Christian fiction; Wingfold, Thomas (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
As the days went on, and their love for their nephew grew with his
deserts, the uncle and aunt shrank more and more from the thought, which
every year compelled them to think the oftener, that the day was drawing
nigh when they must volunteer the confession that he was not their
child.
When he was about seventeen, Richard settled down to work with his
father, occasionally assisting him, but in general occupied with his
own special branch, in which Tuke, through his long connection with
book-lovers possessing small cherished libraries, was able to bring him
almost as many jobs as he could undertake. The fact that a volume could
be so repaired, stimulated the purchase of shabby books; and part of
what was saved on the price of a good copy was laid out on the amendment
of the poor one. But however much the youth delighted in it, he could
not but find the work fidgety and tiring; whence ensued the advantage
that he left it the oftener for a ramble, or a solitary hour on the
river. He had but few companions, his guardians, wisely or not, being
more fastidious about his associates than if he had been their very son.
His uncle, of strong socialistic opinions, and wont to dilate on human
equality--as if the thing that ought to be, and must one day come, could
be furthered by the assertion of its present existence--was, like the
holders of even higher theories, not a little apt to forget the practice
necessarily involved: this son of a baronet, seeing that he was the
son also of his wife's sister, was not to be brought up like one of the
many!
Ugliness in infancy is a promise, though perhaps a doubtful one, of
beauty in manhood; and in Richard's case the promise was fulfilled:
hardly a hint was left of the baby-face which had repelled his father.
He was now a handsome well-grown youth, with dark-brown hair, dark-green
eyes, broad shoulders, and a little stoop which made his aunt uneasy:
she would have had him join a volunteer corps, but he declared he had
not the time. He accepted her encouragement, however, to forsake his
work as often as he felt inclined. He had good health; what was better,
a good temper; and what was better still, a willing heart toward his
neighbour. A certain over-hanging of his brows was--especially when he
contracted them, as, in perplexity or endeavour, he not infrequently
did--called a scowl by such as did not love him; but it was of shallow
insignificance, and probably the trick of some ancestor.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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