The Two Guardians | Page 6

the opening of the moor.
It was a great achievement for Marian, for even Edmund had only once
been this way before when out shooting. She would fain have mounted
to the top of a peak which bounded her view, but being assured that she
would only find Alps on Alps arise, she submitted to Edmund's
judgment, and consented to retrace her steps, through wood and wild,
to Mrs. Cornthwayte's, where they found a feast prepared for them of
saffron buns, Devonshire cream, and cyder. Then mounting their steeds,
and releasing Ranger from durance in the stable, they rode homewards
for about three miles, when they entered the village in the valley at the
foot of the steep rocky hill, from which it was named Fern Torr.

Excepting the bare rugged summit, this hill was well covered with
wood, and opposite to it rose more gently another elevation, divided
into fields and meadows. The little old Church, with its square tower,
and the neat vicarage beside it, were the only buildings above the rank
of cottages, of which some twenty stood irregularly ranged in their
gardens and orchards, along the banks of the bright little stream which
bounded the road, at present scarcely large enough to afford swimming
space for the numerous ducks that paddled in it; but the width of its
stony bed, and the large span of the one-arched bridge that traversed it,
showing what was its breadth and strength in the winter floods.
A little beyond this bridge was a wicket gate, leading to a path up the
wooded height; and Edmund at this moment seeing a boy in a stable
jacket, asked Marian if he should not let him lead the ponies round by
the drive, while they walked up the steps. She readily agreed, and
Edmund helping her to dismount, they took their way up the path,
which after a very short interval led to a steep flight of steps, cut out in
the face of the limestone rock, and ascending through ferns,
mountain-ash, and rhododendrons for about fifty or sixty feet, when it
was concluded by what might be called either a broad terrace or narrow
lawn, upon which stood a house irregularly built of the rough stone of
the country, and covered with luxuriant myrtles and magnolias.
Immediately behind, the ground again rose so precipitously, that
scarcely could coign of vantage be won for the garden, on a succession
of narrow shelves or ledges, which had a peculiarly beautiful effect,
adorned, as they were, with gay flowers, and looking, as Edmund was
wont to say, as gorgeous and as deficient in perspective as an old piece
of tapestry.
"There is papa out of doors," exclaimed Marian, as she emerged upon
the lawn, and ran eagerly up to a Bath chair, in which was seated a
gentleman whose face and form showed too certain tokens of long and
wasting illness. He held out his hand to her, saying, "Well, Marian,
good sport, I hope, and no more tumbles from Mayflower."
"Marian sits like a heroine," said Edmund, coming up; "I am glad to see
you out."

"It is such a fine evening that I was tempted to come and see the
magnolia that you have all been boasting of: and really it is worth
seeing. Those white blossoms are magnificent."
"But where is mamma?" asked Marian.
"Carried off by Gerald, to say whether he may have a superannuated
sea kale pot for some purpose best known to himself, in his desert
island. They will be here again in another minute. There, thank you,
Edmund, that is enough," he added, as his nephew drew his chair out of
a streak of sunshine which had just come over him. "Now, how far
have you been? I hope you have seen the cascade, Marian?"
"O yes, papa, and scrambled up the side of it too. I had no idea of any
thing so beautiful," said Marian. "The spray was so white and glancing.
Oh! I wish I could tell you one half of the beauty of it."
"I remember well the delight of the first discovery of it," said Sir
Edmund, "when I was a mere boy, and found my way there by chance,
as I was shooting. I came up the glen, and suddenly found myself in the
midst of this beautiful glade, with the waterfall glancing white in the
sun."
"I wish we could transplant it," said Edmund; "but after all, perhaps its
being so remote and inaccessible is one of its great charms. Ah! young
monkey, is it you?" added he, as Gerald, a merry bright-eyed boy of
seven years old, came rushing from behind and commenced a romping
attack upon him. "Take care, not such a disturbance close to papa."
"O mamma, we have had