Already in thy spirit thus divine,
Whatever weal or woe betide,
Be that high sense of duty still thy guide,
And all good powers will aid a soul like thine.
--SOUTHEY
‘Now for it!’ thought Guy, as he dismissed his cab, and was shown
up-stairs in the hotel. ‘Give me the strength to withstand!’
The door was opened, and he beheld Mr. Edmonstone, Markham, and
another--it surely was Sebastian Dixon! All sprung up to receive him;
and Mr. Edmonstone, seizing him by both hands, exclaimed--
‘Here he is himself! Guy, my boy, my dear boy, you are the most generous
fellow in the world! You have been used abominably. I wish my two hands
had been cut off before I was persuaded to write that letter, but it is
all right now. Forget and forgive--eh, Guy? You’ll come home with me,
and we will write this very day for Deloraine.’
Guy was almost giddy with surprise. He held one of Mr. Edmonstone’s
hands, and pressed it hard; his other hand he passed over his eyes, as
if in a dream. ‘All right?’ he repeated.
‘All right!’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I know where your money went, and I
honour you for it, and there stands the man who told me the whole story.
I said, from the first, it was a confounded slander. It was all owing to
the little girl.’
Guy turned his face in amazement towards his uncle, who was only waiting
to explain. ‘Never till this morning had I the least suspicion that I
had been the means of bringing you under any imputation. How could you
keep me in ignorance?’
‘You have told--’
‘Of the cheque,’ broke in Mr. Edmonstone, ‘and of all the rest, and
of your providing for the little girl. How could you do it with that
pittance of an allowance of yours? And Master Philip saying you never
had any money! No wonder, indeed!’
‘If I had known you were pinching yourself,’ said Dixon, ‘my mind would
have revolted--’
‘Let me understand it,’ said Guy, grasping the back of a chair. ‘Tell
me, Markham. Is it really so? Am I cleared? Has Mr. Edmonstone a right
to be satisfied?’
‘Yes, Sir Guy,’ was Markham’s direct answer. ‘Mr. Dixon has accounted
for your disposal of the thirty pound cheque, and there is an end of the
matter.’
Guy drew a long breath, and the convulsive grasp of his fingers relaxed.
‘I cannot thank you enough!’ said he to his uncle; then to Mr.
Edmonstone, ‘how is Charles?’
‘Better--much better, you shall see him to-morrow--eh, Guy?’
‘But I cannot explain about the one thousand pounds.’
‘Never mind--you never had it, so you can’t have misspent it. That’s
neither here nor there.’
‘And you forgive my language respecting you?’
‘Nonsense about that! If you never said anything worse than that Philip
was a meddling coxcomb, you haven’t much to repent of; and I am sure I
was ten old fools when I let him bore me into writing that letter.’
‘No, no; you did right under your belief; and circumstances were strong
against me. And is it clear? Are we where we were before?’
‘We are--we are in everything, only we know better what you are worth,
Guy. Shake hands once more. There’s an end of all misunderstanding and
vexation, and we shall be all right at home again!’
The shake was a mighty one. Guy shaded his face for a moment or two, and
then said--
‘It is too much. I don’t understand it. How did you know this matter
wanted explanation?’ said he, turning to his uncle.
‘I learnt it from Mr. Markham, and you will do me the justice to
believe, that I was greatly shocked to find that your generosity--’
‘The truth of the matter is this,’ said Markham. ‘You sent me to Miss
Wellwood’s, at St. Mildred’s. The principal was not within, and while
waiting for her to make the payment, I got into conversation with her
sister, Miss Jane. She told me that the child, Mr. Dixon’s daughter,
was always talking of your kindness, especially of a morning at St.
Mildred’s, when you helped him in some difficulty. I thought this threw
some light on the matter, found out Mr. Dixon this morning, and you see
the result.’
‘I do, indeed,’ said Guy; ‘I wish I could attempt to thank you all.’
‘Thanks enough for me to see you look like yourself,’ said Markham. ‘Did
you think I was going to sit still and leave you in the mess you had got
yourself into, with your irregularity about keeping your accounts?’
‘And to you,’ said Guy, looking at his uncle, as if it was especially
pleasant to be obliged to him. ‘You never can guess what I owe to you!’
‘Nay, I deserve no thanks at all,’ said Sebastian, ‘since I was the
means of bringing the imputation on you; and I am sure it is enough for
a wretch like me, not to have brought only misery wherever I turn--to
have done something to repair the evil I have caused. Oh, could I but
bring back your father to what he was when first I saw him as you are
now!’
He was getting into one of those violent fits of self-reproach, at once
genuine and theatrical, of which Guy had a sort of horror, and it was
well Mr. Edmonstone broke in, like comedy into tragedy.
‘Come, what’s past can’t be helped, and I have no end of work to be
done, so there’s speechifying enough for once. Mr. Dixon, you must not
be going. Sit down and look over the newspaper, while we sign these
papers. You must dine with us, and drink your nephew’s health, though it
is not his real birthday.’
Guy was much pleased that Mr. Edmonstone should have given this
invitation, as well as with the consideration Markham had shown for
Dixon in his narration. Mr. Dixon, who had learnt to consider parents
and guardians as foes and tyrants, stammered and looked confused
and enraptured; but it appeared that he could not stay, for he had a
professional engagement. He gave them an exhortation to come to the
concert where he was employed, and grew so ardent in his description of
it, that Guy could have wished to go; but his companions were in haste
to say there was far too much to do. And the next moment Guy told
himself, that Mr. Edmonstone’s good-natured face and joyous ‘eh, Guy?’
were more to him than any music he could hear nearer than Hollywell.
He went down-stairs with his uncle, who all the way raved about the
music, satisfied to find ears that could comprehend, and was too full of
it even to attend or respond to the parting thanks, for his last words
were something about a magnificent counter-tenor.
Guy walked up slowly, trying to gather his thoughts: but when it came
back to him that Amy was his again, his brain seemed to reel with
ecstasy, and it would have taken far more time than he could spare to
recall his sober senses, so he opened the door, to convince himself at
least of Mr. Edmonstone’s presence, and was received with another shake
of the hand.
‘So here you are again. I was afraid he was carrying you off to his
concert after all! I believe you have half a mind for it. Do you like
to stay in London for the next? Eh, Guy?’ and it was good to hear Mr.
Edmonstone’s hearty laugh, as he patted his ward on the shoulder, saw
his blushing, smiling shake of the head, and gave a knowing look, which
let in a fresh light on Markham, and luckily was unseen by Guy.
‘Well,’ continued Mr. Edmonstone, ‘the man is more gentlemanlike than I
expected. A good sort of fellow at the bottom, I dare say. He was pretty
considerably shocked to find he had brought you into such a scrape.’
‘He is very generous,’ said Guy. ‘Oh, there is much of a noble character
in him.’
‘Noble! humph!’ put in Markham. ‘He has gone down-hill fast enough,
since I used to see him in your father’s time; but I am glad he had the
decency not to be the undoing of you.’
‘His feeling is his great point,’ said Guy, ‘when you can once get at
it. I wish--’ But breaking off short, ‘I can’t make it out. What did
little Marianne tell you? Or was it Miss Wellwood?’
‘It was first the youngest sister,’ said Markham. ‘I sat there talking
to her some little time; she said you had been very kind to the family,
and the child was very grateful to you--was always talking of some
morning when you and your dog came, and helped her mother. Her father
had been out all night, and her mother was crying, she said, and
declaring he would be sent to prison, till you came and helped them.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Guy.
‘Well, I remembered what you had told me of the mystery of the draft,
and guessed that this might be the clue to it. I begged to see the
child, and in she came, the very image of your mother, and a sharp
little thing that knew what she meant, but had not much idea of the
shame, poor child, about her father. She told me the story of his coming
home in the morning, and her mother being in great distress, and saying
they were ruined, till you came and talked to her mother, and gave her
something. I asked if it was money, and she said it was paper. I showed
her a draft, and she knew it was like that. So then I made her tell me
where to find her father, whom I used to know in old times, and had to
write to, now and then. I hunted him up, and a creditable figure he was,
to be sure; but I got the truth out of him at last, and when he heard
you had got into disgrace on his account, he raved like a tragedy hero,
and swore he would come and tell your guardian the whole story. I put
him into a cab for fear he should repent, and he had just got to the end
of it when you came in.’
‘It is of no use to thank you again, Markham!’
‘Why, I have been getting your family out of scrapes these forty years
or thereabouts,’ said Markham; ‘’tis all I am good for; and if they had
been no worse than this one it would be better for all of us. But time
is getting on, and there is enough to do.’
To the accounts they went at once. There was a good deal to be settled;
and though Guy had as yet no legal power, according to his grandfather’s
will, he was of course consulted about everything. He was glad that,
since he could not be alone to bring himself to the realization of his
newly-recovered happiness, he should have this sobering and engrossing
occupation. There he sat, coolly discussing leases and repairs, and only
now and then allowing himself a sort of glimpse at the treasury of
joy awaiting him whenever he had time to dwell on it. The Coombe Prior
matters were set in a better train, the preliminary arrangements about
the curacy were made, and Guy had hopes it would be his friend Mr.
Wellwood’s title for Orders.
There was no time to write to Hollywell, or rather Mr. Edmonstone forgot
to do so till it was too late, and then consoled himself by observing
that it did not signify if his family were taken by surprise, since joy
killed no one.
His family were by no means of opinion that it did not signify when the
next morning’s post brought them no letter. Mrs Edmonstone and Charles
had hoped much, and Amy did not know how much she hoped until the
melancholy words, ‘no letter,’ passed from one to the other.
To make it worse, by some of those mismanagements of Mr. Edmonstone’s
which used to run counter to his wife’s arrangements, a dinner-party had
been fixed for this identical Wednesday, and the prospect was agreeable
to no one, especially when the four o’clock train did not bring Mr.
Edmonstone, who, therefore, was not to be expected till seven, when all
the world would be arrived.
Laura helped Amy to dress, put the flowers in her hair, kissed her, and
told her it was a trying day; and Amy sighed wearily, thanked her, and
went down with arms twined in hers, whispering, ‘If I could help being
so foolish as to let myself have a little hope!’
Laura thought the case so hopeless, that she was sorry Amy could not
cease from the foolishness, and did not answer. Amy sat down at the foot
of the sofa, whither Charles was now carried down every day, and without
venturing to look at him, worked at her netting. A carriage--her
colour came and went, but it was only some of the guests; another--the
Brownlows. Amy was speaking to Miss Brownlow when she heard more
greetings; she looked up, caught by the arm of the sofa, and looked
again. Her father was pouring out apologies and welcomes, and her mother
was shaking hands with Guy.
Was it a dream? She shut her eyes, then looked again. He was close to
her by this time, she felt his fingers close on her white glove for
one moment, but she only heard his voice in the earnest ‘How are you,
Charlie?’ Her father came to her, gave her first his usual kiss of
greeting, then, not letting her go, looked at her for a moment, and, as
if he could not help it, kissed her on both cheeks, and said, ‘How d’ye
do, my little Amy?’ in a voice that meant unutterable things. All the
room was swimming round; there was nothing for it but to run away, and
she ran, but from the ante-room she heard the call outside, ‘Sir Guy’s
bag to his room,’ and she could not rush out among the servants. At that
moment, however, she spied Mary Ross and her father; she darted up to
them, said something incoherent about Mary’s bonnet, and took her up to
her own room.
‘Amy, my dear, you look wild. What has come to you?’
‘Papa is come home, and--’ the rest failed, and Amy was as red as the
camellia in her hair.
‘And?’ repeated Mary, ‘and the mystery is explained?’
‘Oh! I don’t know; they are only just come, and I was so silly, I ran
away,--I did not know what to do.’
‘_They_ are come, are they?’ thought Mary. ‘My little Amy, I see it
all.’
She made the taking off her bonnet and the settling her lace as
elaborate an operation as she could, and Amy flitted about as if she did
not by any means know what she was doing. A springy, running step was
heard on the stairs and in the passage, and Mary, though she could not
see her little friend’s face, perceived her neck turn red for a moment,
after which Amy took her arm, pressed it affectionately, and they went
down.
Mrs. Edmonstone was very glad to see Amabel looking tolerably natural.
‘Mamma’ was of course burning to hear all, but she was so confident that
the essentials were safe, that her present care was to see how her two
young lovers would be able to comport themselves, and to be on her guard
against attending to them more than to her guests.
Amy, after passing by Charles, and getting a squeeze from his
ever-sympathizing hand, put herself away behind Mary, while Laura talked
to every one, hoping to show that there was some self-possession in the
family. Guy reappeared, but, after one glance to see if Amy was present,
he did not look at her again, but went and leant over the lower end of
Charles’s sofa, just as he used to do; and Charles lay gazing at him,
and entirely forgetting what he had been trying to say just before to
Mrs. Brownlow, professing to have come from London that morning,
and making the absent mistakes likely to be attributed to the lovers
themselves.
Mr. Edmonstone came, and dinner followed. As Mrs. Edmonstone paired off
her company, she considered what to do with her new arrival.
‘If you had come two hours ago,’ said she, within herself, ‘I would have
let you be at home. Now you must be a great man, and be content with me.
It will be better for Amy.’
Accordingly Guy was between her and Mrs. Gresham. She did not try
to speak to him, and was amused by his fitful attempts at making
conversation with Mrs. Gresham, when it struck him that he ought to be
taking notice of her. Amy (very fortunately, in her own opinion) was out
of sight of him, on the same side of the table, next to Mr. Ross, who,
like his daughter, guessed enough about the state of things to let her
alone.
Charles was enjoying all manner of delightful conjectures with
Charlotte, till the ladies returned to the drawing-room, and then he
said as much as he dared to Mary Ross, far more than she had gained from
Laura, who, as they came out of the dining-room, had said,--
‘Don’t ask me any questions, for I know nothing at all about it.’
Amy was talked to by Mrs. Gresham about club-books, and new flowers, to
which she was by this time able to attend very well, satisfied that
his happiness had returned, and content to wait till the good time for
knowing how. She could even be composed when the gentlemen came in, Guy
talking to Mr. Ross about Coombe Prior, and then going to Charles; but
presently she saw no more, for a request for music was made, and she was
obliged to go and play a duet with Laura. She did not dislike this, but
there followed a persecution for some singing. Laura would have spared
her, but could not; and while she was turning over the book to try to
find something that was not impossible to begin, and Laura whispering
encouragingly, ‘This--try this--your part is almost nothing; or can’t
you do this?’ another hand turned over the leaves, as if perfectly at
home in them, and, without speaking, as if it was natural for him to
spare Amy, found a song which they had often sung together, where she
might join as much or as little as she chose, under cover of his voice.
She had not a thought or sensation beyond the joy of hearing it again,
and she stood, motionless, as if in a trance. When it was over, he said
to Laura, ‘I beg your pardon for making such bad work. I am so much out
of practice.’
Mrs. Brownlow was seen advancing on them; Amy retreated, leaving Guy
and Laura to fulfil all that was required of them, which they did with
a very good grace, and Laura’s old familiar feeling began to revive,
so much that she whispered while he was finding the place, ‘Don’t you
dislike all this excessively?’
‘It does as well as anything else, thank you,’ was the answer. ‘I can do
it better than talking.’
At last they were released, and the world was going away. Mary could not
help whispering to Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘How glad you must be to get rid of
us!’ and, as Mrs. Edmonstone answered with a smile, she ventured further
to say,--‘How beautifully Amy has behaved!’
Little Amy, as soon as she had heard the last carriage roll off, wished
every one good night, shook hands with Guy, holding up the lighted
candle between him and her face as a veil, and ran away to her own room.
The others remained in a sort of embarrassed silence, Mr. Edmonstone
rubbing his hands; Laura lighted the candles, Charlotte asked after
Bustle, and was answered that he was at Oxford, and Charles, laying hold
of the side of the sofa, pulled himself by it into a sitting posture.
‘Shall I help you?’ said Guy.
‘Thank you, but I am not ready yet; besides, I am an actual log now, and
am carried as such, so it is of no use to wait for me. Mamma shall have
the first turn, and I won’t even leave my door open.’
‘Yes, yes, yes; go and have it out with mamma, next best to Amy herself,
as she is run away--eh, Guy?’ said Mr. Edmonstone.
Guy and Mrs. Edmonstone had not hitherto trusted themselves to speak
to each other, but they looked and smiled; then, wishing the rest good
night, they disappeared. Then there was a simultaneous outbreak of
‘Well?’
‘All right!’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘Every word was untrue. He is the
noblest fellow in the world, as I knew all the time, and I was an old
fool for listening to a pack of stories against him.’
‘Hurrah!’ cried Charles, drumming on the back of his sofa. ‘Let us hear
how the truth came out, and what it was.’
‘It was that Dixon. There has he been helping that man for ever, sending
his child to school, giving him sums upon sums, paying his gaming debts
with that cheque!’
‘Oh, oh!’ cried Charles.
‘Yes that was it! The child told Markham of it, and Markham brought
the father to tell me. It puts me in a rage to think of the monstrous
stories Philip has made me believe!’
‘I was sure of it!’ cried Charles. ‘I knew it would come out that he had
only been so much better than other people that nobody could believe it.
Cleared! cleared! Why, Charlotte, Mr. Ready-to-halt will be for footing
it cleverly enough!’ as she was wildly curvetting round him.
‘I was always sure,’ said Mr. Edmonstone. ‘I knew it was not in him to
go wrong. It was only Philip, who would persuade me black was white.’
‘I never believed one word of it,’ said Charles; ‘still less after I saw
Philip’s animosity.’
‘“Les absens ont toujours tort,”’ interrupted Laura; then, afraid of
saying too much, she added,--‘Come, Charlotte, it is very late.’
‘And I shall be the first to tell Amy!’ cried Charlotte. ‘Good night,
papa!--good night, Charlie!’
She rushed up-stairs, afraid of being forestalled. Laura lingered,
putting some books away in the ante-room, trying to overcome the weary
pain at her heart. She did not know how to be confident. Her father’s
judgment was worthless in her eyes, and Philip had predicted that Amy
would be sacrificed after all. To see them happy made her sigh at the
distance of her own hopes, and worse than all was self-reproach
for unkindness in not rejoicing with the rest, in spite of her real
affection for Guy himself. When she thought of him, she could not
believe him guilty; when she thought of Philip’s belief, she could not
suppose him innocent, and she pitied her sister for enjoying a delusive
happiness. With effort, however, she went to her room, and, finding her
a little overpowered by Charlotte’s tumultuous joy, saw that peace
and solitude were best for her till she could have more certain
intelligence, and, after very tender good-nights, carried off Charlotte.
It would be hard to describe Mrs. Edmonstone’s emotion, as she preceded
Guy to the dressing-room, and sat down, looking up to him as he stood in
his old place by the fire. She thought he did not look well, though it
might be only that the sun-burnt colour had given place to his natural
fairness; his eyes, though bright as ever, did not dance and sparkle;
a graver expression sat on his brow; and although he still looked very
young, a change there certainly was, which made him man instead of
boy--a look of having suffered, and conquered suffering. She felt even
more motherly affection for him now than when he last stood there in the
full tide of his first outburst of his love for her daughter, and her
heart was almost too full for speech; but he seemed to be waiting for
her, and at last she said,--‘I am very glad to have you here again.’
He smiled a little, then said, ‘May I tell you all about it?’
‘Sit down here. I want very much to hear it. I am sure you have gone
through a good deal.’
I have, indeed,’ said he, simply and gravely; and there was a silence,
while she was certain that, whatever he might have endured, he did not
feel it to have been in vain.
‘But it is at an end,’ said she. ‘I have scarcely seen Mr. Edmonstone,
but he tells me he is perfectly satisfied.’
‘He is so kind as to be satisfied, though you know I still cannot
explain about the large sum I asked him for.’
‘We will trust you,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, smiling, ‘but I am very
anxious to hear how you came to an understanding.’
Guy went over the story in detail, and very much affected she was to
hear how entirely unfounded had been the suspicion, and how thankful he
was for Mr. Edmonstone’s forgiveness.
‘You had rather to forgive us!’ said she.
‘You forget how ill I behaved,’ said Guy, colouring. ‘If you knew the
madness of those first moments of provocation, you would think that the
penance of a lifetime, instead of only one winter, would scarce have
been sufficient.’
‘You would not say, as Charles does, that the suspicion justified your
anger?’
‘No, indeed!’ He paused, and spoke again. ‘Thank Heaven, it did not last
long; but the insight it gave me into the unsubdued evil about me was a
fearful thing.’
‘But you conquered it. They were the unguarded exclamations of the first
shock. Your whole conduct since, especially the interview with Philip,
has shown that your anger has not been abiding, and that you have learnt
to subdue it.’
‘It could not abide, for there was no just cause of offence. Of course
such a dreadful outburst warned me to be on my guard; and you know the
very sight of Philip is a warning that there is danger in that way! I
mean,’ said Guy, becoming conscious that he had been very severe, ‘I
mean that I know of old that I am apt to be worried by his manner, and
that ought to make me doubly cautious.’
Mrs. Edmonstone was struck by the soberer manner in which he spoke
of his faults. He was as ready to take full blame, but without the
vehemence which he used to expend in raving at himself instead of at the
offender. It seemed as if he had brought himself to the tone he used to
desire so earnestly.
‘I am very glad to be able to explain all to Philip,’ he said.
‘I will write as soon as possible. Oh, Mrs. Edmonstone! if you knew what
it is to be brought back to such unhoped-for happiness, to sit here
once more, with you,’--his voice trembled, and the tears were in her
eyes,--‘to have seen _her_, to have all overlooked, and return to all I
hoped last year. I want to look at you all, to believe that it is true,’
he finished, smiling.
‘You both behaved very well this evening,’ said she, laughing, because
she could do so better than anything else at that moment.
‘You both!’ murmured Guy to himself.
‘Ah! little Amy has been very good this winter.’
He answered her with a beautiful expression of his eyes, was silent a
little while, and suddenly exclaimed, in a candid, expostulating tone,
‘But now, seriously, don’t you think it a very bad thing for her?’
‘My dear Guy,’ said she, scarcely repressing a disposition to laugh, ‘I
told you last summer what I thought of it, and you must settle the rest
with Amy to-morrow. I hear the drawing-room bell, which is a sign I must
send you to bed. Good night!’
‘Good night!’ repeated Guy, as he held her hand. ‘It is so long since I
have had any one to wish me good night! Good night, mamma!’
She pressed his hand, then as he ran down to lend a helping hand in
carrying Charles, she, the tears in her eyes, crossed the passage to see
how it was with her little Amy, and to set her at rest for the night.
Amy’s candle was out, and she was in bed, lying full in the light of the
Easter moon, which poured in glorious whiteness through her window. She
started up as the door opened. ‘Oh, mamma! how kind of you to come!’
‘I can only stay a moment, my dear; your papa is coming up; but I must
just tell you that I have been having such a nice talk with dear Guy.
He has behaved beautifully, and papa is quite satisfied. Now, darling,
I hope you will not lie awake all night, or you won’t be fit to talk to
him to-morrow.’
Amy sat up in bed, and put her arms round her mother’s neck. ‘Then he is
happy again,’ she whispered. ‘I should like to hear all.’
‘He shall tell you himself to-morrow, my dear. Now, good night! you have
been a very good child. Now, go to sleep, my dear one.’
Amy lay down obediently. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me, dear mamma,’
she said. ‘I am very glad; good night.’
She shut her eyes, and there was something in the sweet, obedient,
placid look of her face, as the white moonlight shone upon it, that made
her mother pause and gaze again with the feeling, only tenderer, left
by a beautiful poem. Amy looked up to see why she delayed; she gave her
another kiss, and left her in the moonlight.
Little Amy’s instinct was to believe the best and do as she was bidden,
and there was a quietness and confidence in the tone of her mind which
gave a sort of serenity of its own even to suspense. A thankful, happy
sensation that all was well, mamma said so, and Guy was there, had taken
possession of her, and she did not agitate herself to know how or why,
for mamma, had told her to put herself to sleep; so she thought of all
the most thanksgiving verses of her store of poetry, and before the
moon had passed away from her window, Amabel Edmonstone was wrapped in a
sleep dreamless and tranquil as an infant’s.