The Heir of Redclyffe. Charlotte M. Yonge

The Heir of Redclyffe - Charlotte M. Yonge


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       Charlotte M. Yonge

      The Heir of Redclyffe

      e-artnow, 2020

       Contact: [email protected]

      EAN 4064066060442

       CHAPTER 1

       CHAPTER 2

       CHAPTER 3

       CHAPTER 4

       CHAPTER 5

       CHAPTER 6

       CHAPTER 7

       CHAPTER 8

       CHAPTER 9

       CHAPTER 10

       CHAPTER 11

       CHAPTER 12

       CHAPTER 13

       CHAPTER 14

       CHAPTER 15

       CHAPTER 16

       CHAPTER 17

       CHAPTER 18

       CHAPTER 19

       CHAPTER 20

       CHAPTER 21

       CHAPTER 22

       CHAPTER 23

       CHAPTER 24

       CHAPTER 25

       CHAPTER 26

       CHAPTER 27

       CHAPTER 28

       CHAPTER 29

       CHAPTER 30

       CHAPTER 31

       CHAPTER 32

       CHAPTER 33

       CHAPTER 34

       CHAPTER 35

       CHAPTER 36

       CHAPTER 37

       CHAPTER 38

       CHAPTER 39

       CHAPTER 40

       CHAPTER 41

       CHAPTER 42

       CHAPTER 43

       CHAPTER 44

       Table of Contents

      In such pursuits if wisdom lies,

       Who, Laura, can thy taste despise?

      —GAY

      The drawing-room of Hollywell House was one of the favoured apartments, where a peculiar air of home seems to reside, whether seen in the middle of summer, all its large windows open to the garden, or, as when our story commences, its bright fire and stands of fragrant green-house plants contrasted with the wintry fog and leafless trees of November. There were two persons in the room—a young lady, who sat drawing at the round table, and a youth, lying on a couch near the fire, surrounded with books and newspapers, and a pair of crutches near him. Both looked up with a smile of welcome at the entrance of a tall, fine-looking young man, whom each greeted with ‘Good morning, Philip.’

      ‘Good morning, Laura. Good morning, Charles; I am glad you are downstairs again! How are you to-day?’

      ‘No way remarkable, thank you,’ was the answer, somewhat wearily given by Charles.

      ‘You walked?’ said Laura.

      ‘Yes. Where’s my uncle? I called at the post-office, and brought a letter for him. It has the Moorworth post-mark,’ he added, producing it.

      ‘Where’s that?’ said Charles.

      ‘The post-town to Redclyffe; Sir Guy Morville’s place.’

      ‘That old Sir Guy! What can he have to do with my father?’

      ‘Did you not know,’ said Philip, ‘that my uncle is to be guardian to the boy—his grandson?’

      ‘Eh? No, I did not.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Philip; ‘when old Sir Guy made it an especial point that my father should take the guardianship, he only consented on condition that my uncle should be joined with him; so now my uncle is alone in the trust, and I cannot help thinking something must have happened at Redclyffe. It is certainly not Sir Guy’s writing.’

      ‘It must wait, unless your curiosity will carry you out in search of papa,’ said Charles; ‘he is somewhere about, zealously supplying the place of Jenkins.’

      ‘Really, Philip,’ said Laura, ‘there is no telling how much good you have done him by convincing him of Jenkins’ dishonesty. To say


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