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Updated: June 9, 2025
Thorne of Brackenhill was a miserable man, who went through the world with a morbidly sensitive spot in his nature. A touch on it was torture, and unfortunately the circumstances of his daily life continually chafed it. It was only a common form of selfishness carried to excess. "I don't want much," he would have said truly enough, for Godfrey Thorne had never been grasping "but let it be my own."
Sissy and Brackenhill rose before him the melancholy orchard-walk, the little hands which lay in his on that November day. He felt a dull pain, yet what could he do? what could he have done? There was a terrible mistake somewhere, but he could not say where. If he had married Sissy, would it not have been there? He woke up suddenly. Young Lisle was speaking, and Judith was saying, "Let Mr.
If Horace should displease his grandfather if, for instance, he chose a wife of whom old Mr. Thorne did not approve would his position be very secure? Mrs. Blake was uneasy, and felt that it was very wrong of people to play tricks with the succession to an estate like Brackenhill. Meanwhile, Lottie watched her sister, who was thoughtfully drawing her fingers through her long hair.
The sound of unfastening the casement awoke Sarah, who was resting in an easy-chair. She sat up and looked round. The breeze had died away, as Harry had foretold it would, and that day had dawned as gloriously as the two that had preceded it. A lark was soaring and singing a mere point in the dome of blue. Sissy lay and looked a while. Then she said, "Brackenhill?"
Sissy was before him, yet she had passed away into the years when she did not know him. He might cry to her, but she would not hear. There was no word for him: the Sissy who had loved him and pardoned him was dead. This was the child Sissy with whom Horace had played at Brackenhill.
Oh, Percival, God knows I wish we had never called you away from Miss Lisle!" "Don't say that." "Go back to her," said Aunt Harriet, "and leave my darling to me. We were happy at Brackenhill till you came there." He sprang to his feet: "Aunt Harriet! have some mercy! You know I would die if it could make Sissy any happier." "And Miss Lisle?" she said.
A whole generation was dead and gone, and the two lads, who were all that remained of the Thornes of Brackenhill, stood far away, as though he stretched his trembling hands to them across their fathers' graves. He expressly requested that Percival should come and see him, and the young man presented himself in his deep mourning.
It would have made him still happier if he could have had the power of destroying Brackenhill utterly, of wiping it off the face of the earth, in case he could not find an heir who pleased him, for it troubled him to think that some man must have the land after him, whether he wished it or not. Godfrey Hammond had declared that no one could conceive the exquisite torments Mr.
My master is at Oxford, at Christ Church. He won't read, and he can't row, so he is devoting his time to learning how to get rid of the money I am to save up for him. I own Brackenhill?" He faced abruptly round. "All that timber is mine, they say; and if I cut down a stick your aunt Middleton is at me: 'Think of Horace. The place was mortgaged when I came into it.
Addie, are Horace and Percival fond of each other?" "How can I tell? I suppose so." "I have my doubts," said Lottie sagely. "Why should they be? There must be something queer, you know, or why doesn't that stupid old man at Brackenhill treat Percival as the eldest? Well, good-night." And Lottie went off, half saying, half singing, "Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow with my bow and arrow."
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