style="font-size:15px;"> ‘He is so attentive to Charlie,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, going into the drawing-room to her son.
‘Papa says he will make up for the faults of all his ancestors,’ said Amabel.
‘His music! oh, his music!’ said Laura.
‘Philip,’ said Charlotte, earnestly, ‘you really should learn to like him.’
‘Learn, impertinent little puss?’ said Philip, smiling, ‘why should I not like him?’
‘I was sure you would try,’ said Charlotte, impressively.
‘Is it hard?’ said Amy. ‘But, oh, Philip! you could not help liking his singing.’
‘I never heard such a splendid voice,’ said Laura; ‘so clear and powerful, and yet so wonderfully sweet in the low soft notes. And a very fine ear: he has a real talent for music.’
‘Ah! inherited, poor fellow,’ said Philip, compassionately.
‘Do you pity him for it?’ said Amy, smiling.
‘Do you forget?’ said Philip. ‘I would not advise you to make much of this talent in public; it is too much a badge of his descent.’
‘Mamma did not think so,’ said Amy. ‘She thought it a pity he should not learn regularly, with such a talent; so the other day, when Mr. Radford was giving us a lesson, she asked Guy just to sing up and down the scale. I never saw anything so funny as old Mr Radford’s surprise, it was almost like the music lesson in “La Figlia del Reggimento”; he started, and looked at Guy, and seemed in a perfect transport, and now Guy is to take regular lessons.
‘Indeed.’
‘But do you really mean,’ said Laura, ‘that if your mother had been a musician’s daughter, and you had inherited her talent, that you would be ashamed of it.’
‘Indeed, Laura,’ said Philip, with a smile, ‘I am equally far from guessing what I should do if my mother had been anything but what she was, as from guessing what I should do if I had a talent for music.’
Mrs. Edmonstone here called her daughters to get ready for their walk, as she intended to go to East-hill, and they might as well walk with Philip as far as their roads lay together.
Philip and Laura walked on by themselves, a little in advance of the others. Laura was very anxious to arrive at a right understanding of her cousin’s opinion of Guy.
‘I am sure there is much to like in him,’ she said.
‘There is; but is it the highest praise to say there is much to like? People are not so cautious when they accept a man in toto.’
‘Then, do you not?’
Philip’s answer was—
‘He who the lion’s whelp has nurst,
At home with fostering hand,
Finds it a gentle thing at first,
Obedient to command,’
‘Do you think him a lion’s whelp?’
‘I am afraid I saw the lion just now in his flashing eyes and contracted brow. There is an impatience of advice, a vehemence of manner that I can hardly deem satisfactory. I do not speak from prejudice, for I think highly of his candour, warmth of heart, and desire to do right; but from all I have seen, I should not venture as yet to place much dependence on his steadiness of character or command of temper.’
‘He seems to have been very fond of his grandfather, in spite of his severity. He is but just beginning to brighten up a little.’
‘Yes; his disposition is very affectionate,—almost a misfortune to one so isolated from family ties. He showed remarkably well at Redclyffe, the other day; boyish of course, and without much self-command, but very amiably. It is very well for him that he is removed from thence, for all the people idolize him to such a degree that they could not fail to spoil him.’
‘It would be a great pity if he went wrong.’
‘Great, for he has many admirable qualities, but still they are just what persons are too apt to fancy compensation for faults. I never heard that any of his family, except perhaps that unhappy old Hugh, were deficient in frankness and generosity, and therefore these do not satisfy me. Observe, I am not condemning him; I wish to be perfectly just; all I say is, that I do not trust him till I have seen him tried.’
Laura did not answer, she was disappointed; yet there was a justice and guardedness in what Philip said, that made it impossible to gainsay it, and she was pleased with his confidence. She thought how cool and prudent he was, and how grieved she should be if Guy justified his doubts; and so they walked on in such silence as is perhaps the strongest proof of intimacy. She was the first to speak, led to do so by an expression of sadness about her cousin’s mouth. ‘What are you thinking of, Philip?’
‘Of Locksley Hall. There is nonsense, there is affectation in that, Laura, there is scarcely poetry, but there is power, for there is truth.’
‘Of Locksley Hall! I thought you were at Stylehurst.’
‘So I was, but the one brings the other.’
‘I suppose you went to Stylehurst while you were at St. Mildred’s? Did Margaret take you there?’
‘Margaret? Not she; she is too much engaged with her book-club, and her soirées, and her societies of every sort and kind.’
‘How did you get on with the Doctor?’
‘I saw as little of him as I could, and was still more convinced that he does not know what conversation is. Hem!’ Philip gave a deep sigh. ‘No; the only thing to be done at St. Mildred’s is to walk across the moors to Stylehurst. It is a strange thing to leave that tumult of gossip, and novelty, and hardness, and to enter on that quiet autumnal old world, with the yellow leaves floating silently down, just as they used to do, and the atmosphere of stillness round the green churchyard.’
‘Gossip!’ repeated Laura.’ Surely not with Margaret?’
‘Literary, scientific gossip is worse than gossip in a primary sense, without pretension.’
‘I am glad you had Stylehurst to go to. How was the old sexton’s wife?’
‘Very well; trotting about on her pattens as merrily as ever.’
‘Did you go into the garden?’
‘Yes; Fanny’s ivy has entirely covered the south wall, and the acacia is so tall and spreading, that I longed to have the pruning of it. Old Will keeps everything in its former state.’
They talked on of the old home, till the stern bitter look of regret and censure had faded from his brow, and given way to a softened melancholy expression.
CHAPTER 4
A fig for all dactyls, a fig for all spondees,
A fig for all dunces and dominie
