My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities;
But you have found me.
--KING HENRY IV
Philip, according to promise, appeared at Hollywell, and a volume of
awful justice seemed written on his brow. Charles, though ignorant of
its cause, perceived this at a glance, and greeted him thus:--
‘Enter Don Philip II, the Duke of Alva, alguazils, corregidors, and
executioners.’
‘Is anything the matter, Philip?’ said Amy; a question which took him
by surprise, as he could not believe her in ignorance. He was sorry for
her, and answered gravely,--
‘Nothing is amiss with me, thank you, Amy,’
She knew he meant that he would tell no more, and would have thought no
more about it, but that she saw her mother was very uneasy.
‘Did you ask whether there were any letters at the post?’ said Charles.
‘Guy is using us shamefully--practising self-denial on us, I suppose. Is
there no letter from him?’
‘There is,’ said Philip, reluctantly.
‘Well, where is it?’
‘It is to your father.’
‘Oh!’ said Charles, with a disappointed air. ‘Are you sure? Depend on
it, you overlooked my M. He has owed me a letter this fortnight. Let me
see.’
‘It is for my uncle,’ repeated Philip, as if to put an end to the
subject.
‘Then he has been so stupid as to forget my second name. Come, give it
me. I shall have it sooner or later.’
‘I assure you, Charles, it is not for you.’
‘Would not any one suppose he had been reading it?’ exclaimed Charles.
‘Did you know Mary Ross was gone to stay with her brother John?’ broke
in Mrs. Edmonstone, in a nervous, hurried manner.
‘No is she?’ replied Philip.
‘Yes; his wife is ill.’
The universal feeling was that something was amiss, and mamma was in the
secret. Amy looked wistfully at her, but Mrs. Edmonstone only gazed
at the window, and so they continued for some minutes, while an
uninteresting exchange of question and answer was kept up between her
and her nephew until at length the dressing-bell rang, and cleared the
room. Mrs. Edmonstone lingered till her son and daughters were gone, and
said,--
‘You have heard from St. Mildred’s?’
‘Yes,’ said Philip, as if he was as little inclined to be communicative
to her as to his cousins.
‘From Guy, or from Margaret?’
‘From Margaret.’
‘But you say there is a letter from him?’
‘Yes, for my uncle.’
‘Does she say nothing more satisfactory?’ asked his aunt, her anxiety
tortured by his composure. ‘Has she learnt no more?’
‘Nothing more of his proceedings. I see Amy knows nothing of the
matter?’
‘No; her papa thought there was no need to distress her till we had seen
whether he could explain.’
‘Poor little thing!’ said Philip; ‘I am very sorry for her.
Mrs. Edmonstone did not choose to discuss her daughter’s affairs with
him, and she turned the conversation to ask if Margaret said much of
Guy.
‘She writes to tell the spirit in which he received my uncle’s letter.
It is only the Morville temper, again, and, of course, whatever you may
think of that on Amy’s account, I should never regard it, as concerns
myself, as other than his misfortune. I hope he may be able to explain
the rest.’
‘Ah! there comes your uncle!’ and Mr. Edmonstone entered.
‘How d’ye do, Philip? Brought better news, eh?’
‘Here is a letter to speak for itself.’
‘Eh? From Guy? Give it me. What does he say? Let me see. Here, mamma,
read it; your eyes are best.’
Mrs. Edmonstone read as follows:--
‘MY DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--Your letter surprised and grieved me very
much. I cannot guess what proofs Philip may think he has, of what
I never did, and, therefore, I cannot refute them otherwise than by
declaring that I never gamed in my life. Tell me what they are, and I
will answer them. As to a full confession, I could of course tell you
of much in which I have done wrongly, though not in the way which he
supposes. On that head, I have nothing to confess. I am sorry I am
prevented from satisfying you about the £1OOO, but I am bound in honour
not to mention the purpose for which I wanted it. I am sure you could
never believe I could have said what I did to Mrs. Edmonstone if I had
begun on a course which I detest from the bottom of my heart. Thank you
very much for the kindness of the latter part of your letter. I do not
know how I could have borne it, if it had ended as it began. I hope you
will soon send me these proofs of Philip’s. Ever your affectionate, ‘G.
M.’
Not a little surprised was Philip to find that he was known to be Guy’s
accuser; but the conclusion revealed that his style had betrayed him,
and that Mr. Edmonstone had finished with some mention of him, and
he resolved that henceforth he would never leave a letter of his own
dictation till he had seen it signed and sealed.
‘Well!’ cried Mr. Edmonstone, joyfully beating his own hand with his
glove, ‘that is all right. I knew it would be so. He can’t even
guess what we are at. I am glad we did not tease poor little Amy. Eh,
mamma?--eh, Philip?’ the last eh being uttered much more doubtfully, and
less triumphantly than the first.
‘I wonder you think it right,’ said Philip.
‘What more would you have?’ said Mr. Edmonstone, hastily.
‘Confidence.’
‘Eh? Oh, ay, he says he can’t tell--bound in honour.’
‘It is easy to write off-hand, and say I cannot satisfy you, I am
bound in honour; but that is not what most persons would think a full
justification, especially considering the terms on which you stand.’
‘Why, yes, he might have said more. It would have been safe enough with
me.’
‘It is his usual course of mystery, reserve, and defiance.’
‘The fact is,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, turning away, ‘that it is a very
proper letter; right sense, proper feeling--and if he never gamed in his
life, what would you have more?’
‘There are different ways of understanding such a denial as this,’ said
Philip. ‘See, he says not in the way in which I suppose.’ He held up
his hand authoritatively, as his aunt was about to interpose. ‘It was
against gaming that his vow was made. I never thought he had played, but
he never says he has not betted.’
‘He would never be guilty of a subterfuge!’ exclaimed Mr. Edmonstone,
indignantly.
‘I should not have thought so, without the evidence of the payment of
the cheque, my uncle had just given him, to this gambling fellow,’ said
Philip; ‘yet it is only the natural consequence of the habit of eluding
inquiry into his visits to London.’
‘I can’t see any reason for so harsh an accusation,’ said she.
‘I should hardly want more reason than his own words. He refuses to
answer the question on which my uncle’s good opinion depends; he owns he
has been to blame, and thus retracts his full denial. In my opinion, his
letter says nothing so plainly as, “While I can stand fair with you I do
not wish to break with you.”’
‘He will not find that quite so easy.’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I am no
fool to be hoodwinked, especially where my little Amy is concerned. I’ll
see all plain and straight before he says another word of her. But you
see what comes of their settling it while I was out of the way.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was grieved to see him so hurt at this. It could not
have been helped, and if all had been smooth, he never would have
thought of it again; but it served to keep up his dignity in his own
eyes, and, as he fancied, to defend him from Philip’s censure, and he
therefore made the most of it, which so pained her that she did not
venture to continue her championship of Guy.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Edmonstone, ‘the question is what to do next--eh,
Philip?’ I wish he would have spoken openly. I hate mysteries. I’ll
write and tell him this won’t do; he must be explicit--eh, Philip?’
‘We will talk it over by and by,’ said Philip.
His aunt understood that it was to be in her absence, and left the room,
fearing it would be impossible to prevent Amy from being distressed,
though she had no doubt that Guy would be able to prove his innocence of
the charges. She found Amy waiting for her in her room.
‘Don’t, ring, mamma, dear. I’ll fasten your dress,’ said she; then
pausing--‘Oh! mamma, I don’t know whether I ought to ask, but if you
would only tell me if there is nothing gone wrong.’
‘I don’t believe there is anything really wrong, my dear,’ said Mrs.
Edmonstone, kissing her, as she saw how her colour first deepened and
then faded.
‘Oh! no,’ said she.
‘But there is some mystery about his money-matters, which has vexed your
papa.’
‘And what has Philip to do with it?’
‘I cannot quite tell, my dear. I believe Margaret Henley has heard
something, but I do not know the whole.’
‘Did you see his letter, mamma? said Amy, in a low, trembling voice.
‘Yes, it is just like himself, and absolutely denies the accusations.’
Amy did not say ‘then they are false,’ but she held up her head.
‘Then papa is satisfied?’ she said.
‘I have no doubt all will be made clear in time,’ said her mother; ‘but
there is still something unexplained, and I am afraid things may not
go smoothly just now. I am very sorry, my little Amy, that such a cloud
should have come over you, she added, smoothing fondly the long, soft
hair, sad at heart to see the cares and griefs of womanhood gathering
over her child’s bright, young life.
‘I said I must learn to bear things!’ murmured Amy to herself. ‘Only,’
and the tears filled her eyes, and she spoke with almost childish
simplicity of manner, ‘I can’t bear them to vex him. I wish Philip would
let papa settle it alone. Guy will be angry, and grieved afterwards.’
They were interrupted by the dinner-bell, but Amy ran into her own room
for one moment.
‘I said I would learn to bear,’ said she to herself, ‘or I shall never
be fit for him. Yes, I will, even though it is the thinking he is
unhappy. He said I must be his Verena; I know what that means; I ought
not to be uneasy, for he will bear it beautifully, and say he is glad of
it afterwards. And I will try not to seem cross to Philip.’
Mr. Edmonstone was fidgety and ill at ease, found fault with the dinner,
and was pettish with his wife. Mrs. Edmonstone set Philip off
upon politics, which lasted till the ladies could escape into the
drawing-room. In another minute Philip brought in Charles, set him down,
and departed. Amy, who was standing by the window, resting her forehead
against the glass, and gazing into the darkness, turned round hastily,
and left the room, but in passing her brother, she put her hand into
his, and received a kind pressure. Her mother followed her, and the
other three all began to wonder. Charles said he had regularly been
turned out of the dining-room by Philip, who announced that he wanted to
speak to his uncle, and carried him off.
They conjectured, and were indignant at each other’s conjectures, till
their mother returned, and gave them as much information as she could;
but this only made them very anxious. Charles was certain that Mrs.
Henley had laid a cockatrice egg, and Philip was hatching it; and Laura
could not trust herself to defend Philip, lest she should do it too
vehemently. They could all agree in desire to know the truth, in hope
that Guy was not culpable, and, above all, in feeling for Amy; but by
tacit consent they were silent on the three shades of opinion in their
minds. Laura was confident that Philip was acting for the best; Mrs.
Edmonstone thought he might be mistaken in his premises, but desirous of
Guy’s real good; and Charles, though sure he would allege nothing which
he did not believe to be true, also thought him ready to draw the worst
conclusions from small grounds, and to take pleasure in driving Mr.
Edmonstone to the most rigorous measures.
Philip, meanwhile, was trying to practise great moderation and
forbearance, not bringing forward at first what was most likely to
incense Mr. Edmonstone, and without appearance of animosity in his cool,
guarded speech. There was no design in this, he meant only to be just;
yet anything less cool would have had far less effect.
When he shut the dining-room door, he found his uncle wavering, touched
by the sight of his little Amy, returning to his first favourable view
of Guy’s letter, ready to overlook everything, accept the justification,
and receive his ward on the same footing as before, though he was at
the same time ashamed that Philip should see him relent, and desirous
of keeping up his character for firmness, little guessing how his nephew
felt his power over him, and knew that he could wield him at will.
Perceiving and pitying his feebleness, and sincerely believing strong
measures the only rescue for Amy, the only hope for Guy, Philip found
himself obliged to work on him by the production of another letter from
his sister. He would rather, if possible, have kept this back, so much
did his honourable feeling recoil from what had the air of slander and
mischief-making; but he regarded firmness on his uncle’s part as the
only chance for Guy or for his cousin, and was resolved not to let him
swerve from strict justice.
Mrs. Henley had written immediately after Guy’s outburst in her house,
and, taking it for granted that her brother would receive a challenge,
she wrote in the utmost alarm, urging him to remember how precious he
was to her, and not to depart from his own principles.
‘You would not be so mad as to fight him, eh?’ said Mr. Edmonstone,
anxiously. ‘You know better--besides, for poor Amy’s sake.’
‘For the sake of right,’ replied Philip, ‘no. I have reassured my
sister. I have told her that, let the boy do what he will, he shall
never make me guilty of his death.’
‘You have heard from him, then?’
‘No; I suppose a night’s reflection convinced him that he had no
rational grounds for violent proceedings, and he had sense enough not to
expose himself to such an answer as I should have given. What caused his
wrath to be directed towards me especially, I cannot tell, nor can my
sister,’ said Philip, looking full at his uncle; ‘but I seem to have
come in for a full share of it.’
He proceeded to read the description of Guy’s passion, and the
expressions he had used. Violent as it had been, it did not lose in
Mrs. Henley’s colouring; and what made the effect worse was that she had
omitted to say she had overheard his language, so that it appeared as
if he had been unrestrained even by gentlemanly feeling, and had thus
spoken of her brother and uncle in her presence.
Mr. Edmonstone was resentful now, really displeased, and wounded to the
quick. The point on which he was especially sensitive was his reputation
for sense and judgment; and that Guy, who had shown him so much respect
and affection, whom he had treated with invariable kindness, and
received into his family like a son, that he should thus speak of him
shocked him extremely. He was too much overcome even to break out into
exclamations at first, he only drank off his glass of wine hastily, and
said, ‘I would never have thought it!’
With these words, all desire for forbearance and toleration departed. If
Guy could speak thus of him, he was ready to believe any accusation,
to think him deceitful from the first, to say he had been trifling with
Amy, to imagine him a confirmed reprobate, and cast him off entirely.
Philip had some difficulty to restrain him from being too violent;
and to keep him to the matter in hand, he defended Guy from the
exaggerations of his imagination in a manner which appeared highly
noble, considering how Guy had spoken of him. Before they parted that
night, another letter had been written, which stood thus,--
‘DEAR SIR GUY,--Since you refuse the confidence which I have a right to
demand, since you elude the explanation I asked, and indulge yourself in
speaking in disrespectful terms of me and my family, I have every reason
to suppose that you have no desire to continue on the same footing as
heretofore at Hollywell. As your guardian, I repeat that I consider
myself bound to keep a vigilant watch over your conduct, and, if
possible, to recover you from the unhappy course in which you have
involved yourself: but all other intercourse between you and this family
must cease. ‘Your horse shall be sent to Redclyffe to-morrow.
‘Yours faithfully,
‘C. EDMONSTONE.’
This letter was more harsh than Philip wished; but Mr. Edmonstone would
hardly be prevailed on to consent to enter on no further reproaches.
He insisted on banishing Deloraine, as well as on the mention of Guy’s
disrespect, both against his nephew’s opinion; but it was necessary to
let him have his own way on these points, and Philip thought himself
fortunate in getting a letter written which was in any degree rational
and moderate.
They had been so busy, and Mr. Edmonstone so excited, that Philip
thought it best to accept the offer of tea being sent them in the
dining-room, and it was not till nearly midnight that their conference
broke up, when Mr. Edmonstone found his wife sitting up by the
dressing-room fire, having shut Charles’s door, sorely against his will.
‘There,’ began Mr. Edmonstone, ‘you may tell Amy she may give him up,
and a lucky escape she has had. But this is what comes of settling
matters in my absence.’ So he proceeded with the narration, mixing the
facts undistinguishably with his own surmises, and overwhelming his wife
with dismay. If a quarter of this was true, defence of Guy was out of
the question; and it was still more impossible to wish Amy’s attachment
to him to continue; and though much was incredible, it was no time to
say so. She could only hope morning would soften her husband’s anger,
and make matters explicable.
Morning failed to bring her comfort. Mr. Edmonstone repeated that Amy
must be ordered to give up all thoughts of Guy, and she perceived that
the words ascribed to him stood on evidence which could not be doubted.
She could believe he might have spoken them in the first shock of an
unjust imputation, and she thought he might have been drawn into some
scrape to serve a friend; but she could never suppose him capable of all
Mr. Edmonstone imagined.
The first attempt to plead his cause, however, brought on her an angry
reply; for Philip, by a hint, that she never saw a fault in Guy, had put
it into his uncle’s head that she would try to lead him, and made him
particularly inaccessible to her influence.
There was no help for it, then; poor little Amy must hear the worst;
and it was not long before Mrs. Edmonstone found her waiting in the
dressing-room. Between obedience to her husband, her conviction of Guy’s
innocence, and her tenderness to her daughter, Mrs. Edmonstone had a
hard task, and she could scarcely check her tears as Amy nestled up for
her morning kiss.
‘O mamma! what is it?’
‘Dearest, I told you a cloud was coming. Try to bear it. Your papa is
not satisfied with Guy’s answer, and it seems he spoke some hasty words
of papa and Philip; they have displeased papa very much, and, my dear
child, you must try to bear it, he has written to tell Guy he must not
think any more of you.’
‘He has spoken hasty words of papa!’ repeated Amy, as if she had not
heard the rest. ‘How sorry he must be!’
As she spoke, Charles’s door was pushed open, and in he came, half
dressed, scrambling on, with but one crutch, to the chair near which she
stood, with drooping head and clasped hands.
‘Never mind, little Amy, he said; ‘I’ll lay my life ‘tis only some
monstrous figment of Mrs. Henley’s. Trust my word, it will right itself;
it is only a rock to keep true love from running too smooth. Come, don’t
cry, as her tears began to flow fast, ‘I only meant to cheer you up.’
‘I am afraid, Charlie, said his mother, putting a force on her own
feeling, ‘it is not the best or kindest way to do her good by telling
her to dwell on hopes of him.’
‘Mamma one of Philip’s faction!’ exclaimed Charles.
‘Of no faction at all, Charles, but I am afraid it is a bad case;’ and
Mrs. Edmonstone related what she knew; glad to address herself to any
one but Amy, who stood still, meanwhile, her hands folded on the back of
her brother’s chair.
Charles loudly protested that the charges were absurd and preposterous,
and would be proved so in no time. He would finish dressing instantly,
go to speak to his father, and show him the sense of the thing. Amy
heard and hoped, and his mother, who had great confidence in his clear
sight, was so cheered as almost to expect that today’s post might carry
a conciliatory letter.
Meantime, Laura and Philip met in the breakfast-room, and in answer to
her anxious inquiry, he had given her an account of Guy, which, though
harsh enough, was far more comprehensible than what the rest had been
able to gather.
She was inexpressibly shocked, ‘My poor dear little Amy!’ she exclaimed.
‘O Philip, now I see all you thought to save me from!’
‘It is an unhappy business that it ever was permitted!’
‘Poor little dear! She was so happy, so very happy and sweet in her
humility and her love. Do you know, Philip, I was almost jealous for a
moment that all should be so easy for them; and I blamed poverty; but
oh! there are worse things than poverty!’
He did not speak, but his dark blue eye softened with the tender look
known only to her; and it was one of the precious moments for which she
lived. She was happy till the rest came down, and then a heavy cloud
seemed to hang on them at breakfast time.
‘Charles, who found anxiety on Guy’s account more exciting, though
considerably less agreeable, than he had once expected, would not go
away with the womankind; but as soon as the door was shut, exclaimed,
‘Now then, Philip, let me know the true grounds of your persecution.’
It was not a conciliating commencement. His father was offended, and
poured out a confused torrent of Guy’s imagined misdeeds, while Philip
explained and modified his exaggerations.
‘So the fact is,’ said Charles, at length, ‘that Guy has asked for his
own money, and when in lieu of it he received a letter full of unjust
charges, he declared Philip was a meddling coxcomb. I advise you not to
justify his opinion.’
Philip disdained to reply, and after a few more of Mr. Edmonstone’s
exclamations Charles proceeded,
‘This is the great sum total.’
‘No,’ said Philip; ‘I have proof of his gambling.’
‘What is it?’
‘I have shown it to your father, and he is satisfied.’
‘Is it not proof enough that he is lost to all sense of propriety,
that he should go and speak in that fashion of us, and to Philip’s own
sister?’ cried Mr. Edmonstone. ‘What would you have more?’
‘That little epithet applied to Captain Morville is hardly, to my mind,
proof sufficient that a man is capable of every vice,’ said Charles,
who, in the pleasure of galling his cousin, did not perceive the harm
he did his friend’s cause, by recalling the affront which his father,
at least, felt most deeply. Mr. Edmonstone grew angry with him for
disregarding the insulting term applied to himself; and Charles, who,
though improved in many points, still sometimes showed the effects of
early habits of disrespect to his father, answered hastily, that no one
could wonder at Guy’s resenting such suspicions; he deserved no blame at
all, and would have been a blockhead to bear it tamely.
This was more than Charles meant, but his temper was fairly roused, and
he said much more than was right or judicious, so that his advocacy only
injured the cause. He had many representations to make on the injustice
of condemning Guy unheard, of not even laying before him the proofs on
which the charges were founded, and on the danger of actually driving
him into mischief, by shutting the doors of Hollywell against him. ‘If
you wanted to make him all you say he is, you are taking the very best
means.’
Quite true; but Charles had made his father too angry to pay attention.
This stormy discussion continued for nearly two hours, with no effect
save inflaming the minds of all parties. At last Mr. Edmonstone was
called away; and Charles, rising, declared he should go at that moment,
and write to tell Guy that there was one person at least still in his
senses.
‘You will do as you please,’ said Philip.
‘Thank you for the permission,’ said Charles, proudly.
‘It is not to me that your submission is due,’ said Philip.
‘I’ll tell you what, Philip, I submit to my own father readily, but I do
not submit to Captain Morville’s instrument.’
‘We have had enough of unbecoming retorts for one day,’ said Philip,
quietly, and offering his arm.
Much as Charles disliked it, he was in too great haste not to accept it;
and perceiving that there were visitors in the drawing-room, he desired
to go up-stairs.
‘People who always come when they are not wanted!’ he muttered, as he
went up, pettish with them as with everything else.
‘I do not think you in a fit mood to be advised, Charles,’ said Philip;
‘but to free my own conscience, let me say this. Take care how you
promote this unfortunate attachment.’
‘Take care what you say!’ exclaimed Charles, flushing with anger, as
he threw himself forward, with an impatient movement, trusting to his
crutch rather than retain his cousin’s arm; but the crutch slipped, he
missed his grasp at the balusters, and would have fallen to the bottom
of the flight if Philip had not been close behind. Stretching out his
foot, he made a barrier, receiving Charles’s weight against his breast,
and then, taking him in his arms, carried him up the rest of the way
as easily as if he had been a child. The noise brought Amy out of the
dressing-room, much frightened, though she did not speak till Charles
was deposited on the sofa, and assured them he was not in the least
hurt, but he would hardly thank his cousin for having so dexterously
saved him; and Philip, relieved from the fear of his being injured,
viewed the adventure as a mere ebullition of ill-temper, and went away.
‘A fine helpless log am I,’ exclaimed Charles, as he found himself alone
with Amy. ‘A pretty thing for me to talk of being of any use, when I
can’t so much as show my anger at an impertinence about my own sister,
without being beholden for not breaking my neck to the very piece of
presumption that uttered it.’
‘Oh, don’t speak so’ began Amy; and at that moment Philip was close
to them, set down the crutch that had been dropped, and went without
speaking.
‘I don’t care who hears,’ said Charles; ‘I say there is no greater
misery in this world than to have the spirit of a man and the limbs of a
cripple. I know if I was good for anything, things would not long be in
this state. I should be at St. Mildred’s by this time, at the bottom of
the whole story, and Philip would be taught to eat his words in no time,
and make as few wry faces as suited his dignity. But what is the use of
talking? This sofa’--and he struck his fist against it--‘is my prison,
and I am a miserable cripple, and it is mere madness in me to think of
being attended to.’
‘O Charlie!’ cried Amy, caressingly, and much distressed, ‘don’t talk
so. Indeed, I can’t bear it! You know it is not so.’
‘Do I? Have not I been talking myself hoarse, showing up their
injustice, saying all a man could say to bring them to reason, and not
an inch could I move them. I do believe Philip has driven my father
stark mad with these abominable stories of his sister’s, which I verily
believe she invented herself.’
‘O no, she could not. Don’t say so.’
‘What! Are you going to believe them, too?’
‘Never!’
‘It is that which drives me beyond all patience,’ proceeded Charles, ‘to
see Philip lay hold of my father, and twist him about as he chooses, and
set every one down with his authority.’
‘Philip soon goes abroad,’ said Amy, who could not at the moment say
anything more charitable.
‘Ay! there is the hope. My father will return to his natural state
provided they don’t drive Guy, in the meantime, to do something
desperate.’
‘No, they won’t,’ whispered Amy.
‘Well, give me the blotting-book. I’ll write to him this moment, and
tell him we are not all the tools of Philip’s malice.’
Amy gave the materials to her brother, and then turning away, busied
herself in silence as best she might, in the employment her mother had
recommended her, of sorting some garden-seeds for the cottagers. After
an interval, Charles said,
‘Well, Amy, what shall I say to him for you?’
There was a little silence, and presently Amy whispered, ‘I don’t think
I ought.’
‘What?’ asked Charles, not catching her very low tones, as she sat
behind him, with her head bent down.
‘I don’t think it would be right,’ she repeated, more steadily.
‘Not right for you to say you don’t think him a villain?’
‘Papa said I was to have no--‘and there her voice was stopped with
tears.
‘This is absurd, Amy,’ said Charles; ‘when it all was approved at first,
and now my father is acting on a wrong impression; what harm can there
be in it? Every one would do so.’
‘I am sure he would not think it right,’ faltered Amy.
‘He? You’ll never have any more to say to him, if you don’t take care
what you are about.’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Amy, in a broken voice. ‘It is not right.’
‘Nonsense! folly!’ said Charles. ‘You are as bad as the rest. When they
are persecuting, and slandering, and acting in the most outrageous way
against him, and you know one word of yours would carry him through all,
you won’t say it, to save him from distraction, and from doing all my
father fancies he has done. Then I believe you don’t care a rush for
him, and never want to see him again, and believe the whole monstrous
farrago. I vow I’ll say so.’
‘O Charles, you are very cruel!’ said Amy, with an irrepressible burst
of weeping.
‘Then, if you don’t believe it, why can’t you send one word to comfort
him?’
She wept in silence for some moments; at last she said,--
‘It would not comfort him to think me disobedient. He will trust me
without, and he will know what you think. You are very kind, dear
Charlie; but don’t persuade me any more, for I can’t bear it. I am going
away now; but don’t fancy I am angry, only I don’t think I can sit by
while you write that letter.’
Poor little Amy, she seldom knew worse pain than at that moment, when
she was obliged to go away to put it out of her power to follow the
promptings of her heart to send the few kind words which might prove
that nothing could shake her love and trust.
A fresh trial awaited her when she looked from her own window. She
saw Deloraine led out, his chestnut neck glossy in the sun and William
prepared for a journey, and the other servants shaking hands, and
bidding him good-bye. She saw him ride off, and could hardly help flying
back to her brother to exclaim, ‘O Charlie, they have sent Deloraine
away!’ while the longing to send one kind greeting became more earnest
than ever; but she withstood it, and throwing herself on the bed,
exclaimed,--
‘He will never come back--never, never!’ and gave way, unrestrainedly,
to a fit of weeping; nor was it till this had spent itself that she
could collect her thoughts.
She was sitting on the side of her bed trying to compose herself, when
Laura, came in.
‘My own Amy--my poor, dearest,--I am very sorry!’
‘Thank you, dear Laura,’ and Amy gladly rested her aching head on her
shoulder.
‘I wish I knew what to do for you!’ proceeded Laura. ‘You cannot, cease
to think about him, and yet you ought.’
‘If I ought, I suppose I can,’ said Amy in a voice exhausted with
crying.
‘That’s right, darling. You will not be weak, and pine for one who is
not worthy.’
‘Not worthy, Laura?’ said Amy, withdrawing her arm, and holding up her
head.
‘Ah! my poor Amy, we thought--’
‘Yes; and it is so still. I know it is so. I know he did not do it.’
‘Then what do you think of Margaret and Philip?’
‘There is some mistake.’
And how can you defend what he said of papa?’
‘I don’t,’ said Amy, hiding her face. ‘That is the worst; but I am sure
it was only a moment’s passion, and that he must be very unhappy about
it now. I don’t think papa would mind it, at least not long, if it
was not for this other dreadful misapprehension. O, Laura! why cannot
something be done to clear it up?’
‘Everything will be done,’ said Laura. Papa has written to Mr. Wellwood,
and Philip means to go and make inquiries at Oxford and St. Mildred’s.’
‘When?’ asked Amy.
‘Not till term begins. You know he is to have a fortnight’s leave before
the regiment goes to Ireland.’
‘Oh, I hope it will come right then. People must come to an
understanding when they meet; it is so different from writing.’
‘He will do everything to set things on a right footing. You may be
confident of that, Amy, for your sake as much as anything else.’
‘I can’t think why he should know I have anything to do with it,’ said
Amy, blushing. ‘I had much rather he did not.’
‘Surely, Amy, you think he can be trusted with your secret; and there
is no one who can take more care for you. You must look on him as one of
ourselves.’
Amy made no answer, and Laura, was annoyed.
‘You are vexed with him for having told this to papa; but that is not
reasonable of you, Amy; your better sense must tell you that it is the
only truly kind course, both towards Guy and yourself.’
It was said in Philip’s manner, which perhaps made it harder to bear;
and Amy could scarcely answer,--
‘He means it for the best.’
‘You would not have had him be silent?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Amy, sadly. ‘No; he should have done something, but
he might have done it more kindly.’
Laura endeavoured to persuade her that nothing could have been more kind
and judicious, and Amy sat dejectedly owning the good intention, and
soothed by the affection of her family; with the bitter suffering of her
heart unallayed, with all her fond tender feelings torn at the thought
of what Guy must be enduring, and with the pain of knowing it was her
father’s work. She had one comfort, in the certainty that Guy would bear
it nobly. She was happy to find her confidence confirmed by her mother
and Charles; and one thing she thought she need not give up, though
she might no longer think of him as her lover, she might be his Verena
still, whether he knew it or not. It could not be wrong to remember any
one in her prayers, and to ask that he might not be led into temptation,
but have strength to abide patiently. That helped her to feel that he
was in the hands of One to whom the secrets of all hearts are known; and
a line of poetry seemed to be whispered in her ears, in his own sweet
tones,--
Wait, and the cloud shall roll away.
So, after the first day, she went on pretty well. She was indeed silent
and grave, and no longer the sunbeam of Hollywell; but she took her
share in what was passing, and a common observer would hardly have
remarked the submissive melancholy of her manner. Her father was very
affectionate, and often called her his jewel of good girls; but he was
too much afraid of women’s tears to talk to her about Guy, he left
that to her mother: and Mrs. Edmonstone, having seen her submit to her
father’s will, was unwilling to say more.
She doubted whether it was judicious to encourage her in dwelling on
Guy; for, even supposing his character clear, they had offended him
deeply, and released him from any engagement to her, so that there
was nothing to prevent him from forming an attachment elsewhere. Mrs.
Edmonstone did not think he would; but it was better to say nothing
about him, lest she should not speak prudently, and only keep up the
subject in Amy’s mind.
Charles stormed and wrangled, told Mr. Edmonstone ‘he was breaking his
daughter’s heart, that was all;’ and talked of unfairness and injustice,
till Mr. Edmonstone vowed it was beyond all bearing, that his own son
should call him a tyrant, and accused Guy of destroying all peace in his
family.
The replies to the letters came; some thought them satisfactory, and
the others wondered that they thought so. Mr. Wellwood gave the highest
character of his pupil, and could not imagine how any irregularities
could be laid to his charge; but when asked in plain terms how he
disposed of his time, could only answer in general, that he had friends
and engagements of his own at St. Mildred’s and its neighbourhood, and
had been several times at Mrs. Henley’s and at Colonel Harewood’s. The
latter place, unfortunately, was the very object of Philip’s suspicions;
and thus the letter was anything but an exculpation.
Guy wrote to Charles in the fulness of his heart, expressing gratitude
for his confidence and sympathy. He again begged for the supposed
evidence of his misconduct, declaring he could explain it, whatever it
might be, and proceeded to utter deep regrets for his hasty expressions.
‘I do not know what I may have said,’ he wrote; ‘I have no doubt it
was unpardonable, for I am sure my feelings were so, and that I deserve
whatever I have brought on myself. I can only submit to Mr. Edmonstone’s
sentence, and trust that time will bring to his knowledge that I am
innocent of what I am accused of. He has every right to be displeased
with me.
Charles pronounced this to be only Guy’s way of abusing himself; but his
father saw in it a disguised admission of guilt. It was thought, also,
to be bad sign that Guy intended to remain at South Moor till the end
of the vacation, though Charles argued that he must be somewhere; and if
they wished to keep him out of mischief, why exile him from Hollywell!
He would hardly listen to his mother’s representation, that on Amy’s
account it would not be right to have him there till the mystery was
cleared up.
He tried to stir his father up to go and see Guy at St. Mildred’s, and
investigate matters for himself; but, though Mr. Edmonstone would have
liked the appearance of being important, this failed, because Philip
declared it to be unadvisable, knowing that it would be no investigation
at all, and that his uncle would be talked over directly. Next, Charles
would have persuaded Philip himself to go, but the arrangements about
his leave did not make this convenient; and it was put off till he
should pay his farewell visit to his sister, in October. Lastly, Charles
wrote to Mrs. Henley, entreating her to give him some information about
this mysterious evidence which was wanting, but her reply was a complete
‘set down’ for interference in a matter with which he had no concern.
He was very angry. In fact, the post seldom came in without occasioning
a fresh dispute, which only had the effect of keeping up the heat of Mr.
Edmonstone’s displeasure, and making the whole house uncomfortable.
Fretfulness and ill-humour seemed to have taken possession of Charles
and his father. Such a state of things had not prevailed since Guy’s
arrival: Hollywell was hardly like the same house; Mrs. Edmonstone and
Laura could do nothing without being grumbled at or scolded by one
or other of the gentlemen; even Amy now and then came in for a little
petulance on her father’s part, and Charles could not always forgive her
for saying in her mournful, submissive tome,--‘It is of no use to talk
about it!’