Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
--ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Among the persons who spent a forlorn autumn was Mr. Ross, though his
troubles were not quite of the same description as those of his young
parishioners. He missed his daughter very much; all his household
affairs got out of order; the school-girls were naughty, and neither
he, nor Miss Edmonstone, nor the mistress, could discover the culprits;
their inquiries produced nothing but a wild confusion of mutual
accusations, where the truth was undistinguishable. The cook never could
find anything to make broth of, Mr. Ross could, never lay his hands on
the books he wanted for himself or anybody else; and, lastly, none of
his shirts ever had their buttons on.
Mary, meanwhile, had to remain through a whole course of measles, then
to greet the arrival of a new nephew, and to attend his christening: but
she had made a vow that she would be at home by Christmas, and she kept
it.
Mr. Ross had the satisfaction of fetching her home from the station the
day before Christmas Eve, and of seeing her opposite to him, on her
own side of the table, in the evening, putting on the buttons, and
considering it an especial favour and kindness, for which to be for ever
grateful, that he had written all his Christmas sermons beforehand,
so as to have a whole evening clear before her. He was never a great
letter-writer, and Mary had a great deal to hear, for all that had come
to her were the main facts, with very few details.
‘I have had very few letters, even from Hollywell,’ said she. ‘I suppose
it is on account of Charles’s illness. You think him really better?’
‘Yes, much better. I forgot to tell you, you are wanted for their
Christmas party to-morrow night.’
‘Oh! he is well enough for them not to put it off! Is he able to be out
of bed?’
‘No, he lies perfectly flat, and looks very thin. It has been a very
severe illness. I don’t think I ever knew him suffer so much; but,
at the same time, I never knew him behave so well, or show so much
patience, and consideration for other people, I was the more surprised,
because at first he seemed to have relapsed into all the ways he thought
he had shaken off; he was so irritable and fretful, that poor Mrs.
Edmonstone looked worn out; but it seems to have been only the beginning
of the illness; it was very different after he was laid up.’
‘Has he had you to see him?’
‘Yes, he asked for it, which he never did before, and Amabel reads to
him every morning. There is certainly much more that is satisfactory
about those young Edmonstones than there once seemed reason to expect.’
‘And now tell me about Sir Guy. What is the matter? Why does he not come
home this winter!’
‘I cannot tell you the rights of it, Mary. Mr. Edmonstone is very much
offended about something he is reported to have said, and suspects
him of having been in mischief at St. Mildred’s; but I am not at all
persuaded that it is not one of Mr. Edmonstone’s affronts.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At Redclyffe. I have a letter from him which I am going to answer
to-night. I shall tell the Edmonstones about it, for I cannot believe
that, if he had been guilty of anything very wrong, his mind would be
occupied in this manner;’ and he gave Mary the letter.
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Mary, as she read. ‘I am sure he cannot be in any
mischief. What an admirable person he is! I am very sorry this cloud has
arisen! I was thinking last summer how happy they all were together.’
‘Either this or Charles’s illness has cast a gloom over the whole house.
The girls are both grown much graver.’
‘Amy graver?’ said Mary, quickly.
‘I think so. At least she did not seem to cheer up as I should have
expected when her brother grew better. She looks as if she had been
nursing him too closely, and yet I see her walking a good deal.’
‘Poor little Amy!’ said Mary, and she asked no more questions, but was
anxious to make her own observations.
She did not see the Edmonstones till the next evening, as the day was
wet, and she only received a little note telling her that one carriage
would be sent to fetch her and Mr. Ross. The whole of the family, except
Charles, were in the drawing-room, but Mary looked chiefly at Amy. She
was in white, with holly in her hair, and did not look sorrowful;
but she was paler and thinner than last summer, and though she spoke,
smiled, and laughed when she ought, it was without the gay, childish
freedom of former times. She was a small, pale, quiet girl now, not a
merry, caressing kitten. Mary recollected what she had been in the wood
last summer, and was sure it was more than Charles’s illness that had
altered her; yet still Amy had not Laura’s harassed look.
Mary had not much talk with Amy, for it was a large party, with a good
many young ladies and children, and Amy had a great deal of work in the
way of amusing them. She had a wearied look, and was evidently exerting
herself to the utmost.
‘You look tired,’ said Mary, kindly.
‘No, it is only stupidity,’ said Amy, smiling rather sadly. ‘We can’t be
entertaining without Charlie.’
‘It has been a melancholy winter,’ began Mary, but she was surprised,
for Amy’s face and neck coloured in a moment; then, recovering herself,
with some hesitation, she said,--
‘Oh! but Charlie is much better, and that is a great comfort. I am glad
you are come home, Mary.’
‘We are going to have some magic music,’ was said at the other end of
the room. ‘Who will play?’
‘Little Amy!’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Where is she? She always does it to
admiration. Amy, come and be a performer.’
Amy rose, and came forward, but the colour had flushed into her cheeks
again, and the recollection occurred to Mary, that her fame as a
performer, in that way, arose from the very amusing manner in which she
and Sir Guy had conducted the game last year. At the same moment her
mother met her, and whispered,--
‘Had you rather not, my dear?’
‘I can do it, mamma, thank you--never mind.’
‘I should like to send you up to Charlie--he has been so long alone.’
‘Oh! thank you, dear mamma,’ with a look of relief.
‘Here is Charlotte wild to be a musician,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone.
‘Perhaps you will see how she can manage; for I think Charles must want
a visit from his little nurse.’
Amy moved quietly away, and entered Charles’s room, full of warm
gratitude for the kindness which was always seeking how to spare her.
Charles was asleep, and throwing a shawl round her, she sat down in the
dim light of the lamp, relieved by the stillness, only broken by now and
then a louder note of the music down-stairs. It was very comfortable,
after all that buzz of talk, and the jokes that seemed so nonsensical
and tiresome. There were but two people who could manage to make a party
entertaining, and that was the reason it was so different last year.
Then Amy wondered if she was the only person who felt sick at heart and
dreary; but she only wondered for a moment--she murmured half aloud to
herself, ‘I said I never would think of him except at my prayers! Here I
am doing it again, and on Christmas night. I won’t hide my eyes and moan
over my broken reed; for Christmas is come, and the circles of song are
widening round! Glory! good will, peace on earth! How he sang it last
year, the last thing, when the people were gone, before we went up to
bed. But I am breaking my resolution again. I must do something.’
She took up a book of sacred poetry, and began to learn a piece which
she already nearly knew; but the light was bad, and it was dreamy work;
and probably she was half asleep, for her thoughts wandered off to
Sintram and the castle on the Mondenfelsen, which seemed to her like
what she had pictured the Redclyffe crags, and the castle itself was
connected in her imagination with the deep, echoing porch, while Guy’s
own voice seemed to be chanting--
Who lives forlorn,
On God’s own word doth rest;
His path is bright
With heavenly light,
His lot among the blest.
‘Are you there, Amy?’ said Charles, waking. ‘What are you staying here
for? Don’t they want you?’
‘Mamma was so kind as to send me up.’
‘I am glad you are come, for I have something to tell you. Mr. Ross has
been up to see me, you know, and he has a letter from Guy.’
Amy’s heart beat fast, and, with eyes fixed on the ground, she listened
as Charles continued to give an account of Guy’s letter about Coombe
Prior. ‘Mr. Ross is quite satisfied about him, Amy,’ he concluded. ‘I
wish you could have heard the decided way in which he said, “He will
_live_ it down.”’
Amy’s answer was to stoop down and kiss her brother’s forehead.
Another week brought Guy’s renewal of the correspondence.
‘Amy, here is something for you to read,’ said Charles, holding up the
letter as she came into the room.
She knew the writing. ‘Wait one moment, Charlie, dear;’ and she ran out
of the room, found her mother fortunately alone, and said, averting her
face,--‘Mamma, dear, do you think I ought to let Charlie show me that
letter?’
Mrs. Edmonstone took hold of her hand, and drew her round so as to look
into the face through its veiling curls. The hand shook, and the face
was in a glow of eagerness. ‘Yes, dearest!’ said she, for she could not
help it; and then, as Amy ran back again, she asked herself whether it
was foolish, and bad for her sweet little daughter, then declared to
herself that it must--it should--it would come right.
There was not a word of Amy in the letter, but it, or something else,
made her more bright and cheerful than she had been for some time past.
It seemed as if the lengthening days of January were bringing renewed
comfort with them, when Charles, who ever since October had been
confined to bed, was able to wear the Chinese dressing-gown, be lifted
to a couch, and wheeled into the dressing-room, still prostrate, but
much enjoying the change of scene, which he called coming into the
world.
These were the events at quiet Hollywell, while Redclyffe was still
engrossed with the shipwreck, which seemed to have come on purpose to
enliven and occupy this solitary winter. It perplexed the Ashfords
about their baronet more than ever. Mr. Ashford said that no one whose
conscience was not clear could have confronted danger as he had done;
and yet the certainty that he was under a cloud, and the sadness, so
inconsistent with his age and temperament still puzzled them. Mrs.
Ashford thought she had made a discovery. The second day after the
wreck, the whole crew, except the little cabin-boy, were going to set
off to the nearest sea-port; and the evening preceding their departure,
they were to meet their rescuers, the fishermen, at a supper in the
great servants’ hall at the park. Edward and Robert were in great glory,
bringing in huge branches of evergreens to embellish the clean, cold
place; and Mr. and Mrs. Ashford and Grace were to come to see the
entertainment, after having some coffee in the library.
Guy prepared it for his company by tumbling his books headlong from
the sofa to a more remote ottoman, sticking a bit of holly on the
mantel-shelf, putting out his beloved old friend, Strutt’s ‘Sports and
Pastimes,’ to amuse Grace, and making up an immense fire; and then,
looking round, thought the room was uncommonly comfortable; but the
first thing that struck Mrs. Ashford, when, with face beaming welcome,
he ushered her in from the great hall, was how forlorn rooms looked that
had not a woman to inhabit them.
The supper went off with great eclat. Arnaud at the head of the table
carved with foreign courtesies, contrasted with the downright bluff way
of the sailors. As soon as Sir Guy brought Mrs. Ashford to look in on
them, old James Robinson proposed his health, with hopes he would soon
come and live among them for good, and Jonas Ledbury added another
wish, that ‘Lady Morville’ might soon be there too. At these words, an
expression of pain came upon Guy’s face; his lips were rigidly pressed
together; he turned hastily away, and paced up and down before he could
command his countenance. All were so busy cheering, that no one heeded
his change of demeanour save Mrs. Ashford; and though, when he returned
to the place where he had been standing, his complexion was deepened,
his lip quivered, and his voice trembled in returning thanks, Mr.
Ashford only saw the emotion naturally excited by his people’s
attachment.
The lady understood it better; and when she talked it over with her
husband in the evening, they were convinced the cause of his trouble
must be some unfortunate attachment, which he might think it his duty
to overcome; and having settled this, they became very fond of him, and
anxious to make Redclyffe agreeable to him.
Captain and crew departed; the little boy was better, and his hosts,
Charity and Jem Ledbury, only wished to keep him for ever; the sensation
at Redclyffe was subsiding, when one morning Markham came, in a state of
extreme satisfaction and importance, to exhibit the county paper, with
a full account of the gallant conduct of the youthful baronet. Two or
three days after, on coming home from a ride to Coombe Prior, Guy found
Lord Thorndale’s card, and heard from Arnaud that ‘my lord had made
particular inquiries how long he would be in the country, and had been
to the cliff to see where the wreck was.’
Markham likewise attached great importance to this visit, and went
off into a long story about his influence, and the representation
of Moorworth, or even of the county. As soon as Guy knew what he was
talking about, he exclaimed, ‘Oh, I hope all that is not coming on me
yet! Till I can manage Todd and Coombe Prior, I am sure I am not fit to
manage the country!’
A few mornings after, he found on the table an envelope, which
he studied, as if playing with his eagerness. It had an East-hill
post-mark, and a general air of Hollywell writing, but it was not in the
hand of either of the gentlemen, nor was the tail of the y such as Mrs.
Edmonstone was wont to make. It had even a resemblance to Amabel’s own
writing that startled him. He opened it at last, and within found the
hand he could not doubt--Charles’s, namely--much more crooked than
usual, and the words shortened and blotted:--
‘DEAR G.,--I ought not to do this, but I must; I have tyrannized over
Charlotte, and obtained the wherewithal. Write me a full account of your
gallant conduct. I saw it first in A.’s face. It has done you great good
with my father. I will write more when I can. I can’t get on now. ‘C. M.
E.’
He might well say he had first seen it in his sister’s face. She had
brought him the paper, and was looking for something he wanted her to
read to him, when ‘Redclyffe Bay’ met her eye, and then came the whole
at one delightful glance. He saw the heightened colour, the exquisite
smile, the tear-drop on the eyelash.
‘Amy! what have you there?’
She pointed to the place, gave the paper into his hand, and burst into
tears, the gush of triumphant feeling. Not one was shed because she was
divided from the hero of the shipwreck; they were pure unselfish tears
of joy, exultation, and thankfulness. Charles read the history, and she
listened in silence; then looked it over again with him, and betrayed
how thoroughly she had been taught the whole geography of Redclyffe Bay.
The next person who came in was Charlotte; and as soon as she understood
what occupied them, she went into an ecstasy, and flew away with the
paper, rushing with it straight into her father’s room, where she broke
into the middle of his letter-writing, by reading it in a voice of
triumph.
Mr. Edmonstone was delighted. He was just the person who would be far
more taken with an exploit of this kind, such as would make a figure in
the world, than by steady perseverance in well-doing, and his heart was
won directly. His wrath at the hasty words had long been diminishing,
and now was absolutely lost in his admiration. ‘Fine fellow! noble
fellow!’ he said. ‘He is the bravest boy I ever heard of, but I knew
what was in him from the first. I wish from my heart there was not this
cloud over him. I am sure the whole story has not a word of truth in it,
but he won’t say a word to clear himself, or else we would have him here
again to-morrow.’
This was the first time Mr. Edmonstone had expressed anything of real
desire to recall Guy, and it was what Charles meant in his letter.
The tyranny over Charlotte was exercised while the rest were at dinner,
and they were alone together. They talked over the adventure for the
tenth time that day, and Charles grew so excited that he vowed that he
must at once write to Guy, ordered her to give him the materials, and
when she hesitated, forced her into it, by declaring that he should get
up and reach the things himself, which would be a great deal worse. She
wanted to write from his dictation, but he would not consent, thinking
that his mother might not consider it proper, and he began vigorously;
but though long used to writing in a recumbent posture, he found himself
less capable now than he had expected, and went on soliloquizing thus:
‘What a pen you’ve given me, Charlotte. There goes a blot! Here, another
dip, will you! and take up that with the blotting paper before it
becomes more like a spider.’
‘Won’t you make a fresh beginning?’
‘No, that has cost me too much already. I’ve got no more command over my
fingers. Here we go into the further corner of the paper. Well! C. M. E.
There ‘tis--do it up, will you? If he can read it he’ll be lucky. How my
arms ache!’
‘I hope it has not hurt you, Charlie; but I am sure he will be very glad
of it. Oh! I am glad you said that about Amy.’
‘Who told you to read it, Puss?’
‘I could not help it, ‘tis so large.’
‘I believe I _didn’t_ _ought_ to have said it. Don’t tell her I did,’
said Charles; ‘but I couldn’t for the life of me--or what is more to the
purpose, for the trouble of it--help putting it. He is too true a knight
not to hear that his lady, not exactly smiled, but cried.’
‘He is a true knight,’ said Charlotte, emphatically, as with her best
pen, and with infinite satisfaction, she indited the ‘Sir Guy Morville,
Bart., Redclyffe Park, Moorworth,’ only wishing she could lengthen out
the words infinitely.
‘Do you remember, Charlie, how we sat here the first evening he came,
and you took me in about the deadly feud?’
‘It was no take-in,’ said Charles; ‘only the feud is all on one side.’
‘Oh, dear! it has been such a stupid winter without Guy,’ sighed
Charlotte; ‘if this won’t make papa forgive him, I don’t know what
will.’
‘I wish it would, with all my heart,’ said Charles; ‘but logically, if
you understand the word, Charlotte, it does not make much difference to
the accusation. It would not exactly be received as exculpatory evidence
in a court of justice.’
‘You don’t believe the horrid stories?’
‘I believe that Guy has gamed quite as much as I have myself; but I want
to see him cleared beyond the power of Philip to gainsay or disbelieve
it. I should like to have such a force of proof as would annihilate
Philip, and if I was anything but what I am, I would have it. If you
could but lend me a leg for two days, Charlotte.’
‘I wish I could.’
‘One thing shall be done,’ proceeded Charles: ‘my father shall go and
meet him in person when he comes of age. Now Don Philip is out of the
way, I trust I can bring that about.’
‘If he would but come here!’
‘No, that must not be, as mamma says, till there is some explanation;
but if I was but in my usual state, I would go with papa and meet him
in London. I wonder if there is any chance of it. The 28th of March--ten
weeks off! If I can but get hold of those trusty crutches of mine by
that time I’ll do, and I’ll do, and I’ll do. We will bring back Amy’s
knight with flying colours.’
‘Oh how happy we should be!’
‘If I only knew what sort of sense that Markham of his may have, I would
give him a hint, and set him to ferret out at St. Mildred’s. Or shall I
get Dr. Mayerne to order me there for change of air?’
So schemed Charles; while Guy, on his side, busied himself at Redclyffe
as usual; took care and thought for the cabin-boy--returned Lord
Thorndale’s call without finding him at home--saw the school finished,
and opened--and became more intimate with the Ashfords.
He said he should not come home at Easter, as he should be very busy
reading for his degree; and as his birthday this year fell in Holy
Week, there could be no rejoicings; besides, as he was not to have his
property in his own hands till he was five-and-twenty, it would make
no difference to the people. The Ashfords agreed they had rather he was
safe at home for the vacation, and were somewhat anxious when he spoke
of coming home to settle, after he had taken his degree.
For his own part he was glad the season would prevent any rejoicings,
for he was in no frame of mind to enter into them and his birthday had
been so sad a day for his grandfather, that he had no associations of
pleasure connected with it.
Markham understood the feeling, liked it, and shared it, only saying
that they would have their day of rejoicing when he married. Guy could
not answer, and the old steward remarked the look of pain.
‘Sir Guy,’ said he, ‘is it that which is wrong with you? Don’t be angry
with an old man for asking the question, but I only would hope and trust
you are not getting into any scrape.’
‘Thank you, Markham,’ said Guy, after an effort; ‘I cannot tell you
about it. I will only set you at rest by saying it is nothing you could
think I ought to be ashamed of.’
‘Then why--what has come between? What could man or woman object to in
you?’ said Markham, regarding him proudly.
‘These unhappy suspicions,’ said Guy.
I can’t make it out,’ said Markham. ‘You must have been doing something
foolish to give rise to them.’
Guy told nearly what he had said on the first day of his return, but
nothing could be done towards clearing up the mystery, and he returned
to Oxford as usual.
March commenced, and Charles, though no longer absolutely recumbent, and
able to write letters again, could not yet attempt to use his crutches,
so that all his designs vanished, except that of persuading his father
to go to London to meet Guy and Markham there, and transact the business
consequent on his ward’s attaining his majority. He trusted much to
Guy’s personal influence, and said to his father, ‘You know no one has
seen him yet but Philip, and he would tell things to you that he might
not to him.’
It was an argument that delighted Mr. Edmonstone.
‘Of course I have more weight and experience, and--and poor Guy is very
fond of us. Eh, Charlie?’
So Charles wrote to make an appointment for Guy to meet his guardian and
Markham in London on Easter Tuesday. ‘If you will clear up the gambling
story,’ he wrote, ‘all may yet be well.’
Guy sighed as he laid aside the letter. ‘All in vain, kind Charlie,’
said he to himself, ‘vain as are my attempts to keep my poor uncle
from sinking himself further! Is it fair, though,’ continued he, with
vehemence, ‘that the happiness of at least one life should be sacrificed
to hide one step in the ruin of a man who will not let himself be saved?
Is it not a waste of self-devotion? Have I any right to sacrifice hers?
Ought I not rather’--and a flash of joy came over him--‘to make my uncle
give me back my promise of concealment? I can make it up to him. It
cannot injure him, since only the Edmonstones will know it! But’--and
he pressed his lips firmly together--‘is this the spirit I have been
struggling for this whole winter? Did I not see that patient waiting and
yielding is fit penance for my violence. It would be ungenerous. I will
wait and bear, contented that Heaven knows my innocence at least in
this. For her, when at my best I dreaded that my love might bring sorrow
on her--how much more now, when I have seen my doom face to face,
and when the first step towards her would be what I cannot openly and
absolutely declare to be right? That would be the very means of bringing
the suffering on her, and I should deserve it.’
Guy quitted these thoughts to write to Markham to make the appointment,
finishing his letter with a request that Markham would stop at St.
Mildred’s on his way to London, and pay Miss Wellwood, the lady with
whom his uncle’s daughter was placed, for her quarter’s board. ‘I hope
this will not be a very troublesome request,’ wrote Guy; ‘but I know
you had rather I did it in this way, than disobey your maxims, as to not
sending money by the post.’
The time before the day of meeting was spent in strengthening himself
against the pain it would be to refuse his confidence to Mr. Edmonstone,
and thus to throw away the last chance of reconciliation, and of Amy.
This would be the bitterest pang of all--to see them ready to receive
him, and he forced to reject their kindness.
So passed the preceding week, and with it his twenty-first birthday,
spent very differently from the way in which it would ordinarily be
passed by a youth in his position. It went by in hard study and sad
musings, in bracing himself to a resolution that would cost him all he
held dear, and, as the only means of so bracing himself, in trying to
fix his gaze more steadily beyond the earth.
Easter day steadied the gaze once more for him, and as the past week had
nerved him in the spirit of self-sacrifice, the feast day brought him
true unchanging joy, shining out of sadness, and enlightening the path
that would lead him to keep his resolution to the utmost, and endure the
want of earthly hope.