And when the solemn deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar,
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
--LONGFELLOW
Mr. Ashford was a connection of Lady Thorndale’s, and it was about a
year since the living of Redclyffe had been presented to him. Mr. and
Mrs. Ashford were of course anxious to learn all they could about their
young squire, on whom the welfare of the parish depended, even more than
in most cases, as the whole was his property. Their expectations were
not raised by Mr. Markham’s strenuous opposition to all their projects,
and his constant appeals to the name of ‘Sir Guy’; but, on the other
hand, they were pleased by the strong feeling of affection that all the
villagers manifested for their landlord.
The inhabitants of Redclyffe were a primitive race, almost all related
to each other, rough and ignorant, and with a very strong feudal feeling
for ‘Sir Guy,’ who was king, state, supreme authority, in their eyes;
and Mrs. Ashford further found that ‘Master Morville,’ as the old women
called him in his individual character, was regarded by them with great
personal affection.
On the occasion when Captain Morville came to Redclyffe, and left James
Thorndale to spend a couple of hours at the parsonage, they interrogated
the latter anxiously on his acquaintance with Sir Guy. He had not the
least idea of creating prejudice, indeed, he liked him as a companion,
but he saw everything through the medium of his friend, and spoke
something to this effect: He was very agreeable; they would like his
manners; he was tolerably clever, but not to be named in the same day
with his cousin for abilities, far less in appearance. Very pleasant,
generally liked, decidedly a taking man; but there was some cloud over
him just now--debts, probably. Morville had been obliged to go to Oxford
about it; but Mr. Thorndale did not profess to understand it, as of
course Morville said as little of it as he could. Thereupon all began to
admire the aforesaid Morville, already known by report, and whose fine
countenance and sensible conversation confirmed all that had been said
of him.
And as, after his interference, Mr. Markham’s opposition became surly,
as well as sturdy, and Sir Guy’s name was sure to stand arrayed against
them whichever way they turned, the younger part of the family learnt to
regard him somewhat in the light of an enemy, and their elders awaited
his majority with more of fear than of hope.
‘Mamma!’ cried Edward Ashford, rushing in, so as to bring the first news
to his mother, who had not been to the early service, ‘I do believe Sir
Guy is come!’
‘Sir Guy was at church!’ shouted Robert, almost at the same moment.
Mr. Ashford confirmed the intelligence.
‘I saw him speaking, after church, to some of the old men, so afterwards
I went to ask old John Barton, and found him with tears in his eyes,
positively trembling with delight, for he said he never thought to have
heard his cheery voice again, and that he was coming down by and by to
see the last letter from Ben, at sea.’
‘That is very nice! Shall you call?’
‘Yes. Even if he is only here for a day or two, it will be better to
have made the acquaintance.’
Mr. Ashford went to the Park at two in the afternoon, and did not return
till near four.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘it is as James Thorndale says, there is something very
prepossessing about him.’
‘Have you been there all this time?’
‘Yes. He was not at home; so I left my card, and was coming away, when I
met him at the turn leading to the Cove. He need not have seen me unless
he had liked, but he came up in a good-natured cordial way, and thanked
me for coming to call.’
‘Is he like his cousin?’
‘Not in the least; not nearly so tall or so handsome, but with a very
pleasant face, and seeming made up of activity, very slight, as if he
was all bone and sinew. He said he was going to see the Christmas ox
at the farm, and asked me to come with him. Presently we came to a high
gate, locked up. He was over it in an instant, begged me to wait while
he ran on to the farm for the key, and was back in a second with it.’
‘Did he enter on any of the disputed subjects!’
‘He began himself about the school, saying the house should be altered
directly; and talked over the whole matter very satisfactorily;
undertook himself to speak to Jenny Robinson; and was very glad to hear
you meant her still to keep the infants at the Cove; so I hope that
matter is in a right train.’
‘If Mr. Markham will but let him.’
‘O, he is king or more here! We met Markham at the farm; and the first
thing, after looking at the cattle, Sir Guy found some planks lying
about, and said they were the very thing for flooring the school.
Markham mentioned some barn they were intended for, but Sir Guy said the
school must be attended to at once, and went with us to look at it. That
was what kept me so long, measuring and calculating; and I hope it may
be begun in a week.’
‘This is delightful! What more could we wish?’
‘I don’t think he will give trouble in parish matters, and in personal
intercourse he will be sure to be most agreeable. I wish I knew there
was nothing amiss. It seems strange for him to come here for the
vacation, instead of going to his guardian’s, as usual, and altogether
he had an air of sadness and depression, not like a youth, especially
such an active one. I am afraid something is wrong; those engaging
people are often unstable. One thing I forgot to tell you. We were
walking through that belt of trees on the east side of the hill, when
he suddenly called out to ask how came the old ash-tree to be marked.
Markham answered in his gruff way, it was not his doing, but the
Captain’s. He turned crimson, and began some angry exclamation, but as
Markham was going on to tell something else about it, he stopped him
short, saying, ‘Never mind! I dare say it’s all right. I don’t want to
hear any more!’ And I don’t think he spoke much again till we got into
the village. I am afraid there is some misunderstanding between the
cousins.’
‘Or more likely Mr. Markham is teaching him some jealousy of his heir.
We could not expect two Captain Morvilles in one family, and I am glad
it is no worse.’
All that the Ashfords further saw of their young baronet made an
impression in his favour; every difficulty raised by the steward
disappeared; their plans were forwarded, and they heard of little but
his good-nature to the poor people; but still they did not know how far
to trust these appearances, and did not yet venture to form an opinion
on him, or enter into intimacy.
‘So the singers will not come to us on Christmas Eve, because they say
they must go to the Park,’ said Edward, rather savagely.
‘I was thinking,’ said Mrs. Ashford, ‘how forlorn it will be for that
poor youth to spend his Christmas-day alone in that great house. Don’t
you think we might ask him to dinner?’
Before Mr. Ashford could answer, the boys made such an uproar at the
proposal of bringing a stranger to spoil their Christmas, that their
parents gave up the idea.
It was that Christmas-day that Guy especially dreaded, as recalling so
many contrasts both with those passed here and at Hollywell. Since his
return, he had been exerting himself to attend to what he felt to be
his duty, going about among his people, arranging for their good or
pleasure, and spending a good deal of time over his studies. He had
written to Mr. Ross, to ask his advice about Coombe Prior, and had set
Markham, much against his will, to remonstrate with Farmer Todd about
the repairs; but though there was a sort of satisfaction in doing these
things--though the attachment of his dependants soothed him, and brought
a new sense of the relation between himself and them--though views
of usefulness were on each side opening before him--yet there was a
dreariness about everything; he was weary even while he undertook and
planned energetically; each new project reminding him that there was no
Amy to plan with him. He could not sufficiently care for them.
Still more dreary was his return to his old haunts, and to the scenery
which he loved so devotedly--the blue sea and purple hills, which had
been like comrades and playfellows, before he had known what it was to
have living companions. They used to be everything to him, and he
had scarcely a wish beyond; afterwards his dreams had been of longing
affection for them, and latterly the idea of seeing Amy love them and
admire them had been connected with every vision of them; and now the
sight of the reality did but recall the sense that their charm had
departed; they could no longer suffice to him as of old; and their
presence brought back to him, with fresh pangs of disappointment,
the thought of lost happiness and ruined hopes, as if Amy alone could
restore their value.
The depression of his spirits inclined him to dwell at present more
on the melancholy history of his parents than on anything else. He had
hitherto only heard the brief narration of his grandfather, when he
could ask no questions; but he now obtained full particulars from
Markham, who, when he found him bent on hearing all, related everything,
perhaps intending it as a warning against the passions which, when
once called into force, he dreaded to find equally ungovernable in his
present master.
Mr. Morville had been his great pride and glory, and, in fact, had been
so left to his care, as to have been regarded like a son of his own. He
had loved him, if possible, better than Guy, because he had been more
his own; he had chosen his school, and given him all the reproofs which
had ever been bestowed on him with his good in view, and how he had
grieved for him was never known to man. It was the first time he had
ever talked it over, and he described, with strong, deep feeling, the
noble face and bearing of the dark-eyed, gallant-looking stripling, his
generosity and high spirit tainted and ruined by his wild temper and
impatience of restraint. There seemed to have been a great sweetness of
disposition, excellent impulses, and so strong a love of his father, in
spite of early neglect and present resentment, as showed what he might
have been with only tolerable training, which gave Guy’s idea of him
more individuality than it had ever had before, and made him better
understand what his unhappy grandfather’s remorse had been. Guy doubted
for a moment whether it had not been selfish to make Markham narrate the
history of the time when he had suffered so much; and Markham, when he
had been led into telling it, and saw the deepening sadness on his young
master’s countenance, wished it had not been told, and ended by saying
it was of no use to stir up what was better forgotten.
He would have regretted the telling it still more if he had known how
Guy acted it all over in his solitude; picturing his father standing an
outcast at the door of his own home, yielding his pride and resentment
for the sake of his wife, ready to do anything, yearning for
reconciliation, longing to tread once more the friendly, familiar hall,
and meeting only the angry repulse and cruel taunt! He imagined
the headlong passion, the despair, the dashing on his horse in
whirlwind-like swiftness, then the blow--the fall--the awful stillness
of the form carried back to his father’s house, and laid on that table
a dead man! Fierce wrath--then another world! Guy worked himself up in
imagining the horror of the scene, till it was almost as if he had been
an actor in it.
Yet he had never cared so much for the thought of his father as for
his mother. His yearning for her which he had felt in early days at
Hollywell, had returned in double force, as he now fancied that she
would have been here to comfort him, and to share his grief, to be a
Mrs. Edmonstone, whose love no fault and no offence could ever cancel.
He rode to Moorworth, and made Mrs. Lavers tell him all she remembered.
She was nothing loath, and related how she had been surprised by Mr.
Morville arriving with his fair, shrinking young wife, and how she had
rejoiced in his coming home again. She described Mrs. Morville with
beautiful blue eyes and flaxen hair, looking pale and delicate, and with
clinging caressing ways like a little child afraid to be left.
‘Poor thing!’ said Mrs. Lavers, wiping her eyes; ‘when he was going, she
clung about him, and cried, and was so timid about being left, that at
last he called me, and begged me to stay with her, and take care of her.
It was very pretty to see how gentle and soft he was to her, sharp and
hasty as he was with most; and she would not let him go, coaxing him not
to stay away long; till at last he put her on the sofa, saying, “There,
there, Marianne, that will do. Only be a good child, and I’ll come for
you.” I never forget those words, for they were the last I ever heard
him speak.’
‘Well?’
‘Poor dear! she cried heartily at first; but after a time she cheered
up, and quite made friends with me. I remember she told me which were
Mr. Morville’s favourite songs, and sang little scraps of them.’
‘Can you remember what they were?’ eagerly exclaimed Guy.
‘Law, no, air; I never had no head for music. And she laughed about her
journey to Scotland, and got into spirits, only she could not bear I
should go out of the room; and after a time she grew very anxious for
him to come back. I made her some tea, and tried to get her to bed,
but she would not go, though she seemed very tired; for she said Mr.
Morville would come to take her to Redclyffe, and she wanted to hear all
about the great house, listening for him all the time, and I trying to
quiet her, and telling her the longer he stayed the better chance there
was. Then came a call for me, and down-stairs I found everything in
confusion; the news had come--I never knew how. I had not had time to
hear it rightly myself, when there was a terrible cry from up-stairs.
Poor thing! whether she thought he was come, or whether her mind misgave
her, she had come after me to the head of the stairs, and heard what
they were saying. I don’t believe she ever rightly knew what had
happened, for before I could get to her she had fainted; and she was
very ill from that moment.’
‘And it was the next day she died!’ said Guy, looking up, after a long
silence. ‘Did she--could she take any notice of me?’
‘No, sir; she lived but half an hour, or hardly that, after you were
born.’ I told her it was a son; but she was not able to hear or mind me,
and sank away, fainting like. I fancied I heard her say something like
“Mr. Morville,” but I don’t know; and her breath was very soon gone.
Poor dear!’ added Mrs. Lavers, wiping away her tears. ‘I grieved for her
as if she had been my own child; but then I thought of her waking up to
hear he was dead. I little thought then, Sir Guy, that I should ever see
you stand there,--strong and well grown. I almost thought you were dead
already when I sent for Mr. Harrison to baptize you.’
‘Was it you that did so?’ said Guy, his face, mournful before, lighting
up in a sudden beam of gratitude. ‘Then I have to thank you for more
than all the world besides.’
‘Law, sir!’ said Mrs. Lavers, smiling, and looking pleased, though as
if but half entering into his meaning. ‘Yes, it was in that very china
bowl; I have kept it choice ever since, and never let it be used for
anything. I thought it was making very bold, but the doctor and all
thought you could not live, and Mr. Harrison might judge. I was very
glad just before he came that Mr. Markham came from Redclyffe. He had
not been able to leave poor Sir Guy before.’
Guy soon after set out on his homeward ride. His yearning to hear of
his mother had been satisfied; but though he could still love the fair,
sweet vision summoned up by her name, he was less disposed to feel that
it had been hard upon him that she died. It was not Amy. In spite of his
tender compassion and affection, he knew that he had not lost a Verena
in her. None could occupy that place save Amy; and his mind,
from custom, reverted to Amy as still his own, thrilled like a
freshly-touched wound, and tried to realize the solace that even yet she
might be praying for him.
It was dreariness and despondency by day, and he struggled with it by
energy and occupation; but it was something even worse in the evening,
in the dark, solitary library, where the very size of the room gave
an additional sense of loneliness; and in the silence he could hear,
through the closed shutters, the distant plash and surge of the tide,--a
sound, of which, in former years, he had never been sensible. There,
evening after evening, he sat,--his attention roaming from his
employment to feed on his sad reflections.
One evening he went to the large dark dining-room, unlocked the door,
which echoed far through the house, and found his way through the
packed-up furniture to a picture against the wall, to which he held up
his light. It was a portrait by Lely, a half-length of a young man, one
hand on his sword, the other holding his plumed hat. His dark chestnut
hair fell on each side of a bright youthful face, full of life and
health, and with eyes which, even in painting, showed what their
vividness must have been. The countenance was full of spirit and joy;
but the mouth was more hard and stern than suited the rest; and there
was something in the strong, determined grasp of the sword, which made
it seem as if the hand might be a characteristic portrait. In the corner
of the picture was the name--‘Hugo Morville. AEt. 2O, 1671.’
Guy stood holding up his light, and looking fixedly at it for a
considerable time. Strange thoughts passed through his mind as the
pictured eyes seemed to gaze piercingly down into his own. When he
turned away, he muttered aloud,--
‘He, too, would have said--“Is thy servant a dog, that he should do
this?”’
It seemed to him as if he had once been in a happier, better world, with
the future dawning brightly on him; but as if that once yielding to the
passions inherited from that wretched man, had brought on him the doom
of misery. He had opened the door to the powers of evil, and must bear
the penalty.
These feelings might partly arise from its having been only now that,
had all been well, he could have been with Amabel; so that it seemed as
if he had never hitherto appreciated the loss. He had at first comforted
himself by thinking it was better to be without her than to cause her
distress; but now he found how hard it was to miss her--his bright
angel. Darkness was closing on him; a tedious, aimless life spread out
before him; a despair of doing good haunted him, and with it a sense of
something like the presence of an evil spirit, triumphing in his having
once put himself within its grasp.
It was well for Guy that he was naturally active, and had acquired
power over his own mind. He would not allow himself to brood over
these thoughts by day, and in the evening he busied himself as much as
possible with his studies, or in going over with Markham matters that
would be useful to him to know when he came to the management of his
property. Yet still these thoughts would thicken on him, in spite of
himself, every evening when he sat alone in the library.
The late hours of Christmas Eve was the time when he had most to suffer.
The day had been gloomy and snowy, and he had spent it almost entirely
in solitude, with no companion or diversion to restore the tone of his
mind, when he had tried it with hard study. He tried to read, but it
would not do; and he was reduced to sit looking at the fire, recalling
this time last year, when he had been cutting holly, helping the sisters
to deck the house, and in the evening enjoying a merry Christmas party,
full of blitheness and glee, where there were, of course, special
recollections of Amabel.
As usual, he dwelt on the contrast, mused on the estrangement of Mrs.
Edmonstone, and tormented himself about Charles’s silence, till he fell
into the more melancholy train of thought of the destiny of his race.
Far better for him to bear all alone than to bring on Amy grief and
horror, such as had fallen on his own mother, but it was much to bear
that loneliness and desolation for a lifetime. The brow was contracted,
and the lip drawn into a resolute expression of keeping down suffering,
like that of a man enduring acute bodily pain; as Guy was not yielding,
he was telling himself--telling the tempter, who would have made him
give up the struggle--that it was only for a life, and that it was shame
and ingratitude to be faint-hearted, on the very night when he ought to
be rejoicing that One had come to ruin the power of the foe, and set him
free. But where was his rejoicing? Was he cheered,--was he comforted?
Was not the lone, blank despondency that had settled on him more heavily
than ever, a token that he was shut out from all that was good,--nay,
that in former years there had been no true joy in him, only enjoyment
of temporal pleasure? Had his best days of happiness been, then, nothing
but hollowness and self-deception?
At that moment the sound of a Christmas carol came faintly on his ear.
It was one of those tunes which, when the village choir were the only
musicians he knew, he had thought, unrivalled; and now, even to his
tutored, delicate ear, softened as it was by distance, and endeared by
association, it was full of refreshing, soothing harmony. He undrew the
curtain, opened the shutter, and looked into the court, where he saw
some figures standing. As soon as the light shone from the window, the
carol was resumed, and the familiar tones were louder and harsher, but
he loved them, with all their rudeness and dissonance, and throwing up
the window, called the singers by name, asking why they stood out in the
snow, instead of coming into the hall, as usual.
The oldest of the set came to the window to answer,--so old a man that
his voice was cracked, and his performance did more harm than good in
the psalms at church.
‘You see, Sir Guy,’ said he, ‘there was some of us thought you might not
like to have us coming and singing like old times, ‘cause ‘tis not all
as it used to be here with you. Yet we didn’t like not to come at all,
when you had been away so long, so we settled just to begin, and see
whether you took any notice.’
‘Thank you. It was a very kind thought, James,’ said Guy, touched by the
rough delicacy of feeling manifested by these poor men; ‘I had rather
hear the carols than anything. Come to the front door; I’ll let you in.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ with a most grateful touch of the hat; and Guy
hastened to set things in order, preferring the carols to everything at
that moment, even though disabused of his pristine admiration for James
Robinson’s fiddle, and for Harry Ray’s grand shake. A long space was
spent in listening, and a still longer in the endeavour to show what Mr.
Ashford meant by suggesting some improvements which they were regarding
with dislike and suspicion, till they found Sir Guy was of the same
mind. In fact, when he had sung a verse or two to illustrate his
meaning, the opinion of the choir was, that, with equal advantages, Sir
Guy might sing quite as well as Harry Ray.
It was the first time he had heard his own voice, except at church,
since the earlier days of St. Mildred’s, but as he went up the long
stairs and galleries to bed, he found himself still singing. It was,
Who lives forlorn,
On God’s own word doth rest,
His path is bright
With heavenly light,
His lot among the blest.
He wondered, and remembered finding music for it with Amy’s help. He
sighed heavily, but the anguish of feeling, the sense of being in the
power of evil, had insensibly left him, and though sad and oppressed,
the unchangeable joy and hope of Christmas were shedding a beam on him.
They were not gone when he awoke, and rose to a solitary breakfast
without one Christmas greeting. The light of the other life was
beginning to shine out, and make him see how to do and to bear, with
that hope before him. The hope was becoming less vague; the resolution,
though not more firm, yet less desponding, that he would go on to
grapple with temptation, and work steadfastly; and with that hope before
him, he now felt that even a lifetime without Amy would be endurable.
The power of rejoicing came more fully at church, and the service
entered into his soul as it never had done before. It had never been
such happiness, though repentance and mournful feelings were ever
present with him; nor was his ‘Verena’ absent from his mind. He
walked about between the services, saw the poor people dining in their
holly-decked houses, exchanging Christmas wishes with them, and gave
his old, beautiful, bright smile as he received demonstrations of their
attachment, or beheld their enjoyment. He went home in the dark, allowed
Mrs. Drew to have her own way, and serve him and Bustle with a dinner
sufficient for a dozen people, and was shut up for the solitary
Christmas evening which he had so much dreaded, and which would have
been esteemed a misfortune even by those who had no sad thoughts to
occupy them.
Yet when the clock struck eleven he was surprised, and owned that it had
been more than not being unhappy. The dark fiends of remorse and despair
had not once assaulted him, yet it had not been by force of employment
that they had been averted. He had read and written a little, but very
little, and the time had chiefly been spent in a sort of day-dream,
though not of a return to Hollywell, nor of what Redclyffe might be with
Amy. It had been of a darkened and lonely course, yet, in another sense,
neither dark nor lonely, of a cheerless home and round of duties, with
a true home beyond; and still it had been a happy, refreshing dream, and
he began the next morning with the fresh brightened spirit of a man who
felt that such an evening was sent him to reinvigorate his energies, and
fit him for the immediate duties that lay before him.
On the breakfast-table was what he had not seen for a long time--a
letter directed to him. It was from Mr. Ross, in answer to his question
about Coombe Prior, entering readily into the subject, and advising
him to write to the Bishop, altogether with a tone of friendly interest
which, especially as coming from one so near Hollywell, was a great
pleasure, a real Christmas treat. There was the wonted wish of the
season--a happy Christmas--which he took gratefully, and lastly there
was a mention that Charles Edmonstone was better, the suffering over,
though he was not yet allowed to move.
It was a new light that Charles’s silence had been occasioned by
illness, and his immediate resolution was to write at once to Mr. Ross,
to beg for further particulars. In the meantime, the perception that
there had been no estrangement was such a ray as can hardly be imagined
without knowing the despondency it had enlivened. The truth was,
perhaps, that the tone of mind was recovering, and after having fixed
himself in his resolution to endure, he was able to receive comfort and
refreshment from without as well as from within.
He set to work to write at once to the Bishop, as Mr. Ross advised. He
said he could not bear to lose time, and therefore wrote at once. He
should be of age on the 28th of March, and he hoped then to be able to
arrange for a stipend for a curate, if the Bishop approved, and would
kindly enter into communication on the appointment with Mr. Halroyd, the
incumbent. After considering his letter a little while, and wishing he
was sufficiently intimate with Mr. Ashford to ask him if it would do, he
wrote another to Mr. Ross, to inquire after Charles; then he worked for
an hour at mathematics, till a message came from the gamekeeper to
ask whether he would go out shooting, whereat Bustle, evidently
understanding, jumped about, and wagged his tail so imploringly, that
Guy could not resist, so he threw his books upon the top of the great
pile on the sofa, and, glad that at least he could gratify dog and man,
he sent word that he should be ready in five minutes.
He could not help enjoying the ecstasy of all the dogs, and, indeed he
was surprised to find himself fully alive to the delight of forcing his
way through a furze-brake, hearing the ice in the peaty bogs crackle
beneath his feet; getting a good shot, bringing down his bird, finding
snipe, and diving into the depths of the long, winding valleys and
dingles, with the icicle-hung banks of their streamlets. He came home
through the village at about half-past three o’clock, sending the keeper
to leave some of his game at the parsonage, while he went himself to see
how the work was getting on at the school. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford and the
boys were come on the same errand, in spite of the cloud of dust rising
from the newly-demolished lath-and-plaster partition. The boys looked
with longing eyes at the gun in his hand, and the half-frozen compound
of black and red mud on his gaiters; but they were shy, and their enmity
added to their shyness, so that even when he shook hands with them, and
spoke good-naturedly, they did not get beyond a monosyllable.
Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, feeling some compunction for having left him to
his solitude so long, asked him to dinner for one of the ensuing days,
with some idea of getting some one to meet him, and named six o’clock.
‘Won’t that put you out? Don’t you always dine early?’ said he. ‘If you
would let me, I should like to join you at your tea-time.’
‘If you will endure a host of children,’ said Mr. Ashford, ‘I should
like it of all things,’ said Guy. ‘I want to make acquaintance very
much,’ and he put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘Besides, I want to
talk to you about the singing, and how we are to get rid of that fiddle
without breaking James Robinson’s heart.’
The appointment was made, and Guy went home to his hasty dinner, his
Greek, and a little refreshing return afterwards to the books which had
been the delight of younger days. There was no renewal of the burthen of
despair that had so long haunted his evenings. Employments thickened on
his hands as the days passed on. There was further correspondence about
Coombe Prior and the curate, and consultations with Markham about farmer
Todd, who was as obstinate and troublesome as possible. Guy made Markham
come to Coombe Prior with him, examine and calculate about the cottages,
and fairly take up the subject, though without much apparent chance of
coming to any satisfactory result. A letter came from Mr. Ross, telling
him even more than he had ventured to hope, for it brought a message
from Charles himself. Charles had been delighted to hear of him, and had
begged that he might be told how very sorry he had been not to write;
and how incapable he had been, and still was; but that he hoped Guy
would write to him, and believe him in the same mind. Mr. Ross added an
account of Charles’s illness, saying the suffering had been more severe
than usual, and had totally disabled him for many weeks; that they had
since called in a London surgeon, who had given him hope that he might
be better now than ever before, but had prescribed absolute rest for
at least six weeks longer, so that Charles was now flat on his back all
day, beginning to be able to be amused, and very cheerful and patient.
The pleasure of entering into communication with Hollywell again, and
knowing that Charles at least would be glad to hear from him, was so
exquisite, that he was almost surprised, considering that in essentials
he was where he was before, and even Charles could not be Amy.