The Heir of Redclyffe | Page 4

very like, only the spire is too slender, and that
tree--can't you alter the foliage?--it is an ash.'
'Is it? I took it for an elm.'
'And surely those trees in the foreground should be greener, to throw
back the middle distance. That is the peak of South Moor exactly, if it
looked further off.'
She began the alterations, while Philip stood watching her progress, a
shade of melancholy gathering on his face. Suddenly, a voice called
'Laura! Are you there? Open the door, and you will see.'
On Philip's opening it, in came a tall camellia; the laughing face, and
light, shining curls of the bearer peeping through the dark green leaves.
'Thank you! Oh, is it you, Philip? Oh, don't take it. I must bring my

own camellia to show Charlie.'
'You make the most of that one flower,' said Charles.
'Only see how many buds!' and she placed it by his sofa. Is it not a
perfect blossom, so pure a white, and so regular! And I am so proud of
having beaten mamma and all the gardeners, for not another will be out
this fortnight; and this is to go to the horticultural show. Sam would
hardly trust me to bring it in, though it was my nursing, not his.'
'Now, Amy,' said Philip, when the flower had been duly admired, 'you
must let me put it into the window, for you. It is too heavy for you.'
'Oh, take care,' cried Amabel, but too late; for, as he took it from her,
the solitary flower struck against Charles's little table, and was broken
off.
'0 Amy, I am very sorry. What a pity! How did it happen?'
'Never mind,' she answered; 'it will last a long time in water.'
'It was very unlucky--I am very sorry--especially because of the
horticultural show.'
'Make all your apologies to Sam,' said Amy, 'his feelings will be more
hurt than mine. I dare say my poor flower would have caught cold at
the show, and never held up its head again.'
Her tone was gay; but Charles, who saw her face in the glass, betrayed
her by saying, 'Winking away a tear, 0 Amy!'
'I never nursed a dear gazelle!' quoted Amy, with a merry laugh; and
before any more could be said, there entered a middle-aged gentleman,
short and slight, with a fresh, weather-beaten, good-natured face, gray
whiskers, quick eyes, and a hasty, undecided air in look and movement.
He greeted Philip heartily, and the letter was given to him.
'Ha! Eh? Let us look. Not old Sir Guy's hand. Eh? What can be the
matter? What? Dead! This is a sudden thing.'
'Dead! Who? Sir Guy Morville?'
'Yes, quite suddenly--poor old man.' Then stepping to the door, he
opened it, and called, 'Mamma; just step here a minute, will you,
mamma?'
The summons was obeyed by a tall, handsome lady, and behind her
crept, with doubtful steps, as if she knew not how far to venture, a little
girl of eleven, her turned-up nose and shrewd face full of curiosity. She
darted up to Amabel; who, though she shook her head, and held up her
finger, smiled, and took the little girl's hand, listening meanwhile to the

announcement, 'Do you hear this, mamma? Here's a shocking thing! Sir
Guy Morville dead, quite suddenly.'
'Indeed! Well, poor man, I suppose no one ever repented or suffered
more than he. Who writes?'
'His grandson--poor boy! I can hardly make out his letter.' Holding it
half a yard from his eyes, so that all could see a few lines of hasty,
irregular writing, in a forcible hand, bearing marks of having been
penned under great distress and agitation, he read aloud:-
'"DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--
My dear grandfather died at six this morning. He had an attack of
apoplexy yesterday evening, and never spoke again, though for a short
time he knew me. We hope he suffered little. Markham will make all
arrangements. We propose that the funeral should take place on
Tuesday; I hope you will be able to come. I would write to my cousin,
Philip Morville, if I knew his address; but I depend on you for saying
all that ought to be said. Excuse this illegible letter,--I hardly know
what I write.
'"Yours, very sincerely, '"Guy Morville.'"
'Poor fellow!' said Philip, 'he writes with a great deal of proper feeling.'
'How very sad for him to be left alone there!' said Mrs. Edmonstone.
'Very sad--very,' said her husband. 'I must start off to him at once-- yes,
at once. Should you not say so--eh, Philip?'
'Certainly. I think I had better go with you. It would be the correct thing,
and I should not like to fail in any token of respect for poor old Sir
Guy.'
'Of course--of