‘Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance.
--Merchant of Venice
St. Mildred’s was a fashionable summer resort, which the virtues of a
mineral spring, and the reputation of Dr. Henley, had contributed
to raise to a high degree of prosperity. It stood at the foot of a
magnificent range of beautifully formed hills, where the crescents and
villas, white and smart, showed their own insignificance beneath the
purple peaks that rose high above them.
About ten miles distant, across the hills, was Stylehurst, the parish
of the late Archdeacon Morville, and the native place of Philip and his
sister Margaret. It was an extensive parish, including a wide tract of
the hilly country; and in a farm-house in the midst of the moorland,
midway between St. Mildred’s and the village of Stylehurst, had Mr.
Wellwood fixed himself with his three pupils.
Guy’s first visit was of course to Mrs. Henley, and she was, on her
side, prepared by her brother to patronize him as Philip would have
done in her place. Her patronage was valuable in her own circle; her
connections were good; the Archdeacon’s name was greatly respected; she
had a handsome and well-regulated establishment, and this, together with
talents which, having no family, she had cultivated more than most women
have time to do, made her a person of considerable distinction at St.
Mildred’s. She was, in fact, the leading lady of the place--the manager
of the book-club, in the chair at all the charitable committees, and the
principal person in society, giving literary parties, with a degree of
exclusiveness that made admission to them a privilege.
She was a very fine woman, handsomer at two-and-thirty than in her early
bloom; her height little less than that of her tall brother, and her
manner and air had something very distinguished. The first time Guy saw
her, he was strongly reminded both of Philip and of Mrs. Edmonstone,
but not pleasingly. She seemed to be her aunt, without the softness and
motherly affection, coupled with the touch of naivete that gave Mrs.
Edmonstone her freshness, and loveableness; and her likeness to her
brother included that decided, self-reliant air, which became him well
enough, but which did not sit as appropriately on a woman.
Guy soon discovered another resemblance--for the old, unaccountable
impatience of Philip’s conversation, and relief in escaping from it,
haunted him before he had been a quarter of an hour in Mrs. Henley’s
drawing-room. She asked after the Hollywell party; she had not seen her
cousins since her marriage, and happily for his feelings, passed over
Laura and Amy as if they were nonentities; but they were all too near
his heart for him to be able with patience to hear ‘poor Charles’s’
temper regretted, and still less the half-sarcastic, half-compassionate
tone in which she implied that her aunt spoilt him dreadfully, and
showed how cheap she hold both Mr. and Mrs. Edmonstone.
Two years ago, Guy could not have kept down his irritation; but now he
was master of himself sufficiently to give a calm, courteous reply,
so conveying his own respect for them, that Mrs. Henley was almost
disconcerted.
Stylehurst had great interest for Guy, both for the sake of Archdeacon
Morville’s kindness, and as the home which Philip regarded with
affection, that seemed the one softening touch in his character. So Guy
visited the handsome church, studied the grave-yard, and gathered the
traditions of the place from the old sexton’s wife, who rejoiced in
finding an auditor for her long stories of the good Archdeacon, Miss
Fanny, and Mr. Philip. She shook her head, saying times were changed,
and ‘Miss Morville that was, never came neist the place.’
The squire, Colonel Harewood, was an old friend of his grandfather’s,
and therefore was to be called on. He had never been wise, and had been
dissipated chiefly from vacancy of mind; he was now growing old, and
led a quieter life, and though Guy did not find him a very entertaining
companion, he accepted, his civilities, readily, for his grandfather’s
sake. When his sons came home, Guy recognized in them the description
of men he was wont to shun at Oxford, as much from distaste as from
principle; but though he did not absolutely avoid them, he saw little
of them, being very busy, and having pleasant companions in his fellow
pupils. It was a very merry party at South Moor, and Guy’s high spirits
made him the life of everything.
The first time Mr. Wellwood went to call on his cousins at St.
Mildred’s, the daughters of that officer who had fallen by the hand
of old Sir Guy, he began repeating, for the twentieth time, what an
excellent fellow Morville was; then said he should not have troubled
them with any of his pupils, but Morville would esteem their receiving
him as an act of forgiveness, and besides, he wished them to know
one whom he valued so highly. Guy thus found himself admitted into an
entirely new region. There were two sisters, together in everything.
Jane, the younger, was a kind-hearted, commonplace person, who would
never have looked beyond the ordinary range of duties and charities; but
Elizabeth was one of those who rise up, from time to time, as burning
and shining lights. It was not spending a quiet, easy life, making her
charities secondary to her comforts, but devoting time, strength, and
goods; not merely giving away what she could spare, but actually sharing
all with the poor, reserving nothing for the future. She not only taught
the young, and visited the distressed, but she gathered orphans into
her house, and nursed the sick day and night. Neither the means nor the
strength of the two sisters could ever have been supposed equal to what
they were known to have achieved. It seemed as if the power grew with
the occasion, and as if they had some help which could not fail them.
Guy venerated them more and more, and many a long letter about them
was written to Mrs. Edmonstone for Amy to read. There is certainly a
‘tyrannous hate’ in the world for unusual goodness, which is a rebuke to
it, and there was a strong party against the sisters. At the head of it
was Mrs. Henley, who had originally been displeased at their preferring
the direction of the clergyman to that of the ladies’ committee, though
the secret cause of her dislike was, perhaps, that Elizabeth Wellwood
was just what Margaret Morville might have been. So she blamed them,
not, indeed for their charity, but for slight peculiarities which might
well have been lost in the brightness of the works of mercy. She spoke
as with her father’s authority, though, if she had been differently
disposed, she might have remembered that his system and principles were
the same as theirs, and that, had he been alive, he would probably have
fully approved of their proceedings. Archdeacon Morville’s name was of
great weight, and justified many persons, in their own opinion, in
the opposition made to Miss Wellwood, impeding her usefulness, and
subjecting her to endless petty calumnies.
These made Guy very angry. He knew enough of the Archdeacon through Mrs.
Edmonstone, and the opinions held by Philip, to think his daughter was
ascribing to him what he had never held but, be that as it might, Guy
could not bear to hear good evil spoken of, and his indignation was
stirred as he heard these spiteful reports uttered by people who sat
at home at ease, against one whose daily life was only too exalted
for their imitation. His brow contracted, his eye kindled, his lip was
bitten, and now and then, when he trusted himself to reply, it was with
a keen, sharp power of rebuke that made people look round, astonished
to hear such forcible words from one so young. Mrs. Henley was afraid of
him, without knowing it; she thought she was sparing the Morville temper
when she avoided the subject, but as she stood in awe of no one else,
except her brother, she disliked him accordingly.
One evening Guy had been dining at Dr. Henley’s, and was setting out,
enjoying his escape from Mrs. Henley and her friends, and rejoicing in
the prospect of a five miles’ walk over the hills by moonlight. He had
only gone the length of two streets, when he saw a dark figure at a
little distance from him, and a voice which he had little expected to
hear, called out,--
‘Sir Guy himself! No one else could whistle that Swedish air so
correctly!’
‘My uncle!’ exclaimed Guy. ‘I did not know that you were here!’
Mr. Dixon laughed, said something about a fortunate rencontre, and began
an account about a concert somewhere or other, mixed up with something
about his wife and child, all so rambling and confused, that Guy,
beginning to suspect he had been drinking, was only anxious to get rid
of him, asked where he lodged, and talked of coming to see him in the
morning. He soon found, however, that this had not been the case, at
least not to any great extent. Dixon was only nervous and excited,
either about something he had done, or some request he had to make, and
he went on walking by his nephew’s side, talking in a strange, desultory
way of open, generous-hearted fellows overlooking a little indiscretion,
and of Guy’s riches, which he seemed to think inexhaustible.
‘If there is anything that you want me to do for you, tell me plainly
what it is,’ said Guy, at last.
Mr. Dixon began to overwhelm him with thanks, but he cut them short. ‘I
promise nothing. Let me hear what you want, and I can judge whether I
can do it.’
Sebastian broke out into exclamations at the words ‘if I can,’ as if he
thought everything in the power of the heir of Redclyffe.
‘Have I not told you,’ said Guy, ‘that for the present I have very
little command of money? Hush! no more of that,’ he added, sternly,
cutting off an imprecation which his uncle was commencing on those who
kept him so short.
‘And you are content to bear it? Did you never hear of ways and means?
If you were to say but one word of borrowing, they would go down on
their knees to you, and offer you every farthing you have to keep you in
their own hands.’
‘I am quite satisfied,’ said Guy, coldly.
‘The greater fool are you!’ was on Dixon’s lips, but he did not
utter it, because he wanted to propitiate him; and after some more
circumlocution, Guy succeeded in discovering that he had been gambling,
and had lost an amount which, unless he could obtain immediate
assistance, would become known, and lead to the loss of his character
and situation. Guy stood and considered. He had an impulse, but he did
not think it a safe one, and resolved to give himself time.
‘I do not say that I cannot help you,’ he answered, ‘but I must have
time to consider.’
‘Time! would you see me ruined while you are considering?’
‘I suppose this must be paid immediately. Where do you lodge?’
Mr. Dixon told him the street and number.
‘You shall hear from me to-morrow morning. I cannot trust my present
thoughts. Good night!’
Mr. Dixon would fain have guessed whether the present thoughts were
favourable, but all his hope in his extremity was in his nephew; it
might be fatal to push him too far, and, with a certain trust in
his good-nature, Sebastian allowed him to walk away without further
remonstrance.
Guy knew his own impetuous nature too well to venture to act on impulse
in a doubtful case. He had now first to consider what he was able to do,
and secondly what he would do; and this was not as clear to his mind as
in the earlier days of his acquaintance with his uncle.
Their intercourse had never been on a comfortable footing. It would
perhaps have been better if Philip’s advice had been followed, and no
connection kept up. Guy had once begged for some definite rule, since
there was always vexation when he was known to have been with his uncle,
and yet Mr. Edmonstone would never absolutely say he ought not to see
him. As long as his guardian permitted it, or rather winked at it, Guy
did not think it necessary to attend to Philip’s marked disapproval.
Part of it was well founded, but part was dislike to all that might
be considered as vulgar, and part was absolute injustice to Sebastian
Dixon, there was everything that could offend in his line of argument,
and in the very circumstance of his interfering; and Guy had a continual
struggle, in which he was not always successful, to avoid showing the
affront he had taken, and to reason down his subsequent indignation. The
ever-recurring irritation which Philip’s conversation was apt to cause
him, made him avoid it as far as he could, and retreat in haste from the
subjects on which they were most apt to disagree, and so his manner had
assumed an air of reserve, and almost of distrust, with his cousin, that
was very unlike its usual winning openness.
This had been one unfortunate effect of his intercourse with his uncle,
and another was a certain vague, dissatisfied feeling which his silence,
and Philip’s insinuations respecting the days he spent in London,
left on Mr. Edmonstone’s mind, and which gained strength from their
recurrence. The days were, indeed, not many; it was only that in coming
from and going to Oxford, he slept a night at an hotel in London (for
his uncle never would take him to his lodgings, never even would tell
him where they were, but always gave his address at the place of his
engagement), was conducted by him to some concert in the evening, and
had him to breakfast in the morning. He could not think there was any
harm in this; he explained all he had done to Mr. Edmonstone the first
time, but nothing was gained by it: his visits to London continued to be
treated as something to be excused or overlooked--as something not quite
correct.
He would almost have been ready to discontinue them, but that he saw
that his uncle regarded him with affection, and he could not bear the
thought of giving up a poor relation for the sake of the opinion of
his rich friends. These meetings were the one pure pleasure to which
Sebastian looked, recalling to him the happier days of his youth, and of
his friendship with Guy’s father; and when Guy perceived how he valued
them, it would have seemed a piece of cruel neglect to gratify himself
by giving the time to Hollywell.
Early in the course of their acquaintance, the importunity of a creditor
revealed that, in spite of his handsome salary, Sebastian Dixon was
often in considerable distress for money. In process of time, Guy
discovered that at the time his uncle had been supporting his sister
and her husband in all the luxury he thought befitted their rank, he had
contracted considerable debts, and he had only been able to return to
England on condition of paying so much a-year to his creditors. This
left him very little on which to maintain his family, but still his
pride made him bent on concealing his difficulties, and it was not
without a struggle that he would at first consent to receive assistance
from his nephew.
Guy resolved that these debts, which he considered as in fact his
father’s own, should be paid as soon as he had the command of his
property; but, in the meantime, he thought himself bound to send his
uncle all the help in his power, and when once the effort of accepting
it at all was over, Dixon’s expectations extended far beyond his power.
His allowance was not large, and the constant requests for a few pounds
to meet some pressing occasion were more than he could well meet. They
kept him actually a great deal poorer than men without a tenth part of
his fortune, and at the end of the term he would look back with surprise
at having been able to pay his way; but still he contrived neither to
exceed his allowance, nor to get into debt. This was, indeed, only done
by a rigid self-denial of little luxuries such as most young men look
on nearly as necessaries; but he had never been brought up to think
self-indulgence a consequence of riches, he did not care what was said
of him, he had no expensive tastes, for he did not seek after society,
so that he was not ill-prepared for such a course, and only thought of
it as an assistance in abstaining from the time-wasting that might have
tempted him if he had had plenty of money to spend.
The only thing that concerned him was a growing doubt lest he might be
feeding extravagance instead of doing good; and the more he disliked
himself for the suspicion, the more it would return. There was no doubt
much distress, the children were sickly; several of them died; the
doctor’s bills, and other expenses, pressed heavily, and Guy blamed
himself for having doubted. Yet, again, he could not conceal from
himself traces that his uncle was careless and imprudent. He had once,
indeed, in a violent fit of self-reproach, confessed as much, allowed
that what ought to have been spent in the maintenance of his family, had
gone in gambling, but immediately after, he had been seized with a fit
of terror, and implored Guy to guard the secret, since, if once it
came to the knowledge of his creditors, it would be all over with him.
Concealment of his present difficulties was therefore no less necessary
than assistance in paying the sum he owed. Indeed, as far as Guy was
able to understand his confused statement, what he wanted was at once
to pay a part of his debt, before he could go on to a place where he was
engaged to perform, and where he would earn enough to make up the rest.
Guy had intended to have sent for Deloraine, but had since given up the
idea, in order to be able to help forward some plans of Miss Wellwood’s,
and resigning this project would enable him to place thirty pounds at
his uncle’s disposal, leaving him just enough to pay his expenses at
South Moor, and carry him back to Hollywell. It was sorely against his
inclination that, instead of helping a charity, his savings should go
to pay gaming debts, and his five-miles walk was spent in self-debate on
the right and wrong of the matter, and questions what should be done
for the future--for he was beginning to awaken to the sense of his
responsibility, and feared lest he might be encouraging vice.
Very early next morning Guy put his head into his tutor’s room,
announced that he must walk into St. Mildred’s on business, but should
be back by eleven at the latest, ran down-stairs, called Bustle, and
made interest with the farmer’s wife for a hunch of dry bread and a cup
of new milk.
Then rejoicing that he had made up his mind, though not light-hearted
enough to whistle, he walked across the moorland, through the white
morning mist, curling on the sides of the hills in fantastic forms, and
now and then catching his lengthened shadow, so as to make him smile by
reminding him of the spectre of the Brocken.
Not without difficulty, he found a back street, and a little shop, where
a slovenly maid was sweeping the steps, and the shutters were not yet
taken down. He asked if Mr. Dixon lodged there. ‘Yes,’ the woman said,
staring in amazement that such a gentleman could be there at that time
in the morning, asking for Mr. Dixon.
‘Is he at home?’
‘Yes, sir but he is not up yet. He was very late last night. Did you
want to speak to him? I’ll tell Mrs. Dixon.’
‘Is Mrs. Dixon here? Then tell her Sir Guy Morville would be glad to
speak to her.’
The maid curtseyed, hurried off, and returned with a message from Mrs.
Dixon to desire he would walk in. She conducted him through a dark
passage, and up a still darker stair, into a dingy little parlour, with
a carpet of red and green stripes, a horsehair sofa, a grate covered
with cut paper, and a general perfume of brandy and cigars. There were
some preparations for breakfast, but no one was in the room but a little
girl, about seven years old, dressed in shabby-genteel mourning.
She was pale and sickly-looking, but her eyes were of a lovely deep
blue, with a very sweet expression, and a profusion of thick flaxen
curls hung round her neck and shoulders. She said in a soft, little, shy
voice,--
‘Mamma says she will be here directly, if you will excuse her a moment.’
Having made this formal speech, the little thing was creeping off on
tip-toe, so as to escape before the maid shut the door, but Guy held out
his hand, sat down so as to be on a level with her, and said,--
‘Don’t go, my little maid. Won’t you come and speak to your cousin Guy?’
Children never failed to be attracted, whether by the winning beauty of
his smile, or the sweetness of the voice in which he spoke to anything
small or weak, and the little girl willingly came up to him, and put her
hand into his. He stroked her thick, silky curls, and asked her name.
‘Marianne,’ she answered.
It was his mother’s name, and this little creature had more resemblance
to his tenderly-cherished vision of his young mother than any
description Dixon could have given. He drew her closer to him, took the
other small, cold hand, and asked her how she liked St. Mildred’s.
‘Oh! much better than London. There are flowers!’ and she proudly
exhibited a cup holding some ragged robins, dead nettles, and other
common flowers which a country child would have held cheap. He admired
and gained more of her confidence, so that she had begun to chatter away
quite freely about ‘the high, high hills that reached up to the sky, and
the pretty stones,’ till the door opened, and Mrs. Dixon and Bustle made
their entrance.
Marianne was so much afraid of the dog, Guy so eager to console, and her
mother to scold her, and protest that it should not be turned out, that
there was nothing but confusion, until Guy had shown her that Bustle was
no dangerous wild beast, induced her to accept his offered paw, and lay
a timid finger on his smooth, black head, after which the transition was
short to dog and child sitting lovingly together on the floor, Marianne
stroking his ears, and admiring him with a sort of silent ecstasy.
Mrs. Dixon was a great, coarse, vulgar woman, and Guy perceived why his
uncle had been so averse to taking him to his home, and how he must have
felt the contrast between such a wife and his beautiful sister. She
had a sort of broad sense, and absence of pretension, but her manner of
talking was by no means pleasant, as she querulously accused her husband
of being the cause of all their misfortunes, not even restrained by the
presence of her child from entering into a full account of his offences.
Mrs. Dixon said she should not say a word, she should not care if it was
not for the child, but she could not see her wronged by her own father,
and not complain; poor little dear! she was the last, and she supposed
she should not keep her long.
It then appeared that on her husband’s obtaining an engagement for a
series of concerts at the chief county town, Mrs. Dixon had insisted
on coming with him to St. Mildred’s in the hope that country air might
benefit Marianne, who, in a confined lodging in London, was pining and
dwindling as her brothers and sisters had done before her. Sebastian,
who liked to escape from his wife’s grumbling and rigid supervision, and
looked forward to amusement in his own way at the races, had grudgingly
allowed her to come, and, as she described it, had been reluctant to go
to even so slight an expense in the hope of saving his child’s life. She
had watched him as closely as she could; but he had made his escape, and
the consequences Guy already knew.
If anything could have made it worse, it was finding that after parting
last night, he had returned, tried to retrieve his luck, had involved
himself further, had been drinking more; and at the very hour when his
nephew was getting up to see what could be done for him, had come
home in a state, which made it by no means likely that he would be
presentable, if his wife called him, as she offered to do.
Guy much preferred arranging with her what was to be done on the present
emergency. She was disappointed at finding thirty pounds was all the
help he could give; but she was an energetic woman, full of resources,
and saw her way, with this assistance, through the present difficulty.
The great point was to keep the gambling propensities out of sight of
the creditors; and as long as this was done, she had hope. Dixon would
go the next morning to the town where the musical meeting was to be
held, and there he would be with his employers, where he had a character
to preserve, so that she was in no fear of another outbreak.
It ended, therefore, in his leaving with her Mr. Edmonstone’s draft,
securing its destination by endorsing it to the person who was to
receive it; and wishing her good morning, after a few more kind words to
little Marianne, who had sat playing with Bustle all the time, sidling
continually nearer and nearer to her new cousin, her eyes bent down, and
no expression on her face which could enable him to guess how far she
listened to or comprehended the conversation so unfit for her ear. When
he rose to go, and stooped to kiss her, she looked wistfully in his
face, and held up a small sparkling bit of spar, the most precious of
all her hoards, gleaned from the roadsides of St. Mildred’s.
‘What, child, do you want to give it to Sir Guy?’ said her mother. ‘He
does not want such trumpery, my dear, though you make such a work with
it.’
‘Did you mean to give it to me, my dear?’ said Guy, as the child hung
her head, and, crimsoned with blushes, could scarcely whisper her timid
‘Yes.’
He praised it, and let her put it in his waistcoat pocket, and promised
he would always keep it; and kissed her again, and left her a happy
child, confident in his promise of always keeping it, though her mother
augured that he would throw it over the next hedge.
He was at South Moor by eleven o’clock, in time for his morning’s
business, and made up for the troubles of the last few hours by a long
talk with Mr. Wellwood in the afternoon, while the other two pupils were
gone to the races, for which he was not inclined, after his two ten-mile
walks.
The conversation was chiefly on Church prospects in general, and in
particular on Miss Wellwood and her plans; how they had by degrees
enlarged and developed as the sin, and misery, and ignorance around
had forced themselves more plainly on her notice, and her means had
increased and grown under her hand in the very distribution. Other
schemes were dawning on her mind, of which the foremost was the
foundation of a sort of school and hospital united, under the charge
of herself, her sister, and several other ladies, who were desirous of
joining her, as a sisterhood. But at present it was hoping against hope,
for there were no funds with which to make a commencement. All this was
told at unawares, drawn forth by different questions and remarks, till
Guy inquired how much it would take to give them a start?’
‘It is impossible to say. Anything, I suppose, between one thousand
and twenty. But, by the bye, this design of Elizabeth’s is an absolute
secret. If you had not almost guessed it, I should never have said one
word to you about it. You are a particularly dangerous man, with your
connection with Mrs. Henley. You must take special good care nothing of
it reaches her.’
Guy’s first impression was, that he was the last person to mention it
to Mrs. Henley; but when he remembered how often her brother was at
Hollywell, he perceived that there might be a train for carrying the
report back again to her, and recognized the absolute necessity of
silence.
He said nothing at the time, but a bright scheme came into his head,
resulting in the request for a thousand pounds, which caused so much
astonishment. He thought himself rather shabby to have named no more,
and was afraid it was an offering that cost him nothing; but he much
enjoyed devising beforehand the letter with which he would place the
money at the disposal of Miss Wellwood’s hospital.