A fig for all dactyls, a fig for all spondees,
A fig for all dunces and dominie grandees.
--SCOTT
‘How glad I am!’ exclaimed Guy, entering the drawing-room.
‘Wherefore?’ inquired Charles.
‘I thought I was too late, and I am very glad to find no one arrived,
and Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone not come down.’
‘But where have you been?’
‘I lost my way on the top of the down; I fancied some one told me there
was a view of the sea to be had there.’
‘And can’t you exist without a view of the sea?’
Guy laughed. ‘Everything looks so dull--it is as if the view was dead or
imprisoned--walled up by wood and hill, and wanting that living ripple,
heaving and struggling.’
‘And your fine rocks?’ said Laura.
‘I wish you could see the Shag stone,--a great island mass, sloping on
one side, precipitous on the other, with the spray dashing on it. If you
see it from ever so far off, there is still that white foam coming and
going--a glancing speck, like the light in an eye.’
‘Hark! a carriage.’
‘The young man and the young man’s companion,’ said Charles.
‘How can you?’ said Laura. ‘What would any one suppose Mr. Thorndale to
be?’
‘Not Philip’s valet,’ said Charles, ‘if it is true that no man is a hero
to his “valley-de-sham”; whereas, what is not Philip to the Honourable
James Thorndale?’
‘Philip, Alexander, and Bucephalus into the bargain,’ suggested Amy,
in her demure, frightened whisper, sending all but Laura into a fit of
laughter, the harder to check because the steps of the parties concerned
were heard approaching.
Mr. Thorndale was a quiet individual, one of those of whom there is
least to be said, so complete a gentleman that it would have been an
insult, to call him gentleman-like; agreeable and clever rather than
otherwise, good-looking, with a high-bred air about him, so that it
always seemed strange that he did not make more impression.
A ring at the front-door almost immediately followed their arrival.
‘Encore?’ asked Philip, looking at Laura with a sort of displeased
surprise.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Laura, drawing aside.
‘One of my uncle’s family parties,’ said Philip. ‘I wish I had not
brought Thorndale. Laura, what is to be done to prevent the tittering
that always takes place when Amy and those Harpers are together?’
‘Some game?’ said Laura. He signed approval; but she had time to say no
more, for her father and mother came down, and some more guests entered.
It was just such a party that continually grew up at Hollywell, for
Mr. Edmonstone was so fond of inviting, that his wife never knew in the
morning how many would assemble at her table in the evening. But she was
used to it, and too good a manager even to be called so. She liked to
see her husband enjoy himself in his good-natured, open-hearted way. The
change was good for Charles, and thus it did very well, and there were
few houses in the neighbourhood more popular than Hollywell.
The guests this evening were Maurice de Courcy, a wild young Irishman,
all noise and nonsense, a great favourite with his cousin, Mr.
Edmonstone; two Miss Harpers, daughters of the late clergyman,
good-natured, second-rate girls; Dr. Mayerne, Charles’s kind old
physician, the friend and much-loved counsellor at Hollywell, and the
present vicar, Mr. Ross with his daughter Mary.
Mary Ross was the greatest friend that the Miss Edmonstones possessed,
though, she being five-and-twenty, they had not arrived at perceiving
that they were on the equal terms of youngladyhood.
She had lost her mother early, and had owed a great deal to the kindness
of Mrs. Edmonstone, as she grew up among her numerous elder brothers.
She had no girlhood; she was a boy till fourteen, and then a woman, and
she was scarcely altered since the epoch of that transition, the same
in likings, tastes, and duties. ‘Papa’ was all the world to her, and
pleasing him had much the same meaning now as then; her brothers were
like playfellows; her delights were still a lesson in Greek from papa, a
school-children’s feast, a game at play, a new book. It was only a pity
other people did not stand still too. ‘Papa,’ indeed, had never grown
sensibly older since the year of her mother’s death: but her brothers
were whiskered men, with all the cares of the world, and no holidays;
the school-girls went out to service, and were as a last year’s brood to
an old hen; the very children she had fondled were young ladies, as old,
to all intents and purposes, as herself, and here were even Laura and
Amy Edmonstone fallen into that bad habit of growing up! though little
Amy had still much of the kitten in her composition, and could play
as well as Charlotte or Mary herself, when they had the garden to
themselves.
Mary took great pains to amuse Charles, always walking to see him in
the worst weather, when she thought other visitors likely to fall, and
chatting with him as if she was the idlest person in the world, though
the quantity she did at home and in the parish would be too amazing
to be recorded. Spirited and decided, without superfluous fears and
fineries, she had a firm, robust figure, and a rosy, good-natured face,
with a manner that, though perfectly feminine, had in it an air of
strength and determination.
Hollywell was a hamlet, two miles from the parish church of East-hill,
and Mary had thus seen very little of the Edmonstone’s guest, having
only been introduced to him after church on Sunday. The pleasure on
which Charles chiefly reckoned for that evening was the talking him over
with her when the ladies came in from the dining-room. The Miss Harpers,
with his sisters, gathered round the piano, and Mrs. Edmonstone sat at
Charles’s feet, while Mary knitted and talked.
‘So you get on well with him?’
‘He is one of those people who are never in the way, and yet you never
can forgot their presence,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘His manners are quite the pink of courtesy,’ said Mary.
‘Like his grandfather’s,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘that old-school
deference and attention is very chivalrous, and sits prettily and
quaintly on his high spirits and animation; I hope it will not wear
off.’
‘A vain hope,’ said Charles. ‘At present he is like that German myth,
Kaspar Hauser, who lived till twenty in a cellar. It is lucky for mamma
that, in his green state, he is courtly instead of bearish.’
‘Lucky for you, too, Charlie; he spoils you finely.’
‘He has the rare perfection of letting me know my own mind. I never knew
what it was to have my own way before.’
‘Is that your complaint, Charlie? What next?’ said Mary.
‘So you think I have my way, do you, Mary? That is all envy, you see,
and very much misplaced. Could you guess what a conflict it is every
time I am helped up that mountain of a staircase, or the slope of
my sofa is altered? Last time Philip stayed here, every step cost an
argument, till at last, through sheer exhaustion, I left myself a dead
weight on his hands, to be carried up by main strength. And after all,
he is such a great, strong fellow, that I am afraid he did not mind it;
so next time I _crutched_ myself down alone, and I hope that did provoke
him.’
‘Sir Guy is so kind that I am ashamed,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘It seems
as if we had brought him for the sole purpose of waiting on Charles.’
‘Half his heart is in his horse,’ said Charles. ‘Never had man such
delight in the “brute creation.”’
‘They have been his chief playfellows,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone. ‘The
chief of his time was spent in wandering in the woods or on the beach,
watching them and their ways.’
‘I fairly dreamt of that Elysium of his last night,’ said Charles:
‘a swamp half frozen on a winter’s night, full of wild ducks. Here,
Charlotte, come and tell Mary the roll of Guy’s pets.’
Charlotte began. ‘There was the sea-gull, and the hedgehog, and the fox,
and the badger, and the jay, and the monkey, that he bought because it
was dying, and cured it, only it died the next winter, and a toad, and a
raven, and a squirrel, and--’
‘That will do, Charlotte.’
‘Oh! but Mary has not heard the names of all his dogs. And Mary, he has
cured Bustle of hunting my Puss. We held them up to each other, and Puss
hissed horribly, but Bustle did not mind it a bit; and the other day,
when Charles tried to set him at her, he would not take the least
notice.’
‘Now, Charlotte,’ said Charles, waving his hand, with a provoking mock
politeness, ‘have the goodness to return to your friends.
Tea over, Laura proposed the game of definitions. ‘You know it. Philip,’
said she, ‘you taught us.’
‘Yes I learnt it of your sisters, Thorndale,’ said Philip.
‘O pray let us have it. It must be charming!’ exclaimed Miss Harper, on
this recommendation.
‘Definitions!’ said Charles, contemptuously. ‘Dr. Johnson must be the
hand for them.’
‘They are just the definitions not to be found in Johnson,’ said Mr.
Thorndale. ‘Our standing specimen is adversity, which may be differently
explained according to your taste, as “a toad with a precious jewel in
its head,” or “the test of friendship.”’
‘The spirit of words,’ said Guy, looking eager and interested.
‘Well, we’ll try,’ said Charles, ‘though I can’t say it sounds to me
promising. Come, Maurice, define an Irishman.’
‘No, no, don’t let us be personal,’ said Laura; ‘I had thought of the
word “happiness”. We are each to write a definition on a slip of paper,
then compare them.’
The game was carried on with great spirit for more than an hour. It was
hard to say, which made most fun, Maurice, Charles, or Guy; the last
no longer a spectator, but an active contributor to the sport. When the
break-up came, Mary and Amabel were standing over the table together,
collecting the scattered papers, and observing that it had been very
good fun. ‘Some so characteristic,’ said Amy, ‘such as Maurice’s
definition of happiness,--a row at Dublin.’
‘Some were very deep, though,’ said Mary; ‘if it is not treason, I
should like to make out whose that other was of happiness.’
‘You mean this,’ said Amy: ‘“Gleams from a brighter world, too soon
eclipsed or forfeited.” I thought it was Philip’s, but it is Sir Guy’s
writing. How very sad! I should not like to think so. And he was so
merry all the time! This is his, too, I see; this one about riches being
the freight for which the traveller is responsible.’
‘There is a great deal of character in them,’ said Mary. ‘I should not
have wondered at any of us, penniless people, philosophizing in the fox
and grapes style, but, for him, and at his age--’
‘He has been brought up so as to make the theory of wisdom come early,’
said Philip, who was nearer than she thought.
‘Is that intended for disparagement?’ she asked quickly.
I think very highly of him; he has a great deal of sense and right
feeling,’ was Philip’s sedate answer; and he turned away to say some
last words to Mr. Thorndale.
The Rosses were the last to depart, Mary in cloak and clogs, while Mr.
Edmonstone lamented that it was in vain to offer the carriage; and Mary
laughed, and thanked, and said the walk home with Papa was the greatest
of treats in the frost and star-light.
‘Don’t I pity you, who always go out to dinner in a carriage!’ were her
last words to Laura.
‘Well, Guy,’ said Charlotte, ‘how do you like it?’
‘Very much, indeed. It was very pleasant.’
‘You are getting into the fairy ring,’ said Laura, smiling.
‘Ay’ he said, smiling too; ‘but it does not turn to tinsel. Would it if
I saw more of it?’ and he looked at Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘It would be no compliment to ourselves to say so,’ she answered.
‘I suppose tinsel or gold depends on the using,’ said he, thoughtfully;
‘there are some lumps of solid gold among those papers, I am sure, one,
in particular, about a trifle. May I see that again? I mean--
‘Little things
On little wings
Bear little souls to heaven.’
‘Oh! that was only a quotation,’ said Amy, turning over the definitions
again with him, and laughing at some of the most amusing; while, in the
mean time, Philip went to help Laura, who was putting some books away in
the ante-room.
‘Yes, Laura,’ he said, ‘he has thought, mind, and soul; he is no mere
rattle.’
‘No indeed. Who could help seeing his superiority over Maurice?’
‘If only he does not pervert his gifts, and if it is not all talk. I
don’t like such excess of openness about his feelings; it is too like
talking for talking’s sake.’
‘Mamma says it in the transparency of youthfulness. You know he has
never been at school; so his thoughts come out in security of sympathy,
without fear of being laughed at. But it is very late. Good night.’
The frost turned to rain the next morning, and the torrents streamed
against the window, seeming to have a kind of attraction for Philip and
Guy, who stood watching them.
Guy wondered if the floods would be out at Redclyffe and his cousins
were interested by his description of the sudden, angry rush of the
mountain streams, eddying fiercely along, bearing with them tree and
rock, while the valleys became lakes, and the little mounds islets; and
the trees looked strangely out of proportion when only their branches
were visible. ‘Oh! a great flood is famous fun,’ said he.
‘Surely,’ said Philip, ‘I have heard a legend of your being nearly
drowned in some flood.
‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘I had a tolerable ducking.’
‘Oh, tell us about it!’ said Amy.
‘Ay! I have a curiosity to hear a personal experience of drowning,’ said
Charles. ‘Come, begin at the beginning.’
‘I was standing watching the tremendous force of the stream, when I saw
an unhappy old ram floating along, bleating so piteously, and making
such absurd, helpless struggles, that I could not help pulling off my
coat and jumping in after him. It was very foolish, for the stream was
too strong--I was two years younger then. Moreover, the beast was very
heavy, and not at all grateful for any kind intentions, and I found
myself sailing off to the sea, with the prospect of a good many rocks
before long; but just then an old tree stretched out its friendly
arms through the water; it stopped the sheep, and I caught hold of the
branches, and managed to scramble up, while my friend got entangled in
them with his wool’--
‘Omne quum Proteus pecus egit altos
Visere montes,’
quoted Philip.
‘Ovium et summa, genus haesit ulmo,’
added Guy.
‘_Ovium_,’ exclaimed Philip, with a face of horror. ‘Don’t you know that
_O_ in _Ovis_ is short? Do anything but take liberties with Horace!’
‘Get out of the tree first, Guy,’ said Charles, ‘for at present your
history seems likely to end with a long ohone!’
‘Well, Triton--not Proteus--came to the rescue at last,’ said Guy,
laughing; ‘I could not stir, and the tree bent so frightfully with the
current that I expected every minute we should all go together; so I
had nothing for it but to halloo as loud as I could. No one heard but
Triton, the old Newfoundland dog, who presently came swimming up, so
eager to help, poor fellow, that I thought he would have throttled me,
or hurt himself in the branches. I took off my handkerchief and threw it
to him, telling him to take it to Arnaud, who I knew would understand it
as a signal of distress.’
‘Did he? How long had you to wait?’
‘I don’t know--it seemed long enough before a most welcome boat
appeared, with some men in it, and Triton in an agony. They would never
have found me but for him, for my voice was gone; indeed the next thing
I remember was lying on the grass in the park, and Markham saying,
‘Well, sir, if you do wish to throw away your life, let it be for
something better worth saving than Farmer Holt’s vicious old ram!’
‘In the language of the great Mr. Toots,’ said Charles ‘I am afraid you
got very wet.’
‘Were you the worse for it?’ said Amy.
‘Not in the least. I was so glad to hear it was Holt’s! for you must
know that I had behaved very ill to Farmer Holt. I had been very angry
at his beating our old hound, for, as he thought, worrying his sheep;
not that Dart ever did, though.
‘And was the ram saved?’
‘Yes, and next time I saw it, it nearly knocked me down.’
‘Would you do it again?’ said Philip.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I hope you had a medal from the Humane Society,’ said Charles.
‘That would have been more proper for Triton.’
‘Yours should have been an ovation,’ said Charles, cutting the o
absurdly short, and looking at Philip.
Laura saw that the spirit of teasing was strong in Charles this morning
and suspected that he wanted to stir up what he called the deadly
feud, and she hastened to change the conversation by saying, ‘You quite
impressed Guy with your translation of Fra Cristoforo.’
‘Indeed I must thank you for recommending the book,’ said Guy; ‘how
beautiful it is!’
‘I am glad you entered into it,’ said Philip; ‘it has every quality that
a fiction ought to have.’
‘I never read anything equal to the repentance of the nameless man.’
‘Is he your favourite character?’ said Philip, looking at him
attentively.
‘Oh no--of course not--though he is so grand that one thinks most about
him, but no one can be cared about as much as Lucia.’
‘Lucia! She never struck me as more than a well-painted peasant girl,’
said Philip.
‘Oh!’ cried Guy, indignantly; then, controlling himself, he continued:
‘She pretends to no more than she is, but she shows the beauty of
goodness in itself in a--a--wonderful way. And think of the power of
those words of hers over that gloomy, desperate man.’
‘Your sympathy with the Innominato again,’ said Philip. Every subject
seemed to excite Guy to a dangerous extent, as Laura thought, and she
turned to Philip to ask if he would not read to them again.
‘I brought this book on purpose,’ said Philip. ‘I wished to read you a
description of that print from Raffaelle--you know it--the Madonna di
San Sisto?’
‘The one you brought to show us?’ said Amy, ‘with the two little
angels?’
‘Yes, here is the description,’ and he began to read--
‘Dwell on the form of the Child, more than human in grandeur, seated on
the arms of the Blessed Virgin as on an august throne. Note the tokens
of divine grace, His ardent eyes, what a spirit, what a countenance is
His; yet His very resemblance to His mother denotes sufficiently that He
is of us and takes care for us. Beneath are two figures adoring, each in
their own manner. On one side is a pontiff, on the other a virgin each
a most sweet and solemn example, the one of aged, the other of maidenly
piety and reverence. Between, are two winged boys, evidently presenting
a wonderful pattern of childlike piety. Their eyes, indeed, are not
turned towards the Virgin, but both in face and gesture, they show how
careless of themselves they are in the presence of God.’
All were struck by the description. Guy did not speak at first, but
the solemn expression of his face showed how he felt its power and
reverence. Philip asked if they would like to hear more, and Charles
assented: Amy worked, Laura went on with her perspective, and Guy sat
by her side, making concentric circles with her compasses, or when she
wanted them he tormented her parallel ruler, or cut the pencils, never
letting his fingers rest except at some high or deep passage, or when
some interesting discussion arose. All were surprised when luncheon time
arrived; Charles held out his hand for the book; it was given with a
slight smile, and he exclaimed’ Latin! I thought you were translating.
Is it your own property?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it very tough? I would read it, if any one would read it with me.’
‘Do you mean me?’ said Guy; ‘I should like it very much, but you have
seen how little Latin I know.’
‘That is the very thing,’ said Charles; ‘that Ovis of yours was music; I
would have made you a Knight of the Golden Fleece on the spot. Tutors I
could get by shoals, but a fellow-dunce is inestimable.’
‘It is a bargain, then,’ said Guy; ‘if Philip has done with the book and
will lend it to us.’
The luncheon bell rang, and they all adjourned to the dining-room. Mr.
Edmonstone came in when luncheon was nearly over, rejoicing that his
letters were done, but then he looked disconsolately from the window,
and pitied the weather. ‘Nothing for it but billiards. People might say
it was nonsense to have a billiard-table in such a house, but for his
part he found there was no getting through a wet day without them.
Philip must beat him as usual, and Guy might have one of the young
ladies to make a fourth.’
‘Thank you,’ said Guy, ‘but I don’t play.’
‘Not play--eh?’ Well, we will teach you in the spinning of a ball, and
I’ll have my little Amy to help me against you and Philip.’
‘No, thank you,’ repeated Guy, colouring, ‘I am under a promise.’
‘Ha! Eh? What? Your grandfather? He could see no harm in such play as
this. For nothing, you understand. You did not suppose I meant anything
else?’
‘O no, of course not,’ eagerly replied Guy; ‘but it is impossible for me
to play, thank you. I have promised never even to look on at a game at
billiards.’
‘Ah, poor man, he had too much reason.’ uttered Mr. Edmonstone to
himself, but catching a warning look from his wife, he became suddenly
silent. Guy, meanwhile, sat looking lost in sad thoughts, till, rousing
himself, he exclaimed, ‘Don’t let me prevent you.’
Mr. Edmonstone needed but little persuasion, and carried Philip off to
the billiard-table in the front hall.
‘O, I am so glad!’ cried Charlotte, who had, within the last week,
learnt Guy’s value as a playfellow. ‘Now you will never go to those
stupid billiards, but I shall have you always, every rainy day. Come and
have a real good game at ball on the stairs.’
She already had hold of his hand, and would have dragged him off at
once, had he not waited to help Charles back to his sofa; and in the
mean time she tried in vain to persuade her more constant playmate,
Amabel, to join the game. Poor little Amy regretted the being obliged to
refuse, as she listened to the merry sounds and bouncing balls, sighing
more than once at having turned into a grown-up young lady; while Philip
observed to Laura, who was officiating as billiard-marker, that Guy was
still a mere boy.
The fates favoured Amy at last for about half after three, the billiards
were interrupted, and Philip, pronouncing the rain to be almost over,
invited Guy to take a walk, and they set out in a very gray wet mist,
while Charlotte and Amy commenced a vigorous game at battledore and
shuttle-cock.
The gray mist had faded into twilight, and twilight into something like
night, when Charles was crossing the hall, with the aid of Amy’s arm,
Charlotte carrying the crutch behind him, and Mrs. Edmonstone helping
Laura with her perspective apparatus, all on their way to dress for
dinner; the door opened and in came the two Morvilles. Guy, without,
even stopping to take off his great coat, ran at once up-stairs, and
the next moment the door of his room was shut with a bang that shook the
house, and made them all start and look at Philip for explanation.
‘Redclyffe temper,’ said he, coolly, with a half-smile curling his short
upper lip.
‘What have you been doing to him?’ said Charles.’
‘Nothing. At least nothing worthy of such ire. I only entered on the
subject of his Oxford life, and advised him to prepare for it, for his
education has as yet been a mere farce. He used to go two or three days
in the week to one Potts, a self-educated genius--a sort of superior
writing-master at the Moorworth commercial school. Of course, though it
is no fault of his, poor fellow, he is hardly up to the fifth form, and
he must make the most of his time, if he is not to be plucked. I set
all this before him as gently as I could, for I knew with whom I had to
deal, yet you see how it is.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Charles.
‘He said nothing; so far I give him credit; but he strode on furiously
for the last half mile, and this explosion is the finale. I am very
sorry for him, poor boy; I beg no further notice may be taken of it.
Don’t you want an arm, Charlie?’
‘No thank you,’ answered Charles, with a little surliness.
‘You had better. It really is too much for Amy,’ said Philip, making a
move as if to take possession of him, as he arrived at the foot of the
stairs.
‘Like the camellia, I suppose,’ he replied; and taking his other crutch
from Charlotte, he began determinedly to ascend without assistance,
resolved to keep Philip a prisoner below him as long as he could, and
enjoying the notion of chafing him by the delay. Certainly teasing
Philip was a dear delight to Charles, though it was all on trust, as, if
he succeeded, his cousin never betrayed his annoyance by look or sign.
About a quarter of an hour after, there was a knock at the
dressing-room door. ‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, looking up from her
letter-writing, and Guy made his appearance, looking very downcast.
‘I am come,’ he said, ‘to ask pardon for the disturbance I made just
now. I was so foolish as to be irritated at Philip’s manner, when he was
giving me some good advice, and I am very sorry.’
‘What has happened to your lip?’ she exclaimed.
He put his handkerchief to it. ‘Is it bleeding still? It is a trick
of mine to bite my lip when I am vexed. It seems to help to keep down
words. There! I have given myself a mark of this hateful outbreak.’
He looked very unhappy, more so, Mrs. Edmonstone thought, than the
actual offence required. ‘You have only failed in part,’ she said. ‘It
was a victory to keep down words.’
‘The feeling is the _thing_,’ said Guy; ‘besides, I showed it plainly
enough, without speaking.’
‘It is not easy to take advice from one so little your elder,’ began
Mrs. Edmonstone, but he interrupted her. ‘It was not the advice. That
was very good; I--’ but he spoke with an effort,--‘I am obliged to
him. It was--no, I won’t say what,’ he added, his eyes kindling, then
changing in a moment to a sorrowful, resolute tone, ‘Yes, but I _will_,
and then I shall make myself thoroughly ashamed. It was his veiled
assumption of superiority, his contempt for all I have been taught.
Just as if he had not every right to despise me, with his talent and
scholarship, after such egregious mistakes as I had made in the morning.
I gave him little reason to think highly of my attainments; but let him
slight me as much as he pleases, he must not slight those who taught me.
It was not Mr. Potts’ fault.’
Even the name could not spoil the spirited sound of the speech, and Mrs.
Edmonstone was full of sympathy. ‘You must remember,’ she said, ‘that in
the eyes of a man brought up at public school, nothing compensates for
the want of the regular classical education. I have no doubt it was very
provoking.’
‘I don’t want to be excused, thank you,’ said Guy. ‘Oh I am grieved; for
I thought the worst of my temper had been subdued. After all that has
passed--all I felt--I thought it impossible. Is there no hope for--’
He covered his face with his hands, then recovering and turning to Mrs.
Edmonstone, he said, ‘It is encroaching too much on your kindness to
come here and trouble you with my confessions.’
‘No, no, indeed,’ said she, earnestly. ‘Remember how we agreed that you
should come to me like one of my own children. And, indeed, I do not see
why you need grieve in this despairing way, for you almost overcame the
fit of anger; and perhaps you were off your guard because the trial came
in an unexpected way?’
‘It did, it did,’ he said, eagerly; ‘I don’t, mind being told point
blank that I am a dunce, but that Mr. Potts--nay, by implication--my
grandfather should be set at nought in that cool--But here I am again!’
said he, checking himself in the midst of his vehemence; ‘he did not
mean that, of course. I have no one to blame but myself.’
‘I am sure,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘that if you always treat your
failings in this way, you must subdue them at last.’
‘It is all failing, and resolving, and failing again!’ said Guy.
‘Yes, but the failures become slighter and less frequent, and the end is
victory.’
‘The end victory!’ repeated Guy, in a musing tone, as he stood leaning
against the mantelshelf.
‘Yes, to all who persevere and seek for help,’ said Mrs Edmonstone;
and he raised his eyes and fixed them on her with an earnest look that
surprised her, for it was almost as if the hope came home to him
as something new. At that moment, however, she was called away, and
directly after a voice in the next room exclaimed, ‘Are you there, Guy?
I want an arm!’ while he for the first time perceived that Charles’s
door was ajar.
Charles thought all this a great fuss about nothing, indeed he was glad
to find there was anyone who had no patience with Philip; and in his
usual mischievous manner, totally reckless of the fearful evil of
interfering with the influence for good which it was to be hoped that
Philip might exert over Guy, he spoke thus: ‘I begin to think the world
must be more docile than I have been disposed to give it credit for. How
a certain cousin of ours has escaped numerous delicate hints to mind his
own business is to me one of the wonders of the world.’
‘No one better deserves that his advice should be followed,’ said Guy,
with some constraint.
‘An additional reason against it,’ said Charles. ‘Plague on that bell!
I meant to have broken through your formalities and had a candid opinion
of Don Philip before it rang.’
‘Then I am glad of it; I could hardly have given you a candid opinion
just at present.’
Charles was vexed; but he consoled himself by thinking that Guy did not
yet feel himself out of his leading-strings, and was still on his good
behaviour. After such a flash as this there was no fear, but there was
that in him which would create mischief and disturbance enough. Charles
was well principled at the bottom, and would have shrunk with horror had
it been set before him how dangerous might be the effect of destroying
the chance of a friendship between Guy and the only person whose
guidance was likely to be beneficial to him; but his idle, unoccupied
life, and habit of only thinking of things as they concerned his
immediate amusement, made him ready to do anything for the sake of
opposition to Philip, and enjoy the vague idea of excitement to be
derived from anxiety about his father’s ward, whom at the same time he
regarded with increased liking as he became certain that what he called
the Puritan spirit was not native to him.
At dinner-time, Guy was as silent as on his first arrival, and there
would have been very little conversation had not the other gentleman
talked politics, Philip leading the discussion to bear upon the duties
and prospects of landed proprietors, and dwelling on the extent of
their opportunities for doing good. He tried to get Guy’s attention, by
speaking of Redclyffe, of the large circle influenced by the head of
the Morville family, and of the hopes entertained by Lord Thorndale
that this power would prove a valuable support to the rightful cause.
He spoke in vain; the young heir of Redclyffe made answers as brief,
absent, and indifferent, as if all this concerned him no more than the
Emperor of Morocco, and Philip, mentally pronouncing him sullen, turned
to address himself to Laura.
As soon as the ladies had left the dining-room, Guy roused himself, and
began by saying to his guardian that he was afraid he was very deficient
in classical knowledge; that he found he must work hard before going to
Oxford; and asked whether there was any tutor in the neighbourhood to
whom he could apply.
Mr. Edmonstone opened his eyes, as much amazed as if Guy had asked if
there was any executioner in the neighbourhood who could cut off his
head. Philip was no less surprised, but he held his peace, thinking it
was well Guy bad sense enough to propose it voluntarily, as he would
have suggested it to his uncle as soon as there was an opportunity of
doing so in private. As soon as Mr. Edmonstone had recollected himself,
and pronounced it to be exceedingly proper, &c., they entered into a
discussion on the neighbouring curates, and came at last to a resolution
that Philip should see whether Mr. Lascelles, a curate of Broadstone,
and an old schoolfellow of his own, would read with Guy a few hours in
every week.
After this was settled, Guy looked relieved, though he was not himself
all the evening, and sat in his old corner between the plants and the
window, where he read a grave book, instead of talking, singing, or
finishing his volume of ‘Ten Thousand a Year.’ Charlotte was all this
time ill at ease. She looked from Guy to Philip, from Philip to Guy; she
shut her mouth as if she was forming some great resolve, then coloured,
and looked confused, rushing into the conversation with something more
mal-apropos than usual, as if on purpose to appear at her ease. At last,
just before her bed-time, when the tea was coming in, Mrs. Edmonstone
engaged with that, Laura reading, Amy clearing Charles’s little table,
and Philip helping Mr. Edmonstone to unravel the confused accounts
of the late cheating bailiff, Guy suddenly found her standing by him,
perusing his face with all the power of her great blue eyes. She started
as he looked up, and put her face into Amabel’s great myrtle as if she
would make it appear that she was smelling to it.
‘Well, Charlotte?’ said he, and the sound of his voice made her speak,
but in a frightened, embarrassed whisper.
‘Guy--Guy--Oh! I beg your pardon, but I wanted to--’
‘Well, what?’ said he, kindly.
‘I wanted to make sure that you are not angry with Philip. You don’t
mean to keep up the feud, do you?’
‘Feud?--I hope not,’ said Guy, too much in earnest to be diverted with
her lecture. ‘I am very much obliged to him.’
‘Are you really?’ said Charlotte, her head a little on one side. ‘I
thought he had been scolding you.’
Scolding was so very inappropriate to Philip’s calm, argumentative way
of advising, that it became impossible not to laugh.
‘Not scolding, then?’ said Charlotte. ‘You are too nearly grown up for
that, but telling you to learn, and being tiresome.’
‘I was so foolish as to be provoked at first,’ answered Guy; ‘but I hope
I have thought better of it, and am going to act upon it.’
Charlotte opened her eyes wider than ever, but in the midst of her
amazement Mrs. Edmonstone called to Guy to quit his leafy screen and
come to tea.
Philip was to return to Broadstone the next day, and as Mrs. Edmonstone
had some errands there that would occupy her longer than Charles liked
to wait in the carriage, it was settled that Philip should drive her
there in the pony phaeton, and Guy accompany them and drive back, thus
having an opportunity of seeing Philip’s print of the ‘Madonna di San
Sisto,’ returning some calls, and being introduced to Mr. Lascelles,
whilst she was shopping. They appointed an hour and place of meeting,
and kept to it, after which Mrs. Edmonstone took Guy with her to call on
Mrs. Deane, the wife of the colonel.
It was currently believed among the young Edmonstones that Mamma and
Mrs. Deane never met without talking over Mr. Morville’s good qualities,
and the present visit proved no exception. Mrs. Deane, a kind,
open-hearted, elderly lady was very fond of Mr. Morville, and proud
of him as a credit to the regiment; and she told several traits of his
excellent judgment, kindness of heart, and power of leading to the right
course. Mrs. Edmonstone listened, and replied with delight; and no
less pleasure and admiration were seen reflected in her young friend’s
radiant face.
Mrs. Edmonstone’s first question, as they set out on their homeward
drive, was, whether they had seen Mr. Lascelles?
‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘I am to begin to morrow, and go to him every Monday
and Thursday.’
‘That is prompt.’
‘Ah! I have no time to lose; besides I have been leading too smooth
a life with you. I want something unpleasant to keep me in order.
Something famously horrid,’ repeated he, smacking the whip with a
relish, as if he would have applied that if he could have found nothing
else.
‘You think you live too smoothly at Hollywell,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone,
hardly able, with all her respect for his good impulses, to help
laughing at this strange boy.
‘Yes. Happy, thoughtless, vehement; that is what your kindness makes
me. Was it not a proof, that I must needs fly out at such a petty
provocation?’
‘I should not have thought it such a very exciting life; certainly not
such as is usually said to lead to thoughtlessness; and we have been
even quieter than usual since you came.’
‘Ah, you don’t know what stuff I am made of,’ said Guy, gravely,
though smiling; ‘your own home party is enough to do me harm; it is so
exceedingly pleasant.’
‘Pleasant things do not necessarily do harm.’
‘Not to you; not to people who are not easily unsettled; but when I
go up-stairs, after a talking, merry evening, such as the night before
last, I find that I have enjoyed it too much; I am all abroad! I can
hardly fix my thoughts, and I don’t know what to do, since here I must
be, and I can’t either be silent, or sit up in my own room.’
‘Certainly not,’ said she, smiling; ‘there are duties of society which
you owe even to us dangerous people.’
‘No, no: don’t misunderstand me. The fault is in myself. If it was
not for that, I could learn nothing but good,’ said Guy, speaking very
eagerly, distressed at her answer.
‘I believe I understand you,’ said she, marvelling at the serious,
ascetic temper, coupled with the very high animal spirits. ‘For your
comfort, I believe the unsettled feeling you complain of is chiefly the
effect of novelty. You have led so very retired a life, that a lively
family party is to you what dissipation would be to other people: and,
as you must meet with the world some time or other, it is better the
first encounter with should be in this comparatively innocent form. Go
on watching yourself, and it will do you no harm.’
Yes, but if I find it does me harm? It would be cowardly to run away,
and resistance should be from within. Yet, on the other hand, there is
the duty of giving up, wrenching oneself from all that has temptation in
it.’
‘There is nothing,’ said Mrs Edmonstone, ‘that has no temptation in it;
but I should think the rule was plain. If a duty such as that of living
among us for the present, and making yourself moderately agreeable,
involves temptations, they must be met and battled from within. In the
same way, your position in society, with all its duties, could not be
laid aside because it is full of trial. Those who do such things are
fainthearted, and fail in trust in Him who fixed their station, and
finds room for them to deny themselves in the trivial round and common
task. It is pleasure involving no duty that should be given up, if we
find it liable to lead us astray.’
‘I see,’ answered Guy, musingly; ‘and this reading comes naturally, and
is just what I wanted to keep the pleasant things from getting a full
hold of me. I ought to have thought of it sooner, instead of dawdling a
whole month in idleness. Then all this would not have happened. I hope
it will be very tough.’
‘You have no great love for Latin and Greek?’
‘Oh!’ cried Guy, eagerly, ‘to be sure I delight in Homer and the
Georgics, and plenty more. What splendid things there are in these old
fellows! But, I never liked the drudgery part of the affair; and now if
I am to be set to work to be accurate, and to get up all the grammar and
the Greek roots, it will be horrid enough in all conscience.’
He groaned as deeply as if he had not been congratulating himself just
before on the difficulty.
‘Who was your tutor?’ asked Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘Mr. Potts,’ said Guy. ‘He is a very clever man; he had a common
grammar-school education, but he struggled on--taught himself a great
deal--and at last thought it great promotion to be a teacher at the
Commercial Academy, as they call it, at Moorworth, where Markham’s
nephews went to school. He is very clever, I assure you, and very
patient of the hard, wearing life he must have of it there; and oh! so
enjoying a new book, or an afternoon to himself. When I was about eight
or nine, I began with him, riding into Moorworth three times in a week;
and I have gone on ever since. I am sure he has done the best he could
for me; and he made the readings very pleasant by his own enjoyment. If
Philip had known the difficulties that man has struggled through, and
his beautiful temper, persevering in doing his best and being contented,
I am sure he could never have spoken contemptuously of him.’
‘I am sure he would not,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘all he meant was,
that a person without a university education cannot tell what the
requirements are to which a man must come up in these days.’
‘Ah!’ said Guy, laughing, ‘how I wished Mr. Potts had been there to
have enjoyed listening to Philip and Mr. Lascelles discussing some
new Lexicon, digging down for roots of words, and quoting passages of
obscure Greek poets at such a rate, that if my eyes had been shut I
could have thought them two withered old students in spectacles and
snuff-coloured coats.’
‘Philip was in his element.’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling.
‘Really,’ proceeded Guy, with animation, ‘the more I hear and see of
Philip, the more I wonder. What a choice collection of books he has--so
many of them school prizes, and how beautifully bound!’
‘Ah! that is one of Philip’s peculiar ways. With all his prudence
and his love of books, I believe he would not buy one unless he had a
reasonable prospect of being able to dress it handsomely. Did you see
the print?’
‘Yes that I did. What glorious loveliness! There is nothing that does
it justice but the description in the lecture. Oh I forgot, you have
not heard it. You must let me read it to you by and by. Those two little
angels, what faces they have. Perfect innocence--one full of reasoning,
the other of unreasoning adoration!’
‘I see it!’ suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Edmonstone; ‘I see what you are like
in one of your looks, not by any means, in all--it is to the larger of
those two angels.’
‘Very seldom, I should guess,’ said Guy; and sinking his voice, as if
he was communicating a most painful fact, he added, ‘My real likeness
is old Sir Hugh’s portrait at home. But what were we saying? Oh! about
Philip. How nice those stories were of Mrs. Deane’s.’
‘She is very fond of him.’
‘To have won so much esteem and admiration, already from strangers, with
no prejudice in his favour.--It must be entirely his own doing; and well
it may! Every time one hears of him, something comes out to make
him seem more admirable. You are laughing at me, and I own it is
presumptuous to praise; but I did not mean to praise, only to admire.’
‘I like very much to hear my nephew praised; I was only smiling at your
enthusiastic way.’
‘I only wonder I am not more enthusiastic,’ said Guy. ‘I suppose it is
his plain good sense that drives away that sort of feeling, for he is
as near heroism in the way of self-sacrifice as a man can be in these
days.’
‘Poor Philip! if disappointment can make a hero, it has fallen to his
share. Ah! Guy, you are brightening and looking like one of my young
ladies in hopes of a tale of true love crossed, but it was only love of
a sister.’
‘The sister for whom he gave up so much?’
‘Yes, his sister Margaret. She was eight or nine years older, very
handsome, very clever, a good deal like him--a pattern elder sister;
indeed, she brought him up in great part after his mother died, and he
was devoted to her. I do believe it made the sacrifice of his prospects
quite easy to him, to know it was for her sake, that she would live
on at Stylehurst, and the change be softened to her. Then came Fanny’s
illness, and that lead to the marriage with Dr. Henley. It was just what
no one could object to; he is a respectable man in full practice, with a
large income; but he is much older than she is, not her equal in mind or
cultivation, and though I hardly like to say so, not at all a religious
man. At any rate, Margaret Morville was one of the last people one could
bear to see marry for the sake of an establishment.’
‘Could her brother do nothing?’
‘He expostulated with all his might; but at nineteen he could do little
with a determined sister of twenty-seven; and the very truth and power
of his remonstrance must have made it leave a sting. Poor fellow, I
believe he suffered terribly--just as he had lost Fanny, too, which he
felt very deeply, for she was a very sweet creature, and he was very
fond of her. It was like losing both sisters and home at once.’
‘Has he not just been staying with Mrs. Henley?’
‘Yes. There was never any coolness, as people call it. He is the one
thing she loves and is proud of. They always correspond, and he often
stays with her; but he owns to disliking the Doctor, and I don’t think
he has much comfort in Margaret herself, for he always comes back more
grave and stern than he went. Her house, with all her good wishes, can
be no home to him; and so we try to make Hollywell supply the place of
Stylehurst as well as we can.’
‘How glad he must be to have you to comfort him!’
‘Philip? Oh no. He was always reserved; open to no one but Margaret, not
even to his father, and since her marriage he has shut himself up within
himself more than ever. It has, at least I think it is this that has
given him a severity, an unwillingness to trust, which I believe is
often the consequence of a great disappointment either in love or in
friendship.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Guy: ‘I shall understand him better,
and look up to him more. Oh! it is a cruel thing to find that what one
loves is, or has not been, all one thought. What must he not have gone
through!’
Mrs. Edmonstone was well pleased to have given so much assistance to
Guy’s sincere desire to become attached to his cousin, one of the most
favourable signs in the character that was winning so much upon her.