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. O 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. O 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
