The Heir of Redclyffe. Charlotte M. Yonge
Charles. Here, for the first time, it appeared that Charles had so entirely ceased to consider him as company, as to domineer over him like his own family.
Used as Guy had been to an active out-of-doors life, and now turned back to authors he had read long ago, to fight his way through the construction of their language, not excusing himself one jot of the difficulty, nor turning aside from one mountain over which his own efforts could carry him, he found his work as tough and tedious as he could wish or fear, and by the end of the morning was thoroughly fagged. Then would have been the refreshing time for recreation in that pleasant idling-place, the Hollywell drawing-room. Any other time of day would have suited Charles as well for the reading, but he liked to take the hour at noon, and never perceived that this made all the difference to his friend of a toil or a pleasure. Now and then Guy gave tremendous yawns; and once when Charles told him he was very stupid, proposed a different time; but as Charles objected, he yielded as submissively as the rest of the household were accustomed to do.
To watch Guy was one of Charles’s chief amusements, and he rejoiced greatly in the prospect of hearing his history of his first dinner-party. Mr., Mrs. and Miss Edmonstone, and Sir Guy Morville, were invited to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow. Mr. Edmonstone was delighted as usual with any opportunity of seeing his neighbours; Guy looked as if he did not know whether he liked the notion or not; Laura told him it would be very absurd and stupid, but there would be some good music, and Charles ordered her to say no more, that he might have the account, the next morning, from a fresh and unprejudiced mind.
The next morning’s question was, of course, ‘How did you like your party?’
‘O, it was great fun.’ Guy’s favourite answer was caught up in the midst, as Laura replied, ‘It was just what parties always are.’
‘Come, let us have the history. Who handed who in to dinner? I hope Guy had Mrs. Brownlow.’
‘Oh no,’ said Laura; we had both the honourables.’
‘Not Philip!’
‘No,’ said Guy; ‘the fidus Achetes was without his pious Aeneas.’
‘Very good, Guy,’ said Charles, enjoying the laugh.
‘I could not help thinking of it,’ said Guy, rather apologising, ‘when I was watching Thorndale’s manner; it is such an imitation of Philip; looking droller, I think, in his absence, than in his presence. I wonder if he is conscious of it.’
‘It does not suit him at all,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; because he has no natural dignity.’
‘A man ought to be six foot one, person and mind, to suit with that grand, sedate, gracious way of Philip’s,’ said Guy.
‘There’s Guy’s measure of Philip’s intellect,’ said Charles, ‘just six foot one inch.’
‘As much more than other people’s twice his height,’ said Guy.
‘Who was your neighbour, Laura?’ asked Amy.
‘Dr. Mayerne; I was very glad of him, to keep off those hunting friends of Mr. Brownlow, who never ask anything but if one has been to the races, and if one likes balls.’
‘And how did Mrs. Brownlow behave?’ said Charles.
‘She is a wonderful woman,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, in her quiet way; and Guy with an expression between drollery and simplicity, said, ‘Then there aren’t many like her.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘Is she really a lady?’
‘Philip commonly calls her “that woman,” ’ said Charles. ‘He has never got over her one night classing him with his “young man” and myself, as three of the shyest monkeys she ever came across.’
‘She won’t say so of Maurice,’ said Laura, as they recovered the laugh.
‘I heard her deluding some young lady by saying he was the eldest son,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘Mamma!’ cried Amy, ‘could she have thought so?’
‘I put in a gentle hint on Lord de Courcy’s existence, to which she answered, in her quick way, ‘O ay, I forgot; but then he is the second, and that’s the next thing.’
‘If you could but have heard the stories she and Maurice were telling each other!’ said Guy. ‘He was playing her off, I believe; for whatever she told, he capped it with something more wonderful. Is she really a lady?’
‘By birth,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. It is only her high spirits and small judgment that make her so absurd.’
‘How loud she is, too!’ said Laura. ‘What was all that about horses, Guy?’
‘She was saying she drove two such spirited horses, that all the grooms were afraid of them; and when she wanted to take out her little boy, Mr. Brownlow said “You may do as you like my dear, but I won’t have my son’s neck broken, whatever you do with your own.” So Maurice answered by declaring he knew a lady who drove not two, but four-in-hand, and when the leaders turned round and looked her in the face, gave a little nod, and said, ‘I’m obliged for your civility.’
‘Oh! I wish I had heard that,’ cried Laura.
‘Did you hear her saying she smoked cigars?’
Everyone cried out with horror or laughter.
‘Of course, Maurice told a story of a lady who had a cigar case hanging at her chatelaine, and always took one to refresh her after a ball.’
Guy was interrupted by the announcement of his horse, and rode off at once to Mr. Lascelles.
On his return he went straight to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Edmonstone was reading to Charles, and abruptly exclaimed—
‘I told you wrong. She only said she had smoked one cigar.’ Then perceiving that he was interrupting, he added, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and went away.
The next evening, on coming in from a solitary skating, he found the younger party in the drawing-room, Charles entertaining the Miss Harpers with the story of the cigars. He hastily interposed—
‘I told you it was but one.’
‘Ay, tried one, and went on. She was preparing an order for Havannah.’
‘I thought I told you I repeated the conversation incorrectly.’
‘If it is not the letter, it is the spirit,’ said Charles, vexed at the interference with his sport of amazing the Miss Harpers with outrageous stories of Mrs. Brownlow.
‘It is just like her,’ said one of them. ‘I could believe anything of Mrs. Brownlow.’
‘You must not believe this,’ said Guy, gently. ‘I repeated incorrectly what had better have been forgotten, and I must beg my foolish exaggeration to go no further.’
Charles became sullenly silent; Guy stood thoughtful; and Laura and Amabel could not easily sustain the conversation till the visitors took their leave.
‘Here’s a pother!’ grumbled Charles, as soon as they were gone.
‘I beg your pardon for spoiling your story,’ said Guy; but it was my fault, so I was obliged to interfere.’
‘Bosh!’ said Charles. ‘Who cares whether she smoked one or twenty? She is Mrs. Brownlow still.’
The point is, what was truth?’ said Laura.
‘Straining at gnats,’ said Charles.
‘Little wings?’ said Guy, glancing at Amabel.
‘Have it your won way,’ said Charles, throwing his head back; ‘they must be little souls, indeed that stick at such trash.’
Guy’s brows were contracted