The Story of Charles Strange: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)Wood, Henry, Mrs.
General
The Story of Charles Strange: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)
Wood, Henry, Mrs.
Fiction
Tom burst in at the gate again. He began telling his stepmother of my
fall as he danced a war-dance on the grass, and asked me how many of
my legs and wings were broken.
* * * * *
They came to the Rectory: Mrs. Heriot--she was Mrs. Strange then--and
Tom and Baby. After all, Leah did not leave. She grew reconciled to
the new state of things in no time, and became as fond of the children
as she was of me. As fond, at least, of Tom. I don't know that she
ever cared heartily for Blanche: the little lady had a haughty face,
and sometimes a haughty way with her.
We were all as happy as the day was long. Mrs. Strange indulged us
all. Tom was a dreadful pickle--it was what the servants called him;
but they all adored him. He was a handsome, generous, reckless boy,
two years older than myself in years, twice two in height and
advancement. He teased Leah's life out of her; but the more he teased,
the better she liked him. He teased Blanche, he teased me; though he
would have gone through fire and water for either of us, ay, and laid
down his life any moment to save ours. He was everlastingly in
mischief indoors or out. He called papa "sir" to his face, "the
parson" or "his reverence" behind his back. There was no taming Tom
Heriot.
For a short time papa took Tom's lessons with mine. But he found it
would not answer. Tom's guardians wrote to beg of the Rector to
continue to undertake him for a year or two, offering a handsome
recompense in return. But my father wrote word back that the lad
needed the discipline of school and must have it. So to school Tom was
sent. He came home in the holidays, reckless and random, generous and
loving as ever, and we had fine times together, the three of us
growing up like brothers and sister. Of course, I was not related to
them at all: and they were only half related to each other.
Rather singularly, Thomas Heriot's fortune was just as much as mine:
six thousand pounds: and left in very much the same way. The
interest, three hundred a year, was to maintain and educate him for
the army; and he would come into the whole when he was twenty-one.
Blanche had less: four thousand pounds only, and it was secured in the
same way as Tom's was until she should be twenty-one, or until she
married.
And thus about a couple of years went on.
* * * * *
No household was ever less given to superstition than ours at White
Littleham Rectory. It never as much as entered the mind of any of its
inmates, from its master downwards. And perhaps it was this complete
indifference to and disbelief in the supernatural that caused the
matter to be openly spoken of by the Rector. I have since thought so.
It was Christmas-tide, and Christmas weather. Frost and snow covered
the ground. Icicles on the branches glittered in the sunshine like
diamonds.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account