Title: The Heir of Redclyffe
Author: Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
Language: English
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THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE

By Charlotte Yonge



CHAPTER 1

     In such pursuits if wisdom lies,
     Who, Laura, can thy taste despise?
                               --GAY


The drawing-room of Hollywell House was one of the favoured apartments,
where a peculiar air of home seems to reside, whether seen in the middle
of summer, all its large windows open to the garden, or, as when our
story commences, its bright fire and stands of fragrant green-house
plants contrasted with the wintry fog and leafless trees of November.
There were two persons in the room--a young lady, who sat drawing at
the round table, and a youth, lying on a couch near the fire, surrounded
with books and newspapers, and a pair of crutches near him. Both looked
up with a smile of welcome at the entrance of a tall, fine-looking young
man, whom each greeted with ‘Good morning, Philip.’

‘Good morning, Laura. Good morning, Charles; I am glad you are
downstairs again! How are you to-day?’

‘No way remarkable, thank you,’ was the answer, somewhat wearily given
by Charles.

‘You walked?’ said Laura.

‘Yes. Where’s my uncle? I called at the post-office, and brought a
letter for him. It has the Moorworth post-mark,’ he added, producing it.

‘Where’s that?’ said Charles.

‘The post-town to Redclyffe; Sir Guy Morville’s place.’

‘That old Sir Guy! What can he have to do with my father?’

‘Did you not know,’ said Philip, ‘that my uncle is to be guardian to the
boy--his grandson?’

‘Eh? No, I did not.’

‘Yes,’ said Philip; ‘when old Sir Guy made it an especial point that my
father should take the guardianship, he only consented on condition
that my uncle should be joined with him; so now my uncle is alone in
the trust, and I cannot help thinking something must have happened at
Redclyffe. It is certainly not Sir Guy’s writing.’

‘It must wait, unless your curiosity will carry you out in search of
papa,’ said Charles; ‘he is somewhere about, zealously supplying the
place of Jenkins.’

‘Really, Philip,’ said Laura, ‘there is no telling how much good you
have done him by convincing him of Jenkins’ dishonesty. To say nothing
of the benefit of being no longer cheated, the pleasure of having to
overlook the farming is untold.’

Philip smiled, and came to the table where she was drawing. ‘Do you know
this place?’ said she, looking up in his face.

‘Stylehurst itself! What is it taken from?’

‘From this pencil sketch of your sister’s, which I found in mamma’s
scrap book.’

‘You are making it very like, only the spire is too slender, and that
tree--can’t you alter the foliage?--it is an ash.’

‘Is it? I took it for an elm.’

‘And surely those trees in the foreground should be greener, to throw
back the middle distance. That is the peak of South Moor exactly, if it
looked further off.’

She began the alterations, while Philip stood watching her progress,
a shade of melancholy gathering on his face. Suddenly, a voice called
‘Laura! Are you there? Open the door, and you will see.’

On Philip’s opening it, in came a tall camellia; the laughing face,
and light, shining curls of the bearer peeping through the dark green
leaves.

‘Thank you! Oh, is it you, Philip? Oh, don’t take it. I must bring my
own camellia to show Charlie.’

‘You make the most of that one flower,’ said Charles.

‘Only see how many buds!’ and she placed it by his sofa. Is it not a
perfect blossom, so pure a white, and so regular! And I am so proud of
having beaten mamma and all the gardeners, for not another will be out
this fortnight; and this is to go to the horticultural show. Sam would
hardly trust me to bring it in, though it was my nursing, not his.’

‘Now, Amy,’ said Philip, when the flower had been duly admired, ‘you
must let me put it into the window, for you. It is too heavy for you.’

‘Oh, take care,’ cried Amabel, but too late; for, as he took it from
her, the solitary flower struck against Charles’s little table, and was
broken off.

‘O Amy, I am very sorry. What a pity! How did it happen?’

‘Never mind,’ she answered; ‘it will last a long time in water.’

‘It was very unlucky--I am very sorry--especially because of the
horticultural show.’

‘Make all your apologies to Sam,’ said Amy, ‘his feelings will be more
hurt than mine. I dare say my poor flower would have caught cold at the
show, and never held up its head again.’

Her tone was gay; but Charles, who saw her face in the glass, betrayed
her by saying, ‘Winking away a tear, O Amy!’

‘I never nursed a dear gazelle!’ quoted Amy, with a merry laugh; and
before any more could be said, there entered a middle-aged gentleman,
short and slight, with a fresh, weather-beaten, good-natured face, gray
whiskers, quick eyes, and a hasty, undecided air in look and movement.
He greeted Philip heartily, and the letter was given to him.

‘Ha! Eh? Let us look. Not old Sir Guy’s hand. Eh? What can be the
matter? What? Dead! This is a sudden thing.’

‘Dead! Who? Sir Guy Morville?’

‘Yes, quite suddenly--poor old man.’ Then stepping to the door, he
opened it, and called, ‘Mamma; just step here a minute, will you,
mamma?’

The summons was obeyed by a tall, handsome lady, and behind her crept,
with doubtful steps, as if she knew not how far to venture, a little
girl of eleven, her turned-up nose and shrewd face full of curiosity.
She darted up to Amabel; who, though she shook her head, and held up her
finger, smiled, and took the little girl’s hand, listening meanwhile to
the announcement, ‘Do you hear this, mamma? Here’s a shocking thing! Sir
Guy Morville dead, quite suddenly.’

‘Indeed! Well, poor man, I suppose no one ever repented or suffered more
than he. Who writes?’

‘His grandson--poor boy! I can hardly make out his letter.’ Holding it
half a yard from his eyes, so that all could see a few lines of hasty,
irregular writing, in a forcible hand, bearing marks of having been
penned under great distress and agitation, he read aloud:--


‘“DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--

My dear grandfather died at six this morning. He had an attack of
apoplexy yesterday evening, and never spoke again, though for a short
time he knew me. We hope he suffered little. Markham will make all
arrangements. We propose that the funeral should take place on Tuesday;
I hope you will be able to come. I would write to my cousin, Philip
Morville, if I knew his address; but I depend on you for saying all that
ought to be said. Excuse this illegible letter,--I hardly know what I
write.

                                 ‘“Yours, very sincerely,
                                      ‘“Guy Morville.”’


‘Poor fellow!’ said Philip, ‘he writes with a great deal of proper
feeling.’

‘How very sad for him to be left alone there!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Very sad--very,’ said her husband. ‘I must start off to him at
once--yes, at once. Should you not say so--eh, Philip?’

‘Certainly. I think I had better go with you. It would be the correct
thing, and I should not like to fail in any token of respect for poor
old Sir Guy.’

‘Of course--of course,’ said Mr. Edmonstone; ‘it would be the correct
thing. I am sure he was always very civil to us, and you are next heir
after this boy.’

Little Charlotte made a sort of jump, lifted her eyebrows, and stared at
Amabel.

Philip answered. ‘That is not worth a thought; but since he and I
are now the only representatives of the two branches of the house of
Morville, it shall not be my fault if the enmity is not forgotten.’

‘Buried in oblivion would sound more magnanimous,’ said Charles; at
which Amabel laughed so uncontrollably, that she was forced to hide
her head on her little sister’s shoulder. Charlotte laughed too, an
imprudent proceeding, as it attracted attention. Her father smiled,
saying, half-reprovingly--‘So you are there, inquisitive pussy-cat?’ And
at her mother’s question,--‘Charlotte, what business have you here?’ She
stole back to her lessons, looking very small, without the satisfaction
of hearing her mother’s compassionate words--‘Poor child!’

‘How old is he?’ asked Mr. Edmonstone, returning to the former subject.

‘He is of the same age as Laura--seventeen and a half,’ answered Mrs.
Edmonstone. ‘Don’t you remember my brother saying what a satisfaction
it was to see such a noble baby as she was, after such a poor little
miserable thing as the one at Redclyffe?’

‘He is grown into a fine spirited fellow,’ said Philip.

‘I suppose we must have him here,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. Should you not
say so--eh, Philip?’

‘Certainly; I should think it very good for him. Indeed, his
grandfather’s death has happened at a most favourable time for him. The
poor old man had such a dread of his going wrong that he kept him--’

‘I know--as tight as a drum.’

‘With strictness that I should think very bad for a boy of his impatient
temper. It would have been a very dangerous experiment to send him at
once among the temptations of Oxford, after such discipline and solitude
as he has been used to.’

‘Don’t talk of it,’ interrupted Mr. Edmonstone, spreading out his hands
in a deprecating manner. ‘We must do the best we can with him, for I
have got him on my hands till he is five-and-twenty--his grandfather
has tied him up till then. If we can keep him out of mischief, well and
good; if not, it can’t be helped.’

‘You have him all to yourself,’ said Charles.

‘Ay, to my sorrow. If your poor father was alive, Philip, I should be
free of all care. I’ve a pretty deal on my hands,’ he proceeded, looking
more important than troubled. ‘All that great Redclyffe estate is no
sinecure, to say nothing of the youth himself. If all the world will
come to me, I can’t help it. I must go and speak to the men, if I am to
be off to Redclyffe tomorrow. Will you come, Philip?’

‘I must go back soon, thank you,’ replied Philip. ‘I must see about my
leave; only we should first settle when to set off.’

This arranged, Mr. Edmonstone hurried away, and Charles began by saying,
‘Isn’t there a ghost at Redclyffe?’

‘So it is said,’ answered his cousin; ‘though I don’t think it is
certain whose it is. There is a room called Sir Hugh’s Chamber, over
the gateway, but the honour of naming it is undecided between Hugo de
Morville, who murdered Thomas a Becket, and his namesake, the first
Baronet, who lived in the time of William of Orange, when the quarrel
began with our branch of the family. Do you know the history of it,
aunt?’

‘It was about some property,’ said Mrs Edmonstone, ‘though I don’t know
the rights of it. But the Morvilles were always a fiery, violent race,
and the enmity once begun between Sir Hugh and his brother, was kept
up, generation after generation, in a most unjustifiable way. Even I
can remember when the Morvilles of Redclyffe used to be spoken of in our
family like a sort of ogres.’

‘Not undeservedly, I should think,’ said Philip. ‘This poor old man, who
is just dead, ran a strange career. Stories of his duels and mad freaks
are still extant.’

‘Poor man! I believe he went all lengths,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘What was the true version of that horrible story about his son?’ said
Philip. ‘Did he strike him?’

‘Oh, no! it was bad enough without that.’

‘How?’ asked Laura.

‘He was an only child, and lost his mother early. He was very ill
brought up, and was as impetuous and violent as Sir Guy himself, though
with much kindliness and generosity. He was only nineteen when he made a
runaway marriage with a girl of sixteen, the sister of a violin player,
who was at that time in fashion. His father was very much offended, and
there was much dreadfully violent conduct on each side. At last, the
young man was driven to seek a reconciliation. He brought his wife to
Moorworth, and rode to Redclyffe, to have an interview with his father.
Unhappily, Sir Guy was giving a dinner to the hunt, and had been
drinking. He not only refused to see him, but I am afraid he used
shocking language, and said something about bidding him go back to
his fiddling brother in-law. The son was waiting in the hall, heard
everything, threw himself on his horse, and rushed away in the dark. His
forehead struck against the branch of a tree, and he was killed on the
spot.’

‘The poor wife?’ asked Amabel, shuddering.

‘She died the next day, when this boy was born.’

‘Frightful!’ said Philip. ‘It might well make a reformation in old Sir
Guy.’

‘I have heard that nothing could be more awful than the stillness
that fell on that wretched party, even before they knew what had
happened--before Colonel Harewood, who had been called aside by the
servants, could resolve to come and fetch away the father. No wonder Sir
Guy was a changed man from that hour.’

‘It was then that he sent for my father,’ said Philip.

‘But what made him think of doing so?’

‘You know Colonel Harewood’s house at Stylehurst? Many years ago, when
the St. Mildred’s races used to be so much more in fashion, Sir Guy and
Colonel Harewood, and some men of that stamp, took that house amongst
them, and used to spend some time there every year, to attend to
something about the training of the horses. There were some malpractices
of their servants, that did so much harm in the parish, that my brother
was obliged to remonstrate. Sir Guy was very angry at first, but behaved
better at last than any of the others. I suspect he was struck by
my dear brother’s bold, uncompromising ways, for he took to him to a
certain degree--and my brother could not help being interested in him,
there seemed to be so much goodness in his nature. I saw him once, and
never did I meet any one who gave me so much the idea of a finished
gentleman. When the poor son was about fourteen, he was with a tutor in
the neighbourhood, and used to be a good deal at Stylehurst, and, after
the unhappy marriage, my brother happened to meet him in London, heard
his story, and tried to bring about a reconciliation.’

‘Ha!’ said Philip; ‘did not they come to Stylehurst? I have a dim
recollection of somebody very tall, and a lady who sung.’

‘Yes; your father asked them to stay there, that he might judge of her,
and wrote to Sir Guy that she was a little, gentle, childish thing,
capable of being moulded to anything, and representing the mischief of
leaving them to such society as that of her brother, who was actually
maintaining them. That letter was never answered, but about ten days
or a fortnight after this terrible accident, Colonel Harewood wrote to
entreat my brother to come to Redclyffe, saying poor Sir Guy had eagerly
caught at the mention of his name. Of course he went at once, and he
told me that he never, in all his experience as a clergyman, saw any one
so completely broken down with grief.’

I found a great many of his letters among my father’s papers,’ said
Philip; ‘and it was a very touching one that he wrote to me on my
father’s death. Those Redclyffe people certainly have great force of
character.’

‘And was it then he settled his property on my uncle?’ said Charles.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘My brother did not like his doing so, but
he would not be at rest till it was settled. It was in vain to put him
in mind of his grandchild, for he would not believe it could live; and,
indeed, its life hung on a thread. I remember my brother telling me how
he went to Moorworth to see it--for it could not be brought home--in
hopes of bringing, back a report that might cheer its grandfather, but
how he found it so weak and delicate, that he did not dare to try to
make him take interest in it. It was not till the child was two or three
years old, that Sir Guy ventured to let himself grow fond of it.’

‘Sir Guy was a very striking person,’ said Philip; ‘I shall not easily
forget my visit to Redclyffe four years ago. It was more like a scene in
a romance than anything real--the fine old red sandstone house crumbling
away in the exposed parts, the arched gateway covered with ivy; the
great quadrangle where the sun never shone, and full of echoes; the
large hall and black wainscoted rooms, which the candles never would
light up. It is a fit place to be haunted.’

‘That poor boy alone there!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘I am glad you and
your uncle are going to him.’

‘Tell us about him,’ said Laura.

‘He was the most incongruous thing there,’ said Philip. ‘There was a
calm, deep melancholy about the old man added to the grand courtesy
which showed he had been what old books call a fine gentleman, that made
him suit his house as a hermit does his cell, or a knight his castle;
but breaking in on this “penseroso” scene, there was Guy--’

‘In what way?’ asked Laura.

‘Always in wild spirits, rushing about, playing antics, provoking the
solemn echoes with shouting, whooping, singing, whistling. There was
something in that whistle of his that always made me angry.’

‘How did this suit old Sir Guy?’

‘It was curious to see how Guy could rattle on to him, pour out the
whole history of his doings, laughing, rubbing his hands, springing
about with animation--all with as little answer as if he had been
talking to a statue.’

‘Do you mean that Sir Guy did not like it?’

‘He did in his own way. There was now and then a glance or a nod, to
show that he was attending; but it was such slight encouragement, that
any less buoyant spirits must have been checked.’

‘Did you like him, on the whole?’ asked Laura. ‘I hope he has not
this tremendous Morville temper? Oh, you don’t say so. What a grievous
thing.’

‘He is a fine fellow,’ said Philip; ‘but I did not think Sir Guy managed
him well. Poor old man, he was quite wrapped up in him, and only thought
how to keep him out of harm’s way. He would never let him be with other
boys, and kept him so fettered by rules, so strictly watched, and so
sternly called to account, that I cannot think how any boy could stand
it.’

‘Yet, you say, he told everything freely to his grandfather,’ said Amy.

‘Yes,’ added her mother, ‘I was going to say that, as long as that went
on, I should think all safe.

‘As I said before,’ resumed Philip, ‘he has a great deal of frankness,
much of the making of a fine character; but he is a thorough Morville. I
remember something that will show you his best and worst sides. You know
Redclyffe is a beautiful place, with magnificent cliffs overhanging the
sea, and fine woods crowning them. On one of the most inaccessible
of these crags there was a hawk’s nest, about half-way down, so that
looking from the top of the precipice, we could see the old birds fly
in and out. Well, what does Master Guy do, but go down this headlong
descent after the nest. How he escaped alive no one could guess; and his
grandfather could not bear to look at the place afterwards--but climb
it he did, and came back with two young hawks, buttoned up inside his
jacket.’

‘There’s a regular brick for you!’ cried Charles, delighted.

‘His heart was set on training these birds. He turned the library upside
down in search of books on falconry, and spent every spare moment on
them. At last, a servant left some door open, and they escaped. I shall
never forget Guy’s passion; I am sure I don’t exaggerate when I say he
was perfectly beside himself with anger.’

‘Poor boy!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Served the rascal right,’ said Charles.

‘Nothing had any effect on him till his grandfather came out, and, at
the sight of him, he was tamed in an instant, hung his head, came up to
his grandfather, and said--“I am very sorry,” Sir Guy answered, “My poor
boy!” and there was not another word. I saw Guy no more that day, and
all the next he was quiet and subdued. But the most remarkable part of
the story is to come. A couple of days afterwards we were walking in
the woods, when, at the sound of Guy’s whistle, we heard a flapping and
rustling, and beheld, tumbling along, with their clipped wings, these
two identical hawks, very glad to be caught. They drew themselves up
proudly for him to stroke them, and their yellow eyes looked at him with
positive affection.’

‘Pretty creatures!’ said Amabel. ‘That is a very nice end to the story.’

‘It is not the end,’ said Philip. ‘I was surprised to see Guy so sober,
instead of going into one of his usual raptures. He took them home; but
the first thing I heard in the morning was, that he was gone to offer
them to a farmer, to keep the birds from his fruit.’

‘Did he do it of his own accord?’ asked Laura.

‘That was just what I wanted to know; but any hint about them brought
such a cloud over his face that I thought it would be wanton to irritate
him by questions. However, I must be going. Good-bye, Amy, I hope your
Camellia will have another blossom before I come back. At least, I shall
escape the horticultural meeting.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Charles. ‘Put the feud in your pocket till you can
bury it in old Sir Guy’s grave, unless you mean to fight it out with his
grandson, which would be more romantic and exciting.’

Philip was gone before he could finish. Mrs. Edmonstone looked annoyed,
and Laura said, ‘Charlie, I wish you would not let your spirits carry
you away.’

‘I wish I had anything else to carry me away!’ was the reply.

‘Yes,’ said his mother, looking sadly at him. ‘Your high spirits are a
blessing; but why misuse them? If they are given to support you through
pain and confinement, why make mischief with them?’

Charles looked more impatient than abashed, and the compunction seemed
chiefly to rest with Amabel.

‘Now,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘I must go and see after my poor little
prisoner.’

‘Ah!’ said Laura, as she went; ‘it was no kindness in you to encourage
Charlotte to stay, Amy, when you know how often that inquisitive temper
has got her into scrapes.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Amy, regretfully; ‘but I had not the heart to send
her away.’

‘That is just what Philip says, that you only want bones and sinews in
your character to--’

‘Come, Laura,’ interrupted Charles, ‘I won’t hear Philip’s criticisms
of my sister, I had rather she had no bones at all, than that they stuck
out and ran into me. There are plenty of angles already in the world,
without sharpening hers.’

He possessed himself of Amy’s round, plump, childish hand, and spread
out over it his still whiter, and very bony fingers, pinching her ‘soft
pinky cushions,’ as he called them, ‘not meant for studying anatomy
upon.’

‘Ah! you two spoil each other sadly,’ said Laura, smiling, as she left
the room.

‘And what do Philip and Laura do to each other?’ said Charles.

‘Improve each other, I suppose,’ said Amabel, in a shy, simple tone, at
which Charles laughed heartily.

‘I wish I was as sensible as Laura!’ said she, presently, with a sigh.

‘Never was a more absurd wish,’ said Charles, tormenting her hand still
more, and pulling her curls; ‘unwish it forthwith. Where should I be
without silly little Amy? If every one weighed my wit before laughing, I
should not often be in disgrace for my high spirits, as they call them.’

‘I am so little younger than Laura,’ said Amy, still sadly, though
smiling.

‘Folly,’ said Charles; ‘you are quite wise enough for your age, while
Laura is so prematurely wise, that I am in constant dread that nature
will take her revenge by causing her to do something strikingly
foolish!’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Amy, indignantly. ‘Laura do anything foolish!’

‘What I should enjoy,’ proceeded Charles, ‘would be to see her over head
and ears in love with this hero, and Philip properly jealous.’

‘How can you say such things, Charlie?’

‘Why? was there ever a beauty who did not fall in love with her father’s
ward?’

‘No; but she ought to live alone with her very old father and horribly
grim maiden aunt.’

‘Very well, Amy, you shall be the maiden, aunt.’ And as Laura returned
at that moment, he announced to her that they had been agreeing that no
hero ever failed to fall in love with his guardian’s beautiful daughter.

‘If his guardian had a beautiful daughter,’ said Laura, resolved not to
be disconcerted.

‘Did you ever hear such barefaced fishing for compliments?’ said
Charles; but Amabel, who did not like her sister to be teased, and
was also conscious of having wasted a good deal of time, sat down to
practise. Laura returned to her drawing, and Charles, with a yawn,
listlessly turned over a newspaper, while his fair delicate features,
which would have been handsome but that they were blanched, sharpened,
and worn with pain, gradually lost their animated and rather satirical
expression, and assumed an air of weariness and discontent.

Charles was at this time nineteen, and for the last ten years had been
afflicted with a disease in the hip-joint, which, in spite of the
most anxious care, caused him frequent and severe suffering, and had
occasioned such a contraction of the limb as to cripple him completely,
while his general health was so much affected as to render him an object
of constant anxiety. His mother had always been his most devoted and
indefatigable nurse, giving up everything for his sake, and watching him
night and day. His father attended to his least caprice, and his sisters
were, of course, his slaves; so that he was the undisputed sovereign of
the whole family.

The two elder girls had been entirely under a governess till a month
or two before the opening of our story, when Laura was old enough to
be introduced; and the governess departing, the two sisters became
Charles’s companions in the drawing-room, while Mrs. Edmonstone, who had
a peculiar taste and talent for teaching, undertook little Charlotte’s
lessons herself.



CHAPTER 2

     If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
     Good things will strive to dwell with’t.
                                --THE TEMPEST


One of the pleasantest rooms at Hollywell was Mrs. Edmonstone’s
dressing-room--large and bay-windowed, over the drawing-room, having
little of the dressing-room but the name, and a toilet-table with a
black and gold japanned glass, and curiously shaped boxes to match; her
room opened into it on one side, and Charles’s on the other; it was a
sort of up-stairs parlour, where she taught Charlotte, cast up accounts,
spoke to servants, and wrote notes, and where Charles was usually to
be found, when unequal to coming down-stairs. It had an air of great
snugness, with its large folding-screen, covered with prints and
caricatures of ancient date, its book-shelves, its tables, its
peculiarly easy arm-chairs, the great invalid sofa, and the grate, which
always lighted up better than any other in the house.

In the bright glow of the fire, with the shutters closed and curtains
drawn, lay Charles on his couch, one Monday evening, in a gorgeous
dressing-gown of a Chinese pattern, all over pagodas, while little
Charlotte sat opposite to him, curled up on a footstool. He was not
always very civil to Charlotte; she sometimes came into collision with
him, for she, too, was a pet, and had a will of her own, and at other
times she could bore him; but just now they had a common interest, and
he was gracious.

‘It is striking six, so they must soon be here. I wish mamma would let
me go down; but I must wait till after dinner.’

‘Then, Charlotte, as soon as you come in, hold up your hands, and
exclaim, “What a guy!” There will be a compliment!’

‘No, Charlie; I promised mamma and Laura that you should get me into no
more scrapes.’

‘Did you? The next promise you make had better depend upon yourself
alone.’

‘But Amy said I must be quiet, because poor Sir Guy will be too
sorrowful to like a racket; and when Amy tells me to be quiet, I know
that I must, indeed.’

‘Most true,’ said Charles, laughing.

‘Do you think you shall like Sir Guy?’

‘I shall be able to determine,’ said Charles, sententiously, ‘when I
have seen whether he brushes his hair to the right or left.’

‘Philip brushes his to the left.’

‘Then undoubtedly Sir Guy will brush his to the right.’

‘Is there not some horrid story about those Morvilles of Redclyffe?’
asked Charlotte. ‘I asked Laura, and she told me not to be curious, so
I knew there was something in it; and then I asked Amy, and she said it
would be no pleasure to me to know.’

‘Ah! I would have you prepared.’

‘Why, what is it? Oh! dear Charlie! are you really going to tell me?’

‘Did you ever hear of a deadly feud?’

‘I have read of them in the history of Scotland. They went on hating
and killing each other for ever. There was one man who made his enemy’s
children eat out of a pig-trough, and another who cut off his head.’

‘His own?’

‘No, his enemy’s, and put it on the table, at breakfast, with a piece of
bread in its mouth.’

‘Very well; whenever Sir Guy serves up Philip’s head at breakfast, with
a piece of bread in his mouth, let me know.’

Charlotte started up. ‘Charles, what do you mean? Such things don’t
happen now.’

‘Nevertheless, there is a deadly feud between the two branches of the
house of Morville.’

‘But it is very wrong,’ said Charlotte, looking frightened.’

‘Wrong? Of course it is.’

‘Philip won’t do anything wrong. But how will they ever get on?’

‘Don’t you see? It must be our serious endeavour to keep the peace, and
prevent occasions of discord.’

‘Do you think anything will happen?’

‘It is much to be apprehended,’ said Charles, solemnly.

At that moment the sound of wheels was heard, and Charlotte flew off to
her private post of observation, leaving her brother delighted at having
mystified her. She returned on tip-toe. ‘Papa and Sir Guy are come, but
not Philip; I can’t see him anywhere.’

‘Ah you have not looked in Sir Guy’s great-coat pocket.’

‘I wish you would not plague me so! You are not in earnest?’

The pettish inquiring tone was exactly what delighted him. And he
continued to tease her in the same style till Laura and Amabel came
running in with their report of the stranger.

‘He is come!’ they cried, with one voice.

‘Very gentlemanlike!’ said Laura.

‘Very pleasant looking,’ said Amy. ‘Such fine eyes!’

‘And so much expression,’ said Laura. ‘Oh!’

The exclamation, and the start which accompanied it, were caused by
hearing her father’s voice close to the door, which had been left partly
open. ‘Here is poor Charles,’ it said, ‘come in, and see him; get over
the first introduction--eh, Guy?’ And before he had finished, both he
and the guest were in the room, and Charlotte full of mischievous glee
at her sister’s confusion.

‘Well, Charlie, boy, how goes it?’ was his father’s greeting. ‘Better,
eh? Sorry not to find you down-stairs; but I have brought Guy to
see you.’ Then, as Charles sat up and shook hands with Sir Guy, he
continued--‘A fine chance for you, as I was telling him, to have a
companion always at hand: a fine chance? eh, Charlie?’

‘I am not so unreasonable as to expect any one to be always at hand,’
said Charles, smiling, as he looked up at the frank, open face, and
lustrous hazel eyes turned on him with compassion at the sight of
his crippled, helpless figure, and with a bright, cordial promise of
kindness.

As he spoke, a pattering sound approached, the door was pushed open,
and while Sir Guy exclaimed, ‘O, Bustle! Bustle! I am very sorry,’ there
suddenly appeared a large beautiful spaniel, with a long silky black and
white coat, jetty curled ears, tan spots above his intelligent eyes, and
tan legs, fringed with silken waves of hair, but crouching and looking
beseeching at meeting no welcome, while Sir Guy seemed much distressed
at his intrusion.

‘O you beauty!’ cried Charles. ‘Come here, you fine fellow.’

Bustle only looked wistfully at his master, and moved nothing but his
feather of a tail.

‘Ah! I was afraid you would repent of your kindness,’ said Sir Guy to
Mr. Edmonstone.

‘Not at all, not at all!’ was the answer; ‘mamma never objects to
in-door pets, eh, Amy?’

‘A tender subject, papa,’ said Laura; ‘poor Pepper!’

Amy, ashamed of her disposition to cry at the remembrance of the dear
departed rough terrier, bent down to hide her glowing face, and held out
her hand to the dog, which at last ventured to advance, still creeping
with his body curved till his tail was foremost, looking imploringly at
his master, as if to entreat his pardon.

‘Are you sure you don’t dislike it?’ inquired Sir Guy, of Charles.

‘I? O no. Here, you fine creature.’

‘Come, then, behave like a rational dog, since you are come,’ said Sir
Guy; and Bustle, resuming the deportment of a spirited and well-bred
spaniel, no longer crouched and curled himself into the shape of a
comma, but bounded, wagged his tail, thrust his nose into his master’s
hand and then proceeded to reconnoitre the rest of the company, paying
especial attention to Charles, putting his fore-paws on the sofa, and
rearing himself up to contemplate him with a grave, polite curiosity,
that was very diverting.

‘Well, old fellow,’ said Charles, ‘did you ever see the like of such a
dressing-gown? Are you satisfied? Give me your paw, and let us swear an
eternal friendship.’

‘I am quite glad to see a dog in the house again,’ said Laura, and,
after a few more compliments, Bustle and his master followed Mr.
Edmonstone out of the room.

‘One of my father’s well-judged proceedings,’ murmured Charles. ‘That
poor fellow had rather have gone a dozen, miles further than have been
lugged in here. Really, if papa chooses to inflict such dressing-gowns
on me, he should give me notice before he brings men and dogs to make me
their laughing-stock!’

‘An unlucky moment,’ said Laura. ‘Will my cheeks ever cool?’

‘Perhaps he did not hear,’ said Amabel, consolingly.

‘You did not ask about Philip?’ said Charlotte, with great earnestness.

‘He is staying at Thorndale, and then going to St. Mildred’s,’ said
Laura.

‘I hope you are relieved,’ said her brother; and she looked in doubt
whether she ought to laugh.

‘And what do you think of Sir Guy?’

‘May he only be worthy of his dog!’ replied Charles.

‘Ah!’ said Laura, ‘many men are neither worthy of their wives, nor of
their dogs.’

‘Dr. Henley, I suppose, is the foundation of that aphorism,’ said
Charles.

‘If Margaret Morville could marry him, she could hardly be too worthy,’
said Laura. ‘Think of throwing away Philip’s whole soul!’

‘O Laura, she could not lose that,’ said Amabel.

Laura looked as if she knew more; but at that moment, both her father
and mother entered, the former rubbing his hands, as he always did when
much pleased, and sending his voice before him, as he exclaimed, ‘Well,
Charlie, well, young ladies, is not he a fine fellow--eh?’

‘Rather under-sized,’ said Charles.

‘Eh? He’ll grow. He is not eighteen, you know; plenty of time; a very
good height; you can’t expect every one to be as tall as Philip; but
he’s a capital fellow. And how have you been?--any pain?’

‘Hem--rather,’ said Charles, shortly, for he hated answering kind
inquiries, when out of humour.

‘Ah, that’s a pity; I was sorry not to find you in the drawing-room, but
I thought you would have liked just to see him,’ said Mr. Edmonstone,
disappointed, and apologizing.

‘I had rather have had some notice of your intention,’ said Charles, ‘I
would have made myself fit to be seen.’

‘I am sorry. I thought you would have liked his coming,’ said poor Mr.
Edmonstone, only half conscious of his offence; ‘but I see you are not
well this evening.’

Worse and worse, for it was equivalent to openly telling Charles he was
out of humour; and seeing, as he did, his mother’s motive, he was still
further annoyed when she hastily interposed a question about Sir Guy.

‘You should only hear them talk about him at Redclyffe,’ said Mr
Edmonstone. ‘No one was ever equal to him, according to them. Every one
said the same--clergyman, old Markham, all of them. Such attention to
his grandfather, such proper feeling, so good-natured, not a bit of
pride--it is my firm belief that he will make up for all his family
before him.’

Charles set up his eyebrows sarcastically.

‘How does he get on with Philip?’ inquired Laura.

‘Excellently. Just what could be wished. Philip is delighted with him;
and I have been telling Guy all the way home what a capital friend he
will be, and he is quite inclined to look up to him.’ Charles made an
exaggerated gesture of astonishment, unseen by his father. ‘I told him
to bring his dog. He would have left it, but they seemed so fond of each
other, I thought it was a pity to part them, and that I could promise it
should be welcome here; eh, mamma?’

‘Certainly. I am very glad you brought it.’

‘We are to have his horse and man in a little while. A beautiful
chestnut--anything to raise his spirits. He is terribly cut up about his
grandfather.

It was now time to go down to dinner; and after Charles had made faces
of weariness and disgust at all the viands proposed to him by his
mother, almost imploring him to like them, and had at last ungraciously
given her leave to send what he could not quite say he disliked, he was
left to carry on his teasing of Charlotte, and his grumbling over the
dinner, for about the space of an hour, when Amabel came back to him,
and Charlotte went down.

‘Hum!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another swan of my father’s.’

‘Did not you like his looks?’

‘I saw only an angular hobbetyhoy.’

‘But every one at Redclyffe speaks so well of him.’

‘As if the same things were not said of every heir to more acres than
brains! However, I could have swallowed everything but the disposition
to adore Philip. Either it was gammon on his part, or else the work of
my father’s imagination.’

‘For shame, Charlie.’

‘Is it within the bounds of probability that he should be willing, at
the bidding of his guardian, to adopt as Mentor his very correct and
sententious cousin, a poor subaltern, and the next in the entail? Depend
upon it, it is a fiction created either by papa’s hopes or Philip’s
self-complacency, or else the unfortunate youth must have been brought
very low by strait-lacing and milk-and-water.’

‘Mr. Thorndale is willing to look up to Philip,’

‘I don’t think the Thorndale swan very--very much better than a tame
goose,’ said Charles, ‘but the coalition is not so monstrous in his
case, since Philip was a friend of his own picking and choosing, and
so his father’s adoption did not succeed in repelling him. But that
Morville should receive this “young man’s companion,” on the word of a
guardian whom he never set eyes on before, is too incredible--utterly
mythical I assure you, Amy. And how did you get on at dinner?’

‘Oh, the dog is the most delightful creature I ever saw, so sensible and
well-mannered.’

‘It was of the man that I asked.’

‘He said hardly anything, and sometimes started if papa spoke to him
suddenly. He winced as if he could not bear to be called Sir Guy, so
papa said we should call him only by his name, if he would do the same
by us. I am glad of it, for it seems more friendly, and I am sure he
wants to be comforted.’

‘Don’t waste your compassion, my dear; few men need it less. With his
property, those moors to shoot over, his own master, and with health to
enjoy it, there are plenty who would change with him for all your pity,
my silly little Amy.’

‘Surely not, with that horrible ancestry.’

‘All very well to plume oneself upon. I rather covet that ghost myself.’

‘Well, if you watched his face, I think you would be sorry for him.’

‘I am tired of the sound of his name. One fifth of November is enough in
the year. Here, find something to read to me among that trumpery.’

Amy read till she was summoned to tea, when she found a conversation
going on about Philip, on whose history Sir Guy did not seem fully
informed. Philip was the son of Archdeacon Morville, Mrs. Edmonstone’s
brother, an admirable and superior man, who had been dead about five
years. He left three children, Margaret and Fanny, twenty-five and
twenty-three years of age, and Philip, just seventeen. The boy was at
the head of his school, highly distinguished for application and good
conduct; he had attained every honour there open to him, won golden
opinions from all concerned with him, and made proof of talents
which could not have failed to raise him to the highest university
distinctions. He was absent from home at the time of his father’s death,
which took place after so short an illness, that there had been no time
to summon him back to Stylehurst. Very little property was left to be
divided among the three; and as soon as Philip perceived how small
was the provision for his sisters, he gave up his hopes of university
honours, and obtained a commission in the army.

On hearing this, Sir Guy started forward: ‘Noble!’ he cried, ‘and yet
what a pity! If my grandfather had but known it--’

‘Ah! I was convinced of _that_,’ broke in Mr. Edmonstone, ‘and so, I am
sure, was Philip himself; but in fact he knew we should never have given
our consent, so he acted quite by himself, wrote to Lord Thorndale, and
never said a word, even to his sisters, till the thing was done. I never
was more surprised in my life.’

‘One would almost envy him the opportunity of making such a sacrifice,’
said Sir Guy, yet one must lament it.

‘It was done in a hasty spirit of independence,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone;
‘I believe if he had got a fellowship at Oxford, it would have answered
much better.’

‘And now that poor Fanny is dead, and Margaret married, there is all
his expensive education thrown away, and all for nothing,’ said Mr.
Edmonstone.

‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘he planned for them to go on living at
Stylehurst, so that it would still have been his home. It is a
great pity, for his talent is thrown away, and he is not fond of his
profession.’

‘You must not suppose, though, that he is not a practical man,’ said Mr.
Edmonstone; ‘I had rather take his opinion than any one’s, especially
about a horse, and there is no end to what I hear about his good sense,
and the use he is of to the other young men.’

‘You should tell about Mr. Thorndale, papa,’ said Laura.

‘Ah that is a feather in master Philip’s cap; besides, he is your
neighbour--at least, his father is.’

‘I suppose you know Lord Thorndale?’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, in
explanation.

‘I have seen him once at the Quarter Sessions,’ said Sir Guy; ‘but he
lives on the other side of Moorworth, and there was no visiting.’

‘Well, this youth, James Thorndale, the second son, was Philip’s fag.’

‘Philip says he was always licking him!’ interposed Charlotte.’

‘He kept him out of some scrape or other, continued Mr. Edmonstone.
‘Lord Thorndale was very much obliged to him, had him to stay at his
house, took pretty much to him altogether. It was through him that
Philip applied for his commission, and he has put his son into the same
regiment, on purpose to have him under Philip’s eye. There he is at
Broadstone, as gentlemanlike a youth as I would wish to see. We will
have him to dinner some day, and Maurice too--eh, mamma? Maurice--he is
a young Irish cousin of my own, a capital fellow at the bottom, but a
regular thoroughgoing rattle. That was my doing. I told his father that
he could not do better than put him into the --th. Nothing like a steady
friend and a good example, I said, and Kilcoran always takes my advice,
and I don’t think he has been sorry. Maurice has kept much more out of
scrapes of late.’

‘O papa,’ exclaimed Charlotte, ‘Maurice has been out riding on a hired
horse, racing with Mr. Gordon, and the horse tumbled down at the bottom
of East-hill, and broke its knees.’

‘That’s the way,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘the instant my back is turned.’

Thereupon the family fell into a discussion of home affairs, and thought
little more of their silent guest.



CHAPTER 3

     The hues of bliss more brightly glow
     Chastised by sober tints of woe.
                                 --GRAY


‘What use shall I make of him?’ said Charles to himself, as he studied
Sir Guy Morville, who sat by the table, with a book in his hand.

He had the unformed look of a growing boy, and was so slender as to
appear taller than he really was. He had an air of great activity; and
though he sat leaning back, there was no lounging in his attitude, and
at the first summons he roused up with an air of alert attention that
recalled to mind the eager head of a listening greyhound. He had no
pretension to be called handsome; his eyes were his best feature; they
were very peculiar, of a light hazel, darker towards the outside of
the iris, very brilliant, the whites tinted with blue, and the lashes
uncommonly thick and black; the eyebrows were also very dark, and of
a sharply-defined angular shape, but the hair was much lighter, loose,
soft, and wavy; the natural fairness of the complexion was shown by
the whiteness of the upper part of the forehead, though the rest of
the face, as well as the small taper hands, were tanned by sunshine and
sea-breezes, into a fresh, hardy brown, glowing with red on the cheeks.

‘What use shall I make of him?’ proceeded Charles’s thoughts. ‘He
won’t be worth his salt if he goes on in this way; he has got a graver
specimen of literature there than I ever saw Philip himself read on
a week-day; he has been puritanized till he is good for nothing; I’ll
trouble myself no more about him!’ He tried to read, but presently
looked up again. ‘Plague! I can’t keep my thoughts off him. That sober
look does not sit on that sun-burnt face as if it were native to it;
those eyes don’t look as if the Redclyffe spirit was extinguished.’

Mrs. Edmonstone came in, and looking round, as if to find some
occupation for her guest, at length devised setting him to play at chess
with Charles. Charles gave her an amiable look, expressing that neither
liked it; but she was pretty well used to doing him good against his
will, and trusted to its coming right in time. Charles was a capital
chess-player, and seldom found any one who could play well enough to
afford him much real sport, but he found Sir Guy more nearly a match
than often fell to his lot; it was a bold dashing game, that obliged
him to be on his guard, and he was once so taken by surprise as to be
absolutely check-mated. His ill-humour evaporated, he was delighted to
find an opponent worth playing with, and henceforth there were games
almost every morning or evening, though Sir Guy seemed not to care much
about them, except for the sake of pleasing him.

When left to himself, Guy spent his time in reading or in walking about
the lanes alone. He used to sit in the bay-window of the drawing-room
with his book; but sometimes, when they least expected it, the
girls would find his quick eyes following them with an air of amused
curiosity, as Amabel waited on Charles and her flowers, or Laura
drew, wrote letters, and strove to keep down the piles of books and
periodicals under which it seemed as if her brother might some day be
stifled--a vain task, for he was sure to want immediately whatever she
put out of his reach.

Laura and Amabel both played and sung, the former remarkably well, and
the first time they had any music after the arrival of Sir Guy, his look
of delighted attention struck everyone. He ventured nearer, stood by the
piano when they practised, and at last joined in with a few notes of
so full and melodious a voice, that Laura turned round in surprise,
exclaiming, ‘You sing better I than any of us!’

He coloured. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘I could not help it; I know
nothing of music.’

‘Really!’ said Laura, smiling incredulously.

‘I don’t even know the notes.’

‘Then you must have a very good ear. Let us try again.’

The sisters were again charmed and surprised, and Guy looked gratified,
as people do at the discovery of a faculty which they are particularly
glad to possess. It was the first time he appeared to brighten, and
Laura and her mother agreed that it would do him good to have plenty of
music, and to try to train that fine voice. He was beginning to interest
them all greatly by his great helpfulness and kindness to Charles, as
he learnt the sort of assistance he required, as well as by the
silent grief that showed how much attached he must have been to his
grandfather.

On the first Sunday, Mrs. Edmonstone coming into the drawing-room at
about half-past five, found him sitting alone by the fire, his dog lying
at his feet. As he started up, she asked if he had been here in the dark
ever since church-time?

‘I have not wanted light,’ he answered with a sigh, long, deep, and
irrepressible, and as she stirred the fire, the flame revealed to her
the traces of tears. She longed to comfort him, and said--

‘This Sunday twilight is a quiet time for thinking.’

‘Yes,’ he said; ‘how few Sundays ago--’ and there he paused.

‘Ah! you had so little preparation.’

‘None. That very morning he had done business with Markham, and had
never been more clear and collected.’

‘Were you with him when he was taken ill?’ asked Mrs. Edmonstone,
perceiving that it would be a relief to him to talk.

‘No; it was just before dinner. I had been shooting, and went into the
library to tell him where I had been. He was well then, for he spoke,
but it was getting dark, and I did not see his face. I don’t think I
was ten minutes dressing, but when I came down, he had sunk back in his
chair. I saw it was not sleep--I rang--and when Arnaud came, we knew how
it was.’ His, voice became low with strong emotion.’

‘Did he recover his consciousness?’

‘Yes, that was _the_ comfort,’ said Guy, eagerly. ‘It was after he had
been bled that he seemed to wake up. He could not speak or move, but he
looked at me--or--I don’t know what I should have done.’ The last words
were almost inaudible from the gush of tears that he vainly struggled
to repress, and he was turning away to hide them, when he saw that Mrs.
Edmonstone’s were flowing fast.

‘You had great reason to be attached to him!’ said she, as soon as she
could speak.

‘Indeed, indeed I had.’ And after a long silence--‘He was everything to
me, everything from the first hour I can recollect. He never let me
miss my parents. How he attended to all my pleasures and wishes, how he
watched and cared for me, and bore with me, even I can never know.’

He spoke in short half sentences of intense feeling, and Mrs. Edmonstone
was much moved by such affection in one said to have been treated with
an excess of strictness, much compassionating the lonely boy, who had
lost every family tie in one.

‘When the first pain of the sudden parting has passed,’ said she, ‘you
will like to remember the affection which you knew how to value.’

‘If I had but known!’ said Guy; ‘but there was I, hasty, reckless,
disregarding his comfort, rebelling against--O, what would I not give to
have those restraints restored!’

‘It is what we all feel in such losses,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘There is
always much to wish otherwise; but I am sure you can have the happiness
of knowing you were his great comfort.’

‘It was what I ought to have been.’

She knew that nothing could have been more filial and affectionate than
his conduct, and tried to say something of the kind, but he would not
listen.

‘That is worst of all,’ he said; ‘and you must not trust what they say
of me. They would be sure to praise me, if I was anything short of a
brute.’

A silence ensued, while Mrs. Edmonstone was trying to think of some
consolation. Suddenly Guy looked up, and spoke eagerly:--

‘I want to ask something--a great favour--but you make me venture. You
see how I am left alone--you know how little I can trust myself. Will
you take me in hand--let me talk to you--and tell me if I am wrong, as
freely as if I were Charles? I know it is asking a great deal, but you
knew my grandfather, and it is in his name.’

She held out her hand; and with tears answered--

‘Indeed I will, if I see any occasion.’

‘You will let me trust to you to tell me when I get too vehement? above
all, when you see my temper failing? Thank you; you don’t know what a
relief it is!’

‘But you must not call yourself alone. You are one of us now.’

‘Yes; since you have made that promise,’ said Guy; and for the first
time she saw the full beauty of his smile--a sort of sweetness and
radiance of which eye and brow partook almost as much as the lips. It
alone would have gained her heart.

‘I must look on you as a kind of nephew,’ she added, kindly. ‘I used to
hear so much of you from my brother.’

‘Oh!’ cried Guy, lighting up, ‘Archdeacon Morville was always so kind to
me. I remember him very well!’

‘Ah! I wish--’ there she paused, and added,--tête-à-tête ‘it is not
right to wish such things--and Philip is very like his father.’

‘I am very glad his regiment is so near. I want to know him better.’

‘You knew him at Redclyffe, when he was staying there?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, his colour rising; ‘but I was a boy then, and a
very foolish, headstrong one. I am glad to meet him again. What a
grand-looking person he is!’

‘We are very proud of him,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling. ‘I don’t
think there has been an hour’s anxiety about him since he was born.’

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of Charles’s crutches
slowly crossing the hall. Guy sprang to help him to his sofa, and then,
without speaking, hurried up-stairs.

‘Mamma, tete-a-tete with the silent one!’ exclaimed Charles.

‘I will not tell you all I think of him,’ said she, leaving the room.

‘Hum!’ soliloquised Charles. ‘That means that my lady mother has adopted
him, and thinks I should laugh at her, or straightway set up a dislike
to him, knowing my contempt for heroes and hero-worship. It’s a treat
to have Philip out of the way, and if it was but possible to get out of
hearing of his perfection, I should have some peace. If I thought this
fellow had one spice of the kind, I’d never trouble my head about him
more; and yet I don’t believe he has such a pair of hawk’s eyes for
nothing!’

The hawk’s eyes, as Charles called them, shone brighter from that
day forth, and their owner began to show more interest in what passed
around. Laura was much amused by a little conversation she held with
him one day when a party of their younger neighbours were laughing and
talking nonsense round Charles’s sofa. He was sitting a little way off
in silence, and she took advantage of the loud laughing to say:

‘You think this is not very satisfactory?’ And as he gave a quick glance
of inquiry--‘Don’t mind saying so. Philip and I often agree that it is a
pity spend so much time in laughing at nothing--at such nonsense.’

‘It is nonsense?’

‘Listen--no don’t, it is too silly.’

‘Nonsense must be an excellent thing if it makes people so happy,’ said
Guy thoughtfully. ‘Look at them; they are like--not a picture--that has
no life--but a dream--or, perhaps a scene in a play.’

‘Did you never see anything like it?’

‘Oh, no! All the morning calls I ever saw were formal, every one stiff,
and speaking by rote, or talking politics. How glad I used to be to get
on horseback again! But to see these--why, it is like the shepherd’s
glimpse at the pixies!--as one reads a new book, or watches what one
only half understands--a rook’s parliament, or a gathering of sea-fowl
on the Shag Rock.’

‘A rook’s parliament?’

‘The people at home call it a rook’s parliament when a whole cloud of
rooks settle on some bare, wide common, and sit there as if they were
consulting, not feeding, only stalking about, with drooping wings, and
solemn, black cloaks.’

‘You have found a flattering simile,’ said Laura, ‘as you know that
rooks never open their mouths without cause.’

Guy had never heard the riddle, but he caught the pun instantly, and the
clear merry sound of his hearty laugh surprised Charles, who instantly
noted it as another proof that was some life in him.

Indeed, each day began to make it evident that he had, on the whole,
rather a superabundance of animation than otherwise. He was quite
confidential with Mrs. Edmonstone, on whom he used to lavish, with
boyish eagerness, all that interested him, carrying her the passages
in books that pleased him, telling her about Redclyffe’s affairs, and
giving her his letters from Markham, the steward. His head was full
of his horse, Deloraine, which was coming to him under the charge of a
groom, and the consultations were endless about the means of transport,
Mr. Edmonstone almost as eager about it as he was himself.

He did not so quickly become at home with the younger portion of the
family, but his spirits rose every day. He whistled as he walked in the
garden, and Bustle, instead of pacing soberly behind him, now capered,
nibbled his pockets, and drew him into games of play which Charles and
Amabel were charmed to overlook from the dressing-room window. There was
Guy leaping, bounding, racing, rolling the dog over, tripping him up,
twitching his ears, tickling his feet, catching at his tail, laughing at
Bustle’s springs, contortions, and harmless open-mouthed attacks, while
the dog did little less than laugh too, with his intelligent amber eyes,
and black and red mouth. Charles began to find a new interest in his
listless life in the attempt to draw Guy out, and make him give one of
his merry laughs. In this, however, he failed when his wit consisted
in allusions to the novels of the day, of which Guy knew nothing. One
morning he underwent a regular examination, ending in--

‘Have you read anything?’

‘I am afraid I am very ignorant of modern books.’

‘Have you read the ancient ones?’ asked Laura.

‘I’ve had nothing else to read.’

‘Nothing to read but ancient books!’ exclaimed Amabel, with a mixture of
pity and astonishment.

‘Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus!’ said Guy,
smiling.

‘There, Amy,’ said Charles, ‘if he has the Vicar of Wakefield among his
ancient books, you need not pity him.’

‘It is like Philip,’ said Laura; ‘he was brought up on the old standard
books, instead of his time being frittered away on the host of idle
modern ones.’

‘He was free to concentrate his attention on Sir Charles Grandison,’
said Charles.

‘How could any one do so?’ said Guy. ‘How could any one have any
sympathy with such a piece of self-satisfaction?’

‘Who could? Eh, Laura?’ said Charles.

‘I never read it,’ said Laura, suspecting malice.

‘What is your opinion of perfect heroes?’ continued Charles.

‘Here comes one,’ whispered Amy to her brother, blushing at her piece of
naughtiness, as Philip Morville entered the room.

After the first greetings and inquiries after his sister, whom he had
been visiting, Laura told him what they had been saying of the advantage
of a scanty range of reading.

‘True,’ said Philip; ‘I have often been struck by finding how ignorant
people are, even of Shakspeare; and I believe the blame chiefly rests on
the cheap rubbish in which Charlie is nearly walled up there.’

‘Ay,’ said Charles, ‘and who haunts that rubbish at the beginning of
every month? I suppose to act as pioneer, though whether any one but
Laura heeds his warnings, remains to be proved.’

‘Laura does heed?’ asked Philip, well pleased.

‘I made her read me the part of Dombey that hurts women’s feelings
most, just to see if she would go on--the part about little Paul--and
I declare, I shall think the worse of her ever after--she was so stony
hearted, that to this day she does not know whether he is dead or
alive.’

‘I can’t quite say I don’t know whether he lived or died,’ said Laura,
‘for I found Amy in a state that alarmed me, crying in the green-house,
and I was very glad to find it was nothing worse than little Paul.’

‘I wish you would have read it,’ said Amy; and looking shyly at Guy, she
added--‘Won’t you?’

‘Well done, Amy!’ said Charles. ‘In the very face of the young man’s
companion!’

‘Philip does not really think it wrong,’ said Amy.

‘No,’ said Philip; ‘those books open fields of thought, and as their
principles are negative, they are not likely to hurt a person well armed
with the truth.’

‘Meaning,’ said Charles, ‘that Guy and Laura have your gracious
permission to read Dombey.’

‘When Laura has a cold or toothache.’

‘And I,’ said Guy.

‘I am not sure about, the expediency for you,’ said Philip ‘it would be
a pity to begin with Dickens, when there is so much of a higher grade
equally new to you. I suppose you do not understand Italian?’

‘No,’ said Guy, abruptly, and his dark eyebrows contracted.

Philip went on. ‘If you did, I should not recommend you the translation
of “I promessi Sponsi,” one of the most beautiful books in any language.
You have it in English, I think, Laura.’

Laura fetched it; Guy, with a constrained ‘thank you,’ was going to take
it up rather as if he was putting a force upon himself, when Philip
more quickly took the first volume, and eagerly turned over the pages--I
can’t stand this,’ he said, ‘where is the original?’

It was soon produced; and Philip, finding the beautiful history of Fra
Cristoforo, began to translate it fluently and with an admirable choice
of language that silenced Charles’s attempts to interrupt and criticise.
Soon Guy, who had at first lent only reluctant attention, was entirely
absorbed, his eyebrows relaxed, a look of earnest interest succeeded,
his countenance softened, and when Fra Cristoforo humbled himself,
exchanged forgiveness, and received “il pane del perdono,” tears hung on
his eyelashes.

The chapter was finished, and with a smothered exclamation of
admiration, he joined the others in begging Philip to proceed. The story
thus read was very unlike what it had been to Laura and Amy, when they
puzzled it out as an Italian lesson, or to Charles, when he carelessly
tossed over the translation in search of Don Abbondio’s humours;
and thus between reading and conversation, the morning passed very
agreeably.

At luncheon, Mr. Edmonstone asked Philip to come and spend a day or two
at Hollywell, and he accepted the invitation for the next week. ‘I will
make Thorndale drive me out if you will give him a dinner.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘we shall be delighted. We
were talking of asking him, a day or two ago; eh, mamma?’

‘Thank you,’ said Philip; ‘a family party is an especial treat to him,’
laying a particular stress on the word ‘family party,’ and looking at
his aunt.

At that moment the butler came in, saying, ‘Sir Guy’s servant is come,
and has brought the horse, sir.’

‘Deloraine come!’ cried Guy, springing up. ‘Where?’

‘At the door, sir.’

Guy darted out, Mr. Edmonstone following. In another instant, however,
Guy put his head into the room again. ‘Mrs. Edmonstone, won’t you come
and see him? Philip, you have not seen Deloraine.’

Off he rushed, and the others were just in time to see the cordial look
of honest gladness with which William, the groom, received his young
master’s greeting, and the delighted recognition between Guy, Bustle,
and Deloraine. Guy had no attention for anything else till he had heard
how they had prospered on the journey; and then he turned to claim
his friend’s admiration for the beautiful chestnut, his grandfather’s
birthday present. The ladies admired with earnestness that compensated
for want of knowledge, the gentlemen with greater science and
discrimination; indeed, Philip, as a connoisseur, could not but, for the
sake of his own reputation, discover something to criticise. Guy’s brows
drew together again, and his eyes glanced as if he was much inclined
to resent the remarks, as attacks at once on Deloraine and on his
grandfather; but he said nothing, and presently went to the stable with
Mr. Edmonstone, to see about the horse’s accommodations. Philip stood in
the hall with the ladies.

‘So I perceive you have dropped the title already,’ observed he to
Laura.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, replying for her daughter, ‘it seemed to
give him pain by reminding him of his loss, and he was so strange and
forlorn just at first, that we were glad to do what we could to make him
feel himself more at home.’

‘Then you get on pretty well now?’

The reply was in chorus with variations--‘Oh, excellently!’

‘He is so entertaining,’ said Charlotte.

‘He sings so beautifully,’ said Amabel.

‘He is so right-minded,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘So very well informed,’ said Laura.

Then it all began again.

‘He plays chess so well,’ said Amy.

‘Bustle is such a dear dog,’ said Charlotte.

‘He is so attentive to Charlie,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, going into the
drawing-room to her son.

‘Papa says he will make up for the faults of all his ancestors,’ said
Amabel.

‘His music! oh, his music!’ said Laura.

‘Philip,’ said Charlotte, earnestly, ‘you really should learn to like
him.’

‘Learn, impertinent little puss?’ said Philip, smiling, ‘why should I
not like him?’

‘I was sure you would try,’ said Charlotte, impressively.

‘Is it hard?’ said Amy. ‘But, oh, Philip! you could not help liking his
singing.’

‘I never heard such a splendid voice,’ said Laura; ‘so clear and
powerful, and yet so wonderfully sweet in the low soft notes. And a very
fine ear: he has a real talent for music.’

‘Ah! inherited, poor fellow,’ said Philip, compassionately.

‘Do you pity him for it?’ said Amy, smiling.

‘Do you forget?’ said Philip. ‘I would not advise you to make much of
this talent in public; it is too much a badge of his descent.’

‘Mamma did not think so,’ said Amy. ‘She thought it a pity he should not
learn regularly, with such a talent; so the other day, when Mr. Radford
was giving us a lesson, she asked Guy just to sing up and down the
scale. I never saw anything so funny as old Mr Radford’s surprise,
it was almost like the music lesson in “La Figlia del Reggimento”; he
started, and looked at Guy, and seemed in a perfect transport, and now
Guy is to take regular lessons.

‘Indeed.’

‘But do you really mean,’ said Laura, ‘that if your mother had been a
musician’s daughter, and you had inherited her talent, that you would be
ashamed of it.’

‘Indeed, Laura,’ said Philip, with a smile, ‘I am equally far from
guessing what I should do if my mother had been anything but what she
was, as from guessing what I should do if I had a talent for music.’

Mrs. Edmonstone here called her daughters to get ready for their walk,
as she intended to go to East-hill, and they might as well walk with
Philip as far as their roads lay together.

Philip and Laura walked on by themselves, a little in advance of the
others. Laura was very anxious to arrive at a right understanding of her
cousin’s opinion of Guy.

‘I am sure there is much to like in him,’ she said.

‘There is; but is it the highest praise to say there is much to like?
People are not so cautious when they accept a man in toto.’

‘Then, do you not?’

Philip’s answer was--


                  ‘He who the lion’s whelp has nurst,
                   At home with fostering hand,
                   Finds it a gentle thing at first,
                   Obedient to command,’


‘Do you think him a lion’s whelp?’

‘I am afraid I saw the lion just now in his flashing eyes and contracted
brow. There is an impatience of advice, a vehemence of manner that I
can hardly deem satisfactory. I do not speak from prejudice, for I think
highly of his candour, warmth of heart, and desire to do right; but from
all I have seen, I should not venture as yet to place much dependence on
his steadiness of character or command of temper.’

‘He seems to have been very fond of his grandfather, in spite of his
severity. He is but just beginning to brighten up a little.’

‘Yes; his disposition is very affectionate,--almost a misfortune to one
so isolated from family ties. He showed remarkably well at Redclyffe,
the other day; boyish of course, and without much self-command, but very
amiably. It is very well for him that he is removed from thence, for
all the people idolize him to such a degree that they could not fail to
spoil him.’

‘It would be a great pity if he went wrong.’

‘Great, for he has many admirable qualities, but still they are just
what persons are too apt to fancy compensation for faults. I never
heard that any of his family, except perhaps that unhappy old Hugh,
were deficient in frankness and generosity, and therefore these do not
satisfy me. Observe, I am not condemning him; I wish to be perfectly
just; all I say is, that I do not trust him till I have seen him tried.’

Laura did not answer, she was disappointed; yet there was a justice and
guardedness in what Philip said, that made it impossible to gainsay
it, and she was pleased with his confidence. She thought how cool and
prudent he was, and how grieved she should be if Guy justified his
doubts; and so they walked on in such silence as is perhaps the
strongest proof of intimacy. She was the first to speak, led to do so
by an expression of sadness about her cousin’s mouth. ‘What are you
thinking of, Philip?’

‘Of Locksley Hall. There is nonsense, there is affectation in that,
Laura, there is scarcely poetry, but there is power, for there is
truth.’

‘Of Locksley Hall! I thought you were at Stylehurst.’

‘So I was, but the one brings the other.’

‘I suppose you went to Stylehurst while you were at St. Mildred’s? Did
Margaret take you there?’

‘Margaret? Not she; she is too much engaged with her book-club, and her
soirées, and her societies of every sort and kind.’

‘How did you get on with the Doctor?’

‘I saw as little of him as I could, and was still more convinced that he
does not know what conversation is. Hem!’ Philip gave a deep sigh. ‘No;
the only thing to be done at St. Mildred’s is to walk across the moors
to Stylehurst. It is a strange thing to leave that tumult of gossip, and
novelty, and hardness, and to enter on that quiet autumnal old world,
with the yellow leaves floating silently down, just as they used to do,
and the atmosphere of stillness round the green churchyard.’

‘Gossip!’ repeated Laura.’ Surely not with Margaret?’

‘Literary, scientific gossip is worse than gossip in a primary sense,
without pretension.’

‘I am glad you had Stylehurst to go to. How was the old sexton’s wife?’

‘Very well; trotting about on her pattens as merrily as ever.’

‘Did you go into the garden?’

‘Yes; Fanny’s ivy has entirely covered the south wall, and the acacia is
so tall and spreading, that I longed to have the pruning of it. Old Will
keeps everything in its former state.’

They talked on of the old home, till the stern bitter look of regret and
censure had faded from his brow, and given way to a softened melancholy
expression.



CHAPTER 4

     A fig for all dactyls, a fig for all spondees,
     A fig for all dunces and dominie grandees.
                                         --SCOTT


‘How glad I am!’ exclaimed Guy, entering the drawing-room.

‘Wherefore?’ inquired Charles.

‘I thought I was too late, and I am very glad to find no one arrived,
and Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone not come down.’

‘But where have you been?’

‘I lost my way on the top of the down; I fancied some one told me there
was a view of the sea to be had there.’

‘And can’t you exist without a view of the sea?’

Guy laughed. ‘Everything looks so dull--it is as if the view was dead or
imprisoned--walled up by wood and hill, and wanting that living ripple,
heaving and struggling.’

‘And your fine rocks?’ said Laura.

‘I wish you could see the Shag stone,--a great island mass, sloping on
one side, precipitous on the other, with the spray dashing on it. If you
see it from ever so far off, there is still that white foam coming and
going--a glancing speck, like the light in an eye.’

‘Hark! a carriage.’

‘The young man and the young man’s companion,’ said Charles.

‘How can you?’ said Laura. ‘What would any one suppose Mr. Thorndale to
be?’

‘Not Philip’s valet,’ said Charles, ‘if it is true that no man is a hero
to his “valley-de-sham”; whereas, what is not Philip to the Honourable
James Thorndale?’

‘Philip, Alexander, and Bucephalus into the bargain,’ suggested Amy,
in her demure, frightened whisper, sending all but Laura into a fit of
laughter, the harder to check because the steps of the parties concerned
were heard approaching.

Mr. Thorndale was a quiet individual, one of those of whom there is
least to be said, so complete a gentleman that it would have been an
insult, to call him gentleman-like; agreeable and clever rather than
otherwise, good-looking, with a high-bred air about him, so that it
always seemed strange that he did not make more impression.

A ring at the front-door almost immediately followed their arrival.

‘Encore?’ asked Philip, looking at Laura with a sort of displeased
surprise.

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Laura, drawing aside.

‘One of my uncle’s family parties,’ said Philip. ‘I wish I had not
brought Thorndale. Laura, what is to be done to prevent the tittering
that always takes place when Amy and those Harpers are together?’

‘Some game?’ said Laura. He signed approval; but she had time to say no
more, for her father and mother came down, and some more guests entered.

It was just such a party that continually grew up at Hollywell, for
Mr. Edmonstone was so fond of inviting, that his wife never knew in the
morning how many would assemble at her table in the evening. But she was
used to it, and too good a manager even to be called so. She liked to
see her husband enjoy himself in his good-natured, open-hearted way. The
change was good for Charles, and thus it did very well, and there were
few houses in the neighbourhood more popular than Hollywell.

The guests this evening were Maurice de Courcy, a wild young Irishman,
all noise and nonsense, a great favourite with his cousin, Mr.
Edmonstone; two Miss Harpers, daughters of the late clergyman,
good-natured, second-rate girls; Dr. Mayerne, Charles’s kind old
physician, the friend and much-loved counsellor at Hollywell, and the
present vicar, Mr. Ross with his daughter Mary.

Mary Ross was the greatest friend that the Miss Edmonstones possessed,
though, she being five-and-twenty, they had not arrived at perceiving
that they were on the equal terms of youngladyhood.

She had lost her mother early, and had owed a great deal to the kindness
of Mrs. Edmonstone, as she grew up among her numerous elder brothers.
She had no girlhood; she was a boy till fourteen, and then a woman, and
she was scarcely altered since the epoch of that transition, the same
in likings, tastes, and duties. ‘Papa’ was all the world to her, and
pleasing him had much the same meaning now as then; her brothers were
like playfellows; her delights were still a lesson in Greek from papa, a
school-children’s feast, a game at play, a new book. It was only a pity
other people did not stand still too. ‘Papa,’ indeed, had never grown
sensibly older since the year of her mother’s death: but her brothers
were whiskered men, with all the cares of the world, and no holidays;
the school-girls went out to service, and were as a last year’s brood to
an old hen; the very children she had fondled were young ladies, as old,
to all intents and purposes, as herself, and here were even Laura and
Amy Edmonstone fallen into that bad habit of growing up! though little
Amy had still much of the kitten in her composition, and could play
as well as Charlotte or Mary herself, when they had the garden to
themselves.

Mary took great pains to amuse Charles, always walking to see him in
the worst weather, when she thought other visitors likely to fall, and
chatting with him as if she was the idlest person in the world, though
the quantity she did at home and in the parish would be too amazing
to be recorded. Spirited and decided, without superfluous fears and
fineries, she had a firm, robust figure, and a rosy, good-natured face,
with a manner that, though perfectly feminine, had in it an air of
strength and determination.

Hollywell was a hamlet, two miles from the parish church of East-hill,
and Mary had thus seen very little of the Edmonstone’s guest, having
only been introduced to him after church on Sunday. The pleasure on
which Charles chiefly reckoned for that evening was the talking him over
with her when the ladies came in from the dining-room. The Miss Harpers,
with his sisters, gathered round the piano, and Mrs. Edmonstone sat at
Charles’s feet, while Mary knitted and talked.

‘So you get on well with him?’

‘He is one of those people who are never in the way, and yet you never
can forgot their presence,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘His manners are quite the pink of courtesy,’ said Mary.

‘Like his grandfather’s,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘that old-school
deference and attention is very chivalrous, and sits prettily and
quaintly on his high spirits and animation; I hope it will not wear
off.’

‘A vain hope,’ said Charles. ‘At present he is like that German myth,
Kaspar Hauser, who lived till twenty in a cellar. It is lucky for mamma
that, in his green state, he is courtly instead of bearish.’

‘Lucky for you, too, Charlie; he spoils you finely.’

‘He has the rare perfection of letting me know my own mind. I never knew
what it was to have my own way before.’

‘Is that your complaint, Charlie? What next?’ said Mary.

‘So you think I have my way, do you, Mary? That is all envy, you see,
and very much misplaced. Could you guess what a conflict it is every
time I am helped up that mountain of a staircase, or the slope of
my sofa is altered? Last time Philip stayed here, every step cost an
argument, till at last, through sheer exhaustion, I left myself a dead
weight on his hands, to be carried up by main strength. And after all,
he is such a great, strong fellow, that I am afraid he did not mind it;
so next time I _crutched_ myself down alone, and I hope that did provoke
him.’

‘Sir Guy is so kind that I am ashamed,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘It seems
as if we had brought him for the sole purpose of waiting on Charles.’

‘Half his heart is in his horse,’ said Charles. ‘Never had man such
delight in the “brute creation.”’

‘They have been his chief playfellows,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘The
chief of his time was spent in wandering in the woods or on the beach,
watching them and their ways.’

‘I fairly dreamt of that Elysium of his last night,’ said Charles:
‘a swamp half frozen on a winter’s night, full of wild ducks. Here,
Charlotte, come and tell Mary the roll of Guy’s pets.’

Charlotte began. ‘There was the sea-gull, and the hedgehog, and the fox,
and the badger, and the jay, and the monkey, that he bought because it
was dying, and cured it, only it died the next winter, and a toad, and a
raven, and a squirrel, and--’

‘That will do, Charlotte.’

‘Oh! but Mary has not heard the names of all his dogs. And Mary, he has
cured Bustle of hunting my Puss. We held them up to each other, and Puss
hissed horribly, but Bustle did not mind it a bit; and the other day,
when Charles tried to set him at her, he would not take the least
notice.’

‘Now, Charlotte,’ said Charles, waving his hand, with a provoking mock
politeness, ‘have the goodness to return to your friends.

Tea over, Laura proposed the game of definitions. ‘You know it. Philip,’
said she, ‘you taught us.’

‘Yes I learnt it of your sisters, Thorndale,’ said Philip.

‘O pray let us have it. It must be charming!’ exclaimed Miss Harper, on
this recommendation.

‘Definitions!’ said Charles, contemptuously. ‘Dr. Johnson must be the
hand for them.’

‘They are just the definitions not to be found in Johnson,’ said Mr.
Thorndale. ‘Our standing specimen is adversity, which may be differently
explained according to your taste, as “a toad with a precious jewel in
its head,” or “the test of friendship.”’

‘The spirit of words,’ said Guy, looking eager and interested.

‘Well, we’ll try,’ said Charles, ‘though I can’t say it sounds to me
promising. Come, Maurice, define an Irishman.’

‘No, no, don’t let us be personal,’ said Laura; ‘I had thought of the
word “happiness”. We are each to write a definition on a slip of paper,
then compare them.’

The game was carried on with great spirit for more than an hour. It was
hard to say, which made most fun, Maurice, Charles, or Guy; the last
no longer a spectator, but an active contributor to the sport. When the
break-up came, Mary and Amabel were standing over the table together,
collecting the scattered papers, and observing that it had been very
good fun. ‘Some so characteristic,’ said Amy, ‘such as Maurice’s
definition of happiness,--a row at Dublin.’

‘Some were very deep, though,’ said Mary; ‘if it is not treason, I
should like to make out whose that other was of happiness.’

‘You mean this,’ said Amy: ‘“Gleams from a brighter world, too soon
eclipsed or forfeited.” I thought it was Philip’s, but it is Sir Guy’s
writing. How very sad! I should not like to think so. And he was so
merry all the time! This is his, too, I see; this one about riches being
the freight for which the traveller is responsible.’

‘There is a great deal of character in them,’ said Mary. ‘I should not
have wondered at any of us, penniless people, philosophizing in the fox
and grapes style, but, for him, and at his age--’

‘He has been brought up so as to make the theory of wisdom come early,’
said Philip, who was nearer than she thought.

‘Is that intended for disparagement?’ she asked quickly.

I think very highly of him; he has a great deal of sense and right
feeling,’ was Philip’s sedate answer; and he turned away to say some
last words to Mr. Thorndale.

The Rosses were the last to depart, Mary in cloak and clogs, while Mr.
Edmonstone lamented that it was in vain to offer the carriage; and Mary
laughed, and thanked, and said the walk home with Papa was the greatest
of treats in the frost and star-light.

‘Don’t I pity you, who always go out to dinner in a carriage!’ were her
last words to Laura.

‘Well, Guy,’ said Charlotte, ‘how do you like it?’

‘Very much, indeed. It was very pleasant.’

‘You are getting into the fairy ring,’ said Laura, smiling.

‘Ay’ he said, smiling too; ‘but it does not turn to tinsel. Would it if
I saw more of it?’ and he looked at Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘It would be no compliment to ourselves to say so,’ she answered.

‘I suppose tinsel or gold depends on the using,’ said he, thoughtfully;
‘there are some lumps of solid gold among those papers, I am sure, one,
in particular, about a trifle. May I see that again? I mean--


                  ‘Little things
                   On little wings
                 Bear little souls to heaven.’


‘Oh! that was only a quotation,’ said Amy, turning over the definitions
again with him, and laughing at some of the most amusing; while, in the
mean time, Philip went to help Laura, who was putting some books away in
the ante-room.

‘Yes, Laura,’ he said, ‘he has thought, mind, and soul; he is no mere
rattle.’

‘No indeed. Who could help seeing his superiority over Maurice?’

‘If only he does not pervert his gifts, and if it is not all talk. I
don’t like such excess of openness about his feelings; it is too like
talking for talking’s sake.’

‘Mamma says it in the transparency of youthfulness. You know he has
never been at school; so his thoughts come out in security of sympathy,
without fear of being laughed at. But it is very late. Good night.’


The frost turned to rain the next morning, and the torrents streamed
against the window, seeming to have a kind of attraction for Philip and
Guy, who stood watching them.

Guy wondered if the floods would be out at Redclyffe and his cousins
were interested by his description of the sudden, angry rush of the
mountain streams, eddying fiercely along, bearing with them tree and
rock, while the valleys became lakes, and the little mounds islets; and
the trees looked strangely out of proportion when only their branches
were visible. ‘Oh! a great flood is famous fun,’ said he.

‘Surely,’ said Philip, ‘I have heard a legend of your being nearly
drowned in some flood.

‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘I had a tolerable ducking.’

‘Oh, tell us about it!’ said Amy.

‘Ay! I have a curiosity to hear a personal experience of drowning,’ said
Charles. ‘Come, begin at the beginning.’

‘I was standing watching the tremendous force of the stream, when I saw
an unhappy old ram floating along, bleating so piteously, and making
such absurd, helpless struggles, that I could not help pulling off my
coat and jumping in after him. It was very foolish, for the stream was
too strong--I was two years younger then. Moreover, the beast was very
heavy, and not at all grateful for any kind intentions, and I found
myself sailing off to the sea, with the prospect of a good many rocks
before long; but just then an old tree stretched out its friendly
arms through the water; it stopped the sheep, and I caught hold of the
branches, and managed to scramble up, while my friend got entangled in
them with his wool’--


                  ‘Omne quum Proteus pecus egit altos
                                      Visere montes,’

quoted Philip.


                  ‘Ovium et summa, genus haesit ulmo,’

added Guy.

‘_Ovium_,’ exclaimed Philip, with a face of horror. ‘Don’t you know that
_O_ in _Ovis_ is short? Do anything but take liberties with Horace!’

‘Get out of the tree first, Guy,’ said Charles, ‘for at present your
history seems likely to end with a long ohone!’

‘Well, Triton--not Proteus--came to the rescue at last,’ said Guy,
laughing; ‘I could not stir, and the tree bent so frightfully with the
current that I expected every minute we should all go together; so I
had nothing for it but to halloo as loud as I could. No one heard but
Triton, the old Newfoundland dog, who presently came swimming up, so
eager to help, poor fellow, that I thought he would have throttled me,
or hurt himself in the branches. I took off my handkerchief and threw it
to him, telling him to take it to Arnaud, who I knew would understand it
as a signal of distress.’

‘Did he? How long had you to wait?’

‘I don’t know--it seemed long enough before a most welcome boat
appeared, with some men in it, and Triton in an agony. They would never
have found me but for him, for my voice was gone; indeed the next thing
I remember was lying on the grass in the park, and Markham saying,
‘Well, sir, if you do wish to throw away your life, let it be for
something better worth saving than Farmer Holt’s vicious old ram!’

‘In the language of the great Mr. Toots,’ said Charles ‘I am afraid you
got very wet.’

‘Were you the worse for it?’ said Amy.

‘Not in the least. I was so glad to hear it was Holt’s! for you must
know that I had behaved very ill to Farmer Holt. I had been very angry
at his beating our old hound, for, as he thought, worrying his sheep;
not that Dart ever did, though.

‘And was the ram saved?’

‘Yes, and next time I saw it, it nearly knocked me down.’

‘Would you do it again?’ said Philip.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I hope you had a medal from the Humane Society,’ said Charles.

‘That would have been more proper for Triton.’

‘Yours should have been an ovation,’ said Charles, cutting the o
absurdly short, and looking at Philip.

Laura saw that the spirit of teasing was strong in Charles this morning
and suspected that he wanted to stir up what he called the deadly
feud, and she hastened to change the conversation by saying, ‘You quite
impressed Guy with your translation of Fra Cristoforo.’

‘Indeed I must thank you for recommending the book,’ said Guy; ‘how
beautiful it is!’

‘I am glad you entered into it,’ said Philip; ‘it has every quality that
a fiction ought to have.’

‘I never read anything equal to the repentance of the nameless man.’

‘Is he your favourite character?’ said Philip, looking at him
attentively.

‘Oh no--of course not--though he is so grand that one thinks most about
him, but no one can be cared about as much as Lucia.’

‘Lucia! She never struck me as more than a well-painted peasant girl,’
said Philip.

‘Oh!’ cried Guy, indignantly; then, controlling himself, he continued:
‘She pretends to no more than she is, but she shows the beauty of
goodness in itself in a--a--wonderful way. And think of the power of
those words of hers over that gloomy, desperate man.’

‘Your sympathy with the Innominato again,’ said Philip. Every subject
seemed to excite Guy to a dangerous extent, as Laura thought, and she
turned to Philip to ask if he would not read to them again.

‘I brought this book on purpose,’ said Philip. ‘I wished to read you a
description of that print from Raffaelle--you know it--the Madonna di
San Sisto?’

‘The one you brought to show us?’ said Amy, ‘with the two little
angels?’

‘Yes, here is the description,’ and he began to read--

‘Dwell on the form of the Child, more than human in grandeur, seated on
the arms of the Blessed Virgin as on an august throne. Note the tokens
of divine grace, His ardent eyes, what a spirit, what a countenance is
His; yet His very resemblance to His mother denotes sufficiently that He
is of us and takes care for us. Beneath are two figures adoring, each in
their own manner. On one side is a pontiff, on the other a virgin each
a most sweet and solemn example, the one of aged, the other of maidenly
piety and reverence. Between, are two winged boys, evidently presenting
a wonderful pattern of childlike piety. Their eyes, indeed, are not
turned towards the Virgin, but both in face and gesture, they show how
careless of themselves they are in the presence of God.’

All were struck by the description. Guy did not speak at first, but
the solemn expression of his face showed how he felt its power and
reverence. Philip asked if they would like to hear more, and Charles
assented: Amy worked, Laura went on with her perspective, and Guy sat
by her side, making concentric circles with her compasses, or when she
wanted them he tormented her parallel ruler, or cut the pencils, never
letting his fingers rest except at some high or deep passage, or when
some interesting discussion arose. All were surprised when luncheon time
arrived; Charles held out his hand for the book; it was given with a
slight smile, and he exclaimed’ Latin! I thought you were translating.
Is it your own property?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it very tough? I would read it, if any one would read it with me.’

‘Do you mean me?’ said Guy; ‘I should like it very much, but you have
seen how little Latin I know.’

‘That is the very thing,’ said Charles; ‘that Ovis of yours was music; I
would have made you a Knight of the Golden Fleece on the spot. Tutors I
could get by shoals, but a fellow-dunce is inestimable.’

‘It is a bargain, then,’ said Guy; ‘if Philip has done with the book and
will lend it to us.’

The luncheon bell rang, and they all adjourned to the dining-room. Mr.
Edmonstone came in when luncheon was nearly over, rejoicing that his
letters were done, but then he looked disconsolately from the window,
and pitied the weather. ‘Nothing for it but billiards. People might say
it was nonsense to have a billiard-table in such a house, but for his
part he found there was no getting through a wet day without them.
Philip must beat him as usual, and Guy might have one of the young
ladies to make a fourth.’

‘Thank you,’ said Guy, ‘but I don’t play.’

‘Not play--eh?’ Well, we will teach you in the spinning of a ball, and
I’ll have my little Amy to help me against you and Philip.’

‘No, thank you,’ repeated Guy, colouring, ‘I am under a promise.’

‘Ha! Eh? What? Your grandfather? He could see no harm in such play as
this. For nothing, you understand. You did not suppose I meant anything
else?’

‘O no, of course not,’ eagerly replied Guy; ‘but it is impossible for me
to play, thank you. I have promised never even to look on at a game at
billiards.’

‘Ah, poor man, he had too much reason.’ uttered Mr. Edmonstone to
himself, but catching a warning look from his wife, he became suddenly
silent. Guy, meanwhile, sat looking lost in sad thoughts, till, rousing
himself, he exclaimed, ‘Don’t let me prevent you.’

Mr. Edmonstone needed but little persuasion, and carried Philip off to
the billiard-table in the front hall.

‘O, I am so glad!’ cried Charlotte, who had, within the last week,
learnt Guy’s value as a playfellow. ‘Now you will never go to those
stupid billiards, but I shall have you always, every rainy day. Come and
have a real good game at ball on the stairs.’

She already had hold of his hand, and would have dragged him off at
once, had he not waited to help Charles back to his sofa; and in the
mean time she tried in vain to persuade her more constant playmate,
Amabel, to join the game. Poor little Amy regretted the being obliged to
refuse, as she listened to the merry sounds and bouncing balls, sighing
more than once at having turned into a grown-up young lady; while Philip
observed to Laura, who was officiating as billiard-marker, that Guy was
still a mere boy.

The fates favoured Amy at last for about half after three, the billiards
were interrupted, and Philip, pronouncing the rain to be almost over,
invited Guy to take a walk, and they set out in a very gray wet mist,
while Charlotte and Amy commenced a vigorous game at battledore and
shuttle-cock.

The gray mist had faded into twilight, and twilight into something like
night, when Charles was crossing the hall, with the aid of Amy’s arm,
Charlotte carrying the crutch behind him, and Mrs. Edmonstone helping
Laura with her perspective apparatus, all on their way to dress for
dinner; the door opened and in came the two Morvilles. Guy, without,
even stopping to take off his great coat, ran at once up-stairs, and
the next moment the door of his room was shut with a bang that shook the
house, and made them all start and look at Philip for explanation.

‘Redclyffe temper,’ said he, coolly, with a half-smile curling his short
upper lip.

‘What have you been doing to him?’ said Charles.’

‘Nothing. At least nothing worthy of such ire. I only entered on the
subject of his Oxford life, and advised him to prepare for it, for his
education has as yet been a mere farce. He used to go two or three days
in the week to one Potts, a self-educated genius--a sort of superior
writing-master at the Moorworth commercial school. Of course, though it
is no fault of his, poor fellow, he is hardly up to the fifth form, and
he must make the most of his time, if he is not to be plucked. I set
all this before him as gently as I could, for I knew with whom I had to
deal, yet you see how it is.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Charles.

‘He said nothing; so far I give him credit; but he strode on furiously
for the last half mile, and this explosion is the finale. I am very
sorry for him, poor boy; I beg no further notice may be taken of it.
Don’t you want an arm, Charlie?’

‘No thank you,’ answered Charles, with a little surliness.

‘You had better. It really is too much for Amy,’ said Philip, making a
move as if to take possession of him, as he arrived at the foot of the
stairs.

‘Like the camellia, I suppose,’ he replied; and taking his other crutch
from Charlotte, he began determinedly to ascend without assistance,
resolved to keep Philip a prisoner below him as long as he could, and
enjoying the notion of chafing him by the delay. Certainly teasing
Philip was a dear delight to Charles, though it was all on trust, as, if
he succeeded, his cousin never betrayed his annoyance by look or sign.

About a quarter of an hour after, there was a knock at the
dressing-room door. ‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking up from her
letter-writing, and Guy made his appearance, looking very downcast.

‘I am come,’ he said, ‘to ask pardon for the disturbance I made just
now. I was so foolish as to be irritated at Philip’s manner, when he was
giving me some good advice, and I am very sorry.’

‘What has happened to your lip?’ she exclaimed.

He put his handkerchief to it. ‘Is it bleeding still? It is a trick
of mine to bite my lip when I am vexed. It seems to help to keep down
words. There! I have given myself a mark of this hateful outbreak.’

He looked very unhappy, more so, Mrs. Edmonstone thought, than the
actual offence required. ‘You have only failed in part,’ she said. ‘It
was a victory to keep down words.’

‘The feeling is the _thing_,’ said Guy; ‘besides, I showed it plainly
enough, without speaking.’

‘It is not easy to take advice from one so little your elder,’ began
Mrs. Edmonstone, but he interrupted her. ‘It was not the advice. That
was very good; I--’ but he spoke with an effort,--‘I am obliged to
him. It was--no, I won’t say what,’ he added, his eyes kindling, then
changing in a moment to a sorrowful, resolute tone, ‘Yes, but I _will_,
and then I shall make myself thoroughly ashamed. It was his veiled
assumption of superiority, his contempt for all I have been taught.
Just as if he had not every right to despise me, with his talent and
scholarship, after such egregious mistakes as I had made in the morning.
I gave him little reason to think highly of my attainments; but let him
slight me as much as he pleases, he must not slight those who taught me.
It was not Mr. Potts’ fault.’

Even the name could not spoil the spirited sound of the speech, and Mrs.
Edmonstone was full of sympathy. ‘You must remember,’ she said, ‘that in
the eyes of a man brought up at public school, nothing compensates for
the want of the regular classical education. I have no doubt it was very
provoking.’

‘I don’t want to be excused, thank you,’ said Guy. ‘Oh I am grieved; for
I thought the worst of my temper had been subdued. After all that has
passed--all I felt--I thought it impossible. Is there no hope for--’
He covered his face with his hands, then recovering and turning to Mrs.
Edmonstone, he said, ‘It is encroaching too much on your kindness to
come here and trouble you with my confessions.’

‘No, no, indeed,’ said she, earnestly. ‘Remember how we agreed that you
should come to me like one of my own children. And, indeed, I do not see
why you need grieve in this despairing way, for you almost overcame the
fit of anger; and perhaps you were off your guard because the trial came
in an unexpected way?’

‘It did, it did,’ he said, eagerly; ‘I don’t, mind being told point
blank that I am a dunce, but that Mr. Potts--nay, by implication--my
grandfather should be set at nought in that cool--But here I am again!’
said he, checking himself in the midst of his vehemence; ‘he did not
mean that, of course. I have no one to blame but myself.’

‘I am sure,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘that if you always treat your
failings in this way, you must subdue them at last.’

‘It is all failing, and resolving, and failing again!’ said Guy.

‘Yes, but the failures become slighter and less frequent, and the end is
victory.’

‘The end victory!’ repeated Guy, in a musing tone, as he stood leaning
against the mantelshelf.

‘Yes, to all who persevere and seek for help,’ said Mrs Edmonstone;
and he raised his eyes and fixed them on her with an earnest look that
surprised her, for it was almost as if the hope came home to him
as something new. At that moment, however, she was called away, and
directly after a voice in the next room exclaimed, ‘Are you there, Guy?
I want an arm!’ while he for the first time perceived that Charles’s
door was ajar.

Charles thought all this a great fuss about nothing, indeed he was glad
to find there was anyone who had no patience with Philip; and in his
usual mischievous manner, totally reckless of the fearful evil of
interfering with the influence for good which it was to be hoped that
Philip might exert over Guy, he spoke thus: ‘I begin to think the world
must be more docile than I have been disposed to give it credit for. How
a certain cousin of ours has escaped numerous delicate hints to mind his
own business is to me one of the wonders of the world.’

‘No one better deserves that his advice should be followed,’ said Guy,
with some constraint.

‘An additional reason against it,’ said Charles. ‘Plague on that bell!
I meant to have broken through your formalities and had a candid opinion
of Don Philip before it rang.’

‘Then I am glad of it; I could hardly have given you a candid opinion
just at present.’

Charles was vexed; but he consoled himself by thinking that Guy did not
yet feel himself out of his leading-strings, and was still on his good
behaviour. After such a flash as this there was no fear, but there was
that in him which would create mischief and disturbance enough. Charles
was well principled at the bottom, and would have shrunk with horror had
it been set before him how dangerous might be the effect of destroying
the chance of a friendship between Guy and the only person whose
guidance was likely to be beneficial to him; but his idle, unoccupied
life, and habit of only thinking of things as they concerned his
immediate amusement, made him ready to do anything for the sake of
opposition to Philip, and enjoy the vague idea of excitement to be
derived from anxiety about his father’s ward, whom at the same time he
regarded with increased liking as he became certain that what he called
the Puritan spirit was not native to him.

At dinner-time, Guy was as silent as on his first arrival, and there
would have been very little conversation had not the other gentleman
talked politics, Philip leading the discussion to bear upon the duties
and prospects of landed proprietors, and dwelling on the extent of
their opportunities for doing good. He tried to get Guy’s attention, by
speaking of Redclyffe, of the large circle influenced by the head of
the Morville family, and of the hopes entertained by Lord Thorndale
that this power would prove a valuable support to the rightful cause.
He spoke in vain; the young heir of Redclyffe made answers as brief,
absent, and indifferent, as if all this concerned him no more than the
Emperor of Morocco, and Philip, mentally pronouncing him sullen, turned
to address himself to Laura.

As soon as the ladies had left the dining-room, Guy roused himself, and
began by saying to his guardian that he was afraid he was very deficient
in classical knowledge; that he found he must work hard before going to
Oxford; and asked whether there was any tutor in the neighbourhood to
whom he could apply.

Mr. Edmonstone opened his eyes, as much amazed as if Guy had asked if
there was any executioner in the neighbourhood who could cut off his
head. Philip was no less surprised, but he held his peace, thinking it
was well Guy bad sense enough to propose it voluntarily, as he would
have suggested it to his uncle as soon as there was an opportunity of
doing so in private. As soon as Mr. Edmonstone had recollected himself,
and pronounced it to be exceedingly proper, &c., they entered into a
discussion on the neighbouring curates, and came at last to a resolution
that Philip should see whether Mr. Lascelles, a curate of Broadstone,
and an old schoolfellow of his own, would read with Guy a few hours in
every week.

After this was settled, Guy looked relieved, though he was not himself
all the evening, and sat in his old corner between the plants and the
window, where he read a grave book, instead of talking, singing, or
finishing his volume of ‘Ten Thousand a Year.’ Charlotte was all this
time ill at ease. She looked from Guy to Philip, from Philip to Guy; she
shut her mouth as if she was forming some great resolve, then coloured,
and looked confused, rushing into the conversation with something more
mal-apropos than usual, as if on purpose to appear at her ease. At last,
just before her bed-time, when the tea was coming in, Mrs. Edmonstone
engaged with that, Laura reading, Amy clearing Charles’s little table,
and Philip helping Mr. Edmonstone to unravel the confused accounts
of the late cheating bailiff, Guy suddenly found her standing by him,
perusing his face with all the power of her great blue eyes. She started
as he looked up, and put her face into Amabel’s great myrtle as if she
would make it appear that she was smelling to it.

‘Well, Charlotte?’ said he, and the sound of his voice made her speak,
but in a frightened, embarrassed whisper.

‘Guy--Guy--Oh! I beg your pardon, but I wanted to--’

‘Well, what?’ said he, kindly.

‘I wanted to make sure that you are not angry with Philip. You don’t
mean to keep up the feud, do you?’

‘Feud?--I hope not,’ said Guy, too much in earnest to be diverted with
her lecture. ‘I am very much obliged to him.’

‘Are you really?’ said Charlotte, her head a little on one side. ‘I
thought he had been scolding you.’

Scolding was so very inappropriate to Philip’s calm, argumentative way
of advising, that it became impossible not to laugh.

‘Not scolding, then?’ said Charlotte. ‘You are too nearly grown up for
that, but telling you to learn, and being tiresome.’

‘I was so foolish as to be provoked at first,’ answered Guy; ‘but I hope
I have thought better of it, and am going to act upon it.’

Charlotte opened her eyes wider than ever, but in the midst of her
amazement Mrs. Edmonstone called to Guy to quit his leafy screen and
come to tea.

Philip was to return to Broadstone the next day, and as Mrs. Edmonstone
had some errands there that would occupy her longer than Charles liked
to wait in the carriage, it was settled that Philip should drive her
there in the pony phaeton, and Guy accompany them and drive back, thus
having an opportunity of seeing Philip’s print of the ‘Madonna di San
Sisto,’ returning some calls, and being introduced to Mr. Lascelles,
whilst she was shopping. They appointed an hour and place of meeting,
and kept to it, after which Mrs. Edmonstone took Guy with her to call on
Mrs. Deane, the wife of the colonel.

It was currently believed among the young Edmonstones that Mamma and
Mrs. Deane never met without talking over Mr. Morville’s good qualities,
and the present visit proved no exception. Mrs. Deane, a kind,
open-hearted, elderly lady was very fond of Mr. Morville, and proud
of him as a credit to the regiment; and she told several traits of his
excellent judgment, kindness of heart, and power of leading to the right
course. Mrs. Edmonstone listened, and replied with delight; and no
less pleasure and admiration were seen reflected in her young friend’s
radiant face.

Mrs. Edmonstone’s first question, as they set out on their homeward
drive, was, whether they had seen Mr. Lascelles?

‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘I am to begin to morrow, and go to him every Monday
and Thursday.’

‘That is prompt.’

‘Ah! I have no time to lose; besides I have been leading too smooth
a life with you. I want something unpleasant to keep me in order.
Something famously horrid,’ repeated he, smacking the whip with a
relish, as if he would have applied that if he could have found nothing
else.

‘You think you live too smoothly at Hollywell,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone,
hardly able, with all her respect for his good impulses, to help
laughing at this strange boy.

‘Yes. Happy, thoughtless, vehement; that is what your kindness makes
me. Was it not a proof, that I must needs fly out at such a petty
provocation?’

‘I should not have thought it such a very exciting life; certainly not
such as is usually said to lead to thoughtlessness; and we have been
even quieter than usual since you came.’

‘Ah, you don’t know what stuff I am made of,’ said Guy, gravely,
though smiling; ‘your own home party is enough to do me harm; it is so
exceedingly pleasant.’

‘Pleasant things do not necessarily do harm.’

‘Not to you; not to people who are not easily unsettled; but when I
go up-stairs, after a talking, merry evening, such as the night before
last, I find that I have enjoyed it too much; I am all abroad! I can
hardly fix my thoughts, and I don’t know what to do, since here I must
be, and I can’t either be silent, or sit up in my own room.’

‘Certainly not,’ said she, smiling; ‘there are duties of society which
you owe even to us dangerous people.’

‘No, no: don’t misunderstand me. The fault is in myself. If it was
not for that, I could learn nothing but good,’ said Guy, speaking very
eagerly, distressed at her answer.

‘I believe I understand you,’ said she, marvelling at the serious,
ascetic temper, coupled with the very high animal spirits. ‘For your
comfort, I believe the unsettled feeling you complain of is chiefly the
effect of novelty. You have led so very retired a life, that a lively
family party is to you what dissipation would be to other people: and,
as you must meet with the world some time or other, it is better the
first encounter with should be in this comparatively innocent form. Go
on watching yourself, and it will do you no harm.’

Yes, but if I find it does me harm? It would be cowardly to run away,
and resistance should be from within. Yet, on the other hand, there is
the duty of giving up, wrenching oneself from all that has temptation in
it.’

‘There is nothing,’ said Mrs Edmonstone, ‘that has no temptation in it;
but I should think the rule was plain. If a duty such as that of living
among us for the present, and making yourself moderately agreeable,
involves temptations, they must be met and battled from within. In the
same way, your position in society, with all its duties, could not be
laid aside because it is full of trial. Those who do such things are
fainthearted, and fail in trust in Him who fixed their station, and
finds room for them to deny themselves in the trivial round and common
task. It is pleasure involving no duty that should be given up, if we
find it liable to lead us astray.’

‘I see,’ answered Guy, musingly; ‘and this reading comes naturally, and
is just what I wanted to keep the pleasant things from getting a full
hold of me. I ought to have thought of it sooner, instead of dawdling a
whole month in idleness. Then all this would not have happened. I hope
it will be very tough.’

‘You have no great love for Latin and Greek?’

‘Oh!’ cried Guy, eagerly, ‘to be sure I delight in Homer and the
Georgics, and plenty more. What splendid things there are in these old
fellows! But, I never liked the drudgery part of the affair; and now if
I am to be set to work to be accurate, and to get up all the grammar and
the Greek roots, it will be horrid enough in all conscience.’

He groaned as deeply as if he had not been congratulating himself just
before on the difficulty.

‘Who was your tutor?’ asked Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Mr. Potts,’ said Guy. ‘He is a very clever man; he had a common
grammar-school education, but he struggled on--taught himself a great
deal--and at last thought it great promotion to be a teacher at the
Commercial Academy, as they call it, at Moorworth, where Markham’s
nephews went to school. He is very clever, I assure you, and very
patient of the hard, wearing life he must have of it there; and oh! so
enjoying a new book, or an afternoon to himself. When I was about eight
or nine, I began with him, riding into Moorworth three times in a week;
and I have gone on ever since. I am sure he has done the best he could
for me; and he made the readings very pleasant by his own enjoyment. If
Philip had known the difficulties that man has struggled through, and
his beautiful temper, persevering in doing his best and being contented,
I am sure he could never have spoken contemptuously of him.’

‘I am sure he would not,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘all he meant was,
that a person without a university education cannot tell what the
requirements are to which a man must come up in these days.’

‘Ah!’ said Guy, laughing, ‘how I wished Mr. Potts had been there to
have enjoyed listening to Philip and Mr. Lascelles discussing some
new Lexicon, digging down for roots of words, and quoting passages of
obscure Greek poets at such a rate, that if my eyes had been shut I
could have thought them two withered old students in spectacles and
snuff-coloured coats.’

‘Philip was in his element.’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.

‘Really,’ proceeded Guy, with animation, ‘the more I hear and see of
Philip, the more I wonder. What a choice collection of books he has--so
many of them school prizes, and how beautifully bound!’

‘Ah! that is one of Philip’s peculiar ways. With all his prudence
and his love of books, I believe he would not buy one unless he had a
reasonable prospect of being able to dress it handsomely. Did you see
the print?’

‘Yes that I did. What glorious loveliness! There is nothing that does
it justice but the description in the lecture. Oh I forgot, you have
not heard it. You must let me read it to you by and by. Those two little
angels, what faces they have. Perfect innocence--one full of reasoning,
the other of unreasoning adoration!’

‘I see it!’ suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘I see what you are like
in one of your looks, not by any means, in all--it is to the larger of
those two angels.’

‘Very seldom, I should guess,’ said Guy; and sinking his voice, as if
he was communicating a most painful fact, he added, ‘My real likeness
is old Sir Hugh’s portrait at home. But what were we saying? Oh! about
Philip. How nice those stories were of Mrs. Deane’s.’

‘She is very fond of him.’

‘To have won so much esteem and admiration, already from strangers, with
no prejudice in his favour.--It must be entirely his own doing; and well
it may! Every time one hears of him, something comes out to make
him seem more admirable. You are laughing at me, and I own it is
presumptuous to praise; but I did not mean to praise, only to admire.’

‘I like very much to hear my nephew praised; I was only smiling at your
enthusiastic way.’

‘I only wonder I am not more enthusiastic,’ said Guy. ‘I suppose it is
his plain good sense that drives away that sort of feeling, for he is
as near heroism in the way of self-sacrifice as a man can be in these
days.’

‘Poor Philip! if disappointment can make a hero, it has fallen to his
share. Ah! Guy, you are brightening and looking like one of my young
ladies in hopes of a tale of true love crossed, but it was only love of
a sister.’

‘The sister for whom he gave up so much?’

‘Yes, his sister Margaret. She was eight or nine years older, very
handsome, very clever, a good deal like him--a pattern elder sister;
indeed, she brought him up in great part after his mother died, and he
was devoted to her. I do believe it made the sacrifice of his prospects
quite easy to him, to know it was for her sake, that she would live
on at Stylehurst, and the change be softened to her. Then came Fanny’s
illness, and that lead to the marriage with Dr. Henley. It was just what
no one could object to; he is a respectable man in full practice, with a
large income; but he is much older than she is, not her equal in mind or
cultivation, and though I hardly like to say so, not at all a religious
man. At any rate, Margaret Morville was one of the last people one could
bear to see marry for the sake of an establishment.’

‘Could her brother do nothing?’

‘He expostulated with all his might; but at nineteen he could do little
with a determined sister of twenty-seven; and the very truth and power
of his remonstrance must have made it leave a sting. Poor fellow, I
believe he suffered terribly--just as he had lost Fanny, too, which he
felt very deeply, for she was a very sweet creature, and he was very
fond of her. It was like losing both sisters and home at once.’

‘Has he not just been staying with Mrs. Henley?’

‘Yes. There was never any coolness, as people call it. He is the one
thing she loves and is proud of. They always correspond, and he often
stays with her; but he owns to disliking the Doctor, and I don’t think
he has much comfort in Margaret herself, for he always comes back more
grave and stern than he went. Her house, with all her good wishes, can
be no home to him; and so we try to make Hollywell supply the place of
Stylehurst as well as we can.’

‘How glad he must be to have you to comfort him!’

‘Philip? Oh no. He was always reserved; open to no one but Margaret, not
even to his father, and since her marriage he has shut himself up within
himself more than ever. It has, at least I think it is this that has
given him a severity, an unwillingness to trust, which I believe is
often the consequence of a great disappointment either in love or in
friendship.’

‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Guy: ‘I shall understand him better,
and look up to him more. Oh! it is a cruel thing to find that what one
loves is, or has not been, all one thought. What must he not have gone
through!’

Mrs. Edmonstone was well pleased to have given so much assistance to
Guy’s sincere desire to become attached to his cousin, one of the most
favourable signs in the character that was winning so much upon her.



CHAPTER 5

     A cloud was o’er my childhood’s dream,
           I sat in solitude;
     I know not how--I know not why,
     But round my soul all drearily
           There was a silent shroud.
                   --THOUGHTS IN PAST YEARS


Mrs. Edmonstone was anxious to hear Mr. Lascelle’s opinion of his pupil,
and in time she learnt that he thought Sir Guy had very good abilities,
and a fair amount of general information; but that his classical
knowledge was far from accurate, and mathematics had been greatly
neglected. He had been encouraged to think his work done when he had
gathered the general meaning of a passage, or translated it into English
verse, spirited and flowing, but often further from the original than he
or his tutor could perceive. He had never been taught to work, at least
as other boys study, and great application would be requisite to bring
his attainments to a level with those of far less clever boys educated
at a public school.

Mr. Lascelles told him so at first; but as there were no reflections on
his grandfather, or on Mr. Potts, Guy’s lip did not suffer, and he
only asked how many hours a day he ought to read. ‘Three,’ said
Mr. Lascelles, with a due regard to a probable want of habits of
application; but then, remembering how much was undone, he added, that
‘it ought to be four or more, if possible.’

‘Four it _shall_ be,’ said Guy; ‘five if I can.’

His whole strength of will was set to accomplish these four hours,
taking them before and after breakfast, working hard all the morning
till the last hour before luncheon, when he came to read the lectures on
poetry with Charles. Here, for the first time, it appeared that Charles
had so entirely ceased to consider him as company, as to domineer over
him like his own family.

Used as Guy had been to an active out-of-doors life, and now turned
back to authors he had read long ago, to fight his way through the
construction of their language, not excusing himself one jot of the
difficulty, nor turning aside from one mountain over which his own
efforts could carry him, he found his work as tough and tedious as he
could wish or fear, and by the end of the morning was thoroughly fagged.
Then would have been the refreshing time for recreation in that pleasant
idling-place, the Hollywell drawing-room. Any other time of day would
have suited Charles as well for the reading, but he liked to take the
hour at noon, and never perceived that this made all the difference to
his friend of a toil or a pleasure. Now and then Guy gave tremendous
yawns; and once when Charles told him he was very stupid, proposed a
different time; but as Charles objected, he yielded as submissively as
the rest of the household were accustomed to do.

To watch Guy was one of Charles’s chief amusements, and he rejoiced
greatly in the prospect of hearing his history of his first
dinner-party. Mr., Mrs. and Miss Edmonstone, and Sir Guy Morville, were
invited to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow. Mr. Edmonstone was delighted
as usual with any opportunity of seeing his neighbours; Guy looked as
if he did not know whether he liked the notion or not; Laura told him it
would be very absurd and stupid, but there would be some good music, and
Charles ordered her to say no more, that he might have the account, the
next morning, from a fresh and unprejudiced mind.

The next morning’s question was, of course, ‘How did you like your
party?’

‘O, it was great fun.’ Guy’s favourite answer was caught up in the
midst, as Laura replied, ‘It was just what parties always are.’

‘Come, let us have the history. Who handed who in to dinner? I hope Guy
had Mrs. Brownlow.’

‘Oh no,’ said Laura; we had both the honourables.’

‘Not Philip!’

‘No,’ said Guy; ‘the fidus Achetes was without his pious Aeneas.’

‘Very good, Guy,’ said Charles, enjoying the laugh.

‘I could not help thinking of it,’ said Guy, rather apologising, ‘when
I was watching Thorndale’s manner; it is such an imitation of Philip;
looking droller, I think, in his absence, than in his presence. I wonder
if he is conscious of it.’

‘It does not suit him at all,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; because he has no
natural dignity.’

‘A man ought to be six foot one, person and mind, to suit with that
grand, sedate, gracious way of Philip’s,’ said Guy.

‘There’s Guy’s measure of Philip’s intellect,’ said Charles, ‘just six
foot one inch.’

‘As much more than other people’s twice his height,’ said Guy.

‘Who was your neighbour, Laura?’ asked Amy.

‘Dr. Mayerne; I was very glad of him, to keep off those hunting friends
of Mr. Brownlow, who never ask anything but if one has been to the
races, and if one likes balls.’

‘And how did Mrs. Brownlow behave?’ said Charles.

‘She is a wonderful woman,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, in her quiet way;
and Guy with an expression between drollery and simplicity, said, ‘Then
there aren’t many like her.’

‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Is she really a lady?’

‘Philip commonly calls her “that woman,”’ said Charles. ‘He has never
got over her one night classing him with his “young man” and myself, as
three of the shyest monkeys she ever came across.’

‘She won’t say so of Maurice,’ said Laura, as they recovered the laugh.

‘I heard her deluding some young lady by saying he was the eldest son,’
said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Mamma!’ cried Amy, ‘could she have thought so?’

‘I put in a gentle hint on Lord de Courcy’s existence, to which she
answered, in her quick way, ‘O ay, I forgot; but then he is the second,
and that’s the next thing.’

‘If you could but have heard the stories she and Maurice were telling
each other!’ said Guy. ‘He was playing her off, I believe; for whatever
she told, he capped it with something more wonderful. Is she really a
lady?’

‘By birth,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. It is only her high spirits and small
judgment that make her so absurd.’

‘How loud she is, too!’ said Laura. ‘What was all that about horses,
Guy?’

‘She was saying she drove two such spirited horses, that all the grooms
were afraid of them; and when she wanted to take out her little boy, Mr.
Brownlow said “You may do as you like my dear, but I won’t have my son’s
neck broken, whatever you do with your own.” So Maurice answered by
declaring he knew a lady who drove not two, but four-in-hand, and when
the leaders turned round and looked her in the face, gave a little nod,
and said, ‘I’m obliged for your civility.’

‘Oh! I wish I had heard that,’ cried Laura.

‘Did you hear her saying she smoked cigars?’

Everyone cried out with horror or laughter.

‘Of course, Maurice told a story of a lady who had a cigar case hanging
at her chatelaine, and always took one to refresh her after a ball.’

Guy was interrupted by the announcement of his horse, and rode off at
once to Mr. Lascelles.

On his return he went straight to the drawing-room, where Mrs.
Edmonstone was reading to Charles, and abruptly exclaimed,--

‘I told you wrong. She only said she had smoked one cigar.’ Then
perceiving that he was interrupting, he added, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and
went away.

The next evening, on coming in from a solitary skating, he found the
younger party in the drawing-room, Charles entertaining the Miss Harpers
with the story of the cigars. He hastily interposed--

‘I told you it was but one.’

‘Ay, tried one, and went on. She was preparing an order for Havannah.’

‘I thought I told you I repeated the conversation incorrectly.’

‘If it is not the letter, it is the spirit,’ said Charles, vexed at the
interference with his sport of amazing the Miss Harpers with outrageous
stories of Mrs. Brownlow.

‘It is just like her,’ said one of them. ‘I could believe anything of
Mrs. Brownlow.’

‘You must not believe this,’ said Guy, gently. ‘I repeated incorrectly
what had better have been forgotten, and I must beg my foolish
exaggeration to go no further.’

Charles became sullenly silent; Guy stood thoughtful; and Laura and
Amabel could not easily sustain the conversation till the visitors took
their leave.

‘Here’s a pother!’ grumbled Charles, as soon as they were gone.

‘I beg your pardon for spoiling your story,’ said Guy; but it was my
fault, so I was obliged to interfere.’

‘Bosh!’ said Charles. ‘Who cares whether she smoked one or twenty? She
is Mrs. Brownlow still.’

The point is, what was truth?’ said Laura.

‘Straining at gnats,’ said Charles.

‘Little wings?’ said Guy, glancing at Amabel.

‘Have it your won way,’ said Charles, throwing his head back; ‘they must
be little souls, indeed that stick at such trash.’

Guy’s brows were contracted with vexation, but Laura looked up very
prettily, saying--

‘Never mind him. We must all honour you for doing such an unpleasant
thing.’

‘You will recommend him favourably to Philip,’ growled Charles.

There was no reply, and presently Guy asked whether he would go up to
dress? Having no other way of showing his displeasure, he refused, and
remained nursing his ill-humour, till he forgot how slight the offence
had been, and worked himself into a sort of insane desire--half
mischievous, half revengeful--to be as provoking as he could in his
turn.

Seldom had he been more contrary, as his old nurse was wont to call it.
No one could please him, and Guy was not allowed to do anything for him.
Whatever he said was intended to rub on some sore place in Guy’s mind.
His mother and Laura’s signs made him worse, for he had the pleasure of
teasing them, also; but Guy endured it all with perfect temper, and he
grew more cross at his failure; yet, from force of habit, at bed-time,
he found himself on the stairs with Guy’s arm supporting him.

‘Good night,’ said Charles; ‘I tried hard to poke up the lion to-night,
but I see it won’t do.’

This plea of trying experiments was neither absolutely true nor false;
but it restored Charles to himself, by saving a confession that he
had been out of temper, and enabling him to treat with him wonted
indifference the expostulations of father, mother, and Laura.

Now that the idea of ‘poking up the lion’ had once occurred, it became
his great occupation to attempt it. He wanted to see some evidence of
the fiery temper, and it was a new sport to try to rouse it; one, too,
which had the greater relish, as it kept the rest of the family on
thorns.

He would argue against his real opinion, talk against his better sense,
take the wrong side, and say much that was very far from his true
sentiments. Guy could not understand at first, and was quite confounded
at some of the views he espoused, till Laura came to his help, greatly
irritating her brother by hints that he was not in earnest. Next time
she could speak to Guy alone, she told him he must not take all Charles
said literally.

‘I thought he could hardly mean it: but why should he talk so?’

‘I can’t excuse him; I know it is very wrong, and at the expense of
truth, and it is very disagreeable of him--I wish he would not; but he
always does what he likes, and it is one of his amusements, so we must
bear with him, poor fellow.’

From that time Guy seemed to have no trouble in reining in his temper
in arguing with Charles, except once, when the lion was fairly roused by
something that sounded like a sneer about King Charles I.

His whole face changed, his hazel eye gleamed with light like an
eagle’s, and he started up, exclaiming--

‘You did not mean that?’

‘Ask Strafford,’ answered Charles, coolly, startled, but satisfied to
have found the vulnerable point.

‘Ungenerous, unmanly,’ said Guy, his voice low, but quivering with
indignation; ‘ungenerous to reproach him with what he so bitterly
repented. Could not his penitence, could not his own blood’--but as he
spoke, the gleam of wrath faded, the flush deepened on the cheek, and he
left the room.

‘Ha!’ soliloquized Charles, ‘I’ve done it! I could fancy his wrath
something terrific when it was once well up. I didn’t know what was
coming next; but I believe he has got himself pretty well in hand. It is
playing with edge tools; and now I have been favoured with one flash of
the Morville eye, I’ll let him alone; but it _ryled_ me to be treated as
something beneath his anger, like a woman or a child.’

In about ten minutes, Guy came back: ‘I am sorry that I was hasty just
now,’ said he.

‘I did not know you had such personal feelings about King Charles.’

‘If you would do me a kindness,’ proceeded Guy, ‘you would just say you
did not mean it. I know you do not, but if you would only say so.’

‘I am glad you have the wit to see I have too much taste to be a
roundhead.’

‘Thank you,’ said Guy; ‘I hope I shall know your jest from your earnest
another time. Only if you would oblige me, you would never jest again
about King Charles.’

His brow darkened into a stern, grave expression, so entirely in
earnest, that Charles, though making no answer, could not do otherwise
than feel compliance unavoidable. Charles had never been so entirely
conquered, yet, strange to say, he was not, as usual, rendered sullen.

At night, when Guy had taken him to his room, he paused and said--‘You
are sure that you have forgiven me?’

‘What! You have not forgotten that yet?’ said Charles.

‘Of course not.’

‘I am sorry you bear so much malice,’ said Charles, smiling.

‘What are you imagining?’ cried Guy. ‘It was my own part I was
remembering, as I must, you know.’

Charles did not choose to betray that he did not see the necessity.

‘I thought King Charles’s wrongs were rankling. I only spoke as taking
liberties with a friend.’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, thoughtfully, ‘it may be foolish, but I do not feel as
if one could do so with King Charles. He is too near home; he suffered
to much from scoffs and railings; his heart was too tender, his
repentance too deep for his friends to add one word even in jest to the
heap of reproach. How one would have loved him!’ proceeded Guy, wrapped
up in his own thoughts,--‘loved him for the gentleness so little
accordant with the rude times and the part he had to act--served him
with half like a knight’s devotion to his lady-love, half like devotion
to a saint, as Montrose did--


                 ‘Great, good, and just, could I but rate
                    My grief, and thy too rigid fate,
                  I’d weep the world in such a strain,
                    As it should deluge once again.’


‘And, oh!’ cried he, with sudden vehemence, ‘how one would have fought
for him!’

‘You would!’ said Charles. ‘I should like to see you and Deloraine
charging at the head of Prince Rupert’s troopers.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Guy, suddenly recalled, and colouring deeply;
‘I believe I forgot where I was, and have treated you to one of my old
dreams in my boatings at home. You may quiz me as much as you please
tomorrow. Good night.’

‘It was a rhapsody!’ thought Charles; ‘yes it was. I wonder I don’t
laugh at it; but I was naturally carried along. Fancy that! He did it so
naturally; in fact, it was all from the bottom of his heart, and I
could not quiz him--no, no more than Montrose himself. He is a strange
article! But he keeps one awake, which is more than most people do!’

Guy was indeed likely to keep every one awake just then; for Mr.
Edmonstone was going to take him out hunting for the first time, and
he was half wild about it. The day came, and half an hour before Mr.
Edmonstone was ready, Guy was walking about the hall, checking many an
incipient whistle, and telling every one that he was beforehand with the
world, for he had read one extra hour yesterday, and had got through
the others before breakfast. Laura thought it very true that, as Philip
said, he was only a boy, and moralized to Charlotte on his being the
same age as herself--very nearly eighteen. Mrs. Edmonstone told Charles
it was a treat to see any one so happy, and when he began to chafe at
the delay, did her best to beguile the time, but without much success.
Guy had ever learned to wait patiently, and had a custom of marching up
and down, and listening with his head thrown back, or, as Charles used
to call it, ‘prancing in the hall.’

If Mrs. Edmonstone’s patience was tried by the preparation for the hunt
in the morning, it was no less her lot to hear of it in the evening. Guy
came home in the highest spirits, pouring out his delight to every one,
with animation and power of description giving all he said a charm. The
pleasure did not lose by repetition; he was more engrossed by it
every time; and no one could be more pleased with his ardour than Mr.
Edmonstone, who, proud of him and his riding, gave a sigh to past hopes
of poor Charles, and promoted the hunting with far more glee that he had
promoted the reading.

The Redclyffe groom, William, whose surname of Robinson was entirely
forgotten in the appellation of William of Deloraine, was as proud of
Sir Guy as Mr. Edmonstone could be; but made representations to his
master that he must not hunt Deloraine two days in the week, and ride
him to Broadstone two more. Guy then walked to Broadstone; but
William was no better pleased, for he thought the credit of Redclyffe
compromised, and punished him by reporting Deloraine not fit to be
used next hunting day. Mr. Edmonstone perceived that Guy ought to have
another hunter; Philip heard of one for sale, and after due inspection
all admired--even William, who had begun by remarking that there might
be so many screw-looses about a horse, that a man did not know what to
be at with them.

Philip, who was conducting the negotiation, came to dine at Hollywell to
settle the particulars. Guy was in a most eager state; and they and Mr.
Edmonstone talked so long about horses, that they sent Charles to sleep;
his mother began to read, and the two elder girls fell into a low,
mysterious confabulation of their own till they were startled by a
question from Philip as to what could engross them so deeply.

‘It was,’ said Laura, ‘a banshee story in Eveleen de Courcy’s last
letter.’

‘I never like telling ghost stories to people who don’t believe in
them,’ half whispered Amabel to her sister.

‘Do you believe them?’ asked Philip, looking full at her.

‘Now I won’t have little Amy asked the sort of question she most
dislikes,’ interposed Laura; ‘I had rather ask if you laugh at us for
thinking many ghost stories inexplicable?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘The universal belief could hardly be kept up without some grounds,’
said Guy.

‘That would apply as well to fairies,’ said Philip.

‘Every one has an unexplained ghost story,’ said Amy.

‘Yes,’ said Philip; ‘but I would give something to meet any one whose
ghost story did not rest on the testimony of a friend’s cousin’s cousin,
a very strong-minded person.’

‘I can’t imagine how a person who has seen a ghost could ever speak of
it,’ said Amy.

‘Did you not tell us a story of pixies at Redclyffe?’ said Laura.

‘O yes; the people there believe in them firmly. Jonas Ledbury heard
them laughing one night when he could not get the gate open,’ said Guy.

‘Ah! You are the authority for ghosts,’ said Philip.

‘I forgot that,’ said Laura: ‘I wonder we never asked you about your
Redclyffe ghost.’

‘You look as if you had seen it yourself,’ said Philip.

‘You have not?’ exclaimed Amy, almost frightened.

‘Come, let us have the whole story,’ said Philip. ‘Was it your own
reflection in the glass? was it old sir Hugh? or was it the murderer of
Becket? Come, the ladies are both ready to scream at the right moment.
Never mind about giving him a cocked-hat, for with whom may you take a
liberty, if not with an ancestral ghost of your own?’

Amy could not think how Philip could have gone on all this time; perhaps
it was because he was not watching how Guy’s colour varied, how he bit
his lip; and at last his eyes seemed to grow dark in the middle, and
to sparkle with fire, as with a low, deep tone, like distant thunder,
conveying a tremendous force of suppressed passion, he exclaimed,
‘Beware of trifling--’ then breaking off hastened out of the room.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mr. Edmonstone, startled from his nap; and
his wife looked up anxiously, but returned to her book, as her nephew
replied, ‘Nothing.’

‘How could you Philip?’ said Laura.

‘I really believe he has seen it!’ said Amy, in a startled whisper.

‘He has felt it, Amy--the Morville spirit,’ said Philip.

‘It is a great pity you spoke of putting a cocked hat to it,’ said
Laura; ‘he must have suspected us of telling you what happened about
Mrs. Brownlow.’

‘And are you going to do it now?’ said her sister in a tone of
remonstrance.

‘I think Philip should hear it!’ said Laura; and she proceeded to relate
the story. She was glad to see that her cousin was struck with it;
he admired this care to maintain strict truth, and even opened a
memorandum-book--the sight of which Charles dreaded--and read the
following extract: ‘Do not think of one falsity as harmless, and another
as slight, and another as unintended. Cast them all aside. They may be
light and accidental, but they are an ugly soot from the smoke of the
pit, for all that; and it is better that our hearts should be swept
clean of them, without over care as to which is the largest or
blackest.’

Laura and Amy were much pleased; but he went on to regret that such
excellent dispositions should be coupled with such vehemence of
character and that unhappy temper. Amy was glad that her sister ventured
to hint that he might be more cautious in avoiding collisions.

‘I am cautious’, replied he, quickly and sternly; ‘I am not to be told
of the necessity of exercising forbearance with this poor boy; but it is
impossible to reckon on all the points on which he is sensitive.’

‘He is sensitive,’ said Laura. ‘I don’t mean only in temper, but in
everything. I wonder if it is part of his musical temperament to be as
keenly alive to all around, as his ear is to every note. A bright day,
a fine view, is such real happiness to him; he dwells on every beauty of
Redclyffe with such affection; and then, when he reads, Charles says it
is like going over the story again himself to watch his face act it in
that unconscious manner.’

‘He makes all the characters so real in talking them over,’ said Amy,
‘and he does not always know how they will end before they begin.’

‘I should think it hardly safe for so excitable a mind to dwell much on
the world of fiction,’ said Philip.

‘Nothing has affected him so much as Sintram,’ said Laura. ‘I never saw
anything like it. He took it up by chance, and stood reading it while
all those strange expressions began to flit over his face, and at last
he fairly cried over it so much, that he was obliged to fly out of the
room. How often he has read it I cannot tell; I believe he has bought
one for himself, and it is as if the engraving had a fascination for
him; he stands looking at it as if he was in a dream.’

‘He is a great mystery,’ said Amy.

‘All men are mysterious,’ said Philip ‘but he not more than others,
though he may appear so to you, because you have not had much
experience, and also because most of the men you have seen have been
rounded into uniformity like marbles, their sharp angles rubbed off
against each other at school.’

‘Would it be better if there were more sharp angles?’ said Laura, thus
setting on foot a discussion on public schools, on which Philip had, of
course, a great deal to say.

Amy’s kind little heart was meanwhile grieving for Guy, and longing to
see him return, but he did not come till after Philip’s departure. He
looked pale and mournful, his hair hanging loose and disordered, and
her terror was excited lest he might actually have seen his ancestor’s
ghost, which, in spite of her desire to believe in ghosts, in general,
she did not by any means wish to have authenticated. He was surprised
and a good deal vexed to find Philip gone, but he said hardly anything,
and it was soon bedtime. When Charles took his arm, he exclaimed, on
finding his sleeve wet--‘What can you have been doing?’

‘Walking up and down under the wall,’ replied Guy, with some reluctance.

‘What, in the rain?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps it was.’

Amy, who was just behind, carrying the crutch, dreaded Charles’s making
any allusion to Sintram’s wild locks and evening wanderings, but ever
since the outburst about King Charles, the desire to tease and irritate
Guy had ceased.

They parted at the dressing-room door, and as Guy bade her good night,
he pushed back the damp hair that had fallen across his forehead,
saying, ‘I am sorry I disturbed your evening. I will tell you the
meaning of it another time.’

‘He has certainly seen the ghost!’ said silly little Amy, as she shut
herself into her own room in such a fit of vague ‘eerie’ fright, that it
was not till she had knelt down, and with her face hidden in her hands,
said her evening prayer, that she could venture to lift up her head and
look into the dark corners of the room.

‘Another time!’ Her heart throbbed at the promise.

The next afternoon, as she and Laura were fighting with a refractory
branch of wisteria which had been torn down by the wind, and refused to
return to its place, Guy, who had been with his tutor, came in from the
stable-yard, reduced the trailing bough to obedience, and then joined
them in their walk. He looked grave, was silent at first, and then spoke
abruptly--‘It is due to you to explain my behaviour last night.’

‘Amy thinks you must have seen the ghost,’ said Laura, trying to be gay.

‘Did I frighten you?’ said Guy, turning round, full of compunction.
‘No, no. I never saw it. I never even heard of its being seen. I am very
sorry.’

‘I was very silly,’ said Amy smiling.

‘But,’ proceeded Guy, ‘when I think of the origin of the ghost story, I
cannot laugh, and if Philip knew all--’

‘Oh! He does not,’ cried Laura; ‘he only looks on it as we have always
done, as a sort of romantic appendage to Redclyffe. I should think
better of a place for being haunted.’

‘I used to be proud of it,’ said Guy. ‘I wanted to make out whether it
was old Sir Hugh or the murderer of Becket, who was said to groan and
turn the lock of Dark Hugh’s chamber. I hunted among old papers, and a
horrible story I found. That wretched Sir Hugh,--the same who began the
quarrel with your mother’s family--he was a courtier of Charles II, as
bad or worse than any of that crew--’

‘What was the quarrel about?’ said Laura.

‘He was believed to have either falsified or destroyed his father’s
will, so as to leave his brother, your ancestor, landless; his brother
remonstrated, and he turned him out of doors. The forgery never was
proved, but there was little doubt of it. There are traditions of his
crimes without number, especially his furious anger and malice. He
compelled a poor lady to marry him, though she was in love with another
man; then he was jealous; he waylaid his rival, shut him up in the
turret chamber, committed him to prison, and bribed Judge Jeffries
to sentence him--nay it is even said he carried his wife to see the
execution! He was so execrated that he fled the country; he went to
Holland, curried favour with William of Orange, brought his wealth to
help him, and that is the deserving action which got him the baronetcy!
He served in the army a good many years, and came home when he thought
his sins would be forgotten. But do you remember those lines?’ and Guy
repeated them in the low rigid tone, almost of horror, in which he had
been telling the story:--


                 ‘On some his vigorous judgments light,
                  In that dread pause ‘twixt day and night,
                      Life’s closing twilight hour;
                  Round some, ere yet they meet their doom,
                  Is shed the silence of the tomb,
                      The eternal shadows lower.’


‘It was so with him; he lost his senses, and after many actions of mad
violence, he ended by hanging himself in the very room where he had
imprisoned his victim.’

‘Horrible!’ said Laura. ‘Yet I do not see why, when it is all past, you
should feel it so deeply.’

‘How should I not feel it?’ answered Guy. ‘Is it not written that the
sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children? You wonder to
see me so foolish about Sintram. Well, it is my firm belief that such
a curse of sin and death as was on Sintram rests on the descendants of
that miserable man.’

The girls were silent, struck with awe and dismay at the fearful reality
with which he pronounced the words. At last, Amy whispered, ‘But Sintram
conquered his doom.’

At the same time Laura gathered her thoughts together, and said, ‘This
must be an imagination. You have dwelt on it and fostered it till you
believe it, but such notions should be driven away or they will work
their own fulfilment.’

‘Look at the history of the Morvilles, and see if it be an imagination,’
said Guy. ‘Crime and bloodshed have been the portion of each--each has
added weight and darkness to the doom which he had handed on. My own
poor father, with his early death, was, perhaps, the happiest!’

Laura saw the idea was too deeply rooted to be treated as a fancy, and
she found a better argument. ‘The doom of sin and death is on us all,
but you should remember that if you are a Morville, you are also a
Christian.’

‘He does remember it!’ said Amy, raising her eyes to his face, and then
casting them down, blushing at having understood his countenance, where,
in the midst of the gloomy shades, there rested for an instant the gleam
which her mother had likened to the expression of Raffaelle’s cherub.’

They walked on for some time in silence. At last Laura exclaimed, ‘Are
you really like the portrait of this unfortunate Sir Hugh?’

Guy made a sign of assent.

‘Oh! It must have been taken before he grew wicked,’ said Amy; and Laura
felt the same conviction, that treacherous revenge could never have
existed beneath so open a countenance, with so much of highmindedness,
pure faith and contempt of wrong in every glance of the eagle eye, in
the frank expansion of the smooth forehead.

They were interrupted by Mr. Edmonstone’s hearty voice, bawling across
the garden for one of the men. ‘O Guy! are you there?’ cried he, as
soon as he saw him. ‘Just what I wanted! Your gun, man! We are going to
ferret a rabbit.’

Guy ran off at full speed in search of his gun, whistling to Bustle. Mr.
Edmonstone found his man, and the sisters were again alone.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Laura.

‘You will not tell all this to Philip?’ said Amy.

‘It would show why he was hurt, and it can be no secret.’

‘I dare say you are right, but I have a feeling against it. Well, I am
glad he had not seen the ghost!’

The two girls had taken their walk, and were just going in, when,
looking round, they saw Philip walking fast and determinedly up the
approach, and as they turned back to meet him, the first thing he said
was, ‘Where is Guy?’

‘Ferreting rabbits with papa. What is the matter?’

‘And where is my aunt?’

Driving out with Charles and Charlotte. What is the matter?’

‘Look here. Can you tell me the meaning of this which I found on my
table when I came in this morning?’

It was a card of Sir Guy Morville, on the back of which was written in
pencil, ‘Dear P., I find hunting and reading don’t agree, so take no
further steps about the horse. Many thanks for your trouble.--G.M.’

‘There,’ said Philip, ‘is the result of brooding all night on his
resentment.’ ‘Oh no!’ cried Laura, colouring with eagerness, ‘you do not
understand him. He could not bear it last night, because, as he has been
explaining to us, that old Sir Hugh’s story was more shocking than we
ever guessed, and he has a fancy that their misfortunes are a family
fate, and he could not bear to hear it spoken of lightly.’

‘Oh! He has been telling you his own story, has he?’

Laura’s colour grew still deeper, ‘If you had been there,’ she said,
‘you would have been convinced. Why will you not believe that he finds
hunting interfere with reading?’

‘He should have thought of that before,’ said Philip.

‘Here have I half bought the horse! I have wasted the whole morning on
it, and now I have to leave it on the man’s hands. I had a dozen times
rather take it myself, if I could afford it. Such a bargain as I had
made, and such an animal as you will not see twice in your life.’

‘It is a great pity,’ said Laura. ‘He should have known his own mind. I
don’t like people to give trouble for nothing.’

‘Crazy about it last night, and giving it up this morning! A most
extraordinary proceeding. No, no, Laura, this is not simple fickleness,
it would be too absurd. It is temper, temper, which makes a man punish
himself, in hopes of punishing others.

Laura still spoke for Guy, and Amy rejoiced; for if her sister had not
taken up the defence of the absent, she must, and she felt too strongly
to be willing to speak. It seemed too absurd for one feeling himself
under such a doom to wrangle about a horse, yet she was somewhat amused
by the conviction that if Guy had really wished to annoy Philip he had
certainly succeeded.

There was no coming to an agreement. Laura’s sense of justice revolted
at the notion of Guy’s being guilty of petty spite; while Philip, firm
in his preconceived idea of his character, and his own knowledge of
mankind, was persuaded that he had imputed the true motive, and was
displeased at Laura’s attempting to argue the point. He could not wait
to see any one else, as he was engaged to dine out, and he set off again
at his quick, resolute pace.

‘He is very unfair!’ exclaimed Amy.

‘He did not mean to be so,’ said Laura; ‘and though he is mistaken in
imputing such motives, Guy’s conduct has certainly been vexatious.’

They were just turning to go in, when they were interrupted by the
return of the carriage; and before Charles had been helped up the steps,
their father and Guy came in sight. While Guy went to shut up Bustle,
who was too wet for the drawing-room, Mr. Edmonstone came up to the
others, kicking away the pebbles before him, and fidgeting with his
gloves, as he always did when vexed.

‘Here’s a pretty go!’ said he. ‘Here is Guy telling me he won’t hunt any
more!’

‘Not hunt!’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone and Charles at once; ‘and why?’

‘Oh! something about its taking his mind from his reading; but that
can’t be it--impossible, you know; I’d give ten pounds to know what has
vexed him. So keen as he was about it last night, and I vow, one of the
best riders in the whole field. Giving up that horse, too--I declare
it is a perfect sin! I told him he had gone too far, and he said he had
left a note with Philip this morning.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura; Philip has just been here about it. Guy left a card,
saying, hunting and reading would not agree.’

‘That is an excuse, depend upon it,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Something has
nettled him, I am sure. It could not be that Gordon, could it, with
his hail-fellow-well-met manner? I thought Guy did not half like it the
other day, when he rode up with his “Hollo, Morville!” The Morvilles
have a touch of pride of their own; eh, mamma?’

‘I should be inclined to believe his own account of himself,’ said she.

‘I tell you, ‘tis utterly against reason,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, angrily.
‘If he was a fellow like Philip, or James Ross, I could believe it; but
he--he make a book-worm! He hates it, like poison, at the bottom of his
heart, I’ll answer for it; and the worst of it is, the fellow putting
forward such a fair reason one can’t--being his guardian, and all--say
what one thinks of it oneself. Eh, mamma?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.

‘Well, you take him in hand, mamma. I dare say he will tell you the
rights of it, and if it is only that Gordon, explain it rightly to him,
show him ‘tis only the man’s way; tell him he treats me so for ever, and
would the Lord-Lieutenant if he was in it.’

‘For a’ that and a’ that,’ said Charles, as Amy led him into the
drawing-room.

‘You are sure the reading is the only reason?’ said Amy.’

‘He’s quite absurd enough for it,’ said Charles; but ‘absurd’ was
pronounced in a way that made its meaning far from annoying even to
Guy’s little champion.

Guy came in the next moment, and running lightly up-stairs after Mrs.
Edmonstone, found her opening the dressing-room door, and asked if he
might come in.

‘By all means,’ she said; ‘I am quite ready for one of our twilight
talks.’

‘I am afraid I have vexed Mr. Edmonstone,’ began Guy; ‘and I am very
sorry.’

‘He was only afraid that something might have occurred to vex you, which
you might not like to mention to him,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, hesitating
a little.

‘Me! What could I have done to make him think so? I am angry with no one
but myself. The fact is only this, the hunting is too pleasant; it fills
up my head all day and all night; and I don’t attend rightly to anything
else. If I am out in the morning and try to pay for it at night, it will
not do; I can but just keep awake and that’s all; the Greek letters all
seem to be hunting each other, the simplest things grow difficult, and
at last all I can think of, is how near the minute hand of my watch is
near to the hour I have set myself. So, for the last fortnight, every
construing with Mr. Lascelles has been worse than the last; and as to my
Latin verses, they were beyond everything shocking, so you see there is
no making the two things agree, and the hunting must wait till I grow
steadier, if I ever do. Heigho! It is a great bore to be so stupid, for
I thought--But it is of no use to talk of it!’

‘Mr. Edmonstone would be a very unreasonable guardian, indeed, to be
displeased,’ said his friend, smiling. You say you stopped the purchase
of the horse. Why so? Could you not keep him till you are more sure of
yourself?’

‘Do you think I might?’ joyously exclaimed Guy. ‘I’ll write to Philip
this minute by the post. Such a splendid creature: it would do you good
to see it--such action--such a neck--such spirit. It would be a shame
not to secure it. But no--no--’ and he checked himself sorrowfully. ‘I
have made my mind before that I don’t deserve it. If it was here, it
would always have to be tried: if I heard the hounds I don’t know I
should keep from riding after them; whereas, now I can’t, for William
won’t let me take Deloraine. No, I can’t trust myself to keep such a
horse, and not hunt. It will serve me right to see Mr. Brownlow on it,
and he will never miss such a chance!’ and the depth of his sigh bore
witness to the struggle it cost him.

‘I should not like to use anyone as you use yourself,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone, looking at him with affectionate anxiety, which seemed
suddenly to change the current of his thought, for he exclaimed
abruptly--‘Mrs. Edmonstone, can you tell me anything about my mother?’

‘I am afraid not,’ said she, kindly; ‘you know we had so little
intercourse with your family, that I heard little but the bare facts.’

‘I don’t think,’ said Guy, leaning on the chimneypiece, ‘that I ever
thought much about her till I knew you, but lately I have fancied a
great deal about what might have been if she had but lived.’

It was not Mrs. Edmonstone’s way to say half what she felt, and she went
on--‘Poor thing! I believe she was quite a child.’

‘Only seventeen when she died,’ said Guy.

Mrs. Edmonstone went to a drawer, took out two or three bundles of
old letters, and after searching in them by the fire-light, said--‘Ah!
here’s a little about her; it is in a letter from my sister-in-law,
Philip’s mother, when they were staying at Stylehurst.’

‘Who? My father and mother?’ cried Guy eagerly.

‘Did you not know they had been there three or four days?’

‘No--I know less about them than anybody,’ said he, sadly: but as Mrs.
Edmonstone waited, doubtful as to whether she might be about to make
disclosures for which he was unprepared, he added, hastily--‘I do
know the main facts of the story; I was told them last autumn;’ and an
expression denoting the remembrance of great suffering came over his
face; then, pausing a moment, he said--‘I knew Archdeacon Morville had
been very kind.’

‘He was always interested about your father,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘and
happening to meet him in London some little time after his marriage,
he--he was pleased with the manner in which he was behaving then,
thought--thought--’ And here, recollecting that she must not speak ill
of old Sir Guy, nor palliate his son’s conduct, poor Mrs. Edmonstone
got into an inextricable confusion--all the worse because the fierce
twisting of a penwiper in Guy’s fingers denoted that he was suffering a
great trial of patience. She avoided the difficulty thus: ‘It is hard
to speak of such things when there is so much to be regretted on both
sides; but the fact was, my brother thought your father was harshly
dealt with at that time. Of course he had done very wrong; but he had
been so much neglected and left to himself, that it seemed hardly
fair to visit his offence on him as severely as if he had had more
advantages. So it ended in their coming to spend a day or two at
Stylehurst; and this is the letter my sister-in-law wrote at the time:

‘“Our visitors have just left us, and on the whole I am much better
pleased than I expected. The little Mrs. Morville is a very pretty
creature, and as engaging as long flaxen curls, apple-blossom
complexion, blue eyes, and the sweetest of voices can make her; so
full of childish glee and playfulness, that no one would stop to think
whether she was lady-like any more than you would with a child. She
used to go singing like a bird about the house as soon as the first
strangeness wore off, which was after her first game of play with Fanny
and Little Philip. She made them very fond of her, as indeed she would
make every one who spent a day or two in the same house with her. I
could almost defy Sir Guy not to be reconciled after one sight of
her sweet sunny face. She is all affection and gentleness, and with
tolerable training anything might be made of her; but she is so young
in mind and manners, that one cannot even think of blaming her for her
elopement, for she had no mother, no education but in music; and her
brother seems to have forced it on, thrown her in Mr. Morville’s way,
and worked on his excitable temperament, until he hurried them into
marriage. Poor little girl, I suppose she little guesses what she has
done; but it was very pleasant to see how devotedly attached he seemed
to her; and there was something beautiful in the softening of his
impetuous tones when he said, ‘Marianne;’ and her pride in him was very
pretty, like a child playing at matronly airs.”’

Guy gave a long, heavy sigh, brushed away a tear, and after a long
silence, said, ‘Is that all?’

‘All that I like to read to you. Indeed, there is no more about her;
and it would be of no use to read all the reports that were going
about.--Ah! here,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking into another letter,
‘she speaks of your father as a very fine young man, with most generous
impulses,’--but here again she was obliged to stop, for the next
sentence spoke of ‘a noble character ruined by mismanagement.’ ‘She
never saw them again,’ continued Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘Mr. Dixon, your
mother’s brother, had great influence with your father, and made matters
worse--so much worse, that my brother did not feel himself justified in
having any more to do with them.’

‘Ah! he went to America,’ said Guy; ‘I don’t know any more about him
except that he came to the funeral and stood with his arms folded, not
choosing to shake hands with my poor grandfather.’ After another silence
he said, ‘Will you read that again?’ and when he had heard it, he sat
shading his brow with his hand, as if to bring the fair, girlish picture
fully before his mind, while Mrs. Edmonstone sought in vain among her
letters for one which did not speak of the fiery passions ignited on
either side, in terms too strong to be fit for his ears.

When next he spoke it was to repeat that he had not been informed of
the history of his parents till within the last few months. He had,
of course, known the manner of their death, but had only lately become
aware of the circumstances attending it.

The truth was that Guy had grown up peculiarly shielded from evil, but
ignorant of the cause of the almost morbid solicitude with which he was
regarded by his grandfather. He was a very happy, joyous boy, leading
an active, enterprising life, though so lonely as to occasion greater
dreaminess and thoughtfulness than usual at such an early age. He was
devotedly attached to his grandfather, looking on him as the first and
best of human beings, and silencing the belief that Sir Hugh Morville
had entailed a doom of crime and sorrow on the family, by a reference to
him, as one who had been always good and prosperous.

When, however, Guy had reached an age at which he must encounter the
influences which had proved so baneful to others of his family, his
grandfather thought it time to give him the warning of his own history.

The sins, which the repentance of years had made more odious in the
eyes of the old man, were narrated; the idleness and insubordination
at first, then the reckless pursuit of pleasure, the craving for
excitement, the defiance of rule and authority, till folly had become
vice, and vice had led to crime.

He had fought no fewer than three duels, and only one had been
bloodless. His misery after the first had well-nigh led to a reform;
but time had dulled its acuteness--it had been lost in fresh scenes
of excitement--and at the next offence rage had swept away such
recollections. Indeed, so far had he lost the natural generosity of his
character, that his remorse had been comparatively slight for the last,
which was the worst of all, since he had forced the quarrel on his
victim, Captain Wellwood, whose death had left a wife and children
almost destitute. His first awakening to a sense of what his course had
been, was when he beheld his only child, in the prime of youth, carried
lifeless across his threshold, and attributed his death to his own
intemperance and violence. That hour made Sir Guy Morville an old and a
broken-hearted man; and he repented as vigorously as he had sinned.

From the moment he dared to hope that his son’s orphan would be spared,
he had been devoted to him, but still mournfully, envying and pitying
his innocence as something that could not last.

He saw bright blossoms put forth, as the boy grew older; but they were
not yet fruits, and he did not dare to believe they ever would be.
The strength of will which had, in his own case, been the slave of his
passions, had been turned inward to subdue the passions themselves, but
this was only the beginning--the trial was not yet come. He could hope
his grandson might repent, but this was the best that he dared to think
possible. He could not believe that a Morville could pass unscathed
through the world, or that his sins would not be visited on the head of
his only descendant; and the tone of his narration was throughout such
as might almost have made the foreboding cause its own accomplishment.

The effect was beyond what he had expected; for a soul deeply dyed
in guilt, even though loathing its own stains, had not the power of
conceiving how foul was the aspect of vice, to one hitherto guarded from
its contemplation, and living in a world of pure, lofty day-dreams. The
boy sat the whole time without a word, his face bent down and hidden
by his clasped hands, only now and then unable to repress a start or
shudder at some fresh disclosure; and when it was ended, he stood up,
gazed round, and walked uncertainly, as if he did not know where he
was. His next impulse was to throw himself on his knee beside his
grandfather, and caress him as he used to when a child. The ‘good-night’
was spoken, and Guy was shut into his room, with his overwhelming
emotions.

His grandfather a blood-stained, remorseful man! The doom was complete,
himself heir to the curse of Sir Hugh, and fated to run the same career;
and as he knew full well, with the tendency to the family character
strong within him, the germs of these hateful passions ready to take
root downwards and bear fruit upwards, with the very countenance of Sir
Hugh, and the same darkening, kindling eyes, of which traditions had
preserved the remembrance.

He was crushed for awhile. The consciousness of strength not his own,
of the still small voice that could subdue the fire, the earthquake, and
the whirlwind, was slow in coming to him; and when it came, he, like his
grandfather, had hope rather of final repentance than of keeping himself
unstained.

His mind had not recovered the shock when his grandfather died,--died
in faith and fear, with good hope of accepted repentance, but unable to
convey the assurance of such hope to his grandson. Grief for the only
parent he had ever known, and the sensation of being completely alone in
the world, were joined to a vague impression of horror at the suddenness
of the stroke, and it was long before the influence of Hollywell, or the
elasticity of his own youthfulness, could rouse him from his depression.

Even then it was almost against his will that he returned to enjoyment,
unable to avoid being amused, but feeling as if joy was not meant for
him, and as if those around were walking ‘in a world of light,’ where he
could scarcely hope to tread a few uncertain steps. In this despondency
was Guy’s chief danger, as it was likely to make him deem a struggle
with temptation fruitless, while his high spirits and powers of keen
enjoyment increased the peril of recklessness in the reaction.

It was Mrs. Edmonstone who first spoke with him cheerfully of
a successful conflict with evil, and made him perceive that his
temptations were but such as is common to man. She had given him a clue
to discover when and how to trust himself to enjoy; the story of Sintram
had stirred him deeply, and this very day, Amy’s words, seemingly
unheeded and unheard, had brought home to him the hope and encouragement
of that marvellous tale.

They had helped him in standing, looking steadfastly upwards, and
treading down not merely evil, but the first token of coming evil,
regardless of the bruises he might inflict on himself. Well for him if
he was constant.

Such was Guy’s inner life; his outward life, frank and joyous, has been
shown, and the two flowed on like a stream, pure as crystal, but into
which the eye cannot penetrate from its depth. The surface would be
sometimes obscured by cloud or shade, and reveal the sombre wells
beneath; but more often the sunshine would penetrate the inmost
recesses, and make them glance and sparkle, showing themselves as clear
and limpid as the surface itself.



CHAPTER 6

      Can piety the discord heal,
      Or stanch the death-feud’s enmity?
                                --Scott


It must not be supposed that such a history of Guy’s mind was expressed
by himself, or understood by Mrs. Edmonstone; but she saw enough to
guess at his character, perceive the sort of guidance he needed, and be
doubly interested in him. Much did she wish he could have such a friend
as her brother would have been, and hope that nothing would prevent a
friendship with her nephew.

The present question about the horse was, she thought, unfortunate,
since, though Guy had exercised great self-denial, it was no wonder
Philip was annoyed. Mr. Edmonstone’s vexation was soon over. As soon as
she had persuaded him that there had been no offence, he strove to say
with a good grace, that it was very proper, and told Guy he would be
a thorough book-worm and tremendous scholar, which Guy took as an
excellent joke.

Philip had made up his mind to be forbearing, and to say no more about
it. Laura thought this a pity, as they could thus never come to an
understanding; but when she hinted it, he wore such a dignified air of
not being offended, that she was much ashamed of having tried to direct
one so much better able to judge. On his side Guy had no idea the
trouble he had caused; so, after bestowing his thanks in a gay, off-hand
way, which Philip thought the worst feature of the case, he did his best
to bring Hecuba back into his mind, drive the hunters out of it, and
appease the much-aggrieved William of Deloraine.

When all William’s manoeuvres resulted in his master’s not hunting at
all, he was persuaded it was Mr. Edmonstone’s fault, compassionated
Sir Guy with all his heart, and could only solace himself by taking
Deloraine to exercise where he was most likely to meet the hounds. He
further chose to demonstrate that he was not Mr. Edmonstone’s servant,
by disregarding some of his stable regulations; but as soon as this came
to his master’s knowledge, a few words were spoken so sharp and stern,
that William never attempted to disobey again.

It seemed as if it was the perception that so much was kept back by a
strong force, that made Guy’s least token of displeasure so formidable.
A village boy, whom he caught misusing a poor dog, was found a few
minutes after, by Mr. Ross, in a state of terror that was positively
ludicrous, though it did not appear that Sir Guy had said or done much
to alarm him; it was only the light in his eyes, and the strength
of repressed indignation in his short broken words that had made the
impression.

It appeared as if the force of his anger might be fearful, if once it
broke forth without control; yet at the same time he had a gentleness
and attention, alike to small and great, which, with his high spirit
and good nature, his very sweet voice and pleasant smile, made him a
peculiarly winning and engaging person; and few who saw him could help
being interested in him.

No wonder he had become in the eyes of the Edmonstones almost a part of
their family. Mrs. Edmonstone had assumed a motherly control over him,
to which he submitted with a sort of affectionate gratitude.

One day Philip remarked, that he never saw any one so restless as
Guy, who could neither talk nor listen without playing with something.
Scissors, pencil, paper-knife, or anything that came in his way, was
sure to be twisted or tormented; or if nothing else was at hand, he
opened and shut his own knife so as to put all the spectators in fear
for his fingers.

‘Yes,’ said Laura, ‘I saw how it tortured your eyebrows all the time you
were translating Schiller to us. I wondered you were not put out.’

‘I consider that to be put out--by which you mean to have the intellect
at the mercy of another’s folly--is beneath a reasonable creature,’
said Philip; ‘but that I was annoyed, I do not deny. It is a token of a
restless, ill-regulated mind.’

‘Restless, perhaps,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone ‘but not necessarily
ill-regulated. I should think it rather a sign that he had no one to
tell him of the tricks which mothers generally nip in the bud.’

‘I was going to say that I think he fidgets less,’ said Laura; ‘but I
think his chief contortions of the scissors have been when Philip has
been here.’

‘They have, I believe,’ said her mother, I was thinking of giving him a
hint.’

‘Well, aunt, you are a tamer of savage beasts if you venture on such a
subject,’ said Philip.

‘Do you dare me?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Why, I don’t suppose he would do more than give you one of his
lightning glances: but that, I think, is more than you desire.’

‘Considerably,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘for his sake as much as my own.’

‘But,’ said Laura, ‘mamma has nearly cured him of pawing like a horse in
the hall when he is kept waiting. He said he knew it was impatience,
and begged her to tell him how to cure it. So she treated him as an old
fairy might, and advised him in a grave, mysterious way, always to go
and play the “Harmonious Blacksmith,” when he found himself getting
into “a taking”, just as if it was a charm. And he always does it most
dutifully.’

‘It has a very good effect,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘for it is apt to act
as a summons to the other party, as well as a sedative to him.’

‘I must say I am curious to see what you will devise this time,’ said
Philip; ‘since you can’t set him to play on the piano; and very few can
bear to be told of a trick of the kind.’

In the course of that evening, Philip caused the great atlas to be
brought out in order to make investigations on the local habitation of
a certain Khan of Kipchack, who existed somewhere in the dark ages. Then
he came to Marco Polo, and Sir John Mandeville; and Guy, who knew both
the books in the library at Redclyffe, grew very eager in talking them
over, and tracing their adventures--then to the Genoese merchants, where
Guy confessed himself perfectly ignorant. Andrea Doria was the only
Genoese he ever heard of; but he hunted out with great interest all the
localities of their numerous settlements. Then came modern Italy, and
its fallen palaces; then the contrast between the republican merchant
and aristocratic lord of the soil; then the corn laws; and then, and not
till then, did Philip glance at his aunt, to show her Guy balancing a
Venetian weight on as few of his fingers as could support it.

‘Guy,’ said she, smiling, ‘does that unfortunate glass inspire you with
any arguments in favour of the Venetians?’

Guy put it down at once, and Philip proceeded to improved methods of
farming, to enable landlords to meet the exigencies of the times. Guy
had got hold of Mr. Edmonstone’s spectacle-case, and was putting its
spring to a hard trial. Mrs. Edmonstone doubted whether to interfere
again; she knew this was not the sort of thing that tried his temper,
yet she particularly disliked playing him off, as it were for Philip’s
amusement, and quite as much letting him go on, and lower himself in her
nephew’s estimation. The spectacle-case settled the matter--a crack was
heard, it refused to snap at all; and Guy, much discomfited, made many
apologies.

Amy laughed; Philip was much too well-bred to do anything but curl his
lip unconsciously. Mrs. Edmonstone waited till he was gone, then, when
she was wishing Guy ‘good-night’ at Charles’s door, she said,--

‘The spectacle-case forestalled me in giving you a lecture on sparing
our nerves. Don’t look so very full of compunction--it is only a trick
which your mother would have stopped at five years old, and which you
can soon stop for yourself.’

‘Thank you, I will!’ said Guy; ‘I hardly knew I did it, but I am very
sorry it has teased you.’

Thenceforward it was curious to see how he put down and pushed away all
he had once begun to touch and torture. Mrs. Edmonstone said it was
self command in no common degree; and Philip allowed that to cure so
inveterate a habit required considerable strength of will.

‘However,’ he said, ‘I always gave the Morvilles credit for an iron
resolution. Yes, Amy, you may laugh; but if a man is not resolute in a
little, he will never be resolute in great matters.’

‘And Guy has been resolute the right way this time,’ said Laura.

‘May he always be the same,’ said Philip.

Philip had undertaken, on his way back to Broadstone, to conduct
Charlotte to East-hill, where she was to spend the day with a little
niece of Mary Ross. She presently came down, her bonnet-strings tied
in a most resolute-looking bow, and her little figure drawn up so as to
look as womanly is possible for her first walk alone with Philip. She
wished the party at home ‘goodbye;’ and as Amy and Laura stood watching
her, they could not help laughing to see her tripping feet striving to
keep step, her blue veil discreetly composed and her little head turned
up, as if she was trying hard to be on equal terms with the tall cousin,
who meanwhile looked graciously down from his height, patronising her
like a very small child. After some space, Amy began to wonder what
they could talk about, or whether they would talk at all; but Laura said
there was no fear of Charlotte’s tongue ever being still, and Charles
rejoined,--

‘Don’t you know that Philip considers it due to himself that his
audience should never be without conversation suited to their capacity?’

‘Nonsense, Charlie!’

‘Nay, I give him credit for doing it as well as it is in nature of
things for it to be done. The strongest proof I know of his being a
superior man, is the way he adapts himself to his company. He lays down
the law to us, because he knows we are all born to be his admirers; he
calls Thorndale his dear fellow and conducts him like a Mentor; but
you may observe how different he is with other people--Mr. Ross, for
instance. It is not showing off; it is just what the pattern hero should
be with the pattern clergyman. At a dinner party he is quite in his
place; contents himself with leaving an impression on his neighbour that
Mr. Morville is at home on every subject; and that he is the right thing
with his brother officers is sufficiently proved, since not even Maurice
either hates or quizzes him.’

‘Well, Charlie,’ said Laura, well pleased, I am glad you are convinced
at last.’

‘Do you think I ever wanted to be convinced that we were created for
no other end than to applaud Philip? I was fulfilling the object of our
existence by enlarging on a remark of Guy’s, that nothing struck him
more than the way in which Philip could adapt his conversation to the
hearers. So the hint was not lost on me; and I came to the conclusion
that it was a far greater proof of his sense than all the maxims he
lavishes on us.’

‘I wonder Guy was the person to make the remark,’ said Laura; ‘for it is
strange that those two never appear to the best advantage together.’

‘Oh, Laura, that would be the very reason,’ said Amy.

‘The very reason?’ said Charles. Draw out your meaning, Miss.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy, colouring, ‘If Guy--if a generous person, I mean--were
vexed with another sometimes, it would be the very reason he would make
the most of all his goodness.’

‘Heigh-ho!’ yawned Charles. What o’clock is it? I wonder when Guy is
ever coming back from that Lascelles.’

‘Your wonder need not last long,’ said Laura; ‘for I see him riding into
the stable yard.’

In a few minutes he had entered; and, on being asked if he had met
Philip and Charlotte, and how they were getting on, he replied,--‘A good
deal like the print of Dignity and Impudence,’ at the same time throwing
back his shoulders, and composing his countenance to imitate Philip’s
lofty deportment and sedate expression, and the next moment putting his
head on one side with a sharp little nod, and giving a certain espiegle
glance of the eye, and knowing twist of one corner of the mouth, just
like Charlotte.

‘By the by,’ added he, ‘would Philip have been a clergyman if he had
gone to Oxford?’

‘I don’t know; I don’t think it was settled,’ said Laura, ‘Why?’

‘I could never fancy him one’ said Guy. ‘He would not have been what
he is now if he had gone to Oxford,’ said Charles. ‘He would have lived
with men of the same powers and pursuits with himself, and have found
his level.’

‘And that would have been a very high one,’ said Guy.

‘It would; but there would be all the difference there is between a
feudal prince and an Eastern despot. He would know what it is to live
with his match.’

‘But you don’t attempt to call him conceited!’ cried Guy, with a sort of
consternation.

‘He is far above that; far too grand,’ said Amy.

‘I should as soon think of calling Jupiter conceited,’ said Charles; and
Laura did not know how far to be gratified, or otherwise.

Charles had not over-estimated Philip’s readiness of self adaptation.
Charlotte had been very happy with him, talking over the “Lady of the
Lake”, which she had just read, and being enlightened, partly to
her satisfaction, partly to her disappointment, as to how much was
historical. He listened good-naturedly to a fit of rapture, and threw in
a few, not too many, discreet words of guidance to the true principles
of taste; and next told her about an island, in a pond at Stylehurst,
which had been by turns Ellen’s isle and Robinson Crusoe’s. It was at
this point in the conversation that Guy came in sight, riding slowly,
his reins on his horse’s neck, whistling a slow, melancholy tune, his
eyes fixed on the sky, and so lost in musings, that he did not perceive
them till Philip arrested him by calling out, ‘That is a very bad plan.
No horse is to be trusted in that way, especially such a spirited one.’

Guy started, and gathered up his reins, owning it was foolish.

‘You look only half disenchanted yet,’ said Philip. ‘Has Lascelles put
you into what my father’s old gardener used to call a stud?’

‘Nothing so worthy of a stud,’ said Guy, smiling and colouring a little.
‘I was only dreaming over a picture of ruin--


                 ‘The steed is vanish’d from the stall,
                  No serf is seen in Hassan’s hall,
                  The lonely spider’s thin grey pall
                  Waves, slowly widening o’er the wall.’


‘Byron!’ exclaimed Philip. ‘I hope you are not dwelling on him?’

‘Only a volume I found in my room.’

‘Oh, the “Giaour”!’ said Philip. ‘Well, there is no great damage done;
but it is bad food for excitable minds. Don’t let it get hold of you.’

‘Very well;’ and there was a cloud, but it cleared in a moment, and,
with a few gay words to both, he rode off at a quick pace.

‘Foolish fellow!’ muttered Philip, looking after him.

After some space of silence, Charlotte began in a very grave tone--

‘Philip.’

‘Well?’

‘Philip.’

Another ‘Well!’ and another long pause.

‘Philip, I don’t know whether you’ll be angry with me.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Philip, marvelling at what was coming.

‘Guy says he does not want to keep up the feud, and I wish you would
not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The deadly feud!’ said Charlotte.

‘What nonsense is this?’ said Philip.

‘Surely--Oh Philip, there always was a deadly feud between our
ancestors, and the Redclyffe Morvilles, and it was very wrong, and ought
not to be kept up now.’

‘It is not I that keep it up.’

‘Is it not?’ said Charlotte. ‘But I am sure you don’t like Guy. And I
can’t think why not, unless it is the deadly feud, for we are all so
fond of him. Laura says it is a different house since he came.’

‘Hum!’ said Philip. ‘Charlotte, you did well to make me promise not to
be angry with you, by which, I presume, you mean displeased. I should
like to know what put this notion into your head.’

‘Charlie told me,’ almost whispered Charlotte, hanging down her head.
‘And--and--’

‘And what? I can’t hear.’

Charlotte was a good deal frightened; but either from firmness, or from
the female propensity to have the last word, or it might be the spirit
of mischief, she got out--‘You have made me quite sure of it yourself.’

She was so alarmed at having said this, that had it not been
undignified, she would have run quite away, and never stopped till
she came to East-hill. Matters were not mended when Philip said
authoritatively, and as if he was not in the least bit annoyed (which
was the more vexatious), ‘What do you mean, Charlotte?’

She had a great mind to cry, by way of getting out of the scrape; but
having begun as a counsellor and peacemaker, it would never do to be
babyish; and on his repeating the question, she said, in a tone which
she could not prevent from being lachrymose, ‘You make Guy almost angry,
you tease him, and when people praise him, you answer as if it would not
last! And it is very unfair of you,’ concluded she, with almost a sob.

‘Charlotte,’ replied Philip, much more kindly than she thought she
deserved, after the reproach that seemed to her so dreadfully naughty,
‘you may dismiss all fear of deadly feud, whatever you may mean by it.
Charles has been playing tricks on you. You know, my little cousin, that
I am a Christian, and we live in the nineteenth century.’

Charlotte felt as if annihilated at the aspect of her own folly. He
resumed--‘You misunderstood me. I do think Guy very agreeable. He is
very attentive to Charles, very kind to you, and so attractive, that I
don’t wonder you like him. But those who are older than you see that he
has faults, and we wish to set him on his guard against them. It may be
painful to ourselves, and irritating to him, but depend upon it, it is
the proof of friendship. Are you satisfied, my little cousin?’

She could only say humbly, ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You need not ask pardon. Since you had the notion, it was right to
speak, as it was to me, one of your own family. When you are older, you
need never fear to speak out in the right place. I am glad you have
so much of the right sort of feminine courage, though in this case you
might have ventured to trust to me.’

So ended Charlotte’s anxieties respecting the deadly feud, and she had
now to make up her mind to the loss of her playfellow, who was to go to
Oxford at Easter, when he would be just eighteen, his birthday being the
28th of March. Both her playmates were going, Bustle as well as Guy, and
it was at first proposed that Deloraine should go too, but Guy bethought
himself that Oxford would be a place of temptation for William; and not
choosing to trust the horse to any one else, resolved to leave both at
Hollywell.

His grandfather had left an allowance for Guy, until his coming of age,
such as might leave no room for extravagance, and which even Philip
pronounced to be hardly sufficient for a young man in his position. ‘You
know,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, in his hesitating, good-natured way, ‘if
ever you have occasion sometimes for a little--a little more--you need
only apply to me. Don’t be afraid, anything rather than run into debt.
You know me, and ‘tis your own.’

‘This shall do,’ said Guy, in the same tone as he had fixed his hours of
study.

Each of the family made Guy a birthday present, as an outfit for Oxford;
Mr. Edmonstone gave him a set of studs, Mrs. Edmonstone a Christian
Year, Amabel copied some of his favourite songs, Laura made a drawing
of Sintram, Charlotte worked a kettle-holder, with what was called by
courtesy a likeness of Bustle. Charles gave nothing, professing that he
would do nothing to encourage his departure.

‘You don’t know what a bore it is to lose the one bit of quicksilver in
the house!’ said he, yawning. ‘I shall only drag on my existence till
you come back.’

‘You, Charles, the maker of fun!’ said Guy, amazed.

‘It is a case of flint and steel,’ said Charles; ‘but be it owing to who
it will, we have been alive since you came here. You have taken care
to be remembered. We have been studying you, or laughing at you, or
wondering what absurdity was to come next.’

‘I am very sorry--that is, if you are serious. I hoped at least I
appeared like other people.’

‘I’ll tell you what you appear like. Just what I would be if I was a
free man.’

‘Never say that, Charlie!’

‘Nay, wait a bit. I would never be so foolish. I would never give my
sunny mornings to Euripides; I would not let the best hunter in the
county go when I had wherewithal to pay for him.’

‘You would not have such an ill-conditioned self to keep in rule.’

‘After all,’ continued Charles, yawning, ‘it is no great compliment to
say I am sorry you are going. If you were an Ethiopian serenader, you
would be a loss to me. It is something to see anything beyond this old
drawing-room, and the same faces doing the same things every day. Laura
poking over her drawing, and meditating upon the last entry in Philip’s
memorandum-book, and Amy at her flowers or some nonsense or other,
and Charlotte and the elders all the same, and a lot of stupid people
dropping in and a lot of stupid books to read, all just alike. I can
tell what they are like without looking in!’ Charles yawned again,
sighed, and moved wearily. ‘Now, there came some life and freshness with
you. You talk of Redclyffe, and your brute creation there, not like
a book, and still less like a commonplace man; you are innocent and
unsophisticated, and take new points of view; you are something to
interest oneself about; your coming in is something to look forward
to; you make the singing not such mere milk-and-water, your reading the
Praelectiones is an additional landmark to time; besides the mutton of
to-day succeeding the beef of yesterday. Heigh-ho! I’ll tell you what,
Guy. Though I may carry it off with a high hand, ‘tis no joke to be
a helpless log all the best years of a man’s life,--nay, for my whole
life,--for at the very best of the contingencies the doctors are always
flattering me with, I should make but a wretched crippling affair of it.
And if that is the best hope they give me, you may guess it is likely to
be a pretty deal worse. Hope? I’ve been hoping these ten years, and much
good has it done me. I say, Guy,’ he proceeded, in a tone of extreme
bitterness, though with a sort of smile, ‘the only wonder is that I
don’t hate the very sight of you! There are times when I feel as if I
could bite some men,--that Tomfool Maurice de Courcy, for instance, when
I hear him rattling on, and think--’

‘I know I have often talked thoughtlessly, I have feared afterwards I
might have given you pain.’

‘No, no, you never have; you have carried me along with you. I like
nothing better than to hear of your ridings, and shootings, and
boatings. It is a sort of life.’

Charles had never till now alluded seriously to his infirmity before
Guy, and the changing countenance of his auditor showed him to be
much affected, as he stood leaning over the end of the sofa, with his
speaking eyes earnestly fixed on Charles, who went on:

‘And now you are going to Oxford. You will take your place among the men
of your day. You will hear and be heard of. You will be somebody. And
I!--I know I have what they call talent--I could be something. They
think me an idle dog; but where’s the good of doing anything? I only
know if I was not--not condemned to--to this--this life,’ (had it not
been for a sort of involuntary respect to the gentle compassion of the
softened hazel eyes regarding him so kindly, he would have used the
violent expletive that trembled on his lip;) ‘if I was not chained down
here, Master Philip should not stand alone as the paragon of the family.
I’ve as much mother wit as he.’

‘That you have,’ said Guy. ‘How fast you see the sense of a passage. You
could excel very much if you only tried.’

‘Tried?’ And what am I to gain by it?’

‘I don’t know that one ought to let talents rust,’ said Guy,
thoughtfully; ‘I suppose it is one’s duty not; and surely it is a pity
to give up those readings.’

‘I shall not get such another fellow dunce as you,’ said Charles, ‘as I
told you when we began, and it would be a mere farce to do it alone. I
could not make myself, if I would.’

‘Can’t you make yourself do what you please?’ said Guy, as if it was the
simplest thing in the world.

‘Not a bit, if the other half of me does not like it. I forget it, or
put it off, and it comes to nothing. I do declare, though, I would get
something to break my mind on, merely as a medical precaution, just to
freshen myself up, if I could find any one to do it with. No, nothing in
the shape of a tutor, against that I protest.’

‘Your sisters,’ suggested Guy.

‘Hum’! Laura is too intellectual already, and I don’t mean to poach on
Philip’s manor; and if I made little Amy cease to be silly, I should do
away with all the comfort I have left me in life. I don’t know, though,
if she swallowed learning after Mary Ross’s pattern, that it need do her
much harm.’

Amy came into the room at the moment. ‘Amy, here is Guy advising me to
take you to read something awfully wise every day, something that will
make you as dry as a stick, and as blue--’

‘As a gentianella,’ said Guy.

‘I should not mind being like a gentianella,’ said Amy. ‘But what
dreadful thing were you setting him to do?’

‘To make you read all the folios in my uncle’s old library,’ said
Charles. ‘All that Margaret has in keeping against Philip has a house of
his own.’

‘Sancho somebody, and all you talked of when first you came?’ said Amy.

‘We were talking of the hour’s reading that Charlie and I have had
together lately,’ said Guy.

‘I was thinking how Charlie would miss that hour,’ said Amy; ‘and we
shall be very sorry not to have you to listen to.’

‘Well, then, Amy, suppose you read with me?’

‘Oh, Charlie, thank you! Should you really like it?’ cried Amy,
colouring with delight. ‘I have always thought it would be so very
delightful if you would read with me, as James Ross used with Mary, only
I was afraid of tiring you with my stupidity. Oh, thank you!’

So it was settled, and Charles declared that he put himself on honour to
give a good account of their doings to Guy, that being the only way of
making himself steady to his resolution; but he was perfectly determined
not to let Philip know anything about the practice he had adopted,
since he would by no means allow him to guess that he was following his
advice.

Charles had certainly grown very fond of Guy, in spite of his propensity
to admire Philip, satisfying himself by maintaining that, after all, Guy
only tried to esteem his cousin because he thought it a point of duty,
just as children think it right to admire the good boy in a story book;
but that he was secretly fretted and chafed by his perfection. No one
could deny that there were often occasions when little misunderstandings
would arise, and that, but for Philip’s coolness and Guy’s readiness to
apologise they might often have gone further; but at the same time no
one could regret these things more than Guy himself, and he was willing
and desirous to seek Philip’s advice and assistance when needed. In
especial, he listened earnestly to the counsel which was bestowed on him
about Oxford: and Mrs. Edmonstone was convinced that no one could have
more anxiety to do right and avoid temptation. She had many talks
with him in her dressing-room, promising to write to him, as did also
Charles; and he left Hollywell with universal regrets, most loudly
expressed by Charlotte, who would not be comforted without a lock of
Bustle’s hair, which she would have worn round her neck if she had not
been afraid that Laura would tell Philip.

‘He goes with excellent intentions,’ said Philip, as they watched him
from the door.

‘I do hope he will do well,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘I wish he may,’ said Philip; ‘the agreeableness of his whole character
makes one more anxious. It is very dangerous. His name, his wealth, his
sociable, gay disposition, that very attractive manner, all are so many
perils, and he has not that natural pleasure in study that would be of
itself a preservative from temptation. However, he is honestly anxious
to do right, and has excellent principles. I only fear his temper and
his want of steadiness. Poor boy, I hope he may do well!’



CHAPTER 7

                    --Pray, good shepherd, what
      Fair swain is this that dances with your daughter?
        *         *         *         *          *
      He sings several times faster than you’ll tell money;
      he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men’s
      ears grow to his tunes.
                                  --WINTER’S TALE


It was a glorious day in June, the sky of pure deep dazzling blue, the
sunshine glowing with brightness, but with cheerful freshness in the
air that took away all sultriness, the sun tending westward in his
long day’s career, and casting welcome shadows from the tall firs and
horse-chestnuts that shaded the lawn. A long rank of haymakers--men
and women--proceeded with their rakes, the white shirt-sleeves, straw
bonnets, and ruddy faces, radiant in the bath of sunshine, while in the
shady end of the field were idler haymakers among the fragrant piles,
Charles half lying on the grass, with his back against a tall haycock;
Mrs. Edmonstone sitting on another, book in hand; Laura sketching the
busy scene, the sun glancing through the chequered shade on her glossy
curls; Philip stretched out at full length, hat and neck-tie off,
luxuriating in the cool repose after a dusty walk from Broadstone; and a
little way off, Amabel and Charlotte pretending to make hay, but really
building nests with it, throwing it at each other, and playing as
heartily as the heat would allow.

They talked and laughed, the rest were too hot, too busy, or too sleepy
for conversation, even Philip being tired into enjoying the “dolce far
niente”; and they basked in the fresh breezy heat and perfumy hay with
only now and then a word, till a cold, black, damp nose was suddenly
thrust into Charles’s face, a red tongue began licking him; and at the
same moment Charlotte, screaming ‘There he is!’ raced headlong across
the swarths of hay, to meet Guy, who had just ridden into the field.
He threw Deloraine’s rein to one of the haymakers, and came bounding to
meet her, just in time to pick her up as she put her foot into a hidden
hole, and fell prostrate.

In another moment he was in the midst of the whole party, who crowded
round and welcomed him as if he had been a boy returning from his
first half-year’s schooling; and never did little school-boy look more
holiday-like than he, with all the sunshine of that June day reflected,
as it were, in his glittering eyes and glowing face, while Bustle
escaping from Charles’s caressing arm, danced round, wagging his tail
in ecstasy, and claiming his share of the welcome. Then Guy was on
the ground by Charles, rejoicing to find him out there, and then, some
dropping into their former nests on the hay, some standing round, they
talked fast and eagerly in a confusion of sound that did not subside for
the first ten minutes so as to allow anything to be clearly heard. The
first distinct sentence was Charlotte’s ‘Bustle, darling old fellow, you
are handsomer than ever!’

‘What a delicious day!’ next exclaimed Guy, following Philip’s example,
by throwing off hat and neck-tie.

‘A spontaneous tribute to the beauty of the day,’ said Charles.

‘Really it is so ultra-splendid as to deserve notice!’ said Philip,
throwing himself completely back, and looking up.

‘One cannot help revelling in that deep blue!’ said Laura.

‘Tomorrow’ll be the happiest time of all the glad new year,’ hummed Guy.

‘Ah you will teach us all now,’ said Laura, ‘after your grand singing
lessons.’

‘Do you know what is in store for you, Guy?’ said Amy. ‘Oh! haven’t you
heard about Lady Kilcoran’s ball?’

‘You are to go, Guy,’ said Charlotte. ‘I am glad I am not. I hate
dancing.’

‘And I know as much about it as Bustle,’ said Guy, catching the dog by
his forepaws, and causing him to perform an uncouth dance.

‘Never mind, they will soon teach you,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Must I really go?’

‘He begins to think it serious,’ said Charles.

‘Is Philip going?’ exclaimed Guy, looking as if he was taken by
surprise.

‘He is going to say something about dancing being a healthful recreation
for young people,’ said Charles.

‘You’ll be disappointed,’ said Philip. ‘It is much too hot to moralize.’

‘Apollo unbends his bow,’ exclaimed Charles. ‘The captain yields the
field.’

‘Ah! Captain Morville, I ought to have congratulated you,’ said Guy. ‘I
must come to Broadstone early enough to see you on parade.’

‘Come to Broadstone! You aren’t still bound to Mr. Lascelles,’ said
Charles.

‘If he has time for me,’ said Guy. ‘I am too far behind the rest of the
world to afford to be idle this vacation.’

‘That’s right, Guy,’ exclaimed Philip, sitting up, and looking full of
approval. ‘With so much perseverance, you must get on at last. How did
you do in collections?’

‘Tolerably, thank you.’

‘You must be able to enter into the thing now,’ proceeded Philip. ‘What
are you reading?’

‘Thucydides.’

‘Have you come to Pericles’ oration? I must show you some notes that I
have on that. Don’t you get into the spirit of it now?’

‘Up-hill work still,’ answered Guy, disentangling some cinders from the
silky curls of Bustle’s ear.

‘Which do you like best--that or the ball?’ asked Charles.

‘The hay-field best of all,’ said Guy, releasing Bustle, and blinding
him with a heap of hay.

‘Of course!’ said Charlotte, ‘who would not like hay-making better than
that stupid ball?’

‘Poor Charlotte!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; commiseration which irritated
Charlotte into standing up and protesting,

‘Mamma, you know I don’t want to go.’

‘No more do I, Charlotte,’ said her brother, in a mock consoling tone.
‘You and I know what is good for us, and despise sublunary vanities.’

‘But you will go, Guy,’ said Laura; ‘Philip is really going.’

‘In spite of Lord Kilcoran’s folly in going to such an expense as either
taking Allonby or giving the ball,’ said Charles.

‘I don’t think it is my business to bring Lord Kilcoran to a sense of
his folly,’ said Philip. ‘I made all my protests to Maurice when first
he started the notion, but if his father chose to take the matter up, it
is no concern of mine.’

‘You will understand, Guy,’ said Charles, ‘that this ball is specially
got up by Maurice for Laura’s benefit.’

‘Believe as little as you please of that speech, Guy,’ said Laura; ‘the
truth is that Lord Kilcoran is very good-natured, and Eveleen was very
much shocked to hear that Amy had never been to any ball, and I to only
one, and so it ended in their giving one.’

‘When is it to be?’

‘On Thursday week,’ said Amy. ‘I wonder if you will think Eveleen as
pretty as we do!’

‘She is Laura’s great friend, is not she?’

‘I like her very much; I have known her all my life, and she has much
more depth than those would think who only know her manner.’ And Laura
looked pleadingly at Philip as she spoke.

‘Are there any others of the family at home?’ said Guy.

‘The two younger girls, Mabel and Helen, and the little boys,’ said Amy.
‘Lord de Courcy is in Ireland, and all the others are away.’

‘Lord de Courcy is the wisest man of the family, and sets his face
against absenteeism,’ said Philip, ‘so he is never visible here.’

‘But you aren’t going to despise it, I hope, Guy,’ said Amy, earnestly;
‘it will be so delightful! And what fun we shall have in teaching you to
dance!’

Guy stretched himself, and gave a quaint grunt.

‘Never mind, Guy,’ said Philip, ‘very little is required. You may easily
pass in the crowd. I never learnt.’

‘Your ear will guide you,’ said Laura.

‘And no one can stay at home, since Mary Ross is going,’ said Amy.
‘Eveleen was always so fond of her, that she came and forced a promise
from her by telling her she should come with mamma, and have no
trouble.’

‘You have not seen Allonby,’ said Laura. ‘There are such Vandykes, and
among them, such a King Charles!’

‘Is not that the picture,’ said Charles, ‘before which Amy--’

‘O don’t, Charlie!’

‘Was found dissolved in tears?’

‘I could not help it,’ murmured Amy, blushing crimson.

‘There is all Charles’s fate in his face,’ said Philip,--‘earnest,
melancholy, beautiful! It would stir the feelings--were it an unknown
portrait. No, Amy, you need not be ashamed of your tears.’

But Amy turned away, doubly ashamed.

‘I hope it is not in the ball-room,’ said Guy.

‘No said Laura, ‘it is in the library.’

Charlotte, whose absence had become perceptible from the general
quietness, here ran up with two envelopes, which she put into Guy’s
hands. One contained Lady Kilcoran’s genuine card of invitation for Sir
Guy Morville, the other Charlotte had scribbled in haste for Mr. Bustle.

This put an end to all rationality. Guy rose with a growl and a roar,
and hunted her over half the field, till she was caught, and came back
out of breath and screaming, ‘We never had such a haymaking!’

‘So I think the haymakers will say!’ answered her mother, rising to go
indoors. ‘What ruin of haycocks!’

‘Oh, I’ll set all that to rights,’ said Guy, seizing a hay-fork.

‘Stop, stop, take care!’ cried Charles. ‘I don’t want to be built up in
the rick, and by and by, when my disconsolate family have had all the
ponds dragged for me, Deloraine will be heard to complain that they give
him very odd animal food.’

‘Who could resist such a piteous appeal!’ said Guy, helping him to rise,
and conducting him to his wheeled chair. The others followed, and when,
shortly after, Laura looked out at her window, she saw Guy, with his
coat off, toiling like a real haymaker, to build up the cocks in all
their neat fairness and height, whistling meantime the ‘Queen of the
May,’ and now and then singing a line. She watched the old cowman come
up, touching his hat, and looking less cross than usual; she saw Guy’s
ready greeting, and perceived they were comparing the forks and rakes,
the pooks and cocks of their counties; and, finally, she beheld her
father ride into the field, and Guy spring to meet him.

No one could have so returned to what was in effect a home, unless his
time had been properly spent; and, in fact, all that Mr. Edmonstone or
Philip could hear of him, was so satisfactory, that Philip pronounced
that the first stage of the trial had been passed irreproachably, and
Laura felt and looked delighted at this sanction to the high estimation
in which she held him.

His own account of himself to Mrs. Edmonstone would not have been
equally satisfactory if she had not had something else to check it with.
It was given by degrees, and at many different times, chiefly as they
walked round the garden in the twilight of the summer evenings, talking
over the many subjects mentioned in the letters which had passed
constantly. It seemed as if there were very few to whom Guy would ever
give his confidence; but that once bestowed, it was with hardly any
reserve, and that was his great relief and satisfaction to pour out his
whole mind, where he was sure of sympathy.

To her, then, he confided how much provoked he was with himself, his
‘first term,’ he said, ‘having only shown him what an intolerable fool
he had to keep in order.’ By his account, he could do nothing ‘without
turning his own head, except study, and that stupefied it.’ ‘Never was
there a more idle fellow; he could work himself for a given time, but
his sense would not second him; and was it not most absurd in him to
take so little pleasure in what was his duty, and enjoy only what was
bad for him?’

He had tried boating, but it had distracted him from his work; so he had
been obliged to give it up, and had done so in a hasty vehement manner,
which had caused offence, and for which he blamed himself. It had
been the same with other things, till he had left himself no regular
recreation but walking and music. ‘The last,’ he said, ‘might engross
him in the same way; but he thought (here he hesitated a little) there
were higher ends for music, which made it come under Mrs. Edmonstone’s
rule, of a thing to be used guardedly, not disused.’ He had resumed
light reading, too, which he had nearly discontinued before he went to
Oxford. ‘One wants something,’ he said, ‘by way of refreshment, where
there is no sea nor rock to look at, and no Laura and Amy to talk to.’

He had made one friend, a scholar of his own college, of the name of
Wellwood. This name had been his attraction; Guy was bent on friendship
with him; if, as he tried to make him out to be, he was the son of that
Captain Wellwood whose death had weighed so heavily on his grandfather’s
conscience, feeling almost as if it were his duty to ask forgiveness in
his grandfather’s name, yet scarcely knowing how to venture on advances
to one to whom his name had such associations. However, they had
gradually drawn together, and at length entered on the subject, and Guy
then found he was the nephew, not the son of Captain Wellwood; indeed,
his former belief was founded on a miscalculation, as the duel had
taken place twenty-eight years ago. He now heard all his grandfather had
wished to know of the family. There were two unmarried daughters, and
their cousin spoke in the highest terms of their self-devoted life,
promising what Guy much wished, that they should hear what deep
repentance had followed the crime which had made them fatherless. He was
to be a clergyman, and Guy admired him extremely, saying, however, that
he was so shy and retiring, it was hard to know him well.

From not having been at school, and from other causes, Guy had made few
acquaintance; indeed, he amused Mrs. Edmonstone by fearing he had been
morose. She was ready to tell him he was an ingenious self-tormentor;
but she saw that the struggle to do right was the main spring of
the happiness that beamed round him, in spite of his self-reproach,
heart-felt as it was. She doubted whether persons more contented with
themselves were as truly joyous, and was convinced that, while thus
combating lesser temptations, the very shadow of what are generally
alone considered as real temptations would hardly come near him.

If it had not been for these talks, and now and then a thoughtful look,
she would have believed him one of the most light-hearted and merriest
of beings. He was more full of glee and high spirits than she had ever
seen him; he seemed to fill the whole house with mirth, and keep every
one alive by his fun and frolic, as blithe and untiring as Maurice de
Courcy himself, though not so wild.

Very pleasant were those summer days--reading, walking, music,
gardening. Did not they all work like very labourers at the new arbour
in the midst of the laurels, where Charles might sit and see the spires
of Broadstone? Work they did, indeed! Charles looking on from his
wheeled chair, laughing to see Guy sawing as if for his living and Amy
hammering gallantly, and Laura weaving osiers, and Charlotte flying
about with messages.

One day, they were startled by an exclamation from Charles. ‘Ah, ha!
Paddy, is that you?’ and beheld the tall figure of a girl, advancing
with a rapid, springing step, holding up her riding habit with one hand,
with the other whisking her coral-handled whip. There was something
distinguished in her air, and her features, though less fine than
Laura’s, were very pretty, by the help of laughing dark blue eyes, and
very black hair, under her broad hat and little waving feather. She
threatened Charles with her whip, calling out--‘Aunt Edmonstone said I
should find you here. What is the fun now?’

‘Arbour building,’ said Charles; ‘don’t you see the head carpenter!’

‘Sir Guy?’ whispered she to Laura, looking up at him, where he was
mounted on the roof, thatching it with reed, the sunshine full on his
glowing face and white shirt sleeves.

‘Here!’ said Charles, as Guy swung himself down with a bound, his face
much redder than sun and work had already made it, ‘here’s another wild
Irisher for you.’

‘Sir Guy Morville--Lady Eveleen de Courcy,’ began Laura; but Lady
Eveleen cut her short, frankly holding out her hand, and saying, ‘You
are almost a cousin, you know. Oh, don’t leave off. Do give me something
to do. That hammer, Amy, pray--Laura, don’t you remember how dearly I
always loved hammering?’

‘How did you come?’ said Laura.

‘With papa--‘tis his visit to Sir Guy. ‘No, don’t go,’ as Guy began to
look for his coat; ‘he is only impending. He is gone on to Broadstone,
but he dropped me here, and will pick me up on his way back. Can’t you
give me something to do on the top of that ladder? I should like it
mightily; it looks so cool and airy.’

‘How can you, Eva?’ whispered Laura, reprovingly; but Lady Eveleen only
shook her head at her, and declaring she saw a dangerous nail sticking
out, began to hammer it in with such good will, that Charles stopped his
ears, and told her it was worse than her tongue. ‘Go on about the ball,
do.’

‘Oh,’ said she earnestly, ‘do you think there is any hope of Captain
Morville’s coming?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Laura.

‘I am so glad! That is what papa is gone to Broadstone about. Maurice
said he had given him such a lecture, that he would not be the one to
think of asking him, and papa must do it himself; for if he sets his
face against it, it will spoil it all.’

‘You may make your mind easy,’ said Charles, ‘the captain is lenient,
and looks on the ball as a mere development of Irish nature. He has been
consoling Guy on the difficulties of dancing.’

‘Can’t you dance?’ said Lady Eveleen, looking at him with compassion.

‘Such is my melancholy ignorance,’ said Guy.

‘We have been talking of teaching him,’ said Laura.

‘Talk! will that do it?’ cried Lady Eveleen, springing up. ‘We will
begin this moment. Come out on the lawn. Here, Charles,’ wheeling him
along, ‘No, thank you, I like it,’ as Guy was going to help her. ‘There,
Charles, be fiddler go on, tum-tum, tee! that’ll do. Amy, Laura, be
ladies. I’m the other gentleman,’ and she stuck on her hat in military
style, giving it a cock. She actually set them quadrilling in spite of
adverse circumstances, dancing better, in her habit, than most people
without one, till Lord Kilcoran arrived.

While he was making his visit, she walked a little apart, arm-in-arm
with Laura. ‘I like him very much,’ she said; ‘he looks up to anything.
I had heard so much of his steadiness, that it is a great relief to my
mind to see him so unlike his cousin.’

‘Eveleen!’

‘No disparagement to the captain, only I am so dreadfully afraid of him.
I am sure he thinks me such an unmitigated goose. Now, doesn’t he?’

‘If you would but take the right way to make him think otherwise, dear
Eva, and show the sense you really have.’

‘That is just what my fear of him won’t let me do. I would not for the
world let him guess it, so there is nothing for it but sauciness to
cover one’s weakness. I can’t be sensible with those that won’t give
me credit for it. But you’ll mind and teach Sir Guy to dance; he has so
much spring in him, he deserves to be an Irishman.’

In compliance with this injunction, there used to be a clearance
every evening; Charles turned into the bay window out of the way, Mrs.
Edmonstone at the piano, and the rest figuring away, the partnerless
one, called ‘puss in the corner’, being generally Amabel, while
Charlotte, disdaining them all the time, used to try to make them
imitate her dancing-master’s graces, causing her father to perform such
caricatures of them, as to overpower all with laughing.

Mr. Edmonstone was half Irish. His mother, Lady Mabel Edmonstone, had
never thoroughly taken root in England, and on his marriage, had gone
with her daughter to live near her old home in Ireland. The present Earl
of Kilcoran was her nephew, and a very close intercourse had always been
kept up between the families, Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone being adopted by
their younger cousins as uncle and aunt, and always so called.

The house at Allonby was in such confusion, that the family there
expected to dine nowhere on the day of the ball, and the Hollywell party
thought it prudent to secure their dinner at home, with Philip and Mary
Ross, who were to go with them.

By special desire, Philip wore his uniform; and while the sisters were
dressing Charlotte gave him a thorough examination, which led to a talk
between him and Mary on accoutrements and weapons in general; but while
deep in some points of chivalrous armour, Mary’s waist was pinched
by two mischievous hands, and a little fluttering white figure danced
around her.

‘O Amy! what do you want with me?’

‘Come and be trimmed up,’ said Amy.

‘I thought you told me I was to have no trouble. I am dressed,’ said
Mary, looking complacently at her full folds of white muslin.

‘No more you shall; but you promised to do as you were told.’ And Amy
fluttered away with her.

‘Do you remember,’ said Philip, ‘the comparison of Rose Flammock
dragging off her father, to a little carved cherub trying to uplift a
solid monumental hero?’

‘O, I must tell Mary!’ cried Charlotte; but Philip stopped her, with
orders not to be a silly child.

‘It is a pity Amy should not have her share,’ said Charles.

‘The comparison to a Dutch cherub?’ asked Guy.

‘She is more after the pattern of the little things on little wings, in
your blotting-book,’ said Charles; ‘certain lines in the predicament of
the cherubs of painters--heads “et proeterea nihil”.’

‘O Guy, do you write verses? cried Charlotte.

‘Some nonsense,’ muttered Guy, out of countenance; ‘I thought I had made
away with that rubbish; where is it?’

‘In the blotting-book in my room,’ said Charles. ‘I must explain that
the book is my property, and was put into your room when mamma was
beautifying it for you, as new and strange company. On its return to me,
at your departure, I discovered a great accession of blots and sailing
vessels, beside the aforesaid little things.’

‘I shall resume my own property,’ said Guy, departing in haste.

Charlotte ran after him, to beg for a sight of it; and Philip asked
Charles what it was like.

‘A romantic incident,’ said Charles, ‘just fit for a novel. A Petrarch
leaving his poems about in blotting-books.’

Charles used the word Petrarch to stand for a poet, not thinking what
lady’s name he suggested; and he was surprised at the severity of
Philip’s tone as he inquired, ‘Do you mean anything, or do you not?’

Perceiving with delight that he had perplexed and teased, he rejoiced in
keeping up the mystery:

‘Eh? is it a tender subject with you, too?’

Philip rose, and standing over him, said, in a low but impressive tone:

‘I cannot tell whether you are trifling or not; but you are no boy now,
and can surely see that this is no subject to be played with. If you are
concealing anything you have discovered, you have a great deal to answer
for. I can hardly imagine anything more unfortunate than that he should
become attached to either of your sisters.’

‘Et pourquoi?’ asked Charles, coolly.

‘I see,’ said Philip, retreating to his chair, and speaking with great
composure, ‘I did you injustice by speaking seriously.’ Then, as his
uncle came into the room, he asked some indifferent question, without
betraying a shade of annoyance.

Charles meanwhile congratulated himself on his valour in keeping his
counsel, in spite of so tall a man in scarlet; but he was much nettled
at the last speech, for if a real attachment to his sister had been
in question, he would never have trifled about it. Keenly alive to his
cousin’s injustice, he rejoiced in having provoked and mystified the
impassable, though he little knew the storm he had raised beneath that
serene exterior of perfect self-command.

The carriages were announced, and Mr. Edmonstone began to call the
ladies, adding tenfold to the confusion in the dressing-room. There was
Laura being completed by the lady’s maid, Amabel embellishing Mary, Mrs.
Edmonstone with her arm loaded with shawls, Charlotte flourishing about.
Poor Mary--it was much against her will--but she had no heart to refuse
the wreath of geraniums that Amy’s own hands had woven for her; and
there she sat, passive as a doll, though in despair at their all waiting
for her. For Laura’s toilette was finished, and every one began dressing
her at once; while Charlotte, to make it better, screamed over the
balusters that all were ready but Mary. Sir Guy was heard playing the
‘Harmonious Blacksmith,’ and Captain Morville’s step was heard, fast and
firm. At last, when a long chain was put round her neck, she cried out,
‘I have submitted to everything so far; I can bear no more!’ jumped
up, caught hold of her shawl, and was putting it on, when there was a
general outcry that they must exhibit themselves to Charles.

They all ran down, and Amy, flying up to her brother, made a splendid
sweeping curtsey, and twirled round in a pirouette.

‘Got up, regardless of expense!’ cried Charles; ‘display yourselves.’

The young ladies ranged themselves in imitation of the book of fashions.
The sisters were in white, with wreaths of starry jessamine. It was
particularly becoming to Laura’s bella-donna lily complexion, rich brown
curls, and classical features, and her brother exclaimed:

‘Laura is exactly like Apollo playing the lyre, outside mamma’s old
manuscript book of music.’

‘Has not Amy made beautiful wreaths?’ said Laura. ‘She stripped the
tree, and Guy had to fetch the ladder, to gather the sprays on the top
of the wall.’

‘Do you see your bit of myrtle, Guy,’ said Amy, pointing to it, on
Laura’s head, ‘that you tried to persuade me would pass for jessamine?’

‘Ah! it should have been all myrtle,’ said Guy.

Philip leant meantime against the door. Laura only once glanced towards
him, thinking all this too trifling for him, and never imagining the
intense interest with which he gave a meaning to each word and look.

‘Well done, Mary!’ cried Charles, ‘they have furbished you up
handsomely.’

Mary made a face, and said she should wonder who was the fashionable
young lady she should meet in the pier-glasses at Allonby. Then Mr.
Edmonstone hurried them away, and they arrived in due time.

The saloon at Allonby was a beautiful room, one end opening into a
conservatory, full of coloured lamps, fresh green leaves, and hot-house
plants. There they found as yet only the home party, the good-natured,
merry Lord Kilcoran, his quiet English wife, who had bad health, and
looked hardly equal to the confusion of the evening; Maurice, and two
younger boys; Eveleen, and her two little sisters, Mabel and Helen.

‘This makes it hard on Charlotte,’ thought Amy, while the two girls
dragged her off to show her the lamps in the conservatory; and the rest
attacked Mrs. Edmonstone for not having brought Charlotte, reproaching
her with hardness of heart of which they had never believed her
capable--Lady Eveleen, in especial, talking with that exaggeration of
her ordinary manner which her dread of Captain Morville made her assume.
Little he recked of her; he was absorbed in observing how far Laura’s
conduct coincided with Charles’s hints. On the first opportunity, he
asked her to dance, and was satisfied with her pleased acquiescence;
but the next moment Guy came up, and in an eager manner made the same
request.

‘I am engaged,’ said she, with a bright, proud glance at Philip; and Guy
pursued Amabel into the conservatory, where he met with better success.
Mr. Edmonstone gallantly asked Mary if he was too old a partner, and was
soon dancing with the step and spring that had once made him the best
dancer in the county.

Mrs. Edmonstone watched her flock, proud and pleased, thinking how well
they looked and that, in especial, she had never been sensible how much
Laura’s and Philip’s good looks excelled the rest of the world. They
were much alike in the remarkable symmetry both of figure and feature,
the colour of the deep blue eye, and fairness of complexion.

‘It is curious,’ thought Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘that, so very handsome as
Philip is, it is never the first thing remarked about him, just as his
height never is observed till he is compared with other people. The fact
is, that his superior sense carries off a degree of beauty which
would be a misfortune to most men. It is that sedate expression and
distinguished air that make the impression. How happy Laura looks, how
gracefully she moves. No, it is not being foolish to think no one equal
to Laura. My other pair!’ and she smiled much more; ‘you happy young
things, I would not wish to see anything pleasanter than your merry
faces. Little Amy looks almost as pretty as Laura, now she is lighted
up by blush and smile, and her dancing is very nice, it is just like her
laughing, so quiet, and yet so full of glee. I don’t think she is less
graceful than her sister, but the complete enjoyment strikes one more.
And as to enjoyment--there are those bright eyes of her partner’s
perfectly sparkling with delight; he looks as if it was a world of
enchantment to him. Never had any one a greater capacity for happiness
than Guy.’

Mrs. Edmonstone might well retain her opinion when, after the quadrille,
Guy came to tell her that he had never seen anything so delightful; and
he entertained Mary Ross with his fresh, joyous pleasure, through the
next dance.

‘Laura,’ whispered Eveleen, ‘I’ve one ambition. Do you guess it? Don’t
tell him; but if he would, I should have a better opinion of myself ever
after. I’m afraid he’ll depreciate me to his friend; and really with Mr.
Thorndale, I was no more foolish than a ball requires.’

Lady Eveleen hoped in vain. Captain Morville danced with little Lady
Helen, a child of eleven, who was enchanted at having so tall a partner;
then, after standing still for some time, chose his cousin Amabel.

‘You are a good partner and neighbour,’ said he, giving her his arm,
‘you don’t want young lady talk.’

‘Should you not have asked Mary? She has been sitting down this long
time.’

‘Do you think she cares for such a sport as dancing?’

Amy made no answer.

‘You have been well off. You were dancing with Thorndale just now.’

‘Yes. It was refreshing to have an old acquaintance among so many
strangers. And he is so delighted with Eveleen; but what is more,
Philip, that Mr. Vernon, who is dancing with Laura, told Maurice he
thought her the prettiest and most elegant person here.’

‘Laura might have higher praise,’ said Philip, ‘for hers is beauty of
countenance even more than of feature. If only--’

‘If?’ said Amy.

‘Look round, Amy, and you will see many a face which speaks of intellect
wasted, or, if cultivated, turned aside from its true purpose, like the
double blossom, which bears leaves alone.’

‘Ah! you forget you are talking to silly little Amy. I can’t see all
that. I had rather think people as happy and good as they look.’

‘Keep your child-like temper as long as you can--all your life,’
perhaps, for this is one of the points where it is folly to be wise.’

‘Then you only meant things in general? Nothing about Laura?’

‘Things in general,’ repeated Philip; ‘bright promises blighted or
thrown away--’

But he spoke absently, and his eye was following Laura. Amy thought he
was thinking of his sister, and was sorry for him. He spoke no more, but
she did not regret it, for she could not moralize in such a scene, and
the sight and the dancing were pleasure enough.

Guy, in the meantime, had met an Oxford acquaintance, who introduced him
to his sisters--pretty girls--whose father Mr. Edmonstone knew, but
who was rather out of the Hollywell visiting distance. They fell into
conversation quickly, and the Miss Alstons asked him with some interest,
‘Which was the pretty Miss Edmonstone?’ Guy looked for the sisters, as
if to make up his mind, for the fact was, that when he first knew Laura
and Amy, the idea of criticising beauty had not entered his mind, and
to compare them was quite a new notion. ‘Nay,’ said he at last, ‘if you
cannot discover for yourselves when they are both before your eyes, I
will do nothing so invidious as to say which is _the_ pretty one. I’ll
tell which is the eldest and which the youngest, but the rest you must
decide for yourself.’

‘I should like to know them,’ said Miss Alston. ‘Oh! they are both very
nice-looking girls.’

‘There, that is Laura--Miss Edmonstone,’ said Guy, ‘that tall young
lady, with the beautiful hair and jessamine wreath.’

He spoke as if he was proud of her, and had a property in her. The tone
did not escape Philip, who at that moment was close to them, with Amy
on his arm; and, knowing the Alstons slightly, stopped and spoke, and
introduced his cousin, Miss Amabel Edmonstone. At the same time Guy took
one of the Miss Alstons away to get some tea.

‘So you knew my cousin at Oxford?’ said Philip, to the brother.

‘Yes, slightly. What an amusing fellow he is!’

‘There is something very bright, very unlike other people about him,’
said Miss Alston.

‘How does he get on? Is he liked?’

‘Why, yes, I should say so, on the whole; but it is rather as my sister
says, he is not like other people.’

‘In what respect?’

‘Oh I can hardly tell. He is a very pleasant person, but he ought to
have been at school. He is a man of crotchets.’

‘Hard-working?’

‘Very; he makes everything give way to that. He is a capital companion
when he is to be had, but he lives very much to himself. He is a man of
one friend, and I don’t see much of him.’

Another dance began, Mr. Alston went to look for his partner, Philip and
Amy moved on in search of ice. ‘Hum!’ said Philip to himself, causing
Amy to gaze up at him, but he was musing too intently for her to venture
on a remark. She was thinking that she did not wonder that strangers
deemed Guy crotchety, since he was so difficult to understand; and then
she considered whether to take him to see King Charles, in the library,
and concluded that she would wait, for she felt as if the martyr king’s
face would look on her too gravely to suit her present tone.

Philip helped her to ice, and brought her back to her mother’s
neighbourhood without many more words. He then stood thoughtful for some
time, entered into conversation with one of the elder gentlemen, and,
when that was interrupted, turned to talk to his aunt.

Lady Eveleen and her two cousins were for a moment together. ‘What is
the matter, Eva?’ said Amy, seeing a sort of dissatisfaction on her
bright face.

‘The roc’s egg?’ said Laura, smiling. ‘The queen of the evening can’t be
content--’

‘No; you are the queen, if the one thing can make you so--the one thing
wanting to me.’

‘How absurd you are, Eva--when you say you are so afraid of him, too.’

‘That is the very reason. I should get a better opinion of myself!
Besides, there is nobody else so handsome. I declare I’ll make a bold
attempt.’

‘Oh! you don’t think of such a thing,’ cried Laura, very much shocked.

‘Never fear,’ said Eveleen, ‘faint heart, you know.’ And with a nod, a
flourish, of her bouquet, and an arch smile at her cousin’s horror,
she moved on, and presently they heard her exclaiming, gaily, ‘Captain
Morville, I really must scold you. You are setting a shocking example
of laziness! Aunt Edmonstone, how can you encourage such proceedings!
Indolence is the parent of vice, you know.’

Philip smiled just as much as the occasion required, and answered, ‘I
beg your pardon, I had forgotten my duty. I’ll attend to my business
better in future.’ And turning to a small, shy damsel, who seldom met
with a partner, he asked her to dance. Eveleen came back to Laura with
a droll disappointed gesture. ‘Insult to injury,’ said she,
disconsolately.

‘Of course,’ said Amy, ‘he could not have thought you wanted to dance
with him, or you would not have gone to stir him up.’

‘Well, then, he was very obtuse.’

‘Besides, you are engaged.’

‘O yes, to Mr. Thorndale! But who would be content with the squire when
the knight disdains her?’

Mr. Thorndale came to claim Eveleen at that moment. It was the second
time she had danced with him, and it did not pass unobserved by Philip,
nor the long walk up and down after the dance was over. At length his
friend came up to him and said something warm in admiration of her.
‘She is very Irish,’ was Philip’s answer, with a cold smile, and Mr.
Thorndale stood uncomfortable under the disapprobation, attracted by
Eveleen’s beauty and grace, yet so unused to trust his own judgment
apart from ‘Morville’s,’ as to be in an instant doubtful whether he
really admired or not.

‘You have not been dancing with her?’ he said, presently.

‘No: she attracts too many to need the attention of a nobody like
myself.’

That ‘too many,’ seeming to confound him with the vulgar herd, made Mr.
Thorndale heartily ashamed of having been pleased with her.

Philip was easy about him for the present, satisfied that admiration had
been checked, which, if it had been allowed to grow into an attachment,
would have been very undesirable.

The suspicions Charles had excited were so full in Philip’s mind,
however, that he could not as easily set it at rest respecting his
cousin. Guy had three times asked her to dance, but each time she had
been engaged. At last, just as the clock struck the hour at which the
carriage had been ordered, he came up, and impetuously claimed her. ‘One
quadrille we must have, Laura, if you are not tired?’

‘No! Oh, no! I could dance till this time to-morrow.’

‘We ought to be going,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘O pray, Mrs. Edmonstone, this one more,’ cried Guy, eagerly. ‘Laura
owes me this one.’

‘Yes, this one more, mamma,’ said Laura, and they went off together,
while Philip remained, in a reverie, till requested by his aunt to see
if the carriage was ready.

The dance was over, the carriage was waiting, but Guy and Laura did not
appear till, after two or three minutes spent in wonder and inquiries,
they came quietly walking back from the library, where they had been
looking at King Charles.

All the way home the four ladies in the carriage never ceased laughing
and talking. The three gentlemen in theirs acted diversely. Mr.
Edmonstone went to sleep, Philip sat in silent thought, Guy whistled
and hummed the tunes, and moved his foot very much as if he was still
dancing.

They met for a moment, and parted again in the hall at Hollywell, where
the daylight was striving to get in through the closed shutters. Philip
went on to Broadstone, Guy said he could not go to bed by daylight,
called Bustle, and went to the river to bathe, and the rest crept
upstairs to their rooms. And so ended Lord Kilcoran’s ball.



CHAPTER 8

     Like Alexander, I will reign,
     And I will reign alone,
     My thoughts shall ever more disdain
     A rival near my throne.
     But I must rule and govern still,
     And always give the law,
     And have each subject at my will,
     And all to stand in awe.
                         --MONTROSE.


One very hot afternoon, shortly after the ball, Captain Morville walked
to Hollywell, accelerating his pace under the influence of anxious
reflections.

He could not determine whether Charles had spoken in jest; but in spite
of Guy’s extreme youth, he feared there was ground for the suspicion
excited by the hint, and was persuaded that such an attachment could
produce nothing but unhappiness to his cousin, considering how little
confidence could be placed in Guy. He perceived that there was much to
inspire affection--attractive qualities, amiable disposition, the talent
for music, and now this recently discovered power of versifying, all
were in Guy’s favour, besides the ancient name and long ancestry, which
conferred a romantic interest, and caused even Philip to look up to him
with a feudal feeling as head of the family. There was also the familiar
intercourse to increase the danger; and Philip, as he reflected on these
things, trembled for Laura, and felt himself her only protector; for his
uncle was nobody, Mrs. Edmonstone was infatuated, and Charles would not
listen to reason. To make everything worse, he had that morning
heard that there was to be a grand inspection of the regiment, and a
presentation of colours; Colonel Deane was very anxious; and it was
plain that in the interval the officers would be allowed little
leisure. The whole affair was to end with a ball, which would lead to a
repetition of what had already disturbed him.

Thus meditating, Philip, heated and dusty, walked into the smooth green
enclosure of Hollywell. Everything, save the dancing clouds of
insect youth which whirled in his face, was drooping in the heat. The
house--every door and window opened--seemed gasping for breath; the
cows sought refuge in the shade; the pony drooped its head drowsily; the
leaves hung wearily; the flowers were faint and thirsty; and Bustle was
stretched on the stone steps, mouth open, tongue out, only his tail now
and then moving, till he put back his ears and crested his head to greet
the arrival. Philip heard the sounds that had caused the motion of the
sympathizing tail--the rich tones of Guy’s voice. Stepping over the dog,
he entered, and heard more clearly--

          ‘Two loving hearts may sever,
           For sorrow fails them never.’

And then another voice--

          ‘Who knows not love in sorrow’s night,
           He knows not love in light.’

In the drawing-room, cool and comfortable in the green shade of the
Venetian blinds of the bay window, stood Laura, leaning on the piano,
close to Guy, who sat on the music-stool, looking thoroughly at home in
his brown shooting-coat, and loosely-tied handkerchief.

Any one but Philip would have been out of temper, but he shook hands
as cordially as usual, and would not even be the first to remark on the
heat.

Laura told him he looked hot and tired, and invited him to come out to
the others, and cool himself on the lawn. She went for her parasol, Guy
ran for her camp stool, and Philip, going to the piano, read what they
had been singing. The lines were in Laura’s writing, corrected, here and
there, in Guy’s hand.

           BE STEADFAST.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           Yet love shall fail them never.
           Love brightest beams in sorrow’s night,
           Love is of life the light.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           Yet hope shall fail them never.
           Hope is a star in sorrow’s night,
           Forget-me-not of light.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           Yet faith may fail them never.
           Trust on through sorrow’s night,
           Faith is of love and hope the light.

           Two loving hearts may sever,
           For sorrow fails them never.
           Who knows not love in sorrow’s night,
           He knows not love in light.

Philip was by no means pleased. However, it was in anything but a
sentimental manner that Guy, looking over him, said, ‘For sever, read,
be separated, but “a” wouldn’t rhyme.’

‘I translated it into prose, and Guy made it verse,’ said Laura; ‘I hope
you approve of our performance.’

‘It is that thing of Helmine von Chezy, “Beharre”, is it not?’ said
Philip, particularly civil, because he was so much annoyed. ‘You have
rendered the spirit very well’, but you have sacrificed a good deal to
your double rhymes.’

‘Yes; those last lines are not troubled with any equality of feet,’ said
Guy; ‘but the repetition is half the beauty. It put me in mind of those
lines of Burns--


          “Had we never loved so kindly,
           Had we never loved so blindly,
           Never met and never parted,
           We had ne’er been broken hearted;”

but there is a trust in these that is more touching than that despair.’

‘Yes; the despair is ready, to wish the love had never been,’ said
Laura. ‘It does not see the star of trust. Why did you use that word
“trust” only once, Guy?’

‘I did not want to lose the three--faith, hope, love,--faith keeping the
other two alive.’

‘My doubt was whether it was right to have that analogy.’

‘Surely,’ said Guy, eagerly, ‘that analogy must be the best part of
earthly love.’

Here Charlotte came to see if Guy and Laura meant to sing all the
afternoon; and they went out. They found the others in the arbour,
and Charlotte’s histories of its construction, gave Philip little
satisfaction. They next proceeded to talk over the ball.

‘Ah!’ said Philip, ‘balls are the fashion just now. What do you say,
Amy, [he was more inclined to patronize her than any one else] to the
gaieties we are going to provide for you?’

‘You! Are you going to have your new colours? Oh! you are not going to
give us a ball?’

‘Well! that is fun!’ cried Guy. ‘What glory Maurice de Courcy must be
in!’

‘He is gone to Allonby,’ said Philip, ‘to announce it; saying, he must
persuade his father to put off their going to Brighton. Do you think he
will succeed?’

‘Hardly,’ said Laura; ‘poor Lady Kilcoran was so knocked up by their
ball, that she is the more in want of sea air. Oh, mamma, Eva must come
and stay here.’

‘That she must,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘that will make it easy. She is
the only one who will care about the ball.’

Philip was obliged to conceal his vexation, and to answer the many eager
questions about the arrangements. He stayed to dinner, and as the others
went in-doors to dress, he lingered near Charlotte, assuming, with some
difficulty, an air of indifference, and said--‘Well, Charlotte, did you
tease Guy into showing you those verses?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte, with what the French call “un air capable”.’

‘Well, what were they?’

‘That I mustn’t tell. They were very pretty; but I’ve promised.’

‘Promised what?’

‘Never to say anything about them. He made it a condition with me, and I
assure you, I am to be trusted.’

‘Right,’ said Philip; ‘I’ll ask no more.’

‘It would be of no use,’ said Charlotte, shaking her head, as if she
wished he would prove her further.

Philip was in hopes of being able to speak to Laura after dinner,
but his uncle wanted him to come and look over the plans of an estate
adjoining Redclyffe, which there was some idea of purchasing. Such an
employment would in general have been congenial; but on this occasion,
it was only by a strong force that he could chain his attention, for
Guy was pacing the terrace with Laura and Amabel, and as they passed and
repassed the window, he now and then caught sounds of repeating poetry.

In this Guy excelled. He did not read aloud well; he was too rapid, and
eyes and thoughts were apt to travel still faster than the lips, thus
producing a confusion; but no one could recite better when a passage had
taken strong hold of his imagination, and he gave it the full effect
of the modulations of his fine voice, conveying in its inflections the
impressions which stirred him profoundly. He was just now enchanted
with his first reading of ‘Thalaba,’ where he found all manner of deep
meanings, to which the sisters listened with wonder and delight. He
repeated, in a low, awful, thrilling tone, that made Amy shudder, the
lines in the seventh book, ending with--

          “Who comes from the bridal chamber!
           It is Azrael, angel of death.”’

‘You have not been so taken up with any book since Sintram.’ said Laura.

‘It is like Sintram,’ he replied.

‘Like it?’

‘So it seems to me. A strife with the powers of darkness; the victory,
forgiveness, resignation, death.

          “Thou know’st the secret wishes of my heart,
           Do with me as thou wilt, thy will is best.”’

‘I wish you would not speak as if you were Thalaba yourself,’ said Amy,
‘you bring the whole Domdaniel round us.’

‘I am afraid he is going to believe himself Thalaba as well as Sintram,’
said Laura. ‘But you know Southey did not see all this himself, and did
not understand it when it was pointed out.’

‘Don’t tell us that,’ said Amy.

‘Nay; I think there is something striking in it,’ said Guy then, with a
sudden transition, ‘but is not this ball famous?’

And their talk was of balls and reviews till nine o’clock, when they
were summoned to tea.

On the whole, Philip returned to Broadstone by no means comforted.

Never had he known so much difficulty in attending with patience to his
duties as in the course of the next fortnight. They became a greater
durance, as he at length looked his feelings full in the face, and
became aware of their true nature.

He perceived that the loss of Laura would darken his whole existence;
yet he thought that, were he only secure of her happiness, he could have
resigned her in silence. Guy was, however, one of the last men in the
world whom he could bear to see in possession of her; and probably
she was allowing herself to be entangled, if not in heart, at least in
manner. If so, she should not be unwarned. He had been her guide from
childhood, and he would not fail her now.

Three days before the review, he succeeded in finding time for a walk to
Hollywell, not fully decided on the part he should act, though resolved
on making some remonstrance. He was crossing a stile, about a mile and a
half from Hollywell, when he saw a lady sitting on the stump of a tree,
sketching, and found that fate had been so propitious as to send Laura
thither alone. The rest had gone to gather mushrooms on a down, and had
left her sketching the view of the spires of Broadstone, in the cleft
between the high green hills. She was very glad to see him, and held up
her purple and olive washes to be criticised; but he did not pay much
attention to them. He was almost confused at the sudden manner in which
the opportunity for speaking had presented itself.

‘It is a long time since I have seen you,’ said he, at last.

‘An unheard-of time.’

‘Still longer since we have had any conversation.’

‘I was just thinking so. Not since that hot hay-making, when Guy came
home. Indeed, we have had so much amusement lately that I have hardly
had time for thought. Guy says we are all growing dissipated.’

‘Ah! your German, and dancing, and music, do not agree with thought.’

‘Poor music!’ said Laura, smiling. ‘But I am ready for a lecture; I have
been feeling more like a butterfly than I like.’

‘I know you think me unjust about music, and I freely confess that I
cannot estimate the pleasure it affords, but I doubt whether it is a
safe pleasure. It forms common ground for persons who would otherwise
have little in common, and leads to intimacies which occasion results
never looked for.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura, receiving it as a general maxim.

‘Laura, you complain of feeling like a butterfly. Is not that a sign
that you were made for better things?’

‘But what can I do? I try to read early and at night, but I can’t
prevent the fun and gaiety; and, indeed, I don’t think I would. It is
innocent, and we never had such a pleasant summer. Charlie is so--so
much more equable, and mamma is more easy about him, and I can’t help
thinking it does them all good, though I do feel idle.’

‘It is innocent, it is right for a little while,’ said Philip; ‘but your
dissatisfaction proves that you are superior to such things. Laura, what
I fear is, that this summer holiday may entangle you, and so fix your
fate as to render your life no holiday. O Laura take care; know what you
are doing!’

‘What am I doing?’ asked Laura, with an alarmed look of ingenuous
surprise.

Never had it been so hard to maintain his composure as now, when her
simplicity forced him to come to plainer terms. ‘I must speak,’ he
continued, ‘because no one else will. Have you reflected whither this
may tend? This music, this versifying, this admitting a stranger so
unreservedly into your pursuits?’

She understood now, and hung her head. He would have given worlds to
judge of the face hidden by her bonnet; but as she did not reply,
he spoke on, his agitation becoming so strong, that the struggle was
perceptible in the forced calmness of his tone. ‘I would not say a word
if he were worthy, but Laura--Laura, I have seen Locksley Hall acted
once; do not let me see it again in a way which--which would give me
infinitely more pain.’

The faltering of his voice, so resolutely subdued, touched, her
extremely, and a thrill of exquisite pleasure glanced through her, on
hearing confirmed what she had long felt, that she had taken Margaret’s
place--nay, as she now learnt, that she was even more precious to him.
She only thought of reassuring him.

‘No, you need never fear _that_. He has no such thought, I am sure.’
She blushed deeply, but looked in his face. ‘He treats us both alike,
besides, he is so young.’

‘The mischief is not done,’ said Philip, trying to resume his usual
tone; ‘I only meant to speak in time. You might let your manner go too
far; you might even allow your affections to be involved without knowing
it, if you were not on your guard.’

‘Never!’ said Laura. ‘Oh, no; I could never dream of that with Guy. I
like Guy very much; I think better of him than you do; but oh no; he
could never be my first and best; I could never care for him in _that_
way. How could you think so, Philip?’

‘Laura, I cannot but look on you with what may seem over-solicitude.
Since I lost Fanny, and worse than lost Margaret, you have been my
home; my first, my most precious interest. O Laura!’ and he did not even
attempt to conceal the trembling and tenderness of his voice, ‘could I
bear to lose you, to see you thrown away or changed--you, dearest, best
of all?’

Laura did not turn away her head this time, but raising her beautiful
face, glowing with such a look as had never beamed there before, while
tears rose to her eyes, she said, ‘Don’t speak of my changing towards
you. I never could; for if there is anything to care for in me, it is
you that have taught it to me.’

If ever face plainly told another that he was her first and best,
Laura’s did so now. Away went misgivings, and he looked at her in
happiness too great for speech, at least, he could not speak till he
had mastered his emotion, but his countenance was sufficient reply. Even
then, in the midst of this flood of ecstasy, came the thought, ‘What
have I done?’

He had gone further than he had ever intended. It was a positive avowal
of love; and what would ensue? Cessation of intercourse with her,
endless vexations, the displeasure of her family, loss of influence,
contempt, and from Mr. Edmonstone, for the pretensions of a penniless
soldier. His joy was too great to be damped, but it was rendered
cautious. ‘Laura, my own!’ (what delight the words gave her,) ‘you have
made me very happy. We know each other now, and trust each other for
ever.’

‘O yes, yes; nothing can alter what has grown up with us.’

‘It is for ever!’ repeated Philip. ‘But, Laura, let us be content with
our own knowledge of what we are to each other. Do not let us call in
others to see our happiness.’

Laura looked surprised, for she always considered any communication
about his private feelings too sacred to be repeated, and wondered he
should think the injunction necessary. ‘I never can bear to talk about
the best kinds of happiness,’ said she; ‘but oh!’ and she sprang up,
‘here they come.’

Poor Mrs. Edmonstone, as she walked back from her mushroom-field, she
little guessed that words had been spoken which would give the colouring
to her daughter’s whole life--she little guessed that her much-loved and
esteemed nephew had betrayed her confidence! As she and the girls came
up, Philip advanced to meet them, that Laura might have a few moments to
recover, while with an effort he kept himself from appearing absent in
the conversation that ensued. It was brief, for having answered some
questions with regard to the doings on the important day, he said, that
since he had met them he would not come on to Hollywell, and bade them
farewell, giving Laura a pressure of the hand which renewed the glow on
her face.

He walked back, trying to look through the dazzling haze of joy so as
to see his situation clearly. It was impossible for him not to perceive
that there had been an absolute declaration of affection, and that he
had established a private understanding with his cousin. It was not,
however, an engagement, nor did he at present desire to make it so.
It was impossible for him as yet to marry, and he was content to wait
without a promise, since that could not add to his entire reliance on
Laura. He could not bear to be rejected by her parents: he knew his
poverty would be the sole ground of objection, and he was not asking her
to share it. He believed sincerely that a long, lingering attachment to
himself would be more for her good than a marriage with one who would
have been a high prize for worldly aims, and was satisfied that by
winning her heart he had taken the only sure means of securing her from
becoming attached to Guy, while secrecy was the only way of preserving
his intercourse with her on the same footing, and exerting his influence
over the family.

It was calmly reflected, for Philip’s love was tranquil, though deep and
steady, and the rather sought to preserve Laura as she was than to
make her anything more; and this very calmness contributed to his
self-deception on this first occasion that he had ever actually swerved
from the path of right.

With an uncomfortable sensation, he met Guy riding home from his tutor,
entirely unsuspicious. He stopped and talked of the preparations at
Broadstone, where he had been over the ground with Maurice de Courcy,
and had heard the band.

‘What did you think of it? said Philip, absently.

‘They _should_ keep better time! Really, Philip, there is one fellow
with a bugle that ought to be flogged every day of his life!’ said Guy,
making a droll, excruciated face.

How a few words can change the whole current of ideas. The band was
connected with Philip, therefore he could not bear to hear it found
fault with, and adduced some one’s opinion that the man in question was
one of the best of their musicians.

Guy could not help shrugging his shoulders, as he laughed, and
said,--‘Then I shall be obliged to take to my heels if I meet the rest.
Good-bye.’

‘How conceited they have made that boy about his fine ear,’ thought
Philip. ‘I wonder he is not ashamed to parade his music, considering
whence it is derived.’



CHAPTER 9

      Ah! county Guy, the hour is nigh,
      The sun has left the lea,
      The orange flower perfumes the bower,
      The breeze is on the sea.
      The lark, his lay, who thrilled all day,
      Sits hushed, his partner nigh,
      Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
      But where is county Guy?
                                --SCOTT


How was it meantime with Laura? The others were laughing and talking
round her, but all seemed lost in the transcendent beam that had shone
out on her. To be told by Philip that she was all to him that he had
always been to her! This one idea pervaded her--too glorious, too happy
for utterance, almost for distinct thought. The softening of his voice,
and the look with which he had regarded her, recurred again and again,
startling her with a sudden surprise of joy almost as at the first
moment. Of the future Laura thought not. Never had a promise of love
been made with less knowledge of what it amounted to: it seemed merely
an expression of sentiments that she had never been without; for had she
not always looked up to Philip more than any other living creature,
and gloried in being his favourite cousin? Ever since the time when
he explained to her the plates in the Encyclopaedia, and made her read
‘Joyce’s Scientific Dialogues,’ when Amy took fright at the first page.
That this might lead further did not occur to her; she was eighteen,
she had no experience, not even in novels, she did not know what she
had done; and above all, she had so leant to surrender her opinions
to Philip, and to believe him always right, that she would never have
dreamt of questioning wherever he might choose to lead her. Even the
caution of secrecy did not alarm her, though she wondered that he
thought it required, safe as his confidence always was with her. Mrs.
Edmonstone had been so much occupied by Charles’s illness, as to have
been unable to attend to her daughters in their girlish days; and in
the governess’s time the habit had been disused of flying at once to her
with every joy or grief. Laura’s thoughts were not easy of access, and
Philip had long been all in all to her. She was too ignorant of life to
perceive that it was her duty to make this conversation known; or, more
truly, she did not awaken her mind to consider that anything could be
wrong that Philip desired.

On coming home, she ran up to her own room, and sitting by the open
window, gave herself up to that delicious dream of new-found joy.

There she still sat when Amy came in, opening the door softly, and
treading lightly and airily as she entered, bringing two or three roses
of different tints.

‘Laura! not begun to dress?’

‘Is it time?’

‘Shall I answer you according to what Philip calls my note of time, and
tell you the pimpernels are closed, and the tigridias dropping their
leaves? It would be a proper answer for you; you look as if you were in
Fairy Land.’

‘Is papa come home?’

‘Long ago! and Guy too. Why, where could you have been, not to have
heard Guy and Eveleen singing the Irish melodies?’

‘In a trance,’ said Laura, starting up, and laughing, with a slight
degree of constraint, which caused Amy, who was helping her to dress, to
exclaim, ‘Has anything happened, Laura?’

‘What should have happened?’

‘I can’t guess, unless the fairies in the great ring on Ashendown came
to visit you when we were gone. But seriously, dear Laura, are you sure
you are not tired? Is nothing the matter?’

‘Nothing at all, thank you. I was only thinking over the talk I had with
Philip.’

‘Oh!’

Amy never thought of entering into Philip’s talks with Laura, and was
perfectly satisfied.

By this time Laura was herself again, come back to common life, and
resolved to watch over her intercourse with Guy; since, though she was
convinced that all was safe at present, she had Philip’s word for it
that there might be danger in continuing the pleasant freedom of their
behaviour.

Nothing could be more reassuring than Guy’s demeanour. His head seemed
entirely full of the Thursday, and of a plan of his own for enabling
Charles to go to the review. It had darted into his head while he was
going over the ground with Maurice. It was so long since Charles had
thought it possible to attempt any amusement away from home, and former
experiments had been so unsuccessful, that it had never even occurred
to him to think of it; but he caught at the idea with great delight and
eagerness. Mrs. Edmonstone seemed not to know what to say; she had much
rather that it had not been proposed; yet it was very kind of Guy, and
Charles was so anxious about it that she knew not how to oppose him.

She could not bear to have Charles in a crowd, helpless as he was; and
she had an unpleasing remembrance of the last occasion when they had
taken him to a flower-show, where they had lost, first Mr. Edmonstone,
next the carriage, and lastly, Amy and Charlotte--all had been
frightened, and Charles laid up for three days from the fatigue.

Answers, however, met each objection. Charles was much stronger; Guy’s
arm would be ready for him; Guy would find the carriage. Philip would
be there to help, besides Maurice; and whenever Charles was tired, Guy
would take him home at once, without spoiling any one’s pleasure.

‘Except your own,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘Thank you; but this would be so delightful.’

‘Ah!’ said Charles, ‘it would be as great a triumph as the dog’s that
caught the hare with the clog round his neck--the dog’s, I mean.’

‘If you will but trust me with him,’ said Guy, turning on her all the
pleading eloquence of his eyes, ‘you know he can get in and out of the
pony-carriage quite easily.’

‘As well as walk across the room,’ said Charles.

‘I would drive him in it, and tell William to ride in and be at hand to
hold the pony or take it out; and the tent is so near, that you could
get to the breakfast, unless the review had been enough for you. I
paced the distance to make sure, and it is no further than from the
garden-door to the cherry-tree.’

‘That is nothing,’ said Charles.

‘And William shall be in waiting to bring the pony the instant you are
ready, and we can go home independently of every one else.’

‘I thought,’ interposed Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘that you were to go to the
mess-dinner--what is to become of that?’

‘O,’ said Charles, ‘that will be simply a bore, and he may rejoice to be
excused from going the whole hog.’

‘To be sure, I had rather dine in peace at home.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was not happy, but she had great confidence in Guy; and
her only real scruple was, that she did not think it fair to occupy him
entirely with attendance on her son. She referred it to papa, which, as
every one knew, was the same as yielding the point, and consoled herself
by the certainty that to prevent it would be a great disappointment to
both the youths. Laura was convinced that to achieve the adventure of
Charles at the review, was at present at least a matter of far more
prominence with Guy than anything relating to herself.

All but Laura and her mother were wild about the weather, especially
on Wednesday, when there was an attempt at a thunder storm. Nothing was
studied but the sky; and the conversation consisted of prognostications,
reports of rises and falls of the glass, of the way weather-cocks were
turning, or about to turn, of swallows flying high or low, red sunsets,
and halos round the moon, until at last Guy, bursting into a merry
laugh, begged Mrs. Edmonstone’s pardon for being such a nuisance, and
made a vow, and kept it, that be the weather what it might, he would say
not another word about it that evening; it deserved to be neglected, for
he had not been able to settle to anything all day.

He might have said for many days before; for since the last ball, and
still more since Lady Eveleen had been at Hollywell, it had been one
round of merriment and amusement. Scrambling walks, tea-drinkings out
of doors, dances among themselves, or with the addition of the Harpers,
were the order of the day. Amy, Eveleen, and Guy, could hardly come into
the room without dancing, and the piano was said to acknowledge nothing
but waltzes, polkas, and now and then an Irish jig, for the special
benefit of Mr. Edmonstone’s ears. The morning was almost as much spent
in mirth as the afternoon, for the dawdlings after breakfast, and before
luncheon, had a great tendency to spread out and meet, there was new
music and singing to be practised, or preparations made for evening’s
diversion, or councils to be held, which Laura’s absence could not break
up, though it often made Amy feel how much less idle and frivolous Laura
was than herself. Eveleen said the same, but she was visiting, and
it was a time to be idle; and Mr. Lascelles seemed to be of the same
opinion with regard to his pupil; for, when Guy was vexed at not having
done as much work as usual, he only laughed at him for expecting to be
able to go to balls, and spend a summer of gaiety, while he studied as
much as at Oxford.

Thursday morning was all that heart could wish, the air cooled by the
thunder, and the clouds looking as if raining was foreign to their
nature. Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone, their daughters, and Lady Eveleen,
were packed inside and outside the great carriage, while Guy, carefully
settling Charles in the low phaeton, putting in all that any one
recommended, from an air-cushion to an umbrella, flourished his whip,
and drove off with an air of exultation and delight.

Everything went off to admiration. No one was more amused than Charles.
The scene was so perfectly new and delightful to one accustomed to such
a monotonous life, that the very sight of people was a novelty. Nowhere
was there so much laughing and talking as in that little carriage, and
whenever Mrs. Edmonstone’s anxious eye fell upon it, she always saw
Charles sitting upright, with a face so full of eager interest as to
banish all thought of fatigue. Happy, indeed, he was. He enjoyed the
surprise of his acquaintance at meeting him; he enjoyed Dr. Mayerne’s
laugh and congratulation; he enjoyed seeing how foolish Philip thought
him, nodding to his mother and sisters, laughing at the dreadful faces
Guy could not help making at any particularly discordant note of the
offensive bugle; and his capabilities rising with his spirits, he did
all that the others did, walked further than he had done for years, was
lifted up steps without knowing how, sat out the whole breakfast, talked
to all the world, and well earned the being thoroughly tired, as he
certainly was when Guy put him into the carriage and drove him home, and
still more so when Guy all but carried him up stairs, and laid him on
the sofa in the dressing-room.

However, his mother announced that it would have been so unnatural if
he had not been fatigued, that she should have been more anxious, and
leaving him to repose, they all, except Mr. Edmonstone, who had stayed
to dine at the mess, sat down to dinner.

Amy came down dressed just as the carriage had been announced, and found
Laura and Eveleen standing by the table, arranging their bouquets, while
Guy, in the dark, behind the piano, was playing--not, as usual, in such
cases, the Harmonious Blacksmith, but a chant.

‘Is mamma ready?’ asked Laura.

‘Nearly,’ said Amy, ‘but I wish she was not obliged to go! I am sure she
cannot bear to leave Charlie.’

‘I hope she is not going on my account,’ said Eveleen.

‘No, said Laura, ‘we must go; it would so frighten papa if we did not
come. Besides, there is nothing to be uneasy about with Charles.’

‘O no,’ said Amy; ‘she says so, only she is always anxious, and she is
afraid he is too restless to go to sleep.’

‘We must get home as fast as we can; if you don’t mind, Eva,’ said
Laura, remembering how her last dance with Guy had delayed them.

‘Can I do any good to Charlie?’ said Guy, ceasing his music. I don’t
mean to go.’

‘Not go!’ cried the girls in consternation.

‘He is joking!’ said Eveleen. ‘But, I declare!’ added she, advancing
towards him, ‘he is not dressed! Come, nonsense, this is carrying it too
far; you’ll make us all too late, and then I’ll set Maurice at you.’

‘I am afraid it is no joke,’ said Guy, smiling.

‘You must go. It will never do for you to stay away,’ said Laura,
decidedly.

‘Are you tired? Aren’t you well?’ asked Amy.

‘Quite well, thank you, but I am sure I had better not.’

Laura thought she had better not seem anxious to take him, so she left
the task of persuasion, to the others, and Amy went on.

‘Neither Mamma nor Charlie could bear to think you stayed because of
him.’

‘I don’t, I assure you, Amy. I meant it before. I have been gradually
finding out that it must come to this.’

‘Oh, you think it a matter of right and wrong! But you don’t think balls
wrong?’

‘Oh no; only they won’t do for such an absurd person as I am. The last
turned my head for a week, and I am much too unsteady for this.’

‘Well, if you think it a matter of duty, it can’t be helped,’ said Amy
sorrowfully; ‘but I am very sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ said Guy, thinking it compassion, not regret; ‘but I shall
do very well. I shall be all the happier to-morrow for a quiet hour at
my Greek, and you’ll tell me all the fun.’

‘You liked it so much!’ said Amy; ‘but you have made up your mind and I
ought not to tease you.’

‘That’s right Amy; he does it on purpose to be teased,’ said Eveleen,
‘and I never knew anybody so provoking. Mind, Sir Guy, if you make us
all too late, you shan’t have the ghost of a quadrille with me.’

‘I shall console myself by quadrilling with Andromache,’ said Guy.

‘Come, no nonsense--off to dress directly! How can you have the
conscience to stand there when the carriage is at the door?’

‘I shall have great pleasure in handing you in when you are ready.’

‘Laura--Amy! Does he really mean it?’

‘I am afraid he does,’ said Amy.

Eveleen let herself fall on the sofa as if fainting. ‘Oh,’ she said,
‘take him away! Let me never see the face of him again! I’m perfectly
overcome! All my teaching thrown away!’

‘I am sorry for you,’ said Guy, laughing.

‘And how do you mean to face Maurice?’

‘Tell him his first bugle has so distracted me that I can’t answer for
the consequences if I come to-night.

‘Mrs. Edmonstone came in, saying,--

‘Come, I have kept you waiting shamefully, but I have been consoling
myself by thinking you must be well entertained, as I heard no
Harmonious Blacksmith. Papa will be wondering where we are.’

‘Oh, mamma! Guy won’t go.’

‘Guy! is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing, thank you, only idleness.’

‘This will never do. You really must go, Guy.’

‘Indeed! I think not. Pray don’t order me, Mrs. Edmonstone.’

‘What o’clock is it, Amy? Past ten! Papa will be in despair! What is to
be done? How long do you take to dress, Guy?’

‘Not under an hour,’ said Guy, smiling.

‘Nonsense! But if there was time I should certainly send you.
Self-discipline may be carried too far, Guy. But now it can’t be
helped--I don’t know how to keep papa waiting any longer. Laura, what
shall I do?’

‘Let me go to Charles,’ answered Guy. ‘Perhaps I can read him to sleep.’

‘Thank you; but don’t talk, or he will be too excited. Reading would be
the very thing! It will be a pretty story to tell every one who asks for
you that I have left you to nurse my son!’

‘No, for no such good reason,’ said Guy; ‘only because I am a great
fool.’

‘Well, Sir Guy, I am glad you can say one sensible word,’ said Lady
Eveleen.

‘Too true, I assure you,’ he answered, as he handed her in. ‘Good night!
You will keep the quadrille for me till I am rational.’

He handed the others in, and shut the door. Mrs. Edmonstone, ruffled out
of her composure, exclaimed,--

‘Well, this is provoking!’

‘Every one will be vexed,’ said Laura.

‘It will be so stupid,’ said Amy.

‘I give him up,’ said Eveleen. ‘I once had hopes of him.’

‘If it was not for papa, I really would turn back this moment and fetch
him,’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone, starting forward. ‘I’m sure it will give
offence. I wish I had not consented.’

‘He can’t be made to see that his presence is of importance to any
living creature,’ said Laura.

‘What is the reason of this whim?’ said Eveleen.

‘No, Eveleen, it is not whim,’ said Laura; ‘it is because he thinks
dissipation makes him idle.’

‘Then if he is idle I wonder what the rest of the world is!’ said
Eveleen. ‘I am sure we all ought to stay at home too.’

‘I think so,’ said Amy. ‘I know I shall feel all night as if I was wrong
to be there.’

‘I am angry,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘and yet I believe it is a great
sacrifice.’

‘Yes, mamma; after all our looking forward to it,’ said Amy. ‘Oh! yes,’
and her voice lost its piteous tone, ‘it is a real sacrifice.’

‘If he was not a mere boy, I should say a lover’s quarrel was at the
bottom of it,’ said Eveleen. ‘Depend upon it, Laura, it is all your
fault. You only danced once with him at our ball, and all this week you
have played for us, as if it was on purpose to cut him.’

Laura was glad of the darkness, and her mother, who had a particular
dislike to jokes of this sort, went on,--‘If it were only ourselves I
should not care, but there are so many who will fancy it caprice, or
worse.’

‘The only comfort is,’ said Amy, ‘that it is Charlie’s gain.’

‘I hope they will not talk,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘But Charlie will
never hold his tongue. He will grow excited, and not sleep all night.’

Poor Mrs. Edmonstone! her trials did not end here, for when she replied
to her husband’s inquiry for Guy, Mr. Edmonstone said offence had
already been taken at his absence from the dinner; he would not have had
this happen for fifty pounds; she ought not to have suffered it; but it
was all her nonsense about Charles, and as to not being late, she should
have waited till midnight rather than not have brought him. In short,
he said as much more than he meant, as a man in a pet is apt to say, and
nevertheless Mrs. Edmonstone had to look as amiable and smiling as if
nothing was the matter.

The least untruthful answer she could frame to the inquiries for Sir Guy
Morville was, that young men were apt to be lazy about balls, and
this sufficed for good-natured Mrs. Deane, but Maurice poured out many
exclamations about his ill-behaviour, and Philip contented himself with
the mere fact of his not being there, and made no remark.

Laura turned her eyes anxiously on Philip. They had not met since the
important conversation on Ashen-down, and she found herself looking with
more pride than ever at his tall, noble figure, as if he was more her
own; but the calmness of feeling was gone. She could not meet his eye,
nor see him turn towards her without a start and tremor for which she
could not render herself a reason, and her heart beat so much that it
was at once a relief and a disappointment that she was obliged to accept
her other cousin as her first partner. Philip had already asked Lady
Eveleen, for he neither wished to appear too eager in claiming Laura,
nor to let his friend think he had any dislike to the Irish girl.

Eveleen was much pleased to have him for her partner, and told herself
she would be on her good behaviour. It was a polka, and there was not
much talk, which, perhaps, was all the better for her. She admired the
review, and the luncheon, and spoke of Charles without any sauciness,
and Philip was condescending and agreeable.

‘I must indulge myself in abusing that stupid cousin of yours!’ said
she. Did you ever know a man of such wonderful crotchets?’

‘This is a very unexpected one,’ said Philip.

‘It came like a thunder clap. I thought till the last moment he was
joking, for he likes dancing so much; he was the life of our ball, and
how could any one suppose he would fly off at the last moment?’

‘He seems rather to enjoy doing things suddenly.’

‘I tell Laura she has affronted him,’ said Eveleen, laughing. ‘She has
been always busy of late when we have wanted her; and I assure her his
pride has been piqued. Don’t you think that is an explanation, Captain
Morville?’

It was Captain Morvilles belief, but he would not say so.

‘Isn’t Laura looking lovely?’ Eveleen went on. ‘I am sure she is
the beauty of the night!’ She was pleased to see Captain Morville’s
attention gained. ‘She is even better dressed than at our ball--those
Venetian pins suit the form of her head so well. Her beauty is better
than almost any one’s, because she has so much countenance.’

‘True,’ said Philip.

‘How proud Maurice looks of having her on his arm. Does not he? Poor
Maurice! he is desperately in love with her!’

‘As is shown by his pining melancholy.’

Eveleen laughed with her clear hearty laugh. ‘I see you know what we
mean by being desperately in love! No,’ she added more gravely, ‘I am
very glad it is only _that_ kind of desperation. One could not think of
Maurice and Laura together. He does not know the best part of Laura.’

Eveleen was highly flattered by Captain Morville conducting her a second
time round the room, instead of at once restoring her to her aunt.

He secured Laura next, and leading her away from her own party, said,
‘Laura, have you been overdoing it?’

‘It is not that,’ said Laura, wishing she could keep from blushing.

‘It is the only motive that could excuse his extraordinary behaviour.’

‘Surely you know he says that he is growing unsettled. It is part of his
rule of self discipline.’

‘Absurd!--exaggerated!--incredible! This is the same story as there was
about the horse. It is either caprice or temper, and I am convinced
that some change in your manner--nay, I say unconscious, and am far from
blaming you--is the cause. Why else did he devote himself to Charles,
and leave you all on my uncle’s hands in the crowd?’

‘We could shift for ourselves much better than Charlie.’

‘This confirms my belief that my warning was not mistimed. I wish it
could have been done without decidedly mortifying him and rousing his
temper, because I am sorry others should be slighted; but if he takes
your drawing back so much to heart, it shows that it was time you should
do so.’

‘If I thought I had!’

‘It was visible to others--to another, I should say.’

‘O, that is only Eveleen’s nonsense! The only difference I am conscious
of having made, was keeping more up-stairs, and not trying to persuade
him to come here to-night.’

‘I have no doubt it was this that turned the scale, He only waited for
persuasion, and you acted very wisely in not flattering his self-love.’

‘Did I?--I did not know it.’

‘A woman’s instinct is often better than reasoning, Laura; to do the
right thing without knowing why. But come, I suppose we must play our
part in the pageant of the night.’

For that evening Laura, contrary to the evidence of her senses, was
persuaded by her own lover that Guy was falling in love with her; and
after musing all through the dance, she said, ‘What do you think of the
scheme that has been started for my going to Ireland with papa?’

‘Your going to Ireland?’

‘Yes; you know none of us, except papa, have seen grandmamma since
Charles began to be ill, and there is some talk of his taking me with
him when he goes this summer.’

‘I knew he was going, but I thought it was not to be till later in the
year--not till after the long vacation.’

‘So he intended, but he finds he must be at home before the end of
October, and it would suit him best to go in August.’

‘Then what becomes of Guy?’

‘He stays at Hollywell. It will be much better for Charles to have him
there while papa is away. I thought when the plan was first mentioned I
should be sorry, except that it is quite right to go to grandmamma; but
if it is so, about Guy, this absence would be a good thing--it would
make a break, and I could begin again on different terms.’

‘Wisely judged, Laura. Yes, on that account it would be very desirable,
though it will be a great loss to me, and I can hardly hope to be so
near you on your return.’

‘Ah! yes, so I feared!’ sighed Laura.

‘But we must give up something; and for Guy’s own sake, poor fellow, it
will be better to make a break, as you say. It will save him pain by and
by.’

‘I dare say papa will consult you about when his journey is to be. His
only doubt was whether it would do to leave Guy so long alone, and if
you say it would be safe, it would decide him at once.’

‘I see little chance of mischief. Guy has few temptations here, and a
strong sense of honour; besides, I shall be at hand. Taking all things
into consideration, Laura, I think that, whatever the sacrifice to
ourselves, it is expedient to recommend his going at once, and your
accompanying him.’

All the remainder of the evening Philip was occupied with attentions
to the rest of the world, but Laura’s eyes followed him everywhere, and
though she neither expected nor desired him to bestow more time on her,
she underwent a strange restlessness and impatience of feeling. Her
numerous partners teased her by hindering her from watching him moving
about the room, catching his tones, and guessing what he was talking
of;--not that she wanted to meet his eye, for she did not like to blush,
nor did she think it pleased him to see her do so, for he either looked
away immediately or conveyed a glance which she understood as monitory.
She kept better note of his countenance than of her own partner’s.

Mr. Thorndale, meanwhile, kept aloof from Lady Eveleen de Courcy, but
Captain Morville perceived that his eyes were often turned towards her,
and well knew it was principle, and not inclination, that held him at a
distance. He did indeed once ask her to dance, but she was engaged,
and he did not ask her to reserve a future dance for him, but contented
himself with little Amy.

Amy was doing her best to enjoy herself, because she thought it
ungrateful not to receive pleasure from those who wished to give it,
but to her it wanted the zest and animation of Lady Kilcoran’s ball.
Besides, she knew she had been as idle as Guy, or still more so, and she
thought it wrong she should have pleasure while he was doing penance.
It was on her mind, and damped her spirits, and though she smiled, and
talked, and admired, and danced lightly and gaily, there was a sensation
of weariness throughout, and no one but Eveleen was sorry when Mrs.
Edmonstone sent Maurice to see for the carriage.

Philip was one of the gentlemen who came to shawl them. As he put
Laura’s cloak round her shoulders he was able to whisper, ‘Take care;
you must be cautious--self-command.’

Laura, though blushing and shrinking the moment before was braced by his
words and tone to attempt all he wished. She looked up in what she meant
to be an indifferent manner, and made some observation in a careless
tone--anything rather than let Philip think her silly. After what he had
said, was she not bound more than ever to exert herself to the utmost,
that he might not be disappointed in her? She loved him only the better
for what others might have deemed a stern coldness of manner, for it
made the contrast of his real warmth of affection more precious. She
mused over it, as much as her companions’ conversation would allow, on
the road home. They arrived, Mrs. Edmonstone peeped into Charles’s room,
announced that he was quietly asleep, and they all bade each other good
night, or good morning, and parted.



CHAPTER 10

      Leonora. Yet often with respect he speaks of thee.
      Tasso.   Thou meanest with forbearance, prudent, subtle,
               ‘Tis that annoys me, for he knows to use
               Language so smooth and so conditional,
               That seeming praise from him is actual blame.
                                            --GOETHE’S Tasso


When the Hollywell party met at breakfast, Charles showed himself by no
means the worse for his yesterday’s experiment. He said he had gone to
sleep in reasonable time, lulled by some poetry, he knew not what, of
which Guy’s voice had made very pretty music, and he was now full of
talk about the amusement he had enjoyed yesterday, which seemed likely
to afford food for conversation for many a week to come. After all the
care Guy had taken of him, Mrs. Edmonstone could not find it in her
heart to scold, and her husband, having spent his vexation upon her, had
none left to bestow on the real culprit. So when Guy, with his bright
morning face, and his hair hanging shining and wet round it, opened
the dining-room door, on his return from bathing in the river, Mr.
Edmonstone’s salutation only conveyed that humorous anger that no one
cares for.

‘Good morning to you, Sir Guy Morville! I wonder what you have to say
for yourself.’

‘Nothing,’ said Guy, smiling; then, as he took his place by Mrs.
Edmonstone, ‘I hope you are not tired after your hard day’s work?’

‘Not at all, thank you.’

‘Amy, can you tell me the name of this flower?’

‘Oh! have you really found the arrow-head? How beautiful! Where did you
get it? I didn’t know it grew in our river.’

‘There is plenty of it in that reedy place beyond the turn. I thought it
looked like something out of the common way.’

‘Yes! What a purple eye it has! I must draw it. O, thank you.’

‘And, Charlotte, Bustle has found you a moorhen’s nest.’

‘How delightful! Is it where I can go and see the dear little things?’

‘It is rather a swamp; but I have been putting down stepping-stones for
you, and I dare say I can jump you across. It was that which made me
so late, for which I ought to have asked pardon,’ said he to Mrs.
Edmonstone, with his look of courtesy.

Never did man look less like an offended lover, or like a morose
self-tormentor.

‘There are others later,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking at Lady
Eveleen’s empty chair.

‘So you think that is all you have to ask pardon for,’ said Mr.
Edmonstone. ‘I advise you to study your apologies, for you are in pretty
tolerable disgrace.’

‘Indeed, I am very sorry,’ said Guy, with such a change of countenance
that Mr. Edmonstone’s good nature could not bear to see it.

‘Oh, ‘tis no concern of mine! It would be going rather the wrong way,
indeed, for you to be begging my pardon for all the care you’ve been
taking of Charlie; but you had better consider what you have to say for
yourself before you show your face at Broadstone.’

‘No?’ said Guy, puzzled for a moment, but quickly looking relieved, and
laughing, ‘What! Broadstone in despair for want of me?’

‘And we perfectly exhausted with answering questions as to what was
become of Sir Guy.’

‘Dreadful,’ said Guy, now laughing heartily, in the persuasion that it
was all a joke.

‘O, Lady Eveleen, good morning; you are come in good time to give me the
story of the ball, for no one else tells me one word about it.’

‘Because you don’t deserve it,’ said she. ‘I hope you have repented by
this time.’

‘If you want to make me repent, you should give me a very alluring
description.’

‘I shan’t say one word about it; I shall send you to Coventry, as
Maurice and all the regiment mean to do,’ said Eveleen, turning away
from him with a very droll arch manner of offended dignity.

‘Hear, hear! Eveleen send any one to Coventry!’ cried Charles. ‘See what
the regiment say to you.’

‘Ay, when I am sent to Coventry?’

‘O, Paddy, Paddy!’ cried Charles, and there was a general laugh.

‘Laura seems to be doing it in good earnest without announcing it,’
added Charles, when the laugh was over, ‘which is the worst sign of
all.’

‘Nonsense, Charles,’ said Laura, hastily; then afraid she had owned to
annoyance, she blushed and was angry with herself for blushing.

‘Well, Laura, _do_ tell me who your partners were?’

Very provoking, thought Laura, that I cannot say what is so perfectly
natural and ordinary, without my foolish cheeks tingling. He may think
it is because he is speaking to me. So she hurried on: ‘Maurice first,
then Philip,’ and then showed, what Amy and Eveleen thought, strange
oblivion of the rest of her partners.

They proceeded into the history of the ball; and Guy thought no more of
his offences till the following day, when he went to Broadstone. Coming
back, he found the drawing-room full of visitors, and was obliged to
sit down and join in the conversation; but Mrs. Edmonstone saw he was
inwardly chafing, as he betrayed by his inability to remain still, the
twitchings of his forehead and lip, and a tripping and stumbling of the
words on his tongue. She was sure he wanted to talk to her, and longed
to get rid of Mrs. Brownlow; but the door was no sooner shut on the
visitors, than Mr. Edmonstone came in, with a long letter for her
to read and comment upon. Guy took himself out of the way of the
consultation, and began to hurry up and down the terrace, until, seeing
Amabel crossing the field towards the little gate into the garden, he
went to open it for her.

She looked up at him, and exclaimed--‘Is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing to signify,’ he said; ‘I was only waiting for your mother. I
have got into a mess, that is all.’

‘I am sorry,’ began Amy, there resting in the doubt whether she might
inquire further, and intending not to burthen him with her company, any
longer than till she reached the house door; but Guy went on,--

‘No, you have no occasion to be sorry; it is all my own fault; at least,
if I was clear how it is my fault, I should not mind it so much. It
is that ball. I am sure I had not the least notion any one would care
whether I was there or not.’

‘I am sure we missed you very much.’

‘You are all so kind; beside, I belong in a manner you; but what could
it signify to any one else? And here I find that I have vexed every
one.’

‘Ah!’ said Amy, ‘mamma said she was afraid it would give offence.’

‘I ought to have attended to her. It was a fit of self-will in managing
myself,’ said Guy, murmuring low, as if trying to find the real
indictment; ‘yet I thought it a positive duty; wrong every way.’

‘What has happened?’ said Amy, turning back with him, though she had
reached the door.

‘Why, the first person I met was Mr. Gordon; and he spoke like your
father, half in joke, and I thought entirely so; he said something about
all the world being in such a rage, that I was a bold man to venture
into Broadstone. Then, while I was at Mr. Lascelles’, in came Dr.
Mayerne. ‘We missed you at the dinner,’ he said; ‘and I hear you shirked
the ball, too.’ I told him how it was, and he said he was glad that
was all, and advised me to go and call on Colonel Deane and explain. I
thought that the best way--indeed, I meant it before, and was walking
to his lodgings when Maurice de Courcy met me. ‘Ha!’ he cries out,
‘Morville! I thought at least you would have been laid up for a month
with the typhus fever! As a friend, I advise you to go home and catch
something, for it is the only excuse that will serve you. I am not quite
sure that it will not be high treason for me to be seen speaking to
you.’ I tried to get at the rights of it, but he is such a harum-scarum
fellow there was no succeeding. Next I met Thorndale, who only bowed
and passed on the other side of the street--sign enough how it was with
Philip; so I thought it best to go at once to the Captain, and get a
rational account of what was the matter.’

‘Did you?’ said Amy, who, though concerned and rather alarmed, had been
smiling at the humorous and expressive tones with which he could not
help giving effect to his narration.

‘Yes. Philip was at home, and very--very--’

‘Gracious?’ suggested Amy, as he hesitated for a word.

‘Just so. Only the vexatious thing was, that we never could succeed in
coming to an understanding. He was ready to forgive; but I could not
disabuse him of an idea--where he picked it up I cannot guess--that I
had stayed away out of pique. He would not even tell me what he thought
had affronted me, though I asked him over and over again to be only
straightforward; he declared I knew.’

‘How excessively provoking!’ cried Amy. ‘You cannot guess what he
meant?’

‘Not the least in the world. I have not the most distant suspicion. It
was of no use to declare I was not offended with any one; he only looked
in that way of his, as if he knew much better than I did myself, and
told me he could make allowances.’

‘Worse than all! How horrid of him.’

‘No, don’t spoil me. No doubt he thinks he has grounds, and my
irritation was unjustifiable. Yes, I got into my old way. He cautioned
me, and nearly made me mad! I never was nearer coming to a regular
outbreak. Always the same! Fool that I am.’

‘Now, Guy, that is always your way; when other people are provoking,
you abuse yourself. I am sure Philip was so, with his calm assertion of
being right.’

‘The more provoking, the more trial for me.’

‘But you endured it. You say it was only _nearly_ an outbreak. You
parted friends? I am sure of that.’

‘Yes, it would have been rather too bad not to do that.’

‘Then why do you scold yourself, when you really had the victory?’

‘The victory will be if the inward feeling as well as the outward token
is ever subdued.’

‘O, that must be in time, of course. Only let me hear how you got on
with Colonel Deane.’

‘He was very good-natured, and would have laughed it off, but Philip
went with me, and looked grand, and begged in a solemn way that no more
might be said. I could have got on better alone; but Philip was very
kind, or, as you say, gracious.’

‘And provoking,’ added Amy, ‘only I believe you do not like me to say
so.’

‘It is more agreeable to hear you call him so at this moment than is
good for me. I have no right to complain, since I gave the offence.’

‘The offence?’

‘The absenting myself.’

‘Oh! that you did because you thought it right.’

‘I want to be clear that it was right.’

‘What do you mean?’ cried she, astonished. ‘It was a great piece of
self-denial, and I only felt it wrong not to be doing the same.’

‘Nay, how should such creatures as you need the same discipline as I?’

She exclaimed to herself how far from his equal she was--how weak, idle,
and self-pleasing she felt herself to be; but she could not say so--the
words would not come; and she only drooped her little head, humbled by
his treating her as better than himself.

He proceeded:--

‘Something wrong I have done, and I want the clue. Was it self-will in
choosing discipline contrary to your mother’s judgment? Yet she could
not know all. I thought it her kindness in not liking me to lose the
pleasure. Besides, one must act for oneself, and this was only my own
personal amusement.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy, timidly hesitating.

‘Well?’ said he, with the gentle, deferential tone that contrasted with
his hasty, vehement self-accusations. ‘Well?’ and he waited, though not
so as to hurry or frighten her, but to encourage, by showing her words
had weight.

‘I was thinking of one thing,’ said Amy; ‘is it not sometimes right
to consider whether we ought to disappoint people who want us to be
pleased?’

‘There it is, I believe,’ said Guy, stopping and considering, then going
on with a better satisfied air, ‘that is a real rule. Not to be so bent
on myself as to sacrifice other people’s feelings to what seems best for
me. But I don’t see whose pleasure I interfered with.’

Amy could have answered, ‘Mine;’ but the maidenly feeling checked her
again, and she said, ‘We all thought you would like it.’

‘And I had no right to sacrifice your pleasure! I see, I see. The
pleasure of giving pleasure to others is so much the best there is on
earth, that one ought to be passive rather than interfere with it.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy, ‘just as I have seen Mary Ross let herself be swung
till she was giddy, rather than disappoint Charlotte and Helen, who
thought she liked it.’

‘If one could get to look at everything with as much indifference as
the swinging! But it is all selfishness. It is as easy to be selfish for
one’s own good as for one’s own pleasure; and I dare say, the first is
as bad as the other.’

‘I was thinking of something else,’ said Amy. ‘I should think it more
like the holly tree in Southey. Don’t you know it? The young leaves are
sharp and prickly, because they have so much to defend themselves from,
but as the tree grows older, it leaves off the spears, after it has won
the victory.’

‘Very kind of you, and very pretty, Amy,’ said he, smiling; ‘but, in the
meantime, it is surely wrong to be more prickly than is unavoidable, and
there is the perplexity. Selfish! selfish! selfish! Oneself the first
object. That is the root.’

‘Guy, if it is not impertinent to ask, I do wish you would tell me
one thing. Why did you think it wrong to go to that ball?’ said Amy,
timidly.

‘I don’t know that I thought it wrong to go to that individual ball,’
said Guy; ‘but my notion was, that altogether I was getting into a
rattling idle way, never doing my proper quantity of work, or doing
it properly, and talking a lot of nonsense sometimes. I thought, last
Sunday, it was time to make a short turn somewhere and bring myself up.
I could not, or did not get out of the pleasant talks as Laura does, so
I thought giving up this ball would punish me at once, and set me on a
new tack of behaving like a reasonable creature.’

‘Don’t call yourself too many names, or you won’t be civil to us. We
all, except Laura, have been quite as bad.’

‘Yes; but you had not so much to do.’

‘We ought,’ said Amy; ‘but I meant to be reasonable when Eveleen is
gone.’

Perhaps I ought to have waited till then, but I don’t know. Lady Eveleen
is so amusing that it leads to farther dawdling, and it would not do to
wait to resist the temptation till it is out of the way.’

As he spoke, they saw Mrs. Edmonstone coming out, and went to meet her.
Guy told her his trouble, detailing it more calmly than before he
had found out his mistake. She agreed with him that this had been in
forgetting that his attending the ball did not concern only himself, but
he then returned to say that he could not see what difference it made,
except to their own immediate circle.

‘If it was not you, Guy, who made that speech, I should call it fishing
for a compliment. You forget that rank and station make people sought
after.’

‘I suppose there is something in that,’ said Guy, thoughtfully; ‘at any
rate, it is no bad thing to think so, it is so humiliating.’

‘That is not the way most people would take it.’

‘No? Does not it prevent one from taking any attention as paid to one’s
real self? The real flattering thing would be to be made as much of as
Philip is, for one’s own merits, and not for the handle to one’s name.’

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Amy.

‘Well, then,’ as if he wished to gather the whole conversation into
one resolve, the point is to consider whether abstaining from innocent
things that may be dangerous to oneself mortifies other people. If so,
the vexing them is a certain wrong, whereas the mischief of taking the
pleasure is only a possible contingency. But then one must take it out
of oneself some other way, or it becomes an excuse for self-indulgence.’

‘Hardly with you,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.

‘Because I had rather go at it at once, and forget all about other
people. You must teach me consideration, Mrs. Edmonstone, and in the
meantime will you tell me what you think I had better do about this
scrape?’

‘Let it alone,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘You have begged every one’s
pardon, and it had better be forgotten as fast as possible. They have
made more fuss already than it is worth. Don’t torment yourself about it
any more; for, if you have made a mistake, it is on the right side; and
on the first opportunity, I’ll go and call on Mrs. Deane, and see if she
is very implacable.’

The dressing-bell rang, and Amy ran up-stairs, stopping at Laura’s door,
to ask how she prospered in the drive she had been taking with Charles
and Eveleen.

Amy told her of Guy’s trouble, and oh! awkward question, inquired if
she could guess what it could be that Philip imagined that Guy had been
offended at.

‘Can’t he guess?’ said poor Laura, to gain time, and brushing her hair
over her face.

‘No, he has no idea, though Philip protested that he knew, and would not
tell him. Philip must have been most tiresome.’

‘What? Has Guy been complaining?’

‘No, only angry with himself for being vexed. I can’t think how Philip
can go on so!’

‘Hush! hush, Amy, you know nothing about it. He has reasons--’

‘I know,’ said Amy, indignantly; ‘but what right has he to go on
mistrusting? If people are to be judged by their deeds, no one is
so good as Guy, and it is too bad to reckon up against him all his
ancestors have done. It is wolf and lamb, indeed.’

‘He does not!’ cried Laura. ‘He never is unjust! How can you say so,
Amy?’

‘Then why does he impute motives, and not straightforwardly tell what he
means?’

‘It is impossible in this case,’ said Laura.

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Laura, perfectly truthful, and feeling herself in a dreadful
predicament.

‘And you can’t tell me?’

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘Nor Guy?’

‘Not for worlds,’ cried Laura, in horror.

‘Can’t you get Philip to tell him?’

‘Oh no, no! I can’t explain it, Amy; and all that can be done is to let
it die away as fast as possible. It is only the rout about it that is of
consequence.’

‘It is very odd,’ said Amy, ‘but I must dress,’ and away she ran, much
puzzled, but with no desire to look into Philip’s secrets.

Laura rested her head on her hand, sighed, and wondered why it was so
hard to answer. She almost wished she had said Philip had been advising
her to discourage any attachment on Guy’s part; but then Amy might have
laughed, and asked why. No! no! Philip’s confidence was in her keeping,
and cost her what it might, she would be faithful to the trust.

There was now a change. The evenings were merry, but the mornings were
occupied. Guy went off to his room, as he used to do last winter; Laura
commenced some complicated perspective, or read a German book with a
great deal of dictionary; Amy had a book of history, and practised her
music diligently; even Charles read more to himself, and resumed the
study with Guy and Amy; Lady Eveleen joined in every one’s pursuits,
enjoyed them, and lamented to Laura that it was impossible to be
rational at her own home.

Laura tried to persuade her that there was no need that she should be on
the level of the society round her, and it ended in her spending an hour
in diligent study every morning, promising to continue it when she went
home, while Laura made such sensible comments that Eveleen admired her
more than ever; and she, knowing that some were second-hand from Philip,
others arising from his suggestions, gave him all the homage paid to
herself, as a tribute to him who reigned over her whole being.

Yet she was far from happy. Her reserve towards Guy made her feel stiff
and guarded; she had a craving for Philip’s presence, with a dread of
showing it, which made her uncomfortable. She wondered he had not been
at Hollywell since the bail, for he must know that she was going to
Ireland in a fortnight, and was not likely to return till his regiment
had left Broadstone.

An interval passed long enough for her not to be alone in her surprise
at his absenting himself before he at length made his appearance, just
before luncheon, so as to miss the unconstrained morning hours he used
so much to enjoy. He found Guy, Charles, and Amy, deep in Butler’s
Analogy.

‘Are you making poor little Amy read that?’ said he.

‘Bravo!’ cried Charles; ‘he is so disappointed that it is not Pickwick
that he does not know what else to say.’

‘I don’t suppose I take much in,’ said Amy; ‘but I like to be told what
it means.’

‘Don’t imagine I can do that,’ said Guy.

‘I never spent much time over it,’ said Philip; ‘but I should think you
were out of your depth.’

‘Very well,’ said Charles; ‘we will return to Dickens to oblige you.’

‘It is your pleasure to wrest my words,’ replied Philip, in his own calm
manner, though he actually felt hurt, which he had never done before.
His complacency was less secure, so that there was more need for
self-assertion.

‘Where are the rest?’ he asked.

‘Laura and Eveleen are making a dictation lesson agreeable to
Charlotte,’ said Amy; ‘I found Eva making mistakes on purpose.’

‘How much longer does she stay?’

‘Till Tuesday. Lord Kilcoran is coming to fetch her.’

Charlotte entered, and immediately ran up-stairs to announce her
cousin’s arrival. Laura was glad of this previous notice, and hoped her
blush and tremor were not observed. It was a struggle, through luncheon
time, to keep her colour and confusion within bounds; but she succeeded
better than she fancied she did, and Philip gave her as much help as he
could, by not looking at her. Seeing that he dreaded nothing so much as
her exciting suspicion, she was at once braced and alarmed.

Her father was very glad to see him, and reproached him for making
himself a stranger, while her sisters counted up the days of his
absence.

‘There was the time, to be sure, when we met you on Ashen-down, but that
was a regular cheat. Laura had you all to herself.’

Laura bent down to feed Bustle, and Philip felt _his_ colour deepening.

Mr. Edmonstone went on to ask him to come and stay at Hollywell for a
week, vowing he would take no refusal. ‘A week was out of the question,
said Philip; ‘but he could come for two nights.’ Amabel hinted that
there was to be a dinner-party on Thursday, thinking it fair to give
him warning of what he disliked, but he immediately chose that very day.
Again he disconcerted all expectations, when it was time to go out. Mrs.
Edmonstone and Charles were going to drive, the young ladies and Guy to
walk, but Philip disposed himself to accompany his uncle in a survey of
the wheat.

Laura perceived that he would not risk taking another walk with her when
they might be observed. It showed implicit trust to leave her to his
rival; but she was sorry to find that caution must put an end to the
freedom of their intercourse, and would have stayed at home, but that
Eveleen was so wild and unguarded that Mrs. Edmonstone did not like her
to be without Laura as a check on her, especially when Guy was of the
party. There was some comfort in that warm pressure of her hand when she
bade Philip good-bye, and on that she lived for a long time. He stood at
the window watching them till they were out of sight, then moved
towards his aunt, who with her bonnet on, was writing an invitation for
Thursday, to Mr. Thorndale.

‘I was thinking,’ said he, in a low voice, ‘if it would not be as well,
if you liked, to ask Thorndale here for those two days.’

‘If _you_ think so,’ returned Mrs. Edmonstone, looking at him more
inquiringly than he could well bear.

‘You know how he enjoys being here, and I owe them all so much
kindness.’

‘Certainly; I will speak to your uncle,’ said she, going in search of
him. She presently returned, saying they should be very glad to see Mr.
Thorndale, asking him at the same time, in her kind tones of interest,
after an old servant for whom he had been spending much thought and
pains. The kindness cut him to the heart, for it evidently arose from
a perception that he was ill at ease, and his conscience smote him. He
answered shortly, and was glad when the carriage came; he lifted Charles
into it, and stood with folded arms as they drove away.

‘The air is stormy,’ said Charles, looking back at him.’

‘You thought so, too?’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, eagerly.

‘You did!’

‘I have wondered for some time past.’

‘It was very decided to-day--that long absence--and there was no
provoking him to be sententious. His bringing his young man might be
only to keep him in due subjection; but his choosing the day of the
party, and above all, not walking with the young ladies.’

‘It not like himself,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, in a leading tone.

‘Either the sweet youth is in love, or in the course of some strange
transformation.’

‘In love!’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you any reason for thinking so?’

‘Only as a solution of phenomena; but you look as if I had hit on the
truth.’

‘I hope it is no such thing; yet--’

‘Yet?’ repeated Charles, seriously. ‘I think he has discovered the
danger.’

‘The danger of falling in love with Laura? Well, it would be odd if he
was not satisfied with his own work. But he must know how preposterous
that would be.’

‘And you think that would prevent it?’ said his mother, smiling. ‘He
is just the man to plume himself on making his judgment conquer his
inclination, setting novels at defiance. How magnanimously he would
resolve to stifle a hopeless attachment!’

‘That is exactly what I think he is doing. I think he has found out the
state of his feelings, and is doing all in his power to check them by
avoiding her, especially in tete-a-tetes, and an unconstrained family
party. I am nearly convinced that is his reason for bringing Mr.
Thorndale, and fixing on the day of the dinner. Poor fellow, it must
cost him a great deal, and I long to tell him how I thank him.’

‘Hm! I don’t think it unlikely,’ said Charles. ‘It agrees with what
happened the evening of the Kilcoran ball, when he was ready to eat me
up for saying something he fancied was a hint of a liking of Guy’s
for Laura. It was a wild mistake, for something I said about Petrarch,
forgetting that Petrarch suggested Laura; but it put him out to a
degree, and he made all manner of denunciations on the horror of Guy’s
falling in love with her. Now, as far as I see, Guy is much more in
love with you, or with Deloraine, and the idea argues far more that the
Captain himself is touched.’

‘Depend upon it, Charlie, it was this that led to his detecting the true
state of the case. Ever since that he has kept away. It is noble!’

‘And what do you think about Laura?’

‘Poor child! I doubt if it was well to allow so much intimacy; yet I
don’t see how it could have been helped.’

‘So you think she is in for it? I hope not; but she has not been herself
of late.’

‘I think she misses what she has been used to from him, and thinks him
estranged, but I trust it goes no further. I see she is out of spirits;
I wish I could help her, dear girl, but the worst of all would be to let
her guess the real name and meaning of all this, so I can’t venture to
say a word.’

‘She is very innocent of novels,’ said Charles, ‘and that is well. It
would be an unlucky business to have our poor beauty either sitting
‘like Patience on a monument’, or ‘cockit up on a baggage-waggon.’ But
that will never be. Philip is not the man to have a wife in barracks. He
would have her like his books, in morocco, or not at all.’

‘He would never involve her in discomforts. He may be entirely trusted,
and as long as he goes on as he has begun, there is no harm done; Laura
will cheer up, will only consider him as her cousin and friend, and
never know he has felt more for her.’

‘Her going to Ireland is very fortunate.’

‘It has made me still more glad that the plan should take place at
once.’

‘And you say “nothing to nobody”?’

‘Of course not. We must not let him guess we have observed anything;
there is no need to make your father uncomfortable, and such things need
not dawn on Amy’s imagination.’

It may be wondered at that Mrs. Edmonstone should confide such a subject
to her son, but she knew that in a case really affecting his sister,
and thus introduced, his silence was secure. In fact, confidence was the
only way to prevent the shrewd, unscrupulous raillery which would have
caused great distress, and perhaps led to the very disclosure to be
deprecated. Of late, too, there had been such a decrease of petulance
in Charles, as justified her in trusting him, and lastly, it must be
observed that she was one of those open-hearted people who cannot make a
discovery nor endure an anxiety without imparting it. Her tact, indeed,
led her to make a prudent choice of confidants, and in this case her son
was by far the best, though she had spoken without premeditation. Her
nature would never have allowed her to act as her daughter was doing;
she would have been without the strength to conceal her feelings,
especially when deprived of the safety-valve of free intercourse with
their object.

The visit took place as arranged, and very uncomfortable it was to all
who looked deeper than the surface. In the first place, Philip found
there the last person he wished his friend to meet--Lady Eveleen, who
had been persuaded to stay for the dinner-party; but Mr. Thorndale was,
as Charles would have said, on his good behaviour, and, ashamed of the
fascination her manners exercised over him, was resolved to resist it,
answered her gay remarks with brief sentences and stiff smiles, and
consorted chiefly with the gentlemen.

Laura was grave and silent, trying to appear unconscious, and only
succeeding in being visibly constrained. Philip was anxious and stern in
his attempts to appear unconcerned, and even Guy was not quite as bright
and free as usual, being puzzled as to how far he was forgiven about the
ball.

Amabel could not think what had come to every one, and tried in vain to
make them sociable. In the evening they had recourse to a game, said
to be for Charlotte’s amusement, but in reality to obviate some of the
stiffness and constraint; yet even this led to awkward situations. Each
person was to set down his or her favourite character in history and
fiction, flower, virtue, and time at which to have lived, and these were
all to be appropriated to the writers. The first read was--

‘Lily of the valley--truth--Joan of Arc--Padre Cristoforo--the present
time.’

‘Amy!’ exclaimed Guy.

‘I see you are right,’ said Charles; ‘but tell me your grounds!’

‘Padre Cristoforo,’ was the answer.

‘Fancy little Amy choosing Joan of Arc,’ said Eveleen, ‘she who is
afraid of a tolerable sized grasshopper.’

‘I should like to have been Joan’s sister, and heard her tell about her
visions,’ said Amy.

‘You would have taught her to believe them,’ said Philip.

‘Taught her!’ cried Guy. ‘Surely you take the high view of her.’

‘I think,’ said Philip, ‘that she is a much injured person, as much
by her friends as her enemies; but I don’t pretend to enter either
enthusiastically or philosophically into her character.’

What was it that made Guy’s brow contract, as he began to strip the
feather of a pen, till, recollecting himself, he threw it from him with
a dash, betraying some irritation, and folded his hands.

‘Lavender,’ read Charlotte.

‘What should make any one choose that?’ cried Eveleen.

‘I know!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking up. ‘I shall never forget the
tufts of lavender round the kitchen garden at Stylehurst.’

Philip smiled. Charlotte proceeded, and Charles saw Laura’s colour
deepening as she bent over her work.

‘“Lavender--steadfastness--Strafford--Cordelia in ‘King Lear’--the
late war.” How funny!’ cried Charlotte. ‘For hear the next:
“Honeysuckle--steadfastness--Lord Strafford--Cordelia--the present
time.” Why, Laura, you must have copied it from Philip’s.’

Laura neither looked nor spoke. Philip could hardly command his
countenance as Eveleen laughed, and told him he was much flattered by
those becoming blushes. But here Charles broke in,--‘Come, make haste,
Charlotte, don’t be all night about it;’ and as Charlotte paused, as if
to make some dangerous remark, he caught the paper, and read the next
himself. Nothing so startled Philip as this desire to cover their
confusion. Laura was only sensible of the relief of having attention
drawn from her by the laugh that followed.

‘A shamrock--Captain Rock--the tailor that was “blue moulded for want of
a bating”--Pat Riotism--the time of Malachy with the collar of gold.’

‘Eva!’ cried Charlotte.

‘Nonsense,’ said Eveleen; ‘I am glad I know your tastes, Charles. They
do you honour.’

‘More than yours do, if these are yours,’ said Charles, reading them
contemptuously; ‘Rose--generosity--Charles Edward--Catherine Seyton--the
civil wars.’

‘You had better not have disowned Charlie’s, Lady Eveleen,’ said Guy.

‘Nay do you think I would put up with such a set as these?’ retorted
Charles; ‘I am not fallen so low as the essence of young ladyism.’

‘What can you find to say against them?’ said Eveleen.

‘Nothing,’ said Charles, ‘No one ever can find anything to say for or
against young ladies’ tastes.’

‘You seem to be rather in the case of the tailor yourself,’ said Guy,
‘ready to do battle, if you could but get any opposition.’

‘Only tell me,’ said Amy, ‘how you could wish to live in the civil
wars?’

‘O, because they would be so entertaining.’

‘There’s Paddy, genuine Paddy at last!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘Depend upon
it, the conventional young lady won’t do, Eva.’

After much more discussion, and one or two more papers, came Guy’s--the
last. ‘Heather--Truth--King Charles--Sir Galahad--the present time.’

‘Sir how much? exclaimed Charles.

‘Don’t you know him?’ said Guy. ‘Sir Galahad--the Knight of the Siege
Perilous--who won the Saint Greal.’

‘What language is that?’ said Charles.

‘What! Don’t you know the Morte d’Arthur! I thought every one did! Don’t
you, Philip!’

‘I once looked into it. It is very curious, in classical English; but it
is a book no one could read through.’

‘Oh!’ cried Guy, indignantly; then, ‘but you only looked into it. If you
had lived with its two fat volumes, you could not help delighting in it.
It was my boating-book for at least three summers.’

‘That accounts for it,’ said Philip; ‘a book so studied in boyhood
acquires a charm apart from its actual merits.’

‘But it has actual merits. The depth, the mystery, the allegory--the
beautiful characters of some of the knights.’

‘You look through the medium of your imagination,’ said Philip; but
you must pardon others for seeing a great sameness of character and
adventure, and for disapproving of the strange mixture of religion and
romance.’

‘You’ve never read it,’ said Guy, striving to speak patiently.

‘A cursory view is sufficient to show whether a book will repay the time
spent in reading it.’

‘A cursory view enable one to judge better than making it your study?
Eh, Philip?’ said Charles.

‘It is no paradox. The actual merits are better seen by an unprejudiced
stranger than by an old friend who lends them graces of his own
devising.’

Charles laughed: Guy pushed back his chair, and went to look out at the
window. Perhaps Philip enjoyed thus chafing his temper; for after all he
had said to Laura, it was satisfactory to see his opinion justified, so
that he might not feel himself unfair. It relieved his uneasiness lest
his understanding with Laura should be observed. It had been in great
peril that evening, for as the girls went up to bed, Eveleen gaily said,
‘Why, Laura, have you quarrelled with Captain Morville?’

‘How can you say such things, Eva? Good night.’ And Laura escaped into
her own room.

‘What’s the meaning of it, Amy?’ pursued Eveleen.

‘Only a stranger makes us more formal,’ said Amy.

‘What an innocent you are! It is of no use to talk to you!’ said
Eveleen, running away.

‘No; but Eva,’ said Amy, pursuing her, ‘don’t go off with a wrong fancy.
Charles has teased Laura so much about Philip, that of course it makes
her shy of him before strangers; and it would never have done to laugh
about their choosing the same things when Mr. Thorndale was there.’

‘I must be satisfied, I suppose. I know that is what you think, for you
could not say any other.’

‘But what do you think?’ said Amy, puzzled.

‘I won’t tell you, little innocence--it would only shock you.’

‘Nothing you _really_ _thought_ about Laura could shock me,’ said Amy;
‘I don’t mean what you might say in play.’

‘Well, then, shall you think me in play or earnest when I say that I
think Laura likes Philip very much?’

‘In play’ said Amy; ‘for you know that if we had not got our own Charlie
to show us what a brother is, we should think of Philip as just the same
as a brother.’

‘A brother! You are pretending to be more simple than you really are,
Amy! Don’t you know what I mean?’

‘O,’ said Amy, her cheeks lighting up, ‘that must be only play, for he
has never asked her.’

‘Ah, but suppose she was in the state just ready to be asked?’

‘No, that could never be, for he could never ask her,’

‘Why not, little Amy?’

‘Because we are cousins, and everything,’ said Amy, confused. ‘Don’t
talk any more about it, Eva; for though I know it is all play, I don’t
like it, and mamma, would not wish me to talk of such things. And
don’t you laugh about it, dear Eva, pray; for it only makes every one
uncomfortable. Pray!’

Amy had a very persuasive way of saying ‘pray,’ and Eveleen thought she
must yield to it. Besides, she respected Laura and Captain Morville too
much to resolve to laugh at them, whatever she might do when her fear of
the Captain made her saucy.

Mrs. Edmonstone thought it best on all accounts to sit in the
drawing-room the next morning; but she need not have taken so much pains
to chaperon her young ladies, for the gentlemen did not come near them.

Laura was more at ease in manner, though very far from happy, for she
was restlessly eager for a talk with Philip; while he was resolved not
to seek a private interview, sure that it would excite suspicion, and
willing to lose the consciousness of his underhand proceedings.

This was the day of the dinner-party, and Laura’s heart leaped as she
calculated that it must fall to Philip’s lot to hand her in to dinner.
She was not mistaken, he did give her his arm; and they found themselves
most favourably placed, for Philip’s other neighbour was Mrs. Brownlow,
talking at a great rate to Mr. de Courcy, and on Laura’s side was the
rather deaf Mr. Hayley, who had quite enough to do to talk to Miss
Brownlow. Charles was not at table, and not one suspicious eye could
rest on them, yet it was not till the second course was in progress that
he said anything which the whole world might not have heard. Something
had passed about Canterbury, and its distance from Hollywell.

‘I can be here often,’ said Philip.

‘I am glad.’

‘If you can only be guarded,--and I think you are becoming so.’

‘Is this a time to speak of--? Oh, don’t!’

‘It is the only time. No one is attending, and I have something to say
to you.’

Overpowering her dire confusion, in obedience to him, she looked at the
epergne, and listened.

‘You have acted prudently. You have checked--’ and he indicated
Guy--‘without producing more than moderate annoyance. You have only to
guard your self-possession.’

‘It is very foolish,’ she murmured.

‘Ordinary women say so, and rest contented with the folly. You can do
better things.’

There was a thrill of joy at finding him conversing with her as his
‘own;’ it overcame her embarrassment and alarm, and wishes he would not
choose such a time for speaking.’

‘How shall I?’ said she.

‘Employ yourself. Employ and strengthen your mind!’

‘How shall I, and without you?’

‘Find something to prevent you from dwelling on the future. That drawing
is dreamy work, employing the fingers and leaving the mind free.’

‘I have been trying to read, but I cannot fix my mind.’

‘Suppose you take what will demand attention. Mathematics, algebra. I
will send you my first book of algebra, and it will help you to work
down many useless dreams and anxieties.’

‘Thank you; pray do; I shall be very glad of it.’

‘You will find it give a power and stability to your mind, and no longer
have to complain of frivolous occupation.’

‘I don’t feel frivolous now,’ said Laura, sadly; ‘I don’t know why it is
that everything is so altered, I am really happier, but my light heart
is gone.’

‘You have but now learnt the full powers of your soul, Laura, you have
left the world of childhood, with the gay feelings which have no depth.’

‘I have what is better,’ she whispered.

‘You have, indeed. But those feelings must be regulated, and
strengthening the intellect strengthens the governing power.’

Philip, with all his sense, was mystifying himself, because he was
departing from right, the only true ‘good sense.’ His right judgment
in all things was becoming obscured, so he talked metaphysical jargon,
instead of plain practical truth, and thought he was teaching Laura to
strengthen her powers of mind, instead of giving way to dreams, when
he was only leading her to stifle meditation, and thus securing her
complete submission to himself.

She was happier after this conversation, and better able to pay
attention to the guests, nor did she feel guilty when obliged to play
and sing in the evening--for she knew he must own that she could do no
otherwise.

Lady Eveleen gave, however, its brilliancy to the party. She had
something wonderfully winning and fascinating about her, and Philip
owned to himself that it took no small resolution on the part of Mr.
Thorndale to keep so steadily aloof from the party in the bay window,
where she was reigning like a queen, and inspiring gaiety like a fairy.
She made Guy sing with her; it was the first time he had ever sung,
except among themselves, as Mrs. Edmonstone had never known whether he
would like to be asked; but Eveleen refused to sing some of the Irish
melodies unless he would join her, and without making any difficulty he
did so. Mrs. Brownlow professed to be electrified, and Eveleen declaring
that she knew she sung like a peacock, told Mrs. Brownlow that the thing
to hear was Sir Guy singing glees with Laura and Amy. Of course, they
were obliged to sing. Mrs. Brownlow was delighted; and as she had
considerable knowledge of music, they all grew eager and Philip thought
it very foolish of Guy to allow so much of his talent and enthusiasm to
display themselves.

When all the people were gone, and the home party had wished each other
good-night, Philip lingered in the drawing-room to finish a letter. Guy,
after helping Charles up-stairs, came down a few moments after, to fetch
something which he had forgotten. Philip looked up,--‘You contributed
greatly to the entertainment this evening,’ he said.

Guy coloured, not quite sure that this was not said sarcastically, and
provoked with himself for being vexed.

‘You think one devoid of the sixth sense has no right to speak,’ said
Philip.

‘I can’t expect all to think it, as I do, one of the best things in this
world or out of it,’ said Guy, speaking quickly.

‘I know it is so felt by those who understand its secrets,’ said Philip.
‘I would not depreciate it; so you may hear me patiently, Guy. I only
meant to warn you, that it is often the means of bringing persons into
undesirable intimacies, from which they cannot disentangle themselves as
easily as they enter them.’

A flush crossed Guy’s cheek, but it passed, and he simply said--‘I
suppose it may. Good-night.’

Philip looked after him, and pondered on what it was that had annoyed
him--manner, words, or advice. He ascribed it to Guy’s unwillingness to
be advised, since he had observed that his counsel was apt to irritate
him, though his good sense often led him to follow it. In the present
case, Philip thought Mrs. Brownlow and her society by no means desirable
for a youth like Guy; and he was quite right.

Philip and his friend went the next morning; and in the afternoon Laura
received the book of algebra--a very original first gift from a lover.
It came openly, with a full understanding that she was to use it by his
recommendation; her mother and brother both thought they understood the
motive, which one thought very wise, and the other very characteristic.

Lord Kilcoran and Lady Eveleen also departed. Eveleen very sorry to go,
though a little comforted by the prospect of seeing Laura so soon
in Ireland, where she would set her going in all kinds of
‘rationalities--reading, and school teaching, and everything else.’

‘Ay,’ said Charles, when all were out of hearing but his mother; ‘and
I shrewdly suspect the comfort would be still greater if it was Sir Guy
Morville who was coming.’

‘It would be no bad thing,’ said his mother: ‘Eveleen is a nice creature
with great capabilities.’

‘Capabilities! but will they ever come to anything?’

‘In a few years,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘and he is a mere boy at
present, so there is plenty of time for both to develop themselves.’

‘Most true, madame mere; but it remains to be proved whether the liking
for Sir Guy, which has taken hold of my lady Eveleen, is strong enough
to withstand all the coquetting with young Irishmen, and all the idling
at Kilcoran.’

‘I hope she has something better to be relied on than the liking for Sir
Guy.’

‘You may well do so, for I think he has no notion of throwing off his
allegiance to you--his first and only love. He liked very well to make
fun with Eva; but he regarded her rather as a siren, who drew him off
from his Latin and Greek.’

‘Yes; I am ashamed of myself for such a fit of match-making! Forget it,
Charlie, as fast as you can.’



CHAPTER 11

     This warld’s wealth, when I think o’t,
     Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,
     Fie, fie on silly coward man,
     That he should be the slave o’t.
                             --BURNS


In another week Mr. Edmonstone and his eldest daughter were to depart
on their Irish journey. Laura, besides the natural pain in leaving home,
was sorry to be no longer near Philip, especially as it was not likely
that he would be still at Broadstone on their return; yet she was so
restless and dissatisfied, that any change was welcome, and the fear of
betraying herself almost took away the pleasure of his presence.

He met them at the railway station at Broadstone, where Mr. Edmonstone,
finding himself much too early, recollected something he had forgotten
in the town, and left his daughter to walk up and down the platform
under Philip’s charge. They felt it a precious interval, but both were
out of spirits, and could hardly profit by it.

‘You will be gone long before we come back,’ said Laura.

‘In a fortnight or three weeks, probably.’

‘But you will still be able to come to Hollywell now and then?’

‘I hope so. It is all the pleasure I can look for. We shall never see
such a summer again.’

‘Oh, it has been a memorable one!’

‘Memorable! Yes. It has given me an assurance that compensates for all
I have lost; yet it has made me feel, more than ever before, how poverty
withers a man’s hopes.’

‘O Philip, I always thought your poverty a great, noble thing!’

‘You thought like a generous-tempered girl who has known nothing of its
effects.’

‘And do you know that Guy says the thing to be proud of is of holding
the place you do, without the aid of rank or riches.’

‘I would not have it otherwise--I would not for worlds that my father
had acted otherwise,’ said Philip. ‘You understand that, Laura.’

‘Of course I do.’

‘But when you speak--when Guy speaks of my holding the place I do, you
little know what it is to feel that powers of usefulness are wasted--to
know I have the means of working my way to honour and distinction, such
as you would rejoice in Laura, to have it all within, yet feel it thrown
away. Locksley Hall, again--“every door is barred with gold, and opens
but to golden keys.’”

‘I wish there was anything to be done,’ said Laura.

‘It is my profession that is the bar to everything. I have sold the best
years of my life, and for what? To see my sister degrade herself by that
marriage.’

‘That is the real grief,’ said Laura.

‘But for that, I should never have cast a look back on what I
relinquished. However, why do I talk of these things, these vain
regrets? They only occurred because my welfare does not concern myself
alone--and here’s your father.’

Mr. Edmonstone returned, out of breath, in too much bustle remark his
daughter’s blushes. Even when the train was moving off, he still had
his head out at the window, calling to Philip that they should expect
a visit from him as soon as ever they returned. Such cordiality gave
Philip a pang; and in bitterness of spirit he walked back to the
barracks. On the way he met Mrs. Deane who wanted to consult him about
inviting his cousin, Sir Guy to a dinner-party she intended to give next
week. ‘Such an agreeable, sensible youth, and we feel we owe him some
attention, he took so much pains to make apologies about the ball.’

‘I dare say he will be very happy to come.’

‘We will write at once. He is a very fine young man, without a shade of
vanity or nonsense.’

‘Yes; he has very pleasant, unaffected manners.’

‘I am sure he will do credit to his estate. It is a very handsome
fortune, is it not?’

‘It is a very large property.’

‘I am glad of it; I have no doubt we shall see him one of the first men
of his time.’

These words brought into contrast in Philip’s mind the difference
between Guy’s position and his own. The mere possession of wealth was
winning for Guy, at an age when his merits could only be negative, that
estimation which his own tried character had scarcely achieved, placing
him not merely on a level with himself, but in a situation where
happiness and influence came unbidden. His own talents, attainments, and
equal, if not superior claims, to gentle blood, could not procure him
what seemed to lie at Guy’s feet. His own ability and Laura’s heart
alone were what wealth could not affect; yet when he thought how the
want of it wasted the one, and injured the hopes of the other, he
recurred to certain visions of his sister Margaret’s, in days gone
by, of what he was to do as Sir Philip, lord of Redclyffe. He was
speculating on what would have happened had Guy died in his sickly
infancy, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he turned his mind to
other objects.

Guy was not much charmed with Mrs. Deane’s invitation. He said he knew
he must go to make up for his rudeness about the ball; but he grumbled
enough to make Mrs. Edmonstone laugh at him for being so stupid as
to want to stay hum-drum in the chimney corner. No doubt it was very
pleasant there. There was that peculiar snugness which belongs to a
remnant of a large party, when each member of it feels bound to prevent
the rest from being dull. Guy devoted himself to Charles more than
ever, and in the fear that he might miss the late variety of amusement,
exerted even more of his powers of entertainment than Lady Eveleen had
called forth.

There were grave readings in the mornings, and long walks in the
afternoons, when he dragged Charles, in his chair, into many a place he
had never expected to see again, and enabled him to accompany his mother
and sisters in many a delightful expedition. In the evening there was
music, or light reading, especially poetry, as this was encouraged by
Mrs. Edmonstone, in the idea that it was better that so excitable and
enthusiastic a person as Guy should have his objects of admiration
tested by Charles’s love of ridicule.

Mr. Edmonstone had left to Guy the office of keeping the 1st of
September, one which he greatly relished. Indeed, when he thought of his
own deserted manors, he was heard to exclaim, in commiseration for the
neglect, ‘Poor partridges!’ The Hollywell shooting was certainly not
like that at Redclyffe, where he could hardly walk out of his own
grounds, whereas here he had to bear in mind so many boundaries, that
Philip was expecting to have to help him out of some direful scrape. He
had generally walked over the whole extent, and assured himself that the
birds were very wild, and Bustle the best of dogs, before breakfast, so
as to be ready for all the occupations of the day. He could scarcely be
grateful when the neighbours, thinking it must be very dull for him to
be left alone with Mrs. Edmonstone and her crippled son, used to ask
him to shoot or dine. He always lamented at first, and ended by enjoying
himself.

One night, he came home, in such a state of eagerness, that he must
needs tell his good news; and, finding no one in the drawing-room, he
ran up-stairs, opened Charles’s door, and exclaimed--‘There’s to be a
concert at Broadstone!’ Then perceiving that Charles was fast asleep,
he retreated noiselessly, reserving his rejoicings till morning, when it
appeared that Charles had heard, but had woven the announcement into a
dream.

This concert filled Guy’s head. His only grief was that it was to be in
the evening, so that Charles could not go to it; and his wonder was
not repressed at finding that Philip did not mean to favour it with his
presence, since Guy would suffice for squire to Mrs. Edmonstone and her
daughters.

In fact, Philip was somewhat annoyed by the perpetual conversation about
the concert, and on the day on which it was to take place resolved on
making a long expedition to visit the ruins of an old abbey, far out of
all reports of it. As he was setting out, he was greeted, in a very loud
voice, by Mr. Gordon.

‘Hollo, Morville! how are you? So you have great doings to-night, I
hear!’ and he had only just forced himself from him, when he was again
accosted, this time in a hasty, embarrassed manner,--

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the ties of relationship--’

He drew himself up as if he was on parade, faced round, and replied
with an emphatic ‘Sir!’ as he behold a thin, foreign-looking man, in
a somewhat flashy style of dress, who, bowing low, repeated
breathlessly,--

‘I beg your pardon--Sir Guy Morville, I believe!’

‘Captain Morville, sir!’

‘I beg your pardon--I mistook. A thousand pardons,’ and he retreated;
while Philip, after a moment’s wonder, pursued his walk.

The Hollywell party entered Broadstone in a very different temper, and
greatly did they enjoy the concert, both for themselves and for each
other. In the midst of it, while Amy was intent on the Italian words of
a song, Guy touched her hand, and pointed to a line in the programme--


          Solo on the violin.... MR. S. B. DIXON.


She looked up in his face with an expression full of inquiry; but it
was no time for speaking, and she only saw how the colour mantled on his
cheek when the violinist appeared, and how he looked down the whole time
of the performance, only now and then venturing a furtive though earnest
glance.

He did not say anything till they were seated in the carriage, and then
astonished Mrs. Edmonstone by exclaiming--

‘It must be my uncle!--I am sure it must. I’ll ride to Broadstone the
first thing to-morrow, and find him out.’

‘Your uncle!’ exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘I never thought of that.’

S. B. Dixon,’ said Guy. ‘I know his name is Sebastian. It cannot be
any one else. You know he went to America. How curious it is! I suppose
there is no fear of his being gone before I can come in to-morrow.’

‘I should think not. Those musical people keep late hours.’

‘I would go before breakfast. Perhaps it would be best to go to old
Redford, he will know all about him; or to the music-shop. I am so glad!
It is the very thing I always wished.’

‘Did you?’ said Mrs. Edmonstone to herself. ‘I can’t say every one would
be of your mind; but I can’t help liking you the better for it. I wish
the man had kept further off. I wish Mr. Edmonstone was at home. I hope
no harm will come of it. I wonder what I ought to do. Shall I caution
him? No; I don’t think I can spoil his happiness--and perhaps the man
may be improved. He is his nearest relation, and I have no right
to interfere. His own good sense will protect him--but I wish Mr.
Edmonstone was at home.’

She therefore did not check his expressions of delight, nor object to
his going to Broadstone early the next morning. He had just dismounted
before the inn-yard, when a boy put a note into his hand, and he was so
absorbed in its contents, that he did not perceive Philip till after
two greetings had passed unheard. When at length he was recalled,
he started, and exclaimed, rapturously, as he put the note into his
cousin’s hand,

‘See here--it is himself!’

‘Who?’

‘My uncle. My poor mother’s own brother.’

‘Sebastian Bach Dixon,’ read Philip. ‘Ha! it was he who took me for you
yesterday.’

‘I saw him at the concert--I was sure it could be no other. I came in
on purpose to find him, and here he is waiting for me. Is not it a happy
chance?’

‘Happy!’ echoed Philip, in a far different tone.

‘How I have longed for this--for any one who could remember and tell me
of her--of my mother--my poor, dear young mother! And her own brother!
I have been thinking of it all night, and he knows I am here, and is as
eager as myself. He is waiting for me,’ ended Guy, hurrying off.

‘Stop!’ said Philip, gravely. ‘Think before acting. I seriously advise
you to have nothing to do with this man, at least personally. Let me see
him, and learn what he wants.’

‘He wants me,’ impatiently answered Guy. ‘You are not his nephew.’

‘Thank heaven!’ thought Philip. ‘Do you imagine your relationship is the
sole cause of his seeking you?’

‘I don’t know--I don’t care!’ cried Guy, with vehemence. ‘I will not
listen to suspicions of my mother’s brother.’

‘It is more than suspicion. Hear me calmly. I speak for your good. I
know this man’s influence was fatal to your father. I know he did all in
his power to widen the breach with your grandfather.’

‘That was eighteen years ago,’ said Guy, walking on, biting his lip in a
fiery fit of impatience.

‘You will not hear. Remember, that his position and associates render
him no fit companion for you. Nay, listen patiently. You cannot help the
relationship. I would not have you do otherwise than assist him. Let him
not complain of neglect, but be on your guard. He will either seriously
injure you, or be a burden for life.’

‘I have heard you so far--I can hear no more,’ said Guy, no longer
restraining his impetuosity. ‘He is my uncle, that I know, I care for
nothing else. Position--nonsense! what has that to do with it? I will
not be set against him.’

He strode off; but in a few moments turned back, overtook Philip, said--
‘Thank you for your advice. I beg your pardon for my hastiness. You mean
kindly, but I must see my uncle.’ And, without waiting for an answer, he
was gone.

In short space he was in the little parlour of the music-shop, shaking
hands with his uncle, and exclaiming,--

‘I am so glad! I hoped it was you!’

‘It is very noble-hearted! I might have known it would be so with the
son of my dearest sister and of my generous friend!’ cried Mr. Dixon,
with eagerness that had a theatrical air, though it was genuine feeling
that filled his eyes with tears.

‘I saw your name last night’ continued Guy. ‘I would have tried to speak
to you at once, but I was obliged to stay with Mrs. Edmonstone, as I was
the only gentleman with her.’

‘Ah! I thought it possible you might not be able to follow the dictate
of your own heart; but this is a fortunate conjuncture, in the absence
of your guardian.’

Guy recollected Philip’s remonstrance, and it crossed him whether his
guardian might be of the same mind; but he felt confident in having told
all to Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

‘I learnt it in a most gratifying way. Mr. Redford, without knowing
our connection--for on that I will always be silent--mentioned that the
finest tenor he had ever known, in an amateur, belonged to his pupil,
Sir Guy Morville. You can imagine my feelings at finding you so near,
and learning that you had inherited your dear mother’s talent and
taste.’

The conversation was long, for there was much to hear. Mr. Dixon had
kept up a correspondence at long intervals with Markham, from whom he
heard that his sister’s child survived, and was kindly treated by his
grandfather; and inquiring again on the death of old Sir Guy, learnt
that he was gone to live with his guardian, whose name, and residence
Markham had not thought fit to divulge. He had been much rejoiced to
hear his name from the music-master, and he went on to tell how he had
been misled by the name of Morville into addressing the captain, who had
a good deal of general resemblance to Guy’s father, a fine tall young
man, of the same upright, proud deportment. He supposed he was the son
of the Archdeacon, and remembering how strongly his own proceedings
had been discountenanced at Stylehurst, had been much disconcerted, and
deeming the encounter a bad omen, had used more caution in his advances
to his nephew. It was from sincere affection that he sought his
acquaintance, though very doubtful as to the reception he might meet,
and was both delighted and surprised at such unembarrassed, open-hearted
affection.

The uncle and nephew were not made to understand each other. Sebastian
Dixon was a man of little education, and when, in early youth, his
talents had placed him high in his own line, he had led a careless,
extravagant life. Though an evil friend, and fatal counsellor, he had
been truly attached to Guy’s father, and the secret engagement, and
runaway marriage with his beautiful sister, had been the romance of his
life, promoted by him with no selfish end. He was a proud and passionate
man, and resenting Sir Guy’s refusal to receive his sister as a
daughter, almost as much as Sir Guy was incensed at the marriage, had
led his brother-in-law to act in a manner which cut off the hope of
reconciliation, and obliged Archdeacon Morville to give up his cause. He
had gloried in supporting his sister and her husband, and enabling them
to set the old baronet at defiance. But young Morville’s territorial
pride could not brook that he should be maintained, and especially that
his child, the heir of Redclyffe, should be born while he was living at
the expense of a musician. This feeling, aided by a yearning for home,
and a secret love for his father, mastered his resentment; he took his
resolution, quarrelled with Dixon, and carried off his wife, bent with
desperation on forcing his father into receiving her.

Sebastian had not surmounted his anger at this step when he learnt its
fatal consequences. Ever since that time, nothing had prospered with
him: he had married and sunk himself lower, and though he had an
excellent engagement, the days were past when he was the fashion, and
his gains and his triumphs were not what they had been. He had a long
list of disappointments and jealousies with which to entertain Guy, who,
on his side, though resolved to like him, and dreading to be too refined
to be friends with his relations, could not feel as thoroughly pleased
as he intended to have been.

Music was, however, a subject on which they could meet with equal
enthusiasm, and by means of this, together with the aid of his own
imagination, Guy contrived to be very happy. He stayed with his uncle as
long as he could, and promised to spend a day with him in London, on his
way to Oxford, in October.

The next morning, when Philip knew that Guy would be with his tutor, he
walked to Hollywell, came straight up to his aunt’s dressing-room, asked
her to send Charlotte down to practise, and, seating himself opposite to
her, began--

‘What do you mean to do about this unfortunate rencontre?’

‘Do you mean Guy and his uncle? He is very much pleased, poor boy! I
like his entire freedom from false shame.’

‘A little true shame would be hardly misplaced about such a connection.’

‘It is not his fault, and I hope it will not be his misfortune,’ said
Mrs. Edmonstone.

‘That it will certainly be,’ replied Philip, ‘if we are not on our
guard; and, indeed, if we are, there is little to be done with one so
wilful. I might as well have interfered with the course of a whirlwind.’

‘No, no, Philip; he is too candid to be wilful.’

‘I cannot be of your opinion, when I have seen him rushing into this
acquaintance in spite of the warnings he must have had here--to say
nothing of myself.’

‘Nay, there I must defend him, though you will think me very unwise; I
could not feel that I ought to withhold him from taking some notice of
so near a relation.’

Philip did think her so unwise, that he could only reply, gravely--

‘We must hope it may produce no evil effects.’

‘How?’ she exclaimed, much alarmed. ‘Have you heard anything against
him?’

‘You remember, of course, that Guy’s father was regularly the victim of
this Dixon.’

‘Yes, yes; but he has had enough to sober him. Do you know nothing
more?’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, growing nervously anxious lest she had been
doing wrong in her husband’s absence.

‘I have been inquiring about him from old Redford, and I should judge
him to be a most dangerous companion; as, indeed, I could have told from
his whole air, which is completely that of a roué.’

‘You have seen him, then?’

‘Yes. He paid me the compliment of taking me for Sir Guy, and of course
made off in dismay when he discovered on whom he had fallen. I have
seldom seen a less creditable-looking individual.’

‘But what did Mr. Redford say? Did he know of the connection?’

‘No; I am happy to say he did not. The fellow has decency enough not
to boast of that. Well, Redford did not know much of him personally: he
said he had once been much thought of, and had considerable talent and
execution, but taste changes, or he has lost something, so that, though
he stands tolerably high in his profession, he is not a leader. So much
for his musical reputation. As to his character, he is one of those
people who are called no one’s enemy but their own, exactly the
introduction Guy has hitherto happily wanted to every sort of mischief.’

‘I think,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, trying to console herself, ‘that Guy is
too much afraid of small faults to be invited by larger evils. While
he punishes himself for an idle word, he is not likely to go wrong in
greater matters.’

‘Not at present.’

‘Is the man in debt or difficulties? Guy heard nothing of that, and I
thought it a good sign.’

‘I don’t suppose he is. He ought not, for he has a fixed salary, besides
what he gets by playing at concerts when it is not the London season.
The wasting money on a spendthrift relation would be a far less evil
than what I apprehend.’

‘I wish I knew what to do! It is very unlucky that your uncle is from
home.’

‘Very.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was frightened by the sense of responsibility, and was
only anxious to catch hold of something to direct her.

‘What would you have me do?’ she asked, hopelessly.

‘Speak seriously to Guy. He must attend to you: he cannot fly out with a
woman as he does with me. Show him the evils that must result from such
an intimacy. If Dixon was in distress, I would not say a word, for he
would be bound to assist him but as it is, the acquaintance can serve no
purpose but degrading Guy, and showing him the way to evil. Above all,
make a point of his giving up visiting him in London. That is the sure
road to evil. A youth of his age, under the conduct of a worn-out
roué, connected with the theatres! I can hardly imagine anything more
mischievous.’

‘Yes, yes; I will speak to him,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, perfectly
appalled.

She promised, but she found the fulfilment difficult, in her dislike of
vexing Guy, her fear of saying what was wrong, and a doubt whether the
appearance of persecuting Mr. Dixon was not the very way to prevent
Guy’s own good sense from finding out his true character, so she waited,
hoping Mr. Edmonstone might return before Guy went to Oxford, or that he
might write decisively.

Mrs. Edmonstone might have known her husband better than to expect him
to write decisively when he had neither herself nor Philip at his elbow.
The same post had brought him a letter from Guy, mentioning his meeting
with his uncle, and frankly explaining his plans for London; another
from Philip, calling on him to use all his authority to prevent this
intercourse, and a third from his wife. Bewildered between them, he took
them to his sister, who, being as puzzle-headed as himself, and only
hearing his involved history of the affair, confused him still more; so
he wrote to Philip, saying he was sorry the fellow had turned up, but he
would guard against him. He told Guy he was sorry to say that his uncle
used to be a sad scamp, and he must take care, or it would be his poor
father’s story over again; and to Mrs. Edmonstone he wrote that it was
very odd that everything always did go wrong when he was away.

He thought these letters a great achievement, but his wife’s perplexity
was not materially relieved.

After considering a good while, she at length spoke to Guy; but it was
not at a happy time, for Philip, despairing of her, had just taken on
himself to remonstrate, and had angered him to the verge of an outbreak.

Mrs. Edmonstone, as mildly as she could, urged on him that such
intercourse could bring him little satisfaction, and might be very
inconvenient; that his uncle was in no distress, and did not require
assistance; and that it was too probable that in seeking him out he
might meet with persons who might unsettle his principles,--in short,
that he had much better give up the visit to London.

‘This is Philip’s advice,’ said Guy.

‘It is; but--’

Guy looked impatient, and she paused.

‘You must forgive me,’ he said, ‘if I follow my own judgment. If Mr.
Edmonstone chose to lay his commands on me, I suppose I must submit; but
I cannot see that I am bound to obey Philip.’

‘Not to obey, certainly; but his advice--’

‘He is prejudiced and unjust,’ said Guy.

‘I don’t believe that my uncle would attempt to lead me into bad
company; and surely you would not have me neglect or look coldly on one
who was so much attached to my parents. If he is not a gentleman, and is
looked down on by the world, it is not for his sister’s son to make him
conscious of it.’

‘I like your feelings, Guy; I can say nothing against it, but that I am
much afraid your uncle is not highly principled.’

‘You have only Philip’s account of him.’

‘You are resolved?’

‘Yes. I do not like not to take your advice, but I do believe this is my
duty. I do not think my determination is made in self-will,’ said Guy,
thoughtfully; ‘I cannot think that I ought to neglect my uncle, because
I happen to have been born in a different station, which is all I have
heard proved against him,’ he added, smiling. ‘You will forgive me, will
you not, for not following your advice? for really and truly, if you
will let me say so, I think you would not have given it if Philip had
not been talking to you.’

Mrs. Edmonstone confessed, with a smile, that perhaps it was so; but
said she trusted much to Philip’s knowledge of the world. Guy agreed to
this; though still declaring Philip had no right to set him against his
uncle, and there the discussion ended.

Guy went to London. Philip thought him very wilful, and his aunt very
weak; and Mr. Edmonstone, on coming home, said it could not be helped,
and he wished to hear no more about the matter.



CHAPTER 12

     Her playful smile, her buoyance wild,
     Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child;
     But in her forehead’s broad expanse,
     Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance,
     Is mingled, with the child’s light glee,
     The modest maiden’s dignity.


One summer’s day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her
father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,--

‘If you don’t want me this afternoon, papa, I think I shall walk to
Hollywell. You know Eveleen de Courcy is there.’

‘No, I did not. What has brought her?’

‘As Charles expresses it, she has over-polked herself in London, and is
sent here for quiet and country air. I want to call on her, and to
ask Sir Guy to give me some idea as to the singing the children should
practise for the school-feast?’

‘Then you think Sir Guy will come to the feast?’

‘I reckon on him to conceal all the deficiencies in the children’s
singing.’

‘He won’t desert you, as he did Mrs. Brownlow?’

‘O papa! you surely did not think him to blame in that affair?’

‘Honestly, Mary, if I thought about the matter at all, I thought it a
pity he should go so much to the Brownlows.’

‘I believe I could tell you the history, if you thought it worth while;
and though it may be gossip, I should like you to do justice to Sir
Guy.’

‘Very well; though I don’t think there is much danger of my doing
otherwise. I only wondered he should become intimate there at all.’

‘I believe Mrs. Edmonstone thinks it right he should see as much of the
world as possible, and not be always at home in their own set.’

‘Fair and proper.’

‘You know she has shown him all the people she could,--had Eveleen
staying there, and the Miss Nortons, and hunted him out to parties, when
he had rather have been at home.’

‘I thought he was fond of society. I remember your telling me how amused
you were with his enjoyment of his first ball.’

‘Ah! he was two years younger then, and all was new. He seems to me too
deep and sensitive not to find more pain than pleasure in commonplace
society. I have sometimes seen that he cannot speak either lightly or
harshly of what he disapproves, and people don’t understand him. I was
once sitting next him, when there was some talking going on about an
elopement; he did not laugh, looked almost distressed, and at last said
in a very low voice, to me, “I wish people would not laugh about such
things.”’

‘He is an extraordinary mixture of gaiety of heart, and seriousness.’

‘Well, when Mrs. Brownlow had her nieces with her, and was giving those
musical parties, his voice made him valuable; and Mrs. Edmonstone told
him he ought to go to them. I believe he liked it at first, but he found
there was no end to it; it took up a great deal of time, and was a style
of thing altogether that was not desirable. Mrs Edmonstone thought at
first his reluctance was only shyness and stay-at-home nonsense, that
ought to be overcome; but when she had been there, and saw how Mrs.
Brownlow beset him, and the unpleasant fuss they made about his singing,
she quite came round to his mind, and was very sorry she had exposed him
to so much that was disagreeable.’

‘Well, Mary, I am glad to hear your account. My impression arose from
something Philip Morville said.’

‘Captain Morville never can approve of anything Sir Guy does! It is not
like Charles.’

‘How improved Charles Edmonstone is. He has lost that spirit of repining
and sarcasm, and lives as if he had an object.’

‘Yes; he employs himself now, and teaches Amy to do the same. You know,
after the governess went, we were afraid little Amy would never do
anything but wait on Charles, and idle in her pretty gentle way; but
when he turned to better things so did she, and her mind has been
growing all this time. Perhaps you don’t see it, for she has not lost
her likeness to a kitten, and looks all demure silence with the elders,
but she takes in what the wise say.’

‘She is a very good little thing; and I dare say will not be the worse
for growing up slowly.’

‘Those two sisters are specimens of fast and slow growth. Laura
has always seemed to be so much more than one year older than Amy,
especially of late. She is more like five-and-twenty than twenty. I
wonder if she overworks herself. But how we have lingered over our
dinner!’

By half-past three, Mary was entering a copse which led into Mr.
Edmonstone’s field, when she heard gay tones, and a snatch of one of the
sweetest of old songs,--

           Weep no more, lady; lady, weep no more,
           Thy sorrow is in vain;
           For violets pluck’d, the sweetest showers
           Will ne’er make grow again.

A merry, clear laugh followed, and a turn in the path showed her Guy,
Amy, and Charlotte, busy over a sturdy stock of eglantine. Guy, little
changed in these two years,--not much taller, and more agile than
robust,--was lopping vigorously with his great pruning-knife, Amabel
nursing a bundle of drooping rose branches, Charlotte, her bonnet in a
garland of wild sweet-brier, holding the matting and continually getting
entangled in the long thorny wreaths.

‘And here comes the “friar of orders gray,” to tell you so,’ exclaimed
Guy, as Mary, in her gray dress, came on them.

‘Oh, that is right, dear good friar,’ cried Amy.

‘We are so busy,’ said Charlotte; ‘Guy has made Mr. Markham send all
these choice buds from Redclyffe.’

‘Not from the park,’ said Guy, ‘we don’t deal much in gardening; but
Markham is a great florist, and these are his bounties.’

‘And are you cutting that beautiful wild rose to pieces?’

‘Is it not a pity?’ said Amy. ‘We have used up all the stocks in the
garden, and this is to be transplanted in the autumn.’

‘She has been consoling it all the time by telling it it is for its
good,’ said Guy; ‘cutting off wild shoots, and putting in better
things.’

‘I never said anything so pretty; and, after all, I don’t know that the
grand roses will be equal to these purple shoots and blushing buds with
long whiskers.’

‘So Sir Guy was singing about the violets plucked to comfort you. But
you must not leave off, I want to see how you do it. I am gardener
enough to like to look on.’

‘We have only two more to put in.’

Knife and fingers were busy, and Mary admired the dexterity with which
the slit was made in the green bark, well armed with firm red thorns,
and the tiny scarlet gem inserted, and bound with cotton and matting.
At the least critical parts of the work, she asked after the rest of
the party, and was answered that papa had driven Charles out in the pony
carriage, and that Laura and Eveleen were sitting on the lawn, reading
and working with mamma. Eveleen was better, but not strong, or equal to
much exertion in the heat. Mary went on to speak of her school feast and
ask her questions.

‘O Guy, you must not go before that!’ cried Charlotte.

‘Are you going away?’

‘He is very naughty, indeed,’ said Charlotte. ‘He is going, I don’t know
where all, to be stupid, and read mathematics.’

‘A true bill, I am sorry to say,’ said Guy; ‘I am to join a
reading-party for the latter part of the vacation.’

‘I hope not before Thursday week, though we are not asking you to
anything worth staying for.’

‘Oh, surely you need not go before that!’ said Amy, ‘need you?’

‘No; I believe I may stay till Friday, and I should delight in the
feast, thank you, Miss Ross,--I want to study such things. A bit more
matting, Amy, if you please. There, I think that will do.’

‘Excellently. Here is its name. See how neatly Charlie has printed it,
Mary. Is it not odd, that he prints so well when he writes so badly?’

‘“The Seven Sisters.” There, fair sisterhood, grow and thrive, till I
come to transplant you in the autumn. Are there any more?’

‘No, that is the last. Now, Mary, let us come to mamma.’

Guy waited to clear the path of the numerous trailing briery branches,
and the others walked on, Amy telling how sorry they were to lose Guy’s
vacation, but that he thought he could not give time enough to
his studies here, and had settled, at Oxford, to make one of a
reading-party, under the tutorship of his friend, Mr. Wellwood.

‘Where do they go?’

‘It is not settled. Guy wished it to be the sea-side; but Philip has
been recommending a farmhouse in Stylehurst parish, rather nearer St.
Mildred’s Wells than Stylehurst, but quite out in the moor, and an
immense way from both.’

‘Do you think it will be the place?’

‘Yes; Guy thinks it would suit Mr. Wellwood, because he has friends at
St. Mildred’s, so he gave his vote for it. He expects to hear how it is
settled to-day or to-morrow.’

Coming out on the lawn, they found the three ladies sitting under the
acacia, with their books and work. Laura did, indeed, look older than
her real age, as much above twenty as Amy looked under nineteen. She
was prettier than ever; her complexion exquisite in delicacy, her fine
figure and the perfect outline of her features more developed; but the
change from girl to woman had passed over her, and set its stamp on the
anxious blue eye, and almost oppressed brow. Mary thought it would be
hard to define where was that difference. It was not want of bloom,
for of that Laura had more than any of the others, fresh, healthy,
and bright, while Amy was always rather pale, and Lady Eveleen was
positively wan and faded by London and late hours; nor was it loss of
animation, for Laura talked and laughed with interest and eagerness; nor
was it thought, for little Amy, when at rest, wore a meditative, pensive
countenance; but there was something either added or taken away, which
made it appear that the serenity and carelessness of early youth had
fled from her, and the air of the cares of life had come over her.

Mary told her plans,--Church service at four, followed by a tea-drinking
in the fields; tea in the garden for the company, and play for the
school children and all who liked to join them. Every one likes such
festivals, which have the recommendation of permitting all to do as they
please, bringing friends together in perfect ease and freedom, with
an object that raises them above the rank of mere gatherings for the
pleasure of rich neighbours.

Mrs. Edmonstone gladly made the engagement and Lady Eveleen promised to
be quite well, and to teach the children all manner of new games, though
she greatly despised the dullness of English children, and had many
droll stories of the stupidity of Laura’s pupils, communicated to
her, with perhaps a little exaggeration, by Charles, and still further
embellished by herself, for the purpose of exciting Charlotte’s
indignation.

Mary proceeded to her consultation about the singing, and was
conducted by Guy and Amy to the piano, and when her ears could not be
indoctrinated by their best efforts, they more than half engaged to walk
to East-hill, and have a conversation with the new school-master, whom
Mary pitied for having fallen on people so unable to appreciate his
musical training as herself and her father. The whole party walked back
with her as far as the shade lasted; and at the end of the next field
she turned, saw them standing round the stile, thought what happy people
they were, and then resumed her wonder whither Laura’s youthfulness had
flown.

The situation of Philip and Laura had not changed. His regiment had
never been at any great distance from Hollywell, and he often came,
venturing more as Laura learnt to see him with less trepidation. He
seldom or never was alone with her; but his influence was as strong as
ever, and look, word, and gesture, which she alone could understand,
told her what she was to him, and revealed his thoughts. To him she was
devoted, all her doings were with a view to please him, and deserve his
affection; he was her world, and sole object. Indeed, she was sometimes
startled by perceiving that tenderly as she loved her own family, all
were subordinate to him. She had long since known the true name of her
feelings for him; she could not tell when or how the certainty had come,
but she was conscious that it was love that they had acknowledged for
one another and that she only lived in the light of his love. Still she
did not realize the evil of concealment; it was so deep a sensation of
her innermost heart, that she never could imagine revealing it to any
living creature, and she had besides so surrendered her judgment to her
idol, that no thought could ever cross her that he had enjoined what was
wrong. Her heart and soul were his alone, and she left the future to him
without an independent desire or reflection. All the embarrassments and
discomforts which her secret occasioned her were met willingly for
his sake, and these were not a few, though time had given her more
self-command, or, perhaps, more properly speaking, had hardened her.

She always had a dread of tete-a-tetes and conversations over novels,
and these were apt to be unavoidable when Eveleen was at Hollywell.
The twilight wanderings on the terrace were a daily habit, and Eveleen
almost always paired with her. On this evening in particular, Laura was
made very uncomfortable by Eveleen’s declaring that it was positively
impossible and unnatural that the good heroine of some novel should have
concealed her engagement from her parents. Laura could not help saying
that there might be many excuses; then afraid that she was exciting
suspicion, changed the subject in great haste, and tried to make Eveleen
come indoors, telling her she would tire herself to death, and vexed
by her cousin’s protestations that the fresh cool air did her good.
Besides, Eveleen was looking with attentive eyes at another pair
who were slowly walking up and down the shady walk that bordered the
grass-plot, and now and then standing still to enjoy the subdued silence
of the summer evening, and the few distant sounds that marked the
perfect lull.

‘How calm--how beautiful!’ murmured Amabel.

‘It only wants the low solemn surge and ripple of the tide, and its dash
on the rocks,’ said Guy. ‘If ever there was music, it is there; but it
makes one think what the ear must be that can take in the whole of those
harmonics.’

‘How I should like to hear it!’

‘And see it. O Amy! to show you the sunny sea,--the sense of breadth
and vastness in that pale clear horizon line, and the infinite number of
fields of light between you and it,--and the free feelings as you stand
on some high crag, the wind blowing in your face across half the globe,
and the waves dashing far below! I am growing quite thirsty for the
sea.’

‘You know, papa said something about your taking your reading-party to
Redclyffe.’

‘True, but I don’t think Markham would like it, and it would put old
Mrs. Drew into no end of a fuss.’

‘Not like to have you?’

‘O yes, I should be all very well; but if they heard I was bringing
three or four men with me, they would think them regular wild beasts.
They would be in an awful fright. Besides, it is so long since I have
been at home, that I don’t altogether fancy going there till I settle
there for good.’

‘Ah! it will be sad going there at first.’

‘And it has not been my duty yet.’

‘But you will be glad when you get there?’

‘Sha’n’t I? I wonder if any one has been to shoot the rabbits on the
shag rock. They must have quite overrun it by this time. But I don’t
like the notion of the first day. There is not only the great change,
but a stranger at the vicarage.’

‘Do you know anything about the new clergyman? I believe Mrs. Ashford is
a connection of Lady Thorndale’s?’

‘Yes; Thorndale calls them pattern people, and I have no doubt they will
do great good in the parish. I am sure we want some enlightenment, for
we are a most primitive race, and something beyond Jenny Robinson’s dame
school would do us no harm.’

Here Mr. Edmonstone called from the window that they must come in.

Mrs. Edmonstone thought deeply that night. She had not forgotten her
notion that Eveleen was attracted by Guy’s manners, and had been curious
to see what would happen when Eveleen was sent to Hollywell for country
air.

She had a very good opinion of Lady Eveleen. Since the former visit,
she had shown more spirit of improvement, and laid aside many little
follies; she had put herself under Laura’s guidance, and tamed down into
what gave the promise of a sensible woman, more than anything that had
hitherto been observed in her; and little addicted to match-making as
Mrs. Edmonstone was, she could not help thinking that Eva was almost
worthy of her dear Guy (she never could expect to find anyone she should
think quite worthy of him, he was too like one of her own children for
that), and on the other hand, how delighted Lord and Lady Kilcoran would
be. It was a very pretty castle in the air; but in the midst of it, the
notion suddenly darted into Mrs. Edmonstone’s head, that while she was
thinking of it, it was Amy, not Eveleen, who was constantly with Guy.
Reading and music, roses, botany, and walks on the terrace! She looked
back, and it was still the same. Last Easter vacation, how they used
to study the stars in the evening, to linger in the greenhouse in
the morning nursing the geraniums, and to practise singing over the
school-room piano; how, in a long walk, they always paired together; and
how they seemed to share every pursuit or pleasure.

Now Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely fond of Guy, and trusted him entirely;
but she thought she ought to consider how far this should be allowed.
Feeling that he ought to see more of the world, she had sent him as
much as she could into society, but it had only made him cling closer to
home. Still he was but twenty, it was only a country neighbourhood, and
there was much more for him to see before he could fairly be supposed
to know his own mind. She knew he would act honourably; but she had a
horror of letting him entangle himself with her daughter before he was
fairly able to judge of his own feelings. Or, if this was only behaving
with a brother’s freedom and confidence, Mrs. Edmonstone felt it was not
safe for her poor little Amy, who might learn so to depend on him as
to miss him grievously when this intimacy ceased, as it must when he
settled at his own home. It would be right, while it was still time, to
make her remember that they were not brother and sister, and by checking
their present happy, careless, confidential intercourse, to save her
from the chill which seemed to have been cast on Laura. Mrs. Edmonstone
was the more anxious, because she deeply regretted not having been
sufficiently watchful in Laura’s case, and perhaps she felt an
unacknowledged conviction that if there was real love on Guy’s part, it
would not be hurt by a little reserve on Amy’s. Yet to have to speak
to her little innocent daughter on such a matter disturbed her so much,
that she could hardly have set about it, if Amy had not, at that very
moment, knocked at her door.

‘My dear, what has kept you up so late?’

‘We have been sitting in Eveleen’s room, mamma, hearing about her London
life; and then we began to settle our plans for to-morrow, and I came to
ask what you think of them. You know Guy has promised to go and hear
the East-hill singing, and we were proposing, if you did not mind it,
to take the pony-carriage and the donkey, and go in the morning to
East-hill, have luncheon, and get Mary to go with us to the top of the
great down, where we have never been. Guy has been wanting us, for a
long time past, to go and see the view, and saying there is a track
quite smooth enough to drive Charlie to the top.’

Amy wondered at her mother’s look of hesitation. In fact, the scheme was
so accordant with their usual habits that it was impossible to find any
objection; yet it all hinged on Guy, and the appointment at East-hill
might lead to a great many more.

‘Do you wish us to do anything else, mamma? We don’t care about it.’

‘No, my dear,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘I see no reason against it.
But--’ and she felt as if she was making a desperate plunge, ‘there is
something I want to say to you.’

Amy stood ready to hear, but Mrs. Edmonstone paused. Another effort, and
she spoke:--

‘Amy, my dear, I don’t wish to find fault, but I thought of advising you
to take care. About Guy--’

The very brilliant pink which instantly overspread Amy’s face made her
mother think her warning more expedient.

‘You have been spending a great deal of time with him of late, very
sensibly and pleasantly, I know; I don’t blame you at all, my dear, so
you need not look distressed. I only want you to be careful. You know,
though we call him cousin, he is scarcely a relation at all.’

‘O mamma, don’t go on,’ said poor little Amy, hurriedly; ‘indeed I am
very sorry!’

For Amy understood that it was imputed to her that she had been forward
and unmaidenly. Mrs. Edmonstone saw her extreme distress, and, grieved
at the pain she had inflicted, tried to reassure her as much as might be
safe.

‘Indeed, my dear, you have done nothing amiss. I only intended to tell
you to be cautious for fear you should get into a way of going on which
might not look well. Don’t make any great difference, I only meant that
there should not be quite so much singing and gardening alone with him,
or walking in the garden in the evening. You can manage to draw back a
little, so as to keep more with me or with Laura, and I think that will
be the best way.’

Every word, no matter what, increased the burning of poor Amy’s cheeks.
A broad accusation of flirting would have been less distressing to many
girls than this mild and delicate warning was to one of such shrinking
modesty and maidenly feeling. She had a sort of consciousness that she
enjoyed partaking in his pursuits, and this made her sense of confusion
and shame overwhelming. What had she been thoughtlessly doing? She could
not speak, she could not look. Her mother put her arm round her, and Amy
hid her head on her shoulder, and held her fast. Mrs. Edmonstone kissed
and caressed the little fluttering bird, then saying, ‘Good night, my
own dear child,’ unloosed her embrace.

‘Good night, dear mamma,’ whispered Amy. ‘I am very sorry.’

‘You need not be sorry, my dear, only be careful. Good night.’ And it
would be hard to say whether the mother or the daughter had the hottest
cheeks.

Poor little Amy! what was her dismay as she asked herself, again and
again, what she had been doing and what she was to do? The last was
plain,--she knew what was right, and do it she must. There would be an
end of much that was pleasant, and a fresh glow came over her as she
owned how very, very pleasant; but if it was not quite the thing,--if
mamma did not approve, so it must be. True, all her doings received
their zest from Guy,--her heart bounded at the very sound of his
whistle, she always heard his words through all the din of a whole
party,--nothing was complete without him, nothing good without his
without his approval,--but so much the more shame for her. It was a
kind of seeking him which was of all things the most shocking. So there
should be an end of it,--never mind the rest! Amy knelt down, and prayed
that she might keep her resolution.

She did not know how much of her severity towards herself was learned
from the example that had been two years before her. Nor did she think
whether the seeking had been mutual; she imagined it all her own doing,
and did not guess that she would give pain to Guy by withdrawing herself
from him.

The morning gave vigour to her resolution, and when Laura came to ask
what mamma thought of their project, Amy looked confused--said she
did not know--she believed it would not do. But just then in came her
mother, to say she had been considering of the expedition, and meant to
join it herself. Amy understood, blushed, and was silently grateful.

When Laura wanted to alter her demeanour towards Guy, being perfectly
cool, and not in the least conscious, she had acted with great judgment,
seen exactly what to do, and what to leave undone, so as to keep up
appearances. But it was not so with Amy. She was afraid of herself,
and was in extremes. She would not come down till the last moment,
that there might be no talking in the window. She hardly spoke at
breakfast-time, and adhered closely to Laura and Eveleen when
they wandered in the garden. Presently Charles looked out from the
dressing-room window, calling,--

‘Amy, Guy is ready to read.’

‘I can’t come. Read without me,’ she answered, hoping Charlie would not
be vexed, and feeling her face light up again.

The hour for the expedition came, and Amy set off walking with Laura,
because Guy was with Mrs. Edmonstone; but presently, after holding open
a gate for Charlotte, who was on the donkey, he came up to the sisters,
and joined in the conversation. Amy saw something in the hedge--a
foxglove, she believed--it would have done as well if it had been a
nettle--she stopped to gather it, hoping to fall behind them, but they
waited for her. She grew silent, but Guy appealed to her. She ran on to
Charlotte and her donkey, but at the next gate Guy had joined company
again. At last she put herself under her mother’s wing, and by keeping
with her did pretty well all the time she was at East-hill. But when
they went on, she was riding the donkey, and it, as donkeys always are,
was resolved on keeping a-head of the walkers, so that as Guy kept by
her side, it was a more absolute tete-a-tete than ever.

At the top of the hill they found a fine view, rich and extensive, broad
woods, fields waving with silvery barley, trim meadows, fair hazy blue
distance, and a dim line of sea beyond. This, as Amy knew, was Guy’s
delight, and further, what she would not tell herself, was that he
chiefly cared for showing it to her. It was so natural to call him to
admire everything beautiful, and ask if it was equal to Redclyffe, that
she found herself already turning to him to participate in his pleasure,
as he pointed out all that was to be seen; but she recollected, blushed,
and left her mother to speak. He had much to show. There was a hanging
wood on one side of the hill, whence he had brought her more than one
botanical prize, and she must now visit their native haunts. It was too
great a scramble for Mrs. Edmonstone, with all her good will; Eveleen
was to be kept still, and not to tire herself; Laura did not care for
botany, nor love brambles, and Amy was obliged to stand and look into
the wood, saying, ‘No, thank you, I don’t think I can,’ and then run
back to Mary and Charles; while Charlotte was loudly calling out that it
was delightful fun, and that she was very stupid. In another minute Guy
had overtaken her, and in his gentle, persuasive voice, was telling her
it was very easy, and she must come and see the bird’s-nest orchises.
She would have liked it above all things, but she thought it very kind
of Guy not to seem angry when she said, ‘No, thank you.’

Mary, after what she had seen yesterday, could not guess at the real
reason, or she would have come with her; but she thought Amy was tired,
and would rather not. Poor Amy was tired, very tired, before the walk
was over, but her weary looks made it worse, for Guy offered her his
arm. ‘No thank you,’ she said, ‘I am getting on very well;’ and she
trudged on resolutely, for her mother was in the carriage, and to lag
behind the others would surely make him keep with her.

Mrs. Edmonstone was very sorry for her fatigue, but Amy found it a good
excuse for not wandering in the garden, or joining in the music. It
had been a very uncomfortable day; she hoped she had done right; at any
rate, she had the peaceful conviction of having tried to do so.

The next day, Amy was steady to her resolution. No reading with the two
youths, though Charles scolded her; sitting in her room till Guy was
gone out, going indoors as soon as she heard him return, and in the
evening staying with Charles when her sisters and cousins went out; but
this did not answer, for Guy came and sat by them. She moved away as
soon as possible, but the more inclined she was to linger, the more she
thought she ought to go; so murmuring something about looking for Laura,
she threw on her scarf, and sprung to the window. Her muslin caught on
the bolt, she turned, Guy was already disentangling it, and she met
his eye. It was full of anxious, pleading inquiry, which to her seemed
upbraiding, and, not knowing what to do, she exclaimed, hurriedly,
‘Thank you; no harm done!’ and darted into the garden, frightened
to feel her face glowing and her heart throbbing. She could not help
looking back to see if he was following. No, he was not attempting it;
he was leaning against the window, and on she hastened, the perception
dawning on her that she was hurting him; he might think her rude,
unkind, capricious, he who had always been so kind to her, and when he
was going away so soon. ‘But it is right; it must be done,’ said little
Amy to herself, standing still, now that she was out of sight. ‘If I
was wrong before, I must bear it now, and he will see the rights of it
sooner or later. The worst of all would be my not doing the very _most_
_right_ to please any body. Besides he can’t really care for missing
silly little Amy when he has mamma and Charlie. And he is going away, so
it will be easier to begin right when he comes back. Be that as it may,
it must be done. I’ll get Charlie to tell me what he was saying about
the painted glass.’



CHAPTER 13

     Oh, thou child of many prayers!
     Life hath quicksands--life hath snares--
     Care and age come unawares.

     Like the swell of some sweet tune,
     Morning rises into noon,
     May glides onward into June.
                              --Longfellow


‘What is the matter with Amy? What makes her so odd?’ asked Charles, as
his mother came to wish him good night.

‘Poor little dear! don’t take any notice,’ was all the answer he
received; and seeing that he was to be told no more, he held his peace.

Laura understood without being told. She, too, had thought Guy and Amy
were a great deal together, and combining various observations, she
perceived that her mother must have given Amy a caution. She therefore
set herself, like a good sister, to shelter Amy as much as she could,
save her from awkward situations, and, above all, to prevent her altered
manner from being remarked. This was the less difficult, as Eveleen was
subdued and languid, and more inclined to lie on the sofa and read than
to look out for mirth.

As to poor little Amy, her task was in one way become less hard, for Guy
had ceased to haunt her, and seemed to make it his business to avoid all
that could cause her embarrassment; but in another way it hurt her
much more, for she now saw the pain she was causing. If obliged to do
anything for her, he would give a look as if to ask pardon, and then
her rebellious heart would so throb with joy as to cause her dismay at
having let herself fall into so hateful a habit as wishing to attract
attention. What a struggle it was not to obey the impulse of turning
to him for the smile with which he would greet anything in conversation
that interested them both, and how wrong she thought it not to be more
consoled when she saw him talking to Eveleen, or to any of the others,
as if he was doing very well without her. This did not often happen; he
was evidently out of spirits, and thoughtful, and Amy was afraid some
storm might be gathering respecting Mr. Sebastian Dixon, about whom
there always seemed to be some uncomfortable mystery.

Mrs. Edmonstone saw everything, and said nothing. She was very sorry for
them both, but she could not interfere, and could only hope she had done
right, and protected Amy as far as she was able. She was vexed now and
then to see Eveleen give knowing smiles and significant glances, feared
that she guessed what was going on, and wondered whether to give her a
hint not to add to Amy’s confusion; but her great dislike to enter on
such a subject prevailed, and she left things to take their course,
thinking that, for once, Guy’s departure would be a relief.

The approach of anything in the shape of a party of pleasure was one
of the best cures for Eveleen’s ailments, and the evening before Mary’s
tea-drinking, she was in high spirits, laughing and talking a great
deal, and addressing herself chiefly to Guy. He exerted himself to
answer, but it did not come with life and spirit, his countenance did
not light up, and at last Eveleen said, ‘Ah! I see I am a dreadful bore.
I’ll go away, and leave you to repose.’

‘Lady Eveleen!’ he exclaimed, in consternation; ‘what have I been
doing--what have I been thinking of?’

‘Nay, that is best known to yourself, though I think perhaps I could
divine,’ said she, with that archness and grace that always seemed
to remove the unfavourable impression that her proceedings might have
given. ‘Shall I?’

‘No, no,’ he answered, colouring crimson, and then trying to laugh off
his confusion, and find some answer, but without success; and Eveleen,
perceiving her aunt’s eyes were upon her, suddenly recollected that she
had gone quite as far as decorum allowed, and made as masterly a retreat
as the circumstances permitted.

‘Well, I have always thought a “penny for your thoughts” the boldest
offer in the world, and now it is proved.’

This scene made Mrs. Edmonstone doubly annoyed, the next morning, at
waking with a disabling headache, which made it quite impossible for
her to attempt going to Mary Ross’s fete. With great sincerity, Amy
entreated to be allowed to remain at home, but she thought it would
only be making the change more remarkable; she did not wish Mary to be
disappointed; among so many ladies, Amy could easily avoid getting into
difficulties; while Laura would, she trusted, be able to keep Eveleen in
order.

The day was sunny, and all went off to admiration. The gentlemen
presided over the cricket, and the ladies over ‘blind man’s buff’ and
‘thread my needle;’ but perhaps Mary was a little disappointed that,
though she had Sir Guy’s bodily presence, the peculiar blitheness and
animation which he usually shed around him were missing. He sung at
church, he filled tiny cups from huge pitchers of tea, he picked up
and pacified a screaming child that had tumbled off a gate--he was
as good-natured and useful as possible, but he was not his joyous and
brilliant self.

Amy devoted herself to the smallest fry, played assiduously for three
quarters of an hour with a fat, grave boy of three, who stood about a
yard-and-a-half from her, solemnly throwing a ball into her lap, and
never catching it again, took charge of many caps and bonnets, and
walked about with Louisa Harper, a companion whom no one envied her.

In conclusion, the sky clouded over, it became chilly, and a shower
began to fall. Laura pursued Eveleen, and Amy hunted up Charlotte from
the utmost parts of the field, where she was the very centre of ‘winding
up the clock,’ and sorely against her will, dragged her off the wet
grass. About sixty yards from the house, Guy met them with an umbrella,
which, without speaking, he gave to Charlotte. Amy said, ‘Thank you,’
and again came that look. Charlotte rattled on, and hung back to talk to
Guy, so that Amy could not hasten on without leaving her shelterless.
It may be believed that she had the conversation to herself. At the
door they met Mary and her father, going to dismiss their flock, who had
taken refuge in a cart-shed at the other end of the field. Guy asked
if he could be of any use; Mr. Ross said no, and Mary begged Amy and
Charlotte to go up to her room, and change their wet shoes.

There, Amy would fain have stayed, flushed and agitated as those looks
made her; but Charlotte was in wild spirits, delighted at having been
caught in the rain, and obliged to wear shoes a mile too large, and
eager to go and share the fun in the drawing-room. There, in the
twilight, they found a mass of young ladies herded together, making a
confused sound of laughter, and giggling, while at the other end of the
room, Amy could just see Guy sitting alone in a dark corner.

Charlotte’s tongue was soon the loudest in the medley, to which Amy did
not at first attend, till she heard Charlotte saying--

‘Ah! you should hear Guy sing that.’

‘What?’ she whispered to Eveleen.

‘“The Land of the Leal,”’ was the answer.

‘I wish he would sing it now,’ said Ellen Harper.

‘This darkness would be just the time for music,’ said Eveleen; ‘it is
quite a witching time.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ said Ellen. ‘Come, Charlotte, there’s a good
girl, go and ask him.’

‘Shall I?’ said Charlotte, whispering and giggling with an affectation
of shyness.

‘No, no, Charlotte,’ said Laura.

‘No! why not?’ said Eveleen. ‘Don’t be afraid, Charlotte.’

‘He is so grave,’ said Charlotte.

Eveleen had been growing wilder and less guarded all day, and now,
partly liking to tease and surprise the others, and partly emboldened by
the darkness, she answered,--

‘It will do him all manner of good. Here, Charlotte, I’ll tell you how
to make him. Tell him Amy wants him to do it.’

‘Ay! tell him so,’ cried Ellen, and they laughed in a manner that
overpowered Amy with horror and shyness. She sprung to seize Charlotte,
and stop her; she could not speak, but Louisa Harper caught her arm, and
Laura’s grave orders were drowned in a universal titter, and suppressed
exclamation,--‘Go, Charlotte, go; we will never forgive you if you
don’t!’

‘Stop!’ Amy struggled to cry, breaking from Louisa, and springing up in
a sort of agony. Guy, who had such a horror of singing anything deep in
pathos or religious feeling to mixed or unfit auditors, asked to do
so in her name! ‘Stop! oh, Charlotte!’ It was too late; Charlotte,
thoughtless with merriment, amused at vexing Laura, set up with
applause, and confident in Guy’s good nature, had come to him, and was
saying,--‘Oh, Guy! Amy wants you to come and sing us the “Land of the
Leal.”’

Amy saw him start up. What, did he think of her? Oh, what! He stepped
towards them. The silly girls cowered as if they had roused a lion. His
voice was not loud--it was almost as gentle as usual; but it quivered,
as if it was hard to keep it so, and, as well as she could see, his
face was rigid and stern as iron. ‘Did you wish it?’ he said, addressing
himself to her, as if she was the only person present.

Her breath was almost gone. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ she faltered. She
could not exculpate herself, she saw it looked like an idle, almost like
an indecorous trick, unkind, everything abhorrent to her and to him,
especially in the present state of things. His eyes were on her, his
head bent towards her; he waited for an answer. ‘I beg your pardon,’ was
all she could say.

There was--yes, there was--one of those fearful flashes of his kindling
eye. She felt as if she was shrinking to nothing; she heard him say, in
a low, hoarse tone, ‘I am afraid I cannot;’ then Mr. Ross, Mary, lights
came in; there was a bustle and confusion, and when next she was clearly
conscious, Laura was ordering the carriage.

When it came, there was an inquiry for Sir Guy.

‘He is gone home,’ said Mr. Ross. ‘I met him in the passage, and wished
him good night.’

Mr. Ross did not add what he afterwards told his daughter, that Guy
seemed not to know whether it was raining or not; that he had put an
umbrella into his hand, and seen him march off at full speed, through
the pouring rain, with it under his arm.

The ladies entered the carriage. Amy leant back in her corner, Laura
forbore to scold either Eveleen or Charlotte till she could have them
separately; Eveleen was silent, because she was dismayed at the effect
she had produced, and Charlotte, because she knew there was a scolding
impending over her.

They found no one in the drawing-room but Mr. Edmonstone and Charles,
who said they had heard the door open, and Guy run up-stairs, but they
supposed he was wet through, as he had not made his appearance. It was
very inhospitable in the girls not to have made room for him in the
carriage.

Amy went to see how her mother was, longing to tell her whole trouble,
but found her asleep, and was obliged to leave it till the morrow. Poor
child, she slept very little, but she would not go to her mother before
breakfast, lest she should provoke the headache into staying another
day. Guy was going by the train at twelve o’clock, and she was resolved
that something should be done; so, as soon as her father had wished Guy
goodbye, and ridden off to his justice meeting, she entreated her mother
to come into the dressing-room, and hear what she had to say.

‘Oh, mamma! the most dreadful thing has happened!’ and, hiding her face,
she told her story, ending with a burst of weeping as she said how Guy
was displeased. ‘And well he might be! That after all that has vexed him
this week, I should tease him with such a trick. Oh, mamma, what must he
think?’

‘My dear, there was a good deal of silliness; but you need not treat it
as if it was so very shocking.’

‘Oh, but it hurt him! He was angry, and now I know how it is, he is
angry with himself for being angry. Oh, how foolish I have been! What
shall I do?’

‘Perhaps we can let him know it was not your fault,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone, thinking it might be very salutary for Charlotte to send her
to confess.

‘Do you think so?’ cried Amy, eagerly. ‘Oh! that would make it all
comfortable. Only it was partly mine, for not keeping Charlotte in
better order, and we must not throw it all on her and Eveleen. You think
we may tell him?’

‘I think he ought not to be allowed to fancy you let your name be so
used.’

A message came for Mrs. Edmonstone, and while she was attending to it,
Amy hastened away, fully believing that her mother had authorized her
to go and explain it to Guy, and ask his pardon. It was what she thought
the natural thing to do, and she was soon by his side, as she saw him
pacing, with folded arms, under the wall.

Much had lately been passing in Guy’s mind. He had gone on floating on
the sunny stream of life at Hollywell, too happy to observe its especial
charm till the change in Amy’s manner cast a sudden gloom over all. Not
till then did he understand his own feelings, and recognize in her the
being he had dreamt of. Amy was what made Hollywell precious to him.
Sternly as he was wont to treat his impulses, he did not look on his
affection as an earthborn fancy, liable to draw him from higher things,
and, therefore, to be combated; he deemed her rather a guide and guard
whose love might arm him, soothe him, and encourage him. Yet he had
little hope, for he did not do justice to his powers of inspiring
affection; no one could distrust his temper and his character as much as
he did himself, and with his ancestry and the doom he believed attached
to his race, with his own youth and untried principles, with his
undesirable connections, and the reserve he was obliged to exercise
regarding them, he considered himself as objectionable a person as could
well be found, as yet untouched by any positive crime, and he respected
the Edmonstones too much to suppose that these disadvantages could be
counterbalanced for a moment by his position; indeed, he interpreted
Amy’s coolness by supposing that there was a desire to discourage his
attentions. No poor tutor or penniless cousin ever felt he was doing
a more desperate thing in confessing an attachment, than did Sir Guy
Morville when he determined that all should be told, at the risk of
losing her for ever, and closing against himself the doors of his happy
home. It was not right and fair by her parents, he thought, so to regard
their daughter, and live in the same house with his sentiments unavowed,
and as to Amy herself, if his feelings had reached such a pitch of
sensitiveness that he must needs behave like an angry lion, because her
name had been dragged into an idle joke, it was high time it should
be explained, unpropitious as the moment might be for declaring his
attachment, when he had manifested such a temper as any woman might
dread. Thus he made up his mind that, come of it what might, he would
not leave Hollywell that day till the truth was told. Just as he was
turning to find Mrs. Edmonstone and ‘put his fate to the touch,’ a
little figure stood beside him, and Amy’s own sweet, low tones were
saying, imploringly,--

‘Guy, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am you were so teased last
night.’

‘Don’t think of it!’ said he, taken extremely by surprise

‘It was our fault, I could not stop it; I should have kept Charlotte in
better order, but they would not let her hear me. I knew it was what you
dislike particularly, and I was very sorry.’

‘You--I was--I was. But no matter now. Amy,’ he added earnestly, ‘may I
ask you to walk on with me a little way? I must say something to you.’

Was this what ‘mamma’ objected to? Oh no! Amy felt she must stay now,
and, in truth, she was glad it was right, though her heart beat fast,
fast, faster, as Guy, pulling down a long, trailing branch of Noisette
rose, and twisting it in his hand, paused for a few moments, then spoke
collectedly, and without hesitation, though with the tremulousness of
subdued agitation, looking the while not at her, but straight before
him.

‘You ought to be told why your words and looks have such effect on me as
to make me behave as I did last night. Shame on me for such conduct!
I know its evil, and how preposterous it must make what I have to tell
you. I don’t know now long it has been, but almost ever since I came
here, a feeling has been growing up in me towards you, such as I can
never have for any one else.’

The flame rushed into Amy’s cheeks, and no one could have told what she
felt, as he paused again, and then went on speaking more quickly, as if
his emotion was less under control.

‘If ever there is to be happiness for me on earth, it must be through
you; as you, for the last three years, have been all my brightness here.
What I feel for you is beyond all power of telling you, Amy! But I know
full well all there is against me--I know I am untried, and how can I
dare to ask one born to brightness and happiness to share the doom of my
family?’

Amy’s impulse was that anything shared with him would be welcome; but
the strength of the feeling stifled the power of expression, and she
could not utter a word.

‘It seems selfish even to dream of it,’ he proceeded, ‘yet I must,--I
cannot help it. To feel that I had your love to keep me safe, to know
that you watched for me, prayed for me, were my own, my Verena,--oh Amy!
it would be more joy than I have ever dared to hope for. But mind,’ he
added, after another brief pause, ‘I would not even ask you to answer me
now, far less to bind yourself, even if--if it were possible. I know
my trial is not come; and were I to render myself, by positive act,
unworthy even to think of you, it would be too dreadful to have
entangled you, and made you unhappy. No. I speak now, because I ought
not to remain here with such feelings unknown to your father and
mother.’

At that moment, close on the other side of the box-tree clump, were
heard the wheels of Charles’s garden-chair, and Charlotte’s voice
talking to him, as he made his morning tour round the garden. Amy flew
off, like a little bird to its nest, and never stopped till, breathless
and crimson, she darted into the dressing room, threw herself on her
knees, and with her face hidden in her mother’s lap, exclaimed in
panting, half-smothered, whispers, which needed all Mrs. Edmonstone’s
intuition to make them intelligible,--

‘O mamma, mamma, he says--he says he loves me!’

Perhaps Mrs. Edmonstone was not so very much surprised; but she had
no time to do more than raise and kiss the burning face, and see, at
a moment’s glance, how bright was the gleam of frightened joy, in the
downcast eye and troubled smile; when two knocks, given rapidly, were
heard, and almost at the same moment the door opened, and Guy stood
before her, his face no less glowing than that which Amy buried again on
her mother’s knee.

‘Come in, Guy,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, as he stood doubtful for a moment
at the door, and there was a sweet smile of proud, joyful affection on
her face, conveying even more encouragement than her tone. Amy raised
her head, and moved as if to leave the room.

‘Don’t go,’ he said, earnestly, ‘unless you wish it.’

Amy did not wish it, especially now that she had her mother to save
her confusion, and she sat on a footstool, holding her mother’s hand,
looking up to Guy, whenever she felt bold enough, and hanging down her
head when he said what showed how much more highly he prized her than
silly little Amy could deserve.

‘You know what I am come to say,’ he began, standing by the
mantel-shelf, as was his wont in his conferences with Mrs. Edmonstone;
and he repeated the same in substance as he had said to Amy in the
garden, though with less calmness and coherence, and far more warmth of
expression, as if, now that she was protected by her mother’s presence,
he exercised less force in self-restraint.

Never was anyone happier than was Mrs. Edmonstone; loving Guy so
heartily, seeing the beauty of his character in each word, rejoicing
that such affection should be bestowed on her little Amy, exulting
in her having won such a heart, and touched and gratified by the free
confidence with which both had at once hastened to pour out all to her,
not merely as a duty, but in the full ebullition of their warm young
love. The only difficulty was to bring herself to speak with prudence
becoming her position, whilst she was sympathizing with them as ardently
as if she was not older than both of them put together. When Guy spoke
of himself as unproved, and undeserving of trust, it was all she could
do to keep from declaring there was no one whom she thought so safe.

‘While you go on as you have begun, Guy?’

‘If you tell me to hope! Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone, is it wrong that an
earthly incentive to persevere should have power which sometimes seems
greater than the true one?’

‘There is the best and strongest ground of all for trusting you,’ said
she. ‘If you spoke keeping right only for Amy’s sake, then I might fear;
but when she is second, there is confidence indeed.’

‘If speaking were all!’ said Guy.

‘There is one thing I ought to say,’ she proceeded; ‘you know you are
very young, and though--though I don’t know that I can say so in my own
person, a prudent woman would say, that you have seen so little of the
world, that you may easily meet a person you would like better than such
a quiet little dull thing as your guardian’s daughter.’

The look that he cast on Amy was worth seeing, and then, with a smile,
he answered--

‘I am glad you don’t say it in your own person.’

‘It is very bold and presumptuous in me to say anything at all in papa’s
absence’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling; ‘but I am sure he will think in
the same way, that things ought to remain as they are, and that it is
our duty not to allow you to be, or to feel otherwise than entirely at
liberty.’

‘I dare say it may be right in you,’ said Guy, grudgingly. ‘However,
I must not complain. It is too much that you should not reject me
altogether.’

To all three that space was as bright a gleam of sunshine as ever
embellished life, so short as to be free from a single care, a perfectly
serenely happy present, the more joyous from having been preceded by
vexations, each of the two young things learning that there was love
where it was most precious. Guy especially, isolated and lonely as he
stood in life, with his fear and mistrust of himself, was now not only
allowed to love, and assured beyond his hopes that Amy returned his
affection, but found himself thus welcomed by the mother, and gathered
into the family where his warm feelings had taken up their abode, while
he believed himself regarded only as a guest and a stranger.

They talked on, with happy silences between, Guy standing all the time
with his branch of roses in his hand, and Amy looking up to him, and
trying to realize it, and to understand why she was so very, very happy.

No one thought of time till Charlotte rushed in like a whirlwind,
crying--

‘Oh, here you are! We could not think what had become of you. There has
Deloraine been at the door these ten minutes, and Charlie sent me to
find you, for he says if you are too late for Mrs. Henley’s dinner, she
will write such an account of you to Philip as you will never get over.’

Very little of this was heard, there was only the instinctive
consternation of being too late. They started up, Guy threw down his
roses, caught Amy’s hand and pressed it, while she bent down her head,
hiding the renewed blush; he dashed out of the room, and up to his own,
while Mrs. Edmonstone and Charlotte hurried down. In another second,
he was back again, and once more Amy felt the pressure of his hand on
hers--

‘Good-bye!’ he said; and she whispered another ‘Good-bye!’ the only
words she had spoken.

One moment more he lingered,--

‘My Verena!’ said he; but the hurrying sounds in the hall warned
him--he sprang down to the drawing-room. Even Charles was on the alert,
standing, leaning against the table, and looking eager; but Guy had not
time to let him speak, he only shook hands, and wished good-bye, with a
sort of vehement agitated cordiality, concealed by his haste.

‘Where’s Amy?’ cried Charlotte. ‘Amy! Is not she coming to wish him
good-bye?’

He said something, of which ‘up-stairs’ was the only audible word; held
Mrs. Edmonstone’s hand fast, while she said, in a low voice--‘You shall
hear from papa to-morrow,’ then sprung on his horse, and looked up. Amy
was at the window, he saw her head bending forward, under its veil of
curls, in the midst of the roses round the lattice; their eyes met once
more, he gave one beamy smile, then rode off at full speed, with Bustle
racing after him, while Amy threw herself on her knees by her bed, and
with hands clasped over her face, prayed that she might be thankful
enough, and never be unworthy of him.

Every one wanted to get rid of every one else except Mrs. Edmonstone;
for all but Charlotte guessed at the state of the case, and even she
perceived that something was going on. Lady Eveleen was in a state of
great curiosity; but she had mercy, she knew that they must tell each
other before it came to her turn, and very good-naturedly she invited
Charlotte to come into the garden with her, and kept her out of the way
by a full account of her last fancy ball, given with so much spirit and
humour that Charlotte could not help attending.

Charles and Laura gained little by this kind manoeuvre, for their mother
was gone up again to Amy, and they could only make a few conjectures.
Charles nursed his right hand, and asked Laura how hers felt? She looked
up from her work, to which she had begun to apply herself diligently,
and gazed at him inquiringly, as if to see whether he intended anything.

‘For my part,’ he added, ‘I certainly thought he meant to carry off the
hands of some of the family.’

‘I suppose we shall soon hear it explained,’ said Laura, quietly.

‘Soon! If I had an many available legs as you, would I wait for other
people’s soon?’

‘I should think she had rather be left to mamma,’ said Laura, going on
with her work.

‘Then you do think there is something in it?’ said Charles, peering up
in her face; but he saw he was teasing her, recollected that she
had long seemed out of spirits, and forbore to say any more. He was,
however, too impatient to remain longer quiet, and presently Laura saw
him adjusting his crutches.

‘O Charlie! I am sure it will only be troublesome.’

‘I am going to my own room,’ said Charles, hopping off. ‘I presume you
don’t wish to forbid that.’

His room had a door into the dressing-room, so that it was an excellent
place for discovering all from which they did not wish to exclude him,
and he did not believe he should be unwelcome; for though he might
pretend it was all fun and curiosity, he heartily loved his little Amy.

The tap of his crutches, and the slow motion with which he raised
himself from step to step, was heard, and Amy, who was leaning against
her mother, started up, exclaiming--

‘O mamma, here comes Charlie! May I tell him? I am sure I can’t meet him
without.’

‘I suspect he has guessed it already,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, going
to open the door, just as he reached the head of the stairs, and then
leaving them.

‘Well, Amy,’ said he, looking full at her carnation cheeks, ‘are you
prepared to see me turn lead-coloured, and fall into convulsions, like
the sister with the spine complaint?’

‘O Charlie! You know it. But how?’

Amy was helping him to the sofa, laid him down, and sat by him on the
old footstool; he put his arm round her neck, and she rested her head on
his shoulder.

‘Well, Amy,’ I give you joy, my small woman,’ said he, talking the more
nonsense because of the fullness in his throat; ‘and I hope you give me
credit for amazing self-denial in so doing.’

‘O Charlie--dear Charlie!’ and she kissed him, she could not blush more,
poor little thing, for she had already reached her utmost capability of
redness--‘it is no such thing.’

‘No such thing? What has turned you into a turkey-cock all at once or
what made him nearly squeeze off my unfortunate fingers? No such thing,
indeed!’

‘I mean--I mean, it is not _that_. We are so very young, and I am so
silly.’

‘Is that his reason?’

‘You must make me so much better and wiser. Oh, if I could but be good
enough!’

For that matter, I don’t think any one else would be good enough to take
care of such a silly little thing. But what is the that, that it is, or
is not?’

‘Nothing now, only when we are older. At least, you know papa has not
heard it.’

‘Provided my father gives his consent, as the Irish young lady added to
all her responses through the marriage service. But tell me all--all you
like, I mean--for you will have lovers’ secrets now, Amy.’

Mrs. Edmonstone had, meantime, gone down to Laura. Poor Laura, as soon
as her brother had left the room, she allowed the fixed composure of her
face to relax into a restless, harassed, almost miserable expression,
and walked up and down with agitated steps.

‘O wealth, wealth!’--her lips formed the words, without uttering
them--‘what cruel differences it makes! All smooth here! Young, not
to be trusted, with strange reserves, discreditable connections,--that
family,--that fearful temper, showing itself even to her! All will be
overlooked! Papa will be delighted, I know he will! And how is it with
us? Proved, noble, superior, owned as such by all, as Philip is, yet,
for that want of hateful money, he would be spurned. And, for this--for
this--the love that has grown up with our lives must be crushed down and
hidden--our life is wearing out in wearying self-watching!’

The lock of the door turned, and Laura had resumed her ordinary
expression before it opened, and her mother came in: but there was
anything but calmness beneath, for the pang of self-reproach had
come--‘Was it thus that she prepared to hear these tidings of her
sister?’

‘Well, Laura,’ began Mrs. Edmonstone, with the eager smile of one
bringing delightful news, and sure of sympathy.

‘It is so, then?’ said Laura. ‘Dear, dear, little Amy! I hope--’ and
her eyes filled with tears; but she had learnt to dread any outbreak of
feeling, conquered it in a minute, and said--

‘What has happened? How does it stand?’

‘It stands, at least as far as I can say without papa, as the dear
Guy very rightly and wisely wished it to stand. There is no positive
engagement, they are both too young; but he thought it was not right to
remain here without letting us know his sentiments towards her.’

A pang shot through Laura; but it was but for a moment. Guy might doubt
where Philip need never do so. Her mother went on,--

‘Their frankness and confidence are most beautiful. We know dear little
Amy could not help it; but there was something very sweet, very noble,
in his way of telling all.’

Another pang for Laura. But no! it was only poverty that was to blame.
Philip would speak as plainly if his prospects were as fair.

‘Oh, I hope it will do well,’ said she.

‘It must,--it will!’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone, giving way to her joyful
enthusiasm of affection. ‘It is nonsense to doubt, knowing him as we do.
There is not a man in the world with whom I could be so happy to trust
her.’

Laura could not hear Guy set above all men in the world, and she
remembered Philip’s warning to her, two years ago.

‘There is much that is very good and very delightful about him,’ she
said, hesitatingly.

‘You are thinking of the Morville temper,’ said her mother; ‘but I am
not afraid of it. A naturally hot temper, controlled like his by strong
religious principle, is far safer than a cool easy one, without the
principle.’

Laura thought this going too far, but she felt some compensation due
to Guy, and acknowledged how strongly he was actuated by principle.
However--and it was well for her--they could not talk long, for Eveleen
and Charlotte were approaching, and she hastily asked what was to be
done about telling Eva, who could not fail to guess something.

‘We must tell her, and make her promise absolute secrecy,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone. ‘I will speak to her myself; but I must wait till I have
seen papa. There is no doubt of what he will say, but we have been
taking quite liberties enough in his absence.’

Laura did not see her sister till luncheon, when Amy came down, with
a glow on her cheeks that made her so much prettier than usual, that
Charles wished Guy could have seen her. She said little, and ran up
again as soon as she could. Laura followed her; and the two sisters
threw their arms fondly round each other, and kissed repeatedly.

‘Mamma has told you? said Amy. ‘Oh, it has made me so very happy; and
every one is so kind.’

‘Dear, dear Amy!’

‘I’m only afraid--’

‘He has begun so well--’

‘Oh, nonsense! You cannot think I could be so foolish as to be afraid
for him! Oh no! But if he should take me for more than I am worth. O
Laura, Laura! What shall I do to be as good and sensible as you! I must
not be silly little Amy any more.’

‘Perhaps he likes you best as you are?’

‘I don’t mean cleverness: I can’t help that,--and he knows how stupid
I am,--but I am afraid he thinks there is more worth in me. Don’t you
know, he has a sort of sunshine in his eyes and mind, that makes all
he cares about seem to him brighter and better than it really is. I am
afraid he is only dressing me up with that sunshine.’

‘It must be strange sunshine that you want to make you better and
brighter than you are,’ said Laura, kissing her.

‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said Amy folding her hands, and standing
with her face raised, ‘it won’t do now, as you told me once, to have no
bones in my character. I must learn to be steady and strong, if I can;
for if this is to be, he will depend on me, I don’t mean, to advise him,
for he knows better than anybody, but to be--you know what--if vexation,
or trouble was to come! And Laura, think if he was to depend on me, and
I was to fail! Oh, do help me to have firmness and self-command, like
you!’

‘It was a long time ago that we talked of your wanting bones.’

‘Yes, before he came; but I never forget it.’

Laura was obliged to go out with Eveleen. All went their different ways;
and Amy had the garden to herself to cool her cheeks in. But this was a
vain operation, for a fresh access of burning was brought on while
Laura was helping her to dress for dinner, when her father’s quick step
sounded in the passage. He knocked at her door, and as she opened it, he
kissed her on each cheek; and throwing his arm round her, exclaimed,--

‘Well, Miss Amy, you have made a fine morning’s work of it! A pretty
thing, for young ladies to be accepting offers while papa is out of the
way. Eh, Laura?’

Amy knew this was a manifestation of extreme delight; but it was not
very pleasant to Laura.

‘So you have made a conquest!’ proceeded Mr. Edmonstone; ‘and I heartily
wish you joy of it, my dear. He is as amiable and good-natured a youth
as I would wish to see; and I should say the same if he had not a
shilling in the world.’

Laura’s heart bounded; but she knew, whatever her father might fancy,
the reality would be very different if Guy were as poor as Philip.

‘I shall write to him this very evening,’ he continued, ‘and tell him,
if he has the bad taste to like such a silly little white thing, I am
not the man to stand in his way. Eh, Amy? Shall I tell him so?’

‘Tell him what you please, dear papa.’

‘Eh? What I please? Suppose I say we can’t spare our little one, and he
may go about his business?’

‘I’m not afraid of you, papa.’

‘Come, she’s a good little thing--sha’n’t be teased. Eh, Laura? what
do you think of it, our beauty, to see your younger sister impertinent
enough to set up a lover, while your pink cheeks are left in the lurch?’

Laura not being wont to make playful repartees, her silence passed
unnoticed. Her feelings were mixed; but perhaps the predominant one was
satisfaction that it was not for her pink cheeks that she was valued.

It had occurred to Mrs. Edmonstone that it was a curious thing, after
her attempt at scheming for Eveleen, to have to announce to her that Guy
was attached to her own daughter; nay, after the willingness Eveleen had
manifested to be gratified with any attention Guy showed her, it seemed
doubtful for a moment whether the intelligence would be pleasing to her.
However, Eveleen was just the girl to like men better than women, and
never to be so happy as when on the verge of flirting; it would probably
have been the same with any other youth that came in her, way, and Guy
might fully be acquitted of doing more than paying her the civilities
which were requisite from him to any young lady visitor. He had, two
years ago, when a mere boy, idled, laughed, and made fun with her, but
his fear of trifling away his time had made him draw back, before he had
involved himself in what might have led to anything further; and during
the present visit, no one could doubt that he was preoccupied with
Amy. At any rate, it was right that Eveleen should know the truth, in
confidence, if only to prevent her from talking of any surmises she
might have.

Mrs. Edmonstone was set at ease in a moment. Eveleen was enchanted,
danced round and round the room, declared they would be the most
charming couple in the world; she had seen it all along; she was so
delighted they had come to an understanding at last, poor things, they
were so miserable all last week; and she must take credit to herself for
having done it all. Was not her aunt very much obliged to her?

‘My dear Eva,’ exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone, into whose mind the notion
never entered that any one could boast of such a proceeding as hers last
night; but the truth was that Eveleen, feeling slightly culpable, was
delighted that all had turned out so well, and resolved to carry it off
with a high hand.

‘To be sure! Poor little Amy! when she looked ready to sink into the
earth, she little knew her obligations to me! Was not it the cleverest
thing in the world? It was just the touch they wanted--the very thing!’

‘My dear, I am glad I know that you are sometimes given to talking
nonsense,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, laughing.

‘And you won’t believe me serious? You won’t be grateful to me for my
lucky hit’ said Eveleen, looking comically injured. ‘Oh auntie, that is
very hard, when I shall believe to my dying day that I did it!’

‘Why, Eva, if I thought it had been done by design, I should find it
very hard to forgive you for it at all, rather hard even to accept Guy,
so you had better not try to disturb my belief that it was only that
spirit of mischief that makes you now and then a little mad.’

‘Oh dear! what a desperate scolding you must have given poor little
Charlotte!’ exclaimed Eveleen, quaintly.

Mrs. Edmonstone could not help laughing as she confessed that she had
altogether forgotten Charlotte.

‘Then you will. You’ll go on forgetting her,’ cried Eveleen. ‘She only
did what she was told, and did not know the malice of it. There, you’re
relenting! There’s a good aunt! And now, if you won’t be grateful, as
any other mamma in the world would have been, and as I calculated on,
when I pretended to have been a prudent, designing woman, instead of a
wild mischievous monkey at least you’ll forgive me enough to invite me
to the wedding. Oh! what a beauty of a wedding it will be! I’d come from
Kilcoran all the way on my bare knees to see it. And you’ll let me be
bridesmaid, and have a ball after it?’

‘There is no saying what I may do, if you’ll only be a good girl, and
hold your tongue. I don’t want to prevent your telling anything to
your mamma, of course, but pray don’t let it go any further. Don’t let
Maurice hear it, I have especial reasons for wishing it should not be
known. You know it is not even an engagement, and nothing must be done
which can make Guy feel in the least bound?’

Eveleen promised, and Mrs. Edmonstone knew that she had sense and proper
feeling enough for her promise to deserve trust.



CHAPTER 14

     For falsehood now doth flow,
     And subject faith doth ebbe,
     Which would not be, if reason ruled,
     Or wisdom weav’d the webbe.

     The daughter of debate,
     That eke discord doth sowe,
     Shal reape no gaine where former rule
     Hath taught stil peace to growe.
                        --QUEEN ELIZABETH


                                ‘ATHENAEUM TERRACE,
                                 ST MILDRED’S,
                                 August 4th,
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,--Thank you for returning the books, which were brought
safely by Sir Guy. I am sorry you do not agree in my estimate of them. I
should have thought your strong sense would have made you perceive that
reasoning upon fact, and granting nothing without tangible proof, were
the best remedy for a dreamy romantic tendency to the weakness and
credulity which are in the present day termed poetry and faith. It is
curious to observe how these vague theories reduce themselves to the
absurd when brought into practice. There are two Miss Wellwoods here,
daughters of that unfortunate man who fell in a duel with old Sir Guy
Morville, who seem to make it their business to become the general
subject of animadversion, taking pauper children into their house, where
they educate them in a way to unfit them for their station, and teach
them to observe a sort of monastic rule, preaching the poor people in
the hospital to death, visiting the poor at all sorts of strange hours.
Dr Henley actually found one of them, at twelve o’clock at night, in a
miserable lodging-house, filled with the worst description of inmates.
Quite young women, too, and with no mother or elder person to direct
them; but it is the fashion among the attendants at the new chapel to
admire them. This subject has diverted me from what I intended to say
with respect to the young baronet. Your description agrees with all I
have hitherto seen, though I own I expected a Redclyffe Morville to
have more of the “heros de roman”, or rather of the grand tragic cast of
figure, as, if I remember right, was the case with this youth’s
father, a much finer and handsomer young man. Sir Guy is certainly
gentlemanlike, and has that sort of agreeability which depends on high
animal spirits. I should think him clever, but superficial; and with his
mania for music, he can hardly fail to be merely an accomplished man. In
spite of all you said of the Redclyffe temper, I was hardly prepared to
find it so ready to flash forth on the most inexplicable provocations.
It is like walking on a volcano. I have seen him two or three times draw
himself up, bite his lip, and answer with an effort and a sharpness that
shows how thin a crust covers the burning lava; but I acknowledge that
he has been very civil and attentive, and speaks most properly of what
he owes to you. I only hope he will not be hurt by the possession of so
large a property so early in life, and I have an idea that our good aunt
at Hollywell has done a good deal to raise his opinion of himself. We
shall, of course, show him every civility in our power, and give him the
advantage of intellectual society at our house. His letters are directed
to this place, as you know South Moor Farm is out of the cognizance
of the post. They seem to keep up a brisk correspondence with him from
Hollywell. Few guardians’ letters are, I should guess, honoured with
such deepening colour as his while reading one from my uncle. He tells
me he has been calling at Stylehurst; it is a pity, for his sake, that
Colonel Harewood is at home, for the society of those sons is by no
means advisable for him. I can hardly expect to offer him what is likely
to be as agreeable to him as the conversation and amusements of Edward
and Tom Harewood, who are sure to be at home for the St. Mildred’s
races. I hear Tom has been getting into fresh scrapes at Cambridge.

                                 ‘Your affectionate sister,
                                          ‘MARGARET HENLEY.’


                                 ‘ATHENAEUM TERRACE.
                                  ST. MILDRED’S,
                                  Sept. 6th.
‘MY DEAR PHILIP,--No one can have a greater dislike than myself to what
is called mischief-making; therefore I leave it entirely to you to make
what use you please of the following facts, which have fallen under my
notice. Sir Guy Morville has been several times at St. Mildred’s, in
company with Tom Harewood, and more than once alone with some strange
questionable-looking people; and not many days ago, my maid met him
coming out of a house in one of the low streets, which it is hard to
assign a motive for his visiting. This, however, might be accident, and
I should never have thought of mentioning it, but for a circumstance
that occurred this morning. I had occasion to visit Grey’s Bank, and
while waiting in conversation with Mr. Grey, a person came in whom I
knew to be a notorious gambler, and offered a cheque to be changed. As
it lay on the counter, my eye was caught by the signature. It was my
uncle’s. I looked again, and could not be mistaken. It was a draft for
£30 on Drummond, dated the 12th of August, to Sir Guy Morville, signed
C. Edmonstone, and endorsed in Sir Guy’s own writing, with the name of
John White. In order that I might be certain that I was doing the poor
young man no injustice, I outstayed the man, and asked who he was,
when Mr. Grey confirmed me in my belief that it was one Jack White,
a jockeying sort of man who attends all the races in the country, and
makes his livelihood by betting and gambling. And now, my dear brother,
make what use of this fact you think fit, though I fear there is
little hope of rescuing the poor youth from the fatal habits which are
hereditary in his family, and must be strong indeed not to have been
eradicated by such careful training as you say he has received. I leave
it entirely to you, trusting in your excellent judgment, and only hoping
you will not bring my name forward. Grieving much at having to be the
first to communicate such unpleasant tidings, which will occasion so
much vexation at Hollywell.’

                                 ‘Your affectionate sister,
                                         ‘MARGARET HENLEY.’


Captain Morville was alone when he received the latter of these letters.
At first, a look divided between irony and melancholy passed over his
face, as he read his sister’s preface and her hearsay evidence, but,
as he went farther, his upper lip curled, and a sudden gleam, as of
exultation in a verified prophecy, lighted his eye, shading off
quickly, however, and giving place to an iron expression of rigidity
and sternness, the compressed mouth, coldly-fixed eye, and sedate
brow, composed into a grave severity that might have served for an
impersonation of stern justice. He looked through the letter a second
time, folded it up, put it in his pocket, and went about his usual
affairs; but the expression did not leave his face all day; and the next
morning he took a day-ticket by the railway to Broadstone, where, as it
was the day of the petty sessions, he had little doubt of meeting Mr.
Edmonstone. Accordingly, he had not walked far down the High Street,
before he saw his uncle standing on the step of the post-office, opening
a letter he had just received.

‘Ha! Philip, what brings you here? The very man I wanted. Coming to
Hollywell?’

‘No, thank you, I go back this evening,’ said Philip, and, as he spoke,
he saw that the letter which Mr. Edmonstone held, and twisted with a
hasty, nervous movement, was in Guy’s writing.

‘Well, I am glad you are here, at any rate. Here is the most
extraordinary thing! What possesses the boy I cannot guess. Here’s Guy
writing to me for--What do you think? To send him a thousand pounds!’

‘Hem!’ said Philip in an expressive tone; yet, as if he was not very
much amazed; ‘no explanation, I suppose?’

‘No, none at all. Here, see what he says yourself. No! Yes, you may,’
added Mr. Edmonstone, with a rapid glance at the end of the letter,--a
movement, first to retain it, and then following his first impulse, with
an unintelligible murmuring.

Philip read,--


                                 ‘SOUTH MOOR, SEPT. 7th.

‘MY DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--You will be surprised at the request I have to
make you, after my resolution not to exceed my allowance. However, this
is not for my own expenses, and it will not occur again. I should be
much obliged to you to let me have £1OOO, in what manner you please,
only I should be glad if it were soon. I am sorry I am not at liberty to
tell you what I want it for, but I trust to your kindness. Tell Charlie
I will write to him in a day or two, but, between our work, and walking
to St. Mildred’s for the letters, which we cannot help doing every
day, the time for writing is short. Another month, however, and what a
holiday it will be! Tell Amy she ought to be here to see the purple of
the hills in the early morning; it almost makes up for having no sea.
The races have been making St. Mildred’s very gay; indeed, we laugh at
Wellwood for having brought us here, by way of a quiet place. I never
was in the way of so much dissipation in my life.

                                 ‘Yours very affectionately,
                                              ‘GUY MORVILLE.’

‘Well, what do you think of it? What would you do in my place--eh,
Philip! What can he want of it, eh?’ said Mr. Edmonstone, tormenting
his riding-whip, and looking up to study his nephew’s face, which, with
stern gravity in every feature, was bent over the letter, as if to
weigh every line. ‘Eh, Philip?’ repeated Mr. Edmonstone, several times,
without obtaining an answer.

‘This is no place for discussion,’ at last said Philip, deliberately
returning the letter. ‘Come into the reading-room. We shall find no one
there at this hour. Here we are.’

‘Well--well--well,’ began Mr. Edmonstone, fretted by his coolness to the
extreme of impatience, ‘what do you think of it? He can’t be after any
mischief; ‘tis not in the boy; when--when he is all but--Pooh! what am I
saying? Well, what do you think?’

‘I am afraid it confirms but too strongly a report which I received
yesterday.’

‘From your sister? Does she know anything about it?’

‘Yes, from my sister. But I was very unwilling to mention it, because
she particularly requests that her name may not be used. I came here to
see whether you had heard of Guy lately, so as to judge whether it was
needful to speak of it. This convinces me; but I must beg, in the first
instance, that you will not mention her, not even to my aunt.’

‘Well, yes; very well. I promise. Only let me hear.’

‘Young Harewood has, I fear, led him into bad company. There can now be
no doubt that he has been gambling.’

Philip was not prepared for the effect of these words. His uncle started
up, exclaiming--‘Gambling! Impossible! Some confounded slander! I
don’t believe one word of it! I won’t hear such things said of him,’ he
repeated, stammering with passion, and walking violently about the room.
This did not last long; there was something in the unmoved way in which
Philip waited till he had patience to listen, which gradually mastered
him; his angry manner subsided, and, sitting down, he continued the
argument, in a would-be-composed voice.

‘It is utterly impossible! Remember, he thinks himself bound not so much
as to touch a billiard cue.’

‘I could have thought it impossible, but for what I have seen of the
way in which promises are eluded by persons too strictly bound,’ said
Philip. ‘The moral force of principle is the only efficient pledge.’

‘Principle! I should like to see who has better principles than Guy!’
cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘You have said so yourself, fifty times, and your
aunt has said so, and Charles. I could as soon suspect myself.’ He was
growing vehement, but again Philip’s imperturbability repressed his
violence, and he asked, ‘Well, what evidence have you? Mind, I am not
going to believe it without the strongest. I don’t know that I would
believe my own eyes against him.’

‘It is very sad to find such confidence misplaced,’ said Philip. ‘Most
sincerely do I wish this could be proved to be a mistake; but this
extraordinary request corroborates my sister’s letter too fully.’

‘Let me hear,’ said Mr. Edmonstone feebly. Philip produced his letter,
without reading the whole of it; for he could not bear the appearance of
gossip and prying, and would not expose his sister; so he pieced it out
with his own words, and made it sound far less discreditable to her. It
was quite enough for Mr. Edmonstone; the accuracy of the details seemed
to strike him dumb; and there was a long silence, which he broke by
saying, with a deep sigh,--

‘Who could have thought it? Poor little Amy!’

‘Amy?’ exclaimed Philip.

‘Why, ay. I did not mean to have said anything of it, I am sure; but
they did it among them,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, growing ashamed, under
Philip’s eye, as of a dreadful piece of imprudence. ‘I was out of the
way at the time, but I could not refuse my consent, you know, as things
stood then.’

‘Do you mean to say that Amy is engaged to him?’

‘Why, no--not exactly engaged, only on trial, you understand, to see if
he will be steady. I was at Broadstone; ‘twas mamma settled it all.
Poor little thing, she is very much in love with him, I do believe, but
there’s an end of everything now.’

‘It is very fortunate this has been discovered in time,’ said Philip.
‘Instead of pitying her, I should rejoice in her escape.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ruefully. ‘Who could have thought it?’

‘I am afraid the mischief is of long standing,’ proceeded Philip,
resolved, since he saw his uncle so grieved, to press him strongly,
thinking that to save Amy from such a marriage was an additional motive.
‘He could hardly have arrived at losing as much as a thousand pounds,
all at once, in this month at St. Mildred’s. Depend upon it, that
painful as it may be at present, there is great reason, on her account,
to rejoice in the discovery. You say he has never before applied, to you
for money?’

‘Not a farthing beyond his allowance, except this unlucky thirty pounds,
for his additional expense of the tutor and the lodging.’

‘You remember, however, that he has always seemed short of money, never
appeared able to afford himself any little extra expense. You have
noticed it, I know. You remember, too, how unsatisfactory his reserve
about his proceedings in London has been, and how he has persisted in
delaying there, in spite of all warnings. The work, no doubt, began
there, under the guidance of his uncle; and now the St. Mildred’s races
and Tom Harewood have continued it.’

‘I wish he had never set foot in the place!’

‘Nay; for Amy’s sake, the exposure is an advantage, if not for his own.
The course must have been long since begun; but he contrived to avoid
what could lead to inquiry, till he has at length involved himself in
some desperate scrape. You see, he especially desires to have the money
_soon_, and he never even attempts to say you would approve of the
object.

‘Yes; he has the grace not to say that.’

‘Altogether, it is worse than I could have thought possible,’ said
Philip. I could have believed him unstable and thoughtless; but the
concealment, and the attempting to gain poor Amy’s affections in the
midst of such a course--’

‘Ay, ay!’ cried Mr. Edmonstone, now fully provoked; ‘there is the
monstrous part. He thought I was going to give up my poor little girl to
a gambler, did he? but he shall soon see what I think of him,--riches,
Redclyffe, title, and all!’

‘I knew that would be your feeling.’

‘Feel! Yes; and he shall feel it, too. So, Sir Guy, you thought you had
an old fool of a guardian, did you, whom you could blind as you pleased?
but you shall soon see the difference!’

‘Better begin cautiously,’ suggested Philip. ‘Remember his unfortunate
temper, and write coolly.’

‘Coolly? You may talk of coolness; but ‘tis enough to make one’s
blood boil to be served in such a way. With the face to be sending her
messages in the very same letter! That is a pass beyond me, to stand
coolly to see my daughter so treated.’

‘I would only give him the opportunity of saying what he can for
himself. He may have some explanation.’

‘I’ll admit of no explanation! Passing himself off for steadiness
itself; daring to think of my daughter, and all the time going on in
this fashion! I hate underhand ways! I’ll have no explanation. He may
give up all thoughts of her. I’ll write and tell him so before I’m a day
older; nay, before I stir from this room. My little Amy, indeed!’

Philip put no obstacles in the way of this proposal, for he knew that
his uncle’s displeasure, though hot at first, was apt to evaporate
in exclamations; and he thought it likely that his good nature, his
partiality for his ward, his dislike to causing pain to his daughter,
and, above all, his wife’s blind confidence in Guy, would, when once at
home, so overpower his present indignation as to prevent the salutary
strictness which was the only hope of reclaiming Guy. Beside, a letter
written under Philip’s inspection was likely to be more guarded, as well
as more forcible, than an unassisted composition of his own, as was,
indeed, pretty well proved by the commencement of his first attempt.

‘My dear Guy,--I am more surprised than I could have expected at your
application.’

Philip read this aloud, so as to mark its absurdity, and he began again.

‘I am greatly astonished, as well as concerned, at your application,
which confirms the unpleasant reports--’

‘Why say anything of reports?’ said Philip. ‘Reports are nothing. A man
is not forced to defend himself from reports.’

‘Yes,--hum--ha,--the accounts I have received. No. You say there is not
to be a word of Mrs. Henley.’

‘Not a word that can lead her to be suspected.’

‘Confirms--confirms--’ sighed Mr. Edmonstone.

‘Don’t write as if you went on hearsay evidence. Speak of
proofs--irrefragable proofs--and then you convict him at once, without
power of eluding you.’

So Mr. Edmonstone proceeded to write, that the application confirmed
the irrefragable proofs, then laughed at himself, and helplessly begged
Philip to give him a start. It now stood thus:--

‘Your letter of this morning has caused me more concern than surprise,
as it unhappily only adds confirmation to the intelligence already in
my possession; that either from want of resolution to withstand the
seductions of designing persons, or by the impetuosity and instability
of your own character, you have been led into the ruinous and degrading
practice of gambling; and that from hence proceed the difficulties that
occasion your application to me for money. I am deeply grieved at thus
finding that neither the principles which have hitherto seemed to guide
you, nor the pledges which you used to hold sacred, nor, I may add, the
feelings you have so recently expressed towards a member of my family,
have been sufficient to preserve you from yielding to a temptation which
could never be presented to the mind of any one whose time was properly
occupied in the business of his education.’

‘Is that all I am to say about her,’ exclaimed Mr. Edmonstone, ‘after
the atrocious way the fellow has treated her in?’

‘Since it is, happily, no engagement, I cannot see how you can, with
propriety, assume that it is one, by speaking of breaking it off.
Besides, give him no ground for complaint, or he will take refuge in
believing himself ill-used. Ask him if he can disprove it, and when he
cannot, it will be time enough to act further. But wait--wait, sir,’ as
the pen was moving over the paper, impatient to dash forward. ‘You have
not told him yet of what you accuse him.’

Philip meditated a few moments, then produced another sentence.

‘I have no means of judging how long you have been following this
unhappy course; I had rather believe it is of recent adoption, but I do
not know how to reconcile this idea with the magnitude of your demand,
unless your downward progress has been more rapid than usual in such
beginnings. It would, I fear, be quite vain for me to urge upon you all
the arguments and reasons that ought to have been present to your mind,
and prevented you from taking the first fatal step. I can only entreat
you to pause, and consider the ruin and degradation to which this
hateful vice almost invariably conducts its victims, and consistently
with my duty as your guardian, everything in my power shall be done
to extricate you from the embarrassments in which you have involved
yourself. But, in the first place, I make it a point that you treat me
with perfect confidence, and make a full, unequivocal statement of your
proceedings; above all, that you explain the circumstances, occasioning
your request for this large sum. Remember, I say, complete candour on
your part will afford the only means of rescuing you from difficulties,
or of in any degree restoring you to my good opinion.’

So far the letter had proceeded slowly, for Philip was careful and
deliberate in composition, and while he was weighing his words, Mr.
Edmonstone rushed on with something unfit to stand, so as to have to
begin over again. At last, the town clock struck five; Philip started,
declaring that if he was not at the station in five minutes, he should
lose the train; engaged to come to Hollywell on the day an answer might
be expected, and hastened away, satisfied by having seen two sheets
nearly filled, and having said there was nothing more but to sign, seal,
and send it.

Mr. Edmonstone had, however, a page of note-paper more, and it was with
a sensation of relief that he wrote,--

‘I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that you could clear yourself. If
a dozen men had sworn it till they were black in the face, I would not
have believed it of you that you could serve us in such a manner,
after the way you have been treated at home, and to dare to think of my
daughter with such things on your mind. I could never have believed it,
but for the proofs Philip has brought; and I am sure he is as sorry as
myself. Only tell the whole truth, and I will do my best to get you out
of the scrape. Though all else must be at an end between us, I am your
guardian still, and I will not be harsh with you.’

He posted his letter, climbed up his tall horse, and rode home, rather
heavy-hearted; but his wrath burning out as he left Broadstone behind
him. He saw his little Amy gay and lively, and could not bear to sadden
her; so he persuaded himself that there was no need to mention
the suspicions till he had heard what Guy had to say for himself.
Accordingly, he told no one but his wife; and she, who thought Guy as
unlikely to gamble as Amy herself, had not the least doubt that he would
be able to clear himself, and agreed that it was much better to keep
silence for the present.



CHAPTER 15

   ‘Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
   How much I have disabled mine estate,
   By something showing a more swelling port
   Than my faint means would grant continuance.
                         --Merchant of Venice


St. Mildred’s was a fashionable summer resort, which the virtues of a
mineral spring, and the reputation of Dr. Henley, had contributed
to raise to a high degree of prosperity. It stood at the foot of a
magnificent range of beautifully formed hills, where the crescents and
villas, white and smart, showed their own insignificance beneath the
purple peaks that rose high above them.

About ten miles distant, across the hills, was Stylehurst, the parish
of the late Archdeacon Morville, and the native place of Philip and his
sister Margaret. It was an extensive parish, including a wide tract of
the hilly country; and in a farm-house in the midst of the moorland,
midway between St. Mildred’s and the village of Stylehurst, had Mr.
Wellwood fixed himself with his three pupils.

Guy’s first visit was of course to Mrs. Henley, and she was, on her
side, prepared by her brother to patronize him as Philip would have
done in her place. Her patronage was valuable in her own circle; her
connections were good; the Archdeacon’s name was greatly respected; she
had a handsome and well-regulated establishment, and this, together with
talents which, having no family, she had cultivated more than most women
have time to do, made her a person of considerable distinction at St.
Mildred’s. She was, in fact, the leading lady of the place--the manager
of the book-club, in the chair at all the charitable committees, and the
principal person in society, giving literary parties, with a degree of
exclusiveness that made admission to them a privilege.

She was a very fine woman, handsomer at two-and-thirty than in her early
bloom; her height little less than that of her tall brother, and her
manner and air had something very distinguished. The first time Guy saw
her, he was strongly reminded both of Philip and of Mrs. Edmonstone,
but not pleasingly. She seemed to be her aunt, without the softness and
motherly affection, coupled with the touch of naivete that gave Mrs.
Edmonstone her freshness, and loveableness; and her likeness to her
brother included that decided, self-reliant air, which became him well
enough, but which did not sit as appropriately on a woman.

Guy soon discovered another resemblance--for the old, unaccountable
impatience of Philip’s conversation, and relief in escaping from it,
haunted him before he had been a quarter of an hour in Mrs. Henley’s
drawing-room. She asked after the Hollywell party; she had not seen her
cousins since her marriage, and happily for his feelings, passed over
Laura and Amy as if they were nonentities; but they were all too near
his heart for him to be able with patience to hear ‘poor Charles’s’
temper regretted, and still less the half-sarcastic, half-compassionate
tone in which she implied that her aunt spoilt him dreadfully, and
showed how cheap she hold both Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone.

Two years ago, Guy could not have kept down his irritation; but now he
was master of himself sufficiently to give a calm, courteous reply,
so conveying his own respect for them, that Mrs. Henley was almost
disconcerted.

Stylehurst had great interest for Guy, both for the sake of Archdeacon
Morville’s kindness, and as the home which Philip regarded with
affection, that seemed the one softening touch in his character. So Guy
visited the handsome church, studied the grave-yard, and gathered the
traditions of the place from the old sexton’s wife, who rejoiced in
finding an auditor for her long stories of the good Archdeacon, Miss
Fanny, and Mr. Philip. She shook her head, saying times were changed,
and ‘Miss Morville that was, never came neist the place.’

The squire, Colonel Harewood, was an old friend of his grandfather’s,
and therefore was to be called on. He had never been wise, and had been
dissipated chiefly from vacancy of mind; he was now growing old, and
led a quieter life, and though Guy did not find him a very entertaining
companion, he accepted, his civilities, readily, for his grandfather’s
sake. When his sons came home, Guy recognized in them the description
of men he was wont to shun at Oxford, as much from distaste as from
principle; but though he did not absolutely avoid them, he saw little
of them, being very busy, and having pleasant companions in his fellow
pupils. It was a very merry party at South Moor, and Guy’s high spirits
made him the life of everything.

The first time Mr. Wellwood went to call on his cousins at St.
Mildred’s, the daughters of that officer who had fallen by the hand
of old Sir Guy, he began repeating, for the twentieth time, what an
excellent fellow Morville was; then said he should not have troubled
them with any of his pupils, but Morville would esteem their receiving
him as an act of forgiveness, and besides, he wished them to know
one whom he valued so highly. Guy thus found himself admitted into an
entirely new region. There were two sisters, together in everything.
Jane, the younger, was a kind-hearted, commonplace person, who would
never have looked beyond the ordinary range of duties and charities; but
Elizabeth was one of those who rise up, from time to time, as burning
and shining lights. It was not spending a quiet, easy life, making her
charities secondary to her comforts, but devoting time, strength, and
goods; not merely giving away what she could spare, but actually sharing
all with the poor, reserving nothing for the future. She not only taught
the young, and visited the distressed, but she gathered orphans into
her house, and nursed the sick day and night. Neither the means nor the
strength of the two sisters could ever have been supposed equal to what
they were known to have achieved. It seemed as if the power grew with
the occasion, and as if they had some help which could not fail them.
Guy venerated them more and more, and many a long letter about them
was written to Mrs. Edmonstone for Amy to read. There is certainly a
‘tyrannous hate’ in the world for unusual goodness, which is a rebuke to
it, and there was a strong party against the sisters. At the head of it
was Mrs. Henley, who had originally been displeased at their preferring
the direction of the clergyman to that of the ladies’ committee, though
the secret cause of her dislike was, perhaps, that Elizabeth Wellwood
was just what Margaret Morville might have been. So she blamed them,
not, indeed for their charity, but for slight peculiarities which might
well have been lost in the brightness of the works of mercy. She spoke
as with her father’s authority, though, if she had been differently
disposed, she might have remembered that his system and principles were
the same as theirs, and that, had he been alive, he would probably have
fully approved of their proceedings. Archdeacon Morville’s name was of
great weight, and justified many persons, in their own opinion, in
the opposition made to Miss Wellwood, impeding her usefulness, and
subjecting her to endless petty calumnies.

These made Guy very angry. He knew enough of the Archdeacon through Mrs.
Edmonstone, and the opinions held by Philip, to think his daughter was
ascribing to him what he had never held but, be that as it might, Guy
could not bear to hear good evil spoken of, and his indignation was
stirred as he heard these spiteful reports uttered by people who sat
at home at ease, against one whose daily life was only too exalted
for their imitation. His brow contracted, his eye kindled, his lip was
bitten, and now and then, when he trusted himself to reply, it was with
a keen, sharp power of rebuke that made people look round, astonished
to hear such forcible words from one so young. Mrs. Henley was afraid of
him, without knowing it; she thought she was sparing the Morville temper
when she avoided the subject, but as she stood in awe of no one else,
except her brother, she disliked him accordingly.

One evening Guy had been dining at Dr. Henley’s, and was setting out,
enjoying his escape from Mrs. Henley and her friends, and rejoicing in
the prospect of a five miles’ walk over the hills by moonlight. He had
only gone the length of two streets, when he saw a dark figure at a
little distance from him, and a voice which he had little expected to
hear, called out,--

‘Sir Guy himself! No one else could whistle that Swedish air so
correctly!’

‘My uncle!’ exclaimed Guy. ‘I did not know that you were here!’

Mr. Dixon laughed, said something about a fortunate rencontre, and began
an account about a concert somewhere or other, mixed up with something
about his wife and child, all so rambling and confused, that Guy,
beginning to suspect he had been drinking, was only anxious to get rid
of him, asked where he lodged, and talked of coming to see him in the
morning. He soon found, however, that this had not been the case, at
least not to any great extent. Dixon was only nervous and excited,
either about something he had done, or some request he had to make, and
he went on walking by his nephew’s side, talking in a strange, desultory
way of open, generous-hearted fellows overlooking a little indiscretion,
and of Guy’s riches, which he seemed to think inexhaustible.

‘If there is anything that you want me to do for you, tell me plainly
what it is,’ said Guy, at last.

Mr. Dixon began to overwhelm him with thanks, but he cut them short. ‘I
promise nothing. Let me hear what you want, and I can judge whether I
can do it.’

Sebastian broke out into exclamations at the words ‘if I can,’ as if he
thought everything in the power of the heir of Redclyffe.

‘Have I not told you,’ said Guy, ‘that for the present I have very
little command of money? Hush! no more of that,’ he added, sternly,
cutting off an imprecation which his uncle was commencing on those who
kept him so short.

‘And you are content to bear it? Did you never hear of ways and means?
If you were to say but one word of borrowing, they would go down on
their knees to you, and offer you every farthing you have to keep you in
their own hands.’

‘I am quite satisfied,’ said Guy, coldly.

‘The greater fool are you!’ was on Dixon’s lips, but he did not
utter it, because he wanted to propitiate him; and after some more
circumlocution, Guy succeeded in discovering that he had been gambling,
and had lost an amount which, unless he could obtain immediate
assistance, would become known, and lead to the loss of his character
and situation. Guy stood and considered. He had an impulse, but he did
not think it a safe one, and resolved to give himself time.

‘I do not say that I cannot help you,’ he answered, ‘but I must have
time to consider.’

‘Time! would you see me ruined while you are considering?’

‘I suppose this must be paid immediately. Where do you lodge?’

Mr. Dixon told him the street and number.

‘You shall hear from me to-morrow morning. I cannot trust my present
thoughts. Good night!’

Mr. Dixon would fain have guessed whether the present thoughts were
favourable, but all his hope in his extremity was in his nephew; it
might be fatal to push him too far, and, with a certain trust in
his good-nature, Sebastian allowed him to walk away without further
remonstrance.

Guy knew his own impetuous nature too well to venture to act on impulse
in a doubtful case. He had now first to consider what he was able to do,
and secondly what he would do; and this was not as clear to his mind as
in the earlier days of his acquaintance with his uncle.

Their intercourse had never been on a comfortable footing. It would
perhaps have been better if Philip’s advice had been followed, and no
connection kept up. Guy had once begged for some definite rule, since
there was always vexation when he was known to have been with his uncle,
and yet Mr. Edmonstone would never absolutely say he ought not to see
him. As long as his guardian permitted it, or rather winked at it, Guy
did not think it necessary to attend to Philip’s marked disapproval.
Part of it was well founded, but part was dislike to all that might
be considered as vulgar, and part was absolute injustice to Sebastian
Dixon, there was everything that could offend in his line of argument,
and in the very circumstance of his interfering; and Guy had a continual
struggle, in which he was not always successful, to avoid showing the
affront he had taken, and to reason down his subsequent indignation. The
ever-recurring irritation which Philip’s conversation was apt to cause
him, made him avoid it as far as he could, and retreat in haste from the
subjects on which they were most apt to disagree, and so his manner had
assumed an air of reserve, and almost of distrust, with his cousin, that
was very unlike its usual winning openness.

This had been one unfortunate effect of his intercourse with his uncle,
and another was a certain vague, dissatisfied feeling which his silence,
and Philip’s insinuations respecting the days he spent in London,
left on Mr. Edmonstone’s mind, and which gained strength from their
recurrence. The days were, indeed, not many; it was only that in coming
from and going to Oxford, he slept a night at an hotel in London (for
his uncle never would take him to his lodgings, never even would tell
him where they were, but always gave his address at the place of his
engagement), was conducted by him to some concert in the evening, and
had him to breakfast in the morning. He could not think there was any
harm in this; he explained all he had done to Mr. Edmonstone the first
time, but nothing was gained by it: his visits to London continued to be
treated as something to be excused or overlooked--as something not quite
correct.

He would almost have been ready to discontinue them, but that he saw
that his uncle regarded him with affection, and he could not bear the
thought of giving up a poor relation for the sake of the opinion of
his rich friends. These meetings were the one pure pleasure to which
Sebastian looked, recalling to him the happier days of his youth, and of
his friendship with Guy’s father; and when Guy perceived how he valued
them, it would have seemed a piece of cruel neglect to gratify himself
by giving the time to Hollywell.

Early in the course of their acquaintance, the importunity of a creditor
revealed that, in spite of his handsome salary, Sebastian Dixon was
often in considerable distress for money. In process of time, Guy
discovered that at the time his uncle had been supporting his sister
and her husband in all the luxury he thought befitted their rank, he had
contracted considerable debts, and he had only been able to return to
England on condition of paying so much a-year to his creditors. This
left him very little on which to maintain his family, but still his
pride made him bent on concealing his difficulties, and it was not
without a struggle that he would at first consent to receive assistance
from his nephew.

Guy resolved that these debts, which he considered as in fact his
father’s own, should be paid as soon as he had the command of his
property; but, in the meantime, he thought himself bound to send his
uncle all the help in his power, and when once the effort of accepting
it at all was over, Dixon’s expectations extended far beyond his power.
His allowance was not large, and the constant requests for a few pounds
to meet some pressing occasion were more than he could well meet. They
kept him actually a great deal poorer than men without a tenth part of
his fortune, and at the end of the term he would look back with surprise
at having been able to pay his way; but still he contrived neither to
exceed his allowance, nor to get into debt. This was, indeed, only done
by a rigid self-denial of little luxuries such as most young men look
on nearly as necessaries; but he had never been brought up to think
self-indulgence a consequence of riches, he did not care what was said
of him, he had no expensive tastes, for he did not seek after society,
so that he was not ill-prepared for such a course, and only thought of
it as an assistance in abstaining from the time-wasting that might have
tempted him if he had had plenty of money to spend.

The only thing that concerned him was a growing doubt lest he might be
feeding extravagance instead of doing good; and the more he disliked
himself for the suspicion, the more it would return. There was no doubt
much distress, the children were sickly; several of them died; the
doctor’s bills, and other expenses, pressed heavily, and Guy blamed
himself for having doubted. Yet, again, he could not conceal from
himself traces that his uncle was careless and imprudent. He had once,
indeed, in a violent fit of self-reproach, confessed as much, allowed
that what ought to have been spent in the maintenance of his family, had
gone in gambling, but immediately after, he had been seized with a fit
of terror, and implored Guy to guard the secret, since, if once it
came to the knowledge of his creditors, it would be all over with him.
Concealment of his present difficulties was therefore no less necessary
than assistance in paying the sum he owed. Indeed, as far as Guy was
able to understand his confused statement, what he wanted was at once
to pay a part of his debt, before he could go on to a place where he was
engaged to perform, and where he would earn enough to make up the rest.

Guy had intended to have sent for Deloraine, but had since given up the
idea, in order to be able to help forward some plans of Miss Wellwood’s,
and resigning this project would enable him to place thirty pounds at
his uncle’s disposal, leaving him just enough to pay his expenses at
South Moor, and carry him back to Hollywell. It was sorely against his
inclination that, instead of helping a charity, his savings should go
to pay gaming debts, and his five-miles walk was spent in self-debate on
the right and wrong of the matter, and questions what should be done
for the future--for he was beginning to awaken to the sense of his
responsibility, and feared lest he might be encouraging vice.

Very early next morning Guy put his head into his tutor’s room,
announced that he must walk into St. Mildred’s on business, but should
be back by eleven at the latest, ran down-stairs, called Bustle, and
made interest with the farmer’s wife for a hunch of dry bread and a cup
of new milk.

Then rejoicing that he had made up his mind, though not light-hearted
enough to whistle, he walked across the moorland, through the white
morning mist, curling on the sides of the hills in fantastic forms, and
now and then catching his lengthened shadow, so as to make him smile by
reminding him of the spectre of the Brocken.

Not without difficulty, he found a back street, and a little shop, where
a slovenly maid was sweeping the steps, and the shutters were not yet
taken down. He asked if Mr. Dixon lodged there. ‘Yes,’ the woman said,
staring in amazement that such a gentleman could be there at that time
in the morning, asking for Mr. Dixon.

‘Is he at home?’

‘Yes, sir but he is not up yet. He was very late last night. Did you
want to speak to him? I’ll tell Mrs. Dixon.’

‘Is Mrs. Dixon here? Then tell her Sir Guy Morville would be glad to
speak to her.’

The maid curtseyed, hurried off, and returned with a message from Mrs.
Dixon to desire he would walk in. She conducted him through a dark
passage, and up a still darker stair, into a dingy little parlour, with
a carpet of red and green stripes, a horsehair sofa, a grate covered
with cut paper, and a general perfume of brandy and cigars. There were
some preparations for breakfast, but no one was in the room but a little
girl, about seven years old, dressed in shabby-genteel mourning.

She was pale and sickly-looking, but her eyes were of a lovely deep
blue, with a very sweet expression, and a profusion of thick flaxen
curls hung round her neck and shoulders. She said in a soft, little, shy
voice,--

‘Mamma says she will be here directly, if you will excuse her a moment.’

Having made this formal speech, the little thing was creeping off on
tip-toe, so as to escape before the maid shut the door, but Guy held out
his hand, sat down so as to be on a level with her, and said,--

‘Don’t go, my little maid. Won’t you come and speak to your cousin Guy?’

Children never failed to be attracted, whether by the winning beauty of
his smile, or the sweetness of the voice in which he spoke to anything
small or weak, and the little girl willingly came up to him, and put her
hand into his. He stroked her thick, silky curls, and asked her name.

‘Marianne,’ she answered.

It was his mother’s name, and this little creature had more resemblance
to his tenderly-cherished vision of his young mother than any
description Dixon could have given. He drew her closer to him, took the
other small, cold hand, and asked her how she liked St. Mildred’s.

‘Oh! much better than London. There are flowers!’ and she proudly
exhibited a cup holding some ragged robins, dead nettles, and other
common flowers which a country child would have held cheap. He admired
and gained more of her confidence, so that she had begun to chatter away
quite freely about ‘the high, high hills that reached up to the sky, and
the pretty stones,’ till the door opened, and Mrs. Dixon and Bustle made
their entrance.

Marianne was so much afraid of the dog, Guy so eager to console, and her
mother to scold her, and protest that it should not be turned out, that
there was nothing but confusion, until Guy had shown her that Bustle was
no dangerous wild beast, induced her to accept his offered paw, and lay
a timid finger on his smooth, black head, after which the transition was
short to dog and child sitting lovingly together on the floor, Marianne
stroking his ears, and admiring him with a sort of silent ecstasy.

Mrs. Dixon was a great, coarse, vulgar woman, and Guy perceived why his
uncle had been so averse to taking him to his home, and how he must have
felt the contrast between such a wife and his beautiful sister. She
had a sort of broad sense, and absence of pretension, but her manner of
talking was by no means pleasant, as she querulously accused her husband
of being the cause of all their misfortunes, not even restrained by the
presence of her child from entering into a full account of his offences.

Mrs. Dixon said she should not say a word, she should not care if it was
not for the child, but she could not see her wronged by her own father,
and not complain; poor little dear! she was the last, and she supposed
she should not keep her long.

It then appeared that on her husband’s obtaining an engagement for a
series of concerts at the chief county town, Mrs. Dixon had insisted
on coming with him to St. Mildred’s in the hope that country air might
benefit Marianne, who, in a confined lodging in London, was pining and
dwindling as her brothers and sisters had done before her. Sebastian,
who liked to escape from his wife’s grumbling and rigid supervision, and
looked forward to amusement in his own way at the races, had grudgingly
allowed her to come, and, as she described it, had been reluctant to go
to even so slight an expense in the hope of saving his child’s life. She
had watched him as closely as she could; but he had made his escape, and
the consequences Guy already knew.

If anything could have made it worse, it was finding that after parting
last night, he had returned, tried to retrieve his luck, had involved
himself further, had been drinking more; and at the very hour when his
nephew was getting up to see what could be done for him, had come
home in a state, which made it by no means likely that he would be
presentable, if his wife called him, as she offered to do.

Guy much preferred arranging with her what was to be done on the present
emergency. She was disappointed at finding thirty pounds was all the
help he could give; but she was an energetic woman, full of resources,
and saw her way, with this assistance, through the present difficulty.
The great point was to keep the gambling propensities out of sight of
the creditors; and as long as this was done, she had hope. Dixon would
go the next morning to the town where the musical meeting was to be
held, and there he would be with his employers, where he had a character
to preserve, so that she was in no fear of another outbreak.

It ended, therefore, in his leaving with her Mr. Edmonstone’s draft,
securing its destination by endorsing it to the person who was to
receive it; and wishing her good morning, after a few more kind words to
little Marianne, who had sat playing with Bustle all the time, sidling
continually nearer and nearer to her new cousin, her eyes bent down, and
no expression on her face which could enable him to guess how far she
listened to or comprehended the conversation so unfit for her ear. When
he rose to go, and stooped to kiss her, she looked wistfully in his
face, and held up a small sparkling bit of spar, the most precious of
all her hoards, gleaned from the roadsides of St. Mildred’s.

‘What, child, do you want to give it to Sir Guy?’ said her mother. ‘He
does not want such trumpery, my dear, though you make such a work with
it.’

‘Did you mean to give it to me, my dear?’ said Guy, as the child hung
her head, and, crimsoned with blushes, could scarcely whisper her timid
‘Yes.’

He praised it, and let her put it in his waistcoat pocket, and promised
he would always keep it; and kissed her again, and left her a happy
child, confident in his promise of always keeping it, though her mother
augured that he would throw it over the next hedge.

He was at South Moor by eleven o’clock, in time for his morning’s
business, and made up for the troubles of the last few hours by a long
talk with Mr. Wellwood in the afternoon, while the other two pupils were
gone to the races, for which he was not inclined, after his two ten-mile
walks.

The conversation was chiefly on Church prospects in general, and in
particular on Miss Wellwood and her plans; how they had by degrees
enlarged and developed as the sin, and misery, and ignorance around
had forced themselves more plainly on her notice, and her means had
increased and grown under her hand in the very distribution. Other
schemes were dawning on her mind, of which the foremost was the
foundation of a sort of school and hospital united, under the charge
of herself, her sister, and several other ladies, who were desirous of
joining her, as a sisterhood. But at present it was hoping against hope,
for there were no funds with which to make a commencement. All this was
told at unawares, drawn forth by different questions and remarks, till
Guy inquired how much it would take to give them a start?’

‘It is impossible to say. Anything, I suppose, between one thousand
and twenty. But, by the bye, this design of Elizabeth’s is an absolute
secret. If you had not almost guessed it, I should never have said one
word to you about it. You are a particularly dangerous man, with your
connection with Mrs. Henley. You must take special good care nothing of
it reaches her.’

Guy’s first impression was, that he was the last person to mention it
to Mrs. Henley; but when he remembered how often her brother was at
Hollywell, he perceived that there might be a train for carrying the
report back again to her, and recognized the absolute necessity of
silence.

He said nothing at the time, but a bright scheme came into his head,
resulting in the request for a thousand pounds, which caused so much
astonishment. He thought himself rather shabby to have named no more,
and was afraid it was an offering that cost him nothing; but he much
enjoyed devising beforehand the letter with which he would place the
money at the disposal of Miss Wellwood’s hospital.



CHAPTER 16

     Yet burns the sun on high beyond the cloud;
     Each in his southern cave,
     The warm winds linger, but to be allowed
     One breathing o’er the wave,
     One flight across the unquiet sky;
     Swift as a vane may turn on high,
     The smile of heaven comes on.
     So waits the Lord behind the veil,
     His light on frenzied cheek, or pale,
     To shed when the dark hour is gone.
                              --LYRA INNOCENTIUM


On the afternoon on which Guy expected an answer from Mr. Edmonstone,
he walked with his fellow pupil, Harry Graham, to see if there were any
letters from him at Dr. Henley’s.

The servant said Mrs. Henley was at home, and asked them to come in and
take their letters. These were lying on a marble table, in the hall; and
while the man looked in the drawing-room for his mistress, and sent one
of the maids up-stairs in quest of her, Guy hastily took up one, bearing
his address, in the well-known hand of Mr. Edmonstone.

Young Graham, who had taken up a newspaper, was startled by Guy’s loud,
sudden exclamation,--’

‘Ha! What on earth does this mean?’

And looking up, saw his face of a burning, glowing red, the features
almost convulsed, the large veins in the forehead and temples swollen
with the blood that rushed through them, and if ever his eyes flashed
with the dark lightning of Sir Hugh’s, it was then.

‘Morville! What’s the matter?’

‘Intolerable!--insulting! Me? What does he mean?’ continued Guy, his
passion kindling more and more. ‘Proofs? I should like to see them!
The man is crazy! I to confess! Ha!’ as he came towards the end, ‘I
see it,--I see it. It is Philip, is it, that I have to thank. Meddling
coxcomb! I’ll make him repent it,’ added he, with a grim fierceness of
determination. Slandering me to them! And that,’--looking at the words
with regard to Amy,--‘that passes all. He shall see what it is to insult
me!’

‘What is it? Your guardian out of humour?’ asked his companion.

‘My guardian is a mere weak fool. I don’t blame him,--he can’t help it;
but to see him made a tool of! He twists him round his finger, abuses
his weakness to insult--to accuse. But he shall give me an account!’

Guy’s voice had grown lower and more husky; but though the sound sunk,
the force of passion rather increased than diminished; it was like the
low distant sweep of the tempest as it whirls away, preparing to return
with yet more tremendous might. His colour, too, had faded to paleness,
but the veins were still swollen, purple, and throbbing, and there was
a stillness about him that made his wrath more than fierce, intense,
almost appalling.

Harry Graham was dumb with astonishment; but while Guy spoke, Mrs.
Henley had come down, and was standing before them, beginning a
greeting. The blood rushed back into Guy’s cheeks, and, controlling his
voice with powerful effort, he said,--

‘I have had an insulting--an unpleasant letter,’ he added, catching
himself up. ‘You must excuse me;’ and he was gone.

‘What has happened?’ exclaimed Mrs. Henley, though, from her brother’s
letter, as well as from her observations during a long and purposely
slow progress, along a railed gallery overhanging the hall, and down a
winding staircase, she knew pretty well the whole history of his anger.

‘I don’t know,’ said young Graham. ‘Some absurd, person interfering
between him and his guardian. I should be sorry to be him to fall in his
way just now. It must be something properly bad. I never saw a man in
such a rage. I think I had better go after him, and see what he has done
with himself.’

‘You don’t think,’ said Mrs. Henley, detaining him, ‘that his guardian
could have been finding fault with him with reason?’

‘Who? Morville? His guardian must have a sharp eye for picking holes, if
he can find any in Morville. Not a steadier fellow going,--only too much
so.’

‘Ah!’ thought Mrs. Henley, ‘these young men always hang together;’ and
she let him escape without further question. But, when he emerged from
the house, Guy was already out of sight, and he could not succeed in
finding him.

Guy had burst out of the house, feeling as if nothing could relieve
him but free air and rapid motion; and on he hurried, fast, faster,
conscious alone of the wild, furious tumult of rage and indignation
against the maligner of his innocence, who was knowingly ruining him
with all that was dearest to him, insulting him by reproaches on his
breaking a most sacred, unblemished word, and, what Guy felt scarcely
less keenly, forcing kind-hearted Mr. Edmonstone into a persecution so
foreign to his nature. The agony of suffering such an accusation, and
from such a quarter,--the violent storm of indignation and pride,--wild,
undefined ideas of a heavy reckoning,--above all, the dreary thought of
Amy denied to him for ever,--all these swept over him, and swayed him
by turns, with the dreadful intensity belonging to a nature formed for
violent passions, which had broken down, in the sudden shock, all the
barriers imposed on them by a long course of self-restraint.

On he rushed, reckless whither he went, or what he did, driven forward
by the wild impulse of passion, far over moor and hill, up and down,
till at last, exhausted at once by the tumult within, and by the
violent bodily exertion, a stillness--a suspension of thought and
sensation--ensued; and when this passed, he found himself seated on
a rock which crowned the summit of one of the hills, his handkerchief
loosened, his waistcoat open, his hat thrown off, his temples burning
and throbbing with a feeling of distraction, and the agitated beatings
of his heart almost stifling his panting breath.

‘Yes,’ he muttered to himself, ‘a heavy account shall he pay me for this
crowning stroke of a long course of slander and ill-will! Have I not
seen it? Has not he hated me from the first, misconstrued every word and
deed, though I have tried, striven earnestly, to be his friend,--borne,
as not another soul would have done, with his impertinent interference
and intolerable patronizing airs! But he has seen the last of it!
anything but this might be forgiven; but sowing dissension between me
and the Edmonstones--maligning me there. Never! Knowing, too, as he
seems to do, how I stand, it is the very ecstasy of malice! Ay! this
very night it shall be exposed, and he shall be taught to beware--made
to know with whom he has to deal.’

Guy uttered this last with teeth clenched, in an excess of deep,
vengeful ire. Never had Morville of the whole line felt more deadly
fierceness than held sway over him, as he contemplated his revenge,
looked forward with a dire complacency to the punishment he would wreak,
not for this offence alone, but for a long course of enmity. He sat,
absorbed in the plan of vengeance, perfectly still, for his physical
exhaustion was complete; but as the pulsations of his heart grew
less wild, his purpose became sterner and more fixed. He devised its
execution, planned his sudden journey, saw himself bursting on Philip
early next morning, summoning him to answer for his falsehoods. The
impulse to action seemed to restore his power over his senses. He looked
round, to see where he was, raising his head from his hands.

The sun was setting opposite to him, in a flood of gold,--a ruddy ball,
surrounded with its pomp of clouds, on the dazzling sweep of horizon.
That sight recalled him not only to himself, but to his true and better
self; the good angel so close to him for the twenty years of his life,
had been driven aloof but for a moment, and now, either that, or a still
higher and holier power, made the setting sun bring to his mind, almost
to his ear, the words,--

          Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,
          Neither give place to the devil.

Guy had what some would call a vivid imagination, others a lively faith.
He shuddered, then, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped over
his brow, he sat, bending forward, with his eyes closed, wrought up in a
fearful struggle; while it was to him as if he saw the hereditary demon
of the Morvilles watching by his side, to take full possession of him
as a rightful prey, unless the battle was fought and won before that red
orb had passed out of sight. Yes, the besetting fiend of his family--the
spirit of defiance and resentment--that was driving him, even now, while
realizing its presence, to disregard all thoughts save of the revenge
for which he could barter everything--every hope once precious to him.

It was horror at such wickedness that first checked him, and brought him
back to the combat. His was not a temper that was satisfied with half
measures. He locked his hands more rigidly together, vowing to compel
himself, ere he left the spot, to forgive his enemy--forgive him
candidly--forgive him, so as never again to have to say, ‘I forgive
him!’ He did not try to think, for reflection only lashed up his sense
of the wrong: but, as if there was power in the words alone, he forced
his lips to repeat,--

‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against
us.’

Coldly and hardly were they spoken at first; again he pronounced them,
again, again,--each time the tone was softer, each time they came more
from the heart. At last the remembrance of greater wrongs, and worse
revilings came upon him, his eyes filled with tears, the most subduing
and healing of all thoughts--that of the great Example--became present
to him; the foe was driven back.

Still he kept his hands over his face. The tempter was not yet defeated
without hope. It was not enough to give up his first intention (no great
sacrifice, as he perceived, now that he had time to think how Philip
would be certain to treat a challenge), it was not enough to wish no ill
to his cousin, to intend no evil measure, he must pardon from the bottom
of his heart, regard him candidly, and not magnify his injuries.

He sat long, in deep thought, his head bent down, and his countenance
stern with inward conflict. It was the hardest part of the whole battle,
for the Morville disposition was as vindictive as passionate; but, at
last, he recovered clearness of vision. His request might well appear
unreasonable, and possibly excite suspicion, and, for the rest, it was
doing a man of honour, like Philip, flagrant injustice to suspect him of
originating slanders. He was, of course, under a mistake, had acted, not
perhaps kindly, but as he thought, rightly and judiciously, in making
his suspicions known. If he had caused his uncle to write provokingly,
every one knew that was his way, he might very properly wish, under his
belief, to save Amabel; and though the manner might have been otherwise,
the proceeding itself admitted complete justification. Indeed, when Guy
recollected the frenzy of his rage, and his own murderous impulse, he
was shocked to think that he had ever sought the love of that pure
and gentle creature, as if it had been a cruel and profane linking of
innocence to evil. He was appalled at the power of his fury, he had
not known he was capable of it, for his boyish passion, even when
unrestrained, had never equalled this, in all the strength of early
manhood.

He looked up, and saw that the last remnant of the sun’s disk was just
disappearing beneath the horizon. The victory was won!

But Guy’s feeling was not the rejoicing of the conquest, it was more the
relief which is felt by a little child, weary of its fit of naughtiness,
when its tearful face is raised, mournful yet happy, in having won true
repentance, and it says, ‘I _am_ sorry now.’

He rose, looked at his watch, wondered to find it so late; gazed round,
and considered his bearings, perceiving, with a sense of shame, how far
he had wandered; then retraced his steps slowly and wearily, and did not
reach South Moor till long after dark.



CHAPTER 17

     My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
     Unapt to stir at these indignities;
     But you have found me.
                               --KING HENRY IV


Philip, according to promise, appeared at Hollywell, and a volume of
awful justice seemed written on his brow. Charles, though ignorant of
its cause, perceived this at a glance, and greeted him thus:--

‘Enter Don Philip II, the Duke of Alva, alguazils, corregidors, and
executioners.’

‘Is anything the matter, Philip?’ said Amy; a question which took him
by surprise, as he could not believe her in ignorance. He was sorry for
her, and answered gravely,--

‘Nothing is amiss with me, thank you, Amy,’

She knew he meant that he would tell no more, and would have thought no
more about it, but that she saw her mother was very uneasy.

‘Did you ask whether there were any letters at the post?’ said Charles.
‘Guy is using us shamefully--practising self-denial on us, I suppose. Is
there no letter from him?’

‘There is,’ said Philip, reluctantly.

‘Well, where is it?’

‘It is to your father.’

‘Oh!’ said Charles, with a disappointed air. ‘Are you sure? Depend on
it, you overlooked my M. He has owed me a letter this fortnight. Let me
see.’

‘It is for my uncle,’ repeated Philip, as if to put an end to the
subject.

‘Then he has been so stupid as to forget my second name. Come, give it
me. I shall have it sooner or later.’

‘I assure you, Charles, it is not for you.’

‘Would not any one suppose he had been reading it?’ exclaimed Charles.

‘Did you know Mary Ross was gone to stay with her brother John?’ broke
in Mrs. Edmonstone, in a nervous, hurried manner.

‘No is she?’ replied Philip.

‘Yes; his wife is ill.’

The universal feeling was that something was amiss, and mamma was in the
secret. Amy looked wistfully at her, but Mrs. Edmonstone only gazed
at the window, and so they continued for some minutes, while an
uninteresting exchange of question and answer was kept up between her
and her nephew until at length the dressing-bell rang, and cleared the
room. Mrs. Edmonstone lingered till her son and daughters were gone, and
said,--

‘You have heard from St. Mildred’s?’

‘Yes,’ said Philip, as if he was as little inclined to be communicative
to her as to his cousins.

‘From Guy, or from Margaret?’

‘From Margaret.’

‘But you say there is a letter from him?’

‘Yes, for my uncle.’

‘Does she say nothing more satisfactory?’ asked his aunt, her anxiety
tortured by his composure. ‘Has she learnt no more?’

‘Nothing more of his proceedings. I see Amy knows nothing of the
matter?’

‘No; her papa thought there was no need to distress her till we had seen
whether he could explain.’

‘Poor little thing!’ said Philip; ‘I am very sorry for her.

Mrs. Edmonstone did not choose to discuss her daughter’s affairs with
him, and she turned the conversation to ask if Margaret said much of
Guy.

‘She writes to tell the spirit in which he received my uncle’s letter.
It is only the Morville temper, again, and, of course, whatever you may
think of that on Amy’s account, I should never regard it, as concerns
myself, as other than his misfortune. I hope he may be able to explain
the rest.’

‘Ah! there comes your uncle!’ and Mr. Edmonstone entered.

‘How d’ye do, Philip? Brought better news, eh?’

‘Here is a letter to speak for itself.’

‘Eh? From Guy? Give it me. What does he say? Let me see. Here, mamma,
read it; your eyes are best.’

Mrs. Edmonstone read as follows:--


‘MY DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--Your letter surprised and grieved me very
much. I cannot guess what proofs Philip may think he has, of what
I never did, and, therefore, I cannot refute them otherwise than by
declaring that I never gamed in my life. Tell me what they are, and I
will answer them. As to a full confession, I could of course tell you
of much in which I have done wrongly, though not in the way which he
supposes. On that head, I have nothing to confess. I am sorry I am
prevented from satisfying you about the £1OOO, but I am bound in honour
not to mention the purpose for which I wanted it. I am sure you could
never believe I could have said what I did to Mrs. Edmonstone if I had
begun on a course which I detest from the bottom of my heart. Thank you
very much for the kindness of the latter part of your letter. I do not
know how I could have borne it, if it had ended as it began. I hope you
will soon send me these proofs of Philip’s. Ever your affectionate, ‘G.
M.’


Not a little surprised was Philip to find that he was known to be Guy’s
accuser; but the conclusion revealed that his style had betrayed him,
and that Mr. Edmonstone had finished with some mention of him, and
he resolved that henceforth he would never leave a letter of his own
dictation till he had seen it signed and sealed.

‘Well!’ cried Mr. Edmonstone, joyfully beating his own hand with his
glove, ‘that is all right. I knew it would be so. He can’t even
guess what we are at. I am glad we did not tease poor little Amy. Eh,
mamma?--eh, Philip?’ the last eh being uttered much more doubtfully, and
less triumphantly than the first.

‘I wonder you think it right,’ said Philip.

‘What more would you have?’ said Mr. Edmonstone, hastily.

‘Confidence.’

‘Eh? Oh, ay, he says he can’t tell--bound in honour.’

‘It is easy to write off-hand, and say I cannot satisfy you, I am
bound in honour; but that is not what most persons would think a full
justification, especially considering the terms on which you stand.’

‘Why, yes, he might have said more. It would have been safe enough with
me.’

‘It is his usual course of mystery, reserve, and defiance.’

‘The fact is,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, turning away, ‘that it is a very
proper letter; right sense, proper feeling--and if he never gamed in his
life, what would you have more?’

‘There are different ways of understanding such a denial as this,’ said
Philip. ‘See, he says not in the way in which I suppose.’ He held up
his hand authoritatively, as his aunt was about to interpose. ‘It was
against gaming that his vow was made. I never thought he had played, but
he never says he has not betted.’

‘He would never be guilty of a subterfuge!’ exclaimed Mr. Edmonstone,
indignantly.

‘I should not have thought so, without the evidence of the payment of
the cheque, my uncle had just given him, to this gambling fellow,’ said
Philip; ‘yet it is only the natural consequence of the habit of eluding
inquiry into his visits to London.’

‘I can’t see any reason for so harsh an accusation,’ said she.

‘I should hardly want more reason than his own words. He refuses to
answer the question on which my uncle’s good opinion depends; he owns he
has been to blame, and thus retracts his full denial. In my opinion, his
letter says nothing so plainly as, “While I can stand fair with you I do
not wish to break with you.”’

‘He will not find that quite so easy.’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I am no
fool to be hoodwinked, especially where my little Amy is concerned. I’ll
see all plain and straight before he says another word of her. But you
see what comes of their settling it while I was out of the way.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was grieved to see him so hurt at this. It could not
have been helped, and if all had been smooth, he never would have
thought of it again; but it served to keep up his dignity in his own
eyes, and, as he fancied, to defend him from Philip’s censure, and he
therefore made the most of it, which so pained her that she did not
venture to continue her championship of Guy.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘the question is what to do next--eh,
Philip?’ I wish he would have spoken openly. I hate mysteries. I’ll
write and tell him this won’t do; he must be explicit--eh, Philip?’

‘We will talk it over by and by,’ said Philip.

His aunt understood that it was to be in her absence, and left the room,
fearing it would be impossible to prevent Amy from being distressed,
though she had no doubt that Guy would be able to prove his innocence of
the charges. She found Amy waiting for her in her room.

‘Don’t, ring, mamma, dear. I’ll fasten your dress,’ said she; then
pausing--‘Oh! mamma, I don’t know whether I ought to ask, but if you
would only tell me if there is nothing gone wrong.’

‘I don’t believe there is anything really wrong, my dear,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone, kissing her, as she saw how her colour first deepened and
then faded.

‘Oh! no,’ said she.

‘But there is some mystery about his money-matters, which has vexed your
papa.’

‘And what has Philip to do with it?’

‘I cannot quite tell, my dear. I believe Margaret Henley has heard
something, but I do not know the whole.’

‘Did you see his letter, mamma? said Amy, in a low, trembling voice.

‘Yes, it is just like himself, and absolutely denies the accusations.’

Amy did not say ‘then they are false,’ but she held up her head.

‘Then papa is satisfied?’ she said.

‘I have no doubt all will be made clear in time,’ said her mother; ‘but
there is still something unexplained, and I am afraid things may not
go smoothly just now. I am very sorry, my little Amy, that such a cloud
should have come over you, she added, smoothing fondly the long, soft
hair, sad at heart to see the cares and griefs of womanhood gathering
over her child’s bright, young life.

‘I said I must learn to bear things!’ murmured Amy to herself. ‘Only,’
and the tears filled her eyes, and she spoke with almost childish
simplicity of manner, ‘I can’t bear them to vex him. I wish Philip would
let papa settle it alone. Guy will be angry, and grieved afterwards.’

They were interrupted by the dinner-bell, but Amy ran into her own room
for one moment.

‘I said I would learn to bear,’ said she to herself, ‘or I shall never
be fit for him. Yes, I will, even though it is the thinking he is
unhappy. He said I must be his Verena; I know what that means; I ought
not to be uneasy, for he will bear it beautifully, and say he is glad of
it afterwards. And I will try not to seem cross to Philip.’

Mr. Edmonstone was fidgety and ill at ease, found fault with the dinner,
and was pettish with his wife. Mrs. Edmonstone set Philip off
upon politics, which lasted till the ladies could escape into the
drawing-room. In another minute Philip brought in Charles, set him down,
and departed. Amy, who was standing by the window, resting her forehead
against the glass, and gazing into the darkness, turned round hastily,
and left the room, but in passing her brother, she put her hand into
his, and received a kind pressure. Her mother followed her, and the
other three all began to wonder. Charles said he had regularly been
turned out of the dining-room by Philip, who announced that he wanted to
speak to his uncle, and carried him off.

They conjectured, and were indignant at each other’s conjectures, till
their mother returned, and gave them as much information as she could;
but this only made them very anxious. Charles was certain that Mrs.
Henley had laid a cockatrice egg, and Philip was hatching it; and Laura
could not trust herself to defend Philip, lest she should do it too
vehemently. They could all agree in desire to know the truth, in hope
that Guy was not culpable, and, above all, in feeling for Amy; but by
tacit consent they were silent on the three shades of opinion in their
minds. Laura was confident that Philip was acting for the best; Mrs.
Edmonstone thought he might be mistaken in his premises, but desirous of
Guy’s real good; and Charles, though sure he would allege nothing which
he did not believe to be true, also thought him ready to draw the worst
conclusions from small grounds, and to take pleasure in driving Mr.
Edmonstone to the most rigorous measures.

Philip, meanwhile, was trying to practise great moderation and
forbearance, not bringing forward at first what was most likely to
incense Mr. Edmonstone, and without appearance of animosity in his cool,
guarded speech. There was no design in this, he meant only to be just;
yet anything less cool would have had far less effect.

When he shut the dining-room door, he found his uncle wavering, touched
by the sight of his little Amy, returning to his first favourable view
of Guy’s letter, ready to overlook everything, accept the justification,
and receive his ward on the same footing as before, though he was at
the same time ashamed that Philip should see him relent, and desirous
of keeping up his character for firmness, little guessing how his nephew
felt his power over him, and knew that he could wield him at will.

Perceiving and pitying his feebleness, and sincerely believing strong
measures the only rescue for Amy, the only hope for Guy, Philip found
himself obliged to work on him by the production of another letter from
his sister. He would rather, if possible, have kept this back, so much
did his honourable feeling recoil from what had the air of slander and
mischief-making; but he regarded firmness on his uncle’s part as the
only chance for Guy or for his cousin, and was resolved not to let him
swerve from strict justice.

Mrs. Henley had written immediately after Guy’s outburst in her house,
and, taking it for granted that her brother would receive a challenge,
she wrote in the utmost alarm, urging him to remember how precious he
was to her, and not to depart from his own principles.

‘You would not be so mad as to fight him, eh?’ said Mr. Edmonstone,
anxiously. ‘You know better--besides, for poor Amy’s sake.’

‘For the sake of right,’ replied Philip, ‘no. I have reassured my
sister. I have told her that, let the boy do what he will, he shall
never make me guilty of his death.’

‘You have heard from him, then?’

‘No; I suppose a night’s reflection convinced him that he had no
rational grounds for violent proceedings, and he had sense enough not to
expose himself to such an answer as I should have given. What caused his
wrath to be directed towards me especially, I cannot tell, nor can my
sister,’ said Philip, looking full at his uncle; ‘but I seem to have
come in for a full share of it.’

He proceeded to read the description of Guy’s passion, and the
expressions he had used. Violent as it had been, it did not lose in
Mrs. Henley’s colouring; and what made the effect worse was that she had
omitted to say she had overheard his language, so that it appeared as
if he had been unrestrained even by gentlemanly feeling, and had thus
spoken of her brother and uncle in her presence.

Mr. Edmonstone was resentful now, really displeased, and wounded to the
quick. The point on which he was especially sensitive was his reputation
for sense and judgment; and that Guy, who had shown him so much respect
and affection, whom he had treated with invariable kindness, and
received into his family like a son, that he should thus speak of him
shocked him extremely. He was too much overcome even to break out into
exclamations at first, he only drank off his glass of wine hastily, and
said, ‘I would never have thought it!’

With these words, all desire for forbearance and toleration departed. If
Guy could speak thus of him, he was ready to believe any accusation,
to think him deceitful from the first, to say he had been trifling with
Amy, to imagine him a confirmed reprobate, and cast him off entirely.
Philip had some difficulty to restrain him from being too violent;
and to keep him to the matter in hand, he defended Guy from the
exaggerations of his imagination in a manner which appeared highly
noble, considering how Guy had spoken of him. Before they parted that
night, another letter had been written, which stood thus,--


‘DEAR SIR GUY,--Since you refuse the confidence which I have a right to
demand, since you elude the explanation I asked, and indulge yourself in
speaking in disrespectful terms of me and my family, I have every reason
to suppose that you have no desire to continue on the same footing as
heretofore at Hollywell. As your guardian, I repeat that I consider
myself bound to keep a vigilant watch over your conduct, and, if
possible, to recover you from the unhappy course in which you have
involved yourself: but all other intercourse between you and this family
must cease. ‘Your horse shall be sent to Redclyffe to-morrow.

                                ‘Yours faithfully,
                                   ‘C. EDMONSTONE.’


This letter was more harsh than Philip wished; but Mr. Edmonstone would
hardly be prevailed on to consent to enter on no further reproaches.
He insisted on banishing Deloraine, as well as on the mention of Guy’s
disrespect, both against his nephew’s opinion; but it was necessary to
let him have his own way on these points, and Philip thought himself
fortunate in getting a letter written which was in any degree rational
and moderate.

They had been so busy, and Mr. Edmonstone so excited, that Philip
thought it best to accept the offer of tea being sent them in the
dining-room, and it was not till nearly midnight that their conference
broke up, when Mr. Edmonstone found his wife sitting up by the
dressing-room fire, having shut Charles’s door, sorely against his will.

‘There,’ began Mr. Edmonstone, ‘you may tell Amy she may give him up,
and a lucky escape she has had. But this is what comes of settling
matters in my absence.’ So he proceeded with the narration, mixing the
facts undistinguishably with his own surmises, and overwhelming his wife
with dismay. If a quarter of this was true, defence of Guy was out of
the question; and it was still more impossible to wish Amy’s attachment
to him to continue; and though much was incredible, it was no time to
say so. She could only hope morning would soften her husband’s anger,
and make matters explicable.

Morning failed to bring her comfort. Mr. Edmonstone repeated that Amy
must be ordered to give up all thoughts of Guy, and she perceived that
the words ascribed to him stood on evidence which could not be doubted.
She could believe he might have spoken them in the first shock of an
unjust imputation, and she thought he might have been drawn into some
scrape to serve a friend; but she could never suppose him capable of all
Mr. Edmonstone imagined.

The first attempt to plead his cause, however, brought on her an angry
reply; for Philip, by a hint, that she never saw a fault in Guy, had put
it into his uncle’s head that she would try to lead him, and made him
particularly inaccessible to her influence.

There was no help for it, then; poor little Amy must hear the worst;
and it was not long before Mrs. Edmonstone found her waiting in the
dressing-room. Between obedience to her husband, her conviction of Guy’s
innocence, and her tenderness to her daughter, Mrs. Edmonstone had a
hard task, and she could scarcely check her tears as Amy nestled up for
her morning kiss.

‘O mamma! what is it?’

‘Dearest, I told you a cloud was coming. Try to bear it. Your papa is
not satisfied with Guy’s answer, and it seems he spoke some hasty words
of papa and Philip; they have displeased papa very much, and, my dear
child, you must try to bear it, he has written to tell Guy he must not
think any more of you.’

‘He has spoken hasty words of papa!’ repeated Amy, as if she had not
heard the rest. ‘How sorry he must be!’

As she spoke, Charles’s door was pushed open, and in he came, half
dressed, scrambling on, with but one crutch, to the chair near which she
stood, with drooping head and clasped hands.

‘Never mind, little Amy, he said; ‘I’ll lay my life ‘tis only some
monstrous figment of Mrs. Henley’s. Trust my word, it will right itself;
it is only a rock to keep true love from running too smooth. Come, don’t
cry, as her tears began to flow fast, ‘I only meant to cheer you up.’

‘I am afraid, Charlie, said his mother, putting a force on her own
feeling, ‘it is not the best or kindest way to do her good by telling
her to dwell on hopes of him.’

‘Mamma one of Philip’s faction!’ exclaimed Charles.

‘Of no faction at all, Charles, but I am afraid it is a bad case;’ and
Mrs. Edmonstone related what she knew; glad to address herself to any
one but Amy, who stood still, meanwhile, her hands folded on the back of
her brother’s chair.

Charles loudly protested that the charges were absurd and preposterous,
and would be proved so in no time. He would finish dressing instantly,
go to speak to his father, and show him the sense of the thing. Amy
heard and hoped, and his mother, who had great confidence in his clear
sight, was so cheered as almost to expect that today’s post might carry
a conciliatory letter.

Meantime, Laura and Philip met in the breakfast-room, and in answer to
her anxious inquiry, he had given her an account of Guy, which, though
harsh enough, was far more comprehensible than what the rest had been
able to gather.

She was inexpressibly shocked, ‘My poor dear little Amy!’ she exclaimed.
‘O Philip, now I see all you thought to save me from!’

‘It is an unhappy business that it ever was permitted!’

‘Poor little dear! She was so happy, so very happy and sweet in her
humility and her love. Do you know, Philip, I was almost jealous for a
moment that all should be so easy for them; and I blamed poverty; but
oh! there are worse things than poverty!’

He did not speak, but his dark blue eye softened with the tender look
known only to her; and it was one of the precious moments for which she
lived. She was happy till the rest came down, and then a heavy cloud
seemed to hang on them at breakfast time.

‘Charles, who found anxiety on Guy’s account more exciting, though
considerably less agreeable, than he had once expected, would not go
away with the womankind; but as soon as the door was shut, exclaimed,

‘Now then, Philip, let me know the true grounds of your persecution.’

It was not a conciliating commencement. His father was offended, and
poured out a confused torrent of Guy’s imagined misdeeds, while Philip
explained and modified his exaggerations.

‘So the fact is,’ said Charles, at length, ‘that Guy has asked for his
own money, and when in lieu of it he received a letter full of unjust
charges, he declared Philip was a meddling coxcomb. I advise you not to
justify his opinion.’

Philip disdained to reply, and after a few more of Mr. Edmonstone’s
exclamations Charles proceeded,

‘This is the great sum total.’

‘No,’ said Philip; ‘I have proof of his gambling.’

‘What is it?’

‘I have shown it to your father, and he is satisfied.’

‘Is it not proof enough that he is lost to all sense of propriety,
that he should go and speak in that fashion of us, and to Philip’s own
sister?’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘What would you have more?’

‘That little epithet applied to Captain Morville is hardly, to my mind,
proof sufficient that a man is capable of every vice,’ said Charles,
who, in the pleasure of galling his cousin, did not perceive the harm
he did his friend’s cause, by recalling the affront which his father,
at least, felt most deeply. Mr. Edmonstone grew angry with him for
disregarding the insulting term applied to himself; and Charles, who,
though improved in many points, still sometimes showed the effects of
early habits of disrespect to his father, answered hastily, that no one
could wonder at Guy’s resenting such suspicions; he deserved no blame at
all, and would have been a blockhead to bear it tamely.

This was more than Charles meant, but his temper was fairly roused, and
he said much more than was right or judicious, so that his advocacy only
injured the cause. He had many representations to make on the injustice
of condemning Guy unheard, of not even laying before him the proofs on
which the charges were founded, and on the danger of actually driving
him into mischief, by shutting the doors of Hollywell against him. ‘If
you wanted to make him all you say he is, you are taking the very best
means.’

Quite true; but Charles had made his father too angry to pay attention.
This stormy discussion continued for nearly two hours, with no effect
save inflaming the minds of all parties. At last Mr. Edmonstone was
called away; and Charles, rising, declared he should go at that moment,
and write to tell Guy that there was one person at least still in his
senses.

‘You will do as you please,’ said Philip.

‘Thank you for the permission,’ said Charles, proudly.

‘It is not to me that your submission is due,’ said Philip.

‘I’ll tell you what, Philip, I submit to my own father readily, but I do
not submit to Captain Morville’s instrument.’

‘We have had enough of unbecoming retorts for one day,’ said Philip,
quietly, and offering his arm.

Much as Charles disliked it, he was in too great haste not to accept it;
and perceiving that there were visitors in the drawing-room, he desired
to go up-stairs.

‘People who always come when they are not wanted!’ he muttered, as he
went up, pettish with them as with everything else.

‘I do not think you in a fit mood to be advised, Charles,’ said Philip;
‘but to free my own conscience, let me say this. Take care how you
promote this unfortunate attachment.’

‘Take care what you say!’ exclaimed Charles, flushing with anger, as
he threw himself forward, with an impatient movement, trusting to his
crutch rather than retain his cousin’s arm; but the crutch slipped, he
missed his grasp at the balusters, and would have fallen to the bottom
of the flight if Philip had not been close behind. Stretching out his
foot, he made a barrier, receiving Charles’s weight against his breast,
and then, taking him in his arms, carried him up the rest of the way
as easily as if he had been a child. The noise brought Amy out of the
dressing-room, much frightened, though she did not speak till Charles
was deposited on the sofa, and assured them he was not in the least
hurt, but he would hardly thank his cousin for having so dexterously
saved him; and Philip, relieved from the fear of his being injured,
viewed the adventure as a mere ebullition of ill-temper, and went away.

‘A fine helpless log am I,’ exclaimed Charles, as he found himself alone
with Amy. ‘A pretty thing for me to talk of being of any use, when I
can’t so much as show my anger at an impertinence about my own sister,
without being beholden for not breaking my neck to the very piece of
presumption that uttered it.’

‘Oh, don’t speak so’ began Amy; and at that moment Philip was close
to them, set down the crutch that had been dropped, and went without
speaking.

‘I don’t care who hears,’ said Charles; ‘I say there is no greater
misery in this world than to have the spirit of a man and the limbs of a
cripple. I know if I was good for anything, things would not long be in
this state. I should be at St. Mildred’s by this time, at the bottom of
the whole story, and Philip would be taught to eat his words in no time,
and make as few wry faces as suited his dignity. But what is the use of
talking? This sofa’--and he struck his fist against it--‘is my prison,
and I am a miserable cripple, and it is mere madness in me to think of
being attended to.’

‘O Charlie!’ cried Amy, caressingly, and much distressed, ‘don’t talk
so. Indeed, I can’t bear it! You know it is not so.’

‘Do I? Have not I been talking myself hoarse, showing up their
injustice, saying all a man could say to bring them to reason, and not
an inch could I move them. I do believe Philip has driven my father
stark mad with these abominable stories of his sister’s, which I verily
believe she invented herself.’

‘O no, she could not. Don’t say so.’

‘What! Are you going to believe them, too?’

‘Never!’

‘It is that which drives me beyond all patience,’ proceeded Charles, ‘to
see Philip lay hold of my father, and twist him about as he chooses, and
set every one down with his authority.’

‘Philip soon goes abroad,’ said Amy, who could not at the moment say
anything more charitable.

‘Ay! there is the hope. My father will return to his natural state
provided they don’t drive Guy, in the meantime, to do something
desperate.’

‘No, they won’t,’ whispered Amy.

‘Well, give me the blotting-book. I’ll write to him this moment, and
tell him we are not all the tools of Philip’s malice.’

Amy gave the materials to her brother, and then turning away, busied
herself in silence as best she might, in the employment her mother had
recommended her, of sorting some garden-seeds for the cottagers. After
an interval, Charles said,

‘Well, Amy, what shall I say to him for you?’

There was a little silence, and presently Amy whispered, ‘I don’t think
I ought.’

‘What?’ asked Charles, not catching her very low tones, as she sat
behind him, with her head bent down.

‘I don’t think it would be right,’ she repeated, more steadily.

‘Not right for you to say you don’t think him a villain?’

‘Papa said I was to have no--‘and there her voice was stopped with
tears.

‘This is absurd, Amy,’ said Charles; ‘when it all was approved at first,
and now my father is acting on a wrong impression; what harm can there
be in it? Every one would do so.’

‘I am sure he would not think it right,’ faltered Amy.

‘He? You’ll never have any more to say to him, if you don’t take care
what you are about.’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Amy, in a broken voice. ‘It is not right.’

‘Nonsense! folly!’ said Charles. ‘You are as bad as the rest. When they
are persecuting, and slandering, and acting in the most outrageous way
against him, and you know one word of yours would carry him through all,
you won’t say it, to save him from distraction, and from doing all my
father fancies he has done. Then I believe you don’t care a rush for
him, and never want to see him again, and believe the whole monstrous
farrago. I vow I’ll say so.’

‘O Charles, you are very cruel!’ said Amy, with an irrepressible burst
of weeping.

‘Then, if you don’t believe it, why can’t you send one word to comfort
him?’

She wept in silence for some moments; at last she said,--

‘It would not comfort him to think me disobedient. He will trust me
without, and he will know what you think. You are very kind, dear
Charlie; but don’t persuade me any more, for I can’t bear it. I am going
away now; but don’t fancy I am angry, only I don’t think I can sit by
while you write that letter.’

Poor little Amy, she seldom knew worse pain than at that moment, when
she was obliged to go away to put it out of her power to follow the
promptings of her heart to send the few kind words which might prove
that nothing could shake her love and trust.

A fresh trial awaited her when she looked from her own window. She
saw Deloraine led out, his chestnut neck glossy in the sun and William
prepared for a journey, and the other servants shaking hands, and
bidding him good-bye. She saw him ride off, and could hardly help flying
back to her brother to exclaim, ‘O Charlie, they have sent Deloraine
away!’ while the longing to send one kind greeting became more earnest
than ever; but she withstood it, and throwing herself on the bed,
exclaimed,--

‘He will never come back--never, never!’ and gave way, unrestrainedly,
to a fit of weeping; nor was it till this had spent itself that she
could collect her thoughts.

She was sitting on the side of her bed trying to compose herself, when
Laura, came in.

‘My own Amy--my poor, dearest,--I am very sorry!’

‘Thank you, dear Laura,’ and Amy gladly rested her aching head on her
shoulder.

‘I wish I knew what to do for you!’ proceeded Laura. ‘You cannot, cease
to think about him, and yet you ought.’

‘If I ought, I suppose I can,’ said Amy in a voice exhausted with
crying.

‘That’s right, darling. You will not be weak, and pine for one who is
not worthy.’

‘Not worthy, Laura?’ said Amy, withdrawing her arm, and holding up her
head.

‘Ah! my poor Amy, we thought--’

‘Yes; and it is so still. I know it is so. I know he did not do it.’

‘Then what do you think of Margaret and Philip?’

‘There is some mistake.’

And how can you defend what he said of papa?’

‘I don’t,’ said Amy, hiding her face. ‘That is the worst; but I am sure
it was only a moment’s passion, and that he must be very unhappy about
it now. I don’t think papa would mind it, at least not long, if it
was not for this other dreadful misapprehension. O, Laura! why cannot
something be done to clear it up?’

‘Everything will be done,’ said Laura. Papa has written to Mr. Wellwood,
and Philip means to go and make inquiries at Oxford and St. Mildred’s.’

‘When?’ asked Amy.

‘Not till term begins. You know he is to have a fortnight’s leave before
the regiment goes to Ireland.’

‘Oh, I hope it will come right then. People must come to an
understanding when they meet; it is so different from writing.’

‘He will do everything to set things on a right footing. You may be
confident of that, Amy, for your sake as much as anything else.’

‘I can’t think why he should know I have anything to do with it,’ said
Amy, blushing. ‘I had much rather he did not.’

‘Surely, Amy, you think he can be trusted with your secret; and there
is no one who can take more care for you. You must look on him as one of
ourselves.’

Amy made no answer, and Laura, was annoyed.

‘You are vexed with him for having told this to papa; but that is not
reasonable of you, Amy; your better sense must tell you that it is the
only truly kind course, both towards Guy and yourself.’

It was said in Philip’s manner, which perhaps made it harder to bear;
and Amy could scarcely answer,--

‘He means it for the best.’

‘You would not have had him be silent?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Amy, sadly. ‘No; he should have done something, but
he might have done it more kindly.’

Laura endeavoured to persuade her that nothing could have been more kind
and judicious, and Amy sat dejectedly owning the good intention, and
soothed by the affection of her family; with the bitter suffering of her
heart unallayed, with all her fond tender feelings torn at the thought
of what Guy must be enduring, and with the pain of knowing it was her
father’s work. She had one comfort, in the certainty that Guy would bear
it nobly. She was happy to find her confidence confirmed by her mother
and Charles; and one thing she thought she need not give up, though
she might no longer think of him as her lover, she might be his Verena
still, whether he knew it or not. It could not be wrong to remember any
one in her prayers, and to ask that he might not be led into temptation,
but have strength to abide patiently. That helped her to feel that he
was in the hands of One to whom the secrets of all hearts are known; and
a line of poetry seemed to be whispered in her ears, in his own sweet
tones,--

           Wait, and the cloud shall roll away.

So, after the first day, she went on pretty well. She was indeed silent
and grave, and no longer the sunbeam of Hollywell; but she took her
share in what was passing, and a common observer would hardly have
remarked the submissive melancholy of her manner. Her father was very
affectionate, and often called her his jewel of good girls; but he was
too much afraid of women’s tears to talk to her about Guy, he left
that to her mother: and Mrs. Edmonstone, having seen her submit to her
father’s will, was unwilling to say more.

She doubted whether it was judicious to encourage her in dwelling on
Guy; for, even supposing his character clear, they had offended him
deeply, and released him from any engagement to her, so that there
was nothing to prevent him from forming an attachment elsewhere. Mrs.
Edmonstone did not think he would; but it was better to say nothing
about him, lest she should not speak prudently, and only keep up the
subject in Amy’s mind.

Charles stormed and wrangled, told Mr. Edmonstone ‘he was breaking his
daughter’s heart, that was all;’ and talked of unfairness and injustice,
till Mr. Edmonstone vowed it was beyond all bearing, that his own son
should call him a tyrant, and accused Guy of destroying all peace in his
family.

The replies to the letters came; some thought them satisfactory, and
the others wondered that they thought so. Mr. Wellwood gave the highest
character of his pupil, and could not imagine how any irregularities
could be laid to his charge; but when asked in plain terms how he
disposed of his time, could only answer in general, that he had friends
and engagements of his own at St. Mildred’s and its neighbourhood, and
had been several times at Mrs. Henley’s and at Colonel Harewood’s. The
latter place, unfortunately, was the very object of Philip’s suspicions;
and thus the letter was anything but an exculpation.

Guy wrote to Charles in the fulness of his heart, expressing gratitude
for his confidence and sympathy. He again begged for the supposed
evidence of his misconduct, declaring he could explain it, whatever it
might be, and proceeded to utter deep regrets for his hasty expressions.

‘I do not know what I may have said,’ he wrote; ‘I have no doubt it
was unpardonable, for I am sure my feelings were so, and that I deserve
whatever I have brought on myself. I can only submit to Mr. Edmonstone’s
sentence, and trust that time will bring to his knowledge that I am
innocent of what I am accused of. He has every right to be displeased
with me.

Charles pronounced this to be only Guy’s way of abusing himself; but his
father saw in it a disguised admission of guilt. It was thought, also,
to be bad sign that Guy intended to remain at South Moor till the end
of the vacation, though Charles argued that he must be somewhere; and if
they wished to keep him out of mischief, why exile him from Hollywell!
He would hardly listen to his mother’s representation, that on Amy’s
account it would not be right to have him there till the mystery was
cleared up.

He tried to stir his father up to go and see Guy at St. Mildred’s, and
investigate matters for himself; but, though Mr. Edmonstone would have
liked the appearance of being important, this failed, because Philip
declared it to be unadvisable, knowing that it would be no investigation
at all, and that his uncle would be talked over directly. Next, Charles
would have persuaded Philip himself to go, but the arrangements about
his leave did not make this convenient; and it was put off till he
should pay his farewell visit to his sister, in October. Lastly, Charles
wrote to Mrs. Henley, entreating her to give him some information about
this mysterious evidence which was wanting, but her reply was a complete
‘set down’ for interference in a matter with which he had no concern.

He was very angry. In fact, the post seldom came in without occasioning
a fresh dispute, which only had the effect of keeping up the heat of Mr.
Edmonstone’s displeasure, and making the whole house uncomfortable.

Fretfulness and ill-humour seemed to have taken possession of Charles
and his father. Such a state of things had not prevailed since Guy’s
arrival: Hollywell was hardly like the same house; Mrs. Edmonstone and
Laura could do nothing without being grumbled at or scolded by one
or other of the gentlemen; even Amy now and then came in for a little
petulance on her father’s part, and Charles could not always forgive her
for saying in her mournful, submissive tome,--‘It is of no use to talk
about it!’



CHAPTER 18

     This just decree alone I know,
     Man must be disciplined by woe,
     To me, whate’er of good or ill
     The future brings, since come it will,
     I’ll bow my spirit, and be still.
              --AESCHYLUS, (Anstice’s Translation.)


Guy, in the meantime, was enduring the storm in loneliness, for he was
unwilling to explain the cause of his trouble to his companions. The
only occasion of the suspicions, which he could think of, was his
request for the sum of money; and this he could not mention to
Mr. Wellwood, nor was he inclined to make confidants of his other
companions, though pleasant, right-minded youths.

He had only announced that he had had a letter which had grieved him
considerably, but of which he could not mention the contents; and as
Harry Graham, who knew something of the Broadstone neighbourhood, had
picked up a report that Sir Guy Morville was to marry Lady Eveleen de
Courcy, there was an idea among the party that there was some trouble in
the way of his attachment. He had once before been made, by some
joke, to colour and look conscious; and now this protected him from
inconvenient questions, and accounted for his depression. He was like
what he had been on first coming to Hollywell--grave and silent, falling
into reveries when others were talking, and much given to long, lonely
wanderings. Accustomed as he had been in boyhood to a solitary life in
beautiful scenery, there was something in a fine landscape that was to
him like a friend and companion; and he sometimes felt that it would
have been worse if he had been in a dull, uniform country, instead of
among mountain peaks and broad wooded valleys. Working hard, too, helped
him not a little, and conic sections served him almost as well as they
served Laura.

A more real help was the neighbourhood of Stylehurst. On the first
Sunday after receiving Mr. Edmonstone’s letter, he went to church there,
instead of with the others, to St. Mildred’s. They thought it was
for the sake of the solitary walk; but he had other reasons for the
preference. In the first place it was a Communion Sunday, and in the
next, he could feel more kindly towards Philip there, and he knew he
needed all that could strengthen such a disposition.

Many a question did he ask himself, to certify whether he wilfully
entertained malice or hatred, or any uncharitableness. It was a long,
difficult examination; but at its close, he felt convinced that, if
such passions knocked at the door of his heart, it was not at his own
summons, and that he drove them away without listening to them. And
surely he might approach to gain the best aid in that battle, especially
as he was certain of his strong and deep repentance for his fit of
passion, and longing earnestly for the pledge of forgiveness.

The pardon and peace he sought came to him, and in such sort that the
comfort of that day, when fresh from the first shock, and waiting in
suspense for some new blow, was such as never to be forgotten. They
linked themselves with the grave shade of the clustered gray columns,
and the angel heads on roof of that old church; with the long grass and
tall yellow mullens among its churchyard graves, and with the tints of
the elm-trees that closed it in, their leaves in masses either of green
or yellow, and opening here and there to show the purple hills beyond.

He wandered in the churchyard between the services. All enmity to Philip
was absent now; and he felt as if it would hardly return when he stood
by the graves of the Archdeacon and of the two Frances Morvilles, and
thought what that spot was to his cousin. There were a few flowers
planted round Mrs. Morville’s grave, but they showed that they had long
been neglected, and no such signs of care marked her daughter Fanny’s.
And when Guy further thought of Mrs. Henley, and recollected how Philip
had sacrificed all his cherished prospects and hopes of distinction, and
embraced an irksome profession, for the sake of these two sisters,
he did not find it difficult to excuse the sternness, severity, and
distrust which were an evidence how acutely a warm heart had suffered.

Though he suffered cruelly from being cut off from Amy, yet his
reverence for her helped him to submit. He had always felt as if she was
too far above him; and though he had, beyond his hopes, been allowed
to aspire to the thought of her, it was on trial, and his failure, his
return to his old evil passions, had sunk him beneath her. He shuddered
to think of her being united to anything so unlike herself, and which
might cause her so much misery; it was wretchedness to think that even
now she might be suffering for him; and yet not for worlds would he have
lost the belief that she was so feeling, or the remembrance of the looks
which had shone on him so sweetly and timidly as she sat at her mother’s
feet; though that remembrance was only another form of misery. But Amy
would be tranquil, pure and good, whatever became of him, and he should
always be able to think of her, looking like one of those peaceful
spirits, with bending head, folded hands, and a star on its brow, in the
“Paradiso” of Flaxman. Her serenity would be untouched; and though she
might be lost to him, he could still be content while he could look up
at it through his turbid life. Better she were lost to him than that her
peace should be injured.

He still, of course, earnestly longed to prove his innocence, though
his hopes lessened, for as long as the evidence was withheld, he had
no chance. After writing as strongly as he could, he could do no more,
except watch for something that might unravel the mystery; and Charles’s
warm sympathy and readiness to assist him were a great comfort.

He had not seen his uncle again; perhaps Sebastian was ashamed to meet
him after their last encounter, and was still absent on his engagement;
but the wife and child were still at St. Mildred’s, and one afternoon,
when Guy had rather unwillingly gone thither with Mr. Wellwood, he saw
Mrs. Dixon sitting on one of the benches which were placed on the paths
cut out on the side of the hill, looking very smart and smiling, among
several persons of her own class.

To be ashamed to recognise her was a weakness beneath him; he spoke to
her, and was leaving her, pluming herself on his notice, when he saw
little Marianne’s blue eyes fixed wistfully upon him, and held out his
hand to her. She ran up to him joyfully, and he led her a few steps from
her mother’s party. ‘Well, little one, how are you? I have your piece of
spar quite safe. Have you said how d’ye do to Bustle?’

‘Bustle! Bustle!’ called the soft voice but it needed a whistle from his
master to bring him to be caressed by the little girl.

‘Have you been taking any more pleasant walks?’

‘Oh yes. We have been all round these pretty paths. And I should like to
go to the top of this great high hill, and see all round; but mamma says
she has got a bone in her leg, and cannot go.’

‘Do you think mamma would give you leave to go up with me? Should you
like it?’

She coloured all over; too happy even to thank him.

‘Then,’ said Guy to his tutor, ‘I will meet you here when you have done
your business in the town, in an hour or so. Poor little thing, she has
not many pleasures.’

Mrs. Dixon made no difficulty, and was so profuse in thanks that Guy got
out of her way as fast as he could, and was soon on the soft thymy grass
of the hill-side, the little girl frisking about him in great delight,
playing with Bustle, and chattering merrily.

Little Marianne was a delicate child, and her frolic did not last long.
As the ascent became steeper, her breath grew shorter, and she toiled on
in a resolute uncomplaining manner after his long, vigorous steps, till
he looked round, and seeing her panting far behind, turned to help her,
lead her, and carry her, till the top was achieved, and the little girl
stood on the topmost stone, gazing round at the broad sunny landscape,
with the soft green meadows, the harvest fields, the woods in their
gorgeous autumn raiment, and the moorland on the other side, with its
other peaks and cairns, brown with withered bracken, and shadowed in
moving patches by the floating clouds. The exhilarating wind brought a
colour into her pale cheeks, and her flossy curls were blowing over her
face.

He watched her in silence, pleased and curious to observe how beautiful
a scene struck the childish eye of the little Londoner. The first thing
she said, after three or four minutes’ contemplation--a long time for
such a child--was, ‘Oh! I never saw anything so pretty!’ then presently
after, ‘Oh! I wish little brother Felix was here!’

‘This is a pleasant place to think about your little brother,’ said Guy,
kindly; and she looked up in his face, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! do you know
about Felix?’

‘You shall tell me’ said Guy. ‘Here, sit on my knee, and rest after your
scramble.’

‘Mamma never lets me talk of Felix, because it makes her cry,’ said
Marianne; but I wish it sometimes.’

Her little heart was soon open. It appeared that Felix was the last who
had died, the nearest in age to Marianne, and her favourite playfellow.
She told of some of their sports in their London home, speaking of them
with eagerness and fondness that showed what joys they had been, though
to Guy they seemed but the very proof of dreariness and dinginess. She
talked of walks to school, when Felix would tell what he would do when
he was a man, and how he took care of her at the crossings, and how rude
boys used to drive them, and how they would look in at the shop windows
and settle what they would buy if they were rich. Then she talked of his
being ill--ill so very long; how he sat in his little chair, and could
not play, and then always lay in bed, and she liked to sit by him,
there; but at last he died, and they carried him away in a great black
coffin, and he would never come back again. But it was so dull now,
there was no one to play with her.

Though the little girl did not cry, she looked very mournful, and Guy
tried to comfort her, but she did not understand him. ‘Going to heaven’
only conveyed to her a notion of death and separation, and this phrase,
together with a vague idea who had made her, and that she ought to be
good, seemed to be the extent of the poor child’s religious knowledge.
She hardly ever had been at church and though she had read one or two
Bible stories, it seemed to have been from their having been used as
lessons at school. She had a dim notion that good people read the
Bible, and there was one on the little table at home, with the
shell-turkey-cock standing upon it, and mamma read it when Felix died;
but it was a big book, and the shell-turkey-cock always stood upon it;
in short, it seemed only connected with mamma’s tears, and the loss of
her brother.

Guy was very much shocked, and so deep in thought that he could hardly
talk to the child in their progress down the hill; but she was just
so tired as to be inclined to silence, and quite happy clinging to his
hand, till he delivered her over to her mother at the foot of the hill,
and went to join his tutor, at the place appointed.

‘Wellwood,’ said he, breaking silence, when they had walked about half
way back to the farm, ‘do you think your cousin would do me a great
kindness? You saw that child? Well, if the parents consent, it would be
the greatest charity on earth if Miss Wellwood would receive her into
her school.’

‘On what terms? What sort of an education is she to have?’

‘The chief thing she wants is to be taught Christianity, poor child;
the rest Miss Wellwood may settle. She is my first cousin. I don’t know
whether you are acquainted with our family history?’ and he went on to
explain as much as was needful. It ended in a resolution that if Miss
Wellwood would undertake the charge, the proposal should be made to Mrs.
Dixon.

It was a way of assisting his relations likely to do real good, and on
the other hand, he would be able, under colour of the payment for the
child, to further Miss Wellwood’s schemes, and give her the interest
of the thousand pounds, until his five and twentieth year might put his
property in his own power.

Miss Wellwood readily consented, much pleased with the simplicity and
absence of false shame he showed in the whole transaction, and very
anxious for the good of a child in a class so difficult to reach. He
next went to Mrs. Dixon, expecting more difficulty with her, but he
found none. She thought it better Marianne should live at St. Mildred’s
than die in London, and was ready to catch at the prospect of her being
fitted for a governess. Indeed, she was so strongly persuaded that the
rich cousin might make Marianne’s fortune, that she would have been very
unwilling to interfere with the fancy he had taken for her.

Little Marianne was divided between fear of leaving mamma and liking
for St. Mildred’s, but her first interview with Miss Wellwood, and Miss
Jane’s showing her a little white bed, quite turned the scale in their
favour. Before the time came for Guy’s return to Oxford, he had seen her
settled, heard her own account of her happy life, and had listened to
Miss Jane Wellwood’s delight in her sweet temper and good disposition.

Those thousand pounds; Guy considered again and again whether he could
explain their destination, and whether this would clear him. It seemed
to him only a minor charge, and besides his repugnance to mention such
a design, he saw too many obstacles in his way. Captain Morville and his
sister were the very persons from whom Miss Wellwood’s project was to
be kept secret. Besides, what would be gained? It was evident that Guy’s
own assertions were doubted, and he could bring no confirmation of them;
he had never spoken of his intention to his tutor, and Mr. Wellwood
could, therefore, say nothing in his favour. If Mr. Edmonstone alone had
been concerned, or if this had been the only accusation, Guy might have
tried to explain it; but with Philip he knew it would be useless, and
therefore would not enter on the subject. He could only wait patiently.



CHAPTER 19

     Most delicately, hour by hour,
     He canvassed human mysteries,
     And stood aloof from other minds.
     Himself unto himself he sold,
     Upon himself, himself did feed,
     Quiet, dispassionate, and cold,
     With chiselled features clear and sleek.
                                --TENNYSON


Guy had been about a week at Oxford, when one evening, as he was
sitting alone in his rooms, he received an unexpected visit from Captain
Morville. He was glad, for he thought a personal interview would remove
all misconstructions, and held out his hand cordially, saying:--

‘You here, Philip! When did you come?’

‘Half an hour ago. I am on my way to spend a week with the Thorndales. I
go on to-morrow to my sister’s.’

While speaking, Philip was surveying the apartment, for he held that a
man’s room is generally an indication of his disposition, and assuredly
there was a great deal of character in his own, with the scrupulous
neatness and fastidious taste of its arrangements. Here, he thought, he
could not fail to see traces of his cousin’s habits, but he was obliged
to confess to himself that there was very little to guide him. The
furniture was strictly as its former occupant had left it, only rather
the worse for wear, and far from being in order. The chairs were so
heaped with books and papers, that Guy had to make a clearance of
one before his visitor could sit down, but there was nothing else to
complain of, not even a trace of cigars; but knowing him to be a great
reader and lover of accomplishments, Philip wondered that the only
decorations were Laura’s drawing of Sintram, and a little print of
Redclyffe, and the books were chiefly such as were wanted for his
studies, the few others having for the most part the air of old library
books, as if he had sent for them from Redclyffe. Was this another proof
that he had some way of frittering away his money with nothing to show
for it? A Sophocles and a lexicon were open before him on the table, and
a blotting-book, which he closed, but not before Philip had caught sight
of what looked like verses.

Neither did his countenance answer Philip’s expectations. It had not his
usual bright lively expression; there was a sadness which made him smile
like a gleam on a showery day, instead of constant sunshine; but there
was neither embarrassment nor defiance, and the gleam-like smile was
there, as with a frank, confiding tone, he said,--

‘This is very kind of you, to come and see what you can do for me.’

Philip was by no means prepared to be thus met half-way, but he thought
Guy wanted to secure him as an intercessor, and hardened himself into
righteous severity.

‘No one can be more willing to help you than I, but you must, in the
first place, help yourself.’

Instantly the sedate measured tone made Guy’s heart and head throb with
impatience, awakening all the former memories so hardly battled down;
but with the impulse of anger came the thought, ‘Here it is again! If I
don’t keep it down now, I am undone! The enemy will seize me again!’ He
forced himself not to interrupt, while Philip went calmly on.

‘While you are not open, nothing can be done.’

‘My only wish, my only desire, is to be open,’ said Guy, speaking fast
and low, and repressing the feeling, which, nevertheless, affected his
voice; ‘but the opportunity of explanation has never been given me.’

‘You need complain of that no longer. I am here to convey to my uncle
any explanation you may wish to address to him. I will do my best to
induce him to attend to it favourably, but he is deeply offended and
hurt by what has passed.’

‘I know--I know,’ said Guy, colouring deeply, and all irritation
disappearing from voice and manner; ‘I know there is no excuse for me.
I can only repeat that I am heartily sorry for whatever I may have said,
either of him or of you.’

‘Of course,’ returned Philip, ‘I should never think of resenting what
you may have said in a moment of irritation, especially as you express
regret for it. Consider it as entirely overlooked on my part.’

Guy was nearly choked in uttering a ‘Thank you,’ which did not sound,
after all, much like acceptance of forgiveness.

‘Now to the real matter at issue,’ said Philip: ‘the application for the
money, which so amazed Mr. Edmonstone.’

‘I do not see that it is the point,’ said Guy, ‘I wanted it for a scheme
of my own: he did not think fit to let me have it, so there is an end of
the matter.’

‘Mr Edmonstone does not think so. He wishes to be convinced that you
have not spent it beforehand.’

‘What would you have beyond my word and honour that I have not?’
exclaimed Guy.

Far be it from me to say that he doubts it,’ said Philip; and as at
those words the flash of the Morville eye darted lightning, he expected
that the next moment, ‘Do you?’ would be thundered forth, and he could
not, with truth, answer ‘No;’ but it was one of his maxims that a
man need never be forced into an open quarrel, and he tranquilly
continued--‘but it is better not to depend entirely on assertion. Why do
you not bring him full proofs of your good intention, and thus restore
yourself to his confidence?’

‘I have said that I am bound not to mention the purpose.’

‘Unfortunate!’ said Philip; then, while Guy bit his lip till it bled,
the pain really a relief, by giving some vent to his anger at the
implied doubt, he went on,--‘If it is impossible to clear this up, the
next advice I would give is, that you should show what your expenditure
has been; lay your accounts before him, and let them justify you.’

Most people would have resented this as an impertinent proposal, were
it only that doing so would have served to conceal the awkward fact
that the accounts had not been kept at all. Guy had never been taught
to regard exactness in this respect as a duty, had no natural taste for
precision, and did not feel responsible to any person; nor if he had
kept any, could he have shown them, without exposing his uncle. To
refuse, would, however, be a subterfuge, and after a moment, he made an
effort, and confessed he had none to show, though he knew Philip would
despise him for it as a fool, and probably take it as positive evidence
against him.

It would have been more bearable if Philip would but have said ‘How
foolish,’ instead of drily repeating ‘Unfortunate!’

After a pause, during which Guy was not sufficiently master of himself
to speak, Philip added--‘Then this matter of the thousand pounds is to
be passed over? You have no explanation to offer?’

‘No:’ and again he paused. ‘When my word is not accepted, I have no more
to say. But this is not the point. What I would know is, what are the
calumnies that accuse me of having gamed? If you really wish to do me
a service, you will give me an opportunity of answering these precious
proofs.’

‘I will’ answered Philip; who could venture on doing so himself, though,
for his sister’s sake, it was unsafe to trust Mr. Edmonstone, with whom
what was not an absolute secret was not a secret at all. ‘My uncle knows
that a thirty pound cheque of his, in your name, was paid by you to a
notorious gamester.’

Guy did not shrink, as he simply answered--‘It is true.’

‘Yet you have neither played, nor betted, nor done anything that could
come under the definition of gambling?’

‘No.’

‘Then why this payment?’

‘I cannot explain that. I know appearances are against me,’ replied Guy
steadily, and with less irritation than he had hitherto shown. I once
thought my simple word would have sufficed, but, since it seems that
will not do, I will not again make what you call assertions.’

‘In fact, while you profess a desire to be open and sincere, a mystery
appears at every turn. What would you have us do?’

‘As you think fit,’ he answered proudly.

Philip had been used to feel men’s wills and characters bend and give
way beneath his superior force of mind. They might, like Charles, chafe
and rage, but his calmness always gave him the ascendant almost without
exertion, and few people had ever come into contact with him without a
certain submission of will or opinion. With Guy alone it was not so;
he had been sensible of it once or twice before; he had no mastery, and
could no more bend that spirit than a bar of steel. This he could not
bear, for it obliged him to be continually making efforts to preserve
his own sense of superiority.

‘Since this is your ultimatum,’ he said--‘since you deny your
confidence, and refuse any reply to these charges, you have no right to
complain of suspicion. I shall do my best, both as your true friend, and
as acting with your guardian’s authority, to discover all that may lead
to the elucidation of the mystery. In the first place, I am desired to
make every inquiry here as to your conduct and expenditure. I hope they
will prove satisfactory.’

‘I am very much obliged to you,’ answered Guy, his voice stern and
dignified, and the smile that curled his lip was like Philip’s own.

Philip was positively annoyed, and desirous to say something to put him
down, but he had not committed himself by any vehemence, and Philip
was too cool and wise to compromise his own dignity, so he rose to go,
saying, ‘Good night! I am sorry I cannot induce you to act in the only
way that can right you.’

‘Good night!’ replied Guy, in the same dignified manner in which he had
spoken ever since his passion had been surmounted.

They parted, each feeling that matters were just where they were before.
Philip went back to his inn, moralizing on the pride and perverseness
which made it impossible to make any impression on a Redclyffe Morville,
whom not even the fear of detection could lead to submission.

Next morning, while Philip was hastily breakfasting, the door opened,
and Guy entered, pale and disturbed, as if he had been awake all night.

‘Philip!’ said he, in his frank, natural voice, ‘I don’t think we parted
last night as your good intentions deserved.’

‘O, ho!’ thought Philip; ‘the fear of an investigation has brought him
to reason;’ and he said, ‘Well, I am very glad you see things in a truer
light this morning;’ then asked if he had breakfasted. He had; and his
cousin added,

‘Have you anything to say on the matter we discussed last night?’

‘No. I can only repeat that I am not guilty, and wait for time to show
my innocence. I only came to see you once more, that I might feel we
parted friends.’

‘I shall always hope to be a true friend.’

‘I did not come here for altercation,’ said Guy (an answer rather to the
spirit than the words), ‘so I will say no more. If you wish to see me
again, you will find me in my rooms. Good-bye.’

Philip was puzzled. He wondered whether Guy had come wishing to
propitiate him, but had found pride indomitable at the last moment; or
whether he had been showing himself too severely just to admit entreaty.
He would be able to judge better after he had made his inquiries, and he
proceeded with them at once. He met with no such replies as he expected.
Every one spoke of Sir Guy Morville in high terms, as strict in his
habits of application, and irreproachable in conduct. He was generally
liked, and some regret was expressed that he lived in so secluded
a manner, forming so few intimacies; but no one seemed to think it
possible that anything wrong could be imputed to him. Philip could even
perceive that there was some surprise that such inquiries should be
made at all, especially by so young a man as himself. Mr. Wellwood, the
person whom he most wished to see, was not at Oxford, but was at home
preparing for his ordination.

Nor could Philip get nearer to the solution of the mystery when he went
to the tradesmen, who were evidently as much surprised as the tutors,
and said he always paid in ready money. Captain Morville felt like a
lawyer whose case is breaking down, no discoveries made, nothing done;
but he was not one whit convinced of his cousin’s innocence, thinking
the college authorities blind and careless, and the tradesmen combined
to conceal their extortions, or else that the mischief had been done
at St. Mildred’s. He was particularly provoked when he remembered Guy’s
invitation to him to come to his rooms, knowing, as he must have done,
what would be the result of his inquiry.

Philip was conscious that it would have been kind to have gone to say
that, so far, he had found nothing amiss, but he did not like giving Guy
this passing triumph. It made no difference in his real opinion; and
why renew a useless discussion? He persuaded himself that he had left
himself no time, and should miss the train, and hastened off to the
station, where he had to wait a quarter of an hour, consoling himself
with reflecting--

‘After all, though I might have gone to him, it would have been useless.
He is obstinate, and occasions of irritating his unfortunate temper are
above all to be avoided.’

One short year after, what would not Philip have given for that quarter
of an hour!

By six o’clock he was at St. Mildred’s, greeted with delight by his
sister, and with cordiality by Dr. Henley. They were both proud of him,
and every tender feeling his sister had was for Philip, her pet, and
her pupil in his childhood, and her most valued companion and counsellor
through her early womanhood.

She had a picked dinner-party to meet him, for she knew the doctor’s
conversation was not exactly the thing to entertain him through a whole
evening, and the guests might well think they had never seen a handsomer
or more clever brother and sister than Mrs. Henley and Captain Morville.
The old county families, if they did wonder at her marriage, were always
glad to meet her brother, and it was a great pleasure to him to see old
friends.

Only once did his sister, in the course of the evening, make him feel
the difference of their sentiments, and that was about Miss Wellwood.
Philip defended her warmly; and when he heard that there was a plan
getting up for excluding her from the hospital, he expressed strong
disapprobation at the time; and after the guests were gone, spoke upon
the subject with his sister and her husband. The doctor entered into no
party questions, and had only been stirred up to the opposition by his
wife; he owned that the Miss Wellwoods had done a great deal of good,
and made the nurses do their duty better than he had ever known, and
was quite ready to withdraw his opposition. Mrs. Henley argued about
opinions, but Philip was a match for her in her own line; and the end
of it was, that though she would not allow herself to be convinced,
and shook her head at her brother’s way of thinking, he knew he had
prevailed, and that Miss Wellwood would be unmolested.

There was not another person in the world to whom Margaret would have
yielded; and it served to restore him to the sense of universal dominion
which had been a little shaken by his conversation with Guy.

‘Sir Guy was a great deal with the Wellwoods,’ said Mrs. Henley.

‘Was he, indeed?’

‘O, you need not think of _that_. It would be too absurd. The youngest
must be twice his age.’

‘I was not thinking of any such thing,’ said Philip, smiling, as he
thought of the very different course Guy’s affections had taken.

‘I did hear he was to marry Lady Eveleen de Courcy. Is there anything in
that report?’

‘No; certainly not.’

‘I should pity the woman who married him, after the specimen I saw of
his temper.’

‘Poor boy!’ said Philip.

‘Lady Eveleen has been a great deal at Hollywell, has she not? I rather
wondered my aunt should like to have her there, considering all things.’

‘What things, sister?’

‘Considering what a catch he would be for one of the Edmonstone girls.’

‘I thought you had just been pitying the woman who should marry him.
Perhaps my aunt had Lady Eveleen there to act as a screen for her own
daughters.’

‘That our good-natured aunt should have acted with such ultra-prudence!’
said Margaret, laughing at his grave ironical tone. ‘Lady Eveleen is
very pretty, is she not? A mere beauty, I believe?’

‘Just so; she is much admired; but Guy is certainly not inclined to fall
in love with her.’

‘I should have thought him the very man to fall in love young, like his
father. Do you think there is any chance for either of the Edmonstones?
Laura’s beauty he spoke of, but it was not in a very lover-like way. Do
you admire Laura so much?’

‘She is very pretty.’

‘And little Amy?’

‘She is a mere child, and will hardly ever be anything more; but she is
a very good little amiable thing.’

‘I wish poor Charles’s temper was improved.’

‘So do I; but it is very far from improvement at present, in consequence
of his zeal for Guy. Guy has been very attentive and good natured to
him, and has quite won his heart; so that I should positively honour him
for his championship if it was not in great degree out of opposition to
his father and myself. To-morrow, Margaret, you must give me some guide
to the most probable quarters for learning anything respecting this poor
boy’s follies.’

Mrs. Henley did her best in that way, and Philip followed up his
inquiries with great ardour, but still unsuccessfully. Jack White, the
hero of the draft, was not at St. Mildred’s, nor likely to be heard
of again till the next races; and whether Sir Guy had been on the
race-ground at all was a doubtful point. Next, Philip walked to
Stylehurst, to call on Colonel Harewood, and see if he could learn
anything in conversation with him; but the Colonel did not seem to know
anything, and his sons were not at home. Young Morville was, he thought,
a spirited lad, very good natured; he had been out shooting once or
twice with Tom, and had a very fine spaniel. If he had been at the
races, the Colonel did not know it; he had some thoughts of asking him
to join their party, but had been prevented.

This was no reason, thought Philip, why Guy might not have been with Tom
Harewood without the Colonel’s knowledge. Tom was just the man to lead
him amongst those who were given to betting; he might have been drawn
in, and, perhaps, he had given some pledge of payment when he was of
age, or, possibly, obtained an immediate supply of money from the old
steward at Redclyffe, who was devotedly attached to him. If so,
Philip trusted to be able to detect it from the accounts; on the other
supposition, there was no hope of discovery.

The conversation with Colonel Harewood kept him so late that he had no
time for going, as usual, to his old haunts, at Stylehurst; nor did
he feel inclined just then to revive the saddening reflections they
excited. He spent the evening in talking over books with his sister, and
the next day proceeded on his journey to Thorndale Park.

This was one of the places where he was always the most welcome, ever
since he had been a school-boy, received in a way especially flattering,
considering that the friendship was entirely owing to the uncompromising
good sense and real kindness with which he had kept in order the follies
of his former fag.

Charles might laugh, and call them the young man and young man’s
companion, and Guy more classically term them the pious Aeneas and his
fidus Achates, but it was a friendship that did honour to both; and the
value that the Thorndales set upon Captain Morville was not misplaced,
and scarcely over-rated. Not particularly clever themselves, they the
more highly appreciated his endowments, and were proud that James had
been able to make such a friend, for they knew, as well as the rest of
the world, that Captain Morville was far from seeking the acquaintance
for the sake of their situation in life, but that it was from real
liking and esteem. How far this esteem was gained by the deference the
whole family paid to his opinion, was another question; at any rate, the
courting was from them.

The Miss Thorndales deemed Captain Morville the supreme authority in
drawing, literature, and ecclesiastical architecture; and whenever a
person came in their way who was thought handsome, always pronounced
that he was not by any means equal to James’s friend. Lady Thorndale
delighted to talk over James with him, and thank him for his kindness;
and Lord Thorndale, rather a pompous man himself, liked his somewhat
stately manners, and talked politics with him, sincerely wishing he was
his neighbour at Redclyffe, and calculating how much good he would do
there. Philip listened with interest to accounts of how the Thorndale
and Morville influence had always divided the borough of Moorworth, and,
if united, might dispose of it at will, and returned evasive answers to
questions what the young heir of Redclyffe might be likely to do.

James Thorndale drove his friend to Redclyffe, as Philip had authority
from Mr. Edmonstone to transact any business that might be required
with Markham, the steward; and, as has been said before, he expected to
discover in the accounts something that might explain why Guy had ceased
to press for the thousand pounds. However, he could find nothing amiss
in them, though--bearing in mind that it is less easy to detect the loss
of a score of sheep than of one--he subjected them to a scrutiny which
seemed by no means agreeable to the gruff old grumbling steward. He also
walked about the park, saw to the marking of certain trees that were
injuring each other; and finding that there was a misunderstanding
between Markham and the new rector, Mr. Ashford, about certain parish
matters, where the clergyman was certainly right, he bore down Markham’s
opposition with Mr. Edmonstone’s weight, and felt he was doing good
service.

He paused at the gate, and looked back at the wide domain and fine old
house. He pitied them, and the simple-hearted, honest tenantry, for
being the heritage of such a family, and the possession of one so likely
to misuse them, instead of training them into the means of conferring
benefits on them, on his country. What would not Philip himself do if
those lands were his,--just what was needed to give his talents free
scope? and what would it be to see his beautiful Laura their mistress?



CHAPTER 20

     The longing for ignoble things,
     The strife for triumph more than truth,
     The hardening of the heart, that brings
     Irreverence for the dreams of youth.
                               --LONGFELLOW


After his week at Thorndale Park, Captain Morville returned to make his
farewell visit at Hollywell, before joining his regiment at Cork, whence
it was to sail for the Mediterranean. He reckoned much on this visit,
for not even Laura herself could fathom the depth of his affection for
her, strengthening in the recesses where he so sternly concealed it, and
viewing her ever as more faultless since she had been his own. While she
was his noble, strong-minded, generous, fond Laura, he could bear with
his disappointment in his sister, with the loss of his home, and with
the trials that had made him a grave, severe man. She had proved the
strength of her mind by the self-command he had taught her, and for
which he was especially grateful to her, as it made him safer and more
unconstrained, able to venture on more demonstration than in those early
days when every look had made her blush and tremble.

Mr. Edmonstone brought the carriage to fetch him from the station, and
quickly began,--

‘I suppose, as you have not written, you have found nothing out?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And you could do nothing with him. Eh?’

‘No; I could not get a word of explanation, nor break through the fence
of pride and reserve. I must do him the justice to say that he bears the
best of characters at Oxford; and if there were any debts I could not
get at them from the tradesmen.’

‘Well, well, say no more about it; he is an ungrateful young dog, and I
am sick of it. I only wish I could wash my hands of him altogether.
It was mere folly to expect any of that set could ever come to good.
There’s everything going wrong all at once now; poor little Amy breaking
her heart after him, and, worse than all, there’s poor Charlie laid up
again,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, one of the most affectionate people in the
world; but his maundering mood making him speak of Charles’s illness as
if he only regarded it as an additional provocation for himself.

‘Charles ill!’ exclaimed Philip.

‘Yes; another, of those formations in the joint. I hoped and trusted
that was all over now; but he is as bad as ever,--has not been able to
move for a week, and goodness knows when he will again.’

‘Indeed! I am very sorry. Is there as much pain as before?’

‘Oh, yes. He has not slept a wink these four nights. Mayerne talks
of opium; but he says he won’t have it till he has seen you, he is so
anxious about this unlucky business. If anything could persuade me to
have Guy back again it would be that this eternal fretting after him is
so bad for poor Charlie.’

‘It is on Amy’s account that it is impossible to have him here,’ said
Philip.

‘Ay! He shall never set eyes on Amy again unless all this is cleared
up, which it never will be, as I desire mamma to tell her. By the bye,
Philip, Amy said something of your having a slip with Charles on the
stairs.’

There was very nearly an accident; but I believed he was not hurt. I
hope it has nothing to do with this illness?’

‘He says it was all his own fault,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘and that he
should have been actually down but for you.’

‘But is it really thought it can have caused this attack?’

‘I can hardly suppose so; but Thompson fancies there may have been some
jar. However, don’t distress yourself; I dare say it would have come on
all the same.’

Philip did not like to be forgiven by Mr. Edmonstone, and there was
something very annoying in having this mischance connected with his
name, though without his fault; nor did he wish Charles to have the kind
of advantage over him that might be derived from seeming to pass over
his share in the misfortune.

When they arrived at Hollywell, it was twilight, but no one was in the
drawing-room, generally so cheerful at that time of day; the fire had
lately been smothered with coals, and looked gloomy and desolate. Mr.
Edmonstone left Philip there, and ran up to see how Charles was, and
soon after Laura came in, sprang to his side, and held his hand in both
hers.

‘You bring no good news?’ said she, sadly, as she read the answer in his
face. ‘O! how I wish you had. It would be such a comfort now. You have
heard about poor Charlie?’

‘Yes; and very sorry I am. But, Laura, is it really thought that
accident could have occasioned it?’

‘Dr. Mayerne does not think so, only Mr. Thompson talked of remote
causes, when Amy mentioned it. I don’t believe it did any harm, and
Charlie himself says you saved him from falling down-stairs.’

Philip had begun to give Laura his version of the accident, as he had
already done to her father, when Mrs. Edmonstone came down, looking
harassed and anxious. She told her nephew that Charles was very desirous
to see him, and sent him up at once.

There was a fire in the dressing-room, and the door was open into the
little room, which was only lighted by a lamp on a small table, where
Amy was sitting at work. After shaking hands, she went away, leaving him
alone with Charles, who lay in his narrow bed against the wall, fixed
in one position, his forehead contracted with pain, his eyelids red and
heavy from sleeplessness, his eyes very quick and eager, and his hands
and arms thrown restlessly outside the coverings.

‘I am very sorry to find you here,’ said Philip, coming up to him, and
taking, rather than receiving, his hot, limp hand. ‘Is the pain very
bad?’

‘That is a matter of course,’ said Charles, in a sharp, quick manner,
his voice full of suffering. ‘I want to hear what you have been doing at
Oxford and St. Mildred’s.’

‘I am sorry I do not bring the tidings you wish.’

‘I did not expect you would. I know you too well; but I want to hear
what you have been doing--what he said,’ answered Charles, in short,
impatient sentences.

‘It can be of no use, Charlie. You are not in a state to enter on
agitating subjects.’

‘I tell you I will hear all,’ returned Charles, with increased asperity.
‘I know you will say nothing to his advantage that you can help, but
still I know you will speak what you think the truth, and I want to
judge for myself.’

‘You speak as if I was not acting for his good.’

‘Palaver!’ cried Charles, fully sensible of the advantage his illness
gave him. ‘I want the facts. Begin at the beginning. Sit down--there’s a
chair by you. Now tell me, where did you find him?’

Philip could not set Charles down in his present state, and was obliged
to submit to a cross-examination, in which he showed no abatement of his
natural acuteness, and, unsparing as he always was, laid himself under
no restraint at all. Philip was compelled to give a full history of his
researches; and if he had afforded no triumph to Guy, Charles revenged
him.

‘Pray, what did Guy say when he heard the result of this fine voyage of
discovery?’

‘I did not see him again.’

‘Not see him! not tell him he was so far justified!’

‘I had no time--at least I thought not. It would have been useless, for
while these mysteries continue, my opinion is unchanged, and there was
no benefit in renewing vain disputes.’

‘Say no more!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘You have said all I expected, and
more too. I gave you credit for domineering and prejudice, now I see it
is malignity.’

As he spoke, Laura entered from the dressing-room, and stood aghast at
the words, and then looked imploringly at her cousin. Dr. Mayerne was
following her, and Charles called out,--

‘Now, doctor, give me as much opium as you please. I only want to be
stupefied till the world has turned round, and then you may wake me.’

Philip shook hands with Dr. Mayerne, and, without betraying a shade
of annoyance, wished Charles good night; but Charles had drawn the
coverings over his head, and would not hear him.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Philip to Laura, when they were out of the room. ‘He
is a very generous partisan, and excitement and suffering make him carry
his zeal to excess.’

‘I knew you could not be angry with him.’

‘I could not be angry at this time at far more provocation given by any
one belonging to you, Laura.’

Laura’s heart had that sensation which the French call “se serrer”, as
she heard him allude to the long separation to which there seemed no
limit; but they could say no more.

‘Amy,’ said Charles, when she returned to him after dinner, ‘I am more
than ever convinced that things will right themselves. I never saw
prejudice more at fault.’

‘Did he tell you all about it?’

‘I worked out of him all I could, and it is my belief Guy had the best
of it. I only wonder he did not horsewhip Philip round the quadrangle. I
wish he had.’

‘Oh, no, no! But he controlled himself?’

‘If he had not we should have heard of it fast enough;’ and Charles told
what he had been able to gather, while she sat divided between joy and
pain.

Philip saw very little more of Charles. He used to come to ask him how
he was once a day, but never received any encouragement to lengthen his
visit. These gatherings in the diseased joint were always excessively
painful, and were very long in coming to the worst, as well as
afterwards in healing; and through the week of Philip’s stay at
Hollywell, Charles was either in a state of great suffering, or else
heavy and confused with opiates. His mother’s whole time and thoughts
were absorbed in him; she attended to him day and night, and could
hardly spare a moment for anything else. Indeed, with all her affection
and anxiety for the young lovers, Charles was so entirely her engrossing
object, that her first feeling of disappointment at the failure of
Philip’s journey of investigation was because it would grieve Charlie.
She could not think about Guy just then, and for Amy there was nothing
for it but patience; and, good little creature, it was very nice to
see her put her own troubles aside, and be so cheerful a nurse to her
brother. She was almost always in his room, for he liked to have her
there, and she could not conquer a certain shrinking from Philip.

Laura had once pleaded hard and earnestly for Guy with Philip, but
all in vain; she was only taught to think the case more hopeless than
before. Laura was a very kind nurse and sister, but she could better be
spared than her mother and Amy, so that it generally fell to her lot to
be down-stairs, making the drawing-room habitable. Dr. Mayerne, whenever
Charles was ill, used to be more at Hollywell than at his own house, and
there were few days that he did not dine there. When Amy was out of the
way, Philip used to entertain them with long accounts of Redclyffe, how
fine a place it was, how far the estate reached on the Moorworth road,
of its capacities for improvement, wastes of moorland to be enclosed or
planted, magnificent timber needing nothing but thinning. He spoke of
the number of tenantry, and the manorial rights, and the influence in
both town and county, which, in years gone by, had been proved to the
utmost in many a fierce struggle with the house of Thorndale. Sir Guy
Morville might be one of the first men in England if he were not wanting
to himself. Mr. Edmonstone enjoyed such talk, for it made him revel in
the sense of his own magnanimity in refusing his daughter to the owner
of all this; and Laura sometimes thought how Philip would have graced
such a position, yet how much greater it was to rest entirely on his own
merits.

‘Ah, my fine fellow!’ muttered Dr. Mayerne to himself one day, when
Philip and his uncle had left the room, just after a discourse of this
kind, ‘I see you have not forgotten you are the next heir.’

 Laura coloured with indignation, exclaimed, ‘Oh!’ then checked
herself, as if such an aspersion was not worthy of her taking the
trouble to refute it.

‘Ah! Miss Edmonstone, I did not know you were there.’

‘Yes, you were talking to yourself, just as if you were at home,’ said
Charlotte, who was specially pert to the old doctor, because she knew
herself to be a great pet. ‘You were telling some home truths to make
Laura angry.’

‘Well, he would make a very good use of it if he had it,’ said the
doctor.

‘Now you’ll make me angry,’ said Charlotte; ‘and you have not mended
matters with Laura. She thinks nothing short of four-syllabled words
good enough for Philip.’

‘Hush! nonsense, Charlotte!’ said Laura, much annoyed.

‘There Charlotte, she is avenging herself on you because she can’t scold
me’ said the doctor, pretending to whisper.

‘Charlotte is only growing more wild than ever for want of mamma,’ said
Laura, trying to laugh it off, but there was so much annoyance evident
about her, that Dr. Mayerne said,--

‘Seriously, I must apologize for my unlucky soliloquy; not that I
thought I was saying much harm, for I did not by any means say or
think the Captain wished Sir Guy any ill, and few men who stood next in
succession to such a property would be likely to forget it.’

‘Yes, but Philip is not like other men,’ said Charlotte, who, at
fourteen, had caught much of her brother’s power of repartee, and could
be quite as provoking, when unrestrained by any one whom she cared to
obey.

Laura felt it was more for her dignity not to notice this, and replied,
with an effort for a laugh,--

‘It must be your guilty conscience that sets you apologizing, for you
said no harm, as you observe.’

‘Yes,’ said Dr. Mayerne, good-humouredly. ‘He does very well without it,
and no doubt he would be one of the first men in the country if he had
it; but it is in very good hands now, on the whole. I don’t think, even
if the lad has been tempted into a little folly just now, that he can
ever go very far wrong.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Charlotte; ‘but Charlie and I don’t believe he has
done anything wrong.’

She spoke in a little surly decided tone, as if her opinion put an end
to the matter, and Philip’s return closed the discussion.

Divided as the party were between up-stairs and down-stairs, and in
the absence of Charles’s shrewd observation, Philip and Laura had more
opportunity of intercourse than usual, and now that his departure would
put an end to suspicion, they ventured on more openly seeking each
other. It never could be the perfect freedom that they had enjoyed
before the avowal of their sentiments, but they had many brief
conversations, giving Laura feverish, but exquisite, delight at each
renewal of his rare expressions of tenderness.

‘What are you going to do to-day?’ he asked, on the last morning before
he was to leave Hollywell. ‘I must see you alone before I go.’

She looked down, and he kept his eyes fixed on her rather sternly, for
he had never before made a clandestine appointment, and he did not like
feeling ashamed of it. At last she said,--

‘I go to East-hill School this afternoon. I shall come away at half-past
three.’

Mary Ross was still absent; her six nephews and nieces having taken
advantage of her visit to have the measles, not like reasonable
children, all at once, so as to be one trouble, but one after the other,
so as to keep Aunt Mary with them as long as possible; and Mr. Ross did
not know what would have become of the female department of his parish
but for Laura, who worked at school-keeping indefatigably.

Laura had some difficulty in shaking off Charlotte’s company this
afternoon, and was obliged to make the most of the probability of rain,
and the dreadful dirt of the roads. Indeed, she represented it as so
formidable, that Mrs. Edmonstone, who had hardly time to look out of
window, much less to go out of doors, strongly advised her to stay
at home herself; and Charlotte grew all the more eager for the fun.
Luckily, however, for Laura, Dr. Mayerne came in, laughing at the
reports of the weather; and as he was wanted to prescribe for a poor
old man in an opposite direction, he took Charlotte with him to show the
way, and she was much better pleased to have him for a companion than
the grave Laura.

Philip, in the meantime, had walked all the way to Broadstone, timing
his return exactly, that he might meet Laura as she came out of the
school, and feel as if it had been by chance. It was a gray, misty
November day, and the leaves of the elm-trees came floating round them,
yellow and damp.

‘You have had a wet walk,’ said Laura, as they met.

‘It is not quite raining,’ he answered; and they proceeded for some
minutes in silence, until he said,--‘It is time we should come to an
understanding.’

She looked at him in alarm, and his voice was immediately gentler;
indeed, at times it was almost inaudible from his strong emotion. ‘I
believe that no affection has ever been stronger or truer than ours.’

‘Has been!’ repeated Laura, in a wondering, bewildered voice.

‘And is, if you are satisfied to leave things as they are.’

‘I must be, if you are.’

‘I will not say I am satisfied with what must be, as I am situated; but
I felt it due to you to set the true state of the case before you. Few
would venture their love as I do mine with you, bound in reality, though
not formally, with no promise sought or given; yet I am not more assured
that I stand here than I am that our love is for ever.’

‘I am sure it is!’ she repeated fervently. ‘O Philip, there never was a
time I did not love you: and since that day on Ashen Down, I have loved
you with my whole heart. I am sometimes afraid it has left no proper
room for the rest, when I find how much more I think of your going away
than of poor Charles.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you have understood me as none but you would have done,
through coldness and reserve, apparently, even towards yourself, and
when to others I have seemed grave and severe beyond my years. You have
never doubted, you have recognized the warmth within; you have trusted
your happiness to me, and it shall be safe in my keeping, for, Laura, it
is all mine.’

‘There is only one thing,’ said Laura, timidly; ‘would it not be better
if mamma knew?’

‘Laura, I have considered that, but remember you are not bound; I have
never asked you to bind yourself. You might marry to-morrow, and I
should have no right to complain. There is nothing to prevent you.’

She exclaimed, as if with pain.

‘True,’ he answered; ‘you could not, and that certainty suffices me. I
ask no more without your parents’ consent; but it would be giving them
and you useless distress and perplexity to ask it now. They would object
to my poverty, and we should gain nothing; for I would never be so
selfish as to wish to expose you to such a life as that of the wife of a
poor officer; and an open engagement could not add to our confidence
in each other. We must be content to wait for my promotion. By that
time’--he smiled gravely--‘our attachment will have lasted so many years
as to give it a claim to respect.’

‘It is no new thing.’

‘No newer than our lives; but remember, my Laura, that you are but
twenty.’

‘You have made me feel much older,’ sighed Laura, ‘not that I would be a
thoughtless child again. That cannot last long, not even for poor little
Amy’

‘No one would wish to part with the deeper feelings of elder years
to regain the carelessness of childhood, even to be exempted from the
suffering that has brought them.’

‘No, indeed.’

‘For instance, these two years have scarcely been a time of great
happiness to you.’

‘Sometimes,’ whispered Laura, ‘sometimes beyond all words, but often
dreary and oppressive.’

‘Heaven knows how unwillingly I have rendered it so. Rather than dim the
brightness of your life, I would have repressed my own sentiments for
ever.’

‘But, then, where would have been my brightness?’

‘I would, I say, but for a peril to you. I see my fears were unfounded.
You were safe; but in my desire to guard you from what has come on poor
Amy, my feelings, though not wont to overpower me, carried me further
than I intended.’

‘Did they?’

‘Do not suppose I regret it. No, no, Laura; those were the most precious
moments in my life, when I drew from you those words and looks which
have been blessed in remembrance ever since; and doubly, knowing, as I
do, that you also prize that day.’

‘Yes--yes;--’

‘In the midst of much that was adverse, and with a necessity for a trust
and self-control of which scarce a woman but yourself would have been
capable, you have endured nobly--’

‘I could bear anything, if you were not going so far away,’

‘You will bear that too, Laura, and bravely. It will not be for ever.’

‘How long do you think?’

‘I cannot tell. Several years may pass before I have my promotion. It
may be that I shall not see that cheek in its fresh bloom again, but I
shall find the same Laura that I left, the same in love, and strength,
and trust.’

‘Ah; I shall grow faded and gray, and you will be a sun-burnt old
soldier,’ said Laura, smiling, and looking, half sadly, half proudly, up
to his noble features; ‘but hearts don’t change like faces!’

After they came near the house, they walked up and down the lane for a
long time, for Philip avoided a less public path, in order to keep up
his delusion that he was doing nothing in an underhand way. It grew
dark, and the fog thickened, straightening Laura’s auburn ringlets, and
hanging in dew-drops on Philip’s rough coat, but little recked they; it
was such an hour as they had never enjoyed before. Philip had never
so laid himself open, or assured her so earnestly of the force of his
affection; and her thrills of ecstasy overcame the desolate expectation
of his departure, and made her sensible of strength to bear seven, ten,
twenty years of loneliness and apparent neglect. She knew him, and he
would never fail her.

Yet, when at last they went in-doors, and Amy followed her to her room,
wondering to find her so wet, and so late, who could have seen the two
sisters without reading greater peace and serenity in the face of the
younger.

Philip felt an elder brother’s interest for poor little Amy. He did not
see much of her; but he compassionated her as a victim to her mother’s
imprudence, hoping she would soon be weaned from her attachment. He
thought her a good, patient little thing, so soft and gentle as probably
not to have the strength and depth that would make the love incurable;
and the better he liked her, the more unfit he thought her for Guy. It
would have been uniting a dove and a tiger; and his only fear was, that
when he was no longer at hand, Mr. Edmonstone’s weak good-nature might
be prevailed on to sacrifice her. He did his best for her protection, by
making his uncle express a resolution never to admit Guy into his family
again, unless the accusation of gambling was completely disproved.

The last morning came, and Philip went to take leave of Charles. Poor
Charles was feebler by this time, and too much subdued by pain and
languor to receive him as at first, but the spirit was the same; and
when Philip wished him good-bye, saying he hoped soon to hear he was
better, he returned for answer,

‘Good-bye, Philip, I hope soon to hear you are better. I had rather have
my hip than your mind.’

He was in no condition to be answered, and Philip repeated his good-bye,
little thinking how they were to meet again.

The others were assembled in the hall. His aunt’s eyes were full of
tears, for she loved him dearly, her brother’s only son, early left
motherless, whom she had regarded like her own child, and who had so
nobly fulfilled all the fondest hopes. All his overbearing ways and
uncalled-for interference were forgotten, and her voice gave way as she
embraced him, saying,

‘God bless you, Philip, wherever you may be. We shall miss you very
much!’

Little Amy’s hand was put into his, and he squeezed it kindly; but she
could hardly speak her ‘good-bye,’ for the tears that came, because she
was grieved not to feel more sorry that her highly-esteemed cousin, so
kind and condescending to her, was going away for so very long a time.

‘Good-bye, Philip,’ said Charlotte; ‘I shall be quite grown up by the
time you come home.’

‘Don’t make such uncivil auguries, Puss,’ said her father; but Philip
heard her not, for he was holding Laura’s hand in a grasp that seemed as
if it never would unclose.



CHAPTER 21

     I will sing, for I am sad,
     For many my misdeeds;
     It is my sadness makes me glad,
     For love for sorrow pleads.
                          --WILLIAMS.


After his last interview with Philip, Guy returned to his rooms to force
himself into occupation till his cousin should come to acknowledge that
here, at least, there was nothing amiss. He trusted that when it was
proved all was right in this quarter, the prejudice with regard to the
other might be diminished, though his hopes were lower since he had
found out the real grounds of the accusation, reflecting that he should
never be able to explain without betraying his uncle.

He waited in vain. The hour passed at which Philip’s coming was
possible; Guy was disappointed, but looked for a letter; but post after
post failed to bring him one. Perhaps Philip would write from Hollywell,
or else Mr. Edmonstone would write, or at least he was sure that Charles
would write--Charles, whose confidence and sympathy, expressed in almost
daily letters, had been such a comfort. But not a line came. He reviewed
in memory his last letter to Charles, wondering whether it could have
offended him; but it did not seem possible; he thought over all that
Philip could have learnt in his visit, to see if it could by any means
have been turned to his disadvantage. But he knew he had done nothing
to which blame could be attached; he had never infringed the rules
of college discipline; and though still backward, and unlikely to
distinguish himself, he believed that was the worst likely to have been
said of him. He only wished his true character was as good as what would
be reported of him.

As he thought and wondered, he grew more and more restless and unhappy.
He could imagine no reason for the silence, unless Mr. Edmonstone had
absolutely forbidden any intercourse, and it did not seem probable that
he would issue any commands in a manner to bind a grown-up son, more
especially as there had been no attempt at communication with Amy. It
was terrible thus, without warning, to be cut off from her, and all
besides that he loved. As long as Charles wrote, he fancied her sitting
by, perhaps sealing the letter, and he could even tell by the kind of
paper and envelope, whether they were sitting in the dressing-room or
down-stairs; but now there was nothing, no assurance of sympathy, no
word of kindness; they might all have given him up; those unhappy words
were like a barrier, cutting him off for ever from the happiness of
which he had once had a glimpse. Was the Redclyffe doom of sin and
sorrow really closing in upon him?

If it had not been for chapel and study, he hardly knew how he should
have got through that term; but as the end of it approached, a feverish
impatience seized on him whenever the post came in, for a letter, if
only to tell him not to come to Hollywell. None came, and he saw nothing
for it but to go to Redclyffe; and if he dreaded seeing it in its
altered state when his spirits were high and unbroken, how did he shrink
from it now! He did, however, make up his mind, for he felt that his
reluctance almost wronged his own beloved home. Harry Graham wanted to
persuade him to come and spend Christmas at his home, with his lively
family, but Guy felt as if gaiety was not for him, even if he could
enjoy it. He did not wish to drown his present feelings, and steadily,
though gratefully, refused this as well as one or two other friendly
invitations.

After lingering in vain till the last day of term, he wrote to desire
that his own room and the library might be made ready for him, and that
‘something’ might be sent to meet him at Moorworth.

Railroads had come a step nearer, even to his remote corner of the world,
in the course of the last three years; but there was still thirty miles
of coach beyond, and these lay through a part of the country he had
never seen before. It was for the most part bleak, dreary moor, such as,
under the cold gray wintry sky, presented nothing to rouse him from his
musings on the welcome he might have been at that very moment receiving
at Hollywell.

A sudden, dip in the high ground made it necessary for the coach to
put on the drag, and thus it slowly entered a village, which attracted
attention from its wretched appearance. The cottages, of the rough stone
of the country, were little better than hovels; slates were torn off,
windows broken. Wild-looking uncombed women, in garments of universal
dirt colour, stood at the doors; ragged children ran and shrieked after
the coach, the church had a hole in the roof, and stood tottering in
spite of rude repairs; the churchyard was trodden down by cattle, and
the whole place only resembled the pictures of Irish dilapidation.

‘What miserable place is this?’ asked a passenger. ‘Yes, that’s what all
gentlemen ask,’ replied the coachman; ‘and well you may. There’s not a
more noted place for thieves and vagabonds. They call it Coombe Prior.’

Guy well knew the name, though he had never been there. It was a distant
offset of his own property, and a horrible sense of responsibility for
all the crime and misery there came over him.

‘Is there no one to look; after it?’ continued the traveller. ‘No
squire, no clergyman?’

‘A fox-hunting parson,’ answered the coachman; ‘who lives half-a-dozen
miles off, and gallops over for the service.’

Guy knew that the last presentation had been sold in the days of his
grandfather’s extravagance, and beheld another effect of ancestral sin.

‘Do you know who is the owner of the place?’

‘Yes, sir; ‘tis Sir Guy Morville. You have heard tell of the old Sir Guy
Morville, for he made a deal of noise in the world.’

‘What! The noted--’

‘I ought not to allow you to finish your sentence,’ said Guy, very
courteously, ‘without telling you that I am his grandson.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ exclaimed the traveller.

‘Nay,’ said Guy, with a smile; ‘I only thought it was fair to tell you.’

‘Sir Guy himself!’ said the coachman, turning round, and touching his
hat, anxious to do the honours of his coach. ‘I have not seen you on
this road before, sir, for I never forget a face; I hope you’ll often be
this way.’

After a few more civilities, Guy was at liberty to attend to the fresh
influx of sad musings on thoughtless waste affecting not only the
destiny of the individual himself, but whole generations besides. How
many souls might it not have ruined? ‘These sheep, what had they done!’
His grandfather had repented, but who was to preach repentance unto
these? He did not wonder now that his own hopes of happiness had been
blighted; he only marvelled that a bright present or future had ever
been his--


        While souls were wandering far and wide,
        And curses swarmed on every side.


The traveller was, meanwhile, observing the heir of Redclyffe, possessor
of wealth and wide lands. Little did he guess how that bright-eyed youth
looked upon his riches.

Miles were passed in one long melancholy musing, till Guy was roused by
the sight of familiar scenes, and found himself rattling over the stones
of the little borough of Moorworth, with the gray, large-windowed,
old-fashioned houses, on each side, looking at him with friendly eyes.
There, behind those limes cut out in arches, was the commercial school,
where he had spent many an hour in construing with patient Mr. Potts;
and though he had now a juster appreciation of his old master’s
erudition, which he had once thought so vast, he recollected with
veneration his long and patient submission to an irksome, uncongenial
life. Rumbling on, the coach was in the square market-place, the
odd-looking octagon market-house in the middle, and the inn--the
respectable old ‘George’--with its long rank of stables and
out-buildings forming one side. It was at this inn that Guy had been
born, and the mistress having been the first person who had him in her
arms, considered herself privileged to have a great affection for him,
and had delighted in the greetings he always exchanged with her when he
put up his pony at her stable, and went to his tutor.

There was a certainty of welcome here that cheered him, as he swung
himself from the roof of the coach, lifted Bustle down, and called out
to the barmaid that he hoped Mrs. Lavers was well.

The next moment Mrs. Lavers was at the door herself, with her broad,
good-humoured face, close cap, bright shawl, and black gown, just as Guy
always recollected, and might, if he could, have recollected, when he
was born. If she had any more guests she neither saw nor cared for
them; her welcome was all for him; and he could not but smile and look
cheerful, if only that he might not disappoint her, feeling, in very
truth, cheered and gratified by her cordiality. If he was in a hurry,
he would not show it; and he allowed her to seat him in her own peculiar
abode, behind the glass-cases of tongue and cold chicken, told her he
came from Oxford, admired her good fire, and warmed his hands over it,
before he even asked if the ‘something’ had arrived which was to take
him home. It was coming to the door at the moment, and proved to be Mr.
Markham’s tall, high-wheeled gig, drawn by the old white-faced chestnut,
and driven by Markham himself--a short, sturdy, brown-red, honest-faced
old man, with frosted hair and whiskers, an air more of a yeoman than
of a lawyer; and though not precisely gentlemanlike, yet not
ungentlemanlike, as there was no pretension about him.

Guy darted out to meet him, and was warmly shaken by the hand, though
the meeting was gruff.

‘So, Sir Guy! how d’ye do? I wonder what brings you here on such short
notice? Good morning, Mrs. Lavers. Bad roads this winter.’

‘Good morning, Mr. Markham. It is a treat, indeed, to have Sir Guy here
once more; so grown, too.’

‘Grown--hum!’ said Markham, surveying him; ‘I don’t see it. He’ll never
be as tall as his father. Have you got your things, Sir Guy? Ay, that’s
the way,--care for nothing but the dog. Gone on by the coach, most
likely.’

They might have been, for aught Guy knew to the contrary, but Boots had
been more attentive, and they were right. Mrs. Lavers begged he would
walk in, and warm himself; but Markham answered,--

‘What do you say, Sir Guy? The road is shocking, and it will be as dark
as a pit by the time we get home.’

‘Very well; we won’t keep old Whiteface standing,’ said Guy. ‘Good-bye,
Mrs. Lavers thank you. I shall see you again before long.’

Before Markham had finished a short private growl on the shocking state
of the Moorworth pavement, and a protest that somebody should be called
over the coals, Guy began,--’

‘What a horrible place Coombe Prior is!’

‘I only know I wish you had more such tenants as Todd,’ was Markham’s
answer. ‘Pays his rent to a day, and improves his land.’

‘But what sort of man is he?’

‘A capital farmer. A regular screw, I believe; but that is no concern of
mine.’

‘There are all the cottages tumbling down.’

‘Ay? Are they? I shouldn’t wonder, for they are all in his lease; and he
would not lay out an unproductive farthing. And a precious bad lot they
are there, too! There were actually three of them poaching in Cliffstone
hanger this autumn; but we have them in jail. A pretty pass of impudence
to be coming that distance to poach.’

Guy used to be kindled into great wrath by the most distant hint of
poachers; but now he cared for men, not for game; and instead of asking,
as Markham expected, the particulars of their apprehension, continued--

‘The clergyman is that Halroyd, is he not?’

‘Yes; every one knows what he is. I declare it went against me to take
his offer for the living; but it could not be helped. Money must be had;
but there! least said, soonest mended.’

‘We must mend it,’ said Guy, so decidedly, that Markham looked at him
with surprise.

‘I don’t see what’s to be done till Halroyd dies; and then you may give
the living to whom you please. He lives so hard he can’t last long, that
is one comfort.’

Guy sighed and pondered; and presently Markham resumed the conversation.

‘And what has brought you home at a moment’s notice? You might as well
have written two or three days before, at least.’

‘I was waiting in hopes of going to Hollywell,’ said Guy sorrowfully.

‘Well, and what is the matter? You have not been quarrelling with your
guardian, I hope and trust! Going the old way, after all!’ exclaimed
Markham, not in his usual gruff, grumbling note, but with real anxiety,
and almost mournfulness.

‘He took up some unjust suspicion of me. I could not bear it patiently,
and said something that has offended him.’

‘Oh, Sir Guy! hot and fiery as ever. I always told you that hasty temper
would be the ruin of you.’

‘Too true!’ said Guy, so dejectedly, that the old man instantly grew
kinder, and was displeased with Mr. Edmonstone.

‘What could he have taken into his head to suspect you of?’

‘Of gaming at St. Mildred’s.’

‘You have not?’

‘Never!’

‘Then why does not he believe you?’

‘He thinks he has proof against me. I can’t guess how he discovered it;
but I was obliged to pay some money to a gambling sort of man, and he
thinks I lost it.’

‘Then why don’t you show him your accounts?’

‘For one reason--because I have kept none.’

As if it was an immense relief to his mind, Markham launched out into a
discourse on the extreme folly, imprudence, and all other evils of
such carelessness. He was so glad to find this was the worst, that
his lecture lasted for two miles and a half, during which Guy, though
attentive at first, had ample space for all the thrills of recognition
at each well-known spot.

There was the long green-wooded valley between the hills where he had
shot his first woodcock; there was the great stone on which he had
broken his best knife in a fit of geological research; there was the
pool where he used to skate; there the sudden break in the lulls that
gave the first view of the sea. He could not help springing up at the
sight--pale, leaden, and misty as it was; and though Markham forthwith
rebuked him for not listening, his heart was still beating as at the
first sight of a dear old friend, when that peep was far behind. More
black heaths, with stacks of peat and withered ferns. Guy was straining
his eyes far off in the darkness to look for the smoke of the old
keeper’s cottage chimney, and could with difficulty refrain from
interrupting Markham to ask after the old man.

Another long hill, and then began a descent into a rich valley,
beautiful fields of young wheat, reddish soil, full of fatness, large
spreading trees with noble limbs, cottages, and cottage gardens, very
unlike poor Coombe Prior; Markham’s house--a perfect little snuggery
covered all over with choice climbing plants, the smart plastered
doctor’s house, the Morville Arms, looking honest and venerable, the
church, with its disproportionately high tower, the parsonage rather
hidden behind it; and, on the opposite side of the road, the park-wall
and the gate, where old Sarah stood, in an ecstasy of curtsies.

Guy jumped out to meet her, and to spare Whiteface; for there was a
sharp, steep bit of hill, rising from the lodge, trying to horses, in
spite of the road being cut out in long spirals. On he ran, leaving the
road to Markham, straight up the high, steep, slippery green slope. He
came in sight at the great dark-red sandstone pile of building; but he
passed it, and ran on to where the ground rose on one side of it still
more abruptly, and at the highest point was suddenly broken away and cut
off into a perpendicular crag, descending in some parts sheer down to
the sea, in others a little broken, and giving space for the growth of
stunted brushwood. He stood at the highest point, where the precipice
was most abrupt. The sea was dashing far beneath; the ripple, dash, and
roar were in his ears once more; the wind--such wind as only blows over
the sea--was breathing on his face; the broad, free horizon far before
him; the field of waves, in gray and brown shade indeed, but still his
own beloved waves; the bay, shut in with rocks, and with Black Shag
Island and its train of rocks projecting far out to the west, and almost
immediately beneath him, to the left, the little steep street of the
fishing part of the village, nestled into the cove, which was formed
by the mouth of a little mountain-stream, and the dozen boats it could
muster rocking on the water.

Guy stood and looked as if he could never cease looking, or enjoying the
sea air and salt breeze. It was real pleasure at first, for there were
his home, his friends, and though there was a throb and tightness of
heart at thinking how all was changed but such as this, and how all must
change; how he had talked with Amy of this very thing, and had longed to
have her standing beside him there; yet there was more of soothing than
suffering in the sensation.

So many thoughts rushed through his mind, that he fancied he had stood
there a long time, when he turned and hastened down again, but he had
been so rapid as to meet Markham before the servants had had time to
miss him.

The servants were indeed few. There was, alas! William of Deloraine,
waiting to hold Whiteface; there was Arnaud, an old Swiss, first courier
and then butler to old Sir Guy; there was Mrs. Drew, the housekeeper,
also a very old servant; and these were all; but their welcome was of
the heartiest, in feeling, if not in demonstration as the gig went with
an echoing, thundering sound under the deep archway that led into the
paved quadrangle; round which the house was built, that court where, as
Philip had truly averred, the sun hardly ever shone, so high were the
walls on each side.

Up the stone steps into the spacious dark hall, and into the large,
gloomy library, partially lighted by a great wood fire, replying to Mrs.
Drew’s questions about his dinner and his room, and asking Markham to
stay and dine with him, Guy at length found himself at home, in the
very room where he had spent every evening of his boyhood, with the same
green leather arm-chair, in the very place where his grandfather used to
sit.

Markham consented to dine with him, and the evening was spent in talking
over the news of Redclyffe. Markham spoke with much bitterness of the
way in which Captain Morville had taken upon him; his looking into the
accounts, though any one was welcome to examine them, was, he thought,
scarcely becoming in so young a man--the heir-at-law, too.

‘He can’t help doing minutely whatever he undertakes,’ said Guy. If you
had him here, you would never have to scold him like me.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Markham, hastily. ‘I know the same place would not
hold him and me long.’

‘You have told me nothing of our new vicar. How do you get on with him?’

‘None the better for that same Captain Morville,’ replied Markham,
plunging forthwith into his list of grievances, respecting which he was
waging a petty warfare, in the belief that he was standing up for his
master’s rights.

Mr. Bernard, the former clergyman, had been a quiet, old-fashioned man,
very kind-hearted, but not at all active, and things had gone on in
a sleepy, droning, matter-of-fact way, which Markham being used to,
thought exactly what ought to be. Now, Mr. Ashford was an energetic
person, desirous to do his utmost for the parish, and whatever he did
was an offence to Markham, from the daily service, to the objecting to
the men going out fishing on Sunday. He opposed every innovation with
all his might, and Captain Morville’s interference, which had borne
Markham down with Mr. Edmonstone’s authority, had only made him more
determined not to bate an inch. He growled every time Guy was inclined
to believe Mr. Ashford in the right, and brought out some fresh
complaint. The grand controversy was at present about the school.
There was a dame’s school in the cove or fishing part of the parish,
maintained at the expense of the estate, in a small cottage far from the
church, and Mr. and Mrs. Ashford had fixed their eyes on a house in the
village, and so near the church as to be very convenient for a Sunday
School. It only wanted to be floored, and to have a partition taken
down, but to this Markham would not consent, treating it as a monstrous
proposal to take away the school from old Jenny Robinson.

‘I suppose Mr. Ashford meant to pension her off?’ said Guy.

‘He did say something about it; but who is to do it, I should like to
know?’

‘We are, I suppose.’

‘Pay two schoolmistresses mistresses at once! One for doing nothing! A
pretty tolerable proposal for Mr. Ashford to be making?’

‘I don’t see why. Of course it is my business!’

‘Besides, I don’t see that she is not as fit to keep school as ever she
was.’

‘That may well be,’ said Guy, smiling. ‘We never used to be noted for
our learning.’

‘Don’t you be for bringing new lights into the parish, Sir Guy, or we
shall never have any more peace.’

‘I shall see about old Jenny,’ answered Guy. ‘As to the house, that must
be done directly. Her cottage is not fit to keep school in.’

Grunt, grunt; but though a very unbending viceroy, a must from the
reigning baronet had a potent effect on Markham, whether it was for good
or evil. He might grumble, but he never disobeyed, and the boy he was
used to scold and order had found that Morville intonation of the must,
which took away all idea of resistance. He still, however remonstrated.

‘As you please, Sir Guy, but we shall have the deer frightened, and the
plantations cut to pieces, if the boys from the Cove are to be crossing
the park.’

‘I’ll be answerable for all the damage. If they are once properly spoken
to, they will be on honour to behave well. I have seen a little of what
a village school ought to be at East-hill, and I should like to see
Redclyffe like it.’

Grunt again; and Guy found that to make Markham amiable, he must inquire
after all his nephews and nieces.

All the evening he had much to occupy him, and the dreaded sense
of solitude and bereavement did not come on till he had parted with
Markham, and stood alone before the fire in the large, gloomy room,
where the light of the lamp seemed absorbed in the darkness of the
distant corners, and where he had scarcely been since the moment when
he found his grandfather senseless in that very chair. How different
had that room once been in his eyes, when his happy spirits defied every
association of gloom, and the bookshelves, the carved chairs, the heavy
dark-green curtains and deep windows were connected with merry freaks,
earnest researches, delightful achievements or discoveries! How long ago
that time seemed! and how changed was he!

There was a certain tendency to melancholy in Guy’s mind. High spirits,
prosperity, and self-discipline, had kept it from developing itself
until the beginning of his troubles, but since that time it had been
gradually gaining ground, and this was a time of great suffering, as he
stood alone in his forefathers’ house, and felt himself, in his early
youth, a doomed man, destined to bear the penalty of their crimes in the
ruin of his dearest hopes, as if his heirloom of misery had but waited
to seize on him till the very moment when it would give him the most to
endure.

‘But bear it, I must and will!’ said he, lifting his head from the
carved chimney-piece, where he had been resting it. ‘I have been in will
a murderer myself, and what right have I to repine like the Israelites,
with their self-justifying proverb? No; let me be thankful that I was
not given up even then, but have been able to repent, and do a little
better next time. It will be a blessing as yet ungranted to any of us,
if indeed I should bear to the full the doom of sorrow, so that it may
be vouchsafed me only to avoid actual guilt. Yes, Amy, your words are
still with me--“Sintram conquered his doom,”--and it was by following
death! Welcome, then, whatever may be in store for me, were it even a
long, cheerless life without you, Amy. There is another world!’

With the energy of freshened resolution, he lighted his candle, and
walked, with echoing steps, up the black oak staircase, along the broad
gallery, up another flight, down another passage, to his own room. He
had expressly written ‘his own room,’ and confirmed it on his arrival,
or Mrs. Drew would have lodged him as she thought more suitably for the
master of the house. Nothing had been done to alter its old familiar
aspect, except lighting a fire, which he had never seen there before.
There were all his boyish treasures, his bows and arrows, his collection
of birds’ wings, his wonderful weapons and contrivances, from his
fire-balloon down to the wren’s-egg, all just as he left them, their
good condition attesting the care that Mrs. Drew had taken for his sake.

He renewed his acquaintance with them with a sort of regretful affection
and superiority; but there was a refreshment in these old memories which
aided the new feeling of life imparted to him by his resolution to bear.
Nor had he only to bear, he had also to do; and before the late hour at
which he fell asleep, he had made up his mind what was the first step
to be taken about Coombe Priory, and had remembered with rejoicing that
whereas he had regretted leaving the chapel at college which had so
comforted and helped him, there was now daily service at Redclyffe
Church. The last thing in his mind, before reflection was lost in sleep,
was this stanza--


     Gales from Heaven, if so He will,
     Sweeter melodies may wake
     On the lowly mountain rill
     Than the meeting waters make.
     Who hath the Father and the Son,
     May be left, but not alone.



CHAPTER 22

     And when the solemn deep church-bell
     Entreats the soul to pray,
     The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
     The shadows sweep away.

     Down the broad Vale of Tears afar,
     The spectral camp is fled;
     Faith shineth as a morning star,
     Our ghastly fears are dead.
                           --LONGFELLOW


Mr. Ashford was a connection of Lady Thorndale’s, and it was about a
year since the living of Redclyffe had been presented to him. Mr. and
Mrs. Ashford were of course anxious to learn all they could about their
young squire, on whom the welfare of the parish depended, even more than
in most cases, as the whole was his property. Their expectations were
not raised by Mr. Markham’s strenuous opposition to all their projects,
and his constant appeals to the name of ‘Sir Guy’; but, on the other
hand, they were pleased by the strong feeling of affection that all the
villagers manifested for their landlord.

The inhabitants of Redclyffe were a primitive race, almost all related
to each other, rough and ignorant, and with a very strong feudal feeling
for ‘Sir Guy,’ who was king, state, supreme authority, in their eyes;
and Mrs. Ashford further found that ‘Master Morville,’ as the old women
called him in his individual character, was regarded by them with great
personal affection.

On the occasion when Captain Morville came to Redclyffe, and left James
Thorndale to spend a couple of hours at the parsonage, they interrogated
the latter anxiously on his acquaintance with Sir Guy. He had not the
least idea of creating prejudice, indeed, he liked him as a companion,
but he saw everything through the medium of his friend, and spoke
something to this effect: He was very agreeable; they would like his
manners; he was tolerably clever, but not to be named in the same day
with his cousin for abilities, far less in appearance. Very pleasant,
generally liked, decidedly a taking man; but there was some cloud over
him just now--debts, probably. Morville had been obliged to go to Oxford
about it; but Mr. Thorndale did not profess to understand it, as of
course Morville said as little of it as he could. Thereupon all began to
admire the aforesaid Morville, already known by report, and whose fine
countenance and sensible conversation confirmed all that had been said
of him.

And as, after his interference, Mr. Markham’s opposition became surly,
as well as sturdy, and Sir Guy’s name was sure to stand arrayed against
them whichever way they turned, the younger part of the family learnt to
regard him somewhat in the light of an enemy, and their elders awaited
his majority with more of fear than of hope.

‘Mamma!’ cried Edward Ashford, rushing in, so as to bring the first news
to his mother, who had not been to the early service, ‘I do believe Sir
Guy is come!’

‘Sir Guy was at church!’ shouted Robert, almost at the same moment.

Mr. Ashford confirmed the intelligence.

‘I saw him speaking, after church, to some of the old men, so afterwards
I went to ask old John Barton, and found him with tears in his eyes,
positively trembling with delight, for he said he never thought to have
heard his cheery voice again, and that he was coming down by and by to
see the last letter from Ben, at sea.’

‘That is very nice! Shall you call?’

‘Yes. Even if he is only here for a day or two, it will be better to
have made the acquaintance.’

Mr. Ashford went to the Park at two in the afternoon, and did not return
till near four.

‘Well,’ said he, ‘it is as James Thorndale says, there is something very
prepossessing about him.’

‘Have you been there all this time?’

‘Yes. He was not at home; so I left my card, and was coming away, when I
met him at the turn leading to the Cove. He need not have seen me unless
he had liked, but he came up in a good-natured cordial way, and thanked
me for coming to call.’

‘Is he like his cousin?’

‘Not in the least; not nearly so tall or so handsome, but with a very
pleasant face, and seeming made up of activity, very slight, as if he
was all bone and sinew. He said he was going to see the Christmas ox
at the farm, and asked me to come with him. Presently we came to a high
gate, locked up. He was over it in an instant, begged me to wait while
he ran on to the farm for the key, and was back in a second with it.’

‘Did he enter on any of the disputed subjects!’

‘He began himself about the school, saying the house should be altered
directly; and talked over the whole matter very satisfactorily;
undertook himself to speak to Jenny Robinson; and was very glad to hear
you meant her still to keep the infants at the Cove; so I hope that
matter is in a right train.’

‘If Mr. Markham will but let him.’

‘O, he is king or more here! We met Markham at the farm; and the first
thing, after looking at the cattle, Sir Guy found some planks lying
about, and said they were the very thing for flooring the school.
Markham mentioned some barn they were intended for, but Sir Guy said the
school must be attended to at once, and went with us to look at it. That
was what kept me so long, measuring and calculating; and I hope it may
be begun in a week.’

‘This is delightful! What more could we wish?’

‘I don’t think he will give trouble in parish matters, and in personal
intercourse he will be sure to be most agreeable. I wish I knew there
was nothing amiss. It seems strange for him to come here for the
vacation, instead of going to his guardian’s, as usual, and altogether
he had an air of sadness and depression, not like a youth, especially
such an active one. I am afraid something is wrong; those engaging
people are often unstable. One thing I forgot to tell you. We were
walking through that belt of trees on the east side of the hill, when
he suddenly called out to ask how came the old ash-tree to be marked.
Markham answered in his gruff way, it was not his doing, but the
Captain’s. He turned crimson, and began some angry exclamation, but as
Markham was going on to tell something else about it, he stopped him
short, saying, ‘Never mind! I dare say it’s all right. I don’t want to
hear any more!’ And I don’t think he spoke much again till we got into
the village. I am afraid there is some misunderstanding between the
cousins.’

‘Or more likely Mr. Markham is teaching him some jealousy of his heir.
We could not expect two Captain Morvilles in one family, and I am glad
it is no worse.’

All that the Ashfords further saw of their young baronet made an
impression in his favour; every difficulty raised by the steward
disappeared; their plans were forwarded, and they heard of little but
his good-nature to the poor people; but still they did not know how far
to trust these appearances, and did not yet venture to form an opinion
on him, or enter into intimacy.

‘So the singers will not come to us on Christmas Eve, because they say
they must go to the Park,’ said Edward, rather savagely.

‘I was thinking,’ said Mrs. Ashford, ‘how forlorn it will be for that
poor youth to spend his Christmas-day alone in that great house. Don’t
you think we might ask him to dinner?’

Before Mr. Ashford could answer, the boys made such an uproar at the
proposal of bringing a stranger to spoil their Christmas, that their
parents gave up the idea.

It was that Christmas-day that Guy especially dreaded, as recalling so
many contrasts both with those passed here and at Hollywell. Since his
return, he had been exerting himself to attend to what he felt to be
his duty, going about among his people, arranging for their good or
pleasure, and spending a good deal of time over his studies. He had
written to Mr. Ross, to ask his advice about Coombe Prior, and had set
Markham, much against his will, to remonstrate with Farmer Todd about
the repairs; but though there was a sort of satisfaction in doing these
things--though the attachment of his dependants soothed him, and brought
a new sense of the relation between himself and them--though views
of usefulness were on each side opening before him--yet there was a
dreariness about everything; he was weary even while he undertook and
planned energetically; each new project reminding him that there was no
Amy to plan with him. He could not sufficiently care for them.

Still more dreary was his return to his old haunts, and to the scenery
which he loved so devotedly--the blue sea and purple hills, which had
been like comrades and playfellows, before he had known what it was to
have living companions. They used to be everything to him, and he
had scarcely a wish beyond; afterwards his dreams had been of longing
affection for them, and latterly the idea of seeing Amy love them and
admire them had been connected with every vision of them; and now the
sight of the reality did but recall the sense that their charm had
departed; they could no longer suffice to him as of old; and their
presence brought back to him, with fresh pangs of disappointment,
the thought of lost happiness and ruined hopes, as if Amy alone could
restore their value.

The depression of his spirits inclined him to dwell at present more
on the melancholy history of his parents than on anything else. He had
hitherto only heard the brief narration of his grandfather, when he
could ask no questions; but he now obtained full particulars from
Markham, who, when he found him bent on hearing all, related everything,
perhaps intending it as a warning against the passions which, when
once called into force, he dreaded to find equally ungovernable in his
present master.

Mr. Morville had been his great pride and glory, and, in fact, had been
so left to his care, as to have been regarded like a son of his own. He
had loved him, if possible, better than Guy, because he had been more
his own; he had chosen his school, and given him all the reproofs which
had ever been bestowed on him with his good in view, and how he had
grieved for him was never known to man. It was the first time he had
ever talked it over, and he described, with strong, deep feeling, the
noble face and bearing of the dark-eyed, gallant-looking stripling, his
generosity and high spirit tainted and ruined by his wild temper and
impatience of restraint. There seemed to have been a great sweetness of
disposition, excellent impulses, and so strong a love of his father, in
spite of early neglect and present resentment, as showed what he might
have been with only tolerable training, which gave Guy’s idea of him
more individuality than it had ever had before, and made him better
understand what his unhappy grandfather’s remorse had been. Guy doubted
for a moment whether it had not been selfish to make Markham narrate the
history of the time when he had suffered so much; and Markham, when he
had been led into telling it, and saw the deepening sadness on his young
master’s countenance, wished it had not been told, and ended by saying
it was of no use to stir up what was better forgotten.

He would have regretted the telling it still more if he had known how
Guy acted it all over in his solitude; picturing his father standing an
outcast at the door of his own home, yielding his pride and resentment
for the sake of his wife, ready to do anything, yearning for
reconciliation, longing to tread once more the friendly, familiar hall,
and meeting only the angry repulse and cruel taunt! He imagined
the headlong passion, the despair, the dashing on his horse in
whirlwind-like swiftness, then the blow--the fall--the awful stillness
of the form carried back to his father’s house, and laid on that table
a dead man! Fierce wrath--then another world! Guy worked himself up in
imagining the horror of the scene, till it was almost as if he had been
an actor in it.

Yet he had never cared so much for the thought of his father as for
his mother. His yearning for her which he had felt in early days at
Hollywell, had returned in double force, as he now fancied that she
would have been here to comfort him, and to share his grief, to be a
Mrs. Edmonstone, whose love no fault and no offence could ever cancel.

He rode to Moorworth, and made Mrs. Lavers tell him all she remembered.
She was nothing loath, and related how she had been surprised by Mr.
Morville arriving with his fair, shrinking young wife, and how she had
rejoiced in his coming home again. She described Mrs. Morville with
beautiful blue eyes and flaxen hair, looking pale and delicate, and with
clinging caressing ways like a little child afraid to be left.

‘Poor thing!’ said Mrs. Lavers, wiping her eyes; ‘when he was going, she
clung about him, and cried, and was so timid about being left, that at
last he called me, and begged me to stay with her, and take care of her.
It was very pretty to see how gentle and soft he was to her, sharp and
hasty as he was with most; and she would not let him go, coaxing him not
to stay away long; till at last he put her on the sofa, saying, “There,
there, Marianne, that will do. Only be a good child, and I’ll come for
you.” I never forget those words, for they were the last I ever heard
him speak.’

‘Well?’

‘Poor dear! she cried heartily at first; but after a time she cheered
up, and quite made friends with me. I remember she told me which were
Mr. Morville’s favourite songs, and sang little scraps of them.’

‘Can you remember what they were?’ eagerly exclaimed Guy.

‘Law, no, air; I never had no head for music. And she laughed about her
journey to Scotland, and got into spirits, only she could not bear I
should go out of the room; and after a time she grew very anxious for
him to come back. I made her some tea, and tried to get her to bed,
but she would not go, though she seemed very tired; for she said Mr.
Morville would come to take her to Redclyffe, and she wanted to hear all
about the great house, listening for him all the time, and I trying to
quiet her, and telling her the longer he stayed the better chance there
was. Then came a call for me, and down-stairs I found everything in
confusion; the news had come--I never knew how. I had not had time to
hear it rightly myself, when there was a terrible cry from up-stairs.
Poor thing! whether she thought he was come, or whether her mind misgave
her, she had come after me to the head of the stairs, and heard what
they were saying. I don’t believe she ever rightly knew what had
happened, for before I could get to her she had fainted; and she was
very ill from that moment.’

‘And it was the next day she died!’ said Guy, looking up, after a long
silence. ‘Did she--could she take any notice of me?’

‘No, sir; she lived but half an hour, or hardly that, after you were
born.’ I told her it was a son; but she was not able to hear or mind me,
and sank away, fainting like. I fancied I heard her say something like
“Mr. Morville,” but I don’t know; and her breath was very soon gone.
Poor dear!’ added Mrs. Lavers, wiping away her tears. ‘I grieved for her
as if she had been my own child; but then I thought of her waking up to
hear he was dead. I little thought then, Sir Guy, that I should ever see
you stand there,--strong and well grown. I almost thought you were dead
already when I sent for Mr. Harrison to baptize you.’

‘Was it you that did so?’ said Guy, his face, mournful before, lighting
up in a sudden beam of gratitude. ‘Then I have to thank you for more
than all the world besides.’

‘Law, sir!’ said Mrs. Lavers, smiling, and looking pleased, though as
if but half entering into his meaning. ‘Yes, it was in that very china
bowl; I have kept it choice ever since, and never let it be used for
anything. I thought it was making very bold, but the doctor and all
thought you could not live, and Mr. Harrison might judge. I was very
glad just before he came that Mr. Markham came from Redclyffe. He had
not been able to leave poor Sir Guy before.’

Guy soon after set out on his homeward ride. His yearning to hear of
his mother had been satisfied; but though he could still love the fair,
sweet vision summoned up by her name, he was less disposed to feel that
it had been hard upon him that she died. It was not Amy. In spite of his
tender compassion and affection, he knew that he had not lost a Verena
in her. None could occupy that place save Amy; and his mind,
from custom, reverted to Amy as still his own, thrilled like a
freshly-touched wound, and tried to realize the solace that even yet she
might be praying for him.

It was dreariness and despondency by day, and he struggled with it by
energy and occupation; but it was something even worse in the evening,
in the dark, solitary library, where the very size of the room gave
an additional sense of loneliness; and in the silence he could hear,
through the closed shutters, the distant plash and surge of the tide,--a
sound, of which, in former years, he had never been sensible. There,
evening after evening, he sat,--his attention roaming from his
employment to feed on his sad reflections.

One evening he went to the large dark dining-room, unlocked the door,
which echoed far through the house, and found his way through the
packed-up furniture to a picture against the wall, to which he held up
his light. It was a portrait by Lely, a half-length of a young man, one
hand on his sword, the other holding his plumed hat. His dark chestnut
hair fell on each side of a bright youthful face, full of life and
health, and with eyes which, even in painting, showed what their
vividness must have been. The countenance was full of spirit and joy;
but the mouth was more hard and stern than suited the rest; and there
was something in the strong, determined grasp of the sword, which made
it seem as if the hand might be a characteristic portrait. In the corner
of the picture was the name--‘Hugo Morville. AEt. 2O, 1671.’

Guy stood holding up his light, and looking fixedly at it for a
considerable time. Strange thoughts passed through his mind as the
pictured eyes seemed to gaze piercingly down into his own. When he
turned away, he muttered aloud,--

‘He, too, would have said--“Is thy servant a dog, that he should do
this?”’

It seemed to him as if he had once been in a happier, better world, with
the future dawning brightly on him; but as if that once yielding to the
passions inherited from that wretched man, had brought on him the doom
of misery. He had opened the door to the powers of evil, and must bear
the penalty.

These feelings might partly arise from its having been only now that,
had all been well, he could have been with Amabel; so that it seemed as
if he had never hitherto appreciated the loss. He had at first comforted
himself by thinking it was better to be without her than to cause her
distress; but now he found how hard it was to miss her--his bright
angel. Darkness was closing on him; a tedious, aimless life spread out
before him; a despair of doing good haunted him, and with it a sense of
something like the presence of an evil spirit, triumphing in his having
once put himself within its grasp.

It was well for Guy that he was naturally active, and had acquired
power over his own mind. He would not allow himself to brood over
these thoughts by day, and in the evening he busied himself as much as
possible with his studies, or in going over with Markham matters that
would be useful to him to know when he came to the management of his
property. Yet still these thoughts would thicken on him, in spite of
himself, every evening when he sat alone in the library.

The late hours of Christmas Eve was the time when he had most to suffer.
The day had been gloomy and snowy, and he had spent it almost entirely
in solitude, with no companion or diversion to restore the tone of his
mind, when he had tried it with hard study. He tried to read, but it
would not do; and he was reduced to sit looking at the fire, recalling
this time last year, when he had been cutting holly, helping the sisters
to deck the house, and in the evening enjoying a merry Christmas party,
full of blitheness and glee, where there were, of course, special
recollections of Amabel.

As usual, he dwelt on the contrast, mused on the estrangement of Mrs.
Edmonstone, and tormented himself about Charles’s silence, till he fell
into the more melancholy train of thought of the destiny of his race.

Far better for him to bear all alone than to bring on Amy grief and
horror, such as had fallen on his own mother, but it was much to bear
that loneliness and desolation for a lifetime. The brow was contracted,
and the lip drawn into a resolute expression of keeping down suffering,
like that of a man enduring acute bodily pain; as Guy was not yielding,
he was telling himself--telling the tempter, who would have made him
give up the struggle--that it was only for a life, and that it was shame
and ingratitude to be faint-hearted, on the very night when he ought to
be rejoicing that One had come to ruin the power of the foe, and set him
free. But where was his rejoicing? Was he cheered,--was he comforted?
Was not the lone, blank despondency that had settled on him more heavily
than ever, a token that he was shut out from all that was good,--nay,
that in former years there had been no true joy in him, only enjoyment
of temporal pleasure? Had his best days of happiness been, then, nothing
but hollowness and self-deception?

At that moment the sound of a Christmas carol came faintly on his ear.
It was one of those tunes which, when the village choir were the only
musicians he knew, he had thought, unrivalled; and now, even to his
tutored, delicate ear, softened as it was by distance, and endeared by
association, it was full of refreshing, soothing harmony. He undrew the
curtain, opened the shutter, and looked into the court, where he saw
some figures standing. As soon as the light shone from the window, the
carol was resumed, and the familiar tones were louder and harsher, but
he loved them, with all their rudeness and dissonance, and throwing up
the window, called the singers by name, asking why they stood out in the
snow, instead of coming into the hall, as usual.

The oldest of the set came to the window to answer,--so old a man that
his voice was cracked, and his performance did more harm than good in
the psalms at church.

‘You see, Sir Guy,’ said he, ‘there was some of us thought you might not
like to have us coming and singing like old times, ‘cause ‘tis not all
as it used to be here with you. Yet we didn’t like not to come at all,
when you had been away so long, so we settled just to begin, and see
whether you took any notice.’

‘Thank you. It was a very kind thought, James,’ said Guy, touched by the
rough delicacy of feeling manifested by these poor men; ‘I had rather
hear the carols than anything. Come to the front door; I’ll let you in.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ with a most grateful touch of the hat; and Guy
hastened to set things in order, preferring the carols to everything at
that moment, even though disabused of his pristine admiration for James
Robinson’s fiddle, and for Harry Ray’s grand shake. A long space was
spent in listening, and a still longer in the endeavour to show what Mr.
Ashford meant by suggesting some improvements which they were regarding
with dislike and suspicion, till they found Sir Guy was of the same
mind. In fact, when he had sung a verse or two to illustrate his
meaning, the opinion of the choir was, that, with equal advantages, Sir
Guy might sing quite as well as Harry Ray.

It was the first time he had heard his own voice, except at church,
since the earlier days of St. Mildred’s, but as he went up the long
stairs and galleries to bed, he found himself still singing. It was,

       Who lives forlorn,
       On God’s own word doth rest,
       His path is bright
       With heavenly light,
       His lot among the blest.

He wondered, and remembered finding music for it with Amy’s help. He
sighed heavily, but the anguish of feeling, the sense of being in the
power of evil, had insensibly left him, and though sad and oppressed,
the unchangeable joy and hope of Christmas were shedding a beam on him.

They were not gone when he awoke, and rose to a solitary breakfast
without one Christmas greeting. The light of the other life was
beginning to shine out, and make him see how to do and to bear, with
that hope before him. The hope was becoming less vague; the resolution,
though not more firm, yet less desponding, that he would go on to
grapple with temptation, and work steadfastly; and with that hope before
him, he now felt that even a lifetime without Amy would be endurable.

The power of rejoicing came more fully at church, and the service
entered into his soul as it never had done before. It had never been
such happiness, though repentance and mournful feelings were ever
present with him; nor was his ‘Verena’ absent from his mind. He
walked about between the services, saw the poor people dining in their
holly-decked houses, exchanging Christmas wishes with them, and gave
his old, beautiful, bright smile as he received demonstrations of their
attachment, or beheld their enjoyment. He went home in the dark, allowed
Mrs. Drew to have her own way, and serve him and Bustle with a dinner
sufficient for a dozen people, and was shut up for the solitary
Christmas evening which he had so much dreaded, and which would have
been esteemed a misfortune even by those who had no sad thoughts to
occupy them.

Yet when the clock struck eleven he was surprised, and owned that it had
been more than not being unhappy. The dark fiends of remorse and despair
had not once assaulted him, yet it had not been by force of employment
that they had been averted. He had read and written a little, but very
little, and the time had chiefly been spent in a sort of day-dream,
though not of a return to Hollywell, nor of what Redclyffe might be with
Amy. It had been of a darkened and lonely course, yet, in another sense,
neither dark nor lonely, of a cheerless home and round of duties, with
a true home beyond; and still it had been a happy, refreshing dream, and
he began the next morning with the fresh brightened spirit of a man who
felt that such an evening was sent him to reinvigorate his energies, and
fit him for the immediate duties that lay before him.

On the breakfast-table was what he had not seen for a long time--a
letter directed to him. It was from Mr. Ross, in answer to his question
about Coombe Prior, entering readily into the subject, and advising
him to write to the Bishop, altogether with a tone of friendly interest
which, especially as coming from one so near Hollywell, was a great
pleasure, a real Christmas treat. There was the wonted wish of the
season--a happy Christmas--which he took gratefully, and lastly there
was a mention that Charles Edmonstone was better, the suffering over,
though he was not yet allowed to move.

It was a new light that Charles’s silence had been occasioned by
illness, and his immediate resolution was to write at once to Mr. Ross,
to beg for further particulars. In the meantime, the perception that
there had been no estrangement was such a ray as can hardly be imagined
without knowing the despondency it had enlivened. The truth was,
perhaps, that the tone of mind was recovering, and after having fixed
himself in his resolution to endure, he was able to receive comfort and
refreshment from without as well as from within.

He set to work to write at once to the Bishop, as Mr. Ross advised. He
said he could not bear to lose time, and therefore wrote at once. He
should be of age on the 28th of March, and he hoped then to be able to
arrange for a stipend for a curate, if the Bishop approved, and would
kindly enter into communication on the appointment with Mr. Halroyd, the
incumbent. After considering his letter a little while, and wishing he
was sufficiently intimate with Mr. Ashford to ask him if it would do, he
wrote another to Mr. Ross, to inquire after Charles; then he worked for
an hour at mathematics, till a message came from the gamekeeper to
ask whether he would go out shooting, whereat Bustle, evidently
understanding, jumped about, and wagged his tail so imploringly, that
Guy could not resist, so he threw his books upon the top of the great
pile on the sofa, and, glad that at least he could gratify dog and man,
he sent word that he should be ready in five minutes.

He could not help enjoying the ecstasy of all the dogs, and, indeed he
was surprised to find himself fully alive to the delight of forcing his
way through a furze-brake, hearing the ice in the peaty bogs crackle
beneath his feet; getting a good shot, bringing down his bird, finding
snipe, and diving into the depths of the long, winding valleys and
dingles, with the icicle-hung banks of their streamlets. He came home
through the village at about half-past three o’clock, sending the keeper
to leave some of his game at the parsonage, while he went himself to see
how the work was getting on at the school. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford and the
boys were come on the same errand, in spite of the cloud of dust rising
from the newly-demolished lath-and-plaster partition. The boys looked
with longing eyes at the gun in his hand, and the half-frozen compound
of black and red mud on his gaiters; but they were shy, and their enmity
added to their shyness, so that even when he shook hands with them, and
spoke good-naturedly, they did not get beyond a monosyllable.

Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, feeling some compunction for having left him to
his solitude so long, asked him to dinner for one of the ensuing days,
with some idea of getting some one to meet him, and named six o’clock.

‘Won’t that put you out? Don’t you always dine early?’ said he. ‘If you
would let me, I should like to join you at your tea-time.’

‘If you will endure a host of children,’ said Mr. Ashford, ‘I should
like it of all things,’ said Guy. ‘I want to make acquaintance very
much,’ and he put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘Besides, I want to
talk to you about the singing, and how we are to get rid of that fiddle
without breaking James Robinson’s heart.’

The appointment was made, and Guy went home to his hasty dinner, his
Greek, and a little refreshing return afterwards to the books which had
been the delight of younger days. There was no renewal of the burthen of
despair that had so long haunted his evenings. Employments thickened on
his hands as the days passed on. There was further correspondence about
Coombe Prior and the curate, and consultations with Markham about farmer
Todd, who was as obstinate and troublesome as possible. Guy made Markham
come to Coombe Prior with him, examine and calculate about the cottages,
and fairly take up the subject, though without much apparent chance of
coming to any satisfactory result. A letter came from Mr. Ross, telling
him even more than he had ventured to hope, for it brought a message
from Charles himself. Charles had been delighted to hear of him, and had
begged that he might be told how very sorry he had been not to write;
and how incapable he had been, and still was; but that he hoped Guy
would write to him, and believe him in the same mind. Mr. Ross added an
account of Charles’s illness, saying the suffering had been more severe
than usual, and had totally disabled him for many weeks; that they had
since called in a London surgeon, who had given him hope that he might
be better now than ever before, but had prescribed absolute rest for
at least six weeks longer, so that Charles was now flat on his back all
day, beginning to be able to be amused, and very cheerful and patient.

The pleasure of entering into communication with Hollywell again, and
knowing that Charles at least would be glad to hear from him, was so
exquisite, that he was almost surprised, considering that in essentials
he was where he was before, and even Charles could not be Amy.



CHAPTER 23

     They hadna sailed a league, a league,
     A league, but barely three,
     When the lift grew dark, and the wind grew loud,
     And gurly grew the sea.
                    --SIR PATRICK SPENS.--(Old Ballad.)


Guy’s evening with the Ashfords threw down many of the barriers in the
way of intimacy. He soon made friends with the children, beginning with
the two years old baby, and ending with gaining even the shy and sturdy
Robin, who could not hold out any longer, when it appeared that Sir
Guy could tell him the best place for finding sea-urchins, the present
objects of his affections.

‘But we should have to go through the park,’ said Edward,
disconsolately, when Guy had described the locality.

‘Well, why not?’

‘We must not go into the park!’ cried the children, in chorus.

‘Not go into the park!’ exclaimed Guy, looking at Mrs. Ashford, in
amazement; then, as it flashed on him that it was his part to give
leave, he added,--‘I did not know I was such a dog in the manger. I
thought all the parish walked naturally in the park. I don’t know what
else it is good for. If Markham will lock it up, I must tell him to give
you a key.’

The boys were to come the next day--to be shown the way to the bay of
urchins, and thenceforth they became his constant followers to such a
degree, that their parents feared they were very troublesome, but he
assured them to the contrary; and no mother in the world could have
found it in her heart to keep them away from so much happiness. There
was continually a rushing home with a joyous outcry,--‘Mamma! Sir Guy
gave me a ride on his horse!’ ‘Mamma! Sir Guy helped us to the top of
that great rock!’ ‘Oh, papa! Sir Guy says we may come out shooting with
him to-morrow, if you will let us!’ ‘Mamma! papa! look! Do you see? I
shot this rabbit my own self with Sir Guy’s gun!’ ‘Papa! papa! Sir Guy
showed us his boat, and he says he will take us out to the Shag Rock, if
you will give us leave!’

This was beyond what papa, still further beyond what mamma, could like,
since the sea was often very rough in parts near the Shag; there were
a good many sunken rocks, and boys, water, and rocks, did not appear by
any means a safe conjunction, so Mrs. Ashford put the matter off for the
present by the unseasonableness of the weather; and Mr. Ashford asked
one or two of the fishermen how far they thought landing on the Shag a
prudent attempt.

They did not profess to have often tried, they always avoided those
rocks; but it could hardly be very dangerous, they said, for when Sir
Guy was a boy, he used to be about there for ever, at first with an
old boatman, and afterwards alone in his little boat. They had often
wondered he was trusted there; but if any one knew the rocks, he did.

Still, Mrs. Ashford could not make up her mind to like the idea, and the
boys came to Sir Guy in a state of great discomposure.

‘Never mind’ he said, ‘perhaps we shall manage it in the summer. We will
get your father to go out with us himself; and, in the meantime, who
likes to come with me after the rabbits in Cliffstone Copse? Farmer
Holt will thank Robin for killing a dozen or so, for he makes grievous
complaints of them.’

Guy conducted the boys out of sight of the sea, and, to console them,
gave them so much more use of the gun than usual, that it might be
considered as a wonder that he escaped being shot. Yet it did not
prevent a few sighs being spent on the boating.

‘Can’t you forget it?’ said Guy, smiling. ‘You have no loss, after all,
for we are likely to have no boating weather this long time. Hark! don’t
you hear the ground-swell?’

‘What’s that?’ said the boys, standing still to listen to the distant
surge, like a continuous low moan, or roar, far, far away, though there
was no wind, and the sea was calm.

‘It is the sound that comes before stormy weather,’ said Guy. ‘It is as
if the sea was gathering up its forces for the tempest.’

‘But what?--how? Tell me what it really is,’ said Robin.

‘I suppose it is the wind on the sea before it has reached us,’ said
Guy. ‘How solemn it is!’

Too solemn for the boys, who began all manner of antics and noises, by
way of silencing the impression of awfulness. Guy laughed, and joined in
their fun; but as soon as they were gone home, he stood in silence for
a long time, listening to the sound, and recalling the mysterious dreams
and fancies with which it was connected in his boyhood, and which he had
never wished thus to drive away.

The storm he had predicted came on; and by the evening of the following
day, sea and wind were thundering, in their might, against the foot of
the crags. Guy looked from the window, the last thing at night, and
saw the stars twinkling overhead, with that extreme brilliancy which
is often seen in the intervals of fitful storms, and which suggested
thoughts that sent him to sleep in a vague, soothing dream.

He was wakened by one tremendous continued roar of sea, wind, and
thunder combined. Such was the darkness, that he could not see the form
of the window, till a sheet of pale blue lightning brought it fully out
for the moment. He sat up, and listened to the ‘glorious voice’ that
followed it, thought what an awful night at sea, and remembered when he
used to fancy it would be the height of felicity to have a shipwreck at
Redclyffe, and shocked Mrs. Bernard by inhuman wishes that a ship would
only come and be wrecked. How often had he watched, through sounds like
these, for a minute gun! Nay, he had once actually called up poor Arnaud
in the middle of the night for an imaginary signal. Redclyffe Bay was
a very dangerous one; a fine place for a wreck, with its precipitous
crags, its single safe landing-place, and the great Shag Stone, on the
eastern side, with a whole progeny of nearly sunken rocks, dreaded
in rough weather by the fishermen themselves; but it was out of the
ordinary track of vessels, and there were only a few traditions of
terrible wrecks long before his time.

It seemed as if he had worked up his fancy again, for the sound of a gun
was for a moment in his ear. It was lost in the rush of hail against the
window, and the moaning of the wind round the old house; but presently
it returned too surely to be imaginary. He sprang to the window, and the
broad, flickering glare of lightning revealed the black cliff and pale
sea-line; then all was dark and still, while the storm was holding
its breath for the thunder-burst which in a few more seconds rolled
overhead, shaking door and window throughout the house. As the awful
sound died away, in a moment’s lull, came the gun again. He threw up the
window, and as the blast of wind and rain swept howling into the room,
it brought another report.

To close the window, light his candle, throw on his clothes, and hasten
down-stairs, was the work of a very few seconds. Luckily, the key of
the boat-house was lying on the table in the hall, where he had left it,
after showing the boat to the Ashford boys; he seized it, caught up the
pocket telescope, put on a rough coat, and proceeded to undo the endless
fastenings of the hall-door, a very patience-trying occupation; and,
when completed, the gusts that were eddying round the house, ready to
force their way in everywhere, took advantage of the first opening to
blow out his candle.

However, they had in one way done good service, for the shower had
been as brief as it was violent, and the inky cloud was drifting away
furiously towards the east, leaving the moon visible, near her setting,
and allowing her white cold light to shine forth, contrasting with the
distant sheets of pale lightning, growing fainter and fainter.

Guy ran across the court, round to the west side of the house, and
struggled up the slope in the face of the wind, which almost swept him
down again; and when at length he had gained the summit, came rushing
against him with such force that he could hardly stand. He did, however,
keep his ground, and gazed out over the sea. The swell was fearful;
marked by the silver light on one side, where it caught the moonbeams,
and the black shade on the other, ever alternating, so that the eye
could, not fix on them for a moment; the spray leapt high in its
whiteness, and the Shag stood up hard, bold, and black. The waves
thundered, bursting on the cliff and, high as he stood, the spray dashed
almost blinding in his face, while the wind howled round him, as if
gathering its might for the very purpose of wrenching him from the
cliff; but he stood firm, and looked out again, to discern clearly
what he thought he had seen. It was the mast of a vessel, seen plainly
against the light silvery distance of sea on the reef west of the Shag.
It was in a slanting direction, and did not move; he could not doubt
that the ship had struck on the dangerous rocks at the entrance of the
bay; and as his eyes became more accustomed to the unusual light, and
made out what objects were or were not familiar, he could perceive the
ship herself. He looked with the glass, but could see no one on board,
nor were any boats in sight; but observing some of the lesser rocks,
he beheld some moving figures on them. Help!--instant help!--was his
thought; and he looked towards the Cove. Lights were in the cottage
windows, and a few sounds came up to him, as if the fishing population
were astir.

He hastened to the side of the cliff, which was partly clothed with
brushwood. There was a descent--it could hardly be called a path--which
no one ventured to attempt but himself and a few of the boldest
birds’-nesting boys of the village; but he could lose no time, and
scrambling, leaping, swinging himself by the branches, he reached the
foot of the cliff in safety, and in five minutes more was on the little
quay at the end of the steep street of the Cove.

The quay was crowded with the fisher-people, and there was a strange
confusion of voices; some saying all was lost; some that the crew had
got to the rock; others, that some one ought to put off and help them;
others, that a boat would never live in such a sea; and an old telescope
was in great requisition.

Ben Robinson, a tall, hardy young man, of five-and-twenty, wild,
reckless, high-spirited and full of mischief and adventure, was standing
on a pile at the extreme verge above the foaming water, daring the
others to go with him to the rescue; and, though Jonas Ledbury, a feeble
old man, was declaring, in a piteous tone, it was a sin and a shame to
let so many poor creatures be lost in sight, without one man stirring to
help them; yet all stood irresolute, watching the white breakers dashing
on the Shag, and the high waves that swelled and rolled between.

‘Do you know where the crew are?’ exclaimed Guy, shouting as loud as he
could, for the noise of the winds and waves was tremendous.

‘There, sir, on the flat black stone,’ said the fortunate possessor
of the telescope. ‘Some ten or eleven of them, I fancy, all huddled
together.’

‘Ay, ay!’ said old Ledbury. ‘Poor creatures! there they be; and what
is to be done, I can’t say! I never saw a boat in such a sea, since the
night poor Jack, my brother, was lost, and Will Ray with him.’

‘I see them,’ said Guy, who had in the meantime looked through his
glass. ‘How soon is high water?’

It was an important question, for the rocks round the Shag were covered
before full tide, even when the water was still. There was a looking up
at the moon, and then Guy and the fishermen simultaneously exclaimed,
that it would be in three hours; which gave scarcely an hour to spare.

Without another word, Guy sprang from the quay to the boat-house,
unlocked it, and, by example, showed that the largest boat was to be
brought out. The men helped him vigorously, and it stood on the narrow
pebbly beach, the only safe landing-place in the whole bay; he
threw into it a coil of rope, and called out in his clear commanding
voice--‘Five to go with me!’

Hanging back was at an end. They were brave men, who had wanted nothing
but a leader, and with Sir Guy at their head, were ready for anything.
Not five, but five-and-twenty were at his command; and even in the hurry
of the moment, a strong, affectionate feeling filled his eyes with tears
as he saw these poor fellows ready to trust their lives in his hands.

‘Thank you--thank you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not all, though; you, Ben
Robinson, Harry Ray, Charles Ray, Ben Ledbury, Wat Green.’

They were all young men, without families, such as could best be spared;
and each, as his name was called, answered, ‘Here, Sir Guy!’ and came
forward with a resolute satisfied air.

‘It would be best to have a second boat,’ said Guy. ‘Mr. Brown,’ to the
owner of the telescope, ‘will you lend yours? ‘tis the strongest and
lightest. Thank you. Martin had best steer it, he knows the rocks;’ and
he went on to name the rest of the crew; but at the last there was a
moment’s pause, as if he doubted.

A tall athletic young fisherman took advantage of it to press forward.

‘Please your honour, Sir Guy, may not I go?’

‘Better not, Jem,’ answered Guy. ‘Remember,’ in a lower voice, ‘your
mother has no one but you. Here!’ he called, cheerfully, ‘Jack Horn, you
pull a good oar! Now, then, are we ready?’

‘All ready,--yes, sir!’

The boat was launched, not without great difficulty, in the face of such
a sea. The men stoutly took their oars, casting a look forward at the
rocks, then at the quay, and on the face of their young steersman.
Little they guessed the intense emotion that swelled in his breast as he
took the helm, to save life or to lose it; enjoying the enterprise, yet
with the thought that his lot might be early death; glad it was right
thus to venture, earnest to save those who had freely trusted to him,
and rapidly, though most earnestly, recalling his own repentance.
All this was in his mind, though nothing was on his face but cheerful
resolution.

Night though it was, tidings of the wreck had reached the upper part
of the village; and Mr. Ashford, putting his head out of his window to
learn the cause of the sounds in the street, was informed by many voices
that a ship was on the Shag reef, and that all were lost. To hasten
to the Cove to learn the truth, and see if any assistance could yet
be afforded, was his instant thought; and he had not taken many steps
before he was overtaken by a square, sturdy figure, wrapped in an
immense great-coat.

‘So, Mr. Markham, you are on your way to see about this wreck.’

‘Why, ay,’ said Markham, roughly, though not with the repellent manner
usual with him towards Mr. Ashford, ‘I must be there, or that boy will
be in the thickest of it. Wherever is mischief, there is he. I only
wonder he has not broken his neck long ago.’

‘By mischief, you mean danger?’

‘Yes. I hope he has not heard of this wreck, for if he has, no power on
earth would keep him back from it.’

Comparing the reports they had heard, the clergyman and steward walked
on, Markham’s anxiety actually making him friendly. They reached the top
of the steep street of the Cove; but though there was a good view of the
sea from thence, they could distinguish nothing, for another cloud was
rising, and had obscured the moon. They were soon on the quay, now still
more crowded, and heard the exclamations of those who were striving to
keep their eyes on the boats.

‘There’s one!’ ‘No!’ ‘Yes, ‘tis!’ ‘That’s Sir Guy’s!’

‘Sir Guy!’ exclaimed Markham. ‘You don’t mean he is gone? Then I am too
late! What could you be thinking of, you old fool, Jonas, to let that
boy go? You’ll never see him again, I can tell you. Mercy! Here comes
another squall! There’s an end of it, then!’

Markham seemed to derive some relief from railing at the fishermen,
singly and collectively, while Mr. Ashford tried to learn the real
facts, and gather opinions as to the chance of safety. The old fishermen
held that there was frightful risk, though the attempt was far from
hopeless; they said the young men were all good at their oars, Sir Guy
knew the rocks very well, and the chief fear was, that he might not know
how to steer in such a sea; but they had seen that, though daring,
he was not rash. They listened submissively to Mr. Markham, but
communicated in an under-tone to the vicar, how vain it would have been
to attempt to restrain Sir Guy.

‘Why, sir,’ said old James Robinson, ‘he spoke just like the captain of
a man-of-war, and for all Mr. Markham says, I don’t believe he’d have
been able to gainsay him.’

‘Your son is gone with him?’

‘Ay, sir; and I would not say one word to stop him. I know Sir Guy won’t
run him into risk for nothing; and I hope, please God, if Ben comes back
safe, it may be the steadying of him.’

‘’Twas he that volunteered to go before Sir Guy came, they say?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the old man, with a pleased yet melancholy look. ‘Ben’s
brave enough; but there’s the difference. He’d have done it for the
lark, and to dare the rest; but Sir Guy does it with thought, and
because it is right. I wish it may be the steadying of Ben!’

The shower rushed over them again, shorter and less violent than the
former one, but driving in most of the crowd, and only leaving on the
quay the vicar, the steward, and a few of the most anxious fishermen.
They could see nothing; for the dark slanting line of rain swept over
the waves, joining together the sea and thick low cloud; and the roaring
of the sea and moaning of the wind were fearful. No one spoke, till
at last the black edges of the Shag loomed clearer, the moon began to
glance through the skirts of the cloud, and the heaving and tossing of
the sea, became more discernible.

‘There!--there!’ shouted young Jem, the widow’s son.

‘The boats?’

‘One!’

‘Where?--where?--for heaven’s sake! That’s nothing!’ cried Markham.

‘Yes--yes! I see both,’ said Jem. ‘The glass! Where’s Mr. Brown’s
glass!’

Markham was trying to fix his own, but neither hand nor eye were
steady enough; he muttered,--‘Hang the glass!’ and paced up and down
in uncontrollable anxiety. Mr. Ashford turned with him, trying to
speak consolingly, and entirely liking the old man. Markham was not
ungrateful, but he was almost in despair.

‘It is the same over again!’ said he. ‘He is the age his father was,
though Mr. Morville never was such as he--never--how should he? He is
the last of them--the best--he would have been--he was. Would to heaven
I were with him, that, if he is lost, we might all go together.’

‘There, sir,’ called Jem, who, being forbidden to do anything but watch,
did so earnestly; ‘they be as far now as opposite West Cove. Don’t you
see them, in that light place?’

The moon had by this time gone down, but the first great light of dawn
was beginning to fall on the tall Shag, and show its fissures and dark
shades, instead of leaving it one hard, unbroken mass. Now and then Jem
thought he saw the boats; but never so distinctly as to convince the
watchers that they had not been swamped among the huge waves that
tumbled and foamed in that dangerous tract.

Mr. Ashford had borrowed Markham’s telescope, and was looking towards
the rock, where the shipwrecked crew had taken refuge.

‘There is some one out of the boat, climbing on the rocks. Can you make
him out, Jem?’

‘I see--I see,’ said Mr. Brown; ‘there are two of them. They are
climbing along the lee-side of the long ridge of rocks.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said old Ledbury; ‘they can’t get in a boat close to the flat
rocks, they must take out a line. Bold fellows!’

‘Where are the boats?’ asked Mr. Ashford.

‘I can tell that,’ said Ledbury; ‘they must have got under the lee of
the lesser Shag. There’s a ring there that Sir Guy had put in to moor
his boat to. They’ll be made fast there, and those two must be taking
the rope along that ledge, so as for the poor fellows on the rock to
have a hold of, as they creep along to where the boats are.’

‘Those broken rocks!’ said Mr. Ashford. ‘Can there be a footing, and in
such a sea?’

‘Can you give a guess who they be, sir?’ asked Robinson, earnestly. ‘If
you’d only let Jem have a look, maybe he could guess.’

Markham’s glass was at his service.

‘Hullo! what a sea! I see them now. That’s Ben going last--I know his
red cap. And the first--why, ‘tis Sir Guy himself!’

‘Don’t be such a fool, Jem’ cried Markham, angrily. ‘Sir Guy knows
better. Give me the glass.’

But when it was restored, Markham went on spying in silence, while
Brown, keeping fast possession of his own telescope, communicated his
observations.

‘Ay, I see them. Where are they? He’s climbing now. There’s a breaker
just there, will wash them off, as sure as they’re alive! I don’t see
‘em. Yes, I do--there’s Redcap! There’s something stirring on the rock!’

So they watched till, after an interval, in which the boats
disappeared behind the rocks, they were seen advancing over the waters
again--one--yes--both, and loaded. They came fast, they were in sight
of all, growing larger each moment, mounting on the crest of the huge
rolling waves, then plunged in the trough so long as to seem as if
they were lost, then rising--rising high as mountains. Over the roaring
waters came at length the sound of voices, a cheer, pitched in a
different key from the thunder of wind and wave; they almost fancied
they knew the voice that led the shout. Such a cheer as rose in answer,
from all the Redclyffe villagers, densely crowded on quay, and beach,
and every corner of standing ground!

The sun was just up, his beams gilded the crests of the leaping waves,
and the spray danced up, white and gay, round the tall rocks, whose
shadow was reflected in deep green, broken by the ever-moving swell. The
Shag and its attendant rocks, and the broken vessel, were bathed in the
clear morning light; the sky was of a beautiful blue, with magnificent
masses of dark cloud, the edges, where touched by the sunbeams, of a
pearly white; and across the bay, tracing behind them glittering streams
of light, came up the two boats with their freight of rescued lives.
Martin’s boat was the first to touch the landing-place.

‘All saved,’ he said; ‘all owing to him,’ pointing back to Sir Guy.

There was no time for questions; the wan, drenched sailors had to be
helped on shore, and the boat hauled up out of the way. In the meantime,
Guy, as he steered in past the quay, smiled and nodded to Mr. Ashford
and Markham, and renewed the call, ‘All safe!’ Mr. Ashford thought that
he had never seen anything brighter than his face--the eyes radiant in
the morning sun, the damp hair hanging round it, and life, energy, and
promptitude in every feature and movement.

The boat came in, the sailors were assisted out, partly by their
rescuers, partly by the spectators. Guy stood up, and, with one foot on
the seat, supported on his knee and against his arm a little boy, round
whom his great-coat was wrapped.

‘Here, Jem!’ he shouted, to his rejected volunteer, who had been very
active in bringing in the boat, ‘here’s something for you to do. This
poor little fellow has got a broken arm. Will you ask your mother to
take him in? She’s the best nurse in the parish. And send up for Mr.
Gregson.’

Jem received the boy as tenderly as he was given; and, with one bound,
Guy was by the side of his two friends. Mr. Ashford shook hands with
heartfelt gratulation; Markham exclaimed,--

‘There, Sir Guy, after the old fashion! Never was man so mad in this
world! I’ve done talking! You’ll never be content till you have got your
death. As if no one could do anything without you.’

‘Was it you who carried out the line on the rock?’ said Mr. Ashford.

‘Ben Robinson and I. I had often been there, after sea anemones and
weeds, and I had a rope round me, so don’t be angry, Markham.’

‘I have no more to say,’ answered Markham, almost surly. ‘I might as
well talk to a sea-gull at once. As if you had any right to throw away
your life!’

‘I enjoyed it too much to have anything to say for myself,’ said Guy;
‘besides, we must see after these poor men. There were two or three
nearly drowned. Is no one gone for Mr. Gregson?’

Mr. Gregson, the doctor, was already present, and no one who had
any authority could do anything but attend to the disposal of the
shipwrecked crew. Mr. Ashford went one way, Markham another, Guy a
third; but, between one cottage and another, Mr. Ashford learnt some
particulars. The crew had been found on a flat rock and the fishermen
had at first thought all their perils in vain, for it was impossible
to bring the boats up, on account of the rocks, which ran out in a long
reef. Sir Guy, who knew the place, steered to the sheltered spot where
he had been used to make fast his own little boat, and undertook to
make his way from thence to the rock where the crew had taken refuge,
carrying a rope to serve as a kind of hand-rail, when fastened from one
rock to the other. Ben insisted on sharing his peril, and they had
crept along the slippery, broken reefs, lashed by the surge, for such
a distance, that the fishermen shuddered as they spoke of the danger of
being torn off by the force of the waves, and dashed against the rocks.
Nothing else could have saved the crew. They had hardly accomplished the
passage through the rising tide, even with the aid of the rope and the
guidance of Sir Guy and Ben, and, before the boats had gone half a mile
on their return, the surge was tumbling furiously over the stones where
they had been found.

The sailors were safely disposed of, in bed, or by the fireside, the
fishers vying in services to them. Mr. Ashford went to the cottage of
Charity Ledbury, Jem’s mother, to inquire for the boy with the broken
arm. As he entered the empty kitchen, the opposite door of the stairs
was opened, and Guy appeared, stepping softly, and speaking low.

‘Poor little fellow!’ he said; ‘he is just going to sleep. He bore it
famously!’

‘The setting his arm?’

‘Yes. He was quite sensible, and very patient, and that old Charity
Ledbury is a capital old woman. She and Jem are delighted to have him,
and will nurse him excellently. How are all the others? Has that poor
man come to his senses?’

‘Yes. I saw him safe in bed at old Robinson’s. The captain is at the
Browns’.’

‘I wonder what time of day it is?’

‘Past eight. Ah! there is the bell beginning. I was thinking of going
to tell Master Ray we are not too much excited to remember church-going
this morning; but I am glad he has found it out only ten minutes too
late. I must make haste. Good-bye!’

‘May not I come, too, or am I too strange a figure?’ said Guy, looking
at his dress, thrown on in haste, and saturated with sea-water.

‘May you?’ said Mr. Ashford, smiling. ‘Is it wise, with all your wet
things?’

‘I am not given to colds,’ answered Guy, and they walked on quickly
for some minutes; after which he said, in a low voice and hurried
manner,--‘would you make some mention of it in the Thanksgiving?’

‘Of course I will’ said Mr. Ashford, with much emotion. ‘The danger must
have been great.’

‘It was,’ said Guy, as if the strong feeling would show itself. ‘It was
most merciful. That little boat felt like a toy at the will of the winds
and waves, till one recollected who held the storm in His hand.’

He spoke very simply, as if he could not help it, with his eye fixed
on the clear eastern sky, and with a tone of grave awe and thankfulness
which greatly struck Mr. Ashford, from the complete absence of
self-consciousness, or from any attempt either to magnify or depreciate
his sense of the danger.

‘You thought the storm a more dangerous time than your expedition on the
rock?’

‘It was not. The fishermen, who were used to such things, did not think
much of it; but I am glad to have been out on such a night, if only for
the magnificent sensation it gives to realize one’s own powerlessness
and His might. As for the rock, there was something to do to look to
one’s footing, and cling on; no time to think.’

‘It was a desperate thing!’

‘Not so bad as it looked. One step at a time is all one wants, you know,
and that there always was. But what a fine fellow Ben Robinson is! He
behaved like a regular hero--it was the thorough contempt and love of
danger one reads of. There must be a great deal of good in him, if one
only knew how to get hold of it.’

‘Look there!’ was Mr. Ashford’s answer, as he turned his head at the
church wicket; and, at a short distance behind, Guy saw Ben himself
walking up the path, with his thankful, happy father, a sight that had
not been seen for months, nay, for years.

‘Ay,’ he said, ‘such a night as this, and such a good old man as the
father, could not fail to bring out all the good in a man.’

‘Yes,’ thought Mr. Ashford, ‘such a night, under such a leader! The
sight of so much courage based on that foundation is what may best touch
and save that man.’

After church, Guy walked fast away; Mr. Ashford went home, made a long
breakfast, having the whole story to tell, and was on to the scene
of action again, where he found the master, quite restored, and was
presently joined by Markham. Of Sir Guy, there was no news, except that
Jem Ledbury said he had looked in after church to know how the cabin boy
was going on, and the master, understanding that he had been the leader
in the rescue, was very anxious to thank him, and walked up to the house
with Markham and Mr. Ashford.

Markham conducted them straight to the library, the door of which was
open. He crossed the room, smiled, and made a sign to Mr. Ashford, who
looked in some surprise and amusement. It has been already said that
the room was so spacious that the inhabited part looked like a little
encampment by the fire, though the round table was large, and the green
leather sofa and arm chair were cumbrous.

However, old Sir Guy’s arm-chair was never used by his grandson; Markham
might sit there, and Bustle did sometimes, but Guy always used one of
the unpretending, unluxurious chairs, which were the staple of the room.
This, however, was vacant, and on the table before it stood the remains
of breakfast, a loaf reduced to half its dimensions, an empty plate and
coffee-cup. The fire was burnt down to a single log, and on the sofa,
on all the various books with which it was strewed, lay Guy, in anything
but a comfortable position, his head on a great dictionary, fairly
overcome with sleep, his very thick, black eyelashes resting on his
fresh, bright cheek, and the relaxation of the grave expression of his
features making him look even younger than he really was. He was so
sound asleep that it was not till some movement of Markham’s that he
awoke, and started up, exclaiming,--

‘What a horrid shame! I am very sorry!’

‘Sorry! what for?’ said Markham. ‘I am glad, at any rate, you have been
wise enough to change your things, and eat some breakfast.’

‘I meant to have done so much,’ said Guy; ‘but sea-wind makes one so
sleepy!’ Then, perceiving the captain, he came forward, hoping he was
quite recovered.

The captain stood mystified, for he could not believe this slim youth
could be the Sir Guy of whose name he had heard so much, and, after
answering the inquiry, he began,--

‘If I could have the honour of seeing Sir Guy--’

‘Well?’ said Guy.

‘I beg your pardon, sir!’ said the captain, while they all laughed, ‘I
did not guess you could be so young a gentleman. I am sure, sir, ‘tis
what any man might be proud of having done, and--I never saw anything
like it!’ he added, with a fresh start, ‘and it will do you honour
everywhere. All our lives are owing to you, sir.’

Guy did not cut him short, though very glad when it was over. He felt he
should not, in the captain’s place, like to have his thanks shortened,
and besides, if ever there was happiness or exultation, it was in the
glistening eyes of old Markham, the first time he had ever been able
to be justly proud of one of the family, whom he loved with so much
faithfulness and devotion.



CHAPTER 24

     Is there a word, or jest, or game,
     But time encrusteth round
     With sad associate thoughts the same?
               --ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.


Among the persons who spent a forlorn autumn was Mr. Ross, though his
troubles were not quite of the same description as those of his young
parishioners. He missed his daughter very much; all his household
affairs got out of order; the school-girls were naughty, and neither
he, nor Miss Edmonstone, nor the mistress, could discover the culprits;
their inquiries produced nothing but a wild confusion of mutual
accusations, where the truth was undistinguishable. The cook never could
find anything to make broth of, Mr. Ross could, never lay his hands on
the books he wanted for himself or anybody else; and, lastly, none of
his shirts ever had their buttons on.

Mary, meanwhile, had to remain through a whole course of measles, then
to greet the arrival of a new nephew, and to attend his christening: but
she had made a vow that she would be at home by Christmas, and she kept
it.

Mr. Ross had the satisfaction of fetching her home from the station the
day before Christmas Eve, and of seeing her opposite to him, on her
own side of the table, in the evening, putting on the buttons, and
considering it an especial favour and kindness, for which to be for ever
grateful, that he had written all his Christmas sermons beforehand,
so as to have a whole evening clear before her. He was never a great
letter-writer, and Mary had a great deal to hear, for all that had come
to her were the main facts, with very few details.

‘I have had very few letters, even from Hollywell,’ said she. ‘I suppose
it is on account of Charles’s illness. You think him really better?’

‘Yes, much better. I forgot to tell you, you are wanted for their
Christmas party to-morrow night.’

‘Oh! he is well enough for them not to put it off! Is he able to be out
of bed?’

‘No, he lies perfectly flat, and looks very thin. It has been a very
severe illness. I don’t think I ever knew him suffer so much; but,
at the same time, I never knew him behave so well, or show so much
patience, and consideration for other people, I was the more surprised,
because at first he seemed to have relapsed into all the ways he thought
he had shaken off; he was so irritable and fretful, that poor Mrs.
Edmonstone looked worn out; but it seems to have been only the beginning
of the illness; it was very different after he was laid up.’

‘Has he had you to see him?’

‘Yes, he asked for it, which he never did before, and Amabel reads to
him every morning. There is certainly much more that is satisfactory
about those young Edmonstones than there once seemed reason to expect.’

‘And now tell me about Sir Guy. What is the matter? Why does he not come
home this winter!’

‘I cannot tell you the rights of it, Mary. Mr. Edmonstone is very much
offended about something he is reported to have said, and suspects
him of having been in mischief at St. Mildred’s; but I am not at all
persuaded that it is not one of Mr. Edmonstone’s affronts.’

‘Where is he?’

‘At Redclyffe. I have a letter from him which I am going to answer
to-night. I shall tell the Edmonstones about it, for I cannot believe
that, if he had been guilty of anything very wrong, his mind would be
occupied in this manner;’ and he gave Mary the letter.

‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Mary, as she read. ‘I am sure he cannot be in any
mischief. What an admirable person he is! I am very sorry this cloud has
arisen! I was thinking last summer how happy they all were together.’

‘Either this or Charles’s illness has cast a gloom over the whole house.
The girls are both grown much graver.’

‘Amy graver?’ said Mary, quickly.

‘I think so. At least she did not seem to cheer up as I should have
expected when her brother grew better. She looks as if she had been
nursing him too closely, and yet I see her walking a good deal.’

‘Poor little Amy!’ said Mary, and she asked no more questions, but was
anxious to make her own observations.

She did not see the Edmonstones till the next evening, as the day was
wet, and she only received a little note telling her that one carriage
would be sent to fetch her and Mr. Ross. The whole of the family, except
Charles, were in the drawing-room, but Mary looked chiefly at Amy. She
was in white, with holly in her hair, and did not look sorrowful;
but she was paler and thinner than last summer, and though she spoke,
smiled, and laughed when she ought, it was without the gay, childish
freedom of former times. She was a small, pale, quiet girl now, not a
merry, caressing kitten. Mary recollected what she had been in the wood
last summer, and was sure it was more than Charles’s illness that had
altered her; yet still Amy had not Laura’s harassed look.

Mary had not much talk with Amy, for it was a large party, with a good
many young ladies and children, and Amy had a great deal of work in the
way of amusing them. She had a wearied look, and was evidently exerting
herself to the utmost.

‘You look tired,’ said Mary, kindly.

‘No, it is only stupidity,’ said Amy, smiling rather sadly. ‘We can’t be
entertaining without Charlie.’

‘It has been a melancholy winter,’ began Mary, but she was surprised,
for Amy’s face and neck coloured in a moment; then, recovering herself,
with some hesitation, she said,--

‘Oh! but Charlie is much better, and that is a great comfort. I am glad
you are come home, Mary.’

‘We are going to have some magic music,’ was said at the other end of
the room. ‘Who will play?’

‘Little Amy!’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Where is she? She always does it to
admiration. Amy, come and be a performer.’

Amy rose, and came forward, but the colour had flushed into her cheeks
again, and the recollection occurred to Mary, that her fame as a
performer, in that way, arose from the very amusing manner in which she
and Sir Guy had conducted the game last year. At the same moment her
mother met her, and whispered,--

‘Had you rather not, my dear?’

‘I can do it, mamma, thank you--never mind.’

‘I should like to send you up to Charlie--he has been so long alone.’

‘Oh! thank you, dear mamma,’ with a look of relief.

‘Here is Charlotte wild to be a musician,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘Perhaps you will see how she can manage; for I think Charles must want
a visit from his little nurse.’

Amy moved quietly away, and entered Charles’s room, full of warm
gratitude for the kindness which was always seeking how to spare her.

Charles was asleep, and throwing a shawl round her, she sat down in the
dim light of the lamp, relieved by the stillness, only broken by now and
then a louder note of the music down-stairs. It was very comfortable,
after all that buzz of talk, and the jokes that seemed so nonsensical
and tiresome. There were but two people who could manage to make a party
entertaining, and that was the reason it was so different last year.
Then Amy wondered if she was the only person who felt sick at heart and
dreary; but she only wondered for a moment--she murmured half aloud to
herself, ‘I said I never would think of him except at my prayers! Here I
am doing it again, and on Christmas night. I won’t hide my eyes and moan
over my broken reed; for Christmas is come, and the circles of song are
widening round! Glory! good will, peace on earth! How he sang it last
year, the last thing, when the people were gone, before we went up to
bed. But I am breaking my resolution again. I must do something.’

She took up a book of sacred poetry, and began to learn a piece which
she already nearly knew; but the light was bad, and it was dreamy work;
and probably she was half asleep, for her thoughts wandered off to
Sintram and the castle on the Mondenfelsen, which seemed to her like
what she had pictured the Redclyffe crags, and the castle itself was
connected in her imagination with the deep, echoing porch, while Guy’s
own voice seemed to be chanting--


        Who lives forlorn,
        On God’s own word doth rest;
        His path is bright
        With heavenly light,
        His lot among the blest.


‘Are you there, Amy?’ said Charles, waking. ‘What are you staying here
for? Don’t they want you?’

‘Mamma was so kind as to send me up.’

‘I am glad you are come, for I have something to tell you. Mr. Ross has
been up to see me, you know, and he has a letter from Guy.’

Amy’s heart beat fast, and, with eyes fixed on the ground, she listened
as Charles continued to give an account of Guy’s letter about Coombe
Prior. ‘Mr. Ross is quite satisfied about him, Amy,’ he concluded. ‘I
wish you could have heard the decided way in which he said, “He will
_live_ it down.”’

Amy’s answer was to stoop down and kiss her brother’s forehead.

Another week brought Guy’s renewal of the correspondence.

‘Amy, here is something for you to read,’ said Charles, holding up the
letter as she came into the room.

She knew the writing. ‘Wait one moment, Charlie, dear;’ and she ran out
of the room, found her mother fortunately alone, and said, averting her
face,--‘Mamma, dear, do you think I ought to let Charlie show me that
letter?’

Mrs. Edmonstone took hold of her hand, and drew her round so as to look
into the face through its veiling curls. The hand shook, and the face
was in a glow of eagerness. ‘Yes, dearest!’ said she, for she could not
help it; and then, as Amy ran back again, she asked herself whether it
was foolish, and bad for her sweet little daughter, then declared to
herself that it must--it should--it would come right.

There was not a word of Amy in the letter, but it, or something else,
made her more bright and cheerful than she had been for some time past.
It seemed as if the lengthening days of January were bringing renewed
comfort with them, when Charles, who ever since October had been
confined to bed, was able to wear the Chinese dressing-gown, be lifted
to a couch, and wheeled into the dressing-room, still prostrate, but
much enjoying the change of scene, which he called coming into the
world.

These were the events at quiet Hollywell, while Redclyffe was still
engrossed with the shipwreck, which seemed to have come on purpose to
enliven and occupy this solitary winter. It perplexed the Ashfords
about their baronet more than ever. Mr. Ashford said that no one whose
conscience was not clear could have confronted danger as he had done;
and yet the certainty that he was under a cloud, and the sadness, so
inconsistent with his age and temperament still puzzled them. Mrs.
Ashford thought she had made a discovery. The second day after the
wreck, the whole crew, except the little cabin-boy, were going to set
off to the nearest sea-port; and the evening preceding their departure,
they were to meet their rescuers, the fishermen, at a supper in the
great servants’ hall at the park. Edward and Robert were in great glory,
bringing in huge branches of evergreens to embellish the clean, cold
place; and Mr. and Mrs. Ashford and Grace were to come to see the
entertainment, after having some coffee in the library.

Guy prepared it for his company by tumbling his books headlong from
the sofa to a more remote ottoman, sticking a bit of holly on the
mantel-shelf, putting out his beloved old friend, Strutt’s ‘Sports and
Pastimes,’ to amuse Grace, and making up an immense fire; and then,
looking round, thought the room was uncommonly comfortable; but the
first thing that struck Mrs. Ashford, when, with face beaming welcome,
he ushered her in from the great hall, was how forlorn rooms looked that
had not a woman to inhabit them.

The supper went off with great eclat. Arnaud at the head of the table
carved with foreign courtesies, contrasted with the downright bluff way
of the sailors. As soon as Sir Guy brought Mrs. Ashford to look in on
them, old James Robinson proposed his health, with hopes he would soon
come and live among them for good, and Jonas Ledbury added another
wish, that ‘Lady Morville’ might soon be there too. At these words, an
expression of pain came upon Guy’s face; his lips were rigidly pressed
together; he turned hastily away, and paced up and down before he could
command his countenance. All were so busy cheering, that no one heeded
his change of demeanour save Mrs. Ashford; and though, when he returned
to the place where he had been standing, his complexion was deepened,
his lip quivered, and his voice trembled in returning thanks, Mr.
Ashford only saw the emotion naturally excited by his people’s
attachment.

The lady understood it better; and when she talked it over with her
husband in the evening, they were convinced the cause of his trouble
must be some unfortunate attachment, which he might think it his duty
to overcome; and having settled this, they became very fond of him, and
anxious to make Redclyffe agreeable to him.

Captain and crew departed; the little boy was better, and his hosts,
Charity and Jem Ledbury, only wished to keep him for ever; the sensation
at Redclyffe was subsiding, when one morning Markham came, in a state of
extreme satisfaction and importance, to exhibit the county paper, with
a full account of the gallant conduct of the youthful baronet. Two or
three days after, on coming home from a ride to Coombe Prior, Guy found
Lord Thorndale’s card, and heard from Arnaud that ‘my lord had made
particular inquiries how long he would be in the country, and had been
to the cliff to see where the wreck was.’

Markham likewise attached great importance to this visit, and went
off into a long story about his influence, and the representation
of Moorworth, or even of the county. As soon as Guy knew what he was
talking about, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, I hope all that is not coming on me
yet! Till I can manage Todd and Coombe Prior, I am sure I am not fit to
manage the country!’

A few mornings after, he found on the table an envelope, which
he studied, as if playing with his eagerness. It had an East-hill
post-mark, and a general air of Hollywell writing, but it was not in the
hand of either of the gentlemen, nor was the tail of the y such as Mrs.
Edmonstone was wont to make. It had even a resemblance to Amabel’s own
writing that startled him. He opened it at last, and within found the
hand he could not doubt--Charles’s, namely--much more crooked than
usual, and the words shortened and blotted:--


‘DEAR G.,--I ought not to do this, but I must; I have tyrannized over
Charlotte, and obtained the wherewithal. Write me a full account of your
gallant conduct. I saw it first in A.’s face. It has done you great good
with my father. I will write more when I can. I can’t get on now. ‘C. M.
E.’


He might well say he had first seen it in his sister’s face. She had
brought him the paper, and was looking for something he wanted her to
read to him, when ‘Redclyffe Bay’ met her eye, and then came the whole
at one delightful glance. He saw the heightened colour, the exquisite
smile, the tear-drop on the eyelash.

‘Amy! what have you there?’

She pointed to the place, gave the paper into his hand, and burst into
tears, the gush of triumphant feeling. Not one was shed because she was
divided from the hero of the shipwreck; they were pure unselfish tears
of joy, exultation, and thankfulness. Charles read the history, and she
listened in silence; then looked it over again with him, and betrayed
how thoroughly she had been taught the whole geography of Redclyffe Bay.
The next person who came in was Charlotte; and as soon as she understood
what occupied them, she went into an ecstasy, and flew away with the
paper, rushing with it straight into her father’s room, where she broke
into the middle of his letter-writing, by reading it in a voice of
triumph.

Mr. Edmonstone was delighted. He was just the person who would be far
more taken with an exploit of this kind, such as would make a figure in
the world, than by steady perseverance in well-doing, and his heart was
won directly. His wrath at the hasty words had long been diminishing,
and now was absolutely lost in his admiration. ‘Fine fellow! noble
fellow!’ he said. ‘He is the bravest boy I ever heard of, but I knew
what was in him from the first. I wish from my heart there was not this
cloud over him. I am sure the whole story has not a word of truth in it,
but he won’t say a word to clear himself, or else we would have him here
again to-morrow.’

This was the first time Mr. Edmonstone had expressed anything of real
desire to recall Guy, and it was what Charles meant in his letter.

The tyranny over Charlotte was exercised while the rest were at dinner,
and they were alone together. They talked over the adventure for the
tenth time that day, and Charles grew so excited that he vowed that he
must at once write to Guy, ordered her to give him the materials, and
when she hesitated, forced her into it, by declaring that he should get
up and reach the things himself, which would be a great deal worse. She
wanted to write from his dictation, but he would not consent, thinking
that his mother might not consider it proper, and he began vigorously;
but though long used to writing in a recumbent posture, he found himself
less capable now than he had expected, and went on soliloquizing thus:
‘What a pen you’ve given me, Charlotte. There goes a blot! Here, another
dip, will you! and take up that with the blotting paper before it
becomes more like a spider.’

‘Won’t you make a fresh beginning?’

‘No, that has cost me too much already. I’ve got no more command over my
fingers. Here we go into the further corner of the paper. Well! C. M. E.
There ‘tis--do it up, will you? If he can read it he’ll be lucky. How my
arms ache!’

‘I hope it has not hurt you, Charlie; but I am sure he will be very glad
of it. Oh! I am glad you said that about Amy.’

‘Who told you to read it, Puss?’

‘I could not help it, ‘tis so large.’

‘I believe I _didn’t_ _ought_ to have said it. Don’t tell her I did,’
said Charles; ‘but I couldn’t for the life of me--or what is more to the
purpose, for the trouble of it--help putting it. He is too true a knight
not to hear that his lady, not exactly smiled, but cried.’

‘He is a true knight,’ said Charlotte, emphatically, as with her best
pen, and with infinite satisfaction, she indited the ‘Sir Guy Morville,
Bart., Redclyffe Park, Moorworth,’ only wishing she could lengthen out
the words infinitely.

‘Do you remember, Charlie, how we sat here the first evening he came,
and you took me in about the deadly feud?’

‘It was no take-in,’ said Charles; ‘only the feud is all on one side.’

‘Oh, dear! it has been such a stupid winter without Guy,’ sighed
Charlotte; ‘if this won’t make papa forgive him, I don’t know what
will.’

‘I wish it would, with all my heart,’ said Charles; ‘but logically, if
you understand the word, Charlotte, it does not make much difference to
the accusation. It would not exactly be received as exculpatory evidence
in a court of justice.’

‘You don’t believe the horrid stories?’

‘I believe that Guy has gamed quite as much as I have myself; but I want
to see him cleared beyond the power of Philip to gainsay or disbelieve
it. I should like to have such a force of proof as would annihilate
Philip, and if I was anything but what I am, I would have it. If you
could but lend me a leg for two days, Charlotte.’

‘I wish I could.’

‘One thing shall be done,’ proceeded Charles: ‘my father shall go and
meet him in person when he comes of age. Now Don Philip is out of the
way, I trust I can bring that about.’

‘If he would but come here!’

‘No, that must not be, as mamma says, till there is some explanation;
but if I was but in my usual state, I would go with papa and meet him
in London. I wonder if there is any chance of it. The 28th of March--ten
weeks off! If I can but get hold of those trusty crutches of mine by
that time I’ll do, and I’ll do, and I’ll do. We will bring back Amy’s
knight with flying colours.’

‘Oh how happy we should be!’

‘If I only knew what sort of sense that Markham of his may have, I would
give him a hint, and set him to ferret out at St. Mildred’s. Or shall I
get Dr. Mayerne to order me there for change of air?’

So schemed Charles; while Guy, on his side, busied himself at Redclyffe
as usual; took care and thought for the cabin-boy--returned Lord
Thorndale’s call without finding him at home--saw the school finished,
and opened--and became more intimate with the Ashfords.

He said he should not come home at Easter, as he should be very busy
reading for his degree; and as his birthday this year fell in Holy
Week, there could be no rejoicings; besides, as he was not to have his
property in his own hands till he was five-and-twenty, it would make
no difference to the people. The Ashfords agreed they had rather he was
safe at home for the vacation, and were somewhat anxious when he spoke
of coming home to settle, after he had taken his degree.

For his own part he was glad the season would prevent any rejoicings,
for he was in no frame of mind to enter into them and his birthday had
been so sad a day for his grandfather, that he had no associations of
pleasure connected with it.

Markham understood the feeling, liked it, and shared it, only saying
that they would have their day of rejoicing when he married. Guy could
not answer, and the old steward remarked the look of pain.

‘Sir Guy,’ said he, ‘is it that which is wrong with you? Don’t be angry
with an old man for asking the question, but I only would hope and trust
you are not getting into any scrape.’

‘Thank you, Markham,’ said Guy, after an effort; ‘I cannot tell you
about it. I will only set you at rest by saying it is nothing you could
think I ought to be ashamed of.’

‘Then why--what has come between? What could man or woman object to in
you?’ said Markham, regarding him proudly.

‘These unhappy suspicions,’ said Guy.

I can’t make it out,’ said Markham. ‘You must have been doing something
foolish to give rise to them.’

Guy told nearly what he had said on the first day of his return, but
nothing could be done towards clearing up the mystery, and he returned
to Oxford as usual.

March commenced, and Charles, though no longer absolutely recumbent, and
able to write letters again, could not yet attempt to use his crutches,
so that all his designs vanished, except that of persuading his father
to go to London to meet Guy and Markham there, and transact the business
consequent on his ward’s attaining his majority. He trusted much to
Guy’s personal influence, and said to his father, ‘You know no one has
seen him yet but Philip, and he would tell things to you that he might
not to him.’

It was an argument that delighted Mr. Edmonstone.

‘Of course I have more weight and experience, and--and poor Guy is very
fond of us. Eh, Charlie?’

So Charles wrote to make an appointment for Guy to meet his guardian and
Markham in London on Easter Tuesday. ‘If you will clear up the gambling
story,’ he wrote, ‘all may yet be well.’

Guy sighed as he laid aside the letter. ‘All in vain, kind Charlie,’
said he to himself, ‘vain as are my attempts to keep my poor uncle
from sinking himself further! Is it fair, though,’ continued he, with
vehemence, ‘that the happiness of at least one life should be sacrificed
to hide one step in the ruin of a man who will not let himself be saved?
Is it not a waste of self-devotion? Have I any right to sacrifice hers?
Ought I not rather’--and a flash of joy came over him--‘to make my uncle
give me back my promise of concealment? I can make it up to him. It
cannot injure him, since only the Edmonstones will know it! But’--and
he pressed his lips firmly together--‘is this the spirit I have been
struggling for this whole winter? Did I not see that patient waiting and
yielding is fit penance for my violence. It would be ungenerous. I will
wait and bear, contented that Heaven knows my innocence at least in
this. For her, when at my best I dreaded that my love might bring sorrow
on her--how much more now, when I have seen my doom face to face,
and when the first step towards her would be what I cannot openly and
absolutely declare to be right? That would be the very means of bringing
the suffering on her, and I should deserve it.’

Guy quitted these thoughts to write to Markham to make the appointment,
finishing his letter with a request that Markham would stop at St.
Mildred’s on his way to London, and pay Miss Wellwood, the lady with
whom his uncle’s daughter was placed, for her quarter’s board. ‘I hope
this will not be a very troublesome request,’ wrote Guy; ‘but I know
you had rather I did it in this way, than disobey your maxims, as to not
sending money by the post.’

The time before the day of meeting was spent in strengthening himself
against the pain it would be to refuse his confidence to Mr. Edmonstone,
and thus to throw away the last chance of reconciliation, and of Amy.
This would be the bitterest pang of all--to see them ready to receive
him, and he forced to reject their kindness.

So passed the preceding week, and with it his twenty-first birthday,
spent very differently from the way in which it would ordinarily be
passed by a youth in his position. It went by in hard study and sad
musings, in bracing himself to a resolution that would cost him all he
held dear, and, as the only means of so bracing himself, in trying to
fix his gaze more steadily beyond the earth.

Easter day steadied the gaze once more for him, and as the past week had
nerved him in the spirit of self-sacrifice, the feast day brought him
true unchanging joy, shining out of sadness, and enlightening the path
that would lead him to keep his resolution to the utmost, and endure the
want of earthly hope.



CHAPTER 25

     Already in thy spirit thus divine,
     Whatever weal or woe betide,
     Be that high sense of duty still thy guide,
     And all good powers will aid a soul like thine.
                                       --SOUTHEY


‘Now for it!’ thought Guy, as he dismissed his cab, and was shown
up-stairs in the hotel. ‘Give me the strength to withstand!’

The door was opened, and he beheld Mr. Edmonstone, Markham, and
another--it surely was Sebastian Dixon! All sprung up to receive him;
and Mr. Edmonstone, seizing him by both hands, exclaimed--

‘Here he is himself! Guy, my boy, my dear boy, you are the most generous
fellow in the world! You have been used abominably. I wish my two hands
had been cut off before I was persuaded to write that letter, but it is
all right now. Forget and forgive--eh, Guy? You’ll come home with me,
and we will write this very day for Deloraine.’

Guy was almost giddy with surprise. He held one of Mr. Edmonstone’s
hands, and pressed it hard; his other hand he passed over his eyes, as
if in a dream. ‘All right?’ he repeated.

‘All right!’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I know where your money went, and I
honour you for it, and there stands the man who told me the whole story.
I said, from the first, it was a confounded slander. It was all owing to
the little girl.’

Guy turned his face in amazement towards his uncle, who was only waiting
to explain. ‘Never till this morning had I the least suspicion that I
had been the means of bringing you under any imputation. How could you
keep me in ignorance?’

‘You have told--’

‘Of the cheque,’ broke in Mr. Edmonstone, ‘and of all the rest, and
of your providing for the little girl. How could you do it with that
pittance of an allowance of yours? And Master Philip saying you never
had any money! No wonder, indeed!’

‘If I had known you were pinching yourself,’ said Dixon, ‘my mind would
have revolted--’

‘Let me understand it,’ said Guy, grasping the back of a chair. ‘Tell
me, Markham. Is it really so? Am I cleared? Has Mr. Edmonstone a right
to be satisfied?’

‘Yes, Sir Guy,’ was Markham’s direct answer. ‘Mr. Dixon has accounted
for your disposal of the thirty pound cheque, and there is an end of the
matter.’

Guy drew a long breath, and the convulsive grasp of his fingers relaxed.

‘I cannot thank you enough!’ said he to his uncle; then to Mr.
Edmonstone, ‘how is Charles?’

‘Better--much better, you shall see him to-morrow--eh, Guy?’

‘But I cannot explain about the one thousand pounds.’

‘Never mind--you never had it, so you can’t have misspent it. That’s
neither here nor there.’

‘And you forgive my language respecting you?’

‘Nonsense about that! If you never said anything worse than that Philip
was a meddling coxcomb, you haven’t much to repent of; and I am sure I
was ten old fools when I let him bore me into writing that letter.’

‘No, no; you did right under your belief; and circumstances were strong
against me. And is it clear? Are we where we were before?’

‘We are--we are in everything, only we know better what you are worth,
Guy. Shake hands once more. There’s an end of all misunderstanding and
vexation, and we shall be all right at home again!’

The shake was a mighty one. Guy shaded his face for a moment or two, and
then said--

‘It is too much. I don’t understand it. How did you know this matter
wanted explanation?’ said he, turning to his uncle.

‘I learnt it from Mr. Markham, and you will do me the justice to
believe, that I was greatly shocked to find that your generosity--’

‘The truth of the matter is this,’ said Markham. ‘You sent me to Miss
Wellwood’s, at St. Mildred’s. The principal was not within, and while
waiting for her to make the payment, I got into conversation with her
sister, Miss Jane. She told me that the child, Mr. Dixon’s daughter,
was always talking of your kindness, especially of a morning at St.
Mildred’s, when you helped him in some difficulty. I thought this threw
some light on the matter, found out Mr. Dixon this morning, and you see
the result.’

‘I do, indeed,’ said Guy; ‘I wish I could attempt to thank you all.’

‘Thanks enough for me to see you look like yourself,’ said Markham. ‘Did
you think I was going to sit still and leave you in the mess you had got
yourself into, with your irregularity about keeping your accounts?’

‘And to you,’ said Guy, looking at his uncle, as if it was especially
pleasant to be obliged to him. ‘You never can guess what I owe to you!’

‘Nay, I deserve no thanks at all,’ said Sebastian, ‘since I was the
means of bringing the imputation on you; and I am sure it is enough for
a wretch like me, not to have brought only misery wherever I turn--to
have done something to repair the evil I have caused. Oh, could I but
bring back your father to what he was when first I saw him as you are
now!’

He was getting into one of those violent fits of self-reproach, at once
genuine and theatrical, of which Guy had a sort of horror, and it was
well Mr. Edmonstone broke in, like comedy into tragedy.

‘Come, what’s past can’t be helped, and I have no end of work to be
done, so there’s speechifying enough for once. Mr. Dixon, you must not
be going. Sit down and look over the newspaper, while we sign these
papers. You must dine with us, and drink your nephew’s health, though it
is not his real birthday.’

Guy was much pleased that Mr. Edmonstone should have given this
invitation, as well as with the consideration Markham had shown for
Dixon in his narration. Mr. Dixon, who had learnt to consider parents
and guardians as foes and tyrants, stammered and looked confused
and enraptured; but it appeared that he could not stay, for he had a
professional engagement. He gave them an exhortation to come to the
concert where he was employed, and grew so ardent in his description of
it, that Guy could have wished to go; but his companions were in haste
to say there was far too much to do. And the next moment Guy told
himself, that Mr. Edmonstone’s good-natured face and joyous ‘eh, Guy?’
were more to him than any music he could hear nearer than Hollywell.

He went down-stairs with his uncle, who all the way raved about the
music, satisfied to find ears that could comprehend, and was too full of
it even to attend or respond to the parting thanks, for his last words
were something about a magnificent counter-tenor.

Guy walked up slowly, trying to gather his thoughts: but when it came
back to him that Amy was his again, his brain seemed to reel with
ecstasy, and it would have taken far more time than he could spare to
recall his sober senses, so he opened the door, to convince himself at
least of Mr. Edmonstone’s presence, and was received with another shake
of the hand.

‘So here you are again. I was afraid he was carrying you off to his
concert after all! I believe you have half a mind for it. Do you like
to stay in London for the next? Eh, Guy?’ and it was good to hear Mr.
Edmonstone’s hearty laugh, as he patted his ward on the shoulder, saw
his blushing, smiling shake of the head, and gave a knowing look, which
let in a fresh light on Markham, and luckily was unseen by Guy.

‘Well,’ continued Mr. Edmonstone, ‘the man is more gentlemanlike than I
expected. A good sort of fellow at the bottom, I dare say. He was pretty
considerably shocked to find he had brought you into such a scrape.’

‘He is very generous,’ said Guy. ‘Oh, there is much of a noble character
in him.’

‘Noble! humph!’ put in Markham. ‘He has gone down-hill fast enough,
since I used to see him in your father’s time; but I am glad he had the
decency not to be the undoing of you.’

‘His feeling is his great point,’ said Guy, ‘when you can once get at
it. I wish--’ But breaking off short, ‘I can’t make it out. What did
little Marianne tell you? Or was it Miss Wellwood?’

‘It was first the youngest sister,’ said Markham. ‘I sat there talking
to her some little time; she said you had been very kind to the family,
and the child was very grateful to you--was always talking of some
morning when you and your dog came, and helped her mother. Her father
had been out all night, and her mother was crying, she said, and
declaring he would be sent to prison, till you came and helped them.’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Guy.

‘Well, I remembered what you had told me of the mystery of the draft,
and guessed that this might be the clue to it. I begged to see the
child, and in she came, the very image of your mother, and a sharp
little thing that knew what she meant, but had not much idea of the
shame, poor child, about her father. She told me the story of his coming
home in the morning, and her mother being in great distress, and saying
they were ruined, till you came and talked to her mother, and gave her
something. I asked if it was money, and she said it was paper. I showed
her a draft, and she knew it was like that. So then I made her tell me
where to find her father, whom I used to know in old times, and had to
write to, now and then. I hunted him up, and a creditable figure he was,
to be sure; but I got the truth out of him at last, and when he heard
you had got into disgrace on his account, he raved like a tragedy hero,
and swore he would come and tell your guardian the whole story. I put
him into a cab for fear he should repent, and he had just got to the end
of it when you came in.’

‘It is of no use to thank you again, Markham!’

‘Why, I have been getting your family out of scrapes these forty years
or thereabouts,’ said Markham; ‘’tis all I am good for; and if they had
been no worse than this one it would be better for all of us. But time
is getting on, and there is enough to do.’

To the accounts they went at once. There was a good deal to be settled;
and though Guy had as yet no legal power, according to his grandfather’s
will, he was of course consulted about everything. He was glad that,
since he could not be alone to bring himself to the realization of his
newly-recovered happiness, he should have this sobering and engrossing
occupation. There he sat, coolly discussing leases and repairs, and only
now and then allowing himself a sort of glimpse at the treasury of
joy awaiting him whenever he had time to dwell on it. The Coombe Prior
matters were set in a better train, the preliminary arrangements about
the curacy were made, and Guy had hopes it would be his friend Mr.
Wellwood’s title for Orders.

There was no time to write to Hollywell, or rather Mr. Edmonstone forgot
to do so till it was too late, and then consoled himself by observing
that it did not signify if his family were taken by surprise, since joy
killed no one.

His family were by no means of opinion that it did not signify when the
next morning’s post brought them no letter. Mrs Edmonstone and Charles
had hoped much, and Amy did not know how much she hoped until the
melancholy words, ‘no letter,’ passed from one to the other.

To make it worse, by some of those mismanagements of Mr. Edmonstone’s
which used to run counter to his wife’s arrangements, a dinner-party had
been fixed for this identical Wednesday, and the prospect was agreeable
to no one, especially when the four o’clock train did not bring Mr.
Edmonstone, who, therefore, was not to be expected till seven, when all
the world would be arrived.

Laura helped Amy to dress, put the flowers in her hair, kissed her, and
told her it was a trying day; and Amy sighed wearily, thanked her, and
went down with arms twined in hers, whispering, ‘If I could help being
so foolish as to let myself have a little hope!’

Laura thought the case so hopeless, that she was sorry Amy could not
cease from the foolishness, and did not answer. Amy sat down at the foot
of the sofa, whither Charles was now carried down every day, and without
venturing to look at him, worked at her netting. A carriage--her
colour came and went, but it was only some of the guests; another--the
Brownlows. Amy was speaking to Miss Brownlow when she heard more
greetings; she looked up, caught by the arm of the sofa, and looked
again. Her father was pouring out apologies and welcomes, and her mother
was shaking hands with Guy.

Was it a dream? She shut her eyes, then looked again. He was close to
her by this time, she felt his fingers close on her white glove for
one moment, but she only heard his voice in the earnest ‘How are you,
Charlie?’ Her father came to her, gave her first his usual kiss of
greeting, then, not letting her go, looked at her for a moment, and, as
if he could not help it, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, ‘How d’ye
do, my little Amy?’ in a voice that meant unutterable things. All the
room was swimming round; there was nothing for it but to run away, and
she ran, but from the ante-room she heard the call outside, ‘Sir Guy’s
bag to his room,’ and she could not rush out among the servants. At that
moment, however, she spied Mary Ross and her father; she darted up to
them, said something incoherent about Mary’s bonnet, and took her up to
her own room.

‘Amy, my dear, you look wild. What has come to you?’

‘Papa is come home, and--’ the rest failed, and Amy was as red as the
camellia in her hair.

‘And?’ repeated Mary, ‘and the mystery is explained?’

‘Oh! I don’t know; they are only just come, and I was so silly, I ran
away,--I did not know what to do.’

‘_They_ are come, are they?’ thought Mary. ‘My little Amy, I see it
all.’

She made the taking off her bonnet and the settling her lace as
elaborate an operation as she could, and Amy flitted about as if she did
not by any means know what she was doing. A springy, running step was
heard on the stairs and in the passage, and Mary, though she could not
see her little friend’s face, perceived her neck turn red for a moment,
after which Amy took her arm, pressed it affectionately, and they went
down.

Mrs. Edmonstone was very glad to see Amabel looking tolerably natural.
‘Mamma’ was of course burning to hear all, but she was so confident that
the essentials were safe, that her present care was to see how her two
young lovers would be able to comport themselves, and to be on her guard
against attending to them more than to her guests.

Amy, after passing by Charles, and getting a squeeze from his
ever-sympathizing hand, put herself away behind Mary, while Laura talked
to every one, hoping to show that there was some self-possession in the
family. Guy reappeared, but, after one glance to see if Amy was present,
he did not look at her again, but went and leant over the lower end of
Charles’s sofa, just as he used to do; and Charles lay gazing at him,
and entirely forgetting what he had been trying to say just before to
Mrs. Brownlow, professing to have come from London that morning,
and making the absent mistakes likely to be attributed to the lovers
themselves.

Mr. Edmonstone came, and dinner followed. As Mrs. Edmonstone paired off
her company, she considered what to do with her new arrival.

‘If you had come two hours ago,’ said she, within herself, ‘I would have
let you be at home. Now you must be a great man, and be content with me.
It will be better for Amy.’

Accordingly Guy was between her and Mrs. Gresham. She did not try
to speak to him, and was amused by his fitful attempts at making
conversation with Mrs. Gresham, when it struck him that he ought to be
taking notice of her. Amy (very fortunately, in her own opinion) was out
of sight of him, on the same side of the table, next to Mr. Ross, who,
like his daughter, guessed enough about the state of things to let her
alone.

Charles was enjoying all manner of delightful conjectures with
Charlotte, till the ladies returned to the drawing-room, and then he
said as much as he dared to Mary Ross, far more than she had gained from
Laura, who, as they came out of the dining-room, had said,--

‘Don’t ask me any questions, for I know nothing at all about it.’

Amy was talked to by Mrs. Gresham about club-books, and new flowers, to
which she was by this time able to attend very well, satisfied that
his happiness had returned, and content to wait till the good time for
knowing how. She could even be composed when the gentlemen came in, Guy
talking to Mr. Ross about Coombe Prior, and then going to Charles; but
presently she saw no more, for a request for music was made, and she was
obliged to go and play a duet with Laura. She did not dislike this, but
there followed a persecution for some singing. Laura would have spared
her, but could not; and while she was turning over the book to try to
find something that was not impossible to begin, and Laura whispering
encouragingly, ‘This--try this--your part is almost nothing; or can’t
you do this?’ another hand turned over the leaves, as if perfectly at
home in them, and, without speaking, as if it was natural for him to
spare Amy, found a song which they had often sung together, where she
might join as much or as little as she chose, under cover of his voice.
She had not a thought or sensation beyond the joy of hearing it again,
and she stood, motionless, as if in a trance. When it was over, he said
to Laura, ‘I beg your pardon for making such bad work. I am so much out
of practice.’

Mrs. Brownlow was seen advancing on them; Amy retreated, leaving Guy
and Laura to fulfil all that was required of them, which they did with
a very good grace, and Laura’s old familiar feeling began to revive,
so much that she whispered while he was finding the place, ‘Don’t you
dislike all this excessively?’

‘It does as well as anything else, thank you,’ was the answer. ‘I can do
it better than talking.’

At last they were released, and the world was going away. Mary could not
help whispering to Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘How glad you must be to get rid of
us!’ and, as Mrs. Edmonstone answered with a smile, she ventured further
to say,--‘How beautifully Amy has behaved!’

Little Amy, as soon as she had heard the last carriage roll off, wished
every one good night, shook hands with Guy, holding up the lighted
candle between him and her face as a veil, and ran away to her own room.
The others remained in a sort of embarrassed silence, Mr. Edmonstone
rubbing his hands; Laura lighted the candles, Charlotte asked after
Bustle, and was answered that he was at Oxford, and Charles, laying hold
of the side of the sofa, pulled himself by it into a sitting posture.

‘Shall I help you?’ said Guy.

‘Thank you, but I am not ready yet; besides, I am an actual log now, and
am carried as such, so it is of no use to wait for me. Mamma shall have
the first turn, and I won’t even leave my door open.’

‘Yes, yes, yes; go and have it out with mamma, next best to Amy herself,
as she is run away--eh, Guy?’ said Mr. Edmonstone.

Guy and Mrs. Edmonstone had not hitherto trusted themselves to speak
to each other, but they looked and smiled; then, wishing the rest good
night, they disappeared. Then there was a simultaneous outbreak of
‘Well?’

‘All right!’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Every word was untrue. He is the
noblest fellow in the world, as I knew all the time, and I was an old
fool for listening to a pack of stories against him.’

‘Hurrah!’ cried Charles, drumming on the back of his sofa. ‘Let us hear
how the truth came out, and what it was.’

‘It was that Dixon. There has he been helping that man for ever, sending
his child to school, giving him sums upon sums, paying his gaming debts
with that cheque!’

‘Oh, oh!’ cried Charles.

‘Yes that was it! The child told Markham of it, and Markham brought
the father to tell me. It puts me in a rage to think of the monstrous
stories Philip has made me believe!’

‘I was sure of it!’ cried Charles. ‘I knew it would come out that he had
only been so much better than other people that nobody could believe it.
Cleared! cleared! Why, Charlotte, Mr. Ready-to-halt will be for footing
it cleverly enough!’ as she was wildly curvetting round him.

‘I was always sure,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I knew it was not in him to
go wrong. It was only Philip, who would persuade me black was white.’

‘I never believed one word of it,’ said Charles; ‘still less after I saw
Philip’s animosity.’

‘“Les absens ont toujours tort,”’ interrupted Laura; then, afraid of
saying too much, she added,--‘Come, Charlotte, it is very late.’

‘And I shall be the first to tell Amy!’ cried Charlotte. ‘Good night,
papa!--good night, Charlie!’

She rushed up-stairs, afraid of being forestalled. Laura lingered,
putting some books away in the ante-room, trying to overcome the weary
pain at her heart. She did not know how to be confident. Her father’s
judgment was worthless in her eyes, and Philip had predicted that Amy
would be sacrificed after all. To see them happy made her sigh at the
distance of her own hopes, and worse than all was self-reproach
for unkindness in not rejoicing with the rest, in spite of her real
affection for Guy himself. When she thought of him, she could not
believe him guilty; when she thought of Philip’s belief, she could not
suppose him innocent, and she pitied her sister for enjoying a delusive
happiness. With effort, however, she went to her room, and, finding her
a little overpowered by Charlotte’s tumultuous joy, saw that peace
and solitude were best for her till she could have more certain
intelligence, and, after very tender good-nights, carried off Charlotte.

It would be hard to describe Mrs. Edmonstone’s emotion, as she preceded
Guy to the dressing-room, and sat down, looking up to him as he stood in
his old place by the fire. She thought he did not look well, though it
might be only that the sun-burnt colour had given place to his natural
fairness; his eyes, though bright as ever, did not dance and sparkle;
a graver expression sat on his brow; and although he still looked very
young, a change there certainly was, which made him man instead of
boy--a look of having suffered, and conquered suffering. She felt even
more motherly affection for him now than when he last stood there in the
full tide of his first outburst of his love for her daughter, and her
heart was almost too full for speech; but he seemed to be waiting for
her, and at last she said,--‘I am very glad to have you here again.’

He smiled a little, then said, ‘May I tell you all about it?’

‘Sit down here. I want very much to hear it. I am sure you have gone
through a good deal.’

 I have, indeed,’ said he, simply and gravely; and there was a silence,
while she was certain that, whatever he might have endured, he did not
feel it to have been in vain.

‘But it is at an end,’ said she. ‘I have scarcely seen Mr. Edmonstone,
but he tells me he is perfectly satisfied.’

‘He is so kind as to be satisfied, though you know I still cannot
explain about the large sum I asked him for.’

‘We will trust you,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling, ‘but I am very
anxious to hear how you came to an understanding.’

Guy went over the story in detail, and very much affected she was to
hear how entirely unfounded had been the suspicion, and how thankful he
was for Mr. Edmonstone’s forgiveness.

‘You had rather to forgive us!’ said she.

‘You forget how ill I behaved,’ said Guy, colouring. ‘If you knew the
madness of those first moments of provocation, you would think that the
penance of a lifetime, instead of only one winter, would scarce have
been sufficient.’

‘You would not say, as Charles does, that the suspicion justified your
anger?’

‘No, indeed!’ He paused, and spoke again. ‘Thank Heaven, it did not last
long; but the insight it gave me into the unsubdued evil about me was a
fearful thing.’

‘But you conquered it. They were the unguarded exclamations of the first
shock. Your whole conduct since, especially the interview with Philip,
has shown that your anger has not been abiding, and that you have learnt
to subdue it.’

‘It could not abide, for there was no just cause of offence. Of course
such a dreadful outburst warned me to be on my guard; and you know the
very sight of Philip is a warning that there is danger in that way! I
mean,’ said Guy, becoming conscious that he had been very severe, ‘I
mean that I know of old that I am apt to be worried by his manner, and
that ought to make me doubly cautious.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was struck by the soberer manner in which he spoke
of his faults. He was as ready to take full blame, but without the
vehemence which he used to expend in raving at himself instead of at the
offender. It seemed as if he had brought himself to the tone he used to
desire so earnestly.

‘I am very glad to be able to explain all to Philip,’ he said.

‘I will write as soon as possible. Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone! if you knew what
it is to be brought back to such unhoped-for happiness, to sit here
once more, with you,’--his voice trembled, and the tears were in her
eyes,--‘to have seen _her_, to have all overlooked, and return to all I
hoped last year. I want to look at you all, to believe that it is true,’
he finished, smiling.

‘You both behaved very well this evening,’ said she, laughing, because
she could do so better than anything else at that moment.

‘You both!’ murmured Guy to himself.

‘Ah! little Amy has been very good this winter.’

He answered her with a beautiful expression of his eyes, was silent a
little while, and suddenly exclaimed, in a candid, expostulating tone,
‘But now, seriously, don’t you think it a very bad thing for her?’

‘My dear Guy,’ said she, scarcely repressing a disposition to laugh, ‘I
told you last summer what I thought of it, and you must settle the rest
with Amy to-morrow. I hear the drawing-room bell, which is a sign I must
send you to bed. Good night!’

‘Good night!’ repeated Guy, as he held her hand. ‘It is so long since I
have had any one to wish me good night! Good night, mamma!’

She pressed his hand, then as he ran down to lend a helping hand in
carrying Charles, she, the tears in her eyes, crossed the passage to see
how it was with her little Amy, and to set her at rest for the night.
Amy’s candle was out, and she was in bed, lying full in the light of the
Easter moon, which poured in glorious whiteness through her window. She
started up as the door opened. ‘Oh, mamma! how kind of you to come!’

‘I can only stay a moment, my dear; your papa is coming up; but I must
just tell you that I have been having such a nice talk with dear Guy.
He has behaved beautifully, and papa is quite satisfied. Now, darling,
I hope you will not lie awake all night, or you won’t be fit to talk to
him to-morrow.’

Amy sat up in bed, and put her arms round her mother’s neck. ‘Then he is
happy again,’ she whispered. ‘I should like to hear all.’

‘He shall tell you himself to-morrow, my dear. Now, good night! you have
been a very good child. Now, go to sleep, my dear one.’

Amy lay down obediently. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me, dear mamma,’
she said. ‘I am very glad; good night.’

She shut her eyes, and there was something in the sweet, obedient,
placid look of her face, as the white moonlight shone upon it, that made
her mother pause and gaze again with the feeling, only tenderer, left
by a beautiful poem. Amy looked up to see why she delayed; she gave her
another kiss, and left her in the moonlight.

Little Amy’s instinct was to believe the best and do as she was bidden,
and there was a quietness and confidence in the tone of her mind which
gave a sort of serenity of its own even to suspense. A thankful, happy
sensation that all was well, mamma said so, and Guy was there, had taken
possession of her, and she did not agitate herself to know how or why,
for mamma, had told her to put herself to sleep; so she thought of all
the most thanksgiving verses of her store of poetry, and before the
moon had passed away from her window, Amabel Edmonstone was wrapped in a
sleep dreamless and tranquil as an infant’s.



CHAPTER 26

     Hence, bashful cunning,
     And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.
     I am your wife if you will marry me.
                                 --TEMPEST


Amabel awoke to such a sense of relief and repose that she scarcely
liked to ask herself the cause, lest it might ruffle her complete peace.
Those words ‘all right,’ seemed to be enough to assure her that the
cloud was gone.

Her mother came in, told her one or two of the main facts, and took her
down under her wing, only stopping by the way for a greeting to Charles,
who could not rise till after breakfast. He held her fast, and gazed up
in her face, but she coloured so deeply, cast down her eyes, and looked
so meek and submissive, that he let her go, and said nothing.

The breakfast party were for the most part quiet, silent, and happy.
Even Charlotte was hushed by the subdued feeling of the rest, and Mr.
Edmonstone’s hilarity, though replied to in turn by each, failed to wake
them into mirth. Guy ran up and down-stairs continually, to wait upon
Charles; and thus the conversation was always interrupted as fast as it
began, so that the only fact that came out was the cause of the lateness
of their arrival yesterday. Mr. Edmonstone had taken it for granted that
Guy, like Philip, would watch for the right time, and warn him, while
Guy, being excessively impatient, had been so much afraid of letting
himself fidget, as to have suffered the right moment to pass, and then
borne all the blame.

‘How you must have wanted to play the Harmonious Blacksmith,’ said
Charlotte.

‘I caught myself going through the motions twice,’ said Guy.

Mrs. Edmonstone said to herself that he might contest the palm of temper
with Amy even; the difference being, that hers was naturally sweet, his
a hasty one, so governed that the result was the same. When breakfast
was over, as they were rising, Guy made two steps towards Amabel,
at whom he had hitherto scarcely looked, and said, very low, in his
straightforward way: ‘Can I speak to you a little while?’

Amy’s face glowed as she moved towards him, and her mother said
something about the drawing-room, where the next moment she found
herself. She did not use any little restless arts to play with her
embarrassment; she did not torment the flowers or the chimney ornaments,
nor even her own rings, she stood with her hands folded and her head a
little bent down, like a pendant blossom, ready to listen to whatever
might be said to her.

He did not speak at first, but moved uneasily about. At last he came
nearer, and began speaking fast and nervously.

‘Amabel, I want you to consider--you really ought to think whether this
is not a very bad thing for you.’

The drooping head was raised, the downcast lids lifted up, and the
blue eyes fixed on him with a look at once confiding and wondering. He
proceeded--

‘I have brought you nothing but unhappiness already. So far as you have
taken any interest in me, it could cause you only pain, and the more I
think of it, the more unfit it seems that one so formed for light, and
joy, and innocent mirth, should have anything to do with the darkness
that is round me. Think well of it. I feel as if I had done a selfish
thing by you, and now, you know, you are not bound. You are quite free!
No one knows anything about it, or if they did, the blame would rest
entirely with me. I would take care it should. So, Amy, think, and think
well, before you risk your happiness.’

‘As to that,’ replied Amy, in a soft, low voice, with _such_ a look of
truth in her clear eyes, ‘I must care for whatever happens to you, and
I had rather it was with you, than without you,’ she said, casting them
down again.

‘My Amy!--my own!--my Verena!’--and he held fast one of her hands, as
they sat together on the sofa--‘I had a feeling that so it might be
through the very worst, yet I can hardly believe it now.’

‘Guy,’ said Amy, looking up, with the gentle resolution that had lately
grown on her, ‘you must not take me for more than I am worth, and I
should like to tell you fairly. I did not speak last time, because
it was all so strange and so delightful, and I had no time to think,
because I was so confused. But that is a long time ago, and this has
been a very sad winter, and I have thought a great deal. I know, and you
know, too, that I am a foolish little thing; I have been silly little
Amy always; you and Charlie have helped me to all the sense I have, and
I don’t think I could ever be a clever, strong-minded woman, such as one
admires.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ ejaculated Guy; moved, perhaps, by a certain
remembrance of St. Mildred’s.

‘But,’ continued Amy, ‘I believe I do really wish to be good, and I know
you have helped me to wish it much more, and I have been trying to learn
to bear things, and so’--out came something, very like a sunny smile,
though some tears followed--‘so if you do like such a silly little
thing, it can’t be helped, and we will try to make the best of her. Only
don’t say any more about my being happier without you, for one thing I
am very sure of, Guy, I had rather bear anything with you, than know you
were bearing it alone. I am only afraid of being foolish and weak, and
making things worse for you.’

‘So much worse! But still,’ he added, ‘speak as you may, my Amy, I
cannot, must not, feel that I have a right to think of you as my own,
till you have heard all. You ought to know what my temper is before you
risk yourself in its power. Amy, my first thought towards Philip was
nothing short of murder.’

She raised her eyes, and saw how far entirely he meant what he said.

‘The first--not the second,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, the second--the third. There was a moment when I could have given
my soul for my revenge!’

‘Only a moment!’

‘Only a moment, thank Heaven! and I have not done quite so badly since.
I hope I have not suffered quite in vain; but if that shock could
overthrow all my wonted guards, it might, though I pray Heaven it may
not, it might happen again.’

‘I think you conquered yourself then, and that you will again,’ said
Amy.

‘And suppose I was ever to be mad enough to be angry with you?’

Amy smiled outright here. ‘Of course, I should deserve it; but I think
the trouble would be the comforting you afterwards. Mamma said’--she
added, after a long silence, during which Guy’s feeling would not let
him speak--‘mamma said, and I think, that you are much safer and better
with such a quick temper as yours, because you are always struggling and
fighting with it, on the real true religious ground, than a person more
even tempered by nature, but not so much in earnest in doing right.’

‘Yes, if I did not believe myself to be in earnest about that, I could
never dare to speak to you at all.’

‘We will help each other,’ said Amy; ‘you have always helped me, long
before we knew we cared for each other!’

‘And, Amy, if you knew how the thought of you helped me last winter,
even when I thought I had forfeited you for ever.’

Their talk only ceased when, at one o’clock, Mrs. Edmonstone, who had
pronounced in the dressing-room that three hours was enough for them
at once, came in, and asked Guy to go and help to carry Charles
down-stairs.

He went, and Amy nestled up to her mother, raising her face to be
kissed.

‘It is very nice!’ she whispered; and then arranged her brother’s sofa,
as she heard his progress down-stairs beginning. He was so light and
thin as to be very easily carried, and was brought in between Guy
and one of the servants. When he was settled on the sofa, he began
thus,--‘There was a grand opportunity lost last winter. I was
continually rehearsing the scene, and thinking what waste it was to go
through such a variety of torture without the dignity of danger. If I
could but have got up ever so small an alarm, I would have conjured my
father to send for Guy, entreated pathetically that the reconciliation
might be effected, and have drawn my last breath clasping their hands,
thus! The curtain falls!’

He made a feint of joining their hands, put his head back, and shut his
eyes with an air and a grace that put Charlotte into an ecstasy, and
made even Amy laugh, as she quitted the room, blushing.

‘But if it had been your last breath,’ said Charlotte, ‘you would not
have been much the wiser.’

‘I would have come to life again in time to enjoy the “coup de theatre”.
I had some thoughts of trying an overdose of opium; but I thought Dr.
Mayerne would have found me out. I tell you, because it is fair I
should have the credit; for, Guy, if you knew what she was to me all the
winter, you would perceive my superhuman generosity in not receiving you
as my greatest enemy.’

‘I shall soon cease to be surprised at any superhuman generosity,’ said
Guy. ‘But how thin you are, Charlie; you are a very feather to carry; I
had no notion it had been such a severe business.’

‘Most uncommon!’ said Charles, shaking his head, with a mock solemnity.

‘It was the worst of all,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘six weeks of constant
pain.’

‘How very sorry Philip must have been!’ exclaimed Guy.

‘Philip?’ said Charlotte.

‘Why, was it not owing to him? Surely, your father told me so. Did not
he let you fall on the stairs?’

‘My dear father!’ exclaimed Charles, laughing; ‘every disaster that
happens for the next twelvemonth will be imputed to Philip.’

‘How was it, then?’ said Guy.

‘The fact was this,’ said Charles; ‘it was in the thick of the
persecution of you, and I was obliged to let Philip drag me upstairs,
because I was in a hurry. He took the opportunity of giving me some
impertinent advice which I could not stand. I let go his arm, forgetting
what a dependent mortal I am, and down I should assuredly have gone, if
he had not caught me, and carried me off, as a fox does a goose, so
it was his fault, as one may say, in a moral, though not in a physical
sense.’

‘Then,’ said his mother, ‘you do think your illness was owing to that
accident?’

‘I suppose the damage was brewing, and that the shake brought it into an
active state. There’s a medical opinion for you!’

‘Well, I never knew what you thought of it before,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone.

‘Why, when I had a condor to pick on Guy’s account with Philip, I was
not going to pick a crow on my own,’ said Charles. ‘Oh! is luncheon
ready; and you all going? I never see anybody now. I want the story of
the shipwreck, though, of course, Ben What’s-his-name was the hero, and
Sir Guy Morville not a bit of it.’

Laura wanted to walk to East Hill, and the other young people agreed to
go thither, too.

‘It will be nice to go to church there to-day’ said Amy, in a
half-whisper, heard only by Guy, and answered by a look that showed how
well he understood and sympathized.

‘Another thing,’ said Amy, colouring a good deal; ‘shall you mind my
telling Mary? I behaved so oddly last night, and she was so kind to me
that I think I ought.’

Mary had seen enough last night to be very curious to-day, though hardly
expecting her curiosity to be gratified. However, as she was putting on
her bonnet for church, she looked out of her window, and saw the four
coming across the fields from Hollywell. Guy and Amy did not walk into
the village arm-in-arm; but, as they came under the church porch, Guy,
unseen by all held out his hand, sought hers, and, for one moment,
pressed it fervently. Amy knew he felt this like their betrothal.

After the service, they stood talking with Mr. Ross and Mary, for some
little time. Amy held apart, and Mary saw how it was. As they were about
to turn homewards, Amy said quickly, ‘Come and walk a little way home
with me.’

She went on with Mary before the rest, and when out of sight of them
all, said, ‘Mary!’ and then stopped short.

‘I guess something, Amy,’ said Mary.

‘Don’t tell any one but Mr. Ross.’

‘Then I have guessed right. My dear little Amy, I am very glad! So that
was the reason you flew out of the room last evening, and looked so
bright and glowing!’

‘It was so good of you to ask no questions!’

‘I don’t think I need ask any now, Amy; for I see in your face how right
and happy it all is.’

‘I can’t tell you all, Mary, but I must one thing,--that the whole
terrible story arose from his helping a person in distress. I like you
to know that.’

‘Papa was always sure that he had not been to blame,’ said Mary.

‘Yes; so Charlie told me, and that is the reason I wanted you to know.’

‘Then, Amy, something of this had begun last summer?’

‘Yes; but not as it is now. I did not half know what it was then.’

‘Poor dear little Amy,’ said Mary; ‘what a very sad winter it must have
been for you!’

‘Oh, very!’ said Amy; ‘but it was worse for him, because he was quite
alone; and here every one was so kind to me. Mamma and Laura, and poor
Charlie, through all his illness and pain, he was so very kind. And do
you know, Mary, now it is all over, I am very glad of this dismal time;
for I think that it has taught me how to bear things better.’

She looked very happy. Yet it struck Mary that it was strange to hear
that the first thought of a newly-betrothed maiden was how to brace
herself in endurance. She wondered, however, whether it was not a more
truly happy and safe frame than that of most girls, looking forward to a
life of unclouded happiness, such as could never be realized. At least,
so it struck Mary, though she owned to herself that her experience of
lovers was limited.

Mary walked with Amy almost to the borders of Hollywell garden; and when
the rest came up with them, though no word passed, there was a great
deal of congratulation in her warm shake of Guy’s hand, and no lack of
reply in his proud smile and reddening cheek. Charlotte could not help
turning and going back with her a little way, to say, ‘Are not you
delighted, Mary? Is not Amy the dearest thing in the world? And you
don’t know, for it is a secret, and I know it, how very noble Guy has
been, while they would suspect him.’

‘I am very, very glad, indeed! It is everything delightful.’

‘I never was so happy in my life,’ said Charlotte; ‘nor Charlie, either.
Only think of having Guy for our brother; and he is going to send for
Bustle to-morrow.’

Mary laughed, and parted with Charlotte, speculating on the cause of
Laura’s graver looks. Were they caused by the fear of losing her sister,
or by a want of confidence in Guy?

That evening, how happy was the party at Hollywell, when Charles put
Guy through a cross-examination on the shipwreck, from the first puff of
wind to the last drop of rain; and Guy submitted very patiently, since
he was allowed the solace of praising his Redclyffe fishermen.

Indeed, this time was full of tranquil, serene happiness. It was like
the lovely weather only to be met with in the spring, and then but
rarely, when the sky is cloudless, and intensely blue,--the sunshine
one glow of clearness without burning,--not a breath of wind checks the
silent growth of the expanding buds of light exquisite green. Such days
as these shone on Guy and Amabel, looking little to the future, or if
they did so at all, with a grave, peaceful awe, reposing in the present,
and resuming old habits,--singing, reading, gardening, walking as of
old, and that intercourse with each other that was so much more than
ever before.

It was more, but it was not quite the same; for Guy was a very
chivalrous lover; the polish and courtesy that sat so well on his frank,
truthful manners, were even more remarkable in his courtship. His
ways with Amy had less of easy familiarity than in the time of their
brother-and-sister-like intimacy, so that a stranger might have imagined
her wooed, not won. It was as if he hardly dared to believe that she
could really be his own, and treated her with a sort of reverential love
and gentleness, while she looked up to him with ever-increasing honour.
She was better able to understand him now than in her more childish days
last summer; and she did not merely see, as before, that she was looking
at the upper surface of a mystery. He had, at the same time, grown in
character, his excitability and over-sensitiveness seemed to have been
smoothed away, and to have given place to a calmness of tone, that was
by no means impassibility.

When alone with Amy, he was generally very grave, often silent and
meditative, or else their talk was deep and serious; and even with the
family he was less merry and more thoughtful than of old, though very
bright and animated, and showing full, free affection to them all, as
entirely accepted and owned as one of them.

So, indeed, he was. Mr. Edmonstone, with his intense delight in lovers,
patronized them, and made commonplace jokes, which they soon learnt
to bear without much discomposure. Mrs. Edmonstone was all that her
constant appellation of ‘mamma’ betokened, delighting in Guy’s having
learnt to call her so. Charles enjoyed the restoration of his friend,
the sight of Amy’s happiness, and the victory over Philip, and was
growing better every day. Charlotte was supremely happy, watching the
first love affair ever conducted in her sight, and little less so in the
return of Bustle, who resumed his old habits as regularly as if he had
only left Hollywell yesterday.

Laura alone was unhappy. She did not understand her own feelings; but
sad at heart she was; with only one who could sympathize with her, and
he far away, and the current of feeling setting against him. She could
not conceal her depression, and was obliged to allow it to be attributed
to the grief that one sister must feel in parting with another; and as
her compassion for her little Amy, coupled with her dread of her latent
jealousy, made her particularly tender and affectionate, it gave even
more probability to the supposition. This made Guy, who felt as if he
was committing a robbery on them all, particularly kind to her, as if
he wished to atone for the injury of taking away her sister; and his
kindness gave her additional pain at entertaining such hard thoughts of
him.

How false she felt when she was pitied! and how she hated the
congratulations, of which she had the full share! She thought, however,
that she should be able to rejoice when she had heard Philip’s opinion;
and how delightful it would be for him to declare himself satisfied with
Guy’s exculpation.



CHAPTER 27

     I forgave thee all the blame,
     I could not forgive the praise.
                        --TENNYSON


‘If ever there was a meddlesome coxcomb on this earth!’ Such was the
exclamation that greeted the ears of Guy as he supported Charles into
the breakfast-room; and, at the same time, Mr. Edmonstone tossed a
letter into Guy’s plate, saying,--

‘There’s something for you to read.’

Guy began; his lips were tightly pressed together; his brows made one
black line across his forehead, and his eye sparkled even through his
bent-down eyelashes; but this lasted only a few moments; the forehead
smoothed, again, and there was a kind of deliberate restraint and force
upon himself, which had so much power, that no one spoke till he had
finished, folded it up with a sort of extra care, and returned it, only
saying,

‘You should not show one such letters, Mr. Edmonstone.’

‘Does not it beat everything?’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘If that is not
impertinence, I should like to know what is! But he has played my
Lord Paramount rather too long, as I can tell him! I ask his consent,
forsooth! Probation, indeed! You might marry her to-morrow, and welcome.
There, give it to mamma. See if she does not say the same. Mere spite
and malice all along.’

Poor Laura! would no one refute such cruel injustice? Yes, Guy spoke,
eagerly,--

‘No no; that it never was. He was quite right under his belief.’

‘Don’t tell me! Not a word in his favour will I hear!’ stormed on Mr.
Edmonstone. ‘Mere envy and ill-will.’

‘I always told him so,’ said Charles. ‘Pure malignity!’

‘Nonsense, Charlie!’ said Guy, sharply; ‘there is no such thing about
him.’

‘Come, Guy; I can’t stand this,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I won’t have him
defended; I never thought to be so deceived; but you all worshipped the
boy as if every word that came out of his mouth was Gospel truth, and
you’ve set him up till he would not condescend to take an advice of his
own father, who little thought what an upstart sprig he was rearing; but
I tell him he has come to the wrong shop for domineering--eh, mamma?’

‘Well!’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone, who had read till near the end with
tolerable equanimity; this really is too bad!’

‘Mamma and all!’ thought poor Laura, while her mother continued,--‘It
is wilful prejudice, to say the least,--I never could have believed him
capable of it!’

Charles next had the letter, and was commenting on it in a style of
mingled sarcasm and fury; while Laura longed to see it justify itself,
as she was sure it would.

‘Read it, all of you--every bit,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘that you may see
this paragon of yours!’

‘I had rather not,’ said Amy, shrinking as it came towards her.

‘I should like you to do so, if you don’t dislike it very much,’ said
Guy.

She read in silence; and then came the turn of Laura, who marvelled at
the general injustice as she read.


                       ‘CORK, April 8th.
‘MY DEAR UNCLE,--I am much obliged to you for the communication of your
intention with regard to Amabel; but, indeed, I must say I am a good
deal surprised that you should have so hastily resolved on so important
a step, and have been satisfied with so incomplete an explanation of
circumstances which appeared to you, as well as to myself, to show that
Guy’s character was yet quite unsettled, and his conduct such as to
create considerable apprehension that he was habitually extremely
imprudent, to say the least of it, in the management of his own affairs.
How much more unfit, therefore, to have the happiness of another
intrusted to him? I believe--indeed, I understood you to have declared
to me that you were resolved never to allow the engagement to be
renewed, unless he should, with the deference which is only due to
you as his guardian, consent to clear up the mystery with which he
has thought fit to invest all his pecuniary transactions, and this, it
appears, he refuses, as he persists in denying all explanation of his
demand for that large sum of money. As to the cheque, which certainly
was applied to discreditable uses, though I will not suffer myself to
suppose that Guy was in collusion with his uncle, yet it is not at
all improbable that Dixon, not being a very scrupulous person, may, on
hearing of the difficulties in which his nephew has been placed, come
forward to relieve him from his embarrassment, in the hope of further
profit, by thus establishing a claim on his gratitude. In fact, this
proof of secretly renewed intercourse with Dixon rather tends to
increase the presumption that there is something wrong. I am not writing
this in the expectation that the connection should be entirely broken
off, for that, indeed, would be out of the question as things stand at
present, but for my little cousin’s sake, as well as his own, I entreat
of you to pause. They are both extremely young--so young, that if there
was no other ground, many persons would think it advisable to wait a few
years; and why not wait until the time fixed by his grandfather for
his coming into possession of his property? If the character of his
attachment to Amabel is firm and true, the probation may be of infinite
service to him, as keeping before him, during the most critical period
of his life, a powerful motive for restraining the natural impetuosity
of his disposition; while, on the other hand, if this should prove
to have been a mere passing fancy for the first young lady into whose
society he has been thrown on terms of easy familiar intercourse, you
will then have the satisfaction of reflecting that your care and caution
have preserved your daughter from a life of misery. My opinion has
never altered respecting him, that he is brave and generous, with good
feelings and impulses, manners peculiarly attractive, and altogether a
character calculated to inspire affection, but impetuous and unsteady,
easily led into temptation, yet obstinate in reserve, and his temper of
unchecked violence. I wish him happiness of every kind; and, as you well
know, would, do my utmost for his welfare; but my affection for your
whole family, and my own conscientious conviction, make me feel it my
duty to offer this remonstrance, which I hope will be regarded as by no
means the result of any ill-will, but simply of a sincere desire for the
good of all parties, such as can only be evinced by plain speaking.

                       ‘Yours affectionately,
                                ‘P. MORVILLE.’


All the time Laura was reading, Guy was defending Philip against the
exaggerated abuse that Mr. Edmonstone and Charles were pouring out, till
at last, Mrs. Edmonstone, getting out of patience, said,--

‘My dear Guy, if we did not know you so well, we should almost accuse
you of affectation.’

‘Then I shall go away,’ said Guy, laughing as he rose. ‘Can you come
out with me?’ said he, in a lower tone, leaning over the back of Amy’s
chair.

‘No; wait a bit,’ interposed Mr. Edmonstone; ‘don’t take her out, or
you won’t be to be found, anywhere, and I want to speak to you before
I write my letter, and go to the Union Meeting. I want to tell Master
Philip, on the spot, that the day is fixed, and we snap our fingers at
him and his probation. Wait till twenty-five! I dare say!’

At ‘I want to speak to you,’ the ladies had made the first move towards
departure, but they were not out of hearing at the conclusion. Guy
looked after Amy, but she would not look round, and Charles lay twisting
Bustle’s curls round his fingers, and smiling to himself at the manner
in which the letter was working by contraries. The overthrow of Philip’s
influence was a great triumph for him, apart from the way in which it
affected his friend and his sister.

Mr. Edmonstone was disappointed that Guy would not set about fixing the
day, in time for him to announce it in a letter to be written in the
course of an hour. Guy said he had not begun on the subject with Amy,
and it would never do to hurry her. Indeed, it was a new light to
himself that Mr. Edmonstone would like it to take place so soon.

‘Pray, when did you think it was to be?’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Upon my
word, I never in all my days saw a lover like you, Guy!’

‘I was too happy to think about the future; besides, I did not know
whether you had sufficient confidence in me.’

‘Confidence, nonsense! I tell you if I had a dozen daughters, I would
trust them all to you.’

Guy smiled, and was infected by Charles’s burst of laughing, but Mr.
Edmonstone went on unheeding--‘I have the most absolute confidence
in you! I am going to write to Philip this minute, to tell him he has
played three-tailed Bashaw rather too long. I shall tell him it is to
be very soon, at any rate; and that if he wishes to see how I value his
pragmatical advice, he may come and dance at the wedding. I declare,
your mamma and that colonel of his have perfectly spoilt him with their
flattery! I knew what would come of it; you all would make a prodigy of
him, till he is so puffed up, that he entirely forgets who he is!’

‘Not I’ said Charles; ‘that can’t be laid to my door.’

‘But I’ll write him such a letter this instant as shall make him
remember what he is, and show him who he has to deal with. Eh, Charlie?’

‘Don’t you think,’ said Guy, preparing to go, ‘that it might be better
to wait a day or two, till we see our way clearer, and are a little
cooler?’

‘I tell you, Guy, there is no one that puts me out of patience now, but
yourself. You are as bad as Philip himself. Cool? I am coolness itself,
all but what’s proper spirit for a man to show when his family is
affronted, and himself dictated to, by a meddling young jackanapes. I’ll
serve him out properly!’

A message called him away. Guy stood looking perplexed and sorrowful.

‘Never mind,’ said Charles, ‘I’ll take care the letter is moderate.
Besides, it is only Philip, and he knows that letter-writing is not his
forte.’

‘I am afraid things will be said in irritation, which you will both
regret. There are justice and reason in the letter.’

‘There shall be more in the answer, as you will see.’

‘No, I will not see. It is Mr. Edmonstone’s concern, not mine. I am the
last person who should have anything to do with it.’

‘Just what the individual in question would not have said.’

‘Would you do one thing to oblige me, Charlie?’

‘Anything but not speaking my mind to, or of, the captain.’

‘That is the very thing, unluckily. Try to get the answer put off till
to-morrow, and that will give time to look at this letter candidly.’

‘All the candour in the world will not make me think otherwise than that
he is disappointed at being no longer able to make us the puppets of his
malevolence. Don’t answer, or if you do, tell me what you say in favour
of that delicate insinuation of his.’

Guy made a step towards the window, and a step back again. ‘’Tis not
fair to ask such questions,’ he replied, after a moment. ‘It is throwing
oil on the fire. I was trying to forget it. He neither knows my uncle
nor the circumstances.’

‘Well, I am glad there is a point on which you can’t even pretend to
stand up for him, or I should have thought you crazed with Quixotism.
But I am keeping you when you want to be off to Amy. Never mind Mr.
Ready-to-halt; I shall wait till my father comes back. If you want the
letter put off you had better give some hopes of--Oh! he is gone, and
disinterested advice it is of mine, for what is to become of me without
Amy remains to be proved. Laura, poor thing, looks like Patience on a
monument. I wonder whether Philip’s disgrace has anything to do with it.
Hum! If mamma’s old idea was right, the captain has been more like moth
and candle than consistent with his prudence, unless he thought it “a
toute epreuve”. I wonder what came to pass last autumn, when I was ill,
and mamma’s head full of me. He may not intend it, and she may not know
it, but I would by no means answer for Cupid’s being guiltless of that
harassed look she has had ever since that ball-going summer. Oh! there
go that pretty study, Amy and her true knight. As to Guy, he is more
incomprehensible than ever; yet there is no avoiding obeying him, on the
principle on which that child in the “Moorland cottage” said she should
obey Don Quixote.’

So when his father came in, Charles wiled him into deferring the letter
till the next day, by giving him an indistinct hope that some notion
when the marriage would be, might be arrived at by that time. He
consented the more readily, because he was in haste to investigate a
complaint that had just been made of the union doctor; but his last
words to his wife and son before he went, were--‘Of course, they must
marry directly, there is nothing on earth to wait for. Live at Redclyffe
alone? Not to be thought of. No, I’ll see little Amy my Lady Morville,
before Philip goes abroad, if only to show him I am not a man to be
dictated to.’

Mrs. Edmonstone sighed; but when he was gone, she agreed with Charles
that there was nothing to wait for, and that it would be better for Guy
to take his wife at once with him, when he settled at Redclyffe. So it
must be whenever Amy could make up her mind to it; and thereupon they
made plans for future meetings, Charles announcing that the Prince of
the Black Isles would become locomotive, and Charlotte forming grand
designs upon Shag Island.

In the meantime, Guy and Amy were walking in the path through the wood,
where he began: ‘I would not have asked you to do anything so unpleasant
as reading that letter, but I thought you ought to consider of it.’

‘It was just like himself! How could he?’ said Amy, indignantly.

‘I wonder whether he will ever see his own harshness?’ said Guy. ‘It
is very strange, that with all his excellence and real kindness, there
should be some distortion in his view of all that concerns me. I cannot
understand it.’

‘You must let me call it prejudice, Guy, in spite of your protest. It is
a relief to say something against him.’

‘Amy, don’t be venomous!’ said Guy, in a playful tone of reproach.

‘Yes; but you know it is not _me_ whom he has been abusing.’

‘Well,’ said Guy, musingly, ‘I suppose it is right there should be this
cloud, or it would be too bright for earth. It has been one of my chief
wishes to have things straight with Philip, ever since the time he
stayed at Redclyffe as a boy. I saw his superiority then; but it fretted
me, and I never could make a companion of him. Ever since, I have
looked to his approval as one of the best things to be won. It shows
his ascendancy of character; yet, do what I will, the mist has gone on
thickening between us; and with reason, for I have never been able to
give him the confidence he required, and his conduct about my uncle has
so tried my patience, that I never have been quite sure whether I ought
to avoid him or not.’

‘And now you are the only person who will speak for him. I don’t wonder
papa is provoked with you,’ said she, pretending to be wilful. ‘I only
hope you don’t want to make me do the same. I could bear anything better
than his old saying about your attractive manners and good impulses,
and his opinion that has never altered. O Guy, he is the most provoking
person in all the world. Don’t try to make me admire him, nor be sorry
for him.’

‘Not when you remember how he was looked on here? and how, without
doing anything worthy of blame, nay, from his acting unsparingly, as he
thought right, every one has turned against him? even mamma, who used to
be so fond of him?’

‘Not Laura.’

‘No, not Laura, and I am thankful to her for it; for all this makes me
feel as if I had supplanted him.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, it is like you; but don’t ask me to feel that yet,’ said
Amy, with tears in her eyes,’ or I shall be obliged to tell you what you
won’t like to hear, about his tone of triumph that terrible time last
year. It was so very different, I don’t think I could ever forgive him,
if it had not made me so miserable too.’

Guy pressed her arm. ‘Yes; but he thought himself right. He meant to do
the kindest thing by you,’ said he, so entirely without effort, that no
one could doubt it came straight from his heart. ‘So he thinks still,
Amy; there is fairness, justice, good sense in his letter, and we
must not blind our eyes to it, though there is injustice, at least,
harshness. I did fail egregiously in my first trial.’

‘Fail!’

‘In temper.’

‘Oh!’

‘And, Amy, I wanted to ask what you think about the four years he
speaks of. Do you think, as he says, my habits might be more fixed, and
altogether you might have more confidence?’

‘I don’t look on you quite as he does now,’ said Amy, with a very pretty
smile. ‘Do you think his opinion of you will ever alter?’

‘But what do you think? Is there not some reason in what he says?’

‘The only use I can see is, that perhaps I should be wiser at
twenty-four, and fitter to take care of such a great house; but then you
have been always helping me to grow wiser, and I am not much afraid but
that you will be patient with me. Indeed, Guy, I don’t know whether it
is a thing I ought to say,’ she added, blushing, ‘but I think it would
be dismal for you to go and live all alone at Redclyffe.’

‘Honestly, Amy,’ replied he, after a little pause, ‘if you feel so, and
your father approves, I don’t think it will be better to wait. I know
your presence is a safeguard, and if the right motives did not suffice
to keep me straight, and I was only apparently so from hopes of you, why
then I should be so utterly good for nothing at the bottom, if not on
the surface, that you had better have nothing to say to me.’

Amy laughed incredulously.

‘That being settled,’ proceeded Guy, ‘did you hear what your father said
as you left the breakfast-room?’

She coloured all over, and there was silence. ‘What did you answer?’
said she, at length.

‘I said, whatever happened, you must not be taken by surprise in having
to decide quickly. Do you wish to have time to think? I’ll go in and
leave you to consider, if you like.’

‘I only want to know what you wish,’ said Amy, not parting with his arm.

‘I had rather you did just as suits you best. Of course, you know what
my wish must be.’

Amy walked on a little way in silence. ‘Very well,’ said she, presently,
‘I think you and mamma had better settle it. The worst’--she had tears
in her eyes--‘the going away--mamma--Charlie--all that will be as bad at
one time as at another.’ The tears flowed faster. ‘It had better be as
you all like best.’

‘O Amy! I wonder at myself for daring to ask you to exchange your bright
cheerful home for my gloomy old house.’

‘No, your home,’ said Amy, softly.

‘I used to wonder why it was called gloomy; but it will be so no more
when you are there. Yet there is a shadow hanging over it, which
makes it sometimes seem too strange that you and it should be brought
together.’

‘I have read somewhere that there is no real gloom but what people raise
for themselves.’

‘True. Gloom is in sin, not sorrow. Yes, there would be no comfort if I
were not sure that if aught of grief or pain should come to you through
me, it will not, cannot really hurt you, my Amy.’

‘No, unless by my own fault, and you will help me to meet it. Hark! was
that a nightingale?’

‘Yes, the first! How beautiful! There--don’t you see it? Look on that
hazel, you may see its throat moving. Well!’ when they had listened for
a long time,--‘after all, that creature and the sea will hardly let one
speak of gloom, even in this world, to say nothing of other things.

‘The sea! I am glad I have never seen it, because now you will show it
to me for the first time.’

‘You will never, can never imagine it, Amy! and he sung,--


         ‘With all tones of waters blending,
          Glorious is the breaking deep,
          Glorious, beauteous, without ending,
          Songs of ocean never sleep.’


A silence followed, only broken by the notes of the birds, and presently
by the strokes of the great clock. Guy looked at his watch.

‘Eleven, Amy! I must go to my reading, or you will have to be very much
ashamed of me.’

For, after the first few days, Guy had returned to study regularly every
day. He said it was a matter of necessity, not at all of merit, for
though he did not mean to try for honours, Amy must not marry a plucked
man. His whole career at Oxford had been such a struggle with the
disadvantages of his education, that all his diligence had, he thought,
hardly raised him to a level with his contemporaries. Moreover,
courtship was not the best preparation for the schools, so that
though he knew he had done his best, he expected no more than to pass
respectably, and told Amy it was very good of her to be contented with a
dunce, whereat she laughed merrily. But she knew him too well to try to
keep him lingering in the April sunshine, and in they went, Guy to his
Greek, and Amy to her mother. Charlotte’s lessons had been in
abeyance, or turned over to Laura of late, and Mrs. Edmonstone and her
dressing-room were always ready for the confidences of the family, who
sought her there in turn--all but one, and that the one whose need was
the sorest.

Amy and her mother comforted themselves with a good quiet cry, that was
not exactly sorrowful, and came to the conclusion that Guy was the most
considerate person in the world, and they would do whatever best suited
him and papa. So, when Mr. Edmonstone came home, he was rewarded for
putting off the letter by finding every one willing to let the marriage
take place whenever he pleased. There were various conferences in the
dressing-room, and Guy and Amy both had burning faces when they came
down to dinner. Laura beheld them with a throbbing heart, while she
mechanically talked to Dr. Mayerne, as if nothing was going on. She
was glad there was no singing that evening, for she felt incapable of
joining; and when at night Charles and his father talked of sitting up
to write to Philip, the misery was such that she had no relief till she
had shut herself in her room, to bear or to crush the suffering as best
she might.

She was still sitting helpless in her wretchedness when Amy knocked
at the door, and came in glowing with blushes and smiles, though her
eyelashes were dewy with tears.

‘Laura, dearest! if you would not be so very unhappy! I wish I knew what
to do for you.’

Laura laid her head on her shoulder, and cried. It was a great comfort,
little as Amy could understand her trouble. Amy kissed her, soothed her
caressingly, cried too, and said, in broken sentences, how often they
would be together, and how comfortable it was that Charlie was so much
better, and Charlotte quite a companion.

‘Then you have fixed the day?’ whispered Laura, at last.

‘The Tuesday in Whitsun-week,’ returned Amy, resting her forehead on
Laura’s shoulder. ‘They all thought it right.’

Laura flung her arms round her, and wept too much to speak.

‘Dear, dear Laura!’ said Amy, after a time, ‘it is very kind of you,
but--’

‘Oh, Amy! you don’t know. You must not think so much better of me than
I deserve. It is not only--No, I would not be so selfish, if but--but--’
Never had her self-command so given way.

‘Ah! you are unhappy about Philip,’ said Amy; and Laura, alarmed lest
she might have betrayed him, started, and tried to recover herself;
but she saw Amy was quite unsuspicious, and the relief from this fright
helped her through what her sister was saying,--‘Yes, you, who were so
fond of him, must be vexed at this unkindness on his part.’

‘I am sure it is his real wish for your good,’ murmured Laura.

‘I dare say!’ said Amy, with displeasure. Then changing her tone, ‘I beg
your pardon, dear Laura, but I don’t think I can quite bear to hear any
one but Guy defend him.’

‘It is very generous.’

‘Oh, is not it, Laura? and he says he is so grieved to see us turned
against Philip, after being so fond of him; he says it makes him feel
as if he had supplanted him, and that he is quite thankful to you for
taking his part still.’

‘How shall I bear it?’ sighed Laura, to herself.

‘I wonder whether he will come?’ said Amy, thoughtfully.

‘He will,’ said Laura.

‘You think so?’ said Amy. ‘Well, Guy would be glad. Yes. O Laura, if
Philip would learn to do Guy justice, I don’t think there would be any
more to wish!’

‘He will in time,’ said Laura. ‘He is too generous not to be won by
such generosity as Guy’s; and when all this is forgotten, and all these
accusations have been lived down, he will be the warmest of friends.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy, as if she wished to be convinced; ‘but if he would only
leave off saying his opinion has never altered, I think I could bring
myself to look on him as Guy wants me to do. Good night! dear Laura,
and don’t be unhappy. Oh! one thing I must tell you; Guy made Charles
promise to do all he could not to let it be a hasty letter. Now, good
night!’

Poor Laura, she knew not whether gratitude to Guy was not one of her
most painful sensations. She wished much to know what had been said in
the letter; but only one sentence transpired, and that was, that Mr.
Edmonstone had never heard it was necessary to apply to a nephew for
consent to a daughter’s marriage. It seemed as if it must have been
as cutting as Charles could make it; but Laura trusted to Philip’s
knowledge of the family, and desire for their good, to make him forgive
it, and the expectation of seeing him again at the wedding, cheered her.
Indeed, a hope of still greater consequences began to rise in her mind,
after Charles one day said to her, ‘I think you ought to be much obliged
to Guy. This morning, he suddenly exclaimed, “I say, Charlie, I wish you
would take care Amy’s fortune is not settled on her so that it can’t be
got rid of.” I asked how he meant to make ducks and drakes of it; and he
explained, that if either of you two did not happen to marry for money,
like Amy, it might do you no harm.’

‘We are very much obliged to him,’ said Laura, more earnestly than
Charles had expected. ‘Do you know what it is, Charlie?’

‘Oh! you want to calculate the amount of your obligation! Somewhere
about five thousand pounds, I believe.’

Charles watched Laura, and the former idea recurred, as he wondered
whether there was any particular meaning in her inquiry.

Meaning, indeed, there was. Laura knew nothing about the value of money;
she did not know what Philip had of his own; how far five, or even ten,
thousand would go in enabling them to marry, or whether it was available
in her father’s lifetime; but she thought this prospect might smooth the
way to the avowal of their attachment, as effectually as his promotion;
she reckoned on relief from the weary oppression of secrecy, and fully
expected that it would all be told in the favourable juncture, when her
parents were full of satisfaction in Amy’s marriage. Gratitude to Guy
would put an end to all doubt, dislike, and prejudice, and Philip would
receive him as a brother.

These hopes supported Laura, and enabled her to take part with more
appearance of interest in the consultations and arrangements for the
marriage, which were carried on speedily, as the time was short, and Mr.
Edmonstone’s ideas were on a grand scale. It seemed as if he meant
to invite all the world, and there were no limits to his views of
breakfast, carriages, and splendours. His wife let him run on without
contradiction, leaving the plans either to evaporate or condense, as
time might prove best. Guy took Amy out walking, and asked what she
thought of it.

‘Do you dislike it very much?’ she said.

‘I can hardly tell. Of course, as a general rule, the less parade and
nonsense the better; but if your father wishes it, and if people do find
enjoyment in that way, it seems hard they should not have all they can
out of it.’

‘Oh, yes; the school children and poor people,’ said Amy.

‘How happy the Ashford children will be, feasting the poor people at
Redclyffe! Old Jonas Ledbury will be in high glory.’

‘To be sure it does not seem like merit to feast one’s poor neighbours
rather than the rich. It is so much pleasanter.’

‘However, since the poor will be feasted, I don’t think the rich ones
will do us much harm.’

‘I am sure I shall know very little about them,’ said Amy.

‘The realities are so great to us, that they will swallow up the
accessories. There must be the church, and all that; and for the rest,
Amy, I don’t think I shall find out whether you wear lace or grogram.’

‘There’s encouragement for me!’ said Amy, laughing. ‘However, what I
mean is, that I don’t care about it, if I am not obliged to attend, and
give my mind, to those kind of things just then, and that mamma will
take care of.’

‘Is it not a great trouble for her? I forgot that. It was selfish; for
we slip out of the fuss, and it all falls on her.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy; ‘but don’t you think it would tease her more to have to
persuade papa out of what he likes, and alter every little matter? That
would be worry, the rest only exertion; and, do you know, I think,’ said
she, with a rising tear, ‘that it will be better for her, to keep her
from thinking about losing me.’

‘I see. Very well, we will take the finery quietly. Only one thing, Amy,
we will not be put out of,--we will not miss the full holy-day service.’

‘Oh, yes; that will be the comfort.’

‘One other thing, Amy. You know I have hardly a friend of my own; but
there is one person I should like to ask,--Markham. He has been so
kind, and so much attached to me; he loved my father so devotedly, and
suffered so much at his death, that it is a pity he should not be made
happy; and very happy he will be.’

‘And there is one person I should like to ask, Guy, if mamma thinks we
can do it. I am sure little Marianne ought to be one of my bridesmaids.
Charlotte would take care of her, and it would be very nice to have
her.’



CHAPTER 28

     But no kind influence deign they shower,
     Till pride be quelled and love be free.
                                --SCOTT


Kilcoran was about twenty miles from Cork, and Captain Morville was
engaged to go and spend a day or two there. Maurice de Courcy drove him
thither, wishing all the way for some other companion, since no one ever
ventured to smoke a cigar in the proximity of ‘Morville’; and, besides,
Maurice’s conversational powers were obliged to be entirely bestowed
on his horse and dog, for the captain, instead of, as usual, devoting
himself to suit his talk to his audience, was wrapped in the deepest
meditation, now and then taking out a letter and referring to it.

This letter was the reply jointly compounded by Mr. Edmonstone and
Charles, and the subject of his consideration was, whether he should
accept the invitation to the wedding. Charles had taken care fully to
explain how the truth respecting the cheque had come out, and Philip
could no longer suspect that it had been a fabrication of Dixon’s; but
while Guy persisted in denial of any answer about the thousand pounds,
he thought the renewal of the engagement extremely imprudent. He was
very sorry for poor little Amy, for her comfort and happiness were, he
thought, placed in the utmost jeopardy, with such a hot temper, under
the most favourable circumstances; and there was the further peril, that
when the novelty of the life with her at Redclyffe had passed off, Guy
might seek for excitement in the dissipation to which his uncle had
probably already introduced him. In the four years’ probation, he
saw the only hope of steadying Guy, or of saving Amy, and he was much
concerned at the rejection of his advice, entirely for their sakes, for
he could not condescend to be affronted at the scornful, satirical tone
towards himself, in which Charles’s little spitefulness was so fully
apparent.

The wedding was a regular sacrifice, and Amabel was nothing but a
victim; but an invitation to Hollywell had a charm for him that he
scarcely could resist. To see Laura again, after having parted, as he
thought, for so many years, delighted him in anticipation; and it would
manifest his real interest in his young cousins, and show that he was
superior to taking offence at the folly of Charles or his father.

These were his first thoughts and inclinations; his second were, that
it was contrary to his principles to sanction so foolish and hasty a
marriage by his presence; that he should thus be affording a triumph to
Guy, and to one who would use it less moderately--to Charles. It would
be more worthy of himself, more consistent with his whole course of
conduct, to refuse his presence, instead of going amongst them when they
were all infatuated, and unable to listen to sober counsel. If he stayed
away now, when Guy should have justified his opinion, they would all
own how wisely he had acted, and would see the true dignity which had
refused, unlike common minds, to let his complaisance draw him into
giving any sanction to what he so strongly disapproved. Laura, too,
would pass through this trying time better if she was not distracted
by watching him; she would understand the cause of his absence, and he
could trust her to love and comprehend him at a distance, better than
he could trust her to hear the marriage-service in his presence without
betraying herself. Nor did he wish to hear her again plead for the
confession of their engagement; and, supposing any misadventure should
lead to its betrayal, what could be more unpleasant than for it to be
revealed at such a time, when Charles would so turn it against him, that
all his influence and usefulness would be for ever at an end?

Love drew him one way, and consistency another. Captain Morville had
never been so much in the condition of Mahomet’s coffin in his life; and
he grew more angry with his uncle, Charles, and Guy, for having put him
in so unpleasant a predicament. So the self-debate lasted all the way
to Kilcoran and he only had two comforts--one, that he had sent the
follower who was always amenable to good advice, safe out of the way
of Lady Eveleen, to spend his leave of absence at Thorndale--the other,
that Maurice de Courcy was, as yet, ignorant of the Hollywell news, and
did not torment him by talking about it.

This satisfaction, however, lasted no longer than till their arrival at
Kilcoran; for, the instant they entered the drawing-room, Lady Eveleen
exclaimed, ‘O Maurice, I have been so longing for you to come! Captain
Morville, I hope you have not told him, for I can’t flatter myself to be
beforehand with you, now at least.’

‘He has told me nothing,’ said Maurice; ‘indeed, such bad company has
seldom been seen as he has been all the way.’

‘You don’t mean that you don’t know it? How delightful! O, mamma! think
of knowing something Captain Morville does not!’

‘I am afraid I cannot flatter you so far,’ said Philip, knowing this was
no place for allowing his real opinion to be guessed.

‘Then you do know?’ said Lady Kilcoran, sleepily; ‘I am sure it is a
subject of great rejoicing.’

‘But what is it, Eva? Make haste and tell,’ said Maurice.

‘No; you must guess!’

‘Why, you would not be in such a way about it if it was not a wedding.’

‘Right, Maurice; now, who is it?’

‘One of the Edmonstones, I suppose. ‘Tis Laura?’

‘Wrong!’

‘What, not Laura! I thought she would have been off first. Somebody’s
got no taste, then, for Laura is the prettiest girl I know.’

‘Ah! your heart has escaped breaking this time, Maurice. It is that
little puss, Amy, that has made a great conquest. Now guess.’

‘Oh! young Morville, of course. But what possessed him to take Amy, and
leave Laura?’

‘Perhaps Laura was not to be had. Men are so self-sufficient, that they
always think they may pick and choose. Is it not so, Captain Morville?
I like Sir Guy better than most men, but Laura is too good for any one
I know. If I could make a perfect hero, I would at once, only Charles
would tell me all the perfect heroes in books are bores. How long have
you known of it, Captain Morville?’

‘For the last ten days.’

‘And you never mentioned it?’

‘I did not know whether they intended to publish it.’

‘Now, Captain Morville, I hope to make some progress in your good
opinion. Of course, you believe I can’t keep a secret; but what do you
think of my having known it ever since last summer, and held my tongue
all that time?’

‘A great effort, indeed,’ said Philip, smiling. ‘It would have
been greater, I suppose, if the engagement had been positive, not
conditional.’

‘Oh! every one knew what it must come to. No one could have the least
fear of Sir Guy. Yes; I saw it all. I gave my little aid, and I am
sure I have a right to be bridesmaid, as I am to be. Oh! won’t it be
charming? It is to be the grandest wedding that ever was seen. It is to
be on Whit-Tuesday; and papa is going to take me and Aunt Charlotte;
for old Aunt Mabel says Aunt Charlotte must go. There are to be six
bridesmaids, and a great party at the breakfast; everything as splendid
as possible; and I made Mrs. Edmonstone promise from the first that we
should have a ball. You must go, Maurice.’

‘I shall be on the high seas!’

‘Oh yes, that is horrid! But you don’t sail with the regiment, I think,
Captain Morville. You surely go?’

‘I am not certain,’ said Philip; especially disgusted by hearing of the
splendour, and thinking that he had supposed Guy would have had more
sense; and it showed how silly Amy really was, since she was evidently
only anxious to enjoy the full paraphernalia of a bride.

‘Not certain!’ exclaimed Maurice and Eveleen, in a breath.

‘I am not sure that I shall have time. You know I have been intending to
make a walking tour through Switzerland before joining at Corfu.’

‘And you really would prefer going by yourself--“apart, unfriended,
melancholy, slow.”’

‘Very slow, indeed,’ said Maurice.

‘A wedding is a confused melancholy affair,’ said Philip. ‘You know I am
no dancing man, Lady Eveleen; one individual like myself can make little
difference to persons engrossed with their own affairs; I can wish my
cousins well from a distance as well as at hand; and though they
have been kind enough to ask me, I think that while their house is
overflowing with guests of more mark, my room will be preferred to my
company.’

‘Then you do not mean to go?’ said Lady Kilcoran. ‘I do not,’ she
continued, ‘for my health is never equal to so much excitement, and it
would only be giving poor Mrs. Edmonstone additional trouble to have to
attend to me.’

‘So you really mean to stay away?’ said Eveleen.

‘I have not entirely decided.’

‘At any rate you must go and tell old Aunt Mabel all about them,’ said
Eveleen. ‘She is so delighted. You will be quite worshipped, at
the cottage, for the very name of Morville. I spend whole hours in
discoursing on Sir Guy’s perfections.’

Philip could not refuse; but his feelings towards Guy were not warmed
by the work he had to go through, when conducted to the cottage, where
lived old Lady Mabel Edmonstone and her daughter, and there required
to dilate on Guy’s excellence. He was not wanted to speak of any of the
points where his conscience would not let him give a favourable report;
it was quite enough for him to tell of Guy’s agreeable manners and
musical talents, and to describe the beauty and extent of Redclyffe.
Lady Mabel and Miss Edmonstone were transported; and the more Philip saw
of the light and superficial way in which the marriage was considered,
the more unwilling he became to confound himself with such people by
eagerness to be present at it, and to join in the festivities. Yet he
exercised great forbearance in not allowing one word of his disapproval
or misgivings to escape him; no censure was uttered, and Lady Eveleen
herself could not make out whether he rejoiced or not. He was grave and
philosophical, superior to nonsensical mirth, that was all that she
saw; and he made himself very agreeable throughout his visit, by taking
condescending interest in all that was going on, and especially to Lady
Eveleen, by showing that he thought her worthy of rational converse.

He made himself useful, as usual. Lord Kilcoran wanted a tutor for
his two youngest boys, and it had been proposed to send them to Mr.
Wellwood, at his curacy at Coombe Prior. He wished to know what Captain
Morville thought of the plan; and Philip, thinking that Mr. Wellwood had
been very inattentive to Guy’s proceedings at St. Mildred’s, though
he would not blame him, considered it very fortunate that he had a
different plan to recommend. One of the officers of his regiment had
lately had staying with him a brother who had just left Oxford, and was
looking out for a tutorship, a very clever and agreeable young man, whom
he liked particularly, and he strongly advised Lord Kilcoran to keep his
sons under his own eye, and place them under the care of this gentleman.
His advice, especially when enforced by his presence, was almost sure to
prevail, and thus it was in the present case.

The upshot of his visit was, that he thought worse and worse of the
sense of the whole Edmonstone connection,--considered that it would be
of no use for him to go to Hollywell,--adhered to his second resolution,
and wrote to his uncle a calm and lofty letter, free from all token of
offence, expressing every wish for the happiness of Guy and Amabel, and
thanking his uncle for the invitation, which, however, he thought it
best to decline, much as he regretted losing the opportunity of seeing
Hollywell and its inhabitants again. His regiment would sail for Corfu
either in May or June; but he intended, himself, to travel on foot
through Germany and Italy, and would write again before quitting
Ireland.

‘So,’ said Charles, ‘there were at the marriage the Picanninies, and the
Joblillies, and the Garryulies, but not the grand Panjandrum himself.’

‘Nor the little round button at top!’ rejoined Charlotte.

‘Well, it’s his own look out,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘It is of a piece
with all the rest.’

‘I am sure we don’t want him,’ said Charlotte.

‘Not in this humour,’ said her mother.

Amy said nothing; and if she did not allow herself to avow that
his absence was a relief, it was because she saw it was a grief and
disappointment to Guy.

Laura was, of course, very much mortified,--almost beyond the power of
concealment. She thought he would have come for the sake of seeing
her, and she had reckoned so much on this meeting that it was double
vexation. He did not know what he was missing by not coming; and she
could not inform him, for writing to him was impossible, without the
underhand dealings to which they would never, either of them, have
recourse. So much for herself; and his perseverance in disapproval, in
spite of renewed explanation, made her more anxious and sorry on Amy’s
account. Very mournful were poor Laura’s sensations; but there was
no remedy but to try to bewilder and drive them away in the bustle of
preparation.

Guy had to go and take his degree, and then return to make his own
preparations at Redclyffe. Amy begged him, as she knew he would like,
to leave things alone as much as possible; for she could not bear old
places to be pulled to pieces to suit new-comers; and she should like to
find it just as he had been used to it.

He smiled, and said, ‘It should only be made habitable.’ She must have
a morning-room, about which he would consult Mrs. Ashford: and he would
choose her piano himself. The great drawing-room had never been unpacked
since his grandmother’s time, so that must be in repair; and, as for a
garden, they would lay it out together. There could not be much done;
for though they did not talk of it publicly, lest they should shock Mr.
Edmonstone, they meant to go home directly after their marriage.

To Oxford, then, went Guy; his second letter announced that he had done
tolerably well on his examination; and it came round to the Edmonstones,
that it was a great pity he had not gone up for honours, as he would
certainly have distinguished himself.

Redclyffe was, of course, in a state of great excitement at the news
that Sir Guy was going to be married. Markham was very grand with the
letter that announced it, and could find nothing to grumble about but
that the lad was very young, and it was lucky it was no worse.

Mrs. Ashford was glad it was so good a connection, and obtained all the
intelligence she could from James Thorndale, who spoke warmly of the
Hollywell family in general; and, in particular, said that the young
ladies looked after schools and poor people,--that Miss Edmonstone was
very handsome and clever--a very superior person; but as to Miss Amabel,
he did not know that there was anything to say about her. She was just
like other young ladies, and very attentive to her invalid brother.

Markham’s enmity to Mr. Ashford had subsided at the bidding of his
master; and he informed him one day, with great cordiality, that Sir Guy
would be at home the next. He was to sleep that night at Coombe Prior,
and ride to Redclyffe in the morning; and, to the great delight of the
boys, it was at the parsonage door that he dismounted.

Mrs. Ashford looked up in his bright face, and saw no more of the shade
that had perplexed her last winter. His cheeks were deeper red as she
warmly shook hands with him; and then the children sprung upon him for
their old games,--the boys claiming his promise, with all their might,
to take them out to the Shag. She wondered when she should venture to
talk to him about Miss Amabel. He next went to find Markham, and met
him before he reached his house. Markham was too happy not to grant and
grumble more than ever.

‘Well, Sir Guy; so here you are! You’ve lost no time about it, however.
A fine pair of young housekeepers, and a pretty example of early
marriages for the parish!’

Guy laughed. ‘You must come and see the example, Markham. I have a
message from Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone, to ask you to come to Hollywell at
Whitsuntide.’

Grunt! ‘You are making a fool of me, Sir Guy. What’s a plain old man
like me to do among all your lords and ladies, and finery and flummery?
I’ll do no such thing.’

‘Not to oblige me?’

‘Oblige you? Nonsense! Much you’ll care for me!’

‘Nay, Markham, you must not stay away. You, my oldest and best
friend,--my only home friend. I owe all my present happiness to you, and
it would really be a great disappointment to me if you did not come. She
wishes it, too.’

‘Well, Sir Guy,’ and the grunt was of softer tone, ‘if you do choose to
make a fool of me, I can’t help it. You must have your own way; though
you might have found a friend that would do you more credit.’

‘Then I may say that you will come?’

‘Say I am very much obliged to Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone for their
invitation. It is very handsome of them.’

‘Then you will have the settlements ready by that time. You must,
Markham.’

‘I’ll see about it.’

‘And the house must be ready to come home to at once.’

‘You don’t know what you are talking of, Sir Guy!’ exclaimed Markham, at
once aghast and angry.

‘Yes, I do. We don’t intend to turn the house upside down with new
furniture.’

‘You may talk as you please, Sir Guy, but I know what’s what; and it is
mere nonsense to talk of bringing a lady to a house in this condition.
A pretty notion you have of what is fit for your bride! I hope she knows
what sort of care you mean to take of her!’

‘She will be satisfied,’ said Guy. ‘She particularly wishes not to have
everything disarranged, I only must have two rooms furnished for her.’

‘But the place wants painting from head to foot, and the roof is in such
a state--’

‘The roof? That’s serious!’

‘Serious; I believe so. You’ll have it about your ears in no time, if
you don’t look sharp.’

‘I’ll look this minute,’ said Guy, jumping up. ‘Will you come with me?’

Up he went, climbing about in the forest of ancient timbers, where he
could not but be convinced that there was more reason than he could wish
in what Markham said, and that his roof was in no condition to bring
his bride to. Indeed it was probable that it had never been thoroughly
repaired since the time of old Sir Hugh, for the Morvilles had not been
wont to lay out money on what did not make a display. Guy was in dismay,
he sent for the builder from Moorworth; calculated times and costs;
but, do what he would, he could not persuade himself that when once the
workmen were in Redclyffe, they would be out again before the autumn.

Guy was very busy during the fortnight he spent at home. There were the
builder and his plans, and Markham and the marriage settlements, and
there were orders to be given about the furniture. He came to Mrs.
Ashford about this, conducted her to the park, and begged her to be so
kind as to be his counsellor, and to superintend the arrangement. He
showed her what was to be Amy’s morning-room--now bare and empty, but
with the advantages of a window looking south, upon the green wooded
slope of the park, with a view of the church tower, and of the moors,
which were of very fine form. He owned himself to be profoundly ignorant
about upholstery matters, and his ideas of furniture seemed to consist
in prints for the walls, a piano, a bookcase, and a couch for Charles.

‘You have heard about Charles?’ said he, raising his bright face from
the list of needful articles which he was writing, using the window-seat
as a table.

‘Not much,’ said Mrs. Ashford. ‘Is he entirely confined to the sofa?’

‘He cannot move without crutches; but no one could guess what he is
without seeing him. He is so patient, his spirits never flag; and it is
beautiful to see how considerate he is, and what interest he takes
in all the things he never can share, poor fellow. I don’t know what
Hollywell would be without Charlie! I wonder how soon he will be able to
come here! Hardly this year, I am afraid, for things must be comfortable
for him, and I shall never get them so without Amy, and then it will be
autumn. Well, what next? Oh, you said window-curtains. Some blue sort
of stuff, I suppose, like the drawing-room ones at Hollywell. What’s the
name of it?’

In fact, Mrs. Ashford was much of his opinion, that he never would make
things comfortable without Amy, though he gave his best attention to the
inquiries that were continually made of him; and where he had an idea,
carried it out to the utmost. He knew much better what he was about in
the arrangements for Coombe Prior, where he had installed his friend,
Mr. Wellwood, and set on foot many plans for improvements, giving them
as much attention as if he had nothing else to occupy his mind. Both the
curate and Markham were surprised that he did not leave these details
till his return home; but he answered,--

‘Better do things while we may. The thought of this unhappy place is
enough to poison everything; and I don’t think I could rest without
knowing that the utmost was being done for it.’

He was very happy making arrangements for a village feast on the
wedding-day. The Ashfords asked if he would not put it off till his
return, and preside himself.

‘It won’t hurt them to have one first. Let them make sure of all the
fun they can,’ he answered; and the sentiment was greatly applauded by
Edward and Robert, who followed him about more than ever, and grew so
fond of him, that it made them very angry to be reminded of the spirit
of defiance in which their acquaintance had begun. Nevertheless they
seemed to be preparing the same spirit for his wife, for when their
mother told them they must not expect to monopolize him thus when he was
married, they declared, that they did not want a Lady Morville at all,
and could not think why he was so stupid as to want a wife.

Their father predicted that he would never have time to fulfil his old
engagement of taking them out to the Shag Rock, but the prediction was
not verified, for he rowed both them and Mr. Ashford thither one fine
May afternoon, showed them all they wanted to see, and let them scramble
to their heart’s content. He laughed at their hoard of scraps of the
wood of the wreck, which they said their mamma had desired them to fetch
for her.

So many avocations came upon Guy at once,--so many of the neighbours
came to call on him,--such varieties of people wanted to speak
to him,--the boys followed him so constantly,--and he had so many
invitations from Mr. Wellwood and the Ashfords, that he never had any
time for himself, except what must be spent in writing to Amabel. There
was a feeling upon him, that he must have time to commune with himself,
and rest from this turmoil of occupation, in the solitude of which
Redclyffe had hitherto been so full. He wanted to be alone with his old
home, and take leave of it, and of the feelings of his boyhood, before
beginning on this new era of his life; but whenever he set out for a
solitary walk, before he could even get to the top of the crag, either
Markham marched up to talk over some important question,--a farmer
waylaid him to make some request,--some cottager met him, to tell of a
grievance,--Mr. Wellwood rode over,--or the Ashford boys rushed up, and
followed like his shadow.

At length, on Ascension day, the last before he was to leave Redclyffe,
with a determination that he would escape for once from his pursuers, he
walked to the Cove as soon as he returned from morning service, launched
his little boat and pushed off into the rippling whispering waters. It
was a resumption of the ways of his boyhood; it seemed like a holiday to
have left all these cares behind him, just as it used to be when all his
lessons were prepared, and he had leave to disport himself, by land or
water, the whole afternoon, provided he did not go out beyond the Shag
Rock. He took up his sculls and rowed merrily, singing and whistling to
keep time with their dash, the return to the old pleasure quite enough
at first, the salt breeze, the dashing waves, the motion of the boat.
So he went on till he had come as far as his former boundary, then
he turned and gazed back on the precipitous rocks, cleft with deep
fissures, marbled with veins of different shades of red, and tufted here
and therewith clumps of samphire, grass, and a little brushwood, bright
with the early green of spring. The white foam and spray were leaping
against their base, and roaring in their hollows; the tract of wavelets
between glittered in light, or heaved green under the shadow of the
passing clouds; the sea-birds floated smoothly in sweeping undulating
lines,


       As though life’s only call and care
       Were graceful motion;


the hawks poised themselves high in air near the rocks. The Cove lay in
sunshine, its rough stone chimneys and rude slate roofs overgrown
with moss and fern, rising rapidly, one above the other, in the
fast descending hollow, through which a little stream rushed to the
sea,--more quietly than its brother, which, at some space distant, fell
sheer down over the crag in a white line of foam, brawling with a tone
of its own, distinguishable among all the voices of the sea contending
with the rocks. Above the village, in the space where the outline of two
hills met and crossed, rose the pinnacled tower of the village church,
the unusual height of which was explained by the old custom of lighting
a beacon-fire on its summit, to serve as a guide to the boats at sea.
Still higher, apparently on the very brow of the beetling crag that
frowned above, stood the old Gothic hall, crumbling and lofty, a fit
eyrie for the eagles of Morville. The sunshine was indeed full upon
it; but it served to show how many of the dark windows were without the
lining of blinds and curtains, that alone gives the look of life and
habitation to a house. How crumbled by sea-wind were the old walls, and
the aspect altogether full of a dreary haughtiness, suiting with the
whole of the stories connected with its name, from the time when it
was said the very dogs crouched and fled from the presence of the
sacrilegious murderer of the Archbishop, to the evening when the heir of
the line lay stretched a corpse before his father’s gate.

Guy sat resting on his oars, gazing at the scene, full of happiness,
yet with a sense that it might be too bright to last, as if it scarcely
befitted one like himself. The bliss before him, though it was surely a
beam from heaven, was so much above him, that he hardly dared to believe
it real: like a child repeating, ‘Is it my own, my very own?’ and
pausing before it will venture to grasp at a prize beyond its hopes. He
feared to trust himself fully, lest it should carry him away from his
self-discipline, and dazzle him too much to let him keep his gaze on the
light beyond; and he rejoiced in this time of quiet, to enable him
to strive for power over his mind, to prevent himself from losing in
gladness the balance he had gained in adversity.

It was such a check as he might have wished for, to look at that grim
old castle, recollect who he was, and think of the frail tenure of all
earthly joy, especially for one of the house of Morville. Could that
abode ever be a home for a creature like Amy, with the bright innocent
mirth that seemed too soft and sweet ever to be overshadowed by gloom
and sorrow? Perhaps she might be early taken from him in the undimmed
beauty of her happiness and innocence, and he might have to struggle
through a long lonely life with only the remembrance of a short-lived
joy to lighten it; and when he reflected that this was only a melancholy
fancy, the answer came from within, that there was nothing peculiar to
him in the perception that earthly happiness was fleeting. It was
best that so it should be, and that he should rest in the trust that
brightened on him through all,--that neither life nor death, sorrow nor
pain, could separate, for ever, him and his Amy.

And he looked up into the deep blue sky overhead, murmuring to himself,
‘In heart and mind thither ascend, and with Him continually dwell,’ and
gazed long and intently as he rocked on the green waters, till he again
spoke to himself,--‘Why stand ye here gazing up into heaven?’ then
pulled vigorously back to the shore, leaving a shining wake far behind
him.



CHAPTER 29

     Hark, how the birds do sing,
     And woods do ring!
     All creatures have their joy, and man hath his;
     Yet if we rightly measure,
     Man’s joy and pleasure
     Rather hereafter than in present is:

     Not that he may not here
     Taste of the cheer,
     But as birds drink and straight lift up the head,
     So must he sip and think
     Of better drink
     He may attain to after he is dead.
                                   --HERBERT


Guy returned to Hollywell on the Friday, there to spend a quiet week
with them all, for it was a special delight to Amy that Hollywell and
her family were as precious to him for their own sakes as for hers. It
was said that it was to be a quiet week--but with all the best efforts
of Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura to preserve quiet, there was an amount, of
confusion that would have been very disturbing, but for Amy’s propensity
never to be ruffled or fluttered.

What was to be done in the honeymoon was the question for consideration.
Guy and Amy would have liked to make a tour among the English
cathedrals, pay a visit at Hollywell, and then go home and live in a
corner of the house till the rest was ready; for Amy could not see why
she should take up so much more room than old Sir Guy, and Guy declared
he could not see that happiness was a reason for going pleasure-hunting;
but Charles pronounced this very stupid, and Mr. Edmonstone thought a
journey on the Continent was the only proper thing for them to do. Mrs.
Edmonstone wished Amy to see a little of the world. Amy was known to
have always desired to see Switzerland; it occurred to Guy that it would
be a capital opportunity of taking Arnaud to see the relations he
had been talking for the last twenty years of visiting, and so they
acquiesced; for as Guy said, when they talked it over together, it did
not seem to him to come under the denomination of pleasure-hunting,
since they had not devised it for themselves; they had no house to
go to; they should do Arnaud a service, and perhaps they should meet
Philip.

‘That will not be pleasure-hunting, certainly,’ said Amy; then,
remembering that he could not bear to hear Philip under-rated, she
added, ‘I mean, unless you could convince him, and then it would be more
than pleasure.’

‘It would be my first of unattained wishes,’ said Guy. ‘Then we will
enjoy the journey.’

‘No fear on that score,’

‘And for fear we should get too much into the stream of enjoyment, as
people abroad forget home-duties, let us stick to some fixed time for
coming back.’

‘You said Redclyffe would be ready by Michaelmas.’

‘I have told the builder it must be. So, Amy, as far as it depends on
ourselves, we are determined to be at home by Michaelmas.’

All seemed surprised to find the time for the wedding so near at hand.
Charles’s spirits began to flag, Amy was a greater loss to him than to
anybody else; she could never again be to him what she had been, and
unable as he was to take part in the general bustle and occupation, he
had more time for feeling this, much more than his mother and Laura, who
were employed all day. He and Guy were exemplary in their civilities to
each other in not engrossing Amy, and one who had only known him three
years ago, when he was all exaction and selfishness, could have hardly
believed him to be the same person who was now only striving to avoid
giving pain, by showing how much it cost him to yield up his sister. He
could contrive to be merry, but the difficulty was to be cheerful; he
could make them all laugh in spite of themselves, but when alone with
Amy, or when hearing her devolve on her sisters the services she had
been wont to perform for him, it was almost more than he could endure;
but then he dreaded setting Amy off into one of her silent crying-fits,
for which the only remedy was the planning a grand visit to Redclyffe,
and talking overall the facilities of railroads and carriages.

The last day had come, and a long strange one it was; not exactly joyful
to any, and very sad to some, though Amy, with her sweet pensive face,
seemed to have a serenity of her own that soothed them whenever they
looked at her. Charlotte, though inclined to be wild and flighty,
was checked and subdued in her presence; Laura could not be entirely
wretched about her; Charles lay and looked at her without speaking; her
father never met her without kissing her on each side of her face, and
calling her his little jewel; her mother--but who could describe Mrs.
Edmonstone on that day, so full of the present pain, contending with the
unselfish gladness.

Guy kept out of the way, thinking Amy ought to be left to them. He sat
in his own room a good while, afterwards rode to Broadstone, in coming
home made a long visit to Mr. Ross; and when he returned, he found
Charles in his wheeled chair on the lawn, with Amy sitting on the grass
by his side. He sat down by her and there followed a long silence,--one
of those pauses full of meaning.

‘When shall we three meet again?’ at length said Charles, in a would-be
lively tone.

‘And where?’ said Amy.

‘Here,’ said Charles; ‘you will come here to tell your adventures, and
take up Bustle.’

‘I hope so,’ said Guy. ‘We could not help it. The telling you about it
will be a treat to look forward to all the time.’

‘Yes; your sight-seeing is a public benefit. You have seen many a thing
for me.’

‘That is the pleasure of seeing and hearing, the thing that is not
fleeting,’ said Guy.

‘The unselfish part, you mean,’ said Charles; and mused again, till Guy,
starting up, exclaimed--

‘There are the people!’ as a carriage came in view in the lane. ‘Shall I
wheel you home, Charlie?’

‘Yes, do.’

Guy leant over the back, and pushed him along; and as he did so murmured
in a low tremulous tone, ‘Wherever or whenever we may be destined to
meet, Charlie, or if never again, I must thank you for a great part of
my happiness here--for a great deal of kindness and sympathy.’

Charles looked straight before him, and answered--‘The kindness was
all on your part. I had nothing to give in return but ill-temper and
exactions. But, Guy, you must not think I have not felt all you have
done for me. You have made a new man of me, instead of a wretched stick,
laughing at my misery, to persuade myself and others that I did not feel
it. I hope you are proud of it.’

‘As if I had anything to do with it!’

‘Hadn’t, you, that’s all! I know what you won’t deny, at any rate--what
a capital man-of-all-work you have been to me, when I had no right to
ask it, as now we have,’ he added, smiling, because Amy was looking at
him, but not making a very successful matter of the smile. ‘When you
come back, you’ll see me treat you as indeed “a man and a brother.”’

This talk retarded them a little, and they did not reach the house till
the guests were arriving. The first sight that met the eyes of Aunt
Charlotte and Lady Eveleen as they entered, was, in the frame of the
open window, Guy’s light agile figure, assisting Charles up the step,
his brilliant hazel eyes and glowing healthy complexion contrasting with
Charles’s pale, fair, delicate face, and features sharpened and refined
by suffering. Amy, her deep blushes and downcast eyes almost hidden by
her glossy curls, stood just behind, carrying her brother’s crutch.

‘There they are,’ cried Miss Edmonstone, springing forward from her
brother and his wife, and throwing her arms round Amy in a warm embrace.
‘My dear, dear little niece, I congratulate you with all my heart, and
that I do.’

‘I’ll spare your hot cheeks, Amy dearest!’ whispered Eveleen, as Amy
passed to her embrace, while Aunt Charlotte hastily kissed Charles,
and proceeded--‘I don’t wait for an introduction;’ and vehemently shook
hands with Guy.

‘Ay, did I say a word too much in his praise?’ said Mr. Edmonstone.
‘Isn’t he all out as fine a fellow as I told you?’

Guy was glad to turn away to shake hands with Lord Kilcoran, and the
next moment he drew Amy out of the group eagerly talking round Charles’s
sofa, and holding her hand, led her up to a sturdy, ruddy-brown, elderly
man, who had come in at the same time, but after the first reception had
no share in the family greetings. ‘You know him, already,’ said Guy; and
Amy held out her hand, saying--

‘Yes, I am sure I do.’

Markham was taken by surprise, he gave a most satisfied grunt, and shook
hands as heartily as if she had been his favourite niece.

‘And the little girl?’ said Amy.

‘O yes.--I picked her up at St. Mildred’s: one of the servants took
charge of her in the hall.’

‘I’ll fetch her,’ cried Charlotte, as Amy was turning to the door, and
the next moment she led in little Marianne Dixon, clinging to her hand.
Amy kissed her, and held her fast in her arms, and Marianne looked up,
consoled in her bewilderment, by the greeting of her dear old friend,
Sir Guy.

Mr. Edmonstone patted her head; and when the others had spoken kindly to
her, Charlotte, under whose especial charge Guy and Amy had placed her,
carried her off to the regions up-stairs.

The rest of the evening was hurry and confusion. Mrs. Edmonstone was
very busy, and glad to be so, as she must otherwise have given way; and
there was Aunt Charlotte to be talked to, whom they had not seen since
Charles’s illness. She was a short, bustling, active person, with a
joyous face, inexhaustible good-humour, a considerable touch of Irish,
and referring everything to her mother,--her one thought. Everything was
to be told to her, and the only drawback to her complete pleasure was
the anxiety lest she should be missed at home.

Mrs. Edmonstone was occupied with her, telling her the history of the
engagement, and praising Guy; Amy went up as soon as dinner was over,
to take leave of old nurse, and to see little Marianne; and Eveleen sat
between Laura and Charlotte, asking many eager questions, which were not
all convenient to answer.

Why Sir Guy had not been at home at Christmas was a query to which it
seemed as if she should never gain a reply; for that Charles had been
ill, and Guy at Redclyffe, was no real answer; and finding she should
not be told, she wisely held her tongue. Again she made an awkward
inquiry--

‘Now tell me, is Captain Morville pleased about this or not?’

Laura would have been silent, trusting to Eveleen’s propensity for
talking, for bringing her to some speech that it might be easier to
answer, but Charlotte exclaimed, ‘What has he been saying about it?’

‘Saying? O nothing. But why does not he come?’

‘You have seen him more lately than we have,’ said Laura.

‘That is an evasion,’ said Eveleen; ‘as if you did not know more of his
mind than I could ever get at, if I saw him every day of my life.’

‘He is provoking, that is all,’ answered Charlotte. ‘I am sure we don’t
want him; but Laura and Guy will both of them take his part.’

A call came at that moment,--the box of white gloves was come, and Laura
must come and count them. She would fain have taken Charlotte with her;
but neither Charlotte nor Eveleen appeared disposed to move, and she
was obliged to leave them. Eva had already guessed that there was more
chance of hearing the facts from Charlotte, and presently she knew a
good deal. Charlotte had some prudence, but she thought she might
tell her own cousin what half the neighbourhood knew--that Philip had
suspected Guy falsely, and had made papa very angry with him, that the
engagement had been broken off, and Guy had been banished, while all the
time he was behaving most gloriously. Now it was all explained; but
in spite of the fullest certainty, Philip would not be convinced, and
wanted them to have waited five years.

Eveleen agreed with Charlotte that this was a great deal too bad,
admired Guy, and pitied Amy to her heart’s content.

‘So, he was banished, regularly banished!’ said she. ‘However of course
Amy never gave him up.’

‘Oh, she never mistrusted him one minute.’

‘And while he had her fast, it was little he would care for the rest.’

‘Yes, if he had known it, but she could not tell him.’

Eveleen looked arch.

‘But I am sure she did not,’ said Charlotte, rather angrily.

‘You know nothing about it, my dear.’

‘Yes, but I do; for mamma said to Charlie how beautifully she did
behave, and he too,--never attempting any intercourse.’

‘Very good of you to believe it.’

‘I am sure of it, certain sure,’ said Charlotte. ‘How could you venture
to think they would either of them do anything wrong?’

‘I did not say they would.’

‘What, not to write to each other when papa had forbidden it, and do it
in secret, too?’

‘My dear, don’t look so innocently irate. Goodness has nothing to do
with it, it would be only a moderate constancy. You know nothing at all
of lovers.’

‘If I know nothing of lovers, I know a great deal of Amy and Guy, and I
am quite sure that nothing on earth would tempt them to do anything in
secret that they were forbidden.’

‘Wait till you are in love, and you’ll change your mind.’

‘I never mean to be in love,’ said Charlotte indignantly. Eveleen
laughed the more, Charlotte grew more angry and uncomfortable at the
tone of the conversation, and was heartily glad that it was broken off
by the entrance of the gentlemen. Guy helped Charles to the sofa, and
then turned away to continue his endless talk on Redclyffe business with
Markham. Charlotte flew up to the sofa, seized an interval when no one
was in hearing, and kneeling down to bring her face on a level with her
brother’s whispered--‘Charlie, Eva won’t believe but that Guy and Amy
kept up some intercourse last winter.’

‘I can’t help it, Charlotte.’

‘When I tell her they did not, she only laughs at me. Do tell her they
did not.’

‘I have too much self-respect to lay myself open to ridicule.’

‘Charlie, you don’t think it possible yourself?’ exclaimed Charlotte, in
consternation.

‘Possible--no indeed.’

‘She _will_ say it is not wrong, and that I know nothing of lovers.’

‘You should have told her that ours are not commonplace lovers, but far
beyond her small experience.’

‘I wish I had! Tell her so, Charlie; she will believe you.’

‘I sha’n’t say one word about it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she is not worthy. If she can’t appreciate them, I would let
her alone. I once thought better of Eva, but it is very bad company she
keeps when she is not here.’

Charles, however, was not sorry when Eveleen came to sit by him, for a
bantering conversation with her was the occupation of which he was moat
capable. Amy, returning, came and sat in her old place beside him, with
her hand in his, and her quiet eyes fixed on the ground.

The last evening for many weeks that she would thus sit with him,--the
last that she would ever be a part of his home. She had already ceased
to belong entirely to him; she who had always been the most precious to
him, except his mother.

Only his mother could have been a greater loss,--he could not dwell
on the anticipation; and still holding her hand, he roused himself to
listen, and answer gaily to Eveleen’s description of the tutor, Mr.
Fielder, ‘a thorough gentleman, very clever and agreeable, who had read
all the books in the world; the ugliest, yes, without exaggeration, the
most quaintly ugly man living,--little, and looking just as if he was
made of gutta percha, Eveleen said, ‘always moving by jerks,--so Maurice
advised the boys not to put him near the fire, lest he should melt.’

‘Only when he gives them some formidable lesson, and they want to
melt his heart,’ said Charles, talking at random, in hopes of saying
something laughable.

‘Then his eyes--‘tis not exactly a squint, but a cast there is, and one
set of eyelashes are black and the other light, and that gives him just
the air of a little frightful terrier of Maurice’s named Venus, with a
black spot over one eye. The boys never call him anything but Venus.’

‘And you encourage them in respect for their tutor?’

‘Oh, he holds his own at lessons, I trow; but he pretends to have such
a horror of us wild Irish, and to wonder not to find us eating potatoes
with our fingers, and that I don’t wear a petticoat over my head instead
of a bonnet, in what he calls the classical Carthaginian Celto-Hibernian
fashion.’

‘Dear me,’ said Charlotte, ‘no wonder Philip recommended him.’

‘O, I assure you he has the gift, no one else but Captain Morville talks
near as well.’

So talked on Eveleen, and Charles answered her as much in her own
fashion as he could, and when at last the evening came to an end, every
one felt relieved.

Laura lingered long in Amy’s room, perceiving that hitherto she had
known only half the value of her sister her sweet sister. It would
be worse than ever now, when left with the others, all so much less
sympathizing, all saying sharp things of Philip, none to cling to her
with those winsome ways that had been unnoted till the time when they
were no more to console her, and she felt them to have been the only
charm that had softened her late dreary desolation.

So full was her heart, that she must have told Amy all her grief but for
the part that Philip had acted towards Guy, and her doubts of Guy would
not allow her the consolation of dwelling on Amy’s happiness, which
cheered the rest. She could only hang about her in speechless grief, and
caress her fondly, while Amy cried, and tried to comfort her, till her
mother came to wish her good night.

Mrs. Edmonstone did not stay long, because she wished Amy, if possible
to rest.

‘Mamma’ said Amy, as she received her last kiss, ‘I can’t think why I am
not more unhappy.’

‘It is all as it should be,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.

Amabel slept, and awakened to the knowledge that it was her wedding-day.
She was not to appear at the first breakfast, but she came to meet
Charles in the dressing-room; and as they sat together on the sofa,
where she had watched and amused so many of his hours of helplessness,
he clasped round her arm his gift,--a bracelet of his mother’s hair. His
fingers trembled and his eyes were hazy, but he would not let her help
him. Her thanks were obliged to be all kisses, no words would come but
‘Charlie; Charlie! how could I ever have promised to leave you?’

‘Nonsense! who ever dreamt that my sisters were to be three monkeys tied
to a dog?’

It was impossible not to smile, though it was but for a
moment,--Charles’s mirth was melancholy.

‘And, dear Charlie, you will not miss me so very much; do pray let
Charlotte wait upon you.’

‘After the first, perhaps, I may not hate her. Oh, Amy, I little knew
what I was doing when I tried to get him back again for you. I was
sawing off the bough I was sitting on. But there! I will not flatter
you, you’ve had enough to turn that head of yours. Stand up, and let
me take a survey. Very pretty, I declare,--you do my education credit.
There, if it will be for your peace, I’ll do my best to wear on without
you. I’ve wanted a brother all my life, and you are giving me the very
one I would have picked out of a thousand--the only one I could forgive
for presuming to steal you, Amy. Here he is. Come in,’ he added, as Guy
knocked at his door, to offer to help him down-stairs.

Guy hardly spoke, and Amy could not look in his face. It was late, and
he took down Charles at once. After this, she had very little quiet,
every one was buzzing about her, and putting the last touches to her
dress; at last, just as she was quite finished, Charlotte exclaimed,
‘Oh, there is Guy’s step; may I call him in to have one look?’

Mrs. Edmonstone did not say no; and Charlotte, opening the dressing-room
door, called to him. He stood opposite to Amy for some moments, then
said, with a smile, ‘I was wrong about the grogram. I would not for
anything see you look otherwise than you do.’

It seemed to Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura that these words made them lose
sight of the details of lace and silk that had been occupying them, so
that they only saw the radiance, purity, and innocence of Amy’s bridal
appearance. No more was said, for Mr. Edmonstone ran up to call Guy, who
was to drive Charles in the pony-carriage.

Amabel, of course, went with her parents. Poor child! her tears flowed
freely on the way, and Mr. Edmonstone, now that it had really come to
the point of parting with his little Amy, was very much overcome, while
his wife, hardly refraining from tears, could only hold her daughter’s
hand very close.

The regular morning service was a great comfort, by restoring their
tranquillity, and by the time it was ended, Amabel’s countenance had
settled into its own calm expression of trust and serenity. She scarcely
even trembled when her father led her forward; her hand did not shake,
and her voice, though very low, was firm and audible, while Guy’s deep,
sweet tones had a sort of thrill and quiver of intense feeling.

No one could help observing that Laura was the most agitated person
present; she trembled so much that she was obliged to lean on Charlotte,
and her tears gave the infection to the other bridesmaids--all but Mary
Ross, who could never cry when other people did, and little Marianne,
who did nothing but look and wonder.

Mary was feeling a great deal, both of compassion for the bereaved
family and of affectionate admiring joy for the young pair who knelt
before the altar. It was a showery day, with gleams of vivid sunshine,
and one of these suddenly broke forth, casting a stream of colour from a
martyr’s figure in the south window, so as to shed a golden glory on the
wave of brown hair over Guy’s forehead, then passing on and tinting the
bride’s white veil with a deep glowing shade of crimson and purple.

Either that golden light, or the expression of the face on which it
beamed, made Mary think of the lines--


         Where is the brow to wear in mortal’s sight,
         The crown of pure angelic light?


Charles stood with his head leaning against a pillar as if he could not
bear to look up; Mr. Edmonstone was restless and almost sobbing; Mrs.
Edmonstone alone collected, though much flushed and somewhat trembling,
while the only person apparently free from excitement was the little
bride, as there she knelt, her hand clasped in his, her head bent down,
her modest, steadfast face looking as if she was only conscious of
the vow she exchanged, the blessing she received, and was, as it were,
lifted out of herself.

It was over now. The feast, in its fullest sense, was held, and the
richest of blessings had been called down on them.

The procession came out of the vestry in full order, and very pretty it
was; the bride and bridegroom in the fresh bright graciousness of
their extreme youth, and the six bridesmaids following; Laura and Lady
Eveleen, two strikingly handsome and elegant girls; Charlotte, with the
pretty little fair Marianne; Mary Ross, and Grace Harper. The village
people who stood round might well say that such a sight as that was
worth coming twenty miles to see.

The first care, after the bridal pair had driven off, was to put Charles
into his pony-carriage. Charlotte, who had just pinned on his favour,
begged to drive him, for she meant to make him her especial charge,
and to succeed to all Amy’s rights. Mrs. Edmonstone asked whether Laura
would not prefer going with him, but she hastily answered,

‘No, thank you, let Charlotte;’ for with her troubled feelings, she
could better answer talking girls than parry the remarks of her shrewd,
observant brother.

Some one said it would rain, but Charlotte still pleaded earnestly.

‘Come, then, puss,’ said Charles, rallying his spirits, ‘only don’t
upset me, or it will spoil their tour.’

Charlotte drove off with elaborate care,--then came a deep sigh, and she
exclaimed, ‘Well! he is our brother, and all is safe.’

‘Yes,’ said Charles; ‘no more fears for them.’

‘Had you any? I am very glad if you had.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was so like a book. I had a sort of feeling, all the time,
that Philip would come in quite grand and terrible.’

‘As if he must act Ogre. I am not sure that I had not something of
the same notion,--that he might appear suddenly, and forbid the banns,
entirely for Amy’s sake, and as the greatest kindness to her.’

‘Oh!’

‘However, he can’t separate them now; let him do his worst, and while
Amy is Guy’s wife, I don’t think we shall easily be made to quarrel. I
am glad the knot is tied, for I had a fatality notion that the feud was
so strong, that it was nearly a case of the mountains bending and the
streams ascending, ere she was to be our foeman’s bride.’

‘No,’ said Charlotte, ‘it ought to be like that story of Rosaura and
her kindred, don’t you remember? The fate would not be appeased by the
marriage, till Count Julius had saved the life of one of the hostile
race. That would be _it_,--perhaps they will meet abroad, and Guy will
_do_ _it_.’

‘That won’t do. Philip will never endanger his precious life, nor ever
forgive Guy the obligation. Well, I suppose there never was a prettier
wedding--how silly of me to say so, I shall be sick of hearing it before
night.’

‘I do wish all these people were gone; I did not know it would be so
horrid. I should like to shut myself up and cry, and think what I could
ever do to wait on you. Indeed, Charlie, I know I never can be like Amy
but if you--’

‘Be anything but sentimental; I don’t want to make a fool of myself’
said Charles, with a smile and tone as if he was keeping sorrow at bay.
‘Depend upon it if we were left to ourselves this evening, we should be
so desperately savage that we should quarrel furiously, and there would
be no Amy to set us to rights.’

‘How Aunt Charlotte did cry! What a funny little woman she is.’

‘Yes, I see now who you take after, puss. You’ll be just like her when
you are her age.’

‘So I mean to be,--I mean to stay and take care of you all my life, as
she does of grandmamma.’

‘You do, do you?’

‘Yes. I never mean to marry, it is so disagreeable. O dear! But how
lovely dear Amy did look.’

‘Here’s the rain!’ exclaimed Charles, as some large drops began to fall
in good time to prevent them from being either savage or sentimental,
though at the expense of Charlotte’s pink and white; for they had no
umbrella, and she would not accept a share of Charles’s carriage-cloak.
She laughed, and drove on fast through the short cut, and arrived at the
house-door, just as the pelting hail was over, having battered her thin
sleeves, and made her white bonnet look very deplorable. The first thing
they saw was Guy, with Bustle close to him, for Bustle had found out
that something was going on that concerned his master, and followed him
about more assiduously than ever, as if sensible of the decree, that he
was to be left behind to Charlotte’s care.

‘Charlotte, how wet you are.’

‘Never mind, Charlie is not.’ She sprung out, holding his hand, and
felt as if she could never forget that moment when her new brother first
kissed her brow.

‘Where’s Amy?’

‘Here!’ and while Guy lifted Charles out, Charlotte was clasped in her
sister’s arms.

‘Are you wet, Charlie?’

‘No, Charlotte would not be wise, and made me keep the cloak to myself.’

‘You are wet through, poor child; come up at once, and change,’ said
Amy, flying nimbly up the stairs,--up even to Charlotte’s own room, the
old nursery, and there she was unfastening the drenched finery.

‘O Amy, don’t do all this. Let me ring.’

‘No, the servants are either not come home or are too busy. Charles
won’t want me, he has Guy. Can I find your white frock?’

‘Oh, but Amy--let me see!’ Charlotte made prisoner the left hand, and
looked up with an arch smile at the face where she had called up a
blush. ‘Lady Morville must not begin by being lady’s-maid.’

‘Let me--let me, Charlotte, dear, I sha’n’t be able to do anything for
you this long time.’ Amy’s voice trembled, and Charlotte held her fast
to kiss her again.

‘We must make haste,’ said Amy, recovering herself. ‘There are the
carriages.’

While the frock was being fastened, Charlotte looked into the
Prayer-book Amy had laid down. There was the name, Amabel Frances
Morville, and the date.

‘Has he just written it?’ said Charlotte.

‘Yes; when we came home.’

‘O Amy! dear, dear Amy; I don’t know whether I am glad or sorry!’

‘I believe I am both,’ said Amy.

At that moment Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura hastened in. Then was the time
for broken words, tears and smiles, as Amy leant against her mother, who
locked her in a close embrace, and gazed on her in a sort of trance, at
once of maternal pride and of pain, at giving up her cherished nestling.
Poor Laura! how bitter were her tears, and how forced her smiles,--far
unlike the rest!

No one would care to hear the details of the breakfast, and the
splendours of the cake; how Charlotte recovered her spirits while
distributing the favours: and Lady Eveleen set up a flirtation with
Markham, and forced him into wearing one, though he protested, with many
a grunt, that she was making a queer fool of him; how often Charles was
obliged to hear it had been a pretty wedding; and how well Lord Kilcoran
made his speech proposing the health of Sir Guy and Lady Morville. All
the time, Laura was active and useful,--feeling as if she was acting a
play, sustaining the character of Miss Edmonstone, the bridesmaid at
her sister’s happy marriage; while the true Laura, Philip’s Laura, was
lonely, dejected, wretched; half fearing for her sister, half jealous
of her happiness, forced into pageantry with an aching heart,--with only
one wish, that it was over, and that she might be again alone with her
burden.

She was glad when her mother rose, and the ladies moved into the
drawing-room,--glad to escape from Eveleen’s quick eye, and to avoid
Mary’s clear sense,--glad to talk to comparative strangers,--glad of
the occupation of going to prepare Amabel for her journey. This lasted
a long time,--there was so much to be said, and hearts were so full,
and Amy over again explained to Charlotte how to perform all the little
services to Charles which she relinquished; while her mother had so many
affectionate last words, and every now and then stopped short to look at
her little daughter, saying, she did not know if it was not a dream.

At length Amabel was dressed in her purple and white shot silk, her
muslin mantle, and white bonnet. Mrs. Edmonstone left her and Laura
to have a few words together, and went to the dressing-room. There she
found Guy, leaning on the mantelshelf, as he used to do when he brought
his troubles to her. He started as she entered.

‘Ought I not to be here? he said. ‘I could not help coming once more.
This room has always been the kernel of my home, my happiness here.’

‘Indeed, it has been a very great pleasure to have you here.’

‘You have been very kind to me,’ he proceeded, in a low, reflecting
tone. ‘You have helped me very much, very often; even when--Do you
remember the day I begged you to keep me in order, as if I were Charles?
I did not think then--’

He was silent; and Mrs. Edmonstone little able to find words, smiling,
tried to say,--‘I little thought how truly and how gladly I should be
able to call you my son;’ and ended by giving him a mother’s kiss.

‘I wish I could tell you half,’ said Guy,--‘half what I feel for the
kindness that made a home to one who had no right to any. Coming as a
stranger, I found--’

‘We found one to love with all our hearts,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘I
have often looked back, and seen that you brought a brightness to us
all--especially to poor Charles. Yes, it dates from your coming; and I
can only wish and trust, Guy, that the same brightness will rest on your
own home.’

‘There must be brightness where she is,’ said Guy.

‘I need not tell you to take care of her,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone,
smiling. ‘I think I can trust you; but I feel rather as I did when first
I sent her and Laura to a party of pleasure by themselves.’

Laura at this moment, came in. Alone with Amy, she could not speak, she
could only cry; and fearful of distressing her sister, she came away;
but here, with Guy, it was worse, for it was unkind not to speak one
warm word to him. Yet what could she say! He spoke first--

‘Laura, you must get up your looks again, now this turmoil is over.
Don’t do too much mathematics, and wear yourself down to a shadow.’

Laura gave her sad, forced smile.

‘Will you do one thing for me, Laura? I should like to have one of
your perspective views of the inside of the church. Would it be too
troublesome to do?’

‘Oh, no; I shall be very glad.’

‘Don’t set about it till you quite like it, and have plenty of time.
Thank you. I shall think it is a proof that you can forgive me for all
the pain I am causing you. I am very sorry.

‘You are so very kind,’ said Laura, bursting into tears; and, as her
mother was gone, she could not help adding, ‘but don’t try to comfort
me, Guy; don’t blame yourself,--‘tisn’t only that,--but I am so very,
very unhappy.’

‘Amy told me you were grieved for Philip. I wish I could help it, Laura.
I want to try to meet him in Switzerland, and, if we can, perhaps it may
be set right. At any rate he will be glad to know you see the rights of
it.’

Laura wept still more; but she could never again lose the sisterly
feeling those kind words had awakened. If Philip had but known what he
missed!

Charlotte ran in. ‘Oh, I am glad to find you here, Guy; I wanted to put
you in mind of your promise. You must write me the first letter you sign
“Your affectionate brother!”’

‘I won’t forget, Charlotte.’

‘Guy! Where’s Guy?’ called Mr. Edmonstone. ‘The rain’s going off. You
must come down, both of you, or you’ll be too late.’

Mrs. Edmonstone hastened to call Amabel. Those moments that she had
been alone, Amabel had been kneeling in an earnest supplication that all
might be forgiven that she had done amiss in the home of her childhood,
that the blessings might be sealed on her and her husband, and that she
might go forth from her father’s house in strength sent from above. Her
mother summoned her; she rose, came calmly forth, met Guy at the head of
the stairs, put her arm in his, and they went down.

Charles was on the sofa in the ante-room, talking fast, and striving for
high spirits.

‘Amy, woman, you do us credit! Well, write soon, and don’t break your
heart for want of me.’

There was a confusion of good-byes, and then all came out to the hall
door; even Charles, with Charlotte’s arm. One more of those fast-locked
embraces between the brother and sister, and Mr. Edmonstone put Amabel
into the carriage.

‘Good-bye, good-bye, my own dearest little one! Bless you, bless you!
and may you be as happy as a Mayflower! Guy, goodbye. I’ve given you
the best I had to give,--and ‘tis you that are welcome to her. Take care
what you do with her, for she’s a precious little jewel! Good-bye, my
boy!’

Guy’s face and grasping hand were the reply. As he was about to spring
into the carriage, he turned again. ‘Charlotte, I have shut Bustle up in
my room. Will you let him out in half an hour? I’ve explained it all to
him, and he will be very good. Good-bye.’

‘I’ll take care of him. I’ll mention him in every letter.’

‘And, Markham, mind, if our house is not ready by Michaelmas, we shall
be obliged to come and stay with you.’

Grunt!

Lastly, as if he could not help it, Guy dashed up the step once more,
pressed Charles’s hand, and said, ‘God bless you, Charlie!’

In an instant he was beside Amabel, and they drove off,--Amabel leaning
forward, and gazing wistfully at her mother and Charles, till she was
startled by a long cluster of laburnums, their yellow bloom bent down
and heavy with wet, so that the ends dashed against her bonnet, and the
crystal drops fell on her lap.

‘Why, Amy, the Hollywell flowers are weeping for the loss of you!

She gave a sweet, sunny smile through her tears. At that moment they
came beyond the thick embowering shrubs, while full before them was the
dark receding cloud, on which the sunbeams were painting a wide-spanned
rainbow. The semicircle was perfect, and full before them, like an arch
of triumph under which they were to pass.

‘How beautiful!’ broke from them both.

‘Guy,’ said the bride, after a few minutes had faded the rainbow, and
turned them from its sight, ‘shall I tell you what I was thinking? I
was thinking, that if there is a doom on us, I am not afraid, if it will
only bring a rainbow.’

‘The rainbow will come after, if not with it,’ said Guy.



CHAPTER 30

     She’s a winsome wee thing,
     She’s a handsome wee thing,
     She’s a bonnie wee thing,
     This sweet wee wifie of mine.
                        --BURNS


‘Look here, Amy,’ said Guy, pointing to a name in the traveller’s book
at Altdorf.

‘Captain Morville!’ she exclaimed, ‘July 14th. That was only the day
before yesterday.’

‘I wonder whether we shall overtake him! Do you know what was this
gentleman’s route?’ inquired Guy, in French that was daily becoming more
producible.

The gentleman having come on foot, with nothing but his knapsack, had
not made much sensation. There was a vague idea that he had gone on
to the St. Gothard; but the guide who was likely to know, was not
forthcoming, and all Guy’s inquiries only resulted in, ‘I dare say we
shall hear of him elsewhere.’

To tell the truth, Amabel was not much disappointed, and she could see,
though he said nothing, that Guy was not very sorry. These two months
had been so very happy, there had been such full enjoyment, such freedom
from care and vexation, or aught that could for a moment ruffle the
stream of delight. Scenery, cathedrals music, paintings, historical
association, had in turn given unceasing interest and pleasure; and,
above all, Amabel had been growing more and more into the depths of her
husband’s mind, and entering into the grave, noble thoughts inspired by
the scenes they were visiting. It had been a sort of ideal happiness,
so exquisite, that she could hardly believe it real. A taste of society,
which they had at Munich, though very pleasant, had only made them
more glad to be alone together again; any companion would have been an
interruption, and Philip, so intimate, yet with his carping, persecuting
spirit towards Guy, was one of the last persons she could wish to
meet; but knowing that this was by no means a disposition Guy wished to
encourage, she held her peace.

For the present, no more was said about Philip; and they proceeded to
Interlachen, where they spent a day or two, while Arnaud was with his
relations; and they visited the two beautiful lakes of Thun and Brientz.
On first coming among mountains, Amabel had been greatly afraid of
the precipices, and had been very much alarmed at the way in which Guy
clambered about, with a sureness of foot and steadiness of head acquired
long ago on the crags of Redclyffe, and on which the guides were always
complimenting him; but from seeing him always come down safe, and from
having been enticed by him to several heights, which had at first seemed
to her most dizzy and dangerous, she had gradually laid aside her fears,
and even become slightly, very slightly, adventurous herself.

One beautiful evening, they were wandering on the side of the
Beatenberg, in the little narrow paths traced by the tread of the goats
and their herdsmen. Amabel sat down to try to sketch the outline of the
white-capped Jung Frau and her attendant mountains, wishing she could
draw as well as Laura, but intending her outline to aid in describing
the scene to those whose eyes she longed to have with her. While she was
drawing, Guy began to climb higher, and was soon out of sight, though
she still heard him whistling. The mountains were not easy to draw,
or rather she grew discontented with her black lines and white paper,
compared with the dazzling snow against the blue sky, tinged by the
roseate tints of the setting sun, and the dark fissures on the rocky
sides, still blacker from the contrast.

She put up her sketching materials, and began to gather some of the
delightful treasury of mountain flowers. A gentle slope of grass was
close to her, and on it grew, at some little distance from her, a tuft
of deep purple, the beautiful Alpine saxifrage, which she well knew by
description. She went to gather it, but the turf was slippery, and when
once descending, she could not stop herself; and what was the horror of
finding herself half slipping, half running down a slope, which became
steeper every moment, till it was suddenly broken off into a sheer
precipice! She screamed, and grasped with both hands at some low bushes,
that grew under a rock at the side of the treacherous turf. She caught
a branch, and found herself supported, by clinging to it with her hands,
while she rested on the slope, now so nearly perpendicular, that to lose
her hold would send her instantly down the precipice. Her whole weight
seemed to depend on that slender bough, and those little hands that
clenched it convulsively,--her feet felt in vain for some hold. ‘Guy!
Guy!’ she shrieked again. Oh, where was he? His whistle ceased,--he
heard her,--he called,

‘Here!’

‘Oh, help me!’ she answered. But with that moment’s joy came the horror,
he could not help her--he would only fall himself. ‘Take care! don’t
come on the grass!’ she cried. She must let go the branch in a short,
time then a slip, the precipice,--and what would become of him? Those
moments were hours.

‘I am coming--hold fast!’ She heard his voice above her, very near.
To find him so close made the agony of dread and of prayer even more
intense. To be lost, with her husband scarcely a step from her! Yet how
could he stand on the slippery turf, and so as to be steady enough to
raise her up?

‘Now, then!’ he said, speaking from the rock under which the brushwood
grew, ‘I cannot reach you unless you raise up your hand to me--your left
hand--straight up. Let go. Now!’

It was a fearful moment. Amabel could not see him, and felt as if
relinquishing her grasp of the tree was certain destruction. The
instinct of self-preservation had been making her cling desperately with
that left hand, especially as it held by the thicker part of the bough.
But the habit of implicit confidence and obedience was stronger still;
she did not hesitate, and tightening her hold with the other hand, she
unclasped the left and stretched it upwards.

Joy unspeakable to feel his fingers close over her wrist, like iron,
even while the bush to which she had trusted was detaching itself,
almost uprooted by her weight! If she had waited a second she would have
been lost, but her confidence had been her safety. A moment or two more,
and with closed eyes she was leaning against him; his arm was round
her, and he guided her steps, till, breathless, she found herself on the
broad well-trodden path, out of sight of the precipice.

‘Thank heaven!’ he said, in a very low voice, as he stood still. ‘Thank
God! my Amy, I have you still.’

She looked up and saw how pale he was, though his voice had been so
steady throughout. She leant on his breast, and rested her head on
his shoulder again in silence, for her heart was too full of awe and
thankfulness for words, even had she not been without breath or power to
speak, and needing his support in her giddiness and trembling.

More than a minute passed thus. Then, beginning to recover, she looked
up to him again, and said, ‘Oh, it was dreadful! I did not think you
could have saved me.’

‘I thought so too for a moment!’ said Guy, in a stifled voice. ‘You are
better now? You are not hurt? are you sure?’

‘Quite sure! I did not fall, you know, only slipped. No, I have nothing
the matter with me, thank you.’

She tried to stand alone, but the trembling returned. He made her sit
down, and she rested against him, while he still made her assure him
that she was unhurt. ‘Yes, quite unhurt--quite well; only this wrist is
a little strained, and no wonder. Oh, I am sure it was Providence that
made those bushes grow just there!’

‘How did it happen?’

‘It was my fault. I went after a flower; my foot slipped on the turf,
and I could not stop myself. I thought I should have run right down the
precipice.’

She shut her eyes and shuddered again. ‘It was frightful!’ he said,
holding her fast. ‘It was a great mercy, indeed. Thank heaven, it is
over! You are not giddy now.’

‘Oh, no; not at all!’

‘And your wrist?’

‘Oh, that’s nothing. I only told you to show you what was the worst,’
said Amy, smiling with recovered playfulness, the most re-assuring of
all.

‘What flower was it?’

‘A piece of purple saxifrage. I thought there was no danger, for it did
not seem steep at first.’

‘No, it was not your fault. You had better not move just yet; sit still
a little while.’

‘O Guy, where are you going?’

‘Only for your sketching tools and my stick. I shall not be gone an
instant. Sit still and recover.’

In a few seconds he came back with her basket, and in it a few of the
flowers.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said, coming to meet him; ‘I wish I had told you I
did not care for them. Why did you?’

‘I did not put myself in any peril about them. I had my trusty staff,
you know.’

‘I am glad I did not guess what you were doing. I thought it so
impossible, that I did not think of begging you not. I shall keep them
always. It is a good thing for us to be put in mind how frail all our
joy is.’

‘All?’ asked Guy, scarcely as if replying to her, while, though his arm
pressed hers, his eye was on the blue sky, as he answered himself, ‘Your
joy no man taketh from you.’

Amabel was much impressed, as she thought what it would have been
for him if his little wife bad been snatched from him so suddenly and
frightfully. His return--his meeting her mother--his desolate home and
solitary life. She could almost have wept for him. Yet, at the moment of
relief from the fear of such misery, he could thus speak. He could look
onward to the joy beyond, even while his cheek was still blanched with
the horror and anguish of the apprehension; and how great they had
been was shown by the broken words he uttered in his sleep, for several
nights afterwards, while by day he was always watching and cautioning
her. Assuredly his dependence on the joy that could not be lost did not
make her doubt his tenderness; it only made her feel how far behind him
she was, for would it have been the same with her, had the danger been
his?

In a couple of days they arrived at the beautiful Lugano, and, as usual,
their first walk was to the post-office, but disappointment awaited
them. There had been some letters addressed to the name of Morville,
but the Signor Inglese had left orders that such should be forwarded to
Como. Amabel, in her best Italian, strove hard to explain the difference
between the captain and Sir Guy, the Cavaliere Guido, as she translated
him, who stood by looking much amused by the perplexities of his lady’s
construing; while the post-master, though very polite and sorry for the
Signora’s disappointment, stuck to the address being Morville, poste
restante.

‘There is one good thing,’ said the cavaliere, as they walked away, ‘we
can find the captain now. I’ll write and ask him--shall I say to meet us
at Varenna or at Bellagio?’

‘Whichever suits him best, I should think. It can’t make much difference
to us.’

‘Your voice has a disconsolate cadence,’ said Guy, looking at her with a
smile.

‘I did not mean it,’ she answered; ‘I have not a word to say against it.
It is quite right, and I am sure I don’t wish to do otherwise.’

‘Only it is the first drawback in our real day-dream.’

‘Just so, and that is all,’ said Amy; ‘I am glad you feel the same, not
that I want you to change your mind.’

‘Don’t you remember our resolution against mere pleasure-hunting? That
adventure at Interlachen seemed to be meant to bring us up short just as
we were getting into that line.’

‘You think we were?’

‘I was, at least; for I know it was a satisfaction not to find a letter,
to say Redclyffe was ready for us.’

‘I had rather it was Redclyffe than Philip.’

‘To be sure, I would not change my own dancing leaping waves for this
clear blue looking-glass of a lake, or even those white peaks. I want
you to make friends with those waves, Amy. But it is a more real matter
to make friends with Philip, the one wish of my life. Not that I exactly
expect to clear matters up, but if some move is not made now, when it
may, we shall stand aloof for life, and there will be the feud where it
was before.’

‘It is quite right,’ said Amy; ‘I dare say that, meeting so far from
home, he will be glad to see us, and to hear the Hollywell news. I
little thought last autumn where I should meet him again.’

On the second evening from that time, Philip Morville was walking, hot
and dusty, between the high stone walls bordering the road, and shutting
out the beautiful view of the lake, at the entrance of Ballagio,
meditating on the note he had received from Guy, and intending to be
magnanimous, and overlook former offences for Amabel’s sake. He would
show that he considered the marriage to have cleared off old scores, and
that as long as she was happy, poor little thing, her husband should
be borne with, though not to the extent of the spoiling the Edmonstones
gave him.

Thus reflecting, he entered the town, and walked on in search of the
hotel. He presently found himself on a terrace, looking out on the
deep blue lake, there divided by the promontory of Bellagio, into two
branches, the magnificent mountain forms rising opposite to him. A
little boat was crossing, and as it neared the landing-place, he saw
that it contained a gentleman and lady, English--probably his cousins
themselves. They looked up, and in another moment had waved their
recognition. Gestures and faces were strangely familiar, like a bit
of Hollywell transplanted into that Italian scene. He hastened to the
landing-place, and was met by a hearty greeting from Guy, who seemed
full of eagerness to claim their closer relationship, and ready to be
congratulated.

‘How d’ye do, Philip? I am glad we have caught you at last. Here she
is.’

If he had wished to annoy Philip, he could hardly have done so more
effectually than by behaving as if nothing was amiss, and disconcerting
his preparations for a reconciliation. But the captain’s ordinary manner
was calculated to cover all such feelings; and as he shook hands, he
felt much kindness for Amabel, as an unconscious victim, whose very
smiles were melancholy, and plenty of them there were, for she rejoiced
sincerely in the meeting, as Guy was pleased, and a home face was a
welcome sight.

‘I have your letters in my knapsack; I will unpack them as soon as we
get to the hotel. I thought it safer not to send them in search of you
again, as we were to meet so soon.’

‘Certainly. Are there many?’

‘One for each of you, both from Hollywell. I was very sorry to have
engrossed them; but not knowing you were so near, I only gave my
surname.’

‘It was lucky for us,’ said Guy, ‘otherwise we could not have traced
you. We saw your name at Altdorf, and have been trying to come up with
you ever since.’

‘I am glad we have met. What accounts have you from home?’

‘Excellent,’ said Amy; ‘Charlie is uncommonly well, he has been out of
doors a great deal, and has even dined out several times.’

‘I am very glad.’

‘You know he has been improving ever since his great illness.’

‘You would be surprised to see how much better he moves,’ said Guy; ‘he
helps himself so much more.’

‘Can he set his foot to the ground?’

‘No,’ said Amy, ‘there is no hope of that; but he is more active,
because his general health is improved; he can sleep and eat more.’

‘I always thought exertion would do more for him than anything else.’

Amabel was vexed, for she thought exertion depended more on health, than
health on exertion; besides, she thought Philip ought to take some blame
to himself for the disaster on the stairs. She made no answer, and Guy
asked what Philip had been doing to-day.

‘Walking over the hills from Como. Do you always travel in this fashion,
“impedimentis relictis”?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Guy; ‘the “impedimenta” are, some at Varenna, some
at the inn with Arnaud.’

‘So you have Arnaud with you?’

‘Yes, and Anne Trower,’ said Amy, for her maid was a Stylehurst person,
who had lived at Hollywell ever since she had been fit for service. ‘She
was greatly pleased to hear we were going to meet the captain.’

‘We amuse ourselves with thinking how she gets on with Arnaud,’ said
Guy. ‘Their introduction took place only two days before we were
married, since which, they have had one continued tete-a-tete, which
must have been droll at first.’

‘More so at last,’ said Amy. ‘At first Anne thought Mr. Arnaud so fine a
gentleman, that she hardly dared to speak to him. I believe nothing
awed her so much as his extreme courtesy; but lately he has been quite
fatherly to her, and took her to dine at his sister’s chalet, where
I would have given something to see her. She tells me he wants her
to admire the country, but she does not like the snow, and misses our
beautiful clover-fields very much.’

‘Stylehurst ought to have been better training for mountains,’ said
Philip.

They were fast losing the stiffness of first meeting. Philip could not
but acknowledge to himself that Amy was looking very well, and so happy
that Guy must be fulfilling the condition on which he was to be borne
with. However, these were early days, and of course Guy must be kind to
her at least in the honeymoon, before the wear and tear of life began.
They both looked so young, that having advised them to wait four years,
he was ready to charge them with youthfulness, if not as a fault, at
least as a folly; indeed, the state of his own affairs made him inclined
to think it a foible, almost a want of patience, in any one to marry
before thirty. It was a conflict of feeling. Guy was so cordial and
good-humoured, that he could not help being almost gained; but, on the
other hand, he had always thought Guy’s manners eminently agreeable; and
as happiness always made people good-humoured, this was no reason for
relying on him. Besides, the present ease and openness of manner might
only result from security.

Other circumstances combined, more than the captain imagined, in what is
popularly called putting him out. He had always been hitherto on equal
terms with Guy; indeed, had rather the superiority at Hollywell, from
his age and assumption of character, but here Sir Guy was somebody, the
captain nobody, and even the advantage of age was lost, now that Guy was
married and head of a family, while Philip was a stray young man and his
guest. Far above such considerations as he thought himself, and
deeming them only the tokens of the mammon worship of the time, Philip,
nevertheless, did not like to be secondary to one to whom he had always
been preferred; and this, and perhaps the being half ashamed of it, made
him something more approaching to cross than ever before; but now and
then, the persevering amiability of both would soften him, and restore
him to his most gracious mood.

He gave them their letters when they reached the inn, feeling as if he
had a better right than they, to one which was in Laura’s writing, and
when left in solitary possession of the sitting-room--a very pleasant
one, with windows opening on the terrace just above the water--paced up
and down, chafing at his own perplexity of feeling.

Presently they came back; Guy sat down to continue their joint
journal-like letter to Charles, while Amabel made an orderly arrangement
of their properties, making the most of their few books, and taking out
her work as if she had been at home. Philip looked at the books.

‘Have you a “Childe Harold” here?’ said he. ‘I want to look at something
in it.’

‘No, we have not.’

‘Guy, you never forget poetry; I dare say you can help me out with those
stanzas about the mists in the valley.’

‘I have never read it,’ said Guy. ‘Don’t you remember warning me against
Byron?’

‘You did not think that was for life! Besides,’ he continued, feeling
this reply inconsistent with his contempt for Guy’s youth, ‘that
applied to his perversions of human passions, not to his descriptions of
scenery.’

‘I think,’ said Guy, looking up from his letter, ‘I should be more
unwilling to take a man like that to interpret nature than anything
else, except Scripture. It is more profane to attempt it.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Amabel, thoughtfully.

‘More than I do,’ said Philip. ‘I never supposed you would take my
advice “au pied de la lettre”,’ he had almost added, ‘perversely.’

‘I have felt my obligations for that caution ever since I have come to
some knowledge of what Byron was,’ said Guy.

‘The fascination of his “Giaour” heroes has an evil influence on some
minds,’ said Philip. ‘I think you do well to avoid it. The half truth,
resulting from its being the effect of self-contemplation, makes it more
dangerous.’

‘True,’ said Guy, though he little knew how much he owed to having
attended to that caution, for who could have told where the mastery
might have been in the period of fearful conflict with his passions, if
he had been feeding his imagination with the contemplation of revenge,
dark hatred, and malice, and identifying himself with Byron’s brooding
and lowering heroes!

‘But,’ continued Philip, ‘I cannot see why you should shun the fine
descriptions which are almost classical--the Bridge of Sighs, the
Gladiator.’

‘He may describe the gladiator as much as he pleases,’ said Guy; ‘indeed
there is something noble in that indignant line--


         Butchered to make a Roman holiday;


but that is not like his meddling with these mountains or the sea.’

‘Fine description is the point in both. You are over-drawing.’

‘My notion is this,’ said Guy,--‘there is danger in listening to a
man who is sure to misunderstand the voice of nature,--danger, lest by
filling our ears with the wrong voice we should close them to the true
one. I should think there was a great chance of being led to stop
short at the material beauty, or worse, to link human passions with the
glories of nature, and so distort, defile, profane them.’

‘You have never read the poem, so you cannot judge,’ said Philip,
thinking this extremely fanciful and ultra-fastidious. ‘Your rule would
exclude all descriptive poetry, unless it was written by angels, I
suppose?’

‘No; by men with minds in the right direction.’

‘Very little you would leave us.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Amabel. ‘Almost all the poetry we really care
about was written by such men.’

‘Shakspeare, for instance?’

‘No one can doubt of the bent of his mind from the whole strain of his
writings,’ said Guy. ‘So again with Spenser; and as to Milton, though
his religion was not quite the right sort, no one can pretend to say he
had it not. Wordsworth, Scott--’

‘Scott?’ said Philip.

‘Including the descriptions of scenery in his novels,’ said Amy, ‘where,
I am sure, there is the spirit and the beauty.’

‘Or rather, the spirit is the beauty,’ said Guy.

‘There is a good deal in what you say,’ answered Philip, who would not
lay himself open to the accusation of being uncandid, ‘but you will
forgive me for thinking it rather too deep an explanation of the grounds
of not making Childe Harold a hand-book for Italy, like other people.’

Amabel thought this so dogged and provoking, that she was out of
patience; but Guy only laughed, and said, ‘Rather so, considering that
the fact was that we never thought of it.’

There were times when, as Philip had once said, good temper annoyed him
more than anything, and perhaps he was unconsciously disappointed at
having lost his old power of fretting and irritating Guy, and watching
him champ the bit, so as to justify his own opinion of him. Every
proceeding of his cousins seemed to give him annoyance, more especially
their being at home together, and Guy’s seeming to belong more to
Hollywell than himself. He sat by, with a book, and watched them, as Guy
asked for Laura’s letter, and Amy came to look over his half-finished
answer, laughing over it, and giving her commands and messages, looking
so full of playfulness and happiness, as she stood with one hand on the
back of her husband’s chair, and the other holding the letter, and Guy
watching her amused face, and answering her remarks with lively words
and bright smiles. ‘People who looked no deeper than the surface would,
say, what a well-matched pair,’ thought Philip; ‘and no doubt they were
very happy, poor young things, if it would but last.’ Here Guy turned,
and asked him a question about the line of perpetual snow, so much in
his own style, that he was almost ready to accuse them of laughing at
him. Next came what hurt him most of all, as they talked over Charles’s
letter, and a few words passed about Laura, and the admiration of some
person she had met at Allonby. The whole world was welcome to admire
her: nothing could injure his hold on her heart, and no joke of Charles
could shake his confidence; but it was hard that he should be forced to
hear such things, and ask no questions, for they evidently thought him
occupied with his book, and did not intend him to listen. The next thing
they said, however, obliged him to show that he was attending, for it
was about her being better.

‘Who? Laura!’ he said, in a tone that, in spite of himself, had a
startled sound. ‘You did not say she had been ill?’

‘No, she has not,’ said Amy. ‘Dr. Mayerne said there was nothing really
the matter: but she has been worried and out of spirits lately; and
mamma thought it would be good for her to go out more.’

Philip would not let himself sigh, in spite of the oppressing
consciousness of having brought the cloud over her, and of his own
inability to do aught but leave her to endure it in silence and
patience. Alas! for how long! Obliged, meanwhile, to see these young
creatures, placed, by the mere factitious circumstance of wealth, in
possession of happiness which they had not had time either to earn or to
appreciate. He thought it shallow, because of their mirth and gaiety, as
if they were only seeking food for laughter, finding it in mistakes, for
which he was ready to despise them.

Arnaud had brought rather antiquated notions to the renewal of his
office as a courier: his mind had hardly opened to railroads and
steamers, and changes had come over hotels since his time. Guy and
Amabel, both young and healthy, caring little about bad dinners, and
unwilling to tease the old man by complaints, or alterations of his
arrangements, had troubled themselves little about the matter; took
things as they found them, ate dry bread when the cookery was bad,
walked if the road was ‘shocking’; went away the sooner, if the inns
were ‘intolerable’; made merry over every inconvenience, and turned
it into an excellent story for Charles. They did not even distress
themselves about sights which they had missed seeing.

Philip thought all this very foolish and absurd, showing that they were
unfit to take care of themselves, and that Guy was neglectful of his
wife’s comforts: in short, establishing his original opinion of their
youth and folly.

So passed the first evening; perhaps the worst because, besides what he
had heard about Laura, he had been somewhat over-fatigued by various hot
days’ walks.

Certain it is, that next morning he was not nearly so much inclined
to be displeased with them for laughing, when, in speaking to Anne, he
inadvertently called her mistress Miss Amabel.

‘Never mind,’ said Amy, as Anne departed--and he looked disconcerted, as
a precise man always does when catching himself in a mistake--‘Anne is
used to it, Guy is always doing it, and puzzles poor Arnaud sorely by
sending him for Miss Amabel’s parasol.’

‘And the other day,’ said Guy, ‘when Thorndale’s brother, at Munich,
inquired after Lady Morville, I had to consider who she was.’

‘Oh! you saw Thorndale’s brother, did you?’

‘Yes; he was very obliging. Guy had to go to him about our passports:
and when he found who we were, he brought his wife to call on us, and
asked us to an evening party.’

‘Did you go?’

‘Guy thought we must, and it was very entertaining. We had a curious
adventure there. In the morning, we had been looking at those
beautiful windows of the great church, when I turned round, and saw a
gentleman--an Englishman--gazing with all his might at Guy. We met again
in the evening, and presently Mr. Thorndale came and told us it was Mr.
Shene.’

‘Shene, the painter?’

‘Yes. He had been very much struck with Guy’s face: it was exactly what
he wanted for a picture he was about, and he wished of all things just
to be allowed to make a sketch.’

‘Did you submit?’

‘Yes’ said Guy; ‘and we were rewarded. I never saw a more agreeable
person, or one who gave so entirely the impression of genius. The next
day he took us through the gallery, and showed us all that was worth
admiring.’

‘And in what character is he to make you appear?’

‘That is the strange part of it,’ said Amabel. ‘Don’t you remember how
Guy once puzzled us by choosing Sir Galahad for his favourite hero? It
is that very Sir Galahad, when he kneels to adore the Saint Greal.’

‘Mr. Shene said he had long been dreaming over it, and at last, as he
saw Guy’s face looking upwards, it struck him that it was just what he
wanted: it would be worth anything to him to catch the expression.’

‘I wonder what I was looking like!’ ejaculated Guy.

‘Did he take you as yourself, or as Sir Galahad?’

‘As myself, happily.’

‘How did he succeed?’

‘Amy likes it; but decidedly I should never have known myself.’

‘Ah,’ said his wife--


         ‘Could some fay the giftie gie us,
         To see ourselves as others see us.’


‘As far as the sun-burnt visage is concerned, the glass does that every
morning.’

‘Yes, but you don’t look at yourself exactly as you do at a painted
window,’ said Amy, in her demure way.

‘I cannot think how you found time for sitting,’ said Philip.

‘O, it is quite a little thing, a mere sketch, done in two evenings and
half an hour in the morning. He promises it to me when he has done with
Sir Galahad,’ said Amy.

‘Two--three evenings. You must have been a long time at Munich.’

‘A fortnight,’ said Guy, ‘there is a great deal to see there.’

Philip did not quite understand this, nor did he think it very
satisfactory that they should thus have lingered in a gay town, but he
meant to make the best of them to-day, and returned to his usual fashion
of patronizing and laying down the law. They were so used to this that
they did not care about it; indeed, they had reckoned on it as the most
amiable conduct to be expected on his part.

The day was chiefly spent in an excursion on the lake, landing at the
most beautiful spots, walking a little way and admiring, or while in the
boat, smoothly moving over the deep blue waters, gaining lovely views of
the banks, and talking over the book with which their acquaintance had
begun, “I Promessi Sposi”. Never did tourists spend a more serene and
pleasant day.

On comparing notes as to their plans, it appeared that each party had
about a week or ten days to spare; the captain before he must embark for
Corfu, and Sir Guy and Lady Morville before the time they had fixed
for returning home. Guy proposed to go together somewhere, spare the
post-office further blunders, and get the Signor Capitano to be their
interpreter. Philip thought it would be an excellent thing for his young
cousins for him to take charge of them, and show them how people ought
to travel; so out came his little pocket map, marked with his route,
before he left Ireland, whereas they seemed to have no fixed object,
but to be always going ‘somewhere.’ It appeared that they had thought of
Venice, but were easily diverted from it by his design of coasting the
eastern bank of the Lago di Como, and so across the Stelvio into the
Tyrol, all together as far as Botzen, whence Philip would turn southward
by the mountain paths, while they would proceed to Innsbruck on their
return home.

Amabel was especially pleased to stay a little longer on the banks of
the lake, and to trace out more of Lucia’s haunts; and if she secretly
thought it would have been pleasanter without a third person, she was
gratified to see how much Guy’s manner had softened Philip’s injustice
and distrust, making everything so smooth and satisfactory, that at the
end of the day, she told her husband that she thought his experiment had
not failed.

She was making the breakfast the next morning, when the captain came
into the room, and she told him Guy was gone to settle their plans with
Arnaud. After lingering a little by the window, Philip turned, and with
more abruptness than was usual with him, said--

‘You don’t think there is any cause of anxiety about Laura?’

‘No; certainly not!’ said Amy, surprised. ‘She has not been looking well
lately, but Dr. Mayerne says it is nothing, and you know’--she blushed
and looked down--‘there were many things to make this a trying time.’

‘Is she quite strong? Can she do as much as usual?’

‘She does more than ever: mamma is only afraid of her overworking
herself, but she never allows that she is tired. She goes to school
three days in the week, besides walking to East-hill on Thursday, to
help in the singing; and she is getting dreadfully learned. Guy gave her
his old mathematical books, and Charlie always calls her Miss Parabola.’

Philip was silent, knowing too well why she sought to stifle care in
employment; and feeling embittered against the whole world, against her
father, against his own circumstances, against the happiness of others;
nay, perhaps, against the Providence which had made him what he was.

Presently Guy came in, and the first thing he said was, ‘I am afraid we
must give up our plan.’

‘How?’ exclaimed both Philip and Amy.

‘I have just heard that there is a fever at Sondrio, and all that
neighbourhood, and every one says it would be very foolish to expose
ourselves to it.’

‘What shall we do instead?’ said Amy.

‘I told Arnaud we would let him know in an hour’s time; I thought of
Venice.’

‘Venice, oh, yes, delightful.’

‘What do you say, Philip?’ said Guy.

‘I say that I cannot see any occasion for our being frightened out of
our original determination. If a fever prevails among the half-starved
peasantry, it need not affect well-fed healthy persons, merely passing
through the country.’

‘You see we could hardly manage without sleeping there,’ said Guy: ‘we
must sleep either at Colico, or at Madonna. Now Colico, they say, is a
most unhealthy place at this time of year, and Madonna is the very
heart of the fever--Sondrio not much better. I don’t see how it is to
be safely done; and though very likely we might not catch the fever, I
don’t see any use in trying.’

‘That is making yourself a slave to the fear of infection.’

‘I don’t know what purpose would be answered by running the risk,’ said
Guy.

‘If you chose to give it so dignified a name as a risk,’ said Philip.

‘I don’t, then,’ said Guy, smiling. ‘I should not care if there was
any reason for going there, but, as there is not, I shall face Mr.
Edmonstone better if I don’t run Amy into any more chances of mischief.’

‘Is Amy grateful for the care,’ said Philip, ‘after all her wishes for
the eastern bank?’

‘Amy is a good wife,’ said Guy. ‘For Venice, then. I’ll ring for Arnaud.
You will come with us, won’t you, Philip?’

‘No, I thank you; I always intended to see the Valtelline, and an
epidemic among the peasantry does not seem to me to be sufficient to
deter.’

‘O Philip, you surely will not?’ said Amy.

‘My mind is made up, Amy, thank you.’

‘I wish you would be persuaded,’ said Guy. ‘I should like particularly
to have you to lionize us there; and I don’t fancy your running into
danger.’

The argument lasted long. Philip by no means approved of Venice,
especially after the long loitering at Munich, thinking that in both
places there was danger of Guy’s being led into mischief by his musical
connections. Therefore he did his best, for Amabel’s sake, to turn them
from their purpose, persuaded in his own mind that the fever was a
mere bugbear, raised up by Arnaud; and, perhaps, in his full health
and strength, almost regarding illness itself as a foible, far more
the dread of it. He argued, therefore, in his most provoking strain,
becoming more vexatious as the former annoyance was revived at
finding the impossibility of making Guy swerve from his purpose, while
additional mists of suspicion arose before him, making him imagine that
the whole objection was caused by Guy’s dislike to submit to him, and
a fit of impatience of which Amy was the victim; nay, that his cousin
wanted to escape from his surveillance, and follow the beat of his
inclinations; and the whole heap of prejudices and half-refuted
accusations resumed their full ascendancy. Never had his manner been
more vexatious, though without departing from the coolness which always
characterized it; but all the time, Guy, while firm and unmoved in
purpose, kept his temper perfectly, and apparently without effort. Even
Amabel glowed with indignation, at the assumption with which he was
striving to put her husband down, though she rejoiced to see its entire
failure: for some sensible argument, or some gay, lively, good-humoured
reply, was the utmost he could elicit. Guy did not seem to be in the
least irritated or ruffled by the very behaviour which used to cause him
so many struggles. Having once seriously said that he did not think it
right to run into danger, without adequate cause, he held his position
with so much ease, that he could afford to be playful, and laugh at his
own dread of infection, his changeableness, and credulity. Never had
temper been more entirely subdued; for surely if he could bear this, he
need never fear himself again.

So passed the hour; and Amabel was heartily glad when the debate was
closed by Arnaud’s coming for orders. Guy went with him; Amabel began to
collect her goods; and Philip, after a few moments’ reflection, spoke in
the half-compassionate, half-patronizing manner with which he used, now
and then, to let fall a few crumbs of counsel or commendation for silly
little Amy.

‘Well, Amy, you yielded very amiably, and that is the only way. You will
always find it best to submit.’

He got no further in his intended warning against the dissipations of
Venice, for her eyes were fixed on him at first with a look of extreme
wonder. Then her face assumed an expression of dignity, and gently, but
gravely, she said, ‘I think you forget to whom you are speaking.’

The gentlemanlike instinct made him reply, ‘I beg your pardon’--and
there he stopped, as much taken by surprise as if a dove had flown in
his face. He actually was confused; for in very truth, he had, after a
fashion, forgotten that she was Lady Morville, not the cousin Amy with
whom Guy’s character might be freely discussed. He had often presumed as
far with his aunt; but she, though always turning the conversation, had
never given him a rebuff. Amabel had not done; and in her soft voice,
firmly, though not angrily, she spoke on. ‘One thing I wish to say,
because we shall never speak on this subject again, and I was always
afraid of you before. You have always misunderstood him, I might almost
say, chosen to misunderstand him. You have tried his temper more than
any one, and never appreciated the struggles that have subdued it. It
is not because I am his wife that I say this--indeed I am not sure it
becomes me to say it; yet I cannot bear that you should not be told of
it, because you think he acts out of enmity to you. You little know
how your friendship has been his first desire--how he has striven for
it--how, after all you have done and written, he defended you with
all his might when those at home were angry--how he sought you out on
purpose to try to be real cordial friends’

Philip’s face had grown rigid, and chiefly at the words, ‘those at home
were angry.’ ‘It is not I that prevent that friendship,’ said he: ‘it is
his own want of openness. My opinion has never changed.’

‘No; I know it has never changed’ said Amy, in a tone of sorrowful
displeasure. ‘Whenever it does, you will be sorry you have judged him so
harshly.’

She left the room, and Philip held her in higher esteem. He saw there
was spirit and substance beneath that soft girlish exterior, and hoped
she would better be able to endure the troubles which her precipitate
marriage was likely to cause her; but as to her husband, his
combined fickleness and obstinacy had only become more apparent than
ever--fickleness in forsaking his purpose, obstinacy in adherence to his
own will.

Displeased and contemptuous, Philip was not softened by Guy’s freedom
and openness of manner and desire to help him as far as their roads lay
together. He was gracious only to Lady Morville, whom he treated with
kindness, intended to show that he was pleased with her for a reproof
which became her position well, though it could not hurt him. Perhaps
she thought this amiability especially insufferable: for when she
arrived at Varenna her chief thought was that here they should be free
of him.

‘Come, Philip,’ said Guy, at that last moment, ‘I wish you would think
better of it after all, and come with us to Milan.’

‘Thank you, my mind is made up.’

‘Well, mind you don’t catch the fever: for I don’t want the trouble of
nursing you.’

‘Thank you; I hope to require no such services of my friends,’ said
Philip, with a proud stem air, implying, ‘I don’t want you.’

‘Good-bye, then,’ said Guy. Then remembering his promise to Laura, he
added, ‘I wish we could have seen more of you. They will be glad to hear
of you at Hollywell. You have had one warm friend there all along.’

He was touched for a moment by this kind speech, and his tone was less
grave and dignified. ‘Remember me to them when you write,’ he answered,
‘and tell Laura she must not wear herself out with her studies.
Good-bye, Amy, I hope you will have a pleasant journey.’

The farewells were exchanged and the carriage drove off. ‘Poor little
Amy!’ said Philip to himself, ‘how she is improved. He has a sweet
little wife in her. The fates have conspired to crown him with all man
can desire, and little marvel if he should abuse his advantages. Poor
little Amy! I have less hope than ever, since even her evident wishes
could not bend his determination in this trifle; but she is a good
little creature, happy in her blindness. May it long continue! It is my
uncle and aunt who are to be blamed.’

He set himself to ascend the mountain path, and they looked back,
watching the firm vigorous steps with which he climbed the hill side,
then stood to wave his hand to Amabel looking a perfect specimen of
health and activity.

‘Just like himself,’ said Amy, drawing so long a breath that Guy smiled,
but did not speak.

‘Are you much vexed?’ said she.

‘I don’t feel as if I had made the most of my opportunities.’

‘Then if you have not, I can tell you who has. What do you think of his
beginning to give me a lecture how to behave to you?’

‘Did he think you wanted it very much?’

‘I don’t know: for of course I could not let him go on.’

Guy was so much diverted at the idea of her wanting a lecture
on wife-like deportment, that he had no time to be angry at the
impertinence, and he made her laugh also by his view that was all force
of habit.

‘Now, Guido--good Cavaliere Guido--do grant me one satisfaction,’ said
she, coaxingly. ‘Only say you are very glad he is gone his own way.’

On the contrary, I am sorry he is running his head into a fever,’ said
Guy, pretending to be provoking.

‘I don’t want you to be glad of that, I only want you to be glad he is
not sitting here towering over us.’ Guy smiled, and began to whistle--


        ‘Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush!’



CHAPTER 31

     And turned the thistles of a curse
     To types beneficent.
                          --WORDSWORTH


It was about three weeks after the rendezvous at Bellagio, that Sir Guy
and Lady Morville arrived at Vicenza, on their way from Venice. They
were in the midst of breakfast when Arnaud entered, saying,--

‘It was well, Sir Guy, that you changed your intention of visiting the
Valtelline with Captain Morville.’

‘What! Have you heard anything of him?’

‘I fear that his temerity has caused him to suffer. I have just heard
that an Englishman of your name is severely ill at Recoara.’

‘Where?’

‘At “la badia di Recoara”. It is what in English we call a
watering-place, on the mountains to the north, where the Vicentini do
go in summer for “fraicheur”, but they have all returned in the last two
days for fear of the infection.’

‘I’ll go and make inquiries’ said Guy, rising in haste. Returning in a
quarter of an hour, he said,--‘It is true. It can be no other than poor
Philip. I have seen his doctor, an Italian, who, when he saw our name
written, said it was the same. He calls it “una febbre molto grave”.’

‘Very heavy! Did he only know the name in writing?’

‘Only from seeing it on his passport. He has been unable to give any
directions.’

‘How dreadfully ill he must be! And alone! What shall we do? You won’t
think of leaving me behind you, whatever you do?’ exclaimed Amabel,
imploringly.

‘It is at no great distance, and--’

‘O, don’t say that. Only take me with you. I will try to bear it, if you
don’t think it right; but it will be very hard.’

Her eyes were full of tears, but she struggled to repress them, and was
silent in suspense as she saw him considering.

‘My poor Amy!’ said he, presently; ‘I believe the anxiety would be worse
for you if I were to leave you here.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ exclaimed she.

‘You will have nothing to do with the nursing. No, I don’t think there
is much risk; so we will go together.’

‘Thank you! thank you! and perhaps I may be of some use. But is it very
infectious?’

‘I hope not: caught at Colico, and imported to a fresh place. I should
think there was little fear of its spreading. However, we must soon
be off: I am afraid he is very ill, and almost deserted. In the first
place, I had better send an express to the Consul at Venice, to ask him
to recommend us a doctor, for I have not much faith in this Italian.’

They were soon on the way to Recoara, a road bordered on one side by
high rocks, on the other by a little river flowing down a valley, shut
in by mountains. The valley gradually contracted in the ascent, till
it became a ravine, and further on a mere crevice marked by the thick
growth of the chestnut-trees; but before this greater narrowing, they
saw the roofs of the houses in the little town. The sun shone clear, the
air had grown fresh as they mounted higher; Amabel could hardly imagine
sickness and sorrow in so fair a spot, and turned to her husband to say
so, but he was deep in thought, and she would not disturb him.

The town was built on the bank of the stream, and very much shut in by
the steep crags, which seemed almost to overhang the inn, to which they
drove, auguring favourably of the place from its fresh, clean aspect.

Guy hastened to the patient; while Amabel was conducted to a room with
a polished floor, and very little furniture, and there waited anxiously
until he returned. There was a flush on his face, and almost before he
spoke, he leant far out of the window to try to catch a breath of air.

‘We must find another room for him directly,’ said he. ‘He cannot
possibly exist where he is--a little den--such an atmosphere of
fever--enough to knock one down! Will you have one got ready for him?’

‘Directly,’ said Amabel, ringing. ‘How is he?’

‘He is in a stupor; it is not sleep. He is frightfully ill, I never felt
anything like the heat of his skin. But that stifling hole would account
for much; very likely he may revive, when we get him into a better
atmosphere. No one has attended to him properly. It is a terrible thing
to be ill in a foreign country without a friend!’

Arnaud came, and Amabel sent for the hostess, while Guy returned to his
charge. Little care had been taken for the solitary traveller on foot,
too ill to exact attention, and whose presence drove away custom; but
when his case was taken up by a Milord Inglese, the people of the inn
were ready to do their utmost to cause their neglect to be forgotten,
and everything was at the disposal of the Signora. The rooms were many,
but very small, and the best she could contrive was to choose three
rooms on the lower floor, rather larger than the rest, and opening into
each other, as well as into the passage, so that it was possible to
produce a thorough draught. Under her superintendence, Anne made the
apartment look comfortable, and almost English, and sending word that
all was ready, she proceeded to establish herself in the corresponding
rooms on the floor above.

Philip was perfectly unconscious when he was carried to his new room.
His illness had continued about a week, and had been aggravated first by
his incredulous and determined resistance of it, and then by the neglect
with which he had been treated. It was fearful to see how his great
strength had been cut down, as there he lay with scarcely a sign of
life, except his gasping, labouring breath. Guy stood over him, let the
air blow in from the open window, sprinkled his face with vinegar, and
moistened his lips, longing for the physician, for whom, however,
he knew he must wait many hours. Perplexed, ignorant of the proper
treatment, fearing to do harm, and extremely anxious, he still was
almost rejoiced: for there was no one to whom he was so glad to do a
service, and a hope arose of full reconciliation.

The patient was somewhat revived by the fresh air, he breathed more
freely, moved, and made a murmuring sound, as if striving painfully for
a word.

‘“Da bere”,’ at last he said; and if Guy had not known its meaning, it
would have been plain from the gasping, parched manner in which it was
uttered.

‘Some water?’ said Guy, holding it to his lips, and on hearing the
English, Philip opened his eyes, and, as he drank, gazed with a heavy
sort of wonder. ‘Is that enough? Do you like some on your forehead?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Is that more comfortable? We only heard to-day you were ill.’

He turned away restlessly, as if hardly glad to see Guy, and not awake
to the circumstances, in a dull, feverish oppression of the senses.
Delirium soon came on, or, more properly, delusion. He was distressed by
thinking himself deserted, and struggling to speak Italian, and when Guy
replied in English, though the native tongue seemed to fall kindly on
his ear, yet, to Guy’s great grief, the old dislike appeared to prevent
all comfort in his presence, though he could not repel his attentions.
At night the wandering increased, till it became unintelligible raving,
and strength was required to keep him in bed.

Amabel seldom saw her husband this evening. He once came up to see her,
when she made him drink some coffee, but he soon went, telling her he
should wait up, and begging her to go to rest quietly, as she looked
pale and tired. The night was a terrible one, and morning only brought
insensibility. The physician arrived, a sharp-looking Frenchman, who
pronounced it to be a very severe and dangerous case, more violent than
usual in malaria fever, and with more affection of the brain. Guy was
glad to be set to do something, instead of standing by in inaction; but
ice and blisters were applied without effect, and they were told that it
was likely to be long before the fever abated.

Day after day passed without improvement, and with few gleams of
consciousness, and even these were not free from wandering; they were
only intervals in the violent ravings, or the incoherent murmurs, and
were never clear from some torturing fancy that he was alone and ill at
Broadstone, and neither the Edmonstones nor his brother-officers would
come to him, or else that he was detained from Stylehurst. ‘Home’
was the word oftenest on his lips. ‘I would not go home,’ the only
expression that could sometimes be distinctly heard. He was obliged to
depend on Guy as the only Englishman at hand; but whenever he recognized
him, the traces of repugnance were evident, and in his clearer
intervals, he always showed a preference for Arnaud’s attendance. Still
Guy persevered indefatigably, sitting up with him every night, and
showing himself an invaluable nurse, with his tender hand, modulated
voice, quick eye, and quiet activity. His whole soul was engrossed: he
never appeared to think of himself, or to be sensible of fatigue; but
was only absorbed in the one thought of his patient’s comfort! He seldom
came to Amabel except at meals, and now and then for a short visit to
her sitting-room to report on Philip’s condition. If he could spare a
little more time when Philip was in a state of stupor, she used to try
to persuade him to take some rest; and if it was late, or in the heat
of noon, she could sometimes get him, as a favour to her, to lie down
on the sofa, and let her read to him; but it did not often end in
sleep, and he usually preferred taking her out into the fresh air, and
wandering about among the chestnut-trees and green hillocks higher up in
the ravine.

Very precious were these walks, with the quiet grave talk that the scene
and the circumstances inspired--when he would tell the thoughts that had
occupied him in his night-watches, and they shared the subdued and
deep reflection suited to this period of apprehension. These were her
happiest times, but they were few and uncertain. She had in the meantime
to wait, to watch, and hope alone, though she had plenty of employment;
for besides writing constant bulletins, all preparations for the
sickroom fell to her share. She had to send for or devise substitutes
for all the conveniences that were far from coming readily to hand in a
remote Italian inn--to give orders, send commissions to Vicenza, or even
to Venice, and to do a good deal, with Anne’s’ assistance, by her own
manual labour. Guy said she did more for Philip outside his room than
he did inside, and often declared how entirely at a loss he should have
been if she had not been there, with her ready resources, and, above
all, with her sweet presence, making the short intervals he spent out of
the sick chamber so much more than repose, such refreshment at the time,
and in remembrance.

Thus it had continued for more than a fortnight, when one evening as the
French physician was departing, he told Guy that he would not fail to
come the next night, as he saw every reason to expect a crisis. Guy sat
intently marking every alteration in the worn, flushed, suffering face
that rested helplessly on the pillows, and every unconscious movement
of the wasted, nerveless limbs stretched out in pain and helplessness,
contrasting his present state with what he was when last they parted,
in the full pride of health, vigour, and intellect. He dwelt on all that
had passed between them from the first, the strange ancestral enmity
that nothing had as yet overcome, the misunderstandings, the prejudices,
the character whose faultlessness he had always revered, and the
repeated failure of all attempts to be friends, as if his own impatience
and passion had borne fruit in the merited distrust of the man whom of
all others he respected, and whom he would fain love as a brother. He
earnestly hoped that so valuable a life might be spared; but if that
might not be, his fervent wish was, that at least a few parting words
of goodwill and reconciliation might be granted to be his comfort in
remembrance.

So mused Guy during the night, as he watched the heavy doze between
sleep and stupor, and tried to catch the low, indistinct mutterings that
now and then seemed to ask for something. Towards morning Philip awoke
more fully, and as Guy was feeling his pulse, he faintly asked,--

‘How many?’ while his eyes had more of their usual expression.

‘I cannot count,’ returned Guy; ‘but it is less than in the evening.
Some drink?’

Philip took some, then making an effort to look round, said,--‘What day
is it?’

‘Saturday morning, the 23rd of August.’

‘I have been ill a long time!’

‘You have indeed, full three weeks; but you are better to-night.’

He was silent for some moments; then, collecting himself, and
looking fixedly at Guy, he said, in his own steady voice, though very
feeble,--‘I suppose, humanly speaking, it is an even chance between life
and death?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, firmly, the low sweet tones of his voice full of
tenderness. ‘You are very ill; but not without hope.’ Then, after a
pause, during which Philip looked thoughtful, but calm, he added,--‘I
have tried to bring a clergyman here, but I could not succeed. Would you
like me to read to you?’

‘Thank you-presently--but I have something to say. Some more
water;--thank you.’ Then, after pausing, ‘Guy, you have thought I judged
you harshly; I meant to act for the best.’

‘Don’t think of that,’ said Guy, with a rush of joy at hearing the words
of reconciliation he had yearned for so long.

‘And now you have been most kind. If I live, you shall see that I am
sensible of it;’ and he feebly moved his hand to his cousin, who pressed
it, hardly less happy than on the day he stood before Mrs. Edmonstone in
the dressing-room. Presently, Philip went on. ‘My sister has my will. My
love to her, and to--to--to poor Laura.’ His voice suddenly failed;
and while Guy was again moistening his lips, he gathered strength, and
said,--‘You and Amy will do what you can for her. Do not let the blow
come suddenly. Ah! you do not know. We have been engaged this long
time.’

Guy did not exclaim, but Philip saw his amazement. ‘It was very wrong;
it was not her fault,’ he added. ‘I can’t tell you now; but if I live
all shall be told. If not, you will be kind to her?’

‘Indeed we will.’

‘Poor Laura!’ again said Philip, in a much weaker voice, and after lying
still a little longer, he faintly whispered,--‘Read to me.’

Guy read till he fell into a doze, which lasted till Arnaud came in the
morning, and Guy went up to his wife.

‘Amy,’ said he, entering with a quiet bright look, ‘he has spoken to me
according to my wish.’

‘Then it is all right,’ said Amabel, answering his look with one as calm
and sweet. ‘Is he better?’

‘Not materially; his pulse is still very high; but there was a gleam of
perfect consciousness; he spoke calmly and clearly, fully understanding
his situation. Come what will, it is a thing to be infinitely thankful
for! I am very glad! Now for our morning reading.’

As soon as it was over, and when Guy had satisfied himself that the
patient was still quiet, they sat down to breakfast. Guy considered a
little while, and said,--

‘I have been very much surprised. Had you any idea of an attachment
between him and Laura?’

‘I know she is very fond of him, and she has always been his favourite.
What? Has he been in love with her all this time, poor fellow?’

‘He says they are engaged.’

‘Laura? Our sister! Oh, Guy, impossible! He must have been wandering.’

‘I could have almost thought so; but his whole manner forbade me to
think there was any delusion. He was too weak to explain; but he said it
was not her fault, and was overcome when speaking of her. He begged
us to spare her from suddenly hearing of his death. He was as calm and
reasonable as I am at this moment. No, Amy, it was not delirium.’

‘I don’t know how to believe it!’ said Amabel. ‘It is so impossible for
Laura, and for him too. Don’t you know how, sometimes in fevers, people
take a delusion, and are quite rational about everything else, and that,
too; if only it was true; and don’t you think it very likely, that if he
really has been in love with her all this time, (how much he must have
gone through!) he may fancy he has been secretly engaged, and reproach
himself?’

‘I cannot tell,’ said Guy; ‘there was a reality in his manner of
speaking that refuses to let me disbelieve him. Surely it cannot be one
of the horrors of death that we should be left to reproach ourselves
with the fancied sins we have been prone to, as well as with our real
ones. Then’--and he rose, and walked about the room--‘if so, more than
ever, in the hour of death, good Lord, deliver us!’

Amabel was silent, and presently he sat down, saying,--‘Well, time will
show!’

‘I cannot think it’ said Amy. ‘Laura! How could she help telling mamma!’
And as Guy smiled at the recollection of their own simultaneous coming
to mamma, she added,--‘Not only because it was right, but for the
comfort of it.’

‘But, Amy, do you remember what I told you of poor Laura’s fears, and
what she said to me, on our wedding-day?’

‘Poor Laura!’ said Amy. ‘Yet--’ She paused, and Guy presently said,--

‘Well, I won’t believe it, if I can possibly help it. I can’t afford to
lose my faith in my sister’s perfection, or Philip’s, especially now.
But I must go; I have loitered too long, and Arnaud ought to go to his
breakfast.’

Amabel sat long over the remains of her breakfast. She did not puzzle
herself over Philip’s confession, for she would not admit it without
confirmation; and she could not think of his misdoings, even those
of which she was certain, on the day when his life was hanging in the
balance. All she could bear to recollect was his excellence; nay, in the
tenderness of her heart, she nearly made out that she had always been
very fond of him, overlooking that even before Guy came to Hollywell,
she had always regarded him with more awe than liking, been disinclined
to his good advice, shrunk from his condescension, and regularly enjoyed
Charles’s quizzing of him. All this, and all the subsequent injuries
were forgotten, and she believed, as sincerely as her husband, that
Philip had been free from any unkind intention. But she chiefly dwelt on
her own Guy, especially that last speech, so unlike some of whom she had
heard, who were rather glad to find a flaw in a faultless model, if only
to obtain a fellow-feeling for it.

‘Yes,’ thought she, ‘he might look far without finding anything better
than himself, though he won’t believe it. If ever he could make me
angry, it will be by treating me as if I was better than he. Such
nonsense! But I suppose his goodness would not be such if he was
conscious of it, so I must be content with him as he is. I can’t be so
unwifelike after all; for I am sure nothing makes me feel so small and
foolish as that humility of his! Come, I must see about some dinner for
the French doctor.’

She set to work on her housewifery cares; but when these were
despatched, it was hard to begin anything else on such a day of
suspense, when she was living on reports from the sick room. The
delirium had returned, more violent than ever; and as she sat at her
open window she often heard the disconnected words. She could do nothing
but listen--she could neither read nor draw, and even letter-writing
failed her to-day, for it seemed cruel to send a letter to his sister,
and if Philip was not under a delusion, it was still worse to write to
Hollywell; it made her shudder to think of the misery she might have
inflicted in the former letters, where she had not spared the detail of
her worst fears and conjectures, and by no means softened the account,
as she had done to his sister.

Late in the afternoon the physician came, and she heard of his being
quieter; indeed, there were no sounds below. It grew dark; Arnaud
brought lights, and told her Captain Morville had sunk into stupor.
After another long space, the doctor came to take some coffee, and said
the fever was lessening, but that strength was going with it, and if “le
malade” was saved, it would be owing to the care and attention of “le
chevalier”.

Of Guy she saw no more that evening. The last bulletin was pencilled by
him on a strip of paper, and sent to her at eleven at night:

‘Pulse almost nothing; deadly faintness; doctor does not give him up; it
may be many hours: don’t sit up; you shall hear when there is anything
decisive.’

Amy submitted, and slowly put herself to bed, because she thought Guy
would not like to find her up; but she had little sleep, and that was
dreamy, full of the same anxieties as her waking moments, and perhaps
making the night seem longer than if she had been awake the whole time.

At last she started from a somewhat sounder doze than usual, and saw it
was becoming light, the white summits of the mountains were beginning to
show themselves, and there was twilight in the room. Just then she heard
a light, cautious tread in the passage; the lock of Guy’s dressing-room
was gently, slowly turned. It was over then! Life or death? Her heart
beat as she heard her husband’s step in the next room, and her suspense
would let her call out nothing but--‘I am not asleep!’

Guy came forward, and stood still, while she looked up to the outline
of his figure against the window. With a kind of effort he said, with
forced calmness--‘He’ll do now! and came to the bedside. His face was
wet with tears, and her eyes were over-flowing. After a few moments he
murmured a few low words of deep thanksgivings, and again there was a
silence.

‘He is asleep quietly and comfortably,’ said Guy, presently, ‘and his
pulse is steadier. The faintness and sinking have been dreadful; the
doctor has been sitting with his hand on his pulse, telling me when to
put the cordial into his mouth. Twice I thought him all but gone; and
till within the last hour, I did not think he could have revived; but
now, the doctor says we may almost consider the danger as over.’

‘Oh, how glad I am! Was he sensible? Could he speak?’

‘Sensible at least when not fainting; but too weak to speak, or often,
to look up. When he did though, it was very kindly, very pleasantly. And
now! This is joy coming in the morning, Amy!’

‘I wonder if you are happier now than after the shipwreck,’ said Amy,
after a silence.

‘How can you ask? The shipwreck was a gleam, the first ray that came to
cheer me in those penance hours, when I was cut off from all; and now,
oh, Amy! I cannot enter into it. Such richness and fullness of blessing
showered on me, more than I ever dared to wish for or dream of, both in
the present and future hopes. It seems more than can belong to man, at
least to me, so unlike what I have deserved, that I can hardly believe
it. It must be sent as a great trial.’

Amabel thought this so beautiful, that she could not answer; and he
presently gave her some further particulars. He went back in spite of
her entreaties that he would afford himself a little rest, saying that
the doctor was obliged to go away, and Philip still needed the most
careful watching. Amy could not sleep any more, but lay musing over that
ever-brightening goodness which had lately at all times almost startled
her from its very unearthliness.



CHAPTER 32

     Sure all things wear a heavenly dress,
     Which sanctifies their loveliness,
     Types of that endless resting day,
     When we shall be as changed as they.
                           --HYMN FOR SUNDAY


From that time there was little more cause for anxiety. Philip was,
indeed, exceedingly reduced, unable to turn in bed, to lift his head,
or to speak except now and then a feeble whisper; but the fever was
entirely gone, and his excellent constitution began rapidly to repair
its ravages. Day by day, almost hour by hour, he was rallying, spending
most of his time profitably in sleep, and looking very contented in
his short intervals of waking. These became each day rather longer, his
voice became stronger, and he made more remarks and inquiries. His
first care, when able to take heed of what did not concern his immediate
comfort, was that Colonel Deane should be written to, as his leave of
absence was expired; but he said not a word about Hollywell, and Amabel
therefore hoped her surmise was right, that his confession had been
prompted by a delirious fancy, though Guy thought something was implied
by his silence respecting the very persons of whom it would have been
natural to have talked.

He was very patient of his weakness and dependence, always thankful and
willing to be pleased, and all that had been unpleasant in his manner to
Guy was entirely gone. He liked to be waited on by him, and received
his attentions without laborious gratitude, just in the way partly
affectionate, partly matter of course, that was most agreeable; showing
himself considerate of his fatigue, though without any of his old
domineering advice.

One evening Guy was writing, when Philip, who had been lying still, as
if asleep, asked, ‘Are you writing to Hollywell?’

‘Yes, to Charlotte; but there is no hurry, it won’t go till tomorrow.
Have you any message?

‘No, thank you.’

Guy fancied he sighed; and there was a long silence, at the end of which
he asked, ‘Guy, have I said anything about Laura?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, putting down the pen.

‘I thought so; but I could not remember,’ said Philip, turning round,
and settling himself for conversation, with much of his ordinary
deliberate preparation; ‘I hope it was not when I had no command of
myself?’

‘No, you were seldom intelligible, you were generally trying to speak
Italian, or else talking about Stylehurst. The only time you mentioned
her was the night before the worst.’

‘I recollect,’ said Philip. ‘I will not draw back from the resolution
I then made, though I did not know whether I had spoken it, let the
consequences be what they may. The worst is, that they will fall the
most severely on her: and her implicit reliance on me was her only
error.’

His voice was very low, and so full of painful feeling that Guy doubted
whether to let him enter on such a subject at present; but remembering
the relief of free confession, he thought it best to allow him to
proceed, only now and then putting in some note of sympathy or of
interrogation, in word or gesture.

‘I must explain,’ said Philip, ‘that you may see how little blame can be
imputed to her. It was that summer, three years ago, the first after you
came. I had always been her chief friend. I saw, or thought I saw, cause
for putting her on her guard. The result has shown that the danger
was imaginary; but no matter--I thought it real. In the course of the
conversation, more of my true sentiments were avowed than I was aware
of; she was very young, and before we, either of us, knew what we were
doing, it had been equivalent to a declaration. Well! I do not speak to
excuse the concealment, but to show you my motive. If it had been known,
there would have been great displeasure and disturbance; I should have
been banished; and though time might have softened matters, we should
both have had a great deal to go through. Heaven knows what it may be
now! And, Guy,’ he added, breaking off with trembling eagerness, ‘when
did you hear from Hollywell? Do you know how she has borne the news of
my illness?’

‘We have heard since they knew of it,’ said Guy; ‘the letter was from
Mrs. Edmonstone to Amy; but she did not mention Laura.’

‘She has great strength; she would endure anything rather than give way;
but how can she have borne the anxiety and silence? You are sure my aunt
does not mention her?’

‘Certain. I will ask Amy for the letter, if you like.’

‘No, do not go; I must finish, since I have begun. We did not speak of
an engagement; it was little more than an avowal of preference; I doubt
whether she understood what it amounted to, and I desired her to be
silent. I deceived myself all along, by declaring she was free; and I
had never asked for her promise; but those things will not do when we
see death face to face, and a resolve made at such a moment must be
kept, let it bring what it may.’

‘True.’

‘She will be relieved; she wished it to be known; but I thought it best
to wait for my promotion--the only chance of our being able to marry.
However, it shall be put into her father’s hands as soon as I can hold
a pen. All I wish is, that she should not have to bear the brunt of his
anger.’

‘He is too kind and good-natured to keep his displeasure long.’

‘If it would only light on the right head, instead of on the head of the
nearest. You say she was harassed and out of spirits. I wish you were at
home; Amy would comfort her and soften them.’

‘We hope to go back as soon as you are in travelling condition. If you
will come home with us, you will be at hand when Mr. Edmonstone is ready
to forgive, as I am sure he soon will be. No one ever was so glad to
forget his displeasure.’

‘Yes; it will be over by the time I meet him, for she will have borne it
all. There is the worst! But I will not put off the writing, as soon
as I have the power. Every day the concealment continues is a further
offence.’

‘And present suffering is an especial earnest and hope of forgiveness,’
said Guy. ‘I have no doubt that much may be done to make Mr. Edmonstone
think well of it.’

‘If any suffering of mine would spare hers!’ sighed Philip. ‘You cannot
estimate the difficulties in our way. You know nothing of poverty,--the
bar it is to everything; almost a positive offence in itself!’

‘This is only tiring yourself with talking,’ said Guy, perceiving how
Philip’s bodily weakness was making him fall into a desponding strain.
‘You must make haste to get well, and come home with us, and I think we
shall find it no such bad case after all. There’s Amy’s fortune to begin
with, only waiting for such an occasion. No, I can’t have you answer;
you have talked, quite long enough.’

Philip was in a state of feebleness that made him willing to avoid the
trouble of thinking, by simply believing what he was told, ‘that it was
no bad case.’ He was relieved by having confessed, though to the person
whom, a few weeks back, he would have thought the last to whom he could
have made such a communication, over whom he had striven to assume
superiority, and therefore before whom he could have least borne to
humble himself--nay, whose own love he had lately traversed with an
arrogance that was rendered positively absurd by this conduct of his
own. Nevertheless, he had not shrunk from the confession. His had been
real repentance, so far as he perceived his faults; and he would have
scorned to avail himself of the certainty of Guy’s silence on what he
had said at the time of his extreme danger. He had resolved to speak,
and had found neither an accuser nor a judge, not even one
consciously returning good for evil, but a friend with honest, simple,
straightforward kindness, doing the best for him in his power, and
dreading nothing so much as hurting his feelings. It was not the way in
which Philip himself could have received such a confidence.

As soon as Guy could leave him, he went up to his wife. ‘Amy,’ said he,
rather sadly, ‘we have had it out. It is too true.’

Her first exclamation surprised him: ‘Then Charlie really is the
cleverest person in the world.’

‘How? Had he any suspicion?’

‘Not that I know of; but, more than once, lately, I have been alarmed by
recollecting how he once said that poor Laura was so much too wise for
her age, that Nature would some day take her revenge, and make her do
something very foolish. But has Philip told you all about it?’

‘Yes; explained it all very kindly. It must have cost him a great deal;
but he spoke openly and nobly. It is the beginning of a full confession
to your father.’

‘So, it is true!’ exclaimed Amabel, as if she heard it for the first
time. ‘How shocked mamma will be! I don’t know how to think it possible!
And poor Laura! Imagine what she must have gone through, for you know I
never spared the worst accounts. Do tell me all.’

Guy told what he had just heard, and she was indignant.

‘I can’t be as angry with him as I should like,’ said she, ‘now that he
is sorry and ill; but it was a great deal too bad! I can’t think how he
could look any of us in the face, far less expect to rule us all, and
interfere with you!’

‘I see I never appreciated the temptations of poverty,’ said Guy,
thoughtfully. ‘I have often thought of those of wealth, but never of
poverty.’

‘I wish you would not excuse him. I don’t mind your doing it about
ourselves, because, though he made you unhappy, he could not make you
do wrong. Ah! I know what you mean; but that was over after the first
minute; and he only made you better for all his persecution; but I don’t
know how to pardon his making poor Laura so miserable, and leading her
to do what was not right. Poor, dear girl! no wonder she looked so worn
and unhappy! I cannot help being angry with him, indeed, Guy!’ said she,
her eyes full of tears.

‘The best pleading is his own repentance, Amy. I don’t think you can
be very unrelenting when you see how subdued and how altered he is. You
know you are to make him a visit to-morrow, now the doctor says all fear
of infection is over.’

‘I shall be thinking of poor Laura the whole time.’

‘And how she would like to see him in his present state? What shall
you do if I bring him home to Redclyffe? Shall you go to Hollywell, to
comfort Laura?’

‘I shall wait till you send me. Besides, how can you invite company till
we know whether we have a roof over our house or not? What is he doing
now?’

‘As usual, he has an unlimited capacity for sleep.’

‘I wish you had. I don’t think you have slept two hours together since
you left off sitting up.’

‘I am beginning to think it a popular delusion. I do just as well
without it.’

‘So you say; but Mr. Shene would never have taken such a fancy to you,
if you always had such purple lines as those under your eyes. Look!
Is that a face for Sir Galahad, or Sir Guy, or any of the Round Table?
Come, I wish you would lie down, and be read to sleep.’

‘I should like a walk much better. It is very cool and bright. Will you
come?’

They walked for some time, talking over the conduct of Philip and
Laura. Amabel seemed quite oppressed by the thought of such a burthen of
concealment. She said she did not know what she should have done in
her own troubles without mamma and Charlie; and she could not imagine
Laura’s keeping silence through the time of Philip’s danger; more
especially as she recollected how appalling some of her bulletins had
been. The only satisfaction was in casting as much of the blame on him
as possible.

‘You know he never would let her read novels; and I do believe that was
the reason she did not understand what it meant.’

‘I think there is a good deal in that,’ said Guy, laughing, ‘though
Charlie would say it is a very _novel_ excuse for a young lady falling
imprudently in love.’

‘I do believe, if it was any one but Laura, Charlie would be very glad
of it. He always fully saw through Philip’s supercilious shell.’

‘Amy!’

‘No; let me go on, Guy, for you must allow that it was much worse in
such a grave, grand, unromantic person, who makes a point of thinking
before he speaks, than if it had been a hasty, hand-over-head man like
Maurice de Courcy, who might have got into a scrape without knowing it.

‘That must have made the struggle to confess all the more painful; and a
most free, noble, open-hearted confession it was.’

They tried to recollect all that had passed during that summer, and to
guess against whom he had wished to warn her; but so far were they from
divining the truth, that they agreed it must either have been Maurice,
or some other wild Irishman.

Next, they considered what was to be done. Philip must manage his
confession his own way; but they had it in their power greatly to
soften matters; and there was no fear that, after the first shock,
Mr. Edmonstone would insist on the engagement being broken off, Philip
should come to recover his health at Redclyffe, where he would be ready
to meet the first advance towards forgiveness,--and Amabel thought it
would soon be made. Papa’s anger was sharp, but soon over; he was very
fond of Philip, and delighted in a love affair, but she was afraid mamma
would not get over it so soon, for she would be excessively hurt and
grieved. ‘And when I was naughty,’ said Amy, ‘nothing ever made me so
sorry as mamma’s kindness.’

Guy launched out into more schemes for facilitating their marriage than
ever he had made for himself; and the walk ended with extensive castle
building on Philip’s account, in the course of which Amy was obliged
to become much less displeased. Guy told her, in the evening, that she
would have been still more softened if she could have heard him talk
about Stylehurst and his father. Guy had always wished to hear him speak
of the Archdeacon, though they had never been on terms to enter on such
a subject. And now Philip had been much pleased by Guy’s account of his
walks to Stylehurst, and taken pleasure in telling which were his old
haunts, making out where Guy had been, and describing his father’s ways.

The next day was Sunday, and Amabel was to pay her cousin a visit. Guy
was very eager about it, saying it was like a stage in his recovery; and
though the thought of her mother and Laura could not be laid aside, she
would not say a word to damp her husband’s pleasure in the anticipation.
It seemed as if Guy, wanting to bestow all he could upon his cousin in
gratitude for his newly-accorded friendship, thought the sight of his
little wife the very best thing he had to give.

It was a beautiful day, early in September, with a little autumnal
freshness in the mountain breezes that they enjoyed exceedingly.
Philip’s convalescence, and their own escape, might be considered as so
far decided, that they might look back on the peril as past. Amabel felt
how much cause there was for thankfulness; and, after all, Philip
was not half as bad now as when he was maintaining his system of
concealment; he had made a great effort, and was about to do his best
by way of reparation; but it was so new to her to pity him, that she did
not know how to begin.

She tried to make the day seem as Sunday-like as she could, by putting
on her white muslin dress and white ribbons, with Charles’s hair
bracelet, and a brooch of beautiful silver workmanship, which Guy had
bought for her at Milan, the only ornament he had ever given to her.
She sat at her window, watching the groups of Italians in their holiday
costume, and dwelling on the strange thoughts that had passed through
her mind often before in her lonely Sundays in this foreign land,
thinking much of her old home and East-hill Church, wondering whether
the letter had yet arrived which was to free them from anxiety, and
losing herself in a maze of uncomfortable marvels about Laura.

‘Now, then,’ at length said Guy, entering, ‘I only hope he has not
knocked himself up with his preparations, for he would make such a
setting to rights, that I told him I could almost fancy he expected the
queen instead of only Dame Amabel Morville.’

He led her down, opened the door, and playfully announced, ‘Lady
Morville! I have done it right this time. Here she is’!

She had of course expected to see Philip much altered, but she was
startled by the extent of the change; for being naturally fair and
high-coloured, he was a person on whom the traces of illness were
particularly visible. The colour was totally gone, even from his lips;
his cheeks were sunken, his brow looked broader and more massive
from the thinness of his face and the loss of his hair, and his eyes
themselves appeared unlike what they used to be in the hollows round
them. He seemed tranquil, and comfortable, but so wan, weak, and
subdued, and so different from himself, that she was very much shocked,
as smiling and holding out a hand, where the white skin seemed hardly
to cover the bone and blue vein, he said, in a tone, slow, feeble, and
languid, though cheerful,--

‘Good morning, Amy. You see Guy was right, after all. I am sorry to have
made your wedding tour end so unpleasantly.’

‘Nay, most pleasantly, since you are better,’ said Amabel, laughing,
because she was almost ready to cry, and her displeasure went straight
out of her head.

‘Are you doing the honours of my room, Guy?’ said Philip, raising his
head from the pillow, with a becoming shade of his ceremonious courtesy.
‘Give her a chair.’

Amy smiled and thanked him, while he lay gazing at her as a sick person
is apt to do at a flower, or the first pretty enlivening object from
which he is able to derive enjoyment, and as if he could not help
expressing the feeling, he said--

‘Is that your wedding-dress, Amy?’

‘Oh, no; that was all lace and finery.’

‘You look so nice and bridal--’

‘There’s a compliment that such an old wife ought to make the most of,
Amy,’ said Guy, looking at her with a certain proud satisfaction in
Philip’s admiration. ‘It is high time to leave off calling you a bride,
after your splendid appearance at the party at Munich, in all your
whiteness and orange-flowers.’

‘That was quite enough of it,’ said Amy, smiling.

‘Not at all,’ said Philip; ‘you have all your troubles in the visiting
line to come, when you go home.’

‘Ah! you know the people, and will be a great help to us,’ said Amy,
and Guy was much pleased to hear her taking a voluntary share in the
invitation, knowing as he did that she only half liked it.

‘Thank you; we shall see,’ replied Philip.

‘Yes; we shall see when you are fit for the journey, and it will not be
long before we can begin, by short stages. You have got on wonderfully
in the last few days. How do you think he is looking, Amy?’ finished
Guy, with an air of triumph, that was rather amusing, considering what a
pale skeleton face he was regarding with so much satisfaction.

‘I dare say he is looking much mended,’ said Amy; ‘but you must not
expect me to see it.’

‘You can’t get a compliment for me, Guy,’ said Philip. ‘I was a good
deal surprised when Arnaud brought me the glass this morning.’

‘It is a pity you did not see yourself a week ago,’ said Guy, shaking
his head drolly.

‘It is certain, as the French doctor says, that monsieur has a very
vigorous constitution.’

‘Charles says, having a good constitution is only another name for
undergoing every possible malady,’ said Amy.

‘Rather good’ said Guy; ‘for I certainly find it answer very well to
have none at all.’

‘Haven’t you?’ said Amy, rather startled.

‘Or how do you know?’ said Philip; ‘especially as you never were ill.’

‘It is a dictum of old Walters, the Moorworth doctor, the last time
I had anything to do with him, when I was a small child. I suppose I
remembered it for its oracular sound, and because I was not intended
to listen. He was talking over with Markham some illness I had just got
through, and wound up with, “He may be healthy and active now; but he
has no constitution, there is a tendency to low fever, and if he meets
with any severe illness, it will go hard with him.”’

‘How glad I am I did not know that before’ cried Amy.

‘Did you remember it when you came here?’ said Philip.

‘Yes,’ said Guy, not in the least conscious of the impression his words
made on the others. ‘By the bye, Philip, I wish you would tell us how
you fared after we parted, and how you came here.’

‘I went on according to my former plan,’ said Philip, ‘walking through
the Valtelline, and coming down by a mountain path. I was not well at
Bolzano, but I thought it only fatigue, which a Sunday’s rest would
remove, so on I went for the next two days, in spite of pain in head and
limbs.’

‘Not walking!’ said Amy.

‘Yes, walking. I thought it was stiffness from mountain climbing, and
that I could walk it off; but I never wish to go through anything like
what I did the last day, between the up and downs of that mountain path,
and the dazzle of the snow and heat of the sun. I meant to have reached
Vicenza, but I must have been quite knocked up when I arrived here,
though I cannot tell. My head grew so confused, that my dread, all the
way, was that I should forget my Italian; I can just remember conning a
phrase over and over again, lest I should lose it. I suppose I was able
to speak when I came here, but the last thing I remember was feeling
very ill in some room, different from this, quite alone, and with a
horror of dying deserted. The next is a confused recollection of the
relief of hearing English again, and seeing my excellent nurse here.’

There was a little more talk, but a little was enough for Philip’s
feeble voice, and Guy soon told him he was tired, and ordered in his
broth. He begged that Amy would stay, and it was permitted on condition
that he would not talk, Guy even cutting short a quotation of,--‘As Juno
had been sick and he her dieter,’--appropriate to the excellence of
the broths, which Amabel and her maid, thanks to their experience of
Charles’s fastidious tastes, managed to devise and execute, in spite
of bad materials. It was no small merit in Guy to stop the compliment,
considering how edified he had been by his wife’s unexpected ingenuity,
and what a comical account he had written of it to her mother, such, as
Amy told him, deserved to be published in a book of good advice to young
ladies, to show what they might come to if they behaved well. However,
she was glad to have ocular demonstration of the success of the cookery,
which she had feared might turn out uneatable; and her gentle
feelings towards Philip were touched, by seeing one wont to be full of
independence and self-assertion, now meek and helpless, requiring to
be lifted, and propped up with pillows, and depending entirely and
thankfully upon Guy.

When he had been settled and made comfortable, they read the service;
and she thought her husband’s tones had never been so sweet as now,
modulated to the pitch best suited to the sickroom, and with the
peculiarly beautiful expression he always gave such reading. It was the
lesson from Jeremiah, on the different destiny of Josiah and his sons,
and he read that verse, ‘Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him,
but weep sore for him that goeth away; for he shall return no more, nor
see his native country;’ with so remarkable a melancholy and beauty in
his voice, that she could hardly refrain from tears, and it also greatly
struck Philip, who had been so near ‘returning no more, neither seeing
his native country.’

When the reading was over, and they were leaving him to rest, while they
went to dinner, he said, as he wished Amy good-bye, ‘Till now I never
discovered the practical advantage of such a voice as Guy’s. There never
was such a one for a sick-room. Last week, I could not bear any one else
to speak at all; and even now, no one else could have read so that I
could like it.’

‘Your voice; yes,’ said Amy, after they had returned to their own
sitting-room. ‘I want to hear it very much. I wonder when you will sing
to me again.’

‘Not till he has recovered strength to bear the infliction with
firmness,’ said Guy; ‘but, Amy, I’ll tell you what we will do, if you
are sure it is good for you. He will have a good long sleep, and we will
have a walk on the green hillocks.’

Accordingly they wandered in the cool of the evening on the grassy
slopes under the chestnut-trees, making it a Sunday walk, calm, bright
and meditative, without many words, but those deep and grave, ‘such as
their walks had been before they were married,’ as Amabel said.

‘Better,’ he answered.

A silence, broken by her asking, ‘Do you recollect your melancholy
definition of happiness, years ago?’

‘What was it?’

‘Gleams from another world, too soon eclipsed or forfeited. It made me
sad then. Do you hold to it now?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I want to know what you would say now?’

‘Gleams from another world, brightening as it gets nearer.’

Amabel repeated--


       Ever the richest, tenderest glow,
       Sets round the autumnal sun;
       But their sight fails, no heart may know
       The bliss when life is done.


‘Old age,’ she added; ‘that seems very far off.’

‘Each day is a step,’ he answered, and then came a silence while both
were thinking deeply.

They sat down to rest under a tree, the mountains before them with heavy
dark clouds hanging on their sides, and the white crowns clear against
the blue sky, a perfect stillness on all around, and the red glow of an
Italian sunset just fading away.

‘There is only one thing wanting,’ said Amy. ‘You may sing now. You are
far from Philip’s hearing. Suppose we chant this afternoon’s psalms.’

It was the fifth day of the month, and the psalms seemed especially
suitable to their thoughts. Before the 29th was finished, it was
beginning to grow dark. There were a few pale flashes of lightning
in the mountains, and at the words ‘The voice of the Lord shaketh the
wilderness,’ a low but solemn peal of thunder came as an accompaniment.

‘The Lord shall give his people the blessing of peace.’

The full sweet melody died away, but the echo caught it up and answered
like the chant of a spirit in the distance--‘The blessing of peace.’

The effect was too solemn and mysterious to be disturbed by word or
remark. Guy drew her arm into his, and they turned homewards.

They had some distance to walk, and night had closed in before they
reached the village, but was only more lovely. The thunder rolled
solemnly among the hills, but the young moon shone in marvellous
whiteness on the snowy crowns, casting fantastic shadows from the crags,
while whole showers of fire-flies were falling on them from the trees,
floating and glancing in the shade.

‘It is a pity to go in,’ said Amy. But Arnaud did not seem to be of the
same opinion: he came out to meet them very anxiously, expostulating on
the dangers of the autumnal dew; and Guy owned that though it had been
the most wonderful and delightful evening he had ever known, he was
rather fatigued.



CHAPTER 33

     From darkness here and dreariness,
     We ask not full repose.
                        --CHRISTIAN YEAR


It seemed as if the fatigue which Guy had undergone was going to make
itself felt at last, for he had a slight headache the next morning, and
seemed dull and weary. Both he and Amabel sat for some time with Philip,
and when she went away to write her letters, Philip began discussing
a plan which had occurred to him of offering himself as chief of the
constabulary force in the county where Redclyffe was situated. It was
an office which would suit him very well, and opened a new hope of
his marriage, and he proceeded to reckon on Lord Thorndale’s interest,
counting up all the magistrates he knew, and talking them over with Guy,
who, however, did not know enough of his own neighbourhood to be of much
use; and when he came up-stairs a little after, said he was vexed
at having been so stupid. He was afraid he had seemed unkind and
indifferent. But the truth was that he was so heavy and drowsy, that he
had actually fallen twice into a doze while Philip was talking.

‘Of course,’ said Amy, ‘gentle sleep will take her revenge at last for
your calling her a popular delusion. Lie down, let her have her own way,
and you will be good for something by and by.’

He took her advice, slept for a couple of hours, and awoke a good deal
refreshed, so that though his head still ached, he was able to attend as
usual to Philip in the evening.

He did not waken the next morning till so late, that he sprung up
in consternation, and began to dress in haste to go to Philip; but
presently he came back from his dressing-room with a hasty uncertain
step, and threw himself down on the bed. Amabel came to his side in an
instant, much frightened at his paleness, but he spoke directly. ‘Only
a fit of giddiness--it is going off;’ and he raised himself, but was
obliged to lie down again directly.

‘You had better keep quiet’ said she. ‘Is it your headache?’

‘It is aching,’ said Guy, and she put her hand over it.

‘How hot and throbbing!’ said she. ‘You must have caught cold in that
walk. No, don’t try to move; it is only making it worse.’

‘I must go to Philip,’ he answered, starting up; but this brought on
such a sensation of dizziness and faintness, that he sunk back on the
pillow.

‘No; it is of no use to fight against it,’ said Amy, as soon as he was a
little better. ‘Never mind Philip, I’ll go to him. You must keep quiet,
and I will get you a cup of hot tea.’

As he lay still, she had the comfort of seeing him somewhat revived, but
he listened to her persuasions not to attempt to move. It was later than
she had expected, and she found that breakfast was laid out in the next
room. She brought him some tea; but he did not seem inclined to lift
his head to drink it; and begged her to go at once to Philip, fearing
he must be thinking himself strangely forgotten, and giving her many
directions about the way he liked to be waited on at breakfast.

Very much surprised was Philip to see her instead, of her husband, and
greatly concerned to hear that Guy was not well.

‘Over-fatigue,’ said he. ‘He could not but feel the effects of such
long-continued exertion.’ Then, after an interval, during which he had
begun breakfast, with many apologies for letting her wait on him, he
said, with some breaks, ‘Never was there such a nurse as he, Amy; I have
felt much more than I can express, especially now. You will never have
to complain of my harsh judgment again!’

‘It is too much for you to talk of these things,’ said Amabel, moved
by the trembling of his feeble voice, but too anxious to return to
her husband to like to wait even to hear that Philip’s opinion _had_
altered. It required much self-command not to hurry, even by manner,
her cousin’s tardy, languid movements; but she had been well trained by
Charles in waiting on sick breakfasts.

When at length she was able to escape, she found that Guy had undressed,
and gone to bed again. He said he was more comfortable, and desired
her to go and take her own breakfast before coming back to him, and she
obeyed as well as she could, but very soon was again with him. He
looked flushed and oppressed, and when she put her cool hand across his
forehead, she was frightened at the increased throbbing of his temples.

‘Amy,’ said he, looking steadily at her, ‘this is the fever.’

Without answering, she drew his hand into hers, and felt his pulse,
which did indeed plainly respond fever. Each knew that the other was
recollecting what he had said, on Sunday, of the doctor’s prediction,
and Amy knew he was thinking of death; but all that passed was a
proposal to send at once for the French physician. Amabel wrote her note
with steadiness, derived from the very force of the shock. She could
not think; she did not know whether she feared or hoped. To act from
one moment to another was all she attempted, and it was well that her
imagination did not open to be appalled at her own situation--so young,
alone with the charge of two sick men in a foreign country; her cousin,
indeed, recovering, but helpless, and not even in a state to afford her
counsel; her husband sickening for this frightful fever, and with
more than ordinary cause for apprehension, even without the doctor’s
prophecy, when she thought of his slight frame, and excitable
temperament, and that though never as yet tried by a day’s illness, he
certainly had more spirit than strength, while all the fatigue he
had been undergoing was likely to tell upon him now. She did not
look forward, she did not look round; she did not hope or fear; she
_trusted_, and did her best for each, as she was wanted, trying not to
make herself useless to both, by showing that she wished to be in two
places at once.

It was a day sufficiently distressing in itself had there been no
further apprehension, for there was the restlessness of illness, working
on a character too active and energetic to acquiesce without a trial in
the certainty that there was no remedy for present discomfort. There was
no impatience nor rebellion against the illness itself, but a wish to
try one after another the things that had been effective in relieving
Philip during his recovery. At the same time, he could not bear that
Amabel should do anything to tire herself, and was very anxious that
Philip should not be neglected. He tossed from one side to the other
in burning oppression or cold chills; Amy saw him looking wistful,
suggested something by way of alleviation, then found he had been
wishing for it, but refraining from asking in order to spare her, and
that he was sorry when she procured it. Again and again this happened;
she smoothed the coverings, and shook up the pillow: he would thank
her, look at her anxiously, beg her not to exert herself, but soon grew
restless, and the whole was repeated.

At last, as she was trying to arrange the coverings, he exclaimed,--

‘I see how it is. This is impatience. Now, I will not stir for an hour,’
and as he made the resolution, he smiled at treating himself so like a
child. His power of self-restraint came to his aid, and long before the
hour was over he had fallen asleep.

This was a relief; yet that oppressed, flushed, discomposed slumber, and
heavy breathing only confirmed her fears that the fever had gained full
possession of him. She had not the heart to write such tidings, at least
till the physician should have made them too certain, nor could she even
bear to use the word ‘feverish,’ in her answers to the anxious inquiries
Philip made whenever she went into his room, though when he averted his
face with a heavy sigh, she knew his conclusion was the same as her own.

The opinion of the physician was the only thing wanting to bring home
the certainty, and that fell on her like lead in the evening; with one
comfort, however, that he thought it a less severe case than the former
one. It was a great relief, too, that there was no wandering of mind,
only the extreme drowsiness and oppression; and when Guy was roused by
the doctor’s visit, he was as clear and collected as possible, making
inquiries and remarks, and speaking in a particularly calm and quiet
manner. As soon as the doctor was gone, he looked up to Amabel, saying,
with his own smile, only very dim,--

‘It would be of no use, and it would not be true, to say I had rather
you did not nurse me. The doctor hopes there is not much danger of
infection, and it is too late for precautions.’

‘I am very glad,’ said Amy.

‘But you must be wise, and not hurt yourself. Will you promise me not to
sit up?’

‘It is very kind of you to tell me nothing worse,’ said she, with a sad
submissiveness.

He smiled again. ‘I am very sorry for you,’ he said, looking very
tenderly at her. ‘To have us both on your hands at once! But it comes
straight from Heaven, that is one comfort, and you made up your mind to
such things when you took me.’

Sadness in his eye, a sweet smile on his lip, and serenity on his brow,
joined with the fevered cheek, the air of lassitude, and the panting,
oppressed breath, there was a strange, melancholy beauty about him;
and while Amy felt an impulse of ardent, clinging affection to one so
precious to her, there was joined with it a sort of awe and veneration
for one who so spoke, looked, and felt. She hung over him, and sprinkled
him with Eau-de-Cologne; then as his hair teased him by falling into his
eyes, he asked her to cut the front lock off. There was something sad
in doing this, for that ‘tumble-down wave,’ as Charlotte called it, was
rather a favourite of Amy’s; it always seemed to have so much sympathy
with his moods, and it was as if parting with it was resigning him to a
long illness. However, it was too troublesome not to go, and he looked
amused at the care with which she folded up the glossy, brown wave, and
treasured it in her dressing-case, then she read to him a few verses of
a psalm, and he soon fell into another doze.

There was little more of event, day after day. The fever never ran as
high as in Philip’s case, and there was no delirium. There was almost
constant torpor, but when for any short space he was thoroughly
awakened, his mind was perfectly clear, though he spoke little, and then
only on the subject immediately presented to him. There he lay for
one quiet hour after another, while Amy sat by him, with as little
consciousness of time as he had himself, looking neither forward nor
backward, only to the present, to give him drink, bathe his face and
hands, arrange his pillows, or read or repeat some soothing verse. It
always was a surprise when meal times summoned her to attend to Philip,
when she was asked for the letters for the post, when evening twilight
gathered in, or when she had to leave the night-watch to Arnaud, and go
to bed in the adjoining room.

This was a great trial, but he would not allow her to sit up; and her
own sense showed her that if this was to be a long illness, it would
not do to waste her strength. She knew he was quiet at night, and her
trustful temper so calmed and supported her, that she was able to sleep,
and thus was not as liable to be overworked as might have been feared,
and as Philip thought she must be.

She always appeared in his room with her sweet face mournful and
anxious, but never ruffled, or with any air of haste or discomfiture,
desirous as she was to return to her husband; for, though he frequently
sent her to take care of herself or of Philip, she knew that while she
was away he always grew more restless and uncomfortable, and his look of
relief at her re-entrance said as much to her as a hundred complaints of
her absence would have done.

Philip was in the meantime sorely tried by being forced to be entirely
inactive and dependent, while he saw Amabel in such need of assistance;
and so far from being able to requite Guy’s care, he could only look on
himself as the cause of their distress, and an addition to it--a burthen
instead of a help. If he had been told a little while ago what would be
the present state of things, he would almost have laughed the speaker
to scorn. He would never have thought a child as competent as Amy to the
sole management of two sick persons, and he not able either to advise
or cheer her. Yet he could not see anything went wrong that depended on
her. His comforts were so cared for, that he was often sorry she should
have troubled herself about them; and though he could have little of her
company, he never was allowed to feel himself deserted. Anne, Arnaud,
the old Italian nurse, or Amy herself, were easily summoned, and gave
him full care and attention.

He was, however, necessarily a good deal alone; and though his cousin’s
books were at his disposal, eyes and head were too weak for reading, and
he was left a prey to his own thoughts. His great comfort was, that Guy
was less ill than he had been himself, and that there was no present
danger; otherwise, he could never have endured the conviction that all
had been caused by his own imprudence. Imprudence! Philip was brought
very low to own that such a word applied to him, yet it would have been
well for him had that been the chief burthen on his mind. Was it only an
ordinary service of friendship and kindred that Guy had, at the peril
of his own life, rendered him? Was it not a positive return of good
for evil? Yes, evil! He now called that evil, or at least harshness and
hastiness in judgment, which he had hitherto deemed true friendship and
consideration for Guy and Amy. Every feeling of distrust and jealousy
had been gradually softening since his recovery began; gratitude had
done much, and dismay at Guy’s illness did more. It would have been
noble and generous in Guy to act as he had done, had Philip’s surmises
been correct, and this he began to doubt, though it was his only
justification, and even to wish to lose it. He had rather believe Guy
blameless. He would do so, if possible; and he resolved, on the first
opportunity, to beg him to give him one last assurance that all was
right, and implicitly believe him. But how was it possible again
to assume to be a ruler and judge over Guy after it was known
how egregiously he himself had erred? There was shame, sorrow,
self-humiliation, and anxiety wherever he turned, and it was no wonder
that depression of spirits retarded his recovery.

It was not till the tenth day after Guy’s illness had begun that Philip
was able to be dressed, and to come into the next room, where Amabel had
promised to dine with him. As he lay on the sofa, she thought he looked
even more ill than in bed, the change from his former appearance being
rendered more visible, and his great height making him look the more
thin. He was apparently exhausted with the exertion of dressing, for he
was very silent all dinner-time, though Amabel could have better talked
to-day than for some time past, since Guy had had some refreshing sleep,
was decidedly less feverish, seemed better for nourishing food, and said
that he wanted nothing but a puff of Redclyffe wind to make him well.
He was pleased to hear of Philip’s step in recovery, and altogether, Amy
was cheered and happy.

She left her cousin as soon as dinner was over, and did not come to him
again for nearly an hour and a half. She was then surprised to find
him finishing a letter, resting his head on one hand, and looking wan,
weary, and very unhappy.

‘Have you come to letter writing?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, in a worn, dejected tone, ‘I must ask you to direct
this, I can’t make it legible,’

No wonder, so much did his hand tremble, as he held out the envelope.

‘To your sister?’ she asked.

‘No; to yours. I never wrote to her before. There’s one enclosed to your
father, to tell all.’

‘I am glad you have done it,’ answered Amy, in a quiet tone of sincere
congratulation. ‘You will be better now it is off your mind. But how
tired you are. You must go back to bed. Shall I call Arnaud?’

‘I must rest first’--and his voice failing, he laid back on the sofa,
closed his eyes, turned ashy pale, and became so faint that she could
not leave him, and was obliged to apply every restorative within reach
before she could bring him back to a state of tolerable comfort.

The next minute her work was nearly undone, when Anne came in to ask for
the letters for the post. ‘Shall I send yours?’ asked Amy.

He muttered an assent. But when she looked back to him after speaking to
Anne, she saw a tremulous, almost convulsed working of the closed eyes
and mouth, while the thin hands were clenched together with a force
contrasting with the helpless manner in which they had hung a moment
before. She guessed at the intensity of anguish it mast cost a temper so
proud, a heart of so strong a mould, and feelings so deep, to take the
first irrevocable step in self-humiliation, giving up into the hands of
others the engagement that had hitherto been the cherished treasure
of his life; and above all, in exposing Laura to bear the brunt of the
penalty of the fault into which he had led her. ‘Oh, for Guy to comfort
him,’ thought she, feeling herself entirely incompetent, dreading to
intrude on his feelings, yet thinking it unkind to go away without one
sympathizing word when he was in such distress.

‘You will be glad, in time,’ at last she said. He made no answer.

She held the stimulants to him again, and tried to arrange him more
comfortably.

‘Thank you,’ at last he said. ‘How is Guy?’

‘He has just had another nice quiet sleep, and is quite refreshed.’

‘That is a blessing, at least. But does not he want you? I have been
keeping you a long time?’

‘Thank you, as he is awake, I should like to go back. You are better
now.’

‘Yes, while I don’t move.’

‘Don’t try. I’ll send Arnaud, and as soon as you can, you had better go
to bed again.’

Guy was still awake, and able to hear what she had to tell him about
Philip.

‘Poor fellow!’ said he. ‘We must try to soften it.’

‘Shall I write?’ said Amy. ‘Mamma will be pleased to hear of his having
told you, and they must be sorry for him, when they hear how much the
letter cost him.’

‘Ah! they will not guess at half his sorrow.’

‘I will write to papa, and send it after the other letters, so that he
may read it before he hears of Philip’s.’

‘Poor Laura!’ said Guy. ‘Could not you write a note to her too? I want
her to be told that I am very sorry, if I ever gave her pain by speaking
thoughtlessly of him.’

‘Nay,’ said Amy, smiling, ‘you have not much to reproach yourself with
in that way. It was I that always abused him.’

‘You can never do so again.’

‘No, I don’t think I can, now I have seen his sorrow.’

Amabel was quite in spirits, as she brought her writing to his bed-side,
and read her sentences to him as she composed the letter to her father,
while he suggested and approved. It was a treat indeed to have him able
to consult with her once more, and he looked so much relieved and
so much better, that she felt as if it was the beginning of real
improvement, though still his pulse was fast, and the fever, though
lessened, was not gone.

The letter was almost as much his as her own, and he ended his dictation
thus: ‘Say that I am sure that if I get better we may make arrangements
for their marriage.’

Then, as Amy was finishing the letter with her hopes of his amendment,
he added, speaking to her, and not dictating--‘If not,’--she shrank and
shivered, but did not exclaim, for he looked so calm and happy that she
did not like to interrupt him--‘If not, you know, it will be very easy
to put the money matters to rights, whatever may happen.’



CHAPTER 34

     Sir,
     It is your fault I have loved Posthumus;
     You bred him as my playfellow; and he is
     A man worth any woman, over-buys me
     Almost the sum he pays.
                           --CYMBELINE


The first tidings of Philip’s illness arrived at Hollywell one morning
at breakfast, and were thus announced by Charles--

‘There! So he has been and gone and done it.’

‘What? Who? Not Guy?’

‘Here has the Captain gone and caught a regular bad fever, in some
malaria hole; delirious, and all that sort of thing, and of course our
wise brother and sister must needs go and nurse him, by way of a pretty
little interlude in their wedding tour!’

Laura’s voice alone was unheard in the chorus of inquiry. She sat cold,
stiff, and silent, devouring with her ears each reply, that fell like
a death-blow, while she was mechanically continuing the occupations of
breakfast. When all was told, she hurried to her own room, but the want
of sympathy was becoming intolerable. If Amabel had been at home, she
must have told her all. There was no one else; and the misery to
be endured in silence was dreadful. Her dearest--her whole joy and
hope--suffering, dying, and to hear all round her speaking of him with
kindness, indeed, but what to her seemed indifference; blaming him for
wilfulness, saying he had drawn it on himself,--it seemed to drive her
wild. She conjured up pictures of his sufferings, and dreaded Guy’s
inexperience, the want of medical advice, imagining everything that was
terrible. Her idol, to whom her whole soul was devoted, was passing
from her, and no one pitied her; while the latent consciousness of
disobedience debarred her from gaining solace from the only true source.
All was blank desolation--a wild agony, untempered by resignation,
uncheered by prayer; for though she did pray, it was without trust,
without hope, while her wretchedness was rendered more overwhelming by
her efforts to conceal it. These were so far ineffectual that no one
could help perceiving that she was extremely unhappy, but then all the
family knew she was very fond of Philip, and neither her mother nor
brother could be surprised at her distress, though it certainly appeared
to them excessive. Mrs. Edmonstone was very sorry for her, and very
affectionate and considerate; but Laura was too much absorbed, in her
own feelings to perceive or to be grateful for her kindness; and as each
day brought a no better report, her despair became so engrossing that
she could not attempt any employment. She wandered in the garden, sat in
dreamy fits of silence in the house, and at last, after receiving one of
the worst accounts, sat up in her dressing-gown the whole of one night,
in one dull, heavy, motionless trance of misery.

She recollected that she must act her part, dressed in the morning and
came down; but her looks were ghastly; she tasted no food, and as soon
as possible left the breakfast-room. Her mother was going in quest
of her when old nurse came with an anxious face to say,--‘Ma’am, I am
afraid Miss Edmonstone must be very ill, or something. Do you know,
ma’am, her bed has not been slept in all night?’

‘You don’t say so, nurse!’

‘Yes, ma’am, Jane told me so, and I went to look myself. Poor child,
she is half distracted about Master Philip, and no wonder, for they were
always together; but I thought you ought to know, ma’am, for she will
make herself ill, to a certainty.’

‘I am going to see about her this moment, nurse,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone;
and presently she found Laura wandering up and down the shady walk, in
the restlessness of her despair.

‘Laura, dearest,’ said she, putting her arm round her, ‘I cannot bear to
see you so unhappy.’

Laura did not answer; for though solitude was oppressive, every one’s
presence was a burthen.

‘I cannot think it right to give way thus,’ continued her mother. ‘Did
you really sit up all night, my poor child?’

‘I don’t know. They did so with him!’

‘My dear, this will never do. You are making yourself seriously unwell.’

‘I wish--I wish I was ill; I wish I was dying!’ broke from Laura, almost
unconsciously, in a hoarse, inward voice.

‘My dear! You don’t know what you are saying. You forget that this
self-abandonment, and extravagant grief would be wrong in any one; and,
if nothing else, the display is unbecoming in you.’

Laura’s over-wrought feelings could bear no more, and in a tone which,
though too vehement to be addressed to a parent, had in it an agony
which almost excused it, by showing how unable she was to restrain
herself, she broke forth:----‘Unbecoming! Who has a right to grieve for
him but me?--his own, his chosen,--the only one who can love him, or
understand him. Her voice died away in a sob, though without tears.

Her mother heard the words, but did not take in their full meaning;
and, believing that Laura’s undeveloped affection had led her to this
uncontrolled grief, she spoke again, with coldness, intended to rouse
her to a sense that she was compromising her womanly dignity.

‘Take care, Laura; a woman has no right to speak in such a manner of a
man who has given her no reason to believe in his preference of her.’

‘Preference! It is his love!--his love! His whole heart! The one thing
that was precious to me in this world! Preference! You little guess what
we have felt for each other!’

‘Laura!’ Mrs. Edmonstone stood still, overpowered. ‘What do you mean?’
She could not put the question more plainly.

‘What have I done?’ cried Laura. ‘I have betrayed him!’ she answered
herself in a tone of despair, as she hid her face in her hands;
‘betrayed him when he is dying!’

Her mother was too much shocked to speak in the soft reluctant manner in
which she was wont to reprove.

‘Laura,’ said she, ‘I must understand this. What has passed between you
and Philip?’

Laura only replied by a flood of tears, ungovernable from the exhaustion
of sleeplessness and want of food. Mrs. Edmonstone’s kindness returned;
she soothed her, begged her to control herself, and at length brought
her into the house, and up to the dressing-room, where she sank on the
sofa, weeping violently. It was the reaction of the long restraint
she had been exercising on herself, and the silence she had
been maintaining. She was not feeling the humiliation, her own
acknowledgement of disobedience, but of the horror of being forced to
reveal the secret he had left in her charge.

Long did she weep, breaking out more piteously at each attempt of her
mother to lead her to explain. Poor Mrs. Edmonstone was alarmed and
perplexed beyond measure; this half confession had so overthrown all her
ideas that she was ready to apprehend everything most improbable, and
almost expected to hear of a private marriage. Her presence seemed only
to make Laura worse, and at length she said,--‘I shall leave you
for half an hour, in hopes that by that time you may have recovered
yourself, and be able to give the explanation which I _require_.’

She went into her own room, and waited, with her eyes on her watch, a
prey to every strange alarm and anticipation, grievously hurt at this
want of confidence, and wounded, where she least expected it, by both
daughter and nephew. She thought, guessed, recollected, wondered,
tormented herself, and at the last of the thirty minutes, hastily opened
the door into the dressing-room. Laura sat as before, crouched up in the
corner of the wide sofa; and when she raised her face, at her mother’s
entrance, it was bewildered rather than embarrassed.

‘Well, Laura?’ She waited unanswered; and the wretchedness of the look
so touched her, that, kissing her, she said, ‘Surely, my dear, you need
not be afraid to tell me anything?’

Laura did not respond to the kindness, but asked, looking perplexed,
‘What have I said? Have I told it?’

‘What you have given me reason to believe,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, trying
to bring herself to speak it explicitly, ‘that you think Philip is
attached to you. You do not deny it. Let me know on what terms you
stand.’

Without looking up, she murmured, ‘If you would not force it from me at
such a time.’

‘Laura, it is for your own good. You are wretched now, my poor child;
why not relieve yourself by telling all? If you have not acted openly,
can you have any comfort till you have confessed? It may be a painful
effort, but relief will come afterwards.’

‘I have nothing to confess,’ said Laura. ‘There is no such thing as you
think.’

‘No engagement?’

‘No.’

‘Then what am I to understand by your exclamations?’

‘It is no engagement,’ repeated Laura. ‘He would never have asked that
without papa’s consent. We are only bound by our own hearts.’

‘And you have a secret understanding with him?’

‘We have never written to each other; we have never dreamed of any
intercourse that could be called clandestine. He would scorn it. He
waited only for his promotion to declare it to papa.’

‘And how long has it been declared to you?’

‘Ever since the first summer Guy was here.’

‘Three years!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘You have kept this from me three
years! O Laura!’

‘It was of no use to speak!’ said Laura, faintly.

If she had looked up, she would have seen those words, ‘no use,’ cut her
mother more deeply than all; but there was only coldness in the tone
of the answer, ‘No use to inform your parents, before you pledged your
affections!’

‘Indeed, mamma,’ said Laura, ‘I was sure that you knew his worth.’

‘Worth! when he was teaching you to live in a course of insincerity?
Your father will be deeply hurt.’

‘Papa! Oh, you must not tell him! Now, I have betrayed him, indeed! Oh,
my weakness!’ and another paroxysm of tears came on.

‘Laura, you seem to think you owe nothing to any one but Philip. You
forget you are a daughter! that you have been keeping up a system of
disobedience and concealment, of which I could not have believed a child
of mine could be capable. O Laura, how you have abused our confidence!’

Laura was touched by the sorrow of her tone; and, throwing her arms
round her neck, sobbed out, ‘You will forgive me, only forgive him!’

Mrs. Edmonstone was softened in a moment. ‘Forgive you, my poor child!
You have been very unhappy!’ and she kissed her, with many tears.

‘Must you tell papa?’ whispered Laura.

‘Judge for yourself, Laura. Could I know such a thing, and hide it from
him?’

Laura ceased, seeing her determined, and yielded to her pity, allowing
herself to be nursed as she required, so exhausted was she. She was laid
on the sofa, and made comfortable with pillows, in her mother’s gentlest
way. When Mrs. Edmonstone was called away, Laura held her dress, saying,
‘You are kind to me, but you must forgive him. Say you have forgiven
him, mamma, dearest!’

‘My dear, in the grave all things are forgiven.’

She could not help saying so; but, feeling as if she had been cruel, she
added, ‘I mean, while he is so ill, we cannot enter on such a matter. I
am very sorry for you,’ proceeded she, still arranging for Laura’s ease;
then kissing her, hoped she would sleep, and left her.

Sympathy was a matter of necessity to Mrs. Edmonstone; and as her
husband was out, she went at once to Charles, with a countenance so
disturbed, that he feared some worse tidings had come from Italy.

‘No, no, nothing of that sort; it is poor Laura.’

‘Eh?’ said Charles, with a significant though anxious look, that caused
her to exclaim,--

‘Surely you had no suspicion!’

Charlotte, who was reading in the window, trembled lest she should be
seen, and sent away.

‘I suspected poor Laura had parted with her heart. But what do you mean?
What has happened?’

‘Could you have guessed? but first remember how ill he is; don’t be
violent, Charlie. Could you have guessed that they have been engaged,
ever since the summer we first remarked them?’

She had expected a great storm; but Charles only observed, very coolly,
‘Oh! it is come out at last!’

‘You don’t mean that you knew it?’

‘No, indeed, you don’t think they would choose me for their confidant!’

‘Not exactly,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, with the odd sort of laugh with
which even the most sensitive people, in the height of their troubles,
reply to anything ludicrous; ‘but really,’ she continued, ‘every idea
of mine is so turned upside-down, that I don’t know what to think of
anybody.’

‘We always knew Laura to be his slave and automaton. He is so
infallible in her eyes, that no doubt she thought her silence an act of
praiseworthy resolution.’

‘She was a mere child, poor dear,’ said her mother; ‘only eighteen! Yet
Amy was but a year older last summer. How unlike! She must have known
what she was doing.’

‘Not with her senses surrendered to him, without volition of her own. I
wonder by what magnetism he allowed her to tell?’

‘She has gone through a great deal, poor child, and I am afraid there is
much more for her to suffer, whether he recovers or not.’

‘He will recover’ said Charles, with the decided manner in which people
prophesy the restoration of those they dislike, probably from a feeling
that they must not die, till there is more charity in their opinion of
them.

‘Your father will be so grieved.’

‘Well, I suppose we must begin to make the best of it,’ said Charles.
‘She has been as good as married to him these four years, for any use
she has been to us; it has been only the name of the thing, so he had
better--’

‘My dear Charlie, what are you talking of? You don’t imagine they can
marry?’

‘They will some time or other, for assuredly neither will marry any
one else. You will see if Guy does not take up the cause, and return
Philip’s meddling--which, by the bye, is now shown to have been more
preposterous still--by setting their affairs in order for them.’

‘Dear Guy, it is a comfort not to have been deceived in him!’

‘Except when you believed Philip,’ said Charles.

‘Could anything have been more different?’ proceeded Mrs. Edmonstone;
‘yet the two girls had the same training.’

‘With an important exception,’ said Charles; ‘Laura is Philip’s pupil,
Amy mine; and I think her little ladyship is the best turned out of
hand.’

‘How shocked Amy will be! If she was but here, it would be much better,
for she always had more of Laura’s confidence than I. Oh, Charlie, there
has been the error!’ and Mrs. Edmonstone’s eyes were full of tears.
‘What fearful mistake have I made to miss my daughter’s confidence!’

‘You must not ask me, mother,’ said Charles, face and voice full of
affectionate emotion. ‘I know too well that I have been exacting and
selfish, taking too much advantage of your anxieties for me, and that if
you were not enough with my sisters when they were young girls, it was
my fault as much as my misfortune. But, after all, it has not hurt Amy
in the least; nor do I think it will hurt Charlotte.’

Charlotte did not venture to give way to her desire to kiss her mother,
and thank Charles, lest she should be exiled as an intruder.

‘And,’ proceeded Charles, serious, though somewhat roguish, ‘I suspect
that no attention would have made much difference. You were always too
young, and Laura too much addicted to the physical sciences to get on
together.’

‘A weak, silly mother, sighed Mrs. Edmonstone.

This was too much for Charlotte, who sprang forward, and flung her arms
round her neck, sobbing out,--

‘Mamma! dear mamma! don’t say such horrid things! No one is half so wise
or so good,--I am sure Guy thinks so too!’

At the same time Bustle, perceiving a commotion, made a leap, planted
his fore-feet on Mrs. Edmonstone’s lap, wagging his tail vehemently, and
trying to lick her face. It was not in human nature not to laugh; and
Mrs. Edmonstone did so as heartily as either of the young ones; indeed,
Charlotte was the first to resume her gravity, not being sure of her
ground, and being hurt at her impulse of affection being thus reduced to
the absurd. She began to apologize,--

‘Dear mamma, I could not help it. I thought you knew I wad in the room.’

‘My dear child,’ and her mother kissed her warmly, ‘I don’t want to hide
anything from you. You are my only home-daughter now.’ Then recollecting
her prudence, she proceeded,--‘You are old enough to understand the
distress this insincerity of poor Laura’s has occasioned,--and now that
Amy is gone, we must look to you to comfort us.’

Did ever maiden of fourteen feel more honoured, and obliged to be very
good and wise than Charlotte, as she knelt by her mother’s side? Happily
tact was coming with advancing years, and she did not attempt to mingle
in the conversation, which was resumed by Charles observing that the
strangest part of the affair was the incompatibility of so novelish and
imprudent a proceeding with the cautious, thoughtful character of
both parties. It was, he said, analogous to a pentagon flirting with a
hexagon; whereas Guy, a knight of the Round Table, in name and nature,
and Amy, with her little superstitions, had been attached in the most
matter-of-fact, hum-drum way, and were in a course of living very
happy ever after, for which nature could never have designed them. Mrs.
Edmonstone smiled, sighed, hoped they were prudent, and wondered whether
camphor and chloride of lime were attainable at Recoara.

Laura came down no more that day, for she was worn out with agitation,
and it was a relief to be sufficiently unwell to be excused facing her
father and Charles. She had little hope that Charlotte had not heard
all; but she might seem to believe her ignorant, and could, therefore,
endure her waiting on her, with an elaborate kindness and compassion,
and tip-toe silence, far beyond the deserts of her slight indisposition.

In the evening, Charles and his mother broke the tidings to Mr.
Edmonstone as gently as they could, Charles feeling bound to be the
cool, thinking head in the family. Of course Mr. Edmonstone stormed,
vowed that he could not have believed it, then veered round, and said
he could have predicted it from the first. It was all mamma’s fault
for letting him be so intimate with the girls--how was a poor lad to
be expected not to fall in love? Next he broke into great wrath at the
abuse of his confidence, then at the interference with Guy, then at the
intolerable presumption of Philip’s thinking of Laura. He would soon
let him know what he thought of it! When reminded of Philip’s present
condition, he muttered an Irish imprecation on the fever for interfering
with his anger, and abused the ‘romantic folly’ that had carried Guy to
nurse him at Recoara. He was not so much displeased with Laura; in fact
he thought all young ladies always ready to be fallen in love with,
and hardly accountable for what their lovers might make them do, and he
pitied her heartily, when he heard of her sitting up all night. Anything
of extravagance in love met with sympathy from him, and there was no
effort in his hearty forgiveness of her. He vowed that she should give
the fellow up, and had she been present, would have tried to make her do
so at a moment’s warning; but in process of time he was convinced that
he must not persecute her while Philip was in extremity, and though,
like Charles, he scorned the notion of his death, and, as if it was
an additional crime, pronounced him to be as strong as a horse, he was
quite ready to put off all proceedings till his recovery, being glad to
defer the evil day of making her cry.

So when Laura ventured out, she met with nothing harsh; indeed, but for
the sorrowful kindness of her family towards her, she could hardly have
guessed that they knew her secret.

Her heart leapt when Amabel’s letter was silently handed to her, and she
saw the news of Philip’s amendment, but a sickening feeling succeeded,
that soon all forbearance would be at an end, and he must hear that her
weakness had betrayed his secret. For the present, however, nothing was
said, and she continued in silent dread of what each day might bring
forth, till one afternoon, when the letters had been fetched from
Broadstone, Mrs. Edmonstone, with an exclamation of dismay, read
aloud:--


       ‘Recoara, September 8th.

‘DEAREST MAMMA,--Don’t be very much frightened when I tell you that Guy
has caught the fever. He has been ailing since Sunday, and yesterday
became quite ill; but we hope it will not be so severe an illness as
Philip’s was. He sleeps a great deal, and is in no pain, quite sensible
when he is awake. Arnaud is very useful, and so is Anne; and he is so
quiet at night, that he wants no one but Arnaud, and will not let me sit
up with him. Philip is better.

       ‘Your most affectionate,
                       ‘A.F.M.’


The reading was followed by a dead silence, then Mr. Edmonstone said he
had always known how it would be, and what would poor Amy do?

Mrs. Edmonstone was too unhappy to answer, for she could see no means of
helping them. Mr. Edmonstone was of no use in a sick-room, and she had
never thought it possible to leave Charles. It did not even occur to her
that she could do so till Charles himself suggested that she must go to
Amy.

‘Can you spare me?’ said she, as if it was a new light.

‘Why not? Who can be thought of but Amy? She ought not to be a day
longer without you.’

‘Dr. Mayerne would look in on you,’ said she, considering, ‘and Laura
can manage for you.’

‘Oh, I shall do very well. Do you think I could bear to keep you from
her?’

‘Some one must go,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘and even if I could think of
letting Laura run the risk, this unhappy affair about Philip puts her
going out of the question.’

‘No one but you can go, said Charles; ‘it is of no use to talk of
anything else.’

It was settled that if the next account was not more favourable, Mr.
and Mrs. Edmonstone should set off for Recoara. Laura heard, in
consternation at the thought of her father’s meeting Philip, still weak
and unwell, without her, and perhaps with Guy too ill to be consulted.
And oh! what would Philip think of her? Her weakness had disclosed his
secret, and sunk her beneath him, and he must hear it from others. She
felt as if she could have thrown herself at her mother’s feet as she
implored her to forbear, to spare him, to spare her. Her mother pitied
her incoherent distress, but it did not make her feel more in charity
with Philip. She would not promise that the subject should, not be
discussed, but she tried to reassure Laura by saying that nothing should
be done that could retard his recovery.

With this Laura was obliged to content herself; and early the second
morning, after the letter arrived, she watched the departure of her
father and mother.

She had expected to find the care of Charles very anxious work, but she
prospered beyond her hopes. He was very kind and considerate, and both
he and Charlotte were so sobered by anxiety, that there was no fear of
their spirits overpowering her.

Mary Ross used to come almost every afternoon to inquire. One day she
found Charles alone, crutching himself slowly along the terrace, and she
thought nothing showed the forlorn state of the family so much as to see
him out of doors with no one for a prop.

‘Mary! Just as I wanted you!’

‘What account?’ said she, taking the place of one of the crutches.

‘Excellent; the fever and drowsiness seem to be going off. It must have
been a light attack, and the elders will hardly come in time for mamma
to have any nursing. So there’s Guy pretty well off one’s mind.’

‘And Amy?’

‘This was such a long letter, and so cheerful, that she must be all
right. What I wanted to speak to you about was Laura. You know the state
of things. Well, the captain--I wish he was not so sorry, it deprives
one of the satisfaction of abusing him--the captain, it seems, was
brought to his senses by his illness, confessed all to Guy, and now has
written to tell the whole truth to my father.’

‘Has he? That is a great relief!’

‘Not that I have seen his letter; Laura ran away with it, and has not
said a word of it. I know it from one to papa from Amy, trying to make
the best of it, and telling how thoroughly he is cut up. She says he
all but fainted after writing. Fancy that poor little thing with a great
man, six foot one, fainting away on her hands!’

‘I thought he was pretty well again.’

‘He must be to have written at all, and a pretty tolerably bitter pill
it must have been to set about it. What a thing for him to have had to
tell Guy, of all people--I do enjoy that! So, of course, Guy takes up
his cause, and sends a message, that is worth anything, as showing he is
himself better, though in any one else it would be a proof of delirium.
My two brothers-in-law might sit for a picture of the contrast.’

‘Then you think Mr. Edmonstone will consent?’

‘To be sure; we shall have him coming home, saying--


       It is a fine thing to be father in-law
       To a very magnificent three-tailed bashaw.


He will never hold out against Guy and Amy, and Philip will soon set up
a patent revolver, to be turned by the little god of love on the newest
scientific principles.’

‘Where is Laura?’ said Mary, smiling.

‘I turned her out to walk with Charlotte, and I want some counsel, as
mamma says I know nothing of lovers.’

‘Because I know so much?’

‘You know feminine nature I want to know what is the best thing to
do for Laura. Poor thing! I can’t bear to see her look so wretched,
worrying herself with care of me. I have done the best I could by taking
Charlotte’s lessons, and sending her out to mope alone, as she likes
best; but I wish you would tell me how to manage her.’

‘I know nothing better for her than waiting on you.’

‘That’s hard,’ said Charles, ‘that having made the world dance
attendance on me for my pleasure, I must now do it for theirs. But
what do you think about telling her of this letter, or showing it,
remembering that not a word about her troubles has passed between us?’

‘By all means tell her. You must judge about showing it, but I should
think the opening for talking to her on the subject a great gain.’

‘Should you? What, thinking as I do of the man? Should I not be between
the horns of a dilemma if I had to speak the honest truth, yet not hurt
her feelings?’

‘She has been so long shut up from sympathy, that any proof of kindness
must be a comfort.’

‘Well, I should like to do her some good, but it will be a mercy, if she
does not make me fall foul of Philip! I can get up a little Christian
charity, when my father or Charlotte rave at him, but I can’t stand
hearing him praised. I take the opportunity of saying so while I can,
for I expect he will come home as her betrothed, and then we shall not
be able to say one word.’

‘No, I dare say he will be so altered and subdued that you will not be
so disposed to rail. This confession is a grand thing. Good-bye I must
get back to church. Poor Laura! how busy she has been about her sketch
there lately.’

‘Yes, she has been eager about finishing it ever since Guy began to be
ill. Good-bye. Wish me well through my part of confidant to-night. It
is much against the grain, though I would give something to cheer up my
poor sister.’

‘I am sure you would,’ thought Mary to herself, as she looked back at
him: ‘what a quantity of kind, right feeling there in under that odd,
dry manner, that strives to appear to love nothing but a joke.’

As soon as Charlotte was gone to bed, Charles, in accordance with his
determination, said to Laura,--

‘Have you any fancy for seeing Amy’s letter?’

‘Thank you;’ and, without speaking, Laura took it. He forbore to watch
her expression as she read. When she had finished, her face was fixed in
silent unhappiness.

‘He has been suffering a great deal, I am sure,’ said Charles, kindly.
It was the first voluntary word of compassion towards Philip that Laura
had heard, and it was as grateful as unexpected. Her face softened, and
tears gushed from her eyes as she said,--

‘You do not know how much. There he is grieving for me! thinking they
will be angry with me, and hurting himself with that! Oh! if this had
but come before they set off!’

‘Guy and Amy will tell them of his having written.’

‘Dear, dear Guy and Amy! He speaks so earnestly of their kindness. I
don’t fear it so much now he and Guy understand each other.’

Recollecting her love, Charles refrained, only saying, ‘You can rely on
their doing everything to make it better.’

‘I can hardly bear to think of what we owe to them,’ said Laura.
‘How glad I am that Amy was there after he wrote, when he was so much
overcome! Amy has written me such a very kind note; I think you must see
that--it is so like her own dear self.’

She gave it to him, and he read:--


‘MY DEAREST,--I never could tell you before how we have grieved for you
ever since we knew it. I am so sorry I wrote such dreadful accounts;
and Guy says he wants to ask your pardon, if he ever said anything that
pained you about Philip. I understand all your unhappiness now, my poor
dear; but it will be better now it is known. Don’t be reserved, with
Charlie, pray; for if he sees you are unhappy, he will be so very kind.
I have just seen Philip again, and found him rested and better. He is
only anxious about you; but I tell him I know you will be glad it is
told.

        ‘Your most affectionate sister,
                             ‘A. F. M.’


‘Laura’ said Charles, finishing the letter, ‘Amy gives you very good
advice, as far as I am concerned. I do want to be of as much use to you
as I can--I mean as kind.’

‘I know--I know; thank you,’ said Laura, struggling with her tears. ‘You
have been--you are; but--’

‘Ay,’ thought Charles, ‘I see, she won’t be satisfied, if my kindness
includes her alone. What will my honesty let me say to please her? Oh! I
know.--You must not expect me to say that Philip has, behaved properly,
Laura, nothing but being in love could justify such a delusion; but I do
say that there is greatness of mind in his confessing it, especially at
a time when he could put it off, and is so unequal to agitation.’

It was the absence of any tone of satire that made this speech come home
to Laura as it was meant. There was no grudging in the praise, and she
answered, in a very low, broken voice,--

‘You will think so still more when you see this note, which he sent
open, inside mine, to be given to papa when I had told my own story. Oh,
his considerateness for me!’

She gave it to him. The address, ‘C. Edmonstone, Esq.,’ was a mere
scrawl, and within the writing was very trembling and weak. Charles
remarked it, and she answered by saying that her own letter began in
his own strong hand, but failed and grew shaky at the end, as if from
fatigue and agitation. The words were few, brief, and simple, very
unlike his usual manner of letter-writing.


‘MY DEAR UNCLE,--My conduct has been unjustifiable--I feel it. Do not
visit it on Laura--I alone should suffer. I entreat your pardon, and my
aunt’s, and leave all to you. I will write more at length. Be kind to
her.--Yours affectionately,

‘PH. M.’


‘Poor Philip!’ said Charles, really very much touched. From that moment,
Laura no longer felt completely isolated, and deprived of sympathy. She
sat by Charles till late that night, and told him the whole history
of her engagement, much relieved by the outpouring of her long-hidden
griefs, and comforted by his kindness, though he could not absolutely
refrain from words and gestures of censure. It was as strange that
Charles should be the first person to whom Laura told this history, as
that Guy should have been Philip’s first confidant.



CHAPTER 35

     There is a Rock, and nigh at hand,
     A shadow in a weary land,
     Who in that stricken Rock hath rest,
     Finds water gushing from its breast.
                                  --NEALE


In the meantime the days passed at Recoara without much change for the
better or worse. After the first week, Guy’s fever had diminished; his
pulse was lower, the drowsiness ceased, and it seemed as if there was
nothing to prevent absolute recovery. But though each morning seemed to
bring improvement, it never lasted; the fever, though not high, could
never be entirely reduced, and strength was perceptibly wasting, in
spite of every means of keeping it up.

There was not much positive suffering, very little even of headache,
and he was cheerful, though speaking little, because he was told not to
excite or exhaust himself. Languor and lassitude were the chief causes
of discomfort; and as his strength failed, there came fits of exhaustion
and oppression that tried him severely. At first, these were easily
removed by stimulants; but remedies seemed to lose their effect, and the
sinking was almost death-like.

‘I think I could bear acute pain better!’ he said one day; and more than
once the sigh broke from him almost unconsciously,--‘Oh for one breath
of Redclyffe sea-wind!’ Indeed, it seemed as if the close air of the
shut-in-valley, at the end of a long hot day was almost enough to
overwhelm him, weak as he had become. Every morning, when Amabel let in
the fresh breeze at the window, she predicted it would be a cool day,
and do him good; every afternoon the wind abated, the sun shone full
in, the room was stifling, the faintness came on, and after a few vain
attempts at relieving it, Guy sighed that there was nothing for it but
quiet, and Amy was obliged to acquiesce. As the sun set, the breeze
sprung up, it became cooler, he fell asleep, awoke revived, was
comfortable all the evening, and Amy left him at eleven or twelve, with
hopes of his having a good night.

It seemed to her as if ages had passed in this way, when one evening two
letters were brought in.

‘From mamma!’ said she; ‘and this one,’ holding it up, ‘is for you. It
must have been hunting us everywhere. How many different directions!’

‘From Markham,’ said Guy. ‘It must be the letter we were waiting for.’

The letter to tell them Redclyffe was ready to receive them! Amabel put
it down with a strange sensation, and opened her mother’s. With a start
of joy she exclaimed--

‘They are coming--mamma and papa!’

‘Then all is right!’

‘If we do not receive a much better account,’ read Amy, ‘we shall set
off early on Wednesday, and hope to be with you not long after you
receive this letter.’

‘Oh I am so glad! I wonder how Charlie gets on without her.’

‘It is a great comfort,’ said Guy.

‘Now you will see what a nurse mamma is!’

‘Now you will be properly cared for.’

‘How nice it will be! She will take care of you all night, and never
be tired, and devise everything I am too stupid for, and make you so
comfortable!’

‘Nay, no one could do that better than you, Amy. But it is joy
indeed--to see mamma again--to know you are safe with her. Everything
comes to make it easy!’ The last words were spoken very low; and she did
not disturb him by saying anything till he asked about the rest of the
letter, and desired her to read Markham’s to him.

This cost her some pain, for it had been written in ignorance of
even Philip’s illness, and detailed triumphantly the preparations at
Redclyffe, hinting that they must send timely notice of their return,
or they would disappoint the tenantry, who intended grand doings, and
concluding with a short lecture on the inexpediency of lingering in
foreign parts.

‘Poor Markham,’ said Guy.

She understood; but these things did not come on her like a shock now,
for he had been saying them more or less ever since the beginning of his
illness; and fully occupied as she was, she never opened her mind to the
future. After a long silence, Guy said--

‘I am very sorry for him. I have been making Arnaud write to him for
me.’

‘Oh, have you?’

‘It was better for you not to do it, Arnaud has written for me at night.
You will send it, Amy, and another to my poor uncle.’

‘Very well,’ said she, as he looked at her.

‘I have told Markham,’ said he presently, ‘to send you my desk. There
are all sorts of things in it, just as I threw them in when I cleared
out my rooms at Oxford. I had rather nobody but you saw some of them.
There is nothing of any importance, so you may look at them when you
please, or not at all.’

She gazed at him without answering. If there had been any struggle
to retain him, it would have been repressed by his calmness; but the
thought had not come on her suddenly, it was more like an inevitable
fate seen at first at a distance, and gradually advancing upon her. She
had never fastened on the hope of his recovery, and it had dwindled in
an almost imperceptible manner. She kept watch over him, and followed
his thoughts, without stretching her mind to suppose herself living
without him; and was supported by the forgetfulness of self, which gave
her no time to realize her feelings.

‘I should like to have seen Redclyffe bay again,’ said Guy, after a
space. ‘Now that mamma is coming, that is the one thing. I suppose I had
set my heart on it, for it comes back to me how I reckoned on standing
on that rock with you, feeling the wind, hearing the surge, looking
at the meeting of earth and sky, and the train of sunlight.’ He spoke
slowly, pausing between each recollection,--‘You will see it some day,’
he added. ‘But I must give it up; it is earth after all, and looking
back.’

Through the evening, he seemed to be dwelling on thoughts of his own,
and only spoke to tell her of some message to friends at Redclyffe, or
Hollywell, to mention little Marianne Dixon, or some other charge that
he wished to leave. She thought he had mentioned almost every one with
whom he had had any interchange of kindness at either of his homes, even
to old nurse at Hollywell, remembering them all with quiet pleasure. At
half-past eleven, he sent her to bed, and she went submissively, cheered
by thinking him likely to sleep.

As soon as she could conscientiously call the night over, she returned
to him, and was received with one of the sweet, sunny, happy looks
that had always been his peculiar charm, and, of late, had acquired an
expression almost startling from their very beauty and radiance. It was
hardly to be termed a smile, for there was very little, if any, movement
of the lips, it was more like the reflection of some glory upon the
whole countenance.

‘You have had a good night?’ she said.

‘I have had my wish, I have seen Redclyffe;’ then, seeing her look
startled, ‘Of course, it was a sort of wandering; but I never quite lost
the consciousness of being here, and it was very delightful. I saw the
waves, each touched with light,--the foam--the sea-birds, floating in
shade and light,--the trees--the Shag--the sky--oh! such a glory as I
never knew--themselves--but so intensely glorious!’

‘I am glad’ said Amabel, with a strange participation of the delight it
had given him.

‘I don’t understand such goodness!’ he continued. ‘As if it were not
enough to look to heaven beyond, to have this longing gratified, which I
thought I ought to conquer. Oh, Amy! is not that being Fatherly!’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Now after that, and with mamma’s coming (for you will have her if I
don’t see her), I have but one wish unfulfilled.’

‘Ah! a clergyman.’

‘Yes, but if that is withheld, I must believe it is rightly ordered. We
must think of that Sunday at Stylehurst and Christmas-day, and that last
time at Munich.’

‘Oh, I am so glad we stayed at Munich for that!’

‘Those were times, indeed! and many more. Yes; I have been a great deal
too much favoured already, and now to be allowed to die just as I should
have chosen--’

He broke off to take what Amabel was preparing for him, and she felt
his pulse. There was fever still, which probably supplied the place
of strength, for he said he was very comfortable, and his eyes were as
bright as ever; but the beats were weak and fluttering, and a thrill
crossed her that it might be near; but she must attend to him, and could
not think.

When it was time for her to go down to breakfast with Philip, Guy said,
‘Do you think Philip could come to me to-day? I want much to speak to
him.’

‘I am sure he could.’

‘Then pray ask him to come, if it will not tire him very much.’

Philip had, the last two mornings, risen in time to breakfast with
Amabel, in the room adjoining his own; he was still very weak, and
attempted no more than crossing the room, and sitting in the balcony to
enjoy the evening air. He had felt the heat of the weather severely, and
had been a good deal thrown back by his fatigue and agitation the day he
wrote the letter, while also anxiety for Guy was retarding his progress,
though he only heard the best side of his condition. Besides all this,
his repentance both for his conduct with regard to Laura and the hard
measure he had dealt to Guy was pressing on him increasingly; and the
warm feelings, hardened and soured by early disappointment, regained
their force, and grew into a love and admiration that made it still more
horrible to perceive that he had acted ungenerously towards his cousin.

When he heard of Guy’s desire to see him, he was pleased, said he was
quite able to walk up-stairs, had been thinking of offering to help her
by sitting with him, and was very glad to hear he was well enough to
wish for a visit. She saw she must prepare him for what the conversation
was likely to be.

‘He is very anxious to see you,’ she said. ‘He is wishing to set all in
order. And if he does speak about--about dying, will you be so kind as
not to contradict him?’

‘There is no danger?’ cried Philip, startling, with a sort of agony. ‘He
is no worse? You said the fever was lower.’

‘He is rather better, I think; but he wishes so much to have everything
arranged, that I am sure it will be better for him to have it off
his mind. So, will you bear it, please, Philip?’ ended she, with an
imploring look, that reminded him of her childhood.

‘How do you bear it?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know--I can’t vex him.’

Philip said no more, and only asked when he should come.

‘In an hour’s time, perhaps, or whenever he was ready,’ she said, ‘for
he could rest in the sitting-room before coming in to Guy.’

He found mounting the stairs harder than he had expected, and, with
aching knees and gasping breath, at length reached the sitting-room,
where Amabel was ready to pity him, and made him rest on the sofa till
he had fully recovered. She then conducted him in; and his first glance
gave him infinite relief, for he saw far less change than was still
apparent in himself. Guy’s face was at all times too thin to be capable
of losing much of its form, and as he was liable to be very much tanned,
the brown, fixed on his face by the sunshine of his journey had not gone
off, and a slight flush on his cheeks gave him his ordinary colouring;
his beautiful hazel eyes were more brilliant than ever; and though the
hand he held out was hot and wasted, Philip could not think him nearly
as ill as he had been himself, and was ready to let him talk as he
pleased. He was reassured, too, by his bright smile, and the strength
of his voice, as he spoke a few playful words of welcome and
congratulation. Amy set a chair, and with a look to remind Philip to be
cautious, glided into her own room, leaving the door open, so as to see
and hear all that passed, for they were not fit to be left absolutely
alone together.

Philip sat down; and after a little pause Guy began:

‘There were a few things I wanted to say, in case you should be my
successor at Redclyffe.’

A horror came over Philip; but he saw Amy writing at her little table,
and felt obliged to refrain.

‘I don’t think of directing you,’ said Guy, ‘You will make a far better
landlord than I; but one or two things I should like.’

‘Anything you wish!’

‘Old Markham. He has old-world notions and prejudices, but his soul is
in the family and estate. His heart will be half broken, for me, and if
he loses his occupation, he will be miserable. Will you bear with him,
and be patient while he lives, even if he is cross and absurd in his
objections, and jealous of all that is not me?’

‘Yes--yes--if--’

‘Thank you. Then there is Coombe Prior. I took Wellwood’s pay on myself.
Will you? And I should like him to have the living. Then there is the
school to be built; and I thought of enclosing that bit of waste, to
make gardens for the people; but that you’ll do much better. Well;
don’t you remember when you were at Redclyffe last year’ (Philip winced)
‘telling Markham that bit of green by Sally’s gate ought to be taken
into the park? I hope you won’t do that, for it is the only place the
people have to turn out their cows and donkeys. And you won’t cut them
off from the steps from the Cove, for it saves the old people from being
late for church? Thank you. As to the rest, it is pleasant to think it
will be in such hands if--’

That ‘if’ gave Philip some comfort, though it did not mean what he
fancied. He thought of Guy’s recovery; Guy referred to the possibility
of Amabel’s guardianship.

‘Amy has a list of the old people who have had so much a week, or their
cottages rent-free,’ said Guy. ‘If it comes to you, you will not let
them feel the difference? And don’t turn off the old keeper Brown; he is
of no use, but it would kill him. And Ben Robinson, who was so brave
in the shipwreck, a little notice now and then would keep him straight.
Will you tell him I hope he will never forget that morning-service after
the wreck? He may be glad to think of it when he is as I am now. You
tell him, for he will mind more what comes from a man.’

All this had been spoken with pauses for recollection, and for Philip’s
signs of assent. Amabel came to give him some cordial; and as soon as
she had retreated he went on:--

‘My poor uncle; I have written--that is, caused Arnaud to write to him.
I hope this may sober him; but one great favour I have to ask of you. I
can’t leave him money, it would only be a temptation; but will you keep
an eye on him, and let Amy rely on you to tell her when to help him I
can’t ask any one else, and she cannot do it for herself; but you would
do it well. A little kindness might save him; and you don’t know how
generous a character it is, run to waste. Will you undertake this?’

‘To be sure I will!’

‘Thank you very much. You will judge rightly; but he has delicate
feelings. Yes, really; and take care you don’t run against them.’

Another silence followed; after which Guy said, smiling with his natural
playfulness, ‘One thing more. You are the lawyer of the family, and I
want a legal opinion. I have been making Arnaud write my will. I
have wished Miss Wellwood of St. Mildred’s to have some money for a
sisterhood she wants to establish. Now, should I leave it to herself or
name trustees?’

Philip heard as if a flash of light was blinding him, and he
interrupted, with an exclamation:--

‘Tell me one thing! Was that the thousand pounds?’

‘Yes. I was not at liberty to--’

He stopped, for he was unheard. At the first word Philip had sunk on
his knees, hiding his face on the bed-clothes, in an agony of
self-abasement, before the goodness he had been relentlessly
persecuting.

‘It was that?’ he said, in a sort of stifled sob. ‘Oh, can you forgive
me?’

He could not look up; but he felt Guy’s hand touch his head, and heard
him say, ‘That was done long ago. Even as you pardoned my fierce rage
against you, which I trust is forgiven above. It has been repented!’

As he spoke there was a knock at the door, and, with the instinctive
dread of being found in his present posture, Philip sprang to his feet.
Amabel went to the door, and was told that the physician was down-stairs
with two gentlemen; and a card was given her, on which she read the name
of an English clergyman.

‘There, again!’ said Guy. ‘Everything comes to me. Now it is all quite
right.’

Amabel was to go and speak to them, and Guy would see Mr. Morris, the
clergyman, as soon as the physician had made his visit. ‘You must not go
down,’ he then said to Philip. ‘You will wait in the sitting-room, won’t
you? We shall want you again, you know,’ and his calm brightness was a
contrast to Philip’s troubled look. ‘All is clear between us now,’ he
added, as Philip turned away.

Long ago, letters had been written to Venice, begging that if an English
clergyman should travel that way he might be told how earnestly his
presence was requested; this was the first who had answered the summons.
He was a very young man, much out of health, and travelling under the
care of a brother, who was in great dread of his doing anything
to injure himself. Amabel soon perceived that, though kind and
right-minded, he could not help them, except as far as his office was
concerned. He was very shy, only just in priest’s orders; he told her he
had never had this office to perform before, and seemed almost to expect
her to direct him; while his brother was so afraid of his over-exerting
himself, that she could not hope he would take charge of Philip.

However, after the physician had seen Guy, she brought Mr. Morris to
him, and came forward, or remained in her room, according as she was
wanted. She thought her husband’s face was at each moment acquiring more
unearthly beauty, and feeling with him, she was raised above thought or
sensation of personal sorrow.

When the first part of the service was over, and she exchanged a few
words, out of Guy’s hearing, with Mr. Morris, he said to her, as from
the very fullness of his heart, ‘One longs to humble oneself to him. How
it puts one to shame to hear such repentance with such a confession!’

The time came when Philip was wanted. Amabel had called in Anne and the
clergyman’s brother, and went to fetch her cousin. He was where she had
left him in the sitting-room, his face hidden in his arms, crossed on
the table, the whole man crushed, bowed down, overwhelmed with remorse.

‘We are ready. Come, Philip.’

‘I cannot; I am not worthy,’ he answered, not looking up.

‘Nay, you are surely in no uncharitableness with him now,’ said she,
gently.

A shudder expressed his no.

‘And if you are sorry--that is repentance--more fit now than ever--Won’t
you come? Would you grieve him now?’

‘You take it on yourself, then,’ said Philip, almost sharply, raising
his haggard face.

She did not shrink, and answered, ‘A broken and contrite heart, O God,
Thou wilt not despise.’

It was a drop of balm, a softening drop. He rose, and trembling from
head to foot, from the excess of his agitation, followed her into Guy’s
room.

The rite was over, and stillness succeeded the low tones, while all
knelt in their places. Amabel arose first, for Guy, though serene,
looked greatly exhausted, and as she sprinkled him with vinegar, the
others stood up. Guy looked for Philip, and held out his hand. Whether
it was his gentle force, or of Philip’s own accord Amabel could not
tell; but as he lay with that look of perfect peace and love, Philip
bent down over him and kissed his forehead.

‘Thank you!’ he faintly whispered. ‘Good night. God bless you and my
sister.’

Philip went, and he added to Amy, ‘Poor fellow! It will be worse for him
than for you. You must take care of him.’

She hardly heard the last words, for his head sunk on one side in a
deathlike faintness, the room was cleared of all but herself, and Anne
fetched the physician at once.

At length it passed off, and Guy slept. The doctor felt his pulse, and
she asked his opinion of it. Very low and unequal, she was told: his
strength was failing, and there seemed to be no power of rallying it,
but they must do their best to support him with cordials, according
to the state of his pulse. The physician could not remain all night
himself, but would come as soon as he could on the following day.

Amabel hardly knew when it was that he went away; the two Mr. Morrises
went to the other hotel; and she made her evening visit to Philip. It
was all like a dream, which she could afterwards scarcely remember, till
night had come on, and for the first time she found herself allowed to
keep watch over her husband.

He had slept quietly for some time, when she roused him to give him some
wine, as she was desired to do constantly. He smiled, and said, ‘Is no
one here but you?’

‘No one.’

‘My own sweet wife, my Verena, as you have always been. We have been
very happy together.’

‘Indeed we have,’ said she, a look of suffering crossing her face, as
she thought of their unclouded happiness. ‘It will not be so long before
we meet again.’

‘A few months, perhaps’--said Amabel, in a stifled voice, ‘like your
mother--’

‘No, don’t wish that, Amy. You would not wish it to have no mother.’

‘You will pray--’ She could say no more, but struggled for calmness.

‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I trust you to it and to mamma for comfort. And
Charlie--I shall not rob him any longer. I only borrowed you for a
little while,’ he added, smiling. ‘In a little while we shall meet.
Years and months seem alike now. I am sorry to cause you so much grief,
my Amy, but it is all as it should be, and we have been very happy.’

Amy listened, her eyes intently fixed on him, unable to repress her
agitation, except by silence. After some little time, he spoke again.
‘My love to Charlie--and Laura--and Charlotte, my brother and sisters.
How kindly they have made me one of them! I need not ask Charlotte to
take care of Bustle, and your father will ride Deloraine. My love to
him, and earnest thanks, for you above all, Amy. And dear mamma! I must
look now to meeting her in a brighter world; but tell her how I have
felt all her kindness since I first came in my strangeness and grief.
How kind she was! how she helped me and led me, and made me know what
a mother was. Amy, it will not hurt you to hear it was your likeness to
her that first taught me to love you. I have been so very happy, I don’t
understand it.’

He was again silent, as in contemplation, and Amabel’s overcoming
emotion had been calmed and chastened down again, now that it was no
longer herself that was spoken of. Both were still, and he seemed to
sleep a little. When next he spoke, it was to ask if she could repeat
their old favourite lines in “Sintram”. They came to her lips, and she
repeated them in a low, steady voice.


       When death, is coming near,
       And thy heart shrinks in fear,
           And thy limbs fail,
       Then raise thy hands and pray
       To Him who smooths the way
           Through the dark vale.

       Seest thou the eastern dawn!
       Hear’st thou, in the red morn,
           The angel’s song?
       Oh! lift thy drooping head,
       Thou, who in gloom and dread
           Hast lain so long.

       Death comes to set thee free,
       Oh! meet him cheerily,
           As thy true friend
       And all thy fears shall cease,
       And In eternal peace
           Thy penance end.


‘In eternal peace,’ repeated Guy; ‘I did not think it would have been so
soon. I can’t think where the battle has been. I never thought my life
could be so bright. It was a foolish longing, when first I was ill, for
the cool waves of Redclyffe bay and that shipwreck excitement, if I was
to die. This is far better. Read me a psalm, Amy, “Out of the deep.”’

There was something in his perfect happiness that would not let her
grieve, though a dull heavy sense of consternation was growing on her.
So it went on through the night--not a long, nor a dreary one--but more
like a dream. He dozed and woke, said a few tranquil words, and listened
to some prayer, psalm, or verse, then slept again, apparently without
suffering, except when he tried to take the cordials, and this he did
with such increasing difficulty, that she hardly knew how to bear to
cause him so much pain, though it was the last lingering hope. He strove
to swallow them, each time with the mechanical ‘Thank you,’ so affecting
when thus spoken; but at last he came to, ‘It is of no use; I cannot.’

Then she knew all hope was gone, and sat still, watching him. The
darkness lessened, and twilight came. He slept, but his breath grew
short, and unequal; and as she wiped the moisture on his brow, she knew
it was the death-damp.

Morning light came on--the church bell rang out matins--the white hills
were tipped with rosy light. His pulse was almost gone--his hand was
cold. At last he opened his eyes. ‘Amy! he said, as if bewildered, or in
pain.

‘Here, dearest!’

‘I don’t see.’

At that moment the sun was rising, and the light streamed in at the open
window, and over the bed; but it was “another dawn than ours” that he
beheld as his most beautiful of all smiles beamed over his face, and he
said, ‘Glory in the Highest!--peace--goodwill’--A struggle for breath
gave an instant’s look of pain, then he whispered so that she could but
just hear--‘The last prayer.’ She read the Commendatory Prayer. She knew
not the exact moment, but even as she said ‘Amen’ she perceived it was
over. The soul was with Him with whom dwell the spirits of just men made
perfect; and there lay the earthly part with a smile on the face. She
closed the dark fringed eyelids--saw him look more beautiful than in
sleep--then, laying her face down on the bed, she knelt on. She took no
heed of time, no heed of aught that was earthly. How long she knelt she
never knew, but she was roused by Anne’s voice in a frightened sob--‘My
lady, my lady--come away! Oh, Miss Amabel, you should not be here.’

She lifted her head, and Anne afterwards told Mary Ross, ‘she should
never forget how my lady looked. It was not grief: it was as if she had
been a little way with her husband, and was just called back.’

She rose--looked at his face again--saw Arnaud was at hand--let Anne
lead her into the next room, and shut the door.



CHAPTER 36

     The matron who alone has stood
     When not a prop seemed left below,
     The first lorn hour of widowhood,
     Yet, cheered and cheering all the while,
     With sad but unaffected, smile.
                          --CHRISTIAN YEAR


The four months’ wife was a widow before she was twenty-one, and
there she sat in her loneliness, her maid weeping, seeking in vain for
something to say that might comfort her, and struck with fear at seeing
her thus composed. It might be said that she had not yet realized her
situation, but the truth was, perhaps, that she was in the midst of the
true realities. She felt that her Guy was perfectly happy--happy beyond
thought or comparison--and she was so accustomed to rejoice with him,
that her mind had not yet opened to understand that his joy left her
mourning and desolate.

Thus she remained motionless for some minutes, till she was startled by
a sound of weeping--those fearful overpowering sobs, so terrible in a
strong man forced to give way.

‘Philip!’ thought she; and withal Guy’s words returned--‘It will be
worse for him than for you. Take care of him.’

‘I must go to him,’ said she at once.

She took up a purple prayer-book that she had unconsciously brought
in her hand from Guy’s bed, and walked down-stairs, without pausing to
think what she should say or do, or remembering how she would naturally
have shrunk from the sight of violent grief.

Philip had retired to his own room the night before, overwhelmed by
the first full view of the extent of the injuries he had inflicted, the
first perception that pride and malevolence had been the true source of
his prejudice and misconceptions, and for the first time conscious of
the long-fostered conceit that had been his bane from boyhood. All had
flashed on him with the discovery of the true purpose of the demand
which he thought had justified his persecution. He saw the glory
of Guy’s character and the part he had acted,--the scales of
self-admiration fell from his eyes, and he knew both himself and his
cousin.

His sole comfort was in hope for the future, and in devising how his
brotherly affection should for the rest of his life testify his altered
mind, and atone for past ill-will. This alone kept him from being
completely crushed,--for he by no means imagined how near the end was,
and the physician, willing to spare himself pain, left him in hopes,
though knowing how it would be. He slept but little, and was very
languid in the morning; but he rose as soon as Arnaud came to him, in
order not to occupy Arnaud’s time, as well as to be ready in case Guy
should send for him again, auguring well from hearing that there was
nothing stirring above, hoping this was a sign that Guy was asleep. So
hoped the two servants for a long time, but at length, growing alarmed,
after many consultations, they resolved to knock at the door, and learn
what was the state of things.

Philip likewise was full of anxiety, and coming to his room door to
listen for intelligence, it was the “e morto” of the passing Italians
that first revealed to him the truth. Guy dead, Amy widowed, himself
the cause--he who had said he would never be answerable for the death of
this young man.

Truly had Guy’s threat, that he would make him repent, been fulfilled.
He tottered back to his couch, and sank down, in a burst of anguish
that swept away all the self-control that had once been his pride. There
Amabel found him stretched, face downwards, quivering and convulsed by
frightful sobs.

‘Don’t--don’t, Philip,’ said she, in her gentle voice. ‘Don’t cry so
terribly!’

Without looking up, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to drive her
away. ‘Don’t come here to reproach me!’ he muttered.

‘No, no; don’t speak so. I want you to hear me; I have something for
you from him. If you would only listen, I want to tell you how happy and
comfortable it was.’ She took a chair and sat down by him, relieved on
perceiving that the sobs grew a little less violent.

‘It was very peaceful, very happy,’ repeated she. ‘We ought to be very
glad.’

He turned round, and glanced at her for a moment; but he could not bear
to see her quiet face. ‘You don’t know what you say,’ he gasped. ‘No;
take care of yourself, don’t trouble yourself for such as me!’

‘I must; he desired me,’ said Amabel. ‘You will be happier, indeed,
Philip, if you would only think what glory it is, and that he is all
safe, and has won the victory, and will have no more of those hard,
hard struggles, and bitter repentance. It has been such a night, that it
seems wrong to be sorry.’

‘Did you say he spoke of me again?’

‘Yes; here is his Prayer-book. Your father gave it to him, and he meant
to have told you about it himself, only he could not talk yesterday
evening, and could not part with it till--’

Amy broke off by opening the worn purple cover, and showing the name, in
the Archdeacon’s writing. ‘He’s very fond of it,’ she said; ‘it is the
one he always uses.’ (Alas! she had not learnt to speak of him in the
past tense.)

Philip held out his hand, but the agony of grief returned the next
moment. ‘My father, my father! He would have done him justice. If he had
lived, this would never have been!’

‘That is over, you do him justice now,’ said Amy. ‘You did, indeed you
did, make him quite happy. He said so, again and again. I never saw him
so happy as when you began to get better. I don’t think any one ever had
so much happiness and it never ceased, it was all quiet, and peace, and
joy, till it brightened quite into perfect day--and the angel’s song!
Don’t you remember yesterday, how clear and sweet his voice came out in
that? and it was the last thing almost he said. I believe’--she lowered
her voice--‘I believe he finished it among them.’

The earnest placid voice, speaking thus, in calmness and simplicity,
could not fail in soothing him; but he was so shaken and exhausted,
that she had great difficulty in restoring him. After a time, he lay
perfectly still on the sofa, and she was sitting by, relieved by the
tranquillity, when there was a knock at the door, and Arnaud came in,
and stood hesitating, as if he hardly knew how to begin. The present
fear of agitating her charge helped her now, when obliged to turn her
thoughts to the subjects on which she knew Arnaud was come. She went to
the door, and spoke low, hoping her cousin might not hear or understand.

‘How soon must it be?’

‘My lady, to-morrow,’ said Arnaud, looking down. ‘They say that so it
must be; and the priest consents to have it in the churchyard here. The
brother of the clergyman is here, and would know if your ladyship would
wish--’

‘I will speak to him,’ said Amabel, reluctant to send such messages
through servants.

‘Let me,’ said Philip, who understood what was going on, and was of
course impelled to spare her as much as possible.

‘Thank you’ said she, ‘if you are able!’

‘Oh, yes; I’ll go at once!’

‘Stop,’ said she, as he was setting forth; ‘you don’t know what you are
going to say.’

He put his hand to his head in confusion.

‘He wished to be buried here,’ said Amabel, ‘and--’

But this renewal of the assurance of the death was too much; and
covering his face with his hands, he sank back in another paroxysm of
violent sobs. Amabel could not leave him.

‘Ask Mr. Morris to be so good as to wait, and I will come directly,’
said she, then returned to her task of comfort till she again saw Philip
lying, with suspended faculties, in the repose of complete exhaustion.

She then went to Mr. Morris, with a look and tone of composure
that almost startled him, thanking him for his assistance in the
arrangements. The funeral was to be at sunrise the next day, before the
villagers began to keep the feast of St. Michael, and the rest was to
be settled by Arnaud and Mr. Morris. He then said, somewhat reluctantly,
that his brother had desired to know whether Lady Morville wished to see
him to-day, and begged to be sent for; but Amy plainly perceived that
he thought it very undesirable for his brother to have any duties to
perform to-day. She questioned herself whether she might not ask him to
read to her, and whether it might be better for Philip; but she thought
she ought not to ask what might injure him merely for her own comfort;
and, besides, Philip was entirely incapable of self-command, and it
would not be acting fairly to expose him to the chance of discovering to
a stranger, feelings that he would ordinarily guard so scrupulously.

She therefore gratefully refused the offer, and Mr. Morris very nearly
thanked her for doing so. He took his leave, and she knew she must
return to her post; but first she indulged herself with one brief visit
to the room where all her cares and duties had lately centred. A look--a
thought--a prayer. The beauteous expression there fixed was a help, as
it had ever been in life and she went back again cheered and sustained.

Throughout that day she attended on her cousin, whose bodily
indisposition required as much care as his mind needed soothing. She
talked to him, read to him, tried to set him the example of taking food,
took thought for him as if he was the chief sufferer, as if it was the
natural thing for her to do, working in the strength her husband had
left her, and for him who had been his chief object of care. She had no
time to herself, except the few moments that she allowed herself now and
then to spend in gazing at the dear face that was still her comfort
and joy; until, at last, late in the evening, she succeeded in reading
Philip to sleep. Then, as she sat in the dim candle-light, with
everything in silence, a sense of desolation came upon her, and she knew
that she was alone.

At that moment a carriage thundered at the door, and she remembered for
the first time that she was expecting her father and mother. She softly
left the room and closed the door; and finding Anne in the nest room,
sent her down.

‘Meet mamma, Anne,’ said she; ‘tell her I am quite well. Bring them
here.’

They entered; and there stood Amabel, her face a little flushed, just
like, only calmer, the daughter they had parted with on her bridal day,
four months ago. She held up her hand as a sign of silence, and said,--
‘Hush! don’t wake Philip.’

Mr. Edmonstone was almost angry, and actually began an impatient
exclamation, but broke it off with a sob, caught her in his arms, kissed
her, and then buried his face in his handkerchief. Mrs. Edmonstone,
still aghast at the tidings they had met at Vicenza, and alarmed at
her unnatural composure, embraced her; held her for some moments, then
looked anxiously to see her weep. But there was not a tear, and her
voice was itself, though low and weak, as, while her father began pacing
up and down, she repeated,--

‘Pray don’t, papa; Philip has been so ill all day.’

‘Philip--pshaw!’ said Mr. Edmonstone, hastily. ‘How are you, yourself,
my poor darling?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ said Amy. ‘There is a room ready for you.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely alarmed, sure that this was a grief too
deep for outward tokens, and had no peace till she had made Amabel
consent to come up with her, and go at once to bed. To this she agreed,
after she had rung for Arnaud, and stood with him in the corridor, to
desire him to go at once to Captain Morville, as softly as he could, and
when he waked, to say Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone were come, but she thought
he had better not see them to-night; to tell him from her that she
wished him good night, and hoped he would, sleep quietly. ‘And, Arnaud,
take care you do not let him know the hour tomorrow. Perhaps, as he is
so tired, he may sleep till afterwards.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was very impatient of this colloquy, and glad when
Amabel ended it, and led the way up-stairs. She entered her little room,
then quietly opened another door, and Mrs. Edmonstone found herself
standing by the bed, where that which was mortal lay, with its face
bright with the impress of immortality.

The shock was great, for he was indeed as a son to her; but her fears
for Amabel would not leave room for any other thought.

‘Is not he beautiful?’ said Amy, with a smile like his own.

‘My dear, my dear, you ought not to be here,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone,
trying to lead her away.

‘If you would let me say my prayers here!’ said she, submissively.

‘I think not. I don’t know how to refuse, if it would be a comfort,’
said Mrs. Edmonstone, much distressed, ‘but I can’t think it right.
The danger is greater after. And surely, my poor dear child, you have a
reason for not risking yourself!’

‘Go, mamma, I ought not to have brought you here; I forgot about
infection,’ said Amabel, with the tranquillity which her mother had
hoped to shake by her allusion. ‘I am coming.’

She took up Guy’s watch and a book from the table by the bed-side, and
came back to her sleeping-room. She wound up the watch, and then allowed
her mother to undress her, answering all her inquiries about her health
in a gentle, indifferent, matter-of-fact way. She said little of Guy,
but that little was without agitation, and in due time she lay down in
bed. Still, whenever Mrs. Edmonstone looked at her, there was no sleep
in her eyes, and at last she persuaded her to leave her, on the plea
that being watched made her more wakeful, as she did not like to see
mamma sitting up.

Almost as soon as it was light, Mrs. Edmonstone returned, and was
positively frightened, for there stood Amabel, dressed in her white
muslin, her white bonnet, and her deep lace wedding-veil. All her glossy
hair was hidden away, and her face was placid as ever, though there was
a red spot on each cheek. She saw her mother’s alarm, and reassured her
by speaking calmly.

‘You know I have nothing else but colours; I should like to wear this,
if you will let me.’

‘But, dearest, you must not--cannot go.’

‘It is very near. We often walked there together. I would not if I
thought it would hurt me, but I wish it very much indeed. At home by
Michaelmas!’

Mrs. Edmonstone yielded, though her mind misgave her, comforted by
hoping for the much-desired tears. But Amabel, who used to cry so easily
for a trifle, had now not a tear. Her grief was as yet too deep, or
perhaps more truly sorrow and mourning had not begun while the influence
of her husband’s spirit was about her still.

It was time to set forth, and the small party of mourners met in the
long corridor. Mr. Edmonstone would have given his daughter his arm, but
she said--

‘I beg your pardon, dear papa, I don’t think I can;’ and she walked
alone and firmly.

It was a strange sight that English funeral, so far from England. The
bearers were Italian peasants. There was a sheet thrown over the coffin
instead of a pall, and this, with the white dress of the young widow,
gave the effect of the emblematic whiteness of a child’s funeral; and
the impression was heightened by the floating curling white clouds of
vapour rising in strange shrouded shadowy forms, like spirit mourners,
from the narrow ravines round the grave-yard, and the snowy mountains
shining in the morning light against the sky.

Gliding almost like one of those white wreaths of mist, Amabel walked
alone, tearless and calm, her head bent down, and her long veil falling
round her in full light folds, as when it had caught the purple light
on her wedding-day. Her parents were close behind, weeping more for the
living than the dead, though Guy had a fast hold of their hearts; and
his own mother could scarce have loved him better than Mrs. Edmonstone
did. Lastly, were Anne and Arnaud, sincere mourners, especially Arnaud,
who had loved and cherished his young master from childhood.

They went to the strangers’ corner of the grave-yard, for, of course
the church did not open to a member of another communion of the visible
church; but around them were the hills in which he had read many a
meaning, and which had echoed a response to his last chant with the
promise of the blessing of peace.

The blessing of peace came in the precious English burial-service, as
they laid him to rest in the earth, beneath the spreading chestnut-tree,
rendered a home by those words of his Mother Church--the mother who had
guided each of his steps in his orphaned life. It was a distant grave,
far from his home and kindred, but in a hallowed spot, and a most fair
one; and there might his mortal frame meetly rest till the day when he
should rise, while from their ancestral tombs should likewise awaken the
forefathers whose sins were indeed visited on him in his early death;
but, thanks to Him who giveth the victory, in death without the sting.

Amabel, in obedience to a sign from her mother, sat on a root of the
tree while the Lesson was read, and afterwards she moved forward and
stood at the edge of the grave, her hands tightly clasped, and her
head somewhat raised, as if her spirit was following her husband to his
repose above, rather than to his earthly resting-place.

The service was ended, and she was taking a last long gaze, while her
mother, in the utmost anxiety, was striving to make up her mind to draw
her away, when suddenly a tall gaunt figure was among them--his
face ghastly pale, and full of despair and bewilderment--his step
uncertain--his dress disordered.

Amabel turned, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said,
softly, and quietly looking up in his face, ‘It is over now, Philip; you
had better come home.’

Not attempting to withstand her, he obeyed as if it was his only
instinct. It was like some vision of a guiding, succouring spirit, as
she moved on, slowly gliding in her white draperies. Mrs. Edmonstone
watched her in unspeakable awe and amazement, almost overpowering her
anxieties. It seemed as impossible that the one should be Amy as that
the other should be Philip, her gentle little clinging daughter, or her
proud, imperturbable, self-reliant nephew.

But it was Amy’s own face, when they entered the corridor and she turned
back her veil, showing her flushed and heated cheeks, at the same time
opening Philip’s door and saying, ‘Now you must rest, for you ought not
to have come out. Lie down, and let mamma read to you.’

Mrs. Edmonstone was reluctant, but Amy looked up earnestly and said,
‘Yes, dear mamma, I should like to be alone a little while.’

She then conducted her father to the sitting-room up-stairs.

‘I will give you the papers,’ she said; and leaving him, returned
immediately.

‘This is his will,’ she said. ‘You will tell me if there is anything
I must do at once. Here is a letter to Mr. Markham, and another to Mr.
Dixon, if you will be so kind as to write and enclose them. Thank you,
dear papa.’

She drew a blotting-book towards him, saw that there was ink and pen,
and left him too much appalled at her ways to say anything.

His task was less hard than the one she had set her mother. Strong
excitement had carried Philip to the grave-yard as soon as he learnt
what was passing. He could hardly return even with Arnaud’s support, and
he had only just reached the sofa before he fell into a fainting-fit.

It was long before he gave any sign of returning life, and when
he opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Edmonstone, he closed them almost
immediately, as if unable to meet her look. It was easier to treat him
in his swoon than afterwards. She knew nothing of his repentance and
confession; she only knew he had abused her confidence, led Laura to
act insincerely, and been the cause of Guy’s death. She did not know
how bitterly he accused himself, and though she could not but see he was
miserable, she could by no means fathom his wretchedness, nor guess that
her very presence made him conscious how far he was fallen. He was so
ill that she could not manifest her displeasure, nor show anything
but solicitude for his relief; but her kindness was entirely to his
condition, not to himself; and perceiving this, while he thought his
confession had been received, greatly aggravated his distress, though he
owned within himself that he well deserved it.

She found that he was in no state for being read to; he was completely
exhausted, and suffering from violent headache. So when she could
conscientiously say that to be left quiet was the best thing for him,
she went to her daughter.

Amabel was lying on her bed, her Bible open by her; not exactly reading,
but as if she was now and then finding a verse and dwelling on it.
Gentle and serene she looked; but would she never weep? would those
quiet blue eyes be always sleepless and tearless?

She asked anxiously for Philip, and throughout the day he seemed to
be her care. She did not try to get up and go to him, but she was
continually begging her mother to see about him. It was a harassing day
for poor Mrs. Edmonstone. She would have been glad to have sat by Amabel
all the time, writing to Charles, or hearing her talk. Amy had much
to say, for she wished to make her mother share the perfect peace and
thankfulness that had been breathed upon her during those last hours
with her husband, and she liked to tell the circumstances of his illness
and his precious sayings, to one who would treasure them almost like
herself. She spoke with her face turned away, so as not to see her
mother’s tears, but her mild voice unwavering, as if secure in the
happiness of these recollections. This was the only comfort of Mrs.
Edmonstone’s day, but when she heard her husband’s boots creaking in the
corridor, it was a sure sign that he was in some perplexity, and that
she must go and help him to write a letter, or make some arrangement.
Philip, too, needed attention; but excellent nurse as Mrs. Edmonstone
was, she only made him worse. The more he felt she was his kind aunt
still, the more he saw how he had wounded her, and that her pardon
was an effort. The fond, spontaneous, unreserved affection--almost
petting--which he had well-nigh dared to contemn, was gone; her manner
was only that of a considerate nurse. Much as he longed for a word
of Laura, he did not dare to lead to it,--indeed, he was so far from
speaking to her of any subject which touched him, that he did not
presume even to inquire for Amabel, he only heard of her through Arnaud.

At night sheer exhaustion worked its own cure; he slept soundly, and
awoke in the morning revived. He heard from Arnaud that Lady Morville
was pretty well, but had not slept; and presently Mrs. Edmonstone came
in and took pains to make him comfortable, but with an involuntary
dryness of manner. She told him his uncle would come to see him as soon
as he was up, if he felt equal to talking over some business. Philip’s
brain reeled with dismay and consternation, for it flashed on him that
he was heir of Redclyffe. He must profit by the death he had caused; he
had slain, and he must take possession of the lands which, with loathing
and horror, he remembered that he had almost coveted. Nothing more
was wanting. There was little consolation in remembering that the
inheritance would clear away all difficulties in the way of his
marriage. He had sinned; wealth did not alter his fault, and his spirit
could not brook that if spurned in poverty, he should be received for
his riches. He honoured his aunt for being cold and reserved, and could
not bear the idea of seeing his uncle ready to meet him half-way.

After the first shock he became anxious to have the meeting over, know
the worst, and hear on what ground he stood with Laura. As soon as he
was dressed, he sent a message to announce that he was ready, and lay
on the sofa awaiting his uncle’s arrival, as patiently as he could. Mr.
Edmonstone, meantime, was screwing up his courage--not that he meant to
say a word of Laura,--Philip was too unwell to be told his opinion of
him, but now he had ceased to rely on his nephew, he began to dread
him and his overbearing ways; and besides he had a perfect horror of
witnessing agitation.

At last he came, and Philip rose to meet him with a feeling of shame and
inferiority most new to him.

‘Don’t, don’t, I beg,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, with what was meant for
dignity. ‘Lie still; you had much better. My stars! how ill you look!’
he exclaimed, startled by Philip’s altered face and figure. ‘You have
had a sharpish touch; but you are better, eh?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Well; I thought I had better come and speak to you, if you felt up to
it. Here is--here is--I hope it is all right and legal; but that you
can tell better than I; and you are concerned in it anyhow. Here is poor
Guy’s will, which we thought you had better look over, if you liked, and
felt equal, eh?’

‘Thank you,’ said Philip, holding out his hand; but Mr. Edmonstone
withheld it, trying his patience by an endless quantity of discursive
half-sentences, apparently without connection with each other, about
disappointment, and hopes, and being sorry, and prospects, and its
‘being an unpleasant thing,’ and ‘best not raise his expectations:’
during all which time Philip, expecting to hear of Laura, and his heart
beating so fast as to renew the sensation of faintness, waited in vain,
and strove to gather the meaning, and find out whether he was forgiven,
almost doubting whether the confusion was in his own mind or in
his uncle’s words. However, at last the meaning bolted out in one
comprehensive sentence, when Mr. Edmonstone thought he had sufficiently
prepared him for his disappointment,--‘Poor Amy is to be confined in the
spring.’

There Mr. Edmonstone stopped short, very much afraid of the effect;
but Philip raised himself, his face brightened, as if he was greatly
relieved, and from his heart he exclaimed, ‘Thank Heaven!’

‘That’s right! that is very well said!’ answered Mr. Edmonstone, very
much pleased. ‘It would be a pity it should go out of the old line after
all; and it’s a very generous thing in you to say so.’

‘Oh no!’ said Philip, shrinking into himself at even such praise as
this.

‘Well, well,’ said his uncle, ‘you will see he has thought of you, be it
how it may. There! I only hope it is right; though it does seem rather
queer, appointing poor little Amy executor rather than me. If I had but
been here in time! But ‘twas Heaven’s will; and so--It does not signify,
after all, if it is not quite formal. We understand each other.’

The will was on a sheet of letter-paper, in Arnaud’s stiff French
handwriting; it was witnessed by the two Mr. Morrises, and signed on
the 27th of September, in very frail and feeble characters. Amabel and
Markham were the executors, and Amabel was to be sole guardian, in case
of the birth of a child. If it was a son, £1O,OOO was left to Philip
himself; if not, he was to have all the plate, furniture, &c., of
Redclyffe, with the exception of whatever Lady Morville might choose for
herself.

Philip scarcely regarded the legacy (though it smoothed away his chief
difficulties) as more than another of those ill-requited benefits
which were weighing him to the earth. He read on to a sentence which
reproached him so acutely, that he would willingly have hidden from it,
as he had done from Guy’s countenance. It was the bequest of £5000 to
Elizabeth Wellwood. Sebastian Dixon’s debts were to be paid off; £1000
was left to Marianne Dixon, and the rest of the personal property was to
be Amabel’s.

He gave back the paper, with only the words ‘Thank you.’ He did not feel
as if it was for him to speak; and Mr. Edmonstone hesitated, made an
attempt at congratulating him, broke down, and asked if it was properly
drawn up. He glanced at the beginning and end, said it was quite
correct, and laid his head down, as if the examination had been a great
deal of trouble.

‘And what do you think of Amy’s being under age?’ fidgeted on Mr.
Edmonstone. ‘How is she to act, poor dear! Shall I act for her?’

‘She will soon be of age,’ said Philip, wearily.

‘In January, poor darling. Who would have thought how it would have been
with her? I little thought, last May--but, holloa! what have I been
at?’ cried he, jumping up in a great fright, as Philip, so weak as to be
overcome by the least agitation, changed countenance, covered his face
with his hands, and turned away with a suppressed sob. ‘I didn’t mean
it, I am sure! Here! mamma!’

‘No, no,’ said Philip, recovering, and sitting up; ‘don’t call her, I
beg. There is nothing the matter.’

Mr. Edmonstone obeyed, but he was too much afraid of causing a renewal
of agitation to continue the conversation; and after walking about the
room a little while, and shaking it more than Philip could well bear, he
went away to write his letters.

In the meantime, Amabel had been spending her morning in the same quiet
way as the former day. She wrote part of a letter to Laura, and walked
to the graveyard, rather against her mother’s wish; but she was so good
and obedient, it was impossible to thwart her, though Mrs. Edmonstone
was surprised at her proposal to join her father and Philip at tea. ‘Do
you like it, my dear?’

‘He told me to take care of him,’ said Amabel.

‘I cannot feel that he deserves you should worry yourself about him,’
said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘If you knew all--’

‘I do know all, mamma,--if you mean about Laura. Surely you must
forgive. Think how he repents. What, have you not had his letter? Then
how did you know?’

‘I learned it from Laura herself. Her trouble at his illness revealed
it. Do you say he has written?’

‘Yes, mamma; he told Guy all about it, and was very sorry, and wrote
as soon as he was able. Guy sent you a long message. He was so anxious
about it.’

Amabel showed more eagerness to understand the state of the case, than
she had about anything else. She urged that Philip should be spoken to,
as soon as possible, saying the suspense must be grievous, and dwelling
on his repentance. Mrs. Edmonstone promised to speak to papa, and
this satisfied her; but she held her resolution of meeting Philip
that evening, looking on him as a charge left her by her husband, and
conscious that, as she alone understood how deep was his sorrow, she
could make the time spent with her parents less embarrassing.

Her presence always soothed him, and regard for her kept her father
quiet; so that the evening passed off very well. Mrs. Edmonstone waited
on both; and, in Amy’s presence, was better able to resume her usual
manner towards her nephew, and he sat wondering at the placidity of
Amy’s pale face. Her hair was smoothed back, and she wore a cap,--the
loss of her long shady curls helping to mark the change from the bright
days of her girlhood; but the mournfulness of her countenance did
not mar the purity and serenity that had always been its great
characteristic; and in the faint sweet smile with which she received
a kind word or attention, there was a likeness to that peculiar and
beautiful expression of her husband’s, so as, in spite of the great
difference of feature and colouring, to give her a resemblance to him.

All this day had been spent by Mr. Edmonstone in a fret to get away from
Recoara, and his wife was hardly less desirous to leave it than himself,
for she could have no peace or comfort about Amabel, till she had her
safely at home. Still she dreaded proposing the departure, and even more
the departure itself; and, in spite of Mr. Edmonstone’s impatience, she
let her alone till she had her mourning; but when, after two days of
hard work, Anne had nearly managed to complete it, she made up her mind
to tell her daughter that they ought to set out.

Amabel replied by mentioning Philip. She deemed him a sort of trust, and
had been reposing in the thought of making him a reason for lingering in
the scene where the brightness of her life had departed from her. Mrs.
Edmonstone would not allow that she ought to remain for his sake, and
told her it was her duty to resolve to leave the place. She said, ‘Yes,
but for him;’ and it ended in Mrs. Edmonstone going, without telling
her, to inform him that she thought Amy ought to be at home as soon
as possible; but that it was difficult to prevail on her, because
she thought him as yet not well enough to be left. He was, of course,
shocked at being thus considered, and as soon as he next saw Amabel,
told her, with great earnestness, that he could not bear to see her
remaining there on his account; that he was almost well, and meant to
leave Recoara very soon; the journey was very easy, the sea voyage
would be the best thing for him, and he should be glad to get to the
regimental doctor at Corfu.

Amabel sighed, and knew she ought to be convinced. The very pain it gave
her to lose sight of that green, grave, the chestnut-tree, and the white
mountain; to leave the rooms and passages which still, to her ears,
were haunted by Guy’s hushed step and voice, and to part with the window
where she used each wakeful night to retrace his profile as he had stood
pausing before telling her of his exceeding happiness; that very pain
made her think that opposition would be selfish. She must go some time
or other, and it was foolish to defer the struggle; she must not detain
her parents in an infected place, nor keep her mother from Charles. She
therefore consented, and let them do what they pleased,--only insisting
on Arnaud’s being left with Philip.

Philip did not think this necessary, but yielded, when she urged it as
a relief to her own mind; and Arnaud, though unwilling, and used to his
own way, could make no objection when she asked it as a personal favour.
Arnaud was, at his own earnest wish, to continue in her service; and, as
soon as Philip was able to embark, was to follow her to Hollywell.

All this time nothing passed about Laura. Amabel asked several times
whether papa had spoken, but was always answered, ‘Not yet;’ and at last
Mrs. Edmonstone, after vainly trying to persuade him, was obliged to
give it up. The truth was, he could not begin; he was afraid of his
nephew, and so unused to assume superiority over him that he did
not know what to do, and found all kinds of reasons for avoiding the
embarrassing scene. Since Philip still must be dealt with cautiously,
better not enter on the subject at all. When reminded that the suspense
was worse than anything, he said, no one could tell how things would,
turn out, and grew angry with his wife for wishing him to make up a
shameful affair like that, when poor Guy had not been dead a week, and
he had been the death of him; but it was just like mamma, she always
spoilt him. He had a great mind to vow never to consent to his
daughter’s marrying such an overbearing, pragmatical fellow; she ought
to be ashamed of even thinking of him, when he was no better than her
brother’s murderer.

After this tirade, Mrs. Edmonstone might well feel obliged to tell
Amabel, that papa must not be pressed any further; and, of course, if he
would not speak, she could not (nor did she wish it).

‘Then, mamma,’ said Amabel, with the air of decision that had lately
grown on her, ‘I must tell him. I beg your pardon,’ she added,
imploringly; ‘but indeed I must. It is hard on him not to hear that you
had not his letter, and that Laura has told. I know Guy would wish me,
so don’t be displeased, dear mamma.’

‘I can’t be displeased with anything you do.’

‘And you give me leave?’

‘To be sure I do,--leave to do anything but hurt yourself.’

‘And would it be wrong for me to offer to write to him? No one else
will, and it will be sad for him not to hear. It cannot be wrong,
can it?’ said she, as the fingers of her right hand squeezed her
wedding-ring, a habit she had taken up of late.

‘Certainly not, my poor darling. Do just as you think fit. I am sorry
for him, for I am sure he is in great trouble, and I should like him to
be comforted--if he can. But, Amy, you must not ask me to do it. He has
disappointed me too much.’

Mrs. Edmonstone left the room in tears.

Amabel went up to the window, looked long at the chestnut-tree, then
up into the sky, sat down, and leant her forehead on her hand in
meditation, until she rose up, cheered and sustained, as if she had been
holding council with her husband.

She did not over-estimate Philip’s sufferings from suspense and anxiety.
He had not heard a word of Laura; how she had borne his illness, nor how
much displeasure his confession had brought upon her; nor could he learn
what hope there was that his repentance was accepted. He did not venture
to ask; for after engaging to leave all to them, could he intrude his
own concerns on them at such a time? It was but a twelvemonth since
he had saddened and shadowed Guy’s short life and love with the
very suffering from uncertainty that he found so hard to bear. As he
remembered this, he had a sort of fierce satisfaction in enduring this
retributive justice; though there were moods when he felt the torture so
acutely, that it seemed to him as if his brain would turn if he saw them
depart, and was left behind to this distracting doubt.

The day had come, on which they were to take their first stage, as far
as Vicenza, and his last hopes were fading. He tried to lose the sense
of misery by bestirring himself in the preparations; but he was too
weak, and Mrs. Edmonstone, insisting on his attempting no more, sent him
back: to his own sitting-room.

Presently there was a knock, and in came Amabel, dressed, for the first
time, in her weeds, the blackness and width of her sweeping crape making
her young face look smaller and paler, while she held in her hand some
leaves of chestnut, that showed where she had been. She smiled a little
as she came in, saying, ‘I am come to you for a little quiet, out of the
bustle of packing up. I want you to do something for me.’

‘Anything for you.’

‘It is what you will like to do,’ said she, with _that_ smile, ‘for it
is more for _him_ than for me. Could you, without teasing yourself, put
that into Latin for me, by and by? I think it should be in Latin, as it
is in a foreign country.’

She gave him a paper in her own writing.


GUY MORVILLE, OF REDCLYFFE, ENGLAND. DIED THE EVE OF ST. MICHAEL AND ALL
ANGELS, 18--AGED 21 1/2. I BELIEVE IN THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS.

‘Will you be so kind as to give it to Arnaud when it is done?’ she
continued; ‘he will send it to the man who is making the cross. I think
the kind people here will respect it.’

‘Yes,’ said Philip,’ it is soon done, and thank you for letting me do
it. But, Amy, I would not alter your choice; yet there is one that seems
to me more applicable “Greater love hath no man--“’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Amy; ‘but that has so high a meaning that
he could not bear it to be applied to him.’

‘Or rather, what right have I to quote it?’ said Philip, bitterly. ‘His
friend! No, Amy; you should rather choose, “If thine enemy thirst, give
him drink; for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.”
 I am sure they are burning on mine,’ and he pressed his hand on his
forehead.

‘Don’t say such things. We both know that, at the worst of times, he
looked on you as a sincere friend.’

Philip groaned, and she thought it best to go on to something else.
‘I like this best,’ she said. ‘It will be nice to think of far away. I
should like, too, for these Italians to see the stranger has the same
creed as themselves.’

After a moment’s pause, during which he looked at the paper, he said,
‘Amy, I have one thing to ask of you. Will you write my name in the
Prayer-book?’

‘That I will,’ said she, and Philip drew it from under the sofa cushion,
and began putting together his pocket gold pen. While he was doing this,
she said, ‘Will you write to me sometimes? I shall be so anxious to know
how you get on.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said he; with a sigh, as if he would fain have said
more.

She paused; then said, abruptly, ‘Do you know they never had your
letter?’

‘Ha! Good heavens!’ cried he, starting up in consternation; ‘then they
don’t know it!’

‘They do. Sit down, Philip, and hear. I wanted to tell you about it.
They know it. Poor Laura was so unhappy when you were ill, that mamma
made it out from her.’

He obeyed the hand that invited him back to his seat, and turned his
face earnestly towards her. He must let her be his comforter, though a
moment before his mind would have revolted at troubling the newly-made
widow with his love affairs. Amabel told him, as fully and clearly as
she could, how the truth had come out, how gently Laura had been dealt
with, how Charles had been trying to soften his father, and papa had not
said one angry word to her.

‘They forgive her. Oh, Amy, thanks indeed! You have taken away one of
the heaviest burdens. I am glad, indeed, that she spoke first. For my
own part, I see through all their kindness and consideration how they
regard me.’

‘They know how sorry you are, and that you wrote to tell all,’ said
Amabel. ‘They forgive, indeed they do; but they cannot bear to speak
about it just yet.’

‘If you forgive, Amy,’ said he, in a husky voice, ‘I may hope for pardon
from any.’

‘Hush! don’t say that. You have been so kind, all this time, and we have
felt together so much, that no one could help forgetting anything that
went before. Then you will write to me; and will you tell me how to
direct to you?’

‘You will write to me?’ cried Philip, brightening for a moment with glad
surprise. ‘Oh, Amy, you will quite overpower me with your goodness!--The
coals of fire,’ he finished, sinking his voice, and again pressing his
hand to his brow.

‘You must not speak so, Philip,’ then looking at him, ‘Is your head
aching?’

‘Not so much aching as--’ he paused, and exclaimed, as if carried away
in spite of himself, ‘almost bursting with the thoughts of--of you,
Amy,--of him whom I knew too late,--wilfully misunderstood, envied,
persecuted; who,--oh! Amy, Amy, if you could guess at the anguish of but
one of my thoughts, you would know what the first murderer meant when he
said, “My punishment is greater than I can bear.”’

‘I can’t say don’t think,’ said Amy, in her sweet, calm tone; ‘for I
have seen how happy repentance made him, but I know it must be dreadful.
I suppose the worse it is at the time, the better it must be afterwards.
And I am sure this Prayer-book’--she had her hand on it all the time,
as if it was a pleasure to her to touch it again--‘must be a comfort
to you. Did you not see that he made me give it to you to use that day,
when, if ever, there was pardon and peace--’

‘I remember,’ said Philip, in a low, grave, heartfelt tone; and as she
took the pen, and was writing his name below the old inscription, he
added, ‘And the date, Amy, and--yes,’ as he saw her write ‘From
G. M.’--‘but put from A. F. M. too. Thank you! One thing more;’ he
hesitated, and spoke very low, ‘You _must_ write in it what you said
when you came to fetch me that day,--“A broken”’--

As she finished writing, Mrs. Edmonstone came in. ‘My Amy, all is ready.
We must go. Good-bye, Philip,’ said she, in the tone of one so eager for
departure as to fancy farewells would hasten it. However, she was not
more eager than Mr. Edmonstone, who rushed in to hurry them on, shaking
hands cordially with Philip, and telling him to make haste and recover
his good looks. Amabel held out her hand. She would fain have said
something cheering, but the power failed her. A deep colour came into
her cheeks; she drew her thick black veil over her face, and turned
away.

Philip came down-stairs with them, saw her enter the carriage followed
by her mother, Mr. Edmonstone outside. He remembered the gay smile with
which he last saw her seated in that carriage, and the active figure
that had sprung after her; he thought of the kind bright eyes that had
pleaded with him for the last time, and recollected the suspicions and
the pride with which he had plumed himself on his rejection, and thrown
away the last chance.

Should he ever see Amabel again? He groaned and went back to the
deserted rooms.



CHAPTER 37

                                And see
     If aught of sprightly, fresh, or free,
     With the calm sweetness may compare
     Of the pale form half slumbering there.
     Therefore this one dear couch about
     We linger hour by hour:
     The love that each to each we bear,
     All treasures of enduring care,
     Into her lap we pour.
                         --LYRA INNOCENTUM


The brother and sisters, left at home together, had been a very sad and
silent party, unable to attempt comforting each other. Charlotte’s
grief was wild and ungovernable; breaking out into fits of sobbing, and
attending to nothing till she was abashed first by a reproof from Mr.
Ross, and next by the description of Amabel’s conduct; when she grew
ashamed and set herself to atone, by double care, for her neglect of
Charles’s comforts.

Charles, however, wanted her little. He had rather be let alone. After
one exclamation of, ‘My poor Amy!’ he said not a word of lamentation,
but lay hour after hour without speaking, dwelling on the happy days he
had spent with Guy,--companion, friend, brother,--the first beam that
had brightened his existence, and taught him to make it no longer
cheerless; musing on the brilliant promise that had been cut off;
remembering his hopes for his most beloved sister, and feeling his
sorrow with imagining hers. It was his first grief, and a very deep one.
He seemed to have no comfort but in Mr. Ross, who contrived to come to
him every day, and would tell him how fully he shared his affection and
admiration for Guy, how he had marvelled at his whole character, as it
had shown itself more especially at the time of his marriage, when his
chastened temper had been the more remarkable in so young a man, with
the world opening on him so brightly. As to the promise lost, that,
indeed, Mr. Ross owned, and pleased Charles by saying how he had hoped
to watch its fulfilment; but he spoke of its having been, in truth, no
blight, only that those fair blossoms were removed where nothing could
check their full development or mar their beauty. ‘The hope in earthly
furrows sown, would ripen in the sky;’ Charles groaned, saying it was
hard not to see it, and they might speak as they would, but that would
not comfort him in thinking of his sister. What was his sorrow to hers?
But Mr. Ross had strong trust in Amabel’s depth and calm resignation.
He said her spirit of yielding would support her, that as in drowning or
falling, struggling is fatal, when quietness saves, so it would be with
her: and that even in this greatest of all trials she would rise instead
of being crushed, with all that was good and beautiful in her purified
and refined. Charles heard, strove to believe and be consoled, and
brought out his letters, trying, with voice breaking down, to show
Mr. Ross how truly he had judged of Amy, then listened with a kind of
pleasure to the reports of the homely but touching laments of all the
village.

Laura did not, like her brother and sister, seek for consolation from
Mr. Ross or Mary. She went on her own way, saying little, fulfilling her
household cares, writing all the letters that nobody else would write,
providing for Charles’s ease, and looking thoroughly cast down and
wretched, but saying nothing; conscious that her brother and sister did
not believe her affection for Guy equal to theirs; and Charles was too
much dejected, and too much displeased with Philip, to try to console
her.

It was a relief to hear, at length, that the travellers had landed, and
would be at home in the evening, not till late, wrote Mrs. Edmonstone,
because she thought it best for Amabel to go at once to her room, her
own old room, for she particularly wished not to be moved from it.

The evening had long closed in; poor Bustle had been shut up in
Charlotte’s room, and the three sat together round the fire, unable to
guess how they should meet her, and thinking how they had lately been
looking forward to greeting their bride, as they used proudly to call
her. Charles dwelt on that talk on the green, and his ‘when shall
we three meet again?’ and spoke not a word; Laura tried to read; and
Charlotte heard false alarms of wheels; but all were so still, that when
the wheels really came, they were heard all down the turnpike road, and
along the lane, before they sounded on the gravel drive.

Laura and Charlotte ran into the hall, Charles reached his crutches, but
his hands shook so much that he could not adjust them, and was obliged
to sit down, rising the next minute as the black figures entered
together. Amy’s sweet face was pressed to his, but neither spoke. That
agitated ‘My dear, dear Charlie!’ was his mother’s, as she threw her
arms around him, with redoubled kisses and streaming tears; and there
was a trembling tone in his father’s ‘Well, Charlie boy, how have you
got on without us?’

They sat down, Charles with his sister beside him, and holding a hand
steadier than his own, but hot and feverish to the touch. He leant
forward to look at her face, and, as if in answer, she turned it on
him. It was the old face, paler and thinner, and the eyelids had a
hard reddened look, from want of sleep: but Charles, like his mother
at first, was almost awed by the melancholy serenity of the expression.
‘Have you been quite well?’ she asked, in a voice which sounded
strangely familiar, in its fond, low tones.

‘Yes, quite.’

There was a pause, followed by an interchange of question and answer
between the others, on the journey, and on various little home
circumstances. Presently Mrs. Edmonstone said Amy had better come
up-stairs.

‘I have not seen Bustle,’ said Amy, looking at Charlotte.

‘He is in my room,’ faltered Charlotte.

‘I should like to see him.’

Charlotte hastened away, glad to wipe her tears when outside the door.
Poor Bustle had been watching for his master ever since his departure,
and hearing the sounds of arrival, was wild to escape from his prison.
He rushed out the moment the door was open, and was scratching to be let
into the drawing-room before Charlotte could come up with him. He dashed
in, laid his head on Amabel’s knee, and wagged his tail for welcome;
gave the same greeting to Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone, but only for a
moment, for he ran restlessly seeking round the room, came to the door,
and by his wistful looks made Charlotte let him out. She followed
him, and dropping on her knees as soon as she was outside, pressed her
forehead to his glossy black head, whispered that it was of no use, he
would never come back. The dog burst from her, and the next moment was
smelling and wagging his tail at a portmanteau, which he knew as well as
she did, and she could hardly refrain from a great outburst of sobbing
as she thought what joy its arrival had hitherto been.

Suddenly Bustle bounded away, and as Charlotte stood trying to compose
herself enough to return to the drawing-room, she heard the poor fellow
whining to be let in at Guy’s bed-room door. At the same time the
drawing-room door opened, and anxious that Amy should neither see nor
hear him, she ran after him, admitted him, and shut herself in with him
in the dark, where, with her hands in his long silky curls, and sitting
on the ground, she sobbed over him as long as he would submit to her
caresses.

Amabel meantime returned to her room, and looked round on its well-known
aspect with a sad smile, as she thought of the prayer with which she
had quitted it on her bridal day, and did not feel as if it had been
unanswered; for surely the hand of a Father had been with her to support
her through her great affliction.

Though she said she was very well, her mother made her go to bed at
once, and Laura attended on her with a sort of frightened, respectful
tenderness, hardly able to bear her looks of gratitude. The first time
the two sisters were alone, Amabel said, ‘Philip is much better.’

Laura, who was settling some things on the table, started back and
coloured, then, unable to resist the desire of hearing of him, looked
earnestly at her sister.

‘He is gone to Corfu,’ continued Amabel. ‘He only kept Arnaud three
days after we were gone, and Arnaud overtook us at Geneva, saying his
strength had improved wonderfully. Will you give me my basket? I should
like to read you a piece of a note he sent me.’

Laura brought it, and Amabel, holding her hand, looked up at her face,
which she vainly tried to keep in order. ‘Dearest, I have been very
sorry for you, and so has Guy.’

‘Amy!’ and Laura found herself giving way to her tears, in spite of all
her previous exhortations to Charlotte, about self-control; ‘my own, own
sister!’ To have Amy at home was an unspeakable comfort.

‘Papa and mamma were both as kind as possible to Philip,’ continued
Amabel; ‘but they could not bear to enter on _that_. So I told him you
had told all, and he was very glad.’

‘He was not displeased at my betraying him?’ exclaimed Laura. ‘Oh, no!
he was glad; he said it was a great relief, for he was very anxious
about you, Laura. He has been so kind to me,’ said Amabel, so earnestly,
that Laura received another comfort, that of knowing that her sister’s
indignation against him had all passed by. ‘Now I will read you what he
says. You see his writing is quite itself again.’

But Laura observed that Amabel only held towards her the ‘Lady Morville’
on the outside, keeping the note to herself, and reading, ‘I have
continued to gain strength since you went; so that there is no further
need of detaining Arnaud. I have twice been out of doors, and am
convinced that I am equal to the journey; indeed, it is hardly possible
for me to endure remaining here any longer.’ She read no more, but
folded it up, saying, ‘I had rather no one saw the rest. He makes
himself so unhappy about that unfortunate going to Sondrio, that he says
what is only painful to hear. I am glad he is able to join his regiment,
for a change will be the best thing for him.’

She laid her head on the pillow as if she had done with the subject, and
Laura did not venture to pursue it, but went down to hear her mother’s
account of her.

Mrs. Edmonstone was feeling it a great comfort to have her son to talk
to again, and availed herself of it to tell him of Philip, while Laura
was absent, and then to return to speak of Amy on Laura’s re-entrance.
She said, all through the journey, Amy had been as passive and tranquil
as possible, chiefly leaning back in the carriage in silence, excepting
that when they finally left the view of the snowy mountains, she gazed
after them as long as the least faint cloud-like summit was visible.
Still she could not sleep, except that now and then she dozed a little
in the carriage, but at night she heard every hour strike in turn, and
lay awake through all, nor had she shed one tear since her mother had
joined her. Mrs. Edmonstone’s anxiety was very great, for she said she
knew Amy must pay for that unnatural calmness, and the longer it was
before it broke down, the worse it would be for her. However, she was at
home, that was one thing to be thankful for, and happen what might, it
could not be as distressing as if it had been abroad.

Another night of ‘calm unrest,’ and Amabel rose in the morning, at her
usual hour, to put on the garments of her widowhood, where she had last
stood as a bride. Charles was actually startled by her entering the
dressing-room, just as she used to do, before breakfast, to read with
him, and her voice was as steady as ever. She breakfasted with the
family, and came up afterwards with Laura, to unpack her dressing-case,
and take out the little treasures that she and her husband had enjoyed
buying in the continental towns, as presents for the home party.

All this, for which she had previously prepared herself, she underwent
as quietly as possible; but something unexpected came on her. Charlotte,
trying to pet and comfort her in every possible way, brought in all
the best flowers still lingering in the garden, and among them a last
blossom of the Noisette rose, the same of which Guy had been twisting a
spray, while he first told her of his love.

It was too much. It recalled his perfect health and vigour, his light
activity, and enjoyment of life, and something came on her of the
sensation we feel for an insect, one moment full of joyous vitality, the
next, crushed and still. She had hitherto thought of his feverish thirst
and fainting weariness being at rest, and felt the relief, or else
followed his spirit to its repose, and rejoiced; but now the whole
scene brought back what he once was; his youthful, agile frame, his eyes
dancing in light, his bounding step, his gay whistle, the strong hand
that had upheld her on the precipice, the sure foot that had carried
aid to the drowning sailors, the arm that was to have been her stay for
life, all came on her in contrast with--death! The thought swept over
her, carrying away every other, and she burst into tears.

The tears would have their course; she could not restrain them when once
they began, and her struggles to check them only brought an increase of
them. Her sobs grew so violent that Laura, much alarmed, made a sign
to Charlotte to fetch her mother; and Mrs. Edmonstone, coming in haste,
found it was indeed the beginning of a frightful hysterical attack.
The bodily frame had been overwrought to obey the mental firmness and
composure, and now nature asserted her rights; the hysterics returned
again and again, and when it seemed as if exhaustion had at length
produced quiet, the opening of a door, or a sound in the distance, would
renew all again.

It was not till night had closed in that Mrs. Edmonstone was at all
satisfied about her, and had at length the comfort of seeing her
fall into a sound deep sleep; such an unbroken dreamless sleep as had
scarcely visited her since she first went to Recoara. Even this sleep
did not restore her; she became very unwell, and both Dr. Mayerne and
her mother insisted on her avoiding the least exertion or agitation. She
was quite submissive, only begging earnestly to be allowed to see
Mr. Ross, saying she knew it would do her good rather than harm, and
promising to let him leave her the instant she found it too much for
her; and though Mrs. Edmonstone was reluctant and afraid, they agreed
that as she was so reasonable and docile, she ought to be allowed to
judge for herself.

She begged that he might come after church on All Saints’ day. He came,
and after his first greeting of peace, Mrs. Edmonstone signed to him to
read at once, instead of speaking to her. The beautiful lesson for the
day overcame Mrs. Edmonstone so much that she was obliged to go out of
Amabel’s sight, but as the words were read, Amy’s face recovered once
more the serenity that had been swept away by the sight of the flowers.
Peace had returned, and when the calm every-day words of the service
were over, she held out her hand to Mr. Ross, and said, ‘Thank you, that
was very nice. Now talk to me.’

It was a difficult request, but Mr. Ross understood her, and talked to
her as she sought, in a gentle, deep, high strain of hope and faith,
very calm and soothing, and with a fatherly kindness that was very
pleasant from him who had baptized her, taught her, and whom she had
last seen blessing her and her husband. It ended by her looking up to
him when it was time for him to go, and saying, ‘Thank you. You will
come again when you have time, I hope. My love to dear Mary, I should
like to see her soon, but I knew you would do me more good than anybody,
and know better how it feels.’

Mr. Ross knew she meant that he must better understand her loss, because
he was a widower, and was greatly touched, though he only answered by a
blessing, a farewell, and a promise to come very soon to see her again.

Amabel was right, the peace which he had recalled, and the power of
resignation that had returned, had a better effect on her than all her
mother’s precautions; she began to improve, and in a few days more was
able to leave her bed, and lie on the sofa in the dressing-room, though
she was still so weak and languid that this was as much as she could
attempt. Any exertion was to be carefully guarded against, and her tears
now flowed so easily, that she was obliged to keep a check on them lest
they might again overpower her. Mr. Ross came again and again, and she
was able to tell him much of the grounds for her great happiness in Guy,
hear how entirely he had understood him, and be assured that she had
done right, and not taken an undue responsibility on herself by the
argument she had used to summon Philip, that last evening. She had begun
to make herself uneasy about this; for she said she believed she was
thinking of nothing but Guy, and had acted on impulse; and she was
very glad Mr. Ross did not think it wrong, while Mr. Ross meanwhile
was thinking how fears and repentance mingle with the purest sweetest,
holiest deeds.

She was able now to take pleasure in seeing Mary Ross; she wrote to
Philip at Corfu, and sent for Markham to begin to settle the executor’s
business. Poor Markham! the Edmonstones thought he looked ten years
older when he arrived, and after his inquiry for Lady Morville, his
grunt almost amounted to a sob. The first thing he did was to give Mrs.
Edmonstone a note, and a little box sent from Mrs. Ashford. The note was
to say that Mrs. Ashford had intended for her wedding present, a little
cross made out of part of the wood of the wreck, which she now thought
it beat to send to Mrs. Edmonstone, that she might judge whether Lady
Morville would like to see it.

Mrs. Edmonstone’s judgment was to carry it at once to Amabel, and
she was right, for the pleasure she took in it was indescribable. She
fondled it, set it up by her on her little table, made Charlotte put
it in different places that she might see what point of view suited it
best, had it given back to her, held it in her hands caressingly,
and said she must write at once to Mrs. Ashford to thank her for
understanding her so well. There was scarcely one of the mourners to be
pitied more than Markham, for the love he had set on Sir Guy had
been intense, compounded of feudal affection, devoted admiration, and
paternal care--and that he, the very flower of the whole race, should
thus have been cut down in the full blossom of his youth and hopes, was
almost more than the old man could bear or understand. It was a great
sorrow, too, that he should be buried so far away from his forefathers;
and the hearing it was by his own desire, did not satisfy him, he sighed
over it still, and seemed to derive a shade of comfort only when he was
told there was to be a tablet in Redclyffe church to the memory of Guy,
sixth baronet.

In the evening Markham became very confidential with Charles; telling
him about the grievous mourning and lamentation at Redclyffe, when the
bells rung a knell instead of greeting the young master and his bride,
and how there was scarcely one in the parish that did not feel as if
they had lost a son or a brother. He also told more and more of Sir
Guy’s excellence, and talked of fears of his own, especially last
Christmas; that the boy was too unlike other people, too good to live;
and lastly, he indulged in a little abuse of Captain Morville, which
did Charles’s heart good, at the same time as it amused him to think how
Markham would recollect it, when he came to hear of Laura’s engagement.

In the course of the next day, Markham had his conference with Lady
Morville in the dressing-room, and brought her two or three precious
parcels, which he would not, for the world, have given into any other
hands. He could hardly bear to look at her in her widow’s cap, and
behaved to her with a manner varying between his deference and respect
to the Lady of Redclyffe, and his fatherly fondness for the wife of
‘his boy.’ As to her legal powers, he would have thought them foolishly
bestowed, if they had been conferred by any one save his own Sir Guy,
and he began by not much liking to act with her; but he found her so
clear-headed, that he was much surprised to find a woman could have so
much good sense, and began to look forward with some satisfaction to
being her prime minister. They understood each other very well; Amabel’s
good sense and way of attending to the one matter in hand, kept her from
puzzling and alarming herself by thinking she had more to do than she
could ever understand or accomplish; she knew it was Guy’s work, and a
charge he had given her,--a great proof of his confidence,--and she
did all that was required of her very well, so that matters were put in
train to be completed when she should be of age, in the course of the
next January.

When Markham left her she was glad to be alone, and to open her parcels.
There was nothing here to make her hysterical, for she was going to
contemplate the living soul, and felt almost, as if it was again being
alone with her husband. There were his most prized and used books,
covered with marks and written notes; there was Laura’s drawing of
Sintram, which had lived with him in his rooms at Oxford; there was a
roll of music, and there was his desk. The first thing when she opened
it was a rough piece of spar, wrapped in paper, on which was written,
‘M. A. D., Sept. 18.’ She remembered what he had told her of little
Marianne’s gift. The next thing made her heart thrill, for it was a slip
of pencilling in her own writing, ‘Little things, on little wings, bear
little souls to heaven.’

Her own letters tied up together, those few that she had written in the
short time they were separated just before their marriage! Could that
be only six months ago? A great bundle of Charles’s and of Mrs.
Edmonstone’s; those she might like to read another time, but not now.
Many other papers letters signed S. B. Dixon, which she threw aside,
notes of lectures, and memoranda, only precious for the handwriting; but
when she came to the lower division; she found it full of verses, almost
all the poetry he had ever written.

There were the classical translations that used to make him inaccurate,
a scrap of a very boyish epic about King Arthur, beginning with a storm
at Tintagel, sundry half ballads, the verses he was suspected of, and
never would show, that first summer at Hollywell, and a very touching
vision of his fair young mother. Except a translation or two, some words
written to suit their favourite airs (a thing that used to seem to come
as easily to him as singing to a bird), and a few lively mock heroic
accounts of walks or parties, which had all been public property, there
was no more that she could believe to have been composed till last year,
for he was more disposed to versify in sorrow than in joy. There were
a good many written during his loneliness, for his reflections had a
tendency to flow into verse, and pouring them out thus had been a great
solace. The lines were often imperfect and irregular, but not one that
was not deep, pure, and genuine, and here and there scattered with
passages of exquisite beauty and harmony, and full of power and grace.
No one could have looked at them without owning in them the marks of a
thorough poet, but this was not what the wife was seeking, and when
she perceived it, though it made her face beam with a sort of satisfied
pride, it was a secondary thing. She was studying not his intellect, but
his soul; she did not care whether he would have been a poet, what she
looked for was the record of the sufferings and struggles of the sad six
months when his character was established, strengthened, and settled.

She found it. There was much to which she alone had the clue, too deep,
and too obscurely hinted, to be understood at a glance. She met with
such evidence of suffering as made her shudder and weep, tokens of
the dark thoughts that had gathered round him, of the manful spirit of
penitence and patience that had been his stay, and of the gleams that
lighted his darkest hours, and showed he had never been quite forsaken.
Now and then came a reference which brought home what he had told her;
how the thought of his Verena had cheered him when he dared not hope she
would be restored. Best of all were the lines written when the radiance
of Christmas was, once for all, dispersing the gloom, and the vision
opening on him, which he was now realizing. In reading them, she felt
the same marvellous sympathy of subdued wondering joy in the victory of
which she had partaken as she knelt beside his death-bed. These were
the last. He had been too happy for poetry, except one or two scraps
in Switzerland, and these had been hers from the time she had detected
them.

No wonder Amabel almost lived on those papers! It would not be too much
to say she was very happy in her own way when alone with them; the desk
on a chair by her sofa. They were too sacred for any one else; she did
not for many weeks show one even to her mother; but to her they were
like a renewal of his presence, soothing the craving after him that had
been growing on her ever since the first few days when his sustaining
power had not passed away. As she sorted them, and made out their dates,
finding fresh stores of meaning at each fresh perusal she learnt through
them, as well as through her own trial, so patiently borne, to enter
into his character even more fully than when he was in her sight.
Mrs. Edmonstone, who had at first been inclined to dread her constant
dwelling on them, soon perceived that they were her great aids through
this sad winter.

She had much pleasure in receiving the portrait, which was sent her by
Mr. Shene. It was a day or two before she could resolve to look at it,
or feel that she could do so calmly. It was an unfinished sketch, taken
more with a view to the future picture than to the likeness; but Guy’s
was a face to be better represented by being somewhat idealized, than
by copying merely the material form of the features. An ordinary artist
might have made him like a Morville, but Mr. Shene had shown all
that art could convey of his individual self, with almost one of his
unearthly looks. The beautiful eyes, with somewhat of their peculiar
lightsomeness, the flexible look of the lip, the upward pose of the
head, the set of that lock of hair that used to wave in the wind, the
animated position, ‘just ready for a start,’ as Charles used to call it,
were recalled as far as was in the power of chalk and crayon, but so as
to remind Amabel of him more as one belonging to heaven than to earth.
The picture used to be on her mantel-shelf all night, the shipwreck
cross before it, and Sintram and Redclyffe on each side; and she
brought it into the dressing-room with her in the morning, setting it up
opposite to the sofa, before settling herself.

Her days were much alike. She felt far from well, or capable of
exertion, and was glad it was thought right to keep her entirely
upstairs; she only wished to spare her mother anxiety, by being
submissive to her care, in case these cares should be the last for her.
She did not dwell on the future, nor ask herself whether she looked for
life or death. Guy had bidden her not desire the last, and she believed
she did not form a wish; but there was repose to her in the belief that
she ought not to conceal from herself that there was more than ordinary
risk, and that it was right to complete all her affairs in this world,
and she was silent when her mother tried to interest her in prospects
that might cheer her; as if afraid to fasten on them, and finding more
peace in entire submission, than in feeding herself on hope that must be
coupled with fear.

Christmas-day was not allowed to pass without being a festival for
her, in her quiet room, where she lay, full of musings on his lonely
Christmas night last year, his verses folded among her precious books,
and the real joy of the season more within her grasp than in the turmoil
of last year. She was not afraid now to let herself fancy his voice in
the Angel’s Song, and the rainbow was shining on her cloud.



CHAPTER 38

     The coldness from my heart is gone,
     But still the weight is there,
     And thoughts which I abhor will come
     To tempt me to despair.
                            --SOUTHEY


Amabel’s one anxiety was for Philip. For a long time nothing was heard
of him at Hollywell, and she began to fear that he might have been less
fit to take care of himself than he had persuaded her to believe. When
at length tidings reached them, it was through the De Courcys. ‘Poor
Morville,’ wrote Maurice, ‘had been carried ashore at Corfu, in the
stupor of a second attack of fever. He had been in extreme danger for
some time, and though now on the mend, was still unable to give any
account of himself.’

In effect, it was a relapse of the former disease, chiefly affecting
the brain, and his impatience to leave Recoara, and free himself from
Arnaud, had been a symptom of its approach, though it fortunately did
not absolutely overpower him till after he had embarked for Corfu, and
was in the way to be tended with the greatest solicitude. Long after the
fever was subdued, and his strength returning, his mind was astray, and
even when torturing delusions ceased, and he resumed the perception of
surrounding objects, memory and reflection wavered in dizzy confusion,
more distressing than either his bodily weakness, or the perpetual pain
in his head, which no remedy could relieve.

The first date to which he could afterwards recur, though for more than
a week he had apparently been fully himself, was a time when he was
sitting in an easy-chair by the window, obliged to avert his heavy eyes
from the dazzling waters of the Corcyran bay, where Ulysses’ transformed
ship gleamed in the sunshine, and the rich purple hills of Albania
sloped upwards in the distance. James Thorndale was, as usual, with him,
and was explaining that there had been a consultation between the doctor
and the colonel, and they had decided that as there was not much chance
of restoring his health in that climate in the spring.

‘Spring!’ he interrupted, with surprise and eagerness, ‘Is it spring?’

‘Hardly--except that there is no winter here. This is the 8th of
January.’

He let his head fall on his hand again, and listened with indifference
when told he was to be sent to England at once, under the care of his
servant, Bolton, and Mr. Thorndale himself, who was resolved to see him
safe in his sister’s hands. He made no objection; he had become used
to be passive, and one place was much the same to him as another; so he
merely assented, without a question about the arrangements. Presently,
however, he looked up, and inquired for his letters. Though he had done
so before, the request had always been evaded, until now he spoke in a
manner which decided his friend on giving him all except one with broad
black edges, and Broadstone post-mark; the effect of which, it was
thought, might be very injurious to his shattered nerves and spirits.

However, he turned over the other letters without interest, just
glancing languidly through them, looked disappointed, and exclaimed--

‘None from Hollywell! Has nothing been heard from them? Thorndale,
I insist on knowing whether De Courcy has heard anything of Lady
Morville.’

‘He has heard of her arrival in England.’

‘My sister mentions that--more than two months ago--I can hardly believe
she has not written, if she was able. She promised, yet how can
I expect--’ then interrupting himself, he added, authoritatively,
‘Thorndale, is there no letter for me? I see there is. Let me have it.’

His friend could not but comply, and had no reason to regret having done
so; for after reading it twice, though he sighed deeply, and the tears
were in his eyes, he was more calm and less oppressed than he had been
at any time since his arrival in Corfu. He was unable to write, but
Colonel Deane had undertaken to write to Mrs. Henley to announce his
coming; and as the cause of his silence must be known at Hollywell, he
resolved to let Amabel’s letter wait for a reply till his arrival in
England.

It was on a chilly day in February that Mrs. Henley drove to the station
to meet her brother, looking forward with a sister’s satisfaction to
nursing his recovery, and feeling (for she had a heart, after all) as if
it was a renewal of the days, which she regarded with a tenderness mixed
with contempt, when all was confidence between the brother and sister,
the days of nonsense and romance. She hoped that now poor Philip, who
had acted hastily on his romance, and ruined his own prospects for her
sake in his boyish days, had a chance of having it all made up to him,
and reigning at Redclyffe according to her darling wish.

As she anxiously watched the arrival of the train, she recognized
Mr. Thorndale, whom she had known in his school-days as Philip’s
protege--but could that be her brother? It was his height, indeed; but
his slow weary step as he crossed the platform, and left the care of his
baggage to others, was so unlike his prompt, independent air, that
she could hardly believe it to be himself, till, with his friend, he
actually advanced to the carriage, and then she saw far deeper traces
of illness than she was prepared for. A confusion of words took place;
greetings on one hand, and partings on the other, for James Thorndale
was going on by the train, and made only a few minutes’ halt in which to
assure Mrs. Henley that though the landing and the journey had knocked
up his patient to-day, he was much better since leaving Corfu, and to
beg Philip to write as soon as possible. The bell rang, he rushed back,
and was whirled away.

‘Then you are better,’ said Mrs. Henley, anxiously surveying her
brother. ‘You are sadly altered! You must let us take good care of you.’

‘Thank you! I knew you would be ready to receive me, though I fear I am
not very good company.’

‘Say no more, my dearest brother. You know both Dr. Henley and myself
have made it our first object that our house should be your home.’

‘Thank you.’

‘This salubrious air must benefit you,’ she added. ‘How thin you are!
Are you very much fatigued?’

‘Rather,’ said Philip, who was leaning back wearily; but the next moment
he exclaimed, ‘What do you hear from Hollywell?’

‘There is no news yet.’

‘Do you know how she is? When did you hear of her?’

‘About a week ago; when she wrote to inquire for you.’

‘She did? What did she say of herself?’

‘Nothing particular, poor little thing; I believe she is always on the
sofa. My aunt would like nothing so well as making a great fuss about
her.’

‘Have you any objection to show me her letter?’ said Philip, unable to
bear hearing Amabel thus spoken of, yet desirous to learn all he could
respecting her.

‘I have not preserved it,’ was the answer. ‘My correspondence is so
extensive that there would be no limit to the accumulation if I did not
destroy the trivial letters.’

There was a sudden flush on Philip’s pale face that caused his sister to
pause in her measured, self-satisfied speech, and ask if he was in pain.

‘No,’ he replied, shortly, and Margaret pondered on his strange manner,
little guessing what profanation her mention of Amabel’s letter had
seemed to him, or how it jarred on him to hear this exaggerated likeness
of his own self-complacent speeches.

She was much shocked and grieved to see him so much more unwell than she
had expected. He was unfit for anything but to go to bed on his arrival.
Dr. Henley said the system had received a severe shock, and it would be
long before the effects would be shaken off; but that there was no fear
but his health would be completely restored if he would give himself
entire rest.

There was no danger that Margaret would not lavish care enough on her
brother. She waited on him in his room all the next day, bringing him
everything he could want, and trying to make him come down-stairs, for
she thought sitting alone there very bad for his spirits; but he said
he had a letter to write, and very curious she was to know why he was
so long doing it, and why he did not tell her to whom it was addressed.
However, she saw when it was put into the post-bag, that it was for Lady
Morville.

At last, too late to see any of the visitors who had called to inquire,
when the evening had long closed in, she had the satisfaction of seeing
Philip enter the drawing-room, and settling him in the most comfortable
of her easy-chairs on one side of the fire to wait till the Doctor
returned for dinner. The whole apartment was most luxurious, spacious,
and richly furnished; the fire, in its brilliant steel setting, glancing
on all around, and illuminating her own stately presence, and rich glace
silk, as she sat opposite her brother cutting open the leaves of one of
the books of the club over which she presided. She felt that this was
something like attaining one of the objects for which she used to say
and think she married,--namely, to be able to receive her brother in a
comfortable home. If only he would but look more like himself.

‘Do you like a cushion for your head, Philip? Is it better?’

‘Better since morning, thank you.’

‘Did those headaches come on before your second illness?’

‘I can’t distinctly remember.’

‘Ah! I cannot think how the Edmonstones could leave you. I shall always
blame them for that relapse.’

‘It had nothing to do with it. Their remaining was impossible.’

‘On Amabel’s account? No, poor thing, I don’t blame her, for she must
have been quite helpless; but it was exactly like my aunt, to have but
one idea at a time. Charles used to be the idol, and now it is Amy, I
suppose.’

‘If anything could have made it more intolerable for me, it would have
been detaining them there for my sake, at such a time.’

‘Ah! I felt a great deal for you. You must have been very sorry for that
poor little Amy. She was very kind in writing while you were ill. How
did she contrive, poor child? I suppose you took all the head work for
her?’

‘I? I was nothing but a burden.’

‘Were you still so very ill?’ said Margaret, tenderly. ‘I am sure you
must have been neglected.’

‘Would that I had!’ muttered Philip, so low that she did not catch the
words. Then aloud,--‘No care could have been greater than was taken for
me. It was as if no one had been ill but myself, and the whole thought
of every one had been for me.’

‘Then Amabel managed well, poor thing! We do sometimes see those weak
soft characters--’

‘Sister!’ he interrupted.’

‘Have not you told me so yourself?’

‘I was a fool, or worse,’ said he, in a tone of suffering. ‘No words can
describe what she proved herself.’

‘Self-possessed? energetic?’ asked Mrs. Henley, with whom those were the
first of qualities; and as her brother paused from repugnance to speak
of Amabel to one so little capable of comprehending her, she proceeded:
‘No doubt she did the best she could, but she must have been quite
inexperienced. It was a very young thing in the poor youth to make her
executrix. I wonder the will was valid; but I suppose you took care of
that.’

‘I did nothing.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘My uncle showed it to me.’

‘Then you can tell me what I want to hear, for no one has told me
anything. I suppose my uncle is to be guardian?’

‘No; Lady Morville.’

‘You don’t mean it? Most lover-like indeed. That poor girl to manage
that great property? Everything left to her!’ said Mrs. Henley,
continuing her catechism in spite of the unwillingness of his replies.
‘Were there any legacies? I know of Miss Wellwood’s.’

‘That to Dixon’s daughter, and my own,’ he answered.

‘Yours? How was it that I never heard of it? What is it?’

‘Ten thousand,’ said Philip, sadly.

‘I am delighted to hear it!’ cried Margaret. ‘Very proper of Sir
Guy--very proper indeed, poor youth. It is well thought of to soften the
disappointment.’

Philip started forward. ‘Disappointment!’ exclaimed he, with horror.

‘You need not look as if I wished to commit murder,’ said his sister,
smiling. ‘Have you forgotten that it depends on whether it is a son or
daughter?’

His dismay was not lessened. ‘Do you mean to say that this is to come on
me if the child is a daughter?’

‘Ah! you were so young when the entail was made, that you knew nothing
of it. Female heirs were expressly excluded. There was some aunt whom
old Sir Guy passed over, and settled the property on my father and you,
failing his own male heirs.’

‘No one would take advantage of such a chance,’ said Philip.

‘Do not make any rash resolutions, my dear brother, whatever you do,’
said Margaret. ‘You have still the same fresh romantic generous spirit
of self-sacrifice that is generally so soon worn out, but you must not
let it allow you--’

‘Enough of this,’ said Philip, hastily, for every word was a dagger.

‘Ah! you are right not to dwell on the uncertainty. I am almost sorry
I told you,’ said Margaret. ‘Tell me about Miss Wellwood’s legacy,’ she
continued, desirous of changing the subject. ‘I want to know the truth
of it, for every one is talking of it.’

‘How comes the world to know of it?’

‘There have been reports ever since his death, and now it has been paid,
whatever it is, on Lady Morville’s coming of age. Do you know what
it is? The last story I was told was, that it was £2O,OOO, to found a
convent to pray for his grand--’

‘Five thousand for her hospital,’ interrupted Philip. ‘Sister!’ he
added; speaking with effort, ‘it was for that hospital that he made the
request for which we persecuted him.’

‘Ah! I thought so, I could have told you so!’ cried Margaret, triumphant
in her sagacity, but astonished, as her brother started up and stood
looking at her, as if he could hardly resolve to give credit to her
words.

‘You--thought--so,’ he repeated slowly.

‘I guessed it from the first. He was always with that set, and I thought
it a very bad thing for him; but as it was only a guess, it was not
worth while to mention it: besides, the cheque seemed full evidence. It
was the general course, not the individual action.’

‘If you thought so, why not mention it to me? Oh! sister, what would you
not have spared me!’

‘I might have done so if it had appeared that it might lead to his
exculpation, but you were so fully convinced that his whole course
confirmed the suspicions, that a mere vague idea was not worth dwelling
on. Your general opinion, of him satisfied me.’

‘I cannot blame you,’ was all his reply, as he sat down again, with his
face averted from the light.

And Mrs. Henley was doubtful whether he meant that she had been
judicious! She spoke again, unconscious of the agony each word
inflicted.

‘Poor youth! we were mistaken in those facts, and of course, all is
forgiven and forgotten now; but he certainly had a tremendous temper.
I shall never forget that exhibition. Perhaps poor Amabel is saved much
unhappiness.’

‘Once for all,’ said Philip, sternly, ‘let me never hear you speak of
him thus. We were both blind to a greatness of soul and purity of heart
that we shall never meet again. Yours was only prejudice; mine I must
call by a darker name. Remember, that he and his wife are only to be
spoken of with reverence.’

He composed himself to silence; and Margaret, after looking at him for
some moments in wonder, began in a sort of exculpatory tone:

‘Of course we owe him a great deal of gratitude. It was very kind and
proper to come to you when you were ill, and his death must have been
a terrible shock. He was a fine young man; amiable, very attractive in
manner.’

‘No more!’ muttered Philip.

‘That, you always said of him,’ continued she, not hearing, ‘but you
have no need to reproach yourself. You always acted the part of a true
friend, did full justice to his many good qualities, and only sought his
real good.’

‘Every word you speak is the bitterest satire on me,’ said Philip,
goaded into rousing himself for a moment. ‘Say no more, unless you would
drive me distracted!’

Margaret was obliged to be silent, and marvel, while her brother sat
motionless, leaning back in his chair, till Dr. Henley came in; and
after a few words to him, went on talking to his wife, till dinner was
announced. Philip went with them into the dining-room, but had
scarcely sat down before he said he could not stay, and returned to the
drawing-room sofa. He said he only wanted quiet and darkness, and sent
his sister and her husband back to their dinner.

‘What has he been doing?’ said the Doctor; ‘here is his pulse up to a
hundred again. How can he have raised it?’

‘He only came down an hour ago, and has been sitting still ever since.’

‘Talking?’

‘Yes; and there, perhaps, I was rather imprudent. I did not know
he could so little bear to hear poor Sir Guy’s name mentioned; and,
besides, he did not know, till I told him, that he had so much chance of
Redclyffe. He did not know the entail excluded daughters.’

‘Did he not! That accounts for it. I should like to see the man who
could hear coolly that he was so near such a property. This suspense is
unlucky just now; very much against him. You must turn his thoughts from
it as much as possible.’

All the next day, Mrs. Henley wondered why her brother’s spirits were so
much depressed, resisting every attempt to amuse or cheer them; but, on
the third, she thought some light was thrown on the matter. She was
at breakfast with the Doctor when the post came in, and there was a
black-edged letter for Captain Morville, evidently from Amabel. She took
it up at once to his room. He stretched out his hand for it eagerly,
but laid it down, and would not open it while she was in the room. The
instant she was gone, however, he broke the seal and read:--


       ‘Hollywell, February 20th.

‘MY DEAR PHILIP,--Thank you much for writing to me. It was a great
comfort to see your writing again, and to hear of your being safe in our
own country. We had been very anxious about you, though we did not hear
of your illness till the worst was over. I am very glad you are at
St. Mildred’s, for I am sure Margaret must be very careful of you, and
Stylehurst air must be good for you. Every one here is well; Charles
growing almost active, and looking better than I ever saw him. I wish
I could tell you how nice and quiet a winter it has been; it has been
a great blessing to me in every way, so many things have come to me to
enjoy. Mr. Ross has come to me every Sunday, and often in the week, and
has been so very kind. I think talking to him will be a great pleasure
to you when you are here again. You will like to hear that Mr. Shene has
sent me the picture, and the pleasure it gives me increases every day.
Indeed, I am so well off in every way, that you must not grieve yourself
about me, though I thank you very much for what you say. Laura reads to
me all the evening from dinner to tea. I am much better than I was in
the winter, and am enjoying the soft spring air from the open window,
making it seem as if it was much later in the year. ‘Good-bye, my dear
cousin; may God bless and comfort you. Remember, that after all, it was
God’s will, not your doing; and therefore, as he said himself, all is as
it should be, and so it will surely be.

       ‘Your affectionate cousin,
                 ‘AMABEL F. MORVILLE.’


Childishly simple as this letter might be called, with its set of facts
without comment, and the very commonplace words of consolation, it spoke
volumes to Philip of the spirit in which it was written--resignation,
pardon, soothing, and a desire that her farewell, perhaps her last,
should carry with it a token of her perfect forgiveness. Everything from
Amabel did him good; and he was so perceptibly better, that his sister
exclaimed, when she was next alone with Dr. Henley, ‘I understand it
all, poor fellow; I thought long ago, he had some secret attachment; and
now I see it was to Amabel Edmonstone.’

‘To Lady Morville?’

‘Yes. You know how constantly he was at Hollywell, my aunt so fond of
him? I don’t suppose Amy knew of it; and, of course, she could not be
blamed for accepting such an offer as Sir Guy’s; besides, she never had
much opinion of her own.’

‘How? No bad speculation for him. She must have a handsome jointure; but
what are your grounds?’

‘Everything. Don’t you remember he would not go to the marriage? He
mentions her almost like a saint; can’t hear her name from any one
else--keeps her letter to open alone, is more revived by it than
anything else. Ah! depend upon it, it was to avoid her, poor fellow,
that he refused to go to Venice with them.’

‘Their going to nurse him is not as if Sir Guy suspected it.’

‘I don’t suppose he did, nor Amy either. No one ever had so much power
over himself.’

Philip would not have thanked his sister for her surmise, but it was so
far in his favour that it made her avoid the subject, and he was thus
spared from hearing much of Amabel or of Redclyffe. It was bad enough
without this. Sometimes in nursery tales, a naughty child, under the
care of a fairy, is chained to an exaggeration of himself and his own
faults, and rendered a slave to this hateful self. The infliction
he underwent in his sister’s house was somewhat analogous, for Mrs.
Henley’s whole character, and especially her complacent speeches, were a
strong resemblance of his own in the days he most regretted. He had ever
since her marriage regarded her as a man looks at a fallen idol, but
never had her alteration been so clear to him, as he had not spent much
time with her, making her short visits, and passing the chief of each
day at Stylehurst. Now, he was almost entirely at her mercy, and her
unvarying kindness to him caused her deterioration to pain him all the
more; while each self-assertion, or harsh judgment, sounded on his ear
like a repetition of his worst and most hateful presumption. She little
guessed what she made him endure, for he had resumed his wonted stoicism
of demeanour, though the hardened crust that had once grown over his
feelings had been roughly torn away, leaving an extreme soreness and
tenderness to which an acute pang was given whenever he was reminded,
not only of his injuries to Guy, but of the pride and secret envy that
had been their root.

At the same time he disappointed her by his continued reserve and
depression. The confidence she had forfeited was never to be restored,
and she was the last person to know how incapable she was of receiving
it, or how low she had sunk in her self-exaltation.

He was soon able to resume the hours of the family, but was still far
from well; suffering from languor, pain in the head, want of sleep and
appetite; and an evening feverishness. He was unequal to deep reading,
and was in no frame for light books; he could not walk far, and his
sister’s literary coteries, which he had always despised, were at
present beyond his powers of endurance. She hoped that society would
divert his thoughts and raise his spirits, and arranged her parties with
a view to him; but he never could stay long in the room, and Dr. Henley,
who, though proud of his wife and her talents, had little pleasure in
her learned circle, used to aid and abet his escape.

Thus Philip got through the hours as best he might, idly turning the
pages of new club-books, wandering on the hills till he tired himself,
sitting down to rest in the damp air, coming home chilled and fatigued,
and lying on the sofa with his eyes shut, to avoid conversation, all the
evening. Neither strength, energy, nor intellect would, serve him for
more; and this, with the load and the stings of a profound repentance,
formed his history through the next fortnight.

He used often to stand gazing at the slowly-rising walls of Miss
Wellwood’s buildings, and the only time he exerted himself in his old
way to put down any folly in conversation, was when he silenced some of
the nonsense talked about her, and evinced his own entire approval of
her proceedings.



CHAPTER 39

     Beneath a tapering ash-tree’s shade
     Three graves are by each other laid.
     Around the very place doth brood
     A strange and holy quietude.
                          --BAPTISTERY


Late on the afternoon of the 6th of March, Mary Ross entered by the
half-opened front door at Hollywell, just as Charles appeared slowly
descending the stairs.

‘Well! how is she?’ asked Mary eagerly.

‘Poor little dear!’ he answered, with a sigh; ‘she looks very nice and
comfortable.’

‘What, you have seen her?’

‘I am at this moment leaving her room.’

‘She is going on well, I hope?’

‘Perfectly well. There is one comfort at least,’ said Charles, drawing
himself down the last step.

‘Dear Amy! And the babe--did you see it?’

‘Yes; the little creature was lying by her, and she put her hand on it,
and gave one of those smiles that are so terribly like his; but I could
not have spoken about it for the world. Such fools we be!’ concluded
Charles, with an attempt at a smile.

‘It is healthy?’

‘All a babe ought to be, they say, all that could be expected of it,
except the not being of the right sort, and if Amy does not mind that,
I don’t know who should,’ and Charles deposited himself on the sofa,
heaving a deep sigh, intended to pass for the conclusion of the
exertion.

‘Then you think she is not disappointed?’

‘Certainly not. The first thing she said when she was told it was a
girl, was, “I am so glad!” and she does seem very happy with it, poor
little thing! In fact, mamma thinks she had so little expected that
it would go well with herself, or with it, that now it is all like a
surprise.’

There was a silence, first broken by Charles saying, ‘You must be
content with me--I can’t send for anyone. Bustle has taken papa and
Charlotte for a walk, and Laura is on guard over Amy, for we have made
mamma go and lie down. It was high time, after sitting up two nights,
and meaning to sit up a third.’

‘Has she really--can she bear it?’

‘Yes; I am afraid I have trained her in sitting up, and Amy and all of
us know that anxiety hurts her more than fatigue. She would only lie
awake worrying herself, instead of sitting peaceably by the fire,
holding the baby, or watching Amy, and having a quiet cry when she is
asleep. For, after all, it is very sad!’ Charles was trying to brave
his feelings, but did not succeed very well. ‘Yesterday morning I was
properly frightened. I came into the dressing-room, and found mamma
crying so, that I fully believed it was all wrong, but she was just
coming to tell us, and was only overcome by thinking of not having him
to call first, and how happy he would have been.’

‘And the dear Amy herself!’

‘I can’t tell. She is a wonderful person for keeping herself composed
when she ought. I see she has his picture in full view, but she says not
a word, except that mamma saw her to-day, when she thought no one was
looking, fondling the little thing, and whispering to it--“Guy’s baby!”
 and “Guy’s little messenger!”’ Charles gave up the struggle, and
fairly cried, but in a moment rallying his usual tone, he went on, half
laughing,--‘To be sure, what a morsel of a creature it is! It is awful
to see anything so small calling itself a specimen of humanity!’

‘It is your first acquaintance with infant humanity, I suppose? Pray,
did you ever see a baby?’

‘Not to look at. In fact, Mary, I consider it a proof of your being a
rational woman that you have not asked me whether it is pretty.’

‘I thought you no judge of the article.’

‘No, it was not to inspect it that Amy sent for me; though after all it
was for a business I would almost as soon undertake, a thing I would not
do for any other living creature.’

‘Then I know what it is. To write some kind message to Captain Morville.
Just like the dear Amy!’

‘Just like her, and like no one else, except--Of course my father wrote
him an official communication yesterday, very short; but the fact must
have made it sweet enough, savage as we all were towards him, as there
was no one else to be savage to, unless it might be poor Miss Morville,
who is the chief loser by being of the feminine gender,’ said Charles,
again braving what he was pleased to call sentimentality. ‘Well, by and
by, my lady wants to know if any one has written to “poor Philip,” as
she will call him, and, by no means contented by hearing papa had,
she sends to ask me to come to her when I came in from wheeling in the
garden; and receives me with a request that I would write and tell him
how well she is, and how glad, and so on. There’s a piece of work for
me!’

‘Luckily you are not quite so savage as you pretend, either to him, or
your poor little niece.’

‘Whew! I should not care whether she was niece or nephew but for him;
at least not much, as long as she comforted Amy; but to see him at
Redclyffe, and be obliged to make much of him at the same time, is more
than I can very well bear; though I may as well swallow it as best I
can, for she will have me do it, as well as on Laura’s account.
Amy believes, you know, that he will think the inheritance a great
misfortune; but that is only a proof that she is more amiable than any
one else.’

‘I should think he would not rejoice.’

‘Not exactly; but I have no fear that he will not console himself by
thinking of the good he will do with it. I have no doubt that he was
thoroughly cut up, and I could even go the length of believing that
distress of mind helped to bring on the relapse, but it is some time
ago. And as to his breaking his heart after the first ten minutes at
finding himself what he has all his life desired to be, in a situation
where the full influence of his talents may be felt,’ said Charles, with
a shade of imitation of his measured tones, ‘why that, no one but silly
little Amy would ever dream of.’

‘Well, I dare say you will grow merciful as you write.’

‘No, that is not the way to let my indignation ooze out at my fingers’
ends. I shall begin by writing to condole with Markham. Poor man! what
a state he must be in; all the more pitiable because he evidently had
entirely forgotten that there could ever be a creature of the less
worthy gender born to the house of Morville; so it will take him quite
by surprise. What will he do, and how will he ever forgive Mrs. Ashford,
who, I see in the paper, has a son whom nobody wants, as if for the
express purpose of insulting Markham’s feelings! Well-a-day! I should
have liked to have had the sound of Sir Guy Morville still in my ears,
and yet I don’t know that I could have endured its being applied to a
little senseless baby! And, after all, we are the gainers; for it would
have been a forlorn thing to have seen Amy go off to reign queen-mother
at Redclyffe,--and most notably well would she have reigned, with that
clear little head. I vow ‘tis a talent thrown away! However, I can’t
grumble. She is much happier without greatness thrust on her, and for
my own part, I have my home-sister all to myself, with no rival but that
small woman--and how she will pet her!’

‘And how you will! What a spoiling uncle you will be! But now, having
heard you reason yourself into philosophy, I’ll leave you to write. We
were so anxious, that I could not help coming. I am so glad that little
one thrives! I should like to leave my love for Amy, if you’ll remember
it.’

‘The rarity of such a message from you may enable me. I was lying
here alone, and received the collected love of five Harpers to convey
up-stairs, all which I forgot; though in its transit by Arnaud and his
French, it had become “that they made their friendships to my lady and
Mrs. Edmonstone.”’

Charles had not talked so like himself for months; and Mary felt that
Amabel’s child, if she had disappointed some expectations, had come like
a spring blossom, to cheer Hollywell, after its long winter of sorrow
and anxiety. She seemed to have already been received as a messenger to
comfort them for the loss, greatest of all to her, poor child, though
she would never know how great. Next Mary wondered what kind of letter
Charles would indite, and guessed it would be all the kinder for the
outpouring he had made to her, the only person with whom he ventured to
indulge in a comfortable abuse of Philip, since his good sense taught
him that, ending as affairs must, it was the only wise way to make the
best of it, with father, mother, and Charlotte, all quite sufficiently
disposed to regard Philip with aversion without his help.

Philip was at breakfast with the Henleys, on the following morning, a
Sunday,--or rather, sitting at the breakfast-table, when the letters
were brought in. Mrs. Henley, pretending to be occupied with her own,
had an eager, watchful eye on her brother, as one was placed before him.
She knew Mr. Edmonstone’s writing, but was restrained from exclaiming
by her involuntary deference for her brother. He flushed deep red one
moment, then turned deadly pale, his hand, when first he raised it,
trembled, but then became firm, as if controlled by the force of his
resolution. He broke the black seal, drew out the letter, paused another
instant, unfolded it, glanced at it, pushed his chair from the table,
and hastened to me door.

‘Tell me, tell me, Philip, what is it?’ she exclaimed, rising to follow
him.

He turned round, threw the letter on the table, and with a sign that
forbade her to come with him, left the room.

‘Poor fellow! how he feels it! That poor young creature!’ said she,
catching up the letter for explanation.

‘Ha! No! Listen to this, Dr. Henley. Why, he must have read it wrong!’


       ‘Hollywell, March 5th.

‘DEAR PHILIP,--I have to announce to you that Lady Morville was safely
confined this morning with a daughter. I shall be ready to send all the
papers and accounts of the Redclyffe estate to any place you may appoint
as soon as she is sufficiently recovered to transact business. Both she
and the infant are as well as can be expected.


        --Yours sincerely,
               ‘C. EDMONSTONE.’


‘A daughter!’ cried Dr. Henley. ‘Well, my dear, I congratulate you! It
is as fine a property as any in the kingdom. We shall see him pick up
strength now.’

‘I must go and find him. He surely has mistaken!’ said Margaret,
hastening in search of him; but he was not to be found, and she saw him
no more till she found him in the seat at church.

She hardly waited to be in the churchyard, after the service, before she
said, ‘Surely you mistook the letter!’

‘No, I did not.’

‘You saw that she is doing well, and it is a girl.’

‘I--’

‘And will you not let me congratulate you?’

She was interrupted by some acquaintance; but when she looked round he
was nowhere to be seen, and she was obliged to be content with telling
every one the news. One or two of her many tame gentlemen came home
with her to luncheon, and she had the satisfaction of dilating on the
grandeur of Redclyffe. Her brother was not in the drawing-room, but
answered when she knocked at his door.

‘Luncheon is ready. Will you come down?’

‘Is any one there?’

‘Mr. Brown and Walter Maitland. Shall I send you anything, or do you
like to come down?’

‘I’ll come, thank you,’ said he, thus secured from a tete-a-tete.

‘Had you better come? Is not your head too bad?’

‘It will not be better for staying here; I’ll come.’

She went down, telling her visitors that, since his illness, her brother
always suffered so much from excitement that he was too unwell to have
derived much pleasure from the tidings: and when he appeared his air
corresponded with her account, for his looks were of the gravest and
sternest. He received the congratulations of the gentlemen without
the shadow of a smile, and made them think him the haughtiest and most
dignified landed proprietor in England.

Mrs. Henley advised strongly against his going to church, but without
effect, and losing him in the crowd coming out, saw him no more till
just before dinner-time. He had steeled himself to endure all that she
and the Doctor could inflict on him that evening, and he had a hope of
persuading Amabel that it would be only doing justice to her child to
let him restore her father’s inheritance, which had come to him through
circumstances that could not have been foreseen. He was determined to do
nothing like an act of possession of Redclyffe till he had implored her
to accept the offer; and it was a great relief thus to keep it in doubt
a little longer, and not absolutely feel himself profiting by Guy’s
death and sitting in his seat. Not a word, however, must be said to let
his sister guess at his resolution, and he must let her torture him in
the meantime. He was vexed at having been startled into betraying his
suffering, and was humiliated at the thought of the change from that
iron imperturbability, compounded of strength, pride, and coldness in
which he had once gloried.

Dr. Henley met him with a shake of the hand, and hearty exclamation:--

‘I congratulate you, Sir Philip Morville.’

‘No; that is spared me,’ was his answer.

‘Hem! The baronetcy?’

‘Yes,’ said Margaret, ‘I thought you knew that only goes to the direct
heir of old Sir Hugh. But you must drop the “captain” at least. You will
sell out at once?’

He patiently endured the conversation on the extent and beauty of
Redclyffe, wearing all the time a stern, resolute aspect, that his
sister knew to betoken great unhappiness. She earnestly wished to
understand him, but at last, seeing how much her conversation increased
his headache, she desisted, and left him to all the repose his thoughts
could give him. He was very much concerned at the tone of the note from
his uncle, as if it was intended to show that all connection with the
family was to be broken off. He supposed it had been concerted with some
one; with Charles, most likely,--Charles, who had judged him too truly,
and with his attachment to Guy, and aversion to himself, was doubtless
strengthening his father’s displeasure, all the more for this hateful
wealth. And Laura? What did she feel?

Monday morning brought another letter. At first, he was struck with
the dread of evil tidings of Amabel or her babe, especially when he
recognized Charles’s straggling handwriting; and, resolved not to be
again betrayed, he carried it up to read in his own room before his
sister had noticed it. He could hardly resolve to open it, for surely
Charles would not write to him without necessity; and what, save sorrow,
could cause that necessity? He saw that his wretchedness might be even
more complete! At length he read it, and could hardly believe his own
eyes as he saw cheering words, in a friendly style of interest and
kindliness such as he would never have expected from Charles, more
especially now.


       ‘Hollywell, March 6th.

‘MY DEAR PHILIP,--I believe my father wrote to you in haste yesterday,
but I am sure you will be anxious for further accounts, and when there
is good news there is satisfaction in conveying it. I know you will be
glad to hear our affairs are very prosperous; and Amy, whom I have just
been visiting, is said by the authorities to be going on as well as
possible. She begs me to tell you of her welfare, and to assure you that
she is particularly pleased to have a daughter; or, perhaps, it will be
more satisfactory to have her own words. “You must tell him how well
I am, Charlie, and how very glad. And tell him that he must not vex
himself about her being a girl, for that is my great pleasure; and I
do believe, the very thing I should have chosen if I had set to work to
wish.” You know Amy never said a word but in all sincerity, so you must
trust her, and I add my testimony that she is in placid spirits, and may
well be glad to escape the cares of Redclyffe. My father says he desired
Markham to write to you on the business matters. I hope the sea-breezes
may do you good. All the party here are well; but I see little of them
now, all the interest of the house is upstairs.

--Your affectionate,

‘C. M, EDMONSTONE.

P. S. The baby is very small, but so plump and healthy, that no one
attempts to be uneasy about her.’


Never did letter come in better time to raise a desponding heart. Of
Amabel’s forgiveness he was already certain; but that she should have
made Charles his friend was a wonder beyond all others. It gave him more
hope for the future than he had yet been able to entertain, and showed
him that the former note was no studied renunciation of him, but only an
ebullition of Mr. Edmonstone’s disappointment.

It gave him spirit enough to undertake what he had long been meditating,
but without energy to set about it--an expedition to Stylehurst.
Hitherto it had been his first walk on coming to St. Mildred’s, but now
the distance across the moor was far beyond his powers; and even that
length of ride was a great enterprise. It was much further by the
carriage road, and his sister never liked going there. He had never
failed to visit his old home till last year, and he felt almost glad
that he had not carried his thoughts, at that time, to his father’s
grave. It was strange that, with so many more important burdens on
his mind, it had been this apparent trivial omission, this slight to
Stylehurst, that, in both his illnesses, had been the most frequently
recurring idea that had tormented him in his delirium. So deeply,
securely fixed is the love of the home of childhood in men of his mould,
in whom it is perhaps the most deeply rooted of all affections.

Without telling his sister his intention, he hired a horse, and pursued
the familiar moorland tracks. He passed South Moor Farm; it gave him too
great a pang to look at it; he rode on across the hills where he used to
walk with his sisters, and looked down into narrow valleys where he
had often wandered with his fishing-rod, lost in musings on plans for
attaining distinction, and seeing himself the greatest man of his day.
Little had he then guessed the misery which would place him in the way
to the coveted elevation, or how he would loathe it when it lay within
his grasp.

There were the trees round the vicarage, the church spire, the cottages,
whose old rough aspect, he knew so well, the whole scene, once ‘redolent
of joy and youth:’ but how unable to breathe on him a second spring! He
put up his horse at the village inn, and went to make his first call on
Susan, the old clerk’s wife, and one of the persons in all the world who
loved him best. He knocked, opened the door, and saw her, startled from
her tea-drinking, looking at him as a stranger.

‘Bless us! It beant never Master Philip!’ she exclaimed, her head
shaking very fast, as she recognized his voice. ‘Why, sir, what a turn
you give me! How bad you be looking, to be sure!’

He sat down and talked with her, with feelings of comfort. Tidings of
Sir Guy’s death had reached the old woman, and she was much grieved for
the nice, cheerful-spoken young gentleman, whom she well remembered; for
she, like almost every one who had ever had any intercourse with him,
had an impression left of him, as of something winning, engaging,
brightening, like a sunbeam. It was a refreshment to meet with one who
would lament him for his own sake, and had no congratulations for Philip
himself; and the ‘Sure, sure, it must have been very bad for you,’ with
which old Susan heard of the circumstances, carried more of the comfort
of genuine sympathy than all his sister’s attempts at condolence.

She told him how often Sir Guy had been at Stylehurst, how he had talked
to her about the archdeacon; and especially she remembered his helping
her husband one day when he found him trimming the ash over the
archdeacon’s grave. He used to come very often to church there, more in
the latter part of his stay; there was one Sunday--it was the one before
Michaelmas--he was there all day, walking in the churchyard, and sitting
in the porch between services.

‘The Sunday before Michaelmas!’ thought Philip, the very time when he
had been most earnest in driving his uncle to persecute, and delighting
himself in having triumphed over Guy at last, and obtained tangible
demonstration of his own foresight, and his cousin’s vindictive spirit.
What had he been throwing away? Where had, in truth, been the hostile
spirit?

He took the key of the church, and walked thither alone, standing for
several minutes by the three graves, with a sensation as if his father
was demanding of him an account of the boy he had watched, and brought
to his ancestral home, and cared for through his orphaned childhood. But
for the prayer-book, the pledge that there had been peace at the last,
how could he have borne it?

Here was the paved path he had trodden in early childhood, holding his
mother’s hand, where, at each recurring vacation during his school days,
he had walked between his admiring sisters, in the consciousness that he
was the pride of his family and of all the parish. Of his family? Did he
not remember his return home for the last time before that when he was
summoned thither by his father’s death? He had come with a whole freight
of prizes, and letters full of praises; and as he stood, in expectation
of the expression of delighted satisfaction, his father laid his hand
on his trophy, the pile of books, saying, gravely,--’ All this would I
give, Philip, for one evidence of humility of mind.’

It had been his father’s one reproof. He had thought it unjust and
unreasonable, and turned away impatiently to be caressed and admired by
Margaret. His real feelings had been told to her, because she flattered
them and shared them, he had been reserved and guarded with the
father who would have perceived and repressed that ambition and the
self-sufficiency which he himself had never known to exist, nor regarded
as aught but sober truth. It had been his bane, that he had been always
too sensible to betray outwardly his self-conceit, in any form that
could lead to its being noticed.

He opened the church door, closed it behind him, and locked himself in.

He came up to the communion rail, where he had knelt for the first time
twelve years ago, confident in himself, and unconscious of the fears
with which his father’s voice was trembling in the intensity of his
prayer for one in whom there was no tangible evil, and whom others
thought a pattern of all that could be desired by the fondest hopes.

He knelt down, with bowed head, and hands clasped. Assuredly, if his
father could have beheld him then, it would have been with rejoicing. He
would not have sorrowed that robust frame was wasted, and great strength
brought low; that the noble features were worn, the healthful cheek
pale, and the powerful intellect clouded and weakened; he would hardly
have mourned for the cruel grief and suffering, such would have been
his joy that the humble, penitent, obedient heart had been won at last.
Above all, he would have rejoiced that the words that most soothed that
wounded spirit were,--‘A broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not
despise.’

There was solace in that solemn silence; the throbs of head and heart
were stilled in the calm around. It was as if the influences of the
prayers breathed for him by his father, and the forgiveness and loving
spirit there won by Guy, had been waiting for him there till he came to
take them up, for thenceforth the bitterest of his despair was over, and
he could receive each token of Amabel’s forgiveness, not as heaped coals
of fire, but as an earnest of forgiveness sealed in heaven.

The worst was over, and though he still had much to suffer, he was
becoming open to receive comfort; the blank dark remorse in which he had
been living began to lighten, and the tone of his mind to return.

He spoke more cheerfully to Susan when he restored the key; but she had
been so shocked at his appearance, that when, the next day, a report
reached her that Mr. Philip was now a grand gentleman, and very rich,
she answered,--

‘Well, if it be so, I am glad of it, but he said never a word of it to
me, and it is my belief he would give all the money as ever was coined,
to have the poor young gentleman back again. Depend upon it, he hates
the very sound of it.’

At the cost of several sheets of paper, Philip at length completed a
letter to Mr. Edmonstone, which, when he had sent it, made his suspense
more painful.


       ‘St. Mildred’s, March 12th.

‘MY DEAR MR. Edmonstone,--It is with a full sense of the unfitness of
intruding such a subject upon you in the present state of the family,
that I again address you on the same topic as that on which I wrote to
you from Italy, at the first moment at which I have felt it possible
to ask your attention. I was then too ill to be able to express my
contrition for all that has passed; in fact, I doubt whether it was even
then so deep as at present, since every succeeding week has but added
to my sense of the impropriety of my conduct, and my earnest desire for
pardon. I can hardly venture at such a time to ask anything further, but
I must add that my sentiments towards your daughter are unaltered, and
can never cease but with my life, and though I know I have rendered
myself unworthy of her, and my health, both mental and bodily, is far
from being re-established, I cannot help laying my feelings before
you, and entreating that you will put an end to the suspense which has
endured for so many months, by telling me to hope that I have not for
ever forfeited your consent to my attachment. At least, I trust to your
kindness for telling me on what terms I am for the present to stand with
your family. I am glad to hear such favourable reports of Lady Morville,
and with all my heart I thank Charles for his letter.

       ‘Yours ever affectionately,
                ‘P. H. MORVILLE.’


He ardently watched for a reply. He could not endure the idea of
receiving it where Margaret’s eyes could scan the emotion he could
now only conceal by a visible rigidity of demeanour, and he daily
went himself to the post-office, but in vain. He received nothing but
business letters, and among them one from Markham, with as much defiance
and dislike in its style as could be shown, in a perfectly formal,
proper letter. Till he had referred to Lady Morville, he would not
make any demonstration towards Redclyffe, and evaded all his sister’s
questions as to what he was doing about it, and when he should take
measures for leaving the army, or obtaining a renewal of the baronetcy.

Anxiety made him look daily more wretchedly haggard; the Doctor was at
fault, Mrs. Henley looked sagacious, while his manner became so dry
and repellent that visitors went away moralizing on the absurdity of
“nouveaux riches” taking so much state on them.

He wondered how soon he might venture to write to Amabel, on whom alone
he could depend; but he felt it a sort of profanity to disturb her.

He had nearly given up his visits to the post in despair, when one
morning he beheld what never failed to bring some soothing influence,
namely, the fair pointed characters he had not dared to hope for. He
walked quickly into the promenade, sat down, and read:--


       ‘Hollywell, March 22nd.

‘MY DEAR PHILIP,--Papa does not answer your letter, because he says
speaking is better than writing, and we hope you are well enough to
come to us before Sunday week. I hope to take our dear little girl to
be christened on that day, and I want you to be so kind as to be
her godfather. I ask it of you, not only in my own name, but in her
father’s, for I am sure it is what he would choose. Her Aunt Laura and
Mary Ross are to be her godmothers, I hope you will not think me very
foolish and fanciful for naming her Mary Verena, in remembrance of our
old readings of Sintram. She is a very healthy, quiet creature, and I am
getting on very well. I am writing from the dressing-room, and I expect
to be down-stairs in a few days. If you do not dislike it very much,
could you be so kind as to call upon Miss Wellwood, and pay little
Marianne Dixon’s quarter for me? It is £1O, and it will save trouble
if you would do it; besides that, I should like to hear of her and the
little girl. I am sorry to hear you are not better,--perhaps coming here
may do you good.--Four o’clock. I have been keeping my letter in hopes
of persuading papa to put in a note, but he says he had rather send a
message that he is quite ready to forgive and forget, and it will be
best to talk it over when you come.”

‘Your affectionate cousin,

‘A. F. MORVILLE.’


It was well he was not under his sister’s eye, for he could not read
this letter calmly, and he was obliged to take several turns along
the walk before he could recover his composure enough to appear in the
breakfast-room, where he found his sister alone, dealing her letters
into separate packets of important and unimportant.

‘Good morning, Philip. Dr. Henley is obliged to go to Bramshaw this
morning, and has had an early breakfast. Have you been out?’

‘Yes, it is very fine--I mean it will be--the haze is clearing.’

Margaret saw that he was unusually agitated, and not by grief; applied
herself to tea-making, and hoped his walk had given him an appetite; but
there seemed little chance of this so long were his pauses between each
morsel, and so often did he lean back in his chair.

‘I am going to leave you on--on Friday,’ he said at length, abruptly.

‘Oh, are you going to Redclyffe?’

‘No; to Hollywell. Lady Morville wishes me to be her little girl’s
sponsor; I shall go to London on Friday, and on, the next day.’

‘I am glad they have asked you. Does she write herself? Is she pretty
well?

‘Yes; she is to go down-stairs in a day or two.’

‘I am rejoiced that she is recovering so well. Do you know whether she
is in tolerable spirits?’

‘She writes cheerfully.’

‘How many years is it since I saw her? She was quite a child, but very
sweet-tempered and attentive to poor Charles,’ said Mrs. Henley, feeling
most amiably disposed towards her future sister-in-law.

‘Just so. Her gentleness and sweet temper were always beautiful; and
she has shown herself under her trials what it would be presumptuous to
praise.’

Margaret had no doubt now, and thought he was ready for more open
sympathy.

‘You must let me congratulate you now on this unexpected dawn of hope,
after your long trial, my dear brother. It is a sort of unconscious
encouragement you could hardly hope for.’

‘I did not know you knew anything of it,’ said Philip.

‘Ah! my dear brother, you betrayed yourself. You need not be
disconcerted; only a sister could see the real cause of your want of
spirits. Your manner at each mention of her, your anxiety, coupled with
your resolute avoidance of her--’

‘Of whom? Do you know what you are talking of, sister!’ said Philip,
sternly.

‘Of Amabel, of course.’

Philip rose, perfectly awful in his height and indignation.

‘Sister!’ he said--paused, and began again. ‘I have been attached to
Laura Edmonstone for years past, and Lady Morville knows it.’

‘To Laura!’ cried Mrs. Henley, in amaze. ‘Are you engaged?’ and, as he
was hardly prepared to answer, she continued, ‘If you have not gone too
far to recede, only consider before you take any rash step. You come
into this property without ready money, you will find endless claims,
and if you marry at once, and without fortune, you will never be clear
from difficulties.’

‘I have considered,’ he replied, with cold loftiness that would have
silenced any one, not of the same determined mould.

‘You are positively committed, then!’ she said, much vexed. ‘Oh, Philip!
I did not think you would have married for mere beauty.’

‘I can hear no more discussion on this point,’ answered Philip, in the
serious, calm tone that showed so much power over himself and every one
else.

It put Margaret to silence, though she was excessively disappointed to
find him thus involved just at his outset, when he might have married
so much more advantageously. She was sorry, too, that she had shown her
opinion so plainly, since it was to be, and hurt his feelings just as
he seemed to be thawing. She would fain have learned more; but he was
completely shut up within himself, and never opened again to her. She
had never before so grated on every delicate feeling in his mind; and
he only remained at her house because in his present state of health,
he hardly knew where to bestow himself till it was time for him to go to
Hollywell.

He went to call on Miss Wellwood, to whom his name was no slight
recommendation, and she met him eagerly, asking after Lady Morville,
who, she said, had twice written to her most kindly about little
Marianne.

It was a very pleasant visit, and a great relief. He looked at the
plans, heard the fresh arrangements, admired, was interested, and took
pleasure in having something to tell Amabel. He asked for Marianne, and
heard that she was one of the best of children--amiable, well-disposed,
only almost too sensitive. Miss Wellwood said it was remarkable how
deep an impression Sir Guy had made upon her, and how affectionately she
remembered his kindness; and her distress at hearing of his death had
been far beyond what such a child could have been supposed to feel, both
in violence and in duration.

Philip asked to see her, knowing it would please Amabel, and in she
came--a long, thin, nine-year-old child, just grown into the encumbering
shyness, that is by no means one of the graces of “la vieillesse de
l’enfance”.

He wished to be kind and encouraging; but melancholy, added to his
natural stateliness, made him very formidable; and poor Marianne was
capable of nothing beyond ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

He told her he was going to see Lady Morville and her little girl,
whereat she eagerly raised her eyes, then shrank in affright at anything
so tall, and so unlike Sir Guy. He said the baby was to be christened
next Sunday, and Miss Wellwood helped him out by asking the name.

‘Mary,’ he said, for he was by no means inclined to explain the Verena,
though he knew not half what it conveyed to Amabel.

Lastly, he asked if Marianne had any message; when she hung down her
head, and whispered to Miss Wellwood, what proved to be ‘My love to dear
little cousin Mary.’

He promised to deliver it, and departed, wishing he could more easily
unbend.



CHAPTER 40

     Blest, though every tear that falls
     Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell,
     And makes a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.
                                     --WORDSWORTH


On Saturday afternoon, about half-past five, Philip Morville found
himself driving up to the well-known front door of Hollywell. At the
door he heard that every one was out excepting Lady Morville, who never
came down till the evening, save for a drive in the carriage.

He entered the drawing-room, and gazed on the scene where he had spent
so many happy hours, only darkened by that one evil spot, that had
grown till it not only poisoned his own mind, but cast a gloom over that
bright home.

All was as usual. Charles’s sofa, little table, books, and inkstand, the
work-boxes on the table, the newspaper in Mr. Edmonstone’s old folds.
Only the piano was closed, and an accumulation of books on the hinge
told how long it had been so; and the plants in the bay window were
brown and dry, not as when they were Amabel’s cherished nurslings. He
remembered Amabel’s laughing face and abundant curls, when she carried
in the camellia, and thought how little he guessed then that he should
be the destroyer of the happiness of her young life. How should he meet
her--a widow in her father’s house--or look at her fatherless child?
He wondered how he had borne to come thither at all, and shrank at the
thought that this very evening, in a few hours, he must see her.

The outer door opened, there was a soft step, and Amabel stood before
him, pale, quiet, and with a smile of welcome. Her bands of hair looked
glossy under her widow’s cap, and the deep black of her dress was
relieved by the white robes of the babe that lay on her arm. She held
out her hand, and he pressed it in silence.

‘I thought you would like just to see baby,’ said she, in a voice
something like apology.

He held out his arms to take it, for which Amy was by no means prepared.
She was not quite happy even in trusting it in her sister’s arms, and
she supposed he had never before touched an infant. But that was all
nonsense, and she would not vex him with showing any reluctance; so she
laid the little one on his arm, and saw his great hand holding it most
carefully, but the next moment he turned abruptly from her. Poor silly
little Amy, her heart beat not a little till he turned back, restored
the babe, and while he walked hastily to the window, she saw that two
large tear-drops had fallen on the white folds of its mantle. She did
not speak; she guessed how much he must feel in thus holding Guy’s
child, and, besides, her own tears would now flow so easily that she
must be on her guard. She sat down, settled the little one on her knee,
and gave him time to recover himself.

Presently he came and stood by her saying, in a most decided tone,
‘Amabel, you must let me do this child justice.’

She looked up, wondering what he could mean.

‘I will not delay in taking steps for restoring her inheritance,’ said
he, hoping by determination to overpower Amabel, and make her believe it
a settled and a right thing.

‘O Philip, you are not thinking of that!’

‘It is to be done.’

‘You would not be so unkind to this poor little girl,’ said Amy, with a
persuasive smile, partaking of her old playfulness, adding, very much
in earnest, ‘Pray put it out of your head directly, for it would be very
wrong.’

The nurse knocked at the door to fetch the baby, as Amabel had desired.
When this interruption was over, Philip came and sat down opposite to
her, and began with his most decided manner:--

‘You must listen to me, Amy, and not allow any scruples to prevent you
from permitting your child to be restored to her just rights. You must
see that the estate has come to me by circumstances such that no honest
man can be justified in retaining it. The entail was made to exclude
females, only because of the old Lady Granard. It is your duty to
consent.’

‘The property has always gone in the male line,’ replied Amabel.

‘There never was such a state of things. Old Sir Guy could never have
thought of entailing it away from his own descendant on a distant
cousin. It would be wrong of me to profit by these unforeseen
contingencies, and you ought not, in justice to your child, to object.’

He spoke so forcibly and decidedly that he thought he must have
prevailed. But not one whit convinced, Amabel answered, in her own
gentle voice, but beginning with a business-like argument:--‘Such a
possibility was contemplated. It was all provided for in the marriage
settlements. Indeed, I am afraid that, as it is, she will be a great
deal too rich. Besides, Philip, I am sure this is exactly what Guy would
have chosen,’ and the tears rose in her eyes. ‘The first thing that came
into my head when she was born, was, that it was just what he wished,
that I should have her for myself, and that you should take care of
Redclyffe. I am certain now that he hoped it would be so. I know--indeed
I do--that he took great pleasure in thinking of its being in your
hands, and of your going on with all he began. You can’t have forgotten
how much he left in your charge? If you were to give it up, it would be
against his desire; and with that knowledge, how could I suffer it?
Then think what a misfortune to her, poor little thing, to be a great
heiress, and how very bad for Redclyffe to have no better a manager
than me! Oh, Philip, can you not see it is best as it is, and just as he
wished?’

He almost groaned--‘If you could guess what a burden it is.’

‘Ah! but you must carry it, not throw it down on such hands as mine and
that tiny baby’s,’ said she, smiling.

‘It would have been the same if it had been a boy.’

‘Yes; then I must have done the best I could, and there would have been
an end to look to, but I am so glad to be spared. And you are so fit for
it, and will make it turn to so much use to every one.’

‘I don’t feel as if I should ever be of use to any one,’ said Philip, in
a tone of complete dejection.

‘Your head is aching,’ said she, kindly.

‘It always does, more or less,’ replied he, resting it on his hand.

‘I am so sorry. Has it been so ever since you were ill? But you are
better? You look better than when I saw you last.’

‘I am better on the whole, but I doubt whether I shall ever be as strong
as I used to be. That ought to make me hesitate, even if--’ then came a
pause, while he put his hand over his face, and seemed struggling with
irrepressible emotion; and after all he was obliged to take two walks to
the window before he could recover composure, and could ask in a voice
which he tried to make calm and steady, though his face was deeply
flushed--‘Amy, how is Laura?’

‘She is very well,’ answered Amabel. ‘Only you must not be taken by
surprise if you see her looking thinner.’

‘And she has trusted--she has endured through all?’ said he, with
inquiring earnestness.

‘O yes!’

‘And they--your father and mother--can forgive?’

‘They do--they have. But, Philip, it was one of the things I came down
to say to you. I don’t think you must expect papa to begin about it
himself. You know he does not like awkwardness, though he will be very
glad when once it is done, and ready to meet you half way.’ He did not
answer, and after a silence Amabel added, ‘Laura is out of doors. She
and Charlotte take very long walks.’

‘And is she really strong and well, or is it that excited overdoing of
employment that I first set her upon?’ he asked, anxiously.

‘She is perfectly well, and to be busy has been a great help to her,’
said Amabel. ‘It was a great comfort that we did not know how ill you
had been at Corfu, till the worst was over. Eveleen only mentioned it
when you were better. I was very anxious, for I had some fears from the
note that you sent by Arnaud. I am very glad to see you safe here, for I
have felt all along that we forsook you; but I could not help it.’

‘I am very glad you did not stay. The worst of all would have been that
you should have run any risk.’

‘There is the carriage,’ said Amy. ‘Mamma and Charlie have been to
Broadstone. They thought they might meet you by the late train.’

Philip’s colour rose. He stood up--sat down; then rising once more,
leant on the mantel-piece, scarcely knowing how to face either of
them--his aunt, with her well-merited displeasure, and Charles, who
when he parted with him had accused him so justly--Charles, who had seen
through him and had been treated with scorn.

A few moments, and Charles came in, leaning on his mother. They both
shook hands, exclaimed at finding Amabel downstairs, and Mrs. Edmonstone
asked after Philip’s health in her would-be cordial manner. The two
ladies then went up-stairs together, and thus ended that conference,
in which both parties had shown rare magnanimity, of which they were
perfectly unconscious; and perhaps the most remarkable part of all
was that Philip quietly gave up the great renunciation and so-called
sacrifice, with which he had been feeding his hopes, at the simple
bidding of the gentle-spoken Amabel--not even telling her that he
resigned it. He kept the possessions which he abhorred, and gave up the
renunciation he had longed to make, and in this lay the true sacrifice,
the greater because the world would think him the gainer.

When the mother and daughter were gone, the cousins were silent, Philip
resting his elbow on the mantel-shelf and his head on his hand, and
Charles sitting at the end of the sofa, warming first one hand, then the
other, while he looked up to the altered face, and perceived in it grief
and humiliation almost as plainly as illness. His keen eyes read that
the sorrow was indeed more deeply rooted than he had hitherto believed,
and that Amabel’s pity had not been wasted; and he was also struck by
the change from the great personal strength that used to make nothing of
lifting his whole weight.

‘I am sorry to see you so pulled down,’ said he. ‘We must try if we can
doctor you better than they did at St. Mildred’s. Are you getting on, do
you think?’

He had hardly ever spoken to Philip, so entirely without either
bitterness or sarcasm, and his manner hardly seemed like that of the
same person.

‘Thank you, I am growing stronger; but as long as I cannot get rid of
this headache, I am good for nothing.’

‘You have had a long spell of illness indeed,’ said Charles. ‘You can’t
expect to shake off two fevers in no time. Now all the anxiety is over,
you will brighten like this house.’

‘But tell me, what is thought of Amabel? Is she as well as she ought to
be?’

‘Yes, quite, they say--has recovered her strength very fast, and is
in just the right spirits. She was churched yesterday, and was not
the worse for it. It was a trial, for she had not been to East-hill
since--since last May.’

‘It is a blessing, indeed,’ said Philip, earnestly.

‘She has been so very happy with the baby,’ said Charles. ‘You hear what
its name is to be?’

‘Yes, she told me in her letter.’

‘To avoid having to tell you here, I suppose. Mary is for common wear,
Verena is for ourselves. She asked if it would be too foolish to give
such a name, and mamma said the only question was, whether she would
like indifferent people to ask the reason of it.’

Philip lapsed into thought, and presently said, abruptly, ‘When last we
parted you told me I was malignant. You were right.’

‘Shake hands!’ was all Charles’s reply, and no more was said till
Charles rose, saying it was time to dress. Philip was about to help him,
but he answered, ‘No, thank you, I am above trusting to anything but my
own crutches now; I am proud to show you what feats I can perform.’

Charles certainly did get on with less difficulty than heretofore, but
it was more because he wanted to spare Philip fatigue than because he
disdained assistance, that he chose to go alone. Moreover, he did what
he had never done for any one before--he actually hopped the whole
length of the passage, beyond his own door to do the honours of Philip’s
room, and took a degree of pains for his comfort that seemed too
marvellous to be true in one who had hitherto only lived to be attended
on.

By the time he had settled Philip, the rest of the party had come home,
and he found himself wanted in the dressing-room, to help his mother
to encourage his father to enter on the conversation with Philip in the
evening, for poor Mr. Edmonstone was in such a worry and perplexity,
that the whole space till the dinner-bell rang was insufficient to
console him in. Laura, meanwhile, was with Amabel, who was trying to
cheer her fluttering spirits and nerves, which, after having been so
long harassed, gave way entirely at the moment of meeting Philip again.
How would he regard her after her weakness in betraying him for want
of self-command? Might he not be wishing to be free of one who had so
disappointed him, and only persisting in the engagement from a sense of
honour! The confidence in his affection, which had hitherto sustained
her, was failing; and not all Amabel could say would reassure her. No
one could judge of him but herself, his words were so cautious, and he
had so much command over himself, that nobody could guess. Of course he
felt bound to her; but if she saw one trace of his being only influenced
by honour and pity, she would release him, and he should never see the
struggle.

She had worked herself up into almost a certainty that so it would be,
and Amabel was afraid she would not be fit to go down to dinner; but the
sound of the bell, and the necessity of moving, seemed to restore the
habit of external composure in a moment. She settled her countenance,
and left the room.

Charlotte, meantime, had been dressing alone, and raging against Philip,
declaring she could never bear to speak to him, and that if she was Amy
she would never have chosen him for a godfather. And to think of his
marrying just like a good hero in a book, and living very happy ever
after! To be sure she was sorry for poor Laura; but it was all very
wrong, and now they would be rewarded! How could Charlie be so provoking
as to talk about his sorrow! She hoped he was sorry; and as to his
illness, it served him right.

All this Charlotte communicated to Bustle; but Bustle had heard some
mysterious noise, and insisted on going to investigate the cause; and
Charlotte, finding her own domain dark and cold, and private conferences
going on in Amabel’s apartment and the dressing-room, was fain to follow
him down-stairs, as soon as her toilet was complete, only hoping Philip
would keep out of the way.

But, behold, there he was; and even Bustle was propitiated, for she
found him, his nose on Philip’s knee, looking up in his face, and
wagging his tail, while Philip stroked and patted him, and could hardly
bear the appealing expression of the eyes, that, always wistful, now
seemed to every one to be looking for his master.

To see this attention to Bustle won Charlotte over in a moment. ‘How are
you, Philip? Good dog, dear old Bustle!’ came in a breath, and they were
both making much of the dog, when she amicably asked if he had seen the
baby, and became eager in telling about the christening.

The dinner-bell brought every one down but Amabel. The trembling hands
of Philip and Laura met for a moment, and they were in the dining-room.

Diligently and dutifully did Charles and Mrs. Edmonstone keep up the
conversation; the latter about her shopping, the former about the
acquaintances who had come to speak to him as he sat in the carriage. As
soon as possible, Mrs. Edmonstone left the dining-room, then Laura flew
up again to the dressing-room, sank down on a footstool by Amabel’s
side, and exclaiming, ‘O Amy, he is looking so ill!’ burst into a flood
of tears.

The change had been a shock for which Laura had not been prepared.
Amy, who had seen him look so much worse, had not thought of it, and
it overcame Laura more than all her anxieties, lest his love should be
forfeited. She sobbed inconsolably over the alteration, and it was long
before Amabel could get her to hear that his face was much less thin
now, and that he was altogether much stronger; it was fatigue and
anxiety to-night, and to-morrow he would be better. Laura proceeded
to brood over her belief that his altered demeanour, his settled
melancholy, his not seeking her eye, his cold shake of the hand, all
arose from the diminution of his love, and his dislike to be encumbered
with a weak, foolish wife, with whom he had entangled himself when he
deemed her worthy of him. She dwelt on all this in silence, as she
sat at her sister’s feet, and Amy left her to think, only now and then
giving some caress to her hair or cheek, and at each touch the desolate
waste of life that poor Laura was unfolding before herself was rendered
less dreary by the thought, ‘I have my sister still, and she knows
sorrow too.’ Then she half envied Amy, who had lost her dearest by
death, and held his heart fast to the last; not, like herself, doomed to
see the love decay for which she had endured so long--decay at the very
moment when the suspense was over.

Laura might justly have envied Amabel, though for another reason; it was
because in her cup there was no poison of her own infusing.

There she stayed till Charlotte came to summon her to tea, saying the
gentlemen, except Charles, were still in the dining-room.

They had remained sitting over the fire for a considerable space,
waiting for each other to begin, Mr. Edmonstone irresolute, Philip
striving to master his feelings, and to prevent increasing pain and
confusion from making him forget what he intended, to say. At last, Mr.
Edmonstone started up, pulled out his keys, took a candle, and said,
‘Come to the study--I’ll give you the Redclyffe papers.’

‘Thank you,’ said Philip, also rising, but only because he could not sit
while his uncle stood. ‘Not to-night, if you please. I could not attend
to them.’

‘What, your head? Eh?’

‘Partly. Besides, there is another subject on which I hope you will set
me at rest before I can enter on any other.’

‘Yes--yes--I know,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, moving uneasily.

‘I am perfectly conscious how deeply I have offended.’

Mr. Edmonstone could not endure the apology.

‘Well, well,’ he broke in nervously, ‘I know all that, and it can’t be
helped. Say no more about it. Young people will be foolish, and I have
been young and in love myself.’

That Captain Morville should live to be thankful for being forgiven in
consideration of Mr. Edmonstone’s having been young!

‘May I then consider myself as pardoned, and as having obtained your
sanction?’

‘Yes, yes, yes; and I hope it will cheer poor Laura up again a little.
Four years has it gone on? Constancy, indeed! and it is time it should
be rewarded. We little thought what you were up to, so grave and demure
as you both were. So you won’t have the papers to-night? I can’t say
you do look fit for business. Perhaps Laura may suit you better--eh,
Philip?’

Love-making was such a charming sight to Mr. Edmonstone, that having
once begun to look on Philip and Laura as a pair of lovers, he could not
help being delighted, and forgetting, as well as forgiving, all that had
been wrong.

They did not, however, exactly answer his ideas; Laura did not once look
up, and Philip, instead of going boldly to take the place next her, sat
down, holding his hand to his forehead, as if too much overpowered by
indisposition to think of anything else. Such was in great measure the
case; he was very much fatigued with the journey, and these different
agitating scenes had increased the pain in his head to a violent degree;
besides which, feeling that his aunt still regarded him as she did
at Recoara, he could not bear to make any demonstration towards Laura
before her, lest she might think it a sort of triumphant disregard of
her just displeasure.

Poor Laura saw in it both severe suffering and dislike to her; and the
more she understood from her father’s manner what had passed in the
other room, the more she honoured him for the sacrifice he was making of
himself.

Mrs. Edmonstone waited on the headache with painful attention, but they
all felt that the only thing to be done for the two poor things was
to let them come to an explanation; so Charlotte was sent to bed, her
mother went up to Amy, Charles carried off his father to the study, and
they found themselves alone.

Laura held down her face, and struggled to make her palpitating heart
and dry tongue suffer her to begin the words to which she had wound
herself up. Philip raised his hands from his eyes as the door shut, then
rose up, and fixed them on Laura. She, too, looked up, as if to begin;
their eyes met, and they understood all. He stepped towards her, and
held out his hands. The next moment both hers were clasped in his--he
had bent down and kissed her brow.

No words of explanation passed between them. Laura knew he was her own,
and needed no assurance that her misgivings had been vain. There was a
start of extreme joy, such as she had known twice before, but it could
be only for a moment while he looked so wretchedly unwell. It did but
give her the right to attend to him. The first thing she said was to beg
him to lie down on the sofa; her only care was to make him comfortable
with cushions, and he was too entirely worn out to say anything he had
intended, capable only of giving himself up to the repose of knowing her
entirely his own, and of having her to take care of him. There he lay
on the sofa, with his eyes shut, and Laura’s hand in his, while she sat
beside him, neither of them speaking; and, excepting that she withdrew
her hand, neither moved when the others returned.

Mrs. Edmonstone compassionated him, and showed a great deal of
solicitude about him, trying hard to regard him as she used to do, yet
unable to bring back the feeling, and therefore, do what she would,
failing to wear its semblance.

Laura, sad, anxious, and restless, had no relief till she went to wish
her sister good night. Amabel, who was already in bed, stretched out her
hand with a sweet look, beaming with affection and congratulation.

‘You don’t want to be convinced now that all is right!’ said she.

‘His head is so dreadfully bad!’ said Laura.

‘Ah! it will get better now his mind is at rest.’

‘If it will but do so!’

‘And you know you must be happy to-morrow, because of baby.’

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, coming in, ‘I am sorry to prevent your
talk, but Amy must not be kept awake. She must keep her strength for
to-morrow.’

‘Good night, then, dear, dear Laura. I am so glad your trouble is over,
and you have him again!’ whispered Amabel, with her parting kiss; and
Laura went away, better able to hope, to pray, and to rest, than she
could have thought possible when she left the drawing-room.

‘Poor dear Laura,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, sighing; ‘I hope he will soon
be better.’

‘Has it been very uncomfortable?’

‘I can’t say much for it, my dear. He was suffering terribly with his
head, so that I should have been quite alarmed if he had not said it was
apt to get worse in the evening; and she, poor thing, was only watching
him. However, it is a comfort to have matters settled; and papa and
Charlie are well pleased with him. But I must not keep you awake after
driving Laura away. You are not over-tired to-night I hope, my dear?’

‘Oh, no; only sleepy. Good night, dearest mamma.’

‘Good night, my own Amy;’ then, as Amy put back the coverings to show
the little face nestled to sleep on her bosom, ‘good night, you little
darling! don’t disturb your mamma. How comfortable you look! Good night,
my dearest!’

Mrs. Edmonstone looked for a moment, while trying to check the tears
that came at the thought of the night, one brief year ago, when she left
Amy sleeping in the light of the Easter moon. Yet the sense of peace and
serenity that had then given especial loveliness to the maiden’s
chamber on that night, was there still with the young widow. It was dim
lamplight now that beamed on the portrait of her husband, casting on it
the shade of the little wooden cross in front, while she was shaded by
the white curtains drawn from her bed round the infant’s little cot,
so as to shut them both into the quiet twilight, where she lay with
an expression of countenance that, though it was not sorrow, made Mrs.
Edmonstone more ready to weep than if it had been; so with her last good
night she left her.

And Amabel always liked to be shut in by herself, dearly as she loved
them all, and mamma especially; there was always something pleasant in
being able to return to her own world, to rest in the thoughts of her
husband, and in the possession of the little unconscious creature that
had come to inhabit that inner world of hers, the creature that was only
his and hers.

She had from the first always felt herself less lonely when quite
alone, before with his papers, and now with his child; and could Mrs.
Edmonstone have seen her face, she would have wept and wondered more, as
Amy fondled and hushed her babe, whispering to it fond words which she
could never have uttered in the presence of any one who could understand
them, and which had much of her extreme youthfulness in them. Not one
was so often repeated or so endearing as ‘Guy’s baby! Guy’s own dear
little girl!’ It did not mean half so much when she called it her baby;
and she loved to tell the little one that her father had been the best
and the dearest, but he was gone away, and would she be contented to be
loving and good with only her mother to take care of her, and tell her,
as well as she could, what a father hers was, when she was old enough to
know about him?

To-night, Amy told her much in that soft, solemn, murmuring tone, about
what was to befall her to-morrow, and the great blessings to be given
to her, and how the poor little fatherless one would be embraced in the
arms of His mercy, and received by her great Father in heaven:--‘Ay, and
brought nearer to your own papa, and know him in some inner way, and he
will know his little child then, for you will be as good and pure and
bright as he, and you will belong to the great communion of saints
to-morrow, you precious little one, and be so much nearer to him as you
will be so much better than I. Oh! baby, if we can but both endure to
the end!’

With such half-uttered words, Amabel Morville slept the night before her
babe’s christening.



CHAPTER 41

     A stranger’s roof to hold thy head,
     A stranger’s foot thy grave to tread;
     Desert and rock, and Alp and sea,
     Spreading between thy home and thee.
                            --SEWELL


Mary Ross was eager for the first report from Hollywell the next
morning, and had some difficulty in keeping her attention fixed on her
class at school. Laura and Charlotte came in together in due time, and
satisfied her so far as to tell her that Amy was very well.

‘Is Captain Morville come?’ thought Mary. ‘No, I cannot guess by Laura’s
impressive face. Never mind, Charles will tell me all between services.’

The first thing she saw on coming out of school was the pony carriage,
with Charles and Captain Morville himself. Charlotte, who was all
excitement, had time to say, while her sister was out of hearing,--

‘It is all made up now, Mary, and I really am very sorry for Philip.’

It was fortunate that Mary understood the amiable meaning this speech
was intended to convey, and she began to enter into its grounds in the
short conference after church, when she saw the alteration in the whole
expression of countenance.

‘Yes,’ said Charles, who as usual remained at the vicarage during the
two services, and who perceived what passed in her mind, ‘if it is any
satisfaction to you to have a good opinion of your fellow-sponsor, I
assure you that I am converted to Amy’s opinion. I do believe the black
dog is off his back for good and all.’

‘I never saw any one more changed,’ said Mary.

‘Regularly tamed,’ said Charles. He is something more like his old self
to-day than last night, and yet not much. He was perfectly overpowered
then--so knocked up that there was no judging of him. To-day he has all
his sedateness and scrupulous attention, but all like a shadow of former
time--not a morsel of sententiousness, and seeming positively grateful
to be treated in the old fashion.’

‘He looks very thin and pale. Do you think him recovered?’

‘A good way from it,’ said Charles. ‘He is pretty well to-day,
comparatively, though that obstinate headache hangs about him. If this
change last longer than that and his white looks, I shall not even
grudge him the sponsorship Amy owed me.’

‘Very magnanimous!’ said Mary. ‘Poor Laura! I am glad her suspense is
over. I wondered to see her at school.’

‘They are very sad and sober lovers, and it is the best way of not
making themselves unbearable, considering--Well, that was a different
matter. How little we should have believed it, if any one had told us
last year what would be the state of affairs to-day. By the bye, Amy’s
godson is christened to-day.’

‘Who?’

‘Didn’t you hear that the Ashfords managed to get Amy asked if she would
dislike their calling their boy by that name we shall never hear again,
and she was very much pleased, and made offer in her own pretty way to
be godmother. I wonder how Markham endures it! I believe he is nearly
crazy. He wrote me word he should certainly have given up all concern
with Redclyffe, but for the especial desire of--.What a state of mind
he will be in, when he remembers how he has been abusing the captain to
me!’

The afternoon was fresh and clear, and there was a spring brightness in
the sunshine that Amabel took as a greeting to her little maiden, as
she was carried along the churchyard path. Many an eye was bent on the
mother and child, especially on the slight form, unseen since she had
last walked down the aisle, her arm linked in her bridegroom’s.

‘Little Amy Edmonstone,’ as they had scarcely learnt to cease from
calling her, before she was among them again, the widowed Lady Morville;
and with those kind looks of compassion for her, were joined many
affectionate mourning thoughts of the young husband and father, lying
far away in his foreign grave, and endeared by kindly remembrances to
almost all present. There was much of pity for his unconscious infant,
and tears were shed at the thought of what the wife must be suffering;
but if the face could have been seen beneath the thick crape folds
of her veil, it would have shown no tears--only a sweet, calm look of
peace, and almost gladness.

The babe was on her knees when the time for the christening came; she
was awake, and now and then making a little sound and as she was quieter
with her than any one else, Amabel thought she might herself carry her
to the font.

It was deep, grave happiness to stand there, with her child in her arms,
and with an undefined sense that she was not alone as if in some manner
her husband was present with her; praying with her prayers, and joining
in offering up their treasure; when the babe was received into Mr.
Ross’s arms, and Amy, putting back her veil, gazed up with a wistful but
serene look.

‘To her life’s end?’ Therewith came a vision of the sunrise at Recoara,
and the more glorious dawn that had shone in Guy’s dying smile, and
Amabel knew what would be her best prayer for his little Mary Verena, as
she took her back, the drops glistening on her brow, her eyes open, and
arms outspread. It was at that moment that Amabel was first thrilled
with a look in her child that was like its father. She had earnestly and
often sought a resemblance without being able honestly to own that she
perceived any; but now, though she knew not in what it consisted, there
was something in that baby face that recalled him more vividly than
picture or memory.

‘Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.’

Those words seemed to come from her own heart. She had brought Guy’s
daughter to be baptized, and completed his work of pardon, and she had a
yearning to be departing in peace, whither her sunshine was gone. But he
had told her not to wish that his child should be motherless; she had
to train her to be fit to meet him. The sunshine was past, but she
had plenty to do in the shade, and it was for his sake. She would,
therefore, be content to remain to fulfil her duties among the dear ones
to whom he had trusted her for comfort, and with the sense of renewed
communion with him that she had found in returning again to church.

So felt Amabel, as she entered into the calm that followed the one year
in which she had passed through the great events of life, and known the
chief joy and deepest grief that she could ever experience.

It was far otherwise with her sister. Laura’s term of trouble seemed to
be ending, and the spring of life beginning to dawn on her.

Doubt and fear were past, she and Philip were secure of each other,
he was pardoned, and they could be together without apprehension, or
playing tricks with their consciences; but she had as yet scarcely been
able to spend any time with him; and as Charles said, their ways were
far more grave and less lover-like than would have seemed natural after
their long separation.

In truth, romantic and uncalculating as their attachment was, they
never had been lover-like. They had never had any fears or doubts; her
surrender of her soul had been total, and every thought, feeling, and
judgment had taken its colour from him as entirely as if she had been a
wife of many years’ standing. She never opened her mind to perceive that
he had led her to act wrongly, and all her unhappiness had been from
anxiety for him, not repentance on her own account; for so complete was
her idolatry, that she entirely overlooked her failure in duty to her
parents.

It took her by surprise when, as they set out together that evening to
walk home from East-hill, he said, as soon as they were apart from the
village--

‘Laura, you have more to forgive than all.’

‘Don’t, speak so, Philip, pray don’t. Do you think I would not have
borne far more unhappiness willingly for your sake? Is it not all
forgotten as if it had not been?’

‘It is not unhappiness I meant,’ he replied, ‘though I cannot bear
to think of what you have undergone. Unhappiness enough have I caused
indeed. But I meant, that you have to forgive the advantage I took of
your reliance on me to lead you into error, when you were too young to
know what it amounted to.’

‘It was not an engagement,’ faltered Laura.

‘Laura, don’t, for mercy’s sake, recall my own hateful sophistries,’
exclaimed Philip, as if unable to control the pain it gave him; ‘I have
had enough of that from my sister;’ then softening instantly: ‘it was
self-deceit; a deception first of myself, then of you. You had not
experience enough to know whither I was leading you, till I had involved
you; and when the sight of death showed me the fallacy of the salve to
my conscience, I had nothing for it but to confess, and leave you to
bear the consequences. O Laura! when I think of my conduct towards you,
it seems even worse than that towards--towards your brother-in-law!’

His low, stern tone of bitter suffering and self-reproach was something
new and frightful to Laura. She clung to his arm and tried to say--‘O,
don’t speak in that way! You know you meant the best. You could not help
being mistaken.’

‘If I did know any such thing, Laura! but the misery of perceiving that
my imagined anxiety for his good,--his good, indeed! was but a cloak for
my personal enmity--you can little guess it.’

Laura tried to say that appearances were against Guy, but he would not
hear.

‘If they were, I triumphed in them. I see now that a shade of honest
desire to see him exculpated would have enabled me to find the clue. If
I had gone to St. Mildred’s at once--interrogated him as a friend--seen
Wellwood--but dwelling on the _ifs_ of the last two years can bring
nothing but distraction,’ he added, pausing suddenly.

‘And remember,’ said Laura, ‘that dear Guy himself was always grateful
to you. He always upheld that you acted for his good. Oh! the way he
took it was the one comfort I had last year.’

‘The acutest sting, and yet the only balm,’ murmured Philip; ‘see,
Laura,’ and he opened the first leaf of Guy’s prayer-book, which he had
been using at the christening.

A whispered ‘Dear Guy!’ was the best answer she could make, and the
tears were in her eyes. ‘He was so very kind to me, when he saw me that
unhappy wedding-day.’

‘Did Amy tell you his last words to me?’

‘No,’ said Laura.

‘God bless you and my sister!’ he repeated, so low that she could hardly
hear.

‘Amy left that for you to tell,’ said Laura, as her tears streamed fast.
How can we speak of her, Philip?’

‘Only as an angel of pardon and peace!’ he answered.

‘I don’t know how to tell you of all her kindness,’ said Laura; ‘half
the bitterness of it seemed to be over when once she was in the house
again, and, all the winter, going into her room was like going into some
peaceful place where one must find comfort.’

‘“Spirits of peace, where are ye” I could have said, when I saw her
drive away at Recoara, and carry all good angels with her except those
that could not but hover round that grave.’

‘How very sad it must have been! Did--’

‘Don’t speak of it; don’t ask me of it’ said Philip, hastily. ‘There
is nothing in my mind but a tumult of horror and darkness that it is
madness to remember. Tell me of yourself--tell me that you have not been
hurt by all that I have brought on you.’

‘Oh, no!’ said Laura ‘besides, that is all at an end.’

‘All an end! Laura, I fear in joining your fate to mine, you will find
care and grief by no means at an end. You must be content to marry a
saddened, remorseful man, broken down in health and spirits, his
whole life embittered by that fatal remembrance, forced to endure an
inheritance that seems to have come like the prosperity of the wicked.
Yet you are ready to take all this? Then, Laura, that precious, most
precious love, that has endured through all, will be the one drop of
comfort through the rest of my life.

She could but hear such words with thrills of rejoicing affection; and
on they walked, Laura trembling and struck with sorrow at the depth of
repentance he now and then disclosed, though not in the least able to
fathom it, thinking it all his nobleness of mind, justifying him to
herself, idolizing him too much to own he had ever been wrong; yet the
innate power of tact and sympathy teaching her no longer to combat
his self-reproaches, and repeat his former excuses, but rather to say
something soothing and caressing, or put in some note of thankfulness
and admiration of Amy and Guy. This was the best thing she could do
for him, as she was not capable, like Amy, of acknowledging that his
repentance was well-founded. She was a nurse, not a physician, to
the wounded spirit; but a very good and gentle nurse she was, and the
thorough enjoyment of her affection and sympathy, the opening into
confidence, and the freedom from doubt and suspense, were comforts that
were doing him good every hour.

The christening party consisted only of the Rosses, and Dr. Mayerne,
who had joined them at East-hill church, and walked home with Mr.
Edmonstone. They could not have been without him, so grateful were they
for his kindness all through their anxious winter, and Mr. Edmonstone
was well pleased to tell him on the way home that they might look to
having a wedding in the family; it had been a very long attachment,
constancy as good as a story, and he could all along have told what was
the matter, when mamma was calling in the doctor to account for Laura’s
looking pale.

The doctor was not surprised at the news, for perhaps he, too, had had
some private theory about those pale looks; but, knowing pretty well
the sentiments Charles had entertained the winter before last, he was
curious to find out how he regarded this engagement. Charles spoke of
it in the most ready cordial way. ‘Well, doctor, so you have heard our
news! I flatter myself we have as tall and handsome a pair of lovers to
exhibit here, as any in the United Kingdom, when we have fattened him a
little into condition.’

‘Never was there a better match,’ said Dr. Mayerne. ‘Made for each
other all along. One could not see them without feeling it was the first
chapter of a novel.’

When Mrs. Edmonstone came in, the doctor was a little taken aback. He
thought her mind must be with poor Sir Guy, and was afraid the lovers
had been in such haste as to pain Lady Morville; for there was a
staidness and want of “epanchement du coeur” of answering that was very
unlike her usual warm manner. At dinner, Mr. Edmonstone was in high
spirits, delighted at Amy’s recovery, happy to have a young man about
the house again, charmed to see two lovers together, pleased that Laura
should be mistress of Redclyffe, since it could not belong to Amy’s
child; altogether, as joyous as ever. His wife, being at ease about Amy,
did her best to smile, and even laugh, though sad at heart all the time,
as she missed the father from the christening feast, and thought how
happy she had been in that far different reunion last year. It might be
the same with Charles; but the outward effect was exhibited in lively
nonsense; Charlotte’s spirits were rising fast, and only Philip and
Laura themselves were grave and silent, she, the more so, because she
was disappointed to find that the one walk back from East-hill, much as
he had enjoyed it, had greatly tired Philip. However, the others talked
enough without them; and Mr. Edmonstone was very happy, drinking the
health of Miss Morville, and himself carrying a bit of the christening
cake to the mamma in the drawing-room.

There sat Amabel by the fire, knowing that from henceforth she must
exert herself to take part in the cheerfulness of the house, and willing
to join the external rejoicing in her child’s christening, or at least
not to damp it by remaining up-stairs. Yet any one but Mr. Edmonstone
would have seen more sadness than pleasure in the sweet smile with
which she met and thanked him; but they were cheerful tones in which she
replied, and in her presence everything was hushed and gentle, subdued,
yet not mournful. The spirit of that evening was only recognized after
it was past, and then it ever grew fairer and sweeter in recollection,
so as never to be forgotten by any of those who shared it.



CHAPTER 42

     She was not changed when sorrow came,
       That awed the sternest men;
     It rather seemed she kept her flame
       To comfort us till then.

     But sorrow passed, and others smiled
       With happiness once more;
     And she drew back the spirit mild
       She still had been before.
                              --S. R.


Philip’s marriage could not take place at once. No one said, but every
one felt, that it must not be talked of till the end of Amabel’s first
year of widowhood; and in the meantime Philip remained at Hollywell,
gaining strength every day, making more progress in one week than he had
done in six at St. Mildred’s, finding that, as his strength returned,
his mind and memory regained their tone, and he was as capable as ever
of applying to business, and, above all, much settled and comforted by
some long conversations with Mr. Ross.

Still he could not endure the thought of being at Redclyffe. The
business connected with it was always performed with pain and dislike,
and he shrank with suffering at every casual mention of his going
thither. Mrs. Edmonstone began to wonder whether he could mean to linger
at Hollywell all the summer, and Amabel had some fears that it would end
in his neglecting Redclyffe, till a letter arrived from Lord Thorndale,
saying that his brother, the member for Moorworth, had long been
thinking of giving up his seat, and latterly had only waited in
hopes that the succession at Redclyffe might come to Philip Morville.
Moorworth was entirely under the Thorndale and Morville interest, and
Lord Thorndale wrote to propose that Philip should come forward at once,
inviting him to Thorndale instead of going to his own empty house.

To be in parliament had been one of the favourite visions of Philip’s
youth, and for that very reason he hesitated, taking it as one of the
strange fulfilments of his desires that had become punishments. He could
not but feel that as this unhappy load of wealth had descended on him,
he was bound to make it as beneficial as he could to others, and not
seeking for rest or luxury, to stand in the gap where every good man and
true was needed. But still he dreaded his old love of distinction. He
disliked a London life for Laura, and he thought that, precarious as
his health had become, it might expose her to much anxiety, since he
was determined that if he undertook it at all, he would never be an idle
member.

It ended in his referring the decision to Laura, who, disliking London,
fearful for his health, eager for his glory, and reluctant to keep back
such a champion from the battle, was much perplexed, only desirous to
say what he wished, yet not able to make out what that might be. She
carried her doubts to Charles and Amabel, who both pronounced that the
thought of going to Redclyffe seemed far worse for him than any degree
of employment--that occupation of the mind was the best thing for his
spirits; and ended by recommending that Dr. Mayerne should be consulted.

He was of the same opinion. He said a man could hardly have two fevers
following, and one of them upon the brain, without having reason to
remember them. That his constitution had been seriously weakened, and
there was an excitability of brain and nerves which made care requisite;
but depression of spirits was the chief thing to guard against, and a
London life, provided he did not overwork himself, was better for him
than solitude at Redclyffe.

Accordingly Philip went to Thorndale, and was returned for Moorworth
without opposition. Markham sent his nephew to transact business with
him at Thorndale, for he could not bear to meet him himself, and while
there was any prospect of his coming to Redclyffe, walked about in
paroxysms of grunting and ill-humour. The report that Mr. Morville was
engaged to the other Miss Edmonstone did but render him more furious,
for he regarded it as a sort of outrage to Lady Morville’s feelings
that a courtship should be carried on in the house with her. She was at
present the object of all his devoted affection for the family, and he
would not believe, but that she had been as much disappointed at the
birth of her daughter, as he was himself. He would not say one word
against Mr. Morville, but looked and growled enough to make Mr. Ashford
afraid that the new squire would find him very troublesome.

The Ashfords were in a state of mind themselves to think that Mr.
Morville ought to be everything excellent to make up for succeeding Sir
Guy; but having a very high opinion of him to begin with, they were very
sorry to find all Redclyffe set against him. In common with the parish,
they were very anxious for the first report of his arrival and at length
he came. James Thorndale, as before, drove him thither, coming to the
Ashfords while he was busy with Markham. He would not go up to the Park,
he only went through some necessary business with Markham, and then
walked down to the Cove, afterwards sitting for about ten minutes in
Mrs. Ashford’s drawing-room.

The result of the visit was that old James Robinson reported that the
new squire took on as much about poor Sir Guy as any one could do, and
turned as pale as if he had been going into a swoon, when he spoke his
name and gave Ben his message. And as to poor Ben, the old man said, he
regularly did cry like a child, and small blame to him, to hear that
Sir Guy had took thought of him at such a time and so far away; and he
verily believed Ben could never take again to his bad ways, after such a
message as that.

Markham was gruff with the Robinsons for some time after and was even
heard to mutter something about worshipping the rising sun, an act of
idolatry of which he could not be accused, since it was in the most
grudging manner that he allowed, that Mr. Morville’s sole anxiety seemed
to be to continue all Sir Guy had undertaken; while Mrs. Ashford, on the
other hand was much affected by the account her cousin James had been
giving her of the grief that he had suffered at Sir Guy’s death, his
long illness, his loss of spirits, the reluctance he had shown to come
here at all, and his present unconquerable dread of going to the Park.

He was soon after in London, where, as far as could be judged in such
early days, he seemed likely to distinguish himself according to the
fondest hopes that Margaret or Laura could ever have entertained. Laura
was only afraid he was overworking himself, especially as, having at
present little command of ready money, he lived in a small lodging, kept
no horse, and did not enter into society; but she was reassured when
he came to Hollywell for a day or two at Whitsuntide, not having indeed
regained flesh or colour, but appearing quite well, in better spirits,
and very eager about political affairs.

All would have been right that summer, but that, as Philip observed, the
first evening of his arrival, Amabel was not looking as well as she had
done at the time of the christening. She had, just after it, tried
her strength and spirits too much, and had ever since been not exactly
unwell, but sad and weary, more dejected than ever before, unable to
bear the sight of flowers or the sound of music, and evidently suffering
much under the recurrence of the season, which had been that of
her great happiness--the summer sunshine, the long evenings, the
nightingale’s songs. She was fatigued by the most trifling exertion, and
seemed able to take interest in nothing but her baby, and a young widow
in the village, who was in a decline; and though she was willing to do
all that was asked of her, it was in a weary, melancholy manner, as if
she had no peace but in being allowed to sit alone, drooping over her
child.

From society she especially shrunk, avoiding every chance of meeting
visitors, and distressed and harassed when her father brought home some
of his casual dinner guests, and was vexed not to see her come into the
drawing-room in the evening. If she did make the effort of coming, to
please him, she was so sure to be the worse for it, that her mother
would keep her up-stairs the next time, and try to prevent her from
knowing that her father was put out, and declared it was nonsense to
expect poor Amy to get up her spirits, while she never saw a living
soul, and only sat moping in the dressing-room.

A large dinner-party did not interfere with her, for even he could not
expect her to appear at it, and one of these he gave during Philip’s
visit, for the pleasure of exhibiting such company as the M.P. for
Moorworth. After dinner, Charlotte told Mary Ross to go and see Amy.
Not finding her in the dressing-room, she knocked at her own door. ‘Come
in,’ answered the low soft voice; and in the window, overhung by the
long shoots of the roses, Amabel’s close cap and small head were seen
against the deep-blue evening sky, as she sat in the summer twilight,
her little one asleep in her cot.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said she. ‘I thought you would not mind sitting
here with baby and me. I have sent Anne out walking.’

‘How pretty she looks!’ said Mary, stooping over the infant. ‘Sleep is
giving her quite a colour; and how fast she grows!’

‘Poor little woman!’ said Amy, sighing.

‘Tired, Amy?’ said Mary, sitting down, and taking up the little
lambswool shoe, that Amy had been knitting.

‘N--no, thank you,’ said Amy, with another sigh.

‘I am afraid you are. You have been walking to Alice Lamsden’s again.’

‘I don’t think that tires me. Indeed, I believe the truth is,’ and her
voice sounded especially sad in the subdued tone in which she spoke,
that she might not disturb the child, ‘I am not so much tired with what
I do, which is little enough, as of the long, long life that is before
me.’

Mary’s heart was full, but she did not show her thought otherwise than
by a look towards the babe.

‘Yes, poor little darling,’ said Amabel, ‘I know there is double
quantity to be done for her, but I am so sorry for her, when I think she
must grow up without knowing him.’

‘She has you, though,’ Mary could not help saying, as she felt that
Amabel was superior to all save her husband.

Perhaps Amy did not hear; she went up to the cot, and went on:--‘If he
had but once seen her, if she had but had one kiss, one touch that I
could tell her of by and by, it would not seem as if she was so very
fatherless. Oh no, baby, I must wait, that you may know something about,
him; for no one else can tell you so well what he was, though I can’t
tell much!’ She presently returned to her seat. ‘No, I don’t believe I
really wish I was like poor Alice,’ said she; ‘I hope not; I am sure I
don’t for her sake. But, Mary, I never knew till I was well again how
much I had reckoned on dying when she was born. I did not think I was
wishing it, but it seemed likely, and I was obliged to arrange things
in case of it. Then somehow, as he came back last spring, after that sad
winter, it seemed as if this spring, though he would not come back to
me, I might be going to him.’

‘But then she comforted you.’

‘Yes, that she did, my precious one; I was so glad of her, it was a sort
of having him again, and so it is still sometimes, and will be more so,
I dare say. I am very thankful for her, indeed I am; and I hope I am not
repining, for it does not signify after all, in the end, if I am weary
and lonely sometimes. I wish I was sure it was not wrong. I know I don’t
wish to alter things.’

‘No, I am sure you don’t.’

‘Ah!’ said Amabel, smiling, ‘it is only the old, silly little Amy that
does feel such a heart-aching and longing for one glance of his eye, or
touch of his hand, or sound of his foot in the passage. Oh, Mary, the
worst of all is to wake up, after dreaming I have heard his voice. There
is nothing for it but to take our baby and hold her very tight.’

‘Dearest Amy! But you are not blaming yourself for these feelings. It
might be wrong to indulge them and foster them; but while you struggle
with them, they can’t in themselves be wrong.’

‘I hope not,’ said Amabel pausing to think. ‘Yes, I have “the joy” at
the bottom still; I know it is all quite right, and it came straight
from heaven, as he said. I can get happy very often when I am by myself,
or at church, with him; it is only when I miss his bright outside
and can’t think myself into the inner part, that it is so forlorn and
dreary. I can do pretty well alone. Only I wish I could help being so
troublesome and disagreeable to everybody’ said Amy, concluding in a
matter-of-fact tone.

‘My dear!’ said Mary, almost laughing.

‘It is so stupid of me to be always poorly, and making mamma anxious
when there’s nothing the matter with me. And I know I am a check on
them down-stairs--papa, and Charlotte, and all--they are very kind,
considerate, and yet’--she paused--‘and it is a naughty feeling; but
when I feel all those dear kind eyes watching me always, and wanting me
to be happy, it is rather oppressive, especially when I can’t; but if I
try not to disappoint them, I do make such a bad hand of it, and am sure
to break down afterwards, and that grieves mamma all the more.’

‘It will be better when this time of year is over,’ said Mary.

‘Perhaps, yes. He always seemed to belong to summer days, and to come
with them. Well, I suppose trials always come in a different shape from
what one expects; for I used to think I could bear all the doom with
him, but, I did not know it would be without him, and yet that is the
best. Oh, baby!’

‘I should not have come to disturb her.’

‘No--never mind; she never settles fairly to sleep till we are shut in
by ourselves. Hush! hush, darling--No? Will nothing do but being taken
up? Well, then, there! Come, and show your godmamma what a black fringe
those little wakeful eyes are getting.’

And when Mary went down it was with the conviction that those black
eyelashes, too marked to be very pretty in so young a babe, were more of
a comfort to Amabel than anything she could say.

The evening wore on, and at length Laura came into her sister’s room.
She looked fagged and harassed, the old face she used to wear in the
time of disguise and secrecy, Amabel asked if it had been a tiresome
party.

‘Yes--no--I don’t know. Just like others,’ said Laura.

‘You are tired, at any rate,’ said Amabel. ‘You took too long a ride
with Philip. I saw you come in very late.’

‘I am not in the least tired, thank you.’

‘Then he is,’ said Amabel. ‘I hope he has not one of his headaches
again.’

‘No,’ said Laura, still in a dissatisfied, uncomfortable tone.

‘No? Dear Laura, I am sure there is something wrong;’ and with a little
more of her winning, pleading kindness, she drew from Laura that Philip
had told her she idolized him. He had told her so very gently and
kindly, but he had said she idolized him in a manner that was neither
good for herself nor him; and he went on to blame himself for it, which
was what she could not bear. It had been rankling in her mind ever since
that he had found fault with her for loving him so well, and it had
made her very unhappy. She _could_ not love him less, and how should she
please him? She had much rather he had blamed her than himself.

‘I think I see what he means’ said Amy, thoughtfully. ‘He has grown
afraid of himself, and afraid of being admired now.’

‘But how am I to help that, Amy?’ said Laura, with tears in her eyes:
‘he cannot help being the first, the very first of all with me--’

‘No, no,’ said Amy, quickly, ‘not the very first, or what would you do
if you were to be--like me? Don’t turn away, dear Laura; I don’t think
I over could bear this at all, if dear Guy had not kept it always before
my eyes from the very first that we were to look to something else
besides each other.’

‘Of course I meant the first earthly thing,’ said Laura; but it was not
heartfelt--she knew she ought, therefore she thought she did.

‘And so,’ proceeded Amy, ‘I think if that other is first, it would make
you have some other standard of right besides himself, then you would be
a stay and help to him. I think that is what he means.’

‘Amy! let me ask you,’ said Laura, a little entreatingly, yet as if she
must needs put the question--‘surely, you never thought Guy had faults?’

Her colour deepened. ‘Yes, Laura,’ she answered, firmly. ‘I could not
have understood his repentance if I had not thought so. And, dear
Laura, if you will forgive me for saying it, it would be much better for
yourself and Philip if you would see the truth.’

‘I thought you forgave him,’ murmured Laura.

‘Oh, Laura! but does not that word “forgive” imply something? I could
not have done anything to comfort him that day, if I had not believed
he had something to be comforted for. It can’t be pleasant to him to see
you think his repentance vain.’

‘It is noble and great.’

‘But if it was not real, it would be thrown away. Besides, dear Laura,
do let me say this for once. If you would but understand that you let
him lead you into what was not right, and be really sorry for that, and
show mamma that you are, I do think it would all begin much more happily
when you are married.’

‘I could never have told, till I was obliged to betray myself,’ said
Laura. ‘You know, Amy, it was no engagement. We never wrote to each
other, we had but one walk; it was no business of his to speak till he
could hope for papa’s consent to our marriage. It would have been all
confusion if he had told, and that would have been only that we had
always loved each other with all our hearts, which every one knew
before.’

‘Yet, Laura, it was what preyed on him when he thought he was dying.’

‘Because it was the only thing like a fault he could think of,’ said
Laura, excited by this shade of blame to defend him vehemently--‘because
his scruples are high and noble and generous.’

She spoke so eagerly, that the baby’s voice again broke on the
conversation, and she was obliged to go away; but though her idolatry
was complete, it did not seem to give full satisfaction or repose. As to
Philip, though his love for her was unchanged, it now and then was
felt, though not owned by him, that she was not fully a helpmeet, only
a ‘Self’; not such a ‘Self’ as he had left at St. Mildred’s, but still
reflecting on him his former character, instead of aiding him to a new
one.



CHAPTER 43

     But nature to its inmost part
     Faith had refined; and to her heart
       A peaceful cradle given,
     Calm as the dew drops free to rest
     Within a breeze-fanned rose’s breast
       Till it exhales to heaven.
                             --WORDSWORTH


It had long been a promise that Mr. Edmonstone should take Charlotte to
visit her grandmamma, in Ireland. They would have gone last autumn,
but for Guy’s illness, and now Aunt Charlotte wrote to hasten the
performance of the project. Lady Mabel was very anxious to see them,
she said; and having grown much more infirm of late, seemed to think
it would be the last meeting with her son. She talked so much of Mrs.
Edmonstone and Laura, that it was plain that she wished extremely for a
visit from them, though she did not like to ask it, in the present state
of the family.

A special invitation was sent to Bustle; indeed, Charles said Charlotte
could not have gone without his permission, for he reigned like a tyrant
over her, evidently believing her created for no purpose but to wait on
him, and take him to walk.

Laura was a great favourite at the cottage of Kilcoran, and felt she
ought to offer to go. Philip fully agreed, and held out home hopes of
following as soon as the session, was over, and he had been to Redclyffe
about some business that had been deferred too long.

And now it appeared that Mr. Edmonstone had a great desire to take
his wife, and she herself said, that under any other circumstances she
should have been very desirous of going. She had not been to Ireland
for fifteen years, and was sorry to have seen so little of her
mother-in-law; and now that it had been proved that Charles could exist
without her, she would not have hesitated to leave him, but for Amabel’s
state of health and spirits, which made going from home out of the
question.

Charles and Amabel did not think so. It was not to be endured, that when
grandmamma wished for her, she should stay at home for them without real
necessity; besides, the fatigue, anxiety, and sorrow she had undergone
of late, had told on her, and had made her alter perceptibly, from being
remarkably fresh and youthful, to be somewhat aged; and the change to a
new scene, where she could not be distressing herself at every failure
in cheerfulness of poor Amy’s, was just the thing to do her good.

Amabel was not afraid of the sole charge of Charles or of the baby, for
she had been taught but too well to manage for herself, she understood
Charles very well, and had too much quiet good sense to be fanciful
about her very healthy baby. Though she was inexperienced, with old
nurse hard by, and Dr. Mayerne at Broadstone, there was no fear of
her not having good counsel enough. She was glad to be of some use, by
enabling her mother to leave Charles, and her only fear was of being
dull company for him; but as he was so kind as to bear it, she would
do her best, and perhaps their neighbours would come and enliven him
sometimes.

Charles threw his influence into the same scale. His affectionate
observation had shown him that it oppressed Amabel’s spirits to be the
object of such constant solicitude, and he was convinced it would be
better for her, both to have some necessary occupation and to be free
from that perpetual mournful watching of her mother’s that caused her
to make the efforts to be cheerful which did her more harm than anything
else.

To let her alone to look and speak as she pleased without the fear of
paining and disappointing those she loved, keep the house quiet, and
give her the employment of household cares and attending on himself,
was, he thought, the best thing for her; and he was full of eagerness
and pleasure at the very notion of being of service to her, if only by
being good for nothing but to be waited on. He thought privately that
the spring of his mother’s mind had been so much injured by the grief
she had herself suffered for ‘her son Guy,’ her cruel disappointment in
Laura, and the way in which she threw herself into all Amy’s affliction,
that there was a general depression in her way of observing and
attending Amy, which did further harm; and that to change the current of
her thoughts, and bring her home refreshed and inspirited, would be the
beginning of improvement in all. Or, as he expressed it to Dr. Mayerne,
‘We shall set off on a new tack.’

His counsel and Mr. Edmonstone’s wishes at length decided mamma, on
condition that Mary Ross and Dr. Mayerne would promise to write on
alternate weeks a full report, moral and physical, as Charles called
it. So in due time the goods were packed, Mrs. Edmonstone cried heartily
over the baby, advised Amabel endlessly about her, and finally looked
back through her tears, as she drove away, to see Charles nodding and
waving his hand at the bay-window, and Amabel standing with her parting
smile and good-bye on the steps.

The reports, moral and physical, proved that Charles had judged wisely.
Amabel was less languid as she had more cause for exertion, and
seemed relieved by the absence of noise and hurry, spending more time
down-stairs, and appearing less weary in the evening. She still avoided
the garden, but she began to like short drives with her brother in the
pony-carriage, when he drove on in silence, and let her lean back and
gaze up into the sky, or into the far distance, undisturbed. Now
and then he would be rejoiced by a bright, genuine smile, perfectly
refreshing, at some of the pretty ways of the babe, a small but plump
and lively creature, beginning to grasp with her hands, laugh and gaze
about with eyes that gave promise of the peculiar colour and brilliancy
of her father’s. Amabel was afraid she might be tempted into giving
Charles too much of the little lady’s society; but he was very fond of
her, regarding her with an odd mixture of curiosity and amusement, much
entertained with watching what he called her unaccountable manners,
and greatly flattered when he could succeed in attracting her notice.
Indeed, the first time she looked full at him with a smile on the verge
of a laugh, it completely overcame him, by the indescribably forcible
manner in which it suddenly recalled the face which had always shone on
him like a sunbeam. Above all, it was worth anything to see the looks
she awoke in her mother, for which he must have loved her, even had she
not been Guy’s child.

In the evening, especially on Sunday, Amabel would sometimes talk to him
as she had never yet been able to do, about her last summer’s journey,
and her stay at Recoara, and his way of listening and answering had in
it something that gave her great pleasure; while, on his side, he deemed
each fresh word of Guy’s a sort of treasure for which to be grateful
to her. The brother and sister were a great help and happiness to each
other; Amabel found herself restored to Charles, as Guy had liked to
think of her, and Charles felt as if the old childish fancies were
fulfilled, in which he and Amy were always to keep house together. He
was not in the least dull; and though his good-natured visitors in the
morning were welcome, and received with plenty of his gay lively talk,
he did not by any means stand in need of the compassion they felt for
him, and could have done very well without them; while the evenings
alone with Amy had in them something so pleasant that they were almost
better than those when Mr. Ross and Mary came to tea. He wrote word to
his mother that she might be quite at ease about them, and he thought
Amy would get through the anniversaries of September better while the
house was quiet, so that she need not think of trying to hurry home.

He was glad to have done so, for the letters, which scarcely missed a
day in being written by his mother and Charlotte, seemed to show that
their stay was likely to be long. Lady Mabel was more broken than they
had expected, and claimed a long visit, as she was sure it would be
their last, while the Kilcoran party had taken possession of Laura and
Charlotte, as if they never meant to let them go. Charlotte wrote her
brother very full and very droll accounts of the Iricisms around her
which she enjoyed thoroughly, and Charles, declaring he never expected
to see little Charlotte come out in the character of the facetious
correspondent, used to send Mary Ross into fits of laughing by what he
read to her. Mr. Fielder, the tutor, wrote Charlotte, was very nearly
equal to Eveleen’s description of him, but very particularly agreeable,
in fact, the only man who had any conversation, whom she had seen since
she had been at Kilcoran.

‘Imagine,’ said Charles, ‘the impertinent little puss setting up for
intellectual conversation, forsooth!’

‘That’s what comes of living with good company,’ said Mary.

The brother and sister used sometimes to drive to Broadstone to fetch
their letters by the second post.

‘Charlotte, of course,’ said Charles, as he opened one. ‘My Lady
Morville, what’s yours?’

‘Only Mr. Markham,’ said Amabel, ‘about the winding up of our business
together, I suppose. What does Charlotte say?’

‘Charlotte is in a fit of impudence, for which she deserves
chastisement,’ said Charles, unable to help laughing, as he read,--

‘Our last event was a call from the fidus Achates, who, it seems, can no
longer wander up and down the Mediterranean without his pius Aeneas,
and so has left the army, and got a diplomatic appointment somewhere in
Germany. Lord Kilcoran has asked him to come and stay here, and Mabel
and I are quite sure he comes for a purpose. Of course he has chosen
this time, in order that he may be able to have his companion before his
eyes, as a model for courtship, and I wish I had you to help me look
on whenever Philip comes, as that laugh I must enjoy alone with Bustle.
However, when Philip will come we cannot think, for we have heard
nothing of him this age, not even Laura, and she is beginning to look
very anxious about him. Do tell us if you know anything about him.
The last letter was when parliament was prorogued, and he was going to
Redclyffe, at least three weeks ago.’

‘I wonder if Mr. Markham mentions him,’ said Amabel, hastily unfolding
her letter, which was, as she expected, about the executors’ business,
but glancing on to the end, she exclaimed,--

‘Ah! here it is. Listen, Charlie. “Mr. Morville has been here for
the last few weeks, and is, I fear, very unwell. He has been entirely
confined to the house, almost ever since his arrival, by violent
headache, which has completely disabled him from attending to business;
but he will not call in any advice. I make a point of going to see him
every day, though I believe my presence is anything but acceptable, as
in his present state of health and spirits, I cannot think it right that
he should be left to servants.” Poor fellow! Redclyffe has been too much
for him.’

‘Over-worked, I suppose,’ said Charles. ‘I thought he was coming it
pretty strong these last few weeks.’

‘Not even writing to Laura! How very bad he must be! I will write at
once to ask Mr. Markham for more particulars.’

She did so, and on the third day they drove again to fetch the answer.
It was a much worse account. Mr. Morville was, said Markham, suffering
dreadfully from headache, and lay on the sofa all day, almost unable to
speak or move, but resolved against having medical advice, though his
own treatment of himself did not at all succeed in relieving him. There
was extreme depression of spirits, and an unwillingness to see any one.
He had positively refused to admit either Lord Thorndale or Mr. Ashford,
and would hardly bear to see Markham himself, who, indeed, only forced
his presence on him from thinking it unfit to leave him entirely to the
servants, and would be much relieved if some of Mr. Morville’s friends
were present to free him from the responsibility.

‘Hem!’ said Charles. ‘I can’t say it sounds comfortable.’

‘It is just as I feared!’ said Amy. ‘Great excitability of brain and
nerve, Dr. Mayerne said. All the danger of a brain fever again! Poor
Laura! What is to be done?’

Charles was silent.

‘It is for want of some one to talk to him,’ said Amabel. ‘I know how
he broods over his sad recollections, and Redclyffe must make it so much
worse. If mamma and Laura were but at home to go to him, it might save
him, and it would be fearful for him to have another illness, reduced as
he is. How I wish he was here!’

‘He cannot come, I suppose,’ said Charles, ‘or he would be in Ireland.’

‘Yes. How well Guy knew when he said it would be worse for him than for
me! How I wish I could do something now to make up for running away from
him in Italy. If I was but at Redclyffe!’

‘Do you really wish it?’ said Charles, surprised.

‘Yes, if I could do him any good.’

‘Would you go there?’

‘If I had but papa or mamma to go with me.’

‘Do you think I should do as well?’

‘Charlie!’

‘If you think there would be any use in it, and choose to take the
trouble of lugging me about the country, I don’t see why you should
not.’

‘Oh! Charlie, how very, kind! How thankful poor Laura will be to you! I
do believe it will save him!’ cried Amabel, eagerly.

‘But, Amy,’--he paused--‘shall you like to see Redclyffe?’

‘Oh! that is no matter,’ said she, quickly. ‘I had rather see after
Philip than anything. I told you how he was made my charge, you know.
And Laura! Only will it not be too tiring for you?’

‘I can’t see how it should hurt me. But I forget, what is to be done
about your daughter?’

‘I don’t know what harm it could do her,’ said Amy, considering. ‘Mrs.
Gresham brought a baby of only three months old from Scotland the other
day, and she is six. It surely cannot hurt her, but we will ask Dr.
Mayerne.’

‘Mamma will never forgive us if we don’t take the doctor into our
councils.’

‘Arnaud can manage for us. We would sleep in London, and go on by an
early train, and we can take our--I mean my--carriage, for the journey
after the railroad. It would not be too much for you. How soon could we
go?’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Charles. ‘If we are to do him any good, it
must be speedily, or it will be a case of shutting the stable-door. Why
not to-morrow?’

The project was thoroughly discussed that evening, but still with the
feeling as if it could not be real, and when they parted at night they
said,--‘We will see how the scheme looks in the morning.’

Charles was still wondering whether it was a dream, when the first thing
he heard in the court below his window was--

‘Here, William, here’s a note from my lady for you to take to Dr.
Mayerne.’

‘They be none of them ill?’ answered William’s voice.

‘O no; my lady has been up this hour, and Mr. Charles has rung his bell.
Stop, William, my lady said you were to call at Harris’s and bring home
a “Bradshaw”.’

Reality, indeed, thought Charles, marvelling at his sister, and his
elastic spirits throwing him into the project with a sort of enjoyment,
partaking of the pleasure of being of use, the spirit of enterprise, and
the ‘fun’ of starting independently on an expedition unknown to all the
family.

He met Amabel with a smile that showed both were determined. He
undertook to announce the plan to his mother, and she said she would
write to tell Mr. Markham that as far as could be reckoned on two such
frail people, they would be at Redclyffe the next evening, and he must
use his own discretion about giving Mr. Morville the note which she
enclosed.

Dr. Mayerne came in time for breakfast, and the letter from Markham was
at once given to him.

‘A baddish state of things, eh, doctor!’ said Charles. ‘Well, what do
you think this lady proposes? To set off forthwith, both of us, to take
charge of him. What do you think of that, Dr. Mayerne?’

‘I should say it was the only chance for him,’ said the doctor, looking
only at the latter. ‘Spirits and health reacting on each other, I see
it plain enough. Over-worked in parliament, doing nothing in moderation,
going down to that gloomy old place, dreaming away by himself, going
just the right way to work himself into another attack on the brain, and
then he is done for. I don’t know that you could do a wiser thing than
go to him, for he is no more fit to tell what is good for him than a
child.’ So spoke the doctor, thinking only of the patient till looking
up at the pair he was dismissing to such a charge, the helpless,
crippled Charles, unable to cross the room without crutches, and Amabel,
her delicate face and fragile figure in her widow’s mourning, looking
like a thing to be pitied and nursed with the tenderest care, with that
young child, too, he broke off and said--‘But you don’t mean you are in
earnest?’

‘Never more so in our lives,’ said Charles; on which Dr. Mayerne looked
so wonderingly and inquiringly at Amabel, that she answered,--

‘Yes that we are, if you think it safe for Charles and baby.’

‘Is there no one else to go? What’s become of his sister?’

‘That would never do,’ said Charles, ‘that is not the question;’ and he
detailed their plan.

‘Well, I don’t see why it should not succeed,’ said the doctor, ‘or how
you can any of you damage yourselves.’

‘And baby?’ said Amy.

‘What should happen to her, do you think?’ said the doctor with
his kind, reassuring roughness. ‘Unless you leave her behind in the
carriage, I don’t see what harm she could come to, and even then, if
you direct her properly, she will come safe to hand.’ Amabel smiled, and
saying she would fetch her to be inspected, ran up-stairs with the light
nimble step of former days.

‘There goes one of the smallest editions of the wonders of the world!’
said Charles, covering a sigh with a smile. ‘You don’t think it will do
her any harm?’

‘Not if she wishes it. I have long thought a change, a break, would
be the best thing for her--poor child!--I should have sent her to the
sea-side if you had been more movable, and if I had not seen every fuss
about her made it worse.’

‘That’s what I call being a reasonable and valuable doctor,’ said
Charles. ‘If you had routed the poor little thing out to the sea, she
would have only pined the more. But suppose the captain turns out too
bad for her management, for old Markham seems in a proper taking?’

‘Hem! No, I don’t expect it is come to that.’

‘Be that as it may, I have a head, if nothing else, and some one is
wanted. I’ll write to you according as we find Philip.’

The doctor was wanted for another private interview, in which to assure
Amabel that there was no danger for Charles, and then, after promising
to come to Redclyffe if there was occasion, and engaging to write and
tell Mrs. Edmonstone they had his consent, he departed to meet them by
and by at the station, and put Charles into the carriage.

A very busy morning followed; Amabel arranged household affairs as
befitted the vice-queen; took care that Charles’s comforts were provided
for; wrote many a note; herself took down Guy’s picture, and laid it in
her box, before Anne commenced her packing; and lastly, walked down to
the village to take leave of Alice Lamsden.


Just as the last hues of sunset were fading, on the following evening,
Lady Morville and Charles Edmonstone were passing from the moor into
the wooded valley of Redclyffe. Since leaving Moorworth not a word had
passed. Charles sat earnestly watching his sister; though there was too
much crape in the way for him to see her face, and she was perfectly
still, so that all he could judge by was the close, rigid clasping
together of the hands, resting on the sleeping infant’s white mantle.
Each spot recalled to him some description of Guy’s, the church-tower,
the school with the two large new windows, the park wall, the rising
ground within. What was she feeling? He did not dare to address her,
till, at the lodge-gate, he exclaimed--‘There’s Markham;’ and, at the
same time, was conscious of a feeling between hope and fear, that this
might after all be a fool’s errand, and a wonder how they and the master
of the house would meet if it turned out that they had taken fright
without cause.

At his exclamation, Amy leant forward, and beckoned. Markham came up to
the window, and after the greeting on each side, walked along with
his hand on the door, as the carriage slowly mounted the steep hill,
answering her questions: ‘How is he?’

‘No better. He has been putting on leeches, and made himself so giddy,
that yesterday he could hardly stand.’

‘And they have not relieved him?’

‘Not in the least. I am glad you are come, for it has been an absurd way
of going on.’

‘Is he up?’

‘Yes; on the sofa in the library.’

‘Did you give him my note? Does he expect us?’

‘No, I went to see about telling him this morning, but found him so low
and silent, I thought it was better not. He has not opened a letter this
week, and he might have refused to see you, as he did Lord Thorndale.
Besides, I didn’t know how he would take my writing about him, though
if you had not written, I believe I should have let Mrs. Henley know by
this time.’

‘There is an escape for him,’ murmured Charles to his sister.

‘We have done the best in our power to receive you’ proceeded Markham;
‘I hope you will find it comfortable, Lady Morville, but--’

‘Thank you, I am not afraid,’ said Amy, smiling a little. Markham’s eye
was on the little white bundle in her lap, but he did not speak of
it, and went on with explanations about Mrs. Drew and Bolton and the
sitting-room, and tea being ready.

Charles saw the great red pile of building rise dark, gloomy, and
haunted-looking before them. The house that should have been Amabel’s!
Guy’s own beloved home! How could she bear it? But she was eagerly
asking Markham how Philip should be informed of their arrival, and
Markham was looking perplexed, and saying, that to drive under the
gateway, into the paved court, would make a thundering sound, that he
dreaded for Mr. Morville. Could Mr. Charles Edmonstone cross the court
on foot? Charles was ready to do so; the carriage stopped, Amabel gave
the baby to Anne, saw Arnaud help Charles out; and turning to Markham,
said, ‘I had better go to him at once. Arnaud will show my brother the
way.’

‘The sitting-room, Arnaud’ said Markham, and walked on fast with her,
while Charles thought how strange to see her thus pass the threshold of
her husband’s house, come thither to relieve and comfort his enemy.

She entered the dark-oak hall. On one side the light shone cheerfully
from the sitting-room, the other doors were all shut. Markham hesitated,
and stood reluctant.

‘Yes, you had better tell him I am here,’ said she, in the voice, so
gentle, that no one perceived its resolution.

Markham knocked at one of the high heavy doors, and softly opened it.
Amabel stood behind it, and looked into the room, more than half dark,
without a fire, and very large, gloomy, and cheerless, in the gray
autumn twilight, that just enabled her to see the white pillows on the
sofa, and Philip’s figure stretched out on it. Markham advanced and
stood doubtful for an instant, then in extremity, began--‘Hem! Lady
Morville is come, and--’

Without further delay she came forward, saying--‘How are you, Philip?’

He neither moved nor seemed surprised, he only said, ‘So you are come to
heap more coals on my head.’

A thrill of terror came over her, but she did not show it, as she said,
‘I am sorry to find you so poorly.’

It seemed as if before he had taken her presence for a dream; for,
entirely roused, he exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise, ‘Is it you,
Amy?’ Then sitting up, ‘Why? When did you come here?’

‘Just now. We were afraid you were ill, we heard a bad account of you,
so we have taken you by storm: Charles, your goddaughter, and I, are
come to pay you a visit.’

‘Charles! Charles here?’ cried Philip, starting up. ‘Where is he?’

‘Coming in,’ said Amy; and Philip, intent only on hospitality, hastened
into the hall, and met him at the door, gave him his arm and conducted
him where the inviting light guided them to the sitting-room. The full
brightness of lamp and fire showed the ashy paleness of his face; his
hair, rumpled with lying on the sofa, had, on the temples, acquired a
noticeable tint of gray, his whole countenance bore traces of terrible
suffering; and Amabel thought that even at Recoara she had never seen
him look more wretchedly ill.

‘How did you come?’ he asked. ‘It was very kind. I hope you will be
comfortable.’

‘We have taken good care of ourselves,’ said Amy. ‘I wrote to Mr.
Markham, for I thought you were not well enough to be worried with
preparations. We ought to beg your pardon for breaking on you so
unceremoniously.’

‘If any one should be at home here--’ said Philip, earnestly;--then
interrupting himself, he shaded his eyes from the light, ‘I don’t know
how to make you welcome enough. When did you set off?’

‘Yesterday afternoon,’ said Charles; ‘we slept in London, and came on
to-day.’

‘Have you dined?’ said Philip, looking perplexed to know where the
dinner could come from.

‘Yes; at K----, thank you.’

‘What will you have? I’ll ring for Mrs. Drew.’

‘No, thank you; don’t tease yourself. Mrs. Drew will take care of us.
Never mind; but how bad your head is!’ said Amabel, as he sat down on
the sofa, leaning his elbow on his knee, and pressing his hand very hard
on his forehead. ‘You must lie down and keep quiet, and never mind us.
We only want a little tea. I am just going to take off my bonnet, and
see what they have done with baby, and then I’ll come down. Pray lie
still till then. Mind he does, Charlie.’

They thought she was gone; but the next moment there she was with the
two pillows from the library sofa, putting them under Philip’s head,
and making him comfortable; while he, overpowered by a fresh access of
headache, had neither will nor power to object. She rang, asked for Mrs.
Drew, and went.

Philip lay, with closed eyes, as if in severe pain: and Charles, afraid
to disturb him, sat feeling as if it was a dream. That he, with Amy and
her child, should be in Guy’s home, so differently from their old plans,
so very differently from the way she should have arrived. He looked
round the room, and everywhere knew what Guy’s taste had prepared for
his bride--piano, books, prints, similarities to Hollywell, all with
a fresh new bridal effect, inexpressibly melancholy. They brought a
thought of the bright eye, sweet voice, light step, and merry whistle;
and as he said to himself ‘gone for ever,’ he could have hated Philip,
but for the sight of his haggard features, gray hairs, and the deep
lines which, at seven-and-twenty, sorrow had traced on his brow. At
length Philip turned and looked up.

‘Charles,’ he said, ‘I trust you have not let her run any risk.’

‘No: we got Dr. Mayerne’s permission.’

‘It is like all the rest,’ said Philip, closing his eyes again.
Presently he asked: ‘How did you know I was not well?’

‘Markham said something in a business letter that alarmed Amy. She wrote
to inquire, and on his second letter we thought we had better come and
see after you ourselves.’

No more was said till Amabel returned. She had made some stay up-stairs,
talking to Mrs. Drew, who was bewildered between surprise, joy, and
grief; looking to see that all was comfortable in Charles’s room, making
arrangements for the child, and at last relieving herself by a short
space of calm, to feel where she was, realize that this was Redclyffe,
and whisper to her little girl that it was her father’s own home. She
knew it was the room he had destined for her; she tried, dark as it
was, to see the view of which he had told her, and looked up, over the
mantel-piece, at Muller’s engraving of St. John. Perhaps that was the
hardest time of all her trial, and she felt as if, without his child
in her arms, she could never have held up under the sense of desolation
that came over her, left behind, while he was in his true home. Left,
she told herself, to finish the task he had begun, and to become fit to
follow him. Was she not in the midst of fulfilling his last charge, that
Philip should be taken, care of? It was no time for giving way, and here
was his own little messenger of comfort looking up with her sleepy eyes
to tell her so. Down she must go, and put off ‘thinking herself into
happiness’ till the peaceful time of rest; and presently she softly
re-entered the sitting-room, bringing to both its inmates in her very
presence such solace as she little guessed, in her straightforward
desire to nurse Philip, and take care Charles was not made
uncomfortable.

That stately house had probably never, since its foundation, seen
anything so home-like as Amabel making tea and waiting on her two
companions; both she and Charles pleasing each other by enjoying the
meal, and Philip giving his cup to be filled again and again, and
wondering why one person’s tea should taste so unlike another’s.

He was not equal to conversation, and Charles and Amabel were both
tired, so that tea was scarcely over before they parted for the night;
and Amy, frightened at the bright and slipperiness of the dark-oak
stairs, could not be at peace till she had seen Arnaud help Charles
safely up them, and made him promise not to come down without assistance
in the morning.

She was in the sitting-room soon after nine next morning, and found
breakfast on one table, and Charles writing a letter on the other.

‘Well,’ said he, as she kissed him, ‘all right with you and little
miss?’

‘Quite, thank you. And are you rested?’

‘Slept like a top; and what did you do? Did you sleep like a sensible
woman?’

‘Pretty well, and baby was very good. Have you heard anything of
Philip?’

‘Bolton thinks him rather better, and says he is getting up.’

‘How long have you been up?’

‘A long time. I told Arnaud to catch Markham when he came up, as
he always does in a morning to see after Philip, and I have had a
conference with him and Bolton, so that I can lay the case before Dr.
Mayerne scientifically.’

‘What do you think of it?’

‘I think we came at the right time. He has been getting more and more
into work in London, taking no exercise, and so was pretty well knocked
up when he came here; and this place finished it. He tried to attend to
business about the property, but it always ended in his head growing
so bad, he had to leave all to Markham, who, by the way, has been
thoroughly propitiated by his anxiety for him. Then he gave up entirely;
has not been out of doors, written a note, nor seen a creature the last
fortnight, but there he has lain by himself in the library, given up to
all manner of dismal thoughts without a break.’

‘How dreadful!’ said Annabel, with tears in her eyes. ‘Then he would not
see Mr. Ashford? Surely, he could have done something for him.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Charles, lowering his voice,’ from what
Bolton says, I think he had a dread of worse than brain fever.’

She shuddered, and was paler, but did not speak.

‘I believe,’ continued Charles, ‘that it is one half nervous and the
oppression of this place, and the other half, the over-straining of a
head that was already in a ticklish condition. I don’t think there was
any real danger of more than such a fever as he had at Corfu, which
would probably have been the death of him; but I think he dreaded still
worse, and that his horror of seeing any one, or writing to Laura, arose
from not knowing how far he could control his words.’

‘O! I am glad we came,’ repeated Amabel, pressing her hands together.

‘He has been doctoring himself,’ proceeded Charles; ‘and probably has
kept off the fever by strong measures, but, of course, the more he
reduced his strength, the greater advantage he gave to what was simply
low spirits. He must have had a terrible time of it, and where it would
have ended I cannot guess, but it seems to me that most likely, now that
he is once roused, he will come right again.’

Just as Charles had finished speaking, he came down, looking extremely
ill, weak, and suffering; but calmed, and resting on that entire
dependence on Amabel which had sprung up at Recoara.

She would not let him go back to his gloomy library, but made him lie
on the sofa in the sitting-room, and sat there herself, as she thought
a little quiet conversation between her and Charles would be the best
thing for him. She wrote to Laura, and he sent a message, for he could
not yet attempt to write; and Charles wrote reports to his mother and
Dr. Mayerne; a little talk now and then going on about family matters.

Amabel asked Philip if he knew that Mr. Thorndale was at Kilcoran.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he believed there was a letter from him, but his eyes
had ached too much of late to read.’

Mrs. Ashford sent in to ask whether Lady Morville would like to see her.
Amabel’s face flushed, and she proposed going to her in the library; but
Philip, disliking Amy’s absence more than the sight of a visitor, begged
she might come to the sitting-room.

The Ashfords had been surprised beyond measure at the tidings that
Lady Morville had actually come to Redclyffe, and had been very slow
to believe it; but when convinced by Markham’s own testimony, Mrs.
Ashford’s first idea had been to go and see if she could be any help to
the poor young thing in that great desolate house, whither Mrs. Ashford
had not been since, just a year ago, Markham had conducted her to admire
his preparations. There was much anxiety, too, about Mr. Morville, of
whose condition, Markham had been making a great mystery, and on her
return, Mr. Ashford was very eager for her report.

Mr. Morville, she said, did look and seem very far from well, but Lady
Morville had told her they hoped it was chiefly from over fatigue, and
that rest would soon restore him. Lady Morville herself was a fragile
delicate creature, very sweet looking, but so gentle and shrinking,
apparently, that it gave the impression of her having no character at
all, not what Mrs. Ashford would have expected Sir Guy to choose. She
had spoken very little, and the chief of the conversation had been
sustained by her brother.

‘I was very much taken with that young Mr. Edmonstone,’ said Mrs.
Ashford; ‘he is about three-and-twenty, sadly crippled, but with such a
pleasing, animated face, and so extremely agreeable and sensible, I
do not wonder at Sir Guy’s enthusiastic way of talking of him. I
could almost fancy it was admiration of the brother transferred to the
sister.’

‘Then after all you are disappointed in her, and don’t lament, like
Markham, that she is not mistress here?’

‘No: I won’t say I am disappointed; she is a very sweet creature. O yes,
very! but far too soft and helpless for such a charge as this property,
unless she had her father or brother to help her. But I must tell you
that she took me to see her baby, a nice little lively thing, poor
little dear! and when we were alone, she spoke rather more, begged me
to send her godson to see her, thanked me for coming, but crying stopped
her from saying more. I could grow very fond of her. No, I don’t wonder
at him, for there is a great charm in anything so soft and dependent.

Decidedly, Mary Ross had been right when she said, that except Sir Guy,
there was no one so difficult to know as Amy.

In the afternoon, Charles insisted on Amabel’s going out for fresh
air and exercise, and she liked the idea of a solitary wandering; but
Philip, to her surprise, offered to come with her, and she was too glad
to see him exert himself, to regret the musings she had hoped for; so
out they went, after opening the window to give Charles what he called
an airing, and he said, that in addition he should ‘hirple about a
little to explore the ground-floor of the house.’

‘We must contrive some way for him to drive out,’ said Philip, as he
crossed the court with Amabel; ‘and you too. There is no walk here, but
up hill or down.’

Up-hill they went, along the path leading up the green slope, from which
the salt wind blew refreshingly. In a few minutes, Amabel found herself
on a spot which thrilled her all over.

There lay before her Guy’s own Redclyffe bay; the waves lifting their
crests and breaking, the surge resounding, the sea-birds skimming round,
the Shag Rock dark and rugged, the scene which seemed above all the
centre of his home affections, which he had so longed to show her,
that it had cost him an effort on his death-bed to resign the hope;
the leaping waves that he said he would not change for the white-headed
mountains. And now he was lying among those southern mountains, and she
stood in the spot where he had loved to think of seeing her; and with
Philip by her side. His sea, his own dear sea, the vision of which had
cheered, his last day, like the face of a dear old friend; his sea,
rippling and glancing on, unknowing that the eyes that had loved it so
well would gaze on it no more; the wind that he had longed for to
cool his fevered brow, the rock which had been like a playmate in his
boyhood, and where he had perilled his life, and rescued so many. It
was one of the seasons when a whole gush of fresh perceptions of his
feelings, like a new meeting with himself, would come on her, her best
of joys; and there she stood, gazing fixedly, her black veil fluttering
in the wind, and her hands pressed close together, till Philip, little
knowing what the sight was to her, shivered, saying it was very cold
and windy, and without hesitation she turned away, feeling that now
Redclyffe was precious indeed.

She brought her mind back to listen, while Philip was considering of
means of taking Charles out of doors; he supposed there might be some
vehicle about the place; but he thought there was no horse. Very unlike
was this to the exact Philip. The great range of stables was before
them, where the Morvilles had been wont to lodge their horses as
sumptuously as themselves, and Amabel proposed to go and see what they
could find; but nothing was there but emptiness, till they came to
a pony in one stall, a goat in another, and one wheelbarrow in the
coach-house.

On leaving it, under the long-sheltered sunny wall, they came in
sight of a meeting between the baby taking the air in Anne’s arms,
and Markham, who had been hovering about all day, anxious to know
how matters were going on. His back was towards them, so that he was
unconscious of their approach, and they saw how he spoke to Anne, looked
fixedly at the child, made her laugh, and finally took her in his arms,
as he had so often carried her father, studying earnestly her little
face. As soon as he saw them coming, he hastily gave her back to Anne,
as if ashamed to be thus caught, but he was obliged to grunt and put
his hand up to his shaggy eyelashes, before he could answer Amabel’s
greeting.

He could hardly believe his eyes, that here was Mr. Morville, who
yesterday was scarcely able to raise his head from the pillow, and could
attend to nothing. He could not think what Lady Morville had done to
him, when he heard him inquiring and making arrangements about sending
for a pony carriage, appearing thoroughly roused, and the dread of being
seen or spoken to entirely passed away, Markham was greatly rejoiced,
for Mr. Morville’s illness, helplessness, and dependence upon himself,
had softened and won him to regard him kindly as nothing else would have
done; and his heart was entirely gained when, after they had wished him
good-bye, he saw Philip and Amabel walk on, overtake Anne, Amy take the
baby and hold her up to Philip, who looked at her with the same earnest
interest. From thenceforward Markham knew that Redclyffe was nothing but
a burden to Mr. Morville, and he could bear to see it in his possession
since like himself, he seemed to regard Sir Guy’s daughter like a
disinherited princess.

This short walk fatigued Philip thoroughly. He slept till dinner-time,
and when he awoke said it was the first refreshing dreamless sleep
he had had for weeks. His head was much better, and at dinner he had
something like an appetite.

It was altogether a day of refreshment, and so were the ensuing ones.
Each day Philip became stronger, and resumed more of his usual habits.
From writing a few lines in Amabel’s daily letter to Laura, he proceeded
to filling the envelope, and from being put to sleep by Charles’s
reading, to reading aloud the whole evening himself. The pony carriage
was set up, and he drove Charles out every day, Amabel being then
released from attending him, and free to enjoy herself in her own way in
rambles about the house and park, and discoveries of the old haunts she
knew so well by description.

She early found her way to Guy’s own room, where she would walk up and
down with her child in her arms, talking to her, and holding up to her,
to be admired, the treasures of his boyhood, that Mrs. Drew delighted to
keep in order. One day, when alone in the sitting-room, she thought of
trying the piano he had chosen for her. It was locked, but the key was
on her own split-ring, where he had put it for her the day he returned
from London. She opened it, and it so happened, that the first note she
struck reminded her of one of the peculiarly sweet and deep tones of
Guy’s voice. It was like awaking its echo again, and as it died away,
she hid her face and wept. But from that time the first thing she did
when her brother and cousin were out, was always to bring down her
little girl, and play to her, watching how she enjoyed the music.

Little Mary prospered in the sea air, gained colour, took to springing
and laughing; and her intelligent lively way of looking about brought
out continually more likeness to her father. Amabel herself was no
longer drooping and pining, her step grew light and elastic, a shade of
pink returned to her cheek, and the length of walk she could take was
wonderful, considering her weakness in the summer. Every day she stood
on the cliff and looked at ‘Guy’s sea,’ before setting out to visit the
cottages, and hear the fond rough recollections of Sir Guy, or to wander
far away into the woods or on the moor, and find the way to the places
he had loved. One day, when Philip and Charles came in from a drive,
they overtook her in the court, her cloak over her arm, her crape limp
with spray, her cheeks brightened to a rosy glow by the wind, and a
real smile as she looked up to them. When Charles was on his sofa, she
stooped over him and whispered, ‘James and Ben Robinson have taken me
out to the Shag!’

She saw Mr. Wellwood, and heard a good account of Coombe Prior. She made
great friends with the Ashfords, especially little Lucy and the baby.
She delighted in visits to the cottages, and Charles every day wondered
where was the drooping dejection that she could not shake off at home.
She would have said that in Guy’s own home, ‘the joy’ had come to her,
no longer in fitful gleams and held by an effort for a moment, but
steadily brightening. She missed him indeed, but the power of finding
rest in looking forward to meeting him, the pleasure of dwelling on the
days he had been with her, and the satisfaction of doing his work for
the present, had made a happiness for her, and still in him, quiet,
grave, and subdued, but happiness likely to bloom more and more brightly
throughout her life. The anniversary of his death was indeed a day of
tears, but the tears were blessed ones, and she was more full of the
feeling that had sustained her on that morning, than she had been
through all the year before.

Charles and Philip, meanwhile, proceeded excellently together, each very
anxious for the comfort of the other. Philip was a good deal overwhelmed
at first by the quantity of business on his hands, and setting about it
while his head was still weak, would have seriously hurt himself again,
if Charles had not come to his help, worked with a thorough good will,
great clearness and acuteness, and surprised Philip by his cleverness
and perseverance. He was elated at being of so much use; and begged to
be considered for the future as Philip’s private secretary, to which
the only objection was, that his handwriting was as bad as Philip’s was
good; but it was an arrangement so much to the benefit of both parties,
that it was gladly made. Philip was very grateful for such valuable
assistance; and Charles amused himself with triumphing in his
importance, when he should sit in state on his sofa at Hollywell,
surrounded with blue-books, getting up the statistics for some
magnificent speech of the honourable member for Moorworth.

In the meantime, Charles and Amabel saw no immediate prospect of
their party returning from Ireland, and thought it best to remain at
Redclyffe, since Philip had so much to do there; and besides, events
were occurring at Kilcoran which would have prevented his visit, even
without his illness.

One of the first drives that Charles and Philip took, after the latter
was equal to any exertion, was to Thorndale. There Charles was much
amused by the manner in which Philip was received, and he himself, for
his sake; and as he said to Amabel on his return, there was no question
now, that the blame of spoiling Philip did not solely rest at Hollywell.

Finding only Lady Thorndale at home, and hearing that Lord Thorndale was
in the grounds, Philip went out to look for him, leaving Charles on the
sofa, under her ladyship’s care. Charles, with a little exaggeration,
professed that he had never been so flattered in his whole life, as
he was by the compliments that reflected on him as the future
brother-in-law of Philip; and that he had really begun to think even
Laura not half sensible enough of her own happiness. Lady Thorndale
afterwards proceeded to inquiries about the De Courcy family, especially
Lady Eveleen; and Charles, enlightened by Charlotte, took delight in
giving a brilliant description of his cousin’s charms, for which he
was rewarded by very plain intimations of the purpose for which her son
James was gone to Kilcoran.

On talking the visit over, as they drove home, Charles asked Philip if
he had guessed at his friend’s intentions. ‘Yes,’ he answered.

‘Then you never took the credit of it. Why did you not tell us?’

‘I knew it from himself, in confidence.’

‘Oh!’ said Charles, amusing himself with the notion of the young man’s
dutifully asking the permission of his companion, unshaken in allegiance
though the staff might be broken, and the book drowned deeper than did
ever plummet sound. Philip spoke no more, and Charles would ask no
more, for Philip’s own affairs of the kind were not such as to encourage
talking of other people’s. No explanation was needed why he should now
promote an attachment which he had strongly disapproved while James
Thorndale was still in the army.

A day or two after, however, came a letter from Charlotte, bringing
further news, at which Charles was so amazed, that he could not help
communicating it at once to his companions.

‘So! Eveleen won’t have him!’

‘What?’ exclaimed both.

‘You don’t mean that she has refused Thorndale?’ said Philip.

‘Even so!’ said Charles. ‘Charlotte says he is gone. “Poor Mr. Thorndale
left us this morning, after a day of private conferences, in which
he seems to have had no satisfaction, for his resolute dignity and
determination to be agreeable all the evening were”--ahem--“were great.
Mabel cannot get at any of the real reasons from Eveleen, though I think
I could help her, but I can’t tell you.”’

‘Charlotte means mischief.’ said Charles, as he concluded.

‘I am very sorry!’ said Philip. ‘I did think Lady Eveleen would have
been able to estimate Thorndale. It will be a great disappointment--the
inclination has been of long standing. Poor Thorndale!’

‘It would have been a very good thing for Eva,’ said Amabel. ‘Mr.
Thorndale is such a sensible man.’

‘And I thought his steady sense just what was wanting to bring out all
her good qualities that are running to waste in that irregular home,’
said Philip. ‘What can have possessed her?’

‘Ay! something must have possessed her,’ said Charles. ‘Eva was always
ready to be fallen in love with on the shortest notice, and if there
was not something prior in her imagination, Thorndale would not have had
much difficulty. By the bye, depend upon it, ‘tis the tutor.’

Philip looked a little startled, but instantly reassuring himself,
said,--

‘George Fielder! Impossible! You have never seen him!’

‘Ah! don’t you remember her description!’ said Amy, in a low voice,
rather sadly.

The very reason, Amy,’ said Charles; ‘it showed that he had attracted
her fancy.’

Philip smiled a little incredulously.

‘Ay!’ said Charles, ‘you may smile, but you handsome men can little
appreciate the attractiveness of an interesting ugliness. It is the way
to be looked at in the end. Mark my words, it is the tutor.’

‘I hope not!’ said Philip, as if shaken in his confidence. ‘Any way it
is a bad affair. I am very much concerned for Thorndale.’

So sincerely concerned, that his head began to ache in the midst of some
writing. He was obliged to leave it to Charles to finish, and go out to
walk with Amy.

Amabel came in before him, and began to talk to Charles about his great
vexation at his friend’s disappointment.

‘I am almost sorry you threw out that hint about Mr. Fielder,’ said she.
‘Don’t you remember how he was recommended?’

‘Ah! I had forgotten it was Philip’s doing; a bit of his spirit of
opposition,’ said Charles. ‘Were not the boys to have gone to Coombe
Prior?’

‘Yes’ said Amabel, ‘that is the thing that seems to have made him
so unhappy about it. I am sure I hope it is not true,’ she added,
considering, ‘for, Charlie, you must know that Guy had an impression
against him.’

‘Had he?’ said Charles, anxiously.

‘It was only an impression, nothing he could accuse him of, or mention
to Lord Kilcoran. He would have told no one but me, but he had seen
something of him at Oxford, and thought him full of conversation,
very clever, only not the sort of talk he liked.’ ‘I don’t like that.
Charlotte concurs in testifying to his agreeableness; and in the dearth
of intellect, I should not wonder at Eva’s taking up with him. He would
be a straw to the drowning. It looks dangerous.’

They were very anxious for further intelligence, but received none,
except that Philip had a letter from his friend, on which his only
comment was a deep sigh, and ‘Poor Thorndale! She little knows what
she has thrown away!’ Letters from Kilcoran became rare; Laura scarcely
wrote at all to Philip, and though Mrs. Edmonstone wrote as usual, she
did not notice the subject; while Charlotte’s gravity and constraint,
when she did achieve a letter to Charles, were in such contrast to her
usual free and would-be satirical style, that such eyes as her brother’s
could hardly fail to see that something was on her mind.

So it went on week after week, Charles and Amabel wondering when they
should ever have any notice to go home, and what their family could be
doing in Ireland. October had given place to November, and more than a
week of November had passed, and here they still were, without anything
like real tidings.

At last came a letter from Mrs. Edmonstone, which Amabel could not
read without one little cry of surprise and dismay, and then had some
difficulty in announcing its contents to Philip.


       ‘Kilcoran, Nov. 8th.

‘My Dearest Amy,--You will be extremely surprised at what I have to tell
you, and no less grieved. It has been a most unpleasant, disgraceful
business from beginning to end, and the only comfort in it to us is the
great discretion and firmness that Charlotte has shown. I had better,
however, begin at the beginning, and tell you the history as far as I
understand it myself. You know that Mr. James Thorndale has been here,
and perhaps you know it was for the purpose of making an offer to
Eveleen. Every one was much surprised at her refusing him, and still
more when, after much prevarication, it came out that the true motive
was her attachment to Mr. Fielder, the tutor. It appeared that they had
been secretly engaged for some weeks, ever since they had perceived
Mr. Thorndale’s intentions, and not, as it was in poor Laura’s case,
an unavowed attachment, but an absolute engagement. And fancy Eva
justifying it by Laura’s example! There was of course great anger and
confusion. Lord Kilcoran was furious, poor Lady Kilcoran had nervous
attacks, the gentleman was dismissed from the house, and supposed to be
gone to England, Eva shed abundance of tears, but after a great deal of
vehemence she appeared subdued and submissive. We were all very sorry
for her, as there is much that is very agreeable and likely to attract
her in Mr. Fielder, and she always had too much mind to be wasted in
such a life as she leads here. It seemed as if Laura was a comfort
to her, and Lady Kilcoran was very anxious we should stay as long
as possible. This was all about three weeks or a month ago; Eva was
recovering her spirits, and I was just beginning a letter to tell you we
hoped to be at home in another week, when Charlotte came into my room in
great distress to tell me that Eveleen and Mr. Fielder were on the verge
of a run-away marriage. Charlotte had been coming back alone from a
visit to grandmamma, and going down a path out of the direct way to
recall Bustle, who had run on, she said, as if he scented mischief,
came, to her great astonishment, on Eveleen walking arm-in-arm with Mr.
Fielder! Charlie will fancy how Charlotte looked at them! They shuffled,
and tried to explain it away, but Charlotte was too acute for them, or
rather, she held steadily to “be that as it may, Lord Kilcoran ought
to know it.” They tried to frighten her with the horrors of betraying
secrets, but she said none had been confided to her, and mamma would
judge. They tried to persuade her it was the way of all lovers, and
appealed to Laura s example, but there little Charlotte was less to be
shaken than on any point. “I did not think them worthy to hear their
names,” she said to me, “but I told them, that I had seen that the
truest and deepest of love had a horror of all that was like wrong,
and as to Philip and Laura, they little knew what they had suffered;
besides, theirs was not half so bad.” I verily believe these were the
very words she used to them. At last Eva threw herself on her mercy,
and begged so vehemently that she would only wait another day, that she
suspected, and, with sharpness very like Charlie’s, forced from Eva that
they were to marry the next morning. Then she said it would be a great
deal better that they should abuse her and call her a spy than do what
they would repent of all their lives; she begged Eva’s pardon, and cried
so much that Eva was in hopes she would relent, and then came straight
to me, very unhappy, and not in the least triumphant in her discovery.
You can guess what a dreadful afternoon we had, I don’t think any one
was more miserable than poor Charlotte, who stayed shut up in my room
all day, dreading the sight of any one, and expecting to be universally
called a traitor. The end was, that after much storming, Lord Kilcoran,
finding Eveleen determined, and anxious to save her the discredit of an
elopement, has agreed to receive Mr. Fielder, and they are to be married
from this house on the 6th of December, though what they are to live
upon no one can guess. The Kilcorans are very anxious to put the best
face on the matter possible, and have persuaded us, for the sake of
the family, to stay for the wedding; indeed, poor Lady Kilcoran is so
completely overcome, that I hardly like to leave her till this is over.
How unpleasant the state of things in the house is no one can imagine,
and very, very glad shall I be to get back to Hollywell and my Amy and
Charlie. Dearest Amy,

‘Your most affectionate.

‘L. EDMONSTONE.’


The news was at length told, and Philip was indeed thunder-struck at
this fresh consequence of his interference. It threatened at first to
overthrow his scarcely recovered spirits, and but for the presence of
his guests, it seemed as if it might have brought on a renewal of the
state from which they had restored him.

‘Yes,’ said Charles to Amy, when they talked it over alone, ‘It seems
as if good people could do wrong with less impunity than others. It is
rather like the saying about fools and angels. Light-minded people see
the sin, but not the repentance, so they imitate the one without being
capable of the other. Here are Philip and Laura finishing off like the
end of a novel, fortune and all, and setting a very bad example to the
world in general.’

‘As the world cannot see below the surface,’ said Amy, ‘how distressed
Laura, must be! You see, mamma does not say one word about her.’

Philip had not much peace till he had written to Mr. Thorndale, who
was going at once to Germany, not liking to return home to meet the
condolences. Mrs. Edmonstone had nearly the whole correspondence of the
family on her hands; for neither of her daughters liked to write, and
she gave the description of the various uncomfortable scenes that took
place. Lord de Courcy’s stern and enduring displeasure, and his father’s
fast subsiding violence; Lady Kilcoran’s distress, and the younger
girls’ excitement and amusement; but she said she thought the very
proper and serious way in which Charlotte viewed it, would keep it from
doing them much harm, provided, as was much to be feared, Lord Kilcoran
did not end by keeping the pair always at home, living upon him till Mr.
Fielder could get a situation. In fact, it was difficult to know what
other means there were of providing for them.

At last the wedding took place, and Mrs. Edmonstone wrote a letter,
divided between indignation at the foolish display that had attended it,
and satisfaction at being able at length to fix the day for the meeting
at Hollywell. No one could guess how she longed to be at home again, and
to be once more with Charlie.

Nor were Charles and Amabel less ready to go home, though they could
both truly say that they had much enjoyed their stay at Redclyffe.
Philip was to come with them, and it was privately agreed that he should
return to Redclyffe no more till he could bring Laura with him. Amabel
had talked of her sister to Mrs. Ashford, and done much to smooth the
way; and even on the last day or two, held a few consultations with
Philip, as to the arrangements that Laura would like. One thing,
however, she must ask for her own pleasure. ‘Philip,’ said she, ‘you
must let me have this piano.’

His answer was by look and gesture.

‘And I want very much to ask a question, Philip. Will you tell me which
is Sir Hugh’s picture?’

‘You have been sitting opposite to it every day at dinner.’

‘That!’ exclaimed Amy. ‘From what I heard, I fully expected to have
known Sir Hugh’s in a moment, and I often looked at that one, but I
never could see more likeness than there is in almost all the pictures
about the house.’

She went at once to study it again, and wondered more.

‘I have seen him sometimes look like it; but it is not at all the strong
likeness I expected.’

Philip stood silently gazing, and certainly the countenance he recalled,
pleading with him to desist from his wilfulness, and bending over him
in his sickness, was far unlike in expression to the fiery youth before
him. In a few moments more, Amabel had run up-stairs, and brought down
Mr. Shene’s portrait. There was proved to be more resemblance than
either of them had at first sight credited. The form of the forehead,
nose, and short upper lip were identical, so were the sharply-defined
black eyebrows, the colour of the eyes; and the way of standing in both
had a curious similarity; but the expression was so entirely different,
that strict comparison alone proved, that Guy’s animated, contemplative,
and most winning countenance, was in its original lineaments entirely
the same with that of his ancestor. Although Sir Hugh’s was then far
from unprepossessing, and bore as yet no trace of his unholy passions,
it bought to Amabel’s mind the shudder with which Guy had mentioned
his likeness to that picture, and seemed to show her the nature he had
tamed.

Philip, meanwhile, after one glance at Mr. Shene’s portrait, which he
had not before seen, had turned away, and stood leaning against the
window-frame. When Amy had finished her silent comparison, and was
going to take her treasure back, he looked up, and said, ‘Do you dislike
leaving that with me for a few minutes?’

‘Keep it as long as you like,’ said she, going at once, and she saw him
no more till nearly an hour after; when, as she was coming out of her
own room, he met her, and gave it into her hands, saying nothing except
a smothered ‘Thank you;’ but his eyelids were so swollen and heavy, that
Charles feared his head was bad again, while Amy was glad to perceive
that he had had the comfort of tears.

Every one was sorry to wish Lady Morville and her brother good-bye, only
consoling themselves with hoping that their sister might be like them;
and as to little Mary, the attention paid to her was so devoted and
universal, that her mamma thought it very well she should receive the
first ardour of it while she was too young to have her head turned.

They again slept a night in London, and in the morning Philip took
Charles for a drive through the places he had heard of, and was much
edified by actually beholding. They were safely at home the same
evening, and on the following, the Hollywell party was once more
complete, gathered round Charles’s sofa in a confusion of welcomes and
greetings.

Mrs. Edmonstone could hardly believe her eyes, so much had Charles’s
countenance lost its invalid look, and his movements were so much more
active; Amabel, too, though still white and thin, had a life in her eye
and an air of health most unlike her languor and depression.

Every one looked well and happy but Laura, and she had a worn, faded,
harassed aspect, which was not cheered even by Philip’s presence;
indeed, she seemed almost to shrink from speaking to him. She was the
only silent one of the party that evening, as they gathered round the
dinner or tea-table, or sat divided into threes or pairs, talking over
the subjects that would not do to be discussed in public. Charlotte
generally niched into Amy’s old corner by Charles, hearing about
Redclyffe, or telling about Ireland. Mrs. Edmonstone and Amy on the
opposite sides of the ottoman, their heads meeting over the central
cushion, talking in low, fond, inaudible tones; Mr. Edmonstone going in
and out of the room, and joining himself to one or other group, telling
and hearing news, and sometimes breaking up the pairs; and then Mrs.
Edmonstone came to congratulate Charles on Amy’s improved looks, or
Charlotte pressed up close to Amy to tell her about grandmamma. For
Charlotte could not talk about Eveleen, she had been so uncomfortable at
the part she had had to act, that all the commendation she received was
only like pain and shame, and her mother was by no means dissatisfied
that it should be so, since a degree of forwardness had been her chief
cause of anxiety in Charlotte; and it now appeared that without losing
her high spirit and uncompromising sense of right, her sixteenth year
was bringing with it feminine reserve.

Laura lingered late in Amabel’s room, and when her mother had wished
them good night, and left them together, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, Amy! I am
so glad to be come back to you. I have been so very miserable!’

‘But you see he is quite well,’ said Amy. ‘We think him looking better
than in the summer.’

‘O yes! Oh, Amy, what have you not done? If you could guess the relief
of hearing you were with him, after that suspense!’ But as if losing
that subject in one she was still more eager about, ‘What did he think
of me?’

‘My dear,’ said Amabel, ‘I don’t think I am the right person to tell you
that.’

‘You saw how it struck him when he heard of my share in it.’

‘Yours? Mamma never mentioned you.’

‘Always kind!’ said Laura. ‘Oh, Amy! what will you think of me when I
tell I knew poor Eva’s secret all the time? What could I do, when Eva
pleaded my own case? It was very different, but she would not see it,
and I felt as if I was guilty of all. Oh, how I envied Charlotte.’

‘Dear Laura, no wonder you were unhappy!’

‘Nothing hitherto has been equal to it! said Laura. ‘There was the
misery of his silence, and the anxiety that you, dearest, freed me from,
then no sooner was that over than this was confided to me. Think what I
felt when Eva put me in mind of a time when I argued in favour of
some such concealment in a novel! No, you can never guess what I went
through, knowing that he would think me weak, blameable, unworthy!’

‘Nay, he blames himself too much to blame you.’

‘No, that he must not do! It was my fault from the beginning. If I had
but gone at once to mamma!’

‘Oh, I am so glad!’ exclaimed Amy, suddenly.

‘Glad?’’

‘I mean,’ said Amy, looking down, ‘now you have said that, I am sure you
will be happier.’

‘Happier, now I feel and see how I have lowered myself even in his
sight?’ said Laura, drooping her head and hiding her face in her hands,
as she went on in so low a tone that Amy could hardly hear her. ‘I know
it all now. He loves me still, as he must whatever he has once taken,
into that deep, deep heart of his: he will always; but he cannot have
that honouring, trusting, confiding love that--you enjoyed and deserved,
Amy--that he would have had if I had cared first for what became me. If
I had only at first told mamma, he would not even have been blamed; he
would have been spared half this suffering and self-reproach; he would
have loved me more; Eva might not have been led astray, at least she
could not have laid it to my charge,--and I could lift up my head,’ she
finished, as she hung it almost to her knees.

Her sister raised the head, laid it on her own bosom, and kissed, the
cheeks and brow again and again. ‘Dearest, dearest Laura, I am so sorry
for you; but I am sure you must feel freer and happier now you know it
all, and see the truth.’

‘I don’t know!’ said Laura, sadly.

‘And at least you will be better able to comfort him.’

‘No, no, I shall only add to his self-reproach. He will see more plainly
what a wretched weak creature he fancied had firmness and discretion.
Oh, what a broken reed I have been to him!’

‘There is strength and comfort for us all to lean upon,’ said Amy. ‘But
you ought to go to bed. Shall I read to you, Laura? you are so tired, I
should like to come and read you to sleep.’

Laura was not given to concealments; that fatal one had been her only
insincerity, and she never thought of doing otherwise than telling the
whole of her conduct in Ireland to Philip. She sat alone with him the
next morning, explained all, and entreated his pardon, humiliating
herself so much, that he could not bear to hear her.

‘It was the fault of our whole lifetime, Laura,’ said he, recovering
himself, when a few agitated words had passed on either side. ‘I taught
you to take my dictum for law, and abused your trusty and perverted all
the best and most precious qualities. It is I who stand first to bear
the blame, and would that I could bear all the suffering! But as it is,
Laura, we must look to enduring the consequence all our lives, and give
each other what support we may.’

Laura could hardly brook his self-accusation, but she could no longer
argue the point; and there was far more peace and truth before them than
when she believed him infallible, and therefore justified herself for
all she had done in blind obedience to him.



CHAPTER 44

     Thus souls by nature pitched too high,
       By sufferings plunged too low,
     Meet in the church’s middle sky,
       Halfway ‘twixt joy and woe;

     To practise there the soothing lay,
       That sorrow best relieves,
     Thankful for all God takes away,
       Humbled by all He gives.
                       --CHRISTIAN YEAR


One Afternoon, late in April, Charles opened the dressing-room door, and
paused a moment, smiling. There sat Amabel on the floor before the fire,
her hand stretched out, playfully holding back the little one, who, with
scanty, flossy, silken curls, hazel eyes and jet-black lashes, plump,
mottled arms, and tiny tottering feet, stood crowing and shouting in
exulting laughter, having just made a triumphant clutch at her mamma’s
hair, and pulled down all the light, shining locks, while under their
shade the reddening, smiling face recalled the Amy of days long gone by.

‘That’s right! cried Charles, delighted, ‘pull it all down. Out with
mamma’s own curls again!’

‘No, I can never wear my curls again,’ said Amy, so mournfully, that
he was sorry he had referred to them; and perceiving this, she smiled
sweetly, and pulling a tress to its full length, showed how much too
short it was for anything but being put plainly under the cap, to which
she restored it.

‘Is Mrs. Henley come?’ she asked.

‘As large as life, and that is saying a good deal. She would make two of
Philip. As tall and twice as broad. I thought Juno herself was advancing
on me from the station.’

‘How did you get on with her?’

‘Famously; I told her all about everything, and how the affair is to be
really quiet, which she had never believed. She could hardly believe my
word, when I told her there was to be absolutely no one but ourselves
and Mary Ross. She supposed it was for your sake, and I did not tell her
it was for their own. It really was providential that the Kilcoran folk
disgusted my father with grand weddings, for Philip never could endure
one.’

‘Oh, Miss Mischief, there goes my hair again! You know Philip is
exceedingly worried about Mr. Fielder. Lord Kilcoran has been writing to
ask him to find him a situation.’

‘That is an article they will be seeking all the rest of their lives,’
said Charles. ‘A man is done for when he begins to look for a situation!
Yes, those Fielders will be a drag on Philip and Laura for ever; for
they don’t quite like to cast them off, feeling as he does that he led
to her getting into the scrape, by recommending him; and poor Laura
thinking she set the example.’

‘I wish Eva was away from home,’ said Amy, ‘for Aunt Charlotte’s
accounts of her vex Laura so much.’

‘Ay! trying to eat her cake and have it, expecting to be Mr. Fielder’s
wife, and reign as the earl’s daughter all the same. Poor thing! the day
they get the situation will be a sad one for her. She does not know what
poortith cauld will be like.’

‘Poor Eva!’ said Amy. ‘I dare say she will shine and be all the better
for trouble. There is much that is so very nice in her.’

‘Ay, if she has not spoilt it all by this time,--as that creature is
doing with your hair! You little monkey, what have you to say to me?’

‘Only to wish you good night. Come, baby, we must go to Anne. Good
night, Uncle Charles.’

Just as Amabel had borne off her little girl, Mrs. Edmonstone and
Charlotte came in, after conducting Mrs. Henley to her room. Charlotte
made a face of wonder and dismay, and Mrs. Edmonstone asked where Amy
was.

‘She carried the baby to the nursery just before you came. I wish you
had seen her. The little thing had pulled down her hair and made her
look so pretty and like herself.’

‘How well her spirits keep up! She has been running up and down stairs
all day, helping about everything. Well! we little thought how things
would turn out.’

‘And that after all Amy would be the home-bird,’ said Charles. ‘I don’t
feel as if it was wrong to rejoice in having her in this sweet, shady
brightness, as she is now.’

‘Do you know whether she means to go to church to-morrow? I don’t like
to ask.’

‘Nor I.’

‘I know she does,’ said Charlotte. ‘She told me so.’

‘I hope it will not be too much for her! Dear Amy.’

‘She would say it was wrong to have our heads fuller of her than of our
bride,’ said Charles.

‘Poor Laura!’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘I am glad it is all right at last.
They have both gone through a great deal.’

‘And not in vain,’ added Charles. ‘Philip is--’

‘Oh, I say not a word against him!’ cried Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘He is most
excellent; he will be very distinguished,--he will make her very happy.
Yes.’

‘In fact,’ said Charles, ‘he is made to be one of the first in this
world, and to be first by being above it; and the only reason we are
almost discontented is, that we compare him with one who was too good
for this world.’

‘It is not only that.’

‘Ah! you did not see him at Redclyffe, or you would do more than simply
forgiving him as a Christian.’

‘I am very sorry for him.’

‘That is not quite enough,’ said Charles, smiling, with a mischievous
air, though fully in earnest. ‘Is it, Charlotte? She must take him home
to her mamma’s own heart.’

‘No, no, that is asking too much, Charlie,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘Only
one ever was--’ then breaking off--‘and I can never think of Philip as I
used to do.’

‘I like him much better now,’ said Charlotte.

‘For my part,’ said Charles, ‘I never liked him--nay, that’s too mild, I
could not abide him, I rebelled against him, heart, soul, and taste. If
it had not been for Guy, his fashion of goodness would have made me into
an extract of gall and wormwood, at the very time you admired him, and
yet a great deal of it was genuine. But it is only now that I have liked
him. Nay, I look up to him, I think him positively noble and grand, and
when I see proofs of his being entirely repentant, I perceive he is a
thorough great man. If I had not seen one greater, I should follow his
young man’s example and take him for my hero model.’

‘As if you wanted a hero model,’ whispered Charlotte, in a tone between
caressing and impertinence.

‘I’ve had one!’ returned Charles, also aside.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, going on with her own thoughts, ‘unless
there had been a great fund of real goodness, he would never have felt
it so deeply. Indeed, even when I best liked Philip, I never thought him
capable of such repentance as he has shown.’

‘If mamma wants to like him very much,’ said Charlotte, ‘I think she has
only to look at our other company.’

‘Ay!’ said Charles, ‘we want no more explanation of the tone of the
“Thank you,” with which he answered the offer to invite his sister.’

‘One comfort is, she can’t stay long. She has got a committee meeting
for the Ladies’ Literary and Scientific Association, and must go home
for it the day after to-morrow,’ said Charlotte.

‘If you are very good, perhaps she will give you a ticket, Charlotte,’
said her brother, ‘and another for Bustle.’

Mrs. Henley was, meanwhile, highly satisfied with the impression she
thought she was making on her aunt’s family, especially on Charles and
Charlotte. The latter she patronized, to her extreme though suppressed
indignation, as a clever, promising girl; the former, she discovered to
be a very superior young man, a most valuable assistant to her brother
in his business, and her self-complacency prevented her from finding out
how he was playing her off, whenever neither Philip nor Laura were at
hand to be hurt by it.

She thought Laura a fine-looking person, like her own family, and fit to
be an excellent lady of the house; and in spite of the want of fortune,
she perceived that her brother’s choice had been far better than if he
had married that poor pale little Amabel, go silent and quiet that she
never could make a figure anywhere, and had nothing like the substantive
character that her brother must have in a wife.

Could Mrs. Henley have looked behind the scenes she would have
marvelled.

‘One kiss for mamma; and one for papa,’ was Amy’s half-uttered morning
greeting, as she lifted from her cot her little one, with cheeks flushed
by sleep. Morning and evening Amy spoke those words, and was happy in
the double kiss that Mary had learnt to connect with them; happy too
in holding her up to the picture, and saying ‘papa,’ so that his child
might never recollect a time when he had not been a familiar and beloved
idea.

A little play with the merry child, then came Anne to take her away; and
with a suppressed sigh, Amabel dressed for the first time without her
weeds, which she had promised to leave off on Laura’s wedding-day.

‘No, I will not sigh!’ then she thought, ‘it does not put me further
from him. He would be more glad than any one this day, and so I must
show some sign of gladness.’

So she put on such a dress as would be hers for life--black silk, and
face cap over her still plain hair, then with real pleasure she put on
Charles’s bracelet, and the silver brooch, which she had last worn the
evening when the echoes of Recoara had answered Guy’s last chant. Soon
she was visiting Laura, cheering her, soothing her agitation, helping
her to dress in her bridal array, much plainer than Amy’s own had been,
for it had been the especial wish of both herself and Philip that their
wedding should be as quiet and unlike Guy’s as possible. Then Amabel
was running down-stairs to see that all was right, thinking the
breakfast-table looked dull and forlorn, and calling Charlotte to
help her to make it appear a little more festal, with the aid of some
flowers. Charlotte wondered to see that she had forgotten how she
shunned flowers last summer, for there she was flitting from one old
familiar plant to another in search of the choicest, arranging little
bouquets with her own peculiar grace and taste, and putting them by each
person’s place, in readiness to receive them.

It was as if no one else could smile that morning, except Mr.
Edmonstone, who was so pleased to see her looking cheerful, in her
altered dress, that he kissed her repeatedly, and confidentially told
Mrs. Henley that his little Amy was a regular darling, the sweetest girl
in the world, poor dear, except Laura.

Mrs. Henley, in the richest of all silks, looked magnificent and
superior. Mrs. Edmonstone had tears in her eyes, and attended to every
one softly and kindly, without a word; Charlotte was grave, helpful,
and thoughtful; Charles watching every one, and intent on making things
smooth; Laura looked fixed in the forced composure which she had long
ago learnt, and Philip,--it was late before he appeared at all, and
when he came down, there was nothing so plainly written on his face as
headache.

It was so severe that the most merciful thing was to send him to lie
on the sofa in the dressing-room. Amabel said she would fetch him
some camphor, and disappeared, while Laura sat still with her forced
composure. Her father fidgeted, only restrained by her presence from
expressing his fears that Philip was too unwell for the marriage to take
place to-day, and Charles talked cheerfully of the great improvement in
his general health, saying this was but a chance thing, and that on the
whole he might be considered as quite restored.

Mrs. Henley listened and answered, but could not comprehend the state of
things. Breakfast was over, when she heard Amabel speaking to Laura in
the ante-room.

‘It will go off soon. Here is a cup of hot coffee for you to take him.
I’ll call you when it is time to go.’

Amabel and Charlotte were very busy looking after Laura’s packing up,
and putting all that was wanted into the carriage, in which the pair
were to set off at once from church, without returning to Hollywell.

At the last moment she went to warn Philip it was time to go, if he
meant to walk to church alone, the best thing for his head.

‘It is better,’ said Laura, somewhat comforted.

‘Much better for your bathing it, thank you,’ said Philip, rising; then,
turning to Amy,--‘Do I wish you good-bye now?’

‘No, I shall see you at church, unless you don’t like to have my
blackness there.’

‘Would we not have our guardian angel, Laura?’ said Philip.

‘You know _he_ would have been there,’ said Amy. ‘No one would have been
more glad, so thank you for letting me come.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Laura, earnestly. ‘It is a comfort.’

They left her, and she stood a few minutes to enjoy the solitude, and
to look from the window at her little girl, whom she had sent out with
Anne. She was just about to open the window to call to her, and make her
look up with one of her merry shouts of ‘Mamma!’ when Philip came out at
the garden-door, and was crossing the lawn. Mary was very fond of him,
flattered by the attention of the tallest person in the house, and she
stretched her arms, and gave a cry of summons. Amabel watched him turn
instantly, take her from her nurse, and hold her in a close embrace,
whilst her little round arms met round his neck. She was unwilling to
be restored to Anne, and when he left she looked up in his face, and
unprompted, held up to him the primroses and violets in her hand.

Those flowers were in his coat when Amabel saw him again at church,
and she knew that this spontaneous proof of affection from Guy’s little
unconscious child was more precious to him than all the kindnesses she
could bestow.

Little space was there for musing, for it was high time to set off for
church. Mary Ross met the party at the wicket of the churchyard, took
Charles on her arm, and by look and sign inquired for Amy.

‘Bright outwardly,’ he answered, ‘and I think so inwardly. Nothing does
her so much good as to represent him. Did you wonder to see her?’

‘No’ said Mary. ‘I thought she would come. It is the crowning point of
his forgiveness.’

‘Such forgiveness that she has forgotten there is anything to forgive,’
said Charles.

Philip Morville and Laura Edmonstone stood before Mr. Ross. It was not
such a wedding as the last. There was more personal beauty, but no such
air of freshness, youth, and peace. He was, indeed, a very fine-looking
man, his countenance more noble than it had ever been, though pale and
not only betraying the present suffering of the throbbing, burning brow,
but with the appearance of a care-worn, harassed man, looking more as if
his age was five-and-thirty than eight-and-twenty. And she, in her plain
white muslin and quiet bonnet, was hardly bridal-looking in dress, and
so it was with her face, still beautiful and brilliant in complexion,
but with the weight of care permanent on it, and all the shades of
feeling concealed by a fixed command of countenance, unable, however, to
hide the oppression of dejection and anxiety.

Yet to the eyes that only beheld the surface, there was nothing but
prosperity and happiness in a marriage between a pair who had loved so
long and devotedly, and after going through so much for each other’s
sake, were united at length, with wealth, honour, and distinction before
them. His health was re-established, and the last spring had proved
that his talents would place him in such a position as had been the
very object of his highest hopes. Was not everything here for which the
fondest and most aspiring wishes could seek? Yet for the very reason
that there was sadness at almost every heart, not one tear was shed.
Mrs. Edmonstone’s thoughts were less engrossed with the bride than with
the young slender figure in black, standing in her own drooping way,
her head bent down, and the fingers of her right hand clasping tight her
wedding-ring, through her white glove.

The service was over. Laura hung round her mother’s neck in an ardent
embrace.

‘Your pardon! O, mamma, I see it all now!’

Poor thing! she had too much failed in a daughter’s part to go forth
from her home with the clear, loving, hopeful heart her sister had
carried from it! Mrs. Edmonstone’s kiss was a full answer, however, a
kiss unlike what it had been with all her efforts for many and many a
month.

‘Amy, pray that it may not be visited!’ were the last words breathed to
her sister, as they were pressed in each other’s arms.

Philip scarcely spoke, only met their kindnesses with grateful gestures
and looks, and brief replies, and the parting was hastened that he might
as soon as possible be at rest. His only voluntary speech was as he bade
farewell to Amabel,--

‘My sister now!’

‘And _his_ brother,’ she answered. ‘Good-bye!’

As soon as Amabel was alone in the carriage with Charles, she leant
back, and gave way to a flood of tears.

‘Amy, has it been too much?’

‘No,’ she said, recovering herself; ‘but I am so glad! It was _his_
chief desire. Now everything he wished is fulfilled.’

‘And you are free of your great charge. He has been a considerable care
to you, but now he is safe on Laura’s hands, and well and satisfactory;
so you have no care but your daughter, and we settle into our home
life.’

Amabel smiled.

‘Amy, I do wish I was sure you are happy.’

‘Yes, dear Charlie, indeed I am. You are all so very kind to me, and it
is a blessing, indeed, that my own dear home can open to take in me and
baby. You know _he_ liked giving me back to you.’

‘And it is happiness, not only thinking it ought to be! Don’t let me
tease you, Amy, don’t answer if you had rather not.’

‘Thank you, Charlie, it _is_ happiness. It must be when I remember how
very happy he used to be, and there can be nothing to spoil it. When
I see how all the duties of his station worry and perplex Philip, I am
glad he was spared from it, and had all his freshness and brightness
his whole life. It beams out on me more now, and it was such perfect
happiness while I had him here, and it is such a pleasure and honour to
be called by his name; besides, there is baby. Oh! Charlie, I must be
happy--I am; do believe it! Indeed, you know I have you and mamma and
all too. And, Charlie, I think he made you all precious to me over again
by the way he loved you all, and sent me back, to you especially. Yes,
Charlie, you must not fancy I grieve. I am very happy, for he is, and
all I have is made bright and precious by him.’

‘Yes,’ said he, looking at her, as the colour had come into her face,
and she looked perfectly lovely with eager, sincere happiness; one of
her husband’s sweetest looks reflected on her face; altogether, such a
picture of youth, joy, and love, as had not been displayed by the
bride that morning. ‘Amy, I don’t believe anything could make you long
unhappy!’

‘Nothing but my own fault. Nothing else can part me from him,’ she
whispered almost to herself.

‘Yes; no one else had such a power of making happy,’ said Charles,
thoughtfully. ‘Amy, I really don’t know whether even you owe as much
to your husband as I do. You were good for something before, but when
I look back on what I was when first he came, I know that his leading,
unconscious as it was, brought out the stifled good in me. What a wretch
I should have been; what a misery to myself and to you all by this time,
and now, I verily believe, that since he let in the sunlight from heaven
on me, I am better off than if I had as many legs as other people.’

‘Better off?’

‘Yes. Nobody else lives in such an atmosphere of petting, and has so
little to plague them. Nobody else has such a “mamma,” to say nothing of
silly little Amy, or Charlotte, or Miss Morville. And as to being of
no use, which I used to pine about--why, when the member for Moorworth
governs the country, I mean to govern him.’

‘I am sure you are of wonderful use to every one,’ said Amabel; ‘neither
Philip nor papa could get on without you to do their writing for them.
Besides, I want you to help me when baby grows older.’

‘Is that the laudable result of that great book on education I saw you
reading the other day?’ said Charles. ‘Why don’t you borrow a few hints
from Mrs. Henley?’

Amy’s clear, playful laugh was just what it used to be.

‘It is all settled, then, that you go on with us! Not that I ever
thought you were going to do anything so absurd as to set up for
yourself, you silly little woman: but it seems to be considered right
to come to a formal settlement about such a grand personage as my Lady
Morville.’

‘Yes; it was better to come to an understanding,’ said Amabel. ‘It was
better that papa should make up his mind to see that I can’t turn into a
young lady again. You see Charlotte will go out with him and be the Miss
Edmonstone for company, and he is so proud of her liveliness and--how
pretty she is growing--so that will keep him from being vexed. So
now you see I can go on my own way, attend to baby, and take Laura’s
business about the school, and keep out of the way of company, so that
it is very nice and comfortable. It is the very thing that Guy wished!’

Amabel’s life is here pretty well shown. That of Philip and Laura may
be guessed at. He was a distinguished man, one of the most honoured and
respected in the country, admired for his talents and excellence, and
regarded universally as highly prosperous and fortunate, the pride of
all who had any connection with him. Yet it was a harassed, anxious
life, with little of repose or relief; and Laura spent her time between
watching him and tending his health, and in the cares and representation
befitting her station, with little space for domestic pleasure and
home comfort, knowing her children more intimately through her sister’s
observation than through her own.

Perfect and devoted as ever was their love, and they were thought most
admirable and happy people. There was some wonder at his being a grave,
melancholy man, when he had all before him so richly to enjoy, contrary
to every probability when he began life. Still there was one who never
could understand why others should think him stern and severe, and why
even his own children should look up to him with love that partook
of distant awe and respect, one to whom he never was otherwise than
indulgent, nay, almost reverential, in the gentleness of his kindness,
and that was Mary Verena Morville.


                                THE END.





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