I will sing, for I am sad,
For many my misdeeds;
It is my sadness makes me glad,
For love for sorrow pleads.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
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.
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.
'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.
Hence, bashful cunning,
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.
I am your wife if you will marry me.
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.
I forgave thee all the blame,
I could not forgive the praise.
'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.'
But no kind influence deign they shower,
Till pride be quelled and love be free.
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.
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.
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.
She's a winsome wee thing,
She's a handsome wee thing,
She's a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wifie of mine.
'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!'