what would I not give to have those restraints restored!'
'It is what we all feel in such losses,' said Mrs. Edmonstone. 'There is always much to wish otherwise; but I am sure you can have the happiness of knowing you were his great comfort.'
'It was what I ought to have been.'
She knew that nothing could have been more filial and affectionate than his conduct, and tried to say something of the kind, but he would not listen.
'That is worst of all,' he said; 'and you must not trust what they say of me. They would be sure to praise me, if I was anything short of a brute.'
A silence ensued, while Mrs. Edmonstone was trying to think of some consolation. Suddenly Guy looked up, and spoke eagerly:-
'I want to ask something--a great favour--but you make me venture. You see how I am left alone--you know how little I can trust myself. Will you take me in hand--let me talk to you--and tell me if I am wrong, as freely as if I were Charles? I know it is asking a great deal, but you knew my grandfather, and it is in his name.'
She held out her hand; and with tears answered--
'Indeed I will, if I see any occasion.'
'You will let me trust to you to tell me when I get too vehement? above all, when you see my temper failing? Thank you; you don't know what a relief it is!'
'But you must not call yourself alone. You are one of us now.'
'Yes; since you have made that promise,' said Guy; and for the first time she saw the full beauty of his smile--a sort of sweetness and radiance of which eye and brow partook almost as much as the lips. It alone would have gained her heart.
'I must look on you as a kind of nephew,' she added, kindly. 'I used to hear so much of you from my brother.'
'Oh!' cried Guy, lighting up, 'Archdeacon Morville was always so kind to me. I remember him very well!'
'Ah! I wish--' there she paused, and added,-- tête-à-tête 'it is not right to wish such things--and Philip is very like his father.'
'I am very glad his regiment is so near. I want to know him better.'
'You knew him at Redclyffe, when he was staying there?'
'Yes,' said Guy, his colour rising; 'but I was a boy then, and a very foolish, headstrong one. I am glad to meet him again. What a grand- looking person he is!'
'We are very proud of him,' said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling. 'I don't think there has been an hour's anxiety about him since he was born.'
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of Charles's crutches slowly crossing the hall. Guy sprang to help him to his sofa, and then, without speaking, hurried up-stairs.
'Mamma, tete-a-tete with the silent one!' exclaimed Charles.
'I will not tell you all I think of him,' said she, leaving the room.
'Hum!' soliloquised Charles. 'That means that my lady mother has adopted him, and thinks I should laugh at her, or straightway set up a dislike to him, knowing my contempt for heroes and hero-worship. It's a treat to have Philip out of the way, and if it was but possible to get out of hearing of his perfection, I should have some peace. If I thought this fellow had one spice of the kind, I'd never trouble my head about him more; and yet I don't believe he has such a pair of hawk's eyes for nothing!'
The hawk's eyes, as Charles called them, shone brighter from that day forth, and their owner began to show more interest in what passed around. Laura was much amused by a little conversation she held with him one day when a party of their younger neighbours were laughing and talking nonsense round Charles's sofa. He was sitting a little way off in silence, and she took advantage of the loud laughing to say:
'You think this is not very satisfactory?' And as he gave a quick glance of inquiry --'Don't mind saying so. Philip and I often agree that it is a pity spend so much time in laughing at nothing--at such nonsense.'
'It is nonsense?'
'Listen--no don't, it is too silly.'
'Nonsense must be an excellent thing if it makes people so happy,' said Guy thoughtfully. 'Look at them; they are like--not a picture--that has no life--but a dream--or, perhaps a scene in a play.'
'Did you never see anything like it?'
'Oh, no! All the morning calls I ever saw were formal, every one stiff, and speaking by rote, or talking politics. How glad I used to be to get on horseback again! But to see these--why, it is like the shepherd's glimpse at the pixies!--as one reads a new book, or watches what one only half understands--a rook's parliament, or a gathering of sea-fowl on the Shag Rock.'
'A rook's parliament?'
'The people at home call it a rook's parliament when a whole cloud of rooks settle on some bare, wide common, and sit there as if they were consulting, not feeding, only stalking about, with drooping wings, and solemn, black cloaks.'
'You have found a flattering simile,' said Laura, 'as you know that rooks never open their mouths without cause.'
Guy had never heard the riddle, but he caught the pun instantly, and the clear merry sound of his hearty laugh surprised Charles, who instantly noted it as another proof that was some life in him.
Indeed, each day began to make it evident that he had, on the whole, rather a superabundance of animation than otherwise. He was quite confidential with Mrs. Edmonstone, on whom he used to lavish, with boyish eagerness, all that interested him, carrying her the passages in books that pleased him, telling her about Redclyffe's affairs, and giving her his letters from Markham, the steward. His head was full of his horse, Deloraine, which was coming to him under the charge of a groom, and the consultations were endless about the means of transport, Mr. Edmonstone almost as eager about it as he was himself.
He did not so quickly become at home with the younger portion of the family, but his spirits rose every day. He whistled as he walked in the garden, and Bustle, instead of pacing soberly behind him, now capered, nibbled his pockets, and drew him into games of play which Charles and Amabel were charmed to overlook from the dressing- room window. There was Guy leaping, bounding, racing, rolling the dog over, tripping him up, twitching his ears, tickling his feet, catching at his tail, laughing at Bustle's springs, contortions, and harmless open- mouthed attacks, while the dog did little less than laugh too, with his intelligent amber eyes, and black and red mouth. Charles began to find a new interest in his listless life in the attempt to draw Guy out, and make him give one of his merry laughs. In this, however, he failed when his wit consisted in allusions to the novels of the day, of which Guy knew nothing. One morning he underwent a regular examination, ending in--
'Have you read anything?'
'I am afraid I am very ignorant of modern books.'
'Have you read the ancient ones?' asked Laura.
'I've had nothing else to read.'
'Nothing to read but ancient books!' exclaimed Amabel, with a mixture of pity and astonishment.
'Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus!' said Guy, smiling.
'There, Amy,' said Charles, 'if he has the Vicar of Wakefield among his ancient books, you need not pity him.'
'It is like Philip,' said Laura; 'he was brought up on the old standard books, instead of his time being frittered away on the host of idle modern ones.'
'He was free to concentrate his attention on Sir Charles Grandison,' said Charles.
'How could any one do so?' said Guy. 'How could any one have any sympathy with such a piece of self- satisfaction?'
'Who could? Eh, Laura?' said Charles.
'I never read it,' said Laura, suspecting malice.
'What is your opinion of perfect heroes?' continued Charles.
'Here comes one,' whispered Amy to her brother, blushing at her piece of naughtiness, as Philip Morville entered the room.
After the first greetings and inquiries after his sister, whom he had been visiting, Laura told him what they had been saying of the advantage of a scanty range of reading.
