The Heir of Redclyffe (Historical Novel). Charlotte M. Yonge

CHAPTER 1

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      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