Mrs. Loudon

“Behold! the red stars silently descend
High Cromla’s head of clouds is grey.”

“Towards Temora’s groves rolls the lofty car
Of Cormac.”

We next find our hero, wrapped in a large boat cloak of blue camlet, lined with scarlet plush, and seated on the top of a mail coach; which, with more regard to expedition than to comfort, travels night and day towards the north. His anticipations were all of unmixed delight.

With what fixed attention would his darling Julia, and even the restless Frances, listen to all he had to recount!

How much gratified would both Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Jackson be, to find, that by endeavouring to follow their wise counsels, he had obtained the approbation of those best entitled to judge of his conduct. And this, to Edmund, was no trifling source of happiness.

Then, what an important personage must his promotion render him in the eyes of every one! What joy would Mrs. Smyth evince, on seeing him return safe, and grown to be a man too! for such, at little more than nineteen, he already thought himself. Even one glimpse of the gleeful countenance of the old bargeman, who had the care of the pleasure-boat on the lake, appeared in the far perspective of busy fancy. Or, perhaps, this was a sort of vision; for it was one of the last things he could remember to have seen pass in review before his mind’s eye, when, over night, he had begun to nod on his perilous throne. The hour was early, the morning bright, when the mail set him down where the road turns off to Lodore House.

He almost ran the rest of the way, and quite breathless entered the dear haven of all his wishes, not by the common approach, but, as had ever been the custom of his childhood, by one of the glass doors which open on the lawn.

Breakfast was laid; the urn and hot rolls, evidently but just brought in, were smoking on the table: yet, a general stillness prevailed, and the room seemed without inhabitant. Edmund’s heart, which had been beating with violence, stopped suddenly: he drew a longer breath, and felt even a kind of relief; for the intensity of expectation had arisen to almost a painful height while he crossed the green and stepped over the threshold.

Advancing a few paces into the apartment he cast an eager look all round; and, in a far window, descried his darling little Julia sitting alone; her eyes fixed on a book—her lips moving, apparently learning a task. She looked up, and, not quite recognising the intruder, the first expression of her countenance was alarm. He spoke. Her colour mounted till a universal glow spread itself over neck, face, and arms; not from bashfulness, for she was not quite thirteen, therefore too young for such a feeling; but from that extreme emotion peculiar to the enthusiasm of her temper.

Edmund forgot to throw off his boat-cloak, and enveloped the elastic fairy form of his little favourite in its uncouth folds; while she clung round his neck and sobbed for a considerable time before she could speak to tell him how glad she was to see him, and how much she loved him still—though he had staid such a long, long time away!

Mrs. Montgomery, preceded by Frances performing pirouettes, now entered. They had heard nothing of Edmund’s arrival: the old lady, therefore, was much overcome. She embraced him, and wept over him; for his idea was ever associated in her feelings with that of her lost child. Frances, after a momentary pause, sprung into his arms, exclaiming,

“It’s brother Edmund! it’s brother Edmund!”

Our hero, meanwhile, swinging about in his boat-cloak, looked rather an unwieldy monster amongst them.

“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “why don’t you take off that great frightful muffle? I want to see what you are like!”

Edmund looked down at himself, laughed, and flung off the cloak, declaring he had quite forgotten it. Mrs. Montgomery now contemplated, with visible pleasure, his figure, become, from its height and proportions, almost manly, without losing any of that air of elegance, which, from childhood, had been animate grace of Edmund’s: then, pointing to an ottoman close beside her chair, she bade him sit down; and, putting on her spectacles, for the shedding of many tears had dimmed her sight, she kindly stroked back the hair from his forehead, and examined his features. Julia stood close at her other side, holding her other hand. Frances was off to publish the joyful tidings to good Mrs. Smyth and the rest of the household; by singing at every bound, “News! news! news!—Brother Edmund is come! brother Edmund is come!—News! news! news!”

After dropping a few large tears in silence, Mrs. Montgomery said, mournfully,

“My poor child was quite right. She always prophesied how handsome you would be, when I used to say you were all eyes and eyelashes. Now, I am sure, they are just in good proportion. She used to admire the forehead, too; and the form of the mouth; and the sweetness of the expression. Yes, yes! she was certainly right.”

And she looked at him as though he had been a picture, without the slightest compassion for his blushes.

Edmund, willing to turn the conversation from himself, said,

“Pray, ma’am, is it not generally thought that Julia will be very beautiful? Did you ever see any thing like the brilliancy of her colour?”

“Yes, it is very bright,” said the old lady, “a sign of health, I hope.”

“And as to her smile,” proceeded Edmund, “I have always thought it the sweetest thing in nature! even in her nurse’s arms I can remember being delighted with it; when the darling used to stretch out its little hands to come to me!”

And he looked, as he spoke, into the full, uplifted, liquid eyes of his little, listening favourite, with a thrill of tenderness, but too prophetic of the future.

“There! look how she blushes!” he continued, collecting the quantity of fair hair which hung around her neck, and playfully strewing it again over her shoulders.

“I think her beautiful, of course, my dear,” answered Mrs. Montgomery; “but I am partial, you know: and so indeed are you. You began to love her, I believe, on the very evening she was born! I shall never forget how carefully you supported the baby’s head on your little arm as you sat on this very table, I think it was, and asked leave to kiss her.”

“And was my presumptuous request granted, ma’am?” asked Edmund, laughing, and drawing little Julia kindly towards him, as though he had some thought of repeating the presumption of which he spoke; but she now began to twist her head away, blush, and look half angry: for little girls of her age, though, as we before observed, too young to be bashful, are very apt to be furiously modest.

“Certainly, my dear,” replied Mrs. Montgomery: “you were but six years of age, you know, and poor Julia there, not an hour old at the time.”

Her voice here faltered, her tears began to flow again, and her head shook a little; an infirmity she was able to suppress, except when much moved. Julia, who knew the symptom well, stole her arms round her grandmamma’s neck, and tried all the little coaxing ways which she had long found the most effectual on such occasions of mournful recollection.