and she left the future to him without an independent desire or reflection. All the embarrassments and discomforts which her secret occasioned her were met willingly for his sake, and these were not a few, though time had given her more self-command, or, perhaps, more properly speaking, had hardened her.

She always had a dread of tete-a-tetes and conversations over novels, and these were apt to be unavoidable when Eveleen was at Hollywell. The twilight wanderings on the terrace were a daily habit, and Eveleen almost always paired with her. On this evening in particular, Laura was made very uncomfortable by Eveleen's declaring that it was positively impossible and unnatural that the good heroine of some novel should have concealed her engagement from her parents. Laura could not help saying that there might be many excuses; then afraid that she was exciting suspicion, changed the subject in great haste, and tried to make Eveleen come indoors, telling her she would tire herself to death, and vexed by her cousin's protestations that the fresh cool air did her good. Besides, Eveleen was looking with attentive eyes at another pair who were slowly walking up and down the shady walk that bordered the grass-plot, and now and then standing still to enjoy the subdued silence of the summer evening, and the few distant sounds that marked the perfect lull.

'How calm--how beautiful!' murmured Amabel.

'It only wants the low solemn surge and ripple of the tide, and its dash on the rocks,' said Guy. 'If ever there was music, it is there; but it makes one think what the ear must be that can take in the whole of those harmonics.'

'How I should like to hear it!'

'And see it. 0 Amy! to show you the sunny sea,--the sense of breadth and vastness in that pale clear horizon line, and the infinite number of fields of light between you and it,--and the free feelings as you stand on some high crag, the wind blowing in your face across half the globe, and the waves dashing far below! I am growing quite thirsty for the sea.'

'You know, papa said something about your taking your reading-party to Redclyffe.'

'True, but I don't think Markham would like it, and it would put old Mrs. Drew into no end of a fuss.'

'Not like to have you?'

'0 yes, I should be all very well; but if they heard I was bringing three or four men with me, they would think them regular wild beasts. They would be in an awful fright. Besides, it is so long since I have been at home, that I don't altogether fancy going there till I settle there for good.'

'Ah! it will be sad going there at first.'

'And it has not been my duty yet.'

'But you will be glad when you get there?'

'Sha'n't I? I wonder if any one has been to shoot the rabbits on the shag rock. They must have quite overrun it by this time. But I don't like the notion of the first day. There is not only the great change, but a stranger at the vicarage.'

'Do you know anything about the new clergyman? I believe Mrs. Ashford is a connection of Lady Thorndale's?'

'Yes; Thorndale calls them pattern people, and I have no doubt they will do great good in the parish. I am sure we want some enlightenment, for we are a most primitive race, and something beyond Jenny Robinson's dame school would do us no harm.'

Here Mr. Edmonstone called from the window that they must come in.

Mrs. Edmonstone thought deeply that night. She had not forgotten her notion that Eveleen was attracted by Guy's manners, and had been curious to see what would happen when Eveleen was sent to Hollywell for country air.

She had a very good opinion of Lady Eveleen. Since the former visit, she had shown more spirit of improvement, and laid aside many little follies; she had put herself under Laura's guidance, and tamed down into what gave the promise of a sensible woman, more than anything that had hitherto been observed in her; and little addicted to match-making as Mrs. Edmonstone was, she could not help thinking that Eva was almost worthy of her dear Guy (she never could expect to find anyone she should think quite worthy of him, he was too like one of her own children for that), and on the other hand, how delighted Lord and Lady Kilcoran would be. It was a very pretty castle in the air; but in the midst of it, the notion suddenly darted into Mrs. Edmonstone's head, that while she was thinking of it, it was Amy, not Eveleen, who was constantly with Guy. Reading and music, roses, botany, and walks on the terrace! She looked back, and it was still the same. Last Easter vacation, how they used to study the stars in the evening, to linger in the greenhouse in the morning nursing the geraniums, and to practise singing over the school-room piano; how, in a long walk, they always paired together; and how they seemed to share every pursuit or pleasure.

Now Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely fond of Guy, and trusted him entirely; but she thought she ought to consider how far this should be allowed. Feeling that he ought to see more of the world, she had sent him as much as she could into society, but it had only made him cling closer to home. Still he was but twenty, it was only a country neighbourhood, and there was much more for him to see before he could fairly be supposed to know his own mind. She knew he would act honourably; but she had a horror of letting him entangle himself with her daughter before he was fairly able to judge of his own feelings. Or, if this was only behaving with a brother's freedom and confidence, Mrs. Edmonstone felt it was not safe for her poor little Amy, who might learn so to depend on him as to miss him grievously when this intimacy ceased, as it must when he settled at his own home. It would be right, while it was still time, to make her remember that they were not brother and sister, and by checking their present happy, careless, confidential intercourse, to save her from the chill which seemed to have been cast on Laura. Mrs. Edmonstone was the more anxious, because she deeply regretted not having been sufficiently watchful in Laura's case, and perhaps she felt an unacknowledged conviction that if there was real love on Guy's part, it would not be hurt by a little reserve on Amy's. Yet to have to speak to her little innocent daughter on such a matter disturbed her so much, that she could hardly have set about it, if Amy had not, at that very moment, knocked at her door.

'My dear, what has kept you up so late?'

'We have been sitting in Eveleen's room, mamma, hearing about her London life; and then we began to settle our plans for to-morrow, and I came to ask what you think of them. You know Guy has promised to go and hear the East-hill singing, and we were proposing, if you did not mind it, to take the pony-carriage and the donkey, and go in the morning to East-hill, have luncheon, and get Mary to go with us to the top of the great down, where we have never been. Guy has been wanting us, for a long time past, to go and see the view, and saying there is a track quite smooth enough to drive Charlie to the top.'

Amy wondered at her mother's look of hesitation. In fact, the scheme was so accordant with their usual habits that it was impossible to find any objection; yet it all hinged on Guy, and the appointment at East- hill might lead to a great many more.

'Do you wish us to do anything else, mamma? We don't care about it.'

'No, my dear,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, 'I see no reason against it. But- -' and she felt as if she was making a desperate plunge, 'there is something I want to say to you.'

Amy stood ready to hear, but Mrs. Edmonstone paused. Another effort, and she spoke:-

'Amy, my dear, I don't wish to find fault, but I thought of advising you to take care. About Guy--'

The very brilliant pink which instantly overspread Amy's face made her mother think her warning more expedient.

'You have been spending a great deal of time with him of late, very sensibly and pleasantly, I know; I don't blame you at all, my dear, so you need not look distressed. I only want you to be careful. You know, though we call him cousin, he is scarcely a relation at all.'

'0 mamma, don't go on,' said poor little Amy, hurriedly; 'indeed I am very sorry!'

For Amy understood that it was imputed to her that she had been forward and unmaidenly. Mrs. Edmonstone saw her extreme distress, and, grieved at the pain she had inflicted, tried to reassure her as much as might be safe.

'Indeed, my dear, you have done nothing amiss. I only intended to tell you to be cautious for fear you should get into a way of going on which might not look well. Don't make any great difference, I only meant that there should not be quite so much singing and gardening alone with him, or walking in the garden in the evening. You can manage to draw back a little, so as to keep more with me or with Laura, and I think that will be the best way.'

Every word, no matter what, increased the burning of poor Amy's cheeks. A broad accusation of flirting would have been less distressing to many girls than this mild and delicate warning was to one of such shrinking modesty and maidenly feeling. She had a sort of consciousness that she enjoyed partaking in his pursuits, and this made her sense of confusion and shame overwhelming. What had she been thoughtlessly doing? She could not speak, she could not look. Her mother put her arm round her, and Amy hid her head on her shoulder, and held her fast. Mrs. Edmonstone kissed and caressed the little fluttering bird, then saying, 'Good night, my own dear child,' unloosed her embrace.

'Good night, dear mamma,' whispered Amy. 'I am very sorry.'

'You need not be sorry, my dear, only be careful. Good night.' And it would be hard to say whether the mother or the daughter had the hottest cheeks.

Poor little Amy! what was her dismay as she asked herself, again and again, what she had been doing and what she was to do? The last was plain,--she knew what was right, and do it she must. There would be an end of much that was pleasant, and a fresh glow came over her as she owned how very, very pleasant; but if it was not quite the thing,--if mamma did not approve, so it must be. True, all her doings received their zest from Guy,--her heart bounded at the very sound of his whistle, she always heard his words through all the din of a whole party,--nothing was complete without him, nothing good without his without his approval,--but so much the more shame for her. It was a kind of seeking him which was of all things the most shocking. So there should be an end of it,--never mind the rest! Amy knelt down, and prayed that she might keep her resolution.

She did not know how much of her severity towards herself was learned from the example that had been two years before her. Nor did she think whether the seeking had been mutual; she imagined it all her own doing, and did not guess that she would give pain to Guy by withdrawing herself from him.

The morning gave vigour to her resolution, and when Laura came to ask what mamma thought of their project, Amy looked confused--said she did not know--she believed it would not do. But just then in came her mother, to say she had been considering of the expedition, and meant to join it herself. Amy understood, blushed, and was silently grateful.

When Laura wanted to alter her demeanour towards Guy, being perfectly cool, and not in the least conscious, she had acted with great judgment, seen exactly what to do, and what to leave undone, so as to keep up appearances. But it was not so with Amy. She was afraid of herself, and was in extremes. She would not come down till the last moment, that there might be no talking in the window. She hardly spoke at breakfast-time, and adhered closely to Laura and Eveleen when they wandered in the garden. Presently Charles looked out from the dressing-room window, calling,--

'Amy, Guy is ready to read.'

'I can't come. Read without me,' she answered, hoping Charlie would not be vexed, and feeling her face light up again.

The hour for the expedition came, and Amy set off walking with Laura, because Guy was with Mrs. Edmonstone; but presently, after holding open a gate for Charlotte, who was on the donkey, he came up to the sisters, and joined in the conversation. Amy saw something in the hedge--a foxglove, she believed--it would have done as well if it had been a nettle--she stopped to gather it, hoping to fall behind them, but they waited for her. She grew silent, but Guy appealed to her. She ran on to Charlotte and her donkey, but at the next gate Guy had joined company again. At last she put herself under her mother's wing, and by keeping with her did pretty well all the time she was at East-hill. But when they went on, she was riding the donkey, and it, as donkeys always are, was resolved on keeping a-head of the walkers, so that as Guy kept by her side, it was a more absolute tete-a-tete than ever.

At the top of the hill they found a fine view, rich and extensive, broad woods, fields waving with silvery barley, trim meadows, fair hazy blue distance, and a dim line of sea beyond. This, as Amy knew, was Guy's delight, and further, what she would not tell herself, was that he chiefly cared for showing it to her. It was so natural to call him to admire everything beautiful, and ask if it was equal to Redclyffe, that she found herself already turning to him to participate in his pleasure, as he pointed out all that was to be seen; but she recollected, blushed, and left her mother to speak. He had much to show. There was a hanging wood on one side of the hill, whence he had brought her more than one botanical prize, and she must now visit their native haunts. It was too great a scramble for Mrs. Edmonstone, with all her good will; Eveleen was to be kept still, and not to tire herself; Laura did not care for botany, nor love brambles, and Amy was obliged to stand and look into the wood, saying, 'No, thank you, I don't think I can,' and then run back to Mary and Charles; while Charlotte was loudly calling out that it was delightful fun, and that she was very stupid. In another minute Guy had overtaken her, and in his gentle, persuasive voice, was telling her it was very easy, and she must come and see the bird's-nest orchises. She would have liked it above all things, but she thought it very kind of Guy not to seem angry when she said, 'No, thank you.'

Mary, after what she had seen yesterday, could not guess at the real reason, or she would have come with her; but she thought Amy was tired, and would rather not. Poor Amy was tired, very tired, before the walk was over, but her weary looks made it worse, for Guy offered her his arm. 'No thank you,' she said, 'I am getting on very well;' and she trudged on resolutely, for her mother was in the carriage, and to lag behind the others would surely make him keep with her.

Mrs. Edmonstone was very sorry for her fatigue, but Amy found it a good excuse for not wandering in the garden, or joining in the music. It had been a very uncomfortable day; she hoped she had done right; at any rate, she had the peaceful conviction of having tried to do so.

The next day, Amy was steady to her resolution. No reading with the two youths, though Charles scolded her; sitting in her room till Guy was gone out, going indoors as soon as she heard him return, and in the evening staying with Charles when her sisters and cousins went out; but this did not answer, for Guy came and sat by them. She moved away as soon as possible, but the more inclined she was to linger, the more she thought she ought to go; so murmuring something about looking for Laura, she threw on her scarf, and sprung to the window. Her muslin caught on the bolt, she turned, Guy was already disentangling it, and she met his eye. It was full of anxious, pleading inquiry, which to her seemed upbraiding, and, not knowing what to do, she exclaimed, hurriedly, 'Thank you; no harm done!' and darted into the garden, frightened to feel her face glowing and her heart throbbing. She could not help looking back to see if he was following. No, he was not attempting it; he was leaning against the window, and on she hastened, the perception dawning on her that she was hurting him; he might think her rude, unkind, capricious, he who had always been so kind to her, and when he was going away so soon. 'But it is right; it must be done,' said little Amy to herself, standing still, now that she was out of sight. 'If I was wrong before, I must bear it now, and he will see the rights of it sooner or later. The worst of all would be my not doing the very most right to please any body. Besides he can't really care for missing silly little Amy when he has mamma and Charlie. And he is going away, so it will be easier to begin right when he comes back. Be that as it may, it must be done. I'll get Charlie to tell me what he was saying about the painted glass.'

CHAPTER 13

Oh, thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands--life hath snares--

Care and age come unawares.

Like the swell of some sweet tune,

Morning rises into noon,

May glides onward into June.--Longfellow

'What is the matter with Amy? What makes her so odd?' asked Charles, as his mother came to wish him good night.

'Poor little dear! don't take any notice,' was all the answer he received; and seeing that he was to be told no more, he held his peace.

Laura understood without being told. She, too, had thought Guy and Amy were a great deal together, and combining various observations, she perceived that her mother must have given Amy a caution. She therefore set herself, like a good sister, to shelter Amy as much as she could, save her from awkward situations, and, above all, to prevent her altered manner from being remarked. This was the less difficult, as Eveleen was subdued and languid, and more inclined to lie on the sofa and read than to look out for mirth.

As to poor little Amy, her task was in one way become less hard, for Guy had ceased to haunt her, and seemed to make it his business to avoid all that could cause her embarrassment; but in another way it hurt her much more, for she now saw the pain she was causing. If obliged to do anything for her, he would give a look as if to ask pardon, and then her rebellious heart would so throb with joy as to cause her dismay at having let herself fall into so hateful a habit as wishing to attract attention. What a struggle it was not to obey the impulse of turning to him for the smile with which he would greet anything in conversation that interested them both, and how wrong she thought it not to be more consoled when she saw him talking to Eveleen, or to any of the others, as if he was doing very well without her. This did not often happen; he was evidently out of spirits, and thoughtful, and Amy was afraid some storm might be gathering respecting Mr. Sebastian Dixon, about whom there always seemed to be some uncomfortable mystery.

Mrs. Edmonstone saw everything, and said nothing. She was very sorry for them both, but she could not interfere, and could only hope she had done right, and protected Amy as far as she was able. She was vexed now and then to see Eveleen give knowing smiles and significant glances, feared that she guessed what was going on, and wondered whether to give her a hint not to add to Amy's confusion; but her great dislike to enter on such a subject prevailed, and she left things to take their course, thinking that, for once, Guy's departure would be a relief.

The approach of anything in the shape of a party of pleasure was one of the best cures for Eveleen's ailments, and the evening before Mary's tea-drinking, she was in high spirits, laughing and talking a great deal, and addressing herself chiefly to Guy. He exerted himself to answer, but it did not come with life and spirit, his countenance did not light up, and at last Eveleen said, 'Ah! I see I am a dreadful bore. I'll go away, and leave you to repose.'

'Lady Eveleen!' he exclaimed, in consternation; 'what have I been doing--what have I been thinking of?'

'Nay, that is best known to yourself, though I think perhaps I could divine,' said she, with that archness and grace that always seemed to remove the unfavourable impression that her proceedings might have given. 'Shall I?'

'No, no,' he answered, colouring crimson, and then trying to laugh off his confusion, and find some answer, but without success; and Eveleen, perceiving her aunt's eyes were upon her, suddenly recollected that she had gone quite as far as decorum allowed, and made as masterly a retreat as the circumstances permitted.

'Well, I have always thought a "penny for your thoughts" the boldest offer in the world, and now it is proved.'

This scene made Mrs. Edmonstone doubly annoyed, the next morning, at waking with a disabling headache, which made it quite impossible for her to attempt going to Mary Ross's fete. With great sincerity, Amy entreated to be allowed to remain at home, but she thought it would only be making the change more remarkable; she did not wish Mary to be disappointed; among so many ladies, Amy could easily avoid getting into difficulties; while Laura would, she trusted, be able to keep Eveleen in order.

The day was sunny, and all went off to admiration. The gentlemen presided over the cricket, and the ladies over 'blind man's buff' and 'thread my needle;' but perhaps Mary was a little disappointed that, though she had Sir Guy's bodily presence, the peculiar blitheness and animation which he usually shed around him were missing. He sung at church, he filled tiny cups from huge pitchers of tea, he picked up and pacified a screaming child that had tumbled off a gate--he was as good- natured and useful as possible, but he was not his joyous and brilliant self.

Amy devoted herself to the smallest fry, played assiduously for three quarters of an hour with a fat, grave boy of three, who stood about a yard-and-a-half from her, solemnly throwing a ball into her lap, and never catching it again, took charge of many caps and bonnets, and walked about with Louisa Harper, a companion whom no one envied her.

In conclusion, the sky clouded over, it became chilly, and a shower began to fall. Laura pursued Eveleen, and Amy hunted up Charlotte from the utmost parts of the field, where she was the very centre of 'winding up the clock,' and sorely against her will, dragged her off the wet grass. About sixty yards from the house, Guy met them with an umbrella, which, without speaking, he gave to Charlotte. Amy said, 'Thank you,' and again came that look. Charlotte rattled on, and hung back to talk to Guy, so that Amy could not hasten on without leaving her shelterless. It may be believed that she had the conversation to herself. At the door they met Mary and her father, going to dismiss their flock, who had taken refuge in a cart-shed at the other end of the field. Guy asked if he could be of any use; Mr. Ross said no, and Mary begged Amy and Charlotte to go up to her room, and change their wet shoes.

There, Amy would fain have stayed, flushed and agitated as those looks made her; but Charlotte was in wild spirits, delighted at having been caught in the rain, and obliged to wear shoes a mile too large, and eager to go and share the fun in the drawing-room. There, in the twilight, they found a mass of young ladies herded together, making a confused sound of laughter, and giggling, while at the other end of the room, Amy could just see Guy sitting alone in a dark corner.

Charlotte's tongue was soon the loudest in the medley, to which Amy did not at first attend, till she heard Charlotte saying--

'Ah! you should hear Guy sing that.'

'What?' she whispered to Eveleen.

'"The Land of the Leal,"' was the answer.

'I wish he would sing it now,' said Ellen Harper.

'This darkness would be just the time for music,' said Eveleen; 'it is quite a witching time.'

'Why don't you ask him?' said Ellen. 'Come, Charlotte, there's a good girl, go and ask him.'

'Shall I?' said Charlotte, whispering and giggling with an affectation of shyness.

'No, no, Charlotte,' said Laura.

'No! why not?' said Eveleen. 'Don't be afraid, Charlotte.'

'He is so grave,' said Charlotte.

Eveleen had been growing wilder and less guarded all day, and now, partly liking to tease and surprise the others, and partly emboldened by the darkness, she answered,--

'It will do him all manner of good. Here, Charlotte, I'll tell you how to make him. Tell him Amy wants him to do it.'

'Ay! tell him so,' cried Ellen, and they laughed in a manner that overpowered Amy with horror and shyness. She sprung to seize Charlotte, and stop her; she could not speak, but Louisa Harper caught her arm, and Laura's grave orders were drowned in a universal titter, and suppressed exclamation,--'Go, Charlotte, go; we will never forgive you if you don't!'

'Stop!' Amy struggled to cry, breaking from Louisa, and springing up in a sort of agony. Guy, who had such a horror of singing anything deep in pathos or religious feeling to mixed or unfit auditors, asked to do so in her name! 'Stop! oh, Charlotte!' It was too late; Charlotte, thoughtless with merriment, amused at vexing Laura, set up with applause, and confident in Guy's good nature, had come to him, and was saying,--'Oh, Guy! Amy wants you to come and sing us the "Land of the Leal."'

Amy saw him start up. What, did he think of her? Oh, what! He stepped towards them. The silly girls cowered as if they had roused a lion. His voice was not loud--it was almost as gentle as usual; but it quivered, as if it was hard to keep it so, and, as well as she could see, his face was rigid and stern as iron. 'Did you wish it?' he said, addressing himself to her, as if she was the only person present.

Her breath was almost gone. 'Oh! I beg your pardon,' she faltered. She could not exculpate herself, she saw it looked like an idle, almost like an indecorous trick, unkind, everything abhorrent to her and to him, especially in the present state of things. His eyes were on her, his head bent towards her; he waited for an answer. 'I beg your pardon,' was all she could say.

There was--yes, there was--one of those fearful flashes of his kindling eye. She felt as if she was shrinking to nothing; she heard him say, in a low, hoarse tone, 'I am afraid I cannot;' then Mr. Ross, Mary, lights came in; there was a bustle and confusion, and when next she was clearly conscious, Laura was ordering the carriage.

When it came, there was an inquiry for Sir Guy.

'He is gone home,' said Mr. Ross. 'I met him in the passage, and wished him good night.'

Mr. Ross did not add what he afterwards told his daughter, that Guy seemed not to know whether it was raining or not; that he had put an umbrella into his hand, and seen him march off at full speed, through the pouring rain, with it under his arm.

The ladies entered the carriage. Amy leant back in her corner, Laura forbore to scold either Eveleen or Charlotte till she could have them separately; Eveleen was silent, because she was dismayed at the effect she had produced, and Charlotte, because she knew there was a scolding impending over her.

They found no one in the drawing-room but Mr. Edmonstone and Charles, who said they had heard the door open, and Guy run up-stairs, but they supposed he was wet through, as he had not made his appearance. It was very inhospitable in the girls not to have made room for him in the carriage.