The Two Guardians | Page 7

the most delightful day!" cried Marian,
springing to the side of her mother, who now came forward from the
kitchen garden, and whose fair and gentle, but careworn, anxious face,
lighted up with a bright sweet smile, as she observed the glow on her
daughter's usually pale cheek, and the light that danced in her dark
brown eye.
"I'm glad you have had such a pleasant day, my dear," said she. "It is
very kind in Edmund to be troubled with such a wild goose."

"Wild geese are very good things in their way," said Edmund; "water
and land, precipice and moor, 'tis all the same to them."
"And when will you take me, Edmund?" asked Gerald.
"When you have learnt to comport yourself with as much discretion as
Marian, master," said Edmund, sitting down on the grass, and rolling
the kicking, struggling boy over and over, while Marian stood by her
papa, showing him her sketches, and delighted by hearing him
recognize the different spots. "How can you remember them so well,
papa," said she, "when it is so very long since you saw them?"
"That is the very reason," he answered, "we do not so much dwell on
what is constantly before us as when we have long lost sight of it. To
be confined to the house for a few years is an excellent receipt for
appreciating nature."
"Yes, because it must make you wish for it so much," said Marian
sadly.
"Not exactly," said her father. "You cannot guess the pleasure it has
often given me to recall those scenes, and to hear you talk of them; just
as your mamma likes to hear of Oakworthy."
"Certainly," said Lady Arundel. "I have remembered much at poor old
Oakworthy that I never thought of remarking at the time I was there.
Even flaws in the glass, and cracks in the ceiling have returned upon
me, and especially since the house has been pulled down."
"I cannot think how the natives of an old house can wilfully destroy all
their old associations, their heirloooms," said Edmund.
"Sometimes they have none," said his aunt.
"Ay," said Sir Edmund, "when Gerald brings home a fine wife from far
away, see what she will say to all our dark passages and corner
cupboards, and steps up and steps down."

"Oh! I shall not be able to bear her if she does not like them," cried
Marian.
"I suppose that was the case with Mrs. Lyddell," added Sir Edmund,
"that she discovered the deficiencies of the old house, as well as
brought wherewith to remedy them. He does not look like a man given
to change."
"He has no such feeling for association as these people," said Lady
Arundel, pointing to Edmund and Marian; "he felt his position, in the
country raised by her fortune, and was glad to use any means of adding
to his consequence."
"I should like to see more of them. I wish we could ask them to stay
here," said Sir Edmund, with something like a sigh. "But come, had we
not better go in? The hungry fishers look quite ready for tea."
CHAPTER II.
"And now I set thee down to try How thou canst walk alone."
Lyra Innocentium.
Scarcely eight months had passed since the last recorded conversation,
when Marian, in a dress of deep mourning, was slowly pacing the
garden paths, her eyes fixed on the ground, and an expression of
thoughtful sadness on her face. Heavy indeed had been the strokes that
had fallen upon her. Before the last summer had closed, the long
sufferings of her father had been terminated by one of the violent
attacks, which had often been expected to be fatal. Nor was this all that
she had to mourn. With winter had come severe colds and coughs;
Lady Arundel was seized with an inflammation of the chest, her
constitution had been much enfeebled by watching, anxiety, and grief,
and in a very few days her children were orphans.
It was the day following the funeral. Mrs. Wortley was staying in the
house, as were also the two guardians of the young Sir Gerald Arundel
and his sister. These were Mr. Lyddell, a relation of Lady Arundel; and

our former acquaintance, Edmund Arundel, in whom, young as he was,
his uncle had placed full confidence. He had in fact been entirely
brought up by Sir Edmund, and knew no other home than Fern Torr,
having been sent thither an orphan in earliest childhood. His uncle and
aunt had supplied the place of parents, and had been well rewarded for
all they had done for him, by his consistent well doing and completely
filial affection for them.
Marian was startled from her musings by his voice close at hand,
saying, "All alone, Marian?"